Knight's Move (Kirov Series Book 21)

by John Schettler

  “The signal is correct,” he said, “and there are four men standing on the forecastle, as we should expect. We’ll nose up and get some breakfast while the Goeben recovers that plane. They should be ready to fuel right after us in about two hours. We’ll only take on enough to safely reach Gibraltar.”

  First Officer Jung relayed the order, then went out to supervise the hookup and replenishment operations. It was only 90 minutes later that the hydrophone operators reported a contact to the south at a range of about 20 nautical miles. The FuMO 23 search radar operators confirmed it minutes later—two contacts.

  “Already within my gun range,” said Schirmer. “Even though we won’t sight them for some time in this weather.”

  “That is too close,” said the Kapitan. “Leutnant Jung, signal the Goeben to break off to the north. Cast off that fuel line at once! This is most likely that pair of British cruisers, and here we are with our pants down and our nose tethered to the Ermland. The ship will come to action stations!”

  Chapter 35

  Kapitan Heinrich now had a most difficult decision to make. A pair of heavy cruisers were on the scene, closing on his position with each minute. There was Ermland, a most valuable ship to the Reich, and if he simply broke off and used his speed here to outrun the British, he would be leaving Ermland vulnerable to capture or sinking. In fact, that outcome was almost certain, as the ship had orders to scuttle if caught at sea by enemy warships.

  If he turned to confront the intruders, he would be risking damage to the precious cargo he now harbored, but he could see little else to do. “Schirmer,” he said. “I hope you have had your coffee, because I have work for you.”

  “Ready Kapitan.” Schirmer was already at his platform above the bridge, ready to coordinate the ship’s main guns.”

  “We can’t leave the scene without assuring those cruisers are no threat to Ermland.” He gave his Chief Gunnery officer a hard look.

  “I understand, sir.”

  Heinrich had decoupled, with Ermland speeding off as best it could. Then he brought the ship around and steered directly towards the oncoming British cruisers, like an armored knight beginning his gallop in a jousting contest. The sound of the heavy 15-inch gun turrets turning to train on the enemy’s heading was an ominous note, the long cold barrels elevating, ready to fire. He was carrying a very heavy lance as Kaiser Wilhelm pushed through 24 knots, the sea white at her sharp bow, a mad steed galloping forward to battle.

  The range decreased sharply, falling through 17,000 meters, where Heinrich got his first sighting visually with his field classes. He could see the two slim profiles, indicating the cruisers were coming at him dead on, but then they began to fatten out, and he realized they were turning.

  “Take your shot, Schirmer. I’ll be turning 30 points to starboard soon to give you the aft turret.”

  “Elevation, ten point four degrees,” said Schirmer, all business now. “Shoot!” The roar of the two forward turrets came in answer, sending four heavy shells out with a striking velocity exceeding 2500 feet per second. They were going to come in at an angel of fall of about 17 degrees, and have tremendous penetrating power if they struck anything. Flight time to target was about 32 seconds at this range, time enough for the quick action of the gun crews to reload.

  The four rounds would both fall short, their white splashes forming clear strokes over the dark silhouettes of the cruisers. Those shadows soon lit up with their own fire, flinging 8-inch shells out at the onrushing charger that was riding out to challenge them. They could fire more of them, and faster than their enemy, but they weighed only 256 pounds, compared to the massive 1,800 pound shells the Germans were using. To make matters worse, German optics on the Kaiser Wilhelm were superb, and Schirmer was a master at using them. He was going to score the first hit, against Suffolk, on the third salvo fired. It struck low on the bow, penetrating the thin armor there so easily that it did not even explode.

  Both sides had turned and were now running parallel at about 15,000 meters. At these ranges the relatively flat arc of the shells would not produce much plunging fire, and hits to deck armor would likely see the rounds skip or ricochet right off. The British 8-inch guns might only penetrate 1 to 1.2 inches of deck armor, which would not be enough to harm Kaiser Wilhelm even if they struck at a more favorable angle. As for the 190mm belt armor on the German ship, all of 7.4 inches, it was also going to stop even a direct hit from those shells, which might only achieve a partial penetration of about 5.5. inches. So the armor on Kaiser Wilhelm was simply too good for these cruisers to beat, but the inverse was not true.

  Schirmer’s fifth salvo found Suffolk again, this time right on her aft Y Turret, which was completely penetrated, having no more than 25mm armor. Even the German 5.9-inch secondary guns were going to punch through protection that light. The 3.5 inch side armor on the British cruisers would stop those shells, but barely. The resulting explosion was a prominent flash of yellow orange fire against the slate grey backdrop of sea and sky.

  Kaiser Wilhelm took a glancing hit from Norfolk, low on her conning tower. There was partial penetration there, and considerable splinter damage, but not serious enough hurt any vital ship systems, aside from three crewmen who died there. Then, on the ninth salvo, Schirmer’s Anton turret put a round right on target, forward of the tower, and low against the belt. It blew right through, the round exploding this time, and blasting through the barbette of B Turret, which had armor only capable of stopping shell splinters. The result was a magazine explosion that was terrible to behold. It blasted the side of the ship open to the sea, obliterated that turret, and sent up sheets of searing flame and clotted smoke, which was so heavy that it obscured the scene for some minutes.

  As it slowly cleared, Kapitan Heinrich allowed himself a tight lipped smile when he saw the British cruiser wallowing to starboard, obviously shipping enough water to pull it into a heavy list. He was going to get ship number 12 that day, yet another warship, and add 13,315 tons to his total, which would soon reach 95,728 tons.

  Norfolk had seen what happened, and her Captain Bellers realized he had no business getting into a fight with this ship. He was already taking damage from accurate enemy secondary guns, and now, with Suffolk stricken, those six 15-inch guns were re-training to engage Norfolk. He ordered a hard turn, steering to put Suffolk, and all that heavy smoke, between his ship and the enemy, cursing the fate of his comrades, for he knew he could do nothing to help them in the short run. That was the only thing that saved him.

  With sea, smoke, and weather all conspiring against them, Schirmer reported he had lost contact with the second British cruiser. “Shall I put another few rounds into that one?” he asked.

  Standing in the protected bridge now, Heinrich had a satisfied look on his face. “Not necessary,” he said. “It won’t survive that hit—must have been a magazine explosion. Helmsman, come about to 340. We’ll head back north to cover the Ermland.”

  They were standing in what would typically be called the wheelhouse, though that was a misnomer in this case, for there was no wheel. The battle helmsman was standing smartly at his post before a squarish box mounted on a circular pedestal. He punched the rightmost of three tall buttons there, for this is actually how the ship was steered, one button for left rudder, one for right rudder, and the center button for a more rapid response that would only be pushed if he needed to make a faster ‘hard rudder’ deployment.

  Directly above this he could see dials indicating rudder position, a gyro compass, and there were also voice tubes to the chart house on the deck below, and the auxiliary command center. He actually had no direct view of the sea from this position, though there was a helmsman’s periscope he could use if he needed to see what was in front of the ship. Two other men were peering through the oculars of their periscopes, the ship’s Navigation Officer, and the Officer of the Watch.

  “Is our radar clear?” Heinrich asked.

  Kaiser Wilhelm had a FuMO 23 search radar on he
r rangefinder tower, and a Timor antenna for the FuMO 4 Samos. “Yes sir,” said Jung. “We have the second cruiser heading south, now at 27,000 meters. They are slipping out of radar range.”

  “They want no more of us,” he said, “but it is good to know we’ll see them if they come about and attempt to shadow us. Order both Ermland and the Goeben to assume this heading. We’ll continue for two hours then come due north on 360. If all is quiet, then Goeben can link up for replenishment. Do we have damage?”

  “We took one hit, sir, low on the conning tower, and there was a minor fire and some splinter damage. Three casualties, all KIAs.”

  “See that they get proper sea burial.”

  “Aye sir.”

  Out on the port side of the ship, huddled in a tall armored mushroom, Flak Director Gunter Ghorbandt opened the small metal hatch and peered cautiously out. He had heard a hard clink against that armor during the fight, and now his periscope wasn’t functioning properly. Craning his neck to inspect the periscope mount, he saw a small splinter wound there from the shrapnel thrown off by that 8-inch shell hit. He shook his head. The hatch was too small to allow a workman to get shoulders through to repair that scope. He would have to report it to the engineers and have someone climb up from the outside ladder….

  * * *

  Hours later, back on the Goeben, Kapitan Falkenrath was pacing nervously on the bridge as the ship maneuvered into position behind Ermland. His fuel stocks were running very low, though he thought he might have enough to reach Casablanca at no more than 18 knots. Marco Ritter had finally gone up to have a look around, finding the seas empty, except well behind them to the south, where the British had been mounting search operations for survivors from Suffolk. He landed in a flurry of sea spray as the clouds were building, with the threat of a another storm darkening the skies to the west. Ritter tramped up to the flight control tower where the Kapitan waited, pulling off his gloves, and grateful for a little warmth.

  “It’s thickening up to the west,” he said. “Couldn’t see a thing. But that cruiser came about behind us. Don’t worry, they are merely trying to pull men out of the sea. Kaiser Wilhelm sunk the other one.”

  “Good enough,” said Falkenrath.

  “Seas are rising. That little flight deck was pitching hard when I came in. The undercarriage took a real thump when I landed, and I nearly missed the damn arrestor cable.”

  “It’s ovbious that we won’t be able to conduct flight operations until we ride this out,” said the Kapitan. “But this ship is also capable of acting as a surface raider. Yes, we get second billing here, as Kaiser Wilhelm has claimed most of the tonnage, but we still have those two triple 11-inch turrets up front, and one day we may get a chance to use them.”

  Be careful what you wish for, thought Ritter, but he did not voice that warning. “Are you going to try to take on fuel in this mess?”

  “Heinrich thinks we should wait for this front to move through, and I am inclined to agree. Sea keeping will be very difficult, and we could easily over-stress the fuel line. So we wait.”

  That wait would be a long one, with the three ships clustered in formation, and moving at just 12 knots, which was a comfortable cruising speed for the Ermland. They had skirted west, then north, to bypass the Cape Verde Islands, and were now a little over 1,000 nautical miles southwest of Tarfaya, where the Germans had been busy repairing and expanding that vital airfield. They had moved a squadron of He-111 twin engine fighters into that field, intending to offer them some extended range air cover as they approached the African coast. Those planes had a maximum range of 1,200 nautical miles with drop tanks, which meant their longest safe combat radius would be no more than 500 nautical miles. So they would have to go another 500 miles at sea before they could expect that help.

  In the meantime, Falkenrath hoped he would have clearing skies after this next front moved through, but there were things afoot that he could not see or know just then, and the danger ahead would come from a most unexpected direction.

  * * *

  Admiral Somerville had been more than a little angered by the loss of Suffolk. With the position of the German raiding group reasonably known, and WS-16 safely to the south and heading for Freetown, he decided to detach HMS Formidable with destroyers Rapid, Redoubt and Relentless. He moved to effect a rendezvous with Norfolk, which had spent all the next day in rescue operations. A freighter had also come out from the Cape Verde Islands to take the survivors aboard, over 600 men saved from the crew of 720.

  “I have every intention of getting after those brigands,” said Somerville. “I’ll get to the Pacific in due course, but for now, we’re taking Norfolk and the three destroyers north to look for the Germans.”

  “Might I suggest we take a course to the northeast sir,” said Wells, now settling in to his new command. “I don’t think they’ll run west of the Canary Islands. That still our beat, and Force C is there. I think they’ll turn northeast and run for the African coast. Once they come up on Spanish Morocco, they’ll be under land based air cover.”

  “Yes, that’s a reasonable assumption, but won’t they want to get into the convoy lanes on the outside track?”

  “Well sir, they’ve acted strangely. After that engagement with Norfolk and Suffolk, they might have turned due east to threaten WS-16. In fact, I was expecting them to do so, but instead they moved out to sea.”

  “Probably wary of our aircraft operating out of the Cape Verde Islands,” said Somerville.

  “That would not have discouraged me,” said wells. “Not with a nice fat convoy within easy reach of my guns. Yet it seems to me that they are now attempting to avoid contact.”

  “Perhaps Norfolk and Suffolk got a few licks in,” Somerville suggested. “Captain Bellars reported he observed at least one hit.”

  “Could be, sir, but let’s also remember that they were very far south if this is the same group that hit Ascension Island. That’s a long way down and back. If you want my thinking on it, I would say they are low on fuel now, and possibly looking to avoid contact and rendezvous with a tanker. We know they have one out here. Intelligence picked up a request for emergency support from a U-Boat some days ago.”

  “Well considered,” said Somerville. “Very well, you have the ship, Mister Wells. Plot your course, and be sure to get a signal out to Sanford on Sir Lancelot. He’s leading a pair of cruisers down from Madeira, and they should be south of the Canary Islands now.”

  “That would put them in a very good position to head off any movement by the enemy as I have suggested. If we coordinate well, we might just catch these fellows somewhere west of Cape Blanco.”

  That was a long narrow peninsula that extended some 35 miles south from the border of Spanish Morocco and French West Africa. Wells knew his intended course would be running him into that front, but it would pass over him, eventually leaving him with clearing skies and steady seas. If the Germans turned northeast now as he expected, he would be running parallel, on the landward side of their course, and hoping to get into a good position to get his Albacores up.

  Another pair of cruisers, he thought. I’ve heard these new ships were getting ready to be commissioned next month. It looks as though the navy needs everything they can float now. Here we’ve just gone and lost another good ship. Well, with any luck, I’ll have a crack at these bastards.

  He looked at his watch, noting the time. Another 48 hours should do it, he thought, and it was a very good assessment.

  Chapter 36

  Captain Sanford was always busy, his energy endless, yet always seeming on the edge of anxiety and frustration as well. HMS Sir Lancelot had cruised south, with her fellow Knight Sir Galahad in her wake. The gunnery drill had been carried off unannounced, and the Captain was quite temperamental about it.

  “Six minutes!” he said with a scowl. “Six minutes from alarm to gun training. Mister Laurence, we shall have to do better than that.”

  “Indeed sir,” said Laurence, always cool and collec
ted, standing tall, arms folded behind his back while the Captain fidgeted with his field glasses.

  “Sir Galahad was trained and elevated on her B turret in under 5 minutes,” said the Captain. “I noted it on my stopwatch. Now I’ll want our guns ready in four minutes flat. But Mister Kingston will be thinking I’ll have him run it through again, here and now, but that would be too easy. Secure from battle stations. We’ll wait a good twenty minutes and then surprise them again.”

  “Very good sir. Secure from battle stations. Signaling Sir Galahad to stand down from gunnery trial as well.”

  “Right,” said Sanford. “Can’t have them popping off while we sit over here seeming to be at tea. Secure that drill flag. We’ll try again later.”

  It was that way for the next two hours, with the alarms sounding, crews rushing to stations, but with no permission to actually load the guns until Sanford was satisfied they could reach battle stations and properly train and elevate the barrels to target a previously unknown coordinate. In this he conspired with Senior Lieutenant Arnold Kingston, his Gunnery Officer, telling him he would get a sighting alarm sent down from the watch, and he should be prepared to hit it in due course. They tried again at 14:00 hours, but the Captain was not satisfied. This time he delayed until 14:40, then deliberately waited through that for another three minutes before sounding the alarm, just in case Kingston’s men, and the crew, were anticipating something on the even numbered minute.

  At that moment, the tramp of heavy feet were heard from the ladder and in came Ensign Willard again, a message in hand.

  “Sir!” he said with a smart salute. “W/T signal—fresh off the wire.”

  The Captain was eyeing his watch, giving Willard a sidelong glance as he extended his hand to take the message. “Better, Mister Willard,” he said. “I don’t see any pendants on Sir Galahad this time, so I trust we’ve got this first.”