“My apologies, Feldmarschall,” Walters said. “I thought that you had agreed with me. That we had reached an understanding about the boats. Perhaps I misunderstood.…”
“Not at all, Feldmarschall,” Dresser jumped in. He was being very open, very pleasant, as if his unexpected presence here today was just a happy coincidence. There was no contradiction of purposes, nothing but a sense of cooperation. The meeting today was simply to address minor matter. He was a bureaucrat with an agenda firmly in hand. But what, Reubold wondered, was the agenda? He understood, suddenly, that Dresser was the victor and the battle had hardly been joined.
“What you have so ordered,” Dresser continued to Rommel. “In fact, some time ago, is already under way. Reubold’s flotilla will soon take its place alongside the other S-boats. Obviously,” he added, glancing at Reubold, “I was surprised to hear that they had not as yet deployed a single mine.”
“I do not have time to deal with this,” Rommel said, ending the conversation. The words were sharp and dismissive. Reubold noticed that a rash covered the back of the feldmarschall’s hand. He saw Rommel dig at the tiny red splotches, scratching until the skin turned an angry red. It was nerves, Reubold knew. He’d seen it in other men — a nervous tic, lighting a fresh cigarette while two burned in the ashtray, pacing — a dozen signals that the pressure of command was almost too much to bear.
The famous general certainly had that burden, and the uncertainty of both the Allied invasion and the degree of interference from Berlin. From the Fuehrer. Rommel turned on Walters, his fingers working rapidly into the back of his hand. “Walters. I have some very good news. You’ve been recalled to Berlin and assigned to Doenitz’s staff.”
“I, Feldmarschall?” Walters said, shocked.
Rommel waved at Dresser. “The Admiral was very complimentary of you and your efforts on my behalf. I shall miss your expertise and guidance, but so be it.” He offered an afterward: “You’ve performed admirably here.”
Reubold watched as Walters glowed and suddenly it became very clear. So it was all a game and the boats would quickly be forgotten. They were tokens, Walters’s gambit. Their success would assure his advancement, but through a strange combination of circumstances victory did not enter into it. Walters would return to Olympus and stand among the gods, Reubold thought grimly. Should I have expected anything less?
“You,” Rommel shot Reubold a glance. “What is your name?”
“Fregattenkapitan Reubold,” Reubold said. He did not bother to come to attention. Somehow, it seemed distasteful to do so.
“What do you do?”
“I am commander of Flotilla Eleven,” Reubold said.
Rommel went quickly to a large table and began sifting through maps. “Here. You. You,” he called Dresser and Reubold to his side. “Come here. Look at this. Look here.” He slapped a map with the palm of his hand and threw it on the floor. “Here. Look at this.” Another map fluttered to the carpet. “Here. Here.” Rommel slammed his fist onto the table. “The coast of France. The Atlantic Wall. Half complete. Half!” His shout filled the room while the others remained silent. Rommel gathered himself, staring at a map sprinkled with fortifications. He took a pencil out of a cup on the table and became lost in sketching out an oblong shape on the paper. “Admiral Dresser?” he said, his voice even, almost mellow. “Can I count on you to place mines here?”
Dresser leaned over Rommel’s shoulder and studied the map. “Indeed, Feldmarschall.”
Rommel tapped the pencil on the paper in a thoughtful rhythm. “Here, then,” he said, looking at Dresser as if the outburst had never occurred. “Off these beaches?”
“Of course, Feldmarschall.”
Rommel nodded. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said without looking at the men. “Walters? Have Janh come in. This irrational Channel weather is becoming irritating.” A grim smile followed. “Again. My congratulations to you on your appointment.”
“Of course, Feldmarschall,” Walters said. Reubold noticed his appreciation was sprinkled with humility. He watched the kommodore disappear through another set of doors before Dresser motioned him into the hallway.
“Fregattenkapitan,” Dresser said. “You must learn to quit chasing fame. Sometimes simply doing what is asked of you is enough. You must also learn that it is far too easy for one of your gullibility to be led astray.”
“It appears that you are right, Admiral,” Reubold said, wondering if Walters ever had any intention of championing his boats. A champion, Reubold thought bitterly; do I really think such men exist?
Admiral Dresser looked through the tall windows on one side of the hallway. “What a barren sky,” he said at the bank of low gray clouds. “Our protector, however. The Allies can’t see us through the cloud cover, can they, Reubold? They can’t see us build fortifications, or move troops,” he smiled at Reubold. “Or lay mines.”
“No, Admiral,” Reubold said. Nor can we see them, he thought, but kept the idea to himself.
“Well,” Dresser said, signaling to an orderly at the far end of the long hall. “Go back to Cherbourg and make your boats ready. Let’s have no more nonsense about Sea Eagles, shall we?”
“No, Admiral,” Reubold said. What else could he say? He searched for an argument that might extend the life of the boats, but his mind refused to cooperate. It kept returning to that single word — champion — and the irony of his belief that such men existed.
“Oh, Reubold,” Dresser said as the orderly appeared with his cap and gloves. “I spoke with Reichsmarschall Goering this morning. A very pleasant conversation. He asked after your health.”
Reubold smiled as Dresser pulled on his gloves and straightened his cap. “The reichsmarschall,” Reubold said, “has had a special interest in my well-being for some time.”
“Yes, I gathered that,” Dresser said, fitting the gloves around and between his fingers until they appeared to be a second skin. “Strange, however. He seemed disappointed when I replied that you were in excellent health.”
“Perhaps, Admiral,” Reubold said. “You will have the sad duty to report to the reichsfuehrer that I perished in battle. I’m sure that his reaction will be quite different.”
Chapter 21
Edland watched as McNamar walked to the fireplace, his arms locked behind his back, digesting the report. He turned.
“That bad, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” Edland confirmed. “Five sunk. Two heavily damaged. At least a thousand dead.”
“But they found the bigots?” Ten men who knew a great deal about the invasion had been on the LSTs. They were reported missing and for several hours there had been a frantic search for the officers. The loss of the men and ships had been a disaster; the capture of the ten bigots would have been a catastrophe. There was a macabre sigh of relief when their bodies were hauled out of the cold water.
“Yes, sir,” Edland said. He had watched as the body of the last of the men who knew so much about the invasion was dragged up on the stony beach and laid with the others.
McNamar shook his head. “Jesus. We can’t keep this up.”
Edland understood. The five LSTs sunk comprised the reserve of all of the invasion fleet’s LSTs. The two that were damaged would probably not be repaired in time for the invasion. There were a few LSTs, old British ships that were quickly being overhauled, but time and the condition of the ships were factors. And those ships amounted to exactly — three.