Altered States -Volume III. Hinge of Fate

Chapter 31

The Spanish called it Jebel Tariq, the name of the imposing limestone mountain that stood as one of the Pillars of Hercules, and to the rest of the world Gibraltar had long been called “the Rock.” It had been Britain’s impregnable fortress for generations, honeycombed with miles of tunnels packed with supplies, and capable of withstanding a siege for months. It had withstood fourteen sieges since the 11th Century, with walls, fortifications, bastions and more modern gun casemates studding the craggy limestone rock on every side. But in spite of this venerable reputation as an unconquerable fortress, British war planners knew the invincibility of Gibraltar was certainly a myth now in modern times, and they saw it as highly vulnerable to any concerted attack.

To begin with, it had only one airfield at the far north of the five kilometer peninsula, dominated by a prominent limestone mountain, and this field lay on exposed ground that could be easily brought under enemy guns on the other side of the Spanish frontier and put out of action in a matter of hours. In 1940 Spain did not permit offensive planes there, and so the British had no fighters or bombers to speak of beyond those assigned to reconnaissance roles, and a few Sunderland seaplanes floating in the harbor anchorage. This also left the Rock open to bombing missions, though it endured these with surprising ease, the latest being a 64 plane raid mounted by the Vichy French in reprisal for the attack on their fleet. The French managed to sink a tug and coastal lighter docked in the harbor but did little more than this.

Companies of Royal Engineers still drilled through the innards of the rock, with quarrymen and Artisan Engineers still tunneling to create a warren of underground rooms that could shelter thousands of troops, unfortunately the garrison was not that large in 1940. At the outbreak of the war only two battalions were in the garrison, the 2nd Battalion, King’s Regiment and the 2nd Somerset Battalion. These were augmented by two more battalions by August of 1940 with the arrival of the 4th Devonshire Battalion and the 4th Black Watch Battalion. These troops, plus an assortment of 3 inch and 3.7 inch AA guns, including ten 40mm Bofors were all that manned the labyrinthine tunnels, with one battalion holding the lonely frontier near the airfield, and three farther back in the town and fortress Rock.

The strength of Gibraltar did not lay in its sheer limestone cliffs or gun batteries, like the old 9.2 inch naval guns that covered the straits, nor did it rest in the sinew of the four battalions deployed there. The powerful Royal Navy units of Force H that used the harbor as their primary base were the real strength of the Rock. A battleship that might risk the 9.2 inch shore batteries and run the strait with impunity would not dare to even contemplate such a move while ships like Rodney and Nelson were anchored with guns that could range out all the way to Spanish Morocco. As Sir Alexander Godley once stated: “With His Majesty's ships controlling the harbor we may rest assured that this important jewel of the Crown is in safe hands.” Thus if Gibraltar were to be taken, the Royal Navy would first have to be forced out to sea.

This was the task handed to Goering’s Luftwaffe, a task he believed he could undertake with every chance of success, for there were no squadrons of Spitfires and Hurricanes waiting to oppose his bombers. So it was that the Luftwaffe became the real spearhead of the attack, while the army assembled its substantial force of two full corps staged on the Spanish border near Bayonne. The ground element would cross the frontier even as the first bombers assembled at French airfields for their preliminary raid, with six squadrons of Ju-88As flying from Bordeaux to target British vessels anchored at Gibraltar.

Lieutenant Douglas Dawes had been up on O’Hara’s battery most of the day, taking in the spectacular views of the bay while he served as supply liaison officer for the Royal Artillery. A relative newcomer to the Rock, he was “fresh off the boat” as the old sods would say, and still given to walking about in his officer’s jacket. A tall, handsome man, he had come to the service the easy way, through connections that were well established in the convoluted British aristocracy. Now Dawes was making his way down the weathered stone steps, his duty here finished as he was turning over the clipboard to a new young Lieutenant and heading to a new post the next morning.

I’ll miss the view from up here, and the nice cool breeze, he thought. Tomorrow he was going down to the harbor to report for a stint as Duty Officer on the North Mole. At least he’d get a nice close look at the battleships, he thought. From way up here they looked like toy boats in a bathtub, but he expected they would be quite impressive once he got right down on the water’s edge.

That night he took a last meal at Bleak House, the Officer’s Mess on Europa Point at the southern end of the Rock. “Off to mingle with the cuttlefish?” said another young officer. They were often given to hang names like that on the rankers, the enlisted men or throngs of sailors that would come ashore when the big ships came into the harbor. That was one thing Dawes never got the hang of himself. Yes, he was an officer, and accustomed to certain privileges that came with his Lieutenant’s bars. There was nice fine linen on the tables here. Decent wine was served with the meals, and brandy after. The rankers would get none of this when they lined up in the mess halls aboard those ships, but Dawes was not one to lord his position over any other man.

“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.