Between The Hunters And The Hunted

by Steven Wilson

  It had to come soon. Any minute now. They couldn’t get any closer. And then he saw Prometheus begin to twist, her stern slowly swinging into Sea Lion’s hull as the cruiser’s bow was being forced out of the wound that she had made in the German ship. He realized that if the cruiser continued to swing like that she would block any chance of getting at Sea Lion; her body would protect that of her killer.

  They were so close now that Sea Lion’s antiaircraft batteries began to fire at them; huge golden balls—tracers—heading directly at Cole. When they landed they ripped through the water, making erratic stitches. Happy little spouts filled the sea between them as Sea Lion grew closer. The ocean was ripped to pieces as Firedancer frantically dodged the hundreds of shells fired at her.

  Firedancer’s whistle screamed above the din.

  Cole heard the soft whoosh of Baird’s torpedoes leave their tubes. One, three, two. He gripped the release levers and pulled up. One, three, two. The mount shuddered with a gasp of compressed air as the torpedoes leaped out of the tubes and seemed to hang suspended in the air. Then they splashed into the sea.

  Firedancer veered sharply to starboard, turning her fantail to the enemy. Shoot and scoot, Cole thought, but he regretted not being able to track the torpedoes as they sped toward their target.

  He heard the explosions. Far off, he thought, muffled somehow but still distinct enough to count. Four, he thought, maybe five. He leaned over the back of the cockpit to ask Blessing, but the young man’s lifeless body lay awkwardly over the tube combing. Cole stared at the body surrounded by a swath of bright red blood that had pumped from the jagged hole in his neck. He watched as the tiny droplets of spray washed the tubes of the blood and he wondered why Blessing was dead and he wasn’t. They were within inches of one another. One alive. One dead.

  H.M.S. Firedancer

  “Hits!” Land cried, tracking the torpedoes. “At least three, sir. Sea Lion’s listing heavily. Down by the head, sir. There’s another explosion, sir. Magazines.”

  Hardy watched as smoke billowed from the mortally wounded ship and secondary explosions consumed her amidships. Huge pieces of wreckage were thrown into the air with each blast and deep, black smoke covered a good three-quarters of her length. He put his binoculars to his eyes and noted: “She’s taking Prometheus with her.”

  “What?” Land said, and then focused on the cruiser. The force of the explosions had driven Prometheus out from Sea Lion but they had not saved her. She listed heavily to port and her superstructure was blazing, the bright yellow flames framed by columns of dirty brown smoke. “The poor bastards,” Land whispered. “The poor bastards. Can we—”

  “No,” Hardy said without emotion. “We cannot. We’ll have to stand off and wait. Otherwise,” he added, lowering the binoculars and turning away, “we will lose Firedancer as well.”

  D.K.M. Sea Lion

  Bruno was a madhouse. Statz heard screams and shouts for help, but he could do nothing because he was in complete darkness. The British cruiser striking Sea Lion had been catastrophic; the explosions aft and amidships, torpedoes, Statz knew, had doomed the ship. He had called for his crew when the emergency lights went out and dense smoke filled the turret, but in the confusion and noise he could not hear their replies. He felt Sea Lion listing and he knew that she would quickly continue until she turned turtle, showing her broad, glistening belly to the sun before she sank. Unless the explosions tore her apart. The magazines were erupting and several hundred tons of high-explosives were right below his feet. Time to get out.

  He reached out and felt the open breechblock of the gun—they had been in the process of loading when the torpedoes struck. Now he knew where he was. He could follow the shape of the gun across the extended spanning tray and get to the gun controller’s platform, out the small hatch, through the turret, and exit the deck hatch. If they weren’t jammed closed.

  Maybe he could go down through the shell hoist and through the shell room and come up by way of the passageways alongside the barbette. No, he could not force himself to go deep into the doomed ship.

  “Statz,” a familiar voice came from the smoke.

  “Here!” he shouted. “Who is it? Where are you?”

  “Statz,” the voice said again. “Here. Come this way.”

  He looked in the direction of the voice and saw daylight. The gun bloomer, the flexible hard rubber collar that covered the barrel of the gun and was attached to the turret to keep spray from entering, was shredded.

  “This way,” Statz called to anyone in the turret who could hear him. “The bloomer’s gone. We can get out this way.” He carefully crawled up the huge barrel, holding a dirty handkerchief to his nose and mouth to filter out the noxious fumes of the fires. He called out behind him once more, hoping that others would hear him and follow. He pulled himself along the barrel. The list was increasing. Sea Lion was dying.

  Statz pushed his way through the bloomer and into daylight and sanctuary. He dropped to Anton, slid down her side to the tilting deck, made his way to port, and saw the sea below him littered with men, living and dead. Someone had lashed a rope to one of the deck stays. He climbed over the cable, took a firm grip on the rope, and slowly lowered himself into the sea. As he did so he realized whose voice had led him to safety. He knew it with all the certainty that he possessed as his strong arms pulled him away from the doomed ship. It was Kuhn.

  Mahlberg staggered to his feet and cried out at the tremendous pain in his lifeless right arm. He must have broken it when he was thrown against the bulkhead. The others on the conning tower were just beginning to rise when he forced the cloud of pain away.

  “Report!”

  One by one the other sections of the ship were contacted and each replied, in turn, that the situation was hopeless. Only engineering continued to function at more than half performance, supplying power to the pumps, electrical system, communications, and firefighting. There was power for the guns as well, but Prometheus was too close for the main battery and the secondary battery could do nothing but saw away the superstructure down to the boat deck. At least there was no one to command her, Mahlberg knew. The bridge of the British cruiser had long ago been destroyed.

  Smoke seeped into the conning tower, heat and noise accompanying the sharp stench that came from steel heated almost to melting. Sea Lion’s fine white-oak deck was charring, and her sturdy gray paint was lifting itself off bulkheads, peeling away from intense flames until the feathered edges blackened and the paint was consumed. The flat cracks of both ships’ secondary batteries sounded strangely like bells tolling in the metal cavern of the conning tower. The fire was so rapid that it was almost impossible to separate the guns, one from another. Above all, Mahlberg could hear the screams of the men, injured men, dying men, frightened men, men desperate to leave Sea Lion and take their chances in the ice-cold sea.

  “Shall I order abandon ship, Kapitan?” It was a Leutnant zur See who spoke.

  Mahlberg looked at him incredulously. Abandon? What was the man talking about? Surely he must be injured? A concussion. “No!” Mahlberg said. “No, of course not.” He looked around, trying to get his bearing, taking a quick survey of those men who remained to him. All but three. Kadow and two others lay on the deck, unmoving. All but three. Pride swelled in him. Only three dead. “We’ll move to the sea bridge,” Mahlberg ordered, holding his injured arm carefully. Any movement sent excruciating pain shooting to his shoulder. “I can’t see anything in this cave.” He issued orders quickly, knowing that the ship’s salvation lay in his skills as a ship handler. He ordered the rudders thrown over full and the engines increased to emergency power so that they could wrench themselves free of that hateful ship embedded in their side. He ordered that calls for assistance be sent out so that the might of the Kriegsmarine could be mobilized to come to Sea Lion’s rescue. His pride did not interfere because the challenge, his challenge, the supreme opportunity was at hand: save Sea Lion. He relished the role; he reveled in the chance to sna
tch Sea Lion from the cold, icy depths of the North Atlantic. His arrogance, his confidence were all-powerful, unfailing, and he was the Kapitan of the greatest warship in the history of the world.

  And then when he was on the narrow walkway just outside the conning tower, a chance breeze parted the thick black smoke that boiled with impunity from the guts of the ship, and he saw the truth.

  Anton was pointed to port, all three guns angled lifelessly toward the sea. Bruno looked straight ahead but her three guns, like gnarled fingers of an arthritic hand, jutted in three different directions. A scythe had swept whole sections of Sea Lion’s deck and what remained was carnage. Bodies, parts of bodies, blood soaked darkly into the oak deck timbers. Men raced to port, madly tying off lines so that they could lower themselves into the water to escape the maelstrom that was overtaking their ship and threatened to overtake them.

  Sea Lion jerked to starboard as hundreds of tons of seawater continued to rush in and some unknown place within her body a bulkhead gave way, and the water gained another victory. She was dying.

  Mahlberg, stunned, staggered against the list to the starboard wing and looked aft. Everything was on fire; turrets were destroyed, boats dislodged, gun mounts swept away, deck structures missing, and over all of it, a raging fire, rich with hunger, fed on the still-living carcass of his vessel. He looked at the lower deck in time to see two officers, Luftwaffe officers that he knew flew the scouting planes aboard Sea Lion, put pistols to their heads and blow their brains out. He did not hear the gunshots. He saw the jets of blood and tissue spurt out one side of the men’s head and then their bodies drop silently to the deck. Death before dishonor.

  The sight did not affect him. He was losing Sea Lion—what was the death of two cowardly officers that he hardly knew?

  The bridge—get to the bridge.

  There was a blast and he was engulfed in flames and smoke and he slid into darkness. It must have been for only a moment, because when he came to, nothing had changed. He was still on the walkway near the conning tower, except now he knew that he was lying on his side and he could feel the reassuring steel curve of a gun tub at his back. He slowly pushed himself into a sitting position with his one good arm and stared stupidly at the clutter on the deck. It was a mass of arms, torsos, and legs, all intertwined, with some movement, and some sound. He heard whimpering, moans, really, although one of the conning tower crew managed to cry softly for help. It might have been a six-inch shell, Mahlberg thought dully, his mind trying to find something to focus on that made sense. Everyone was down. He was down.

  He swallowed heavily and fought to clear himself of the stupor that would not let him think clearly, see clearly. Or rise.

  Get up, Mahlberg ordered himself sharply. Get on your feet. Get to the bridge. He was like a drunk whose mind appears to work perfectly well but has been disconnected from his body because his body would not respond.

  “Get up!” he ordered again, in a ragged voice, the sound of his words giving him determination. “Get up. Get on your feet! Get …” And then he saw the problem. It was very clear now and he was mildly surprised that he had somehow overlooked it. His legs were gone. He concentrated on their absence as though that action would magically return them to him. He was having difficulty holding himself erect and thought, If I can only rest for a bit, I can get to the bridge. What about the others? You’ll need help manning the ship. Mahlberg studied the silent forms before him. They’ll be along. They’re good men.

  He felt himself sliding sideways down the gun tub wall and he landed heavily on the deck. He willed his good arm to support him, to push him erect, but his one limb was insubordinate and chose to lie lifeless at his side. He was cold, and darkness, a kind and gentle entity, wrapped Mahlberg in an impervious blanket. All around him was silence and then that, too, was removed.

  H.M.S. Firedancer

  Hardy watched as Prometheus sank slowly, with little drama, as if knowing that she must surely die, she was determined to do so with dignity. She went down bow first after having floated free of Sea Lion, her stern guns firing at the enemy in a futile, valiant, courageous act. Hardy was proud of those men, proud of their selfless, mad attempts to inflict more damage on the steel walls of their enemy. The noise was part of it, a terrific din of explosions, roaring flames, and the deep thunder of Sea Lion dying.

  Hardy discovered Land standing next to him, his uniform rank with sweat and the smell of oil smoke.

  “We shall go in shortly,” Hardy said.

  “Very well, sir,” Land said.

  “I wonder what was so important,” Hardy said, “that Martin and I never got on together.”

  “Personalities, perhaps,” Land said. “Two strong-willed men—that usually leads to conflict.”

  “I shall always regret that I was not charitable to that man. Never were my own shortcomings made more apparent than at the death of Sir Whittlesey. You are always a good man for words, Number One. Nothing to say about heroes and sacrifice?”

  “No, sir,” Land said. “There are no words to describe what I saw today.”

  D.K.M. Sea Lion, her towering flames extinguished only when she suddenly rolled over, disappeared in a tremendous explosion that sent smoke and debris hundreds of feet into the air, protesting her death. The concussion raced across the water and slapped Firedancer. She trembled at the power of the big ship’s end, but when the destroyer settled back, she did so with satisfaction of the knowledge that, although severely injured, she remained afloat.

  Firedancer led Eskimo in a search for survivors when it was safe, but by that time the summer sun had tired of the day’s events and retired below the horizon. In the end both destroyers could only account for a total of 123 survivors from Prometheus and eighty-five survivors from D.K.M. Sea Lion. Darkness, the threat of U-boats, and the fact that both ships were dangerously overloaded forced them to depart the area.

  Chapter 33

  U.S.S. Augusta, Placentia Bay, Newfoundland

  President Franklin D. Roosevelt, his arms locked in those of two straight-backed naval officers, smiled as Prime Minister Winston Churchill was piped aboard. He held out his hand and the prime minister shook it heartily.

  “My dear Mr. President, I’m glad to finally speak with you in person,” Churchill said.

  “Call me Franklin,” Roosevelt said, “and with your permission, I shall call you Winston. Or do you prefer Former Naval Person?”

  “Winston will do nicely, thank you, Franklin.”

  “How was your voyage, Winston?”

  “Uneventful,” Churchill said. “Remarkably uneventful. Now, before I introduce you to the members of my party, it is my pleasure to return Louis to you, none the worse for wear.”

  Louis Hoffman pulled himself unsteadily up onto the deck and eyed Roosevelt with a mixture of disgust and irritation.

  “Well, Louis,” Roosevelt said with a broad grin, “what have you to say for yourself?”

  Hoffman jerked a ragged cigarette from his mouth and flipped it overboard. “Where can a guy get a drink on this goddamned boat?”

  Supreme Naval Staff Seekriegsleitung,

  Tirpitzufer, Berlin

  Admiral Doenitz watched as a Bootsmann calmly removed the tiny wooden ship that represented D.K.M. Sea Lion from the plotting table. He glanced at the haggard face of Grand Admiral Raeder and wondered if the man knew that Hitler would relieve him. The grand admiral had to know it was the end, Doenitz thought. He lost Sea Lion, and the Home Fleet, having no reason to sortie out, turned back before the U-boats had a chance to engage them. Webber and his wolf pack had been reassigned, some to look for survivors from Sea Lion, others to lie quietly along convoy routes for targets to sail into range.

  Doenitz thought that he should say something to Raeder. Something comforting perhaps, but no words were forthcoming. It was a disaster and that was that. The finest ship in the Kriegsmarine, destroyed on her first voyage. Again. First Bismarck, now Sea Lion. Doenitz conscientiously ran several phra
ses through his mind that he thought appropriate to say to the shattered Raeder. None seemed right so he concentrated instead on whom he would name to positions of command within the Kriegsmarine when he was named to replace Raeder.

  Royal Navy Base, Home Fleet, Scapa Flow

  H.M.S. Firedancer sat quietly in the sound, an old hound home from the hunt, licking its wounds. She would be called in for refitting, but now a rusting barge, filled with the wreckage that had been removed from the destroyer by a crane, nursed at her side while she lay tied off to a buoy in the middle of the sound. The violence and din of battle were replaced by the hiss of acetylene torches as the repair crew cut through the twisted metal of the destroyer, trying to remove the abomination that had once been functioning parts of the ship. The heavy, constant thundering of sledgehammers echoed across the flat waters of Scapa Flow until a man almost became accustomed to the sound.

  Number One and Hardy walked over Firedancer, inspecting the vessel, sharing opinions about what she should have done to return her to service, accompanied by a yard superintendent armed with a clipboard, sheets of paper, and a sharp manner.

  “He behaves as if our opinion doesn’t matter,” Number One had said to Hardy.

  “Yes,” Hardy had said. “Perhaps it doesn’t. We only sail Firedancer. He must heal her.”

  The superintendent was very efficient and demonstrated a remarkable grasp of what should be replaced or what could be repaired, or what could be gotten by without. It was certain that Firedancer would not go out for some time, and it was equally certain that Eskimo would suffer the same fate. They had been too roughly handled.

  Hardy and Number One stood near what had once been A Turret but was now a mass of scorched metal. The superintendent was gone, speeding back to the yard in his dilapidated launch, bearing his reports, calculations, and estimates. The crane astride the barge, surrounded by bits and pieces of Firedancer in the well of the ugly box, continued to swing casually back and forth, carrying the dead parts of the destroyer. The yard workers, large men in filthy dungarees, dismantled portions of Firedancer, and she—she remained stoic through it all, immune to the humiliation.