By June 1942, Rommel was again master of the North African coast and airfields between Alexandria and Tunis. General Auchinleck, through no fault of his own, was back at Gazala. The Luftwaffe resumed control of the skies over Malta and the RAF Chief in Cairo — Air Vice-Marshal Tedder — had given up hope altogether. He said that with only three months food left, Malta was not worth defending.
Following a further 20 U-boat reinforcements, the Mediterranean under-sea battle was also hotting up. These few German submarines — taken from their ‘happy time’ off America by Doenitz’s orders — did more damage in six months in 1942 than the 70 Italian submarines did in the whole year.
By June, substantial help to Malta was at last on the way. It came from our western end. Despite Russian demands — now that the ice had melted — for more Murmansk convoys and in spite of the desperate state of affairs created by the Japanese in the Indian Ocean, five large, fast freighters were loaded and sent out from the UK bound for Malta through the Straits of Gibraltar. Escorted by Cairo — a new Air Defence cruiser — they passed through the Straits on the night of 11 June. In support were the cruisers Kenya, Charybdis and Liverpool with nine destroyers. The Flagship, with Vice-Admiral Curteis in command of this operation ‘Harpoon’ — was the battleship Malaya. Eagle and Argus joined up next morning.
We had already embarked six Swordfish of 813 Squadron for A/S duties and the 12 Hurricanes of 801. These all went down in the hangar — apart from our usual four Hurricanes on deck — to give the spies in Algeciras the impression that we were merely doing another ‘Club Run’.
At a general briefing session in the wardroom, aircrew were given a packet of Italian money, escape maps (if we landed in Africa), French money to bribe the French politicians to let us go and not turn us over to the Germans, and some sea-dye marker. This turned yellow in the water and made it possible for a search aircraft to see where we were if we got shot down.
We all realised that we were bound to meet opposition this time. Of course in 813F we would pretend to be old hands at the game, for we had had four Club Runs already. We had the advantage over the newcomers for we had been broken-in gently. What was more, we knew the ship, the ADR set-up and the possible dangers far better.
I told any member of 801 who asked me that I thought that we would not be spotted until at least the evening of the next day. The enemy air force would have to make a special effort even then, for our distance from Sardinia would be greater than the effective snooper range of the Ju 88 and only just within the effective range of the other recce aircraft used, the Italian Cant 1007Z.
Maps were produced of the ‘narrows’, giving the position of five or six airfields crowded with all manner of German and Italian aircraft. A colossal list of aircraft was produced. We had only seen pictures of some of them, their silhouettes, pinned up on the Heads doors so that we could study them while we sat on the thunderbox. Malaya’s Walrus was acting as our private air/sea rescue aircraft and if anyone went in the drink from a decklanding accident the usual destroyer would lend a hand. There would be on-deck stand-bys, pairs only, until Force H was discovered. Then there would be two Hurricanes airborne and another four on deck ready to scramble. The CO stressed the importance of getting in close when firing and he would shake the hand of anyone who managed to shoot down a Ju 88. Brabner also told us that the carriers and Malaya, plus a cruiser or two, would be turning back at the Narrows. Cairo and a few of the destroyers would, however, be carrying on through the night, hoping that the Italian fleet would not venture out and try to force a night action. Come next morning they would then be very nearly within sight of Malta, and under the RAF’s umbrella of Spitfires. The only question was, of course, whether Cairo’s ADR would work properly and whether, in consequence, effective use could be made of the Spits. Brabner also said that it had been decided to fly a squadron of Beaufighters to Malta from the east to give fighter cover at long range. The Beaufighters would be relieving 807 Squadron’s Fulmars at dusk, just as we turned back at the Narrows.
That afternoon, 12 June, Spike and I sat in our cockpits on stand-by. The fitters plugged the starter lines in and went to sit in the shade. We sat and waited under the hot sun, looking from time to time at Tricky’s radar aerial to see where it was searching. Expecting, perhaps hoping, to see ‘Wings’ on the bridge give us the start-up signal as we got nearer and nearer enemy-held air territory. It was one of the most thrilling and anxious days of my life.
Then, while there were only ten minutes left of our two hour stand-by, the Klaxons sounded and we were given the start-up signal. Tricky must have spotted something. I hoped it was the real thing this time. We rushed off the flight deck and, for the first time, I knew from Tricky’s urgent voice on the radio that we should at last find something to shoot at. I was determined to get in close and make every bullet count from all eight guns. I gave the guns a short burst — just to make sure they worked.
I followed Spike up to about 3000 feet. Tricky gave us a course to steer: “Bogey for you at 15 miles. Steer one-five-zero. Buster, over.” Spike’s voice answered, “Roger,” and we opened our throttles to maximum climb power.
I flew about 400 yards to one side or the other of Spike’s aircraft. This allowed sufficient freedom, so that I could use my eyes to search the sky but still be near enough to allow me to keep up with him in case he altered course suddenly.
I looked through the side panels of my beautifully polished perspex hood and tried to imagine what I would do if I were a German snooper flying in search of a British Fleet, 200 miles from my base and with only two-tenths cloud cover available at 3000 — 5000 feet to hide in. Besides feeling very frightened, I reckoned I would, if I were a snooper, fly at cloud height, about 3500 feet, and use what cover there was and stay just outside visibility distance once I had spotted the Fleet, only moving in from time to time to spot any changes of course. I would certainly keep an eye open for fighters and if I spotted one I would ‘open the taps’ and make a beeline for the nearest cloud in a direction away from the fleet.
As I strained my eyes, willing myself to see something, the unbelievable happened. I could see a black spot moving slowly eastwards, about five miles to the south on our starboard beam and below us. I immediately piped up on the radio and turned towards it, opening up to maximum revs and take-off power. “Bogey three o’clock below, five miles, turning now, over.”
“OK, boy,” said Spike.
His aircraft shot ahead of mine as he turned under me and I, too, selected the boost control cut-out, giving maximum emergency power of 12 pounds per square inch boost — the first time ever.
The next time I glanced towards Spike, my eyes otherwise glued on the enemy aircraft, I saw Spike’s aircraft streaming black smoke and dropping back.
“I’m not going well, boy. My engine’s packing up. I’m throttling back.” This is what I think he said, although it sounded confused to me at the time. I went on ahead.
Perhaps I could surprise the enemy aircraft. It had got nearly abeam as I closed in to five miles, and I hoped that the pilots and observer in the cockpit of the snooper would have their eyes forward and not over their shoulders. As the range decreased, I could clearly see that it was a three-engined aircraft, with three lines of exhaust smoke coming from the engines. This could only mean that they had seen me and had opened their throttles fully, thus the rich mixture and the smoke from the exhausts. It was now a chase. A Hurricane versus a Cant 10007Z making for cloud, for that was what it was. I knew I would win.
I remembered the silhouette on the Heads door, and that it had some guns pointing out of its backside. I was determined, therefore, not to come straight up its jacksie, but to do a proper quarter-attack, so giving the rear gunner a deflection shot, not an easy shot at me.
From a position abeam and above him I entered the prescribed and much practised quarter-attack from his port side. I was shattered to see that I was still miles out of range by the time I was at about 30 degrees off his quarter, and that I should be in line-astern, and an easy, no deflection, shot for his rear gunner if I continued to come in from there. Still there was nothing I could do about it now, except perhaps come in from below and astern and keep clear of his slipstream that way.
I had an overtaking speed of at least 40 knots and I had to push the stick forward quickly to get this plan into operation before I got too close and within range of his four rear guns.
I found myself over-correcting on the controls. I was already breathing hard. I remember telling myself not to over-correct and take time over things. Take easy, slow, aim and don’t jerk everything about.
I could now see the dark exhaust smoke from his three engines passing over the top of my hood as I closed in. I was determined to get his wing span to fill the entire gunsight ring before I pulled up and made my attack, for I would lose speed on the pull up and perhaps I would not be able to close on him as fast as I would like.
With cloud cover for the enemy now only a short distance ahead I could not contain myself any longer and pulled back on the stick, got his underside flying into the centre of the ringsight and pressed the firing button. As I did so I could see sparks, either from his guns or from mine, coming from the Cant’s tail. Then I could see smoke coming from his port side. I continued firing through the smoke, hopelessly in his slipstream by now, until I caught sight of a wing tip so near that I pulled away and downwards, having got too close for safety.
I overshot him as I turned away into the clear and could see that his port wing and engine had flames coming from them as well as smoke. He was already turning slowly to port and losing height. I thought that I might have to have another go and was just making up my mind how to do this, when I realised that he could not possibly survive and that all he was trying to do was to turn into wind and to make a landing in the sea. He had given up.
When his aircraft touched the sea it left a trail of yellow pieces of fuselage behind in its wake. It soon came to a stop, floating on the water. Perhaps I should have another go at it. My blood was up, and I was frightened at what I had done. I dived on them. But just as I took aim, I saw that there was a yellow inflated dinghy alongside the aircraft in the water. At the moment I touched the button I realised that I was doing something wrong. Mercifully for my conscience in after-years, only one or two bullets left the guns, for I had already finished my ammunition. I like to think that I could have made some friends of those Italians, albeit quite by accident. If they are still alive, perhaps they might contact me if they read this. Fortune certainly smiled on them for the crew were picked up later by one of our returning destroyers. None of the seven crew were lost or injured.
I told Tricky over the radio what I had done and heard that Spike had already landed-on with a duff engine. After I came to a halt and the arrester wire was reset behind me on the flight deck, I taxied forward and was struck down into the hangar. It was evening and the setting sun was shining down on the batsman so clearly, and making it so easy to land accurately and gently. Decklanding worries receded during combat flying. The excitement of shooting down an enemy aircraft obliterated all other anxieties.
I went up on the flight deck again and saw Spike. He told me that when he had pulled the tit, it had been too much for his engine. It had put a con rod through the crank case. Luckily this had happened only in the last few seconds of flight. He had returned to the ship with his oil temperature off the clock one way and his oil pressure off the dial the other. The engine was making a noise like an Irish harvester, he said. The filters were entirely full of white metal from the melted bearings, and the whole thing was smoking hot. When he touched down, it all came to a grinding halt without him touching a thing. Spike said that our Captain, Mackintosh, had turned Eagle into wind to land him on without waiting for permission from the Flagship, otherwise he would never have made it. How lucky to have a Captain like that.
Next morning, Spike and I were on the second morning patrol at 0730. I could still only just believe my luck in getting the Cant, yet here we were airborne again, and with no one yet having seen a solitary thing. Once again I had a feeling that we might strike lucky. We were right in the middle of Italian and German airspace and it would only be a question of time before we were again spotted and reported. Perhaps the Cant’s failure to return would spark off a maximum search effort.
The weather was, once again, bright and clear and visibility was extremely good. Just as we had raised our wheels, what should happen but Tricky gave us another vector to steer.
“Possible bogey, low, 20 miles. Steer one-five-oh.” Then, later: “Buster, over”.
Once again we complied and this time we flew low, looking upwards to the clouds to try to see the bogey before it could see us. This time Spike did not dare pull his emergency tit. and we stayed at take-off power.
Once again I saw it. This time, as we were flying low, I saw it at about six miles range, silhouetted against the underface of a white cumulus cloud. It was flying at about 2000 feet above us. It was moving away from the Fleet, towards Africa. We remained low, using our grey camouflage to hide us from his eyes against the sea. The target looked dark and menacing. It was a Ju 88 and going very fast. I had no idea whether it had seen us or not, but, to try to remain unseen for as long as possible, Spike and I kept low.
Spike was my leader and I was perhaps a trifle relieved that it would be his job this time to go in first. I was determined to make sure I had enough speed and enough distance ahead before I turned in. This was so that I could make a proper quarter attack within a range of 250 yards, as I had been taught. I climbed up on the Ju 88’s port beam, well ahead and at a distance of 1000 yards. Spike was still closing astern of him on a firing run and I could see his aircraft getting closer and closer to the Ju 88. Then I could see his gun smoke as he opened fire in a long burst, perhaps eight seconds. Not a thing happened to the Ju 88. My heart beat faster as I realised that it was now my turn to do something brave.
As I turned in on his port bow 1000 feet higher than him, I could hardly believe my eyes. The damned Ju 88 turned about 30 degrees away and leapt ahead of me as I tried to position myself once more for a quarter attack. It was moving at twice the speed of our practice targets at fighter school and I was moving at three times the speed. By the time I was at the correct angle-off of about 30 degrees, I was still too far away from him to stand a chance of doing him any damage.
All I could do was to carry out the same sort of attack that I had done on the Cant. I pulled the tit to get a bit more speed and, thank God, I could see that I was gaining on him. There was nothing I could do until the range decreased, and I spent the time, a few seconds only perhaps, jinking around in case he might have long-range 20 mm guns and be firing at me.
I clenched my teeth and, no doubt, half shut my eyes in a grimace, as I forced on, closer and closer. It was terrifying, but I was determined to close in and make sure of him. It would be awful, after all this, to have to return to the ship without having hacked him down.
“What the hell,” I thought, “I’ve got to do it.” I pressed the firing button. It was now or never. The shape was wandering in my sight, huge and black, first one side and then the other. His two propellers appearing stroboscopic in turn through my windscreen as I weaved about, in and out of his slipstream. I finished the entire 12 seconds of ammunition and must have been closer than a hundred yards at the end. I saw the deWild ammunition hitting his port wing, sparking like firecrackers. Bits of aircraft flew past me, or so it seemed — or they might have been the rear gunner’s empty shell cases. I was sure I had hit him and mortally wounded him. I saw a burst of smoke from his port wing root again, this time after I had finished firing all my ammunition and had pulled away to his port side and out of range of his rear-gunner and out of the smoke of his exhausts.
The Ju 88 flew on in a shallow dive and I found myself easily overtaking him. He had slowed right down to about 160 knots. I was sure he was a ‘gonner’. I didn’t wait this time to see him splash and short of fuel after the chase I joined up with Spike once more, who was watching it all.
When we landed on, we claimed one Ju 88 probably shot down. Tricky said that he had lost sight of our enemy on the radar soon after Spike had announced he was opening fire, so that there was every chance that he had eventually ditched, as we were certain that he was going to.
Spike and I spent the rest of the morning in the pilots’ small crewroom. This was on the top deck of the island between the funnels. It was near ‘Guns’. He moved from side to side, looking through a huge pair of binoculars for enemy snoopers and speaking to his gun crews through a telephone headset from time to time. We had the gramophone going. One of the tunes was The Captain sat in the Captain’s chair as he played his ukelele as the ship went down. Guns did not join in.
At about 1000, the Tannoy announced an approaching raid and the ship came to full Action Stations for the first time. I had my father’s 9.5 mm Pathé movie camera and I was determined to get pictures of bombs falling, preferably onto other ships of course. I used up a few feet from the goofers, taking pictures of four Hurricanes scrambling to do battle. They climbed up and disappeared to the north. Almost immediately they had left, one or two guns opened up from Malaya. She had obviously seen something.
About two minutes after that, our 1912 six inch guns started to fire as well and several bombs hit the water on our port bow. I rushed out to get a photo and was just too late to get a picture of the splash of a bomb falling in the sea about 200 feet from our port bow. It was so near that the spray wet us as we came out to watch.
Then, about two or three minutes after the bomb spray had dispersed, I saw Guns pointing at an aircraft approaching from the north-east, low on the water. Every gun in the Fleet seemed to be firing at it, but it came on and on and flew across our bow, disappearing into the distance without making the slightest attempt to evade the splashes all around it. It had dropped a fish (torpedo) at someone in the screen, for we all turned to port amidst much sounding of ships’ sirens as we did so. This was exciting stuff and more or less what we had seen on British Movietone News.
No ships had been hit by this combined torpedo and high-level bombing attack, and the four Hurricanes landed on, claiming only a couple of Italian torpedo aircraft as ‘probables’. They had not had time to climb through 20,000 feet to reach the bombers. At least there had not yet been any Ju 87s.
After lunch I was ‘duty stand-by’ on deck, with Bully as my Number Two. We knew perfectly well that we would be required, for the plot was full of bogies. It was only a matter of time before they came in again. When we were told to scramble, I climbed up at full power, not waiting for Bully — who in the event didn’t get off at all — and was told to steer 090 degrees and climb “Buster” to 5000 feet. Tricky said: “Many bogies on this bearing, about 20 miles”.
So I flogged on, keeping my eyes open. I could hear other voices chiming in from time to time, including some excited Italian voices shouting something like “a la deresta, a la deresta”, which I was told afterwards might have been “Look right, look right”.
After about five minutes, I was just about to ask for a few more directions from Tricky, when I saw below me and on my starboard side a light-brown camouflaged fighter aircraft. It looked something like a long-nosed Hurricane, but the colour intrigued me and I dived down on it. It hadn’t yet seen me, for it kept on its heading of west and seemed to be going very fast indeed. I had about 2000 feet excess altitude and this was sufficient to build up a nice overtaking speed as I dived down on him. He still didn’t seem to see me and I opened fire at about 300 yards, rather too far I feared. He immediately pulled up in a steep right hand turn. I tried to follow him, but, going much faster, I blacked out hopelessly and he must have flown right through my sights. I have no idea what happened after I ‘came to’ for he was nowhere to be seen. I continued the turn to starboard, fearing that I was about to be attacked myself. I couldn’t believe it possible for an enemy fighter to be flogging around on his own without several others, and I was damned if I was going to be hacked down myself. Eventually I gave up the steep turn and continued on my normal course. He was, it would seem, a Reggione 2001, armed with fragmentation bombs. About eight of these fighter/bombers had apparently been detailed to drop their fragmentation bombs on our flight decks and so ruin all our aircraft on deck and the aircrew as well, before we could get airborne. As no one saw more than a couple of attacks made by these aircraft, perhaps my appearance some 20 miles away from their target and before they had got there, discouraged one or two from going further.
So I continued on my original vector, 090 degrees, still watching out for what I assumed would be more Reggione fighters.
Then I saw them. These must be what Tricky was getting all steamed up about. They were flying in tight formation, coming towards me, slightly to port and down-sun and about 1000 feet below me. If Tricky was, in fact, vectoring me alone, and not a lot of other Hurricanes, then he had done a superb job, having positioned me up sun and with a good height advantage. There were at least four flights of four or five SV 79s, each flight in a typical ‘Balbo’ line astern. They were so close to each other that it was only possible to attack the single ‘arse-end Charlie’ in the formation, and the rear one at that. The only chance was a classic quarter attack, coming in from the south, positioning up sun with my shadow superimposed over the target at the start of the turn-in, breaking-off before reaching the line astern position. My attack would still have to be on the rear of the four flights, for fear of colliding with the others coming on behind.
All these thoughts were adding to the chaos already going in and out of my brain as I again pulled the red knob of the emergency boost override. Everything started to shake and vibrate once more. This time I was more than ever determined not to allow the quarter attack to develop into a line astern attack. I built up a massive overtaking speed, carefully trimming out the rudder forces as I did so. I turned in, feeling naked behind me and wishing that Bully was there, and started my firing run while still at about 40 degrees off. I rapidly closed the range so that I was pulling far too much ‘g’ for accurate sighting. However, I was so close by the time I broke away, that the cockpit was dark with the shadows of surrounding Italian aircraft and the air bumpy with their slipstreams. I had no idea whether they were all firing at me or not, but I felt that they were and it was very frightening. I had expended all my ammunition in the two attacks apart from a very few rounds, and I certainly wasn’t going into the deathtrap again. I pulled up, up sun of the formation and I could see that the rear formation now only consisted of two aircraft instead of four. I couldn’t see the others in the formations ahead at all.
Just then, someone from 801 Squadron piped up “Tally Ho” on the radio, and I had a grandstand view of their four going into attack, one after the other. They hacked down one of the remaining two while I was watching, and the formation ahead completely broke ranks and fell all over the sky. The separated aircraft still made ground towards the Fleet. However, all thoughts they might have had of making a combined and effective torpedo attack must have gone.
Almost immediately after the 801’s attack, I found myself being fired on by our own guns so that I knew that I was nearing home. I, and a few others out of ammunition, then went into the waiting position to the west of the Fleet. From here, we landed-on safely about 20 minutes later, very short of fuel.
I claimed a ‘possible’ Reggione and one ‘probable’ SV 79, but do not know what happened to them. Regardless of confirmation our five plane attack on the torpedo bombing formation had succeeded, for they achieved no hits whatever. They dropped their torpedoes miles out of range of the destroyers and got nowhere near the carriers.
I have since read that there were two further main attacks on the convoy, making four in all that day. The first was directed mainly on poor old Argus, which because of her low speed had to operate her aircraft separately from us. The final attack, in the early evening, was against the cruiser Liverpool and the destroyer Antelope. Liverpool had been hit on the third raid by a bomb from a Stuka attack flown by Italians, and had had to retire early towards Gibraltar with her attendant destroyer.
Next day, while Liverpool was making her slow and painful way back, her lookouts saw a cloud of yellow smoke about ten miles away. They made towards it and found three German airmen in a dinghy. They had been attacked by four Hurricanes, they said, and had had to ditch. As this was in the position of our early morning snooper, Spike and I claimed half a ‘confirmed’ Ju 88 each, instead of a ‘probable’.
The lonely Liverpool was responsible for drawing off the afternoon’s strikes from the convoy. I could appreciate the Germans’ point of view. Liverpool had no fighter escort and only one destroyer’s close range AA fire. Similarly, when Argus was separated from the main Fleet, she too made a much more attractive target. However, 807 Fulmar Squadron did well, intercepting and destroying two Stukas before they could make their attack, and breaking up the remainder. Argus was then able to make herself a very difficult bombing target to the less skilful Italians and escaped with one near miss. Only one or two bombers came near Eagle again after the main SM 79 raid. They were, however, mostly ‘empties’ returning to Sicily who accidentally flew over us on their way home after bombing Liverpool or Argus. Number Four in Red Flight in 801 was Sub-Lieutenant Fisher. He was from a famous Naval family and thus under close scrutiny. He had been rather put out by Eagle’s pom-poms which had fired at him as he flew by to make his first landing circuit. He was also rather short of fuel. He had already made three almost perfect approaches, but had held off about two feet high and had floated over all the arrester wires each time. On the fifth approach, Wings leaned over and, in his most restrained voice on the loud hailer said.
“Bats, get him on this time. Offer him money, jewellery or a month’s leave, but for God’s sake, get him on.”
Luckily Fisher made it. That same evening, the dusk patrol — Lieutenant Frazer-Harris and Sub-Lieutenant Peter Twiss (who later became Chief Test Pilot of the Fairey Aviation Company) — came on board in their Fairey Fulmars. They were the CO and senior pilot of 807 Squadron in Argus. Pete’s aircraft had a cannon shell hole in its airscrew spinner and the whole of the oil in the constant-speed unit had blown back and covered his windscreen. He managed to see the deck by hanging his head out to one side. Even then, his goggles were covered in the stuff and were almost impossible to see through. Yet, when he landed, he did not even bother to tell any of us about it.
As we turned back west at 1900 that evening, Spike and I were stand-by on deck. I happened to look up and glance astern into the darkening sky to the east. I could see sparks climbing skywards and I could hear the muffled crump of AA shells. But nothing seemed to happen our end of the Mediterranean and we continued on our way westwards.
In the wardroom afterwards I asked about the gunfire. I was told the Beaufighters were having trouble finding the convoy. When they eventually found it they had made the incorrect recognition signal and had been fired on. “Typical RAF,” I thought unkindly, and got on with my supper. The eight Beaufighters had in fact arrived over the convoy at the proper time, at dusk but, being fired upon, they thought they had arrived over the Italians, particularly as they could not get them to stop and could not get a word out of them over the r/t. Their leader had then searched round in the growing dusk for a short period, calling the cruiser Cairo on the briefed frequency continuously. Just then, he saw below him other white wakes in the water. The ships had dark grey topsides, but as they, too fired at him “slightly harder” — he told us in the bar at Gibraltar, afterwards — he wondered if they were the Italians after all. Meanwhile, he heard what may have been Cairo saying that she was under air attack. It was all very confusing.
While the Beaufighter leader was flogging about the Mediterranean, he realised that he was wasting his time, for there was no chance, in the poor visibility and the failing light that he would see any enemy aircraft. He would have needed the ADR from Cairo for any successful interceptions. So he and his seven other Beaufighters pushed off back to Malta. There, the RAF telephoned Flag Officer Malta and told him the news — that there was probably an Italian Fleet at sea as well as our own.
Next day, Cairo’s r/t was still useless, and with no ADR, the Spitfires and the Beaufighters from Malta could make no impression on the enemy aircraft. Because of this, three ships out of the four merchant ships in Operation ‘Harpoon’ were sunk, together with the destroyer Bedouin.
This time, the Naval public relations did not claim a victory as it had after the Battle of Sirte. ‘Harpoon’ was hardly mentioned in the Press. However, it was important because it was the first convoy with sufficient naval fighter aircraft in the carriers in company to effect a proper air defence. The Navy was no longer relying on AA gunfire. It was beginning to see the light. The ADR-controlled fighters were very effective in breaking up, disorganising and scaring off the enemy aircraft before they arrived over the Fleet, so that in 300 sorties they missed with their bombs and could make no determined and co-ordinated torpedo attacks. They had failed to score, apart from a lucky bomb hit on Liverpool and one merchantman.
‘Harpoon’ unloaded 20,000 tons of vital stores in Malta. ‘Pedestal’, the famous August convoy, five times the size, would manage 35,000 tons and at a cost of five times the number of ship casualties and five times the aircraft casualties. 801 Squadron was to lose two pilots and 807 Squadron one. We would claim eight enemy aircraft destroyed.
While this had been taking place, Admiral Harwood at Alexandria had put Admiral Vian in charge of the 15th Cruiser Squadron and another westbound convoy. Without the benefit of air cover from the North African airfields, they ran into continuous air attacks. Several of the merchant ships could not keep up and two were sunk. Eventually the whole Fleet turned back short of AA ammunition. This was at the order of Admiral Harwood who had listened to Vian’s troubles on the r/t, back in Alexandria. The cruiser Newcastle and the destroyer Hasty were torpedoed. Nestor was sunk and Centurion and Arethusa disabled by air attack on the second day. Hermioné was then torpedoed on the return journey. With no carrier and no fighter protection the results were predictable.
Meanwhile, back on the Rock, morale was high as we flew ashore with eight Hurricanes of 801 Squadron and two of 813F. A Swordfish of 813 taking off ahead of us from Eagle had kindly agreed to carry our quarter-ton trolley-accumulator which we used for starting our Hurricanes. He also had a couple of bicycles as well as a full crew, so there was not enough room for all the crew’s suitcases. He had therefore stowed these on the top surface of the lower wing — “the only remaining place”, he said. They had burst open when he applied lift, and their contents had had to be swept up by the ‘Duty Part’ before we could continue flying. However, all was not lost for he found on landing that he still had some pyjama trousers and a dressing gown wrapped round his tailplane. Ashore at North Front that night, we continued on the La Ina and Tio Pepe until the Senior Naval Officer appeared with his telescope at 0200 and told us to go to bed. He said we were waking up the soldiers inside the Rock.
While we had been away, Midshipman Williams had found yet another vocation at North Front. Every two days he was told to fly a terrified observer in a Fulmar to Casablanca and back. The observer was told to photograph the contents of the harbour. The French Dewoitine 520s objected and kept discharging their guns a few feet away — alongside the Fulmar. The observer was in a terrible state when he landed, not only because the redoubtable Williams wanted to mix it with the fiery French pilots, but also because he had dived on La Linea when he came back from Casablanca, drawing the Spaniards’ fire, just to show them who owned North Front.
During the remainder of June and July 1942, Eagle and Argus, plus a small escort, continued with the Club Runs. Eagle’s faithful four continued to supply stand-bys on deck, occasionally being scrambled for false alarms, completing each sortie without mishap and adding some 70 more Spitfires to Malta’s fighter squadrons; keeping pace, almost, with the Island’s frightening losses. In all, Eagle with Argus, and twice with Wasp, flew off 300 Spitfires to Malta in the first six months of 1942.
But this was not enough and by the first week in August we knew that once more, something special was in the wind. Our ground crew were recalled to the ship on the evening of 4 August. We, at North Front with 801 were then told to rendezvous with Eagle off Cape Trafalgar at 0530 next morning. Through the murk of the early morning we could see from our cockpits, not only Eagle, but the dim outlines of two or three more aircraft carriers, four cruisers and about 16 destroyers, heading out towards the west.
Soon, Eagle’s masthead light flashed out an ‘F’ and we closed on her in formation and landed on, one by one, without mishap. Bringing up the rear was Boris Morris. He was leading the first of six Swordfish for A/S duties.
Operation ‘Pedestal’ was under way.