Silence in the Desert, page 11
Bill heard John start the aircraft’s already warm Merlin. He knew a crew member would remove the pins, show them to the pilot, and take them to the Catapult Duty Officer.
The pilot applied thirty degrees of flap and set the rudder at one-third right.
Bill felt the ship’s Captain manoeuvre the vessel into the wind.
The routine was embedded in his mind. First Mate, acting as CDO, waves his blue flag indicating he’s ready to launch upon a signal from the pilot. The pilot opens full throttle, presses his head against the head-rest, lowering his left hand as a signal to launch.
The CDO would be waiting for the bow to rise from the trough of the light swell, hand on the switch to fire the catapult rockets.
Bill watched as the rockets blasted the Hurricane away from him along the ramp, saw it hurtle into space and start to climb. ‘Fighter Director to Hurricane, are you receiving me?’ he said into the microphone. No answer. He repeated the call, and this time the response crackled back from the receiver on the bridge.
‘Hurricane to Fighter Director, receiving you loud and clear.’
‘Turn to starboard eighteen degrees. Maintain rate of climb. You should see bandit in one minute. Bill was thinking what John was probably thinking. Hoping the enemy didn’t see the flash from the rockets firing.
‘I have sight of him,’ replied John, shortly afterwards. Will climb up behind and into sun.’
Bill knew he was hoping to attack the raider from above and with the sun behind him.
‘It’s a single Ju 88, reconnaissance flight. I’ll get him before he radios the convoy’s position.’
‘Okay. Will stand by. Good luck. Out.’ Bill knew it all rested on John, now. Two challenges faced him. To overpower the German aircraft which had a top speed slightly less than John’s old Hurricane, and then to bail out safely and be recovered by one of the convoy escort vessels. Out on deck it was just possible to see the Ju 88. Crew on many of the convoy vessels would be staring up there, willing John on.
Several minutes later, suddenly the muffled but unmistakable clatter of heavy machine gun fire, a long way up. Both planes were losing altitude. Even if John hadn’t surprised his opponent all the way, he had the edge over him in terms of speed and in positioning if he’d been able to climb above and into sun. On the other hand, the Ju 88 with a crew of four would have at least one gunner engaging him, as John swooped in from behind.
More gunfire. The two planes were now clearly visible as their vapour trails looped through the clear Mediterranean sky. Suddenly, dark smoke competed with the white vapour. Bill felt a halt in the combined breathing of hundreds of watching sailors. Whose smoke was it? The Ju 88 was twin-engined, so only one would be emitting smoke and it might not be fatal. It could creep back to Sicily, if left alone. The Hurricane had nowhere to go except downwards if it lost power on its only engine. And no spare crew to fight a fire on-board.
The two planes broke away from one another. It was clear that the smoke was coming from the twin-engined plane. Was that the murmur of a cheer, Bill thought he heard? Then, silence, just the noise of ships’ engines and the wash against the hulls as he looked upwards. John wasn’t finished yet. The Hurricane banked round a full three hundred degrees and returned to business, its machine guns distinct enough now for everyone to hear unless they were wearing blast and ear protection.
Suddenly a flash, distinct in spite of the bright sunshine. The raider just blew up and disintegrated. No parachutes.
That was real, prolonged cheering, Bill heard. So now, it’s challenge number two, he thought. Would John bail out straight away? It was rumoured to be an old Battle of Britain Hurricane. No, he seemed to be bringing down the aircraft. After a minute or so, he was already low, heading towards the Ark Royal at the rear of the convoy. The Hurricane came in from behind at about one thousand feet and, as it passed over the carrier towards the CAM ship on the port bank of the convoy, there was the victory roll. Another rumble of cheering.
He realized John was preparing to ditch the aircraft. Bill remembered what he’d said the day before, better to save the plane if he could. Malta could do with another Hurricane, if it could be winched onto a convoy vessel before sinking.
He watched, fascinated, making a quick prayer to the Almighty. John banked away again and then throttled right back, flaps down, as he came back in, wheels still up of course. The engine air scoop under the fuselage was the problem. Easy to end up with the plane’s nose in the water and the tail in the air. In he came, lower and lower. Contact, the plane bouncing in a cloud of spray. Down again, just a slight bounce this time. Then the water was pulling it to a sudden stop. The superbly sturdy construction of the Hurricane holding it together. The nose went down, up came the tail.
A launch, already lowered by the cruiser nearby, was already on its way. Bill saw John pulling at the perspex canopy above his head. It only opened a foot or so, then jammed. The pilot pulled furiously at it. The cruiser was almost alongside. The crane used for seaplanes swung out amidships. There were two naval divers in the water, trying to work a steel hawser down and underneath the airframe. If they couldn’t get him out, they’d have to hold the fuselage above the surface.
Bill held onto the guy-wire of a Hurricane fighter on the flight deck, feeling the early morning sun, the salt and strong wind on his face. A familiar figure appeared from down below, where other aircraft were parked on the two hangar decks. He waved over the Fleet Air Arm officer.
‘Fantastic sight isn’t it, John?’ Bill shouted. ‘Bet you weren’t expecting to end your mission on the Ark Royal.’ The destroyer screen was creaming through the choppy water on either side of the carrier, spray up over the bows of the escort vessels, their sonars listening for that fatal echo. Ahead of the Ark was Argus with more Hurricanes. Soon it would be the turn of radar, as the two carriers approached the range of enemy fighter bombers based on Sicily.
‘It was my lucky day,’ said John. ‘Glad those cruiser boys were on the ball. Crane, divers, what more could a ditched pilot stuck in his cockpit expect.’
‘Well, you did provide them with their best entertainment for some time,’ laughed Bill. ‘I think you can be pretty sure the Navy will look after you from now on.’ He knew the memory of the tragedy on the cricket fields would still be fresh in John’s mind. But the former flying instructor would be accepted back into the mainstream from now on.
‘The enemy keeps claiming they’ve sunk the Ark Royal,’ John shouted. ‘Yet here she is, ploughing through the Med at twenty knots, carrying Hurricanes to relieve Malta.’
‘I know. The crew says the Ark’s a lucky ship. What a way for us two to return to Gibraltar. The CAM ship will hopefully make it back later if it survives the rest of the trip, and back. It’s got to be hellish risky, this convoy,’ said Bill. ‘Not sure why they’ve codenamed it “Perpetual”. I don’t mean it’s just risky for the chaps who are going to fly their Hurricanes off the carriers with barely enough fuel to reach the island.’ They both knew that some months previously, twelve Hurricanes flew off the carrier Argus, heading for Malta. That eight of them ran out of fuel and ditched in the sea, only one pilot saved. ‘It’s also a calculated gamble to deploy the Ark to transport them.’
‘Yes,’ said John. ‘I’ve heard the story of enemy submarines transferred from the Atlantic to the western Med. Every U-boat commander must be out to sink the Ark Royal. But Malta’s starved of everything, and they’re being blown to pieces. They must have the fighters and pilots to stop those bombers.’ Anyway, how do you feel about your latest posting?’
‘Mixed feelings. I hate leaving friends, and that means leaving Hurricanes as well. But I have this opportunity. Been selected for a new aircraft. Won’t be in service for some time, but it will outfly anything Jerry can put up.’
‘Lucky man. I’ve heard rumours about the plane.’
There was a pause as they both looked around them. Bill then said, with a certain finality, ‘Latest Met’s okay. Tomorrow morning it is, for the Hurricanes to fly off. Yours will take a bit longer to get to Malta. But they’ll be pleased to have it.’
Bill felt the flight deck heave to port, as the carrier pulled out from the line of the main force. The Ark was positioning herself for launching aircraft. Destroyers moved with her, Legion and Gurkha maintaining their station, critical for the screen. A roar of engine noise and whack of the catapult as the first Hurricane surged forward to launch, the others lined up awaiting their turn.
All away, climbing to join the two Blenheims sent from Malta to lead them to the island. Now it was back to training. No let up. The flight deck already pointing west after launching the aircraft into wind. Ahead, Admiral Somerville’s flagship Malaya, the other carrier Argus, the destroyer screen around them. A short rising sea, that’s why speed was down to sixteen knots. More than that and the destroyers would be in trouble. The whack of the catapult, there went a Swordfish to maintain the anti-submarine patrol. It was all action. Deck landing training ordered by Maund, the Ark’s Captain, and Admiral Somerville, hard taskmasters.
Suddenly, a massive explosion. The few aircraft remaining on the flight deck bounced as the Ark seemed to whiplash. Surely it couldn’t be a torpedo? No warning. What else could it be? Why were the destroyers swinging away. Must be to search for the submarine. The Ark began to list, and to slow down. Other destroyers now circling them.
Not far to Gib, thought Bill. Some crew taken off by the destroyers. He and John ordered to go with them. Fighter pilots were the least they needed in the struggle to save the Ark. Now on-board Hermione, he could see the carrier was under tow, even making some way under her own engines. More ships around, must have come from Gib to increase protection. The crump of depth charges to put off new attacks. Everyone expected they would get her there.
Two in the morning. A turn for the worse. The Ark was losing steam. Fire in the boiler room, someone said. That meant the generators would fail, with loss of electric power. Admiral Somerville in a motor launch alongside. Captain Maund taken off. The list was now thirty-five degrees to starboard. Towlines being dropped.
Six in the morning. The list was even worse. Swordfish aircraft began to slide across the deck. All ships standing back.
She was on her side now, lying there. She’d held on long enough for her entire complement to be taken off. Then, very slowly, she turned over. So tired, she had to find rest, her duty done.
The Rock loomed on the horizon. Hermione seemed to put on extra steam at the sight. All on-board were silent, the crew doing their work seemingly automatically, those rescued from the Ark deep in their thoughts. Without the Ark Royal, part of their lives was gone. In Bill, there was something nagging him, something he couldn’t reconcile in his inquisitive mind. Like the loss of Glorious and her Hurricanes after Norway, how did the enemy know where they were?
13
Libyan Desert, May 1942
Henri was surprised and shocked when the note from Noelle arrived out of the blue. Three months in the desert without leave was plenty of time to think about her. He couldn’t pretend the news was unexpected. After all, the letters between them were spasmodic. Yet he’d been kidding himself she would still be there when he returned to Cairo, whenever that would be. Now he knew Noelle Mercure was gone, on the way to India. The last letter was loving and sensitive. There would always be something special between them. But she was moving on, the next leg in the tour she did tell him about when they were lying back on the cushions in the boat on the Nile. He could always reach her via one of the overseas offices of UPI or the Herald Tribune, she wrote.
He wrenched himself back to the present. The wind and the dust with it blew as though from a blast furnace. God, it’s hot, thought Henri. What a contrast from the snow and ice of Norway two years ago. A lot had happened since then, ending with his stint at GHQ in Cairo and the undercover work for British counterespionage. That ended when Robertson told him 13 DBLE needed him for their deployment at Bir Hakeim.
Abruptly, he focused back on the task before him, the briefing he was to give. He must put up a good show. The Humber 4 × 4 staff car which the British sent for him, stopped at the entrance to the wired off camp. The British sentry saluted and waved him through to the circle of tents and dugouts that formed the British 150th Infantry Brigade’s headquarters, in the ‘box’ it occupied south of Gazala.
Entering the largest tent, Henri heard the authoritative voice of Brigadier Clive Haydon, CO of the Brigade.
‘Lieutenant, come in and join us.’ To his officers around him, he said, ‘Gentlemen, may I present Legionnaire Lieutenant Henri de Rochefort of the 1st Free French Division.’ Then turning to Henri, ‘we can only offer you 8th Army tea and bread and jam, nothing stronger than that, I’m afraid.’
Henri saluted. ‘I’m honoured to be with you, sir.’ He was conscious of his junior rank, maybe the British were expecting at least a Captain to present himself for such a briefing, but the advantage of a fluent English speaker was overriding. He took in the battalion commanders and others officers present, knowing that the infantry regiments represented were from the north-east of England. He risked a light-hearted response, ‘We French are said to have delicate tastes, but your ability to produce fresh baked bread in the desert is legendary. They say Rommel’s men will risk all to capture one of your field bakeries.’
Brigadier Haydon smiled, as an aide produced a canvas chair for Henri. ‘Make yourself comfortable. Your General Koenig said he would send a liaison officer to enlighten us on what the Free French can do to hold up Rommel if he decides to outflank us at the southern end of this Gazala line. Our Brigade here forms the next defensive box to the north of yours at Bir Hakeim. Start with the make-up and disposition of your force, and your supply position.’
Henri was well prepared. ‘As you say, sir, we are the last and most southern box in 8th Army’s Gazala line, 15 miles south of you. Bir Hakeim is the site of a derelict Turkish fort. We’ve worked hard for three months to build up the defences, there being no help from the natural layout of the place. The largest component of our force is two French Foreign Legion battalions, experienced troops including former Spanish Republican fighters who are committed anti-fascists.’
‘I can imagine,’ growled the Brigadier.
‘The legionnaires are commanded by French officers, and 13 DBLE as this unit is called, has already seen action in Norway, French Africa and Syria. Then there are two battalions of colonial infantry plus the Marine Fusiliers, a regiment of artillery, and a transport company. The support units are from French Equatorial Africa. They are not what I understand Mr Churchill once referred to as “bouches inutiles”, useless mouths. They’ll fight if called upon.’
There was some laughter from those in the audience.
‘Total strength is 3,700 men and…’ he paused and looked at the top of the large tent, ‘three women. We are well trained and looking for the chance to prove we’re up to the best that Rommel can throw at us. Also there’s a British Naval Commander, said to be over seventy years old.’
‘Who on earth’s that?’ exclaimed the Brigadier.
‘Admiral Sir Walter Cowan Bt, RN retired was his full title, I believe, but in order to join up again, he apparently took the lower rank of Commander.’ There was a stir among those present. Brigadier Haydon thought for a moment.
‘Of course, Tich Cowan, commanded a battle cruiser at Jutland, and in 1919 he kept the Baltic open to the new Baltic states, particularly Estonia, and was awarded a baronetcy. I once heard him talk at my club. He retired from the Royal Navy years ago. It’s unbelievable that he’s out here. What about artillery and anti-tank?’
‘We have 54 of the soixante-quinze, the 75s, and a few of the new British 6-pounder anti-tank guns, 18 Bofors anti-aircraft guns manned by the Fusiliers Marins battalion but without operating instructions, ample shells and other ammunition, and food for 10 days.’ Henri felt a steady stare and intensity of interest from the assembled company.
Clive Haydon sat back, looking hard at the young French Lieutenant. ‘When you try to hold this position and are encircled by German and Italian armour, sooner or later you’ll have to give yourselves up since we’re unlikely to be able to help.’
Henri looked around at them all. ‘You know, we French have nothing more to lose but everything to prove, and we recognize that the tactical positioning of our force can present a major obstacle for Rommel, to which he’ll commit strong forces to annihilate. Provided we receive water and whatever supplies you can send in, plus the RAF, we can hold up the Axis forces for at least a week. That should give 8th Army valuable time to re-position its formations according to how the battle develops.’
Haydon seemed to relax somewhat. Henri wondered whether he’d convinced him. The Brigadier commented. ‘Let me give you some background on why the ability of the French to hold out at Bir Hakeim is so important to the whole front. General Ritchie is concentrating 8th Army strength in the path of the expected push by Axis forces towards Gazala, and of course Tobruk. With the Mediterranean seaboard on our right flank, we have a good chance of holding him while we prepare new defences on the Egyptian border. However, our left flank is at risk from one of Rommel’s encircling manoeuvres. This is why the make-up of your force, and your supply position, is of paramount importance to us. We’ll rely on you holding out.’
The Brigadier didn’t show his anxiety, just paused for their precarious situation to soak in. ‘Now, Lieutenant de Rochefort, do you have any specific requests, other than instructions for your Bofors, which we will supply?’
