Gibbs had taken a second to eye the deck cranes that were to have lowered the LCMs. The ship’s list made them useless now. The cranes would either twist and collapse from the unnatural angle or the LCMs would break free from their mounts and sweep dozens of men overboard.
“Get them life rings up under your arms,” Gibbs shouted, pulling his up snugly into his armpits. He pulled out the inflation tube. “Inflate your life rings. Now!” He began blowing into the tube, glancing around, trying to keep one eye on his men, another on the insane action in the darkness, and at the same time straining to hear the abandon ship order over the noise of battle and the shouts of desperate men.
He felt a hand grab his shoulder.
“Gibbs? Gibbs? What the hell are you doing?” Captain Small shouted. “God damn it. You tell those men to put their helmets back on. And pick up their rifles. Jesus, you told them to cut off their packs. Have you gone crazy?”
Gibbs, who had been blowing air into the inflation tube during Small’s tirade, finally stopped. “If those dumb bastards,” he said, tying the rubber tube in a knot to prevent air escaping, “go over the side with their helmets on, they’ll break their fucking necks, sir. I don’t figure they’ll have much chance to use their weapons while they’re treading water, either.”
A flurry of blasts erupted to the rear of the column, the bright explosions eating away the darkness. Finally all that remained were the steady glow of fire and the ghostly outline of burning ships.
“Nobody said anything about abandoning this ship,” Small said, craning his neck, trying to look over Gibbs’s shoulder in the direction of the bridge. “Nobody said anything about abandoning ship, Gibbs. Where’s Hartsell? Have you seen Hartsell? Byron?”
They were two of the company officers and Gibbs had no idea where they were. And he frankly didn’t give a shit.
“No, sir,” Gibbs said. “I ain’t seen them. ’S’cuse me, sir.” He stepped around Small, took the inflation tube out of a soldier’s trembling hands, and straightened out a kink. “It’s just like your dick, sonny. If it ain’t straight, it don’t work. Now blow.” He jammed the tube into the surprised soldier’s mouth. Gibbs heard the deck loudspeakers crackle and he automatically turned to the bridge.
“Now hear this. Now hear this. Prepare to abandon ship.”
“’Bout time,” Gibbs muttered. “C Company!” he shouted. “On me.”
“Now wait a minute, Gibbs,” Small said, placing himself directly in front of the sergeant. “You wait just one damned minute. This is my company. You don’t go telling my men what to do.”
“Yes, sir,” Gibbs said calmly. “But you’d better get your life ring inflated, sir. ’Cause if you don’t shut the fuck up and get out of my way, it won’t do you a bit of good when I toss you over the side.” He turned back to the men. “Check your buddies. Rings inflated,” he said, pleased to see that he had at least restored some organization to the scene. “Helmets, packs, weapons on the deck.”
The LST’s list increased sharply and the men looked at Gibbs in alarm. He knew that they were ready to panic and he couldn’t blame them. The only thing that kept him from going over the side was this pack of sad sacks clustered on the deck, ready to piss their pants.
“Now hear this. Now hear this.”
“Nobody goes until I say!” Gibbs shouted so loudly he felt something in his throat tear. The navy had their way but all they did was drive the boats. These were soldiers and nobody would tell his men what to do but him.
“Abandon ship. Abandon ship.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gibbs saw men from other companies jump over the side, or clamber over the railing, but he was relieved to see his men hadn’t moved. They feared First Sergeant Gibbs more than they feared drowning. Maybe there was hope for these guys yet.
“The first one of you sons of bitches that moves is dead,” he shouted, ignoring the pain in his throat. Every head turned to look at him. He was pleased, at least they had sense enough to follow orders. “Make sure nobody’s underneath you when you jump. Get your asses away from the ship. Form up in the water. Keep them life rings under your pits. Any questions?” He knew that there wouldn’t be any, he knew that the men were ready to explode with fright, but he also knew that he had to instill one last measure of discipline in them. He knew that a lot of them would probably die.
“All right, you dumb bastards,” he said, “assemble at the rail. You heard the man. Get the hell off this fucking boat in an orderly fashion.”
Chapter 20
Cole was glad that there was a gentle breeze coming from the southeast. It blew the smoke and the stench of the dead back to the shore, away from the deck of PT-155.
His squadron had arrived just after dawn, called out by a frantic message to get down to Lyme Bay. Hospital tents were set up all along the beach, rescue craft were threading the water looking for survivors, and a few LCMs were trundling back and forth between the beach and the two damaged, but still afloat, LSTs. The other five were sunk, or sinking. Too many columns of brown smoke to count marked where the fleet had been. Ships were burning, debris was burning; it seemed that the water of the Channel, covered with the remnants of the battle, was burning.
Cole pulled a pair of binoculars from the case under the instrument panel, adjusted the strap, held them slightly in front of his eyes so that they wouldn’t distort his vision, and carefully focused on the beach.
Still shapes, bundles of silent men, were washed up on sodden rows along the shore’s edge. Their wet uniforms were almost black, a sharp contrast to the pale white skin of their hands and faces. Waves continued to roll in, swinging lifeless arms and legs, tugging at bodies, urging them to get up and walk away from death. It was no use.
DeLong joined Cole and shaded his eyes with his hand, trying to cut down the glare of the sun off the water. “Hell of a mess, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve been listening to the radio chatter. They figure maybe a thousand, fifteen hundred dead. We don’t know for sure yet. We’ve got five boats that are gone for sure. The other two,” he shrugged. “I guess the yard birds will have to take a look at them.”
“Anything else?” Cole asked, turning the binoculars toward the LSTs.
“E-boats,” DeLong said. “That’s all that came over the radio until somebody put the kibosh to it. I guess the higher-ups don’t want us to know how bad it was.”
“Little late for that,” Cole said. “E-boats, huh?” It was not a question; it was a confirmation. He had studied the scene clinically: the placement of the ships, what damage he could see through the smoke, and any telltale signs that these were the same E-boats that attacked the Southern’s convoy. Edland’s mysterious boats. He knew it was a long shot; there were still plenty of E-boats out there. And there probably weren’t many of the winged boats — the hydrofoils — that Edland was trying to find, so that the likelihood that this attack…. He rolled the idea over in his mind and began to pick at it. Suppose Edland had a point? Suppose that these fantastic boats existed and were running all over the Channel? Maybe this was some of their handiwork. How many were there? Maybe a dozen. Maybe two hundred. Cole looked at the bodies strung along the beach again. Suppose it was ten times that? Suppose the invasion fleet never got close enough to land the invasion force. He looked at the smoldering LSTs in the bay. Suppose the greatest invasion in history ended up being a massacre?