“Well sir, there are also rumors about the buildup on the Polish Russian frontier, but that may not be a wise move for Hitler, not now that hostilities have resumed between Orenburg and the Siberians.”
“That's what's so damnably bothersome about all this.” The Admiral leaned back in his chair wishing he had had another three hours sleep. “That meeting at Omsk led us to believe Volkov had come to an arrangement with the Siberians. Then a week later he crosses the border with six divisions. Well he won’t want a fight with the Soviets until that resolves itself, and the Germans would be wise to leave Russia sleeping quietly as well-and that is what worries me. Spain… It's the logical next move for them. It's either that or they open hostilities against Russia. Big build up there as well. Hitler may be taking on more than he can chew, but we'll have to plan for every possible contingency.”
“That we will, sir,” said Brind. “Good to know the Russians have thrown in with us. This offer of a technology transfer was gracious. Is their radar really that good, sir?”
“So I have been told.” Tovey folded his arms, wishing he could fully unburden himself here and let Daddy Brind in on all that he had learned during that conference with the Russians. Away from them three days now, the normal routine of his work at fleet headquarters here at Scapa Flow had occupied his mind, but the amazing revelations that had been made still lay on him like a magic spell. At times he found himself sitting at his desk, staring out the window, or pouring tea and taking a single sip and then letting it go cold in his hand as he sat, his thoughts ranging on distant possibilities that he struggled to foresee.
“Well,” he said. “I’ve been sitting on my duff reading and writing reports the last three days. Now I must make a few deliveries. Have a plane waiting for me at Kirkwell, will you?”
“Of course, sir.”
“I see Hood has been swaddled up at Greenock. I’m going down to have a look at her and see how the work is going. But I’ll be flying directly to London from there. Have the two new fellows out there ready for a stroll in 48 hours. I’ll want them north of Londonderry, and HMS Invincible can join them. I’ll collar a destroyer in the Clyde and come out to join the party when my business is concluded.” The two new fellows were King George V and Prince of Wales, Britain’s newest additions to the fleet.
“Very good, sir. I’ll make the arrangements and see that all the invitations go out.”
“Good then… Oh, and Mister Brind, make sure I’m kept fully in the loop regarding that operation at Dakar. And as to that buildup north of the Spanish Border-phone down to RAF Saint Eval and ask them to have another look. Put my name to the request.”
“I will, sir.”
Tovey was up and on his way, opening the door and hearing a dry squeak that seemed to grate on him. We’ll need to get that oiled, he thought, stuffing the thought away like a man pocketing his handkerchief and forgetting about it. But far to the south, the dry squeak of the hinge of fate was grating on other men, in the warm late summer waters off Dakar.
“The Flagman seems to be well into it this morning,” said Wells as he stood on the weather bridge of HMS Glorious. Commander Lovell nodded agreeably, smiling as the man stiff armed his flag signal and sent the last plane from 823 Squadron running down the deck for takeoff.
Wells leaned on the gunwale, noting how the new slate grey paint still looked so fresh on the ship’s wounds. They had done a bang up job to get her up and running again, but he knew the old girl was still scarred underneath that greasepaint, with the char of smoke and battle.
“Mister Heath has called up, sir,” said Lovell. “He’s recommending another pair of Gladiators from 802 Squadron come up for fleet air defense.”
“Good enough,” said Wells. “In fact, I’d be more comfortable with a full flight of four planes up. See that Heath gets the message.”
“Aye sir.” Lovell flicked off a salute and went inside, leaving Wells to his muse.
So today’s the day, he thought, another showdown with the French. I can’t believe they will be any less agreeable, and they’re out there somewhere, probably within easy range of Dakar if they hope to defend that place.
Dakar was situated on a long 40 kilometer isthmus that jutted east from the African mainland and came to a sharp point, which was the westernmost point of Africa. Beneath this the isthmus stretched another 14 kilometers, angling back towards the mainland until it reached another sharp point at Cape Mamuel. The harbor was just north of this, one of the best on the African coast, and a knife pointed directly at British convoy routes bound for Freetown and Capetown.
After learning that the harbor at Dakar was empty, Wells had a bad feeling about this mission. This was not expected, though it should have been assumed after what happened at Mers-el-Kebir, he thought. The French were of no mind to sit on their backsides and wait for us to come calling. They obviously got wind of what we were up to here and slipped away. Now I’ve got to find them. HMS Glorious is the eyes of this battle squadron, and the thought that a pair of French battleships are at large now is most disconcerting.
He remembered the last two battleships that had caught Glorious napping on her return leg from Norway. That would never happen again, he resolved, but the shadow of that engagement still lay heavily on him. Two more battleships… I don’t think Vice Admiral Cunningham had things planned this way. We’ve a pair of old ladies out there ourselves, good ships, but a bit long in the teeth. Barham was passed over when they refit the rest of her class. They had only replaced a few AA batteries and pulled her old wisdom teeth in the two remaining torpedo tubes. She had just come out of the dock yards at Liverpool a few months back, after suffering a torpedo hit from U-30 the previous December. Resolution had kept company with the 1st Battle Squadron of the old Grand Fleet during WWI. Both were slow at no more than 23 knots, and if it came to a chase they would have no chance against the newer French ships they were now hunting.
How could the French have slipped away like this, he wondered? Our cover operation to Freetown as Force M obviously didn’t fool anyone. It was put out that Force M was in transit to Capetown to pick up a convoy. The French might have men there who relayed information as to our departure, but we turned south and got well out to sea before swinging around to head north for Dakar. In spite of that the French seemed to know our every movement. It was as if they had read the fleet orders and knew our exact planned arrival time here at Dakar.
With the French fleet missing, the troop convoy assigned to the landing operation was kept to the south until the enemy could be located again. There was no way the operation could be launched until those ships had been accounted for. Three hours later Wells received a signal from his scout planes. The French fleet had been spotted north of the long Ishmus of Dakar, but they were not running north for Casablanca as Vice Admiral Cunningham believed they would. Instead they were heading south, and the light of battle and a thirst for vengeance was in the eyes of their commander, on one of the most formidable ships that would ever sail, the battleship Normandie.
Rear Admiral Plancon, Flag Officer, French Navy West Africa, had decided to take personal command of the operation. Once inclined to continue as an ally of Great Britain, he had suffered a hard change of heart after the attack on Admiral Gensoul’s fleet fleeing from Mers-el-Kebir. He called an emergency meeting with Admiral Laborde on the Normandie, and Captain Marzin on the battleship Richelieu, and resolved to immediately put to sea when he received the dispatch indicating the British intended to occupy Dakar. He would not allow his ships to be caught in the harbor. So after first steaming north to evade detection and communicate with his reserve squadron at Casablanca, he turned about and resolved to hover north of the long isthmus of Dakar and lie in wait there.