But he was very, very wrong.
Chapter 32
Just after 01:00 on the 15th of September the sirens began to wail when Gibraltar’s lone early warning radar, one of only three presently in the Mediterranean, picked up the inbound German raid. Almost immediately the long thin columns of the searchlights reached up into the dark skies, probing the soft late summer night for any sign of the enemy. Troops rushed to the 3.7 and 40mm batteries, elevating the thin barrels skyward as the first, distant rumble of the aircraft engines could be heard. The crews had scored their very first kill the previous month against the French, shooting down a single plane, and swiveled their guns into action with a jaunty confidence that would soon dissipate as the whistling bombs began to fall.
Dawes was awakened by the noise, sitting up bleary eyed in his bunk and hearing the haunting wail of the sirens. What in blazes? Are the French at it again? Then the bombs began to fall and he had the presence of mind to get dressed and look for a pith helmet.
Outside he ran towards the Naval Signals Station where he could get a good look at the harbor and town on the west side of the island. It was nearly a full moon, so he could see the town and harbor easily enough, and noted the dark shadows of the ships that remained anchored. There didn’t seem to be any trouble in the harbor for the moment, and the lights of the town itself had all been blackened. The sight of the searchlights fingering the darkness gave him an eerie feeling. Then he heard the thrum of engines and a sound unlike any plane he had heard before. It was a screeching wail, like a demon from hell, a howling sound that chilled his blood. Then came the first awful crash of the bombs.
There were explosions down at the southern end of the town, and a fire there. He could soon see that bombs had fallen near the Grand Parade, a wide area where troops would stand in ceremonial parade, and the navy bands would play. The light from the fire soon illuminated a warship there, so there was still some remnant of Force H at hand. Moments later he saw bright tracer rounds leap up from the harbor area, and heard the sharp crack of gunfire. The ship was firing, her stacks now getting up steam that drifted up to be illuminated by the pale moonlight.
The bloody French, he thought, but that wasn’t so.
These were German pilots, veterans of many grueling runs over English soil where they had faced intense anti-aircraft gunfire along with the superb aerial defense of the R.A.F. The fire put up that night seemed light by comparison, and the German planes soon began to pound known gun installations, the harbor district, the fortified line of pill boxes, and mined wire at the north end of the airfield. The big 9.2-inch gun at O’Hara’s Battery where Dawes had finished his day the previous evening on the top of the Rock got particular attention from the Stukas, receiving three hits within the first hour until it was put out of action. In other places the damage was far less than Goering had promised, though it was immediately clear that he could at least claim one boast-the airfield was pot marked with craters, the main hangers on fire and the old rifle range buildings to the north and east flattened by direct hits.
Now the truth behind the rumors became apparent. Forewarned that the German troops in Southern France were on the move, Force H had slipped its moorings at sunset and taken its heavy units out through the straits and into the Atlantic, where they hovered under the thin air defense umbrella provided by HMS Hermes.
The German Ju-88 night raid was augmented by squadrons of Ju-87 Stukas protected by Bf-109s, and their mission was to target and silence British artillery positions and deal with any ships that remained behind in the anchorage. These were the planes that Dawes had heard, the scream of their diving runs so very jarring to the nerves as they came in. If ever there was a sound that warned of imminent danger, it was the wailing sirens of the ‘Jericho Trumpets’ when the planes swooped in like dark evil crows.
Only one destroyer was left in the harbor when they arrived, the Hotspur, and though it was straddled by two near misses and badly splintered with bomb fragments, it was otherwise unharmed. Lieutenant Dawes stared at the scene, realizing that the war might not be so dull and uneventful after all. It went on for the better part of an hour, and several fires had started down in the town before it was over. When planes began to home in on Windmill Hill Dawes realized he had better get to a shelter.
He huddled there for some time, until the all clear was finally sounded after two in the morning. Rumors passed like fire in the shelter. These were not the French. Talk went round and round about it until a gritty Sergeant, a man named Hobson, finally chanced to speak up and interrupt the two other officers that had been debating the issue.
“If I may, sir,” the man said darkly. “If the Germans have gone to all this trouble to pay us a visit, we may very well be in for more trouble ahead. I’ve heard 2nd Kings Rifles has all been called out to the wire. Mark my words. They’ll be coming across the lines in due course.”
“I should certainly hope not, Sergeant,” said another Lieutenant in the Artillery. He was one of the officers that always seemed to lay on the old ‘chin chin’ a bit too thick for Dawes’ liking.
“I had my mind set on watching a good filly run the race course tomorrow morning.” The Lieutenant was referring to a makeshift racing circle out beyond the airfield and very near the frontier with Spain. The officers often ran horses there, and bet on the outcome while they had a good smoke, watched by men from the 2nd King’s Rifles, who sat behind their Vickers machine guns in their bunkers guarding the wire, and cheered the horses on.
“Well sir,” said the Sergeant. “If you do go out to the lines tomorrow, I can only hope you have a very fast horse.”
Something about the remark carried a hidden warning, and when the all clear was finally sounded, Dawes kept thinking about it as he finally settled back into his bunk to try and get back to his fitful sleep. What did the Sergeant mean by that? Was he suggesting the Germans might be coming with more than an air raid?
He only managed another two hours sleep before he had to get up and on his way down the hill and up through Buena Vista east of Rosia Bay to the harbor. There he saw that the German pilots were much better at their jobs than the French ever were. There was damage near the Destroyer Camber where Hotspur had been finally driven out to sea, and he saw the wreckage of several buildings off Grand Parade, the smoke from the fires still hanging in the air.
As he continued on, up past the Coaling Island and the old fortified position known as ‘King’s Bastion,’ he heard men talking in small groups by the wharfs and quays, and with worried faces. Soon he came to his tower south of the North Mole, and climbed up to report for duty. He was relieving another haggard looking Lieutenant
“Busy night,” said the man. “Didn’t get a wink of sleep. Well, At least you’ll have the day shift, and no bother with German planes buzzing about your ears. I was afraid they would put one of those bloody bombs right on my head!”
Dawes gave him a thin smile, then took his seat in the still warm chair, eyeing the telephone on the desk with some misgiving.
“That’s it,” said the other man. “Any problems and you just ring up the Colonel on the other end of that line. It’ll be dark another hour, so mind your orders should you hear anything out of the ordinary. You can expose the Mole with searchlights, but I wouldn’t get too jumpy. The sun will be up soon, and it’s almost breakfast!” The man smiled, and left Dawes sitting alone in his tower.
The German planes finished their work and landed at airbases near Seville, where supplies and air fuel had been secretly forward deployed to allow them to replenish and be available for rapid sortie turnover. They would have plenty of time to pound British positions, demolishing the radar station, knocking out several gun batteries, striking Devil’s Tower Camp and the barracks further south at Europa Point. They deliberately avoided targeting the main wharf and docking areas but soon drove the intrepid Hotspur out of the harbor-all this while the land assault force moved south.