Most of the candy was scooped up and eaten by German soldiers, who were everywhere by then.
When we were rested, Uncle Martin had me untie the lines for us to take the boat to fuel up. On the way to the German-run fueling station, the bow of the boat pushed a pack of seagulls off their floating perch on the water, and the birds started hovering above the ship and squawking down at the decks the same way they would when we were out to sea fishing and tossing scraps overboard. While watching the birds, Uncle Martin handed me a large box of threepenny nails and a claw-handled hammer.
“Go to the steering hold and take out the box of potato masher grenades above the starboard bilges. Pry open all the boxes we loaded below and bury a grenade in as many as you can, then close the boxes back up.”
“Oh god, Uncle Martin, I don’t want to do any of that,” I said.
“This is important.”
“Please don’t make me go out with you.” My thumb ran over the sharp steel edge of the hammer’s claw, and the fat pad of my thumb pressed between the gap. The seagulls were still calling all around the ship.
“I’ll take care of you, I promise. But tonight I need your help. Now go do as I ask,” he said.
“No.”
“Go.”
“I’ll tell,” I said.
Martin’s open palm cracked the side of my head. My ear rang. It took everything not to let my eyes well over.
“Jacob. Do as I say.”
I looked him straight in the eye and balled my fists, but he raised his voice and leaned into me and yelled, “Now,” and I turned to do what he said.
In the holds I packed grenades into potato sacks, boxes of peppers, apples, toilet paper, and flour. I eased open the crates, scooped away what was inside and planted grenades like how my mother dropped tulip bulbs into the dirt, then tapped the nails back into place. The whole time I was ranting to myself.
Later, when the ship was fueled, the supply boxes had been stuffed with grenades, and the bald officer in the trench coat had returned, we cruised east out of the harbor, then north to the mouth where the Ems opens and spreads out like an alluvial fan into the North Sea. The bald officer rode up with Martin in the wind-shielded wheelhouse. I didn’t want to be anywhere near the man, or even hear him talk. The officer checked his watch and then a map he pulled from his satchel every few minutes to compare to Martin’s chart. At the dark mouth of the channel before the North Sea, where the water got choppier, Martin set the boat on a track to do large circles and turned out all his running lights. Fast-moving clouds swept over the star-wild sky. The officer stood ready by a large spotlight next to the steering column.
As we circled in the darkness, breaks in the cloud cover let the stars wink through. Whatever section of the moon was out was hidden. Drifts of diesel scent floated over the decks. The engine sputtered through the water as my legs got heavier and heavier, as if they’d become magnetized to the deck.
At 2:00 A.M. Martin faced the bow of the ship to the east, and the officer flipped the dual spotlight on and off in quick succession, flashing some code out into the dark. He did this for several minutes. My eyes followed the beam of light as it stretched outward, searching, then fading in the distance past the spot where the two beams of light converged. When the officer switched off the spotlight, the total darkness of some subterranean river settled over me, and there was my brother again in free float. Here came the rising wave of hurt. When the light switched back on, it made the mist look like a thick head wall of smoke moving in.
In the beam of light, the lustrous shadow of a U-boat’s bow crested the surface. The sound of a large surge of water followed by a tremendous crash sent swells rippling over the calm surface.
“There,” the officer said, “Unterseeboot,” and pointed off the starboard side of the Lighthouse Lady.
Martin set the boat to circle alongside the U-boat. He came down the ladder from the steering column and waved me to follow him into the holds. Then he moved a Mauser submachine gun to the side panel of the ladder way. Next to that he put a large, black, steel box with an apple-sized glob of adhesive putty that looked like bread dough in each corner. He covered it with the jacket he’d been wearing, then put on a thicker black coat that he tucked a potato masher into the inner lining of.
“When we pull alongside, only tie one spring line in a slipknot from the center of the submarine to our cleat. We’ll unload everything from there. They’re going to stack it all at the bottom of the hatch column. When we have a few boxes left, this officer is going to go into their boat, and I want you to go to the helm and get ready to get us away from that sub as fast as possible.” He rested a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry I smacked you,” he said, then climbed out of the hold.
Martin brought his boat parallel to the U-boat, a sleek, riveted whale. A close link chain assembly threaded through the hawsepipe and secured the anchor to the foredeck. There were four men in black oilskin jackets and wool hats on the top of the U-boat, and I tossed one of them the mooring line to tie the center of our boat up with from the middle of their ship. Once the lines were secure on their end I tied a slipknot to the cleat on our midship. The man on the U-boat handed over a meter-wide and five-meter-long wooden plank, which we secured to make a walkway between the two ships. The plank had been adhered to the outside bow and was slick and wet.
“You men can start unloading the supplies, while I go speak to the captain,” the bald officer aboard said. He tossed his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked across the wood board. He handed his bag down into the hatch and then climbed down himself.
The men on the surface of the boat began loading the supplies. Someone reached out of the hatch and pulled the boxes inside, where they were stacked and then probably carried from hand to hand to the holds all throughout the ship. The resealed boxes went across. Some had bent nails pounded into the wood. One of the sailors on the U-boat went back into the hatch, leaving three above the surface. With only ten boxes left, Martin went below the hold and came up with a skinny lead anchor for a skiff. He handed it to one of the sailors.
“Put this right next to the hatch for now, would you?” The sailor laid the anchor next to the hatch and turned back to get the next box.
“I’ll get the rest of these, Jacob, why don’t you get up to the helm and keep us steady?”
Martin heaved a box over to the sailors standing on the plank. When I was on the helm, he went below the deck. He came back out with the black box cradled to his body with his left hand. He held his right underneath it for support.
“Let me carry this one across, it’s heavy,” he said, walking to the wood beam.