I Sank The Bismarck Read online

  We steamed on across the Indian Ocean, heading for Colombo in Ceylon. There was an important naval base on the island at Trincomalee, and Ceylon itself was the source of most of our supplies of raw rubber. With Singapore now in Japanese hands, holding on to Ceylon was absolutely vital if we wanted to keep control of the Indian Ocean. We expected the Japanese to make a move on the island at some time, but nobody knew when. Somerville had moved his flag on to the battleship Warspite, and with the rest of the Eastern Fleet – a First World War vintage cruiser, HMS Enterprise; a modern County class cruiser, HMS Cornwall; and a few destroyers – Formidable docked in Colombo.

  Our air group flew off and landed at Ratmalana, which was south of the capital, and we carried out maintenance, swung our compasses and flew operations from there until Formidable put to sea again. We made regular long-range patrols, alert for any signs of the Japanese fleet. Looking back, I am very glad I did not come across any sign of them, because I don't think we would have lasted long.

  When we left Colombo we met up with a much larger and strengthened fleet. Our sister carrier HMS Indomitable had joined us, and we also had three more battleships, Revenge, Resolution and Royal Sovereign, and eleven cruisers. The fleet patrolled to the south of Ceylon, with patrols taking up to three and a half hours at a time. On one of these I got caught in a tropical storm, which blew up extremely quickly. We could not, of course, get above the weather, so it became extremely hairy. There was an enormous amount of lightning and we were struck several times. Each time the compass gyrated violently, there was a strong smell of ozone, and I felt as though I had actually been shocked, although the plane was not in contact with the ground and so could not transmit a current.

  More alarming was the presence of enormous thunder heads, with extremely violent turbulence underneath them. I feared for the plane's structure, as we suddenly rose in the air, then descended like a stone for several hundred feet. We fought our way through the driving rain, struggling with the controls to keep an even keel, being hurled about in the cockpit just praying that the compass had not been permanently affected. After an hour of this I felt as though I had been flying in a giant washing machine. I was utterly exhausted, and anxious, not sure that we would get out alive. However, we plugged on and eventually reached some calmer weather. Was I glad to see the flight deck of the 'Formy' after that, and the pink gins were lined up in the wardroom for me that night!

  It seemed that the top brass were so certain that Ceylon would fall to the Japanese that we had set up a secret refuelling base at a remote island group called Addu Atoll in the Maldives. The southernmost island later became known as Gan, and was an RAF base after the war. It is apparently a tourist destination now, but then it was a godforsaken spot and very unpleasant. Almost on the Equator, a runway had been built for our aircraft out of crushed coral and large oil-storage tanks had been erected. It didn't have the spares and servicing facilities of a normal shore-based dockyard and there was absolutely no reason to seek shore leave!

  We flew our patrols as we journeyed there as well, and I remember one particular incident that makes me wonder if the heat and long, monotonous patrols didn't send us all more than a little crazy. I was flying along the Equator on an extremely hot day with the sun bouncing off a flat, calm ocean. I was trying to concentrate on the compass and maintain my visual search of the horizon. The fatigue level was building up. I had my cockpit open, otherwise it became absolutely stifling in the hot sun, and I felt a tap on my head. The Albacore was different from the Swordfish not only because the cockpit was enclosed, but because my seat was entirely separate from the observer's and TAG's position. There was a fuel tank between us, and we could communicate only via our headsets. Then there came another, more insistent tap on my head, so I turned. I saw a hand holding a bar of chocolate level with my eyes. I looked up and there was my observer, Midshipman Woodward. He had left his seat and climbed out in order to give me this piece of 'nutty' as we called navy-issue chocolate. I grabbed it and he gave a thumbs-up, then clambered back to his own cockpit. It was some time after we had landed that it suddenly struck me how absurdly dangerous it had been. He had become either so bored or so blasé that he had completely ignored the risks of falling to his death in the Indian Ocean.

  We had berthed at Addu Atoll and were in the process of refuelling, and loading any stores available, when we were ordered to be ready to put to sea as soon as we finished oiling. Reconnaissance aircraft had signalled the presence of Japanese warships 200 miles to the east of us, and they were heading north-west. At midnight we set off to find them. We would not be able to stop them from attacking Ceylon, which we were certain was their target, but might be able to launch an attack on them as they retreated. The information about them was patchy. Two Catalina aircraft that had approached the enemy fleet had been shot down before they could pass on much more than their course and position. In fact, as we found out later, the Japanese fleet was commanded by Admiral Nagumo, who had taken part in the attack on Pearl Harbor, and he had five aircraft carriers, with 350 aircraft, and they had an escort of four battleships and three cruisers.

  We had never before confronted an enemy that had its own carrier fleet. The Germans and Italians had never possessed carriers; the big threat we had faced in both Norway and the Mediterranean was land-based fighters and bombers, particularly those of the Luftwaffe. The Japanese, however, had invested heavily in their fleet's air arm. Their carriers were designed for large numbers of modern aircraft, and they had tremendous endurance. They were able to operate the fast Zero fighter from their flight decks – the same aircraft that was on front-line duty in the Japanese air force – and their torpedo aircraft, like the 'Mabel' and 'Kate', were modern single-engined planes able to carry a torpedo or 1,600lb of bombs on a 700-mile mission. Like the Swordfish and Albacore, they had a pilot, an observer and a reargunner, but they were almost 100 knots faster. They also had another dive-bomber, the 'Val', which could carry an 800lb bomb and reach 260 knots. What was to prove most decisive, though, was that the Japanese fleet could put these aircraft to sea in great numbers.

  On 5 April, the Japanese bombed Colombo, causing considerable damage. They lost seven aircraft, but twenty-five of our Fulmars and Hurricanes were shot down by the Zero fighters escorting the bomber force. They were outclassed and overwhelmed.

  However, as serious as this attack was, there was worse to follow. Not all the ships in the Eastern Fleet had made it to Addu Atoll with us on our refuelling trip. HMS Hermes, a small aircraft carrier built at the end of the First World War, had been permanently on station in the Far East. Hermes was modern in appearance, really the first purpose-built aircraft carrier, but she was only able to carry a maximum of twenty planes and was not very stable in any kind of poor weather. These were the reasons she had never been moved out of the Indian Ocean to take part in operations in the Atlantic or the Mediterranean. She was in dock in Trincomalee undergoing repairs, and two heavy cruisers, Dorsetshire and Cornwall, were also in port in Colombo. Cornwall had just escorted a troop convoy, and Dorsetshire was carrying out repairs to her engine room. I had last seen her at sea almost a year earlier, when I had flown over Bismarck as Dorsetshire fired three torpedoes into her hull. All three ships had put to sea at the end of March, when the first indications that an attack on Ceylon was about to take place were received. When this seemed to be a false alarm, they had returned to port.

  Now, a week later, when Somerville received the signals that warned him of the Japanese fleet's presence, both Dorsetshire and Cornwall were once again ordered to put to sea and make a rendezvous with us on our course from the Atoll. The admiral's estimate was that, once they had made their attack, the Japanese would head for home. We still, of course, had no accurate idea of the size of their carrier force. Most of the units that our reconnaissance had located were battleships, they were still about 320 miles away and it was expected that if we maintained our present course for the next twenty-four hours a combined force of to
rpedo-armed Albacore from us and from Indomitable might have a crack at them. Dorsetshire and Cornwall were thought to be 120 miles south of the Japanese and moving away from them. Radio silence was being strictly adhered to, so we did not expect to hear from them until one of our reconnaissance patrols spotted them. Then later that afternoon a signal was received saying that the two cruisers had seen a shadower. Nothing further was heard, but they must have been perfectly sure that they had been located by the enemy, otherwise they would not have broadcast the signal and given away their position.

  Around 1600 hours we were preparing for a briefing to make our first night attack on the Japanese. The galley had put on a decent grilled supper, although many of us didn't seem to be very hungry.

  Shortly before we sat down to eat, at around 1530, a patrolling aircraft saw some wreckage floating in the sea, with some survivors in the water. Another reconnaissance patrol spotted the Japanese fleet again, this time 100 miles to the north of us, and it included carriers and battleships. The Japanese carriers put up a section of Zero fighters to attack the reconnaissance patrol, which managed to make a successful run back to Formidable, and it was now clear to us that a large Japanese force was in the Indian Ocean and was not planning on going home. It was probably searching for us, and Somerville decided at that point that he was in danger of meeting up with a far superior enemy. He made a decision to cancel our planned attack and attempt to preserve his fleet.

  The Japanese had seen our reconnaissance aircraft and had to assume that we were aware of their presence and their position. Somerville calculated that they would expect us to retreat to the west. This we did under cover of darkness, but we then turned and headed east again. We did not know what had happened to Dorsetshire and Cornwall, but it was obvious the Japanese had either sunk them or badly damaged them. Somerville was determined to save as many of their crews as he could and sent a cruiser and two destroyers ahead of the main fleet. It was a very tense time. Throughout the early morning our patrols went out and there were radar traces of patrolling enemy reconnaissance aircraft, but miraculously the Japanese never found us. It was a nasty situation though. This was utterly typical of Somerville, and it must have taken strong nerves to believe that his reading of the Japanese intentions was correct. If he had got it wrong, we would all have paid the price.

  We found the wreckage of both ships, with hundreds of men in the water, and we learned that they had been attacked by between forty and sixty dive-bombers. Each cruiser had been hit at least eight times. They had sunk within fifteen minutes of the first bomb being dropped. The Japanese pilots were clearly well trained and determined. It was another grim lesson for us, but there was a plus side: we had managed to save twelve hundred sailors and there was a feeling throughout the carrier similar to that when Somerville had retraced our course to find Mike Lithgow. We had an admiral in command who was going to look after us.

  Admiral Nagumo had not finished with us yet, though. He steamed north-east, then north-west, and on 9 April bombed the port of Trincomalee on the north-east coast of Ceylon, again causing a lot of damage to the dockyard and to the China Bay airstrip. Hermes was also caught at sea: she was attacked by seventy dive-bombers and hit forty times. Her escorts, the Australian destroyer HMAS Vampire and the corvette Hollyhock, and two oil tankers were also sunk.

  In the space of a few days we had lost two heavy cruisers, and a carrier, several escorts and around twenty-five merchant ships had been either sunk or damaged in the attacks on the harbours. We retreated once more to Addu Atoll to refuel, the heavier battleships with us having an endurance of only four days at sea at high speed. Around this time, Formidable suffered a mechanical problem when one of the large gears driving the central propeller stripped its teeth and we were reduced to 8 knots. It was said on board that the two near misses that she had suffered in the Mediterranean had twisted her frame and her central propeller shaft was permanently misaligned but, whatever the reason for the failure, we were clearly of no use until it was fixed, so we sailed slowly for the docks in Bombay.

  The repairs took ten days, and when we returned to Colombo I was sorry to learn that a good friend of mine 'Bagshot' Thompson, whose father was the provost of Edinburgh, had died on the Hermes. 818 Squadron was disbanded and I was attached to 820 Squadron. In company with Indomitable we headed south and moored at the beautiful harbour of Mahé in the Seychelles. There was clearly a senior officer's conference, and the next day we were informed that we were going to assist in the landings on Madagascar, which was controlled by the Vichy government. We feared that the island would be offered as a refuelling base for both German and Japanese submarines, which would then be able to attack shipping using the southern route via the Cape of Good Hope. The Japanese had some large and very long-range submarines in their fleet, and intelligence had been received that they were planning to take up station in the channel between Madagascar and Mozambique. Our landings were to be made from landing craft, supported by Illustrious and Indomitable, and the battleship HMS Ramillies. Formidable would be further out at sea, providing air patrols and a combat air patrol from our Fulmars and the new American fighter bombers that we had on board, the Grumman Wildcats. The amphibious force, composed of infantry and Royal Marines, landed in the bay at Diego Suarez in the north of the island. They met stiff resistance from the Vichy forces and the fighting went on for several days, with our forces suffering around five hundred casualties. My contribution to this was to fly two long-range patrols a day for around three days – eighteen hours in all. The French army retreated to the south and we secured the port on 7 May, but it took several months of sporadic fighting before all the French forces had surrendered.

  At the end of the month, surprisingly, the Japanese did show themselves. Two corvettes patrolling the bay picked up a sonar contact and started depth-charging the area. It was a Japanese midget submarine and, despite the fact that it was under attack, it fired two torpedoes, one of which hit Ramillies, while the other hit an oil tanker, British Loyalty. There were, in fact, two midget submarines, which had been ferried to Madagascar by two of the large long-range oceangoing submarines in the Japanese fleet. The second ran aground without being able to make an attack and the crew were killed.

  By then, however, we had left and sailed to Mombasa, on the Kenyan coast, mooring in the Kilindini river. On the way there a strange thing happened one night. Sailing in the tropics, we got permission to use a campbed on the quarterdeck, which was open at the rear. You were more or less above the propellers, but got used to the noise – there was nowhere quiet on a big warship anyway. One night I awoke to hear a faint shout for help. I could not fathom where it was coming from and crawled forward to the guard rail on my hands and knees to listen.

  Again I heard this faint call for help, so I crawled further to my right and could just see a pair of hands hanging on to the deck edge. I grabbed a wrist and shouted for assistance, and eventually managed to haul a young officer on board. I have no idea how he got there and neither, he claimed, did he. He was lucky to be alive. The doctor arranged for him to be locked in his cabin and he was discharged when we got to harbour. A ship is no place for a sleepwalker.

  When we arrived at Mombasa, I was sent to assist in the building of an airstrip about 50 miles inland. The RAF already had a base in Mombasa at Port Reitz, which was to become Mombasa airport, but apparently another one was needed at a small railway halt called Mackinnon Road, on the main line from Mombasa to Nairobi. It was in the middle of nowhere, with absolutely nothing on the horizon, just a rail sign. I was the only officer with two petty officers and about thirty men. We lived in tents and all our supplies, including water, were brought to us by train. There was one train in the morning heading to Mombasa and another in the evening making the return journey to Nairobi. The airstrip was a prefabricated one, made of sections of metal mesh that we laid down and joined together. The construction was completely dependent on the irregular delivery of the metal sections by train.
r />   It was a very unpleasant and unhealthy place. The one saving grace was that I had a Swordfish aircraft, so I managed to fly to Tanga and Nairobi for a regular supply of quinine tablets and other medication. I also had to ferry quite a few cases of malaria to Mombasa hospital. There was a waterhole a mile away which was regularly visited by wild animals at night. In the dusk we could hear the lions making their loud grunting roars and I managed to get some rifles to guard against any attacks. It was an extremely debilitating task and after a few weeks of intense heat, an infestation of scorpions and large black spiders, I was very glad when I was recalled back on board.

  During the time that I was at Mackinnon Road, my first visitor was an amazing female pilot flying a twin-engined de Havilland Rapide. She was dressed in RAF battledress with no rank or insignia, just RAF wings. Her name was Evelyn and I enjoyed flying with her – and she was able to secure quinine tablets more easily than I could. Evelyn had been a commercial pilot in Kenya before the war and had answered a call for volunteers in 1939. Her story was that the recruiters had assumed she was male, so by the time she arrived at the airbase in Nairobi she had been assigned a service number and it was too late. She was not allowed to take part in combat, but as far as I was concerned she was a damned good pilot.

  Mackinnon Road eventually became a town with a mosque, all from a few bricks at the rail side and a metal runway. Ironically, Tim Coode, my old CO of 818 Squadron from the Bismarck attack, died there in January 1943 when a Grumman Martlet he was flying crashed as he was taking off.

  Back in Formidable, heading to Addu Atoll, I was made deck landing officer to replace Lt Commander Cubitt, who had had an unfortunate accident when he fell off the flight deck trying to avoid an aircraft that had attempted to land on. I found it a great relief, as the patrols in the Albacore were beginning to get me down, although I had to be on duty early, making sure that the aircraft for the dawn patrols were ranged properly and that the flying schedule was organized and properly notified to the squadrons.