John Schettler - Golem 7

“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.”