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  As they climbed into their aircraft standing high on the cliffs along the south coast, Britain's radar sets were already picking up circling "blips" of Galland's fighters over three big ships coming along the Channel. When the first reports came to Dover Castle and Wing-Cdr. Bobby Constable-Roberts, air-liaison officer, reported to Vice-Admiral Bertram Ramsay that these "blips" must mean the Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Prinz Eugen, both he and the Admiral realized that the only aircraft immediately available to attack them were the six old biplanes at Manston preparing for a night attack. But how could they send these slow-moving planes in daylight against the ferocious flak and heavy fighter escorts of the German battleships? It was certain death.

  Admiral Ramsay thoughtfully picked up the telephone and asked for the First Sea Lord, Sir Dudley Pound, in Whitehall. He pleaded with him not to be asked to send these eighteen flyers on such a suicidal mission. Sir Dudley replied, "The Navy will attack the enemy whenever and wherever he is to be found."

  Ramsay put down the phone and nodded to Constable-Roberts. He telephoned Wing-Cdr. Tom Gleave at Manston to say, "The Scharnhorst and Gneisenau are out and approaching the Straits of Dover. Tell Esmonde."

  Esmonde was on the airfield supervising training practice when a battered Morris Minor came tearing down the runway with a messenger shouting, "You are wanted on the phone urgently, sir." He picked up the phone in the briefing hut to hear Tom Gleave say, "The Scharnhorst and Gneisenau are approaching the Straits." When Esmonde put down the receiver, he ordered Rose to stop practice at once and the rest of the air-crews were warned.

  The message came as a complete surprise to the Swordfish crews, who had been "stood down" until dusk. Most of the air-gunners were drinking coffee and reading in the Petty Officers' Mess. Twenty-year-old pilot Charles Kingsmill was having his hair cut when the order came to go to the briefing hut as fast as possible. When the crews arrived there, they found Esmonde on the telephone listening to the latest reports from the radar stations as the German battleships raced towards the Straits.

  Wing-Cdr. Tom Gleave came swerving up to the hut in an Old Ford V.8. He said that there was still no confirmation from the Admiralty, who remained convinced that the battleships would not dare to attempt to force the Dover Straits in broad daylight. Was the Admiralty right? Or was Constable-Roberts?

  Gleave and Esmonde sat beside the telephone waiting for it to ring again.' Neither spoke. They both knew that if Constable-Roberts weis right the Swordfish crews had little chance of survival.

  There were seven pilots for only six Swordfish. In the briefing room, the two most junior pilots tossed for the right to fly on the "Fuller" mission. Sub-Lt. Peter Bligh called "Tails" and won. Sub-Lt. Bennett lost and was to remain on the ground. He owed his life to that tossed coin.

  At 11:40 the phone rang. It was Constable-Roberts again. "It's our friends all right," he said. "Beamish has identified them off Boulogne."

  Esmonde put down the telephone and turned to his aircrews. "The balloon's gone up," he said in a clipped, unemotional voice. "Get ready!"

  The RAF was alerted at the same time. The fighter aircrews were much quicker off the mark than the ground staff. They were anxious to get into the air, but they were delayed by staff muddles.

  Flt.-Lt. Cowan Douglas-Stephenson—"Stevie" — was on duty in the concrete watch office at Biggin Hill — the most vital fighter station in Southern England. American-born "Stevie," who was married to Jeanne de Casalis, the "Mrs. Feather" of the BBC wartime radio show, remembers the day well. He said "Between 11:30 and 12:30 a.m. pilots of three squadrons of Spitfires arrived. Some of them were Czechs, Belgians and Poles. It was just like bedlam.

  "No one knew anything except there was a 'flap on.' " All they had was the call sign written in pencil on the back of the pilots' hands where it could easily be rubbed off. Everyone wanted to know what to do.

  "I knew that the battle plan for Operation Fuller was in the locked safe. But the Intelligence Officer had gone away on twenty-four hours leave leaving the secret orders locked up. No one could find the key."

  The pilots milled around in the Watch Office until 11 Group got through to the Biggin Hill Controller, Bill Igoe, and gave him the order for the squadrons to take off for Manston and escort the Swordfish.

  While this "flap" was going on at Biggin Hill, Esmonde sat by the phone awaiting further orders. Occasionally he stood up to gaze across the frozen fields as though trying to imprint them upon his mind for ever. When the phone rang again, it was Number 11 Fighter Group saying, "We intend putting in the Biggin Hill wing of three squadrons as top cover. The Homchurch wing of two squadrons will act as close escort to beat up the flak ships for you." The voice continued, "Both wings have been told to rendezvous over Manston. What time should they be there?

  Esmonde glanced at his watch, "Tell them to be here by twelve-twenty-five," he said. "Get the fighters to us on time — for the love of God!"

  Then Constable-Roberts rang again. At Dover Castle both RAF and Navy felt that even with a heavy fighter escort, few Swordfish crews would return from this mission. No one wanted to give him a direct order to lead his men to their deaths. "The Admiral wants to know how you feel about going in," said Constable-Roberts. "He wants it to be your decision."

  What could Esmonde, a regulär officer, say? Although the Dover message was well meant it was worse than receiving a direct order. He made the only possible reply, "The squadron will go in," he said stiffly. "Where is Jerry? What's his speed?"

  "Hold on," replied Constable-Roberts, "they are about ten miles north-east of the Straits sailing at twenty-one knots. If you are satisfied with the fighter escort the Admiral says it is O.K. to go." Then, a pilot himself, he added in a gruff voice, "Best of luck, old boy."

  Esmonde and Gleave compared the reports of the ships' course and speed with their maps. The German ships were travelling so fast that Esmonde had had to make an immediate decision. With a top speed of only 90 m.p.h., his Sword-fish would lose the ships if they did not take off at once.

  He turned to his aircrews and said briskly, "We will attack in sub-flights in line astern, height fifty feet. Intention: to hit and slow down any of the big ships. We will have plenty of fighter cover so you won't have to worry too much about enemy fighters. Once over the escorting screens of destroyers and E-boats, attack independently. Pick your target to your most convenient dropping point. But make sure it is Scharnhorst, Gneisenau or Prinz Eugen."

  The crews doubled off to their Swordfish parked near the Margate Road. Esmonde, a small figure in dark blue naval uniform, wearing an orange-coloured "Mae West" and swinging a flying helmet by its strap, was about to run after them when the telephone rang again. It was No. 11 Group reporting that some of the fighter escort might be a few minutes late.

  Esmonde replied, "We are taking off at twelve-twenty-five. I'll orbit out to the coast for two minutes."

  Gleave, whose voice trembled as he wished him luck, said afterwards, "Although his mouth twitched automatically into the semblance of a grin and his arm lifted in a vague salute, he barely recognized me. He knew what he was going into. But it was his duty. His face was tense and white. It was the face of a man already dead. It shocked me as nothing has ever done since."

  Neither Esmonde nor any of his officers said anything. But battle-veteran Ginger Johnson exclaimed as he climbed into his rear cockpit, "What flaming hell chance have we got?" No one answered him.

  Esmonde's observer, Lt. W. H. Williams, and his gunner, Leading Airman W J. Clinton, also climbed into their cockpits. Esmonde was just about to follow them into the plane when a runner arrived with another message from the control room, "Dover says the enemy's speed now estimated at twenty-seven knots."

  This was vital information. If the battleships were sailing at a higher speed than the first estimate the Swordfish must take off without delay.

  It was 12:25 p.m. when Esmonde waved his arm to tell the planes behind him to take off. As the six biplanes lumbered into
the air, Gleave stood alone in the middle of the snow-covered field at rigid salute.

  At 1,500 feet off the Kent coast the aircraft circled over the sea waiting for their fighter escorts. Behind Esmonde's plane was Brian Rose with Lee and Johnson. Behind him and slightly above was Charles Kingsmill with Sub-Lt. "Mac" Samples as his observer and Leading Airman Donald Bunce his gunner.

  Then came the second flight led by Lt. Thompson with Sub-Lt. Parkinson as observer and Leading Airman Topping at the guns. Behind them were Sub-Lt. Wood and Sub-Lt. Fuller-Wright and Leading Airman Wheeler. Sub-Lt. Peter Bligh and Sub-Lt. Bill Beynon with Leading Airman Smith were the last in the formation.

  Eighteen young men in six slow, old aircraft, only capable of flying at ninety knots because of the weight of their torpedoes, were on their way to attack two battleships, a heavy cruiser, six large destroyers, thirty-four E-boats and a group of flak ships — apart from the massed might of the Luftwaffe.

  At 12:29 p.m. — four minutes after the arranged rendezvous time — the Swordfish were still orbiting over the coast near Ramsgate. The weather was thickening up and there was not a fighter in the sky.

  What had happened to the five Spitfire squadrons? Four of them did not arrive. Only ten fighters of 72 Squadron commanded by Squadron Leader Brian Kingcombe, a former Cranwell cadet, found the Swordfish.

  As it was considered too cloudy for flying from Gravesend — a satellite airfield of Biggin Hill, where they were stationed—72 Squadron had been "stood down" after breakfast. At 9 a.m., they were suddenly called by Igoe from thirty minutes "availability" to two minutes "readiness' which meant sitting in their cockpits. Three times the "scramble" was called off and they went back to the operations hut — only to be sent back immediately. These contradictory orders made them realize there was a "flap" on but no one gave them any information.

  Then came the final order, "Scramble! Get to Manston to excort six Swordfish and intervene in a battle between German E-boats and British MTBs." When Kingcombe, sitting in his cockpit, received the message he thought it odd to be asked to interfere in "a small naval scuffle." He was told nothing about the German battleships. The traditional security screen was still functioning. He remained puzzled when he heard similar orders going out to four other squadrons. Why was he being told to go as fast as possible to Manston to escort six Swordfish which were orbiting the airfield? It must be a big show.

  Kingcombe and his pilots, by their own account, went "balls out right through the gate," taking only ten minutes to reach Manston. When Esmonde saw Kingcombe's Spitfires come streaking out of the clouds towards him it was 12:32 p.m.

  The Swordfish and Spitfires circled for two more minutes but no more fighters arrived. Esmonde knew it was now or never. He waved his hand and dived down to fifty feet to lead his Squadron out to sea. Kingcombe, who still had no idea what the operation was about, led his Spitfires ahead at about 2,000 feet to protect them. The German ships were twenty-three miles away — fifteen minutes flying time in a Swordfish.

  Aboard the Scharnhorst, Vice-Admiral Ciliax stood on the bridge eating German sausage and'drinking coffee. He turned with relief and astonishment to Scharnhorst's commander, Captain Hoffmann. Except for a few shells, which had landed a thousand yards away, and an attack by a handful of MTB boats which had been driven off by the E-boat and destroyer screens, they had sailed unchallenged through the Straits of Dover.

  Where was the RAF? Where was the Royal Navy? Were they all asleep?

  As he speculated about this, six ME 109s saw the wave-hopping Swordfish ten miles east of Ramgate, in heavy rain and visibility down to four miles. As they swooped, Kingcombe's Spitfires, guns rattling, drove them off but a few machine-gun bullets and cannon shells ripped through the fabric of the Swordfish.

  Kingcombe recalls, "While making for a Messerschmitt I suddenly saw a beautiful bloody battleship and I thought to myself 'I never knew the Navy had such a lovely boat.' I was sure she was one of ours because she was heading straight for Dover. Anyway, no one had told me anything about German battleships being in the Straits.

  "Not realizing she was only heading for the English coast because she was making a long zigzag in evasive action, I went down to 600 feet to give her a signal. When everything opened up on me I was still not worried for I knew the Royal Navy fired at anything which appeared too near their ships. When I swung off, followed by the rest of the squadron, the air was suddenly full of German aeroplanes, mostly cannon-firing FW 190s. They were nasty customers, who had only come into service at the end of 1941, and were a little faster than the 109 Messerschmitts. As I tried to beat the German fighters off the Swordfish, which were still lumbering along, I realized the 'beautiful ship' was the Prinz Eugen."

  Now the British planes were approaching the main Luftwaffe fighter screen. They flew through layers of cloud like wedding cake, with German fighters patrolling at all levels. As soon as the Spitfires broke up one attack wave, another flight of Messerschmitts dived in between the two Swordfish flights. Twenty ME 109s circled for a mass dive to port but three of Kingcombe's Spitfires attacked and scattered them. Suddenly the ten Spitfires were lost in a whirling air battle with the German fighters.

  As Kingcombe's courageous and experienced Spitfires began fighting furiously with the Luftwaffe, the Swordfish pilots sighted the German battle-fleet. It was a daunting sight. From just above wave level to 2,000 feet the whole sky swarmed with Luftwaffe fighters — the biggest number ever to cover a force at sea. Several Swordfish swerved wildly as some of the inexperienced pilots mastered a momentary impulse to flee.

  Aboard the Prinz Eugen, the anti-aircraft gunnery officer, Commander Paul Schmalenbach, suddenly heard one of his look-outs shout, "Enemy planes at sea level!" Just above the waves he saw six grey biplanes, split into two waves of three, approaching slowly, like clumsy birds. Schmalenbach reported them to Scharnhorst and Gneisenau ahead.

  The Germans realized with a cold chill that here was their greatest danger of all — a suicide attack. When they were 2,000 yards away, every flak gun in the German fleet from the 4-inch guns to the multiple-barrelled guns manned by German marines, burst into flickering flame. With gold-trailing tracer shells and white stars of bursting flak around them, the Swordfish came on unswervingly.

  Esmonde led his squadron over the destroyers while his gunner Clinton fired his machine-gun at the diving Luftwaffe planes. Tracers from destroyers and E-boats smacked into his cockpit. As more FW 190s dived on to the Swordfish, cannon shells smashed big holes in their canvas fuselage. It was miraculous they were still flying.

  Tracer set fire to Esmonde's tail plane, and rear-gunner Clinton climbed out of his cockpit and sat astride the fuselage beating out the flames with his hands. When he clambered back, they were over the outer screen and the German battleships' main 11-inch guns came into action. Belching smoke and flame, they laid down a barrage which sent spray crashing into the low-flying, now limping aircraft. One shell burst in front of Esmonde and shot away his lower wing.

  His Swordfish shuddered and dipped but still flew. With blood pouring from wounds in his head and back, Esmonde hung on to the controls holding his course steady for Prinz Eugen. Behind him lay Williams and Clinton. Both were dead.

  In a last desperate effort, he pulled the Swordfish's nose up into the wind for the last time and released his torpedo. Then there was a red flash as a direct hit from Schmalenbach's guns blew his plane to pieces. As Esmonde's Swordfish crashed into the sea, German look-outs reported the track of his approaching torpedo. Captain Brinkmann ordered, "Port Fifteen." As Esmonde died, Prinz Eugen dodged his torpedo easily.

  Admiral Ciliax's attitude mirrored the heroic futility of the attacks and the lack of any real sense of danger aboard the battleships. On the bridge of Scharnhorst, watching the Swordfish lumbering towards her, he remarked to Captain Hoffmann, "The English are now throwing their mothball navy at us. Those Swordfish are doing well to get their torpedoes away."

  While all three ships s
teamed full ahead, firing with everything they had, the torpedo planes continued coming towards them dead straight, just skimming the waves. The Swordfish immediately behind Esmonde was piloted by Brian Rose. As Rose followed Esmonde into the attack, his observer, 20-year-old Edgar Lee, saw Esmonde crash into the sea. Then Lee saw the ships standing out clearly under the clouds, and tried to give directions through the speaking tube shouting, "Now, Brian, now!" He did not know it had been smashed by gunfire. Rose, wounded in the back by cannon-shell splinters which shattered his cockpit, managed to hold on to the controls. Lee was too busy shouting directions to notice that Rose had dropped their torpedo. At the same time the main petrol tank was hit. Luckily it did not catch fire, but the engine began to splutter. Rose switched over to the 12-gallon emergency gravity tank, which meant they had about 10 to 12 minutes flying time left.

  Rose, losing height, tried to pass under the stern of the Gneisenau but flew right over Prinz Eugen, nearly colliding with her mast. As they swerved away from her barrage, Lee looked round and saw gunner Ginger Johnson sprawled over his gun. He was dead. Then he saw blood running down Rose's side and realized he was also hit.

  Yet Rose managed to bring the plane down on the ice-cold waves half a mile from the Prinz Eugen. Lee dragged out the yellow rubber dinghy and pulled Rose in. As he did so, the battered Swordfish sank, taking Johnson's body with it.

  The third Swordfish in the first wave was piloted by Charles Kingsmill. Their first view of the Germans was when his gunner, Donald Bunce, saw a German destroyer tearing through the water. At the same time the Swordfish was attacked by German fighters and their cannon shells ripped through the fabric. Bunce fired his Vickers at them and then stood up to see if there were any more coming. When he went to sit down again his seat had gone. There was a big hole underneath and three-quarters of the fuselage was already a series of gaping tears and holes.