John Schettler - Golem 7

“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 awaythe 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.