Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series)

by Schettler, John

  His good friend Lieutenant Robert Woodfield had come onto the bridge as senior officer of the watch, relieving Lovell, and he waved him over.

  “Have a look here, Woody. The French are slipping away like a proverbial thief in the night. Our search detail is already turning for home, but if they stay on their present heading I’ve worked it out that Somerville hasn’t a chance to ever catch up.”

  “Not a very satisfactory turn of events,” said Woodfield.

  “You know what this means,” said Wells. “If the Admiralty remains determined to get at these ships, we’ll be the ones they tap on the shoulder.”

  “Does Heath know?”

  “Yes. I spoke with him half an hour ago and he’s down there arming 823 Squadron with torpedoes even as we speak. I have little doubt I’ll have a launch order well before dawn.”

  “Right,” said Woodfield. “Well we’ll just have to make the best of it, hard as it may be.”

  “Sun will be up at 07:20, but I’ll have everything ready to go in another hour. We’ll recover our search detail a half past midnight. I’ve plotted their farthest on circle here,” he pointed to the chart. “So if we steer this course and swing up near Cartagena, we could be about 90 miles west of them if they have turned north towards Mallorca.”

  “And if they turned east for Algiers?”

  “Then I’ll have to steer 040, right down the middle. In that instance I think we can get even closer. We’re closing the range on them at ten knots per hour.”

  “My guess is that they will run parallel to the coast to a point north of Algiers before they head north, if Toulon is where they are really headed.”

  “I thought the same. So I’m steady on for the moment unless I hear anything to compel me to move north.”

  “Right you are, Welly… You don’t mind my calling you that, Captain?”

  “Perhaps not best in front of them men,” said Wells, “but between the two of us I’ll miss it if you don’t.”

  The signal Wells had been waiting for, and mostly dreading, came shortly after midnight, just as the Swordfish were beginning their approach for a night recovery. ‘Considering present situation, and decisions taken by the Admiralty, Case Anvil is hereby ordered for 04:00 hours. Imperative you give main battle squadron every chance to catch up.’

  Woodfield was still at his elbow when he received the message, and he handed it off to his friend, saying nothing.

  “You know what this means,” said Woodfield quietly. “Have we even given them our ultimatum?”

  “I can’t see how.” Wells had a look of anguish on his face.

  “Some Anvil,” said Woodfield. “That squadron out of Oran may be joining up with ships from Algiers.”

  “And we’re the hammer now, Woody. 823 and 825 squadrons against the whole French fleet!”

  * * *

  July 28, 1940 was a hard day. The leading Swordfish of 823 and 825 squadron had assembled on deck, two groups of eight spotted for takeoff, two more groups waiting on the hanger deck below. Glorious had closed to a range of just 60 miles, and so eight Skua would also be added to the strike, for a total of 40 planes. Their engines were spinning up and sputtering to life at 05:00 And the whole formation was aloft and assembled over the next twenty minutes.

  Wells had been informed that the demands to be made of Admiral Gensoul had been directly transmitted to the French Admiralty, now modified to require the French ships immediately proceed to either Alexandria to come under British control or to Algiers where they were to be scuttled within six hours. An affront to French honor, and in accordance with Admiral Darlan’s orders that the French fleet would not comply with orders from any foreign Admiralty, the offer was rejected. Now well out to sea and still over 150 miles ahead of Somerville’s battleship squadron, the French did not believe that the British could back up their threats any longer.

  At 05:40 that morning, the pre-dawn quiet was broken by the low, distant drone of the Swordfish, coming in over the wave tops after finally locating the French fleet again. Gensoul knew he had been spotted, but was so confident that the British no longer posed any real threat that he remained on his heading, taking no further evasive action.

  Following orders, Wells transmitted the follow up sighting report, indicating his planes now had Gensoul’s squadron in sight. Five minutes later the signalman handed him a one word message: Anvil, which was in turn immediately transmitted to Commander Heath. The Old Stringbags were going in.

  823 Squadron broke formation, approaching from the left, with 825 Squadron on the right. The heart of the formation was a line of four large capital ships, the primary targets. Ahead of them was a second formation of six light cruisers, three from Oran and three more from Algiers. Eight to ten destroyers were steaming on the fringes of this grand formation. As they approached, the Swordfish pilots claimed they could hear the sound of alarms and sirens blaring on the bigger ships ahead, and soon cold fingers of white light probed the darkened skies as the ships began to switch on searchlights.

  Guns began to fire, almost randomly at first, puffing up the sky with white explosions. Three ships launched flare rockets, which whistled up and descended on slow parachutes, illuminating the targets more than affording any aid to the gunners. By the time the planes were actually seen, and not simply heard, the Swordfish were already well lined up on the end of the formation, closing on the lumbering battleships Bretagne and Provence like a pack of hyenas stalking water buffalo on the African savannah.

  The pilots took aim at the leading battlecruisers, but their torpedoes would not find them that dark morning. Strausbourg in the van of the battle squadron immediately accelerated to its top speed of 32 knots, Dunkerque following in her frothing wake. A gap appeared between those sleek new ships and the old WWI era battleships behind them, already struggling along at only just 20 knots.

  The first eight planes on either side had little luck. One torpedo struck a fitful destroyer running alongside Bretagne. Another hit the battleship full amidships. The second wave got in much closer, braving the thickening AA fire as the French finally focused their defense. Two planes were hit and felled, the remaining fourteen all getting torpedoes in the water. Of these eight would find their targets, four plowing into Provence at the rear of the formation and four more striking Bretagne.

  The explosions rocked the big ships from side to side, and it was soon apparent that they had both taken severe damage. Bretagne, hit five times now, was quickly listing to her starboard side. Provence had taken one hit that disabled her port side engines. She wallowed in the sea, down at the stern and the last ignominious attack was put in by the escorting Skuas, which swooped down from above to deliver bombs. Three more hits were obtained and it soon became obvious that neither one of the battleships would survive the attack.

  Like bees that had delivered their only sting, the Swordfish could do little more. They fluttered about, some making a vain attempt to get after the faster French ships with bombs, but to no avail. When all was said and done, the sun rose over the scene to reveal that the British attack had claimed the two old battleships, the destroyer Mogador, and the lives of over 1300 French sailors.

  By 08:00 the planes were being recovered and Wells messaged Admiral Somerville with results, asking if another strike should be mounted. The British had learned that the incident had stirred up the Italians on Sardinia, and that planes were up from Cagliari, the humpback three engine bombers out to see what they could find. The French had another 380 sea miles to go before they were safely home, but now, with Italian bases active at Cagliari, Sassari and Ajaccio it was deemed imprudent to allow the sole carrier to linger. Somerville signaled that the ship should turn and rejoin his battle squadron, which proceeded to Oran, finding no more than a few submarines, minelayers and Colonial Sloops remaining there. Algiers was also abandoned.

  In the end the British were left with a result that was 90% of what they had accomplished in the history Fedorov knew, and with the same consequences.
The attack was reviled in France, lining up all the remaining French naval units in sworn opposition to the Royal Navy from that day forward. It also dealt a hard blow to General Charles De Gaulle’s efforts in organizing his Free French resistance, but Operation Catapult did accomplish one thing politically by proving the resolve of Great Britain to fight on without scruples, which immediately stiffened the flagging morale at home and did much to bolster Churchill’s position.

  Yet the real prizes within the French fleet still remained at large. The fast battlecruisers Strausbourg and Dunkerque, and all the light cruisers and remaining destroyers made it safely to Toulon where they would continue to pose a dangerous threat. More than this, the operation had not challenged the three modern French battleships, Richelieu at Casablanca, and Jean Bart and the late arrived Normandie at Dakar. These five ships would loom ever larger over the scene in the months ahead, though Britain had achieved at least one thing by preventing the concentration of all these powerful ships in one location. Three of the five were east of Gibraltar at Casablanca and Dakar, potential prizes for the British if they could be obtained, certain enemies otherwise. The last two were At Toulon, potential prizes for the Germans and Italians that would cause much strife in the days ahead as Britain considered how it could maintain the long supply line through the Med to Cunningham in Alexandria.

  As a adjunct to Operation Catapult, a small British detachment under HMS Hermes had mounted an air raid on the Richelieu in conjunction with a mining operation by frogmen, but failed to inflict any serious damage. This served only to telegraph future British intentions to Rear Admiral Plancon, Flag Officer, French Navy West Africa. He called an emergency meeting with Admiral Laborde on the Normandie, and Captains Barthes and Marzin on the other two battleships in French West Africa. The universal consensus was that Vichy France should extend their armistice with Germany to the status of alliance, and forsake Britain and the West altogether.

  Admiral Darlan had been leaning this way for some time, believing England’s days were numbered and wanting to place the last of his dwindling chips on a winning number. He met with Marshall Petain, and a delegation was sent to Berlin. Three days later the news shocked the world and rattled the grey heads in Whitehall. France had not only fallen as an ally, it had now become a foe.

  Chapter 33

  “What have we done, Woody?” said Wells when it was all over. “We sink a pair of old hulking dreadnoughts that would probably have spent the entire war rusting in port, but the fast battlecruisers got clean away!”

  “We did what we had to,” said Woodfield. “You weren’t flying the planes, Wells. All you could do was get the ship in close and carry out your orders, and that you did well enough.”

  “Yet we were supposed to try and stop them, weren’t we?”

  “You got hold of their leg and took a good bite, Captain. Then you were out there, well in front of the rest of Force H with Italian bombers inbound and only 8 fighters for air cover. What more could you do? Somerville was simply too far behind to finish the job.”

  “Yes we did, but it’s my name written in the history books this time, isn’t it. I’ll go down as the man who ordered the dastardly deed. I got hold of Admiral Gensoul’s leg alright, then stabbed our former friend and ally in the back. Now look what has happened. The Vichy government is in cahoots with Hitler, and it’s all my fault.” He felt that, of all days, this surely must be England’s darkest hour.

  “Don’t get a big head on your shoulders, Welly.” Woodfield jabbed his friend in the shoulder. “That order came from well above your pay grade.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Wells, but the thought of all those French sailors that went down with those ships would haunt him for the rest of his days, and he was ever bothered to think that his actions had tipped the delicate political balance that was teetering in the operation, and made a new enemy out of England’s old friend.

  Germany expressed immediate interest in the overtures put forward by Petain and Darlan. They had already seized control of the fast cruiser De Grasse and the nearly completed carrier Joffre. Now a pair of fast battlecruisers and a gaggle of other ships were nesting at Toulon, within easy reach of either Germany or Italy. The Vichy French knew they had a strong bargaining chip in the navy, and in the considerable holdings they now still controlled in North Africa. In exchange for full wartime cooperation with Germany, they would ask for governing authority over all of France.

  Hitler equivocated, then decided that as long as the Germans would be permitted free and unfettered access to all French Territory, with a German minister placed as a kind of chargé d'affaires overseeing policy decisions and representing German interests, the arrangement was entirely to his benefit.

  As for the French Navy, the ships would remain in French hands, except the two vessels taken at Saint Nazaire. German naval “advisors” would be placed at the Flag Officer level at Toulon, Casablanca and Dakar, and all French controlled ports would be open to the Kriegsmarine and accept a German contingent in garrison. It was a hard blow to the British hopes for holding on to Egypt in the long run. It was, indeed, their darkest hour, with no other friend in the world, standing alone against an array of foes that now seemed unconquerable. Now, more than ever before, they set their minds on the destruction of the entire French fleet.

  * * *

  Admiral Somerville was initially pleased with the results of Operation Catapult, in spite of the fact that his own squadron had been prevented from engagement due to untimely withdrawal by the French. The political consequences had been catastrophic, and his greatest fears about the operation had been realized. That, however, was beyond his control, though he knew the job of cleaning up the mess they had made of affairs would also fall to him soon enough.

  First things first. He had summoned the young Captain of HMS Glorious, receiving news that Wells was brooding over what had happened. Now he looked up at Wells, who had just submitted his report to the fleet offices at Force H headquarters, Gibraltar.

  “All things considered, Mister Wells, I find your actions and deployment entirely consistent with the guidelines for fighting instructions involving fleet action with a retiring enemy.”

  “I wish we could have done more, sir,” said Wells, still beset with mixed feelings over the engagement.

  “We all do, and I regret that I was unable to lend a much needed hand. The task assigned you was arduous, not only from a tactical standpoint but also considering the fact that you were asked to raise your hand in anger against a former friend and ally. We all felt the same way, Mister Wells. Most every senior command level officer in the Med expressed strong reservations over what we were ordered to do. I can imagine your stomach was in your throat when you received code ‘Anvil.’ To ask you to break formation, move out ahead of the battlefleet, and find and strike the enemy was a hard task, and it was one you performed admirably.”

  “Thank you, Admiral, but I must point out that the bulk of the French fleet was able to reach Toulon safely in spite of our actions. Now look what has happened.”

  “That may be so, but your tactical approach was correct. You followed section E guidelines regarding air striking force operations, to the letter I might add, by correctly attacking the rear enemy capital ships with the objective of reducing their speed. In this case your attack produced stronger results in the sinking of two battleships which would otherwise now be at large.”

  “Yet the consequences, sir…”

  “The consequences are not your consideration, Mister Wells. They were not my consideration either after Whitehall and the Admiralty had set these orders in stone. Had I come up on the French, my intention and effort would have been to do exactly what you accomplished. The French rejected all our fair terms. It was therefore our objective to sink those ships.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Somerville gave Wells a long look, a sympathetic light in his eyes. He knew exactly what the younger man must be feeling now, that it was all
on his shoulders, the burden of all the consequences that might result from this operation, the alienation of Vichy France and the deep feelings of resentment and ill will that this engagement would foster between former allies.

  “I know you put men in the water yesterday, Wells, and a good many lost their lives. Take my advice and try not to think you put your hand on each one’s head and held the man under. This is war. It’s cruel, mindless violence at root, ever so carefully planned but yet wholly unreasonable. I will tell you that the Germans gave no quarter during the recent evacuation forced upon us. We lost a good many men, civilians too. I would be foolish to say we could put those French sailors on the scales to try and balance that. They were simply doing their duty, as you were. We did not want to make an enemy of them, but this war has done as much, and I’m afraid this is only just beginning. You will find yourself in similar circumstances again, Captain, perhaps even more trying. I know this is the second hard blow you’ve been dealt.”

  “Sir?”

  “I am aware that the ship you now Captain is only on the fleet active duty roster because of your actions in getting her to safe waters under equally trying circumstances. That was the hot fire of war, and you weathered it when you were on the anvil. This time you were the hammer. So you’ve seen both ends of it now, and that is what really shapes the metal of a man’s character. Stand proud, Mister Wells. That will be all.”

  “Sir!” Wells saluted, feeling just a little better about what had happened, yet not knowing which was worse—to be on that anvil, or to be the hammer.