Iron Coffins

When I was sixteen, I worked on the construction of a very large house. The carpenter and I always sat on the unfinished second floor to eat our lunch. It had a beautiful view of the mountains, the forest and the sea. I always sat far away from the carpenter. He was German and his name was the emotionally charged and thoroughly tarnished moniker, Adolph. My actions at the time were childhood conditioned, subconscious and automatic.

From the railroad tracks of Houston, Texas, the bayous of Baton Rouge and the hills of Lynn Valley; my childhood had been filled with stereotypes of this vicious enemy. I remember well the day Adolph first sat next to me. I showered him in silence. He smiled broadly and his eyes twinkled. I then noticed that he had two dimples. Matching ones on each cheek. I stared at them with genuine interest. Adolph told me that he had been inducted into the German Army when he was only eighteen. Adolph had awoken one morning in his trench on the front, stretched his body and yawned. A Russian sniper quickly put an opportunistic round through his cheeks. A few millimetres higher or lower and he likely would have killed Adolph.

As the ensuing battle worsened, Adolph's companions advanced their position and continued to fight in the forest. There they were ambushed and Adolph was shot in the leg and his bone was shattered. He said the wind was bitter cold and that wolves could be heard howling in the forest hoping for carrion. The Germans eventually fled back to their trench and abandoned the wounded Adolph. That night, a brave and astute Russian soldier had carried him back to within hailing distance of his German trench. I listened to his story and my heart began to soften. I also felt my mind expand.

A few years later, I drank a bottle of wine with an old Yugoslavian neighbour in North Vancouver. I talked about correspondent of mine, a lady named Ewa, who lived in Sopot, Poland. I mentioned her town and his eyes became wet. He said that he had fought the Germans when he was seventeen. In Poland, he had been shot in the leg. His companions had also left him to die. A German soldier had carried him to a Polish farm house. There, he had been nursed by a young woman whose face he would never forgot.

Two decades after that conversation, I was working as a mailman and a fellow called out to me from his house. I went into his yard to talk to him. He said that my Postal Issue hat was the very same style as the one he had worn as a soldier in Vietnam. He took it and expertly shaped the brim in the military style of the era. He next rolled a perfect cigarette for me from my tobacco pouch.

He said he had been inducted into the Army when he was eighteen and then sent to Vietnam from suburban L. A. We sat on his patio talking and smoking as a house across the street was being demolished. Presently, one of the walls succumbed to the nudging of a wrecking ball with a breathless swoosh followed by a tremendous bang. My companion threw himself on top of me. We were both under the table before the echo died. If we had been eleven thousand kilometres West of Vancouver and thirty years earlier in linear time, his actions would very likely have saved my life.

War stories. I mention them by way of introduction to the book, Iron Coffins. It was written by former U-boat Commander Herbert A. Werner, who now lives in Florida. His book clearly illustrates war. War is a spirit that comes on a wind. A wind that blows across time and tries the souls of all men and women. War is universal. The details of war horrify us and the strategies of war fascinate us. We study the history of war and learn nothing.

For it is the individuals who hold the real teachings. I chose to review and recommend Werner's book for that reason. His story is clearly written. The viewpoint of this author is unique and valuable. He rhythmically shifts his focus from the sea to the progressive ruin of Europe and the self-induced disintegration of Germany.

Many war stories attempt to demonstrate the futility of war. Werner easily accomplishes this with no embellishments employed in the text. The real story is how the Commander copes with circumstance beyond his control and the responsibilities he has sworn to uphold. I think the book is philosophical and emotive, while remaining honest and clear. We can learn much from a story like that. Mariners are a special breed of humans. The sailors of the Kriegsmarine were extraordinary young mariners.

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