Lindemann had some misgivings about this plan, much preferring his tanker rendezvous instead.
“What about Prince Eugen, sir?”
“She will follow your plan, Lindemann.” He threw a bone to the captain, sensing his mood on the matter. “Have her fall astern and we will take the van just before we make our turn. Then we will break west and Prince Eugen will continue on this heading with the aim of leading the British off on a merry chase.”
“I see,” said Lindemann, still concerned. “And what if the British do not follow her, sir? What if they follow us instead?”
“We will not know that for some time, captain. But we are losing our cover of darkness. That cruiser shadowing us is nowhere to be seen. Signal Prince Eugen at once and inform her of these orders. We will execute as soon as she is ready.”
“Aye, sir.”
Aboard HMS King George V Admiral Tovey was beginning to feel very alone. His entire fleet was nearing the point of no return on fuel, and the problem was particularly acute with his cruisers. Kenya had been out in front for some time now, but as dawn approached he was forced to order her to fall off station.
Lindemann had been correct on two counts. The cruiser had vanished, yet the first reason was that HMS Kenya’s perfect Mauve camo scheme had again blended in to the violet grey sky, making her virtually invisible in these hours of early morning light. The second was that Kenya could no longer stand her watch. The cruisers were running very low on fuel and Tovey also had to decide what to do with HMS Victorious. The carrier was going to run out of fuel well before King George V. He could not send Victorious home alone with U-boats about, and so the shorter legged cruisers would set the time of her departure, and serve as escort when she was dismissed from the task force. When Kenya vanished that morning, she would not return, and when the cruisers left with her, Tovey’s Home Fleet would have been reduced to his single ship. Hood and Prince of Wales were still running south on a parallel track, but were some forty miles to the west.
With the cruisers gone it would be up to King George V to keep a hold on Bismarck. Even now he was burning more precious fuel, increasing to 28 knots to try and make up the ground lost over night. He needed to make radar contact again quickly, but a last idea occurred to him, and he discussed it with his Chief of Staff.
“I’m afraid sending in the Swordfish again this morning will be fruitless, Brind,” he said. “But Victorious could do us one last service as she leaves and fly a search operation. What do you suggest?”
“Southwest arc, sir,” said Brind with little hesitation. “If I were Bismarck I’d see about a turn in that direction, if she already hasn’t done as much. There will be U-boats to form a picket line for her in the Atlantic, and she can rendezvous with an oiler there.”
“Make it so,” said Tovey.
Ten minutes later Victorious was turning into the wind for the last time on this mission, and seven of her nine Swordfish lumbered down the armored deck to take wing again, forming up and turning on a heading of 225 degrees southwest before they began to fan out on their individual search tracks. Each plane would fly out and back, with all seven plotted in such a way as to search a near 180 degree arc. When they landed on Victorious it would be their final mission in the hunt for Bismarck, and one came home with some very good news.
Lt. Pollard was in plane 5K off the Victorious that morning, his observer, Beattie, intently scanning the sea with his field glasses as they searched. His was the leftmost slice of the arc Victorious was searching, and it mostly covered the edge of the course where they had last sighted the battleship.
The winds were up and the sky was still broken with banks of ragged clouds, tinged pink and grey in the early morning hours. Not having radar in their plane, they searched for some time along the track, seeing nothing. Pollard was watching his fuel gauge closely as well. When he has consumed forty percent he would begin making a gradual turn to begin the homeward leg of his pattern.
When he did so Beattie spoke up, shouting over the engine noise. “Aren’t we turning the wrong way?”
“Too many clouds in that direction,” Pollard shouted back. “We won’t see a damn thing. This track is clear.”
They flew on for some time, and then Beattie noted a dark shape ahead, trailing a long, white wake in the sea. “Ship ahead!”
Pollard looked about, plotting the best way to approach under cover without losing the contact. He slipped into a cloud and when it broke to the clear in places, Beattie had a good look at the target through his field glasses. Amazingly, there was no flak from the ship.
“What’s her heading?” said Pollard.
“Looks to be due south.”
“That’s the Germans then. None of our ships this far out. Get a message off quick now. Sighted one ship bearing course 180 degrees south, our position.”
Beattie tapped out his intelligence report and, low on fuel, they banked into a cloud and turned north for Victorious, some sixty miles away now by Pollard’s calculations.
“I hope to bloody God we can still find Vicky,” said Pollard. “But what in the world is old King George going to do if she finds the Germans all on her own?”
Pollard had little to worry about just then, because the ship they had sighted was the cruiser Prince Eugen, still steaming due south as Lütjens had ordered. Her companion, Bismarck had bid her farewell and good hunting, turning 70 degrees to port ten minutes earlier.
When the signal came in to Victorious it was quickly passed on to Tovey on King George V, where it raised far more questions than it answered.
“One ship sighted?” said Tovey. “What kind of ship? A cruiser? A battleship? This information is not clear.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Brind, “but it’s all we have for the moment.”
“Bloody pilots need training in proper signals protocol,” said Tovey, obviously unhappy. “Anything from the other planes?”
“Not a word, sir. Oh, the rightmost plane in the search arc sighted Hood and Prince of Wales and signaled two ships—but it wasn’t coded, sir.”
“Not coded? Damn it, Brind! We should have kept the bloody planes on Victorious for all the good this does us. What if the Germans pick up that wireless message?”
“A bit of a mess here, sir,” Brind agreed.
“Very well,” Tovey fumed, thinking. “We’ll hold this course based on the one good sighting we do have. And I think we’d better get Hood and Prince of Wales off to the east somewhat, on a line to join up with us. She was in a good position for dawn, but it’s time we brought them our way. It’s going to be a bit lonesome out here today.”
“I understand, sir. I’ll signal Admiral Holland our intentions and ask him to make his turn as soon as practical.”
“Very well,” said Tovey, still upset with the sloppy reporting from the pilots of Victorious. “It’s likely the Germans suspect they are there in any case.” He had misgivings about bringing the carrier along, and now she seemed more of a liability than an asset. Yet her crews, raw as they were, had done their best and pulled off three missions to give them some salt. It was only fortune and good luck that none of them were killed.
He considered his situation. There was still at least one German ship ahead of him on this course, and very likely two. He didn’t relish the prospect of trying to engage them both on his own. All the more reason to join up with Admiral Holland and his ships. And what about this convoy, WS-8B, another ‘Winston Special’ outbound for Alexandria? It was steaming due south now, and Pound at the Admiralty had taken it upon himself to detach its only significant escort, the battleship Rodney. Her position at midnight had been some 160 miles east southeast of King George V, but he had heard nothing since. The big battleship was too slow for a chase like this, and she would have to be maneuvered with some foresight if he was to have any hope of getting her into the battle.
He considered sending a message asking where Rodney was so he could get his ships in hand and plot proper intercept headings.
Yet something cautioned him to maintain radio silence on that issue for the time, at least until he determined what he still had in front of him. The situation was hardly satisfactory, but it was all he had for the moment, and he carried on.
Off to the east, the captain of HMS Rodney had called a committee together of all senior officers aboard to consider what he might do. He had been detached from convoy duty on expressed orders from the Admiralty. It seemed Admiral Pound was getting fond of moving ships about on his plotting table, he thought.
Rodney was a middle aged ship, ungainly at sea, yet powerfully built, with nine big 16 inch guns all forward. It was well enough they were placed there, for she was so slow that, more often than not, the ship would be well behind anything she was to fire at.
Her captain, Frederick Dalrymple-Hamilton, was also a big slow man, a tall Scott, powerfully built like his ship. At midnight, just as Tovey and Holland had turned due south to chase Bismarck, his ship was still steaming on a southwesterly course of about 230 degrees. Pound had sent him this heading, but no further instructions, and he realized if he held to this course he would soon find himself well behind the action by the time he got out west closer to Home Fleet.
Orders were orders, yet having misgivings about his lot, he summoned his committee and thought to seek a weight of opinion from his senior officers. He had his navigator, the ship’s commander, and several other officers that had come aboard to gain passage to America. Rodney had been bound for New York, and eventually a berth in Boston where she was to undergo some much needed refitting. Even now her decks were stacked with packing crates filled with equipment and material to be used in patching her up. It was well past time for the old girl to get a facelift, he thought, but the cargo was likely to be a nuisance if he had to go to action stations.
He could avoid all that by just settling in and keeping to this heading. Then he would have a nice uneventful cruise to the States, if he could keep clear of U-boats. The fact that he had to dismiss his destroyer escorts to keep watch on the convoy also worried him.
So he brought in his senior rankings and these two odd interlopers as well, just to see what all the hatbands and stripes would come to in a brief discussion. And one man, the American liaison officer Wellings, was to make a very strong impression on him that night. He was a curious fellow—seemed to want his ear from the moment he set foot on the ship. Well now for it, thought Hamilton. Let him have his say.
Chapter 24
HMS Rodney, 00:10 hours, 25 May, 1941
“Well Gentlemen, that’s our present situation,” said Captain Hamilton. “We’ve no further instructions from the Admiralty, but that could change. Your thoughts are, of course, welcome.” He looked at the American, Wellings, as if he knew the man would be the first to speak, and he was not disappointed.
“If I may, sir,” said Wellings. “What’s to be gained by holding this heading? You’ve said yourself that it will put you well behind Admiral Tovey by the time we get out west.” He was a tall, thin man, dark eyed, clean, and dressed out in proper US Navy whites. The stripes on his cuff and shoulder insignia made him to be a Lieutenant Commander.
But Wellings was more than he seemed.
Not long ago insofar as he was concerned, but more than sixty years hence, a man had stepped across a bold thick line painted on a heavy concrete floor, and vanished into a whirl of dizzying light and sound.
He appeared in Bristol, England, near the Clyde anchorage where HMS Rodney had been waiting to escort Convoy WS-8B, the second half of the ‘Winston Special’ series that was bound to reinforce the British position in Egypt. The first half had been designated WS-8A, dubbed the Tiger Convoy by Sir Winston himself, as he deemed its bold move to sail directly across the Med instead of going round the Cape of Good Hope was rather like riding a tiger into the fray by the quickest route possible. There had been a near miss tragedy when the Germans surprised the British and sortied briefly with the battlecruiser Gneisenau.
Luckily Force H was near at hand, sailing north at that very moment to cover the Tiger Convoy, and the cruiser Sheffield, followed soon after by the battlecruiser Renown, engaged the German raider and sent her scurrying back to the safety of her berth at Brest. Sheffield was damaged and laid up in Gibraltar, but Tiger Convoy, part one, passed safely and made her delivery of precious Matilda and Crusader tanks and Hurricane fighters to General Wavell. 57 tanks were lost when the transport Empire Song sang her last after striking a mine, but another 200 tanks were safely delivered, and spurred General Wavell to launch an aptly named operation aimed at relieving the siege at Tobruk.
Operation Brevity lasted little more than a day, first throwing the Italians into confusion, until local counterattacks and German reinforcements from Rommel stopped the British advance. It seemed General Wavell needed another nudge in the right direction, and so Convoy WS-8B was launched, one of the largest convoys ever assembled to that point in the war. HMS Rodney was to be her principle escort for a time, before heading west to Boston for her refit.
That night in Bristol the real Lieutenant Wellings, USN, was having dinner at a hotel when a tall man in crisp navy whites came drifting into the dining room, his eyes searching and immediately falling on his fellow naval officer. He came right over, removing his cap as he spoke.
“Lieutenant Wellings?”
“Yes?”
“May I join you, sir?”
Wellings was accustomed to receiving odd messages at any hour, for he had been an American Assistant Naval Attaché in London for the last year. Now he was heading home, scheduled to board the British battleship Rodney for the trans-Atlantic cruise. The battleship would escort Convoy WS-8B out of the Clyde, and then eventually steam for New York and Boston for a refit.
The man seated himself opposite Wellings and smiled. “Forgive the interruption, sir, but I have new orders for you.”
“New orders?”
“Yes, sir.” The man handed him an envelope. “It seems Washington would like you home just a bit sooner. You’re now scheduled to fly out of Bristol on DC-3 number 171, sir. Your flight will leave at 20:30 hours. One stop at Reykjavik, Iceland for a 24 hour layover.”
“Damn,” said Wellings. ”That’s only just enough time to get to the air field.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sir,” I’ve arranged a cab for you. It should be waiting outside in about twenty minutes. They’ll hold the plane.” The man looked at a wrist watch, too loose on his thin wrist, and smiled again. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. Somewhat of an inconvenience, but at least you’ll get straight home in a couple of days.”
“Better than idling aboard Rodney for a week,” said Wellings, finally warming to the idea. The man saluted, excused himself, and slipped away. He didn’t even recall his name, though he did note the man was of equal rank. Funny he should not have met him sooner, but he assumed he was one of many new officers arriving in theater as the war began to heat up to a low boil.
We’ll be in it soon enough, he thought, but for the moment I’m happy to be out of it. Wellings finished his steak, quaffing down the glass of wine he had hoped to linger over, then opened the envelope and briefly noted his new orders. Everything seemed in order—a bit hastily typed, but in order. He sighed, looking at his watch, then got up and went to look for the cab.
Hours later a man boarded HMS Rodney with a crisp salute as he was piped on, one Lieutenant Commander Wellings, American Liaison to the Admiralty, at least according to the guest manifest. Yet he was not who he seemed.
Sometime later Paul Dorland sat contentedly in his navy whites, and comfortably in his assumed identity, one of seven men around a table in the captain’s quarters on HMS Rodney. Paul was the seventh, Golem 7 in his own right, and he would fight to sway the weight of opinion here with as much pluck and energy as Kelly’s search programs. Nordhausen’s research had been spot on, and that handy navy steamer trunk Maeve had acquired on eBay was perfect. It contained two full uniform sets, personal effects, and even orders, which they
had cleverly altered and augmented for Paul’s planned mission.
They had been detached ten hours ago, and Convoy WS-8B was now steaming due south, diverted away from the area where the Royal Navy was trying to find and engage a German raiding task force led by the much feared battleship Bismarck. Captain Hamilton was looking for support for a decision he was already leaning heavily on, and Paul was just the man to give it to him. He might have done as much by transmitting a message, but something told him the situation needed a firmer hand, and so he resolved to go in under cover of this assumed identity and nudge things along.
“I’ve got some information I’ve been ordered to share with you, sir.”
“Information?”
“Yes, sir,” Paul leaned in, lowering his voice slightly as if to convey the notion that he was now speaking confidentially. The others were clearly interested.
“We have a Coast Guard cutter at sea in the vicinity of the operations out west,” he began. “Her regular duty is ice watch patrol, but it seems one of your convoys out of Halifax took it on the chin recently. She was therefore detailed to assist in survivor recovery for convoy HX-126.”
“Yes,” said Hamilton. “Bloody business that. The poor lot ran afoul of a wolf pack. Lost quite a few ships, I’m afraid.”
“Right,” said Paul, “Cockaponset, and British Security went down in the final attack. Darlington Court had a near miss. Well, the Modoc, that’s our cutter, reported in yesterday, sir, and I am now at liberty to disclose this message to you here. She sighted battleship Bismarck at these coordinates and times.” He handed the captain a paper, and Hamilton squinted at it briefly before handing it off to his navigator.
“If you chart that,” Paul continued, “You’ll see that this present heading is all wrong, sir. It’s clear that Bismarck has turned southeast, and we believe she is making for Brest, or possibly even trying to have a go at convoy WS-8B. You’ll have to turn due south at once to have any chance in the world of becoming a useful asset in this campaign.”
Golem 7 (Meridian Series) Page 20