The Sacrifices of War

1700 hrs, 25 May, 1944
      My heart is pounding so hard it could burst. I hear the blood rushing through my arteries. Holding my father's gift from Mexico, the shiny obsidian amulet of Tezcatlipoca dangling from my neck, I think of all the sacrifices that it has taken to fight the Nazis. My thoughts turn fleetingly to Malina, my love.
      The engine throbs a faster tempo. The compartment is electric with tension. The boatswain passes the word to seal all water-tight doors and hatches. The deck angles upward. Water buffeting off the bow planes beats drum-like against the hull.
      We rise to periscope depth to attack. An amber light flashes above the pressure door and the order comes to load number one forward torpedo. I spin the pressure lock open and swing the door clear. A healthy splash of sea water spills onto the deck. The compartment's stench of perspiration is cleansed by the breath of the sea. We roll the monstrous swimming bomb forward.
      As we winch the torpedo into the tube, the chief torpedoman chalks "Nazi Lover" on one of its fins and scribbles a hummingbird logo under it, matching the tattoo on his left arm. We all pat the message for luck. I swing the pressure door shut, spin-tighten the lock and hit the ready button. We hear the grating of the outer water-tight door sliding open and the gurgle of sea and air exchanging places. The amber light turns green.
      The deck levels off, and the buffeting stops. The order comes to fire. The chief torpedoman leans into the red plunger above the pressure door, and the compartment shudders as twenty atmospheres of compressed air are suddenly released into the tube, thrusting the torpedo out the Jade Skirted Lady's bow.
      It grows deathly silent, except for the receding whine of the torpedo's propeller, filtering through the ship's hull. In a dozen heartbeats the whine is gone. The ship lurches to port and dives. The buffeting is back, louder. Forty seconds pass, fifty, sixty, seventy. We level off. A loud thud and rumble shake the ship from a kilometer away. We cheer. We have sunk our third Nazi ship in one day.
      On the intercom the Captain tells us to remain at general quarters. We will cruise the wreckage--waiting to intercept any rescue ships. Routine. We stand ready, but the tension eases.
      I pull out my favorite picture of Malina, the one of her sitting on the steps of the pyramid. I imagine her waiting to greet me on the dock as we return, victorious. Her family is there with her, teasing her. I am the first southerner to court one of their daughters. They expect us to marry. We'd be married now, if not for the war. Our waiting is a small hardship. Nothing, weighed against all that has been offered up by so many.
      Just a few years ago, our few ships and weapons were outclassed. Today's victory is made possible by the sacrifices of the people at home and our brave combatants. It was worth the price. Where would these Nazis be now if we had not reached from across the Atlantic? Europe fell before them like leaves in the autumn wind. My brother was butchered liberating North Africa.
      In my heart I am convinced the war will go on forever. The enemy is strengthened by his treaties across Europe and Asia. We are forced to fight on several fronts, but we are determined.
      We've had victories at sea and in the air, but our brave warriors have yet to step on enemy soil. Unless we challenge the Nazis in their homeland we'll always be fighting a defensive battle. If I die defending Malina, my death will have meaning. Yet, I can't help looking for signs of the long-awaited offensive.
      The Captain says we've been ordered into the English Channel. Something big is coming, soon. Scuttlebutt has been full of talk about invasion plans and secret weapons. We've heard about Nazi rockets. Some say they can reach us across the Atlantic. Others say that we've got weapons the Nazis don't know about. One thing is certain, after today their naval forces are too weak to threaten us.

On deck, 2130 hours
      It is dusk. We are running on the surface. The weather is poor and visibility is limited. Surface radar has spotted wreckage. It could mean survivors. If so, we'll pick them up. They'll be interrogated. Our captain loves picking up enemy survivors. He enjoys demonstrating that the Nazi "supermen" are mere humans.
      In the beginning we lionized these Nazis. Their swift rise to power amid European strife and their string of conquests made them seem as invulnerable to us as the conquistadors must have seemed to the naked villagers who met them. Supermen...gods... until someone wiped away fear long enough to make one of them bleed.
      Our captain is a military historian. He tells us how the ethnic Mayans at Chanpotón killed Cordoba before he ever left the beach, simply because he was walking like a man. But when Cortez rode ashore, armored, centaurial, evoking the image of a returning Quetzalcoatl, Aztec fear initially deified him. The captain says war is as much about psychology as weapons.
      The lookout shouts, "Wreckage at two o'clock!" All eyes on deck strain over the starboard bow. In my binoculars I see three Nazi sailors, floating on a large wooden crate, shining a light. The screw idles down and the ship heaves to. A line and a buoy are thrown from the bow and we haul them aboard. I am ordered to the side to help secure the prisoners.
      I see them shiver and plead for their lives... and bleed.
      They are men, only defeated men. Two of them are just teenage boys. I hate them from deep within the core of my values. But I pity them as well. Their veneer of arrogance will be no defense against the strength of our beliefs.
      One is an officer, about thirty years old. He lords it over the other two. Yet, I see a twitch in his brow and a trembling in his hand that doesn't match the rhythm of his shivers against the cold. And his eyes dart from side to side, avoiding the dark faces of his captors.

Enlisted crew quarters, 2230 hours
      The big Mexican boatswain is in a good mood, even though it's his duty, as the crew's liaison to the captain, to maintain discipline in our cramped quarters. He can't hide his true feelings. He's up and down among the bunks, sharing good cheer. That means the captain is in good spirits too.
      Boats' likes to flex his biceps, to brandish his eagle tattoo. Serpent in its talons, perched atop a cactus on Tenochtitlán in Lake Tetzcoco, it is his cultural heritage in a single icon. His accent and slang are typical of the West Coast. His black eyes sparkle with a wit that beguiles even our cynical mostly northeastern crew.
      Home brew and such are against the rules aboard ship, of course. After every big victory, though, there always seems to be some around. Sailors are a resourceful lot. The boatswain doesn't spoil the fun, but he can't let anyone become incapacitated. Emergencies can arise. He's making sure everyone knows he's around so no one gets carried away.
      "That better not be alcohol I smell in your drink, Xochi" he says to me.
      "Oh no, Boats', that's just a little splash from topping off the torpedoes you smell." It's an unspoken arrangement. It keeps a balance. His presence makes it work. He sits down with one of the gunners. They both have children the same age.
      The boatswain shows off a colorful pair of bracelets his seven-year old has made. He demonstrates how one bracelet with thirteen numbered beads spins alongside the other with its twenty painted characters. They cleverly interact to tell him the day and season.
      "Amazing what they teach kids nowadays," says the boatswain. The gunner nods in fascinated agreement, showing his nostalgia for the old calendar.
      "We should give thanks for today's victory," says the machinist mate, to no one in particular. Our crew is careful to observe the usual superstitions and religious rites.
      "You're right," says the boatswain, looking up. "We should always give thanks after a kill."
      "And pray for the souls of the departed," says the chief torpedoman mockingly. We all laugh.
      "The captain asked me to see about gathering up in the mess," says the boatswain. "Cookie, can you find anything for the crew to eat? It was a big victory; we should have something special."
      "Sure, Boats'. Still plenty of fresh stores from our stop in the Açores."

Ship's mess, 2330 hours
      The crew sits around crowded tables. A few stand against the bulkheads. Communications from the bridge begin piping into the mess--the captain is on his way. Hearing the intercom, the three sitting at the head table grab their cups and move.
      The compartment quiets as the captain appears at the forward water-tight door. Stepping high to avoid knocking his shins and simultaneously ducking his head, the captain doesn't even have to look up to know where he should go. In three confident steps he is at the ceremonial head table in the forward area. He turns and gestures to a party of men in the gangway to wait.
      Seaweed, the ship's mascot parrot, is on his perch in the forward port corner. A platter of sliced fresh bananas, avocadoes, amate fruit and sweet baked yams rests on the second table. Smiling, the cook steps forward, hands the captain a large ornate knife and nods toward the food. The captain smiles. Walking between the tables, he spears a small slice of banana and flicks it to Seaweed, who deftly catches it in his talons and begins nibbling. The crew sniggers its approval.
      "In a moment we will all share," says the captain, "but first a few words." Silence descends and he continues.
      "We are gathered to give thanks for today's victory. The recent battles have been fierce and among the most important fought in this great global war. This is a struggle between our way of life and old European concepts of arrogant power, racism and conquest that the Nazis and their sort cling to.
      "Our attack group sank eight enemy ships today--three of them by the Jade Skirted Lady herself." The crew interrupts with a hysterical cheer. Smiling, the captain lets them continue briefly before extending his hands, asking for quiet again.
      "The enemy can't hide forever in his fortress empire on the shores of Europe. We will soon press the battle on land, and destroy his capacity for aggression against our homeland."
      The captain signals the men at the door. Two guards drag a wilted Nazi sailor through the water-tight door. He is one of the two young ones, about my own age. I wonder if he has a Malina that he would be willing to die for. His sight has been erased by terror. Eyes fixed and glazed, he yields limply to the manhandling of his captors. His slack jaw reveals that the captain has had him medicated to ease his pain. I admire the captain's compassion. At the doorway, two more men restrain the Nazi lieutenant, who is shackled and gagged. He has been brought to the mess to watch our thanksgiving.
      The captain resumes. "For now, the sacrifices must continue. Let us thank all the mighty powers of heaven that have guided us and given us this victory." A low chanting murmur begins to fill the mess. We pray, and our prayers rise and combine in a drone-like hum. The captain signals the guards and picks two more men from the mess. They lay the young prisoner's back on the ceremonial table, each man holding an arm or a leg. The watching lieutenant struggles in protest, but is held too tightly to move. Despite my convictions, I find myself buoyed by a sense of relief that the Nazi lies there and not I.
      Raising Itztli, the gold-hilted eagle-warrior obsidian knife with his right hand, the captain looks heavenward. The guards rip open the young sailor's shirt. The captain's prayer trance overcomes him and he warbles a frenetic screech that ends with a swift stroke of the blade, severing the windpipe of the archedback seaman. The captain lays the blade into the sailor's sternum, and, gripping the knife with both hands, plows through the tough cartilage in three short grunting tugs. He reaches into the chest cavity and wrenches the rib cage open to the sound of tearing flesh and snapping bone, exposing the beating heart.
      The compartment is cool and steam rises, carrying the sanguine visceral smell of ebbing life. The captain slides his empty left hand under the throbbing heart and, with quick whipping cuts, frees the sinuous pump from the young mariner's splayed thorax. High over the corpse, the organ gushes three liberal pulses of blood before emptying itself. Yet, it continues to contract. He shakes the pulsating organ, ceremonially sprinkling crimson droplets to the four directions over the trays of food. The Nazi officer stands motionless, terrified eyes fixed in frozen disbelief.
      We shriek approval and crush forward to be near the feast table. The captain holds the sailor's heart high over the table as it pumps away its life. We anxiously reach forward to intercept drops of the sacrificial blood. In the joy of the moment, we smear stripes across our cheekbones and lick our fingers to share in the sacrament.
      The captain screeches again. We withdraw slightly as he steps to the table of trays and lays the beating heart atop the center platter. He surveys us and asks the question of honor.
      "Who takes this warrior's spirit?"
      There is a second's hesitation. Then several of us nudge the chief torpedoman forward.
      "So it shall be," says the captain. "The honor goes to the chief torpedoman."
      The chief picks up the beating heart and shows it in a semicircle to the gathered crew. Then, grinning at us with proud eyes, he bites into it, tearing away a piece of the tough living muscle between his teeth, chews the rubbery sinew and swallows. Our voices gather in another warbling crescendo. The ceremony ebbs, and the cook picks up the trays of anointed fruit and passes them amongst us.

4 June, Entering the English Channel
      The captain has spent several days interrogating the two remaining prisoners. Their swastikas and turtlenecks are smeared by the oily sea that delivered them to us, and their arrogance is tarnished by their betrayal of valuable information on the location of submerged barriers and mine fields protecting their home port. In each other's presence they uphold the charade of indomitability, unaware of their mutual disloyalty. When not under guard they are tied and locked in the cramped wardroom. From time to time, the captain brings the lieutenant out amongst us to humiliate him and demonstrate our spirit and resolve.
      In total darkness off the coast of Normandy, we have met the submarine tender Mountain's Heart to take on supplies. The weather is miserable and the seas uncooperative. We are onloading a new kind of torpedo, requiring special handling. Two technicians come aboard to tend to the new weapon. Scuttlebutt is full of speculation. The technicians are tight-lipped. Their rating patches and the torpedo crating bear the symbol of The Turquoise Lord, Xiuhtecuhtli, god of fire. I have never seen his symbol before on any rating patch, crating or stores. Why Xiuhtecuhtli?
      As we finish replenishing stores, Captain Culhua of the Mountain's Heart takes the enlisted Nazi seaman aboard his ship for interrogation. He is a radarman, familiar with enemy harbor defenses. Captain Culhua will learn more than we did. His translators are more fluent in the European tongues. But our captain speaks English well enough, and London is the Nazi officer's home port.
      We keep the officer with us. Having him along will make our journey up and back down the Thames safer. And later, he will make an excellent sacrifice if the gods allow us victory again.
      Our new orders are to proceed to the mouth of the Thames and lie on the bottom until nightfall. There the captain will open sealed orders before proceeding to within sight of London.

05 June, 1944
      We lie barely submerged in shallow water near the heart of London. The sun is still below the horizon. None of our forces have ever penetrated these river defenses before. The captain is allowing the crew the rare privilege of looking briefly out the periscope. Visibility is poor, but the ostentatious illumination of the Nazi stronghold provides a surprisingly good view. Sweeping the periscope from bank to bank, I see the turrets of the Tower Bridge. They are draped in colossal banners, festooned with swastikas and black Teutonic eagles, visible through the rain under powerful floodlights.
      The Captain orders ahead slow. Daringly, we slip under the bridge with barely enough draft to clear bottom. I swing the periscope around to see the illuminated turrets recede abaft into the thick weather.
      The captain tells us to take a last look. He says we will offer London to the Turquoise Lord with the arrival of Huitzilopochtli and Tonatiuh in the morning sun to witness the offering. The technicians have taken over the forward torpedo room and won't let anyone near it.
      The captain brings the Nazi officer to look through the periscope. The captain's face wears the look of his prayer trance. The prisoner struggles to hide his fear from the men huddled on the bridge.
      "You Europeans are unworthy warriors," says the captain in English. "Why do you fear death if your heaven awaits?"
      "Savages!" the Nazi officer mutters back.
      "You only call us savages because we have learned to kill you rather than let you kill us. The Mexica, the Maya, the Aztec and the Inca are hardly savages."
      "A culture that cuts out living human hearts and drinks blood?"
      "Like you, your yeoman was a prize of war, given as tribute to nourish our deities. We do not kill indiscriminately or practice genocide. Tell me, Lieutenant, who is it your priests wear around their necks, your Tepoztécatl, the god-man on the torture tree?"
      "Why, that is Christ, God, our Savior."
      "You call sacrificing humans to thank our gods savage? You murdered your god-man and drink his blood to save yourselves. Which is more civilized? Which gods better deserve respect? Your god who allows genocide, but condemns a man who eats meat on the wrong day, or knows women, or does not attend your prayer gatherings?"
      The Nazi stiffens. Before anyone can stop him he frees an arm and strikes the captain openhanded. The boatswain and I grab him instantly and pummel him to the deck. The captain wipes his face and laughs, calling us off. He speaks again as if he had not been interrupted.
      "You Europeans do not know our history. Few have survived their visits to our side of the Ocean. When our ancestors defeated Cortez, our priests painted the pyramid of Teotihuacan with the blood of his traitorous allies the Tlaxcalans. Motecuhzoma imprisoned Cortez's army, his priests, and black slaves, and had them teach us everything they knew. He castrated Cortez for impersonating Quetzalcoatl and sent him and his whore, Malintzin, back to the Carib. Our priests, who had predicted a great change coinciding with the arrival of Cortez, realized that his invasion was the instrument of change, but that the change was not to be our destruction, but our social evolution. We sent emissaries to the Inca who shared their organizational skills. Sacrifice was reserved for enemies and the willing. We pushed the Spaniards out of the Caribbean and helped our northern cousins wipe out the English, the Dutch, and the French. You Europeans tried a dozen times in four hundred years to overrun us, but eventually gave up, fighting instead among yourselves over Africa and Asia.
      "Today we are a billion people, from the Athabascan to the Inca, united. The only Europeans still on our shores are in the Tzopantli skull rack, below the great pyramid in Tenochtitlan.
      "You thought we were too ignorant to understand your secrets, your technology. You always mistake difference for stupidity. Our mathematics and astronomy made you look like children. We have taken your technology to places your scientists have yet to dream of. Now, if we must, we can destroy your entire world to keep ours free."
      "Ha!" scoffs the Nazi, eyes narrowing. The captain signals general quarters and lowers the periscope. On the intercom he speaks to the crew.
      "We are surfacing. We must move ahead slowly, decks awash, to navigate the last two kilometers of shallows from the conning tower. Our target is near the broadening of the river at the Victoria Embankment. We are in constant danger of submerged obstacles. I need lookouts ready. We will be disguising our conning tower with Nazi markings."
      The ship breaks water and we open the conning tower hatch to a thick grey drizzle. Fresh water splashes down at us. It has an unhealthy musty smell that belies its lack of salt. The deck crew scrambles to their places. The captain orders the prisoner onto the con, where I suspect he intends to humiliate him further by making him watch his city's destruction.
      The captain is talking on the voice-powered phones to the technicians in the forward torpedo room. A shroud is draped around the conning tower with dull markings to disguise it as a Nazi U-boat if we are spotted. The rain has begun to relent slightly. Astern, in the east, is the slightest hint of approaching dawn. We motor silently, inching against the current. In five minutes we sight our target in the west, the famous columned monument to the British Admiral Nelson.
      The Captain has explained that the new torpedo will incinerate all London in a single second. The torpedo will travel a few hundred meters, then sink to the bottom of the river. A timed delay will give us a chance to escape back to sea. After an hour, a flotation device in the bomb will activate, raising it to water level, increasing its destructive effect. The bomb crater, centered in the river at the foot of the National Theatre, will become a huge fluvial lake--a circle of water stretching from Kensington Palace to the Tower of London. Around it will be a ring of fire reaching ten kilometers in diameter.
      The captain orders All Stop. Because of the weather and the hour, there is little traffic on the river, thank the gods. Minutes pass like hours. He speaks into the voice-powered phones again. The helmsman receives the order to reverse the screw briefly to better align the bow with the center of the river. The ship wags slightly, then once again All Stop. There is not a sound. The captain speaks into the phones. A split second later the ship shudders as the number one tube fires.
      At this sensation the Nazi lays his elbow into my chin and smashes the boatswain's head against the gunwale. As I fall to the deck, I see the Nazi leap across the con and grapple with the captain and a lookout, scraping flesh against steel, punching, biting and growling. The captain orders the lookout not to fire his side arm. In my struggle to get back onto my feet, I hear more thumping and shuffling, followed by a splash.
      "Let him go," says the captain in a restrained voice. "There's nothing he can do now. Our job is done. Let's get out of here."
      The captain orders the helmsman. "Ahead Standard."
      As soon as there is enough forward motion to provide directional control the captain snaps out. "Now give me left full rudder."
      Eight, maybe ten seconds pass under forward propulsion. The current begins taking the bow.
      "All Stop. Right full rudder. Full reverse."
      Another ten seconds and the Jade Skirted Lady is aligned directly with the seaward current.
      "All Stop."
      We begin to drift downstream.
      "Ahead standard. Steady as she goes. Keep her pointed down the center of the channel, decks awash. We need forty kilometers before the sun rises."
      The tower bridge is already rematerializing. Ahead, a smudge of pink on indigo is wicking up into the distant eastern sky. The XO has come to help the captain put a dressing on his face, which has been severely cut in his fight with the fleeing Nazi officer. The boatswain slips in and out of consciousness. His temple where the Nazi lieutenant smashed his head against the gunwale is crushed and bleeding. He smiles at me weakly and tries to whip his fingers for the snapping noise that is our gesture for excitement. He swoons from the exertion. Two crewmen ease him down off the con. They take him to the tiny ward room, now sick bay, to tend his wounds.
      The journey down-river, aided by the current, goes without incident. Reaching the sea, the captain looks at his watch and calls All Stop. The two technicians join us, crowding onto the conning tower, bringing black goggles for all of us to wear. The rain has stopped, but we are soaked. After a last check of the horizon for any impending sign of danger, we slip the protection over our eyes. The lenses resemble welders' goggles. They shut out all light, making the swelling glow of dawn appear as full night again.
      The captain points West, aft, back toward London. He admonishes us once more to use our goggles. It is dark and silent as the seconds pass. Then, in a flash, the world is turned completely to light. Heat bathes us, instantly drying our clothes, but leaving every shadow wet, in a taunting display of The Turquoise Lord's radiant power. A giant bubble of fire arches high above the horizon. Clouds are silhouetted for a heartbeat and then disappear. Evaporated.
      Then, in a dozen seconds, like anger calming begrudgingly back to reason, the brilliant display begins fading into the murk of a western dawn sky. On the skyline, there grows an enormous cloud in the shape of a fan palm. At its base is the orange glow of an entire city on fire.
      Speaking softly to the horizon, the captain says "Meet Xiuhtecuhtli, Lieutenant, The Turquoise Lord, one of our savage gods."

22 June, off the Yucatan Peninsula
      This heroic day we and three more of our submarine pack are motoring victoriously home. My spirit bursts with pride. We are all revelling in the warm glow of honor, intoxicated by glory. Four Nazi citadels, London, Hamburg, Gdansk, and Stockholm have ceased to exist. This never-ending war may finally be drawing to a close.
      Passing the shores of Cozumel we glimpse some of the great stone works of our civilization. The blue Caribbean and its pink coral sand match the paint of the low stucco houses along the sea. Islanders on the beach wave as we motor past. After months in the cold fortress of the North Atlantic, the warm Caribbean breezes are a lover's caress.
      The boatswain is nearly recovered. He returned to duty two days ago with a bandaged head and one drooping eye. His spirits wax and wane.
      The captain has been reclusive since the morning of London's destruction. His conversations are preoccupied with awe of Xiuhtecuhtli's gift, and his place in our pantheon. He spends several hours each day in meditation and prayer.
      At times the captain and the boatswain also seem consumed by self-recrimination over the loss of the Nazi lieutenant. Clearly Xiuhtecuhtli deserves to be nourished by high sacrifice, and the Nazi officer was meant to be that gift. The captain voices regret that his urge to humble an adversary ultimately deprived Xiuhtecuhtli of a prized oblation.
      In his more positive moments the boatswain rationalizes to us that the Nazi was fated to escape. Besides, he died in Xiuhtecuhtli's fire. The crew seems to agree with this. In accepting the caprice of fate, though, I know that there is another truth we must accept. Xiuhtecuhtli's gift was so great, only a volunteer of sacrifice from within our ranks can properly thank him. The boatswain's pride and his joy that his children will never again have to fear war at the hands of the Europeans has prompted him to offer himself.

22 June, Motoring into Xkalak, our home port
We are assembled on deck now for the ceremony. My thoughts are with Malina. I fantasize the pride that will fill her upon learning of our deeds, and how my part in them will make her cherish me always. Offering one of our own is the greatest tribute we can pay our gods. A warrior's heart is the greatest gift. And, as I reminded the captain, a sacrifice must always be a sacrifice of the most cherished possession. When I spoke to him, he realized my meaning. A victorious warrior who has yet to know a woman is the highest sacrifice in our culture.
The tang of the coca leaves in my throat is a cool breeze fanning the fire of my soul. It contrasts with the warmth of the sun as the captain and XO remove the feathered ceremonial robes from my bare shoulders. They have laid leopard skins from the captain's compartment on the ritual table to comfort my back. The drone of the crew's chant provides a focus for my mind. As I lie down, the captain stands over me to keep the sun off my face. He looks into my eyes and tips his head almost imperceptibly to ask if I am ready. I smile and close my eyes. I think of the hearth fire at Malina's home, knowing that in a moment I will dwell near her always in that fire, a companion of our generous Xiuhtecuhtli.