“Wasn’t he the guy … ?” DeLong said.
“Yeah,” Cole said quickly. “Get Dean and Ewing, and their execs, and have them meet us aboard the one fifty-five boat at fourteen thirty hours. Have duplicate charts ready. I’ll will lay out the mission then and we’ll get under way by nineteen hundred hours. Tell both of them that this trip is going to be tricky and I don’t want any screwups.”
“It couldn’t be any worse than picking up that Polish pilot,” DeLong said.
“Oh, yes it could.”
Dean and Cy Moontz were the last to squeeze around the table into the crowded Day Room of the 155 boat.
“Jeez, Moose,” Ensign Johnson of the 168 boat said, “haven’t you stopped growing yet?”
Moose Moontz, former linebacker at the University of Illinois, snorted in response.
“Okay,” Cole said. “Listen up, gentlemen. This is a tricky mission; here’s the low-down.”
The other officers in Day Room grew silent as Cole began the briefing. “The Germans have a new type of E-boat,” he said. “Faster and more heavily armed than conventional boats. This mission is to capture some prisoners who will tell us something about the new boat. We need to know what we’re up against—what the invasion fleet is up against—before the big event. That’s the plan at least. I have a single copy of the report of our first encounter with the E-boat. You can pass it around, but it’s not to leave this boat. Basically the plan is for us to lay just off the French coast at a point marked on the charts provided to you. Our location should put us near the most obvious path of any E-boats returning from patrols at either the Bill of Portsmouth or Lyme Bay.”
“Skipper,” Moose said, looking up from the chart. “You mean lay off the coast and get a look-see at them boats?”
“No,” Cole said. “I mean capture some prisoners. That means an engagement. Maybe,” he added, watching the reactions on the men’s faces, “even one of the boats.”
The men in the room exchanged shocked glances. They’d been fighting E-boats for a while. They had a healthy respect for them and, with that, respect for their capabilities. Capturing prisoners in the past had simply been luck. This was different.
“Excuse me, Skipper,” Ewing said. “But those things are more than a handful in a running gunfight.”
“Yeah,” Moose said. “Usually, they’re gunning and we’re running.”
The men laughed nervously.
“Knock it off,” Cole said. This wasn’t going to be easy, and every man at the table knew that there was a good chance of one or some of them being killed. He hated Edland and this ridiculous mission. He was putting his men in danger—for nothing. “We’ll need to disable it,” Cole continued, “board and secure it, and return it to port for examination. It doesn’t do us any good to sink it. That’s if we’re lucky. If not, we’ll just scoop some Krauts out of the water and haul ass for home.”
“It’s a lot safer that way,” DeLong commented.
“Apparently our safety is not an issue,” Cole said. “The successful capture of that boat is. Go over your charts, check your boats, and pass the word to your crews. We cast off at nineteen hundred hours. I don’t want any screwups. You’ll get your frequencies and call signs before we shove off. Lay off your IFF broadcasts. The Krauts know them anyway… . Randy,” Cole jerked his head at his executive officer, who followed him topside.
Cole was silent for a moment as he checked the tie-down on the radar mast. Finally, he turned to DeLong. “I want you to sit out this one.”
DeLong looked at him, surprised. “Sit out? Why?”
“It’s going to be tough,” Cole said. “I want you to sit it out.”
“When aren’t they, Skipper? What’s going on here? Don’t you think I’m pulling my weight around here?”
“Let’s not make it a federal case.” Cole heard the men talking below. He just wished that DeLong would just do as he was told. It was that feeling again—helplessness. He couldn’t help his men, he couldn’t save Lowe. He couldn’t get anyone to listen to him because they were out in the daylight and not at night, and they never went out in the daylight, and all Lowe did was smile at him.
“What the hell is going on here, Skipper?” Delong asked.
“You want your own boat, don’t you?” Cole said.
“What’s that got to do with the price of apples?”
Nothing, Cole thought. He was trying to find a way to convince DeLong not to go. He saw Randy DeLong standing next to the wheel and fear gripped him as Delong turned to smile at him. “You won’t get your boat if you’re dead,” Cole finally said in frustration, trying to mask his anxiety with humor. He forced a smile, but it froze and he knew that whatever he said would not make sense to DeLong. He was helpless again.
“I don’t plan on being killed,” DeLong said.
“You want me to order you to stay?” Cole said. “I could do that, you know.” He could, but Cole realized that he could never bring himself to shame his friend. He was responsible for Randy DeLong, and Moose and Ewing and the others. Responsible. They all depended on him to make the right decisions, to protect them, to bring them back home, but his power to do so had been taken away, and all he could do was watch as they died.
“What’s eating you, Skipper?” DeLong said softly.
Cole shook his head and pulled on the mast’s lashings, testing the tension in the wire.
“I’ve got to go, Skipper. You know that. I couldn’t live with myself if I wasn’t out there with the guys.” DeLong smiled. “Hell, half the time we ignore your orders anyway. You know that.”
Cole knew that. They followed him because they liked and respected him and they had a job to do, but they didn’t know that Cole could no longer protect them. “A favor,” he tried again. “Do me this one favor.”
“Don’t ask me to do that, Skipper,” DeLong said. “Look, I know what we’re in for. I know it’s going to be tough. Hell, we might not even find an E-boat. We could end up empty-handed. Besides, we’re a team, you and me. You know, like Abbott and Costello.
Cole nodded and watched a string of LCMs slide past. He was afraid, sick with fear, certain that he would never be able again to help his friends, his men. He felt abandoned and helpless, and dismay swept over him so completely that he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He was afraid because, in this light, Randy DeLong looked exactly like Harry Lowe.
“Mutton,” Topper Schiffer said, “is just the sort of thing to make a man glad there’s a woman around.”
“Yes,” Hardy said, uncomfortable at the comment. Beatrice had passed the plates round to Topper, who had carved and dropped thick slices of meat on the plates, handing one to Hardy, one to Beatrice, and keeping one for himself. Hardy had enjoyed his tea with them two days before, and had agreed, reluctantly, to return for supper. He had accepted despite a little voice that warned him he was behaving foolishly and would only embarrass himself. It was that he found himself wanting in the art of making small talk—filling his part of the conversation during tea with awkward compliments on the quality of the scones baked by Beatrice. When Topper pressed him about service aboard one of His Majesty’s ships, Hardy found himself a bit more at ease, but he still answered the questions stiffly, trying to decide what sort of accounts were fit for discussion with a lady present, how much Beatrice and Topper really understood of what he said, and at the same time berating himself for the clod and bore that he was. Beatrice, God bless her kind heart, listened closely to all that he said, interrupting only twice to offer more tea.
And when Hardy had finally extricated himself from the tiny table crammed in the cluttered backroom of the art supply store, Topper said: “Come to supper. I won’t take no for an answer, Captain Hardy.” His exuberance nearly knocked Hardy over and the question was flung at him with no preamble; he was unprepared and had therefore not concocted a suitable reply offering his thanks, but declining because of duty—responsibilities aboard ship, or some silly, meaningless excuse.
&n
bsp; “Of course,” Hardy said, regretting the words immediately. Doubts pummeled him without ceasing as he walked back to the ship, accompanied by sharp notions that he would certainly regret his acceptance, and the evening would prove awkward for everyone. “Stupid. Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, denouncing himself for attempting any social event except those connected with official activities. Put him in his uniform, with prescribed rules and regulations amid the flurry of the King’s Instructions, and he was entirely at ease. Everything laid out in an appropriate manner, enlisted men and officers, with the proper ceremony observed—that was how it was to be; that was Captain Hardy’s life, his world.
But for some unaccountable reason he had ventured from the safety of his world, paid a visit to a shop on the pretext of needing art supplies, when his Day Cabin aboard Firedancer was filled with everything that he could conceivably need. He had gone in and when he saw Beatrice, panic surged through his chest and he heartily damned his weakness. And now supper.
Topper ladled a huge portion of peas onto his plate beside the mutton. “Must be exciting at sea, Captain Hardy?”
“A bit,” Hardy said, remembering that it was bad manners to smash your peas to a green pulp before scooping them up on your fork. Remembered that much, he thought, pleased at the tiny victory that he had wrested from the potential disaster of the evening.
“You must show us more of your work,” Beatrice said shyly, her soft voice barely carrying across the table. She sat directly opposite Hardy, and he made every effort to keep his eyes from falling on hers.
“Yes, do,” Topper said emphatically. “What you’ve brought by is splendid. Can’t draw a straight line myself but Bea there knows her stuff. Don’t you, Bea?”
“Oh, Topper. Please don’t go on like that.”
“Take the credit, Bea,” Topper said. “Your work is top-notch in my book.”
Hardy eyed a small carrot suspiciously, not sure if he should cut it in half or chance cramming the whole thing in his mouth at once. Drawing his knife on the innocent vegetable seemed a bit extravagant, but he worried that forcing the thing into his mouth might result in an unintended comic moment; his cheeks puffed out like an adder as he tried to crush the carrot with his teeth. He chose the knife, feeling ludicrous as he stabbed the carrot and pinned it with his fork, slicing through its body.
“So you’ll do it then?” Topper said to him.
The knife stopped. “Beg pardon?”
“Bring them around, Captain. Your paintings and such. Show them off a bit.”
Hardy’s mouth suddenly went dry. He wavered between answering and reaching for a glass of water.
Topper suddenly slapped the table. China and silverware bounced into the air. “Can you believe it, Bea? Can you believe it, Captain Hardy? Two days I knew that you were coming, two days for me to have some sherry in the house, and have I done it? I have not.”
“Topper Schiffer, you’ve frightened ten years from me,” Beatrice said. “Pounding the table like that, and in front of Captain Hardy.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done,” Topper said, quickly standing and yanking the napkin from his shirt collar. “Nothing to be done but pop down to Burly’s and get us a bottle.”
Fear gripped Hardy. Topper would leave and he would be alone. With Beatrice.
“No, Mr. Schiffer,” he said, trying to hide the alarm that he felt. “It’s not necessary for you to go out.”
“Topper,” Beatrice instantly joined in. “I’m sure that we can make do with tea.”
“Tea?” He slid his arm into a tattered coat. “Tea, Captain Hardy,” he said, appalled at the notion. “And a fighting man at the table? A sailor at that. Tea won’t do, Bea.” He disappeared through the curtains and Hardy heard that despicable little bell tinkle happily as the door opened and closed.
A cold silence invaded the little room. Hardy glanced at the partially dissected carrot and carefully laid his knife and fork on either side of the plate. Somewhere he heard the steady tick of a clock. He glanced at Beatrice and forced a smile.
“The mutton was satisfactory, Miss Schiffer. Most satisfactory.”
“Oh, do you think so?” she said brightly. “I’ve never quite gotten the hang of fixing it, although you’d think that it was fit for the King the way Topper goes on about it.”
Hardy swallowed heavily. “Fit enough for me, Miss Schiffer,” he said. He studied the room as the unseen clock grew louder, each tick an accusation—talk, talk, talk. “Shall I help you with the table, then?” Hardy finally blurted out.
“Oh, no. No, Captain Hardy.” Beatrice jumped up and began quickly gathering dishes. “It’s woman’s work, you know.”
Hardy stood, grateful for something to do and for the noise that broke the oppressive quiet. “Nonsense. Nonsense. I’ve never held with that. Work is work. Man or woman, makes no difference. The only thing a woman can do that a man can’t is have …” He suddenly realized what he was saying and the words stuck in his throat. He was frozen solid, a cluster of silverware trapped in his hand. My God. My God, could you have been a bigger fool? What a callous, stupid thing to say. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, the words rushing out in embarrassment. In polite company of all things. At the dinner table, talking about women giving birth to … children.
“No, don’t you give it a second thought, Captain Hardy,” Beatrice said easily. She scrapped food from the plate into a small bucket. “You’re quite right about that. And I find your attitude most enlightened. Most men treat childbirth as if it never happened. It’s the most natural thing in the world. A wonderful event.”
Relief filled his hollow body and he became eternally grateful that she did not stab him with a carving knife in outrage.
The awkwardness was broken and he stood, quietly handing her dirty dishes, filled with admiration for her gentleness. She spoke continuously as she took the dishes and placed them in the dry sink. Her voice was soothing and she moved with unhurried grace. She was at ease, not only because this was the kitchen, her domain, Hardy thought, but because she was one of those rare creatures with integrity of existence—she was imperturbable. He thought at first that she might have been as nervous as he and that talking was a way to overcome the fear that she felt, but he decided that that was not it; she was happy, and happiness expressed itself in an endless stream of words. She said something about a sister, and her sister’s children, and what a lovely child their youngest, Jack, was. She spoke of Mrs. Tarkington just down the street and how her eyesight, poor dear, was beginning to fail her and how she, Beatrice, always found time to take her some food and visit with her each day.
Hardy was amazed as this compassionate creature told him about people who filled her life and from whom she derived so much pleasure. It was a family, Hardy suddenly realized, she was speaking of a family. Not just father-mother-brother-sister, but a gathering of people whose lives were linked through the kind heart of Beatrice Schiffer. Her sensitivity was boundless, her understanding of human nature and her acceptance of people and their foibles unlimited.
She stopped suddenly and turned in distress. “Oh,” she said. “I have done it again. Prattle on like a schoolgirl. Beatrice Marlene Schiffer, when will you ever learn? How can I be so silly?” She fixed Hardy with a look of sincere apology. “Captain Hardy, I must ask you to forgive me.”
Hardy stood, holding a half-filled gravy boat. He set it on the table. “Miss Schiffer,” he began. “Don’t …”
“Beatrice, please.”
Hardy nodded, not trusting himself to use her Christian name for fear that he would stumble over it. “You mustn’t concern yourself. I enjoyed very much those things that you spoke of. Ships and the sea. That’s all I’ve ever been. Around men of course. And old Firedancer. They are all that I have. I had forgotten that other lives exist, that there is something beyond what I have been accustomed to. Odd, isn’t it? I never considered anything that wasn’t right in front of these old, tired eyes.”
She watched him choose his words carefully, letting him speak at his own pace, feel his way around an unfamiliar subject.
“I must confess,” he drew a deep breath and was silent for a moment. “That I made excuses to come to the store so that I might have the opportunity to speak with you.” He abandoned all caution, surprising himself. “A few words from you were all that I needed to tide me over through the worst of times. I am probably the clumsiest man in the world when it comes to making myself known. It is nothing for me to do so on Firedancer. I know that sort of life all right. But with you. Here. Now. Well, that’s a different matter, altogether.” Hardy heard the front door open and the bell ring merrily.
“There,” Topper announced, pushing through the curtain. “Here I come with the sherry. Got the old man out of bed I did. Told him that I had a right proper hero to supper and that the man needed something to brace him against the cold.”
Beatrice and Hardy exchanged glances as Topper scurried about the kitchen, searching through cabinets for glasses, giving a blow-by-blow description of his discussion with the old man who ran the spirits shop. He stopped.
“Why, you’ve cleared the table,” he said in astonishment. “Bea, the table’s cleared.”
“Yes, Topper,” Beatrice said, smiling softly at Hardy.
“In front of the Captain?”
“Captain Hardy helped me, Topper.”
“Helped you? Good Lord, Bea, you didn’t put the man to work in the kitchen, did you?”
Beatrice turned to her brother. “He volunteered, Topper,” she said calmly.
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