Terry tried to focus on the line of dark shapes that seemed to be coming directly at them. He could almost imagine them to be giant beetles. What were they, battleships or cruisers? The answer could bear directly on whether he saw another birthday.
Lieutenant Sloan was new to the Alabama. He had been serving on the steam tug Triton at Norfolk and had been transferred to the battleship as the navy made frantic attempts to make up the officer shortage on the all-important capital ships. Terry had spent many long nights memorizing the shapes of German ships, and he knew that Lieutenant Sloan would defer to his expertise. He also knew that the captain must have already received some information regarding the advancing enemy from Dewey, who was much closer to the Germans in the Oregon, and doubtless wanted a second opinion.
“Lieutenant,” Terry said, trying to be formal and also to keep the quiver from his voice. Off duty, Sloan was a very good guy and insisted Terry call him Jim, but this was for history. “I count nine in a line. They’re all over the horizon now and, if there are others, they’re not in this battle line.”
He heard Sloan relay the information into the phone and then into the speaking tube. Already Terry felt better. If that was all there were, they might be in good shape. He squinted and tried to make specific identifications.
“Who are they?” asked Sloan, his voice almost a yell. Terry waved him off and held the ships in focus. He was trying to remember. He smiled and put down the telescope.
“Six battleships and three heavies.”
“Jesus,” said Sloan and repeated the figures. Even through the tinny and scratchy phone, they could hear the shouts from the bridge. Terry slumped against the railing of the tower. Ten American battleships, three heavy cruisers, and three monitors against six battleships and three cruisers. They just might pull it off.
As the Furst Bismarck took its place in line behind the last of Spee’s battleships, Admiral von Hipper knew a moment of deep dread. He looked at the faces of the others on the bridge and realized they felt it as well. This was no token force. This was the entire American navy! Diedrichs, Tirpitz, and the kaiser had all been fooled. Hipper could only trust that the remainder of the German fleet had realized the error, was now steaming to their rescue, and would come up behind the Americans and crush them in the vise he had hoped to see off New York. He also knew he was clutching at the proverbial straw. It was the German fleet and not the American fleet that was caught in the vise. The smaller warships guarding the convoy would have to be on their own until the American battleships were defeated—if they were defeated. There was no other choice.
Admiral von Hipper’s lookouts continued to provide him with information about the swarms of light cruisers, gunboats, and small ships now streaking toward the convoy like wolves toward fat sheep. Wolves, he thought. The smaller Yank ships were wolves and were attacking as wolf packs. They would overwhelm the flank escorts and the rear guard in detail and chew up the convoy, and there was nothing he could do about it.
The precious convoy he had sworn to protect was as good as lost. Even if relief came immediately, the American wolf packs would have sunk or damaged so many of the transports that the effort would be useless. It was already useless! Now his only alternative was to fight for survival. His survival and that of his ship and the Imperial Navy were at stake. The future of the Reich’s navy was going to be decided this day in the North Atlantic.
He and his ships had been betrayed and were outnumbered, he thought bitterly. It would take a heroic effort, hard and desperate fighting, to drive off the Americans. Could they do it?
“The Americans have opened fire!”
He nodded, having caught the winking of lights from the distant lead ships. Too far away. They were just barely in range. They were wasting ammunition. Automatically, he counted off the seconds and waited for the fall of shot. When it came, he was stunned to see how close the opening salvos were to the leading German ships.
“They’ve fired again.”
“Impossible!” he snapped, trying to refute the evidence of his eyes that beheld the line of lights again flashing from the still-distant but rapidly closing shapes. Experience told him ships cannot fire that fast. Yet they were. This time the first two German battleships were straddled by giant splashes that lifted dirty, wet towers into the sky. Bracketed, he moaned, bracketed already and we haven’t yet fired.
On board the Alabama, the opening salvos shook the ship and deafened Terry and the others despite the wads of cotton in their ears.
“My God,” said Sloan. “Look for splashes.”
Terry nodded and held the binoculars tightly against his face. The ships ahead had fired first and, as he looked, let off a quick second salvo. There were splashes ahead of the German line taller than the ships themselves. Soon, as the enemy steamed on, hits were scored on the lead ships. Within moments, all the American ships were firing away with their main batteries while the secondary batteries, with their shorter range, waited their turn. Terry could not believe the noise and vibration. It was beyond anything he had ever thought possible.
The Germans began returning fire with a vengeance as they found the range and scored repeated hits of their own on their tormentors. For salvo after salvo the ships closed the range and hurled tons of hot and angry metal at each other. Terry was buffeted and thrown to the deck of the tower several times by the impact of shells striking the Alabama, and once he was almost thrown over the side. He wondered if the ship would sink as clouds of smoke engulfed him.
As the battle reached full fury, the Germans continued to press closer while the Americans maneuvered to maintain more distance, trusting in their better long-range firing skills. As the two lines of ships passed starboard side to each other, the three monitors, armed with 10- and 12-inch guns, broke out of line and turned sharply starboard. The effect was to execute a crossing of the German T while still keeping the line of battle essentially intact. Caught between two fires, the lead German battleships were literally blown to pieces. One of the monitors exploded under return fire and sank quickly. Terry thought it was the Puritan. The monitors’ sudden maneuver broke the German line, and the remainder of the battle became a swirling melee as ships sought and battled each other, sometimes as pairs, sometimes as clusters of three or four.
Terry nearly screamed when it appeared that the Alabama was actually going to ram a badly damaged German cruiser, but the Alabama veered and missed the German vessel by only about a hundred yards. With something to do at last, the smaller guns on the Alabama raked the burning and distorted German cruiser, the Furst Bismarck. Terry watched in horror as unprotected sailors were blown to bits, some tumbling into the cold water. Wherever Terry looked, battles like this were taking place.
A German shell landed in the water beside the Alabama and lifted a huge column of black water filled with metal high over Terry’s head. When it came down, the crow’s nest was drenched in heavy foam and raked with steel splinters, slamming Terry to the floor of his post. He started to say something when he realized he was lying on his side and couldn’t move. His vision blurred and then blackened.
Terry screamed as a heavy foot came down on his injured shoulder. As consciousness returned, he thought the shoulder was either broken or dislocated; it felt as though knives were ripping into his bones as he lay on the floor of the tower. “Watch out,” he moaned.
The response was the sound of an animal in agony. Terry forced himself to look up at the man who’d stepped on him, and he recoiled in horror. It was one of the enlisted men, and there was nothing but raw meat where his eyes and nose had been. Terry used his good arm to pull the man down to him and tried to wrap a cloth about his head to protect the wound. The sailor screamed once, tried to say something, then collapsed unconscious across Terry’s waist.
Terry managed to wriggle out and pull himself upright. He was covered with blood, but apparently not much of it was his. Was he the only one left alive? No. Thank God, no. Others in that cramped space were moving as well, but a couple were ominously still. He heard sounds and picked up the phone. Dead. He tried the voice tube and heard the distant plea of the executive officer yelling for someone, anyone.