Kirov Saga: Altered States (Kirov Series)

by John Schettler

  They fired three salvos from the forward deck gun, six rounds in all, just as Birmingham shouted its plaintive protest with a single salvo from her rear 6-inch gun turrets. Two of Kirov’s six rounds found their target 42 kilometers away, and Volsky began to chuckle quietly, thinking the Germans might now be quite surprised.

  “Two hits, sir,” Samsonov reported.

  “Are the British firing?” Admiral Volsky leaned towards the radar station where Rodenko was supervising the readout.

  “It looks like they fired one salvo, sir, then ran for the edge of that storm.”

  “The range was too long for the guns on those cruisers,” said Fedorov.

  “Well, they will think they got lucky today and scored a hit.” Volsky smiled. “We’ve tapped him on the shoulder, but when he turns around he will see no one else on the dance floor, just the empty sea and those oncoming storm clouds. So he must conclude the British have some very good gunnery officers aboard. Let us hope those rounds are enough of a distraction to help those cruisers, but in the event the Germans persist, our next field test will be one of the P-900s we received from Kazan. I want to be sure they are configured properly.”

  * * *

  Hoffmann felt the second hit, well up in the superstructure and flush against the armored conning tower. A bigger round might have caused real trouble, but as it was the 350mm armor there, all of 14 inches thick, was easily enough to stop this one. Yet the jarring concussion was enough to force every man there to shirk and hunch their shoulders in surprise. The bridge crew took a bit of a knock, but no one was wounded, as there was no interior damage or splintering into the command spaces. Scharnhorst has just been hit with a stiff jab. The ship had a bruise on its cheek, but was unharmed and fully functional.

  “No significant damage, Kapitan.” Leutnant zur See Huber reported. “We took both hits in well protected areas.”

  The Kapitan shook his head, unwilling to believe the British cruisers could hit him at his range, but they clearly had. Gunnery Officer Schubert had set his mind on answering, and he straddled the trailing British cruiser before they saw both ships make smoke and vanish into the grey edge of the storm. That was a good idea.

  “Helm, come round to 320. We’ll turn for that squall line to starboard. I think the British will be trying to work round behind us.”

  A messenger came in from the wireless, handing him the note, and Hoffmann smiled with a nod as he read it. Kapitan Otto Fein aboard Gneisenau behind him was perplexed. He wanted to know what they were doing sparring with these cruisers when the route south was now clearly open.

  Perhaps he is correct, thought Hoffmann. I am indulging myself here, like a cat playing with a mouse, and I just got bit on the nose for my trouble. I could make this turn and run parallel to the course I think these cruisers have taken, or I could come left and south to the Atlantic. That was the plan, but not before we refuel.

  He pulled off his leather gloves, tucking them into his pocket and loosened the upper button of his overcoat as he considered the situation. I could detach Admiral Hipper here to chase these cruisers off. That would leave me free to head south unbothered by them again. That was the only reason you engaged here, was it not?

  “Helm,” he said calmly, resigned. “Belay that last order. Come about to two-two-zero. Make an easy turn, and ahead two thirds. Huber, see that Gneisenau is informed of both the course and speed change and ask her to follow. As for Admiral Hipper, signal that I want them on three-two-zero to look for those cruisers. They are to report in three hours, and if they do not find them they will meet us at the refueling point.”

  The German tanker Altmark was waiting out near the coast of Greenland, hovering off a misty ice-crusted fiord. Hoffmann was planning to rendezvous with Altmark just north of Cape Farewell to refuel his ships before breaking out, and he did not want any British cruisers about to interfere with the operation.

  We will hold this new course for three hours, he thought, then turn to meet up with Altmark. By then I should know whether Admiral Hipper had any luck finding the British. He noted the barometer, seeing rain on the wind shields of the viewports.

  An hour later he received a report from Admiral Hipper. The British were hiding in the storm. They had seen at least three contacts on radar, but the signals were lost in interference. On a hunch the Kapitan had fired down the bearing of one contact sighting. Hoping to flush his quarry, and he believed the cruisers were dispersing. But now the wireless was silent, and there had been no further reports.

  Three contacts…Hoffmann knew of the first two, the pair of hapless British cruisers he had engaged. What was contact three? They were still too far north for Hipper to have picked up the Altmark. It had to be something else, but what? Could we have a U-boat out here that I am not aware of? That might account for the sudden disappearance of the contact on radar, but it still did not make sense. It could be a tramp steamer, or even a ship involved in the recent British invasion of Iceland. If so that would be fair game here.

  “Any signals from Wilhelmshaven?” he asked Huber, thinking they might get some additional intelligence on what was happening on Iceland.

  “No sir. Nothing since we entered the strait.”

  “The British have taken a lease out on Iceland, Huber. That means they might soon have an airbase functional there.”

  “That may take them some time,” Huber suggested. “We should be well out into the Atlantic before we need to worry about planes from Iceland.”

  “What is the situation with the radar?”

  “Still fouled up with interference, sir. It must be the storm.”

  “Very well. I looked at fuel reports. We did not have time to fill up at Trondheim after chasing that British carrier. That was a mistake. Now we’ve gone nearly 3000 kilometers and used up half our fuel. ”

  “But Altmark is waiting for us here, Kapitan.”

  “Yes, and we are lucky for that. We should have had more time at Trondheim, but Raeder was adamant that we put to sea as soon as possible.”

  He squinted at the weather, feeling ill at ease. Two long shots for a cruiser that should have had no chance to hit his ship, but yet they did. Now a third contact on radar, and then every set down as though…as though they were being jammed.

  “The pressure is not too low,” he said quietly. “We will push through this front in two hours. In the meantime, make ready for the refueling operation. That is our number one priority now.”

  “Aye sir.”

  Hoffmann did not know it then, but his new course was taking him closer to the mysterious antagonist that had flicked those shells at Scharnhorst, even as it moved closer to the ship that had been dogged by the black hand of fate in an earlier incarnation, Altmark…and fate and mystery would soon become fire and steel.

  Part VIII

  Ride of the Valkyries

  “Now awful it is to be without,

  as blood-red rack races overhead;

  and the welkin sky is gory with warriors' blood

  as we Valkyries war-songs chanted.”

  ― Njals Saga

  Chapter 22

  Iceland-Faeroes Gap ~ 17 June, 1940

  Admiral Tovey was restless that day, still bothered by his abortive attempt to investigate that Russian cruiser. He did not know why it left him feeling like he had an untied shoe or missing button, but it did. He was a careful, meticulous man, and did not like leaving things unfinished. Yet word from the Admiralty on the movement of Bismarck and Tirpitz trumped everything else and forced him to turn about south of Reykjavik and head east, then northeast along the coast of Iceland. He had bigger fish to fry.

  Now he was in the Flag Plot Room, looking at the map like a butler checking to see if the silverware had been set properly. There were the cruisers Sussex and Southampton on forward patrol in the center of the Iceland-Faeroes Gap. Coming up on their right flank was Force F with Nelson and Rodney, the cruiser Devonshire and three destroyers.

  Nelson had just been pulle
d out of her refit at Greenock after sustaining serious hull damage the previous December when she ran over a magnetic mine at Loch Ewe. The hull was buckled four feet on her starboard side, sixty bulkheads ruptured and there was flooding over 140 feet of her 710 foot length. Thankfully no one was killed, but the incident was later called “the ball buster” by members of the crew. It seems a good number had been seated on the porcelain throne when the mine went off and the official report read that: “52 suffered lacerating injuries to delicate parts of their anatomies when ceramic toilet pans shattered in the blast.” Nelson had taken a hard kick in the pants, and was down for some time.

  Most of the repair work was done at Portsmouth before the ship was moved to avoid possible German air attacks. There she was fitted with Type 279 long range air warning radar, and was to have work completed for the Type 282 Gun director radar at Greenock before she was called to action again. The kits were still aboard, with a bevy of workmen to see the work on as she sailed, and there had been no time for her to contemplate or complete working up exercises. The crews were quick running new 16-inch shells aboard over the wooden decks in their shell bogeys, and additional canisters of cordite charges which made up the full charge for firing the guns. They soon had her up to snuff with 100 rounds per gun, 80 being APC and 20 HE with a total of 900 rounds on board. The veteran ship and crew would just have to muddle through, and Tovey had every confidence that they would.

  Big slow Nelson and Rodney, thought Tovey. The Germans had danced around them in the Norwegian campaign, as they could make no more than 23 knots on a good day. Even the guns were slow to hoist, load and fire after the ready ammunition in the turret was used up. The 16-in guns might only average one round per minute compared to twice that for the more common 15-inch guns in the fleet. Aside from Rodney and Nelson, HMS Invincible was the only other ship in the fleet to use the16-inch guns—good throw weight and range, but not as efficient as the15-inch.

  Force F will be late to the party, he knew. By the time they get up north the Germans will have slipped west. The only question is where will they go? If they turn east of Iceland then it’s my watch. If they run further west for the Denmark strait I’ll also be in a good position to give chase or possibly cut them off. Then we have a battle, and while I think Invincible would give a good account of herself, Renown is lightly armored. We’ll also be outgunned, but at least we have Ark Royal handy with her Swordfish and Skua bombers. We’ll have to see what the Germans do, but the job now is to find them.

  He eyed the young Lieutenant Commander Wells, where he was quietly watching him, curious as to what he was thinking. “Your mind looks very active, Mister Wells. Any thoughts?”

  “Sir? Oh, I was just thinking about the Germans, sir. They say Bismarck is a fairly formidable ship.”

  “That remains to be seen, but I remind you that you are presently standing on a ship christened HMS Invincible.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Learn nothing from that, Wells. Any ship afloat can be hit and sunk in a battle at sea—even this ship. Bismarck is just made of steel and iron as our ship is, and crewed by men of flesh, blood and bone. When it comes down to it, quick thinking and quick shooting decides the hour. You would do well to remember that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But unless we find the rascals first none of that matters. Get off to the W/T room and have them signal Ark Royal to get a search mounted out ahead of us. 150 mile radius should be sufficient.”

  “Right away, Admiral.”

  Wells was off with that message, thinking about the blood and bone he had seen on the bridge of HMS Glorious when he returned. Yes, it had been quick thinking on his part that saved the ship, but he had never been on a battleship before, where you deliberately sought to bring yourself under the guns of the enemy so as to deliver your own fire upon him. This was something entirely different, to be seeking the enemy in battle instead of skirting along behind on the carrier, but Ark Royal was the eyes of the fleet for the moment.

  He could imagine the planes being spotted on deck, up from the elevator and ready to go. And realizing that he was now carrying the word that would send them aloft was somewhat exciting. I’m to give the order that starts this battle! Well, the Admiral’s given it, but it is now in my hands until I get to the W/T room—entirely in my hands.

  He thought he might take his time getting there, just to let the moment distill a bit in his head, like good Earl Grey, but he soon discarded that notion and let his excitement drive his feet on. Orders were orders and it was, for the moment, all depending on him to get those planes up off the deck and headed north. We will not be caught flat footed out here like Glorious was. No sir, not on my watch.

  * * *

  Far to the north, the foxes those planes would be out hunting were surging west through rising seas. Foxes indeed, they were more like big muscled cats, moving easily in the heavy swell, their wide beam providing exceptional stability, the sharp Atlantic bows easily parting the waves as they sailed at 28 knots. Bismarck and Tirpitz were an awesome sight together, with the squadron commander Kapitan Lindemann leading aboard Bismarck.

  Vice Admiral Marschall had bristled at the notion of the operation being handed to a mere Kapitan, but Raeder explained that he wanted to season Lindemann for the Battleship Squadron.

  “I want you to meet with Lütjens, Wilhelm,” he had said in a placating tone. “I want you aboard Hindenburg, the fleet flagship. See to the progress of those sea trials. Put your head together with Lütjens and make Hindenburg the finest ship in the fleet when she sails. I want her ready for battle, which is why I send you to see to the details—fuel, munitions loads, lubricants, quartermaster stores. Only you have the mind for such things.”

  Marschall was still not happy, but the thought of stepping aboard the Hindenburg was enticing, and made up for the loss of his Battlecruiser Squadron. It had been enough to deftly move him aside for this operation, and now Raeder was counting on his fighting sea Kapitans, Hoffmann with the battlecruisers, Lindemann with the battleships, Böhmer on Graf Zeppelin.

  That morning Kurt Böhmer was riding the fading froth of Lindemann’s wake in the German carrier, some three kilometers behind the battleships, waiting on news from his scout flights. They had seen a pair of old British battleships earlier, well to the south and in no position to intercept.

  Böhmer briefly contemplated paying them a visit with his Stukas, his Valkyries as he now called them. But soon discarded the notion. The German fleet could easily evade those ships, and there was no reason to engage them whatsoever. It would be better to get further west before a decision was made on their final breakout course, and Lindemann agreed. If Hoffmann did his job the British would be out in the Denmark Strait, leaving the east coast of Iceland a good place to contemplate a quick breakthrough. So his mission today was to scout that area, and make certain the way was still clear.

  It was not long before one of his Arado 196 seaplanes emerged from a cloud and spotted a formation of British aircraft heading north. That set alarm bells jangling on the carrier, and Böhmer immediately called down to the hanger deck.

  “Ritter! What do you have ready?”

  “Anything you need, Kapitan. I have six 109s and twelve Stukas fully armed, two of the fighters are on deck now.”

  “Get the other four up. We may be having company soon. The Arados have spotted British planes.”

  Something was about to happen that had never occurred in the Atlantic, the first carrier to carrier air duel ever to be fought. The Germans had tangled with the RAF and Fleet Air Arm before, but always with land based planes, and with the British deciding where the action would be fought, their fleet carriers hovering off the coast of Norway. This would be the first German attempt to intercept and stop the FAA carrier planes before they could start buzzing round the fleet like bothersome flies.

  Hauptmann Marco Ritter is just the man to do the job, thought Böhmer. He is already and ace many times over, with many c
onfirmed kills in his tally. The rules for German airmen were very strict. The kill had to be filmed or observed by someone in the air, on the ground, or aboard a ship. The mere claim of a kill was not enough. If there was no witness then there was no kill. But Ritter’s work was well observed, for he flew with expert skill, lighting fast, and with surgical precision in his dog fights with Spitfires. He had six kills there, three on bombers, four more for auxiliary craft, two more Swordfish over Norway for fifteen in all. Five more and he would get his Knight’s Cross with Iron. Now he was out to make his bones as a carrier airman, Germany’s first and best.

  So Böhmer watched again as Ritter led his squadron of Messerschmitts up, posting three on continuous patrol over the fleet and taking the remaining three south to the heading reported by the Arado 196. The Stukas were then brought up and readied for quick takeoff in the event the Arados could find the ship those enemy planes had taken off from.

  Ritter did not disappoint. He had opened the throttle to lead his fighter section out at good speed, and was soon scanning the low scudding clouds from 18,000 feet. There, down below at an altitude he took to be 11,000 feet, was a lumbering flight of three Skua fighter/bombers.

  “Hans, Leo, have a look at one o’clock low! We have company. Let’s show them the door.”

  He tipped his wing and leaned over into a dive, and soon the three BF-109s fell on the Skuas like hawks.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Cecil Howard Filmer in Plane 7F was the first to see them. He was immediately on the short range radio to alert the other members of the subflight. These three planes had been kept in a tight fist to respond to any sightings by the four Swordfish down below, fanned out in a wide search formation. The occasional He 115 seaplane torpedo bomber might be out here snooping for the Germans, but now the Skuas were being bounced by planes they did not expect to find.