Armada

by Steven Wilson

“Three.” Cole and Rich pressed backs against the barrels. “Push,” Cole shouted, straining to bring all of his strength against the immobile piece. He felt water lapping at his ankles and knew they had only seconds.

  “I’m out,” Edland called.

  Rich and Cole pushed away from the mount and scrambled out of the well, joining Edland. Cole dove over the side, and as he did he felt the deck of the E-boat slide away. When he came to the surface he located Rich and Edland and swam over to them. Firedancer had lowered a boat and it was quickly pulling toward them.

  Cole spat out a mouthful of water. “We lost your boat.”

  Edland nodded weakly.

  Cole turned to Rich. “And the next goddamned time that I give you an order, you’d better damn well carry it out.”

  Rich’s teeth chattered uncontrollably as he fought to keep his head above the choppy water. “Okay, Skipper. But could you at least wait until I get into some dry skivvies before you chew me out?”

  Chapter 30

  Gierek couldn’t wake Jagello. He shouted at the bomb-aimer/navigator above the roar of the wind, and pried his numb hand off the steering wheel long enough to awkwardly punch Jagello’s shoulder, but the man had not moved. He wanted him to wake up, to be alive, to see home.

  The sun had finally emerged and burned away most of the gray clouds, and had even managed in some places to reward Gierek with a glimpse of blue sky. It was a miracle, a sign; it was God saying that there is hope, and it is now given to you and that battered wooden craft with no instruments and a wild engine, so that you can come home. Not to your village, or even to bask in the power of the mountains that teetered on the edge of the sky—or Poland. Ahead was the base.

  “Wake up!” Gierek shouted. “Jagello? We’re here. Home. I can see it. We’re home.” Suddenly a single green flare wobbled into the sky from the control tower, the wind pushing gently on the trail of smoke that said two things: the green flare meant that you are cleared to land on any strip, and the wind is light out of the northwest.

  He had no radio, he couldn’t cut the engines and feather the props; he wasn’t even sure the damned airplane wouldn’t shatter into a thousand pieces the minute it touched down. He knew the fire and medical crews would be out and ready to come to his aid, but he also knew—although his mind did not linger on the thought—that sometimes they fought valiantly but hopelessly until the flames could finally be subdued, and blackened, twisted bodies removed from the wreckage.

  The starboard engine began to race again, much faster this time as if excited that salvation was near. Gierek was afraid it would explode; he had known this to happen. The wing would be severed from the aircraft and she would spiral into the ground leaving nothing more than a twisted mass.

  He had one chance to land. He could not coax her back into the air after a pass nor could he be certain that she would not explode. One chance.

  Everything happened quickly. He chose his landing strip, reducing power and landing speed, but maintaining enough to prevent the aircraft from stalling. He saw that the grass strip was peppered by pools of shimmering water, the remnants of earlier rains, and he tried to guide the Mosquito away from them. The ground was coming up and shapes on either side flew by. The aircraft resisted, shaking with fright as it neared the earth, trying to snatch control away from Gierek.

  Thoughts raced through his mind at a fantastic pace—faces, events, scenes—but everything was secondary to his struggle to get the aircraft to the ground. He suddenly remembered the undercarriage and wondered if the wheels and bomb bay doors were down, but he just as quickly dismissed the notion. He could have bailed out over the Channel with a one-in-ten chance of being rescued, but Jagello would have had no chance to bail out, and even if he had, he would have not survived in the water.

  Gierek chose the aircraft and his friend.

  The aircraft hit. Gierek screamed and thought at first that the Mosquito had exploded, but then realized that they had collided with the ground and were skidding across the soggy grass. The damp earth had helped—cushioning the impact. But the wet grass was slick and the aircraft was in no hurry to stop. Gierek felt the tail twist to the right and then heard a blast as something broke free. Both engines chewed themselves to bits because their propellers had been running when they hit. Now the props could not turn and the shafts raced within the hubs, screeching in distress. Parts of the engine peppered the body of the Mosquito, slamming into the cloth-covered wood frame—angrily punching holes through the flimsy skin.

  Gierek tasted blood in his mouth and realized that he had bitten his tongue. He tried to clamp his mouth shut. It was impossible; the plane was shuddering so much that he couldn’t keep his hands on the wheel—there was no need to do so anyway—or from being slammed about in his harness.

  The Mosquito continued to slip to the right, until Gierek discovered that he was looking back at the control tower and base, and racing behind him, like a scene from some sort of American comedy, was a phalanx of vehicles.

  He was frozen. His brain refused to comprehend what he saw. He decided that there was nothing he could do but ride this ridiculous ride and watch a random collection of frustrated vehicles chase him. He had become part of the seat, so fixed from fear and weariness that he could not, or would not, move.

  The vehicles grew closer and he knew that the aircraft was slowing down, but now he became more frightened than he had ever been because he caught the heady stench of aviation petrol. The tanks were pierced and he saw the thin, iridescent trail of fuel that shimmered in the soft light of the young sun. All this, simply to burn alive in front of your chums.

  The Mosquito jerked once, heavily, and then again, but not as much this time. Everything was silent and then the silence was replaced by the woeful moan of a siren and the harsh sounds of engines.

  Gierek’s eyes were focused straight ahead, and through smashed Perplex he saw rough shapes. They moved about the aircraft, like demons dancing around a fire, and then he heard the sound of things being smashed and he felt a dozen hands on him and men shouting. The hands roamed over his shoulders, head, ribs, and he felt a hard blow to his chest as a fist was driven into the three-point harness release.

  And then he was floating and above him was blue sky filled with gentle white clouds that moved with grace. He realized that he was suspended in air by strong arms and he felt relief. Suddenly he was blinded by the soft sun and thought, ridiculously, that he was being held up in some outlandish ceremony of survival. He found himself lowered until a sheet of canvas caressed his back. A stretcher. They do that for the dead and dying as well as the living, don’t they?

  Men were still shouting and he heard the powerful hiss of foam being sprayed over his aircraft. A dozen faces appeared above him and examined him with a curiosity that he found disturbing. He recognized the kind face of the flight surgeon, who began carefully cutting away his flying togs and at the same time asking him where he was injured.

  Finally Gierek was able to say. “I am not injured,” although he felt the way he had when he ran his automobile into a ditch—everything hurt. He was too weak to answer any of the surgeon’s questions, but he managed one of his own. “How is Jagello?”

  The flight surgeon’s hands expertly probed Gierek’s ribs, head, arms, and legs. “A bit banged up, I’m afraid,” the flight surgeon said. He drew a syringe full of clear liquid, flicked the vial twice with his fingertip, and then added: “He’ll be back at it in a month or two. I shouldn’t worry about him. You’ll be fine as well, I imagine. Set of bruises. Broken ribs.”

  Gierek tried to manage a nod, but failed. Instead his eyes drift to his left as he felt the sting of the needle and fixed on the Black Prince. The animal sat placidly, unconcerned with the mayhem around him, his pink tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth, watching Gierek. The dog seemed to Gierek astoundingly wise, but the thought vanished as he felt a bandage being roughly bound around his head.

  Gierek began to puzzle through the presence of
the dog a short distance away, but because of the drugs and the adrenaline, his mind refused to cooperate in the process. A haze appeared and moved like a fog over his vision, and as it did, the dog stood and moved to him until it was at his side.

  Gierek could smell the grease and oil that permeated the animal’s coat, and he thought that the dog remained standing for that reason—to establish his presence. Then the dog dropped to the ground, pushing his body heavily against Gierek’s. The pilot felt the dog’s warmth and watched as the animal carefully laid its head down on its paws, closed its eyes, and took up station next to him. As Gierek slid into unconsciousness, his hand sought out the filthy, thick fur, and he intertwined his fingers in the oily thatch. As full darkness claimed him, Gierek’s mind relaxed to the rhythm of the Black Prince’s breathing.

  Chapter 31

  PT-155, her deck cleared of prisoners transferred to Firedancer on the open sea, slid peacefully into her berth at Wayside Dock. She was battered, bits of her torn away by the gunfire of the E-boat, and there were streaks of charring as rounds burned across the wood. Her crew was worn out; the deep-seated fatigue that excises the excitement of battle so completely that all that remains is a collection of random images. They had fought and failed to save Mr. Edland’s boat. That was what they had taken to calling the vessel that had thwarted their attempts to capture—Mr. Edland’s boat. It was gone now, deep in the waters of the English Channel, along with the remnants of two PT boats that had burned down to the waterline and then slid below the surface.

  The 155 boat brought back three of the dead—American dead. Still forms under dark gray blankets with the initials USN stenciled on them. It was always difficult to travel with the dead, although they never asked anything of you. They were content to lie neatly arranged on the Day Room canopy, bothering no one. Their voyages were over. Their presence, though, was a different matter. They represented the unspoken guilt of the survivors—guilt mixed with relief that they had not died. The guilt was heavier, as if the survivors shared a responsibility with the dead, and for the dead. And that by living they had somehow betrayed the dead. That was the nature of war.

  “How’s the hand?” Cole asked Edland as the commander rolled his fingers back and forth.

  “In one piece,” Edland said. “Thanks for saving me back there.”

  Cole shrugged. “The navy takes care of its own.”

  “That’s what I hear,” Edland said. “But thanks anyway.”

  DeLong brought the boat alongside the dock expertly, barely causing the canvas bumpers to sway as she moved in. Several crewmen jumped to the dock and tied her off as DeLong signaled to disengage the engines. He stepped away from the wheel and stood motionless for a moment before searching the pockets of his jacket for cigarettes. Cole saw the action and tossed him a crumpled pack.

  “Now what?” Edland said.

  “We gas up, re-arm, and go back out,” Cole said matter-of-factly. “There’s an invasion on, you know. Why? Want to go along?”

  A thin smile crept across Edland’s face. He’d finally had his fill of PT boats. “No. Not this time. I’d better get up to London and report.”

  “Sorry about your boat,” Cole said, catching the pack that DeLong threw back to him. “It would have looked swell mounted on the wall.”

  “We got some important stuff. Codebooks. The decoding machine. That’s something.”

  “Yeah,” Cole said, stepping off the boat and onto the dock. Edland followed him. “So long, Commander.”

  Edland nodded, looking at Cole. “Take care of yourself, Lieutenant.”

  Edland headed up the dock, passing a British naval officer who looked familiar. Then he realized it was the man he’d met at the briefing in London; the one who knew Cole. A seaman second class, standing next to a jeep on the wharf snapped to attention.

  “Commander Edland, sir?” he asked.

  Edland nodded.

  “They want you back up in London, tout de suite. They sent me to pick you up.”

  “What’s going on?” Edland asked.

  “Got me, sir,” the seaman said, sliding behind the steering wheel and pressing the starter. “Something big, I guess. Nobody tells me nothing.”

  “Okay,” Edland said, suddenly weary. He looked back to see the naval officer talking to Cole, and then he looked at the other PT boats coming in. They looked as weary as he felt, he decided, and thought of something he had once heard. Where do we find such men? He felt, for a moment, something very unexpected. It was pride. Honor. Emotions that he gave no consideration to because he always held them suspect. They could not be quantified and there was no empirical evidence to support them, but here they were, nevertheless. Where do we find such men?

  “Ready to go, Commander?” the seaman asked, shifting into first.

  Edland nodded and settled back in the seat.

  “Hello, Jordan,” Dickie Moore said as he approached Cole.

  “Hi,” Cole said. “Take over a minute, will you, Randy?”

  “Rough, was it?” Dickie said, looking over the boat.

  “Pretty rough,” Cole said. “I lost some men. What brought you here? I thought you’d be up in London with the big brains.”

  Dickie shook his head and managed a troubled smile. Cole saw him preparing himself. Finally, Dickie took a quick breath and blurted: “She’s dead, Jordan.”

  It took a moment before Cole could repeat the words to himself, but they still made no sense. He looked at Dickie, his tired mind trying to shift through the meaning. “What?”

  “Rebecca’s dead, Jordan,” Dickie said. His voice caught as he looked at Cole with sheer helplessness.

  Cole stood motionless. Everything from his last visit rushed at him. Rebecca on the settee, William the butler, her mother, Rebecca slipping the bookmark between the pages of the book, the comb, mirror, brush, bottles … a box, some kind of box, the coverlet on the settee. There were plants all around them; he could remember the scent and he thought that the broad leaves of some must have been heavily waxed because they shone so. He recalled her mother’s cool voice, and the slow, fluid motion of Rebecca drawing her feet back so that he could sit down.

  Dickie was talking again, the words taking some form, becoming distinct now.

  But the words meant nothing; they were as unreal as his friend’s presence. Slowly Cole felt his body weaken and his hands turn very cold, as if he had shaken hands with death and seen its horrible face for the first time.

  “That’s not true,” he said stupidly, and then grew numb as a thousand questions rushed at him. “No. That’s not true.” He knew death. He’d seen it in war. This was not war and Rebecca could not be dead. There was no reason for it.

  “Her heart,” Dickie said. His voice was strained. “Her mother told me. When she was a girl. She was quite ill.”

  Cole felt anger well up in him. “It’s a lie,” he snapped. “You’re a goddamned liar.”

  There was silence between them before Dickie tried again. “No,” Dickie said. “You must be reasonable about this, Jordan. Rebecca’s dead. Her heart gave out. She’s gone. Don’t make me say it again. I loved her, too, as well you know. Like a sister. She was a decent person.”

  Cole’s legs gave way and he half-stumbled to the PT’s gunnel and slumped against it. “That can’t be,” he said in a whisper. “It can’t be.” These things don’t happen. Men die in battle. He’d seen the death of civilians during the Blitz, but not a single person, not Rebecca. Not someone who meant so much to him. The only words that could have come to him, came. It’s not fair. Not her. Not Rebecca. It’s not fair.

  “She loved you, Jordan. Very much. She wanted to live. It wasn’t possible. More death in this godforsaken world. Hers …” Dickie began but then stopped in defeat. “I’ll never understand it.”

  Jordan looked up, tears rolling down his cheek. “What am I going to do?” he said. “I can’t take this.” He stood, looking about as if for answers. “Dickie? What am I going to do?” He walk
ed away. What will I do? he asked again. He pushed the tears out of his eyes with the heels of his palms. Given and then taken, he thought, but nothing in those words was meant to comfort him or explain the death of a woman he was truly beginning to love. There was no rationale behind it. All Jordan Cole had was a sense of loss, a sure knowledge of abandonment, and the certainty of survival; he would have to bury, again, all human emotion. He returned to his friend.

  “She didn’t tell me,” he said, his voice cracking. “Why didn’t she say something?”

  “She pretended. She pretended that she was getting better. She probably convinced herself. She had me convinced.” Dickie shook his head and then looked up, as if he were about to curse God. “This bloody awful life.”

  “When is the funeral?”

  “Three days.”

  Cole nodded. “I probably can’t … I mean I won’t be able …”

  “I know, old friend,” Dickie said. “I’ll pass on your sentiments to the family,” he added quickly as he watched Cole struggle to find words.

  “Would you tell her mother,” Cole said. “Tell her that I loved Rebecca. Tell her …” He shrugged; there was nothing more he could say.

  “I’ll supply the message. Don’t worry about that.”

  “Okay,” Cole whispered.

  DeLong appeared behind Dickie Moore. “We got the word, Skipper. We’ve got to hustle.” He noticed Cole’s face. “You okay, Skip?”

  Cole cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “What is it, Randy?”

  “They need us right back out there, Skipper.”

  “Okay,” Cole said, taking another breath. “Okay. Tell the guys to saddle up. I’ll be right with you.” Cole waited for DeLong to leave before turning to Dickie. He wanted to find the right words; he wanted to say something that would make everything all right, that would wipe away the pain. But he could think of nothing. Finally, he managed a troubled smile.

  “You know, Dickie… .” He felt as if he had been abandoned. “I never got to tell her how much that she meant to me.”