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Armada

Page 19

by Steven Wilson


  “I checked those mounts out myself,” Mueller said in a hurt tone.

  “I’m sure that you did, Kapitanleutnant,” Reubold said. “But you scored fewer hits than anyone.” To the officers he repeated: “Secure those guns. We’ve had three tests, and other than Mueller blasting seagulls out of the sky we’ve had more luck than we should expect.”

  “What news did the Kommodore have, sir?” Draheim said.

  “The Allies have invaded France and captured Paris,” Mittendorf said.

  “None,” Reubold said over the laughter. “But I’ll tell you this much: we won’t be plowing the Channel sowing mines. At least not yet.”

  “Rommel,” Mueller muttered. “Everyone kisses the army’s ass. Give us a chance and we’ll show the Allies something.”

  “We’ve been given the chance,” Reubold said. He saw that he had everyone’s attention. “We are going out, close to the English shore because the enemy does not expect us at his front door.” He nodded to Herzog, his clerk, who unfolded a map and laid it across the wide table. “Waymann,” Reubold said, ordering the officer closer. He noticed Peters’s face turning red. He was embarrassed by his executive officer’s presence. Reubold felt sadistic pleasure in the situation. “We’re going out tonight,” he told his officers. “Twenty-hundred hours. North-northwest.” He traced the course with his fingertip. “We’ll pick up boats from Flotilla 15.” Guernsey boats the men knew, soft living and English women. It was play-war on the tiny islands. “Turn north-northwest,” Reubold continued, and see what we can find off Weymouth.” He straightened and waited for the men to digest his news.

  Fritz spoke first, his voice probing and thoughtful. “That puts us off the English coast at oh-two hundred. If we run into resistance …”

  “He means if we get lucky,” Mueller said.

  “No,” Fritz said. “I mean if we run into resistance that could put our return just after sunrise.”

  That observation got everyone’s attention. An S-boat on the open sea in daylight was at the mercy of enemy aircraft. And there were so many of them lately—hundreds of them.

  “Yes,” Reubold said. “It could. That is why I want your boats inspected and your gun mounts secure. We will go in very fast, and shoot very fast, and the Guernsey boats will come in after us. With torpedoes. We are still being tested, gentlemen. We are testing ourselves. Some may say that we have untried weapons in untested boats,” he held up his hand to silence Peters. The errant kapitanleutnant was always ready to inject the superiority of German weapons and fighting men into any conversation. It was worthless propaganda. “Despite what we accomplished against the convoy. That was luck. We aren’t issued luck. We make our own by training and preparation. I’ll personally inspect each boat. If your boat isn’t ready, you don’t go.” He resisted an impulse to look at Peters. If it were up to Peters the fuel tanks would be filled to the top with wax and he could claim sabotage. But Waymann and his crew would work to see that everything was ready. The young officer and the other kapitanleutnants of Flotilla 11 could not face the humiliation of being left behind because their boats weren’t ready.

  If they were lucky, and Reubold smiled inwardly at the notion that luck was important in war, they would stumble on targets of consequence and return to Cherbourg in one piece. If they were lucky, Walters would be satisfied with their performance and tell Reubold more of what he had in mind.

  “The Allies are predictable,” Walters had said after they returned from test-firing the guns and settled into Reubold’s quarters. He refused a glass of calvados from the fregattenkapitan.

  “Not always,” Reubold had said, downing a glass and shivering from the effects of the harsh brandy.

  “No,” Walters had said. “That’s true. But they are predictable in their absolute need to organize everything. Everything is built upon organization. Particularly their invasions.”

  “Invasions require a certain amount of organization,” Reubold had said, pouring himself another glass. “Everything about war does, I suppose.” A strange thought occurred to him. “Are there two wars, Kommodore: one for killing and one for account ledgers? In this column,” his finger ran down an imaginary book, “are the materials of war. And in this column,” his finger moved again, “are the dead.” He chuckled and took a drink. He was tired and hungered for morphine. The brandy dulled the urge, but that was only a temporary solution. His legs began to throb and he wondered if he really were in pain or his brain was tricking him—coaxing him to seek the blissful caress of the drug.

  “I’ve studied them,” Walters had said. “The invasions. The Allies had improved with each. Remarkably. Africa. Italy. Their resources are amazing.”

  Reubold had shrugged. What of it? What did this Silver Stripe want?

  “Africa was large. Italy was larger. France will be the largest invasion of them all. Thousands of ships I am told.”

  “Should I be frightened?” Reubold had said.

  “So many ships. So little room to maneuver. So little time,” Walters had said.

  Reubold had been reaching for the bottle of calvados, but his hand stopped. His eyes narrowed as he sought to find Walters’s point. He had never really liked the Silver Stripe and certainly did not trust him because the man exuded a strong odor of greed. He wanted everything. But Reubold’s interest was roused, regardless of his misgivings.

  “I’ll have a glass if you don’t mind,” Walters had said, pleased by Reubold’s reaction.

  Reubold poured the kommodore a glass of brandy and filled a glass for himself.

  Walters held the glass out in a toast and had said: “Confusion to the enemy.”

  Reubold acknowledged the toast and quickly downed his drink. He filled the glass again, sensing that Walters was watching him.

  “When do you go out?” the kommodore asked.

  “That’s up to the powers who guide us,” Reubold said.

  Silence crept between the two men, separating the questions that each had about the other. Walters offered Reubold a cigarette and the fregattenkapitan took it, willing to give the kommodore a tiny victory by acknowledging his generosity. “This is what the Allies do,” Walters said quickly as if he had made a decision to enter a covenant. He pulled a sheet of paper from Reubold’s cluttered desk, found a pencil, and began to draw a series of rectangles. He remembered his sand diagrams and Rommel’s rejection. But Rommel wasn’t here. “Despite their organization and their ingenuity, this never changes.”

  Reubold, the half-empty bottle of calvados in one hand and a nearly full glass in the other, studied the paper. Walters gestured to the drawings. “Troop transports, escorts, bombardment vessels, minesweepers.”

  “Very pretty,” Reubold said, momentarily perplexed about which hand held the bottle and which hand held the glass. “What does it mean?”

  “Let us call it the elephant,” Walters said, certain that Reubold was not as drunk as he pretended. “Thick hide all around, vitals within.”

  Reubold looked at him. Although he did not show it, he wanted Walters to continue with his explanation.

  “Cut through the hide,” Walters said. “Get to the vitals.”

  “The hide is the problem, isn’t it?”

  “If you cut away at one spot,” Walters said. “But why be clumsy about it? Hacking at the animal? Why not precise cuts? A surgeon’s skill. A scalpel instead of an axe.”

  Reubold’s eyes narrowed in interest.

  “Cut through the hide,” Walters said again, watching as Reubold began to understand. “Get to the vitals.”

  Hardy watched as the LSTs fell in behind Firedancer and shook his head. Sturdy they might be and remarkable vessels for all they were capable of, but they were ugly—nothing more than long, steel boxes with high sides and flat bottoms. They were constructed in America’s inland ports, Land told Hardy, someplace along the Mississippi River with exotic names like Moline, St. Louis, and someplace he thought was called Paducah.

  “Paducah,” Hardy sno
rted, turning to Land. “Sounds like something out of the funny papers. Paducah? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir,” Land said as the seven LSTs formed up in two columns with the odd craft taking station just astern and to the center of the set. Aft of her was HMS Huston, another Coastal Force refugee. The sun had finally disappeared, leaving only clusters of bright stars and an occasional drifting cloud. Hardy had ordered double-watches and put his best men on radar and W/T. Drill or not, there was always the danger that one of those behemoths behind would crawl up Firedancer’s ass because someone wasn’t paying attention, and her damage would be just as real and her crew just as dead as if they’d been set upon by E-boats.

  A yeoman brought Hardy and Land tea and the two men drank it in silence, because this was the English Channel, and even though they were just miles off the English Coast, there was always the danger of E-boats. “Vigilance,” Hardy had insisted to Land. “One must always be vigilant.”

  The leading Lancaster disintegrated with a tremendous explosion, lighting up most of the formation. As the plane’s wings tore back off her body, the whole aircraft slid into a three-plane section just below and behind it. Gierek watched in horror as the pilots of the three Lancasters fought to swing their big aircraft out of the way of their dying brother. One bomber was lucky enough; its pilot had elected to nose down and speed up. It was safe. The other two pilots had tried to roll their bombers out of the way of the disintegrating Lancaster and brushed wingtips. Gierek watched as pieces of airframe flew into the sky, and then he saw the flaming wreckage crash into the struggling bombers. There was a large explosion. The light was so bright that Gierek covered his eyes and quickly whispered a prayer.

  Tracers laced the blackness as flak, bright, flaming flowers, peppered the sky around them. The Mosquito shook violently, fighting to get out of this killing field, Gierek kicking the rudders and twisting the wheel to dodge the increasing barrage.

  “Two more,” Jagello said, and Gierek saw the fiery remains of two Lancasters as they plummeted toward the darkness below.

  It was a 267-plane raid, counting Lancasters and Mosquitoes but not counting the fighter protection given by the Mustangs and Spitfires. Gierek and Jagello had come to Cherbourg countless times with smaller raids, and once with a raid that was nearly four hundred aircraft, and things had been tough before; “dicey,” one British airman had commented when they finally returned. But this was different.

  It had all been some perverse game to this point—not that the other raids hadn’t been dangerous, because aircraft had been shot down and men had died. No, this was different. Now it seemed that the Germans, having stored up all of their frustration and anger at having been bombed constantly, had unleashed their rage in a single instant in tonight’s raid.

  “Where’s Lintz?” Gierek shouted and then cursed himself. Veterans never shouted into the intercom built into the oxygen mask that covered their nose and mouths.

  “Down,” Jagello said. The statement rang with finality. Lintz’s aircraft had disappeared with no preamble, no drama; it was there and then gone. It was not a thought that stayed with Gierek long; these were the circumstances of flying over Cherbourg—one learned to accept the losses of planes and men. One learns, after many close friends do not return, to keep everyone at arm’s length.

  Jagello announced: “Targets on radar.” He pressed his forehead into the foam rubber cushion surrounding the screen. “Circling about ten miles to the left. Night fighters.”

  “Vultures,” Gierek said, the taste of the word like bile in his mouth. The German night fighters would circle safely out of range of the fighters and their own flak, waiting until the bombers turned and headed home. Then they would move in and pick off the cripples. Vultures. The Mosquito shook violently as a flak shell exploded just off the left wingtip. Gierek held his breath, his eyes scanning the pale luminescence of the instrument dials on the panel. They returned his gaze, their needles steady and unfazed by the nearby explosion.

  “Where are they?” Gierek said, his arms fighting to grip the shuddering wheel as the plane forced itself through the turbulence.

  “Still ten miles out,” Jagello said.

  Gierek saw a streak far in the distance, a Lancaster on fire, falling to earth. Another flight, going well beyond Cherbourg to railroad yards, or troop concentrations, bridges—going farther inland, farther from home, deeper into enemy territory. He had often wondered what he would do if the Mosquito caught fire. “Get out” was the obvious answer, but the manner of abandoning the aircraft wasn’t quite so obvious. It was a tight fit in the cockpit and their parachutes were bulky, and suppose the fire got to you first? Do you launch yourself into the blackness, your very own Roman candle, streaming flames and debris as you plummet toward the ground?

  Four simultaneous blasts threw the Mosquito straight up and two Lancasters immediately in front of them disappeared in a cloud of flame.

  “God damn it!” Gierek shouted in fear. He fought to bring his aircraft back to its proper altitude and position.

  “I’m glad your dog is on our side,” Jagello said.

  “What?” Gierek said, trying to calm himself as he quickly studied the gauges.

  “Your dog,” Jagello said. “The dog that brings you luck.”

  “You call this luck?” Gierek said. A string of flak bursts filled the sky to their right.

  “We aren’t dead,” Jagello said calmly. He adjusted the radar strobe. Gierek watched as his hand twisted the knob, searching. “I don’t see Helig.”

  “We’re turning,” Gierek said as he saw the red taillights and engine exhausts of the bombers ahead begin to waver and move in unison.

  “Right on time,” Jagello said. “Mr. Nazi remains at ten miles.”

  “He’s not my dog,” Gierek said. “I hate that dog. He’s always in the way. He’s filthy.” He glanced to his left. “God in heaven,” he said. He felt Jagello slap his thigh and cradle the quick release button in his hand. The navigator/radar operator leaned over his shoulder and looked into the night. He had never done that before. Something must have caught his eye. Gierek looked out the canopy.

  Cherbourg was on fire. The areas along the dock and surrounding harbor burned furiously, all light and movement but no noise. It was a pantomime of destruction. Explosions erupted through the constant flames as ammunition or fuel dumps succumbed to the fires. No one could survive that; no human being could live through that much destruction. For a moment, Gierek almost felt sorry for the Germans below but he let the thought pass—kill Germans, go home. That was what it was all about. Kill more Germans, get home faster.

  “Give thanks to your dog, Gierek,” Jagello said. “We’re not dead yet.”

  Chapter 19

  Kriegsmarine Hospital No. 4, Cherbourg, France

  Reubold walked quickly through the corridors, keeping his eyes straight ahead, clear of the view into the vast wards with endless beds that held wounded sailors. He accepted his own injuries as a part of life, his life, and had learned to deal with them as well as he could. Even if to deal with the pain of those injuries was to mask it with drugs.

  He could not stand to see the suffering that others endured. It was not compassion, it was more primordial than that—it was seeing the helplessness that replaced the vitality of men. It was a hunter, terribly wounded by a beast, surrounded by his companions all thinking the same thing; it was his fault. They shared the secret joy in having, by their own skills and agility, escaped the animal’s attack. They were better than the stricken hunter. But deeper than that, far within Reubold’s mind, was the single thought: That could be my fate, I could be helpless. That testimony was never allowed to overcome the sense of triumph tinged with arrogance in the single thought: I have escaped harm, he has not; I am better than he. But it was there.

  Waldvogel shared a room with a mummified form in an adjoining bed. The edges of the mummy’s bandages around his head and neck were stained rust from seeping wounds. Tubes ran into the man be
aring clear liquids. Tubes ran out of the man bearing decay. The aroma of corruption hung everywhere.

  “Is this he?” a man in a white coat said to Waldvogel in breathless expectation.

  Reubold saw Waldvogel propped up in bed. The man, who must have been a surgeon, was standing next to him.

  “This is Fregattenkapitan Reubold, Kapitanleutnant Treinies,” Waldvogel said.

  Treinies advanced around the bed, preceded by a broad grin and submissive posture. “Fregattenkapitan,” he said extending his hand. “How fortunate I am to meet you. The korvettenkapitan has told me so much about you and of course your exploits are well known throughout the service.”

  Waldvogel winced at the kapitanleutnant’s cloying attitude.

  “Are they?” Reubold said, taking the handshake with reluctance. He loathed such men. They hovered around the moment that he had become famous, and disappeared just as quickly when fame abandoned him.

  “Indeed. Indeed, yes. We follow your missions with great interest here. Of course, our own service to the Fatherland is not without merit.”

  “Of course,” Reubold said, trying to withdraw his hand. It was no use. It was trapped in a vise.

  Treinies moved within confidential distance. “Did you know that they brought a man in to me that I suspected was a Jew?”

  “How would I know that?” Reubold said.

  “Of course. Of course you would not know. But I knew. I’ve done a study of such matters. The large nose, the slope of the forehead.”

  “That sounds like Mueller,” Reubold said.

  “Mueller? Mueller.” Treinies considered the name. “He’s not a Jew, is he?”

  “No,” Reubold said. “A lecher. I’ve come to see the korvettenkapitan.”

  “Of course,” Treinies said, wrapping one tiny hand over the other, firmly trapping Reubold for the last word. “I must be off. A pleasure, sir. Frau Treinies will be most excited to hear that we’ve met.”

  Reubold watched the surgeon leave. “The only thing guaranteed to excite Frau Treinies is her husband’s absence,” he said. His eyes caught the motionless form pinned to the bed by a web of tubes. He pulled a white curtain along the overhead track, covering the scene before he sat down on a chair next to Waldvogel’s bed. “How are they treating you?” he asked.

 

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