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.
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
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?”
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 phrases 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.
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.