by Ian Blake
Jewall turned to the lookout. ‘Can you see what it is?’
‘Bit far away, sir, but it looks like a Junkers 88 to me.’
‘Warn the Catalina,’ Jewall snapped at the signaller. The signaller raised his lamp.
‘The General asks if he can stay on the bridge,’ the aide said haltingly. Giraud was looking around with immense detached interest, like a tourist admiring the view.
‘No, he bloody well can’t!’ Wright replied testily. ‘Get him below immediately.’
‘Elevation twenty degrees, sir. Eight thousand yards. Still looks like a Junkers.’
‘The Catalina’s going to take off, sir,’ the signaller reported. ‘He says a Hudson escort for him is due around now.’
‘It’ll be too bloody late for us,’ said Jewall above the noise of the flying boat’s revving engines. On the forecasing Pountney and two seamen had already launched the first folbot.
‘Secure that torpedo hatch,’ Jewall shouted down to them. ‘Get away from the sub,’ he warned Pountney, who was in the folbot. ‘I may have to crash-dive.’
He trained his binoculars on the ever-growing dot astern of the submarine. It couldn’t be the Catalina’s escort, as it was coming from the wrong direction. Whatever it was, it was very slow and probably hadn’t spotted them yet.
‘Do we dive?’ he asked Wright. It was a submariner’s nightmare to be caught on the surface by an enemy aircraft.
‘No,’ said the US Navy captain calmly. ‘We fight it out. Otherwise we’ll never get him to Gib on time. Do you agree?’
‘We might never get him there at all,’ said Jewall grimly. ‘But I’m game if you are.’
‘Elevation thirty degrees, sir. Six thousand yards. Almost certainly a Junkers.’
‘Only fire on my orders,’ Jewall shouted to the Oerlikon crew on the bandstand aft of the bridge. He was relieved to see that Giraud had disappeared below without further argument. Stubborn old bastard.
The Catalina took off in the direction of the approaching aircraft and lumbered into the air. Jewall had no idea how, if it came to it, the aircraft would fare in a dogfight with a Junkers, as neither was equipped for such an encounter.
‘Elevation thirty-five degrees, sir. Five thousand yards. Definitely a Junkers, sir.’
‘Shit,’ Jewall muttered under his breath. He raised his binoculars again and recognized the pointed wings of the Junkers 88. He saw the bomber suddenly dip and knew that its crew had seen the submarine. He could see the markings now on its black wings and fuselage.
‘Stand by to open fire!’ he shouted to the Oerlikon crew.
‘Elevation forty degrees, sir. Four thousand yards.’
Jewall glanced down to make sure that Pountney was well clear of the submarine.
‘Full speed ahead!’ he said into the voice pipe. ‘Hard-a-starboard.’
‘Elevation forty-five degrees, sir. Three thousand yards.’
The Junkers was diving steeply at them.
‘Open fire!’
Boff! Boff! Boff!
The quick-firing Oerlikon drummed in their ears as the 20mm shells sped towards the target.
Boff! Boff! Boff!
Empty shell cases rolled off the bandstand and into the sea.
The enemy aircraft continued to dive.
‘Get down!’ Jewall yelled at the lookouts.
He and Wright crouched under the lip of the bridge. But their eyes did not leave the Junkers and they watched, almost as if hypnotized, as two black objects detached themselves from its belly. At first the bombs wobbled in the air, but then their fins stabilized as they dropped towards the submarine.
‘Hard-a-port,’ Jewall said into the voice pipe.
But the bomber had misjudged the speed of its small target and both bombs fell well astern, throwing up fountains of water.
The next moment the Junkers was directly over them, filling their ears with the thunder of its engines.
The Oerlikon followed it round.
Boff! Boff! Boff!
The bomber swung upwards and jinked hard to its left, ready to circle round and continue the attack.
Boff! Boff! Boff!
Quite suddenly a small curl of grey smoke appeared under the Junkers which quickly turned to a long, black trail of burning oil as the aircraft lumbered to gain height.
The Oerlikon crew cheered.
Overconfident bastard, thought Jewall. That’ll teach him.
The Junkers straightened out, turned north and headed straight for the French coast. Soon it was a dwindling speck, leaving behind it a thin trail of burnt oil which was quickly dispersed by the wind.
No time for congratulations, Jewall thought as he bent once more to the voice pipe. ‘Stop both engines. The General can come to the bridge now.’
He waved to the folbot, which was well astern. Giraud reappeared, looking annoyed at missing the action. If he was surprised to see Jewall so evidently in command, he showed no sign of it, but shook hands gravely with the young lieutenant before being escorted carefully by Wright on to the forecasing and loaded into Pountney’s canoe when it came alongside.
As he climbed in, the Catalina returned and landed nearby. Meredith and Giraud’s aide, the latter clutching the briefcase, were taken across in the other two folbots. It was an anxious quarter of an hour, with the lookouts constantly scanning the horizon, but eventually the Catalina lumbered across the oily water and clawed its way into the air.
Jewall breathed a sigh of relief and pressed the klaxon button.
16
Lieutenant General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Commander-in-Chief of the Allied North African Expeditionary Force, pushed back his chair, stood up and gave one of his famous grins. It split his face from ear to ear. Giraud bowed slightly, gravely shook Eisenhower’s proffered hand across the conference table and sat down. His aide, still looking worried and ill at ease, sat next to him. Clark and Meredith came in and sat down on either side of Eisenhower.
Eisenhower’s underground headquarters, recently hewn out of the great Rock of Gibraltar, was a hive of frantic activity as the time for the invasion approached. But here in the conference room all was quiet except for the hum of the air-conditioning.
Conducting the negotiations across the conference table was too formal, Eisenhower thought, but that was what the French had wanted. He had wanted an informal talk, but ultimately Giraud had little bargaining power, so perhaps it was understandable that he wished to seem as aloof and as formal as possible. It sure didn’t help though, Eisenhower felt, and time was short. It was going to be a difficult meeting.
He resumed his seat and cleared his throat, then made what he considered was an acceptably brief speech about the General’s bravery and courage in escaping from Germany and then from southern France, and the privilege of having him in Gibraltar to help the Allied cause.
As Eisenhower spoke, Giraud looked straight at him, his gaze never wavering. Occasionally his hand strayed to the ends of his handlebar moustache, but otherwise he sat perfectly still. He was in uniform now, his chest covered with row upon row of decorations, a visible contrast to the single line of ribbons worn by Eisenhower, who had not so far been in battle.
Eisenhower concluded his speech by saying that having such a glorious nation as France, with her illustrious past, on the side of the Allies would surely tip the balance of the war against the Nazis. A memorable victory would then be theirs for the taking, a victory in which France would have played a crucial role. A politician to his fingertips, Eisenhower spoke with sincerity and conviction, and when he had finished he gestured to the General to speak.
For the first time since the conference had begun Giraud diverted his eyes from Eisenhower’s face and read in French from a sheet of paper. He spoke slowly and emphatically and after each sentence he paused while it was translated by Meredith. Occasionally he glanced at Eisenhower as if to measure the effect he was having, but Eisenhower remained inscrutable.
When Giraud had finished, Eisenhower
and Clark exchanged glances. It was worse than they had thought. Much worse.
‘Regrettably,’ said Eisenhower abruptly, ‘it is not possible to put the General in overall command of the landings.’
Meredith translated and Giraud acknowledged this with a slight bow of the head. He turned to Meredith and spoke rapidly.
‘He says it was his understanding that he was to take command. He had a personal letter from our President to that effect. Otherwise, he would not have come,’ Meredith explained.
Eisenhower groaned inwardly. Giraud might be a brave officer, and a fine one, too, but he seemed extraordinarily naive politically. Eisenhower had seen Roosevelt’s letter and it had made no such offer. It had held out promises - but what did promises mean in wartime?
‘I profoundly regret if there was some misunderstanding,’ Eisenhower said. ‘However, I am sure the General will believe me when I say that the circumstances have changed. These now dictate that a distinguished – I repeat, distinguished – Frenchman is present in North Africa around whom all Frenchman there can rally to fight for the Allied cause. You are that man, General. All we need is for you to broadcast a message to your countrymen in North Africa that they are to welcome the Americans as Allies. The lives of thousands of Americans and Frenchmen are in your hands. All the glory is yours.’
Meredith translated. There was a moment’s tense silence before Giraud smiled slightly and then spoke.
‘The General says he is not a politician,’ Meredith said. He can say that again, Eisenhower thought, but not a muscle on his face moved.
‘He says that it was the decision of the Allies to invade North Africa, not his. The blood must be on your hands.’
There was a moment’s stunned silence. Then Clark leant forward and said to Meredith: ‘Render this into French, Walt, just as closely as you damned well can: “Old gentleman, I hope you know that from now on your ass is out in the snow."’
Meredith glanced across at Eisenhower, who shrugged. ‘We’ve got to get the stubborn old bastard to agree somehow,’ he said. ‘If flattery is not going to do it, let’s try something else.’
It was going to be a long session and he called for more coffee.
17
In a different part of the Rock, a British naval commander from Combined Operations was briefing the three SBS men, the captains of the two ships which were to enter Oran harbour, and a tough-looking American lieutenant colonel, with a Texan drawl, who had been introduced to them as the commander of the small elite force of US Army Rangers who were to accompany the SBS.
The Commander held a snooker cue in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other. With the cue he tapped a map which had been slung over a blackboard on an easel. ‘This is Oran, gentlemen, the French Navy’s principal North African base in the western Mediterranean.’
‘I remember it well,’ said the younger of the two ship’s captains, an RNVR lieutenant commander called Harvey. ‘I was the Jimmy on one of Somerville’s destroyers. It left a bad taste in all our mouths.’ He spoke bitterly.
‘With any luck, Terry,’ the Commander replied soothingly, ‘this time there won’t be a shot fired in anger, as the purpose of this little operation is merely to persuade the French Navy not to react to the landings. But we’ll be landing troops to prevent sabotage of port facilities and ships prior to the arrival of American troops of the Central Task Force.’
‘Where are they coming from?’ the older captain, an RNR commander called Bill Crean, asked. The RNR, Royal Naval Reserve, was drawn mostly from merchant seamen. Crean had a complexion like leather and looked as if he had sailed all seven oceans of the world, which indeed he had.
‘They will be landing on beaches to the west of the Bay of Oran and to the east of the port at approximately 0300 hours. That’s an hour after you’re due into Oran.’
‘You mean,’ said Pountney, ‘we’ll be the first ashore?’
‘Exactly. You’ll have with you a small force of US Army Rangers commanded by Colonel Budd here. Two companies of them, to be exact. But the ships are ours, as the American Navy has nothing suitable this side of the Atlantic. They will be British-manned and will be commanded by these two stalwarts here.’
‘And how do we let the French know what our intentions are?’ Crean asked.
‘Both your ships will be rigged with loudspeakers. French personnel will be going with you to broadcast the message that you have come as allies of the French.’
There was a sceptical silence, broken eventually by Pountney, who asked: ‘So where does the SBS fit in?’
‘To see to it that no ship leaves the harbour.’
‘And how the hell do we do that?’
‘We have a new little gadget for you which should help,’ the Commander replied. ‘You’ll be seeing that next. While you SBS boys are out in your canoes, Colonel Budd’s Rangers will occupy the wharves around the harbour and two gun batteries guarding the western and northern approaches to the port.’
‘What ships are taking us in?’ Budd asked. ‘Battleships, I hope.’
A ripple of laughter went round the room, but the American’s underlying meaning did not escape any of those present.
The Commander smiled and drew on his cigarette. ‘Ex-US Coast Guard cutters which your Navy loaned to us last year, Colonel. Lake Class. I recommend them. Seaworthy boats.’
‘Why Coast Guard cutters?’ Ayton asked. ‘Seems a funny choice.’
‘The French will identify them as American.’
‘They’re armour-plated, I hope,’ said Pountney, half under his breath. What lunatic had thought up this operation? he wondered. The Royal Navy might have sunk half the French fleet in July 1940, but what about the other half?
‘Not armour-plated,’ the Commander said, ‘and they’re only 250 feet long, but fast for their size. You won’t need armour-plating, as we are confident the French will welcome the Americans as allies.’
‘And that includes the French Navy?’
The Commander hesitated, then said cheerfully: ‘The French Navy will fall into line, I’m sure. However, just in case they start shooting before they start thinking, I suggest you come in from the east, not from the Bay of Oran. Then you can hug the cliffs along the coastline, which will make you well nigh impossible to spot. You should remain undetected until you appear off the mouth of the port, which won’t give the batteries time to get a shot at you. And when the French identify you as American – well, there’ll be vino all round.’
He passed around data of the area and sketches of the entrance to Oran harbour, and also handed out the most recent aerial reconnaissance photographs. Some of the verticals showed the layout of the long, narrow harbour. Its waters were protected from the Bay of Oran by a mole that stretched from the harbour entrance to one of the batteries, Fort Lamoune, which covered the Bay of Oran. Another battery, Ravin Blanc, was sited on the shore to guard the harbour entrance, and under its shadow lay the harbour’s main quay.
Most of the French warships, destroyers and corvettes, appeared to be moored at the far end of the harbour under the guns of Fort Lamoune, though there were a number of smaller vessels alongside the main quay. The soundings data showed clearly that the north-south channel into the harbour entrance from the Bay of Oran was wide and deep and well dredged. But there were sand bars to the east of it, with only a narrow channel through them.
The harbour entrance was protected by a boom. The gap in it, to allow the passage of friendly vessels, was protected by several block-ships which could be manoeuvred to close it at short notice. There was also an inner boom constructed with a line of coal barges.
‘It doesn’t look an easy nut to crack,’ Ayton commented and the other two SBS men murmured their agreement.
‘You won’t have to crack it,’ said the Commander cheerfully. ‘They’ll welcome you with open arms.’
‘Are you certain of that?’ Harvey asked sceptically.
The smile on the Commander’s face faded. He stubbed ou
t his cigarette and said quietly: ‘No. But it’s the best we can do under the circumstances. You’ve all been hand-picked. I don’t doubt that you will be able to cope with whatever confronts you.’
The briefing broke up and the Commander led the three SBS men along another corridor hewn out of the Rock and into a large, well-lit space that looked like an arsenal for exotic weaponry. At the far end stood a line of prefabricated offices. The Commander knocked on the door of one and was told to enter by a gruff Scottish voice.
‘Here you are, Donald,’ the Commander said. ‘These are the fellows you want.’
A tall, lithe man in the uniform of a lieutenant commander RNVR came round from his desk, which was piled high with paper, and shook their hands enthusiastically. His face was familiar to Ayton, but he could not place it until the officer introduced himself as Donald Campbell. He knew then they were in the presence of the holder of the world land- and water-speed records.
‘Donald’s our dirty-tricks man,’ said the Commander. ‘Full of new ideas and new inventions.’
Campbell rubbed his hands together and picked up from his desk a long, cylindrical object. ‘My mini torpedo. Twenty-one inches long. Specially designed to cripple vessels in sheltered waters.’
He handed it to Ayton, who weighed it in his hand and then passed it on to the other two.
‘It’s powered by a car’s windscreen-wiper motor,’ Campbell said, ‘which drives twin opposing screws. Packs a one-and-a-half-pound cavity charge of PE in its nose. What do you think?’
Campbell’s shrewd eyes were fastened on Ayton, who opened his mouth, then shut it again. It was Pountney who asked how they were supposed to operate it.
‘Easy,’ said Campbell cheerfully. ‘You just set the screws rotating by pressing this switch here. You then launch it at your target from your folbot.’
‘And its maximum range?’
‘Fifty yards. It’ll make a nice hole in anything smaller than a cruiser. Damage it enough to keep it in harbour without causing casualties.’
‘Except us,’ said Ayton under his breath.
Pountney, who liked anything new and knew that ordinary limpets would be much too powerful, agreed that each SBS team should take three of the devices. Campbell seemed delighted and escorted them to the exit, extolling some of the other ideas he was working on.
