Aboard King George V Admiral Tovey was not a happy man. His forward main turret was jammed by debris from a near hit and unable to bear accurately on the target now. He still had two guns above in the smaller turret, but now his rear main battery reported two misfires in the last salvo, and the crews feared that if they opened the breaches on those guns the cordite bags packed in behind the heavy shells could explode. To make matters worse, the ship had taken a second hit amidships, and damage reports were unclear. The shell had narrowly missed his rear smoke stack and sheered away the launching crane for a small seaplane mount. There was a fire, he didn’t know how bad, but he presumed it would eventually be controlled.
He considered his situation, realizing his ships were now starkly silhouetted against the rising sun, and firing at a distant, shadowy enemy who obviously had the range on him. He was down to just four operational guns for the moment. It would be a long day ahead, and he opted to get his task force on better standing.
“Captain Patterson,” he decided. “Take her hard a port. Signal cruisers to follow and make smoke. We’ll have to get the guns sorted out or this will go badly.”
“Aye, sir.” The captain quickly brought his ship around.
“Mr. Brind, walk with me, please,” said Tovey, and his Chief of Staff was smartly at his side. Tovey fixed him with a serious expression as he walked to the plotting room. “A damn bloody mess,” he said in a low voice. “I think we’d best let Admiral Holland know what’s happened. If he continues on his present course it will put him behind the action in another ten or fifteen minutes, then he’ll be chasing the enemy, with only four guns up front on Hood to harry her.” He noted the chart table.
“What’s our heading now?” The admiral looked over his shoulder at the ship’s captain, and Patterson replied.
“Steering 112 degrees southeast, sir.”
“Very well, hold that course for the moment, and see about those bloody guns!” He leaned on the chart table and squinted at the navigation course plots for his fleet and Holland’s force. “Look here,” he said. “When we get the guns operational we’ll come about to starboard, and I want to be just over the horizon, just off the enemy’s port beam. Now, if Holland turns with us he’ll be running parallel to Bismarck’s present course as well, only off her starboard beam.”
“And well behind her, sir,” said Brind.
“Yes, but still unseen.” The admiral considered. “He’s out of their radar range. What we have to do now is get Victorious into the battle and see if we can slow the Germans down. I suggest we signal the Admiralty that we’ve broken off but we’re maintaining contact with the enemy. No… tell them the engagement has ended and we are in vigorous pursuit of the enemy. That will sound just a tad better to Admiral Pound, eh? And add on code to let them know we’re launching a strike with Victorious. We haven’t scratched Bismarck as yet, and unless we slow her down she’ll edge away, or at the very least she’ll maintain her lead on us. We can stay close, but we won’t catch her if she can run full out at near thirty knots. We can nip at her shadow, but in that instance it comes down to fuel.”
“Right, sir. It’s a job for Victorious,” said Brind. “Hopefully she can get her boys airborne.” He looked at the admiral and both men knew the strike was an iffy proposition. Brind did not remind him of their earlier conversation regarding the raw, inexperienced pilots on Victorious, and she had only nine planes.
“It’s a pity we don’t have Somerville about with Ark Royal as well, sir,” said Brind. “I’d give her the better odds in a situation like this.”
“If wishes were horses, Mr. Brind,” said Tovey.
The Air crews of squadron 825 were already up on the flight deck, twenty seven men in all, ready to mount the cluster of planes huddled at the far end of the ship. Each plane would carry three men, and soon they had the signal to mount their winged horses, heavy brown leather flight jackets glistening wet with windblown spray as they hurried over the rolling armored flight deck to the planes. The launch crews were huddled there to receive them, holding on to the still cabled planes in the wind. One by one the crews clambered up into the rickety biplanes, signaling thumbs up. The last was “Speed” Pollard, so named for his slow ways, though even he seemed to move with a sense of newfound urgency.
Victorious, steaming well behind Tovey’s column, steered round into the wind and the planes were unhitched. Just ahead of the clustered Swordfish, the deck crews lurched in and pulled away the chocks. Soon the initial flight of three planes was staged slightly ahead of the others, their engines sputtering to life as the wind ruffled them, wing cables creaking as the first moved forward. The sea spray was caught by the swirling props and flung back against the windscreens. A big wave broke high enough to send spray well up and over the ship’s bow and, as she scudded on through, one of the Swordfish slipped slightly off center, prompting crews to run to the tail and bring the plane round again.
All eyes were on the Flight Deck Officer, where he stood, legs well apart and braced against the wind. By now the first flight was wet with spray, the seawater gleaming on the metal props and dampening the canvas fuselages. Then the green flag was sharply lowered and the roaring engine of the number one plane revved up to full power. The plane’s brakes were released and it went careening down the deck toward the bow, its fixed landing gear lashed by ocean spray as it cleared the ship and slowly gained altitude.
One by one the other eight planes followed, all managing to get off without incident. Minutes later they had formed up over the carrier, and then turned together on a heading of 225 degrees southwest, bound to intercept Bismarck where she was still reported to be steaming due south, not twenty miles ahead.
Tovey watched them come up and over King George V, squinting through his field glasses, smiling when the last went by, and winking at his Chief of Staff.
“I’m sure they’ll find Bismarck,” he said. “Getting good light now.” He had already turned his fleet south as well, and was now running on the parallel track he had discussed with Brind earlier, well off the enemy’s Port beam, and just over the horizon. He had little doubt the enemy had him fixed on radar, though his own equipment still showed the Germans holding course and speed due south.
At least they weren’t inclined to pursue us, he thought. The fact that we’re here may give them some pause. They’re probably uncertain as to how badly we had been hit, and may be more eager to make a clean break out into the Atlantic. The Germans were not here to fight his battleships, he knew. It was the convoy traffic they were after.
Aboard Bismarck Admiral Lütjens was jubilant when the British broke off the engagement. “What was that, five minutes and we put them to route?” he said happily.
“Shall we pursue?” Captain Lindemann gestured.
“No need,” said the admiral. “That is their job. Ours is to get out into the Atlantic. Hold course and speed and we’ll make our turn shortly.”
They steamed south for twenty minutes until Lütjens was certain the British would not angle back into the fight, then a signalman rush in with an intercept. The Germans had decoded it and knew at once that the wound they had inflicted was not fatal.