Breakout Page 15

  In the centre of the flotilla was HMS Worcester inevitably known in the fleet as the "Saucebottle." On her bridge were Lt.-Cdr. Colin Coats, a 39-year-old grey-haired regular R.N. officer, who had spent most of his time in destroyers, and his first lieutenant, curly-bearded Richard Taudevin, who had an RNVR wartime commission. With them on the bridge was the Australian ship's doctor Lt. David Jackson. As he watched the silvery shape of the destroyers being swallowed up into the mist, the doctor shivered slightly, for he was cold even in his thick jersey and monkey jacket. He was glad they were due back in harbour by tea-time.

  The practice shoot was to be with their 4.7 guns at a towed canvas target. After the first series of shoots off Orfordness, it was Worcester's turn to tow the high-speed target for the other destroyers.

  It was nearing the end of the forenoon watch when the yeoman of signals aboard Campbell handed Captain Pizey a signal from the C-in-C Nore, Vice-Admiral Sir George Lyon, which read: "Enemy cruisers passing Boulogne. Speed about twenty knots. Proceed in execution of previous orders." Signals began flashing from the flagship Campbell, ordering the destroyers to abandon the target shoot, alter course, and join him at full-speed.

  It was 11:58 a.m., and off-duty officers were sitting in Worcester's wardroom when an officer came clattering down the companion-way and shouted excitedly, "Have you heard the news? They're out and we are going after them."

  "Who's out?" inquired someone uninterestedly from behind a magazine.

  "The Scharnhorst and Gneisenau—they are coming up the Channel."

  The signal lamps and short-range radio were still flashing messages from destroyer to destroyer. Pizey signalled the Hunt Class destroyers: "Must leave you behind." This was because they could only keep up a maximum speed of twenty-five knots against twenty-eight to thirty knots for Pizey's flotilla. In an ordinary operation, he would have kept down to twenty-five knots, but this was too slow if he were to be in time to intercept the enemy. HMS Quorn, flotilla leader of the Hunt Class A.A. destroyers, flashed a farewell message as she turned to obey orders and lead her destroyers home to Harwich.

  Aboard Campbell, Fanning plotted the German positions as given by the Admiralty, and Pizey realized the interception could take place at the Hinder Buoy as planned. This meant skirting the British minefields and sailing through the narrow swept Channel in single line.

  On arrival at North Hinder Buoy the four destroyers of 21 flotilla were to station themselves on the starboard bow while 16 flotilla under Captain Wright stationed themselves to port.

  Upon the signal "attack" they would simultaneously launch their torpedoes. Although this plan was drawn up specifically for a night action, Pizey felt he had no alternative but to adhere to it.

  Chief Engineer Hugh Griffiths of Worcester was writing letters in his cabin when he felt the ship shudder as the engines began to rise towards full speed. When Bill Wellman the torpedo-gunner dashed into his cabin and said, "We're off after the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau!" Griffiths did not believe him. He had been sleeping in his boots for over a week at five minutes readiness and he replied, "Don't be silly, Bill. It's just another bloody false alarm. We'll be home for tea."

  As he said this, a messenger arrived asking Griffiths to see the Captain on the bridge. Climbing on deck, he could see Campbell and Vivacious ahead beginning to breast the waves as their speed rapidly increased. Steaming beside Worcester was Mackay, while in her wake were Walpole and Whitshed. All the old destroyers shuddered and thumped as they slowly crept up towards their maximum speed of thirty knots. They looked a brave sight, but every ship was over twenty years old and their torpedo tubes had to be hand-worked into position for firing.

  Mackay's crew were piped on to the mess deck to be told by Captain Wright that two or three German ships had come out of Brest and they were going to try to intercept them at the mouth of the River Maas. He wished the ship's company good luck and dismissed them.

  Charles Hutchings, an AB writer, went to his battle station on "Monkey island," four feet above the bridge. He was operating a sight setter which fed information to the guns. It was Hutchings' first action, and he was very tensed up until an experienced Scots bosun told him, "Treat it like practice."

  Aboard Worcester, Douglas Ward, a burly 24-year-old gun-layer, was helping to clear the after 4.7 gun, when all hands were piped to an early lunch of corned beef, mashed potatoes and tea. Everyone on the mess deck had now heard the news and were very excited at the prospect of "having a go at Jerry." They were not apprehensive as they assumed their role to be just a part of a big attack. Although Pizey and his commanders knew differently, many of the crew firmly believed they would be supporting British battleships steaming out of Scapa Flow, and would be safe under the protection of their great guns. Some of the older, battle-experienced petty officers did not share the optimistic views of the wartime-enlisted sailors. They had been in naval actions before and knew what sudden butchery they could bring.

  Then at 1:18 p.m., an hour after he had received his first order, Captain Pizey received another message from the Admiralty. The original signal telling him to intercept the German ships, giving their estimated speed as twenty knots, was based on reports from Spitfires over the Channel and radar. Now, after waiting for over an hour, a more accurate plot of their position was reported from Dover, saying their radar plot had faded at 1:12 p.m. When Navigator Fanning worked this out he calculated that the German warships proceeding on the same course were making nearly thirty knots.

  Pizey was the victim of yet another failure to react quickly enough. Why the Amiralty should have so easily accepted the original estimate of speed is inexplicable as the German battleships' cruising speed was known to be twenty-eight knots — and in fact they were capable of thirty-two knots under pressure. Why should they not be cramming on every ounce of speed in their desperate dash up the English Channel? Yet nearly an hour passed before Pizey's destroyers were given details of their real speed.

  When he received this report on the bridge of Campbell, Pizey had to think very quickly. If he continued on his present course he would miss them. But the only direct course meant going right through the mined area. Yet it was his only chance of intercepting the Germans.

  He took less than five minutes to make his decision. At 1:24 p.m., he sent a signal saying: "Speed 28 knots, course 090." this meant he had decided to risk damage to his destroyers in the minefield even before he met the Germans. He had charts of the minefields with the rows of mines marked, and there was a narrow channel about a mile wide through which he decided to lead his destroyers. If they navigated carefully the only danger was floating mines. This risk he calculated he had to take. His decision to change course and go through the minefield was described by the C-in-C Nore as, "One of the soundest appreciations of the action."

  When Pizey gave orders to change course he could not increase speed beyond twenty-eight knots. Campbell and Mackay, larger and more powerful, could make two to three knots more, but if they did so they would be unable to keep the flotilla together. Even so, one destroyer, Walpole, who was last in line, fell out because her old engines could not stand the pace. Her Captain, Lt.-Cdr. John Eadon, signalled she was unable to go on as her main bearing had burnt out. She was going to try to limp back to Harwich.

  Pizey's new plan was to intercept the German battleships off the Hook of Holland. At 1:35 p.m., just as they were entering the minefield, the Germans became aware that the little destroyer flotilla was sailing towards them. A cloud-dodging Junkers 88 appeared and dropped some bombs near Mackay and Worcester. She missed — but she reported their presence.

  Five minutes later, Admiral Ciliax on the bridge of Scharnhorst with Captain Hoffmann was handed a signal: "From JU 88. One cruiser and five destroyers in grid square AN 8714, course 095 degs., high speed."

  Was this report accurate? Were they by any chance capital ships? And why were they so near? Ciliax rightly guessed that a force had been patrolling at sea off Harwich and been ordered to th
e attack. When the reported position of the British warships was checked on the charts, it was calculated it would be two hours before they could make contact. By that time the Germans would be in a more favourable position to deal with them — or even avoid them altogether.

  They were now at the northern end of the Channel and the weather was beginning to deteriorate fast as had been forecast — and hoped for. But there were corresponding disadvantages. Poorer visibility rendered navigation difficult and they had difficulty in finding the mark-boat, which was out of position. Off the Belgian coast there was a depth of water of less than ten fathoms. Although Group West had given them an experienced pilot, who knew these waters thoroughly, a temporary speed reduction was necessary because mine-sweeping was still in progress in this area.

  Tension grew. Double look-outs scanned the misty horizon and dark sky. Minutes slowly ticked by, but except for the rattle and explosion of dog-fights overhead nothing happened. The expected second wave of torpedo bombers did not arrive.

  At 2 p.m., the ships were through the dangerous channel and Ciliax ordered the ships to go to twenty knots. As they did so, some Spitfires and German fighters could be seen from the German battleships. Ciliax, watching the air battle from the bridge of Scharnhorst, remembered Hitler's prophetic utterance, "The British will find it very difficult to assemble the necessary air forces for a co-ordinated attack within a few hours' notice."

  It was clear that Hitler was right. RAF attacks were spasmodic and unco-ordinated. Their fighters were the only planes reaching the German ships, and they attacked in such small groups that Adolf Galland's German air umbrella had no difficulty in dealing with them.

  Still steaming at twenty knots, the warships entered the dangerous shallow waters off the Dutch coast. Fifteen minutes after the Junker sighting, the first mark-buoy at the far end of the sandbanks loomed up ahead of Scharnhorst. As soundings gave fifteen fathoms, the battleships' speed was increased to twenty-seven knots. The officers on the bridges of the battleships knew this was dangerously fast and waited anxiously until they were clear of the sandbanks and could resume formation.

  At 2:11 p.m., when Pizey was in the middle of the minefield, 12 Hunt Class destroyers left ports in the Thames Estuary to support him. They were Garth, Fernie, Berkeley, Eglinton, Hambledon, Quorn, Southdown, Meynell, Holdness, Cattistock, Pytchley and Cottesmore. At 2:16 p.m., Commander C. de W. Kitcat in the Eglinton was ordered to patrol forty miles to the east of Harwich with six destroyers. At the same time Lt. C. W. H. Farringdon aboard Meynell was ordered to patrol with five other destroyers near Number 51 Buoy, thirteen miles east-south-east of Harwich, and await further orders.

  At 2:30 p.m., just over an hour after entering the minefield, all Pizey's destroyers were clear. At: the same moment, a wireless message told Admiral Ciliax in Scharnhorst that Group North, under Admiral Wolfram based in Kiel, had taken over from Admiral Saalwächter of Group West in Paris.

  In Group West, Commander Hugo Heydel, the first operations officer, had moved his charts back into the operations room. Commodore Friedrich Rüge, without whose mine-sweeping operations the break-out would not have been possible, was so pleased that the ships had steamed through his area without damage that he did something unprecedented. He ordered champagne for the operational staff.

  At the same moment, Scharnhorst was off the mouth of the Scheldt near Flushing. Helmuth Giessler looked at his charts as they reached "Point Delta" in their planned course. A messenger reported guard-boat Number Three was 4,000 yards away and the depth of water twenty fathoms.

  Two minutes later at 2:32 p.m., there came a violent shock. The heavy ship seemed to lurch in the water and men were nearly flung out of the crow's nest. In the Luftwaffe Control Room radio apparatus came crashing down on people's heads and Lt.-Col. Hentschel sprained his left knee and arm.

  Staff Captain Reinicke, in the charthouse below the bridge, heard the deep grumbling noise of an underwater explosion. Then the shock flung him upwards and his head struck the metal ventilation casing just above the chart table. When he rushed on to the bridge he saw the ship was losing way. All the lights went out and soon she was lying rolling slightly in a choppy sea.

  The Scharnhorst had struck a mine dropped by the RAF in eighteen fathoms of water. The generators ceased working and electric current failed throughout the ship. Water began to pour into the engine room, who reported they must heave-to for a time. She immediately sheered off to starboard, dropping away from the line of following ships. Captain Hoffmann ordered the main engines to be stopped and damage control parties sprang into action.

  It was such a big explosion that Captain Fein on the bridge of Gneisenau following Scharnhorst at first thought his own ship was hit. Then he and his officers saw Scharnhorst ahead belching black smoke and gushing a large quantity of oil on the port side.

  Prinz Eugens crew also heard a violent explosion to port followed by a heavy swell. Then a false warning of an approaching torpedo track made them change course and they lost sight of Scharnhorst. There also came a sudden deterioration in the weather. Visibility was less than a mile with light rain and the cloud ceiling down to 1,000 feet.

  Aboard Scharnhorst, the quietness was eerie with the engines stopped after going full steam ahead for nineteen hours. They watched Gneisenau and Prinz Eugen race past them. They were carrying out orders that if one of the big ships was sunk or stopped, none of the others were to heave-to to render assistance. They were to sail on.

  Aboard Scharnhorst, a young engineer officer, Lt. Timmer, made a rapid inspection of the damage and reported to the bridge, "Two double bottom compartments flooded and a large hole in the starboard side of the hull." As Admiral Ciliax considered he could no longer continue his command from the disabled battleship, he decided to transfer his flag to one of the destroyers. Reinicke gathered up all his confidential papers and books and raced down to the quarter-deck to await the Admiral's orders. Col. Ibel signalled to Lt.-Col. Dorando aboard Prinz Eugen: "I am crossing over with staff to Z.29. Take over control of the fighters and tell the Commander." He did this because all Scharnhorst's radio connections had failed and the fighters could no longer be advised from her.

  As the destroyer Z.29 came alongside, pitching and rolling, Captain Hoffmann began to receive damage reports from his Chief Engineer, Walther Kretschmer. He reported that the engines were stopped because the shock of the explosion had shut all the automatic valves. But there did not appear to be much damage. Some wing cells aft were taking in water and turret "A" announced a slight inrush of water. There was also some flooding in the port foc'sle.

  Admiral Ciliax shook hands with Captain Hoffmann saying, "I hope Scharnhorst will eventually make it. Follow the Squadron as best you can and put into the Hook of Holland or the nearest port in emergency."

  The seamen of both ships were dangling fenders, but there were great risks of damage. Ciliax, Reinicke and Luftwaffe Colonels Ibel, Elle and Hentschel lined up outside the rail of Scharnhorst to make a jump for it. The sailors below in the destroyer stood ready in their wet oilskins to cushion their fall. In the mounting wind and rough seas, the destroyer tossed heavily and had trouble keeping alongside the more slowly rolling battleship.

  Admiral Ciliax and his staff, carrying documents and registers, started to leap on to the destroyer's heaving deck. For Col. Hentschel, with his sprained ankle, it was a specially agonizing jump. While they were doing it, Z.29 collided with Scharnhorst. When she pulled away with the Admiral safely aboard at last, there was a rending crash which left a jagged wing portion of her bridge hanging from the Scharnhorst's superstructure.

  Those of the ship's company aft were amazed to see their Admiral, who had been piped aboard with salutes, heel-clicking and barked orders from petty officers only a few hours previously, leave the ship with so little ceremony. One moment the figures of the Admiral and his staff were silhouetted against the rail. Then they were gone and the tossing destroyer, her superstructure and fo'c'sle dented and scrap
ed by the encounter, had moved clear. The next minute, Z.29 was dashing at more than thirty knots after Gneisenau, abandoning Scharnhorst astern in the mists and rain.

  When the destroyer had disappeared into the gloom of the dying February afternoon, four torpedo boats—T.13, 15, 16 and 17—stood by the stricken Scharnhorst.

  It was 2:40 p.m. when Ciliax, accompanied by Captain Reinicke, "abandoned" ship. The impetuous departure of Ciliax, without waiting even five minutes for a report on the state of the ship, was typical of a man suffering from intermittent indigestion pains. He was always a man in a hurry.

  Many aboard Scharnhorst saw Ciliax go with mixed feelings. Some were glad to see the testy Admiral depart. Others wondered what it all foreboded. The camouflaged destroyer was so patently mistress of the elements, while Scharnhorst was rolling helplessly in the North Sea swell — a sitting target for the vengeance of the English, which could not surely be long delayed.

  It was obvious to all in Scharnhorst that unless they were able to get under way again the English would sink her. Look-outs kept an anxious watch for the RAE She was only twenty-five miles to the south-east of Pizey's racing destroyers. The crew felt helpless; even the telephones on the ship were dead.

  Below in the engine room, Chief Engineer Kretschmer with his devoted staflF worked frantically on the automatic boiler controls, stopped by the shock of the mine. At 2:49 p.m. Kretschmer reported the boilers were operating again. Five minutes later he reported the port engine shaft was working. Less than half an hour after the explosion everything came to life. It was reported they had shipped a lot of water in their refrigerating room, but nothing vital was damaged. Had Ciliax waited for Walther Kretschmer's report, he could have remained on his admiral's bridge.