by Max Hennessy
As they swung again, nearer to the Italian ships, a sparkle of flashes ran down the Italian line.
‘Here it comes,’ Latimer said. ‘Let’s hope they’re not as good at gunnery as they are at making ice-cream.’
The chatter was light-hearted but, behind it, it was remarkably like Jutland all over again. The weather was bright and cold as it had been at the beginning of that battle, and they were now thundering down towards the enemy battlefleet just as Mordant had in 1916. This time, though, more depended on the outcome. Jutland hadn’t had much effect on the strategy of that war, but the loss of Malta could have on this one. And this time, whatever they possessed in the way of moral ascendancy, the odds were loaded against them. Feeling a sense of unreality and fatalism, Kelly was conscious that his responsibility this time covered not just a job aboard a ship, but the safety of his own flotilla, Verschoyle’s flotilla, the whole of the convoy, the lives of hundreds of men, and the security of Malta.
‘Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen–’ Latimer was counting the seconds to the arrival of the Italian salvo – ‘sixteen, fifteen, fourteen–’
The navigating officer stiffened his head forward, peering towards the Italians. ‘For what we are about to receive –’ he said.
‘Three, two, one – here it comes!’
Five
The salvo arrived with a sound that was a mixture between a whirr and a rumble. Wailing like demons, the shells crashed like stones into the Mediterranean just ahead of Impi and, as the splinters flew, the mountains of water they threw up, yellow-tinted with high-explosive, broke and cascaded back into the sea, and they found they were wet through, blinded and coughing with the sharp smell of cordite.
‘Bracketed, by God!’
The Italians were well in sight now, their upper works clearly visible under the smoke they were making, and as they thundered towards him, Kelly tried to put himself in the mind of the Italian admiral. He had three options to interpose his ships between the convoy and Malta, to pull away to port so as to come on them from the east, or to split his force, sending one cruiser and half his destroyers to one side and the other cruiser with the rest of the destroyers to the other. Deciding he would simply try to prevent the convoy reaching Malta because, with night coming on, he wouldn’t wish his ships to be scattered, he made up his mind to employ exactly the same tactics he’d used at Narvik.
‘Make smoke!’
As Impi turned thirty degrees to follow a course across the bows of the Italian ships, Inca and Impatient turned with her. Smoke began to pour from the after funnels, nothing more than a wisp or two at first as the stoker petty officers in the engine rooms adjusted their valves, then the wisps came thicker and within seconds it was pouring out in thick cylindrical streams to sag to the surface of the sea and roll across it, pushed by the wind towards the Italians in front of the destroyers.
Latimer glanced up at it. ‘Boiler room crews are going to love us,’ he commented. ‘With the chimney-sweeping they’ll have to do when we make port.’
‘Range four-oh-nine! Range four-oh-eight!’
The range-taker’s voice came over the chatter, unemotional and matter of fact.
They were turning now, in a tight circle, one behind the other, back towards their own smoke. The Italian ships vanished astern as they continued to swing, turbines whining, the water crashing against the bows in the rush and rattle of spray-thrashed steel, and Kelly caught the smell of salt above the stink of oil from the smoke, and the sting of the wind on his cheek. The ship seemed like a living animal, the spray on the paintwork moving in little jerking runnels jarred along by the throb and quiver of the engines. Again, the thought of the danger came to him but he brushed it aside. Fear was a luxury and he was best keeping his mind on the job in hand. There was nothing else to think about. Everybody was at their action stations and the wardroom had been taken over by the surgeon who had stacked packets of bandages in handy corners about the ship.
He turned to the voice pipe. ‘Captain to Gunnery Officer. We shall be making our bow in just three minutes and we shall then turn to starboard. You’ll find the enemy about red four. Open fire as soon as you see them.’
He shifted on the stool and, glancing backwards, saw Inca on his port quarter, just a little out of position but clinging tightly to him, and behind her Smart in Impatient bringing up the rear.
The blood was tingling in his veins and, once again, as he always was, he was conscious of the excitement and wondered if he ought to feel more dispassionate, even concerned, and whether it was wrong to feel this tingling fervour at the prospect of a fight and the possibility of death.
The turbines were howling at full power as they plunged into the stinking darkness of the smoke, the smell of fuel oil making them cough.
Latimer was wiping his eyes. ‘Rotten bad for white drill, sir,’ he commented. ‘Big laundry bill after this is over.’
A shaft of sunshine broke through, then darkness again. Latimer looked at his watch.
‘One minute!’
The darkness seemed to thicken in a choking cotton-wool cloud about them, then they were out into the daylight once more. The two Italian cruisers seemed to be right on the bow, huge and grim in their pale Mediterranean paint that seemed dazzling against the darker grey of Impi, Inca and Impatient, which hadn’t yet shed their Home Fleet colours.
‘Range three-seven-one!’
The last of the light was catching the curve of the Italians’ hulls and the edges of their turrets, and he thanked God his own ships, in their dark paint, were against the murky background of the smoke. The two cruisers were changing course slightly, their shapes lengthening as they turned to bring their turrets to bear. The movement of the guns was quite clear.
‘Torpedoes, sir?’
‘No.’ Kelly shook his head. ‘Let’s keep ’em as a threat. Once they’re gone, they won’t need to be half so careful. We’ll move as if to launch them but use the guns instead.’
As they rushed towards the Italian ships, he saw them continuing their turn, nervously expecting the torpedoes, and the Italian destroyers, up to now far out on the flank, rushing to join their consorts.
‘Enemy turning away, sir.’
‘Starboard fifteen.’
As the line of destroyers swung, the deck heeled abruptly and Impi began to shudder with her speed. The bow wave rose higher as the revolutions mounted, and Kelly watched the forward 4.7s moving. As they hurtled forward in a long curve, the guns crashed out, the din dying away to the ruffle of sound made by the shells as they lifted through the air. Long before they had arrived at their destination, the next salvo was on its way. Glancing round, not forgetting the ships astern of him, Kelly saw Inca’s first salvo even as she came out of the smoke. There was a flash as her guns fired and a curling ring of smoke, and almost immediately Impatient emerged behind her. They were performing the evolution faultlessly.
There was a line of splashes alongside the leading Italian cruiser, then they all saw a yellow flash just abaft the bridge.
‘One for his nob!’ Latimer said.
‘With your knowledge of Shakespeare,’ Kelly observed, ‘you might have come up with something more memorable than that.’
‘How about “A hit, a hit, a palpable hit”, sir?’
There was a continuous roar of gunfire now and more sparkling flashes running along the Italian ships as their heavier rifles fired. The shells smashed into the sea to port, marking the water with scummy circles of foam.
‘Starboard. We’ll go round again, Pilot, and come out further down this time. That ought to keep ’em guessing, because they’re bound to be stupid enough to expect us to appear where we appeared last time. We’ll shorten the range again as if we’re going to fire torpedoes before we turn away.
The smoke lay on the water in vast greasy black coils, that Kelly guessed the Italians wouldn’t attempt to enter. They’d inevitably expect torpedoes as they emerged on the other side and, not daring to risk their bigger sh
ips, would try to make contact with the convoy by passing round the edge of the smoke bank.
The smoke looked like a vast dark cliff behind Impi as she emerged. He could see the convoy about five miles away to the west being attacked by aircraft, the sky above it pockmarked by the barrage flung up by Verschoyle’s ships. Plunging into the darkness once more, they thundered through, to find the Italians shelling the smoke where they’d last appeared, the blast from the exploding missiles dispersing the rolling banks of black even as Impi’s guns crashed out.
There was a yell as they saw another flicker of light on the leading cruiser that told them they’d scored another hit. Impatient was just disappearing a mile away when Rumbelo called out from the back of the bridge that she was on fire.
‘Looks as if she’s lost her starboard point fives, sir.’
‘What about Nineteenth Flotilla’s WIT?’ Kelly asked.
‘Plenty of traffic, sir,’ the signals officer said. ‘They all sound like battleships and they appear to have invented an aircraft carrier. There’s been a signal to one, Incredible, telling her to be prepared to fly off her aircraft.’
Kelly smiled. Verschoyle was never behind the door when cunning was handed out. He was still watching Impatient when Rumbelo’s voice came, quietly and unemotionally.
‘Torpedo bombers sir. Green-five-oh!’
Every eye on the bridge swung to watch the S79s come in. They were fast three-engined monoplanes but their pilots seemed as uncertain as ever and the attack was just as half-hearted.
‘Torpedoes gone!’
Impi turned to comb the wakes and, as the torpedoes vanished astern of her, the S79s swung away and disappeared from sight, just as high level bombers appeared. But Kelly knew they needn’t worry too much about them because they were too near to the Italian cruisers to make that kind of bombing a safe pastime.
‘All right, Quartermaster,’ he said. ‘You can take it easy for a bit. They’ve gone and we’re wearing out the sea.’
As they swept towards the smoke again they saw Inca register another hit, this time on the second cruiser. They were dangerously close now, however, and they saw the flashes rippling down the leading Italian’s side as she fired another salvo. It seemed an age before her shells crashed into the water round Impi, engulfing her in columns of water masthead high. Shell fragments screamed through the air to bury themselves in the ship’s sides. They held course a little longer and once again had the satisfaction of seeing the Italian contours change.
‘Turning away again, sir.’
The fear of torpedoes was still very real to the Italians and Kelly knew he’d been wise to keep the threat open as long as he could.
‘Starboard twenty!’
The next salvo fell short but almost immediately one of the look-outs sang out that the high level bombers were coming in again. None of the bombs struck them, though the whole surface of the sea was stirred up around them. As they plunged once more into the smoke, they saw Impatient emerging. She came out like a charge of cavalry, every gun going, but as she swung, they saw a sheet of flame leap skywards near the after gun turret. Snatching a quick glance between watching the Italian ships, Kelly’s jaw was tight, but Impatient was hidden by smoke and he couldn’t tell what had happened to her. As he swung back to watch the Italians, Rumbelo called out.
‘She’s all right, sir. Midships gun’s firing.’
As they entered the darkness yet again, Kelly forced his mind back to the Italians. Smart was an experienced captain, which was why Kelly had given him the rear and most dangerous position, and it was up to him to get his ship out of danger. As Impi emerged on the safe side of the smoke, she was followed by Inca and shortly afterwards by Impatient, still streaming smoke.
He guessed the Italians would be turning on to a more southerly course now, to give them direct access to the convoy, and, outranged and outweighted, it was clear that if the smoke blew clear nothing could save them from their bigger guns. And with Impi, Inca and Impatient gone, it would be the turn of the convoy, because there was little the smaller Hunt-class ships could do.
The smoke was thinning now, torn to shreds by the bursting shells and the swift passage of ships.
‘Range two-five-oh!’ The range taker’s voice came as Impi burst clear. The range had dropped dramatically, and with Impatient damaged, the Italians would grow more determined and the mere threat of torpedoes would no longer work. This time it had to be the real thing.
‘Make “Attack with torpedoes.”’
As the two remaining destroyers emerged from the smoke, bunting fluttered to Impi’s yard-arm and eighteen missiles leapt into the water like salmon.
‘All torpedoes fired and running correctly!’
‘Italians turning away, sir!’
The silhouettes of the Italian ships changed once more as they swung from the torpedoes. The Italian destroyers were crashing towards Impi, their guns blazing in an attempt to drive the British ships away, but their gunnery was indifferent and, though their shells landed close by in a flurry of spray, stirred sea and shrieking splinters, no one was hit.
They seemed to have been manoeuvring in and out of the bank of smoke for hours now and Kelly glanced at the sky.
‘This bloody day seems endless,’ he remarked.
‘Range two-nine-oh!’ The range finder had been calling out the range all the time in his bored, undramatic voice almost as if he were a bus conductor asking for fares. ‘Range three-one-oh! Range three-two-oh! Range obscured–’
The last Italian shells had fallen just ahead of them and tons of water, yellow-tinted by the explosive, fell across Impi’s upper works. As the spray cleared, Kelly saw the Italians were still turning, then the contours resolved themselves into steadiness and he realised they were now heading north.
‘I think they’re breaking off the engagement, sir!’ Latimer’s voice was high and excited. ‘I think we’ve pulled it off!’
There was a burst of cheering then Siggis’ mad voice rose from the point fives in a chirrup of triumph.
‘God bless the sweet little cherub who sits up aloft looking after the soul of poor Jack!’ he yelled. ‘God bless him and pray for thim Italian admirals. Tryin’ to hit us was like tryin’ to nail jelly to a wall!’
As Kelly slipped from his stool, the masthead buzzer went.
‘Enemy fleet red one-oh. Heading away from us.’
Latimer offered Kelly a cigarette and he lit it gratefully and began to walk up and down, stretching his legs. He only had a space six paces forward and six paces back, but the bridge personnel, grinning in a mixture of pride, freedom from strain, and relief that they’d been spared one of the gory scenes that could be produced from a direct hit, made way for him.
He felt tired, more from tension than exhaustion, and from his deep concern for the ships and men under his command. But the satisfaction about him was powerful enough to reach out and touch. Once again they’d forced the Italians away by nothing else but superior morale, bluff and Nelson’s dictum that no captain could do wrong if he put his ship alongside the enemy.
‘Make to Battle Cruiser Verschoyle,’ he said. ‘From Kelly. “Many thanks. Congratulations to Incredible’s Commander (Air) for prompt response. Resume convoy formation and report damage.”’
Below the bridge, Siggis was chirruping a song as he helped his mates to shift the empty cartridge cases. Every man in the ship was aware of what they’d done and what it had done to the Italians’ confidence. The other destroyers were drawing closer now and the damage reports were coming in.
‘Impatient reports large hole in deck. Heavy fire midships. Fourteen casualties, nine dead. There may be others.’
It was a simple report, but Kelly knew exactly what it meant. The hole in the deck would be circled by long jagged blades of steel, red-hot fragments would have traversed the bulkheads and the middle of the ship would be a raging furnace with paint, linoleum, bedding, stores, personal belongings and food, all blazing together. He could s
ee the smoke still pouring out of the hole, below which the first lieutenant and his damage control party would be struggling with hoses and axes to put out the fire.
It was now almost dark, that blessed darkness, which in these narrow seas was so important. The signals officer appeared.
‘I think the Italians should go back to selling ice-cream, sir,’ he said. ‘W/T’s just picked up a BBC announcement that they’ve lost Keren in Abyssinia.’
‘Perhaps our friends over there heard it, too,’ Kelly suggested. ‘Perhaps that’s what knocked the stuffing out of them. Their East African empire seems to be fading away at high speed.’
The signals officer had other information, too. ‘Mediterranean Fleet’s at sea, sir. Admiral Pridham-Whipple’s reported enemy units south of Crete. With the lot we’ve just seen off, the whole Italian navy must be out.’
Kelly sniffed the air. Over the years he’d developed an instinct and he knew that with Cunningham at sea there was something in the wind.
‘Make to the Captain, Nineteenth Flotilla “Conduct convoy to Malta. Am pushing ahead.”’
Verschoyle’s response was typical. ‘Don’t pull your poop string.’
‘Tell Impatient to take Indian’s place and Indian to join us at full speed.’
The signals officer had hardly disappeared when he returned. ‘From C-in-C, Med, sir: “Report fuel state.”’
‘Tell him more than enough for Alex.’
A few minutes later another signal arrived.
‘“Join Main Fleet.”’ The signals officer looked excited. ‘Rendezvous position follows, sir. The pilot has it. Main Fleet’s about seventy miles due south of Gaidaro Nisi on course two-seven-five.’
They clustered round the charts, hands moving as a new course was worked out. They had plenty of fuel in hand because the convoy’s slow speed had forced them to steam at their most economical rate, and they could now push ahead throughout the whole night at moderate despatch in a converging direction.
