“Toys,” Rommel said dismissively.
“Of course, Feldmarschall,” Walters fell back but advanced with diffidence. “It is only a squadron of course but the boats are fitted with a new cannon. A very powerful gun, one hundred ten millimeter. Much larger than the armament on comparable vessels.”
“Walters…” Rommel said, growing weary of the discussion.
“Quite a revolutionary weapon, these boats,” Walters pushed the matter subtly.
“I don’t care,” Rommel said. “One hundred million mines should be buried along the French coast. Every square mile should hold one hundred and sixty thousand mines. I demanded ten million mines a month and was told” — the fieldmarschal’s patience gave way to frustration — “and I was told that I would have them. I do not have them. What I cannot have on land, I will have at sea. Revolutionary? Seaworthy? The S-boats will pepper the approaches to the beach with mines. Seed the English Channel with a vast garden of mines. That is what the S-boats will do. Dresser argued eloquently because it is expected of him. He’s made it quite clear that he despises those little boats.” The feldmarschall paused. “His protests were a formality. You will tell Dresser that the Commander of Army Group for Special Employment,” the title was impregnated with sarcasm, “has so ordered.” Rommel’s tone became harsh. “And you may add that the Fuehrer wishes that the Commander be accommodated in his duty to see to the defenses of the French coast.”
“Of course, Feldmarschall.”
“Cannons on S-boats,” Rommel said. “Wings. What good are they? Revolutionary? Untested you mean. You will see to it, Walters.” The decision was final, Rommel meant; turn the S-boats into minelayers and let’s have no more business about winged boats and fantastic cannons.
“Yes, Feldmarschall,” Walters said. What good are they? I don’t know, was Walters’s unspoken reply to Rommel’s question. Could they be better employed laying mines in the Channel? I don’t know. Could they really be of any use against the vast armada that the Allies were assembling in English ports? What role could they possibly play? I don’t know that either, Walters concluded as he left the conference room.
Walters was intrigued when Dresser had told him about the boats. He had first read about them in one of the daily report summaries that passed over his desk. He read each summary because he was methodical. He read this particular report a second time and then studied it after he rang for tea, and then made notes in the margin of the paper while adding cream and sugar. There was potential here — fast boats, guns, and an opportunity to place them directly in front of the invasion fleet. He glanced at the cover sheet and noticed that Dresser had advanced the report with no comment. He had either not taken the time to read the report, or had simply dismissed it.
A second cup of tea and a small pastry — he was a man of moderate habits — provided Walters with an idea. The one remaining Kriegsmarine resource was S-boats. A considerable number, in fact. Expendable if need be and most likely that need would arise. He made more notes and kept returning, although he wasn’t sure why, to the idea that these new boats were very fast.
He was dismayed to find that they were in the hands of Reubold. As an officer the man was a disaster, as a human being he was a failure, but Walters supposed that Reubold held his post because of the mystique that surrounded him.
But the boats. Rommel was right; they were untested except for an inconclusive sortie against an enemy convoy, and they certainly could be used as minelayers — preparation for the invasion was everything. But could they be better utilized? Was there something that their unique qualities could provide to the defense of the French coast; some way that they could significantly impact the invasion? Were they an unspoken answer to an unknown question?
“I don’t know,” Walters said as his footsteps echoed off the parquet floor like a clock ticking away the seconds. There might be time to find out what these strange boats could do but that depended on the answer to a question that was known and had been debated endlessly; when and where would the Allies attack? And that question, despite the certainty with which a great many generals and admirals argued, could honestly be answered: I don’t know.
When Seaman 2nd Class Tyne picked Cole up at the quay, all the seaman said was: “Captain wants to see you, sir.”
Cole hopped into the gray jeep with U.S. NAVY stenciled in black letters on the bumper, and settled in for the short ride to Captain Candelaria’s office.
“What’s it about?” Cole asked Tyne, who seemed to be habitually sucking on a piece of food that he had stuck between two teeth.
“Got me, sir,” Tyne said, steering the jeep easily through the mass of traffic that crammed the narrow streets of the base.
“No guesses, huh?” Cole asked, trying again.
“Not a one, sir,” Tyne said, shifting into neutral and coasting to a stop at an intersection.
“You’d think a man with discretion like yours would at least rate seaman first,” Cole said.
“Yeah,” Seaman 2nd Class Tyne said in disgust. “That’s what I thought too, sir.”
Captain Candelaria, a short, squat man with a widow’s peak that did nothing to increase his height, quickly read over the orders. He felt Edland, sitting across the desk, waiting with some degree of impatience as he flipped through the pages once, and then began carefully reading the instructions. Let him wait, Candelaria thought. He didn’t care much for errand boys from headquarters coming down here with harebrained schemes and crazy notions about how the war needed to be run. And always in a hurry, too. Everything was a goddamned emergency for these guys.
Well, now they wanted Cole to go on some fool’s errand and Candelaria would have to listen to Cole bitch and bellyache. “That guy would try the patience of Job,” Candelaria muttered to one of his officers after a tense staff meeting. Cole may have been some hotshot squadron commander in the Mediterranean but he wasn’t fighting the Italians out here; no sir. This was the Channel and these were the Germans and by God they were a damned sight tougher than those goddamned Wops.
“Okay, Commander,” the captain said, tossing the orders aside. “So you wrangled yourself some top secret assignment and you want some of my boats.”
“I’ll need two PT boats from a squadron stationed at the base, yes, sir,” Edland said.
“My boats,” Candelaria said, “my base.” Goddamned snotty-nosed, intellectual fag.
“Yes, sir,” Edland said.
“Yeah,” Candelaria said. “Well, maybe you can’t tell me what you’re doing with my boats but I want to know when you leave and when you get back, and if anything happens to them, I want to know that, too. Now, this guy, Cole. He’s a pain in the ass, so if you get any trouble from him, you let me know. I’ve sat him down once or twice and gave him a good talking-to and he knows who the boss is around here.”
“Yes, sir,” Edland said.
The intercom at the captain’s elbow buzzed and a raspy voice announced: “Lieutenant Cole, sir.”
Candelaria depressed the TALK button and said; “Yeah. Send him in.” To Edland he quickly added, “You just remember what I said.”
Edland stood as Cole entered.
“Cole,” Candelaria said, “this is Lieutenant Commander Edland.”
There was a flash of recognition between the two men. “Yes, sir,” Cole said. “The commander and I know each other.”
“Well, this is a fine time for me to find that out,” Candelaria sputtered to Edland. “You could have told me that you two know each other.”
“Yes, sir,” Edland said. He glanced at Cole. The man had changed. He was taller than Edland remembered or maybe he appeared taller because he was so thin — gaunt, in fact. His face was lined and haggard looking despite the deep tan, and his eyes had the look of a man who had seen too much for his own good. But they still burned with emotion.