The irony was that they barely knew a fraction of the story, but I was in no mood to provide more hoist for my own petard. Eventually I tired of this teasing and, like a lion tormented by dogs, in one pivotal week around the time of the Winter Solstice, announced my withdrawal from graduate school and burned the manuscript of my porn novel in a desolate section of the New Brunswick backwoods.
Since then, I’ve had many occasions to reflect upon my freshman-like approach to graduate-level responsibilities those many years ago. Still, it’s spilled milk under the bridge, and no amount of groveling would suffice to earn Ms. Atwood’s forgiveness. To broach the subject with her now, even via an abject letter of apology, might precipitate a flashback, the magnitude of which could plunge her into who knows what state of psychological imbalance. Worse still, she might write vilifying letters to the Canada Council and every publisher she knows, nipping in the bud any hopes I might have had to forge my own literary career. No, if I’ve learned one thing after all these years, it’s best to fly under the radar.
~~~~~~~~~
The Naskapi and the U-Boat
Gulls swept past the barren headland of Cape Chidley, dipping and whirling, their sharp cries chorusing on the wind. Only seabirds occupied this granite crag where meager patches of lichen clung to its summit. At the base of the cliff a hundred feet below, a cold surf slapped the rocky beach. Further to the west, Hudson Bay lay captive in the embrace of an Arctic sea. To the east, Greenland unloaded icebergs into the frigid Atlantic.
Rising from the depths, a German U-boat arrived in Canadian territorial waters, armed for war. It was 1942 and the Battle of the Atlantic was in full tide.
~~~
The U-boat’s control room was cramped and odorous, dominated by the smell of diesel fuel and human sweat. On a bulkhead was a humidity-wrinkled photo held in place with electrician’s tape. It showed a U-boat in harbor, crew lined up on deck, flag draped from the conning tower.
A helmsman sat at his console, maintaining plane and rudder control. A green phosphorous sonar screen cast a dim light on his face. The engines’ steady throb was punctuated by the sonar’s ping at 2-second intervals. Now and again, an air valve let out an oily sigh of tedium and tension.
A few feet away, Kapitan Wolff and Leutnant Richter stood at a plotting table under an overhead lamp. Between them lay plotting instruments atop a map of eastern Canada.
Richter was in his twenties, in a white shirt with a lieutenant’s insignia on his epaulets. Wolff was in his thirties, bearded, in a wrinkled blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His hair hadn’t been cut in a while. Dark crescents under his eyes were a testament to insomnia.
“Another half an hour, we’ll be there,” Wolff said.
“Cape Chidley.” Richter tapped his finger on the northern tip of the Labrador Peninsula. “Why up here, rather than further down the coast?”
“The meteorologists at Naval Command say it’s ideal for monitoring weather patterns. Cold air masses from the north pass directly over this cape, diverging into the Atlantic off Newfoundland.”
“And into the sea lanes of Allied convoys bound for England…”
“Right. Given accurate readings on temperature, barometric pressure and wind from here, they could predict the weather in the shipping lanes days in advance.”
“Advising us when and where to attack…”
“Us, and every other U-boat in the North Atlantic. This mission could be the deciding factor in choking off England’s supply line.”
“If it’s so important, why so little time to accomplish our mission?”
Wolff shrugged. “Ask Naval Command.”
“Two days. Not much time to set up the meteorological station and the radio, test them and make our rendezvous.”
“No choice. If we want to get re-supplied, we need to be south of Greenland by 1800 hours on Thursday. We miss the boat, we’re on our own.”
“Let’s hope there’re no complications. The Canadians don’t have military posts this far north, do they?”
“According to our intelligence, the place is completely uninhabited.”
~~~
A kilometer south of Cape Chidley, on the western shore facing Ungava Bay, a cove offered shelter from the wind. A small fire burned in the lee of a caribou-skin tent where a Naskapi family went about their activities.
The man Agatak, his face as weathered as a used moccasin, was sharpening a spear tip. He wore leather pants, sealskin boots and a leather shirt with a short fur collar. His head was bowed in concentration as he manipulated a rasp against a metal spear head.
The woman Nuna was repairing a pair of boots. Her hair hung in shiny folds over her shoulders. Like her husband and children, she wore the same sexless leather pants, boots and shirt.
Their teenage son Shogan was securing an arrowhead to a shaft with a length of copper wire. Their little girl Kanti played with a rag doll. A baby slept in a makeshift backpack near Nuna, only its flat face visible beneath a ruffle of fox fur.
Nuna looked at Agatak. “We need food.”
“We’ll go soon,” Agatak said. “With the sun out, there’ll be seals on the beach.”
~~~
Kapitan Wolff stood aside as the periscope tube, slick with grease, rose with a hiss. He snapped the handles into place and put his sallow eyes to the viewfinder.
The periscope lens revealed a rocky headland a kilometer away, range-finding crosshairs superimposed on an empty beach. Wolff did a 360-degree sweep – seeing open sea all around – and returned to the barren headland, where seabirds were the only sign of life.
He slapped the handles back into place and thumbed a switch. The periscope tube hissed back into the floor. “Blow main ballast. Stand by to surface.”
There was a loud hiss of compressed air. “Main ballast blown,” Richter said.
Wolff picked up a microphone. “Gun crew on deck. Shore crew, prepare to launch.”
A three-man gun crew clambered from a hatch on the forward desk, removed the deck gun’s muzzle cap, and opened the waterproof locker that held a ready supply of 88-mm shells.
A four-man shore crew emerged from the same hatch, dragging a yellow rubber dinghy onto deck. Two of the shore crew went about inflating it with an air hose and getting it into the water. The two other men grappled with a pair of crates passed up from below. One bore the words “Meteorologie Einheit” stenciled on it, the other “Radioapparat”.
From the conning tower, Wolff and Richter surveyed the headland through binoculars. “What do you think?” Wolff said.
“Looks ideal,” Richter said.
“And just as we expected – uninhabited.”
On the foredeck, radio technician Hoffmann with a 3-meter antenna in hand watched the crates being loaded into the dinghy. He was older than most U-boat crew, early forties, with a balding head and wire-rim glasses.
Wolff called down from the conning tower. “Soon as you’re ready, Emil. Let’s get it set up and win this war.”
Hoffmann gave him a casual salute. “Jawohl, Kapitan.”
~~~
Shogan climbed into the kayak. Agatak pushed it off the beach and climbed aboard. He settled into his seat and they thrust off with two-bladed paddles. Kanti waved goodbye from the water’s edge. Beside the tent, Nuna was still sewing, the baby asleep at her side.
Agatak and Shogan paddled down the shore. Three hundred yards away, a herd of seals lay on the beach, their skins sleek and shiny in the sun. Agatak and Shogan beached behind some rocks a hundred yards from the seals. Agatak carried a spear, Shogan his bow and arrow.
“I’ll crawl up the beach,” Agatak said. “You circle around.”
Shogan headed inland. Agatak threaded his way through the rocks, then dropped to hands and knees and crawled towards the herd.
Having climbed the ridge above the beach, Shogan drew an arrow from his quiver and fit it to his bowstring. He took aim and shot. The arrow buried itself in the neck of a seal. The seal jerked its head ba
ck and bellowed, trying to bite the protruding arrow shaft. The entire herd of 20 seals surged en masse to the water.
Agatak jumped up and ran after them, overtaking the wounded seal in shallow water. He threw his spear, striking the seal in its back. The seal bellowed with pain and made a last thrust for deeper water. Agatak seized the rope that had unraveled behind his spear and quickly took in the slack, wrapping coils around his arm.
The seal thrashed, unable to break free, as Agatak dug in his heels. Shogan arrived. He drew his machete and hacked at the seal’s neck. The seal lunged at him with a snarl, teeth bared. Shogan dodged away, then slashed again. Spewing blood, the seal shrieked its last. Shogan caught hold of the rope and they dragged the seal up onto the beach.
~~~
Sergeant Krause and his three men – Henckel, Schmidt and Voormann – paddled the rubber dinghy shoreward. Each had an MP38 sub-machinegun slung over his shoulder. Hoffmann sat amidships atop the radio crate, antenna in hand.
Sergeant Krause was a muscular blond with a low forehead and eyes that squinted into the afternoon sun. His crew – all in their twenties – were stamped from the same mold.
Krause asked the radio technician, “How long will this take, Emil?”
“An hour or two,” Hoffmann said. “Enjoy the fresh air while you can.”
The dinghy ran up on the beach. Voormann stepped out, got his boots wet and pulled it onto the gravel shore. Hoffmann and the others disembarked. Krause looked up and down the beach.
“So, where are we going with this apparatus?”
Hoffmann pointed. “Up there on the cliff.”
Krause barked, “All right, boys, let’s see some sweat.”
Henckel and Schmidt stacked the crates atop each other and carried them up the beach.
Krause found a path to the summit. Once there, he surveyed the high ground and looked down from the cliff. Gulls shrieked on the wind as waves broke on the rocky beach below. Voormann, left with the dinghy, had walked fifty meters up the beach, perched on a rock to smoke a cigarette. Five hundred meters offshore, the U-boat’s grey conning tower barely stood out against the metallic sea.
Hoffmann arrived at the summit with antenna in hand. He selected a flat expanse of ground and scuffed at a thin layer of soil atop the rock. Henckel and Schmidt, winded from the climb, clambered onto the summit with the two crates between them. They set them down, slung their guns from their shoulders and sat.
Hoffmann used a small crowbar to open the first crate.
~~~
At the campsite, the baby wailed from its basket.
Nuna set aside her sewing and held him against her chest. He kept crying, more softly now. Nuna raised the flap of her shirt and thrust the baby up inside. In moments he’d found a nipple and begun to suckle.
Kanti watched awhile, then wandered off to the water’s edge. She placed a wood chip in the water and poked it with a branch. She followed as it drifted along the shore.
“Kanti, you stay close,” Nuna said. “The bears will get you.”
Kanti, ignoring her, continued. The baby fussed again, having lost the nipple. Nuna guided his mouth to the other one. When she looked again, Kanti was further down the shore, but still within sight.
“Come back,” Nuna called.
Kanti continued along the shoreline, picking up seagull feathers. She looked back at the tent in the distance, then toward the headland. Further up the shore, she saw a splash of yellow at the water’s edge.
~~~
On the summit, the larger crate had been emptied, turned upside down and bolted into the underlying rock. The radio unit sat atop it, protected within its own crate, antenna clamped to one of its corners. The weather unit sat beside it – a metal box with vents and portholes, and a 60-centimeter spindle topped by a directional vane, below which four anemometer cups spun in the wind like a miniature merry-go-round.
Hoffmann finished wiring the radio to the batteries. He flipped a switch on the weather instrument panel. “Ready for a test.”
Krause thumbed a switch on his field radio. “Seagull to Shark. Come in.”
The radio crackled and the operator said, “Shark to Seagull. Loud and clear.”
Hoffmann said, “Tell him to take a reading.”
“Got that?” Krause said into the radio.
“Wind velocity, eighteen knots, north by north west,” the radio operator said.
“Perfect,” Hoffmann said, noting the instrument panel.
“Temperature, eleven degrees centigrade...”
After verifying the other readings, Hoffmann secured the cover on the instrument panel. The weather unit and radio worked perfectly.
“That’s it?” Krause said.
“Good to go,” Hoffmann nodded.
Krause clucked his tongue. Schmidt and Henckel picked up their guns and stood.
~~~
Kanti approached the dinghy. She touched it with her hand, found it springy. She sat on the edge of it and bounced.
She climbed into the dinghy, and lay amidships with her head against a rubber gunwale. She played with the gull feathers and sang to herself. Then she heard someone whistling. She sat up and saw a man in strange clothes appear from behind some rocks near the base of the cliff.
Kanti jumped out of the dinghy and ran.
Voormann raised his weapon.
~~~
From the conning tower, Kapitan Wolff and Leutnant Richter trained their binoculars on the beach. They’d heard gunfire. On the foredeck, the gun crew stood ready, the 88-mm cannon turned landward. Wolff picked up the microphone.
“Shark to Seagull. What’s happening?”
“Voormann shot a native,” Krause said.
In the background, Hoffmann’s voice screamed in outrage: “A little girl. He shot a little girl.”
“The kid was in the dinghy,” Krause said. “She saw Voormann coming and ran. What was he supposed to do? Let her run and tell her family? It could have screwed up the whole mission.”
Wolff shook his head in disgust. Shooting civilians was a violation of the Geneva protocol. He’d discipline Voormann later for his profound lack of judgment. “Seen any signs of habitation?”
“No.”
“Better look around. Find the adults.”
“And when I do?” Krause asked.
Wolff grimaced. “Finish what you started.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Twelve hours,” Wolff said. “We’ll go out fifty kilometers, test the transmission and return for you in the morning.”
“You will come back?” Krause joked.
“Yes, but we’ll leave Voormann,” Wolff joked back as he signed off. It wasn’t funny, but what was done was done. War was ugly.
~~~
Agatak and Shogan were returning to camp in their kayak, towing the dead seal with the rope behind them, when they heard the distant burst of gunfire. They stopped paddling and traded puzzled looks.
They dug their paddles into the water and ran the kayak up onto the beach. They pulled the seal above the water line and headed inland, climbing the low ridge above the beach.
As they headed north along the ridge, they heard another brief stutter of gunfire ten minutes later. They stopped, listened, but heard no more. They crawled on hands and knees to the ridge above their camp.
Three men stood over the bodies of Nuna and the baby.
Shogan drew an arrow for his bow. Agatak laid his hand on Shogan’s arm and shook his head. Shogan bit his lip.
“After dark,” Agatak whispered. He tugged at Shogan’s elbow, and they withdrew from the ridge.
~~~
After Henckel shot the woman, Sergeant Krause led him and Schmidt another kilometer down the shoreline. Hoffmann had stayed back at the headland with the weather station, Voorman with the dinghy.
They found a dead seal on the beach. Krause crouched beside it, noting the deep slashes in its neck. There were other puncture wounds, from arrow, knife or spear. He drew
binoculars and scanned the shoreline to the south.
“They’re gone,” he said. “Far away, if they know what’s good for them.”
“The light’s fading.” Schmidt looked at his watch. “We should make camp.”
They moved inland and followed the ridge back to the headland. Hoffmann was sitting on a rock near the meteorological installation. Voorman was still down on the beach with the dinghy.
The sun sank into the Hudson Strait. It quickly became cold.
They gathered a little driftwood and made a small fire, more for the psychological comfort than its scant warmth. They weren’t dressed for the climate, but it was only one night. They ate some rations and established a schedule for guard duty.
Henckel was dispatched 200 meters south on the ridge to monitor that approach to the headland. Voormann was told to stay with the dinghy. He’d done such a good job protecting it, it was all his now. Krause, Schmidt and Hoffmann bedded down near the fire.
By two in the morning, Henckel was cold and sleepy. He’d watched the northern lights all evening, curtains of light shifting across the sky, but the novelty had worn off. He lit a cigarette and reminisced of life back home, of hot sausage and cold beer.
Shortly before three, he rose from where he’d been sitting. Time to fetch Schmidt to relieve him. He took a last look along the southern ridge and was puzzled to see a boulder where he’d seen none before.
From out of the darkness, an arrow flew and buried itself in his throat. He coughed once as he clawed at it, but his mouth flooded with blood from a severed artery and he collapsed to the ground.
Schmidt awoke a few minutes later and checked his watch. Oh-three-hundred hours. He got up, half numb from sleeping on the ground, and slung his machinegun over his shoulder. He headed down the ridge to relieve Henckel.
He approached a cluster of boulders. Henckel was supposed to be just south of them. Before he had a chance to call out to his comrade, a spear came out from the boulders, impaling him in the guts. His machinegun clattered to the ground as he gripped the shaft of the spear with both hands. He heard something behind him and then a machete slashed into the side of his neck.