“What do you mean? That they fly? That they actually fly?”
“No, no,” Hellwig said. “We call them that. They fly across the water. They have wings, you see. They come down, from the bottom of the hull. We weren’t allowed to get close to them.”
“What do they look like? Can you draw them? Can you make a drawing of them?”
Scarface was speaking quickly in his awkward German, and Hellwig had an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh at the absurdity of everything, but he bit the inside of his cheek to stifle it. He knew that if he did, Tall American would pull the trigger and nothing that Scarface said or did could bring him back from the dead. He nodded.
Scarface straightened quickly and called out. He took the Tall American by the elbow and led him a few paces aft. They talked briefly while Hellwig tried to interpret their tone. The other sailors examined him, some indifferently, some with pity in their eyes. Another appeared and handed Hellwig some paper and a pencil. He handed Scarface a chart of some kind. The sailor, a thin, small man, called Hellwig “buddy,” but he said it kindly. Buddy.
Hellwig took the pencil and paper and began sketching what he remembered of the flying boats—Reubold’s flotilla. He drew the hull of an S-boat and then from amidships a long set of legs and moving the pencil aft, a shorter set.
Tall American snatched the drawing from Hellwig and studied it, while others gathered around him. Scarface laid the chart on the deck next to Hellwig, water soaking into the paper.
“This is Cherbourg,” Scarface said. “Where are your pens?”
Hellwig pointed to a spot near the Seine Mole. “Here,” he said.
“The special boats? Where are they?”
Hellwig looked at Scarface and shrugged. “I don’t know. Someplace up here,” he pointed. “Or here. They kept us away.”
Scarface thought a moment and folded the chart, handing it to a sailor behind him. “The guns. What kind of guns are they?”
“I don’t know,” Hellwig said. “They kept us away and no one ever spoke about them. We went out with them on only one mission.” He decided to mention nothing about sinking ships. Or about the arrogance of Reubold’s men.
“What is the number of the special flotilla? Who is their commanding officer?”
“The Eleventh. Reubold. Fregattenkapitan. Please. That’s all that I know,” Hellwig said. He was beginning to tremble again and he picked up the cup and handed to the man who called him buddy, hoping to get more of the delicious liquid. He wanted to go someplace, anyplace but the sea, and he wanted dry clothes, and to crawl into a bed and sleep. He was very tired and he felt that he could lie down on the pitching deck and fall asleep with no difficulty. His eyes were very heavy when he remembered something. He debated telling Scarface because he didn’t think it was important, nothing more than sailor’s talk, but he thought that if he were helpful they would give him dry clothes and a place to sleep.
“Please,” he said as Scarface rose. “One more thing. Sea Eagles. That’s what they called the boats. Zee Adlers.”
Scarface looked down at him and nodded. Hellwig wasn’t sure if the information was worth a bed or even another blanket. He caught the attention of the man who had given him the paper, holding his middle finger and index finger out expectantly in the universal sign for a cigarette. “Buddy,” he said, hoping that the word would draw the American’s sympathy.
The American smiled, lit a cigarette, and slid it between Hellwig’s two fingers. He nodded gratefully, placed the cigarette between his lips, and drew deeply. God in heaven, Lieb was right. There was nothing better.
Cole followed Edland into the Day Room. “Get what you wanted?”
Edland spun on him. “I didn’t get the boat.”
“They didn’t want to be got,” Cole said.
“You were supposed to capture the E-boat. Not blow it out of the water.”
“Oh, now, Commander. Let’s be kind here,” Cole said. “This is war. Things don’t always go as planned in war. You know that, don’t you? There was a lot of lead flying around out there. Maybe somebody was smoking near the paint locker. Besides, you got Fuehrer Junior.”
“How the hell did you last this long, Cole? We had a chance. We could have captured that boat.”
“I lasted this long,” Cole said, “despite guys like you. Some guys weren’t so lucky. But you got something, so the mission wasn’t a total loss. What are those things you’re after, Commander? Flying boats? Atomic death rays? Sea Eagles? Yeah, I know enough German to get by and I saw the drawing. Boats with wings. What will they think of next?”
Edland’s eyes narrowed in understanding. “You would have shot that boy.”
“Just as sure as you’re standing there, Commander.”
“For what purpose. Has killing made you that insensitive to humanity?”
“You may not have realized this in your ivory tower, Commander,” Cole said. “But you can’t have a war without killing somebody. It’s what comes of war, except generally we do it with spectacle. Yeah, I would have killed him because he’s the enemy, even if he is a sad sack. Had the situation been reversed, I would have been the one dead. So do me a big favor; don’t lecture me on the morality of war and killing, and don’t pull that intellectual kindred spirit crap on me. I gave up the classroom a long time ago. You want to dwell on the philosophy of war? Stay in London, sleep on clean sheets, and go to fancy restaurants, where you can hobnob with your fellow wizards and think deep thoughts. Translation: stay the fuck away from me because one day I might just lose my temper and you’ll see firsthand just how much thought that I give to killing.” Cole reached up and slid back the Day Room hatch.
“Lieutenant!” Edland said. Cole looked over his shoulder. “I do what I do to keep American boys from being killed.”
“Gee, Commander,” Cole said, disappearing through the hatch. “I’d say you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.”
He made his way as Rich was throwing a blanket over the prisoner’s shoulder and helping him to his feet. He wanted to get away from everyone, to find a place on this tiny boat where he could wall himself up. He was trembling uncontrollably and he didn’t want anyone to see him. He knew if he reached the bridge and took up his familiar station he would be safe. He could have gone below to his cabin, but he hated the claustrophobic feel of the place and seldom set foot in the closet-like space.
Cole’s nerves were so tightly strung that he could feel them drawing up within his body, threatening to pull his arms and legs into some grotesque shape.
It had been a quick fight, a clean fight, with the inexperience of the enemy boat apparent the moment that they had joined. Cole had ordered all three boats in at the same time so that their combined power would overwhelm the E-boat. In the sharp conflict, nearly drowning in the pandemonium and confusion, Cole had to fight the urge to look at DeLong. He knew that if he did, DeLong would die.
His mind screamed at him to look as the boats battled one another, the thick waves of the Channel crashing over the bow or against the hull as 155 chased the E-boat. The starboard twin .50-caliber machine guns banged away at the enemy boat, and each time they fired, Cole felt himself jump. He’s okay, he’s okay, Cole kept telling himself, but he could not bring himself to look.
When the E-boat burst into flames and sank low in the water, he heard DeLong shout in triumph. Cole’s body began to shake in relief. He fought back the vomit stinging his throat as they picked up the German and Edland questioned him.
Now, as he stood on the bridge, the sharp taste of bile in his mouth, he clung tightly to the spray shield, willing his body to be still.
All the time he could hear DeLong singing some little silly song about fishies and a dam. He wanted to shout “Shut up!” but he kept silent. After an hour or so he felt normal. He hoped no one had seen him lose control, especially DeLong, and he finally relaxed. He forced himself to look toward the left.
DeLong was at the wheel, scanning the horizon. He noticed Cole looking
at him and rewarded him with a broad grin.
“Hell of a day at sea, wasn’t it, Skipper?”
Cole smiled weakly in response. How much more of this can I handle?
Chapter 12
Victoria Station, London
Dickie Moore lit Rebecca’s cigarette in the relative quiet of the tearoom. The place was nearly deserted; a strange state of affairs when there always seemed to be thousands of people swarming to or from trains. But it was almost four o’clock in the morning and most people had fallen asleep on the long wooden benches in the waiting areas or sat close over tiny tables, trying to ease their fatigue with cup after cup of strong tea.
Rebecca nodded her thanks but stayed Dickie’s hand. “A new lighter, Dickie?”
“A present,” he said, his eyes alight with playful conspiracy. “From a very dear friend.”
“A lady,” Rebecca said, smiling.
“Well, I bloody well wouldn’t accept such a gift from a man,” he said, slipping the lighter in his tunic. “Dear father would have been the first to suggest that I was a nancy, but I was pleased to prove him wrong. I think that creates a dilemma for the old boy. His only son likes girls, but his only son likes girls far better than he likes anything else, so he achieves little in life. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“You should never say such things about yourself,” Rebecca said, mild reproach in her pale blue eyes. “You give yourself far too little credit.”
“Ah,” Dickie said, “but far more than my creditors do.” A waitress swept by, filling their teacups. Dickie waited until she was out of earshot before he said: “So you’re off to the country?” He thought that this was the best way to broach the subject of Rebecca leaving her husband. He might have started with something such as: “So you’ve finally come to your senses,” but that would have been too blunt. She was his friend and he had sense enough to realize that she had been a long time making this painful decision.
“Yes,” Rebecca said, “back to Farley Park for a while. Both Mother and Father are pleased at the thought of me moving home.”
“And,” Dickie began, half in spite and half in jest. “Oh, I can never recall that chap’s name.”
“It’s Gregory, Dickie,” Rebecca said, shaking her head at her friend. He would never be more than a delightfully mischievous boy. “You know very well what his name is.”
“I forgot. I truly did,” Dickie replied, tossing in just enough sincerity to fool no one. “Is it permanent? I mean that you’re not going back to him—are you?”
“No. I shan’t be going back. There’s no reason to continue with the marriage, really. He has settled on a life that doesn’t include me.” She looked at her teacup in resignation.
“Makes him a fool, doesn’t it? A perfectly lovely creature such as yourself. A philandering husband, war hero or not. He must be blind, is all that I can say.” Dickie looked around as if he suddenly realized where he was. “And why, oh, why did you insist upon this ungodly hour to depart London?”
Rebecca laughed. “I thought that you belonged to the night, Dickie?”
“Night, yes. But, dear girl, this is early morning, and at this time of day I am usually tucked in and doing”—he smiled—“doing whatever good little boys should be doing at this hour.”
“It was the only connection that I could make, Dickie, and you are a lamb for coming to see me off.”
“Some of my lady friends might consider me more a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
The shrill wail of a train whistle broke the expanse of the huge train shed, while several engines lay next to their platforms, chugging softly.
Dickie shook off the silence that had descended over them with a subject that had been bothering him since she arrived. He had seen her walk into the tearoom, stop, and search over the few patrons and scattered tables until her eyes finally rested on him. It seemed an ordeal for her. “You’re not looking well, Rebecca.”
“What a perfectly dreadful thing to say,” she responded playfully.
“We must not be humorous about this,” Dickie said. He was serious and he wanted Rebecca to understand that he was concerned. “You look all done in. Although, I shouldn’t wonder considering Gregory’s nocturnal habits. And your job cannot have helped. Sixteen-hour days at the hospital, I mean, really, dear. Didn’t you ever consider your own well-being?”
“There was never any time for that, Dickie,” Rebecca explained. “I was needed there. People needed me. That’s what kept me going through all of this nonsense with Gregory. There was so much to do. There still is. I hated to leave; I feel as if, in a way, I’m abandoning the hospital.”
“Well you’re not going back,” Dickie said. “Not to the hospital and not to that randy husband of yours. You’ve come to your senses and you’re getting away, and from the looks of the circles under your eyes, not too soon.”
“I’m tired, dear,” Rebecca said. “That’s all there is to it. And I hate not being active. When I was a child I spent nearly a year in bed with fever, and I vowed that I would never give in to that nonsense again. So you mustn’t worry about me. Don’t give it another thought. When I’m well again I shall return to nursing. It is, after all, my life. I am devoted to caring for others.” She lifted the lid of a creamer and peered into the tiny pitcher. Satisfied that there was enough left, she replaced the lid and poured some of the contents into her tea. The white liquid turned into a brown swirl, and she spooned it into oblivion. “Have you heard from, Jordan?” It was a casual question but Dickie could tell that it had been carefully prepared and timed.
“I have,” he said brightly. “Last week, in fact.”
“How is he?” she asked, seemingly preoccupied with her tea.
“Well,” he lied. He thought it a bit amusing that she pretended not to care, but then he remembered that Jordan was not the only one who suffered when she sent him away. “Quite well indeed. You know those American chaps. Overpaid, oversexed, and over here. He’s on PT boats; like our Motor Torpedo Boats. He was in the Mediterranean. Did I tell you that?”
“No.”
“No. Well, there he was and when things cooled a bit there, he was shipped back to England.”
“Is he well?” she asked hopefully. “Really?”
Dickie reached across the table and patted her hand in reassurance. “Of course he is. Never better.” He realized that the charade was failing and smiled at Rebecca. “Why am I such a bloody poor liar? One would think that with all of my experience that I should be a positive expert at it. No, he isn’t well. He is terribly thin, and he looks very worn.”
“Is he … ?” Rebecca rested her chin in the palm of her hand. “Is he happy?”
“Happy? Jordan? We are talking about the same chap, aren’t we? Closed off, I’m afraid.” He knew what she was asking. Had Cole withdrawn from everyone? Bloody fool; more than willing to face the Germans, but let anyone get close to him and he becomes as stoic as a gargoyle.
Rebecca looked sad. “Because of me.”
“No,” Dickie said. “Because he was confused and hurt, and turned away from everything. He is a remarkably bright young man, my dear, and perfectly capable of making decisions on his own. If he decides to be a horse’s arse, you must let him.”
Rebecca laughed. “Dickie, you mustn’t be so unkind. He is your friend.”
“Of course he’s my friend and a damned fine man, but if friends aren’t allowed to be honest with one another, who is?” He shrugged. “He’s a strange case, our Jordan. A good man.”
“It could not have been different. You can see that, can’t you, Dickie? I couldn’t leave my husband, despite my feelings for Jordan. I had to give my marriage a chance. I’d seen what became of my parents and I thought …” She left the sentence unfinished.
“I know that, Rebecca. And perhaps Jordan knows it as well, but he can’t admit it to himself. It is easier for him to be angry. He understands that emotion. He can deal with anger. He simply doesn’t know how to deal with loss or hurt.
He’s a bull in a china shop—stumbling around, banging into things; clumsy as an ox.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Is one permitted to mix metaphors when one denounces one’s friends?”
A trace of a smile crossed Rebecca’s face. She hesitated for a moment before speaking, her voice pleading for understanding for herself and Cole. “He’s a good man, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Dickie said gently. “You’re a good woman. I’d give my left arm to end this distance between you. It appears that you two are floating within sight, but never within touch, of one another.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “What time is your train?”
“Four-twenty,” she said. “What time … ?”
“We’ve got another fifteen minutes, dear.” She didn’t appear to be in a hurry, Dickie thought, lingering over her tea and conversation as if she were loath to end it. There was a distance about Rebecca lately, some part of her that she held back so that if it were not said, it could not be true. She had always been a gentle woman, Dickie knew. When he had been wounded in a bombing raid she was the nurse who cared for him. A tender soul, but troubled—little china animals all neatly arrayed along narrow shelves where the slightest bump could send them all to the floor and destruction. Then she had met Jordan, and he, it turned out, was just as fragile as she. She was hiding something from him now; Dickie sensed that much during the short time they had been together. Perhaps, whatever it was, she was hiding it from herself as well. Something to do with the marriage or that dreadful husband.
“Gregory is to have the house,” she said, as if reading Dickie’s mind. “It doesn’t mean much to me in any case. It will do him good to have something permanent in his life, I suspect.”
“You’re too good to the blighter,” Dickie said.
“No,” Rebecca said. “It’s only right. I’ll go home and rest up and when I come back to London, I’ll look for a flat.”
“They’re hard to come by, my love.”
She stirred her tea and slipped into a reverie. “It’s funny, Dickie. When I go home, I gain strength. Farley Park has that effect on me. The gardens, the fields, the deep forest near the river. I draw comfort from the place. Do you find that odd?”
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