Operation Armageddon Read online

  Operation Armageddon

  Richard Freeman

  © Richard Freeman 2017

  Richard Freeman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2017.

  This edition published by Endeavour Media Ltd in 2019.

  Table of Contents

  Principal characters

  Fact and fiction

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  Epilogue

  Principal characters

  ADMIRALTY HOUSE, LONDON

  First Sea Lord – unnamed

  Lieutenant Commander James Bosanquet – Intelligence officer

  Admiral Julian Forster – Director of naval intelligence (DNI)

  CAP D’ENFER U-BOAT BASE

  Kapitän zur See Carl Helberg – Naval base commander

  Major Fritz Wohlman – Naval base garrison commander

  Hans Beck – Gestapo chief on the base

  ENFER SUR MER TOWN

  Marie Le Faucheur – Resistance leader under the name Simone

  Madame Rougier – Marie’s landlady

  Lucien Beaumier – Resistance radio operator

  Madame Charrier – Brothel keeper

  KRIEGSMARINE HQ, WILHELMSHAVEN

  Vizeadmiral Heinz Siegler

  CARGO U-BOAT

  Klaus Vogel – Commander

  Oberleutnant zur See Oswald Ingmann – First watch officer

  Rupert König – Bosun

  Hauptsturmführer Karl Zweig – SS officer

  HMS IDEAL

  Commander William Travers – Captain

  Lieutenant Charles Stokes – First lieutenant

  Sub Lieutenant Ralph Quigley

  Fact and fiction

  Cap d’Enfer and Enfer sur Mer are fictitious locations.

  RAF Tempsford was a real airbase, used during World War Two for special operations. The Lysanders of 161 Squadron were stationed there.

  The destruction of the undefended Belgium town of Leuven in August 1914 was the first great atrocity in Western Europe during the Twentieth Century.

  Operation Torch was the code name for the Allied invasion of North Africa in November 1942.

  Admiral Sir William Reginald ‘Blinker’ Hall (1870-1943) was in charge of naval intelligence at the Admiralty during the First World War with the rank of captain. He is widely regarded as one of the greatest exponents of the art of deception in intelligence work.

  Apart from Blinker Hall and the obvious historical characters mentioned in the story, all the other characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to people alive or dead is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Desperate situations, they say, require desperate measures. Was any situation ever desperate enough to justify Operation Armageddon?

  1

  The slow-moving line of staff cars snaked through the wooded Wolf’s Lair deep in the furthest reaches of Eastern Prussia. One by one the cars pulled up outside Hitler’s conference room bunker. From the cars the Reich’s most senior commanders walked the short distance to the entrance and disappeared inside the bunker.

  The men who gathered around Hitler’s conference table that November day had attended hundreds of such briefings. But this was the first conference to be triggered by two imminent defeats of the Reich’s forces. Hitler’s Sixth Army was bogged down at Stalingrad and in danger of being surrounded. In North Africa, Field Marshal Rommel’s forces were recoiling under the onslaught of the newly invigorated Allies. And now, the enemy was massing its ships in the approaches to the Mediterranean. An invasion of North Africa was only weeks away.

  Hitler opened the conference in an angry mood: ‘All my generals do is bring me bad news.’

  His commanders stood in apprehensive silence around the table, waiting to learn the purpose of the meeting. The shaded lamps cast heavy shadows on the bare walls, giving the room a sinister air. Above the men were the menacingly low exposed ceiling beams of the crudely constructed bunker. The humid air was heavy with the smell of damp uniforms and polished leather boots. On the table lay a map of the Eastern Front with rings and arrows thickly splattered around the Stalingrad area. Their sprawling mess represented the Führer’s many demands for the instant annihilation of the opposing Russian forces. He and his warriors had spread death and desolation over half of Europe. Now they were on the defensive. Stopping the Allies was a higher priority than seeking fresh victims for their reign of terror.

  The problem of Stalingrad took up most of the meeting. There was little genuine discussion. Hitler maintained that General Friedrich Paulus only needed to intensify his efforts in order to break through and roll on eastwards to victory. The High Command around the table were happy to settle for Hitler’s order to redouble efforts to airlift supplies to the stricken army. If any one of them had thought that Paulus would soon be irretrievably surrounded, they dared not say so.

  But Hitler’s mind was running ahead of his generals: he could see another imminent defeat. Indeed, he was so far ahead that he had already decided on how to thwart that disaster.

  Towards the end of the meeting, after a long outburst about this stream of setbacks, Hitler returned to the looming danger in the Mediterranean.

  ‘Enemy attacks on our supply ships to North Africa are an outrage,’ he thundered as he slammed the table with his fists. ‘And what are my commanders doing about it? Nothing.’

  One or two of Hitler’s officers tried to interject. He cut them short by his staggering announcement: ‘If you won’t take the offensive, I will,’ he said. ‘I’ve relied too much on Mussolini’s pathetic navy. They have let the British wreak havoc on our supplies to North Africa. I’ve sent Rommel back, but that’s not enough. We must strike a decisive blow against the allied ships in the Mediterranean.’

  ‘How?’ said Admiral Raeder, in his habitual cold and distant manner. ‘Our U-boats are working to their utmost.’

  ‘Utmost!’ exploded Hitler. ‘Are you saying that your tactics will stop the invasion of North Africa?’

  Raeder tried to reply. Hitler interrupted him: ‘Enough excuses! I will stop the invasion.’

  And without further explanation of his announcement, Hitler dismissed his commanders with a curt: ‘And next time, no excuses!’

  Filled with foreboding, the commanders left the hated bunker. They were glad to escape to the fresh damp air of its wooded surroundings. As to what Hitler’s latest master plan was, they had no idea. Nor were they keen to be told.

  When the last officer had left the room Hitler pressed a bell-button on the table. A secretary came in, pencil and pad in hand.

  ‘Take a minute. Subject: “Operation Armageddon”.’

  Not long afterwards an officer with a lurching limp and a face seared with burns’ scars, returne
d with the typed minute. He was one of several maimed young men recently assigned to the bunker in response to the deterioration in the east. In 1941, as an untested soldier, he had felt more thrill than fear when he had parachuted into Crete. Now, experienced as he was on the battlefield, he trembled at the thought of approaching the Führer.

  Hitler barely glanced at the document before signing it. As he passed it back to the officer, he said: ‘The Allies will curse the day they decided to challenge my forces in the Mediterranean.’

  Yet, had he consulted his naval staff, they might have queried his choosing Cap d’Enfer, the most dysfunctional of all his U-boat bases, for his master stroke.

  2

  Kapitän zur See Carl Helberg had been the naval commander at the Cap d’Enfer U-boat base for the last six months. His triumphal period as a U-boat commander had been brought to an end when neither his body nor his mind could take the strain of one more patrol. Now, never a day went by without his recalling those heroic times. His boats had sunk over 200,000 tons of enemy shipping in thirteen patrols – a performance that few commanders could hope to match. Each departure had been a time of excited anticipation. Most returns had been ones of triumphant rejoicing as his boat was met by cheering crowds, bouquets of flowers and patriotic military airs from the base band.

  What electrifying days those had been! And now? His trim figure had thickened. His face was drawn. His hair was greying. After two years of gruelling service Helberg’s appearance had turned from that of a virile warrior to that of a fading youth. All this was accentuated by the nervous twitches that wracked his body.

  Meanwhile, Helberg faced the daily struggle of life at Cap d’Enfer. The base was so new and so ill-resourced compared to those further north up the French Atlantic coast. Everyone had heard of La Rochelle, Brest and St Nazaire. But who had ever heard of Cap d’Enfer? Cape Hell indeed.

  He opened the office window to relieve the stuffy, smoked-filled air. A blast of icy, salt-laden rain reminded him of the reality of the Atlantic coast in winter. From the distant pens, Helberg heard metal being hammered and the hiss of steam-powered cranes. Around the base, men and women moved, head down with hurried steps, dodging the numerous puddles in the barely made-up roads. He slammed the window shut and irritably brushed down his spattered uniform.

  ****

  Helberg was still feeling damp when an orderly came in with a signal. With one foot missing, the tallish handsome young man had lost the proud bearing of his fighting days. He wore his Iron Cross ribbon with pride yet his drooped appearance betrayed his humiliation at being reduced to such a humble role.

  ‘It’s marked “Urgent”, sir,’ he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Helberg took the signal and saw that it came from Hitler’s own headquarters. He trembled at the thought that the Führer might have cause to interest himself in the base that others had forgotten. (No one from the Kriegsmarine headquarters had visited the base since it was first operational.) As he summoned up the courage to learn what he was sure was bad news, Helberg wandered around his desk, tapping its cheap wood with his personal silver paper knife – a gift from the officers and men of his last patrol. He held the knife with the thumb and forefinger of each hand and once more read the inscription: “To our glorious commander”. Now running out of ways to prolong his prevarication, Helberg tentatively pierced one end of the seal before giving it an irate slash, which tore the envelope apart. Out fell a single sheet of paper bearing the already decoded signal. Helberg skipped the introductory words as his eyes were drawn to those at the heart of the message. He read them, and slumped into his chair with a despairing cry.

  ‘My God! What sort of an order is this? Don’t they know we’re already behind with our patrols? What more do they want from us?’

  Helberg flung the signal down on his desk, from where it fluttered to the floor and soaked up the spatters of rain that had fallen from his uniform. He poured a small glass of Schnapps and downed it with an angry backwards toss of the head. Then he poured a second glass to sip slowly as he pondered the ominous order. He had no choice. He had to obey. What a nightmare for him. And for Wohlman.

  3

  Major Fritz Wohlman was the garrison commander at Cap d’Enfer. He detested the base just as much as Helberg did yet he was in no rush to leave. His service on the Eastern Front had left him with one leg that was stiff as a ramrod and one eye now covered by a patch. He had had enough of war. The backwater of Cap d’Enfer suited him. He did his job, had regular hours, and no one from HQ came to hassle him.

  His day as garrison commander had begun well. Three French workers had been arrested for pilfering scrap metal and two had been detained at the gates for irregularities with their documents. He had already notched up these petty triumphs in red and green wax crayon on his wallcharts. The more colour there was, the safer the base, he thought. Yet, despite this façade of activity, his desk displayed no more than the paraphernalia of his telephones, an ink stand and a blotter. The only evidence of the work of his staff was the clattering teleprinter in the adjoining office and the occasional ringing of a phone.

  Wohlman’s calm was broken by a pounding knock on the door. Before he could shout ‘Enter!’ the door smashed open and Helberg, waving the signal transcript, burst in. With no attempt at a ‘Heil Hitler’ he said: ‘Wohlman, you’re not going to like this!’

  Wohlman reeled back under the wave of Helberg’s Schnapps’ fumes before reluctantly challenging his visitor’s assertion. ‘What now?’ he said.

  ‘Orders from Hitler. Listen: “Operation Armageddon. You are to prepare to receive a cargo U-boat type IXD and 250 tons of high explosive, delivered in twenty-five lorries. The explosives are to be packed in the U-boat and the boat prepared with the utmost urgency for an early departure. Further technical details will follow from the office of the commander-in-chief. This work should take priority over all other operations at Cap d’Enfer. The utmost secrecy is to be maintained and all speculation as to the nature and location of the target will be treated as a matter of treason.”’

  Wohlman reached for the packet of Pervitin in his desk draw, poured a glass of water, and swallowed two tablets. This amphetamine, once intended by the High Command to keep men alert on the battlefield, had become his daily prop against the vicissitudes of war.

  ‘Well?’ said Helberg.

  ‘Have you come to gloat?’ said Wohlman. He knew how much Helberg despised the level of security on the base. The least hint of dissatisfaction from the naval commander was enough to put Wohlman on the defensive. Today was no different:

  ‘You know I haven’t got the men to guard a top secret U-boat and a mountain of TNT. I’ll need a bloody great lorry park, fencing, guards … the lot.’

  Helberg tried not to show his delight at how easily Wohlman had risen to his bait. He enthusiastically rubbed in the troubles that lay ahead: ‘And just think of the sabotage opportunities! We’ll be a magnet for every Resistance worker for miles.’

  ‘So you are gloating,’ said Wohlman.

  ‘No. Just thankful that at last something might shake up your slack security.’

  ‘Bloody cheek! You don’t look too happy yourself.’

  ‘I’m damned well not. There’s two U-boats sitting in those pens. Target forty days’ turnaround. I doubt we’ll make sixty. And they’ll still be slipshod work. Why the hell did the Führer select this of all bases for his mystery U-boat?’

  ‘You’re not doubting the Führer are you?’

  ‘The Führer should stick to running the war. Not individual operations. He hasn’t time for the detail.’

  ‘That’s dangerous talk, Helberg. The Führer always knows best.’

  Helberg did not respond. Experience had taught him that there was never any point in arguing with a fanatical Nazi. He kept to himself his disdain for that bunch of lunatics that had brought the Reich to this point. Their premature war with too few U-boats was the reason that he and his men were still at war in the Atlan
tic after three years of pitiless struggle. And now came this wild scheme with a floating bomb.

  Worse, it was coming to his base. Helberg used to describe Cap d’Enfer as ‘a third-class base’. It had lost its protected fuel stores in an air raid a few months back. Ever since then fuelling had been from vulnerable tankers at sea. There were no bunkers for the U-boats and no air-raid shelters for the workers. The rail-head was fully occupied in bringing in materials for the construction of the bunkers. All other supplies had to come by road. Meanwhile, he lost more and more skilled workers to the Wehrmacht – another sign that Berlin did not appreciate how the Reich’s fate depended on the success of the U-boat campaign. No one who knew these facts would have chosen Cap d’Enfer for Armageddon.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Wohlman, ‘it’s the damned Resistance that worries me most.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that. The lubricating oil store is still smouldering after two days. And hardly a day goes by without cables being cut or the machinery being damaged. What chance have we got of finding a few bad eggs among fifteen-hundred? Where do you start?’

  ‘Who says it’s just a few?’ said Wohlman.

  ‘Most of those Frogs,’ replied Helberg, ‘are too scared of Beck to step one pace out of line.’

  ‘Him? That jumped-up, ill-educated Brownshirt. I doubt he can read or write.’

  ‘Call him all the names you like, Gestapo is still Gestapo. I reckon he’ll have some fun with Armageddon.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Wohlman, ‘but if he gets into one of his “arrest first, ask questions afterwards” fits while this Armageddon thing’s on, we’ll be the ones to suffer. You’ll lose skilled workers and I’ll lose security staff. He’s a menace.’

  Helberg was surprised to hear the zealous Wohlman criticise the Gestapo.