“Hundreds dead… hundreds badly burned… water full of dead and injured… more survivors still aboard… fire uncontrollable…”
It was the stuff of nightmares, and the Allied sailors braved many perils to do their duty.
Nachi Maru and Tsukushi Maru, both outbound to the Atlantic, radioed in and offered their assistance but the Admiral rightly reasoned that the area was crowded enough and that the continued explosions would pose a major risk to any vessel.
Other merchant vessels offered their help too, but all were declined.
On the outbound side, eight ships ran almost nose to tail as they moved closer to the African shore, as directed by the Straits admiral, safely putting distance between them and the fiery explosive hell that was the Bogata and Hikawa Maru.
That Admiral’s fears became a tragic reality as the Royal Hellenic Navy’s Apostolis, a Flower-class corvette, came apart in an instant, the flash, the sound, and the shock wave coming in close sequence as before.
Prior to feigning steering issues, Bogata had dropped a few mines overboard, all to help with the confusion if they struck home.
They were supposed to be moored mines, so they had a corroded and severed cable piece attached, all to maintain the illusion of accident should any be discovered.
Apostolic was beyond help and, cut in half by the magnetic mine, she quickly slid under the water, taking all but three of her crew with her.
The remaining naval vessels redoubled their efforts, but also set watches for anything suspicious in the water, and started working with any detection apparatus capable of doing any job underwater.
In short, in a dozen minutes, the Straits of Gibraltar had gone from tranquillity to mayhem.
Which suited the two Japanese surface vessels, both of whom nestled in between other merchant ships, two of which were there by coincidence, and four of which were there by design.
The commander of HMS Fowey, one of His Majesty’s Shoreham class sloops, decided he could not presently contribute to the rescue efforts and laid off the scene, returning to his search duties.
In the sonar room, there was only one subject of conversation, and it wasn’t the burning wrecks.
“Whatever that is, it ain’t natural, Number One.”
The First Lieutenant listened in on a repeater headset and could not help but agree.
“Ye gods, White. That sounds like a canteen of cutlery being turned in a butter churn. I grant you… there’s some other sounds there too.”
The hydrophone operator tried to clean up the sound but failed miserably, as even more incredible noises made themselves known.
“Now that’s something going whizzbang… the wrecks for sure… but…”
He concentrated and then had a ‘road to Damascus’ moment.
“Bearing, White?”
“Bearing one-seven-zero, Sir.”
“Bridge, sonar.”
“What have you got, Jimmy?”
“Skipper, bearing one-seven-zero. What have you got in sight?”
There was a delay as a number of pairs of binoculars concentrated down the designated bearing.
“I’m guessing you have a bagful of spanners on the hydrophones, yes?”
“Too true, Skipper.”
“There’s six merchies over there, including both of those bloody Nip ships that you can hear coming from Iceland. Not surprised you can hear World War Four, Jimmy.”
“There are some other weird sounds too, Skipper.”
“Very possibly, Jimmy. Keep sweeping but I’m going to cut back into the channel now. Looks like our Gallic cousins have pulled off. We may have an opportunity. Come back up as soon as you’re satisfied that there’s no battlecruisers amongst the merchies.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
The First Lieutenant replaced the phone and picked up the repeater headset again.
“What do you reckon, Chief?”
“Strange sounds, not like I’ve heard before. But it’s a weird night, Sir. All sorts of harmonics at work out there.”
As if to emphasise his point, something else let go on board the sinking Bogata.
“Keep on it for as long as you can, Chief. Good work… good work, White.”
“Tell you what, Sir.”
“Chief?”
“If you’re thinking something like a sub is out there, think again. No self-respecting submariner would be anywhere near one of those merchie rust buckets, and we all know they spook easily. The sound of yonder bonfire party would have sent them off in a tizzy by now.”
“You’re probably right, Chief. Still, stay on it. “
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
He and White did so, but without hearing anything specifically.
Maybe an active sonar search might have found something, but the order was never given.
The six merchant men cleared the area as quickly as the labouring engines allowed, although, had they been closely observed, an experienced eye would have noted near-perfect station keeping.
Their six charges worked to the same strict pattern and speed, all perilously close to their protective vessels, but all confident that they would escape into the open Atlantic and their rendezvous with destiny.
I-1, I-14, I-401, I-402, J-54 Soviet Vozmezdiye, and finally J-51 Soviet Initsiativa had carried out the most dangerous part of their mission.
That men willingly sacrificed their lives to ensure their success was the subject of ceremonies to honour the dead and recognise their selfless acts.
That over fifteen hundred innocent civilians and wounded military personnel also perished was of absolutely no significance whatsoever.
Two nights later the final legacy of their breakthrough visited itself upon the Dutch vessel Macoma, a tanker converted to a MAC ship by adding a flight deck over the top of its hull.
The single mine detonated alongside forward on her port beam and her plates opened up like they were papier-mache.
Tankers died hard and Macoma took two days to go down, despite the best efforts of Portuguese naval ships who responded to her desperate pleas for help.
One of the Greek merchant ships that had formed part of the breakout effort responded, resuming its normal duties to avoid too many questions.
The two Marus and one other vessel, a non-descript Turkish steamer, stayed in relative close company, heading for a rendezvous with old comrades at Deserta Grande in the Portuguese archipelago of Madeira.
1143 hrs, Wednesday, 12th March 1947, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
Stalin and the rest of the GKO listened in varying stages of concern and genuine horror as the ramping up of Allied military readiness was laid bare by Zhukov, ably supported by Kaganovich and Nazarbayeva.
The simple question posed that the General Secretary posed lay hanging in the air.
“Why?”
Carefully choosing his words, Zhukov took the agreed step and deferred to the two intelligence officers.
Kaganovich followed suit and stuck to the script the three had hastily prepared.
“Comrade General Nazarbayeva is better equipped than I to answer that question. Comrade General Secretary.”
“So?”
“Comrades, the NKVD and ourselves have pieced together some information. I stress that this is not yet confirmed, but the GRU sources are normally reliable, and Comrade General Kaganovich vouches for his own agents in this matter.”
The two exchanged professional nods.
“It would appear that there’s some concern about a submarine that was sunk in the Baltic, one that was broaching declared Allied waters and was sunk, as per their rules of engagement.”