Arctic Sea, 35th March 1942

Snowstorms had grounded the aircraft for nearly two days, admittedly much to

Scheer’s relief. Setting out at the first window of opportunity, the bombers flew to a

predicted path a few hundred miles northeast the tip of Sweden. If they were lucky

enough, their enemy would not be under the cover of Russian fighters— it was a risk

worth taking.

The convoy was nowhere to be seen; the Condor pilots were getting impatient.

The sky was clear, with excellent visibility over the Arctic. It was the first good

weather conditions all week. With over ten bombers engaged and loaded with as

many bombs as their bays could carry, Scheer knew this was an all-or-nothing

operation— the last chance they would get at the cargo ships, if they hadn’t reached

their destination already.

“Vessel! Two! Three! Five!”

Chatter erupted through the radio as the Condors pressed on through the clear sky.

Scheer soon gained vision of the ships as well— he could tell immediately that it was

no convoy at all, but the Fiji-class and two destroyers, going no more than twenty

knots. The damage reports had been true— the limping ship was making a

desperate dash for Iceland before returning to Britain.

As the Condors lined up for their successive bombing runs, the cruiser and its few

escorts began a desperate dance. Scheer watched as bomber after bomber planted

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near-misses into the ocean below, the cruiser and its accompanying ships swerving

wildly to dodge bombs dropped from above. At 2,500 meters, they were releasing

too high.

“Get ready.” The Condor gave lurched as it began to descent.

“Kommadant? Kommadant!”

Scheer had been trained for this, having first flown the vaunted JU-87 Stuka over

Spanish skies. Yet, the Condor was never designed for it. With no air brakes or other

equipment for dive-bombing, his crew did not need tell him that he was doing was

fanatical.

“Bail! BAIL!” He gestured his hands backward to his crew, as his eyes never left the

target.

The aircraft was now in a fifty-degree dive, bristling with nearly a ton of armourpiercing bombs.

His crew struggled to get out of their seats. Enemy fire towards their

plane intensified as the cruiser grew ever larger, Scheer’s finger wavering over the

bomb release.

A violent whip of a wind told him his crew had managed to eject. Reassured, he pulled

hard on the throttle, releasing the bomb bays as he realised suddenly, through

intuition, that he would never be able to pull up. An explosion, rocking the air, came

from behind like an angel’s cry. As Scheer tried vainly to lift the plane, the blast was

followed by a secondary explosion as the cruiser’s rear magazine stood quiet for

only a moment before it roared, it’s ammunition detonating into a billowing plume of

fire.

He never did get to say goodbye to Alfred, Eva or his mother, did he? He smiled,

because he knew he had no more light ahead, no more future.

There was an agonising push forward as the great four-engined bomber smashed

the surface of the frigid ocean beside the enormous warship, the screeching of metal

playing a wrenching symphony as both begun to sink.

A new breeze from the north, picking up by the second, silenced the cries of men.