I Sank The Bismarck (28 page)

Admiral Somerville gave the order for
Ark Royal
to precede
the rest of Force H into harbour when we arrived at Gibraltar.
As we closed the northern entrance the garrison came out to
meet us, in small rowing boats, sailing boats and launches.
The merchant ships in the harbour signalled their greetings
with sirens and the crews on their decks cheered as we passed
slowly down the detached mole to our regular mooring. A
band of the Black Watch was playing and there was an almost
carnival atmosphere. That night the cooks made a very special
effort and served up what they called a 'Swordfish Surprise' –
fresh swordfish steaks, purchased straight from one of the
fishing boats in La Linea I am sure. I told the CO that in my
view they had little alternative: it was either that or 'Bismarck
Kippers'. The party in the wardroom that night was truly
staggering.

On board the
Ark
there was a great deal of satisfaction
about what we had accomplished, and a general feeling that
if the squadrons on
Illustrious
could pull off the great attack
on Taranto, then we in the
Ark
had shown what we could do
with
Bismarck.
We had, so the stories in the newspapers and
newsreels had it, avenged
Hood
and saved the honour of the
Royal Navy. There was also a feeling, held privately, that we
in the Fleet Air Arm had been robbed of our rightful victory
by the sailors in their battleships and that Admiral Tovey had
deliberately not wanted us to take any further share of the
triumph over
Bismarck.

I don't know that there is any truth in that last assertion,
but it was true that our intervention at the eleventh hour had
been the one thing that stopped
Bismarck
reaching the haven
of St-Nazaire. Another few hours and it is clear that the
Heinkel and Focke Wulf that we saw would have been joined
by other aircraft and we would have had a serious fight with
the Luftwaffe on our hands.

However, on the day that we had returned from watching
the end of
Bismarck,
none of us who had seen all those men
in the water felt any joy or elation at all. We sat in the wardroom,
not talking, a stiff drink in our hands, thinking our
own thoughts. Sadly, none of the other people in the cockpits
of those twelve Swordfish that flew over
Bismarck
when she
capsized and sank is still alive. It is, after all, something that
happened almost seventy years ago. All I know is that there
has not been a single day of my life when the image of those
poor men struggling in the freezing oily water has not entered
my mind, and I do not expect to see a day when it doesn't.

Back in Gibraltar we had a few days' rest before embarking
on another mission into the Mediterranean. The navy had
been suffering some terrible losses.
Germany had invaded
Greece at the beginning of 1941; the
British army had
retreated to Crete. In May German paratroopers had landed
there and attempted to send troop ships in support of them.
There were very heavy casualties on both sides, with most of the
German troop ships sunk by the Royal Navy, but the Germans
managed to capture the airfield on Crete and from that moment
the battle was lost. Reinforcements arrived by air and, at about
the same time that we had been flying over
Bismarck,
Admiral
Cunningham in Alexandria was told to organize the evacuation
of British troops from the beaches on Crete.

We had almost no air cover and the Luftwaffe really went
for the warships, whose only defence was the anti-aircraft
guns on the cruisers and battleships. The carrier that had been
sent to replace
Illustrious,
HMS
Formidable,
suffered damage
from several bombs at the beginning of the German campaign
and, like
Illustrious
before her, had to leave for repairs in a US
shipyard. I had seen
Formidable
in the fitting-out yards at
Harland and Wolff in Belfast when I had learned to fly solo.
She had not been in service for long. These armoured carriers
carried so few planes, and their supply was so erratic, that
when she was under attack
Formidable
was able to launch
just six serviceable Fulmars. There were at times almost four
hundred German aircraft based in Sicily and Italy, so it was no
surprise to learn that the evacuation of the British and New
Zealand armies from Crete had cost Cunningham dearly. It
was a real trial of strength between the Royal Navy and the
German air force. Unfortunately, we lost. Two battleships,
Barham
and
Warspite,
were put out of action for months, as
was
Formidable.
Seven cruisers were either sunk or badly
damaged, six destroyers were sunk and around two thousand
sailors were killed. But seventeen thousand soldiers were
evacuated from Crete.

When not bombing ships, the Luftwaffe was bombing
Malta, and keeping that island defended and alive occupied
Ark Royal
's time after our return to Gibraltar.

Most of June was spent on anti-submarine patrols in combination
with convoys. The major effort was to keep
supplying Malta with Hurricane fighter aircraft, which were
brought down from the UK either in
Argus
or in
Furious.
The
latter, like her sister ship
Glorious,
which sank off Norway in
1940, was a conversion of a First World War battlecruiser
with a flying deck built over the hull and the bows projecting
a fair way forward of the flight deck. She had a small island
located in the same place as that on a modern carrier – that is,
on the starboard side amidships – but there was another small
bridge on the port side that was used for navigating and
directing the flying operations.

We must have delivered about 130 Hurricanes to Malta in
a month, with only one serious incident. The Swordfish could
be launched from the
Ark
using the forward catapults, so we
still carried out our early-morning anti-submarine patrols just
as dawn was breaking, and then the first Hurricane would roll
down the flight deck. It was important to get the Hurricanes
off the
Ark
quickly, because if we were attacked by the Italian
or German air force, we would want to start operating the
Fulmars. On one mission in June
Furious
started launching
her own Hurricanes, but the second plane that went down the
flight deck veered sharply to port, smashing into the navigating
position. One of the Hurricane's long-range fuel tanks was
ripped off and the plane crashed into the sea. The fuel spilled
out, caught fire and started spreading along the port side. The
carrier had to turn quickly out of the wind and come to a stop
while the fire was dealt with. Nine people were killed, and as
the smoke rose up into the sky we realized it was not a very
healthy position to be in: in full daylight the chances of the
column of smoke being spotted by an Italian reconnaissance
aircraft were quite high. However, the fire was put out, and
the flying off continued.

At the end of the month my squadron, 818, was due to be
rotated back to the UK and replaced by 825 Squadron. I was
eager to get back home, but I was told by the CO that another
pilot and I from 818 were going to be assigned to
Furious.
I
was not pleased. Leaving
Ark Royal
to go home was one
thing; leaving to go and fly off a converted battlecruiser was
something else entirely. However, there was little I could
do, except look forward to an endless round of flying antisubmarine
patrols as the old
Furious
plugged her way through
the Bay of Biscay on her return to the Clyde.

The accommodation in
Furious
was not up to the standard
of the
Ark,
but more important to me was that there was not
the same sense of purpose and camaraderie on board. There
was no feeling that the ship was run for the benefit of the air
group, rather than vice versa. I came in for some special
attention because I had served in the
Ark
and also, I suspect,
because I had taken part in the
Bismarck
attack, although I
did not make a big thing out of it.

The exhaust from the boilers on
Furious
was not vented
through a vertical funnel, but was instead channelled along
large ducts that ran down both sides of the hangar deck and
poured out a stream of hot gases at the rear of the flight deck.
This sometimes caused a bit of turbulence when aircraft were
landing on and I was always cautious with it. There were
instructions about how to land on and the atmosphere on the
carrier made me feel that I should play by the book, so I was
meticulous in my landing-on procedures. One day, however, I
was summoned to see the captain, who complained to me
about the time I was taking to land and how long he had to
remain out of line while I did so. He ended the meeting with
the remark, 'I thought you
Ark
pilots were meant to be the
best!' and dismissed me.

I thought, 'How dare he!' and was determined that I would
show him. At the end of my next patrol, instead of landing on
in the normal way and following the directions of the deck
landing officer, I flew through the convoy, approaching along
the side of the carrier from the bow, level with the flight deck.
I saw everybody, including the deck landing officer, looking at
me with their mouths open, then as I reached the round down
I pulled back on the stick, went vertically up and executed a
stall turn. I rolled the plane through 360 degrees and then,
with a blip of the throttle, settled her down gently to land
squarely on the flight deck, catching the second arrestor wire.
Nobody said a word while I unbuckled and climbed out, but
the tannoy bellowed out a message: 'Sub-Lieutenant Moffat
to report to the captain.'

He could have thrown the book at me, and looking back it
was a very stupid thing for me to have attempted, but
curiously all he said to me was, 'Moffat, I haven't seen flying
like that since the last time I was at the Hendon flying display.
Don't repeat it,' and he walked off. 'And **** you too,' I
thought.

That was the last I heard of it, and it was the last time that
I heard any comments about either
Ark Royal
or my ability as
a flyer.

We were escorting a 10-knot convoy of slow merchant
ships from Gibraltar to the Clyde. It was dreadfully
monotonous, carrying out patrol after patrol, and the only
consolation was that I was heading home. It seemed an age
since I had journeyed in the reverse direction, to Gibraltar, a
young man fresh out of training without even a single deck
landing to my credit. Now, just a few months later, I had
recorded eighty deck landings, seven catapult take-offs and
four hundred hours of flying time in my logbook. Plus one
torpedo attack.

Furious
came to anchor, finally, in the Clyde and I was
posted
back to my old squadron, 818, which had in my absence
taken up residence in Arbroath. We had a new CO, a Lt
Commander Terence Shaw, who was known as 'Shaggy'
because of his beard. We had got to know each other in the
Ark,
where he had been an observer with 820 Squadron.
Although he was a likeable enough sort, for me he did not
have the charisma of Lt Commander Coode.

While I was at Arbroath I took every opportunity to fly to
HMS Sanderling at Abbotsinch so that I could pursue my
courtship of my dear Marjorie, the girl to whom I had proposed
so impetuously after that Sunday afternoon tea party.
We had corresponded all the time that I was away, and her
letters had been extremely important to me – a reminder that
there was another life, separate from the broad expanse of
ocean and the routine of existence on board the carrier. She
lived about 10 miles south-west of Glasgow at a place called
Shilford.

I would take the tram to Barrhead, where she would meet
me in her Morris 8. She ran a hairdressing business on the
south side of Glasgow and one of the strange vagaries of
wartime regulations was that this was considered an essential
occupation. I can't think why, unless it was thought vital to
the maintenance of civilian morale, but it meant that Marjorie
could not join any of the women's services and was given a
petrol ration for her car for her daily business use. It was
a real joy to go for a spin in the countryside. I had not seen
Marjorie since I had left to join
Ark Royal
and a great deal
had happened in the intervening months. Much of what I had
seen and felt had affected me deeply, but I was loath to
unburden myself on to her. I knew that I would most likely
have to leave for another tour of duty soon and I did not want
her to worry unduly about what might be happening to me.

Also, I wanted to enjoy the peace and calm of her company
without disturbing it by talk of bombing raids. It was an
abrupt transition between life in the
Ark
and my relatively
tranquil days in Scotland, and I wanted to keep them
separate. I was becoming extremely attached to Marjorie, and
I hoped I could see a long-term future with her, stretching way
past the end of the war, if I managed to survive it. I wasn't that
keen to go away again, so my next
posting with 818 Squadron
suited me down to the ground. It would have been marvellous
to stay in Arbroath, or even better Abbotsinch, but at least we
were still almost in Scotland, although in a place with the
unfortunate name of Twatt, in the Orkneys.

Twatt was only half finished during our stay, so we were
billeted in half-finished sheds nearby and were driven into the
base by lorry every day. The place was awful, a sea of mud.
We had a lot of new members in the squadron and spent a
great deal of time trying to get them into shape, with dive-bombing
practice and various other exercises. We also started
to carry out joint manoeuvres with the army. This lasted
for a few weeks at Twatt and then we moved yet again, this
time to
Machrihanish, at Campbeltown in Kintyre. This was
particularly disliked by the southerners in the squadron, who
hated the weather and couldn't pronounce the name. It was
always Machri-bloody-Hanish to them. Here our joint
exercises with the army were part of the development of
planning for amphibious operations.

Like most pilots everywhere, we were constantly on the
lookout for ways to brighten up the day and have a little fun,
particularly if we could play a practical joke on the pongos –
our not very complimentary nickname for soldiers. On one of
these exercises four of our Swordfish were to play the role of
enemy aircraft. The army was going to be storming the beach
from landing craft and at a crucial moment we were going to
dive-bomb the troops. They would then be expected to get
into their positions to set up what anti-aircraft defences they
had and deal with casualties. Having been briefed on the
exercise the day before, we decided that we would make it a
little more realistic for them. We spent the next few hours
raiding the cookhouse and the sickbay. From the cookhouse
we took sacks of flour, which we divided up into smaller
paper bags. We debated taking potatoes, but someone pointed
out that they could cause serious injury if they were dropped
from any height. In the sickbay we liberated a large number
of condoms and filled them with water.

Next morning we took to the air, with the observers carrying
haversackloads of flour-and-water bombs to launch at the
poor lads struggling up the beach. We arrived over the
exercise area and there below us were the landing craft, just
grinding through the breakers, their ramps crashing down
and the army charging out of them. Thunder flashes were
going off and there was the noise of gunfire – blanks,
fortunately – from some of the machine guns that had been set
up. We were to commence our dive-bombing attack five
minutes into the landing. To our surprise, the army was
accompanied by a naval officer in his blue uniform with shiny
black gaiters. He was obviously acting as the beachmaster, the
officer in charge of the landing area, responsible for the
unloading and organization of immediate supplies and ammunition
stocks. Without any communication between us at all,
we immediately realized that we had the perfect target, and in
turn we took our Swordfish down into a dive directly at him.
In an instant his lovely uniform was covered in sticky white
flour, while he stood impotently shaking his fists at us.

Extremely well pleased with ourselves, we formatted on to
Shaggy, the CO, to return to Machrihanish. As we turned over
the harbour at Campbeltown to make our approach, his
engine started faltering and he began to lose height. I continued
to follow him, with Shaggy standing up in the
observer's position waving desperately at me to shear off. I
would have none of it, thinking I would do the decent thing
and keep him company, when I realized that his Swordfish
was going to land in Campbeltown harbour and I was going
to follow him. He had run out of petrol. He went down and
down and down. I pulled up as his Swordfish hit the sea with
a splash. I flew on, landed at Machrihanish and couldn't wait
to tell everyone the news: 'The CO has landed in the water at
Campbeltown. Drinks all round – Shaggy is buying.' He got
his own back the next day, however, because I was ordered to
go to the diving school established by the navy in
Campbeltown, where I had to assist with the recovery of the
aircraft. All day I stood on a pontoon as the divers secured
ropes and buoys to the Swordfish, which was stuck in the
mud 30 feet below the water. By the time the main plane
appeared out of the murk, I was absolutely chilled through
and through.