There wasn’t time for the usual niceties of not issuing rudder orders to Chuck Williamson. “Guns, Captain, assign spot three and six-inch turrets to closest destroyer; assign sky one, two and four to the other three. Load high capacity and engage as quickly as you can.” He needn’t have worried.
Chuck was just as aware that the destroyers were coming Argonne’s way. It did not take long for him to get the correct orders issued. Sheppard saw the effects as the Mark 34 and the Mark 37 directors trained at the advancing destroyers. The one thing he lost track of was the next course change he needed to make in chasing the Italian 45cm salvos.
Capitano Adriana Luzzatto of the submarine Giulio dé Medici had been forced to submerge by the growing light. At this point he was absolutely determined to attack this enemy. His nickname inside the service was torello (bull) for his stubbornness. Adriana was going to get this target if it was the last thing he did. Giulio dé Medici certainly had the firepower with six bow tubes loaded with 53.3 cm steam torpedoes manufactured in Fiume, Italy. Like all Italian large diameter torpedoes, they had a 270-kilogram TNT warhead. What he was most pleased about was looking at the chart; he had his target pinned against the North African coast. At some point that ship would have to come to where he was slowly closing in.
The Gunnery Officer of the Italian battle cruiser Potente had observed his last nine shot salvo land about 300 meters aft of his target. Of the six modern battle cruisers that were originally part of the scouting force, his was the gunnery champion. He knew how to get the most out of the simple analog calculating machine and directors high on the fore tower. Thinking not just of the spot that he had to enter to center his pattern on the enemy; he was more concerned with analyzing the why. What had caused that salvo to miss? It was those corrections to his computer that had made Potente the gunnery champion.
Following his routine, when he entered the right spot of 300 meters, he also changed the target speed to the limit of his machine—50 knots. Skeptical that a ship could go that fast he nevertheless had confidence in the mental calculations that led him to a seemingly impossible conclusion.
The moment that his system operators reported they had entered the corrections. He gave the command to “Shoot!” He counted himself lucky that he was able to shoot before his forward turrets reached the limit of their train. Future salvos would be limited to the three guns of his after turret because of Potente’s course change. Nine 1,530-kilogram armor-piercing projectiles flew to intercept Argonne’s position 70 seconds into the future. It would be the last Italian salvo of the Battle of the Alborán Sea as Contrammiraglio Achille Birindelli hoisted the signal to cease firing.
10
TRADITIONS
SHEPPARD KNEW HE HAD made a mistake when he saw the nine Italian 18-inch shells arcing down toward Argonne in the morning light. How many men were going to die? Would any of the French civilians be injured because he had gotten distracted? Would Argonne’s luck hold one more time? He did not have long to wait. There was the rending tear of the air as the first few overs passed. The ocean heaved as mountainous water columns began to form on all sides of Argonne. The sickening sound of tearing steel and shattering wood joined the sound of the water rising. There were seven columns of water. Argonne had been hit twice. One was serious.
The first hit about 4 feet above the waterline on the starboard side at frame 232 abreast the after engine room. Its fuse shattered as it ricocheted off the armor belt. Then the shell continued downward, penetrating tanks in the torpedo defense system including the outer foam-filled layer. Exiting through the thin steel of the hull below the belt, the lack of an explosion prevented shrapnel from creating additional holes, flooding additional tanks.
The second shell slammed into the main deck forward between the two 18-inch turrets slightly to starboard but directly above his forward magazines. Sheppard could see the hole from the conning station walkway. He held his breath expecting any moment to be his and Argonne’s last, erupting in a fireball as Turret I and II’s magazines exploded to be joined by the hundreds of projectiles stored inside the barbettes.
What happened? Why was he suddenly filled with fear? Had her love been wounded again? Was it a more serious wound this time—fatal? What did he know that endangered him? Would he triumph again or would his enemies prevail this time? She knew it was a dangerous mission. After his meeting at the White House he had been somber, reflective, and reticent. He had not divulged what was to come unlike before when he had sailed against the Germans. This was different. She had never before felt this level of trepidation in the connection of their souls that they shared for what seemed to be a lifetime.
She knew that she had been hurt. She could feel his pain, but why. What more must they both endure?
The 2-inch main deck accomplished its design purpose of removing both the ballistic wind screen and the cap as well as activating the fuse to start its 0.035 second delay. The shell continued downward wrecking two berthing compartments in its passage until it hit the HY80 of the third deck. The sharp tip tried to dig into the armor deck but only succeeded in causing the shell to rotate and slap the deck in a thunderous earthquake heard and felt throughout Argonne, but especially in the sickbay directly below the point of impact. Sheppard may have caused the hit by not staying focused on chasing the Italian salvos, but he had managed to remain in the “immunity zone” where the Italian projectiles could neither penetrate Argonne’s deck armor nor her belt armor.
The shell ricocheted off the deck, exploding above the third deck in a berthing compartment just before it would have safely exited the ship. Bedding, clothing, personal items and the paint caught fire. The compartment was destroyed and the bulkheads outboard were perforated by the larger steel fragments. It was only minutes before the repair party entered the adjacent spaces with fire hoses and breathing apparatus to combat the damage. Argonne was hurt again, but not threatened.
Sheppard waited for the personnel casualty reports, dreading the confirmation that his mistake had again caused death and injury to his crew. He knew that he wasn’t yet paralyzed by the fear of making a mistake but he absolutely knew that every mistake he made was paid for in the blood and lives of his men.
Capitano Luzzatto needed to check on his target again. As he closed the range, it was vital that he keep track of any course changes that would prevent him from reaching a firing point before this target escaped. With the growing dawn that meant slowing before he raised his periscope. Five, four, three knots … he would risk the small wake that the scope would leave. He knew the sea state, even if only a slight chop, would mask the wake particularly at this range.
As the water drained from the head window Torello smiled. His target had been damaged and smoke was rising from the area forward of the superstructure. The range was still too far to shoot, but a second observation a minute later confirmed that the bearing was not changing rapidly. He should be able to engage this target. It would only take his determination and patience. He had both and he knew it.
In the days of sail, where voyages could last months, even merchant ships were armed with cannon to deter uncivilized savages and the more brutal pirates born in European countries; it was not uncommon for women to give birth at sea. For the more refined ladies of Europe that was obviously a traumatic event, the first of which they were not likely to be well prepared for without parents or friends in attendance. Among ship’s surgeons more attuned to amputations of shattered limbs than obstetrics, there arose a rather unique custom to assist a woman in delivery during the later stages of labor. It was really quite a simple method of encouraging her to push with all her might at the correct time in a contraction.
The solution entailed frightening her out of her wits by firing a cannon to leeward from a location as close as practical to where she was suffering. Not being accustomed to the blast of the gun’s discharge, the noise was quite effective in encouraging that last little bit of extra muscle contraction needed to deliver. The age of steam, howe
ver, had shortened sea voyages to days or at the outside weeks allowing prudence to avoid the necessity of delivery at sea and the traditional remedy had rarely if ever been needed since well before the turn of the century.
Dr. Hugh Blankenship, Argonne’s Medical Department Head, began the long climb up fourteen decks to the conning station. He was bone tired from over 48 hours without sleep operating on first wounded Marines and German POWs, and then seeing to the care of the French evacuees. When the main battery had begun firing, a few, he was too tired to count, but at least several had become hysterical. For the sake of the others and the few injured among the French, he had sedated them. The gunfire had created another problem for his surgeons in causing three of the pregnant French wives; at least he hoped they were wives, to begin their labor.
Like any good doctor he had tried everything in his power to save all his patients. Unfortunately, it had not been humanly possible. Where they had died, he had to tell himself it was God’s will. The other possibility that he had overlooked something was too painful to bear. It was that aspect of his personality that had allowed him to recognize a kindred compassionate soul in his Captain. Hugh wished he knew how Captain McCloud escaped the psychological damage of his mistakes, if there were any. If he made an error in judgment, at most one individual paid the price. With Sheppard, a mistake could lead to hundreds of dead or maimed.
As he reached the conning platform, he was winded and knew Sheppard would tease him about it, which he would try to return. His admiration and respect for his Captain showed as he waited patiently to be recognized by the man they all depended upon to be right.
Sheppard raised his binoculars to confirm that the four remaining Soldati class destroyers were on fire, but more importantly sinking. He had to slow and two of them were within range of low speed torpedo shots. His lookouts would give him more than sufficient warning when they sighted the frothy wakes from the combustion steam engines, but only if he was at a high speed. Slowing to conserve fuel would make it harder to avoid the torpedoes even when seen. His lookouts could no longer see any of the Italian battle cruisers and assumed that they had disappeared over the horizon out of range.
“Cease fire,” was the most pleasant order he had given all day and for once in the hours since he had first started shooting at the Italian aircraft carriers, Argonne’s guns fell silent. Their blackened muzzles lowered for rest.
God, he was tired!
“Ah, the good Doctor Blankenship, and how was your monthly exercise today?”
As Hugh studied Sheppard’s face he could see the fatigue clearly, “Well, Captain, I think we both could use a rest.”
“You have that correct. ‘But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep’,” he said, quoting Robert Frost.
“Captain, as your doctor, I advise you to get some sleep. We need you rested, not dead on your feet keeping your promises.”
“Okay, doctor. I’ll take that under advisement. Please give me a report about the casualties,” as he steeled himself for the answer.
“We were lucky, Captain. We will only have three dead to bury—two you already know about. The last died only a few minutes ago, but we never expected him to survive. From the battle, we have lots of flash burns and shrapnel wounds among the anti-aircraft crews, but nothing serious. One member of the repair party fell through the second deck in the smoke and broke his ankle. They should all make a full recovery. Captain, you know that old tradition of firing a gun to leeward for pregnancies.”
“Yes, Doctor, what of it?”
“Well, Captain, when that Italian shell hit the deck over sickbay, the overhead bounced with a horrendous noise and then there was an explosion above. Three of the French women were in labor from the battle and delivered at that moment. It seems we have a baby boom on Argonne.”
Three dead, four born including the D’Aubigné child. Sheppard thought that at least in the ugly calculus of war he had come out ahead this time. His heart was heavy, but duty still required more action.
“Doctor, please give my compliments to the XO and head chaplain and inform them that we will bury the dead as soon as all the preparations are completed.”
Hugh wanted to stay and convince Sheppard to rest, but he knew it was futile. After all, he had just been given a direct order. With an, “Aye aye, sir” he turned and left.
Commander Robert Bruce-MacLeod RN was the senior aircraft squadron commander aboard Splendid. As such, it fell to him to lead the Fleet Air Arm strike on the Italian scouting force. Flying in a Fairey Albacore it was only about thirty minutes after he had formed up with his squadron and set off to the east that the American Kingfisher had pulled up alongside and began sending a flashing light message on an Aldis lamp. There was no doubt about its nationality from the white stars on the fuselage and red and white stripes on the rudder flash. What surprised him the most was when the man sitting in the gunner’s seat held up the blue flag with four white stars. Robert knew enough about the American Navy that it was an Admiral’s flag, a full Admiral’s flag, and assumed that the elderly man in that seat was that man.
As the American blinked out a message, he had a decision to make. This Admiral wanted him to do something other than what he had been ordered to accomplish in the preflight briefing. He had no reason to doubt what he was being told. He could see that his assigned target was moving rapidly to the east-northeast, presenting him with an extremely difficult tactical situation. Undoubtedly loses of several aircraft from each of the four squadrons he was leading would occur in the long slow approach that the Italians had forced upon him. It was also perfectly clear that the French had sailed and were headed toward Gibraltar at too leisurely a pace to escape, if what this Admiral told him was true concerning what lay over the eastern horizon.
Well, he had always been told by his admiral father that he was a bloody fool. “If you want to make something of yourself in the service, you have to do it on the compass platform of His Majesty’s ships in command.” He may have been right, but then his father never experienced that absolute joy of flying. That was his passion. He had decided to remain the bloody fool.
“Panther, this is Mustang Zero-Four; request permission to land and come aboard.”
The spotting network shocked Sheppard back to reality. He shook his head twice trying to clear the cobwebs. His spotters must be running very low on fuel for them to make this request. Could he risk it now, sending more aloft for the new threat to the east? Was he going to have to fight again—in spite of his critical fuel state?
Going to the 21MC Sheppard ordered, “Officer of the Deck; prepare to recover aircraft using the astern method. Prepare to launch aircraft. Secure from Battle stations. Set the modified underway watch. Feed the crew.” What did he have, half an hour at the most until his guns would have to roar again? How much was left of the aft crew’s mess?
“Conning Officer, come to course two-seven-zero, slow to one third.” One more thing he had to make sure of: “JA talker, Fantail,Captain, load Kingfishers with depth charges.” With the dawn again he had to worry about the Italian submarines. At least they could try to open the Italian battleships while he recovered and launched aircraft.
“Captain, Guns, spot one reports. The contacts to the east are French!’”
Sheppard thought for a few moments. The Italians were abandoning their survivors. Were they now his responsibility?
“Signal Bridge, when you can establish contact, make to the French flagship. Request destroyers recover Italian survivors.”
The water was warm and there had been enough time for the destroyers’ and carriers’ wounded to be evacuated to boats with the rest seeing to their own life preservers. As soon as he had his pilots back on board Argonne he would return and assist them, but for now, his men came first.
The danger passed, Sheppard slumped like a deflating balloon, the fatigue hitting suddenly like the left hook that had broken his nose.
But I am going the wrong way.
> “Officer of the deck. Shift your rudder. Steady course zero-eight-zero.” I’m issuing rudder orders—no backup. I’ve got to think—will myself to concentrate. God I want to sleep. Am I now the Conning Officer? I told my order to the Officer of the Deck. Well at least the Conning Officer is now issuing the order to the helm.
The sound man aboard the Italian submarine Giulio dé Medici called out, “Capitano, the ship is slowing.” Torello Luzzatto smiled as he slowed his boat to take another look through the periscope. There was nothing like the hunt for a submariner, the quarry oblivious to the stalker.
When he finally slowed sufficiently to prevent a visible wake, the sight that greeted him made his determination worthwhile. The ship had not only slowed, but was now coming back toward him. He took some observations at specific time intervals so that his men at the plotting table could determine the target’s course and speed from the bearings and ranges he gave them. The more he looked at the ship the more he realized that there was something different about it.
The crane had not been there before. They were hoisting out aircraft and getting ready to launch them. That was when he saw the first float plane land astern, then another, finally one more. There were three waiting to be lifted back onboard all lined up astern like ducklings following their mother. He lazily swept the periscope around the horizon to check for other ships or aircraft before he lowered it. Destroyers!
The American Admiral had been correct. Stretching out ahead of Commander Bruce-MacLeod was the Italian battle fleet. Lead by a destroyer screen, the twelve capital ships were in a column coming right at him. It was a perfect tactical position for his slow biplanes. There were a few floatplanes being launched, but his escort of Fulmar fighters would make short work of them as soon as he signaled the attack.
Sheppard and the French Rescue Page 29