Suddenly Peters was at his side. “Mueller. That silly fool was trying to get his boat out.”
“When did it happen?”
“Now. Just minutes ago.”
The thunder that Reubold had heard. It wasn’t thunder after all, it was the ceiling collapsing. He brushed by Peters and quickly made his way along the walkway that skirted the pen channel. His boat and Peters’s had been the first in and were closest to the channel head. He had a better view of Mueller’s boat. Its bow was wedged against one side of the walkway and its stern against the other. The skullcap was covered with hunks of concrete, some as large as a man’s head. Mueller’s crew was trying to clear the bridge to get to the men who had been injured. One of them, judging from the location of the debris that covered the bridge, had to be Mueller.
“He was going out,” Peters spoke rapidly, anxious to fix the blame, “against orders. Admiral Dresser specifically ordered us to remain in the pens until your arrival.”
Dresser didn’t waste any time, Reubold thought.
“I told Mueller, ‘You’re violating orders. You just wait until the fregattenkapitan returns.’ He just laughed at me.”
Reubold turned to Peters. “Shut up,” he said calmly and climbed aboard the S-boat. The crew had sorted out some of the wreckage, enough to get to Mueller. They worked quickly, virtually ignoring Reubold. He saw Mueller, sprawled on the deck, a large slab of concrete covering his legs. Blood seeped from the corners of his mouth as he offered Reubold a weak smile.
“Richard, come to visit me?”
“You stupid bastard,” Reubold said, trying not to look at the sickly pool of blood gleaming in the light. “Don’t you ever listen to orders?”
“Don’t you?” His voice was a tortured whisper and his eyes were losing focus.
“We’ll get you out. I promise.”
“Well then, get out of the way. Let the men work.” He seemed to pull strength from within, but it soon faded. “Dresser beached us, didn’t he? Peters was so happy he almost danced a jig. Is that it for us then?” Mueller said. He coughed softly and red bubbles appeared between his lips.
“No.”
“Don’t let them take this away from us, Richard. Your little schoolmaster gave us quite a boat.”
There was a loud crack overhead and Reubold instinctively sheltered Mueller’s body with his own. He glanced at the ceiling over his shoulder and saw a piece of concrete fall away, landing harmlessly in the dark water near the boat’s hull. He pushed himself up and brushed the concrete dust and tiny bits of debris off Mueller’s forehead. There was no movement from the prostrate man. His eyes looked beyond Reubold. The fregattenkapitan stared at the dead man. The sound of men rapidly clearing the rubble from the deck brought him around. “Clear the boat,” he ordered. “Now.”
“Sir,” one of the men said in surprise. “We haven’t…”
“Off,” Reubold said. “Now. You can’t help Mueller.” He saw Peters pressed against the wall, well clear of the danger. “Go get Waymann.”
“Waymann?” Peters was shocked. By rights Reubold should have given him an assignment — he was the senior kapitan. “Why Waymann?”
“Do you want to take this boat out?” Reubold could almost see Peters turn pale at the question.
“No. I mean, I’ll get Waymann.”
Reubold stood, took off his coat, and covered Mueller. He realized that Mueller’s crew hadn’t moved. “Get off the goddamned boat,” he shouted. “Do you want to end up like Mueller? And tell everyone to stay back until I tell them to approach.”
The men were filing toward the channel head, led by Peters, when Waymann ran up.
“Yes, sir?”
Reubold felt his hands shake and realized that he had almost forgotten how long it was since he had an injection. Maybe when this was done. He looked at the silent form on the deck. Maybe he wouldn’t need the blessed needle anymore.
“Sir?” Waymann waited for orders.
Reubold’s eyes fell on the young officer. Here was a decent man — a good man. He had once been Waymann. Stop it, he told himself. You sold your soul to the devil long ago. “We’re going to take Mueller’s boat out, you and I. I want to tie off to Peter’s boat and my boat so that we take them out with us. We’ll be the only boat under power. I think the vibrations from the engines caused the cave-in.” His eyes swept the ceiling. “Or maybe the damn thing just fell down. This is what we’ll do; I’ll get us off of the walkway and turned so that we can back out. I don’t think anything big enough for us to foul us fell into the channel.” There was no way to tell. There could be some debris in the dark water to catch the foils, something to trap Mueller’s boat and hold it beneath the unstable concrete ceiling. “The minute I’m clear, I’ll straighten her up. Make sure that the crew takes up the slack on the lines so we don’t string out because I don’t want to spend any more time than I have to in here. Nobody is to be on the boats that doesn’t have to be.”
“Yes, sir,” Waymann said.
“Go,” Reubold said. “Wait,” he called. “Make sure Peters is on the bridge of his boat.”
Nothing in Waymann’s look told Reubold that he understood the real message: No time to be ill now, Peters. Now you will be the kapitan.
Reubold inspected the side of the S-boat. The hull had been impaled at the bow by the walkway a distance of nearly three meters. He went aft. It was just as bad there except a portion of the hull was crushed. He thought it unlikely that the rudders and screws were damaged, and he hoped that the foils were unharmed, but he wouldn’t know until he started the engines. He thought that Mueller was taking her out when he was struck by a piece of concrete and as he fell, turned the wheel hard over.
Reubold’s legs began to ache and he cursed the pain. Not now. Can’t you leave me alone? Just for an hour? Just once?
Waymann returned and jumped from the walkway onto the shattered deck and made his way to the skullcap.
“Well?” Reubold said.
“All is prepared, sir,” Waymann said.
“Good.”
“Kapitanleutnant Peters, sir.”
“Yes?” Reubold said, knowing what to expect.
“He was unavailable, sir.”
“Who?”
“Kapitanleutnant Draheim, sir. He said that he would interrupt his music lessons for you.”
“I’m filled with gratitude,” Reubold said. “Secure a line on the bow cleat. Hand it off and go below and stand by the engines. When I call for them, start them immediately. Give them just a moment to build up oil pressure and then I’ll signal for engagement. Then come topside immediately and stand by.” He turned to the harbor but there was very little to see. The rain was being driven from the sky in thick sheets and the wind howled in accompaniment. It was the harbor that troubled him. It was a battlefield of waves. If it were so in the sanctuary of the harbor, Reubold thought, what must it be like in the Channel? Thank God for tiny favors; at least the Allies would be trapped in their own harbors waiting for the storm to subside.
It was a small thing to take them out in reverse. Even for one boat to tow the others was manageable. Manageable under normal circumstances. But this was hardly normal. The ceiling could give way at any moment, crushing his boat or the other two in the ridiculous parade. His boat would have steerage, some power to pass water over the rudders so that he could control its movement; the others would not. And they could not start their engines. Reubold was convinced that Mueller’s engines, rumbling against the hard surface of the pen, created a vibration that weakened the fissure in the ceiling. There was always the chance it would happen again.