Altered States – Volume II. Darkest Hour

Chapter 33

“What have we done, Woody?” said Wells when it was all over. “We sink a pair of old hulking dreadnoughts that would probably have spent the entire war rusting in port, but the fast battlecruisers got clean away!”

“We did what we had to,” said Woodfield. “You weren’t flying the planes, Wells. All you could do was get the ship in close and carry out your orders, and that you did well enough.”

“Yet we were supposed to try and stop them, weren’t we?”

“You got hold of their leg and took a good bite, Captain. Then you were out there, well in front of the rest of Force H with Italian bombers inbound and only 8 fighters for air cover. What more could you do? Somerville was simply too far behind to finish the job.”

“Yes we did, but it’s my name written in the history books this time, isn’t it. I’ll go down as the man who ordered the dastardly deed. I got hold of Admiral Gensoul’s leg alright, then stabbed our former friend and ally in the back. Now look what has happened. The Vichy government is in cahoots with Hitler, and it’s all my fault.” He felt that, of all days, this surely must be England’s darkest hour.

“Don’t get a big head on your shoulders, Welly.” Woodfield jabbed his friend in the shoulder. “That order came from well above your pay grade.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Wells, but the thought of all those French sailors that went down with those ships would haunt him for the rest of his days, and he was ever bothered to think that his actions had tipped the delicate political balance that was teetering in the operation, and made a new enemy out of England’s old friend.

Germany expressed immediate interest in the overtures put forward by Petain and Darlan. They had already seized control of the fast cruiser De Grasse and the nearly completed carrier Joffre. Now a pair of fast battlecruisers and a gaggle of other ships were nesting at Toulon, within easy reach of either Germany or Italy. The Vichy French knew they had a strong bargaining chip in the navy, and in the considerable holdings they now still controlled in North Africa. In exchange for full wartime cooperation with Germany, they would ask for governing authority over all of France.

Hitler equivocated, then decided that as long as the Germans would be permitted free and unfettered access to all French Territory, with a German minister placed as a kind of charge d'affaires overseeing policy decisions and representing German interests, the arrangement was entirely to his benefit.

As for the French Navy, the ships would remain in French hands, except the two vessels taken at Saint Nazaire. German naval “advisors” would be placed at the Flag Officer level at Toulon, Casablanca and Dakar, and all French controlled ports would be open to the Kriegsmarine and accept a German contingent in garrison. It was a hard blow to the British hopes for holding on to Egypt in the long run. It was, indeed, their darkest hour, with no other friend in the world, standing alone against an array of foes that now seemed unconquerable. Now, more than ever before, they set their minds on the destruction of the entire French fleet.

Admiral Somerville was initially pleased with the results of Operation Catapult, in spite of the fact that his own squadron had been prevented from engagement due to untimely withdrawal by the French. The political consequences had been catastrophic, and his greatest fears about the operation had been realized. That, however, was beyond his control, though he knew the job of cleaning up the mess they had made of affairs would also fall to him soon enough.

First things first. He had summoned the young Captain of HMS Glorious, receiving news that Wells was brooding over what had happened. Now he looked up at Wells, who had just submitted his report to the fleet offices at Force H headquarters, Gibraltar.

“All things considered, Mister Wells, I find your actions and deployment entirely consistent with the guidelines for fighting instructions involving fleet action with a retiring enemy.”

“I wish we could have done more, sir,” said Wells, still beset with mixed feelings over the engagement.

“We all do, and I regret that I was unable to lend a much needed hand. The task assigned you was arduous, not only from a tactical standpoint but also considering the fact that you were asked to raise your hand in anger against a former friend and ally. We all felt the same way, Mister Wells. Most every senior command level officer in the Med expressed strong reservations over what we were ordered to do. I can imagine your stomach was in your throat when you received code ‘Anvil.’ To ask you to break formation, move out ahead of the battlefleet, and find and strike the enemy was a hard task, and it was one you performed admirably.”

“Thank you, Admiral, but I must point out that the bulk of the French fleet was able to reach Toulon safely in spite of our actions. Now look what has happened.”

“That may be so, but your tactical approach was correct. You followed section E guidelines regarding air striking force operations, to the letter I might add, by correctly attacking the rear enemy capital ships with the objective of reducing their speed. In this case your attack produced stronger results in the sinking of two battleships which would otherwise now be at large.”

“Yet the consequences, sir…”

“The consequences are not your consideration, Mister Wells. They were not my consideration either after Whitehall and the Admiralty had set these orders in stone. Had I come up on the French, my intention and effort would have been to do exactly what you accomplished. The French rejected all our fair terms. It was therefore our objective to sink those ships.”

“I understand, sir.”

Somerville gave Wells a long look, a sympathetic light in his eyes. He knew exactly what the younger man must be feeling now, that it was all on his shoulders, the burden of all the consequences that might result from this operation, the alienation of Vichy France and the deep feelings of resentment and ill will that this engagement would foster between former allies.

“I know you put men in the water yesterday, Wells, and a good many lost their lives. Take my advice and try not to think you put your hand on each one’s head and held the man under. This is war. It’s cruel, mindless violence at root, ever so carefully planned but yet wholly unreasonable. I will tell you that the Germans gave no quarter during the recent evacuation forced upon us. We lost a good many men, civilians too. I would be foolish to say we could put those French sailors on the scales to try and balance that. They were simply doing their duty, as you were. We did not want to make an enemy of them, but this war has done as much, and I’m afraid this is only just beginning. You will find yourself in similar circumstances again, Captain, perhaps even more trying. I know this is the second hard blow you’ve been dealt.”

“Sir?”

“I am aware that the ship you now Captain is only on the fleet active duty roster because of your actions in getting her to safe waters under equally trying circumstances. That was the hot fire of war, and you weathered it when you were on the anvil. This time you were the hammer. So you’ve seen both ends of it now, and that is what really shapes the metal of a man’s character. Stand proud, Mister Wells. That will be all.”

“Sir!” Wells saluted, feeling just a little better about what had happened, yet not knowing which was worse-to be on that anvil, or to be the hammer.

Life is a forge, he thought, and he put the matter out of his mind.

Alan Turing was having a very bad day. Thankfully his hay fever had abated somewhat, and he could at least breathe again. And he had managed to keep his coffee mug chained up until he wanted it. But the pressure was now mounting, as one intercept after another began to pile up on his desk, in a well named German naval code that was proving to be a real enigma.

Admiral Tovey had been on the hot seat at Whitehall over losses and damage to the Home Fleet in the recent duel with the Germans in the Denmark Strait. Questions had been asked about the W/T intercepts of German command level signals, and why they were not deciphered, but more so about the strange decision to parlay with the Admiral of a Russian cruiser-the very same ship that Peter Twinn had dropped in his lap with that handful of photographs. Now they wanted to know more, and Turing was back in the storeroom rummaging through boxes of old photo reconnaissance material. And that was when his day went completely bonkers.

How could we have missed the construction and commissioning of such a ship, he thought? They were saying that it must have been a secret project, possibly built in Odessa or the shipyards at Nikolayev South, also known as Soviet Shipyard No. 444. It was certainly not laid down in any of the Baltic shipyards, and we have no evidence to suggest that the Soviets could build a ship of that size at any of their northern ports. If it was laid down at Shipyard 444 then they damn well must have had a magician’s cloak over it the whole time.

I was never on ship watch. I’m here to sort through the signals intelligence and decipher the damn things. And that is all I’ll be doing for months now-going over anything they pile up from three and four years back to ferret out the trail on this ship. Surely there were orders, message traffic, commercial contracts, personnel assignments, materials acquisitions. It would simply be impossible to hide all that for very long. We should know about this ship, chapter and verse. But yet I find nothing; nothing at all in the archives here.

He stood up, frustrated, and ready to call it a long afternoon and go unchain his coffee mug. Then he saw it, the box tucked discretely away behind the last indexed photo box on the reconnaissance shelf. Someone got hasty, or very sloppy, he said to himself. Here they’ve gone and mislabeled a photo box. He stooped down, leaning in and wishing there was better light in the musty old storage room of the archive. Well, what is it then? He pulled the box out, sliding it in to an open space on the hard tiled floor, right beneath the bare light bulb hanging from a cord above.

We simply must find a better way to keep track of things. Now where does this belong? The box was very odd, and it left him feeling strangely unnerved. No label at all… Just stuck in here in a nook against the wall behind that entire indexed series of photo boxes, and taped up rather well.

Curiosity got the better of him now. If had always been one of his salient personality traits, or flaws-that persistent curiosity that so often accessorized the mind and character of a scientist and intellectual. Wondering about things was always the first step down the garden path to the roses of understanding. Now he wondered what he had dragged away from the old daddy long-legged spiders, layered in dust and looking like it wanted nothing more than to be left alone-for another century or two.

But to Alan Turning a closed box wanted opening, just as any puzzle or chess problem needed solving. He reached for the tape and had it off in a minute, slowly opening the lid to the box and setting it aside. A last bit of masking tape clung plaintively to one end of the lid as he did so, but Turing had his way.

Now what have we here, he said to himself, his curiosity redoubled? There was a nice fat row of well stuffed manila envelopes, typical of the sort they all used here to store files and reports and photos pertaining to one thing or another. This one did have a label, which he read, though it rang no bell in his mind as he did so. Must have been before my time here, he thought, though the writing did not look all that weathered. Strangely, each and every envelope bore the same label.

There was no good trying to get into all that in the middle of the storeroom floor, so he took a single envelope, the first in the series, and retreated down the long aisle toward the light of the open door. It would make for a brief diversion while he took a brief time out for some much needed coffee.

He set the file down on his desk, fished about in his pocket for his padlock key, and then slowly unchained his coffee mug, heading for the pot brewed fresh at four in the afternoon, along with plain hot water for tea. Back at his desk he settled in, enjoying those lingering first sips and the aroma of good hot coffee as he picked up the manila envelope.

He was not surprised to see what looked like typical aerial reconnaissance photos, and as was his habit, he turned the first over without really looking at it to note the location, source and time stamp.

No wonder, he thought, as it was clear that someone botched the time stamp, fat fingered the numbers and stamped the wrong year. A quick look at the back of all the other photos in that envelope reinforced that, all misdated. Someone was getting sloppy, he thought. They botched the labels on all these photos and probably had to re-do them all again. But we never throw much of anything away here, do we? So they bloody well threw them into an envelope and thought to hide it all away in the back. He smiled, like a school master who had just caught one of the students cheating on an exam, and turned the photo over to have a look.

And his heart nearly stopped dead.

There was a ship… a ship at sea, making a wide turn, its wake curved out behind it. It was obviously photographed by an aircraft, probably a seaplane out on a scouting and recon mission. But that ship… He leaned in closer, squinting, reaching for his magnifying glass, his pulse racing though he could not think why. Yet it wasn’t a matter of thinking at that moment. It was all something in the pit of his stomach, a feeling, a dark intuition, laden with misgiving and an edge of fear.

A ship… the ship… the ship that Peter Twinn had clued him in on! It was unmistakable, the silhouette, high swept bow, long foreword deck that was strangely empty, the strange domes and antennae mounted all about the dark superstructure, and more, that feeling of dangerous menacing power, yet he could not see why-there were hardly any guns worth the name to be seen.

What is this, he thought? Has Peter been holding out on me? I told him to let me know the moment we had anything more on that ship, and here’s an nice fat envelope… in a box full of nice fat envelopes, all taped off in the storeroom. Perhaps they did get wind of this ship years ago, and this was the mother lode of information he had been looking for!

He looked at the photos, each with a date in August of 1941, a full year off due to that dodgy rubber stamp. Let’s have a look at the others, he thought, his curiosity rising again.

And it was a very long and harrowing afternoon from that moment on, ending with Turing sitting alone, a look of perplexed astonishment on his face that soon gave way to white faced fear. It was completely unreasonable, this feeling that had come over him, a feeling that he had seen these photos before, though he knew he had no recollection of ever doing so… Until he saw the unmistakable scrawl of his own handwriting on the back of photo five next to a string of numbers he had written there: Length, 820ft; beam, 90ft; displacement, Estimate 30,000 +, and there were his initials, claiming the note and hand dating it himself, in August of 1941!

He looked over his shoulder at the open door to the storeroom, his eyes dark with apprehension. Then he reached for the telephone on his desk, thinking he had done exactly that once before… exactly that…

“Turing here. Hut Four. Secure line to Whitehall please. Admiralty office of the Home Fleet Commander.”

As he waited on the line he turned the manila envelope over again, noting the single word on the typewritten label there, all capitals.

It read, GERONIMO.