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  Sheppard of the Argonne: Alternative History Naval Battles of WWII

  ©2017 G. William Weatherly. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, or photocopying, recording or otherwise without the permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For more information, please contact:

  Mascot Books

  560 Herndon Parkway #120

  Herndon, VA 20170

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  ISBN-13: 978-1-63177-451-5

  To all—past, present,

  and future—who have

  loved the ocean

  and served

  at sea

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you

  to my family and friends,

  who endured drafts and rewrites

  too numerous to count,

  and to my patient editors

  endlessly toiling

  through my mistakes.

  Author’s Note

  Writing alternative history presents a plethora of choices. In this series of work, I chose to accelerate some technology development such as ship building, metallurgy, ordinance, and radar; while keeping others such as aircraft close to the actual timelines since that development was not restricted by treaty. Using fictional names for ships can be confusing where a ship of that name actually existed in the war. For American ships, I slavishly followed naming battle cruisers after famous American battles grouped by ships of the same design, aircraft carriers after sailing frigates, and cruisers after cities appropriate for their size. Battleships and destroyers are not named, but would follow historical traditions. Nation designators (USS, HMS, or KMS) are only used where the named ship actually existed as used in the novel. Names for allied and German warships followed their conventions to the best of my limited abilities.

  To my several editors’ frustrations, I have mostly followed naval usage and style from the early 1940’s period, so please forgive the deviations from The Chicago Manual of Style. The spelling and usage of the rank and position of ship’s captain as a reference or in conversation may have driven them to drink.

  War in the twentieth century was dictated by technology. Presenting that without detracting from the battles and struggle of the protagonist, I hope leaves the reader with an understanding of why events can be shaped by the tools of war as much as by the men that controlled them.

  Prelude

  From November 1921 to February 1922, nine nations—the United States, Great Britain, Japan, China, France, Italy, Belgium, Netherlands, and Portugal—met in Washington DC as part of the Washington Naval Conference. The main goal of the conference was to come to an agreement on naval disarmament in the aftermath of the Great War, making it the first disarmament conference in history. By its end, the conference had produced three international treaties, including the historic Five-Power Treaty (a.k.a. the Washington Naval Treaty) that was signed by the United States, Great Britain, Japan, Italy, and France. The Five-Power Treaty strangled naval construction and limited ship and armament sizes, while flooding the world’s scrap-metal markets with banned warships—all helping to avert a naval arms race among the great powers of that age for over a decade.

  But what if the Washington Naval Conference hadn’t transpired as history recorded it? What if one lone incident—an assassination, common in the politics of one participating nation—occurred and changed the conference … thus irrevocably altering military history in the following years and ultimately World War II itself? What would history have looked like then?

  What if …?

  Baron Tomosaburō Katō—Admiral of the Imperial Japanese Navy, Naval Minister, and head of his nation’s delegation to the Washington Naval Conference—sat in his hotel room alone late on the evening of November 14, 1921. He listened to his favorite phonographic recording of traditional music while rereading staff notes on the position Japan would take for the conference’s most-important second plenary session the next day. At that moment, someone knocked on the door, entered the room, and bowed. Two minutes later, Baron Katō lay on the floor in a pool of blood—dead. The murder remained unsolved, despite the unfettered efforts of the DC metropolitan police and all the resources the United States government could bring to bear.

  Calling it an assassination and accusing the Americans of collusion, the remaining members of the Japanese delegation walked out of the conference, fearful for their own lives, since Baron Katō had been strongly in favor of a treaty limiting naval expansion, opposing his own militarists. Without Japanese agreement to stop the 8-8-8 building program enshrined in Japanese law, the United States continued the naval expansion it had begun with the 1916 and 1919 naval appropriations. Faced with growing Japanese and American fleets, Great Britain had no option but to continue her own construction programs of battle cruisers and battleships. Italy chose to restart the building of the Caracciolo class, sparking a renewed interest in the Lyon class by France. Finally, Germany renounced the Treaty of Versailles, collapsing the League of Nations. The former Allies acquiesced, unwilling to return to the trenches as Germany, too, began rearming.

  Around the world, shipyards rang as riveters joined steel to hulls. New mines, mills, and factories sprang up to feed the growing demand for naval rearmament. Huge government arsenals continued the development of eighteen-inch and larger guns started in the Great War to defeat the thicker and better armor at longer and longer ranges. Industry hired more tradesmen to meet the endless government contracts. Laboratories accelerated the development of all manner of naval technology and metallurgy—perhaps at the expense of aviation, perhaps not. Flotillas of dredges slaved endlessly on shallow harbors; building ways were augmented by construction dry docks and expanding shipyards as warships grew too large for traditional launching methods, further bolstering civilian construction trades. Unfettered, warships grew ever larger, remaining immune to the weapons of all but their own breed.

  The Roaring Twenties roared on with expanding work forces. Good paying jobs fueled consumerism and continued economic expansion avoiding the economic devastation of the Great Depression. Growing tax revenues satisfied the financial needs of the fleets’ expansion. Plentiful jobs and rising living standards, as well as enhanced job opportunities in the growing navies, obviated the pressure on politicians for social programs. Empires flourished, although the Soviet Union’s command economy lagged behind the other international powers. Still, Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, and Hirohito all dreamed of and plotted greater empires, replacing the old order, until the world erupted once more in global conflict.

  Prologue

  Like a predator, it had come again last night as he lay in a Norfolk BOQ room, stalking Sheppard McCloud in his sleep, feasting on his rest. But Evelyn, at home in San Diego, was not there to comfort and hold him. She could not tell Sheppard that it was just a bad dream—that he was safe with her in their bed.

  But it was not just a dream. The pain in his shattered leg, the twinges from the shards of Japanese steel still in his body—they were real. Evelyn still had no idea that the dream had once been reality and that Sheppard often relived the events on the Shenandoah in his sleep. He loved her too much to share the horrors of exploding shells, screaming wounded, and the spray of blood, bone, and flesh peppering his face.

  The Navy, too, was unaware of the dream. The nightmares had
begun during the weeks of surgery, one operation after another at Balboa Naval Hospital to repair his leg and make him “fit for duty.” And when Sheppard awoke during those weeks at the hospital—sweating, confused, wide-eyed, and rigid with fear—it was easy to blame the pain instead of the nightmares when nurses asked. Morphine dulled the reality of his horrific memories, but he had no morphine at home as he progressed from crutches to a cane and finally, now, to just a limp. Without narcotics, the dream grew sharper, clearer in the consequences of his decisions—his decisions, killing his men. Sheppard could not hide the dreams from Evelyn. He had never been able to hide anything from her. So he told her that it was indeed just a nightmare and that it would pass in time as his body healed. He could not tell if she believed him. He hoped she did, for her sake. It would make his return to war easier.

  Sheppard feared that the dream would turn back into reality and he would have to live through it all again. Three months of reviewing his own decisions to find his mistakes and learn from them only left him frustrated. The logic for his actions appeared justifiable and sound, but his motivation … what had it been—glory, ego, hubris? Before December 7th, Sheppard had been supremely confident, sure of his ability to lead his men, certain that he could not be beaten. He had been decisive, aggressive even, when he’d sought engagement with the Japanese carrier force. He had been so sure he had all the advantages: gunnery, radar, weather, a setting sun.

  Now that his physical injuries were healing, the Navy assumed that Sheppard was still that confident leader—but they were wrong.

  Norfolk Naval Base and Hampton Roads

  Chapter 1

  Return to Duty

  She waited, the loneliness of a crowd enveloping her, the activity of thousands lost to her in anticipation. What would he be like? Would he be firm, controlling her tantrums? She knew she was headstrong and impetuous in the self-confidence of her youth. Would he be gentle, subtly guiding her through the rocks and shoals of existence? Was he capable of demanding her best, knowing what she could achieve in her greatness? All she felt was the anxiety and hope of those around her that he would arrive today. Could he replace the first love of her life—the man who had raised her?

  Vice Admiral Jonas Ingraham, Commander Scouting Forces Atlantic, knew the meaning of the rap on his varnished oak door. The guard at Atlantic Fleet Headquarters at Norfolk, Virginia, had already alerted the staff to the arrival of Captain Sheppard Jackson McCloud. At the call, Jonas’s aide immediately hustled to meet the wounded warrior, hero of the Japanese raid on Pearl Harbor, to guide him to Jonas’s office. Admiral Royal Ingersoll, Commander in Chief Atlantic Fleet and Jonas’s boss, had made it unpleasantly but emphatically clear that Jonas would decide whether Sheppard was well enough—“fit for duty.” Jonas also knew that the service desperately needed Sheppard now, not later when he’d fully recovered from his wounds.

  “Enter,” Jonas barked.

  The two men stepped into his office. Both strode toward his mahogany desk framed by two stuffed leather chairs in front of the far wall. Alongside Jonas’s aide, Sheppard stood, ramrod straight on the blue carpet, athletically trim. He was obviously in his best set of blues, the four gold stripes on each sleeve only lightly tarnished, with his white cover tucked under his left arm. His starched white shirt with black tie in the regulation four-in-hand knot reminded the admiral of their first meeting, over a decade ago. Jonas could not see Sheppard’s black shoes but guessed they were spit-shined to a high gloss.

  Jonas eyed his former gunnery officer critically: the square-set jaw and slightly bent nose, his face whiter than the usual dark tan of an officer comfortable with an open bridge and salt spray. There was a touch of gray at Sheppard’s temples that had not appeared in his otherwise black hair the last time they’d met. Jonas also saw that something in his eyes had changed. They were different from when Sheppard, as a senior lieutenant commander, had made the service sit up and take notice. Perhaps it was the sense of mortality that came with serious injury in war. Jonas could not be sure, as his own service had not included the death, twisted steel, screaming wounded and controlled chaos aboard a ship damaged in battle.

  Jonas knew the details of the captain’s medical record—the series of surgeries at Balboa Naval Hospital that had mostly removed the shrapnel and restored the bones and sinews of his left leg. However, the dispassionate official descriptions of his injuries aboard the battle cruiser Shenandoah did not provide insight into Sheppard’s psyche.

  The young lieutenant, sporting three rings on his aiguillette, stood on Sheppard’s left, slightly behind the captain, where only the admiral could see him.

  “Admiral,” Jonas’s aide said, “Captain Sheppard McCloud.”

  “Good morning, Sheppard. How’s your leg?”

  Vice Admiral Ingraham really did not care what Sheppard’s answer was. He would form his own opinion, as Ingersoll had directed. The captain’s limp had been barely noticeable when he’d entered the office. His weight now appeared equally supported on both legs. His gaze was steady; no narrowing of those pale blue eyes or flexing cheek muscles indicating grinding teeth that would betray hidden pain. Pausing, perhaps too long, but really only a few seconds, Jonas committed them both—and the Allied cause—to Sheppard’s care.

  With a nod to his aide, Jonas said, “Please have a seat.”

  “Better, Admiral; thank you for asking.”

  Sheppard thrust a telegram toward his old commanding officer from the Ticonderoga.

  “My orders require me to report to you for duty or subsequent assignment as directed.”

  Jonas smiled. “I know.”

  He also knew his reputation as well as Sheppard did. Short-tempered and pugnacious, Jonas only delayed asking a subordinate to sit when he was not going to ask at all. Those meetings would be very unpleasant for the object of Jonas’s ire as he raked a subordinate’s incompetency with blistering invective. When he wished, Jonas could level his bushy brown eyebrows, seemingly out of place considering his snow-white hair, and deliver a bombastic tirade that would make the most seasoned boatswain cringe and believe he was in the presence of God almighty.

  Sheppard sat, relaxed, and settled into the right-hand leather chair. Jonas’s aide left, shutting the admiral’s hallway door on the way out.

  “Have you heard about Bill Leland?” Jonas asked.

  It had been—what, eight? No,—nine years since the three of them had served together on the Ticonderoga. Leland and Sheppard had been integral parts of the team that had helped Jonas win the Battenberg Cup for the best capital ship in the fleet, with Leland’s engineering department gaining consecutive red “Es” for efficiency, in the process matching the white ones of Sheppard’s gunnery department.

  “No, Admiral, the last I knew he was in command of the battle cruiser Argonne. How’s Bill?”

  “Dead!”

  Clearly stunned, all Sheppard could say was, “When?”

  “Early last month, heart attack, died on the bridge of his ship, returning to Norfolk following the Argonne’s post shakedown availability.”

  “Susan … The kids … How are they taking it?”

  “Badly; moved back to her folks’ place in Ohio.” Jonas made a sweeping gesture with his gold-braided arm in the direction of the offices of Scouting Forces Atlantic. “Staff took care of everything.” Leaning toward the captain, Jonas placed his forearms on his desk. “Look, Sheppard, time is short. I’m sending you to the Argonne. There is a ‘situation’ developing in the Atlantic. Do you know Ted Grabowski?”

  “No, Admiral.”

  “He’s a good officer, just too junior for command of a battle cruiser. Done a four-oh job in training the crew, keeping things together following the captain’s death.”

  Jonas stood suddenly, frustrated that a fine officer like Leland was no longer available to the Navy in time of war. True to service etiquette, Sheppard rose in response—awkwardly on his one good leg.

  “I should have known,” Jonas sa
id.

  His lips tightened to a thin line, eyes glaring as he remembered how well Sheppard could hide pain. After all, he had won the intercollegiate light-heavyweight boxing championship while at the Academy, despite suffering a broken nose in the first round.

  Feeling betrayed, Jonas flattened his eyebrows and growled, “Leg isn’t well, is it?”

  “No, Admiral, but it is good enough and getting better!”

  Jonas looked at Sheppard, eyes afire with accusation and his own doubt on the decision he’d already set in motion. He stared into Sheppard’s eyes, trying to plumb the depths of his soul. After what seemed like an eternity, Jonas softened, smiled, and relaxed.

  “I’ll take you at your word, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Admiral,” was all Sheppard could muster in response.

  “Your assignment to Dolf Hamilton’s task force, anchored in the roadstead, is included with your orders to command,” Jonas said. “My aide will give them to you on your way out. Good luck with the Argonne.”

  Jonas walked the few steps to the door with Sheppard, placing his left hand on the younger officer’s back. If asked why he had done that, Jonas would not or could not say. All he knew was that it would likely be the last time he ever saw another officer he deeply respected.

  Two hundred nautical miles to the east, Korvettenkapitän Hans Dieter Meier, holder of the Knight’s Cross for gallantry and one of twelve U-boat aces with over one hundred thousand tons of shipping sent to the bottom, had to decide his next move for U-179. The morning trim dive to adjust his submarine’s variable ballast, achieving exactly neutral buoyancy in the changed water conditions of his current location, was complete. If the Americans were as smart as the British, their air patrols would be arriving in the vicinity shortly. Normally, Meier would remain submerged and spend the daylight hours deep, running slowly on his battery and electric motors, avoiding all contact, as his orders directed. Regrettably, that course of action dictated his arrival at the mouth of the Chesapeake half a day later than he wished. Assigned one of the premier patrol areas, assuring a long list of kills before he was forced to return to France, Meier was eager to begin the hunt; unfortunately, his area was also the farthest from Le Havre.