Armada

by Steven Wilson

  “Well,” Waldvogel said. “Quite well.”

  Reubold studied the bandage wrapped around the korvettenkapitan’s head. “Does it hurt much?”

  “At times more than others. I dare not move about too much. They said my skull is cracked. I suffered a concussion.”

  “Yes,” Reubold said. “Falling concrete will do that.”

  “It was good of you to come,” Waldvogel said. “I know how very busy you are. I can sometimes,” he turned carefully to the window over his right shoulder, “see the harbor from here.”

  “Be careful that you don’t see too much of the air raids.”

  “They evacuate us,” Waldvogel said. His voice became hopeful. “How are the boats?”

  “We’re going out tonight. Don’t tell the enemy.”

  “Then the trials were successful.”

  “The trials were satisfactory against a stationary target. I’m sure the harbormaster of Cherbourg is pleased that we removed the obstruction.”

  “You sound unconvinced, Fregattenkapitan,” Waldvogel said.

  “Cautious, Waldvogel. A healthy dose of caution makes for a longer life. If a somewhat duller one.” He pulled a cigarette from a silver case and offered one to Waldvogel. The korvettenkapitan declined. “We did better than I expected. Much better. The doorknocker tracers were a very simple and effective means of sighting on the target. It will take additional training to refine the operation, but we did well. The men did well. Your idea, Korvettenkapitan Waldvogel, was genius.” Reubold smiled at Waldvogel’s shock. “Don’t worry. I won’t give you a medal or kiss you on both cheeks. We have,” he started to speak but was uncertain of what to say. A voice told him to be cautious and in an instant he realized that he could not make extravagant claims. There were far too many variables for him to say categorically it will be a success or a failure. So he was left with an unsatisfying “a chance of success.” He watched the korvettenkapitan. The man truly was humble, an innocent in the wilderness. Waldvogel’s only satisfaction came from solving problems; his reward was achievement, yet in some ways his vision was limited. Reubold thought briefly of Treinies and his pandering; the man saw only what benefited him. Then he thought of himself; he wasn’t sure of what he saw anymore.

  “It was very good of you to come,” Waldvogel said when he found his voice.

  “Yes,” Reubold said, knowing that he had done nothing that could be attributed to goodness in some time. A thought struck Reubold and before he could stop it, the words were out. “Waldvogel, you trouble me.”

  “I? But what have I done?”

  “Or rather, I trouble myself. You merely represent some qualities that annoy me.” He laughed at his own reluctance to admit the truth. “How I envy you,” he said. “I race about trying to outrun regrets, hoping to quell the pain that exists in my soul.” He saw what Waldvogel was thinking reflected in the korvettenkapitan’s eyes. “No. The morphine is another matter. Let it be. I belong to it and it to me. But you … you have vision, while I am content to look for the familiar. I suppose that I find some safety in the familiar. Some years ago, I would have found the thought too frightening to consider. I suppose it has come upon me without notice. There was a time in my life when I took what I won, rather than what I was given.” He found it difficult to say the words: “Rather than take the castoffs. What shall we call it? I now embrace mediocrity. Yes?”

  “Fregattenkapitan,” Waldvogel began.

  “Be quiet, Waldvogel,” Reubold said, “and hear my confession. I don’t expect absolution. In fact I’d throw it back in your face. What I say, I say for selfish motives. Which is how I’ve lived my life. Well, perhaps not quite. I say it also because you should know what you have accomplished. This from your irritating inability to leave well enough alone.” He crushed the cigarette out in a tin ashtray on a table next to Waldvogel’s bed and realized that it was a relief to talk to the korvettenkapitan; even if in the long run it really meant nothing. “I say these things to you for my benefit. There should be equity in life. Balance. Am I speaking of justice? You do well; you are rewarded. You do evil; you die. But such simplicity is too much to expect, I suppose. We go out in a few hours, Korvettenkapitan, to find vessels that shoot back. That will be the real test of your guns’ effectiveness. I have some hope that we will again be amazed. But then, hope has taken her leave of me some time ago.” He stood and smiled at Waldvogel. “So I came to say thank you, and to get well. Personally I would rather be under fire than to face that simpering fool Treinies. Get well soon, Waldvogel. The war isn’t over yet and I think that the fatherland will need your remarkable mind to keep us off the Devil’s Shovel.”

  Waldvogel said nothing as Reubold left. The soft gurgling of the tubes exchanging fluids in the patient next to his bed and the muffled voices in the corridor were all the korvettenkapitan heard. The fregattenkapitan’s visit left him unsettled. Reubold was everything he was not—articulate, brave, strong—a leader that other men looked up to, and yet Reubold came to honor him, to thank him. Throughout his entire life, he had always been invisible, inconsequential, and so he threw himself into work until the world existed only of problems and solutions—twin havens.

  He twisted slightly to look out the window, until the pain in his neck and head forbade any further movement. He could see the harbor and vague shapes of the S-boat pens under the pale gaze of a quarter moon. Reubold would lead them out, Waldvogel knew, out into the darkness and into danger because Reubold was a fighter. But what the fregattenkapitan had come to say to Waldvogel tonight was that they were equal; and perhaps Waldvogel was the better of the two. True, Reubold said it for his own benefit, but he admitted as much and that said something for the character of the man. But he had come to the hospital and he had said how he felt and he had done these things out of sincerity.

  Waldvogel eased himself back against the pillows, his mind drifting from Reubold’s visit to the boats. He thought of the guns and the foils, and realized with a start that he had completely abandoned all memory of Reubold’s visit. It was all too fleeting, he thought. Perhaps the words remain but they fade with the memories until all that exists is a shadow of the event. I have that, Waldvogel conceded.

  Then he noticed the bottle of calvados sitting on the nightstand.

  The wind was coming out of the northeast at Force 2 and the barometer hovered around 30.10. The waves were cycloidal—the abrupt, choppy waves that indicated that Firedancer was in relatively shallow water. Of course Hardy knew this because of the charts and the reports from radar and W/T, but he never discounted what the sea told him regardless of machines that said you should be here and these should be the conditions. Four bells had just sounded in the Mid Watch and all that was visible in the darkness were the vague shapes of the LSTs as they maneuvered into position. Hardy had doubled the watch and put Firedancer on Action Stations because he didn’t like being this close to shore. And because the captain of the Huston, a disagreeable man who dismissed Hardy’s concern, sent the terse radio message: “Will stand by to assist in the drill. Do not feel it necessary to go to Action Stations just yet.”

  Hardy had read the message and glanced in irritation at Land, and then ordered his Number One to sound Action Stations. By God, drill or not, it was dark out there and Jerry loves to flash about in the dark and get into all sorts of mischief. Hardy knew as well that there was always danger of collision between the LSTs in the darkness or of one of the big slab-sided ships running over one of the little shoebox-size LCMs that carried thirty or forty men. Firedancer went to Action Stations and Hardy stood on the bridge, sweeping the darkness with his binoculars, listening to the chatter over the loudspeaker of the TBS as the LSTs began to form up for landing practice. Talk Between Ships was a short-range radio network that allowed the ships to communicate without giving away their positions by having their long-distance transmissions picked up.

  A sharp whistle came from the voice tubes at Hardy’s elbow. Hardy cupped his hand around the bras
s-tubes mouth and said: “Bridge. Hardy here.”

  “W/T. Caine, sir. We have targets fifty miles out, red, amidships.”

  “Once more?”

  “Targets bearing two-one-zero, distance fifty miles. Red, amidships, sir.”

  “How many, W/T?”

  “I estimate six or eight, sir. Speed about forty knots.”

  “Don’t lose them,” Hardy said, and then turned to Land. “E-boats, Number One. Have the Yeoman of Signals make to the fleet: “E-boats approaching from the southeast. Range fifty miles.” He didn’t wait for Land’s acknowledgment. “W/T? Hardy here. Make to fleet, straight out. E-boats approaching from the southeast. Range fifty miles.” Hardy wanted to warn the convoy by both radio and Aldis lamp—no use taking a chance that someone wasn’t paying attention. He turned back to Land again, keeping his excitement under control. He’d gone into action enough to understand the importance of remaining as dispassionate as possible about combat. Don’t let your nerves lead you astray, he had cautioned Land several times when it seemed as if Number One had let his emotions control his thinking. Cold, calculating, unimpassioned reason, Hardy had informed his junior officers, was the only true antidote to the insanity of combat.

  “Kindly inform Guns, Number One,” Hardy said, “that we shall go out and engage the enemy.” Firedancer ’s gunnery officer was stationed in the cramped room that held sonar, radar, and Wireless/Telegrapher so that he could coordinate the fire of the 4.5s, 20mm, and 40mm guns, as well as the twin torpedo mounts, of Firedancer. He was a sensitive man named Foxworthy who was very conscious of his rapidly receding hairline.

  An urgent whistle from the tubes caught Hardy’s attention.

  “Bridge. W/T.”

  “Bridge, here,” Hardy said. “What is it?”

  “Several of the targets have broken off from the main body and increased speed.”

  “Increased speed?” Hardy said. “How …”

  “They’re fanning out, sir. Sixty knots, sir. No, sir. More. Seventy knots.”

  “Don’t be daft,” Hardy said, but he knew that the report was true and the admonition came out as a weak hope that the man was wrong. He trusted his radar and sonar operators because they had proved themselves on U-boat duty in the North Atlantic.

  “Sir,” Land said, alarmed. “Huston has just signaled that she is coming up to investigate and that we are to hold our station.”

  “Is he mad?” Hardy exploded. “Yeoman, make to Huston.” The yeoman of signals steadied the Aldis lamp in his hand and waited for the message. “Do not expose column. I shall take the lead. Maintain station.” The shutters of the Aldis lamp clicked rapidly.

  “What is the man trying to do?” Land said.

  “Win medals. Charge to the sound of gunfire. That’s the bloody question isn’t it? If we move out we’ll force the bastards to sweep around us and that will keep them off the LSTs’ bows. If Huston maintains position, they can’t come in astern of the ships.” There was nothing sophisticated about the plan; the LSTs were lightly armed but they could still put up a fight. Keep the ships in column so that they could bring every gun to bear, Firedancer protects the head and Huston protects the tail. All very simple. But now Huston had given away the advantage by moving out of position.

  Reubold’s boats pulled ahead of the Guernsey boats, and as they increased their speed, their ghostlike hulls rose out of the water on wings. Leutnant Dernbauer fed Reubold the distances to the target from the S-boat’s radar. It was an unreliable instrument and Reubold hated to depend on it but at this speed he was forced to. Things simply moved too quickly for a man to pick things out in the darkness.

  “Twenty-five kilometers,” Dernbauer called from the radio room hatch. “Nine targets in column. One appears to be moving ahead.”

  “Destroyers?”

  Dernbauer shrugged. “I think so, Fregattenkapitan. The screen is very distorted.”

  Reubold shook his head is disgust. “Never mind. Signal all boats. I will lead the attack down the column, bow to stern. The Guernsey boats will attack with torpedoes after we have cleared. I will signal a second attack.”

  “Flares, sir,” called a bootsmannmaat, detailed as a lookout.

  Reubold peered over the skullcap and saw the thin, fiery line wobble into the sky and then explode in a greenish-yellow light. Three more followed the first and then streams of red tracers began to search for them. He smiled and whispered, “Amateurs,” before spinning the wheel to take his S-boat to port. He would close in a lazy crescent, until his boat and the following boats of his flotilla came in parallel to the column of enemy vessels. Then the Trinities would have an unobstructed field of fire and he would see how well Waldvogel’s new trick worked against targets that returned fire.

  “What are those bloody fools doing?” Hardy shouted. “Yeoman, make to flotilla—cease all flares. Cease all fire.” He turned to Land, burning in frustration. “They’re painting a bloody pretty picture for Jerry with all of that light.”

  Land leaned over the voice tube in response to a whistle. “Bridge. Land.”

  “W/T, sir. Huston is moving well off to the southwest, sir. It looks as if she is going to engage the E-boats.”

  “My, God, Number One,” Hardy said. “This is a disaster.” More flares sputtered into the night sky before exploding. Steady streams of tracers cut through the darkness behind Firedancer, hopeless efforts to ward off the danger that was approaching. Hardy suddenly felt sick as he realized that panic had seized the flotilla, sweeping away reason. The flares silhouetted the LSTs, and the tracers pinpointed their exact location. All battles were an intense series of distorted events, and the only salvation for those engaged was to ignore confusion, subdue fear, and concentrate on the task at hand—defending yourself against the enemy. But the column collapsed.

  “Bridge? W/T. Many targets parallel at …”

  The first explosion hit Firedancer in the hull just at the boat deck, blowing away the captain’s gig and peppering the 20mm gun tub with shrapnel, killing four men. At the same time B turret fired into the night, the explosion of her 4.5-inch gun nearly blinding the men on the open bridge. Two more shells struck Firedancer, demolishing her searchlight tower aft and the high angle 3-inch gun nearby. Every man on the gun crew was killed. C turret fired at the unseen targets, given range and direction by the gunnery officer trying to follow the pale green blips as they raced across the radar screen. Twenty-millimeter and 40-millimeter guns joined in, their constant barking in rhythm with muzzle flashes and red glowing tracers.

  Hardy called for supply parties to check the damage aft and hung over the port wing, trying to determine what had happened. They had taken fire so rapidly that he had not had time to react. They were large rounds, he knew that, and he prayed that they had hit high on the superstructure and had not pierced the hull. He realized just as quickly that the E-boats had gone, vanishing into the night before his gunners had a chance to exact revenge. Ghosts—fleet ghosts wielding mallets.

  He saw flashes and corresponding explosions in the darkness some distance aft, along the column. The LSTs were being attacked.

  The roar of the S-boat engines coupled with the thunderous discharge of the Trinities made it almost impossible for Reubold to be heard.

  “I said,” he shouted at Leutnant Dernbauer, “tell those bastards to make every shot count. I can see the targets, so they can see the targets.” The Allied vessels were cargo ships of some kind, Reubold knew. Their own flares told him that much. “Aim, God damn it! Tell them to aim.”

  Explosions erupted all along the Allied column: enemy guns firing erratically, Trinity shells crashing into the vessels, eruptions of flame and debris hurtling into the night. Reubold fought to keep his senses about him as the firefight became even wilder. He thought he saw another S-boat cross his bow and was about to radio a warning when the boat disappeared into the darkness. The frantic radio chatter from Flotilla 11 boats and the Guernsey boats floated up from the radio room, the voices c
rackling with excitement.

  “The Guernsey boats are attacking, sir,” Dernbauer shouted over the noise.

  “Tell them to wait until we clear the column,” Reubold ordered. He had the wheel and could tell from the fires consuming the enemy vessels how far he was from the enemy ships. They might as well have lit themselves up with searchlights, Reubold thought as Dernbauer disappeared into he radio room.

  Dernbauer reappeared with a stricken look. “It’s too late. They’re going in.”

  “God damn it,” Reubold said. “God damn it.” It was chaos. S-boats roaring through the night, enemy vessels exploding; the dry rumble of the engines driving S-205 through the water so quickly that Reubold dare not look away. At this speed if the S-boat hit even a small object, it would tear off the foils and probably sink the boat. “All right. All right. One pass. Signal the others. We’ll make one pass and draw off. If there’s anything left after those stupid bastards have had their chance, we go back in.” Dernbauer nodded his understanding as Reubold looked away from the muzzle flashes of the Trinity in the bow. It was wonderful—it was working splendidly. The doorknocker quickly stuttered, throwing green tracers at the deliciously fat targets, and then there was the hollow boom of the recoilless cannon. The gunners, dim figures working in half-light and half-dark, looked like demons tending a hideous machine. Load, aim, fire. The wind off the bow occasionally sent a rancid cloud of blue smoke back over the skullcap, discharge from the gun, burning Reubold’s eyes and fouling his mouth so that he tried to spit the disgusting taste away. He cursed the gunners and the guns, but without enthusiasm. It was working. It was working, and the thought of success thrilled Reubold.

  First Sergeant Humboldt Gibbs, C Company, 3rd Battalion, 403 Regiment, 29th Infantry, made his way along the deck of LST 579, shouting over the mayhem.