Cruiser

by Mike Carlton

  Perth returned to Piraeus, the ship’s routine turned upside down when a top-secret code book inexplicably went missing from her bridge. This was unprecedented, and a very serious matter. The ship was searched from stem to stern, which turned up all sorts of illicit material from bottles of whisky to colourful pornography. But the signal book was not found.

  For months, the Germans had been pressing their Italian partners for more aggressive action in the Mediterranean, both at sea and in the air. In February 1941, the commanders of the two navies had met at the picturesque little Alpine town of Merano in the Italian Tyrol. Tactfully but firmly, the Kriegsmarine chief, Admiral Raeder, tried to stiffen the spine of his Italian opposite number, Admiral Arturo Riccardi. Raeder pressed for the Italians to deliver the knockout blow to Malta, to attack the British at sea and to throw support behind the convoys carrying Rommel’s forces to Libya across the Sicilian Narrows. Riccardi made warlike noises in reply but complained to his German guest that the Italian Navy was so desperately short of fuel that its ships might be paralysed in harbour by the summer of 1941. After two days, Raeder returned to Berlin, unimpressed, but promising to see what could be done about the fuel situation.

  Towards the end of March, there were signs that things might be changing. ULTRA decrypts of Luftwaffe and Italian Navy signals suggested that a major operation was being planned for the eastern Mediterranean. The Admiralty informed Cunningham that the Germans were withdrawing squadrons of fighter aircraft from Libya to Palermo in Sicily and that the Italians were readying for action in the Aegean. It was also noticeable that the Italian Air Force had increased its reconnaissance patrols over the waters south and west of Greece and Crete, and over Alexandria itself, obviously to keep a closer eye on the British fleet.

  So something was up, but what? There were several possibilities. The Italians might have been planning, at last, to make a major descent on the LUSTRE convoys heading for Greece. They might have been intending to attack Malta by sea. Or to attack Crete. Or even to make some sort of naval move towards North Africa. Cunningham and his staff weighed the information as it came in, maddeningly incomplete though it was, attempting to guess the Italians’ intentions. A wrong decision could be disastrous.

  On Thursday 27 March came the breakthrough the British needed. ULTRA intelligence decrypts reported that the Italian fleet had put to sea the evening before, from its bases in Naples, Brindisi and Taranto, heading in a south-easterly direction towards Crete. At last, Cunningham had something solid. He made his decisions. A LUSTRE convoy at sea just south of Crete, heading for Greece, was ordered to turn about and return to Alexandria. Another convoy gathered in Piraeus was instructed not to sail. And the 7th Cruiser Squadron, including Perth, was ordered to position itself off Gavdo Island, south of Crete, by daylight the next day. Cunningham would take the battle fleet to sea to meet them.

  And then came a little deception. ULTRA could not be compromised. The Italians, and for that matter the Germans, could not be allowed to suspect that their codes had been cracked. An RAF Sunderland reconnaissance aircraft was scrambled from Crete to show itself to whatever enemy ships it could find. The Italian Admiral could believe that was how he had been discovered. Shortly after midday, the aircraft – flown by an Australian, Flying Officer R. S. Bohm, of Rockhampton in Queensland – reported three Italian cruisers and a destroyer east of Sicily and on course for Crete. Cunningham ordered the battle fleet to put to sea that evening and prepared another ruse of his own. Aware that his every move was watched by enemy spies, he very publicly went ashore from Warspite clad in civvies and carrying a suitcase, as if to play golf and later spend the night there. He returned to the ship under cover of dark, and the fleet sailed at 7 pm.

  The Battle of Matapan was about to begin.

  CHAPTER 10

  FLEET ACTION

  Cape Matapan is a barren headland at the tip of the Mani Peninsula of mainland Greece, which makes it the most southerly point of Continental Europe. The poet Homer’s wine-dark sea beats on its shores and a crumbling stone lighthouse dominates the skyline. On a windy cliff, there are the pillared remains of a temple to Poseidon, the god of the seas, and a cave that the ancients feared as the home of Hades, the god of the dead. The Cape would give its name to the last great fleet engagement fought by the Royal Navy.

  The Italians had sailed, in all confidence, to pick off what they believed would be the lightly defended British convoys ploughing between Alexandria and Piraeus. Their optimism was shared by a German intelligence assessment that claimed, inaccurately, that only one of the three British battleships in the eastern Mediterranean was ready for sea. The Germans were attempting to prod their ally into action.

  Subject:

  Naval Strategic Situation in the Mediterranean.

  From:

  German Naval Liaison Officer, Rome.

  To:

  Italian Naval Staff.

  Date:

  19 March 1941.

  The German Naval Staff considers that at the moment there is only one British battleship, Valiant, in the eastern Mediterranean fully ready for action. It is not anticipated that heavy British units will be withdrawn from the Atlantic in the near future. Force H is also considered unlikely to appear in the Mediterranean.

  Thus the situation in the Mediterranean is at the moment more favourable for the Italian Fleet than ever before. Intensive traffic from Alexandria to Greek ports, whereby the Greek forces are receiving constant reinforcements in men and equipment, presents a particularly worthwhile target for the Italian Naval Forces.

  The German Naval Staff considers that the appearance of Italian units in the area south of Crete will seriously interfere with British shipping, and may even lead to the complete interruption of the transport of troops, especially as these transports are at the moment inadequately protected.1

  The Italians would claim after the war that this hurry-up, incorrect as it was, had not influenced them. But the fleet Commander, Ammiraglio di Squadra (Vice-Admiral) Angelo Iachino, who had captained a torpedo boat in the First World War on the Allied side, nonetheless believed his forces would be sufficient to overcome whatever opposition he might meet. The Regia Marina would show the arrogant Germans what it was made of.

  Iachino flew his flag in Vittorio Veneto – a handsome battleship completed only in 1940. At 45,000 tons full load, with a main armament of nine 15-inch guns mounted in three triple turrets and a top speed of just over 31 knots, she was, on paper at least, more than a match for any one of the Royal Navy’s smaller, slower and older battleships. Warspite, at 33,000 tons, carried eight 15-inch guns – one fewer than the Italian, with a shorter range – and her best speed was only 24 knots.

  To back him up, Iachino had six 8-inch heavy cruisers, each of 10,000 tons (Trieste, Trento, Bolzano, Zara, Fiume and Pola), two lighter 6-inch cruisers (Duca degli Abruzzi and Garibaldi) and 17 destroyers. It was a formidable concentration of sea power. But, as a fleet, it contained deep flaws.

  In its haste to rebuild in the interwar years, the Regia Marina had entirely neglected the development of radar, and it had no aircraft carrier to contest mastery of the air space above a sea battle. Like so many of their peers in other navies, Italy’s admirals had argued among themselves about the effectiveness of aircraft carriers, many regarding them as not proven in modern warfare. Iachino had been one of the sceptics. Those in favour were anyway overruled by Mussolini, who believed, with a dictator’s stubbornness, that air power could best be deployed by the most ardently Fascist of his forces, the Regia Aeronautica. Italy itself was an unsinkable aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean, so the argument went.

  More foolish still, a fierce rivalry between the two services made cooperation almost entirely unworkable. To request air support at sea, an Italian admiral had to apply to navy headquarters ashore – the Supermarina – who in turn would have to put the request to air-force headquarters – Superaereo – who might or might not approve it in their own bureaucratic good time a
nd then, perhaps, pass the order down to the appropriate squadron. It was a farce that would have disastrous consequences.

  Andrew Cunningham did have a carrier. Commissioned just the previous November, HMS Formidable had recently replaced her sister ship, the bombed Illustrious. She carried 27 aircraft: 13 Fulmar fighters, ten Albacore torpedo bombers and four Swordfish torpedo bombers – the rickety-looking ‘Stringbags’ that had ravaged the Italian fleet at Taranto.

  In addition to Warspite and Formidable, the British order of battle numbered two more battleships: Barham, which was slow and little modernised over the years, and Valiant, which was equipped with radar. These four capital ships were accompanied by the 10th Destroyer Flotilla of Greyhound, Griffin, Hotspur and Havock, under the command of Hec Waller in the battle-scarred HMAS Stuart, and the 14th Destroyer Flotilla of HMS Jervis, Janus, Mohawk and Nubian.

  Pridham-Wippell’s 7th Cruiser Squadron – or Force B, as it would now be called – was made up of his flagship Orion, plus Gloucester and the Hair-Trigger Twins Ajax and Perth, all 6-inch light cruisers, with the 2nd Destroyer Flotilla of Ilex, Hasty and Hereward, plus HMAS Vendetta, one of the Australian Scrap Iron ships, commanded by Lieutenant-Commander Rodney ‘Dusty’ Rhoades RAN. On this Friday 28 March, all these ships – British, Australian and Italian – were sailing to meet each other. Neither side knew the strength or position of the other.

  It was a transparently lovely day. Spring had come to the Mediterranean, despatching the cruel blasts of winter at long last, although the nights were still cold. A light rain had cleared. The morning watch on Perth’s bridge, yawning after a long night, was treated to a rosy sun rising off the port quarter. As the ship’s company clattered to the daily routine of stand to the dawn, the gathering light revealed a calm sea of deep indigo, ruffled only by the white wakes of the squadron. The cruisers were well to the south of Crete and heading south-east towards Cunningham and the battle fleet coming up from Alexandria. They were cruising in line ahead, Orion followed by Ajax, then Perth and Gloucester.

  Cunningham was heading towards them, about 145 kilometres away. Much to his frustration, on leaving harbour the previous evening Warspite had run too close to a mud bank and clogged her condensers, which reduced her speed and therefore that of the rest of the fleet to a grindingly slow 22 knots. At dawn, Formidable flew off four Albacores and a Swordfish for an air search, and at about 7.30 am they reported a force of cruisers and destroyers well ahead. From the position radioed back by the aircraft, Cunningham assumed these were Force B.

  Then everything altered, with startling speed. Just before eight o’clock, Perth’s crew had finished breakfast and the watch was about to change when they saw a group of ships appear over the horizon, astern of them to the nor’east and heading in their direction. In that position, they could only be Italian. A flag hoist whipped up Orion’s signal halliards: Enemy in sight! Pridham-Wippell radioed to Cunningham that he had three enemy cruisers and a group of destroyers in view. The Commander-in-Chief knew that the fight was on at last. In Perth and the ships of Force B, the bugles blared and the alarm rattles clattered. Some 4000 men raced to their action stations for the fight, to bridges and engine rooms, gun turrets and magazines, Director Control Towers and torpedo tubes, Sick Bays and Damage Control Positions.

  In all the war so far, this was the first time that Perth and her ship’s company had seen an enemy surface vessel. It was electrifying. Brian Sheedy’s post was the After Control Position, an open platform just abaft the mainmast, with the Executive Officer, Commander Reid. This was a routine precaution. Reid could take over conning the ship from there if the bridge was destroyed and its personnel killed. Sheedy was his signalman. Adrenalin pumping, he scrambled up to the platform, ducked past the big 44-inch searchlight and began to check the communication lines, the telephones to the fore bridge, main Wireless Office, to X and Y gun turrets, to the engine room and Damage Control Centre.

  As he did so, the ‘enemy in sight’ signal whipped up Perth’s foremast, to be repeated to Gloucester astern. And then, glory of glories, the Australian flag soared aloft beside it, streaming taut as the cruiser gathered speed.

  Force B had run into three of the Italian heavy cruisers, Trento, Trieste and Bolzano. This was seriously dangerous. The enemy was both stronger and faster. Their 8-inch guns had greater range and explosive power than the British cruisers’ 6-inch. There was no question of standing to fight them. On the bridge of Orion, Pridham-Wippell took the sensible course of action. He ordered his ships to run to the south-east, hoping to draw the Italians after him and under the big guns of Cunningham’s battleships. In the engine rooms, they threw open the oil sprayers and the cruisers worked up to 28 knots, throbbing and vibrating, sterns digging deep, wakes boiling furiously behind them, the destroyers battling to keep up.

  The Italians took up the chase and opened fire at 8.12 am, from a range of about 20 kilometres. In Perth’s High Angle Director Tower, Bill Bracht heard a sound like a steam locomotive thundering past, and suddenly tall gouts of dirty yellow seawater shot skywards as shells landed in the sea only a few hundred metres away. This was good shooting – too close for comfort. Brian Sheedy, on the After Control Platform, struggled to hoist a battle ensign up the mainmast. It was a moment he had been waiting for:

  The first salvos from the three Italian cruisers landed in line with the after conning position. I had slept at my action station (second degree of readiness) with a 16-breadth White Ensign wrapped in a canvas bag. Indeed, it had formed a convenient pillow while I was sleeping on that hard steel deck exposed to the open air.

  Now, without further orders – the sight of the Blue Ensign [the Australian flag] at the foremast was sufficient authority – I bent on the White Ensign to the halyard clips and hauled away. A 16-breadth ensign is the largest size, measuring 12 feet by 24 feet. I had hoisted it some six feet above the heads of the three personnel when it refused to budge. I climbed the halyard, full weight, feet off the deck; despite all efforts the halyard was jammed. We were under fire all this time, with the ominous sound of approaching shells making whickering, moaning noises as they came. The Commander was shouting ‘Get that up’, as the billowing mass of bunting was obscuring observation of the enemy cruisers.

  ‘It won’t go up, Sir. I’ll hoist it on the starboard inner topmast.’

  There was a choice of half a dozen halyards, all within hand’s reach. The Commander replied: ‘No, you may need those halyards in case we are hit forward.’

  I had lashed a full set of flags in a canvas wallet to the railings around the platform for just such a contingency.

  Reluctantly, I hauled down the White Ensign and stowed it in its canvas bag. What an opportunity lost! To hoist a battle ensign in a surface action. I felt cheated. The truck halyard block, never used in daily practice, had become fouled with continual applications of grey paint.2

  The Allied cruisers were now ‘snaking the line’, zigzagging irregularly at speed to confuse the Italian range-finders. Gloucester, the rearmost ship and therefore closest to the enemy, fired off three 6-inch salvoes of her own – a gesture of hope over experience. They fell well short.

  After about 45 minutes of this furious pursuit, the Italians had second thoughts. It occurred to them that they might be heading into a trap. Two could play at that game. They decided to set a trap of their own, hoping to lure the enemy to certain destruction at the hands of Vittorio Veneto and the other heavy cruisers. At 8.55 am, they turned nor’west by west, heading back in the direction they had come from, towards the Italian main force. Pridham-Wippell turned his ships after them to keep touch. At this point, HMAS Vendetta, which had been struggling along with the cruisers, developed engine trouble. To her great disappointment, she was sent limping back to Alexandria.

  Something of a lull now developed. To the south, Cunningham and the battle fleet were doing their level best to join the fray, the Commander-in-Chief fuming at the slow speed forced on him by Warspite’s condenser pr
oblem. And he was further hampered by the need for Formidable to turn off course and into the wind so she could launch her aircraft for reconnaissance sorties. The battleships and the carrier swept on, majestic in the slight swell, the destroyers fussing around them in a screen to ward off possible submarines. Cunningham paced his admiral’s bridge – the caged-tiger act, his staff called it – thirsting for action.

  In Perth and the other three cruisers, they began to relax a little and even to enjoy the chase in the sparkling morning. Bowyer-Smyth, immaculate and imperturbable as ever, chatted with his officers on the compass platform. The ship’s regular routine went on: the Navigator at his charts, the lookouts scanning their arcs, the Yeoman of Signals and his team alert for a new order from the flag, Ray Parkin on the wheel as Action Quartermaster. The gun crews were closed up but relaxed. It was funny the things you saw in war. Brian Sheedy noticed a tiny sparrow flying parallel with the ship, seeking a resting spot, he thought.

  The next thing that happened was extraordinary – a music-hall comic turn in the fog of war. It was just before 11 am. Orion was leading the chase. Her crew were also enjoying the sunshine, munching on bully-beef sandwiches sent up from the galley. There was a slight sea haze on the horizon. On her bridge, Orion’s officers were also snatching a bite, as the Admiral’s Operations Officer recounted:

  The Commander came on the bridge and, with his mouth full of sandwich, nudged me and said, ‘What battleship is that over on the starboard beam? I thought ours were miles to the east of us.’ As I took my binoculars to examine a vessel hull down to the northward there was a whistling noise and the first salvo of 15-inch from the Vittorio Veneto landed somewhere around.3