Kirov Saga: Hinge Of Fate: Altered States Volume III (Kirov Series)

by Schettler, John

  A small convoy of 4200 British Troops and 2700 Free French troops departed from the Clyde, escorted by three cruisers and four destroyers. Along the way the cruiser Fiji was hit by Lieutenant Jenisch on U-32, and the cruiser Australia suffered a near miss, but the force squeaked through to rendezvous with a strong detachment from Force H. The combined force headed for Freetown for provisioning prior to their planned approach to Dakar. There they would offer another ultimatum, and should the French decline, it was Vice Admiral Cunningham’s job to smash the French fleet and land nearly 7000 troops to seize this vital port. If successful it would leave only Casablanca to be accounted for, but the French got wind of the operation, and immediately dispatched naval reinforcements from Toulon.

  Three cruisers and three destroyers had been ordered to the colony of Gabon near the Congo, where De Gaulle’s influence had seduced the local authorities there away from the Vichy fold. Instead they were ordered to Dakar, and a battle that was never written in any of the history books Fedorov had in his library was now gathering like the restless late summer clouds that formed off the African coast.

  * * *

  Situated a little over 900 kilometers south of Dakar, Freetown was the capital of Sierra Leone and a valuable British sanctuary on an African coast largely occupied by Vichy France. As such it became a valuable stopping point for outbound convoys and a place to dock and replenish warships serving to escort them.

  Captain Christopher Wells was out on the weather deck of HMS Glorious, sailing under fair skies and calm winds. The ship was riding easily, her belly topped off with fuel and a flight of four Swordfish spotted on deck and ready for immediate takeoff. Remembering a day very like this in the Norwegian Sea some months ago, Wells had also posted lookouts on his high main mast even though he might have dispensed with that this go around. Glorious had been alone then, with only two destroyers in escort, and Wells still shuddered to recall those difficult moments when he had struggled to save the ship from a pair of pursuing wolves in Scharnhorst and Gneisenau. Now he felt a good deal more secure, surrounded by a family of strong Royal Navy ships that included the battleships Barham and Resolution, heavy cruisers Cornwall and Cumberland arriving from Capetown, and a flotilla of six destroyers fanned out around the bigger ships like a gaggle of geese.

  Wells’ good friend Lieutenant Woodfield came out on the weather deck to take up his watch, pleased to see the Captain there.

  “Still mixing with the lower ranks, Captain?” he said with a smile. His friend had moved up another rung on the ladder of command while Woodfield remained a Lieutenant.

  “Fine day, Woody, and we’re finally ready to settle accounts with the French.”

  “Still brooding on that business off Mers-el-Kebir?”

  “We never got there. Most of the French fleet slipped right out the back door to Toulon.”

  “Not quite, Welly. You notched your belt with a pair of battleships as I recall.”

  “Who could forget that,” said Wells, still remembering how he felt when he first received the news that his Swordfish from 823 and 825 squadrons, planes sent out by his command, had found and sunk the old WWI era battleships Bretagne and Provence. He had raised his hand against Britain’s former allies, put over 1300 French sailors into the sea, and so enraged the French that they now openly sided with the Axis. It was all his fault, or so he believed for a good long while after that, in spite of Admiral Somerville’s praise for his conduct in the operation and assurance that he would have done the very same thing, distasteful as it was.

  Now he was back in the same game, out assigned as primary air cover asset for Operation Menace, the British plan to seize Dakar. They were already three hours out of Freetown, heading north for the showdown that was supposed to play out like the original plan for Mers-el-Kebir. Yet like that plan, the French had again been forewarned of the British moves. Ships out of Toulon had already been dispatched to reinforce Dakar, and had managed to slip past the watch at Gibraltar on a dark night the previous day. Wells got that news only an hour ago, and knew he would soon be tasked to get planes out to look for the Toulon squadron.

  “I don’t like it, Woody,” he said. “I look out at those two fat battleships there and should feel at ease, but I have misgivings about this mission. Something tells me the French are on to us.”

  “So what if they are? R.A.F. got a look at that squadron that slipped past Gibraltar and it’s only three light cruisers and a few destroyers. They say it put in to Casablanca. That won’t be much help to the French given what I see around us here.”

  Woodfield might have been more cautious had he know that the French Squadron had sailed into Casablanca the previous morning to re-provision and sortie again, with one more addition to the fleet that could be very troublesome, the battleship Jean Bart. This force had already slipped through the Canary Islands and was heading south for the Cape Verde Islands where the French were staging their own little operation as part of a much bigger plan that would soon unhinge far more than either man could imagine that fair morning.

  The British troop convoy had detached the cruisers Australia and Devonshire to look for the French ships, but they had been unable to find them off Casablanca. These two cruisers were still patrolling far to the north, and slowly working their way down to Dakar.

  “So we go for the gold, Wells.” Woodfield was still exuberant. “I’ve heard that bullion reserves for the Bank of France were spirited off to Dakar. That’s reason enough for us to get hold of the place, eh? And that harbor is far superior to our anchorages at Freetown. With it we’ll have a good watch on the convoy routes south, and then it’s on to Casablanca to finish things up.”

  “I wish I had your enthusiasm,” said Wells. Yes, Woodfield had the spirit in him this morning, a lieutenant’s dash and bravado. Wait until he wears a Captain’s hat one day and feels the weight of those new stripes on his shoulder boards.

  “Just keep a positive attitude, Wells. We’ve sixteen good 15-inch guns out there between those two battleships.”

  “Yes well the French will still out gun us. They’ll have twenty!”

  “But those ships will be sitting in the harbor—a pair of nice fat geese.”

  “That’s what we thought at Mers-el-Kebir. If they’ve sent this squadron from Toulon, then they’ll certainly know what we’re up too here. I wouldn’t keep my ships anchored in port, and I’m not so sure the French will either.”

  “Well, we’ve got a man or two there, don’t we? Latest word from the signals traffic is that both French battleships are still sitting in port.”

  “At the moment,” Wells cautioned. “We’re still a full day south of them here. Let’s hope we find them there this time tomorrow morning when we’re sitting off Dakar.”

  It was going to be a long 24 hours steaming at 18 knots to get the British squadron up north to Dakar. By this time tomorrow Wells expected he would have most of 823 Squadron’s Swordfish in the air, with 825 Squadron spotting on deck to join them. Before that he would have to get a reconnaissance flight up north of their position to look for any sign of that flotilla from Toulon.

  Wells passed a sleepless night, up from his bunk twice and pacing on deck with a pipe that he had taken to smoking. The rituals of the habit seemed to calm him a bit, and let him think things through, his thoughts wafting up with the smoke.

  Morning came with the signal arriving from Vice Admiral Cunningham aboard HMS Resolution: “Ultimatum to be delivered by wire at 09:00 hrs. Mine laying to begin 09:15, with torpedo squadron ready to receive strike orders at that time.”

  Wells was ready. He had dispatched four Swordfish of 823 Squadron north on a wide reconnaissance fan, with four more loaded for the mine laying operation. The last four would join with the twelve planes of 825 Squadron to form his strike element. He was to send one plane in at the crack of dawn to overfly Dakar and report any signs that the French might be trying to get up steam.

  The report he received from that little sortie was
most disconcerting. The lone Swordfish was up at 05:00 and on its way. Thirty minutes later the word came back that changed everything. There would be no need to issue any ultimatum later that morning. The French fleet was gone.

  Chapter 20

  “This latest information from Bletchley Park is somewhat alarming, sir.” Daddy Brind had come in with another dispatch, but the mention of Bletchley Park immediately got Admiral Tovey’s attention.

  “The Germans seem to be running several mobile divisions through training in Southern France, very near the Spanish frontier. I don't know quite what to make of it, but scuttlebutt seems to think the Germans may have intentions involving Spanish neutrality. We received word from Bletchley Park yesterday that there may be a high level meeting being arranged.”

  The implications of what Brind was saying were not lost on the Admiral. Spain's neutrality had been a great bulwark for the British operating out of Gibraltar. The vast land area of the Iberian Peninsula, safe behind the ragged walls of the Pyrenees mountains, offered a welcome buffer of security for the vital British base. Admiral Tovey raised an eyebrow, thinking.

  “If the Germans have intentions involving Spain,” he said, “then all these troop movements we’re seeing may have a darker purpose. Perhaps the Admiralty is keeping a hat on this for the time being, but I expect we'll hear about it if there is any truth to these rumors. Lord, what a nightmare.” The Admiral’s mood was somber and serious now, and Brind found him somewhat distracted, a distant look in his eye, as if he were considering something deeply that seemed insoluble to him. He seemed a bit haggard of late, ever since that meeting at the Faeroe Islands with the Russians.

  “Do you really think the Germans would attempt to mount an invasion of Spain at this time, sir?” Brind folded his arms, his eyes serious, his expression one of genuine concern.

  Tovey set down his tea and perked up, drawn back to the here and now. “It may interest you to know that R.A.F. has had a look at this concentration in southern France, Mister Brind,” said the Admiral. “It appears there are two full mechanized divisions forming up just north of the passes. Latest intelligence has them designated 16th Panzer Division and 16th Motorized Division.”

  “Only two divisions?” Brind was not impressed. “It's a long way from France to Gibraltar, sir. If the Germans commenced an operation of this nature my guess is it would take 30 days or more, even if Spanish resistance folded in the face of such an attack. That would give us plenty of time to load up fast troop ships and get some boys down to Gibraltar if need be.”

  “And suppose there is no resistance…” Tovey let that hang there, watching Brind close to gauge his reaction.

  “You mean to say—”

  “Yes Daddy, this note from Bletchley Park you mention could be the ticket the Germans need now. What if Franco throws in with them? These two heavy divisions in southern France could just roll right in unopposed. This is an entirely new kettle of fish. It’s not my watch, but if the Germans are bold enough to pull off something like this we’ll be looking at plans for a counter-invasion of Spain before we know it, and the Navy will be paramount in that instance. In this light, all this steam up in the German fleet seems rather ominous. Let's just hope the rumors are simply that.”

  “Well sir, there are also rumors about the buildup on the Polish Russian frontier, but that may not be a wise move for Hitler, not now that hostilities have resumed between Orenburg and the Siberians.”

  “That's what's so damnably bothersome about all this.” The Admiral leaned back in his chair wishing he had had another three hours sleep. “That meeting at Omsk led us to believe Volkov had come to an arrangement with the Siberians. Then a week later he crosses the border with six divisions. Well he won’t want a fight with the Soviets until that resolves itself, and the Germans would be wise to leave Russia sleeping quietly as well—and that is what worries me. Spain… It's the logical next move for them. It's either that or they open hostilities against Russia. Big build up there as well. Hitler may be taking on more than he can chew, but we'll have to plan for every possible contingency.”

  “That we will, sir,” said Brind. “Good to know the Russians have thrown in with us. This offer of a technology transfer was gracious. Is their radar really that good, sir?”

  “So I have been told.” Tovey folded his arms, wishing he could fully unburden himself here and let Daddy Brind in on all that he had learned during that conference with the Russians. Away from them three days now, the normal routine of his work at fleet headquarters here at Scapa Flow had occupied his mind, but the amazing revelations that had been made still lay on him like a magic spell. At times he found himself sitting at his desk, staring out the window, or pouring tea and taking a single sip and then letting it go cold in his hand as he sat, his thoughts ranging on distant possibilities that he struggled to foresee.

  “Well,” he said. “I’ve been sitting on my duff reading and writing reports the last three days. Now I must make a few deliveries. Have a plane waiting for me at Kirkwell, will you?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I see Hood has been swaddled up at Greenock. I’m going down to have a look at her and see how the work is going. But I’ll be flying directly to London from there. Have the two new fellows out there ready for a stroll in 48 hours. I’ll want them north of Londonderry, and HMS Invincible can join them. I’ll collar a destroyer in the Clyde and come out to join the party when my business is concluded.” The two new fellows were King George V and Prince of Wales, Britain’s newest additions to the fleet.

  “Very good, sir. I’ll make the arrangements and see that all the invitations go out.”

  “Good then… Oh, and Mister Brind, make sure I’m kept fully in the loop regarding that operation at Dakar. And as to that buildup north of the Spanish Border—phone down to RAF Saint Eval and ask them to have another look. Put my name to the request.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Tovey was up and on his way, opening the door and hearing a dry squeak that seemed to grate on him. We’ll need to get that oiled, he thought, stuffing the thought away like a man pocketing his handkerchief and forgetting about it. But far to the south, the dry squeak of the hinge of fate was grating on other men, in the warm late summer waters off Dakar.

  * * *

  “The Flagman seems to be well into it this morning,” said Wells as he stood on the weather bridge of HMS Glorious. Commander Lovell nodded agreeably, smiling as the man stiff armed his flag signal and sent the last plane from 823 Squadron running down the deck for takeoff.

  Wells leaned on the gunwale, noting how the new slate grey paint still looked so fresh on the ship’s wounds. They had done a bang up job to get her up and running again, but he knew the old girl was still scarred underneath that greasepaint, with the char of smoke and battle.

  “Mister Heath has called up, sir,” said Lovell. “He’s recommending another pair of Gladiators from 802 Squadron come up for fleet air defense.”

  “Good enough,” said Wells. “In fact, I’d be more comfortable with a full flight of four planes up. See that Heath gets the message.”

  “Aye sir.” Lovell flicked off a salute and went inside, leaving Wells to his muse.

  So today’s the day, he thought, another showdown with the French. I can’t believe they will be any less agreeable, and they’re out there somewhere, probably within easy range of Dakar if they hope to defend that place.

  Dakar was situated on a long 40 kilometer isthmus that jutted east from the African mainland and came to a sharp point, which was the westernmost point of Africa. Beneath this the isthmus stretched another 14 kilometers, angling back towards the mainland until it reached another sharp point at Cape Mamuel. The harbor was just north of this, one of the best on the African coast, and a knife pointed directly at British convoy routes bound for Freetown and Capetown.

  After learning that the harbor at Dakar was empty, Wells had a bad feeling about this mission. This was not expected, though it s
hould have been assumed after what happened at Mers-el-Kebir, he thought. The French were of no mind to sit on their backsides and wait for us to come calling. They obviously got wind of what we were up to here and slipped away. Now I’ve got to find them. HMS Glorious is the eyes of this battle squadron, and the thought that a pair of French battleships are at large now is most disconcerting.

  He remembered the last two battleships that had caught Glorious napping on her return leg from Norway. That would never happen again, he resolved, but the shadow of that engagement still lay heavily on him. Two more battleships… I don’t think Vice Admiral Cunningham had things planned this way. We’ve a pair of old ladies out there ourselves, good ships, but a bit long in the teeth. Barham was passed over when they refit the rest of her class. They had only replaced a few AA batteries and pulled her old wisdom teeth in the two remaining torpedo tubes. She had just come out of the dock yards at Liverpool a few months back, after suffering a torpedo hit from U-30 the previous December. Resolution had kept company with the 1st Battle Squadron of the old Grand Fleet during WWI. Both were slow at no more than 23 knots, and if it came to a chase they would have no chance against the newer French ships they were now hunting.

  How could the French have slipped away like this, he wondered? Our cover operation to Freetown as Force M obviously didn’t fool anyone. It was put out that Force M was in transit to Capetown to pick up a convoy. The French might have men there who relayed information as to our departure, but we turned south and got well out to sea before swinging around to head north for Dakar. In spite of that the French seemed to know our every movement. It was as if they had read the fleet orders and knew our exact planned arrival time here at Dakar.

  With the French fleet missing, the troop convoy assigned to the landing operation was kept to the south until the enemy could be located again. There was no way the operation could be launched until those ships had been accounted for. Three hours later Wells received a signal from his scout planes. The French fleet had been spotted north of the long Ishmus of Dakar, but they were not running north for Casablanca as Vice Admiral Cunningham believed they would. Instead they were heading south, and the light of battle and a thirst for vengeance was in the eyes of their commander, on one of the most formidable ships that would ever sail, the battleship Normandie.