Fourteen thousand tons of oil, aviation gas, whatever they had. The sea around Evdokia was covered with burning oil.
“They’ll always take a tanker, if they can get one,” Kees said.
That was true. DeHaan had heard of convoys where a tanker was literally roped between two destroyers. He raised the binoculars and swept them across the burning sea, but all he found was an upside-down rubber raft, its fabric stained with age.
He gave the binoculars back to the AB. “There might still be someone in the water,” he said.
“Aye-aye, sir,” the AB said. He swallowed once, then turned to keep watch.
DeHaan headed for the wardroom.
Later, he took the four-to-eight, and worked Noordendam through the storm. She rode like a pig, with all her weight, wallowing in the valleys, nosing up the oncoming wave and hauling herself over. As Ratter came up to relieve him they sighted the Ellery, a mile or so behind the convoy, and the destroyer changed course in order to guide them in. As they fell into line behind the Maud McDowell, they saw her hit by lightning, and, for an instant, a ball of blue fire danced on the lightning rod at the masthead. Which worked, apparently, guiding the charge down to the sea, and not into the holds. Had that happened, they would have known.
As the storm passed over them, DeHaan returned to his cabin, where he tried to sleep. He was desperately tired, down to nothing-the other sense of exhausted, and various parts of him throbbed and ached. So, sleep, he told himself. But he couldn’t. In fact, insomnia was nothing new. As a child, he’d nightly tricked himself to sleep by imagining that he was on a train, the last car of a train, which was filled with beds, where everybody he knew lay safe and asleep, where it was up to him to close the door at the back of the car, and, making sure it was closed, he could then climb into the last bed, and go to sleep.
But that was a long time ago.
So he turned on the lamp and stood before the forty-book library. Who wants a job? France, war, the travails of the Van Hoogendams, dog-eared at page 148. A legacy, a sinister uncle, the beauteous Emma, and, then, oblivion.
25 May, 1830 hours. Port of Sphakia.
It had been lovely here, once upon a time. A Mediterranean fishing village, with tall, narrow houses jammed together in a circle around the port, their peeling, sun-bleached walls ochre or Venetian red, apricot or pastel green, nets hung to dry over rough cobbles, fishing boats bobbing in cerulean water. You can only get fish-the travelers would say, returning to a cold summer in Rotterdam-bread and figs and goat cheese and wonderful bad wine, and the mail comes once a week if it comes at all but the sun shines and the sky is blue.
Now, one of the houses had lost its front wall, you could see old wallpaper and unmade beds, while its neighbors were missing the glass in their windows, and the one over the taverna had a charcoal-colored blast pattern on the third floor.
At the western end of the little bay they’d handled cargo. One tall derrick was bent in the middle, and from another came showers of blue sparks as the welders worked in the dusk. But it was, at least, deep. Enough so that the freighters could tie up to the pier, as camouflage-painted trucks arrived to take the cargo away. DeHaan counted four cranes that looked like they still worked, and a tender was attempting to fix a line to a small trawler, floating hull up where the wooden timbers of the dock had burned for a time before they were extinguished. Out in the bay, the Ellery and the Covington joined a heavy cruiser, and various corvettes and minesweepers, all of them guarding what DeHaan suspected might be the last usable port on Crete.
Moments after they tied up, a naval warrant officer, who looked like he’d been awake for days, came aboard and found DeHaan. “We’ll unload the Greek ship first,” he said, “except for your planes, we’ll want those right away.”
“Are we under fire here?” DeHaan asked him.
“Now and then,” the officer said. “It’s been, in general, pretty thick.”
From the mountains behind the port, DeHaan could hear artillery exchanges, the echoes bouncing off the slopes before they reached the harbor.
When the planes came, a few minutes later, it turned out that the town of Sphakia was the proud owner of a siren. It wasn’t much of a siren, some tired old thing the mayor bought, that climbed up and down in a bass voice, cracked and hoarse, and got the dogs barking. The alarms from the warships in the bay were far more convincing, klaxons sounding a series of shrill bleats as the sailors ran for their battle stations.
DeHaan had, at that moment, walked the warrant officer to the gangplank and waited courteously until he reached the dock. He was a fair-skinned man with reddish hair, not placid but steady, and surely hardened to mishap, and he seemed, as he turned and searched the sky, more than anything else, annoyed. Not frightened, not furious, it was simply that what was coming his way would cause him work and irritation, was the last straw, and he pressed his lips together and slowly shook his head, then strolled off down the dock toward the Maud McDowell.
The planes were Junkers 87s-Stukas, single-engine dive-bombers with fixed wheels in curved wells on wide struts. Three of them, coming in from the north, from Maleme, maybe twenty miles away, skimming over the treetops at five hundred feet and clearly headed for the port. By then, the navy had been radioed by British troops on the front lines so, from the cruiser, from both destroyers and the smaller ships, came a blizzard of antiaircraft gunnery. Oerlikon guns, firing at a rate of five hundred rounds a minute-eight-second bursts from sixty-round drums, changed quickly by the loader-and Bofors guns, a hundred and twenty rounds a minute, but with heavier shells. Every fifth round, on both weapons, was a tracer, so the fireworks were spectacular, dozens of long red streams flowing over the Noordendam, then tracking downward as the planes dove. DeHaan stood transfixed, tracer whizzing above his head, lower, and lower.
The bombers attacked three abreast, and the one in the middle blew up right away, the second crashed into the forest on the lower slopes, setting the resinous pine trees ablaze, while the third pilot veered, too much fire in his face, got rid of his bomb-which blew up a stable behind the town-slanted over the water to the east of the ships, trailed smoke for a moment, and cartwheeled into the sea.
The second wave did better. Following the curve of the mountain, then turning sharply over the port. One bomb raised a giant waterspout between the Triton and Maud McDowell, a second, hit by gunfire, blew up its plane a hundred feet above the Noordendam, showering the deck with burning metal, and the third-well, nobody saw what happened to the third.
Where’s the RAF? Not here. Except for the two Hurricanes on the Noordendam, tied down with steel wire. Otherwise, only a new set of Stukas. But the navy was doing well, the hammering and drumming was frantic, and constant, though some of it hit the houses in the port, white puffs of plaster blowing off the walls.
DeHaan scrambled up the ladderway to the bridge, where Kees and an AB were watching the show. Then he was on his back, the AB lying across his legs, both of them covered with glass, while outside it was raining iron, first a light patter, then a heavy downpour. As DeHaan tried to free himself, he realized he’d gone deaf in one ear and shook his head like a dog, but it didn’t help. Then Kees appeared, blood running from his nose and flowing down either side of his mouth, and, once he managed to get DeHaan stood upright, he cupped a hand beneath his chin and spit out the stub of his pipe.
Looking around, DeHaan realized that there was no glass in the windows, which made it easier to see flames, up by the bow, and, as he watched, a bright yellow flash. So, they were on fire. And that’s that. He tried to run, but he was very wobbly, and staggered like a drunk out onto the bridge wing. Somebody had set off the fire siren, and he could make out dark figures dragging a hose toward the bow. Going forward, he met Van Dyck, who led one of the firefighting crews, hanging on to a high-pressure hose, which sent a thick stream of water onto one of the tanks, which was burning, and periodically firing a shell into the sky from a hole in its front deck.
“ Maud McDowell, ” Van Dyck shouted.
DeHaan looked for it but he couldn’t see it. He saw the Triton, but not the Maud McDowell, because it wasn’t there. It wasn’t burning, it wasn’t sinking. It wasn’t.
30 May. Port of Tangier.
Wilhelm made tea with a flourish, raising and lowering the kettle as the stream of water splashed onto the mint leaves packed in the bottom of a glass. “My tea ritual,” she said. “This time every day.”
The sun was setting in the window of her studio. Lying back on a divan, her model, wearing only a blanket with tiny silver mirrors hanging from threads, smoked a cigarette and watched like a cat.
