Kirov Saga: Hinge Of Fate: Altered States Volume III (Kirov Series) (37 page)

They
were through that town and on their way south through Navarre and then on to
Soria. By dawn the Germans had demonstrated the lightning fast ground movement
they had been famous for in France during the Blitzkrieg, and were passing
through Guadalajara just northeast of Madrid. From there they surged due south
to Granada, planning to approach Gibraltar along the coast of the Alboran Sea.
It would be a journey of some 650 miles in all, with the columns averaging 30
miles per hour on good roads, slower in the mountainous regions.

By
nightfall on the 15th of September their mad rush south was complete, and they had
spent some time resting and assembling the front line units at La Linea. There
they met up with forward elements that had been flown in to Spanish airfields
to begin surveying the British lines and sighting for mortars and artillery.
They worked closely with Spanish troops who knew this ground and could show
them areas offering the best cover for infantry assault. They took particular
note of the British bunker positions, assigning support fires and demolitions
teams to each attack.

By the
time the Luftwaffe got about their business that night, the element of surprise
was long gone, except for a few little tricks of the trade the German army
would bring with them. One would be the swift pre-dawn assault on September 16th,
by a forward deployed unit of the elite Brandenburg Commandos. This 150 man
contingent slipped into the bay in jet-black rubber swift boats and were
approaching the prominent North Mole of the Harbor. Others had secretly moved
in as frogmen, and were already lingering near the mole. One plan called for
them to approach in the hold of a merchant ship claiming to have been the
victim of a torpedo attack, but it was discarded in favor of a bold night
attack by boat.

They
waited until the pre-dawn hour, when the waning gibbous moon that was still
near full would be very low, and already behind the 1700 foot high mountains overshadowing
Algeciras across the bay. As soon as the moon was below the highest peak there,
the first boats came in quietly, the black paddles dipping silently in the
still waters. But there was just enough light for the sentry on the mole to catch
the wet gleam on the sides of the lead boat. He stopped, peering into the
darkness, and called out a time honored challenge, the litany of the Chief
Warder of the Tower of London as he made his final round with the Keys each
night to lock His Majesty’s Tower.

“Halt!
Who goes there?”

Silence.
Then came a voice in proper English saying they were seamen off a Spanish
lighter that had been towed in to the smaller harbor of Algeciras to the west.
The proper response to the challenge was, of course, only two words: “The Keys.”
Had that response been given, the sentry would have asked: “Whose Keys?” to
which the unexpected visitors should have answered: “King George’s Keys.” That
done the sentry would have simply said: “Pass King George’s Keys, all’s well,”
and carried on with his watch, but instead he quickly unshouldered his rifle to
take aim.

Unfortunately
the Germans had already taken aim as well. The crack unit was armed with
sub-machine guns and there came a short, sharp burst that cut the sentry down.
Then the first boat came scudding against the mole and the Brandenburgers
scrambled up with demolition charges, wearing dark black uniforms and caps and
racing swiftly along the Mole. They reached a narrow viaduct, which ran just
north of the seaplane moorings and connected the mole to the shore at a spit of
land that was once called “The Devil’s Tongue.”

The gunfire
had just broken the silence when the telephone jangled at the harbor
observation tower. Lieutenant Douglas Dawes was on duty that morning, still
bleary eyed after a fitful night’s rest on Windmill Hill. Now he was Harbor
Defense Officer for his ten hour shift in the North Mole Tower, peering into
the shadows through the dirty glass windows when the phone rang.

“Yes?
Duty Officer, North Mole.”

“What
in blazes is going on there? Was that gunfire? Is there movement on the Mole?
Expose! I should have you court martialed!”

“Right
away sir!” Dawes put down the telephone and gave the order: “Expose the Mole!”
Searchlights switched on, bathing the whole area in bleak white light, and
Dawes could see men running in a crouch along the viaduct, and the slow
rotation of one of the 6-inch naval gun batteries there—which suddenly went up
in a tremendous explosion. The Brandenburgers were there to lay charges on the
guns that could face north at the German assembly area and put them out of
service. Now they were racing across the viaduct to the Devil’s Tongue.

A lone
machine gun opened up from a sand bagged position on the tongue, and Dawes saw
three of the German commandos fall. Then he heard the lead commando squad
returning fire in sharp bursts with their sub-machine guns, and a firefight was
on. The Germans ran for the cover of warehouses on the north end of the tongue,
tossing in Model 24 grenades, the famous “Potato Mashers,” before bursting in
with their guns blazing away. Others threw a variant that had been modified to
produce smoke, which rolled like a thick white fog, masking the narrow viaduct.
Lieutenant Dawes watched, almost in awe at the precision and ruthless advance
of the Brandenburgers.

They
were led by Leutnant Wilhelm Walther, the man who had captured the Meuse Bridge
with an eight man team from this very same unit during Operation Fall Gelb in
the battle for France. Walther already had 25 men over the viaduct and into the
warehouses, and they were systematically clearing those buildings. More
grenades soon silenced the chatter of the British machinegun and suddenly Dawes
realized he was in a most precarious position, alone in his tower watching the
steady advance of these elite German commandos.

Another
6-inch naval gun, positioned just south of the Devil’s Tongue, rotated and
blasted away at the warehouses at near point blank range. It was at this point
that Dawes thought he had better get down from the tower, just as a spray of
small arms fire shattered the glass windows. He scurried down the ladder, with
rounds snapping off the metal tower legs with bright sparks, and then leapt to
the ground, the whine of ricocheting bullets frightening him out of his wits.
Taking a deep breath, he crawled behind a shed at the edge of the Harbor
Recreation Ground, then raced across the field into the edge of the town near
the Gibraltar Post Office. Eventually he made his way south to the King’s
Bastion near the Harbor Coaling Island, where he reported to the Flag Officer
there for new orders.

“What
was wrong with your old orders?” The man bristled at him, but with level
British calm he folded his arms and simply said: “Well sir, the Germans seem to
have shot my observation tower to pieces, and very nearly skewered me at the
same time.” King George’s Tower had fallen.

The
Flag Officer finally looked at him, seeing the soiled uniform from his long
crawl to safety on the recreation field, and noting a nick on his left
shoulder, and the stain of blood there. “I see… Then get yourself to the
Hospital and see about that shoulder, Lieutenant. You can report back when
you’ve had proper medical attention.”

Dawes
saluted and was on his way. His wound was not bad, a mere scratch from a
grazing bullet, but it would not be the last he would receive in the next 72
hours as the British Garrison dug in its heels and began to fight for its life,
and the life of Britain’s position in the Western Mediterranean. On that day,
September 16, 1940, Spain made a formal announcement that they had joined
Italy, and Vichy France as a member of the European Axis powers.

High on
the hills of the upper Rock, a troop of jittery Barbary Macaque monkeys
chattered restlessly. The German bombers had frightened them badly the previous
night and, sensing imminent danger, they deftly skittered down the craggy
slopes and over the Devil’s Tower Road towards the shore. No man on the
airfield watch saw them go, nor any man of the 2nd Battalion, King’s Rifles on
the frontier line. Somehow they slipped through the minefields and wire
unnoticed, scrabbling along the rocky shores of Mala Bahia and leaving the
high, bomb scarred limestone cliffs of Gibraltar behind. With them they carried
away the legend that as long as these troops of monkeys held forth on the Rock,
the territory would remain under British rule. No man in the garrison knew it
just then, but the Barbary Macaques were leaving.

Chapter 33

Captain
Christopher Wells was on the bridge of
Glorious
,
and well on his way to the Azores, having been hastily summoned to this new
post by Admiral Tovey. There he was to meet with HMS
Furious
and a small
convoy, escorted by two cruisers and twelve destroyers. His own task force
would provide air cover for the newly planned and renamed Operation Alloy, and
his heavy escort in the battleship
Valiant
with four more destroyers
would provide any needed naval muscle for the landing.

“Look
out Captain,” said Lieutenant Woodfield. “This signal has just come in from
Gibraltar. It looks like the Germans are going to have a go at the Rock!”

Wells
took the message, eyeing it darkly as he learned the air strikes had begun and
German troops were reportedly massing on the Spanish Frontier just north of the
territory at that moment. Here he was heading west to the Azores, with his
first outing as nominal task force commander, and looking fitfully over his
shoulder and wishing he had his ship back with Force H for the real fight that
was brewing up.

“Damn,”
he swore. “We slip out the back door just as Jerry comes knocking. I’ve half a
mind to get back there and give them what for.”

“Don’t
go getting a big head, Welly,” said Woodfield. “Leave that row to Somerville
and Force H.”

“But he
hasn’t any real air cover now,” said Wells. “
Hermes
can throw up a few
fighters, but something tells be the Germans will becoming full on. I’ve a bad
feeling about this.”

“Right,”
said Woodfield. “Why do you think we’re out here anyway? If we lose Gibraltar
we’ll need anchorages down this way, and the Azores are a good place to start.
We ought to go ahead and take Madiera and the Canary Islands as well, before
the Germans get ideas about them.”

“We may
indeed,” said Wells. He had received a secret briefing on the operation he was
now providing cover for. Two ocean liners, SS
Karanja,
and the Polish
Merchant liner
Sobieski,
were packed with the 1st and 5th Royal Marine
Battalions and the 8th Battalion of the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders.
They had been held in readiness in British Ports and reinforced at the last
minute by 2 Commando, with the whole contingent code named “Paradox Force.”
Commanded by Brigadier General Morford, their mission was to seize Fayal Island
and Porto Del Gada Harbor, as well as San Miguel Harbor at Horta. The Commandos
would land and occupy Terceira as a suitable place to begin building an
airfield.

“Three
battalions to grab these islands,” said Wells. “They might do a world better if
they were on their way to Gibraltar now. The garrison there is fairly light.”

“No
since throwing good money after bad,” said Woodfield. “Pardon that remark, but
if the Germans come in great strength, as I believe they will, then it’s only a
matter of time for our boys on the Rock. Better we get something in return, so
buck up, Captain. You’ve been in on all our offensive operations thus far, and
this time I think we’ll pull things off without a hitch.”

“Yes?
Well it’s not a real fight. We won’t find anything there but the local militia
or island police. At least at Dakar we were ready to have a go at the French,
until those bloody battleships showed up. Something tells me we have a long way
to go before we can really get in the ring with the Germans again.”

“Tell
that to the Black Watch tonight,” Woodfield admonished, and Wells gave him a
nod, his thoughts with the troops back on the Rock now, knowing what they would
likely be facing in the days ahead. He also knew that Force H would have put to
sea immediately, and there would be no way off the peninsula for any man in the
garrison.

* * *

The
Germans were bringing the equivalent of a full division to
the assault, composed of tough, veteran troops, while two more motorized
divisions watched their back and flank along the Portuguese border. The planners
gave far too much credit to their adversary that day in accounting for a
possible British landing on the Portuguese coast. The Royal Navy and Army were
still fiddling about with a far less ambitious plan to take small Atlantic
island outposts instead, and barely managing to scrape up the troops and
transport shipping necessary for those modest operations. A larger landing in
Portugal was out of the question.

High on
the North Face of the Rock, up past King’s Lines and Pidsley’s Advance, there
was a hidden observation post with a long view slit cut into the limestone. It
had a spectacular view of the whole airfield, and the men inside soon heard the
boom and thunder of artillery fire, and saw the first rounds kick up dust and
clumps of earth on the field. The initial barrage lasted twenty minutes, ending
with rounds of smoke fired by German Nebelwerfer batteries that enshrouded the
whole scene.