Kirov Saga: Hinge Of Fate: Altered States Volume III (Kirov Series) (36 page)

“I’ve
heard things are a bit busy on the Mole,” the other man said. “You’ll have to
get in the swing of things right off the bat.”

“That I
will,” said Dawes, but he had no idea just how busy he would be after a last
restful sleep and early rising to take his post. “I’m to report at 05:00.”

“Ungodly
hour,” said the other man.”

“Which
is why I’ll need my beauty sleep tonight,” said Dawes.

Another
officer, a man named Cornwell, had listened in from across the table and spoke
up. “Well you’d better hit the bunk soon, Mister Dawes. From what I’ve heard
Force H is weighing anchor just after sunset.”

“Is
that so, Corny? Drat. I had hoped to get a good close look at old
Rodney
or
Nelson
tomorrow.”

“Then
you’d best get down to the mole after supper. Something’s up, I tell you.”

Dawes
raised an eyebrow. “Probably just another run out to Malta. HMS
Glorious
left some days ago. I’ve heard they’re still trying to ferry planes out to
Malta in case the Italians find their backbone and want to do anything about
it.”

“Not
bloody likely,” said the man.

Dawes
emptied his wine glass, setting it down and dabbing his lips with a napkin.
“Well gentlemen, no brandy after dinner for me, and I’ll have to have my
evening smoke on the way to the barracks.”

He
excused himself and was out the door, glad in some respects to be away from the
banter at table. People were always teeing up ideas over what was going on in
the war, but no one ever really knew anything. But the rumors tonight began to
take on new meaning when he took a brief stroll past the old Moorish lookout
and along Windmill Hill barracks until he could get a decent look at the
harbor.

The
officer had been correct. Something was afoot. He saw that three destroyers had
already slipped their berthings at the Destroyer Camber and were out through
the main harbor entrance into the bay. That was standard operating procedure if
Force H was about to sortie again. The destroyers were always first out the
gate, sent to sweep the bay and snoop about in the channel to the south just in
case an enemy submarine might be lurking. There were quite a few destroyers
there at the moment, but he could already see two more getting underway.

So
where is the Royal Navy off to tonight, he wondered? Corny was spot on with his
remark. He could see that both
Nelson
and
Rodney
had good steam
up, and all the cruisers. The whole fleet was putting out to sea tonight, which
could only mean that someone was going to be sorry they decided to pick a fight
with the Royal Navy. The sight of the battleships made him feel proud.

Perhaps
I should have signed on with the Navy, he thought. Here I ended up with the
Royal Artillery, a bloody Support and Logistics Officer. It was hardly the sort
of post a man would boast about after the war. All he had been doing was
shuffling about at a few 25 pounder batteries up on Windmill Hill, and
coordinating with the bigger shore batteries.

Ah
well, he thought. I suppose I should be grateful that I’ve a nice warm bunk to
be settling into, with a nice glass of wine in my belly tonight. It really doesn’t
seem much like there’s a war on. The French got their dander up and raised a
ruckus here last month. That was all the excitement we’ve had out here. There’s
been a lot of talk at Officer’s Mess about the French Fleet these days. Word
has been going round that there was a scrap down south and a couple of our
ships took a few hard knocks. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen the two older
battleships lately. Both
Barham
and
Resolution
are still out to
sea. Now these last three here will be joining them. The battleship
Valiant
also had a good head of steam up, so that will empty the cupboard here.

What
could be going on that needs all these ships at sea at one time? Were the
rumors true? Was there a battle on with the French Fleet down south? And what
about all the talk that Admiral North was being relieved and heading back to
England?

Well
that settles it, he thought. Just like me to get a post at the North Mole right
after all the big ships slip away. Now I’ll just be sitting up there in that
dreary tower watching rusty old merchant ships and fishing trawlers. It will be
no fun at all. He had a ten hour shift the first day out—just sit there, keep a
lookout on the mole and answer the phone. It was going to be a very boring
assignment, or so he thought.

But he
was very, very wrong.

Chapter 32

Just
after 01:00 on the 15th of September the sirens began to
wail when Gibraltar’s lone early warning radar, one of only three presently in
the Mediterranean, picked up the inbound German raid. Almost immediately the long
thin columns of the searchlights reached up into the dark skies, probing the
soft late summer night for any sign of the enemy. Troops rushed to the 3.7 and
40mm batteries, elevating the thin barrels skyward as the first, distant rumble
of the aircraft engines could be heard. The crews had scored their very first
kill the previous month against the French, shooting down a single plane, and
swiveled their guns into action with a jaunty confidence that would soon
dissipate as the whistling bombs began to fall.

Dawes
was awakened by the noise, sitting up bleary eyed in his bunk and hearing the
haunting wail of the sirens. What in blazes? Are the French at it again? Then
the bombs began to fall and he had the presence of mind to get dressed and look
for a pith helmet.

Outside
he ran towards the Naval Signals Station where he could get a good look at the
harbor and town on the west side of the island. It was nearly a full moon, so
he could see the town and harbor easily enough, and noted the dark shadows of
the ships that remained anchored. There didn’t seem to be any trouble in the
harbor for the moment, and the lights of the town itself had all been
blackened. The sight of the searchlights fingering the darkness gave him an
eerie feeling. Then he heard the thrum of engines and a sound unlike any plane
he had heard before. It was a screeching wail, like a demon from hell, a
howling sound that chilled his blood. Then came the first awful crash of the
bombs.

There
were explosions down at the southern end of the town, and a fire there. He
could soon see that bombs had fallen near the Grand Parade, a wide area where
troops would stand in ceremonial parade, and the navy bands would play. The
light from the fire soon illuminated a warship there, so there was still some
remnant of Force H at hand. Moments later he saw bright tracer rounds leap up
from the harbor area, and heard the sharp crack of gunfire. The ship was
firing, her stacks now getting up steam that drifted up to be illuminated by
the pale moonlight.

The
bloody French, he thought, but that wasn’t so.

These
were German pilots, veterans of many grueling runs over English soil where they
had faced intense anti-aircraft gunfire along with the superb aerial defense of
the R.A.F. The fire put up that night seemed light by comparison, and the
German planes soon began to pound known gun installations, the harbor district,
the fortified line of pill boxes, and mined wire at the north end of the
airfield. The big 9.2-inch gun at O’Hara’s Battery where Dawes had finished his
day the previous evening on the top of the Rock got particular attention from
the
Stukas
, receiving three hits within the first hour until it was put
out of action. In other places the damage was far less than Goering had
promised, though it was immediately clear that he could at least claim one
boast—the airfield was pot marked with craters, the main hangers on fire and
the old rifle range buildings to the north and east flattened by direct hits.

Now the
truth behind the rumors became apparent. Forewarned that the German troops in
Southern France were on the move, Force H had slipped its moorings at sunset
and taken its heavy units out through the straits and into the Atlantic, where
they hovered under the thin air defense umbrella provided by HMS
Hermes
.

The
German Ju-88 night raid was augmented by squadrons of Ju-87
Stukas
protected by Bf-109s, and their mission was to target and silence British
artillery positions and deal with any ships that remained behind in the
anchorage. These were the planes that Dawes had heard, the scream of their
diving runs so very jarring to the nerves as they came in. If ever there was a
sound that warned of imminent danger, it was the wailing sirens of the ‘Jericho
Trumpets’ when the planes swooped in like dark evil crows.

 Only
one destroyer was left in the harbor when they arrived, the
Hotspur
, and
though it was straddled by two near misses and badly splintered with bomb fragments,
it was otherwise unharmed. Lieutenant Dawes stared at the scene, realizing that
the war might not be so dull and uneventful after all. It went on for the
better part of an hour, and several fires had started down in the town before
it was over. When planes began to home in on Windmill Hill Dawes realized he
had better get to a shelter.

He
huddled there for some time, until the all clear was finally sounded after two
in the morning. Rumors passed like fire in the shelter. These were not the
French. Talk went round and round about it until a gritty Sergeant, a man named
Hobson, finally chanced to speak up and interrupt the two other officers that
had been debating the issue.

“If I
may, sir,” the man said darkly. “If the Germans have gone to all this trouble
to pay us a visit, we may very well be in for more trouble ahead. I’ve heard
2nd Kings Rifles has all been called out to the wire. Mark my words. They’ll be
coming across the lines in due course.”

“I
should certainly hope not, Sergeant,” said another Lieutenant in the Artillery.
He was one of the officers that always seemed to lay on the old ‘chin chin’ a
bit too thick for Dawes’ liking.

“I had
my mind set on watching a good filly run the race course tomorrow morning.” The
Lieutenant was referring to a makeshift racing circle out beyond the airfield
and very near the frontier with Spain. The officers often ran horses there, and
bet on the outcome while they had a good smoke, watched by men from the 2nd King’s
Rifles, who sat behind their Vickers machine guns in their bunkers guarding the
wire, and cheered the horses on.

“Well
sir,” said the Sergeant. “If you do go out to the lines tomorrow, I can only
hope you have a very fast horse.”

Something
about the remark carried a hidden warning, and when the all clear was finally
sounded, Dawes kept thinking about it as he finally settled back into his bunk
to try and get back to his fitful sleep. What did the Sergeant mean by that?
Was he suggesting the Germans might be coming with more than an air raid?

He only
managed another two hours sleep before he had to get up and on his way down the
hill and up through Buena Vista east of Rosia Bay to the harbor. There he saw
that the German pilots were much better at their jobs than the French ever
were. There was damage near the Destroyer Camber where
Hotspur
had been
finally driven out to sea, and he saw the wreckage of several buildings off
Grand Parade, the smoke from the fires still hanging in the air.

As he
continued on, up past the Coaling Island and the old fortified position known
as ‘King’s Bastion,’ he heard men talking in small groups by the wharfs and
quays, and with worried faces. Soon he came to his tower south of the North
Mole, and climbed up to report for duty. He was relieving another haggard
looking Lieutenant

“Busy
night,” said the man. “Didn’t get a wink of sleep. Well, At least you’ll have
the day shift, and no bother with German planes buzzing about your ears. I was
afraid they would put one of those bloody bombs right on my head!”

Dawes
gave him a thin smile, then took his seat in the still warm chair, eyeing the
telephone on the desk with some misgiving.

“That’s
it,” said the other man. “Any problems and you just ring up the Colonel on the
other end of that line. It’ll be dark another hour, so mind your orders should
you hear anything out of the ordinary. You can expose the Mole with searchlights,
but I wouldn’t get too jumpy. The sun will be up soon, and it’s almost
breakfast!” The man smiled, and left Dawes sitting alone in his tower.

* * *

The
German planes finished their work and landed at airbases
near Seville, where supplies and air fuel had been secretly forward deployed to
allow them to replenish and be available for rapid sortie turnover. They would
have plenty of time to pound British positions, demolishing the radar station,
knocking out several gun batteries, striking Devil’s Tower Camp and the
barracks further south at Europa Point. They deliberately avoided targeting the
main wharf and docking areas but soon drove the intrepid
Hotspur
out of
the harbor—all this while the land assault force moved south.

The
frontier gates on the Franco-Spanish border had been thrown open five days
earlier, at a little after sunset on September 10, 1940, a full three months
earlier than the initial plans had envisioned. It would be slow going at the
outset as the long winding columns of motorized infantry made their way through
the high mountains to Pamplona, some 60 kilometers away. Two days later the
R.A.F. had seen them in the mountain passes, and the alarm had been secretly
wired to General Liddell at Gibraltar, allowing Somerville to discretely move
Force H out of the harbor.