He watched Waymann toss the line to a seaman on the walkway. It flew through the air in a long graceful loop until it was captured and run forward. The young oberleutnant disappeared below deck and Reubold turned his attention to the instrument panel. The dials captured oil pressure, engine temperature, and revolutions per minute for the engines. Another set read the available fuel for the ready tanks. They were the eyes of the powerful engines; they told him everything he needed to know.
“Fregattenkapitan?” He heard voices echoing off the walls near the other craft. “Ready here.”
Reubold cupped his hands around his mouth. “No engines,” he shouted to the waiting boats. “Do you understand? No engines.” The heavy vibration of the boat engines in this confined space might dislodge more concrete. Or bring the whole thing down. They’d have to trust in his skill in boat handling. He glanced at the bundle at his feet that had once been his friend. The best boat handler in Flotilla 11 would never do so again.
Reubold slipped the throat mike on his neck and hooked one earphone over his head, leaving his other ear free. If the ceiling fell he might have a chance if he heard it before it landed on him. “Waymann?”
The earphone crackled. “Engine Room.”
Reubold smiled in appreciation at Waymann’s formality. The young officer was cool and kept any emotion he felt firmly under control. He was destined for great things. “Start the engines.”
“Yes, sir.”
The engines rumbled to life and the noise startled Reubold. He’d heard it a thousand times before, and always the deep roar had done nothing more than assure him that a routine was being followed. Now the noise was louder and more ominous so that he was tempted to tell Waymann to throttle the engines back, but a quick sweep of the instrument panel told him that they were functioning at operational level. It was as if he were experiencing the unadulterated power of the engines for the first time and that, uncontrolled, they were like wild animals that could destroy him.
Behind him the storm increased and he could feel the cold spray washing through the pen opening. He shivered as it covered him, and he saw the boat’s deck glisten in the water. He held up his arm so that the boats ahead could see him: get ready.
He clamped the mike against his throat. “Waymann,” he said, scanning the dials until the needles inched into position. “Engage reverse.” There was only one reverse speed and the process of engaging the gears through the clutch wasn’t as complicated as moving forward. Once in reverse, Reubold simply controlled the speed with the throttle on the instrument panel next to the wheel.
He felt the boat shudder as the engines slipped into reverse. He slipped his fingers around the throttle controls for the three engines, his palm cupping the control arm knobs. He heard pieces of concrete strike the boat, small pieces at first. There was a loud bang forward as he increased power and swung the wheel gently to pull away from the walkway. It could have been the hull breaking free or a large chunk of concrete.
Reubold tasted concrete dust and saw a white flash off to one side, followed by a splash. He glanced at the revolutions per minute and realized the hull wasn’t moving. He gripped the knobs and eased them forward. A loud grating sound filled the cavern, followed by shrieks of protest as the steel hull pulled away from the walkway. Reubold felt the boat trembling as it tried to break free of the concrete. The stern should pull away as well when the bow broke free if there was nothing to catch the foils.
Reubold throttled up and the roar increased until it equaled the noise of the storm. It began to rain dust and chunks of concrete and the S-boat trembled so violently Reubold was certain that it was lodged on debris under the water.
He felt the boat swing free and waited for the tug beneath him that said they were fouled. But there was nothing; the boat eased backward through the water until Reubold felt a solid jerk. They had played out the line and it was taut, pulling the second S-boat.
Reubold flipped on the switch for the signal light on the bulkhead just to his left and aimed it at the ceiling. He wished he hadn’t. Solid pieces of debris continued to rain down, striking the water in an almost continuous barrage. Concrete dust was so thick that when the beam from the signal light bounced off it, it created an almost opaque wall. A large piece of the ceiling broke away and struck the water with a flat crack, throwing spray in every direction.
Reubold pressed the microphone. “Waymann. Get up here.”
Oberleutnant zur see Waymann was at Reubold’s side in an instant.
“Keep the light on the ceiling,” Reubold said. “I’ve got to steer the boat.” He would be backing into the bay soon and the storm demanded all of his attention. He wondered what he expected Waymann to do with the light; it wouldn’t stop the ceiling from falling. He decided that at least the others could see their own doom approaching.
Reubold felt the wind pummel his back and the S-boat buck as the waves clutched at it. Rain came down like tiny needles trying to pierce his clothing and burned his exposed skin. He throttled up, moving quickly out of the protection of the pen, but he was afraid that if he increased power too much he would part the line, leaving the other two S-boats to be crushed.
The wind snatched his cap away and clawed at his face.
Waymann turned to him. “Second boat’s clear,” he shouted. The words were nearly lost in the storm.
Reubold nodded and looked over his shoulder, looking for any vessel that had broken away in the storm and was drifting in the harbor. There was nothing but sea, rain, and gray clouds.
He eased the throttle up a bit more and could see the crew of the second S-boat waving at him and pointing aft. They want to start their engines, he thought, but he didn’t respond. He would not allow it until the last boat was clear. He knew what he wanted and when he wanted it and he trusted no one else. He had gotten Mueller’s boat out, and Peters, with Draheim at the wheel, and Fritz was the last one.
“They’re coming out,” Waymann shouted and then he remembered his place. “They’re coming out,” he repeated, calmly.
“Signal them to start engines, slip the cables, and proceed to Potsdam Pen,” Reubold said.
The other three boats were safely secured in Potsdam Pen and it would be a tight fit for three more. Reubold had no choice. If they remained in the harbor, without protection, they wouldn’t last a day. Putting all six boats in one pen was hazardous; a hit by one of those giant bombs would wipe out the entire flotilla. Reubold wiped rainwater from his face and thought, fortunes of war.
He slapped Waymann on the shoulder to get his attention and pulled him close so that the young officer could hear him. “We’ll go in, Fritz leads the way. Bows out. Have them inspect the boats for damage.” Waymann nodded and disappeared through the hatch to the radio room.
Reubold watched the ghostly forms set off in the rain and fell in behind, keeping enough distance so there was no danger that he would ram one of the boats.
He began to understand what had troubled him on the way back from Paris, a tiny splinter that had become embedded in his mind. It revealed itself when he was steering the S-boat out of the pen — a very unlikely place to suffer a revelation. He had discovered that he had developed a fault, unseen and unrecognized, but one that had become a part of him.
Once he had been a daredevil, an adventurer. Long ago he disdained caution and conquered his fear with bravado. The qualities of a young man. After several accidents, and the horrors of combat, and especially the specter of his own death, he had developed a weakness for living. Some might have called it a fondness for living, but Reubold’s was based on fear. Fear of failing, fear of death.