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Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Blue Grey

The sky was always the same everywhere Klaus went - colored grey and tinged with a slight shadow of powdered blue when perhaps nature itself could not stand its own monotony. Yet, it also refused to reveal anything more than a hint of variation - solely reserved for the most perceptive of its habitants. Such was the sky at La Rochelle, such was the sky at Kiel.

Klaus stood in front of his office window, taking a quick cigarette break as he thought about what he had done to the young sailor at the court hearing, thought about what the sailor had done onboard, and thought about his act of cowardice. Klaus let his thoughts drown his officer’s rationality for a moment in time: there was simply too much to think about, and Klaus was unsure if he could ever truly understand the impact of his words, his actions, and his decisions. However, a glaring one flashed prominently and objected at his conscience - his testimony had led to the sailor’s death sentence. He was going to cause a young boy, whose eyes filled with excitement and joy for the world not too long ago, to overflow with fear of the inevitable and finally, to be no more. Something didn’t feel right.

I did the right thing, Klaus reassured himself, I did the honorable thing . He did what was required of him as an officer of the Kriegsmarine, to report the sailor’s actions to his superiors and to testify in court what he saw truthfully. What is just and what is fair is not for you to decide, Klaus, and the sentence was given by court proceedings under the power of the law . Yes, so push out this false notion in your head that you caused him to die. And even outside the realm of justice, you’ve shown kindness enough, Klaus: staying and comforting the sailor in his cell, promising to carry out his last words, and even asking your senior officer for leniency on his behalf, pulling the strings behind the Hoffmann name.

You did the right thing, Klaus. Push these thoughts out before you become a coward like him. The most righteous thing to do now is to end his suffering on this earth quickly.

The whitened ash of his cigarette licked the skin on his ring finger. The tingling of heat lifted Klaus from his almost drowning blue-grey reverie. He turned his attention to his new-to-him office - well, it would not be his office anymore once he deployed again - letting his gaze follow the aged-gold motifs, imprinted in floral swirls atop the rich pink wallpaper. Perhaps this was a young girl’s bedroom before he arrived, Klaus thought, and where he had the heavy desk now there’d be a beautifully carved dollhouse instead, with roses painted delicately with a small brush on either side. Inside the dollhouse, there would live a princess with curly blonde - no, that reminded him of his sister, his oh-so perfect sister. He cleared and restarted his make-believe story - A princess with soft brunette hair, which she had to chop short so she could go on an adventure to save a neighboring prince from the evil sea monster. Oh, and she would get a shiny anchor pin for being such a brave and skilled seafarer once she returns. And the prince…

Klaus forced himself to return to the papers at hand. He needed to finish these (as well as reread the handbook on submarine warfare) before getting his newly minted commander ass shipped off in a tight tube of a boat tomorrow. He yawned, and gradually the letters danced from the blue-tinted pages to the grey-tinted pages to the orange-tinted pages.

A single knock on the door knocked Klaus out of his readings. Ah, this must be his 1WO. The man entered and saluted Klaus. They shook hands. Tennstedt, his 1WO, was a tall, comely man with hair waxed and combed immaculately in place, and not even after an entire long working day at the dock could one convince even a single strand to stray. His manners were exceedingly befitting of his appearance: faultless yet distant, with a faint exasperation that hung around the corners of his downturned lips. Although Tennstedt hid his discomfort - so to say - well, Klaus could still sense that this man viewed him as his baby in daycare. Klaus quickly shakes this interpretation from his mind: it’s never good to self-impose an idea of how another person may see oneself, Klaus reminded himself. Besides, he needed to rely on Tennstedt’s experience and expertise to be a successful captain, so Klaus had no need to assert his authority and risk adding tension. And also inexplicable to Klaus, there was a waft of familiarity about Tennstedt that just pulled him in to be closer to the man. Klaus eyed the Knight’s Cross that hung so prominently on Tennstedt’s long, slender neck for the tenth time that night: perhaps it was that symbol of accomplishment, so reminiscent of his father’s crosses and medals, that lured Klaus with a sense of false comfort.

Tennstedt was straight to the point about the reason for his visit: U-612 was ready for departure, and he suggested that Klaus visit the men of the ship before tomorrow’s departure to boost the crew’s morale.

“Cognac?” replied Klaus with a question. He preferred drinking with Tennstedt over pretending to be the stereotypical Prussian commander - like his father - and ruining the men’s fun. Accompanying his offer of alcohol, Klaus curled his lips to exude a hint of a smile, just enough to show a bit of friendliness (and perhaps, unconsciously of course, a bit of charm) and not seem overbearing for a man like Tennstedt. Klaus was sure that the man would frown and express public disapproval if anyone seriously smiled at him during a first encounter, or ever. Tennstedt must be so happy that he did not have to live in, say, America.

“Thank you.” Tennstedt raised his eyebrows, a bit caught off guard by the question. Klaus’ eyes twinkled, like a child claiming victory whenever he stumped a grownup, behind the whiskey glasses he brought out from the cabinet. Klaus passed the glasses over the u-boat commander handbook, opened face down to the page from which he was previously reading, and set them down on his desk. Probably having had his line of sight follow the glassware, Tennstedt raised his eyebrows again, with more motion this time, as Klaus poured the smooth amber liquid that burst forth with streams of liquid gold, courtesy of the warm lamplight in his dim room. Klaus gazed up at Tennstedt once he finished pouring, eyes wide open like a little deer and lips pressed together innocently, “Please don’t tell anyone that I haven’t finished it,” slipping naturally into the expression he had mastered since childhood - the expression that got him out of trouble countless times with his father and other naval officers.

“But, but this is important,” Tennstedt responded, his voice elevated yet still soothing. Is this how Tennstedt would sound lecturing his beloved son, that is, if he had one? Klaus wondered. 

“I’m having trouble interpreting Passage 15,” remarked Klaus, hoping that by giving Tennstedt the stage to showcase his knowledge they would develop a closer working relationship.

Tennstedt recited the passage verbatim, confidence and exuberance crystalized in his voice - no more was that baby talk to Hoffmann, and summarized, “The undying will of the commander is of the utmost importance to our final victory.”

That was cute , Klaus thought. Another convinced soldier through and through, with rose-flavored ideals about personal sacrifice for the greater good, just the same beliefs as that young sailor Klaus had sentenced to death. His father chose his 1WO well.

Klaus reclined into his office chair and took a sip of the fine French cognac (one of the many personal welcoming gifts from his commanding officer), leaving Tennstedt standing alone. Where did they acquire this bottle? Tasted like it’s probably the best one from the mayor’s cellar. That little speech did leave Klaus slightly… bored. For reasons even unbeknownst to himself,  Klaus had expected that Tennstedt would be more interesting - more multi-dimensional. A slight, yet probable, disappointment to end the night.

“About your father,” Tennstedt suddenly interjected into Klaus’ internal monologue, “How is he doing? He must be well?”

Oh. Now, it is Klaus’ turn to be surprised. Father really chose well.

“He’s fine.” Klaus let a gram of boredom slip into his voice, hoping the 1WO would either end the conversation or change the subject.

“The first time I read his book I was very young. It had a tremendous impact on my career, on my life,” the 1WO continued.

“How long have you been in?” inquired Klaus.

“Since 1937.” Tennstedt answered.

“I lack your experience,” Klaus stated openly. This was fact, and he had neither the arrogance nor pretentiousness to hide the admittance.

Tennstedt lowered his eyes, and his lips began to grow into a crescent moon, “But you are the commander. This is your ship.” Now, staring straight into Klaus’ eyes, and with a sincere smile this time, Tennstedt offered his kind regards, “Good night, Mr. Commander.”

This is my ship. The simple statement brought almost unbearable weight to Klaus Hoffmann’s shoulders. The implication was as evident as the color of the sky above him. I am responsible for everyone onboard.

—

“Good night…”

“Good night, captain…”

“My captain…”

Klaus could hear that voice in his dream - Tennstedt’s voice, he was sure of it. Oh god, Tennstedt, now I’m dreaming of you, too, and in the midst of this heat, too. This is all your fault for not informing me about the fire in the radio room. He could feel the tiny hairs on his neck tremble as that voice whispered good night into his ear, softly and sultrily, and he could drown in the scent of vanilla and blooming black orchids that intensified as the fire burned beneath the crescent moon. He could hear the rhythmic sound of the sea caressing the fine-grained sand, still so warm from the setting sun, that shone bright white between his toes.

He tossed around in his sheets from the feverish heat of his dream, like how a tiny sailboat rocked in a sea of temptation. A body - someone - was pressed against his back. And that someone was embracing him: his hot and steamy breath lingered on the crown of Klaus’ head.

Oh, his sheets will be surely drenched tonight, Klaus thought before drowning deeper into the vividness of his fever dream.

—

The sky was the same tinge of grey as though morning had only one gown in her entire wardrobe. Klaus, on the other hand, was a complete melting mess compared to the day before. His bed was… Let’s just say that he needed to get rid of everything on it quickly, and although he was used to having fever dreams, an experience on quite the regular since his teenage years, this one was rather messy and sticky. At least he still had access to a shower, something not found on a u-boat. He found some solace in this fact.

Klaus enjoyed his hot shower - it was going to be the last one for a while. He emerged out of the veil of the shower steam and wringed dry his hair, haphazardly combing back the glossy bangs, dredged from the hot water, that had curtained his right eye. He took extra care today to look absolutely impeccable - parting his hair at just the perfect angle and working in the thick, cream-colored pomade. Klaus tilted his head up and down, and right and left - he knew exactly how to make his hair frame his face handsomely. And he was damn proud of his work this time. After all, one’s hair was the closest part of one’s body to heaven, and if an angel were to look down from the heavens at this moment, his eyes would land straight on the crown of Klaus’ head.

So now came on the white visor cap which circled about Klaus’ styled hair. He traced the gold-threaded embroidery on the edge of the visor with a slightly calloused fingertip: the sensation of the stiff stitches contrasted sharply with the smooth black calf-leather piping. He subconsciously stood taller - shoulders down, chest open and proud - and perhaps to evade the shadow that the visor casted across his eyes and nose bridge, or perhaps simply to view his chiseled jawline at the most aesthetic angle, Klaus hoisted his chin up. The tiniest pout couldn’t help but appear on his lips. He saw that proud little pucker of his lips from the small dressing mirror in front of him - he was young, beautiful, already a commander of a u-boat, and hailing from a family with a rich history of naval service. 

With his hands lifted to just below his natural line of sight, Klaus slid on his leather gloves over each fingertip, each knuckle, and dragged the fleeced-lined cover past the contours of his wrist. Then he did the same on the other hand. A faint smell of leather tingled his nose, a welcoming addition to the, dare he say , putrid wrench of seawater that clung to every inch of his body from the atmosphere of the naval base. The act of putting on gloves felt almost… Klaus liked the look of well-tailored leather gloves on his hands.

With sure hands, Klaus wrapped his newly made wool scarf into a Y-shape around his neck (it accentuated the length of his neck and the shape of his chin) and slipped his uniform jacket over his arms, making sure each crease hung sharply on the correctly precise part of his body. He did a second look at the mirror and adjusted a few brass buttons and award pins here and there. Well, he did look like a commander of a ship, Klaus thought to himself. He affirmed to himself again: you are a u-boat commander .

You’re going to be great, Klausy.

Arriving on dock Klaus made sure to conjure up his best Wilhelm Hoffmann impression, whether purposely so he did not know: he purported himself with his hands in his fitted leather gloves casually clasped behind his back and walked with an artificial air of seniority and confidence in his gait. He heard Tennstedt’s voice calling the crew to standfast for inspection as the brown and grey silhouettes of the sailors emerged, standing at attention atop the blue-grey shell of the submarine. He couldn’t tell who was whom, of course, in their identical work uniforms and tilted boat hats, but he felt a sense of pride, a pride arisen from being given the responsibility to lead these men into battle and mold them into honorable men of the sea, as his father had drilled into him since birth.

Klaus turned his attention to Tennstedt as he strolled past the crew. The only sound on the dock was the heavy thud from the heels of his shoes. Tennstedt stood tall - like a swan stretching his long, slender neck to assert his silly dominance over the park - with a textbook steady salute, adorning his fingers a pair of well-worn leather gloves. Klaus discreetly eyed him - Tennstedt had traded long dress pants for a pair of work pants tucked into knee-length boots. Practical, Klaus thought, for running errands and issuing commands across the ship, seen from the stretched patches of leather around the ankles and right below the knees. He could imagine Tennstedt reprimanding the machinist or scolding the 2WO in those boots, briskly transporting himself as the leather of his boots hugged his calves snuggly from one compartment of the submersible to the next. Like a swan intimidating the pond’s other residents : Klaus quickly dismissed this inappropriate thought.

Before sailing out, Klaus addressed the crew from the bridge with his most inspiring words. He was sure his little departure speech was well-delivered and expressed that he and the men were one team who looked out for each other. He wanted them to know that they were men of the sea: they possessed the bravery, honor, and fortitude of only those who dared to traverse across the vast expanse of the unknown. And journey from the land of the sweet-singing sirens to the kingdom of the tempests.

So as the submersible pushed away from its sleepy port in La Rochelle, the clouds finally parted and surrounded the crew in the white glow of daylight. Through his binoculars, Klaus could see the flickering swirls of orange racing through the Atlantic blue. The sky and sea merged into one another in the crispest shade of cerulean, and no more was the grey overcast that overhung Klaus.

Perhaps these were the colors he had been dreaming of since his teenage years.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 - Navy Blue vs. Neon Red

Life on a submarine was routinely busy and busily routine. Each person had a set set of tasks and a set set of routines, which carefully prescribed the role and responsibility of each position onboard. There was always someone yelling “go, go, go!”, herding some 40 odd grown men, or more like older teenagers, like a mother duck urging her baby ducklings into a pond, to keep them routinely busy. Thus, as they grinded through each day, the men also grinded their tasks into themselves so that even under the most dire of situations they would perform like cogs and wheels in a machine. These men were spared the requirement to understand the machine’s purpose (that was Klaus’ job), but they must for the sake of the ship perform their duties without failure even if it devoided their souls. This busily routine exercise was what they had to endure just now, going through rounds and rounds of Klaus’ drills on Klaus Hoffmann’ whims (Tennstedt’s face and sarcastic remark said it all) before they reached the open Atlantic.

However, even with the 1WO’s lack of enthusiasm, Klaus felt sure, even proud, of his decision. As men of the sea, they must be prepared for any difficult situation - each and every single one of them, Klaus himself included - because all in all, they were in this together as one: they would survive as one, and they would perish as one. Naval leadership philosophy aside, Klaus reveled a bit at the possibility of proving his foresight, though God forbid any tricky scenarios for the safety and love of everyone aboard this u-boat. He was simply just thinking, thinking about what it’d be like to see Tennstedt after such an occurrence. Would he dryly say, “Not bad, son” like Klaus’ father on the few and far in-between occasions? Or would Tennstedt pat his back and acknowledge him with a nod in the operating room while the others were away?

Yet again, life on a naval war vessel was always exceedingly routine and busy, so much so that Klaus found himself so fixated to the routine that he was mentally unable to spare any attention to anything outside the immediate matter at hand. And that included Tennstedt, especially Tennstedt.

Beyond the mind-numbing routines, there were also memorable moments in Klaus’ journey thus far: being a part of the wolf pack, launching the u-boat’s first torpedo (a miss, unfortunately; Klaus felt only the tiniest bit of disappointment - really), and sinking his first enemy shipping vessel. Klaus hoped his decisiveness and strength as a commander became apparent to the crew then - it certainly boosted his own confidence. 

Those moments were refreshing breaks from the monotony of long watches and bookkeeping paperworks that occupied the entirety of Klaus’ days outside of the occasional foolery of the men aboard and even more occasional late night advice from the LI (God bless that man, Robert Ehrenberg, and his work). Klaus was becoming immune to the ups and downs, metaphorically and physically, of his life in its oceany backdrop: it was becoming predictable because all around, in all directions he looked, all Klaus saw was blue - navy blue. Whether night or day, whether friend or foe, as long as the Atlantic waves rolled and the jetstreams billowed through his hair, everything Klaus saw was navy blue.

Consequently, this also meant that Klaus had become desensitized to Tennstedt’s ways. When Lorient ordered U-612 to immediate disengage from active battle and head to a new rendezvous point for a new mission, Klaus did not think much about Tennstedt’s displeasure and talk behind his back - the comparison to his father was probably the only part that remotely irked Klaus. It was all a part of Tennstedt’s antics, and he had seen it all. Without any worries, Klaus left Tennstedt sulking alone and ordered the u-boat on a new course headed straight for rendezvous.

Yet, Klaus knew the importance of having his 1WO’s support, and he also knew exactly how to ease Tennstedt to embrace their new objective. After everyone had a chance at a bite and a sip during dinner, Klaus opened the conversation by citing the virtues of past submarine commanders, names and stories that Tennstedt would be all too familiar with. Tennstedt stared back with a guarded look, but Klaus knew that his point had already come across to the man. With the assistance of the passage of time for Tennstedt to cool down and the delicious potatoes on Tennstedt’s dinner plate, Klaus successfully brought the man around with the tales of these commanders’ eventual downfalls and his goodwill itself.

Klaus was relieved: he needed the support and morale of the crew, and Tennstedt was crucial to help him achieve this goal. And now that he is thoroughly fatigued persuading a stubborn Tennstedt and by the enemy engagements during the day, Klaus could perhaps let out a little secret: his appreciation for his 1WO’s physical appearance might have helped him be just a tad more tolerating of the man than he would otherwise, also taking into consideration the radio accident that happened even before they left La Rochelle. He couldn’t help but also remark to himself that Tennstedt’s features were a glowing pleasure to view and appreciate under the warm ambience of the dining compartment. Klaus decidedly preferred this Tennstedt, calm, collected, and reflective of his previous actions but with the same sense of pride, over the irrational behemoth that loomed under the gleaming red light of the operating room.

After finally finishing up the paperwork (God, the paperwork!) and retiring to his bunk for the night, Klaus couldn’t help but chuckle a bit. He thought of a perfect way to characterize his 1WO: Tennstedt was a big grump. And if one were to follow the logic of a stereotypical grump, one would reasonably predict Tennstedt’s course of actions. The imagery of grumpy Tennstedt drew forth his memories: when Klaus was six or seven his father’s friend Admiral Kent from the U.S. Navy visited his home one late summer. Admiral Kent had brought alongside himself his daughter Emily who was just around Klaus’ age. Klaus pointedly remembered - other than not really ever understanding each other, which miraculously never stood in the way of having fun and being friends as children, and frolicking around the Baltic beaches - the big greenish-orange pumpkin with its angry eyes and a toothy grimace that Emily drew one day. She also talked about how she was going to make her daddy buy her a warty green pumpkin, carve it to be just like the drawing for Halloween that year, and name it Carl after her stuck up big brother for all the neighborhood kids to see.

Oh God, now Klaus had to let out a laugh. Tennstedt had the exact same grumpy face as that of the pumpkin. No wonder Klaus thought he looked familiar during their first meeting: Karl Tennstedt was a little grumpy pumpkin.

No, actually, since Karl liked potatoes so much, always finishing all his potatoes at dinner, he should be a little, no… grumpy BIG potato. The imagery was gold. Klaus recounted another vignette of how his family cook would always lug big sacks of potatoes to the kitchen every week. He remembered how the tan satchels lay lazily on the cook’s back. Occasionally, a fruit, or a couple of them, would bounce around, distorting the lumpy shape of the sack as the cook walked up a step or had to adjust the weight on his shoulders. Would this be how Karl’s grump stomp would look like if they had been on land - storming away like a sack of angry bouncing potatoes if Klaus caused him the slightest inconvenience?

If memory served correctly, once during that same visit Klaus and Emily snuck into the kitchen after the cook had just unloaded the potatoes. They took a potato out of its sack, and his sister must’ve been just old enough to have some makeup lying around because being the naughty children they were, Klaus and Emily casually borrowed his sister’s lipstick. Emily drew a pair of big, bright red lips along with slightly downturned eyes and thick brows onto the potato. That’s normal level grumpy Karl! Klaus now thought to himself. They had a wonderful laugh back then, of course, as Klaus was having now, quietly, to not disturb others’ sleeping time. Hannie must’ve fumed and cursed him out for this potato-lipstick incident, but then his parents would have definitely made Hannie apologize for use of crude language, which in Klaus’ playbook meant two wins for him and not even half for Hannie.

The trip to the rendezvous point was thankfully uneventful, albeit the occasional complaints about the “cowardly” mission from Tennstedt and a select few. At the rendezvous, the men of U-612 received additional fuel and their new mission objective: hostage exchange - trading a certain Mr. Samuel Greenwood for a couple of their men with the Americans. 

However, during the brief resupplying and collecting Mr. Greenwood process, the men were attacked by an Allied airplane, causing unfortunately, the death of a fellow crew member. Klaus took the casualty well and tried not to dwell on it for too long. His father said that commanders could not succumb to personal emotions and that sacrifices, up to and including one’s life, were expected of each sailor, especially during war. Yet again, although Klaus thought he was handling the unfortunate tragedy well, Tennstedt bursted into a long tirade of how Klaus wasn’t half the man his father was behind his back. Klaus could just see in his mind how impassioned Tennstedt, with glowing red disdain embossed to his face, must’ve been to be bestowed the opportunity to rant about him again. Indeed, it was clearer than daylight that Tennstedt absolutely admired his father, but why did Tennstedt have to think of him as a weak man? Because he was not a carbon-copy of Wilhelm Hoffmann? Couldn’t Tennstedt see that he would grow and sail his own path as a u-boat commander in due time?

Why did Tennstedt have to be difficult?

“The men… things will get better,” Ehrenberg, the LI, advised during one of their watches. Yes, the men will get better, Klaus reaffirmed to himself. And there are other men besides Tennstedt.

As the crew continued sailing towards the hostage exchange location, Greenwood and Tennstedt bickered incessantly like two drone flies, but soon the u-boat engaged briefly against an enemy convoy. This firing of ammunition wasn’t exactly risk minimizing as outlined in the given order, and also possibly deathly dangerous, but nonetheless Klaus took a deep sigh of relief when a torpedo from their u-boat hit an Allied ship. We survived. This will help ease some of the tensions onboard , he thought, let the men focus on this small victory please . 

Klaus went up to the bridge after the hit to assess the damage, yet what he saw instantly soured his small victory. The ocean’s inferno entrenched his eyes: a thousand demons ripped out the last screams of the dying masses before the red flames engulfed them, before the ashen grey smoke choked them, and before the watery blackness swallowed them. Sam Greenwood stood behind Klaus.

“This is all to get you home,” said Klaus. He wasn’t sure how he sounded when these words came out of his mouth.

How much to deliver us all home? He looked to the void above.

Sure enough in the coming days as the men drank in their victory, things became monotonous again. Even Tennstedt and Greenwood behaved around each. Klaus still had to step in and ask Tennstedt to play nice once or twice but nowhere near as constantly as before.

—

Klaus took care to ensure that his raincoat was all buttoned up and his pants were fittingly tucked into his boots. Tennstedt had already positioned and ordered the u-boat to stop at a location close enough to the American vessel.

The exchange happened on a night of a raging storm, like one sent by ten thousand wailing sirens fanatically screeching and screaming for their sailor lovers’ return. The rain poured so heavily like the sirens’ tears that one had to wonder if even a single drop would split the ocean open and release the souls of the siren’s drowned lovers. Or perhaps, a single drop would drown the lives of ten thousand more. 

But alas the ocean did not split open - Klaus was getting oddly into this archaic imagery of the downpour - is the rain not part of the ocean as soon as the two touched? Therefore, was it not their desire for revenge that buried their lovers?

Klaus’ ears rang from the wind, and his headache from earlier in the day was worsening - the captain’s visor cap really did not provide the much needed warmth. Almost done , he encouraged himself.

As Klaus walked towards the rubber boat - already carrying the wounded sailor from the torpedo loading accident the night they sank the Allied convoy ship - that would serve as their transport to the Americans, he saw Greenwood gesture and say something loudly, assuming from his dramatic openings and closings of his mouth (or perhaps just a hallmark of American English), to Tennstedt.

And…

Oh, fuck. 

Immediately, Klaus dove from the bridge of the submersible into the hauntingly cold water after Greenwood. Tennstedt had gone mad: he pushed Greenwood into the water. Tennstedt pushed Greenwood into the water!

“Have you lost your mind?” Klaus roared at Tennstedt and pushed the man backwards after he got Greenwood and himself back to safety. His throat now burned from the chilling wind and saltwater - and from yelling at Tennstedt.

“That’s it. Get back down. You are done.” That was all Klaus wanted to say to Tennstedt. He was done, and he was done with him. After so many run-ins, Klaus ran out of patience and any hope of establishing a working relationship with Tennstedt. The attack on the convoy without his approval, the deliberate hiding of the combat losses of the wolf pack… Each and every time Klaus tried to bring Tennstedt around; the worst Klaus did to Tennstedt was slap-on-wrist punishments. Being relieved of his post for a day for not reporting the wolf pack casualties. Hell, Klaus gave the order to relieve him quietly too, so Tennstedt’s reputation and authority would not be soiled among the men. Only warning him sternly to be subordinate after his unapproved attack on the convoy… How much more patience and kindness and grace does Klaus have to show?

Some men… you can never gain their approval. Not even if you go to the moon and back. Those words rang true in Klaus’ mind.

Quickly gathering his composure, Klaus and a few of his crew rowed towards the Allied vessel. The captain of the American ship agreed to take in his injured sailor, a partial relief on Klaus’ part. The prisoner exchange occurred, and Greenwood was returned to his father. 

“See? This war,” Greenwood slouched in a chair. “Young men like you die to make old men like him rich.” 

Klaus could feel heat steaming through his eye sockets, a wash of lightheadedness suddenly came and went. 

“Tell him. Tell him about your plan,” continued Greenwood, his voice evermore cynical.

More words in English. His head hurted, and that horrid ring in his ears just got louder. “Two U.S. Navy destroyers are on the way.”

Oh. Klaus turned his head towards the American captain. His gun pointed dead center at the senior Greenwood.

“So?” 

“So we can let this ship drift off course for a bit and buy you some time.”

“Can I have your word? As a fellow man of the sea?” Klaus stated assertively, a cold metallic ring colored his voice.

The word of a man of the sea was a promise kept. The ocean served as your witness, and should you not keep your word, she would devour you whole. A wise man knew better than to lie to the great unknown.

“If I have your word that you won’t sink us,” replied the captain.

Klaus scanned the room and then after a brief pause nodded. The small crew exited the room with their guns taut and eyes wary.

This was war on the ground, or rather, the sea: days of boredom and boredom followed by a sudden harrowing encounter - or forever embrace - with death.

—

As he and the exhausted crew were about to reach their u-boat, from the corner of his eye, Klaus noticed that Strasser, their radioman, had stopped rowing. When Klaus turned his tired body to check on Strasser, he saw Strasser with a ghastly expression washed over his face. As Klaus followed Strassers line of sight, he realized that there seemed to be a darting ripple across the dark waters. However, the hard rain overhead made it difficult to discern what the ripple was.

Boom.

And the sky and ocean came alive again in that intense Dante red that smelted the once navy blue beneath its glowing red claws.

—

Extra:

“Now, I pronounce you man and potato!” exclaimed Emily. “You may now kiss your bride. Oops, I mean, potato!”

Klaus stared at Emily, and she stared back at him, expectantly. After another second of confusion, Emily pressed her thumbs together twice and pointed at the potato that Klaus was holding up, then at Klaus again. “Smooching time!”

Having finally understood Emily, Klaus closed his eyes and puckered his lips exaggeratedly, smacking them straight and center on the potato’s painted bright lips.

The lipstick rubbed off the potato, flushing Klaus’ mouth in a light coral. The texture was soft, and the lipstick even gave off a nice fragrance.

“Here, Klausy so, so pretty now!” Before he knew it, Emily was already putting more red lipstick on his mouth. She even dabbled a dollop each on Klaus’ cheeks, then smudged them out with her hands. Klaus turned his head to see his reflection in the mirror. Perhaps out of sheer luck, the red was applied perfectly within the edges of Klaus’ lips instead of being strewn all across his face in the shape of a giant hotdog as Klaus had imagined.

The color complimented his eyes nicely, he thought.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 - Purple & Orange

The sunsets in Spain were the most beautiful. From them diffused an assortment of oranges and purples, pinks and blues, from translucent washes to the most saturated jewel-tones. In addition, the sun itself always radiated a calming warmth like the comforting heat between one’s mother’s arms. 

The sea foamed and frothed and tickled one’s feet before receding back with the tide: a most flirtatious lover indeed. But the sand was a more constant companion, smooth and silky. If one let it fall past one’s open palms, then perhaps one may stop the flows of time and let us all enjoy the sunset a sliver longer.

Klaus would stand each day after class with half of his calves in the water and his arms outstretched. Inhaling was the scent of flowers and the crispness of the sea. Exhaling was the setting sail of a tiny paper boat with today’s worries. And some days he would bring with him a letter from his mother, from his sister, or from his friends back at Germany to read by the beach. But on the very special days, he’d have a letter or a postcard from a special friend held close to his chest. He’d sniff the envelope for any lingering scent and carefully tear open the letter’s sleeve, perusing the words and paragraphs once, twice, and three times over.

It was always sunset in Spain - time ebbed and flowed on another dimension there. And when he returned, Klaus thought, he’d stayed so long to make up for all the years lost because of the war.                                                                                                                                                                                                              

—

“Kaleun? Herr Kaleun?” The cook roused Klaus from his sleep. He had brought Klaus a cup of the water. With a feeble smile expressing his gratitude, Klaus propped himself up slowly from his bunk and gladly drank the much needed cooling liquid. The water rushed down his throat. It took Klaus a moment to realize where he was - in a u-boat somewhere in the deep Atlantic and not in Spain. His fever was still raging and burning like that Allied ship that Samuel Greenwood boarded that day. 

Klaus proceeded to drag his heavy body off his cot. The cook looked worriedly at him, trying to help him sit up, and draped a jacket over his shoulders, silently suggesting to Klaus to take more time to rest. Klaus lowered his eyes and reassured the cook that he was okay; he was still the commander of this u-boat and needed to return to his duties.

“Sir, I think it might be pneumonia,” the cook rapidly blurted out just as Klaus was about to head to the next compartment; all Klaus could do was reply with a resigned smile. 

He asked for a routine summary of the ship’s status as soon as he entered the operations room. His 2WO obliged as Klaus checked their location and course. Then he sat himself down, a bit exasperated from all the talking with the crew. His hair was getting into his eyes again, but the curtain of locks, especially that in front of his right eye, somehow obfuscated the faces of his crew just enough for Klaus to not delve and think about who and what they really were. The first three buttons of his shirt were undone, but he couldn’t be bothered when sweat soaked his clothing and pooled into refracting droplets across his chest and cheeks. He asked for some water - this time the cook brought him an entire jug of freshwater. He pressed it to his forehead, hoping to disperse some heat. It felt almost as good as when the waves washed upon his bare feet in Spain.

It had been four days and nights since the prisoner exchange incident. Tennstedt had been confined to his bunk ever since, hopefully sulking away in a dark corner somewhere and restraining himself to not cause additional trouble. Klaus swore: as soon as he would reach the shores of La Rochelle, he’d have the man court-martialed ten times over. After slamming Greenwood into the open ocean and getting dismissed from his command, Tennstedt ought to have reined in his actions, Klaus would assume. But no, instead Tennstedt fired a torpedo straight at that American ship, which also housed one of their own wounded men. One of their own. Another one of Klaus’ sailors had to die. Even moreso, that smug arrogance Tennstedt could not help to hide infuriated Klaus so much that it baked his brain in fiery anger. That face - was Tennstedt pretending to play Klaus’ savior by sparing the American ship for a hot moment while Klaus was still onboard? God, even from just recalling that incident, Klaus had to take another mouthful of water to keep his rage and temper from flaring up.

Besides the Tennstedt torpedo incident, the u-boat also received two additional men from the exchange: Captain Wrangel, the commander of another u-boat that was sunk by an Allied air raid, and Major Friedel, SS. Not soon after, just as the crew was about to set its course due east, Wrangel approached Klaus. “We were supposed to deliver that man over there,” he pointed casually at the SS man, who was now biting down his jaws so fiercely to conceal his shell shocked state after seeing up close another naval vessel burst into flames, “to America. Before we were sunk, that is. Top secret espionage, and it seems like Berlin was all in on it. You might want to check on that and head west instead.” 

Klaus raised an eyebrow: it was odd that Wrangel would imply that Klaus should finish up his failed cargo delivery mission, seeing that the SS man had nothing but himself, no comrades and no documents to execute an espionage. As Klaus was about to ask to radio Lorient, Strasser came with urgent orders from Berlin itself to complete the delivery mission Wrangel had started. Klaus found this a bit strange, but nevertheless he would carry the order through as all officers of the Kriegsmarine were expected to do. Thus, now the submersible sailed west, deeper into the Atlantic Ocean, to drop off Friedel who was still trying his best, and failing miserably, to muster up his super soldier farce (thank God the shell shock and trauma made this man tone down his heel clicking and saluting - Klaus was in no mood for all that in a tight and sealed space with that horrid ring still persisting in his ears) and play the cargo delivery service that Tennstedt despised so, so much again.

—

The citrus drenched and scented sky of Spain was unforgettable. Underneath the Spanish clouds in the city by the sea, he was no longer Klaus Hoffmann but simply, Klaus. Or maybe more like “that kid from Germany, I think?” who never spoke Spanish all too well. Klaus never really tried to remember his time at the naval academy: the boys there were just like the boys back home, except for the fact that they spoke Spanish instead of German. Which in turn, meant that Klaus could not fully grasp all their banter - a blessing in disguise really: for what else do teenage boys talk about beyond sizing up each other’s manliness and ladies’ underwear. But it was nice, nonetheless, to be in a foreign country and to not have to study under the choking pressure of the Hoffmann name. He was neither the strongest, nor the fastest, nor the bravest - a solid middle of the pack kind of student. And that was okay in Spain. The only comment of the sort he’d get on the regular at home was whenever a fellow classmate would find out that his father was that Hoffmann and say to him something along the lines of “Oh cool, really? Can I get an autograph?” Rarely, if ever, did it go beyond that.

Back at home… His dreams drifted to the steel sky and the sounds of industrious hammering within the confines of the dockyards. Once, his father’s former adjutant came for dinner along with his son, Klaus’ classmate. Through the course of conversation, the topic of math class was brought up, and the boy had the most lit up face, like a glowing candelabra, as his father smiled proudly, with a tint of pridefulness as well, because his son was the best in the class. Klaus tried to imagine the day when his father would be proud of him like that. Instead, through the remainder of the dinner party, the elder Hoffmann wore a taut expression and never engaged in any more topics regarding his son Klaus.

Then his dreams peeled away to reveal the time when he was called upon in class to answer a piece of u-boat trivial. Klaus stood up and froze, muttering incoherently something he must’ve heard his father say once. Of course, he was wrong, and the children laughed and laughed so cruelly, hollering how he could’ve missed such an easy question - especially as Hoffmann’s son.

–

His consciousness darkened. Then the faint amber light from the ceiling of the submersible peeked into his eyelids. Klaus was shivering, and he could feel the pneumonia getting worse: his throat had become sandpaper after hours of coughing fits, and he had no control over any of it.

–

Klaus returned to his family’s big, beautiful red mansion that day with his chubby face hanging low and a wet glassiness in his eyes. His mother rushed to comfort him. He could still hear so vividly how she called him “Klausy”. Each inflection of the consonants and the stretching of the vowels, and how she always, always said his nickname, regardless of his age, in the same “aww, that’s my cute baby” way, were etched into his heart.

He missed her greatly.

But his dreams had a consciousness of their own, ambling from the sweetness of his mother’s affections to the cold disapproval in his father’s eyes. Old Hoffmann was a man of few words. With the most undetectable movements in his features he conveyed his messages to Klaus. There was no need for raising a hand or yelling or even harsh words. Klaus understood, feared, and loved his father by studying and reading his countenance. And that day, Klaus knew his father was disappointed to hear the whispers about his son from his former subordinates and their children.

Klaus recalled walking through their decorated entrance with vases upon vases of exotic florals to the kitchen, wanting to ask the cook for something to eat. His stomach felt so empty. However, he changed his mind and headed upstairs into his bedroom when he saw Hannie there, clasping a doll with hair half ripped off in her right hand and growing resentment in her eyes. He remembered how over the years the look of frustration, the “I could’ve done so much better than you” look, faded into a mere disdain in Hannie’s eyes each time Klaus was given an opportunity she could never have, to which he subsequently would fuck up. 

His sister was better than him: she was smart and resilient. As much as Klaus did not want to admit, his only luck was being born with a penis between his legs.

–

The shivers subsided, and once again Klaus’ body temperature started to rise. He took this waking opportunity to take a big gulp of water and dry himself from the excessive sweating. Klaus slowly made his way, cautiously orienting his body to avoid hitting his head in the tight corners of the u-boat, towards the bathroom. It was occupied when he arrived, so Klaus waited outside at the other end of the passage. After a few minutes, Klaus saw Tennstedt exit the bathroom. Tennstedt’s back was towards him, but still Klaus caught an unnaturally blushed cheek on the man. Tennstedt must’ve also caught sight of Klaus too; he hurriedly left. 

Klaus hurried in to finish his business. There was a whiff of ammonia that loitered around in the enclosed cell, but Klaus couldn’t discern the smell accurately with his flared up lungs.

About an hour or two later, Klaus’ hot fever returned with a vengeance - he couldn’t keep himself even half-awake and barely made it alone back to his bunk. The orange cabin light above him hummed and swung with the ocean currents, back and fro, teasing Klaus with its slim trail of light. Soon, the orange dimmed and dimmed as Klaus began to sink into the deep violet sea of his subconsciousness once more.

–

The bright white of the Spanish sun blinded Klaus. He lay on the hilltop overlooking the sea as he tried to complete his assigned readings. His left kneecap was still in pain from yesterday when he was shoved to the ground. The scar, huge and gnarly and twisted, was ugly on his leg. Everywhere he went he could see people making a disgusted face at the sight of his scar, and sadly, since the searing and moist Spanish summer made long pants impractical, Klaus had nowhere to hide it. The kids at the naval academy even laughed and pointed fingers at him for being too slow and too in the way during their run. He deserved to get pushed, they concluded. Even the instructors yelled at him to stop being weak and lazy. “Pick up the pace. Go, go, go!” they spitted in Klaus’ face, twistedly enjoying their saliva latching onto his squirming pretty face, even after he fell.

As the march progressed, his shoes slowly but surely clamped down on Klaus’ feet. The skin gradually separated from the flesh as each fluid-filled blister formed and spread across like a disease. Klaus forgot how long they were running: he just remembered that by the time he could sit down and take off his shoes, parts of the skin on his heels were glued to his socks. He was ripping off skin and flesh alike when he took them off. His feet were a blistered, swollen, and bloody-looking mess. The coagulated blood from the wound on his knee covered the entire length of his shin in crackled red and brown pieces, while the wound itself still bled from the overexertion during the run. 

Klaus tried his best to clean up this mess, so he could head back to his dormitory. Meanwhile, he also tried his best to not feel sorry for himself. The moonlight shone overhead like a saintly halo over the lighthouse in a world of deep indigo. It was as picturesque as can be. Klaus inched forward on his bare feet - the shoes would not fit now - leaning the weight of his body to the right leg to avoid worsening the injury. Occasionally, he’d look up to enjoy the quiet scenery. Perhaps a bit too often, he found himself bewitched by the moon, and before registering where he was going, Klaus raced to the sea. The wind blew at him and past him, whirling his worries away. He could almost laugh now as he popped himself on a bench right by the sea. The soft streetlight was his ever faithful company. He lifted his legs up to his chest and hugged them tightly. The sea was so mesmerizing: the reflection of the moon and rippling of the waves blurred in his sight. 

He sat there. And sat there. The moonlight grew more alluringly each passing second. He wanted to touch it - to feel the sea and to take a long deep swim.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A man had sat beside Klaus on the other end of the bench. That man lit a cigarette from which the smoke blurred his profile silhouette. He habitually offered Klaus a cigarette but retracted his offer once he moved in close enough to see Klaus’ baby face. He seemed to smile a knowing smile with a lavender melancholy around the corners of his lips - Klaus could not make out his expression hidden beneath the shadow of his fedora. The man pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief from the inner pocket of his suit. He dabbed the silky fabric gently across Klaus’ cheeks and underneath his eyes. Then he handed the handkerchief to Klaus.

“What’s wrong?” He asked as Klaus unfolded the silky square and blew his nose. The handkerchief smelled like fresh blooms. Klaus wanted to answer but his throat was dryly stuck together. All he could make out of the man with the dull lighting was his figure and broad, sharp shoulders. The man was tall and carried himself well.

This stranger seemed to smile that melancholic smile again. He passed over a slender glass bottle. Klaus drank: it was coca-cola. The sweet, bubbly drink was refreshing and comforting. It’s so…

“Isn’t it nice for a summer’s night…” the man said, his voice deep and relaxed, “The coke? I mean.” 

… Befitting on a hot midsummer night.

Klaus opened his mouth, wanting to say something like how this stranger was able to read his mind, but decided to ask instead, “How, how did you know that I spoke German?”

The man tilted his head playfully and shrugged his shoulders, “Thought I’d guess.” He continued, “Take a chance, right? You never know where you’d find another wanderer late at night.”

This made Klaus smile. The man smelled of vanilla and orchids. Klaus couldn’t help but subconsciously lean in a bit closer. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” the kind stranger said as he draped his suit jacket over Klaus’ shoulders. The wind was a bit chilly.

They snuck back into Klaus’ dormitory under the ebony sky. They then trespassed into the infirmary. The strange man placed Klaus on a chair as he knelt down and dressed Klaus’ left knee. His soft locks fell down in fat curls to the nape of his slender neck. From the silvery moonlight, Klaus could see the roll of white bandages around the man’s head and across his right eye, and his left was covered by his long hair. 

“There. It’ll be all better,” the man gently patted Klaus’ now wrapped knee. He brought Klaus’ right hand to his bandaged cheeks, guiding the thumb across the textured gauze, and smiled. His upper lips were curved and full like the moon overhead.

Thus, underneath the eerily white moon, a dark orchid bloomed.