by John Moffat
Landing on the mole at Gibraltar was another shock, as I tried to adjust my balance to dry land having just acclimatized to the constant pitching of a ship at sea. This was a minor distraction, however, as I looked at the ship that I was now about to join. Ark Royal looked magnificent. She was huge, towering above me, and compared to Argus looked extremely modern and elegant. Her sheer sides rose up to the flight deck, and there was a swooping grace to her bows and an enormous flared flight deck at her stern. She had recently returned from her brief refit in Liverpool after the Dakar operation, and her paint still looked relatively fresh. I felt a sudden burst of happiness that I was going to serve aboard her. Ark Royal was really a very famous ship by now: there had been magazine articles and newsreels about her since her launch in 1937, and if you thought of aircraft carriers you thought of Ark Royal. She had already come through so much that it was hard to imagine anything happening to her.
I boarded her and was met by a young rating who took me to my squadron's office, which was beneath the flight deck on the port side. I thought if I had had a job finding my way about Argus, then the Ark was going to be twice as bad. She seemed to be more than double the size, with two hangar decks, and was much longer. There were three Swordfish squadrons, one Skua squadron and one Fulmar squadron on board when I joined her, so there were over fifty aircraft. My new home was going to be 818 Squadron and I met the commanding officer, Lt Commander Trevenon 'Tim' Coode, who seemed a decent chap. He was friendly and said that I had a good report from my training squadron at Abbotsinch. Then he said, 'It doesn't say how many deck landings you have done.'
'None, sir!'
He looked completely perplexed and started to say something, then thought better of it. I could see the squadron writer, a chap called Percy North, and the rating who had brought me to the office looking at each other as if to say, 'My God, another one.' I was aware of the absurdity of the situation. If there is one unique aspect of naval aviation, it is that pilots take off from and land on the flight decks of aircraft carriers at sea. Here I was, on the most famous aircraft carrier in the world, in the middle of a war in the Mediterranean, and I had never taken off from a flight deck, let alone landed on one.
Lt Commander Coode put my papers down on his desk and said, 'We'll have to do something about that, but go along to your cabin. We'll join up in the wardroom later and you can meet the rest of the squadron.'
I was taken to my quarters. However much of a disappointment I had been to my CO, he hadn't made a meal of it, for which I was grateful, and my cabin was far superior to the hammock I had had in Argus. Here I had a bunk, with properly laundered sheets, and the cabin had its own wash basin with hot water.
Later I went to the wardroom and met my fellow pilots. They seemed to be mostly regular navy officers, with a sprinkling of Reservists like me. There were one or two veterans, people like Lieutenant Alan Owensmith, a good pilot, who had been shot down over Norway and had taken part in the mining of Oran; and Lieutenant 'Feather' Godfrey- Faussett, who had attacked Strasbourg and made a brilliant attack on the beached Dunkerque at Oran. I was to discover that his name was automatically on the flying list for any operation. There were also some real characters. An observer in 820 Squadron, Lieutenant Val Norfolk, was naturally known as 'Duke', and would knock back pints of a cocktail called a Horse's Neck, made of cognac and ginger ale. Another was known as 'Maxie' Mayes, a real dandy who refused to wear a Mae West lifejacket because it spoiled the line of his uniform, which he had, of course, had specially made. These characters were always ready to start a sing-song in the bar. Others were quiet, almost shy, like 'Tan' Tivey, who was one of the quieter RN types, and the CO of 820 Squadron, James Stewart-Moore, who was an observer, not a pilot.
Interestingly, in the Fleet Air Arm it was rank, not function, that decided who was in charge of an aircraft or a squadron. Apparently most of the new recruits to the Swordfish squadrons on the Ark had joined while she was having her refit at Liverpool and, although all of them had completed several deck landings, they were fairly inexperienced. There was a hierarchy of sorts; for example, certain areas near the bar were reserved for more senior officers, whereas sublieutenants like me were expected to occupy an area down the other end. There was an inevitable distinction between the regular navy officers and the Reservists and hostilities-only types. They wondered what to make of us, but even so the wardroom was a relaxed and friendly place and I was made to feel welcome. It seemed that the Ark was a genuinely happy ship.
My CO was as good as his word. Next day the Ark slipped out of Gibraltar to escort Argus to where her fighters would take off for Malta, and Lt Commander Coode told me that the commander air had given him permission to take me up on a familiarization flight. He sat in the cockpit while I perched in the observer's seat. With the Ark heading into the wind, our take-off was rapid and we flew in a circuit round the carrier, then made our approach. I paid close attention, looking over Lt Commander Coode's shoulder. There was a bit of turbulence from the funnel gases and the wash of the big bridge structure on the starboard side, but nothing severe. It was a question of adopting a three-point tail-down attitude and approaching at about 60 knots, then, as you passed over the round down at the end of the flight deck, you would close the throttle and the plane should drop, allowing the tail hook to catch one of the arrestor wires, and you would thump on to the deck. The trick, of course, was not to misjudge the speed of the ship and either overshoot or undershoot the point where you had to cut the power. We landed, then Lt Commander Coode undid his harness and turned round: 'Get into the cockpit. This is my plane, so don't bend it.' Then he left me to get on with it.
I knew that he was paying close attention, and that there were a lot of spectators on the 'goofers' gallery' that ran level with the flight commander's station on the island – the structure at the side of the flight deck with the bridge and funnel. Their cameras were at the ready, waiting for me to make a total hash of it. There was a 'batman', as the deck landing officer was known, by the side of the flight deck on the port side who was an experienced pilot and whose job it was to indicate to approaching planes whether they were too high or too low, or wandering off the centre line. I followed his signals, got it right and made a very competent landing.
Walking off the deck to the squadron office I met the batman, the very tall Lt Commander Pat Stringer, and I said, 'That was a very good landing we made today, sir!'
He looked down his nose at me, a tyro Reservist, and snorted. That put me in my place.
The reason I had been drafted out to 818 was that there had been a few accidents in the past month. I was introduced to the rest of my crew: the observer, 'Dusty' Miller, and the telegraphist and air gunner, or TAG, Leading Airman Albert Hayman. Miller looked presentable enough, but Hayman seemed to be a tough-looking brute. He had a broken nose and a cauliflower ear, and I thought, 'What have they given me?' I could think of nothing to say except, 'So are you good at your job?', which was a pretty cheeky thing to say, considering I was a raw sub-lieutenant without a single operational flight to my name.
Quick as a flash, Hayman retorted, 'Are you any good at yours?' They could hardly have failed to hear that I had just made my first deck landing. He went on, 'I've been shot down twice over Norway, and I don't intend to let it happen again.'
He was a dead shot, and both of them were stalwarts. I clicked with Miller; we were never close friends in the wardroom, but we had a rapport in the cockpit that worked. Hayman was a junior rating, so we never met socially, but I trusted him. I saw how good he was one day in Gibraltar. There was an old racecourse in the north, close to the border with Spain, which we had turned into a runway; the modern runway is still there. Known as North Front, this was where some maintenance work would be carried out and we would fly off sometimes from here for anti-submarine patrols in the Straits if the Ark was in the harbour. The army also used the runway as a firing range. We had just picked up a Swordfish and Hayman wanted to align the sights of his
Lewis machine gun. I asked the sergeant in charge if we could use one of his targets, taxied down to the end and had just turned the aircraft to give Hayman a clear field of fire when, without any warning, a burst of fire ripped apart the target. 'OK, boss, we can go now,' he said and so I opened the throttle. We had never even come to rest. He was a first-class operator.
As well as the Ark, the battleship HMS Renown was based in Gibraltar. This was now the flagship of Force H, still commanded by Rear Admiral James Somerville, the Hood having returned to the home fleet. His nephew was an observer in the Fulmar squadron on board the Ark. There was usually a cruiser, HMS Sheffield, and two or three destroyers accompanying us. We worked most closely with Sheffield. The Ark did not have radar installed, relying on Sheffield 's radar for locating enemy aircraft. Commander Henry Traill, the commander air in the Ark, a fresh-faced officer whom I later found friendly and approachable, and the radar operators in Sheffield had worked like this for several months, first of all off Norway and now carrying out the same procedure in the Med. The radar operators would plot the range and bearing of suspected enemy aircraft on a board identical to one maintained by the commander air in the Ark. It also marked the positions of the Ark and Sheffield, and the positions of any aircraft from the Ark that were in the air. Information about enemy aircraft would be radioed to the commander air's office and he would inform Sheffield when aircraft were launched or recovered, so a continuous plot of the situation in the air was maintained on both ships. All the information between them was exchanged via radio using Morse code, so it required a high level of collaboration. I think Ark Royal had been the first carrier to work out this way of directing aircraft by radio – remarkable when you think that she didn't even have her own radar!
We left port a few days later to fly off the Swordfish that had been brought down by Argus. These had observers with them and so, like all Fleet Air Arm crews, would not find it that difficult to navigate for several hundred miles to their destination.
When RAF Hurricanes were involved, however, the pilots had a difficult task ahead of them. Their anticipated long flight over the sea was not something that fighter pilots particularly relished. It isn't easy to navigate on a long journey using dead reckoning whilst also flying a plane; it needs special training, and there is always the anxiety of relying on a single engine, with absolutely no chance of making an emergency landing. Once they had taken off from Argus, that was it – they couldn't land back on. The plan usually was that we would sail just far enough into the Med to launch the Hurricanes, hoping to avoid being spotted by Italian reconnaissance planes. As soon as the Italians knew that aircraft were being ferried to Malta, the Italian air force would lie in wait for them and catch them as they approached the island. The Hurricanes were easy meat at that stage in their journey. They were unarmed to save weight, and they would anyway be at the very limit of their fuel, with no extra resources to engage in a dogfight. The launch point was finely calculated, depending partly on how strong the winds were and in which direction they were blowing, because this would influence how far they could fly on their fuel load.
Two days after we had left Gibraltar we were in position. I was not scheduled for any flying duties, so I had got up to observe the take-off. One thing that I was beginning to appreciate was how busy the flight deck of a carrier was. At daybreak three Swordfish were ranged at the end of the flight deck for take-off, to carry out the first of the anti-submarine patrols ahead of the small fleet of ships. A permanent patrol was maintained throughout the day, so every two hours Swordfish were landing and taking off. In addition, other Swordfish would be launched to patrol an area and inspect any ships in the vicinity, and to look out for enemy vessels. As the Ark got closer to Sicily, where a large number of enemy aircraft were based, Skuas and Fulmars were launched to maintain a combat air patrol, ready to intercept any enemy bombers picked up on Sheffield's radar. When we were at heightened readiness, there might be sixty or more landings and take-offs during the day.
On this particular morning the Swordfish took off on their first patrol, and then the two Skuas were in the air, circling while the Swordfish bound for Malta set off east into the early dawn. Long before they had vanished from sight, the ships had turned and we were heading back to Gibraltar. Later that day we received a warning that a fleet of enemy aircraft was approaching, so two sections of Fulmar fighters were launched to intercept them. They broke up the formation and I saw the Italian planes drop their bombs some way away, sending up great spouts of smoke and seawater, the explosions reverberating in the distance. My first taste of action in the Med.
When we returned to harbour I was told by my CO that I was scheduled to carry out my first anti-submarine patrol, keeping a close lookout in the Straits not only for enemy submarines but for any strange cargo ships that might be entering the Spanish port of Algeciras on the other side of the bay. I was going to use one of the two catapults built into the front of the flight deck, as I had never carried out a catapult launch before and needed the experience. These could rapidly accelerate the plane to its flying speed. I sat in the cockpit, the engine running at full boost, and when I was sure that the oil pressure, the revs and everything were fine, I gave a signal and an engineering artificer in the walkway at the side of the flight deck released a lever. I shot forward, there was a slight dip and then I was slowly climbing, leaving the ship behind me. Another first!
Like all the other aircrew, I was also expected to carry out ship's duties, like inspections, and quite often be officer of the watch in harbour. Many of my colleagues in the Fleet Air Arm found this irksome, but I did not mind; it helped us to become part of the ship.
It was not long before I was listed to make an appearance on the bridge, which caused me some anxious moments, as I had forgotten most of what I had learned about seamanship in my first months at St Vincent. When I arrived I was aghast to see so many senior officers standing around. I resolved to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, but the captain, 'Hooky' Holland, noticing a new face, asked me my name. I replied, then he said, 'Well, Lieutenant Moffat, would you report to me how many cables we are from Renown?' I must have looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights at this question. Thankfully, a nearby lieutenant commander noticed my panic and said, 'I think this is what you are looking for, Moffat,' and helped me unship a portable viewfinder with which I could read off the range of our flagship, Renown. After a bit of fumbling I was able to make my report to the captain. He thanked me with a slight grin on his face.
My other duty when I was not flying was to go to action stations to man one of the ship's clusters of 0.5in machine guns. Strangely, this duty influenced my flying, as I will explain later.
It took me a few days to realize that Force H and its commanding officer Admiral Somerville had been under a cloud for the past few weeks. Nobody on the Ark was pleased about this. Somerville was extremely popular, and respected – two things which don't always go hand in hand. He had been labouring with two courts of inquiry because of recent operations. The first was a delivery of twelve Hurricanes, plus two Skuas to guide them, to Malta on 17 November 1940. Only four Hurricanes and one of the Skuas managed to reach the island. There was no sign of the other aircraft, and the nine pilots plus the observer from the Skua were all missing. There was little hope that they would be found. It seemed that there was no hard evidence why so many of these planes had gone missing; it was assumed that they had hit a strong headwind and run out of fuel.
The second, more serious inquiry was into a convoy and involved some of Ark Royal's squadrons. The operation, this time at the end of November, was to escort some merchant ships and over a thousand members of the RAF to Alexandria in Egypt. The RAF men were embarked on two cruisers, HMS Manchester and Southampton, which, because of the large number of passengers they carried, were not in a position to turn and fight if there were any attacks from the Italian navy. These convoys were not like the large, slow collections of merchant ships that steamed across
the Atlantic. The Mediterranean was in many respects a far more hostile area, with most of it in range of shore-based aircraft in Sicily and Sardinia. There were Italian submarines on the lookout for targets and, whilst these tended to gather in the narrow waters to the south of Sicily, where any ships bound for Malta had to pass, they were quite capable of lying in wait anywhere in the western Mediterranean. There was also a threat from the surface warships of the Italian navy, which possessed several fast cruisers and battleships. The dangers were great, so cargo and supplies for the British forces in Egypt were sent via the long route round the Cape of Good Hope. The convoys that we escorted through the Mediterranean were small, generally composed of fast modern merchant vessels carrying very urgent strategic cargoes.
In the Ark we did not necessarily see the ships we were escorting, because Force H would take up a screening position between them and the north-east, from where the main threat was expected to come. The Italian and German air wings based in Sicily and Sardinia would have reconnaissance planes searching for us within a day of our leaving Gibraltar; if we were spotted, then the next day there would be a concerted effort to bomb us. It was, I gathered, usually much more determined than the half-hearted attempt I had recently witnessed. The general principle adopted by the Italians was that, once Force H was sufficiently damaged, or distracted by attacks from the air, then their surface warships would move in on the transports. Naturally, the main target of their aircraft was always Ark Royal.
When I flew off on a patrol, the main task was searching ahead of our line of advance for signs of enemy submarines, but I might also be ordered to fly farther to gain sight of the Italian fleet if we suspected it was at sea, or to maintain a visual contact with the merchant ships. In all these operations it was the Swordfish and their crews that were the workhorse of Force H. I had volunteered to fly Swordfish because of what I saw as their exciting torpedo-carrying role, but I quickly learned on the Ark just how much flying the Swordfish had to do, and how much of it involved patrols and reconnaissance.