As my ship, the Preussen, left the harbor, I had that sinking feeling yet again in the pit of my stomach. A bowl of hot, steaming stew soon shoved that feeling to the side for the moment. However, I continued to feel that going forward with this business trip might not have been as important as I had thought, and began to seriously wish that I had never seen the contract that I had signed binding me to ship twenty thousand head of cattle to Germany. The recent termination of World War 1 did nothing to relieve the growing tension, but rather acted as an intense fuel to my growing apprehensions that my personal safety was at risk in Germany.
The only comfort I had was the service pistol that I still carried from when I was on the frontlines in World War 1. I felt that my m1911 was my only insurance for my life, and as such I always kept it by my side loaded and cocked. When I walked on the deck, my hand was always on the comforting pistol butt, ready at a moments notice to show the world that I was not to be messed with.
On the 8th day of an already stressful voyage, the Captain came over the loudspeaker, and asked the crew to report to the main deck immediately. About five minutes later I heard the steady thunk-thunk of the engine picking up speed. As I looked out my cabin window, I saw what the Captain had seen, a submarine off the starboard bow.
I then knew that I had been right, that I should’ve stayed in New York, and that my puny service pistol would be useless in the coming ordeal. But despite that, I was hesitant to get rid of it, and instead began looking for something to waterproof it in the probable case of my personal self being pitched overboard. Yet, even as I did that, I still hoped that it was all mistake; that the submarine was merely a U.S. sub patrolling the shipping route. In those last few minutes before the torpedo hit, I hoped, I prayed, I pleaded that I might never feel the shock or hear the noise as the torpedo hit. For despite my time in the Marine Corp., I still dreaded the water as no man ever has. When I purchased my berth aboard the Preussen, I did so under the desire and expectation that this would be a quick voyage without foul weather or other unpleasantries.
As I was thinking these gloomy thoughts, I felt, rather than saw or heard, the torpedo hit the engine room in the deck below me. I flung myself through the porthole more by instinct than any other reason, and felt that cold wetness that I knew to be the Atlantic Ocean slowly cover my body. It was only then that I realized I had not yet put on the lifejacket that I had placed on my bunk, and that my only chance at survival was to reach the submarine before I died from the cold.
Apparently others had reached the same conclusion; the raft being put out from the submarine had all the indications of coming for me, as the sole survivor of the Preussen, they were coming for me. I was helpless, and could only watch as the raft came nearer as the two sailors onboard combated the waves with the paddles they had in their possession. I knew my only choice was to submit if I wanted any chance of seeing my homeland, the good old U.S of A.
When the raft came alongside me, I spent my store of energy on raising my hands for them to grab. This they did with no great show of gentleness. I passed out.
Later, after coming to, I realized that there was no way of escape; that getting out of a submarine hundreds of feet below the murky surface of the Atlantic was an option that would never be available, especially to one with such an acute fear of the water as I had. I resolved then and there to confront those who had rescued me, and placed me under lock and key far from the light of day.
I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, in desperation, I started pounding on the walls, the door, anything that came in front of me as I staggered around my confines. After completely exhausting myself with this exercise in futility, I heard a key in the lock, and a squeal as the door opened to allow the passing of a masked someone in black.
His were the last words ever to sound upon my ears, and as I think of them, I feel the horror of his voice. Despite that, his words are precious to me as the last words I will ever hear in this lifetime. He told me, in the short minute he spent in my cell, that I was to be observed, watched, and experimented upon until the day I die. He told me that I was never to interact with another human other than to be passed food. Food which, he told me, would have various experimental chemicals and other nameless terrors in it. Yes, I was to be locked in a giant test tube as test factors were added. I could not help but asking why. Why me? Why this elaborate plot against ME? But he told me nothing and even now, as I write this, I sometimes wonder if this is real, if I am real.
No comments:
Post a Comment