Hardy said: “Number One, prepare a boat party. Yeoman, reply to Prometheus, ‘Message received, acknowledged. Proceeding as instructed.’” Hardy flipped open the brass cover of the engine room voice tube. “Engine Room? Bridge here. Light off number three. Let me know when she’s ready. Stand by for increase in revolutions. Quartermaster?” he called. “Bridge here. Starboard thirty. We shall become an ambulance.”
“Bridge, Quartermaster. Starboard thirty,” the helmsman confirmed. “Wheel starboard thirty.”
Hardy made his way to the binnacle and watched the compass needle swing. Smartly done, he thought. At least he was free of Prometheus and could act on his own. He didn’t like to take orders and could barely stomach suggestions, and his irritation at being nudged in one direction or another had increased significantly since the Second Night. But he remembered his heated conversation with Land, especially when Number One had said: “I was there, too.” It was a relief that Land said it aloud. For some reason, and Hardy had thought this through and could find no logical reason for it, it was as if the burden of his actions had been shared by Land’s acknowledgment, and it did not lie all on his shoulders alone. Stupid, bloody emotions. No sense to any of it.
Now I can do something positive. I can go and pull some poor bastards out of the cold sea and give them a warm place to lay their head. He suddenly remembered his comment about Firedancer being an ambulance and he felt a twinge of shame. What’s wrong with the old girl being an ambulance? he told himself. Change of pace for her—do her a bit of good.
Do yourself some good, you mean, old bastard, he told himself. Good God, he thought. Now I’m a philosopher as well!
D.K.M. Sea Lion
Turm Oberbootsmannmaat Herbert Statz had been proud of Bruno’s performance against the English vessel although he couldn’t see anything more than the crowded confines of the turret during the battle. He had heard of course; the loudspeaker within the turret kept Statz and the others informed of the action.
Statz had taken time to visit the crews of the other two guns and speak to them about the victory. He spoke to them as if Bruno alone had destroyed the English cruiser while the crews of the other turrets did little. Those who listened understood the pride that Statz felt because they felt it as well. They could feel nothing else. Sea Lion was almost too big, too fast, and too powerful to conceive of. She was a complex city that functioned perfectly, that performed beyond anyone’s expectations, and there was nothing like her on the seas. That is the reason that Statz took the time to speak to the other sailors: he wanted to share his pride, and exalt in theirs, of Sea Lion.
Statz found Bootsmannsmaat Otto Liebs calmly sitting on a shell-transfer capstan near the upper revolving shell ring, eating potted meat from a tin. He alternated between the meat and a stack of crackers poised precariously on his knee.
“How can you eat that shit, Liebs?” Statz said.
Liebs dipped a piece of cracker in the tin, scooped out some potted meat, and popped it into his mouth. “I can eat anything. I’m not so fancy as you gunners.”
Statz glanced at the racks of high-explosive shells surrounding the room. They were two decks down and encased in an armored barbette, but one lucky shot piercing this room would send the turret above them straight up into the air.
“Keep your hands off my children,” Liebs said, digging in the tin.
“Children?” Statz said.
“I’d give them all names but there are too many of them. You fellows above don’t have the sensibilities that we shell handlers do. We do the real work. My children are the real heroes.”
“What about my guns?”
“They are of no consequence,” Liebs said.
“What do the fellows in the powder rooms say, then?”
Liebs shrugged. “Who listens to them? That reminds me.” He set the tin on the deck, rose, and made his way to the shell hoist shutter casing. He turned a butterfly knob and opened an access panel. Taking a flashlight from his overall back pocket, he peered into the shell hoist trunking. Apparently satisfied with its condition, he closed and locked the panel. “Have you seen Kuhn lately?”
The question shocked Statz. “What?”
Liebs turned off the light and slid the flashlight into his back pocket. “They say Kuhn is wandering the ship at night.”
“That’s not funny,” Statz said. “He was my friend.”
“Mine as well,” Liebs said. “You forget that we had liberty together quite often. That doesn’t change things. Eich saw him near the hydraulic accumulator. Hillen said that he saw Kuhn in one of the cordite storage bays.”
“Hillen is a fool.”
“Of course he is. But he’s not the only one who says that he saw Kuhn.”
“What of it?”
Liebs shrugged again. “Nothing. Some sailors are concerned about such things. It means nothing to me.”
“All we need to be concerned with,” Statz said, “is our duty. We serve the guns and think of nothing else.”
“You needn’t lecture me,” Liebs said abruptly. “Have you ever wanted for shells? I do my job and keep my machines clean. But this could be bad luck, you know.”
Statz turned away from Liebs. “It’s nonsense,” he said. But he found the talk disturbing.
“For you and me, yes. For others, I’m not so sure.”
“You’d better not let the officers hear about this.”
Liebs snorted. “What would I tell them? The ghost of a sailor is wandering the ship? Better I keep my mouth shut and come face-to-face with Kuhn. But the others call it bad luck, Statz. You know that.”
“Bad luck?” Statz said. “On this ship? Nothing can harm her, Liebs. Nothing can sink her.”
“Fine,” Liebs said, ending the conversation. “For my part, I don’t believe in ghosts. I believe in high-explosive and armor-piercing and big guns that sink enemy ships. I believe in cordite and steel, Statz, and the Kreigsmarine.”
“That is all you should believe in, Liebs,” Statz said. “Trust to those things and German optics and we need not fear ghosts, the devil, or the Royal Navy.”
The twin-engine Heinkle 111H settled nicely in a cloud while the observer crawled forward into the bombardier’s position. He could see nothing of course through the Plexiglas panels except the wispy shroud of gray cloud that protected the German aircraft from the British far below.
The Heinkle was a medium bomber, a very fast aircraft that swooped in quickly and dropped its small but respectable load of bombs on the enemy, and then fled. This Heinkle 111H, with red propeller hub covers and a large yellow A painted aft was not over Scapa Flow to bomb or even to be seen. Its crew had been given specific instructions and as the pilot ordered his crew to get ready, the Heinkle fell like a stone out of the thick clouds and into the open skies of the Flow, twelve thousand feet below them.
Flak started almost immediately, dirty clouds that exploded all around the Heinkle 111H. The pilot, a veteran of Spain, Poland, and France, cursed softly as he maneuvered the aircraft across the sky, trying to throw off the antiaircraft gunners’ aim. They were persistent though and anxious to kill him.
“Do you see anything?” the pilot asked through his intercom, the tension he felt obvious in his voice.
“Nothing,” the observer said calmly, “there’s too much cloud cover. We must go lower.”
“Lower,” the pilot muttered fiercely. “Lower. Lower. We must always go lower.” He had lost his nerves long before, but he was a veteran and proud so that he would not admit to himself or anyone else that his hands trembled too much and he felt as if he were going to fill his oxygen mask with puke every time he heard the Junkers JUmo 211F-2 engines turn over.
Speed was their only salvation. They had seven 7.92mm machine guns that protruded from the fuselage like stingers, but it was the 1,350 horsepower generated by each engine that was what the pilot counted on.
He eased the Heinkle down two thousand feet, feeling slight satisfaction that the antiaircr
aft gunners would have to adjust their aim, trying to locate the intruder again. Their instructions had been simple. They were to radio back one of two words depending on the situation that they observed in Scapa Flow. That was it; the entire mission centered on what the enemy was doing far below and the word that was selected for transmission.
The pilot had flown missions before when he did not drop bombs or strafe the enemy. After years in Spain, Poland, and France, one becomes used to carrying out orders that do not make sense, with unquestioning loyalty. Regardless of the fear.
“Lower,” the observer said.
“I gave you lower,” the pilot snapped. “Do you want me to land?”
“I can’t see,” the observer said. “The clouds aren’t as heavy but I still can’t be sure. I want to be sure. You want to be sure, don’t you?”
“Lower,” the pilot said angrily, and pushed the wheel down, keeping his eye on the altimeter. He kicked the left rudder and banked slightly, thinking that he’d fly a figure-eight as he descended and leveled out, giving that idiot of an observer time to see everything that he wanted to see.
“I’ve got it,” the observer said excitedly. “I can see them now. One. Three battleships. Looks like three cruisers. Many destroyers. Many.” The man paused and the pilot waited. He had stopped breathing and it seemed that his heart had stopped and he knew that the radio operator and gunner were waiting for that one word as well.
“Dresden,” the observer said.
There it was.
“Are you sure?” the pilot asked.
“Yes. Dresden. Dresden. Send the message.”
“You heard him,” the pilot said to the radio operator. “Send it.”
As the operator tapped out the word Dresden in code on his Fu-10 radio, the pilot pulled heavily on the wheel, pushed the throttles forward, and as the aircraft gained speed, settled into his seat, a little more relaxed than he was before.
Below him was the Royal Navy, but it couldn’t reach him anymore, and somewhere out there was the Royal Air Force, but his Heinkle 111 H was fast enough, with some skill and luck, to outrun them. There was always the danger of mechanical failure, but his ground crew was superb so the pilot never gave that possibility much thought.
Dresden. They were to transmit that word, they were told by the squadron commander, if they observed the British Home Fleet on the move. They were to be absolutely sure that the enemy fleet was moving. Beyond a doubt. But if the fleet was static; if the vessels were moored and there were no smoke plumes hanging lazily above them, then they were to transmit the word Belgrade.
The pilot had no idea of the importance of either word and as far as he was concerned his radio operator had just informed high command of some disastrous news. Or it was the best possible news and those martinets who traveled by long gray, Mercedes-Benzes and stuffed their oversized bodies in ribbon-covered uniforms might be dancing with joy.
He didn’t know and he didn’t care. All he cared about was that he had survived Spain, Poland, and France, and perhaps he would survive England as well.
The pilot adjusted the fuel mix as the observer made his way up from the nose and sat on the narrow step next to him.
“I wonder what it means,” the observer said. The pilot said: “I don’t know,” but he said it in such a way that he didn’t care very much one way or the other what word was sent—that he was above such things—that his attention was on nothing except flying the aircraft. He was a professional after all.
“It must mean something to someone,” the observer said. “Why else would they send us out here?”
This time the pilot reinforced his superiority by saying nothing. He sat calmly, eyes scanning the instrument panel, then the sky ahead and above him, then the small mirrors that let him see aft. He listened to the engines with a professional air, careful to keep at least a portion of his arrogance concealed so he did not overplay his hand, and glanced at the magnetic compass.
He did all of these things because he wanted to bury the fear that so recently before had nearly consumed him. He could not permit the observer to see it, because then the squadron would know and the pilot could not accept that. So, now that his hands did not shake, and his mouth was no longer dry, and he did not have to fear that his voice would tremble uncontrollably, he wondered along with the observer.
Why did high command risk the lives of a Heinkle 111H crew for the sake of one word?
Doenitz stood on one side of the plotting table sipping a cup of tea and watching the young lieutenant approach Raeder. He held a message in his hand and he stopped a respectful distance from the grand admiral, waiting for Raeder to acknowledge his presence. The grand admiral was heavily engaged in a conversation over something or other with someone from Jodl’s staff. Whoever it was and whatever was being discussed would be reported directly to General Jodl, who would then rush immediately to whisper the results of the conversation in Hitler’s ear. That was why Jodl existed, why Hitler kept him close by, and why most professional soldiers and sailors found it distasteful to speak with the man.
Doenitz took a sip of tea and savored the taste, watching the conversation between the two become more animated. Raeder would have done better to take the discussion to one of the offices where it would not look so unseemly. It was not that the Kreigsmarine staff around the plotting table was unused to confrontations—it was a regular occurrence as the tension of tracking unseen naval battles became too much for some. The little wooden ships on the large glass ocean were sometimes silently removed by plotting officers to acknowledge that the real ships filled with real sailors would not be coming back to port. The strain to keep the little wooden ships sailing smoothly on the large glass ocean could be considerable.
But to have one of Jodl’s lackeys accost the grand admiral of the Kreigsmarine was an affront to the service and to Raeder as well. It did not bode well for Raeder. It could mean that Hitler was losing his patience with the navy—that he was losing his patience with the grand admiral.
Doenitz looked into the empty cup and smiled to himself. If only I could read tea leaves, he thought. Perhaps I would know what is to transpire from this adventure. Perhaps I could see my own future as well.
“Doenitz?”
It was Raeder. Jodl’s messenger was gone and now the Kriegsmarine lieutenant stood rigidly at Raeder’s elbow. In the grand admiral’s hand was the flimsy.
“Come, come,” Raeder said excitedly, waving Doenitz to his side of the table.
Admiral Doenitz patted his lips with a napkin, draped it across the teacup, and handed the cup and saucer to a steward. He walked around the plotting table to the beaming grand admiral.
“Jodl?” Doenitz said, hoping Raeder would share the subject of the discussion with him. The grand admiral’s face darkened.
“Jodl,” he spat, shaking his head in disgust. “The Fuehrer’s poodle. He sends one of his subordinates here seeking answers. He won’t come himself and he wouldn’t dare ask me to report to Hitler. No. He wants me to speak here and then my words are twisted beyond recognition by the time that the Fuehrer hears them. The Fuehrer knows me well enough to know that I am a loyal German. Those around him attempt to distort everything that he sees or hears. He must take care that they do not harm him. Who knows how things are misrepresented to him?”
The old man has no idea, Doenitz thought. The grand admiral of the Kreigsmarine does not realize how close he has come to being dismissed by Hitler. He is a kindly old soul from another century, another war—he is the innocent pensioner who spins tales of noble sailors to impatient grandchildren. Doenitz suspected that Hitler cared no more for Raeder’s loyalty than he did Raeder’s fleet, but the grand admiral was blissfully unaware of the Fuehrer’s feelings.
“Admiral Doenitz,” the grand admiral said, shaking off Jodl’s scent. He held up the paper. “It is Dresden.”
Doenitz’s fists tightened and a smile crossed his face. “Truly,” he said, his eyes growing hard with victory. “Dre
sden.”
“Two hours ago,” Raeder said. “Look.” He tapped the glass at Scapa Flow with a wooden rod. “The reconnaissance aircraft reports perhaps two, perhaps three battleships, three cruisers, and numerous destroyers moving out. They might be holding a capital ship in reserve. Then, they will turn slightly south-southwest in pursuit of Sea Lion.” He looked at Doenitz. His question was obvious; where are your U-boats?
Doenitz took the rod from him. “Webber and the others are here. The Home Fleet must pass through them.”
“How far are they from Scapa Flow?”
“A hundred kilometers. Any closer would be suicide. The British will have aircraft up to protect the fleet and scout ahead of them. They may suspect a U-boat of being in the area, but they could not possibly conceive of a wolf pack of twelve. If the attack is properly coordinated and Webber knows what I want of him, then the British Home Fleet will run a gauntlet of German torpedoes for nearly eighty kilometers.”
Raeder nodded soberly and studied the plotting table. “Sea Lion, there,” he said. “Prince of Wales?”
“There,” Doenitz said, pointing with the rod. “Well beyond air coverage from Canada. Sea Lion will quickly overtake her, from this angle.” Doenitz laid the rod on the table.
“I’m almost afraid to believe it,” Raeder said, trying to suppress his exuberance. “Look at this. Here we snatch the Prince of Wales and the prime minister from the British and here”—he swept his hand over the table—“we destroy the British Home Fleet.” He grew silent, his eyes darting over the table. He turned to a tall Oberbootsmann. “Is there any surface force reported between Sea Lion and Prince of Wales?”
“No, Grand Admiral,” the man said.
“She released her escort, did she not?” Raeder said, a note of concern in his voice. “The Prince of Wales?”
“Yes, Grand Admiral,” the Oberbootsmann said. “A cruiser and several destroyers, according to messages intercepted by B-dienst.”
“They are a small force at best and some distance from Sea Lion,” Raeder said as if to settle the issue and his nerves. “They pose no danger.”
Between The Hunters And The Hunted Page 23
