We, the Drowned

  The two steamers, the Hekla and the Geiser, were out of action, and the wind was set against us. So when Commander Paludan decided to raise the flag of truce, it was not a surrender, not yet: merely a pause in the battle.

  A lieutenant was rowed ashore with a letter and returned soon after, with the message that a reply would be forthcoming in an hour. Christian the Eighth's top and lower sails were fastened and the crew given bread and beer. There was still order on deck, and though everyone had been deafened by the cannons, there was no mood of resignation. At most the crew felt a vague unease about the course of the battle. They could see that the Gefion was in a bad way, but there was no way they could imagine the bloody chaos on our deck.

  Laurids Madsen sat by himself with his bread, busy satisfying his hunger and as yet unaware of his fate.

  By now thousands of people had spilled out of the town of Eckernförde and were crowding both shores. Watching them as he munched his bread, Laurids soon realized that it was not curiosity that had brought them out. They were lighting huge fires in the fields and collecting the cannonballs that lay scattered on the beach, then shoving them in the fires and heating them until the iron glowed red before transporting them to their own cannons. Horse-drawn land artillery appeared on the high road from Kiel and spread out behind the stone walls that bordered the surrounding fields.

  Laurids recalled his father's account of the war against the English, when Marstal came under attack. Two English frigates had anchored south of the town; they had come to hijack the town's ships, of which there were roughly fifty in the harbor. The English sent out three launches crammed with armed soldiers, but the inhabitants of Marstal, together with some grenadiers from Jutland, managed to drive them off. They could scarcely believe their own eyes when the English started retreating.

  "Well, I never did understand what that war was really about," his father said afterward. "The English are good sailors, and I've no quarrel with them. But our livelihoods were at stake. If they took our ships, that would be the end of us. That's why we won. We had no choice."

  On the deck of the Christian the Eighth Laurids sat beneath the flag of truce, watching the teeming crowds on the shores. He wasn't sure he understood war any better than his father had. They were defending the Danish flag against the Germans, and that had sufficed for him up until a moment ago. War was like sailing. You could learn about clouds, wind direction, and currents, but the sea remained forever unpredictable. All you could do was adapt to it and try to return home alive. Here the enemy was the cannon fire in Eckernförde Fjord. Once it had been silenced, the way home would lie clear. That was the war, as far as he was concerned. He was no patriot, nor was he the opposite. He took life as it came. His horizon was one of mast tops, mill wings, and the ridged turret on the church: the skyline of Marstal, as we saw it when we approached from the sea. Here were ordinary people throwing themselves into war: not just soldiers, but people from Eckernförde, a port where he'd often docked with cargoes of grain, the very place he'd sailed from on the evening he'd turned all of Ærø upside-down. Now the Eckernfördeners stood shoulder to shoulder on the beach, just as the Marstallers had once done. So what the hell was this war all about?

  A boat was launched from the beach. In it sat the lieutenant from the Christian the Eighth, returning from a third round of negotiations. On each occasion the battle had been deferred. The ceasefire had lasted two and a half hours and it was now half past four. From the furious way the sailors were tugging at the oars, it was clear that something decisive had happened. Then out of nowhere the cannons on the beach burst into a roar. The flag of truce was still fluttering from the mast, but the war had resumed.

  The Christian the Eighth returned fire immediately, while the Gefion, silent as a ghost ship, tried to get out of the way. We had given up and were using our last strength to inch ourselves forward with the kedge.

  Now the enemy changed tactics, aiming the batteries on both sides of the fjord at the Christian the Eighth rather than us, in an attempt to set her alight. Many of the cannonballs that struck her were red-hot from lying on the field fires half the afternoon. The Eckernfördeners had made good use of their time.

  Within seconds, the deck was covered with fallen and wounded men. The attack had come out of the blue. Fires flared in several places, and we immediately deployed pumps and hoses to swill death off the deck, but the crackling flames had already taken hold.

  Commander Paludan now saw that the battle was lost. The Christian the Eighth swayed to escape the line of fire, but the wind was still set against her and all she succeeded in doing was traversing the current, losing the advantage of facing the shores broadside-on. Second-guessing the commander's plan, the Germans immediately aimed at her sails and rigging. They weren't going to let us cut and run.

  The heavy anchor was raised, but to huge losses. Firebombs landed on the bows; grenades exploded between the legs of the poor souls manning the capstan. They called for reinforcements and the new arrivals kicked aside the dead and the wounded with their boots. Then fresh grenades blew off the bars of the capstan, leaving ragged wood stumps, shattered bones, and mangled fingers. Finally the anchor was pulled up, dripping with mud and seaweed. This feat alone cost the happiness of ten families. Their sons and fathers would never return home.

  The jib was raised, the topsail sheets secured, and the sails hoisted. As a top-man, Laurids went up with the others and clambered onto the yardarm, from which he had an excellent view of the battle.

  The sun was setting on the horizon, casting its soft light across the fjord and the landscape. Wisps of cloud fanned out across the blushing sky; only a few hundred meters from the fjord everything was peaceful and springlike. But the shores were black with armed people and the artillery was firing away from behind the shelter of the stone walls. From the beach, red-hot cannonballs flew in an endless cannonade, while civilians in the thousands raised their guns and took aim.

  Once, Laurids had hung off the far end of a yardarm through a whiteout south of Cape Horn, his hands freezing to lumps of ice. He'd had to crawl back to the rigging, clinging to the yard with his arms and legs—but he hadn't been afraid. Now his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't undo the simplest knot.

  Sails, masts, and rigging had been torn apart during the firing. Around him other top-men fell one by one, hit by grenades or fireballs or spear-sized shards from the stricken masts, tumbling down between half-raised sails, ropes, and halyards, plunging to the deck far below or plummeting into the water. Then he gave up and made his way back to the rigging.

  On deck chaos reigned. The sails couldn't be hoisted because the halyards and braces were shot to pieces. Some of the crew were pulling like mad at the cross-sail and had almost managed to raise it when suddenly the blocks and tackle—heavy enough to crush any man in their path—came hurtling down.

  Every attempt to rescue the Christian the Eighth had failed. Sailing her had become impossible and in any case the wind blew directly toward land. A severe gale was brewing and the mighty ship drifted helpless to the shore, where she foundered just east of the southern battery, which continued its ferocious shelling of the now defenseless ship. Only her stern cannons could have been used in this position, but she'd tilted so violently that nothing would hold in place.

  Then the cry went up: "Fire on board!"

  The earliest shouts had been cries of wolf compared to this. A fireball had pierced the innermost battery and lodged in the starboard hold. The blaze spread quickly, threatening the powder magazines. Other areas had caught too. The men worked the pumps, but in vain. The flames had the upper hand.

  At six o'clock the flag was lowered and the Christian the Eighth ceased firing, but the bombardment continued for another quarter of an hour before the enemy's lust for victory—over a battleship that only hours before seemed invincible—was assuaged.

  Commander Paludan was rowed ashore as a sign of surrender, and it was at that point that the crew's courage finally plum
meted. They gave up fighting the fire and shuffled around, filthy and foul-smelling. Their seamanship was of no use to them now, and they had no experience of war or of defeat: they'd imagined the battle would be a laugh, and now their souls were drained of energy and their heads empty of all but the echo of cannons. This last shameful part of the battle had lasted one and a half hours, but it felt like one and a half lifetimes. They could see nothing beyond this. They were utterly spent.

  Some sat down on the deck in the midst of the sea of flames, as if clergymen's pulpit warnings about the fires of hell had become reality, while others stood motionless, staring straight ahead, their inner mechanisms broken. Lieutenants Ulrik, Stjernholm, and Corfitz rushed around, screaming into the men's faces: they must act, they were needed more than ever, if complete disaster was to be prevented and the honor of Denmark saved after a battle that they could hardly pride themselves on. But they'd been deafened by the cannons, and only pushing, shoving, and kicking would stir them.

  Laurids let himself be herded to the powder magazine farthest astern, but it was slow work throwing the kegs into the water. They were only five men, and whenever a new crewman was forced into the chamber, he'd rush straight back out.

  Suddenly came the cry "All men up!"

  They knew instantly what that meant. Exchanging looks of alarm, they dropped the bombs and the kegs and raced up the ladder to find sheep, calves, pigs, hens, and ducks out of their enclosures, running on deck among the terrified sailors. A pig rummaged about, sticking its snout into bloody piles of guts, slurping things up.

  The men raced about, each on his own urgent mission. Some hunted for their clothes and sea bags, while others climbed onto the rail as though contemplating jumping into the cold water. No one paid heed to the wounded men, who got in the way and were carelessly trampled. Their screams of agony went unheard; most of the crew were still deaf after the hours of intense shelling.

  Laurids rushed downstairs to the sickbay, concerned that the wounded might be abandoned. Smoke seeped up through the heavy oak planks. Covering his mouth with his hand, he stepped into the murky room, where an orderly, covering his face with a cloth, came up to him.

  "Is anyone coming?" Laurids realized his hearing had returned. "We've got to get the wounded upstairs. We're choking down here!"

  "I'll go get help!" Laurids shouted back.

  On deck there was no sign of the officers who had kicked the crew and whacked them with the flat side of their blades; instead he saw a crowd of men flocking to an open gangway with a Jacob's ladder, and ran over to them. The evacuation was already in full force. He spotted a couple of the lieutenants slashing through the crowd with their swords as they tried to reach the gangway. The ship's second in command, Captain Krieger, stood to one side, watching it all with an odd, distant gaze, his binoculars slung across his back, a gilt-framed portrait of his wife tucked under one arm, and the other raised in salute.

  "You have shown yourselves to be brave men," he muttered over and over again, as if blessing his woeful flock. "You have done your duty. You are all my brothers."

  No one took notice of him; each man was focusing on the most important obstacle in his path to salvation: the back of the sailor ahead of him, blocking his access to the open gangway. Laurids made his way to Krieger and screamed into his face:

  "The wounded, Captain Krieger, the wounded!"

  The captain turned to him, but his gaze remained distant. He placed a hand on Laurids's shoulder. Laurids felt it tremble, but the captain's voice was calm, almost sleepy.

  "My brother, once we are ashore, we shall speak like brethren."

  "The wounded need help!" Laurids screamed once more. "The whole ship is about to blow sky high."

  The captain's hand stayed on Laurids's shoulder.

  "Yes, the wounded," he said in the same monotonous tone of voice. "They too are my brothers. When we are ashore, we shall all speak like brethren." His voice disintegrated into mumbling, and then he began again, reeling off the same phrases. "You have shown yourselves to be brave men. You have done your duty. You are all my brethren."

  Giving up on the captain and turning to the men who were struggling to reach the open gangway, Laurids grabbed them by the shoulder one by one, shouting his message about helping the wounded into their faces. The first man reacted by punching him on his chin. The second shook his head in disbelief and then threw himself with renewed energy back into the brawl.

  The evacuation had picked up pace. Fishing boats set off from the beach to rescue the crew from the battleship that only a few hours earlier had been bombarding them, while the ship's own main launch shuttled continuously between ship and beach. Laurids leaned over the rail and spotted the roaring fire leaping out of the stern cannon ports. It was only a matter of time.

  Smoke was pouring out of every hatch, making it just as difficult to breathe above deck as below. Once again he rushed down to the sickbay but was soon forced to abandon the idea: the smoke was now so dense and suffocating that it seemed impossible that anyone might have survived.

  "Is anyone here?" he called out, but there was no reply.

  The smoke seared his lungs and a fit of coughing sent tears streaming down his cheeks. He hurtled back up to the deck, squeezing his burning eyes shut in pain, temporarily smoke-blinded. He slipped and fell on the deck, slick from human excretions and spilled organs. His hand touched something soft and wet, and he shot to his feet, rubbing his palm on his soiled trousers in terror. He couldn't bear the thought that he'd touched another human being's blood and guts. It felt as though his soul had been scalded.

  He staggered to the rail, where the smoke was thinner, and tried to regain his vision. Through a mist of tears he made out the launch, which had run aground on a sandbank, forcing the crew to jump into the water and wade ashore, where the enemy soldiers were waiting for them. Then the launch came unstuck and immediately set course for the Christian the Eighth, while several of the fishing boats close to the ship started heading back to the shore. The launch too turned around. Howls of protest erupted from the open gangway.

  Laurids stepped back from the rail into the billowing clouds of smoke.

  "I SAW LAURIDS," Ejnar would always say later. "I swear I saw him."

  Ejnar was standing on the beach when the Christian the Eighth blew's up. He'd been taken ashore from the Gefion under guard and grouped with the other survivors from the frigate, waiting to be led off. The German soldiers seemed taken aback by their own victory and looked as if they had no idea of what to do with us. Our numbers kept swelling as men from the two vanquished battleships filled the shore.

  Then the warning cry rang out across the water.

  Most of us, tired and disheartened, had been sitting on the beach with our eyes fixed on the sand as the soldiers pointed their bayonets at us with hands that trembled. But now we looked up. At the stern of the ship-of-the-line, a pillar of fire shot up with a deafening boom. Then more: column after column of flame broke through the deck as the powder magazines ignited. In seconds, the masts and yards were reduced to charcoal, while the sails fluttered off in huge flakes of ash and the great oak hull became a weightless toy in the brutal hands of the blaze. But the worst was yet to come. The immense heat had set off the vanquished ship's cannons, which at the moment of capitulation had been loaded. Now, simultaneously, they discharged their deadly contents toward the shore.

  Screams of horror rose from the crammed beach when the cannonballs started crashing down on us. Death was arbitrary. Burning debris rained from the heavens, wreaking destruction wherever it landed, so that the hour of victory was marked only by the sound of men screaming. This, then, was the dying ship's final salute to the victors and the vanquished: a murderous broadside that attacked both friend and foe alike. War showed its true face out there in the fire shower on Eckernförde Fjord.

  ***

  For a moment it looked as if everyone on the beach had been killed. Bodies were strewn everywhere and not a single man was sta
nding. Many were lying face-down with their arms outstretched as if they were praying to the flames that leapt on the water. Here and there a piece of wreckage lay burning in the sand. Slowly, some of the prostrate figures got to their feet, anxiously eyeing the burning ship. Cries came from the water. Several of the boats that had hurried to rescue the ship's crew had been struck and set ablaze. Lieutenant Stjernholm and four men had been heading for the beach with the ship's coffer, but their launch's stern had been blown off when the Christian the Eighth exploded. The coffer was lost, but the lieutenant managed to save himself. Only one of the men from the launch was with him when he staggered ashore, drenched. The rest had drowned.

  The beach was quiet except for the faint moaning of the wounded and the crackling of the still-burning wreckage, when suddenly a loud yell echoed across land and water.

  "I've seen Laurids! I've seen Laurids!"

  We raised our heads and looked around. We'd recognized Ejnar's voice, and most of us presumed the poor man had lost his mind. Then chaos erupted across the entire beach and everyone began shouting, as if the only way to feel alive was to kick up all the ruckus you could. In the confusion we could have escaped our captors, but we'd lost our nerve—and with it our ability to act. We had to content ourselves with having simply survived: we could run no more.