by John Moffat
A lot of preparations had to be made before the plan could be set in motion. Lyster did what he did when he was in Glorious in 1938: set in motion a programme for the aircrew, deck-handlers and riggers to be trained in night operations. There are a lot of extra dangers when the aircraft are brought up out of the hangar and ranged at the end of the flight deck at night. Any mistake, stumble or misjudgement could damage a plane or kill or injure someone.
It took several weeks before Lyster was confident that the planes could be assembled and take off safely, and that they could navigate and recognize their target in the dark. Once the crews were in an efficient state, good reconnaissance was the next essential. The attack would be successful only if there were sufficient Italian warships at anchor in the harbour. The RAF flew regular reconnaissance missions over Taranto from Malta, using American Glenn Martin bombers, and the photographs that they were bringing back showed that the harbour was full, with plenty of valuable targets. The strike was planned for 21 October, Trafalgar Day, when there would be a full moon.
Then, with a few days to go, a fierce fire broke out in Illustrious's hangar deck, destroying several of the Swordfish that were needed for the attack. The attack was postponed until another full moon.
It was fortunate that it was, because the continued reconnaissance flights now showed that there had been some drastic improvements in the air defences around Taranto. The Italians were increasing their number of anti-aircraft gun emplacements and they had put sixty barrage balloons around the outer harbour, with a line of them moored from barges in the middle of the harbour. In addition, they had lowered some torpedo nets around the battleships moored there to create a defensive enclave on the eastern side of the port. This meant that there was a very limited line of approach for the Swordfish to get a clear shot at their targets.
The operation was now scheduled for 11 November, when again a few days before there was another problem, this time in Eagle's fuel-storage system, which supplied petrol for the Swordfish. It had sprung several leaks and was in need of urgent maintenance. Several Swordfish from Eagle had carried out forced landings because their fuel was contaminated by seawater, and it was clear that Eagle could no longer take part in the operation. In order to prevent any more delays, five of her Swordfish and eight of her most experienced crews were embarked on to Illustrious. A total of twenty-one aircraft were going to take part in the attack, and those from 813 and 824 Squadrons on Eagle were included in the second wave of nine Swordfish.
At 2200 on the 11th Illustrious was in position to begin the take-off of the first wave. Some last-minute information from a late reconnaissance flight had revealed that a sixth battleship had just anchored. The aircraft had been fitted with auxiliary tanks to give them extra range. These were installed in the cockpit where the observer normally sat, so the observer moved into the TAG's seat. These tanks were ramshackle things; I remember they quite often leaked, and it was not a comfortable feeling to think that 60 gallons of high-octane fuel were right behind you.
The Swordfish took off, but the last one of the last flight was damaged in a collision on the flight deck and needed repairs to its fabric covering. The crew were anxious to get away and pressured the riggers to hurry up. The plane was repaired and they took off on their own thirty minutes later. There was enormous expectation about this raid: it was a major attack against the Italian navy and everybody involved was completely keyed up. After the weeks and weeks of training, nobody wanted to be left behind.
The large battleships and cruisers in the Italian fleet were moored in the outer harbour, and the first wave of the attack was going to split up so that the planes could approach the ships from two different directions. Hopefully, it would divide the anti-aircraft defences by giving them two different targets to aim for. The leader of the second wave, Lt Commander Hale, decided that he would keep all nine of his aircraft in one formation, make an approach from the north-west and then turn south. Approaching at this angle meant that they would increase their chances of hitting one of the ships at its mooring, because their silhouettes overlapped each other: it would be like hitting fish in a barrel. It did, however, mean flying over a concentration of anti-aircraft guns and then through a line of barrage balloons.
As they flew over the sea at 7,000 feet, they entered thick cloud and were suddenly flying blind, relying on their instruments to maintain a straight and level course. When they passed into clear sky again, four of the Swordfish were no longer to be seen. There was nothing to do but hope they would find Taranto, so the diminished group pressed on. As they got closer they could see that the anti-aircraft defences were already alert and firing shells and tracer into the night sky. The sky ahead over Taranto looked like a giant fireworks display. One of the missing aircraft had been flying faster than its companions and had reached the target first.
The leader of the first wave, Lt Commander Williamson, flew parallel to the outer breakwater, then turned and dived to release his torpedo. As he turned to get away, he was hit by machine-gun fire and lost control, the Swordfish plunging into the water. Luckily, he and his observer were not injured; they were rescued and became prisoners-of-war. His torpedo, however, hit the water, functioned perfectly and motored towards its target. It struck the battleship Cavour just forward of the bridge and the ship started to settle in the water.
The next aircraft of the first wave were now desperately jinking to avoid the exploding shells and tracer, the whole area was surrounded by winking flashes of gunfire pointed in their direction, and they were in no position to be fussy about their targets. Two torpedoes missed Cavour, exploding harmlessly. Lieutenant Kemp flew in low along a line of cruisers that began firing on him. He held his plane steady and launched his torpedo at a huge ship looming in front of him. It ran true and tore a hole that was later found to be 49 feet long in Littorio. Another pilot, Lieutenant Swayne, chose a different course, coming at Littorio from the other side. He too had a hit and Littorio's hull was ripped open again. Some of the Swordfish were armed with bombs and they took what targets they could identify. Captain Ollie Patch dropped his bombs in a steep dive on a cluster of destroyers in the inner harbour and got away as quick as he could. Another Swordfish couldn't identify any ships, so dropped his bombs on the seaplane base, where there was a huge explosion and the hangars and fuel tanks started blazing furiously into the night sky.
The second wave had to fly into this mayhem. They were detected some way out and the defenders' fire was redoubled. One of the aircraft released flares, shining bright white magnesium light over the whole harbour. The pilots could smell the reek of burning petrol and gunsmoke. Hale, the leader, also aimed for Littorio and succeeded in ripping a third hole in her. The second plane in to the attack, flown by Lieutenant Bayly, was hit and crashed near Gorizia. His body was recovered the next day, but his observer, Lieutenant Slaughter, was never found. Another torpedo found Duilio and blasted open her hull below the waterline. The crew, already desperately working up the ship in preparation to escape the inferno, realized that there was no alternative but to beach her to stop her sinking altogether.
Lieutenant John Wellham had taken off in the last wave. As he flew close to the harbour he started his dive, but nearly collided with a barrage balloon at 4,000 feet. He did a tight downward turn, then tried to straighten up. As he did so he felt the control stick almost ripped out of his hand and found that he could not lift the port wing. Something, a cable from the balloon or a piece of shrapnel, had damaged his aircraft, but it was impossible to say what. He struggled for control of the Swordfish but, when he managed to regain some response to the stick, he realized that he had been losing height and was diving straight into the city of Taranto. He levelled out into a right turn, but found that the plane would fly only with one wing down and at a slight yawing angle. It was not ideal for an accurate torpedo drop, but he pressed on and, with every gun in Taranto apparently firing at him, he dropped his torpedo at what he hoped was Vittorio Veneto, then zigzagg
ed wildly and headed for the clear night sky as fast as he could. He was hit again, but got away and turned towards the position where they would rendezvous with Illustrious. He managed to get down on to the flight deck, but once in the hangar his rigger found that his port aileron rod was split in two and there was a jagged hole in the lower port wing. A large piece of metal had broken several wing ribs and cut the controls. He had been lucky.
After both waves had landed it was clear that two Swordfish were missing, although nobody in Illustrious knew that two of the men were alive and taken prisoner. The casualties were remarkably low considering the strength of the defences and the fact that they had inadvertently been alerted. The Swordfish as well had spent more time than they had wanted over the target.
Next morning the Italians came out to see what the damage was, and RAF reconnaissance planes flew over, their big cameras clicking. Littorio had been seriously damaged and rested on the bottom. Duilio's magazines were flooded and she had been beached. Cavour was also flooded, with her decks awash. Trento was leaking oil, which was covering the waters of the harbour, hampering any salvage efforts. The destroyers Libeccio and Pessagno were damaged and could not put to sea. The seaplane base was a mass of twisted girders, still smoking in the dawn light, and smashed seaplanes lay crumpled on the concrete ramp and apron.
It was a magnificent success, and news of the raid spread around the world. Many think that the success of the attack on Taranto influenced the Japanese Admiral Yamamoto, convincing him that the surprise attack on the US navy at Pearl Harbor would also succeed. We knew nothing of this, of course. At home, where we all thought that we had proved ourselves in spades, Taranto was a magnificent advert for the Fleet Air Arm. It showed what could be achieved if sufficient planning and preparation were devoted to an operation, and moreover if there was plenty of reconnaissance prior to the day. Without this, the lives of many of the crews might have been squandered. As it was, some of them did not have much longer to live.
8
Buckling Up,
Buckling Down
I had arrived on Ark Royal after an intense period of activity in which she, and the other carriers in the eastern Mediterranean, had for the first time been fighting the warships of large enemy fleets. In this short space of time a lot of lessons had been learned, and a lot of changes were being made to the way we did things. Simple changes to the way aircraft were taken down to the hangar decks, the way maintenance crews and armourers were organized, could improve turnaround times and keep more aircraft in the air for longer. The Mediterranean was still a dangerous place.
After the Italian navy had been hit at Taranto, they moved the rest of their fleet to ports along the western Italian coast – Naples, of course, and La Spezia further north. This may have removed them from the area of operations of the Mediterranean Fleet, but put them much closer, merely a day's sailing away, to the route taken by convoys from Gibraltar to Malta for which we in Force H were responsible. In January 1941 we had to escort a convoy of nine transports to Malta, and also fly off six Swordfish that had been brought down to Gibraltar by Argus to be permanently stationed on the island. The operation was known as Excess. The route was fairly predictable and we had to keep a sharp lookout. Once again I was flying long patrols searching for ships, or hoping to spot the telltale wake of a submarine's periscope.
Even in the midst of a war, on active service, life was very much one of routine and sometimes agonizing boredom. Much of my time flying was not the heart-stopping drama of a dive-bombing attack, or the stomach-churning tension of a torpedo run, but long uneventful patrols over mile after mile of flat, featureless ocean. At times, if the sun was just striking the tops of the mountains of Spain and beginning to burn off the haze lying over the surface of the Mediterranean, then I would feel that upsurge of exhilaration that I have always associated with flying – in particular joy at my ability to pilot the plane that is taking me up so that I can see for hundreds of miles around me. The open cockpit of the Swordfish was marvellous for the full experience, which really did sometimes seem like a miracle.
But when the clouds were low and dark, and the sea was a cold, white-flecked steel grey, and the rain beat against my face, the patrols became an endurance test.
Anti-submarine patrols would often start just before daybreak, when the Ark slipped out of Gibraltar. Very often these would need a launch from one of the catapults mounted in the front of the flight deck. They had quite a kick – I remember that first time I had a catapult launch, the deck officer warned me to brace myself in the seat otherwise my head would be thrown back. The observer and TAG in the back had a more uncomfortable ride. The TAG had to lean down and fold his arms in front of his face over the breach of his stowed Lewis gun.
Before a patrol we would get dressed in very warm clothes, with three layers of gloves, starting with silk ones, then woollen ones, then our sheepskin flying gloves; similarly with layers of socks under our flying boots. We wore specially made sheepskin suits over our flying overalls. I felt like the Michelin man at the end of it. Then we, my observer and TAG and I, would walk out to the aircraft. The flight deck could be very slippery, especially early in the morning, so you needed to watch your step. Not only would it be wet from dew, but after a few days at sea it would get salty and then a layer of rubber from aircraft tyres would be deposited, so it could be very dangerous. The armourers and riggers would be waiting to start strapping us in. My rigger was a character. He would sit astride the fuselage behind me, shouting at me to 'get yourself in here', yanking away at my shoulder straps and singing at the top of his voice, 'Oh Ma, I like your apple pie', some song I had never heard before, but he was one of those regular navy ratings who would look you in the eye with the utmost confidence and I trusted him, as every pilot had to trust the mechanics and riggers who worked on their plane. I never had any qualms about them: they were thoroughly reliable.
Several planes would be ranged up according to the flying orders for the day, but if you were the first anti-submarine patrol, then your Swordfish would be at the front. This shortened the take-off distance slightly, and you knew that there would be a slight dip as you went off the front of the flight deck, but you would then start to gain height.
I always found starting the Swordfish a bit nerve-racking. There was no electric starter motor, and the nine-cylinder radial with its three-bladed propeller was far too big to be turned over by hand. Instead, the engine was turned over prior to ignition using an inertial starter. This was a large flywheel mounted in the nose, which was cranked up to speed by two of the aircraft handlers, one of whom had to stand on the leading edge of the port lower wing. They had to turn a handle that was inserted in a hole in the side of the aircraft. It took quite an effort. When the flywheel was spinning fast enough they would shout 'Now!', and I had to flick a switch in the cockpit to fire the sparkplugs and move a lever to engage the flywheel, which would then turn the engine over. If you didn't time it exactly right, the engine wouldn't fire and they would have to start winding up the flywheel all over again. If that happened there would be quite a lot of muttering, which of course I was not meant to hear. Everyone knew that I could hear, but I couldn't respond without making a complete arse of myself. I made damn sure that I got the timing right though.
I would go through the checks automatically. The elevator was set for 3 degrees nose-up attitude; the mixture was at rich; flaps were fully down; and the oil bypass was set on the 'in' position. Then open the throttle to 1,000 revs and wait for the oil temperature to settle. With the engine running and the oil pressure and revs looking OK, the rigger and the aircraft handlers would crouch down by the wheels waiting to remove the chocks. At a signal from the deck officer I would set full throttle and the plane would roll down the flight deck. It was best to stay level as long as possible to gain the most effect from the pressure build-up between the deck and the lower wing, although really, depending on the load and the wind speed over the deck, you could be airborne by the ti
me you got past the bridge.
Then it would be a case of reaching the required height, depending on the cloud base, and starting a patrol pattern over the sea for the next two and a half hours. I didn't enjoy these early-morning patrols. I was still a young lad in many ways and found it hard to wake up at four o'clock in the morning. Our squadron writer, a decent chap, Percy North, who was just a few years older than me, was responsible for issuing the flying orders and would often make his way down to my cabin to wake me up. One morning he rushed in, shouting at me to get up because I was very late. 'I came in twenty minutes ago, you lazy sod. The CO'll have your guts!' I swore he hadn't woken me, and in a desperate attempt to make it in time, got dressed over my pyjamas. It didn't fool anybody: as I walked out on to the flight deck everyone could see what I was wearing and I was given extra watch-keeping duties for the next month as a punishment. But I found it so hard to get up in the mornings.
The roar of the engine and the cold sea wind in my face, however, were enough to get the blood stirring, although I did long for some action, an opportunity to drop my depth-charges. But in all the time I was flying Swordfish I never saw a periscope, or better still a U-boat running on the surface, a 'floater' as we called them.
During these patrols, the busiest man in many ways was the observer, whose job it was to navigate the aircraft, making sure that we carried out the proper patrol pattern and also that we made it back to the aircraft carrier safely. He carried a lot of equipment with him: a small mechanical cipher machine, codebooks, a Very signal pistol and Aldis lamp, maps and briefing notes, and a Bigsworth Board – a square piece of wood fitted with parallel rulers and protractors so that he could calculate the course back to the carrier and offset our heading against the wind speed. The Ark would have travelled more than 60 miles from the position where we took off by the time our patrol was finished. We knew what her intended course was going to be and our landing-on point was prearranged at the briefing, although of course anything could happen while we were in the air. But the task of running a complicated search pattern and making it back to a very small point on the ocean after two and a half or three hours is not as easy as it sounds.