Connie Willis - Blackout

No, he was wrong. There was an Army boot and a ladder and, amazingly, a rifle. They were nearly to the mouth of the harbor. The Commander maneuvered past a drifting dinghy and a sail that had filled up with air, like a balloon, as the sailboat sank under it.

No, it wasn’t a boat. It was the canvas cover of a truck that had been driven off the pier. Which meant they were getting into shallow water, where hopefully they could see the sunken wrecks before they ran into them.

“What do you think, Kansas?” the Commander said, surveying the harbor. “What’s our best bet?”

Turning around and heading home, Mike thought. The inner harbor had been an obstacle course of half-sunk boats and equipment the Army had pushed in the water to keep them from falling into enemy hands. Even if they got in, they’d never be able to get back out-the opening to it was so narrow a rowboat could block it. And if they tried the beaches, the Lady Jane was likely to be swamped by the thousands of soldiers who’d gathered there, waiting for rescue. Or to get stuck in the shallow water and have to sit there waiting for the next high tide.

“What did you say, Kansas?” the Commander asked, cupping his hand behind his ear. “Which way do we head?”

There was a loud horn blast and a launch appeared out of the smoke, plowing straight toward them. A young man in a naval uniform was standing in the bow. “Ahoy!” he shouted, hands cupped around his mouth. “Are you empty or loaded?”

“Empty!” Mike shouted back.

“Head that way!” he ordered, lowering one hand to point off to the east. “They’re loading troops off the mole.”

Oh, Christ, the eastern mole. That was one of the harbor’s most dangerous spots. It had been attacked repeatedly, and any number of ships had sunk trying to load troops off the narrow breakwater.

“What did he say?” the Commander called to Mike.

“He said go that way!” Jonathan cut in, pointing. The Commander nodded, snapped a salute, and headed the direction Jonathan was pointing. The motorboat came around and roared past them, leading the way.

The breakwater stretched out beyond the inner harbor. Well, at least we won’t go aground, Mike thought, but as they came closer, he saw that the mole had been bombed. Chunks of cement were missing from the breakwater, and doors and planking had been laid across the gaps. The naval officer pointed at the mole and, as soon as the Commander began to turn the Lady Jane toward it, waved and roared off.

The Commander began maneuvering in toward the breakwater, steering cautiously around a half-sunk tugboat and two jagged spars. The water was full of oil drums, oars, and still-burning planks. One had a name painted on it, Rosabelle-the name of a boat that had tried coming in here to take on soldiers, no doubt, and been blown to bits. “Find a spot to tie her up,” the Commander ordered Mike, and he began looking for an open berth, but the whole length of the mole was blocked by dumped Army equipment and shattered boats. The rear end of a staff car driven off the side stuck up in the air.

Beyond it was a space of open water that looked like it might be wide enough for the Lady Jane. “There!” Mike shouted, pointing, and the Commander nodded and steered toward it.

“Slow down,” Mike ordered, leaning halfway over the side, looking for underwater obstacles and expecting the Commander to tell him to use the nautical term, whatever the hell it was, but he was apparently as worried about tearing out the Lady Jane’s bottom as Mike. He cut the engine to a quarter of its speed and eased slowly into the dock.

“Look, there’s another body!” Jonathan shouted, and this time it was a body, face-down, drifting lazily in the wash of the Lady Jane, and over by the mole was another one, this one floating upright, its head and shoulders out of the water and its helmet still on.

No, it wasn’t a body. It was a soldier wading out to the boat, and behind him were two more, one holding his rifle above his head. They obviously didn’t intend to wait for the Lady Jane to dock and put out a gangway. There was a splash and then another one, and when Mike looked over at the mole, he saw another soldier had jumped off it with a bedraggled dog. It paddled along beside him. Above them on the mole stood a dozen men, and farther along the breakwater, a dozen more, running this way. “Don’t jump,” Jonathan shouted to them. “We’re coming in to get you,” and the Commander eased the Lady Jane up to the mole.

Jonathan tossed a line to the men. “Tie her up!” the Commander called to them. “Kansas, toss another line to those men in the water.”

Mike fastened a line to the gunwales, threw it down to them, and began hauling them up, hoping by doing so he wasn’t rescuing someone who wasn’t supposed to have been rescued. But he needn’t have worried. Two of the men had climbed up over the side on their own while he was tying the rope, and the one he’d thrown the line to was busily tying it around the dog’s middle to hoist him up. Saving a dog wasn’t likely to alter events, and it couldn’t get aboard by itself. Mike hauled it up and over the side, whereupon it shook itself all over him, everyone in range, and its owner, who’d just climbed on board.

He was apparently an officer because he promptly took over the rope. “Kansas, help Jonathan get the gangway over to that dock,” the Commander ordered, and Mike complied, but the mole was too far above them, and, anyway, the soldiers had already taken matters in their own hands. They’d tied a ladder to the side and were climbing down it into the water and swimming over.

“Rig another line for them,” the Commander ordered Jonathan, and began untying gas cans from the gunwales.

“Here, let me do that,” Mike said, carrying the heavy cans aft. Refilling the Lady Jane’s gas tank was less likely to affect history than hauling up soldiers, some of whom wouldn’t have made it without help.

“Give me your hand!” Jonathan shouted, leaning over the side. He came up with a soldier in full battle equipment, pack and helmet and all. “I thought you were a goner!” Jonathan said, grabbing him by the straps on his pack and heaving him over the side.

“So did I!” the soldier said, dumping his pack on the deck and turning to help Jonathan heave the next soldier, and the next, on board. Mike emptied the gas cans into the tank and then tossed them overboard. They bobbed away among the planks and clothing and bodies. He went back for two more, stepping around the soldiers who littered the deck.

They were continuing to clamber aboard. “It’s about time, guv’nor,” one of them said, flinging his leg over. “Where the bloody hell have you been?” But most of them didn’t say anything. They collapsed on the deck or sat down where they were, looking beaten and bewildered, their slack faces streaked with oil, their eyes bloodshot. None of them moved into the stern or onto the other side, and the deck began to tilt to port under their weight.

“Shift ’em to starboard,” the Commander shouted at Mike, “or they’ll have us over. How many more are there, Jonathan?”

“Only one,” Jonathan said, helping a soldier with a bandaged arm onto the deck. “That’s the lot.”

For the moment, Mike thought, looking up the mole. He could see soldiers converging on the land end of it from all directions. If they got here, they’d swamp the boat, but the Commander was already starting the engine. “Cut the line,” he ordered Jonathan and pulled back on the throttle. The propeller began to turn and then stopped with a jerk.

“Propeller’s fouled,” the Commander shouted. “Probably a rope.”

“What do we need to do?” Jonathan asked.

“One of you’ll have to go down and untangle it.”

And Jonathan can’t swim, Mike thought. He looked desperately at the soldiers slumped on the deck, at the officer who’d taken over the task of hauling the soldiers up, hoping one of them would volunteer, but they weren’t in any condition to do anything, let alone go back in the water.

Mike looked at Jonathan, who was bending over a soldier in a life jacket, unfastening its ties. The soldier didn’t resist, didn’t even seem to know Jonathan was there. Jonathan, who was fourteen years old and who would die if the propeller wasn’t unfouled, who would get his wish and be a hero in the war. I got my wish, too, Mike thought. I wanted to observe heroes, and here they are.

Jonathan had succeeded in untying the life jacket. “I’ll go, Grandfather,” he said, putting it on.

“No, I will,” Mike said, taking off his coat.

“Take your shoes off,” the Commander ordered. Mike obeyed. “And watch for that flotsam in the water.”

Jonathan thrust the cork life jacket into his hands, and Mike put it on and padded stocking-footed to the back of the boat. The Commander tied a line to the gunwale. “Down you go, Kansas. We’re counting on you.”

“You’re sure the engine’s off?” Mike said. “I don’t want the propeller to suddenly start up,” and went over the side.

The water hit him like an icy blow, and he gasped and swallowed water and then came up choking and clutching for the rope. “Are you all right?” Jonathan called down.

“Yes,” he managed to say between coughs.

“Grandfather says he’s stopped the engine.”

Mike nodded and worked his way around to the propeller shaft. He took a huge breath and ducked under. And immediately bobbed back up. “What’s wrong?” Jonathan called.

“It’s the life jacket,” Mike said, fumbling with the wet ties. “It won’t let me go under.” It seemed to take forever to get the ties unknotted and the jacket off. He let it float off, then thought, What if it gets tangled in the propeller? He went after it and tied it to the rope with numb fingers, then ducked under again.

It was totally dark under the water. He felt for the propeller, lost hold of the side, and then his sense of direction. He pushed up, and his head banged against something. I’m under the boat, he thought, panicking, and surfaced.

It wasn’t the boat. It was merely a floating plank, and he was right where he’d gone under, next to the side. “I can’t see anything,” he shouted up to Jonathan. “I’ve got to have a light.”

“I’ll fetch a pocket torch,” Jonathan said and disappeared.

Mike paddled alongside, waiting. Jonathan reappeared, carrying a flashlight. He shone it out across the water.

“Shine it straight down on the propeller,” Mike ordered, pointing. Jonathan obeyed, and Mike took a breath and ducked under the water.

He still couldn’t see anything. The flashlight lit a faint circle a few inches below the surface-no match for the oily water. He pushed back toward the surface. “We need something brighter,” he shouted up to Jonathan, and it was suddenly light all around him.

He must have gone and gotten the signal lantern, Mike thought, and then, Oh, Christ, the Germans are dropping flares. Which meant in five minutes they’d be dropping bombs. But in the meantime, he could see the propeller, and around it, a bulky wad of cloth. Another overcoat. One end of the belt trailed loosely through the water. Mike grabbed hold of the propeller blade and reached forward to disentangle the sleeve.

It fell away, and, oh, Christ, there was an arm in the sleeve, and what had fouled the propeller wasn’t a coat. It was a body. It and the coat were tangled in the blades so that it looked like it was embracing the propeller. Mike tugged gingerly at the arm. The other end of the belt was wrapped around the blade and the body’s hand. Mike unwound it, yanking on the end with the buckle to free it, and the soldier’s head flopped forward, his mouth full of black water.