Armada

by Steven Wilson

  Cole watched as dozens of tracer rounds split the darkness, red and green, passing one another in a merry game of hide-and-seek. The 37mm cannon on PT-155’s bow began to fire, a steady chunk-chunk-chunk, and he thought he could feel the boat shake with each discharge. The forward 20mm just in front of the bridge and offset to port joined in; somehow its bark nothing more than an ineffectual bang. With each blast came an intense blaze of white light from the powder flare. He looked away from the contest in the blackness to see DeLong working frantically to keep the boat on course but away from enemy shells. His concentration was inhuman, his eyes boring into the darkness, and for a moment Cole was convinced that the young ensign saw everything clearly and that night had been replaced by full light.

  Harry Lowe.

  The thought struck as surely as it had been a punch in the gut. It was night, like the night that Harry was killed, and they were fighting E-boats, like the night that Harry was killed. Cole quickly turned away so that no one saw the horror that he was sure was etched on his face. Get a grip, he commanded himself. But a voice reminded him, in barely a whisper, that he was responsible for his men, responsible for Randy, like he was responsible for Harry. But now Harry was dead and Randy was standing in his place. The same place. And it was night. And those were E-boats.

  Suddenly radio chatter from the other boats broke into Cole’s thoughts. They were random bursts of excited commands and warning, the PT boats trying to maneuver into position, trying to stay out of the reach of those guns.

  Cole snapped up the microphone, all other thoughts gone, and began directing the fight. “Cole to all boats. Get in. Get in fast. Don’t get fancy. Close with them as soon as you can and don’t let any daylight between you and them.”

  The water erupted nearby, shaking the boat, and Cole saw Edland sitting with his back against the day room housing, stunned. He reached out his hand and Edland took it with a wry: “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Cole said. “The navy takes care of its own.”

  The battle increased in intensity and Cole realized that it was every boat for itself. There was no structure to it, no definition. It was fire and flee, return and do the same thing. Try to hit the enemy boat but not those of your companions.

  “Here we go!” DeLong shouted in a burst of excitement. Suddenly PT-155 whipped to port and heeled over so heavily that Cole thought she would capsize. He heard men shouting, and then a fierce barrage of blasts, and finally saw tracers flying in every direction.

  He realized what had happened. DeLong had taken PT-155 directly at an E-boat, forcing the enemy vessel to change course, and as it had, DeLong had practically thrown the PT on her beam, coming completely about and alongside the E-boat.

  Alongside the E-boat, and within yards of her.

  Cole had prepared himself to see the hydrofoils, and in his mind knew what they looked like, but the unexpected sight of them shocked him, and even seemed to calm the racket of battle. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered in awe as the E-boat grew. “That’s a big son of a bitch.”

  “Port thirty,” Hardy shouted into the voice tubes as a shell landed aft. Firedancer had been drawn into the battle almost immediately and into the role that Hardy had seen her playing, that of coach with an occasional foray into the midst of combat. All that had disappeared with the first blast of the E-boats’ big guns. Firedancer’s pom-poms, 4.5-inch guns, and deck-mounted Lewis guns joined in the moment that the two forces slammed into one another.

  A steady stream of glowing green tracers sped out from the darkness and ricocheted off of the hedgehog mount where A-turret had once been. Shells bounced into the air, screaming like banshees—a shrill, hideous scream that raised goose bumps on a man’s skin. The sound ran its fingertips up Hardy’s spine, looking for a place to enter his soul.

  Somebody fired a flare, not from Firedancer, because, by God, Hardy would have anyone’s head that had done such a thing. Then the whole scene was suddenly frozen in the ghastly yellow light—a rich tableau of destruction. He was frozen for an instant, as was everything around him. Number One at the tubes, yeoman of signals at the Aldis lamp, the chief petty officer; what-was-his-name?—at the Tannoy, awaiting orders.

  The only movement that Hardy saw was below him at B-turret. It was the twisted act of a gunner kicking the 4.5-incher’s breechblock, until the loader could swing it open and slide another shell into the breech. Calmly Hardy thought: I shall have to have a chat with the gunnery officer about this; it appears that the gun has jammed again.

  Seconds passed, so slowly that they should have been hours and even the explosions were muffled to the sound of distant thunder, a natural sound in a wholly unnatural event.

  “We’ve taken bricks aft,” Number One called to him above the din. “Two I think. After supply party’s on it.”

  “Take us back half a mile,” Hardy returned. “I want to be clear of the Americans so that we don’t fall into them. Whoever comes our way has to be the enemy. Can you see anything? I can’t see a damned thing.”

  Number One pointed. “Two points off the starboard beam. Two boats are burning. I don’t know whose.” Another hit shook Firedancer and Hardy felt someone hit his arm with a cricket bat. He looked down to see the sleeve torn away and the arm glistening with some kind of liquid.

  “Captain?” Number One said.

  “Let it be, Edwin. Take us back and set us up again. By God, Jerry won’t get past Firedancer.”

  Reubold pulled an MG-42 out of a deck locker and balanced it on a cutout in the armored bridge. Kunkle whipped the E-boat back and forth trying to disengage from the enemy boat, but the Americans, despite the S-boat’s greater speed, hung so closely to S-205 that none of the guns could be brought to bear. The enemy boats continually snapped at the sides of the boats, forcing them to turn, driving them back on their own wakes, crowding them so that the S-boats could not break free. Reubold’s boats, on the thin hydrofoils, shuddered against each sharp turn, protesting the weight of the boat and water. They were too fragile. Reubold knew that he was aboard a thoroughbred who would race until its heart burst, but she demanded a straight, unimpeded course. And this, he could not give her.

  “Break out small arms,” Reubold shouted as he fed a belt into the machine gun and worked the action. The American guns were chewing the hull and superstructure of the S-boat to shreds, pumping rounds into the boat’s body at point-blank range. Reubold saw two crewmen slump over as bits of the boat were blown away by the heavy machine guns. Red tracers whined just over his head as he squeezed the trigger, firing into the night.

  The two boats raced through the darkness, side by side as if joined by a mutual desire to see the other destroyed even if it cost the victor its own life. The American boat kept pushing into S-205, forcing it to compensate, snapping at its heels like a despicable little terrier.

  A matrose joined Reubold and was in the process of throwing a hand grenade when a stream of bullets ripped the top of his head off. The grenade fell over the side and the seaman’s body, blood spurting from the wound, slumped to the deck. Reubold screamed in frustration and tipped the muzzle of the machine gun as far over the side as he could, depressing the trigger. He saw others take their place along the side, using pistols, rifles, and hand grenades to break the deadly grasp of the American boat.

  Reubold went through one belt and began feeding another belt into the receiver when he heard a blast aft. Even in the darkness he could see oily smoke boiling from the vents of the center engine room. But worse than that, much worse, he felt the boat begin to lose headway, and for the first time in many years, he felt panic.

  PT-155’s starboard twin fifties roared incessantly as the aft 40mm swung as far forward as it could against its stops and fired once before a grenade disabled it. DeLong’s hat had been shot off his head and a steady stream of blood, driven into a weird pattern across his forehead and right ear by the wind, gave him the look of a madman.

  Cole grabbed Edland and jerked him to a si
ngle .50-caliber machine gun mounted on a pipe stand on the edge of the day room canopy. Slapping the commander’s hands on the grips Cole said: “Hold this. Press this until it stops.” He pointed toward the E-boat’s glistening hull just feet away. “Shoot at that.”

  Edland depressed the triggers on the heavy .50-caliber machine gun and the night seemed to explode. The concussion of the gun threatened to jerk the weapon out of his hands and he realized that the tracer rounds were flying high over the enemy boat’s hull. He depressed the muzzle until he saw chunks of enemy vessel thrown into the air. He wasn’t aiming; he was trying to hold the damned thing on target.

  Cole chambered a round into a Thompson submachine gun, stepped back so that he could get a better shot at the E-boat’s bridge, and sprayed the enemy boat with short bursts. He felt the gun jump in his hand and he pressed the stock into his shoulder, watching sparks dance all along the superstructure.

  He had no time to think of anything except bringing this monster to a halt. He saw an enemy seaman pop up, let loose a few rounds with a machine pistol, and then drop out of sight. He heard someone shout, “Grenade!” and watched as a German stick hand grenade shot far overhead. Cole took careful aim at a German sailor, fired a full burst in his chest, and saw him disappear. He heard the dull chug of the 40-millimeter and then realized that it had stopped firing. But it didn’t make any difference—the sharp crack of two 20-millimeter guns shattered the darkness.

  DeLong’s shouts brought Cole back to the bridge.

  “Skipper? Skipper!” The ensign nodded at the E-boat. “She’s losing power.”

  Cole saw the boat begin to slow and settle. But it wasn’t giving up—the two boats continued colliding against one another, racing over the water.

  “Rich!” Cole shouted. He tossed the Thompson on the deck and pulled his .45 caliber automatic out of its holster. He worked the slide, glancing around. “Murray?” He shouted. “Grab some weapons and four guys. Get ready to board that son of a bitch.”

  “Board?” Rich said, shocked.

  “Hell, man,” Cole said, trembling with excitement. “We’ve just begun to fight.”

  The Mosquito shook violently and a blast of cold night air raced in through the shattered Perplex canopy.

  Gierek kept glancing at the still form next to him—Jagello wasn’t moving.

  The starboard engine was running away, alternately speeding up and slowing down of its own volition. The instrument panel in front of Gierek was virtually destroyed so that he had no idea where he was, how much fuel he had, what his altitude was, or even what direction he was flying.

  “Jagello?” he shouted above the roar of the hurricane-like winds. “Jagello? Can you hear me? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” the bomb-aimer/navigator said in a weak voice.

  “Are you all right?”

  The wounded man slowly lifted his head, blood pouring from a dozen wounds in black rivulets. “Can you stop this bloody plane from shaking?”

  “I’m trying,” Gierek said. He gripped the wheel as tightly as he could, but no matter what he did the plane didn’t respond. Cables had been cut, Gierek knew, and control surfaces blown away, and she had to be leaking hydraulic fluid. The Mosquito had all of the aerodynamics of a rock. He was surprised that the aircraft was still aloft. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” Jagello said patiently. “I am shot. You are shaking me to death. Stop shaking the airplane.”

  “I’m trying.”

  They were alone in the sky, and the roar of the air through the canopy blew bits of the aircraft around the cockpit like a maelstrom. The starboard engine whined maniacally, in a wild attempt to wrench itself off the wing while Gierek tried to nurse the port engine.

  Jagello slumped against the edge of Gierek’s seat as the plane began to shudder more. Gierek wondered if the bomb bay door was open or if the wheels had dropped out of their wells. He hoped not. If they reached England, he could bring her in on her belly and they might have a chance of surviving. But if the doors were open they were dead men because they would catch the ground and flip the plane over. If the wheels were down, it meant that they were down because the hydraulics had failed and they couldn’t be locked in place—they would collapse. And the aircraft would flip.

  He peered through what remained of the windscreen, trying to make out anything in the darkness. He glanced at Jagello, quickly took one hand off the wheel, and shook him.

  “I’m alive,” Jagello said. “How are we?”

  Gierek said nothing.

  “Well,” Jagello said weakly, “I have one thing to be thankful for.”

  “What?” Gierek said. His hands were starting to cramp and he worked the fingers around the form of the wheel, trying to ease the pain.

  “At least you’re not singing.”

  Chapter 29

  Edland was at Cole’s side.

  “What are you doing here?” Cole said.

  “I came to get that boat.” Edland said, pulling out an automatic.

  “Skipper!” Rich shouted, and fired three rounds from an M-1 over Cole’s head. A German sailor screamed and fell. The other guns on the PT boat kept up a deadly torrent of fire against the E-boat’s superstructure as the boat slowed and dropped heavily into the sea. The moment that DeLong cut 155’s power Cole shouted: “Okay.”

  The six men scrambled aboard the E-boat. A German sailor aimed a pistol at Edland, but before he had a chance to fire, the commander got off two rounds.

  Another German swung the amidships 20-millimeter toward Cole.

  “Down!” he shouted, dropping to the deck.

  The cannon fired directly over their heads as the gunner struggled to depress it. Murray slid along the port canvas dodger, pulled the pin on a hand grenade, and shouted: “Fire in the hole!”

  There was a loud bang followed by a scream, and the gun was silenced. The firing was continuous now and the German crew moved against Cole and his men. They were trapped unless they could force the enemy to fall back.

  “Stay down!” someone shouted from PT-155, and suddenly the air was filled with the ragged sound of twin .50-caliber machine guns. The slugs ripped through the superstructure and housing, toppling the mast, splintering the gun shields, and chopping the deckhouse and life raft to pieces. The fire ate its way aft, catching enemy sailors as they turned to run, spewing blood and tissue over the deck.

  Cole rolled over on his back and jerked a finger across his throat, signaling the gun to cease fire.

  “You two, forward,” Cole ordered two men. “You two, aft.” He looked at Edland. “Stay with me. Randy?” he shouted to DeLong over the sounds of scattered gunfire. “See if you can raise the other boats and Firedancer. Find out what’s going on. Have some men lay aft and prepare to take this monster in tow. Okay with you, commander?”

  Edland was about to answer when a single shot rang out. Cole grabbed the side of his neck and dropped to a knee, trying to find the shooter. He saw a dark form on the deck, near the starboard side of the bridge. He raised his gun to fire when Edland moved in front of him. Cole tackled him, dropping the commander to the deck.

  “Wait,” Edland said. “Don’t shoot. He’s an officer.”

  “I don’t care if he’s Santa Claus,” Cole said. “The son of a bitch tried to kill me.”

  He thought the shot came from the shadows of the E-boat bridge. He searched the darkness, looking for any sign of the enemy, any movement that would give him away. In frustration he fired three shots at the bridge and thought he saw someone move. He fired again and ducked as a half-dozen shots sliced the air over his head.

  “Let me talk him into surrendering,” Edland said.

  “Let me kill him first,” Cole said, sliding forward. “Then he can surrender.”

  “Hey, Skipper?”

  Cole twisted around to see Rich hugging the deck behind him. He held up a hand grenade for Cole to see, and then tossed it. Cole caught it as it clattered across the deck. He took it firmly in his ri
ght hand, slid a finger into the pin, and glanced at Edland. “If I were you, I’d dig a hole.” He pulled the pin, counted silently to three, and lobbed it into the bridge. He dropped his head and prepared himself.

  There was a crash and the deck shook. Cole could smell the acrid stench of explosive and burning metal. He jumped up, fired several shots into the darkness, and rushed the bridge. Edland was at his side as they pulled a bloody officer away from his machine pistol.

  Edland wrested the pistol out of the officer’s hand and checked the man for a pulse. “I think he’s the boat commander. He’s alive, barely. We need him as a prisoner. Help me get him to his feet.”

  Cole rose, slipped his pistol in the holster, and joined Edland. Both men helped the officer stand and tried to steady him. The German looked from Cole to Edland. He said something in German to Edland, and then repeated it to Cole.

  Cole turned to Edland: “What’d he say?”

  “‘You would have made Goering a very happy man if only you killed me.’”

  “It wasn’t from lack of trying, Fritz,” Cole said to the German.

  They guided him to the gunnel and handed him over to a couple of seamen on PT-155.

  “Skipper,” DeLong shouted. “I’m going to pull forward and toss you a line. Tie it off.”

  “What’s the word on the others?” Cole called back.

  “One sixty-eight and one seventy-two are taking on water. I think the Krauts lost another boat. Nothing from Firedancer. The rest of the guys are pretty shot up.”

  “Okay,” Cole said. “Have the other boats pick up survivors and bodies. Ask Firedancer if she can do the same. We’ll take this monster on in. Advise Portsmouth what we’ve run into and the disposition of the boats.” He noticed that his men had grouped the surviving Germans aft. The defeated men sat dejectedly on the deck, their hands folded over their hands. “Rich? Get forward and take that line. Tie us off.”

  “Hey, Skipper?” Murray said. “I think this bastard’s taking on water. I mean real fast.”