The Swordfish were already sputtering to life, and he quickly had Lovell send down instructions as to his intentions for their course and mission. Come first light, he thought, the decks would likely be crowded with the whole of 823 Squadron, armed and ready. I have better inform Mister Heath, he thought.
“Mister Lovell, please ask Mister Heath to come to the bridge at his first opportunity.”
The calculations Wells had made were spot on. His Swordfish thrummed away east, vanishing into the twilight and labored off at their best speed. It was no more than an hour later before they reported back. ‘Spotted large flotilla, four capital ships, heading 030 degrees NW. Speed 20. EST — My position follows.’
“See that is forwarded to Admiral Somerville at once.”
“Aye sir.”
The French were just north of Oran, and if there were four battleships then they had emptied out the harbor. He had little doubt now. They were most likely running for Toulon. He passed a moment of relief, glad to know he might not blunder right into them as Glorious sped east at 30 knots. In the plot room off the bridge he was working out the situation on the chart, marking off the range with a compass. It was immediately obvious to him that Admiral Somerville’s battleships were not going to catch up.
His good friend Lieutenant Robert Woodfield had come onto the bridge as senior officer of the watch, relieving Lovell, and he waved him over.
“Have a look here, Woody. The French are slipping away like a proverbial thief in the night. Our search detail is already turning for home, but if they stay on their present heading I’ve worked it out that Somerville hasn’t a chance to ever catch up.”
“Not a very satisfactory turn of events,” said Woodfield.
“You know what this means,” said Wells. “If the Admiralty remains determined to get at these ships, we’ll be the ones they tap on the shoulder.”
“Does Heath know?”
“Yes. I spoke with him half an hour ago and he’s down there arming 823 Squadron with torpedoes even as we speak. I have little doubt I’ll have a launch order well before dawn.”
“Right,” said Woodfield. “Well we’ll just have to make the best of it, hard as it may be.”
“Sun will be up at 07:20, but I’ll have everything ready to go in another hour. We’ll recover our search detail a half past midnight. I’ve plotted their farthest on circle here,” he pointed to the chart. “So if we steer this course and swing up near Cartagena, we could be about 90 miles west of them if they have turned north towards Mallorca.”
“And if they turned east for Algiers?”
“Then I’ll have to steer 040, right down the middle. In that instance I think we can get even closer. We’re closing the range on them at ten knots per hour.”
“My guess is that they will run parallel to the coast to a point north of Algiers before they head north, if Toulon is where they are really headed.”
“I thought the same. So I’m steady on for the moment unless I hear anything to compel me to move north.”
“Right you are, Welly… You don’t mind my calling you that, Captain?”
“Perhaps not best in front of them men,” said Wells, “but between the two of us I’ll miss it if you don’t.”
The signal Wells had been waiting for, and mostly dreading, came shortly after midnight, just as the Swordfish were beginning their approach for a night recovery. ‘Considering present situation, and decisions taken by the Admiralty, Case Anvil is hereby ordered for 04:00 hours. Imperative you give main battle squadron every chance to catch up.’
Woodfield was still at his elbow when he received the message, and he handed it off to his friend, saying nothing.
“You know what this means,” said Woodfield quietly. “Have we even given them our ultimatum?”
“I can’t see how.” Wells had a look of anguish on his face.
“Some Anvil,” said Woodfield. “That squadron out of Oran may be joining up with ships from Algiers.”
“And we’re the hammer now, Woody. 823 and 825 squadrons against the whole French fleet!”
July 28, 1940 was a hard day. The leading Swordfish of 823 and 825 squadron had assembled on deck, two groups of eight spotted for takeoff, two more groups waiting on the hanger deck below. Glorious had closed to a range of just 60 miles, and so eight Skua would also be added to the strike, for a total of 40 planes. Their engines were spinning up and sputtering to life at 05:00 And the whole formation was aloft and assembled over the next twenty minutes.
Wells had been informed that the demands to be made of Admiral Gensoul had been directly transmitted to the French Admiralty, now modified to require the French ships immediately proceed to either Alexandria to come under British control or to Algiers where they were to be scuttled within six hours. An affront to French honor, and in accordance with Admiral Darlan’s orders that the French fleet would not comply with orders from any foreign Admiralty, the offer was rejected. Now well out to sea and still over 150 miles ahead of Somerville’s battleship squadron, the French did not believe that the British could back up their threats any longer.
At 05:40 that morning, the pre-dawn quiet was broken by the low, distant drone of the Swordfish, coming in over the wave tops after finally locating the French fleet again. Gensoul knew he had been spotted, but was so confident that the British no longer posed any real threat that he remained on his heading, taking no further evasive action.
Following orders, Wells transmitted the follow up sighting report, indicating his planes now had Gensoul’s squadron in sight. Five minutes later the signalman handed him a one word message: Anvil, which was in turn immediately transmitted to Commander Heath. The Old Stringbags were going in.
823 Squadron broke formation, approaching from the left, with 825 Squadron on the right. The heart of the formation was a line of four large capital ships, the primary targets. Ahead of them was a second formation of six light cruisers, three from Oran and three more from Algiers. Eight to ten destroyers were steaming on the fringes of this grand formation. As they approached, the Swordfish pilots claimed they could hear the sound of alarms and sirens blaring on the bigger ships ahead, and soon cold fingers of white light probed the darkened skies as the ships began to switch on searchlights.
Guns began to fire, almost randomly at first, puffing up the sky with white explosions. Three ships launched flare rockets, which whistled up and descended on slow parachutes, illuminating the targets more than affording any aid to the gunners. By the time the planes were actually seen, and not simply heard, the Swordfish were already well lined up on the end of the formation, closing on the lumbering battleships Bretagne and Provence like a pack of hyenas stalking water buffalo on the African savannah.
The pilots took aim at the leading battlecruisers, but their torpedoes would not find them that dark morning. Strausbourg in the van of the battle squadron immediately accelerated to its top speed of 32 knots, Dunkerque following in her frothing wake. A gap appeared between those sleek new ships and the old WWI era battleships behind them, already struggling along at only just 20 knots.
The first eight planes on either side had little luck. One torpedo struck a fitful destroyer running alongside Bretagne. Another hit the battleship full amidships. The second wave got in much closer, braving the thickening AA fire as the French finally focused their defense. Two planes were hit and felled, the remaining fourteen all getting torpedoes in the water. Of these eight would find their targets, four plowing into Provence at the rear of the formation and four more striking Bretagne.