Her captain, Frederick Dalrymple-Hamilton, was also a big slow man, a tall Scott, powerfully built like his ship. At midnight, just as Tovey and Holland had turned due south to chase Bismarck, his ship was still steaming on a southwesterly course of about 230 degrees. Pound had sent him this heading, but no further instructions, and he realized if he held to this course he would soon find himself well behind the action by the time he got out west closer to Home Fleet.
Orders were orders, yet having misgivings about his lot, he summoned his committee and thought to seek a weight of opinion from his senior officers. He had his navigator, the ship’s commander, and several other officers that had come aboard to gain passage to America. Rodney had been bound for New York, and eventually a berth in Boston where she was to undergo some much needed refitting. Even now her decks were stacked with packing crates filled with equipment and material to be used in patching her up. It was well past time for the old girl to get a facelift, he thought, but the cargo was likely to be a nuisance if he had to go to action stations.
He could avoid all that by just settling in and keeping to this heading. Then he would have a nice uneventful cruise to the States, if he could keep clear of U-boats. The fact that he had to dismiss his destroyer escorts to keep watch on the convoy also worried him.
So he brought in his senior rankings and these two odd interlopers as well, just to see what all the hatbands and stripes would come to in a brief discussion. And one man, the American liaison officer Wellings, was to make a very strong impression on him that night. He was a curious fellow—seemed to want his ear from the moment he set foot on the ship. Well now for it, thought Hamilton. Let him have his say.
Chapter 24
“Well Gentlemen, that’s our present situation,” said Captain Hamilton. “We’ve no further instructions from the Admiralty, but that could change. Your thoughts are, of course, welcome.” He looked at the American, Wellings, as if he knew the man would be the first to speak, and he was not disappointed.
“If I may, sir,” said Wellings. “What’s to be gained by holding this heading? You’ve said yourself that it will put you well behind Admiral Tovey by the time we get out west.” He was a tall, thin man, dark eyed, clean, and dressed out in proper US Navy whites. The stripes on his cuff and shoulder insignia made him to be a Lieutenant Commander.
But Wellings was more than he seemed.
Not long ago insofar as he was concerned, but more than sixty years hence, a man had stepped across a bold thick line painted on a heavy concrete floor, and vanished into a whirl of dizzying light and sound.
He appeared in Bristol, England, near the Clyde anchorage where HMS Rodney had been waiting to escort Convoy WS-8B, the second half of the ‘Winston Special’ series that was bound to reinforce the British position in Egypt. The first half had been designated WS-8A, dubbed the Tiger Convoy by Sir Winston himself, as he deemed its bold move to sail directly across the Med instead of going round the Cape of Good Hope was rather like riding a tiger into the fray by the quickest route possible. There had been a near miss tragedy when the Germans surprised the British and sortied briefly with the battlecruiser Gneisenau.
Luckily Force H was near at hand, sailing north at that very moment to cover the Tiger Convoy, and the cruiser Sheffield, followed soon after by the battlecruiser Renown, engaged the German raider and sent her scurrying back to the safety of her berth at Brest. Sheffield was damaged and laid up in Gibraltar, but Tiger Convoy, part one, passed safely and made her delivery of precious Matilda and Crusader tanks and Hurricane fighters to General Wavell. 57 tanks were lost when the transport Empire Song sang her last after striking a mine, but another 200 tanks were safely delivered, and spurred General Wavell to launch an aptly named operation aimed at relieving the siege at Tobruk.
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.