Golem 7

Chapter 16

“Signal from Home Fleet Sir,” a signalman on the bridge took the message and handed it to Captain Kerr. He read it briefly and handed it off to Admiral Holland, the grey haired TF commander. They had been steaming all night since first learning that Bismarck was sighted off the eastern coast of Iceland, their best intercept course plotted at 135 degrees southeast.

“We’ve received a further sighting report,” said Kerr. The admiral read the message. “Catalina CA-12 out of Loch Ewe, eh? Has the sighting been confirmed?”

“Manchester and Birmingham have come down and moved into position behind the Germans,” said Kerr. “And then there’s this—“ He handed the admiral another message, the look on his face telegraphing bad news.

“Repulse stuck by a torpedo?”

“It appears so, sir.”

“Bad bit of luck there. All the more reason to put on speed and see if we can get into the fight.”

“We’re making a steady at 26 knots, sir. Prince of Wales is still having teething trouble with her number two turbine, but she’d holding station well enough.”

“Tovey is steering due west.” The admiral pointed to his chart table. “Assuming Bismarck holds her course, he should meet up here in about three hours.” He drew a circle where the lines intersected. “Where will we be?”

“About here, sir.” Kerr pointed to a spot a half inch or so off the eleven o’clock position from the expected engagement.

“That would put us some 20 minutes to half an hour late to the party,” Holland shrugged. “See what you can do to squeeze a few more knots out of this old lady.”

“We can try, sir, but it’s those leaky steam pipes. We’re still diverting fresh water to the boilers as well.”

Holland nodded. “Hate to think of Tovey going it alone,” he said quietly. “If he were to steer another fifteen degrees to port we might all arrive together.”

“We could break radio silence and make the suggestion,” said Kerr, “but then Jerry would hear us as well and know he’s got someone on his starboard beam.”

“Quite so,” said Holland. “Mums the word then. We’ll carry on.”

With Home Fleet they were working feverishly in the aircraft bay of Victorious. The Air Crew Chief shook his head, pointing at a long sleek Type XII torpedo on its loading dolly. “Careful with that now, mates. We’re heaving and pitching all over the place. Keep a firm winch on that as you load it.”

The crews were arming the nine remaining Fairey Swordfish, the old WWI era biplanes that were the primary torpedo strike plane for the British in 1941. Dubbed “Old Stringbag,” the planes were light, canvass sided, and lumbering slow, with a limited effective strike range of about 120 nautical miles. Their targets were already inside that range circle, or so the rumors had it. Whispers came down from the signal room and made their way into the guts of the ship, tossed from one man in a swinging hammock to another below decks, to another in a crawlway or stair ladder. Others shivered at their action stations, their faces wrapped in heavy woolen scarves, their eyes goggled against the biting cold wind, wishing they had had no news at all and thinking how much better it would be if they were asleep in a relatively warm bunk somewhere.

“We’ll give these fish a new nose,” said a midshipman. He was referring to the new magnetic pistols they had been fitting into the noses of the torpedoes, and he kissed his hand, slapping the cold metal side of the weapon for good luck.

“Well, see that you get them on straight,” said the Crew Chief. “The darlings flying these old girls will need all the help they can get. Green tomatoes, every last one of them. Don’t know how they managed that demo flight at the Flow before we left, but they did. Yet this is no parade show here, mates. This is mean contemptible ocean out there, waves up at forty foot high, and the wind on deck at forty knots. When these Fairies get sight of a few fireflies from them German ships we’ll see the boys made men soon enough.”

He was referring to the wink of flak bursts the German ships would fling at the slow planes as they came in on their attack run. “Well, see that you get them pistols on straight then, eh? Least ways they might not have to actually hit the damn targets.” The magnetic pistols were keyed to go off in close proximity to the metal hull of the ship, and so the torpedo was designed to run beneath the hull and explode on the soft underbelly. “Set the depth at 34 feet. It’s Bismarck we want with these lovelies.”

“Hey Chief, what do you make our chances without Repulse along for the show?”

“Bit of bad jam, that was,” said the Chief. “I’ll bet the admiral is hacked off to no end over on King George. But that’s a worthy ship, mates. She’ll give good account of herself if it comes down to it. Don’t you worry none about that. Yours is this business right here,” he pointed with his spanner again. “Get them fish tipped off and strung up on them planes, now. And be quick about it!”

Two hours later the radar watch on King George V reported a signal ahead at long range, just over 22000 yards, and seconds after the crews were arming up the main turrets, the massive 14 inch shells heaving up on their hydraulic lifts. The riveting shrill sound of the alarm had shaken the crew to life, jangling nerves and setting the whole ship alive with frenetic, urgent motion and energy.

On the bridge Admiral Tovey waited anxiously for confirmation from his range finding stations. He considered his own theory now, the tactic he had long advocated of making a fast forward rush at the enemy at high speed to close the range. If he had been leading in Repulse, he would have given it strong consideration. Her decks were far too thin to accept plunging, long range fire, and she would do far better up inside 14,000 yards. But Repulse wasn’t here, and he was missing her six 15 inch guns as well. So instead of steaming full on at the enemy, he decided to open his aft fire arcs as well and get all his available guns into play. King George V had the armor to better endure a hit at this range.

The cruisers would help with Prince Eugen, but not make much impression on a ship like Bismarck. That was for King George V alone now, and he wanted all ten guns in action as soon as possible. As the range closed to 21000 yards he considered his situation.

The sun would be rising behind him soon, starkly silhouetting his task force against the lightning horizon while his ships fired at an enemy still wreathed in shadow and mist. He was missing Repulse, and two of his five cruisers were now safely escorting the light carrier Victorious from the scene. That left him with King George V and a few cruisers to take on the enemy. While an even match on paper, perhaps, Tovey was experienced enough to know that anything could happen the moment the big guns began to fire. He still had time to alter course and break away. He could stand off, shadow the enemy, and wait for Admiral Holland and his two big ships to come up on the scene.

I should wait, he thought. I should not fight here. Not now. Not without Repulse and Holland’s task force. God only knows where he is now. But that will go hard on me at the Admiralty, won’t it, particularly if anything happens and the enemy slips away. To have Bismarck in sight and turn away without a fight would just not do. The silence from Arethusa leads me to suspect the Germans have already got their fangs into us. For the Home Fleet to back off now would not go well at all. He bit his lip and decided to begin hostilities.

“Port fifteen,” he said to Captain Patterson, bringing the ship slightly to the left so that his rear turret could bear on the targets, adding four more big 14 inch guns to the action. “Execute when ready.”

The word was passed quickly and the massive thunder of his first salvos shook the whole ship, their yellow orange fire lighting up the night, followed by the black billow of cordite smoke. Watchmen could smell the power when it ignited, and taste it in their throats as they pressed their eyes tightly on the rangefinder goggles hoping to see the result on the char black horizon to the west. One thought he saw the tall white plumes of the shells leap up in the far distance, and then a shape emerged, darkening the early morning further, as if it stood watch against the sun itself, an ominous shadow at the edge of the sea. Another smaller shadow followed in its wake, Satan’s apprentice. The dreadful Bismarck had been found at last.

King George V was soon ready to fire again, this time from her forward batteries where the four barrel number A turret would sync with the smaller two guns above it to fire a salvo of six shells. The second massive concussion lit up the night, but seconds later Tovey saw the horizon crackle with gold and ochre fire. The enemy had returned his greeting, and he soon heard what sounded like a distant ripple of thunder, then the incoming scream of heavy metal. The salvo fell astern, mostly over his ship, and churned up the sea in the interval between King George V and her first cruiser escort.

The cruisers were led by HMS Kenya, a new ship, only just commissioned in August of 1940 as one of the first Colony Class Light Cruisers. She was a sleek, fast vessel, and, as the sun slowly began to lighten the sky in the east, she would soon possess a unique defensive advantage. Called “the Pink Lady” by her crew, the ship had been painted out in the “Montbatten Pink” camo scheme. A shade of mauve, it had the effect of blending the silhouette of the ship into the violet tinged sky of the early dawn or gloaming dusk. The British fleet had an inherited disadvantage in that they were steaming with the sun rising behind them, but the Pink Lady would remain largely invisible to spotters at this range, seen only when her twelve 6 inch guns fired their salvoes. She was the second British ship to open fire, selecting the smaller trailing shadow in the distance with her weaker guns.

Then came a violent red orange light on the horizon, followed soon by a sharp crackling roar and a low growl. No one who heard it would ever forget the sound, and the British crews knew unconsciously that the first salvo they had seen had been from Prince Eugen, and that this time it was Bismarck’s wrath flung at them from the distant sea. The sound of the incoming shells was a fearsome wail, and Admiral Tovey was stunned to see huge columns of seawater straddle his ship, great fuming geysers sending sea spray all the way up and over his bridge, the grey white foam drenching the forward view screens. He heard a hard chink, and knew intuitively that metal shrapnel had struck the armor siding of his ship.

“Damn!” he said sharply. “Two points to port, captain. That was too close for comfort.”

His rear four gun turret returned the fire, but only two barrels answered the call, a weak rejoinder to the deadly accurate fire of the enemy. Seconds later the Germans fired again, this time both ships ripping loose in what looked like a long chain of ball lightning on the horizon. The deadly shells arced up and fell, plunging heavily into the sea around them, but one found metal, striking King George V on her forward decks, very near the edge of her main turret there. The resulting explosion billowed up in smoke and fire, blotting out all view of the enemy ships for a time.

“A-turret reports a fire, sir!” Captain Patterson was listening intently, the voice tube pressed against his ear.

Aboard Bismarck his opposing counterpart, Captain Lindemann, smiled when he saw the explosion strike the British battleship. “It’s a hit!” he said eagerly.

He was a serious man, with sharp, bird-like features, thin blonde hair pressed tight on his head, penetrating beady eyes and prominent ears. He held binoculars in one hand, and a cigarette in another as he watched the battle begin. Standing a few feet away, Admiral Lütjens smiled with satisfaction.

“Give them another,” he urged. “Our guns will make short work of them. What do you see, Lindemann? How many capital ships?”

“One battleship in the lead sir, and two cruisers behind her. The cruisers appear to be falling off station. There’s a considerable gap between them and the lead battleship.”

“As they should,” said Lütjens. “Signal Prince Eugen to concentrate her fire on the cruisers. We’ll deal with this battleship.”

Anton and Bruno, the two forward turrets on the great German ship, fired again. Seconds later Caesar and Dora fired from the ship’s aft quarter. The Germans had the range, and they could already smell blood in the water. Hours earlier these same guns had made brief work of the hapless Arethusa, striking her amidships and breaking her back in a massive explosion. The crew of Bismarck had watched in awe as fire and smoke engulfed the target, and the cruiser shuddered down into the violent sea, keeling over as the great waves clutched at her.

Like a killer whale that had once tasted human flesh, the Bismarck was now a dangerous and rabid thing set loose on the seas, a thing of darkness and vengeance. Anger and death were in her guns, and the great mass of the ship seemed to split the sea itself, surging through the tumult of white capped waves at 28 knots, riding easily in the high seas with her great weight and wide beam making her a stable firing platform even in rough water.

Lütjens could not know just how much was at stake on the table of fate that morning as he clawed at his enemies. He was caught up in the heat of the moment, smelling the hot cordite and watching the enormous roar and fire of his guns. He had been fortunate that the enemy came out of the rising sun, for his range finders were able to bore in on the lead ship at once. Yet, even as he squinted through his binoculars at the distant enemy, he was unaware of another threat stalking him from the shadowy swells off his distant starboard beam.

There Admiral Holland was leading Hood and Prince of Wales in a valiant charge, engines straining as the props pushed the great ships through the heavy wave sets. They were still hidden over the dark western horizon, their bows rising and falling as they labored toward the rising sun, and the faint rumble of thunder ahead.

“Marching to the sound of the guns,” said Holland to Captain Kerr. “They’re out there somewhere,” he pointed, “and when we come up on it we’ll be in a good position. The whole scene will be silhouetted against that violet sky.”

“Aye, sir,” said Kerr. “If we get there in time, that is.”

Holland thought for a moment, how many battles like this had been fought in the past, by brave men at arms marching into uncertainty, or wriggling through the night on their bellies as they crept up on enemy lines. King George V was in a fight for her life, there was no question of it now. She had a slight advantage with 10 guns against eight on the Bismarck, and Tovey’s light cruisers could stand against Prince Eugen. It was a fairly even match, he thought, and in such circumstances it all came down to pluck and luck. But if he could arrive, in the nick of time, stealing in like Blucher on Napoleon’s flank on the field of Waterloo, then the odds would shift dramatically against the Germans. He would bring the eight 15 inch guns of the mighty Hood into the fray, and behind him Prince of Wales was the image and likeness of the ship that now bravely engaged the German dreadnought. Together they would add eighteen big guns and an equal measure of valor to the British cause.

If he could only get there in time…

Chapter 17

The sun was coming, still veiled by the purple horizon which rose in shades of vermillion to a pale blue above. The weather was off their starboard beam, where the western horizon was still wreathed in shadow and low cloud. The winds had fallen off somewhat, but the seas were still high. Bismarck surged ahead, her big guns firing again and again—nine salvoes in all until the flash and smoke of yet another hit on the leading British ship was seen, this time amidships.

“We’ve got her again,” said Lindemann, but they soon heard a thump and crash, felt the ship rock slightly, and the admiral looked at his captain.

“It seems they’ve got us as well,” he said quietly.

The news came up quick enough, and Lindemann smiled. “Near miss aft,” he said through a puff of cigarette smoke. “We took most of it on our side armor there. Minor damage.”

“Good news,” said the admiral.

“She’s turning sir!” A staff officer pointed to the battle line ahead. Lindemann and L tjens watched as thick black smoke enveloped the lead ship and she veered in a sharp turn. The line of cruisers followed behind her, firing as they made their turn. Lindemann peered through his binoculars. “There’s a third cruiser now. I thought they were falling off given the lengthy gap behind the battleship, but there’s a ship there! She just fired.”

The Pink Lady, HMS Kenya had been largely invisible, but now revealed herself with a full salvo of twelve 6 inch guns. They streaked in, falling behind the big German battleship, but two struck Prince Eugen, and they could clearly hear the explosions. Then this ship turned away, and the cruisers following her were all making smoke, adding a thick smudge of black and grey to mask the rising sun on the horizon.

Aboard King George V Admiral Tovey was not a happy man. His forward main turret was jammed by debris from a near hit and unable to bear accurately on the target now. He still had two guns above in the smaller turret, but now his rear main battery reported two misfires in the last salvo, and the crews feared that if they opened the breaches on those guns the cordite bags packed in behind the heavy shells could explode. To make matters worse, the ship had taken a second hit amidships, and damage reports were unclear. The shell had narrowly missed his rear smoke stack and sheered away the launching crane for a small seaplane mount. There was a fire, he didn’t know how bad, but he presumed it would eventually be controlled.

He considered his situation, realizing his ships were now starkly silhouetted against the rising sun, and firing at a distant, shadowy enemy who obviously had the range on him. He was down to just four operational guns for the moment. It would be a long day ahead, and he opted to get his task force on better standing.

“Captain Patterson,” he decided. “Take her hard a port. Signal cruisers to follow and make smoke. We’ll have to get the guns sorted out or this will go badly.”

“Aye, sir.” The captain quickly brought his ship around.

“Mr. Brind, walk with me, please,” said Tovey, and his Chief of Staff was smartly at his side. Tovey fixed him with a serious expression as he walked to the plotting room. “A damn bloody mess,” he said in a low voice. “I think we’d best let Admiral Holland know what’s happened. If he continues on his present course it will put him behind the action in another ten or fifteen minutes, then he’ll be chasing the enemy, with only four guns up front on Hood to harry her.” He noted the chart table.

“What’s our heading now?” The admiral looked over his shoulder at the ship’s captain, and Patterson replied.

“Steering 112 degrees southeast, sir.”

“Very well, hold that course for the moment, and see about those bloody guns!” He leaned on the chart table and squinted at the navigation course plots for his fleet and Holland’s force. “Look here,” he said. “When we get the guns operational we’ll come about to starboard, and I want to be just over the horizon, just off the enemy’s port beam. Now, if Holland turns with us he’ll be running parallel to Bismarck’s present course as well, only off her starboard beam.”

“And well behind her, sir,” said Brind.

“Yes, but still unseen.” The admiral considered. “He’s out of their radar range. What we have to do now is get Victorious into the battle and see if we can slow the Germans down. I suggest we signal the Admiralty that we’ve broken off but we’re maintaining contact with the enemy. No… tell them the engagement has ended and we are in vigorous pursuit of the enemy. That will sound just a tad better to Admiral Pound, eh? And add on code to let them know we’re launching a strike with Victorious. We haven’t scratched Bismarck as yet, and unless we slow her down she’ll edge away, or at the very least she’ll maintain her lead on us. We can stay close, but we won’t catch her if she can run full out at near thirty knots. We can nip at her shadow, but in that instance it comes down to fuel.”

“Right, sir. It’s a job for Victorious,” said Brind. “Hopefully she can get her boys airborne.” He looked at the admiral and both men knew the strike was an iffy proposition. Brind did not remind him of their earlier conversation regarding the raw, inexperienced pilots on Victorious, and she had only nine planes.

“It’s a pity we don’t have Somerville about with Ark Royal as well, sir,” said Brind. “I’d give her the better odds in a situation like this.”

“If wishes were horses, Mr. Brind,” said Tovey.

The Air crews of squadron 825 were already up on the flight deck, twenty seven men in all, ready to mount the cluster of planes huddled at the far end of the ship. Each plane would carry three men, and soon they had the signal to mount their winged horses, heavy brown leather flight jackets glistening wet with windblown spray as they hurried over the rolling armored flight deck to the planes. The launch crews were huddled there to receive them, holding on to the still cabled planes in the wind. One by one the crews clambered up into the rickety biplanes, signaling thumbs up. The last was “Speed” Pollard, so named for his slow ways, though even he seemed to move with a sense of newfound urgency.

Victorious, steaming well behind Tovey’s column, steered round into the wind and the planes were unhitched. Just ahead of the clustered Swordfish, the deck crews lurched in and pulled away the chocks. Soon the initial flight of three planes was staged slightly ahead of the others, their engines sputtering to life as the wind ruffled them, wing cables creaking as the first moved forward. The sea spray was caught by the swirling props and flung back against the windscreens. A big wave broke high enough to send spray well up and over the ship’s bow and, as she scudded on through, one of the Swordfish slipped slightly off center, prompting crews to run to the tail and bring the plane round again.

All eyes were on the Flight Deck Officer, where he stood, legs well apart and braced against the wind. By now the first flight was wet with spray, the seawater gleaming on the metal props and dampening the canvas fuselages. Then the green flag was sharply lowered and the roaring engine of the number one plane revved up to full power. The plane’s brakes were released and it went careening down the deck toward the bow, its fixed landing gear lashed by ocean spray as it cleared the ship and slowly gained altitude.

One by one the other eight planes followed, all managing to get off without incident. Minutes later they had formed up over the carrier, and then turned together on a heading of 225 degrees southwest, bound to intercept Bismarck where she was still reported to be steaming due south, not twenty miles ahead.

Tovey watched them come up and over King George V, squinting through his field glasses, smiling when the last went by, and winking at his Chief of Staff.

“I’m sure they’ll find Bismarck,” he said. “Getting good light now.” He had already turned his fleet south as well, and was now running on the parallel track he had discussed with Brind earlier, well off the enemy’s Port beam, and just over the horizon. He had little doubt the enemy had him fixed on radar, though his own equipment still showed the Germans holding course and speed due south.

At least they weren’t inclined to pursue us, he thought. The fact that we’re here may give them some pause. They’re probably uncertain as to how badly we had been hit, and may be more eager to make a clean break out into the Atlantic. The Germans were not here to fight his battleships, he knew. It was the convoy traffic they were after.

Aboard Bismarck Admiral Lütjens was jubilant when the British broke off the engagement. “What was that, five minutes and we put them to route?” he said happily.

“Shall we pursue?” Captain Lindemann gestured.

“No need,” said the admiral. “That is their job. Ours is to get out into the Atlantic. Hold course and speed and we’ll make our turn shortly.”

They steamed south for twenty minutes until Lütjens was certain the British would not angle back into the fight, then a signalman rush in with an intercept. The Germans had decoded it and knew at once that the wound they had inflicted was not fatal.

“They’re shadowing us off the port beam,” said Lindemann. “Strange that they broke radio silence.”

“Informing their Admiralty, no doubt,” said Lütjens.

“Well, we have just taken a light hit, mostly shrapnel on the armor belt. Nothing to worry about. But radar watch reports their gear is down, so we won’t be able to keep an eye on them that way.”

“The guns were firing at high elevation,” said Lütjens. “The concussion may have rattled the antenna. Any word on those cruisers behind us?”

“Last contact had them following, sir, yet at a respectful distance.”

“Yes,” said Lütjens, “we’ve taught them that much. In another ten minutes we’ll make our turn and signal full speed. How is Prince Eugen doing?”

“She suffered two minor hits from smaller caliber guns off that phantom cruiser. Strange we could not see the damn ship. The fires were put out and she is both seaworthy and battle ready, sir.”

“Good. Have her increase speed at once and take station ahead of us. I assume her radar is still functioning?”

“Aye, sir.”

Minutes later the watchmen spotted something on the horizon and soon signaled enemy planes inbound. The crews were still at action stations, but now the smaller AA batteries were swinging round to the port aft bearing, taught hands cranking the chrome aligning wheels to bring the pom-poms to bear, others pulling levers and letting the smooth hydraulics swing the turrets around. Her aft quarter had six single barreled 20mm AA guns, and four more twin 37mm batteries as well.

As the enemy planes made their slow approach they split into three sections, one swinging to port, another starboard and the third bearing straight in on Bismarck’s aft. The rippling fire of the flak batteries raked the sky in front of them, but the planes kept on coming, lumbering through the puffs of exploding shells as bigger secondary batteries joined the fire.

Lindemann went to the side windows and out through a hatch to a watch bridge to have a look. He was back in an instant, ready to maneuver if the enemy got torpedoes on track. “May I, sir?” he asked Lütjens.

“The ship is yours, captain. You may indulge yourself.”

Lindemann expected to see his considerable AA gun protection score several hits on the planes, but they still lumbered on, their ponderous sloth secretly confounding the predictor sighting element on the German guns, which had been calibrated to oppose much faster, more modern aircraft. Most of the shells were exploding well in front of the planes. Then he saw something fall from the lead Swordfish, lancing down toward the turbulent sea. Just as he made ready to give the order to turn, he was surprised to see three explosions. The torpedoes had all gone off the instant their sleek, round noses hit the icy water!

The aft subflight veered away, shorn of their teeth and able to do little more. Now Lindemann rushed back into the bridge, keen to observe the approach of the remaining six planes. Again they launched and two of three torpedoes exploded as they hit the ocean off his port side. One ran true.

“Starboard twenty,” he shouted, maneuvering his ship to avoid the oncoming torpedo. On the other side of the ship one more torpedo exploded harmlessly on contact with the ocean, and two slipped into the sea, running true. One of the oncoming planes went so far as to overfly the ship, raking her with machinegun fire as it went by, in a furious but fruitless outburst that injured no one.

The first torpedo missed, and Lindemann maneuvered smartly to try an avoid the second, yet realized he could not do so. It struck Bismarck amidships, on her thickest armor with an audible plunk, but it did not explode. The captain looked at Lütjens, amazed. “That’s the lot of them,” he said, relieved. “Not a single hit. Half their torpedoes exploded when they hit the ocean, and the only one that got through to strike us failed to go off!”

The admiral was very pleased. He watched the planes flutter off into a bank of low clouds like frustrated moths, pursued by a horde of stinging bees. The flak still chased them, but no plane was hit.

“Signal Prince Eugen and make your turn now, captain,” said Lütjens. “Come round to 230 degrees southwest.”

Chapter 18

Wohlfarth was elated. He had put a torpedo into a Royal Navy battlecruiser! His seventh ship would not be credited as a kill, but the fact that he took such a ship out of Admiral Tovey’s battle fleet at a crucial moment would assure him the Knight’s Cross for sure.

He turned to his navigator, all smiles after they had successfully evaded the British destroyers. “Souvad, you’re a genius! A true seer!”

“Thank you, captain.” The man made a genteel bow, accepting his laurels as given, and satisfied that the whole crew would share in their moment of glory once they reached the U-boat pens at Lorient.

“Let’s get home then,” said the captain. “That big ship is still steaming in circles, and the British destroyers are hovering around her like fitful hens. “Set the course, Souvad. We’ll run deep for a while and surface in an hour.”

They crept away all that day, and the following morning the signalman reported message traffic when Tovey made his report to the Admiralty. Wohlfarth read the message with even greater satisfaction. “There’s been a battle,” he said. “Bismarck has brushed aside the British Home Fleet and is steaming south for the Atlantic.”

“All the more reason to celebrate, captain,” said Souvad.”

“I told you I would keep Bismarck from harm,” Wohlfarth boasted. “And that is exactly what we did. The British could have used the big guns on that battlecruiser. We may have tipped the scales just enough to assure Lindemann and Bismarck prevailed.”

“No doubt, sir.”

They had been sailing south all night, and the news of the battle that morning ran through the boat, heartening the crew. Wohlfarth issued special rations, and even a round of brandy for all his officers. The men seemed cool, relieved, and very glad to be heading home now on their first major outing of in this new boat.

The seas were rough as they traveled on the surface that day, the lookouts keenly searching every horizon for any sign of enemy planes. They were now in the zone designated “Western Approaches” by the Royal Navy command. It was often thick with heavily escorted convoy traffic, though Wohlfarth did not regret that he had no further torpedoes. Taking on a convoy here was usually a bad move. Air patrols out of the U.K. were another dangerous threat. The best thing for a U-boat captain to do was to get well out into the Atlantic, where the short legged British destroyers would be thinned out, then look to find a lightly guarded convoy such as HX-126 and have a feast.

That afternoon a message came in from Group West congratulating U-556 and informing him that the ship he had successfully torpedoed was HMS Repulse. He was given immediate clearance to return home and a full month’s leave for his entire crew.

As the evening approached, the boat was forced to dive when the watch spotted an incoming plane, a big lumbering Catalina out of Ireland. Far from being mere spotter planes, the Catalinas now carried four lethal depth charges and could make immediate attacks against any target they spotted. Wohlfarth was taking no chances. He dove at once, quickly altering course, and praying that he had not been seen.

An hour passed without incident and he decided to move to periscope depth again to have a look around before surfacing. To his great surprise, he was amazed to spot yet another large British warship silhouetted against the gloaming horizon, and this time he needed no cable to identify the ship.

“Good lord,” he said. “That’s the Rodney!”

HMS Rodney, an interwar build, was a massive lumbering battleship with an unmistakable silhouette because all of her big guns were on the forward segment of the ship, with her armored superstructure and bridge con well back of the huge turrets, like a solitary iron tower, where the ship’s captain surveyed all his guns at once. Slow and heavily armored, the Rodney was often used in convoy escort roles, as her best practical speed was in the range of eighteen to twenty-one knots, though she normally cruised at fifteen to eighteen knots. From the size of her bow wash Wohlfarth estimated the ship was in a hurry. Many a U-boat captain had seen her at sea, in one convoy or another, though none had dared to challenge the pack of hounds she usually had in tow, hungry fast destroyers that would be a nightmare when they were set loose on the hunt.

Wohlfarth swiveled about, leery of just that, but he saw no other ships and he was surprised to find the big ship was apparently steaming alone. The British must be very worried to risk a large ship like that without proper escort. He noted its course and bearing, realizing that this ship must have been detached from convoy duty to join the battle against Bismarck. That thought disturbed him somewhat. Though he knew the Rodney could never catch Bismarck at sea on her own, if she came upon his big sister ship in the thick of a fight, the considerable power of the battleship’s nine 16 inch guns would weigh heavily in the action. He knew what he must do.

“Signalman,” he said quietly. “Raise your antenna, I want to send a message to Group West.”

“And break radio silence, captain?”

“How else?” said Wohlfarth with a wink. “Send this: HMS Rodney bearing 225 degrees southwest, my position. Speed 18 knots. No escorts. Time stamp it and send it at once.”

“Aye, sir.”

The captain would at least let the powers that be know that another large British ship was on the prowl here. It was yet another stroke of fate.

“That ship is of no concern,” said Admiral Lütjens, when the signal came in from Group West. Strategic command was passing now to that headquarters as Bismarck moved further south out of Group North’s domain.

“I agree,” said Lindemann, “But we haven’t managed to shake off the British Home Fleet,” he cautioned. “They know exactly where we are now, and I can only assume they also know the speed and capabilities of their own ships. They’re vectoring Rodney in on us, sir.”

“This position information shows her over 150 miles away,” Lütjens protested. “There is no possible way she could move to intercept us. That ship is lucky if it can make twenty knots in these seas.”

Lindemann took another long drag on his cigarette. His coffee was already cold in his mug and he needed sleep. It had been a long day, beginning with the adrenaline of a quick naval engagement with the British Home Fleet followed by an air raid. Thankfully no further planes harassed the ship that morning, but at mid day a second wave of Swordfish torpedo bombers came at them again, and this time none of their torpedoes exploded on contact with the water. All ran true, and it was only his expert seamanship that allowed them to avoid a hit. The British may blunder about at times, but they were at least smart enough to learn from their mistakes.

The captain did not like his situation. His ship was running fast and true, with little damage and many prospects, but they could not shake off the pursuing enemy all that day. This news of yet another big British battleship vectoring in from the east was therefore disturbing. He was thinking in practical terms now, not in the mindset of the admiral. Bismarck and Prince Eugen had been steaming for several days now, and at high speeds required for the breakout they were burning a lot of fuel. That damn leaky fuel hose had cost him 200 tons of fuel, and Lütjens decision not to top off at Bergen loomed like a shadow in his mind now.

They were running full out, at a whisker over 28 knots in these seas, but anything could happen, he knew. If one of those antiquated British planes got a lucky hit, they could lose speed if they had to make repairs, and the pursuing enemy would quickly catch them up. Bad torpedoes and leaky fuel hoses, he thought. As much as he respected the admiral and valued his own judgment as well, these were the things that too often decided the fate of nations.

“I don’t like it,” he said, exhaling a puff of heavy smoke. “They are too close—and not simply cruisers. We now know of at least two battleships gunning for us now. Rodney may be out of the action as we see things, but King George V is still right behind us with a pack of fast cruisers. And where are Hood and Prince of Wales? I can only assume that they are behind us as well. In fact, the British may have broken off simply to join forces and assemble a larger battle fleet.”

“Let them come,” Lütjens said flatly. “We had no trouble with them earlier, and we’ll have no trouble should they be brazen enough to challenge us again.” It was boastful, and the Admiral knew it, but there was little more to be said about it. The situation would play out as fate would have it.

“Perhaps you are correct, Admiral,” said Lindemann, but he still held deep misgivings about this mission. Assuming no further damage, then it all came down to fuel. His ships might outrange the British, particularly their newer battleships, which were notoriously short legged for a big ship. How long could the enemy keep up this pace in pursuit before these same worries about petrol were dancing in the heads of the British fleet commanders?

“I suggest we alter course at dusk, sir,” said Lindemann. “Let’s see if we can shake off the hounds for a time.”

“That’s the spirit, captain. We’ll steam for another few hours on this heading, then you may make your maneuver.”

Two hours later the watchmen reported all clear behind, seeing nothing on the horizon. The purple sky was deepening slowly to a deeper color of good red wine, and Bismarck signaled ahead to Prince Eugen to make a sudden turn to port, steering due south.

As the light began to fade Admiral Tovey was still restless on the bridge of King George V. The flight crews on HMS Victorious were gaining experience, but the weather report had taken a severe turn for the worse. The front that had been stirring up the waves and chasing them south all day was finally upon them just after the second torpedo strike they launched at mid-day. Winds were up again, gusting over forty knots and promising worse as the evening came on. The raw air crews were tired, edgy after their first two real combat missions, and needed rest. He gave the order to halt operations for the night, hoping for better weather in the morning. Yet the meteorologist had no good news for him.

“I’m afraid we’re in for a bit of a rough patch, sir,” the man said. “I don’t expect clearing for another 48 hours.”

This was the crucial time, thought Tovey. Bismarck would try to shake him off tonight, he was certain of it. The two fleets had already steamed over 400 miles at high speed since the engagement that morning. His guns were all back in operation now, but Bismarck was well out in front of him. He sent the fast light cruiser Kenya out in the van now, more certain that this ship could keep a hold on the big German battleship visually than he could. But Kenya had not yet been fitted out with her Type 271 surface radar kit, only the Type 279 Air radar. Still, she could make all of 32 knots, and her unique camo coloring was best suited for operations near dusk.

He had no word from the Admiralty, or from Holland on the Hood, though he assumed that this force was still steaming on a parallel course to his own. As evening colored the sky with deep violet, the enemy made their move. Yet thankfully, the keen eyes of the lookouts on Kenya still kept the tall superstructure of the Bismarck in sight—though the inverse was not true. The ‘Pink Lady’ was out in her finest satin mauve dress at this hour, her coloring blending perfectly into the skyline. No one on Bismarck sighted her, or knew they had even been seen as the big ship made her getaway turn to the south.

The watchman in the high crow’s nest on Kenya’s main mast was shivering with the cold and queasy with the rolling seas. The winds buffeted him fiercely, but he stolidly kept his eyes on the target ahead, until it seemed the shadow of the enemy battleship deepened in hue and grew larger. His first thought was that the ship had turned to confront its pursuers, intent on battle at dusk, and he sent as much down the line to the bridge, warning “Bismarck turning on our position, right ahead!”

Kenya flashed the news behind her via lamp to the waiting eyes of Captain Patterson on King George V.

“She’s turning sir, coming round for a fight.”

“At this hour?” Tovey did not put the prospect out of his mind for a single minute, but the thought that Bismarck would now seek battle jarred him. He gave the order to hold course until Kenya confirmed the sighting. As it happened, a loose cable in the ship’s mast has served to keep the admiral waiting far too long.

Kenya’s lookout soon realized he had made an error. The big ship was turning, alright, but not coming round for a battle. He marked her new bearing, estimated it at 180 degrees south, and sent this along, though the message was not received on the bridge when the communications cable was jarred loose by a sudden lurch of the main mast in the unsteady seas. By the time lookouts further down had made the same observation, and passed it via voice tube to the bridge, which passed it back to the aft lanterns, and thence off to King George V, nearly twenty minutes had transpired.

Tovey knew he was not in for another fight ten minutes after the first warning came. If Bismarck had turned they should be seeing her by now, yet Kenya, was barely visible to his own eyes, the only ship on the darkening horizon. He knew in his gut that Bismarck had turned to run south—so they must turn as well. He discussed the matter with Brind.

“But which way, sir?” his Chief of Staff questioned. “We can’t make a heading change until we have confirmation.”

“Blast it!” Tovey was angry again. “What in blazes is taking Kenya so long?”

Minutes later his assumption was proved correct when he got the signal via lamp that Bismarck was headed due south. He immediately gave the order to the fleet to turn as well. “And code it well to the Admiralty. Send that Jerry is out on Whitehall from the Strand. That should do it.”

If the Germans would think to look closely at a map of London they might put that together and see that a man on Whitehall Street, and coming from the Strand, would be surely walking due south. To an Englishman it would be immediately apparent, and Tovey, ever wary that the Germans could decode his signals, had wrapped his message in yet another grey overcoat, hoping it would confound his enemies for a few precious hours more.

The Admiralty got his message well enough, as did Sir Lancelot Holland on HMS Hood, and when he heard it the admiral smiled and turned slowly to Captain Kerr.

“Come sixty degrees to port,” he said quietly. “Assume a new heading, at 180 degrees due south.”

The chase was still on.