Blackbone (11 page)

“What the hell was he shooting at?” Gilman asked.
 

“I don’t know, sir. The engineer thought it might have been somebody bumming a ride or an escaped convict. Corporal Strann claims it was a German soldier, but we didn’t find a trace of returned fire.” Kalmus shrugged. Even he didn’t believe it.
 

“Where is Strann now?”

“Shipped back from Bismarck, North Dakota, sir. Relieved of this detail.”
 

“Was the prisoner involved?”

“Oh no, sir. He was handcuffed to his bunk when it happened. In fact he was dead asleep through the whole thing. Didn’t even wake up when the shooting started. But then he was like that all the way from New York, sir. Real quiet, didn’t talk, hardly looked at us. Kinda spooky.”

Gilman went to the window and looked out at the camp. It was bleak and chilly outside. Dark clouds were gathering over Blackbone Mountain. Maybe snow tomorrow. The Germans had another volleyball game going. They were big on volleyball. Despite the chill, some were stripped down to long underwear and boots, a few were shirtless....

Kalmus was still at parade rest when Gilman turned back. “Well, I don’t see anything in this that relates to the prisoner,” said Gilman. “Do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay. Go down the hall and make your report to Lieutenant Blish, head of our MP detachment. Then go to the mess hut and take a meal in the kitchen. When you’re done, report to the adjutant. He’ll have you driven back to the station at White Sulphur Springs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What you do with your story beyond that is between you and your commanding officer. But I wouldn’t like it circulated in this camp. Get me?” Kalmus nodded. “Blish will forward your report. Now, where is the prisoner?”

Kirst was sitting in a tiny room with a single barred window, relaxed and staring into space. An MP stationed himself at the door, gripping the butt of his sidearm, but he didn’t impress Kirst. Gilman half expected him to jump up, salute, and introduce himself, but Kirst stayed right where he was. Gilman pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. Kirst’s eyes traveled around and fixed disinterestedly on the American officer.

“I’m Major Gilman.”

Kirst gave the outstretched hand an empty look. Then he shuddered, life surged into his eyes, and he looked around in panic, as if just discovering where he was. Gilman watched, puzzled. Maybe Kalmus was right, thought Gilman, and Kirst had slept through the whole cross-country ride.

Kirst’s hand tentatively gripped Gilman’s. “Kirst,” he said. “Leutnant Rolf Kirst.”

“Sprechen Sie
English?”

Kirst thought it over, then shook his head.
“Nein.”

“Too bad.” Gilman studied him again. He looked like a little lost boy, frightened, wondering where his momma was and why she had left him. Gilman thought about getting Borden up here to interrogate him, but that was against regulations. All the necessary interrogating had been handled back East, otherwise Kirst wouldn’t even be here yet. And, according to the reports, they had gotten nothing out of him. Gilman finally decided there was only one thing he could do—send him through the usual way, but keep an eye on him.

“Process him,” Gilman told the MP, then walked out.

The flash going off made Kirst flinch. Immediately the warmth inside him became agitated and coursed rapidly through his body. An undulating pain followed in its wake, so intense he wanted to cry out but couldn’t. Through the pain he was dimly aware that the photographer, a buttery-lipped sergeant named Loats, was unhappy with the results. He changed bulbs, fumbled with a new plate, and grumbled to the officer sitting nearby. Kirst tried to remember his name... Gordon... Warden... Borden! The doctor. Kirst had already been through delousing and a physical, and Borden had been pleasant to him, asking him in German about his family, but Kirst had been unable to answer because there was this thing inside that rose up and blocked his throat with rolling pain whenever—

“He wants you to hold still for another picture,” Borden told him in German.

Kirst tried to move his facial muscles to express misery, but it didn’t happen. Nothing got across. Borden seemed satisfied and nodded to Loats.

Kirst forced himself to face the camera. The churning inside got worse. As Loats prepared to get his shot, Kirst was hit with a wave of uncontrollable anxiety.

The flash went off again.

Kirst went rigid. The thing inside him went wild. He stared at Borden and tried to shout with his eyes because his voice wouldn’t work, but Borden was busy conversing with Loats.

Kirst forced his eyes shut. Then all hell broke loose inside him. The black oily thing roared past his closed lids and seized complete control.

When he again became aware of the world around him, Kirst found himself walking behind two MPs. Behind him trailed Borden with an unpleasant-looking officer named Hopkins.

Hopkins threw him a dark look and snapped his fingers, indicating he should face front. Kirst turned and tried to take in more of what was happening. There was something under his arm. He looked down at it—an issue kit, a bundle of whatever he was going to need inside this camp. He looked at where he was going. The ground sloped down toward the fence and the gate just ahead. An MP was opening it to let them in. As his gaze went to the fence and took in the length and breadth of it, the thing inside him began to move again. It roiled in his stomach and he stopped short, willing the anxiety not to return.

But the officer named Hopkins shoved him through the gate and turned him over to a German leutnant waiting for him on the other side. The leutnant had a small dog with him.

Kirst stood inside the fence and stared at the dog. Its ears went back and it shrank away from him. He got a curious look from the leutnant who was holding the leash, then his attention was drawn to Borden and Hopkins arguing. Borden said something sharp to Hopkins, who glared once at Kirst, then turned on his heel and stalked out of the camp.

Borden then spoke to Kirst in German. “If you’re not feeling well, Kirst, you go on the sick list, understand? The medical hut—the
Krankenhaus
—is right over there.” He pointed to a barracks hut distinguished from the others by a Red Cross symbol on the door. “The doctor is German, and he’ll take care of you. This is Leutnant Bruckner. I’m turning you over to him.” Borden paused, studying Kirst uncertainly. Then he said “Good Luck” in English and walked out through the gate with the MPs.

The gate swung shut and was chained and locked after him. Bruckner soothed the dog cowering behind his leg, then eyed Kirst suspiciously. “Major Borden thinks there is something wrong with you, Kirst?”

Kirst wanted to tell him what it was, but the thing inside him made him shake his head no.

“Hopkins thinks you’re faking. He can make your life miserable, make you wish you had died on your U-boat. So which is it, Kirst? Are you sick or faking? Do you want to see the doctor?”

Kirst felt the grip on his vocal cords relax slightly. But it was still there—a silent warning. “I’m all right,” he said.

“Good. Better that way.” He tried to pull the dog around, but it stayed behind his legs. “What is this effect you have on dogs?”

Kirst extended a hand to pet the dog. The blackness knifed down his arm. He snatched his hand back and saw Bruckner staring at him.

“He won’t bite,” Bruckner said.

“Another time,” Kirst replied.

Bruckner shrugged. As they walked down to the camp, he delivered his standard orientation lecture. Kirst hardly listened. He felt his head involuntarily whipped about as the thing used his eyes to examine the camp, locking his gaze on the fence that completely encircled the compound. It was angular at five points, where the large sentry towers were located. Kirst’s gaze swept from one tower to the other. What he was seeing registered dully—the importance of it lost on Kirst himself. But the thing rose up through his innards in a hot angry flush that threatened to explode out the top of his head. Five angles, five long sections of fence adding up to five equal walls. The camp perimeter formed a nearly perfect pentagon. Kirst had no idea what it meant. He was conscious only of pain twisting his vitals. He tried to yell, to get Bruckner’s attention, but the thing’s grip tightened.

Blackness clouded Kirst’s eyes. Something had thrown his guest into a violent rage, and Kirst wildly tried to figure what it was so he could fix it and appease the thing—

But it wasn’t about to tell him. It would never tell him anything—just continue to use him.

Hopkins examined Kalmus’ report on Kirst in Blish’s office. He snorted to himself. Somebody must have been drunk, probably Corporal Strann. A German on the roof of a passenger car, on the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul & Pacific, no less. Definitely drunk. But what was this shit about Kirst being asleep during the whole ride? More bullshit. Hopkins knew a malingerer when he saw one.

“Can I have that back?” said Blish. “Gotta shoot a copy over the wire. Headquarters wants to see it. That frigging MP might face a court-martial.”

Hopkins doubted it. Nothing had happened. The prisoner hadn’t escaped. Strann had merely shot up the roof of a passenger car. They wouldn’t make a big deal out of that, just take the cost of repairs out of his pay. Hopkins went to the orderly room and stood by the coffee urn thinking.

Kirst probably wasn’t responsible for what had happened, probably had nothing to do with it, yet there was something slightly creepy about him. Most new prisoners had a ballsy attitude—haughty, chip-on-the-shoulder, all- knowing, telegraphing with their eyes that
you’ve got my body, but you’ll never get my soul.

Hopkins smirked. He had their souls: they just didn’t want to admit it. But Kirst had the damnedest eyes—as if he were looking right through you. Creepy. Hopkins sipped his coffee, made a face, and glared at the orderly.

“Sorry, sir.” The orderly leaped up, grabbed the pot, and rushed off to get a fresh brew going.

Hopkins put the cup on the orderly’s desk so he would remember to wash it out, then he strolled down the hall, thinking about Kirst and some neat stuff he might pull if the malingering sonofabitch went on sick call.

Steuben tromped into Hut 7 and poked his nose into several rooms before he found them. Gebhard was trying to read aloud a tattered American children’s book, part of a meager donation from a library in Billings. Eckmann was curled on a bunk, as usual writing a letter. The dog, Churchill, was crouched by the door and gave Steuben a worried look as he stepped inside.

“Herr Major Steuben,” said Bruckner, “this is Leutnant Rolf Kirst.”

Steuben found Kirst’s hand cold and rubbery; his face was pale, and he seemed at first glance a bit dull-witted. “I hope you don’t mind,” said Steuben. “We put you in with Gebhard here, our only other U-boat officer.”

Gebhard chucked his book into a corner. “Enough of this Cinderella nonsense. I want to hear good news. I want to hear about all the British and American ships we’re sinking, about the fat targets and the new torpedoes, and improvements aboard the boats, and who the captains are. I’ve been here almost two years without another submariner to talk with. Kirst, you and I are going to be inseparable.” He laughed. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“No... thank you.”

“Tea, perhaps?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s not much else to do here, just drink tea and coffee, walk, play volleyball, write letters, listen to lies.... It’s not much of a war. Not like when I was at sea and we were sinking everything in sight. We were good then. We were strong, invincible. Is it still like that, Kirst?”

Kirst studied Gebhard measuredly then slowly shook his head.

Gebhard’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”

Kirst struggled to gather his thoughts. His gaze seemed to lick at Gebhard as he spoke. “The time when you were at sea... that’s now called the Happy Time. Yes, our submarines were invincible; we owned the Atlantic; we sank everything—British, Russians, Americans. Our wolf packs made fish stew of the convoys. A U-boat always returned with confirmed kills. We had our share of victories. But it’s not that way now.”

Gebhard was very still. Steuben frowned.

“The service is not what it was,” Kirst went on, his voice curiously flat. “Morale has hit bottom. When the boats return—the few that do—the men are half dead with exhaustion and failure. A kill is something you long for... like a woman. Something you need to reaffirm yourself. When you get it, your joy is boundless. The sheer pleasure... the power over life.... Smell the fear, then strike....”

There was silence in the little room with the four double bunks and the single window. Bruckner fidgeted. Steuben leaned back and sucked air deeply. Eckmann had stopped writing.

Kirst’s murky eyes were fixed on the floorboards.

Damn you! Why are you doing this? How are you doing it? This is not me! Not Rolf Kirst! I want you all to see and hear the real me, but there is this awful thing inside me that won’t allow the real Rolf Kirst to speak! Please! Please don’t listen to it! Look at me! All of you, please! Damn you, let me go—let me raise my eyes so they can look inside and see that it’s not me saying these things.