Between The Hunters And The Hunted

by Steven Wilson

  “Sir Joshua?” a voice came from the far end of the table.

  Bimble noted Commander Harry Hamilton.

  “Harry? You’ve something to add?” Hamilton wasn’t the type of chap to speak up unless he felt it worthwhile.

  “A couple of my lads chanced upon a large camouflage complex in the Kattegat. We did several photo reconnaissance flights over the past little while but were unable to uncover the purpose for this site. One of the lads, an impetuous American, even went so far as to commandeer a Hudson and make the trip himself. They got close enough, he tells me, to raise a hornets’ nest of antiaircraft fire and German fighters, but to no avail. Whatever was under that thing, if ever there was, was gone.”

  “A camouflage complex, you say? How large a complex? Big enough for a battleship, Harry?”

  “Perhaps that, indeed, Sir Joshua. Understand that we have nothing but circumstantial information to work with. None of our flights returned anything of substance.”

  “A hunch then,” Sir Joshua said. “These chaps have a hunch, is that what you’re telling me? I’m to mobilize the Home Fleet and God knows what else on a hunch?”

  “Call it a theory, Sir Joshua,” Hamilton said, refusing to be intimidated by Bimble’s tone. “These two chaps come back to me with a theory. I didn’t think much of it myself and told them so in no uncertain terms. Even now the idea is too fantastic to contemplate. But Nottingham’s encounter and distressing lack of further communication concerns me. My two chaps think that Jerry’s been hiding an H-class battleship up there.”

  The room erupted at the news and questions began flying across the table. How was it possible? How did you hide a sixty-thousand-ton ship? Surely the intelligence services would have gotten wind of this monster?

  “Quiet!” Sir Joshua roared. “I can’t think with this cacophony. You shall each have a turn to speak.” His bristly white eyebrows settled low over his black eyes as he scanned the table. “Now. I want your opinions one at a time with no interruptions. Each will speak his mind, no matter how outlandish. Elwes, you first.”

  “Sir Joshua,” Elwes said, “with respect to Commander Hamilton, it’s impossible for a ship this size to be commissioned and hidden. I can’t even begin to think of the resources that the Germans would have to employ to accomplish this remarkable feat. Truly we don’t know what happened to Nottingham and I’m sure that we shall shortly hear from Captain Harland on this matter, but we cannot jump to conclusions based upon an incomplete W.T. transmission and the theory posed by two low-level officers. And one of those an American who, I might add, we might rightly assume has no battle experiences and very little to do with Germans to date.”

  “Macready?” Bimble said.

  “I think it highly unlikely, Sir Joshua. For the most part for the reasons stated by Elwes but additionally because Hitler became speedily disenchanted with large surface vessels after Bismarck was sunk. He has virtually ordered Tirpitz to remain within sight of shore. We are told that he fears the impact of another dramatic loss on the morale of the German people.”

  Sir Joshua nodded to the rotund commander. “Blakely?”

  “With respect to all said before me I can add nothing of consequence. However,” he added before Sir Joshua had a chance to move on, “what we have not considered is the presence of those U-boats. Prince of Wales can outrun anything afloat, Sir Joshua, should she choose. But what about that line of U-boats?”

  “Relative to speed she has nothing to fear from U-boats,” Sir Joshua noted, interrupting Blakely.

  “Of course, Sir Joshua,” Blakely said. “But even a bear is in danger of being brought down by a pack of hounds. Let us suppose that this behemoth does not exist, for the purposes of this argument only. We are confident that there are more than a dozen U-boats poised to intercept Prince of Wales. Let us recommend that she chart a course to avoid that concentration of U-boats and proceed with all dispatch.”

  “Recall her escorts?” Hamilton said.

  “Only those who can’t keep up with her,” Blakely said. “Destroyers and such.”

  “The very vessels that she needs to protect her from U-boats,” Sir Joshua said.

  “The very vessels which because of their inability to keep up with her,” Macready jumped in, “place her in additional jeopardy from the U-boats.”

  Elwes joined the conversation. “No longer the bear, she now becomes the fleet stag.”

  Bimble gave him a cross look. The admiral found such imagery distasteful when his ships were in danger. It was unseemly—most unseemly. He said, “All right, let’s continue.” The others around the table gave their opinion, but it appeared if Blakely, not the brightest star in the galaxy, one admiral had commented of him, carried the day.

  “I see,” Bimble said. “Allow me to take a slightly different tack. Each of you having your say as to the impossibility of her being an H-class battleship, you must now answer this question. What is she? Tirpitz is accounted for. If she’s a pocket battleship she’s the first one in history mounting sixteen-inch guns.”

  “Nottingham’s report could have been in error,” Elwes said.

  “Yes,” Bimble said. “But do we take that chance? In front of Prince of Wales is a large force of U-boats. Behind her, possibly, is a very fast, very powerful capital ship. Throw in three convoys that are in the wrong place at the wrong time and we have the makings of a very creditable disaster here. We can’t take chances with this one, gentlemen.”

  “With all due respect, Sir Joshua,” Macready said, “war is a matter of taking chances. Calculated risks.”

  “Thank you for the education about making war,” Sir Joshua said. “Calculate all you like. Plan as much as you think necessary. Detail every conceivable outcome and in the end all can be thrown into a cocked hat by an unforeseen event or action. Wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?”

  The men around the table were silent.

  “Yes,” Bimble said. “My thoughts exactly. Elwes, you will contact Coastal Command and inform them that we suspect the presence of an enemy vessel in our area of operation. Harry?”

  “Sir Joshua?”

  “See if that impetuous American and the other fellow have anything to add to this development.”

  “Indeed I will, Sir Joshua.”

  “Now. Hear me on this, gentlemen. If you sift through what we have accomplished today you will find very little. If you place what we know on one scale and what we don’t know on the other, you can bloody well see how it will be tipped. I don’t like that, not one bit. No, gentlemen, I don’t. But I haven’t anything else to go by, so I’ll take what we have discussed to Their Lordships and they can make whatever decisions they see fit. Hold yourselves at the ready because I am fully convinced that we shall be meeting here quite often. Harry, if you please, a moment.”

  After the others left the room at a respectful pace, Hamilton joined Sir Joshua at the head of the table.

  “How sure are these chaps,” Sir Joshua asked, “and how sure of them are you?”

  “I tossed them out of my office straightaway when they first came to me. Now …” Hamilton said, “I’m simply not sure.”

  “Who are they? Do I know them?”

  “The American’s name is Cole, a lieutenant in the Office of Naval Intelligence. Bright, excellent analysis, bit of a rogue. His companion in this affair is Sublieutenant Richard Moore.”

  “His Lordship’s son? Good Lord, man, is that all you’ve got?”

  “Yes. Both rather brilliant, Sir Joshua. Both unaccustomed to accepting things at face value.”

  “Perhaps that is what we need, because on the face of it we have a bloody awful mystery here with the potential for unmitigated disaster. Maybe they have found something of significance? Perhaps there is just a passing chance that Cole and Moore have the key to this mystery?”

  Hamilton did not bother to reply.

  “Yes,” Sir Joshua said about his own musings. “And if my uncle had had different plumbing he would have bee
n my aunt. What concerns me, Harry, is that I can think up a thousand questions at the drop of a hat, but it’s the answers that elude me.”

  Chapter 18

  D.K.M. Sea Lion, the Denmark Strait

  Mahlberg took his action report on the bridge, listening as each division made its account, interested particularly in engineering and ordnance. Divisions 1–4, the main and secondary armaments, handled themselves quite ably although the second gun shell hoist in Anton and one of the elevating cylinders in Bruno malfunctioned. Repairs were being made. Division 8, Ordnance, kept the big guns fed despite mechanical difficulties. Buried deep within Sea Lion, Division 8’s work was seldom recognized for its danger. These seamen were surrounded by hundreds of tons of explosives and one misstep on their part could destroy the ship.

  Divisions 10–12, Engineering, reported a flawless performance. Kapitanleutnant Jahreis fairly beamed as he detailed the accomplishments of his departments. Mahlberg let him speak without interrupting him. Many of his men worked in sealed engineering compartments where the pressure was fifty-six times that of the outside atmosphere. They were a very cool and confident lot who lovingly tended the machinery that drove Sea Lion and gave her power. Without them this beautiful vessel would be nothing more than a dead world at the mercy of her enemies and the sea. Mahlberg thanked Jahreis for his report and asked that his thanks be passed on to the men of Divisions 10–12. Next he wanted to hear from his gunnery officer. They had seen a flash and a large dirty cloud of what appeared to be smoke just as the enemy vessel entered the fog bank. It was then that Hydrophone had reported sounds of a vessel breaking up. They had got her.

  “We expended twenty-three rounds of High Explosive shells,” Frey said. “Two, perhaps three hits on the vessel. Six shots bracketed.”

  “Twenty-three? I would have thought you could do better, Frey,” Mahlberg chastised him mildly. The reprimand was necessary not because twenty-three rounds was an exorbitant number for the results achieved—throw in fog, choppy seas, any of the variables in aiming and firing big guns, and you have an inexact science—but because Mahlberg wanted better from his men. The enemy cruiser was fast and difficult to spot dashing in and out of its own smoke—it was like throwing stones at a terrier. But she need not fight back because speed was a cruiser’s defense. Had the enemy vessel been a battleship, had her armor and armament come close to what Sea Lion possessed, the two would have entered into combat like two heavyweights, exchanging blow for blow. It would be fire and maneuver—plunging fire and flat trajectory, each ship trying to find the other’s range with its shells. The contest of speed under those circumstances was this—whoever found the range of their enemy first had a better chance of winning. “You took over nearly thirty minutes to destroy the enemy vessel. Bismarck sank Hood in only six.”

  “Bismarck had a much larger target to shoot at.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall expect improvements in the future. Continue with the report.”

  “Our radar failed with the first salvo,” Frey added. “It was completely useless by the second. We have not been able to recover it.”

  “I was told that it was ready for action,” Mahlberg said, accepting a cup of tea from a steward. “What happened?”

  “We don’t know,” Kadow said. “We installed extra padding and foam suspension on the radar mount. We tested it during gunnery practice and the radar functioned perfectly. The gun charges have never varied, nor the firing sequence, and the waterproofing was regularly checked. Every guideline recommended by the designers and engineers to maintain the instruments was stringently followed. Apparently it was not enough.”

  “Apparently,” Mahlberg agreed. A salvo from the three guns of one turret was enough to send tremors throughout Sea Lion. Two turrets firing a salvo was more than enough to shake the senses out of any instrument. “Well, Frey, it looks as if you must resort to old-fashioned range finders. Can you make do with that?”

  Frey smiled. “Of course, Kapitan. Give me a target and I will demonstrate our abilities.”

  “Is there no end to the man’s arrogance?” Mahlberg said to Kadow.

  “Message, Kapitan.” A petty officer handed Mahlberg a flimsy and stood back respectfully while Mahlberg opened and quickly read it.

  “From the Seekriegsleitung. They are getting nervous,” he said. “They instruct us ‘with all haste to return to the predetermined course and engage the target as ordered.’” He handed the message to Kadow. “They order us to release the destroyers at once.”

  “That’s just as well,” Kadow said. “They’ll just slow us down.”

  “Will we miss their eels, Frey,” Mahlberg asked, “if we become entangled in a nest of British hornets?”

  “I should be more afraid of German torpedoes racing about than British shells.”

  “Spoken like a true gunner. Send the destroyers on their way with my compliments, Kadow. Now, my friends, let us set a course of Prince of Wales and make history.”

  A young Oberleutnant zur See approached Mahlberg nervously. “Pardon me, Kapitan, but the correspondents would like to meet with you about today’s action.”

  “I am indisposed,” Mahlberg said sharply and then, mindful of the young man’s impossible position as liaison to the civilians, softened his tone. “Advise them that duty requires my presence on the bridge.”

  The young officer saluted.

  “Just a moment,” Mahlberg said. “What is your name?”

  The Oberleutnant zur See stiffened. “Jensen, sir.”

  “Oberleutnant Jensen, what did you think of today’s victory?”

  The young man tried to suppress a smile. “It was thrilling, sir.”

  “Do you know, Jensen, that when I was a Leutnant zur See in the Republic’s Reichsmarine, there were only fifteen thousand of us?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A pitiful band, was it not? We’ve come a long way since 1929. A very long way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mahlberg smiled to himself. “Yes. Well, I doubt that you are interested in a history lesson from your Kapitan.”

  A shocked look crossed Jensen’s face. “Oh no, sir. I mean yes, sir. I am honored. Most honored, sir.”

  “Be at ease, Jensen. Return to the correspondents and tell them to assemble in the wardroom in one hour. I shall meet them there.” Mahlberg turned to see Kadow glance at him. “You wish to say something, Kadow?”

  “Only that you’ve never taken the time to give me a history lesson,” the first officer said with a smile.

  “It would be lost on you,” Mahlberg said. “Have your detailing officer prepare information packets for the correspondents’ briefing. Have one of the destroyers stand by to receive my launch.”

  “Your launch, sir?” Kadow said.

  “Yes. When the correspondents have the packets, gather them and their belongings, escort them to the launch, and deposit them on the deck on whatever destroyer that you wish.”

  Kadow was stunned. “Kapitan, those civilians are on board at the express wish of the Ministry of Information… .”

  “Good,” Mahlberg said. “You may so inform them that they are leaving Sea Lion. All of them,” he said with emphasis, remembering his difficulties with Ingrid. “This is a warship. I cannot attend to the needs of noncombatants. Regardless of whom they know or what their influence is with the party. You handle it, Kadow. The less I have to say to that pack of wolves, the better off I am.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kadow said.

  Mahlberg motioned Kadow to one side and whispered. “When you give my compliments to Fraulein May, be so kind as to give her a message. Discreetly of course.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Inform her that I have chosen my mistress.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kadow said, diplomatic enough to conceal his surprise.

  The Royal Navy Base, Home Fleet, Scapa Flow

  Captain Harland had always been most uncomfortable in the presence of Sir Joshua Bimble, but now he stood before Admiral To
wnes, the man who destroyed the mighty Bismarck. Even the cold Scottish wind that blew across Scapa Flow was not as intimidating as this sailor.

  “Bimble sent you up here?” Townes roared. “And may I ask, sir, what are you to do? Hold my hand? Wipe my nose? This is Scapa Flow, young man, we are the Home Fleet. We are certainly aware that Nottingham has run into difficulty and that something is about in the Denmark Strait.”

  Harland stood at rigid attention while Townes’s staff pretended to work diligently. They had probably been at the receiving end of one of Townes’s barrages and knew enough to keep low.

  “Sir, if I may?” Harland said.

  “What is it, young man? Speak up. Harland, correct? Captain?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, come to, Harland. What’s this all about? What’s Bimble up to?”

  “Sir, it is not Sir Joshua. It is information that we have come across concerning the actions in the Denmark Strait.”

  “Prader’s ‘battleship’? Nonsense. No such animal exists. Case of nerves, that’s all. First time that he smells powder and he’s beside himself. What we’ve got from him is scattered at best. Nothing of use. Nothing complete. Bits and pieces of radio messages. Suppose this German chap is a pocket battleship, maybe a battle cruiser, or perhaps a cruiser. Where is it now, Harland? What hole has he popped into? There are convoys out there that need protection, and protection I can give them if, if I know where that German chap has gone. It would bloody well please me to know what I’m fighting.”

  “Admiral Townes, Sir Joshua has requested reconnaissance flights from Coastal Command and the RAF. The weather.”

  “In the Denmark Strait,” Townes said sarcastically, “a poor sailor can hardly see from port to starboard on his own ship. They must fly nevertheless. These ships of mine need service, Harland. Bismarck handled them roughly enough, but even before the encounter they were past due for attention. Send them out I will but with damned more in my hand than what you’ve given me.” Suddenly Townes cooled a bit. He motioned Harland to a chair next to his nearly bare desk. “Like a squall,” Townes’s temper had been described to him, violent one moment, virtually nonexistent the next. Harland was relieved to see Townes becalmed.