“Can’t we get at them?” Montgomery asked, making it sound as if one only need send a terrier down the rat hole after the rat.
“If I may,” Air Chief Marshall Leigh-Mallory said to McNamar. “We can indeed, Field Marshal. What is required are Tall Boy bombs, placed rather precisely next to the pens.”
“Next to them?” Montgomery said. “I should think that it would be more appropriate to drop them directly on Jerry’s head.”
Leigh-Mallory allowed the audience a mild chuckle before continuing. “Not in this case, Field Marshal. These so-called earthquake bombs are most effective when they undermine the structure of the pens. They are quite large and very effective.”
“You haven’t been all that successful with U-boat pens,” Churchill growled. “Isn’t your optimism a bit misplaced?”
“No, Prime Minister,” Leigh-Mallory replied. “We didn’t have these bombs when the U-boats were a threat. Now that the American and Royal Navies have effectively countered the U-boats, it has become almost superfluous to attack U-boat pens with these bombs. They are expensive and in limited quantity. Best to save them for special targets.”
“Have it your way, Air Chief Marshal,” Churchill said, waving his objection aside with a cigar. “But I won’t have them used against the Occupied Channel Islands.” He nodded to the American admiral, whether to continue or to emphasize his edict, Dickie wasn’t sure.
“There is no other viable threat at sea to the invasion except E-boats,” McNamar continued. “We’ve had some reports of miniature submarines, but those have yet to materialize. The E-boats do pose a serious danger to the invasion fleet and should not be discounted just because they have remained relatively inactive over the past few months. I think that the Air Chief Marshal is correct; crush them in their pens before they have a chance to be employed. There is one other thing; one of my staff has discovered what he believes to be an improved E-boat. Very fast and very powerful. He’s talked me into letting him have a closer look.”
A wave of laughs filled the room and someone commented, shaking his head at the impertinence of young men: “Brave man. Brave man.”
“That remains to be seen,” McNamar said.
“Air Chief Marshal,” General Dwight Eisenhower said. “Will you attend to the E-boat pens, please?” Ike, Dickie thought. Ever the diplomat; nearly always cordial, until someone crossed him, then the famous smile disappeared and the equally famous temper exploded.
“Delighted, sir,” Mallory said. “I’ll draw up the response and have it to you immediately.”
Dickie fell back to writing, the question of E-boats seemingly addressed. The mention of PT boats brought Jordan Cole to mind. Cole had called him when he returned to England and the two had shared dinner and drinks in a tidy pub in Southampton. It had been two years since they had seen one another, and most of the time was spent catching up on what both had been doing. Dickie commented on Cole’s deep tan and lamented the fact that he seldom saw the sun, even when it shone. “Too busy,” Dickie had commented as he cut into a thick slice of lamb. “Far too busy.” The pub was crowded with diners, enjoying the warmth of each other’s company in the gentle din of a place where, for at least several hours, there was no war. Dickie could see that Cole thoroughly appreciated being among people whose only concerns were a good laugh and bright conversation. As it was since they had known each other, Cole listened and Dickie talked; Cole laughed at Dickie’s amorous adventures that always seemed to end in a tragic farce, and Dickie feigned hurt at Cole’s lack of sympathy for his romantic pain.
What was not said during the meal was most important, Dickie recalled. What Cole did not ask and what was not mentioned by Dickie because the subject was too sensitive, although Dickie felt that it lay just below the surface, was Rebecca Blair.
There was little that Dickie could tell Cole that would not hurt him. She was miserable in that big house of hers, married to a man who was physically crippled by the war, but what was much more pathetic, emotionally crippled as well by the selfish manner in which he chose to live life. It was obvious that Gregory Blair rarely considered his wife’s needs or her feelings. He seemed intent on bedding every woman he met, and in doing so in such a callous and inconsiderate way that Rebecca knew of his escapades. She tended to Gregory, cared for him in the manner that a good nurse does for a patient. She was, after all, a nurse, and he was a partial invalid, but the care that she provided stopped short of investing any love in a man and a marriage that had long since dissolved.
Dickie knew with certainty that she still loved Cole and that Cole loved her but the fact that she had chosen to stay with her husband meant that, to Cole, she no longer existed. It was how he, Dickie knew as well, dealt with the pain and longing that ate away at him. To deny Rebecca’s existence, Dickie knew that Cole reasoned, was to alleviate the suffering. How strange, Dickie thought, it was always the seemingly strong, cold-hearted blokes who grieved most after love failed them.
Chapter 8
Peter Waldvogel knocked and heard the muffled command to enter. He had been summoned to Fregattenkapitan Reubold’s office and he was nervous about the meeting. He had been working diligently on the sighting mechanism and gyro stabilizing platforms of the S-boat’s forward cannons — the Trinity it was called — but the delicate instruments failed to perform the moment that the boats hit rough water. There was simply no way to aim the 110-millimeter guns effectively. S-boats were poor gun platforms for anything larger than rapid-firing 4cm guns, which spewed a steady stream of rounds at the target. Effective enough against small ships and aircraft, the 4cm, and the even less effective MG C/38 2cm “doorknocker,” did not have the force to pierce enemy steel.
The Trinity guns with their hollow-shaped charges had the power to hole the hulls of enemy vessels, the shells burning their way into the interior of the ship before they exploded. Waldvogel had proved it. He had proved it during static tests before excited cadets and officers at the Marineschule in Murwick. He had proved it to a second tier of Kriegsmarine officers at Le Havre, but there the response had been nothing more than mild interest. He had proved it at Le Havre after a frustrating seven months lost to scheduling, canceling, and rescheduling trials because the senior officers who needed to be present found themselves far too busy to commit to a time and place.
These officers saw the same three short-barreled guns arranged in a triangular formation on a stationary mount. There was nothing graceful about the guns. They were stubby with outsized breech mechanisms, and projecting from the rear of each was a long cone. Everyone had examined the curious weapons — the cadets with wonder, the officers with interest, and the senior officers with disdain. Especially after the gun was fired, filling the air with a blue haze of gaseous discharge.
“It does not recoil,” Waldvogel explained patiently. “There is no shock to the gun, or mount.” He saw that he was losing his audience of high-ranking officers as they signaled for staff cars to carry them away.