John Schettler - Golem 7

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.

Tovey was informedof 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.