It was as black a day as there had ever been in the war at sea, save the terrible losses off Fuerteventura. Added to these was the fact that Anson had also been forced to retire, but so had Tirpitz. With all those supply ships weighing heavily on the scales, the Admiralty was chilled to the bone when the day’s report came in, Admiral Pound excused himself from the conference table, retired to his private office, and locked the door. That would not spare him from receiving the final report on PQ-17. Of the 32 ships that had set out to make that dangerous run, only six would eventually make a Russian port with their cargo intact. What the German surface raiders had failed to destroy, was left for the planes out of Tromso, Petsamo and Kirkenes. The damage was so grave that the British immediately cancelled PQ-18, and all further Murmansk convoys for the foreseeable future.
Another man contemplated the day aboard the German battlecruiser Scharnhorst, Kurt Hoffmann. He was on the aft weather deck off the bridge, smoking a cigar as he often did, and thinking things over. Now he stood there, leaning on the gunwale and watching the wide dark shape of Tirpitz in his wake.
Topp and the Admiral must be fit to be tied, he thought. Who would have thought I’d be towing Tirpitz home like this? We’ve also lost Lutzow, and more than one U-boat won’t be coming home. Yet there’s one consolation we take from this—not a single naval rocket was fired in all these engagements—not one. So the latest rumors on that demon we faced last year must be true. It’s gone to Murmansk, and from there to the Pacific. The damn thing was a Russian ship all along, and not British at all! But what was it doing there, sinking its teeth into us before Hitler even invaded the Soviet Union last year, fighting us in the Atlantic as well? That was the ship that got our tanker, the same ship that chased Krancke and Admiral Scheer out of the Kara sea.
Well… While the cat is away….
I’m told Krancke is getting a few kills today, feasting on the herd while I’m stuck here towing the mighty Tirpitz. Raeder will be none too happy to hear about this. Yet considering the situation, it will make my ship the best surface combatant in the northern fleet. Where will they plant the flag the next time we go out, on Scharnhorst or Peter Strasser? I’d just as soon give the honor to the carrier. The last thing I need is a troublesome Admiral aboard.
He took another long drag on his cigar. Things could be worse, he thought, far worse. So back to Nordstern we go, where Tirpitz will likely sit in the new dry dock they’ve built there for a good long while. Who knows, perhaps the British will think twice about these convoy runs to Murmansk after we’ve finished with this one. Rhineland and Westfalen were the lucky ones. They got cut loose to do some hunting while I play footman to that battleship. But one day I’ll get my chance, and with no damn naval rockets in the mix.
However, with my luck, I’ll probably run into the Hood. He smiled, grimly, not knowing then just how much of a prediction he had just made. Time had a way of balancing her books, and she was thinking… thinking….
Part VI
Page 117
“The two worst strategic mistakes to make are acting prematurely and letting an opportunity slip…”
Chapter 16
All through the spring of 1942, the Allies were possessed with the decision of what they could do that year, if anything, to open a Second Front. Roosevelt was particularly keen to see US troops involved in the war that year, and against the Germans as a top priority. Marshall and many other Joint Chiefs wanted action on the European continent as soon as possible, and they were betting on one of two plans associated with the operation already underway to build up forces in the UK—BOLERO—yet the plans kept getting tangled in negotiations, and never seemed to get any traction.
The problem, from the point of view of men like General George Marshall and Admiral King, was not the enemy, but the Allies involved. In spite of Churchill’s eagerness for a second front, the British seemed adamantly opposed to both plans teed up by the Americans. The first was called SLEDGEHAMMER, a plan to seize either Brest or Cherbourg in the summer of 1942, but when it came to Montgomery’s attention, he quickly called it an “unsound operation of war.” He picked the plan apart, declaring the five brigade frontage too narrow, leading to insufficient power in the assault, and slow buildup of forces after. Beyond that, it was simply too soon to contemplate such an attack. There were not enough landing craft to support it.
Marshall was sent by Roosevelt to hammer with that sledgehammer on the British, and see what the problem was. Along the way he opted to forego a meeting with Churchill at his private residence in Chequers, much to the chagrin of Churchill himself. Roosevelt’s close civilian advisor, Harry Hopkins, was sent instead, and he got a tirade from Churchill on protocol.
“Where is this General Marshall?” said the Prime Minister, puffing about his sitting room with a cigar in one hand, and a book of British law in another, which he was reading loudly from as he went. He asserted his position at the very top of the chain of command in Great Britain, the single authority that all his Admirals and Generals answered to, and then he ripped the relevant passage right out of the book and threw it on the floor.
“If this General of yours would care to read it, there it is,” he said with a huff. Hopkins listened until Churchill had fired his broadside, then closed the range to engage himself.
“Mister Prime Minister, you know damn well that this is nothing more than an effort to throw too much salt in the stew concerning Sledgehammer.”
“I wouldn’t waste my breath on such,” said Churchill with just the right level of indignation in his tone. “The truth is, Mister Hopkins, the decision making authority on this side of the pond resides here, in me, and you had better realize it. If your General Marshall thinks he can bypass me as easily as he diverted his train this morning to bypass Chequers, he is sorely mistaken. Now then, aside from the fact that Sledgehammer would be primarily a British Operation, it is entirely premature. It is our belief that it would have little chance of success, easily bottled up by the Germans, and leave all of Spain and Vichy France unscathed. The enemy would still hold Gibraltar, all of North Africa, and it would do nothing to directly challenge their current operations in the Canary Islands, or put any pressure on Rommel. Our Generals will tell you the very same thing, but I can assure you, they heard it from me first and foremost.”
He began reading from another passage in his law book, establishing responsibility for overall strategy and war aims in the office of the Prime Minister, whereupon he ripped that page out as well and threw it in Hopkins’ lap. Then a mood fell over him, and his eyes seemed to be seeing things far ahead, distant things to come, and there was both fear and anticipation in his gaze.
“Mister Hopkins, we want a Mediterranean strategy—I want such a strategy, and the British Empire answers to my thinking on this matter. Gibraltar must be retaken, and the Eastern Med reopened.”
“Sir, I realize you’ve a fondness for your position at Gibraltar. Yes, I heard your speech after it was surrendered—we are the Rock. But give Marshall a little credit. If we hit them hard enough, we would be cutting all German positions to the south off at the trunk.”