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Linklaters Scotland:
the heroism of John Moffat
Magnus Linklater
Columnist, Scotland on Sunday
This article, which
was originally published in the Spectrum section of Scotland on
Sunday
on 22nd May 2005, is reproduced on Land-Care with the kind permission
of the author and the newspaper
Filed 24 May 05
JOHN MOFFAT eased his Piper Colt off the
runway at Scone airport last week, en route for Wick. Clearance
given, he set his course in clear weather and headed north. The
next day he would be flying out to Oban, and then the Hebrides,
before returning to Perth and his home in Dunkeld. Nothing remarkable
about that, save for two small details. Moffat is 86, a fairly advanced
age for a pilot. He also happens to be a man whose flying experience
was gained in rather more demanding circumstances.
On the late evening of May 26, 1941 - 64
years ago this week - flying a fragile Swordfish biplane, and bouncing
50 feet above the waves in a force-nine Atlantic gale, Sub-Lieutenant
Moffat of the Fleet Air Arm released a single torpedo which ploughed
through the sea towards the Bismarck, the greatest ship in the German
navy. The officers gathered on its foredeck could not believe what
they were seeing. It was incredible to see such obsolete-looking
planes having the nerve to attack a fire-spouting mountain like
the Bismarck, said one of them later.
Moffat's torpedo struck, to fatal effect.
The Bismarck, its rudder disabled, was mortally wounded. Unable
to manoeuvre, it was at the mercy of the gathering British ships.
Next day, Moffat returned to the fray to witness a terrible scene
- the vast ship, pouring smoke, had heeled over, spilling its crew
into the sea. More than 2,000 perished that morning; only 115 survived.
It was the most critical naval encounter of the war.
Last week, I listened as Moffat recounted
the events of that day. His was a gripping account of wartime daring,
but told with such a lightness of touch that it belied the almost
unimaginable dangers he confronted. The Swordfish planes that he
and his fellow pilots flew - known affectionately as Stringbags
- were more like First World War flying machines, all metal struts
and canvas.
Moffat took off from the aircraft carrier
Ark Royal. His observer, or navigator, was Dusty Miller. The conditions
were appalling. This is how he described it. Taking off from
the deck of a carrier in a force-nine gale is quite something. The
deck can tip by 55 feet. We managed it because of the Stringbag.
No other aircraft could have done it. It was so stable. It had great
lifting power and design. It carried a three-man crew and a 1,600lb
torpedo.
Timing was everything, and the deck
officer - or "bats" - was crucial; he knew exactly the
roll of the ship and when you could get off. Ours was Pat Stringer.
He was brilliant, 6ft4in tall, and because of the gale he had to
be tied down to the deck. When he said go, you just went. The Swordfish
could lift off at 60 knots.
We took off in formations of three.
I was the wing man flying beside the CO, Tim Coode. We flew just
below cloud level, at 600ft, until we spotted HMS Sheffield, which
signalled to us with an Aldis lamp, giving us the bearing and the
distance of the Bismarck. The CO gave us a hand signal to show that
we had to climb up into the clouds to over 6,000ft.
Then the Bismarck spotted us on its
radar and opened up with its big 15in guns. That really put the
wind up us. Number three got a clip on his wings, but carried on.
Then the CO gave us the order to go line astern - one-two-three.
He signalled to us to dive. He dived. We followed. That got the
wind up us again, because we couldn't see where we were going, we
were just diving through the cloud. We got to about 600ft above
the sea, and we were diving at 45º. I thought, "How the hell
am I going to pull out of this in time?"
Then we came through the clouds and
pulled out of the dive. We were about 100ft above the sea. And then
I saw the Bismarck. It was on my right, a massive thing, about two
miles away. The CO, ahead of me, turned in towards it. Bang went
the big guns again. They fired different kinds of shell, which exploded
in front of us, sending up great sheets of water. How we got through
them I just don't know, but the good old Swordfish did it.
Then their smaller guns erupted. They
were coming at us like hail, with tracers and so on. It was just
uncanny. I thought the closer we were to the water the better chance
we had of surviving, so we flew at just 50ft above the sea. It must
have worked, because I'm still here. I can't understand why that
hot stuff wasn't battering us to death. But the great thing about
the Swordfish was that the bullets just went through it - after
all, it was only made out of canvas.
Then we approached the dropping range
of about 2,000 yards. On the aircraft you had a calibrated bar in
front of you that allowed for the speed of the ship and the distance.
Now, I don't know why I did this, but I ignored all that and thought
I would drop my torpedo straight at the nose of the ship. It was
coming towards me at about a 30º angle, showing its starboard side,
and I thought it was bound to hit it somewhere. But Dusty Miller
was shouting, "Not yet! Not yet!"
He was hanging over the side of the
plane, with his backside up in the air. He had realised the sea
was so bad, and the waves were so high that if I put the torpedo
down too early it would go into the sea at too steep an angle and
it would simply 'porpoise' - that is, it would dive down and be
wasted. All this was happening in split seconds, but I realised
what he was up to. It felt like years to me. We got closer and closer,
and then he said, "Let it go!" And boy, did I let it go.
We were about 1,000 yards away. All
I thought of was keeping us down, because when you let a torpedo
go, the release of the weight makes the plane bounce up, and I had
to offset that. Also I couldn't bank and turn because that would
show the belly of the aircraft and make us a bigger target, so I
did a flat turn - that means you just skid round, as if you are
skiing.
And then we headed off just above
the water as fast we could. I looked back and the Bismarck, instead
of turning towards the torpedoes, as it should have done, was turning
away, exposing its stern.
Later, I heard that one torpedo had
hit the rudder and put its steering out of action. Of course I didn't
know whether my torpedo had hit, and for years I didn't claim anything,
but the official record now gives me the hit. It seems that, because
of my position, the only person who could have hit the rudder was
me. All Dusty said was, "By God, that was something!"
When we got back, it was Stringer
who got us down on to the deck. It was ten o'clock at night, but
there wasn't much chance of a rest. Next day we were sent out again
at seven. When we reached the Bismarck, a full-scale battle was
taking place. We went round the blind side and came in low, at 100ft.
There wasn't quite such a big gale. At 1,000 yards, we were ready
to drop the torpedoes again, but then the ship just turned on its
side, and of course we didn't drop them. What we saw wasn't funny.
There were hundreds of heads bobbing in the sea. They had no chance
of survival.
When we got back there was no euphoria.
We just thought, "There but for the grace of God go I.
©Magnus Linklater
This article:
http://scotlandonsunday.scotsman.com/spectrum.cfm?id=549462005
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Linklater, Magnus (2005). Linklater's Scotland. Scotland on Sunday
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