Breakout

by John Deanne Potter

  "A second destroyer was sighted to starboard with a speed of 10–12 knots. The torpedo was released at the battleships from 1,200 yards inside the destroyer screen. When they turned to port they sighted another destroyer 100 yards on the starboard beam. The torpedo was seen to run but the result not observed. Landed at North Coates 18:50."

  The attack delivered by twenty-eight torpedo-bombers had not only failed but very nearly sank Captain Pizey's destroyer. Yet no one can blame the pilots who had flown off in dribs and drabs with totally inadequate information. It was the result of inefficiency on the part of the ground staff and lack of liaison between all commands.

  That evening the only surviving Swordfish air-gunner, Donald Bunce, made his lonely way back to the sergeants' mess at Manston, which he had left just before lunch. There he wrote this terse, undramatic report in his log-book, "Torpedo attack against Scharnhorst and Gneisenau. Attacked by fighters (FW 190s) and forced into sea."

  The only other unwounded survivor, Edgar Lee, after reporting to Admiral Ramsay, was driven back to Manston where as senior surviving officer of the Swordfish squadron he had a lot to clear up before being sent on immediate leave. Tom Gleave shook him by the hand. He said nothing. What was there to say to a man when thirteen of his comrades were dead and three others wounded?

  That same night Gleave sat in his office and wrote his first report on the Swordfish massacre. He admits he was in tears. In his outer office a young WAAF sat sobbing over her desk. She was the girl friend of one of the naval fliers. He addressed his report to Air Vice-Marshal Trafford Leigh-Mallory, Chief of 11 Group, for forwarding to the proper naval authorities. In stilted service prose, he told of the courage of the Sword-fish crews:

  "Concerning pilots and crews of 825 Squadron which operated from Manston against Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Prinz Eugen, attached is the report of Sub-Lt. Lee. As Officer commanding this station to which 825 Squadron was attached for operational purposes, and having been fully acquainted with their operational activities and the circumstances attendant thereto in respect of the above operation against enemy warships, which resulted in the loss of the entire squadron and seventy-five per cent of their crews, I respectfully submit that it would not be presumptuous on my part to express an opinion on the manner in which Lt.-Cdr. Esmonde and the crews under his command carried out their duties on this occasion.

  "I discussed the operation with Lt.-Cdr. Esmonde prior to the squadron taking off at 12:30. His pilots and crews present at this meeting displayed signs of great enthusiasm and keenness for the job they were about to undertake, and it was no doubt due to Lt.-Cdr. Esmonde's leadership that such a fine spirit prevailed. Nothing more was heard of the squadron until the five survivors were brought ashore. The German battle-cruisers were undoubtedly protected by a terrific barrage of flak, and covered by one of the biggest fighter screens ever seen. Against this, the determination and gallantry shown by Lt.-Cdr. Esmonde and his pilots and crews is beyond any normal praise. I am of the opinion that Lt.-Cdr. Esmonde is well worthy of the posthumous award of the Victoria Cross."

  It was the first time in history that an RAF officer had recommended a naval officer, not even part of his command, for Britain's highest decoration. Gleave later had only one bitter regret. He felt he had written his report too hastily. If he had considered it a little more he would have recommended more VC.s for the Swordfish crews.

  The Admiralty, who must take the main responsibility for the useless massacre, said of Esmonde: "He was free to act as he thought best and believed he might succeed. That he was taking tremendous risks he knew but he was prepared to face them as he had faced other risks many times before."

  But Admiral Ramsay and his staff officers at Dover were not prepared to shrug off the deaths of 825 Squadron as an inevitable casualty of war. In a personal message to the Fleet Air Arm base at Lee-on-Solent Ramsay wrote: "I cannot help but regard the miscarriage of the plan to provide fighter escorts for the Swordfish as a major tragedy of this war. Until the time they took off I had thought all arrangements were proceeding satisfactorily. Had I known that the fighter escorts might not keep their rendezvous I would have told Lt.-Cdr. Esmonde to remain on the ground. Indeed I would have forbidden the flight as an order."

  Nearly everyone involved felt personal resentment at every aspect of the operation. This applied particularly to the RAF It ranged from Sq. Ldr. Brian Kingcombe's remark, "I have never known anything so bloody silly as all that mystery about the Gneisenau and Scharnhorst" to Flt.-Lt. Gerald Kidd, radar commander at Swingate, who, encouraged by Admiral Ramsay, sat down that night and wrote a report of the action so critical! that he realized he might be court martialled for it. Instead it reached Churchill.

  As the last British aircraft turned back for England and night fell, in some ways the most difficult part of the voyage lay ahead of the German ships. Though they had sailed through the Channel safely they were still a long way from home — and it was the darkest night anyone remembered. It hid them, but the channel along the Dutch coast known as Easy Street turned out to be not so easy as all that. There were sandbanks to starboard and the port side was thick with British mines. To add to their difficulties, Scharnhorst's echo sounder and direction-finder, damaged by the mine explosion, were still out of action. Captain Hoffmann coming into the Scharnhorst's chart-room said, "Only God and courage can help us now!"

  As the German ships struggled along the Dutch coast towards the Kiel Canal, one last line of attack remained to the British. The fast minelayer Welshman and squadrons of RAF bombers had already strewn mines along the French, Dutch and Belgian coasts. These were now reinforced by twenty aircraft — eleven Hampdens and nine Manchesters — from Bomber Command who took off to drop mines in the mouth of the Elbe.

  When Scharnhorst was off the Hook of Holland, steaming in twilight through seas whipped up by a force seven southwesterly wind the Friedrich Ihn appeared steaming slowly. She was followed by torpedo boat Jaguar, black smoke pouring out of her badly smashed superstructure with one dead and two wounded aboard her. She had been hit in a dusk attack by the RAE

  Then directly in Scharnhorst's path two destroyers loomed up with a cutter between them. The look-out shouted a warning as the cutter appeared directly in front of the battleship's mighty bow wave. Just in time, the order was given to reduce speed so as not to cut the boat in half or capsize her in their wash. Then the look-out suddenly exclaimed, "The Admiral's in the cutter!" It was true. From the bridge they could make out Admiral Ciliax standing in the stern.

  Captain Hoffmann recognized one of the destroyers as the Z.29, which had taken the Admiral aboard. Although a great cloud of steam was pouring from her engine-room hatches, she had not been hit by the British. One of her own A.A., shells had burst before leaving the barrel of the gun, and a fragment of the broken gun had cut through the deck, killing one man and severing the main lubricating oil line to the turbine bearings. As repairing the oil pipe and switching over to another tank would take at least twenty minutes it would mean their falling back, and Ciliax might lose touch once again with the squadron. While the ships were still visible in the growing dark he had to decide quickly.

  He was in the cutter transferring to the second destroyer Hermann Schoemann when Scharnhorst nearly ran him down. The sea was now so rough that the crew of the cutter were ordered not to try to return to Z.29. They climbed aboard Hermann Schoemann with the Admiral and the small boat was sunk by gunfire.

  At 6:16 p.m. the last British plane vanished into the darkness. Ten minutes later the last Luftwaffe fighters flew back to Dutch, Belgian and French airfields. From Le Touquet, Fighter Commander Adolf Galland signalled his congratulations to the Luftwaffe aircrews. Their job was over, the ships were now protected by thick weather and dense darkness. Only Vice-Admiral Ciliax aboard the destroyer Hermann Schoemann did not rejoice. He knew this might be the hardest part of the passage. As the night closed in, Giessler put on his green militairy sheepskin which was warm and comfortable
for watch-keeping. It was a present from his father who had worn it during the First World War. Round his neck he wore a thick scarf which he called his "white shawl."

  Near Tershelling the direction-finding system became operational again in Scharnhorst and Giessler checked his position on a positive bearing with radio transmitters ashore. But the echo-sounder was still defective and no further mark-boats were due to be sighted until nearly 8 p.m., when the Texel mark-buoy would provide a much-needed guide into the Friesian channels.

  The strain of the past twenty-one hours was beginning to tell on officers and men now as they sailed without lights in the narrow channel, groping their way homeward on the final stretch.

  At 7 p.m. there came the drone of high-flying aircraft obviously tracking the ship by radar. Once or twice planes were heard quite clearly in the black night. But the battleships were now considered fairly safe from air attacks.

  At 7:15 p.m. the destroyer Hermann Schoemann came up at high speed with the Admiral's flag fluttering at her masthead, and signalled Scharnhorst to follow her. Led by the destroyer, Scharnhorst was steaming at increased speed towards the mark-buoy when the weather took a hand. A fierce squall blotted the ships out from each other and Scharnhorst lost Hermann Schoemann s stern light.

  On Scharnhorst's bridge everyone peered at the dark water ahead. As there was still no sign of the destroyer's light, Hoffmann ordered Giessler to turn on to the new course by dead reckoning. Just as the helm order was being given a look-out shouted, "Small boat on the starboard quarter." It was the mark-buoy. Scharnhorst was in the proper channel. Now all Giessler had to do was to follow the buoys through the channel.

  The long day was ending. For the ship's company it was their second night at sea with twelve hours at battle stations. Now that the last British aircraft seemed to have vanished into the darkness Captain Hoffmann decided that the men could take a break.

  At 7:30 p.m., as the port watch ended, the battleship returned to a modified normal working. For the first time since they left Brest, Scharnhorst's mess decks had their tables down for the port watch to eat a hot supper instead of gulping emergency rations in gun turrets or battle stations.

  The men, though tired, were still keyed up. Everyone was eager to tell his own story of the day's action. Gunners who had been in the main armament turrets and others who had been manning the lighter flak guns exchanged stories of the air and destroyer attacks. The members of the coastal artillery on board also gave their account of the ceaseless British air attacks.

  Now everything seemed to be going like clockwork. At 7:34 p.m. Scharnhorst passed the Texel at almost exactly the time scheduled by Group West. Not only had they made up the two hours delay in setting out from Brest but also the time lost through striking the mine.

  Gneisenau, making twenty-seven knots in waters where she should normally have sailed at ten, lost touch with Prinz Eugen in the same squall which separated Scharnhorst and the Admiral's destroyer. Then she also stumbled across the marker-boats lying off the Friesian Islands.

  Eleven minutes later — at 7:55 p.m. — she shuddered and stopped as a sudden flash lit up the battleship followed by an explosion. She had also struck an RAF-dropped mine. Yet the mine explosion was felt less strongly on her bridge than Scharnhorst's mine had been from 1,500 yards. The middle engine failed at once, and Captain Fein ordered the other engines stopped in order to prevent too great a pressure on places where there was an inrush of water.

  She drifted in the tides only six miles from Terschelling as damage-repair parties went below to investigate. Their examination showed a hole on the starboard side but only trivial damage. Reports coming in very quickly showed him that there were no more serious consequences. The mine had evidently gone off at right angles some distance from the ship.

  Half an hour later, with the hole in her bottom near the stern blocked by a steel collision mat and with water-pumps operating, Gneisenau picked up speed. But her navigational equipment had broken down and she had to creep through the shoals using a hand lead. At times there was so little water under her keel that she had to reduce speed to eight knots. If she tried to go any faster her propellers stirred up enough mud from the bottom to stop her. She steamed uncertainly through the same area where Hermann Schoemann and Scharnhorst were looking for each other.

  Prinz Eugen, having lost Gneisenau, was also moving blindly along the Terschelling banks at eight knots. She reported that she had no position and asked for a bearing.

  At 9:35 p.m., when Scharnhorst was ten miles from the Dutch coast between Terschelling and Schiermonikoog, the sailors aboard were still talking about the action. One man on the mess deck was dramatically describing with outstretched arms how a Wellington had banked away from the hail of flak fire, when there came a gigantic jolt accompanied by heavy vibrations which seemed almost to wrench limbs away from bodies. The explosion sent Captain Hofi'mann hurtling against the helmsman on the bridge. It was followed by a series of sharp cracks and grating noises as sailors were thrown to the deck. The current failed and the lights went out. Fans and other electrical apparatus ceased to function and a great quiet descended. The engines once again stopped. Scharnhorst had struck another mine.

  Wellington

  Then all the bells began to ring together and telephones and voice pipes which were undamaged reported, "Helm jammed," "Engines stopped," "Gyro compass out of order," "Electric light circuit failed." When the blue night lights were switched on they revealed that the damage appeared to be much greater than that caused by the afternoon mine.

  The starboard main engine was damaged and stopped and the other two were jammed. The dynamo room and most of the auxiliary machinery was out of action. Several compartments on the starboard side were flooded and thousands of tons of water were rushing in, giving her a starboard list of seven degrees.

  With communications broken down officers groped their way through the ship with torches, trying to assess the damage. As torches twinkled in the darkness they revealed smashed pipes, lights torn from sockets — even the welded compass fastening had broken away. Many instruments were useless. The shock had put the delicate prisms of the big guns out of trim. As the rest of their elaborate gear was affected they had become useless. They could not even be budged by hand.

  Scharnhorst, dark and dead on the water, began drifting broadside towards the coast. She was as helpless as Worcester. And the Terschelling shoals were perilously near. It looked like the end of the voyage. Yet in spite of the extensive damage, her position was not so critical as it had been in the afternoon. For she was within the Heligoland Bight and the inky black night protected her.

  As the night became colder and flurries of snow began to fall on deck, aboard the destroyer Hermann Schoemann Ciliax retired to the captain's sea cabin, which had been put at his disposal. Col. Ibel, the Luftwaffe liaison officer, was also somewhere below. Captain Reinicke was puffing his pipe on the weather side of the destroyer's bridge when suddenly he heard the deep rumbling noises of an underwater explosion. As it was followed within seconds by vibrations against the destroyer itself he realized it was not at any great distance. It came from the direction of the Scharnhorst. There seemed to be more than one heavy detonation. Or were some of the noises echoes?

  Captain Reinicke ran to call Admiral Ciliax. But Ciliax, who had also heard the explosion, bounded hastily out of his cabin excitedly demanding information. With their blue-darkened flashlamps the destroyer signalman called up Scharnhorst. They got no reply. It looked ominous. Had her boilers gone up this time? Was she sinking?

  It was over five minutes before a lamp spelled out the report from Hoffmann in Scharnhorst, who signalled at 9:42 p.m.: "Have hit mine." Although his fears were quietened, Admiral Ciliax, impetuous as ever, asked angrily, "Why have they taken more than five minutes to give us the answering signal?"

  The answer lay in the mine itself. The signalman's lamp in Scharnhorst had been broken by the force of the explosion. It had taken five minutes to produ
ce another lamp. As there was silence after this laconic three-word message, Ciliax again thought she had gone down.

  It was touch and go. The battleship drifted to starboard two miles from the perilous shoals as Chief Engineer Walther Kretschmer and his crew once again inspected the damage. They found rudder damage and three bolts sheared on the starboard engine. But at 10:15 p.m. — thirty-five minutes after the big explosion — the indefatigable Kretschmer was able to tell the captain, "Ship is ready with starboard shaft for fourteen knots and the middle one for sixteen knots. Port shaft still inoperative."

  Slowly she began to steam again. But no more signals came from her. There were no details of damage, only silence.

  Hermann Schoemann zigzagged through the inky darkness with her searchlight switched on looking for the flagship. Not for the first time in the operation Ciliax had lost touch. When nearly an hour had passed without finding her, he was certain Scharnhorst had sunk and ordered the destroyer to turn and steer for the starting point to try and pick up survivors of her crew. A strong smell of oil fuel drifting on to the destroyer's bridge deepened his fears. When their searchlight revealed a thick layer of oil on the water, the destroyer followed the oil-trail towards the navigational channel.

  They found no sign of any wreckage. Had she sunk leaving only this trace? Keeping his searchlight trained ahead, Ciliax ordered the destroyer to increase speed. As destroyer and battleship circled round each other in the darkness both their blinker signals failed to be seen. It was not until 10:39 p.m. that Ciliax on the destroyer picked up a message from Scharnhorst: "Ready to proceed at twelve knots. Please pilot me as echo-sounder has failed."

  For some reason Ciliax did not realize she was sailing under her own power again. At 10:46 he broke silence to radio shore installations in code: "Scharnhorst in urgent need of help. Also tugs." At the same time he asked for Scharnhorst's position from the escorting torpedo boats.