“The same,” Reubold said, his mind forming a picture. A quad arrangement. It would be cramped in the gun well. It was a tight fit with the Trinity alone. The placement of the doorknocker would not be the problem; there was more than enough room on the mount. But the gun crew would now be forced to man both the Trinity and the doorknocker. Could it be done? The 2cm ate up ammunition at an exorbitant rate — it required constant attention from its loaders. Could it be done? He noticed Waldvogel looking at him expectantly.
“Fregattenkapitan?”
“You shit,” Reubold said. “Just when I thought that I was through with your boats and guns.”
“What do you think?”
“I think that it will require a great deal of training. I think also that I shall have to approach my superiors and convince them that we have at last found the key to this filthy mystery. We have, haven’t we, Korvettenkapitan? We have found the key at last?”
Waldvogel smiled weakly. “I hope so.”
That poor shit isn’t even convinced, Reubold thought. How am I going to take this idea to the Silver Stripes? But he saw the possibility and it was amazingly simple. Use the 2cm’s tracer strikes on the target to aim the Trinity. Reubold’s eyes lowered in concentration. Where was the weakness? Every solution had a weakness; where was Waldvogel’s? Was there one? Have the gun trainer or layer fire the doorknocker — the other fires the Trinity. The doorknocker eats up ammunition. The Trinity loader and assistant loader will have to feed both guns. Difficult, but it could be done. Especially if the rate of fire was reduced. There would be no need for a constant barrage — just a few shots to locate the target. Everything would have to happen instantaneously. Seconds, Reubold thought. Strike, sight, fire. Seconds.
Where was the weakness? Reubold challenged himself. What would cause this plan to fail, like all the others before it?
A cloud of concrete dust descending from the huge crack in the ceiling caught his attention. It settled slowly, covering the calm waters with a gritty film. What would have happened, Reubold reasoned, if it had landed directly on the S-boat pen? It would have destroyed the boat anchorage, or trapped the S-boats inside.
Move the boats, he suggested to himself.
“Fregattenkapitan?” Waldvogel said. “May I be excused? I should like to lie down.”
“Yes,” Reubold said. “First, go to the hospital and have them examine you. If you die before this problem is solved I’ll be very distressed.”
Waldvogel nodded, offering a sickly smile, and left Reubold pondering his options. Move the boats. Where? They are nocturnal animals — the night hides them from the Allies. In the bright light of the sun they could be too easily found and destroyed. He walked closer to the entrance, examining the concrete walls and ceiling. Tiny fissures feathered out from the main crack but they appeared stable. Best to take our chances here, Reubold thought. I’ll order the boats out before the next raid, he concluded. Maybe that will save them.
Save them from the enemy, yes, his mind countered, but who will save them from the Silver Stripes and the army? He turned to see the hunched figure of Waldvogel disappear among the crews tending the boats.
Perhaps you are the better man, Reubold thought. I hope that you are. I hope that your ideas bear fruit.
Chapter 16
Cole hung up the telephone, thanked the duty officer, and made his way back to his quarters. He had spent five minutes talking to Dickie Moore and he was drained.
“But you must go and see her,” Dickie had said, his insistence irritating Cole.
“No,” Cole had said. “I can’t.”
“Oh, now, Jordan. Let’s not be silly about this. I know perfectly well that you can go and see her. She lives not two hours’ drive from you, and don’t forget I know exactly where you are. Simply hop in a jeep — there must be dozens of those things lying around there — and pop in. Do her a world of good.”
“Dickie,” Cole had said, “how is it you have time to stick your nose in my business? Aren’t you doing important things elsewhere?” Every conversation had a certain cryptic quality to it. The lines were monitored and if someone made the mistake of mentioning a place, or ship, or anything else that might be construed as giving aid and comfort to the enemy, he’d be on a fast boat back to the States, if not charged with some offense. So everyone used caution and the telephone conversations were sometimes reduced to a series of silly guessing games. They reminded Cole of the child’s puzzle — connect the dots.
“Important? Don’t be silly. I have a remarkable talent for avoiding anything of consequence. Unless there’s a beautiful young lady involved. I see that as my true service to the Empire. Now you must go. As a friend.”
When he was called to the Duty Hut for a telephone call and signed his name in the log, he thought at first it might be Rebecca Blair calling. His mind raced with the possibilities of the role that he would play — cold, arrogant, disinterested, abrupt — emotions that he could, lately, call up without effort. But it was Dickie and the one emotion that he hadn’t counted on came as a surprise to him — disappointment. He really wanted to hear Rebecca’s voice.
“She’s left that filthy husband of hers,” Dickie continued. “High time I say. Bloody bastard. Almost makes one wish that he’d bought it in…” Dickie caught himself, “wherever the filthy pig was.”
“I’m glad she left him,” Cole had said. He turned away from the duty officer’s desk so the man couldn’t eavesdrop on the conversation. The officer took the hint and headed for a coffee urn on the other side of the room.
“Then you must go and see her. The poor thing. She looks positively worn out.”
The conversation went on like that for several minutes until the duty officer returned, and, to Cole’s relief, mouthed the words: “I’m sorry, sir.” He had to get off the telephone. He said good-bye to Dickie, walked the short distance to his quarters, and found the gray .30-caliber ammunition box that held all of his important papers. He snapped it open, rifled through the contents, and found the envelope he wanted. He set the box on the floor by his cot, opened the letter, and began to read.
My Dear Jordan:
I hardly know how to begin. When you left I felt as if my world had collapsed. Gregory was most insistent about knowing who you were and why I was so upset. I made some miserable excuses about the whole thing; telling him that I hadn’t gotten over the shock of his wounds. I could not tell him, of course, that I had sent away the man I loved, and still think of nearly every day. Your face, your smell, your touch stays with me. There was a chap at the hospital, an American civilian who sounded so much like you that I nearly burst into tears. He was one of your journalists. I wanted very much to ask him about you, as if every American over here knows every other American. I felt incredibly stupid and so out of sorts that I could barely do my job. I went into the stairwell and had a good cry. It was some time before I could pull myself back together.
I am concerned about your well-being, my darling, because of the war but also because I know that I hurt you terribly and I know that you hold things deep within you, close to your heart. You are a kind man, Jordan; a good man and sensitive as well. I fear that I have hurt you so deeply that you will always hate me and I hope that I am wrong.
This horrible war has taken so much from so many and it has taken you away from me by playing a cruelest joke of all — giving us both hope. I think how horrible that I must be that in many ways I wish that the news of Gregory’s death had been true. I am horrible, aren’t I? Now Gregory dashes about, trying to prove that he is the best of men, and I cannot stop thinking of you.