Alone on a Wide, Wide Sea

by E. E. Barringer

  The flight that followed was a minor epic in the history of aerial warfare, for it demanded pinpoint navigation and flying of exceptional skill. Rotherham decided to adopt the old trick of making a landfall some miles to the right or left of his true objective; this way if he hit the coast at a point he didn’t recognize, he would know which way to turn. The landfall he chose was Marsten Island, about a dozen miles south of Bergen. The weather in the Orkneys was fine and clear as they took off and headed for Norway, but it wasn’t long before visibility deteriorated and halfway across the North Sea they saw ahead of them a vast bank of cloud and mist rising like a solid wall out of the water. The cloud extended from horizon to horizon without a break; it was high and its base was right down on the sea. At 100 feet the Maryland was flying blind. Even at fifty feet it was passing through eddies of mist-cum-drizzle-cum-cumulus. It would be hard to imagine anything more taxing than flying through a low, ill-defined tunnel between cloud and sea, with drifting fragments of cloud rushing at one out of the murk like puffs of gunfire. Yet after they had been airborne for roughly an hour and a quarter, and had made two fractional alterations of course to allow for a changing wind, Rotherham said, “A couple of minutes and Marsten ought to be one mile dead ahead.” And at the end of a couple of minutes the cloud, as by a miracle, fractionally lifted and fine on their starboard bow a mile ahead they saw the low cliffs of Marsten Island.

  It was not too difficult now to find their way to Kars Fjord, a forbidding corridor of water, hemmed in by high hills and low cloud, but mercifully free of mist. They made a thorough reconnaissance of the fjord, but there was no sign of the Bismarck. Nor was there any sign of her in the nearby Hjelke Fjord. There was, however, one other place she might be: sheltering from the bad weather in Bergen. They knew that Bergen would be heavily defended, but they knew too that their mission wouldn’t be conclusive until they had reconnoitred it. Inevitably, as they approached the harbour they were spotted. Ack-ack burst around them, shattering the pilot’s cockpit-canopy and destroying the intercom-system by which the crew kept in touch with each other. Goddard took the Maryland down to sea level, weaving in and out of the ships and skimming low over the roof-tops; then, having satisfied themselves the Bismarck wasn’t in harbour, they were heading for the safety of cloud. As the swirling canopy of white enfolded them, they set course for the open sea, and Hatston.

  They had one more job to do. In case they were shot down by enemy fighters on their way home, it was essential they at once signalled to the C-in-C the news that the Bismarck and Prinz Eugen had sailed. But here there was a problem. A Maryland is so constructed that pilot, observer and wireless-operator are in separate cockpits, cut off from one another, and, since their intercom was inoperative, Goddard, Rotherham and Armstrong had no way of communicating. Rotherham therefore wrote on a piece of paper: “Signal C-in-C ‘the battleship and cruiser have left’,” and pushed the message through a hole in the cockpit-bulkhead to Willy Armstrong. But now came another and more serious problem. Willy tried again and again to call Coastal Command to whose frequency he was tuned, but he couldn’t get a reply. Realizing there must be a maladjustment on that wavelength, he hit on the idea of tuning in to the frequency used by Maryland training aircraft at Hatston. Target-towing over the Orkneys was in full swing that evening when the telegraphist-air-gunners, to their amazement, suddenly picked up a most urgent operational signal: “Signal C-in-C ‘the battleship and cruiser have left’.” Within minutes Rotherham’s message had reached the Commander-in-Chief of the Home Fleet.

  So in the sinking of the Bismarck the Fleet Air Arm was in at the beginning and in at the end, for it was of course Swordfish from the Ark Royal which finally crippled the great battleship. How different the story might have been without the efforts of our newly-appointed chief telegraphist-air-gunner!

  Our newly-appointed CO, Lt-Cdr(A) T.T. Miller, RN, had been a flying instructor at RNAS Arbroath and it was his misfortune to take over the squadron in difficult circumstances. His predecessor, Wilf Waller, had been our Commanding Officer for only a few months, but in that short time he had earned the respect and affection of both the wardroom and the lower deck, not least because of his iconoclastic disregard for the more pompous aspects of naval tradition; he was given a memorable send-off, and my last and abiding memory of him is seeing him with his lighter carefully setting fire to all the Admiralty Orders on a notice-board in the wardroom. This was a hard act to follow. It was also unlucky for Miller that he took over at the very moment our period of enforced idleness came to an end and our period of demanding operations began. So, whereas the rest of the squadron had had months of working up in which to perfect their carrier-based skills, the unfortunate Miller was pitchforked straight from flying-training into the turmoil of the battle of the Atlantic.

  On 23 December all aircrew were given Christmas leave. On 29 December all aircrew were recalled: “Urgent. Report forthwith to RNAS Eglinton.” The moment we arrived at Eglinton we were told to embark immediately in HMS Nairana. On 31 December Nairana sailed, the last of her aircrew being hoisted aboard from Belfast docks almost literally at the last minute. We had been promised action before and been disillusioned. This turned out to be the real thing.

  4

  MATURITY

  War has been described as “long periods of boredom punctuated by brief moments of excitement”. This was not the way we found it.

  835 Squadron had enjoyed an eventful, if not a particularly hazardous, first few months. This was followed by a year-and-a-half of increasing boredom and frustration, with the squadron fully trained and eager for action, but kept waiting in the wings at a time when the Battle of the Atlantic was going badly and we were needed. Then came fifteen months of near-continuous operational flying, with the squadron employed on convoy protection duties in the North Atlantic and the Arctic Ocean. During these fifteen months we were driven to the very limit of our endurance in an unremitting battle against the enemy and the elements. Altogether we helped to escort and protect nineteen convoys, and it is a measure of our effectiveness that, from all the convoys we escorted, only one merchantman (and that a straggler) was lost.

  For these last fifteen months we operated from HMS Nairana. After a while the squadron and the carrier became one, interdependent and indivisible. This was a bonding which had its moments of discord, but which resulted nonetheless in a hugely effective fighting unit.

  So what sort of ship was the Nairana? She was laid down in March, 1942, at John Brown’s shipbuilding yards on the Clyde, not as a warship but as a “cargo liner”. In June, 1942, by which time her hull had been partially constructed, she was taken over by the Navy for conversion into an escort aircraft-carrier. At much the same time two other vessels were taken over for similar conversion; these were eventually commissioned as HMS Vindex and HMS Campania. The three vessels had the same basic design, here and there a keen eye could spot minor differences, for each bore the individual hallmark of the yard in which it was converted. The John Brown conversion was commissioned as HMS Nairana on 26 November, 1943, her specification being:-

  HMS Nairana: technical data

  Displacement: 13,825 tons (standard)

  Length: 524′0″ (extreme)

  Beam: 68′0″

  Draught: 25′6″ forward, 25′9″ aft

  Machinery: John Brown diesels, 2 shafts

  Speed: 16 1/2 knots (designated)

  Armament: 2 × 4″ guns

  4 × 2pdr pompoms (later increased to 16 × 2 pdr pompoms in quad, mounting.)

  8 Oerlikons (later increased to 16 × 20mm Oerlikons in twin mountings.)

  21 × 18″ Mk XII–XV torpedoes

  270 Mk XI depth charges for aircraft

  Aircraft: 6 Hurricane IIcs and 12 Swordfish IIs (later increased to 6 Wildcat VIs and 15 Swordfish IIIs.)

  It is interesting to compare her to the American-built “Woolworth” carriers. Nairana’s flight-deck was 495 feet long and 60 feet wide; the American carriers’ fli
ght-deck was 450 feet long and 102 feet wide. Nairana had only one lift (aft); the American carriers had two lifts (one for’ard, one aft.) Nairana had no accelerator for launching her aircraft; the American carriers had a powerful accelerator for’ard of the barrier. From the point of view of handling and operating aircraft, the American carriers were undoubtedly superior. Their wider flight-deck made take-off and landing a great deal safer; their two lifts made it easier to move aircraft between flight-deck and hangar (even while flying was in progress), while their accelerator enabled their planes to get airborne even in conditions of dead calm. The American carriers also had a slight edge over their British counterparts in what might be called “working conditions”. Their cabins were more spacious and better appointed; their messdecks, equipped with folding bunks, were more comfortable; their cafeteria system provided better food than the traditional British galley; their ancillary services – like the sick-bay, photographic darkroom and laundry – were better equipped.

  The British carriers, however, had one great plus point. They were less prone to accident or breakdown, and, being of sturdier construction, they were able to operate in far worse weather conditions. They were more seaworthy.

  For centuries the Navy had taken it for granted that their warships would, above all else, be good sea ships. This was a tradition dating back to the wars against France and Spain, when British frigates had had to spend year after year at sea, often in foul weather, blockading continental ports. Judged by the Navy’s traditional standards, the “Woolworth” carriers were unseaworthy. They were felt to be too lightweight. Nairana and Battler were much the same size but the former weighed 14,000 tons, the latter only 9,000. They were welded rather than riveted; this meant that in bad weather their plates were liable to buckle or even disintegrate (which is what happened to Dasher in the middle of the North Atlantic). And their design was thought to be too open – whereas Nairana’s hangar was completely enclosed, Battler’s was in places open to the sea and in bad weather she shipped it green into her innards.

  The Navy therefore spent a considerable time tinkering with the “Woolworth” carriers, trying to get them up to the required standard. This was the basic reason why 835 Squadron was formed in the first month of 1942, but didn’t get a carrier to operate from until the last month of 1943.

  Although this was frustrating at the time, in retrospect I’m extremely glad that the Squadron didn’t set off on its voyages to Murmansk in a “Woolworth” carrier!

  One of the first people to be appointed to HMS Nairana was her gunnery officer, Sam Hollings. This was in early October. Sam had never heard of the Nairana, and, arriving in Glasgow, was somewhat disconcerted to be told that no such ship existed! However, he eventually located his quarry, surrounded by a web of scaffolding, in John Brown’s yard, and was told to “stand by daily until completion”. In the weeks that followed Sam had little to do and plenty of time to think, and one of the things he thought about was his new ship’s unusual name. He discovered that a nairana was a rare type of Tasmanian eagle; he also discovered that a crest had already been designed for the carrier with the motto “She Swoops to Conquer”. Sam pointed out that eagles don’t in fact “swoop”, they “stoop”; and, in deference to his erudition, the ship’s motto was altered to “She Stoops to Conquer”, the title of the Oliver Goldsmith play.

  The next few weeks saw the contractors putting the finishing touches to their conversion, and the ship’s officers arriving one by one to take up their new appointments.

  Our Commanding Officer was Captain R.M.T. Taylor, RN. Like many officers of staff rank who found themselves in charge of a carrier in the Second World War, Captain Taylor was neither a pilot nor an observer, and had no first-hand experience of flying. Inevitably, when it came to operating Nairana’s aircraft, he made mistakes because he didn’t realize what his aircrew could and couldn’t do. However, he had the good sense to listen to the views of his Commander Flying, with the result that by and large Nairana under his command was not only a well-run ship but a happy one.

  Our Commander Flying was Lt-Cdr(A) Edgar Bibby, DSO, RNVR, whose job was to supervise the day-by-day operating of the carrer’s aircraft. Edgar Bibby was one of those decisive and dedicated men who drive themselves to the limit of their endurance to achieve the best possible results. The trouble was that his tasks aboard Nairana were on a par with the labours of Hercules. For during carrierborne operations a Commander Flying was expected to be on the bridge whenever aircraft were taking-off or landing; he was also ultimately responsible for handling aircraft on the flight-deck and briefing the aircrew. Yet we were now about to take part in operations during which Nairana’s planes were not only flying every day but for twenty-four hours every day. This meant that, for week after week, Edgar Bibby never got more than a cat-nap of about an hour or at the very most an hour-and-a-half, and was never able to get out of his uniform.

  “I did four trips with Nairana,” he writes, “and at the end of the fourth I had to see the ship’s doctor. I told him I wanted desperately to sleep and sleep and go on sleeping, but couldn’t because of my back.

  “‘What’s wrong with your back?’ he asked me.

  “I told him it wouldn’t stop itching.

  “He asked me when I’d last taken my clothes off, and I said about three weeks ago.

  “‘Well, you can take them off now,’ he told me. ‘I want to see your back.’

  “He took one look: ‘Good God,’ he said, ‘you’ve got scabies!’

  “I wasn’t sure what scabies was. I’d always thought of it as something that disappeared with sailing ships and the Victorian Poor House. Anyhow, I can’t recommend it. I was taken to hospital and given a course of sulphur baths and scrubbing – treatment which went on for so long that by the time I was fit and had reported back to Nairana the carrier had sailed for Murmansk without me and with a new Commander Flying.”

  Among the rest of our ship’s officers were several I can recall clearly even after fifty years. Most senior was Commander Healey, RN, known to millions as the “Uncle Mac” of the BBC’s Children’s Hour. Recalled to the Navy after years of retirement in South Africa, he brought with him a parrot, a wretched bird which delighted in pecking sub-lieutenants’ ears and had been taught by Healey’s steward to come up with startling pronouncements like “Ten days Number Eleven, you bastard!” (Number Eleven was one of the set punishments meted out to defaulters.) Our Chief Engineer, Commander Edwardson, and our Chief Electrical Officer, Lt-Cdr Bruce, were Royal Naval Reserve officers; both were bottle-a-day men who fraternized with us more readily than did many of our more formal RN colleagues. One of my happiest memories of Nairana is of the interest they took in our flying and of the long evenings we spent together discussing not only practical problems like deck-landing-and-lighting, but esoteric matters like what was the maximum length to which it was possible to build a carrier without it breaking its back in heavy seas.

  There were also a number of specialist officers on whom our lives depended. Among these were the Batsman, the Fighter Direction Officer, the Meteorological Officer and the Operations Officer.

  The Batsman’s job was to help our aircraft land safely. To do this he had a pair of “bats” (a bit like big-headed squash rackets) with which he signalled his instructions to the pilot as he came in to land. These “bats” were illuminated at night and when visibility was poor. When an aircraft was ready to land the Batsman would take up his position on a small platform on the carrier’s port quarter. From here he would watch the plane as it approached the flight-deck, and assist the pilot by giving him the following signals:-

  You are too high: lose height

  You are too low: gain height

  You are too fast: reduce speed

  You are too slow: increase speed

  You are right-wing low: straighten up

  You are left-wing low: straighten up

  You are doing fine: keep coming as you are

  Cut your engine: and tou
ch down

  Don’t land: Go round and try again

  It was essential for pilots to trust the Batsman. This was particularly the case in heavy seas at night, when the stern of a carrier might be rising and falling thirty or even forty feet, and all a pilot could see was two lines of landing-lights dimly outlining a heaving flight deck. In such conditions a Batsman was often better able than a pilot to judge whether or not an approach was likely to result in a safe landing.

  The Batsman’s job was both demanding and dangerous; demanding partly because each time a plane came in to land the lives of the aircrew were in his hands, and partly because (like a Commander Flying) he had to be on call twenty-four hours a day, and, with planes on continuous round-the-clock patrols, he got little sleep. Dangerous because there is clearly a high-risk risk in standing in the path of a plane that is hurtling towards you at almost 100 mph. This risk was accentuated aboard the Nairana by our unusually narrow flight-deck. This was only 60 feet wide. The wingspan of a Swordfish was 45 feet, which meant that, even if the plane landed exactly dead-centre, there would be a gap of no more than 7½ feet between the wing tip of the plane as it landed and the Batsman’s head. (60 feet minus 45 feet = 15 feet, and half of 15 feet = 7½feet.) Landing dead-centre on a wild night, with poor visibility, a buffeting wind and the stern of the carrier corkscrewing this way and that, was not easy; many a Batsman had to dive into his safety-net to avoid being decapitated as a plane landed almost on top of him. Some left their dive too late.