Alarm Starboard!: A Remarkable True Story of the War at Sea

by Geoffrey Brooke

  Admiral Holland’s end-on advance, with eight out of eighteen guns unable to bear, was much debated. No doubt he desired to close the range so that the poorly protected Hood would not be exposed to plunging fire for longer than necessary. We were not to know that this was also the tactic propounded by Admiral Tovey, whose theory was that a smaller target is presented in the more important lateral dimension. Again in Admiral Holland’s favour, one could not help feeling it was part of a laudable desire to get to grips as soon as possible; after all, the Bismarck had a couple of knots in hand on both of us and awkward questions might well have been asked if she had been allowed to decline action. What all agreed was unfortunate was the failure to station us wide apart, as were the enemy. A mere four cables meant that anything over and left of Hood came unnecessarily close to Prince of Wales (the reverse could also have applied) and even more important, the enemy control teams had the minimum corrections to make when they shifted target. In fact they were hitting the Prince of Wales with hardly any delay.

  Regarding awkward questions, one knows now that when the dust had settled, the First Sea Lord told Admiral Tovey that he wanted Rear Admiral Wake-Walker and Captain Leach court-martialled for failing to re-attack the Bismarck. Tovey replied that if this was to be so he would haul down his flag and act as ‘Prisoner’s Friend’. No more was heard of it!

  The entire Bismarck operation was a classic in naval warfare in that about every weapon and technique was employed. As an epilogue to the action in which the Hood was sunk it may be of interest to record the damage the Bismarck sustained from the Prime of Wales, not of course known until after the war. One 14-inch shell hit on the waterline well forward, obviously beyond the limit of armour plating because it passed right through the ship without exploding. On the way it penetrated two oil tanks and destroyed the control valves of others, so that not only was oil lost straight into the sea but the engines were cut off from a further 1,000 tons. There was also considerable flooding which put her two or three degrees down by the bow. For some reason Bismarck had started out lacking several hundred tons of oil and the shortage that now accumulated not only forced the decision to abandon the Atlantic foray for a return to France, but dictated progress at an economical speed, where a full-power dash would probably have carried her beyond the range of Ark Royal’s aircraft. A second hit struck amidships beneath the armour belt, destroying an electric generator, putting two boilers out of action and causing more flooding, so that she had a list of nine degrees to port and the starboard outer propeller was coming out of the water. A third carried away a motorboat amidships and damaged the aircraft launching gear, before going over the side without exploding.

  Though there were other important incidents during that eventful week, the first hit undoubtedly takes its place alongside the aircraft torpedo as one of the two really vital factors in the entire operation. It is a little hard—particularly on Captain Leach—that the fact was not properly appreciated until too late. Regarding the Hood’s gunnery there was an element of de mortuis nil nisi bonum in the aftermath of the action, so little was said and even a generation later accounts do not always give credit squarely where it is due. However, at the time there was at least satisfaction at having acquitted ourselves rather better than could have been expected, especially when Admiral Tovey made the following general signal to the Home Fleet:

  ‘… What was particularly satisfactory to me was the almost uncanny way in which all ships and commands operated exactly as I wished them, without the necessity for any signalled instructions from me … The Prince of Wales must have done considerable damage to the enemy, very creditable for a new ship which had completed a short working up only a few days before.’

  It is true that our performance not only reflected credit on the officers concerned but indicated a high standard throughout the ship. Nor was this attributable only to the seaman side. The engine room department performed wonders in keeping the ship’s new machinery running at full power for hours, and coping with damage. In due time both Captain Leach and Commander (E) L.J. Goudy received a DSO and the Gunnery Officer a (to my mind meagre) Mention in Despatches. On the subject of our seven-week work-up, it is interesting that the Bismarck had been working up for many months and at this time her sister Tirpitz had been doing so for four months and was not going to be considered ready for another four!

  * * *

  We were hardly at rest, with the bleak Icelandic snow-capped hills close in on either side, before the ship was listed to port by transferring oil fuel. Though local steering connections and a good deal of electrical cabling on the compass platform had been shot away, the most immediate job to be tackled was the flooding aft. As the starboard side came out of the water (one was reminded of Nelsonic wooden walls being beached and careened to plug shot holes or scrape away weed) two 8-inch hits were laid bare; they had burst on the ‘turtle-back’ armour protecting the propeller shafts. The water inside was pumped out and the twisted hull plates smoothed off and blanked over with metal patches. One of the shells appeared to have burst in a cabin adjacent to mine. Several had been gutted, the flat was blackened and what the shell did not accomplish the sea had mostly finished off. There was little woodwork left and most of my belongings were just a soggy, jumbled mass. Curiously enough the precious Peter Scott print, though totally submerged, was not irredeemable. A shell splinter had gone straight through my best poodle-faking reefer (I subsequently lost nothing in pointing out the repairs to admiring female acquaintances, most of whom thought I had been in it at the time) and my Midshipman’s journals, over which I had laboured for so many tedious hours, dripped like porridge through my fingers.

  Two of their friends had already been set the melancholy task of packing up the effects of poor Dreyer and Ince, and I now got down to writing to their parents. At least I was able to say that they could not have known anything about it. Dreyer—the most recent recruit from the well-known Naval family—was a fair haired, fresh-faced, cheery boy who took life lightly but was loyal and reliable when it mattered; Ince, a more reserved type, was tall and dark. Very intelligent, he had a quiet way with him that was always most effective. Both were popular and sadly missed. The former was a ‘Dart’ but Ince a ‘Pub’ who had only joined the Navy seven months before.

  As soon as seaworthy, we weighed anchor and sailed south to Rosyth, entering a dock which would be pumped dry by the next morning. I had the middle watch (00:00–04:00) that night and was just thinking that nothing ever happens to relieve the aching boredom of that watch when there was the sound of frantic feet up the steel ladder that ended inside the quarterdeck lobby. Out rushed Lieutenant (E) Wildish to say that there was an unexploded 15-inch shell in the bottom of the ship, immediately beneath us. I sprinted aft to wake the Captain, then the Commander and everyone else who should know, feeling very relieved that the galaxy of talent that tumbled down the hatchways, buttoning coats over pyjamas as it went, was between me and the awkward decisions that would have to be made.

  All possible damage control precautions were taken while Guns and Torps (the Torpedo officer, Lieutenant Commander R.F. Harland, who had the distinction of looking exactly like the King! I think he had a responsibility for bomb disposal) tossed up as to who would deal with the unwelcome guest. The former won (or lost!) and when a hole had been cut in the ship’s hull, he and the Gunner’s party lowered the shell through with a 14-inch grab attached to a chain purchase. A picture was eventually taken of them and the Captain in the bottom of the dock, the latter with his foot on the shell like a trophy of the chase.

  Certainly belonging to the salvo that had drenched us in the after director, this projectile had probably caused the slight jolt I had noticed at the time. Wildish, as Damage Control Officer, knew we had been hit as the special gauge for the purpose indicated inexplicable flooding of the watertight compartment at this point. He reported to the bridge but could take no further action. As soon as the lengthy process of pumping water out of the dock allowed
, he went down with another officer or senior rating to look. There was a large, clear-cut hole just above the bilge keel. They climbed through it—into what was normally an empty compartment—shining torches around to discover another hole in the next bulkhead inboard. This was the outer wall of an oil fuel tank. Clambering through this second hole, with difficulty as everything was slimy with oil and sea water, they found yet a third hole in the inner wall. Through this again into a third compartment they found an indentation—but no penetration in the next and third bulkhead. There were three to four feet of oily water in the bottom of this last compartment, normally empty, and procuring a boat hook Wildish poked around until contacting an object, the shape of which he could not explain from his knowledge of the hull. At the very moment that the truth struck them both they were in the presence of a monster intruder in the form of an unexploded 15-inch shell, the large auxiliary diesel engine (for providing electric power in harbour) started up just the other side of the dented bulkhead, with its usual frightful clatter and vibration. Appalled and very frightened, they shot up the compartment’s vertical ladder and down into the diesel room to shut it off.

  Next day Dick Wildish went off to get married, a much pleasanter occupation, as, for the record, did Dick Beckwith.

  Curiously enough, many people had tried to develop a shell that penetrated under water but so far as I know only the Bismarck, with this freak effort, succeeded. Having lost its long pointed nose-cap (there was no sign of this) it had come in horizontally through the anti-torpedo ‘liquid sandwich’ of air, oil fuel and air, to hit the 2½-inch armoured bulkhead and fall to the bottom (the ship’s double bottom did not start till the other side). What astonishing luck that it failed to go off! A 2,000-lb shell, detonating in very close proximity to both oil fuel and diesel oil, could at best have started a major fire and blown out the side of the ship at that point. ‘Y’ turret magazine was only yards away and at worst there could have been an explosion in all too faithful emulation of the Hood.

  * * *

  HMS Prince of Wales

  4/6/41

  Well wot a to-do. I shall sleep through any thriller film in future. We are waiting for Alexander to speak after the 21:00 news as we hope he’s going to say something about P of W. We are all a bit bitter as the papers have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I’m sorry about Dad’s telescope and lots of things. Have got some hefty souvenirs. It is rather good to have been in a first class big ship action and a very good view of it too! Two Midshipmen were killed, as you probably saw, which was very sad. I can’t tell you anything about it of course … I imagine you’re wondering what happened, especially old Haw-Haw saying we were left in a sinking condition! We take off our hats to the Bismarck as a jolly fine ship and a very brave crew too. She did marvellously well and was apparently unsinkable by gunfire in a short time. The penny press and all their vulgar exaltation (apart from natural jubilation) and not knowing anything about it, rather annoy one.

  A good deal was released about the Bismarck operation, presumably to counteract German propaganda concerning our losses; ‘Lord Haw-Haw’—last met when he ‘sank’ the Ark Royal in the North Sea—was doing his best with the Prince of Wales. Her hits on the Bismarck had not been confirmed and I expect our bitterness was due to the press inadvertently echoing his remarks. They were not, of course, told everything and painted a pretty fanciful picture of the whole affair. It was widely stated that the Hood was destroyed by a lucky hit penetrating to a magazine. This was not the case. However fine a ship in her day (20 years of flag-showing round the world had built her up into a legend), she was latterly an old battlecruiser; ‘old’ meant that her design—particularly her armour protection—was out of date and ‘battle-cruiser’ meant that she was fast and lightly armoured to begin with; not intended to fight a battleship at all.

  The ‘hefty souvenirs’ were some bits of 15-inch and 8-inch shell about the size of cricket balls, one of the latter—from my cabin flat-being nicely decorated with perforations for taking the copper driving band.

  Several VIPs came to look over the ship, among them the socialist A.V. Alexander who had relieved Mr Churchill as First Lord of the Admiralty. Guns was introduced to him in the Wardroom and the following conversation took place: ‘Did you hit her, boy?’ ‘Well, sir, we straddled several times but …’ ‘Did you hit her or didn’t you?’ ‘Sir, with armour piercing shell they go off inside and although I’m pretty certain …’ (back turned, conversation over). An awkward silence was broken by Mt Alexander’s private secretary: ‘Terribly sorry, but we’re due at the Co-op in Edinburgh and are running late already …’

  We stayed in dockyard hands for a month, got in some more leave, many a pleasant visit to Edinburgh (Aitken Dott were surprised to get my birthday picture back for cleaning in such a terrible state and Gieves did excellent business) and then returned to Scapa. Just before leaving Rosyth the Captain went to hospital for a hernia operation. He was relieved for a short time by Captain C.H. Harcourt who took us back to the Flow (passing HMS Repulse on the way, the first time we had fallen in with this near relation to the Hood). Envious visitors from other ships—many of whom had seen neither action nor leave since the war began—came to hear about our doings and look around. ‘Line-Shoot’ number one was a scimitar-like piece of steel that curved down from the Wardroom deckhead. A legacy from the shell that had killed the radar operator above, it had been left as an honourable scar and painted white. A bulge in the deckhead of my cabin flat also went unremedied. Other areas of damage had been restored, though in point of unpleasant fact the compass platform never quite lost tell-tale reminders of that day.

  Robin Buller and my cousin Darby George were still Midshipmen in KG V and I heard from them of the Bismarck’s end. They had some Polish snotties on board and in the closing stages these were discovered in the Midshipmen’s chest flat, sharpening knives and bayonets, as they thought that boarding was imminent with the chance to pay off old scores.

  There was, of course, nothing untoward about our temporary CO, in fact he shortly became an Admiral, but naturally he was not held in such affection as Captain Leach. The depth of this affection was well illustrated on the latter’s return. It was the middle of the forenoon when the Captain’s boat was seen approaching. With a flash of inspiration the Commander—presumably after a word with the substitute skipper-went to the Bo’s’n’s Mate’s microphone in the adjacent lobby and said, ‘Captain Leach is returning to the ship. Those of you who would like to welcome him back may lay aft’. The forward end of the quarterdeck and the whole of the after superstructure overlooking it suddenly began to sprout sailors, unseen by the Captain who by now was under the lee of the stern. As he appeared at the top of the gangway the Commander took off his cap and shouted ‘Three cheers for Captain Leach!’ who was taken completely by surprise. The cheers rang out from a solid mass of men and heaven knows what the other ships thought was going on. It was all very irregular but most satisfactory. The Captain stood astonished for a second, then waved his hand and went down to his cabin with his stand-in. He passed close to me and I saw that tears were glistening on his cheeks.

  Gunnery and other exercises were resumed, including a 14-inch ‘throw-off’ shoot at the cruiser London (the guns being suitably offset from the director). The edge of our training had been somewhat blunted by the fleshpots and, though it was not as hectic as before, life became one again with the well-known Scapa routine. A difference was the summer weather. On some days the Flow was pure glass, mirroring the cottonwool clouds that hung motionless in a blue vault or drifted slowly over the green and brown hills to mottle them in passing, just like they did to the Downs at home.

  We were under way but stationary on just such a day, probably awaiting the start of an exercise with another ship or target-towing aircraft, and I was Officer of the Watch. The Captain was beside me looking intently through his glasses at some distant object—almost into the sun—when I saw his lips curl into a slow smile. Witho
ut shifting his gaze he said ‘Look, Brooke—an immoral mosquito!’ I put up my glasses and burst out laughing. In the distance were two Walrus flying boats at anchor, looking in the haze like grey mosquitoes. One was beyond the other and, because of our high vantage point, appeared to be well and truly on top of it, bobbing gently the while.

  Captain Leach was a keen ornithologist and when in the open sea would suddenly point to a scudding shape and ask ‘What’s that?’ At first one had little idea but soon learnt the difference between a petrel and a puffin, and of course it helped to pass the more uninteresting hours.

  There was plenty of intriguing practice with our own Walrus aircraft, Sturdy little biplanes with a pusher engine between the wings, they were known irreverently as ‘shagbats’. One would be run out of its hangar on to the catapult with wings folded back, turned to face the sea on one side or the other, made ready and fired by a fat brass cartridge that went into a breech like a gun. The discharge was frightening to watch, the heavy little aircraft reaching about 90 mph in the width of the ship, but I eventually screwed up enough courage to ask Lloyd, our Gunroom aviator, to arrange me a passenger flight. When this was forthcoming almost the entire complement of the Gunroom was present, grinning expectantly at the discomfiture of the Sub. Those who could see my face on departure cannot have been disappointed. The sensation was excruciating, a stomach- and brain-numbing pain that increased unbearably until I blacked out. On coming to—probably but seconds later—we were climbing gently to starboard under full throttle and everything was delightful. The Flow shrank to a big lake as we gained height, there was the odd ship cutting its grey surface like a skater’s blade, the Prince of Wales like a huge toy—for the first time I appreciated what a vast expanse of deck she had—and all around the islands of Hoy, Carva, Flotta, Burray … with Scapa bay to the north where lay the Royal Oak.