Golem 7 (Meridian Series)

by John Schettler

  “We’ve received a further sighting report,” said Kerr. The admiral read the message. “Catalina CA-12 out of Loch Ewe, eh? Has the sighting been confirmed?”

  “Manchester and Birmingham have come down and moved into position behind the Germans,” said Kerr. “And then there’s this—“ He handed the admiral another message, the look on his face telegraphing bad news.

  “Repulse stuck by a torpedo?”

  “It appears so, sir.”

  “Bad bit of luck there. All the more reason to put on speed and see if we can get into the fight.”

  “We’re making a steady at 26 knots, sir. Prince of Wales is still having teething trouble with her number two turbine, but she’d holding station well enough.”

  “Tovey is steering due west.” The admiral pointed to his chart table. “Assuming Bismarck holds her course, he should meet up here in about three hours.” He drew a circle where the lines intersected. “Where will we be?”

  “About here, sir.” Kerr pointed to a spot a half inch or so off the eleven o’clock position from the expected engagement.

  “That would put us some 20 minutes to half an hour late to the party,” Holland shrugged. “See what you can do to squeeze a few more knots out of this old lady.”

  “We can try, sir, but it’s those leaky steam pipes. We’re still diverting fresh water to the boilers as well.”

  Holland nodded. “Hate to think of Tovey going it alone,” he said quietly. “If he were to steer another fifteen degrees to port we might all arrive together.”

  “We could break radio silence and make the suggestion,” said Kerr, “but then Jerry would hear us as well and know he’s got someone on his starboard beam.”

  “Quite so,” said Holland. “Mums the word then. We’ll carry on.”

  With Home Fleet they were working feverishly in the aircraft bay of Victorious. The Air Crew Chief shook his head, pointing at a long sleek Type XII torpedo on its loading dolly. “Careful with that now, mates. We’re heaving and pitching all over the place. Keep a firm winch on that as you load it.”

  The crews were arming the nine remaining Fairey Swordfish, the old WWI era biplanes that were the primary torpedo strike plane for the British in 1941. Dubbed “Old Stringbag,” the planes were light, canvass sided, and lumbering slow, with a limited effective strike range of about 120 nautical miles. Their targets were already inside that range circle, or so the rumors had it. Whispers came down from the signal room and made their way into the guts of the ship, tossed from one man in a swinging hammock to another below decks, to another in a crawlway or stair ladder. Others shivered at their action stations, their faces wrapped in heavy woolen scarves, their eyes goggled against the biting cold wind, wishing they had had no news at all and thinking how much better it would be if they were asleep in a relatively warm bunk somewhere.

  “We’ll give these fish a new nose,” said a midshipman. He was referring to the new magnetic pistols they had been fitting into the noses of the torpedoes, and he kissed his hand, slapping the cold metal side of the weapon for good luck.

  “Well, see that you get them on straight,” said the Crew Chief. “The darlings flying these old girls will need all the help they can get. Green tomatoes, every last one of them. Don’t know how they managed that demo flight at the Flow before we left, but they did. Yet this is no parade show here, mates. This is mean contemptible ocean out there, waves up at forty foot high, and the wind on deck at forty knots. When these Fairies get sight of a few fireflies from them German ships we’ll see the boys made men soon enough.”

  He was referring to the wink of flak bursts the German ships would fling at the slow planes as they came in on their attack run. “Well, see that you get them pistols on straight then, eh? Least ways they might not have to actually hit the damn targets.” The magnetic pistols were keyed to go off in close proximity to the metal hull of the ship, and so the torpedo was designed to run beneath the hull and explode on the soft underbelly. “Set the depth at 34 feet. It’s Bismarck we want with these lovelies.”

  “Hey Chief, what do you make our chances without Repulse along for the show?”

  “Bit of bad jam, that was,” said the Chief. “I’ll bet the admiral is hacked off to no end over on King George. But that’s a worthy ship, mates. She’ll give good account of herself if it comes down to it. Don’t you worry none about that. Yours is this business right here,” he pointed with his spanner again. “Get them fish tipped off and strung up on them planes, now. And be quick about it!”

  Two hours later the radar watch on King George V reported a signal ahead at long range, just over 22000 yards, and seconds after the crews were arming up the main turrets, the massive 14 inch shells heaving up on their hydraulic lifts. The riveting shrill sound of the alarm had shaken the crew to life, jangling nerves and setting the whole ship alive with frenetic, urgent motion and energy.

  On the bridge Admiral Tovey waited anxiously for confirmation from his range finding stations. He considered his own theory now, the tactic he had long advocated of making a fast forward rush at the enemy at high speed to close the range. If he had been leading in Repulse, he would have given it strong consideration. Her decks were far too thin to accept plunging, long range fire, and she would do far better up inside 14,000 yards. But Repulse wasn’t here, and he was missing her six 15 inch guns as well. So instead of steaming full on at the enemy, he decided to open his aft fire arcs as well and get all his available guns into play. King George V had the armor to better endure a hit at this range.

  The cruisers would help with Prince Eugen, but not make much impression on a ship like Bismarck. That was for King George V alone now, and he wanted all ten guns in action as soon as possible. As the range closed to 21000 yards he considered his situation.

  The sun would be rising behind him soon, starkly silhouetting his task force against the lightning horizon while his ships fired at an enemy still wreathed in shadow and mist. He was missing Repulse, and two of his five cruisers were now safely escorting the light carrier Victorious from the scene. That left him with King George V and a few cruisers to take on the enemy. While an even match on paper, perhaps, Tovey was experienced enough to know that anything could happen the moment the big guns began to fire. He still had time to alter course and break away. He could stand off, shadow the enemy, and wait for Admiral Holland and his two big ships to come up on the scene.

  I should wait, he thought. I should not fight here. Not now. Not without Repulse and Holland’s task force. God only knows where he is now. But that will go hard on me at the Admiralty, won’t it, particularly if anything happens and the enemy slips away. To have Bismarck in sight and turn away without a fight would just not do. The silence from Arethusa leads me to suspect the Germans have already got their fangs into us. For the Home Fleet to back off now would not go well at all. He bit his lip and decided to begin hostilities.

  “Port fifteen,” he said to Captain Patterson, bringing the ship slightly to the left so that his rear turret could bear on the targets, adding four more big 14 inch guns to the action. “Execute when ready.”

  The word was passed quickly and the massive thunder of his first salvos shook the whole ship, their yellow orange fire lighting up the night, followed by the black billow of cordite smoke. Watchmen could smell the power when it ignited, and taste it in their throats as they pressed their eyes tightly on the rangefinder goggles hoping to see the result on the char black horizon to the west. One thought he saw the tall white plumes of the shells leap up in the far distance, and then a shape emerged, darkening the early morning further, as if it stood watch against the sun itself, an ominous shadow at the edge of the sea. Another smaller shadow followed in its wake, Satan’s apprentice. The dreadful Bismarck had been found at last.

  King George V was soon ready to fire again, this time from her forward batteries where the four barrel number A turret would sync with the smaller two guns above it to fire a salvo of six shells. The second massive co
ncussion lit up the night, but seconds later Tovey saw the horizon crackle with gold and ochre fire. The enemy had returned his greeting, and he soon heard what sounded like a distant ripple of thunder, then the incoming scream of heavy metal. The salvo fell astern, mostly over his ship, and churned up the sea in the interval between King George V and her first cruiser escort.

  The cruisers were led by HMS Kenya, a new ship, only just commissioned in August of 1940 as one of the first Colony Class Light Cruisers. She was a sleek, fast vessel, and, as the sun slowly began to lighten the sky in the east, she would soon possess a unique defensive advantage. Called “the Pink Lady” by her crew, the ship had been painted out in the “Montbatten Pink” camo scheme. A shade of mauve, it had the effect of blending the silhouette of the ship into the violet tinged sky of the early dawn or gloaming dusk. The British fleet had an inherited disadvantage in that they were steaming with the sun rising behind them, but the Pink Lady would remain largely invisible to spotters at this range, seen only when her twelve 6 inch guns fired their salvoes. She was the second British ship to open fire, selecting the smaller trailing shadow in the distance with her weaker guns.

  Then came a violent red orange light on the horizon, followed soon by a sharp crackling roar and a low growl. No one who heard it would ever forget the sound, and the British crews knew unconsciously that the first salvo they had seen had been from Prince Eugen, and that this time it was Bismarck’s wrath flung at them from the distant sea. The sound of the incoming shells was a fearsome wail, and Admiral Tovey was stunned to see huge columns of seawater straddle his ship, great fuming geysers sending sea spray all the way up and over his bridge, the grey white foam drenching the forward view screens. He heard a hard chink, and knew intuitively that metal shrapnel had struck the armor siding of his ship.

  “Damn!” he said sharply. “Two points to port, captain. That was too close for comfort.”

  His rear four gun turret returned the fire, but only two barrels answered the call, a weak rejoinder to the deadly accurate fire of the enemy. Seconds later the Germans fired again, this time both ships ripping loose in what looked like a long chain of ball lightning on the horizon. The deadly shells arced up and fell, plunging heavily into the sea around them, but one found metal, striking King George V on her forward decks, very near the edge of her main turret there. The resulting explosion billowed up in smoke and fire, blotting out all view of the enemy ships for a time.

  “A-turret reports a fire, sir!” Captain Patterson was listening intently, the voice tube pressed against his ear.

  Aboard Bismarck his opposing counterpart, Captain Lindemann, smiled when he saw the explosion strike the British battleship. “It’s a hit!” he said eagerly.

  He was a serious man, with sharp, bird-like features, thin blonde hair pressed tight on his head, penetrating beady eyes and prominent ears. He held binoculars in one hand, and a cigarette in another as he watched the battle begin. Standing a few feet away, Admiral Lütjens smiled with satisfaction.

  “Give them another,” he urged. “Our guns will make short work of them. What do you see, Lindemann? How many capital ships?”

  “One battleship in the lead sir, and two cruisers behind her. The cruisers appear to be falling off station. There’s a considerable gap between them and the lead battleship.”

  “As they should,” said Lütjens. “Signal Prince Eugen to concentrate her fire on the cruisers. We’ll deal with this battleship.”

  Anton and Bruno, the two forward turrets on the great German ship, fired again. Seconds later Caesar and Dora fired from the ship’s aft quarter. The Germans had the range, and they could already smell blood in the water. Hours earlier these same guns had made brief work of the hapless Arethusa, striking her amidships and breaking her back in a massive explosion. The crew of Bismarck had watched in awe as fire and smoke engulfed the target, and the cruiser shuddered down into the violent sea, keeling over as the great waves clutched at her.

  Like a killer whale that had once tasted human flesh, the Bismarck was now a dangerous and rabid thing set loose on the seas, a thing of darkness and vengeance. Anger and death were in her guns, and the great mass of the ship seemed to split the sea itself, surging through the tumult of white capped waves at 28 knots, riding easily in the high seas with her great weight and wide beam making her a stable firing platform even in rough water.

  Lütjens could not know just how much was at stake on the table of fate that morning as he clawed at his enemies. He was caught up in the heat of the moment, smelling the hot cordite and watching the enormous roar and fire of his guns. He had been fortunate that the enemy came out of the rising sun, for his range finders were able to bore in on the lead ship at once. Yet, even as he squinted through his binoculars at the distant enemy, he was unaware of another threat stalking him from the shadowy swells off his distant starboard beam.

  There Admiral Holland was leading Hood and Prince of Wales in a valiant charge, engines straining as the props pushed the great ships through the heavy wave sets. They were still hidden over the dark western horizon, their bows rising and falling as they labored toward the rising sun, and the faint rumble of thunder ahead.

  “Marching to the sound of the guns,” said Holland to Captain Kerr. “They’re out there somewhere,” he pointed, “and when we come up on it we’ll be in a good position. The whole scene will be silhouetted against that violet sky.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Kerr. “If we get there in time, that is.”

  Holland thought for a moment, how many battles like this had been fought in the past, by brave men at arms marching into uncertainty, or wriggling through the night on their bellies as they crept up on enemy lines. King George V was in a fight for her life, there was no question of it now. She had a slight advantage with 10 guns against eight on the Bismarck, and Tovey’s light cruisers could stand against Prince Eugen. It was a fairly even match, he thought, and in such circumstances it all came down to pluck and luck. But if he could arrive, in the nick of time, stealing in like Blucher on Napoleon’s flank on the field of Waterloo, then the odds would shift dramatically against the Germans. He would bring the eight 15 inch guns of the mighty Hood into the fray, and behind him Prince of Wales was the image and likeness of the ship that now bravely engaged the German dreadnought. Together they would add eighteen big guns and an equal measure of valor to the British cause.

  If he could only get there in time…

  Chapter 17

  Bismarck, Faeroes Gap, 24 May, 1941

  The sun was coming, still veiled by the purple horizon which rose in shades of vermillion to a pale blue above. The weather was off their starboard beam, where the western horizon was still wreathed in shadow and low cloud. The winds had fallen off somewhat, but the seas were still high. Bismarck surged ahead, her big guns firing again and again—nine salvoes in all until the flash and smoke of yet another hit on the leading British ship was seen, this time amidships.

  “We’ve got her again,” said Lindemann, but they soon heard a thump and crash, felt the ship rock slightly, and the admiral looked at his captain.

  “It seems they’ve got us as well,” he said quietly.

  The news came up quick enough, and Lindemann smiled. “Near miss aft,” he said through a puff of cigarette smoke. “We took most of it on our side armor there. Minor damage.”

  “Good news,” said the admiral.

  “She’s turning sir!” A staff officer pointed to the battle line ahead. Lindemann and L tjens watched as thick black smoke enveloped the lead ship and she veered in a sharp turn. The line of cruisers followed behind her, firing as they made their turn. Lindemann peered through his binoculars. “There’s a third cruiser now. I thought they were falling off given the lengthy gap behind the battleship, but there’s a ship there! She just fired.”

  The Pink Lady, HMS Kenya had been largely invisible, but now revealed herself with a full salvo of twelve 6 inch guns. They streaked in, falling behind the big German battleship, bu
t two struck Prince Eugen, and they could clearly hear the explosions. Then this ship turned away, and the cruisers following her were all making smoke, adding a thick smudge of black and grey to mask the rising sun on the horizon.

  Aboard King George V Admiral Tovey was not a happy man. His forward main turret was jammed by debris from a near hit and unable to bear accurately on the target now. He still had two guns above in the smaller turret, but now his rear main battery reported two misfires in the last salvo, and the crews feared that if they opened the breaches on those guns the cordite bags packed in behind the heavy shells could explode. To make matters worse, the ship had taken a second hit amidships, and damage reports were unclear. The shell had narrowly missed his rear smoke stack and sheered away the launching crane for a small seaplane mount. There was a fire, he didn’t know how bad, but he presumed it would eventually be controlled.

  He considered his situation, realizing his ships were now starkly silhouetted against the rising sun, and firing at a distant, shadowy enemy who obviously had the range on him. He was down to just four operational guns for the moment. It would be a long day ahead, and he opted to get his task force on better standing.

  “Captain Patterson,” he decided. “Take her hard a port. Signal cruisers to follow and make smoke. We’ll have to get the guns sorted out or this will go badly.”

  “Aye, sir.” The captain quickly brought his ship around.

  “Mr. Brind, walk with me, please,” said Tovey, and his Chief of Staff was smartly at his side. Tovey fixed him with a serious expression as he walked to the plotting room. “A damn bloody mess,” he said in a low voice. “I think we’d best let Admiral Holland know what’s happened. If he continues on his present course it will put him behind the action in another ten or fifteen minutes, then he’ll be chasing the enemy, with only four guns up front on Hood to harry her.” He noted the chart table.