We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [313]
Duncan stopped and looked at Knud Erik. He was clearly expecting the reaction that Herman had got in the mess for this tale: a roar of laughter.
Knud Erik didn't laugh. He took a sip of his hot coffee. "What else did he say?"
"Well, a few days after that they spotted a cork bobbing up and down. They couldn't see any land. But it cheered them up because the cork meant it couldn't be far off. Then a few hours later another cork floated by. Still no sign of land, and they started thinking it was strange, all these corks floating about in the middle of the sea. And that's when they discovered that some of the crew had a stash of whiskey in the bow and they were emptying one bottle after another on the sly. That's when Herman got his frostbite."
"And how did that happen?"
"Well, you see, sir. They started fighting about the whiskey. And he was pushed into the water. Herman said that it took them a hell of a long time to pull him back on board."
Herman turned every tragedy in this war, including his own, into a joke. Through the stories he told them, he came as close to conveying the unspeakable as you could get without saying the words out loud. That was why they listened to him.
When he heard that their nickname for him was Old Funny, Knud Erik realized that it was no longer silence that united the crew.
It was Herman.
The latest tale to come from the mess was that Herman could drink scientifically. During surgery, the doctors had removed some of Old Funny's surplus guts, which meant he had plenty of extra space inside. There was skill involved, he explained—like packing a hull with the maximum cargo. You had to have a method based on scientific fact, and he'd found it. To be perfectly frank, they couldn't see that his drinking was so special. He just knocked it back in the same way they did—the only difference being that he could keep at it longer. But this, he argued, was surely proof that he was drinking scientifically. He never needed to stop. As far as that went, they had to agree with him. They'd retire one by one to their cabins, and he'd stay on in the mess, downing more.
The only time Old Funny had met his match was when a young Salvation Army officer had come on board in Bristol to convert the crew to the Lord Jesus Christ. Old Funny had proposed a bet. If the evangelist could drink him under the table, he'd become a believer. But if Old Funny was the winner, the youngster would have to leave the Salvation Army for good.
"It was more than just a question of who could drink the most," Old Funny said. "It was a battle between faith and science. He had his Jesus, and I had my method. But he won, the bastard. I went under the table at four o'clock in the morning. To this day I still don't know how he did it."
"So you're a believer now?"
"I'm a man of my word," Old Funny said. "I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and I renounce the devil and all his works. The good Lord looks after me. It's thanks to Him I've still got my jerking-off hand."
He put down his glass and made the sign of the cross, while his stump waggled as if wanting to join in the fun too.
"But you're still drinking," Wally protested.
"Only when I take communion, and I'm a frequent churchgoer. Besides, I think I owe it to old Jesus. You see"—he looked around, and they could tell that the story hadn't yet reached its climax—"when he'd drunk me under the table, and he realized he'd won, he got up, threw his coat on the floor, and shouted, 'I'm through with the Salvation Army!' No one got what the hell he was talking about until he explained it. 'I realized it as soon as I emptied my first glass,' he said. 'I like drinking. I didn't win because the Lord was on my side. I won because I couldn't get enough!'"
They howled with laughter around the mess table. Old Funny enjoyed this applause for a while as he studied the