Hanna #3
After a breakfast of rye bread and pickled herring, I settled myself in the stern again and—at last—managed to get a little sleep, lulled by the rocking of the boat and the feeling of sunshine on my face.
*
The fishing boat chugged onward for two days and two nights.
I felt as if the journey might never end as I watched the constant, hypnotic furling of the waves along the hull.
The grey-blue sea stretched around us as far as the eye could see in every direction, and the monotony was broken only once by a pod of dolphins that accompanied us, like exuberant outriders, for a mile or two before disappearing back into the depths.
But on the third day, the wind veered toward the south and the boat lost a bit of speed, straining to make headway even with the sails up as we met the chop head on.
We were just finishing lunch when the crewman who was on watch gave a shout.
“Sea dragon!” The plane, a German flying boat, came out of the clouds to the south, close enough for us to make out the black swastikas painted on its tail fins.
The way it swooped toward us with its broad wingspan made me think of the white-tailed eagles that would hunt in the fjords back home, ruthless in their pursuit of prey.
And then they opened fire, machine gun bullets rattling above our heads and peppering the deck.
“Quick, drop the sails!” shouted the skipper, above the roar of the engine, as he opened the throttle.
“Give them less to aim at!” I dived to help the crew, hauling hard on the ropes.
In the flurry of panicked motion, a shower of bullets hit the canvas, tearing it to shreds as the plane made another pass.
The pilot must have decided the sea was too rough to land, though, and soared off toward the east.
As if from a distance, I saw the spatter of blood across the torn bundle of the sail.
It took a few moments for me to understand where it had come from.
But then another, larger, drop landed on the white canvas, unfurling there like the petals of a red rose, and a searing pain blossomed in my shoulder.
I sank to my knees, which were suddenly unable to bear my weight.
They carried me down into the hold and tried to stop the bleeding with makeshift bandages, tied on with strips of canvas cut from the tattered sails. But as I lay there, I felt the blood continue to seep from my body, carrying my strength with it.
The boat had been holed just below the waterline in the attack, and the crew stumbled around me as they frantically tried to seal the holes with bitumen and rags. I could smell the tar, and I could hear the engine strain as the skipper pushed the boat onward, struggling to stay on course.
I thought of those little islands on the chart, of how small and tenuous they’d looked surrounded by the expanse of the ocean, and how easy it would be to miss them.
I wondered if I’d ever see them. I don’t know how long I lay there, floating in and out of consciousness, adrift on a sea of pain, as more days and nights passed.
I was dimly aware that the wind must have strengthened again, because the boat seemed to be floundering, pitching and rolling through a storm, when the sound of the engine changed from its insistent, throbbing heartbeat to an irregular thudding.
The skipper appeared and set about trying to fix it, his face drawn and pale in the dim light below decks.
He muttered to himself and shook his head, then turned to look at me.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. His eyes were in shadow as he reached over and took my hand, but I could make out the grim set of his mouth.
My lips felt dry and cracked, and I licked them before I tried to speak. All that came out was a hoarse whisper: “If I die, put my body overboard. But please get word to my sister.”
He was silent for a moment, then swallowed hard. “You hang on. We aren’t about to let you die.”
“Please,” I rasped. “Her name is Liv Terland. She lives in Fagernes. Make sure she knows.” With what strength remained, I gripped his hand as tightly as I could, and I think he realized I needed to hear him promise.
“Very well.” His tone was reluctant. “But rest now. Here, try to drink some water.” He held a tin cup to my mouth, and I took a sip before the pain drew me back down into the darkness.
A few hours later, the silence must have woken me. The engine had given up entirely, and now the only sound was the whistle of the wind across the open hatch. I was alone in the hold, and for a moment I thought perhaps I really had died. But then I heard the shout from above. “A ship!”
There was an urgent pounding of footsteps along the boards above my head and then the hiss and bang of a flare being fired. I held my breath. I heard the skipper ask a question, and then one of the crewmen shouted again. “It’s British!”
A few minutes later, one of the men came below. “We’ve made it,” he told me. “Just hold on a little bit longer. They’re going to tow us in.”
“Where are we?” The words came out as a dry croak. And as he replied, I felt a single tear trickle down my cheek.
“Why,” he said, “Shetland, of course.”