“Reprogram the next three to mode B,” he said. “Two missiles-same target.”
The whine of a heavy shell headed there way sent a chill up his spine. They watched as two neatly spaced geysers fell about 500 meters ahead of the ship, much too close for comfort.
“Come right thirty degrees and ahead full,” MacRae said quickly. “We’d best slip back over the horizon.”
A minute later they returned fire, the missiles arcing up, then diving for the sea to make the run in to the target, over 25 kilometers away. This time they would pop up just before the attack, and plunge into the heart of the ship. One would strike a 5.9 inch gun turret there and do serious damage, the second would plunge into the superstructure, blowing through the outer wall and three bulkheads, but in a section of the ship that was largely empty at the moment, the starboard side crew’s quarters, forward of the number one stack and behind the conning tower. The fire there thickened the smoke already streaming from the stack as the ship raced on at 30 knots. It was a hard blow, and Hindenburg bled from the enemy lances, but it was not fatal. Crews were already scrambling to get water into the blazing compartments. A launch mounted just above the point of penetration could not be saved, and the secondary gun director had to be abandoned due to the heavy smoke, but otherwise the ship was still functioning and capable of staying in the fight.
“Well,” said MacRae, seeing shells still falling in his wake as Argos Fire sped away at its top speed of 32 knots. “We won’t be able to take a peek at the damage, but something tells me that wasn’t enough yet, Mister Dean.” They now knew that they were not going to sink their target, or even drive it off, unless they were willing to throw considerable more firepower at the enemy.
“I’ve one arrow left,” said MacRae. “We’d be better off putting that on one of their cruisers or destroyers.” He gave Elena a sidelong glance, but said nothing more.
They were now well off the starboard side of the British fleet, and drawing closer to those ships. MacRae could see them firing, Berwick’s 8 inch guns blasting away, but even those shells, with much heavier throw weight than the missiles, would not seriously harm or deter the Hindenburg.
Aboard Queen Elizabeth the situation was going from bad to worse. The forward turret was inoperable, and the flooding had spread through gaping holes on the innards of the ship to begin swamping the lower decks of B Turret as well. When they most needed it, the ship had lost half its firepower. The two aft turrets had been firing at the lead ship in the German formation, and the bridge crew took heart when they saw they had scored a hit there. It was well forward of Anton Turret on the Bismarck, holing the deck and plunging through the bow section, but on an angle that saw it cut through the ship and exit to the sea.
Queen Elizabeth was slowly falling behind, and was on a divergent course away from the rest of the formation. Up ahead Captain Barry saw the Malaya bravely carrying the fight to the enemy, but now the French ships had joined the action and the Normandie was taking aim at that ship while the other two battlecruisers targeted the Calcutta and Coventry, outmatching them with their heavier guns and armor.
He saw three destroyers angling in on his position, their bows white with the haste of their charge, and he knew they were thinking to put their torpedoes into his ship and end her reign on these waters. Then he marked the fall of shells off the bow of one destroyer, and the flash of a hit there by secondary armament.
“Good show,” he breathed. “One of our 4.5 inchers has found the mark. He was correct, but the gun was not aboard Queen Elizabeth. Argos Fire had seen the enemy ships maneuvering on radar and began using both her single barreled 4.5-inch turrets to put deadly accurate fire on the onrushing destroyers. The radar guided shells were finding the mark, and the sheepdog bravely tried to hold off the wolves, or in this case the big cats prowling to get at the battleship’s flanks
The French destroyer Lynx was the ship Barry had seen, hit three times in as many minutes, and burning forward. He saw the defensive fire shift to the second destroyer, Panthere, but then the urgency of the ship’s condition pulled him away.
“Sir, we’re starting to list to port side, and the bow is down five degrees.” A harried young Lieutenant reported, his face blackened with the smoke from that first massive explosion.
“Counterflood,” said the Captain, though he knew that by trying to correct his list he was only going to worsen the flooding problem. It was only a matter of time, and there comes a moment in the heat of battle when a ship’s Captain realizes this, and thinks of his men. He could order them into the life boats, try and save as many as he could, or he could stay in the fight as long as possible, hoping the time might by him a hit on the enemy ships.
