THE FORESIGHT WAR

by Anthony G Williams

  Charles held up the champagne bottle to confirm that it was empty, then grunted in disgust and heaved himself out of his chair to go in search of another. Mary unexpectedly giggled and leaned back in her armchair, kicking off her shoes.

  ‘Why the unaccustomed hilarity?’ Enquired Don, pronouncing his words with care.

  ‘Why not?’ She laughed. ‘It’s not often we have something to celebrate.’

  Don looked at the somewhat battered copy of the decrypted message from Bletchley which revealed that Hitler had scrapped the planned invasion of England. ‘I’m surprised they’re still using Enigma, they must know we can crack it.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Charles reappeared triumphantly clutching a chilled bottle of Bollinger. ‘It’s still the best encryption machine around, and they’ve been changing the code wheels frequently. We wouldn’t have had time to crack one code before the next was introduced if it weren’t for your little machine – that they obviously don’t know about.’

  ‘It may not have been a bad thing if the Germans had invaded,’ observed Don. ‘We were ready to give them a good hammering this time.’

  ‘I’d rather they stayed on the other side of the Channel.’ Mary was sounding suspiciously dreamy. Don ploughed on.

  ‘Hitler’s obviously decided to close down our trade routes. Liverpool, Bristol, Southampton, all hammered. Several ships sunk by mines in the port approaches. Losses to submarines beginning to mount despite our precautions.’

  ‘Oh, do stop being a Jeremiah for once. We’ve passed a turning point. Hitler can’t beat us now.’

  Charles laughed. ‘Not even with Mussolini’s help?’

  Don joined in the laughter. ‘Now there’s someone who doesn’t have foreknowledge, or he’d have stayed neutral. Seriously, though, talking about the Med., I’m glad the Committee was able to persuade Churchill not to attack the French fleet. We know they’ll keep their word not to allow the Germans to get hold of their ships. It ought to make our conquest of North Africa that much easier.’

  Charles smiled grimly. ‘Just as well for Musso’s peace of mind that he doesn’t know what we have in store for him.’

  ‘Enough!’ Mary stood up determinedly. ‘Bedtime, one and all. The Med. can wait till tomorrow.’

  CHAPTER 4 - MEDITERRANEAN

  Autumn 1940

  Peter Morgan peered through the side window of the Auster as the Army plane banked to circle the harbour. Valletta gleamed in the early autumn sunshine, stone buildings packed close to the water’s edge, the massive walls of Fort St. Elmo dominating the entrance to the harbour. A flotilla of destroyers was visible, distributed around the harbour in case of air attack. A number of motor torpedo boats could also be spotted by the trained eye, hidden away in smaller creeks and inlets.

  As the little spotter plane circled the area, the entrances of the submarine pens became visible. Morgan smiled to himself, remembering Don Erlang’s insistence that these bombproof pens, started in the 1920s but abandoned as an economy measure, should be completed before 1940. He tapped the pilot on the shoulder to indicate he had seen enough.

  The Auster returned to the west side of Malta to land, the three interlinked airstrips of Hal Far, Luqa and Ta Qali coming into view, and Morgan was able to check for himself the effectiveness of the camouflage netting protecting the substantial stone walls around the dispersal pens scattered about the edge of the strips. The menacing snouts of Spitfires became visible only just before the Auster touched down.

  ‘Seen all that you wanted to?’ The staff officer was evidently curious about the inspection tour by the RAF intelligence officer, but he kept his questions to the point. Morgan smiled.

  ‘Thanks. You seem very well prepared.’

  ‘You’ve only seen a part of it. Most of the work is underground. We have huge bombproof stores full of food, ammunition and aviation spirit. The ack-ack defences have been steadily strengthened as well.’ He paused for a moment, then asked rather diffidently, ‘do you have any news about more aircraft? The Spitfires are doing a terrific job of keeping the Eyeties away, but one squadron won’t be enough if they get really serious about attacking.’

  Morgan shrugged non-committally, well aware of the battle Don was fighting to persuade Fighter Command to release some of its squadrons, which now had little to do in England. ‘The German enthusiasm for invading Britain seems to be cooling off, and their bombing is now mostly at night. I think there’s a fair chance of some more day-fighter squadrons being released soon. In fact,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘things could become rather busy around here.’

  ‘Just as predicted; they seem to be preparing for a long stay.’ The Sergeant grunted, lying on his back to keep a better eye on the sky, as the Second Lieutenant continued to observe the distant activity through field glasses. The Italians were digging in at Sidi Barrani after a sixty-mile advance into Egypt. The much smaller British forces had retreated in good order, inflicting far more casualties than they sustained.

  ‘Not much evidence of armour. Mostly those pathetic little tankettes.’ The Sergeant snorted. The little three-ton vehicles had armour so thin it could be penetrated by armour-piercing rifle ammunition.

  The Second Lieutenant slid back from the crest, and they stood up to walk back to the camouflaged vehicle parked in the wadi. Only as they came closer was the shape of the six wheeled vehicle revealed under the netting, based on the Humber scout car chassis but with turret and armour stripped off to produce a fast, lightweight vehicle, bristling with heavy machine guns, ideally suited to the needs of the Long Range Desert Group.

  ‘OK chaps, we’ve seen enough here. Let’s see how far south they’ve reached.’ He consulted a map. ‘Next stop Tummar.’

  Tension aboard the frigate HMS Dido rose perceptibly as the dawn approached. The convoy had left the safety of Gibraltar far behind and was now only twenty-four hours steaming from Malta. With Sardinia to port and Sicily ahead, the close attention of the Regia Aeronautica was expected. The Executive Officer walked onto the open bridge and stood by the Captain.

  ‘The Beaufighters dealt with the reconnaissance plane before it could see us, but that won’t hold them up for long.’ The Captain grunted acknowledgement and the two men stood for a while in silence, watching as the growing light steadily revealed the ships around them. The bulk of the carriers Eagle and Courageous dominated the centre of the group, with the menacing silhouettes of the battleships Barham and Valiant and the long lean shape of the battlecruiser Repulse in close support, surrounded by a defensive ring of frigates and destroyers. The twenty fast merchant ships, some bound for Malta, some for Alexandria, had their own circle of escorts a short distance away.

  An Aldis lamp started blinking rapidly from the Courageous. A signaller brought them the message at the same time as their own radar room reported the news; a large force of aircraft had been detected heading towards them. The officers watched as Beaufighter after Beaufighter was launched from the carriers, climbing steeply into the rising sun on the threatening eastern horizon. The Captain sighed. ‘Sound Action Stations. It’s going to be a busy day.’

  The crew of the Dido did not have long to wait. The Regia Aeronautica had been working on their tactics and the first wave of aircraft turned out to be a decoy to tempt the defending fighters away. The second wave of bombers and torpedo planes timed their attack to coincide with the absence of the main force of Beaufighters. Some more of the fast Fleet Air Arm fighters were launched in time to break up the attacks, their combination of speed, armour protection and heavy armament outclassing the best Italian planes, but the Regia Aeronautica attacked in such numbers that many of the bombers got through.

  This was what the frigate had been designed for. The new class of ships bridged the gap between destroyers and cruisers; their combination of long range, high speed and powerful anti-aircraft and anti-submarine armament suiting them well to the fleet escort role. The barrels of the eight 4.7 inch dual-purpose guns lifted to train on the approaching hi
gh-level bombers while the Bofors guns concentrated on the low-flying torpedo planes.

  The convoy erupted with a massed barrage of fire, the bombers almost disappearing in the rash of detonating shells which suddenly speckled the clear Mediterranean sky, laced by the trails of the Bofors tracers. The hastily recalled Beaufighters frantically dived through the flak, risking being hit in order to chase down the bombers before their fuel ran out. They well knew that if the carriers should be disabled, there would be no safe landing ground within range.

  Bomber after bomber fell to the guns of the convoy and its fighters as the ships twisted and turned between the torpedo trails and the accurate high-level bombing. Silence fell suddenly, the crew of the Dido looking around tensely, deafened from their own gunfire. The only sign of the enemy was a few disappearing dots, left in peace by the fuel-starved Beaufighters now queuing up to land. The Captain looked hastily around the convoy. The carriers seemed all right. Smoke was billowing from two of the merchant ships, but only one of them seemed in real trouble. The convoy had been lucky. He checked his watch, and grimaced. It wasn’t even ten o’clock. He knew from experience that there would only be a brief pause before the next assault. He had barely moved to his chair in order to rest his legs when the Aldis starting blinking again.

  ‘Message from Courageous, Sir. Reconnaissance reports enemy battlefleet at one hundred miles, heading this way.’ It was definitely going to be a long day.

  The Valiant and Barham strained towards the Italian fleet at their maximum twenty-three knots. The Italian ships were faster; their four old battleships of the Cavour and Doria classes had been completely remodelled and rebuilt in the late 1930s and could manage up to twenty-seven knots. Three of them were believed to be in the attacking force, together with heavy cruisers and destroyers.

  The Repulse paced the lumbering battleships, waiting to make her move. Capable of thirty knots, she could quickly reach the Italians but their 320 mm guns posed a danger to the battlecruiser’s thinner armour. The Repulse’s role would be to wait until the battleships engaged, then use her speed to manoeuvre to attack them from the flank and cut off their retreat.

  The Captain of the escorting Dido watched as two squadrons of Beauforts flew overhead, covered by Beaufighters cruising at higher altitude. The carriers had few of the bombers on this occasion because of the need for fighter defence, and the sixteen aircraft probably represented all that could be put into the air. A long wait followed and the Captain was reminded, not for the first time, of the aphorism that war consisted of short periods of panic punctuating long stretches of boredom.

  A message was brought just as the Aldis lamps began to flicker. The Captain studied it with mixed feelings. The Beaufort attack had scored hits on the big ships and, although none appeared to be seriously damaged, the Italian fleet had turned away and was racing back to port. There would be no fleet engagement this time.

  Stadler watched sardonically as Herrman downed another schnapps. ‘You should be careful, my friend. You are beginning to live on that juice.’

  Herrman shrugged. ‘Why should you worry. In fact, why should anyone worry? I’ve done all I can. Now it’s up to others.’

  ‘You still have a… symbolic value in certain quarters. And who knows, some unexpected turn of events might jog yet another forgotten fact from your increasingly befuddled memory.’

  ‘The war is not going well.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Our attacks on trade are beginning to hurt the British badly. If this winter is as hard as the last one, they’ll be cold and hungry by the end of it. Losing Norway was annoying, but we have France safely wrapped up. And thanks to you we have avoided many of the mistakes of your time. Our military industry is well organised, with production increasing steadily in preparation for the assault on Russia. We have more and better equipment, plus a clearer idea of our long-range strategy. This time there will be no disaster on the Eastern Front.’

  ‘I’m uneasy about the Mediterranean. I’m not sure what the British might decide to do; there would be some logic in them abandoning it altogether to concentrate on North-West Europe and the Far East, but they don’t seem to be doing that.’

  Stadler sighed. ‘The Führer is most irritated. Despite his best efforts, Franco will not co-operate in an attack on Gibraltar. After all we’ve done for him! The British have a stranglehold on his food supplies and have threatened to seize the Canaries. And now ‘Il Duce’ has not only refused our offers to reinforce his troops in Libya, he’s attacked Greece against all our advice!’

  Herrman snorted morosely. ‘I did warn you.’

  ‘I know. But we didn’t want to reveal your existence to the Italians, and although it would have been useful to push the British out, the Mediterranean is only a sideshow. It’s in the east that this war will be decided.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. Losing Norway throws one big unknown into our planning. The Mediterranean would be another. Events are beginning to drift away from my experience. The future is becoming less predictable.’

  Stadler smiled. ‘Let’s hope so. We wouldn’t want a repeat of your time, after all!’

  The Observer in the Beaufort carefully checked his position on the chart then spoke to the pilot: ‘Let’s go down. I think we’re there.’

  The plane dipped down towards the Italian night, the shape of the land beginning to stand out against the sea. The dark lump of the Isolotto San Pietro loomed ahead, punctuating the threadlike walls of the Mar Grande, the outer harbour. Three miles beyond lay Taranto; guarding the entrance to the inner harbour. Remembering the reconnaissance photographs, the pilot banked to starboard towards the long mole cordoning off the Diga de Tarantola, where the battleships lay at anchor.

  ‘Watch for the barrage balloons!’

  The pilot lifted the nose of the plane, then settled into a steady run. Searchlights snapped on, alerted by the noise of the big Hercules radials. The pilot wove a little to throw off the defenders, then hit the bomb release button. For a few seconds nothing happened, then the harbour lit up under brilliant parachute flares, the huge capital ships suddenly standing out in sharp relief. The Observer checked them quickly.

  ‘Six of them! The new Littorio and Vittorio Veneto are there as well as the older ships; we’ve got the lot!’

  The Beaufort banked around the harbour, the crew holding their collective breath in anticipation. They did not have long to wait. From high above them, a streak of flame flashed down as the first of the rocket-propelled guided bombs plunged towards the harbour, its flaring motor marking its position for the bomb-aimer. A battleship shuddered as the huge bomb blasted through its armoured deck, detonating within the hull. Then another, and another, as the squadron of Beauforts methodically pulverised the pride of the Regia Navale. The night sky filled with the glowing tracers of AA fire as the relentless destruction ground on.

  With the battleships burning and sinking in the outer harbour, the circling Observer directed the next attack onto the heavy cruisers; some in the outer harbour; some in the Mar Piccolo. The bombers were supplemented by low-level torpedo attacks to divert and confuse the furious AA defence. Finally came the oil storage depot and the pipeline jetty. By the time the Observer decided to leave, the flame and smoke over Taranto marked the funeral pyre of a navy.

  The shockwaves from the destruction of the Italian battlefleet reverberated around Italian North Africa for weeks. Even in Tripoli, the capital of Libya some 800 miles from the front line at Sidi Barrani, a perceptible shudder of unease was felt.

  The sentries guarding the harbour defences tensed as they heard the rumble of aero engines just before dawn, but no flares lit, no bombs dropped. They relaxed with sighs of relief, speculating on the likely destination of the mysterious aeroplanes.

  The airfields of the Regia Aeronautica throughout Libya, Sicily and Southern Italy were soon left in no doubt. As dawn broke, the British aircraft struck. Hereford attack aircraft, surreptiously gathering for weeks in Malta and Alexandria,
roared in at low level, rockets flashing from the wings, 40 mm and 0.5 inch automatic fire hammering from the nose. The neatly lined-up Italian warplanes were blasted into scrap before the startled airfield defenders were able to respond.

  Freed from defensive duties, a wave of Beaufighters from the carriers of the Mediterranean fleet dived in to attack the AA defences of Tripoli; rocketing and machine-gunning them into impotence and clearing the way for the following Beauforts which dive bombed the main land defences with careful precision.

  No sooner had the planes departed than a noise like a multitude of speeding trains roared over the bewildered defenders, erupting in devastating explosions as the eighteen 16 inch guns of the battleships Rodney and Nelson lobbed their one-ton shells onto the stunned Italians from seventeen miles offshore. Closer to home, a gunnery control officer with the Special Boat Service watched the destruction in awe from his camouflaged hideout, almost forgetting to send corrections to the battleships.

  The Italian commanders frantically tried to contact their shore defence batteries but received only sardonic responses from the SBS troops sent in before dawn to capture them.

  Troops guarding the outskirts of Tripoli listened to the uproar in shocked amazement, which turned into incredulity as the unmistakable rumble of tracked vehicles gradually drowned out the noise of the bombardment. The squat shapes of Crusader tanks, put ashore by tank landing craft from a convoy whose purpose had been one of the best kept secrets of the war, roared towards them out of the desert. They frantically ran to man their defences.

  Those defences were not thorough, most of the 200,000 Italian troops in North Africa were based closer to Egypt. Furthermore, the Mk II Crusaders, with three inches of frontal armour and a high-velocity six-pounder gun, were virtually impervious to the standard Italian 47 mm anti-tank gun while able to penetrate the thinly-armoured Italian tanks at all battle ranges.