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

by Schettler, John

  They were through that town and on their way south through Navarre and then on to Soria. By dawn the Germans had demonstrated the lightning fast ground movement they had been famous for in France during the Blitzkrieg, and were passing through Guadalajara just northeast of Madrid. From there they surged due south to Granada, planning to approach Gibraltar along the coast of the Alboran Sea. It would be a journey of some 650 miles in all, with the columns averaging 30 miles per hour on good roads, slower in the mountainous regions.

  By nightfall on the 15th of September their mad rush south was complete, and they had spent some time resting and assembling the front line units at La Linea. There they met up with forward elements that had been flown in to Spanish airfields to begin surveying the British lines and sighting for mortars and artillery. They worked closely with Spanish troops who knew this ground and could show them areas offering the best cover for infantry assault. They took particular note of the British bunker positions, assigning support fires and demolitions teams to each attack.

  By the time the Luftwaffe got about their business that night, the element of surprise was long gone, except for a few little tricks of the trade the German army would bring with them. One would be the swift pre-dawn assault on September 16th, by a forward deployed unit of the elite Brandenburg Commandos. This 150 man contingent slipped into the bay in jet-black rubber swift boats and were approaching the prominent North Mole of the Harbor. Others had secretly moved in as frogmen, and were already lingering near the mole. One plan called for them to approach in the hold of a merchant ship claiming to have been the victim of a torpedo attack, but it was discarded in favor of a bold night attack by boat.

  They waited until the pre-dawn hour, when the waning gibbous moon that was still near full would be very low, and already behind the 1700 foot high mountains overshadowing Algeciras across the bay. As soon as the moon was below the highest peak there, the first boats came in quietly, the black paddles dipping silently in the still waters. But there was just enough light for the sentry on the mole to catch the wet gleam on the sides of the lead boat. He stopped, peering into the darkness, and called out a time honored challenge, the litany of the Chief Warder of the Tower of London as he made his final round with the Keys each night to lock His Majesty’s Tower.

  “Halt! Who goes there?”

  Silence. Then came a voice in proper English saying they were seamen off a Spanish lighter that had been towed in to the smaller harbor of Algeciras to the west. The proper response to the challenge was, of course, only two words: “The Keys.” Had that response been given, the sentry would have asked: “Whose Keys?” to which the unexpected visitors should have answered: “King George’s Keys.” That done the sentry would have simply said: “Pass King George’s Keys, all’s well,” and carried on with his watch, but instead he quickly unshouldered his rifle to take aim.

  Unfortunately the Germans had already taken aim as well. The crack unit was armed with sub-machine guns and there came a short, sharp burst that cut the sentry down. Then the first boat came scudding against the mole and the Brandenburgers scrambled up with demolition charges, wearing dark black uniforms and caps and racing swiftly along the Mole. They reached a narrow viaduct, which ran just north of the seaplane moorings and connected the mole to the shore at a spit of land that was once called “The Devil’s Tongue.”

  The gunfire had just broken the silence when the telephone jangled at the harbor observation tower. Lieutenant Douglas Dawes was on duty that morning, still bleary eyed after a fitful night’s rest on Windmill Hill. Now he was Harbor Defense Officer for his ten hour shift in the North Mole Tower, peering into the shadows through the dirty glass windows when the phone rang.

  “Yes? Duty Officer, North Mole.”

  “What in blazes is going on there? Was that gunfire? Is there movement on the Mole? Expose! I should have you court martialed!”

  “Right away sir!” Dawes put down the telephone and gave the order: “Expose the Mole!” Searchlights switched on, bathing the whole area in bleak white light, and Dawes could see men running in a crouch along the viaduct, and the slow rotation of one of the 6-inch naval gun batteries there—which suddenly went up in a tremendous explosion. The Brandenburgers were there to lay charges on the guns that could face north at the German assembly area and put them out of service. Now they were racing across the viaduct to the Devil’s Tongue.

  A lone machine gun opened up from a sand bagged position on the tongue, and Dawes saw three of the German commandos fall. Then he heard the lead commando squad returning fire in sharp bursts with their sub-machine guns, and a firefight was on. The Germans ran for the cover of warehouses on the north end of the tongue, tossing in Model 24 grenades, the famous “Potato Mashers,” before bursting in with their guns blazing away. Others threw a variant that had been modified to produce smoke, which rolled like a thick white fog, masking the narrow viaduct. Lieutenant Dawes watched, almost in awe at the precision and ruthless advance of the Brandenburgers.

  They were led by Leutnant Wilhelm Walther, the man who had captured the Meuse Bridge with an eight man team from this very same unit during Operation Fall Gelb in the battle for France. Walther already had 25 men over the viaduct and into the warehouses, and they were systematically clearing those buildings. More grenades soon silenced the chatter of the British machinegun and suddenly Dawes realized he was in a most precarious position, alone in his tower watching the steady advance of these elite German commandos.

  Another 6-inch naval gun, positioned just south of the Devil’s Tongue, rotated and blasted away at the warehouses at near point blank range. It was at this point that Dawes thought he had better get down from the tower, just as a spray of small arms fire shattered the glass windows. He scurried down the ladder, with rounds snapping off the metal tower legs with bright sparks, and then leapt to the ground, the whine of ricocheting bullets frightening him out of his wits. Taking a deep breath, he crawled behind a shed at the edge of the Harbor Recreation Ground, then raced across the field into the edge of the town near the Gibraltar Post Office. Eventually he made his way south to the King’s Bastion near the Harbor Coaling Island, where he reported to the Flag Officer there for new orders.

  “What was wrong with your old orders?” The man bristled at him, but with level British calm he folded his arms and simply said: “Well sir, the Germans seem to have shot my observation tower to pieces, and very nearly skewered me at the same time.” King George’s Tower had fallen.

  The Flag Officer finally looked at him, seeing the soiled uniform from his long crawl to safety on the recreation field, and noting a nick on his left shoulder, and the stain of blood there. “I see… Then get yourself to the Hospital and see about that shoulder, Lieutenant. You can report back when you’ve had proper medical attention.”

  Dawes saluted and was on his way. His wound was not bad, a mere scratch from a grazing bullet, but it would not be the last he would receive in the next 72 hours as the British Garrison dug in its heels and began to fight for its life, and the life of Britain’s position in the Western Mediterranean. On that day, September 16, 1940, Spain made a formal announcement that they had joined Italy, and Vichy France as a member of the European Axis powers.

  High on the hills of the upper Rock, a troop of jittery Barbary Macaque monkeys chattered restlessly. The German bombers had frightened them badly the previous night and, sensing imminent danger, they deftly skittered down the craggy slopes and over the Devil’s Tower Road towards the shore. No man on the airfield watch saw them go, nor any man of the 2nd Battalion, King’s Rifles on the frontier line. Somehow they slipped through the minefields and wire unnoticed, scrabbling along the rocky shores of Mala Bahia and leaving the high, bomb scarred limestone cliffs of Gibraltar behind. With them they carried away the legend that as long as these troops of monkeys held forth on the Rock, the territory would remain under British rule. No man in the garrison knew it just then, but the Barbary Macaques were leaving.

 
Chapter 33

  Captain Christopher Wells was on the bridge of Glorious, and well on his way to the Azores, having been hastily summoned to this new post by Admiral Tovey. There he was to meet with HMS Furious and a small convoy, escorted by two cruisers and twelve destroyers. His own task force would provide air cover for the newly planned and renamed Operation Alloy, and his heavy escort in the battleship Valiant with four more destroyers would provide any needed naval muscle for the landing.

  “Look out Captain,” said Lieutenant Woodfield. “This signal has just come in from Gibraltar. It looks like the Germans are going to have a go at the Rock!”

  Wells took the message, eyeing it darkly as he learned the air strikes had begun and German troops were reportedly massing on the Spanish Frontier just north of the territory at that moment. Here he was heading west to the Azores, with his first outing as nominal task force commander, and looking fitfully over his shoulder and wishing he had his ship back with Force H for the real fight that was brewing up.

  “Damn,” he swore. “We slip out the back door just as Jerry comes knocking. I’ve half a mind to get back there and give them what for.”

  “Don’t go getting a big head, Welly,” said Woodfield. “Leave that row to Somerville and Force H.”

  “But he hasn’t any real air cover now,” said Wells. “Hermes can throw up a few fighters, but something tells be the Germans will becoming full on. I’ve a bad feeling about this.”

  “Right,” said Woodfield. “Why do you think we’re out here anyway? If we lose Gibraltar we’ll need anchorages down this way, and the Azores are a good place to start. We ought to go ahead and take Madiera and the Canary Islands as well, before the Germans get ideas about them.”

  “We may indeed,” said Wells. He had received a secret briefing on the operation he was now providing cover for. Two ocean liners, SS Karanja, and the Polish Merchant liner Sobieski, were packed with the 1st and 5th Royal Marine Battalions and the 8th Battalion of the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders. They had been held in readiness in British Ports and reinforced at the last minute by 2 Commando, with the whole contingent code named “Paradox Force.” Commanded by Brigadier General Morford, their mission was to seize Fayal Island and Porto Del Gada Harbor, as well as San Miguel Harbor at Horta. The Commandos would land and occupy Terceira as a suitable place to begin building an airfield.

  “Three battalions to grab these islands,” said Wells. “They might do a world better if they were on their way to Gibraltar now. The garrison there is fairly light.”

  “No since throwing good money after bad,” said Woodfield. “Pardon that remark, but if the Germans come in great strength, as I believe they will, then it’s only a matter of time for our boys on the Rock. Better we get something in return, so buck up, Captain. You’ve been in on all our offensive operations thus far, and this time I think we’ll pull things off without a hitch.”

  “Yes? Well it’s not a real fight. We won’t find anything there but the local militia or island police. At least at Dakar we were ready to have a go at the French, until those bloody battleships showed up. Something tells me we have a long way to go before we can really get in the ring with the Germans again.”

  “Tell that to the Black Watch tonight,” Woodfield admonished, and Wells gave him a nod, his thoughts with the troops back on the Rock now, knowing what they would likely be facing in the days ahead. He also knew that Force H would have put to sea immediately, and there would be no way off the peninsula for any man in the garrison.

  * * *

  The Germans were bringing the equivalent of a full division to the assault, composed of tough, veteran troops, while two more motorized divisions watched their back and flank along the Portuguese border. The planners gave far too much credit to their adversary that day in accounting for a possible British landing on the Portuguese coast. The Royal Navy and Army were still fiddling about with a far less ambitious plan to take small Atlantic island outposts instead, and barely managing to scrape up the troops and transport shipping necessary for those modest operations. A larger landing in Portugal was out of the question.

  High on the North Face of the Rock, up past King’s Lines and Pidsley’s Advance, there was a hidden observation post with a long view slit cut into the limestone. It had a spectacular view of the whole airfield, and the men inside soon heard the boom and thunder of artillery fire, and saw the first rounds kick up dust and clumps of earth on the field. The initial barrage lasted twenty minutes, ending with rounds of smoke fired by German Nebelwerfer batteries that enshrouded the whole scene.

  Down in one of the forward pill boxes, the troops heard what sounded like the rumble and rattle of armor. “Tanks!” came the warning shout, and a few old 2 pounder guns began to fire. Soon there came the booming sound of explosions, which heartened the troops when they thought their defensive fire had scored hits. As the smoke thinned, however, they gaped at the scene, seeing what looked like squadrons of miniature tanks grinding their way forward into the minefields and wire, and then blowing up, one after another.

  “What in blazes?” One man said as he stared at the diminutive tanks, no more than five feet long and just under two feet high. The Germans called them the Leichter Ladungsträger, or ‘light charge carrier,’ with a 60kg demolition charge that was designed to be deliberately detonated to clear mines, barbed wire, blow bridges or blast pill boxes and buildings. Designated the Goliath, the German troops called them “Beetle Tanks,” and they were crawling in great numbers over the mined area, blowing themselves to smithereens.

  Behind them came the German assault engineers, all experts at clearing mine fields, and two full battalions in strength. They would soon be followed by the hardened troops of the 98th Regiment, 1st Mountain Division, the Edelweiss Division that would have conquered Europe’s tallest peak at Mount Elbrus in the history Fedorov knew. They were advancing towards the area known as ‘the racetrack, a roadway that circled the airfield runway and rifle range in the flat land north of the Rock. There several detachments of 2nd Kings Rifles held forth in slit trenches and improved positions behind an anti-tank ditch that cut across the road near the small Passport Office building. Needless to say, the men they saw advancing on their positions were not carrying passports to gain entry, but rifles, machineguns and demolition charges.

  Finally alerted to the danger, the 25 pounder artillery positioned at the old Windsor Battery on the rising slopes of the Devil’s Tower, and 5.25-inch QF naval guns around Princess Anne’s battery on Willis Plateau, began to fire. One gun there had been damaged by the German Stukas, but three more began firing at the exposed ground crawling with enemy troops and engineers.

  The Germans endured losses from artillery and mines that the Goliaths had not cleared, but pressed doggedly forward, finally reaching the anti-tank ditch, which now gave the infantry excellent cover. There they rushed at the British defensive positions in well coordinated attacks, the rattle of MG34 machineguns answered by Vickers HMGs resounding from the imposing sheer cliffs of the Rock. At times the fighting was hand to hand, but the weight of Germans numbers carried the position.

  One battalion each of engineers and mountain troops focused attention on an area known as ‘North Front,’ on the western side of the isthmus where the Passport Office was. A second kampfgruppe of two battalions were assaulting the hangers and service buildings at the north center of the field in the Race Course area. Squad after squad raced forward, weathering intense defensive fire to get close enough to fling demolition satchel charges and grenades at the line of the defense. The casualties were heavy, but the Germans would take both positions within the hour, forcing the remainder of the King’s Rifles to withdraw back over the runway in a mad dash to the cemetery where their main line of defense was established.

  There were two burial grounds, one dubbed the Jewish Cemetery in the west and the main cemetery in the center, where pathways meandered through the crosses and tombstones, which now provided cover for the second line of
defense held by a company of the 2nd Somerset Light Infantry Battalion. As the King’s Rifles withdrew, these men peeled off and jogged right along the line to cattle sheds on the east end of the isthmus.

  The Jewish cemetery was open ground, and too exposed, so the line bent back as far as Devil’s Tower Road, then through the main cemetery to the cattle sheds. By 11:00 the Germans had brought up elements of the Grossdeutschland Regiment, and a company of the 3rd Battalion of the mountain troops made another daring assault by boat on a narrow sandy beach near the Slaughterhouse. The place was well named, as Vickers machineguns positioned by the Somersets in the Cattle Sheds and Devil’s Tower Camp exacted a very heavy toll on the beach, decimating the leading platoon before both artillery fire and two well timed Stuka attacks silenced those guns. The remaining infantry quickly occupied the Slaughterhouse, now eyeing the tall sheer cliffs ahead.

  There was only one defile that they could climb, and it would be one for the record books in the annuals of war. 2nd platoon led the way, with Leutnant Groth urging his men on. Ropes with hooks were fired up in special mortars, and though several failed to take hold, others were lodged in the craggy rocks. The men began to climb. The defile would take them up to the Great Siege Tunnels, on the upper galleries of the north face of the Rock.

  Dating from the 18th century, the tunnels had been dug by British engineers during the time of the American Revolution to withstand an assault by French and Spanish troops, the fourteenth attempt to seize Gibraltar, and the last until Groth and his mountain troops showed up. The tunnel had been built to reach an inaccessible crag known as The Notch, and place a battery there. Now the hidden tunnel housed generators to power the 3rd Searchlight Regiment. From there a stone stairway led down to the Middle Gallery below, deep inside the massive limestone mountain.