To Slip the Surly Bonds

by Chris Kennedy

Wells remained behind the desk, his brow furrowed.

  “Another victory,” Richthofen said.

  “What? You’re guilty. Twenty years in prison if you ever look at a plane again. How is that a victory?” Wells asked.

  “Before you arrived at my jail, I received a map, a map of Germany’s new borders. My home is in Schweidnitz, and my home was about to become part of Poland. But that part was in pencil, it could be changed. A little hint for me to cooperate with this circus before it even started.”

  Wells looked at his client, mouth agape.

  “It was then that I knew there was a game being played, and I was but a pawn. Your government thought it could gain an advantage in Versailles by humiliating me through all this,” Richtofen continued, his tone condescending once more. “Instead, it managed to anger a nation. I doubt the final treaty will be as severe now that Germans remember who the real enemy is. That note you brought to the Swiss, it contained a few lines for the right people in Berlin. I let them know that I would play the part of the unjustly accused, and that they should be ready to direct the public’s emotions in the right direction.”

  “So, all that about the starving children in Germany, that was a bunch of bollocks?”

  “Hardly. The Red Cross will stop the packages, and the treaty will be signed that much faster, ending the blockade. The innocent should not suffer. But we Germans will remember what you’ve done, Mr. Wells.”

  “Why all the secrecy?”

  “The headlines. My twenty-year sentence will be known far and wide. Then I will be quietly sent back to Germany once the public has another matter to worry about. The change will be blamed on a last-minute plea from the German delegation, and my release will not make the news.”

  “You’ve got this all figured out, don’t you?”

  “One cannot play the propaganda game without learning a few tricks.”

  “And you’ll abide by the terms? Never fly again?”

  A guard opened the cage and stepped aside for Richthofen to exit.

  “Mr. Wells, if I ever take to the air again, England had better send her best pilots to stop me.”

  * * * * *

  Richard Fox Bio

  Richard Fox is a Nebula Award nominated author, and winner of the 2017 Dragon Award for Best Military Science Fiction or Fantasy novel, author of The Ember War Saga, a military science fiction and space opera series, and other novels in the military history, thriller and space opera genres.

  # # # # #

  The Kaiserin of the Seas by Christopher G. Nuttall

  It was a cold, clear day.

  Oberstleutnant Karl Holliston allowed himself a private moment of relief as his Messerschmitt Bf 109T levelled out from its harrowing launch. The young officer and his squadron had trained extensively, ever since the Luftwaffe had condescendingly agreed to provide the Kriegsmarine with a naval variant of the Messerschmitt. Still, Karl was reasonably sure he’d never get used to flying off a carrier deck. Graf Zeppelin’s deck was longer than the makeshift structures they’d used for their early training, yet the carrier had a pronounced tendency to become extremely unstable when the seas turned rough. Karl had never really respected the British carriers—or the outdated aircraft they carried—until he’d had to deploy from a carrier deck for the first time.

  A few more takeoffs like that, and I just might ask for a biplane, he thought. The Swordfish might be outdated, a laughingstock compared to the Spitfires and Hurricanes he’d faced during the Battle of Britain, but she was an excellent design for a carrier. It had taken the Reich longer than Karl cared to admit to catch up.

  And we wouldn’t have done it at all if the Japanese hadn’t helped, he thought, sourly. There was something fundamentally wrong about depending on advice from the little yellow men, although no one could doubt their bravery. We’d have been messing around with heavier aircraft until the whole project was cancelled and the ships scrapped.

  He looked down as he adjusted course slightly, heading towards the gap between Denmark and Norway. Bismarck was clearly visible as she ploughed through the waves, with the heavy cruiser Prinz Eugen following in her wake. Graf Zeppelin brought up the rear, surrounded by a handful of destroyers. It was the largest and most powerful naval force the Reich had put to sea, yet Karl knew they were badly outnumbered. The British could afford to trade two or three battleships for Bismarck and her task force, secure in the knowledge that it would be years before the Reich could rebuild. And yet…

  They’ll have to find us first, Karl thought. The ocean was vast and the task force, even Bismarck, was very small. And even if they do find us, they’ll have to get word back home.

  His lips twitched. The British wouldn’t find that easy. Not at all.

  * * *

  “Well,” Admiral Günther Lütjens said. “So far, so good.”

  Generalleutnant Volker Schulze nodded, stiffly. He hadn’t found his sea legs yet, and he was starting to fear he’d never find them at all. Bismarck was huge, but she was rolling in the waves like a rubber duck in an active toddler’s bathtub. Volker had flown through rough skies—he’d flown in the Great War, back when aircraft were little more than pieces of wood held together by string—and yet, he found the ship’s constant movement disturbing. He hated the thought of being trapped in a metal tomb if the giant ship capsized and went under. There would be no hope of survival if the worst happened.

  He dragged his attention back to Lütjens, somehow. The older man was, technically, in command of the operation, even though Volker himself was in command of the air wing. He should be on Graf Zeppelin, watching his pilots take off and fly into the distance, but Lütjens had insisted on a private conference. Volker suspected that the admiral had orders from his superiors to assert the Kriegsmarine’s dominance at all times. There might be a war on—they might be challenging the greatest navy ever to exist—but politics still came first. His lips twitched at the thought. The British RAF might be the Luftwaffe’s rival, but the Kriegsmarine was its enemy.

  “Yes, Herr Admiral,” he said. “So far, so good.”

  And if it wasn’t for Goering getting himself in trouble, his thoughts added silently, we might never have gotten this far.

  He felt a pang of guilt as the admiral led him towards the chart table. Hermann Goering was a genuine war hero, one of the men who had rebuilt the German military after the shame of Versailles and turned it into a war machine that had crushed France and threatened Britain with total defeat. And yet, he was also so firmly wedded to the belief that everything that flew was his that he was unable to see the advantages in inter-service cooperation. If he hadn’t managed to disgrace himself, if he hadn’t lost most of his influence in Berlin, there would have been little hope of convincing him to support the navy. Even so…it hadn’t been easy to complete Germany’s first aircraft carrier before the deadline. Volker was all too aware that his pilots were practically making procedures up as they went along.

  Then, of course, there’s the Kriegsmarine, which is certain they’d have had the Tirpitz done by now if the Graf Zeppelin hadn’t consumed so many resources, Volker thought.

  “The British will have to try to intercept us before we round Iceland and fall upon their convoys,” Lütjens said as if Volker hadn’t heard it before. “Their ships will already be looking for us.”

  “And we will sink them,” Volker said. It wasn’t easy to believe, looking at her, but Graf Zeppelin was the most advanced carrier in northern waters. She was easily a match for two or three of the Royal Navy’s vessels. “And that will be the end of the war.”

  “Let us hope so,” Lütjens said. “Now, about our plans…”

  * * *

  The days wore on as the task force ploughed through the rolling waves. Karl found himself spending his time flying, sleeping, or wolfing down quick meals before returning to the cockpit…when they were allowed to fly. The weather seemed unpredictable, shifting constantly between clear blue skies and storms that sent fear shivering down his spi
ne. He was an experienced flyer, but he still found the storms terrifying. It wasn’t easy to keep his nerve when trying to land on a constantly shifting carrier deck.

  It was almost a relief when the recon flights sighted a British ship, too close to the task force for anyone to believe that it hadn’t spotted them. Karl watched from above as the British fought to stay close, even though it meant straying within range of Bismarck’s main guns. Great plumes of water blasted up, suggesting it was only a matter of time before the gunners got lucky and sent their tiny opponent to the bottom of the sea. Karl allowed himself a moment of admiration, before turning the aircraft away and resuming his flight. The pilots had pressed to be allowed to attack the British ship, to test their Japanese-designed torpedoes against a moving target, but the admiral had refused. They didn’t have many torpedoes and they would have to be saved for a bigger target. He frowned as he swept the ocean, looking for enemy ships. The weather was changing again…

  There! His eyes went wide as he saw a pair of giant ships, advancing steadily towards Bismarck. Battleships…he was sure they were battleships. He swung his aircraft to one side as he saw a flash of light—the British were shooting at him, trying to down his plane before he could summon help—and gabbled hastily into the radio, warning the task force of the danger ahead. A shell exploded near his aircraft, close enough to give him a fright. The British gunners were good. But then, they’d have to be. The Luftwaffe had been trying to sink British ships for the last two years.

  And yet, you’re not ready, he thought, coldly. He pulled back, far enough to be out of danger while keeping the British ships in view. You don’t have the slightest idea what’s coming your way.

  * * *

  “One battleship, one battlecruiser,” Lütjens said, calmly. Behind him, the captain was issuing orders as Bismarck picked up speed. “They’ll be in gunnery range in twenty minutes.”

  “We can strike them now,” Volker said. “The torpedo bombers can go first.”

  Lütjens looked doubtful. “And if they fail?”

  Volker felt a flash of irritation. “We spent the last year training the pilots,” he said. “They’re ready.”

  “You can try,” Lütjens said. “But we will prepare for an engagement too.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Admiral,” Volker said.

  He picked up the radio and began to snap orders. Lütjens had a point, as much as Volker hated to admit it. The Luftwaffe hadn’t done that well against British warships, even when the targets had been practically stationary. The Royal Navy had taken losses, yes, but those losses had been to U-boats and battleships. Lütjens had every reason to be concerned. If intelligence was right, if the British really had sent HMS Hood after them, Bismarck could expect a real fight. Everyone knew that Hood was one of the toughest ships in the world.

  But also unprepared for modern war, Volker told himself. The Royal Navy was strong, but most of its ships were outdated. The British had adhered to the Washington Treaty for years, even after it should have been clear that Germany, Italy, and Japan were blatantly cheating. Their ships have never faced a real threat from the skies…

  He smiled, coldly, as the first flight of torpedo bombers left the flight deck, falling into a rough formation as they struggled for altitude. The British had practically invented the aircraft carrier, but they hadn’t bothered to develop the concept. In some ways, they’d done the Reich a favour. All the old ships, tanks, and aircraft the British and French had kept were little more than a millstone around their neck, forcing them to modernise their older ships while the Reich had built new ones from scratch. The appearance of strength was all around them, but the reality? Volker suspected the British were in for a nasty shock.

  “They’re on their way, Herr Admiral,” Volker said. “And the British haven’t realised the threat.”

  “They should,” Lütjens warned. “They’re the ones who sent torpedo bombers to sink the Italians, are they not?”

  “Yes, Herr Admiral,” Volker agreed. “And if they recognised the threat, they would never have sent two ships to engage us without a carrier of their own.”

  * * *

  The British ships were moving faster, Karl noted, as he kept a wary distance from their antiaircraft guns. They were not short of bravery, whatever else they lacked. And yet, they were utterly unaware of the threat closing from the north. It took them longer than it should have to detect the fifteen torpedo-bombers heading towards them at breakneck speed. Karl altered course, fighting to get a better vantage point as the British ships opened fire. Puffs of smoke and flashes of light flared up, below him. The torpedo-bombers flew onwards, keeping as low as they dared. The British would have problems lowering their guns enough to engage the incoming aircraft.

  And they can’t dodge in time, Karl thought, as the first torpedoes were launched. They’re doomed.

  He watched, coldly, as the engagement developed. It looked as if the battleship had been targeted, rather than the battlecruiser; she twisted and turned, firing desperately as she tried to evade the incoming torpedoes. Her captain had nerve, he admitted sourly; few people would risk turning into the torpedo path, even though it minimised the chance of a hit. The torpedoes couldn’t alter course, once they were fired. But it was too late. A great gout of water blasted up from where a torpedo had struck the British ship, followed by two more. The vessel hove to a stop, down by the stern, listing, and with a severe fire clearly underway someplace aft.

  Well we’ve certainly hurt her, Karl thought after a few minutes. It will probably take a second strike to…

  To his shock, the battleship suddenly vanished underneath a brilliant explosion that moved from her stern forward. Mein Gott, he thought, suddenly heedless of his own safety. A giant battleship, a queen of the seas, was gone. He felt a stab of pity for the British sailors. They’d be lucky to survive long enough to be rescued.

  The other British ship started to pull back, but it was too late.

  Hood, he thought, finally remembering the pictures from their vessel identification drills. The battlecruiser had survived the torpedo-bombers simply because the aircraft needed to return to their carrier to be rearmed. However, the brief engagement had given Bismarck time to come into range.

  It was over quickly. The Bismarck and Prinz Eugen opened fire and quickly found the range. Perhaps stunned at the sudden loss of their cohort, the Hood’s crew had difficulty finding the range even as they turned their broadside to bear. Still, the old battlecruiser fought valiantly, scoring a handful of hits, before an explosion ripped through her hull. Moments later, she too was gone.

  Karl felt hollow as he altered course, heading back towards Graf Zeppelin. He felt nothing for the British—they had tried to fight and lost—but he couldn’t help feeling that something had changed. The world had changed, now. And what—he asked himself—would it mean?

  * * *

  “The greatest victory in naval history,” Lütjens proclaimed, as they watched the handful of British survivors being plucked from the waters. “The British will not risk engaging us again.”

  Volker shrugged. The British sailors seemed to be in shock. They had expected a quick victory, not a rapid and complete defeat. The Royal Navy really hadn’t understood the threat, even though…he shook his head. There was no point in dwelling on it. Lütjens was right. They had given the Royal Navy a black eye from which it might never recover…or encouraged them to hunt the force with a single-minded fury.

  “They’ll come for us,” he said, flatly. The Royal Navy couldn’t allow Bismarck and her escorts to survive, not now. “They can’t let us break out into the Atlantic.”

  Lütjens gave him an odd look. “We have broken out,” he said. “And by the time the British catch up, we will be ready.”

  Volker kept his thoughts to himself as he nodded.

  One cannot make a fool see reason, he thought.

  Hours later, as he complimented his pilots, listened to their reports, and passed on the compliments of a gra
teful Fuhrer aboard the Graf Zeppelin, the Luftwaffe officer was slightly more optimistic. The pilots were pumped, their morale soaring as they realised that they had sunk a mighty British battleship. Even the discovery that they’d sunk the Prince of Wales, rather than the Hood, didn’t dampen their spirits. The battleship had been a bigger target, even though her crew had apparently not been ready for battle. The handful of survivors had admitted that when they’d been questioned. They hadn’t had the time to work up before they’d been sent into action.

  The next engagement will be harder, Volker thought.

  He listened carefully to the BBC Home Service as the British reluctantly admitted the loss of both Hood and Prince of Wales. There were few details of the engagement—the broadcaster seemed determined to at least hint that Bismarck had been damaged—and nothing beyond a grim promise that both ships would be avenged. Volker had no doubt the British would be concentrating every ship they could into a mighty fleet, one that would be brought to bear against the task force as soon as possible. But when would they come? The British had lost them. Even the cruisers that had shadowed the ships ever since they emerged from home waters had been left behind, chased off by Bismarck’s guns.

  They know logistics better than us, he conceded, sourly. They probably have an excellent idea of our cruising range.

  It wasn’t something he’d had to worry about, not when he’d been fighting in France. During the Battle of Britain, Volker had been well aware that parts of Britain had been effectively out of range, if only because the Luftwaffe hadn’t been able to bomb them without the aircraft running out of fuel on the way home. Still, it was hard for him to believe that a ship could run out of fuel and simply stop. But it could. Bismarck had an excellent cruising range; Graf Zeppelin did not. There was no way they could be resupplied either, not until they reached a friendly port. The British would not allow a supply convoy to pass through the narrows and reach the task force, even if the task force could resupply in the middle of the ocean. It struck him as an immensely difficult and dangerous thing to do.