THE FORESIGHT WAR

by Anthony G Williams

  ‘Fire a T5.’ The Zaunkönig acoustic homing torpedo sped from the tube, curving around to home in on the noise of the cavitating propellors above them. The detonation a minute later brought further cheers from the crew, and the commander confidently steered his boat through the escort screen and into the convoy, switching on the Nibelung active detection and ranging set, which enabled accurate torpedo firing without needing to use a periscope.

  The Captain looked around at the devastation in his convoy with anger and disbelief. OB150 had already lost four ships and an escorting destroyer, and not a single sighting of a submarine had been reported. Furthermore, the escorts now had to trail Foxer decoys which rendered their own hydrophones useless. He wanted to send his ship racing around after the hidden submarine, do anything rather than simply sit and wait, but there was no point in any action beyond the intensified Asdic sweeps around the perimeter of the convoy. Another Swordfish had managed to take off and both planes were now skimming over the water, straining to spot a periscope or a torpedo track that would give them some clue as to where to hunt.

  U470 went deep and slipped away from the convoy, all torpedoes expended, with six merchant ships and a destroyer to show for it. At least thirty thousand tons, the Korvettenkäpitan reflected: a third of the way towards his Knight’s Cross in one attack! He set course for Lorient.

  The convoy regrouped and continued westwards; the crews wary and mentally bruised. They had a long way to go to reach America.

  Herrman emerged blinking into the early morning light, and looked round for signs of the night’s devastation. The deep bunker had protected him from the bombs but he had still been able to feel the ground shake with their detonations. Somewhat to his surprise, Dönitz’s Kerneval headquarters at the mouth of the Scorffe was untouched, but a heavy pall of smoke hung further inland.

  ‘Lorient copped it last night, as well as the new pens,’ Stadler commented. Herrman thought about the little fishing village of Keroman nearby, the site of a massive project to build bomb-proof submarine pens.

  ‘Was much damage done?’

  ‘Quite a lot. They were using heavy bombers to drop some really massive bombs. Paid for it, though. The bombers were Vickers Warwicks – too low and too slow to get away from our night-fighters so a lot of them didn’t make it home. Unfortunately, we lost some of our planes also; it seems the RAF tried to protect their bombers by mixing Mosquito night-fighters in with them.’ Stadler turned away. ‘Come inside and get some breakfast. There’s a meeting immediately afterwards.’

  Herrman sat at the back of the conference room, observing the Befehlshaber der U-boote in action with his Operations Staff. The Admiral was brisk and to the point; his small staff, young, able and displaying the fanatical enthusiasm inspired by their leader.

  ‘We have been asked to review the current position for the benefit of our guests from Berlin,’ Dönitz inclined his head towards Herrman and Stadler. ‘Käpitan Godt, could you summarise?’

  Godt, the Admiral’s Chief of Staff, radiated quiet competence. ‘As you must know, the first phase of the fighting, after a good start, was increasingly hindered by the British deployment of air cover for their convoys. This made it difficult for our boats to pursue convoys on the surface as they were frequently forced to dive. Our planned night-time surface Rudeltaktik, which the British call ‘wolf packs’, also received severe setbacks because of the increasing use of radar by their escorts and aircraft. However, the tide of battle is beginning to flow in our direction.’

  Dönitz nodded briskly. ‘My compliments to xB-Dienst, they are doing a great job in breaking the convoy codes and warning us of likely targets.’

  Herrman leaned forward. ‘But how certain can we be that the British are not reading our codes?’

  Godt was surprised. ‘How can they be? The new M-4 cypher machine is unbreakable.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure. We have received intelligence reports that the British have acquired copies of the code machines and are able to break the codes quite quickly each time they are changed.’

  ‘That would be unfortunate but not as critical as it might have been,’ commented Dönitz. ‘The Rudeltaktik required frequent radio transmissions to coordinate mass attacks, but the new Type Tens hunt alone. They only need to send a brief sighting report via Marine-Kurier, which is a short burst transmission, and then to listen out for information about convoy locations. That is hardly enough to betray their location.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ muttered Herrman. For once, his loyalties were undivided. The rapid defeat of Britain by the U-boats would reduce the risk of nuclear weapons being developed and used.

  ‘It is fair to say,’ Godt continued delicately, ‘that we could do with more support from the Luftwaffe. KG Forty is based at Bordeaux under the Fliegerfürher Atlantik but the aircraft available are not always suitable and there are other problems.’ Herrman raised an eyebrow. ‘Their maps and codes are different from ours which makes coordination very difficult. We really need more of the long-range Dorniers and Heinkels to carry out reconnaissance. Admittedly the change in British convoy routes to the north gives less scope for aircraft but we know the RAF is developing in-flight refuelling. If the Luftwaffe would do the same, their planes could cover the whole ocean.’

  Dönitz nodded. ‘Any assistance you can offer in that direction would be much appreciated.’

  ‘We really need to keep every convoy under continuous attack, to achieve a Geleitzugschlacht,’ continued Godt, referring to the travelling convoy battle doctrine required. ‘That means keeping as many U-boats as possible up where the convoys are. Among other things, it means avoiding the time and risk involved in bringing the boats back to base to rearm and refuel. We are aiming to achieve this by means of the Type Twelve supply U-boats, and are also gaining some assistance from Spain in arranging for boats to be refuelled in the Canaries. Unfortunately, Franco is coming under increasing pressure from the British to stop this.’

  ‘To make rendezvous in mid-ocean implies radio contact,’ observed Herrman. ‘That is bound to be vulnerable to code-breaking, or just to radio direction-finding.’

  ‘We are aware of that,’ commented the Admiral, ‘but warfare cannot be conducted without risk.’

  ‘There have been reports of more local problems.’ Stadler’s interruption was the more surprising for its rarity.

  Godt looked at him warily. ‘There has been some activity apparently due to the French resistance movement in the west-coast ports, if that is what you mean, but that is little more than an irritation.’

  ‘What aid are they able to give to the British?’

  ‘Some minor sabotage. Possibly of more damage is information. It seems possible that they are providing some sort of markers to guide in minelayers.’

  ‘Have there been many losses to mines?’

  ‘Not many. We use Sperrbrecher to clear minefields each time a boat is expected in or out. The British mine technology is not as advanced as ours; we are able to sweep most of them.’

  The rest of the meeting was concerned with operational details. Herrman eased back, worrying about the battle, recognising as clearly as Dönitz that this was one of the key battles of the war; the one Germany had to win to be safe from American involvement. Listening to the streams of facts, figures and operational orders, he wondered just what was going on out there.

  The Commander of the USS Anderson peered anxiously through binoculars at the approaching convoy. OB150 had taken a pounding already with fourteen ships lost in three separate U-boat attacks. Only in one case had the escort even detected the electroboat – a brief sighting of a periscope – but the boat had disappeared before an attack could be launched. Still, he reflected, the storm had now swept on westwards and the calmer weather would aid air operations. He was uneasily conscious that his ship, a big new destroyer of the Sims class, had been designed with the emphasis on gun and torpedo action and was not well equipped to deal with submarines. However, she represen
ted the best the USA could offer in supporting the Royal Navy in the western leg of convoy defence. So far, no USN vessel had actually engaged a U-boat. Sooner or later, the Commander was grimly aware, the time would come; and America’s neutrality would be strained even further.

  ‘Acknowledge the signal from the Anderson. Tell them we have now refuelled from a convoy tanker and will be staying on until we meet the next west-bound convoy.’ The Captain of the hunting group settled back in his chair and sighed, conscious of little but extreme tiredness. The voyage had been one of the most frustrating he had ever made. The appalling weather had rendered the escort carrier useless and severely hindered sub-hunting. A year ago, it would also have prevented U-boats from attacking; but the electroboats could seemingly locate and attack convoys from deep, regardless of the weather. Now the seas were calmer, his Beauforts were scouting far and wide while the MAC ships’ Swordfishes circled the convoy more closely.

  ‘Signal from the Kingston, sir. HE detected at long range to the south. Could be an electroboat.’

  The K-class destroyer had been ordered to wait well behind the noise of the convoy, listening on its sensitive new hydrophone array.

  ‘Order Jervis to assist and try to triangulate that HE. Alert the Beauforts.’

  A long period of waiting followed. The Captain estimated the times required; say half an hour for the fast destroyer to get away from the convoy and start listening. More time until the faint traces of hydrophone effect could be cross-correlated with those from the Kingston. More time still to locate the submarine and attack. He waited, patiently.

  ‘Signal from Jervis, sir. HE detected and confirmed with Kingston. Location about thirty miles to the south-south east. They are on their way.’

  Tension began to rise on the bridge, but only slowly. Such detections did not often result in sinkings; the cursed electroboats were far too elusive.

  ‘Message from the Beauforts, sir. Schnorkel head spotted; it disappeared before they could get there. Sonobuoys being dropped on the estimated location.’

  More waiting. The tension built slowly, washing away the accumulated tiredness of days and nights of frustration. The Captain thought about the problems of the crew in the cramped little aircraft, trying to make sense of the hydrophone readings from the pattern of sonobuoys. Unlike the big Warwicks, the Beauforts could carry very few of the sonobuoys; another Beaufort, armed with depth charges or a homing torpedo, would be circling nearby.

  ‘Message from the Beauforts, sir. Position triangulated; torpedo dropped.’

  The tension rose until the Captain could almost hear it. One minute passed; two. He thought of the ugly little acoustic homing torpedo, questing blindly through the dark water, spiralling after the unsuspecting U-boat.

  ‘Message from the Beauforts, sir!’ The signalman’s voice was pitched high with excitement. ‘Underwater explosion observed!’

  The tension released suddenly. The tired bridge crew, officers and men, grinned at each other. The message could only mean success; the torpedo had found its target, completed its suicidal mission. The Captain felt a quiet satisfaction, but at the same time, a feeling of anticlimax. This was nothing like the war he had expected, of blazing guns and desperate attacks to depth-charge or ram the enemy. There was something cold and clinical about the destruction of the U-boat. Fighting was becoming less human; the machines were taking over. He pushed the thought from his mind and turned to broadcast the success to the crew. The lift would keep them going, keep them alert, ready for the next time. There would be plenty of next times.

  CHAPTER 6 - BARBAROSSA

  Summer 1941

  The first light of dawn glinted through the canopy, bringing with it a perceptible rise in tension in the cramped cockpit. The big Heinkel had been droning steadily eastwards for hours; the crew mostly silent, preoccupied with thoughts of the day ahead and its larger implications, or just dozing after their late night take-off. Around them, the sun revealed the scattered shapes of more of the big bombers, beginning to close into formation after the long flight.

  The terminator slowly moved towards them, revealing the featureless Russian landscape passing below. From this height, few details of human activities could be seen, despite the clear air promised by the Truppenwetterdienst. Ahead, a smudge of smoke gradually formed; their target moved steadily towards them as if they were suspended in mid-air while a huge map was rolled beneath them.

  ‘Watch out for fighters!’ The Hauptmann did not really expect to see any. The Russians would have had no warning, and he doubted if they had any fighters capable of reaching the fast, high-flying bomber. In any case, the Soviet Air Force would soon have troubles of its own. He smiled at the thought of his comrades in the fast bombers and heavy fighters which would even now be launching the first of their carefully coordinated attacks on the Soviet airfields.

  The task of his formation was very different. Along with every other Heinkel and Dornier Kampfgeschwader which could be spared from the war of attrition against England, his Gruppe was to penetrate deep into enemy territory, to destroy strategic targets such as factories and communications centres. In his case, it was a tank factory on the northern edge of the industrial city below. The Heinkel banked slightly as the Gruppe formed up and commenced its bombing run.

  Far below, the factory workers on their way to take over from the night shift looked up in puzzlement at the thin, straight clouds of the contrails approaching the city. No engine noises could be heard. The silence was not to last for long.

  Silence was the last thing on the mind of the Scharführer as his Panzer III crashed through the scrubby woodland. He snapped a command and the tank ground to a halt on the edge of the pastureland. Before him, fields sloped down to a small village, clustered round a bridge over the winding river. Beyond the village, on the other side of the river, small shapes were moving towards them. He scanned them through his field glasses and identified them immediately: T26 light tanks, still out of effective range. Around them were Soviet infantry, walking towards the village.

  His radio crackled as the Sturmbannführer in command of the Waffen SS unit gave instructions. His troop roared forwards, going flat out to reach the bridge before the Soviet tanks, while behind him he heard the first crash of covering fire from the supporting Panzers, firing high-explosive shells to pin down the enemy infantry and leave the tanks exposed.

  The Scharführer reached the bridge and crossed first, holding his breath in case it had been mined. Normally they would have sent in Pionieren to check, but the proximity of the Soviet forces compelled urgent measures. The bridge had to be secured before the Soviets blew it, otherwise there would be a delay while bridging equipment was brought up to span the swollen river, and the instructions had been clear: no delays!

  Safely across, his troop deployed at the edge of the settlement, ignoring the bewildered and terrified Polish villagers who rushed between the houses, still not realising what was about to happen. The T26s were now only a kilometre away, in plain view as they rolled steadily towards the village, undeterred by the shellfire. The Scharführer allowed himself a brief moment of sympathy for the Soviet tank crews; they were hopelessly outclassed, their armour vulnerable to the Panzer’s powerful 7,5 cm gun, while the T26’s 45 mm was unable to penetrate the Pz III’s thick frontal armour. They couldn’t even run away, being considerably slower. However, there was a job to be done.

  His tank shook as the gun fired with a deafening bang. He watched the tracer curve swiftly towards the target and grunted in annoyance as it kicked up dirt ahead of the lead T26. A second shot hit the tank full on and it lurched to a halt, smoke pouring from the blown-open hatches. No-one got out. Beside him his comrades were firing steadily and the remainder of the Soviet tanks were soon disposed of. The Scharführer had not even noticed them returning fire; if they had, it had done no damage.

  The action over, the Panzers stopped engines to conserve fuel and stood guard while the rest of their Kompanie moved to join them
, together with motorized infantry and anti-tank troops to secure the village. In the sudden silence, a sound like a fast-approaching express train could be heard. The Scharführer had time to shout a warning before the first artillery shell crashed into the village. The tanks ‘buttoned up’ rapidly, hatches slamming shut as they prepared for a grim wait. They were safe from all but a direct hit on their thin upper armour – an unlikely chance – but the tension was nerve-racking as the big Panzers shook and rang with the detonations of the artillery barrage aimed at destroying the bridge. In the brief pauses between explosions, the screaming of the helpless villagers could be heard.

  At the edge of the wood, the Sturmbannführer was speaking urgently on the radio as he watched the destruction of the village. So far, the bridge had not been hit, but it was only a matter of time. The infantry and anti-tank troops in their more lightly armoured vehicles waited by the edge of the wood while the remaining tanks raced forwards to cross the bridge while they still could. He watched, scarcely able to breathe, as they rumbled across in quick succession. A sudden flash from the village and a shouted curse were enough to tell him that one of the Panzers had been hit.

  A flicker in the sky caught his eye; a quick check through the glasses brought a sigh of relief as the Fieseler Storch spotter plane cruised over in the direction of the Soviet artillery unit. The Sturmbannführer settled back to watch.

  Fifteen minutes later the bridge was, incredibly, still standing, but the village was totally wrecked. The Sturmbannführer wondered idly what had happened to the villagers. The twenty-one surviving Panzers of his Kompanie were through and deployed beyond the village, away from the artillery fire. He was becoming nervous; it was not good to have the tanks separated from the infantry and anti-tank troops. He looked up at the snarl of engines overhead and saw the deadly shapes of Fw 190s streaking towards the Soviet positions. Through the glasses he could see the yellow identification stripe of all Luftwaffe Eastern Front aircraft and the rockets under the wings. Minutes later, a pall of smoke rose in the distance and the shelling abruptly stopped. Half an hour later, the entire Waffen SS force was across and the bridge secured against counter-attack. By then, the leading tanks were already out of sight.