Back to Battle (22 page)

There was a line of splashes alongside the leading Italian cruiser, then they all saw a yellow flash just abaft the bridge.

‘One for his nob!’ Latimer said.

‘With your knowledge of Shakespeare,’ Kelly observed, ‘you might have come up with something more memorable than that.’

‘How about “A hit, a hit, a palpable hit”, sir?’

There was a continuous roar of gunfire now and more sparkling flashes running along the Italian ships as their heavier rifles fired. The shells smashed into the sea to port, marking the water with scummy circles of foam.

‘Starboard. We’ll go round again, Pilot, and come out further down this time. That ought to keep ’em guessing, because they’re bound to be stupid enough to expect us to appear where we appeared last time. We’ll shorten the range again as if we’re going to fire torpedoes before we turn away.

The smoke lay on the water in vast greasy black coils, that Kelly guessed the Italians wouldn’t attempt to enter. They’d inevitably expect torpedoes as they emerged on the other side and, not daring to risk their bigger ships, would try to make contact with the convoy by passing round the edge of the smoke bank.

The smoke looked like a vast dark cliff behind Impi as she emerged. He could see the convoy about five miles away to the west being attacked by aircraft, the sky above it pockmarked by the barrage flung up by Verschoyle’s ships. Plunging into the darkness once more, they thundered through, to find the Italians shelling the smoke where they’d last appeared, the blast from the exploding missiles dispersing the rolling banks of black even as Impi’s guns crashed out.

There was a yell as they saw another flicker of light on the leading cruiser that told them they’d scored another hit. Impatient was just disappearing a mile away when Rumbelo called out from the back of the bridge that she was on fire.

‘Looks as if she’s lost her starboard point fives, sir.’

‘What about Nineteenth Flotilla’s WIT?’ Kelly asked.

‘Plenty of traffic, sir,’ the signals officer said. ‘They all sound like battleships and they appear to have invented an aircraft carrier. There’s been a signal to one, Incredible, telling her to be prepared to fly off her aircraft.’

Kelly smiled. Verschoyle was never behind the door when cunning was handed out. He was still watching Impatient when Rumbelo’s voice came, quietly and unemotionally.

‘Torpedo bombers sir. Green-five-oh!’

Every eye on the bridge swung to watch the S79s come in. They were fast three-engined monoplanes but their pilots seemed as uncertain as ever and the attack was just as half-hearted.

‘Torpedoes gone!’

Impi turned to comb the wakes and, as the torpedoes vanished astern of her, the S79s swung away and disappeared from sight, just as high level bombers appeared. But Kelly knew they needn’t worry too much about them because they were too near to the Italian cruisers to make that kind of bombing a safe pastime.

‘All right, Quartermaster,’ he said. ‘You can take it easy for a bit. They’ve gone and we’re wearing out the sea.’

As they swept towards the smoke again they saw Inca register another hit, this time on the second cruiser. They were dangerously close now, however, and they saw the flashes rippling down the leading Italian’s side as she fired another salvo. It seemed an age before her shells crashed into the water round Impi, engulfing her in columns of water masthead high. Shell fragments screamed through the air to bury themselves in the ship’s sides. They held course a little longer and once again had the satisfaction of seeing the Italian contours change.

‘Turning away again, sir.’

The fear of torpedoes was still very real to the Italians and Kelly knew he’d been wise to keep the threat open as long as he could.

‘Starboard twenty!’

The next salvo fell short but almost immediately one of the look-outs sang out that the high level bombers were coming in again. None of the bombs struck them, though the whole surface of the sea was stirred up around them. As they plunged once more into the smoke, they saw Impatient emerging. She came out like a charge of cavalry, every gun going, but as she swung, they saw a sheet of flame leap skywards near the after gun turret. Snatching a quick glance between watching the Italian ships, Kelly’s jaw was tight, but Impatient was hidden by smoke and he couldn’t tell what had happened to her. As he swung back to watch the Italians, Rumbelo called out.

‘She’s all right, sir. Midships gun’s firing.’

As they entered the darkness yet again, Kelly forced his mind back to the Italians. Smart was an experienced captain, which was why Kelly had given him the rear and most dangerous position, and it was up to him to get his ship out of danger. As Impi emerged on the safe side of the smoke, she was followed by Inca and shortly afterwards by Impatient, still streaming smoke.

He guessed the Italians would be turning on to a more southerly course now, to give them direct access to the convoy, and, outranged and outweighted, it was clear that if the smoke blew clear nothing could save them from their bigger guns. And with Impi, Inca and Impatient gone, it would be the turn of the convoy, because there was little the smaller Hunt-class ships could do.

The smoke was thinning now, torn to shreds by the bursting shells and the swift passage of ships.

‘Range two-five-oh!’ The range taker’s voice came as Impi burst clear. The range had dropped dramatically, and with Impatient damaged, the Italians would grow more determined and the mere threat of torpedoes would no longer work. This time it had to be the real thing.

‘Make “Attack with torpedoes.”’

As the two remaining destroyers emerged from the smoke, bunting fluttered to Impi’s yard-arm and eighteen missiles leapt into the water like salmon.

‘All torpedoes fired and running correctly!’

‘Italians turning away, sir!’

The silhouettes of the Italian ships changed once more as they swung from the torpedoes. The Italian destroyers were crashing towards Impi, their guns blazing in an attempt to drive the British ships away, but their gunnery was indifferent and, though their shells landed close by in a flurry of spray, stirred sea and shrieking splinters, no one was hit.

They seemed to have been manoeuvring in and out of the bank of smoke for hours now and Kelly glanced at the sky.

‘This bloody day seems endless,’ he remarked.

‘Range two-nine-oh!’ The range finder had been calling out the range all the time in his bored, undramatic voice almost as if he were a bus conductor asking for fares. ‘Range three-one-oh! Range three-two-oh! Range obscured–’

The last Italian shells had fallen just ahead of them and tons of water, yellow-tinted by the explosive, fell across Impi’s upper works. As the spray cleared, Kelly saw the Italians were still turning, then the contours resolved themselves into steadiness and he realised they were now heading north.

‘I think they’re breaking off the engagement, sir!’ Latimer’s voice was high and excited. ‘I think we’ve pulled it off!’

There was a burst of cheering then Siggis’ mad voice rose from the point fives in a chirrup of triumph.

‘God bless the sweet little cherub who sits up aloft looking after the soul of poor Jack!’ he yelled. ‘God bless him and pray for thim Italian admirals. Tryin’ to hit us was like tryin’ to nail jelly to a wall!’

As Kelly slipped from his stool, the masthead buzzer went.

‘Enemy fleet red one-oh. Heading away from us.’

Latimer offered Kelly a cigarette and he lit it gratefully and began to walk up and down, stretching his legs. He only had a space six paces forward and six paces back, but the bridge personnel, grinning in a mixture of pride, freedom from strain, and relief that they’d been spared one of the gory scenes that could be produced from a direct hit, made way for him.

He felt tired, more from tension than exhaustion, and from his deep concern for the ships and men under his command. But the satisfaction about him was powerful enough to reach out and touch. Once again they’d forced the Italians away by nothing else but superior morale, bluff and Nelson’s dictum that no captain could do wrong if he put his ship alongside the enemy.

‘Make to Battle Cruiser Verschoyle,’ he said. ‘From Kelly. “Many thanks. Congratulations to Incredible’s Commander (Air) for prompt response. Resume convoy formation and report damage.”’

Below the bridge, Siggis was chirruping a song as he helped his mates to shift the empty cartridge cases. Every man in the ship was aware of what they’d done and what it had done to the Italians’ confidence. The other destroyers were drawing closer now and the damage reports were coming in.

‘Impatient reports large hole in deck. Heavy fire midships. Fourteen casualties, nine dead. There may be others.’

It was a simple report, but Kelly knew exactly what it meant. The hole in the deck would be circled by long jagged blades of steel, red-hot fragments would have traversed the bulkheads and the middle of the ship would be a raging furnace with paint, linoleum, bedding, stores, personal belongings and food, all blazing together. He could see the smoke still pouring out of the hole, below which the first lieutenant and his damage control party would be struggling with hoses and axes to put out the fire.

It was now almost dark, that blessed darkness, which in these narrow seas was so important. The signals officer appeared.

‘I think the Italians should go back to selling ice-cream, sir,’ he said. ‘W/T’s just picked up a BBC announcement that they’ve lost Keren in Abyssinia.’

‘Perhaps our friends over there heard it, too,’ Kelly suggested. ‘Perhaps that’s what knocked the stuffing out of them. Their East African empire seems to be fading away at high speed.’

The signals officer had other information, too. ‘Mediterranean Fleet’s at sea, sir. Admiral Pridham-Whipple’s reported enemy units south of Crete. With the lot we’ve just seen off, the whole Italian navy must be out.’

Kelly sniffed the air. Over the years he’d developed an instinct and he knew that with Cunningham at sea there was something in the wind.

‘Make to the Captain, Nineteenth Flotilla “Conduct convoy to Malta. Am pushing ahead.”’

Verschoyle’s response was typical. ‘Don’t pull your poop string.’

‘Tell Impatient to take Indian’s place and Indian to join us at full speed.’

The signals officer had hardly disappeared when he returned. ‘From C-in-C, Med, sir: “Report fuel state.”’

‘Tell him more than enough for Alex.’

A few minutes later another signal arrived.

‘“Join Main Fleet.”’ The signals officer looked excited. ‘Rendezvous position follows, sir. The pilot has it. Main Fleet’s about seventy miles due south of Gaidaro Nisi on course two-seven-five.’

They clustered round the charts, hands moving as a new course was worked out. They had plenty of fuel in hand because the convoy’s slow speed had forced them to steam at their most economical rate, and they could now push ahead throughout the whole night at moderate despatch in a converging direction.

From intercepted signals the following day they learned that the convoy, in spite of running into trouble from aircraft, had reached Malta, while somewhere to the north-west of them Admiral Pridham-Whipple’s force from Piraeus, guarding the western flank of the troop convoys heading for Greece, had stumbled on an Italian battleship of the Littorio class. In the ensuing fight, Pridham-Whipple had escaped unscathed, though he was once more out-of-touch, but, warned by his signals, torpedo bombers from Formidable, with Cunningham’s forces to the east, had hit the Italian which was now reported to be making for Taranto at greatly reduced speed.

They had no idea with certainty where the Italian ship was and, judging by the signals they intercepted, she could well be across their course and could even have been joined by other Italian ships, including the ones they themselves had sent about their business.

As they discussed the situation the masthead lookout sang out. ‘Ships in sight. Green one-oh.’

‘British destroyers, sir,’ Latimer said. ‘Radar reports more ships behind.’

A few minutes later the topmasts of heavy ships appeared to the east then slowly they were able to make out the silhouettes of four big ships with an attendant cloud of smaller vessels.

‘It’s Warspite, sir,’ Latimer reported. ‘With Barham and Valiant. The carrier’s Formidable.’

‘It would be nice to meet our late opponents again with a few big boys on our side,’ Kelly observed.

As they thundered by, a lamp started flashing.

‘Signal, sir. From C-in-C: “Take station to port.”’

‘Make it so.’

It soon became obvious that Pridham-Whipple’s cruisers were searching ahead of the main fleet at maximum visual signalling distance, combing the darkening sea for the first sight of the enemy. As Impi, Inca and Indian took up their positions, the late sun was catching the black, white and grey camouflage of Warspite. Behind her, following in line astern, Barham and Valiant each had a magnificent white bow wave and a glistening wake. Their eight powerful fifteen-inch guns were trained fore and aft, each containing a shell weighing approximately a ton, so that a salvo was enough to destroy a smaller ship at once. Their white ensigns were in sharp contrast to the deep cobalt of the sky and the ultramarine of the sea, and at the masthead Warspite wore Cunningham’s Red Cross of St George. They were all old ships but they still presented a striking display of power, grandeur and majesty.

‘Signal from C.-in-C., sir: “If cruisers gain touch with damaged battleship, Second and Fourteenth destroyer flotillas will be sent to attack. Twenty-third will remain on station. If she is not then destroyed, battlefleet will follow in. If not located by cruisers, I intend to work round to the north and then west and regain touch in the morning.”’

Almost immediately, aircraft signals reported the Italian ships some fifty miles ahead on a course of 300 degrees, moving at a speed of between twelve and fifteen knots.

‘Four hours or more before we’re up with them,’ Latimer observed.

Half an hour later, another aircraft message reported that the Italian fleet consisted of one battleship, six cruisers and eleven destroyers.