Operation Armageddon

by Richard Freeman

  ‘We all have to make sacrifices for the Reich, Commander.’

  Vogel came near to screaming ‘And what’s yours?’ He somehow found the strength to remain silent. He turned away from Zweig, put his glasses to his eyes and feigned scanning the sea. ‘Not yet,’ he told himself, ‘not yet.’

  In any case, it was time to open the first of the sealed orders.

  31

  ‘Number 1,’ Vogel called down the voice-pipe, ‘could you take over on the bridge?’

  Vogel and Zweig went below, where Vogel was the first to enter his part of the code into the safe.

  ‘You now.’

  Zweig entered his part of the code. For the moment, acting as a guest, he left Vogel to pull open the door and extract the envelope for Order No. 1.

  ‘Right. Let’s see the details,’ said the commander.

  He slit the seal with a penknife, pulled out the folded sheet and opened it. He was surprised at its brevity, and even more surprised at what he read. He was ordered to proceed to a location off Malaga where, at the time and day stated in the order, he was to open Order No. 2. The order ended with “Heil Hitler. Signd. Vizeadmiral Heinz Siegler. By order of the Führer.”

  The two men exchanged bemused glances. Both took the order to be mistaken.

  ‘Those coordinates … let me see,’ said Zweig.

  He studied the order in stupefied silence.

  ‘I thought you’d made a mistake.’

  ‘No, that’s what it says,’ said Vogel. ‘But it’s a ridiculous place to take this cargo. That’s near enough our sea there. Do they want us to deliver it to the Spanish?’

  Neither man could make any sense of the allotted destination. Vogel was about to radio for confirmation when Zweig stopped him.

  ‘No, Commander.’

  ‘No? Whose boat is it?’

  ‘I don’t care whose boat it is. You still do as I say. No radio signals.’

  Vogel was dumfounded. He was beginning to understand why the SS had been placed on his boat. His suspicion that they were on a mission to force him to commit some horrendous crime grew.

  Dinner that evening was awkward as Zweig joined the boat’s officers around the miniscule folded-out table. Even without Zweig, two of the officers had to sit in the central corridor and rise from the table whenever anyone needed to pass up or down the boat. So what was at best elbow-to-elbow accommodation was more cramped than usual. The conversation was halting in the presence of the stranger. Nevertheless, in the before- and after-dinner mingling, Vogel had noticed that Ingmann was on suspiciously good terms with their guest.

  This burgeoning relationship should not have been a surprise to Vogel since he knew that Ingmann was a dedicated Nazi, ready to fulfil the least order from the Führer. What he did not know was that Ingmann despised him: serving with a commander such as Vogel was an impediment to advancing his career. He needed to prove himself under a bold and aggressive commander – one whose actions were talked about on shore. No one talked about Vogel’s cautious approach to war. So, when Zweig appeared on the boat, Ingmann spotted a kindred spirit. Sensing that something momentous was about to happen – why else was the SS on board? – he prepared to shift his allegiance. It paid to be on the winning side.

  Sometime after dinner Vogel and Ingmann were on the bridge. There were no reports of any enemy presence, so both men relaxed as the boat sped through the darkened sea. For now, the boat’s safety could be left to the lookouts.

  ‘What had Zweig to say for himself?’ asked Vogel.

  ‘When?’

  ‘You were talking earlier, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  Ingmann struggled to give an acceptable account of what they had discussed. Most of their conversation had been about the slack crew and how the Reich needed more aggression in its U-boat activity. There was little that he could share with Vogel. Even so, his captain could read between the silences.

  ‘Number 1, you need to tread carefully – decide which side you’re on.’

  ‘Side, sir?’

  ‘The SS is fighting a different war to us, you know.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’

  Vogel hesitated. Ingmann was a magnificent Number 1 and he didn’t want to lose him. At the same time, he didn’t want a first officer who got too close to the murderous scum in the SS. He strained to find a way to warn Ingmann without putting himself in danger – slandering the SS would not be a wise move.

  ‘Think what we’re fighting for, Ingmann: Germany. Our Germany – the country of great composers, writers, philosophers and scientists. Some people have different ideas. They see enemies where there are none. People disappear. People are taken from their doorsteps … There is evil in the Reich, Number 1. Be careful.’

  Ingmann said nothing. He nursed his astonishment at this haranguing – he had never heard an officer speak in such a risky manner before. What could have got into Vogel?

  After his conversation with Vogel, Ingmann was in an unsettled mood. The SS man talked a lot of sense, he thought. How were they to win the war without men like Zweig? It was they who held high the banner of National Socialism. It was their inspiring example that kept the masses behind the Führer. The likes of Vogel were nobodies in comparison. If mutiny was in the offing, Zweig and Ingmann would have to stand side by side. Would anyone else be there?

  32

  Helberg was working late on the day the boat sailed. His repair yard was in chaos and his workmen were exhausted by the days of emergency toil. And now he had to expedite the work on the boats that really mattered – the patrol boats, his patrol boats. He supervised new work schedules, made out imperious demands for spares, and prepared orders for a new combing of the neighbourhood for additional labour. All-in-all it had been a good day. He was rid of the cargo boat. In addition, there was the satisfaction of the copied signal that lay on his desk:

  “ROCHELLE: DESPATCH DECOY U-BOAT MIDNIGHT. CC CAP D’ENFER.”

  He was also pleased to receive his own signal:

  “CAP D’ENFER: DESPATCH THREE DECOY BOATS MIDNIGHT.”

  It was with delight that Helberg sacrificed three costal patrol vessels for their mission to emulate the radio signals of the cursed cargo U-boat. Soon the waters to the west of Cap d’Enfer would be seething with diversionary signals. The enemy’s direction-finders would be overjoyed at the wealth of careless signalling. Yet not one millisecond of those signals would leak from the cargo U-boat. For a moment Helberg felt a sneaking pride in the detested operation. He rewarded himself with a couple of glasses of schnapps. After he had put the bottle back in his top drawer he swung his heavy-booted feet off the desk and put on his greatcoat. As he turned off the lights he took one last look at his office. ‘Not long now,’ he told himself. Promotion could not be far away after the excellent job that he had done for Siegler. Yes, he deserved an evening at Maison Charrier. He just hoped that Véronique’s mother was not in need of attention that night.

  33

  ‘Make it snappy,’ called Travers from the bridge of HMS Ideal as Bosanquet came on board. The captain had heard the gunfire on the shore. This was no place to linger.

  Travers took Bosanquet into his sea cabin. He was not in a good humour.

  ‘Dropped you in it, did they? The Resistance.’

  ‘Not at all. Things got a bit hot lately. That’s all.’

  Bosanquet noted the unwelcoming tone. It was typical of the old-style naval officer. The Senior Service was the only service to them. It never did wrong. The others never did right. He bristled as Travers continued his haranguing of the Resistance: ‘I see. They leave you in the lurch and then the navy has to pick up the bits.’

  With the gun shots and Marie’s scream still ringing in his ears, Bosanquet lost control.

  ‘Commander, I’ll have you know that “they” is “she” and she’s lying wounded on the beach. Could be dead by now.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Commander
?’

  Bosanquet then told Travers enough of the events of the last few days for him to understand that their key contact – and the source of all the information that they had on the cargo U-boat – was a woman.

  ‘A woman, by Jove! Makes sense though. We saw what their men could do in 1940. No wonder they’ve called in the fair sex.’

  Yet, ultimately, man or woman made no difference to Travers. All he knew was that he was now on what he regarded as a hopeless mission. Who could ever hope to find a cargo U-boat in the vast seas off the French and Spanish Atlantic coast?

  ‘If those Froggies were any good, they’d have stopped the damned boat from leaving. Too keen to embrace those filthy Nazis.’

  Bosanquet bristled at Travers’ arrogant contempt for the courageous efforts of the Defiance network. Fortunately, his exhaustion from sharing their travails had left him too drained to challenge the commander.

  ****

  London had sent Travers details of some signals which, he was told, had come from the cargo U-boat. These suggested a course of 225 degrees from his current location.

  ‘Maybe not so much of a fiasco after all,’ said Travers as he showed the signal to Bosanquet.

  ‘Helmsman, course 225.’

  ‘225 it is, sir.’

  The order for “half-ahead” went down to the engine room at the same time. At 18-knots they should soon overtake a lumbering U-boat. He was cheered by the thought that the quick disposal of the boat would allow him to return to more important work.

  ‘Where did you say this boat was going?’ he asked.

  ‘The Med,’ said Bosanquet.

  ‘Rum course for the Med. Trying to throw us off the scent, I suppose.’

  The destroyer ploughed on, its radar scanning the seas for any sign of the enemy on the surface, while its asdic searched underwater. A couple of hours later, Ideal was still crashing through the waves. There was not a blip on the radar screen nor a peep on the radio.

  ‘This is crazy,’ said Travers. ‘How much further west is your wretched U-boat going to go?’

  Bosanquet took the question to be rhetorical and kept silent. And, anyway, it was not “his” U-boat.

  ‘I shall be glad when we get back to routine,’ remarked Travers. ‘Ops like this are so nebulous. And if we get any leave around here it will at Gib. What a dump! Not a decent theatre in town …’

  ‘Are you keen on the theatre?’ asked Bosanquet.

  ‘Never miss a good play if I’m in town. I was booked for that Shaw thing … something about a soldier …’

  ‘Arms and the Man?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the one. I’m not that keen on Shaw. A bit wordy. But there’s a real beauty in it.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Sally. Sally Brewster. A real smasher.’

  ‘Have you seen her in other things?’

  ‘Never. Just back at her flat now and then—’

  ‘So you’re the bastard who stole Sally from me—’

  ‘And you’re the never-in-the-bed mystery officer …’

  ‘Did she call me that?’

  Travers wisely ignored this question. Bosanquet continued:

  ‘Sally never could accept that work in intelligence demands a double-life. There’s one set of things you can discuss with one set of people, and another set with another. She always wants to know where you’ve been, who you’ve seen—’

  ‘And who you’ve been to bed with—’

  ‘She can talk!’

  ‘Well she’s mine for now,’ said Travers.

  Not many days ago Bosanquet would have challenged this assertion – with violence if needed. He had left England pondering what he could do on his return to woo Sally back. Life without her had been meaningless. Yet now he felt distanced from her. He was looking at the Travers-Sally coupling as a disinterested outsider – curious while no longer involved. It was a pairing of two “ordinary” people, whereas he and Simone were on another plane. Travers’ astounding revelation had swept away the mass of confused emotions caused by his encounters with Simone. Sally had been fun yet, perhaps because she was an actress, there was nothing beneath the surface. In comparison to Simone – well, there was no comparison. Simone was a woman of profound depth and commitment. No, Travers could keep Sally. (Not that he would, though. He was forever pulling out his wallet to show off the photo of his wife and two children in Cumberland. A too-public, too-prolonged affair would ruin his ambition to be First Sea Lord.)

  Both men fell silent as they struggled with their mutual embarrassment. Travers’ intended boast about his conquest had turned into a regretted confession. Bosanquet’s inability to show any great anger left him feeling inadequate. The two men were extricated from the awkward situation by the arrival of the radioman.

  ‘Signals to port and starboard ahead, sir.’

  ‘A party or something?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know, sir. The traffic sounds like U-boat stuff – short bursts.’

  Travers gave the order to set a course for the strongest signal.

  A few minutes later the first glimmers of daylight separated sky from sea. Two new lookouts – they were changed every half-hour – began their stint. Within minutes a cry came from the port side:

  ‘Boat on the horizon. Trawler possibly.’

  Travers put his glasses to his eyes and examined the horizon with meticulous care. There was no doubt. The low-profile vessel, stubby cabin and short mast suggested a fishing boat.

  ‘Company!’ said Travers. ‘Shadowing us. Well, let them. They can’t do much harm. It’s the U-boat we want.’

  His dismissal of taking action was quickly followed by a cry from a second look-out:

  ‘Trawler! Fine off starboard bow.’

  This was too much for Travers. He wasn’t being shadowed; he was being hemmed in.

  ‘Action stations!’

  The siren screamed and echoed round the ship. Men tumbled from bunks, dropped books, took cooking pots off stoves. Feet were shoved into sea boots. Jackets were grabbed from hooks and drying lines. Arms were thrust into sleeves as the men raced down corridors, up ladders and across the deck. Guns were unlashed. Ammunition was rammed into breeches. The first two depth charges were already sitting in their launch cradle. Travers beamed with satisfaction at the sight of a perfect performance by his men.

  ‘Course 255.’

  The ship heeled as she turned towards the starboard trawler. As the distance between the two vessels shortened, Travers called: ‘Fire at will!’

  Before any of the guns went into action, a thundering roar came from the trawler and it sped off towards the horizon in the west.

  ‘That was some trawler,’ said Travers.

  From the ship’s port side came a similar roar.

  ‘And that, too,’ added Bosanquet. ‘What the blazes are they? E-boats?’

  ‘God only knows, but we’ve been had,’ said Travers.

  ‘We should have guessed something shifty was going on,’ said Bosanquet. ‘All that signalling. Those damned boats must have been decoys.’

  ‘Yes. And who told us about the U-boat being on this course? Your lot – in London.’

  ‘This is no time for post mortems, Commander. We’ve still got a U-boat to catch.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, Bosanquet. There was no U-boat. Just two wretched sort-of-trawlers putting out decoy signals. It’s back to Gib now and an end to all this pointless needle-in-haystack searching.’

  Bosanquet attempted a protest but Travers cut him short as he turned to Stokes: ‘Number 1. Set a course for Gib. Full ahead.’ HMS Ideal heeled over sharply as she reversed her course.

  Travers visibly glowed with smug satisfaction as he anticipated his return to a more routine world. Yet his relief proved momentary.

  ‘Asdic contact, sir. 270 degrees,’ called the radio operator.

  ‘At last! We’ve found the teaser!’ said Stokes.

  ‘There’s no need to sound so triumphant,’ said Travers. ‘This dam
n U-boat’s given us a hell of a runaround already. Let’s just hope this isn’t one more false lead. We’ll have to take it at face value. Reverse course, Number 1.’

  ****

  The decoy U-boat had been luring HMS Ideal away from the Mediterranean-bound cargo U-boat. Now its commander had to stand and fight. It could never outrun the destroyer. So began bluff and counter-bluff as the two vessels contrived to outwit each other. Despite his annoyance at what he had called the “runaround”, this was the work that Travers enjoyed. The need to anticipate the enemy. The false moves to force the enemy to turn into a disadvantageous position. The rapid changes of course. Even, on occasion, the trick of appearing to abandon the battle. And Travers knew that the longer he could keep the U-boat under, the more tired its crew would become. His men, even at action stations, were under less strain. And so he let the hide-and-seek game run its course for ten hours.

  He feigned one last departure from the scene, turned his ship and brought her onto the U-boat’s beam.

  ‘Full-ahead,’ he ordered.

  HMS Ideal smashed through the sea. The ship rose and fell, rolled from side to side and, at times, even appeared to bounce across the waves. Travers knew that the U-boat’s hydrophones would pick up Ideal’s throbbing propellers. Her captain would order a dive to an even more perilous depth. The one thing the boat could not do was to get out of the path of Ideal. Any turn of the boat at a few sluggish knots would be matched by Ideal. Travers would keep her onto the boat’s beam.

  When Ideal was about one mile off her prey, Travers ordered “slow-ahead” so that the asdic could guide her in to the exact spot where the boat lay.

  Two hours and thirty depth charges later a large pool of oil floated to the surface.

  ‘That was a tough one,’ said Travers. ‘Planning and patience always gets them in the end.’

  He called the radioman to the bridge and dictated an exultant report of the presumed sinking for London.

  ‘Navigator, set a course for Gib.’

  ‘Not yet, Travers, surely?’ said Bosanquet. ‘You’ve no proof that you sank the U-boat.’