Raiders (7 page)

Many aircrew officers took themselves to the wardroom during an attack, figuring that, as there was nothing they could do, they might as well have a gin and tonic and read the paper until they were given the all-clear.
On this occasion the wardroom took a direct hit.
The effects of a blast can be extremely random and in this instance, while the thick metal supporting columns of the wardroom were bent into crazy shapes by the explosion, an RAF officer, on board as an observer, was found sitting in an armchair, holding a copy of
The Times
, but with his head nowhere to be seen and the clock still ticking on the wall behind him.
Torrens-Spence was one of only three officers in the room to survive.

But it was the men caught in the hangar who suffered the worst horrors.
The disintegrated bodies of men, talking and
walking just a moment earlier, lay scattered across the deck and the bulkheads.
The first deaths were caused by the blasts themselves and a storm of red-hot metal shards measuring up to four feet long, decapitating and dismembering anybody caught in their dreadful path.
All the aircraft quickly caught fire, setting off their ammunition.
Thousands of rounds bounced around the metallic interior, and anyone lucky enough to survive the maelstrom soon perished in the intense heat and thick, acrid smoke that followed.
Within a matter of seconds the ship’s insides had become unrecognisable, her decks twisted and buckled and filled with the screams of the dying and the injured, suffering from the most hideous wounds imaginable.
Neil Kemp, whose torpedo had sunk the
Littorio
, was one of six Taranto raiders to die that awful day.
The young Lieutenant, whom many had tipped to make it to Admiral, was talking to his new CO, Lt Cdr Jackie Jago, when the first bomb struck the hangar.
When Jago turned back, Kemp was still standing there but without his head.
The England rugby player William Luddington was among the many who lost their lives in the hangar.

Meanwhile, Lamb was fighting for his life in the skies above
Illustrious
.
In theory, a Swordfish stood no chance against a Stuka in a dogfight, but it remains a source of great pride in the Fleet Air Arm that not one of their biplanes was ever shot down by the powerful German divebomber in the course of the war.
Lamb succeeded in leading his attacker a violent, twisting dance before the German finally conceded defeat and returned to Sicily.
Once again, the incredible manoeuvrability and durability of the
Swordfish, and the great skill of its pilot, had carried the day against its state-of-the-art predator.
The wings and frames of Lamb’s Swordfish had been shredded by the Stuka’s machine guns and, more alarmingly, his fuel tank had been riddled and was spilling rapidly.
With a matter of seconds before the engine cut on him, Lamb managed to ditch the Swordfish alongside the destroyer HMS
Juno
and was rescued.

Eighty-three men were killed and over 100 wounded, 60 of them gravely, during the 10-minute attack, but had it not been for the ferocious defence put up by her gunners, the casualty list would very probably have been a great deal higher and
Illustrious
might well have ended the day on the bottom.
Incredibly, she lived to fight another day.
(The German pilots were dumbfounded to learn that she had survived their pounding.) Working amidst the horrific conditions below deck, the ship’s company toiled heroically to douse the flames and save the ship while the medics tended to the many injured.
It was a testament to the designers and dockyard workers at Vickers Armstrong in Barrow-in-Furness, Cumbria that, instead of slipping beneath the waves as most of the world’s other carriers would have done,
Illustrious
steamed to Malta at a stately twenty knots, in spite of the heavy damage to her steering.
It was the sturdiness of her construction that saved her.
The inferno raged below deck for some time but neither the magazines containing the torpedoes and bombs nor the giant fuel tanks caught light.
Had they done so,
Illustrious
would have been blown out of the water and the death toll would have been closer to 2,000.
One of the most
stirring moments of the day was the sight of the ship’s Fulmars, which had been unable to land on, returning to the scene to protect their mother ship after refuelling in Malta.
They succeeded in shooting down half a dozen Stukas before the Germans turned back to Sicily.
It was at a quarter to ten that night, her flight deck still steaming from the heat below, that
Illustrious
, bent and bruised but not broken or bowed, slipped into Malta’s Grand Harbour.
It was now that the grisly, traumatic task of collecting the bodies and limbs of friends and crewmates began.
Some were never found.

The fact that the other ships of the fleet were left virtually unscathed by the Stuka attack provided the physical evidence that the Germans had come for one reason and one reason alone: to exact revenge for Taranto by sinking
Illustrious
.
But they had failed and three days later they were back.
This time, supported by Junker 88 bombers and Messerschmitt Me111 fighters, not to mention dozens of bombers and fighters from the Regia Aeronautica, the Stukas were determined not to give
Illustrious
a second chance.
For much of the time, repairs continued below deck while air-raid sirens wailed and the gunners above tried to beat off the attacks.
For two weeks, the Luftwaffe came in wave after wave but, heroically defended by the RAF Hurricane and Fulmar squadrons on the island and the gunners of the harbour defences,
Illustrious
refused to die.
Two huge bombs succeeded in hitting her and three near-misses lifted her out of the water and smashed her against the wharf, damaging her hull.
With
losses mounting by the day and the RAF growing dangerously short of pilots, Lt Julian Sparke, who had taken part in the Taranto raid, volunteered to fly Hurricanes to help in the island’s increasingly desperate defence.
He died ramming a German bomber.
On 24 January 1941, following a fortnight of round-the-clock repair work, much of it while under attack, Captain Boyd stood on the carrier’s bridge,
Illustrious
slipped the Grand Harbour and steamed for Alexandria at twenty-six knots.
On arrival, the carrier and her company were given a hero’s salute by every ship in harbour.

In the eight months since she had been launched, the
Illustrious
had certainly led a colourful existence.
It was from her flight deck that the first-ever attack on a fleet at anchor had been launched.
That bold action, by half a hangar of antiquated biplanes, had swung the balance of power in the Mediterranean and undoubtedly helped Britain hang on to Malta and the Suez Canal, as well as beat Rommel in North Africa.
Her efforts were applauded by Churchill and Roosevelt and hailed around the free world.
The Battle of Taranto had truly been one of Britain’s finest hours .
.
.
and yet.
And yet, when the gallantry medals were announced in the immediate aftermath of the attack, just two Distinguished Service Orders (to the two flight leaders) and four Distinguished Service Crosses were awarded.
The fury below decks – chiefly amongst the sailors and deck crews – was uncontained.
When the notice announcing the awards was pinned up on board, it was torn down by a disgusted sailor.
No one had forgotten his ‘manoeuvre well executed’ signal the morning after
the raid, and at first many suspected it was the cold hand of Admiral Cunningham grudgingly handing out the gongs.
But subsequent investigations suggested that the meanness belonged to Whitehall mandarins, not the Admiral.

The matter was raised by Sir Murray Sueter MP in Parliament in May.
As a retired Rear Admiral, he was disgusted by the lack of recognition and he suggested to the First Lord of the Admiralty that honours should be awarded to all forty men who took part in the raid.
Medals were subsequently awarded to every one of them, but by the time they were announced a quarter of them were dead.

Almost half of the Swordfish crewmen who took part in the Taranto raid did not survive to see the war’s end.
But they did at least have the satisfaction of knowing before they went to their deaths that they had played a part in one of the boldest raids ever undertaken; an action that, even in the illustrious history of the Royal Navy, will be remembered as one of its more glorious episodes.
Captain Boyd of
Illustrious
, addressing his ship’s company after the raid, was speaking the truth when he said: ‘In one night the ship’s aircraft had achieved a greater amount of damage to the enemy than Nelson had achieved in the Battle of Trafalgar, and nearly twice the amount that the entire British Fleet achieved in the Battle of Jutland in the First World War.’

THE ICY ROOFTOPS
glistened in the moonlight as the sleepy fishing port of Vaagso slowly stirred into life.
It was one of the shortest days of the year and it would be two and a half hours before the sun finally appeared.
Fishermen were heading down to the quays to prepare their boats, mothers were busy laying the breakfast table and replenishing the fires and stoves to keep out the perishing cold.
Sleeping off the festive celebrations, most of the 250 German troops stationed in and around the little Norwegian town were still in their barracks and billets.
There was little reason to rise early.
On the fringes of the Arctic Circle, far from
the frontline of the European war, once again the biggest challenge of their day would be to beat off the boredom.
Fifty of the troops, a crack unit sent to the area to rest up after months of hard fighting, could at least look forward to a day of lazing around and drinking.

Four miles offshore, Rear Admiral Burrough stood on the bridge of the cruiser HMS
Kenya
and checked the clock on the wall.
They were a minute later – not bad considering the earlier weather and the distance the force had covered.
At the mouth of the Vaagsfjord, the submarine HMS
Tuna
quietly rose from the depths of the Norwegian Sea and broke the surface of the ice-cold water.
There was relief at both ends when the two vessels made contact.
Everything was going to plan.
Five hundred and fifty Commandos, the new elite fighting force in the British Army, fingered their weapons, ammo pouches and Mills bombs, fastened their haversacks and helmets and clanked their way up from the lower decks of the two troopships and lined up in silence by the landing craft waiting for the signal to embark.
No one spoke.
Surprise was essential.

The seven ships of the naval force reduced speed and slowly crept towards the harbour mouth.
The coastal gun batteries were not to be roused.
A Norwegian pilot on the bridge of the
Kenya
, familiar with the hidden hazards of the fjord, guided the ships towards land.
Navigation in Norwegian waters is a perilous affair at the best of times.
The rock formations below the surface are as sheer as those in the landscape that tower over the water like giant walls.
One moment, a ship has fifty fathoms below it, the
next it might be impaling itself on the peak of an underwater mountain.
Only the most astute observer would have noticed the slight increase in surf, from the wake of the vessels, rolling towards the steep, craggy coast.
It was probably as well that none of the 2,000 souls ashore had the first inkling of the fate that was about to befall their sleepy, picturesque community of red wooden houses, huts and warehouses stretched out along the waterfront.
The clock was running down to the launch of Operation ARCHERY, one of the most audacious and significant raids undertaken in World War Two, with consequences far beyond those intended or imagined by its planners at Combined Operations HQ in Whitehall.
By the time the first major raid by British Commandos was over, a subtle shift had taken place in the European conflict – and the very nature of warfare had been changed forever.

Within days of the evacuation of Dunkirk in May 1940, Churchill had sent a memorandum to his Chiefs of Staff asking how they might bring down a ‘reign of terror’ on German forces in occupied territories.
Aware that it would be many years before the UK was ready to launch a full-scale fightback in Nazi-occupied Europe, the Prime Minister was eager to maintain an aggressive strategy.
‘The completely defensive habit of mind which has ruined the French must not be allowed to ruin all our initiative.
It is of the highest consequence to keep the largest numbers of German forces all along the coasts of the countries they have conquered, and we should immediately set to work
to organise raiding forces on these coasts where the populations are friendly.
Such forces might be composed of self-contained, thoroughly equipped units .
.
.
How wonderful it would be if the Germans could be made to wonder where they were going to be struck next instead of forcing us to try to wall in the Island and roof it over!’

Churchill called these proposed elite units ‘striking companies’, and his Chiefs of Staff gave his impassioned suggestion a cautious welcome.
Some of them were old enough to recall the Boer War forty years earlier – no doubt with some discomfort – when bands of a few dozen irregulars succeeded in tying down thousands of British troops.
Churchill certainly remembered the Boer guerrillas well.
As a war correspondent, he was captured by them in an ambush and held as a POW before managing to escape.
When the draft proposal from his planners landed on his desk, containing the words ‘Kommando-style’, Churchill had no hesitation in rubber-stamping it.
Knowing that Britain was unable to launch an invasion on his Western flank, Hitler concentrated his resources on the eastern and southern fronts of his rapidly expanding empire.
The defences along the west coasts of Europe were barely upgraded and it was this weakness that the Commandos looked to exploit.

Work to raise the new Commando units within a ‘Special Service Brigade’ under the command of Combined Operations began almost immediately.
The highly regarded Brigadier Joseph Charles Haydon, who a few months earlier had organised a special mission to evacuate the Dutch royal family, was handed
the task of overseeing the creation of a new elite force within the British Army.
He handpicked eleven commanders and left it to them to choose their junior officers and NCOs so that each unit would have its own distinct identity and stamp of its commander’s personality.

Overeagerness to put Commandos into action at the earliest possible date led to the failure of two pinprick raids on Boulogne and Guernsey.
Hastily planned and poorly executed by troops lacking sufficient training and suitable equipment, the Commando initiative hardly got off to a flying start.
The general feeling back in Whitehall was that if that was the best our elite forces could manage, then Hitler could laugh himself to sleep at night.
The almost comic shortcomings and mishaps of the raids demonstrated the need for much harder training, higher fitness levels, superior weapons and kit and improved means of transporting the units to and from the target site.

In March 1941, Operation CLAYMORE, the first large-scale Commando raid, was launched.
The aim of the raid was to destroy the fish oil factories on the Lofoten Islands in northern Norway.
Fish oil was an important commodity for the Germans: it provided Vitamin A which was vital for the health of their U-boat crews who were causing such havoc among Allied shipping out in the Atlantic.
The crews went weeks without seeing daylight, and fish oil was the perfect substitute.
The oil was also important for the production of nitro-glycerine in the manufacturing of explosives.
Much planning went into the assault that involved two full Commandos – roughly 1,000 men – and seven
Royal Navy vessels.
The Commandos stormed ashore, but to widespread disappointment, they met no resistance.
The operation was a success of sorts.
They destroyed their targets, suffered no casualties, sunk 18,000 tons of shipping, captured 200 German prisoners and gathered 300 volunteers to join the Free Norwegian Forces.
But to sceptics of the Commando enterprise, the returns did not justify the huge logistical effort and the deployment of scarce resources and elite troops.
(Operation CLAYMORE proved to be a more important moment in the war than it seemed at the time.
A set of rotor wheels for an Enigma cypher machine and its code books were seized from the German armed trawler
Krebs
, which helped the scientists at Bletchley Park to break German naval codes.)

Unaware of this crucial development, the top brass of the three services looked upon CLAYMORE as a waste of scarce resources.
Each service had its own sound reasons for not wanting to commit to the Commando cause: the Army resented the release of some of its best officers and men, the Navy was reluctant to free warships from other more pressing tasks and the RAF was eager to concentrate on hitting targets they considered to be of greater importance.
Another problem with the Commando experiment was Admiral Keyes, the director of Combined Operations, an abrasive character who clashed regularly with the Chiefs of Staff.
Though a close personal friend, Churchill knew he had to replace him.
His choice of successor was a bold gamble.
Lord Louis Mountbatten, a cousin of the King, was well-regarded within the Royal Navy but he was only a Captain, and would
be taking his seat around a table of Generals, Admirals and Air Marshals.
In the event, it proved to be an inspirational move by Churchill.
A character of great charm, energy and daring, Mountbatten’s arrival at Combined Operations HQ led to smoother cooperation between the three services and a significant ramping-up of operational activity.

Encouraged by the qualified success of CLAYMORE, large-scale raids that would cause significant damage to enemy operations became the priority at COHQ.
Planners pored over maps of Europe’s Western coastline from Spain to the Arctic, searching for a target that met all the criteria laid down.
The target had to be a) vital to the German war effort, b) no more than a mile from the sea, c) offer good coastline for the amphibious landing of troops, d) present good intelligence of enemy numbers and defences and e) located away from areas with heavy concentrations of troops.

One location stood out from the list: Vaagso.
At first glance, a small fishing community on an open-ended fjord halfway up the Norwegian coast towards the Arctic Circle might not appear to be the most urgent objective in the middle of a world war, but Vaagso fitted the bill on all counts.
As Norway’s main processing centre of fish oil, it was a vital asset.
It also had the added attraction of being within reach of RAF bases in Scotland, which could give air cover to the raiding party and the naval force.
The main objective of the operation was to destroy the processing factories, but to do that the force would first have to destroy the enemy’s main defences.
The most important of these
were four coastal gun batteries on the island of Maaloy, 500 yards from the town, guarding the mouth of the fjord.
Two other coastal batteries and a torpedo station also required elimination.

The official intention of Operation ARCHERY as stated in the planning documents was ‘to carry out a raid on military and economic objectives in the vicinity of Vaagso island with the object of harassing the coastal defences of S.W.
Norway and diverting the attention of the enemy Naval and Air Forces from Operation ANKLET.’
This simultaneous operation was considered to be the more important of the two.
Comprising a much larger force of twenty vessels, one Commando plus a contingent of Norwegian troops, its objective was the Lofoten Islands, 100 miles north of the Arctic Circle.
The plan was for it to remain there for several weeks; it was to cut off German sea lanes, sweep the coastline, harassing convoys, and interrupt shipments of iron ore, another natural resource vital to the enemy war effort.
A twin operation, it was hoped, would divide enemy resources and give each a greater chance of success.
The plans were received enthusiastically at the Admiralty, which wanted to put on a show of strength in Norwegian waters to rattle the German High Command.
The jagged coastline of Norway, with its myriad inlets, fjords and islands, allowed German shipping to move around largely unmolested, and provided an ideal base for harassing Allied convoys carrying vital supplies to Russia around the northern Cape through the perilous waters of the Arctic.

On 6 December, Rear Admiral Harold Burrough was appointed to take charge of naval forces responsible for the deployment of
ships and bombardment of coastal defences during ARCHERY.
Brigadier Haydon, the Military Forces Commander, was to oversee the operation on land.
They had just three weeks before the scheduled date for the raid to finalise their plans.
For his principal assault force, Haydon chose 3 Commando, led by Lt Colonel John Durnford-Slater, officially the very first Commando.
Two troops from 1st Norwegian Independent Company, commanded by Captain Martin Linge, would also be deployed, while two troops from 2 Commando were to be held as a floating reserve.
Detachments from the Royal Engineers and Royal Army Medical Corps would team up with the assault troops.
In total, the raiding party amounted to 51 officers and 525 other ranks.
The naval force comprised seven ships and a submarine.
The Colony-class cruiser HMS
Kenya
was to be the headquarters of the operation as well as the principal bombardment ship.
With a main armament of twelve 6-inch guns and a battery of smaller guns, it packed a formidable punch.
The rest of the force was made up of four destroyers, HMS
Onslow
, HMS
Oribi
, HMS
Offa
and HMS
Chiddingfold
, the T-Class submarine HMS
Tuna
and two ships’ transporters, HMS
Prince Leopold
and HMS
Prince Charles
.
The destroyers were to engage enemy ships and vessels and positions ashore and provide anti-aircraft fire.
Tuna
was tasked with guiding the force into the fjord.