We reached what he called the control deck, which was basically a wider area with a lowered periscope and a narrow table cluttered up with charts and instruments that looked like they belonged with Admiral Nelson—the one from Trafalgar. Squatting amongst the jumble, wielding a spanner the size of an axe was an ancient, oil-smeared guy, scowling at me like I was some kind of pirate interloper.
“Oil-Gun?” For a minute I thought it was someone I knew, a mechanic, an easy mistake to make in that cluttered space, but when he grinned I could see he was thinner, his face even more creased.
“You know Eddy?” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “We’ve had a few days out together.”
“This,” interrupted Henry, “is Gottfried Zeitgeist. Former Admiral of the Imperial German War fleet. Just won’t admit it, is al
