The Passenger Read Online Free PDF Page B

which dirty yellow scraps were blown along at high speed. Juhl and his companions gazed out over a sea that looked as if each wave had been cast from iron. An untrustworthy light created a disconcerting illusion of arrested movement, a bleak, metallic uniformity that extended in every direction to the wide horizon and resembled the surface of a dying planet. Rain drops tapped irregular rhythms on the rubberized cloth of Juhl’s foul-weather gear. The second watch officer’s cheeks had become encrusted with salt and his dry lips were striped with black lines where the skin had broken and bled. His balaclava seemed to offer no protection from the malicious wind.
    â€˜This is shit,’ said Hoffmann, an electrician with a broad Bavarian accent. It made him stand out because most U-boat men were from the north.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ Juhl responded. ‘Things could be worse.’
    â€˜Could they, sir?’
    â€˜Well, imagine what it would be like if you were in the army. Just think of it, all that square bashing and posturing, getting shot at all the time. We don’t have to go on long marches, we don’t have to eat dog meat on the eastern front, Werner is an excellent cook, and our service uniforms are really very eye-catching.’ Juhl took a deep breath. ‘And smell that fresh sea air! Bracing, medicinal, it’s like being on a cruise.’
    â€˜You’ve been spending too much time with the skipper,’ said Hoffmann.
    It was an astute observation. Echoes of the commander’s habitual sarcasm could be heard in Juhl’s speech, a hint of weary resignation, grim humor. The second watch officer raised his binoculars and studied the livid, pitiless expanse. ‘You may be right,’ he muttered.
    â€˜The wife’s pregnant,’ said Hoffmann.
    â€˜Congratulations,’ Juhl laughed. ‘When is the baby due?’
    â€˜About now, sir.’
    â€˜What do you want, a boy or a girl?’
    â€˜I already have a son,’ said Hoffmann. Suddenly, he seemed embarrassed by his personal disclosures. ‘This is shit. How long have we been at sea now, sir?’
    â€˜Too long. Sometimes I feel like the Flying Dutchman . . .’
    The boat continued along its course, the bow carving through the swell and producing two frothy trails. A faint melody drifted up through the hatch. Someone, probably Richter, was playing a ballad on the accordion, and Hoffman croaked along with the chorus, ‘ Embrasse-moi, embrasse-moi .’ The music had the effect of detaching Juhl from his surroundings, and he pictured the familiar smoky lounge of a Brest hotel, where a scrawny, aging chanteuse with a taste for revealing dresses frequently enacted the end of love affairs on a makeshift stage. He saw her superimposed on the waves, making violent gestures and shaking her mane of badly dyed hair. The vision absorbed him completely until one of the lookouts screamed—‘Aircraft! Sixty degrees!’—and Juhl was jolted back to reality. Even in the second or two it took to confirm the sighting the plane seemed to become inordinately large.
    â€˜Alarm!’ Juhl extended the cry until his lungs had no more air in them. The men scrambled into the tower, hardly making contact with the steps, sliding their hands down the ladder rails to guide their fall. Juhl followed. Boots landed on the matting with a loud thud. The bell was ringing, a bright continuous clamor.
    In the control room Graf’s voice was loud and urgent. ‘Flood! Flood! All hands forward.’ The diesel engines were shut down, and the crew in the stern compartments ran toward the bow in order to increase its weight. Two men near the front stumbled and those running behind simply leaped over the sprawled bodies. The vents were opened, and the air that had been keeping the boat afloat was released, producing a bellicose roar, the dive tanks filled, and U-330 became heavier. As the hydroplane