Golem 7

Chapter 25

Dawn broke, grey and cold, with the winds rising and the seas churning with the tumult of an oncoming storm. Rodney was a large ship, however, with a wide beam and she rode out the swells with good stability. The big Scot, Hamilton, was on the bridge, and he had invited the American officer to join him there as he considered his situation.

Hamilton was well accustomed to USN officers aboard his ship. Earlier that year he had hosted the American Rear Admiral Ghormley, Mr. James Forrestal, Under Secretary of the USN, and a baker’s dozen of American Air Corps Officers. Secretary Forrestal was en route to negotiate the Lend-Lease agreement with the British Government at the time, and he found the other officers bright, fit, and well skilled. This one seemed no different.

“It seems we have new orders,” said Hamilton.

“Sir?” Paul was immediately concerned.

“Yes, the Admiralty wants us to steer 225 degrees. They believe Bismarck may attempt to meet up with an oiler in the Atlantic.”

Paul expected this, and he had his argument ready in hand. “I see,” he began. “But if I may, sir… what good would that course change do us now? We’re already 200 miles east of Admiral Tovey. If Bismarck has turned on 225 for the Atlantic we’ll never catch up. Yet consider your situation here, sir. You have passengers aboard, your decks are stacked high with boiler tubes in packing crates.”

“Yes, and then some,” said Hamilton. He did not tell the American he was also carrying the famous Elgin Marbles from the British Museum and many cases of gold bullion in his lower forward holds, ordered to deposit them safely in the United States. Apparently the marbles were not deemed safe enough where they had been hidden in the concrete reinforced Tube tunnel near the Aldwych branch of the Piccadilly subway line.

“Well, sir,” Paul went on. “Sir Winston’s convoy will be just fifty miles east of us by now, and heading south. There’s no heavy escort there aside from Exeter. What if Bismarck turns east for that convoy instead? If I know about it, it’s likely the Germans know about it as well. Our southerly course has served two purposes. We moved to a much better position to intercept Bismarck if she does head for France, and we’re also covering Convoy WS-8B. In fact, sir, I would even come two or three points to port now if I were in your shoes, but steering 225 will put us out of the game.”

“I quite agree,” said Hamilton. “Plotted it out this morning. And just between the two of us I’m having some difficulty interpreting this latest Admiralty order. Sir Dudly Pound’s fingerprints are all over it, and it appears unclear… for the moment,” he added at the end.

“Of course, sir.” One did not flaunt the orders of the First Sea Lord lightly, or without second thoughts. “I will say that your appraisal of the situation is much more aligned with our intelligence, sir.”

“That is somewhat encouraging,” said Hamilton with a smile. The man had to be an intelligence officer, he thought. How else would he know the positions of all these ships; know that only Exeter was left shepherding that convoy?

“If I may, sir,” Paul suggested. “Those crates stacked high on your B turret won’t do well if it comes to action stations.”

“Quite so,” said Hamilton. “I gave the order that they were to be removed, discretely, and stowed below decks. It’s getting a wee bit tight down there, what with all the passengers aboard. But tell me, Commander Wellings, what do you make our chances of sighting Bismarck on this heading and actually seeing action?”

“On this heading, sir? I make it a fifty-fifty proposition. Give her a nudge to port and I’d up those odd considerably.”

Hamilton raised an eyebrow at that, and had the sure feeling that this man knew more than he was telling for the moment. He seemed very well briefed on the navy’s current dispositions. “Well, sir,” he said. “I’ve got gimpy boilers all due for a major overhaul. If a nudge to port will help me close the distance, then I’ll indulge you.” He tipped his hat to Paul and spoke a clear order to the helmsman. “Three points to port and steady on 175.”

The captain was gratified to learn he had been right in his bones about holding a southerly course. Events to the west were to soon prove him, and this American, correct.

Off to the west, Admiral Tovey had completely missed Bismarck’s last turn. He steamed straight on his heading of 180, stubbornly following Prince Eugen, and soon was well south of Bismarck’s new easterly heading, though he had no reason to suspect the German ships had separated at the time. It was not until the search teams off the Victorious had landed and been fully debriefed that he began to feel he had made an error.

Hood and Prince of Wales had already turned east, ordered to try and close on Tovey’s position, and they crossed the Admiral’s wake sometime around 10:00 hours. He received notice of the Admiralty’s order for HMS Rodney to steer course 225. Where was the big battleship? It would have been sporting of them to include her position in the code, but they did not do so. Should he signal Admiral Holland to turn south now and conform to his movement following Prince Eugen?

It was then that he received what looked to be an urgent signal, tapped out in Morse code and apparently coming from a plane, given their take on its bearing. It read simply: “One German battleship sighted, course 115—“ and there was nothing more.

“One battleship?” he said to Brind. “One bloody battleship steering 115? If that’s Bismarck then who in bloody blazes are we following? Radar still has a contact forward?”

“Aye, sir. It can only be Prince Eugen. If this latest signal is authentic, then it appears the German task force may have split up some time ago.”

“Damn,” Tovey was clearly unhappy. “Bismarck has given us the slip! Yet we have no position coded on that message? Where did it come from?”

“We don’t know, sir. Could Victorious have a straggler?”

“See about that Brind, will you?” The Admiral was deeply distressed. He was burning a lot of fuel running up at 28 knots, and now he learned he may have been steaming away from his prey since the morning watch! Yet if he took this signal to heart, assuming it was Bismarck, he would have to relinquish his hold on the German cruiser ahead of him, and give up that chase. If Bismarck was still there, he would steam off and lose the two of them altogether. It was a critical decision. What should he do?

An hour earlier, a man had stepped briskly off a trolley bus on Rumford Street, Liverpool and was walking past a nondescript building near the Exchange. It was the entrance to Western Approaches Command HQ, moved here in February of 1941 to coordinate the complex convoy traffic.

For all intents and purposes, he appeared to be a simple business man, pressed trousers and wool tweed blazer under a stiff derby, and he carried an umbrella against the threat of rain. But that was not all. A plain manila envelope was tucked under his arm and he pushed in through the narrow door, immediately sighting the reception desk.

“Signals?” he asked. “I’ve a message for Admiral Sir Percy Noble. Very high priority.”

The woman looked at him, thinking him a bit odd, but she took the envelope he handed her and set it down on her desk with a nod.

“Oh, no, I’m afraid that won’t do,” he said, his more aristocratic English accent just a tad out of place for Liverpool. “This needs to go in at once.” The man tapped at his pocket watch. “Time’s of the essence.”

“Very well,” the woman stood up with the envelope.

“And please stamp this urgent. Highest priority, if you please. If the Admiral doesn’t see it within the next ten minutes, well, I wouldn’t much care to be in your shoes then. If I make myself plain, Madame…” He pursed his lips, eyes fixed on the woman, waiting.

“I see,” she said quietly, and then picked up her stamp and properly marked the envelope for highest priority signals decode. It wasn’t at all uncommon to receive messages like this—especially if they were of a highly sensitive nature, the type of message one would not want generally transmitted by any other means. Couriers came and went at all hours, though they were not quite so pushy as this man seemed. She gave the man a wary glance and started off towards the Signals section.

“Top of the stack, my dear,” the man said after her. “The very top now.”

Professor Nordhausen had done as much as he could, and only hoped his urging had been taken to heart. He smiled, elated to be back in England again, if only for a very brief time. Then that thought set him in motion, and he turned, walking quickly out the door, down the street, and then into an alley way.

A few minutes later he had vanished.

Aboard King George V Brind was back in short order. “Victorious says they have everyone aboard sir, but suggests Coastal Command may have Catalinas up this morning—one last look before the weather closes in. The signal could have come from one of their planes, but that is not yet clear. And then there’s this, sir. Admiralty is all in a dither. It seems they are revoking their last order to Rodney and telling her to steer a course south by southeast now. No details…”

“No details,” said Tovey. “Of course, no bloody details. That’s where the devil is, by God. Well, we’ll have to decide.” He ran his hand fitfully over his chin, thinking hard.

“Another message from Admiralty, sir.” The midshipman rushed in with a fresh cable and Brind took it, eager for news.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “This is interesting. Our Lonesome Dove has flown into Western Approaches with some very pointed intelligence, sir. The message is Tiger, Tiger, burning bright—sent to all fleet stations in the last hour.”

“That’s the hazard code for convoy WS-8B,” said Tovey.

“Aye, sir. It’s why they’ve moved Rodney then. It appears the Germans are steering for the convoy. Or at least one of their ships is.”

“Taken with this recent sighting it begins to mount up,” said Tovey. “Very well…” He decided.“Helmsman, come round to course 115 at once. Hard a port and steady on that heading.”

Brind swallowed hard. “We’ll lose Prince Eugen, sir, if that’s who we’ve been following.”

“That we will, Brind. Let’s just hope we haven’t lost Bismarck with her in the bargain. Signal Admiral Holland our intentions and new course. Have him conform to our movements. They’re moving Rodney for some reason. I intend to have a look out east.”

“They could be simply ordering her to cover the convoy, sir,” Brind suggested. “She’ll never get out this way in time, so that last order to steer 225 was of no use.”

“Yes, it seems Admiral Pound has been running his ships all over the board. How much fuel do you think I’ve got in the belly of this one, Brind? Not nearly enough to chase Bismarck out into the Atlantic. At least on this new heading we cover our own vital convoy traffic into Gibraltar, and I can get an oiler out here as well. If I’m wrong I’ll hear about it, no doubt, and I’ll suffer the consequences. Let’s get on with it.”

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

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!

He had planned to be up on the bridge when the action started, watching the big armored turrets turn and range on the target, belching out their fire and steel, the massive shells over six feet long flung out some twelve miles or more before they would come crashing down on the targets.

Rodney was here because he had steered her here, with considerable help from the big Scot at the helm, whose own best judgment wanted his ship pointed this way all along. But Paul was taking no chances this time. Simply dropping intelligence into the stew would not be enough. He wanted to be physically present, where he could use his foreknowledge of the history to do his utmost to get Rodney into the fight.

Hours ago, he had no idea how long it had been on the Meridian he came from, he and Kelly had poured over a battle map of the campaign fetched up by the Golems and they clearly saw that history was about to echo again with a dull, hollow sound of British defeat. Their planes would sight and strike at Bismarck, slowing her down, and one other Zombie soul Maeve had worried over would be taken home again when Lt. Campbell made his gallant attack on Bismarck, going to a fiery death to put his torpedo into her forward port side.

It was his hit that had been the decisive blow in forcing the action that was now underway. Force H was nowhere to be seen. Somerville was still hastening up from Gibraltar, but well out of the action. Perhaps she would yet have some part to play in this altered Meridian, but the chancy and very luck hit scored by the pilot off Ark Royal would not happen here. Not now.

Though the big German ship had slowed to 12 knots to make repairs, Bismarck had nearly finished the work, its sleek prow patched and most of the water pumped out. It was slightly down at the bow, for the damage had been far more extensive than first reported. But the engineers had patched her up, and she was ready to get back some speed when Admiral Holland suddenly came up on the scene, riding in with Hood and Prince of Wales, two doughty knights in armor, though one bore a hidden weakness that would soon prove her undoing.

Holland was dead by now, Paul knew, along with some 1400 other souls that Maeve no longer had to worry about. There were three survivors off Hood, the very same three that had survived the battle in the history Paul knew so well. And, as it also turned out, the dead men off Arethusa, the hapless cruiser that had become Bismarck’s first victim, numbered very few. Most of that crew made it into the boats and were rescued by a steamer out of Iceland not long thereafter.

Time was doing its best to balance her books, he thought. But this action, initiated by the roar of Rodney’s 16 inch guns, was something entirely new. In the history he had studied with Kelly Bismarck sailed on into Brest without further engagement. That was the clue they needed to make this intervention. Paul had insisted that Rodney was essential to the outcome, and he swore he could get the old battleship into the fight, one way or another. And here she was, face to face with the most formidable ship in the German navy.

When Rodney had faced the German raider in the history Paul knew so well, King George V was right there with her. This time she was alone, and the enemy crew had just destroyed the pride of the British fleet and put a KGV class battleship to rout for the second time in three days!

Rodney had labored to come even this near to the action that was before her and, had it not been for the timely course turns she made, the ship would still be far off to the north. For the last several hours she had been running full out at 21 knots, her old boilers straining, her worn propeller shafts and props turning and churning up the ocean swells. The ship’s smallest man, a boiler’s mate named Scouse Nesbitt had been crawling into her boilers wrapped in cold wet towels and rags and desperately trying to plug leaks in her heating tubes so she could keep up her speed. When she finally came upon her enemy the ship chugged and wheezed and rattled forward, her great heavy bow rising and falling, lifting those big guns up and down, up and down as she plowed her way forward. Her captain knew he would have to turn before engaging, first to bring all three turrets to bear, and then to see if he could find some stability abeam so the gun crews could best time their salvoes when the ship was level.

If the German crew of Bismarck was elated by their good fortune, the men on Rodney were anxious at their stations now, though you could sense that steady transition to restrained anger. Just a week or so ago they had been riding at anchor with Hood at their side in Scapa Flow. The men had scudded back and forth between the two big ships, mutual friends joining their comrades on the other ship for leave. The thought that all those lads had been scuppered into the sea weighed heavily on them, but the menacing roar of the big ship’s guns stirred their blood, and they bent to their tasks with renewed vigor. The caliber of Rodney’s weapons were unmatched. She had only to fling her monstrous heavy shells into Bismarck before the Germans did the same to her.

It was an odd match now, thought Paul, like a dogged Sonny Liston, big, strong and slow, climbing into the ring with then Cassius Clay, a chiseled, well muscled contender with lightning reflexes and a dangerous punch that would make him world champion for years to come.

Good god, thought Paul. What have I done? What chance did Rodney have if Hood and Prince of Wales together could not back down the German battleship? It was all a matter of Time, he knew. King George V was still out there, and Prince of Wales was wounded but alive. It was up to Rodney to hold the German ship engaged, even if that meant laying on the ropes and taking everything the Bismarck could throw at her. Rodney could punch at least, that much he knew. He had done all he could to bring about this engagement, but now all was thrown to the whim of chaos and fate. There was no way he could control or influence what was now underway. If she could just get a hit or two on Bismarck with those big 16 inch guns….

Paul started down the long corridor, heading to the bridge if he could get there. He was high enough up that he could stop now and look out a starboard side porthole to witness the action. He squinted through the thick, sea dappled glass and saw nothing but blackness, then the flash of guns and the ominous silhouette of Bismarck was outlined for the barest moment in a corona of gold fire. He could not help but smile. There she was, the ship he had dreamed about, read about as a boy, poured over in his gaming all these years. There was mighty Bismarck in full throated anger in what he now still hoped would be her very last battle.

His excitement darkened as quickly as it came, however, because the history of this battle was not yet written, no matter what the Golems had fetched up. His presence here was a vast and wide variable in the equation, and he realized that at any moment one of Bismarck’s 15 inch shells could come crashing down on him—at that instant hot metal was arcing up into the charcoal sky and plummeting down with a horrid wail. There was a swoosh and plunk, a loud yet muffled crack, and he saw two huge geysers leap up from the tumult of the sea, too close for comfort. Bismarck was slowly ranging on her target.

At that moment he heard a shudder and was thrown back on his heels against the far bulkhead. There was a loud boom and he knew the ship had been hit. The sound was below him, however, and a thin grey smoke wafted from the gangway just a few feet off. He went and peered down into the passageway below. A man was there, shouting for help.

As much as he wanted to climb higher into the unwieldy superstructure of the ship and get up to the battle bridge, the man’s call was plaintive enough to compel him to render aid. He looked at his watch, seeing he had precious little time now. Then started down the ladder to the lower decks. He would soon find out that he was not the only Free Radical engaged in the fray at that moment.

Chapter 27

The last time Lütjens had seen HMS Rodney he was aboard the battlecruiser Gneisenau in March of that very year. He had been chasing a small, plucky Chilean Reefer in the Atlantic, blasting away at her with the ship’s sizable 11 inch guns as the impudent prey bravely steered this way and that to avoid being hit, firing her puny 4 inch gun back at the German ship for good measure. Rodney had heard the smaller ship’s distress calls and left her convoy to see if she could render assistance, and she came up on the scene some time later, her tall superstructure towering over those three massively threatening 16 inch gun turrets.

The Germans spotted her first in the darkness unaware that Rodney had not even seen Gneisenau. By the time she did, and signaled by lamp for identification, Lütjens had thought twice about engaging her. He replied by lamp that he was the British cruiser Emerald, then turned tail and sped away at 32 knots, comforted to know there was no way the lumbering armored behemoth could catch him. Discretion was, at times like that, the better part of valor.

Earlier in his career the German Admiral, then a captain, had the pleasure of actually boarding Rodney for a formal meeting and proper British afternoon tea. At that time both men and ship had all been dressed out in Navy white, the shiny brims of their gold braided hats gleaming in the sun, the sleek barrels of Rodney’s guns freshly painted and neatly capped. Now they were darkened with battleship grey, and long years and the contention of arms and bitter conflict soured the memory.

This time Rodney had not come to serve up tea. But this time Lütjens would not turn and run either, for Bismarck was easily a match for the British ship, in every aspect that mattered. She was heavily armored, well gunned, the apex of German naval engineering out on her maiden voyage. She was a generation ahead of Rodney in design, rumored to be unsinkable. If she had brought along her sister ship Tirpitz, or if Lütjens could wave his hand and summon up his old ship Gneisenau at that moment, there would be no question as to who ruled the seas in an encounter like this. There would be no question which ship might be given to quail at the odds and turn away. Only Rodney could not run. She was too slow to escape should Lütjens get the upper hand here.

Gneisenau was over 400 miles away, still berthed in the harbor of Brest, though Captain Fein and his crew of engineers were working feverishly to get her ready for a possible sortie. Lütjens had only to get within the protective arc of the Luftwaffe air cover, and Gneisenau would ride out to escort the Bismarck home.

Earlier that day the Admiral had passed a moment of doubt when a German Focke Wulf Kondor maritime reconnaissance aircraft spotted Rodney steaming on an intercept course. His signal intercepts had long since heard the chatter between Admiral Tovey and Holland, and he already knew that at least three more British battleships were hot on his heels. Given the odds he was facing at that moment, and down to 12 knots for the last two hours, he wisely elected to forsake his planned raid on Convoy WS-8B, and steam instead for the protection of the French coast.

When Hood and Prince of Wales came up, he had no choice but to increase speed and hope the temporary hull patches fitted by his engineers would hold. The damage was held in check while he engaged the enemy, stunned and elated when his ship had scored a direct hit, causing a massive explosion on Hood before she sank. It was a thrilling and awesome moment, and his weary crew took heart when they saw Prince of Wales also hit and turning away behind a smoke screen. They had now faced three British battleships and prevailed in every case, clearly demonstrating the superiority of German engineering and fighting spirit. Though he knew better, seeing the ship in action now could indeed convince him that Bismarck was unsinkable.

But the action had taken a toll. The patch on Bismarck’s bow had slipped and she was again taking on water. The ship was down slightly at the bow, but the water was still being pumped out and he had good buoyancy. Now to deal with this fourth battleship. He stared through his field glasses, giving the order to fire at once.

“We’ll see if they like the tea I’m serving up this evening,” he told Lindemann coldly. Then the big guns roared and the smell of cordite clotted his nostrils again. The bell had sounded and Bismarck was on the attack.

“Up periscope!” said Wohlfarth aboard U-556. The ruddy cheeked U-boat captain was on the hunt again. He had been following in the wake of the unwieldy British battleship all day it seemed. For some time he cruised brazenly on the surface, certain that his tiny 500 ton U-boat would never be spotted by watchmen or radars, lost in the rising and falling swells of the wild sea.

He tried to go full out at 15 knots, but given the grim weather conditions and seas, he could make no more than 12 knots. The battleship had much greater stability at just over 41,000 tons, and greater speed, even though she was one of the slowest battleships afloat. So it was no surprise to him that he soon lost sight of Rodney, her top masts slipping beneath the distant horizon by mid-day. Still he kept on, for he had a hunch where she was going, having read several signals intercepts that day. He knew the odds were stacking up against Bismarck, and he stolidly held his track, working his way a little more east, then a little more south, until his course saw him running between Rodney and the British convoy he soon spotted off his port beam.

A convoy meant destroyers and fast cruisers might be present, and so he decided to submerge his boat and continue on in the relative undersea calm. After taking a cautious look, however, he saw nothing in the way of destroyer escorts about. Undoubtedly they, too, had been summoned by the British to harry Bismarck. What to do?

Here, in this quiet, murky world, he fancied himself a great sleek shark, gliding on the fringes of a school of big fat tuna. He had another look at the convoy, urged by his executive officer to use his last two fish to sink a few more troop transports this time.

“Better fare here,” Captain, he had said. “And better the British troops go into the sea than off to Egypt to fight Rommel, eh?”

Wohlfarth nodded, but something gnawed at his soul that he should not engage here, that he should keep his southerly heading in the wake of the British battleship, and find something more to do with his precious torpedoes.

“Not yet,” he breathed. “I made this mistake once before. Not this time. We’ll wait. If I don’t find a better target we can always return.”

Hours later his wait was over. He had come up to periscope depth and now looked to again see the familiar silhouette of HMS Rodney in the distance. The great ship was turning, as if angling to get a better bearing on some distant enemy, and Wohlfarth knew exactly what he was after. So he ordered his boat to turn as well, slowly plotting a course so that he could steal up on the British ship and get into a good position to attack. He was half an hour doing so, and by that time he saw the first bright flashes of big guns tearing the night open with their searing fire, and he knew Bismarck was engaged.

“Now’s our time,” he shouted. “Ready on tubes one and two.” He would do his utmost to keep his pledge to keep Bismarck from all harm, and he prayed to Neptune, and any gods who would listen, that his last two torpedoes would be enough.

“Ready, sir.”

“On my mark – Fire One!”

The claxon sounded and red lights winked as Wohlfarth held his breath, counting off the slow seconds.

“Fire Two!”

The last of his torpedoes were on their way.

Aboard Rodney Paul climbed quickly down the ladder finding a seaman there struggling with a hatch. It had swung heavily shut on the man’s lower leg when the ship was jarred, and Paul was able to get it open, freeing the man’s leg and helping him through the hatch. Two other crewmen came running to take the man.

“We’re hit below!” one man said. “In the main hold near the forward tubes. The ship’s taking water and the hatches are still open. It’s chaos down there, sir. We need an officer!”

Paul nodded, quickly running for the next gangway and ladder down. What am I doing, he thought? I haven’t time to plug leaks here! But he realized that anything he could do would only improve Rodney’s chances, however slight. What would he do on the bridge but indulge his own childish fancy, as if he was but a mere spectator now, watching another showing of his old favorite movie Sink the Bismarck. No, he had to do something, anything in the time that remained to him here. He had stuck his nose in it, thinking that all he had to do was engage in quiet logic with the doughty Scotsman Dalrymple-Hamilton. But this was real life now. In for a penny, in for a pound.

The smell of the ever blackening smoke, the harsh bite of cordite in the air; the surging wash of freezing cold seawater riveted home the reality of his situation. It was no mere war game now, but the frantic struggle of men and machines at sea, each group bent of surviving by the only means they had—killing and sinking the enemy men and vessels darkening their horizon.

How much time did he have left? What could he do? Kelly was at the watch back at the Arch complex, and he was probably already revving up the turbines to 80% power, queuing up Paul’s retraction scheme in the computers.

Down he went, into the belly of the whale, until he was soon up to his ankles in seawater. The guns fired again, well above him now and the great ship shuddered. Metal fixtures, railings, hoods, knobs, were literally shook loose from their moorings, some clanging on the metal deck as he steadied himself, arms braced against the closest bulkhead. He careened through a smoky hatch and saw a great gash in the side of the ship. There was another explosion and the ship rocked heavily. Men were frothing about in a chaos of inrushing seawater, and he helped two or three to reach the safety of the hatch he came through.

“I’m the last,” the exhausted seaman clamored, and together they forced the hatch shut against an increasing pressure of flowing water.

“You’d best get topside and fetch engineers,” said Paul. “I’ll just see that the last hatch is shut and be along after.”

The man ran off. Paul was drenched and cold, but he slogged off down the corridor where a last open hatch was swinging loose and banging against the bulkhead when the ship would roll. He reached it and looked inside. The dim red lighting revealed an amazing scene. Wooden packing crates had been stored here from floor to ceiling, and they had come tumbling down in a jumbled mass. One had split open and he found himself staring at an elegantly carved horse’s head, obviously a work of art. the pearly wet white marble gleamed in the red light. Overhead pipes had burst with the concussion of the guns and the hold was drenched with leaky water from above as well.

He stood amazed, seeing several more broken crates, glimmering with the telltale shapes of yellow bars of gold bullion. Still others held more large segments of carved marble, like a relief of ancient art that had been segmented away and stored for safekeeping, piece by piece.

The ship rocked and the case with the horse’s head was flung to the slowly flooding deck where it splintered further and cause the marble steed’s head to come spilling out. It tumbled into the grey green seawater, its rougher bottom scraping on the edge of another case as it fell, and Paul saw a segment break away. There, in the gouged area he spied a dark object that he immediately recognized as a thick metal key. He reached for it, instinctively, seeing how it was wedged into the base of the marble figure itself, and managed to pull it loose.

“Make way, make way!” A master chief was laboring down the hall leading a team of engineers. “Close that hatch there, man!”

Paul shoved the key in his pocket, then backed out of the hatch and pulled it closed. “The hold is taking water,” he said, and when the Chief saw he was wearing an officer’s uniform his mood lightened.

“Good show, sir. We’re here now. You’d best get up above and I’ll have my men on this bit here in a wink. We’ve taken two torpedoes, sir. Bloody U-boats about as if that damn Bismarck weren’t enough, sir.”

The news stunned Paul. Torpedoes? There had been nothing at all in the Golem reports about a torpedo strike on Rodney, and the realization struck him that something had again shifted off axis with this intervention.

“Very well,” said Paul. “See to it, Chief.”

“Aye, sir. Thank God you closed that hatch forward as well. Otherwise we would already be up to our ears in the torpedo room there. On your way now, sir. We’ll set things right here soon enough.”

Torpedo room? Paul thought for a moment and then remembered. Rodney still incorporated a couple of hidden torpedo tubes on her forward bow! It was a throwback from the days of WWI when capital ships routinely fired torpedoes at one another when they closed to short distances. The very long range of the big guns made the weapons a bit of an anachronism now, and he doubted his effort had made any difference… but he was wrong.

Thinking nothing more on it, Paul resolved to get up topside as fast as he could to see what was happening in the fight. He climbed several ladders, coughing with the rising smoke from fires and weighted down by his sodden clothing. Breathless and bedraggled he finally reached the upper decks, where he had the presence of mind to press his palms tightly against his ears just before Rodney let loose with another booming salvo.

The concussion was so great that it knocked him near senseless, flinging him to the deck where he saw that the Douglas fir wood planks were literally torn loose by the intense vibration of the main guns. He stared, dumbstruck, and saw that the monstrous black shape of Bismarck in the distance was alight with fire, an angry orange glow on her forward segment. Rodney had struck at least one hard blow there, hitting ‘Anton’ turret and blasting through its thick armored siding with the weight of her awesome shells.

Then the ship rolled violently and his slight frame was tossed up and over the siding into the furor of the sea. It was as if a wave had willfully reached up and swept him away. He vaguely remembered seeing another seaman pointing at him as he went over the edge. Then the sea took him, pulling him under the shoulder of a thick green wave and then swelling him back up to the crest of another.

For one awesome moment he took in the whole scene as the wave topped out, Bismarck, her forward turret aflame but her other guns still firing, Rodney, listing to port, the black smoke still belching from her huge guns as well, and the odd thin running streak of a torpedo whooshing by, fired from the hidden bow tubes of the big ship, her secret weapon put to use after all! He had witnessed the first ever instance of a battleship firing a torpedo at another ship in its class. It was as if Rodney had taken the strike from U-556 on her sides and then angrily spat it back out her forward tubes. She was giving as good as she got.

Then, off in the distance, he saw the hardening silhouettes of two more ships, identical in shape, their squared forward superstructures unmistakable to his well trained eye. White fire lit them up when their guns fired in anger, and he knew that King George V and Prince of Wales had arrived at last. Their 14 inch guns were soon ranging on the stalwart enemy from behind her left rear quarter.

Then the cold shook his frame, and he thought he was breathing his last. His eyes rolled and an incredible sensation of feathery lightness swept over him. What was he in the midst of all the raging turmoil of this great battle? He was no more than a rag doll tossed into the sea, a bit of useless flotsam, and the last thing he saw was the rising swell of a thirty foot wave looming up over him, ready to come crashing down on his tiny soul and drag him into the depths of the angry sea. Yet when the wave curled and broke Paul was not there….