Miles away the pilots of Catalina Squadron Z-20 were settling into their cockpits and looking forward to a hot coffee now that they were finally airborne and on their heading. Flying out of Swansea, they were going out to scour the Celtic Sea on the off chance the German surface raiders might turn east into the heavy convoy traffic zones. Their biggest worry was Convoy WS-8B, another ‘Winston Special” dubbed “Tiger II” by the pilot. It was laden with troops, equipment and supplies for the Army in Egypt and Libya, and escorted only by a few destroyers and the cruiser Exeter.
That same morning Squadron 22 out of the RAF Coastal Command base at St. Eval in Cornwall were also taking off, a flight of three Bristol Beaufort torpedo bombers. They were led by the ebullient Lt. Kenneth Campbell in the number one plane, with Lt. John Hyde and Sergeant Lane as his wing mates.
“Nasty weather, Campy,” said Hyde. “You reckon this is nothing more than a wild goose chase?”
“Goose chase? If you want to call those German battlecruisers the nice fat geese, then you’ll have it right,” said Campbell. “Least ways we won’t have to make another run at Brest this morning.” He shuddered to recall the near miss that had nearly taken his plane down as he made a low level approach to that harbor a little over month ago. The flack had been fierce and thick, for Brest was one of the best defended harbors in Europe now, with over 2000 AA guns encircling the town, and three special flack ships permanently moored by the Mole and outer quay. He was lucky to have escaped with his life, for his target, the battlecruiser Gneisenau, was not moored in the outer harbor where he had been told to look for it that morning. He vaguely remembered seeing signs of a fire there, and thick, oily smoke rising from the berthing pier.
“No Johnny,” he said. “They don’t strap that 2000 pound torpedo under our belly unless they hope we’ll be using it. It’s Bismarck we’re looking for now, and I intend to find her, if she’s nosing about.”
An hour later they were airborne on a heading of about 240 degrees southwest, out over the Celtic Sea and giving a passing nod to Old Grimbsy Island off their left wing as they went. It was to be a simple out and back—a little over 350 miles one way, and they would be out in their search zone in little more than ninety minutes.
It was then that they picked up an excited radio call: “One German battleship sighted, course 115—“ The message cut off abruptly, and there was no position given for the spotter. Campbell got on his short range wireless at once.
“You hear that, Johnny?”
“Something about a battleship, it was. Couldn’t pick out any location, could you?”
“Doggy message,” said Campbell. “Well, steady on this course until we hear something more.”
Half an hour later he needed no further confirmation. He looked out his stubby forward canopy and there was a massive ship dead ahead, a clear white wake in the grey sea marking her heading.
“Well I’ll be,” he breathed. “Hello, Johnny, Lane—you see what I see?” The battleship was already lighting up as the AA guns winked at them. “Tally ho, brothers! Let’s go in and deliver our cargo! Somebody signal St. Eval: Sighted Bismarck, course 115, our position. Attacking now!”
He throttled up, hearing the two big engines respond with a powerful roar and he banked and began to descend. The Bristol Beaufort was not a relic from WWI, like the old Swordfish off Victorious. It was a fast, twin engine attack plane that could run out to 270 miles per hour with her 1400 horse power motors, and deliver a powerful blow. Later model variants would be dubbed the “Ten Gun Terror,” but this one was affectionately known as “the Beau,” sporting four .303 caliber machine guns in addition to her heavier torpedo or bomb ordnance.
Bismarck was lighting up the sky with everything it had to fire, but to Campbell this was nothing compared to what he had faced the previous month at Brest. He had been determined then to strike Gneisenau, and he was equally determined now to put his Type XII torpedo into the German ship’s gut. He lined up on the target, speeding in very low off her port bow, heedless of the sharp crack and dark exploding smoke of flack bursts ranging ever nearer.
Three seconds, two seconds, one. He dropped the big torpedo, immediately pulling back to gain a altitude. Yet a little too gallant, or a little too curious, he lingered on his attack run a moment too long. The sighting predictors on Bismarck’s AA guns were not fooled this time by the lumbering slow Swordfish. This was exactly the sort of plane they had been designed to oppose and kill, and Campbell heard a loud explosion, felt the shudder as a large round virtually blew off the big Hercules engine on his right side, and all of the outer wing as well. His wind screen was struck by fiery shrapnel and shattered as the Beaufort careened out of control, still aimed directly at the great ship’s bow where it struck in a massive broiling red black explosion.
It had not been Campbell’s lucky day in this round. Mother Time had finally balanced her books on his account, and he would get his Victoria Cross after all, for conspicuous gallantry in the face of the enemy.
Lt. John Hyde saw him go in with disbelief and shock, but the close proximity of flack ranging in on his own plane jarred him with adrenaline. Lane had already safely launched his fish, and Hyde had the last. He lined up on Bismarck’s port beam and then banked slightly to the left so the angle of his attack would run on an intercept course. The torpedo fell like a great white orca into the churning sea, streaking towards the target. He banked safely away, feeling his plane riddled by shrapnel from a near miss, and noted he had scored a second hit! Lane’s torpedo had been avoided, but Squadron 22 had put two javelins into Bismarck’s side, and they transmitted the jubilant news at once. As he banked sharply away Hyde passed a moment in silent prayer. There would be an empty chair tonight at the officer’s mess. He sighed, turning for home, one man short.
Aboard Bismarck Lütjens heard the thump and explosion of the torpedoes with dismay. They had been cruising all day with nary a sign of the enemy. He had finally come to feel he had given the pursuing British ships the slip, as Prince Eugen reported that their ploy had been successful. The British were following her out into the Atlantic! In the meantime Bismarck sped east, intent on finding the fat convoy they had been warned about. Then, out of the grey sky came a big Catalina sea plane, and he knew they had been sighted again at last.
The real surprise had been the flight of fast enemy torpedo bombers that followed soon after. Thankfully his men had clamored to action stations when the search plane overflew their position. So when the attack came in Bismarck was ready for it, shooting down the first plane that had been overly bold on its torpedo run. He watched the spectacular careening crash of the Beaufort, cursing under his breath when it struck the forward bow. It was small consolation.
“What was the damage, Lindemann?” Reports were coming in from below decks where the engineers and damage crews had swarmed to the site of the explosions. On the foredeck the still burning wreckage of Campbell’s Beau was already being hosed down by the fire crews.
“That will be no problem,” Lindemann pointed forward. “They’ll have that fire out shortly, and we’ll patch up the deck. None of the main turrets were involved. And the torpedo amidships struck our heaviest armor there. Minor damage. It’s the first torpedo I’m worried about. The one that devil put into us.” He pointed to the burning wreckage on the bow.
They soon learned the lighter armor at the bow had been breached and there was severe flooding. It was necessary to slow the ship down to prevent the inflow of the sea and allow the damage crews and divers a chance to fit temporary patches and begin pumping out the water. “We’ll have to cut our speed in half,” said Lindemann. “It may be only for an hour or two, sir.”
Lütjens frowned, eager to get on after the British convoy. “Make 12 knots while repairs are completed. Keep me informed, captain. As far as we know there isn’t a British ship within a 150 miles of us now. This is nothing more than a brief delay.” He was very wrong.
Chapter 26
HMS Rodney, 21
:20 hours, 25 May, 1941
The Battle of the Celtic Sea
Tovey was informed of the Beaufort strike and he beamed with elation. “Got that one right,” he said. “Good old Coastal Command. They lost one plane but they put two torpedoes into Bismarck for it. I guess that first signal was from a Catalina after all. Now with any luck that will slow that devil down and get us back in the fight.”
“We were very lucky to have turned when we did,” said Brind. “But we’re still over a hundred miles behind her now, sir. Hopefully we can close up some of that distance in the next hour or so. But if we do catch her, we’ll be looking at a battle with the sun behind us, or worse, a night engagement.”
“And Hood?”
“Admiral Holland sends his regards, sir. He’s at least thirty miles ahead of us, and somewhat north of our heading. He’s closing on a course to intercept Bismarck now. He’ll get there first, sir. Should we have him go in or wait for us to form one battlegroup and all have a go at Bismarck together?”
“Signal Admiral Holland to make his best speed. I want him to engage at the earliest opportunity. We’ll get there when we can. And what about the convoy? Surely they’ll have destroyers about.”
“I believe Phil Vian has that duty, sir.”
“Well signal Vian get his hounds after that fox at their best speed,” said Tovey. “If they can engage her, all the better. We’ll be there in short order. Now, what about Rodney?”
“It seems she is well positioned now as well, sir, in spite of all those conflicting orders out of the Admiralty today. She was slightly northeast of the sighting coordinates, and less than seventy miles out.”
Tovey looked at his map in the plotting room off the main bridge. “Well done, Rodney,” he breathed. “It seems our captains have kept their wits about them and steered true, Brind. That puts her in a good position to cover Sir Winston’s convoy there.” He pointed at the position of Convoy WS-8B.
“The convoy is being diverted now, sir. Force H has finally got off their run to the Eastern Med and is coming out to join us and meet the convoy. Somerville will have Renown and the carrier Ark Royal. I’m afraid Sheffield is laid up for repairs, but I can pull additional cruisers from the Azores if need be.”
Tovey clapped his hands and rubbed them together with great satisfaction. “By Jove, if that hit slows Bismarck down, I think we’ve got her, Brind! I don’t think they realize how close we are, or have any idea how much power we can bring to bear.”
At 22:40 hours, with the light nearly gone and all eyes puckered against the shadowy horizon, or glued to the milky radar trace reports on the small oval screens, the word went out to Admiral Holland at last. “Contact! One ship bearing green and running 115. That has to be Bismarck, sir. There’s no one else out there.”
The ship’s crew had been smartly at battle stations for the last two hours, the restless hands manning the guns, which were already fully loaded and eager for action. Holland’s group was coming in from the west, behind the enemy, and though the purple dusk had faded, he was still slightly silhouetted in the fast diminishing light. He was in the van, on HMS Hood, the old lady and pride of the Royal Navy. He half considered falling off and letting Prince of Wales lead in the squadron. She was the better armored ship, particularly considering the long opening range. Hood would be vulnerable to plunging fire at distances out to 18,000 yards and beyond. It was his hope, however, to get well within that range in due course, closing on the enemy without initiating hostilities unless Bismarck fired first.
She did. The inky night was suddenly torn open by bright fire from many big guns on the distant horizon as the first enemy salvo came in. Five white plumes jetted up from the sea, well wide of the target. It was too late for juggling his ships about now. Holland decided to mount his charge, his forward guns firing as he came on, and hope for the best. It was a mistake, but he would not live to regret it.
“Steady,” said Holland. He was running straight at the enemy, and the forward turrets angled slightly to bear directly on the target, the big guns well elevated and drenched with wild sea spray as they waited. “You may reply, Captain Kerr,” he said quietly, his eyes covered by field glasses. “Execute.” The number five flag went down and the order to open fire followed seconds later.
HMS Hood fired her big 15 inch guns in anger for the first time since that distasteful day at Mers-el-Kebir, Oran, so long ago it seemed now, when she had opened up on the anchored French fleet. Then her first salvoes had fallen long, crashing into the harbor, 1600 pounds of hurtling death obliterating the row of small buildings by the quay where the big shells fell, and snuffing out the lives of a Berber woman and her son. When the father staggered through the shoulder high rubble, running from his shop just down the street, he saw the ruin of his home and knew the worst.
Tears streaked the char on his face and he fell to his knees, his eyes fixed on the distant silhouettes of the British battle fleet. His name was Kasim al Khafi, and he whispered a low prayer as sorrow consumed his heart. “As Allah wills it,” he said, weeping for his loss. “But a curse on every ship in that harbor. A curse on the British in their homes and colonies, and may Allah visit those who have done this, with swift and just vengeance.” And if Allah was remiss, he thought, he would spare no effort, from that day forward, to hasten the day of judgment and retribution on his own.
Many months later, far away on the windswept oceans of the Atlantic, the battle of the Celtic Sea had begun, and the echo of his curse would resound in the raging fire of Bismarck’s main guns.
When the message came in to Admiral Tovey he could hardly believe what he was reading. The signal man had shouted the news, prompting Tovey to quiet him. “No need to yell,” he said, waiting for Brind to bring him the printed signal. Even Brind, normally steady as a rock, had a tremor in his hand when he handed the note off to the admiral. There were just three words up top. “Hood’s blown up.” Then below, “Prince of Wales engaging.”
“Blown up?” He looked at Brind, aghast, stricken with doubt. How could this be? Yet the more he thought on it the more he came to realize what must have happened. The old British battlecruiser was too soft up topside. Her decks were not well protected. Holland most likely charged in, the better to close the range and, in doing so, flatten out the arc of the incoming enemy shells. But if one struck her a heavy plunging blow that would burst through her decks and explode in her gut… It was the only possible explanation.
He looked about the bridge, saw the faces of the men there drawn with strain and fear. Stiff upper lip, he thought, striding out into the center of the battle bridge.
“I trust our guns are well sorted out this time, gentlemen?” he said quietly. But the news came quickly after that the guns were not well sorted on Prince of Wales that night. She had two jams, one misfire, and that put three of her six forward guns out of action. Furthermore, she had taken a bad hit right on her bridge, and the executive officer had turned away, making smoke. There was no word on the fate of her captain, Leach.
“No word on damage to Bismarck?” Tovey was again confounded by sparsely worded report. Yet then again, the Prince of Wales was in a fight for her life. She had just witnessed the destruction of the flagship and was wounded herself.
Brind leaned in, arms clasped behind his back, his deportment and bearing stiff and professional. “We won’t get there in time to join the fight,” he said in a low voice. “Force H is coming, but I’m afraid Admiral Somerville is several hundred miles to the south. If Prince of Wales failed to slow her down then it looks like Bismarck is slipping away, sir. Unless Rodney is about with bad intent. She should be very close now.”
Tovey felt a quiet rage welling up within him, and he struggled to maintain his composure. Hood was gone, mighty Hood. Holland and the whole lot of them brewed up in the mad, savage seas, and here he was forging his way along in this futile, frustrating chase, hoping against hope that somehow, by some means, he would get one last crack at the German monster, and
mete out just vengeance of the Royal Navy
“Yes,” said Tovey. “I should have forced the issue with Bismarck long ago, when I had the chance. But it’s bloody well up to Rodney now, isn’t it.”
The loud claxon blared throughout the ship, jarring Paul awake where he rested in his cabin, lightly dozing, forgetful of the time. He looked at his service watch and his heart leapt. It was time! The hands read 22:57 hours, a little before 11:00 PM. Seconds later a loud roar shook the ship with a great vibration. Everything loose in his quarters rattled and his tin cup slipped onto the deck with a sharp clatter. Even the paintings on the wall were askew. Had they been hit already?
He rushed to quickly put on his jacket and cap, opening the hatch and pushing out into the hall. He nearly collided with a midshipman.
“What’s happening? Are we hit?”
“What? No, that’s just the old lady ripping off with the main guns up front. Hell of a din, mate. It’s beat to quarters now. Have you heard? Hood’s been sunk! We’re up against Bismarck!” The man shook his fist, clearly enraged, as if he had a personal stake in getting revenge on the German ship now. Then he ran off, obviously late to his assigned post and wanting to waste no more time with the American, even if he did wear the gold braid and stripes of a ranking officer.
Damn, thought Paul. I must have dozed off! Hood sunk already? Again? The irony cut him deeply. History did not really repeat itself, for this was a different battle altogether, but it certainly rhymed. What were the odds of Hood suffering the same disastrous fate? Apparently they were quite good, and her thin deck armor, an old and obvious weakness, was a much greater vulnerability than many had thought. The doors to the ready cache for ammo had been open and were suspected as a possible cause for the initial explosion that set off her magazines. Like throwing alighted match onto oil soaked rags, he thought. It was no mere fluke that Hood suffered such a dire fate. Then again, perhaps Mother Time herself was jealously taking back what was owed her, the floating Zombies of HMS Hood, men doomed on her accounts to find their way to the bottom of the sea, but he could think no more on it. There was a battle to fight!
Golem 7 (Meridian Series) Page 22