The combined fire of those two raiders was going to also put an end to Sheffield’s war, and the last hapless destroyer on that ill-fated group would die with her, the Marne. Captain Clark and Sheffield that had led the engagement the previous day, fighting bravely with Kent at her back. That cruiser had done what no man among them thought possible—it had stopped Tirpitz near dead in the water with that lucky hit. Now the two German raiders had their revenge, and Admiral Carl’s smiled when he got the news: “Sunk all ships in contacted group. Our compliments to the Admiral. Continuing on planned route.”
When Holland got the news he clenched his fist. They were still just over 90 miles to the northeast, and too late to intervene. But he had a good idea where the German raiders were going now, angry at himself for not anticipating what the enemy had just pulled here.
Damn their shadows, he thought. They broke off and ran for the coast under their land based air power. When I moved north to look for the Americans, they snookered me, running south along the Norwegian coast and then turning out to sea again. But I know where they’re going now, don’t I. Yes, and I’m a good deal closer to the main body of PQ-17 than they are, so let them come. They’ll find me waiting there with Hood if they get bold enough to approach. Then we’ll see them pay for what they did to Sheffield and Kent. Yes….
Krancke was pacing on the bridge of the Admiral Scheer. Ahead of him lay the entire British convoy, and here were a pair of impudent destroyers thinking to try and stop him. The action had started five minutes ago, hot and furious, with the sharp report of the 152mm secondary batteries resounding with each rapid salvo. He would show them what they were dealing with, and shook his head as they bravely dodged and maneuvered to get after him. But his gunners were too good. He would get them both, two more trophies to set on the shelf in payment for Lutzow, but they would be very valuable kills, destroyers Martin and Onslaught.
As he approached the convoy from behind, he had already left the Winston Salem burning in his wake, damaged the boilers on William Hooper and set that ship on fire, but he had paid a price. The destroyers had put damage on his own engines, and the engineers were frantically trying to get it repaired. In that interval, his speed fell off to six knots, and he clenched his jaw, seeing the hulking merchant ships ahead actually slipping away.
“Come on!” he shouted down the voice tube. “Get those engines turning over!”
It was a long twenty minutes before he could work up to 14 knots again, and he steered north to run parallel to the convoy where he could pick them off at his leisure. Those 14 knots were just going to be good enough to give him that position, and now he could even bring his torpedo tubes to bear.
“Let’s put a nice straight runner into that ship there,” he pointed, and minutes later that is what he did—the Troubadour would sing its swan song that hour, her hull blasted open by that torpedo. He smiled at that, the smell of the kill in the air. There he was, single handedly doing what Tirpitz and all the others had set out to do. He could see five more ships in this group, and four more eight miles ahead. He could run right alongside their formation, gunning them down. But his plans were to be interrupted by yet another British destroyer, charging in from the south all guns blazing, the Oribi.
Thinking he would deal with this ship as easily as he had dispatched the last two, he was shocked when the enemy got in the first telling blows. “What are you doing?” he shouted at his chief gunnery officer. “You let them strike us like this? Get after that ship!”
Admiral Sheer rocked again, with yet another hit, and now it seemed that almost all the secondary batteries on the starboard side of the ship had been put out of action. Some had light damage, some heavy, but none could return that fire. Oribi was even putting hits on his aft main turret, guns he would not normally used against a small, fast moving target like this.
The man racing about like a wild banshee on Oribe was Captain John Edwin Home McBeath. Educated in South Africa, he had come to the Royal Navy as a 23 year old Boatswain’s Mate in 1928. Now a Captain of 37 years, he had learned the fate of Martin and Onslaught, and was determined to cut off a pound of flesh from the enemy. Elated when he got those first hits, he swung about, making a high speed turn at near 36 knots, his forward batteries continuing to fire. Like an angry bees stinging a bear cub, he was putting so much damage on the superstructure of Admiral Scheer that Kapitan Krancke cursed aloud, then ordered a 15 point turn to the north, and all speed possible.
Amazingly, the Oribe had driven off the German raider to lick its wounds and see if they could get those secondary batteries back in order. Then, realizing that the convoy was also being stalked by enemy U-boats, McBeath came about, not wanting to press his luck when he had the enemy on the run. He steered the ship south, and then a watchman spotted a periscope, very near the stricken merchant ship John Witherspoon. It looked as though the U-boat was diving deeper, intending to get right under the ship it had just torpedoed, and that was exactly what Kapitan Brandenburg was up to. It would not work—not with Oribi fired up and racing in for blood. Another explosion resounded to the northeast, where Bolton Castle was being hunted by Kapitan Timm on U-251.
“Come on lads!” shouted McBeath. “Let’s get the bloody devils before they sink the whole lot!”
He would.
Oribi made a perfect ASW run, heedless of the risk to John Witherspoon, which was a doomed ship in any case. McBeath dropped numerous depth charges, shaking U-457 from stem to stern, until a bad leak started in the engine room, then another, and a third on the bridge. Flooding badly, Brandenburg had no choice but to surface, and when he did, Oribi was waiting for him.
Just when it seemed that the defense was collapsing and the convoy would be ripped apart, this single British destroyer had pressed such a gallant and persistent attack that Oribi would drive off Scheer and sink U-457. A DSO was in order for McBeath, and one day, well after this war, they would place thick gold stripes on his cuff, call him “Admiral.”
A lull settled over the action, the oil thick on the sea, the fires licking at it, and the men in the water rolling over with their suffering, the cold stopping their breath. Some died in those flames, others died from the frigid chill of the water. The group now under attack was an amalgam of PQ-17C and 17D. There had been 16 ships between them, but now there were only eight still underway. Among the stricken ships were Bolton Castle, Daniel Morgan, Grey Ranger, Hoosier, William Hooper, Winston Salem, Troubadour, and finally John Witherspoon. The stragglers Hartlebury and Honomu had also died that day, along with Kent, Sheffield, and three destroyers, Martin, Onslaught, Marne. The minesweeper Halcyon, her final bluff called, was also never seen again.