Golem 7 (Meridian Series) Page 23

  He had planned to be up on the bridge when the action started, watching the big armored turrets turn and range on the target, belching out their fire and steel, the massive shells over six feet long flung out some twelve miles or more before they would come crashing down on the targets.

  Rodney was here because he had steered her here, with considerable help from the big Scot at the helm, whose own best judgment wanted his ship pointed this way all along. But Paul was taking no chances this time. Simply dropping intelligence into the stew would not be enough. He wanted to be physically present, where he could use his foreknowledge of the history to do his utmost to get Rodney into the fight.

  Hours ago, he had no idea how long it had been on the Meridian he came from, he and Kelly had poured over a battle map of the campaign fetched up by the Golems and they clearly saw that history was about to echo again with a dull, hollow sound of British defeat. Their planes would sight and strike at Bismarck, slowing her down, and one other Zombie soul Maeve had worried over would be taken home again when Lt. Campbell made his gallant attack on Bismarck, going to a fiery death to put his torpedo into her forward port side.

  It was his hit that had been the decisive blow in forcing the action that was now underway. Force H was nowhere to be seen. Somerville was still hastening up from Gibraltar, but well out of the action. Perhaps she would yet have some part to play in this altered Meridian, but the chancy and very luck hit scored by the pilot off Ark Royal would not happen here. Not now.

  Though the big German ship had slowed to 12 knots to make repairs, Bismarck had nearly finished the work, its sleek prow patched and most of the water pumped out. It was slightly down at the bow, for the damage had been far more extensive than first reported. But the engineers had patched her up, and she was ready to get back some speed when Admiral Holland suddenly came up on the scene, riding in with Hood and Prince of Wales, two doughty knights in armor, though one bore a hidden weakness that would soon prove her undoing.

  Holland was dead by now, Paul knew, along with some 1400 other souls that Maeve no longer had to worry about. There were three survivors off Hood, the very same three that had survived the battle in the history Paul knew so well. And, as it also turned out, the dead men off Arethusa, the hapless cruiser that had become Bismarck’s first victim, numbered very few. Most of that crew made it into the boats and were rescued by a steamer out of Iceland not long thereafter.

  Time was doing its best to balance her books, he thought. But this action, initiated by the roar of Rodney’s 16 inch guns, was something entirely new. In the history he had studied with Kelly Bismarck sailed on into Brest without further engagement. That was the clue they needed to make this intervention. Paul had insisted that Rodney was essential to the outcome, and he swore he could get the old battleship into the fight, one way or another. And here she was, face to face with the most formidable ship in the German navy.

  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.

  Chapter 27

  Battleship Bismarck, 25 May, 1941

  The Battle of the Celtic Sea

  The last time Lütjens 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.

  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 doug
hty 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.