Ship Captain Álvarez focused his sight on the infinite whiteness beyond the charthouse’s windows and sincerely wished for the boring routine of his voyage to continue uneventfully. He lowered his gaze upon the ship’s wheel in front of the helmsman.
VENCER O MORIR.
Win or perish.
Maybe another day, he thought. He took a deep anxious breath and then turned around to a rating.
“Bring me a light breakfast and a kettle with scalding hot tea.”
“Aye my Captain!” the rating saluted and scurried away downstairs.
Today’s Thursday, he thought, as the ship he bore responsibility for, the old but well kept armoured cruiser, ALMIRANTE COCHRANE, slowly rolled and hummed along with the seven hundred souls keeping her going inside her steel carpace. This means empanada at lunchtime.
He pondered about the effects of the onion on his digestion when the command duty officer interrupted his thoughts abruptly.
“My Captain, the lookouts have lost sight of SWIFTSURE. I suggest we increase speed to regain contact with her lest we lose station and have to use the wireless.”
“Make it so, ahead two thirds for twelve knots.”
“Aye my Captain, ahead two thirds for twelve knots,” came the reply.
The vibrations that came up from the deck became ever so slightly more rapid as the metal behemoth quickened her pace. The whiteness that surrounded them was familiar to Álvarez. He had served in the convoys during the Great War. He was an Ensign aboard BLANCO ENCALADA, the fleet’s most ancient cruiser. She had been given tall gaffs for wireless, a couple of additional light quick firing guns, a coat of dazzle camouflage and been sent off to herd merchants across the pond. He had looked with envy upon the crew of COCHRANE, they would join the Grand Fleet instead.
A chilly gust of cold air let Captain Álvarez know that the rating was back with his hands full. This weather was no stranger to any Chilean seaman however, the far south was about as merciful or worse. Álvarez received a plate with a roll of bread with jam, and had his mug filled with steamy dark tea.
“Thank you,” he said as he sat down on his chair. His sight followed the rating as he offered tea to the rest of the bridge crew.
A shout came from outside. The captain raised an eyebrow as the command duty officer opened a window, talked to someone and closed it again.
“Sir, we have regained sight of SWIFTSURE. She’s flying signals Zulu Echo, she’s sending a message with her signal lamp.”
The Captain took a bite as he waited for the message to be decoded. He stared intensely outside but could barely make any shape around the faint flashes of the signal lamp. It was probably SWIFTSURE letting them know that one of the Destroyers had been detached to search for a straggling merchantman. That was a job for a fast ship. The old girl had been reboilered and refitted in 1932 but nowadays she could still only manage twenty knots. She was originally nicknamed Ciento Doce, 112, because the previous Armoured Cruiser, O’Higgins, which also had had three equal funnels in a row, had been nicknamed Ciento Once, 111. Her sister Almirante Lynch had thus been called Ciento Trece, 113. After the reboilering, the aft funnel had been eliminated and the fore funnel had been trunked away from the foremast to reduce smoke interference. The curious curved shape of the funnel now almost resembled a number 2, so Cochrane was now sometimes called only Doce, 12.
“My Captain,” the officer turned to him, “SWIFTSURE reports that the Destroyer BRAMBLE picked up a radar contact to the South East at 0645, doing twenty three knots, but lost it behind hail a few minutes later.”
Captain Álvarez thought for a moment:
Convoy PQ 19 is to our north, together with the close escort. SWIFTSURE, BRAMBLE and BULLDOG are with us keeping station. Force T was heading south yesterday to prosecute a contact given by air recon, but even if they turned around and proceeded at thirty knots, they’d still be several hours away. Which means…
“My Captain, new signals from SWIFTSURE.” clamored an officer.
“Go ahead.” he said.
“Radar contact bearing One Seven Five, estimated speed twenty five. Estimated heading Zero One Zero.”
By now the hail had reached them and an incessant clanking rumbled inside the charthouse, distracting Álvarez.
“Call all hands to action stations. Anti-air gunners to stay inside and pass ammunition to the surface batteries.”
“Aye my Captain!” The officer of the watch said loudly, he moved his face right in front of a voice tube, “Action Stations! Action Stations! Up and forward on the starboard side, down and aft on the port side! Close all watertight doors! Anti-air gunners assume ammunition handling!”
Crew in the bridge scurried about. The gunnery officer climbed the central pole of the mast up towards the ship’s main gun director. By now SWIFTSURE was closer and Álvarez could see her silhouette clearly, white vapour fluttered from her funnels. Her gun turrets slowly began to turn to starboard.
“My Captain, new signals coming in! SWIFTSURE says: Increase your speed to twenty knots. Prepare for surface action.”
“We can do that,” the captain said cheerfuly, a smirk on his face, “command duty officer, ahead flank, both engines, revolutions one fifty.”
“Ahead flank! Both engines! Revolutions one fifty!”
The Captain could feel through his seat how the metal beast lurched forward with renewed vigor, the vibrations becoming higher in frequency and severity. The wake from SWIFTSURE became larger, but she did not pull away. He was confident they could keep up as long as the lead cruiser was satisfied with twenty knots. He saw the guns of the ship in front of him raise. He took to a voice tube.
“Gunnery officer, aim battery to port mimicking our lead ship.”
“Aye my Captain!” came the reply from the top of the mast.
“Ask the SWIFTSURE bearing and range of the contact.”
Aye my Captain!” was the reply.
A rating outside clad in thick blue stuffing took furiously to the signal lamp to convey the message to the ship in front. A moment passed before new signal flags were raised.
“My captain, SWIFTSURE signals Oscar India…”, the command duty officer said, reaching for a book and furiously flipping pages. He then turned around and looked at Álvarez in the eye. “She is without radar.”
“Did her radar malfunction or is it this cursed weather that-…” Álvarez couldn’t finish when from the outside a Lieutenant opened a window and said,
“SWIFTSURE reports radar malfunction! Asks us to turn on our radar to try regain the contact!”
The crew looked at each other incredulously for a second. Then the Lieutenant said,
“New set of signals! Oscar Hotel!”
Once more the command duty officer flipped through the book.
“You should switch on your radar and keep radar watch.”
The captain slumped his head to the side towards his waiting hand and gazed out in frustration.
“Raise signals, what were they?”
“Oscar India.” said the officer.
“Oscar India.”
A pair of yellow flags scurried upwards on the halyards as the bridge crew pouted and sighed.
“Try and let them know somehow that we don’t have a radar set and have never had one…”
“Aye my Captain,” the reply was less energetic now.
A few minutes passed as the crew anxiously waited for any initiative from the lead ship. The weather helped the situation in no way whatsoever. The crew of SWIFTSURE was surely very busy trying to bring their electric eye back online to see where the approaching menace was now.
Five minutes became fifteen and Álvarez’s patience ran thinner. He reached for the voice tube.
“Gunnery officer, anything from up there?” he asked.
“Negative, my Captain, the weather subsides slowly but we see nothing but whiteness.” the reply came, calm and collected.
As fifteen became thirty, Álvarez stood up from his chair and put on his overcoat. He stepped outside and took to binoculars on the bridge. The infinite whiteness, now brighter thanks to the timid sun to the south, refused to yield. Álvarez’s thoughts momentarily returned to that promised empanada, likely unbaked, perhaps unfolded and definitely late for lunchtime given the situation. A lieutenant looked forwards and alerted Álvarez.
“Captain! New signals from SWIFTSURE!” he yelped.
But Álvarez sighted in the fog what the message was about. He heard a shout from above.
“Ship sighted to starboard! Large vessel! Heading towards our position!” was said.
An immense grey figure revealed itself as it sliced through the whiteness like the sword of a titanic champion. Álvarez took to the binoculars again and counted, one, two, three barrels per gun turret. One, two gun turrets. Pyramidal tower structure. Nelson and Rodney were in the Mediterranean now. He scrambled for the voice tube.
“Gunnery officer! Engage the ship to starboard!” he commanded.
“Aye my Captain! All guns follow director! Load armour piercing!”
By now all the officers were outside the charthouse along the bridge. They looked at the monumental war engine approaching them as they fixed their own hats, gloves and coats to keep the icy wind at bay. They could all see now through binoculars as the opponent’s guns were raised.
From the voice tube, a familiar voice snapped, “Ready to fire!”
“Full salvoes, all batteries, fire at will!”
The insidious crack was followed by the sharp shock, which was followed by the deafening roar as cordite ignited in all barrels in quick succession. Sprouts of flame surrounded Álvarez, then smoke billowed and streaked past him with the wind. SWIFTSURE had opened up as well, and her six inch guns produced one quick crack after another, revealing the proficiency of her gunners. COCHRANE’s four point seven inch guns didn’t lag far behind, the casemate moounted barrels ripping shots rapidly one after another from below Álvarez’s sight. Large splashes bursted in between them and the grey figure, the first salvo had been a bit short.
The turreted seven point five inchers announced their second salvo with a mighty roar. Their smoke harmlessly made its way aftwards without obscuring the bridge, allowing the Captain to notice SWIFTSURE had fired her sixth salvo. As the four point sevens kept their improvised crackling, the barrels fell out of timing, revealing the skill and determination of each individual gun crew in producing maximum sustained fire. One barrel would fire and then all others would follow as best they could, producing a disordered staccato of eight shots each time. Álvarez waited for a mightier roar though, the ten inch main armament should be reloaded any moment now. The grey raider would fire first though. In an instant, a flash and the whip of supersonic lightning cracked next to the bridge crew. A loud vertiginous whine and a crash. The deep bass whine of armour plate bending to deflect a shell. Turret X had took one on the roof but it had bounced. Another had hit the aft funnel and scattered debris over the boat farm behind it, stay lines wriggling about like wounded snakes. None had detonated.
COCHRANE replied in kind, all four ten inch barrels producing their thunderous roar with but an infinitely brief buildup of anticipation as the cordite erupted in fury. Flame and smoke billowed from the barrels, partially blinding the crew on the bridge. Two splashes were spotted, two hits implied by the briefest reports on the enemy figure. No detonations were to be perceived.
Álvarez turned to the voice tube and clamored upstairs, “Great shot! Keep those good hits coming!”
“Aye my Captain! With pleasure my captain!” came the reply.
By now the grey menace had come closer and her features were apparent. A bridge surrounded by wide structure gave way to a thin tower of medium height, crowned by an immense director with stereoscopic arms spread like the Cristo Redentor. It stared directly at Álvarez, a bringer of damnation fixated on his heart, ready to take the soul of his ship into the abyss. The seven point fives defied the menace once more, three splashes surrounding the enemy hull, a fourth embedding itself on the wide structure behind the turrets. A pop and a spread of debris reported a successful hit.
SWIFTSURE had fired her ninth salvo and was reporting several hits on the enemy’s starboard side when Álvarez sighted the grey ship’s X turret, her barrels poking out pointing at SWIFTSURE. All three opened up and immediately smoke and debris were produced from the formation’s lead ship. Two splashes far to the left revealed one shell had hit. SWIFTSURE’s next salvo produced only nine shots. The Captain was taking in this realization when the grey leviathan attacked with a new set of weapons. Her starboard secondary turrets had clear arcs now and opened up on COCHRANE with a burst of shell. Four of them produced splashes in front of Álvarez, spreading icy droplets on the bridge and her occupants, but a fifth one landed right on the boat deck and turned the Captain’s steam launch into matchwood. Splinters flew about and forced the searchlight crews to duck for cover.
Álvarez frowned, it was difficult to build up steam on her and was hopelessly obsolete by now. The navy had preferred to spend money on other upgrades instead of buying new motor launches, but it had an undeniably victorian charm to her that caught the eye of seamen and townsfolk alike wherever it puttered into. Hardly important, the Captain thought. Something like this should not distract him. He had barely regained his temper when the enemy’s A and B turrets roared once more in his direction. He felt the deck under him briefly vanish, the whole ship had rocked with extreme violence and he scrambled to grab the railing to steady himself. Water fell on the bridge from an immense splash in front of them, disorienting him for a few more seconds. He then looked around to spot any signs of damage and saw the large tear on the upper deck between the secondary turrets. Steel had curled up and both starboard anti-air guns’ mounts had bent. The two casemate guns nested there between main and upper deck were evidently out of action. And the men crewing them maimed or killed. The large launch and one of the whalers had been thrown out of their place and been destroyed as well.
“Get down there and make sure any fires don’t spread, then get me a damage report.” the Captain beckoned to a junior officer, who saluted and scurried down as quickly as his thick trappings allowed him.
Another salvo from the four point sevens was replied by one from the enemy’s secondary battery. His shells fell around the ship or were defeated by the COCHRANE’s armour belt this time. The opponent showed no pause from the various small and intermediate caliber hits on his structure, and the next salvo from COCHRANE’s ten inchers, accurate as it was, presented little improvement. His armour was perhaps too strong, thought the Captain. His X turret fired once more and this time no splashes appeared in the water. Instead, SWIFTSURE threw an arc of debris from her upperworks as she bore the full brunt of the enemy’s firepower. Her six inch guns stopped for a second as the ship seemed to faintly veer off to port. To Álvarez’s relief, the guns opened up again, all three remaining turrets still firing in anger, but there was something wrong with the cruiser.
“Captain, new signals from SWIFTSURE!”
His sight moved to the aft superstructure where flags were being raised and a signal lamp flashed furiously.
“Bridge destroyed. Steering unresponsive. Aft conn attempting to regain control.” The junior lieutenant looked back at his commander, wide eyed and paled.
The Captain’s brow and lips curled, his gaze on the lead ship. He then looked at their mortal enemy for a moment, then turned around and clamored.
“Tell the stokers to begin forced draught and give their all! Rev the engines to one sixty! Alert the gun crews to ready the port battery and man the three inch guns! Helm! Hard to starboard on my mark! I want everyone to give their all!”
“Aye my Captain, glady my captain!” roared the crew in unison.
For fuck’s sake if we only had torpedoes still!, he thought uselessly. The tubes had been welded shut and the ancient compressed air torpedoes landed on the ship’s last big refit. He then looked at the determined smile of the helmsman, steady at his post. He glimpsed at the wheel and remembered the words emblazoned there on his ship and every ship in the navy. VENCER O MORIR. Prat’s legacy was of daring but also of death. There is no return in defeat for a ship of the Armada.
The junior officer had returned from the destroyed casemates and reported, “My Captain, five dead, twenty injured, two four point seven guns and two anti-air guns out of commission. The crew are patching up the minor injuries and they say they’ll be back on the fight immediately!”
“Thank you,” said the captain, “get those brave men on the port side and ready up the guns. All starboard gun crews are to help on the port side as soon as the ship turns.”
“Aye my Captain!” the lieutenant replied, then hurried back to where he came from.
The seven point fives opened once more as Álvarez turned to face his enemy. He wanted to get one more salvo from the ten inchers before turning. Hopefully a lucky shot would give them pause.
Another salvo from the enemy’s lighter guns ripped through the COCHRANE. A shell hit the secondary director above the bridge and showered down splinters. The crew ducked and hollered. The Captain was sheltered by the open conn above, but he still instinctively ducked. Another shell holed the bow and sent an anchor down to the sea, stopped as its chain tightened, then popped out of the rests of the chains one by one before immersing on the water. Álvarez stood up and peered out to the platform above. The director was gone, and with it three men. Moans of pain told him the crew on the conn above him were injured too. He spoke to the voice tube to the main gun director.
“How are you up there, any damage?”
“Negative, my Captain,” replied the gunnery officer, “Main director still operational.”
The command duty officer faced Álvarez and paused, then he said, “My Captain, I know you dislike the conning tower but perhaps its time for us to move there and be protected fro-…”
His plea was interrupted by the enemy’s main battery. The crew ducked again as fire and splinters raised from the lower deck in front of them. The gigantic main rangefinder flew up and Álvarez could see one of its eyes peer above his railing, then fall down again. He stood up and saw that the conning tower and the platform above it was gone, a large caliber shell had ripped it from its foundations. The command duty officer stared in shock, then composed himself and stood firm.
Another officer shouted, “Aft wing secondary turret out of action! Its on fire!”
Álvarez walked aftwards on the platform and saw a turret with its barrels mismatched in elevation, smoke pouring out from its sighting hoods. He did not think of the dead men inside and instead braced himself for his maneuver, the port side’s firepower was intact and would soon deliver. He just needed the main guns to fire once more.
An imperceptible snap and the roar of thunder came as the ten inchers spit in ire once more. This time one shell splashed into the water and three found their mark. Two sunk themselves into the enemy’s A barbette without further report, but a third slammed right into the enemy’s fore tower, cutting it in half as the weight of the main director pulled its platform collapsing down. Cheers erupted from the crew as the titan with the spread arms splashed down into the water, rendering their fore guns aimless. Álvarez snapped out of his optimistic stupor and faced the helmsman gravely.
“Now!” he snapped, “Turn to starboard now!”
The crewman reacted quickly and turned the ship’s wheel vigorously. The metal beast rolled and heaved and lazily obeyed the command. Gradually, the bow left SWIFTSURE’s figure behind and made its way towards the enemy. The main gun turrets had begun turning to port as soon as they felt the turn building up. Crew raced on deck to prepare the port guns for action as the secondary turrets aimed forward in anticipation. Álvarez stared at his foe anticipating a reaction. The enemy kept steady course and fired another secondary gun salvo that missed towards the bow, splashing harmlessly. The two enormous turrets that had faced him remained still. He walked to the port side of the platform and his retinue followed. The guns found themselves all bearing on the enemy as they waited for their crew to finish loading. COCHRANE had almost finished her turn into the enemy when Álvarez saw its shadowy grey silhouette jolt, as if out of its stupor. B turret begun racing to point towards COCHRANE as the ship lazily turned to port to attempt to get a shot once more. The portside secondary turrets also sprung into action, late, as if orders had only now reached them. A turret remained motionless, however, Álvarez presumed one of the shells had jammed its base ring. He hoped for that to be true in any case.
As the large ten inchers steadied into position finally, the gunnery officer reported optimistically from above, “All guns ready to fire!”
“At will,” commanded the Captain, and in unison COCHRANE’s port side lit up brighter than the sunlight that bathed it through the mist. Every single gun opened up at once as if mentally linked to the gunnery officer’s brain. The mortal enemy’s port flank lit up from the hits and near misses as shell bounced, broke up or bursted succesfully among the thin sheet steel and the thick armour belt.
At this range, Álvarez thought, even modern krupp cemented will have a hard time resisting.
The splashes of the few guns that missed subsided and revealed gaping holes and incipient fires all over the grey ship. COCHRANE’s three inch anti aircraft guns took the baton of persistence as they fired once again, and again, their crews energetically loading their ready rounds as quickly as they could. The enemy stood still as in shock, but soon two secondary turrets began turning once more and the plethora of anti-aircraft guns on the enemy’s deck, or those that were still intact, began to reply in anger. Tracer fire became mutual as COCHRANE’s 20mm Oerlikons came into range as well, and raked the enemy’s gun tubs mercilessly, attempting to silence them. The four point sevens picked up the slack and aimed for the enemy’s secondaries, who fired in return and hit the casemate decks who were the origin of their punishment. The two behemoths were very close now, deck crew became apparent to Álvarez as he saw men attempting to put out fires on deck. He could see the red on the enemy's fluttering battle flag. COCHRANE’s seven point fives opened up again and one of the enemy’s secondary turrets popped clean up from its base ring in a large nest of flame and smoke. The Captain would’ve cheered if he hadn’t noticed the enemy’s B turret finally catching up to his maneuver, its three barrels staring down on him. Moreover, SWIFTSURE’s fiend, turret X, had turned all the way around as well and would soon find COCHRANE’s profile. Álvarez counted the seconds mentally, almost a minute now, any moment now.
The ten inch guns showed their crews determination as they fired again on the minute. The gunnery officer presented his skill by how they hit. All four shells dug the grey leviathan’s flank right below the bow turrets. Gaping black openings revealing the entry wounds. Turret B was dead on its tracks and billowing smoke. The hats of the director crew weaved from their hands, visible to Álvarez as he looked up towards his brave men. The enemy was crippled, but not dead yet. As the lighter guns punished the deck relentlessly and silenced its guns one by one, a grave threat remained.
Turret X was now bearing on COCHRANE, its three barrels pointed in unison with the aft main director, its stereoscopic eyes leering eerily on Álvarez and his ship. He couldn’t act first, his main gun salvo was still a half minute away.
His seven point fives defied the enemy, however, a four gun salvo erupting quickly from two brightly coloured turrets. One shell sunk into the main deck and showed no bursting, two bounced on X turret’s roof and side, emitting a deafening wham as steel bent with force. The fourth shell had disappeared, crushed by the turret’s thick face armour, which neither bent nor budged. The rest of the guns attempted furiously to prevent the enemy from firing. Four point seven inch shells slammed fruitlessly into the belt and decks, three inch high explosive burst into bright yellow flashes, twenty millimeter tracer bounced without effect.
The reply was swift and brutal.
Álvarez found himself on the platform’s floor. He was deaf and blind. The ringing of tinnitus was all he could hear as he attempted to find his bearings. I’m not dead, he thought, as vision came back to him and his limbs responded once more. He picked himself up and propped over the edge to see the three smoking barrels that stared at him. He looked down to see what had happened and saw the consequences of his defiance.
Curled up and blackened, charred metal inside, strabismus evident on the gun barrels, the fore turret’s roof was gone. A damage control party attempted to get inside, not knowing there was nobody to save anymore. With his options for victory suddenly halved, Álvarez considered his next move. His aft ten inch guns would be loaded soon, but would need a direct hit to have any chance of success. His seven point fives could not penetrate the enemy’s barbette, but could they knock out the director? The hail of fire from his small guns slowed almost imperceptibly, but they had no effect on the enemy’s ability to fight. He waited for the seven point fives to fire again when he noticed to his left a faint movement. Turret A had begun turning again.
The seven point five inch guns fired once more in defiance, all aimed to the secondary gun director. Only one shell clipped the side of the aft tower, without harming its watchful head. Three others splashed behind harmlessly.
As turret X kept tracking him, Álvarez considered a new turn to port. He would rather face one turret than two. He then heard a static murmur from inside the charthouse which caused him to peer inside.
A voice called, “COCHRANE, this is HMS SWIFTSURE, radio silence has been lifted, please report your location and condition.”
Álvarez looked at his command duty officer and nodded. He could understand English but not speak it fluently enough, so he let his officer do his best instead.
“HMS SWIFTSURE, this is COCHRANE, we are currently a thousand yards to the port side of the enemy, heading south One Six Zero. We have been damaged but continue to fight.”
The Captain thanked his officer with a nod and waited for a reply.
“COCHRANE, acknowledged position, BRAMBLE and BULLDOG have begun a torpedo run, do not reverse course.”
“Understood, SWIFTSURE, we will keep heading south.” finished off the command duty officer.
Álvarez lost his gaze on the ocean as he thought, then turned inside and said,
“Course one four zero, maintain speed.”
“Yes my Captain! Gladly my Captain!” came the reply from inside.
The ship slowly turned to port then steadied again just in time for the ten inchers to fire once more. Álvarez did not flinch, for his sight was fixed on the barbette of Turret X. One shell sunk on the stern of the enemy ship and disappeared, the other one hit the barbette square on and burst without penetrating fully. As COCHRANE made her way across the enemy’s stern, Álvarez attempted to figure if Turret X had stopped tracking him or not. The secondaries threw another salvo and showered the enemy stern with splinters and splashes. When they subsided, he saw that Turret X and the aft director were not pointing in the same direction. He breathed in relief and relaxed, but felt a sharp pain on his abdomen.
“Ships sighted!” came the call from above. The bridge crew looked north and saw the two plucky Destroyers race towards the enemy. They turned north and clouds of steam left their tubes as they deployed their deadly weapons. Their four point seven inch guns hammered the enemy bravely if ineffectively.
The Captain looked back at his enemy and saw the ship hastily turn to port to avoid the attack. Now not only was Turret X not tracking him anymore, Turret B would have its arcs blinded by its own ship. He heard more gunfire in the distance and saw SWIFTSURE appear from the fog, firing from three turrets then turning north. A familiar voice was heard from inside.
“COCHRANE, HMS SWIFTSURE, escort reports enemy light forces have made contact with them and are attacking the convoy. Head north and fall in.”
Shocked, tired and in pain, Álvarez realized that either their enemy would dodge the torpedoes and disappear into the mist, or they would hit and destroy it. His job was done.
“Helmsman, set course Zero One Zero, then fall in behind SWIFTSURE.” he ordered.
“Yes my Captain, gladly my captain!” came the answer from inside.
As the raider raced south west, a burst of water from a torpedo hit could barely be seen. The crew cheered and the gunfire subsided as the grey monster, on fire, raked and punctured, slowly faded into the infinite whiteness.
Álvarez relaxed, and opened his coat. He looked down and with his shaking hands found the source of his sudden pain. A splinter had found his abdomen when the fore turret had been destroyed.
VENCER O MORIR.
He looked ahead towards SWIFTSURE and the Destroyers. They had won. He had won. But he realized the demands of Prat’s legacy were not mutually exclusive.
He fell forward and was caught by his command duty officer. His vision faded to black.
The Chilean Cruiser ALMIRANTE COCHRANE would enter Portsmouth a month later with HMS SWIFTSURE, HMS BRAMBLE and HMS BULLDOG. They would be received with honors and cheers from the local populace. The Royal Navy’s brass band performed Rule Britannia and the Chilean national anthem, and was then taught to play Brazas a Ceñir by the ship’s own band. The crew would return to Chile by steamer, as COCHRANE was found uneconomical to repair and was subsequently scrapped in 1946.
Captain Álvarez was posthumously promoted to Rear Admiral. His name’s legacy lives on as the guided missile destroyer ALMIRANTE ÁLVAREZ, together as a class with PRAT, THOMPSON and LATORRE.
