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

by Geoffrey Brooke

  The Bridge Mess was certainly a pleasant little coterie, headed by Lieutenant Commander (Flying). Known as ‘Little F’—as opposed to Commander (F), the senior Air officer on board—he was Harry (B.H.) Hawkes (all Hawk(e)s in the Navy are Harry, presumably after Uncle Tom Cobbley’s ’Arry ’Awk, and I never got to know his real name), a most efficient officer with a great way with him, vital in this particular job, and the pleasantest messmate possible. With a springy step and boyish face with large, laughing eyes that must have slain the girls, he was in direct charge of operational work on the flight deck, such as flying off, ranging and spotting aircraft (ie, placing them on spots painted on the deck), bombing up aircraft, maintaining barriers and so on. For this he had 60 ratings working in three watches—the whole lot were often required—known as the Aircraft Handling Party, equipped with ‘dodgems’ (towing trucks) and other gear. It was evident that the AHP would do anything for Little F.

  Part of the huge expanse of San Pedro was given over to the British Pacific Fleet and its Fleet Train. The BPF was out operating but the latter embraced us as its only major customer and we spent the next six days getting to know it and the somewhat unappetising ‘beach’. At first glance a motley collection of merchant ships, the Fleet Train was in fact a mobile dockyard and stores dispenser under its own Rear Admiral, eventually to boast 125 ships and 25,000 men.

  We sailed from Leyte on April 10, those in the open air thankful for a breeze in exchange for the indescribably uncomfortable heat of this tropical Scapa Flow. The EPF’s oiling force was joined two days later and, turning out on 14th, I saw that the BPF had arrived; two battleships, four carriers, five cruisers and a dozen destroyers. After they had fuelled, Illustrious left for home and Formidable took her place, Admiral Vian flying over from Indom to have a quick look at us and brief the Captain. The BPF, under Admiral Nimitz as his Task Force (TF) 57, was now operating in parallel (but not in close contact) with the American 58, both coming immediately under Nimitz’s second in command, Admiral Spruance. The new TF 57 had arrived just in time to be in on the preliminary moves against the next objective—Okinawa. Formosa, the Sakishima Islands and Okinawa were strung out southwesterly from Japan, the first two being natural staging posts for aircraft coming to the aid of Okinawa. The BPF was given the task of interrupting these reinforcements and this had mainly meant continuous attacks on the airfields of two islands, Ishigaki and Miyako.

  Our ships had not come off unscathed, as one could see from a glance at Indefatigable’s blackened island. A kamikaze had come vertically down on her flight deck, four officers and ten ratings being killed and 16 wounded. Equipment was damaged but her flight deck only dented—a matter of great satisfaction all round—and she was soon operating aircraft*. Illustrious and Victorious were very near-missed, in fact both were touched and suffered bomb explosions, the former losing two Corsairs and both being deluged with impedimenta and bits of Jap pilot (eyeballs and skull fragments were found on Illustrious’ flight deck and a sliver of burnt flesh hanging from a gunsight; Indefat had a finger to show for hers). There were casualties in Indomitable from machine-gunning by a Jap fighter and the desroyer Ulster had a near-miss bomb that did so much damage that she had to be towed to Leyte. Eight Avengers had been lost and nearly double that number of fighters, though the crews were saved in several cases. Tragic incidents had been the shooting down of a Hellcat and a Seafire (unfortunately not the first, or indeed to be the last occasion) and the blowing up of a Corsair—the petrol tank had ignited—on board Illustrious, It had crashed on landing and a number of people who were swarming over it trying to free the pilot were killed with him.

  Each one- or two-day strike period was numbered so that, when at about 03:30 on April 15 the strains of Flying Stations banished sleep, it was Iceberg 5 on which our boys were about to embark. The object was to keep up a rain of bombs and machine-gun attacks on the runways and nearby installations of the same two islands from 06:00 almost without a break until dark. Formidable’s contribution was 12 Avengers for both the first and third strikes, two strikes of eight Corsairs, each armed with two 500-lb bombs, and more Corsairs for the CAPs (Combat Air Patrols) over the fleet and targets ashore.

  It is cold, dark and hostile as I step out on the hard steel deck and not for the first time feel the unfairness of things that keeps most of us safely on board while a select few roar away to an even chance of death. I test my special wand torch used for signalling to the pilots; its perspex finger, projecting from the metal cylinder, glows satisfactorily. Corsairs are coming up the lift and being manhandled, wings still folded, on to spots right aft; then the 12 Avengers in front of them, the leader on the centre line, a little in advance and wings spread. The pilots, observers and tags (telegraphist-air-gunners) emerge from their island briefings to disperse among the forest of angular shapes among which the odd shaded torch flickers like a firefly. It is getting lighter. Little F, with two flags that one can just see are red and green, materialises abreast the leading Avenger, in which Pablo Percy and his aircrew are now ready. One can just make out ‘Wings’ (Commander (Flying)) in an island sponson. We Flight Deck Directors, in yellow waistcoats and skull caps, who have been conversing in a group, distribute ourselves down the deck park, in a line behind Little F. Suddenly a voice comes over the loudspeakers: ‘Start up, start up, start up!’ The engines cough angry gouts of flame and then roar into steady life. The air reverberates and one would like to cover one’s ears. Then the flight deck heels a little— we are altering into wind; in fact the whole fleet is altering into wind as, elsewhere in the vast circular formation, the scene is mirrored in three other carriers. There is a slight movement on the island at which Little F waves the two chockmen away, raised his green flag and revolves it round his head. The leading Avenger thunders as it strains against the brakes, shaking violently; Percy raises his thumb, the flag drops and the aircraft, heavy with bombs—Formidable’s first Pacific flight in anger— moves forward. It accelerates and is soon trundling down the deck at surprising speed—off the end, a slight dip, then up into the air and away to starboard. The next is already on the spot and roaring. Off it goes. Soon all 12 are away, formating on the leaders who are flying round. The first snarling Corsair is following them, its raven-like companions unfolding their wings and crowding forward in their turn. Each fairly rockets up the deck. They fly round too, in formation, and then suddenly all are gone and there is comparative quiet.

  But no respite. The big barriers go up with a clang and the bells of the forward lift scream as it descends for the next lot of aircraft. The flight deck aft has to be clear for landing on—though everyone got away without trouble—so the newcomers will be bunched forward and then brought back to take off, towed tail first by the dodgems, as soon as the first strike is back and out of the way below. All at once it is ‘Stand by to receive aircraft’ and here they are. No-one requests an emergency landing and a quick count shows that they are all there. They land on, taxi forward, and—pilots handing over to their fitters—the aircrews walk back to the island for debriefing, sweating, laughing and ribbing each other about some incident. After waiting its turn (aircraft land on quicker than the lift can cope) each machine is struck down, pushed to its corner of the hangar and attacked by fitters, mechanics and armourers; they work until it is either ready or pronounced u/s (unserviceable), in which case they work even harder. Meanwhile, debriefed, dehydrated and temporarily drained of energy, the pilots and observers have only a warm shower and a hot, vibrating cabin to unwind in, the tags even less.

  When the last aircraft of the first strike had disappeared below, Howe made to Formidable: ‘To our now very critical eye your chaps made that land-on look very easy’. The Avengers had bombed Ishigaki airfield, scoring, in the strike leader’s opinion, 90 per cent hits on the runway; the Corsairs had bombed opportunity targets including flak positions and aircraft on the ground at both Ishigaki and Miyako.

  Then it was ‘Start up, start up’ … and the whole p
rocess was repeated. A few enemy aircraft were detected by radar but the only hostile act was the approach of a flying bomb, radio-controled from a parent aircraft, that came within eight miles and then dived into the sea (probably out of fuel). A decidedly unfriendly act, though not enemy inspired, followed the failure of a Corsair to release one of its two 500-lb bombs. No amount of aerobatics would shake it off and so there was no alternative but to land on and hope for the best. We watched with bated breath. The bomb came off with the shock of landing and cartwheeled down the deck towards us. Everyone dived for what cover there was but it rolled to a stop in a corner and was pounced upon. Exactly the same thing happened with another Corsair a few minutes later and the Captain, never at a loss for pithy comment, spoke for all concerned when he signalled to Admiral Vian ‘It’s nice to know they don’t go off.

  We were beginning to think this was an auspicious first day’s operating when in the late afternoon word went round the flight deck that pitched us all into gloom—‘Judy’ Garland, CO of 1842 Corsair Squadron, had been shot down by flak over Ishigaki. Of course, I hardly knew him but apart from the fact that to lose a squadron CO on the very first day was bad, to many this was a great personal blow. Apparently he had dived from some height, the hard-earned experience of other ships being that one should come and go at the lowest possible level.

  Except that different airfields were the targets, the next day’s operating was a carbon copy of the first. Getting into the routine, I was not so tense and even able to take an interest, at odd moments when there was no flying, in other things that were going on. Intrigued by the extraordinary snatches of apparent conversation (in the most matter of fact tones except on the odd occasion of high drama) that were sometimes broadcast round the ship, with talk of angels, bogies, bandits and such like, I squeezed into the ADR. This was where Philip O’Rorke or one of the other FDOs (Fighter Direction Officers) with a highly trained team of ten officers and 15 ratings, sitting in semi-darkness, watched the big perspex and other displays, listened to reports from pilots and their own staff, assessed the constantly evolving situation, as often as not projected their minds several minutes ahead and having decided what to do, instructed pilots accordingly.

  Though several enemy aircraft were reported no attack developed; but there was another sharp reminder that Japanese AA fire was very accurate. One of our Avengers was shot down; the pilot and air gunner were killed but the observer, Sub-Lieutenant Gass, baled out. He came down in the sea only two miles offshore and was rescued under rifle fire by an intrepid Walrus from Victorious.

  The fleet retired to refuel in the evening and Admiral Vian signalled ‘All airfields unserviceable—Iceberg 5 completed’, which was satisfactory. The next two days were spent refuelling and replenishing from the Fleet Train. A ceaseless stream of unfortunate maid-of-all-work destroyers acted as go-betweens, from whom we hoisted in stores of all kinds. Of course 1,800 men use up a lot of everything. Formidable took her turn to provide Avenger anti-submarine patrols and so there were several interruptions for flying. Meanwhile feverish work was going on in the hot hangar servicing aircraft and all in all this was the reverse of a rest period.

  At 06:00 on the 20th flying off started again. One of our Avengers ditched on the return journey and four others were detailed to search for it. They found nothing—it must have put out an inaccurate position—and returned disconsolate. However, 24 hours later an American Mariner flying boat on rescue patrol sighted the three men and picked them up ten miles from the coast. No wonder many airmen were superstitious! Life so often hung on a few gallons of petrol, a word heard on the r/t, a glance in the right direction …

  By this time the fleet was on its way back to Leyte, Formidable having received the signal from Admiral Vian ‘As good a three-days operating as I have seen’. This was confirmation of what most of us had already sensed—HMS Formidable had no reason to have an inferiority complex about being the new girl. The ship was fighting fit, morale was sky high and, to be fair on the others, we were fresh.

  Return to Leyte and expected let-up proved but a repeat of the hectic storing and making good of the days with the Fleet Train, plus even worse heat thrown in. Sitting in a pool of sweat in the Commander’s Office as I wrestled with applications for special working parties, the next day’s boat trips to distant store-ships, routine inspections of this and that, one could only marvel how the poor devils in the various machinery spaces kept going at all. Of course carriers were, as already described, particular heat gatherers. Another annoyance special to the breed (and the great Pacific distances) was the necessity to fill up—apt description—with drop tanks. These were the lozenge shaped, discardable aircraft petrol tanks that, carrying 176 extra gallons, provided greatly extended range. We had to stow large numbers-awkward to handle—wherever we possibly could.

  The new CO of 1842 Squadron, Lieutenant Commander D.G. Parker, joined and on May 1 the fleet sailed for the same hunting ground, now becoming very familiar to our aircrews and presumably like the backs of their hands to those of Indom, Indefat and Vic. On the way an AA practice shoot was carried out against sleeve targets, towed at 7,000 feet. The carriers fired in turn. Formidable shot down two sleeves, first on one side and then on the other. The other ships had no success. Admiral Vian made ‘How do you do it?’ and the Captain replied ‘AH this and hangar too’, a mild boast that was rubbed in next day, when a large combined ‘Balbo’ (after the Italian Marshal’s air fleets) of 48 Avengers and 70 fighters—Corsairs, Hellcats, Seafires and Fireflies—exercised a mass attack on the fleet. It was impressive and so were the figures for operating these aircraft: our take-off times were better than any of the others and our landing intervals (time taken between one aircraft and the next) were eight seconds better than the next carrier and 34 seconds better than the slowest. I must say it was a thrill to have a small part—passing Corsairs up the deck to Little F— and watching him despatch them. Harry would have the next to go pawing the ground like a horse under the tapes, tail jerking with the revs and then lifting as his flag dropped to send the great steed tearing off—before the last was quite clear! He would turn immediately to collect another from the director behind, while the rest of the pack crept forward in cacophonous expectation.

  I had expected to find it a new experience, for once having nothing to do with guns, but this was not the case. The Gunnery Officer (Lieutenant Commander Dan Duff, a most likeable fair-haired giant with a puckish sense of humour—‘hands to the pumps, guns I mean’ was his stock phrase in an emergency) required me to supervise a pair of 20mm Oerlikons when aircraft were not being operated. These were on the port side abreast the island, about eight feet below the flight deck and my main duty was the same as in the Prince of Wales, to pick out their next target.

  A good start to Iceberg 7 on May 5 was provided by the news that Hitler and his dreadful little hunchback henchman Goebbels were dead; the end in Europe could not be far off. There was one difference between this day’s attack and all those going before: KG V, Howe, the four cruisers and some destroyers detached before first light to bombard various targets on Miyako Island—simultaneously with the bombing—leaving but one cruiser and six destroyers. We thought little of this; the poor devils had done nothing but steam about for weeks and it was time they had some employment; in fact it was more for morale purposes than anything else that Admiral Rawlings had decided on the move. He underestimated the enemy, however, who appreciated at once that the carriers were for the first time without the gun protection of the remainder.

  Action stations were sounded off at 05:15. Corsairs were in front this time, then Avengers and more Corsairs which were not going off until later. As ever, they looked sinister, dark against the greenish sky. The order came to start up, drowned in staccato reports as a score of whirling propellers flickered among blue exhaust flames. The steady roar took over and we resigned ourselves to wait, the wind tugging at our trouser legs as the minutes ticked by to zero hour. To the east crimson strea
ks were already silhouetting the jagged black fretwork of massed planes, when a flag dropped from the yardarm and at once the stern began to slide as the rudder bit. I was aware of an avenue of faces, ghostly pale in their anti-flash gear, peering intently from each side and down from the island structure. The leading Corsair—prima ballerina of this scene that never failed to grip—was already responding to the conductor’s baton. The ship steadied on her course into the wind, which was strong (how useful this was soon to prove!). By now Harry Hawkes’ flag was vertical. The pilot, animal-like in his weird get-up, watched it from his shuddering cockpit with gross pentagonal eyes. His chockmen were gone, but those at the machines behind crouched as low as they could to shield their streaming faces. The audience craned forward. Down came the flag and the goofers and gun’s crews ducked away from the shower of grit that whirled aft to start another operating day.

  As usual the first trio of Corsairs was flying past in formation as the early Avengers started off. One of the latter lost height, banked to the right and fell into the sea, to come past our starboard side. Few saw this and we were surprised to hear the action commentator say that the crew had joined the Goldfish Club (of those who had ditched) and been picked up by Ursa.

  Once the strike was away we moved the remaining aircraft forward and bunched them in the bows. The sun came out and hands went to breakfast, leaving only the duty defence watch closed up. The various preparations had been made and there was nothing much to do until the strike returned and the next Combat Air Patrol took off.

  The Avengers got back safely, although some were well shot up. Then—it was just before 10:00—came reports from the ADR that they had a bogey at long range. Victorious’ fighters were sent off to intercept and we went to repel aircraft stations. On arrival at the Oerlikons I found that Midshipman (S) Basedon, recently joined from Illustrious, had been detailed to help spot targets. He listened politely to an account of his duties and then let it pass in the course of conversation that the wing of a kamikaze had grazed Illustrious’ funnel about ten feet from his head when employed on the same job; at which we had a good laugh.