Alarm Starboard!: A Remarkable True Story of the War at Sea
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‘Alarm starboard! Enemy in sight. Battleship bearing green five-0. Follow director. All guns with armour-piercing load.’ Click went the loudspeaker: ‘This is your Captain speaking. The two enemy ships are in sight and we shall be opening fire any minute now. Good luck to you all.’
I could see nothing except the unbroken straight line of the horizon but, of course, the forward director was a good deal higher than ours and so could see further. The records say the time was 05:38. The loudspeaker came on the air again. ‘This is the padre speaking. I am going to read a short prayer.’ This he did. Though by no means irreligious, I must admit I found this distracting. But not for long. Something suddenly came up over the horizon to grow slowly but distinctly; the top of a mast. Then a little to its left something else. I shall never forget the thrill of that moment. A squat grey lump on a stalk, with bars protruding each side—the Bismarck’s main armament director. ‘Director Target’ said Mr White evenly. It grew by the second like a serpent rearing up while our rangetaker spun his wheel, trying to converge his two half-images in the face of driving spume. After widening out into a fighting top of some sort one saw that the stalk was really the top of a tower; other excrescences appeared and between these and the mast, the pointed cowl then the full width of a massive funnel. Guns began again ‘Range two seven. Inclination one—two—0 left. Speed three—0’. Down below in the Transmitting Station they would be winding handwheels and pressing buttons as the details came down to them. Mesmerised, I watched the Bismarck’s superstructure swell as more and more of its pyramid shape—seen so often in diagrams—came into view. She was just before our beam, steaming from right to left at an angle about 30° this side of right angles.
All our Control Officers’ headsets were interconnected and I heard a discussion forward about another ship. Shifting my binoculars a little I picked up a second director a good way to the left and then the performance repeated itself—stalk, lump, tower, pyramid—but on a smaller scale. Surely it must be the Tirpitz, only further off, ie, on the far bow of the Bismarck. I swallowed hard. If it was the Tirpitz we were certainly in for something. But Guns decided it was a cruiser, reaffirming the right-hand ship as target.*
We heeled to port a little, the Bismarck sliding a fraction to the left before the director caught up, as we altered 40° towards the enemy. It was a turn by Blue Pennant, the two ships—still only 800 yards apart-turning at the same moment so that the flagship finished up 40° on Prince of Wales’ port bow, both steering to cut the enemy’s advance at a sharper angle and so close the range much more quickly.
‘“Y” turret will not bear’ repeated the communication number, indicating that the turret on the quarterdeck had come up against its safety stops. I imagined Captain Aylwin, RM (the whole turret was manned by marines), fuming impotently. Though the enemy was within range, we were presumably conserving ammunition. For some time we kept on with only the usual sounds of the sea and the voice of the Gunnery Officer as he updated his calculations.
‘Ready to open fire Sir!’ This was to the Captain and one could not hear the reply. Surely it was yes and why weren’t we firing? The whole of the Bismarck was now visible and I could not restrain a gasp of admiration, tinged with awe. Long and rakish with undeniably majestic lines, she was a fawnish grey, not bluish like our ships—or it may just have been the light. I noticed with a pang that all her 15-inch guns were pointing in our direction.
There was a boom from not far off. The Hood had opened fire. Seconds later ‘Shoot!’ said Guns. Ting-ting went the fire gong and I shut my eyes. BAROOM! The Prince of Wales’ first salvo was away from ‘A’ and ‘B’ turrets. The slight concussion and the brown smoke that drifted aft (the wind dispersed it fairly quickly) brought welcome relief from inaction. My fingers moved up and down the three knobs. Suddenly a rippling yellow flash played in front of the Bismarck, followed by a dark cloud that, nearly blotting her out, hung for an appreciable time. She had fired. At whom? The range was 25,600 yards (nearly 13 miles) and it would take almost a minute to find out. There was a hoarse croak from a box on the bulkhead, heralding the fall of our shot, and a cluster of white columns rose to form a wall behind the Bismarck (and I think to the right, but that was B-C’s pigeon). I pressed ‘over’. BAROOM! went another salvo, following one from the Hood. Another flash from the Bismarck. More smoke. Wait. Croak. Splash. Press for another ‘over’. BAROOM! Flash. On it went, Guns ordering corrections (‘Left one. Down ladder shoot’) in a level voice as each salvo landed, each time nearer. So far nothing seen of the enemy’s shells. Presumably she was firing at the Hood. (The cruiser was also firing at the Hood but she was so far to the left that I could not see her without taking my glasses off the Bismarck and after the initial scrutiny I never saw her again during the action.)
BAROOM! again. Wait. Croak, splash, ‘over’. BAROOM!—‘short’. We must have been firing for nearly three minutes, it was the sixth salvo, when there was the welcome sight of the great white wall partly in front and partly behind the Bismarck. Straddle! By all the laws we should have hit her. She did not look any different, but I did not expect her to as armour-piercing shells burst inside, normally unseen. Three more salvoes, one of which was another straddle. We were making very creditable shooting, though I had not taken in that one of our guns was not working.
Another salvo had just gone when I heard Guns warn his director layer ‘Stand by to alter course to port’. This long-awaited move-presumably we were going back to the original heading so that ‘Y’ turret could bear for the first time—had begun to take place, in that we heeled to starboard and it became temporarily more difficult to hold the Bismarck steady in one’s glasses, when the ship suddenly rolled upright again and then continued to heel over the opposite way; moreover, with the urgency and excessive vibration that comes only from violent rudder movement. We were going hard-a-starboard. Back towards the enemy again. What the hell was going on? There was a momentary lull. Probably the director gunner had been put off his aim, and in the comparative quiet I realised that hitherto there had been an intermittent background noise.
The ship steadied up and then began to come back to port. Dick Beckwith said ‘My God! The Hoocd’s gone!’
I shot a glance up at him. He was staring horrified over his left shoulder, through his rear port. We both looked back into our glasses. Though I heard the words quite distinctly they meant nothing at that moment. It was as if that part of my brain not concerned with the long grey shape that belched flame and smoke simply was not working. I could have stood up and had a quick look (afterwards wishing I had) but it did not occur to me.
Seconds later we were just about steady, with all turrets bearing at last, when the sea erupted a few hundred yards in front, a great curtain of water going up for 200 feet over a wide area. CRASH! went ‘Y’ turret about twenty yards to our right. Distracted, I had failed to shut my eyes at the fire gong and was momentarily dazzled by the big orange flash. The director shook as a warm glow enveloped us and then everything was blotted out by the usual mass of pungent chocolate smoke. Their very forward bearing had brought the muzzles of the guns about in line with our director (never experienced in practice shoots) and at each succeeding salvo we received a considerable shake-up. The smoke had hardly cleared when another, smaller fountain shot up to the left—that must be the cruiser I thought—and then our shells landed and I pressed ‘short’. There was a staccato, rippling bang followed by drifting smoke, our 5.25 armament joining in. CRASH! went ‘Y’ turret. A second huge splash in front, much nearer this time and then several smaller ones, some to the left and some to the right. There were more frequent flashes from the Bismarck, accompanied by less smoke. Of course the range was coming down fast and she was firing her secondary armament too. Croak. Straddle! That was good, our third.
The whole ship shook, or so it seemed, and a stream of red hot fragments shot past my port from left to right. They were followed by smoke and the distinctive acrid smell of burning. There was anot
her shudder. Obviously we were being hit. The smell of burning continued though the smoke began to thin. More huge splashes and then a positive hail of smaller ones. The range was down to 13,800 yards, ideal for a cruiser action, almost point-blank for battleships. The sea was a turmoil, columns of water shooting up as others subsided and the noise was continuous, with bangs from our 5.25s every ten seconds, the CRASH of our 14-inches every twenty, the occasional crunch of something arriving onboard and a continuous background row from the hiss of falling spray and the roar of shells overhead. The Bismarck was now very large in my field of view; every detail of her was plain.*
I believe we had two more straddles. Just after our 14th or 15th salvo there was an almighty splosh as a number of 15-inch shells (either four or eight) landed only a few yards short, plumb in front of us. I was conscious of a slight but distinct jolt and then the entire scene was obliterated by a mountain of green and white water that rose up mast high and, helped by the wind behind it, cascaded down on the rear part of the ship. For a few seconds even the fury outside our small steel world was drowned by the splatter of hundreds of tons of water tumbling all round, pouring down vertical surfaces, splashing and bouncing off others. The three of us were drenched through our small open ports and our binoculars covered in water. As this happened the ship heeled violently towards the enemy and again vibrated heavily to the wheel as she altered course to port. We had our binoculars reversed and were feverishly wiping the lenses dry with our handkerchiefs when the cry we had secretly prayed for rang in our headsets: ‘After director take over. After director take over’. Guns and his team were clearly obscured as the stern swung round towards the target. But we were temporarily blind too (though probably not for more than 15 seconds) and Claude Aylwin in ‘Y’ turret, not receiving the expected control orders, assumed we were hors de combat and switched to local control. Each turret was equipped with rudimentary fire control gear for just this emergency and he now used his to get off—rather wildly as was to be expected—three or four salvoes over the starboard quarter. Clouds of black smoke now began to billow out of our funnels—the Captain had ordered a smoke screen—and as the turn continued, the Prince of Wales began to come round behind it.
When a warship alters course she pivots about the bridge, her stern skidding outwards. We were ready for action in the after director before the 180° turn was completed and just as I bent to the eyepieces—the Bismarck was now on our port quarter—a 15-inch salvo (or it may. well have been a broadside, ie, all guns firing together) landed about 20 yards short of the quarterdeck. It fell in the smooth ‘slick’ made by the skidding stern, exactly where that stern had been about three seconds before. Even in the heat of the moment I realised it was a good thing the Captain had not delayed that much longer. We got our binoculars on to the enemy just before she was hidden by the smoke, only to see her— not without a sense of relief—alter course away too. Thus the range opened quickly, and the cease-fire gong put an end to ‘Y’ turret’s spirited effort. The Bismarck fired a couple more salvoes—probably by radar—and then a strange silence descended.
We sat dazed for a time, saying nothing. My ears sang and my eyes felt sore. It was 06:10. Was it really only 35 minutes before that that mast had first reared out of the sea? Everybody began stretching and taking off their anti-flash gear. Excited conversation broke out. It was all about the Hood. Then I remembered. ‘My God! The Hood’s gone’, and the full awfulness of it flowed over me. Where for days before there had been the reassuring sight of ‘the mighty Hood’ thrusting onwards there was nothing now but the lonely sea and the sky. Dick Beckwith was the only one to have seen anything, and then fleetingly, as we altered course to avoid what was left. He said her bow was sticking up vertically, with what looked like her stern, which disappeared quickly, a little way away. It was just impossible that a 42,000 ton ship with 1,400 men could disappear in two minutes, but she had. It was learnt that our destroyer screen, 30 miles astern, had been sent to pick up survivors, of whom there were only three.
Commander A.C. Luce*, who was Executive Officer of the Norfolk, was to put in a letter to his wife:
We had a front row of the stalls of the action between the Hood and the Prince of Wales and the German forces on Saturday morning, and saw the terrible sight of the Hood blowing up. It was quite appalling. You know the size of those ships, the splashes from the shells were twice the height of her mast. They had a mercifully quick release, it was all over in five minutes. It seemed absolutely incredible. The sight of the Prince of Wales steaming through the smoke and wreckage firing with all her guns, and with fountains of splashes all round her, was a never-to-be-forgotten one. Bismarck was hard hit at this time and turned away with troubles of her own.
His ship, which had in fact joined in with a few shots at long range, now appeared and Rear Admiral Wake-Walker, so traumatically elevated to senior officer present, took the Prince of Wales under his command. The Suffolk was again shadowing the Bismarck and Prinz Eugen (her identity was not actually established until later), both now back on a southerly course, and for the time being we could relax. The bugle sounded for Defence Stations, and this meant that the after director’s crew could fall out.
I climbed stiffly out of the door at the back and down the vertical iron ladder, curious to see what damage the ship had sustained. To get forward without descending to the upper deck it was best to go along the boat deck via a small structure that housed a radar office, stores, heads and the like. I entered this and went down its short central passage. The lights were out and as all the scuttles had their deadlights (thick metal covers) in place it was hard to see. The last compartment on the left was a radar ‘office’, the forward end of which looked out on to the boat deck. There were jagged holes in its inner bulkhead and the door was either open or blown away. I went inside. There was a smell of cordite, or something like it, and the only illumination came from more jagged holes in the outer bulkhead. The air was full of dust, so that thin beams of light from the larger holes played up and down as the ship rolled. There was something on the deck and I went over for a closer look. After a bit one of the beams fell slowly across it to reveal the upper half of a man, severed at the waist. It was a young leading seaman I recognised at once. His eyes were open but his white face looked utterly peaceful. I remember thinking ‘so people do smile when they’re dead’. My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom and I saw another object in the corner. Going over I found it was a boot with a few gory inches of leg sticking out of the top. This suddenly turned my stomach and I rushed out to the nearby heads with my hand over my mouth. Bracing myself against the bulkhead with one arm I leant over the pan, saying to myself ‘I won’t be sick. I won’t be sick’, because I knew instinctively that I must control such nausea now or never.
After a while my stomach subsided and I forced myself to go back and look at the grim sights again. It then dawned on me that I should do something about the poor fellow and so went out in to the welcome fresh air of the boat deck. The charred remains of most of several boats—it was this fire I had smelt—lay all around smouldering. The Master at Arms appeared with two sick berth attendants and a stretcher and I indicated the radar office. He told me that a shell had hit the compass platform, killing or wounding everyone there except the Captain and Chief Yeoman of Signals, both of whom had been knocked down. The two Midshipmen there had been killed. This was a terrible shock. They were Dreyer and Ince, I think Midshipman of the Watch and Navigator’s doggie respectively.
There were a few lumps of engineered metal on the boat deck and on the catapult deck below, where twisted steel and blackened paint marked another hit. At first I could not think what the lumps were— they looked like brass castings from an engine room or turret machinery—and then realised that they were from the Hood. I picked up a solid fragment of steel with one smooth surface, the curve of which denoted its German origin, and what was clearly a large rivet from the Hood’s plating. The latter had just gone in to my pocket wh
en the Captain’s messenger saluted and said I was wanted on the bridge.
The Captain, whom I found on the lower (Admiral’s) bridge under the compass platform, was his normal self and said he was about to write his report on the action. He wanted me to do a sketch of the last moment of the Hood as he had seen it and proceeded to describe this in detail. Basically it was what Beckwith had seen but with a lot of minor debris in the water and a cloud of smoke overall.
The compass platform was a sorry sight. It was being cleaned up. There was a ragged but generally circular hole several feet across on each side (the starboard one higher than the port) where the 15-inch shell had gone through side plating and panels of dials, telephones, Switches, indicators and all the usual paraphernalia of a battleship’s bridge. It was instructive that some standard naval telephones, which I had always considered unnecessarily robust, were still on their hooks right at the edge of the hole. But Gun’s telephone line to the Captain had been broken; he had sent his boy messenger down to tell the Captain that the main armament was all right (he did not know it but at that moment there were five guns out of action), the poor fellow returning very green about the gills at what he had seen.
The Navigating Officer* had had a large splinter of wood through his mouth so that it stuck out of his cheek, but had only just agreed to go below for attention. The two Midshipmen were apparently standing together on the port side right in the path of the shell, which did not burst until through and clear of the ship. The only recognisable sign of either was one cap, which I destroyed. Sub-Lieutenant Knight, RNVR†, one of the several casualties on the Air Defence Position, was knocked unconscious and blinded (though eventually recovering some sight). This was presumably by the 15-inch shell that hit the supporting structure of the two secondary armament directors nearby, putting the starboard one out of action. Our total casualties were two officers and eleven men killed, one officer and eight men wounded.