"Ober-sailor of the Kriegsmarine"

A small group of German sailors stood on the pier. Some were smoking, others were drinking schnapps straight from the bottle, passing the bottle around. They were laughing—at a joke, at the weather, at the stormy weather the night before. An ordinary evening, nothing special. He stood among them, leaning against the railing, a shot glass in his hand. He drank slowly, his lips curling into a grin.

Then I heard a sound. At first I didn't understand what it was. A distant, growing rumble. I raised my head. A dot appeared in the cloud-streaked blue sky. A plane. Low, almost over the water. Alien. Russian.

He squinted, following the trajectory. The plane banked, its wing flashing. He watched, unmoving, until it disappeared behind the rocks. The roar died down. He slowly placed his glass on the railing. He didn't finish it. He grinned.

“The birds are strange these days,” he said quietly, without turning to his comrades.

He straightened his collar and brushed invisible dust from his jacket. It was all coming together in his head: shot down, landed somewhere here, on the shore. Wounded. Alone. Finding her before anyone else meant interrogation. And interrogation means information. Information means an advantage. And advantage means a commander's glance, stripes, a promotion.

His friends didn't understand when he silently moved away from the railing and walked toward the gangway. Someone called after him, asking where he was going. He waved his hand without turning around. Business. Important.

The engine was still humming in his ears. A dot, falling behind the rocks, was before his eyes. He walked quickly, already running through his head: where he could land, how much time he had, the best way to approach.