Sheppard and the French Rescue Read online

  Part of Hamilton’s decision was undoubtedly the intelligence gained from Argonne’s POWs on the specifics of the German submarine deployment, and the ineptitude of the Luftwaffe searches. Two more German plane symbols graced Argonne’s directors as they had flown within range of her 5»/54 caliber guns on the first day of the tow. After a fresh water wash down of her aircraft, Raritan had then kept a combat air patrol of F4F Wildcat fighters up—destroying or chasing off more of the FW200 Condors using Argonne’s fighter direction capabilities and Jonathan Becker’s skills to make intercepts well away from the Task Force.

  “Captain,” Art began, “Belleau Wood has disconnected her anchor chain from the tow wire and we are recovering the wire onboard now.”

  “Good, where are you putting it, Commander?”

  “The easiest place is to fake it down just aft of the Number III turret. It will be clear of the hanger hatch and allow Lieutenant Commander Burdick’s men enough room to handle and launch all the Kingfishers we have onboard. I checked with him before committing us to that course of action.”

  Another smile crossed Sheppard’s face. Art was doing everything he himself would have done to arrive at the best possible decision. “How long do you anticipate you will need until we are ready to proceed on our own?”

  “Captain, it shouldn’t take more than ten or fifteen minutes at the rate Chief Boatswain’s Mate Donnelly’s men are bringing it onboard using the two winches aft.”

  “Very well, Commander, I relieve you as Command Duty Officer. You may return to your duties as Navigator—and well done on the tow!” Smiling at Art’s identification of the men who actually accomplished the ordered tasks, Sheppard punched up the signal bridge on the 21MC, “Signal Bridge, Captain, make to Commander Destroyer Squadron Thirty, ‘Detach two destroyers to escort Argonne to port.’”

  “Signal Bridge aye, Make to COMDESRON 30, ‘Detach two destroyers to escort Argonne to port.’”

  Sheppard smiled at the unmistakable voice of Chief Signalman Evan Bryce.

  He was a tall man. Really too tall for what he was about. Already the scars on his forehead served as a reminder of previous encounters with the various pipes, valves, and hatchways of each of his U-boats when new to an assignment. Now as Kapitänleutnant in command of the Type IXB submarine U-182, there were fresh red indentations on his head above the hair line of his thick wavy black strands. But he had learned. He had also learned his profession as a killer of ships well under the tutelage of Günther Prien. Fate had detached him from the U-47 prior to her loss. Now he wore the white cap cover of a Commanding Officer in the Kriegsmarine, backwards as he prepared to look through the search periscope again, the sweep of the sky and horizon completed.

  “Kruger, mark this bearing.”

  “Two-six-seven, Herr Kaleu”

  He lowered the scope, dropped into the control room, and went to the chart converting the relative bearing called out by Kruger into a true bearing in his head from the U-boat’s course of two-seven-zero. The leading capital ship had hardly moved, in fact at 3 knots his boat was moving ahead of this large group of ships. Perhaps even at the slow speed dictated by the need to conserve his battery, while remaining submerged in daylight, he might yet reach a firing position. It was the two capital ships that had his attention in the faint haze, however. Beside their high command towers, he could see a dozen masts, mostly moving around the second of the two major warships. Others were spread ahead and astern of those larger warships—probably escorts.

  Suddenly his sound man interrupted. “Herr Kaleu. Heavy screws rapidly increasing in revolutions.”

  Kapitänleutnant Alfred Kuhn leaped into the conning tower, grabbed the periscope hoist control lever and started the search periscope up until it was a bare 10 centimeters above the waves, riding it up the last meter with his eye glued to the rubber eye-piece, motioning to Kruger to halt the rise at the proper height above the light chop and gentle swells.

  “Mark this bearing!”

  “Two-seven-one!”

  The right hand capital ship was moving swiftly away toward the entrance to the Delaware River. Why wasn’t the other one following? Only a few of the other mastheads had moved away with the first rapidly opening to the west.

  Stepping back from the periscope, Kruger immediately lowered it below the waves—preventing all but a fleeting radar return even if the American’s had equipment good enough to detect the miniscule target of the scope.

  Why wasn’t that other capital ship moving?

  Captain Harvey Jensen’s brown eyes stared out at the fleet tugs and destroyers surrounding Belleau Wood. He wasn’t sure if his squint was the result of the bright evening sun or weeks with little sleep and the resulting puffy eye lids. There was little good news that he had received—even Admiral Calhoun’s abbreviated left arm had required additional shortening as septicemia had taken hold. At least now that seemed to have abated, but Harvey guessed the Admiral’s stump was too short now for a prosthetic. He had personally reminded his friend several times that losing an arm had not slowed Admiral Horatio Nelson. Harvey hoped it would help as he watched his friend slip deeper into a depression. He guessed the Admiral regretted more than anyone not taking action earlier to correct Belleau Wood’s fundamental problem.

  Captain Kevin Bailey had been relieved for cause—cowardice and incompetency. He was now confined to his quarters under Marine guard until Vice Admiral Ingraham (Commander Scouting Forces Atlantic) determined whether to court-martial him or not.

  Harvey had done everything he could to rally the remainder of his crew to the task of trying to restore propulsion to Belleau Wood. It had proven impossible to overcome the training deficiencies, let alone the devastation of the battle cruiser’s unarmored uptakes and intakes. The hardest blow to overcome was the fact that there was barely one boiler-room’s worth of water-tenders and firemen remaining fit for duty, none senior enough to divine the complex piping cross connections required. If he had been able to restore one boiler, he might have been able to steam on two engines across the ocean adjusting course by the revolutions on one shaft or the other since the rudder machinery room had been burned out and flooded. Belleau Wood was a floating wreck, down by the stern, the only command space left intact was the secondary conning station in the fire-control tower. Thank God, at least the rudders had died amidships.

  Daily on the trip across the Atlantic at the end of Argonne’s tow wire, more of Belleau Wood’s crew had to be buried at sea. At first hundreds, then only a few, as infection claimed more despite the best efforts of the overworked doctors, dentists, and hospital corpsmen. At least those medical personnel had suffered comparatively few casualties in the after-battle dressing station, despite the devastation wrought by the Germans and Bailey’s incompetence. The worst part for Harvey was that he now knew the burial-at-sea service by heart. The suffering of the crew hadn’t been their fault.

  Evelyn McCloud followed the two Steward’s Mates who carried her luggage into the house on the grounds of the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard away from the prying eyes of the press. It had been a whirlwind few weeks with first the cross-country flight to have lunch with the President’s wife (Eleanor she had insisted) after a quick shopping trip to Washington’s premier boutique for an appropriate tea dress and hat. Her lithe frame, creamy complexion, blue eyes, and auburn tresses made her an instantaneous celebrity. The press had been everywhere snapping photographs and asking questions about her husband. At lunch Eleanor had complimented her deft handling of their questions and her obvious love of her husband and family. Another cross-country flight back to San Diego to pack for the transfer to the East Coast was now just a swirling memory.

  Sheppard’s and her belongings were being shipped to Norfolk where Argonne was homeported, but Admiral Ingraham and his staff also arranged to make available a house here at Philadelphia while the battle cruiser would be undergoing repairs from the Battle of Cape Vilan. Sheppard’s letters had emphasized that his men had all survived
the battle, but also warned that his return might not be as pleasant as when Shenandoah had docked in Long Beach and he was transferred to Balboa Naval Hospital. Should the service and the President decide to court-martial her husband, life would immediately become less pleasant for the entire family.

  As she surveyed their new temporary home that the Navy was providing, this was obviously beyond quarters that a mere captain could hope for. There was a silk upholstered settee, an ornate rug, coffee table and two wing backed chairs tastefully done in colors hinting at the Navy’s blue and gold motif. To one side a secretariat and upholstered chair matching the settee, where a standing lamp nicely balanced the end tables and ornate lamps in the room. As the stewards carried her luggage to the second floor, she sat and opened the secretariat. It was very clear that the admirals had arranged flag quarters for Sheppard. Evelyn prayed it was an indication that her husband and her family had a future in the service.

  There were more immediate concerns though as she took out a fountain pen from her purse and began to write on the embossed stationary in the secretariat. The first letter was to Cindy Trotter, wife of Commander Scouting Forces Pacific and a close friend. She began by thanking her and the Admiral for arranging her rail travel and more importantly taking in three of her children while they finished the current school year. She was not worried how Bonney and Heather would behave, but Sean, her youngest, was not that far out of puberty and the Trotters had a similarly aged girl Katherine. Katie as she was called was a tomboy and those two were going to require continuous supervision living in the same house, even if everyone had separate bedrooms.

  Her second letter was to a man she knew well from when he was her husband’s Commanding Officer on the battle cruiser Ticonderoga. Now a Vice Admiral, Jonas and his wife, Becky, had been mentors to them both and suspected that it was he that had arranged the flag quarters in Philadelphia as well as the more appropriate but still large house in Norfolk on the grounds of the Naval Station, away from harassment by the newsmen and photographers. That secluded abode was the destination of all her household goods. Evelyn knew that this gypsy life she now faced would only get worse as her husband jumped from one command to another or this close knit support group that was part of service life would evaporate with his pillorying.

  The train whistle announced the arrival of the private express from Germany. On the platform at Roma Termini to greet the distinguished Admiral Klaus Schröder, decorated hero of the fight at Cape Vilan (the Ritterkreuz now hanging around his neck) against overwhelming odds and victim of unspeakable war crimes on the part of the Americans was Grand’ Ammiragilio Aldo Dragonetti commanding admiral of the Italian Navy. Klaus knew that he was really only the titular head of the Regia Marina; Mussolini had to approve every operation of the fleet. But Dragonetti’s presence confirmed Klaus’s new status as the Führer’s direct naval representative.

  Klaus waited in the private rail car that Großadmiral Raeder had loaned for the occasion; just long enough to make sure the Italian Ammiragilio knew who was waiting on whom. As he stepped off, followed by his loyal Chief of Staff, Fregattenkapitän Fritz Bodermann, he pointedly did not salute his host. He knew that Dragonetti would be upset, but Raeder had made a point of impressing Klaus with who was the very junior partner in this alliance.

  “This point must be made crystal clear to the Italians from your first meeting,” Raeder had emphasized. Well, Klaus might be upset with being sent to this backwater now that the British had been cleared from the Mediterranean with the sole exception of Malta; however, he knew how to obey orders.

  Following forced pleasantries, both men entered the open Mercedes limousine for the ride to Italian naval headquarters (Supermarina). The two men chatted as Aldo pointed out the sights, their trip not being by the quickest route. Passing the Colosseum, there was an unspoken reminder of Rome’s past glories when it had ruled the known world.

  “Kruger, mark this bearing.”

  “Two-six-two!”

  “Down scope!” He would continue with only short intermittent observations suspecting the allied advantage in radar might make him detectable.

  Alfred dropped down into the control room to look at the navigation chart where his quartermaster was already laying down the true bearing. Marked with a heavy line, the western boundary of his patrol area had to factor into his plans. Vizeadmiral Dönitz did not prohibit one boat entering an area assigned to another boat of Operation Beckenschlag (Cymbal Crash), but his patrol report had best contain an excellent justification when he returned to Saint-Nazaire. This capital ship was clearly that justification. He knew that Korvettenkapitän Conrad Kluge in U-197 had the area to the west and suspected that he would be as close to the mouth of the Delaware Bay as he could safely get or have moved away to throw off the increasing American air patrols and occasional patrol craft or ancient destroyer.

  From his last observation, that remaining capital ship was moving at under his 3 knots, he could make a submerged approach but he had to get closer. He was running out of time as the sun dipped ever closer to the western horizon.

  “Come left, steer course two-two-five.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Kaleu, steer two-two-five,” came the quick reply from his helmsman.

  “Steuermann, what time does the moon rise?” Alfred asked as he turned back to his quartermaster.

  Schmitt busied himself with his nautical almanac making notes and calculations on a scrap of paper. “Moonrise is zero-seven-zero-eight Greenwich, Herr Kaleu.” “Ah … , zero-two-zero-eight local,” he added not quite sure of the calculation.

  That matched what Alfred remembered of when he had surfaced last night for the battery charge and hunt. The moon would still be a last quarter waning crescent, just enough for him to make out his target on the surface. Now the issue was how to make an approach on the surface against all those ships milling about the capital ship.

  It was Squadron Leader Rupert Wythe-Jones’s turn. There had been so many deaths before the King was able to honor members of the armed forces that the traditional New Year’s and birthday ceremonies, on December 14th, had been expanded. The Central Chancery of the Orders of Knighthood had organized today’s ceremony specifically for members of the Royal Air Force and Royal Navy. There were the usual fighter pilots and bomber pilots, who had the shortest life expectancy, one senior Air Marshall, and two Royal Navy officers, but Rupert was the only member of Coastal Command. That distinction was lost on him as he desperately hoped he would not forget the detailed instructions he had been given.

  It helped that he did not have to go first. That honor was given Admiral Bruce Hardy, being elevated to the order of the Bath. Both he and Rupert were being honored for their actions in the Battle of Cape Vilan. The two men had, at great personal risk, made singular contributions to the battle which saved the British from certain defeat at the hands of the Kriegsmarine.

  “Squadron Leader Rupert Wythe-Jones, your majesty,” the Lord Chamberlain intoned.

  Rupert stepped forward and knelt before the dais. King George stood in the center guarded by five wicked looking members of the Gurkha Regiment in their dress uniforms. Two Gurkha officers had escorted the King into the ornate room in Buckingham Palace. Mustn’t look directly at the King, Rupert tried to remember all the instructions. Keep your head down, don’t react to the sword touching your shoulders. It was so much easier commanding a squadron of Sunderland flying boats and attacking submarines. He would rather face German anti-aircraft fire any day.

  First the touch on the right shoulder. I hope he doesn’t cut my throat, now the touch on the left shoulder. Is the King going to comment on my hair? I know it is too long, but I would never hear the end of it from Lois if I cut it to regulation length. Now what, Rupert had forgotten!

  “A-Ah-Arise, Sir Rupert,” George the sixth stammered to help out his most recent knight.

  My God, the King is just another human being with his faults like the rest of us.

  The King took the red a
nd white ribbon with the gold Cross Patonce and pinned it on the left breast of Rupert’s dress uniform. “Tha-Thank you, for main-maintaining contact.” He then took the Cross Flory and white ribbon with alternating broad purple diagonal stripes of the Distinguished Flying Cross and pinned that to the left of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. “May-May you sink many-many more U-boats.”

  Now what? Oh, yes, I need to back away. Don’t turn around, mustn’t show my back to the King. God I hope I don’t stumble on something. How far back do I go?

  The ceremony now complete, Rupert had been last, the King turned his back and left escorted by his two Gurkha officers. With that the assembled group of recipients and invited guests were free to mingle.

  Admiral of the Fleet Pound came over and greeted the squadron leader, “Sir Rupert, let me be the first to congratulate you. You have no idea how critical your reports were to our victory. Let me introduce you to Admiral Hardy”

  “Thank you, First Sea Lord, and congratulations, Admiral Hardy, on your honor.” Admiral Hardy smiled and gave a quick nod of acknowledgement. “Admiral of the Fleet, I understand you had a hand in my honor today—thank you. May I introduce you both to my wife Lois?” Rupert self-consciously said turning to the woman tastefully dressed with long blond hair, creamy skin, and warm brown eyes.