Armada Read online

  And then when they went in: madness, sheer pandemonium. Endless explosions tearing the darkness to bits and the boat weaving crazily across the water—full daylight with the brilliant flash of cannons, alternating with night. Kettledrums, Waldvogel thought, trying to find something comparable to describe the sound. But there were no words to describe it. How Reubold functioned was beyond any sane man’s comprehension.

  Waldvogel wiped his face again, grateful that his stomach had finally calmed. Best not to mention sane men and Reubold in the same sentence.

  “I told you not to come.”

  Waldvogel turned, still holding on to the lifelines for support.

  “You wouldn’t listen,” Fregattenkapitan Reubold said, flashing a crooked smile.

  “I wanted to see …” Waldvogel managed in a weak voice, but his stomach began to churn.

  “You wanted to see what it was like,” Reubold said in a knowing manner, finishing the sentence for him. “Yes, I know. You Silver Stripes always talk about going into action just one time, and then you have plenty of stories to tell after a fine meal and drinks in a comfortable restaurant far from any danger.”

  Waldvogel clenched his jaws tightly, willing himself not to vomit again. When the wave of sickness passed, he shook his head. “No. I wanted to see how the Trinity functioned.”

  “Yes,” Reubold said, waving to the divers stationed on the quay. “Well, they killed a gunner who stood too close to the breech despite the training and my warnings, and it’s well that we had so many fat targets. Your boat is fast enough, Korvettenkapitan, but it’s practically impossible to aim your guns. We have proved one thing: we are not ready for the real war.”

  Both men were silent as the stretcher bearing the dead gunner was handed up to four sailors on the quay. One of the gunner’s lifeless arms dangled from beneath the blanket covering his body. Waldvogel shivered as he saw the wedding band gleam under the dull work lights scattered along the quay. Did I do that? he wondered. A torrent of accusations ran through his mind. Perhaps I should have trained them better? Maybe they weren’t fully prepared. Didn’t they read the manuals ? I conducted classes; surely they made notes and listened to me? He remembered the young faces set in bored resignation as he droned on about this new type of gun.

  “Check the struts and wings,” Reubold’s voice broke into his thoughts. He was speaking to the divers. “I’ll sound the hull but I want you to go over those mounts like you’re looking for gold. They took a beating before we got up and I was hard on them in the fight.” He glanced at Waldvogel for confirmation.

  “Yes,” the korvettenkapitan said. “Yes. Look for fractures. Please, be very careful. It’s very delicate, you see …”

  Reubold jerked his head, releasing the divers before Waldvogel finished his instructions to them. They moved to the access ladder, pulling the cables for their cumbersome underwater lights.

  “Don’t worry about your precious wings,” Reubold said, dismissing Waldvogel’s concerns. He unzipped his overalls and pulled out a cigarette case. “They’ll search every inch of them for defects.” He lit his cigarette and then examined the gold lighter. “Goering gave this to me,” he said in remembrance. “Flags, medals, a sea of uniforms; everyone was there.” Reubold slipped the lighter into a pocket and drew deeply on the cigarette. He watched as the lights glowed like miniature floating suns under the surface of the black water. There was something absolutely peaceful and innocent in the ballet of the golden orbs gliding silently back and forth.

  Reubold shrugged, dismissing his own thoughts. “Now, each morning before his morning toilet, the Fat Man asks: ‘Is that shit Reubold dead yet?’”

  Waldvogel straightened, feeling secure enough to stand without gripping the lifeline. Such a strange man. Such a strange man. Each day he learned just a bit more about Reubold, certainly not from the man himself but from observation. He had heard him described as a fallen romantic, a tragic figure, and a scoundrel. He had heard from one man that the famous fregattenkapitan was a hollow shell—drained of life. Waldvogel was more confused than ever about the man he hoped would prove the worth of his boats and guns. But Waldvogel was deeply concerned as well—Reubold’s instability might be the undoing of his hard work. The fregattenkapitan was his last chance.

  Reubold tossed the cigarette into the water. “We were lucky. We got a tanker and managed to hit other ships as well. But the men need more training, and you, dear Waldvogel, must find a way for us to aim those guns of yours without killing more gunners.”

  Waldvogel winced at the mention of the dead man. It did not bother Reubold to be cruel—at times he seemed to relish it.

  “It was his own fault,” Reubold said coldly, taking some of the burden for the man’s death from Waldvogel. “He forgot what he was doing and where he was. You do that once in this business and you’ll never do it again. Take them back into the classroom and take Junghans with you. I’m sure the oberbootsmannmaat can keep their attention focused on the lesson.”

  Waldvogel nodded. The men feared Junghans, but they respected him as well.

  The fregattenkapitan threw his arms over his head, stretching. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “I must go and do military things now.”

  Such a strange man. One moment lighthearted, the next grim and unrelenting. Sometimes he was distant, as if his mind had been called back to another place and time, but then he became gentle and open, speaking of art and music. At such times Waldvogel could almost feel the torment that lay within Fregattenkapitan Richard Reubold. But then a veil would descend and darkness would fill the man’s eyes.

  “Find me a way to aim your guns, Waldvogel,” Reubold said as he moved forward. “Our dear admiral sees little use for S-boats and no use for your devices. They aren’t big enough, you see, our little fast boats. No battleships or cruisers in,” he gestured to the confines of the dark pen, illuminated only by the harsh glare of the work lights, “this cave. Dresser has no faith in our fast boats.” He gave a short laugh. “I doubt that he has much faith in me, either.”

  “They haven’t proved themselves yet,” Waldvogel said over the din of the gantry moving into place overhead. “It isn’t fair. I haven’t had time to properly demonstrate what the boats and the guns are capable of. You see that, don’t you? You realize their potential, don’t you? We’ve talked.”

  “Talked, yes,” Reubold said. He did a poor job of hiding his pity for the scientist. “Talked here and in Paris,” he glanced out the huge open maw of the pen to the brightness of the sky and the sparkling waters of Cherbourg Harbor, “and out there when you weren’t vomiting. As far as time goes, you’ve had enough, I’m sure Dresser would say. Out there, on the other side of the Channel, our enemies await.” The half-grin again, but this time Reubold’s eyes were filled with concern. “Time the Allies will not give you, nor will our dear admiral, so what doesn’t work on your remarkable boats must be corrected, now.”

  Jordan Cole watched the Aldis lamp flash in the distance as Bill Ewing on the 168 boat reported in. The sun had just broken the horizon behind Ewing’s PT boat so that the flashing lamp was difficult to read.

  “He hasn’t seen anything at all, Skipper,” Randy DeLong said, standing next to the signaling searchlight on the starboard side of the small bridge. The signalman handling the light flashed END OF MESSAGE and then switched off the light. He waited for additional orders.

  The two PT boats had searched the choppy Channel waters for a downed Hurricane pilot for most of the night. The French coastline was clearly visible on the horizon, even in the glare of the rising sun. The sky was barren of clouds. They were two 80-foot boats far from base, within sight of German-occupied territory.

  “Okay,” Lieutenant Cole said to his executive officer. “That means we go in.” He nodded at the signalman. “Tell them to keep station off our starboard beam, Barney.” He leaned over the voice tube to the chart house jutting from the instrument panel. “Bob? We’re going in. Pull out your charts and I’ll be righ
t there.” He turned to Ensign DeLong. “Take over, Randy,” he said, moving away from the wheel located on the portside of the bridge. DeLong took the wheel, advanced the three throttles, and checked the flux gate compass and pioneer compass on his left.

  The two boats had been easing toward the French coast at just over 10 knots. Now that Cole had made the decision, the speed was increased to 30 knots. DeLong felt the apprehension of every man on board. As he gripped the wheel and looked over the rising bow, he saw the gunners on the 37-mm mount double-checking the gun. The seaman on the 20-mm gun was doing the same. He heard the brush of the twin-50s on the track as the gunners scanned the sky.

  They’d been doing this sort of thing for a while. First in the Mediterranean and now in the English Channel. There’d been twelve boats in 142(2) Squadron a year ago—now there were six.

  DeLong scanned the compass and then the sea ahead. The skipper stood near the torpedo director stand, training his binoculars on the horizon as the boats sped through the gray-green waters, trailing a frothy, white wake behind them.

  Cole had been withdrawn since they’d been ordered to England. He’d barely spoken since they had loaded the boats on the backs of two grimy tankers and begun the voyage, safely embedded in the interior of a large convoy. The PT boats didn’t look right, hauled out of the water and braced and tied down on the decks of the ponderous ships—helpless if the Germans attacked. The boats’ crews were nervous during the trip, concerned about the welfare of the boats and unused to the maze of passageways and bulkheads of the tankers. So they stayed on deck, near their boats, playing cards or sleeping, or checking equipment, and Cole was always present—his quiet, commanding manner enough to reassure the crews that everything was okay. But DeLong knew that it wasn’t okay with the skipper. He was edgy and lost his temper more than normal. It could have been the loss of the other boats. That hit everyone hard. It had been a SNAFU all right; somebody had forgotten to tell them about the E-boats and F-lighters. Somebody at ONI had failed to pass on the information, or didn’t cross a T or dot an I, or something. Nobody knows how these things happen, they just do. It was a mistake. A SNAFU; a lot of good guys dead.

  “Going below, Randy,” Cole said, disappearing down the tiny hatchway to the Chart House.

  “Okay, Skipper,” DeLong replied. He drew a deep breath, pulling in the scent of the ocean. It was peaceful out here. He felt the thump of the boat’s bow breaking into the Channel waves, heard the muffled roar of the Packard engines, and turned his head slightly to let the salty breeze flow down into the collar of his jacket. One of these days he’d have his own boat. He’d miss the men and the skipper of course—there wasn’t a better crew than the guys of the 155 boat. And there probably wasn’t a better squadron commander than Jordan Cole. But DeLong wanted his own boat.

  He put that thought aside, however, as the French coast began to grow on the horizon, and with it the increased knowledge that the enemy would be waiting for them.

  Admiral McNamar shook his head. “I’ll say one thing for you, Mike. You’re persistent.”

  “It’s about the Southern, sir,” Michael Edland said. “May I join you?”

  McNamar motioned to the chair across the table. He’d been enjoying lunch when he’d spotted the lieutenant-commander entering the dining room and making a beeline for his table.

  “You know it’s hard to find a decent chicken dinner over here,” McNamar said, stabbing at the remains of a tiny pullet. “The first thing I’m going to do when I get home is get a good chicken dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Edland said.

  McNamar laid his fork next to his plate, placed his elbows on the table, and folded his fingers together. He focused his attention on the sandy-haired man with the deep scar running from his right ear to his nose. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”

  “After I read the action report of Southern’s encounter with the E-boats, I contacted her XO. He and I knew each other before the war.”

  “You fellows in ONI have quite a network, don’t you?” McNamar said drily.

  “It doesn’t hurt that I’m on your staff, sir,” Edland countered. “The XO confirmed the points in the report that were in dispute.”

  “E-boats traveling at sixty knots or more and mounted with six-inch guns? You’re damned right they were in dispute.”

  “Yes, sir. The fire was generally wild. Torpedoes did most of the damage.”

  “Their aim was off. What of it? They sank a tanker and shot up some of our ships. I’ll give the little bastards high marks for that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Edland continued patiently. “The tanker was torpedoed. Obviously a conventional E-boat weapon. But the hits on the Southern were not the results of a conventional weapon. The rounds appear to have burned through the hull and superstructure of the destroyer escort.”

  “Burned? What do you mean, burned? Look, Mike, ordnance is not your bailiwick, right? You’re an intelligence officer, the Office of Naval Intelligence. The blackened area around a hit and the fact that the round is traveling at a high rate of speed is likely to give the impression, and rightly so, of a ‘burned’ area.”

  “Of course, sir,” Edland agreed calmly. “But the metal was fused. Melted and fused at the point of impact—like it was done with a torch, the XO said.”

  McNamar sat back in his chair in resignation and signaled to a waiter. “Take this away,” he instructed the man, “and bring me a martini, neat.” After the table was cleared, the admiral eyed Edland.

  “With your permission, sir,” Edland said. “I’d like to pursue this.”

  “In plain language, Mike.”

  “I want your authorization to capture prisoners. Perhaps an E-boat.”

  “Oh, is that all?” McNamar said as the waiter arrived with his drink. “You know, the British have been trying to do that for the past five years.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m aware of that. I’ve been researching the subject.”

  “‘Researching?’ Yeah, you’re an intellectual, aren’t you? Archaeologist or something?”

  “Anthropologist. Specializing in the Far East,” Edland said, watching McNamar carefully. The admiral was not the sort of man to reveal what he was really thinking, so Edland wasn’t certain if McNamar would accept his idea. They’d known each other for ten months, since he had been assigned to McNamar’s staff, and Edland had been impressed by the admiral’s pragmatic intelligence. McNamar was a clear, concise thinker who seldom ventured into the abstract. That was why he depended on Edland, to form concepts into realities.

  “How do you plan on doing this?” McNamar said.

  “There’s a PT boat squadron at Portland,” Edland said cautiously. “We know that the E-boats are operating out of Cherbourg, Boulogne, and Le Havre.”

  “So you want to snatch one of the Cherbourg boats.” The statement was obvious. Cherbourg was closest to Portland, half the distance of Le Havre—a straight run across the Channel. “Well, you got guts. I was on a PT boat once and by God I’ll never do it again. Those guys are insane, which means the E-boat crews are probably just as bad. I’d bet they’re both just one step short of being pirates.” He sipped his drink and made a face. Edland saw him mulling over the idea. “You’re not bigoted, Mike, but you’re damned close. You know something about the invasion.”

  “Everyone knows something, sir,” Edland said. No, he wasn’t bigoted; he was not declared important because his knowledge of some aspects of the invasion was deemed critical. Bigots bore the responsibility of carrying vital information, of maybe knowing how and where—but not when, only SHAEF knew that—the invasion was to take place. Bigots carried an additional responsibility: don’t get captured. If the Germans captured a bigot, they could force him to talk. It wasn’t like the movies where the handsome American outsmarted a comic German interrogator. There was a good chance the bigot would talk under torture, and they had information that could doom the invasion, or at least cost the lives of seve
ral thousand men.

  “Yeah,” McNamar agreed, unimpressed. “Everybody knows something. And some of it may actually be true. But why take the chance, Mike? You know that I can veto this harebrained scheme of yours from the get-go. Or maybe I’ll just beach you and you pick someone to send.”

  “Yes, sir,” Edland admitted. “You can do that.”

  McNamar’s eyebrows arched as he realized that his bluff had been called. Edland was the type of man who could agree you into coming around to his way of thinking.

  “There may be something to what you’re saying,” McNamar said, considering what Edland was proposing. “But—”

  “Pardon me, sir. But if the Germans do have a new weapon, it’s better to find out about it now than to be surprised later on. During the invasion.”

  “Yeah,” McNamar said skeptically.

  “Yes, sir,” Edland said. He had his arguments all carefully arranged if McNamar denied him his PT boats. He planned his negotiations well in advance, playing the roles of both participants in his mind until he had exhausted point and counterpoint. From this intellectual encounter came his strategy. He expected McNamar to be skeptical at first; he also expected the admiral to accept his proposition.

  “Okay, Mike,” McNamar said. “You’ve got your mission. I’ll cut the orders today and you’ll be on your boat in no time, puking your guts out.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Just one thing, Mike,” McNamar said. “Those E-boat crews have been fighting their war for a long time. They’re very, very good at what they do, and the ones that have lasted this long are the best of them. Their boats are twenty feet larger than PT boats and they’re made of steel, not wood like our little cockleshells.”

  “I’ll be careful, sir.”

  “Yeah,” McNamar said, signaling for another drink. His eyes traveled over the starched white tablecloth before he turned them on Edland. He liked this boy, man really, but everyone seemed so young. Young men dying in war, what a waste. “You just be careful not to get yourself killed. Good staff are hard to come by. I sure don’t want to waste my time training another guy to put up with me.”