“God help those men,” Hardy said and then called down the voice tube. “Starboard thirty.” He moved to the other tube. “Engine Room, Bridge. Smoke, and lots of it. Now, unless you want to end up like poor Windsor.”
Cole threw Land a questioning glance. We’re turning away from Sea Lion, he thought. What the hell’s going on? Turning away, he asked himself, Or running away?
“Captain?” Land said.
“We’re showing Sea Lion our stern, Number One. We’ve gone and joined the Reciprocal Club. She can’t tell our bow from our stern at this angle, so she can’t tell if we’re coming or going, and by God, I want them to see us going.”
“Captain—”
“Did you see the size of those bricks, Cole? Big as houses, they were. Poor Windsor. Cunningham was a fine man. No drinker he, but a fine man. Wheel amidships if you please, Number One.”
What the hell is going on? Cole wondered. Has this guy gone crazy? First he pumps smoke into the air and then begins a big circle as if he’s hightailing it out of here and now… Cole couldn’t help the smile.
“Ah, you’ve got it, Cole,” Hardy said. “Kudos to you, young man. Number One, we shall go out a bit with the smoke covering our movements and then turn sharply to starboard and run with all speed at the enemy. At the appropriate time we shall turn hard to port and being just off her bow, launch a full spread of torpedoes. That should give her pause.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Surely you did not think I had intentions of running from the enemy?” Hardy said.
“I had my doubts, sir,” Land said.
“Yes,” Hardy said slowly, gazing at the smoke plume that marked Windsor’s grave. “After seeing what happened to that poor devil, I had my doubts as well.”
“Swing them to starboard, swing them to port, and now the bloody simpleton on the bridge wants them amidships again,” Chief Torpedo Gunner’s Mate Baird said as he sat in the cramped cockpit on top of the four torpedo tubes and cranked number one back into position. He leaned over the back of the cockpit, a low tub that housed the compressed air indicators, training gear, and backup firing mechanism, and called to Engleman.
“Did you see her go up?” he shouted.
“Too right, I did,” Engleman said, standing by at the torpedo shack. He led the sailors who winched the additional torpedoes deep within the stores, up through the open doors of the shack, and into the tubes. Once they were loaded and the compressed air was charged, number-one station would be ready to fire a spread again. “Was it Cunningham on the Windsor? That tall skinny chap with an Adam’s apple as big as a coconut?”
“As if you’ve seen a coconut,” Baird said. “He—”
“Number One Station,” Sublieutenant Morrison called crossly as he quickly passed the station. “You will direct the tubes to starboard.”
Baird watched him disappear beyond the funnel, making for the second torpedo station. “Lord Nelson always favored those bastards on Number Two Station,” he said, pressing the brake lever and gripping the handles of the turning wheel in each hand firmly. It was geared to the machinery that spun the tubes in the proper direction and moved smoothly enough considering that all the power called upon to move it was located in the muscles of one man. “Tommy Blessing? Are you standing by, Boy Seaman?”
“Yes, Torps,” Blessing said, stationed at the thick compressed air hoses that fed the tanks of the torpedo tubes. It was a blast of compressed air that shot the torpedoes out of the tubes and engaged their onboard engines so that once the torpedoes hit the water their screws were spinning in a blur. The torpedoes should right themselves and come to a proper depth and cut a straight line to their target and with any luck one of four would hit, or with better luck make it two, or with phenomenal luck and the help of the sea gods there would be three deep explosions. And if someone on board Firedancer had sold his soul to the devil or the Royal Navy, then all four might hit.
“Don’t worry about bricks,” Baird said. “Firedancer’s too small and too fast for that nonsense. You just keep your mind on my air and all will be right in the end.” The condition of the compressed air tanks was critical. If the pounds-per-square-inch were inadequate due to the tanks or hoses being pierced, the torpedoes would rest impotently in their tubes — useless.
The number-one torpedo station swung into position and locked with a clang. Baird released the brake, licked his lips, and waited. Glancing around for Lord Nelson, he pulled a cigarette and a pack of matches from his coat. He pulled the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaled appreciatively. “Boy Seaman,” he called to Blessing, “run down to the pub and get me a pail of Guinness and a blowsy barmaid.”
Chapter 29
“She’s cleared the smoke,” Kadow said.
An Oberleutnant zur See reported: “Forward topmast reports enemy cruiser fine off our port bow. Distance, thirty kilometers, speed, thirty knots.”
“She’s too close for Anton to get a good shot,” Kadow said.
“Then Frey has to make do with Bruno because Sea Lion’s course will remain unaltered,” Mahlberg said. “Let them snap at our heels, Kadow. They can do nothing more.”
“They have torpedoes, sir,” Kadow reminded Mahlberg.
Mahlberg gave the statement a disdainful look and said nothing.
Kadow remembered a book that he had read long ago. It was about Rome and the ancient generals and their triumphant return to the Eternal City after far-off victories. They were entitled to ride in a grand parade in their honor, and to receive the adulation of the population. Their greatness, their invincibility was acknowledged by all as they rode in their splendid chariots down the broad avenues lined with cheering crowds. But riding behind them in the chariots, so close that the generals must have felt their hot breath, was a servant who whispered, so that pride did not blind the triumphant to their own inadequacies, “Remember, thou art mortal.”
Statz and his gun crew cheered loudly when the speaker announced the destruction of the enemy destroyer.
“We got that one,” Steiner said. “Anton can’t see that far. She can’t even see over our bow.”
“Perhaps when she grows up,” Manthey said. The red shell hoist light blinked rapidly. “Shell coming!”
The shell slid onto the tray and was pushed into the breech, followed immediately by the powder bags. Statz shut the huge breechblock and listened with satisfaction as it spun closed and locked. He heard the gearing mechanism engage and felt the turret move to starboard as the gun rose. The turret slid to a stop.
“Over the bow?” Scholtz said. “We’re going to give Anton a headache.”
“British cruiser dead ahead. Distance thirty kilometers. We’ll wait until she turns and fire,” the loudspeaker said.