Harry Turtledove - Cayos in the Stream

“I’ll do it,” the pilot answers. He nods to you from the wheel. The little engine, the Lycoming, picks up revs. Slowly, without any fuss, the Pilar closes the gap to the U-boat.

Your men have the ninos . They have frags, too, but the Tommy guns are more important now. You pick three to kill the krauts at the 88, two more to deal with the machine-gun crew. After that, they will rush the conning tower. So will you. The thing that goes without saying runs through your head again. With luck. Always with luck.

“When I say now . Not till then, for Christ’s sake,” you tell them in English and in Spanish. They all seem to pay attention. You will find out when you say now . Or maybe you will find out a little before then. You hope not. Like anything, you hope not. But maybe you will.

You shut up when you get close to the U-boat. The skipper savvies English. So do some of the sailors. Better to take no chances.

The Pilar smells none too fresh. The breeze brings you whiffs of badly washed sailor. Short showers with saltwater soap do not get a man clean.

But as you come up alongside the U-boat, you decide the Pilar might as well be drenched in Chanel No. 5 by comparison. The rusting German boat is a Sears, Roebuck catalogue of stinks. The poor, sorry swine aboard her cannot shower at all. They have to make do with basins and wet rags. Food spoils, all the faster in these latitudes. Better not to think about the heads, especially late in a long cruise. Bilge water traps all the stenches and makes sure they never go away.

No wonder the white-capped skipper smiles, up there on the conning tower. The foul air still wafts up out of the hatch. You can smell it, so he can, too. For now, though, he is not trapped inside that stinking steel tube with the hatch dogged shut.

He says something in German, too quick for you to follow. You tense. Does it all go sour here? Then two sailors step away from the deck gun and toss lines so the Pilar can tie up to the U-boat. You wave to the skipper. He does not suspect a thing. You have played the big, smug, famous idiot well enough to win an Oscar.

Maybe you have even played the big, smug, famous idiot well enough to live.

Waving still, smiling fit to break your face, you yell, “ Now! ”

Things seem to happen very slowly. Only piecing them together afterwards do you realize everything that matters is over in a few seconds. If it were not, you would be much too dead to worry about piecing things together afterwards.

All the Tommy guns start chattering at once. As if in slow motion, the Germans at their machine gun tumble away from it. Red splotches-darker than movie blood-spread across one man’s dirty white tunic. A.45-caliber round blows out the back of the other bastard’s head.

Both sailors from the deck-gun crew who tossed lines to the Pilar ’s men are down and bleeding. A glance shows you the rest of the Nazis at the 88 have fallen, too. Good. None of them had time to duck behind the mount. Thank you, Jesus . You remember your religion at times like this. Times like this are what religion is for. And one shell from that ugly chunk of steel would have mashed your boat and everybody on her.

As soon as the German sailors at the guns are out of action-maybe even before they all are-your guys hose down the top of the conning tower with the ninos . The skipper goes down. Away flies his white-crowned cap.

“Follow me!” you shout. “Frags!” You jump from the Pilar to the U-boat. The false fire extinguisher is still in your arms. The damned thing is heavy. Your breath sobs in your lungs as you scramble up the iron ladder at the rear of the conning tower. You are getting-no, you have got-too old for this kind of craziness.

But here you are anyway, square in the middle of it.

Blood and bodies on top of the tower. A couple of the bodies thrash. The Tommy guns did not kill clean. Human beings are harder to kill clean than anyone who has never tried it thinks. But the Nazis are out of the fight. That is what counts.

A German sailor pops up from the hatch like a jack-in-the-box. He has a Schmeisser in his hands, but he never gets to use it. He needs to look around for a second to find out what the hell is going on. You already know. And your time in the ring pays off. You catch him smack on the button with the sweetest right uppercut you ever threw.

His eyes roll up. He falls down the hatchway. A yell from below says he falls on top of the squarehead coming up behind him. They both fall the rest of the way together. More yells say they land on other people.

You yank the fuse on the fire-extinguisher bomb. A frag arcs past you and down the hatch. It blows up no more than a second later. The yells down there turn to screams.

You drop the bomb down the hatch. “Get away!” you shout. There is a lot more explosive inside that casing than in a grenade.

You are on the ladder when the bomb goes off. Then, all at once, you are sprawling on the deck. Fire and smoke shoot out through the hatch. Blood runs into your eyes. You have a cut on your forehead. You must have banged it when your head hit the iron decking.

Up on your feet. Not gracefully-you stagger as if you took one from the Brown Bomber. But you are moving. And your wits work. Smacking your head did not scramble them.

“Back to the boat!” you call. “If any more krauts pop out of the hatch, we’ll shoot ’em from there.”

As soon as all your men are aboard the Pilar , you cut the lines the helpful sailors tossed you. No more U-boat men come from the hatch. Only smoke pours out. It is thick and black-thicker and blacker by the second.

When the breeze blows some toward the Pilar , it burns your eyes worse than your own blood did. Breathing it makes you cough as if it were poison gas. With all the rubber and paint and insulation burning inside the U-boat, it may well be.

You tell Josep to bring the boat upwind of the stricken submarine. He sketches a salute to you. He has never done that before. “ Senor , I will do it,” he says. His voice also holds something new.

Only after a few seconds do you know that something for what it is. You heard it in your own voice in Spain. You were talking with Republican soldiers on leave in Madrid. They were men who had seen much and done much. You talked to them as an ordinary man talks to heroes.

Now Josep talks to you that way. And damned if you have not earned it. All your hunting and boxing and fishing and tomcatting could not give it to you. Storming a U-boat and chucking a bomb down the conning-tower hatch did, though. At last, by God, you are a hero yourself.

You radio Guantanamo. The pipsqueak lieutenant, j.g., who takes your call does not want to believe you. You give your position. You say, “Send out a PBY, you no-balls son of a bitch.”

“I’ll have you court-martialed for that!” he says shrilly.

Oh, how you laugh! “Good luck, sonny. You can’t throw me out of the Navy. I’m not in the Navy. Send out the flying boat. He can sink the U-boat-it’s dead in the water. Or if I’m lying, he can sink me instead.”

You wait. You cook up some more marlin steaks. Why not? The Germans never got the chance to steal them. And you break out the beer and the rum. No, you are not in the Navy. If you deserve a drink, you can have one. Or more than one, for that matter.

The flying boat does not get there till the afternoon. Then the pillar of smoke from the U-boat guides it straight in. It drops its bombs. By then, you are half a mile off. The blasts stun your ears even so. The U-boat turns turtle and sinks.

The PBY turns and flies low over the Pilar . It cannot be more than twenty feet over the flying bridge. The pilot waggles his wings to the boat in salute. You wave back to the plane. You hope its crew can see you. They can-another low pass, another waggle. Then the PBY roars off to the southeast, back toward Guantanamo.