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Authors: Steven Wilson

BOOK: Between The Hunters And The Hunted
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“Good Lord!” Hardy said. “No wonder she cut us loose.”
“Sir?” Cole said.
“You might as well know it. We were escorting
Prince of Wales
to America. The prime minister is on board and he is to meet your President Roosevelt.” Hardy looked at Land knowingly. “She cut us loose to outrun the bastard. That's her only hope. She has to get out of the Mid-Atlantic Air Gap and under Canadian air cover faster than you can say Jack Sprat.” Air coverage from England, Canada, or Iceland, when it wasn't socked in, could only reach a small portion of the vast reaches of the North Atlantic. It was the area in between, the Mid-Atlantic Air Gap, that was the most dangerous. “We'll have to return to the Flow for fuel,” Hardy said. “Unless we can pick up a spot along the way.”
“
Prometheus
can stay out a bit longer,” Land noted.
“Oh,
Prometheus
can fly around the world without bumping her arse,” Hardy said.
Cole lowered his head to hide his grin. He was beginning to like this guy—he was the sort of man that said the first thing that came to mind and said it the way that he felt and to hell with everything else. He watched as the captain regained his composure.
“Yes, of course
Prometheus
can stay out longer and we're the better for it. If Cole here is correct, and no offense to you, sir,” Hardy said.
“Not at all, Captain,” Cole replied.
“The Royal Navy has its hands full, doesn't it?” Hardy continued. A telephone in a box on the wheelhouse bulkhead behind Cole jangled heavily. A yeoman of signals quickly answered it, listened for a moment, and reported to Hardy: “Foremast starboard lookout reports ships sighted green oh-eight, sir.”
Land and Hardy immediately swung their binoculars to that location.
“Can you see anything, Number One?” Hardy said.
“Not yet, sir.”
“Yeoman,” Hardy said, “confirm to the lookout. Number of ships.”
“Right, sir.”
“Mr. Cole,” Hardy said, adjusting the focus on the binoculars. “What was an American naval officer doing aboard an English bomber?”
“I'm an observer with Coastal Command, sir.”
“I see,” Hardy said, dropping his binoculars and fixing Cole with a sly grin. “And now you're an observer with H.M.S. Firedancer, aren't you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hardy searched the horizon again and said merrily: “I wonder what we will all observe together.”
 
 
It was a magnificent sight. Gray ships big and small, their dazzle-pattern camouflage, wild slashes of black, white, and gray paint that destroyed the order of the vessels, as it was meant to do. It was meant to challenge the enemy gunners so that at a distance the symmetry of the vessels' shapes would be destroyed. Their size, speed, power, and direction would be safely hidden like an actor's face behind greasepaint.
First came six destroyers, two each coming out of Scapa Flow from the Sounds of Hoxa, Hoy, and Switha; small ships whose names were far from intimidating and, despite their 4.5-inch rapid-firing guns and torpedo tubes running fore and aft, might not be taken seriously. They were paired, sweeping the channels leading out of the Flow and into the three channels of the huge main field that protected the ships within the Flow from U-boats. In the North Channel were
Icarus
and
Nestor
,
Icarus
slightly in the lead so that her paravanes weren't fouled by
Nestor
. If the German Condors or U-boats had seeded the channel with mines, either vessel's paravanes might cut the anchoring cable, and the mine would float to the surface. It was then that the antiaircraft gun crews had their fun, shooting the bobbing sphere, only a small part of its glistening, algae-covered black hide, studded with prongs, visible above the surface. But there was not fun for the gunners today; the destroyers plowed the depths to no avail.
Astern of the destroyers came H.M.S. Hermione, a cruiser and veteran of the
Bismarck
chase, although to her crew's disgust she had only been posted to block
Bismarck
's path and had never had the chance to engage her.
Astern of her, regal, calm, her thirty-seven thousand tons driven easily through the black, icy waters by the 4x Parsons single-reduction-geared turbines spinning four three-bladed manganese-bronze 14.5-foot-diameter screws, was H.M.S. Rodney. She was two decades old but she carried herself as well as she did when she came out of the Cornwell-Laird-Birkenhead Shipyard. She was stately, as she sailed out the North Channel, and when the sea parted before her bows in respect it did so knowing that it was
Rodney
who sank
Bismarck
. Perhaps it was H.M.S. Dorsetshire who dashed in to let go a few torpedoes at the smoldering wreck, but the cruiser could not have done it; by God, she couldn't have gotten close to the mighty ship had not
Rodney
with her nine 406mm guns pounded
Bismarck
into submission. It was H.M.S. Rodney who had sunk the mighty Kriegsmarine vessel, not H.M.S. Dormouse,
Rodney
's crew proclaimed, and they were more than willing to fight for her honor.
But there was a problem with H.M.S. Rodney, a very apparent flaw in her beautiful lines, brought about by a gaggle of haggling politicians who did not know a ship from a sheep. To meet the requirements of various naval treaties her main armament, all of it, was placed forward. There was nothing of consequence aft except a truncated stern that gave her a very ungainly appearance. But appearances aside, because appearances can be deceiving, the problem, the flaw, was that the three-by-three-turret arrangement meant that A Turret, well forward, was nearly flush with the deck. And B Turret, right behind the first turret, was high up over A, sitting on an armored barbette so that she could shoot over her sister turret. Well enough designed because that brought six guns to bear straight ahead. But C Turret was placed directly behind B Turret, flush on the deck as if the Admiralty was ashamed to acknowledge its presence. So C Turret could shoot to port or starboard but not forward. And none of the three turrets could protect the exposed stern.
In the Middle Channel steamed the destroyers
Tarter
and
Active
, mimicking the actions of their sisters in the North Channel. Behind them at a respectful distance were the cruisers H.M.S. Kenya and H.M.S. Norfolk. They, like
Hermione
, were fast and in surface actions they would be the spoilers, waiting to slip in and unleash torpedoes at capital ships, laying down smoke with the destroyers; hounds after a boar.
In the South Channel came
Lance
and
Anthony
and behind them, towering over the destroyers, was H.M.S. King George V.
KGV
. Vickers-Armstrong, Walker Navy Yard, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and only a child. Laid down on 1 January 1937, she was completed in 1940 and after her working up trails, she was accepted by a grateful Royal Navy. She had ten fourteen-inch .45-caliber MK VII guns and she'd fought
Bismarck
, but she was young and arrogant and wanted more. She wanted
Sea Lion
. She wanted to be the first in and the first to draw blood, and the one to send
Sea Lion
to the bottom of the North Sea.
Out of the three channels, North, Middle, and South, steamed the Home Fleet and when they were well clear of the channels they would increase speed and seek out the enemy. At a time that would be most opportune for the mission, the six destroyers would fall out and return to Scapa Flow because this was an emergency, and the three cruisers and two battleships would make a high-speed run, traveling much farther, to save
Prince of Wales
and sink the enemy, and the destroyers could not keep pace.
The six destroyers would turn once the others were safe out to sea and, bidding a farewell to the larger ships, sail home. Destroyers—born many years before to destroy torpedo boats that could quickly run up and launch torpedoes into the side of slower vessels, adapted to fight U-boats during the First World War, now designed to find and sink the descendents of those U-boats. The natural enemy of U-boats: fast, loaded with depth charges, vicious little predators that bit happily into the green seas with a bone between their teeth so that they could run up on the U-boats and kill them—destroyers.
Irony.
Twelve U-boats, in the hands of twelve skilled
Kapitan
s waiting precisely in the path of the Home Fleet; targets aplenty for the six veteran destroyers of the Royal Navy that escorted the battleships to sea. Battleships not nearly as maneuverable as destroyers and cruisers not as adept at fighting U-boats as destroyers. Big targets for U-boat torpedoes.
Soon the vessels that could best fight and certainly defeat the U-boats that lurked in the depths of the ocean would be turning their backs to their traditional enemies and steaming back to Scapa Flow.
Chapter 27
H.M.S.
Firedancer
, the North Sea
 
“It's called kye,” Land said to Cole as a rating handed the American a cup of thick hot chocolate.
“It'll foul your plumbing if you take too much of it,” Hardy added in disgust. “Best to stick to tea. You've got to piss a pot full every ten minutes, but you can do that over the side if times demand it.”
“I don't suppose you have any coffee,” Cole said, deciding against the kye. He found the only use for the sludge with a thin sheen of grease floating on the top was to wrap his hands around the chipped porcelain cup for warmth.
“You suppose right, Mr. Cole,” Hardy said. “The Royal Navy does not have the luxuries that you're used to in the American Navy. We're smaller and not as wealthy, but we're as keen as mustard when it comes to a go at Jerry.”
“Yes, sir,” Cole said, handing the kye back to the seaman.
“For God's sake we're civilized enough to have alcohol on board. Well managed of course. Takes the edge off the excitement a bit. Smoothes a man's nerves when the time's right. You chaps don't go in for that sort of thing, do you? Prohibition and all that. Uncivilized practice. Goes against nature.”
“I believe Prohibition was repealed some time ago,” Land offered.
“What?” Hardy said. He turned to Cole for confirmation. “Is he right about this? You Americans finally came to your senses?”
“Yes, sir,” Cole said.
“Well,” Hardy said with satisfaction, as if his comments had had something to do with the turnaround in attitude. “High time, I say. Puritans, wasn't it? Mormons? Who brought about that silly practice in the first place? Methodists, by God, it must have been the Methodists. Never find a member of the Church of England even contemplating such a thing.”
“You're Methodist, aren't you, sir?” Land said.
“Shut up, Number One.”
Cole watched as Land moved diplomatically back to the wheelhouse. He was on his own with this strange man.
“I can't say, sir,” Cole replied.
Hardy gave his suggestion some thought before announcing his decision. “Puritans,” he said emphatically.
“Fleet in sight, sir,” the starboard bridge lookout called out. “Green oh-two.”
“There they are,” Hardy confirmed through his binoculars. “Mr. Cole, soon you will be introduced to
Prometheus
,
Windsor
, and
Eskimo
. The latter two are of no matter—only Sir Whittlesey Bloody Martin and his big cow.” Hardy lowered his glasses and fixed Cole with a hard glance. “Kindly note the ranker, will you?”
“Of course, sir,” Cole said, trying to hide his amusement.
This guy is a first-rate character
, he thought. Probably a little insane.
Number One handed Cole a pair of binoculars. “See for yourself.” Cole let his eyes adjust and swept the horizon with the binoculars. He picked up the vessels, thin black smudges on the gray-green tabletop.
“You must not accept everything that our captain says at face value,” Land said with a smile. “He can be eccentric at times, but his skills as a seaman can't be denied.”
“The best sailors are a little odd,” Cole said, returning the binoculars.
“He's a fighter as well,” Land said thoughtfully, wrapping the straps around the binocular frame. “He's had a bad time of it lately, but he's a fighter.”
“Dove?” Hardy called to the chief yeoman of signals. “When we're within Aldis lamp range make to the flagship, ‘Mission accomplished. Two on board.'” He joined Land and Cole. “Your fellow survivor is resting comfortably, I'm told. No danger of a needle through the nose.”
“That's how we tell if a chap is dead,” Land said. “Destroyers don't carry medicos, so we stitch a fellow's nose closed and if he protests, he's alive. A bit barbaric, but it does the job.”
“Beats the alternative,” Cole said.
“Beats the . . .” Hardy said and then laughed loudly. “By God, he's right. It would be a crying shame to send a man to his doom when he wasn't ready. Eh, Number One?”
Before Land had a chance to answer, there was a loud whistle through the voice tube. “Bridge? W.T.”
Land answered it. “Bridge here. What is it?”
“Straight-out message from
Prometheus
, sir. Plain language. ‘Single vessel bearing 243 degrees. Unidentified. Rejoin with all dispatch.'”
Hardy joined Land. “What's that, W.T.? Repeat that.” Cole watched Hardy closely while the message was repeated. The captain turned to Land. “God's holy trousers, it can't be. We couldn't have just run into her? W.T.? Send to
Prometheus
, ‘Will join you immediately.'” Hardy walked to the windscreen in thought before turning quickly. “Well, Number One. You heard him. Action stations and look lively.”
“Yes, sir,” Land said and called for the chief bo'swain's mate.
“You had better retire below, Mr. Cole,” Hardy said.
“I'd like to stay, sir,” Cole said.
“This is a small bridge, Mr. Cole. There's barely enough room for those who should be here when things get hot. And if you don't mind me saying so, you're a big man and you'd make a lovely target.”
“I understand, sir, but with all due respect I'd like to stay,” Cole said. “After all, you said I was an observer on board
Firedancer
.”
Hardy's eyes narrowed. “You aren't a barrister, are you? Turning my own words against me? I get enough of that from my own number one.”
“No, sir,” Cole said. “Just a sailor.”
D.K.M.
Sea Lion
 
Kommandant K, D.K.M. Sea Lion Kapitan zur See Mahlberg, had just dismissed his engineering officer and was about to send for his nautical officer to recheck the computations when the bridge telephone clattered three times in rapid succession. An
Obersignalmaat
answered it quickly. It was the
Obersignalmaat
's tone that caught Mahlberg's attention.
“Hydrophones, sir,” the
Obersignalmaat
said, cupping the receiver. “They say they are picking up high-speed turbines. Very faint, fine off the port bow.”
Mahlberg smiled broadly. “Ahead of schedule. I must speak to the nautical officer about his calculations. How far is
Prince of Wales
?”
“It's not
Prince of Wales
, sir. It's a smaller ship. Ships, sir.”
“What?” Mahlberg snapped. “Where?”
“He can't be certain yet, sir. Perhaps eighty kilometers. There is a great deal of distortion. He estimates two to four vessels.”
Mahlberg glanced at Kadow.
The executive officer took the telephone from the seaman and identified himself. “Kadow,” he snapped. “Repeat.”
Mahlberg watched his executive officer concentrate on the information.
“What size?” Kadow said. “Are you sure? Could it be an echo of some sort?” Kadow listened. “I need the distance, man, make a guess if nothing else.”
Another telephone clattered insistently and an
Oberleutnant zur See
picked it up.
“Bridge. Yes? Please repeat that.” The
Oberleutnant
cupped the mouthpiece and caught Mahlberg's attention. “It's radar, sir. They report three vessels at sixty to eighty kilometers to the southwest. There appears to be another vessel just beyond them.”
“Size and speed?” Mahlberg said calmly.
Kadow hung up the telephone. “A cruiser, possibly Diddo class. Two destroyers, perhaps three.”
“Possibly a cruiser,” the
Oberleutnant
reported. “Radar can't determine the class. Likely three destroyers, one of those trailing the others.”
“
Prince of Wales
escorts,” Kadow said. “Shall I set a course around them, sir?”
“Around them?” Mahlberg said. “We're going through them.”
“Kapitan—”
“My God, Kadow. A light cruiser and a handful of destroyers. The best they can offer are six-inch guns. They might as well spit on us as shoot at us.”
“Torpedoes, sir,” Kadow said, but he saw immediately that his arguing only made matters worse.
“They won't get close enough to use them,” Mahlberg said tersely. “Twelve thousand meters? Is that their range? Every man aboard those vessels will be dead before they get close enough to launch torpedoes. This ship does not turn aside for any vessel. This ship will never run away or retreat. Is that understood?” Mahlberg looked around the bridge. “
Sea Lion
is the greatest vessel that has ever put to sea and I will never”—he turned to Kadow—“never order her to avoid battle. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the executive officer said.
“Kriegsmarschzustand One,” Mahlberg ordered Kadow, “notify Oberkommando der Kriegsmarine that we've run into an irritant.”
The executive officer stepped to the bulkhead and pushed the large red button that set off the alarm bells throughout
Sea Lion
. The crew burst into activity, dropping whatever they were doing and rushing along corridors and through hatchways with a cry of “Warsaw! Warsaw”—
make way
. This was no
Rollenschwoof
—no drill. This was real.
Statz was just coming on deck when the alarm sounded and he sprinted toward Bruno, dodging other sailors running to their stations. It was pandemonium to the uninitiated, but the men were trained to get to their stations anyway possible, in the fastest way possible. They knew which corridors to take, which to avoid, and how to dash through the passageways before the heavy watertight doors were closed behind them with the warning shouts of “tuy-tuy-tuy-tuy.” Once those doors were closed, that way was denied to the sailors so that they had to find an alternative route, and God help them if they arrived at their battle stations to find their
Oberbootsmannmaat
waiting for them.
Statz dropped to all fours and scampered under the turret counterweight, climbing into Bruno through the after hatch. He dodged pipes, ducked under the thick steel trunk of the range-finding mechanism, swung around the squat analog computer station that was used if fire control were denied them, turned sharply right, and slipped through the narrow hatch that led to the gun room.
He was off the control platform in an instant, down the ladder, around the breech of the big gun, and at his station. As Statz smeared his face with antiflash cream and donned his flash gloves and hood he heard the others rush in.
“You're late,” he called to them good-naturedly. “Do you expect me to run this thing all by myself?” The gunners took their stations, preparing themselves for battle. Statz watched them appreciatively—they were good men and they had trained well.
Matrosenobergefreiter Scholtz, positioned at the powder doors, pushed the button that let the powder rooms know that he was ready. Then he stood, arms folded, waiting patiently for whatever was to happen.
Matrosenhauptgefreiter Steiner, who did his best to show disdain for Statz whenever he had an opportunity, checked over the spanning tray, the trough that dropped down to accept the shells and powder bags.
Next to him was Matrosengefreiter Manthey, a naturally funny sailor who loved doing discreet impersonations of officers, and did them quite well. He was the hoist operator and it was his job to bring the one-ton shells from the shell rooms deep within the vessel and guide them onto the spanning tray.
And Matrosengefreiter Wurst, the smallest and youngest man in the crew who suffered under Steiner's attacks when Statz was not around, triggered the ramming mechanism, pushing first the shell and then the bags of powder into the gun's breech.

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