It was a lovely speech given with no conviction, and there was the question of hope; it was such a fragile commodity, such an elusive entity—surely one did not rely on hope alone.
“Yes, sir,” Godt said, content to let the discussion die away.
“Besides,” Doenitz said, airily, “how can those tiny vessels stop Sea Lion? Destroyers and cruisers. She will crush them and proceed on to Prince of Wales. Isn’t that what we are told?”
“Your pardon, Admiral, but I detect reservation in your tone.”
“Yes, well,” Doenitz said wryly, “I always approach foregone conclusions with a healthy degree of reservation. What about Webber?”
“Nothing, sir. It should only be a matter of hours before he engages the Home Fleet.”
“One day,” Doenitz said with a look of disgust, “I shall invent a radio that can send messages from deep underwater so that I won’t have to wait for U-boat Kapitans to surface when they deem fit and contact me. Raeder has one prima donna. I have dozens. Send for my coat. I’ve had enough of parties for tonight.”
Bimble was gardening when Hawthorne brought the news. The admiral asked his wife, a plump, matronly woman who had been helping him tend to the roses, to excuse them.
“Prince of Wales is going on?” Bimble said.
“What else can she do, Sir Joshua?” Hawthorne said, sighting a pitted stone bench. The days had been endless for both of them and he had been the one to encourage Bimble to come home for a bit and rest. He knew that the only way that Bimble found relaxation was in the quiet surroundings of his tiny garden. Hawthorne sat down and waited for Bimble’s reply.
“If those poor sods can slow that bloody bastard, they might give the Home Fleet time to get to her,” Bimble said, joining Hawthorne on the bench. “Unlikely though. Damned unlikely.” The admiral laid his arms across his round stomach. “God! What will happen to this country if we lost Prince of Wales and the prime minister as well?”
“The escorts. A cruiser and three destroyers,” Hawthorne said. “They might offer some resistance.”
“They won’t last five minutes under that fire,” Bimble said. “What did Hamilton tell us? Twelve sixteen-inch guns? A score of lesser guns and a hide as thick as an elephant’s.”
Hawthorne stood and stretched, letting his mind mull over the situation. Bimble kept a good garden. It was neat and colorful and although he couldn’t tell a buttercup from a blade of grass Hawthorne appreciated the care that went into the creation and nurturing of this tiny plot of land behind a modest house surrounded by an ancient brick wall. He noticed a movement in the corner and he saw a pair of ears.
“You have a rabbit,” he noted.
Bimble jumped up. “Is that bloody creature back in here? By God, I’ll shoot him next time. He eats everything in sight. Does me no good to toil over this bloody garden if that little furry bastard eats everything. I’ll get a gun, I tell you, and lie in wait and when he shows up, bang! I’ll spring on him …” The words stopped.
“Sir Joshua?” Hawthorne said. The admiral looked at the stone pathway leading to a potting shed, and then to the plants on either side, and then at Hawthorne.
“Sir Joshua?”
“Those bloody bastards! Those deceitful underhanded, bloody bastards.”
“Sir Joshua?”
“It’s a trap, Hawthorne. The Home Fleet, by God.”
“A trap?”
“The other twelve U-boats. They’re nowhere near Prince of Wales or anybody else,” Bimble said. “They’re lying in wait for the Home Fleet to go rushing to the rescue.”
“Are you certain?” Hawthorne said.
Bimble gave him an irritated look. “Of course I’m not certain, you silly ass, but I’d be willing to bet my bloody garden on it. Those others, the ones that that W.T. identified, were beaters. Don’t you see that? They kept Prince of Wales running southerly to give Sea Lion a chance to catch up with her. But they convinced us that they were fifteen instead of three. So we calculated the truth but not the location of the other twelve boats. They are hiding, man, lying in ambush for the Home Fleet to steam like great, fat rabbits into their sights. When the Fleet’s close enough, they spring the bloody trap.”
“Yes,” Hawthorne said, digesting the information. “Yes. That’s it.”
“Get back to the admiralty,” Bimble said, taking him by the elbow and guiding him toward the back door. “Contact Scapa Flow and have them alert the Home Fleet. I’ll be in as soon as I rinse off this grime and change.” He shoved Hawthorne through the door. “Hurry, man. I’ll be right behind you.” Bimble shook his head at the possibilities. A complex plan: back Prince of Wales and the prime minister, and throw in the Home Fleet as well. Why not? Use Prince of Wales as the stalking goat and when the snare is sprung, destroy her as well. The damned, efficient Germans. He saw the rabbit venture tentatively across the stone pathway. “All right,” Bimble said. “You can stay, you bloody hare. I suppose I owe you that much.”
H.M.S. Firedancer
The bo’sun’s whistle and alarm bell had sent Firedancer’s crew dashing for their action stations as the destroyer sliced through the North Atlantic, spray exploding over the bows and whipping around A Turret. They pounded down ladders and along passageways, emerging from the confines of the vessel to slap Kelly helmets on their heads and take up position. Excitement charged through the ship, men racing about, shouting directions and orders; warrant officers, chief petty officers, and petty officers cursing the men: faster, faster. The crews of the 4.5-inch guns pulled the tampions that protected the barrels from saltwater spray out of the muzzles, opened the doors for the ready-access magazines located in the front of the turret, and removed the canvas coverings from the breach mechanisms. The rear of the turrets were open, the men unprotected. In reality it made no difference because the turret shields did nothing more than partially protect the men from the cold wind. It was too thin to stop splinters, and if they were unlucky enough to be hit by a shell of any size the whole thing would disintegrate. She was not Sea Lion, and her turrets did not weigh one thousand tons each.
Firedancer bit into the waves playfully as if she had been too long under restraint and now given her head and was pleased at the ability to run. Her bow came up and with it a taste of North Sea as she flung high into the air in a moment of pure joy. Down her bow went again for another gulp and all the time men raced about her preparing for battle. This was not Firedancer’s concern—she was at full speed and that seldom happened in her voyages. She was either tied to plodding merchant ships in cumbersome convoys or forced to sail under two boilers instead of all three because fuel was low or she had too far to travel or one of her boilers needed replacement and it could not be counted on to perform. Now, now was a different matter entirely. Firedancer’s captain had finally come to his senses and unleashed her, given her her head so that she could stretch out; screws driving hard, bow slicing cleanly, engines humming contentedly.
Cole saw the other British vessels clearly now. No need for binoculars—they were close enough now for him to make out details. The cruiser was in plain sight, larger than the others—the destroyers that hovered just beyond Prometheus—but still a pitifully small ship. She was a light cruiser all right, strikingly similar to the light cruisers that he had seen tied up at Norfolk. They were fast, lightly armored, lightly gunned—a compromise between a heavy cruiser that stood at least a fighting chance with a capital ship and a destroyer that stood no chance at all. She was a compromise vessel—giving up armor and armament so that her speed would take her well clear of danger. But this was to be a fight and she would have no choice but to engage the enemy, however uneven the odds might be.
He glanced around the bridge, careful to keep to his corner of the tiny area. Hardy was almost taciturn, giving orders minimally, doling out the words as if they were rationed to him. His temper exploded once or twice; once when he called for more revolutions from the engines and once when he was asked if Prometheus had signaled th
em yet.
“Just now, sir,” the yeoman of signals had replied.
“Well, goddamn it,” Hardy had flared. “What is it? Do I have to call for messages before they are given to me?”
“Message from Prometheus, sir,” Dove had returned calmly, used to his captain’s outbursts. “‘Glad to see you could join the party, signed, Prometheus.’ Any reply, sir?”
“Reply,” Hardy exploded, directing his frustration toward Land. “Reply, Number One! Party. He’s talking as if I’m late again. Well, by God, I’ll have him know that we’re not late. You tell that …” He reconsidered and pinned Dove with a glare. “Make to Prometheus,” he said, gritting his teeth, “‘I have brought the champagne. Trust you have not neglected to invite the guest of honor. Signed, Firedancer.’ Ha!” he said and then turned to Land. “Ha, Number One. Guest of honor. I’ll warrant that will send that pompous ass around the bend.”
“Right you are, sir,” Land said, peering through a pair of binoculars. “I think I have the guest in sight, just now.”
Cole, holding tightly to the binoculars that Land had given him earlier just in case someone claimed them, searched the horizon.
“Four points off the starboard bow,” Land said calmly.
“Jesus!” a lookout above him said. “She’s a whole country unto herself.”
“Belay that talk, Taffy,” a petty officer said. “You sound like a bloody Hostilities Only. Now give it to the officers quick and give it to them right.”
“Green twenty. Green twenty,” Taffy said. “Enemy vessel in sight. Unable to determine range or speed, sir.”
Cole found her in his lens. “Holy shit,” he said. “That is a big son of a bitch.”
The petty officer eased next to him. “Begging your pardon, sir, but that sort of talk sends the wrong message to the boys.”
“My apologies, Petty Officer,” Cole said.
The seaman had just turned away when he added: “But she is the biggest fucking ship that I’ve ever seen, if you pardon the observation, sir.”
“Message from Prometheus, sir,” Dove said. “‘Take station two miles off my starboard quarter. We shall move in, in unison, and engage. End message.’”
“Well, that’s the first sensible thing that I’ve known Sir Whittlesey to say in years. Make to Prometheus, ‘Message received and acknowledged.’ Well, Mr. Cole,” he said over his shoulder, “what do you think of our chances?”
“I think it would be wise to shoot and scoot, Captain Hardy.”
“Shoot and scoot?”
“Run in quickly, launch your torpedoes. Then get the hell away from her before she can target you.”
“Oh, that won’t do, Mr. Cole,” Hardy said. “Prince of Wales is just over the horizon. Sea Lion can go through us like shit through a goose. We shall have to do more than that, I’m afraid. What, exactly, I’m not certain.” He took a deep breath and resumed his watch. “Perhaps we can slip in and irritate the great ship, eh, Number One?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, sir,” Land said.
Chapter 28
D.K.M. Sea Lion, Quadrant XC 38
Kadow, standing next to the communication’s bank in the conning tower, hung up the telephone.
“Foremast lookout reports that the enemy ships appear to be deploying for action. Hydrophone and radar report no other ships in the vicinity.”
“But Prince of Wales is just beyond them,” Mahlberg said, peering through the slits cut into the sixteen-inch steel walls of the conning tower. It was a small circular room, heavily armored, cramped; from which the Kapitan and a few men could direct the actions of Sea Lion during battle. It was a relatively safe place to be, as only a direct or very close hit could destroy it, but Mahlberg had to observe the action through those strategically placed tiny openings. He could control the engines, the steering, and communicate to any part of the ship from the round, steel citadel. But Mahlberg preferred to be on the bridge.
The telephone rang again and Kadow answered it. After a moment he reported to Mahlberg: “Foremast reports cruiser bearing two-six-two, one destroyer to her starboard, two to port. Distance, approximately seventy kilometers and closing.”
“Come to two-seven-oh,” Mahlberg said. “That’s the only variation these gnats will wring from me. Inform Frey that he may engage his main battery when the enemy is within range.”
The blast of the alarm bell filled Bruno and called the crew of number-one gun to action.
Statz heard the rumble of shells coming up the hoist and watched as Steiner extended and locked the spanning tray into position. Manthey opened the hoist door and the blunt nose of the one-ton shell slid onto the spanning tray, anxious to be employed. As the door closed, Statz signaled Wurst, who activated the rammer, pushing the shell gently but resolutely into the gun breech until the locking ring settled snugly into the barrel.
At the same time Scholtz pulled hard on the gray lever that rolled open the barrel-shaped doors that led to the powder hoist. The two silk bags that fell onto the spanning tray were immediately guided into the breech by the rammer. Three more silk bags followed before Statz closed the breach and signaled to Gran. The gun was ready.
The loudspeaker above them crackled to life.
“Sailors of Sea Lion. This is your Kapitan. We are about to engage an enemy light cruiser and three destroyers, the only defense that the British have managed to throw up between us and Prince of Wales.”
The men smiled at one another. What they would do to those tiny ships!
“We will rush through this pitiful force,” Mahlberg continued, “and sink Prince of Wales. We will achieve a great victory for the Fatherland and avenge our brothers who perished on Bismarck.”
Statz bowed his head and said a short prayer. He had known and trained with some of the gunners on Bismarck. Only luck, and the Kriegsmarine’s unfathomable system of ship assignments, had kept him off the doomed vessel.
“We sail aboard the greatest warship ever built,” the Kapitan continued. “Our guns shoot farther, our vessel is faster, and our men are better trained than any that have sailed before us. Even our name denotes our power. We are the Lion of the Seas.”
Just as Mahlberg finished and the loudspeaker crackled off, there was a sharp clang and distant rumble as the turret gear was engaged and the turret began to move. At the same time Statz heard the pump motors engage and the wild hiss of hydraulic fluid being released so that the gun’s heavy breech slowly dropped, and her muzzle began to elevate.
Statz felt pride overwhelm him as the turret trained and the guns laid in a beautiful choreography of destruction. He dared not look at the others because he was the gun captain and must remain professional at all times; but think of it! Feel the movement of the turret and the majesty of the gun as it sought out its enemy, and how could a man not know that he was a part of something so powerful and awe-inspiring that God himself must have had a hand in making it?
“Starboard thirty,” Hardy ordered the helmsman in response to orders from Prometheus.
Cole felt the tension rising as Hardy concentrated on the scene unfolding before him. The captain dropped the binoculars from his eyes only long enough to bark an order.
“Prometheus wants us to go end around,” Hardy said. “She’ll have Eskimo and Windsor make smoke for her and then God only knows what Sir Whittlesey has up his sleeve. If he thinks that Sea Lion is going to be unnerved by Firedancer’s presence, he is being highly optimistic.”
Cole spotted Eskimo and Windsor turning hard to starboard. Suddenly black smoke began belching from their stacks. The engine room had been ordered to dump extra fuel oil into the burners—they were making smoke to shield Prometheus’s move.
“There’s the smoke,” Cole said.
“Yes. Lovely pattern at that,” Hardy noted professionally. “Let’s hope the wind helps out. Keeping a sharp eye on Sir Whittlesey, Number One?”
“Yes, sir,” Land said. “Nothing yet.” Hardy wanted both Land and Dove t
o watch the flagship for signals—less danger of missing any of Sir Whittlesey’s pearls of wisdom.
“Message from Prometheus,” Dove called. “‘You will demonstrate with vigor at the enemy’s stern.’ End message.”
“Acknowledged and received, Dove,” Hardy said in what Cole thought was a surprisingly calm manner. No explosions, no denunciations—very cool and professional. “Number One, I shall want the port engine up twenty revolutions and starboard fifteen on the wheel.”
“Yes, sir,” Land said, giving the commands to the helmsman and engine room.
“Any sea duty with the navy, Mr. Cole?” Hardy asked.
“A flush-deck destroyer,” Cole said, trying to watch everything.
“The old four stackers. First war vintage. What was your station?”
“Gunnery officer,” Cole said as he saw Prometheus turn hard to port. She was going to come in under the smoke that the destroyers were laying but from a different course than Sea Lion had observed her. Not much of a surprise to the enemy vessel but the only one that Prometheus had.
“Guns, were you?” Hardy said. “I’ll have the wheel amidships, Number One, and starboard engines up twenty.”
“Twenty millimeters aft of the well deck,” Cole said, focusing on the German ship. He dropped the binoculars and rubbed his eyes roughly. They were starting to feel the strain. “Seconded as the torpedo officer.”
“Windsor and Eskimo are just now pulling to starboard, sir,” Land noted.
Hardy acknowledged the observation with a grunt. “Prometheus will cross Sea Lion’s bow, drawing fire, no doubt. He’ll send Eskimo and Windsor in with torpedoes. Nicely done, Sir Whittlesey. All of this is textbook, Cole,” Hardy said. “Until the shooting starts.”
Cole swung his binoculars back to Sea Lion. There was an incredible flash that nearly covered her forward area and then a great mass of oily black smoke. Before he could say anything, Land shouted: “Sea Lion’s firing. A and B Turrets.” Cole turned his head to one side, the only way to see shells in flight, an old gunner had told him. Look out of the corner of your eye, don’t look directly for them, and you’ll be able to catch them as they head for their target. Now, of course, the gunner told him wryly, if you’re the target, you’ll get a real close look at them anyway.
Between The Hunters And The Hunted Page 27