1940, Tuesday 12 November;
Recently promoted Lieutenant Roger King looked out to his right, the Stringbag in front was dropping away, losing height, her prop slowing, ‘Christ, engine failure’ he thought, it was one of the bombers, Morford and Greene, he hoped they’d be alright, that just leaves seven of us now. He rolled his shoulders trying to shake off the cold that was creeping in, rechecked his instrument panel again, and then refocused on the aircraft in front, lit under the three quarters moon. He called his navigator; Willis was moaning about the stink the extra fuel tank was making. Strapped into the navigator’s cockpit, between them, Willis was now in the rear gunner’s seat, the fumes flowed straight at him.
They must have been about 60 miles away, but up here at 8,000ft, Taranto could be seen, laying under a low green glow, with small white twinkling of flak bursts, despite the first wave having already left. ‘Bloody ell’ he thought, they’ve right stirred up a hornet’s nest, how will we get through that. Talk was his CO, Hale had bet with Williamson, CO of 815 FAA as to who took the first wave, and lost, 819 FAA was the second wave, just our luck he reflected.
They were close to the harbour now, the two-flare carrying Stringbag’s had peeled off and each dropped a line of eight flares, the anti-aircraft fire intensified in response. King’s orders, like the rest of the second wave was to target what you could, very loose, allowing them to take whatever opportunity that offered. He climbed a couple of thousand feet, and then dived down, the Mar Grande, where the battleships were anchored, the bomb armed Swordfish heading for the Mar Piccolo, where the cruisers and destroyers were anchored, along with the oil tank farm and seaplane base.
Suddenly a huge silver-grey object appeared, he threw the plane sideways, a barrage balloon, they were expected but he’d thought he see them sooner. The plane shuddered, then slide to the side, the balloon disappearing from sight. Taranto city lay on his left, the Mar Grande on his right, his altitude falling fast. Fingers of tracer reached out, trying to touch them, King jinked the plane, the lines of tracer soaring high and wide. He was getting very low now, the sea rushing up to him, time to straighten out, he needed to be level to drop the ‘Fish’, and easing back on the throttle he reduced speed. The Mar Grande lay open in front of him, the fortifications of San Pietro in front of him, an island ablaze with AA fire, tracers weaving their way up into the nights sky in numerous directions.
He scanned across the bay, nearly everything was to his right, the ships silhouettes showing in the moonlight, the flashes from gun barrels and searchlights helping highlight them in the confusion. Pulling on the stick, the biplane swung a wide turn round to the right, a particularly large grey monster appearing in his sights. He checked his speed, easing back a little more, avoid the stall, but slow as he could, looking over the fuselage, the waves looked about right. Tracers from the battleship now reached out for him, but flew by, too high, he was below the minimum level of depression on the gun mountings.
He steadied himself, he could feel his heart pounding, steady, keep her steady, aim amidships, 1500 yds, a bit longer, wait for it, 1200 yds, now. The 1,548 pounds of a Mark XII 18-inch torpedo dropped free, a strand of wire briefly holding her nose up, causing the torpedo to belly flop, instead of dive, her motor running, the weight loss causing the Swordfish to rise dramatically up in the air, the plane gaining speed.
A tremendously loud bang, the plane vibrating to the impact, the controls heavy in his hand, they’d been hit. He took the plane lower, swinging right, dropping under the flak again, wiggling the controls, he found he only had partial movement one way. He tilted a wing down, sliding, he could keep her flying straight now. Looking around, the harbour entrance appeared on his right, and he edged her round, the boom-gate vessel, passing across his sight. He straightened again, and opened the throttle, calling for maximum revs, the old girl responding, speed picking up. A few singing bullets whistled by, a bang, a thin renting tear, as he flew through a machine gun’s line of fire, and then suddenly, there was nothing in front, just the moonlight reflecting off the glassy waves, the cacophony of battle receding behind them, alone.
Willis began to speak in his headset, ‘well done old boy, I thought we were going to buy it at least a couple of times there, I don’t know how anyone could get out of that alive, I didn’t see anyone else after we dived down into the harbour. I have our course setting, steer…’. King turned on the new heading, his mind numb with exhaustion, the adrenalin rush gone, he felt drained. Sighting, firstly, a leading destroyer, Willis on the signal lamp giving the right callsign, then the rest of the fleet, the carrier, ‘Lusty’ waiting for them. King landed the aircraft, and was quickly taxied over to one of the lifts, the effort of flying removed, the tiredness allowing melancholy thoughts, everyone lost, nothing hit, a complete waste.
The lift began its decent, the wings on the Stringbag folded back, the red lights of night time working greeted them, and the hanger was packed, fitters and riggers crawling over Swordfish everywhere, pilots cat calling out, ‘here you are, late again, as usual’, ‘we missed dinner for you’, and the more direct ‘glad to have you chaps back’ straight from the heart. A debrief for him and Willis, the news, two aircraft hadn’t returned, his own groundcrew proudly showing off the damage on the Swordfish, the holes, torn metal, missing parts, breakfast, and the bed, and an exhausted sleep.
The plan had first been aired back in the days of the Abyssinian Crisis, revisited during the German annexation of Austria, both times the crew of HMS Glorious was central to the plan. With the arrival in the Med, of HMS Illustrious in September 1940, came Rear Admiral Lumley Lyster, former Captain of HMS Glorious, and architect of the plan. Cunningham, always wanting to take the initiative, quickly had him revisit the plan again, and despite several knockbacks, and planned within a greater plan of numerous operations designed to disguise their approach, the raid was launched. Two waves, 12 aircraft in the first, 9 in the second, with a mix of torpedoes, bombs, or bombs and flares in each wave.
Both waves had one aircraft shot down, while one of the second wave had to abort before take off due to a collision, and a second after take off due to an unseated fuel tank.
The older battleship Conte di Cavour was sunk, sitting on the bottom, only her superstructure and main armament remaining above water, another older battleship Duilio, was saved from sinking by running her aground, while the new battleship Litttorio, also run aground to save her from sinking, was left with her bows totally submerged. The following day, the undamaged ships of the Italian fleet left, for Naples, until Taranto could be made secure from attack, approximately six months’ time. A major victory for the British, a massive blow to the Regia Marina, and a very informative lesson for a third party, an idea to be developed and worked on.
