It was bad in Spain, became much worse in Russia, and became intolerable when Goering bounced him from the Luftwaffe, because coupled with the fear that he felt was the realization that he had come to rely on people for attention — or worse — to prevent him from making meaningful decisions. Or did I use them as an excuse? People of position. Powerful people. This reliance relieved him of the need to decide and even Goering’s hatred of him was reliance in a very real way; there was constancy, a certainty in the reichfuehrer’s loathing.
Reubold was prepared to rely on Walters when the kommodore came to him with his plans, and then he was prepared to rely on Rommel — the reichsmarschall would certainly make the correct decision. And when Dresser demanded that he do as he was ordered, Reubold was willing to rely on him. Reliance required so little of an individual.
The drugs as well. Reubold relied on the drugs because they were such a pure form of abandonment. Morphine asked nothing except the pleasure of your company. In exchange, it took away pain, doubt, regrets, and dismay.
Reubold relied on it.
Waymann joined him on the bridge, peering into the cloud of rain. They exchanged glances and then suddenly both smiled, the smile that men have when they have faced danger and found to their relief that they are in one piece.
Reubold stood aside. “Take the wheel.”
Waymann shifted positions quickly and grasped the wheel.
“When this weather clears,” Reubold said, “I think we should go out looking for Americans and British. What do you think?”
“I think it would be a shame not to, sir,” Waymann said.
Reubold nodded, almost laughing at the young man’s quiet courage. Was he Waymann’s champion? he thought. No, he answered quickly, so startlingly clear that he thought he had spoken it out loud. Waymann was his own champion and that was as it should be. Well then, I shall be mine. As it was in the past, so it will be now.
Chapter 24
Cole touched his breast pocket for the fifth time in an hour, making sure that the letter was there. It was Rebecca’s letter to him, the one that he hated but could never discard, the one that he read but after putting it away remembered with bitterness. That letter.
Now things were different. He had gone to see her and remembered standing stupidly in the doorway of the atrium wondering what to say or how to simply approach her when she had disarmed him with a smile. He was surprised at how easily forgiveness came to him after three years of hating her. He thought the word was too strong as he struggled to unravel how he felt, but at times it was hate. The emotion was only that strong because there had to be something to balance the loneliness of his love for her.
But he had seen her and they had spoken, and he remembered her gentleness and the kindness in her voice and he knew, despite the misgivings that he had before, that she loved him. When he returned to the base he found the letter in his footlocker, read it with new eyes once again, carefully folded it, and put it in his pocket. He buttoned the flap, sealing her words and the moment. Now it was time for the war.
Lieutenant Bryant, a young man with a large nose, handed out the duty assignments as the storm threatened to take the roof off the operations shack. Cole and the other boat commanders took the information but concentrated on the map on the wall. This was the first time they knew the object of the invasion: Normandy.
“Okay, gentlemen, here it is,” Bryant said. “Fire support is coming out of St. Georges Channel, around the Scilly Isles to link up with task forces from Falmouth, Dartmouth, and Plymouth.” He traced the route of the task forces on the map with a pencil. “Task Force U, that’s your baby, comes out of Plymouth and Dartmouth and links up in Lyme Bay. You’ll pick them up in Area Z.” He tapped the map off the Isle of Wight. “Elements of Task Force O are coming out of Weymouth, Poole, and Portsmouth.” He had apparently prepared himself for his next statement, lacing the words with gravity. “In other words, it’s going to be mighty busy out there, and real crowded.” He looked as if he enjoyed this moment of drama. He could afford to — he wasn’t going any farther than the base.
Cole flipped through the pages of the packet. “Where do we go, and when do you want us to be there?”
The words deprived Bryant of his importance but he recovered quickly. “Ten miles west-southwest of Task Force U. Your coordinates are on the duty sheet. Your job will be search and rescue?”
“That’s it?” Randy Delong said. “You’re sticking us out in the boonies for search and rescue.”
“Every job is important, Ensign,” Bryant said. “Some ships may hit mines. Some of the flyboys may end up in the drink.”
“A seagull may get sick,” Moose said.
“Gentlemen, I don’t make the assignments,” Bryant said, peeved. Every guy in combat was a prima donna. They all wanted the plum assignments. “My job is to carry the orders to the respective commands and make sure that they understand what they’re to do.”
“Lieutenant,” Cole said, trying to soothe Bryant. “Nobody finds fault with you. It’s just that we’re used to playing a more active role in things.”
“Hell, yes, more active,” Moose said.
Cole shot Moose a look of mild reproach. “It’s the biggest show of the war and none of us want to end up on the sidelines. You know what I mean?”
“Lieutenant Cole, I know exactly what you mean and all I can tell you is what the brass tells me.” He held up the sheaf of papers. “And this is what they told me. Everything that you need to know is in here.” He gathered his cap from the chair back where he had hung it. “Good luck, and good hunting.”
Cole watched Bryant leave before turning to the officers of Squadron 142(2). They looked at him expectantly, as if he had the power to clear up this horrible misunderstanding. Their faces were so pitiful with disappointment that Cole laughed.
“Jeez, Skipper,” DeLong said. “I’m glad that you find it funny, cause I sure don’t.
“What do you want me to do, Randy?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
“We’re locked down tighter than Dick’s hatband. Nobody leaves the base or comes on. No phone calls in either direction,” Cole said. “Anyway, even if I could get through I doubt they’d make any changes in assignments now.”
“Yeah but, Skip,” Lieutenant Ewing said. “Don’t you know somebody that knows somebody?”
“If I did,” Cole said, “I wouldn’t be stuck nursing you lunkheads.” He understood their frustration. Rolling about in the Channel in dirty weather was bad enough, having to do so without the slightest chance of seeing action was even worse. Bryant told them they were watchdogs. Even if the enemy aircraft approached, their radar wouldn’t give more than a few minutes’ notice — the range was only twenty miles. Maybe they’d find a few mines floating about that they could set off with a burst or two of .50-caliber fire. Maybe they could pick up downed fliers. Cole thought of the Polish fighter pilot they’d saved and he felt ashamed. If someone weren’t there to pick them up they’d die of exposure. Enough talk.
“Okay. You’ve got your orders.” Moontz started to protest. “You’ve got your orders,” Cole said again, but louder this time. “Pull your fish. Top off the tanks. Nobody says anything to the men. Get me? And these things” — he held up the orders for the men to see — “stay on your person.”