Reubold’s boats pulled ahead of the Guernsey boats, and as they increased their speed, their ghostlike hulls rose out of the water on wings. Leutnant Dernbauer fed Reubold the distances to the target from the S-boat’s radar. It was an unreliable instrument and Reubold hated to depend on it but at this speed he was forced to. Things simply moved too quickly for a man to pick things out in the darkness.
“Twenty-five kilometers,” Dernbauer called from the radio room hatch. “Nine targets in column. One appears to be moving ahead.”
“Destroyers?”
Dernbauer shrugged. “I think so, Fregattenkapitan. The screen is very distorted.”
Reubold shook his head is disgust. “Never mind. Signal all boats. I will lead the attack down the column, bow to stern. The Guernsey boats will attack with torpedoes after we have cleared. I will signal a second attack.”
“Flares, sir,” called a bootsmannmaat, detailed as a lookout.
Reubold peered over the skullcap and saw the thin, fiery line wobble into the sky and then explode in a greenish-yellow light. Three more followed the first and then streams of red tracers began to search for them. He smiled and whispered, “Amateurs,” before spinning the wheel to take his S-boat to port. He would close in a lazy crescent, until his boat and the following boats of his flotilla came in parallel to the column of enemy vessels. Then the Trinities would have an unobstructed field of fire and he would see how well Waldvogel’s new trick worked against targets that returned fire.
“What are those bloody fools doing?” Hardy shouted. “Yeoman, make to flotilla — cease all flares. Cease all fire.” He turned to Land, burning in frustration. “They’re painting a bloody pretty picture for Jerry with all of that light.”
Land leaned over the voice tube in response to a whistle. “Bridge. Land.”
“W/T, sir. Huston is moving well off to the southwest, sir. It looks as if she is going to engage the E-boats.”
“My, God, Number One,” Hardy said. “This is a disaster.” More flares sputtered into the night sky before exploding. Steady streams of tracers cut through the darkness behind Firedancer, hopeless efforts to ward off the danger that was approaching. Hardy suddenly felt sick as he realized that panic had seized the flotilla, sweeping away reason. The flares silhouetted the LSTs, and the tracers pinpointed their exact location. All battles were an intense series of distorted events, and the only salvation for those engaged was to ignore confusion, subdue fear, and concentrate on the task at hand — defending yourself against the enemy. But the column collapsed.
“Bridge? W/T. Many targets parallel at…”
The first explosion hit Firedancer in the hull just at the boat deck, blowing away the captain’s gig and peppering the 20mm gun tub with shrapnel, killing four men. At the same time B turret fired into the night, the explosion of her 4.5-inch gun nearly blinding the men on the open bridge. Two more shells struck Firedancer, demolishing her searchlight tower aft and the high angle 3-inch gun nearby. Every man on the gun crew was killed. C turret fired at the unseen targets, given range and direction by the gunnery officer trying to follow the pale green blips as they raced across the radar screen. Twenty-millimeter and 40-millimeter guns joined in, their constant barking in rhythm with muzzle flashes and red glowing tracers.
Hardy called for supply parties to check the damage aft and hung over the port wing, trying to determine what had happened. They had taken fire so rapidly that he had not had time to react. They were large rounds, he knew that, and he prayed that they had hit high on the superstructure and had not pierced the hull. He realized just as quickly that the E-boats had gone, vanishing into the night before his gunners had a chance to exact revenge. Ghosts — fleet ghosts wielding mallets.
He saw flashes and corresponding explosions in the darkness some distance aft, along the column. The LSTs were being attacked.
The roar of the S-boat engines coupled with the thunderous discharge of the Trinities made it almost impossible for Reubold to be heard.
“I said,” he shouted at Leutnant Dernbauer, “tell those bastards to make every shot count. I can see the targets, so they can see the targets.” The Allied vessels were cargo ships of some kind, Reubold knew. Their own flares told him that much. “Aim, God damn it! Tell them to aim.”
Explosions erupted all along the Allied column: enemy guns firing erratically, Trinity shells crashing into the vessels, eruptions of flame and debris hurtling into the night. Reubold fought to keep his senses about him as the firefight became even wilder. He thought he saw another S-boat cross his bow and was about to radio a warning when the boat disappeared into the darkness. The frantic radio chatter from Flotilla 11 boats and the Guernsey boats floated up from the radio room, the voices crackling with excitement.
“The Guernsey boats are attacking, sir,” Dernbauer shouted over the noise.
“Tell them to wait until we clear the column,” Reubold ordered. He had the wheel and could tell from the fires consuming the enemy vessels how far he was from the enemy ships. They might as well have lit themselves up with searchlights, Reubold thought as Dernbauer disappeared into he radio room.
Dernbauer reappeared with a stricken look. “It’s too late. They’re going in.”
“God damn it,” Reubold said. “God damn it.” It was chaos. S-boats roaring through the night, enemy vessels exploding; the dry rumble of the engines driving S-205 through the water so quickly that Reubold dare not look away. At this speed if the S-boat hit even a small object, it would tear off the foils and probably sink the boat. “All right. All right. One pass. Signal the others. We’ll make one pass and draw off. If there’s anything left after those stupid bastards have had their chance, we go back in.” Dernbauer nodded his understanding as Reubold looked away from the muzzle flashes of the Trinity in the bow. It was wonderful — it was working splendidly. The doorknocker quickly stuttered, throwing green tracers at the deliciously fat targets, and then there was the hollow boom of the recoilless cannon. The gunners, dim figures working in half-light and half-dark, looked like demons tending a hideous machine. Load, aim, fire. The wind off the bow occasionally sent a rancid cloud of blue smoke back over the skullcap, discharge from the gun, burning Reubold’s eyes and fouling his mouth so that he tried to spit the disgusting taste away. He cursed the gunners and the guns, but without enthusiasm. It was working. It was working, and the thought of success thrilled Reubold.
First Sergeant Humboldt Gibbs, C Company, 3rd Battalion, 403 Regiment, 29th Infantry, made his way along the deck of LST 579, shouting over the mayhem.
“All right, you silly sons of bitches. Listen up.” He stationed himself in the middle of the disorganized mob of frightened men. “Drop your helmets, pack, and rifles.” The LST lurched suddenly to starboard and the cries of the terrified men increased. “God damn it!” Gibbs shouted. “Pay attention to me.” Most of the men, their white eyes nearly gleaming from the fires on the nearby ships, turned to him and grew quiet. “The next guy that squeals like a pansy is gonna get my boot up his ass. Drop your helmets, packs, and rifles.” He brushed his helmet off his head. It landed with a clatter on the deck as he cut away his pack. Jesus, fucking Christ. This sure wasn’t the Old Army. This whole fucking exercise looked like some sort of picnic at Fire Island. The men were on deck, waiting for the LCMs to be off-loaded when the attack began. Then the torpedo struck and the ship pitched to starboard.