John Schettler - Golem 7

Operation Brevity lasted little more than a day, first throwing the Italians into confusion, until local counterattacks and German reinforcements from Rommel stopped the British advance. It seemed General Wavell needed another nudge in the right direction, and so Convoy WS-8B was launched, one of the largest convoys ever assembled to that point in the war. HMS Rodney was to be her principle escort for a time, before heading west to Boston for her refit.

That night in Bristol the real Lieutenant Wellings, USN, was having dinner at a hotel when a tall man in crisp navy whites came drifting into the dining room, his eyes searching and immediately falling on his fellow naval officer. He came right over, removing his cap as he spoke.

“Lieutenant Wellings?”

“Yes?”

“May I join you, sir?”

Wellings was accustomed to receiving odd messages at any hour, for he had been an American Assistant Naval Attaché in London for the last year. Now he was heading home, scheduled to board the British battleship Rodney for the trans-Atlantic cruise. The battleship would escort Convoy WS-8B out of the Clyde, and then eventually steam for New York and Boston for a refit.

The man seated himself opposite Wellings and smiled. “Forgive the interruption, sir, but I have new orders for you.”

“New orders?”

“Yes, sir.” The man handed him an envelope. “It seems Washington would like you home just a bit sooner. You’re now scheduled to fly out of Bristol on DC-3 number 171, sir. Your flight will leave at 20:30 hours. One stop at Reykjavik, Iceland for a 24 hour layover.”

“Damn,” said Wellings. ”That’s only just enough time to get to the air field.”

“Oh, don’t worry, sir,” I’ve arranged a cab for you. It should be waiting outside in about twenty minutes. They’ll hold the plane.” The man looked at a wrist watch, too loose on his thin wrist, and smiled again. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. Somewhat of an inconvenience, but at least you’ll get straight home in a couple of days.”

“Better than idling aboard Rodney for a week,” said Wellings, finally warming to the idea. The man saluted, excused himself, and slipped away. He didn’t even recall his name, though he did note the man was of equal rank. Funny he should not have met him sooner, but he assumed he was one of many new officers arriving in theater as the war began to heat up to a low boil.

We’ll be in it soon enough, he thought, but for the moment I’m happy to be out of it. Wellings finished his steak, quaffing down the glass of wine he had hoped to linger over, then opened the envelope and briefly noted his new orders. Everything seemed in order—a bit hastily typed, but in order. He sighed, looking at his watch, then got up and went to look for the cab.

Hours later a man boarded HMS Rodney with a crisp salute as he was piped on, one Lieutenant Commander Wellings, American Liaison to the Admiralty, at least according to the guest manifest. Yet he was not who he seemed.

Sometime later Paul Dorland sat contentedly in his navy whites, and comfortably in his assumed identity, one of seven men around a table in the captain’s quarters on HMS Rodney . Paul was the seventh, Golem 7 in his own right, and he would fight to sway the weight of opinion here with as much pluck and energy as Kelly’s search programs. Nordhausen’s research had been spot on, and that handy navy steamer trunk Maeve had acquired on eBay was perfect. It contained two full uniform sets, personal effects, and even orders, which they had cleverly altered and augmented for Paul’s planned mission.

They had been detached ten hours ago, and Convoy WS-8B was now steaming due south, diverted away from the area where the Royal Navy was trying to find and engage a German raiding task force led by the much feared battleship Bismarck . Captain Hamilton was looking for support for a decision he was already leaning heavily on, and Paul was just the man to give it to him. He might have done as much by transmitting a message, but something told him the situation needed a firmer hand, and so he resolved to go in under cover of this assumed identity and nudge things along.

“I’ve got some information I’ve been ordered to share with you, sir.”

“Information?”

“Yes, sir,” Paul leaned in, lowering his voice slightly as if to convey the notion that he was now speaking confidentially. The others were clearly interested.

“We have a Coast Guard cutter at sea in the vicinity of the operations out west,” he began. “Her regular duty is ice watch patrol, but it seems one of your convoys out of Halifax took it on the chin recently. She was therefore detailed to assist in survivor recovery for convoy HX-126.”

“Yes,” said Hamilton. “Bloody business that. The poor lot ran afoul of a wolf pack. Lost quite a few ships, I’m afraid.”

“Right,” said Paul, “ Cockaponset , and British Security went down in the final attack. Darlington Court had a near miss. Well, the Modoc, that’s our cutter, reported in yesterday, sir, and I am now at liberty to disclose this message to you here. She sighted battleship Bismarck at these coordinates and times.” He handed the captain a paper, and Hamilton squinted at it briefly before handing it off to his navigator.

“If you chart that,” Paul continued, “You’ll see that this present heading is all wrong, sir. It’s clear that Bismarck has turned southeast, and we believe she is making for Brest, or possibly even trying to have a go at convoy WS-8B. You’ll have to turn due south at once to have any chance in the world of becoming a useful asset in this campaign.”

“I see,” said Hamilton. “I assume this report was also forwarded to the Admiralty? We’ve heard nothing from them at all on this.”

“As you might imagine, sir, Western Approaches Command is all astir with this Bismarck business. The message was sent, but whether it received prompt attention or not is anybody’s guess. I’ve been there, and I can say the situation gets a bit chaotic at times, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”

“Not at all,” said Hamilton. “Get enough Admirals in any one room and no one ends up knowing what to do.” He considered for a moment. “And what course would you say we adopt, Lieutenant Commander Wellings?”

“180 degrees due south, sir. It’s really your only option, and you will have to make your best speed even then if you’re to get to the party on time.” Paul folded his arms. He had made his pitch, and knew enough not to say anything further until someone else spoke first.

“Gentlemen?” Captain Hamilton regarded the other men present, but no one seemed to have any objection to the idea. The navigator knew his business well, and even without having to look at a chart he confirmed what Paul was saying. “We’ll definitely be out of it if we don’t turn, sir,” he said.

“Very well, gentlemen,” Captain Hamilton decided. “I think we have a consensus here, and I must say I agree with everything that’s been said.” To his navigator and senior staff officer he said: “Come round to course 180 degrees south at once and give me all the speed we can manage. The faster the better, should there be any U-boats about. That’s a good bit of timely intelligence, Wellings. I appreciate your candor. Now then, let’s get a signal off to the Admiralty notifying them of our intentions. I daresay Admiral Pound may have other ideas about it, but I believe Admiral Tovey on King George V will be more than gratified to learn of the action we’re taking here.”

“Very good, sir.”

At least for the moment, Golem 7 had prevailed.