Gruppenfűhrer Karl Bodermann read the plain language message that had been sent by the American Embassy in Switzerland on several of the French Navy frequencies for the third time trying to find a hidden meaning. There had to be one. He just could not believe that the Maquis could move people that fast from the south of France to the northeast corner of the occupied country without his knowledge. But there it was.
“Families safe in depths of Argonne Forest.” He would send several companies of SS to search, but the forests were large and the terrain rough. It was easy for people to stay hidden. During World War I whole battalions got lost there for days. From that aspect it made sense that the Maquis would hide people in the Argonne. It also made sense that the French would move the families north for eventual evacuation to England.
Of course he knew of the annihilation of one of his platoons in the Toulon area. He had sent a company of SS soldiers to recover the bodies of Germany’s heroes. The Maquis never left wounded alive. His men were also instructed to make an example of this fishing village of Le Brusc. It had been a source of smuggling on the south coast too long anyway. The occasional luxury items that were brought in from French North Africa no longer interested him. Even as profitable as the smuggling had been to him personally in satisfying Himmler’s and Goering’s appetites for the finer pieces of French art evacuated there before Germany occupied the remainder of France in 1941.
That man, Blauvelt, had been too impetuous to be a good officer anyway. Karl would not really miss him. Rounding up the French naval families was just one of many failures that Blauvelt had stumbled through. Karl smiled at the thought that he was not going to be embarrassed again with Blauvelt’s shortcomings, but he still needed to be replaced. Karl decided to send SturmbannFührer Otto Reiniger to Marseilles and teach the south coast of France the price of resistance to the German occupation.
Fregattenkapitän Bodermann hung up the receiver of his telephone. Now he had to face Admiral Schröder with the news that the French naval families had escaped the grasp of the SS. Karl had assured him that they knew generally where the Maquis was hiding them, but the area was large, rough, and heavily wooded. It would take time before they would be rounded up. Fritz never thought to ask where that might be. He only assumed that it would be in the Toulon area.
The one German who would have understood that the “depths of the Argonne” did not refer to a forest at all, but rather the American battle cruiser Argonne commanded by his personal nemesis Captain Sheppard McCloud, was never told what the message said.
Klaus Schröder took out a bottle of Schnapps to console himself and began reading the routine morning messages that the German Embassy had thoughtfully copied from the Kriegsmarine broadcasts.
Sheppard must have dozed off. His Officer of the Deck was trying to get his attention. What time was it? How long had he been asleep on the conning station? Had he said anything in his sleep? He did not remember dreaming.
“Captain, Captain, combat is reporting a bogey (unidentified air contact) on the Sugar King radar bearing three-one-two range eight-zero miles. It looks like it is searching along the French coast.”
As Sheppard shook his head trying to clear the fog he asked, “What time is it?”
“Zero-six-twenty-five, Captain.”
Sheppard got up and went to the quartermaster’s chart. Argonne was about sixty nautical miles south of Marseilles almost to the center of the Gulf of Lion.
“Captain, I sent for the Chief Engineer. He came earlier wanting to talk to you, but said it could wait until I woke you for some other reason. I have also alerted the duty gunnery officer concerning the bogey.”
“Very well.”
It didn’t take long for Commander Chris Peterson to climb the sixteen decks from main control on Argonne’s first platform deck to the conning station. He had brought Chief Machinist’s Mate Greg Anderson, Argonne’s fuel king with him. Greg’s job with his assistants was to manage the hundreds of fuel tanks on the ship, keeping an accurate inventory of how much fuel was being used and how much remained available. Available was a key, since it was impossible to drain the last gallon of the heavy black ‘Navy Special’ out of any of the tanks. Some, in fact most, of the tanks were part of the torpedo defense system and remained filled with fluid, either oil or sea water, at all times. For those tanks, the heavy oil barely floated on top of the water pumped in to force the oil into what were called clean fuel oil tanks located in each boiler room. Twenty-four hours a day seven days a week, Chief Anderson’s men worked in the bowels of Argonne to fill and refill those sixteen clean fuel oil tanks.
“Good morning, Captain.”
Sheppard turned to face the two men. “Good morning, Engineer, good morning, Chief Anderson, it is good to see you again.” Greg Anderson was one of the men that Captain Rogers of Sheppard’s first battle cruiser command, the Shenandoah, had allowed to transfer to Argonne so that Captain McCloud had some men he could rely on immediately. Sheppard really hadn’t needed them for that, but they had quickly made sure Argonne knew how Sheppard wanted to do business.
The fact that Chris had brought the fuel king meant that there was trouble.
“Captain, you have to slow down! If we stay at Flank speed all the way to Mers el Kébir, we will be running on fumes by the time we get there. There will be nothing left to get to where the tankers should be at Gibraltar.”
Many sailors think that ships run like cars. If you go faster, you burn more fuel. But your miles per gallon stays the same within reason. Unfortunately, on a ship, if you double the speed, it takes roughly eight times the power to drive it. That means eight times the rate of fuel consumption to only go twice as far per hour. What Chris was saying was that by slowing down, Argonne would significantly decrease the rate of fuel consumption and as a result go a much greater distance.
Slowing unfortunately meant that Argonne would become more vulnerable to submarines and would not clear away from the French coast as fast.
“I understand, Engineer. Here is a problem I want you to work out for me. I want to run at flank to get away from the French coast for two more hours. If I slow then, how slow do I need to run to get to Gibraltar with a layover of twelve hours in Mers el Kébir and a reserve of two hours at flank, if we run into trouble with the Italians?”
“Yes sir, we’ll work out the numbers, but we have to make assumptions on how much oil we can get out of the tanks.”
“I understand, take your best guesses. I’ll see if we can’t get a tanker or two to Mers el Kébir; but don’t count on it.”
Feldwebel Siegfried Arnoldt was the FuG Rostock radar operator on the FW200C Kondor flying over the south coast of France. The Kriegsmarine had requested Luftwaffe assistance in locating a warship that had destroyed three Schnellboote off the fishing village of Le Brusc and then disappeared to the south. Flying out of Bordeaux, the Kondor had been airborne for almost ninety minutes, when Siegfried got his first returns on the Rostock. He immediately alerted his pilot Oberleutnant Otto Klöpffel to the possibility of a ship to the south east.
Otto banked the four-engine Kondor in that direction as Siegfried called off the ranges and bearings to the contact. There might well be some merchant ships in the Gulf of Lion operating between neutral Spain and France. The last thing that Otto wanted was to raise a false alarm that his buddies would leap on when he returned to base. The further that the FW200 flew, the less likely this contact looked like a merchant ship. It was moving much too fast. Otto decided that the winds aloft must have changed considerably from the last time they calculated them by radar fixes on the coast. No ship could move at 90 kilometers per hour.
Oberleutnant Klöpffel decided on two things. First, he would gamble and radio in his contact report to IX Fliegerkorps headquarters. Second, he was going to visually identify and photograph this contact. He doubted that any of his squadron mates in the first staffel of Kampfgeschwarder 200 would ever believe him that a ship could go this fast unless he showed them pr
oof.
“Captain, Combat, bogey has turned toward and is closing at approximately 200 knots. Bogey is hostile based upon Rostock radar emissions, single aircraft, designate Raid One bearing three-one-seven degrees, range six-zero miles, high.”
Sheppard Acknowledged on the 21MC, “Roger, Combat.”
“Guns, Captain, track raid one!”
Chuck Williamson was in the command tower evidently giving one of his officers some sleep, “Guns roger, track raid one.” He addressed his 1JC phone talker. “Sky Eight, track raid one, bearing three-one-seven degrees. Sky Eight, control mounts five-zero-one, five-zero-three, five-one-nine, and five-two-one. All designated mounts load special anti-aircraft common. Sky Seven, Sky Six, track raid one bearing three-one-seven.”
“Captain, Combat, raid one bearing three-one-eight degrees, range five-zero miles, medium.”
Sheppard knew that this was inevitable. The Luftwaffe had to find him eventually. He had just hoped to be further away from France before it happened. With any luck, he would be able to shoot this snooper down before he made a contact report. Even if he did though, he had to plan for the opposite possibility. The ranges that CIC was calling off kept decreasing until the sky lookouts on the O-16 level reported, “Contact bearing one-nine-three relative, position angle one, (meaning the aircraft was approximately 10o above the horizon) contact classified Foxtrot-William-Two-Zero-Zero.”
“Guns, Captain, commence firing.”
“Guns, roger.”
“Continuous fire, master key, continuous aim,” was relayed to the firecontrol system and guns.
Oberleutnant Otto Klöpffel had never seen a ship that big or a wake that long. The ship had to be about 400 meters at least. There were three triple turrets—big ones. The British did not have such ships in Force H that he was aware of. He hoped it wasn’t Italian. He would be the laughing stock of his squadron if that was the case. They had ships that had that turret arrangement.
The ship was shooting at him. He did not know what nationality it was, but even the Italians could not mistake the appearance of a German Kondor. The first explosion started a fire in his number four engine.
Otto banked hard to the left. All thought of photographs disappeared as he fought to keep control of his aircraft. He pulled the fire extinguisher lever for the number four engine and demanded a report from his copilot on its effectiveness. Whatever this ship was it had managed to hit him at a range of almost 20 kilometers. The next explosion was under the center of the Kondor’s fuselage, breaking the main spars for the wing. The FW200 folded up like a falling house of cards in a fire ball of burning gasoline.
Sheppard was on the starboard open conning platform fighting the wind. He saw the aircraft start to smoke and then disappear in a fireball. Returning to the shelter of the conning station he ordered, “Cease fire,” on the 21MC. He went to the chart table and began to calculate how long it would take for the Luftwaffe to ready aircraft and organize a strike. Any reasonable estimate meant he could not escape.
IX Fliegerkorps headquarters received the position report at about 0652. It took a few minutes to contact General der Flieger Joachim Coeler and get a decision on what units to use in the attack. By about 0704 the field orders went out to the airbases of the first Gruppe of Kampfgeschwarder 73 (I.KG 73) to attack with all three staffeln (squadrons) of JU-88A-4 bombers. Major Ludwig von Sichart, Gruppenkommandeur of I.KG 73, decided to attack with the first two staffeln (1.KG 73 & 2.KG 73) equipped with armor piercing bombs and his third staffel (3.KG 73) equipped with torpedoes. With his personal stabsschwarm of three more JU88s he would hit this target with 39 aircraft flying out of Toulouse.
It took an hour and a half to fuel and arm all the JU88s. The crew briefings were done at the same time so that takeoff was scheduled for 0845 GMT. It was going to be a long flight. As long as the target remained on the same course and speed it was a simple problem to predict the intercept point. The visibility was expected to improve the further south he went. At least that was the weather forecast from the data given by the Spanish.
IX Fliegerkorps headquarters had lost contact with the Kondor for some reason preventing Major von Sichart from gaining any additional intelligence on the target’s classification other than a “huge three turret” warship. He had no idea of what type of flak defenses he was going to be facing; however, his men had never had any real problems with the feeble efforts of the British to defend their convoys; when they were foolish enough to come within range that is.
There was no way around it. Sheppard had double checked Chief Anderson’s calculations with Chris Peterson twice. He had to slow to only 24 knots. At that speed, a good submarine commander could make a successful attack. Argonne did not even have enough fuel to zigzag making the submarine firecontrol problem more difficult. The only thing he could do was try to make the submarines submerge by keeping his Kingfishers up continuously during daylight. In the open ocean it would be much harder to see them from the air, but it was all Sheppard could do.
“Conning Officer, slow to standard speed. Set standard speed at twenty-four knots. Officer of the Deck, as soon as we slow prepare to launch aircraft.” The orders were issued. He went back to his chair to sit—and hope.
It was only fifteen minutes before the Kingfishers were ready to launch. A quick word from Sheppard and the powder charges hurled Bronco and Barry off the starboard and port catapults. Bronco climbed to get the best view into the clear Mediterranean waters that he could, in the ten miles ahead and on either beam of Argonne, while Barry flew ahead to drive any submarines under.
It was going to be a near thing. If the warship maintained its speed, the JU88s would barely have enough fuel with their ordered bomb loads to make it to the target and back with little extra to safely search should the target change course or speed. Major von Sichart had always thought it was unnecessarily hard that he had to maintain this sham of Spanish neutrality. Several of his crews had made forced landings and the Spanish authorities had always repaired and refueled his bombers, sending them back as fast as if they had landed on German bases. Well, Ludwig had to comply with the field order from IX Fliegerkorps headquarters directing him to attack. They must have known that he could not comply unless he flew over the north east corner of Spain. So he did.
By his calculations he should intercept the ship at about 1045. At least the weather forecast had been accurate. The cloud layer was climbing and dissipating the further south he flew. He decided against a simultaneous attack. It was too easy for a warship to avoid his torpedoes. He needed to damage it first with his bombs, and then sink it with the underwater explosions of torpedoes.
“Conning station, Combat, Sugar King, radar contact, many bogeys, designate raid two, bearing three-three-five, range six-zero miles.” Sheppard knew that this was the expected raid from the Luftwaffe in revenge for what he had accomplished.
Sheppard answered it on the 21MC himself, “Combat, Captain, roger … Officer of the Deck, man battle stations!”
“Guns, Captain. Action starboard, track raid two“
The Boatswain’s Mate of the Watch passed the familiar Word to be passed followed by, “General quarters, general quarters; man your battle stations.” The general alarm was then sounded with a final, “Man your battle stations!” Sheppard knew that the odds of Argonne escaping damage this time were very slim. It wasn’t like there was only one aircraft or a few to concentrate his fire against.
“Captain, Combat. Estimate raid two at thirty-plus aircraft.” He might be able to destroy half of them, but there were enough to saturate his directors and gun mounts. The 5-inch radar fuses were wonderful but they did not make up for escorts closer to the raid, more directors, or more guns. By the time the Germans reached the maximum effective range of his 40mm mounts, it was a given that some would get through.
Major von Sichart was flying just under the overcast with his stabsschwarm at an altitude of 2,000 meters. Visibility was good and he should be seeing his target dead
ahead in only 15 minutes. Whatever this ship was his 1,000 kilogram armor piercing bombs would take care of it. They might only have an explosive charge of 55 kilos of TNT, but they could penetrate over 17 centimeters of hardened steel from the release altitude and dive of his aircraft. Two staffeln of his JU88s were carrying two each.
His third staffel was armed with F5b 45cm torpedoes. He fully expected them to do the real damage with their 250-kilogram explosive charges. They had proven very effective against the British merchant ships in the Bay of Biscay until the convoys from Gibraltar to Britain had moved further out into the Atlantic. The torpedoes did have a limitation—they only had a range of 2,000 meters, but their high speed at 40 knots meant that the target had very limited time to try and maneuver away from their tracks. He might lose some aircraft and crews, but he was certain he would sink this ship.
The familiar reports of stations being manned and then the department’s reports of stations being ready were coming to the conning station. Admiral Hamblen and Commander Halverson had both decided to join Captain McCloud on the O-12 level. Curious the Admiral asked, “What do you have?”
“Air raid, Admiral, a large one! We are probably going to be hurt. I’ve ordered the civilians down to the fourth deck passageways. I want them below armor when the bombs start dropping.”
“Captain, Combat, raid two bears three-zero-nine, range three-seven miles and closing, altitude medium.”
Sheppard answered, “Captain, roger,” but something wasn’t right. The raid was drawing to the left; “Combat, report raid two course and speed.”
“Captain, Combat, working on it now.”
Sheppard and the French Rescue Page 21