He stood and looked down at her and he felt his own smile growing. “Just my luck to fall for a girl who’s a wise guy.” He realized just how much a part of his world she was. He saw the same feeling in Rebecca’s eyes.
“You may not have noticed, Jordan Cole, but I am most assuredly not a ‘guy.’ ”
He took her hand in his and kissed the back of it tenderly. Then he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Lady, I noticed that about you the first time we met.”
When he left, her smile was still in his memory, and the thought of her soft skin rode with him down the gravel drive and out onto the country road. While he drove back to the base he let his mind wander over when they had met in the hospital, the few days they had had together while she struggled with the thought that her husband might still be alive and returning from North Africa. Cole had wanted Rebecca to leave him but she would not and then when Gregory came home, terribly burned and missing a leg, Cole realized that Rebecca would never leave Gregory. Even after it became apparent that her husband was a bastard.
The rain began to pound on the windshield of the jeep and a stiff wind drummed at the canvas top as Cole drove on. He had to slow down because it became difficult to see, and several times gusts of wind threatened to push the jeep off the road. Gradually all thought of Rebecca faded and he struggled to control the jeep on the slick road, trying to peer between ineffectual sweeps of the wipers.
His mind went back to Rebecca and her possessions, arrayed on a small table next to her. He recognized the intimacy of those things, and for a moment felt that he was an intruder and should not have seen them. He knew that he was being silly, that what he saw was everyday evidence of a person’s life. But they were private things as well. They were a part of her and each commented on some fragile, simple element in her life. Her hand mirror with a mother-of-pearl back was turned glass side down with a tiny pillbox next to it. There were two other books besides the one that she had been reading, each with a tasseled bookmark that reminded her that she should return to what lay within the pages. Near the mirror of course was a brush and comb, and Cole imagined her carefully running the comb through her thick hair as she studied the movement in the mirror. She was as delicate as the personal items arrayed on the table, and he thought of her carefully placing each in its proper location so that order was maintained in Rebecca’s world. Jordan craved to understand Rebecca; he wanted to be a part of the world that he had just glimpsed. He never wanted anything as much in his life.
He was tired and longed for a good, strong cup of coffee and a cigarette. He couldn’t stomach navy coffee, weak with lots of milk and sugar. He liked black coffee, strong.
Cole pulled in to the main gate at Portsmouth, stopped, and pulled out his ID. He waited until a bundled figure holding a flashlight got within arm’s length before he opened the door. The wind nearly ripped it from his grasp and rain flooded the interior of the jeep.
“Jesus Christ,” Cole shouted above the howl of the wind. “Hurry up, will you?”
Raindrops flashed through the beam of yellow light while the SP guard tried to read Cole’s ID.
“You made it back just in time, sir,” the guard said, trying to turn his back to the wind.
“What? What do you mean?”
“They’re closing the base in thirty minutes. Looks like it’s the real McCoy this time.”
Chapter 23
Eighteen kilometers from Cherbourg, on the Caen Road
The storm increased in intensity, the wind beating at Reubold’s Volkswagen as he skidded to a stop in the driving rain. The little vehicle had almost been knocked off the road a dozen times, and the only reason that Reubold had been able to make good time from Paris was because Allied planes were grounded by the weather. He thought of the situation as a minor blessing.
He thought also of his visit to Rommel’s headquarters and Walters’s hasty retreat. At first he was confused because he had believed that the kommodore was working with Rommel’s approval—even if it was an approval that was reluctantly given. Dresser’s appearance and Walters’s departure compounded the confusion, but his long drive back to Cherbourg gave Reubold a chance to sort out what had happened.
He came to the conclusion that it was politics. General officers were reluctant to give up control of power, and interservice cooperation existed only as far as it benefited members of either service. Dresser would respond to Rommel’s needs because Rommel had been handpicked by Hitler to create the Atlantic Wall. Or at least, pile more bricks on top of those that already lined the beaches.
And the kommodore. The kommodore perhaps saw a chance to advance his position by offering up something new to Rommel; another weapon in the vast array of weapons that the feldmarschall counted on to stop the Allies. The only problem was that Rommel wasn’t interested, and that was understandable. Six tiny boats. How could they change the war? What difference would they make against the invincible armada that had been assembled in the English ports?
A great deal, Reubold decided in a flash of excitement. Walters had given him the key: confusion to the enemy. The invasion had to come at dawn, the tides demanded it, the darkness required it; and if the German defenses were most vulnerable at dawn, then the approaching vessels were as well. I will hide in the darkness, Reubold decided. All six of his boats had Naxos radar receivers and they could locate the fleet by the Allies’ own radar activity. Better than the crude Biscay Cross, Reubold knew.
A single word struck him—suicide. It would be suicide to attack the greatest armada in the world with six S-boats, even with his boats. Not with luck. Not with skill, he decided. Move fast, come at them from different directions, wait until the last minute—the very last minute, to fire. Then we slash an opening in the escorts, and the Guernsey S-boats go in with torpedoes. Confusion to the enemy.
Reubold pulled over as a convoy of trucks lumbered by, throwing a heavy coating of soupy mud over his windshield. He found himself marking time with the windshield wipers by tapping the steering wheel with his finger.
But Dresser wants us stripped. And Walters has faded away. We have no savior. Where is my champion? Reubold asked himself. Goering. “Yes, of course,” he said, the sound of his voice an odd addition to the darkened vehicle. “Goering is my champion. Goering is my guardian angel. My god.” He thought of Walters and the kommodore’s easy exit from a confrontation with Rommel to Berlin. You have no champion, Reubold thought and for an instant he realized that he missed Waldvogel. He laughed at the idea that the strange little man who puzzled him so had now become a valued friend. He wondered about the complexities of life. The last truck passed. Reubold checked his rearview mirror and pulled out onto the road.
It was near midnight when he drove across the wooden bridge and out onto the quay where the S-boat pen was located. The storm had increased its fury, thick lightning bolts splitting the sky. Reubold counted the time between the claps of thunder and the flashes of lightning and realized the full storm was less than five kilometers away.
As he threw open the car door and made a run for the pen blast door he heard another clap of thunder, sharper and closer than the others. He was relieved to see that the heavy steel door was open, a rare occurrence at night when the enemy came calling. He heard shouts and cries for help as he threw off his raincoat, then he realized that all the lights were turned on.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Reubold shouted as he swung down the expanded metal staircase and landed heavily on the pen floor. Sailors were racing to their boats as he grabbed an oberbootsmannmaat by the collar. “What the devil are you doing? Why are the lights on?”
“We’re trying to get the boats out, sir.” He turned and pointed. “Look.”
Reubold pushed the man to one side and watched as a dozen men played a work lamp on the concrete ceiling of the pen. The crack that had opened up the night that Waldvogel had been injured was much bigger. A steady cloud of concrete dust poured from the fissure, but what was worse, chu
nks of concrete broke loose and landed with an echoing splash in the water. The ceiling was caving in. Beneath it was a damaged S-boat.
Suddenly Peters was at his side. “Mueller. That silly fool was trying to get his boat out.”
“When did it happen?”
“Now. Just minutes ago.”
The thunder that Reubold had heard. It wasn’t thunder after all, it was the ceiling collapsing. He brushed by Peters and quickly made his way along the walkway that skirted the pen channel. His boat and Peters’s had been the first in and were closest to the channel head. He had a better view of Mueller’s boat. Its bow was wedged against one side of the walkway and its stern against the other. The skullcap was covered with hunks of concrete, some as large as a man’s head. Mueller’s crew was trying to clear the bridge to get to the men who had been injured. One of them, judging from the location of the debris that covered the bridge, had to be Mueller.
“He was going out,” Peters spoke rapidly, anxious to fix the blame, “against orders. Admiral Dresser specifically ordered us to remain in the pens until your arrival.”
Dresser didn’t waste any time, Reubold thought.
“I told Mueller, ‘You’re violating orders. You just wait until the fregattenkapitan returns.’ He just laughed at me.”
Reubold turned to Peters. “Shut up,” he said calmly and climbed aboard the S-boat. The crew had sorted out some of the wreckage, enough to get to Mueller. They worked quickly, virtually ignoring Reubold. He saw Mueller, sprawled on the deck, a large slab of concrete covering his legs. Blood seeped from the corners of his mouth as he offered Reubold a weak smile.
“Richard, come to visit me?”
“You stupid bastard,” Reubold said, trying not to look at the sickly pool of blood gleaming in the light. “Don’t you ever listen to orders?”
“Don’t you?” His voice was a tortured whisper and his eyes were losing focus.
“We’ll get you out. I promise.”
“Well then, get out of the way. Let the men work.” He seemed to pull strength from within, but it soon faded. “Dresser beached us, didn’t he? Peters was so happy he almost danced a jig. Is that it for us then?” Mueller said. He coughed softly and red bubbles appeared between his lips.
“No.”
“Don’t let them take this away from us, Richard. Your little schoolmaster gave us quite a boat.”
There was a loud crack overhead and Reubold instinctively sheltered Mueller’s body with his own. He glanced at the ceiling over his shoulder and saw a piece of concrete fall away, landing harmlessly in the dark water near the boat’s hull. He pushed himself up and brushed the concrete dust and tiny bits of debris off Mueller’s forehead. There was no movement from the prostrate man. His eyes looked beyond Reubold. The fregattenkapitan stared at the dead man. The sound of men rapidly clearing the rubble from the deck brought him around. “Clear the boat,” he ordered. “Now.”
“Sir,” one of the men said in surprise. “We haven’t …”
“Off,” Reubold said. “Now. You can’t help Mueller.” He saw Peters pressed against the wall, well clear of the danger. “Go get Waymann.”
“Waymann?” Peters was shocked. By rights Reubold should have given him an assignment—he was the senior kapitan. “Why Waymann?”
“Do you want to take this boat out?” Reubold could almost see Peters turn pale at the question.
“No. I mean, I’ll get Waymann.”
Reubold stood, took off his coat, and covered Mueller. He realized that Mueller’s crew hadn’t moved. “Get off the goddamned boat,” he shouted. “Do you want to end up like Mueller? And tell everyone to stay back until I tell them to approach.”
The men were filing toward the channel head, led by Peters, when Waymann ran up.
“Yes, sir?”
Reubold felt his hands shake and realized that he had almost forgotten how long it was since he had an injection. Maybe when this was done. He looked at the silent form on the deck. Maybe he wouldn’t need the blessed needle anymore.
“Sir?” Waymann waited for orders.
Reubold’s eyes fell on the young officer. Here was a decent man—a good man. He had once been Waymann. Stop it, he told himself. You sold your soul to the devil long ago. “We’re going to take Mueller’s boat out, you and I. I want to tie off to Peter’s boat and my boat so that we take them out with us. We’ll be the only boat under power. I think the vibrations from the engines caused the cave-in.” His eyes swept the ceiling. “Or maybe the damn thing just fell down. This is what we’ll do; I’ll get us off of the walkway and turned so that we can back out. I don’t think anything big enough for us to foul us fell into the channel.” There was no way to tell. There could be some debris in the dark water to catch the foils, something to trap Mueller’s boat and hold it beneath the unstable concrete ceiling. “The minute I’m clear, I’ll straighten her up. Make sure that the crew takes up the slack on the lines so we don’t string out because I don’t want to spend any more time than I have to in here. Nobody is to be on the boats that doesn’t have to be.”
“Yes, sir,” Waymann said.
“Go,” Reubold said. “Wait,” he called. “Make sure Peters is on the bridge of his boat.”
Nothing in Waymann’s look told Reubold that he understood the real message: No time to be ill now, Peters. Now you will be the kapitan.
Reubold inspected the side of the S-boat. The hull had been impaled at the bow by the walkway a distance of nearly three meters. He went aft. It was just as bad there except a portion of the hull was crushed. He thought it unlikely that the rudders and screws were damaged, and he hoped that the foils were unharmed, but he wouldn’t know until he started the engines. He thought that Mueller was taking her out when he was struck by a piece of concrete and as he fell, turned the wheel hard over.
Reubold’s legs began to ache and he cursed the pain. Not now. Can’t you leave me alone? Just for an hour? Just once?
Waymann returned and jumped from the walkway onto the shattered deck and made his way to the skullcap.
“Well?” Reubold said.
“All is prepared, sir,” Waymann said.
“Good.”
“Kapitanleutnant Peters, sir.”
“Yes?” Reubold said, knowing what to expect.
“He was unavailable, sir.”
“Who?”
“Kapitanleutnant Draheim, sir. He said that he would interrupt his music lessons for you.”
“I’m filled with gratitude,” Reubold said. “Secure a line on the bow cleat. Hand it off and go below and stand by the engines. When I call for them, start them immediately. Give them just a moment to build up oil pressure and then I’ll signal for engagement. Then come topside immediately and stand by.” He turned to the harbor but there was very little to see. The rain was being driven from the sky in thick sheets and the wind howled in accompaniment. It was the harbor that troubled him. It was a battlefield of waves. If it were so in the sanctuary of the harbor, Reubold thought, what must it be like in the Channel? Thank God for tiny favors; at least the Allies would be trapped in their own harbors waiting for the storm to subside.
It was a small thing to take them out in reverse. Even for one boat to tow the others was manageable. Manageable under normal circumstances. But this was hardly normal. The ceiling could give way at any moment, crushing his boat or the other two in the ridiculous parade. His boat would have steerage, some power to pass water over the rudders so that he could control its movement; the others would not. And they could not start their engines. Reubold was convinced that Mueller’s engines, rumbling against the hard surface of the pen, created a vibration that weakened the fissure in the ceiling. There was always the chance it would happen again.
He watched Waymann toss the line to a seaman on the walkway. It flew through the air in a long graceful loop until it was captured and run forward. The young oberleutnant disappeared below deck and Reubold turned his attention to the instrument panel. The dials ca
ptured oil pressure, engine temperature, and revolutions per minute for the engines. Another set read the available fuel for the ready tanks. They were the eyes of the powerful engines; they told him everything he needed to know.
“Fregattenkapitan?” He heard voices echoing off the walls near the other craft. “Ready here.”
Reubold cupped his hands around his mouth. “No engines,” he shouted to the waiting boats. “Do you understand? No engines.” The heavy vibration of the boat engines in this confined space might dislodge more concrete. Or bring the whole thing down. They’d have to trust in his skill in boat handling. He glanced at the bundle at his feet that had once been his friend. The best boat handler in Flotilla 11 would never do so again.
Reubold slipped the throat mike on his neck and hooked one earphone over his head, leaving his other ear free. If the ceiling fell he might have a chance if he heard it before it landed on him. “Waymann?”
The earphone crackled. “Engine Room.”
Reubold smiled in appreciation at Waymann’s formality. The young officer was cool and kept any emotion he felt firmly under control. He was destined for great things. “Start the engines.”
“Yes, sir.”
The engines rumbled to life and the noise startled Reubold. He’d heard it a thousand times before, and always the deep roar had done nothing more than assure him that a routine was being followed. Now the noise was louder and more ominous so that he was tempted to tell Waymann to throttle the engines back, but a quick sweep of the instrument panel told him that they were functioning at operational level. It was as if he were experiencing the unadulterated power of the engines for the first time and that, uncontrolled, they were like wild animals that could destroy him.
Behind him the storm increased and he could feel the cold spray washing through the pen opening. He shivered as it covered him, and he saw the boat’s deck glisten in the water. He held up his arm so that the boats ahead could see him: get ready.
He clamped the mike against his throat. “Waymann,” he said, scanning the dials until the needles inched into position. “Engage reverse.” There was only one reverse speed and the process of engaging the gears through the clutch wasn’t as complicated as moving forward. Once in reverse, Reubold simply controlled the speed with the throttle on the instrument panel next to the wheel.
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