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Authors: Alistair MacLean
Tags: Fiction
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than twelve hours later.)
Captain Ellis was not disposed to linger. He had done the firstâand most importantâpart of his job, the Bismarck and the Prinz Eugen, he suddenly realized, were only eight miles away, the Bismarck âs guns were lethal up to a range of at least twenty miles, and there had been nothing in his instructions about committing suicide. Quite the reverseâhe had been ordered to avoid damage to himself at all costs, to shadow the Bismarck and guide the battleships of the Home Fleet into her path. Even as the Suffolk âs radio room started stuttering out its âEnemy locatedâ transmissions to Ellisâs immediate commander, Rear-Admiral Wake-Walker in the Norfolk and to Sir John Tovey in his battleship far to the south, he swung his cruiser heeling far over in a maximum turn to port and raced into theblanketing safety of the fog that swirled protectively around them only moments after they had entered it.
Deep in the mist, the Suffolk came round, manoeuvring dangerously in a gap in the minefields, the all-seeing eye of its radar probing every move of the German battleship as it steamed at high speed down through the Denmark Strait. Then, once it was safely past, both the Suffolk and the Norfolk moved into shadowing positions astern, and there they grimly hung on all through that long, vile Arctic night of snow-storms, rain-squalls and scudding mist, occasionally losing contact but always regaining it in what was to become a text-book classic in the extremely difficult task of shadowing an enemy craft at night. All night long, too, the radio transmissions continued, sending out the constantly changing details of the enemyâs position, course and speed.
Three hundred miles to the south, Vice-Admiral L. E. Hollandâs squadron, consisting of HMS Hood, HMS Prince of Wales and six destroyers, were already steaming west-northwest at high speed on an interception course. The excitement, the anticipation aboard these ships was intense. For them, too, it was the end of a long wait. There was little doubt in anybodyâs mind that battle was now inevitable, even less doubt that the battle could have only one ending, that the Bismarck, despiteher great power and fearsome reputation, had only hours to live.
With her ten 14-inch guns to the Bismarck âs eight 15-inch the Prince of Wales herself, our newest battleship, was, on paper at least, an even match for the Bismarck. (Only her commander, Captain Leach, and a handful of his senior officers were aware that she was far too new, her crew only semi-trained, her 14-inch turrets, as new and untried as the crew itself, so defective, temperamental and liable to mechanical breakdown that the buildersâ foremen were still aboard working in the turrets, desperately trying to repair the more outstanding defects as the battleship steamed towards the Bismarck. )
But no one, not even the most loyal member of her crew, was staking his faith on the Prince of Wales. And, indeed, why should he, when only a few cable lengths away he could see the massive bows of the 45,000-ton Hood thrusting the puny waves contemptuously aside as she raced towards the enemy. When the Hood was with you, nothing could ever go wrong. Every man in the Royal Navy knew that.
And not only in the Navy. It is seventeen years now since the Hood died but none of the millions alive today who had grown up before the Second World War can forget, and will probably never forget, the almost unbelievable hold the Hood had taken on the imaginations and hearts of the Britishpublic. She was the best known, best loved ship in all our long naval history, a household name to countless people for whom Revenge and Victory were only words. The biggest, most powerful ship of the line in the inter-war years, she stood for all that was permanent, a synonym for all that was invincible, held in awe, even in veneration. For millions of people she was the Royal Navy, a legend in her
Captain Ellis was not disposed to linger. He had done the firstâand most importantâpart of his job, the Bismarck and the Prinz Eugen, he suddenly realized, were only eight miles away, the Bismarck âs guns were lethal up to a range of at least twenty miles, and there had been nothing in his instructions about committing suicide. Quite the reverseâhe had been ordered to avoid damage to himself at all costs, to shadow the Bismarck and guide the battleships of the Home Fleet into her path. Even as the Suffolk âs radio room started stuttering out its âEnemy locatedâ transmissions to Ellisâs immediate commander, Rear-Admiral Wake-Walker in the Norfolk and to Sir John Tovey in his battleship far to the south, he swung his cruiser heeling far over in a maximum turn to port and raced into theblanketing safety of the fog that swirled protectively around them only moments after they had entered it.
Deep in the mist, the Suffolk came round, manoeuvring dangerously in a gap in the minefields, the all-seeing eye of its radar probing every move of the German battleship as it steamed at high speed down through the Denmark Strait. Then, once it was safely past, both the Suffolk and the Norfolk moved into shadowing positions astern, and there they grimly hung on all through that long, vile Arctic night of snow-storms, rain-squalls and scudding mist, occasionally losing contact but always regaining it in what was to become a text-book classic in the extremely difficult task of shadowing an enemy craft at night. All night long, too, the radio transmissions continued, sending out the constantly changing details of the enemyâs position, course and speed.
Three hundred miles to the south, Vice-Admiral L. E. Hollandâs squadron, consisting of HMS Hood, HMS Prince of Wales and six destroyers, were already steaming west-northwest at high speed on an interception course. The excitement, the anticipation aboard these ships was intense. For them, too, it was the end of a long wait. There was little doubt in anybodyâs mind that battle was now inevitable, even less doubt that the battle could have only one ending, that the Bismarck, despiteher great power and fearsome reputation, had only hours to live.
With her ten 14-inch guns to the Bismarck âs eight 15-inch the Prince of Wales herself, our newest battleship, was, on paper at least, an even match for the Bismarck. (Only her commander, Captain Leach, and a handful of his senior officers were aware that she was far too new, her crew only semi-trained, her 14-inch turrets, as new and untried as the crew itself, so defective, temperamental and liable to mechanical breakdown that the buildersâ foremen were still aboard working in the turrets, desperately trying to repair the more outstanding defects as the battleship steamed towards the Bismarck. )
But no one, not even the most loyal member of her crew, was staking his faith on the Prince of Wales. And, indeed, why should he, when only a few cable lengths away he could see the massive bows of the 45,000-ton Hood thrusting the puny waves contemptuously aside as she raced towards the enemy. When the Hood was with you, nothing could ever go wrong. Every man in the Royal Navy knew that.
And not only in the Navy. It is seventeen years now since the Hood died but none of the millions alive today who had grown up before the Second World War can forget, and will probably never forget, the almost unbelievable hold the Hood had taken on the imaginations and hearts of the Britishpublic. She was the best known, best loved ship in all our long naval history, a household name to countless people for whom Revenge and Victory were only words. The biggest, most powerful ship of the line in the inter-war years, she stood for all that was permanent, a synonym for all that was invincible, held in awe, even in veneration. For millions of people she was the Royal Navy, a legend in her
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