To all seafarers, including members of the Royal Navy,
Merchant
Marine and civilians transiting upon the water!
Though the Great War ended some time ago, the threat from the sea to our nation and to all
civilized countries remains a serious problem. In recent months, rogue elements
have attacked merchant
vessels throughout the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea, plundering cargoes, kidnapping and murdering. Under the leadership of a shadowy individual
known only as the GREY FOX,
these pirates have utilized
surface craft and submarines to prey on shipping vital to maintaining the flow
of food, fuel and other goods between Great Britain, Europe and the Americas.
Let
it be hereby known that His
Majesty’s Government will not tolerate these acts of high seas piracy and that the full force of the
navies of the world will be brought to bear upon these brigands. Anyone caught engaging in piracy or acts related to
piracy will be liable to face execution for their crimes. In the meantime, the Admiralty advises great vigilance by those traveling by sea.
God Save The King!
In the name of Admiral Sir Davis Humes,
First Lord of the Admiralty
Whitehall, London
June 6, 1920
July 13, 1920
Somewhere northwest of the Canary
Islands
The
lookout in the crow’s nest was the first to see the evil apparitions. He’d been
standing his watch for three hours now, high above the gentle seas of the
mid-Atlantic off the coast of Africa and had seen little more than dolphins and
sharks out there. But then he caught sight of something else, something far
more sinister.
It
was off to the port side – the left – of the ship’s bow, maybe two nautical
miles away. The sea began to hiss and bubble there, the surface churning and
turning white. Then a long, dark shape materialized from the depths, settling
low on the ocean top. It just sat there as the bubbles dissipated, staring at
the cargo ship from unseen eyes. The shape was topped with a strange-looking
dorsal fin, covered in a checkerboard pattern.
“Blimey,”
the sailor blurted out on seeing this before quickly grabbing the telephone to
warn the bridge officers. Cranking the wheel of the phone furiously, he waited
for someone to answer as he continued to watch the menacing form that lay
silently in wait.
“Bridge,”
a curt voice answered. It had to be Thompson, the Second Mate.
“This
is McVeigh in the crow’s nest, sir. We’ve got company off our port bow. It
looks to be a – wait. There’s another one, off the starboard bow. They’ve got
us!”
On
the bridge, Thompson dropped the phone and reached for his binoculars to scan
the horizon ahead of the ship. Sure enough, he could see two dark shapes lying
low in the water just waiting to pounce.
“Helmsman – evasive action! Hard a-port.
Sparks, get an SOS off to the Admiralty.”
The Mate leapt to the engine telegraph and ordered full steam ahead
while simultaneously picking up another phone and ringing the Captain in his
quarters one deck below.
“Skipper,”
the Mate said breathlessly, “You were right. It looks like they’ve finally
arrived.”
A
thousand miles away, the wireless operator pressed the earphones tighter
against his head, trying to hear the message. There was a lot of static in the
air today, but the faint tap-tap-taps of someone sending a message in Morse
code were faintly audible. Finally the atmospheric conditions improved just
enough for him to be able to receive some of the message, which he quickly
wrote down on a cipher pad.
“SOS…SOS…SOS…MERCHANT
SHIP MAGELLAN UNDER ATTACK FROM UNKNOWN…” Static filled the airs again for a
moment. “…POSITION 33 12 N 22 06 W…REQUEST IMMEDIATE ASSIST-” and the static
returned for good, cutting off the rest of the message.
The
wireless operator turned to his superior, a pale-faced Lieutenant from the
Naval Reserve who’d lost an arm in the War. “Sir, message from a merchant
vessel claiming they’re under attack. I can’t quite make out all the details,
but it’s in the general area we’d been warned about.”
The
Lieutenant read the note and silently nodded at the wireless operator. He
picked up a red phone mounted on the stone wall of the room and pressed one of
four buttons on the base. A few seconds later a woman’s voice calmly answered,
“Atlantic Control,” and the Naval officer relayed the details on the cipher
pad. Hanging up the phone, the Lieutenant turned to the wireless operator.
“Well,
not much we can do for those poor blokes, I think. Don’t think there’s another
vessel anywhere in the area. We’ll just wait and see what the Old Man does
now,” he said before a coughing fit made him grab a handkerchief from his
pocket. Regaining his composure, the officer noticed there was blood on his
handkerchief. He looked at the wireless operator with pleading eyes.
“Please…please don’t tell anyone. Really, it’s just a cold. Please…?”
The
officer turned away, embarrassed, stepping into his little office as another
coughing fit ensued. The wireless operator watched until the Lieutenant closed
his door, before turning back to his equipment. Between furtive glances towards
the sound of the coughing, the operator quickly turned a dial to change the
wireless frequency. One last look towards the closed door and then he began
tapping out a short message on the keypad.
“Why don’t they move? What do you think they’re doing, sir?” the Second Mate asked.
Captain Nathan Hall continued to focus on the dark shapes in the water through his binoculars before answering. “I have no idea,” he finally answered, “But they have us trapped.”
For the last half hour, the SS Magellan had attempted to outrun the two shapes, without success. A third partner had recently shown up, off the freighter’s stern, and effectively boxed the merchant sailors in. Wherever the Magellan tried to go, the dark shapes silently and swiftly followed. The cargo ship was now sitting motionless on the seas, rolling gently in the swells, waiting for some sign from the hunters as to what would happen next.
“Have we heard anything from the Admiralty?” the Captain asked tearing himself away from the visages on the sea. He said the word ‘admiralty’ in a manner that always caused the Mate to cringe, for Captain Hall was American, an oddity on a British vessel.
“Nothing, sir,” the Mate answered. “There’s only static. I fear we’re too far away. Sparks keeps sending out messages, but…”
A telephone on the bridge began to ring and the Mate reached for it, only to have the Captain get there first.
“Bridge, this is the Captain speaking. What have you got?”
“Off the starboard bow, sir,” the lookout in the crow’s nest said over the line, “There’s some movement towards us.”
Sure enough, the dark shape that had lain in wait began to move slowly closer to the Magellan and the officers on the bridge swung their binoculars towards it. Through the magnifying glasses, the dark shape revealed its true form: a German-built Unterseeboot; a U-boat. Her conning tower was what attracted the most attention, for it was adorned with menacing white skull and crossbones. As the U-boat approached, crewmembers could be seen climbing onto her deck, dressed completely in black clothing from head to toe. They took up positions around the submarine’s main gun, an 88-millimeter cannon that was quickly being swung in the direction of the Magellan.
“Captain, it’s the - ”
“I know who they are,” he replied, cutting off the Mate. Grabbing a sheet of paper, the Captain wrote a short message that he handed to the junior officer. “Get this to Sparks and have him send it immediately. Somebody out there has to be listening. Go!”
As the Mate raced from the bridge to the wireless room, the Helmsman looked at the Skipper before speaking in a voice that sounded both weak and afraid.
“Captain? Are they the confederates?”
Captain Nathan Hall raised his eyeglasses to stare at the shape approaching him. He’d known the risks taking the Magellan on this route, without an armed escort. But Britain’s need for fuel and food was too great to ignore. Hall let the binoculars drop and stared through the windows of the wheelhouse.
In a quiet voice, the Skipper answered the Helmsman. “Yes. It would appear that the Grey Fox has won again.”
The
Isle of Jersey, in the English Channel
A knock on the door caused the man to
look up from a large chart of the Atlantic Ocean that was spread across his
desk. Glancing at the ornate clock on the fireplace mantle, the man rolled the
chart up and cleared away several folders that were marked “Top Secret”,
carefully placing them in a drawer that he then locked.
Slipping
on his jacket, he carefully buttoned it and stepped in front of a mirror to
check that everything was in order. The face reflected back was that of an
older man, in his mid-60’s, with grey hair and dark, serious eyes. The tunic he
wore was naval blue and there were five golden rings around each cuff and a
grouping of coloured ribbons on his left chest. The man noted some lint on his
lapel and brushed it off. One didn’t want to look out of uniform when meeting
with the head of government.
“Enter,”
he bellowed, after which an aide-de-camp opened the oak door. Coming to
attention, the aide announced, “The Prime Minister is here,” at which a bulldog
of a man strode into the room with his hand extended in greeting.
“Admiral
Humes, so good to see you again,” the Prime Minister said as he doffed his
black bowler hat. “I’m glad you could accommodate me on such short notice, but
things have been a trifle hectic since I took over. I do wish we’d been able to
meet in London, but I fear that won’t happen for a while more.”
As
the two men shook hands, the Admiral led the Prime Minister to a sitting area
in front of a large fireplace and gestured towards a wingback chair. “I trust
you had a pleasant flight to the island?”
“Flying! I’m still not quite used to it,” the
Prime Minister said as he sat down. “It just doesn’t seem normal. I’d have much
preferred to come by ship, but my schedule is tight. Tomorrow afternoon I’m to
meet with my French counterpart at Mont Saint-Michel before returning to the
Isle of Wight to brief the Privy Council.”
“And
what of the king? Any more news?”
“None
that is good, I’m afraid. The finest physicians in the nation are attending to
him but, at this stage all we can do is wait. Anyway, how are you settling in?”
Admiral
Sir Davis Humes considered this for a moment. As First Lord of the British
Admiralty, the man in charge of the Royal Navy, Humes had been ‘settled in’ to
his job for a couple of years. But this, of course, was not what the Prime
Minister was referring to. Instead, the question was really about how the Royal
Navy was settling in to its new headquarters here on the Isle of Jersey, just
off the coast of France. Part of the Channel Islands owned by Britain, Jersey
had been chosen as the new home port just last year, after Portsmouth became
unusable.
“Well,
Mr. Prime Minister, things are fine. The remaining parts of the Fleet have been
able to effect repairs here and we are organizing our stores of supplies. We
are having some problems with accommodations for the men on shore, but things
are improving slowly. And, as you can see here, we’ve managed to get our
command structures back in order here in the castle.”
Mont
Orgueil Castle was built on a promontory overlooking the sea, with steep cliffs
providing protection from attack. Originally built some 700 years ago, it was
now taken over completely by the Admiralty and thronged with officers, clerks
and civilian workers helping to manage the affairs of the Royal Navy. From
Admiral Humes’ office windows, he could stare down on the harbour of Gorey,
where a number of warships rode at anchor in the afternoon sun.
“Hmm,
well good,” muttered the Prime Minister. “Now, about this briefing. When can we
get started and what can you tell me about our supply lines? What is going on
out there, because no one in the Home Office seems to know and things are
getting quite desperate, as you probably know.”
Humes
realized that the Prime Minister was even more in the dark about the situation
than had been expected. This might make things a little tense. The Admiral
stood up and straightened his uniform. “Prime Minister, if you’ll just follow
me, I think everything will be clear.”
Admiral
Humes led his guest through a side door that opened into a narrow hallway. It
had probably once been used by servants to enter and exit discreetly, but was
now the fastest way from the Admiral’s office to the Command Centre. As the two
men made their way down a set of stairs, Humes began to brief him.
“Since
you were appointed to office three months ago, Mr. Prime Minister, the
situation on the high seas has become more perilous. Our merchant ships
continue to struggle to maintain just the barest minimums of foodstuffs, fuel,
raw materials and everything else out nation needs at this moment. Both the
Merchant Marine and the Royal Navy are undermanned and under-equipped. I believe that the Home Office may
be…hiding some of the details from you and your staff, sir.”
The
bulldog stopped and grabbed at the Admiral’s sleeve with its gold piping.
“What
on earth are talking about?” the Prime Minister asked coldly. “What do you mean
‘hiding some of the details’?”
Humes
stared into the other man’s dark eyes. “Mr. Prime Minister, if we do not do
something drastic – and soon – Britain will starve this winter. Things are
worse now than during The War.”
The
leader of the British government stood there dumbfounded by what the Admiral
had said. Humes continued walking, the Prime Minister slowly following, until
they came to a heavy steel door. Pressing a buzzer, a small window was slid
back to reveal a pair of serious eyes.
“Admiral
Humes with a guest.”
“Guest’s
name, sir,” the eyes queried.
The
Prime Minister stepped towards the window and said in a loud voice, “My name is
Winston Churchill”
“Say
again, sir,” the eyes asked.
“He’s
the new prime minister, Sergeant-Major. Please open the door.”
The
eyes looked Churchill over and then the window was slid shut and a heavy lock
could be heard turning. The door opened to reveal a Royal Marine in battle
dress and sidearm who saluted Humes and nodded at Churchill. “My apologies,
sir. Just doing my duty.”
The
Command Centre was a former storage room, a large space now crammed with desks
and dozens of Navy personnel. Several large maps of oceans and continents were
on the walls and a large chart table of the Atlantic took up the middle of the
room.
As
the two men entered the room, the Marine bellowed, “Admiral’s on the deck,” and
people began coming to attention. “Carry on, as you were,” Humes said while
striding to the chart table. A Sub-Lieutenant stood beside the table scanning a
series of typed messages as the Admiral and Prime Minister arrived.
“This
is our Atlantic Operations Centre,” Humes began. “We have two other centres,
one for the Mediterranean and the Indian Ocean and another for the Far East,
but this is the where most of the action occurs. We keep track of all merchant
convoys and other shipping as well as the locations of our fleet vessels, and those
of other….navies.”
Admiral
Humes frowned while looking at the chart table. There were small wooden models
of ships placed here and there on the map in a variety of colours: white,
black, blue, yellow and red. It was a red symbol that had caught his attention.
He turned to the Sub-Lieutenant.
“What’s
going on there?”
“I
was just about to notify you, sir. We received an unconfirmed report of a
merchant vessel under attack about thirty minutes ago. I just got a message
from the commander of Convoy QX247 identifying her as the SS Magellan, a straggler that had been trying to
catch up to the rest of the convoy.”
“Excuse
me,” Winston Churchill butted in, “But did you say ‘attack’? A merchant ship
under attack? One of ours?”
“One
moment, Mr. Prime Minister,” Humes replied curtly. “Lieutenant, what do we have
out there?”
“Nothing
that can make it in time. Commander Bernard has dispatched one of his
destroyers from the convoy, HMS Amazon, but it will take her at least twenty hours to reach the
last reported position we have of the Magellan.”
A
woman in the uniform of a Petty Officer with the WRENS – the Women’s Royal
Naval Service – approached the chart table and handed a message to the
Sub-Lieutenant, who quickly checked its contents before making a note on the
map in black grease pencil, beside the position of the Magellan.
“They
sent another message, sir, stating that three U-boats have converged on their
location and they expect to be boarded at any time. The Magellan confirms them as part of the Grey Fox’s
pirate fleet.”
Churchill
could barely contain himself any longer and stepped close to Davis Humes.
Though the Prime Minister was a good foot shorter than the naval officer, it
was clear he intended to re-assert his authority.
“Look,
Admiral, what in the blazes is going on here? What’s all this talk of ‘attacks’
and ‘U-boats, ‘pirates’? Is this some sort of naval exercise or training
mission? Because if it is, you’re wasting my valuable time here. My God, man,
you’re all acting as though we’re still at war!”
Humes
stared down at Churchill, whose face was flushed with anger. He knew this was
coming, so decided he may as well get it over with now.
“Mr.
Prime Minister, we are still at war.” Turning to the Sub-Lieutenant, Humes told the man, “Keep me
posted on any developments and tell Bernard to continue on his planned course.
We’ll be in the conference."
Two small inflatable rubber boats filled
with black-clad figures began to row away from the U-boats, towards the SS
Magellan. From his position
on the outdoor bridge wing, Captain Nathan Hall could see that the men in the
boats were heavily armed. Standing beside the Skipper was his First Mate, a
large Scottish man named Kieran Foster.
“Do
ye think we kin fight ‘em off, Cap’n?” Foster asked while stroking his red
beard.
“I
don’t know, I just don’t know. What’s our armament?”
“We’ve
a couple of Webley revolvers an’ a couple Lee Enfields, plus the flare pistols.
S’pose we could get Cookie to give us his knives, but that’s about it.”
The
Captain thought about how ineffective these few weapons would be in an all-out
battle against the intruders, but he wasn’t about to give up without a fight.
Though he was American, Captain Nathan Hall had been serving aboard British
ships – both merchant ships and naval vessels – for almost fifteen years now.
He’d seen a lot during the war, when he’d commanded an auxiliary cruiser in the
English Channel, but never anything like this. As he continued to ponder his
options, the Mate piped up in his Scottish burr, “Skipper, the U-boat’s
signaling us.”
A
light began flashing from the conning tower of the U-boat with the skull and
crossbones painted on it. It was in Morse code and both Hall and Foster used
their binoculars to decipher it.
“Well,
no surprise there: they intend to board us,” the Captain said to himself. He
was trying to think of anything he could do to stall the pirates, anything that
might buy enough time for help to come, even though he knew the chances were
remote. But there was something else worrying him. He turned to his First Mate.
“Foster,
we need to slow those pirates down. And we need to hide the one thing we can’t
let them discover. I’ll take care of that. Here’s what I want you to do.” At
which the Captain laid out a plan he’d feared would never have to be used.
Just
forward of the bridge, on the main deck, a group of deckhands was clustered
around a heavy rope ladder that was rolled up and ready to be thrown over the
ship’s port side. The two inflatable boats were now bobbing in the water
alongside the Magellan,
and one of the pirates began to gesture for the ladder to be dropped down. As
soon as it was unrolled, a couple of the black clad men leapt onto the bottom
rung and began scaling the side of the cargo vessel.
Jumping
onto the main deck, the two men pointed 9mm Luger Artillery pistols at the Magellan’s deckhands, who immediately raised
their hands above their heads. The long barreled pistols were modified versions
of the Imperial German Navy’s standard issue Luger, containing a wooden
shoulder stock and 32 round magazine that gave them the appearance of a
sub-machine gun.
The
rest of the boarding party soon followed these two until there were sixteen
armed men fanning out on the Magellan’s main deck with their weapons at the ready. All were
dressed in the same manner: dark black oilskins, heavy boots and, most
disturbingly, leather masks which covered their faces. To some of the Magellan’s crew, the pirates looked like grim
reapers or attendants of the devil himself.
Some of the pirates had Lugers, others
had Mauser pistols and a few had hand grenades stuck into their belts. They had
surrounded the deckhands assembled here and stood menacing and silent. One of
the brigands stepped forward; he had an old German Navy officer’s cap, though
the Imperial crest had been removed from it.
“Where
is your Kapitan?” he commanded in a thick German-accent. When there was no
movement, he took out his pistol and fired a shot in the air. “I said, where is
your Kapitan! Schnell!”
The
crowd of deckhands slowly parted as the commanding officer stepped forward.
“Ay’m
the Skipper ye outlaws. What kin I do ye for?”
The
pirate leader stood in front of the giant Scotsman, his pistol aimed squarely
at the Kieran’s stomach.
“You
will order the crew to assemble here immediately and prepare to abandon the
ship. And you will take me to your bridge so I can examine the vessel’s
manifest. Then we will decide what to do with your rust bucket of vessel.
Understood, Herr Kapitan?”
Foster
glared at the pirate’s pale blue eyes, visible through two small slits in his
dark leather mask. The Mate looked ready to throw a punch and everyone stood
watching the showdown tensely, until his shoulders slumped and he turned to
Second Mate Thompson (who was wearing First Mate’s stripes on his shirt).
“Do
as the scum says and make sure no one gets left behind.”
The
pirate commander spoke quickly in German to several of his men and two teams
split off to secure the engine room and search the Magellan while the rest stayed behind to guard
the prisoners. He then prodded Foster with his pistol and nodded towards the
bridge, indicating it was time to head inside the ship.
As
Foster led the German and three of the thugs up to the bridge, he tried
peppering him with questions about what they wanted, but the pirate remained
mute. Climbing the narrow stairs towards D Deck, the Mate stumbled and fell,
yelping in pain. The German hovered over him, the pistol at the ready.
“Give
me a second, ye scoundrel, kinna you see I’ve ‘urt me ankle?”
Just
around the corner, behind the pirates, Captain Hall and four of his best men
were crouched in wait. They had every weapon they could find and were ready to
spring their trap. All they needed was the code word the Captain had given
Foster when he’d devised this plan.
“Kin
one of ye lads give me a ‘and here,” The fake Captain pleaded.
“That’s
it,” whispered Hall to his men, “Let’s make this one quick.”
Standing
up, the Captain checked his Webley revolver and was about to leap around the
corner when a bulkhead door behind the sailors suddenly opened and three black
clad figures appeared with their Lugers locked and loaded. One of them stepped
inside the door.
“I
say, chaps, we can’t be having you carry on like this, now can we? What say you
put down your weapons and give up these infantile heroics, eh?”
Hall
was awestruck. Dropping his pistol, he raised his hands in the air while
gawking at the trap that had been set on them.
“You…you’re
English. What…what are doing with this lot?” stammered Captain Nathan Hall.
The
English pirate approached with what can only have been a smile beneath his
mask.
“Ah,
we welcome all sorts of people, Captain. Besides, I see you’re a Yank. But, I
fear that’s too much information for you.” At which the pirate swung the butt of his Luger across
Hall’s skull, knocking him unconscious.
“Lieutenant,”
which he pronounced ‘left-enant’ in a loud voice, “The way is clear. Take
whomever that officer is and check the manifest.”
“Aye-aye,
Captain B,” the pirate lieutenant answered before heading off to the bridge
with the Scottish Mate. ‘Captain B’ then turned to the remaining pirates.
“Number
Six, take these men to the wardroom with the others. And get someone else up
here to carry the Captain down, too. Number Four, you tell Ten that everything
is secure and I will get the engines up and running and make a course for the
base. Have U-2 shadow us and tell the others to continue their patrols.
Meanwhile, I think I’ll find myself a cup of tea.”
Late
afternoon, July 13, 1920
Mont
Orgueil Castle, Isle of Jersey
If looks could kill, there was no doubt
in Admiral Sir Davis Humes’ mind that Winston Churchill would have already done
him in. The two men were seated in a boardroom of the Royal Navy’s High
Command, facing one another across a large, burnished table, the ticking of a
grandfather clock the only noise to be heard. To his credit, the 45 year-old
Prime Minister had not exploded at Humes once the door to the room was closed,
choosing to fume silently while the Admiral ordered some tea for them. Once the
waiter had retired, though, Churchill could no longer contain himself and
exploded in fury at the First Lord of the Admiralty.
“What
in the blazes is going on here, Hume? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were
waging a private war against…someone. As confused as things may be at home, I
am the Prime Minister of His Majesty’s government and, as such, should be kept
informed of any – and all – military and naval matters. We simply cannot have
career officers, in the most senior of positions, going off and…fighting God
knows what sorts of battles. Pirates? Pirates!? This is the twentieth century,
man! Explain yourself before I
have you removed from your position and sent to command a colony of seagulls in
the Falklands.”
Davis
Humes steeled himself against the diatribe his Prime Minister had leveled at
him. Oddly, he had only the utmost respect for Winston Leonard Spencer
Churchill, as the Prime Minister had himself been First Lord of the Admiralty
almost a decade earlier. But so much had changed since then and there seemed no
easy way to explain things to the leader of Great Britain. Calmly taking a sip
of his tea, Admiral Humes collected his thoughts before beginning.
“Mr.
Prime Minister, this is neither easy nor pleasant, but it is of vital
importance to our nation, to Europe and possibly to the world as a whole. What
I am about to tell you has been kept under the tightest secrecy for the last
two years, known only to a select few within the Imperial High Command, the
government and at Buckingham Palace. Since you were appointed prime minister in
April, we have been waiting for the right time to brief you. That time has now
come for you to understand just what an enemy we’re facing.”
Churchill
glared at the admiral for a long moment before settling back in his chair and,
with a wave of his hand, commanded the officer in charge of Britain’s naval
forces to continue. It was clear to Humes that his boss was giving him only
once chance to clarify the situation – and quickly – or there would be heck to
pay.
“Perhaps
the Prime Minister would like something stronger than his tea?”
“Humes,
dispense with the pleasantries, please. I have no time for games.”
“Very
well,” the Admiral responded before taking a deep breath and beginning by
reviewing recent events.
In
the summer of 1916, the Allied forces of France, Italy, Russia, Great Britain
and her colonies were caught in a deadly stalemate with the military forces of
Germany, the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the Ottomans. Across northern France,
thousands of miles of trenches and barbed wire teemed with millions of soldiers
intent on killing one another in any way that could be devised. Artillery
barrages, flamethrowers, chemical weapons and aircraft were used in a futile attempt
by both sides to break the impasse. But out of the trenches came something else
that would forever change the world.
Disease.
Sometime
around the third week of August in 1916, French soldiers in the Verdun sector
began to fall ill from a flu-like illness never seen before. Within a week,
tens of thousands of men were dead or dying as the pandemic spread throughout
the lines, an incurable disease that the doctors were mystified by. Seizing on
the weakened defenders, German troops overran the French positions, only to
become themselves infected with the disease.
With
breathtaking speed, the virus – now known as “The War Plague” – spread across
the entire Western Front and then across Europe as a whole, affecting soldiers
and civilians alike. Fighting ceased – there simply were not enough healthy
troops to continue the war – and the continent became a charnel house of dead
and dying that harkened back to the Dark Ages and the Black Plague. By October
it had spread throughout Germany and into Central Europe. By November it was
Russia’s turn. And by Christmas of 1916, it struck Britain.
It
seemed as though no one was immune from the Plague. Kaiser Wilhelm II of
Germany was the first European royal to succumb to it, followed soon after by
Emperor Franz Josef in Vienna. Any joy the British may have felt was tempered
by the deaths of King George V and his wife, Queen Mary in early 1917. Tsar
Nicholas II was the only major ruler to survive the pandemic, though most of
his family perished alongside millions of ordinary Russians.
The
Plague killed millions of innocent people, regardless of nationality. In March
of 1917, the disease gained a foothold in the New World when returning Canadian
soldiers brought it home; from there it swept down into the United States. The
same situation occurred in Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and India.
As
the plague spread, it soon began affecting entire economies: factories barely
functioned, crops could not be harvested, schools closed and governments
struggled to operate. Cities soon became ghost towns; Paris, Berlin and Vienna
were the first major centres to see their populations wiped out, but by 1918
there was hardly a city or village that had not seen its citizens die off. And
though it seemed no one could escape the disease, there were a few lucky souls
who managed to elude death.
The
great navies of Europe and their merchant sailors were fortunate to be at sea
as the War Plague spread across land. Forbidden to return to port, battleships,
cruisers, submarines, cargo ships and anything else out on the open seas
wandered aimlessly while the deadly disease struck down their countrymen. In
January of 1918, a ceasefire was officially announced to end the fighting. The
British then ordered their naval forces to sail for their colony of The
Bahamas, which was disease-free. A few weeks later the Germans ordered their
High Seas Fleet to steam for Cuba, where refuge had been offered. By May of
that year, virtually the entire battle fleets of the major European nations
were laying at anchor in ports scattered about the Caribbean, sweltering in the
summer heat, far from home. Meanwhile, the Royal Navy’s headquarters left
English soil for the first time in its history, moving here to the Isle of
Jersey where there was no disease.
Winston
Churchill tapped his fingers on the table in agitation. “Admiral,” he said in a
cold manner, “I know what has transpired these last few years. I am not an
idiot. Next you will tell me about the mutinies that occurred on the navy ships
when the sailors wanted to return home and could not. How they worried about their families, who were dead or
dying, but with whom they could not communicate. And the problems we had in
paying them, owing to depletions in the national treasuries here, to say
nothing of the shortages of food. But what other option was there? Where is
this all leading?”
Davis
Humes opened a leather briefcase and pulled out a large file folder, with a red
strip across it denoting a Top Secret document. He slid it across the table
towards Churchill.
“You
may have heard about the smaller mutinies and other troubles with the various
fleets in the Caribbean, Prime Minister, but you have not heard about the
biggest mutiny and its aftermath. This file explains what we know to date. It
is something to which you have not been privy. Until now.”
Churchill
skeptically opened the folder, scanned the first few pages and then asked Humes
for a summary of the contents.
“In
October of 1918, there were widespread mutinies in the Caribbean among the naval
forces of Germany, Italy, France, Austro-Hungary and, sadly, even in our ships.
This resulted in much bloodshed as the rebellions were put down, though news of
the mutinies was kept from the public for reasons of security. Following
various courts martial, a number of the ringleaders were executed while many
more were sentenced to be imprisoned. That was, perhaps, our first mistake. For
reasons of expediency, the high commands of all the nations involved decided to
create one central prison on the island of Tortuga, just off the north coast of
Haiti.”
Churchill
looked up from a page he was scanning. “Do you mean to tell me we were
cooperating with our enemies? With the Germans?”
“Well…yes,”
the Admiral answered uncomfortably. “Actually, we had been working together for
several months prior to the October mutinies, keeping one another informed
about events back here in Europe and whatnot. You must understand, Prime
Minister, the war was over.”
“Still,
most unusual. Now, you said that imprisoning the mutineers was ‘our first
mistake’. What do you mean by that?”
“I
mean that they escaped.”
As
Winston Churchill sat in stunned silence, Admiral Humes went on to explain that
less than two months after being incarcerated in a makeshift detention camp on
Tortuga, a massive jail break occurred on New Year’s Eve. Over 350 prisoners
overwhelmed the guards and took control of the camp before making their way to
the nearby harbour and fighting their way aboard a number of naval vessels
docked there. By dawn, the prisoners had sailed away from Tortuga.
“What…they…how
many ships did they steal?” Churchill stammered.
“Four
surface vessels – an Italian destroyer, two German cruisers and the Royal Navy
destroyer HMS Spencer.
But…they also made off with four submarines, three German U-boats and one of
our P-class boats.”
The
Prime Minister was speechless. Actually, he looked as though someone had
punched him in the stomach, so dramatic was the news that a group of mutinous
sailors had escaped from prison and stolen seven naval vessels.
“By
Jove, man, how could this sort of thing happen? Didn’t you give chase? Hunt
them down like the pack of dogs they are? Where are they now? And WHY haven’t I
heard a whisper of any of this? I AM THE PRIME MINISTER OF GREAT BRITAIN!” Churchill
bellowed, rising from his chair with renewed anger.
Humes
remained calm, or as calm as one could when the leader of your government is
shouting at you. Churchill stomped over to a window that overlooked the harbour
of Gorey below the castle, turning his back on the Admiral. Taking a deep
breath, Humes carried on.
“To
the first of your queries, we don’t really know how they managed to overwhelm
the guards and the crews of the vessels. The prisoners were highly organized,
very disciplined and well armed. They likely knew they had little to lose, that
many of their families were already dead from the disease and they would
themselves rot away in the camp. As to what we did to catch them, well, we did
everything we could. There were two other destroyers in the harbour at Tortuga
that managed to fend off the attackers. But shellfire from the captured German
cruiser put both out of action. We dispatched a flotilla from Nassau within
twenty-four hours, and the Germans sent another one from Havana, but by the
time the ships reached Tortuga, the mutineers were long gone. We know they
headed east – they were spotted transiting the Mona Passage that separates the
Dominican Republic from Puerto Rico – and the two flotillas made haste to catch
up with them. But after that, the mutineers disappeared.”
The
Admiral explained that British and German ships, aided by the other navies in
the area, scoured the Caribbean for months. Once or twice they caught a glimpse
of what appeared to be one of the rogue vessels, but never managed to get close
enough to confirm anything. It was as though the entire group of mutineers had
vanished off the face of the Earth. Some officers wondered if perhaps the
escapees had contracted the plague and died. Others speculated that the stolen
vessels were heading for Europe, but none showed up there.
Then,
in March of 1919, the Admiralty received the first report of a missing cargo
ship, a freighter bound from Argentina to Britain with a load of food. A few
weeks later, another ship went missing, this one carrying coal from Venezuela.
April saw a total of six cargo ships disappear while carrying food, fuel and
raw materials from the New World to the Old. In every case, the Admiralty was
able to rule out bad weather as a likely cause but with no survivors found from
any of the ships, they were still confused as to what was going on.
May
of 1919 saw the disappearance of even more ships – ten in all – but also the
first survivor. A young deckhand from the SS Amery named Harry Golding was rescued in the
waters off the mouth of the Amazon River. Severely dehydrated, Golding had
spent 28 days adrift on a small log. Once rescued, he managed to tell his
rescuers that the Amery
had been boarded by pirates, pirates who arrived in submarines. The attackers
gave the crew two options: join them or die. Anyone who refused to go along
with the pirates was thrown overboard, Golding among them. Before he was
sentenced to death, though, Golding managed to hear the pirates describe their
leader. They referred to him as “The Grey Fox”.
Churchill
turned away from the window to face Humes. “Well, now I see where this is all
leading. The mutineers from Tortuga turned to piracy, correct?” The Admiral nodded. “And I suppose it’s
these pirates who have been playing havoc with our ships, eh?” Another nod. “Then I must ask you
again: why wasn’t I informed of this when I took office three months ago? It
seems to me that it’s one of the most important dangers our nation is facing.”
“Mr.
Prime Minister,” Admiral Davis Humes began cautiously, “We, that is, certain
members of the Imperial Governing Office, didn’t know if you’d live long
enough.”
Churchill
stared at the naval officer for a long moment, before giving a little laugh and
shaking his head.
“Of
course. Since my two predecessors fell victim to the Plague within a month of
becoming Prime Minister, you wondered if I would do so as well. Am I right on
this? Hmmm, I thought so. And given the nature of the disease, the delusions
and crazy outbursts it can cause, the last thing you wanted was the Prime
Minister rambling on to the public about pirates. Did my late precursors know
anything about all this?”
“No,
sir. The King, of course, knows and so does the High Command and Governing
Office. But it was decided to wait ninety days before briefing you.”
Churchill
walked over to Humes and laid his hand on the Admiral’s. “Davis, I’m sorry for
my tantrum there. I realize you were only doing what you had to do. I
apologize.”
“Thank-you,
Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Right,”
Churchill said as he returned to his chair and the secret dossier. “What say
you get me a stiff drink and then tell me more about this ‘Grey Fox’ and his
pirates.”
Four thousand miles away, on another
small island, a man wearing a strange-looking naval uniform knocked on a heavy
mahogany door and waited for permission to enter. When it came, he opened the
door, walked six paces inside and came to attention with his chin held high and
his heels together.
“Herr
Admiral, a message from our contact,” the sailor said in German. “U-2 and her
sisters successfully raided another British cargo vessel. Position 33 degrees
12 minutes North, 22 degrees 6 minutes West. U-3 and U-4 are continuing their
patrol while Seahawk brings the ship to us with U-2. Sir, do you wish any
message to be sent to the contact?”
From
a chair that was turned toward a large window, hiding the occupant from view, a
gruff voice answered in German, “Nein. Leave the message on my desk. Any word
on the crew of the cargo ship?”
“Nein,
Herr Admiral.”
“Well,”
the mysterious speaker continued, “Keep someone posted on the wireless. As soon
as Seahawk is in range, I am sure he will transmit more information. Ah, what
was the vessel carrying in her holds?”
The
messenger glanced quickly at the note in his hand. “Corned beef, Herr Admiral.
And diesel fuel. Five thousand litres. Of fuel, that is.”
“Ah,
good. We can use the food. And the fuel will come very handy. This is all good.
Very well, dismissed.”
The
messenger dropped the note on the desk, clicked his heels and marched out of
the office as the Admiral rose from his chair, grabbed the wireless message and
walked to a large wall map of the Atlantic. Checking the coordinates, he found
the position where SS Magellan
had been captured and, using a red marker pen, made a large X on the chart.
Stepping back, The Grey Fox smiled to himself as he noted the dozens of other
Xs that filled the map.