by Max Hennessy
He let that sink in, then went on slowly. ‘If the Italians appear, the two rear groups will use their W/T as much as possible to give the impression of a larger force than there actually is. False names and false positions can be used, but let’s be discreet; if we appear to be an armada the Italians will soon get suspicious.’
He paused, remembering the stress laid at Jutland on signalling and the rigidness it had produced, and recalled something Verschoyle had said then about the Grand Fleet.
‘Apart from this,’ he concluded, ‘I wish to cut down signalling. From everybody’s point of view it’ll be safer. I suspect our general purpose weapons will be switching at full speed from aircraft to surface vessels and it’ll require some pretty quick decisions about which target’s the most important, so you won’t want to be looking to the flotilla leader to know what to do.’
There were a few smiles and he concluded briskly. ‘Too much signalling only results in tactical arthritis, anyway, and I prefer command to be more elastic and hope that apart from “Enemy in sight” and “Am engaging the enemy,” there won’t be need for much. If anybody’s in any doubt, he can do no better than place his ship between the convoy and the enemy and I expect you to use your initiative. We’re a band of brothers not a flock of sheep; and initiative, like muscle, atrophies if it’s not used, though there’s always a well-tried course of action everybody in destroyers should have learned by now – “When in doubt, follow father.”’
As the conference broke up, the officers left with serious faces.
‘They look worried sick,’ Kelly said, frowning.
‘But of course,’ Verschoyle agreed. ‘They’re terrified of not coming up to scratch, because you have a reputation for coming down on carelessness like a ton of bricks.’
It surprised Kelly. ‘I have?’
‘“Extremely efficient,”’ Verschoyle quoted. ‘“Merciless with the inefficient and never one to hand out the chocolate.”’
The weather was fair and visibility was good when the convoy, consisting of the fast supply ship, Hoylake, two freighters, Youlgreave and Clan Mackay, and the tanker, Mons Star, sailed with Hallamshire and the Twenty-Third Flotilla. But they were already deteriorating into a moderate swell and an increasing wind and, with the first problem the position and progress of any Italian ships that might be out, Kelly was almost indifferent to the air attacks which began almost at once. Verschoyle’s ships appeared ahead on time, as the aircraft were reported – and just as it was discovered that Clan Mackay could make no more than nine knots. The attacks, delivered by high-level bombers, were neither heavy nor well pressed home.
‘Wind-up after Taranto,’ Rumbelo suggested in a growl from the back of the bridge.
Despite the Italians’ lack of success, they knew they were being shadowed all the time, and later in the day there were a few torpedo attacks by Italian S79s. But the torpedoes were dropped at extreme range and the attacks were futile, and, with the convoy opened out so that each ship could take avoiding action, no one was hit or damaged.
The aeroplanes appeared and reappeared throughout the afternoon but they were at extreme range from their bases and did little other than shadow them and the big problem still lay ahead. The second day was much the same as the first, not too dangerous but nerve-wracking in its tenseness. In a way, the aircraft enabled everybody to let off a little steam, and the sound of the guns, though they weren’t doing much but frighten off the Italians, at least were a sop to edgy nerves.
On the morning of the third day, the flotilla signals officer appeared with an intercepted signal from one of the submarines watching ahead.
‘Italian heavy ships have left Taranto, sir. Submarines report their course as 270 and speed as 23 knots. They don’t give number and class.’
‘So they’re out at last,’ Kelly said. ‘Repeat it to Nineteenth Flotilla and tell Hallamshire, Indian, Inca and Impatient to conform to our movements.’
Shortly after midday another signal was received: two battleships and six cruisers were across their path. For a moment there was a heart-stopping pause as the talk on the bridge quietened. Two battleships and six cruisers were too much even for the best of destroyers.
Then Kelly spoke dryly: ‘They haven’t got that many cruisers,’ he commented. ‘And they’d be bloody fools to risk them against us with Cunningham in Alex itching to catch ’em with their trousers down. Somebody’s being too enthusiastic and mistaking destroyers for cruisers and cruisers for battleships. In the Italian navy, the silhouettes are the same.’
The sun was sinking towards the horizon now and the sea had become a deep navy blue. Eyes were turned towards the bridge in expectation. The buzz had already gone round that the Eyeties were out, and the attitude, despite the imminence of death, was not one of trepidation but of excitement and anticipation. They could wipe up the Eyeties easy. No one had the slightest doubt about it and it was strangely reassuring to be so confident.
The ship’s cat, an enormous ginger tom, which spent half its time asleep in a miniature hammock made for it by one of the petty officers, had deigned to appear above deck and was stretched in the sunshine in a sheltered part of the bridge shield.
‘Better remove Leading Cat Pluto,’ Kelly suggested to Rumbelo. ‘He’s bad-tempered enough as it is and he’ll be diabolical if the guns disturb his afternoon caulk.’
By this time, Impi, Inca and Impatient were steaming two miles ahead of the convoy, which was guarded by Chatsworth, Ashby and Rushden, with Indian and Hallamshire in between ready to screen the merchant ships with smoke. The Mediterranean was looking more like the Atlantic than anything else by now, the ships rising and falling like horses on a roundabout, but the sky remained blue, and the tossing sea blended with it exquisitely, the white caps and the wake of the ships completing the picture. From Impi’s bridge, Kelly could see the guns’ crews relaxed with the ease of veterans. Most of them had already seen eighteen months of war and they handled their weapons with the skill of professionals. Below decks, food was arranged for those who had to remain at their stations and men were already collecting it for their shipmates.
As the ship rolled in the quartering sea, Kelly glanced about him. Somewhere astern, Verschoyle was handling the convoy. It couldn’t turn away because there was nowhere for it to run to. And it had to reach Malta. Since the arrival of the Luftwaffe, the situation there had grown perilous, and there were thousands of people who had to be fed. The island had become a thorn in the Italians’ side and they all knew that when the tide turned, as turn it eventually must, it would become not merely a thorn but a huge battery directed at the Italian mainland. It had to be held just as surely as for the enemy it had to fall. If Malta fell the Italians would find it safe enough to tow barges across to North Africa.
A slash of spray across the bridge made them duck, and brought the realisation that they were protected neither from the weather nor from enemy shellfire, because the thin plating was heavy enough only to keep out the green seas. Nobody seemed nervous, however. There were still many Regulars in the ship’s company, all trained – officers and men – for years for such a moment as this. Their actions were disciplined, sparing of effort and confident. Perched on his stool, Kelly felt quite calm and not in the slightest troubled by the weight of his responsibilities. He’d spent the whole of his life from the age of thirteen learning how to behave in the face of an enemy. He’d served in small ships and big ships, on shore stations and in offices in London, and had attended staff courses and listened to admirals laying down the law. He knew his job. He was confident in himself. What to do in any given situation was in his mind as clearly as the Lord’s Prayer.
The sun was bronze-gold now and the sea was darkening to purple. He glanced at his watch.
‘If they leave it much longer, we’re going to dodge ’em in the darkness,’ he said.
Even as he spoke, the buzzer went and the officer of the watch answered it.
‘Radar has them, sir,’ he reported
. ‘Eight vessels. They can’t tell yet what they are.’
As he replaced the instrument, the masthead buzzer followed at once. ‘Masthead reports smoke, green three-oh, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Kelly settled himself more comfortably on his stool. ‘So they’ve decided to have a go after all. We will now proceed to kick Mussolini’s backside round the Mediterranean.’ He looked quizzically round him at the expectant faces. ‘How do you suggest we set about it? You’re the staff and you’re supposed to offer advice.’
There was a short, pungent and very earnest discussion with a lot of emphasis laid on caution. Kelly stared at them, his eyes amused.
‘What a lot of lily-livered skunks you are,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Delay favours the defence. We’ll go straight at ’em.’
There were a few grins. It was part of his job to make everybody feel they couldn’t lose even though he had a pretty shrewd idea himself that they could. How many of the Italians there were and how big they were was something nobody knew, but he guessed they wouldn’t come out after Taranto unless they were expecting success, and that meant they would be big and there would be plenty of them. If they appeared, he intended to attack them. A defensive role was objectionable to the deeply rooted naval philosophy in him and alien to his closed world of unquestioned loyalties and rigid values. Retreat could be accepted only after the most unemotional calculation; and emotion, warlike and vengeful after Dunkirk, was strongly present in him.
He became aware of the officer of the watch speaking. ‘Masthead reports smoke now green two-five.’
Lifting his glasses Kelly saw it himself, heavy and black on the horizon. The Italians were moving across their bows and that meant they intended to bring him to battle, come what may. He glanced at Impi’s funnels and was pleased to note that there wasn’t sufficient smoke to reveal their position. The Italians had no radar worth speaking of, so perhaps they had no idea yet how close they were.
The wind lay in exactly the right direction for a smoke screen and, hidden by it, the British ships would be able to approach to close quarters. Behind them, Verschoyle’s ships were already making enough chatter on the radio to draw the Italians’ attention and convince them there were plenty of them and that they were bigger than they really were.
The destroyers were turning now and increasing speed to place themselves between the convoy and the Italians. They were too far ahead of the merchant ships by this time to expect Verschoyle to come to their assistance, and were rushing down on the Italians, whatever they were, at a combined speed of fifty-odd miles an hour.
Shortly afterwards, an Italian floatplane appeared, the last of the sun catching the underside of its wings. Despite the barrage that was thrown at it, it managed to drop a string of bright red flares over the convoy.
‘Marking the line of advance,’ Kelly said. ‘Hoist battle ensigns!’
The masthead voice pipe buzzed again. ‘Ships in sight–’
A few minutes later, Kelly saw them himself. There were eight of them, six of them destroyers, he guessed, and two larger vessels that were probably light cruisers. In the last of the day, they looked like minute silver models against the darkening sky, and it reminded him that, although he had the weather gauge, he also had the afterglow of the sun behind him with the horizon a bright lemon-colour that would throw up his ships in sharp silhouette.
‘Make “Enemy in sight,”’ he said. ‘“Concentrate in readiness for surface action.” Steer oh-four-five. Revolutions for twenty-eight knots.’
As the ship swung north-east, Latimer stared ahead through his binoculars. ‘Light cruisers, sir,’ he reported. ‘Probably Condottieri class. More than likely Mazzini and Rienzi. Seven thousand tons. Thirty knots eight six-inch guns. Destroyers are probably Vivaldis. Bigger than us by a long way. Two thousand five hundred tons, thirty-four knots, five 4.7s.’
‘Odds against us are only about a hundred to one,’ Kelly commented. ‘We ought to be able to cope with that.’
Everybody knew what he meant. Cunningham had established a moral ascendancy in the Mediterranean that remained real and clear, and every man in the Royal Navy was aware of it. It gave them the advantage even before battle was joined, and one of Cunningham’s signals, though it had been issued with his tongue in his cheek, summed it up: ‘The right range for any ship of the Mediterranean Fleet, from a battleship to a submarine, to engage the enemy is POINT BLANK – at which range even a gunnery officer cannot miss.’
Despite the sun, the wind was cold and Kelly was just becoming conscious of it when Rumbelo arrived, unperturbed at the prospect of action, with cocoa, thick as liquid mud.
‘Nothing like warmth in the stomach,’ he said. ‘It stops you getting scared.’
‘Who’s scared?’ Kelly said.
Rumbelo grinned. ‘Me, sir.’
Kelly smiled back at him, but there was an element of truth in his words nevertheless. Nobody could thunder towards an opposing force of superior strength without feeling twinges of dread.
‘Italian radio’s pretty busy,’ the signals officer said.
‘Battle orders.’ Kelly jerked himself out of his thoughtful mood and decided to try a funny signal. The Navy had a reputation for funny signals and they always gave the troops something to think about in the run-up to action when butterflies were appearing under belts and men were beginning to wonder what the outcome would be.
‘Make “Wait till you see the whites of their eyes.”’
The lamp clattered and was acknowledged, then Smart, with the familiarity of years, made ‘Italians asking, “Anybody here seen Kelly?”’ to which Impatient replied. ‘Just wait till they do.’
‘’Oo gives a fish tit for the Eyeties anyway?’ Siggis’ voice, shrill and defiant, came over the noisy crashing of the sea. It was flattering because it indicated high spirits and confidence but, even as Kelly smiled, he turned briskly to the yeoman. ‘Make “Confine signals to events not to flattery.”’
As the flags went up, he saw heads bobbing about round the gun platforms and Able Seaman Siggis grinning at the Bofors, as those who could read the signal translated for those who couldn’t. It would keep them happy for a bit longer.
He knew what they thought of him. To the Hostilities-Only he was only one grade lower than God. To the regulars like Siggis, he was Ginger Maguire; Crasher Maguire who scraped paint going alongside; most of all, Maguire of Mordant – the name that had stuck with him ever since 1916 – and the rows of medal ribbons on his chest indicated that he knew something about his job.
It wasn’t quite as easy as he made it out to be, however, because the Italians’ six-inch guns could outrange his own four-inchers by around two miles. Nevertheless, it was already firmly in the Italian mind that the British always beat them, and a bold act of resolution might achieve a great deal more than caution. The Italians might even believe there were bigger ships behind him if he advanced as if he were not afraid of the consequences.
‘Are the Italians picking up our signals?’ he asked.
‘Must be, sir.’ The signals officer’s reply came at once. ‘We’re picking up theirs.’
‘Then let’s hope they’ve got somebody handy who can read English.’
There was a quick grin. ‘Must have, sir. Most of ’em have done a stint selling ice-cream down the Old Kent Road.’
The contempt was studied and deliberate because they knew the Italian naval officers were well trained and their failures came chiefly from a chronic shortage of sophisticated equipment.
‘Make a signal, yeoman,’ Kelly said. ‘Plain language. To Heavy Cruiser Verschoyle from Kelly.’
The yeoman glanced quickly at the signals officer who looked at Kelly.
‘Sir?’
‘Make “Italian fleet in sight. Am engaging. Would be glad of assistance.’’’
The signals officer looked puzzled. ‘And the address, sir?’
‘You have it: “Heavy Cruiser Verschoyle.”’
The signals officer sti
ll looked puzzled and Kelly smiled. ‘We have a Nelson, a Rodney, a Barham and a Hood,’ he said. ‘It’s a habit of the Navy to name its capital ships after its favourite admirals. We also have a Kelly – Mountbatten’s ship – and where Kelly and Mountbatten are, something drastic usually happens. If we’re not big enough to sink the buggers, let’s try to frighten ’em off. If Chatsworth’s operator has his wits about him, he’ll know what’s going on. I’m sure Captain Verschoyle will.’
‘Very good, sir. Address “Heavy Cruiser Verschoyle.”’
As the yeoman of signals vanished, obviously disapproving of this departure from established practice, Kelly lifted his binoculars. They still had more than a mile to go to be even within range, while the Italians had been in range for some time.
‘Enemy due to open the bowling any time, I should say,’ Latimer observed.
The range shortened, the three destroyers bucking the sea like wild horses. The tenseness on the bridge could almost be felt as they waited for the Italians to start the ball rolling.
‘We’re well within their range,’ Latimer observed. ‘Seems to be taking ’em a long time to hoist in the idea, digest it and fire at us.’
Even as he spoke, there was a whistle and a crack and a tall column of water rose out of the sea ahead of them, disintegrated and collapsed.
‘Penny’s dropped,’ Latimer commented.
‘They’re trying to oblige.’
When the yeoman of signals reappeared he was followed by the signals officer.
‘Captain Verschoyle’s replied, sir,’ he reported. ‘“Am on my way.”’
‘That all?’
‘That’s all, sir.’
‘It’s enough.’
‘He’s also making a lot of noise, sir. The signal was to “Kelly” and was signed “Heavy Cruiser Verschoyle.”’
Kelly smiled. ‘I bet the Italian admiral’s put his sundae down to look through the list of long-dead British admirals,’ he said. ‘To find one by the name of Verschoyle.’
