“Odd? No. Everyone has a secret hiding place I suppose.”
“What’s yours?”
“Mine?” he said, searching through his memory. He decided to keep that to himself. “Why the boudoir of any willing young lady.”
Rebecca laughed deeply, tears coming to her eyes. “I should have known better than to ask.” A moment passed, and she grew reflective. “I wonder if you would do something for me, Dickie?”
“Anything, love.”
“Would you tell Jordan that I should very much like to see him? As soon as he can get away. It is important and I’m much afraid that I should not be able to get away from Farley Park. At least for some time. Would you do that?”
“Of course. But you know,” he tried to find a way to say what he had to in a way that would cause the least pain. “He might not want to see you. He can be such a blighter at times.”
“I know.”
“He’s very stubborn and he’s been hurt.”
“I know he has been, Dickie. I shall never forgive myself for that. But I want him to come, for both of us. It’s important that we speak. Things should not go unsaid.” She glanced at the clock on the wall over the long bank of grimy windows facing the platforms. “I really must be going.” She stood and gathered her things. Dickie stood and put two pounds on the table.
“I’m feeling extravagant,” he said to no one in particular.
They pushed their chairs under the table and Rebecca slid her arm under his.
“You promised me, Dickie. Make him come to Farley Park, won’t you?”
He patted her hand. “I promised and I shall,” he said, leading her to the door. He knew it would be difficult. Cole was a decent man, and there was no doubt in Dickie’s mind that the American still cared deeply for Rebecca Blair. It was evident that Rebecca knew that as well, but what she didn’t know was that Cole had changed. Three years of war and separation had combined to harden that man. It would not be easy to get Jordan Cole to Farley Park.
The swirling sands along the beach at Yport, picked up by the stiff winds that came across the gray waters of the Channel, peppered the group of Wehrmacht and Kriegsmarine officers. Long ranks of angry waves raced over the shallows and assaulted the men erecting bundles of Belgian gates in the knee-deep water. Beyond them, in deeper water, their snouts thrust above the surface begging for air, were hundreds of other obstacles and beyond them were wooden posts topped by antitank mines. All of these were designed to stop the landing craft that Rommel knew would come by the hundreds. Behind the group of officers who pulled their heads down below the collars of their great coats to keep the sand out, and turned their backs on the wind, were the pillboxes and antitank obstacles. They were linked by snaking trenches that blossomed with machine-gun nests, mortar positions, and firing steps. Thousands of TODT workers—forced labor—swarmed over the fortifications at a pace that drove Rommel mad. “You could lash them, but if you did they grew sullen,” he explained in frustration to his staff. “You could withhold their food, but this only made them resentful. You could shoot them, but then you would have even fewer men than you needed and would have to press more German troops into construction service.”
“You alternately threaten and reward the TODT workers, praising their work and handing out extra food when goals are met. Still, we must raid garrison troops and watch as officers and men string barbed wire and plant mines.”
“In the end, it’s not enough,” Rommel said, turning into the wind to face the two dozen officers at his heels. “There should be a thousand more obstacles there.” He pointed down to the beach, his voice rising above the surf. “And there. There, as well. And more mines, gentlemen. Many, many, many mines.” He began walking again, and the group, with Walters hanging back, followed him dutifully. “Deepen the trenches and build up the firing steps. When the enemy comes in, they will attempt to blast our defenses with cannon fire, from there.” He pointed to the Channel with his marshal’s baton. “They must not get beyond the water’s edge. Is that understood? Stop them here!” His voice became strident and he kicked a clump of sand into the air. The wind snatched it up, scattering the grains into the air. “Here. On the beach. Everything depends upon us denying the enemy time to employ their material wealth. I have seen it, gentlemen. It does not matter that our soldiers are better and our tanks far superior to theirs. They will bury us under a mountain of materiel once they have secured a beachhead. But we will deny them that. Yes?”
Several members of the group looked around for someone to speak first. Rommel finally answered his own question. “Yes. Deny them the beaches.” He looked around and saw Walters. “Go back to the bunker,” he told the others. “I will join you.”
Rommel’s naval attaché stepped forward, knowing that the fieldmarschal wanted a word with him. When the others were far down the beach, Rommel moved closer to Walters so that he would not have to shout above the wind.
Rommel’s gaze was drawn to the sea. He tapped his marshal’s baton against his shoulder, gazing into the distance. Finally, he came back to the kommodore. “Preparation, Walters,” he said, stroking the stiff collar of his greatcoat with the silver knob of his baton. “Dresser contacted me. Naturally, he was upset. Quite disturbed that work was not progressing on his boats. The new boats at Cherbourg. By my orders, he said, work had ceased.”
“Clearly a misunderstanding, Feldmarschall,” Walters said.
“Clearly,” Rommel said sharply. “For I can think of no reason that my instructions to Dresser were ignored and his orders to his men brought no response. I gave no such orders. Can you explain, Walters?”
The naval attaché’s attention was momentarily drawn to the sky. Far overhead the sun glinted off an enemy reconnaissance plane. They were a daily occurrence, lone aircraft, or aircraft in twos or threes flying safely above anti-aircraft and fighter protection, busily recording the preparations that were being made to strengthen the Atlantic Wall. Because of their overflights, there would be no surprise for the Allied troops. They were the distant eyes of the enemy.
“I can, Feldmarschall,” Walters said. “If you would grant me a few moments of your time. The Allied invasion of North Africa was a clumsy affair. But they learned much from their mistakes and were able to land on Sicily without the general confusion that marred the first invasion.”
“I need no schooling in enemy tactics,” Rommel said bitterly. “Continue.”
He had not arbitrarily dismissed Walters. It was a small victory from a man who was well known not to grant them easily. But Rommel could be mercurial and Walters knew that his reasoning had to be flawless. And quickly delivered. “Generally, their invasion fleet was constructed so.” Walters picked up a piece of driftwood and drew a few marks in the sand. The wind nibbled at the edge of the lines. “Transports,” a series of quick Xs; “bombardment vessels,” a group of crude Os; “and escort,” smaller Xs. “They will come across the Channel in lanes, each fleet assigned its place and time of travel.”
“Each fleet will have more than enough guns to protect it, Walters,” Rommel said, his tone pointing out the obvious. “The Kriegsmarine has no battleships, and the Luftwaffe has no aircraft, and that is why I have requested sea mines be so thickly scattered in the Channel that one can walk from Cherbourg to Portsmouth without getting one’s feet wet.” His voice rose and the words became sharper. “It is why that I requested of Admiral Dresser that he set his S-boats to seeding the Channel and why I was particularly disturbed to learn that you took it upon yourself to countermand my order. And for this action, you have a reason, I suppose?”
Walters answered with the fieldmarschal’s own words. “To stop the enemy at the beaches, Feldmarschall.”
Rommel’s temper exploded. “I fail to see how your little boats can achieve that. I do not appreciate officers undertaking projects that run counter to my expectations, Walters, particularly those officers in whom I have placed a great deal of trust. This is something that one of the Fuehrer’s la
ckeys would have done, but to have a member of my own staff do it is incomprehensible. I have not the time for such foolishness.” He wiped away the sand-diagram with the sole of his boot. “We will speak no more of this. You will do as I ordered and you will never again interfere with my commands. Understood?”
“Yes, Feldmarschall,” Walters said.
Rommel drove the baton firmly into his palm, watching as a patch of fog obscured the waves in the distance. The shouts of men dragging an antitank gun into position could be heard from just over one of the sea grass–studded dunes, and black figures waded into the surf, carrying Teller mines to the first line of obstacles. “The Fuehrer,” Rommel said in passing, “is consulting mystics and astrologers about where the Allies will land. Strategy is determined by charlatans. Von Rundstedt refuses to talk to our great leader. The only thing separating us from the greatest battle in history is a thin strip of water,” he reached down and picked up a handful of sand, letting it drift through his gray leather gloves, “a patch of earth.” He turned, studying the pillboxes and fortifications. “And what little we have been able to erect in the short time allotted us. The fate of the Fatherland, Walters.” The last of the sand slipped between his fingers.
“Feldmarschall, what if we can disrupt the invasion fleets before they reach the beaches?”
Rommel looked at Walters.
“If this can be done,” Walters continued, “it might prevent them from coordinating some important element of the invasion. Fire support, some part of the landing. Any confusion introduced into the array of ships that make up the fleet would throw off the timetable established by the enemy.”
“They will have contingency plans,” Rommel said.
“Yes, Feldmarschall,” Walters said. But once the fleets are committed they cannot easily be turned. The very size of the enemy fleet could be its own undoing.”
Rommel lapsed into thoughtful silence. There was no indication that he accepted Walters’s theory. After a moment he spoke, his mood one of interest mixed with skepticism. “The S-boats. Those pitiful little things. What can they do?”
“Shock troops, sir,” Walters said.
Rommel glanced at him and shook his head, dismissing the notion. He walked off, leaving Walters standing near the scattered remnants of his master plan. Imagination, Walters thought. One of the greatest military minds of the century has suddenly lost all imagination. There is potential here—with these few boats. I will not dismiss them so easily. He smiled at his own determination. Normally one would not run counter to a high-ranking officer. It was a practice that ended careers. But neither does one advance without taking at least a few chances. It would not be an unconsidered risk on Walters’s part; he had given the idea a great deal of thought. In the end what he saw was not the success or failure of Reubold’s boats or even the result of the enemy invasion. What he saw was Berlin and his rightful place alongside the powerful.
Chapter 13
Over Le Havre
Pilot-Sergeant Gierek sang quietly, his eyes alternately scanning the fluorescent dials of the instrument panel and the darkness ahead.
“Hej, gorale, nie bijcie sie.
Ma goralka dwa warkocze podzielicie.”
He stopped long enough to find the bright blue engine exhaust of the other Pathfinder Mosquito far ahead, and just slightly about the course that his aircraft had been flying. “You like the song?” he asked Jagello. “You like it? It’s a mountain song. It’s about a girl with two pigtails. Goralski Taniec. We used to sing it. I’ve forgotten the words so I use my own.”
Jagello held up his hand for silence, while he copied down the message coming in on the wireless. He held the paper under the soft glow of the compass lamp. There were three letters written across it—PPD. The Pathfinders were going in.
Gierek nodded, increased power, and climbed to 34,000 feet. They weren’t after U-boat pens; they were after E-boat pens, but the drill was the same. Link on to the three transmitting stations along the east coast of England, calculate the pulses with the onboard detector, consult the chart, and estimate the position. Gee was what it was called, and it was the first step in setting out for the intended target. That was when Cat and Mouse took over; Cat the tracker station that emitted a 1.5 meter radar signal, which was then reradiated by the Cat plane, usually a Mosquito, and Mouse measured the Mosquito’s ground speed and altitude, plotting its exact distance from the target. All very neatly done, until you got over the target. You always went over at night, and thank God for the Telecommunications Research Establishment at Malvern that produced the wonderful electronic eyes that saw through the darkness, because it was sheer suicide to go over in daylight.
The Americans did. Daylight precision bombing, they explained, was certainly the way to go. Their massively armed bombers flying in close echelons, protected by squadrons of fighters, provided all the protection they needed to complete the missions with acceptable losses. Besides, they pointed out, trying to strengthen their position after so many dead young Americans became acceptable, their fabulous Norden bombsight was designed for daylight use.
After a visit to an American base and a heated discussion between Gierek and another pilot, he and Jagello returned to Lasham. Over a cup of tea, Gierek filled in the other pilots about the crazy Americans and their daylight raids, and finally after he had mined his exasperation to the limit, turned to Jagello and said: “They’re crazy. The Americans. Aren’t they crazy?”
Every head turned to Jagello, who looked thoughtful for a moment before announcing: “I need more tea.”
The dense black clouds parted, and Gierek made out the dim form of bombers in the rearview mirror. The big planes, far behind them, were framed in the trembling reflection, each only a rough silhouette etched against the black sky by a frail moon. He did not like Lancasters. They were superb bombers and the men who flew them swore by them, but Gierek preferred the speed and maneuverability of the little Mosquito. He had trained on Lancasters, but he felt too conspicuous in the big plane as it lumbered through fields of flak, and when an opportunity came to sign up for the Polish Pathfinder Squadron, the City of Krakow, he took it.
This was the first time that he had met Jagello, and at first the two didn’t hit it off—Jagello was quiet, Gierek was talkative. But they were both highly competent, and they soon settled into a routine of professionalism that kept them returning to the base at Walker after each mission. Others in the squadron were not so lucky.
Jagello held up a message: IT. The first flight of Pathfinders were dropping the special target indicators now, clusters of colorful flares—pink, green, red, yellow—that guided the bombers to the target. Still not precise enough, still far too general for dropping bombs on targets with 14-foot-thick concrete roofs. The illumination flares would be next, Gierek knew—brilliant white stars that drifted to earth under black parachutes so that their brightness did not blind the bomber crews. Their signal would come next and then Jagello would slap Gierek on the leg twice: get ready.
Flashes of light began in the distance, not flares or the few stars that managed to pierce the overcast, but flak. Anti-aircraft—very accurate, pervasive, frightening. There was no defense against that, not the daylight sun or the inky blackness of night. You could dodge fighters, or shoot them down, or settle into darkness and run from cloud to cloud where they couldn’t see you. But flak was different. Talented men far below, men who calculated speed, distance, wind, humidity, temperature, and who methodically lobbed shells into the sky.
The Mosquito shook violently as it passed through a flak ridge.
“Come back to me, my lover,” Gierek sang.
Three shells exploded close by the aircraft, bouncing Gierek in his seat. He tightened his harness and glanced at Jagello. The man was made of iron.
“Why did you ever leave …”
There was a huge explosion somewhere behind them and Gierek glanced in the mirror as one of the lumbering Lancasters, flames boiling from its midsection, slowed
and veered to the left. Its fiery death lit up the night and its slow descent lacked drama; as if tired of flying on, the huge aircraft had simply decided to lie down and go to sleep. He could not see the whole incident in the mirror, and that was best because if he could, his eyes would be drawn to the death of the Lancaster and the sight of flaming bundles, men and parachutes on fire, hurling themselves into the sky.
Jagello slapped Gierek’s leg. The Mosquito’s bomb bay doors opened with a soft rumble and the sound of whistling air piercing the interior of the craft.
“Can’t you see these teardrops … ?”
“Release,” Jagello said. The Mosquito bucked as the packets of flares dropped away.
Another explosion tore the sky, far ahead. Gierek hurriedly crossed himself. Release. Far behind, the Lancasters—those that survived—had just dropped their huge bombs, six-ton monsters filled with Tor-pex, MC deep penetration bombs. Tall Boys. They would fall at supersonic speed and when they struck the earth, they would bury themselves before exploding. These bombs were not meant to hit the target; they were meant to land next to the target, and the resulting blast would shake a structure until it collapsed. Earthquake bombs.
Flak detonated around the Mosquito, and Gierek gripped the wheel firmly and wedged his feet into the rudder pedals. He’d been in flak barrages before that had tossed the Mosquito high in the air, and once the aircraft had been thrown violently sideways, and it had taken all of his strength to regain control.
“Don’t you know I grieve?” The Mosquito jumped and Gierek heard shrapnel strike the aircraft. He noticed a large round hole through the Perspex windshield and wondered briefly where in the aircraft was the object that had made that hole.
“Don’t you know I grieve?” he repeated, each word coming with an exhaled breath as he quickly checked the instrument panel, searching the dials for telltale signs that manifold pressure was dropping, or the radiator temperature was spiking.
Armada Page 12
