Chapter 15 #2
“Kapit?nleutnant Adler?” he croaked. His voice sounded foreign, cracked.
There was no answer. He descended unsteadily.
The crew’s quarters were in disarray - sea chests lay open, blankets dragged half out, as if the men had been ordered up in haste.
A mug lay shattered near a bunk. They had been removed quickly, and not allowed to collect their things.
Oskar stood swaying in the middle of the space, dripping onto the boards.
You’re alone, he realised, the words cutting through the fog in his mind.
Alone on a German vessel in British waters.
If the destroyer returned, if another patrol came…now, he was not a prisoner of war, but a saboteur, adrift on a seized ship.
A violent tremor overtook him so fiercely that his knees gave way.
He caught himself on the edge of a bunk and hauled open the nearest sea chest with numb fingers, searching for the crew’s dry, abandoned clothes.
With useless fingers, he tore at his sodden jumper, attempting to drag it over his head.
Twice he fumbled and had to stop, pressing his forehead against the wooden frame as black spots flickered at the edges of his vision.
“Focus,” he muttered, his teeth clattering.
He stripped off the wet garments, and stood naked in the freezing air, his skin mottled blue-white, his ribs shuddering with each breath.
Wool. Anything wool. He dragged on a dry undershirt, then another.
He found too-short trousers, but he did not care.
He donned a thick, dry fisherman’s jumper, then another over that, then forced his feet into dry woollen socks, although he could not feel his toes at all.
Still the shaking did not lessen. He lurched towards the galley, containing the stove, the small iron range now sitting cold and black.
He stuffed it with kindling, then attempted to grip the tinderbox with his too-stiff hands.
The first match snapped; the second flared and died.
On the third, he cupped his body around the fragile flame and coaxed it into the kindling with desperate patience.
When the wood finally caught, he nearly wept.
He crouched before the stove, his arms wrapped around himself, letting the slow heat reach him gradually, knowing not to thrust his frozen hands straight into the blaze.
Pain arrived first, a deep, stabbing agony as blood returned to his fingers. He gasped and almost pulled them away, but forced himself to endure it, his teeth still chattering uncontrollably.
He found a bottle of rum in a locker and poured a measure with shaking hands.
Half of it sloshed onto the table; he swallowed what remained.
The liquid burned down his throat, fierce and immediate, and spread a deceptive bloom of warmth through his chest. He leaned back against the bulkhead and closed his eyes for a moment. Don’t sleep.
The Freja creaked gently around him, seemingly unaware that she had been abandoned.
After several minutes the shaking subsided from violent convulsions to deep tremors.
He could flex his fingers again, although they ached savagely.
His toes prickled as sensation crept back in uneven waves.
He pushed himself upright and forced himself to think.
The British had not taken the ship as a prize - not yet.
Perhaps they meant to return with a tow.
Perhaps they intended to report her position and collect her later – which meant he had time, not much, but he had it.
He climbed back to the deck, moving stiffly.
The morning had fully broken, and pale sunlight glinted off the water.
The inlet lay quiet, deceptive in its beauty.
He scanned the horizon, seeing nothing but open water and the distant, Scottish hills.
The British had taken his captain and the crew, leaving him behind like a ghost clinging to the wreckage of his own choices.
That night, he would abandon the Freja and take one of the small boats under cover of darkness.
He staggered to the smashed and splintered panels along the inner bulkhead, the hidden compartments now gaping and exposed.
There, he found his uniform, still neatly folded, his cap atop, untouched by British hands.
Lifting it out, he found a stuff sack and pushed it inside.
If he deemed himself to be at risk ashore, he needed to don it; in full naval uniform, he would concoct some story, and avoid arrest as a spy.
Rachel - his beautiful Scottish lassie. The thought of her cut through the lingering cold like a blade.
Once again, he imagined their cottage on the shore, the thin curl of smoke from the chimney, and her believing him a betrayer.
He inhaled a slow, steadying breath. “Tonight,” he whispered.
Until then, he would remain below decks, out of sight, should another patrol pass.
He would rest in shifts, keep the stove low to avoid smoke, and conserve strength.
The Freja rocked gently at anchor, now masterless in British waters. And Oskar, half frozen, shaking, and alone, was her only living soul.