A few weeks later he did exactly that…
Chapter 8
Things were well tightened down that morning at the Admiralty Citadel. The Prime Minister was visiting, Churchill himself. Normally he would hold forth in the Cabinet War Rooms, a string of basement level rooms beneath Storey’s Gate. But today he had ambled over to the Admiralty bunker, through the long underground tunnel that was the beginning of a labyrinthine warren slowly taking shape and form beneath the city.
WWII was still in its adolescent years. Germany had initiated hostilities in September of 1939 by invading Poland, prompting an immediate declaration of war by England and France, but now she stood a lonesome watch on the world, bravely holding out behind the natural moat of the English Channel after the German blitzkrieg had outflanked the Maginot line and overrun France. The last of the British Expeditionary Force had been chased from the continent at Dunkirk nearly a year ago. Since that time all Britain could do was hold fast behind the Channel and her still formidable navy, and endure the continual bombing of Goering’s Luftwaffe.
The Blitz had driven much of London underground. Every subway, basement and cellar had been given a second life as a bomb shelter when the planes came. For Churchill, the basement War Cabinet building served him well most of the time, but the Admiralty held forth in a newly constructed bunker, with foundations 30 feet deep and a concrete roof some 20 feet thick as well. The Prime Minister considered the building a monstrosity, and a blight upon Horse Guards Parade where it sat like a squat fortress amid the more elegant architecture of Whitehall, the Old Ripley Building, and Admiralty House.
With little in the way of real land operations underway, the Admiralty itself had been the nucleus of much of Britain’s war effort in those early years. Way off in North Africa, Wavell maintained his post with the army, guarding the crown jewel in the Empire, Egypt. But between Alexandria and Cairo at the one end, and London at the other, there were thousands of miles of turbulent seas, constantly patrolled and surveilled by the Royal Navy and her fleet of battleships, cruisers, and destroyers.
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.”