“It’s best that you don’t know what the others think,” Reubold had replied.
“That’s more to my liking,” Mueller said. “Eagles hunt to live.” He looked around for confirmation. “Eh, fellows?”
“Or live to hunt,” Fritz said, shaking his head to Kapitanleutnant Mittendorf’s silent plea for a cigarette. Mittendorf the Dwarf — short, profane, obviously a man who felt bravado made up for stature. The crew of S-756 loved him, although it was common to see Mittendorf viciously dressing down a matrose, most of whom towered over him.
“Either,” Reubold said, “is sufficient to explain what we must do. You will go back to the pens, inspect your boats, double-check the foils and struts, and sight your guns. Take every measure,” he said, the words hard with warning, “to ensure that the doorknockers are firmly secured to the Trinity mounts.” He used his anger sparingly, but he would not hesitate to humiliate anyone whose mistakes could cost lives. The others glanced at Mueller.
“I checked those mounts out myself,” Mueller said in a hurt tone.
“I’m sure that you did, Kapitanleutnant,” Reubold said. “But you scored fewer hits than anyone.” To the officers he repeated: “Secure those guns. We’ve had three tests, and other than Mueller blasting seagulls out of the sky we’ve had more luck than we should expect.”
“What news did the Kommodore have, sir?” Draheim said.
“The Allies have invaded France and captured Paris,” Mittendorf said.
“None,” Reubold said over the laughter. “But I’ll tell you this much: we won’t be plowing the Channel sowing mines. At least not yet.”
“Rommel,” Mueller muttered. “Everyone kisses the army’s ass. Give us a chance and we’ll show the Allies something.”
“We’ve been given the chance,” Reubold said. He saw that he had everyone’s attention. “We are going out, close to the English shore because the enemy does not expect us at his front door.” He nodded to Herzog, his clerk, who unfolded a map and laid it across the wide table. “Waymann,” Reubold said, ordering the officer closer. He noticed Peters’s face turning red. He was embarrassed by his executive officer’s presence. Reubold felt sadistic pleasure in the situation. “We’re going out tonight,” he told his officers. “Twenty-hundred hours. North-northwest.” He traced the course with his fingertip. “We’ll pick up boats from Flotilla 15.” Guernsey boats the men knew, soft living and English women. It was play-war on the tiny islands. “Turn north-northwest,” Reubold continued, and see what we can find off Weymouth.” He straightened and waited for the men to digest his news.
Fritz spoke first, his voice probing and thoughtful. “That puts us off the English coast at oh-two hundred. If we run into resistance…”
“He means if we get lucky,” Mueller said.
“No,” Fritz said. “I mean if we run into resistance that could put our return just after sunrise.”
That observation got everyone’s attention. An S-boat on the open sea in daylight was at the mercy of enemy aircraft. And there were so many of them lately — hundreds of them.
“Yes,” Reubold said. “It could. That is why I want your boats inspected and your gun mounts secure. We will go in very fast, and shoot very fast, and the Guernsey boats will come in after us. With torpedoes. We are still being tested, gentlemen. We are testing ourselves. Some may say that we have untried weapons in untested boats,” he held up his hand to silence Peters. The errant kapitanleutnant was always ready to inject the superiority of German weapons and fighting men into any conversation. It was worthless propaganda. “Despite what we accomplished against the convoy. That was luck. We aren’t issued luck. We make our own by training and preparation. I’ll personally inspect each boat. If your boat isn’t ready, you don’t go.” He resisted an impulse to look at Peters. If it were up to Peters the fuel tanks would be filled to the top with wax and he could claim sabotage. But Waymann and his crew would work to see that everything was ready. The young officer and the other kapitan-leutnants of Flotilla 11 could not face the humiliation of being left behind because their boats weren’t ready.
If they were lucky, and Reubold smiled inwardly at the notion that luck was important in war, they would stumble on targets of consequence and return to Cherbourg in one piece. If they were lucky, Walters would be satisfied with their performance and tell Reubold more of what he had in mind.
“The Allies are predictable,” Walters had said after they returned from test-firing the guns and settled into Reubold’s quarters. He refused a glass of calvados from the fregattenkapitan.
“Not always,” Reubold had said, downing a glass and shivering from the effects of the harsh brandy.
“No,” Walters had said. “That’s true. But they are predictable in their absolute need to organize everything. Everything is built upon organization. Particularly their invasions.”
“Invasions require a certain amount of organization,” Reubold had said, pouring himself another glass. “Everything about war does, I suppose.” A strange thought occurred to him. “Are there two wars, Kommodore: one for killing and one for account ledgers? In this column,” his finger ran down an imaginary book, “are the materials of war. And in this column,” his finger moved again, “are the dead.” He chuckled and took a drink. He was tired and hungered for morphine. The brandy dulled the urge, but that was only a temporary solution. His legs began to throb and he wondered if he really were in pain or his brain was tricking him — coaxing him to seek the blissful caress of the drug.
“I’ve studied them,” Walters had said. “The invasions. The Allies had improved with each. Remarkably. Africa. Italy. Their resources are amazing.”
Reubold had shrugged. What of it? What did this Silver Stripe want?
“Africa was large. Italy was larger. France will be the largest invasion of them all. Thousands of ships I am told.”
“Should I be frightened?” Reubold had said.
“So many ships. So little room to maneuver. So little time,” Walters had said.
Reubold had been reaching for the bottle of calvados, but his hand stopped. His eyes narrowed as he sought to find Walters’s point. He had never really liked the Silver Stripe and certainly did not trust him because the man exuded a strong odor of greed. He wanted everything. But Reubold’s interest was roused, regardless of his misgivings.
“I’ll have a glass if you don’t mind,” Walters had said, pleased by Reubold’s reaction.
Reubold poured the kommodore a glass of brandy and filled a glass for himself.
Walters held the glass out in a toast and had said: “Confusion to the enemy.”
Reubold acknowledged the toast and quickly downed his drink. He filled the glass again, sensing that Walters was watching him.
“When do you go out?” the kommodore asked.
“That’s up to the powers who guide us,” Reubold said.
Silence crept between the two men, separating the questions that each had about the other. Walters offered Reubold a cigarette and the fregattenkapitan took it, willing to give the kommodore a tiny victory by acknowledging his generosity. “This is what the Allies do,” Walters said quickly as if he had made a decision to enter a covenant. He pulled a sheet of paper from Reubold’s cluttered desk, found a pencil, and began to draw a series of rectangles. He remembered his sand diagrams and Rommel’s rejection. But Rommel wasn’t here. “Despite their organization and their ingenuity, this never changes.”
Reubold, the half-empty bottle of calvados in one hand and a nearly full glass in the other, studied the paper. Walters gestured to the drawings. “Troop transports, escorts, bombardment vessels, minesweepers.”