John Schettler - Altered States

“Fourth ship sighted!” The watchman from above had spotted Prinz Eugen , last in line behind the two German behemoths. The ragged shadows of the battleships now rippled with fire, and Holland knew that the Germans had corrected from their spotting salvo and were now firing for effect.

“Quite the pair of dragons,” said Captain Glennie, stepping towards the starboard hatch himself for a better look. Then they heard the awful whine of the incoming shells again, as if the rounds were devouring the air as they plummeted down and down until the bright metal tips came careening in, and one struck Hood flush on the conning tower with a tremendous explosion.

Holland was flung from the Captain’s chair, the blast and concussion nearly deafening him. The glass screening the compass platform was completely shattered and fell like broken shards of razor edged ice all about the deck. Smoke flooded through the shattered viewports and fire licked at the hard armored tower from below. Commanders Davis and Jessel were down. Mister Owens, the Admiral’s secretary, was dead. Young Bill Dundas, action midshipman of the watch, had been flung against the back bulkhead. The helmsman was unconscious on the deck, the binnacle still vibrating in its mounting and another a man screaming for help there. Yet the voices seemed distant and muted, and the Admiral instinctively reached for his ear as he pulled himself up to one knee with his other hand, feeling a trickle of blood there. Everyone on the outer deck was gone, the door to the starboard hatch blown completely off and now lying atop the limp body of Captain Glennie.

The Squadron Navigation Officer Warrand had gone back to the chart room to fetch a map and was spared. He emerged to see the chaos on the bridge, and quickly ran to Holland’s side.

“Take the wheel, Mister Warrand…” Holland’s voice was thin and weak, and Warrand saw a stain on blood at his side where he must have been hit with a splinter. It was only his heavy duffel coat that saved him from more grievous harm.

He was up in a flash, grabbing the long umbilical of a voice tube and calling down for medics. Take the wheel… The wheel was the ship, and Warrand knew he had to take command. He reached the station, barely able to see through the choking smoke. Tovey is west he thought. We’ve got to lead the fight that way, and he pulled heavily on the wheel, bringing the ship around thirty points. “Ahead full!” He shouted, but there was no answer.

Hood reeled like a drunken fighter, staggering across the ring after taking a right cross flush on the jaw. Warrand was alone. He looked to see that Yeoman Wright was also down near the flag bridge. No voices called from the gun director’s station or the watch above. He seemed the only living thing in this chamber of death. Then he felt the ship shake again with yet another hit, this time on her starboard side. The forward battery was silent for a long moment, but now he saw the turret shift and train to the right to compensate for the turn he had made. Then they fired.

The ship surged on, the wind of its own haste finally clearing the smoke, and he saw that he was sailing through a forest of white seawater, vast pillars spouting up from the wave tops, two straddling the bow and four more dead ahead. A rain of water washed over the bow from the two near misses. He pulled the wheel around ten points to starboard, desperately trying to take some evasive maneuver.

Now fresh hands were on the bridge, hastening up from below. Medics were at Holland’s side, lifting him onto a stretcher. His head lolled on the pillow, snow white hair stained with blood. Hollow voices called from the standing voice pipe to the forward gun director’s position like whispers of ghosts in the chaos on the bridge.

“Hoist Blue 3!” Warrand shouted to the Flag Bridge as the ship turned, hoping someone would answer. Yeoman Wright stirred to life, back on his feet again, his face bleeding where the glass had cut him, but otherwise alive. He relayed the order. They needed to signal Repulse by flag, but Warrand knew it was likely the ship would try to match his maneuver in any case. He felt the ship shudder again, but this time it was the two aft turrets firing together. Hood was dazed, bludgeoned, but still alive.

Then he looked out the shattered forward screens and saw yet another ship darken the horizon, looming ever larger second by second as it came. A flash of orange erupted from it, another gladiator coming to the arena. Who was there? Scharnhorst?Gneisenau? God Help us…

* * *

Lieutenant Commander Wells ran into the plotting room, breathless with the climb and saluted as he handed off the message to Flag Lieutenant Villers. He was not supposed to run, he knew, but could not help himself. The fight was underway.

Villers glanced at the message, reading what looked to be a unintelligible code. ‘Y -2 — ADM, C-in-C. H.F., V.B. Cone, IIBS ICH 320-17-67-39°N, 27–79°W, 315-24.’ But to a knowing eye it was completely transparent, and he quietly read the message aloud to Admiral Tovey.

“Emergency to Admiralty and C-in-C, Home Fleet. From BC1 — two battleships and one heavy cruiser, bearing 320, distance 17 miles. My position 67–39 north, 27–79 west. My course 315. Speed 24 knots.”

Tovey looked up, his eyes squinting at his Flag Lieutenant. Villers read the message again as he walked slowly to the Admiral’s side, handing him the signal.

“It appears Holland has a battle on his hands. No further details.”

Tovey took a deep breath, but before he could say another word there was a warning gong from above. A signalman hastened in from the bridge. “Alarm Red 20 sir. Two ships sighted.”

Tovey nodded and looked at his plotting board. He slowly turned the marker for HMS Invincible to the right, pointing it at the damaged Hood . Then he reached for the enemy marker that represented Scharnhorst and Gneisenau .

“So we have company,” he said. “Salmon and Gluckstein have come to dinner. Anything coming from that quarter would have to be the Twins.”

“Shall we engage, sir? We’ll blow them half way to hell in short order.”

“No, Mister Villers, we shall not. The ship will come to battle stations, steer steady on and ahead full emergency. Our business is with Hood . Let them follow us at their peril.” He looked up, lips pursed, eyes alight. The ship’s clock wound on, the chime striking out the hour, twelve slow bells to signal midnight, the witching hour.

“Mister Wells,” he said, “now you may run.”