We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [296]
He sat in his captain's cabin like a monk in his cell, but there was nothing edifying about his solitude. He counted the red lights. He counted his soul into tiny pieces. His dreams about the life he could have had crumbled like a child's sandcastle.
IN LIVERPOOL he deserted. He was running away from his sense of duty. The same whiskey that had helped him maintain a balance could also make him lose it. And in Liverpool he lost it.
Even shaving every day had become an ordeal. How do you shave without looking in the mirror? Shaving was the last struggle before the final rot set in. He knew this was an unwritten law for prisoners of war in the German internment camps. And that was how he felt: like a prisoner of war. He'd fallen into enemy hands. Only the enemy was inside him.
On the last voyage they'd sailed with ammunition in the hold. A hit would have meant total annihilation: no men in the water with their pleading little red lights. Not even the captain's cap would have survived if the Nimbus had disappeared in a gigantic spurt of flame. He'd caught himself fantasizing about the relief that death would bring. But no torpedoes struck them. Nor did any bombs drop through the deck and hit the cargo.
Yes, the Nimbus was a lucky ship. She kept a steady course through the drowning men and he cursed it all.
The ship's radio could pick up the frequency of the Royal Air Force, and when they approached the English coast after crossing the Atlantic, they'd gather on the bridge to listen to the conversations between the flight command and the RAF pilots. They heard the words "Good luck and good hunting," which signaled the start of a radio transmission of a life-or-death battle. They cheered and shouted in support of their team. They cursed the enemy whom they could not hear but sometimes saw, because the fights took place in the sky right over their heads. They clenched their fists; the veins bulged in their foreheads. They rooted for the pilots, who shouted their warnings or triumphs out into the ether. And then sometimes suddenly slumped in their seat, shot to pieces. These men sacrificed themselves for the ships, and yet the sailors all wished they could swap their eternal waiting position on the deck for the pilot's exposed cockpit. There wasn't one of them who didn't long to deliver death, instead of waiting for it. They got so worked up during these transmissions that if someone had handed them revolvers, they'd have been hard-pressed not to gun one another down like dogs.
Knud Erik was the only one who didn't fantasize about firing a gun. He'd have preferred to be the target of one. They were welcome to pull the trigger on him. He'd be happy to oblige.
He stopped Wally as he made his way down the gangway, suitcase in hand. He'd heard Wally boasting about its contents, which he'd acquired in New York: nylon stockings, salmon-pink satin brassieres, and lace panties.
Knud Erik made an effort not to sway. "Take me with you," he said in a thick voice. "I want to see what your underwear buys you." It was a plea, but he made it sound like a command. Not that it was the kind of command a captain would give to a crew member if he wanted to maintain respect. Show me the way to the gutter, let us be companions in degradation!
He'd left his cell to commit weaponless suicide.
Anton and Vilhjelm weren't there. If they had been, they'd have stopped him. Wally didn't have the maturity or the experience for that. He saw the boy's eyes flicker, but he knew he wouldn't dare raise an objection.
"Aye, aye, Captain" was all he said.
Absalon came up next to him. "But Captain...," he said.
Knud Erik could hear it was the start of a protest. After all, leaving the ship was tantamount to deserting it. The Liverpool docks were bombarded incessantly. They had to keep remooring. A captain couldn't just walk off in circumstances like that. It would be an unforgivable dereliction of duty. Never mind; he'd just have to add that one to the list. He made a deprecating gesture. "Vilhjelm