No Banners, No Bugles

by Edward Ellsberg

  I had to think. This sounded like Massawa all over again when I first got there by air—a major port to be cleared in a hurry and next to nothing in the way of salvage ships, men, and materials prepared in advance for the job—a situation I had never believed would be duplicated again in this war. But apparently it had been in Oran. The prospect nearly floored me. Physically I wasn’t the person I had been the winter before—the year spent struggling with Massawa had taken care of that. Where I really belonged after Massawa was in the Naval Hospital in Washington. Eisenhower had sent for a very broken reed to tackle his salvage problem in North Africa.

  But there was no help for it. Sick at heart, I thanked Bieri for his time and his generously given information. Then escorted out of G.H.Q. by the inevitable G.I. guide, I went back to the Aletti. Completely sunk, I flopped down on the bed and tried to figure a way out. I had been cherishing the childish illusion that with an American as overall Commanding General and its own soldiers heavily involved, the resources of America would, if not already prudently provided in abundance for the task, at least be available for salvage in North Africa. Now I knew better.

  “You’ll have to look to the British.” I wondered if Bieri knew the full meaning of his words. Massawa had taught me what they meant. To every request on the British there for anything, came always as reply the unvarying response,

  “There is none available.”

  And it was true too. The British were exhausted, terribly mauled, and already bled white as to the target of two years of blitzkrieg while we were still neutral. Straining every salvage resource to keep English ports open in the face of magnetic mines constantly planted to block them, they had nothing available for salvage work elsewhere.

  CHAPTER

  6

  A LITTLE BEFORE NOON, THE telephone rang to inform me that General Eisenhower would be up from his sick bed that afternoon and that I might, if lucky, perhaps see him briefly before he had to leave for a hospital tour of the wounded. If I missed him, I might as well report to his Adjutant General, who had been given the General’s instructions. I rushed back up the hill to G.H.Q.

  I found Eisenhower very sober and looking very tired, quite evidently submerged in a thousand problems, all of them headaches. He looked at me, I looked at him. What he thought of me, if anything, I don’t know. From his looks, I thought a little more help, understanding, and support from home wouldn’t hurt him. He scanned my orders briefly, said,

  “Glad to see you here, Captain,” as if he meant it, and turning to an Army aide, ordered him to see that Colonel Daly, his adjutant, endorsed my orders as having reported. “You report now to Admiral Cunningham, Captain, for duty,” he continued. “He’ll put you to work. There’s lots,” and with that he was on his way.

  After some delay waiting for my orders to be endorsed, on inquiry from Colonel Daly I learned that there was no need (or use either) to wait for my orders. When his overburdened staff had put on the proper endorsement, made God only knows how many copies as required by regulations, and he had signed the original, my orders would be returned to me at the Aletti. From the looks of the adjutant’s office packed with G.I.s hammering away none too expertly on typewriters, trying to reduce the mountains of papers before them, I judged that not the least of Eisenhower’s headaches was getting paper enough to carry on the war as per regulations.

  So about the middle of the afternoon, I turned to to carry out my oral orders to report to Admiral Sir Andrew Browne Cunningham, G.C.B., R.N., the Allied Naval Commander-in-Chief. I knew him only as a legendary figure in the Middle East, where, with inferior forces always, he had in the first years of the war so savagely battered the powerful Italian fleet every time it left its harbors (and once even inside its harbors) that an Italian super-dreadnought nowadays hardly dared face a British cruiser. But I had never seen him, for a few weeks after my arrival in the Middle East, he had been detached from the Mediterranean Fleet and gone to America to set up the task he now had in North Africa.

  Admiral Cunningham was the highest ranking officer afloat of Britain’s mighty navy, latest of a long line of fighting admirals running centuries back through Nelson to Drake and Hawkins who had smashed the Spanish Armada for Queen Elizabeth. There was nothing pretentious nor bellicose about Cunningham from his clothes to his manner. Here was Britain’s top commander, a Knight Grand Cross of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, reflecting the scarcity of everything in England, dressed in tarnished gold lace and threadbare blues, frayed at the edges, gone at the buttonholes, repaired at the elbows. Such a wornout rig would have been disdained by an American ensign for anything save unavoidable inspection of the double bottoms.

  Admiral Cunningham himself, clearly older than any others in the Allied African top command, seamed in the face, rather ruddy in complexion, square-jawed, thin enough to make him seem taller than he was, and, if there is such a thing as a typical Englishman, not at all looking like one to me, greeted me cordially by name, showing possibly he was as good a diplomat as a sailor. And further to confirm that impression, after seeing that I was seated in the best chair he had, he suggested to his Chief of Staff, Commodore Roger Dick, that it might be a splendid idea if the marine orderly outside scouted up some tea for the three of us to compensate a bit for the chill of his unheated office. That he should go to so much trouble for a captain reporting to him, clearly showed his tact, for four-stripers were as common in the Royal Navy as in the American.

  So my official tour in the North African campaign started very informally and quite cozily in tea for three served in most unmartial surroundings. But the coziness swiftly faded out as I listened to my new chief.

  “Now, Ellsberg,” said the Admiral in words only slightly British in his crisp enunciation, “I’m the one who told General Eisenhower to send for you. I knew of your work in the Red Sea. I want you to clear out Oran so it’s usable first. Meanwhile do what you can to the other harbors. Then there’s a U-boat we damaged scuttled off Tenes between here and Oran in not very deep water. If you can search that with divers, you may recover secret codes that will be valuable. But mainly I want to learn how far the Nazis have gone in fitting their U-boats with radar and anything like our Asdic for finding their targets either on the surface or submerged. Finally, of course, there’ll be various torpedoed or bombed ships in the Mediterranean to be saved if you can. I’m assigning you in command of all Allied salvage forces for this theater.”

  Rather grimly as I finished my tea I suggested to the Admiral that I had it on good authority there wasn’t much to command, only one British salvage ship with no divers and a negligible quantity of American divers of unknown and uncertain value, all at Oran. Could anything be done to improve that situation?

  Immediately I saw that I had unwittingly rubbed a raw wound. Admiral Cunningham’s eyes practically flashed fire and he flushed angrily. I noted for the first time as I looked into his flaming eyes, that one of them, the right one, seemed permanently bloodshot, accentuating his angry glance. Ignoring my question, he said in incisive tones that admitted of no discussion,

  “You mention that salvage ship at Oran, the King Salvor, which I sent there from Gibraltar. It is reported to me that her salvage officer, Lieutenant Commander White, has been relieved of his command by the American admiral in Oran and replaced by the American lieutenant in charge of the divers you refer to, all with-out reference to me. Officers of His Majesty’s Navy may not be removed save by my orders. Immediately on your return to Oran, Ellsberg, you will replace White in his command. And see that such a performance is not repeated.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” I acknowledged a little numbly. What sort of mare’s nest in Oran was I supposed to clear out? Weren’t the wrecks enough? Now I, a captain, was to go to Oran and practically slap the American admiral’s face there by peremptorily reversing his orders, all in an international situation concerning which I knew nothing whatever, but obviously loaded with dynamite. However, Admiral Cunningham was now my chief, and if
those were his orders, I’d carry them out. And from the steely look in his eyes, there was no question but that those were his orders. I judged it best to make no comment at all.

  That insult to the Royal Navy had evidently been rankling in his breast, but with it off his mind, Cunningham resumed his previous informal tone and answered my question.

  “Quite as you say, Ellsberg, about forces. Very regrettable indeed. But I have hopes of improving things a bit. I’m trying to get a sister to the King Salvor down here from England to help out and some British divers. Then there are some French divers in Oran who’ll come under your command also. But I’m afraid that will be all. You will do the best you can.”

  That led up to the only ray of hope I had been able to glimpse while I had pondered the problem at the Hotel Aletti. I sprang it on Cunningham.

  “Admiral, I had in Massawa three small salvage ships and about a dozen divers, five of them good, and some fine salvage mechanics. When I was detached a week ago, I took a chance and ordered the ships to quit diving and start loading everything to come here via the Cape of Good Hope. I couldn’t actually order them underway here, for the orders I got were simply for me, not including my salvage ships. But you can see they’re ordered here immediately. This area is more important than the Red Sea now. These ships’ll be a great help—two of them are fine tugs—only it’s 10,000 miles round the Cape and it’ll take a couple of months before they get here to lend a hand.”

  Admiral Cunningham thought it a fine idea. There ensued an earnest discussion between him and his Chief of Staff, Commodore Dick, over whether the ships at Massawa might not be ordered via Suez and the eastern Mediterranean, only 3000 miles, instead of via the 10,000 mile Cape route. But the Mediterranean between us at Algiers and Suez was not open. The British were taking terrible losses from air attacks from Sicily trying to get ships through from the west only as far as Malta to keep it supplied from Gibraltar. The axis-controlled bottleneck between Sicily and Tunisia effectually throttled all through traffic to Alexandria or Suez. That was so obvious that as a present measure, the passage of my ships wasn’t even considered. The discussion centered on whether in a month or so Eisenhower might have Tunisia and thus open the route at least to vessels hugging the shelter of the African shore. My ships, if they started via Suez, might wait out that month somewhere in the eastern Mediterranean, possibly at Tobruk in Libya, where they could be usefully employed in clearing that wrecked harbor while they waited.

  I objected. If there had to be a month’s delay in passage, my ships could hardly arrive much sooner via Suez than via Capetown. And being slow vessels, incapable of dodging any bombs, there still was a chance that even with Tunisia in our hands, air raiders from Sicily would knock them off en route or they might strike mines and be lost. And with them would go invaluable salvage gear that I now knew only too well I could never get replaced either from America or England. Finally, who knew whether Eisenhower would really take Tunisia in a month? If he didn’t, there would be more delay which would make the passage take longer even than via the Cape. And in addition, during that delay if my ships got heavily wound up in clearing Tobruk harbor, there was bound to be a fight with the Eastern Mediterranean Command over breaking them away from there to leave in the midst of an uncompleted operation. There might, for all I knew, be trouble enough in breaking them away immediately from Massawa. Why add to it at Tobruk?

  Both Admiral Cunningham and his Chief of Staff agreed. Passage via the Cape, long as it might take for my three tiny ships, was surest, safest, and probably quickest. At least some day we’d get the ships that way. So Commodore Dick was ordered to get the names of the three vessels and, through Washington, get them detached immediately from Massawa and the Middle East Command and started via Capetown for the western Mediterranean. In about two months, if there was not too much red tape to be cut in Washington arranging the transfer, we might expect to see them off Oran.

  But even two months was still two months too long to wait in semi-idleness in Oran with only the slight, unknown, and dubious forces there to clear it. I had one further idea to help. Beyond any question I wouldn’t see my salvage ships for two months yet nor their priceless salvage gear. But working with next to nothing, so long as I had a few good men to work with, was becoming second nature. And with Admiral Cunningham’s assistance I might get the few good men in time to do some good. I broached the second half of my idea.

  “Admiral, in Massawa I was serving under the army command of our General Maxwell in Cairo. General Eisenhower, I think, can radio him direct and ask to have him transfer here in a special plane immediately what I need most—as many of my divers and their diving rigs as the plane will carry. What do you think of that?”

  “Excellent idea, Ellsberg! I’m certain it can be done quickly. I knew your General Maxwell while I was in Egypt myself as C-in-C, Med. He’s a fine officer whom I know will do everything he can to help us. You tell Dick here what you want, and he’ll prepare the dispatch to Maxwell for General Eisenhower’s signature. Now you take tomorrow to look the situation over in Algiers and get acquainted at Headquarters, then return to Oran. Commodore Dick will see your orders making you Principal Salvage Officer are sent you there. Anything else, Ellsberg, before you shove off?”

  There was lots, but I could think of nothing that would be helped any by discussing it then, so I replied, “No,” and rose to leave. I might as well get to work.

  “There’s only one thing more then, Ellsberg,” said Cunningham, rising also. “Feel free to come back to see me on anything whenever you think necessary. We’ll always back you up here.” From the real warmth of his parting handshake, I had no doubt of it and felt better. Before I got through with what I’d already heard of the treacherous tangle of international jealousies and inter-service bickerings that passed for allied co-operation in North Africa, I was sure I’d need plenty of backing up.

  CHAPTER

  7

  THERE WAS AN ALERT THAT NIGHT. Air raid sirens wailed, somebody below pulled the switch in the Aletti, all the room lights went out. I seized the tin hat I had borrowed passing through Oran, and dashed for the roof. I had better see for myself what our ships were up against.

  By the time I got up the stairs to the roof, which wasn’t long as I was billeted high up, Algiers was completely blacked out. Still, how much good the blackout was going to do was questionable. Practically every building in Algiers was white, and there they all were standing plainly out in the clear night against the steep hillside facing the bay, beautifully outlining the city. As if that were not enough to mark the target, on the crest of the hill slightly to the westward of me, a tall white marble monument (resembling our Washington Monument on a reduced scale) stood boldly out against the sky, forming a perfect marker as a point of departure for any bomber starting a run over the harbor.

  The harbor itself, the target, of course, was jammed with ships of all kinds. It lay practically at my feet, stretching both ways in a long narrow crescent enclosed on the sea side by a massive breakwater forming the outer quay. So thickly were vessels packed inside that harbor, it seemed impossible to drop a bomb there without striking one of them.

  The sirens had quit screaming. An unearthly silence gripped Algiers waiting its ordeal. All vehicles had stopped, everyone on the streets had fled to air raid shelters. I knew there would be a twenty-minute interval between the alert and the bombs—Algiers always had that much warning from the stations to the eastward of it toward Tunisia.

  But if Algiers waited in silence, it was not waiting in idleness. Around that harbor I knew there was now the greatest concentration of A.A. guns anywhere in the world outside of London. Then six British Beaufighters, specially equipped with radar for night attack, had just arrived to fill a sad gap in the air defense. They must already be taking the air from Maison Blanche, in their special coloring to fade into instant invisibility in the night skies. And below me to seaward I began to see closely-spaced smudges of smoke rising all
around the harbor periphery, from the outer breakwater as well as from the quays on the landward side. As I watched, the smudges swiftly grew into pillars, spread out, vastly increased in volume. Soon, almost magically as befitted such an Arabian Nights city, the harbor and all the ships in it had vanished completely, invisible beneath a widespread lazy cloud fringing the sea side of the city. Algiers was ready.

  A few more minutes dragged painfully away. Wholly alone on the roof of the highest building in the vicinity, I waited, having already scouted out the chimneys on the Aletti’s topside which might afford me some shelter from shrapnel.

  The drone of engines became faintly audible toward the east, swiftly increased to a roar. The bombers were approaching. Searchlights abruptly flashed on, long pencils of unearthly blue light started to feel about the eastern skies. But so far as I could see, they picked up nothing. The bombers kept on coming, as yet wholly invisible from the ground. From the noise, they must be somewhere nearly overhead, still undetected.

  Then simultaneously from round about the harbor, all hell broke loose. The anti-aircraft batteries had opened up, guns of all calibers were roaring, the whole sky over the harbor was cut to pieces with fiery tracers streaming upward in terrific volume. The guns must be firing by such radar control as they had, for there were certainly no targets visible to any of the gunners.

  That umbrella of streaking projectiles and bursting shells far above the harbor was apparently too much for the unseen bomber formation. It changed direction and swerved inland to the southward to curve back and make its bombing run from the west, for the gunfire decreased in volume and swung along that path, while the noise of the engines decreased markedly.