Armada

by Steven Wilson

  He felt the boat shudder as the engines slipped into reverse. He slipped his fingers around the throttle controls for the three engines, his palm cupping the control arm knobs. He heard pieces of concrete strike the boat, small pieces at first. There was a loud bang forward as he increased power and swung the wheel gently to pull away from the walkway. It could have been the hull breaking free or a large chunk of concrete.

  Reubold tasted concrete dust and saw a white flash off to one side, followed by a splash. He glanced at the revolutions per minute and realized the hull wasn’t moving. He gripped the knobs and eased them forward. A loud grating sound filled the cavern, followed by shrieks of protest as the steel hull pulled away from the walkway. Reubold felt the boat trembling as it tried to break free of the concrete. The stern should pull away as well when the bow broke free if there was nothing to catch the foils.

  Reubold throttled up and the roar increased until it equaled the noise of the storm. It began to rain dust and chunks of concrete and the S-boat trembled so violently Reubold was certain that it was lodged on debris under the water.

  He felt the boat swing free and waited for the tug beneath him that said they were fouled. But there was nothing; the boat eased backward through the water until Reubold felt a solid jerk. They had played out the line and it was taut, pulling the second S-boat.

  Reubold flipped on the switch for the signal light on the bulkhead just to his left and aimed it at the ceiling. He wished he hadn’t. Solid pieces of debris continued to rain down, striking the water in an almost continuous barrage. Concrete dust was so thick that when the beam from the signal light bounced off it, it created an almost opaque wall. A large piece of the ceiling broke away and struck the water with a flat crack, throwing spray in every direction.

  Reubold pressed the microphone. “Waymann. Get up here.”

  Oberleutnant zur see Waymann was at Reubold’s side in an instant.

  “Keep the light on the ceiling,” Reubold said. “I’ve got to steer the boat.” He would be backing into the bay soon and the storm demanded all of his attention. He wondered what he expected Waymann to do with the light; it wouldn’t stop the ceiling from falling. He decided that at least the others could see their own doom approaching.

  Reubold felt the wind pummel his back and the S-boat buck as the waves clutched at it. Rain came down like tiny needles trying to pierce his clothing and burned his exposed skin. He throttled up, moving quickly out of the protection of the pen, but he was afraid that if he increased power too much he would part the line, leaving the other two S-boats to be crushed.

  The wind snatched his cap away and clawed at his face.

  Waymann turned to him. “Second boat’s clear,” he shouted. The words were nearly lost in the storm.

  Reubold nodded and looked over his shoulder, looking for any vessel that had broken away in the storm and was drifting in the harbor. There was nothing but sea, rain, and gray clouds.

  He eased the throttle up a bit more and could see the crew of the second S-boat waving at him and pointing aft. They want to start their engines, he thought, but he didn’t respond. He would not allow it until the last boat was clear. He knew what he wanted and when he wanted it and he trusted no one else. He had gotten Mueller’s boat out, and Peters, with Draheim at the wheel, and Fritz was the last one.

  “They’re coming out,” Waymann shouted and then he remembered his place. “They’re coming out,” he repeated, calmly.

  “Signal them to start engines, slip the cables, and proceed to Potsdam Pen,” Reubold said.

  The other three boats were safely secured in Potsdam Pen and it would be a tight fit for three more. Reubold had no choice. If they remained in the harbor, without protection, they wouldn’t last a day. Putting all six boats in one pen was hazardous; a hit by one of those giant bombs would wipe out the entire flotilla. Reubold wiped rainwater from his face and thought, fortunes of war.

  He slapped Waymann on the shoulder to get his attention and pulled him close so that the young officer could hear him. “We’ll go in, Fritz leads the way. Bows out. Have them inspect the boats for damage.” Waymann nodded and disappeared through the hatch to the radio room.

  Reubold watched the ghostly forms set off in the rain and fell in behind, keeping enough distance so there was no danger that he would ram one of the boats.

  He began to understand what had troubled him on the way back from Paris, a tiny splinter that had become embedded in his mind. It revealed itself when he was steering the S-boat out of the pen—a very unlikely place to suffer a revelation. He had discovered that he had developed a fault, unseen and unrecognized, but one that had become a part of him.

  Once he had been a daredevil, an adventurer. Long ago he disdained caution and conquered his fear with bravado. The qualities of a young man. After several accidents, and the horrors of combat, and especially the specter of his own death, he had developed a weakness for living. Some might have called it a fondness for living, but Reubold’s was based on fear. Fear of failing, fear of death.

  It was bad in Spain, became much worse in Russia, and became intolerable when Goering bounced him from the Luftwaffe, because coupled with the fear that he felt was the realization that he had come to rely on people for attention—or worse—to prevent him from making meaningful decisions. Or did I use them as an excuse? People of position. Powerful people. This reliance relieved him of the need to decide and even Goering’s hatred of him was reliance in a very real way; there was constancy, a certainty in the reichfuehrer’s loathing.

  Reubold was prepared to rely on Walters when the kommodore came to him with his plans, and then he was prepared to rely on Rommel—the reichsmarschall would certainly make the correct decision. And when Dresser demanded that he do as he was ordered, Reubold was willing to rely on him. Reliance required so little of an individual.

  The drugs as well. Reubold relied on the drugs because they were such a pure form of abandonment. Morphine asked nothing except the pleasure of your company. In exchange, it took away pain, doubt, regrets, and dismay.

  Reubold relied on it.

  Waymann joined him on the bridge, peering into the cloud of rain. They exchanged glances and then suddenly both smiled, the smile that men have when they have faced danger and found to their relief that they are in one piece.

  Reubold stood aside. “Take the wheel.”

  Waymann shifted positions quickly and grasped the wheel.

  “When this weather clears,” Reubold said, “I think we should go out looking for Americans and British. What do you think?”

  “I think it would be a shame not to, sir,” Waymann said.

  Reubold nodded, almost laughing at the young man’s quiet courage. Was he Waymann’s champion? he thought. No, he answered quickly, so startlingly clear that he thought he had spoken it out loud. Waymann was his own champion and that was as it should be. Well then, I shall be mine. As it was in the past, so it will be now.

  Chapter 24

  Portsmouth Naval Base, wayside dock

  Cole touched his breast pocket for the fifth time in an hour, making sure that the letter was there. It was Rebecca’s letter to him, the one that he hated but could never discard, the one that he read but after putting it away remembered with bitterness. That letter.

  Now things were different. He had gone to see her and remembered standing stupidly in the doorway of the atrium wondering what to say or how to simply approach her when she had disarmed him with a smile. He was surprised at how easily forgiveness came to him after three years of hating her. He thought the word was too strong as he struggled to unravel how he felt, but at times it was hate. The emotion was only that strong because there had to be something to balance the loneliness of his love for her.

  But he had seen her and they had spoken, and he remembered her gentleness and the kindness in her voice and he knew, despite the misgivings that he had before, that she loved him. When he returned to the base he found the letter in his footlocker, rea
d it with new eyes once again, carefully folded it, and put it in his pocket. He buttoned the flap, sealing her words and the moment. Now it was time for the war.

  Lieutenant Bryant, a young man with a large nose, handed out the duty assignments as the storm threatened to take the roof off the operations shack. Cole and the other boat commanders took the information but concentrated on the map on the wall. This was the first time they knew the object of the invasion: Normandy.

  “Okay, gentlemen, here it is,” Bryant said. “Fire support is coming out of St. Georges Channel, around the Scilly Isles to link up with task forces from Falmouth, Dartmouth, and Plymouth.” He traced the route of the task forces on the map with a pencil. “Task Force U, that’s your baby, comes out of Plymouth and Dartmouth and links up in Lyme Bay. You’ll pick them up in Area Z.” He tapped the map off the Isle of Wight. “Elements of Task Force O are coming out of Weymouth, Poole, and Portsmouth.” He had apparently prepared himself for his next statement, lacing the words with gravity. “In other words, it’s going to be mighty busy out there, and real crowded.” He looked as if he enjoyed this moment of drama. He could afford to—he wasn’t going any farther than the base.

  Cole flipped through the pages of the packet. “Where do we go, and when do you want us to be there?”

  The words deprived Bryant of his importance but he recovered quickly. “Ten miles west-southwest of Task Force U. Your coordinates are on the duty sheet. Your job will be search and rescue?”

  “That’s it?” Randy Delong said. “You’re sticking us out in the boonies for search and rescue.”

  “Every job is important, Ensign,” Bryant said. “Some ships may hit mines. Some of the flyboys may end up in the drink.”

  “A seagull may get sick,” Moose said.

  “Gentlemen, I don’t make the assignments,” Bryant said, peeved. Every guy in combat was a prima donna. They all wanted the plum assignments. “My job is to carry the orders to the respective commands and make sure that they understand what they’re to do.”

  “Lieutenant,” Cole said, trying to soothe Bryant. “Nobody finds fault with you. It’s just that we’re used to playing a more active role in things.”

  “Hell, yes, more active,” Moose said.

  Cole shot Moose a look of mild reproach. “It’s the biggest show of the war and none of us want to end up on the sidelines. You know what I mean?”

  “Lieutenant Cole, I know exactly what you mean and all I can tell you is what the brass tells me.” He held up the sheaf of papers. “And this is what they told me. Everything that you need to know is in here.” He gathered his cap from the chair back where he had hung it. “Good luck, and good hunting.”

  Cole watched Bryant leave before turning to the officers of Squadron 142(2). They looked at him expectantly, as if he had the power to clear up this horrible misunderstanding. Their faces were so pitiful with disappointment that Cole laughed.

  “Jeez, Skipper,” DeLong said. “I’m glad that you find it funny, cause I sure don’t.

  “What do you want me to do, Randy?”

  “I don’t know. Something.”

  “We’re locked down tighter than Dick’s hatband. Nobody leaves the base or comes on. No phone calls in either direction,” Cole said. “Anyway, even if I could get through I doubt they’d make any changes in assignments now.”

  “Yeah but, Skip,” Lieutenant Ewing said. “Don’t you know somebody that knows somebody?”

  “If I did,” Cole said, “I wouldn’t be stuck nursing you lunkheads.” He understood their frustration. Rolling about in the Channel in dirty weather was bad enough, having to do so without the slightest chance of seeing action was even worse. Bryant told them they were watchdogs. Even if the enemy aircraft approached, their radar wouldn’t give more than a few minutes’ notice—the range was only twenty miles. Maybe they’d find a few mines floating about that they could set off with a burst or two of .50-caliber fire. Maybe they could pick up downed fliers. Cole thought of the Polish fighter pilot they’d saved and he felt ashamed. If someone weren’t there to pick them up they’d die of exposure. Enough talk.

  “Okay. You’ve got your orders.” Moontz started to protest. “You’ve got your orders,” Cole said again, but louder this time. “Pull your fish. Top off the tanks. Nobody says anything to the men. Get me? And these things”—he held up the orders for the men to see—“stay on your person.”

  The shop door burst open with a rush of wind and rain, almost tearing the little bell from the door jam. Topper Schiffer entered with a great show of shaking the rain off his coat and hat. Beatrice, who had been writing prices on little paper tags, stepped away from the rain that hurled in after her brother.

  “Topper, must you go about on this horrible night?”

  “Can’t be helped, Bea,” Topper said, pulling off his rain-soaked coat and hanging it on a coatrack near the counter. He slapped his hat on the peg and rubbed his hands briskly.

  “Ought to post small dog warnings with that blow,” he said. “In fact it’s raining cats and dogs out there. You know how I know, Bea?”

  She’d heard this joke a dozen times. “No, Topper, how do you know?”

  “I just stepped in a poodle,” he said with an enthusiastic chuckle. “Been down to the pub, I have.”

  “That is the only thing that would take you out in weather like this,” Beatrice said, printing her numbers carefully. She was proud of her penmanship and was careful to properly write numbers and letters.

  “Well, scoff if you like,” Topper said, “but I’ve been catching up on the war news.”

  The pencil stopped momentarily. “Have you?” Beatrice feigned disinterest.

  “Indeed I have. It’s the big push all right. They got everybody bottled up, ready for action. I thought something was amiss; Stan and I were talking it over. Traffic slowed almost to a trickle and then it was gone. Stan knows a bloke who feeds the Yanks at Selsey. This bloke says that it’s a regular race, Yank trucks rolling in one after another, day and night, until he’s sure there can’t be a cot left in Selsey. This bloke that Stan knows. So he tells Stan, something big’s in the wind and he ought to keep his eyes open. Why? I don’t know. I’m sure Stan doesn’t know either …”

  “Topper, please,” Beatrice said, wanting to ask about the navy, but holding back for fear that she would say too much. Topper was the best brother that a girl could have, but he was a clumsy sort and likely to smother Beatrice with concern. She decided it was best to let him ramble.

  “Well, Bea,” Topper said. “I’m just telling you what the bloke told Stan and what Stan told me. Everybody’s on the move: air force, army, and the navy, too, can’t forget the navy. God bless them. So this bloke, friend of Stan’s, says that the waters off Selsey Bill are packed top to bottom with ships. He said every type of ship that you could imagine. Ours and theirs. He says ‘Invade! Why just put them end-to-end and walk across the Channel on them.’ That’s how many there were.”

  “Yes,” Beatrice said, examining a price ticket. “That sounds as if things are about to get under way.”

  “Under way? Under way?” Topper said incredulously. “Why, woman, this is the greatest invasion since the Normans. Under way. And your own Captain Hardy in the middle of it.”

  “He’s not my Captain Hardy,” Beatrice said. She had kept her true feelings about George Hardy from her brother. “He is a fine man that we both care for.”

  “Yes,” Topper shot her a skeptical glance. “Some more than others. Now, Bea, don’t you go worrying about Captain Hardy. He’s an experienced seaman, all right. He’s got decades in the naval service. Look, he’s been all through this war, hasn’t he? Well, there you have it.”

  “Yes, Topper,” Beatrice said, surrendering. “Why don’t you go in and see if the wireless has something to say?”

  Topper slapped his hands together. “The BBC. That’s the ticket. Come in too, Bea.”

  “In a minute, Topper. Let me finish this row.” She cont
inued marking, waiting until she heard Topper settled into the worn easy chair situated in front of the radio cabinet, and the scratchy sounds of static as he tried to find the channel. It would be difficult in the storm, more so because of the war. All of the wireless interference of ships, planes, and the army seemed to jumble everything up so that they were lucky if they heard much more than a bit of a program. It was a way that they spent many nights. It was comforting to realize that a bit of normalcy still existed in the midst of insanity. The fact that the calm cadence of the BBC announcers appeared in their parlor on a regular basis provided stability.

  They had learned to settle into a routine: Topper methodically going through his magazines, each page requiring a majestic lick of his thumb, a gentle sweep of the page with his hand, and renewed interest in the article. Beatrice would sketch.

  She found some subjects in Topper’s magazines, a landscape, or an interesting face, and she would take the soft lead pencil and create images on a barren plain of paper.

  The wind picked up and Beatrice thought she could hear something break loose down the street and blow away. Her eyes fell on the tag in her hand and she realized that she had marked it twice.

  Her mind was on Captain Hardy. He was on Firedancer somewhere out there and she had no idea when she would hear from him again. There had been reports of a very bad battle just to the west but no one was quite sure what had happened, or who was involved, but there were reports of dead bodies being lined up on the beach. And this before the great invasion.

  It was not knowing that was most difficult. She had tried to keep busy tending to the shop and to Topper, but she found her mind would drift fitfully back to the question of Captain Hardy’s safety. It was the not knowing.