Hardy, his anger quickly forgotten, rapidly calculated the course and speed. They’re going to intercept us, he thought.
Reubold watched as the three Funkers scrambled to receive radio transmission, note them, and decode them. Even without the knowledge of W/T that these men possessed he could tell that something important was going on by the barrage of signals that flooded the tiny radio room.
“Report, Lerch,” Reubold said. He kept his voice low and calm, knowing that it would do nothing but add to the tension in the room if he appeared concerned.
Lerch looked up at Reubold and after a moment to gather himself said: “Sir, something terrible is happening out there.”
“Explain,” Reubold said, his excitement building. “And be more specific than ‘out there.’”
“Yes, sir,” Lerch said. “I can’t get all of it but the stations along the coast are all reporting some sort of activity. Air raids, parachutists, ships right in front of them. Dieppe, Le Havre, Cherbourg. The airwaves are flooded. Pas de Calais, as well.”
It would be Pas de Calais, high command decided. The Allies would take the shortest route across the Channel and land at Pas de Calais. The men of Flotilla 11 had been wagering on it for some time, and the general opinion was, that for once, high command was right; the Allies would invade France at Pas de Calais. Reubold had gone to Boulogne to meet an old friend and they had traveled up to Dunkirk together to see the beaches, littered with the wreckage of what had once been the British army. On the way they had stopped at a small tavern and bought beer from a sullen proprietor before going out on a bluff overlooking the Channel. From the bluff, talking, drinking, and sharing a set of worn binoculars, they had studied the Cliffs of Dover: England.
“There’s more coming in, sir,” Lerch said. The message was decoded by Zickelbein and given to Lerch.
“Read it,” Reubold ordered.
“‘T-29 sights several ships advancing Guernsey. Dieppe reports parachute attack. Dieppe reports enemy ships forty kilometers from port.’”
“Enough,” Reubold said. He made his way quickly to the bridge, glad to be in the cool air and under the thick clouds that shimmered in the moonlight. It was claustrophobic in the W/T room, and the contradictory messages angered him.
“Kunkel,” he barked, “bring us about. On zero-five-three degrees. Increase to fifty knots.” He slipped the throat mike on and slipped his earphones over his cap. He pinched the small microphones against his throat. “Lerch?”
“Sir?” crackled through the earpieces.
“Signal the other boats. New course zero-five-three degrees. Speed, fifty knots. Form echelon.”
“What is it?” Kunkel said.
“Madness,” Reubold said in disgust. “Absolute madness. No one is sure of anything on shore. We’ll go see for ourselves.”
“Where are we going?”
“Pas de Calais. We might find the invasion fleet. If we’re lucky.”
“Shouldn’t we notify Marine Gruppe West?” Kunkel said.
“And ruin a perfectly good outing?” Reubold said. He sensed Kunkel’s concern. “All right, Leutnant. I promise that if we run across the invasion fleet I will let them know.” He turned and made his way back along the port canvas dodgers, stopping at the amidships doorknocker. The crew looked at him expectantly and he smiled in return. He wanted time to think, so he studied the other boats’ positions. He could see them, or rather their wakes, gleaming in the light provided by the capricious moon. They kept good position and their speed matched S-205 exactly.
Reubold noticed a young matrosenhauptgefreiter watching him.
“Spiller? Isn’t it?” Reubold said.
“Yes, sir,” the man said. He was bundled in his black coverall, with the coal-shuttle helmet clamped firmly on his head, looking like a distressed turtle.
“This is Ramsau’s gun, isn’t it?” Reubold said, knowing that it was and knowing that oberbootsmannmaat Ramsau, the gun captain, was standing next to Spiller.
“Yes, sir,” Spiller said, perplexed.
“Tell me, Spiller,” Reubold said. “Does Ramsau still fuck ugly women?”
The gun crew burst into laughter. Ramsau shook his head, wondering how officers expected him to keep young matrosenhauptgefreiter in line if the officers showed the oberbootsmannmaat no respect.
“I don’t know, sir,” Spiller said, looking around as if he expected the other crew members to help him.
Another wave of laughter swamped the gun and Reubold winked at Ramsau, although he wasn’t sure if the chief petty officer could see the wink in the darkness.
“Fregattenkapitan,” Ramsau said in a weary voice. “Pardon me for saying so, but we would be better served if you were in the skull’s cap.”
“Indeed, Ramsau?” Reubold said, making the decision that he had come aft to consider. Pas de Calais was the shortest route, perhaps the easiest, but Reubold thought that if it were he, and he was expected to do one thing, he would, naturally, have to do the opposite. “I just came back to tell you that British and Americans are out there and we are going to hunt them.” He felt the tension in the gun crew increase. They realized immediately what the implication was.
“The invasion, Fregattenkapitan?” Ramsau said.
“Yes,” Reubold said, and started forward. He turned and said. “But even if it isn’t, we shall make the best of it.”
Chapter 28
Cole hooked the microphone back into its cradle and turned to DeLong. He had just received Firedancer’s message and ordered it passed on to the other boats. “You heard the man, Randy, come about and let’s go find out who these folks are.”
“What are you doing?” Edland said.
“Firedancer reports a fast boat coming this way. They’re not PTs,” Cole explained in a tone that said that the reason for his action should be obvious. “They’re not MTBs, so that leaves just one candidate.”
“I understand that, Lieutenant. Firedancer said that he has contacted Castle for further orders,” Edland said. “Shouldn’t we wait on verification?”
“You know,” Cole said, “not more than five minutes ago you were all ready to take on the Kriegsmarine. Now, you’ve gone cautious on me. You can’t have it both ways, Commander. I’ll just proceed on my own initiative and let the chips fall where they may.” He pointed into the darkness. “That’s where the enemy is, and that’s where I’m going.” And then Cole added: “Sir.” He picked up the microphone and depressed the TALK button. “Let the other boats know, we’re going in. Pass the word to Firedancer.”
“What?” Hardy said into the voice tube. “Going where?”
“The PT boat commander reported that he is turning toward the targets and shall investigate,” W/T said.
“The impetuosity of the man,” Hardy said to Land. “Going off without orders. I would have thought better of Mr. Cole. Well, he’s a disappointment, I can tell you that.”
“Yes, sir,” Land said.
“Never catch me doing such a thing,” Hardy said. “Have I ever done such a thing, Number One?”
“No, sir,” Land said. Countless times, Land thought. We’ve gone off on your order alone and even after we were recalled and chastised, you’ve been less than contrite. The two were cut from the same bolt, Hardy and Cole. Land fully expected what came next.
“W/T? Hardy here. Send to Castle. I’m just going out for a peek. I shan’t be long.” He made it sound as if he were going down to the corner newsstand to pick up a paper. “Not to worry about anything.” He straightened and looked at Land innocently. “Can’t let the boy face whatever is out there alone, now can I?”
“Bridge? W/T, radar here. The enemy formation has just deployed into a wing formation, speed increased to fifty knots steady. Now at forty miles, same bearing.”
“Right,” Hardy said. “Make to Cole. ‘I shall take up position to port and a bit ahead of you. Look for my signal by Aldis lamp. Enemy course, break at double X, enemy speed, double X, distance. Firedancer.�
�� ” He turned to Land, satisfied. We’re put ourselves between the enemy and Mr. Cole and track them on radar. We’ll be positioned in such a way as to keep our Aldis lamp signals from the enemy’s eyes.”
“That should do it, sir,” Land said.
“Of course it should,” Hardy said impatiently. “Unless we are sunk.” He pulled the bowler from his head, scratched his scalp vigorously, and holding the hat under the soft glow of the binnacle light, examined it. “This hat has occupants, Number One.”
“Sir?”
“The damned thing’s infested.” Hardy handed the bowler to a yeoman. “Set this thing aside until I can have it fumigated. My God,” he said. “Lice at my age.”
Cole cradled the microphone in his hand, switched the radio to All Boats and said: “First Division, deployment ahead. Second Division, deployment thirty degrees to starboard, into line.” He watched as the boats moved smoothly into their new formation; a long line, bows on to the enemy, or where the enemy was supposed to be. “Commander,” Cole said, satisfied with the maneuver, “do you believe in fate?”
“No.”
“Me either. But something tells me that those guys out there are your famous flying boats.”
Edland looked at him.
“They’re out of Cherbourg,” Cole continued, “like your boats, and they’re coming in hot. Of course nobody’s paying me to make guesses …”
“Signal from Firedancer, Skipper,” DeLong said. He read the tiny flashes of light. “ ‘Zero-five-three degrees, break, sixty … holy shit! Sorry, sir. Sixty knots. Thirty-five miles.”
Cole turned to Edland with a triumphant grin. “Want to see your boats again, Commander? Close up?”
Edland nodded. He was beginning to appreciate Cole. It was hard to fathom the insubordinate PT boat commander, but sandwiched between the arrogance and dislike of authority was a very capable officer. “Do you have a plan?”
Cole seemed amused. “Yeah, try to sink them without getting killed.” And then he grew serious. “They’ll try to outrun us, so we’ve got to get in as quickly as possible and break up their formation.”
“They’ve got a large gun, mounted in the bow, from what I can determine,” Edland said. “Standard armament is probably the same; twenty-millimeter and forty-millimeter guns.”
“Okay,” Cole said. “Any suggestions?”
“Firedancer again, Skipper,” Delong reported. “Same course, same speed. Thirty miles out.”
“Yes,” Edland said. “Get in as close as you can.”
“No offense, Commander,” Cole said, “but that sounds like suicide to me.”
“The boats are up on wings, stilts, or whatever you care to call them. That means their hulls are out of the water.
“Okay,” Cole said, listening.
“Same, same, and twenty-five miles, Skipper.”
“If the big guns are in the bow wells, then they fire almost parallel to the surface of the water,” Edland explained.
Cole finally realized what Edland was saying. “They can’t be depressed.”
Edland nodded. “The only guns that you have to worry about, besides small arms fire, are the aft 40mm and the 20mm amidships. Look,” he said, holding out his left hand, the palm down, the fingers slightly elevated. A make-believe E-boat. He brought his right hand alongside, slightly below the other. “Get right next to them, worry them. Force them to constantly turn away so that they can’t employ their superior speed. Once they break free of contact they can outrun us. If we force them in a constant turn, they’ll have to reduce speed. We have a chance.”
“Skipper,” DeLong said. “Fifteen miles. Our radars picked them up as well.”
Cole nodded in understanding. “Herding cats.” He was still far from comforted by the commander’s theory.
“There’s one other thing,” Edland said.
“Boy, I sure hope it’s good news,” Cole said.
“If these boats break away long enough to employ those big guns …”
“It’s Good Night, Ladies,” Cole said.
“We’ve got to stick to them like glue.”
Cole thought that Edland’s advice made sense even if the action bordered on insanity. He asked a hopeful question. “Is this a theory or fact?”
“Does it make any difference, now?”
“I guess not,” Cole said.
“Firedancer’s got them, Skipper,” Delong said. “Visual confirmation.” The Aldis lamp flashed in the darkness. “Six boats, in echelon. Sixty knots. God, that’s fast.”
“Okay,” Cole said, confirming the information. He picked up the microphone. “All boats, all boats from Cole. These are Edland’s Sea Eagles. Take it in on the step. Get in close, bulwark to bulwark. Get me? Get under their guns. Keep forcing them to turn. Don’t let them put any distance between us and them.” Cole turned to Edland. “I sure am going to be upset if you’re wrong.”
Zickelbein’s voice came through Reubold’s earphones. “Targets, sir. Just over twenty thousand meters ahead. Six MTBs, one destroyer.”
A screening force, Reubold thought. For what, the invasion? Or a patrol? Well, no matter, they were in the way. “We’ll go around them,” he told Kunkle. “I don’t want to waste my time here if the invasion is to the north. Take us around them.” Hardly the thick hide that Walters spoke of. A destroyer was always something to be concerned with, but MTBs? Then a dark thought entered Reubold’s thoughts, so logical he was surprised that he had not thought of it before. They will report you to the fleet and the hide will certainly grow thicker as more enemy ships are dispatched to meet the threat. Reubold grew irritated at the unexpected encounter with the MTBs. He was hoping to pass through the Channel unnoticed. He had lost the element of surprise.
Zickelbein spoke again. “Fregattenkapitan. I copied the boat’s transmission. They are Americans. Torpedo boats.”
Reubold was about to respond when he realized the signal flaw in his tactic. He could not go around them. The two forces would clash in minutes and if he attempted to turn away he would expose the broad beams of his boats to the Americans. And the fragile wings of his boats. Better to drive through the enemy force. But again, a flaw. He looked over the skullcap as if to confirm the obvious. The Trinities, buried deep in the gun well, could not fire over the bow and strike a target unless the enemy vessel was several thousand meters distant—which the Americans were sure to be, but only for a very short time. The relative speed of the opposing forces sent them hurtling at one another so quickly that every action had to be instantaneous. So be it; close quickly, blast through the enemy force, find and attack the invasion fleet. “Kunkle. Ignore that order, maintain course and speed.”
“Sir?” Zickelbein’s voice came over the earphones.
“Yes?”
“Targets closing rapidly, sir. Now fourteen thousand meters.”
Kunkle glanced at Reubold with a look that said everything: These Americans want to fight. Going through them will not be such an easy thing.
Reubold understood. He would have to scatter the enemy formation. He pressed the microphone to his throat. “Zickelbein, all boats that can bring guns to bear on the target. Fire at seven thousand meters and for God’s sake take aim. Who knows what we’ll run into once we’re past these fellows.” It was a chance—a random throw of the die. It would be difficult to aim the Trinities over the bow, and the targets were so small that he doubted even the doorknockers would be of much help. But then he didn’t expect to sink any of the enemy boats, just discourage them. They’d been up too long on the wings, more than Waldvogel stipulated, but he needed the speed, and he would continue to need it to outrace the enemy boats. Waldvogel. Reubold smiled at the thought of the myopic genius who hovered continually between puzzlement and concern.
“Ten thousand,” Zickelbein reported.
Americans this time. Smaller boats, swift lines but far too fragile for the English Channel. His first encounter with the Americans, at sea that is. He’d raced against them, yea
rs before the war, when seaplanes were long, lean aircraft with small cockpits that trapped a man as surely as if he lay in his coffin.
There was a crash and a flash of light as the doorknocker on S-205 opened fire, and an instant later a dull explosion as a Trinity fired, followed by a second, and third. The boat to his right fired its doorknocker, a long graceful stream of green tracers arching into the darkness, followed by a flash and low boom. The blast of the Trinity’s discharge illuminated the bow and skullcap of the E-boat for an instant, but then darkness swallowed up the boat.
Blind men in the darkness, Reubold thought. It will be a fight of blind men in the darkness.
The first shell thundered over Cole’s head, and without realizing it, he, DeLong, and Edland followed its progress, their heads twisting in unison. There was a tremendous explosion aft of them.
“Holy shit!” DeLong said. “Those are cruisers.”
“The German guns I told you about,” Edland said, moving close to Cole. The roar of the engines made it difficult to talk and everything was delivered in a near shout. “They must be using tracers as some sort of aiming device.”
“Well, it’s working out pretty well for them,” Cole said. “That landed too close for comfort.”
A round exploded to starboard followed by a round to port as the diabolical green tracers swept the water.
“They’ve got us straddled,” Cole said. “Okay, Randy. Evasive action.” He leaned over the bridge roof. “Murray?” he shouted to the gunner on the forward 20mm. “Commence firing.” He turned again to DeLong. “I’ve told everybody that you’re the best boat handler in the fucking navy. Now I want you to get us alongside one of those bastards without so much as a dented gunnel. Cover him like paint.”
DeLong nodded. He wrapped his fingers around the three throttle knobs jutting out of the instrument panel and eased them to full power. It was hell on the engines, running at top speed for an extended period of time, especially engines that were several hundred miles past rebuilding—but then so was getting blown up.
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