by Murray Pura
“Thank God.”
“Yes, thank Him. And now we must pray to Him. We must go in our hearts and minds to the Denmark Strait where your young Horatio faces a more formidable foe than the French and Spanish fleet off Trafalgar.”
She clutched his hands and twisted her fingers around his. “I can’t lose Owen, Grandfather. I can’t bear to lose him.”
“Nor can I.”
“Remember how young he was at Dunkerque? Remember how handsome and brave? Remember his poems? God must save him.”
“Him and Terry and Edward and England.” He bowed his head, their hands remaining wound together. “Let me begin.”
She bowed her head as well. “Yes, Grandfather. His will be done on earth as it is in heaven—Sein Wille geschehe auf Erden wie im Himmel ist.”
“His will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” repeated Lord Preston. “Not evil’s will. Not the will of wicked men. His will.”
There was silence in the room. Lord Preston began to hum softly. Soon words came with the humming.
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm doth bind the restless wave,
Who bidst the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep:
O hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea.
Silence again.
“The Navy Hymn,” whispered Lord Preston. “God, You are on those waters with them right now. You hear prayers from German and Englishman alike. But Christ, our Christ, be with Owen, be with Terry, and if it should come to that, be with my son Edward as well. God, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. A price will be paid. A price is always paid. Only let the right prevail. Only let Your good will prevail.”
Saturday, May 24, 1941
Denmark Strait Between Greenland and Iceland
Spray burst over the bow of HMS Prince of Wales.
Leading Seaman Owen Danforth stood ready on the bridge to run messages to any part of the ship should communications be disabled. Captain John Leach glanced back at him.
“I trust you know the lay of the ship?”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Owen responded.
Leach turned back to his officers. “Gun turrets will have to rely on the range finders in the control tower. The spray over the bow will not permit use of the turret range finders. Make sure that’s understood.”
“Yes, captain,” said an officer at his side.
“Do we still have Bismarck in sight, Kenley?”
“Aye, aye, sir. Just over eleven miles. Twenty thousand yards.”
“All turrets come to bear. Prepare to open fire.”
“Prepare to open fire, aye, aye, sir.”
“Can we get a broadside on the Bismarck?” asked Captain Leach.
“No, sir,” Kenley replied. “Our angle of approach doesn’t permit it. The aft turrets won’t be able to engage.”
“Very well.”
Owen could see the Hood four cables ahead of them—half a mile—seas breaking over her bow and deck. The long fifteen-inch guns began to elevate. He imagined his uncle, Commander Terry Fordyce, standing on the bridge by Vice Admiral Lancelot Holland, taking and giving orders in his easy way as their guns sighted in on Bismarck and Prinz Eugen.
There was a sudden roar, and dark smoke boiled over the forward turrets of the Hood.
“Mark the time,” said Captain Leach in a calm voice.
“Oh five fifty-two, sir,” Kenley said crisply.
“Fire.”
Kenley adjusted his headphones. “Aye, aye, sir. All turrets sighted on the enemy, open fire.”
The Prince of Wales shuddered, flame belched from the fourteen-inch guns, and smoke poured over the ship and was pushed away by the wind. Ten seconds later there was another three-gun salvo.
“Mark the time,” ordered Leach.
“Oh five fifty-three, sir,” Kenley responded.
“We appear to have overshot Bismarck by a thousand yards, sir,” another officer with bright blond hair piped up.
“Ensure the control tower makes the necessary adjustments. Resume firing.”
“Resume firing, aye, aye, captain,” replied the blond officer. “We have a jam at A turret.”
“Carry on with the guns that are sighted in and working.”
The battleship shook again as the Prince of Wales fired.
“We’ve straddled Bismarck, sir,” said Kenley. “And we appear to have some hits.”
“Continue firing. Begin port turn.”
“Begin port turn, aye, aye, captain.”
“We are taking fire from Prinz Eugen, sir,” warned the blond officer.
“Keep our guns on Bismarck.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Owen watched as their guns and the Hood’s spat fire. Suddenly tall geysers of white water sprang up around the Hood.
“Bismarck has straddled Hood, sir,” said Kenley.
Half a minute later tall columns of white and gray water surrounded the Hood again.
“They have her range,” muttered Leach. “Continue rapid fire at Bismarck. Let’s hit her a second time.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Flames and smoke shot up as high as the Hood’s masts. Owen thought a gun turret had malfunctioned on the great battleship and exploded. A huge rush of orange fire and smoke tore the ship from his sight. A moment later he glimpsed the bow and the stern both rising out of the water and Hood rapidly disappearing into the sea.
What’s happened? She’s blown apart!
“She’s sunk!” one officer exclaimed. “Hood’s sunk!”
“Hard starboard!” snapped Leach. “We don’t want to hit the debris!”
The turn brought Prince of Wales closer to Bismarck and Prinz Eugen. Massive towers of water burst around her.
“We are taking fire from both enemy ships now, sir. All their guns are ranging in on us.”
Owen watched in a daze as they sliced over the spot where the Hood had been steaming half a minute before. He looked for heads, hundreds of heads of swimming men, but he saw only large chunks of jagged steel swirling in a kind of whirlpool as Hood continued to sink swiftly to the sea floor.
Uncle Terry! Swim up! Get out and swim up!
A blow threw Owen sideways, and he braced his hands against the bulkhead to keep from falling down.
“We’re hit!” shouted one of the officers.
“I need a damage report,” commanded Leach. “An accurate one. As soon as possible.” He fixed his eyes on Owen. “See what you can find out and report back to me.”
Owen stood up straight and saluted. “Aye, aye, captain.”
He turned. The bridge exploded behind him and hurled him into the air. The force of the blast slammed his head into a wall of steel.
May 24, 1941
HMS Rodney, the North Atlantic
“Commander Danforth.” A sailor saluted Edward at the door to his quarters. Edward returned the salute.
“Commodore Dalrymple-Hamilton requests your presence on the bridge.”
Edward made his way over the deck, through waves of sea spray, and climbed up to the bridge, gripping the handrails tightly. Dalrymple-Hamilton swiveled in his chair to look at him. All the officers did. Edward saluted.
“We’ve received a signal concerning a naval action in the Denmark Strait early this morning. Hood and the Prince of Wales engaged Bismarck and Prinz Eugen.” The commodore paused. “Hood was sunk. Prince of Wales took a number of hits including one on the bridge that killed most of the officers. She was forced to withdraw under a smokescreen.”
Edward felt as if the commodore had struck him across the face with the flat of his hand. “What sort of survivors are we talking about on the Hood, sir?”
“None. Though one report says three.”
“None? Three? How’s that, sir?”
“She blew up, Commander. Sank immediately.”
“Do we have the names of the three survivors, sir?”
“No. I’m aware you have
family on board the Hood.”
“My sister’s husband, sir.”
“I’m very sorry, Commander. I’ll let you know the moment we receive the names of any who were rescued.”
“Thank you, sir.” He kept his eyes on the commodore. “Do we know who the casualties on the Prince of Wales were?”
“Not yet. It’s your son, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A rotten morning, Commander. All I can offer you is this direct signal from the prime minister.”
He extended his hand toward Edward.
“The prime minister?” Edward took the piece of paper from the commodore’s fingers.
“By way of the Admiralty. But it’s his words. In this case, short and to the point.”
Edward unfolded the note.
SINK THE BISMARCK
Edward looked up.
“We are five hundred miles northwest of Ireland,” related the commodore. “At this point we part company with the troopship of civilians we were escorting to Canada and leave it in the capable hands of HMS Eskimo. We are taking the destroyers Somali, Mashona, and Tartar with us in pursuit of the Bismarck.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Edward.
“Do you recall the firebombing of London on December twenty-ninth? The prime minister saw that St. Paul’s Cathedral was about to be destroyed and declared it must be saved at all costs. He knew it was a symbol not only of London but of the British people. The same is true of the Hood. It was a symbol of our nation. We cannot save her, so we must avenge her. The Bismarck represents the German Empire, and we must do our part to remove that symbol from Hitler and the Third Reich. At all costs. We cannot let them keep that symbol. Do you take my meaning, Commander?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It is the belief of all on this bridge that according to information we have received, Bismarck is headed to Brest, not out to sea to prey on British shipping. This can only mean she sustained a certain amount of damage during her brief engagement with Hood and the Prince of Wales. Accordingly, we are about to make a turn to port and head south and east to cut her off. We shall need an all-out effort from the crew in the engine room if we are to have any hope of catching Bismarck. And more than a bit of luck or some sort of miracle since Bismarck can steam faster than any of our ships. Do you believe in luck, Commander?”
“I expect I do, sir.”
“Do you believe in miracles?”
“I expect I do, sir.”
“When you get a few minutes you may go to the ship’s chapel and offer a prayer up for us all. Meantime, not being able to make our own luck or our own miracles, we do what we can do and make steam. Even that needs a touch from Lady Luck or the Almighty. You know how worn out our boilers are. We are due for a complete refit. The men are doing their best with what we have. Work with them, Commander. Assist them in any way you can. Let me know immediately if they need anything. We must make speed and we cannot do it without a Herculean effort from the engine room and her crew.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Edward saluted. “I shall get right on it.”
Commodore Dalrymple-Hamilton returned the salute. “I shall let you know the moment I have news regarding the crews of Prince of Wales and Hood.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Carry on.”
Sunday, May 25, 1941
London
“The Lord sustain us in this continuing battle. The Lord comfort all those who grieve the loss of their loved ones on the Hood.” Jeremy’s voice broke. “The Lord comfort my sister in the loss of her husband, Commander Terrence Fordyce, RN. No finer man graced the uniform of the Royal Navy. Christ be with us all, and Christ be with our sailors and our nation. Amen.”
Several amens sounded in the hall used for the St. Andrew’s Cross congregation since the church building’s destruction.
Lord Preston, tears on his face, put his daughter Libby’s hands to his lips. “I shall pray for you without ceasing. I shall do whatever I can do. We all shall, the whole family.”
“Of course you will, Father.” Libby’s face was streaming. “I know I will not be alone.”
Lord Preston turned to Jane. “This is no less true for you, my dear. You have lost a father. We love you with all our hearts.”
Jane bowed her head under a dark veil. “Thank you, Grandfather.”
Both Jane and her mother were dressed in black.
People crowded around the two women and the Danforth family to express their condolences. Lord Preston eventually broke away, one arm around his wife, and walked outside. They stood there a moment, watching the traffic, watching the people. At one end of the street a newsboy shouted, “The Mighty Hood sunk. Nation in a state of shock. Bismarck free to attack our convoys. Prime minister orders the pursuit of the German battleship by all available vessels.”
Lady Preston’s eyes filled. “Is it just my imagination, William, or is everyone walking more slowly, are all the cars and lorries moving so much more slowly up and down our avenues and streets?”
“I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say a shroud has descended upon our city and the entire island. The air war has been vicious but we have endured, so the Blitz has felt to all of us like a victory. But the loss of the Hood is a defeat. It makes it feel as if no matter what we do, eventually the Nazis shall overwhelm us and conquer our nation.”
“Surely now the Americans will come in.”
“They will not come in, Elizabeth. President Roosevelt will be sympathetic, but it’s not their ship that was lost. Not their Arizona or California or Oklahoma. The day someone sinks their ships is the day they will enter the war. It was the same way in nineteen seventeen.”
She wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Where is Charlotte? We must speak with Charlotte. And Eva, poor Eva. Is there any more news about the casualties aboard the Prince of Wales? Any news at all about Owen?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Surely Edward is in it now?”
“Yes, of course. Rodney is in pursuit. I don’t see how they will catch Bismarck to tell you the truth. But let us keep that to ourselves.”
“We cannot have lost Owen too, we simply cannot. Would God be so cruel, William? Is He that sort of God?”
“He is not that sort of God. But we live in a world where people die and cannot all be saved. This is not Eden; it is not paradise. We must bear up. Faith is our anchor. Not having an anchor, not having faith, only makes matters worse and improves nothing.”
“There is Charlotte coming out of the hall. Eva is with her.” Lady Preston began to walk toward them. “I didn’t see them come in. I have no idea where they sat.”
“I saw them.” Lord Preston joined her. “They were at the back. Far at the back. I couldn’t spot them when we left.”
“The poor children. Our poor country. Fourteen hundred drowned.”
“God have mercy,” Lord Preston said softly as Eva’s tear-worn face turned toward him. “Christ have mercy.”
Monday, May 26, 1941
HMS Rodney, the North Atlantic
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
The commodore opened the door to his quarters wider. “I did. Step in, Commander.”
Edward stepped into the room and shut the door to spray and wind and shrieking gulls.
Dalrymple-Hamilton smiled. “I wish to congratulate you. I don’t know how you and the engine room crew are doing it. Several times during this chase we’ve gone two knots beyond our designed speed.”
“The men are marvels, sir.”
“How are you keeping the boilers from bursting?”
“We’re plugging leaks constantly, sir. And pumping seawater on top of the engine parts that are overheating.” Edward cleared his throat. “Sir, the lads are passing out from the heat in the engine room.”
“I see by the look of your uniform it must be something of an inferno down there, yes.”
“Their effort really must not go unsung, sir.”
“With you
and me and the other officers it shan’t. Whether the rest of the world ever finds out depends upon what happens over the next day or two. A Catalina flying boat spotted Bismarck at ten thirty hours. It was one hundred ten miles southeast of us. So we are holding our present course. Nevertheless it’s bound to reach safety before we or any of the ships can attack her. Have you been down to the ship’s chapel, Commander?”
“I haven’t, sir.”
“Spare a moment and see what you can offer up. I can tell you this—the Ark Royal aircraft carrier is set to launch a torpedo attack on Bismarck. I’ll be using the Tannoy to tell the men. The Victorious wasn’t successful with her air strike on the twenty-fourth. But who knows? Perhaps Ark Royal and her Fairey Swordfish biplanes will be lucky—or blessed.” He handed a sheet of paper to Edward. “The casualty list from HMS Prince of Wales.”
Edward’s stomach tightened as his eyes ran over the names. Then he relaxed. “Thank goodness, sir. My son’s name is not here.”
The commodore nodded. “It isn’t. But I regret to say the list is not complete. I’ve been informed some have died of their injuries. They promised to send a more complete list soon.”
The fear returned to Edward’s stomach and chest with a harsh grip. “Excuse me, sir—can’t they just tell me if Leading Seaman Owen Danforth is alive or dead?”
“I asked them that twice. But I have received no reply.”
Edward handed the sheet back to him. “Thank you, sir.”
“Dreadfully sorry, Commander.”
Edward saluted and left the commodore’s quarters. He returned to the sting of the wind and waves that hurled saltwater over Rodney like gunfire. For a moment he stared at the bow of the battleship and its rough rhythm of plunging into the heavy seas and lifting out of the boil again and again, water seething over the deck and the hull. He removed his officer’s cap and bared his head.
You gave the soldiers salvation at Dunkerque, didn’t You? You gave the RAF their victory last summer and fall. You’ve given Londoners the strength to endure the Blitz. Now You must give the navy something. You must. Over a hundred years have gone by since Trafalgar, but You are the great God who forgets nothing. You remember Lord Nelson’s prayer, I know You do, and I offer it up again on this windswept sea. “May the great God, whom I worship, grant to my country and for the benefit of Europe in general, a great and glorious victory. And may no misconduct, in anyone, tarnish it. And may humanity after victory be the predominant feature in the British fleet. For myself individually, I commit my life to Him who made me, and may His blessing alight upon my endeavors for serving my country faithfully. To Him I resign myself and the just cause which is entrusted to me to defend. Amen. Amen. Amen.”
