Diner World

01/ BASEBALL IS DEAD

 The year was 1954. A grand wedding on the deck of a river boat was wrapping up, the steamer holding a party of relatives bent on celebration. The bride was radiant as ever in a flowing white gown, her golden locks pinned up with an even brighter barrette. The men stood around, their uniforms disheveled from the revelry, but nonetheless dapper in their dark attire. The broad insignias on their arms signified their devotion to a greater cause and the protection of home and country. I sat nursing a drink, beaten by alcohol and time. The steamer itself was an ivory behemoth that churned the waters of the Mississippi beneath it as common folk in the area would churn butter. The wedding had gone on into the wee hours of the morning and the sun was beginning to rise above the horizon. Everyone was in a state of giddy excitement, overtired from a well- spent night. One individual, who was dressed in a smart suit, emptied his dinner into the waters below. This particular individual fell off the side of the boat as a World War II Era Type XXI U-3008 Nazi Submarine crashed into the side of the ship, punching a large hole in the fragile craft with a resounding thud.

The surviving passengers of the riverboat gradually made it onto shore. The frigid waters of the forbidding Mississippi quelled their inebriation. Several of us had enough sense in the ship's final moments to grab life preservers, ensuring the survival of our bloodline as least a short while. The headlands were soon crowded with wedding guests. The submarine sat motionless in the water, seemingly perplexed by its own violence. After a time, the vessel turned to starboard and made as to navigate away from land. A few shouts erupted from a group of officers who had been on the wedding boat. They took off the soaked remains of their uniforms, leaving them with only their underclothes and firearms. They swam towards the escaping U-boat. A broad chested member of the group reached the submarine first and clambered up the side to the hatch. The other officers followed his lead and entered the craft through this opening. Keeping their pistols close at hand, they closed the hatch behind them. The submarine stopped its retreat.

It seemed like hours before the submarine finally moved towards the crowd of displaced wedding-goers. When the hatch finally opened again, members of our party marched the U-boat crew out at gunpoint. The crew members all wore business suits. Their nerves frazzled by the intrusion, the denizens of the machine collapsed on the ground, each staring into the barrel of a pistol. Their names were Peter, Julius, and Erich. After gesturing for the permission of the armed officers, the Kommodore of the submarine spoke first.

"I am Kommodore Peter Nichols of the German Kriegsmarine. My men and I will relinquish no secrets." He pursed his lips, ready to die. Our men cocked their guns. The Kommodore continued, spineless. "What do you want of me?"

Marcel Horn, the lead officer among the wedding guests, spoke. "Why are you in inland waters?"

The Kommodore cleared his throat. He had a lot to say. "My men and I were engaged in a secret operation meant to cripple American mainland interests. We were instructed to guide our craft through the Gulf of Mexico into the Mississippi waterway. From there we would plant a large scale explosive and detonate it at a safe range. The resulting explosion would serve as a testament to our naval power and the strength of the fatherland. When the explosive did not respond as we had intended, we did not to Germany for fear of what those of higher authority would do to us. We began to steal sheep from the peasantry in this area and survived on mutton for quite a long time."

"I cannot think of a worse fate," the crewmember named Julius stated. He stared at the ground and shook his head. The Kommodore looked at him reassuringly. Erich chuckled to himself but was silenced by the motion of a gun.

The Kommodore resumed his tale. "Once we realized that sheep were not a sustainable resource, we took odd jobs in the adjacent towns, gaining enough money to keep ourselves alive. At night, we would come back to the submarine and submerge ourselves in the dark waters. Erich here eventually even got promoted to a desk job, learning enough English to avoid suspicion. We all became somewhat successful in our own right. I manage a grocery store and Julius works as a bank teller."

The officers lowered their pistols and helped the submarine men up from the ground. Everyone smiled when they heard the news and the crowd started to laugh. Even the submarine men chuckled, although they did not why. When the laughter died down, Marcel asked them another question. "So, all this time, you have been in a submarine, infiltrating American interests and stealing livestock?"

"Why, yes. Yes we have."

Marcel laughed. "For the past nine years, you have led this life and you never once looked at a newspaper?"

The Kommodore was a bit confused. He narrowed his brow. "A newspaper? What would be the benefit of that?"

Marcel walked over to his sodden jacket and pulled a folded up piece of paper from an inner pocket. The paper was waterlogged but one could still make out the faintest hint of text printed onto the thin layers. He handed the previous day's newspaper to Kommodore Rosenthal.

"It's in German," Marcel said.

The Kommodore grunted. "Who cares that it's in German? We have English newspapers in the father land."

Marcel pointed to the headline. "It's the ninth anniversary of Victory In Europe." He waited for a nod of recognition but didn't get one. "Didn't you ever question why it was so easy to acclimate to American culture? Didn't you ever wonder why everyone spoke such good German, or why we are speaking German right now? Germany won the war nine years ago. This is the Brotherland, the Greater Forty-Eight States of the Third Reich. Hitler is President, baseball is dead. Welcome home."