John Schettler - Golem 7

At times the Prime Minister felt as lonesome as a watchmen at the con of a roving cruiser on the slate gray sea. The great giants to the east and west, America and Russia, were still cautiously neutral, though the clutching gravity of the black hole of the war was inexorably tugging at them both. It would be just two more months before the Germans would launch their ill fated invasion of Mother Russia, prodding the Bear with the lightning jabs of her panzer divisions on June 22 of that same year. And six months later the Japanese would make an equal blunder when they sent six aircraft carriers to strike the sleeping American battle fleet anchored at Pearl Harbor. But for now, England was fighting alone, and the old First Sea Lord, Winston Churchill, was steering her bravely, like the captain on the bridge of an embattled cruiser, eyes ever guarded against the imminent threat of an oncoming ship looming on the horizon.

The occasion of the Prime Minister’s visit this morning was a cable that he had lately received from Wavell in Cairo. The British general was complaining bitterly that he lacked the necessary armor to plan and properly execute an offensive against the enemy, who were now threatening the frontiers of Egypt and Alexandria itself.

On this very day the largest convoy ever assembled was embarking troops and equipment destined for Wavell, including five fast transports with 295 tanks and 53 Hurricane fighters in their packing crates. As the Mediterranean Sea was still an active War zone, they could take the long way around the Cape of Good Hope and up the Red Sea to Egypt, braving only the threat of U-Boats and the occasional surface raider along the way. But today Winston had it in his mind that they could also take the more immediate, and shorter route through the Med itself. There the threats would come from both naval and air attack, and while not a match for British prowess on the high seas, the Italian Navy was still a credible force, and one to be given its due respect.

“Tell me then, if you please, Sir Dudley, what exactly to you determine the risks to be?” The Prime Minister fixed his First Sea Lord with an amiable, yet determined stare, waiting.

Admiral Dudley Pound had served as First Sea Lord since the outbreak of the war, a long time veteran of naval affairs and an experienced fleet officer. He had commanded the battleship Colossus in the first World War, leading her in the now famous Battle of Jutland where he sank two German cruisers. Between the wars he had served as CinC of the Mediterranean Fleet before taking his present post, so if there was any man in the room familiar with the hazards of those waters, it was Pound.

“To put it lightly,” he began, “we’ve had increasing activity from the Italian fleet and air arm in opposition to our Malta supply operations. They’ve come to expect us now, and have been so bold of late as to sortie with some rather formidable squadrons.”

“Yet Force H at Gibraltar has done well enough, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

“That they have, Mr. Prime Minister, but Force H has had its hands full of late. With Scharnhorst and Gneisenau at the French port of Brest, we’ve had to keep one eye over our shoulder, as it were. Half the time we’re pulled into the Atlantic to keep watch against a possible sortie by those ships. And in the Mediterranean, the Italian Admiral Iachino has shown an increasing willingness to commit his capital ships as well, particularly if we steam with any apparent attempt to threaten the Italian mainland.”

“Why, he’s doing nothing more than we would do should these shores be threatened by the specter of enemy naval forces, Admiral.”

“Indeed sir, but the majority of the staff here are of the opinion that if we route this particular convoy through the Med we’re likely to be in it up to our hat bands in little time.”

“Your primary concern is with Admiral Iachino? He may be running his ships about of late, but he’s yet to stand up in a real fight where serious British metal is before him. I must be frank and state my belief that you exaggerate the threat from the Italian Navy, sir. This convoy will be well protected, with additional resources for our fleet operating out of Alexandria. I’ve spoken with Admiral Cunningham, and he believes the risks are acceptable.”

“I am aware of the Admiral’s views, though I cannot agree.”

“You cannot agree?” Winston allowed just a hint of derision to enter his voice now, thinking to impose his will on his First Sea Lord if necessary.

“Well, sir, we have superiority at sea, but we also have the German Tenth Fliegerkorps to consider if we make a run for Alexandria—always a risk with their Stukas and Heinkels.”

“Yes, but an acceptable risk. And RAF intelligence reports the Germans may be pulling units from their Sicilian bases to bolster the Russian frontier. Bad business there in due course. Frankly I would rather ride the Tiger’s back in a mad dash to Egypt than languish for weeks on the open seas with the menace of a U-boat attack ever in the back of my mind. Going round the Cape of Good Hope will add another 40 days to the sea journey. That would mean Wavell would not get his tanks until early June. We could have them there at least three weeks earlier by taking the more direct route. No need to risk U-Boat attack with a longer sea voyage.”

“The convoy system is stiffening up now, sir,” said Admiral Pound. “We hit a poor patch while Scharnhorst and Gneisenau were at sea, but they’re both holed up in Brest at the moment.”

“Where I hope you’ll keep them, First Sea Lord,” said the Prime Minister. “And that being the case, we should be able to get this convoy handed off to Force H without much worry. And from Gibraltar you can send out the whole battle fleet to get them safely ashore in Egypt. Then I shall have the satisfaction of knowing I’ve quieted General Wavell, at least for the moment, until he dreams up some other reason why he cannot yet undertake offensive operations worthy of the name. If nearly 300 new tanks will not compel him to move, then nothing will, by God.”

“Assuming the tanks reach him safely, sir.” Pound admonished. “I may ask the question, and I’ll withdraw it if you deem it impertinent—what will General Wavell do with his Matildas if they’re lying at the bottom of the sea?”

“Come now, Sir Dudley, that is an outrageous notion. You have Renown , Repulse, Queen Elizabeth —more than a match for anything the Italians can sail. Cunningham has the battleships Barham and Valiant as well. And you’ll have the Ark Royal along with them to provide air cover.”

“I mean no disrespect, sir, but the Ark Royal cannot put anything into the air to effectively oppose the German Tenth Fliegerkorps. They’re flying the old Swordfish, sir. The Old Stringbags, along with a few Fulmar fighters.”

“And carrying fifty new Hurricanes, I might add,” said the Prime Minister. If you move at good speed you’ll be under our own land based air cover as well—and all the more reason to get this convoy through with those Hurricanes for the air wing in Alexandria. Look here—the men of our 7th Armored division have had a rough go of late. They’ve been sitting on their thumbs, without tanks, and for an armored division that is a fairly sad state of affairs, wouldn’t you say? Now, I have the greatest respect for you, sir, and your opinion has been duly weighed here. Yet I must concur with Admiral Cunningham and believe we can push this convoy through. We’ll call it Operation Tiger then, shall we? Ride the tiger’s back!”

The Prime Minister clenched his fist, as if to hearten the spirit of his First Sea Lord, though he had determined he would insist on this operation if it came to it, and make it a matter of utmost importance. If he ever wanted to convince the Americans to weigh in and stand to arms for Britain, then it was incumbent upon him to first prove the British army could do more than organize a miraculous retreat. Rommel had landed his Afrika Korps in Libya a month earlier, and chased the British army all the way to the Egyptian border, with a good portion of the army cut off and besieged at the fortified port of Tobruk on the Libyan coast.