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  “Do not speak to me of armor. I assume as much. It is the guns that interest me. These ships should have guns in the range of twenty inches.”

  Raeder had anticipated this from the Fuehrer, but was unwilling to become bogged down now in a argument over gun size. “My Fuehrer, I have appointed Admiral Fuchs to make a detailed study of this very issue, and he will meet with you to report on his findings in short order.” Raeder had press ganged Fuchs into the battle, wanting him to try and convince Hitler that 16 inch guns would be more than adequate.

  “Very well,” said Hitler flipping the page. “And these?”

  Raeder had detailed out six ships, designs H through M, each with modified armament, armor, engine plants, and other minor details. “Let us consider all these as elements of the H class we are proposing,” he explained. “Six ships in all. These will form the heart of our main battle fleet. The fast Panzerschiff cruisers I mentioned earlier will be excellent as escorts on the initial breakout, and fine commerce raiders in their own rite. We envision a concept of one or two powerful ships operating in conjunction with the Panzerschiff and squadrons of U-boats. The entire task force will be refueled from tankers at sea and remain capable of extended operations in the Atlantic-up to two months if necessary.”

  “It will most certainly be necessary,” said Hitler. “And the British know as much. They will guard their convoys with battleships, and they will outnumber us in that category and every other category as well. But think bigger, Raeder. This navy must be strong enough to stand against anything the British have. How soon can these ships be built?”

  “Two keels have already been laid-”

  “Build them all,” the Fuehrer said briskly. “Have them at sea in three years-four at the most. We will have to start with what we have now, but these ships will make fine additions.”

  Raeder heard something dark and ominous in that. Start what? He knew the answer to that question even before he asked it. Another war was coming, of that much he was certain. It was January of 1936, and he wondered if they would reach the end of this decade without conflict erupting again. The only question now was time. How long did he have to get the fleet in shape for battle at sea? He decided to ask for a realistic interval, knowing full well what it would take to build the ships Hitler wanted.

  “Give me at least six years, my Fuehrer, and I will deliver a fleet that the nation will be proud of and one that every other nation on earth will learn to fear and respect.”

  “Six years? I built the entire Third Reich in six years, Raeder. You will have to do better than that. Surely you can build me these ships in far less time.”

  Raeder smiled, wondering if even one of the new battleships would ever be commissioned, but he could not say this to the Fuehrer.

  “I will do my utmost,” he said firmly.

  Hitler looked at him, the well of those dark eyes opening, as if to devour his very soul in their inky blackness. “See that you do,” he said in a low voice. “See that you do.”

  Part III

  Glorious

  “Remember not only to say the right thing in the right place, but far more difficult still, to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment.”

  — Benjamin Franklin

  Chapter 7

  HMS Glorious: 16:20 Hrs — 8 June, 1940

  Lieutenant Commander Christopher Hayward Wells leaned on the weather deck gunwale staring at the sea, clear and calm, and almost too placid for these waters. There was something wrong here, he thought. The Norwegian Sea was a tempestuous place, cold, unforgiving, cruel at times, but not today. Today it was smiling and fair, with visibility near maximum, though still cold at just a few degrees above freezing even in the mid-day sun. Yet it was a smile that seemed a cold smirk to him, the twisted grin of fate, and as if on instinct he still kept his gloved hands sheltered in his pockets, collar up against the slightest breeze. He was always cold, it seemed, and he would never be warm enough in spite of his great coat and a good felt lining he had snuck in beneath his cap.

  Yet there was more than the cold on his mind that day. Wells could not seem to quiet the odd feeling of presentiment in his mind. Perhaps it was that gruel of a porridge at the morning mess, he thought. Maybe it was that lump in my bunk last night, and too few hours asleep. Nothing to be concerned about. Yet there was something to be concerned about. He could feel it the moment he emerged from his quarters and stepped on deck, though he could not see what it might be.

  HMS Glorious rode easily in the calm seas, her pace a sedate 17 knots, and steaming on only 12 of her 18 boilers. She was going home, with an easy careless stride, her work done for the moment. The operation she supported was finished, a fight lost, another retreat, just one step back. That was the first thing wrong, thought Wells. Now there is nowhere left to go. Those are the hard coiled ropes reddening the skin of our backs now. We came out fighting at the opening bell and we’ve taken a bloody drubbing. Yet look at Glorious now! You wouldn’t think there’s a war on at all. When you feel those ropes at your back the last thing you do is drop your guard. What’s the Captain doing? We’ve no air cover up!

  HMS Glorious was an odd ship with an odd history, first conceived in the fertile mind of Admiral of the Fleet Jackie Fisher as a fast battlecruiser meant for operations in the Baltic along with her sister ship Courageous. Heavily gunned and with virtually no armor, they were designed as fast bombardment ships to support planned amphibious invasions, and soon became the laughing stock of the fleet, dubbed Uproarious and Outrageous on the docks and quays wherever they berthed. They couldn’t really stand with any decent battleship, and what good was a fighting ship if all it could do was use its speed to run away from the fight? That idea was soon scrapped after the hard experience of Jutland, and both ships were refitted as aircraft carriers, which did little to bolster their standing as proper naval fighting ships. To many is seemed like they were putting on a dress.

  When he first learned of his assignment to Glorious, Wells was crestfallen, his hopes for a position on one of the real battleships dashed. How did I ever end up here, he thought, on this strange mutant of a ship, a hybrid of cruiser and aircraft carrier, with an ex-submariner for a Captain who didn’t seem to have the first idea of what he should do with the planes assigned to the ship? They had just picked up 20 RAF Hurricane fighters from Norway and had another 15 planes already assigned to the ship for self-protection, but they were all sitting below decks in the hangers that morning.

  They aren’t doing us any good there, thought Wells. Though the carrier had two destroyers with her in escort, not a single plane was up on combat air patrol for reconnaissance or defense. Nothing was even spotted on deck in the event of any emergency.

  Wells shook his head inwardly, noting the creamy white wakes of the two destroyers a couple cables off the port and starboard bow of the carrier. Neither one had radar, so why were they in so close to the ship, he thought? You would think one might at least be out in the van as a scout ship under these circumstances. The Captain had the ship in a zig-zag- pattern, so he must be more worried about the U-boat threat than anything else.

  His eyes strayed to the main mast above the island. He had a very odd feeling about it, as though something were amiss, yet everything looked in order. Then he realized that it was what he did not see that set off those inner alarm bells. There was no watch posted there this morning! What in the world was the Captain thinking? Perhaps he was still below decks, or on the hanger deck dressing down the airmen again.

  Glorious was an unhappy ship, he knew, and it was going to stay that way unless they could find a Captain with more sense and some rudimentary understanding of how an aircraft carrier was supposed to operate. The ship had spent some time in the Med in the early years of the war, and had lately come from Malta where Wells had the opportunity to meet the commander of the 7th Cruiser Squadron, Rear Admiral John Tovey. Now there was an officer, he thought, full of dash, yet upright, never brash, commanding respect of the men
under him without reference to his rank. That’s the sort we need here, he thought sullenly.

  The longer he stared at the empty crow’s nest the more unsettled he became. We aren’t ready, he knew. Not just this cockamamie ship, but the whole of the Royal Navy. It’s been hit and miss in the early going. All the Germans have thrown at us were a few sorties by those pocket battleships, which we handled well enough. But they have a good deal more in the cupboard, and one day soon they’ll be pouring a very bitter tea. The U-boat threat is one thing, but we’ll get worse if I’m not mistaken. Here they’ve gone and run us right out of Harstad and with it all of Norway. We’ll have no bases of any note in those seas now, and they will have all those ports to serve as replenishment stations for anything they slip out of the Baltic. Something tells me they’ve a good deal more to throw at us than the Graf Spee.

  Wells was not privy to the real intelligence on the Kriegsmarine, but he had heard the rumors. The Germans had been building feverishly since 1936 when they repudiated the limitations of the Treaty of Versailles and launched hulls in rapid succession. It was said they were building better commerce raiders, faster than the Deutschland class ships the Royal Navy had sparred with, and better armored and gunned. It was said they were building battleships as well, aiming to pose a real challenge to the heavy units of the British fleet. It was said they were even building aircraft carriers. That was one advantage the Royal Navy possessed at the moment, carriers that could put eyes in the sky over their battle fleets, and even sting enemy ships with the torpedoes off their Swordfish biplanes.

  Well, maybe the Germans will throw one in the soup, he thought. This one here wasn’t doing any good for the fleet at the moment. HMS Glorious had been teamed with Ark Royal to provide cover for Operation Alphabet, the final evacuation of Norway. Half way out Captain D’Oyly-Hughes, known as D-H in the ranks, had requested permission to steam independently for Scapa Flow where he was eager to get on with the court martial of a senior airman who had refused his orders to fly a mission against land targets on the grounds his planes were unsuited for it and his crews untrained in such operations.

  The man was correct. Swordfish were so named for a reason. Dubbed the “old stringbags” by the airmen who flew them, they were lumbering, slow, yet surprisingly durable as a good deal of the ack ack fire they took would go right through the canvass portions of the plane, leaving the structure largely intact. But for land attack missions they were quite out of their element, particularly if the Germans had any BF-109s about.

  It had been quite a row between Air Commander Heath and the Captain. Heath was all but accused of mutiny and put off the ship. Now the Admiralty had ordered Glorious to return as soon as possible, eager to shuffle her crew off to Plymouth for a long overdue leave and then settle the matter between D-H and Heath. That was the rumor passing round the hammocks and bouncing from one bulkhead to another below decks, but the only part that mattered to most of the men was that they were going home.

  As he looked for the ladder up he was pleased to see his friend Lieutenant Robert Woodfield heading down to take some air. The two men had come up together, though Wells tested better and was a step up in rank now, though he never lorded it over his friend, even in jest. “Hello Bob,” he said. “Fair day, isn’t it?”

  “Fair out here,” said Woodfield. “A bit thick up on the bridge if you’re heading that way.”

  “What is it this time, Woody?”

  “What else? D-H is still ranting over the placement of those RAF Hurricanes below decks. Ever since Air Commander Heath was put off the ship the Captain has made it his personal endeavor to visit the flight deck daily and roust about down there.”

  “What’s his problem today?”

  “He says the Hurricanes are not properly arrayed and cabled off below decks.”

  “Yes? Well those RAF boys are damn lucky they’re even here at all. Landing on the deck as they did without arrestor hooks was a fairly good bit of flying yesterday. I half expected to see most of them overshoot the deck or go right off into the sea.”

  “After Commander Heath crossed him the Captain seems to think every airman aboard has it in for him now. I think he fancies the thought that he’s cleaning house down there and setting everything all prim and proper.”

  “We’ll he’d do better to have some of those planes in the air instead of worrying over how they’re cabled off below decks. We’ve no top cover and look there, Woody,” he pointed to the vacant crow’s nest on the main mast. “Nobody assigned to the watch either.”

  “Well, I raised this point with Captain Hughes at noon. He says the five planes below decks on ten minute notice for takeoff are more than sufficient with visibility this good.”

  “I suppose it might be more than sufficient if we were a submarine and could scoot beneath the sea on a hostile sighting. Well, with visibility this good why have we no lookouts?”

  “The Captain explained he has two destroyers cruising on our forward arc that would most certainly sight anything of note, or so he put it.”

  “What? Those destroyers are no more than 400 meters off our bow. Our mainmast is twice the height of those ships. They would have to be well out ahead of us if they hope to sight anything before we could with a pair of good eyes and a field glass up there. Mark my words, Woody. We’re all alone out here and virtually blind as a bat while those planes are still below decks. I intend to strongly recommend we at least spot the ten minute flight on deck if the Captain refuses to launch.”

  “Good luck with that, Mister Wells. I tried that with the Captain as well. He explained that to launch aircraft we would have to turn about into the wind. We were ordered to maintain an average speed of at least sixteen knots and the time required to launch and get our nose pointed south again would require the ship to burn more fuel at high speed in order to make up for the loss. It’s obvious that is his only concern is the U-boat threat. No aircraft had ever sunk a submarine or ever would. Those were his exact words to me. That’s why we’ve been in a zig-zag pattern the last three hours.”

  “Well the Germans may have more than U-boats out there! Who cares about the bloody fuel?”

  “The Captain cares, that’s who. We’ve standing orders to maintain a full 33 % in bunker at all times and we’re running low. That’s the explanation I was given, and from the look on the Captain’s face he wanted no more questions about it.”

  “Let them top us off after we make port! That fuel reserve is for contingencies of just this sort. In my opinion the security of the ship and crew should supersede concerns over fuel.”

  “The Captain apparently believes otherwise. He’s even ordered two-thirds on the boilers. That’s how concerned he is about the fuel. We’ve 18 good boilers down below and only twelve are fired at the moment.”

  “Good god,” said Wells. “Then we’ve even lost our legs. If anything happened upon us we couldn’t even make a run for it. It would take us nearly half an hour to work up those other six boilers.”

  “Yes, well old D-H will say you’re too worked up yourself, and over nothing, which is exactly what he said to me when I pointed out we had no one assigned to mainmast watch. Damn sloppy, if you want to know what I really think.”

  “Agreed,” said Wells, yet he took no comfort or consolation in having another confederate soul to commiserate with here. “Perhaps if a few of the other senior officers would concur we might move the Captain on this.”

  “Perhaps,” said Woodfield, “but the Captain would likely interpret that as another mutiny given his present state of mind.”

  “Mutiny? Nonsense. It’s any senior officer’s right to speak his mind on a matter like this.”

  “You might think as much, but line up three of us in the same hot minute and I’ll guarantee you that D-H will go off like a clock and chime on it the whole rest of the way home. Touchy fellow, that man. Thinks he can do anything he wishes. Word was he got off scot-free when he ran the nose of his submarine into another ship before th
ey sent him here. Some think he has the Prime Minister’s ear.”

  “Well I wish he had more sense,” said Wells, looking off the port bow. Then he saw what he knew he had been fearing all along, the dark smear of smoke on the horizon.

  “Say… Look there, Woody. What do you make of that?”

  “My god! Those can’t be ours, can they? Everything we’ve got out here is heading south by southwest as we are.”

  “I’m off to the bridge to see about it. Good luck, Woody. Let’s hope those are friendly ships after all.”

  But they were not friendly ships, as Lieutenant Commander Wells was soon to learn. The destroyer Ardent off the port bow had apparently seen the contact as well, and was now peeling off to investigate, her search lights flashing a challenge as she did so. It was not long before heavy shells came hurtling back in response.

  When Wells arrived on the bridge, breathless from the climb up several ladders, he saw the Captain leaning over a voice tube and heard the order to ready the Swordfish of 823 Squadron for takeoff.

  “Squadron to be ranged on the flight deck at once, Mister Stevens,” said the Captain, an edge of impatience obvious in his tone. “Helm, increase speed. Ahead full.”

  “Sir, we haven’t the steam up. Six boilers are down!”

  “Well then send down and bloody well get them up!” The Captain spied Wells just as he came onto the bridge. “You there, Mister Wells. Get to the W/T room and send a sighting report. Two battlecruisers bearing 308 degrees, distance 15 miles, on a course of zero-three-zero. We’ll send the same on the remote. Be sure we send our position.”