“Too bloody right…!” Carter agreed, forced to manoeuver heavily to avoid another salvo. We’ve slowed ‘em down a bit though… reckon we’ll leave it to Sydney to take care of ‘em from here. One more pass and we’ll be outta here faster than you can say ‘God Save the King’!”
“Well may we say ‘God Save the King’, sir,” Flying Officer Gough Whitlam nodded with a wry grin. “…but nothing will save that German raider…!”
“Nice one, Gough,” Carter replied, agreeing wholeheartedly.
The two remaining Mitchells got in four more palpable hits on Kormoran between them before turning away to the east once more and heading back to base, one of them trailing smoke from damage sustained during the attack. They’d made sure they attacked from the direction of the ship’s bow, taking advantage of the fact that the forward flak turret had been destroyed and raking the fire from their cannon and heavy machine guns right along the long axis of the ship from stem to stern.
Detmers had turned toward the initial attack, standard practice to minimise the target area presented bombs or aerial torpedoes. That same manoeuvre unfortunately also left the vessel completely vulnerable to strafing, with each aircraft able to rain fire along the entire length of the vessel to terrible effect. Smoke poured from several fires burning on deck, while just two flak positions – the rear 23mm turret and one of the 37mm guns – remaining in operation.
The bridge itself had been hit several times by fire from fifty calibre machine guns, and luck alone had prevented anything worse as Detmers turned his head and threw a nervous glance at the 75mm hole a shell had punched straight through the steel below the bridge’s main windows. Incredibly, the shell had been a dud; one that was now embedded in the deck, directly below his captain’s chair. He’d elected to stand from thereon in as a result.
The situation had fared far worse for Gerhard Fuchs. He’d been standing right at the bridge windows, watching the battle unfold, despite a number of warnings from Detmers, Oetzel and a number of other officers to stand back or take cover. The look on the man’s face had said it all: it was an expression Detmers knew well; one that he’d seen on man young recruits in the midst of their first engagement. A mixture of fear and excitement, the reactions behind it often caused a man to freeze on the spot, making him not only useless but also a danger to those around him while not performing his duties.
Fuchs of course had no duties aboard, so there’d been no real reason to order him away other than for his own safety, and there had been far more pressing matters at hand for all concerned to concentrate on than looking after the welfare of some errant RFR officer who shouldn’t have been there in the first place. The captain was a little bit ashamed to admit that he might have made more of an effort had it been one of his own crew, rather than an outsider whom most of the crew had come to fear or despise during his time on board.
At least a dozen machine gun rounds had struck the bridge during the last strafing run, shattering glass and punching through the light steel bulkheads like paper. Sparks and shrapnel had sprayed the entire area, wounding several men, with one badly injured and being treated below decks after a glancing blow from a machine gun bullet had almost torn off his right hand. Yet miraculously, just one man had been killed by that hailstorm. At least three fifty calibre slugs had ripped through Fuchs’ body, slowed somewhat by their passage through the bridge walls beforehand but nevertheless still possessing enough power to rip him to pieces.
Detmers grimaced as he glanced across toward the area where he’d been hit. They’d carted out what had been left of the man’s body, thankfully, but there was still blood all over the deck where he’d fallen, intermingled with the occasional small piece of unidentified flesh that the cleaning crew had missed. The locked briefcase he’d been carrying, hugging it to himself as if it were a favourite teddy bear, now lay stained and forgotten amongst the carnage on the deck, sodden and stained darkly with its owner’s blood and kicked into a corner away from anyone’s feet.
“Damage reports…! I want damage reports!” He bellowed angrily, casting his eyes about and unable to ignore the fires that he could see burning on the deck, the largest above what was left of the forward flak turret, right at the bow.
“We’re down to one flak turret and one three-point-seven,” Oetzel informed, dirt-stained, shirtless and standing at his side in that moment. “All main guns still operable however, and our emergency crews are confident well have the fires under control within a few minutes. Both directors are out and we’ve some dead and wounded. No confirmed count yet, but surprisingly few considering the pounding we’ve just taken. We at least managed to send one of them to Valhalla for their troubles. I’m waiting on reports from engineering, but we took a hit in the stern from one of their verdammt cannon – we may have some damage back there below decks…”
“We’re receiving a transmission from the warship, Mein Herr…!” Reinhold called out from the radio console, blood trickling down the side of his face from a shrapnel wound above his right eye. “It’s an Australian cruiser – the Sydney – demanding we heave to and strike our colours. They intend to board us…”
“To hell with that…!” Detmers snarled angrily. “Not without a bloody fight, they won’t! All hands to main guns... do not deploy yet, but prepare for action… we’ll try to lure them in close. Reinhold… tell them we’re the freighter Straat Malakka out of Fremantle, diverted to Manila for an urgent cargo. Tell them we’ve just been attacked in error by friendly aircraft and require assistance! Helm: hard left rudder… revert to course due north… pest possible speed.”
“I – I don’t speak Dutch, Mein Herr…” the radio officer stammered uncertainly.
“They’re Australians, man… you think they can tell a Dutch accent from a German one? Just do your best – we’re luring them in close to screw them, not to marry them…!” He turned to the ship’s intercom as his radio officer got on with his orders. “Horst…!” He called hoarsely into the microphone. “We’re not going fast enough! What’s happening down there?”
“I’m sorry, Mein Herr,” the reply came back within seconds against a crackling background of shouting men and unidentified machinery noises. “One of those last hits caught us somewhere vital… Engine one is down and I think the shock affected the others… the bearings in number two have packed it in again. We’re down to two engines now: we’ll be lucky to make eight or nine knots…”
“Understood, chief,” Detmers acknowledged, cursing under his breath as he signed off.
“Glorious final stand, then…?” Oetzel suggested with a faint smile and a sigh of resignation, and Detmers realised for the first time that he wore a large bandage covering half of his right side, pink showing through at the centre from beneath.
“You’re hurt, Gustav?”
“Shrapnel from one of those cannon strikes,” his XO informed as casually as he could manage, in constant pain but fighting it as best he could. “Normally I’d suggest it was nothing a little time in the tropics couldn’t fix,” he added with a wry grin, nodding to the world outside, “but unfortunately it hasn’t seemed to help much…”
“Get some rest, man,” Detmers suggested, laying a hand on his shoulder.
“And let you get all the glory?” Oetzel asked, shaking his head with friendly cynicism. “Not a chance. I can still walk… still operate a gun too, if need be. You need every man on deck, now more than ever.”
“I suspect they’ll not be handing out any iron crosses for this…” his captain mused sadly, nodding in agreement. “Sorry, my friend…”
“We’re a surface raider, Theodor…” Oetzel grinned, giving a shrug in return. “I knew this was the wrong job for awards when I signed up.” He snorted, trying to make himself feel better about their possible impending deaths. “Who needs a silly piece of metal around your neck anyway? Where do you need me…?”
“We’ve lost Bruno to injury, and I can’t think of a better helmsman…” Detmers acknowledged with a
nod and a sad smile. “Take the helm if you would, Herr Oetzel…?”
“It would be a pleasure, Mein Herr…!” Oetzel replied, giving a respectful salute before turning and stepping across to relieve the man already on duty at the helm.
“They’re not accepting our explanation, sir,” Reinhold advised, lowering the headset from his ears and looking quite nervous at that moment with sweat covering his face in a light sheen. “They’re advising the know Straat Malakka was sunk two weeks ago and they’re calling us by name… They’re calling us Kormoran, Mein Herr: they know who we are.”
“Damn them!” Detmers snarled, not even bothering to try thinking about how their pursuer could possibly have that information. “Damn them all to hell. Fire Control: what’s the range?”
“Rangefinders are out sir, but my best estimation is sixteen thousand metres,” his fire control officer responded immediately.
“Long, but within range then,” he conceded, ready at that point to take a gamble. “Belay my course change!” He added, calling out to Oetzel at the helm. Steady as she goes, course back to zero-nine-zero. All gun crews deploy!” He continued as the ship ceased turning back to the north and instead swung sharply eastward once more. “Weapons free: fire when able…! We’ll give those Aussie bastards a bloody broadside…!”
Amid the fires and smoke outside, side panels at the bow and stern quickly fell away to reveal single pedestal mounts for huge 150mm guns, fitted port and starboard in mirror image, while in the middle of the deck, directly fore and aft of the main superstructure, two more single guns rose on retractable mounts.
Kormoran fired first at a range of just under nine miles. Both she and Sydney mounted a similar main armament with six 150mm guns against eight six-inch (150mm) respectively, however that small advantage on paper to Sydney was actually far greater in reality. The nature of the raider’s mounting positions – necessitated by the need for them to be hidden, mean that at any one time, only four guns could be trained on any one target in broadside, whereas Sydney’s four twin turrets were all mounted on her centreline, allowing the use of all eight guns. The cruiser also had the use of her main gun directors and radar ranging, allowing for extremely accurate fire, while Kormoran’s directors and rangefinders had already been knocked out, forcing her crews to aim and fire independently with a substantial loss of accuracy and coordination.
Detmers was surprised however that Sydney initially did not fire in return, waiting several more tense moments to instead eventually reply using the 76mm anti-aircraft mounts mounted singly around the cruiser’s stack and central superstructure. Replacing the ship’s original 4-inch AA mounts during her refit the year before, the 3-inch Mark-34 mount was a standard US design that had been developed to more effectively counter the danger of fast-moving, low- and high-level aircraft alike, along with a secondary surface attack role. Capable of fully automatic fire of up to forty rounds per minute apiece, their proximity fused shells were lethal against aircraft.
They opened up at a far lesser rate now, however even at extreme range, the three port side guns were able to pepper Kormoran with fire within a few short minutes. Proximity-fused shells intended to fill the sky around an attacking aircraft with shrapnel were equally deadly against a thinly-armoured ship and open gun positions that gave their crews no protection whatsoever. Dozens of crewmen were killed or grievously wounded as Sydney continued to close the distance at an oblique angle, salvo after salvo of anti-aircraft shells sweeping gun crews away from their positions with deadly efficiency as each one exploded just a dozen feet or so above the deck. Two of the forward guns exploded soon after as red hot shell fragments ignited propellant charges stored nearby, adding to the blaze still burning after the destruction of the flak turret at the bow, and all effective fire from Kormoran ceased within a few minutes.
Inside the bridge, Oetzel was down and moaning as a medic attended to him, more shrapnel having punched holes in his shoulder and upper arm. Three more men were dead, Reinhold included, and Detmers had taken a minor wound to the thigh also, although he refused any treatment other than an immediate attempt to hastily tear away that section of his pants and patch the wound with a shell dressing. It hurt badly whenever he moved, but he wasn’t about to show any weakness when he was losing so many good men around him.
“Another message from Sydney, Mein Herr,” Reinhold’s replacement called out from the bloodstained radio console. “They’re again requesting we heave to and strike out colours. They say they will offer medical assistance and help with the fires if we surrender… They also advise that any attempt to abandon or scuttle the ship will be met with extreme force…”
There was a pleading tone in the young man’s voice that everyone could hear. Under different circumstances, it might have earned him a charge of defeatism or even a warning against desertion. Surrounded by carnage and the loss of so many comrades however, there was no fault Detmers could find in such human fear. The faces of the others still on the bridge told him clear as day they all felt the same: that they’d fought as best they could but were simply outmatched and faced with a far more powerful adversary.
As his XO had said, it was unlikely they’d receive iron crosses for their work as a surface raider, but the captain was damn sure in that moment that there’d be no more posthumous awards handed out for pointless acts of suicide either. Detmers could blow his own brains out later if he wanted – if he even had the courage for such an act, which he honestly doubted – but he’d not be responsible for the deaths of any more of the men under him.
“Respond please, ensign,” he signed, eventually nodding in recognition of the man’s words. “Advise Sydney we surrender. Helm! All stop! Course: steady as she goes. Someone get me some current damage reports too, damn it! I need to know what’s happening with my ship… whether we can save her!”
Like most warships of cruiser-size or greater, Sydney had originally been designed to carry a catapult behind her single stack for launching a small flying boat – normally a Supermarine Walrus. Flown directly off the ship and used for reconnaissance, the aircraft could be recovered by crane after landing on the water upon return. During her refit, she’d had the catapult removed and faired over by a large, flat landing deck that provided enough space for one SH-9B Seahawk: a naval variant of the increasingly ubiquitous UH-9 utility helicopter in service with US and Allied forces. Capable of carrying eight or ten men just like its land-based cousin, the Seahawk also had the facility to mount gunpods or two depth charges on its lower fuselage sides, providing it with a secondary anti-submarine capability.
The Seahawk that came in to hover over the upper superstructure of Kormoran carried no offensive armament. It did however carry a squad of marines armed with folding-stocked M2A2 assault carbines, the boarding party spreading out to secure the upper deck behind the stack the moment they’d disembarked from the aircraft. The chopper powered away again immediately, returning to Sydney in order to collect its next group of passengers.
The cruiser had come close in along Kormoran’s starboard side, standing off a thirty or forty feet and making use of her own substantial firefighting equipment to rain several huge jets of sea water down across the fires burning at the raider’s bow. Added to the efforts already being made by the German crew, it took just a few moments before the blaze – which had until that point still been completely out of control – had been reduced to something quite manageable.
Eileen, Lloyd and Langdale were part of the second boarding team to alight from the helicopter, all dressed in camo-pattern combat fatigues and webbing. The two SAS men carried rifles while Eileen was comfortable with just the pistol at her belt… one she left secure in her holster to the displeasure of her two escorts.
“This was not a good idea,” Lloyd growled as they began to make their way forward, picking up two more marines in support. “You’re as bloody bad as Max!”
“I can hardly be expected to inspect what they have aboard from over on the other bloody
deck!” She fired back, having listened to and ignored that very same argument all the way over on the helicopter. “No offence, Evan, but neither of you two is qualified to identify or interact with anything as complex as a nuclear device.”
“Then why not wait until we have the bloody ship back in port and look at it then…?”
“You saw the damage this thing has taken…” Eileen snapped, tiring of the subject. “There’s no guarantee at the moment that it will make it back to port, and I am not going to let it end up at the bottom of the Pacific bloody Ocean without knowing what’s in her hold… end of discussion…!”
“I don’t think…” Langdale began carefully, about to correct her on her geography, but was instantly silenced by both a glare from Eileen and a quick, warning shake of the head from Lloyd from behind, over her shoulder, that was accompanied by an easily-understood ‘throat-cutting’ gesture with one hand.
Eileen drew a sharp breath as they stepped onto the bridge a moment or two later, and even the other two were given pause by the scene as medics continued to do what could for the wounded and dying there. Three bodies lay strewn about in various states of ruin, clearly lifeless and sadly ignored for the time being as every able body was forced to concentrate either on regaining control of the damage or tending to those wounded still possessed of a chance of survival.
There wasn’t a single pane of glass surrounding the entire bridge that hadn’t been smashed, and shrapnel holes of varying shapes and sizes that were too numerous to count peppered every wall and bulkhead. As someone accustomed to service aboard warships, Eileen didn’t want to think too hard about what those men must have suffered through as the battle was going on, nor, as she caught sight of Detmers, what the ship’s captain must have being going through either.
“You’d be Captain Detmers, then,” Lloyd observed cautiously, not raising his weapon but keeping it ready as the man approached with a distinct limp and a pained expression on his face.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 50
