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 steamed 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.