Altered States -Volume III. Hinge of Fate

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 Jotnargruppe 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 Lutjens 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.

The Germans sent a motorized battalion of the elite Grossdeutschland Regiment down through the Devil’s Gap, led by their reconnaissance battalion. There they eyed the ridges and slopes leading up to a place called the Breakneck Stairs and Mount Misery. The entrance to St. Michael’s Cave was also in this area, where most of the remaining service troops, porters, artisan engineers, and other non-combatants were now huddled. Even the big 9.2-inch batteries on Windmill Hill and Europa Point had been abandoned, the guns disabled as the crews retreated to the cavernous passages of Saint Michael’s.

There Lieutenant Dawes had fallen to his fate, a hero in the end, dying to save the men that could carry on the fight. Sergeant Hobson saw them carry in the body, what was left of him, and took a long breath. He was tired, weary beyond measure, and the loss of the Lieutenant he had taken under his wing affected him deeply. He sat, head down, dreary and mournful, and losing hope, as were many others around him. Then he heard the quiet chattering of a Barbary Ape, and turned to see a solitary Macaque skittering into the cave. A Corporal threw it an orange peel, and Hobson smiled.

It was just what he had told Dawes about-the Barbary Ape he could follow to the promised land. Yet now he thought to catch it and hold it fast, so that Britain might still hold the Rock. But this one seemed unhappy with the meager fare it had received from the Corporal, and Sergeant Hobson watched it scrabble away over a few rocks and into a passage he knew led nowhere.

“See here,” he called after the Macaque. “Where are you off to? That’s a bloody dead end! You’ll not get out that way-in fact you’ll not get loose at all once I get my fat fist on the scruff of your neck!”

He got up, following the ape, feeling his way in the dark and expecting to catch it just round the next bend. This tunnel led south, down the last of the rocky spine of Gibraltar until it ended somewhere beneath Windmill Hill. It went on for just another few hundred yards, and he could hear the chatter of the Macaque up ahead, but it was very dark. Then he came up short, surprised to reach an impasse in a great boulder that blocked his way.

He knew this rock, as it marked the end of the passage but his Macaque was nowhere to be seen. Hobson fumbled about his shirt pocket for a lighter, holding it up to cast a wan, flickering light on the eerie carved rocks of the cave walls. He remembered the old legend that said there was a hidden tunnel that went all the way under the straits to Spanish Morocco, though he knew that was folly. Then he keened up his senses, looking about when he heard the echo of his quarry resounding, hollow and very distant.

“Now where have you gotten to?” he said, hearing only the echo of his own voice. There was no sign of the beast.

The Barbary Ape was gone.