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.
“I’m here, sir, Ensign Schuyler.” He immediately thought it was a banal thing to say.
“Where’s Sloan?”
Terry looked at one of the bodies and recognized Jim Sloan. A piece of metal protruded from the top of his skull. “He’s dead, sir. I think I’m the only officer left.”
There was a pause, then the executive officer continued, his voice firm. “All right, Schuyler, can you handle your duties?”
Terry looked about the ship. The two guns of the stern turret were pointing in different directions, and smoke was pouring from several holes in the turret around them. Everyone in there, he realized, had been reduced to ashes. There were other fires on the ship, and flames were pouring from one part of the bridge below him. It looked as though the ship had big problems. “I can handle it, sir.” He glanced down and saw that someone had started pulling bodies from the bridge.
“Good, Schuyler. Now, tell me what you can see from up there. We’re blind down here.”
Blind? thought Terry. What about the sailor without eyes?
Terry had wanted to see history, and now his wish had come true. How much time had elapsed since the great guns first roared? An hour? Two? Eternity? He tried to sort out his memories and put them into some sort of context so he could develop his report.
He looked about at the American ships. The water was covered with debris, both human and material. He was appalled by the number of corpses bobbing like toys in some giant tub. Where were the other ships? The
Texas
was settling by the bow, and a score of lifeboats were already in the water around her. The
Kearsarge
had simply disappeared. There was some burning debris approximately where he had last seen her before blacking out. Was the debris all that was left? Other ships like the
Iowa
and the
Indiana
were still under power while flames consumed portions of them. Was it possible they weren’t as badly hurt as they looked? Then he realized the
Alabama
was still plowing strongly through the seas, her engines evidently undamaged.
The horizon in every direction was dotted with ships of all shapes and sizes. Mostly they were the transports. The once-neat lines of the convoy were in total disarray as the American cruisers, gunboats, and other ships knifed in among them, firing and creating their own horrors. It appeared that many of the transports were unharmed and dead in the water. It then dawned on Terry that they were surrendering. Of course. Where could they go? Back to Germany? Even if they could outrun the American ships, what would they use for coal?
Now there was relative silence, and Schuyler counted ships. Of the Americans, he saw eleven of the original thirteen capital ships, including his own, and two of the three monitors. The
Texas
and
Kearsarge
were indeed gone. He counted the German ships and blinked. Five. Only five, and they were all dead in the water and burning furiously. The others were not in sight, and he could only conclude they had sunk. One of the remaining five—he thought it might have been the cruiser that had passed so close—rolled over and began to sink as he watched.
“Schuyler! Your report!”
“Sorry, sir, it’s just taking a little longer to sort this out. I know the captain likes things precise.”
There was another pause. “The captain’s dead, Ensign. You’re making your report to me.” For some reason the fact of Brownson’s death struck him, and he started to cry. It was stupid. He barely knew the man who had replaced Evans. “Schuyler, give me your report as you see it and do it now!”
Terry composed himself and began to rattle off the ships and their apparent conditions. When he was done, there was silence again. Then he heard the distant voice talking to someone else on the bridge. “Well, we really did it to them. We really cleaned them,” he thought he heard the voice say. Terry looked about him again. Death was near and death was far.
“Sir, can you get some help up here? We got some wounded who need medical attention.”
“On its way, Ensign. Just hang on.”
Terry sagged to the floor and tried not to touch the blind sailor who had stomped on him. He let the pain and the tears overwhelm him. He would need a lot of help climbing down the ladder with his lame arm. Even the blind man would do better. Happy birthday.
The armed yacht
Chesapeake
slid into the convoy proper while the cruisers and gunboats dueled each other on the perimeter. Along with the smaller ships, it darted in among the transports, sowing confusion and panic. Some of the transports tried to run away but quickly realized there was no place to run. Their way to New York was blocked by the titanic and thunderous battle to their front, and the gray Atlantic stretched for more than two thousand miles to their rear. They could never make it back to Germany.
The majority of the transports stopped and traded their German flags for the white ones of surrender. Some—those that looked to be of non-German registry—seemed almost eager to give up. However, a few had chosen to fight. Lieutenant Walsh, the
Chesapeake
’s commanding officer, could hear the sound of smaller guns, pom-poms, and machine guns as they raked the transports. The
Chesapeake
’s luck held and she quickly gathered up a covey of surrendered transports without firing a shot.
Then Walsh spied a large passenger liner that had not yet dipped its flag. He approached and fired a pom-pom round across her bow. As they drew closer, within a couple of hundred yards, the liner’s rails suddenly erupted with a wall of armed men who opened fire with rifles and machine guns at the tiny
Chesapeake
. Micah screamed orders swiftly as his men started to fall at their stations. The pom-poms and the 3-incher fired back, and the two machine guns raked the thick line of helmeted Germans.
The fire from the liner stopped almost immediately. The railings meant for passengers to lean on provided no protection for the German soldiers, who simply disappeared. Walsh wondered if the captain or commander of the infantry unit on board had felt his honor required an attempt at resistance before surrendering. If so, the stupid bastard should be hanged. The battle was over, yet someone had demanded that honor be satisfied, and young people on both sides had died because of it. Fucking Krauts.
The white flag was raised quickly on the liner and the
Chesapeake
ceased firing. Walsh could see blood running from the liner’s deck and could only visualize the carnage his guns had wrought. Using Morse, he signaled the liner that the German soldiers would have to pitch their weapons overboard. He watched grimly as they complied. He was realistic enough to know they probably still kept some, but at least he wouldn’t be bringing a thousand armed and pissed-off Krauts into Norfolk.
Walsh ordered his captured charges to follow him while he threaded his way through and out of the battle area. Many other little convoys were doing the same thing, he noted. He set a course to Norfolk. It would take a few days, but they’d make it. He felt like a sheepdog with an especially motley flock. Along with the now-docile-liner, he had four other merchant ships, all having surrendered and been taken without incident. It was quite a sight and quite a haul. Too bad they didn’t allow ships to share in the wealth of the ones they captured, like they did in the good old days.
Micah Walsh checked the condition of the
Chesapeake
. He knew she was sound and not taking on any water, but that bastard liner had hurt her. Bullet holes riddled her once-pristine hull, and her stately funnel had been shredded by a passing hunk of metal.
Lieutenant Micah Walsh looked sadly on the row of dead, and could only thank God that there weren’t more. His young friend Halsey and four others were dead out of the crew of fifty, and another eleven wounded were being treated below. Many others nursed bruises and lacerations that would have incapacitated them under normal circumstances, but there would have been no one to run the little ship without them. And it had taken only a second for the needless destruction to occur.
Walsh choked and tried not to sob as he looked at the five men tightly sewn in their white mattress covers. The still-sticky blood had stained through a couple of them. In a while there would be a brief service, which he would hold and remember forever, and then the five would be consigned to the sea. Poor Halsey. Which one was he? Third from the left or second?
By all rights, Adm. Otto von Diedrichs should have been worried at the sight of so much of his fleet disappearing to the east. But he had obeyed his orders and his conscience was clear. It would take a little more than one day to make the rendezvous and about two days to complete the return journey with the slower convoy. Although he knew he had cut it very fine, he still didn’t like the idea of being without nearly half of his force for three minutes, much less three days. But he took comfort in the fact that he had fulfilled his responsibility and obeyed his kaiser.
So he commenced to wait. As the hours stretched into days, his concern became doubt and the doubt grew into worry as the allotted three days stretched into four and no convoy hove into view.
Had the timing been off? Had they missed the rendezvous point? To the latter question the answer was easy: no, they could not have missed the point of meeting because the convoy had been directed to sail a specific route and course. Even if the convoy had not been on time, the battleships would have found the meeting point without much ado. No, there had to be something wrong with the timing. Perhaps the battle he had hoped would give the Yanks a bloody nose had caused more confusion than he anticipated. Of course, that must be it. That and the question of timing.
Hipper had been given a set of specifics that included more than just the course his ships would take. He had been mandated a speed that would result in Diedrichs’s being able to send his ships at a precise time to a precise place. Any ship that could not keep up with the speed, and it was a slow one, would be left behind.
However, Diedrichs knew that Imperial edicts couldn’t command the wind and the tide, and he had taken other steps. The needle-thin wireless tower on Long Island had commenced broadcasting a week before the convoy was expected, and he had been rewarded by the receipt of a weak response from Hipper saying all was well.
So where the hell were they? And where was the American main fleet? Were they planning to pounce when the convoy got closer? As yet his thin line of picket ships had seen nothing. German intelligence sources had reported the departure of the American fleet from Canadian and American waters, and other sources had reported it off the coast of Maine. Could Dewey have decided not to attack? That would have been the logical thing. Perhaps the American fleet was simply heading for Boston. Regardless, Diedrichs and the remaining fleet were ready, armed, and with steam up, to sail out at almost literally a moment’s notice.
His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion in the passageway outside his cabin, and he spun his chair to face the door. “What is it?” he snapped.
Paschwitz entered with a piece of paper. Other men were clustered behind him and none looked happy. “Sir, we just intercepted a message that the entire relief convoy and our escort force have been destroyed, with all ships either sunk or captured. The Americans are calling it the greatest naval victory in their history.”
Diedrichs rose to speak but could not find his voice. There was something else in his throat that prevented it, and he recognized the acid taste of his own vomit. He moaned and clutched his chest as he fell back into his chair. Paschwitz and the others rushed in to help him as he collapsed.
The kaiser’s voice was a high-pitched scream and his face was beet red. “My ships, von Tirpitz, where are my ships? As Caesar Augustus cried for Varus to return his three legions, I now cry for my ships. Where are they? Where is my navy?”
Even though Holstein detested the arrogance of Tirpitz, he could not help but feel a little sorry for the man. Only moments before, he had exuded power and confidence. Brutally direct and often bullying and confrontational with those who disagreed with him, Tirpitz had appeared to many as the current personification of German power, a reincarnation of the mighty Bismarck. But not now. The transformation had been sudden and shocking. When the information began to flow in, he crumbled as they watched. His eyes glazed over and he was having trouble breathing. The grayness of his skin made Holstein wonder if perhaps the man was having a heart attack. It would not surprise him.