Sixteen decks below in the forward port engine room the throttleman at the gage board Machinist Mate Second Class Milton DeLong answered the order by matching his handle to the indicated order and started spinning the ahead throttle valve hand wheel shut as fast as he could.
The port lee helmsman reported, “Port outboard main engine answers; back emergency, sir.” There was nothing more for Sheppard to do but go out to the conning platform and watch the onrushing French destroyer, bracing for the inevitable explosions of one or more Italian torpedoes. Argonne’s two stacks were erupting in volcanoes of superheated combustion gases and smoke. Well, the smoke did not matter now. Sheppard needed power. The Italians, the French, and whoever’s submarine that was shooting at him already knew where he was.
No sooner had the throttleman shut the ahead guarding valve than he began to spin the astern throttle fully counterclockwise until the 3 foot diameter hand wheel came up to the hard stop. Main engines were designed to provide maximum power going ahead and Petty Officer Delong was well aware that he controlled well over a hundred thousand horsepower going ahead. The backing turbine elements were almost an afterthought. Despite having the maximum possible steam flow going to the engine, it would only generate about one fifth the ahead horsepower when going astern.
The 40-inch diameter shaft slowed and stopped rotating in the ahead direction; reversing from counter clockwise when viewed from astern to clockwise as the astern engine began to generate power. As it did so the wash from its propeller began to create a swirl of water on Argonne’s port side moving toward the bow and building up against the forward motion of the ship. There was nowhere near enough power to substantially slow Argonne’s mass or even significantly slow her acceleration, but the effect was to cause the stern to swing faster to starboard.
Chief Bledsoe stopped worrying about loading depth charges on the two Kingfisher’s resting snugly on the catapult launch cars and ran aft shouting at the crane operator, “Smitty, two-block that Kingfisher and swing her forward as quickly as you can!”
“Roger, Chief,” the reply almost lost in the increasing whine of the forced draft blowers.
As Chief Bledsoe ran aft leaping up on the armored hatch to the hanger, it was getting harder to keep his balance. Argonne’s stern was starting to buck like a rodeo bronco with three shafts accelerating ahead and one spinning astern. Would the Kingfishers spotted for launch with their tie-downs removed fall off the catapults?
“Smitty, you are rotating the wrong way; swing to starboard, not to port.”
“Sorry, Chief,” the chastened crane operator replied.
Chief Bledsoe caught a glimpse of the racing French destroyer, aiming it seemed directly at him as he moved aft. There was no time to reverse the crane’s rotation. That destroyer would hit the Kingfisher if it tried to veer off at the last moment. “Smitty, keep rotating to port!”
“Okay, Chief,” what was his boss thinking—first one way and then back again as he again reversed the hand-wheel controlling the crane’s rotation machinery on the deck below.
“You boys with the hold-off poles, do your best to keep that plane from swinging into the crane as she’s hoisted above the other planes.” It probably won’t do much good, the angles are all wrong for them to be able to control the Kingfisher. “Jonesie, use your pole to knock that landing mat free. If it comes aboard with that plane, it’s going to wreck the tail on zero-six!”
Destin and his weapons officer had dropped their ninth and tenth charges trying to destroy the fifth Italian torpedo. They had run out of time and space.
“Weapons Officer, place all depth charges on safe.”
Destin passed, “Brace for large angles.”
There was one last desperate gamble to take. This time he was thinking of his wife and unborn child.
He ordered, “Right full rudder,” knowing full well that at this speed with Mogador lightly loaded, that she might very well heel over onto her beam ends and founder.
“All back emergency,”
“Brace for impact.”
His engineering personnel did their best to comply with their Captain’s engine order but the rapidly tilting deck made it all but impossible.
Mogador’s bow cleared the port quarter 40mm quadruple mount gun tub on Argonne by less than a meter as her bridge clinometer passed a list angle of 50 degrees. Her starboard propeller came out of the water and the starboard main engine raced to its limiter set point. The Contre-torpilleur’s stern was swinging rapidly toward Argonne with the port side of her main deck under water.
A collision seemed certain when Destin issued his last order in command of Mogador, “Shift your rudder;” as he lost his grip and fell. The bridge clinometer reached 65 degrees and hung there as the rudder machinery strained to go from right full to left full at a list angle it was never designed for.
Sheppard watched what he had to admit was the finest example of ship handling he had ever seen. He had always prided himself on how well he could handle his destroyer when he had his first command, but this French commanding officer was more than his equal. He watched with grateful admiration as the exploding depth charges and Italian torpedoes had come closer and closer to Argonne. He had seen the wakes and knew that there was but one more that was yet to be accounted for.
Once more Sheppard’s mind raced. Would it miss? Would it hit the destroyer? Would it hit Argonne in her most vulnerable place by his port shafts and rudder? Should he stop the port shafts to prevent a bent one from opening all the bulkhead seals to his forward engine room? That would be catastrophic! That torpedo wake looked to be aimed directly amidships of that French destroyer. What was its running depth? Would it detonate on that ship or continue on to hit Argonne?
The torpedo detonated about 50 feet from Argonne, far enough that the battle cruiser—his ship—should not suffer any significant damage. Sheppard waited in dread of the reports that the rudders were not responding to the helmsman’s orders, or the reports of flooding where the hull might be breached from Damage Control Central. He prayed there might only be some dishing in of the thin outer skin at his stern.
But those damage reports did not come, Argonne was functional and essentially undamaged. The same was not true of Mogador as she drifted to a stop slowly righting herself, settling by the stern. There were men—French sailors in the water. “All stop, stop the shafts!” He had to prevent them being sucked under by that swirling mass of water aft; at least it looked like they all had lifejackets on.
Chief Bledsoe was reporting that the Kingfisher’s appeared undamaged, but Sheppard would not take any chances. He went to the 21MC, “Officer of the Deck, secure attempts to ready aircraft until all OS2Us onboard have been inspected for damage. Away the rescue and assistance detail.”
No one could possibly know if that last torpedo exploded as a result of Mogador’s last desperate act or as result of Sheppard’s backing the outboard port shaft. Perhaps it was the combination of both acts creating the maelstrom of swirling water needed to activate the Italian detonator. No one would know, but to be honest, no one cared. Sheppard would give sole credit to Mogador in his report making it certain that Amiral D’Aubigné would give full credit to this unknown French officer in all the official reports of the action. Capitaine de Frégate Destin Moreau would take his rightful place in the pantheon of France’s naval heroes.
It did not take long for Mogador’s squadron mates to dispatch the Giulio dé Medici. Torello Luzzatto had taken his submarine down to her test depth of 100 meters in an effort to get away. It was exactly the wrong thing to do in the spring Mediterranean morning. Without a storm having passed through the area recently, there was a sharp enough temperature gradient at about 15 meters to create a fairly safe shadow zone that would limit the sound equipment on the Contre-torpilleurs if he had stayed at 30 meters. By going deeper he left himself more vulnerable to detection and localization.
Sheppard was watching as the air bubble, oil, and debris rose to the surface f
ollowing their second attack, marking the end of Argonne’s assailant. He had stopped Argonne using only the starboard shafts. There were men struggling in the water and Mogador was sinking lower every minute. “Conning Officer, I am ready to be relieved, answering all stop, no course ordered.”
“I relieve you, sir, answering stop on all shafts, no course ordered,” replied Lieutenant Cunningham.
Sheppard smiled that the young officer had expanded on what his Captain had stated without concern that he would get recrimination.
The first-repeat pennant had been lowered from the starboard yardarm as soon as mustang zero-five settled into a cradle in the hanger and Admiral Hamblen, none the worse for wear, deplaned. The OS2U-5 had its wings folded and was pushed to a storage position on the forward port side of the hanger while boat crews and damage control personnel mustered. Lieutenant Barry Jensen was rumored to have kissed the third deck again as soon as he exited the Kingfisher. He had seen Mogador pass almost directly under his aircraft as it swung at the end of the hoist cable from the aircraft and boat crane with the mast passing on one side and the superstructure passing on the other.
The first launch lifted from the hanger set about rescuing the French sailors swimming nearby. Chief Bledsoe sent one of his men up to the top of the crane where he had the best view for locating men in the water. Using hand signals, every Frenchman living and dead that floated nearby was recovered.
The second and third 50-foot utility launches packed with damage control personnel and equipment were lowered and quickly set off to assist Mogador by the time the first returned. The lifting bridle was attached and the boat carefully hoisted to Argonne’s gunnel where stretcher parties and one of the Medical Department’s doctors were standing by to assist. Three sailors were pronounced dead at the scene, with another dozen suffering from internal injuries caused by the explosive concussion of the detonating Italian torpedo as they struggled in the water nearby. The stretcher parties rushed those to sick bay where Argonne’s surgical teams were waiting. By now every man, woman, and child aboard Argonne knew of the heroics of Mogador in saving them from the Italian submarine.
Admiral Hardy stood on the compass platform of Renown, reading the blinker light messages from Splendid and Ark Royal. The report of damage inflicted by the strike group was encouraging. The Italian battle fleet had been damaged for a second time. Hardy knew that just as they had been repaired following the strike at Taranto, they would be repaired again, though it might take a year or more. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to pursue the damaged battleships and finish them off, but both his Flag Captain and he recognized that it would be foolhardy in the extreme to pursue. His ships were outnumbered twelve to six and however fine their gunnery and crews, Renown and Repulse were no match for any modern capital ship, let alone the pride of the Italian Navy. Besides, by the time he overhauled them, they would be well within the range of the Règia Aeronautica’s exceptional torpedo bombers flying out of Sardinia.
Another air strike to concentrate on sinking a few was out of the question. Every Swordfish and Albacore that returned was damaged. Ark Royal had estimated that it would take 36 hours in her report of the engagement before her remaining biplanes would be ready for a second strike and Hardy’s Flag Captain Sir Phillip Kelley rightfully believed that Splendid would need the same amount for her Albacores.
The only other option was the Italian Scouting Force, but they were retiring at a much greater speed than his elderly ships could hope to achieve on the best of days. Second guessing himself, he could not find an answer. Perhaps if he had not been hampered by the 18 knot maximum speed of the American tankers and supply ships, he could have intercepted the Scouting Force. He began to curse his decision to bring them along, safe from more Italian swimmers. Though he would achieve his mission of safeguarding the withdrawal of the French as Admiral Hamblen had requested, he was bitterly disappointed that the major units of the Italian fleet had again escaped destruction. At that moment a lookout reported, “Smoke bearing green one-five.”
It was the SG radar operator that cried out as soon as his radar came back on line, “Contacts bearing two-nine-five about two-five miles. It looks like six large warships in column.”
Admiral Hamblen had just finished the long climb up to the conning station when the report came. He quickly stated, “That is Force H.”
Sheppard could not hide either his joy or the sarcasm in his voice as he looked at Ollie, “Better late than never. I just hope they brought a tanker or two, or we are going to have to row.”
“Sheppard, have you gotten any reports from your rescue and assistance teams on Mogador yet?
“Yes, Admiral, most of her crew are hurt, maybe a third suffering broken bones. Besides the men that we recovered from the water, there are many severely injured including the Captain. Admiral, in all honesty, he is the best ship handler I have ever seen. Do you know his name?”
“His name is Destin Moreau. What about Mogador?
“It looks like they can save the ship, but Mogador is a floating wreck. The Italian torpedo warped her shafts, damaged the rudders, and flooded several compartments aft; but the worst part was trying to answer emergency engine orders at that list angle you saw. There was severe carryover of boiler water down the steam headers that destroyed the turbines. She doesn’t even have a functional generator for electric power. Lieutenant Schneider found the French stability diagram. By all rights Mogador should have capsized. Had her captain not shifted his rudder when he did, she would have, as well as collided with Argonne.”
As Hamblen and Sheppard were talking they watched the litters being carried forward from where the hoisted utility launch was resting against the gunnel. Some of the French sailors were walking with splinted arms or blood soaked bandages. Oddly one Stokes litter was being carried by four French sailors being exceptionally careful. There was a man under a white Navy hospital blanket who obviously had their respect. A blood soaked bandage wrapped around his head. There was no sign of movement.
She was so tired. The accolades of previous weeks were gone. The excitement of her recent events had died away in the humdrum of routine. She sensed from long experience that her beloved was bone tired too. He would drive himself to beyond human endurance for the sole sake of responsibility to his men. There was nothing she could do to stop that to convince him that he needed to look out for himself. At least that man Jefferson looked after him.
Was he condemning himself once more for decisions made and not made? Was he grieving for men dead or injured—at his hand or others? Didn’t he understand that this was war and in war human life is at risk—ships are at risk? Didn’t he realize that he could make mistakes; that for all the good he accomplished, it would never be perfect?
He could not put his finger on it. Something just did not feel right to him. He had that same feeling in the British museum when he was examining a bone classified as one species when after thorough study it turned out to be something else. Flight Lieutenant Anthony Pennyman cleaned his magnifying glass again and studied yesterday’s photos of the Wilhelmshaven docks for what must have been the twentieth time. He just could not determine what it was that was giving him that prickly feeling he knew was self-doubt. It is not often that a Flight Lieutenant briefs the Prime Minister and decisions of national survival are made. What if he had been wrong? He knew what he had read on the sides of the crates, but why did that little voice inside not let him believe it?
There was only one way to get a definitive answer. He was going to have to ask RAF Benson for another low level mission. The only problem was the weather was worse than the day before yesterday. A cold front had moved in and the forecast was for rain and a low ceiling over the north German coast. It would be a dicey mission for the Mosquito I.
It had taken several hours, but the spent brass removed from the weather decks had been struck below. That was the easy part. Re-stowing the magazines was a much harder task. The cartridge cases had to be put back
into their aluminum ammunition cans and the magazine contents rearranged so that the empties were in the farthest reaches. Each 5- and 6-inch powder space was sequentially emptied into the fourth deck fore and aft passages and then the thousands of powder tanks put back being careful to store the same lot numbers in the same sequence for each. The vetted French townsmen demanded that they be allowed to help in this labor intensive task. Sheppard was glad for the help as his gunners and magazine personnel were dead on their feet.
At least there was nothing to do in the 18-inch magazines except put the covers back in place and mark them as empty. The shell rings were refilled from the fixed storage in the main battery turrets again setting up the maximum firing rate for the longest possible time.
Once the after deck was swept and cleaned and preparation completed, Sheppard ordered the Boatswain’s Mate of the Watch to pass the order he hated most.
Petty officer Bergman went to the 1MC microphone and piped the call Word to be Passed, “ss-s-s-ssssssssss,” followed by a solemn, “All Hands not on watch, bury the dead.”
Sheppard had arranged for the Navigator Commander Art Roberts to come to the Conning Station and back up the Officer of the Deck while Sheppard was on the quarterdeck. Petty Officer Jefferson had brought his number one set of blues, freshly pressed, a starched white shirt, spotless black tie, morning band for the left sleeve of his blouse and spit-shined shoes for Argonne’s Captain to change into; honor the fallen.
When Sheppard and his orderly reached the quarterdeck all hands not on watch had been assembled as well as the ambulatory members of the Mogador’s crew, German POWs, and the French civilians. Many of the crew stood atop the aft turret. Eight flag draped stretchers—five French, two German, and one American—were arrayed along the starboard lifelines with six body-bearers each in their best dress uniforms; the body bearers holding the national flags as they billowed up in the swirling air aft. Major Jenkins with his sword and seven armed Marines formed the firing squad also in their dress blues. Commander Grabowski, the senior Chaplain, senior Chief Hancock, and the ship’s best bugler completed the official party. Sheppard knew that his boatswain’s mates had prepared the bodies in the traditional manner—sewn into a white canvas shroud with a 5-inch projectile between their legs. Sheppard did not know what type, but it really didn’t matter, any of them were heavy enough. By nautical tradition the last stitch was always through the nose—a tradition based on need, when ships rarely had doctors, it occasionally prevented tragic accidents of consigning a living person to the deep.
Sheppard and the French Rescue Page 31