“Four Condors and a squadron of FW 190s are at your disposal,” he had replied. “We will clear the skies of enemy planes so that Sea Lion and her flotilla will remain undetected.”
Again Bismarck was on everyone’s mind. She had been caught on the high seas and denied air cover because she was out of range of the Luftwaffe. And unlike the other powers, Germany had no operational aircraft carriers.
Godt nearly jumped out of his skin when a steam whistle shrieked overhead. He looked up to find himself next to a huge crane. It rumbled slowly down a pair of glistening railway tracks, shrieking a warning as it did. Then he noticed that Doenitz was gone and he looked around frantically.
“Godt?” The voice came from behind him. Godt turned to see Doenitz looking at him quizzically.
“Where were you going?” the admiral asked, standing at the edge of the wharf.
Godt realized that he had walked past Doenitz, lost in his own thoughts. “Your pardon, Admiral,” he said. “I was thinking.”
“Indeed,” Doenitz said. “So was I. We have a very good chance, Godt. Our chance with this operation is as good as any I’ve seen. That big brute of Raeder’s might just bully its way past any opposition to Prince of Wales. With her speed and firepower it will be no contest. If… if everything goes as it should.” Then Godt was surprised to see Doenitz smile as if the little admiral held a secret, something so cherished that he would not divulge it to anyone. Godt knew that Doenitz often left things unspoken, or revealed things in such a cryptic manner that it was difficult to determine what the admiral really meant. “If not,” Doenitz continued with the idea, “we still may achieve a great victory. If a limited one.”
“Admiral?”
“U-boats, Godt,” Doenitz said. “They shall be where they are supposed to be, doing exactly what they were assigned. If everything goes as it should,” he repeated, “then our submariners will taste blood. We are, after all, concerned with our U-boats, are we not, Godt?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes,” the little admiral said. “No one can doubt our loyalty. No one can point at us and say that we failed in our mission. Regardless of what transpires.”
Godt understood perfectly. Raeder might fail, the Kriegsmarine might fail — but Doenitz and his U-boats would triumph. So this was not merely war — it was politics. The enemy was never just the enemy — they could be one’s companion in an undisclosed strategy. Godt was suddenly very happy that he was insulated from such game playing by Doenitz. He would never be as adept as Doenitz would, in a game where losing could just as easily mean execution as dismissal.
“I believe that this is the first time that I’ve ever increased by one-quarter my U-boat force without adding another U-boat,” Doenitz said, chuckling. “Well, enough of this. We shall wait to hear from Goliath. Our boat’s first messages should give us the first indications of the mission’s success.”
Cole watched the copilot make his way back along the pitching Dakota transport with a thermos and tin cup. He handed the cup to Cole and shouted over the roar of the engines, “Hold it out away from you, Yank. Wouldn’t want to see you scald your balls.”
Cole did as he was told, trying to push himself farther back into the tattered canvas and aluminum frame seat that he’d occupied for nearly five hours.
The copilot pinned himself into position by spreading his feet and wrapping his fingers around an overhead rib.
“Probably just lukewarm by now, but it might take the chill out,” the copilot said as most of the liquid managed to spill into the cup. The plane bounced and a glob of tea landed on Cole’s hand. He jerked back in anticipation of heat, but the tea was nearly ice cold.
“How far to Leuchars?” he asked.
“Damned if I know. This bloody Scottish soup. If it isn’t the winds it’s the clouds. If it’s not the clouds it’s the rain. Bill there” — he motioned toward the cabin with the thermos — “just aims the plane north and off we go. When he gets tired, he lets me take over, and when I get lost, I wake him up.”
“Hell of a way to run a railroad.”
“Isn’t it though? Do you play golf?”
“What?”
“Golf? Sport of kings and such.”
“I thought horse racing was the sport of kings,” Cole said.
“Not in this bloody country it’s not. Golf’s the thing. St. Andrews. Not a stone’s throw from Leuchars. Oldest golf course in the world, I’m told.”
“I don’t know,” Cole said. “I never played the game.”
“Nor have I. Well, enough chitchat. I’d best see if Bill needs me. Shall I leave the thermos with you?”
“No, thanks,” Cole said, wiping his hands on the stained overalls given to him before he boarded the airplane.
Three hours later they landed in a driving rain at what Cole hoped was Leuchars. When the plane taxied to a hard stand and a lorry pulled alongside to unload the cargo, Cole was sure enough to unbuckle his seat belt, move to the rear of the aircraft, and unlatch the door. He grasped the handle and opened it slowly to keep the wind from ripping it out of his hand. A ground crewman took it from him with a nod and attached it to the holdback on the body of the aircraft.
Clamping his cap on his head with one hand, he shouted, “Where’s the base commander?”
The crewman said something that was lost to the wind but pointed in the direction of a Quonset hut. It took only a few minutes of explaining to an affable colonel to allow Cole access to the crew of N-for-Nancy. Cole did not mention his plan to fly over Leka Island to the base commander. He was sure that if he had, the ready smile would have disappeared in a flash.
Cole found the crew of N-for-Nancy in the half of a Quonset hut that served as a base recreation club and social area. Off-duty crews were scattered around the few tables in the room, while several men clustered at the bar talking quietly. Four men were playing darts — N-for-Nancy’s crew.
Cole removed his topcoat and cap, set his briefcase on a chair next to an unoccupied table, and straightened his tie. “Gentlemen,” he said to the four. “My name is Lieutenant Jordan Cole, United States Naval Reserve. I’m attached to the Royal Navy, Photographic Analysis Division.”
One of the men stopped in midthrow and turned slowly. “Photographs? You aren’t the chap who’s been sending us over that despicable little island, are you?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
Bunny Walker turned to his crew. “Gentlemen, here is a rare privilege. We can put to use all of those oaths that we’ve been muttering.” Bunny threw the dart. It embedded itself deeply in the bull’s-eye. “Old King Cole, is it?”
“It beats Yank,” Cole said, instantly taking a dislike to the pilot.
“Well, I’m Pilot-Sergeant Douglas Walker, otherwise known as Bunny. I’m responsible for this randy bunch, which is proving more difficult each day. Especially with trips over Leka Island.”
“I can appreciate that. I’ve seen the After Action Reports.”
“Words on paper,” Peter said, picking up a dart and taking his position. “Come up with us some time and see what it’s really like.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
The crew exchanged glances.
“Explain yourself, King,” Bunny said.
“Let me show you something,” Cole said, leading them over to an empty table. He removed the Leka Island photographs from his briefcase and laid them out on the table. “This is Leka Island,” he began unnecessarily, used to briefing high-ranking Royal Navy officers who kept glancing at their watches, impatiently awaiting dinner.
“Too right it is,” Peter said.