“Skipper?” Barney said. “I’ve picked up a target on radar bearing three-four-oh degrees. Range twenty miles. Speed sixteen knots.”
Cole grabbed the microphone and pressed the TALK button. “Okay, Barney. Keep an eye on him. That should be our escort. Switch to contact frequency and let him know who we are. I don’t want anybody getting trigger-happy.” He released the TALK button and held the microphone against his chest to keep spray out of the unit. “Randy, swing to port a bit and keep your eyes open.” He pressed the TALK button again. “Barney? Anything?”
“Negative, Skipper.”
“You’re sure that’s one target and not a dozen, aren’t you? I don’t want any E-boats surprising me.”
“Nope. Just one, Skipper. Sixteen knots. Three-four-oh.”
“Okay.” Cole hung the microphone under the overhang on the instrument panel and picked up the signal lamp. He began clicking out a message to Ewing on the 168 boat. He knew that Ewing would pass it on to the others.
“Hey, Skipper?”
Cole picked up the microphone. “Yeah, Barney?”
“Got a reply. She’s a British destroyer. Coastal Forces. Firedancer.”
“Who?”
“Firedancer, Skipper. What a screwy name, huh?”
Cole shook his head. “Yeah, it is, Barney. Send my compliments to Firedancer. We should have her in sight within fifteen minutes.” Small world. Small world indeed, Cole thought. He remembered Hardy with his bowler hat, and Land, the imperturbable Number One, and the frightening encounter against Sea Lion. He wondered, he hoped that Hardy still commanded the ancient vessel.
“Something funny?” Edland asked.
“Ironic,” Cole said. “I served on Firedancer before the United States got into the war.”
“Lend Lease?”
“Happenstance.”
“Firedancer again, Skipper,” Barney reported. “She says that she has us in sight. Captain Hardy sends his compliments and asks that we form up one mile off his starboard beam.”
Cole smiled. Hardy.
“Reply orders received and acknowledged,” he said to Barney. To DeLong he said: “Let’s show Firedancer just how sharp we are. First Division right echelon from column, Second Division, left echelon from column at my command.”
“Getting fancy, Skipper?” DeLong said with a smile. He passed the word to Barney.
“Starboard, twenty,” he ordered DeLong, taking the boats out away from Firedancer. He wanted room to maneuver so that he could bring his squadron into position off the British destroyer’s beam. And, he wanted to show off.
He looked at the sky. Night was coming quickly, hastened by the heavy overcast of dark, ominous clouds. He thought that he heard the steady drone of aircraft engines but he couldn’t be sure. He knew that they were there. He knew that thousands of planes were flying, unseen, directly over his head. Bombers, fighter-bombers, fighters, transports; an armada, he thought, but the description wasn’t enough. That was a word that newspapermen used to excite interest in their article, or writers wove into their accounts long after events. Then what was it? his mind challenged him. He didn’t have a word, just a feeling. A sense that what was passing overhead was a civilization.
To hell with it.
“Take her up to forty knots, Randy,” Cole said, shaking the thoughts out of his mind.
“Right, Skipper.”
Cole reached past Edland, pulled the flare gun from its case, and inserted a barrel-shaped flare in the breech. “Watch your eyes,” he said, knowing that the discharge would rob them of night vision. “One, two, three.” He turned his head and squeezed the trigger. There was a sharp plunk, and the flare hissed high into the sky before exploding. That was the command to execute echelon from column.
Cole held the flare gun in his hand, feeling the warmth of the barrel, watching his boats move through the night. Delong throttled back and stayed on course; Ewing in the 168 boat swung to starboard, taking position 100 yards off 155 boat’s quarter. Dean and the 134 boat moved to port and matched Ewing’s position. It was movement in unison, choreographed — engines roaring, wakes boiling, water churned into white froth as the bows heeled over — boats peeling out of position to assume their rightful place.
Hardy watched the distance flare arch into the air and explode. He reached out for Land’s binoculars and studied the boats as they crisscrossed over the sea, leaving long fluorescent trails.
“Nicely done,” he said. He looked at Land. “That’s Cole, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hardy went back to the binoculars. “Well done at that, Mr. Cole. He’s learned his business, all right.” After a moment he said: “When they get into position we shall maintain our present course.” The men were already at Action Stations with the lookouts doubled, so there was little that Hardy and Firedancer could do except make themselves available as needed to the newly arrived boats. Hardy had become agitated at being informed that Firedancer was needed off the landing forces’ flank but he calmed himself. She had taken a beating at Lyme Bay and had not had a chance to settle in for repair. He accepted the assignment as something that was due Firedancer. Give her a chance to lick her wounds, he’d explained to Land. Of course, no repair of consequence could be expected until she was allowed time with the yard crews. Perhaps later.
Chapter 26
Reubold finished his cigarette as he listened to Mihsler’s report. The oberleutnant had been detailed as the officer of the day for the overcrowded S-boat pen, and although he was considered a prig by the other officers, there was never any question about his competence. He was thorough, professional, and when the time called for it, decisive. He had been Mueller’s executive officer. Now he was Mueller’s replacement.
“Many planes,” he told Reubold. “Cherbourg, certainly. The others as well.” It was a deadly simplistic announcement. Every port along the French coast was about to be hammered by the enemy. Bombers, fighter-bombers, fighters; the skies over Cherbourg, Le Havre, and Boulogne would be uncontested territory. On the ground, well, there was no other way to describe it — it would be hell. Reubold had decided long ago that the explosions were bad enough. They shook the earth and toppled buildings and after enough time had passed and men’s minds began to turn to jelly under the constant impact — it drove the poor souls crazy. Most hated the bombing — because it was as if a giant had swept his hand over everything. Reubold hated the fires. They came first as a stench of things burning — wood, paint, metal, a dozen indefinable odors that drifted into the shelters. Human beings burning as well. That odor was unmistakable; meat quickly charred by intense flames, limbs slowly roasted as the fires advanced over the wreckage. The only difference was alive they screamed — dead they just sizzled. How cruel, Reubold thought as he considered the distinction. What, his mind returned, that your sympathy is obviously unconvincing, or human beings die in such horrible circumstances? He left the question unanswered.
Reubold flicked his spent cigarette into the oily water. “The others can take care of themselves,” he said. “How long?”
“B-dienst reports that they are assembling now,” Mihsler said, using the slang for wireless intelligence. “One hour.”
Reubold looked along the covey of S-boats crowded in the pen. Two by two, like Noah’s ark. Six in a pen that was designed for three, perhaps four in an emergency; never six. The last two boats were most likely to be damaged by a near hit. If they were sunk, they would block the pen and the other four would be trapped. Noah’s ark just sprang a leak.