John Schettler - Golem 7

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.

The last timeLütjens 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.