Golem 7 (Meridian Series) Page 21

  “I see,” said Hamilton. “I assume this report was also forwarded to the Admiralty? We’ve heard nothing from them at all on this.”

  “As you might imagine, sir, Western Approaches Command is all astir with this Bismarck business. The message was sent, but whether it received prompt attention or not is anybody’s guess. I’ve been there, and I can say the situation gets a bit chaotic at times, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”

  “Not at all,” said Hamilton. “Get enough Admirals in any one room and no one ends up knowing what to do.” He considered for a moment. “And what course would you say we adopt, Lieutenant Commander Wellings?”

  “180 degrees due south, sir. It’s really your only option, and you will have to make your best speed even then if you’re to get to the party on time.” Paul folded his arms. He had made his pitch, and knew enough not to say anything further until someone else spoke first.

  “Gentlemen?” Captain Hamilton regarded the other men present, but no one seemed to have any objection to the idea. The navigator knew his business well, and even without having to look at a chart he confirmed what Paul was saying. “We’ll definitely be out of it if we don’t turn, sir,” he said.

  “Very well, gentlemen,” Captain Hamilton decided. “I think we have a consensus here, and I must say I agree with everything that’s been said.” To his navigator and senior staff officer he said: “Come round to course 180 degrees south at once and give me all the speed we can manage. The faster the better, should there be any U-boats about. That’s a good bit of timely intelligence, Wellings. I appreciate your candor. Now then, let’s get a signal off to the Admiralty notifying them of our intentions. I daresay Admiral Pound may have other ideas about it, but I believe Admiral Tovey on King George V will be more than gratified to learn of the action we’re taking here.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  At least for the moment, Golem 7 had prevailed.

  Hamilton’s concern about lurking U-boats was well founded. Wohlfarth on U-556 had only just lowered his periscope, amazed to see yet another large British warship steaming on in apparent haste, and without proper escort.

  Someone is all in huff over Bismarck, he knew. Damn the Royal Navy. You could sink five battleships and they would still find a way to pull another one out of their hat when needed. He had been listening to signal intercepts and had been mentally putting together a picture of the action forming up to his west. He had already taken one British battlecruiser out of the action, sure to earn the Knight’s Cross for that. But there were at least three big ships, a carrier, and a gaggle of light cruisers still chasing Bismarck. He remembered the pledge he had made to Captain Lindemann, half in jest, and half to cover the brash incident where he had deliberately fired on Bismarck’s towed target ship during gunnery exercises months ago.

  He smiled inwardly, remembering the day he had gone over to the great ship himself, awed by her fearsomely sleek lines and menacing stature. He had knocked on Captain Lindemann’s ward room door and introduced himself with a stiff salute. At that meeting he had presented Lindemann with a drawing he had made, depicting himself as brave Sir Persifal, rushing to the rescue of Bismarck as she was harried by three British Swordfish.

  He remembered exactly what he had written: ‘We, U-556, hereby declare before Neptune, Lord over oceans, seas, lakes, rivers, brooks, ponds, and rivulets, that we will provide any desired assistance to our Big Brother, the battleship Bismarck, at any place on the water, under water, on land, or in the air.’

  A curse on the British! Those were steep enough odds already for Bismarck. Now a fourth battleship, was apparently steaming to get after her as well. He must notify Group West immediately of his sighting, and now he regretted his wanton attack on Convoy HX-126 in such an increasingly target rich environment.

  “Damn,” he said aloud. “If only I had another few torpedoes!”

  His navigator, Sub-Lieutenant Souvad returned at once. “But Captain, we do have two more torpedoes. They are in the reserve container on the outer deck.”

  Wohlfarth spun about and looked at him, thinking. He had forgotten all about those last two fish because it was almost impossible to get them out of their casings and into the lower decks in bad weather. The weather was rough, and likely to get even worse according to the last meteorological report he had read. Yet if he could get at those last two torpedoes…. It was certainly worth a try at least. He waited for a few minutes, giving the big British ship ample time to steam on, then he gave the order ‘up periscope’ again and had a look around for safety’s sake, satisfying himself that there were no destroyers about.

  “Bring the boat up at once,” he said sharply. “Make ready to load torpedo reserve.”

  “In this weather, sir?” His executive officer had obvious misgivings. “They’ll never manage a winch with the seas like this.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Wohlfarth, “but they’ll damn well try, won’t they. Order it at once!”

  Minutes later the U-boat had surfaced, tossed in the heavy swells but still stable enough in Wohlfarth’s estimation to mount the winch and see if he could get those last two torpedoes down below and into his forward tubes. He set a double watch and assigned the strongest men he had on the boat to the job. They strained and cursed, and labored for a long hour, opening the deck container and slowly working the torpedoes down into the cargo access hatch, one by one.

  On more than one occasion the boat was slapped by a heavy wave and a sleek torpedo swayed dangerously on its hoisting harness, but the men had hold of her from two sides, one nearly slipping and falling off the boat before a burly master chief grabbed his arm to steady the man.

  All the while the watchmen nervously scanned every horizon for any sign of British ships or planes. They were in the Western Approaches, a dangerous zone for a U-boat to be spotted, but an hour later, with much sweat and toil, the crews had their weapons secured below and were closing off the upper hatches.

  Wohlfarth scratched at his short cropped curly beard, beaming with satisfaction. It was as if he had been given a second life, and he had every intention of using it to best advantage.

  “Chief of the Boat, come round to course 180 degrees south,” he said excitedly. “Increase to fifteen knots. All ahead full.”

  “Aye, captain.”

  Now, he thought. Let us not incur the wrath of Neptune, God, Fate or Captain Lindemann. If the British want a fight, I will give them one. I’m going to follow that big fat British battleship and see where she leads me! We will see if I can change the odds yet again…

  Part IX

  The Last Hours

  “. . . these are the times of dreamy quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean's skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.”

  —Herman Melville

  Chapter 25

  HMS Rodney, 25 May, 1941(Map 2, Point 2)

  Dawn broke, grey and cold, with the winds rising and the seas churning with the tumult of an oncoming storm. Rodney was a large ship, however, with a wide beam and she rode out the swells with good stability. The big Scot, Hamilton, was on the bridge, and he had invited the American officer to join him there as he considered his situation.

  Hamilton was well accustomed to USN officers aboard his ship. Earlier that year he had hosted the American Rear Admiral Ghormley, Mr. James Forrestal, Under Secretary of the USN, and a baker’s dozen of American Air Corps Officers. Secretary Forrestal was en route to negotiate the Lend-Lease agreement with the British Government at the time, and he found the other officers bright, fit, and well skilled. This one seemed no different.

  “It seems we have new orders,” said Hamilton.

  “Sir?” Paul was immediately concerned.

  “Yes, the Admiralty wants us to steer 225 degrees. They believe Bismarck may attempt to meet up with an oiler in the Atlantic.”

  Paul expected this,
and he had his argument ready in hand. “I see,” he began. “But if I may, sir… what good would that course change do us now? We’re already 200 miles east of Admiral Tovey. If Bismarck has turned on 225 for the Atlantic we’ll never catch up. Yet consider your situation here, sir. You have passengers aboard, your decks are stacked high with boiler tubes in packing crates.”

  “Yes, and then some,” said Hamilton. He did not tell the American he was also carrying the famous Elgin Marbles from the British Museum and many cases of gold bullion in his lower forward holds, ordered to deposit them safely in the United States. Apparently the marbles were not deemed safe enough where they had been hidden in the concrete reinforced Tube tunnel near the Aldwych branch of the Piccadilly subway line.

  “Well, sir,” Paul went on. “Sir Winston’s convoy will be just fifty miles east of us by now, and heading south. There’s no heavy escort there aside from Exeter. What if Bismarck turns east for that convoy instead? If I know about it, it’s likely the Germans know about it as well. Our southerly course has served two purposes. We moved to a much better position to intercept Bismarck if she does head for France, and we’re also covering Convoy WS-8B. In fact, sir, I would even come two or three points to port now if I were in your shoes, but steering 225 will put us out of the game.”

  “I quite agree,” said Hamilton. “Plotted it out this morning. And just between the two of us I’m having some difficulty interpreting this latest Admiralty order. Sir Dudly Pound’s fingerprints are all over it, and it appears unclear…for the moment,” he added at the end.

  “Of course, sir.” One did not flaunt the orders of the First Sea Lord lightly, or without second thoughts. “I will say that your appraisal of the situation is much more aligned with our intelligence, sir.”

  “That is somewhat encouraging,” said Hamilton with a smile. The man had to be an intelligence officer, he thought. How else would he know the positions of all these ships; know that only Exeter was left shepherding that convoy?

  “If I may, sir,” Paul suggested. “Those crates stacked high on your B turret won’t do well if it comes to action stations.”

  “Quite so,” said Hamilton. “I gave the order that they were to be removed, discretely, and stowed below decks. It’s getting a wee bit tight down there, what with all the passengers aboard. But tell me, Commander Wellings, what do you make our chances of sighting Bismarck on this heading and actually seeing action?”

  “On this heading, sir? I make it a fifty-fifty proposition. Give her a nudge to port and I’d up those odd considerably.”

  Hamilton raised an eyebrow at that, and had the sure feeling that this man knew more than he was telling for the moment. He seemed very well briefed on the navy’s current dispositions. “Well, sir,” he said. “I’ve got gimpy boilers all due for a major overhaul. If a nudge to port will help me close the distance, then I’ll indulge you.” He tipped his hat to Paul and spoke a clear order to the helmsman. “Three points to port and steady on 175.”

  The captain was gratified to learn he had been right in his bones about holding a southerly course. Events to the west were to soon prove him, and this American, correct.

  Off to the west, Admiral Tovey had completely missed Bismarck’s last turn. He steamed straight on his heading of 180, stubbornly following Prince Eugen, and soon was well south of Bismarck’s new easterly heading, though he had no reason to suspect the German ships had separated at the time. It was not until the search teams off the Victorious had landed and been fully debriefed that he began to feel he had made an error.

  Hood and Prince of Wales had already turned east, ordered to try and close on Tovey’s position, and they crossed the Admiral’s wake sometime around 10:00 hours. He received notice of the Admiralty’s order for HMS Rodney to steer course 225. Where was the big battleship? It would have been sporting of them to include her position in the code, but they did not do so. Should he signal Admiral Holland to turn south now and conform to his movement following Prince Eugen?

  It was then that he received what looked to be an urgent signal, tapped out in Morse code and apparently coming from a plane, given their take on its bearing. It read simply: “One German battleship sighted, course 115—“ and there was nothing more.

  “One battleship?” he said to Brind. “One bloody battleship steering 115? If that’s Bismarck then who in bloody blazes are we following? Radar still has a contact forward?”

  “Aye, sir. It can only be Prince Eugen. If this latest signal is authentic, then it appears the German task force may have split up some time ago.”

  “Damn,” Tovey was clearly unhappy. “Bismarck has given us the slip! Yet we have no position coded on that message? Where did it come from?”

  “We don’t know, sir. Could Victorious have a straggler?”

  “See about that Brind, will you?” The Admiral was deeply distressed. He was burning a lot of fuel running up at 28 knots, and now he learned he may have been steaming away from his prey since the morning watch! Yet if he took this signal to heart, assuming it was Bismarck, he would have to relinquish his hold on the German cruiser ahead of him, and give up that chase. If Bismarck was still there, he would steam off and lose the two of them altogether. It was a critical decision. What should he do?

  An hour earlier, a man had stepped briskly off a trolley bus on Rumford Street, Liverpool and was walking past a nondescript building near the Exchange. It was the entrance to Western Approaches Command HQ, moved here in February of 1941 to coordinate the complex convoy traffic.

  For all intents and purposes, he appeared to be a simple business man, pressed trousers and wool tweed blazer under a stiff derby, and he carried an umbrella against the threat of rain. But that was not all. A plain manila envelope was tucked under his arm and he pushed in through the narrow door, immediately sighting the reception desk.

  “Signals?” he asked. “I’ve a message for Admiral Sir Percy Noble. Very high priority.”

  The woman looked at him, thinking him a bit odd, but she took the envelope he handed her and set it down on her desk with a nod.

  “Oh, no, I’m afraid that won’t do,” he said, his more aristocratic English accent just a tad out of place for Liverpool. “This needs to go in at once.” The man tapped at his pocket watch. “Time’s of the essence.”

  “Very well,” the woman stood up with the envelope.

  “And please stamp this urgent. Highest priority, if you please. If the Admiral doesn’t see it within the next ten minutes, well, I wouldn’t much care to be in your shoes then. If I make myself plain, Madame…” He pursed his lips, eyes fixed on the woman, waiting.

  “I see,” she said quietly, and then picked up her stamp and properly marked the envelope for highest priority signals decode. It wasn’t at all uncommon to receive messages like this—especially if they were of a highly sensitive nature, the type of message one would not want generally transmitted by any other means. Couriers came and went at all hours, though they were not quite so pushy as this man seemed. She gave the man a wary glance and started off towards the Signals section.

  “Top of the stack, my dear,” the man said after her. “The very top now.”

  Professor Nordhausen had done as much as he could, and only hoped his urging had been taken to heart. He smiled, elated to be back in England again, if only for a very brief time. Then that thought set him in motion, and he turned, walking quickly out the door, down the street, and then into an alley way.

  A few minutes later he had vanished.

  Aboard King George V Brind was back in short order. “Victorious says they have everyone aboard sir, but suggests Coastal Command may have Catalinas up this morning—one last look before the weather closes in. The signal could have come from one of their planes, but that is not yet clear. And then there’s this, sir. Admiralty is all in a dither. It seems they are revoking their last order to Rodney and telling her to steer a course south by southeast now. No details…”

  “No details,” said Tov
ey. “Of course, no bloody details. That’s where the devil is, by God. Well, we’ll have to decide.” He ran his hand fitfully over his chin, thinking hard.

  “Another message from Admiralty, sir.” The midshipman rushed in with a fresh cable and Brind took it, eager for news.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. “This is interesting. Our Lonesome Dove has flown into Western Approaches with some very pointed intelligence, sir. The message is Tiger, Tiger, burning bright—sent to all fleet stations in the last hour.”

  “That’s the hazard code for convoy WS-8B,” said Tovey.

  “Aye, sir. It’s why they’ve moved Rodney then. It appears the Germans are steering for the convoy. Or at least one of their ships is.”

  “Taken with this recent sighting it begins to mount up,” said Tovey. “Very well…” He decided.“Helmsman, come round to course 115 at once. Hard a port and steady on that heading.”

  Brind swallowed hard. “We’ll lose Prince Eugen, sir, if that’s who we’ve been following.”

  “That we will, Brind. Let’s just hope we haven’t lost Bismarck with her in the bargain. Signal Admiral Holland our intentions and new course. Have him conform to our movements. They’re moving Rodney for some reason. I intend to have a look out east.”

  “They could be simply ordering her to cover the convoy, sir,” Brind suggested. “She’ll never get out this way in time, so that last order to steer 225 was of no use.”

  “Yes, it seems Admiral Pound has been running his ships all over the board. How much fuel do you think I’ve got in the belly of this one, Brind? Not nearly enough to chase Bismarck out into the Atlantic. At least on this new heading we cover our own vital convoy traffic into Gibraltar, and I can get an oiler out here as well. If I’m wrong I’ll hear about it, no doubt, and I’ll suffer the consequences. Let’s get on with it.”