He had noticed ugly, black scars from hits on the superstructure of a LST. They were well placed around the bridge area and the gun tubs. Extraordinarily well placed. He had adjusted the focus of the binoculars until he could see the damage clearly. Burn marks, blackened holes, precise hits. He lowered the binoculars and stood thinking. Precise. Surgical.
“Yeah,” Cole said. “A whole slew of E-boats.” He shook his head. “Maybe just a handful.” He turned and realized that DeLong was standing next to the hatchway that led to the radio room. Cole began thinking again. A hundred of these little bastards racing around the Channel, raising hell with the invasion fleet. It would be like Times Square with the lights out — mass confusion — ships everywhere — organization…
DeLong rejoined him long enough to say: “Okay, skipper. We got the word to move in and start picking up bodies.” He turned to the helm, eased the throttles up, and slowly spun the wheel through his fingers to bring the boat around.
Cole looked out over the waters of the bay and beyond that, the Channel. Beyond that, far beyond the dozens of boats and ships searching for survivors, was Cherbourg. And Le Havre. And Boulogne. And within those ports, in one, or some, or all of the E-boat sanctuaries, were more of Edland’s eagles. There was a chance that they would be crushed from above by the weight of thousands of tons of bombs. There was the chance that their huge, impregnable concrete pens would protect them, at least long enough for them to slip out and engage the invasion fleets. There was the chance that increased sorties by the English and American air forces would somehow catch them out in the open and destroy them. They ventured out at night, however, and even with air-to-surface radar, it was unlikely that the airplanes would destroy them. Night translates into early morning, the hours that the fleet would be crossing the Channel. It was the only way to position the fleet off the beaches by dawns. Night — early morning. E-boat darkness.
Torpedoes, he thought suddenly. The chatter was that some of the LSTs were torpedoed. Could the eagles launch torpedoes? Of course they could — they did, didn’t they? Did they? Cole knew that he couldn’t answer that question. If the Germans had perfected E-boats that could cruise at eighty knots and mount 6-inch guns, why couldn’t they mount torpedoes on those vessels and overcome the problems presented by the foils and the speed? Conventional E-boats had torpedoes, why not the Sea Eagles? Cole grimaced at his use of the name — now he was beginning to sound like Edland. The thought galled him. He didn’t like to attach any romantic notion to anything that the enemy did.
PT-155 slowed and Cole made his way to the bridge, stuffing the binoculars in their case. Now it was time to pick up bodies, and he willed the emotion out of his mind. It was the only way that he knew to prepare himself for the sight of dead Americans. He heard the gentle thump of something striking the hull.
Tommy Rich looked back from the bow with a sickened expression. “Jeez, Skipper. This guy ain’t got a head.” Tommy had the body pinned in place with the boat hook, while several other men tried to slip a loop around the body’s leg.
“If it doesn’t bother him, Rich,” Cole said, “then it shouldn’t bother you. Just get him aboard and be careful.” The dead soldier was obviously beyond caring, but Cole knew it was easy to wrench your back when trying to lift the full weight of a dead body — especially one that had been floating in the water for a while.
“Man,” Randy DeLong said. “This is a mess.” He gripped the wheel tightly. His own way of dealing with the distasteful duty. “There are bodies floating all over the place.”
“They could have used us a little sooner,” Cole said, watching as the crew hoisted the dead soldier aboard and manhandled the body into position on the deck. The first of many, he thought.
“I sure would have liked to have been here when those bastards attacked,” DeLong said grimly.
“Well, we weren’t,” Cole said. “But we’re here now.”
“Little like closing the barn door after the horses got out,” DeLong agreed.
Cole said nothing but the image was as clear to him as the hundreds of lifeless forms floating on the gentle swells; barn doors swinging on large hinges, the action of closing something in, or out. There was nothing else to the thought, just a picture in his mind planted by Edland’s words. Sea Eagles.
“Let me do the talking,” Walters said as he and Reubold approached Feldmarschall Erwin Rommel’s office. The kommodore was swollen with success. Reubold thought it oddly pathetic that he subscribed to the notion that he was the architect of the victory. He found Walters’s arrogance unsettling.
“I shouldn’t even be talking with the army,” Reubold said. “Dresser is my immediate superior, not Rommel.”
“Rommel has the Fuehrer’s confidence. The Kriegsmarine does not. If we can show him what your boats are capable of, we will have achieved a major victory.”
“Don’t brag too much,” Reubold said. “Our victories include a handful of merchant ships and a derelict.”
“You must learn to be optimistic,” Walters said, and smiled broadly, enjoying his role. “Rommel is an innovator. He realizes the importance and the potential of unconventional weapons. But he will ask very direct questions. Your replies must be their equal.”
Reubold felt his sense of alarm deepen. Walters was speaking for Rommel as well.
The two men stopped at the tall, white double doors to Rommel’s suite of offices.
“I thought that I was to let you do the talking?” Reubold said.
“Anything that is not an answer to a direct question put to you by Rommel is mine,” Walters said. “Ready?”
Reubold shrugged. For what? Walters’s ruse? What did the man want? What did he hope to accomplish by this audience with Rommel? Reubold smiled to himself: what did he hope to gain? It would be that of course. Yes, yes. It would be patriotism — service to the Fatherland, another way to defeat the enemy. He continued calculating and decided that some men were masters of intrigue — he was not.
“Well?”
Reubold realized that Walters was waiting on his answer. Ready for what? For Rommel to suddenly embrace both of them as saviors of the Reich? Reubold remembered his own arrogance many years before and he thought best to explain to Walters that such ambition often demands payment in return. Payment, when one least expected it.
“Of course, Kommodore.”
Walters nodded, knocked twice to announce his presence, opened the door, and walked in.
Dresser was talking to Rommel.
“Yes, Walters,” the feldmarschall said. “Come in. Close the door. The admiral and I have been talking about S-boats and mines.”
Reubold felt a chill as Dresser glared at him. It was reinforced by Rommel’s barely civil tone. This would not go as Walters had envisioned.
“You’ve come to speak about S-boats as well, haven’t you? Good. We shall all speak together and lay this thing to rest. I have much larger problems to deal with. What are they called? Hydrofoils? Well? We’ve spoken of them before, Walters. Your storm troops. What have you to say?” Rommel demanded.
“Feldmarschall,” Walters said, obviously startled by Dresser’s presence. He stumbled slightly over the word and it was obvious to Reubold that the kommodore’s good humor was replaced by foreboding. He tried to reclaim the moment. “I firmly believe that these vessels hold great promise.”
Dresser added to Rommel. “Little more than toys.”
“They are innovative,” Walters said. He was hopeful once more.
Reubold watched as Rommel pondered the differences. He saw the general’s impatience building quickly.
“Well?” Rommel posed to both men. “Suppose they are both? What am I to do with them?” His manner was brusque. “This is Kriegsmarine business. I’ve asked that all S-boats lay mines along the likely invasion routes. They can do that can’t they? And patrol the sea-lanes? Am I wrong?”