Altered States – Volume II. Darkest Hour

Chapter 32

Newly promoted Captain Wells received the message from the W/T room with some surprise. ‘MOST IMMEDIATE — Admiralty informs the French fleet at Mers-el-Kebir has worked up steam and is now moving out to sea. Course and destination unknown. Imperative you ascertain location and intentions of the French Oran Squadron.’

Wells looked at the chronometer, 21:10, and the sun was just on the horizon behind them, setting in minutes. He would have twilight conditions for the next hour, but if he wanted to have any chance of spotting the French fleet he had to get his planes up immediately. The moon would not rise until quarter after one, a half moon that would provide some light. Should he launch now, or just before moonrise?

“Mister Lovell,” he said quickly. “Send down to Air Commander Heath and get that flight of Swordfish up for extended search to the east at once. The French have put to sea.” He had two Skua fighters on the forward catapults ready for immediate launch, and a squadron of four Swordfish aft on ready alert.

A signalman ran in with a further message, breathless from his trip up the ladder, and Wells took it quickly, raising an eyebrow at what he saw. ‘Considering gravity of present situation, HMS Glorious is herewith detached with DD Flotilla 8 and will make best practical speed ahead in effort to effect contact with French fleet. Main battle squadron will follow at best speed.’

Flotilla 8 consisted of six destroyers, Faulknor, Foxhound, Fearless, Forrester, Foresight, and Escort. They had been steaming off both sides of the carrier in two lines of three, providing a very effective ASW screen for the valuable ship. The remaining five destroyers of Flotilla 13 were attending to the four battleships.

Wells felt the rising adrenaline as he realized what was now happening. Glorious was the fastest ship in Somerville’s squadron, ten knots faster than any of the battleships. The situation had obviously changed. Somehow the French must have gotten wind of our operation, he thought quickly. We’ve lost the element of surprise, and they are slipping away. But where are they sailing? Suppose they are coming west in an attempt to reach Casablanca or Dakar? In that event I’ll have Glorious out in front and run into the entire French battle squadron! Would they sail west? The more he considered it the more he thought that unlikely. No, they will go home to a French port now, or further east to Algiers. Nothing else made any sense.

Yet he knew what that might mean, and the urgency that was now in the order for Glorious to move on ahead. They will order me to strike, he thought. It’s all on me now, the whole bloody mess.

“Mister Lovell, the ship will come ten points to starboard and increase to 30 knots.”

Lovell hesitated, ever so slightly, then the reflex kicked in and he quickly repeated the order. “Aye sir, starboard ten and ahead full.”

“Lampsmen, signal destroyers on our starboard side and order them to make way.”

Wells walked quickly to the chart room, remembering how he had assisted Admiral Tovey in the fleet flagship aboard Invincible. He had to now make some very quick calculations, and an equally quick decision. They were still west of Melilla, and 124 miles from Oran. His fairy Swordfish had a range of about 475 miles out and back, which might be extended to 525 with additional fuel, and no torpedo. This was a good deal more than the two Blackburn Skuas he had on the catapults, so he would go with his Swordfish.

If he launched now he could have his planes move ahead at their best speed and in an hour they could be just north of Oran with a little light before complete darkness set in. The Swordfish might then have another hour loiter time to shadow the French before they had to turn for home. It would be enough to at least find and mark the position and heading of the French fleet, which is what he had been ordered to do. So he would let his order stand. The planes would launch immediately.

The Swordfish were already sputtering to life, and he quickly had Lovell send down instructions as to his intentions for their course and mission. Come first light, he thought, the decks would likely be crowded with the whole of 823 Squadron, armed and ready. I have better inform Mister Heath, he thought.

“Mister Lovell, please ask Mister Heath to come to the bridge at his first opportunity.”

The calculations Wells had made were spot on. His Swordfish thrummed away east, vanishing into the twilight and labored off at their best speed. It was no more than an hour later before they reported back. ‘Spotted large flotilla, four capital ships, heading 030 degrees NW. Speed 20. EST — My position follows.’

“See that is forwarded to Admiral Somerville at once.”

“Aye sir.”

The French were just north of Oran, and if there were four battleships then they had emptied out the harbor. He had little doubt now. They were most likely running for Toulon. He passed a moment of relief, glad to know he might not blunder right into them as Glorious sped east at 30 knots. In the plot room off the bridge he was working out the situation on the chart, marking off the range with a compass. It was immediately obvious to him that Admiral Somerville’s battleships were not going to catch up.

His good friend Lieutenant Robert Woodfield had come onto the bridge as senior officer of the watch, relieving Lovell, and he waved him over.

“Have a look here, Woody. The French are slipping away like a proverbial thief in the night. Our search detail is already turning for home, but if they stay on their present heading I’ve worked it out that Somerville hasn’t a chance to ever catch up.”

“Not a very satisfactory turn of events,” said Woodfield.

“You know what this means,” said Wells. “If the Admiralty remains determined to get at these ships, we’ll be the ones they tap on the shoulder.”

“Does Heath know?”

“Yes. I spoke with him half an hour ago and he’s down there arming 823 Squadron with torpedoes even as we speak. I have little doubt I’ll have a launch order well before dawn.”

“Right,” said Woodfield. “Well we’ll just have to make the best of it, hard as it may be.”

“Sun will be up at 07:20, but I’ll have everything ready to go in another hour. We’ll recover our search detail a half past midnight. I’ve plotted their farthest on circle here,” he pointed to the chart. “So if we steer this course and swing up near Cartagena, we could be about 90 miles west of them if they have turned north towards Mallorca.”

“And if they turned east for Algiers?”

“Then I’ll have to steer 040, right down the middle. In that instance I think we can get even closer. We’re closing the range on them at ten knots per hour.”

“My guess is that they will run parallel to the coast to a point north of Algiers before they head north, if Toulon is where they are really headed.”

“I thought the same. So I’m steady on for the moment unless I hear anything to compel me to move north.”

“Right you are, Welly… You don’t mind my calling you that, Captain?”

“Perhaps not best in front of them men,” said Wells, “but between the two of us I’ll miss it if you don’t.”

The signal Wells had been waiting for, and mostly dreading, came shortly after midnight, just as the Swordfish were beginning their approach for a night recovery. ‘Considering present situation, and decisions taken by the Admiralty, Case Anvil is hereby ordered for 04:00 hours. Imperative you give main battle squadron every chance to catch up.’

Woodfield was still at his elbow when he received the message, and he handed it off to his friend, saying nothing.

“You know what this means,” said Woodfield quietly. “Have we even given them our ultimatum?”

“I can’t see how.” Wells had a look of anguish on his face.

“Some Anvil,” said Woodfield. “That squadron out of Oran may be joining up with ships from Algiers.”

“And we’re the hammer now, Woody. 823 and 825 squadrons against the whole French fleet!”

July 28, 1940 was a hard day. The leading Swordfish of 823 and 825 squadron had assembled on deck, two groups of eight spotted for takeoff, two more groups waiting on the hanger deck below. Glorious had closed to a range of just 60 miles, and so eight Skua would also be added to the strike, for a total of 40 planes. Their engines were spinning up and sputtering to life at 05:00 And the whole formation was aloft and assembled over the next twenty minutes.

Wells had been informed that the demands to be made of Admiral Gensoul had been directly transmitted to the French Admiralty, now modified to require the French ships immediately proceed to either Alexandria to come under British control or to Algiers where they were to be scuttled within six hours. An affront to French honor, and in accordance with Admiral Darlan’s orders that the French fleet would not comply with orders from any foreign Admiralty, the offer was rejected. Now well out to sea and still over 150 miles ahead of Somerville’s battleship squadron, the French did not believe that the British could back up their threats any longer.

At 05:40 that morning, the pre-dawn quiet was broken by the low, distant drone of the Swordfish, coming in over the wave tops after finally locating the French fleet again. Gensoul knew he had been spotted, but was so confident that the British no longer posed any real threat that he remained on his heading, taking no further evasive action.

Following orders, Wells transmitted the follow up sighting report, indicating his planes now had Gensoul’s squadron in sight. Five minutes later the signalman handed him a one word message: Anvil, which was in turn immediately transmitted to Commander Heath. The Old Stringbags were going in.

823 Squadron broke formation, approaching from the left, with 825 Squadron on the right. The heart of the formation was a line of four large capital ships, the primary targets. Ahead of them was a second formation of six light cruisers, three from Oran and three more from Algiers. Eight to ten destroyers were steaming on the fringes of this grand formation. As they approached, the Swordfish pilots claimed they could hear the sound of alarms and sirens blaring on the bigger ships ahead, and soon cold fingers of white light probed the darkened skies as the ships began to switch on searchlights.

Guns began to fire, almost randomly at first, puffing up the sky with white explosions. Three ships launched flare rockets, which whistled up and descended on slow parachutes, illuminating the targets more than affording any aid to the gunners. By the time the planes were actually seen, and not simply heard, the Swordfish were already well lined up on the end of the formation, closing on the lumbering battleships Bretagne and Provence like a pack of hyenas stalking water buffalo on the African savannah.

The pilots took aim at the leading battlecruisers, but their torpedoes would not find them that dark morning. Strausbourg in the van of the battle squadron immediately accelerated to its top speed of 32 knots, Dunkerque following in her frothing wake. A gap appeared between those sleek new ships and the old WWI era battleships behind them, already struggling along at only just 20 knots.

The first eight planes on either side had little luck. One torpedo struck a fitful destroyer running alongside Bretagne. Another hit the battleship full amidships. The second wave got in much closer, braving the thickening AA fire as the French finally focused their defense. Two planes were hit and felled, the remaining fourteen all getting torpedoes in the water. Of these eight would find their targets, four plowing into Provence at the rear of the formation and four more striking Bretagne.

The explosions rocked the big ships from side to side, and it was soon apparent that they had both taken severe damage. Bretagne, hit five times now, was quickly listing to her starboard side. Provence had taken one hit that disabled her port side engines. She wallowed in the sea, down at the stern and the last ignominious attack was put in by the escorting Skuas, which swooped down from above to deliver bombs. Three more hits were obtained and it soon became obvious that neither one of the battleships would survive the attack.

Like bees that had delivered their only sting, the Swordfish could do little more. They fluttered about, some making a vain attempt to get after the faster French ships with bombs, but to no avail. When all was said and done, the sun rose over the scene to reveal that the British attack had claimed the two old battleships, the destroyer Mogador, and the lives of over 1300 French sailors.

By 08:00 the planes were being recovered and Wells messaged Admiral Somerville with results, asking if another strike should be mounted. The British had learned that the incident had stirred up the Italians on Sardinia, and that planes were up from Cagliari, the humpback three engine bombers out to see what they could find. The French had another 380 sea miles to go before they were safely home, but now, with Italian bases active at Cagliari, Sassari and Ajaccio it was deemed imprudent to allow the sole carrier to linger. Somerville signaled that the ship should turn and rejoin his battle squadron, which proceeded to Oran, finding no more than a few submarines, minelayers and Colonial Sloops remaining there. Algiers was also abandoned.

In the end the British were left with a result that was 90 % of what they had accomplished in the history Fedorov knew, and with the same consequences. The attack was reviled in France, lining up all the remaining French naval units in sworn opposition to the Royal Navy from that day forward. It also dealt a hard blow to General Charles De Gaulle’s efforts in organizing his Free French resistance, but Operation Catapult did accomplish one thing politically by proving the resolve of Great Britain to fight on without scruples, which immediately stiffened the flagging morale at home and did much to bolster Churchill’s position.

Yet the real prizes within the French fleet still remained at large. The fast battlecruisers Strausbourg and Dunkerque, and all the light cruisers and remaining destroyers made it safely to Toulon where they would continue to pose a dangerous threat. More than this, the operation had not challenged the three modern French battleships, Richelieu at Casablanca, and Jean Bart and the late arrived Normandie at Dakar. These five ships would loom ever larger over the scene in the months ahead, though Britain had achieved at least one thing by preventing the concentration of all these powerful ships in one location. Three of the five were east of Gibraltar at Casablanca and Dakar, potential prizes for the British if they could be obtained, certain enemies otherwise. The last two were At Toulon, potential prizes for the Germans and Italians that would cause much strife in the days ahead as Britain considered how it could maintain the long supply line through the Med to Cunningham in Alexandria.

As a adjunct to Operation Catapult, a small British detachment under HMS Hermes had mounted an air raid on the Richelieu in conjunction with a mining operation by frogmen, but failed to inflict any serious damage. This served only to telegraph future British intentions to Rear Admiral Plancon, Flag Officer, French Navy West Africa. He called an emergency meeting with Admiral Laborde on the Normandie, and Captains Barthes and Marzin on the other two battleships in French West Africa. The universal consensus was that Vichy France should extend their armistice with Germany to the status of alliance, and forsake Britain and the West altogether.

Admiral Darlan had been leaning this way for some time, believing England’s days were numbered and wanting to place the last of his dwindling chips on a winning number. He met with Marshall Petain, and a delegation was sent to Berlin. Three days later the news shocked the world and rattled the grey heads in Whitehall. France had not only fallen as an ally, it had now become a foe.