Doenitz took a sip of tea and savored the taste, watching the conversation between the two become more animated. Raeder would have done better to take the discussion to one of the offices where it would not look so unseemly. It was not that the Kreigsmarine staff around the plotting table was unused to confrontations — it was a regular occurrence as the tension of tracking unseen naval battles became too much for some. The little wooden ships on the large glass ocean were sometimes silently removed by plotting officers to acknowledge that the real ships filled with real sailors would not be coming back to port. The strain to keep the little wooden ships sailing smoothly on the large glass ocean could be considerable.
But to have one of Jodl’s lackeys accost the grand admiral of the Kreigsmarine was an affront to the service and to Raeder as well. It did not bode well for Raeder. It could mean that Hitler was losing his patience with the navy — that he was losing his patience with the grand admiral.
Doenitz looked into the empty cup and smiled to himself. If only I could read tea leaves, he thought. Perhaps I would know what is to transpire from this adventure. Perhaps I could see my own future as well.
“Doenitz?”
It was Raeder. Jodl’s messenger was gone and now the Kriegsmarine lieutenant stood rigidly at Raeder’s elbow. In the grand admiral’s hand was the flimsy.
“Come, come,” Raeder said excitedly, waving Doenitz to his side of the table.
Admiral Doenitz patted his lips with a napkin, draped it across the teacup, and handed the cup and saucer to a steward. He walked around the plotting table to the beaming grand admiral.
“Jodl?” Doenitz said, hoping Raeder would share the subject of the discussion with him. The grand admiral’s face darkened.
“Jodl,” he spat, shaking his head in disgust. “The Fuehrer’s poodle. He sends one of his subordinates here seeking answers. He won’t come himself and he wouldn’t dare ask me to report to Hitler. No. He wants me to speak here and then my words are twisted beyond recognition by the time that the Fuehrer hears them. The Fuehrer knows me well enough to know that I am a loyal German. Those around him attempt to distort everything that he sees or hears. He must take care that they do not harm him. Who knows how things are misrepresented to him?”
The old man has no idea, Doenitz thought. The grand admiral of the Kreigsmarine does not realize how close he has come to being dismissed by Hitler. He is a kindly old soul from another century, another war — he is the innocent pensioner who spins tales of noble sailors to impatient grandchildren. Doenitz suspected that Hitler cared no more for Raeder’s loyalty than he did Raeder’s fleet, but the grand admiral was blissfully unaware of the Fuehrer’s feelings.
“Admiral Doenitz,” the grand admiral said, shaking off Jodl’s scent. He held up the paper. “It is Dresden.”
Doenitz’s fists tightened and a smile crossed his face. “Truly,” he said, his eyes growing hard with victory. “Dresden.”
“Two hours ago,” Raeder said. “Look.” He tapped the glass at Scapa Flow with a wooden rod. “The reconnaissance aircraft reports perhaps two, perhaps three battleships, three cruisers, and numerous destroyers moving out. They might be holding a capital ship in reserve. Then, they will turn slightly south-southwest in pursuit of Sea Lion.” He looked at Doenitz. His question was obvious; where are your U-boats?
Doenitz took the rod from him. “Webber and the others are here. The Home Fleet must pass through them.”
“How far are they from Scapa Flow?”
“A hundred kilometers. Any closer would be suicide. The British will have aircraft up to protect the fleet and scout ahead of them. They may suspect a U-boat of being in the area, but they could not possibly conceive of a wolf pack of twelve. If the attack is properly coordinated and Webber knows what I want of him, then the British Home Fleet will run a gauntlet of German torpedoes for nearly eighty kilometers.”
Raeder nodded soberly and studied the plotting table. “Sea Lion, there,” he said. “Prince of Wales?”
“There,” Doenitz said, pointing with the rod. “Well beyond air coverage from Canada. Sea Lion will quickly overtake her, from this angle.” Doenitz laid the rod on the table.
“I’m almost afraid to believe it,” Raeder said, trying to suppress his exuberance. “Look at this. Here we snatch the Prince of Wales and the prime minister from the British and here” — he swept his hand over the table — “we destroy the British Home Fleet.” He grew silent, his eyes darting over the table. He turned to a tall Oberbootsmann. “Is there any surface force reported between Sea Lion and Prince of Wales?”
“No, Grand Admiral,” the man said.
“She released her escort, did she not?” Raeder said, a note of concern in his voice. “The Prince of Wales?”
“Yes, Grand Admiral,” the Oberbootsmann said. “A cruiser and several destroyers, according to messages intercepted by B-dienst.”
“They are a small force at best and some distance from Sea Lion,” Raeder said as if to settle the issue and his nerves. “They pose no danger.”
Doenitz watched Raeder relax.
“Good, good,” the grand admiral said. “Very good, indeed. We wait now. Eh, Admiral?”
“Yes,” Doenitz said, scanning the plotting table. “It is out of our hands. We wait.”
Wait. For Doenitz it meant one of two outcomes. Complete success — Sea Lion would sink Prince of Wales and his U-boats slaughter the Home Fleet. Or, Sea Lion would fail in her mission and his U-boats succeed. Wait. Wait for Raeder to fail; wait for the opportunities that would come to Doenitz when he did.
Chapter 25
Cole vomited over the side of the life raft. When he was finished he wiped his mouth and chin with the back of his hand and then washed his hand in the cold water.
Johnny sat at the other end of the raft, watching him. “You can’t have anything left, King.”
“I felt my toenails come up that time,” Cole said. He was ashamed to admit it but he was seasick. He thought at first that it was because of the mouthful of water that he’d swallowed, but decided that wasn’t it. He was seasick. Hell of a condition for a sailor.
The little raft had been bobbing up and down in the rolling swells of the North Atlantic for over twenty hours. The weather had been fair, a slight breeze under a pale blue sky dotted with wispy clouds. Johnny and Cole had congratulated themselves on their good fortune. What Cole thought but did not say, and what he knew the gunner must be thinking as well, was that the North Atlantic was fickle; she would just as soon suffer a storm as not. If the weather changed for the worst, even if that worst were nothing more than heavier seas and a respectable wind, chances of survival for Cole and the gunner dropped significantly.
Cole laughed at himself — chances of survival dropped significantly. You sound like you’re lecturing a bunch of freshmen. Analyze, synthesize, and interpret the facts. That’s what he used to tell his students: read and consider. He looked at the endless sky. He read a pleasant day in a tiny rubber craft on a huge ocean. He read the chances of being found as slight, perhaps nonexistent. You should be scared, he told himself. He glanced at his companion. Johnny was asleep.