Fortress England

by Robert Jackson

  At 1800 on the 11th, with the convoys safely on their way under escort, the Illustrious, with a screen of four cruisers and four destroyers, detached herself from the main force and headed for her flying-off position 170 miles from Taranto. Twenty-one aircraft were available for the strike: twelve from 815 Squadron, led by Lieutenant Commander Ken Williamson, and nine from No. 819 under Lieutenant Commander ‘Ginger’ Hale. Because of the restricted space available over the target, only six aircraft from each wave were to carry torpedoes; the others were to drop flares to the east of the Mar Grande, silhouetting the warships anchored there, or to dive-bomb the vessels in the Mar Piccolo.

  The first wave of Swordfish began taking off at 2040 and set course in clear weather, climbing to 8,000 feet and reaching the enemy coast at 2220. The Swordfish formation then split in two, the torpedo-carriers turning away to make their approach from the west while the flare-droppers headed for a point east of the Mar Grande. At 2300 the torpedo aircraft were in position and began their attack, diving in line astern with engines throttled well back. Williamson, descending to thirty feet, passed over the stern of the battleship Diga di Tarantola and released his torpedo at the destroyer Fulmine; it missed and ran on to explode against the side of a bigger target, the battleship Conte di Cavour. Then the Swordfish was hit by AA fire and had to ditch; Williamson and his observer, Lieutenant Scarlett, were taken prisoner. Two torpedoes from the remaining Swordfish hit the brand-new battleship Littorio; the aircraft all got clear of the target area and set course for the carrier. So did the other six Swordfish, whose bombs had damaged some oil tanks and started a big fire in the seaplane base beside the Mar Piccolo.

  The second wave, which had taken off some fifty minutes after the first, had no difficulty in locating Taranto; the whole target area was lit up by searchlights and the glare of fires. There were only eight aircraft in this wave — the ninth had been forced to turn back to the carrier with mechanical trouble. This time, the five torpedo-carriers came in from the north. Two of their torpedoes hit the Littorio and another the Caio Duilio; a fourth narrowly missed the Vittorio Veneto. The fifth Swordfish was hit and exploded, killing both crew members.

  By 0300 all the surviving Swordfish had been recovered safely, although some had substantial battle damage. Some of the crews who had bombed the vessels in the Mar Piccolo reported that some bombs had failed to explode; one had hit the cruiser Trento amidships, only to bounce off into the water, and the same had happened with a hit on the destroyer Libeccio.

  The following day, RAF reconnaissance photographs told the full story of the damage inflicted on the Italian Fleet. The mighty Littorio, with great gaps torn in her side by three torpedoes, was badly down by the bow and leaking huge quantities of oil; it would take four months to effect repairs. The Caio Duilio and the Conte di Cavour had taken one hit each; the former had been beached and the latter had sunk on the bottom.

  Armstrong was not the only one who had analysed the Taranto attack with great interest. On the other side of the world, another man had made a careful study of it, thinking: if the British could achieve such a result with a handful of outdated biplanes, what might be achieved with a large force of modern dive-bombers and torpedo-bombers against a fleet in harbour? The blueprint for just such an attack was already being drawn up by Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto of the Imperial Japanese Navy, whose country was not yet at war with the powerful nations of the West.

  It was four months since Taranto, and in the meantime the Mediterranean Fleet had suffered some severe reverses, for a new power had intervened in the Mediterranean war. It should not have come as a surprise to the British.

  On 9 January 1941 a convoy of four big supply ships, escorted by HMS Ark Royal and the other warships of Force H, entered the narrows between Sicily and Tunis on its way to Malta and Piraeus. The passage of the ships through the troubled waters of the central Mediterranean — known as Operation Excess — at first followed the pattern of earlier convoys. In the afternoon of the 9th the usual formation of Italian Savoia SM79s appeared and bombed from high altitude without scoring any hits; two of the SM79s were intercepted by Ark Royal’s Fulmars and shot down.

  As darkness fell, Force H turned back towards Gibraltar, leaving the cruiser Bonaventure and the destroyers Jaguar, Hereward, Hasty and Hero to shepherd the convoy through the narrows under cover of night. At dawn on the 10th, the transports were met by the ships of the Eastern Mediterranean Fleet, comprising the carrier Illustrious, the battleships Warspite and Valiant and seven destroyers sixty miles west of Malta. Admiral Cunningham’s ships had already suffered; shortly before first light, the destroyer Gallant had been badly damaged by a mine and had to be taken in tow by HMS Mohawk.

  Torpedo attacks by ten SM79s were beaten off in the course of the morning, and the Italian MTB Vega was sunk by the Bonaventure. Then Illustrious’s radar detected another incoming formation of enemy aircraft, which soon afterwards was sighted approaching the warships at 12,000 feet. Sailors who had fought in the waters off Norway and Dunkirk recognised the enemy aircraft at once; they were Junkers Ju 87 dive-bombers.

  The Stukas were the aircraft of StG1 and StG2, led by Hauptmann Werner Hozzel and Major Walter Enneccerus. They formed the mainstay of the Luftwaffe’s special antishipping formation, Fliegerkorps X, and they had arrived at Trapani in Sicily less than a week earlier. Their presence should not have come as a surprise; Air Ministry Intelligence had been aware since 4 January of Fliegerkorps X’s move south from Norway, and it was also aware of the unit’s specialised role. The threat to the Mediterranean Fleet was clear; unfortunately, at this point there was a breakdown in communication between the Air Ministry and the Admiralty, and the Stukas came as an unpleasant shock. Now, as they began their attack dive, it was clear that they had singled out Illustrious as their principal target. The first bomb tore through S1 pom-pom on the carrier’s port side, reducing the weapon to twisted wreckage and killing two of its crew before passing through the platform and exploding in the sea. Another bomb exploded on S2 pom-pom and obliterated it, together with its crew. A third hit the after-well lift, on its way to the flight deck with a Fulmar on it; debris and burning fuel poured into the hangar below, which quickly became an inferno of blazing aircraft and exploding fuel tanks. Splinters struck the eight 4.5-inch gun turrets aft, putting them all out of action. A fourth bomb crashed through the flight deck and ripped through the ship’s side, exploding in the water; splinters punched holes through the hull and the shock of the detonation caused more damage in the hangar. The fifth bomb punched through the flight deck and hangar deck and exploded in the wardroom flat, killing everyone there and sending a storm of fire raging through the neighbouring passages. A sixth plunged down the after-lift well and exploded in the compartment below, putting the steering-gear out of action.

  Illustrious was terribly hurt, but her heavy armour had saved her. Slowly the crew gained a measure of control and she turned towards Malta, shrouded in a pall of smoke from the fires that still raged, steering on her main engines as the stokers worked in dense, choking fumes and temperatures reaching 140°F as they strove to maintain steam. Two hours later the Stukas attacked again and the carrier was hit by yet another bomb; she was now listing badly, but she remained afloat. As darkness fell, she limped into Valletta’s Grand Harbour and stopped alongside the dockyard wall.

  During the weeks that followed, Illustrious sustained several more bomb hits as she underwent repairs, but she escaped crippling damage and by 23 January she had been made seaworthy enough to sail for Alexandria. From there she later sailed for the US Navy shipyards at Norfolk, Virginia, where she underwent more permanent repairs before returning to active service.

  As they listened to the BBC news in the warmth of the little hotel on this last day of March, 1941, Armstrong and his colleagues became aware that the Royal Navy had once again provided a bright glow in a picture that was otherwise gloomy. There had been a military coup in Yugoslavia; the young heir to the throne, Peter,
had been declared king, and pro-German factions expelled from the country.

  “The Germans won’t stand for it,” Kalinski said gloomily.

  “They are already massing an army in Romania. They will soon invade Yugoslavia and Greece, depend upon it.”

  “But why?” Baird wanted to know. “What advantage would they gain from that?”

  “The advantage, my friend,” Kalinski said, “lies in securing their southern flank. I believe that the Germans are planning an attack on the Soviet Union.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t be that stupid,” Mr MacDonald said. “Nobody has ever invaded Russia and succeeded. What if —”

  He was interrupted by the measured tones of John Snagge, the newsreader, giving details of the fleet action in the Mediterranean. They listened in silence as Snagge intoned the story of what had undoubtedly been a resounding victory; but the three officers in the room were all sharing the same thoughts. If Kalinski was right, then the Luftwaffe would soon be operating in the Mediterranean in strength, and then the Navy would have a fight on its hands.

  *

  Interlude: Cape Matapan — 28 March 1941

  On 9 March 1941, the gap created by the absence of HMS Illustrious was filled when HMS Formidable, her sister carrier, joined the Mediterranean Fleet. She carried only four Swordfish; the rest of her aircraft complement was made up of ten Fairey Albacores — biplanes, like the Swordfish, but bigger and faster, with a longer range and an enclosed cockpit — of No. 826 Squadron, and the thirteen Fulmars of No. 803 Squadron, transferred from the Ark Royal. The fighter complement would be brought up to full strength in the following month, when No. 806 Squadron joined the carrier from Malta. Before that, however, Formidable and her aircraft were to play a decisive part in another large-scale action against the Italian Fleet.

  At dawn on 28 March, while the Mediterranean Fleet was engaged in covering the passage of convoys of British Commonwealth troops from Alexandria to Greece to counter a highly probable German invasion of that country, a reconnaissance Albacore from the Formidable reported a force of enemy cruisers and destroyers to the south of Crete. This force, which actually comprised the battleship Vittorio Veneto — the flagship of the Italian commander, Admiral Iachino — six heavy cruisers, two light cruisers and thirteen destroyers, had put to sea from Taranto, Naples, Brindisi and Messina and had made rendezvous south of the Straits of Messina on 27 March with the object of intercepting the British troop convoys. Iachino had agreed to the operation only when the Luftwaffe promised him extensive fighter cover and reconnaissance facilities, and after the crews of two Heinkel 111 torpedo bombers had erroneously reported hits on two large warships — ‘possibly battleships’ — during an armed reconnaissance flight thirty nautical miles west of Crete on 16 March. It was a mistake that was to have serious consequences for the Italian admiral.

  At 0815 on 28 March the Mediterranean Fleet’s cruisers, which were about 100 miles ahead of the main force, came under fire from the Italian warships and were in danger of being cut off by the enemy, who was steaming in a large pincer formation. With no hope of Admiral Cunningham’s heavy brigade arriving in time to ease the situation, it was apparent that only a torpedo strike by Formidable’s aircraft could ease the pressure on the outgunned British cruisers, and at 1000 six Albacores — the only ones available, as the other four were earmarked for reconnaissance duties — took off with an escort of two Fulmars and headed for the Italian squadrons. Their orders were to attack the enemy cruisers, but the first ship they sighted was the Vittorio Veneto, whose 15-inch guns were pounding the British cruiser squadron. The Fleet Air Arm pilots attacked in two waves at 1125, but the Italian battleship took evasive action and all the torpedoes missed. The two Fulmars, meanwhile, had engaged two Ju 88s high overhead and destroyed one of them, driving the other off.

  Admiral Iachino, seeing his air cover melt away, now turned away and headed west at speed, reducing Cunningham’s hopes of bringing him to action. The British commander ordered a second air strike, this time with the object of slowing down the Vittorio Veneto, and the Formidable accordingly flew off three Albacores and two Swordfish, again escorted by a pair of Fulmars. They sighted their target — which had meanwhile been unsuccessfully attacked by RAF Blenheim bombers from bases in Greece — an hour later. This time, mainly because they were on the alert for more RAF aircraft approaching from a different direction, the Italian gunners failed to see the Fleet Air Arm aircraft until the latter began their attack. The Albacores came in first, led by Lieutenant Commander Dalyell-Stead; he released his torpedo seconds before his aircraft was hit and blew up. The torpedo ran true and exploded on the battleship’s stern, jamming her steering gear and flooding the compartment with 4,000 tons of water. No further torpedo hits were registered, but the Vittorio Veneto was forced to slow down and stop while her engineers made temporary repairs, spurred by the knowledge that Cunningham’s battleships were now only three hours’ steaming time away. They succeeded in repairing the propeller shaft and gradually the battleship’s speed was worked up until she was able to proceed at between fifteen and eighteen knots, with the cruisers and destroyers forming a tight screen around her.

  The Formidable’s third and last attack was launched at dusk. Led by Lieutenant Commander W.H.G. Saunt, six Albacores and four Swordfish, two of the latter from Maleme airfield on Crete, caught up with the damaged battleship and her escort and attacked through heavy AA fire. The Vittorio Veneto escaped further harm, but one torpedo heading for the battleship was blocked by the cruiser Pola, which was badly damaged. Admiral Iachino detached the cruisers Zara and Fiume and four destroyers to escort her, while the rest of the Italian force accompanied the Vittorio Veneto to safety.

  At 2210 the three cruisers and the destroyers were detected by radar on board the battleship HMS Valiant and the cruiser Orion. Fifteen minutes later the Italian ships were engaged by Valiant and Warspite and the Zara and Fiume were quickly reduced to blazing hulks; two destroyers were sent in to finish them off with torpedoes. The crippled Pola was also sunk before morning, as well as two of the Italian destroyers. The enemy warships, which were not equipped with radar, had no idea that they were steaming across the bows of the British force until the battleships opened fire on them.

  The Italians had lost five warships and nearly 2,500 officers and men; the British had lost just one Albacore. So ended the action that was to become known as the Battle of Cape Matapan.

  Chapter Four

  Eastchurch Airfield, Kent — 3 April 1941

  Of all the aircraft that might have been allocated to him as his personal transport, Armstrong could not have wished for anything better than the North American Harvard advanced trainer. A low-wing, two-seat aircraft, the Harvard would cruise happily at 150 m.p.h., making it ideal for liaison between the airfields over which the various flights of Armstrong’s squadron were scattered. The front cockpit was ideal — neither too roomy nor too cramped, with all the switches and levers in easy reach and with excellent visibility; the rear cockpit, normally occupied by an instructor but now occupied by Dickie Baird, was almost as good, if somewhat more stark.

  In the cockpit, with the canopy closed, the noise of the big 600 horsepower Pratt and Whitney Wasp radial engine was muted, but to anyone outside it produced a fearful racket, a blare caused by the tips of the propeller blades exceeding supersonic speed. The engine produced plenty of power for everything, from providing good acceleration on take-off to performing continuous aerobatics without losing height. Armstrong loved it, and had to be politely reminded from time to time by his colleagues that the aircraft was actually assigned to the squadron, and not to him personally. He took absolutely no notice.

  Eastchurch aerodrome, on the Isle of Sheppey, had taken a fearful battering during the Battle of Britain and had not been much used since, which suited Armstrong very well. The squadron’s ‘B’ Flight, with four cannon-armed Hurricanes, was based here under the command of Flying Officer Piet Van Berg, a South African w
ho had been commissioned a few months earlier. Armstrong could see a couple of the Hurricanes as he circled the airfield prior to landing, still bearing the black paint that had been sprayed on them to conform with their night-fighter activities the previous winter.

  Their task was different now. For some weeks, Van Berg and his small band of pilots had been assessing the cannon-armed Hurricane as a possible anti-shipping weapon, making sporadic attacks on the enemy maritime traffic that plied along the enemy-held Channel coast. Two of the aircraft had been equipped to carry a pair of 250-pound bombs, and trials with these had just started. The trials were in connection with a combined operation called Channel Stop, which had recently been launched by the Admiralty and the RAF and which was intended to close the English Channel to enemy shipping.

  The task should have been assigned to RAF Coastal Command, but because Coastal was short of aircraft the job had been given to the Blenheim squadrons of Bomber Command’s No. 2 Group, which flew regular armed reconnaissance sorties, known as ‘beats’, off the coasts of Holland, Belgium and northern France. The bombers flew at low level in a rectangular pattern towards, along and finally away from the enemy coastline; the idea was to surprise enemy shipping by attacking from the landward side, and was also calculated to be the best tactic to avoid interception by enemy fighter patrols. But the increasing use of flak ships attached to the German convoys, coupled with the inherent risks of low-level operations and the ability of the Luftwaffe to mount effective convoy protection patrols, resulted in appalling losses; about 25 per cent of the Blenheims that set out never came back.