Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“There are a number of Germans, mi Capitán, myself and my father and many of our friends included, who loathe the Nazis and are ashamed at their treatment of Jews.”

“As far as I am concerned, the subject is closed. All is well that ends well, Peter. I find you a delightful dinner companion and an even more delightful opponent at chess. You are not quite as good as I am, but you’re good enough to give me a very good game.”

“Our final breakfast, Peter,” el Capitán Schirmer said on the morning of December 13, as they lingered over their coffee. “I shall miss your smiling face, an island of joy in this sea of sourpusses.”

The Chief Engineer snorted. “There is something wrong with a man who leaps out of bed when he doesn’t have to,” he said.

“You Spaniards feel that way,” Schirmer said. “We of German stock regard each day as a glorious opportunity to do something constructive.”

“Carajo!”—roughly, Oh shit!

“Pay no attention to him, Peter. He has been bitter since the day he discovered he is known as ‘Tiny Prick’ among the girls under the El Puente Pueyrredón”—a railroad bridge in La Boca.

The Chief Engineer stood up and held out his hand to Peter.

“If I don’t see you again, it’s been a pleasure, Peter. I’m in the telephone book. If you have a free moment, give me a call, and I will take you to El Puente Pueyrredón and ask the girls themselves to tell you what they call el Capitán.”

Peter stood up.

“Thank you, Sir, for the privilege of your company.”

As they shook hands, there was a subtle change in the ambient vibrations of the ship. The Chief Engineer cocked his head.

“Stop engines,” he said. At the same instant, Peter reached the conclusion that the vibration was gone, and that meant the engines had stopped.

Schirmer nodded, and turned to Peter.

“They were on the radio this morning,” he said. “They are sending people to meet you aboard the pilot boat. Maybe you should get dressed.”

For the last ten days of the voyage Peter had been dressing just as the ship’s officers dressed—in white shirt and shorts loaned to him by Capitán Schirmer.

“Yes, Sir. I suppose I’d better. Con su permiso?”—With your permission? (May I leave you?)

The officer’s steward had his perfectly pressed and starched summer khaki uniform hanging on the door of his cabin.

I wonder how much I should tip him. He’s really taken good care of me. I should have asked Schirmer. I will miss him. I will miss the whole damned thing, the steward, the good food, the officers at the table, but especially Schirmer.

When he left his cabin, he saw Schirmer standing on the flying bridge, looking down at the sea. He went to him and asked about the tip. Schirmer told him, then pointed down.

Peter turned. A good-looking launch, with a good deal of varnished wood and gleaming brass, was alongside. A ladder had been put over

the side, and a tall stocky man in an ornate uniform was very carefully climbing up it. Waiting to follow him was a much thinner man in a Wehrmacht colonel’s uniform. He removed his cap and dabbed at his forehead and shaved head with a handkerchief.

Those are winter uniforms. Why the hell are they wearing winter uniforms in this heat?

The Belgrano’s second mate was on deck with a couple of sailors.

Probably waiting for the clown in the ornate uniform—what the hell is that, anyway?—to fall off the ladder.

“I suppose I’d better go down there,” Peter said.

Schirmer nodded and grunted.

Peter went down the two ladders to the main deck. He reached the railing as the second mate helped the clown in the fancy uniform onto the deck.

Peter noticed for the first time that there was a brassard with a red swastika on the clown’s left sleeve.

That makes him a Nazi.