That was the same moment that Admiral Lutjens looked round at the rather depressed faces all round him, and went on: “Now, gentlemen, there’s no need to despair. Three days ago we fought two battleships and won a tremendous victory. Now we face two battleships again. Our fighting capacity is unimpaired. We can sink this King George V and this Admiral Tovey. We can make this Rodney run away like the Prince of Wales. By noon tomorrow there’ll be such an assembly of U-boats around us that no one will dare to attack us. We aren’t fighting a battle of despair. We’re fighting for victory. And for the German Navy, the Reich, and the Führer!”
It appeared as if his fighting words had some effect. Heads were raised higher again, and there was animation in the faces of those he addressed. Lindemann looked at the clock.
“Another half-hour of daylight,” he said. “I’ll have food issued to the men while there’s time, before we darken ship.”
“Always the thoughtful officer, Lindemann,” said Lutjens.
And so the last meal was served out and carried round to the men at their posts during the last minutes of daylight. There were men who went on sleeping—men of that half of the crew who were allowed to sleep after the alarm of the attack by the Swordfish had ended, who flung themselves down on the steel decks in their aching longing for sleep. There were men who took a few mouthfuls of food. There were men who ate eagerly, with appetite. And there were the men struggling with damage repair below, who had no chance either to eat or sleep.
But darkness closed down form the gray sky so abruptly that even the half-hour of which Lutjens had spoken was cut short. The alarm roared through the ship. The sleepers whom even the alarm could not now rouse were shaken or kicked awake.
The voice pipe spoke abruptly to the group in the chartroom: “Destroyer on the starboard bow”—and directly afterwards: “Destroyer on the port bow.”
Outside, the darkened ship was suddenly illuminated by the flash of the secondary armament. The guns bellowed. That was the beginning of a dreadful night. As the hands of the clock crept slowly round, alarm followed alarm. “Destroyer to port!” “Destroyer to starboard!”
In the outer blackness, Vian’s five destroyers—four British and one Polish—had made their way to shadowing positions encircling the Bismarck. It was not so easy to do in that howling wind and over that rough sea. The destroyers that made their way to Bismarck’s port side had to head directly into the waves.
The captain and navigating officer on the bridge of the leading destroyer felt the frightful impact as the successive seas crashed upon the forecastle, and the spray that flew aft was so solid that it was impossible to see anything as they looked forward.
“We can’t keep it up,” said the captain. “Slow to 18 knots.”
At that speed the destroyer could just withstand the battering of the seas—although the plight of the men in exposed situations was horrible—and she could go weaving and plunging forward. The lookouts straining their eyes through the darkness could see nothing, could not pick out the smallest hint of the vast bulk of the Bismarck battling the waves. The lookout peering over the starboard bow was conscious of nothing—strive as he would—except roaring darkness and hurtling spray. Yet as he watched, the darkness was suddenly rent by the long vivid flashes of gunfire—pointed, as it seemed to him, directly into his eyes. Four seconds later—no more—the howl of the wind was augmented by the scream of shells overhead; the sea all about the destroyer was torn into wilder confusion still by a hail of splashes, and plainly through the lurching and staggering of the ship could be felt the sharper impact of shell fragments against the frail hull.
“Port fifteen,” said the captain, and the destroyer swung away abruptly. Before her turn was completed the long flashes of the Bismarck’s guns appeared again in the darkness, and close under the destroyer’s stern the salvo plunged into the sea to raise splashes brief-lived in the brisk wind.
“Good shooting in the dark,” said the captain.
“That’s their radar.”
The destroyer’s turn had taken her into the trough of the sea, and now she was rolling fantastically, far over, first on one side and then on the other, as the steep waves heaved her over.
“We’ll try again,” said the captain. “Starboard fifteen.”
Another series of long flames, but longer and brighter than the preceding ones, stabbed into the darkness over there, yet no salvo splashed about them.
“One of the others is getting it,” remarked the navigator.
“That’s their fifteen-inch,” said the captain. “They’re using their secondary armament for us and the main battery on the other side.”
The destroyer put her nose into a sea and something much solider than spray came hurtling aft to cascade against the bridge.
“We can’t take that,” said the captain. “Turn two points to port and slow to 15 knots.”
A few seconds after the order had been given the gun flashes lit the sky to starboard again, and close beside the starboard bow the salvo hit the water.
“Just as well we made that turn,” said the captain “That’s good shooting.”
“And we haven’t even seen her yet!” marveled the navigator.
“They haven’t seen us either,” said the captain. “This is modern warfare.”
It was modern warfare. Far down below decks in the Bismarck, walled in by armor plate, a group of officers and men sat at tables and switchboards. Despite the vile weather outside, despite the wind and the waves, it was almost silent in here; in addition to the quiet orders and announcements of the radar fire-control team there could only be heard the low purring of the costly instruments they handled. Centered in the room was the yellow-green eye of the radar, echoing the impressions received by the aerial at the masthead a hundred feet above; the room was half dark to enable the screen to be seen clearly. And in accordance with what that screen showed, dials were turned and pointers were set and reports were spoken into telephones; save for the uniforms, it might have been a gathering of medieval wizards performing some secret rite—but it was not the feeble magic of trying to cause an enemy to waste away by sticking pins into his waxen image or of attempting to summon up fiends from the underworld. These incantations let loose thousand foot tons of energy from the Bismarck’s guns and hurled instant death across ten miles of raging sea. It was a result of what that eye saw that the exhausted men of the Bismarck forced themselves into renewed activity to serve the guns, although there were actually men who fell asleep with the guns bellowing in their very ears. Now and then, a dazzling flash, star shells soared up from the destroyers and hung over the doomed battleship, lighting her up as if it were day. Sometimes there would be a shadowy glimpse of the destroyers racing to get into position, their bow-waves gleaming except when the heavy seas burst over their bows. Even Lutjens himself was overtaken by sleep as he sat in the control room, nodding off in his chair while the guns fired, and pulling himself up with a jerk. Once when he roused himself he called a staff officer to his side.
“Send this to Berlin at once. WE SHALL FIGHT TO THE LAST. LONG LIVE THE FÜHRER.”
In the War Room in London the rear admiral entered after an absence.
“Vian’s still engaging her,” explained one of the officer.s
“Bismarck’s still transmitting,” said another.
“What’s the weather report?”
“No change, sir. Wind force 8, westerly. High sea running, low cloud, visibility poor.”
“King George V will sight her soon enough.”
Back in the control room of the Bismarck, Lutjens was nodding off again in his chair. His head sank lower and lower, and after a while he gave up the struggle and settled back into a sound sleep. It lasted very little time, however, because the chief of staff came to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Sunrise in half an hour, sir.”
“I shall go on the bridge,” said Lutjens. “I think a breath of fresh air will do me good.”
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p; “Your overcoat, sir,” said his flag lieutenant as he went out.
“Do you think I shall need it?” asked Lutjens, but he put it on nevertheless.
Outside, the faint light was increasing. As ever, the wind was shrieking round them; the ship was rolling heavily in the waves, with the spray flying in sheets.
“Good morning, Admiral,” said Lindemann.
“Good morning, Captain,” said Lutjens.
“Destroyers out of range on the starboard bow, sir,” said Lindemann. “And there’s a cruiser somewhere to the northward of us. I’m sure she’s the Norfolk.”
“That was the ship that sighted us in Denmark Strait,” said Lutjens. “Still with us, is she?”
One of the lookouts blinked himself awake and stared forward through his binoculars. “Ship right ahead! Two ships right ahead!”
Lutjens and Lindemann trained their glasses forward.
“Battleships?” asked Lutjens.
“I think so, sir. Battleships.”
The lookout in King George V was staring through is glasses.
“Ship right ahead!”
“Ship bearing green 5!”
“That’s Bismarck!” said an officer on the bridge of Rodney.
Down the voice pipe, over the head of the quartermaster at the wheel of the Rodney, came a quiet order.
“Port ten.”
“Port ten, sir,” repeated the quartermaster, turning his wheel.
Up in the gunnery control tower the captain’s voice made itself heard in the gunnery officer’s earphones.
“We are turning to port. Open fire when your guns bear.”
The gunnery officer looked down at the GUN READY lights. He looked through his glasses with the pointer fixed upon the silhouette of the Bismarck.
“Fire!” he said.
Out on the wing of the bridge stood the American officer and the British lieutenant, glasses to their eyes. Below them, just as on the evening before, the sixteen-inch guns were training round and reaching upwards towards extreme elevation. Then came the incredible roar and concussion of the salvo. The brown cordite smoke spurted out from the muzzles, to be borne rapidly away by the wind as the shells took their unseen way on their mission of death.
“Short but close. Damned close,” said the Englishman; the last words were drowned by the din of the second salvo, and he did not speak again during the brief time of flight. But when he spoke it was in a voice high-pitched with excitement. “A hit! A hit! At the second salvo! I told you the old Rodney—”
Again his words were drowned by the roar of the guns, and he forced himself to keep his glasses steady on the target. Next it was the American who spoke.
“Another hit,” he said. “She doesn’t stand a chance now.”
Down in the radar room of the Bismarck the same disciplined team was still at work.
“Range seventeen thousand meters,” said the rating at the screen.
There was a roar like thunder then, all about them, as the first salvo hit the Bismarck. The lights went out and came on, went out and came on, and the yellow-green eye of the radar screen abruptly went lifeless. The rating there reached for other switches, clicked them on and off; he tried another combination.
“Radar not functioning, sir,” he announced.
“You’ve tried the after aerial?” asked the officer.
“Yes, sir. No result.”
“No connection with gunnery control, sir,” announced another rating.
“No connection with—” began another rating, but another rolling peal of thunder cut off his words, and again the lights flickered. “No connection with the bridge, sir.”
“Very well.”
“No connection with the charthouse, sir.”
“Very well.”
The first wisps of smoke had begun to enter the radar room through the ventilating system. Wisp after wisp it came, seeping in thicker and thicker, swirling in, while the lights burned duller and duller. And peal after peal of thunder shook the whole structure, the shock waves causing the wreaths of smoke to eddy abruptly with each impact, and a section of paneling fell from the bulkhead with a sudden clatter. It was as if the witches’ Sabbath in which they had been engaged had now roused the infernal forces for their own destruction. Throughout the doomed ship the lights were burning low and smoke was creeping in thicker and thicker.
In the War Room the young officer was repeating the messages heard on the telephone.
“Most immediate from Norfolk. Rodney HAS OPENED FIRE…. King George V HAS OPENED FIRE…. Bismarck IS RETURNING THE FIRE…. Bismarck HIT…. BISMARCK HIT AGAIN.”
It was almost possible for the men listening in the War Room to visualize what was actually going on. As the Bismarck trained her guns round, she was surrounded by a forest of splashes from Rodney’s salvo, and before she could fire, the splashes from King George V’s salvo surrounded her. Hardly had her guns spoken before a shell hit the second turret from forward and burst with a roar and a billow of smoke. The blast and the fragments swept everywhere about the bridge. The fabric was left a twisted litter of stanchions, and lying huddled and contorted in it were a number of corpses, among them those of Lindemann—conspicuous by its Knight’s Cross—and of Lutjens.
The voice of the officer at the telephone went on describing what was going on. “Bismarck ON FIRE AFT…. Bismarck HIT….Bismarck HIT….Bismarck’s FORE TURRET OUT OF ACTION.” Another officer broke in.
“Ark Royal signaling sir: ALL PLANES AWAY.”
“Ark Royal? I can’t believe her planes will find anything to do. But quite right to send them in.”
On the flight deck of the Ark Royal the sound of the gunfire was plainly to be heard, loudly, in the intervals of the Swordfish revving up their engines and taking off. Conditions were as bad as ever as the ship heaved and plunged in the rough sea under a lowering gray sky, yet somehow the lumbering aircraft managed to get away, and circle, and get into formation, and head northwards, low over the heaving sea and close under the dripping clouds. It was only a few seconds before the leader saw what he was looking for. There was a long bank of black smoke lying on the surface of the water, spreading and expanding from the denser and narrower nucleus to the northward, and it was towards that nucleus that he headed his plane.
“My God!” said the leader.
The smoke was pouring from the battered, almost shapeless hull of the Bismarck, stripped of her upper works, mast, funnels, bridge and all. Yet under the smoke, plainly in the dull gray light, he could see a forest—a small grove, rather—of tall red flames roaring upward from within the hull. But it was not the smoke nor the flames that held the eye, strangely enough, but the ceaseless dance of tall jets of water all about her. Two battleships were flinging shells at her both from their main and from their secondary armaments; and from the cruisers twenty eight-inch guns were joining in. There was never a moment when she was not ringed in by the splashes of the near-misses, but when the leader forced his eye to ignore the distraction of this wild water dance he saw something else: from bow to stern along the tortured hull he could see a continual coming and going of shellbursts, volcanoes of flame and smoke. From that low height, as the Swordfish closed in, he could see everything. He could see the two fore-turrets useless, one of them with the roof blown clean off and the guns pointing over side at extreme elevation, the other with the guns fore and aft drooping at extreme depression. Yet the aftermost turret was still in action; even as he watched, he saw one of the guns in it fling out a jet of smoke towards the shadowy form of the King George V; down there in the steel turret, nestling among the flames, some heroes were still contriving to load and train and fire. And he saw something else at the last moment of his approach. There were a few tiny, foreshortened figures visible here and there, scrambling over the wreckage, incredibly alive amid the flames and the explosions, leaping down from the fiery hull into the boiling sea.
He swung the Swordfish away from the horrible sight, to lead the way back to the
Ark Royal. While that bombardment was going on there was no chance of a frail plane delivering a successful torpedo attack. He had seen the climax of the manifestation of sea power, the lone challenger overwhelmed by a colossal concentration of force. He was not aware of the narrowness of margin of time and space, of how in the British battleships the last few tons of oil fuel were being pumped towards the furnaces, of German U-boats hastening, just too late, from all points in the North Atlantic to try to intervene in the struggle, of German air power chafing at the bit unable to take part in a battle only a few miles beyond their maximum range.
While the squadron was being led back to the Ark Royal, the officer at the telephone in the War Room was continuing to announce the signals coming through.
“Bismarck HIT AGAIN…. SHE IS ONLY A WRECK NOW…. King George V AND Rodney TURNING AWAY.”
In the War Room people looked sharply at each other at that piece of news. The admiral looked at the clock.
“That’s the last minute they could stay. They’ll only have just enough oil fuel to get them home. Not five minutes to spare.”
“Here’s a signal from the flag, sir,” interposed another young officer. “SHIPS WITH TORPEDOES GO IN AND SINK HER.”
“And here’s Norfolk again,” said the first young officer. “Dorsetshire GOING IN.”
Bismarck lay, a shattered, burning, sinking hulk, as Dorsetshire approached. At two miles she fired two torpedoes which burst on Bismarck’s starboard side. At a mile and a half she fired another which burst on the port side of the wreck. Bismarck rolled over and sank, leaving the surface covered with debris and struggling men.
“Bismarck sunk,” said the young officer in the War Room. “Bismarck SUNK.”
Those words of the young officer were spoken in a hushed voice, and yet their echoes were heard all over the world. In a hundred countries radio announcers hastened to repeat those words to their audiences. In a hundred languages, newspaper headlines proclaimed, Bismarck SUNK to a thousand million readers. Frivolous women heard those words unhearing: unlettered peasants heard them uncomprehending, even though the destinies of all of them were changed in that moment. Stock exchange speculators revised their plans. Prime ministers and chiefs of state took grim note of those words. The admirals of a score of navies prepared to compose memoranda advising their governments regarding the political and technical conclusions to be drawn from them. And there were wives and mothers and children who heard those words as well, just as Nobby’s mother had heard about the loss of the Hood.
Sink the Bismarck! Page 10