The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 135 The Trial of Taranto

1940年6月10日，17：15，爱奥尼亚海，北纬39度20分，东经17度10分，距离塔兰托军港60海里。

The setting sun over the Ionian Sea was turning the surface a deep, almost solidified copper color.

Sea state: Level 2. Wave height: 0.8 meters. Northwesterly wind, speed 15 knots.

For a large task force, this was perfect weather for concealment. The twilight obscured the outlines of the ships, while the increasing waves masked the cavitation noise of the propellers.

The Royal Navy's Mediterranean Fleet is conducting a top-secret operation codenamed "Trial".

The fleet's location is insane, being only 60 nautical miles (about 110 kilometers) from Italy's most important naval base.

This means that if detected, Italian shore-based bombers near Taranto could reach the fleet in just 15 minutes, and even Italian fast torpedo boats could launch an attack on the flagship half an hour later if they set sail now.

This was far more insane and deadly than any historical trial.

In conventional naval doctrine, carrier strike groups typically unleash their attack waves within a safe radius of 170 to 200 nautical miles of the target. This is sufficient to ensure that the fleet remains within the strike radius of enemy shore-based air forces.

But tonight, Cunningham decided to reduce that distance to 60 nautical miles.

This is a meticulously calculated trap: he must wait.

He had to wait until 18:00 PM, until Mussolini uttered the word "declare war," before he could pull the trigger. Cunningham considered himself a pirate, but he would never stoop to being a sneak attacker who waged war without declaring war.

However, this "gentleman's insistence" compressed the tactical window.

In order for the old battleship "Warspite," with a speed of only 24 knots, to quickly enter the harbor after the air raid and finish off the enemy, and to withdraw out of the enemy bomber's radius under the cover of night before dawn, he had no choice but to position the fleet's main guns directly under the noses of the Italians.

The fleet maintained absolute radio silence.

The entire formation was arranged in a tight double-column assault formation, with the core strike group consisting of the flagship battleship HMS Warspite, the battleship KMA Malaya, and two aircraft carriers—the new HMS Illustrious and the aging HMS Eagle.

Five nautical miles ahead was the advance escort group commanded by Vice Admiral John Tovey, deputy commander of the Mediterranean Fleet.

Instead of staying on the battleship, Tovey moved his command flag to the light cruiser HMS Orion. He led eight destroyers from the 3rd Cruiser Squadron and the 14th Destroyer Flotilla, spreading out like hounds to clear out any Italian submarines and reconnaissance ships that might appear.

The bridge of the flagship "Warspite".

Cunningham stood in front of the chart table, his compass drawing an arc on the chart.

60 nautical miles.

He muttered to himself, a suffocating tension filling the air. At this distance, even without radar, a single passing Italian fishing boat could spot this massive, sky-covering fleet.

"Sir, Vice Admiral Tovey has sent a light signal," the signal officer reported in a low voice. "No abnormalities detected in the sonar of the vanguard formation. The sea is clear."

Cunningham nodded.

"Maintain heading 330. Speed ​​18 knots."

"Tell the engine room to maintain boiler pressure. I want them to increase speed to 24 knots within three minutes of receiving the order."

They are now walking right next to the lion's mouth, ready to tear its throat apart at any moment.

17:30, above Taranto Bay, altitude 300 meters.

A grey shadow skimmed low over the sea. It was a Sunderland Short, which had taken off from Malta.

The Sunderland-type four-engine seaplane, serial number L5804.

Captain Edward Gibson gripped the control stick tightly, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. At this altitude, he could almost smell the seawater below.

"Altitude 300. Heading 045. We are approaching the target area," the navigator's voice came through the headset.

"Stay calm," Gibson ordered. "We'll pretend we're a lost transport plane."

Ahead, the outline of the Taranto naval port gradually became clear.

This is indeed a natural harbor.

The outer harbor, Mar Grande, is wide and deep, connected to the inner harbor, Mar Grande Piccolo, by a narrow canal. At dusk, the harbor is unusually quiet. One could even say eerily quiet.

Gibson raised his binoculars, and his pupils contracted sharply.

The intelligence was accurate, so accurate that it infuriated him.

Through the telescope, the main fleet of the Royal Italian Navy looked like a herd of walruses dozing in the sunset, exposed and defenseless on their berths.

On the outermost edge are two behemoths—the Vittorio Veneto-class battleships "Vittorio Veneto" and "Littorio".

Their streamlined hulls gleamed in the setting sun, their 381mm main gun turrets pointing straight ahead, the muzzles still covered with canvas.

Further inside are four old battleships that have undergone modern modifications: the Count of Cavour, the Giulio Caesar, the Andrea Doria, and the Caio Duilio.

In the inner harbor, seven heavy cruisers (Zara-class and Trento-class) and dozens of destroyers were crammed together, their dense masts resembling a withered forest in winter.

"Look at these lazybones," the co-pilot muttered. "No smoke. Not a single fire has been lit on the boat."

This means that the boilers of all capital ships are in a cold state.

For such heavy oil-fired boilers, it takes at least five hours from ignition to generating enough superheated steam to drive the turbines. In other words, even if you dropped bombs on them right now, the fleet would be unable to move.

"What about the lightning protection net?" Gibson asked.

"Look there, sir!" the observer shouted. "Less than a third of the lightning protection netting has been put up! The outer harbor's 3..."

Berths 1 and 4 were completely open! They were practically inviting us in!

Just then, the radio operator at the tail of the plane reported nervously: "Sir, ground radio signal intercepted. Frequency 102.5. It appears to be an Italian radar station."

Gibson's heart skipped a beat. Had he been discovered?

But he did not see fighter jets take off, nor did he see anti-aircraft guns fire.

On the ground, the air defense positions remained lifeless, with the gun covers still on.

The Italian Navy did indeed deploy an experimental radar, codenamed "Gufo," in Taranto. It did detect the Sunderland aircraft. However, with Mussolini about to deliver a speech, the duty officer at command assumed it was just a routine British reconnaissance plane.

In order not to disturb the upcoming celebratory dinner, they chose to ignore it.

"Send a message." Gibson put down his binoculars, his voice tinged with excitement. "Send it to Warspite."

Use an encrypted channel. Don't worry about revealing your location; they're already sticking their heads in the noose anyway.

The telegram reads: All the fish are in the net. The boiler is off. The lightning protection net is not closed. The weather is fine. It's a buffet.

18:01, Mediterranean Task Force, 60 nautical miles south of Taranto, Warspite communications room.

The decoder handed the newly received message to Brigadier General Willis, who glanced at it and strode onto the bridge.

"Sir. Reconnaissance confirms. The intelligence is accurate."

Cunningham took the telegram and glanced at it. At that moment, the minute hand of his pocket watch had just crossed 12.

18: 01.

At that very moment, in Rome, Mussolini was waving his fist on the balcony of the Palazzo Venezia, declaring Italy to be at war. At that very moment, in London, Arthur Sterling had just walked into the BBC studio for a live broadcast.

Cunningham closed his pocket watch with a crisp metallic clang.

The sea breeze ruffled the hem of his clothes, and at this distance, he even had the illusion that he could hear the cheers from the Roman Forum.

"Gentlemen." His voice was calm, yet it cut through the wind on the bridge.

"The time is 18:01 PM. We are at war." He turned and ordered the communications officer, "Break radio silence."

"Signal to the Glorious and the Hawk: From here, commence the trial."

"Tell all pilots: there is no need to conserve ammunition. There is no need to hold back."

"Freedom to fire."

18:15, HMS Illustrious, flight deck.

There were no piercing alarms, only low commands coming from the loudspeaker.

"All pilots, board the plane."

"Ground crew, evacuate the deck."

"Heading 330, full speed up into the wind."

The 23000-ton armored aircraft carrier began to accelerate.

With only 60 nautical miles from Taranto, the round trip for the aircraft was extremely short, eliminating the need for external fuel tanks and allowing for maximum payload takeoff. The ship cleaved through the waves, facing the northwest wind. Speed ​​increased to 28 knots, and with an additional 15 knots of natural wind, the combined wind speed on the deck reached 43 knots – perfect takeoff conditions.

On the deck, twelve Swordfish torpedo bombers were lined up in two rows.

In the context of modern warfare, these aircraft look like a joke in a museum. Biplane, canvas skin, open cockpit, non-retractable landing gear, and a top speed of only 220 kilometers per hour. Pilots jokingly called it a "stringbag" because it seemed like it could hold anything except advanced technology.

But tonight, they are messengers of death.

Each aircraft carried a heavy 18-inch (457 mm) Mark XII aerial torpedo on its belly. At the tail of the torpedo, a seemingly simple wooden frame—a shallow-water stabilizing fin—was secured with steel wire.

Major Kenneth Williamson, commander of Naval Air Squadron 815, climbed into the cockpit of lead aircraft L4A. He donned his leather flight cap and pulled down his goggles. The biting sea wind rushed into the cockpit, but he felt no cold. His blood was boiling.

He glanced back at Captain Scarlett, the navigator in the back seat, who was checking the navigation charts and gripping the signal pistol tightly.

"Start the engine!" the deckhand waved a green glow stick.

After a sharp, metallic screech, all twelve Bristol Pegasus air-cooled engines simultaneously spewed blue flames. The roar was deafening. The propellers began to spin, cutting through the twilight in streaks of transparent discs.

Williamson pushed the throttle, the engine roared, and the fuselage shook violently.

The bulky biplane began to taxi on the deck.

At first, it moved slowly and wobbled like a drunken duck. But after gliding for less than a hundred meters, its massive wings generated enough lift. It stubbornly lifted its nose, left the deck, and disappeared into the approaching night.

Then came the second and the third—at the same time, on the USS Hawk five nautical miles behind, eight more Swordfish, also carrying torpedoes and flares, took off one after another.

Because of the extremely short distance, this also means that the flight time is greatly reduced. This attack group, consisting of twenty biplanes, only needs to fly for less than half an hour.

They completed their formation, then lowered their altitude, skimming the black waves, maintaining an economical cruising speed of 85 knots, and flew north towards the port of Taranto.

They fly very low, only 30 meters high. At this altitude, they are completely outside the radar blind spot of the Italian coast.

After the carrier-based aircraft attack wave was launched, the massive fleet did not remain on the sea, but instead headed at full speed toward the port of Taranto.

18:55, Taranto Naval Base.

Taranto was immersed in a sea of ​​joy. Just half an hour earlier, the leader had announced the declaration of war.

The entire port was brightly lit, all the streetlights on the dock were turned on, and even the decks of the battleships were decorated with colorful lights.

The sounds of arias from the opera "Turandot" and clinking glasses drifted from the officers' club.

For the Italian sailors, this was a celebration.

They believed their leader's words: the British are finished. This war is just an armed parade.

On the deck of the battleship "Littorio", several sailors were leaning against the railing smoking, watching the flashing lights on the shore, and discussing what spoils they could bring back after going to North Africa the next day.

"This is practically a vacation," a sailor exhaled a smoke ring. "The British fleet must still be trembling in Alexandria."

No one noticed the strange sound coming from the night sky. The deep, humming sound, like that of an old-fashioned lawnmower, was perfectly masked by the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the noise from the shore.

19: 00.

Major Williamson's plane flew over the outer harbor of Taranto at an altitude of 1200 meters. The harbor below was brightly lit, like a Christmas tree, completely unprepared, with the headlights of cars moving on the docks visible.

However, for ultra-low-altitude torpedo attacks, the light and shadow effects are too chaotic and deceptive.

"Flare drop!" Two support Swordfish aircraft climbed to altitude and dropped a series of magnesium flares over the east side of the harbor. The blinding white light instantly tore through the night, illuminating the entire harbor area as if it were daytime.

This is not only to expose the target, but also to delineate the clear boundary between the coastline and the breakwater. In this complex inner harbor environment, it is essential to ensure that the torpedo enters the water in deep water, rather than on the rocks of the breakwater or the silt on the shore.

Against the backdrop of dazzling magnesium light, those rows of steel behemoths moored in the darkness—sixteen battleships,

Seven heavy cruisers—their massive black silhouettes—were perfectly projected onto the shimmering water. At that very moment, the water and land were forcibly separated by the intense light.

That was a textbook target.

"Initiate attack." Williamson pushed the lever, and the L4A Swordfish began its dive, the altimeter spinning rapidly.

1000 meters, 800 meters, 500 meters — the wind whistled in my ears, and the canvas covering shook violently, as if it would tear at any moment.

Only then did the air raid sirens in Taranto sound their mournful blares.

"Air raid! Air raid!" Searchlights on the shore began to fire wildly, and anti-aircraft guns began to fire sporadically. Red lightning bolts streaked across the night sky, but they were too sparse.

Moreover, the Italian anti-aircraft artillery made a fatal mistake. Their fuses were set too high. All the shells exploded at altitudes above 2000 meters, the altitude at which modern monoplane bombers are defended.

They never dreamed that the British would use such a World War I-era biplane to penetrate their defenses at a height of only 30 meters.

Williamson's plane was the first to break through the barrage of fire. Ahead lay the massive battleship, the Graf Cavour. 800 meters away, 30 meters above the ground—a suicidal distance. At that distance, even the battleship's machine guns could hit him.

"Hold on—hold on—" Williamson stared intently at the rudimentary circular sight, the massive silhouette of the warship filling his field of vision.

"Drop the bomb!" He pulled the pin sharply, and the fuselage felt light as the heavy 18-inch torpedo detached from its rack and plummeted into the sea.

A conventional torpedo, entering the water at such a low altitude, would have plunged directly into the 12-meter-deep seabed silt due to excessive kinetic energy. However, at the moment of impact, the wooden stabilizing fin at the tail slammed against the water's surface, generating an upward torque that forced the torpedo to level itself. Subsequently, the wooden frame detached under the impact of the water flow, and the torpedo, at a depth of 5 meters, left a straight white contrail, hurtling towards the "Count of Cavour" at a speed of 35 knots.

boom--!!!

A muffled but enormous explosion.

The torpedo struck the port side of the "Grand Count of Cavour" with pinpoint accuracy, just below turret B. A massive column of water shot into the sky, reaching a height of one hundred meters, mixed with black heavy oil and steel fragments.

The 29000-ton battleship shuddered violently, as if struck in the ribs by a giant hammer. A 12-meter-wide hole was instantly torn in the hull, and seawater rushed in, causing the keel to groan and twist.

But this is only the beginning.

Immediately afterwards, a second and a third Swordfish aircraft rushed in. They were like a swarm of frenzied moths, attacking the motionless behemoths from all directions.

At berth 3 in the outer harbor, the new battleship "Littorio" became the primary target, with three Swordfish aircraft forming a pincer attack on it.

The first torpedo hit the starboard side, the second torpedo hit the port stern, and the third torpedo hit the starboard side.

Three massive explosions in quick succession caused the 45000-ton behemoth to list violently in an instant.

Damage control alarms blared throughout the entire ship.

"Flood! Flood the port side now!" the captain roared hysterically in the command tower, but he found the communications system had failed. Sailors slipped and fell on the tilting deck, their screams drowned out by the explosions. Heavy oil was leaking, and the entire sea surface began to burn.

At the same time, the inner harbor was also attacked.

Swordfish aircraft, armed with bombs, began bombing seaplane hangars and fuel depots.

A 250-pound bomb struck an oil storage tank directly, and a towering fireball illuminated half of Taranto. Burning heavy oil flowed into the sea, turning the port into a sea of ​​fire. Italian cruisers were trapped in the inferno, blindly firing in all directions, even hitting their own friendly forces.

In just ten minutes, the once invincible Italian Royal Navy was reduced to a pile of scrap metal struggling in a sea of ​​fire.

The Graf de Cavour had sunk, its superstructure tilting precariously in the water. The Littorio's bow was submerged, and it was slowly sinking. The Andrea Doria, though not directly hit, had its rudder damaged by a near miss.

20:00, 20 nautical miles off the coast of Taranto, the battleship "Warspite".

Without the sound of the telegraph machine printing, the fleet returned to radio silence—in preparation for a duet.

The Italians could never have imagined that those swordfish were just daggers piercing their arteries, with a heavy hammer hidden behind them.

Breaking the deathly silence was the low, weary roar of an engine from the night sky overhead. It was the sound of a Bristol Pegasus air-cooled engine.

The first wave of attacks has returned to base.

Major Williamson's L4A aircraft skimmed low over the starboard side of the Warspite, preparing to enter the landing path of the Illustrious. The instant it passed the flagship's bridge, the navigator in the rear seat leaned out halfway out, braving the strong airflow, waving an Aldis signal light and excitedly sending a series of rapid light signals toward Cunningham.

The signal officer, holding up his binoculars, almost simultaneously shouted out the translation: "Mission Accomplished!"

(mplished).

"Sir! Battle results confirmed!"

"Confirmed hit by a torpedo on the Graf Cavour! The ship is listing to port!"

"Three torpedoes have been confirmed to have hit the Littorio! The bow has sunk!"

"Confirmed hit on the Caio Duilio with one torpedo!"

"Thank God, we suffered no losses!"

Cunningham was standing at the chart table when he heard the report and breathed a sigh of relief.

At this moment, he is facing a choice.

According to conventional naval tactics, after carrier-based aircraft complete a surprise attack and achieve results, the fleet should immediately disengage and retreat south under the cover of night to avoid retaliation from enemy shore-based air forces at dawn.

This was a perfect victory, enough to earn him a medal and enough to satisfy London.

But he didn't move.

He walked outside the bridge and raised his binoculars.

In that direction, a dark red halo had appeared on the horizon; it was the firelight of Taranto, clearly visible even 20 nautical miles away.

But the Italians were busy putting out the fire and did not notice the massive fleet 20 nautical miles away.

"Sir?" The deputy chief of staff noticed Cunningham's hesitation. The "Radiant" was recovering its first wave of aircraft. "Should we turn to heading 180 and prepare to retreat?"

Cunningham put down his binoculars, glanced at his pocket watch, and then at the port engulfed in flames.

He recalled a quote from Churchill: "Put a gun to the head of an Italian."

Air raids alone are not enough!

Torpedoes can sink ships, but only the main guns of battleships can instill despair in the enemy.

That was a victory for airplanes, not a victory for warships and heavy artillery.

He wanted to instill fear in the Italians to their very core; he wanted to completely destroy the port's operational capacity, not just the ships, but also the docks, oil depots, and cranes.

Moreover, wasn't this the very moment he risked bringing the battleship to such close range of 60 nautical miles?

If he didn't fire that shot, how could he face the brothers who came out with him, how could he face the "Warspite"?

"No." Cunningham closed his pocket watch with a soft "click."

"Tell Colonel Boyd that after recovering their aircraft, the USS Illustrious and USS Eagle are retreating south under the cover of destroyers."

Cunningham turned around, his eyes burning.

"Willis, signal Lieutenant General Tovey."

"The vanguard cruiser squadron is sweeping the area outside the port."

"Battleship Group - HMS Warspite, HMS Malaya" —

At this point, Cunningham suddenly froze, remembering the flaws in the report.

"What about the Vittorio Veneto?" Cunningham asked coldly. The communications officer paused, his expression changing slightly. "Sir—the first wave of attacks didn't report any confirmed hits with the Veneto. Perhaps—the torpedoes missed. Also, there are no confirmed hit reports from the Giulio Caesar and the Andrea Doria."

The air froze instantly.

Cunningham's gray eyes narrowed. He quickly subtracted from his thoughts; reality was harsh.

According to intelligence, the Italians have six battleships, but only three are currently disabled.

This means that the Italian Navy's flagship, the Veneto, another super battleship with nine 381mm main guns, and two older battleships that have undergone modernization and are equipped with 320mm main guns, may still be sitting in their berths intact.

Cunningham currently only has the HMS Warspite and the HMS Malaya at his disposal.

To ensure the absolute safety of Alexandria, his main base, and to prevent the Italians from launching any unknown surprise attacks, he deliberately left the slowest and most cumbersome ship, the "Royal Sovereign," in Egypt to guard the base.

Two against three, and in the enemy's port.

Most fatally, even if the other ships were sunk, the Italian Navy would still possess the strongest capital ships in the Mediterranean if the "Veneto" wasn't destroyed. If its damage control was effective, or if there was even a trace of residual heat in the boilers that could allow the hydraulic system to drive the massive turrets to rotate, then it would be a tiger that hadn't died yet.

At a distance of several kilometers, its 381mm armor-piercing shells could easily tear apart the World War I-era armor of the HMS Warspite.

This is real gambling.

"Very well." Cunningham's face revealed a sinister smile instead. "Since the Italians aren't quite dead yet, let's give them a hand."

"Sir, should we retreat?" Tovey's signal light asked again; the "Radiant" had already begun to turn.

Cunningham glanced at his pocket watch, then at the port ablaze with flames.

He was not only a gambler, but also an actuary.

Since "Veneto" is not dead, let's finish him off, but we must be prepared for an encounter.

"No." Cunningham decisively ordered, "Order unchanged, the 'Radiant' and the 'Eagle' retreat south."

"Gunner, listen up."

"Main gun ammunition switching."

"Turret A, Turret B (forward main gun group), load armor-piercing shells. I must be ready to respond to the Veneto's counterattack at any time. If it dares to move, smash it."

"Turret X, Turret Y (rear main gun group), maintain high-explosive shells, target—port facilities."

"Battleship Group - HMS Warspite, HMS Malaya".

3

"Heading 045".

"Full speed ahead."

"We need to go in."

>