The salvo arrived with a sound that was a mixture between a whirr and a rumble. Wailing like demons, the shells crashed like stones into the Mediterranean just ahead of Impi and, as the splinters flew, the mountains of water they threw up, yellow-tinted with high-explosive, broke and cascaded back into the sea, and they found they were wet through, blinded and coughing with the sharp smell of cordite.
‘Bracketed, by God!’
The Italians were well in sight now, their upper works clearly visible under the smoke they were making, and as they thundered towards him, Kelly tried to put himself in the mind of the Italian admiral. He had three options to interpose his ships between the convoy and Malta, to pull away to port so as to come on them from the east, or to split his force, sending one cruiser and half his destroyers to one side and the other cruiser with the rest of the destroyers to the other. Deciding he would simply try to prevent the convoy reaching Malta because, with night coming on, he wouldn’t wish his ships to be scattered, he made up his mind to employ exactly the same tactics he’d used at Narvik.
‘Make smoke!’
As Impi turned thirty degrees to follow a course across the bows of the Italian ships, Inca and Impatient turned with her. Smoke began to pour from the after funnels, nothing more than a wisp or two at first as the stoker petty officers in the engine rooms adjusted their valves, then the wisps came thicker and within seconds it was pouring out in thick cylindrical streams to sag to the surface of the sea and roll across it, pushed by the wind towards the Italians in front of the destroyers.
Latimer glanced up at it. ‘Boiler room crews are going to love us,’ he commented. ‘With the chimney-sweeping they’ll have to do when we make port.’
‘Range four-oh-nine! Range four-oh-eight!’
The range-taker’s voice came over the chatter, unemotional and matter of fact.
They were turning now, in a tight circle, one behind the other, back towards their own smoke. The Italian ships vanished astern as they continued to swing, turbines whining, the water crashing against the bows in the rush and rattle of spray-thrashed steel, and Kelly caught the smell of salt above the stink of oil from the smoke, and the sting of the wind on his cheek. The ship seemed like a living animal, the spray on the paintwork moving in little jerking runnels jarred along by the throb and quiver of the engines. Again, the thought of the danger came to him but he brushed it aside. Fear was a luxury and he was best keeping his mind on the job in hand. There was nothing else to think about. Everybody was at their action stations and the wardroom had been taken over by the surgeon who had stacked packets of bandages in handy corners about the ship.
He turned to the voice pipe. ‘Captain to Gunnery Officer. We shall be making our bow in just three minutes and we shall then turn to starboard. You’ll find the enemy about red four. Open fire as soon as you see them.’
He shifted on the stool and, glancing backwards, saw Inca on his port quarter, just a little out of position but clinging tightly to him, and behind her Smart in Impatient bringing up the rear.
The blood was tingling in his veins and, once again, as he always was, he was conscious of the excitement and wondered if he ought to feel more dispassionate, even concerned, and whether it was wrong to feel this tingling fervour at the prospect of a fight and the possibility of death.
The turbines were howling at full power as they plunged into the stinking darkness of the smoke, the smell of fuel oil making them cough.
Latimer was wiping his eyes. ‘Rotten bad for white drill, sir,’ he commented. ‘Big laundry bill after this is over.’
A shaft of sunshine broke through, then darkness again. Latimer looked at his watch.
‘One minute!’
The darkness seemed to thicken in a choking cotton-wool cloud about them, then they were out into the daylight once more. The two Italian cruisers seemed to be right on the bow, huge and grim in their pale Mediterranean paint that seemed dazzling against the darker grey of Impi, Inca and Impatient, which hadn’t yet shed their Home Fleet colours.
‘Range three-seven-one!’
The last of the light was catching the curve of the Italians’ hulls and the edges of their turrets, and he thanked God his own ships, in their dark paint, were against the murky background of the smoke. The two cruisers were changing course slightly, their shapes lengthening as they turned to bring their turrets to bear. The movement of the guns was quite clear.
‘Torpedoes, sir?’
‘No.’ Kelly shook his head. ‘Let’s keep ’em as a threat. Once they’re gone, they won’t need to be half so careful. We’ll move as if to launch them but use the guns instead.’
As they rushed towards the Italian ships, he saw them continuing their turn, nervously expecting the torpedoes, and the Italian destroyers, up to now far out on the flank, rushing to join their consorts.
‘Enemy turning away, sir.’
‘Starboard fifteen.’
As the line of destroyers swung, the deck heeled abruptly and Impi began to shudder with her speed. The bow wave rose higher as the revolutions mounted, and Kelly watched the forward 4.7s moving. As they hurtled forward in a long curve, the guns crashed out, the din dying away to the ruffle of sound made by the shells as they lifted through the air. Long before they had arrived at their destination, the next salvo was on its way. Glancing round, not forgetting the ships astern of him, Kelly saw Inca’s first salvo even as she came out of the smoke. There was a flash as her guns fired and a curling ring of smoke, and almost immediately Impatient emerged behind her. They were performing the evolution faultlessly.
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.
‘I’ll bet Cunningham’s doing his “caged tiger” act up and down the bridge,’ Kelly said.
His eyes felt red with tiredness and his face was raw from the wind. He hadn’t had a wink of sleep for forty-eight hours but he was curiously refreshed at the possibility of new action. Ever since 1914 he’d hated the Germans and all they stood for, and he had nothing but contempt for the Italians. It was a narrow-minded, bigoted attitude that had often made him enemies in the thirties when fashionable London had been cultivating the Nazi attachés, but it appeared to be a sensible, no-nonsense approach at that moment.
At dusk, Tenth Flotilla moved ahead of the battlefleet and Twenty-Third Flotilla dropped astern. One of Formidable’s aircraft had reported a hit on an Italian cruiser and they knew that the action was drawing nearer. With two ships damaged, it would be hard for the Italians to avoid it. The tension increased. Not since Graf Spee had been caught and destroyed in the first winter of the war had there been a major fleet action and every man was itching to be part of it.
They were well to the west of Crete now, with the nearest point of land Cape Matapan. The silence on board Impi was marked and as the minutes ticked by an uneasy feeling began to grow that somehow they’d missed the Italians who must be legging it for home at full speed. Then Pridham-Whipple reported unknown vessels ten miles ahead, and the tension became unbearable and, in Impi, the doctor abandoned his cipher work and began to set up a casualty station in the wardroom. The excitement grew and the gunnery officer’s joy at the possibility of being able to let off his guns again was intense.
As Kelly returned to the bridge after his evening meal, Second and Fourteenth Flotillas moved ahead and the tension became taut enough to pluck at as the two groups swung away, turning and twisting like snipe as they fell into single lines astern of their leaders. Just ahead, the vast bulks of the three great ships were silent in the darkness, without a single visible light, rearing out of the sea like hills, only the faint white foam and phosphorescent trail of their wake visible.
‘Intercepted message from Ajax, sir: “Three unknown ships bearing between one-nine-oh and two-five-two, distant five miles–’’’
They stared at the charts and Latimer jabbed a finger. ‘There,’ he said.
The weather had improved a lot and the night was calm with just a slight haze that reduced visibility, obliterated the stars and accentuated the blackness of the sky.
‘Intercepted signal from Orion. Unknown ship two-four-oh degrees, five miles, apparently stopped…’
‘Must be the battleship,’ Kelly said. ‘That’ll please Cunningham.’
‘Battle fleet altering course to port…’
‘Conform.’
The fleet had turned towards the west in single line ahead, Cunningham handling his ships like destroyers. The huge, darkened steel castles hush-hushed through the water, their silhouettes barely visible against the horizon with the long sweep of their foredecks, the banked ramparts of their guns and the hunched shoulders of their bridges. Radar reports were being picked up steadily.
‘C-in-C, to twenty-third Flotilla: “Take station to starboard.”’
‘Somebody’s spotted something.’
As they came up alongside the darkened heavies, the signals officer intercepted a signal from the destroyer, Stuart, ahead of them, that electrified them.
‘Darkened ships to starboard. Position–’
‘Must be different ships!’ Kelly said. ‘They’re in a totally different place.’
Almost at once, the battle fleet swung again in the opposite direction, turrets swinging round and Formidable began to haul out of the line of fire.
‘Darkened ships, green three-one!’ Latimer’s voice was cracked with excitement. ‘Two large ones, headed by a smaller one and followed by three smaller ones – no, four! There’s another barely visible trailing astern.’
Almost immediately, Kelly saw the black shapes moving across his front from starboard to port, about two miles away, apparently totally unaware of their presence. As his ships sped on in total darkness, with only the hiss and rattle of the sea and the humming of the turbines to break the silence, he was on edge with waiting for the signal from the flagship.
Glancing to port, he could still see the shapes of the battle fleet, and Formidable’s huge bulk dropping astern.
‘We seem to be the meat in the sandwich,’ he said. ‘I think we need to get out of this, or the Admiral will damn soon tell us to. Full speed, Pilot. Bring her round to starboard.’
Impi’s stern went down and her bows lifted as she leapt ahead, turning to starboard, followed round like circus horses by Inca and Indian. Latimer, his night glasses up, called out the identification.
‘Big ships are Zara class! Others are destroyers – big ones! They haven’t the faintest idea we’re here! Their guns are still fore and aft!’
It was an awesome moment. The battlefleet was moving into line ahead again and, in the dead silence, it seemed impossible that the Italians couldn’t hear the voice of the gunnery control personnel putting their weapons on target. The turrets steadied.
‘The Admiral’s got his wish,’ Kelly observed flatly. ‘You couldn’t be more point-blank than this.’
As he spoke, a searchlight broke out from one of the British destroyers ahead of the fleet. The beam fell directly on the third ship in the Italian line. With its light Mediterranean paint turned silver-purple, it looked like a ghost-ship, its shape reflected on the calm waters. Above, the heavens were full of stars. Just out of the light but picked up by the overspill was another huge ship, the curve of her stern silvered by the glow, and ahead, other ships, just beyond the beam, could be seen in silhouette.
‘Sitting ducks,’ Latimer said. ‘They’ve–’
What he was saying was lost as the silence was shattered. As Warspite and Valiant opened fire, great jagged tongues of flame leapt from the rifled barrels of their main armament. Because they were so close there was no pause between the crash of the guns and the arrival of the shells, and the salvos struck the third ship in line just below deck level in a brilliant splash of light, so that she burst into flame from just abaft the bridge to the after turret which was lifted clean over the side by a direct hit. Within seconds both Warspite and Valiant had started with their secondary armament and, on fire for her whole length, the Italian ship began to list to starboard.
‘Poor sods!’ The words came from Siggis on the twin Bofors, not because he was sorry for the Italians, but because he was a sailor and he was watching other sailors die.
The great guns of the British ships thundered again and again. The din was terrific and, as the huge orange flashes leapt out, the air seemed to expand and contract to the shock. Impi, Inca and Indian were still swinging to starboard out of the field of fire when searchlights began to blaze out from every ship in the fight. Warspite had now shifted her fire to the second ship in the Italian line and in a little over three minutes five fifteen-inch broadsides had hit her. The third ship was a sea of brilliant orange flame by this time and, turning slowly out of line, was already sinking. Barham, coming up astern to replace Formidable, was firing at the leading Italian destroyer, which came alive with brilliant orange flashes obscured by thick smoke. She also turned out of line, burning fiercely, and Barham joined Warspite and Valiant in destroying the second large ship. Completely crippled and burning fiercely, she was listing to port, her bows swinging slowly until she had turned sufficiently to present her starboard side, like a wounded bull facing the goading of the banderillas.
She was a holocaust of flame now, the red glow lighting the cloud of black smoke above her. They could hardly believe their eyes. In ten minutes the British fleet had utterly destroyed three Italian ships. Not a single shot had been fired back.
As they watched, the huge shapes of the British heavies lumbered round to starboard, as if the Italians had fired torpedoes, and Impi and her consorts found themselves once more across their course and dangerously close. Turning in a complete circle to pass astern, they saw the Italian destroyers in the glare of the flames making smoke as they scuttled north. But the last of them, trailing behind out of position, swung in the opposite direction as if her captain considered he hadn’t the time to follow his comrades. Unaware of the British destroyers hidden by the big ships, he steamed directly across their bows.
There was no need to issue orders and every gun crashed out in a single shout. The Italian destroyer was hit again and again, one moment crashing through the water, the next stopped dead, her bow dipping into the sea to send a wave over her fore-deck.
‘By God,’ Latimer said in astonishment. ‘First time! We ought to have a photograph to present to the gunnery instructors at Whale Island!’
Again the guns roared and a tremendous explosion followed. A vast gusher of black water lifted into the air alongside the Italian ship, then flames lit up the wreckage, the boats and the men struggling in the sea. As the Italian ship heeled over, her bow dipped beneath the water and within two minutes she was gone.
As they steamed over her grave, they could hear an uncanny noise in the darkness that came from drowning men, then they were passing through a flotsam of human beings and wreckage. To port, from the shattered big ship, which had been third in the Italian line, there was a terrific explosion and they saw a mushroom of black smoke coming from her vitals. Flames lit the water for miles, showing a desolation of debris and pathetic bunches of men clinging to rafts. The ship looked gigantic in the crimson glow as she slowly turned over to lie on her side so that they could see the whole shape of her deck. Men were scrambling about like ants among the carnage. One turret just wasn’t there, and the others were even now still pointing fore and aft.
The bridge area was enveloped in a mountainous conflagration with, above, a pillar of smoke, its underpart glowing red. Like some fabulous animal breathing fire, she turned tiredly over and sank.
There was one solitary cheer from aft somewhere then silence. Nobody on the bridge spoke. The death of a ship, of whatever nationality, was always awe-inspiring.
Latimer’s words came quietly.
‘He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named.’