Sink the Bismarck!

  “Unless something happens to slow her up, sir.”

  “Yes. There’s Ark Royal…” said the admiral, tapping the chart with his forefinger.

  The Swordfish pilots of the Ark Royal were sitting in the operations room before the blackboard being briefed regarding the situation.

  “Now you can see how it is. The worst thing Bismarck can do, as far as we can see, is to escape back the way she came. The Home Fleet’s been moving to cut her off, whether she goes past Iceland to the east or to the west. Besides that, she could have turned northwestwards, round the back side of Greenland—it’s a likely area for a rendezvous with tankers. Or she could head southwestwards, just outside the limit of air search from Canada. Revenge, from Halifax, may have a chance then. Or she can head directly south; she could have a rendezvous with tankers off the Azores beyond our limits of air search there. Ramillies and Edinburgh will attend to that. Or she may be heading for the Mediterranean, or a Spanish port, or a French port—Brest or St. Nazaire. And that’s where we come in, gentlemen. That’s our job, if she comes this way. We have to find her, and then we have to put enough torpedoes into her at least to slow her down for the other forces to finish her off. Our torpedoes, gentlemen.”

  Farther along on the same deck, Ginger was instructing a new draft on the management and maintenance of torpedoes.

  “Well, now you’ve seen all the works, you young sprogs. Maybe if this war goes on another five years or so you’ll know something about the care and maintenance and lubrication of torpedoes. But there’s one thing for you to get into your heads now: We—you and me—we win wars. Yes, you and me. These things”—slapping a torpedo—“sink ships. There’s Winston in London. He knows what’s wanted. There’s the admiral, he makes plans. There’s James Somerville with his admiral’s flag. He commands Force H. There’s Captain Maund of this ship. You all know what he does. There’s the young officers of the Fleet Air Arm. They fly off and drop the torpedoes. But it’s us that really count. Us, you and me. For if those torpedoes don’t run straight and maintain a proper depth, and if they don’t keep that up without varying a foot either way in three miles—well, then the torpedoes miss. And in that case, Winston and the admiral and James Somerville and Captain Maund and the Fleet Air Arm might just as well have stayed at home for all the good they’ve done. You just keep that in mind if ever you feel like saying ‘That’ll do. That’s good enough.’ It’s hits that win wars, and it’s us that makes the hits.”

  For one whole endless gray day ships were plunging across the wide Atlantic, the King George V and the Rodney, Force H and Vian’s destroyers; and planes flew perilously below the clouds to comb the surface, all searching for the Bismarck. And Bismarck remained lost. The neutral press, the American papers, all speculated about it. “Has Bismarck escaped?” they asked. Even in the English papers there were headlines like QUESTIONS TO BE ASKED IN THE HOUSE. People in factory canteens were saying over cups of coffee: “It’ll be too bad if they lose her.”

  In the chartroom of the King George V a good many sleeves bearing plenty of gold lace were visible round a table while the fleet navigating officer demonstrated on the chart.

  “Here’s Bismarck’s last known position and here’s her ‘farthest on.’ It’s a pretty big circle by now, I’m afraid. She could be anywhere inside that, and it’s as big as all Europe by now. But…There have been air searches HERE”—the navigating officer rapidly covered one area with parallel lines—and HERE, and HERE.”

  A peculiar significance was instantly apparent. A full half of the circle was covered by the parallel lines.

  “We’ve followed this course with a screen twenty miles wide, so this area here is accounted for, too. You can see what’s left.

  “If he hasn’t headed straight south there’s only one thing he could have done. Headed for France.”

  Map 7

  “…only one thing he could have done. Headed for France.”

  The moment the chart was marked in that way the truth of what was being said was apparent.

  “And then he’d be THERE,” said another voice, and an arm with an admiral’s gold lace reached forward.

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  “A hundred miles ahead of us, and he’s faster than we are.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true, too, sir. They couldn’t search everywhere. Not enough planes, weather too bad, everything of that sort.”

  “I hope at least they’re searching this area now. Where’s Ark Royal? She ought to be near enough now to search from the south.”

  “Here she is, sir, by the Admiralty appreciation.”

  Ark Royal was enduring appalling weather. She was plunging over the waves so that when she turned into the wind her bows and her stern were rising and falling fifty feet at a single plunge. It was raining and bitterly cold as the Swordfish were ranged on the flying deck. It was only with the utmost difficulty that the planes were able to take the air, to fly off on their search. They vanished instantly into the grayness.

  And elsewhere Catalinas had taken off from Lough Erne in Ireland to search in a southwesterly direction, flying through the night so as to be over their search area by daylight. Southwesterly they flew, on parallel courses far out of sight of each other, turning as they reached the limits set for the search, flying fifty miles northwest, and then turning northeasterly to fly back, covering a wide area of the ocean with their tracks as with a gridiron—a gridiron which was being drawn upon the chart in the War Room, a fresh bar being added, a new line being drawn, as each turn was reported by wireless. The area on the chart uncovered by air or sea search was steadily dwin­dling. And a Catalina was nearly at the limit of its endurance when the crew saw something below.

  “What’s that?” demanded someone.

  The weather was so thick that they were flying only five hundred feet above the tossing water. Yet even so the vessel they saw was vague and undefined. They were almost above it.

  “Get closer! Get round its stern,” said the man in the second pilot’s seat.

  “That’s a battleship. And no destroyer screen…That’s the Bismarck!”

  The observer grabbed a form and began to write out a signal. Even as he did so, the Catalina jolted and jerked as a shell burst close alongside. As he went on writing the pilot turned the plane frantically; the sea and the ship below wheeled in a circle as she came round, with shellbursts all round her, and climbed for cloud cover. As the mist closed round her the wireless operator began to tap out the message.

  Admiral Lutjens was asleep in his armchair, his head on his hand, when the alarm blared out throughout the ship. He awoke with a start, blinked himself alert, and rushed for the bridge. All over the ship the alarm awoke sleeping figures, exhausted men lying uncomfortably on the decks or sitting against bulkheads, sleeping uneasily while the rest strove to keep themselves awake at their posts, dirty and bearded and untidy, sometimes even nodding off, until the alarm blared.

  “Plane on the port bow! Plane on the port bow!”

  The AA guns wheeled about, pointed for a moment, and then burst into rolling thunder as the shells were hurled at the Catalina. Lutjens and Lindemann met on the bridge.

  “Well, Captain, they’ve found us at last.”

  “Yes, sir. That was a Catalina—a shore-based plane, sir.”

  “Yes.”

  They entered the chartroom.

  “How close to France can we expect air cover from the Luftwaffe?” demanded Lutjens.

  The navigator drew a circle on the chart, and shaded in the area between it and the French shore.

  “That’s the approximate line, sir.” He swung the dividers between the marked position of the Bismarck and the edge of the circle. “And we shall reach there at dawn tomorrow, sir.”

  Lutjens and Lindemann eyed each other.

  “Dawn tomorrow,” said Lindemann, looking at the clock. “Ten more hours of daylight today…”

  “And then we’ll have air cover,” said Lutjens. “T
hen nobody will dare to touch us.”

  The wireless officer appeared and saluted. “We’re taking in the British plane’s signals, sir,” he said.

  “Can you read them?”

  “Not in that code, sir. But the form’s clear enough. Our position, course, and speed.”

  “I didn’t think it would be Christmas greetings,” said Lutjens.

  “And we have picked up two other brief signals, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “I could not read them either, sir. But I could recognize who were transmitting, Swordfish, sir.”

  “Swordfish?” This was an exclamation from Lindemann.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Lutjens.

  The wireless officer withdrew and they bent over the chart.

  “A carrier means Force H from Gibraltar,” said Lutjens. “That can easily be in this area. What’s their possible position? You know when they sailed.”

  The navigator swept another circle, centering on Gibraltar. It passed close to Bismarck’s marked position.

  “They can be in touch with us at any moment, sir,” said the navigator.

  The chief of staff flipped open a reference book of profiles.

  “Force H,” he said, showing one: “Renown.”

  “Five minutes’ work for our guns.”

  “Sheffield.”

  “She wouldn’t risk a single salvo from us.”

  “Ark Royal.”

  “It’s her Swordfish that we can hear. We’ve beaten off one attack by Swordfish already. There’s nothing to frighten us in the prospect of another.”

  During this conversation the navigator had fallen asleep with his head resting on his hand, to be roused as his elbow slipped on the table.

  “Except that nobody in this ship has been to bed for six days and six nights, sir,” said Lindemann.

  “Only one more night now, Lindemann. Only one more night.”

  They went out onto the bridge again and looked over the heaving sea.

  “A rough sea, low cloud, visibility as bad as possible. Not the conditions for an aircraft carrier,” said Lutjens.

  In the Ark Royal Ginger’s working party were busy putting a torpedo into position in a Swordfish. An officer checked it over.

  “Magnetic pistol, sir,” said Ginger.

  “Very good.”

  They wheeled the Swordfish forward into position. Wind was blowing and spray was flying.

  In the operations room in Ark Royal it was obvious that it was a rough sea. Everything was pitching and saying as the pilots were being finally briefed.

  “There it is, gentlemen,” said the senior observer. “You have Bismarck’s position, course and speed. Our shadowers are over her. The rest of it is up to you. Your torpedoes have the new magnetic pistols, which may help. Unless you stop her, unless you slow her up, she’s safe. Tomorrow morning she’ll be under air cover. Nine hours of daylight left. The Home Fleet’s a hundred miles astern of her and can never catch her in time. So you know where your duty lies, gentlemen. And good luck go with you.”

  In the War Room at the Admiralty a rather depressed group of officers was standing watching the chart being brought up to date.

  “Ten hours more of daylight,” said the rear admiral. “Big sea running and low cloud.”

  “Coastal Command’s coming through on the ’phone, sir,” said an officer. “Yes. Repeat that. 40º 30 North, 22º West, steering 150º. Yes…. Catalina reports a battleship, sir.”

  He spoke to deaf ears, for everyone was at the chart. Someone marked the place, almost in the center of the triangle, whose angles were the King George V, Rodney, and Ark Royal.

  “Must be Bismarck. Can’t be anything else,” said the rear admiral. “She’s been heading for France ever since we lost her.”

  “What are those distances?” snapped the admiral.

  “A hundred and forty miles for King George V. A hundred and thirty for Rodney, sir.”

  “They can’t catch her there. No chance at all.”

  “Unless Ark Royal slows her up, sir.”

  “Yes. I know. That’s the chance, for what it’s worth. And there’s Vian’s five destroyers. They can intercept after nightfall. I know.”

  The Admiral’s voice was flat and without tone. But was instantly full of energy again. “See that report’s sent out instantly.”

  “It’s going out now, sir,” said the officer.

  “Ten hours of daylight. Nine and a half,” said the admiral, looking at the clock.

  “Plenty of time for an attack by Ark Royal’s Swordfish,” said the rear admiral.

  “Wind’s due west. She’ll have to turn out of her course to fly off and fly on.”

  “Yes. She’ll have time for one daylight attack. She’ll be lucky if she has time for two before dark.”

  “And after dark?”

  “Not so good, I’m afraid.”

  “There’s still the destroyers, sir,” said another hopeful officer.

  “A high sea and a battleship going 27 knots. How much chance?”

  “Well—”

  “How much?”

  “Not very much, I’m afraid, sir. Unless she’s crippled.”

  “So we come back to the Ark Royal again.”

  The meeting seemed about to break up when a Captain E. came up with a paper in his hand.

  “Here area the fuel consumption figures for King George V and Rodney, sir, as close as I can calculate them. They’re not too good, sir.”

  “Fuel?”

  Down in the depths of King George V. Lieutenant Commander E., with a petty officer and a stoker were sounding the fuel tanks, going from one to another, hauling out the dipstick, wiping it, dropping it in again, and then hauling it out for inspection. At each sight the Lieutenant Commander E. made a noncommittal noise and note the figure on a piece of paper. On every dipstick there was only a very little oil apparent, at the very end.

  “That one’s dry, sir,” said the petty officer at one inspection.

  “Very well,” said the Lieutenant Commander E., and went into the engine room where the bright lights shone and the engines sang their song and the Commander E. stood watching, in his boiler suit. The lieutenant commander shook his head as he came up.

  “Not a hope, sir,” he said. “Here’s the figures.”

  Commander E. took the list and nodded agreement as he looked at the total.

  “You know Bismarck’s been found?”

  “Where is she, sir?”

  “She’s a hundred and forty miles right ahead of us. Going straight for France.”

  “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “At top speed we couldn’t catch her, and she’ll reach Brest this time tomorrow.”

  “Well—”

  “And by daylight she’ll be within range of air cover. The whole Luftwaffe will be over her.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Oh, what’s the use of talking about it, anyway?” said the Commander E. in sudden fury. “We can’t steam all-out for four hours, let alone twenty-four. At economical speed we can just get home, even if we can do that. Our destroyers have gone home for lack of oil, and now…Oh…!”

  On the bridge of the Bismarck, Lutjens and Lindemann stood watching the ship plunge and toss in the appalling weather.

  “You must remember the enemy has his troubles, too, Captain,” said Lutjens. “He must be boiling with rage at this very moment now that he knows where we are. Now that we’ve broken through the ring with a clear run for home.”

  “A clear run except for the Swordfish, sir. We’re picking up the shadowers’ reports all the time.”

  Round the ship could be seen men carrying food to the men at their posts. They had to shake those men who were being allowed to sleep so as to rouse them to take their food, and even then it was received without appetite and allowed to lie neglected while the ship heaved and tossed over the strong sea.

  “I think I had better address the
ship’s company,” said Lutjens.

  He went to the loud speaker, was announced by the petty officer there, and began:

  “Men of the Bismarck! Heil Hitler! I am addressing you once more, and I think it will be for the last time, for the last time until we are back in port. You know we are being shadowed by planes from the Ark Royal. We are taking in their reports. Soon we must expect an attack to be launched against us. Swordfish with torpedoes. We’ve fought Swordfish before, as you remember, and we’ve nothing to fear from them, as long as we all do our duty, every one of us. Whatever attack they launch, we must beat off. I know you are tired, men of the Bismarck. I know you are sleepy. But I promise you that you have only this one effort more to make. Tomorrow morning we shall be within range of the Luftwaffe, and no Swordfish will dare to take the air within fifty miles of us. Tomorrow night you will sleep in peace. You will sleep undisturbed. That I promise you. Until then, fight on for the honor of the German Navy, for the greater German State, and for our Führer. Heil Hitler!”

  The signal officer was waiting for him as he turned away from the loud speaker.

  “I’ve just picked up a curious signal, sir.”

  “What?”

  “From a British ship, and I think from the carrier Ark Royal, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “It was not in code. It was being sent very urgently in plain English.”

  “Well, what was it, man?”

  “It said: LOOK OUT FOR Sheffield. LOOK OUT FOR Sheffield. Over and over again, sir.”

  “Sheffield. That’s the cruiser with Force H,” said the chief of staff.

  “What was I just saying to you, captain?” said Lutjens. “The English are having their troubles, too.”

  “But—”

  “If that message, whatever it means, was urgent enough to be sent in plain English, it shows they’re having trouble. And I don’t think we’re sorry, are we?”

  In Force H the senior observer was saying his last words to the pilots.

  “Bismarck’s now twenty-four miles from us, bearing 183º. You can’t miss her. You can’t mistake her. She’s all by herself. Don’t give her a moment’s warning—but I don’t have to give you that sort of instruction. We’ll be turning into the wind in five minutes’ time.”