Sink the Bismarck - 1. Story

28th December, 1940

The platform at Glasgow station was crowded with people, throngs of people rushing hither and thither. Hither and thither. What a funny term, such an 18th century term, I almost giggled to myself. Almost. I moved to the rear of the rail car where baggage handlers were loading bags onto dollies.

“You there, watch for my box,” I ordered in the imperious tone I'd acquired last month when I'd gotten my second stripe, my promotion to full Lieutenant. No one really took a Sub-Lieutenant seriously, but I assumed a confidence that implied that now, as a Lieutenant, I was a force to be reckoned with. To everyone but baggage handlers anyway.

“Whot's it luke like?” one of them asked with his deep Scottish burr.

“It's white, says H.M.S. Suffolk, Royal Navy on it, and is marked fragile,” I said. How many of those could there be? None apparently, as they rooted around in the baggage compartment, tossing everyone else's luggage out onto the platform in a most savage manner. They whined and complained as they searched, while I stood there in my navy blue uniform, picking a piece of lint off the sleeve. Finally they found it and placed it gingerly on one of their trolleys under my watchful gaze.

“Now whot?” the handler asked.

“Follow me,” I said, pushing my way through the crowd. Surely they'd send someone to get me? Just look for someone in a Royal Navy uniform? That covered half the crowd. With naval bases and docks teeming in this area of Northern Scotland, there was bound to be. We were close to both Rosyth and Greenock. I maintained my air of calm and assuredness, even as those emotions faded inside. Then, near the exit of the station, I caught sight of a single seaman carrying a sign that stated simply: “Lt. Bellairs”. Thank God. I moved toward him deliberately.

I stood in front of him and said briskly, “I'm Bellairs.”

The seaman saluted smartly. “Petty Officer Jenkins, sir. I've been sent to collect you and your dunnage.”

“Thank you Jenkins. We'll need to load this box carefully into whatever vehicle you've got.” He nodded to the baggage handler to follow him, and grabbed my personal bag before I could object. It was a very polite gesture.

He led us to a well-worn motorcar, a saloon, and he managed to fit the box into the back seat, while my own bag fit in the boot. I tipped the baggage handler and hopped into the left front seat.

“I'm sorry for the space sir. I hope you don't mind having to sit up front with me.”

He was being remarkably pleasant, something one didn't encounter much in war-torn Britain, a Britain that had just been rent apart by the Blitz. Our comrades in the R.A.F. had made short work of Jerry, and now we could actually come into dock with only the threat of air attack, not the knowledge that it was imminent. “Not at all Jenkins. I'm just glad they remembered to send someone to fetch me.”

He grinned at me, letting his guard down a bit. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I think I was sent more for that box than for you.”

That actually made me laugh, laugh out loud, and he joined me. I can't remember the last time I laughed, the last time I pushed the death and misery of this war aside long enough to let that happen. “You're probably right.”

I took the opportunity to study my new companion. He was on the short side, maybe about 5'5 or 5'6, but was built like a bulldog. His muscular frame caused his uniform to bulge at its seams. He had a round, pleasant face with teeth so crooked his smile looked comical and dark brown hair, clipped short, of course. His accent placed him from the south, probably near Plymouth. I looked at his cap and noticed for the first time that it said H.M.S. Hood.

“Your cap says you're on the Hood. You lost Jenkins?” That made him laugh again, and made me laugh with him. I was thoroughly enjoying this young man who had somehow managed to force me to unwind a notch.

“No sir. I've been transferred to the Hood, but she's not due into Rosyth for a fortnight so they transferred me to headquarters. I've spent the last few days saluting admirals.”

“Quite a drop in status Jenkins. You've gone from admirals to a newly striped leftenant.” He laughed again, and I thought about my comment with amazement. I'd never joked about my lack of seniority. Ever. It was the life raft I clung to in society. My station, my position.

“Well sir, and with all due respect to our leaders, you're a lot more fun. Those gentlemen have no time to talk to a simple Petty Officer, much less crack a laugh with him.”

“It is their loss Jenkins,” I said, and that got a surprised look from him. He glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. Was that a leer? I was conscious that our conversation had taken a whole new turn, and my rising dick told me I wasn't too unhappy about that. Damn.

“Thanks for saying that sir.” Time had flown and it seemed like we'd just left the station and we were here at the gates to the Govan Dockyard. Jenkins worked us through the guards seamlessly.

“So what are your orders Jenkins?” I noted the formality that had crept into my voice now that I was at the dockyard.

“I've been attached to your service for the next week. I'm to help you lug your gear, help you set it up, get you tea, whatever you need, then it's back to headquarters.” It was pleasant to think that I'd have Jenkins' company for the next week.

“Well, I'll try not to work you too hard. Wouldn't want you to get all worn out before you get to the Hood.” H.M.S. Hood was the pride of the fleet. Being part of her crew was a major achievement, and spoke volumes about the skill and competence that Jenkins held beneath his smooth veneer.

“You work me as hard as you like sir. It will be my pleasure.” Was that a leer again? Damn. I couldn't go up the side of my new ship sporting wood. And then all thoughts of Jenkins faded as H.M.S. Suffolk came into view.

        The naval officer in me immediately appreciated what a work of art she was.  One of the “County Class” of heavy cruisers, the Suffolk was designed for speed, but packed one hell of a punch.  She was over 600 feet long, but only 68 feet of beam; long and thin, like a cat, designed to be quick and agile.  Her flush deck extended almost to her stern, where it broke into a lower poop deck immediately abaft D turret. 

Her turrets had an elegance about them that belied their power: Eight 8-inch guns mounted in four twin turrets made Suffolk a match for any ship on the seas except a battleship. But battleships, even the new ones, were significantly slower than Suffolk. Like the Frigates that preceded her over a century before, she was designed to fight anything that crossed her gunsights; and those few ships that she couldn't take, she could outrun with her speed rating of over 30 knots.

Dotted throughout the superstructure was a bevy of anti-aircraft armament, smaller guns designed to blast airborne attackers from the sky. And then, amidships, were torpedo tubes, carrying 21-inch torpedoes, and catapults for twin seaplanes. There were almost 700 people crammed into her, and I was now part of that team.

The Suffolk was in drydock, so I'd been assigned to housing near the dockyard. I wouldn't get to move into my cabin until the ship was re-floated. Seeing her here, out of the water, made her appear even more massive, with the characteristic three stacks of the County Class cruiser towering over the drydock like minarets on a mosque.

Jenkins sensed my mood and smiled knowingly. Every sailor had a love affair with his ship, and he recognized the “love at first sight” spectacle he too would experience in two weeks when he boarded the Hood.

Now I was in my milieu, and there was no need to barter with baggage handlers to get them to help me. Jenkins, sensing that I'd be absorbed, quickly took care of practical details. “I'll take your things to your quarters sir, and then I'll come back and help out wherever you need me.”

“Thank you Jenkins. Save room for a pint later, on me.” That really got a smile. What sailor didn't like beer? I approached two seamen and a Sub-Lieutanant at the gangway. “Leftenant Bellairs reporting for duty,” I said with a crisp salute. “Permission to come aboard.”

The three of them saluted briskly. “Permission granted,” said the subbie formally, then smiled. “Welcome aboard sir. I'm Abernathy.” He extended his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” I said with the friendly disdain I'd mastered in the few weeks I'd had my promotion. “I'll need a few hands to take this box and carry it up to the R.D.F. room. Make sure they handle it with care.”

“Aye aye sir,” he said with a crisp salute. I supervised the two seamen who moved the equipment gingerly to the R.D.F. room. Once it was there I headed off to report in to the Captain. I found him on the bridge.

“Leftenant George Bellairs reporting for duty sir!” I said, saluting as smartly as I could.

“Welcome aboard Mr. Bellairs. You've brought the confounded marvel with you?” He looked tired and grizzled.

“Yes sir. It's in the R.D.F. room. I plan to begin supervising its installation forthwith.”

“Very well. Carry on.” And with that he dismissed me. I fled down to my own world, the R.D.F. station, or Radar room as it was informally known in other ships. I met my team, a group of four seamen, four Chief Petty Officers, and a Sub-Lieutenant, all tasked with providing the Captain with timely information about our surroundings.

I had engrossed myself in my department so I barely noticed Jenkins as he peeked in. A few moments later he returned with a nervous looking Marine. The Marine approached me cautiously, and I had an overwhelming desire to bark at him to see if he'd jump into the deck beam overhead. I restrained myself.

“Mr. Bellairs sir, I'm Private Caper. I've been designated as your servant sir.”

I returned his salute and then shook his hand. If he was to be my servant he'd know all of my most intimate details, well, at least most of them, and I needed to have a close relationship with him. In that regard, Navy life wasn't all that different from life at my father's house in London. I eyed him carefully, noting his bright red hair and scrawny body. Big ears and a pug nose truly completed the picture of homeliness, but his nice demeanor added a charm that could possibly overcome the deficits to his appearance. Possibly. “It's nice to meet you Caper. I need to take a break. Show me my cabin, won't you?”

He smiled with relief, having endured my scrutiny, and led the way with Jenkins in tow. Jenkins must have told him I wasn't an asshole, but in the Royal Navy, seeing is believing. Caper led me to a cabin that was located slightly forward of the middle of the ship, and I noted pleasantly that position would minimize the tossing and heaving in heavy seas. It reeked of new paint, and the grey walls certainly looked tidy. The cabin itself was marvelous. There was a safe where I could store my private documents, including vital radar equipment data, and an electric radiator that would spew out thankful heat. It was paradise.

“Looks like you have everything in order Caper. Thank you. The Captain tells me that we'll re-occupy the ship next week, so I'll move in then.”

“Aye aye sir,” he said crisply, and wandered off to attend to my needs, or whatever he perceived them to be at that point. Outside of my cabin was an open area where the ratings would sleep in hammocks in the time-honored tradition of the Royal Navy. I thanked God that as an officer I got my own cabin and my own bed.

The day passed quickly, and our progress was fast. All of the external radar equipment had been installed already, so our task was to put in the electronic gear that ran it. It would be a long, arduous process, but we'd get it done. Jenkins appeared around 6 p.m. to drag me off to see my temporary quarters.

He drove the old saloon out of the dockyard and into the town where the Navy had commandeered a local inn. Jenkins had managed to get me an excellent billet; how he did that was beyond me. It was a large enough room with a fireplace in the corner, kicking out a prodigious amount of heat that was blessedly pleasant compared to the miserable Scottish winter weather outside. There was a large bed, room for two in it in a pinch, and a small cot in the corner made up neatly.

“What's the cot for?” I asked.

Jenkins got nervous; the first time I'd seen him like that since he'd met me this morning. “I had them set it up for me sir. Begging your pardon sir, but I figured I could keep the fire going and I'd be close if you needed me.” Was that a leer again? And I'd be sharing a room with him? How marvelous.

“That's very thoughtful of you Jenkins. I hope you won't be too uncomfortable.” I told myself that I was just tending to one of those sacred duties of an officer: looking out for the well-being of his men.

“Sir, this is like a palace compared to the P.O. Billets.” I found myself laughing again. We headed downstairs to the restaurant that had been all but turned into a mess hall. Still, the food was good and plentiful, and it wasn't until I got into the room and the aroma hit my nose that I realized how hungry I was. I stuffed myself as did Jenkins, then we tossed back a few pints. I was determined not to get drunk, but I found myself approaching tipsy at least. He was matching me pint for pint, but I suspected that a pint wouldn't have the same impact on his massive body as it did on my lanky one.

We staggered back to the room and even though it was early, I was tired so I decided to take a quick shower then hit the bed. The room was still warm but the fire had died down, so while I stripped out of my uniform, Jenkins stoked it to get it back to that pleasant roar. As I took off my uniform and hung up the jacket and pants, I noticed for the first time that Jenkins had unpacked my things and laid them out perfectly. There were my shirts and uniforms, freshly ironed, looking as crisp as they could. My socks and underwear were neatly placed in the drawer. I gazed over at him with a smile, which he returned. “Thank you for getting things organized. What a pleasant surprise.”

“My pleasure sir,” he said. I smiled into the mirror as I completed undressing down to my skivvies. I thought my uniform did much to hide my appearance, a shield that made me not a man but a cog in a massive machine. When it was removed, the man was revealed. A man that was about 5’10” tall, with blond hair, a long aquiline nose, a long face and thin cheeks with the look that said when I got older they'd look more like jowls. Fortunately those days were well in the future. A fit and toned body as to be expected from a military man, with a dusting of hair on my chest and abdomen that said more about my age, 25 years old, than it did about the amount of testosterone flowing through my veins. I gazed into my own eyes, greenish-brown that seemed strange with blond hair. Still, I'd learned that if I flashed them just right I could pick up a dance partner or two. I stripped off my skivvies and allowed my flaccid cock to come into view. A sneaky sideways glance at Jenkins caught him watching me with interest. That caused my organ to plump, so I hastily donned my robe and grabbed my kit and headed down the hall to the bathroom. It was thankfully empty.

I got back to the room to find Jenkins already in his own robe. I was disappointed that I didn't have the same view, but he took off to the bathroom quickly before it was occupied. It seemed like I had just shucked my robe and climbed into bed when a spruce, clean Jenkins came bursting back into the room. I pretended to be asleep on my side, with a perfect view of the room and of him. He turned off the lights. The black-out blinds were already drawn, so it was pitch black in the room except for the fire, which cast tantalizing flickers of light across the room. I saw Tom pull off the robe, revealing his massive body. I wasn't sure what he did to build all those muscles, but he was like one solid rock. His legs looked like tree trunks. He bent over, exposing his cute ass to me, and I felt my dick reach its full length and leak a little. Then he turned around and I got a view of his member. Either he was hung like a horse or already almost hard. Either way, he had a nice cock, and I found myself fighting down the urge to run over and grab it on the spot.

I used mental masturbation as a substitute for the real thing. I knew I was attracted to men; it was something I'd dealt with on a daily basis. I'd focused on doing my duty, and on the consequences a liaison with another man would risk, and that had kept me in line. I had been raised to respect society and the status quo, and the Navy had emphasized those values. Yet here I was, naked in this room with an amazing man, and an enlisted man to boot, and I was almost, almost willing to cross that line. By the time I finished laboring over the concept, I heard Jenkins snoring gently. Well, he was asleep now, so that was that. Probably saved me endless embarrassment and time in a Royal penitentiary anyway.

I woke up in the middle of the night, aware that something was wrong. The fire had died down, but not to an extreme level. Still, there was something else in the room, something strange. It took me a second to realize that it was a noise, the noise of chattering teeth. Tom must be absolutely freezing. How was it that we could be in the same room and I could be warm and he could be cold? I studied the thermodynamics and discovered that not only was I closer to the fire, his cot was in the middle of a draft affected by the windows and a gap under the door.

I got up, clutched my robe around my body and headed over to his cot. I was going to wake him but it was obvious he was already up. “You sound cold,” I said. It took him a second to realize I was teasing.

“I'm sorry if I woke you up. Here, let me get up and stoke the fire.” He stood up in front of me and made to grab for his robe, but it was too late. He stood there with an erection, a really nice erection, probably a bit bigger than mine which would put it at about six inches. I noticed that my robe had parted and my own dick was sticking out at him. My body developed a mind of its own and moved forward slightly, so the head of my dick bumped the head of his.

“Why don't you come share the bed with me? I promise it will be warmer,” I told him.

He grinned, exposing his horrible teeth. Then his grin faded and his mouth moved toward mine and then his lips were on mine. Even his mouth was strong. I yielded to his ministrations, opened my mouth and welcomed his tongue, wrapped my arms around his strong body, pulling him to me. He led me to my bed and climbed in after me, then on top of me.

“Is this OK?” he asked, the first time he'd omitted the word sir when he talked to me.

“Yes. This is nice. Very nice. Great,” I said as he began to thrust against me, rubbing his cock against mine.

He moved his mouth to my neck, to my ear. “When we're in bed, I'm in charge,” he said. “Here, you do what I say, got it?” His words weren't mean, they were firm. “Don't believe me? Try and escape,” he ordered.

“I don't want to escape,” I said honestly.

“Try anyway. Because I said so.” I began to move under him, trying to squirm away from him, trying to break away from his grip, trying to slide, push, pull myself out of his grip, but it was all to no avail. He had me pinned underneath his naked body, and he was thrusting firmly against me, against my dick. I gave up the struggle and began thrusting with him. “See, you have no control here. You have no control at all. Let yourself go. You have no choice.”

His words taunted me to struggle again and I did, pushing and thrusting into him to get away, but the thrusts only brought more pleasure. I felt my mind wrapping itself around the fact that I was totally in his power, and I let go. I let go of all of those rules and mores that said this was wrong, I let go of the need, ingrained by the Navy, to be an officer and to give and obey orders, I pushed that all away and instead gave myself to him. I wrapped my arms around him, then my legs, and thrust frantically into him, with him, in time to his moves, letting him set the pace, letting him control my stimulation, letting him make me orgasm. I felt my balls rising, that familiar feel of the point of no return, and I literally pulled him to me so hard I thought I might just absorb his body into mine.

I heard a guttural, muffled groan in my ear as he exploded with me, shooting our loads all over ourselves until we were dripping with seed. He got up and went over to get a towel and clean us up. He sat on the edge of the bed, and I stroked his back, pulling him back into my arms.

“I'm sorry sir. I shouldn't have said those things to you.” He was clearly upset.

“Tom,” I said, using his Christian name, “that was amazing. You were amazing. It is very difficult for me to let go, to let myself go, to surrender control of anything, much less my body. You made me do that, and it was liberating and intoxicating.”

He smiled and kissed me. “I wanted you from the moment I saw you, but it was so risky. I don't want to go to gaol.” The ramifications of our actions seemed to dawn on him suddenly.

“You're not going to gaol. It's you and I here in this room and no one else, and I'm hoping that over this next week I get to really enjoy you and your body.”

His lips were on mine and then he collapsed onto his back and I snuggled up to his chest, reveling in his warmth and the feel of his arms around me.

I woke up the next morning with a moan, literally a moan. Tom had awakened first, and was using his mouth to explore my body. I felt his tongue flick my left nipple, then move to my right, then back again. Then he moved his mouth down, down below my chest, across my abdomen pausing to flick his tongue into my navel, and then to my throbbing dick. He absorbed me into his mouth, a feeling I never could have dreamed of and certainly couldn't resist. In no time at all, certainly sooner than I planned, I felt my load rising up again.

“Careful, I'm going to shoot,” I whispered urgently. He merely clamped down on my dick that much more, and let me shoot my load into his mouth and down his throat. It was incredible. I found myself lying there panting and shaking from the exertions. He made to get up.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I figured I'd get your things ready.”

I grabbed him and pulled him back into bed and flat onto his back. “No way, not until I get to return the favor.” His eyes got big and he smiled as I mimicked his moves. When I got to his hard cock I paused to inhale his scent, his smell, the pungent, tangy male aroma that comes from physical exertion, from sexual exertion. I took his rock hard member in my mouth and relished his taste, the sound of his moans as he surrendered to my mouth, and finally, best of all, his taste as he exploded into my mouth as I'd exploded into his.

The rest of the week passed in a blissful fog. I spent my days on the Suffolk, working myself and my staff to the limits to make our stringent deadlines. Then I'd meet Tom for a quick bite and we'd spend the nights making love, rubbing our bodies together, or using our mouths and hands to release the desires that our hormones and growing feelings for each other elicited.

This morning was the morning he had to leave and I knew it. We'd stayed up all night, alternating between frenetic physical contact and gentle, loving caresses. We dressed, and as I adjusted my tie he moved into the line of sight of the mirror next to me. “I've fallen for you George. I've really fallen for you.”

My knot perfected, I faced him. “And I've fallen for you Tom. Whenever we get leave, promise me we'll spend it together.”

“I promise,” he said. “Speaking of which, let's try and link up again in Glasgow or Edinburgh before we sail. No promises, but try, please?”

“Glasgow or Edinburgh with my handsome sailor. You've got it.” And then with one final kiss, he left the room and headed to Rosyth to join the pride of the fleet. I felt something wet on my cheek and wiped away my tear, furious with myself for showing emotions.

3rd March, 1941

The cab dropped me at the address Tom had given me, a cozy looking hotel in an out of the way part of town. Suffolk was leaving in two days to finish her sea trials, and then we'd be back in the war. The whole crew was teeming with excitement, and so was I, but I was even more excited about spending this time with Tom. We'd each managed to secure a 48-hour pass, and we'd agreed to spend it together here in Glasgow.

I found him waiting in the lobby. “Mr. Bellairs sir!” he said, in perfect Navy form.

“It's good to see you Jenkins. Be so good as to lug my bag up to my room, won't you?” I was using my patrician voice and attitude, but I could sense his laughter as we put on this act for the benefit of the innkeeper.

We got through the door, shut and locked it, and immediately began ripping our clothes off. It took us no more than a minute to land in bed together, he on top of me with his mouth on my cock and his cock in mine. I stroked his ass, marveling at the huge rocks that were his bum, and gently stroking his crack, brushing my fingers over his hole. That must have really been stimulating, because he shot right after I did it. Once he came, he focused fully on my pleasure and brought me off in a magnificent orgasm.

We lay in bed, enjoying the denouement. “I think about you all the time,” I told him.

“I think about you all the time too. I love you George.” I stared at him, dumbfounded. He loved me? Two men weren't supposed to fall in love. The whole concept started to really disturb me until I looked into his eyes and the truth bored into my mind.

“I love you too Tom.” He reached around to this bag and rummaged around.

“Prove it to me. Make love to me,” he cooed into my ear as he put something slick on my dick. It was lubricant.

“You want me to bugger you?” I asked. I guess I made it sound gross, but I was excited.

“Yeah. Fuck me.” I felt my smile before I knew it, and he was on his hands and knees, his ass in the air aimed at me. I probed his hole with my finger, and he cringed. “Just do it George. It may hurt at first, but it will be OK.”

He was in charge when we were in bed, so I lined my dick up with his hole and pushed. I could feel him cringing in pain, so I pulled out and stroked his cheeks, then pushed in again. I repeated this quite a few times, each time making it further in, until finally I just slipped in and ended up fully lodged in his arse.

He wasn't enjoying it but I was. His arse wrapped around my cock was a feeling with no parallel. I began to move slowly in and out, and moved up and down as well. I felt him relax, and then move back into me. I reached around and was stunned to find him hard as a rock. I started really fucking him, pounding his arse while I stroked his cock in time to my thrusts. In no time at all I felt him start ejaculating on my hand, and felt his ass throb as he orgasmed. That set me off too, and I blasted into his ass for what seemed like forever, yet I still finished before he did.

We collapsed onto each other. “That hurt like hell at first, but then it felt fucking amazing.” I snuggled into him, enjoying this new connection with him and the feel of him in my arms. We lay there quietly until fatigue overtook us and we drifted off to sleep. I woke up some time later, horny again, horny as hell, so I woke him up with a deep kiss.

“My turn,” I said, hiding my nervousness.

“Your turn for what?”

“Make love to me. Fuck me.” I said.

He smiled and rolled me onto my stomach and began working me with his fingers and the lubricant. He must have learned from his own experience, because he seemed to know just how to open me up, to prepare me to take him. Still, when he finally penetrated me, I wasn't prepared and it hurt like hell. Tom seemed to sense that, and he went slowly. He moved in, then left me, then in, then left me, and then he moved in. And he stayed in, thrusting gently in and out. I gritted my teeth and decided to grin and bear it in typical British fashion. I adjusted myself slightly and I saw stars. He hit a spot inside me that I didn't know existed, and once he turned that spot on, I was his. I moved back into him aggressively, feeling his short hairs brush against my arse as he began to pump into me, then pound into me. I went into a nirvana experience where I seemed to float along on a cloud, and then when I climaxed it was like self-actualization. I felt so complete. I felt so in love. I was in love.

We took turns penetrating each other and it was egalitarian and wonderful. And then it was over. He headed back to the Hood, I headed back to the Suffolk, and we promised to meet again on our next leave.

21st May, 1941

I stood on the bridge, watching the bow of the Suffolk as she crashed into the heavy seas. We'd spent the past few months working up near Scapa Flow, and then we'd escorted a couple of convoys through some nasty northern weather. The end result was a crew that was tired but in great spirits. Captain Elliot, who'd taken over before we'd left the yard, had worked us into a team, and we carried the pride of knowing that H.M.S. Suffolk was a crack ship, one of the best in the fleet. To be honest, I didn't know if that was true...there are a lot of well-manned, well-founded, and well-officered ships in His Majesty's Navy, so whether we were the best, or near the top of the list, well, I had no way of knowing. What I did know is that we were a damn fine addition to the fleet, and one that I was proud to serve in.

“Sorry about the bumpy ride Bellairs,” said the Captain as he walked over and stood next to me.

“I'm sure it builds character sir, being jostled around for long periods of time.”

He chuckled a bit at my joke. I'd learned that the Captain appreciated a bit of levity. His officers worried themselves to death trying to figure out exactly how much levity was appropriate.

“That's probably true.” The XO approached, as did the officer of the watch. “Well, now that we've got all of this marvelous gadgetry on board, pray tell us, Mr. Bellairs, what we can expect it to do,” the Captain ordered, as he gazed intently ahead as if expecting to see a German fleet emerge at any moment. I knew the Captain was well aware of the capabilities of our R.D.F. Systems; I'd gone over them with him in detail. He obviously wanted me to cover it again for the benefit of the bridge crew.

“Sir, we've been fitted out with three new radar systems.”

“Radar?” he quizzed. He was playing at being in the dark to prompt questions the others might have. A sharp chap, our captain.

“Yes sir. Sorry sir, that's how R.D.F. systems are being called these days, well, that and a few off-colour terms when they don't work.” I waited for the slight grin, and then continued. “The first one is the Type 284 system. That's designed to provide fire control for our main armament. The 284 has a maximum range of ten miles, but within that range, tests have shown it to be very effective at targeting.”

“Can this system be modified to scan for targets, rather than just zeroing in on them?” he asked. Now he was moving into ground we hadn't covered. This was important.

“It can, but with significant limits. You see sir; it only covers a narrow range of sea as it's designed to help us focus on a particular target. They claim the pattern can be broadened to do such a surface search, but in our tests we've found it to be limited.”

“Well Bellairs, you're the expert on this contraption, so I'll trust your judgment.”

I smiled. “Thank you sir. The other problem that isn't addressed is the false echoes we get from the 284. It's better than anything we have, but in a high sea the wave caps can distort our readings. Dense fog is not supposed to have a negative effect on it either, but it does.”

“And there are two other systems designed to protect my ship?” he said abruptly, changing the topic.

“Yes sir. The 285 is essentially a twin of the 284 system, only it's geared to operate with the secondary armament. The 279 system is designed to detect air attacks and help us target them. It's a great system, but we don't use it too often out here.”

“Why not?”

“Well, sir, begging your pardon, but we're too far from land to have a credible air threat. And when we operate it, it can let Jerry know where we are. We tried some experiments during work-ups. I was hoping that the 279 could either replace or augment the 284 to give us greater surface search potential, but it didn't work. I'm sorry sir.” I really was. I thought we had a truly fabulous system, and I thought that making the different elements work together would enhance it even more. It didn't. Each system was very specialized.

“Not your fault Bellairs. It's a positive mark that you thought to try it in the first place.” I smiled at the Captain, thanking him for the compliment which was rare in this navy. “I'm going to need you to do your best to adapt your system for surface search.”

“Aye aye sir. May I ask what we're looking for?”

He smiled, and I could tell he was dallying with me, thinking of whether he should terrorize me for not just following orders, for asking questions, or taking me, and thus all the other officers on the bridge, into his confidence. The latter course of action won.

“The Bismarck and her friend, the Prinz Eugen, were cooling their heels in Norway, waiting to come out and cause us a bit of inconvenience. We have received word that our reconnaissance planes flew over their anchorage this morning and they weren't there.”

“So they're at sea sir?” asked Lt. Weston. He was a nice fellow, but not the sharpest tool in the shed.

“Unless someone else sank them or they've figured out how to fly, I would think that's our obvious conclusion,” he responded sarcastically. It wasn't mean enough to intimidate others from asking questions, just mean enough to make them think about the question before they asked it. “We've been dispatched to join Norfolk and keep the Denmark Straights under our surveillance. I don't have to tell you what could happen to our convoys if the Bismarck slips into the Atlantic. We must be on our toes.”

We all must have been thinking the same thing: what could a ship like the Suffolk hope to achieve against the Bismarck? H.M.S. Suffolk was one of the best heavy cruisers in the world. You tell this crew that they were going toe to toe with the Prinz Eugen, our German contemporary, and we'd be sublimely confident that we could sink that Jerry Heavy Cruiser. But the Bismarck? That was a different matter entirely.

The cruiser force that engaged the Graf Spee off Montevideo learned about the strength of German armour, and the Graf Spee was a cracker box compared to the Bismarck. It was likely that our 8-inch main armament would do little more than scratch and ding the thick armour on her hull, while her 15-inch shells would rip through us like a sword through paper.

The Captain let us have a minute for our minds to run amok before he brought us back to reality. “We are not expected to engage and sink the Bismarck, we are expected to detect and track her so other heavy units can do that job. Our back up in this part of the ocean is Admiral Holland, with Hood and the Prince of Wales.” The mention of Hood brought visions of Tom into my mind, but I stifled those quickly. Getting erections on the bridge was generally frowned upon.

“The Prince of Wales sir? I didn't know she'd been worked up yet?” That was the X.O. That was interesting, not the answer, the question. The Captain hadn't even taken the time to brief the X.O. before he told us about our orders.

“Well, it was decided that she was needed. Apparently the Admiralty felt that Hood and our two heavies weren't enough for Bismarck and her heavy. If we can bring the Jerries to action, victory should be assured.”

We all nodded at that. Hood, with her eight 15-inch guns, same as the Bismarck, plus the Prince of Wales, with her ten 14-inch guns, should be able to blast them out of the water in no time at all, whether we were involved or not. We were all aware that Hood was over 20 years old and badly in need of a refit, and that Prince of Wales was still brand new and probably not even close to combat efficiency, just as we were aware that Bismarck was the most state-of-the-art battleship in the world. Still, the Royal Navy's culture was built on fighting and winning against overwhelming odds, and in this battle, most of us calculated that those odds were, in the worst case, decidedly in our favor.

“We're driving through these seas in this lovely weather to meet up with Norfolk and Admiral Wake-Walker.” I was aware that not everyone got along with or thought highly of our Admiral. “Admiral Sleep Walker” was the disparaging term I'd overheard in the officer's mess. I didn't know him personally, and I'd never served under him, so I was inclined to ignore such gossip and give him the benefit of the doubt. “He's about 40 miles ahead of us in Norfolk. Mr. Bellairs, perhaps you can experiment with your fancy equipment and see if you can find him, eh?”

“Aye aye sir,” I said, snapping to attention, and then fled to the radar room.

23rd May, 1941

I stifled my yawn and looked at my watch: 7 p.m. A few more hours and I'd be off duty. The thought of that precious sleep was almost intoxicating. We'd been working like fiends trying to detect the German ships. Our Captain was convinced they were headed our way, although I could tell that our X.O. didn't share his conviction.

I headed up to the bridge and found the Captain there as usual. I don't think the old man had slept for the last two days, or maybe he was just on my schedule. Still, the bags under his eyes belied the fatigue he must be feeling.

Suddenly a shout from the lookouts broke my internal ramblings. “Two large ships off the port bow!”

“Hood and Prince of Wales, I suppose,” remarked one of the midshipmen. A glare from the Captain made him wither away.

And then all pandemonium broke out. “Action stations!” the Captain ordered. Signalmen blinkered the contact to the Norfolk, while I rushed down to direct the targeting radar. I felt the Suffolk surge ahead and rumble as her engines powered her forward. I ran back onto the bridge and found organized chaos.

The Captain was issuing orders at a staccato pace. “Signals to Admiral Holland and to Admiral Tovey, ‘Have sighted Bismarck and Prinz Eugen’, and give their current position and course. He spotted me. “Mr. Bellairs, are you tracking our friends?”

“Yes sir,” I told him. “They’re continuing to the Southwest. Either they didn't see us, or they didn't care. They are maintaining their course and speed.”

“Have your men monitor the contact. I want to know the minute they change course, speed, or if you lose contact.”

“Aye aye sir. Will you want firing solutions?”

“I may, and if I do I'll need them quickly, but right now we're shadowing. Our job is to guide the Hood and Prince of Wales in, not to fight a battleship. Still though, I'd like to get to grips with the Prinz Eugen...” I watched his face become wistful, the thought of glory that went with a successful single-ship action was always the most romantic vision for a Royal Navy Captain.

The fatigue was forgotten now, blinded by the adrenaline rush of imminent action and the danger of having the most powerful German capital ship just out of range. It seemed that as soon as we began to wind down from the excitement, something new came up. For me, the “something new” came up at midnight, when a snowstorm hit and blinded our radar.

“Sir,” I said, interrupting the Captain as he was speaking with the X.O. and gunnery officers, both of whom significantly outranked me. They scowled at me, but the Captain gave me his full attention. “We just lost contact with Bismarck. The snow storm has blinded the radar.”

“Order action stations,” he said to the X.O. We'd just stood down from them two hours ago. The men wouldn't like this one bit, especially those who were stationed on deck. It was fucking cold out there. He turned back to me. “Leftenant, I need you to keep on your toes. She may double back and slap a few 15-inch shells into us.” Then he rapped orders to the others, the signalman to update the Norfolk, and the radiomen to alert Admiral Holland.

We reduced speed but maintained our course. I deduced that Bismarck would either turn about and blast us, or stay on her original course, so we maintained our vector toward that area. The next two hours were grueling, tense for all of us. At any moment the Bismarck could emerge from this storm at point blank range and blow us and Norfolk out of the water with little trouble on her part. Still, she was out here in the Atlantic on a mission of sorts, and if it had been to lob a few heavies off the Royal Navy's roster, she could have accomplished that already and been on her way back home.

At 2:47 my crew caught a glimpse of a blip, farther out than we had hoped or planned, but a blip nonetheless. Another followed that, then another, and I knew we'd reacquired her. I headed to tell the Captain.

“Thank you Leftenant. Same as before, I want to know if anything changes.”

At 5:35 a.m. there were two other shadows on our radar, so I dashed to the bridge to report this to the Captain. I explained the new sightings. “Hood and Prince of Wales are moving in to intercept,” he said calmly.

I heard the vibrations increase as Suffolk moved to full power. All of the officers on the bridge stood at the front of the bridge, staring forward, with our binoculars out, looking at the flashes of light ahead. I glanced at my watch and noted that it was just a little bit after 6 a.m.

I hadn't had time to think about Tom I'd been so busy. I'd heard references to the Hood, but I hadn't really thought about the Hood actually going into battle, carrying Tom with her. Yet there he was, over on the pride of the fleet, as she dashed at flank speed toward the Bismarck and Prinz Eugen.

The Captain ranted and raved at no one in particular, incensed that we had been left in a position well away from the fight, constantly checking the range to see if and when our main armament would bear.

“Bismarck is in the rear,” one of the lookouts hailed. That gave us a moment to think. So we couldn't try and peel off the Prinz Eugen and pound her; we'd have to get to her through the Bismarck.

We saw the flashes of gunfire as the ships engaged, and then there was a huge explosion, with a fireball rising high into the sky. We stared with our glasses at the spectacle. The Prince of Wales was in position right behind the explosion. The Hood was nowhere to be seen. The Hood had been blown into oblivion.

There was silence on the bridge as we all stared at the smoke from Hood's remains. The only sound was the throbbing of our engines as we surged ahead, perhaps to share the Bismarck's fate, or perhaps to avenge the Hood.

I gulped to hide my emotion and bit my cheeks to focus the pain and keep myself from crying. There was no way that Tom could have survived that explosion. Tom, the man who had ignited my passion, who had shown me tenderness, kindness, and love, that Tom was atomized.

I knew what the others were thinking. They were thinking how horrible it was that over 1400 of our fellow seamen were gone, and they were shaken to the core because the Royal Navy had just lost its icon. We had watched the most famous and powerful ship in our navy destroyed effortlessly by the marauding Germans. I was late in getting there. I was still thinking about Tom.

Then came the rage. The rage at what these Germans had done. That was followed, inevitably, by the hatred. Hatred for a race that had plunged us into two Great Wars in less than 30 years, who, through their aggression had slaughtered millions of people. Who preached a form of mindless evil that, if they weren't stopped, would immerse the world into a darkness from which it may never recover.

We watched as the Bismarck shifted her target to the Prince of Wales. We, along with Norfolk, were rushing in to do what we could, but Prince of Wales was the only ship of the three that could stand in line and slug it out with the Germans. Only her armour could resist Bismark's shells, only her guns could pierce Bismarck's armour. Yet she was brand new, with civilian workers still aboard, and we could see the hits landing on her with disconcerting precision.

“Signal from the Admiral sir,” the signalman said, breaking our silence. “The Admiral has ordered the Prince of Wales to withdraw in our wake. We are to continue to shadow Bismarck along with Norfolk.” That would be Admiral Wake-Walker. Admiral Holland had blown up with the Hood, so Wake-Walker would absorb Prince of Wales into our group. We braced ourselves for the onslaught from Bismarck, but it didn't come.

Prince of Wales passed us and we could see the scars she'd absorbed in her brief engagement. One of her forward turrets was out of action, while a gun in one of the others hung there lifeless and thus useless. Her bridge, normally an imposing structure, was spewing so much smoke we couldn't see the extent of the damage. I spared a few compassionate thoughts for the poor civilians that were aboard. They must be terrified.

We somberly began our job of trailing the Bismarck and Prinz Eugen, using our radar and visual sighting where possible. Finally we seemed to get some good news. There were patches of oil in the water, patches that could only come from the Bismarck, and as if to emphasize that, her speed had been reduced.

The atmosphere on board remained one of grim resolve as we tailed the two Nazi war machines. I stared at their blips on our radar and found myself hating them. I wished this was the 1700's, where we could close with them and board them. I felt fire in my blood. I wanted to take a sword and kill every one of those fucking Nazi bastards that had taken my Tom away from me. I wanted to see the pain in their faces as I disemboweled them. The violent images I conjured surprised me. These Germans weren't men, they were Nazi murderers. They were sub-humans, deserving of no more sympathy or respect than a cow you'd slaughter for dinner.

Hatred fueled me, kept me on duty, and kept me keyed up for the rest of that day. About mid-day, the Germans altered course to head due south and we followed dutifully. The further south they went the more the weather deteriorated, and the performance of our radar declined as well. To maintain contact, which was the only way we could bring her to heel, required us to close the distance, taking the risk that the Germans would turn toward us and try to rid themselves of this annoying parasite that we had become.

This continued until about 6:30 p.m. when the Germans entered a particularly dense squall. The Captain tensed, as if he sensed danger. I felt it too. “Any readings on Jerry, Leftenant?” he asked.

“Sorry sir, the squall has blinded our instruments,” I replied sadly. I felt so inadequate.

“Order action stations,” the Captain said. The X.O. looked at him questioningly. We were already at action stations. But the Captain had given an order, and that was that. The order was given, and we all paid close attention.

Then there was a clearing in the mist, and suddenly there she was, a mere ten miles away, this monstrous battleship, the Bismarck. And all hell broke loose.
We re-acquired the Bismarck on our radar and finally used it for what it was designed to do, feeding our targeting information through to the main guns.

Ka-poom, Ka-poom! Ka-poom Ka-poom! The two front turrets loosed their 8-inch shells. The noise was deafening, but just for the first round. After that, as our guns fired, we became accustomed to them. We turned away sharply from Bismarck, entering a series of radical manouevres and laying smoke to confuse the enemy. We had been dishing out our venom, now it was our turn to take some of hers. A shell from the Bismarck flew over the Suffolk, the range too far, making a tearing sound as if it was a zipper in the sky. It landed in the water off our port bow and exploded, sending a huge geyser of water into the air. We knew it was only a matter of time before she found the range, but in the meantime we marveled at the huge fountains of water and loud explosions that appeared all around us.

Then, amid cheers from our ship and the Norfolk, the Prince of Wales waddled up to the battle to throw her armour and firepower, regardless of her wounds, back into the battle. Before she could join the fray, though, the Bismarck turned away at high speed and resumed her course.

And so we resumed our chase, shadowing the Bismarck and reporting in to Admiral Tovey. The tension was high, especially after the Bismarck's brief assault on us. We had almost become complacent when, around 1 a.m., the Bismarck appeared again, guns blazing, attempting to drive us off. There was no real damage, other than to our psyche.

After that last attack, it became apparent that the Bismarck was headingto France and the safety of the Luftwaffe’s air umbrella. We were ordered to search the west and south, which took the immediate tension off of us and effectively removed us from the battle.

We'd been at battle stations for over 32 hours now, and we were exhausted emotionally and physically. The first order of business was to instill some order. We got back onto a normal watch pattern, and we got some sleep. I hit my cot and welcomed the slumber, but I couldn't sleep. I lay in my cabin, remembering that the first time I'd been here, I'd been with Tom. The dull hatred that had risen in me, the one that made me wish for the eradication of Germany and Germans from the face of the earth, was stronger than ever. I slept in fits, and when I woke up, I felt that I must have been having a nightmare, but I couldn't remember what it was, or if it even happened.

It was on 27th May, as we headed towards St. John's, Newfoundland, for refueling, that we heard that the Bismarck had been finally driven to ground by the King George V, Rodney, and Repulse, and it was with special pride that we noted that our sister ship, H.M.S. Dorsetshire, had delivered the coup de gras torpedoes that had finally sunk our nemesis.

3rd June, 1941

The past week had been a living hell. I slept fitfully at best, but no matter how long I slept I was always tired. An aura of fatigue, a blurring of my mind, seemed to permeate my existence. Only the hatred I'd developed for my German foes, a hatred that had become so much more personal because of Tom, had fueled me and kept me keyed up enough to adequately perform my duties.

This morning had been typical of the other mornings. I had been shaken awake by a frantic Caper, determined to shield me from the rest of the world, to protect the secret of my internal melt down. “You were screamin' somethin' fierce sir. Don't think anyone else noticed though,” he said, looking around furtively.

“Thank you Caper. I appreciate you looking out for me.” The last sentence stunned him. Royal Navy officers simply didn't share that kind of intimacy with their Marine servants. I shrugged him off and headed to the bridge.

The Captain was there, as usual. If I didn't know better, I'd think he never left the bridge. “Mr. Bellairs, we're receiving a prisoner from the Electra. Please make sure that the brig is readied, and take two armed guards to collect him when he comes aboard.”

“Aye aye sir,” I said, but hesitated. An order was an order, but being around a German, someone that may even have killed Tom, well, that was a tough go. “Begging your pardon sir, where did Electra get this prisoner?”

“Seems he was pulled off the Bismarck after she sank. Electra’s been at sea and hasn't had a chance to deposit him. We're heading in shortly, so we're taking him. Does that answer your question?” The last comment told me I'd pushed him far enough.

“Yes sir,” I said, and headed out onto the deck to intercept our new guest. Two Marines were there with me, sidearms at the ready.

First up through the port was another Lieutenant, one I'd never met. “Westfield of the Electra,” he said briefly. “Here's you Jerry Leftenant.” I glanced briefly at the prisoner, avoiding his eyes. Westfield handed me some papers pertaining to his case.

“Thank you. We'll take him from here.” We saluted each other and Westfield withdrew to his own ship with his own Marines while my Marines led our prisoner to the brig. I studied his papers. Lieutenant Gerhardt von Dreydlitz. Newly confirmed in his appointment, from a good family with an aristocratic background. He was my counterpart in the German navy, I thought, smiling.

I found him in the brig, looking sullen and dejected. He had Aryan good looks, the kind that Hitler had proclaimed to be the epitome of human existence. Pale blue eyes and blond hair, all featured in a round Teutonic face. “Do you speak English?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Do you speak German?” he asked me in that language and I shook my head as well. “French?”

I smiled. The language of the aristocracy. “A little,” I said. “The war is over for you now.”

He looked at me, deep into my eyes. I could see his pain, his own suffering, the agony this war had forced onto all of us. “Good.”

I nodded and left him to his own thoughts, making arrangements with the cook to have him fed and cared for. Still, having him on board haunted me, and I found that I was unable to stay away. As soon as I was off duty, I headed to the brig to see him.

“You have come to enjoy my suffering?” he asked bitterly.

“No, I have come to make sure you are as comfortable as we can make you,” I replied. I stood there staring at him, trying to think of something else to say.

“You hate me,” he said. “You have hate in your eyes.”

“I had a special friend on the Hood,” I said plainly.

He nodded sadly. “I am sorry for your loss. Even as she sank we mourned our fellow sailors.” The silence returned. “You blame me for the death of your friend?”

I thought about that. How easy it would be to dump all of my negative emotions onto him. Maybe even borrow a pistol from one of the guards and shoot him, then claim I caught him trying to escape. I knew, though, that I could do no such thing. “I blame Germany. I blame Germans.”

I was sure such nationalistic references would rouse him, but they didn't. I stayed until the silence became uncomfortable, then left.

This young German, my counterpart in the enemy's navy, confounded and confused me. I wanted to hate him, but I couldn't. I wanted to avoid him, but he drew me in. After my watch I returned once again to check on him.

“You are back,” he said. “You have come back to hate me some more.”

“I do not hate you.” It was the truth.

“I am German. I thought you hated Germans.”

“I don't hate you.” The silence returned.

“I had a special friend on board my own ship,” he said. I wondered if his definition of special was the same as mine.

“Did he survive the battle?” I asked.

“No. He was in the brig, a brig such as this one. When the ship went down, he was trapped, and I could not get to him to save him.”

I stared at him, horrified. This man carried his own pain, his own agony, yet he had not directed it at me like I had directed mine at him. He made me feel like an emotional neophyte. “I'm terribly sorry.” I reached my hand through the bars instinctively and took his hand in mine.

The contact overwhelmed him and tears rolled down his cheeks. He turned away from me and released my hand, moving away from me in the small, confined space. I yelled for the guard and made him open the cell door. I stepped in and dismissed him.

Now I was in the cell with him, very near him, with his back to me. I moved toward him and put my hand on his shoulder. He turned to me and we were face to face, our bodies so close I could feel the heat from his. I pulled him to me and hugged him. I don't know why I did it. Maybe I was just helping another human in distress? Or maybe I was helping myself? I held him for the longest time, my arms around him, his arms around me, stroking his back while he sobbed, and allowing my own tears to flow for Tom. Finally, sensing that we'd both had enough, I let him go and called the guard.

“You will come back?” he asked. That's the first time he'd really noted my presence, at least in a positive manner.

“After my watch,” I told him.

That shift seemed to last forever. Part of it was the boredom. We were doing convoy duty in the north, and that meant it was cold and miserable. We were there to provide a heavy surface force, but the main threat was from submarines. Tackling them was the job of our destroyers. It seemed as if we ended up being spectators in the battles between u-boats and our own hunters, and while spectators can feel the emotion of the battle, they cannot experience the true intensity of it.

As soon as my watch ended I rushed to the brig and had the guard let me in the cell. I reasoned that my German was no threat to me. He'd been searched, and even if he attacked me, we were reasonably similar in size and strength. I figured that I could hold him off until the guard got there.

“You are back again,” he said. “I am glad you are here. I look forward to your visits.”

I smiled at him and sat next to him on his cot. The last time we had been together we had hugged, we had been emotionally intimate. Now, sitting on the bed with him, it seemed odd to be so distant. “Your friend,” I said. “Why was he in the brig?”

“Because our friendship was discovered.” He moved his face so we were looking at each other. “I am an officer, and not without influence, so it was too dangerous to imprison me without direct orders. He was not so lucky.”

“How did they discover your friendship?” I asked quietly, looking into his eyes. I felt him moving closer to me; felt his breath on my face. I gazed into his eyes as they got closer and closer, and then felt the electric shock as our lips met. The embrace started out gentle, tender, but then passion exploded and our mouths locked on to each other with a deep-seated desire, a desire that originated in our loins and in our hearts, a desire to heal and be healed.

I wanted to rip his clothes off right there, to make love to him, but we both knew that was impossible. A kiss and a grope was the only sexual fulfillment that we could allow ourselves.

We returned to Scapa Flow the next day, and there was a Marine guard waiting to take him into custody. We hadn't had any time alone since our last encounter, so I made sure to meet him before he walked down the gangway. “I wish you luck in England,” I said to him formally.

“I wish you luck in the war,” he said, acknowledging that it was over for him.

“If you have time, write and tell me how you are doing,” I said, thinking how ridiculous that must sound.

“I will do that. And I must thank you, Lieutenant, for helping me to deal with the grief of losing those dear to me.” His eyes met mine, and I knew that but for the Marines there I would have taken him into my arms.

“No, Lieutenant, thank you,” I said. I watched him walk down the stairs, admiring his cute arse and playfully wishing that I'd gotten to actually experience it.

We had been enemies once, but we were enemies no more. He had been doing his duty, and I had been doing mine, but when you peeled away the nationalities, the warring governments, we were just two young gentlemen that craved love and affection. If there is a heaven, maybe Tom is up there with my German's special friend, and maybe they are finding solace in each other's arms. And who knows, maybe I can find a little more solace in Gerhardt's arms. That thought made me chuckle to myself until I recalled myself to my duties and the war that I still had to fight.

Sources:

http://www.ellsbury.com/hmssuffolk.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HMS_Suffolk_(55)
http://www.naval-history.net/xGM-Chrono-06CA-Suffolk.htm
http://www.navweaps.com/Weapons/WNBR_Radar.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/County_class_cruisers
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_the_Denmark_Strait