“I don’t care about any of that,” Reubold said tersely, his eyes still at the binoculars. But he did. Something in the weak little man repelled Reubold — his manner, his sensitivity, the deference that he offered to everything and everyone around him. Weakness, Reubold finally decided; here was a weak man who made ineffective weapons and fast boats that rose out of the water on spindly legs. When Reubold did allow himself to think he realized that he found fault with Waldvogel because he envied him. Here was a man who possessed quiet passion, an inexplicable, unassailable drive to succeed. He did so despite self-doubts that threatened to devour him. He was like a coward who had decided to become a high-wire walker. His legs trembled so badly that the wire jerked uncontrollably beneath him and yet he continued to place one foot in front of the other, never losing sight of the platform at the other end of the wire. Reubold quickly crushed the idea that he was the lesser of the two men — the thought was far too disturbing. “Give me boats that run fast and guns that shoot straight,” Reubold said coldly. “You can do that much, can’t you? If you can’t these things are of no consequence and they are certainly not ready for war.”
“Firing.” It was Kunkel again. He glanced from the sky to the other on the S-boat. His mind was on enemy planes. They could see in the darkness with their radar.
“I know that,” Reubold muttered crossly. His shoulders sagged. “Misses. All of them. We can’t even hit a stationary target.”
“Here comes Mueller again,” an oberbootsmann said.
“Come on,” Reubold urged, his voice becoming strained. “Come on, you delicious pervert.” Reubold saw a quick succession of clouds from the muzzle flare and heard the dull reports of the cannon fire as they echoed across the water. Just a moment later three ghostlike shapes erupted out of the water, well beyond the hulk.
The men gathered along the deck and skullcap of the S-boat and lowered their glasses in disappointment, none daring to speak.
“Sir,” Funker Lerch called to the bridge. “We’ve picked up several aircraft about ninety kilometers out.”
Reubold turned to Kunkel. “Send Fritz in. Tell him to take his time.”
A shocked look crossed the leutnant’s face. “Sir, funker said…”
“Do as I order!” Reubold shouted.
The leutnant’s “Yes, sir,” was barely audible.
“Man the guns,” Reubold said to the oberbootsmannmaat. There was a scurry of feet on the deck as the men raced to their battle stations. The barrels of the 4cm and 2cm rose skyward in anticipation.
Reubold swung around the armored bridge, tossed his binoculars to a matrose, and dropped through the bridge hatch into the radio room. “Get out,” he said to the surprised funker on duty. As the man was making his way up the hatch, Reubold took a moment to calm himself. He unsnapped his duty bag, pulled out a syringe and vial, filled the syringe partially with water, then with morphine, rolled up his sleeve, and turned to see Waldvogel.
“The men deserve better than that,” the korvettenkapitan said.
“Yes,” Reubold said, injecting himself. “They do.” He closed his eyes, preparing for the familiar, comforting euphoria. It would be a moment, he knew. The warmth would spread throughout his limbs and his heart would beat with a renewed strength. There would be no doubts, his body would not ache, and his regrets would be subdued. All this from a pinprick.
He brushed passed Waldvogel and went back on deck. “Fritz?” he said.
“No hits,” the leutnant said, shaking his head.
“All right,” he said. He saw the radioman standing uncertainly near the canvas dodger. “Go on,” Reubold said playfully. “Get below. Go on. Let’s not have the bees catch us out here.”
“Shall we line up for another run, sir?” the leutnant said.
“No,” Reubold said. “We’re going in. Let the others know.”
“Fregattenkapitan,” Waldvogel said, joining him. “Please. Let us continue with the tests.” He pulled a handful of crumpled papers from his tunic. “You see? I’ve been making notes. Here.” He flipped through the stack. “You see? Notes on the schubkur-belverschluss. I thought that I might modify the breech. For the loader’s benefit. Here,” he pulled out a crumpled paper covered with calculations. “It must have something to do with the zielfernohr. Don’t you agree? Surely you can see that?”
Reubold’s body swayed with the motion of the boat.
“They don’t work,” he said finally, watching the hope in Waldvogel’s eyes drain away. There was no pleasure or pain in his voice. “Your guns don’t work. And without them your hydrofoils are useless. We will go back and I will make my report.”
“But I’ll find a way,” Waldvogel pleaded. “There’s always a way, Fregattenkapitan.”
“This is nonsense, Waldvogel,” Reubold said, wishing the little man would simply accept his defeat. “Just because you desire it, does not mean it will be achieved.” He turned to the leutnant, dismissing Waldvogel from his mind. “Radio base. Tell them we’re coming home.”
The emergency lights glowed a dull red in the rich darkness of the S-boat pen. No other light was tolerated except the small work lamps the crews used on deck. The Allied bombers owned the day and night and, like hawks dropping on their quarry, would swoop down if the tiniest sliver of light showed in the darkness. They had returned from the bay and the disappointing trials nearly three hours before — the boats sitting in silence, the men, exhausted, nearly as quiet.
The red glow subdued everything — movement, talk over the low hum of machinery. The air was heavy with humidity; the weight of it slowed a man’s responses and his interest in anything except the most mundane things. Add sweat to humidity and strength melted away. A man felt filthy all of the time, a matrose once remarked as the men labored over replacing a gun barrel. Clothing clung to a man’s skin because of the dampness of the pens. The concrete walls of the pens were cool and clammy, and wet to the touch.
Reubold’s crew sat on the deck, just forward of the skullcap, loading ammunition belts. They did so silently at first because they were tired and hot, and the dank interior of the pen irritated them. After a time their good spirits revived and they began to insult each other good-naturedly, embellishing stories about one another so that laughter accompanied the boring but necessary task. Waldvogel sat near the gun well that held the Trinity guns, not because he wanted to be a part of the conversation — he would not go where he was not invited — but because he thought that if he was close to the guns, he might be inspired.
The crew ignored him. He was not one of them. He wasn’t even a seagoing officer. He wasn’t a Silver Stripe either, so the men weren’t quite sure what function he performed, and everyone must perform some function to be accepted in their world. So they tolerated him, but with coolness reserved for things they didn’t understand and that they were highly suspicious of. They knew boats, engines, and guns; and they knew the enemy, especially the British, but they were beginning to know the Americans. They accepted things only if they were familiar with them, and could understand their rationale for existence. Nothing else was of consequence.
“Go get another box of shells,” a bootsmann ordered a matrose.
“And don’t drop it,” another matrose said. The men laughed at the weak joke.
“You suppose he dreams of those things?” the bootsmann said, jerking his head toward Waldvogel.
An oberbootsmann shook his head and unbuttoned the collar on his shirt. Any breeze that came off the harbor was captured by the maul of the pen and denied entrance. “He’s a strange one,” he observed.