At All Costs (13 page)

CHAPTER 21 •••

OPERATION BERSERK

D
ay and night, warships joined the convoy and took their place in the formation, until there were about sixty ships of all kinds. Each day at high noon, from the bridge of the
Santa Elisa,
Fred Larsen took a reading of the sun with his sextant, plotting the convoy’s course just for practice. He read the stars from the bridge during his watch from 0400 to 0800 and plotted the course again.

The master of each merchant ship had been given a thick book of twenty-four cruising dispositions, with instructions on how to merge from one to another, but only a few of the formations applied to the merchantmen, and the masters were thankful for it. The basic freighter formation was four columns, with the two big battleships,
Nelson
and
Rodney,
leading a fifth center column made up of the aircraft carriers, none of which was planning to go all the way to Malta. The carriers were the convoy’s wide backbone, with freighters on each side. The seven cruisers covered the freighter columns, port and starboard, and a wedge-shaped ring of destroyers screened the outside against U-boats and enemy aircraft.

For days, the ships practiced zigging, zagging, merging, turning, shooting, signaling, and more, sometimes at top speed and often in darkness. Admiral Syfret was pleased by how the merchantmen learned the moves. They would make a total of twenty-seven emergency evasive turns, many of them actual U-boat alerts, with destroyers dropping depth charges in the direction of unseen submarines.

“Bump-bump-bump, they went,” wrote a young merchant sailor named Desmond “Dag” Dickens, the son of a cousin of Charles Dickens, “and for every bump a colossal fountain of white spray would heave itself out of the calm blue water.”

“They’re dropping them at random,” said Captain Thomson. “The idea is that the depth charges will keep the U-boats at a distance. Everybody knows they’re out there, waiting for a chance.”

Late in the afternoon of August 5, Admiral Burrough broke away from the convoy in his swift cruiser,
Nigeria.
Her ungainly Walrus antisubmarine patrol plane was launched from the steam-powered catapult in the aircraft hangar high amidships, and it flew ahead of the cruisers in slow circles, looking for subs. Burrough ordered the
Nigeria
cranked up to 30 knots and disappeared toward the pink sunset, skipping over the sun-kissed waves like an offshore powerboat racer at Key West. He was in a hurry to get down to Gibraltar, to work out the logistics for the final day of Operation Berserk, as the ongoing exercises on the way down to Gibraltar were so aptly named.

There were now five aircraft carriers with the convoy. “When
Indomitable
joined my flag it is believed to have been the first occasion when five of Her Majesty’s aircraft carriers have ever operated in company at sea simultaneously,” said Admiral Syfret. The
Indomitable
had steamed around Africa from Madagascar, where Syfret had used her in Operation Ironclad. But because she had been a day late leaving Freetown, she had had to race to rendezvous with Pedestal and needed fuel when she got there.

The oiler
Abbeydale
was there for that purpose but had never refueled an aircraft carrier before, so the attempt didn’t go well, and
Indomitable
would have to go ahead into Gibraltar to refuel and then back out into the Atlantic to rejoin the convoy. In fact, none of the warships in the previous Malta convoys had ever needed refueling at sea, because Malta had always had enough to get them back home.

“In this case Malta had no oil to spare,” said Syfret. “The problem of oiling three cruisers and 26 destroyers at sea, under enemy observation and in U-boat-infested waters, was an anxious one, failure of which could have seriously upset the whole plan.”

On Saturday night, August 8, there were seven ships from Operation Pedestal refueling in Gibraltar, enough that Admiral Burrough called a midnight meeting of their captains. In the nearby neutral Spanish town of Algeciras, two Royal Navy officers finished their late dinner and on their way out passed a German sitting at a table.

“Today we see you,” the German told the officers with a knowing smile. “You sail out and you sail back, you sail out and you sail back. Then you will sail out and don’t come back. Then we go out and get you.”

On the blistering hot Sunday afternoon of August 9, as Winston Churchill was firing General Auchinleck in Cairo, the convoy was still out in the Atlantic Ocean just west of Gibraltar, preparing for the closing exercise of Operation Berserk. It was time for the war games.

On the
Santa Elisa,
Captain Thomson posted the signal from Admiral Syfret.

To all ships:

Commencing at 1700 this evening mock warfare exercises will be held. One half of the carrier-based aircraft will take off at 1700 and will simulate an air attack on the convoy. The attack will be performed in the following order: 1715 dive bombing, 1730 torpedo bombing, 1745 strafing, 1800 high and medium level bombing, 1815 combination all types of attack. At 1830 all planes will return to their carriers. During these exercises unloaded anti-aircraft weapons may be trained on the aircraft.

It was a thrilling hour and a half, especially the final fifteen minutes, “combination all types of attack.” Larsen and Dales each manned an Oerlikon, at their battle stations on the forward and after port bridge wings. Planes screamed over the ships’ bows and masts as gunners tried to keep them in their sights, with their fingers held away from the triggers. Men on the monkey decks dodged imaginary strafing from Hurricanes and practiced imaginary launching of the parachute-and-cable rockets. They all tried to memorize the features of their own Spitfires, Hurricanes, Martlets, Fulmars, and Albacores. Larsen and Dales had already been to the school, so that part was just review for them.

Admiral Syfret had attempted to coordinate this grand finale while maintaining wireless and radio silence, because they were within reach of German electronic ears in Morocco and Tangier, but he soon saw it was hopeless. The exercise “did entail a great volume of W/T [wireless] and R/T [radio] traffic which must have been very apparent to enemy or enemy-controlled listening stations,” he reported, but added, “This risk to security was considered acceptable when balanced against the benefit to be derived from the practices.”

The sun sank into the sea like a flaming red beach ball. Darkness exposed the glittering lights of two shores, Spain to the north and Morocco to the south, divided by the Strait of Gibraltar, narrowing to eight miles wide. A fog fell on the moonless night, and the Rock of Gibraltar rose from a ghostly mist, as the convoy slipped through the strait as invisibly as sixty ships can. Only the greenest or most optimistic believed that they were still unseen by the enemy, even in the foggy night. There was a German observation post in Algeciras, and on the African side, at Spanish Cueta, an Italian agent lived in an apartment with a view over the strait.

The ships squeezed between the continents in two very long columns, somehow missing the fishing boats. “I think the whole Spanish fishing fleet was out there, lit up like Christmas trees,” said Larsen. He was still on the bridge when the fog lifted, later in the night. The
Santa Elisa
’s radio was picking up Spanish communication.

“Much to our horror, signal lights from North Africa and Spain were lighting up the convoy, sending messages back and forth about our arrival,” said Dales. His jaw dropped when he heard what he thought were the words “Santa Elisa.”

By sunrise, the convoy was clear of the Strait of Gibraltar and the Spanish and African coasts and was steaming at 15 knots. The shadows of Spanish mountains rose out of the morning mist. Admiral Syfret sent out a final signal in the calm before the storm:

You may be sure that the enemy will do all in his power to prevent the convoy getting through, and it will require every exertion on our part to see that he fails. When you are on watch, be especially vigilant and alert, and when you are off duty, get all the sleep you can. Every one of us must give of his best. The garrison and people of Malta have been defending their island so gallantly against incessant attacks by the German and Italian air forces. Malta looks to us for help. We shall not fail them.

PART V •••

INTO THE MEDITERRANEAN

CHAPTER 22 •••

OPERATION BELLOWS

W
hen this war is a misty memory in the minds of old men, they will still talk of the convoy for Malta which entered the Mediterranean early in August 1942,” wrote Norman Smart, the war correspondent for the London
Daily Express,
on board the cruiser
Cairo
and carrying a pen and a crystal ball. “With its vast escort it was ten miles across. It was more than 50 ships. Almost to the blue bowl of the horizon stretched this armada, hurrying to succor Malta.”

The pilot of an Air France flying boat, on a flight from Paris to Algiers, looked down at the wide armada. The unwritten rule for noncombatant commercial pilots from neutral countries was simple: stay out of it, and you won’t be shot down. But the Vichy pilot was unable to sit on the astonishing sight and radioed home that he could see thirty-two ships. Within minutes, Comando Supremo and the Luftwaffe had the information.

The
Indomitable
picked up the Air France pilot’s message, and sent up a Hurricane, which flew alongside the airliner. Larsen listened in as the
Santa Elisa
’s radio received the Hurricane pilot’s voice. “The passengers are looking very uncomfortable,” he told
Indomitable.
“Shall I shoot the bastard down?”

The answer, this time, was no.

If the convoy’s presence and location were now known, its intentions remained a mystery to the Italians. It seemed too big to be merely taking supplies to Malta. General Ugo Cavallero, commander in chief of the Italian High Command (Comando Supremo), thought this might be an invasion of North Africa, and he canceled a trip to Africa because he believed there would be a huge air and naval battle in the days ahead. Admiral Luigi Sansonetti argued that with five aircraft carriers, it had to be a massive flying-off of aircraft to Malta, and if so it must be stopped at all costs, as an RAF offensive from Malta would ruin them. Others thought that some of the convoy must be headed for Alexandria, to build up the fleet there. Admiral Arturo Riccardi ordered reconnaissance aircraft from Sardinia to snoop around when the convoy got within range.

There were five Italian and three German submarines waiting in the western Mediterranean, patrolling between Algiers and the island of Formentera off the east coast of Spain, a distance of about 120 miles. A dozen destroyers ran interference for the convoy, in a bending row that was nine miles wide. They kept the subs at bay that night, but just before dawn on August 11, 60 miles south of Ibiza, the Italian
Uarscieck
launched three torpedoes at the aircraft carrier
Furious.
They missed by a mile, but a destroyer saw the torpedo tracks and dropped some depth charges. The submarine captain heard the exploding depth charges and reported back that the
Furious
was sunk. The news was on Italian state radio that night, mentioning
Furious
by name, which gave the convoy sailors a good snort, but Syfret had to send a message to London asking the Admiralty to notify the families of the
Furious
sailors that their men were still alive and well.

So far things were going well, but there was one big logistical problem that upset Admiral Syfret. Just before the convoy had left the Clyde, the Admiralty had informed Syfret that Operation Bellows, the flying-off of more Spitfires to Malta from
Furious,
had been added to his carefully laid Pedestal plans. Syfret had nearly snapped the stem of his pipe between his clenched teeth. He cited the trouble it caused in his report, including the “general unsettling effect on all, which last minute changes always cause.”

His restrained words were a discreet way of calling the situation a “balzup,” which was a favorite British expression during the war, akin to the American “snafu” (situation normal, all fouled up). Syfret knew Malta needed the thirty-eight Spitfires carried by
Furious,
but he told the Admiralty he wished they had thought of it sooner.

There were a number of problems with Operation Bellows. Spitfires had never flown off the ancient
Furious
before—not once. She had been the first aircraft carrier in history to land a plane while under way, in 1917, and since then her flight deck had been extended to fly off more powerful planes, leaving a sharp hump in the middle. The thirty-eight Spitfires for Malta were fitted with older propellers that spun at a lazy 2,650 rpm, making barely enough speed for the planes to get airborne.

Back in the Clyde, the Spitfires’ RAF group captain had made a test takeoff. He had twisted the boost of his supercharged V-12 Rolls-Royce Merlin engine up to an eye-popping 18 psi (“pulling the tit of the Spit”), and even with 30 knots of wind over the deck and his plane backed all the way to the far edge of the flight deck, he avoided by only feet what the pilots called a “splash over the sharp end.”

So the Air Ministry combed the country for forty new airscrews, or propellers, which were delivered to Glasgow; but it took three days, and in the meantime, Operation Pedestal had left without the
Furious.
Airplane mechanics worked around the clock for ten days to install the new airscrews, as
Furious
raced to catch up. They also adjusted and tested the engines, radio transmitters, cannons, machine guns, hydraulics, electrical and compressed air systems, oxygen, and instruments, any one or more of which the Spitfire pilots knew might still malfunction.

A pilot might climb into his cockpit on the flight deck, give his mechanic a final serious look, and ask, “Are you sure everything will work?” And the petty officer might cheerfully reply, “Maybe, sir!”

The Spitfires were painted desert camouflage and fitted with a huge tropical air filter under the sharp nose, giving the plane a strong chin. They carried long-distance fuel tanks, aerodynamic 100-gallon cans strapped under the fuselage between the wheels, to be dropped into the sea when empty, like a beer can tossed off a redneck’s fishing boat. Later in the war, the auxiliary fuel tanks were actually filled with beer for the troops fighting in France. The delivery system evolved until finally wooden beer kegs were attached under the wings in place of depth charges.

There wasn’t much room for error in the 550 or 600 miles between the
Furious
and Malta. Pilots carried only a scroll map, compass, and watch, and radio silence had to be maintained. They were told to point the plane east at an economical 165 mph for three and a half hours, and look for a twelve-mile-wide limestone strip that looked like a golden leaf floating on a big blue lake. Hug the North African coast, and fly at 20,000 feet in the areas where Messerschmitt 109s were known to roam. Watch your back around the Hobgoblin—the island of Pantelleria. And if you wander toward Sicily, you’re dead.

Some of the pilots were the best in the RAF, because after the Battle of Britain they wanted to go where the action was. But most of them were fresh meat and very young. They were told that if their plane didn’t lift off the flight deck, suffered a splash over the sharp end, and didn’t immediately sink, they were not to climb out of the cockpit and try to swim away, because the ship would run over them. It’s better to sink with your plane, hold your breath while the aircraft carrier passes above, and then swim out of the cockpit to the surface. The advice was delivered with a straight face and met with a combination of awe and appropriate irreverence.

In the Clyde, there was one successful takeoff with a Spitfire using one of the new 3,100-rpm airscrews, and that was a relief, but no one had taken off with the extra 750 pounds that the full belly tank added. So the Spitfires’ ammunition was removed to lighten the load, which Lieutenant Geoffrey Wellum, age twenty-one, discovered when he was in the hangar with his plane, carefully packing his parachute for the next day’s flight to Malta.

Whilst absorbing this, a voice from behind me says: “Everything all right, Geoffrey?”

I look round to see Group Captain Walter Churchill, who is obviously generally keeping his eye on things.

“Yes thank you, sir. I’m still learning. As you can see, I’m watching my guns being loaded with cigarettes.”

“Bloody marvellous, isn’t it? To make absolutely sure of this take-off, it has been decided to take all the ammunition out so as to save considerable weight. I agreed because fags don’t weigh very much and things on Malta have been pretty tough. It’ll do the troops’ morale a power of good to get some cheap smokes.”

“That’s very kind and considerate of us, sir. I hope the Germans and Italians don’t know.”

“What if they do? You couldn’t hit any of them even if you did have ammunition, Geoffrey.”

“I know you to be right, sir, but it would be nice to be in a position to keep on trying.”

Operation Pedestal was 584 miles from Malta when the first Spitfires flew off
Furious,
at 1230 hours on August 11. At 1508 a final group of seven planes took off, and with the landing of thirty-six Spitfires at Takali and Luqa airfields, Operation Bellows was complete. Only one was lost, without a trace.

At 1830
Furious
began steaming at high speed back to Gibraltar, with an escort of six destroyers:
Amazon, Wrestler,
and
Venomous
on the port wing and
Keppel, Wolverine,
and
Malcolm
on the starboard wing. That night the small convoy was steaming with no lights when
Wolverine
’s radar picked up a submarine on the surface.

“0054½, dark night, no moon, bright stars, speed 21 knots, on port leg of zig-zag No. 12, R.D./F Type 271 contact was obtained, range 5,000 yds,” reported its young captain, Lieutenant Commander Peter Gretton.

He didn’t hesitate. The crew of the 700-ton Italian sub
Dagabur
never saw the snarling jaws of the
Wolverine
coming at them broadside at 26 knots. “We climbed all over the sub’s conning tower and cut her in half,” said Gretton. “We lost thirty feet of our bow, but by miracle the forepeak was bent over to the waterline and it sealed most of the damage.”

The destroyer
Malcolm
said they heard survivors yelling in the water but didn’t pick them up. They thought it was a German U-boat.

Furious
wasted no time taking on twenty-three more Spitfires in Gibraltar and going back into the Mediterranean to fly them off. Malta was going to need them.