“You all right, Ma?” asked a special policeman.
She straightened up with her cheeks still wet.
“Yes, I’m all right.”
She had not far to go with her shopping bag; round the corner where the heap of rubble marked where two houses had once stood, along to her little house with the boards replacing its shattered windows. She entered and put down her bag. There was a framed photograph on the table, of someone in a seaman’s uniform, and she sat down where she could see it, dark though the room was with its boarded-up windows.
“I said I was all right,” she said aloud to herself.
Her old woman’s face was disfiguring itself, was growing shapeless with the emotions within her. Her wizened form seemed to shrink still further as she folded down upon herself.
“Oh, Nobby, Nobby,” she said, and now her face was down upon her skinny knees and her narrow back shook with her sobs.
The New York newspapers carried vast headlines. Bismarck SINKS Hood. WORLD’S BIGGEST BATTLE CRUISER BLOWN UP…. And in a New York building a news commentator was explaining to his audience what had happened.
“The news has already reached you by our instant service, and at the moment there is no further bulletin at hand. It’s quite obvious that the Bismarck was on her way to break out into the Atlantic, and the British tried to stop her. And it’s also obvious that the British have suffered a stunning defeat. The Hood has blown up. That means the loss of an important ship and a great many lives. The dead will number a thousand at least, perhaps two thousand. Two thousand men killed in a single moment. And that’s not all. The German bulletin goes on to say that another British battleship was badly damaged, possibly sunk. There’s no reason to doubt the truth of this. The British have suffered a very serious disaster. And the question is, what happens next? The Bismarck has complete freedom of action—the British make no claim to having damaged her in the least. What will she do? We can be sure that there is no British ship within hundreds of miles of her who can fight her. She can come south into the Atlantic and smash the British convoys—no convoy escort could stand up to her for a moment. There are probably German tankers waiting for her at a secret rendezvous—she may go raging round the Atlantic for months disrupting British commerce. You must remember, besides, that there are also in Brest two German battlecruisers, the Scharnhorst and the Gneisenau. The British have to watch them all the time in case they break out too, which means they have to fight the Bismarck with one hand tied behind them. What are the chances of catching her? My information is that now that the Hood’s gone there is no British battleship to compare with her in any way for speed or size or fighting power. The damage she may do is quite incalculable, even if she might be caught at last—and she may never be. And there’s something else she can do, too. She can turn round and return to Germany, round Iceland either to the east or to the west. If she turns up at home safe and sound after a victory as tremendous as this, Dr. Goebbels will be able to make a fine story out of it, especially as there appears no reason why she should not come out at any time and repeat the exploit. I’ve been a good friend to the British, as you know, but this time they seem to be really up against it. It’s not only in the Atlantic that they’re having their troubles, but over in the Mediterranean, in Greece and in Crete and in North Africa…”
Lindemann and Lutjens were looking at the chart in the Bismarck.
“We could go back, sir,” said Lindemann. “They’d never intercept us.”
“Why should we?”
“We’ve won a great victory, and if the German radio could announce that we were back again unscathed the world would—“
“The world would know at least that we had won a victory and had not wanted to gather the fruits of it. Risks are meant to be taken in war, Captain. Think of the possibilities before us in the Atlantic. Are we going to turn back and waste them? Remember what I did with the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau. Propaganda’s all very well, but even Dr. Goebbels himself would admit that wars are won by deeds, not words.”
“But the British—”
“I doubt if the British can lift a finger against us for days to come. Forward! We’ll shake that British cruiser off and then we’ll be free. Think of those convoys, Captain.”
“I shall think about them, sir. Well, Commander?”
The executive officer had arrived and had saluted, waiting to make a report.
“We were hit by one shell, Captain. At Number 46 station, port side.”
“Where’s that?” demanded the admiral.
“Forward, sir. It’s over Number 2 oil fuel tank. With the tank full I cannot yet investigate the damage, except that I can say for certain that it’s only slight, very slight indeed.”
“And that’s all the damage?” asked the admiral.
“Yes, sir. But the fuel tank is leaking oil. If you would come this way, sir—” He led the way to the port wing of the bridge, and they looked over at the water boiling along beside the ship.
“You see, sir? We’re leaving a little oil behind us. The tank is being pumped out and the fuel transferred at this moment, sir.”
“Then we need not give it another thought,” said the admiral.
“No, sir,” said the commander, and hesitated. “Except—except that the fuel has been contaminated with sea water. We had two hundred tons less fuel than we thought we had.”
“I understand,” said the admiral.
“There’s still plenty of time to go back, sir,” suggested Lindemann.
“I understand that, too,” said the admiral. “Thank you, Commander.”
Lutjens and Lindemann stood staring at the map.
“Two hundred tons less oil,” said Lindemann—“and that’s a permanent loss, sir, while we stay at sea. When we meet our tankers it will be two hundred tons less that we shall be able to take on board.”
“Yes,” said Lutjens, still thinking deeply. His forefinger was sweeping out arcs on the chart. He talked more to himself than to Lindemann. “The decision I have to take—the next words I say—can change the history of the world, can decide the fate of nations, can settle the destiny of Germany and of National Socialism and of our Führer. Ten thousand—twenty thousand—fifty thousand lives can be cut short by my next order.”
“That is so, sir.”
“Forward—back. This is the last moment in which to choose. No changing of minds after this.”
“I’ve given you my opinion, sir.”
“No!” said Lutjens suddenly. “I shall go forward. We haven’t fought our way out into the Atlantic just to go back again tamely. Forward! We shall have to turn aside into Brest. Two days there and the damage can be repaired. Then, with the Scharnhorst and the Gneisenau, I shall sail out again at the head of a squadron incomparable for power and speed.”
“Very well, sir.”
“And there are British convoys which may be across our path. Our U-boats can guide us to them. Forward!”
“Very well, sir. Will you give me my definitive orders?”
“Maintain our present course for today until we’ve shaken off that cruiser. Then we can shape a course for Brest. I don’t think the British will guess what we intend.”
“Very well, sir.”
In the War Room at the Admiralty a group of officers, including the admiral, the rear admiral and the air vice marshal, were standing by the chart.
“Signal from Suffolk, sir,” said a young officer, reading aloud. “Bismarck STILL HEADING SOUTHWEST, SPEED 25 KNOTS. Bismarck LOSING OIL AND LEAVING A BROAD TRAIL OF OIL BEHIND HER.”
“She was hit, then!” said the rear admiral.
“She’s still doing 25 knots all the same,” said the admiral. “Some small leak in an oil fuel tank…What’s the last weather report?”
“Foul as usual,” said the air vice marshal. “Cloud at 1000 feet, heavy banks of fog, wind force 5, heavy swell.”
“Every chance of the Suffolk losing her, then. Can your fellows help?”
>
“As far as we can, sir. She’s getting pretty far from Iceland, I’m afraid.”
An officer approached the chart to change the position of the Home Fleet on it.
“Tovey’s THERE,” said the admiral. “If Bismarck holds her present course he’ll make contact tomorrow. What’s the figure for that?”
“Twelve noon, sir,” answered an officer at a plotting board.
“IFBismarck holds her course…Every ship we have must move to cut her off. There’s Rodney. Let her leave her convoy and take up a course to intercept. Ramillies—she can leave her convoy, too. Cable to Halifax and have Revenge leave as soon as she can get up steam. Call in London and Edinburgh from their convoys and send them north as well. Now, Force H. What about Somerville?”
“He’s at sea, sir.”
“Right. Let me see how that will look at this time tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. I can do it now.”
On another table lay another chart of the North Atlantic, and an officer began to draw lines upon it: for the Bismarck’s course; for the Home Fleet and Force H; for Ramillies and Rodney and Revenge; for the cruisers…
“Here’s Bismarck and Suffolk at noon tomorrow if she holds her course.”
“IF,” said the admiral.
“Home Fleet,” said the officer. “Force H…Cruisers…Ramillies …Rodney…Revenge…London…Edinburgh…”
The line of the Bismarck met the line of the Home Fleet. At the same time from every direction converged the other black lines towards that point, some coming close, some ending far away, but all together making upon the mind a most powerful impression of overwhelming force.
Map 5
“It looks well enough on paper.”
“It looks well enough on paper,” said the admiral. Draft the orders at once.”
“The Prime Minister, sir,” said another officer, hurrying into the room.
“I’ll come,” said the admiral. “Let’s have that with me.”
He strode across into a side room and someone laid the marked chart on the table at his side for him to refer to. He pressed the switch of the talking box.
“Flag officer on duty.”
From out of the box came the unmistakable tones of the Prime Minister’s voice.”
“Your job is to sink the Bismarck,” said the box. “That is your overriding duty. No other considerations are to have any weight whatever.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“What about Ramillies? What about Rodney?”
“Orders are being issued at this moment, Prime Minister.”
“Revenge? Force H?”
“They have their orders.”
“You’re taking every possible step to see that Bismarck is going to be sunk?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“Not only the possible steps, not only the easy steps and the obvious steps, but the difficult steps and the almost impossible steps, and all the quite impossible steps you can manage as well. The eyes of the whole world are upon us.”
“You don’t have to remind me about that, Prime Minister.”
“Well, remember. Sink the Bismarck. Good-by.”
“Most immediate signal from Suffolk, sir,” said the young officer. “She’s under fire from Bismarck.”
In the Suffolk the scene was very similar to the earlier one before the tragedy of the Hood. She was still steaming hard over the misty water, sliding out of one fogbank for a few brief minutes before sliding into another. The lookouts were still at their stations, the exposed ones still pelted with spray, still turning steadily with their binoculars as they swept the sea all around the ship.
“Ship bearing green 5!” yelled one of the forward lookouts suddenly. There was the Bismarck, bows on, heading out of the mist straight for her.
Down the voice-pipe above the head of the quartermaster at the wheel came the sharp order:
“Hard a-port.”
Instantly the quartermaster swung the wheel round, feeling the heel of the ship as she turned, watching the compass move steadily over the card.
Down in the boiler room the telegraphs rang for full speed, and a clattering indicator said MAKE SMOKE. The maneuvering valves were feverishly turned, as the ship heeled. A stoker opened the valve to make smoke, and, peering through the peephole, saw the white-hot flames roaring behind it become thick and black.
On the bridge Dusty at his post saw the horizon swinging round in his binoculars as he had to steady himself against the heel of the ship, and then as she straightened on the new course he saw Bismarck plain and clear. He saw the flames and smoke of the salvo she fired.
“Here it comes, mates,” he said. The splashes from the salvo rose up a quarter of a mile from the ship’s starboard quarter.
“Missed us that time,” he said.
“Where’s that smoke?” demanded a rating at the AA gun beside him. He looked up: a couple of preliminary puffs and then the smoke came eddying out, thick, black, and oily, pouring from the funnels and spreading in a dense pall behind them on the surface of the sea. Yet out of the very smoke, close alongside, rose the next columns of water as the second salvo hardly missed them. The water came tumbling on board to deluge the men near at hand. Dusty spluttered, wiping the water from his eyes and from his binoculars, and as he did so he heard the next salvo tear past overhead with a rumble like a train in a tunnel. He shook his fist at the Bismarck, invisible through the smoke.
On the bridge of the Bismarck, Lindemann and Lutjens were looking at the thick black pall of smoke lying on the surface of the sea.
“Can’t risk going into that,” said Lutjens. “Resume our former course, if you please, Captain.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
He gave the order.
“Now make our last signal to Eugen,” said Lutjens. “Good-by and good luck.”
Far off on the horizon, almost invisible in the mist, a searchlight winked at them. The signal rating on the wing of the bridge read it off as the message came in.
“THANK YOU. GOOD-BY. BEST OF…Signal obscured in mist, sir.”
“Thank you. We can guess the end,” said Lutjens, and then, turning to Lindemann, “I wonder if we can?”
“At any rate Eugen’s got away unseen, sir. She’ll have a clear run for home.”
The chief of staff approached with a signal form in his hand and saluted.
“Signal just come through from the Marineamt in Berlin, sir,” he said. “Our agent in Algeciras reports that Force H, carrier Ark Royal, battle cruiser Renown, cruiser Sheffield, and six destroyers left Gibraltar at midnight, heading west out of the Mediterranean.”
“Very well. Let’s come and see,” said Lutjens.
They went into the chartroom, where a navigating officer was plotting hypothetical courses.
“Assuming we make our turn at midnight, that’s our course, sir,” he said. “Here’s the best possible course for Force H.”
“Do they intercept?”
“Hardly, sir.”
“There’ll be U-boats looking out for Force H. What’s the weather report for that area?”
“Wind force 6 south to southwest, sir,” said the chief of staff, running through a pad of messages. “Visibility poor, cloud ceiling 500 feet, heavy sea.”
“I think we can discount Force H, then,” said Lutjens. “That sea will slow down her screen, and she won’t be able to get her planes into the air in any case.”
“Ark Royal’s a very experienced ship, sir,” said Lindemann.
“She can’t read our minds, though,” said Lutjens. “Ark Royal or no Ark Royal.”
“The British have done pretty well along that line so far, sir,” said Lindemann.
“How do you mean?”
“I’m referring to what happened today, sir, and all that it implies.”
“Please be more specific.”
“We left Norway in thick weather, sir. We took the best course for Denmark Strait, at our best speed. That was only one out of a dozen p
ossible things we could have done. The British could only intercept us here, sir, by moving instantly, without wasting a moment.”
“Well?”
“And they did, sir. At dawn this morning there were two ships cutting us off. You must agree, sir, that was remarkably intelligent anticipation.”
“You forget, Captain, that it was just as likely to be remarkable good luck. In war, Captain, there is always the danger of attributing to the enemy uncanny powers and overwhelming strength…Until you meet him. As a result of their luck or their judgment, the British have suffered a stunning defeat. Let’s hope the Ark Royal has the same sort of luck.”
It was a lively evening in Gibraltar, as Force H was in and leave had been given to one watch. The bars were full of sailors drinking beer, the streets full of sailors wandering aimlessly. The cinema was full of sailors shouting with laughter at what was going on on the screen. When the picture suddenly came to a halt and the sound to an abrupt end, they attributed it to a mechanical failure and burst into catcalls, which died away into silence as a badly spelled and badly written announcement appeared, cast on the screen from a slide: “All naval personnel report on board at once.” The announcement was greeted by a boo or two and a groan or two, but when the lights were turned on it could be seen that every man was on his feet and pushing for the doors. The patrols were going along the street.
“Get back to your ships. Leave canceled.”
They went into the bars and interrupted the drinking, hustling the men out without ceremony. All about the Rock, sailors were hastening to their ships, leaning out of gharris to cheer on the drivers, running sweating along the roads, piling good-naturedly into boats. The Ark Royal was lying alongside and a steady river of men was pouring up the gangway into her. Oil fuel was being pumped into her from a tanker; miscellaneous stores were being hurried on board. Alongside her was a lighter, and the ship’s crane was swinging torpedoes up into the ship.