“You’re from Cherbourg?”
“Yes.”
“What squadron?”
“Squad…?”
“Flotilla,” Scarface corrected himself quickly.
“The Fifth. Cherbourg, yes. The Fifth.” The muzzle of the gun never wavered and Tall American’s eyes pinned him to the deck of the rocking boat. Scarface barked an order over his shoulder, but the other American slowly shook his head. He’s going to kill me, Hellwig thought, and he felt weak, all of the remaining strength flowing from his body.
“The special boats. The S-boats.”
Scarface’s insistent voice brought him around.
“Yes,” Hellwig confirmed, puzzled. Special?
“The fast S-boats,” Scarface said. “They’re faster than yours. They carry big guns. Large guns. What do you know about them?”
“I…” Hellwig began and then he remembered. He had seen them once from a distance, across Cherbourg Harbor. “You mean the flying boats?” he said.
“What do you mean? That they fly? That they actually fly?”
“No, no,” Hellwig said. “We call them that. They fly across the water. They have wings, you see. They come down, from the bottom of the hull. We weren’t allowed to get close to them.”
“What do they look like? Can you draw them? Can you make a drawing of them?”
Scarface was speaking quickly in his awkward German, and Hellwig had an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh at the absurdity of everything, but he bit the inside of his cheek to stifle it. He knew that if he did, Tall American would pull the trigger and nothing that Scarface said or did could bring him back from the dead. He nodded.
Scarface straightened quickly and called out. He took the Tall American by the elbow and led him a few paces aft. They talked briefly while Hellwig tried to interpret their tone. The other sailors examined him, some indifferently, some with pity in their eyes. Another appeared and handed Hellwig some paper and a pencil. He handed Scarface a chart of some kind. The sailor, a thin, small man, called Hellwig “buddy,” but he said it kindly. Buddy.
Hellwig took the pencil and paper and began sketching what he remembered of the flying boats — Reubold’s flotilla. He drew the hull of an S-boat and then from amidships a long set of legs and moving the pencil aft, a shorter set.
Tall American snatched the drawing from Hellwig and studied it, while others gathered around him. Scarface laid the chart on the deck next to Hellwig, water soaking into the paper.
“This is Cherbourg,” Scarface said. “Where are your pens?”
Hellwig pointed to a spot near the Seine Mole. “Here,” he said.
“The special boats? Where are they?”
Hellwig looked at Scarface and shrugged. “I don’t know. Someplace up here,” he pointed. “Or here. They kept us away.”
Scarface thought a moment and folded the chart, handing it to a sailor behind him. “The guns. What kind of guns are they?”
“I don’t know,” Hellwig said. “They kept us away and no one ever spoke about them. We went out with them on only one mission.” He decided to mention nothing about sinking ships. Or about the arrogance of Reubold’s men.
“What is the number of the special flotilla? Who is their commanding officer?”
“The Eleventh. Reubold. Fregattenkapitan. Please. That’s all that I know,” Hellwig said. He was beginning to tremble again and he picked up the cup and handed to the man who called him buddy, hoping to get more of the delicious liquid. He wanted to go someplace, anyplace but the sea, and he wanted dry clothes, and to crawl into a bed and sleep. He was very tired and he felt that he could lie down on the pitching deck and fall asleep with no difficulty. His eyes were very heavy when he remembered something. He debated telling Scarface because he didn’t think it was important, nothing more than sailor’s talk, but he thought that if he were helpful they would give him dry clothes and a place to sleep.
“Please,” he said as Scarface rose. “One more thing. Sea Eagles. That’s what they called the boats. Zee Adlers.”
Scarface looked down at him and nodded. Hellwig wasn’t sure if the information was worth a bed or even another blanket. He caught the attention of the man who had given him the paper, holding his middle finger and index finger out expectantly in the universal sign for a cigarette. “Buddy,” he said, hoping that the word would draw the American’s sympathy.
The American smiled, lit a cigarette, and slid it between Hellwig’s two fingers. He nodded gratefully, placed the cigarette between his lips, and drew deeply. God in heaven, Lieb was right. There was nothing better.
Cole followed Edland into the Day Room. “Get what you wanted?”
Edland spun on him. “I didn’t get the boat.”
“They didn’t want to be got,” Cole said.
“You were supposed to capture the E-boat. Not blow it out of the water.”
“Oh, now, Commander. Let’s be kind here,” Cole said. “This is war. Things don’t always go as planned in war. You know that, don’t you? There was a lot of lead flying around out there. Maybe somebody was smoking near the paint locker. Besides, you got Fuehrer Junior.”
“How the hell did you last this long, Cole? We had a chance. We could have captured that boat.”
“I lasted this long,” Cole said, “despite guys like you. Some guys weren’t so lucky. But you got something, so the mission wasn’t a total loss. What are those things you’re after, Commander? Flying boats? Atomic death rays? Sea Eagles? Yeah, I know enough German to get by and I saw the drawing. Boats with wings. What will they think of next?”
Edland’s eyes narrowed in understanding. “You would have shot that boy.”
“Just as sure as you’re standing there, Commander.”
“For what purpose. Has killing made you that insensitive to humanity?”
“You may not have realized this in your ivory tower, Commander,” Cole said. “But you can’t have a war without killing somebody. It’s what comes of war, except generally we do it with spectacle. Yeah, I would have killed him because he’s the enemy, even if he is a sad sack. Had the situation been reversed, I would have been the one dead. So do me a big favor; don’t lecture me on the morality of war and killing, and don’t pull that intellectual kindred spirit crap on me. I gave up the classroom a long time ago. You want to dwell on the philosophy of war? Stay in London, sleep on clean sheets, and go to fancy restaurants, where you can hobnob with your fellow wizards and think deep thoughts. Translation: stay the fuck away from me because one day I might just lose my temper and you’ll see firsthand just how much thought that I give to killing.” Cole reached up and slid back the Day Room hatch.
“Lieutenant!” Edland said. Cole looked over his shoulder. “I do what I do to keep American boys from being killed.”
“Gee, Commander,” Cole said, disappearing through the hatch. “I’d say you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.”
He made his way as Rich was throwing a blanket over the prisoner’s shoulder and helping him to his feet. He wanted to get away from everyone, to find a place on this tiny boat where he could wall himself up. He was trembling uncontrollably and he didn’t want anyone to see him. He knew if he reached the bridge and took up his familiar station he would be safe. He could have gone below to his cabin, but he hated the claustrophobic feel of the place and seldom set foot in the closet-like space.
Cole’s nerves were so tightly strung that he could feel them drawing up within his body, threatening to pull his arms and legs into some grotesque shape.
It had been a quick fight, a clean fight, with the inexperience of the enemy boat apparent the moment that they had joined. Cole had ordered all three boats in at the same time so that their combined power would overwhelm the E-boat. In the sharp conflict, nearly drowning in the pandemonium and confusion, Cole had to fight the urge to look at DeLong. He knew that if he did, DeLong would die.