Chapter 4
The English Channel
PT boat 155 had slowed down to 10 knots, the mufflers closed and the exhaust pumped into the sea at her fantail. The sea burbled and burped along the stern of the boat as the gases mixed with water. The boat ran almost silently at this speed, but 10 knots was as fast as she could go with closed mufflers. Any faster and the powerful exhaust from the three Packard engines would blow the mufflers off.
Ewing’s 168 boat was about a mile off the starboard quarter of 155 as the two Elco boats neared the French coastline. Cole scanned the shore, still a good mile off, through binoculars.
“I’ve got a good view of the beach,” he said, the 7x50 Bausch and Lomb binoculars training steadily along the shore. “Looks like an abandoned shack, nothing on the bluffs overlooking the beach. There’s a derelict freighter just offshore. She’s been there for a while.” He lowered the binoculars and added thoughtfully: “I don’t see any Krauts. I don’t see anyone at all.” He grabbed the windscreen of the PT boat for support as an errant wave slapped the boat’s hull roughly, pushing her to port.
“Skipper?” Torpedoman 1st Class Tommy Rich called from the bow where he had been standing lookout. “There’s something floating at that freighter’s stern.” The rusting hulk was bow in to the beach and listing heavily to port. The shore had a firm grip on the old ship, the breaking sea battering her stern.
“I got it too, Skipper,” said Eckstam at the forward 20-mm gun. Cole watched as he adjusted his binoculars. Eckstam turned to Cole with a smile. “It’s our boy, Skipper. Sitting pretty as you please in his life raft.”
“About five hundred yards off the beach,” DeLong said, still manning the wheel.
“Yeah,” Cole said. He scanned the beach and bluffs again. “Okay. Let Ewing know that we’re going in. Tell him to wait here and cover us. The charts say twenty fathoms rising to five.”
“No telling what’s built up around her stern,” DeLong said, studying the motionless wreck.
“Yeah,” Cole replied, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Tommy? You and Murray lay back to the life raft on the Day Cabin. Get it ready to go over the side if we can’t get the boat close enough to get that guy. Pass the word as you go aft. Tell everybody to keep their eyes open and their fingers off the triggers until I say. Eckstam, don’t let that pilot out of your sight.” He slid the binoculars into their pouch underneath the windscreen. “Randy,” he said to DeLong, “I want you to take us in at forty. Split the difference between the hulk and that point of land off to the right. Two hundreds yards out from the hulk, cut to the left and drop her down to twenty. We’ll use the wreck to shield us from the shore in case the Krauts have any guns on the bluff.”
“Think that’ll fool them?” DeLong asked.
“No,” Cole said. “But it might confuse them long enough for us to buy a little time. Eckstam? Still got that pilot in sight?”
“Yeah, Skipper, but he ain’t moving. You’d think the guy would be waving or something. Jesus, I hope he ain’t dead.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Cole said. He nodded at Delong. “Okay, Randy. Give her the gas.”
DeLong picked the microphone and said: “Leo, we’re going in. Open the mufflers.”
The response crackled through the speaker mounted on the instrument panel. “Right, Mr. DeLong.”
Randy DeLong watched as the engine enunciator signaled ALL SPEED. Slipping his fingers through the throttle mounts, he pushed them forward steadily.
The 80-foot PT boat’s bow rose abruptly as the screws bit deeply into the water. The 1,550-horsepower Packard V-12 engines roared to life, driving the 60-ton craft through the waves. As she increased speed her wake swelled to twice her 20-foot beam and a rooster tail of boiling water jetted almost as high as the barrel of the 40-mm gun on her stern. The 155 boat raced forward at 40 knots and it would take only minutes to close the distance to the wreck and the Hurricane pilot. She drew five and a half feet but this close to shore that might be too much. It was a gamble, Delong knew—that the charts were right, and Cole was right, and they could get in close enough to the pilot without running aground. If they did run aground, the 168 boat could come in and give them a tow. If they didn’t rip the bottom out of the 155 boat. And if the bluffs weren’t covered in German guns.
DeLong hoped that Cole was right. He kept an eye on the three tachometers. Their needles rose steadily, piling rpm on top of rpm. Below the tachometers were the three gauges that read the engine manifold pressure. Both sets told DeLong that the Packards, well past time for rebuilding, were running smoothly.
Cole glanced astern at the low Day Room. Seaman 2nd Class Murray gave him a thumbs-up. He and Tommy Rich were ready with the life raft. “Eckstam,” Cole shouted above the engines and the waves pounding against the hull, “what do you see?”
“No movement, Skipper. Nothing on shore, either. Looks like nobody’s home.”
Cole saw the flashes near the crest of the bluffs. He barely had time to shout, “Randy,” when the shells from the shore batteries exploded a hundred yards ahead and to the left of the speeding boat.
DeLong spun the wheel and the 155 boat twisted quickly to starboard and back to port again. He let the boat run in one direction for another hundred yards before turning her again to starboard. The agile craft whipped over the ocean as her three rudders cut into the water. Cold spray splashed over her sides, soaking the deck and everyone on it as DeLong tried to throw off the enemy gunner’s aim. The wreck might have been a haven for the downed pilot, but DeLong knew that the gunners had probably been using it as a range marker for some time, setting their shell fuses based on an imaginary checkerboard laid out on the ocean’s surface. Now the 155 boat sped across the board; each space precisely marked and each component of range and deflection carefully computed by the gunners.
Cole clapped his hand on DeLong’s shoulder and shouted: “On the next turn take her in on a forty-five.” He turned aft and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Tommy, pass the word to the forty-millimeter to fire at those flashes when we turn in.”
Rich waved his understanding and made his way aft to the long-barreled 40-millimeter cannon.
Cole watched as Ewing on the 168 boat moved in closer to the beach. He would provide covering fire with his 40-millimeter and 37-millimeter guns when he got close enough, but those German shore batteries were probably securely emplaced; there was a good chance that they’d be irritated by the return fire from the little boats, but not injured. “Eckstam, is that guy moving at all?”
“No, sir,” the sailor called back. “Jeez, I hope that guy ain’t dead.”
“Is this trip really necessary?” DeLong said as he spun the wheel. Three more rounds from the shore battery landed in the ocean ahead of the boat, but much closer. DeLong steered directly into the boiling water where the shells had landed and then spun the wheel hard to port. “Here we go, Skipper.”
They were committed now, coming in hard astern of the grounded freighter.
Behind them the 40-millimeter began its steady firing, each report a dull thud as it pumped shells at the bluffs overlooking the beach. Cole tracked the hits through his binoculars, wiping the lenses of salt spray as DeLong maneuvered the boat in a wild attempt to dodge the shore battery fire. The enemy guns were well hidden and the chances of actually hitting them were practically nonexistent. It was more than Cole had a right to expect, but he’d seen stranger things happen in war. He swung the binoculars to the wreck and the downed Hurricane pilot. The life raft rose and fell with the waves, bumping against the exposed rudder of the derelict freighter. The pilot was slumped over the edge of the raft, one arm trailing in the water.
“Hell,” Cole muttered, “that guy does look dead.” It didn’t matter; they had to go in anyway. “Put me right alongside that raft, Randy.” He turned and made his way out of the cockpit, around the starboard twin .50-caliber machine-gun turret and back to the Day Room Canopy. “Belay that raft, Murray. Secure it
and come forward. Rich, grab a boat hook and meet me at the forward hatch.”
“Okay, Skipper,” Rich said.
Cole quickly moved forward, stopping only long enough to shout his intentions to DeLong. “Get us next to him and we’ll pull him in with a boat hook. The minute he’s in, I’ll give you a signal and you haul ass out of there.”
When Cole got to the bow, he knelt at the Sampson Post and watched the stranded freighter grow. The enemy fire intensified as smaller caliber guns found the range and glowing green tracer rounds reached for the 155 boat. Right for my nose, Cole thought. He’d always felt that way. One night in the Mediterranean they’d run into a long silent convoy escorted by MAS boats and E-boats; things turned ugly very quickly. Later one seaman had said that he could practically read the Saturday Evening Post by the light of the tracers. Maybe, Cole had said, all I know is that every one of those little bastards was aimed straight at my nose.
Now dozens of waterspouts danced across the water; each spout the result of a falling shell—every shell aimed at the 155 boat. The eruptions were getting closer—the gunners had found the range.
As Rich joined him, holding tightly to the long boat hook, DeLong swung the boat to starboard and then quickly to port, and back to starboard again, trying to throw off the shore battery. But Cole realized that the PT boat’s goal was obvious to the German gunners, even if they couldn’t see the bright yellow life raft nudging the freighter’s stern. Shells began striking around and then on the freighter, as if the enemy was happy to confirm Cole’s fear. A large-caliber shell exploded on the ship’s superstructure, sending large pieces of rusted metal careening into the air.
“Give me that boat hook,” Cole said to Rich.
“Skipper, you shouldn’t …”
“Give me the boat hook. My arms are longer than yours. You just hold on to my belt so I don’t fall in.”
Cole laid flat on the deck, half of his long body laying over the gunnel, the slightly raised toe rail digging into his stomach. He carefully fed the boat hook through his hands. The boat hook was exactly that—a hook fastened on the end of a pole that was used to secure the dock when they pulled in, pick flotsam out of the water, or draw in life rafts filled with downed aviators. Now Cole may be using the useful instrument to secure the life raft of a dead aviator.
“Here we go,” Cole said as the boat slowed, using the freighter as a shield from the guns. It worked partially—now the air was filled with the crazy bell-like tones of the small rounds peppering the metal hull and superstructure of the ship. The larger guns added percussion to the concerto—huge explosions that shook the pitiful vessel.
“Hey,” Rich said behind Cole. “That guy’s moving.”
The pilot straightened slightly and glanced over his shoulder as if the rescue were some sort of secret. The explosions rocking the freighter dispelled that notion.
“Grab the boat hook,” Cole shouted.
The pilot threw his left arm over awkwardly and took hold. He nodded his readiness.
Cole quickly pulled the boat hook back through his hands, drawing the life raft and obviously injured pilot in. “Rich, drop the cargo net. He needs help.” The pilot grimaced with each jerking motion of the raft through the water. His right arm hung uselessly in the water.
Cole glanced over his shoulder to see Murray join Rich. The rolled net, secured to the toe rail, hit the water with a splash. Rich was over the side in an instant and climbed down the net. Cole reached out with his left leg and felt the slight raised forepeak hatch behind him. Using it as leverage, he twisted his entire body to swing the raft aft to the net. He felt his muscles strain in protest and his shoulders burn fiercely as he tried to guide the raft, feed the boat hook, and twist his body at the same time.
Rich, his legs below the knees in water and his left hand gripping one of the footholds of the net, stretched out and grabbed the tiny lifeline that ran the circumference of the raft.
Cole heard the pilot say something in relief; the language wasn’t familiar but the sentiment was.
Cole released the boat hook from the raft, stood clumsily, and joined Murray and Rich, who were just hauling the pilot aboard. He turned and whipped his index finger in tight circles at DeLong; it was the universal signal to take her out. “Eckstam,” Cole said, tossing the boat hook to the gunner. “Secure that.”
The other two seamen had propped the pilot against the Charthouse Deadlite. Rich unscrewed a canteen lid and gave the shaking pilot carefully measured sips.
“Buddy,” Murray said in his slow Southern drawl. “We all thought you was dead.”
“I pretend dead,” the pilot whispered in heavily accented English. “Pretend.” He turned to Cole, obviously the ranking member of the crew that had rescued him. “Flight Lieutenant Stanislav Bortnowski, Number two-oh-eight Squadron, City of Gdansk. Thank you.”
“Jordan Cole, U.S. Navy,” Cole said with a smile. “You’re welcome. Polish?”
The pilot nodded, turning his eyes to Rich hopefully. The seaman looked to Cole for permission, and Cole nodded. It was dangerous to give someone who’d been at sea for any length of time too much water. It was especially dangerous if you didn’t know the extent of the person’s injuries. The pilot took more water gratefully and answered.
“Yes. Formerly of the Third Cavalry Brigade. Now I fly airplanes.”
Cole heard the soft burp of the smoke generator aft followed by the hiss of the titanium tetrachloride as it emptied into the air, forming a thick white cloud. They were running at top speed now with DeLong’s competent hands on the wheel, and the white smoke billowing over the fantail would mask their escape.
“Your arm,” Cole said.
“Broken, I’m sure,” Bortnowski said. “But I’m alive. It’s a small price to pay for one’s life.”
Cole nodded and stood. “Bring the stretcher forward and lash our guest down,” he ordered Rich. “I’d hate to lose him over the side.”
“Okay, Skipper. I’ll look him over and get him squared away.”
Cole made his way back to the cockpit but stood away from DeLong. He knew that the ensign understood that he didn’t want to be approached, didn’t want to speak to anyone when he did this. Something that the pilot had said troubled Cole; some words had brought back memories of the Mediterranean. It sounded so much like what Harry Lowe would have said: “It’s a small price to pay for one’s life.” Harry Lowe, handsome, erudite, good-natured; only son of a wealthy man. A decent man. Cole’s friend. Dead because of Cole’s mistake.
Chapter 5
Portsmouth, England
Captain George Hardy entered Schiffer’s Artist Supply Store reluctantly. He’d been the center of an ongoing debate as he walked down Gosport Street—a hotly pursued squabble between Captain George Hardy, RN, and George Hardy, bachelor. A bachelor, he had once confided to a friend, because he “would not be silly enough to have any woman who was silly enough to have me.” But that strongly held belief had been under siege for some time, and the whole subject had been distressing to Hardy.
He closed the door quietly behind him, irritated at the tinny sound of the charming little bell suspended above the door. The bloody thing tinkled merrily every time the door opened, Hardy recalled, announcing customers as they entered.
He quickly slipped down a narrow aisle, safely hidden among tall shelves stacked with tubes of oil paint, rolls of canvas, endless bottles sprouting clusters of drawing pencils, and a thousand other things that professional or budding artists might require. He stopped briefly, taking time to gather himself, and carefully studied a colony of small articulated wooden models, frozen in a variety of poses. He’d never got the hang of the human figure and was absolutely horrid at the human face. “Give me the inanimate,” he told Land one clear day as they shared a watch on Firedancer’s crowded bridge. “Nothing moves. I can take as bloody well long as I want. None of this nonsense of people twitching or growing tired.”
But Hardy was not being entirely trut
hful. He admired those artists who could capture the human spirit reflected in the geography of an individual face. Every element of the soul, under the skillful touch of a talented artist, was reflected in a portrait in any medium. Sometimes it was the shape of the features—eyes, nose, cheekbones. Sometimes in the arrangement of them all. Mostly in the eyes, though—brooding, haunted, bright, intelligent, longing. A person’s soul reflected in their eyes, Hardy had heard once but had dismissed it forthwith. Later, when he had seen what war did to men, he considered them the truest words that he had ever heard spoken. It gave him a newfound appreciation for the portraitist. None of that abstract nonsense, Hardy sniffed. Silly children’s drawings of eyes suspended on a person’s forehead and triangular heads; bloody insult to artists everywhere.
“Why, it’s Captain Hardy,” Topper Schiffer said, behind him. “Thought I heard the bell. Bea and I were just in the back.”
Hardy turned and smiled at the little proprietor. His thinning white hair was combed carefully across his round skull in an attempt to hide his baldness. He looked like a happy cherub.
“I must get a bigger bell,” he said to Hardy, his bright blue eyes reflecting genuine happiness at seeing the captain again. “Can’t half hear that one most of the time.”
“Yes,” Hardy said, slightly pleased that the little bell’s days were numbered.
“Come for a few things, then?” Schiffer said, smiling. “Let me pop back and tell Bea you’re here. She’ll be pleased to see you.”
Hardy started to protest, but the man was gone in a flash. He scratched his chin roughly out of frustration and followed Schiffer. He suddenly felt overwhelmed by the stacks of goods that had once protected him but now towered over him, leaving no room to maneuver, no room to come about if need be. He stationed himself at the relatively open area in front of the low wooden counter. Behind a flowered curtain that was still drifting from Schiffer’s passage he could hear Beatrice Schiffer’s soft voice. His heart started a little and he wondered what to do with his hands. He finally decided to lay them casually on the counter. A fleeting image of the stiff wooden artist models crossed his mind and he quickly withdrew his hands and let them fall to his side.
Armada Page 4
