Floating off the Edge

Originally published in Midnight Zoo vol 4, issue 1.

Captain's personal journal, March 2, 1945:

I've been restored to command of U-96, but for a mission only desperate men in Berlin could have conceived. I dare not tell the crew, for fear they'll think me mad as well, but the orders are signed by Commodore Donitz, with the Fuhrer's knowledge.

This afternoon I met with the commander of Naval Base Norway and with the chief scientist of the Chronotransport project, Herr Haber. A stuffy little man, with the look of a Gypsy about him. Totally unsuitable for military work - I disliked him at once. He didn't show me the apparatus itself, only photographs, all stamped "State Secret." It's too big for our U-boat, and will be carried aboard a small supply ship. The photographs show devices like giant Van de Graaff generators, with cables and gauges all around. Herr Haber lectured at length about relativity, Lorentz effects, Riemann space geometry and the work of a Jew named Einstein. I don't believe the base commander understood any more than I. Herr Haber says he isn't ready yet, but the commander showed him Donitz's orders. Haber made a face. The net tightens around the Fatherland. Our French bases are overrun; Norway cannot hold forever.

March 11, 1945:

We put to sea at night, for the supply ship cannot dive at the sign of Allied planes. Not enough clouds. I've lived through worse, but when I see the moonlight on the water, I think of Yvonne, left behind in France, and of our walks along the shore.

The U-96 is a VII-C class submersible. We leave Norway with 150 tons of diesel fuel, eight torpedoes and ten mines. Enough potatoes and sausage for a siege. My crew numbers 44; of these I know a dozen well. The supply ship is an ugly duckling riding in our wake, and the scientists aboard it are like parasites. Wilhelm, beside me on the tower, said he doubted they could even swim. Tomorrow at dawn Herr Haber promises the Chronotransport will be ready.

Following day:

Christ, it has worked, or done something. Steam turbines screamed for over an hour aboard the supply ship, while Wilhelm and I watched the skies. Then abruptly we were falling: Both the U-boat and the ship plummeted along with a column of water that appeared from nowhere above the sea. No damage; we have all ridden rougher seas. The scientists aboard the supply ship were shaking hands and cheering, but Herr Haber looked puzzled. "Latitude and longitude correct," he relayed to me, "but how could I have miscalculated the tide?" He's more concerned with numbers than with the war.

I finally had to tell the men our orders, for it was clear they suspected something. The weather change was dramatic. My radioman says there's nothing, no emissions on any band.

If Herr Haber is to be believed, the date is July 20, 1492. On August 3, Christopher Columbus will depart Palos, Spain to discover the New World. Our mission is to hunt and sink his three boats. Berlin's reasoning is that this will delay the Spanish and English development of America, allowing Leif Ericsson's Norwegian descendents time to build their colonies. And an America subservient to Norway's Quisling will side with the Axis.

I asked what happens to us when we return, and Herr Haber parried with mathematics. My real question has to do with Yvonne, but I can't ask him that. My wife, in Munich, suspects nothing, and I wish to keep it that way.

September 2, 1492:

Herr Haber's no longer puzzled by the tide. He discovered he made an error of over a month in his calculations. We've missed Columbus at Palos and must catch him as he takes on supplies in the Canary Islands. Herr Haber wanted to use the Chronotransport to correct the error, but his colleagues were split. I think the apparatus is unreliable, for they're constantly tinkering and arguing. God, I hate scientists, especially these theoreticians. They treat us like mindless peasants. What I wouldn't give for a competent manager like Von Braun instead of these starry-eyed experimenters.

I dreamt of Yvonne last night. We sat on the hill above the harbor, and she told me about her art history class at the university. The subject was unimportant; all that mattered was to see her face, the way her mouth turns up at the edges, her bright trusting eyes. I want so much to write to her, but France is closed to us now. War's an ugly thing, especially for the losers.

September 7, 1492:

The Spaniards gave us the slip as we hid off the Canaries. We'd laid mines in the harbor, but there were no explosions, and now the three ships are nowhere in sight. What good are magnetic mines against wooden boats? Four of our torpedoes have concussion triggers; we've jettisoned the rest now that we know.

Wilhelm had wanted to sail straight into the harbor on the surface, and sink everything in sight, like the Japanese at Pearl Harbor. I think he was only half joking. What effect would that have had on our future? I doubt Berlin would approve. I'm certain Yvonne wouldn't.

September 9, 1492:

The damn tinkerers have sent the supply ship God-knows-where. They had the turbines running again, then there was a roar like a depth charge and the ship was gone, just like that. We fished Herr Haber out of the water, but there's no trace of the others or the ship. "Testing," he told me, "but I dove clear." He has the eyes of a frightened mouse before a fox. The other fools have probably sent themselves to the Jurassic Era.

We're trapped in the fifteenth century now. I've explained to the men, and the shock shows on their faces. Some of them are boys too young to grow beards. The war has robbed the Fatherland of its youth. And whatever slim chance I had of seeing Yvonne again is gone forever. Someone will probably tell my wife eventually. Unlike Yvonne, she has relatives to look after her.

September 24, 1492:

Where in hell is Columbus? We've searched for weeks now, following his recorded course. Our binoculars show nothing. I've relieved the hydrophone officer: There's no screw noise to listen for. No need for the radio officer either. Herr Haber, who knows about such things, says that even if we had radar, like the British submarines, it couldn't find these wooden boats. A spotter plane is what I need, but the war bureaucrats in Berlin never thought of that. My navigator's taken sextant readings without stop. Either Columbus falsified his log, or he can't tell a star from a seagull.

Fuel's dangerously low, and our iron coffin stinks of diesel fumes. The men's depression affects their duties. All have left families or friends, and my Chief Engineer was newly married, his bride pregnant. At least I didn't leave Yvonne in that state. We'll wait for the Spaniards in San Salvador, the Bahamas.

September 27, 1492:

We've beaten the Spaniards! To America, that is. I held a ceremony for the men in which I claimed it for the Fatherland and the glory of the Third Reich. That raised their spirits a bit. And we're back to normal rations now, though the beer's gone. We met the natives and forced them to bring food and fresh water out to the U-boat. If this makes them more hostile to the Spaniards, so much the better.

Yvonne had shown me a painting of Columbus' landing in one of her art books, but the natives look different, though their skin is reddish copper and they wear gold on their noses. Healthy, untouched by European plagues as yet.

October 2, 1492:

Grounded on a reef in our search for Columbus' anchorage point! These harbors are treacherous: uncharted and undredged. We're taking on water from a bad rent in the hull, and getting off the rocks made it worse. This boat will never dive again, though we're attempting repairs as best we can, with forced labor from the natives. The nearest shipyard that could do it right is four and a half centuries away. Pumps are running furiously to keep us afloat; we'll be out of fuel by tomorrow.

The birds here are beautiful, flying above the palm trees. Yvonne would have loved to paint them.

October 15, 1492:

Properly afloat, but our patched hull still leaks. We pump manually, day and night. No fuel left. I'm saving the batteries for attack, so my engineers have rigged a pathetic sail to move us. We creep along, barely making headway. Columbus is in these islands somewhere. I must plan carefully with my navigator, scheming to intercept the Spaniards.

The men treat Herr Haber as a worse pariah than Schultz, our ex- Hitler Youth Leader. Our only hope, says Haber, is that someone from our time deciphers his notes, and I fear his notes are like Columbus' log. There's no hope of building a Chronotransport in this era. The Vatican's finest goldsmiths couldn't fashion a single amplifier tube, and there's no way to obtain the dense matter Haber says the machine requires.

On top of that, two of our submachine guns have disappeared, along with ammunition. The natives we forced to help us off the reef must have stolen them.

Wilhelm, who used to joke with me as we stared out across the water, is silent. I know little of his home life, but I believe he had a mistress as well. He doesn't speak of her.

November 15, 1492:

Dear Christ, I'd trade my soul for a few thousand gallons of diesel fuel! How can we find this man, who's jealously guarded his discovery by distorting his log? My men are in despair. I've promised them we'll go ashore as soon as the Spaniards are dispatched. The islands are warm and beautiful. If we must live out our lives in exile, I tell the men, there's no better place.

Was it like this for Napoleon, cast out of France? There's no good place to spend an exile. This is my punishment for abandoning Yvonne.

Christmas Day, 1492:

We're still afloat, enjoying our stolen meal, with hymns of the season. History tells us the Santa Maria was wrecked this morning off Haiti, but it lies about which harbor. We search them one by one, at a speed a sea turtle could outrace.

At first it was the lights and ventilators I missed; now it's the phonograph. I would even listen to Wilhelm's American jazz records, though I hate the wail of saxophones.

I wonder how the war goes, in the future. Have the allies reached Berlin yet? My wife's relatives are there, the ones who arranged my promotion.

January 10, 1493:

Found the wreck at last, but Columbus is gone. There are a few dozen Spaniards on shore, near a fortified cabin they've built. Columbus has abandoned them. We'll not waste ammunition, for history and the natives will dispose of them for us.

Wilhelm and I watched through binoculars. I saw a bound woman with one of the Spaniards, and doubtless there are more inside. How can these men be so stupid? I wonder if our behavior will be any better.

January 20, 1493:

Interception at last! More by luck than skill, as Columbus had doubled back. The weather was clear with calm seas, a perfect day for battle, but the Nina and Pinta were at the limit of our range. I gave orders to spend the remainder of our battery power on the E-motors, and gave chase, but the gap failed to close. Oh God, only let them tack, to give me a broadside target! In desperation, launched torpedoes two and three, which missed, then one and four, which missed also. To the deck gun! We fired until the Spaniards reached the horizon. I think one shell pierced the Nina's sail, but didn't explode. Did they recognize our tower and watery deck for what they are, or did they think us some thundering sea monster? They didn't return fire with their cannon. The sea is empty now. We're alone, and Columbus is on his way home. He's found Asia, he thinks.

February 14, 1493:

We turned back to the islands, to refuge, but the winds were against us. Now the mid-February storm that Columbus reported in his log has caught us. Force seven winds, and increasing by the hour. Giant waves toss our boat like a cork, making me sicker than I've been on many a voyage. A U-boat should be submerged in squalls like this. Our leaking hull is worse, and the men are pumping water by hand in a frenzy. No battery power, no lights. I can feel the men's fear in the darkness and believe we'll go down to a watery grave this night.

May Yvonne have mercy on my soul, and may Columbus and the Fuhrer both burn in hell.

With a roar of falling sea water, the supply ship re-entered the twentieth century. The turbines spun down with the screech of wounded bearings, and Herr Unger picked himself up from the deck.

"Haber! Where's Haber?" Berg shouted. He was looking over the railing. Wind tore at his coat.

Unger joined him, seeing nothing but churning green water below.

"He jumped!" said Berg.

"Haber?"

Berg nodded, his eyes wide.

"Then he's with the U-boat. We've must return at once."

"I don't know what happened. The Chronotransport was in test mode."

"Herr Unger!" It was Schmidt, sticking his bearded face out of the pilot house window.

"What?"

"A radio signal. Very strong - it must be close."

"English or German?"

"Neither - I can't make out a word."

Unger raised his binoculars and slowly panned the horizon.

"Should I answer?" asked Schmidt.

"No, could be an Allied ship. Fire up the turbines!"

"Yes, sir."

"There!" Unger pointed in the distance. "Conning tower of a U-boat."

"Ours?"

"I can't tell. Schmidt! Why the hell don't I hear our turbines?"

"Trouble with the starters, sir."

Berg borrowed Unger's binoculars.

"It's turning toward us. I don't think it's ours, but it doesn't look like a Yank boat, either. My God! Torpedo! Torpedo in the water!"

It struck amidships and exploded. The deck leaped, throwing Unger against the railing. Below deck, the volatile turbine fuel exploded, and flames blasted out of the cargo hatch.

As he dove from the railing, the patrol submarine of the United Tribes slid silently beneath the waves.