“Three thousand five hundred meters,” an officer reported to Reubold.
“Maximum range,” Waldvogel said. “Maximum range. It’s unlikely that they would have hit anything at maximum range.” He was willing Reubold to accept the explanation, but the fregattenkapitan chose to ignore him.
“Have Mueller go in at twenty-five hundred,” Reubold said to Kunkel, who disappeared down the narrow hatch into the radio room.
Waldvogel watched through his binoculars as Mueller’s boat veered slightly to the starboard, making a long crescent through the water, and then turned hard to port. He was a thousand meters closer than the first boat.
When Mueller’s boat was nearly parallel with the wreck it was suddenly enveloped in a large plume of dirty brown smoke that dissipated almost as quickly as it appeared. A flat boom echoed across the water as Reubold dropped his binoculars and shook his head.
“He’s showing off. Firing a salvo.” He looked at the others situated on the skullcap of S-317. “Well, did anyone see anything? Did he hit the wreck?”
An oberbootsmann near the starboard aerial lead-in called back: “All misses, sir. Far to the right.”
Reubold turned to Waldvogel. “Now what? Moor them next to the wreck and let them fire?”
“Perhaps the sea makes it difficult,” Waldvogel said.
“Yes,” Reubold snapped. “Perhaps the sea makes it impossible to hit the target. Perhaps we should wait until it is calm. Perhaps we’ll contact the Americans and British and say: ‘Please, sir. Will you run your convoys only when the sea is as smooth as glass?’” He turned in disgust to the leutnant. “Send in Fritz at 40 knots. Have him fire in sequence at one thousand meters. No salvos. Send to Mueller that I want that shit to check his mount when he gets back. There’s no telling what kind of damage he’s done by showing off.” He nestled the binoculars into his eyes and heard the soft pop of the flare gun behind him. “Korvettenkapitan, we have not done well tonight. We have practiced loading and firing your guns until we can do it in our sleep, but we still can’t hit the target. What do you want me to tell high command?”
“I don’t know,” Waldvogel said. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nor I,” Reubold said as the next boat roared in toward the target. “I’m sure that the Silver Stripes won’t be at a loss for words.”
“Going in now,” Kunkel said, excitement ringing in his voice.
Reubold located the S-boat. She was running flat out. He knew that Fritz would throttle down when he was near one thousand meters. He could practically feel Waldvogel’s anticipation as the sound of the boat’s engines rolled across the water. He has every right to be concerned, Reubold thought. There will be no second chance if we fail this time. He felt a twinge of regret. Such lovely machines, so sleek and fast and ominous in repose. How he loved fast things—cars, airplanes, boats; speed in any form was intoxicating. Machines that gobbled up distance and time were worthy of being honored. Products of men certainly, but the whole greater than the sum of the parts; those fast machines transcended design, parts, labor; calling on only the very best men to guide them.
“First gun,” Kunkel shouted.
Brown smoke billowed out of the rear of the gun mount.
It had been seaplanes at first. Long, sleek, monoplanes, the pontoons an extension of the craft—an eagle’s talons. Reubold raced them around gaily painted pylons festooned with flags, down broad watery avenues bound on either side by ships and boats of all sizes. Everything was a blur; every color smudged as his aircraft neared four hundred miles an hour. The only shapes that were distinct were the other planes and the pylons.
“Second gun. Fregattenkapitan, he’s fired the second gun.”
The first crash in a seaplane; the oil cap worked loose and smashed into the cockpit. Six inches to the right and it would have taken off his head. Oil covered the windshield, his goggles, filled his mouth, and he pulled back the stick, trying for altitude. Put some distance between yourself and the ground so that you have time to think. The engine sputtered; you throw off the goggles and spit the oil out of your mouth, looking desperately through a clear spot in the windshield for a place to land. The engine seizes, catches fire, the plane begins to yaw, and you realize that you haven’t enough air speed left to control it. The sea races up at you. Darkness.
“There goes number three.”
Reubold watched the shell splash into the water well beyond the target. He tossed his binoculars to an oberbootsmann.
“Again,” he called to Kunkel. “Send them around again.”
“Fregattenkapitan,” the leutnant said, looking into the sky nervously. “It is not safe to stay out here too long. The bees.”
“Yes, yes,” Reubold snapped. “The enemy owns the skies despite what the Fat Man says. Well, do you see any bees? No? Neither do I. Have them line up again, leutnant, and we’ll see just how much of a difference Waldvogel’s tinkering has made.” He turned on the korvettenkapitan. “Is it the sights, Waldvogel? Or the treibladung? Are they using Ub A1s or Ub B? Come on, you’re the expert. These are your guns. Of course we can’t hit a damn thing, but that’s of little concern, isn’t it?”
“Mueller coming around, sir,” Kunkel said.
Reubold jerked the glasses from a bootmann-maat’s hand and focused first on the S-boat, and then on the target. Waldvogel moved close to him and spoke in a whisper.
“It does no one any good to become cross,” he offered. “I know that you’re disappointed, as am I. I’ve racked my brain trying to find a way to sight the guns, trying to compensate for the movement of the boats.”
Reubold said nothing, his attention on the boat flying across the water.
“If I could give my life for the Fatherland to ensure these guns functioned as I hoped,” Waldvogel said, “I would certainly do so. I know that you think little of me. I frighten easily and I become seasick whenever we leave the bay. I’m not a good sailor.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” Reubold said tersely, his eyes still at the binoculars. But he did. Something in the weak little man repelled Reubold—his manner, his sensitivity, the deference that he offered to everything and everyone around him. Weakness, Reubold finally decided; here was a weak man who made ineffective weapons and fast boats that rose out of the water on spindly legs. When Reubold did allow himself to think he realized that he found fault with Waldvogel because he envied him. Here was a man who possessed quiet passion, an inexplicable, unassailable drive to succeed. He did so despite self-doubts that threatened to devour him. He was like a coward who had decided to become a high-wire walker. His legs trembled so badly that the wire jerked uncontrollably beneath him and yet he continued to place one foot in front of the other, never losing sight of the platform at the other end of the wire. Reubold quickly crushed the idea that he was the lesser of the two men—the thought was far too disturbing. “Give me boats that run fast and guns that shoot straight,” Reubold said coldly. “You can do that much, can’t you? If you can’t these things are of no consequence and they are certainly not ready for war.”
“Firing.” It was Kunkel again. He glanced from the sky to the other on the S-boat. His mind was on enemy planes. They could see in the darkness with their radar.
“I know that,” Reubold muttered crossly. His shoulders sagged. “Misses. All of them. We can’t even hit a stationary target.”
“Here comes Mueller again,” an oberbootsmann said.
“Come on,” Reubold urged, his voice becoming strained. “Come on, you delicious pervert.” Reubold saw a quick succession of clouds from the muzzle flare and heard the dull reports of the cannon fire as they echoed across the water. Just a moment later three ghostlike shapes erupted out of the water, well beyond the hulk.
The men gathered along the deck and skullcap of the S-boat and lowered their glasses in disappointment, none daring to speak.
“Sir,” Funker Lerch called to the bridge. “We’ve picked up several aircraft about ninety kilomete
rs out.”
Reubold turned to Kunkel. “Send Fritz in. Tell him to take his time.”
A shocked look crossed the leutnant’s face. “Sir, funker said …”
“Do as I order!” Reubold shouted.
The leutnant’s “Yes, sir,” was barely audible.
“Man the guns,” Reubold said to the oberbootsmannmaat. There was a scurry of feet on the deck as the men raced to their battle stations. The barrels of the 4cm and 2cm rose skyward in anticipation.
Reubold swung around the armored bridge, tossed his binoculars to a matrose, and dropped through the bridge hatch into the radio room. “Get out,” he said to the surprised funker on duty. As the man was making his way up the hatch, Reubold took a moment to calm himself. He unsnapped his duty bag, pulled out a syringe and vial, filled the syringe partially with water, then with morphine, rolled up his sleeve, and turned to see Waldvogel.
“The men deserve better than that,” the korvettenkapitan said.
“Yes,” Reubold said, injecting himself. “They do.” He closed his eyes, preparing for the familiar, comforting euphoria. It would be a moment, he knew. The warmth would spread throughout his limbs and his heart would beat with a renewed strength. There would be no doubts, his body would not ache, and his regrets would be subdued. All this from a pinprick.
He brushed passed Waldvogel and went back on deck. “Fritz?” he said.
“No hits,” the leutnant said, shaking his head.
“All right,” he said. He saw the radioman standing uncertainly near the canvas dodger. “Go on,” Reubold said playfully. “Get below. Go on. Let’s not have the bees catch us out here.”
“Shall we line up for another run, sir?” the leutnant said.
“No,” Reubold said. “We’re going in. Let the others know.”
“Fregattenkapitan,” Waldvogel said, joining him. “Please. Let us continue with the tests.” He pulled a handful of crumpled papers from his tunic. “You see? I’ve been making notes. Here.” He flipped through the stack. “You see? Notes on the schubkur-belverschluss. I thought that I might modify the breech. For the loader’s benefit. Here,” he pulled out a crumpled paper covered with calculations. “It must have something to do with the zielfernohr. Don’t you agree? Surely you can see that?”
Reubold’s body swayed with the motion of the boat.
“They don’t work,” he said finally, watching the hope in Waldvogel’s eyes drain away. There was no pleasure or pain in his voice. “Your guns don’t work. And without them your hydrofoils are useless. We will go back and I will make my report.”
“But I’ll find a way,” Waldvogel pleaded. “There’s always a way, Fregattenkapitan.”
“This is nonsense, Waldvogel,” Reubold said, wishing the little man would simply accept his defeat. “Just because you desire it, does not mean it will be achieved.” He turned to the leutnant, dismissing Waldvogel from his mind. “Radio base. Tell them we’re coming home.”
The emergency lights glowed a dull red in the rich darkness of the S-boat pen. No other light was tolerated except the small work lamps the crews used on deck. The Allied bombers owned the day and night and, like hawks dropping on their quarry, would swoop down if the tiniest sliver of light showed in the darkness. They had returned from the bay and the disappointing trials nearly three hours before—the boats sitting in silence, the men, exhausted, nearly as quiet.
The red glow subdued everything—movement, talk over the low hum of machinery. The air was heavy with humidity; the weight of it slowed a man’s responses and his interest in anything except the most mundane things. Add sweat to humidity and strength melted away. A man felt filthy all of the time, a matrose once remarked as the men labored over replacing a gun barrel. Clothing clung to a man’s skin because of the dampness of the pens. The concrete walls of the pens were cool and clammy, and wet to the touch.
Reubold’s crew sat on the deck, just forward of the skullcap, loading ammunition belts. They did so silently at first because they were tired and hot, and the dank interior of the pen irritated them. After a time their good spirits revived and they began to insult each other good-naturedly, embellishing stories about one another so that laughter accompanied the boring but necessary task. Waldvogel sat near the gun well that held the Trinity guns, not because he wanted to be a part of the conversation—he would not go where he was not invited—but because he thought that if he was close to the guns, he might be inspired.
The crew ignored him. He was not one of them. He wasn’t even a seagoing officer. He wasn’t a Silver Stripe either, so the men weren’t quite sure what function he performed, and everyone must perform some function to be accepted in their world. So they tolerated him, but with coolness reserved for things they didn’t understand and that they were highly suspicious of. They knew boats, engines, and guns; and they knew the enemy, especially the British, but they were beginning to know the Americans. They accepted things only if they were familiar with them, and could understand their rationale for existence. Nothing else was of consequence.
“Go get another box of shells,” a bootsmann ordered a matrose.
“And don’t drop it,” another matrose said. The men laughed at the weak joke.
“You suppose he dreams of those things?” the bootsmann said, jerking his head toward Waldvogel.
An oberbootsmann shook his head and unbuttoned the collar on his shirt. Any breeze that came off the harbor was captured by the maul of the pen and denied entrance. “He’s a strange one,” he observed.
The matrose returned, lugging the box. He set it on the deck with a thump.
“Easy,” an oberbootsmannmaat said. “Those things explode.”
“Like our commander,” the bootsmann tossed the opinion over the case.
The men gave a low laugh and began sliding the shells in the belt.
“Did you hear him take the leutnant’s head off today?” a young matrose said, glancing around to see how the older men received his comment. They were quick to put anyone in their place that spoke out of turn.
“Everyone heard that,” the bootsmann said, to the matrose’s relief. It was the first step toward acceptance by the other men. He was becoming one of them.
“He isn’t what he used to be,” someone said.
The oberbootsmannmaat snorted. “He’s got only himself to blame for that. Mind you, he’s a fine fighter but he’s one of those men who always manage to shit where they eat.”
“What do you mean?” the young matrose said.
“You don’t know the true story of our commander?” another man said.
The matrose shook his head.
“Goering wants him dead,” the oberbootsmannmaat said. “If the Fat Man wasn’t so close to being finished himself, he would have gotten his wish.”
“Why?”
“Reubold was a pilot,” the bootsmann said, apparently comfortable enough with his seniority to join in the oberbootsmannmaat’s story. “Shot down a hundred Ivans.”
“I heard two hundred,” said an old matrose who liked to drink too much to keep his rank.
“All right,” a bootsmannmaat conceded. “Two hundred.” He finished a belt and reached for another. “Goering called him back to Berlin to award him the Knight’s Cross or something at a big dinner. Reubold drank everything in sight and then turned and threw up in Goering’s lap.”
The men laughed while the young matrose looked shocked.
“Not that Goering minds having a man’s head in his lap,” the bootsmannmaat said. “But he doesn’t want the fellow to throw up.”
The low wail of air-raid sirens stopped the laughter. The men looked up, as if they could see through the 14 feet of concrete overhead.
“Well,” the oberbootsmannmaat said. “This isn’t such a bad place to be after all. Is it?”
“Watch the bastards blow up our billet again,” the old matrose said. “I hate the British.”
Searchlights cut on in the darkness, thin gleaming trails that swept
the dark sky. Anti-aircraft guns began to boom, splitting the night like lightning.
“Goering hates him for that?” the young matrose asked.
“Nobody takes the Fat Man too seriously anymore. Especially the Fuehrer.” The oberbootsmannmaat’s head swung toward the entrance of the pen when lesser caliber guns began to stitch the darkness with tracers. He glanced at Waldvogel. The little man was intent on the bright flashes outside the pen entrance. A child, the oberbootsmannmaat thought. They send us children and idiots who like to watch pretty things in the sky. Go out there, child. See how pretty those lights really are. He returned to the conversation. “That just gave people one more reason to make fun of the Fat Man.”
“So Reubold is here,” the bootsmannmaat said. “At least until he gets killed. Maybe …”
The oberbootsmannmaat interrupted him. “Where’d that fellow go?”
The bootsmannmaat looked around. “What fellow?”
“The fregattenkapitan,” the oberbootsmannmaat said. “He was standing right there.”
“You don’t think he’s gone to report us to Reubold, do you?”
The oberbootsmannmaat stood. “Turn out that light,” he ordered. Someone switched off the work light, leaving just the red emergency lighting. The oberbootsmannmaat’s eyes swept the pen. “He was just here. I hope he didn’t try to leave. The bombing’s picking up.”
Anti-aircraft guns boomed constantly as the bombers neared the harbor. Once in a while a bomber would fall to earth in a fiery streak. But there would be more bombers, and they would come every night until everything was destroyed.
“There he is,” the young matrose shouted, pointing.
Waldvogel was walking as if in a daze toward the giant maw of the pen. The oberbootsmannmaat jumped onto the dock and, followed by several of the other men, ran after Waldvogel. “Korvettenkapitan! Stop. Don’t go any farther.”
The worst place to be during a raid was the entrance to the pen. It was the only place that enemy bombs could get you. The insides of the walls at the entrance were deeply scarred by bomb fragments, and the leading edges of the pen roof were chipped and split. And yet Waldvogel walked on, oblivious to the shouts of the men who raced after him or the deadly rain of bombs headed toward the pen. He saw only one thing: the graceful trails of green tracers as they searched for enemy planes. They arced into the night, the slim glowing trails curved by distance and gravity. His eyes flicked from tracer band to tracer band, his mind working quickly, absorbing and calculating everything that he saw. He vaguely heard the shouts of the men behind him, but they were a minor distraction and he ignored them.
Armada Page 14
