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Authors: Steven Wilson

BOOK: Between The Hunters And The Hunted
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Chapter 29
D.K.M.
Sea Lion
, Quadrant XC 38
 
“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.
“We haven't slowed a bit,” Steiner said. “How can we hit anything at this speed?”
“We hit that destroyer,” Manthey said.
“Don't worry about Kapitan Mahlberg,” Statz said to Steiner. “He wants
Prince of Wales
. He won't waste his time with these shits. Besides, they can't hurt us, Steiner.”
 
 
“She's turning to port, Kapitan,” Kadow said, watching the progress of the cruiser through the narrow slits of the conning tower.
“Frey will get her,” Mahlberg said.
“Kapitan!” a
Kapitanleutnant
called from the other side of the conning tower. “British destroyer just clearing our bow. At ten thousand kilometers. She looks as if she's preparing for a torpedo run.”
“Let the secondary batteries deal with her,” Mahlberg said calmly.
“Kapitan, we must prepare for evasive action,” Kadow reminded Mahlberg. It was standard procedure in the face of an impending torpedo attack.
Mahlberg put a pair of binoculars to his eyes and said nothing.
“The cruiser's making smoke,” a
Leutnant zur See
said, perplexed. Cruisers didn't make smoke.
“She's going to turn back into that to hide after she unleashes her torpedoes,” Mahlberg said. “Except she won't have time to fire her torpedoes or run and hide.”
A thought struck Kadow. “Where's the second destroyer?”
“What?” Mahlberg said, lowering his glasses. “We sank her, Kadow. . . .”
“No. There were three.” For the first time Kadow saw a hint of concern on Mahlberg's face.
“British destroyer,” a lookout called. “Two points off the starboard bow. Twelve thousand kilometers.”
“The cruiser's firing,” a
Leutnant
reported.
“Port twenty,” Mahlberg said. “Now!”
“Destroyer to starboard is launching torpedoes,” the
Leutnant
said.
“We're showing them our beam,” Kadow said. They were exposing their length to the torpedoes and fire of the cruiser. The cruiser's guns would have little effect, but the torpedoes would have a much larger target in which to bury themselves.
“We're bringing our secondary batteries to bear,” Mahlberg said irritably. “Neither one of those vessels can survive that. And then we'll be on our way.”
“Yes, sir,” Kadow said.
Remember, thou art mortal.
 
 
H.M.S.
Firedancer
 
“
Prometheus
is going in,” Land called out. “There's
Eskimo
.
Prometheus
is drawing fire to give
Eskimo
a chance.”
“They're spoiling our shot!” Hardy railed. “By God, I can't shoot with those two on the other side. Those glory-seeking bastards. All right, all right,” he said, calming. “We can at least give
Sea Lion
pause. We'll make a false run of it. Let's hope the mere sight of
Firedancer
will frighten them.”
Cole watched as the secondary batteries along
Sea Lion
's port twinkled ominously.
It's going to be the other way around
, he thought.
Those bastards have got our range
. “This is going to be close,” he said to anyone listening as he tracked the blur of the shells through the air. “Close,” he said again and then the sea exploded around them. It was worse than before. Splinters screamed through the air like banshees, peppering the superstructure and hull of
Firedancer
. Cole heard screams and shouts of alarm and a huge crash as the foremast fell over the side, shot completely off the ship. There was a secondary explosion as the ready ammunition of a 20mm Oerlikon exploded just below and aft of the bridge.
“Land,” Hardy said as he picked himself up off the deck, “get the supply parties topside.” He looked at Cole in horror.
Cole quickly examined himself. He was covered in blood.
Am I wounded? I don't feel anything
. He tore at his clothes, trying to find the injury. His trembling hands were covered in blood and bits of flesh as he pulled away his coat.
“It's not you,” Hardy said. “Behind you.”
Cole turned to see Dove and the other two signalmen slumped over their stations just above him. They were sliced open, their bowels hanging in bloody coils from their stomachs. Their intestines, covered in blood and strewn over the deck, glistened obscenely in the dull light.
“Check the telephone, will you, Cole?” Hardy said, his voice shaking.
Cole wiped his bloody hands over his trousers and cranked the handle of the bridge telephone. There was nothing. No sound. He tried the Tannoy system, but it was dead as well. He caught Hardy's attention and shook his head.
“At least we have the bloody voice tubes,” Hardy said. He checked the relays for the torpedo-release buttons. “Nothing here as well. Land? Detail a man to act as runner to the torpedo stations.”
“I can do it, sir,” Cole said. “I know how they work.”
“Very well, Mr. Cole,” Hardy said. He was sober now, as if the sight of the dead men hanging from their stations had finally driven home the horror of this moment. “Go down and tell them to stand by. I don't know from which direction we shall attack, so one blast of the ship's whistle will be to port, two blasts starboard. If the bloody whistle works at all. You're to report to Morrison. He's the fellow in charge down there.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Cole said. He made his way down the narrow ladder that led to the main deck. Along the way to the torpedo stations he saw the damage that the splinters had done. There were holes punched through deck housings and Oerlikon tubs, jackstays hung over the side of the vessel, Carley floats were shredded, and her hull was caved in where the foremast had fallen and then been pulled off the
Firedancer
by the force of the rushing water. There were dead men too, lifeless bundles of blood and fabric, some missing arms, legs, heads. The supply parties, fire control, and damage control moved methodically over the ship, removing the dead and wounded and assessing the condition of the destroyer.
Cole saw that the forward funnel had been pierced a dozen times, smoke pouring from the gaping holes. Her antennas were down as well, the wires scattered over what remained of the rigging.
He found a seaman helping another to his feet at torpedo station number one.
“Where's Morrison?” he asked.
“Dead,” the uninjured seaman said. “That makes me the bloody headmaster. Baird.” He looked at Cole closely. “You're the American we fished out of the water. You're covered in blood, sir.”
“Somebody else's,” Cole said. “Communications are out with the bridge. So is the fire-control system. The captain sent me down here to help.”
“Fair enough, sir,” Baird said. “First you can help me get Boy Seaman Blessing to his feet. He took a sharp right to the chin from the deck there. Didn't you, Boy Seaman?”
“When we go in for a torpedo run, one blast from the ship's whistle means port, two means starboard,” Cole said, looking around. “Any damage?”
“Not to the gears and tubes, thank God,” Baird said. “But my compressed air is a mess, sir. Two of the hoses are sliced through-and-through and the tank for tube four had a bloody elephant sit on it. Squashed flat, she is, and no hope of resurrection. Number Two Station's just as bad. Worse. There's not a man back there who isn't wounded or dead.”
“I trained on torpedoes. I can help.”
Baird slapped Blessing lightly on both cheeks, trying to get him to come around. “Do you hear that, Boy Seaman Blessing? The Yanks are here and ready as well. I've sent Engleman after some tools to get us up and running again, sir. A couple of spanners and a roll of tape and we should be as right as rain.”
“Okay,” Cole said. “If you keep things going here I'll go check on Number Two Station. We might end up serving both of them, Baird.”
“Nothing to it, sir,” Baird said. “Just as long as our bloody captain can keep us away from those bloody bricks long enough to get these bloody things ready.”
“Amen to that,” Cole said.
When Cole saw number-two torpedo station it was a glimpse into hell. A supply party was trying to remove parts of the after-searchlight platform and engine room vents to get to the dead and wounded men scattered on the deck. So much blood covered the deck that the men of the supply party had difficulty standing. They worked rapidly, cutting away the entanglement with torches, huge bolt cutters, and hacksaws, trying to get to the poor bastards who lay dying in a grotesque spider's web of destruction.
Ignore it, ignore it
, Cole thought, forcing himself to look away from the carnage. He climbed aboard the tubes, carefully inspecting each one as he walked to the cockpit. The sounds of the rescue, the screams of the men, the horrific thunder of exploding shells, and the sledgehammer beat of his own heart; he ignored them all. He was looking for shrapnel holes. If the tubes were pierced, then the torpedo was pierced and it was useless. If the hole was aft on the tube, then it could have pierced the compressed-air chamber and the tube was useless.
Clear
, he told himself with satisfaction.
They're all clear
. He moved to check the cockpit when he saw the sailor. Half a sailor. He had his right arm and most of his torso, but the head, shoulder, and left arm had been sliced off. Cole walked gingerly to the cockpit, careful not to let his foot slip off the curved combing of the tube, and wondered why he didn't feel sick, or horrified, at the sight. Here was a man, what was left of a man, mutilated beyond comprehension, by a hunk of metal going a thousand miles an hour.
Why don't I feel anything?
Cole thought.
Once he reached the cockpit he steadied himself on the back of the shield and tried to read the gauges. It was impossible. They were covered with blood. He spotted a sailor who had just cleared a piece of twisted metal from the deck.
“Hey, buddy?” he called. “Give me a hand, will you?”
“Right,” the man said and joined Cole. “God help that poor soul,” he added, looking at the remnant of the sailor. “I suppose you'll be wanting him out of there, sir.”
“Yeah,” Cole said. “I've got to check the gauges.”
“Stand back a bit, will you, sir? Bill? Marcus? Come and lend a hand.” Two other sailors joined Cole and the four of them managed to remove the body. Cole wiped the blood off the compressed air gauges and rapped them with his knuckle to make sure that the needles were free to read. Three registered; the gauge for the fourth tube remained at zero. The tank was ruptured, a line was cut, the compressed-air chamber was pierced, the gauge simply didn't work—it could be anything. He looked at the supply party frantically trying to remove the wreckage. Until they had most of that cleared away to allow him access to the tanks and hoses he couldn't be sure what it was.
Firedancer
had three weapons at her disposal: her speed, her agility, and her torpedoes. The first two were defensive, the last offensive, and she could not afford to lose any portion of the meager weapon that remained to her.

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