Island of Saints by Andy Andrews Read Free Book Online Page B

reporting the actions and attitudes of the officers and crew. It was a task deemed especially important in the Unterseebootwaffe. Sub commanders were an independent lot, after all. Thinking “beyond the circumstance” was their stock-in-trade. It was often what kept their crew alive, but this independent thinking, it was feared, could lead to independent action . . . and that could never be tolerated.
    â€œLandermann!” the observer called again as he approached.
    â€œYes?” Josef coolly replied.
    Narrowing his eyes, Schneider said, “You will address me as ‘sir.’”
    Josef crossed his arms and tilted his head. “I am required to address the officers of this boat as ‘sir.’ You, however, are not an officer of this boat. Therefore, I will address you with respect, but as I please.”
    Schneider stared hard at him, choosing for the moment to ignore the slight, and said, “I want to meet you and Commander Kuhlmann in the mess immediately. Retrieve him for me, please. I will wait there.” He turned to go, then turned back and added, “And don’t push me, Landermann. I hold your life in my hands.”
    Josef watched Schneider move away, confident that what the man said was true. It was rumored that on his last assignment, a gunboat, Schneider’s observations had resulted in four men having been shot—one of them an officer.
    Josef had no doubt about what Schneider would do if he were goaded, but it simply wasn’t in him to roll over for a bully . . . and this one in particular. Hans Kuhlmann wasn’t the only man on the U-166 Josef had known when he came aboard. Schneider had also attended Oxford in the same scholarship program of which Josef was a part. The two men were the same age, twenty-six, attended several of the same classes, were fluent in English—but beyond the veneer, they were as different as a puppy and a snake.
    Ernst Schneider had grown up on the streets of Berlin. His father, a machinist by trade, was a drunk who beat his wife and daughters but, curiously, never his son. Perhaps that was partly why Ernst arrived at Oxford with a sense of entitlement. He was dark-haired, square-jawed, tall, and strikingly handsome. Students were initially drawn to this physically attractive young man, but soon shied from his arrogant, sometimes cruel, manner. This bearing was on display in the classroom as well as on the athletic field and in social settings.
    Among the faculty and students, it was well known that Schneider had joined the Nazi Party as soon as it had been promoted on campus. To be sure, he was not the only one, but he was its most ardent promoter. Ernst Schneider was proud of the newly formed party and openly proclaimed its merits to anyone who would listen.
    Josef had been a member of a historical discussion group at Oxford for a time that included the girl whom Schneider dated. She was absent for several sessions, then returned with bruises that had yet to heal on her face. The young woman explained the marks with a story about an automobile accident, but Josef wondered. After all, the discoloration was not only on the front of her face, but on the sides and the back of her neck as well. What kind of automobile accident did that?
    Schneider was finally expelled from Oxford at the beginning of his third year. And Josef knew why. After all, he had had a front row seat to the beating Schneider delivered to an art history professor in front of the man’s class. It had been savage and swift. The professor had been commenting favorably on the work of Britain’s own Jacob Epstein, a sculptor in huge favor at the time with the bohemian crowd, when he also mentioned that Epstein was a Jew.
    The class, Josef included, had watched in slack-jawed wonder as Schneider strode to the front of the room and casually picked up a bronze bust from the professor’s desk. Then, before anyone knew what was happening or could react, he