Kirov Saga: Hinge Of Fate: Altered States Volume III (Kirov Series) (42 page)

Dawes
looked down at his own shoulder patch, the 10th Anti-Aircraft Regiment, Support
Group, realizing that this was the first engagement his unit would have fought
in—and it would most likely be the last. The fallen Private lay on a cart,
where men had been taking the wounded and dead in to give them some form of decent
burial. Dawes looked at the man, seeing him like a fallen Prince, and not a
mere Private. The man was still cradling his rifle, and the Lieutenant was
possessed with the urge to take up arms.

I don’t
deserve it, he thought, berating himself. I’ve done nothing to earn it. But the
impulse was simply too strong, and he found himself reaching for the rifle. Nearly
three hundred years of history had carried that rifle here to this place, or so
he thought. He had no right to touch it; no right to desecrate the sacrifice
made by that brave young Private. Just last night he had been so rattled that
he could barely light a cigarette, and he came to feel a coward.

Then
the Sergeant he had spoken with the previous night at Europa Point came up,
recognizing him, and folded his arms.

“Heading
up to Saint Michael’s, Lieutenant?”

Dawes
jumped, his reverie and self recrimination broken by the Sergeant’s voice.
“What? Why yes, we’ve got the order right from General Liddell. All service
troops and gunnery crews are to report to the cave.”

“Then
you might want to take that with you.” The Sergeant pointed at the fallen
Private’s rifle, seeing how Dawes had been eyeing it, and knowing what might be
in his mind.

Dawes
gave him a nervous look. Then he slowly reached for the rifle, seeing a stain
of blood there, which gave him a shudder. He took the weapon up and the rifle
changed hands from the dead to the living, like a dying man passing a torch. The
Bloody Eleventh had just taken in its latest recruit.

Dawes shouldered
the rifle trying to muster some sense of determination, but in a moment of
self-confession he spoke his greatest fear. “I must tell you Sergeant, that I’m
not a very brave man. It doesn’t really feel fitting that I should—”

“Now none
of that talk, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir. You’ll do fine when the time
comes. You just point the damn thing at the other fellow and pull the
trigger—before he pulls his.” The Sergeant smiled at him. “Good luck,
Lieutenant. Look for that Barbary Ape I told you about! I expect I’ll be up
there soon myself, and if I get the little weasel, he’ll lead me right to the
promised land.”

* * *

In
modern times the tunnels of Gibraltar were a maze like
warren that wandered nearly 30 miles beneath the Rock—and this beneath a
physical area measuring only a mile wide and a little more than a mile long!
They were layered with galleries and connecting communications passages one on
top of another, like the history that had built them. Some dated back to the
Great Siege of 1779 to 1783, mainly those overlooking the airfield and North
Front area. Others had been built to create underground reservoirs and magazine
storage areas, and when the airplane became a military threat, to create bomb
shelters. By WWII even more space was drilled out to store food, generators,
fuel, equipment, and ammunition.

Parts
of the old fortifications and gun embrasures still bore their original names,
such as King’s Lines, Queen’s Lines, Winsdor Battery, and there were halls
named for Cornwallis and St. George. At the turn of the century, when old
battleships began to drop anchor at the port, the Ragged Staff Cave bordering
the harbor area was turned into a naval magazine. With no natural source of
water, the Rock also had vast areas devoted to the collection of rainwater in
great catchments.

Yet all
the work done by 1939 amounted to little more than seven miles of tunnels.
Artisan Engineers arrived early in this new history, drilling hard through the
limestone to create another mile or two by the fall of 1940, mainly to connect
existing galleries and tunnels. In the history Fedorov knew, the tunnels were
not extended to a length of about 25 miles until the end of WWII. In this
history they might never reach that scale, yet for the moment, the existing
galleries and caves were enough to shelter the modest force garrisoned there.

The
entrance nearest the British defensive positions was at Hay’s Level, between
the Moorish Castle and the 18th century Siege Tunnels. It was defended by two
companies of the 2nd Somerset Light on the line, and a single reserve company
of the Black Watch near the entrance itself.

Farther
south a company of the 4th Devonshire battalion and most of the service troops
and gun crews were holed up in the famous Saint Michael’s Cave. This enormous
network of natural caverns and passages had been set up as an emergency
hospital, and scores of wounded sat in sullen groups beneath the tall spires of
rock, and the striated falls of Stalactites from the high ceiling above. Legend
lay heavy on that place, once thought to be the gates of Hades by the ancient
Greeks. It was also said, just as the Sergeant had told it to Lieutenant Dawes,
that the entrance to a hidden tunnel could be found there, one that would wind
deep beneath the Straits of Gibraltar to Spanish Morocco, a secret pathway
known only to the Barbary Apes, the monkeys who had used it to come here ages
ago.

Now the
caves were part of the last stand of modern British power in the Western
Mediterranean, and by day’s end most of the remaining garrison was sealed up in
the old siege tunnels of the Rock. Liddell knew there would be no relief any
time soon, though he had supplies enough to hold out for months. If the Germans
wanted the place they would now have to fight from one subterranean passage to
another, clearing the tunnels and hidden stone rooms with shock and fire.

They
tried to take the main entrance by storm, thinking the defense might not yet be
prepared, and as it happened Lieutenant Dawes had only just come in through the
arched gate after a long climb up. There came a sound of gunfire, a warning to
all that this place was no safe sanctuary. The fire of war would burn through
the maw of this cave, and death would follow sure enough.

Dawes
crouched behind a rock, frightened, weary, and losing hope. There he saw three
men of the 4th Devonshire desperately struggling to get two wounded soldiers
into the cave before the Germans could gun them down. They had fought for
nearly 48 hours, grudgingly giving ground in the face of superior numbers, even
though for many this was their very first engagement. Their faces were
blackened with soot, uniforms soiled and bloodied.

Dawes
felt the sudden burn of shame that he had not done more—not done much of
anything at all! I took the first shots in my harbor tower, he thought, but all
I’ve done since is get jostled from one AA gun position to another while these
brave men fought and died to keep me safe. And here I am holding a rifle of the
4th Devs, and I haven’t the first idea how to use it!

He
could hear the sound of the German attackers getting closer, calling to one
another in harsh voices. One of the Devonshire riflemen fired at them, trying
to buy enough time for the other two men to drag their wounded comrades inside
the entrance. Dawes crouched behind his rock, closing his eyes, shuddering when
bullets from a submachine gun raked the position, to cut the soldier down. Then
he heard a dull clink, opening his eyes by reflex to stare in horror at a
German grenade!

The
next five seconds felt like an eternity, but in those brief and fleeting
moments, the last of his life, Dawes found the one thing he had chided himself
for lacking—his courage. There it was, the cold metal stick of death that would
explode at any moment and take them all, the two wounded men and their comrades
trying to drag them to safety. And there it was, with only one thing to do that
might save them.

Dawes moved,
as if on instinct, and the newest recruit of the Bloody Eleventh leapt atop the
grenade, taking the full force of the explosion to die a hero, while shielding
the soldiers who had fought so bravely to give him that chance.

Epilogue

That
night there came a lull in the fighting. The Germans
secured positions around the Main Wharf where the remnant of two companies of
the 4th Devonshire Battalion were now holed up. Then the gunfire abruptly
stopped at 08:00. Soldiers approached the entrance to Saint Michael’s Cave
under a white flag, and asked to pass a message to the British commander. It
would offer terms, with fair treatment and medical care for all wounded upon
surrender, and internment in Spain under decent conditions for the duration of
the war. Liddell replied that he had no such orders, but if the Germans would
abide by the temporary cease fire he would pass the matter up the chain of
command.

The
signal went to Somerville, still at sea with Force H, who contemplated it
grimly when he was handed the message at 10:00. The enemy had taken several
vital facilities at Gibraltar: fuel supplies, airfield, power station, gas
works, and the plant for distilling seawater. Yet Liddell indicated he believed
he could hold out, and asked for as much support as the navy could give him. As
to the German surrender terms, Churchill would not hear of such a thing at this
point. He railed that the fortress must be held as long as possible, and urged
the War Cabinet to do everything in their power to assist the garrison.

The
night raid made by
Valiant
had given Churchill the hope that if more force
were applied by the Royal Navy, the Germans might be shelled senseless.
Somerville had been at sea for days, and his home port was now largely in enemy
hands. He knew that he had only a few more days fuel to operate, and the French
Navy was still at sea, finally spotted some 200 miles to the south off
Casablanca. Lingering in the western approaches to the straits was also
dangerous, and German U-boat activity was becoming an increasing threat. That
morning the destroyer
Firedrake
had engaged a suspected undersea target
without results, and Somerville knew that with each passing hour the enemy
might concentrate more resources against him.

He laid
the matter out in no uncertain terms.
“We have three U-boat sightings today
– Expect continued air attack this evening and have inadequate air cover – Two
French battleships remain at large off Casablanca and could pose an immediate
threat to convoy SL-46 and SL-47.”

Should
he mount yet another night raid to bolster the garrison at Gibraltar, or move
south to deal with the French? He signaled the Admiralty to seek clarification
as to his orders—what was Their Lordships pleasure? In spite of
Valiant’s
success the previous night, the Admiralty felt it unwise to risk Somerville’s
battleships in the straits again. Liddell was told to play for time and hold
out, a bone thrown to Churchill. The Royal Navy, however, would do the one
thing it was best at, and operate at sea.

At
midnight on the 17th, Somerville got his orders. He was to find and engage the
French, clear the convoy routes and become master of the waters off Casablanca.
Plans were underway for dramatic events yet to come. Admiral Tovey got the word
that same hour. Britain would now try to salvage some small measure of
advantage while she could, and go on the offensive.

Orders
were sent to Wavell in Alexandria that he should make every effort to drive the
Italians from Egyptian soil. Liddell would hunker down beneath the imposing limestone
fortress of the Rock, Somerville would steam south to engage the French and
avenge the loss of
Barham
off Dakar, and the Azores would be seized the
following morning with thunderclap surprise, after which HMS
Glorious
would return to support Force H. The troops at Freetown, and De Gaulle’s Free
French fighters were also put on notice that they would not sit idle any
longer. A mission was being planned to throw them at the Cape Verde Islands as
soon as the French Fleet was properly dealt with.

Britain,
down on one knee, bruised and bloodied by her foes, was getting up and ready to
answer the next bell. Yet far to the north, Admiral Raeder was setting his own
plans in motion. The German
Jötnargruppe
was cutting through the seas and
heading south into the Atlantic, with the battleships of the Royal Navy in hot
pursuit. Speed was now the order of the day, and the Germans slipped slowly
away, until one ship loomed off their starboard bow, unexpected, undaunted, and
ready to do everything possible to stop the German fleet. This time Lütjens
would fight, but he was about to confront an adversary that would prove to be
far more resourceful than he or any of his planners in the Kriegsmarine could
imagine.

* * *

As
the sun rose on the 18th of September, smoke charred the
skies above Gibraltar. Fires were burning in the town, and south near the Main
Wharf. The last remnants of the 4th Devonshires were still fighting, some holed
up in sheds, houses and cellars, others huddled behind the heavy walls of the
Main Wharf buildings, mostly held by 2nd Somerset Light. The Brandenburgers
were at the Destroyer Camber, and the harbor itself, always bustling with
activity with upwards of twenty or thirty vessels on any given day, was
strangely empty now.