Armada

by Steven Wilson

  “We’ve got to get it back to England,” Edland said. “We’ve got to save this boat.”

  Cole ignored Edland. “Murray? Keep an eye on it.” He moved forward as the line was tied off on a bow cleat. He took a moment to look around. The E-boat’s deck was a slaughterhouse. Blood, bodies, and parts of bodies littered the shattered deck. He noticed the gun set deep in the boat’s gun well. It was a squat, ominous-looking weapon with three thick barrels. A tiny shudder overtook him. This had been close. He noticed DeLong circle his finger above his head, signaling that he was increasing power. Cole watched the line grow taut as the slack was taken up. The line snapped water from its surface and he felt the boat move forward slowly.

  “Remarkable,” Edland said, standing next to him.

  Cole noticed Edland examining the guns.

  “Rube Goldberg,” Cole said. “But they had my attention.” He pointed at the 20mm. “That’s why they were so accurate. Paint the target with tracers, and boom.”

  “Recoilless,” Edland said.

  Cole looked at him. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Look at the breech. That funnel. That’s how they expelled the discharge gases.”

  “You can’t argue with progress, can you?” Cole said. “I wonder how many more little surprises the Krauts have waiting for us?”

  “I wonder how it’s going?”

  “What?”

  “I said, I wonder how it’s going,” Edland said. “The invasion.”

  “Oh,” Cole said, watching the progress of PT-155. “I’d say that they have their hands full. We’ve done our bit. At least for now.”

  “Skipper,” Murray called from the center engine hatch. “You’d better get down here. We got problems.”

  “I see something,” Gierek said hopefully to Jagello. The fierce wind piercing the cockpit caused his eyes to tear, and he was so numb from fatigue that he was hallucinating. That might be land ahead; it could be England. Or maybe it was his mind creating hope where none existed. It could be a low bank of clouds sitting on the horizon. He couldn’t tell. His eyes stung and his shoulders burned from fighting the wheel. His hands were blocks of wood. Worst of all, his mind was numb, he could not concentrate. He had to talk his way through every action.

  “What do you see?” Jagello managed. His wound was serious; Gierek hoped that they had time to get someplace where there was a doctor. Jagello was still awake—that was good, very good. And talking. Better still. The bomb-aimer/navigator was so frugal with words that anytime he spoke was an event.

  “Land,” Gierek said, praying that he was not holding out false hope. “I think.”

  “Ours,” Jagello said, “or theirs?”

  The man’s humor was resilient.

  “England?” Gierek said, stretching the fiery ache out of his back. It had to be a question because at this moment he was not certain of anything.

  The Mosquito began to tremble violently, and a wave of fear swept through Gierek. He cursed the wretched plane’s capriciousness; the words, kept low so that Jagello didn’t hear his frustration, helped to mask Gierek’s terror. The wooden aircraft was falling apart; the stress of flight and the constant pounding of the runaway engine were shaking the airframe. It could not last much longer. They would make land; Gierek had declared that low, dark mass ahead land—but that did not mean safety. He did not know where they were, he could not see the ground, and it was just as likely that they would plow into a fence during landing as skid across a clean field.

  Plow.

  His family had been tied to the land, and his father had insisted that Gierek embrace that life as well, but he found no charm in dirt. Sister could make things grow, and his father, it was claimed by the other farmers, could make crops sprout from rock. He can go into the mountains, one grizzled old farmer told Gierek, and return with a full yield. Gierek followed the old man’s finger to the mountain and decided that would be a poor use of the mountain’s majesty. He would not be a farmer.

  “It’s land,” Gierek confirmed to Jagello. He tried to fight back his excitement, but it felt wonderful to have one small triumph in the conflict. He sensed Jagello stirring and saw the bomb-aimer/navigator sit up, trying to keep his face out of the frigid air that blasted through the shattered windscreen.

  “Home?” he said. The pathos in Jagello’s voice was painful for Gierek to hear.

  “Yes,” he said, trying to sound confident. “Yes.”

  “Thank the Almighty,” Jagello said. He twisted his head slowly, gazing for a moment at Gierek.

  “How many Germans did we kill today, friend?”

  Gierek laughed. “Plenty, Jagello. More tomorrow. More the day after.” But the left engine began to shake as if to remind Gierek that they weren’t safe yet. Perhaps it would not be Germans who died. Perhaps they would never see Poland or their families again. Gierek was suddenly very cold, fear shaking his body so violently that he thought his hands, wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, would be snapped off. Perhaps they would die in a foreign land and be buried beneath soil that offered no solace for them. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eyes and turned to see a thin stream of black smoke rolled around the nacelle of the left engine. Then the flames came, tiny fingers that curled from within the engine and danced along the leading edge. They grew longer, fatter. They would travel quickly within the wing, seeking a way to the fuel tanks, and there they would consume the fuel, tanks, and aircraft in one violent burst of gluttony.

  Murray climbed through the shattered hatch and wiped his hands on his pants. He was soaked and his face was black with grease, and the look he gave Cole said it all.

  “Skipper. I can’t keep this son of a bitch afloat.”

  “All the pumps going?”

  “Yes, sir. The starboard engine is the only one working, but just barely. That ought to be enough to run the pumps, but she’s a goddamned sieve.”

  “We’ve got to keep this vessel afloat,” Edland said. “We’ve got to get it back to Portsmouth.”

  “What do you think, Murray?” Cole said. “Can you keep her afloat until I can get everyone off her?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, sir. I’ll tell you one thing; when she fills up our boats won’t be able to handle her. She’s just too damned big.”

  “Okay. Carry on. Do you need some help back here?”

  “Nah,” the seaman said. “Stew and I got it.”

  Cole headed to the bow with Edland at his side.

  “Cole, we can’t let this boat go. We’ve got to make every effort to save her.”

  “I know.” Cole steadied himself on the listing deck and shouted to the 155 boat. “Get Mr. DeLong.” In a few moments DeLong appeared at the .40 millimeter mount. “Randy? Contact Firedancer. Tell her we need her up here as soon as possible.”

  “What’s up, Skipper?”

  “Edland’s prize is sinking.”

  “I thought she was dragging some,” DeLong confirmed.

  “See if Firedancer can tie up to us and take part of the weight. She’s taking on water like there’s no tomorrow. Then cast off and come alongside. Take off these prisoners.” He turned to Edland. “Okay with you, Commander?”

  “Why is it that everything you say to me sounds like an insult?”

  Cole smiled and turned at a shout from 155. “Hey, Skipper. Mr. DeLong says that British tin can is beating feet. We’re going to cast off now and come up on your port side.”

  Cole waved a response and turned to Edland. “Get below. Into the radio room. Get everything not nailed down. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that sooner. Probably trying to save your damned boat.”

  “Rich. Come with me.” The sailor joined Edland and they felt their way into the dark interior of the vessel. Edland, in the lead, was up to his knees in ice-cold water. He let out a gasp and continued forward.

  “I’ve got a Zippo, Commander.”

  “No,” Edland said. The light would help ease the darkness but he could smell fumes. It was pr
obably diesel fuel but he couldn’t be sure. His feet bumped into something in the water and he knew it was a body from the way it reacted. He felt its arms try to wrap themselves around his legs as if begging for help. “Forward?”

  “Yeah,” Rich said. “I mean yes, sir. Come to a passageway and hang a left. That’s how we’re set up anyway.”

  Edland felt along the bulkheads, his hand running over splintered timbers. She was a wreck. The water didn’t seem to be getting any higher, but it was difficult to tell as the boat wallowed in the sea. He tried to see through the darkness. It was no use; he needed the light.

  “All right, Rich. We’ll need your lighter.”

  “Coming up, Commander.”

  He heard Rich fumble through his pockets in the darkness, the familiar heavy clunk of the lid being flipped off the lighter, one grinding strike as the wheel rotated, and then another. He tensed for the explosion.

  “Must have got wet, Commander. Hang on a second.”

  Rich blew on the flint several times, rolled the wheel with his thumb, and light flooded the tiny compartment. Edland began to breathe again.

  They were in the radio room and it was a mess. Equipment had been shot off the bulkheads, there were two dead men slumped over narrow counters, and from the looks of it a small fire had been started and then extinguished. Edland saw radios, something that was probably a radar unit, a strange device with oversized typewriter keys, piles of codebooks, and a safe mounted on the counter and secured to a bulkhead.

  “Get the codebooks and all of the papers you can carry,” Edland ordered. Rich began scooping piles of documents and a dozen or so books with the Kriegsmarine eagle holding a swastika stamped on it. Edland examined the safe. It was locked.

  “Here you go, Commander,” Rich said, handing him the Zippo.

  “Think we can open this?” Edland said.

  Rich looked over the safe. “Maybe we can blow it with a grenade?”

  Edland thought Rich’s idea was dangerous, but he looked around the interior for a place to hide from the blast, just in case. He decided that it was too risky, for them and for the boat. “Leave it,” he said.

  Rich, papers clutched against his chest, eyed the safe critically. “Hey, maybe it ain’t locked.”

  Edland tried the handle in the off chance it was open. The handle didn’t budge.

  “Well, it was worth a try.”

  “Let’s get topside,” Edland said. The darkness and confined area seemed to close in on him.

  “Okay, sir,” Rich said. “I got everything. I think.”

  Edland picked up the typewriter; except he knew that it had to be some kind of encryption device. “Lead the way, Rich.”

  The two made their way back on deck. Edland noticed that it was early dawn—the darkness had begun to fade away the short time he was below. He saw more of the deck now and the surrounding waters.

  There were more than a dozen bodies scattered about and blood ran freely from the still forms. Blood on the deck, he thought, and realized that as garish as the statement was, it applied to the heavily damaged E-boat. Blood ran in streams along the deck and disappeared beneath the canvas dodgers, and he found himself almost hypnotized by the scene. He turned his eyes away and saw burning boats littering the sea; funeral pyres of flames and rolling black smoke that marked the death of boats and men.

  “What’d you get?” Cole asked.

  “Codebooks. This,” Edland said, showing Cole the machine.

  “Get it over to the 155, and don’t come back. You’ll just be in the way.”

  Edland started to protest when Cole said: “Yeah, I know. It’s your boat. But you’re in my way. And make sure Rich gets his lighter back. Those things are worth their weight in gold.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” Hardy grumbled as the medico wrapped a bandage around his arm. “It was perfectly all right until you started manhandling me.”

  “It’s a deep wound, Captain. You’ll need stitches when we get in.”

  “Supply parties reported in, sir,” Land said, examining the bandaging process out of curiosity.

  Hardy noticed his interest. “Shall I have the men set up a chair for you, Number One?”

  “That’s won’t be necessary, sir,” Land replied. “I won’t be staying. We’ve twenty-two wounded, including you, sir. Two dead. Most of the damage is from shrapnel although we took two solid bricks on the starboard quarter, but well above the waterline. I’m afraid that Courtney’s reported one of the shafts may be dislodged.”

  “Good Lord, Number One. Two bricks did that?” Hardy slapped the medico’s hands away, glaring at him.

  “Yes, sir. We were lucky, sir.”

  “Bridge, foremast,” a lookout shouted down. “MTB dead ahead, three thousand yards. MTB dead ahead, three thousand yards.”

  “Engine Room, Bridge,” Hardy said. “Down seventy-five revolutions on all engines. Helmsman, starboard twenty.” He turned to Land. “Number One, you will have a party assemble on the boat deck with lines and fittings, prepared to assist Mr. Cole’s boat. And you, sir,” he said to the medico who was replacing items in his canvas bag. “You will gather up your lot and make ready to assist the Americans in any way you can. Yeoman of Signals? Make to the American boat: ‘Where do you want us?’” Hardy moved his arm gingerly, trying to gauge the injury. “Well, it’s liable to lay up my art for a bit, Number One. Still, it could have been worse, eh, Edwin?”

  Land considered the quality of Hardy’s work and decided to take the high road. “We shall all miss your art, sir.”

  Hardy gave him an irritated look that said that his diplomacy was not appreciated. He leaned over the voice tube. “Helmsman. Port ten.” He watched as Firedancer approached the E-boat. The American PT boat was alongside the enemy boat, taking off prisoners.

  “Engine room, back one hundred. Helmsman starboard five. Steady on now, I don’t want to ram her.” He turned to Land, the pain in his arm becoming more noticeable. “Take her in alongside that beast, Number One. I shall go down and direct the deck crew. Besides, I want to see one of those big bastards.”

  “Yes, sir,” Land said. “Give my regards to Mr. Cole.”

  Cole watched as Firedancer maneuvered alongside the E-boat. He turned aft and shouted: “Murray? How’s it looking?”

  “You’d better get the lead out, Skipper.”

  “Rich?” Cole shouted. “Get a couple of guys and grab those lines.”

  Rich and two men jumped the short distance from the PT boat to the E-boat’s deck, made their way through the carnage to the starboard side, and waited for Firedancer’s crew to deploy the lines.

  Cole found Edland at his side. “What are you doing here?” He saw the 155 boat pull away, its deck crowded with prisoners. “You missed your ride.”

  “Like you said; it’s my boat.”

  “Prepare to receive lines, Mr. Cole,” someone shouted from Firedancer.

  Cole smiled. He recognized Hardy’s voice. He was happy to have his old friend close by but he didn’t think they could save the boat. She was taking too much water and although she was only half the length of the destroyer, the seawater racing into her hull would make her too heavy to tow. Or even keep afloat. He watched as three lines floated out from the destroyer and were tied off to the cleats. Three more followed and were secured as well. A swell drove Firedancer against the E-boat and the enemy craft groaned in protest. She was wallowing heavily.

  “Mr. Cole?” Hardy shouted. “Shall we pass you a cable to feed through that gun mount forward?”

  Cole glanced at the heavy gun in the gun well. She was probably well secured and could take the cable. “Okay, Captain. Rich, get up there and tie her off.”

  “I’ll help,” Edland said.

  “Mr. Cole?” Hardy again. “You have yourself quite a catch, haven’t you? Can you make headway?”

  “No. She’s dead. And she’s taking on water.”

  The E-boat twisted slightly in the waves and rubbed her length along Fi
redancer; steel against steel sent out a piercing squeal. Cole couldn’t be sure but he thought Firedancer was listing; she was being pulled over by the floundering E-boat.

  “Are her pumps working?” Hardy shouted.

  “Barely working,” Cole said. “We’ve got one engine but no headway. I don’t know how long she can last.”

  “Stand by, then. We’ll get ours up and pump you out.”

  Cole felt the E-boat shift to starboard and the rumble of items breaking loose below. He knew that she couldn’t be saved. She was doomed. He heard a snap like a pistol shot and saw a line whip through the air. There was another shot and a line aft parted. It whipped a cleat high over Firedancer’s superstructure and Cole felt the E-boat begin to settle at the stern.

  Cole cupped his hands around his mouth. “Firedancer? Cut us loose. We’re sinking.” He turned fore and aft shouting: “Abandon ship.”

  “Skipper!” It was Rich. “Get up here.”

  Cole ran forward, dodging debris and bodies. He found Rich, in the gun well, trying to free Edland’s hand from the mount. He jumped into the well. “Get out, Rich.”

  “I got …” Rich began.

  “Get off the goddamned boat.”

  Edland’s face was white and he bit his lip in agony. “I was trying to feed the line through the mount and the gun shifted. It caught my hand.”

  Cole turned on Rich who hadn’t moved. “Rich, I swear to God if you don’t get out, I’ll kill you.”

  “No way, Skipper.”

  Cole turned his attention back to the gun, trying to figure out a way to free Edland. He saw a way, but he needed Rich’s help. “Okay, Superman. Put your back under the barrel.” He turned to Edland. “We’re going to lift and if we don’t tear your arm off, pull it out.”

  The E-boat’s stern slid to port as her bow nosed against Firedancer’s hull. Edland cried out in pain and looked at Cole. His eyes said everything: Hurry. She was sinking.

  Cole joined Rich, bent down, and slid his back under the thick gun barrels. “On three. One, two …”

  The E-boat began to shudder as more water rushed into her dead body.