Another German swung the amidships 20-millimeter toward Cole.
“Down!” he shouted, dropping to the deck.
The cannon fired directly over their heads as the gunner struggled to depress it. Murray slid along the port canvas dodger, pulled the pin on a hand grenade, and shouted: “Fire in the hole!”
There was a loud bang followed by a scream, and the gun was silenced. The firing was continuous now and the German crew moved against Cole and his men. They were trapped unless they could force the enemy to fall back.
“Stay down!” someone shouted from PT-155, and suddenly the air was filled with the ragged sound of twin .50-caliber machine guns. The slugs ripped through the superstructure and housing, toppling the mast, splintering the gun shields, and chopping the deckhouse and life raft to pieces. The fire ate its way aft, catching enemy sailors as they turned to run, spewing blood and tissue over the deck.
Cole rolled over on his back and jerked a finger across his throat, signaling the gun to cease fire.
“You two, forward,” Cole ordered two men. “You two, aft.” He looked at Edland. “Stay with me. Randy?” he shouted to DeLong over the sounds of scattered gunfire. “See if you can raise the other boats and Firedancer. Find out what’s going on. Have some men lay aft and prepare to take this monster in tow. Okay with you, commander?”
Edland was about to answer when a single shot rang out. Cole grabbed the side of his neck and dropped to a knee, trying to find the shooter. He saw a dark form on the deck, near the starboard side of the bridge. He raised his gun to fire when Edland moved in front of him. Cole tackled him, dropping the commander to the deck.
“Wait,” Edland said. “Don’t shoot. He’s an officer.”
“I don’t care if he’s Santa Claus,” Cole said. “The son of a bitch tried to kill me.”
He thought the shot came from the shadows of the E-boat bridge. He searched the darkness, looking for any sign of the enemy, any movement that would give him away. In frustration he fired three shots at the bridge and thought he saw someone move. He fired again and ducked as a half-dozen shots sliced the air over his head.
“Let me talk him into surrendering,” Edland said.
“Let me kill him first,” Cole said, sliding forward. “Then he can surrender.”
“Hey, Skipper?”
Cole twisted around to see Rich hugging the deck behind him. He held up a hand grenade for Cole to see, and then tossed it. Cole caught it as it clattered across the deck. He took it firmly in his right hand, slid a finger into the pin, and glanced at Edland. “If I were you, I’d dig a hole.” He pulled the pin, counted silently to three, and lobbed it into the bridge. He dropped his head and prepared himself.
There was a crash and the deck shook. Cole could smell the acrid stench of explosive and burning metal. He jumped up, fired several shots into the darkness, and rushed the bridge. Edland was at his side as they pulled a bloody officer away from his machine pistol.
Edland wrested the pistol out of the officer’s hand and checked the man for a pulse. “I think he’s the boat commander. He’s alive, barely. We need him as a prisoner. Help me get him to his feet.”
Cole rose, slipped his pistol in the holster, and joined Edland. Both men helped the officer stand and tried to steady him. The German looked from Cole to Edland. He said something in German to Edland, and then repeated it to Cole.
Cole turned to Edland: “What’d he say?”
“‘You would have made Goering a very happy man if only you killed me.’”
“It wasn’t from lack of trying, Fritz,” Cole said to the German.
They guided him to the gunnel and handed him over to a couple of seamen on PT-155.
“Skipper,” DeLong shouted. “I’m going to pull forward and toss you a line. Tie it off.”
“What’s the word on the others?” Cole called back.
“One sixty-eight and one seventy-two are taking on water. I think the Krauts lost another boat. Nothing from Firedancer. The rest of the guys are pretty shot up.”
“Okay,” Cole said. “Have the other boats pick up survivors and bodies. Ask Firedancer if she can do the same. We’ll take this monster on in. Advise Portsmouth what we’ve run into and the disposition of the boats.” He noticed that his men had grouped the surviving Germans aft. The defeated men sat dejectedly on the deck, their hands folded over their hands. “Rich? Get forward and take that line. Tie us off.”
“Hey, Skipper?” Murray said. “I think this bastard’s taking on water. I mean real fast.”
“We’ve got to get it back to England,” Edland said. “We’ve got to save this boat.”
Cole ignored Edland. “Murray? Keep an eye on it.” He moved forward as the line was tied off on a bow cleat. He took a moment to look around. The E-boat’s deck was a slaughterhouse. Blood, bodies, and parts of bodies littered the shattered deck. He noticed the gun set deep in the boat’s gun well. It was a squat, ominous-looking weapon with three thick barrels. A tiny shudder overtook him. This had been close. He noticed DeLong circle his finger above his head, signaling that he was increasing power. Cole watched the line grow taut as the slack was taken up. The line snapped water from its surface and he felt the boat move forward slowly.
“Remarkable,” Edland said, standing next to him.
Cole noticed Edland examining the guns.
“Rube Goldberg,” Cole said. “But they had my attention.” He pointed at the 20mm. “That’s why they were so accurate. Paint the target with tracers, and boom.”
“Recoilless,” Edland said.
Cole looked at him. “Oh, yeah?”
“Look at the breech. That funnel. That’s how they expelled the discharge gases.”
“You can’t argue with progress, can you?” Cole said. “I wonder how many more little surprises the Krauts have waiting for us?”
“I wonder how it’s going?”
“What?”
“I said, I wonder how it’s going,” Edland said. “The invasion.”
“Oh,” Cole said, watching the progress of PT-155. “I’d say that they have their hands full. We’ve done our bit. At least for now.”
“Skipper,” Murray called from the center engine hatch. “You’d better get down here. We got problems.”
“I see something,” Gierek said hopefully to Jagello. The fierce wind piercing the cockpit caused his eyes to tear, and he was so numb from fatigue that he was hallucinating. That might be land ahead; it could be England. Or maybe it was his mind creating hope where none existed. It could be a low bank of clouds sitting on the horizon. He couldn’t tell. His eyes stung and his shoulders burned from fighting the wheel. His hands were blocks of wood. Worst of all, his mind was numb, he could not concentrate. He had to talk his way through every action.
“What do you see?” Jagello managed. His wound was serious; Gierek hoped that they had time to get someplace where there was a doctor. Jagello was still awake — that was good, very good. And talking. Better still. The bomb-aimer/navigator was so frugal with words that anytime he spoke was an event.
“Land,” Gierek said, praying that he was not holding out false hope. “I think.”
“Ours,” Jagello said, “or theirs?”
The man’s humor was resilient.
“England?” Gierek said, stretching the fiery ache out of his back. It had to be a question because at this moment he was not certain of anything.
The Mosquito began to tremble violently, and a wave of fear swept through Gierek. He cursed the wretched plane’s capriciousness; the words, kept low so that Jagello didn’t hear his frustration, helped to mask Gierek’s terror. The wooden aircraft was falling apart; the stress of flight and the constant pounding of the runaway engine were shaking the airframe. It could not last much longer. They would make land; Gierek had declared that low, dark mass ahead land — but that did not mean safety. He did not know where they were, he could not see the ground, and it was just as likely that they would plow into a fence during landing as skid across a clean field.