Phillipe started. “I have known this man for over sixteen years. He has never told me anything but the truth. He has never misled me. I know his family as he knows mine. He has commanded the greatest fleets the world has ever seen.” Phillipe paused.
Naval gunfire shattered the silence.
The Italian Fiat CR.25 reconnaissance aircraft from the Strategic Reconnoitre 173a Squadriglia based in Sicily was nearing the end of its search of the North African coast. As Rommel had advanced westward along Algeria, fewer and fewer contacts had been found and the crews of the aircraft had become bored. Today’s mission was not expected to be any different than yesterdays nor was tomorrow’s likely to be any change either. Just one more beautiful Mediterranean morning’s flight and a half dozen more hours for the crew’s log books.
That is until they reached the end of the flight at Mers el Kébir. The crew was always careful to stay outside the anti-aircraft gun range of the French fleet, though it had been months since the French had wasted ammunition on the speedy Fiat.
The pilot had given the controls to his copilot as he raised his binoculars to begin counting the French warships contained in the harbor when he noticed the largest ship he had ever seen slowly cruising close to the port. It did not look like any warship he had ever seen before. It certainly wasn’t French or Italian. The pilot had always prided himself on his knowledge of English ships and this one did not look like any of theirs either. Could it be a German? The Germans never told the Italian Regia Aeronautica anything. He decided to take a closer look before he reported the presence of this capital ship in Mare Nostrum.
As he flew toward the ship staying well out to sea away from the French guns, he noticed the huge American flags flying from both masts. It was the last thing he ever saw.
Lieutenant Commander Jonathan Becker’s Combat Information Center aboard Argonne had been tracking the air contact on the (Sugar King) SK radars for almost twenty minutes. He had coaxed the forward Mark 37 director called sky one onto the contact at a range of over twenty two miles. It had only taken a few more minutes until they had a fire-control solution.
Sheppard’s real problem was deciding what the contact was. He was sure it was not an English search plane based on what Ollie Halverson had told him of their search patterns. What he wasn’t sure of was whether it might be French. He had directed the on watch gunnery officer to track the contact. Beside sky one, sky two was also generating an accurate solution using optical bearings and elevation angles along with Mark 4 radar ranges. Both Ford Mark 1 computers had excellent solutions when Lieutenant Commander Gerry Archinbald had directed, “Sky One, Control Mounts five-zero-two, five-zero-four, five-two-zero, and five-two-two. Mounts five-zero-two, five-zero-four, five-two-zero, and five-two-two load special anti-aircraft common.”
Finally one of the air search lookouts four decks above Sheppard saw the three rods and axes symbol of the Regia Aeronautica using the 36 power spotting binoculars. Sheppard’s order to, “Commence firing!” was quickly followed by Gerry’s on the 1JC phones, “Master Key, Continuous Fire, ten rounds per gun!” The crack of the 5»/54s immediately followed as the mount crews raced each other to load and fire the ordered ten rounds faster than any other mount crew. As the 70 pound projectiles passed by the Fiat the small radar set in the nose fuse was activated by the rapidly increasing frequency of the return echoes. The 7.59 pounds of picric acid (Explosive D) detonated, shattering the projectile into hundreds of red hot shards of steel. They sliced into the aircraft’s skin, wings, tail, engines, fuel tanks, and crew of the CR.25, turning the sleek twin engine plane into a flaming meteor of melting aluminum, exploding ammunition, and burning flesh.
Most of the eighty projectiles were wasted, but Sheppard was not taking any chances on a snooper surviving to call in bombers. He walked back into the conning station from where he watched the performance of his guns on the port conning platform. His ears were ringing badly from the crack of the 5-inch guns when he ordered, “Signal Bridge, make to the French flagship, ‘Destroyed Italian reconnaissance aircraft,’” in a voice much too loud for the quiet inside.
Anthony Pennyman needed better photos. The ones that had been taken yesterday by the photo reconnaissance Mosquito were from high altitude. Good enough for counting ships and confirming classifications, they were not adequate for troops and tanks. He passed the information that he had developed thus far to the station commander and RAF intelligence with a request for a low level mission over the Wilhelmshaven docks.
The request was quickly ordered in view of the obvious implication that the Germans were getting ready for an amphibious assault somewhere. Better photographs might very well be able to determine where that was going to be. With advanced warning, the Home Fleet would probably be able to stop it.
It took less than a half hour before the De Havilland Mosquito I was on its way. It was just as well it was a low altitude mission, as a cloud layer was developing over the north German coast.
Sheppard’s message arrived in the Languedoc’s wardroom not long after the reports from Amiral D’Aubigné’s staff watch officer. The Amiral turned to John Hamblen and whispered, “An Italian reconnaissance aircraft has been destroyed by your ship.”
Equally quiet so as not to engage the assembled French officers, Hamblen replied, “Thank you, Phillipe. Do you know if the Italian reported Argonne’s presence before they were shot down?”
“I do not think so. We monitor their frequencies and there was no transmission prior their destruction.”
“Phillippe, I certainly hope that your communications people did not miss something. Argonne is a powerful ship, but like any single unit, she can be overwhelmed by numbers. Until she can be supported by your ships, she must remain undetected or at least unreported.”
As Amiral D’Aubigné turned back to the meeting, Admiral Hamblen quietly worried why the Fleet Air Arm had not intercepted the snooper well before it got into the range of Argonne’s guns. He could not imagine why Force H would not have had a Combat Air Patrol up from Ark Royal or Splendid. What had gone wrong with all the coordination plans that had been worked out with the British Admiralty? Argonne was in a very exposed position without the support that had been promised.
The Sugar George surface search radar operator on the conning station reported, “Small intermittent skunk bearing zero-one-three degrees range one-one-oh-double oh yards.” The surface lookouts three decks above were immediately alerted, but failed to see a contact. Sheppard went to the microphone for the VHF radio aircraft spotting network. “Mustang Zero-One, Panther. Investigate skunk bearing zero-one-three range one-one-thousand yards from Panther.”
Bronco knew that Sheppard would not be telling him what to do if he was not concerned that it was a submarine. He banked hard toward the reported location before he acknowledged, “Panther, Mustang Zero-One; Roger!”
He also alerted his radioman gunner, “Miller, keep a sharp lookout, Argonne may have detected a submarine’s periscope. Don’t worry about air contacts; we’ll let Panther watch our backs.”
The OS2U-5 began a rapid climb to an altitude of a 1,000 feet. The bright Mediterranean sun had climbed higher in the sky than his first search of the area. They both stood a better chance of spotting a submarine now in the clear blue water beneath at the higher altitude.
Amiral D’Aubigné got the meeting back under control from the interruption. “My comrades in arms, we have just seen the extent to which the Americans are prepared to go in their assistance. They have risked their most famous ship to bring us a message. They are not fools. Think of the victory for the Germans, if they could avenge the Battle of Cape Vilan. Can there be any greater proof of American sincerity? Can you possibly doubt the offer of Admiral Hamblen to assist us in finding a solution?”
Capitaine Fournier stood. “My Amiral, no one doubts the intentions of the Americans, but what could they possibly do that we could not?”
Amiral D’Aubigné paused. He did not know the answer
to the question, nor could John Hamblen tell the officers present.
Admiral Hamblen rose. “Your Amiral has said many kind things about me. I have not told him all the things that I have from President Roosevelt to use. What you see off the harbor is a very fast, powerful ship, with fuel to go anywhere quickly. What you do not see is what I cannot tell you. You must believe me when I ask to use those things to find a solution. I ask you, let me try.”
Amiral D’Aubigné said, “I for one wish to let my friend try. The Germans have given us two days to get to Toulon. If we delay until tomorrow to send an answer we will still be able to reach port in time.”
The rumble of exploding depth charges interrupted the meeting for a second time.
Bronco spotted the shadow about 10,500 yards from Argonne. It was pointed at his home and he knew enough about submarines to know that this one was trying to close on Argonne for an attack. “Panther, Mustang Zero-One, sub one-zero-five-hundred yards from you; attacking!”
He dove on the shadow and dropped his two 325 pound depth charges. One detonated at 25 feet of water depth and the 224 pounds of TNT in the second exploded at 50 feet. In his haste, Bronco had failed to consider the refraction of the submarine’s image by the glass calm surface of the Mediterranean.
The Italian submarine Nicoló Macchiavelli was badly shaken by the twin explosions, some leaks started and a fuel ballast tank began to spread an oil slick. Her captain immediately ordered 75 meters depth and two thirds speed. As interesting as this large American warship had been, Capitano di Corvetto Luigi Bergamini knew that his orders were to destroy French warships attempting to escape from Mers el Kébir when the Italian fleet attacked in two days. His orders were mute on the Americans.
John Hamblen could wait no longer. He had to find out what had happened to Force H. Argonne was clearly in danger and the longer he kept her virtually immobile off of Mers el Kébir, the greater the danger. He either had to abandon his mission or risk losing the battle cruiser.
He turned to his host. “Phillipe, I must leave. My flagship is in grave danger. Please have my barge and signalman called. I will ask you for one last favor—buy me time to see what I can do.”
5
INVASION
Boatswain’s Mate second class Cruz wasted no time in heading back to Argonne. He had heard the gunfire and thud of the depth charges too. Unlike Admiral Hamblen, he could not see over the mole at Mers el Kébir. All he knew for sure was that his ship had destroyed the aircraft he had seen fall in flames. Johansen and Goldstein were obviously also anxious, having muffed the last movement of their routine with the boathooks.
Admiral Hamblen too was concerned. As they rounded the end of the mole, where he could get a clear view of Argonne, he stood. All six men on the gig breathed a sigh of relief when they saw she was not listing or burning.
More than anything, that also meant to Petty Officer Cruz that Captain McCloud was most likely unhurt.
Bronco knew immediately as he banked around after his attack that he had not sunk the submarine. There was no debris. There were no individuals struggling, nor dead in the water. There was only an oil slick and it was moving to the north away from the Argonne. Since he could no longer see the submarine, he knew it had gone deeper, outside the settings of his wingman’s depth charges. As far as this submarine was concerned all Bronco could do was keep a watchful eye on its location relative to Argonne.
“Panther, Mustang Zero-One, submarine is damaged and moving to the north. Oil slick marks its location.”
What Bronco really worried about was that if there was one submarine here, there probably would be more. He needed to get back up in altitude where he could get a good look down into the water. He also needed reinforcements.
“Panther, Mustang Zero-One, request additional mustangs!”
Sheppard had heard Bronco’s report on his attack result. Disappointed, he raised his binoculars and noted the oil slick for himself. He directed his Officer of the Deck to reverse course. There wasn’t much he could do but stay away from the location of that moving slick. If Force H had been present, they could have sent a destroyer or two to gain sonar (ASDIC as they called it) contact and destroy the menace. He had also ordered the additional aircraft readied shortly after the first Kingfishers had been launched and well before Bronco’s request came over the VHF spotting net radio. Looking aft, preparations were proceeding but Sheppard’s order had caught his people by surprise and things were moving too slowly.
The OOD had relayed Sheppard’s original order to Argonne’s airdales on the fantail. Less than a minute later the armored hatch had moved aft on its tracks in response to the slowly rotating pinion gears, opening the hangar. The hangar crew quickly positioned an OS2U-5 Kingfisher under the opening for the aircraft and boat crane to lift and place it on a catapult. Once placed on the catapult trolley, the wings needed to be unfolded and locked, the aircraft fueled, two depth charges loaded, and then the crew would climb in.
No sooner had the first Kingfisher been placed on the starboard catapult, than the crane was lowered into the hangar and retrieved a second. Placed on the port Mark 7 gun powder catapult; the second Kingfisher also began to be readied for launch. Now Sheppard idly watched his crew ready the aircraft, waiting for the report that would cause him to increase speed and launch them.
He was not the only person intermittently watching. Capitano di Corvetta Placido Castiglione of the Italian submarine Guiseppe Mazzini was being very careful in the near glass calm sea as he closed in on this large American warship, first seen off in the distance when the sun came up. Having been picked specifically for his previous successes against the English, Placido was one of the key parts of Operation Guardare al Futuro. He knew how to stalk a contact that was not moving rapidly. The six bow tubes of his Marconi class boat could each fire a 48 knot steam torpedo to a range of 4 kilometers. With warheads of 270 kilograms, they packed a considerable charge that most ship’s defenses could not withstand.
He decided to come up to periscope depth and verify that his target remained off of the entrance to Mers el Kébir. He slowed to the absolute minimum speed needed to control the depth of his boat preventing the periscope from leaving a visible wake on the surface when he made his observation. This had to be done very carefully. If there had been any large change in the trim of the submarine, he would either rise uncontrollably to the surface or sink to the bottom. It took speed for the diving planes to have sufficient force to overcome any deviation from perfect neutral buoyancy; speed that he could not use without his periscope’s wake being detected.
As Bronco climbed, his head, as usual, was constantly moving. The white silk scarf that he always wore was not a sign of bravado or ego, but rather an absolutely necessary item to keep his neck from being chaffed raw on his khaki flight suit. That did not keep him from thinking about his attack on the submarine. He was certain he had laid his depth bombs exactly on target. Suddenly, he realized that was the problem. His target was not where he saw it in the water. The glass smooth sea created a perfect boundary layer. The refraction of light bent away from the vertical as submarine’s image came out of the water. That made the target appear farther away than it was. The effect wasn’t all that great, but it had been enough for him to only damage his enemy. If he got another chance, he vowed not to make that mistake again.
What was that, his subconscious registered it first—a shadow, a whale. It had not been there a few seconds ago. As he looked it became more distinct—another submarine. The ocean was lousy with them.
“Panther, Mustang Zero-One, submarine bearing three-three-eight degrees, range six thousand from you.” Bronco did not wait for an answer. He needed Barry Jensen to get over here and attack that submarine before it closed any further on Argonne.
“Mustang Zero-Five, this is Mustang Zero-One, submarine spotted, my vicinity, attack from out of the sun, aim five yards short.”
Barry Jensen wasn’t sure why Bronco had added the last part of the o
rder, but whatever Bronco’s reason, he knew it was a good one. Barry banked around to the east of the reported position and started a shallow glide toward the spot that Bronco was circling. He throttled back the Pratt & Whitney engine to slow the Kingfisher enough that the depth bombs would not skip off the water when they hit. As he continued his approach, he couldn’t see the submarine.
Sheppard saw Admiral Hamblen’s approach. Cruz was obviously in a big hurry which probably meant that the Admiral was in a big hurry. Had the meeting gone badly? Were the French about to open fire on him? Was there something vital that the Admiral needed Argonne to do right now? He couldn’t maneuver toward the port entrance any closer and still have enough sea room to avoid torpedoes—if he spotted them in time.
Like a thunderbolt, Bronco’s report of a second submarine, this one much closer, frightened him. Argonne was being hunted and Sheppard did not even know how many hunters were in this neck of the woods. Suddenly he felt very vulnerable.
“Where the hell is Force H?”
He needed to slow to a crawl to be able to pick up the Admiral, but that was going to leave him even more vulnerable to the submarines. He still needed a few more minutes before additional Kingfishers would be ready to launch. Sheppard knew that Bronco had called on Barry Jensen to make an attack, but Barry represented the last depth charges that he had airborne for defense.
Martin Lautens had made the rounds of the local fish mongers. As expected, none had the requested fresh sea bass. They all agreed to place signs that requested the local fisherman to provide the desired fish as soon as possible, promising to call Martin whenever one was delivered. He thanked the fish mongers and went on his way to wait by the telephone for one of them to call with the good news of a supply of sea bass for the ambassadorcs wife.
Sheppard and the French Rescue Page 13