by Lee Jackson
“I was wondering,” Paul began hesitantly, and then changed track. “You know it’s been only two months since the president signed off on the Lend-Lease Act, and look how much America’s already done.”
“Agreed. I’d say that’s quite a lot, and there’s much more not reported in that article.”
“That’s exactly my point, sir. In view of how much the president’s done and is doing, maybe we should re-think whether or not we need to continue with the other intelligence op.” His voice turned mildly sarcastic. “The one to nudge American public opinion along.”
Stephenson frowned, and for an instant, Paul thought he saw a flash of anger cross his face. “Captain Littlefield, your perceptions are valued, but when a decision is made, your job is to support it. That project you find so abhorrent is going through. You don’t have to like it, but you do have to do your duty. Is that understood?”
Paul straightened to attention. “Doing my duty is never in question, sir.”
“Are you being asked to deceive the king, the prime minister, or any other British government official?”
“No, sir, but I don’t see the sense of manipulating an ally. I imagine that Mr. Roosevelt could be impeached for some of his actions, not the least of which is allowing us to operate here.”
“And you might be right about that, but impeachment is not conviction, and the US Constitution allows the president very broad discretion and authority in taking action that only he needs to approve to defend his country and its constitution. I’m confident he would prevail in any impeachment effort. Regardless, he’s doing his job to protect his country and we must do ours to protect Great Britain. The project goes forward. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then we’ll forget that this conversation took place.” He started to direct his attention back to his document but then looked up once more and smiled. “And let’s hope the Royal Navy finds the Bismarck and deals it a deathly blow.”
52
May 27, 1941
North Atlantic Ocean
Pilot Officer John Moffat of the Royal Navy’s Fleet Air Arm steadied himself in the ready room of the HMS Ark Royal as the aircraft carrier tossed in sixty-foot swells amidst peaks and troughs of the rough waters. “Ironic, isn’t it?” he called to his navigator, Lieutenant John "Dusty" Miller, sitting across the table. “My father worked on this ship in the last war. He was an aeronautical engineer assigned under the first man who ever flew an airplane off a ship, Wing Commander Charles Samson.” He laughed. “I wonder what the pair of them would think of our squadron today, firing at one of our own.”
“Blimey, no one told us the HMS Sheffield was out there,” Dusty objected. “Operations just pointed in the general direction and said, ‘The Bismarck is out there. Find and sink her.’”
“Lucky for the Sheffield that we had those new magnetic detonators on the torpedoes,” the gunner, A.J. Hayman, chimed in. He laughed. “Most of the fifteen planes in the squadron let their fish drop. Some must have hit, but not even one detonated.”
Another pilot, Kenneth Pattison, lurched his way across the heaving floor and took a seat at the table with them. “And now they want us to do it again,” he yelled above the sound of the moaning wind, the groaning ship, and the chatter of other pilots. “I just heard. Our ‘Stringbags’ are being fitted with the old torpedoes now.”
Moffat gazed at him in disbelief. “Today? In this gale again. We’re testing fate, I should say.”
“Again,” Pattison affirmed. “Since that Catalina spotted her yesterday morning, the entire fleet’s been after her. I was just in the operations room, and a map there posted her run since our ships started closing in on her. She’s heading southeast, probably to France for repairs at Brest—at least that’s what the chaps in ops are thinking. She’s leaving a stream of oil behind. She’s too fast for our ships, so our job is to slow her down.”
Moffat laughed. “If you want an airstrike done right, leave it to a Stringbag.” He grinned. “Our Swordfish helped take out the French fleet in Algeria, sank the FS Richelieu at Dakar, destroyed half the Italian fleet at Taranto; and now they want us to go out in gale-force weather for a second run to take out the Bismarck?” He arched his brows. “It’s all in a day’s work. No other aircraft in existence could do it.” He nudged Dusty. “But you know that our Stringbags are obsolete.”
Dusty smiled back. “We’d better head on over for the briefing, such as it is.”
“There’s not going to be a briefing,” Pattison said. “I just gave it to you. As soon as the kites are refitted with our old tubes, we fly out and try again to find the Bismarck.”
Moffat’s open-cockpit, three-seater biplane, officially known as a Fairey Swordfish, did not so much taxi along the aircraft carrier’s deck as bounce over it until the ship fell away beneath him in a deep trough between mountainous waves. He had throttled up to maximum speed and set his trim to squeeze out all the lift he could; the tailwind whistling over the deck boosted him in front of a wall of ocean. He sat forward over his stick, pulled it back as far as he could, and with gritted teeth, willed the tiny aircraft to fly above the wave and into a gray sky with swirling black clouds over him. As the wind lifted his Swordfish, he could just see the tail of Kenneth Pattison’s plane that had taken off ahead of him.
Behind him in the observer’s seat, Dusty slapped Moffat’s shoulder, and when the pilot turned, Dusty flashed Churchill’s famous V-for-Victory sign. Wishing he felt as confident as he had sounded in the ready room before takeoff, Moffat faced the front and checked his instruments. With only a turbulent ocean below and rolling clouds above, he would need them.
Through high wind and violent clouds, he climbed to six thousand feet and finally broke into clearer skies. Circling wide before setting course, he was relieved to see that six Swordfish had already popped through the clouds, and within minutes, all fifteen fighters from the squadron had gathered.
His radio crackled, and he heard the squadron leader. “Red Flight, this is Red Leader. We’ll take the northern route. Break. Blue One, this is Red Leader. Take your flight on the southern route parallel to us.”
As each pilot responded, they formed their torpedo bombers in their respective flights. Moffat and his crew flew with Red Flight while Pattison formed up with Blue Flight. The Catalina had reported the Bismarck steaming southeast toward Brest, France, at thirty knots. Both flights headed in that general direction. The battle cruiser, HMS Sheffield, having suffered no damage from the friendly fire received earlier in the day, had used its high-speed capability to draw near but outside the firing range of the German behemoth. It shadowed the ship and broadcast its course and direction.
For two hours through the wind and rain, flying just above the clouds, the tiny biplanes plied through the gale. Then, midair explosions detonated all around them, alerting them that they had entered Bismarck’s vicinity and been spotted.
Diving into the black, treacherous clouds with the rest of his flight spread to his left and right, Moffat glued his eyes to his altitude indicator, watching it spin around as he descended at a faster and faster rate. He broke clear of the clouds a hundred feet above sea level, and there, still several miles distant, sailed the Bismarck, in all her famed glory, fire spewing from her anti-aircraft guns.
Red Flight had emerged from the clouds aft of her port side, and as one, the pilots veered their rickety kites northward and then turned hard right to attack the ships broadside. They skimmed the tall waves at eighteen feet of altitude, the minimum required to release the torpedoes, and as they drew closer, the ship unleashed fire from its big five-inch guns, aiming them low to hit the ocean with explosive impact and spew plumes of water high in the air in hopes of snaring and bringing down the Swordfish.
By this time, realization had dawned on Moffat, and no doubt on the other pilots in the squadron, what must have been recognized with dismay by the German anti-aircraft gunners—their weapons could not shoot low enough
to hit the planes flying so close to the surface of the water.
Keeping down as far as he dared, Moffat reduced his speed almost to a stall, a requirement to ensure that the torpedo positioned itself correctly when it splashed into the water. He flew in closer and closer until the ship was hardly more than a hundred yards away. Reaching down, he was about to release his torpedo when he felt Dusty’s hand clamp down on his shoulder.
“Not yet,” the navigator yelled into Moffat’s ear. “I’ll tell you when.”
Turning in his seat, Moffat saw to his amazement that Dusty had climbed halfway out of the aircraft and was hanging on with the crooks of one elbow and knee while scanning the waves below. “We have to hit a trough,” Dusty yelled. “If we hit a wave crest, the torpedo will go wild, and we’ll miss.”
Seconds passed. The Bismarck loomed larger and larger.
The boom, boom, boom of the big guns and the staccato of the anti-aircraft guns pounded in Moffat’s ears to compete with his rapidly beating heart and the roar of wind. The pungent smell of exploding munitions spread all about, smothering the clean ocean air.
“Now!” Dusty called.
Moffat pulled the lanyard to release the tube.
The plane shuddered as it thrust higher in the air, the result of tossing off the weight of its cargo. Moffat remembered to stay over the torpedo to stabilize it with a thin wire as it hit the water and submerged.
Meanwhile, the Bismarck’s guns continued to fire, and their rounds hissed overhead as they tried to fight off the aircraft swarming below the level of their decks on both sides of the ship. A stray thought struck Moffat. This is not unlike the way Sir Francis Drake defeated the Spanish Armada.
Yanking his mind back to the present, Moffat pulled his stick for a hard right turn, banked away from the vessel, and throttled up, gaining speed but staying below the elevation of the anti-aircraft guns.
“We have a trail,” Dusty yelled from behind him. “We have a trail and—we’ve hit! I see a plume of water where we hit, a little forward of the stern.”
Kenny Pattison emerged from the clouds at almost the same time as Moffat, to the Bismarck’s starboard, opposite his fellow pilot.
His rickety torpedo plane hugged the waves as he sped over their crests, the salt spray reaching up to obscure his goggles, the Bismarck’s rounds hissing past him to bury themselves in the churning Atlantic. He lined up, found a trough, and pulled the line to release the torpedo.
Nothing happened.
Pattison found himself and his crew with their heavy tube still slung beneath them and now having to climb rapidly amidship to avoid a collision. Higher and higher they flew while the anti-aircraft guns tracked them, and the Bismarck’s rolling deck passed beneath them. Then they were clear of the ship and dived once again to skim the waves while the big guns generated mountainous plumes of water ahead of them and the anti-aircraft guns tried futilely to knock them from the sky.
“We have to make another round,” Pattison called to his crew, thanking Fortune that he did not have to see their expressions.
He flew far out from the ship to make his turn, noting as he did so that his Swordfish was alone in the sky. His mates had dropped their tubes and headed back to the Ark Royal.
Pattison completed a wide turn and lined up to attack the Bismarck on the starboard side and began his run. At this distance, the ship appeared almost as a toy bobbing in the water, but as he drew closer and closer, it appeared larger and larger, with all its guns now trained on his Swordfish.
Keeping as close as possible to the prescribed eighteen feet above the tumultuous waves, through eruptions of water resulting from big-gun rounds, he closed the distance and slowed his plane to tube launch speed.
He pulled the lanyard.
The torpedo dropped away.
Pattison completed his launch maneuvers and then pulled a hard turn to the left, staying low. Daring to look back, he saw the torpedo’s trail through the waves and then a plume of water as it hit near the stern. He remained only feet above the ocean’s surface until he was well out of range of the anti-aircraft guns, and then climbed rapidly, setting his course back to the Ark Royal.
53
May 28, 1941
Bletchley Park, UK
Claire entered Commander Denniston’s office with a message. “We received this a little while ago and just finished decoding it; and this time, it was our Kriegsmarine version of the Enigma that intercepted the message. It’s from Admiral Lutjens aboard the Bismarck to Adolf Hitler. It’s very short. If you like, I’ll read it to you.”
Denniston looked up and nodded grimly. “That should be interesting. Go ahead.”
“It says, ‘Ship unmanageable. We shall fight to the last shell. Long live Adolf Hitler.’” On finishing, Claire breathed out a sigh.
Denniston contemplated in silence a few moments. “That’s consistent with what we know. We sent a squadron of Swordfish out to find and attack her with torpedoes. Three of them struck the Bismarck, two near the rudder. They must have damaged the steering because after their attack, the Bismarck only ran in circles.” He smiled. “Good news is always welcome. I’m happy to say that all of our scrappy pilots in those rickety planes returned safely to their carrier.”
He leaned forward. “Last night, our navy closed in and positioned around her for a final attack while our destroyers harassed her with torpedoes. Her guns were still very much a threat and she fought to the last. Two of our battleships, Rodney and King George V, moved in and pounded her. Bismarck returned fire with her broadside guns, but her projectiles fell short. Two more of our cruisers, the Dorcetshire and the Norfolk, joined the fight, and the Rodney moved in closer. Reports came in that Bismarck’s turrets had been hit, and lower deck fires must have ignited. The final story is that the battleship has sunk under the waves. She is no more.”
Denniston took a deep breath. “I have to say that I am in utter awe and admiration of the ship and crew.”
Claire stood quietly listening until the commander had finished. The moment that they had anticipated to be celebratory seemed somber. “Were there any survivors?”
Denniston nodded. “Some. The Rodney stayed on station to pick them up, but then a German submarine threat caused it to move away. I think the figure is a hundred and eighteen saved. The survivors claim to have set charges to scuttle the ship. Maybe one day we’ll know what was the final blow that brought her down.”
“How many had been aboard the Bismarck?”
“Around thirty-four hundred.”
Claire moved to one of the chairs and sat, her face drawn in sadness. “Such loss of life,” she whispered. “So many young men.”
Denniston said nothing, and they sat alone with their thoughts. Then Claire stood back up. “It’s a relief that the Bismarck is gone. Unfortunately, the war goes on and I must get back to work.”
“Thank you, Miss Littlefield, and good job. You’re a professional.”
54
June 1, 1941
Marseille, France
“We can’t wait,” Fourcade told Henri. “The team coming from London won’t be here for months. Since Jeannie left Dinard, we’re not getting much intelligence out of northwestern France above Loire, particularly along the coast. We need a team up there now.”
“Let me go up there and put some cells together. Phillippe can run things here in my absence. We’re talking about a recruiting mission. I’ve done a good job in Marseille.”
“You have,” Fourcade replied. “But you know whoever you put in charge will have to relinquish authority to the new team leaders that London sends over. They’re providing the funds.”
“I’ll make that clear. Will Jeremy be one of them?”
“According to our latest information, yes. British intelligence is insisting that everyone be fully trained before coming over, including—”
“He’s young, but good. And experienced. I don’t think anyone I recruit will have a problem with him. Will they arrive by para
chute?”
Fourcade shook her head. “By the time they come, SOE will have its special squadron operating to fly people in and out of enemy territory on the Lysander aircraft. The drop-off points will be scattered across the country, mostly along the south end of the Loire Valley. That’s at the extreme of the Lysanders’ range with enough fuel to get home, even with their extended fuel tanks. We’ll take the passengers straight to safehouses in their areas of operations. You can scout them out while you’re there. We’ll need flat, open fields, wide enough for a small plane but not so wide that it can be seen for miles. The field will have to be unplowed and with no ditches. They’ll be coming in at night.”
Henri’s eyes opened wide, and he whistled in amazement. “You’re serious? How will they navigate?”
“By the light of the moon. And you’ll need to train ground teams to guide them in with three pocket torches. The first of the guides will have to flash the Morse code for a single letter that will change for each landing. I’ll give you all the particulars.”
She cupped her hands along the edge of the table and pushed back. “Meanwhile, I have to go to Paris. I need to check on Jeannie and other people we have up there.”
“Why don’t I go with you? I can do some recruiting and then head west to prepare for the teams. We have time.”
“Good idea. Take Amélie with you. We can teach her the landing procedures for the Lysander flights before we go, and she can help with training ground teams.”
“Should we really take Amélie? Jeremy’s flight might be one we’ll prepare for.”
Fourcade thought a moment without expression. “We can’t expect to win this war by considering personal concerns too much. She’s trained, and she’s professional. So is Jeremy. She needs to be prepared for it if it happens and act appropriately. People at the landing sites should be thinking only of doing their jobs and being alert to anything around them that could sabotage the landing or cause it to be aborted.” She smiled. “The two young lovers can see each other later in a safe place.”