He sighed as he turned his attention to the map. The ocean was vast, and the ships were very small. The British would be coming.
But when? And where?
* * *
The room was brightly lit, but the fog of tobacco smoke hung in the air.
Winston Spencer Churchill stood at the head of the table, smoking his cigar and trying not to let his despair show on his face. He’d been quick to understand the danger presented by Bismarck, but slower—to his eternal shame—to foresee the combination of Bismarck and Graf Zeppelin. The German carrier wasn’t anything near as tough as the armoured carriers the Royal Navy had built—or so he told himself—but it hardly mattered. She carried enough aircraft to give any British ship that encountered her a very bad day.
It was a mistake to send Prince of Wales out unprepared, he thought, cursing under his breath as he watched the WREN moving wooden blocks around the chart table. Of course, who would have thought she’d prove vulnerable to aircraft at sea? Churchill realized now that neither he nor his admirals had truly grasped the danger posed by carrier-borne aircraft.
We hurt a handful of Italian ships, but they’d been at anchor, trapped within the harbour and paralysed by a shortage of fuel. It just hadn’t seemed possible that two big ships, with layers of armour and room to manoeuvre, could be brought down by a swarm of stinging gnats.
Like a hero laid low by a malarious mosquito, he thought angrily. Which will encourage every other bugger in the swamp.
Churchill turned his attention to the map of naval stations on the wall, showing installations from Gibraltar and Malta to Hong Kong and Singapore. The Japanese were restless, damn them; Churchill knew it was only a matter of time before they tried to take what they desperately needed by force. They’d only be encouraged, once they heard that two British warships had been sunk. And who knew what the Americans would do? Churchill had no illusions. Unless the United States entered the war openly, Britain would eventually be starved to death. There would be no hope of keeping the sea lanes open.
He silently cursed his predecessors as the table was updated, once again. Bismarck was fast as well as powerful, fast enough to outrun anything capable of sinking her. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He and Fisher had used the same rationale back in the Great War, when they’d designed and launched the battlecruisers. And now the Germans had turned it against the Royal Navy. If Chamberlain had realised what the Germans were doing…Churchill gritted his teeth. The fool had wanted peace at any price. He’d turned a blind eye to the warning signs until it was too late.
Whatever it takes, he thought as a naval briefer approached him, those ships have got to be sunk.
“Prime Minister,” the briefer said. “The Admiralty is assembling…”
Churchill listened with half an ear. Two carriers, four battleships…all outdated, compared to the German ships, and unable even to catch her unless she sailed into a trap. Even finding her was going to be a problem. Where were the German ships?
He ground his teeth as the briefer droned to a halt. It didn’t seem fair, somehow. The Royal Navy could sink every ship the Germans possessed, and it wouldn’t prove decisive, but if the British took major losses…Churchill had no illusions about that too. The British Empire was teetering on a knife’s edge. If they couldn’t keep the sea lanes open, if they couldn’t keep the Italians bottled up, if they couldn’t deter the Japanese…
Parliament is already demanding answers, he thought, as he approved the plan. His government, too, was hanging by a thread. A defeat now would mean the end. Britain had lost battles and wars before, but this was different. Hitler could not be trusted. Britain would be overshadowed by the Reich until she was no better than Vichy France, a slave state in all but name. And if Parliament rejects me, they’ll try to come to terms with a man who sees weakness as an invitation…
He cleared his throat. The Royal Navy had to win the coming battle. It simply had to.
* * *
The last few days had been nightmarish.
Karl had been sick, repeatedly, as the weather grew worse and worse. He’d spent most of his time in his bunk, trying unsuccessfully to keep something down as Graf Zeppelin pitched and rolled, plunging through giant waves that threatened to capsize the entire ship. The sailors seemed to find it amusing, damn them. He’d heard them laughing at the pilots, mocking the fliers who’d lost their sea legs as quickly as they’d found them. The men who had sunk a British battleship were helpless, unable to run to their aircraft if the British hove into view. Karl suspected the sailors were right. The pilots were helpless in the face of the storm.
It was a very definite relief when the storm broke and the ship stopped rolling from side to side. He stumbled into the mess, ate a dry breakfast and reported for duty, silently wishing they’d spent more time drilling in the ocean before they’d gone to war. The sailors claimed that the pilots would be fine, given time, but Karl found it hard to believe. He promised himself that, if they made it home, he’d seek transfer back to the land-based squadrons. Someone else could fly off a carrier, if they wanted to be brave. Karl had had quite enough of it.
Even though we all got promoted, Karl thought, as he clambered into his aircraft. The Fuhrer had been grateful, very grateful. The task force had been honoured. Everyone who had taken part in the battle had been promoted. I think I want to go home.
His lips curved into a smile as he started the engine. They wouldn’t see home for a long time, but when they did…
“I’ll have a story to tell,” he muttered. It would impress the girls, he was sure. Girls loved pilots. He’d lost count of how many girls had opened their legs for him, in the years since the war had begun. “And no one will care if I want to stay on dry land from now on.”
* * *
“Radar reports a flight of enemy aircraft, closing from the south,” Lütjens said. “The British have found us.”
Because you decided to call home, Volker thought, angrily. He resisted the urge to point it out, again. Lütjens was an old-school admiral, but he wasn’t that old. He should have known that the British would intercept the message and triangulate the task force’s location, even if they couldn’t decipher it. And now we have a British carrier somewhere within striking range.
He turned his attention to the map, thinking hard. They were—probably—out of range of British land-based aircraft, unless the British intended to take the risk of ditching in the sea and hoping for pickup before it was too late.
I wouldn’t put it past them, Volker thought grimly. But I doubt they’re that desperate. Yet.
“It’s either Ark Royal or Victorious,” Volker stated, then added, “if your intelligence officers are as smart as they believe.”
Lütjens pursed his lips at the implied insult, but Volker wouldn’t be surprised to hear that intelligence had missed something. Even if that something is the size of an aircraft carrier, he thought. He’d heard enough intelligence officers be wrong with confidence to take everything they said with a sizable pinch of salt. If intelligence was always right, I’d be sunning myself in southern Kent right now with some turncoat Englishwoman on my lap. Last fifty Spitfires my arse.
The radar operator was snapping out updates, directing the task force’s fighters towards the British attackers. Volker allowed himself another smile, silently relieved that Goering had rendered himself ineffectual with his overdose during Munich. Given how the man had opposed the use of Japanese technology, what would he have said if he’d realised that Volker and his fellows intended to use Italian technology?
The Italians may throw down their guns and surrender at the first sight of a British Tommy, but strangely they know how to work electronics. It should not have been surprising that the land which had given the world Marconi had designed and built the best radar sets in the world, but the Reich had been slow to believe it. God knew it had taken longer than it should to copy the designs, give them a suitable Germanic name and start installing them across the Reich. The e
arly engagements between the Royal Navy and the Italians would have gone differently, Volker was sure, if the Italians had made proper use of their own technology…
He shrugged. It didn’t matter.
* * *
Karl watched with a flicker of admiration as the British Swordfish came into view, shifting from side to side as they approached Graf Zeppelin. The British CO was smart, Karl noted; smart enough to understand that the carrier was the real threat. If the British sunk the German carrier, it would be years before her sister ship could be completed and sent out to pillage the shipping lanes. By then, the British would have a dozen modern carriers of their own.
He put the thought aside as he closed on his target. The British Swordfish was old and slow, but far more stable—and manoeuvrable—than his own aircraft. The British pilot jinked from side to side as he tried to get closer, dropping his torpedo a second before Karl opened fire, putting a hail of bullets through the Swordfish’s wings. He blinked in surprise as the damaged aircraft kept flying, seemingly unconcerned about the damage. The British had designed the aircraft to take a pounding and keep going. He took aim again, putting his bullets through the enemy aircraft’s engine. The Swordfish tilted, then cart-wheeled out of the sky. Karl barely had time to note that the pilot had attempted to bail out before he was past and searching for another target.
Poor bastard, Karl thought. They were far too low for parachutes to work but high enough that the Atlantic would be unforgiving. With as cold as it was, that might be a blessing.
“Horrido!” one of his comrades cried, breaking him out of his sympathy.
We have to cover the carrier, he thought, as he saw a flight of British aircraft retreating at high speed. It would be easy to run them down, but Graf Zeppelin came first. The carrier looked undamaged, although it was hard to be sure. She and her two larger escorts were evading rapidly, as if they expected to be attacked again at any moment. We cannot let the carrier be sunk.
He gritted his teeth as another Swordfish appeared, flying so low that she was literally flying under the German flak. Karl altered course, flying in pursuit. The British were copying the German tactics—which the Germans had copied from the Japanese—but it hardly mattered. The Swordfish was old and slow, but there was a very good chance that she would manage to land a blow on Bismarck. Karl had seen Prince of Wales die. He had no intention of letting Bismarck go the same way.
The British pilot was good, very good. And he knew his aircraft. He seemed to pause, his aircraft hanging in the air as if she was about to stall and plummet into the churning waters below. Karl only realised his mistake when it was too late. There was no way he could evade, let alone stop himself without crashing. He shot past the Swordfish, allowing the enemy pilot to draw a bead on him. A hail of bullets raced through the air, narrowly missing his aircraft. Karl pulled away, feeling warm liquid trickling between his legs as he also evaded flak from the battleship. Bismarck clearly didn’t realise that he was friendly.
Clever bastard, he thought, as he twisted around. The British pilot hadn’t wasted time. He was already closing rapidly with Bismarck, readying himself to drop his torpedo at point-blank range. The British clearly had no intention of giving the German battleship a chance to evade. Clever, but not clever enough.
Karl gunned the engine, relying on his superior speed to close the range. The British pilot, intensely focused on the battleship, didn’t realise he was there until it was too late. Or he was simply determined to land the killer blow before his inevitable death. Karl shot him out of the sky, just in time. He watched, paying a moment of respect, as the enemy aircraft crashed into the water, then turned to search for new targets. The battleship’s guns were still firing. Karl just wasn’t sure what they thought they were shooting at.
* * *
“That was close,” Lütjens said, as the enemy aircraft hit the water and vanished. “A few seconds more and we would have been hit.”
“I think my carrier has proved her worth, Herr Admiral,” Volker noted, his tone flat. He’d ordered his torpedo-bombers to launch, in hopes of finding the British ship, but he had a feeling they weren’t going to be lucky. The weather was already worsening again. “The Fuhrer will be pleased.”
“But we have to make a decision now,” Lütjens said. “Do we head for Brest? Or do we try to go home?”
Volker wanted to argue, but he knew it would be pointless. The Graf Zeppelin was running short on fuel. He hated to turn around and go home without even sighting a British convoy, but they’d more than proved themselves. They could go home and ready themselves for another operation. This time, perhaps, they could be joined by Tirpitz and the remaining capital ships. The British wouldn’t be able to face them.
“We can’t go to Brest,” he said, quietly. “We’d be vulnerable to British land-based air, and they would send their entire air force for us after Hood.”
“True,” Lütjens said. He glanced at the map, then shrugged. “We’ll head home.”
He barked orders. Moments later, the giant ships slowly turned and headed for Germany.
* * *
“The reports are in, Prime Minister,” the briefer said. “Bismarck has dropped out of sight again.”
Churchill nodded, tensely. He’d hoped that Victorious would be able to slow the Germans down, but it seemed as if Bismarck had absorbed the damage—if indeed the ship had been damaged—and carried on. The Swordfish might be elderly—he was painfully aware that Britain had only a handful of modern torpedo-bombers—but they were effective, and their pilots knew how to get the best out of them. And yet, it was starting to look as if he’d sent the pilots on a suicide mission. Only two had returned to their carrier, with the senior of the two pilots a mental wreck.
And if the weather hadn’t turned bad, he thought, the Germans might have sent our carrier to the bottom too.
He forced himself to study the map, barely listening to the naval briefer as he yammered on. What would the Germans do? What would he do, if he were a German? The German ships had to be running short of fuel by now…the carrier, at least. She might not have enough fuel to do anything, but head for port. And where would she go?
“Sir Dudley believes that the Germans will make for Brest,” the briefer said. “They can refuel and link up with their other capital ships there…”
Churchill shook his head, cutting off the briefer in mid-explanation. Sir Dudley was a good man, but he—and his staff—suffered from a lack of imagination. Yes, the Germans could go to Brest—the French port was currently playing host to Scharnhorst and Gneisenau. However, the damages the RAF and Coastal Command had delivered upon those two vessels were a cautionary tale.
I don’t know how many bombers it takes to hole a carrier, but I’d make sure Portal and Harris understood it was their task to find out, Churchill thought angrily. Churchill had listened to Radio Berlin, gloating about the sinking of Hood and Prince of Wales. Such a defeat could not be allowed to stand. So, while logic suggested that the Germans would head to Brest, Churchill’s instincts told him the Germans knew it’d be safer to go home instead.
I wonder if they are aware that Force H has transited the Straits of Gibraltar? If so, then they also have to know if they head to Brest, they risk having us bring them to battle when they’re short of fuel.
“They’re heading back to Germany,” he said. It was a gamble, with everything at stake, but he knew he was right. “And we’ll have to meet them on the way home.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” the briefer said. “Ah…the Air Chief Marshal wants to deploy the Seafires…”
“Do it,” Churchill said.
* * *
The weather shifted constantly as the task force slowly headed home. Karl slowly grew used to days when he was in the cockpit for hours and days when all he could do was sit in the briefing room and pray that the weather cleared enough for him to fly. He had the feeling that it was going to be awkward to explain, once they returned to regular flying. The sooner they
set up a naval air arm, the better.
And hopefully without me, he thought, as he took to the skies again. Intelligence had warned that there was a British fleet somewhere in the area, searching for them, but the weather had been so bad that the British and German ships could have passed within metres of each other without making contact. I want to go back to dry land.
His eyes scanned the horizon for signs of trouble, but the seas were clear. It was easy to understand, at times, why the sailors liked being at sea. He could believe—easily—that the world had shrunk to the carrier’s hull, that there was nothing outside…he shook his head, telling himself not to be silly. The sailors might like to talk about the romance of sailing, of being alone on the seas, but it wasn’t for him. A life on the ocean wave was the key to a watery grave…a bit of doggerel he’d heard from somewhere.
Wait a second, what was that? he thought, turning his head back around. A thrill of excitement flashed through him as he spied a handful of dark shapes, making their way through the icy waters below. Battleships…British battleships. The ships had to be British. There wasn’t anyone else who operated so far north, save for the Kriegsmarine itself, and he knew where its only operational battleship was. Karl altered course back into the clouds, preparing to make a sighting report. The British hadn’t seen him yet, as far as he could tell, but that would change.
And if they don’t realise I’ve seen them, he thought, then we might just be able to catch them by surprise.
* * *
To Slip the Surly Bonds Page 13