Armada

by Steven Wilson

  This horrible war has taken so much from so many and it has taken you away from me by playing a cruelest joke of all—giving us both hope. I think how horrible that I must be that in many ways I wish that the news of Gregory’s death had been true. I am horrible, aren’t I? Now Gregory dashes about, trying to prove that he is the best of men, and I cannot stop thinking of you.

  Perhaps this war will conspire to bring us together again, my darling, as sure as it drove us apart. Until that time, please don’t think ill of me and remember, always, that you shall always be in my heart.

  Please write. I cannot bear not hearing from you.

  Rebecca

  Cole had memorized most of it and as his eyes lingered on her signature, he realized that he should go see her; perhaps there was a chance that they could be together. He lay on the bed, folded his arms across his chest, and watched the overhead fan turn slowly.

  It had happened so quickly, falling in love with Rebecca. Days really. A flash of passion—love so intense that he felt it in every part of his body. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. The war, Rebecca said, it does that to people. Maybe, Cole thought, or maybe some people just have to be together, despite everything else.

  He folded the letter carefully and slid it into the envelope. Two hours away, Dickie said; just jump in a jeep and go to her. Cole realized how easy it would be and the thought gave him hope.

  Then he remembered the pain that he felt at leaving her, the betrayal because of her choice of a disgusting cripple over him. Not just a physical cripple, but a cruel, hateful man who treated her like a servant. Cole had gone far away: first to the States for training, then to the Mediterranean for service. Miles away—years away. A man changes, he told himself, and he felt a coldness enter his heart. You deaden your emotions, he convinced himself, you don’t let anything in; not love, friendship, affection of any kind, and then if it’s denied you, you’re still in one piece.

  Go to her. The thought was unbidden and came as a surprise to Cole. He pushed it away. He reached over without looking and dropped the letter in the box. Out in the hallway of the Officers’ Quarters he heard muffled voices followed by a laugh. He closed his eyes.

  Bury yourself in work. Lose yourself in the war.

  More laughter. Other voices. Something about a bottle. Cole reached up and snapped off the bedside light. The noises died down as his mind detailed the work assignments for boat maintenance. Smother the memories until none remained. He was tired and he felt sleep coming easily and with it a sense of satisfaction. Nothing to it, he told himself. Just train yourself to be cold and uncaring so that nothing can get in, and nothing will get out.

  Nothing to it.

  Deep within he knew that he had chosen to become a coward and decided as well that he would not consider her at all. A tiny voice in his mind said this was nonsense of course and just because he said it was true—that he could survive without pain by denying the memories and holding the feeling at a distance—did not make it so. Too much of her remained: her voice, her searching eyes, the hurt that he caused by simply being close to her when he knew that he should not have been. It was, as she told him the truth when he went away for the last time and something that he knew to be inescapable even if he denied its existence; it could not always be as he wanted.

  He had long before come to realize that he was selfish, pursuing things because he wanted to possess them, and once they were within his grasp—he dared not think too long on this because it reinforced the notion that he was as bad as Gregory—he became tired of them.

  Maybe, Cole thought, unwilling to accept that notion. A child she called him, not in derision but in explanation. She might as well have said: you are learning about the true nature of love. Maybe, Cole thought again but the thought was bitter, tied to the twin emotions of regret and betrayal—so often false sensations, but they would do for a man too afraid to embrace the idea that sometimes people didn’t get what they wanted.

  He knew that the feelings swirling inside would not answer a single question. They were—just there.

  Fatigue that swept over him came from things that had happened before: events that he had been unable to control. A love lost, men dead or wounded. Love lost, he thought, disgusted with himself. How melodramatic. Where are the violins and tears or … but it didn’t work. He could not destroy the sorrow with humiliation.

  He sunk into deep thought for several minutes, memories flashing through his mind so that each was an accusation. Each a reminder of how he had failed. He could not help Rebecca; he could not save Harry Lowe. The night that he lost six boats—he forced the memories, bringing his will to bear so that the images that haunted him were shattered.

  He felt his strength returning, a solid wall of willpower convincing him that he did not have to succumb to any of it. He was strong, unassailable.

  It was a perfectly attainable state of mind, Cole assured himself. But then he posed the question: Then why am I so miserable?

  Gierek and Jagello stood among a group of Pathfinder pilots and navigators in the briefing hut, listening as the Photo Reconnaissance Interpreter pointed out their deficiencies with the help of a long wooden dowel and a batch of photographs scattered on a slanted table. It was Cherbourg in miniature and the PRI man talked in a strange combination of optimism and chastisement—the way one would talk to an errant child from whom one expected so much more.

  “You see, chaps,” said the PRI man with the bushy mustache. “Here is where we had hits before the last raid. Right here. See?” He was accompanied by a bored corporal whose job it was to keep the eight-by-ten photographs in place on the plywood table. “You see, here are the hits. Here. Here.” The dowel flicked across the image. “Here. And we think here.” He looked at the crowded briefing hut as if he were perfectly willing to admit that the chaps at PRI were fallible as well. Jagello crossed his arms over his chest and Gierek rolled his eyes.

  “You Polish fellows are doing splendidly and I must say Bomber Command is top-notch. Jolly good, I say.”

  “Jolly good,” Gierek muttered. Jagello remained unmoving.

  “You can see from the hit records,” PRI slapped the wall to emphasize the strikes. “Our Tall Boys hit damned close to those bloody pens.”

  “Jolly good,” Gierek repeated.

  “But our latest photos show that the pens are still fully functional. Indeed, they seem to have remained unscathed. I’m afraid that we haven’t quite got the hang of it yet. We’re still just a dash away from the target.”

  One of the Polish airmen next to Jagello leaned in and asked for a translation of the English word dash. Jagello obliged him.

  “We didn’t hurt it,” he said in Polish.

  The other man nodded in appreciation and wrote the word down in a notebook. He had been a schoolteacher and he liked to improve his English vocabulary.

  “Now you see, chaps,” PRI said. “We must do better next time. I’m sure that you can. You Polish fellows are doing a splendid job.”

  Squadron Commander Gabszewwicz, 205’s commander, stepped forward and said something to PRI. The English officer, not quite finished with his presentation, was taken aback. He tried to recover with a quick: “Well, there you have it.” He tucked the dowel under his arm like a swagger stick and called out: “That’s it, Taylor. Wrap it up, will you?”

  “Leave the photos,” Gabszewwicz said and waited patiently while PRI and his corporal left the Briefing Room. Somebody turned on the overhead lights. The place was a riot of photographs and maps pinned on walls and scattered across wooden tables. There was a desk against one wall next to a window with a small plaque on it that read DUTY OFFICER. The surface of the desk was orderly, a remarkable contrast to the rest of the Briefing Room.

  Gabszewwicz surveyed the crowded room before speaking. His voice was clear, and the men could tell by his tone that the news was not good.

  “There are no more Tall Boys,” he said. “At least not for us. Not for Cherbourg. M
aybe the other ports, they haven’t told me. That means the Lancasters will have to go in with conventional loads. We have to be very sure where we put our markers.”

  The men in the hut stirred a bit. They might as well be dropping rocks on those bunkers for all the damage that conventional bombs did against the 14-foot-thick roofs.

  “I know that you want to know what we’re doing and how much damage that we’re causing the enemy,” Gabszewwicz said. “Especially now.” It was the invasion. That was all anyone ever talked about. Everything was preparation for invading France. “Those pens are tough. We haven’t quite done the trick yet.”

  “You mean the British haven’t, don’t you, Papa?” Lintz said. He was new to the squadron and arrogant, and he tried to bully his way into the confidence of the older men.

  Gabszewwicz’s eyes never left the photographs on the table, but Gierek knew that Lintz had made a mistake. The squadron commander never talked about American, British, or Polish aircraft and aircrews—he always said, “Our men.” It was an unspoken understanding among the men of the City of Krakow Squadron. Every airman was a brother, and every brother was involved in a deadly pursuit. Besides, Gierek knew, Lintz hadn’t earned the right to call Gabszewwicz “Papa.”

  Gabszewwicz waited long enough before speaking to show Lintz that he was displeased, and then he began the briefing again. “The target area is the Normandie Quay.” The quay was especially built before the war to dock the liners Normandie and Queen Mary. It jutted into the harbor like a small peninsula. “The oil pumping stations have been destroyed,” Gabszewwicz said, “but the pens aren’t damaged.” He looked at the group of men surrounding him. “Some of us go back soon. It can’t be helped.”

  “I hope it’s us,” Gierek said to Jagello. “I don’t like sitting around. It’s a pile of shit.” He liked American slang. It was very descriptive and made perfect sense. English slang was silly and confusing. “Erks.” That made no sense—there was no reason to call the ground crew that serviced his Mosquito “erks.” “Jolly good” was another English phrase that Gierek found irritating—it was laced with patently false optimism. The Americans and their slang—so much better. “Go jump in the lake.” “Take a hike.” “Get lost.” Gierek once wondered if the lake was allegorical or was there a particular lake that the Americans had in mind?

  “Some men from the City of Warsaw squadron may be joining us,” Gabszewwicz said. “Number 316. That’s not certain yet.”

  The men in the room brightened. It was always a special treat to have other Poles flying with them. They’d heard of No. 316. They were based in Northolt and had earned a reputation as a fierce bunch of airmen, wildly driving their Spitfire Vs into Luftwaffe formations, tearing at the enemy fighters like devils. It was a good sign, a good omen to have their countrymen join them on these missions. Especially these missions.

  The Germans were prepared for their raids. The equation was simple; the Poles had to light the target—Germans knew that the Poles had to light the target. The Germans knew that the Poles and British attacked at night and the Americans attacked during the day. It was routine, an immutable schedule. The train arrives at the terminal at such-and-such a time and departs the terminal at such-and-such a time.

  Gabszewwicz continued to brief the men and Gierek listened, but as he listened he thought of the Ariel motorcycle that lay in parts near the hanger that housed his Mosquito. He bought it three months ago from a pilot officer who went up one day and never came back. He’d seen his first motorcycle when he was flying Harvards—AT-6s the Americans called them—and he fell in love with the speed and freedom that the tiny machine promised.

  He’d paid the pilot officer ten pounds for the motorcycle even though it was in a hundred pieces, and he’d refused the help of the erks to make it whole again. Jagello, upon seeing the mass of grimy parts stacked haphazardly against the corrugated steel wall, raised one eyebrow and walked off.

  But the motorcycle was Gierek’s and he was determined to put it back together. It was the challenge to create something for himself—a quest for personal satisfaction derived not from killing or destroying, but from making whole something that was not.

  “Gierek,” Gabszewwicz said. “It’s you and Jagello in the lead again. There are reports of German night fighters operating out of Cherbourg. Don’t let them come up on you. Lintz and Helix as well. Take off is at nineteen hundred. Assembly is nine-thirty hours off Brighton. Pick up your charts with the assembly point, course, and position.” The men made notes on the small pads they carried in the pockets of their flying togs, copying information off the large chalkboard that had been rolled in behind Gabszewwicz.

  “Any questions?” the squadron commander asked. He surveyed the group, waiting. Gabszewwicz was very thorough, a calm, competent commander who seldom smiled or showed any emotion. Some said this was because of what had happened to the family he had left behind in Poland. No one was quite sure what the story was, but all of the men had left someone behind, and the memories of those whom they had abandoned to the Germans haunted them.

  “Gierek?” Gabszewwicz said, catching the pilot’s attention. “You’re senior man.”

  The implication was clear: lead. Lintz and Helig were new to the squadron and had been on just three missions before. Never at night, and never over Cherbourg. Lead.

  As the meeting broke up, Gierek motioned to Lintz and Helig. The two pilots and their navigators joined him.

  “Come to my quarters in an hour,” Gierek said. “I want to go over the mission.”

  “Gabszewwicz told us everything that we should know,” Lintz said. “I haven’t eaten in hours. I’m famished.”

  “You can go and kill yourself out of stupidity if you wish,” Gierek said. He was surprised at just how calmly he spoke. Lintz’s words had enraged him and normally he would have exploded at the young pilot’s arrogance. But he realized as he spoke that he had far more control over his emotions than he expected. “I won’t have you endangering the bombers, Helig, or me. You’ll come to my quarters in an hour or I’ll go to Gabszewwicz and request that you be transferred. He will do that because he doesn’t want fools in his squadron.”

  Lintz looked as if he had been slapped, but the anger quickly drained away. He nodded and he and the others left.

  Gierek pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, thought better of it, and put them away. “Why did Papa do that to me? Why did he make me the boss?” he asked Jagello. Gabszewwicz was Papa to the veteran pilots; they respected him immensely.

  “He knows that you are lucky,” Jagello said, handing Gierek a lit cigarette. The pilot took it gratefully before he realized what his navigator had said.

  “Lucky?”

  “Before every mission the Black Prince lays in front of our plane. And we’ve always come back. Or …”

  Gierek eyed his suspiciously. “Or what?”

  “Papa’s a sadist,” Jagello said, walking off.

  Edland waited until the officers settled themselves in the large classroom at St. Paul’s School. He had briefed high-ranking officers before—general, admirals, air marshals—even the prime minister, although he was never certain if Churchill was awake during his presentation. This was something different; he was about to explain something that made little sense to him.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Edland said. He noted McNamar in the front row. It was the admiral’s idea for him to brief the officers after Edland went to him and said: “I’ve uncovered something interesting.” McNamar had listened patiently as Edland explained what he had found, and finally said: “Well, that makes you an expert on the subject. You’d better let them know.” Them—the few men who controlled the destiny of nations and the lives of millions.

  “Expert?” Edland had replied, surprised at McNamar’s proposal. “Sir, what I told you is what little I know. There’s a lot more that I don’t know.”

  “That’s the definition of an expert, isn’t it?” McNamar said, unmoved. “Someone w
ho knows just a little more than the next guy?”

  Edland stood at the podium on the raised platform, wishing that he had a few slides at least, or something to help him illustrate what he was about to reveal.

  “The Germans have apparently developed a new type of E-boat. A hydrofoil craft that is capable of extreme speeds.”

  “Extreme?” a British vice-admiral asked.

  “Upwards of sixty knots to eighty knots. Perhaps much faster than that,” Edland confirmed. “We have determined that the unofficial designation for these E-boats is Sea Eagles, and they are operating out of Cherbourg, although it is equally possible that there are others based at Le Havre and Boulogne.”

  “How did you come by this intelligence, young man?”

  Edland found the source of the question in the darkness. It was Churchill.

  “From an enemy seaman, sir,” Edland said, wishing that the prime minister had stayed at Downing Street. Churchill had a habit of biting into a subject and of not letting go until the thing bled to death, or someone was able to convince him to move on. “And from an encounter between the E-boats and a Channel convoy.”

  “Sea Eagles, you say?” Churchill said.

  Edland saw McNamar wince out of the corner of his eye. Dramatic phrases and extreme rhetoric often led Churchill on flights of fancy. Sometimes to disastrous results. The Allies were virtually bogged down in the ‘soft underbelly of Europe,’ facing stiff German resistance in the mountains of Italy.

  “Yes, sir. We don’t know their true designation but there is at least one flotilla. Allow me to give you some background,” Edland said quickly, before Churchill was off again. “The Germans began experimenting with hydrofoils in the 1930s. By the late thirties there were at least six boats, small vessels of no more than five tons, that were built at the Sachsenberg Yards. Top speed, no more than forty knots. Sometime between 1940 and the present, development of these craft was accelerated, although we don’t know the particulars. We suspect, or at least the gentleman that I cabled for information, Dr. C. T. McGill of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, suggests that conventional E-boats were somehow fitted out as hydrofoils.”