Armada

by Steven Wilson

  The curtains parted and Beatrice Schiffer appeared, followed by her brother.

  “Why it is Captain Hardy,” she said in a voice just over a whisper. Her eyes were as blue as her brother’s and the siblings were nearly the same height, a good head shorter than Hardy. Her dark brown hair, flecked with gray, was carefully arranged so that it came just to her shoulders. Hardy always felt that was most sensible in a woman; keep your hair short and under control, no outlandish hairdos that require constant maintenance. Sensible.

  He swallowed before replying. “How do you do, Miss Schiffer?”

  “Years he’s been coming here,” Schiffer said to Beatrice, “and it’s still Miss Schiffer.”

  “Topper, please,” she said.

  “You see, Captain Hardy,” Schiffer said. “Topper. And she’s Bea. Short for Beatrice, you see. Bea since she was a girl and Topper from the clocks.”

  Hardy was perplexed. “Clocks?”

  “Tower clocks. Me job was to clean and repair them before the war. Then me legs gave out on me. Too many steps, you see. Get to the tops of the towers in no time. Wring a few pigeons’ necks on the way.”

  “Topper, must you?” Beatrice reprimanded her brother mildly.

  “Well, it’s true, Bea and many’s the time you’ve heard me complain about those filthy birds,” he said. Then he turned to Hardy. “Pigeon dung gums up a clock’s works faster than anything. Can’t tell you the times I’ve had to shovel—”

  “Tea? Captain Hardy?” Beatrice interrupted her brother.

  “That’s right,” Schiffer said. “We’ve just brought the kettle to a boil in the back. Come join us for a spot.”

  “No. Thank you,” Hardy said. “I’ve come for a few things.” He had written down a list of supplies that he needed but couldn’t bring himself to reach for it. That would hasten the end of the visit.

  “Now, Captain Hardy,” Beatrice said. “You’re a busy man I’m sure, but certainly a cup of tea wouldn’t demand too much of your time?”

  “Best mind Bea, Captain Hardy,” Schiffer said. “I did when I went into this business. Didn’t know charcoal from chilblains but Bea made it all work out.”

  Hardy saw the hope in Beatrice’s eyes, and for a moment he even thought that his continued presence was the object of that hope. But that would be too much to expect. Still it was only tea.

  “Yes,” he said. “Tea it is.”

  Chapter 6

  Headquarters, Feldmarschall Erwin Rommel,

  Commander, Army Gruppe B, Paris, France

  Rommel was distracted. He paced the room appearing to listen carefully to Admiral Thomas K. Dresser, Commander-in-Chief of the Kriegsmarine Gruppe West. Dresser’s report of S-boats and R-boats and Channel activity droned on and on, covering every detail of his command’s activity over the past week. But Rommel was aware of the rationale behind Dresser’s endless self-serving account of all that the Kriegsmarine had done; it was Goering.

  Hermann Goering was a harbinger of disaster. He would rush to the Fuehrer’s side and begin a hurried litany of the calamities that the other services had brought upon themselves because of their own ineptitude. But not the Luftwaffe; oh, certainly not the valiant Luftwaffe that could not keep American and British bombers from destroying the beautiful cities of the Fatherland, or from decimating the forces being rushed along French roads to strengthen the Atlantic Wall. No, Reichsfuehrer Hermann Goering would never report the failures of his own command; he would wax eloquently on the triumphs of the Luftwaffe. And the Fuehrer listened, and the Fuehrer fumed, and he ranted about the imbecilic commanders whose idiotic decisions cost the very resources that he, the Fuehrer, struggled endlessly to provide. And Goering, his face wreathed in sympathy for the Fuehrer’s untiring devotion to the welfare of the nation, watched Hitler storm about, and smiled secretly.

  That was why Dresser spoke as he did. Because somewhere, in this mass of officers gathered around the long table in the large dining room of this vast hotel that had been turned into Wehrmacht Headquarters, there were several ambitious men, jackals really, who passed on to Goering distorted accounts of what was being reported. Best state that the impossible was being done to prevent the improbable—to keep the Allies away from the coast of France. No, no. To crush them. To color the waters of the English Channel with their blood so that the English and the Americans would never again dare think of invading the continent. Be assured in your predictions, unwavering in your conviction. And cognizant that the Fat Man’s ears heard everything.

  Rommel was suddenly aware that Dresser had stopped speaking.

  Kommodore Karl Walters, Rommel’s naval attaché, thanked the admiral smoothly, covering the feldmarschall’s inattention. Rommel cocked an eyebrow in mild irritation at Walters’s presumption that he was not listening. He had stopped listening long before Dresser finished his report, but that was beside the point. Walters took too many liberties. He assumed too much and certainly presumed too much, always seeming to anticipate Rommel’s questions about the navy’s readiness or the Allies’ intentions as regards to naval strategy, and the final insult to the feldmarschall’s sensibilities was that Walters was always right.

  He was very smooth, Rommel had decided after the kommodore had joined his staff. Correct in action and deed—each word properly chosen and presented. Quietly, if voraciously, ambitious. Rommel saw some of himself in Walters and was disturbed by the image. As highly polished as marble, he decided, and just as cold. Be careful of his ambition, Rommel had reminded himself.

  Commander of Army Group for Special Employment. Rommel. Go to France, Hitler had ordered him, and turn the Atlantic Wall into an impregnable defense. Make every port a fortress. Make certain the Allies impale themselves on the bayonets of Wehrmacht soldiers with the sands of France clutched in their dying hands. Von Rundstedt rolled his eyes at that one.

  “Thank you, Admiral,” Rommel said, glancing at Walters. That was a signal that the meeting was over and that the fieldmarschal wanted his naval attaché to remain. After the others had gone Rommel approached the large map of the French coast, the English Channel, and the coast of England. “Walters,” he said, an indication that he was ready for the officer’s comments.

  “Yes, Feldmarschall,” Walters said, walking from the end of the table to the huge map. “Admiral Dresser argued most effectively against using his S-boats exclusively as minelayers.”

  “His opinion is not my concern,” Rommel said. He had no interest in Dresser’s reasoning. “Mines, Walters. The first line of defense.”

  “Of course, Feldmarschall.”

  “Mines in the water, mines on land. Is that so difficult to grasp?”

  “No, Feldmarschall.”

  Rommel turned, annoyed. Walters recognized this as a signal. The feldmarschall, never a patient man, wanted his attaché’s opinion.

  Walters said smoothly, “I think that the admiral’s position has some merit. So too, do the S-boats.”

  “Toys,” Rommel said. “There is no Kriegsmarine presence in the Channel. Little toy boats. Scattered up and down the coast. What good are they to me? To the defense of France?”

  “They might be of some use,” Walters said. “Particularly the boats at Cherbourg.”

  Rommel’s eyes reflected irritation.

  “S-boats, Feldmarschall,” Walters continued, “with attachments on their hulls. They rise above the surface of the water and travel at very high speeds. Limited resistance against the hull.”

  “Toys,” Rommel said dismissively.

  “Of course, Feldmarschall,” Walters fell back but advanced with diffidence. “It is only a squadron of course but the boats are fitted with a new cannon. A very powerful gun, one hundred ten millimeter. Much larger than the armament on comparable vessels.”

  “Walters …” Rommel said, growing weary of the discussion.

  “Quite a revolutionary weapon, these boats,” Walters pushed the matter subtly.

  “I don’t care,” Rommel said. “One
hundred million mines should be buried along the French coast. Every square mile should hold one hundred and sixty thousand mines. I demanded ten million mines a month and was told”—the fieldmarschal’s patience gave way to frustration—“and I was told that I would have them. I do not have them. What I cannot have on land, I will have at sea. Revolutionary? Seaworthy? The S-boats will pepper the approaches to the beach with mines. Seed the English Channel with a vast garden of mines. That is what the S-boats will do. Dresser argued eloquently because it is expected of him. He’s made it quite clear that he despises those little boats.” The feldmarschall paused. “His protests were a formality. You will tell Dresser that the Commander of Army Group for Special Employment,” the title was impregnated with sarcasm, “has so ordered.” Rommel’s tone became harsh. “And you may add that the Fuehrer wishes that the Commander be accommodated in his duty to see to the defenses of the French coast.”

  “Of course, Feldmarschall.”

  “Cannons on S-boats,” Rommel said. “Wings. What good are they? Revolutionary? Untested you mean. You will see to it, Walters.” The decision was final, Rommel meant; turn the S-boats into minelayers and let’s have no more business about winged boats and fantastic cannons.

  “Yes, Feldmarschall,” Walters said. What good are they? I don’t know, was Walters’s unspoken reply to Rommel’s question. Could they be better employed laying mines in the Channel? I don’t know. Could they really be of any use against the vast armada that the Allies were assembling in English ports? What role could they possibly play? I don’t know that either, Walters concluded as he left the conference room.

  Walters was intrigued when Dresser had told him about the boats. He had first read about them in one of the daily report summaries that passed over his desk. He read each summary because he was methodical. He read this particular report a second time and then studied it after he rang for tea, and then made notes in the margin of the paper while adding cream and sugar. There was potential here—fast boats, guns, and an opportunity to place them directly in front of the invasion fleet. He glanced at the cover sheet and noticed that Dresser had advanced the report with no comment. He had either not taken the time to read the report, or had simply dismissed it.

  A second cup of tea and a small pastry—he was a man of moderate habits—provided Walters with an idea. The one remaining Kriegsmarine resource was S-boats. A considerable number, in fact. Expendable if need be and most likely that need would arise. He made more notes and kept returning, although he wasn’t sure why, to the idea that these new boats were very fast.

  He was dismayed to find that they were in the hands of Reubold. As an officer the man was a disaster, as a human being he was a failure, but Walters supposed that Reubold held his post because of the mystique that surrounded him.

  But the boats. Rommel was right; they were untested except for an inconclusive sortie against an enemy convoy, and they certainly could be used as minelayers—preparation for the invasion was everything. But could they be better utilized? Was there something that their unique qualities could provide to the defense of the French coast; some way that they could significantly impact the invasion? Were they an unspoken answer to an unknown question?

  “I don’t know,” Walters said as his footsteps echoed off the parquet floor like a clock ticking away the seconds. There might be time to find out what these strange boats could do but that depended on the answer to a question that was known and had been debated endlessly; when and where would the Allies attack? And that question, despite the certainty with which a great many generals and admirals argued, could honestly be answered: I don’t know.

  When Seaman 2nd Class Tyne picked Cole up at the quay, all the seaman said was: “Captain wants to see you, sir.”

  Cole hopped into the gray jeep with U.S. NAVY stenciled in black letters on the bumper, and settled in for the short ride to Captain Candelaria’s office.

  “What’s it about?” Cole asked Tyne, who seemed to be habitually sucking on a piece of food that he had stuck between two teeth.

  “Got me, sir,” Tyne said, steering the jeep easily through the mass of traffic that crammed the narrow streets of the base.

  “No guesses, huh?” Cole asked, trying again.

  “Not a one, sir,” Tyne said, shifting into neutral and coasting to a stop at an intersection.

  “You’d think a man with discretion like yours would at least rate seaman first,” Cole said.

  “Yeah,” Seaman 2nd Class Tyne said in disgust. “That’s what I thought too, sir.”

  Captain Candelaria, a short, squat man with a widow’s peak that did nothing to increase his height, quickly read over the orders. He felt Edland, sitting across the desk, waiting with some degree of impatience as he flipped through the pages once, and then began carefully reading the instructions. Let him wait, Candelaria thought. He didn’t care much for errand boys from headquarters coming down here with harebrained schemes and crazy notions about how the war needed to be run. And always in a hurry, too. Everything was a goddamned emergency for these guys.

  Well, now they wanted Cole to go on some fool’s errand and Candelaria would have to listen to Cole bitch and bellyache. “That guy would try the patience of Job,” Candelaria muttered to one of his officers after a tense staff meeting. Cole may have been some hotshot squadron commander in the Mediterranean but he wasn’t fighting the Italians out here; no sir. This was the Channel and these were the Germans and by God they were a damned sight tougher than those goddamned Wops.

  “Okay, Commander,” the captain said, tossing the orders aside. “So you wrangled yourself some top secret assignment and you want some of my boats.”

  “I’ll need two PT boats from a squadron stationed at the base, yes, sir,” Edland said.

  “My boats,” Candelaria said, “my base.” Goddamned snotty-nosed, intellectual fag.

  “Yes, sir,” Edland said.

  “Yeah,” Candelaria said. “Well, maybe you can’t tell me what you’re doing with my boats but I want to know when you leave and when you get back, and if anything happens to them, I want to know that, too. Now, this guy, Cole. He’s a pain in the ass, so if you get any trouble from him, you let me know. I’ve sat him down once or twice and gave him a good talking-to and he knows who the boss is around here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Edland said.

  The intercom at the captain’s elbow buzzed and a raspy voice announced: “Lieutenant Cole, sir.”

  Candelaria depressed the TALK button and said; “Yeah. Send him in.” To Edland he quickly added, “You just remember what I said.”

  Edland stood as Cole entered.

  “Cole,” Candelaria said, “this is Lieutenant Commander Edland.”

  There was a flash of recognition between the two men. “Yes, sir,” Cole said. “The commander and I know each other.”

  “Well, this is a fine time for me to find that out,” Candelaria sputtered to Edland. “You could have told me that you two know each other.”

  “Yes, sir,” Edland said. He glanced at Cole. The man had changed. He was taller than Edland remembered or maybe he appeared taller because he was so thin—gaunt, in fact. His face was lined and haggard looking despite the deep tan, and his eyes had the look of a man who had seen too much for his own good. But they still burned with emotion.

  “How are you, Commander?” Cole said, not bothering with the civility of a handshake.

  It would have been a courtesy for Cole to extend his hand, despite their differences, but Edland recognized and accepted Cole’s reason for not doing so. There was no subtlety about the man; he either liked you or he didn’t and he didn’t waste any energy pretending one way or the other. He would have made a poor diplomat and an inept player in the politics that were an integral part of any naval officer’s advancement. “You have to get along to come along,” an elderly officer had informed Edland. He knew from his contact with Cole at the beginning of the war that it was often difficult for Cole to get along with any
one.

  “Fine,” Edland said.

  “I’m real happy for both of you,” the captain said, obviously angry that Edland had not bothered to tell him that he knew Cole. “Why don’t you two take it down to the conference room? I got a lot of work to do.”

  Cole and Edland both came to attention and saluted Candelaria. The base commander returned the salute and waved them out the door.

  A goddamned fag and a goddamned troublemaker. The Krauts can have them.

  When they entered the deserted conference room, Edland closed the door behind them and set his briefcase on the desk.

  “Still with ONI?” Cole asked, walking to the far end of the table. He couldn’t stand being close to Edland. Too many bad memories. Besides, he was wearing a tailored uniform and there weren’t any bags under his eyes and he didn’t move as if he hadn’t slept worth a damn in a month. He was staff, and Cole, who was line, distrusted staff with a passion. And then there was the other thing.

  “Yes, I am,” Edland said, pulling several files from his briefcase. “Attached to Admiral McNamar’s staff.”

  “Chairborne, huh?” Cole said, prodding Edland. His kind sat far away from danger and talked in broad theories and hyperbole. It was all very clean and pleasant where they lived, and the only time Cole saw them venture far from their comfortable perch is when they thought it necessary to explain carefully crafted opinions on strategy. He liked pushing these guys as much as he could. “You seem to relish that role.”