Plow.
His family had been tied to the land, and his father had insisted that Gierek embrace that life as well, but he found no charm in dirt. Sister could make things grow, and his father, it was claimed by the other farmers, could make crops sprout from rock. He can go into the mountains, one grizzled old farmer told Gierek, and return with a full yield. Gierek followed the old man’s finger to the mountain and decided that would be a poor use of the mountain’s majesty. He would not be a farmer.
“It’s land,” Gierek confirmed to Jagello. He tried to fight back his excitement, but it felt wonderful to have one small triumph in the conflict. He sensed Jagello stirring and saw the bomb-aimer/navigator sit up, trying to keep his face out of the frigid air that blasted through the shattered windscreen.
“Home?” he said. The pathos in Jagello’s voice was painful for Gierek to hear.
“Yes,” he said, trying to sound confident. “Yes.”
“Thank the Almighty,” Jagello said. He twisted his head slowly, gazing for a moment at Gierek.
“How many Germans did we kill today, friend?”
Gierek laughed. “Plenty, Jagello. More tomorrow. More the day after.” But the left engine began to shake as if to remind Gierek that they weren’t safe yet. Perhaps it would not be Germans who died. Perhaps they would never see Poland or their families again. Gierek was suddenly very cold, fear shaking his body so violently that he thought his hands, wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, would be snapped off. Perhaps they would die in a foreign land and be buried beneath soil that offered no solace for them. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eyes and turned to see a thin stream of black smoke rolled around the nacelle of the left engine. Then the flames came, tiny fingers that curled from within the engine and danced along the leading edge. They grew longer, fatter. They would travel quickly within the wing, seeking a way to the fuel tanks, and there they would consume the fuel, tanks, and aircraft in one violent burst of gluttony.
Murray climbed through the shattered hatch and wiped his hands on his pants. He was soaked and his face was black with grease, and the look he gave Cole said it all.
“Skipper. I can’t keep this son of a bitch afloat.”
“All the pumps going?”
“Yes, sir. The starboard engine is the only one working, but just barely. That ought to be enough to run the pumps, but she’s a goddamned sieve.”
“We’ve got to keep this vessel afloat,” Edland said. “We’ve got to get it back to Portsmouth.”
“What do you think, Murray?” Cole said. “Can you keep her afloat until I can get everyone off her?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, sir. I’ll tell you one thing; when she fills up our boats won’t be able to handle her. She’s just too damned big.”
“Okay. Carry on. Do you need some help back here?”
“Nah,” the seaman said. “Stew and I got it.”
Cole headed to the bow with Edland at his side.
“Cole, we can’t let this boat go. We’ve got to make every effort to save her.”
“I know.” Cole steadied himself on the listing deck and shouted to the 155 boat. “Get Mr. DeLong.” In a few moments DeLong appeared at the .40 millimeter mount. “Randy? Contact Firedancer. Tell her we need her up here as soon as possible.”
“What’s up, Skipper?”
“Edland’s prize is sinking.”
“I thought she was dragging some,” DeLong confirmed.
“See if Firedancer can tie up to us and take part of the weight. She’s taking on water like there’s no tomorrow. Then cast off and come alongside. Take off these prisoners.” He turned to Edland. “Okay with you, Commander?”
“Why is it that everything you say to me sounds like an insult?”
Cole smiled and turned at a shout from 155. “Hey, Skipper. Mr. DeLong says that British tin can is beating feet. We’re going to cast off now and come up on your port side.”
Cole waved a response and turned to Edland. “Get below. Into the radio room. Get everything not nailed down. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that sooner. Probably trying to save your damned boat.”
“Rich. Come with me.” The sailor joined Edland and they felt their way into the dark interior of the vessel. Edland, in the lead, was up to his knees in ice-cold water. He let out a gasp and continued forward.
“I’ve got a Zippo, Commander.”
“No,” Edland said. The light would help ease the darkness but he could smell fumes. It was probably diesel fuel but he couldn’t be sure. His feet bumped into something in the water and he knew it was a body from the way it reacted. He felt its arms try to wrap themselves around his legs as if begging for help. “Forward?”
“Yeah,” Rich said. “I mean yes, sir. Come to a passageway and hang a left. That’s how we’re set up anyway.”
Edland felt along the bulkheads, his hand running over splintered timbers. She was a wreck. The water didn’t seem to be getting any higher, but it was difficult to tell as the boat wallowed in the sea. He tried to see through the darkness. It was no use; he needed the light.
“All right, Rich. We’ll need your lighter.”
“Coming up, Commander.”
He heard Rich fumble through his pockets in the darkness, the familiar heavy clunk of the lid being flipped off the lighter, one grinding strike as the wheel rotated, and then another. He tensed for the explosion.
“Must have got wet, Commander. Hang on a second.”
Rich blew on the flint several times, rolled the wheel with his thumb, and light flooded the tiny compartment. Edland began to breathe again.
They were in the radio room and it was a mess. Equipment had been shot off the bulkheads, there were two dead men slumped over narrow counters, and from the looks of it a small fire had been started and then extinguished. Edland saw radios, something that was probably a radar unit, a strange device with oversized typewriter keys, piles of codebooks, and a safe mounted on the counter and secured to a bulkhead.
“Get the codebooks and all of the papers you can carry,” Edland ordered. Rich began scooping piles of documents and a dozen or so books with the Kriegsmarine eagle holding a swastika stamped on it. Edland examined the safe. It was locked.
“Here you go, Commander,” Rich said, handing him the Zippo.
“Think we can open this?” Edland said.
Rich looked over the safe. “Maybe we can blow it with a grenade?”
Edland thought Rich’s idea was dangerous, but he looked around the interior for a place to hide from the blast, just in case. He decided that it was too risky, for them and for the boat. “Leave it,” he said.
Rich, papers clutched against his chest, eyed the safe critically. “Hey, maybe it ain’t locked.”
Edland tried the handle in the off chance it was open. The handle didn’t budge.
“Well, it was worth a try.”
“Let’s get topside,” Edland said. The darkness and confined area seemed to close in on him.
“Okay, sir,” Rich said. “I got everything. I think.”
Edland picked up the typewriter; except he knew that it had to be some kind of encryption device. “Lead the way, Rich.”
The two made their way back on deck. Edland noticed that it was early dawn — the darkness had begun to fade away the short time he was below. He saw more of the deck now and the surrounding waters.