Godt suddenly realized that Doenitz had introduced his own interests into the conversation. “We are,” the vice admiral said carefully, “to concern ourselves only with the U-boats.”
“Are we?” Doenitz said. “We are Kriegsmarine officers, Godt. Our loyalties cannot be divided between branches of the service. Of course we hope that Sea Lion accomplishes her mission, Godt. Our role, the U-boats’ role, is clearly defined. My hope is that the entire mission be a success.”
It was a lovely speech given with no conviction, and there was the question of hope; it was such a fragile commodity, such an elusive entity — surely one did not rely on hope alone.
“Yes, sir,” Godt said, content to let the discussion die away.
“Besides,” Doenitz said, airily, “how can those tiny vessels stop Sea Lion? Destroyers and cruisers. She will crush them and proceed on to Prince of Wales. Isn’t that what we are told?”
“Your pardon, Admiral, but I detect reservation in your tone.”
“Yes, well,” Doenitz said wryly, “I always approach foregone conclusions with a healthy degree of reservation. What about Webber?”
“Nothing, sir. It should only be a matter of hours before he engages the Home Fleet.”
“One day,” Doenitz said with a look of disgust, “I shall invent a radio that can send messages from deep underwater so that I won’t have to wait for U-boat Kapitans to surface when they deem fit and contact me. Raeder has one prima donna. I have dozens. Send for my coat. I’ve had enough of parties for tonight.”
Bimble was gardening when Hawthorne brought the news. The admiral asked his wife, a plump, matronly woman who had been helping him tend to the roses, to excuse them.
“Prince of Wales is going on?” Bimble said.
“What else can she do, Sir Joshua?” Hawthorne said, sighting a pitted stone bench. The days had been endless for both of them and he had been the one to encourage Bimble to come home for a bit and rest. He knew that the only way that Bimble found relaxation was in the quiet surroundings of his tiny garden. Hawthorne sat down and waited for Bimble’s reply.
“If those poor sods can slow that bloody bastard, they might give the Home Fleet time to get to her,” Bimble said, joining Hawthorne on the bench. “Unlikely though. Damned unlikely.” The admiral laid his arms across his round stomach. “God! What will happen to this country if we lost Prince of Wales and the prime minister as well?”
“The escorts. A cruiser and three destroyers,” Hawthorne said. “They might offer some resistance.”
“They won’t last five minutes under that fire,” Bimble said. “What did Hamilton tell us? Twelve sixteen-inch guns? A score of lesser guns and a hide as thick as an elephant’s.”
Hawthorne stood and stretched, letting his mind mull over the situation. Bimble kept a good garden. It was neat and colorful and although he couldn’t tell a buttercup from a blade of grass Hawthorne appreciated the care that went into the creation and nurturing of this tiny plot of land behind a modest house surrounded by an ancient brick wall. He noticed a movement in the corner and he saw a pair of ears.
“You have a rabbit,” he noted.
Bimble jumped up. “Is that bloody creature back in here? By God, I’ll shoot him next time. He eats everything in sight. Does me no good to toil over this bloody garden if that little furry bastard eats everything. I’ll get a gun, I tell you, and lie in wait and when he shows up, bang! I’ll spring on him…” The words stopped.
“Sir Joshua?” Hawthorne said. The admiral looked at the stone pathway leading to a potting shed, and then to the plants on either side, and then at Hawthorne.
“Sir Joshua?”
“Those bloody bastards! Those deceitful underhanded, bloody bastards.”
“Sir Joshua?”
“It’s a trap, Hawthorne. The Home Fleet, by God.”
“A trap?”
“The other twelve U-boats. They’re nowhere near Prince of Wales or anybody else,” Bimble said. “They’re lying in wait for the Home Fleet to go rushing to the rescue.”
“Are you certain?” Hawthorne said.
Bimble gave him an irritated look. “Of course I’m not certain, you silly ass, but I’d be willing to bet my bloody garden on it. Those others, the ones that that W.T. identified, were beaters. Don’t you see that? They kept Prince of Wales running southerly to give Sea Lion a chance to catch up with her. But they convinced us that they were fifteen instead of three. So we calculated the truth but not the location of the other twelve boats. They are hiding, man, lying in ambush for the Home Fleet to steam like great, fat rabbits into their sights. When the Fleet’s close enough, they spring the bloody trap.”
“Yes,” Hawthorne said, digesting the information. “Yes. That’s it.”
“Get back to the admiralty,” Bimble said, taking him by the elbow and guiding him toward the back door. “Contact Scapa Flow and have them alert the Home Fleet. I’ll be in as soon as I rinse off this grime and change.” He shoved Hawthorne through the door. “Hurry, man. I’ll be right behind you.” Bimble shook his head at the possibilities. A complex plan: back Prince of Wales and the prime minister, and throw in the Home Fleet as well. Why not? Use Prince of Wales as the stalking goat and when the snare is sprung, destroy her as well. The damned, efficient Germans. He saw the rabbit venture tentatively across the stone pathway. “All right,” Bimble said. “You can stay, you bloody hare. I suppose I owe you that much.”
The bo’sun’s whistle and alarm bell had sent Firedancer’s crew dashing for their action stations as the destroyer sliced through the North Atlantic, spray exploding over the bows and whipping around A Turret. They pounded down ladders and along passageways, emerging from the confines of the vessel to slap Kelly helmets on their heads and take up position. Excitement charged through the ship, men racing about, shouting directions and orders; warrant officers, chief petty officers, and petty officers cursing the men: faster, faster. The crews of the 4.5-inch guns pulled the tampions that protected the barrels from saltwater spray out of the muzzles, opened the doors for the ready-access magazines located in the front of the turret, and removed the canvas coverings from the breach mechanisms. The rear of the turrets were open, the men unprotected. In reality it made no difference because the turret shields did nothing more than partially protect the men from the cold wind. It was too thin to stop splinters, and if they were unlucky enough to be hit by a shell of any size the whole thing would disintegrate. She was not Sea Lion, and her turrets did not weigh one thousand tons each.
Firedancer bit into the waves playfully as if she had been too long under restraint and now given her head and was pleased at the ability to run. Her bow came up and with it a taste of North Sea as she flung high into the air in a moment of pure joy. Down her bow went again for another gulp and all the time men raced about her preparing for battle. This was not Firedancer’s concern — she was at full speed and that seldom happened in her voyages. She was either tied to plodding merchant ships in cumbersome convoys or forced to sail under two boilers instead of all three because fuel was low or she had too far to travel or one of her boilers needed replacement and it could not be counted on to perform. Now, now was a different matter entirely. Firedancer’s captain had finally come to his senses and unleashed her, given her her head so that she could stretch out; screws driving hard, bow slicing cleanly, engines humming contentedly.