John Schettler - Golem 7

Earlier that day the Admiral had passed a moment of doubt when a German Focke Wulf Kondor maritime reconnaissance aircraft spotted Rodney steaming on an intercept course. His signal intercepts had long since heard the chatter between Admiral Tovey and Holland, and he already knew that at least three more British battleships were hot on his heels. Given the odds he was facing at that moment, and down to 12 knots for the last two hours, he wisely elected to forsake his planned raid on Convoy WS-8B, and steam instead for the protection of the French coast.

When Hood and Prince of Wales came up, he had no choice but to increase speed and hope the temporary hull patches fitted by his engineers would hold. The damage was held in check while he engaged the enemy, stunned and elated when his ship had scored a direct hit, causing a massive explosion on Hood before she sank. It was a thrilling and awesome moment, and his weary crew took heart when they saw Prince of Wales also hit and turning away behind a smoke screen. They had now faced three British battleships and prevailed in every case, clearly demonstrating the superiority of German engineering and fighting spirit. Though he knew better, seeing the ship in action now could indeed convince him that Bismarck was unsinkable.

But the action had taken a toll. The patch on Bismarck’s bow had slipped and she was again taking on water. The ship was down slightly at the bow, but the water was still being pumped out and he had good buoyancy. Now to deal with this fourth battleship. He stared through his field glasses, giving the order to fire at once.

“We’ll see if they like the tea I’m serving up this evening,” he told Lindemann coldly. Then the big guns roared and the smell of cordite clotted his nostrils again. The bell had sounded and Bismarck was on the attack.

“Up periscope!”said Wohlfarth aboard U-556. The ruddy cheeked U-boat captain was on the hunt again. He had been following in the wake of the unwieldy British battleship all day it seemed. For some time he cruised brazenly on the surface, certain that his tiny 500 ton U-boat would never be spotted by watchmen or radars, lost in the rising and falling swells of the wild sea.

He tried to go full out at 15 knots, but given the grim weather conditions and seas, he could make no more than 12 knots. The battleship had much greater stability at just over 41,000 tons, and greater speed, even though she was one of the slowest battleships afloat. So it was no surprise to him that he soon lost sight of Rodney , her top masts slipping beneath the distant horizon by mid-day. Still he kept on, for he had a hunch where she was going, having read several signals intercepts that day. He knew the odds were stacking up against Bismarck , and he stolidly held his track, working his way a little more east, then a little more south, until his course saw him running between Rodney and the British convoy he soon spotted off his port beam.

A convoy meant destroyers and fast cruisers might be present, and so he decided to submerge his boat and continue on in the relative undersea calm. After taking a cautious look, however, he saw nothing in the way of destroyer escorts about. Undoubtedly they, too, had been summoned by the British to harry Bismarck . What to do?

Here, in this quiet, murky world, he fancied himself a great sleek shark, gliding on the fringes of a school of big fat tuna. He had another look at the convoy, urged by his executive officer to use his last two fish to sink a few more troop transports this time.

“Better fare here,” Captain, he had said. “And better the British troops go into the sea than off to Egypt to fight Rommel, eh?”

Wohlfarth nodded, but something gnawed at his soul that he should not engage here, that he should keep his southerly heading in the wake of the British battleship, and find something more to do with his precious torpedoes.

“Not yet,” he breathed. “I made this mistake once before. Not this time. We’ll wait. If I don’t find a better target we can always return.”

Hours later his wait was over. He had come up to periscope depth and now looked to again see the familiar silhouette of HMS Rodney in the distance. The great ship was turning, as if angling to get a better bearing on some distant enemy, and Wohlfarth knew exactly what he was after. So he ordered his boat to turn as well, slowly plotting a course so that he could steal up on the British ship and get into a good position to attack. He was half an hour doing so, and by that time he saw the first bright flashes of big guns tearing the night open with their searing fire, and he knew Bismarck was engaged.

“Now’s our time,” he shouted. “Ready on tubes one and two.” He would do his utmost to keep his pledge to keep Bismarck from all harm, and he prayed to Neptune, and any gods who would listen, that his last two torpedoes would be enough.

“Ready, sir.”

“On my mark – Fire One!”

The claxon sounded and red lights winked as Wohlfarth held his breath, counting off the slow seconds.

“Fire Two!”

The last of his torpedoes were on their way.

Aboard Rodney Paul climbed quickly down the ladder finding a seaman there struggling with a hatch. It had swung heavily shut on the man’s lower leg when the ship was jarred, and Paul was able to get it open, freeing the man’s leg and helping him through the hatch. Two other crewmen came running to take the man.

“We’re hit below!” one man said. “In the main hold near the forward tubes. The ship’s taking water and the hatches are still open. It’s chaos down there, sir. We need an officer!”

Paul nodded, quickly running for the next gangway and ladder down. What am I doing, he thought? I haven’t time to plug leaks here! But he realized that anything he could do would only improve Rodney’s chances, however slight. What would he do on the bridge but indulge his own childish fancy, as if he was but a mere spectator now, watching another showing of his old favorite movie Sink the Bismarck. No, he had to do something, anything in the time that remained to him here. He had stuck his nose in it, thinking that all he had to do was engage in quiet logic with the doughty Scotsman Dalrymple-Hamilton. But this was real life now. In for a penny, in for a pound.

The smell of the ever blackening smoke, the harsh bite of cordite in the air; the surging wash of freezing cold seawater riveted home the reality of his situation. It was no mere war game now, but the frantic struggle of men and machines at sea, each group bent of surviving by the only means they had—killing and sinking the enemy men and vessels darkening their horizon.

How much time did he have left? What could he do? Kelly was at the watch back at the Arch complex, and he was probably already revving up the turbines to 80% power, queuing up Paul’s retraction scheme in the computers.

Down he went, into the belly of the whale, until he was soon up to his ankles in seawater. The guns fired again, well above him now and the great ship shuddered. Metal fixtures, railings, hoods, knobs, were literally shook loose from their moorings, some clanging on the metal deck as he steadied himself, arms braced against the closest bulkhead. He careened through a smoky hatch and saw a great gash in the side of the ship. There was another explosion and the ship rocked heavily. Men were frothing about in a chaos of inrushing seawater, and he helped two or three to reach the safety of the hatch he came through.

“I’m the last,” the exhausted seaman clamored, and together they forced the hatch shut against an increasing pressure of flowing water.