Between The Hunters And The Hunted

by Steven Wilson

  “Frey will get her,” Mahlberg said.

  “Kapitan!” a Kapitanleutnant called from the other side of the conning tower. “British destroyer just clearing our bow. At ten thousand kilometers. She looks as if she’s preparing for a torpedo run.”

  “Let the secondary batteries deal with her,” Mahlberg said calmly.

  “Kapitan, we must prepare for evasive action,” Kadow reminded Mahlberg. It was standard procedure in the face of an impending torpedo attack.

  Mahlberg put a pair of binoculars to his eyes and said nothing.

  “The cruiser’s making smoke,” a Leutnant zur See said, perplexed. Cruisers didn’t make smoke.

  “She’s going to turn back into that to hide after she unleashes her torpedoes,” Mahlberg said. “Except she won’t have time to fire her torpedoes or run and hide.”

  A thought struck Kadow. “Where’s the second destroyer?”

  “What?” Mahlberg said, lowering his glasses. “We sank her, Kadow… .”

  “No. There were three.” For the first time Kadow saw a hint of concern on Mahlberg’s face.

  “British destroyer,” a lookout called. “Two points off the starboard bow. Twelve thousand kilometers.”

  “The cruiser’s firing,” a Leutnant reported.

  “Port twenty,” Mahlberg said. “Now!”

  “Destroyer to starboard is launching torpedoes,” the Leutnant said.

  “We’re showing them our beam,” Kadow said. They were exposing their length to the torpedoes and fire of the cruiser. The cruiser’s guns would have little effect, but the torpedoes would have a much larger target in which to bury themselves.

  “We’re bringing our secondary batteries to bear,” Mahlberg said irritably. “Neither one of those vessels can survive that. And then we’ll be on our way.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kadow said. Remember, thou art mortal.

  H.M.S. Firedancer

  “Prometheus is going in,” Land called out. “There’s Eskimo. Prometheus is drawing fire to give Eskimo a chance.”

  “They’re spoiling our shot!” Hardy railed. “By God, I can’t shoot with those two on the other side. Those glory-seeking bastards. All right, all right,” he said, calming. “We can at least give Sea Lion pause. We’ll make a false run of it. Let’s hope the mere sight of Firedancer will frighten them.”

  Cole watched as the secondary batteries along Sea Lion’s port twinkled ominously. It’s going to be the other way around, he thought. Those bastards have got our range. “This is going to be close,” he said to anyone listening as he tracked the blur of the shells through the air. “Close,” he said again and then the sea exploded around them. It was worse than before. Splinters screamed through the air like banshees, peppering the superstructure and hull of Firedancer. Cole heard screams and shouts of alarm and a huge crash as the foremast fell over the side, shot completely off the ship. There was a secondary explosion as the ready ammunition of a 20mm Oerlikon exploded just below and aft of the bridge.

  “Land,” Hardy said as he picked himself up off the deck, “get the supply parties topside.” He looked at Cole in horror.

  Cole quickly examined himself. He was covered in blood. Am I wounded? I don’t feel anything. He tore at his clothes, trying to find the injury. His trembling hands were covered in blood and bits of flesh as he pulled away his coat.

  “It’s not you,” Hardy said. “Behind you.”

  Cole turned to see Dove and the other two signalmen slumped over their stations just above him. They were sliced open, their bowels hanging in bloody coils from their stomachs. Their intestines, covered in blood and strewn over the deck, glistened obscenely in the dull light.

  “Check the telephone, will you, Cole?” Hardy said, his voice shaking.

  Cole wiped his bloody hands over his trousers and cranked the handle of the bridge telephone. There was nothing. No sound. He tried the Tannoy system, but it was dead as well. He caught Hardy’s attention and shook his head.

  “At least we have the bloody voice tubes,” Hardy said. He checked the relays for the torpedo-release buttons. “Nothing here as well. Land? Detail a man to act as runner to the torpedo stations.”

  “I can do it, sir,” Cole said. “I know how they work.”

  “Very well, Mr. Cole,” Hardy said. He was sober now, as if the sight of the dead men hanging from their stations had finally driven home the horror of this moment. “Go down and tell them to stand by. I don’t know from which direction we shall attack, so one blast of the ship’s whistle will be to port, two blasts starboard. If the bloody whistle works at all. You’re to report to Morrison. He’s the fellow in charge down there.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Cole said. He made his way down the narrow ladder that led to the main deck. Along the way to the torpedo stations he saw the damage that the splinters had done. There were holes punched through deck housings and Oerlikon tubs, jackstays hung over the side of the vessel, Carley floats were shredded, and her hull was caved in where the foremast had fallen and then been pulled off the Firedancer by the force of the rushing water. There were dead men too, lifeless bundles of blood and fabric, some missing arms, legs, heads. The supply parties, fire control, and damage control moved methodically over the ship, removing the dead and wounded and assessing the condition of the destroyer.

  Cole saw that the forward funnel had been pierced a dozen times, smoke pouring from the gaping holes. Her antennas were down as well, the wires scattered over what remained of the rigging.

  He found a seaman helping another to his feet at torpedo station number one.

  “Where’s Morrison?” he asked.

  “Dead,” the uninjured seaman said. “That makes me the bloody headmaster. Baird.” He looked at Cole closely. “You’re the American we fished out of the water. You’re covered in blood, sir.”

  “Somebody else’s,” Cole said. “Communications are out with the bridge. So is the fire-control system. The captain sent me down here to help.”

  “Fair enough, sir,” Baird said. “First you can help me get Boy Seaman Blessing to his feet. He took a sharp right to the chin from the deck there. Didn’t you, Boy Seaman?”

  “When we go in for a torpedo run, one blast from the ship’s whistle means port, two means starboard,” Cole said, looking around. “Any damage?”

  “Not to the gears and tubes, thank God,” Baird said. “But my compressed air is a mess, sir. Two of the hoses are sliced through-and-through and the tank for tube four had a bloody elephant sit on it. Squashed flat, she is, and no hope of resurrection. Number Two Station’s just as bad. Worse. There’s not a man back there who isn’t wounded or dead.”

  “I trained on torpedoes. I can help.”

  Baird slapped Blessing lightly on both cheeks, trying to get him to come around. “Do you hear that, Boy Seaman Blessing? The Yanks are here and ready as well. I’ve sent Engleman after some tools to get us up and running again, sir. A couple of spanners and a roll of tape and we should be as right as rain.”

  “Okay,” Cole said. “If you keep things going here I’ll go check on Number Two Station. We might end up serving both of them, Baird.”

  “Nothing to it, sir,” Baird said. “Just as long as our bloody captain can keep us away from those bloody bricks long enough to get these bloody things ready.”

  “Amen to that,” Cole said.

  When Cole saw number-two torpedo station it was a glimpse into hell. A supply party was trying to remove parts of the after-searchlight platform and engine room vents to get to the dead and wounded men scattered on the deck. So much blood covered the deck that the men of the supply party had difficulty standing. They worked rapidly, cutting away the entanglement with torches, huge bolt cutters, and hacksaws, trying to get to the poor bastards who lay dying in a grotesque spider’s web of destruction.

  Ignore it, ignore it, Cole thought, forcing himself to look away from the carnage. He climbed aboard the tubes, carefully inspecting each one as he walked to the cockpit. Th
e sounds of the rescue, the screams of the men, the horrific thunder of exploding shells, and the sledgehammer beat of his own heart; he ignored them all. He was looking for shrapnel holes. If the tubes were pierced, then the torpedo was pierced and it was useless. If the hole was aft on the tube, then it could have pierced the compressed-air chamber and the tube was useless.

  Clear, he told himself with satisfaction. They’re all clear. He moved to check the cockpit when he saw the sailor. Half a sailor. He had his right arm and most of his torso, but the head, shoulder, and left arm had been sliced off. Cole walked gingerly to the cockpit, careful not to let his foot slip off the curved combing of the tube, and wondered why he didn’t feel sick, or horrified, at the sight. Here was a man, what was left of a man, mutilated beyond comprehension, by a hunk of metal going a thousand miles an hour. Why don’t I feel anything? Cole thought.

  Once he reached the cockpit he steadied himself on the back of the shield and tried to read the gauges. It was impossible. They were covered with blood. He spotted a sailor who had just cleared a piece of twisted metal from the deck.

  “Hey, buddy?” he called. “Give me a hand, will you?”

  “Right,” the man said and joined Cole. “God help that poor soul,” he added, looking at the remnant of the sailor. “I suppose you’ll be wanting him out of there, sir.”

  “Yeah,” Cole said. “I’ve got to check the gauges.”

  “Stand back a bit, will you, sir? Bill? Marcus? Come and lend a hand.” Two other sailors joined Cole and the four of them managed to remove the body. Cole wiped the blood off the compressed air gauges and rapped them with his knuckle to make sure that the needles were free to read. Three registered; the gauge for the fourth tube remained at zero. The tank was ruptured, a line was cut, the compressed-air chamber was pierced, the gauge simply didn’t work—it could be anything. He looked at the supply party frantically trying to remove the wreckage. Until they had most of that cleared away to allow him access to the tanks and hoses he couldn’t be sure what it was. Firedancer had three weapons at her disposal: her speed, her agility, and her torpedoes. The first two were defensive, the last offensive, and she could not afford to lose any portion of the meager weapon that remained to her.

  Chapter 30

  D.K.M. Sea Lion, Quadrant XC 38

  “Hits on the cruiser!” an excited Oberleutnant zur See called out.

  Kadow hung up the telephone. “Foremast reports several hits from the secondary battery on the destroyers. Frey confirms at least one hit on the cruiser from the main battery, somewhere forward of the bridge.”

  “Where are your concerns now, Kadow?” Mahlberg said.

  “Perhaps they were unfounded,” Kadow replied, certain that the concerns were still valid.

  “Kapitan?” a Kapitanleutnant said. “Radar room reports possible target bearing two-five-four, distance eighty kilometers.”

  Mahlberg turned. “Prince of Wales?”

  “He can’t be sure, Kapitan. The radar equipment is being shaken about by the gunfire. At this range, lookouts can’t make out anything in the haze.”

  Mahlberg grinned triumphantly at Kadow. “It’s her. It has to be her. We have her now, Kadow. Prince of Wales. Winston Churchill and lesser dignitaries. Contact hydrophones and see what they can tell me. I want confirmation immediately. Tell radar that they are not to lose contact with the target. Order them to maintain contact. I won’t be denied my victory. Sea Lion’s victory.”

  H.M.S. Firedancer

  Cole pulled himself up the bridge ladder to find Land ordering another group of lookouts and signalmen into position and Hardy giving sharp orders into the voice tubes. He was taking Firedancer in a wild, twisting race through the sea, and frantically trying to stay out of reach of Sea Lion’s guns.

  “Captain?” Cole said. “Number One Torpedo Station is ready with three tubes. Maybe we can get four. Number Two Torpedo Station is damaged, sir. We’re repairing it now.”

  “Oh, are we?” Hardy said in a blustery manner that Cole had gotten used to. “Well, we are still in shit up to our necks, Mr. Cole, torpedoes or not. Eskimo and Prometheus just took a hard knocking from Sea Lion and I can’t see a damned thing for all of this smoke. I can’t hear much of anything as well. Can you fire those bloody bastards when I tell you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cole said.

  “Good. Sea Lion’s change in course gave us a chance to get ahead of her a bit, so perhaps we can reposition ourselves for another go at her. Considering that we didn’t get the first go.”

  “Signal from Prometheus, sir,” a lookout called. “‘Severe damage forward. Many dead, wounded. Eskimo reports damage. Can you make smoke? Will turn away in preparation.’”

  “‘In preparation’?” Hardy said. “What the hell is he talking about? Preparation of what?”

  “Message continues, sir,” the lookout said. He dropped his glasses with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Well,” Hardy said. “What is it, man?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the lookout said, peering through his glasses again. “I don’t think I got it right the first time—”

  “What the bloody hell was it?” Hardy exploded.

  “Sir,” the lookout said, “it is ‘Remember the Athenians. ’ I’m sorry, sir. I must have read it wrong.”

  Cole saw shock on Hardy’s face.

  Land stepped forward in concern and said: “Sir?”

  Hardy came to. “Signalman,” he said sharply, “make to Prometheus, ‘Message received and confirmed. Here’s one for Old Amoss.’ End message. Number One, you will have the engine room give me all the power and smoke they can when I call for it. They mustn’t keep back an ounce of either, do you understand?”

  “No, sir,” Land said, “but I’ll do as you order.”

  “Good,” Hardy said. “Signalman, make to Eskimo. They will make a hard turn to port and commence making smoke immediately to cover Prometheus. Mr. Cole, you may return to your station and prepare to engage the enemy. I’ll signal from the bridge whether it’s to be port or starboard, but that’s all that I can do.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Cole said and hurried down the bridge ladder.

  “Helmsman, Bridge,” Hardy called into the voice tube. “Take us hard to starboard, Quartermaster. Lay us on our beam.”

  Land steadied himself as the ship veered sharply to starboard and hoved over. That was as close to a ninety-degree course change as he had ever experienced.

  “All right, Number One,” Hardy said. “Both engines full ahead emergency. Make smoke from the engines and the smoke generators.”

  “Yes, sir.” Land passed the information on. “Sir … ?”

  “We’re preparing a stage, Number One,” Hardy said in response. “We’ll have the curtain ready in no time for Prometheus. It will be her last performance, God rest her soul.”

  Cole arrived at number-one torpedo station to see the last of the debris cleared away. Baird and two other seamen, including Blessing, were struggling to get the hose connections securely tightened to the compressed-air tanks on the port side.

  “Is the old man trying to stand the poor girl on her head, sir?” Baird said. “I almost fell ass over teakettle off the bleeding ship.”

  “He’s trying to keep us alive,” Cole said. “What do we have?”

  “Three here and three on Number Two. We can get old Number One loaded again from the torpedo shed, but it’ll take just over ten minutes to do it, sir. The bloody supply party’s got me stores for Number Two blocked, so she gets one shot at it.”

  “We’ve got to get to those stores,” Cole said.

  “They can’t throw that mess over the side, sir,” Engleman said. “Afraid they’ll foul the propellers and rudder.”

  “Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Baird said. “Here it is then, sir. Engleman’s got the stores and hoist. Blessing’s got the compressed-air tanks and I’ll take the cockpit. I can crank her into position in twenty-two seconds. You stand by to pitch in wherever you�
�re needed, sir.”

  “Okay.”

  “When we fire off this lot, sir, Blessing and I go to Number Two and you and Engleman load us again.”

  “Got a taste of power, have you, Torps?” Engleman said sourly. “Ordering an officer about. Even if he is only a Yank.”

  “You just do what Torps tells you,” Baird said, “or you’ll be right after those MK IXs.”

  D.K.M. Sea Lion

  Kadow noticed the maneuvers first. “The two remaining destroyers are changing course. Crossing our bow.” He adjusted the focus. “They’re making smoke.”

  “The cruiser’s trying to get away from us, Kadow,” Mahlberg said confidently. “Our guns surely dealt her a hard blow.”

  “Radar confirms it, sir,” a Kapitanleutnant said. “The British cruiser is moving away at high speed. Hydrophone can’t read anything because of the gunfire and constant movement of the other ships.”

  “Well,” Mahlberg said, tossing a glance of satisfaction to Kadow, “send a message to Oberkommando der Kriegsmarine, ‘Defeated Prince of Wales escort. Sank one destroyer. Damaged a cruiser and two destroyers.’ No, make that, ‘heavily damaged a cruiser and two destroyers. Proceeding to engage Prince of Wales.’ Sign it, Mahlberg.”

  “Those two British destroyers will pass close to one another just off our port bow,” Kadow said, still tracking them through his binoculars.

  “Get me Frey,” Mahlberg ordered. An Oberbootsmann handed him the telephone. “Frey? What are you going to do about those destroyers? I am pleased that you are tracking them. However, I would be more pleased if they were destroyed. Don’t worry about the cruiser, we shall sink her on the way to Prince of Wales.”

  H.M.S. Firedancer

  Cole and the other members of number-one torpedo station helped Engleman hoist the ready torpedoes into position at the edge of the torpedo shack. It was dangerous having them exposed on deck, but the shack walls offered so little protection from the splinters of the High Explosive shells that it seemed ridiculous to consider any location on Firedancer less dangerous than another.