Ecuperating - Chapter 13

After December of 1941 much of my passenger load was wounded American servicemen. Most were a pathetic sight. The walking wounded. As far as I was concerned they were all heroes. While I didn’t mind facing the wrath of the sea day after day, I could not fathom having to face an enemy over the barrel of a gun. It scared me half to death.

I knew from first experience what a bullet can do to a body, having seen it in the countless animals I had killed during my lifetime. Having to do it to a human being was beyond my comprehension.

Someday I will do something for these brave soldiers who have given up their youth so that others could live. Most are old before their time, having experienced a lifetime of grief in a few short months or even weeks. Many are the nights I have been wanked by incoherent screaming from a young soldier.

We have taken to stocking drugs to try to take care of these people, and I have hired several people as crew who are experienced in first aid and corpsman duties. This is in addition to those service people who travel with us on our return voyages. We seldom have doctors or nurses aboard, for these are critical personnel and are needed elsewhere in the war effort.

August 2, 1943.

I am getting tired. And I feel that I am getting somewhat jaded. The cries for help from the wounded no longer seem to move me as they once did. I am getting used to the despair; used to the blood and missing limbs. The blank look of the refugees no longer gives rise to a feeling of sadness in me as it once did. As often as not it gives way to a feeling that perhaps some of these people deserve a lot of the grief they brought upon themselves.

Maybe the quality of the passengers has diminished also. Many of these people are not victims so much as perpetrators. Some are obviously willing members of the regime that is continuing the slaughter of innocent people. I sense a feeling of animosity toward we who are rescuing them as if it is somehow our fault they are in the fix they now find themselves.

It is a look in the eye; a furtiveness of a glance; the shrinking from contact with a crewmember.

The feeling of despair for the wounded, however, has not diminished. I feel I cannot do enough for these brave souls. When I get back to the states after every trip, I search for the food the soldiers miss the most. Hot dogs from the ballpark. Popcorn from the movies. Fresh eggs and beef. I manage to always come up with something from the galley to make the soldiers smile and sometimes cry with glee.

I once managed to convince a traveling troupe of entertainers to make a round trip with us. The veterans loved that one. And the refugees kept coming. And I kept getting richer. At last count I had over 15 million stashed away.

Jayne read the last entry in Eric’s log…..

July16, 1944.

Forgive me if I seem a bit giddy on this occasion. Hans and his entire family came aboard this morning. He and his wife are enjoying the crossing in my own cabin. His six children are in steerage, but taking all their meals with the officers. This will be my last crossing.

When I arrive in Newark, I will offer the Sea Princess for sale. I have already talked to the government, and they are willing to purchase the ship for $500,000. I think I will probably take the offer. After all, I only paid $200,000 for it when I got it from Butch five years ago. It sounds like a good profit to me.

The partnership with Hans has been very lucrative. I have close to 30 million in banks across the northeast and Hans informs me I have more than that in the Swiss account he set up for me back in 1939. He was also quite well off, having kept a certain percentage for himself.

We have had time for a lot of planning in the last several days since Hans came aboard. He is convinced he wants to settle somewhere close to me, so I have given him directions to Grand Marais, Michigan. They will travel by rail to Detroit and then purchase a vehicle to drive north. I will follow shortly after selling this vessel.

The crew has been notified and from all appearances, the entire ship will have to be refitted and re-manned. None are going to stay aboard. My first mate, Cecil Hardwick, has no desire to serve another master. He decided to make it his last trip too, and will return to England aboard another transport. One of the new fast troopships, I am sure.

I did not realize just how old Hans Gruber was.

Operating from my own youthfulness and inexperience, I tended to place his age close to my own. The truth is, Hans is 45 years old. This was brought to my attention when his eldest daughter, Heidi, came to my cabin for the meal the first night at sea.

Heidi is a beautiful girl. Actually, she’s a woman. She is 18. Hell. I’m only 19. I think I may be in love!

Those many hours at sea solidified my intention to purchase a large tract of land in my familiar territory of the Seney area in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Hans and I have decided to go into this together and form a club whereby the heroes of this war will have a place to call their own; to gather and grow; to raise their families in a group with similar experiences.

They will need to band together for understanding. We will provide that experience.

We don’t know what to call this, our club. We will certainly come up with something definitive.

We have agreed once again, Hans and me. The last time we agreed it changed our lives forever. Let us hope we can do it again.

I’ll bet I know what you called that club, Jayne thought. You called it Lodge 16.