Sink the Bismarck!

  “How many more of these things?” hailed an officer above.

  “One more!” shouted the dockyard charge hand down in the lighter, waving a finger.

  The crane took hold of the thing, swaying it ponderously up from the lighter, up above the flight deck, and then down, down, through the hangar deck, where a working party took charge of it to place it in the torpedo stowage.

  “That’s the last of these beauties,” said Ginger, the torpedo gunner’s mate in charge. “One more for Mussolini!”

  He slapped the thing on its flank; it seemed as malignant, as coldly menacing, as a fifteen-inch shell. Orders were already roaring through the ship for men to take their stations to prepare for sea. Signal lights were winking here and there in the bay. On the bridge a signal rating reported:

  “Destroyers under way, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  The orders were given quietly for getting under way.

  “Cast off for’ard. Cast off aft. Slow ahead port engines. Stop all engines. Wheel amidships. Stop all engines. Slow ahead all engines. Wheel amidships. Stop all engines. Slow ahead all engines. Half-speed all engines. Starboard fifteen.”

  Preceded by the destroyers, Force H was heading out through the harbor defenses. The lights of La Linea and Algeciras circled on the horizon as the ship turned. On the catwalk two dark figures of Fleet Air Arm officers watched them circle.

  “Every Nazi agent in Algeciras and La Linea and Ceua has his glasses trained on us at this moment,” said one of them.

  “And look,” said the other. “They’ll have something to say about it this time. See how we’re turning?”

  “We’re going out!” said the other. “Not up the Mediterranean at all!”

  Down in the torpedo stowage a rating arrived from up above to join Ginger’s working party.

  “We’re saying good-by to the sunny Mediterranean,” he announced. “Out into the broad Atlantic for us, boys.”

  “No!” exclaimed someone else.

  “Yes. We’re going through the Straits this minute.”

  “Maybe we’re going home,” said someone hopefully.

  “Maybe we’ll get some leave,” added another more hopefully still.

  “Maybe we’re going to get some work done,” said Ginger, recalling them to their duties. He addressed the torpedo. “Come on you pig. You’re not going to tickle Mussolini’s ribs this time. Hitler for you, and the German Navy.”

  “Where d’you think we’re going, P.O?”

  “My friend Winston’s forgotten to give me a ring. You’ll have to wait until he does before we find out.”

  “Coo! Feel that!” said a rating.

  Ark Royal was meeting the first of the Atlantic swell, and raising her bows high into the air, with everything not fastened down slipping and sliding and swinging, to hang poised and then plunge sideways as she corkscrewed over the sea. The destroyer screen was suffering more acutely, heaving and plunging over the confused waves as it felt its way into the Atlantic ahead of Ark Royal and Renown.

  As to Bismarck, that ship was heaving and plunging similarly over a rough sea. Admiral Lutjens came out of his day cabin and walked to the bridge. He had three or four small leather cases in his hand.

  “I wish to address the ship’s company, Captain, and please parade the supernumerary officers.”

  At a sign from Lindemann, a petty officer switched on the public address system and called the crew’s attention to the fact that the admiral was going to speak. The supernumerary officers were already parading on the afterdeck. Now they looked weary and battered, not having been to bed for several nights.

  “Kindly send for Commander Schwartz and Lieutenant Commander Dollman,” said Lutjens.

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Lindemann as the admiral approached the loud speaker.

  “Men of the Bismarck! I cannot call you from your duties while a vigilant enemy lurks over the horizon. But while you are at your stations, tending your engines and manning your guns, you can hear what I have to say, while our young officers can witness the ceremonial. Men of the Bismarck! First I have to tell you of the great honor done us. Our Führer has sent me a personal message to convey to you, to Captain Lindemann and to every single man of the ship’s company. Our Führer himself sends his congratulations to us all. He says—these are his very words—the news of our great victory will rock every capital in the world—the warmonger Churchill totters on his throne. He bids us go on and on, from victory to victory, until Jewry is utterly overthrown and the world can know peace again under our swastika banner of National Socialism.”

  The ship’s political officer had been awaiting his cue, and stepped forward in front of the supernumerary officers with a gesture.

  “Heil Hitler!” they piped, obediently. “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

  It was not a very impressive exhibition; the boys were weary and perhaps halfhearted.

  “The Führer’s message went on to command me in his name—in the name of the Führer—to make awards to officers and men in this ship who have distinguished themselves. Lieutenant Commander Dollman!”

  He came sheepishly forward.

  “In the name of the Führer, I present you, the assistant gunnery officer of the Bismarck, with the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross.”

  At a further gesture from the political officer the young officers cheered as Lutjens put the cross on Dollman.

  “Commander Schwartz! As the gunnery officer of this ship you have played a principal part in the destruction of the Hood. In the name of the Führer, I present you with the Knight’s Cross with Swords.”

  Again the young officers cheered.

  “Your captain already proudly wears the Knight’s Cross. Now, Captain Lindemann, it is my honor and pleasure to present you with the Knight’s Cross with Swords and Diamonds!”

  Lindemann was about to come forward to receive it when the general alarm blared through the ship.

  “Air warning! Air warning! Enemy planes in sight! Planes on the port quarter!”

  The AA guns were already training round; they had begun their fire before Lutjens and Lindemann had reached their posts on the bridge again. Here came nine Swordfish, coming in intolerably slowly, wheeling to get on the Bismarck’s bow and to drop their torpedoes from a good position.

  “Hard a-starboard!” roared Lindemann.

  The sky was pockmarked with the black puffs of smoke from the AA shells. The Bismarcks glittering wake nearly completed a circle as she turned, heeling violently.

  “Hard a-port!” roared Lindemann, and the ship leaned over the other way as the helm was put over. Torpedoes streaked close by her sides, their wakes visible in the gray water. There was a roar and fountain of water as one torpedo exploded against her starboard bow. Then the attack was over as quickly as it was begun.

  “Those were Swordfish,” said Lutjens to his chief of staff. “How many did you count?”

  “Seven, sir.”

  “And you?”

  “I thought I saw nine.”

  “I thought there were nine as well.”

  “Swordfish means a carrier’s within range, sir,” said the chief of staff.

  “Not a very well-equipped carrier, if all they can send into the attack is nine Swordfish,” said Lutjens. “They scored a hit, all the same, up there on the starboard bow. What’s the damage, Captain?”

  “Report’s just coming through, sir….” Lindemann was listening on the telephone and nodding as he answered. “Very well…. Damage Control reports the injury done to the ship is negligible, sir. No one hurt. The pumps are already gaining on the water as it comes in. They’ll have the hole patched in less than an hour. The ship’s fighting aiblity is not impaired in the slightest, sir.”

  “Our Bismarck hardly has to give a thought to the little torpedoes a Swordfish can carry,” said Lutjens. “Now let’s see where they’ve come from.”

  He led the way into the chartroom and bent over the chart.

  “What’s
the extreme range of a Swordfish?”

  “M’m. Hundred and twenty miles. Less than a hundred and fifty anyway.”

  At a sign from Lutjens the navigating officer swept the compasses round in a circle.

  “Somewhere inside there,” said Lutjens. “A large area, gentlemen.”

  A young wireless officer made his appearance in the chartroom.

  “Lieutenant Holder sent me, sir. We are taking in the wireless signals from the Swordfish.”

  “Yes?”

  “By direction finding their course is a little north of east—85º, sir, very approximately.”

  A glance at the navigating officer caused him to draw a line on that bearing from the ship’s position to the circumference of the circle.

  “A carrier. There,” said Lutjens.

  “And Ark Royal’s a thousand miles away,” said the chief of staff with a gestsure at the other edge of the chart.

  “A carrier with nine little Swordfish and no more…” said Lutjens. “When’s sunset?”

  “Seventeen minutes from now, sir,” said the navigating officer.

  “An hour for them to refuel and rearm…An hour to return here…No moon, and low cloud…They won’t find us again tonight, sir,” said the chief of staff.

  “Nor tomorrow if we throw off that cruiser,” said Lutjens. “As we will.”

  He went to clap one first into the other and discovered that he was still holding the leather case of the Iron Cross which he had intended to present to Lindemann.

  “I’m forgetting one of my duties. Captain, in the Führer’s name I make this presentation to you.”

  “Thank you, Admiral,” said Lindemann.

  “Long may you wear this badge of such great distinction.”

  “I hope I do, sir,” said Lindemann, looking down at the glittering thing.

  “We’re entering into fog again, sir,” said the chief of staff. “Now’s our time.”

  In the War Room the admiral and the rear admiral and the air vice marshal, with others, were looking at the chart whereon were indicated the ships involved in the pursuit of the Bismarck.

  “They’re closing in on her all right,” said the air vice marshal.

  “Yes. It looks like it,” said the admiral.

  “Position, course and speed from Suffolk, sir,” said a young officer. “Bismarck’s holding her course as before.”

  “I wonder what he has in mind?” said the admiral almost to himself. “The Home Fleet will be up to him by tomorrow noon.”

  “He doesn’t know the Home Fleet’s at sea, sir,” said the rear admiral.

  “Most immediate message from Suffolk, sir,” said the young officer loudly: “HAVE SIGHTED NINE SWORDFISH PROCEEDING TOWARD Bismarck.”

  “Nine Swordfish!” said the admiral. “That’s Victorious! That’s all she carried.”

  “If the Home Fleet’s where we think it is, Victorious is nearly one hundred and fifty miles from Bismarck,” said someone doing some rapid work with dividers.

  “Isn’t there another report yet?” demanded the admiral.

  “Suffolk reporting: HEAVY FIRING FROM Bismarck.”

  “They’re going into the attack,” said the air vice marshal. “Why are there only nine of them?”

  “Victorious is like the Prince of Wales,” said the rear admiral. “She’s brand-new from the builder’s hands. Those Swordfish pilots have never risen from a carrier’s deck before and never landed on again, either. They’re raw. But that was all we had when Bismarck came out.”

  “Suffolk reporting,” said the young officer: “Firing ceased from Bismarck.”

  “Attack’s over one way or the other then,” said the air vice marshal.

  “Suffolk reporting: HAVE INTERCEPTED SIGNAL FROM AIRCRAFT TOVictorious. ONE HIT OBSERVED.”

  “Please God that’ll slow her up,” said the rear admiral. “That’s what Tovey sent them off to do.”

  “My guess is she could take half a dozen or more without too much damage,” said the admiral.

  “Suffolk reporting position, course and speed,” said the young officer.

  “What’s the course and speed?” demanded the rear admiral.

  “Course 190º, speed 25 knots.”

  “No change in either. Doesn’t look as if that hit’s had any effect,” said the admiral.

  “It’s just sunset over there,” said the rear admiral. “Dark before long. Foggy, too.”

  “And the wind’s freshening all the time. Those Swordfish pilots will be flying on for the first time in their lives with a huge sea running, in the dark and the fog. Please God they make it,” said the admiral.

  “Suffolk reporting,” said the young officer: “HAVE LOST CONTACT WITH Bismark. AM MAKING SEARCH.”

  “Lost her?” said the admiral.

  “Darkness and fog,” said the rear admiral. “Can’t believe she’ll find her again.”

  The radio commentator in New York was standing by his mike again.

  “Well,” he said. “It’s now just twenty-four hours after I told you about the Bismarck sinking the Hood. Since that first announcement there hasn’t been a single word from the British government. It’s just as if the Bismarck didn’t exist as far as John Bull is concerned. But we’ve been hearing plenty from Dr. Goebbles and the Nazi government. Berlin says that yesterday evening the British attacked Bismarck with aircraft from a carrier, and they go on to say—I’m telling you what Berlin says—that the attack was beaten off with no damage to Bismarck and heavy loss to the attackers. It may well be true. I’d like to point out that if this attack did take place, it’s the first time in the history of the world that planes have taken off from a carrier to attack a German battleship at sea. German battleships in harbor and Italian battleships have been attacked—remember what the British did at Taranto. But this is the first time that planes from a carrier have attacked a German battleship at sea. Moreover, that battleship is modern and well manned and full of fight, as we saw yesterday. I expect that attack was made, and, reluctant though I am to believe all that Dr. Goebbels said, I expect that attack failed. Otherwise by now we’d be hearing something from London. And the significance of it is that the Bismarck is out on the rampage. That Swordfish attack was a desperate attempt to slow her up. It did not do so. Will the English ever be able to catch her now? Finding one ship in the Atlantic is like finding one particular automobile in the State of Texas. And if that automobile is bigger and faster and more powerful than anything you have to chase it with—well, you can see how it is. If ever things looked gloomy for Britain, it’s today. There’s Crete, you know…”

  All over the world the question was being asked: “Where is the Bismarck?” In a thousand newspapers in a hundred languages that question appeared as a front-page headline.

  And the Bismarck was actually laboring at her best speed across the stormy Atlantic towards St. Nazaire. There was half a gale still blowing, as ever, and the sea was wild. This was her fourth successive day at sea without any relaxation for her crew save what small comfort they could derive from lying on the steel decks close to their action stations. Beards were sprouting everywhere, even on the cheeks of the young supernumerary officers. Lutjens was in his armchair overcome by the need for sleep when his chief of staff entered.

  “News about Scapa Flow at last, sir,” he said. “The Luftwaffe were able to reconnoiter this morning.”

  “And what did they see?”

  “Nothing, sir. Not a battleship or a carrier or a cruiser there. The British Home Fleet’s at sea, sir, somewhere. And it may have been at sea for a long time, for it was three days ago that the last reconnaissance of Scapa Flow was made.”

  “I think we could know the British were at sea by now without the Luftwaffe to tell us,” said Lutjens.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, I suppose we’d better look at the chart again.”

  Lindemann joined them as they bent over it.

  “In three days the Home Fleet could have reached p
retty nearly anywhere in the Eastern Atlantic,” said Lutjens.

  “Oh yes, sir,” said the chief of staff, a little condescendingly. “At 20 knots—” He made a wide sweep of the compasses over the chart—“they could be anywhere inside THERE, sir.”

  “Yes,” said Lutjens, tapping the chart at the cross which marked Bismarck’s position. It lay comfortably within that circle. “If they’re anywhere to the northward of this, we can agree we’ve slipped past them already.”

  In the War Room a smaller circle was being swept out on a chart, the new outermost of a series of concentric circles surrounding Bismarck’s last known position.

  “That’s her ‘farthest on’ now, sir,” said a young officer, “assuming her speed constant.”

  Map 6

  “…Home Fleet‘s heading northeastward?”

  “And the Home Fleet’s heading northeastward?” said the admiral.

  “Yes, sir. That’s their track, as close as we can estimate.”

  The line, which all day yesterday had steadily converged towards the line of the Bismarck’s track, now swerved directly away from it, heading towards the eastern shore of Iceland.

  “Nothing from the air at all?”

  “Nothing at all, sir. Here are the sweeps the R.A.F. are making. All negative.”

  On another chart, dotted lines showed the area swept by the planes.

  “Then it looks as if Bismarck didn’t turn northeastward, and we guessed wrong. A pity.”

  “I’d hardly call it certain yet, sir,” said the rear admiral.

  “Remember the Chiefs of Staff agreed that the worst thing the Bismarck could do, from our point of view, was to get back to Germany unscathed. We had to guard against it—and we did.”

  “Yes. It doesn’t follow, though, that the enemy knows what we think would be the worst…. Supposing, Bismarck headed for Brest the moment Suffolk lost her, where’d she be now?”

  A dotted line was ruled out to the circle’s circumference from the center.

  “THERE, sir.”

  “And the Home Fleet’s THERE?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then it looks as if Bismarck’s given us the slip. The Home Fleet can’t catch her if she once gets ahead.”