Chapter Fifty-Two
North Sea
Generaladmiral Förste’s already dark mood turned black as he stared down at the reports. The German Navy had been hammered by the British aircraft in both encounters; they might have sunk several British carriers, but the British had more carriers to spare. He’d lost all four of his fleet carriers, and while there were several more being constructed, they wouldn’t be available for several months at least. His force was trapped, about to engage a British fleet which had superior numbers… but not, perhaps, superior fire-power His force had the greatest fire-power available to any German fleet. If he could defeat the British ships, there was still hope for the invasion.
“Steer us towards them,” he said quickly as he found his cap and placed it firmly on his head. “I’m going to the bridge.”
Admiral Fraser peered through his binoculars at the tiny shapes of German ships, still miles away. He counted seven battleships and one battle-cruiser; four of the battleships, he saw, were Bismarck -class. He’d been much younger when the Bismarck had been hunted down and sunk, but he’d studied the battle carefully. The Bismarck had killed the famous Hood through a single lucky shot in the right place. The heavy German battleships weren’t perfect designs, but the Germans had been improving them ever since… and, if he didn’t miss his guess, the lead ship was the Tirpitz, the famed Lonely Queen of the North. The Royal Navy had tried to sink her until the peace treaty in 1943… and, as far as he knew, they hadn’t even scratched her paint.
He smiled to himself as he checked out his own fleet. He’d brought nine of his battleships to the encounter and dozens of smaller ships to cover their flanks, but the important part of the duel would be between the battleships. His force was spread out into line of battle, steaming directly towards the Germans, but spread out enough so they could turn to bring their stern batteries into play at a moment’s notice. He expected that the Germans, knowing they had the inferior numbers would attempt to pass through his fleet and bring their weapons to bear as quickly as possible. He welcomed such a manoeuvre. He had the fire-power to handle it and the crews he needed to hold such a steady course. The Germans might decide to try to retreat, turning at just the right moment to bring their own weapons to bear by crossing his ‘T,’ but if that happened, he would simply match their manoeuvre and pour fire on them.
The German battleships were getting closer. Any moment now… he smiled as he saw the flashes of light on the German ships. Their main guns had opened fire, blasting heavy shells towards the British ships. He doubted that they would hit anything at that range, even with the help of radar to guide their shells, but the fountains of water were too near his ships for comfort. He studied the German formation again and issued a set of orders, watching as the operators passed the orders on to the other ships in the fleet, which were still holding their fire. Fraser was proud of their discipline. The Germans fired again. This time, the geysers were much closer to his ships. How long had it been since either side had fired a shot in anger at another battleship? 1941?
“Fire,” he ordered quietly.
The bridge was meant to be soundproofed, but the noise of the guns echoed through the hull as the ship fired, sending a pair of heavy shells back towards the Germans. The gunnery officers would be watching them through radar now, calculating the location of the German ships and adjusting their own fire to compensate. The Germans would be doing the same. It was a battering match and one he was confident of winning. He had the numbers, and the Germans did not. He raised his binoculars to his eyes once more as towering plumes of water erupted near the German ships. A German destroyer, struck broadside by shells intended for a battleship, was blown apart in a tearing gout of fire.
Poor bastards, Fraser thought, with the slightest flicker of amusement. The German crew had been hit by accident, but as the old saying had it, no ship could do very wrong if it struck an enemy ship. The Germans would be concentrating their own fire on the British battleships — a massive gout of water burst up near the King George V — but so far neither side had scored a real hit on the other’s capital ships. The ships grew closer.
“The Howe reports one hit, minor damage,” the radio officer reported. Fraser scowled. The Germans had found their range first and would probably plaster the unfortunate Howe until they cracked her open and sent her down to the bottom. He glanced over towards the Howe, a battleship almost completely identical to the King George V, and saw smoke pouring from the side of the ship. It looked bad, but his experience told him that such things were often illusionary; as long as the ship was firing and moving normally, the damage wasn’t that extensive. “Her Captain reports she’s still in the fight.”
Fraser’s lips twitched. “That’s good,” he said, watching as the Germans grew closer. Their guns were firing rapidly now — he was almost numb to the sound and fury of the British guns, pounding away at the Germans — and he was grimly aware that it was only a matter of time before the Germans scored a hit on one of the British ships. He studied one of the enemy ships as he saw a flash and smiled as he realised that one of his ships had scored a direct hit, striking the German ship directly on its forward turret.
King George V rang like a bell. Fraser bit off a curse as the deck rolled under him, wondering just where they had been hit; judging from the way the ship had moved, the shell had come down on the starboard armour. Damage control teams rushed through the ship as the Germans scored a second hit, moments before fire from two British ships bracketed the German battle-cruiser, sending it leaping out of the line of battle. Fraser smiled as the Royal Navy paid off an old score. The Scharnhorst had been a pain in the neck ever since the Germans had built it and sent it out on raiding missions. His expression fell as the Germans scored several hits in quick succession on Prince of Wales. Both sides were scoring regular hits now, while their smaller ships dashed around and tried to make torpedo runs or prevent the others from making torpedo runs.
“Signal to all ships,” he ordered, as one of the German battleships was enveloped in a bright light. He hoped, for a second, that they had hit it hard enough to kill it, but the German ship shrugged off the blast and kept coming. “Execute Armageddon in one minute.”
“Signal sent,” the radioman said. There was a long pause, during which the King George V rang again. Smoke billowed from the Prince of Wales. She was taking a pounding, and Fraser prayed that she would last long enough to take part in Armageddon. The timing was important here. In order to bring all their weapons to bear on the advancing German fleet before the enemy could take advantage of his brief moment of exposure, Fraser’s ships would have to execute their turn quickly and efficiently. “All ships acknowledge Armageddon in one minute, sir.”
Fraser counted down the seconds in his head. The Captain barked the order at precisely the right moment and the mighty battleship began turning in the water, bringing all of its batteries to bear on the German ships. It was a trickier manoeuvre than it might seem — there was a very real danger of collision if it wasn’t done properly — but the British Navy had practised it endlessly to iron out the flaws. The battleship shook again, violently, as a German bombardment smashed into the main armour covering the battleship’s vitals, but then the main guns boomed, instantly doubling the amount of fire-power that could be brought to bear on the German ships.