Altered States k-9

by John A. Schettler

  Hood was a paper dragon. He knew that now. Over her long history she had passed through successive upgrades to add protection. It wasn’t the main waterline belt. The battlecruiser had a heavy gut that was twelve inches thick there, though it thinned considerably in the middle belt above the waterline to only seven inches and eventually five inches as it approached the deck. It was that deck that he always worried about, averaging only two inches thick in most places. By comparison HMS Invincible had six to eight inches of protection there. Hood was designed in an era when things like the German Stuka were scarcely imagined. And her armor was fitted to protect her at relatively short ranges. She was vulnerable to fire beyond 11,000 meters, when the rounds would plunge at steeper angles and penetrate her the thinner sections of her side armor and decks.

  So I have to run into the steely embrace of my enemy to fight him, he thought. This ship was like a boxer that had to get inside, and once there if she could not out punch her foe the ship would be in real jeopardy. Here I am on one of the largest ships in the fleet, he thought, and now with B-turret gone I can’t hit any harder than old Repulse right behind me.

  That was bad enough, but the worst of the damage had been the hit amidships that literally blew half the aft funnel away. The bomb had put several boiler rooms out of action, and the smoke there was intense, though the damage parties had the fires out. The result was a reduction of speed, first to 20 knots, which eventually improved to 24. Now we’d only beat Nelson and Rodney by a whisker in a race. We’ve a broken wrist and can no longer dance. Now he had real doubts about the battle looming on his forward horizon. Bismarck and Tirpitz were thought to be very formidable ships.

  Sitting in the Captain’s chair on the compass platform, Holland had real misgivings. He had signaled Tovey, advising him of the ship’s condition and was ordered to turn on a heading of 330 to effect a rendezvous with Invincible. “Hold on,” came the reply. “We’re coming.” The only question now was whether the Germans would get to him first. What would they have? Would those Stukas be back for another round with ‘Sammy’ and ‘Aunty,’ the names given to his last two remaining octuple 2-inch pom-pom guns? He’s lost the port gun mount with that dreadful hit amidships.

  The ready use ammo had popped off there, round by round, like a fist full of fireworks going off one after another. The screams of the wounded men echoed up through the voice pipes to the bridge, which sound off like the trumpets of the dead. They still clawed at his mind, for he knew more men were going to die here this hour. Where was the Fleet Air Arm now? That yawning sense of vulnerability rose in his chest in an anxious upwelling of adrenaline. Here we are, he thought. The mighty Hood, yet we have no business in this fight now, not wounded as we are and outgunned by the Germans.

  Then he heard the words he had been dreading from the upper watch. “Alarm starboard green 30! Ship sighted, bearing 350 true…Two ships!”

  “Hoist battle ensigns!” said Holland firmly. “Prepare for action. Signal Repulse to turn fifteen points to port and we will follow. But if she is seriously hit Captain Tennant is to fall off and take station off our port aft quarter. I want her well back and throwing everything she has at the enemy.” The armor on Repulse was even thinner, he knew, sizing up the engagement in front of him now.

  “The pilot will make the signal report to fleet commander.” Captain Glennie was seeing to the necessary details as the ship prepared to enter battle. Tovey would be apprised of their position and situation.

  Holland seemed small and quiet in his chair, huddling in his greatcoat, his eyes lost behind the cups of his field glasses. We’ve twelve 15-inch guns between us, he thought. Enough to beat the Twins, by God, but if that is something more out there…It was something more. The Twins had been confirmed to be well to the west, last reported in action against Sussex and Devonshire, but they had turned and were now heading his way. He knew what he had in front of him now. The dark silhouettes on the horizon had to be the two German battleships, Bismarck and Tirpitz. Not much was known of them, but they were soon about to make their acquaintance.

  “A-turret ready!” came the call. “Range to targets, eighteen and six pence.”

  Holland was in a quandary here. His instincts told him that he needed to close the range to at least 11,000, but to do this he would have only his A-turret available for the run in. If he turned now he could bring all six remaining guns to bear, but he would have to accept that damnable vulnerability to the enemy’s plunging fire. How good were the German guns? If he tried to get inside how much punishment would the ship take, only to reach a place where the blows might fall on his better armor if they struck?

  Well, he thought. We haven’t the armor, so we had better damn well use what we do have, and that is the guns. “Port fifteen,” he said calmly. “All guns to bear on the leading ship.”

  “Third ship sighted-looks to be a destroyer or light cruiser sir, well out ahead and thirty points off our starboard bow.”

  “Engage with secondary battery,” said Holland. Then he swiveled to look at Captain Glennie, standing tensely behind him. “Captain, you may begin.”

  Several observers were heading to the starboard side door, among them Lieutenant Ted Briggs. As he reached the door Commander Warrand was there, gracefully gesturing with an arm to allow him to pass. The simple act of civility was juxtaposed against the act of great violence that was now about to begin. In one telling of these events Briggs would be one of only three men to escape alive from the wreckage of HMS Hood, the memory of that simple gesture by Commander Warrand still bringing tears to his eyes sixty years later. But this was an altered reality, and the dice were now rolling again on Hood’s prospects. Yet as they saw Bismarck open fire, and the guns of Tirpitz flashing right behind her, the chances of survival seemed slimmer yet.

  Captain Glennie wasted no time replying. “Open Fire!” which was quickly repeated by the Gunnery Director. The sound of the warning bell seemed shrill in the still air. Then the roar of Hood’s opening salvo shook the ship. The big guns had ridden proudly on the fore and aft decks for decades, a symbol of her power and prestige, and yet now they fired in anger at an enemy ship for the very first time.

  “Hoist Flag Five,” said Holland to send the signal to Repulse to fire at will. Fifty seconds later the first whoosh of the German shells came in, and the tall geysers fell off Hood’s starboard bow, walking ever closer, two, then four, then six rounds fell into the crimson sea. Another set of six rounds fell just off Repulse, closer, finding the range but missing the ship itself. The observers off the compass platform saw Hood’s own fire also falling short of the enemy ships, and that of Repulse slightly over.

  Holland was watching his brave forward A-turret, seeing the guns had lowered to be serviced and now they trained and elevated yet again. The angry discharge and concussion shook the ship as they fired, the smoke from the blast rolling out thick and dark. It seemed that two demons were heaving brimstone at one another on the lake of hell. Now the German ships were turning to their starboard quarter, their silhouettes lengthening as they maneuvered.

  “Fourth ship sighted!” The watchman from above had spotted Prinz Eugen, last in line behind the two German behemoths. The ragged shadows of the battleships now rippled with fire, and Holland knew that the Germans had corrected from their spotting salvo and were now firing for effect.

  “Quite the pair of dragons,” said Captain Glennie, stepping towards the starboard hatch himself for a better look. Then they heard the awful whine of the incoming shells again, as if the rounds were devouring the air as they plummeted down and down until the bright metal tips came careening in, and one struck Hood flush on the conning tower with a tremendous explosion.

  Holland was flung from the Captain’s chair, the blast and concussion nearly deafening him. The glass screening the compass platform was completely shattered and fell like broken shards of razor edged ice all about the deck. Smoke flooded through the shattered viewports and fire licked at the hard armored to
wer from below. Commanders Davis and Jessel were down. Mister Owens, the Admiral’s secretary, was dead. Young Bill Dundas, action midshipman of the watch, had been flung against the back bulkhead. The helmsman was unconscious on the deck, the binnacle still vibrating in its mounting and another a man screaming for help there. Yet the voices seemed distant and muted, and the Admiral instinctively reached for his ear as he pulled himself up to one knee with his other hand, feeling a trickle of blood there. Everyone on the outer deck was gone, the door to the starboard hatch blown completely off and now lying atop the limp body of Captain Glennie.

  The Squadron Navigation Officer Warrand had gone back to the chart room to fetch a map and was spared. He emerged to see the chaos on the bridge, and quickly ran to Holland’s side.

  “Take the wheel, Mister Warrand…” Holland’s voice was thin and weak, and Warrand saw a stain on blood at his side where he must have been hit with a splinter. It was only his heavy duffel coat that saved him from more grievous harm.

  He was up in a flash, grabbing the long umbilical of a voice tube and calling down for medics. Take the wheel… The wheel was the ship, and Warrand knew he had to take command. He reached the station, barely able to see through the choking smoke. Tovey is west he thought. We’ve got to lead the fight that way, and he pulled heavily on the wheel, bringing the ship around thirty points. “Ahead full!” He shouted, but there was no answer.

  Hood reeled like a drunken fighter, staggering across the ring after taking a right cross flush on the jaw. Warrand was alone. He looked to see that Yeoman Wright was also down near the flag bridge. No voices called from the gun director’s station or the watch above. He seemed the only living thing in this chamber of death. Then he felt the ship shake again with yet another hit, this time on her starboard side. The forward battery was silent for a long moment, but now he saw the turret shift and train to the right to compensate for the turn he had made. Then they fired.

  The ship surged on, the wind of its own haste finally clearing the smoke, and he saw that he was sailing through a forest of white seawater, vast pillars spouting up from the wave tops, two straddling the bow and four more dead ahead. A rain of water washed over the bow from the two near misses. He pulled the wheel around ten points to starboard, desperately trying to take some evasive maneuver.

  Now fresh hands were on the bridge, hastening up from below. Medics were at Holland’s side, lifting him onto a stretcher. His head lolled on the pillow, snow white hair stained with blood. Hollow voices called from the standing voice pipe to the forward gun director’s position like whispers of ghosts in the chaos on the bridge.

  “Hoist Blue 3!” Warrand shouted to the Flag Bridge as the ship turned, hoping someone would answer. Yeoman Wright stirred to life, back on his feet again, his face bleeding where the glass had cut him, but otherwise alive. He relayed the order. They needed to signal Repulse by flag, but Warrand knew it was likely the ship would try to match his maneuver in any case. He felt the ship shudder again, but this time it was the two aft turrets firing together. Hood was dazed, bludgeoned, but still alive.

  Then he looked out the shattered forward screens and saw yet another ship darken the horizon, looming ever larger second by second as it came. A flash of orange erupted from it, another gladiator coming to the arena. Who was there? Scharnhorst?Gneisenau? God Help us…

  * * *

  Lieutenant Commander Wells ran into the plotting room, breathless with the climb and saluted as he handed off the message to Flag Lieutenant Villers. He was not supposed to run, he knew, but could not help himself. The fight was underway.

  Villers glanced at the message, reading what looked to be a unintelligible code. ‘Y -2 — ADM, C-in-C. H.F., V.B. Cone, IIBS ICH 320-17-67-39°N, 27–79°W, 315-24.’ But to a knowing eye it was completely transparent, and he quietly read the message aloud to Admiral Tovey.

  “Emergency to Admiralty and C-in-C, Home Fleet. From BC1 — two battleships and one heavy cruiser, bearing 320, distance 17 miles. My position 67–39 north, 27–79 west. My course 315. Speed 24 knots.”

  Tovey looked up, his eyes squinting at his Flag Lieutenant. Villers read the message again as he walked slowly to the Admiral’s side, handing him the signal.

  “It appears Holland has a battle on his hands. No further details.”

  Tovey took a deep breath, but before he could say another word there was a warning gong from above. A signalman hastened in from the bridge. “Alarm Red 20 sir. Two ships sighted.”

  Tovey nodded and looked at his plotting board. He slowly turned the marker for HMS Invincible to the right, pointing it at the damaged Hood. Then he reached for the enemy marker that represented Scharnhorst and Gneisenau.

  “So we have company,” he said. “Salmon and Gluckstein have come to dinner. Anything coming from that quarter would have to be the Twins.”

  “Shall we engage, sir? We’ll blow them half way to hell in short order.”

  “No, Mister Villers, we shall not. The ship will come to battle stations, steer steady on and ahead full emergency. Our business is with Hood. Let them follow us at their peril.” He looked up, lips pursed, eyes alight. The ship’s clock wound on, the chime striking out the hour, twelve slow bells to signal midnight, the witching hour.

  “Mister Wells,” he said, “now you may run.”

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  Schettler, John

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