Sink the Bismarck!

  Commander Air on the wing of the bridge looked in and reported, “Ready to fly off, sir.” The Ark Royal turned solemnly into the wind as the order was passed down the voice-pipe from the bridge, and she was held exactly in position with the indicators showing that this was so. The fifteen Swordfish flew off in accordance with the orders given on the flight deck. They formed up and dashed away.

  The signal officer came running frantically to the bridge where the captain stood with the officer of the watch.

  “Sheffield’s over there too, sir. She’s in visual touch and she turned out of line on an opposite course to us when we turned into the wind.”

  “Sheffield’s there?” said the captain.

  “Yes, sir, and the Swordfish pilots have instructions to attack any ship they find alone.”

  “Send LOOK OUT FOR Sheffield to them. Quick! Send in plain language—don’t waste a second!”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The first Swordfish was flying in cloud when the observer picked up a pip on the radar. He advised the pilot who put down the nose of the plane and swept out into the clear, steadied for the aim, dropped his torpedo, and wheeled away. The second followed him and did the same; so did the third. But the pilot of the third, to his surprise, saw the first two torpedoes exploding in great fountains of water after running almost no distance. The fourth one followed him and dropped his torpedo. At that moment the gunner in the fifth one heard a signal in his ear-phones and scribbled a frantic message and passed it to the observer:

  LOOK OUT FOR Sheffield.

  The observer frantically called the pilot’s attention to it at the moment when he was about to drop his torpedo. The pilot drew his hand back hastily and wheeled the Swordfish round. The others followed him.

  The whole flight circled back to come onto Ark Royal again, back onto the heaving deck, where eager crews awaited them, to rearm them while the air crews gathered in the briefing room.

  “Yes, it went wrong,” said the Commander Air. “Now we’ve agreed about it. We have to remember this, so that it can’t ever happen again; but let’s forget it for today. Now we try again, the way we do in the Navy. There’s just enough time for one more daylight attack. Yes, Mr. Jones?”

  “Don’t let’s have any more magnetic pistols on the torpedoes, sir. They went off prematurely, the ones we dropped.”

  “I bet Sheffield’s not sorry, either,” said another pilot.

  “That’s something gained from the mess, anyway,” said the Commander Air. “We know we can’t rely on magnetic exploders. My guess is it was the rough sea that set ’em off. I’m having contact pistols put in the torpedoes at this very moment.”

  That was what Ginger and his party were doing; removing a magnetic pistol from a torpedo and substituting a contact pistol.

  “This is where we win the war, you lads and me,” said Ginger, working carefully on the job. “This thing’s got to go off when it hits the Bismarck, and not before and not after. Otherwise we might just as well invite Hitler into Buckingham Palace this evening. That’s it. Now bring the perisher along.”

  On the flight deck the torpedo on its trolley was hard to manage as the ship surged over the waves. But it was placed in position under the Swordfish at last, and the fifteen planes were ranged ready to take off. Commander Air reported this on the bridge and the ship turned into the wind again.

  “An hour of daylight left,” said the Commander Air to the captain.

  “Those boys mean business,” said the captain, and the Swordfish droned on their way.

  “There’s not another ship in the world,” said the Commander Air, “that could have flown planes off and on in these conditions.”

  In the Bismarck, Lutjens and Lindemann were looking at the gray sky.

  “They should have attacked two hours ago,” said Lindemann.

  “One of the unpredictable accidents of war, I expect,” said Lutjens. “One more hour of daylight…That’s all.”

  At this moment came the yell of “Plane on the starboard bow!” followed by the roar of the alarm. The AA guns turned and began to fire, but the deafening racket was pierced by further cries: “Plane on the port beam. Plane on the starboard quarter.”

  Lindemann was giving rapid help orders, which transmitted down the voice-pipe, were translated into violent action by the helmsman at the wheel. The ship turned and twisted, to leave behind her a boiling, curved wake. There was a crash and a great jet of water at the bow as one torpedo exploded there; but the ship fought on without apparent damage. Then came a Swordfish, swooping at the stern as she sung; the wake of her dropped torpedo was clearly visible. On the wing of the bridge, Lutjens was shaking his fists at the plane.

  “Hard-a-port. Hard-a-port!” shouted Lindemann, but there was not time to check the turn. The torpedo hit on her swinging stern, bursting close by the rudder in a shower of spray. A frightful vibration made itself felt throughout the ship, as if the whole vast structure would shake itself to pieces, and she heeled over madly as she continued in a tight turn.

  “Starboard! Starboard!” shouted Lindemann.

  Down below, the helmsman was struggling with the wheel while the compass before him still went swinging round over the card.

  “I can’t move the wheel, sir!” he said. “Rudder’s jammed!”

  On the bridge the vibration still continued and the ship still circled. A telephone squawked and the officer of the watch answered it.

  “Engine room, sir,” he said to the captain.

  “Captain,” said Lindemann calmly into the telephone. “Yes…. Yes…. Very well.”

  The shattering vibration ceased as he hung up, and some of th speed of the ship fell away.

  “Portside engines stopped, sir,” he said to the admiral. “Portside propellers were thrashing against some obstruction.”

  “Yes,” said Lutjens.

  Another telephone was squawking.

  “Damage Control, sir,” said the officer of the watch.

  “Captain,” said Lindemann into the telephone. “Yes…. Yes…. Very well, get going on that.”

  Then he turned to Lutjens.

  “Steering flat is flooded, sir. Steering engine out of action.”

  “What about the hand steering?”

  “They’ve just been trying it, sir, but the rudder’s jammed right over. They’re trying to clear it now.”

  “The fate of the Reich depends on getting that rudder clear,” said Lutjens.

  In the War Room in London the senior officers were gathered round a chart of a different sort. This was on a scale so large that it showed mostly blank ocean, with only a hint of the coast of France and Spain on the right-hand side. But pinned upon the blank area were several tabs, marked, conspicuously, Bismarck, King George V, Rodney, FORCE H, VIAN’S DESTROYERS; and leading up to each tab were the black lines of the tracks of those ships during the last several hours. The only other feature of the map was a wide arc of a circle marking the limit of air cover from France.

  A junior officer came over with a message in his hand.

  “Sheffield has Bismarck in sight now, sir,” he said, making an adjustment to Bismarck’s position. “She’s reporting position, course and speed.”

  “How long before she’s under air cover now?” demanded the admiral.

  Someone swept with his dividers from Bismarck’s position to the arc. “A hundred and seventy-two miles, sir.”

  “Less than seven hours before she’s safe!” said the rear admiral.

  “And only an hour of daylight. What the devil’s Ark Royal up to?”

  “Here’s a most immediate signal coming through now, sir,” said an officer, “from Sheffield: HAVE SIGHTED SWORDFISH ATTACKING. Bismarck FIRING.”

  “That’s Ark Royal’s planes,” said the admiral.

  “Come on, men! Come on!” said the air vice marshal.

  “Most immediate from Sheffield again: Bismarck CIRCLING.”

  “That’s something gained, anyway,” said the
rear admiral.

  “Not enough to matter,” said the admiral.

  “Most immediate from Sheffield: ATTACK APPARENTLY COMPLETED. SWORDFISH RETURNING.”

  The rear admiral began to speak, but the admiral checked him, as the officer was still speaking.

  “Bismarck STILL CIRCLING.”

  “Then the attack’s not over,” said the rear admiral.

  “There’s something odd,” said the admiral.

  The signals were clattering down the tubes to be opened hastily, but they were all, clearly, merely confirmations of what the young officer was announcing from his telephone.

  “Bismarck HEADING NORTH.”

  “Heading north? Heading north? That’s straight for Rodney,” said the admiral.

  “Perhaps she’s still avoiding a plane Sheffield can’t see,” said the rear admiral.

  “I wonder…” said the admiral.

  “ESTIMATE Bismarck’s SPEED AT 10 KNOTS.”

  “That hardly sounds likely,” said the admiral.

  “It must be pretty well dark there now.”

  Another young officer at the telephones spoke:

  “Most immediate signal coming through from Ark Royal, sir.”

  “It’s time we heard from her.”

  “FIRST FIVE AIRCRAFT RETURNING REPORT NO HITS.”

  The air vice marshal struck his fist into his hand, but the message went on.

  “SHADOWING AIRCRAFT REPORTS Bismarck COURSE NORTH, SPEED 9 KNOTS.”

  “Something’s happened to her, for sure,” said the admiral.

  “AIRCRAFT REPORTS HIT ON Bismarck’s STARBOARD BOW.”

  “Good! Good!” said the air vice marshal.

  “But that wouldn’t account for it,” said the rear admiral.

  “Sheffield reporting, sir,” said the first young officer: “Bismarck COURSE NORTH, SPEED 9 KNOTS.”

  “There’s no doubt about it, then,” said the rear admiral.

  “Ark Royal reporting, sir,” said the second officer; “AIRCRAFT REPORTS HIT ON Bismarck RIGHT AFT.”

  “That’s it, then!” said the rear admiral.

  “Yes, that’s it. Propellers or rudder, or both,” said the admiral.

  “Bismarck COURSE NORTH, SPEED 10 KNOTS.”

  “There’s a heavy sea running and she can’t turn her stern to it,” said the admiral.

  “Vian’ll be up to her in an hour,” said the rear admiral. “He’ll keep her busy during the night.”

  “And King George V and Rodney will be up to her by daylight,” said the admiral. “I think we’ve got her. I think we have.”

  Map 8

  “I think we‘ve got her.”

  “Hooray!” said the air vice marshal again.

  “Sheffield reporting, sir: HAVE SIGHTED VIAN’S DESTROYERS PREPARING TO ATTACK.”

  “Hooray!” said the air vice marshal again.

  “Many men are going to die very soon,” said the admiral.

  “Any orders for Captain Vian, sir?”

  There was only a moment’s pause before that question was answered.

  “No,” said the admiral. “We all know Vian, and he knows his business. He won’t lose touch with her. If she stays crippled he won’t have to force the pace too much—he can bring in the battleships to get her at dawn. If she manages to repair herself he’ll have to attack all-out.”

  “No so easy with that sea running,” said the rear admiral. “And Bismarck’s got a good radar, apparently. The darkness will hamper him and won’t hamper her.”

  “That won’t stop Vian from attacking,” said the rear admiral. “Bismarck is certainly going to have a lively night.”

  “All the better for our battleships tomorrow, then. Her crew must be worn out already, and another sleepless night…But I’m not going to count our chickens before they’re hatched. We don’t know all that’s going on.”

  Deep down in the stern of the Bismarck all was dark except for the beams of electric hand lamps. There was the sound of water washing back and forth, and the gleam of it, reflected from the lamps, came and went. The working party there was faintly visible. For a few seconds could be see a man in emergency diving kit disappearing into the surg­ing water. A little farther forward a seaman was stringing an emergency wire which brought light to the dark spaces, so that now the dark water was illuminated as the sea surged backward and forward, roaring through the incredible confusion of twisted steel. There were pumps at work as the diver emerged, blood streaming from his lacerated shoulders. He made his report to the officer there, who went back to use the telephone against a dark bulkhead; to reach these a watertight door was opened for him and shut behind him, although, before it closed, the water came pouring in over the coaming with the movement of the ship. A working party was laboring to shore up the bulkhead, and he had to sign to the men to cease their deafening labor before he could make himself understood at the telephone switchboard.

  In the chartroom of the Bismarck the captain was receiving the message.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes. Very well.”

  Then when he replaced the telephone he addressed Lutjens and the staff officers gathered there.

  “They don’t think any repair can be effected,” he went on. “Furthermore, unless we keep our bows to the sea they think the bulkhead will give way, and flood the next series of compartments. So we must hold this course as best we can.”

  “That means we go forward to meet our fate instead of trying to run away from it,” said Lutjens. “That is what our Führer would like.”

  The chief of staff came forward with a bunch of signal forms in his hand.

  “Berlin has just sent in a long message, a résumé of all the intelligence they can gather,” he said. “The King George V is some fifty miles from us now, bearing northwesterly.”

  The assistant chief of staff opened the reference book to display a series of pictures.

  “Fourteen-inch guns, speed 28 knots, 35,000 tons. Completed last year. Admiral Tovey’s flagship; Captain Patterson.”

  “Renown and Ark Royal—”

  “That’s Force H,” said Lutjens. “We know about them.”

  “And there’s a force of destroyers, probably under Captain Vian—the man who captured the Altmark—close to us to the northward. From the position Berlin gives, they ought to be in sight now.”

  “No doubt they soon will be,” said Lutjens. “I was hoping we might have a quiet night before our battle tomorrow.”

  “The men are falling asleep at their posts, as you know, sir,” said Lindemann.

  “Yes,” said Lutjens.

  “And there’s the Rodney,” went on the chief of staff. “She’s in touch with the King George V, and may even have joined her by now.”

  The assistant chief of staff opened the reference book at another page. “Sixteen-inch guns, speed 24 knots, 35,000 tons, completed soon after the last war. Captain Dalrymple Hamilton.”

  “Twenty years old,” said Lutjens. “And I know her well. I lunched on board her in ’24 at Malta when I was a young lieutenant.”

  It called for no effort on the part of Lutjens to conjure up the memory before his mind’s eye. The heat and the dazzling sunshine and the smooth water of the harbor—all so different from this bitter cold and tossing sea and gray sky—and the spotless battleship, glittering with fresh paint and polished brasswork; the white handropes, the white uniforms, the dazzling gold lace; the bosun’s mates lined up with their calls to their lips; the welcoming group of officers on the quarterdeck as Lutjens followed his captain on board; the salutes and the handshakes, the introductions and the formalities, before the English captain led the way below to a wide airy cabin, the armchairs gay with chintz, the table covered with white linen, the glassware sparkling.

  “That was the peacetime navy,” said Lutjens.

  If Lutjens could have seen the Rodney now, as she plowed over the sea towards him, he would hardly have recognized her. A British lieutenant and an American naval lieutenant w
ere at that moment on the boat deck of the Rodney looking around them at the ship.

  “A battle’s the last thing we expected,” said the Englishman.

  “That’s what it looks like,” said the American.

  His eyes traveled over the boat deck and the upper deck. They were piled with wooden cases secured in every available space.

  “This Lend-Lease of yours,” said the Englishman. “Very kind of you to refit us, I know. We couldn’t do without it. But we have to bring half our refitting stores with us, the things you can’t supply because of our different standards.”

  “I know about that,” said the American.

  “Those are pom-pom mountings,” said the Englishman.

  “They look more like the Pyramids,” said the American. They were eyeing at the moment two enormous wooden cases that towered up beside them on the boat deck.

  “We’ve five hundred invalids on board for Canada,” went on the Englishman. “They’ll see another battle before they see Canada, anyway, and their wishes haven’t been consulted about it.”

  “Me too,” replied the American mildly. “I’m only supposed to be quietly showing you the way to Boston.”

  “That’s the old Rodney for you,” said the Englishman. “She can’t even start off on a quiet trip to America without crossing the bows of a German battleship. We always try to do our guests well—entertainment regardless of expense. You’ll see fireworks tomorrow.”

  “Very kind of you,” said the American.

  “Mind you,” went on the Englishman, “it may not be quite as lavish as we’d like. We haven’t had time for a refit for two years. We’re old and we’re dingy. But we’ll show you something good tomorrow, all the same. When those fellows talk—”

  He pointed down to the turrets where the main armament crews were exercising. It was a moment of indescribable menace, as the sixteen-inch guns trained and elevated.