William Dietrich - Ice Reich

Hart was cautious. "European history is confusing to Americans, I'm afraid."

"Justice is not, I hope."

"And flags are irrelevant in an Antarctic storm."

The German smiled thinly. "Then why does every nation take them there?"

The docks were beginning to empty and the ship to settle lower in the water. Departure was drawing near. One night a gray military truck pulled onto the dock and a dozen muscular young men leaped off, shouldered seabags, and bounded up the gangplank to disappear without a word into the forecastle. They wouldn't appear on deck again until the ship had entered the North Sea, went the rumor around ship. Drexler was closeted with them.

"Naval marines, I'll bet," Fritz offered. "Or something worse."

Marines had never been discussed in conversations about the provisioning of the expedition, so Hart mentioned their sudden appearance to the political liaison. Drexler looked faintly disapproving.

"Those men are not your concern."

"But why marines in the Antarctic?"

"I didn't say they were marines."

"Then what are they?"

Drexler sighed. "Those men are simply security, Hart, specialists from the Schutzstaffel, the SS. Elite troops."

"Then they are your men?"

"They are my responsibility. But I'm a civilian in the SS, not a soldier. An advisor, not a general. They take guidance from me."

"Why soldiers in Antarctica?"

"They're mountaineers trained for extreme conditions, a precaution against rash action by Norwegian whalers or anyone else we might encounter. You know better than I how far we'll be from civilization. It would be imprudent not to include such protection to ensure the safety of our mission."

"We won't encounter anyone. There's no one down there."

"That's not true. Half the world is ahead of us down there. Really, Hart, this is exactly the kind of situation we discussed in the galley. Our polar flight is your business. The makeup of our complement is not." And with that he walked away.

Greta arrived a day later, only one day prior to sailing. Hart encountered her in a passageway, trailing another seaman who was carrying a seabag to her cabin.

"Ah, so I see they let the other oddball on board," she said brightly. "First an American horns in, now I arrive. What do you think- is there room enough on this ship for a woman?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll have no problem," said Hart. "They'll soon be admiring your gumption."

"Gumption?" She was puzzled.

"Guts. Courage. It takes a lot of both to be going where you're going."

"Oh, I have my chaperon. Jurgen is determined to look after me." She laughed, but Hart wasn't sure she found that idea unappealing or ridiculous. "And a pilot guide from America!" she added. "You won't let me get lost, will you?"

He smiled uncertainly. "You seem to know your way."

"Hardly!" She laughed again and was off down a passageway, calling over her shoulder, "I can barely find my way around this ship!"

Women are bad luck, he reminded himself as he stared after her. Remembering her smile.

The Schwabenland left Hamburg at six in the morning on December 1, 1938, casting off in a chill drizzle. Europe was electric with tension as Czechoslovakia was absorbed into the Reich and civil war neared its climax in Spain, a war the fascists appeared destined to win. Hart was largely oblivious to such events, engrossed in the details of expedition preparation. With Teutonic efficiency, the aircraft mechanics had stocked two of everything. Hart suggested they get three. The pilots had requested two weeks' emergency rations on each plane; Hart had them double it to four. He also convinced Heiden to bring on board sixty parachutes attached to enough emergency food, water, and fuel to last a downed aircraft a month.

Soon they were plowing through snow squalls in the North Sea. Hart had a flier's stomach and little problem with the motion, but Feder and Greta were sick and stayed away from the officer's mess for the first few days. The seaplane tender soon turned down the Channel and passed other freighters, their running lights glowing in the gloom. None seemed to take special note of the German passing despite the Dornier seaplanes lashed to the catapults. Off Calais, however, a British destroyer emerged from a bank of fog and rounded on the Schwabenland's flag, following for a few miles like a dog sniffing scent. Drexler ran out on the bridge wing and studied the warship through binoculars, as no doubt its officers were studying the German vessel. Then the British ship pulled away.

Hart liked the sea. It offered the same combination of freedom and simple emptiness as the air. And the ship was a cocoon, a refuge of warmth from the elements outside. The American's quarters were with the expedition leaders and pilots, high in the midcastle housing. Ordinary seamen were on decks below. The mysteriously ensconced SS mountaineers were housed in the uncomfortable forecastle, where the ship's motion and noise from pounding waves was at an extreme. True to prediction, the soldiers did emerge after the ship left Hamburg but they kept to themselves, clinging to the bow area of the Schwabenland as if an invisible leash kept them from roaming. Twice a day they assembled on the forward deck in shorts and T-shirts and did calisthenics. They looked like white, blond machines.

Hart prowled the vessel's passageways until he had a mental map of its layout, then scouted cozy places on deck shielded from wind. From there, catching the warmth of the occasional winter sun like a cat, he could watch the cresting swells for hours. Under dark skies the waves were like hills of obsidian, glassy but opaque. When the sun shone they turned molten emerald. The air outside was cold and refreshing, a contrast to the interior's smell of oil and cigarette smoke and overcooked German food.

Eventually Greta emerged on deck and remained there as long as possible, using the wind to blow away her nausea. At first she seemed to prefer to be alone with her thoughts. Sometimes Drexler would approach her, Hart would surreptitiously observe, and she would give a quiet shake of her head. But later she would chat with him for a bit and the other officers would occasionally join her too, sometimes making a joke to cover their awkwardness. Her gender made her exotic and her quiet beauty- it was more evident here at sea, away from the calculated flash of Goring's actresses- a magnet.

Without effort she became, along with Heiden as captain and Drexler as German philosopher, a focal point in the officer's mess. She would arrive for dinner dressed in practical working clothes- wool pants, boots, and a sweater, her red hair pulled back into a ponytail- and gamely enter the male conversation. Sometimes she smelled of perfume and sometimes of formaldehyde, but she had a light, gentle laugh that sounded in the dark and overheated mess like a bell in a cave. Her effect was amusing: the men would unconsciously straighten a bit, voices would quiet and soften, eyes would quickly dart her way and then turn to a studious examination of a salt shaker or coffee mug. She was aware of this and careful to let her own gaze flit from face to face, democratically pleasant. The woman was an antidote to coarseness, and Hart guessed most of the men in the officer's mess were secretly grateful for her presence. Yet he knew her position was not easy. She was trying to assert a place as an equal and yet adhere to the feminine reticence expected in 1938 Germany.

Her relationship with Jurgen Drexler seemed as "unsettled" as she'd described herself to be. Clearly she enjoyed his company: he was handsome, self-assured, and flattering in his attentions. The German was a man on the make, a comer who might go far in the new regime if this expedition was a success. An alliance with a bright, pathbreaking woman like Greta would likely make them a celebrity couple back home. And he was a dogged campaigner for her affection. Whenever possible, Hart noticed, Drexler would take the seat next to her in the mess. The others often left it empty as if waiting for his arrival. Yet the pilot wasn't sure what the woman made of this presumption. On a few occasions she made a point of sitting between two other men, reminding him of her move at Karinhall. The change, it seemed to Hart, gave her a bit of relief: Jurgen Drexler could be relentlessly persistent. Yet when Drexler talked late in the evening about their expedition- "to the crystal towers of Antarctica!"-he'd lose himself in romanticism and the biologist's eyes would take on a certain shine.