Altered States – Volume II. Darkest Hour

Chapter 4

Commander John Warrand held firm at the wheel of HMS Hood, the smoke and shock of the hit the ship had sustained finally abating. Like another young navigator aboard Kirov who was thrust unexpectedly into the Captain’s chair, Warrand suddenly found himself the only senior officer on the bridge, with the battle thickening about him and the sea erupting in wild geysers of blood red water.

He had served as a navigator aboard the carrier Furious, and cruiser Neptune in the 1930s, and more recently as Navigating Officer aboard Devonshire, and finally the venerable battleship Rodney. He had just settled in, arriving aboard Hood months ago in March of 1940 to assume his post as Navigation Officer, Battle Cruiser Squadron.

Even as he struggled with the wheel, he was haunted by the face of Ted Briggs, the last man he had spoken to before the shell struck the conning tower and killed so many men on the compass platform. The men were crowding in there to get a look at the action, and he thought to have a look himself when he met Briggs at the door, gracefully stepping aside with a gesture and a brief word: “After you, old chap.”

Then he remembered Captain Glennie had asked him to get a map from the chart room, and so he went there instead. It saved his life. The compass platform was a long way up from the Admiral’s Bridge, which was tiered up over the forward gun director behind B turret. He doubted if any man there had survived the spray of shrapnel that must have exploded upwards after that shell struck home and hit the compass platform like a shotgun blast.

“Coming left twenty,” he shouted, maneuvering to instinctively avoid the fall of heavy shells ahead of the ship, but also with the thought that he would be opening his rear turret firing arcs to enable them to get into action. “Hoist Blue Two!” Now Hood would at least bring all her functioning guns into the fight, and along with Repulse that would give them twelve 15-inch guns.

He gave an order to slow the ship down, hoping to briefly throw off the enemy’s calculations and also stabilize the ship. Hood ran very low in the water, and when running at high speeds the spray from her own bow wash could often mist and veil the lower gun directors mounted on the forward turrets.

There came a loud roar and Warrand knew the finger of the Gunnery Officer had just squeezed the trigger on his firing pistol again, blasting with every gun trained and ready in one mighty salvo. Headless, bloodied and bruised, Hood was still fighting. No, he thought, not headless. Use your own noggin, Johnny. You’re the man at the helm now. This fight is yours.

Smoke still trailed from the damaged B turret, and the anti-air rocket system there was completely destroyed, not that it was any great loss. The weapon basically deployed long trailing cables from a parachute in the hopes of snagging a passing airplane, and it had never been effective. The real damage was the loss of those two big guns in the heat of the battle.

Warrand had no idea what was happening on the boat deck amidships where the Stukas had planted a bomb that seriously damaged the aft funnel. Now, at least, he had someone on the Flag Bridge to hoist ensigns and he soon learned that there were still men alive on the compass platform above when someone shouted through a voice pipe that they had sighted another contact.

Then the ship shook again, and Warrand was nearly thrown from his feet. At the same time he could see what looked to be an explosion on Repulse ahead. The Germans had quickly found the range again, but the voice of 1st Gunnery Officer Lieutenant Commander Colin MacMullen was reassuring him that they were still in the fight.

“Down 200 and steady on bearing. Four guns ready. Fire!” MacMullen had been adjusting his fire using down-ladder corrections in 200 yard increments, and this time he was spot on. Hood’s mainmast soon called out a hit amidships on the lead German ship, presumed to be Bismarck, and Warrand took heart. A yeoman came running with more bad news, however, and he knew that a clock was ticking on the ship’s prospects for survival.

“Sir! That last hit amidships has slipped our armor and we have damage in the number four boiler room!”

Two guns down, speed off a third, fires amidships, a hull breach that will mean we’ll be taking water, all the senior officers wounded or killed but me, and now Repulse takes a hit for good measure. The question in Warrand’s mind now was whether he could risk further damage to the ship by holding to this course and trying to stay in the battle, or whether he should attempt to break off and live to fight another day.

We’re wounded and down on one knee, but we can still hold a sword, he thought. Then came the news he had longed to hear. It was shouted from the mainmast top watch, clear and high through the voice pipe and relayed to him by a Yeoman.

“Sir! Ships sighted on the horizon off the port bow!”

Anything on his port side was likely to be British, he thought. Dear God, let it be Tovey. Let it be HMS Invincible and then let’s get on with it!

John Warrand’s prayer would be answered that day. It was, indeed, Admiral John Tovey on Invincible, and with him, running like hounds to either side of the big battlecruiser, were the destroyers Fortune and Firedrake.

“Signal destroyers to swing round to zero-two-zero and make a run at the enemy,” Tovey said coolly. “Gunnery officer, what do you make the range to that big fellow second in line?”

Lt. Cdr. Edward Connors answered, clear and confident. “I make it 23,400, sir. Right in our wheelhouse after that hit on the Twins, with all guns training on target now.”

“Very well…” Tovey clasped his hands behind his back, even as his signalman runner Wells returned, breathless from his running climb back up to the Admiral’s Bridge. “Hoist battle ensign. Good of you to rejoin us, Mister Wells. Please take up a post at the signal room voice pipe and let’s give you a chance to catch your breath. Kindly call down and advise the W/T room to signal Hood and ascertain the condition of Admiral Holland’s squadron.”

Wells was quick to reply, his high voice echoing the Admiral’s mannerly order, which prompted Tovey to smile again.

“You may reserve that octave for the order to abandon ship, should it ever come, Mister Wells. Otherwise a clear and calm order is best served to your purpose.”

“Yes sir, of course.” Wells had the heat and excitement of going unto his first combat at sea aboard a real battleship, but he took a deep breath after his climb, calming himself, yet alert and ready to execute any order that came his way. Somehow Tovey’s cool was infectious, and he noted that every man on the Admiral’s Bridge seemed to be standing his post with a steady, calm professionalism. He raised his chin, proud to be there, and waited.

“Gentlemen, it may interest you to know that a locket of hair from Lord Nelson himself has been sewn into the battle ensign we raise this hour,” said Tovey, “and we’re all the better for it.” He gave Wells a reassuring nod, which did much to bring a measure of confidence to the younger officer.

“All guns trained and ready sir,” came the call.

“Then let them know we are here. We’ll see how they like our sixteen inch guns. Hoist Blue Five. You may begin, Mister Connors.”

A bell rang three times, and this time it was Connors finger on the firing pistol, and the guns fired the first ranging salvo, using only the centermost barrel on each of the three turrets. If he was close again he had six more rounds ready to fling at the enemy at once.

Aboard Graf Zeppelin the air crews had completed the recovery of their strike wing and were now feverishly working to re-arm and re-fuel the planes on the hanger deck. Marco Ritter’s Messerschmitt was one of the last to return, his right wing studded with dings where a Fulmar had managed to get a bite out of him. His sub-flight had managed to break up and harass the Swordfish strike from Illustrious, and he labored to note the direction the enemy planes took on their return leg.

“If one of our seaplanes can swing round and have a good look to the south we may be able to catch their carriers,” he said to one of his pilots, then he spied the young Hans Rudel standing by his Stuka and smiled. My lucky eighteen, he thought, striding over to the man and clasping him on the shoulder.

“I saw what you did again this time, Rudel! Keep it up! Three more hits and you’ll be in line for your first Knight’s Cross.”

“Thank you, sir. I did my best.”

“Yes, and the British know it! You put that egg right in the nest, just like the first time. And where is that stupid Maintenance Chief, eh? He said you could not fly combat missions, but he can eat those words now. Tonight we’ll drink to success, but for the moment, maybe you can get one more hit before Lindemann sinks those ships!”

“I’m ready, sir. As soon as they patch that hole in my tail, we can go out and hurt them again.”

Ritter finished his tin of coffee and set it down. “Let’s get up to the flight deck. They’ll serve up your plane in no time.” Together they took the ladder up.

Graf Zeppelin was a big ship, over 860 feet in length and 119 feet abeam, the ship displaced as much as Kirov would at a full load of over 33,000 tons. 1700 officers and men crewed the ship, which had sortied streikschwere, with a strike-heavy compliment primarily composed of modified Stuka dive bombers. As such, the ship was configured for an offensive role, instead of loading up with fighters and playing defense for Lindemann’s fleet. The decision had paid good dividends, largely due to the discerning eye of Marco Ritter and his discovery of a top notch pilot in Hans Rudel.

Up on deck Ritter saw they were already finishing the mounting of two BF-109s on the forward catapults, perched right near the ship’s bow. Behind them the main hanger deck yawned open, and the sound of the air crew chiefs shouting orders echoed up from below. High above them the tall yet graceful curve of the black stovepipe funnel darkened the sky. The ship was making speed into the wind, ready to launch. Already the first of the black winged Stukas were coming up on the elevator and being maneuvered aft to their pre launch positions.

Three planes had been lost in the 1st Squadron, two hit by flak and one caught by the British fighter defense. This left nine there, and two had damage enough to keep them below decks in the maintenance bays. Seven remaining planes were spotted and ready. The twelve planes in 2nd Squadron had all made it back, with eight still serviceable and being armed for action, including Rudel’s plane.

Ritter offered Rudel a cigarette, but he declined, never indulging in the habit during those rigorous and challenging years in naval flight training school. All he could think of now was getting back in his plane and hearing the thrum of the engine as he pulled away from the deck of the carrier.

The sleek destroyer Sigfrid was cruising just off their starboard side, and its brother Beowulf was off the port side, effectively screening the ship’s vitals from any possible torpedo attack by a lurking submarine. Both ships were new, the Atlantik class project that had conspired to build a fast destroyer that could run with the carrier and have the endurance to stay at sea. Sometimes called Spahkreuzers, or “scout cruisers,” the ships were larger than any other German destroyer, with a dual propulsion system that used diesel engines for long cruises, and steam turbines for emergency speed.

The destroyers had six 5.9-inch guns in three twin turrets, a pair of 88s for high altitude AA defense, and a lavish battery of eight 37mm flak guns with another eight 20mm caliber. Ten 21-inch torpedoes amidships finished off this impressive weapons suite for a ship displacing just 5,700 tons. Two depth charge racks were also mounted astern so the ships could also provide ASW defense. Unfortunately their designers could provide no defense for the enemy they would soon encounter.

Ritter saw it first, thinking he was seeing a shooting star, a fast moving light in the hazy ocher sky. A billow of slate grey clouds drifted across the glowing orb of the low sun, dimming the light and making the contrast of the fire in the sky more noticeable. It was high up, then began to fall rapidly, towards the sea.

“Look there, Rudel. Are you sure all our planes are back?”

He thought it might be a fallen angel, one of the missing Stukas that had managed to get close enough to the carrier before eventually being forced to ditch. But no plane could move like that. Seconds later his eyes widened as he saw the light swoop low over the ocean and then accelerate! Its movement was inherently threatening, as it came, heading right for the ship, surging in like a hot star thrown down from the heavens. Then it smashed right into the hull of the Destroyer Sigfrid where it was keeping station two hundred yards from the carrier. The resulting explosion vibrated the air and an angry red fire scored the red twilight. Fire leapt up in a terrible sheet of flame.

“Mein Gott!” he exclaimed. Then a massive secondary explosion nearly shook them from their feet, and Rudel heard the hard chink of metal on metal as fragments of the ravaged destroyer were flung against the carrier’s hull. He felt a nudge on his foot and looked to see one small piece of shrapnel had scuffed the toe of his boot. The torpedo mounts amidships had gone up in the fire, and the destroyer’s back was broken.

Graf Zeppelin swept on, leaving the stricken destroyer behind. Ritter looked at Rudel, a stunned expression on his face. “That demon was meant for us, Rudel! It must have been a rocket! Sigfrid was just in the way. Get to your plane. I’ll be damned if I’ll get caught on this deck if another comes in.” he eyed the heavens darkly, as if another star would suddenly shake itself loose from the sable sky and come hurtling from above, like a javelin cast by a vengeful god.

Ritter threw his cigarette down, tapped his companion on the shoulder, and ran to the forward catapult, making for his fighter. Rudel wasted no time either, his feet taking him aft as shouts of alarm and the signal for air alert resounded through the ship. The growl of the hydraulics on the elevators seemed more urgent now. They were under attack, but he could see no ship near them on any horizon save the foundering Sigfrid and now destroyer Beowulf, which had slowed to render assistance to its fallen brother.

Stop gawking and get to your plane, he thought. Ritter is correct! The sooner you get aloft, the better. Yet even as he had that thought, he wondered if the carrier would still be there when he returned from this last mission.