A Mighty Endeavor

by Stuart Slade

  The Pegasus engine on the aircraft was obviously wrecked. It was questionable if a replacement was available. It was rumored that Illustrious and her escorting destroyers had arrived in Gibraltar loaded down with all the spare parts and supplies that could be physically stuffed into them. Despite that, spares were in short supply. Eagle’s aircraft were a quickly-declining asset. Nobody knew for sure what, if anything, would be coming out of Britain or when. The same problem was cropping up in all sorts of unexpected places. Without Britain as a source of supply, there was a slow, creeping paralysis of the equipment that was still in service.

  Beneath the Goofer’s Gallery, the damaged Swordfish was already being pushed towards a lift so it could be struck down for repair. On the horizon, another Swordfish was already starting to make its landing approach. Just how long Eagle could continue to operate her aircraft was a question that was starting to worry a lot of people.

  Admiral’s Bridge, HMS Warspite, North of Tobruk

  “Eagle is claiming two battleships, two cruisers and a destroyer sunk, sir.” The lieutenant had the message flimsy in his hands and was waving it around in what seemed to be near-triumph.

  Admiral Cunningham looked at the young officer with a certain level of severity. The Lieutenant was brash, to the point of being insubordinate, and was never afraid to speak his mind. Neither trait seemed to be very favorable to the prospect of a successful naval career. Nevertheless, Cunningham believed that he would go far; it was just that he wasn’t sure whether it would be to the top of His Majesty’s Navy or to one of his prisons. Still, one had to make allowances for anybody cursed with a surname like Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glucksberg. How did a Greek end up with a name like that? he wondered.

  “And why is my searchlight officer bringing messages to the bridge?”

  “Casting light on the situation, sir.” The lieutenant seemed quite unabashed by the question from the commander of the Mediterranean Fleet. “Signals is swamped, sir, with all the traffic coming in, and are out of runners. I was passing, so I was just helped out.”

  “Hmph.” Cunningham wasn’t quite certain whether that was commendable or not, but there was much to be said for an officer who wasn’t reluctant to help out another department in an emergency. Especially with a message as important as this one. “We had another message from the RAF a few minutes ago. They say that the Italian battle squadron is retiring on the naval base at Taranto with three large and five small ships. How do you reconcile the two messages?”

  “I’d assume that either the debriefing on Eagle or the RAF made a pig’s breakfast of things, sir. Probably, both of them. The important thing is what they both say; the Italian Battlefleet has been hit hard and is retiring.”

  Well, that was probably accurate, if tactless, Cunningham thought. And he got the crux of the matter right. Eagle sent the battle squadron running for port with their tails between their legs. That means that the Italian convoy is wide open.

  “Quite. Captain Fisher, make to the rest of the squadron that they are to form on us and prepare for a night action.” Cunningham looked at the four light cruisers and four destroyers that surrounded Warspite and couldn’t help but reflect that the battleship looked rather like a nanny surrounded by her charges. “Make 23 knots and steer to intercept the Italian convoy. We want to hit them after dusk, so we can hunt them all down before dawn. I had expected to spend most of the day beating off air attacks, but we haven’t seen a single aircraft. This is most encouraging. Lieutenant, get to your searchlights and make sure your crews are ready. Much may depend on you tonight.”

  Martin Maryland 1 G-George, North of Tobruk

  “There they are.” Charles Cussans sounded triumphant from his position in the glazed nose of the Maryland. In the gathering gloom, the merchant ships far below were hard to see, but he had managed to spot them. It was, perhaps, symbolic of the rapidly changing fortunes in the Middle East that the Marylands that had been brought in as bombers now spent most of their time as reconnaissance aircraft. The Commonwealth problem now wasn’t beating the Italians; it was finding them, so they could be beaten.

  “Get the position.” Relaying it to the fleet was the top priority. In the cockpit, Sean Mannix knew that four cruisers and a round half-dozen destroyers were closing in on that convoy. There were even rumors that they had a battleship along, in case of heavy opposition, and that Andy Cunningham himself was in charge. Even as a long-term, RAF, career professional, he had to admit that the situation had promise.

  “Got it.” Cussans read off a string of numbers. They were sent out almost immediately. The message had to go to Cairo, then taken to the Naval section there and retransmitted to the fleet, but that wasn’t going to be a problem. What the numbers essentially said was that the Italian convoy was where it was expected to be.

  “They’re firing down there.”

  The flash of fire from the antiaircraft guns on the ships down below was almost invisible; the operative word was ‘almost’. Cussans had seen them. The warning gave Mannix the opportunity for some sudden evasive action. The Maryland bounced from the shell bursts, but none of the explosions inflicted any damage. Below them, the rapidly-approaching night masked the formation of ships. It was time to go home.

  “Good job, Cussans. As a special reward, you can natter on the intercom while we head for home.” Mannix smiled to himself. He’d sat in the bombardier’s position on his Maryland and realized just how lonely and isolated it was down there. That was a problem with the Martin aircraft; it was a hot-rod but its fuselage was extremely cramped. The three members of the crew were pretty much isolated from take-off to landing. Chattering on the intercom helped to relieve the isolation. Mannix had written a report for the high-ups drawing attention to the problem and discussing the good and bad points of the American design. He doubted if it would do any good, but one never knew.

  Admiral’s Bridge, HMS Warspite, North of Tobruk

  He was seeing into the future as well as the nighttime darkness, Admiral Cunningham had no doubt about that. The equipment was crude and its performance needed to improve a lot before it would become an essential aid. More importantly, the Navy would have to learn how to use the tools properly. At the moment, they were still floundering around, trying to get the system perfected. Yet for all that, the radar equipment fitted to Warspite had spotted the enemy convoy and allowed the Commonwealth formation to make its approach unseen. In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

  “Range to primary target?” The flagship of the convoy was the heavy cruiser Bolzano, presumably along to provide heavy gun cover against a raid. The covering force, now on its way back to Taranto, was supposed to deal with anything more than a small attack, so a single heavy cruiser was good insurance. Or, so it seemed; Cunningham actually had the gravest doubts about the whole concept of’distant cover’. To his way of thinking, the battle would evolve so fast that a ‘distant cover’ squadron wouldn’t be able to react in time.

  “Five thousand yards, sir.”

  That sounded frighteningly close. The big thing about radar was that didn’t just tell people what was there; it told the lookouts where to concentrate their attention. Technically, lookouts could easily spot a target at this range; on a dark night, with no moon and against blacked-out ships, reality was different from theory. Knowing where to look made all the difference.

  “Very well. Open fire.”

  What happened next happened so fast and so perfectly that it could only have been the result of long practice and fingers waiting anxiously on firing switches. Warspite’s searchlights snapped on, perfectly illuminating the unsuspecting Italian cruiser. Every detail of her superstructure stood out in the glaring white light. A split second later, Warspite’s four-inch antiaircraft guns cracked out starshells that burst over the cruiser, further bathing her in light. Her eight fifteen-inch guns, already levelled at their target, crashed out, sending the great projectiles slamming into Bolzano’s hull. All eight hit; a spe
ctacular sight that silenced everybody on the bridge. Bolzano staggered under the blows, reeling as they penetrated deep into her. The explosions didn’t just belch orange flame. They sent huge chunks of the ship’s structure spiralling skywards as the blast ripped Bolzano apart at the seams. The cruiser was out of the battle; she would be hard-put to survive.

  Down in Warspite’s turrets, a well-ordered drill had started. Hoists lifted the shells themselves and the bags of propellent up to the guns. Rams then pushed them into the breach. As each gun was readied, a green light went on in the fire control room. Tiny realignments shifted the positions of the gun turrets slightly. Then a finger closed the switch; all eight guns fired again. The cycle time had been twenty seconds.

  It was only a split second longer than that before the second devastating broadside tore into the dying Italian cruiser. Cunningham saw her gun turrets hurled high into the air by the blast, spinning and spiralling as they flew upwards. Perhaps mercifully, the sight was masked by the sudden shutdown of the searchlights. Bolzano now was only illuminated by the starshells and the red glow of the fires engulfing her.

  Cunningham became fixated by the sight. The brilliant glare of the searchlights illuminating a destroyer was a shock. The destroyer seemed to be turning to engage the British battleship. She had been caught by the searchlights halfway through the turn. Warspite’s six-inch secondary battery opened fire. The first salvo straddled the destroyer; the second gave the brilliant red flash of direct hits. The third salvo must have been fired. If it had been, it was lost in the roar of Warspite’s main battery sending its third broadside into the blazing wreck of Bolzano.

  Admiral’s Bridge, Bartolomeo Colleoni

  “Order the convoy to scatter, immediately.”

  Rear Admiral Ferdinando Casardi was horrified by the sudden discovery that there was a battleship attacking his convoy. More to the point, battleships never appeared alone. There are cruisers and destroyers out there and they will tear us apart.

  “Order the Bande Nere and the destroyers to join us in attacking the enemy and holding them off while the merchant ships make a run for safety.”

  “Sir, Grecale has been hit by fire from the battleship’s secondary batteries.”

  And so it begins. Casardi realized that a major disaster was already in the making. Bolzano was a pyre of smoke and flame. Even from this range, he could see her disintegrating as the British battleship pounded her with another salvo. Does that make it four or five full broadsides she has taken? Does it matter? She’s finished.

  ‘‘Grecale is returning fire.” The lookout was trying to keep his voice under control, but the tinge of sheer, blind panic was already working his way into the reports. “She’s lit up, sir.”

  The Italian destroyer was starkly visible in the black of the night, standing out in the white tracks across the water created by the British searchlights. Whoever was operating them was a master of his craft. The searchlights would flick on for a few seconds. Just long enough for the starshell crews to drop their rounds around her and then the searchlights would go off. Once they did so, the battleship seemed to vanish into the night again. It was Grecale’s turn again. She was already burning. That was her doom; the fires made an excellent point of aim for the British gunners. Grimly, Casardi realized that was the one hope the merchant ships, already turning away from the attack, would have. The first ships to get hit will attract all the fire. That buys time for the rest. There is a sacrifice that has to be made.

  “Searchlights on. Bearing oh-nine-oh.”

  Casardi had made a quick guess at the position of the British cruisers and destroyers. He wanted his lights on to try and fix a target while he still had the guns to engage them. More importantly, he had to draw the British fire away from the merchantmen.

  Bartolomeo Colleoni’s searchlights snapped on, but the sea they illuminated was empty. To some extent, they achieved their purpose, though. For around him, he saw the orange flare of British guns. Eight guns per ship. Does that mean they are eight-inch Counties or six-inch Leanders? And does it matter? My Colleoni was designed to fight French destroyers, not British cruisers. Our armor won’t keep out either shell.

  That was when the world got very bright. Casardi realized what the British were up to. The battleship is using her searchlights to illuminate targets and her armor to absorb any fire we can throw at her when she gives her position away by doing so. Meanwhile, the cruisers and destroyers stay in the darkness to fire on us.

  He felt Colleoni lurch under his feet. Her guns fired on the muzzle flashes of the British cruisers. She took a deeper and much more serious roll; a pattern of six-inch shells smacked into her amidships. He felt his cruiser dying. The vibration from the engines and the movement of the ship slackened as the hits took out her engine rooms.

  “Keep firing under local control.”

  There was another brilliant flash from off to port. For a horrible moment, Casardi thought another British battleship had joined the fight. Then he realized that it was the Bande Nere. She’d been torpedoed. The explosion had torn the hull, one optimized for speed, not strength, in two. It was barely five minutes into the action. Already, all three Italian cruisers were crippled or dying.

  Bridge, HMAS Sydney

  This was what every cruiser captain lived for. Captain John Augustine Collins watched the eight six-inch guns on his cruiser hammer the Italian ship trapped in the glare of Warspite’s searchlights. He’d fired three half-broadsides, patterns of four shells in quick sequence, that laddered the target and got the guns ranged in. Now he was pouring full eight-gun broadsides into the cruiser’s hull. She was already burning and slowing notably. As she did, the ripples of hits along her hull seemed to grow in intensity, outlining her hull with orange fire. The Italians always made much of the speed of their cruisers, he thought. The day they make one that’s faster than a shell, I’ll believe they have a good idea.

  “Is that Eye-tie trying to commit suicide?” Collin’s executive officer seemed bemused by the spectacle.

  “He’s drawing our fire. Very well, too. Buying time for the convoy to scatter and escape. A brave man is dying over there, Billy.”

  His comment was interrupted by the splash of shell patterns all around him. Sydney’s crew were well-rehearsed. The shooter was illuminated by her searchlights before she could get a second salvo out. Sydney’s four-inch guns fired almost as quickly and with deadly accuracy. Two brilliant red flashes lit up the destroyer’s stem, tearing into the two twin mounts there and starting the dull red glow of fire.

  “Cease firing; that’s Mohawk!” Collins had recognized the big destroyer with her eight guns almost as soon as she had been illuminated. “And get those lights off her.”

  It was too late. In the brief seconds Mohawk had been illuminated, an Italian destroyer seized the opportunity to fire her torpedoes. One hit Mohawk directly under the forward gun mounts; the second in the aft machinery spaces. Columns of water blew skywards, enveloping the ship. Mohawk was finished. Collins knew that; no destroyer built could take two well-placed torpedoes. She was already coming to a halt and settling fast; her crew going over the side in a hurried ‘abandon ship’.

  Collins swung his attention back to the light cruiser being hammered by his six-inch guns. She was already silenced and listing rapidly; a floating wreck being left behind as the Commonwealth ships pushed through the Italian screen to the merchant ships beyond. The flares of the six-inch shells hitting her were suddenly swamped by a series of massive explosions, as Warspite brought her 15-inch guns to bear. Then those blasts too were dwarfed; the Italian cruiser’s magazines exploded.

  Bridge, HMS Nubian

  “We can worry about picking up survivors later.”

  Nubian and Mohawk had been flotilla mates for a long time, and the crews of the big Tribal class destroyers tended to stick closely together. Leaving the crew of Mohawk behind came hard. Commander Mason tore his eyes away from the sinking wreck of Nubian’s sister-ship and stared
into the darkness. The brilliant displays of starshell and searchlights, combined with the angry glare of shells and heavy gunfire, had effectively destroyed his night vision. Even so, the patch of darkness ahead of him seemed a bit more solid than the rest. When the darkness resolved itself into the shape of an Italian destroyer, Mason realized what had happened.

  The destroyer saw Mohawk illuminated and fired her torpedoes. Then, she sheered away in an effort to clear the launch point. A sound and sensible maneuver. She couldn’t turn one way because that would bring her into Sydney’s arc of fire so she went the other and that put her right across my bows.

  “Stand by for collision. Brace for impact!” Mason only just managed to get the order out. Nubian slammed into the center-section of the Italian destroyer, just aft of the single ftinnel. For a brief second. Mason saw the letters FG painted on the destroyer’s bows, identifying her as the Folgore. Then the sight was masked out as Nubian’s bows rose over the Italian ship. Folgore seemed to be writhing under the impact, reminding Mason of a snake being crushed under a boot. Then Nubian slammed down; the Italian destroyer’s back snapped under the stress. Nubian’s momentum carried her forward, completing the job of cutting Folgore in half. Folgore’s own momentum carried her onwards, twisting Nubian’s bows to one side. There was a scream of tortured steel as Nubian’s bows detached. Then silence. Both destroyers were dead in the water. Folgore was already sinking fast. The crew aboard the larger and more toughly-built Nubian swarmed into the ruined bows, trying to reinforce shattered bulkheads and staunch the floods pouring in through the riven forward hull.

  Bridge, HMAS Sydney

  “We’re through.”

  Collins looked at the situation plot with unalloyed pleasure. The chaos of the night battle was falling behind. Warspite, Neptune and Orion, plus the two remaining British destroyers, slugged it out with what was left of the Italian escort. Sydney and Perth, along with five Australian destroyers, were past that battle and racing towards the merchant ships, who were undoubtedly scattering. The task left was simple; hunting the merchant ships down, one by one, and sinking them.