“Nothing on radar. Nothing in sight. They’ve gone back to their lair,” Land confirmed.
Hardy settled the binoculars on his chest by their leather strap and pursed his lips in thought. “E-boats and others, Southern said. I wonder, Number One, what others?”
“There was something out there, sir. Those were six-inch guns, anyway,” Land commented. He knew the sound of guns and the sharp crack that the shell makes speeding through the air, and he could tell by the impact what size the shell was.
“Now, has Jerry gone and figured a way to mount a cruiser’s guns on their E-boats?” Hardy said incredulously. But a note of concern crept into his words because he had heard the report of the guns as well and from experience he knew them to be 6-inch cannon. But not on E-boats. They were formidable little vessels all right, but they were too small to handle any gun that big. Then, what had been out there? “How I hate not knowing things,” Hardy said into the darkness.
Chapter 3
Korvettenkapitan Peter Waldvogel staggered to the side of S-boat 317 and vomited into the oily water of the dank S-boat pen. He stopped retching long enough to pull a handkerchief from his tunic with a trembling hand and wipe his ashen face. Then he vomited again.
The deep-throated rumble of the boat’s three 2,500-horsepower Daimler-Benz engines echoed off the concrete walls and ceiling of the pen as she slid easily toward her berth. Two other boats were already nestled against the quay, already tied off by the crew.
Waldvogel heard Reubold shouting orders, something about lines and fenders, but he didn’t care. He was weak from emotion and vomiting, and the god-awful pounding that the boat had taken as it sped across the water before raising up on her foils. He had never been so frightened in his life as when they sighted the convoy — that moment before the attack he thought he would die of fright.
And then when they went in: madness, sheer pandemonium. Endless explosions tearing the darkness to bits and the boat weaving crazily across the water — full daylight with the brilliant flash of cannons, alternating with night. Kettledrums, Waldvogel thought, trying to find something comparable to describe the sound. But there were no words to describe it. How Reubold functioned was beyond any sane man’s comprehension.
Waldvogel wiped his face again, grateful that his stomach had finally calmed. Best not to mention sane men and Reubold in the same sentence.
“I told you not to come.”
Waldvogel turned, still holding on to the lifelines for support.
“You wouldn’t listen,” Fregattenkapitan Reubold said, flashing a crooked smile.
“I wanted to see…” Waldvogel managed in a weak voice, but his stomach began to churn.
“You wanted to see what it was like,” Reubold said in a knowing manner, finishing the sentence for him. “Yes, I know. You Silver Stripes always talk about going into action just one time, and then you have plenty of stories to tell after a fine meal and drinks in a comfortable restaurant far from any danger.”
Waldvogel clenched his jaws tightly, willing himself not to vomit again. When the wave of sickness passed, he shook his head. “No. I wanted to see how the Trinity functioned.”
“Yes,” Reubold said, waving to the divers stationed on the quay. “Well, they killed a gunner who stood too close to the breech despite the training and my warnings, and it’s well that we had so many fat targets. Your boat is fast enough, Korvettenkapitan, but it’s practically impossible to aim your guns. We have proved one thing: we are not ready for the real war.”
Both men were silent as the stretcher bearing the dead gunner was handed up to four sailors on the quay. One of the gunner’s lifeless arms dangled from beneath the blanket covering his body. Waldvogel shivered as he saw the wedding band gleam under the dull work lights scattered along the quay. Did I do that? he wondered. A torrent of accusations ran through his mind. Perhaps I should have trained them better? Maybe they weren’t fully prepared. Didn’t they read the manuals? I conducted classes; surely they made notes and listened to me? He remembered the young faces set in bored resignation as he droned on about this new type of gun.
“Check the struts and wings,” Reubold’s voice broke into his thoughts. He was speaking to the divers. “I’ll sound the hull but I want you to go over those mounts like you’re looking for gold. They took a beating before we got up and I was hard on them in the fight.” He glanced at Waldvogel for confirmation.
“Yes,” the korvettenkapitan said. “Yes. Look for fractures. Please, be very careful. It’s very delicate, you see…”
Reubold jerked his head, releasing the divers before Waldvogel finished his instructions to them. They moved to the access ladder, pulling the cables for their cumbersome underwater lights.
“Don’t worry about your precious wings,” Reubold said, dismissing Waldvogel’s concerns. He unzipped his overalls and pulled out a cigarette case. “They’ll search every inch of them for defects.” He lit his cigarette and then examined the gold lighter. “Goering gave this to me,” he said in remembrance. “Flags, medals, a sea of uniforms; everyone was there.” Reubold slipped the lighter into a pocket and drew deeply on the cigarette. He watched as the lights glowed like miniature floating suns under the surface of the black water. There was something absolutely peaceful and innocent in the ballet of the golden orbs gliding silently back and forth.
Reubold shrugged, dismissing his own thoughts. “Now, each morning before his morning toilet, the Fat Man asks: ‘Is that shit Reubold dead yet?’”
Waldvogel straightened, feeling secure enough to stand without gripping the lifeline. Such a strange man. Such a strange man. Each day he learned just a bit more about Reubold, certainly not from the man himself but from observation. He had heard him described as a fallen romantic, a tragic figure, and a scoundrel. He had heard from one man that the famous fregattenkapitan was a hollow shell — drained of life. Waldvogel was more confused than ever about the man he hoped would prove the worth of his boats and guns. But Waldvogel was deeply concerned as well — Reubold’s instability might be the undoing of his hard work. The fregattenkapitan was his last chance.
Reubold tossed the cigarette into the water. “We were lucky. We got a tanker and managed to hit other ships as well. But the men need more training, and you, dear Waldvogel, must find a way for us to aim those guns of yours without killing more gunners.”
Waldvogel winced at the mention of the dead man. It did not bother Reubold to be cruel — at times he seemed to relish it.
“It was his own fault,” Reubold said coldly, taking some of the burden for the man’s death from Waldvogel. “He forgot what he was doing and where he was. You do that once in this business and you’ll never do it again. Take them back into the classroom and take Junghans with you. I’m sure the oberbootsmannmaat can keep their attention focused on the lesson.”
Waldvogel nodded. The men feared Junghans, but they respected him as well.
The fregattenkapitan threw his arms over his head, stretching. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “I must go and do military things now.”
Such a strange man. One moment lighthearted, the next grim and unrelenting. Sometimes he was distant, as if his mind had been called back to another place and time, but then he became gentle and open, speaking of art and music. At such times Waldvogel could almost feel the torment that lay within Fregattenkapitan Richard Reubold. But then a veil would descend and darkness would fill the man’s eyes.
“Find me a way to aim your guns, Waldvogel,” Reubold said as he moved forward. “Our dear admiral sees little use for S-boats and no use for your devices. They aren’t big enough, you see, our little fast boats. No battleships or cruisers in,” he gestured to the confines of the dark pen, illuminated only by the harsh glare of the work lights, “this cave. Dresser has no faith in our fast boats.” He gave a short laugh. “I doubt that he has much faith in me, either.”