Between The Hunters And The Hunted

by Steven Wilson

  But as the barge sailed deeper into the vast cavern created by the camouflage, Doenitz began to have doubts about his own first impressions. God, she was huge! Her hull was a vast, gray, solid fortress that dwarfed the barge as it maneuvered to the ship’s side. Dazzle camouflage, wild patterns of gray, black, and white, slashed across her hull in jagged bands—a simple device to confuse enemy gunners and spotters. Perhaps she might one day lose her exotic look and be painted all-over outboard gray, a practical but uninspired acknowledgment of her primary role as a warship.

  Sea Lion’s complex superstructure towered over him and could only be compared to a mountain range. He had seen the four main turrets and their twelve guns from a distance and he thought how menacing they looked in repose, sleeping along the centerline of the vessel.

  When the barge nestled against the duty platform, Doenitz stepped aside to allow the handful of reporters and a dozen or more party officials, resplendent in their pseudo-military uniforms, to clamber aboard. When that pack of rats had cleared the ladder he mounted the steps with dignity, his fragile hands clad in soft leather gloves falling lightly on the rail with each step. His staff followed him at a discreet distance.

  When Doenitz reached the deck he saw what must have been the entire ship’s compliment drawn up at attention, vast ranks of deep blue, double-breasted peacoats and caps, impervious to the stiff winds of the Kattegatt. It thrilled him to see Kriegsmarine sailors, rigid as steel, their ranks formed directly along the joints of the deck beams, and their silent lines shadowing those of the Sea Lion. Here was the pomp and ceremony of the Kriegsmarine that he so often eschewed publicly, preferring quiet meetings with his U-boatmen. But, deep within, as the band played “Deutchland Uber Alles,” and he saluted the ensign astern, the officer of the deck, and then Grand Admiral Raeder—he felt like a cadet fresh from Flensburg. He stepped aside to allow his staff to pay their respects. As they did he admired the long graceful lines of the freshly scrubbed oak main deck. Well, she was beautiful in design and execution, but was she a warship?

  He remembered the sixteen-inch guns of the main armament and decided wryly that they were certainly in her favor. From where he stood he took an inventory of the weapons dotting the superstructure. He counted five heavy antiaircraft batteries, each with a pair of 10.5cm/L65 C33 guns. He knew that there were five on the port side as well. He calculated the medium antiaircraft batteries as well and came up with thirty-two 3.7cm guns. Doenitz gave up trying to count the light antiaircraft guns; there were far too many, and they were too widely dispersed.

  Despite his own reluctance to admit it, Raeder’s Sea Lion was a formidable vessel and he had taken Bismarck’s inadequacies into consideration in arming Sea Lion with a forest of antiaircraft guns. Bismarck had been destroyed, regardless of who claimed credit, by British Swordfish torpedo bombers—obsolete wood-framed, and fabric-covered biplanes that flew no more than a hundred miles an hour. An elephant brought to its knees by a gnat.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Kapitan zur See Wilhelm Mahlberg, Kommandant K. of Sea Lion, said. “If you will please follow these officers, they will lead you to the wardroom. There you will be briefed and plied with mugs of hot chocolate. Nothing stronger, I’m afraid.” The half dozen civilians laughed and trailed after the officers, talking excitedly.

  Raeder made his way to Doenitz.

  “Well?” he said excitedly.

  “When I saw her in the ways,” Doenitz said, choosing his words carefully, “I had no idea that she would grow this large.”

  “She was fed on good German steel, Admiral.” Raeder laughed. “Isn’t she something? And her Kommandant and officers are handpicked. You know Frey?”

  “Otto?”

  “Yes. He is Erster Artillerie Offizier, I.A.O.”

  Doenitz looked over the vessel again. She seemed to grow even larger.

  “Yes,” Raeder said. “She does take your breath away, doesn’t she? Twenty-eight watertight compartments, a top speed of thirty-seven knots—”

  “Good Lord! Bismarck could do only—”

  “Yes. Thirty-one knots,” Raeder said, but then he hesitated, as if there were much more to what he had to say. He guided Doenitz in a friendly manner and walked the admiral along the deck, toward the bow. Raeder looked overhead at the vast field of camouflage netting that stretched from pylons driven deeply into the shallow ocean floor, suspended at a dozen points on the superstructure of the Sea Lion.

  “We shall go to the briefing in a moment,” Raeder said. “I want to spend as little time with those hyenas as I have to. Tell me, Admiral Doenitz, haven’t you wondered what Sea Lion’s first mission is to be?”

  Doenitz had not. All of his time was taken up with U-boat operations or the War Production Board trying to get U-boats built, or investigating the newest British antisubmarine measures, or trying to avoid the endless round of meetings that somehow required his presence. But he knew how to answer the question.

  “I did not feel it appropriate to ask, Grand Admiral. I must confess it was constantly on my mind.”

  Doenitz was relieved to see that Raeder was pleased with the response. The old man could be brittle and mercurial. The grand admiral patted Doenitz on the hand, as if Doenitz were the naughty student and Raeder the wise old schoolmaster. Raeder’s attitude irritated Doenitz, but it was one that he had to suffer. The most difficult of all of Raeder’s condescending manners to accept was that U-boats would always be greatly inferior to surface vessels. Raeder was of the old school—the unfinished business of Jutland when British and German coal-burning behemoths had tried to destroy one another and the old kaiser had dreamed of Mare Germanica. If Raeder had the same dreams, twenty years removed, he was a fool, Doenitz decided. But Doenitz knew that Raeder was a superb tactician and brilliant seaman and could not be easily cast as a fool. Perhaps a man who does foolish things, Doenitz said to himself, but we are all guilty of that.

  “We are going to kill Winston Churchill,” Raeder said, and then he smiled at Doenitz’s shocked expression.

  Mahlberg smiled with indulgence as the civilians and party officials found seats around the unadorned wardroom table. He had ordered that the decorations and other amenities be kept to a minimum so that the visitors would not forget that they were aboard a vessel of war. The only concession that he made was to have the heavy, dark blue blackout curtains over the portholes pulled back and held in place with white cotton rope. Raeder had insisted on an additional flourish—the Kriegsmarine and Nazi flags hung side by side on the bulkhead behind him. Mahlberg wondered if they stood in silent competition to one another.

  As the group settled in, Mahlberg’s eyes fell on Ingrid May and he allowed himself a sliver of a smile. He saw that she, in turn, let her eyes casually signal that she knew he noticed her. It was difficult not to notice the only woman in the group—a woman whose blond hair, almost white against her black sweater and slacks, was pulled back in a ponytail. The look was casually provocative and not lost on the older men sitting around her who struggled to hold in their stomachs and look important. She ignored them as she laid two twin-reflex cameras on the table and took a reading of the room with a light meter.

  She was known as the finest photographer in Germany, able to capture images of the Fatherland’s leaders that no one else could. It was because she slept with most of them, her competitors said, or the jealous wives of the leaders. And Mahlberg’s wife. Mahlberg was not sure of how many men she slept with—he knew of only one, and he found the experience delicious and decadent.

  “I can help you, Wilhelm,” she had said as they lay in bed one evening, spent from lovemaking.

  “Can you?” Mahlberg had replied, his hand playing over her flat stomach to her breasts.

  She turned on her side and looked at him, allowing his wandering hand free rein. “I have the ear of many well-placed party officials.”

  He remembered thinking to himself: you’ve had more than their ears. But instead he had replied, “How can you he
lp me?”

  She gasped slightly as his hand found the moist region between her legs. “Raeder has disappointed the Fuehrer many times. It is said that he will be replaced soon.”

  “That’s common knowledge,” Mahlberg had said as he began to tease her, his fingers seeking her most intimate area.

  She moved closer to him, her breath hot with passion, and said, “Is it common knowledge that Wilhelm Mahlberg might be the next grand admiral?” She had closed her eyes, savoring his touch. “You must know,” she had continued, the words escaping her in a rush, “that I was instrumental in that decision.”

  Mahlberg returned to the present, scanning the wardroom.

  “May I take photographs, Kapitan?” Ingrid asked, her manner entirely professional.

  “Of course,” Mahlberg said. He looked over the assembled group. “Welcome to the finest ship, the largest ship in the Kriegsmarine.” Mahlberg began his presentation as he heard the shutter snap and the film advance. He found himself suddenly ill at ease as she moved about—it felt too much as if she were stalking him. “You reporters, and of course our lovely photographer, have been honored to accompany Sea Lion on her first voyage. A voyage, I assure you, that will live in the annals of the Kriegsmarine as the greatest of its kind. When we return, you will report our triumphs to the German people. From those reports will they draw inspiration to conquer the world.”

  “But first, England,” a fat Nazi Party official reminded Mahlberg.

  “Yes,” Mahlberg said, wondering how many such idiots filled the party ranks. “England first.” He felt Ingrid on his left, the camera lens centered on his face, and he grew warm. There was something oddly voyeuristic about her proximity. He nodded to a Leutnant zur See, who handed each man around the table a neatly bound leather folder embossed with the name of the ship, the date, and the recipient, in gold letters.

  “Before you is statistical information about Sea Lion. In it you will find her displacement, dimensions, armor protection, armament, propulsion plant, complement … Well, I could go on but I have no desire to delay our departure, so I will summarize much of what is contained in the folder. She is faster than the King George V, Prince of Wales, and Rodney. Her guns have a greater range and power than those vessels. She can steam 11,320 nautical miles at a speed of sixteen knots, or 5,750 nautical miles at a speed in excess of thirty-five knots. If Sea Lion were called upon to defend the Fatherland against the American Navy, she could just as easily destroy the U.S.S. North Carolina, one of their newest capital ships. So would she treat the French battleship Richelieu, and with apologies to our Italian allies, the Vittorio Veneto.”

  There was a polite round of superior laughter around the table for the inadequacies of anything Italian, except perhaps food and women.

  Ingrid returned to her seat and snapped the lens cap on her camera.

  “Kapitan?” one of the reporters asked. “Can you tell us when we sail?”

  “All I can say is that it will be shortly. I cannot give you the exact date and time, for security reasons.”

  “Well then,” another said, “can you tell us what the mission is? Surely we who sail with you cannot possibly disclose that information.”

  “Regrettably,” Mahlberg said, “I cannot reveal that as yet. The mission and your other questions will be answered when we are at sea.”

  “Kapitan Mahlberg,” Ingrid said, “should I have packed a wardrobe for winter or summer?”

  Laughter again and Mahlberg felt it was directed at him. She was an expert at subtle humiliation, with either her words or her tone. He looked away from her to the opposite side of the table. He needed her because she could move subtly through the intrigues of Kriegsmarine High Command and the complexities of Nazi Party politics. But at times, he despised her.

  “I can tell you this,” he said. “When we leave Leka we will proceed up the Kattegat, and enter the Norway fjord system through the Korsfjord. We will refuel in Grimsfjord, sail on to the Hjeltefjord near Kalvenes, and pick up our escort.” He was satisfied to see the reporters scribbling furiously, but he had revealed more than he had intended. That was Ingrid’s fault; her attitude had angered him. “Upon reaching the North Sea we have one of four options to enter the North Atlantic. We can run between the Orkney Islands and the Shetland Islands. That is the shortest but most dangerous route. We can attempt to slip through between the Shetland Islands and the Faeroe Islands. Although farther north, we are still within range of British patrol aircraft. We can drive between the Faeroe Islands and Iceland. Here we face minefields and surface vessels, but the weather is generally overcast or the sea is shrouded in fog.”

  “‘Shrouded in fog,’” Ingrid said. “Such a lovely term for a warrior to use. Are you a poet as well as a seaman, Herr Kapitan?”

  “Finally,” Mahlberg said, ignoring her, “there is the Denmark Strait, the channel between Iceland and Greenland.”

  “What’s wrong with that one?” one of the party members asked, obviously bored.

  “Pack ice,” Mahlberg said, “thick enough to cut a ship’s hull in two, even Sea Lion. Minefields as well and British patrol vessels. They often keep two cruisers in those waters. But …” Mahlberg paused, hoping that these idiots truly understood the danger. “It is the pack ice that is the greatest threat. In the winter it closes the Denmark Strait. In the summer it reduces the strait’s navigable waters by fifty percent. That means that our room to maneuver is severely restricted.”

  “Why, you said yourself that no vessel on earth can stop Sea Lion,” the fat Nazi said.

  “That is true,” Mahlberg said. “But why give away the element of surprise before we even begin our mission? How much better to be at our prey’s throat before they realize we exist?”

  “The poet is gone. Spoken like a true warrior,” Ingrid said. “Is our prey worth all of this secrecy?”

  “You can decide that,” Mahlberg said, tired of the meeting, “when we are under way and the prey is made known.”

  Doenitz, although inwardly amazed and intrigued, kept his reply neutral. “This is a remarkable ship, Grand Admiral, but I think it unlikely that she can reach London unscathed.” What was the Old Man thinking? Surely it was not some sort of ill-conceived response to the Bismarck disaster? Hitler had been livid when the great ship went down and vowed that he would mothball all of the Kriegsmarine’s surface vessels rather than see them supply another victory to the British. Doenitz himself had to plead against the notion, gaining Raeder’s gratitude and support, but leaving himself dangerously exposed to Hitler’s revenge should there be another loss of a capital ship.

  Raeder began his lecture. “Admiral, consider this: the British have seen each of their allies fall in turn. Poland, Belgium, Denmark, Norway—France in a matter of days. They saved their army at Dunkirk, but even Churchill admitted that you do not win wars by retreating. Your U-boats are slowly strangling England, the cordon growing tighter every day so that soon she will lie exposed to invasion. London is in flames because the Luftwaffe controls the skies over England’s capital and rains bombs down on her with impunity. So. We remove the last vestige of England’s invincibility. The symbol of the island nation’s stubborn resistance, at least to her people, is Churchill. Destroy him aboard one of the Royal Navy’s greatest vessels and the spirit that is the bulwark of England’s desire to fight evaporates. If England’s leaders are not safe aboard her navy’s vessels, aboard a battleship of the mighty Royal Navy, they are not safe anywhere.”

  “That is a formidable argument, Grand Admiral,” Doenitz said, and he meant it. Churchill was the British lion, truly the symbol of Britannica. Kill this one man—kill him in such a way that it shattered the mythology of British naval invincibility—and who could tell what the results would be?

  “Everything is in order, Doenitz,” Raeder continued. “The where of it at least. And the how, I should say, is this remarkable ship as you call it. The when is determined by the enemy’s timetable, but we can respond to that at a mom
ent’s notice. We have the Abwehr and Admiral Canaris to thank for the information that sends this vessel on the first of her many adventures.”

  Canaris with his military intelligence network, Doenitz thought, was as unreliable as the North Atlantic in winter. He was another self-serving amateur in the army of self-serving amateurs that surrounded Hitler.

  “I’m afraid that I can’t say more than that at this point. Orders, you understand. But as it evolves, you shall be duly notified.” Raeder pulled a pipe and tobacco pouch from his navy blue greatcoat, carefully filled his pipe, and turned away from the wind to light it. “And?” he said to Doenitz.

  “Grand Admiral?”

  “‘And’ how are my U-boats to be involved? Isn’t that what you are thinking?”

  In fact he was thinking that a catastrophe lay just beyond the horizon. He had faith in the ship and her crew, and he would lead them, if his heart did not lie with U-boats, anywhere. But half of the weapons available in any country’s arsenal were the decisions made about when and how to fight battles. The most exquisite planning, the most detailed timetable, the most exacting and complex web of logistical support: are all worthless if the admiral’s decisions are faulty.

  Doenitz nodded with a smile.

  “At this point,” Raeder said, drawing deeply on the pipe, “I can tell you that your U-boats will be involved in two phases of the operation. When we return to Berlin we will meet and I shall give you the full particulars. Doenitz. Listen. This is an opportunity to strike a monumental blow at the enemy. Not only to the head but the body as well. The plan must be fully coordinated and nothing can be left to chance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now let us go and listen to Mahlberg entertain those asses.”

  It was not the entire ship’s company drawn up to greet the various officers, civilians, and other dignitaries as they came on board Sea Lion. The crew inside the dark, damp recesses of Turm Bruno, the second turret from the bow of Sea Lion, fought the idiosyncracies of their temperamental child. Here is where the sixteen-inch guns were located, three across, each in its own cramped compartment so that a hit on one did not destroy the capabilities of the other two guns to do battle. Behind the gun rooms, running the length of the turret like the optical nerves of a ludicrous insect, was the three-position 10.5-meter range finder; one station for each gun. From openings on both the port and starboard sides of the turret, Bruno’s gun layers could call range and inclination. But that role was played only if the main fire control, the haven of the I.A.O., or first artillery officer, was damaged or destroyed. From there the I.A.O. used FuMO 23 radar, a rotating dome with an optic range finder, and his own eyesight from a vantage point almost one hundred feet above sea level to direct fire. The information from any one of the three fire-control stations was fed down through armored communication shafts to the calculation room. The calculation room then fed the information to the appropriate batteries, adjustments were made, and guns were fired. Everything in Bruno, from her huge flat turret to the deep cylindrical well that descended four decks into the vessel and from, which came the cordite and shells to feed the three guns, had been carefully designed by marine engineers. They had created Bruno, but men such as Turm Oberbootsmannmaat Herbert Statz and his crew gave it life.