It was not long before Pierre Ferres noticed one of the blue ink signs. He hurried off making sure that none of the local Gestapo agents were following him. Ducking into a back alley, he waited for any sign of a tail. None appeared. Certain now that he was not being followed, he went to the small one room apartment over a barn that he had rented on the outskirts of Marseilles. Checking surreptitiously placed telltales for any evidence his apartment or barn had been searched, he concluded that he was still undiscovered.
In a stall occupied by a skittish stallion that was well acquainted with him and docile in his presence, Pierre went to the farthest corner of the stall, brushed away the straw on the floor, and removed a few planks that were only laid in place. There was his radio and the battery that provided the power. He carefully made up the connections and tuned the frequency to the specified wave length for that day. Placing the earphones on his head, he first listened for any interference. Hearing none, he carefully took out the key to transmit; sending, “_ _ _, .._ ,._ .”
Capitano di Corvetta Placido Castiglione prided himself on how quickly he could make an observation on a target. It would normally only take seven seconds from the time the head window of the periscope broke the surface until he had the bearing, range, angle on the bow and was sending the periscope back down under the surface. This time was no different except he became mesmerized with the proportions and beauty of this American battle cruiser. A full fifteen seconds passed before Placido had the target information and lowered the scope to go deep and continue his approach. He was still outside optimum range for his 21 inch W270/533.4 x 7.2 ‘F’ torpedoes in high speed.
He could shoot now, but that would give his target more than enough time to observe the bubbling wakes of the torpedoes and take avoiding action. On the other hand the closer he came, the greater possibility that a sharp eyed lookout might see his scope or its wake, even at 2 knots. He decided to continue closing. One more observation to confirm course and speed and he would increase speed to reach the optimum launch point for a six torpedo salvo.
Barry Jensen saw the periscope off to his right. “Henry, there it is!” Barry said on the intercom to his radioman-gunner. “Do you see it?”
“No, Mr. Jensen,” Hargrove responded. He had been searching off the Kingfisher’s port side.
Barry kicked the rudder of the Kingfisher and pushed the stick to bank in that direction. Before the periscope disappeared he had leveled out, pointed directly at it. Closing quickly, at the last instant, he saw the submarine’s shape before it disappeared beneath the cowling of his Wasp Junior nine cylinder radial engine. Barry pulled the bomb release levers as Bronco had instructed attempting to hit the water five yards short of the target. “Hang on, Harry!” he added on the intercom. I think I did it.
Lightened by over 600 pounds and responding to Barry’s fire walling the throttle, the Kingfisher climbed away as the charges sank and detonated.
Sheppard saw the twin columns of water rise from the exploding depth charges. They were only a little more than five thousand yards from Argonne—outside the range of a high speed torpedo. He began to do some quick calculations in his head on how long he had till the submarine would be within torpedo range. Unlikely as it was, if that captain had seen his aircraft and counted the explosions of their depth charges, he would know that Argonne was now defenseless except for gunfire.
He turned to look at the gig and estimated that it was no more than a thousand yards away—two minutes at the rate Cruz was pushing it; two more minutes to hook on to the aircraft and boat crane; one to lift it clear of the water—five minutes total. It would take the submarine twice that long to get within range.
He turned to his Conning Officer and commanded, “Back as needed, but stop the ship.” To the OOD, he ordered, “Hook on and hoist the gig as quickly as you can.” Sheppard knew he was taking a huge risk stopping his ship with an enemy submarine so close. Everything depended on his crew aft and on the gig flawlessly executing the hook up and retrieval.
Sheppard then went out on to the conning platform to check on the progress of readying the Kingfishers for launch. He had to calm the gnawing doubts that his orders were the best course of action.
Looking aft, he was satisfied that his men were working as fast as they could. Sheppard thought of one other thing he should do and returned to the conning station 21MC squawk box. “Engineering, we will be increasing speed rapidly to full ahead in about four minutes.” Whatever the results of Jensen’s attack, hopefully, no prayerfully, he could get Argonne out of danger before the submarine reached its attack point.
Sheppard need not have worried about the submarine that Barry Jensen had attacked. His drop wasn’t perfect since he was approaching from the submarine’s beam, rather than along its axis, but his timing was great. The 25-foot fused depth charge actually bounced off the side of the bridge fairing of the Guiseppe Mazzini, lodged between a pressure cylinder for a ‘maiale’ and the hull, before exploding. The 50-foot one detonated just under the turn of the bilge outboard of the diesel engine room. Either one would have been fatal.
With both the control room and the engine room flooding rapidly, the Mazzini sank like a stone. The men in those two compartments including Placido Castiglione never had a chance. The Italian submarine came to rest on the sand bottom at a depth of 120 meters. The impact with the sand was just enough to collapse the forward torpedo room bulkhead. The men in that compartment too were lucky. Theirs was a quick death. The men in the aft torpedo room were not as fortunate. There was no way out. The lighting failed leaving them to wait in darkness for a slow suffocation.
Radioman first class Miller in the rear seat of mustang-zero-one yelled, “Got him!”
Bronco turned his head to watch the oil and debris as well as water fall back into the ocean. Included were pieces of a two man torpedo, but no one other than an Italian knowledgeable of the maiale would recognize them—no American could.
“Good shooting, Barry,” he called on the radio.
There was no doubt about this kill. Barry and his radioman could paint a broken submarine on the side of mustang zero-five. Bronco continued to circle for five minutes searching, hoping that there might be a survivor or two that could be rescued and taken back to Argonne. They had learned much from the German they had captured off of Norfolk and Bronco badly wanted to repeat that success.
It wasn’t going to be. There weren’t even any bodies. The huge oil slick and the bits and pieces of the Mazzini that were floating to the surface were all that marked the grave of the four crews for the ‘pigs’ and the crew of 58 Italian officers and men—most dead, the others about to die, but not soon enough for those unlucky enough to be still alive.
“Admiral Hamblin, Argonne is readying to lift us directly out of the water.”
“Thank you, Cruz. Well done with the French.” Hamblin took one look over his shoulder and recognized exactly what Sheppard was planning when he saw the aircraft and boat crane swing out with the gig’s lifting bridle attached. He beat a hasty retreat below to the safety of the gig’s aft weather shelter as Johansen and Goldstein took their positions fore and aft with boathooks. Not for display this time, but the very important task of snagging the bridle and attaching the shackles to the lifting points for the gig.
Cruz backed full to check the gig’s speed slowing the gig immediately under the dangling bridle. It was tricky because of the swirl from Argonne’s backing down, but he managed to hold the gig steady enough for the four shackles to be attached. The moment that was seen by Aviation Chief Boatswain’s Mate Bledsoe, he gave the hand signal for his assistant at the winch control to haul away—lifting the gig smartly out of the water. Clearing the lifelines and the port Kingfisher and catapult, the crane swung the gig over the yawning opening for the hangar, lowering it to rest snuggly in its cradle inside one of the fifty foot utility launches.
Ted Grabowski was standing by with eight side boys to assist Admiral Hamblen as a ladder was placed against
the side of the gig for him to disembark. Hamblen waved the side boys away, quickly demonstrating that he was reasonably spry for a man of sixty-three years. He did something else Ted was not expecting when he touched the armored deck that formed the floor of the hangar.
“Commander, my compliments to Captain McCloud and request that he not launch additional aircraft and recovers the ones airborne as soon as possible.”
Ted, dumbfounded at the order to leave Argonne defenseless, nevertheless complied, passing the information to the conning station via a JA phone talker in the hangar.
Admiral Hamblen then turned to the Marine orderly standing by. “Take me to Captain McCloud!”
Pierre Ferres had to wait the proscribed eleven minutes for today’s date before the American embassy in Switzerland began sending a long coded message. Pierre carefully wrote down the five letter groups that he would later decode in his apartment. He had long experience in copying the fist of this radioman and was certain that he had copied the message correctly. At the end he transmitted one short dot of acknowledgement—too short for the German radio direction finder net to detect let alone gain a line of position on.
Pierre then disconnected the battery terminal wires and stored the radio carefully. Replacing the loose boards and straw, he satisfied himself that the stall had been returned to its normal appearance. He did one last item of his routine in giving his best friend an apple as a reward for the stallion guarding his secret.
Ferres then went to his apartment, carefully checking the surrounding area for any sign of German intrusion. He had learned his field craft well in Virginia at Camp Smith and knew that survival was dependent on care with every aspect. Finally he sat at his small desk; and opened his copy of Voltaire’s The Age of Louis XIV from among his other favorite books. He turned to page 145 since today was the 145th day of 1942. Starting at the top of the page he took the position of the letter in the alphabet of the text, and since today was an odd number subtracted it from the position of the letter in the message. The resulting number adjusted for any wrap-around gave him the position of the decoded letter of the message. He then moved to the second letter of the text and so on until he had finished the message.
The communiqué from the embassy was long, but since Pierre was practiced, he finished the decoding in only thirty minutes, quickly memorized the text, and placed the message and the decoded copy in his pocket. He always smiled to himself when he put his code book back on his desk—hidden in plain sight. He descended into the barn once more and fed both papers to a goat before he stepped outside and started off to a rendezvous where he could meet the Maquis.
With a flat calm sea, Sheppard did not have to maneuver Argonne to create a slick for his Kingfishers to land. He still needed to worry about the target he was creating for any lurking submarines. Though he did not know if the subs were German or Italian, the Axis had clearly concentrated several off of Mers el Kébir. How many he did not know? He also did not know why they were here. He was also about to lose his airborne eyes to see down into the clear Mediterranean. Why was Hamblen demanding that he lose his airborne eyes and anti-submarine defense? All he could hope for was trying to prevent his enemy from gaining a fire control solution on his course and speed until he recovered his aircraft. Accordingly, he directed the Conning Officer to start a broad weave using a constant rudder angle to port and then back to starboard as Argonne moved away from the coast.
Sheppard directed the airdales to set up the recovery sled aft. Just a large matt of loosely woven steel cables, it was designed to be towed (port, starboard, or aft) by Argonne and allow the projecting hook on the pontoon of the Kingfishers to grab the wires. The airplane could then cut its engine and remain alongside being towed while the radioman connected the lifting cable to the aircraft and boat crane hook. The system worked well, but was much slower than the arrested landing system on carriers. It was also much more subject to the vagaries of weather.
Bronco had directed Barry Jensen to land first as he continued his lazy circles at 1,000 feet keeping a wary eye for additional submarines. He could not attack, but at least he could warn. Barry circled at low altitude astern of Argonne waiting for the rigging of the recovery sled to be completed. One of the great things about being assigned to the ship for long periods was the ability to work out coordination issues through practice, practice, and more practice. Evolutions like recovery could then be conducted rapidly without radio chatter cluttering the airwaves or disclosing information to an enemy.
Capitano di Fregata Pietro Pasquale, commander of the Forty-eighth Submarine Squadron, was such an enemy. Stationed twelve nautical miles to the northeast of Mers el Kébir, he had listened to all the radio transmissions on the spotter network aboard the submarine Cosimo De’ Medici. He could barely see the tops of Argonne’s mastheads, but he saw the Kingfishers flying low on the horizon. He also guessed that both the Mazzini had been sunk and the Macchiavelli had either been sunk or damaged. Back in Naples, he had argued against deploying the maiale fitted submarines this early in Operation Guardare al Futuro, but he had been overruled. Now the plan to attack the French destroyers would have to be aborted. Without eight of the twelve submersibles, there were not enough to make the necessary impact on the French anti-submarine screen, forfeiting the element of surprise, before they deployed from Mers el Kébir. As long as the screen remained mostly intact, the thirty-two first class submarines covering the route out of the Mediterranean would have a difficult time attacking the French battleships should they try to escape prior to the Italian fleet's arrival.
There was nothing Pietro could do except report cancelling the special attack after sundown.
The Conning Officer had ordered, “Steady as you go,” to allow Barry to hook on to the recovery sled as Admiral Hamblen arrived in the conning station. The Boatswain’s Mate of the Watch sounded off with, “Admiral on deck,” causing everyone to stiffen and the whispers between watch standers in the course of their duties to end. Sheppard turned to Admiral Hamblen with a cheerful, “Good morning, Admiral,” trying to read the expression on his face.
Winded from the long climb, the Admiral went to Sheppard’s chair and sat to catch his breath. “Admiral, would you like a cup of coffee or some water?” Sheppard solicitously asked.
“No, thank you.” The Admiral gasped for a breath. “I am only staying a minute,” gasping again.
Their conversation was interrupted by a report that the first Kingfisher had hooked on and was being lifted aboard. Sheppard ducked out of the conning station for a moment to verify that all was well, noting that Bronco was landing.
“Sheppard, have you enough fuel for another high speed run, this time to Toulon and back?”
With no idea what the Admiral had in mind, Sheppard could only rely on his memory of the last noon fuel, oil, and water report. “Admiral, I should be around 37 percent. Another two thousand miles will barely leave enough for a cruise to Gibraltar.”
Hamblen’s stare hardened. “But you will have enough!”
Recognizing the right answer when told, Sheppard could only say, “Yes sir!”
“Good, get going as soon as your last Kingfisher is aboard!’
“Aye, aye, sir!” Sheppard answered remembering why he hated serving in flagships. You were never the master of your own command and frequently had no idea what the Admiral was thinking.
“Shep (using his academy nickname), I’ll explain as soon as I can change my uniform and recover from this climb. Please have your Marine Major also present and send this message for me.” Taking a message blank from the chair side pocket he said, “Argonne is an immense ship; it is a long climb for an old Admiral.” With that the Admiral quickly wrote out a message on a signal pad, left, and headed down to his stateroom on the port side opposite the Captain’s.
Captain McCloud went to the 21MC to alert Engineering to the impending need for maximum power—again. At least Mr. Hess’s new propellers were really getting a work out. If this trip didn’
t prove their worth Sheppard didn’t know what would. Argonne had not slowed in the Atlantic crossing and he suspected that the propellers had not eroded much based on her continued high speed.
A minute later, Bronco was hooked on, lowered into the hangar, and the recovery sled lifted back aboard. With Captain McCloud’s permission, the Conning Officer ordered, “All ahead flank,” and turned to course 022o to pass to the west of the Balearic Islands. At least at this speed Sheppard would not have to worry about a submarine gaining a firing solution on the Argonne. There was just not enough time between sighting her masts and when she would be past the firing point, even if the submarine was in the perfect position by chance. Sheppard would never really discover and no one would ever tell him that from this moment on, his crew referred to him respectfully as “Ol’ Shep.”
Pilot Officer Archie Willoughby with his navigator/photographer banked low over the island of Langeoog avoiding the German Freya and Würzburg radar sites by crossing the coast between Esens and Neuharlingersiel. The two Merlin twenty series engines pushed the Mosquito I at over 300 miles per hour, faster than German fighters could catch at low altitudes. They continued southeast passing over farmland west of Wittmund until they were nearly to Friedeburg. Turning east, they passed south of Schortens and climbed to just under the base of the clouds at about 1,500 feet.
As they climbed, the docks at Wilhelmshaven lay directly in front of them for their photo run. The only thing that Archie noticed was the surprisingly light anti-aircraft fire from the German fleet in the Jade Estuary. He had been briefed that it would be much heavier. “Bout time for some bloody luck,” he commented as the Mosquito I completed the run from west to east and dove back to wave hugging heights.
Sheppard and the French Rescue Page 14