Acts of War

by James Young

  “Have you always been able to get them to listen to you?” Jo asked.

  Patricia smiled slightly.

  “Only once I stopped being their tomboy shadow,” she replied. “I think it’s because I look so much like Mom now.”

  “Well, that and it’s readily apparent they love their little sister,” Jo observed.

  Patricia’s smile grew wider.

  “Yes, that does help. Being the only girl does have its advantages.”

  “Like having your father wrapped around your finger so that he helps you escape Alabama?”

  Patricia started, her smile immediately disappearing.

  “How did you..?” she started, then stopped.

  Jo grinned broadly.

  “I’m an only child. I’m also Daddy’s little girl. I know there’s no way my father would let me marry an idiot or someone who was going to make me unhappy. From the way your brothers talk about your Dad, I think that applies for you also.”

  Patricia gave Jo an appraising glance.

  “I think I understand why my brothers obviously like you,” she said slowly.

  “Yes, like the little sister they missed, not…” Jo started, then stopped with a blush.

  That came out a little bit more bitter than I intended, Jo realized sheepishly.

  “Not like you want them to?” Patricia finished for her.

  “Well, Sam and Nick, yes,” Jo replied, her face still heated. “I love Sadie.”

  “Ah, yes, the ever elusive Sadie. You know my mother is absolutely furious that David got engaged without her meeting his fiancée?”

  “I heard that rumor somewhere,” Jo allowed. “Might’ve been tied in with the Western Union lines melting down a couple weeks ago. I’m sure the telegram folks are going to get really, really familiar with your brothers as soon as your mother knows for sure you’ve turned up here.”

  “There are worse reasons to become familiar with the telegraph man,” Patricia said, a flicker of worry crossing her face.

  “Has there been any more word from Eric? The boys say all they know is that he’s on the Ranger out in the Atlantic.”

  “No, none,” Patricia replied. “I just hope he’s all right.”

  “He’s a Cobb,” Jo replied. “Of course he’s all right.”

  H.M.S. Exeter

  North Atlantic

  1330 Local (1030 Eastern)

  12 September

  Whether or not Eric was all right was likely a matter of opinion. He wasn’t flying anymore, as the weather conditions had started to become much worse since he’d left Ranger’s deck that morning. The base of the clouds had once again descended, and he estimated that the ceiling was well under ten thousand feet. At sea level, visibility was under ten miles, and an approaching squall promised to make it less than that very soon.

  I don’t blame the Brit pilots for nixing the thought of flying reconnaissance in this, Eric thought. Yet for some reason I’d still rather take my chances in that soup than be on this ship right now. She’s definitely going into harm’s way, and fast.

  The heavy cruiser’s deck throbbed beneath his feet, and the smoke pouring from her stack and stiff wind blowing onto her bridge told him that Exeter had definitely picked up speed.

  “Sir, I’ve brought Leftenant Cobb,” Adlich said, causing Captain Gordon to turn around. Exeter’s master had obviously been mollified by the worsening conditions, as he gave Eric a wry grin when the American officer stepped up beside him.

  Whoa, it’s cold out here, Eric thought. As if reading his mind, a petty officer handed him a jacket.

  “We remove the windows when we’re getting ready to go into action,” the man said. “Lesson learned after River Plate.”

  “Thank you,” Eric said. “I guess the windows would be a bit problematic in a fight.”

  The petty officer gave a wan smile, pointing to a scar down his cheek.

  “Glass splinters are a bit sharp, yes.”

  “Your squadron commander was either a very brave man or a much better pilot than anyone I know,” Gordon said solemnly from behind the ship’s wheel.

  Or alternatively, Commander Cobleigh was an idiot who didn’t check with the meteorologist before we took off.

  Eric was about to reply when the talker at the rear of the bridge interrupted him.

  “Sir, Hood should be coming into visual range off of our port bow,” the rating reported. “Range fifteen thousand yards.”

  “Thank you,” Gordon replied. The captain then strode to the front of the bridge, stopping at a device that reminded Eric of the sightseeing binoculars atop the Empire State Building. Bending slightly, Gordon wiped down the eyepieces, then swiveled the binoculars to look through them.

  “Officer of the deck,” Gordon said after a moment.

  “Yes, sir?” a Royal Navy lieutenant answered from Eric’s right. Roughly Eric’s height, the broad-shouldered man looked like he could probably snap a good-sized tree in half with his bare hands.

  “Confirm with gunnery that the director’s tracking Hood’s bearing to be three one zero, estimated range fourteen thousand, seven hundred fifty yards.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the officer replied. Eric heard the RN officer repeating the information as Gordon stepped back from the sight and turned to look at him.

  “Well, if you want to see how the other half lives, Leftenant Cobb, feel free to have a look.”

  Eric hoped he didn’t look as eager as he felt walking forward towards the bridge windows. Bending a little further to look through the sight, he pressed his face up against the eyepieces. Swinging the glasses, he found himself looking at the H.M.S. Hood, flagship of the Royal Navy. With her square bridge, four turrets, and rakish lines, the battlecruiser was a large, beautiful vessel that displaced over four times the Exeter’s tonnage. Black smoke poured from her stack, and her massive bow wave told Eric that she was moving at good speed.

  “You can change the magnification with the switch under your right hand,” Gordon said, startling Eric slightly. He followed the British master’s advice, continuing until he could see the entire approaching British force as it closed. Destroyers were roughly one thousand yards in front of and to either side of the Hood. Behind her at one-thousand-yard intervals were two large vessels, either battleships or battlecruisers, with another one starting to exit the mist like some sort of great beast stirring from its cave. After a moment, Eric recognized the distinctive silhouette as that of a Nelson-class battleship.

  “That is the King George V, Prince of Wales, and Nelson behind her. Warspite should be next.”

  Eric nodded at Gordon’s statement, continuing to watch as the final battleship made its appearance. A moment later, Gordon starting to give orders to the helmsman. Exeter’s bow began to swing around to port, causing Eric to step back from the sight with a puzzled expression.

  “We’ll be passing between the destroyer screen and the Hood to take our place in line,” Gordon said. Eric turned back to the device, continuing to study the British battleline. A few moments later, there was the crackle of the loudspeaker.

  “All hands, this is the captain speaking,” Gordon began. “Shortly we will be passing by the Hood. All available hands are to turn out topside to give three cheers for His Majesty. That is all.”

  Eric stepped back from the sight, his face clearly radiating his shock. Gordon smiled as he came back up towards the front of the bridge with the officer of the deck.

  “The King is going into battle?” he asked incredulously. “Isn’t that a bit…”

  “Dangerous?” Gordon finished for him. “Yes, but much like your situation, circumstances precluded His Majesty’s transfer to another vessel.”

  “What? That doesn’t make any…”

  “His Majesty was apparently aboard the Hood receiving a briefing from the First Sea Lord when the Queen Mary was torpedoed,” Gordon said, his voice cold. “We were not expecting the German surface units to be as close as they were, and it was considered imprud
ent to stop the Hood with at least two confirmed submarines close about. Is that sufficient explanation to you, or would you like to continue questioning our tactics?”

  Eric could tell he was straining his host’s civility, but the enormity of what was at risk made him feel he had to say something.

  “I’m no expert at surface tactics…”

  “That much is obvious,” Gordon snapped.

  “…but the Hood is a battlecruiser,” Eric finished in a rush. “While I didn’t get a great look at the Germans before they shot up me and my commander, Rawles saw at least two battleships.”

  “Your concern is noted, Leftenant Cobb, but I think that you will see the Hood is a bit hardier than a dive bomber.”

  Okay, I’m just going to shut up now, Eric said. I may have slept through a lot of history, but I seem to recall the last time British battlecruisers met German heavy guns it didn’t go so well. A quote about there being problems with your “bloody ships” or something similar comes to mind. The Battle of Jutland hadn’t been that long ago, as evidenced by the Warspite still being a front-line unit. Eric sincerely hoped Gordon’s confidence was well-placed.

  “Sir, we are almost on the Hood,” the officer of the deck interrupted. Eric turned and realized that the lead destroyer was indeed almost abreast the Exeter, with the Hood now a looming presence just beyond.

  “The Hood, after her refit, is the most powerful warship in the world,” Gordon continued, his voice a little less frigid. “The Bismark and Tirpitz have only recently gone through refit, while the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau have not been in the open ocean for almost six months. There should not be any major danger.”

  If you’re looking around the room and you can’t find the mark, guess what? You’re the mark. Eric’s father’s words, an admonishment to always be suspicious of any situation that seemed too good to be true, came back to him with a cold feeling in his stomach.

  The Germans would not be out here unless they had a plan, Eric continued thinking. Somehow I think that, much like the Royal Air Force, the Royal Navy is about to receive a rude shock.

  “All right lads, three cheers for His Majesty,” The loudspeaker crackled. “Hip…hip…”

  As the Exeter’s crew yelled at the top of their lungs, Eric studied the Hood in passing. The two vessels were close enough that he could see a party of men in white uniforms standing on the battlecruiser’s bridge and the extraordinarily large flag streaming from the Hood’s yardarm. Picking up a pair of binoculars resting on a shelf near the bridge’s front lip, he focused on the pennant.

  “That’s the Royal Standard,” Gordon said after the last cheer rang out. The device consisted of four squares, two red with the other pair gold and blue, respectively. The two red were identical, forming the top left and bottom right portions of the flag. Looking closely, Eric could see elongated gold lions or griffins within the squares. The gold square had what looked like a standing red lion within a crimson square, while the blue had some sort of harp.

  “What do the symbols mean, sir?” Eric asked. Gordon shook his head.

  “Leftenant, I could probably remember if I thought hard enough about it, but I do not think that is very important right now.”

  Eric nodded, placing the binoculars back down as the Exeter continued to travel down the battleline. After Warspite, there were two more British heavy cruisers. At Gordon’s command, the Exeter finished her turn, taking her place behind the other two CAs. Satisfied with his vessel’s stationing, Gordon began dealing with the myriad tasks that a warship’s captain was expected to perform before battle. Eric observed these with a sense of detachment, noting that the bridge crew operated like they had been there dozens of times. Mentally, he compared the men to those he had observed aboard the American heavy cruiser Salt Lake City.

  Things are so similar, yet so different. You can tell these men have been at war for over three years, Eric thought, feeling strangely comforted by the obvious experience in front of him. The feeling was fleeting, however, as the talker at the rear of the bridge broke the routine.

  “Sir, Hood reports multiple contacts, bearing oh three oh relative, range thirty thousand yards,” the talker at the rear of the bridge said. It was if his words touched off a current of electricity around the entire compartment, as each man seemed to stiffen at his post.

  “Well, glad to see that she’s got better eyes than we do,” Gordon muttered under his breath. “Pass the word to all stations.”

  Eric saw motion out of the corner of his eye and turned to see the Exeter’s two forward turrets training out and elevating.

  “Flag is directing a change in course to one seven zero true,” the talker continued. “Vessels will turn in sequence. Destroyers are to form up for torpedo attack to our stern.”

  Gordon nodded in acknowledgment, and Eric could see the man was obviously in pensive thought. After their earlier exchange, Eric had no desire to attempt to discern what he was thinking. Judging from the look on the man’s face, it was probably nothing good. Looking to port, Eric could see the British destroyers starting to steam past for their rendezvous astern of Exeter, a scene that was repeated a moment later on the starboard side.

  Is it my imagination, or is it getting a little bit easier to see again? Eric thought. If so, is that a good or a bad thing?

  “Enemy force is turning with us,” the talker said quietly.

  Now that is definitely a bad thing.

  Eric had a very passing familiarity with radar, as he had been the target dummy for Ranger’s fighter squadron to practice aerial intercepts. It was obvious, given the visibility, that the Hood hadn’t sighted the enemy with the naked eye. Unless the Germans had a team of gypsies on their vessels, it appeared that they also had the ability to detect ships despite the murk.

  Explains how they were able to shoot down Commander Cobleigh, Eric thought, feeling sick to his stomach. My God, they probably knew we were there long before we came out of the cloudbank but wanted to make positive identification.

  The visibility was definitely starting to get better, at least at sea level. With only the distance of the British line to judge by, Eric guesstimated that visibility to the horizon was somewhere around twenty thousand yards.

  Well within maximum range of everyone’s guns, he thought. I hope someone on this side knows what size force we’re facing, as I doubt the Germans are idiots.

  “Sir, the Hood reports she is…”

  With a roar and spout of black smoke from her side, the British flagship made the talker’s report superfluous. The rest of the British battleline rapidly followed suit, the combined smoke from their guns floating backward like roiling, black thunderheads.

  I can’t see what in the hell they’re shooting at, Eric thought, searching the horizon as he felt his stomach clench.

  In truth, Hood and her counterparts had only a general idea of what they were engaging. Indeed, if the commander of the opposing force, Vice Admiral Erich Bey, had actually followed his orders to simply compel the Home Fleet to sail a relatively straight course while avoiding contact, there would have been no targets for them to engage. Instead, Bey had decided to close with the last known position of the Home Fleet in hopes of picking off the vessel or vessels the Kriegsmarine’s U-boats had allegedly crippled that morning. Regardless of his reasoning, Bey’s aggressive nature had inadvertently led to his superiors’ worst nightmare—the hastily organized Franco-German force being brought into contact with the far more experienced Royal Navy.

  Admiral Bey, to his credit, played the hand he had dealt himself. Moments after Hood’s initial salvo landed short of his flagship, the KMS Bismarck, the German admiral began barking orders. The first was for the radar-equipped vessels in his fleet to return fire. The second was for the entire column to change course in order to sharpen the rate of closure and allow the Vichy French vessels, limited to visual acquisition, to also engage. The final directive was for a position report to be repeatedly sent without any encryption so that
nearby U-boats could immediately set course in an attempt to pick off any stragglers.

  “Well, looks like the other side is game,” Captain Gordon drily observed as multiple waterspouts appeared amongst the British battleships. A moment later the distant sound of the explosions reached Eric’s ears.

  “Looks like they’re over-concentrating on the front of the line though,” Eric observed.

  Gordon turned to look at the American pilot.

  “Would you prefer they spread their fire more evenly so we can have a taste, Leftenant?”

  “No sir, not with the shells that are being slung out there.”

  Gordon brought his binoculars back up.

  “Still can’t see the enemy yet, but that’s why the boffins were aboard during our refit,” Gordon said. The man turned to his talker, jaw clenched.

  “Tell Guns they may fire when we have visual contact or the enemy reaches nineteen thousand yards, whichever comes first,” Gordon said, his voice clipped. “Inform bridge of the eventual target’s bearing so we may get a look.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  Gordon turned back towards Eric and opened his mouth when he was interrupted by the sound of ripping canvas followed by the smack! of four shells landing between Exeter and the next British cruiser in front of her. A moment later, a bell began ringing at the rear of Exeter’s bridge. Eric was about to ask what the device signified when the heavy cruiser’s forward turrets roared, the blast hitting him like a physical blow. The look of shock was obviously quite apparent, as Gordon gave Eric an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry, guess I should have…”

  Exeter’s captain was again interrupted, except this time by two bright flashes aboard the cruiser forward of her the British battleline. The other vessel was visibly staggered by the blows, with a fire immediately starting astern.

  “Looks like Suffolk has worse luck than we do,” Gordon observed grimly. The British heavy cruiser’s turrets replied back towards the enemy, but it was obvious, even to Eric, that their companion vessel was badly hit.