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

by Schettler, John

The Rock

  “Look at a stone cutter hammering away at his rock, perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred-and-first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not the last blow that did it, but all that had gone before.”

  —Jacob August Riis

  Chapter 31

  The Spanish called it Jebel Tariq, the name of the imposing limestone mountain that stood as one of the Pillars of Hercules, and to the rest of the world Gibraltar had long been called “the Rock.” It had been Britain’s impregnable fortress for generations, honeycombed with miles of tunnels packed with supplies, and capable of withstanding a siege for months. It had withstood fourteen sieges since the 11th Century, with walls, fortifications, bastions and more modern gun casemates studding the craggy limestone rock on every side. But in spite of this venerable reputation as an unconquerable fortress, British war planners knew the invincibility of Gibraltar was certainly a myth now in modern times, and they saw it as highly vulnerable to any concerted attack.

  To begin with, it had only one airfield at the far north of the five kilometer peninsula, dominated by a prominent limestone mountain, and this field lay on exposed ground that could be easily brought under enemy guns on the other side of the Spanish frontier and put out of action in a matter of hours. In 1940 Spain did not permit offensive planes there, and so the British had no fighters or bombers to speak of beyond those assigned to reconnaissance roles, and a few Sunderland seaplanes floating in the harbor anchorage. This also left the Rock open to bombing missions, though it endured these with surprising ease, the latest being a 64 plane raid mounted by the Vichy French in reprisal for the attack on their fleet. The French managed to sink a tug and coastal lighter docked in the harbor but did little more than this.

  Companies of Royal Engineers still drilled through the innards of the rock, with quarrymen and Artisan Engineers still tunneling to create a warren of underground rooms that could shelter thousands of troops, unfortunately the garrison was not that large in 1940. At the outbreak of the war only two battalions were in the garrison, the 2nd Battalion, King’s Regiment and the 2nd Somerset Battalion. These were augmented by two more battalions by August of 1940 with the arrival of the 4th Devonshire Battalion and the 4th Black Watch Battalion. These troops, plus an assortment of 3 inch and 3.7 inch AA guns, including ten 40mm Bofors were all that manned the labyrinthine tunnels, with one battalion holding the lonely frontier near the airfield, and three farther back in the town and fortress Rock.

  The strength of Gibraltar did not lay in its sheer limestone cliffs or gun batteries, like the old 9.2 inch naval guns that covered the straits, nor did it rest in the sinew of the four battalions deployed there. The powerful Royal Navy units of Force H that used the harbor as their primary base were the real strength of the Rock. A battleship that might risk the 9.2 inch shore batteries and run the strait with impunity would not dare to even contemplate such a move while ships like Rodney and Nelson were anchored with guns that could range out all the way to Spanish Morocco. As Sir Alexander Godley once stated: “With His Majesty's ships controlling the harbor we may rest assured that this important jewel of the Crown is in safe hands.” Thus if Gibraltar were to be taken, the Royal Navy would first have to be forced out to sea.

  This was the task handed to Goering’s Luftwaffe, a task he believed he could undertake with every chance of success, for there were no squadrons of Spitfires and Hurricanes waiting to oppose his bombers. So it was that the Luftwaffe became the real spearhead of the attack, while the army assembled its substantial force of two full corps staged on the Spanish border near Bayonne. The ground element would cross the frontier even as the first bombers assembled at French airfields for their preliminary raid, with six squadrons of Ju-88As flying from Bordeaux to target British vessels anchored at Gibraltar.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Douglas Dawes had been up on O’Hara’s battery most of the day, taking in the spectacular views of the bay while he served as supply liaison officer for the Royal Artillery. A relative newcomer to the Rock, he was “fresh off the boat” as the old sods would say, and still given to walking about in his officer’s jacket. A tall, handsome man, he had come to the service the easy way, through connections that were well established in the convoluted British aristocracy. Now Dawes was making his way down the weathered stone steps, his duty here finished as he was turning over the clipboard to a new young Lieutenant and heading to a new post the next morning.

  I’ll miss the view from up here, and the nice cool breeze, he thought. Tomorrow he was going down to the harbor to report for a stint as Duty Officer on the North Mole. At least he’d get a nice close look at the battleships, he thought. From way up here they looked like toy boats in a bathtub, but he expected they would be quite impressive once he got right down on the water’s edge.

  That night he took a last meal at Bleak House, the Officer’s Mess on Europa Point at the southern end of the Rock. “Off to mingle with the cuttlefish?” said another young officer. They were often given to hang names like that on the rankers, the enlisted men or throngs of sailors that would come ashore when the big ships came into the harbor. That was one thing Dawes never got the hang of himself. Yes, he was an officer, and accustomed to certain privileges that came with his Lieutenant’s bars. There was nice fine linen on the tables here. Decent wine was served with the meals, and brandy after. The rankers would get none of this when they lined up in the mess halls aboard those ships, but Dawes was not one to lord his position over any other man.

  “I’ve heard things are a bit busy on the Mole,” the other man said. “You’ll have to get in the swing of things right off the bat.”

  “That I will,” said Dawes, but he had no idea just how busy he would be after a last restful sleep and early rising to take his post. “I’m to report at 05:00.”

  “Ungodly hour,” said the other man.”

  “Which is why I’ll need my beauty sleep tonight,” said Dawes.

  Another officer, a man named Cornwell, had listened in from across the table and spoke up. “Well you’d better hit the bunk soon, Mister Dawes. From what I’ve heard Force H is weighing anchor just after sunset.”

  “Is that so, Corny? Drat. I had hoped to get a good close look at old Rodney or Nelson tomorrow.”

  “Then you’d best get down to the mole after supper. Something’s up, I tell you.”

  Dawes raised an eyebrow. “Probably just another run out to Malta. HMS Glorious left some days ago. I’ve heard they’re still trying to ferry planes out to Malta in case the Italians find their backbone and want to do anything about it.”

  “Not bloody likely,” said the man.

  Dawes emptied his wine glass, setting it down and dabbing his lips with a napkin. “Well gentlemen, no brandy after dinner for me, and I’ll have to have my evening smoke on the way to the barracks.”

  He excused himself and was out the door, glad in some respects to be away from the banter at table. People were always teeing up ideas over what was going on in the war, but no one ever really knew anything. But the rumors tonight began to take on new meaning when he took a brief stroll past the old Moorish lookout and along Windmill Hill barracks until he could get a decent look at the harbor.

  The officer had been correct. Something was afoot. He saw that three destroyers had already slipped their berthings at the Destroyer Camber and were out through the main harbor entrance into the bay. That was standard operating procedure if Force H was about to sortie again. The destroyers were always first out the gate, sent to sweep the bay and snoop about in the channel to the south just in case an enemy submarine might be lurking. There were quite a few destroyers there at the moment, but he could already see two more getting underway.

  So where is the Royal Navy off to tonight, he wondered? Corny was spot on with his remark. He could see that both Nelson and Rodney had good steam up, and all the cruisers. The whole fleet was putting out to sea tonight, which could only mean that s
omeone was going to be sorry they decided to pick a fight with the Royal Navy. The sight of the battleships made him feel proud.

  Perhaps I should have signed on with the Navy, he thought. Here I ended up with the Royal Artillery, a bloody Support and Logistics Officer. It was hardly the sort of post a man would boast about after the war. All he had been doing was shuffling about at a few 25 pounder batteries up on Windmill Hill, and coordinating with the bigger shore batteries.

  Ah well, he thought. I suppose I should be grateful that I’ve a nice warm bunk to be settling into, with a nice glass of wine in my belly tonight. It really doesn’t seem much like there’s a war on. The French got their dander up and raised a ruckus here last month. That was all the excitement we’ve had out here. There’s been a lot of talk at Officer’s Mess about the French Fleet these days. Word has been going round that there was a scrap down south and a couple of our ships took a few hard knocks. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen the two older battleships lately. Both Barham and Resolution are still out to sea. Now these last three here will be joining them. The battleship Valiant also had a good head of steam up, so that will empty the cupboard here.

  What could be going on that needs all these ships at sea at one time? Were the rumors true? Was there a battle on with the French Fleet down south? And what about all the talk that Admiral North was being relieved and heading back to England?

  Well that settles it, he thought. Just like me to get a post at the North Mole right after all the big ships slip away. Now I’ll just be sitting up there in that dreary tower watching rusty old merchant ships and fishing trawlers. It will be no fun at all. He had a ten hour shift the first day out—just sit there, keep a lookout on the mole and answer the phone. It was going to be a very boring assignment, or so he thought.

  But he was very, very wrong.

  Chapter 32

  Just after 01:00 on the 15th of September the sirens began to wail when Gibraltar’s lone early warning radar, one of only three presently in the Mediterranean, picked up the inbound German raid. Almost immediately the long thin columns of the searchlights reached up into the dark skies, probing the soft late summer night for any sign of the enemy. Troops rushed to the 3.7 and 40mm batteries, elevating the thin barrels skyward as the first, distant rumble of the aircraft engines could be heard. The crews had scored their very first kill the previous month against the French, shooting down a single plane, and swiveled their guns into action with a jaunty confidence that would soon dissipate as the whistling bombs began to fall.

  Dawes was awakened by the noise, sitting up bleary eyed in his bunk and hearing the haunting wail of the sirens. What in blazes? Are the French at it again? Then the bombs began to fall and he had the presence of mind to get dressed and look for a pith helmet.

  Outside he ran towards the Naval Signals Station where he could get a good look at the harbor and town on the west side of the island. It was nearly a full moon, so he could see the town and harbor easily enough, and noted the dark shadows of the ships that remained anchored. There didn’t seem to be any trouble in the harbor for the moment, and the lights of the town itself had all been blackened. The sight of the searchlights fingering the darkness gave him an eerie feeling. Then he heard the thrum of engines and a sound unlike any plane he had heard before. It was a screeching wail, like a demon from hell, a howling sound that chilled his blood. Then came the first awful crash of the bombs.

  There were explosions down at the southern end of the town, and a fire there. He could soon see that bombs had fallen near the Grand Parade, a wide area where troops would stand in ceremonial parade, and the navy bands would play. The light from the fire soon illuminated a warship there, so there was still some remnant of Force H at hand. Moments later he saw bright tracer rounds leap up from the harbor area, and heard the sharp crack of gunfire. The ship was firing, her stacks now getting up steam that drifted up to be illuminated by the pale moonlight.

  The bloody French, he thought, but that wasn’t so.

  These were German pilots, veterans of many grueling runs over English soil where they had faced intense anti-aircraft gunfire along with the superb aerial defense of the R.A.F. The fire put up that night seemed light by comparison, and the German planes soon began to pound known gun installations, the harbor district, the fortified line of pill boxes, and mined wire at the north end of the airfield. The big 9.2-inch gun at O’Hara’s Battery where Dawes had finished his day the previous evening on the top of the Rock got particular attention from the Stukas, receiving three hits within the first hour until it was put out of action. In other places the damage was far less than Goering had promised, though it was immediately clear that he could at least claim one boast—the airfield was pot marked with craters, the main hangers on fire and the old rifle range buildings to the north and east flattened by direct hits.

  Now the truth behind the rumors became apparent. Forewarned that the German troops in Southern France were on the move, Force H had slipped its moorings at sunset and taken its heavy units out through the straits and into the Atlantic, where they hovered under the thin air defense umbrella provided by HMS Hermes.

  The German Ju-88 night raid was augmented by squadrons of Ju-87 Stukas protected by Bf-109s, and their mission was to target and silence British artillery positions and deal with any ships that remained behind in the anchorage. These were the planes that Dawes had heard, the scream of their diving runs so very jarring to the nerves as they came in. If ever there was a sound that warned of imminent danger, it was the wailing sirens of the ‘Jericho Trumpets’ when the planes swooped in like dark evil crows.

  Only one destroyer was left in the harbor when they arrived, the Hotspur, and though it was straddled by two near misses and badly splintered with bomb fragments, it was otherwise unharmed. Lieutenant Dawes stared at the scene, realizing that the war might not be so dull and uneventful after all. It went on for the better part of an hour, and several fires had started down in the town before it was over. When planes began to home in on Windmill Hill Dawes realized he had better get to a shelter.

  He huddled there for some time, until the all clear was finally sounded after two in the morning. Rumors passed like fire in the shelter. These were not the French. Talk went round and round about it until a gritty Sergeant, a man named Hobson, finally chanced to speak up and interrupt the two other officers that had been debating the issue.

  “If I may, sir,” the man said darkly. “If the Germans have gone to all this trouble to pay us a visit, we may very well be in for more trouble ahead. I’ve heard 2nd Kings Rifles has all been called out to the wire. Mark my words. They’ll be coming across the lines in due course.”

  “I should certainly hope not, Sergeant,” said another Lieutenant in the Artillery. He was one of the officers that always seemed to lay on the old ‘chin chin’ a bit too thick for Dawes’ liking.

  “I had my mind set on watching a good filly run the race course tomorrow morning.” The Lieutenant was referring to a makeshift racing circle out beyond the airfield and very near the frontier with Spain. The officers often ran horses there, and bet on the outcome while they had a good smoke, watched by men from the 2nd King’s Rifles, who sat behind their Vickers machine guns in their bunkers guarding the wire, and cheered the horses on.

  “Well sir,” said the Sergeant. “If you do go out to the lines tomorrow, I can only hope you have a very fast horse.”

  Something about the remark carried a hidden warning, and when the all clear was finally sounded, Dawes kept thinking about it as he finally settled back into his bunk to try and get back to his fitful sleep. What did the Sergeant mean by that? Was he suggesting the Germans might be coming with more than an air raid?

  He only managed another two hours sleep before he had to get up and on his way down the hill and up through Buena Vista east of Rosia Bay to the harbor. There he saw that the German pilots were much better at their jobs than the French ever were. There was damage near the Destroyer Camber where
Hotspur had been finally driven out to sea, and he saw the wreckage of several buildings off Grand Parade, the smoke from the fires still hanging in the air.

  As he continued on, up past the Coaling Island and the old fortified position known as ‘King’s Bastion,’ he heard men talking in small groups by the wharfs and quays, and with worried faces. Soon he came to his tower south of the North Mole, and climbed up to report for duty. He was relieving another haggard looking Lieutenant

  “Busy night,” said the man. “Didn’t get a wink of sleep. Well, At least you’ll have the day shift, and no bother with German planes buzzing about your ears. I was afraid they would put one of those bloody bombs right on my head!”

  Dawes gave him a thin smile, then took his seat in the still warm chair, eyeing the telephone on the desk with some misgiving.

  “That’s it,” said the other man. “Any problems and you just ring up the Colonel on the other end of that line. It’ll be dark another hour, so mind your orders should you hear anything out of the ordinary. You can expose the Mole with searchlights, but I wouldn’t get too jumpy. The sun will be up soon, and it’s almost breakfast!” The man smiled, and left Dawes sitting alone in his tower.

  * * *

  The German planes finished their work and landed at airbases near Seville, where supplies and air fuel had been secretly forward deployed to allow them to replenish and be available for rapid sortie turnover. They would have plenty of time to pound British positions, demolishing the radar station, knocking out several gun batteries, striking Devil’s Tower Camp and the barracks further south at Europa Point. They deliberately avoided targeting the main wharf and docking areas but soon drove the intrepid Hotspur out of the harbor—all this while the land assault force moved south.

  The frontier gates on the Franco-Spanish border had been thrown open five days earlier, at a little after sunset on September 10, 1940, a full three months earlier than the initial plans had envisioned. It would be slow going at the outset as the long winding columns of motorized infantry made their way through the high mountains to Pamplona, some 60 kilometers away. Two days later the R.A.F. had seen them in the mountain passes, and the alarm had been secretly wired to General Liddell at Gibraltar, allowing Somerville to discretely move Force H out of the harbor.