I Sank The Bismarck Page 16
We rendezvoused with the convoy, adding our strength to it as escort. We operated up to a very high state of alert for more than seven days as the convoy steamed north, so I was permanently on the lookout, not only for U-boats but also for the two German raiders on the loose.
We had at least six Swordfish in the air at all times and I was flying patrols to a depth of around 80–130 miles from the line of advance. In case we spotted Scharnhorst or Gneisenau, the Skua squadron was kept armed with 500lb semi-armour-piercing bombs, and a striking force of Swordfish armed with torpedoes was maintained in readiness as well. Three Swordfish were always on patrol, armed with two depth-charges each, and three were kept at readiness on the Ark, also 'bombed up' with depth-charges. If a submarine had been sighted on the surface then it would have been hit by six depth-charges from the patrolling aircraft and there would have been a follow-on attack of six more from the standby aircraft. At night the torpedo striking force stood armed and fuelled in the hangar, with another two aircraft carrying flares and flame floats. One of these last aircraft remained on the deck, as did another one armed with depth-charges, so that they could be flown or accelerated off with the minimum of delay.
So determined were we to maintain this state of preparedness that I never went below, but slept and ate in my kit in the briefing room underneath the navigating bridge. If I wasn't flying, eating or sleeping, I was in the ready room.
On 11 March there was quite severe weather and the carrier was pitching so badly that there was almost 30 feet of vertical movement on the end of the flight deck. It made for extremely hazardous landings and I thought we were flying at the very edge of our limits. Little did I know! In fact, the motion of the flight deck was a severe handicap. The antisubmarine patrols were loaded with two depth-charges, one under each wing, but this proved to be too heavy for landing in such conditions. Three Swordfish damaged their undercarriages and another broke its tail wheel, so the rest of the patrols were flown with just two 100lb bombs. On the 14th we had further news of Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, which were now again off the coast of Newfoundland, where they attacked a convoy of tankers, four of which they captured. Scharnhorst had put a German prize crew – a crew put in a captured vessel to operate her in place of her own – on each of these ships and they were heading, so it was assumed, back to Brest.
Next day another convoy was intercepted by the two raiders, with tragic consequences. Thirteen merchant ships were sunk, bringing the damage that they had inflicted on us in just this one single cruise to twenty-two vessels.
We didn't need any motivation to take the search for these two battleships extremely seriously, but it was a gargantuan task. There were hundreds of thousands of square miles of ocean into which Gneisenau and Scharnhorst could disappear. It was like looking for a tiger in the jungle. It took its toll. On 15 March one of 818 Squadron's Swordfish, fitted with a long-range tank for extra endurance, failed to return. This was the aircraft of my cabin mate, Sub-Lieutenant Ferguson, whose loss I have already mentioned, and his fellow crewmember, Sub-Lieutenant Watt. Both had been fairly new arrivals on the Ark and I had hardly got to know them.
On the 19th, one of our patrolling Swordfish spotted a merchant ship flying Dutch colours, but the ship's name and her port of origin on the stern were painted over. There was a strong possibility that this was a supply ship for the Scharnhorst, as it was heading west at 270 degrees. On board the Ark we formed the opinion that it was Wakama, which we knew had left Brest for the Azores. We believed that in the waters of those neutral islands German U-boats were in the habit of resting up and rendezvousing with their depot ships. It was an important contact and a Swordfish was detailed off to maintain touch discreetly. Later that day, one of the final patrols before nightfall spotted a tanker that appeared to be running half empty, heading due east as though making for Brest. By the time the Swordfish had returned to the Ark with this information it was too dark to send out any further patrols, but the next morning I was one of nine Swordfish that took off at 0740 to comb the ocean for the two mysterious ships. There were plenty of unanswered questions. What were they doing in the vicinity? Were they a clue to the presence of the German battlecruisers? Had the tanker just left them after refuelling at sea? Were we going to take on these two powerful raiders? The German warships were fast modern ships and well armed. Scharnhorst had hit Glorious with a salvo from her nine 11in guns at a range of almost 25 miles – a phenomenal performance. If we did make contact, Renown, our flagship, would have her work cut out against both the big cruisers and we would certainly attempt a torpedo strike.
At the briefing that morning I was given a bearing that should lead me to the tanker if she had kept to her course and speed overnight, and after an hour of flying we saw something on the horizon. We dived down to intercept it and flew low along the side of the ship, then around the bow at about 200 feet. We saw no movement on board at all. Flying round again, I could read Bianca painted on the bow. But there were no signals or any sign of the crew; neither was she flying any flag, which was a bit strange, as normally ships are keen to identify themselves as neutrals. Then Dusty realized that this was one of the tankers that had been captured by Scharnhorst several days ago – she was being operated by a prize crew. So the surmise that she was heading for Brest was correct.
At this point I was not in a position to do very much. I wanted the tanker to heave to so that a ship from Force H could recapture it, but all I had was my forward-firing machine gun. This was the .303in Vickers that was mounted in the fuselage on the right-hand side of the cockpit – a weapon that I had never fired before. I doubted for a moment whether I could remember how to use it at all. Then gradually the drill came back to me. Make sure the bolt is in the rest position. Pull up the high-pressure piston rod, then pull back the gun lever twice, ease the bolt forward and the gun should be ready to fire. So I went down to 50 feet to put some shots across the bows – a universal signal to heave to. Aiming about 50 feet in front of the ship, I pressed the button. The gun was fitted with an interrupter mechanism to prevent bullets hitting the propeller blades, so the rate of fire was extremely slow, rather like the chiming of Big Ben. I felt that I could have fired faster using a revolver. It was noisy, the fumes of cordite filled the cockpit, and every shot made the fuselage shake. There were splashes in the water as the bullets struck, but had the message got through? I flew round the ship and there was still no sign of any activity. I flew higher to see if I could see any of our ships in the vicinity and spotted Renown about 15 miles away.
Then Dusty shouted, 'Jock, look at the stern.' I went down again and Bianca was definitely lower in the water. Then a group of crewmen appeared and started to lower a lifeboat. I suddenly realized they had opened the sea cocks to scuttle the tanker and were now trying to abandon ship. The bastards! I was not going to get cheated like that, so I turned and made a low pass, firing the forward machine gun above the lifeboat. I had no intention of hitting the boat, or the sailors trying to get in to it, but it was not a very gallant action. They didn't seem to take any notice.
I shouted back to Hayman, my TAG, 'Can you shoot out that boat?' He had already seen what was happening and didn't need to be told. Four short bursts from his Lewis gun hit the lifeboat and splinters of wood flew off into the air. Hayman never missed! It did the trick. The German sailors clambered back on board and went to see if they could do something about the sea cocks. I then flew back to Renown and signalled them about the situation. They sent off a whaler with a boarding party to recover Bianca and take the German prize crew prisoner. The Germans, however, had not gone back to save the ship – they had instead started fires on board. The boarding party from Renown recaptured the ship and put out the fires. Eventually she was towed into port.
When I returned to the Ark, there was a general air of excitement in the briefing room because two more of the nine Swordfish that had taken off that morning had located another two of the tankers seized by Scharnhorst – San Casimiro and Polyka
rp – which were now also being sailed by German prize crews. Shortly afterwards San Casimiro was retaken, but Polykarp eluded recapture. Three Fulmar fighter aircraft were dispatched later that day to search for her. They were much faster than the Swordfish, so it was hoped that this would allow them to make an interception while there was still some daylight left.
After nearly two hours one of the Fulmars returned and flew over the Ark, signalling by a hand-held Aldis lamp for an emergency landing. The Ark swung out of line into the wind and the Fulmar landed on. The crew were in no danger, but they had urgent news. They had flown north and seen two ships in the haze. They were not Polykarp, nor any other captured tanker, but the two German warships, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, which had evaded us and the whole of the Royal Navy in the Atlantic for weeks! The crew of the Fulmar had been unable to report it immediately because their wireless had broken, so they had been forced to return at top speed to the Ark to pass the information on to Admiral Somerville in Renown. At last, the ships for which we had been carrying out an exhausting search over the last twelve days had been sighted. But this crucial failure in communications was serious. The information about the enemy warships was at least one hour old.
Nine Swordfish were ordered to be armed and prepared for a torpedo strike, but in the midst of the rapid preparations and briefings, the reality of the position started to sink in. The two battlecruisers were around 147 miles away and, when last seen, were on a course due north at around 20 knots. The light was already beginning to fade, visibility was no better than about 8 miles, and by the time the Swordfish flight had taken off and reached the last known position of the enemy ships, it would be dark, in addition to the fact that the coordinates they were heading for would be two and a half hours old. Moreover, if the Germans had realized that they had been spotted, they might well have increased speed and enacted a radical change of course.
The crew of the Fulmar that had made the original sighting took off once more to regain contact, but it was now a hopeless mission. They could not find the warships, completely darkened and running at high speed, hidden now by the blanket of the night and the black Atlantic.
We slept that night not knowing what would happen in the morning. Would we find the German warships again? If we did, we would undoubtedly attempt a torpedo strike, but we had been at sea so long that our serviceable Swordfish were dwindling. I took off the next day once again as both Swordfish and Fulmars from the Ark scoured the surface of the sea, but it was fruitless. Scharnhorst and Gneisenau had escaped. It's difficult to say what the outcome would have been if the radio on Lt Commander Tillard's Fulmar had been working. There would not necessarily have been an encounter between Force H and the warships, although the chances of a battle being fought the next day would have been much greater. As it was, my torpedo training at Abbotsinch had still not been put to any use, and Scharnhorst and Gneisenau had eluded us.
We changed course for Gibraltar at the end of the next day. We had been at sea for a fortnight and were at the end of our resources, in terms of fuel, food and energy. One disturbing event occurred shortly before this, however. A Swordfish from my squadron, 818, was being prepared for an antisubmarine patrol, with two depth-charges mounted under the wings, ready to be catapulted off the front of the flight deck. Each of these catapults was in essence a framework that could support the fuselage of an aircraft, mounted on a trolley that was secured to cables running along a groove in the deck. The aircraft's engine would be started and run up to full power, and at a signal the trolley would be accelerated forward by a hydraulic ram pulling the cable. The plane would automatically continue forward and detach itself from the struts holding it when the trolley smashed into its end-stop. It accelerated with considerable force and the crew had to brace themselves as the catapult was triggered. On this particular occasion, the artificer at the side released the catapult and it shot forward, but the Swordfish did not separate cleanly. It split in two, the rear fuselage and tail section remaining fixed in the catapult's struts. The forward section, however, including the cockpit and main planes, flew forward at takeoff speed, hurled over the bows of the Ark and plunged into the sea. Within seconds the huge bow wave had engulfed the wreckage and the crew; then there was a deep, powerful thump and the hull of the great ship bounced upwards, kicking some people on board off their feet. The two depth-charges had exploded under the keel. There was clearly no hope for the three crewmen, Sub-Lieutenants Peter Opdell and Charlie Hearn, and Leading Airman 'Baron' Biggs, who now brought the total of deaths in 818 Squadron on this patrol to five. Opdell was a likeable young chap and once more I had to pack a co-pilot's belongings with great sadness. I wondered why I had to carry out this task, rather than the squadron CO or the ship's chaplain?
I had been in the Ark for almost four months now and I had started to fit in. We had largely to make our own entertainment, and my early experience with the amateur operatic society in Kelso came in useful, as did my ability to play the banjo and the violin, though most of my shipmates called it a 'fiddle'. On the days that we were in port we would organize concert parties, in which the more officious officers of the ship – not that there were many – were held up to ridicule, Hitler was lampooned, and our service life and difficulties were treated as jokes. We didn't venture much into Gibraltar or La Linea, where there was little nightlife and no women, apart from a female dance band that used to perform in one of the bars. Gibraltar was not a dangerous place, but there was something called the Gibraltar Dog, which was a particularly painful form of stomach bug. I have seen people writhing on the floor in agony with it, and the cure was a visit to the chief medical orderly and a roughly administered enema by a medical artificer. No thank you!
Nights in the wardroom after an operation could get very raucous as people let off steam, drank a great deal and started singing bawdy songs. It was at times like this, when the original pianist had passed out, that I was often hauled out of my bunk in my pyjamas, dragged to the wardroom and asked to play. I was not really a good piano-player, but I could follow a tune. I think most of the people in the wardroom by then were too far gone to tell whether I had hit the right note or not! Sometimes I would play the banjo instead. And so another few days in port would pass. Many of the people determinedly letting their hair down had seen a great deal more than I had. I was beginning to appreciate that constant flying, and the resultant losses, could take their toll.
I had seen more action in these few months than I had in the whole of the previous year of war. While most of the patrols were plainly boring, I had carried out my first of many deck landings, intercepted a captured ship, raided an Italian port and survived several attacks from the bombers of the Italian air force. I felt that I had been kept extremely busy and had been thrust into the thick of it. I had no idea just how intense the next two months were going to be.
11
The Thick of It
In April, following our unsuccessful pursuit of Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, we returned to the Atlantic twice more on receiving information that they had left their sanctuary in Brest, but both times that we steamed out through the Straits of Gibraltar were false alarms. We also sailed twice more into the Mediterranean, with Hurricane fighters on our flight deck. These aircraft were brought down from the UK by Furious, another aircraft carrier that, like Glorious, had been converted from a First World War cruiser, or by Argus. The Ark would moor up so that the stern end of Furious's flight deck (Argus was the wrong height) could be connected by a wooden bridge to our round down and the Hurricanes would be pushed over from Furious on to our flight deck. They would remain there until, after three days at sea, somewhere in the Mediterranean they would start their engines and the pilots would make their first and last carrier take-off, form up and head for Malta. Even with auxiliary fuel tanks, the Hurricanes could easily get into the air at a point between the ship's island and the end of the flight deck. I often wondered what bureaucratic obstacles had stopped Hawker from producing a Hurricane wi
th folding wings and a tail hook before the war had started in earnest. If the Fleet Air Arm had had fighters like them over Norway, it would have been a very different story and might have changed the course of the war.
The RAF pilots that I met had not had a great time on Furious; I gather they were not treated well at all. Later, I could appreciate why, but at the time it sounded as if their experience was similar to mine on the old Argus: very noisy, not very nice food and cramped accommodation, half of them having to sleep in hammocks. They were relieved to get on board the Ark, where they got a decent cabin and we went out of our way to make sure they felt welcome in the wardroom. They had a difficult job. The auxiliary drop tanks that were fitted under their wings to extend their range did not feed the engine directly; instead they were used to refill their main tanks. So they would wait until the point in their long flight when their fuel gauges showed empty, then flick a few switches and hope to see the needles start rising again. I imagine it could be quite a tense moment. The auxiliary tanks had been fitted while the aircraft were on Furious, and the only way the pilots could tell if they had been installed properly and were going to work when they were needed was to climb into the cockpit, press the fuel-transfer switches 'on', climb out again and stand close, with their ears to the tanks, to see if they could hear the faint whirr of the pumps. On a noisy ship this was not easy.