Word came into Kapitan Otto Fein on the bridge of Gneisenau that his mooring site was compromised, and the ship would have to be berthed deeper in the harbor. He sighed, eager for the sea as he was. Any move, however slight, that took him nearer to the green swells and white capped waves of the ocean gave him heart. Yet this was but a small setback. Another mooring site would be selected, hopefully not in a place that would prove too easy for the RAF should they come in the days ahead. He was waiting for final word from Admiral Lütjens, already chafing and pacing like a big restless cat in a zoo cage. His repairs had been made, and he had a full provision of fuel and ammunition. His ship was now nothing more than a dangerous target as long as it remained stationary in the harbor.
That night the dock crews would again drape her proud masts and turrets with the shaggy black camo netting that would hopefully disguise her from prying eyes, but he remained nervous and restless nonetheless.
As for the trawler, the fire was eventually put out and she was moored near the char-damaged pier. The Harbor Police searched in vain for her captain, with orders to immediately arrest the man for making an unauthorized berthing and upsetting the German plans, but he was nowhere to be found. So instead they marched off the hapless crew to be questioned by the Gestapo, leaving the trawler bobbing listlessly in the evening tide that evening.
The following morning the sound of an incoming plane was heard about 9:00 am. It was sighted at a low altitude, and within seconds the alert sirens were blaring, soon followed by a hail of anti-aircraft fire. Flying Officer Kenneth Campbell was aboard, bravely threading his way through steel laced streaks of tracer rounds from the ack ack cannons in his twin engine Beaufort torpedo bomber. It was one of a flight of three planes that had taken off from a base near Cornwall, yet weather had foiled the final rendezvous over the target, and he found himself alone. He had been sent by the British Coastal Command after receiving new intelligence concerning the planned relocation of the German battlecruiser, and he flew with a long, sleek torpedo strapped to his fuselage, intent on getting to the big ship before she was able to put to sea. Bearing in on the spot where he had been told to look for her, he was soon dismayed to find instead a small, ragged looking fishing trawler!
He strained to look left and right, hoping to spy his target. There was a suspicious dark splotch further down the quay its formless shape lost in the gray morning, but he could dimply see two other ships had been positioned to screen it off from just this sort of attack. The exploding shells and tracer rounds from lighter machine gun fire were perilously close now, and so he cursed his bad luck, pulled the plane into a sharp bank, and turned away.
Yet luck was with him after all, for in turning he narrowly avoided the flak burst that was to have struck his plane a fatal blow that morning. It was as much a stroke of serendipity where his personal fate was concerned, as it was a stroke of bad fortune for the war effort in general. His plane banked away into the mist, making a safe escape from the rain of fire that sought his life, and his rendezvous with death was broken that morning, strangely postponed.
When he was finally clear of the noise and fiery smoke of the harbor he calmed himself, took a deep breath, and had the presence of mind to radio Coastal Command with the bad news.
“Target not present,” he said. “She’s not there.”
Flying Officer Campbell waited until he was well away from the harbor before he banked again into a thick stand of clouds and headed away from the scene. His torpedo was supposed to have struck Gneisenau that morning, doing enough damage to make her a sitting duck for subsequent RAF bombing raids that would put her out of action for another seven months. He was also supposed to have been awarded the Victoria Cross that night, for conspicuous gallantry—posthumously. Now his award would have to wait.
As he banked into a stretch of low lying fog, he had a strange feeling of lightness and buoyancy, uplifting and oddly invigorating. He smiled, thinking it must be the adrenaline still coursing in his veins from the danger of the attack. Yet he could not help but feel that his lease on life had been extended another month, and he was light hearted as he flew back to base, safely hidden in the gray coastal clouds. In spite of the failure of his mission, it was good to be alive.
The brave sortie by Campbell had one other small effect that morning. It convinced the Germans that their ships in Brest were entirely too vulnerable to enemy air attack. With Gneisenau ready for operations, why not make a dash up the coast under bad weather to bring her home to Germany where she could join Admiral Lütjens with the Bismarck? Others argued that her position in Brest was ideal to support Bismarck by simply linking up with her in the Atlantic, and this side of the argument eventually won out. Kapitan Fein was ordered to make every effort to break out of port.
A few weeks later he did exactly that…
Chapter 8
Admiralty Headquarters, London – April 20, 1941
Things were well tightened down that morning at the Admiralty Citadel. The Prime Minister was visiting, Churchill himself. Normally he would hold forth in the Cabinet War Rooms, a string of basement level rooms beneath Storey’s Gate. But today he had ambled over to the Admiralty bunker, through the long underground tunnel that was the beginning of a labyrinthine warren slowly taking shape and form beneath the city.
WWII was still in its adolescent years. Germany had initiated hostilities in September of 1939 by invading Poland, prompting an immediate declaration of war by England and France, but now she stood a lonesome watch on the world, bravely holding out behind the natural moat of the English Channel after the German blitzkrieg had outflanked the Maginot line and overrun France. The last of the British Expeditionary Force had been chased from the continent at Dunkirk nearly a year ago. Since that time all Britain could do was hold fast behind the Channel and her still formidable navy, and endure the continual bombing of Goering’s Luftwaffe.
The Blitz had driven much of London underground. Every subway, basement and cellar had been given a second life as a bomb shelter when the planes came. For Churchill, the basement War Cabinet building served him well most of the time, but the Admiralty held forth in a newly constructed bunker, with foundations 30 feet deep and a concrete roof some 20 feet thick as well. The Prime Minister considered the building a monstrosity, and a blight upon Horse Guards Parade where it sat like a squat fortress amid the more elegant architecture of Whitehall, the Old Ripley Building, and Admiralty House.
With little in the way of real land operations underway, the Admiralty itself had been the nucleus of much of Britain’s war effort in those early years. Way off in North Africa, Wavell maintained his post with the army, guarding the crown jewel in the Empire, Egypt. But between Alexandria and Cairo at the one end, and London at the other, there were thousands of miles of turbulent seas, constantly patrolled and surveilled by the Royal Navy and her fleet of battleships, cruisers, and destroyers.
At times the Prime Minister felt as lonesome as a watchmen at the con of a roving cruiser on the slate gray sea. The great giants to the east and west, America and Russia, were still cautiously neutral, though the clutching gravity of the black hole of the war was inexorably tugging at them both. It would be just two more months before the Germans would launch their ill fated invasion of Mother Russia, prodding the Bear with the lightning jabs of her panzer divisions on June 22 of that same year. And six months later the Japanese would make an equal blunder when they sent six aircraft carriers to strike the sleeping American battle fleet anchored at Pearl Harbor. But for now, England was fighting alone, and the old First Sea Lord, Winston Churchill, was steering her bravely, like the captain on the bridge of an embattled cruiser, eyes ever guarded against the imminent threat of an oncoming ship looming on the horizon.
The occasion of the Prime Minister’s visit this morning was a cable that he had lately received from Wavell in Cairo. The British general was complaining bitterly that he lacked the necessary armor to plan and properly execute an offensive against the enemy,
who were now threatening the frontiers of Egypt and Alexandria itself.
On this very day the largest convoy ever assembled was embarking troops and equipment destined for Wavell, including five fast transports with 295 tanks and 53 Hurricane fighters in their packing crates. As the Mediterranean Sea was still an active War zone, they could take the long way around the Cape of Good Hope and up the Red Sea to Egypt, braving only the threat of U-Boats and the occasional surface raider along the way. But today Winston had it in his mind that they could also take the more immediate, and shorter route through the Med itself. There the threats would come from both naval and air attack, and while not a match for British prowess on the high seas, the Italian Navy was still a credible force, and one to be given its due respect.
“Tell me then, if you please, Sir Dudley, what exactly to you determine the risks to be?” The Prime Minister fixed his First Sea Lord with an amiable, yet determined stare, waiting.
Admiral Dudley Pound had served as First Sea Lord since the outbreak of the war, a long time veteran of naval affairs and an experienced fleet officer. He had commanded the battleship Colossus in the first World War, leading her in the now famous Battle of Jutland where he sank two German cruisers. Between the wars he had served as CinC of the Mediterranean Fleet before taking his present post, so if there was any man in the room familiar with the hazards of those waters, it was Pound.
“To put it lightly,” he began, “we’ve had increasing activity from the Italian fleet and air arm in opposition to our Malta supply operations. They’ve come to expect us now, and have been so bold of late as to sortie with some rather formidable squadrons.”
“Yet Force H at Gibraltar has done well enough, wouldn’t you say, sir?”
“That they have, Mr. Prime Minister, but Force H has had its hands full of late. With Scharnhorst and Gneisenau at the French port of Brest, we’ve had to keep one eye over our shoulder, as it were. Half the time we’re pulled into the Atlantic to keep watch against a possible sortie by those ships. And in the Mediterranean, the Italian Admiral Iachino has shown an increasing willingness to commit his capital ships as well, particularly if we steam with any apparent attempt to threaten the Italian mainland.”
“Why, he’s doing nothing more than we would do should these shores be threatened by the specter of enemy naval forces, Admiral.”
“Indeed sir, but the majority of the staff here are of the opinion that if we route this particular convoy through the Med we’re likely to be in it up to our hat bands in little time.”
“Your primary concern is with Admiral Iachino? He may be running his ships about of late, but he’s yet to stand up in a real fight where serious British metal is before him. I must be frank and state my belief that you exaggerate the threat from the Italian Navy, sir. This convoy will be well protected, with additional resources for our fleet operating out of Alexandria. I’ve spoken with Admiral Cunningham, and he believes the risks are acceptable.”
“I am aware of the Admiral’s views, though I cannot agree.”
“You cannot agree?” Winston allowed just a hint of derision to enter his voice now, thinking to impose his will on his First Sea Lord if necessary.
“Well, sir, we have superiority at sea, but we also have the German Tenth Fliegerkorps to consider if we make a run for Alexandria—always a risk with their Stukas and Heinkels.”
“Yes, but an acceptable risk. And RAF intelligence reports the Germans may be pulling units from their Sicilian bases to bolster the Russian frontier. Bad business there in due course. Frankly I would rather ride the Tiger’s back in a mad dash to Egypt than languish for weeks on the open seas with the menace of a U-boat attack ever in the back of my mind. Going round the Cape of Good Hope will add another 40 days to the sea journey. That would mean Wavell would not get his tanks until early June. We could have them there at least three weeks earlier by taking the more direct route. No need to risk U-Boat attack with a longer sea voyage.”
“The convoy system is stiffening up now, sir,” said Admiral Pound. “We hit a poor patch while Scharnhorst and Gneisenau were at sea, but they’re both holed up in Brest at the moment.”
“Where I hope you’ll keep them, First Sea Lord,” said the Prime Minister. “And that being the case, we should be able to get this convoy handed off to Force H without much worry. And from Gibraltar you can send out the whole battle fleet to get them safely ashore in Egypt. Then I shall have the satisfaction of knowing I’ve quieted General Wavell, at least for the moment, until he dreams up some other reason why he cannot yet undertake offensive operations worthy of the name. If nearly 300 new tanks will not compel him to move, then nothing will, by God.”
“Assuming the tanks reach him safely, sir.” Pound admonished. “I may ask the question, and I’ll withdraw it if you deem it impertinent—what will General Wavell do with his Matildas if they’re lying at the bottom of the sea?”
“Come now, Sir Dudley, that is an outrageous notion. You have Renown, Repulse, Queen Elizabeth—more than a match for anything the Italians can sail. Cunningham has the battleships Barham and Valiant as well. And you’ll have the Ark Royal along with them to provide air cover.”
“I mean no disrespect, sir, but the Ark Royal cannot put anything into the air to effectively oppose the German Tenth Fliegerkorps. They’re flying the old Swordfish, sir. The Old Stringbags, along with a few Fulmar fighters.”
“And carrying fifty new Hurricanes, I might add,” said the Prime Minister. If you move at good speed you’ll be under our own land based air cover as well—and all the more reason to get this convoy through with those Hurricanes for the air wing in Alexandria. Look here—the men of our 7th Armored division have had a rough go of late. They’ve been sitting on their thumbs, without tanks, and for an armored division that is a fairly sad state of affairs, wouldn’t you say? Now, I have the greatest respect for you, sir, and your opinion has been duly weighed here. Yet I must concur with Admiral Cunningham and believe we can push this convoy through. We’ll call it Operation Tiger then, shall we? Ride the tiger’s back!”
The Prime Minister clenched his fist, as if to hearten the spirit of his First Sea Lord, though he had determined he would insist on this operation if it came to it, and make it a matter of utmost importance. If he ever wanted to convince the Americans to weigh in and stand to arms for Britain, then it was incumbent upon him to first prove the British army could do more than organize a miraculous retreat. Rommel had landed his Afrika Korps in Libya a month earlier, and chased the British army all the way to the Egyptian border, with a good portion of the army cut off and besieged at the fortified port of Tobruk on the Libyan coast.
Though the threat to Alexandria was now very real, the Prime Minister had received an Ultra intercept of a report concerning Rommel’s condition at this time. It described the German position as weak, lacking adequate fuel and supplies, and strongly advised no further push into Egypt. But Churchill was not going to tell his First Sea Lord about it for the moment. He wanted to create as much urgency as possible on his side of the discussion, and relieving Tobruk was uppermost in his mind. He had to get Wavell moving! He needed a victory, and he was determined to have one before summer’s end.
“As you wish, Mr. Prime Minister.” Admiral Pound deferred. It was still against his better judgment, but he was unwilling to make an issue of the matter. “We’ll have to keep our trousers neatly folded on this one, sir,” He said quietly.
“Neatly folded and in the drawer,” said Winston. “If word gets out on this, Jerry will spare no effort to insure those tanks do end up at the bottom of the sea.”
“We’ve stood watch on Brest most of April, and it does appear that the two German battlecruisers are laid up for repairs.”
“Perhaps the Royal Air Force can pay them a nightly visit,” said the Prime Minister.
“Without doubt,” said Admiral Pound. “Tried to get at one with a low level torpedo attack a few weeks ago, but there was just too much flak. So I
suppose we’ll have to rely on night bombing by the RAF at higher altitudes. ”
Churchill smiled. “Tell Admiral Somerfield at Force H that he’s done a bang up job, and wish him God speed. We’ll be running the convoy his way behind the screen you have already set up on Brest, and he may expect their arrival at Gibraltar by the 6th of May. It will come in two parts, 8A and then 8B sometime after.”
“Very well, sir. The German ships are holed up for the moment, but the situation may change.”
Churchill fixed him with a steady eye as he nodded to leave. “Situations always change, my good man. There’s nothing more certain than that.”
When the Prime Minister had left him Pound sighed heavily. “That they do,” he said aloud. Tiger Convoy indeed, he thought for a moment, then decided. We’ll designate this one Convoy WS-8A. The WS stood for “Winston Special.”
Chapter 9
Port of Brest, France – May 5, 1941, 23:30 Hours
Kapitan Otto Fein was finally a happy man again. He was putting out to sea, and this time without Admiral Lütjens in command. The admiral had guided the ships on the last sortie with Scharnhorst, but now he was preoccupied with the planning of another operation farther north, the inaugural cruise and breakout of the more powerful battleship Bismarck. Fein had orders to get to sea by any means possible, and head out into the Atlantic to wait for her big brother. Until then he would have free rein to attack any undefended convoy he might encounter along the way. By launching this arrow early, the Germans also hoped to draw off British assets that might be used to oppose Bismarck.
Lütjens will be sticking his thumb in my pie soon enough, he thought. But perhaps I can pick a few berries before that happens.
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