protect their mother ship after refuelling in Malta. They succeeded in shooting down half a dozen Stukas before the Germans turned back to Sicily. It was at a quarter to ten that night, her flight deck still steaming from the heat below, that
Illustrious
, bent and bruised but not broken or bowed, slipped into Malta’s Grand Harbour. It was now that the grisly, traumatic task of collecting the bodies and limbs of friends and crewmates began. Some were never found.
The fact that the other ships of the fleet were left virtually unscathed by the Stuka attack provided the physical evidence that the Germans had come for one reason and one reason alone: to exact revenge for Taranto by sinking
Illustrious
. But they had failed and three days later they were back. This time, supported by Junker 88 bombers and Messerschmitt Me111 fighters, not to mention dozens of bombers and fighters from the Regia Aeronautica, the Stukas were determined not to give
Illustrious
a second chance. For much of the time, repairs continued below deck while air-raid sirens wailed and the gunners above tried to beat off the attacks. For two weeks, the Luftwaffe came in wave after wave but, heroically defended by the RAF Hurricane and Fulmar squadrons on the island and the gunners of the harbour defences,
Illustrious
refused to die. Two huge bombs succeeded in hitting her and three near-misses lifted her out of the water and smashed her against the wharf, damaging her hull. With losses mounting by the day and the RAF growing dangerously short of pilots, Lt Julian Sparke, who had taken part in the Taranto raid, volunteered to fly Hurricanes to help in the island’s increasingly desperate defence. He died ramming a German bomber. On 24 January 1941, following a fortnight of round-the-clock repair work, much of it while under attack, Captain Boyd stood on the carrier’s bridge,
Illustrious
slipped the Grand Harbour and steamed for Alexandria at twenty-six knots. On arrival, the carrier and her company were given a hero’s salute by every ship in harbour.
In the eight months since she had been launched, the
Illustrious
had certainly led a colourful existence. It was from her flight deck that the first-ever attack on a fleet at anchor had been launched. That bold action, by half a hangar of antiquated biplanes, had swung the balance of power in the Mediterranean and undoubtedly helped Britain hang on to Malta and the Suez Canal, as well as beat Rommel in North Africa. Her efforts were applauded by Churchill and Roosevelt and hailed around the free world. The Battle of Taranto had truly been one of Britain’s finest hours . . . and yet. And yet, when the gallantry medals were announced in the immediate aftermath of the attack, just two Distinguished Service Orders (to the two flight leaders) and four Distinguished Service Crosses were awarded. The fury below decks – chiefly amongst the sailors and deck crews – was uncontained. When the notice announcing the awards was pinned up on board, it was torn down by a disgusted sailor. No one had forgotten his ‘manoeuvre well executed’ signal the morning after the raid, and at first many suspected it was the cold hand of Admiral Cunningham grudgingly handing out the gongs. But subsequent investigations suggested that the meanness belonged to Whitehall mandarins, not the Admiral.
The matter was raised by Sir Murray Sueter MP in Parliament in May. As a retired Rear Admiral, he was disgusted by the lack of recognition and he suggested to the First Lord of the Admiralty that honours should be awarded to all forty men who took part in the raid. Medals were subsequently awarded to every one of them, but by the time they were announced a quarter of them were dead.
Almost half of the Swordfish crewmen who took part in the Taranto raid did not survive to see the war’s end. But they did at least have the satisfaction of knowing before they went to their deaths that they had played a part in one of the boldest
Illustrious
, bent and bruised but not broken or bowed, slipped into Malta’s Grand Harbour. It was now that the grisly, traumatic task of collecting the bodies and limbs of friends and crewmates began. Some were never found.
The fact that the other ships of the fleet were left virtually unscathed by the Stuka attack provided the physical evidence that the Germans had come for one reason and one reason alone: to exact revenge for Taranto by sinking
Illustrious
. But they had failed and three days later they were back. This time, supported by Junker 88 bombers and Messerschmitt Me111 fighters, not to mention dozens of bombers and fighters from the Regia Aeronautica, the Stukas were determined not to give
Illustrious
a second chance. For much of the time, repairs continued below deck while air-raid sirens wailed and the gunners above tried to beat off the attacks. For two weeks, the Luftwaffe came in wave after wave but, heroically defended by the RAF Hurricane and Fulmar squadrons on the island and the gunners of the harbour defences,
Illustrious
refused to die. Two huge bombs succeeded in hitting her and three near-misses lifted her out of the water and smashed her against the wharf, damaging her hull. With losses mounting by the day and the RAF growing dangerously short of pilots, Lt Julian Sparke, who had taken part in the Taranto raid, volunteered to fly Hurricanes to help in the island’s increasingly desperate defence. He died ramming a German bomber. On 24 January 1941, following a fortnight of round-the-clock repair work, much of it while under attack, Captain Boyd stood on the carrier’s bridge,
Illustrious
slipped the Grand Harbour and steamed for Alexandria at twenty-six knots. On arrival, the carrier and her company were given a hero’s salute by every ship in harbour.
In the eight months since she had been launched, the
Illustrious
had certainly led a colourful existence. It was from her flight deck that the first-ever attack on a fleet at anchor had been launched. That bold action, by half a hangar of antiquated biplanes, had swung the balance of power in the Mediterranean and undoubtedly helped Britain hang on to Malta and the Suez Canal, as well as beat Rommel in North Africa. Her efforts were applauded by Churchill and Roosevelt and hailed around the free world. The Battle of Taranto had truly been one of Britain’s finest hours . . . and yet. And yet, when the gallantry medals were announced in the immediate aftermath of the attack, just two Distinguished Service Orders (to the two flight leaders) and four Distinguished Service Crosses were awarded. The fury below decks – chiefly amongst the sailors and deck crews – was uncontained. When the notice announcing the awards was pinned up on board, it was torn down by a disgusted sailor. No one had forgotten his ‘manoeuvre well executed’ signal the morning after the raid, and at first many suspected it was the cold hand of Admiral Cunningham grudgingly handing out the gongs. But subsequent investigations suggested that the meanness belonged to Whitehall mandarins, not the Admiral.
The matter was raised by Sir Murray Sueter MP in Parliament in May. As a retired Rear Admiral, he was disgusted by the lack of recognition and he suggested to the First Lord of the Admiralty that honours should be awarded to all forty men who took part in the raid. Medals were subsequently awarded to every one of them, but by the time they were announced a quarter of them were dead.
Almost half of the Swordfish crewmen who took part in the Taranto raid did not survive to see the war’s end. But they did at least have the satisfaction of knowing before they went to their deaths that they had played a part in one of the boldest
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