The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 136 Execution Moment

June 10, 1940, 20:15, Taranto Bay, Inner Harbor Command Post.

The air in Taranto now smells of burning.

That was the masterpiece of the first wave of attacks.

Just half an hour earlier, the last Swordfish torpedo bomber of the Royal Navy vanished into the southern night sky. Since then, an eerie atmosphere has settled over the port.

Although the air raid sirens had stopped, the wailing of ambulances, the sirens of fire trucks, and the whistles of damage control teams on various warships mingled together.

On berth No. 3 in the outer harbor, the bridge of the Italian Navy flagship, the battleship Vittorio Veneto, was a scene of utter chaos. Although the giant ship was not directly hit by a torpedo, the shockwave from the near miss shattered most of the windows, and debris was scattered all over the deck.

Fleet Commander Admiral Inigo Campioni leaned against a dusty chart table, coughing violently. Bloodstains, cuts from shards of flying glass, stained his face.

"Loss report—I need a loss report!" Campioni's voice was hysterical, revealing the exhaustion of someone who had just survived a disaster.

The chief of staff, clutching a still-functioning field telephone, reported grimly: "Sir—the Graf Cavour has been hit by a torpedo on its port side, is taking on severe flooding, and is currently beaching itself. The Littorio has been hit by three torpedoes on its bow and has sunk, but the good news is that the water depth is only 12 meters, and the superstructure is still above water, so it can be salvaged later."

"The Caio Duilio is taking on water on its starboard side and is currently filling its ammunition magazine with water."

Campione took a deep breath; his heart was pounding.

heavy.

This is an unprecedented and devastating loss.

In just one hour, the Italian Royal Navy had broken half of its backbone.

But he glanced at the deck beneath his feet—the "Veneto" was still there, this 4-ton flagship, this most powerful battleship in the Mediterranean, still afloat. As long as the flagship remained, the spirit of the Italian Navy remained.

"Have the British left?" Campioni asked. "The radar station reports that the airspace is clear. They've withdrawn."

The chief of staff wiped his brow, a hint of relief in his voice, "Looks like it was just a simple air raid. Damn British, they dared to strike on the very first day of the declaration of war."

He instinctively wanted to curse the despicable British pirates for their sneak attack.

But those words stuck in his throat, and he swallowed them back.

He couldn't protest his innocence.

Just three hours earlier, their leader had arrogantly invited this destruction from the balcony of the Venetian Palace.

The British did not break any rules.

Their only sin was compressing the time difference between "declaring war" and "execution" to a mere three hours, catching them completely off guard.

Campione nodded, walked to the broken porthole, and looked out at the burning harbor. The firelight illuminated his face.

"Notify all ships to focus all efforts on firefighting. Send tugboats to assist the Cavour."

"We survived," Campioni muttered to himself. "As long as we're alive, we'll settle this score sooner or later—"

But he couldn't finish his sentence, because his gaze passed through the burning breakwater and looked out at the dark open sea.

After the human eye adapts to the bright light of a fire, it becomes almost blind in dark areas.

Even so, at the horizon where the sea meets the sky, in that black void that should have been empty, he seemed to see a series of unnatural, white waves—ripples created by the ship cutting through the seawater.

Immediately following was a sharp, piercing roar from inside the bridge.

"Target spotted in the open sea! Surface target!" The lookout's voice changed, filled with a deeper fear than when the bombers were spotted. "Not a torpedo boat! A large warship! My God, it's the outline of a battleship!"

Campione abruptly raised his binoculars, and in that instant, his blood froze.

At the breach in the breakwater, against the backdrop of the burning flames, two steel castles, like mountains, emerged from the darkness. Those imposing triangular masts, those iconic twin main gun turrets.

That's the "Queen Elizabeth" class of the British Empire.

"This is impossible—" Campioni muttered to himself, the binoculars slipping from his hand and falling to the ground. "How dare they—bring a battleship here?"

20:20, Taranto Outer Harbor Channel.

Compared to the panic of the Italians, the Royal Navy's vanguard formation at this moment was like a group of calm butchers polishing their knives on their aprons.

Vice Admiral John Tovey stands on the open bridge of the light cruiser USS Orion.

The sea breeze was strong, making his clothes flutter, but he remained motionless.

This future commander of the home fleet is now displaying his unique, almost cold-blooded aggression.

"Perfect backlighting." Tovey looked ahead.

The fire in Taranto illuminated the entire port area, turning it into a giant firing range for the British troops operating in the shadows. Every Italian ship, every gun emplacement, and even the crowds running on the docks became clear black silhouettes.

The British fleet, on the other hand, was hidden in absolute darkness several kilometers away, completely transparent in one direction.

"Sir, the destroyer Jervis on the left flank," the adjutant asked in a low voice. "May we begin a torpedo attack?"

Tovi shook his head.

"No rush. Let the destroyer get a little closer. I want them to stuff torpedoes into the Italians' beds."

"Now, who is that guy trying to rush out?"

Tovey refers to an Italian warship in the channel directly ahead.

That was the heavy cruiser "Fiume," a 10,000-ton Zara-class heavy cruiser, which was also the fastest-reacting warship in the harbor.

Its captain was clearly a brave soldier. After realizing the threat in the open sea, he did not choose to stay in the berth, but ordered the anchor to be raised forcibly, trying to break through the narrow channel and buy time for the main warship behind him.

The "Fum" was accelerating, thick black smoke billowing from its smokestacks, and its three twin 203mm main guns were spinning wildly, trying to find targets in the darkness.

"Unidentified vessel! Bearing 030!"

The Italian lookout on the Fiume finally spotted the white contrail left by the Orion as it sailed at high speed.

"Fire!"

Boom! Boom!

The HMS Fiume fired first. The orange muzzle flashes were particularly dazzling in the darkness. A few seconds later, several huge jets of water rose two hundred meters to the starboard side of the HMS Orion. Although they missed, they broke the silence of the harbor.

Tovey didn't dodge; he didn't even order the Orion to retaliate. Because he knew that five nautical miles behind him, two real monsters were crouching.

The hound's job is to lure the prey out; now that the prey is out, the rest is up to the lion.

"Signal for Admiral Cunningham," Tovey said coldly. "The prey is at the door. Enjoy."

20:25, flagship "Warspite", main gun command post.

This is the brain of the warship, free from the noise and clamor of the outside world, only the sound of slide rules, the hum of electricity, and the calm commands of the fire control officer.

Although HMS Warspite was an old ship from World War I, after being modernized, her fire control system was absolutely the pride of the British Empire.

"Target locked. Zara-class heavy cruiser."

"Distance: 14000 yards (approximately 12.8 kilometers)."

"22 knots. Heading: 180."

"Fire control calculation complete."

Admiral Cunningham stood on the bridge, a extinguished pipe still in his hand. He watched the flashes of fire from the USS Fiume ahead, the best beacons in the darkness.

"Light it up," Cunningham ordered.

Ahead, the Orion and Sydney launched a salvo of flares almost simultaneously.

Several flares exploded 600 meters above the Fiume, then slowly descended on parachutes. A blinding white light instantly tore through the night.

At that moment, the Italian officers on the bridge of the "Fum" closed their eyes in despair, for they had been completely exposed.

Under the bright light, this beautiful heavy cruiser looked like a patient on an operating table, with nowhere to hide.

"Fire all main guns at once."

The gunner of the "Warspite" decisively issued the order.

Boom—Boom—Boom—Boom!

Four twin-mounted 15-inch main guns roared simultaneously.

This was an extremely violent physical phenomenon; the 3-ton warship suddenly shifted several meters to the left. A massive red muzzle storm instantly illuminated half the sea surface, and the resulting high-pressure blast shattered the windshield on the bridge.

Immediately afterwards, the "Malaya" ship behind them joined in the chorus.

Sixteen shells tore through the night sky.

But this wasn't just a single armor-piercing round; it was a mixed salvo. Eight of them were Mark XVIIB armor-piercing rounds weighing 879 kg, while the other eight were high-explosive rounds loaded with high explosives.

These high-explosive shells were originally loaded to deal with shore-based targets, but at this moment they were more than enough to deal with this cruiser that had come to its doom.

Armor-piercing shells flying at an initial velocity of 750 meters per second were originally designed to penetrate the 350-millimeter-thick hardened armor belt of enemy battleships. Using them against heavy cruisers with only 150-millimeter protection is like using an industrial hydraulic press to crush a walnut—they are responsible for breaking the keel and detonating the ammunition magazine.

The high-explosive shells with triggers were purely malicious—they were designed to release massive fireballs and shrapnel through chemical energy upon impact, sweeping away the superstructure, bridge, and all personnel exposed on the deck of the USS Fiume.

The shell flew through the air for about 15 seconds. For the sailors on the HMS Fiume, those 15 seconds were the time it took for death to swing its scythe. They could hear the distinctive, train-like whooshing sound of the shell tearing through the air.

Boom! At this distance, the two battleships launched their first salvo in a perfectly synchronized, crossfire. The precision was outrageous.

Two of the shells even hit the hull of the "Fume" directly.

The first shell penetrated the armor belt near the waterline.

This armor, which cruisers were so proud of, was like a soaked cardboard in front of 15-inch armor-piercing shells, which penetrated the forward boiler room without any hindrance.

Because of the use of a delayed-action fuse, the shell did not explode upon impact. Instead, it penetrated deep into the hull and detonated between the four Yarrow-class high-pressure boilers. The instantaneous release of energy turned the entire boiler room into a high-pressure, high-temperature hell. The superheated steam, hundreds of degrees Celsius, instantly killed all the engine room crew members. A huge breach was blasted in the midsection of the hull, seawater flooded in, and the keel groaned under the strain.

The second shell was even more deadly.

It penetrated the armor box directly beneath the B turret and went straight into the main ammunition magazine.

This is absolute destruction.

BOOM—! ! !

A deafening roar, ten times louder than the main gun firing, followed by a secondary explosion.

The "Fume's" over one hundred tons of propellant and hundreds of 203mm shells were detonated simultaneously, sending a massive fireball soaring into the air, even more dazzling than the oil depot fire in Taranto harbor. The enormous shockwave instantly tore the 10,000-ton warship in two. The ship tilted upwards, and the several-hundred-ton steel structure of the B turret was hurled several kilometers into the air, tumbling and rolling before crashing into the water like a broken toy, creating a huge splash.

The "Fum," a warship that had been trying to play the hero just minutes before, was reduced to parts in full view of everyone.

There were no survivors.

In a secondary explosion of this magnitude, no one could survive.

"Cease fire." Cunningham lowered his binoculars, expressionless. "Those were rocks in the way. Clear them away."

"Full fleet, storm the port!"

20:35, Taranto Outer Harbour, Berth 3.

Witnessing the horrific destruction of the "Fum," the Italian navy in Taranto harbor was utterly devastated, and fear spread like a plague.

This was a one-sided massacre—the enemy was a battleship, and a battleship that was already within firing range.

On their side, all their capital ships were docked in their berths, like death row inmates tied to pillars.

Inside the bridge of the "Veneto", Admiral Campioni watched the fireball disappear into the sea, his hands trembling.

"Damn it—damn it!" He originally thought the British just wanted to launch an air raid to gain some political capital, but he was wrong. Cunningham wanted to wipe out the Italian navy.

"Where's the main gun? Why hasn't it turned around yet?!" Campioni roared into the megaphone.

"Sir! The hydraulic system pressure is insufficient! We can only rely on the diesel auxiliary engine and the manual crank! The rotation speed is too slow! It will take another three minutes to point to the open sea!" The gunner's voice was even more urgent than his.

Three minutes. Normally, that's just the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee. But tonight, that's enough time for Death to swing his scythe a hundred times.

"Secondary guns! Return fire with the secondary guns!"

The 152mm secondary guns on both sides of the "Veneto" began to roar, but this blind firing was meaningless. The British warship was hidden in the darkness several kilometers away, without searchlights or radar guidance, and these shells could only stir up meaningless splashes on the sea.

Meanwhile, in the open sea, HMS Warspite and HMS Malaya have completed their ammunition switching.

This round, they loaded complete armor-piercing rounds.

Target: Berth 3, the stationary "Veneto".

Distance: 10000 yards (approximately 9 kilometers).

For a battleship-class behemoth like this, it's practically the distance to place its cannons right up to its head and fire.

"Send the destroyers first," Cunningham ordered. "Tovey's dogs are hungry."

20:40, Taranto Outer Harbor.

Lieutenant General Tovey's orders were carried out thoroughly.

Taking advantage of the smoke and chaos created by the explosion of the USS Fiume, the eight destroyers of the 14th Destroyer Flotilla sped into the outer harbor like a pack of mad wolves.

The lead ship, the Jervis, even came within 2000 yards of the Veneto.

At this distance, the battleship's towering superstructure became a disadvantage. Its anti-aircraft guns lacked sufficient depression, and its main guns were practically useless. The destroyer was like an assassin wielding a dagger, closing in on a heavily armored knight.

"Port torpedo tubes, prepare."

"Target: Berth 3. The biggest one there."

"A volley of fan-shaped projectiles!"

Dozens of 21-inch (533 mm) MarkIX torpedoes were launched into the water without any complicated calculations required, and the battleships in the berths remained stationary.

A few seconds later. Boom! Boom! Two torpedoes struck the port side of the "Veneto".

Although this new battleship possessed the famous "Pugliesesystem" underwater defense system, that system was designed to defend against aerial torpedoes.

Under such a close-range, almost vertical torpedo attack from a large destroyer, the cylindrical structure of the defensive system was instantly crushed. The explosion tore apart the torpedo-protected compartment, and seawater rushed into the engine room. The ship shook violently, and the already damaged electrical system short-circuited again, plunging the entire ship into darkness.

But this is not the end.

After launching their torpedoes, the destroyer group did not retreat. Instead, they opened all their 4.7-inch (120 mm) main guns and unleashed a furious barrage of fire on the Italian warships in berth. High-explosive shells rained down on the superstructures of the "Veneto" and the adjacent "Littorio" like hail. The bridge was riddled with holes. Rangefinders were shattered. Sailors who had not yet evacuated the decks were caught in the shrapnel.

This was a beating that was utterly dishonorable.

20:45, Taranto Bay.

The destroyer withdraws from the firing range, and the protagonist makes his appearance.

The main guns of HMS Warspite and HMS Malaya had been waiting there for a long time.

"Target: Berth 3. The Veneto."

"Fire."

At this point, the "Veneto" was a lamb to the slaughter. It was listing 10 degrees to port, the entire ship was without power, and only the faint emergency lights were flashing.

The 15-inch armor-piercing shells from the "Warspite" came hurtling in.

The first shell hit the front of the A turret of the "Veneto".

Although the 380mm surface-hardened armor prevented the shell from penetrating directly, the enormous kinetic energy generated a terrible shock effect.

The massive impact ripped the turret off its base, causing it to jam like a derailed train. All the intricate internal mechanical structures collapsed. Dozens of Italian gunners inside the turret were instantly killed by the shockwave; there were no survivors. This meant that even if the ship didn't sink, its main guns were rendered useless.

The second shell struck the stern. It penetrated the horizontal armor and entered the steering gear compartment. The explosion completely destroyed the steering gear and propeller shaft. This pride of the Italian Navy was utterly crippled. It was now nothing more than a vessel floating on the water...

A steel corpse worth hundreds of millions of lira.

Meanwhile, the "Malaya" was "taking care" of the older battleships in the inner berth.

Although the "Caio Duilio" had already sunk, the "Malaya" still managed to fire two more shots. One high-explosive shell hit its superstructure directly, causing a fire. The other struck the adjacent dock facilities, knocking down a huge crane that crashed onto the warship's deck.

20: 50.

Cunningham glanced at his pocket watch; there were only five minutes left before the scheduled evacuation time.

The Italian fleet is finished.

Of the six battleships, not one was intact.

But he had one last thing to do: he wanted to completely extinguish the Italians' hope of repairing these warships.

"Switch the main guns to high-explosive shells," Cunningham ordered. "We can't just keep shooting at the ships. If a ship sinks, we can salvage it, but if the dock is gone, they'll have to go to Genoa to repair it."

"Target: No. 3 dry dock, oil storage tank area, and repair shop."

"All secondary guns, fire freely."

"Five rounds of rapid fire."

HMS Warspite and HMS Malaya roared once again.

This time, what fell was a high-explosive shell loaded with a large amount of high explosives. This type of shell is generally ineffective against armored ships, but it is devastating to ground facilities.

The first salvo hit the Taranto oil storage tank area, where dozens of massive tanks held six months' worth of fuel reserves for the Italian Navy. A series of explosions triggered a chain reaction. Tens of thousands of tons of heavy oil ignited. A red column of fire shot into the air, reaching 500 meters high, forming a massive black-red mushroom cloud. The burning heavy oil flowed like lava into the sea, turning the entire inner harbor into a boiling inferno.

Dry dock No. 3 was the focus of the attack. Two 15-inch shells struck the dock's lock gates directly. The concrete gates, weighing several thousand tons, were shattered. Seawater flooded into the dock, slamming a destroyer undergoing repairs against the dock walls, causing it to disintegrate instantly. The massive gantry crane twisted and collapsed in the shockwave of the explosion, crashing onto the pier and kicking up clouds of dust.

Just then, the Italian coastal defense artillery on the shore finally organized some counterattacks.

Several 152mm shore guns began firing blindly at the sea. But against the backdrop of towering flames, they could not see the position of the British warships at all. The shells landed on the sea within two or three kilometers around HMS Warspite, kicking up columns of water.

"Sir. Five rounds of firing completed," the gunner reported. "Main gun barrel overheating. A turret hydraulic system experiencing a minor malfunction."

"The enemy's coastal defense firepower has begun to extend towards our position. Although the accuracy is poor, the density is increasing."

Cunningham stood on the open bridge, feeling the heat wave hitting him—it came from the port several kilometers away.

He gazed at the hellish scene before him: burning cities, capsized warships, and flowing rivers of fire.

This was not only a military miracle, but also a devastating psychological blow to fascist Italy.

From this night forward, every Italian sailor will remember the flames of Taranto before setting sail.

"That's enough." Cunningham straightened his collar and brushed off the black cigarette ash that had fallen on his shoulders.

"We are not here to occupy this place."

"Order: Hard to starboard. Heading 180."

"All ships, release smoke screens."

"Tell Tovey to gather those mad dogs and not to linger in the fight."

"Let's go home."

21:05, off the coast of Taranto Bay.

HMS Warspite's massive hull drew a huge white arc on the sea, and its stern smoke generators began to operate, spewing out thick chemical smoke that formed a thick black wall that concealed the Royal Navy fleet.

On the sea, Vice Admiral Tovey, looking at the retreat signal sent by the flagship, reluctantly put away his binoculars.

He looked at the still-burning wreckage of the "Fume," with only the ship's hull above the water, surrounded by a large amount of oil.

He did not order a rescue; this is war, not a drill.

"14th Destroyer Flotilla, disengage. Full speed ahead south."

"Gentlemen, the hunt is over for tonight."

The fleet maintained a high speed of 24 knots, disappearing into the vast night. Only the once glorious but now scorched-earth Taranto remained behind, the sole response of the British Empire to Mussolini's declaration of war.

The Vittorio Veneto, command tower.

General Iñigo Campioni slumped down beside the command post, which was covered in shattered glass.

The emergency lights flickered on and off, illuminating his ashen face as if he were a ghost.

His military cap was missing, and a wound on his forehead was bleeding, but he felt no pain.

Compared to the physical wounds, a deeper, more bone-chilling cold was devouring his nerves.

He looked at the dying embers left by the Fiume on the distant sea, then glanced at the flagship around him, which was slowly taking on water and listing 15 degrees to the left.

Just three hours earlier, he was standing on the deck, listening to the leader's impassioned declaration of war on the radio, fantasizing about leading this massive fleet to cut off the British throat and turn the Mediterranean into "our sea."

And now, it's only been three hours.

The British Empire used the most brutal and direct violence to shatter his illusions, along with the backbone of the fleet.

His hands trembled as he tried to pull a cigarette from his shirt pocket, but his fingers were too stiff to obey him.

He knew what awaited him.

In Rome, in that Venetian palace, the leader who had just declared war would never admit that it was a strategic miscalculation, much less an intelligence failure.

Dictators need a scapegoat. A scapegoat of sufficient weight to take responsibility for this devastating disaster and to quell public panic.

There is no one more suitable than the fleet commander.

Campioni could even picture the scene: the courtroom, the prosecutor's charges, the verdict of "treason" or "negligence," and—the cold muzzles of the firing squad, or the rough rope on the gallows.

He will not die at sea, gloriously sinking with his ship like a sailor; he will die on the execution ground, bearing the shame of being a "defeated general."

"It's over—" Campioni released his grip, the broken cigarette falling into the greasy water. A hoarse cry escaped his throat, the lament of an old man stripped of all hope, "It's all over."

On this night illuminated by flames, the balance of the Mediterranean was utterly shattered. The British Empire, with steel and gunpowder, stamped a blood-red seal on the newly signed declaration of war.

All of this occurred less than three hours after Mussolini's impassioned declaration of war. The British Empire, in the most pragmatic way, told that leader:

The naval battlefield remains the domain of the Royal Navy.

The Mediterranean Sea remains an inland lake for the Royal Navy.