Royal Navy and Maritime Power in the Twentieth Century (Cass Series--Naval Policy and History)

THE ROYAL NAVY AND MARITIME POWER IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

This book provides an authoritative yet accessible analysis of the utility of maritime power and the roles of navies by examining a series of case studies concentrating on the experience of the Royal Navy in the Mediterranean and Persian Gulf during the twentieth century. Ian Speller is a Lecturer in the Department of Modern History at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth. His research interests include maritime strategy and military history, with a particular emphasis on expeditionary operations. He is the author of The Role of Amphibious Warfare in British Defence Policy, 1945–1956.

NAVAL POLICY AND HISTORY Series Editor: Geoffrey Till Dean of Academic Studies, Joint Services Command and Staff College

This series consists primarily of original manuscripts by research scholars in the general area of naval policy and history, without national or chronological limitations. It will from time to time also include collections of important articles as well as reprints of classic works. AUSTRO-HUNGARIAN NAVAL POLICY, 1904–1914 Milan N. Vego FAR-FLUNG LINES Studies in imperial defence in honour of Donald Mackenzie Schurman Edited by Keith Neilson and Greg Kennedy MARITIME STRATEGY AND CONTINENTAL WARS Rear Admiral Raja Menon THE ROYAL NAVY AND GERMAN NAVAL DISARMAMENT, 1942–1947 Chris Madsen NAVAL STRATEGY AND OPERATIONS IN NARROW SEAS Milan N. Vego THE PEN AND INK SAILOR Charles Middleton and the King’s Navy, 1778–1813 John E. Talbott THE ITALIAN NAVY AND FASCIST EXPANSIONISM, 1935–1940 Robert Mallett THE MERCHANT MARINE AND INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS, 1850–1950 Edited by Greg Kennedy

NAVAL STRATEGY IN NORTHEAST ASIA Geo-strategic goals, policies and prospects Duk-Ki-Kim NAVAL POLICY AND STRATEGY IN THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA Past, present and future Edited by John B. Hattendorf STALIN’S OCEAN-GOING FLEET Soviet naval strategy and shipbuilding programmes, 1935–1953 Jürgen Rohwer and Mikhail S. Monakov IMPERIAL DEFENCE, 1868–1887 Donald Mackenzie Schurman; edited by John Beeler TECHNOLOGY AND NAVAL COMBAT IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY AND BEYOND Edited by Philips Payson O’Brien THE ROYAL NAVY AND NUCLEAR WEAPONS Richard Moore THE ROYAL NAVY AND THE CAPITAL SHIP IN THE INTERWAR PERIOD An operational perspective Joseph Moretz CHINESE GRAND STRATEGY AND MARITIME POWER Thomas M. Kane BRITAIN’S ANTI-SUBMARINE CAPABILITY, 1919–1939 George Franklin BRITAIN, FRANCE AND THE NAVAL ARMS TRADE IN THE BALTIC, 1919–1939 Grand strategy and failure Donald Stoker NAVAL MUTINIES OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY An international perspective Edited by Christopher Bell and Bruce Elleman THE ROAD TO ORAN Anglo-French naval relations, September 1939–July 1940 David Brown

THE SECRET WAR AGAINST SWEDEN US and British submarine deception and political control in the 1980s Ola Tunander ROYAL NAVY STRATEGY IN THE FAR EAST, 1919–1939 Planning for a war against Japan Andrew Field SEAPOWER A guide for the twenty-first century Geoffrey Till BRITAIN’S ECONOMIC BLOCKADE OF GERMANY, 1914–1919 Eric W. Osborne A LIFE OF ADMIRAL OF THE FLEET ANDREW CUNNINGHAM A twentieth-century naval leader Michael Simpson NAVIES IN NORTHERN WATERS, 1721–2000 Edited by Rolf Hobson and Tom Kristiansen GERMAN NAVAL STRATEGY, 1856–1888 Forerunners to Tirpitz David Olivier BRITISH NAVAL STRATEGY EAST OF SUEZ, 1900–2000 Influences and actions Edited by Greg Kennedy THE RISE AND FALL OF THE SOVIET NAVY IN THE BALTIC, 1921–1940 Gunnar Aselius THE ROYAL NAVY, 1930–1990 Innovation and defence Edited by Richard Harding THE ROYAL NAVY AND MARITIME POWER IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY Edited by Ian Speller

THE ROYAL NAVY AND MARITIME POWER IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

Edited by Ian Speller

FRANK CASS LONDON and NEW YORK

First published 2005 by Frank Cass 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxfordshire OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Frank Cass 270 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 100161 This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” Frank Cass is an imprint of Taylor & Francis © 2005 Ian Speller All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data The Royal Navy and maritime power in the twentieth century / editor Ian Speller. -- 1st ed. p. cm. -- (naval policy and history) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-415-35004-2 (hardback) 1. Great Britain. Royal Navy--History--20th century. 2. Sea-power--Great Britain--History-20th century. 3. Great Britain--History, Naval--20th century. I. Speller, Ian, 1969– II. Title. III. Cass series--naval policy and history; 31. VA454.R6753 2005 359' . 00941 ' 0904--dc22 2004009986 ISBN 0-203-00213-X Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-415-35004-2 (Print Edition)

CONTENTS

Contributors Foreword by Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Julian Oswald Acknowledgements Abbreviations

Introduction

ix xi xiii xiv

1

IAN SPELLER

1 The transition to war: the Goeben debacle, August 1914

13

ANDREW GORDON

2 Sea control in narrow waters: the battles of Taranto and Matapan

33

JON ROBB-WEBB

3 Sea denial, interdiction and diplomacy: The Royal Navy and the role of Malta, 1939–1943

50

GREG KENNEDY

4 Air power and evacuations: Crete 1941

67

STEPHEN PRINCE

5 Amphibious operations: the Italian campaign, 1943–1945

88

CHRISTOPHER TUCK

6 Maritime power and complex crises: The Royal Navy and the undeclared war with Vichy France, 1940–1942 STUART GRIFFIN

108

CONTENTS

7 Quarantine operations: The Royal Navy and the Palestine Patrol

129

GEOFFREY TILL

8 Maritime jurisdiction and the law of the sea

148

STUART THOMSON

9 Naval diplomacy: Operation Vantage, 1961

164

IAN SPELLER

10 Operations in a war zone: The Royal Navy in the Persian Gulf in the 1980s

181

WARREN CHIN

11 From peacekeeping to peace enforcement: The Royal Navy and peace support operations

197

ANDREW DORMAN

Select bibliography Index

209 215

viii

CONTRIBUTORS

Warren Chin is a lecturer in Defence Studies at King’s College London and the Joint Services Command and Staff College. Prior to this he was a lecturer in War Studies at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst. He specialises in the study of war and in particular military theory, strategy, defence economics and the concept of military revolutions. He has published articles on both the development of war and contemporary conflict, and has produced a book on British weapons acquisition policy. Andrew Dorman is a lecturer in Defence Studies at King’s College London and the Joint Services Command and Staff College. He has published widely on British defence policy and contemporary security issues. His recent work includes Defence under Thatcher (Palgrave, 2002) and European Security Issues in the 21st Century (Ashgate Publishing, 2004) with Deborah Sanders. Andrew Gordon is Reader in Defence Studies at King’s College London and the Joint Services Command and Staff College. He is author of The Rules of the Game: Jutland and British Naval Command, and winner of the Westminster Medal for Military Literature and Longmans’ History Today book of the year prize. He is maritime historian to the Higher Command and Staff Course and is a former officer in the Royal Naval Reserve. Dr Stuart Griffin is a senior lecturer in Defence Studies at King’s College London and the Joint Services Command and Staff College. His primary areas of interest are peacekeeping and the historical development of modern military operations. His most recent publications include Understanding Peacekeeping (Polity 2004), co-authored with Alex Bellamy and Paul Williams, and he is currently writing on the evolution of joint operations (forthcoming 2005). Greg Kennedy is a senior lecturer in Defence Studies at King’s College London and the Joint Services Command and Staff College. He is the author of the award winning monograph, Anglo-American Strategic Relations and the Far East, 1933–1939 (Frank Cass, 2002). ix

CONTRIBUTORS

Stephen Prince is a historian of the Naval Historical Branch of the Naval Staff, with particular responsibility for the link between historical experience and current policy. He has previously been Sir Robert Menzies Scholar at the Australian War Memorial, lecturer at Britannia Royal Naval College, Dartmouth and a senior lecturer at the Joint Services Command and Staff College. Jon Robb-Webb is a lecturer in Defence Studies at King’s College London and the Joint Services Command and Staff College. He specialises in maritime history and the Royal Navy. Ian Speller is a lecturer in the Department of Modern History at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth. He also lectures at the Irish Defence Forces’ Command and Staff School. Prior to this he was a senior lecturer in Defence Studies at King’s College London and the Joint Services Command and Staff College. His research interests include maritime strategy and military history, with a particular emphasis on expeditionary operations. He is the author of The Role of Amphibious Warfare in British Defence Policy, 1945–1956 (Palgrave, 2001). Stuart Thomson is a lecturer in Defence Studies at King’s College London and the Joint Services Command and Staff College. Prior to this he served in the Royal Navy for sixteen years before joining the academic staff at the Royal Navy College, Greenwich. Professor Geoffrey Till is the Dean of Academic Studies at the Joint Services Command and Staff College. His latest book is Seapower: A Guide for the 21st Century (Frank Cass, 2004). Christopher Tuck is a lecturer in Defence Studies at King’s College London and the Joint Services Command and Staff College. From 1994 to 1997 he was a lecturer at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst.

x

FOREWORD

I am delighted to provide a few words as a Foreword to this volume which, authoritatively yet accessibly, analyses the utility of maritime force, and its limitations, and the role of navies as instruments of national power. The authority of the work is inherent in the impressive list of contributors assembled by the Editor. The period and sea areas covered are limited to the twentieth century, the Mediterranean and the Persian (now Arabian) Gulf, which still provide plenty of case studies. Indeed, major campaigns such as Gallipoli (1915) and Suez (1956) are not included. The geographical limitation is both practical (obviating the need to run to several volumes!) and useful, as by concentrating on just two areas, it helps to underline the connection between maritime strategy, and the enduring facts of geography which, together with hydrography, meteorology and other wet sciences contribute to our understanding of the environment to seaward of Mean High Water Springs. That this book has its genesis in the work of the staff and students of the Joint Services Command and Staff College underlines its fully practical approach to pinning down the enduring essentials of the strengths and limitations of maritime power, and it greatly encourages me to learn that generations of young officers, and not only naval officers, are extracting not strictly lessons, for that would be too prescriptive, but ideas and thoughts about the utility and possibilities of maritime power, the better to enable them to address today’s multifarious defence and security challenges. It would be idle to deny that British forces in general, and perhaps the Royal Navy and Royal Marines in particular, have a proud and enviable reputation for punching above their weight. Clearly this must have been developed in the twentieth century, for in 1900 the Royal Navy was the weightiest around, by some margin. By the year 2000 this had clearly changed radically. If our country and our politicians are to continue to enjoy this special dividend it will become ever more important that the objectives for, and the manner in which, British forces are used are carefully assessed and analysed before commitment. This is where the ideas, considerations and experiences outlined in the chapters of this book, and the discussion and analysis in establishments such as the JSCSC lying behind them, should prove especially valuable. And while not all of us, and not even all serving officers, will find ourselves taking part in the studies and debates which xi

FOREWORD

lie behind these chapters, to have the conclusions presented and published in this way makes the enduring verities available to this and subsequent generations. For this we should, I believe, be genuinely grateful to the contributors and Editor. Read it, think and enjoy! Sir Julian Oswald GCB Admiral of the Fleet March 2004 Shedfield

xii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The inspiration for this book came from the participation of all of the contributors in the supervision of maritime case studies undertaken by students at the UK Joint Services Command and Staff College (JSCSC). It is important, therefore, to recognise the indirect contribution that staff and students at that institution have made to this work. By challenging and questioning many of the traditional assumptions about maritime power, they have encouraged all of the authors to think very carefully about the issues addressed in this book. Complacency has not been an option. The editor would also like to thank the staff and students at the Irish Defence Forces Command and Staff School for providing him with a similarly stimulating intellectual environment on the other side of the Irish Sea. As ever, a vote of thanks is due to the staff at the various libraries and archives used to research this work, with particular mention due to the staff of the JSCSC Library and the Public Records Office at Kew. I am grateful to Stephen Prince at the Naval Historical Branch for making available photographs to illustrate the cover of this book and to Karol Mullaney-Dignam for helping to choose between them. The editor owes a particular debt to Eoin and Colette, to whom this book is dedicated. Ian Speller

xiii

ABBREVIATIONS

1CS AA ARG ASW AW BEF BNLO CAP Cdo C-in-C COS DAK DDR DUKW EEZ EU HMS ICAO ICJ JRRF LCT LST NATO NEO NGS NOIC NOTAM OA PSO RAF RFA RM RN

First Cruiser Squadron Anti-aircraft Amphibious Ready Group Anti-submarine warfare Amphibious warfare British Expeditionary Force British Naval Liaison Officer Combat air patrol Commando Commander-in-Chief Chiefs of staff Deutsche Afrika Korps Disarmament, demobilisation and rehabilitation Amphibious truck Exclusive Economic Zone European Union His/Her Majesty’s Ship International Civil Aviation Organisation International Court of Justice Joint Rapid Reaction Force Landing craft, tank Landing ship, tank North Atlantic Treaty Organisation Non-combatant evacuation operation Naval gunfire support Naval officer in command Notices to airmen Operational Analysis Peace support operation Royal Air Force Royal Fleet Auxiliary Royal Marines Royal Navy xiv

A B B R I E VAT I O N S

RUF SACEUR SLOCS UK UN UNCLOS UNMO UNRRA UNPROFOR UNAMSIL US USN WEU W/T

Revolutionary United Front Supreme Allied Commander, Europe Sea lines of communication United Kingdom United Nations UN Convention on the Law of the Sea United Nations Military Observer United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Authority United Nations Protection Force United Nations Assistance Mission in Sierra Leone United States of America United States Navy Western European Union Wireless telegraph

xv

INTRODUCTION Ian Speller

This much is certain, that he that commands the sea is at great liberty, and may take as much and as little of the war as he will.1 (Sir Francis Bacon, 1597) There is a historical pattern to the repeated success of great sea powers over great land powers that defies dismissal as mere chance.2 (Colin Gray, 1992) The aim of this book is to analyse some of the strengths and limitations of maritime forces as instruments of national power. To achieve this a number of case studies have been examined. These case studies are taken from the experience of the Royal Navy during the twentieth century, with a particular focus on the Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf. This book is not intended to be a history of the Royal Navy in the twentieth century nor does it claim to cover every operation conducted by the navy in these two regions. Rather, the case studies have been selected in order to facilitate an examination of different aspects of the employment of navies and the utility or otherwise of maritime power. The original idea for this approach was generated by a similar process of ‘maritime campaign analysis’ conducted by students at the United Kingdom Joint Services Command and Staff College. The aim there is to use an examination of past campaigns and battles to develop a greater understanding of the nature of maritime power and to examine the idea that there are enduring features or principles of maritime strategy. All of the contributors to this volume have been fortunate enough to participate in this process and their conclusions have been formed in the light of lively discussions with officers from every service and of many different nationalities.3 This book focuses upon maritime power. This is an inherently broader concept than either naval power or sea power. Unfortunately for newcomers to this subject definitions frequently vary and different authors use different terms in different ways.4 For the purposes of this book naval power refers to seaborne military forces such as warships, naval auxiliaries, aircraft carried on ships, and submarines. Sea power includes naval forces and also non-military seaborne assets such as merchant ships and fishing vessels. Maritime power embraces all of the

1

IAN SPELLER

above and all other assets and capabilities that influence directly the ability of a state or organisation to use the sea. This could include land-based aircraft, artillery and missiles, space-based satellites, a facility for effective maritime insurance and a variety of other factors that are not necessarily naval in origin. In the words of contemporary British maritime doctrine, ‘maritime power, in the broadest of senses, is military, political and economic power or influence exerted through an ability to use the sea’.5 The exploitation of maritime power to achieve political objectives is called maritime strategy. The British historian and strategist Sir Julian Corbett defined maritime strategy as ‘the principles which govern a war in which the sea is a substantial factor’. He noted that this went beyond mere naval strategy, stating that ‘Naval Strategy is but that part of it which determines the movements of the fleet when maritime strategy has determined what part the fleet must play in relation to the action of the land forces’.6 To put this in Clausewitzian terms, naval strategy may have a certain ‘grammar’ but maritime strategy provides the ‘logic’ by integrating narrow naval issues into broader national strategy. Corbett laid a particular stress on the requirement to relate activity at sea to events on the land, emphasising that: … it scarcely needs saying that it is almost impossible that a war can be decided by naval action alone … Since men live upon the land and not upon the sea, great issues between nations at war have always been decided – except in the rarest cases – either by what your army can do against your enemy’s territory and national life, or else by the fear of what the fleet makes it possible for your army to do.7

The role of naval forces as an enabling factor within a broader maritime strategy is clear. This book seeks to examine the utility of maritime power through a study of the past. There is an obvious danger in any enterprise that claims to derive ‘lessons’ from history. Each historical event is the result of a unique collection of circumstances that can never be repeated. The fact that one approach worked for a statesman or an admiral in the past does not mean that it will do so again, no matter how similar the circumstances may appear to be. Attempts to derive such ‘lessons’ are frequently supported by a rather partial reading of history. The problems inherent in such an approach are illustrated by Michael Howard’s dismissal of some of the clumsier attempts to prove that there had been a unique ‘British Way in Warfare’ based largely on maritime power.8 Despite the inherent dangers, maritime strategists have consistently sought to identify enduring features of maritime power through an examination of the past. In doing so they have asserted that despite technological, political and social change there are indeed ‘principles’ that can be identified and should be studied. The most famous and most influential writer on maritime strategy was Alfred Thayer Mahan of the US Navy. In his most prominent work, The Influence of Sea 2

INTRODUCTION

Power Upon History, 1660–1783, first published in 1890, he sought to derive enduring principles about maritime power through an examination of the British experience during the age of sail.9 He was undaunted by the obvious difference between warships in the age of sail and the steam driven armoured battleships that dominated navies at the end of the nineteenth century. He noted that, while many of the ‘conditions’ of war varied from time to time with the progress of weapons, there were certain teachings that remained constant, that had universal application and could thus be elevated to the position of ‘general principles’. He was clear, therefore, that, while it was foolish to try to obtain tactical precepts to be followed in all circumstances, it was possible to identify principles. These could be detected only through the study of the past. The application of these principles might vary over time, but the principles themselves would remain constant.10 Corbett adopted a similar approach and this is reflected in the title of his 1911 publication, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy.11 He emphasised that systematic study of the past could provide an understanding of the particular characteristics of maritime power and strategy. He was aware of the dangers in this approach, particularly if such principles were used in the wrong way. He warned that ‘… nothing is so dangerous in the study of war as to permit maxims to become the substitute for judgement’.12 Theoretical study could not be regarded as a substitute for judgement and experience but was a means of ‘fertilising’ both. In addition to its educational value Corbett believed that the identification and promulgation of principles of maritime strategy would have the advantage of enabling commanders to communicate their intent to subordinates more clearly and also of allowing them to articulate their case more effectively with military and political colleagues. He believed that it would be easier to discuss and debate maritime strategy in an intelligent fashion if people possessed a basic understanding of the underlying concepts and principles.13 History does not provide universal laws, nor does its study confer the ability to predict specific events. However, historical study does provide a means of training the mind in an activity where, in the case of war, there may be little opportunity to gain first hand experience. In such circumstances it is important to understand why things are done in a particular way. It is not possible to do this without some reference to the past. In the words of Michael Howard, ‘You cannot get away from the study of the past. It is the only knowledge that we have.’14 Howard recommended that officers studying military history should do so in width, in depth and in context. In doing so they would be able to identify activities that constantly recurred and could thereby draw conclusions that had an abiding value.15 Similarly, Colin Gray has written that it is possible to identify from historical study ‘broad themes or conclusions’ that have an enduring utility. These must be used with care. Gray emphasises that maritime power16 is not a ‘force of nature’ or a ‘mystical generality’ of constant value but is something that is particular and relative to the time, political owner, technology and policy issues at stake. Therefore, application of these broad themes must be set within context and 3

IAN SPELLER

each case must be examined on its own merits. Whether one describes the results of such enquiries as themes, conclusions or principles does not really matter. They highlight areas of continuity in the history of maritime strategy and they provide a focus on issues that are liable to be important. However, themes or principles remain subject to the specific details of each individual case. Knowledge of established principles may help to guide one towards an answer, they do not provide the answer. In the words of E.H. Carr, such principles have a ‘conditional validity which serves both as a guide to action and a key to our understanding of how things happen.’17 It is in this sense that the idea of ‘principles’ has most utility. The Royal Navy did not always appreciate the value of historical study. In reference to his lectures to the Naval Colleges at Portsmouth and Greenwich before the First World War Corbett complained of the difficulty that he encountered when trying to present theory to the ‘unused organs of naval officers’.18 The price that the navy paid for this scepticism has been demonstrated by Andrew Lambert.19 The ambivalent attitude that most naval officers traditionally adopted when confronted with any form of academic enquiry not obviously and directly related to their professional duties appears to be diminishing. In 1995 the Royal Navy published its own interpretation of the principles of maritime strategy in a document with the reference number BR1806 and the title The Fundamentals of British Maritime Doctrine.20 This work was completed by a small team of naval officers and academics and was founded upon a firm belief in historical principles.21 A second edition was published in 1999, incorporating numerous stylistic changes and updating material to reflect the recent publication of a joint military doctrine.22 BR1806 self-consciously echoes Corbett, emphasising that doctrine is ‘a framework of principles, practices and procedures, the understanding of which provides a basis of action’.23 There is a recognition that doctrine must never be adhered to in a dogmatic way and that it must be subject to regular review. However, in common with both Mahan and Corbett, BR1806 concludes that the fundamental principles affecting military strategy will rarely change.24 Actually identifying what those principles might be is problematic. In the 1960s Vice-Admiral Sir Peter Gretton noted that, while maritime strategists were fond of promoting the existence of enduring principles of maritime power and strategy, they were less apt to want to list them. He proved less shy in this respect, although his lists of ‘peacetime principles’ and ‘wartime principles’ relate as much to the specific requirements of British naval and defence policy as to the fundamental nature of maritime strategy.25 Nevertheless, his definition of a maritime strategy as one that ‘uses the sea to exploit geography to the advantage of this country and seeks to deny its advantages to the enemy’ does identify the most basic yet most important advantage that can be accrued by maritime forces.26 Throughout history the sea has provided the most efficient means of moving large and bulky items over long distances. This was clearly the case through to the nineteenth century. Improvements in land communications from the mid-nineteenth century, the invention of the railway and the internal combustion engine and, more recently, of air transport have not yet changed this basic truth. The sea provides a 4

INTRODUCTION

medium for transport that is free from territorial boundaries and political restrictions .To quote Mahan’s famous phrase, it is ‘a great common’. For those able to use the sea it acts as a highway, providing access to all areas that are bounded by the shore. For those not able to use it it also acts as a barrier, barring access more surely than any border fortress or mountain range. In its most basic sense maritime strategy is simply about the ability to use or block the superior transport capacity of the sea. Bernard Brodie articulated this in a simple, but effective fashion, writing that, ‘All naval enterprise … is directed toward the single aim of affecting the movements of the lowly freighter or transport (and landing craft) in which is carried nearly all of the commodities and the men that move across the sea’.27 The commodities that are being transported might be foodstuffs, raw materials or manufactured goods. They might be soldiers, artillery and tanks being transported to support a friendly state or to invade or avoid an enemy. They might be aircraft, missiles or shells to be employed from the sea against the shore. They might even be diplomats preparing to conduct negotiations on neutral ground. The ability to deliver goods in this way might also require them to be held in readiness at sea for an extended period. To use contemporary military parlance this capacity to move goods and personnel can be described as a potential for manoeuvre. The ways in which ‘the great common’ can be exploited are too numerous to mention here; many are examined in the following chapters. The ability to use the sea in this way and to stop an enemy from doing so has proven extremely valuable in a wide range of circumstances. Both Mahan and Corbett saw this ability as fundamental to British success in a series of wars in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Sir Herbert Richmond and Stephen Roskill, amongst others, reiterated these ideas after the First and Second World Wars.28 More recently, Colin Gray has presented a compelling case arguing that the leverage that could be generated by an ability to use the sea has been one of the most decisive tools in warfare from ancient times through to the present day.29 The ability to generate this leverage depends upon the ability to gain sufficient freedom of action at sea to achieve one’s objectives. In wartime this is usually contested and a large proportion of maritime history has been devoted to an examination of the conduct of this contest for ‘command of the sea’. This should not obscure the fact that such ‘command’ is not an end in itself but rather is a means of achieving something else. Corbett emphasised this point and stressed that total command of the sea in its entirety, at all times and for all purposes was not possible. While accepting that the attempt to secure command of the sea was the ‘object of naval warfare’ Corbett recognised that such command could be general or local, temporary or permanent but even ‘permanent general command’ could never be absolute. It would never be possible to completely remove an opponent’s ability to interfere with activity at sea. Rather than focusing exclusively on the mirage of absolute command it was more realistic to aim for a level of control sufficient to achieve ulterior objectives. Inevitably such control would be limited in time, space and degree.30 This idea provides the basis for the modern 5

IAN SPELLER

concept of ‘sea control’, defined by the Royal Navy as ‘The condition that exists when one has freedom of action to use an area of sea for one’s own purposes for a period of time and, if necessary, deny its use to an opponent’.31 It should be noted that not all strategies aspire to achieve sea control. Some focus on denying a sufficient level of control to an opponent, commonly referred to as ‘sea denial’. The U-boat campaigns in both world wars provide an example of this. Nevertheless, if one aspires to gain positive use from the sea, a measure of sea control is required. Sea control can be achieved in a variety of ways. Mahan favoured the ‘decisive battle’ as the surest and most effective way of gaining what he referred to as command of the sea. Such battles are undoubtedly spectacular and make for exciting histories but they are not the only or necessarily the best way of achieving or denying sea control. Decisive battle is not an option designed to appeal to a weaker navy. These tend to be reluctant to offer themselves up for destruction by a superior foe and may only fight if caught unawares while in the pursuit of another mission, as was Admiral Scheer on 31 May 1916, or if forced to fight to protect something of value. The Battle of Leyte Gulf in October 1944, where the Japanese Navy attempted to defeat US naval forces supporting the invasion of the Philippines, provides a good example of the latter. The result, a major US victory, is instructive. Weaker navies usually seek other ways of achieving their strategic interests, focusing on more limited uses of the sea such as sea denial, hit and run coastal raids or attacks on merchant shipping. Mahan may have been correct in identifying these as weaker strategies that offer less positive advantage than the achievement of command of the sea. However, as he recognised, it remains the case that the exercise of maritime strategy has always been far more complex that simply seeking out and destroying the main force of the enemy in a single decisive encounter. It is the purpose of this book to examine some of those complexities. The authors of BR1806 acknowledged the debt that they owed to established theorists of maritime strategy.32 Their ideas have been synthesised and presented in an accessible format that conforms with the conventions of contemporary military doctrine. One result of this process is a list of ‘distinctive operational attributes’ that are possessed by maritime forces. These attributes are described as: access; mobility; versatility; sustained reach; resilience; lift capacity; poise; and leverage.33 Of the eight factors on this list the first seven refer to the manoeuvre potential of maritime forces. It may be more accurate to suggest that these seven can be used to create access to an objective at a chosen time and place and that this can be exploited to generate leverage. The danger in creating a list such as this is that it can be used as a substitute for analysis. Not all commentators, whether civilian or military, have avoided the temptation to simply list these attributes before smugly concluding that they were displayed in full by a particular operation thereby demonstrating the enduring utility of maritime power. One is sometimes reminded of Vice-Admiral Gretton’s lament on seeing a rather hackneyed phrase in a recruiting poster, ‘… my heart sinks because another ignorant officer has been allowed to perpetuate the old aimless catchwords’.34 Principles 6

INTRODUCTION

are not laws; they are only valuable if they are used to ‘fertilise’ judgement not to replace it. They are often most valuable when they are questioned. In this respect V.H. Galbraith was correct to claim that the study of history was a matter in which ‘the activity is generally more valuable than the result.’35 The case studies in this book have been chosen in order to facilitate an examination of some of the supposed advantages of maritime power. The explicit focus on the Royal Navy reflects the book’s ancestry within the UK Joint Services Command and Staff College.36 More importantly, a study of the experience of the Royal Navy in the twentieth century offers examples of every kind of maritime activity, from wartime activities including major fleet encounters, submarine operations, carrier-air strikes against the shore and large-scale amphibious operations, to more benign activities in a constabulary or a diplomatic role. The Royal Navy’s decline from its position as the largest and most powerful in the world in 1900 to that of medium-size and power by 2000 adds additional interest to any examination of this period. The difficulty that the navy faced in achieving objectives with what were frequently very limited resources is particularly useful in a study of this nature. The twentieth century itself is a particularly interesting period to focus upon. Advances in technology changed the way in which navies operated at the tactical level, with the introduction of new assets able to operate under and over the sea and a whole host of new technology that could both threaten maritime forces and increase their offensive potential. Simultaneously, social and political developments had an impact on the way in which all military forces operated. The focus on the Royal Navy in the twentieth century provides the opportunity to examine the employment of different types of maritime power at different times, in different circumstances and for different reasons. The geographical focus for this book represents a mixture of convenience and continuity. Throughout the century the Royal Navy operated on a global scale. It is not possible to cover every aspect of its activity satisfactorily in a single volume. The concentration on the Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf reflects a continuity of British interest and Royal Navy activity that dates back centuries. It allows an examination of maritime activity in regions where the Royal Navy has a long tradition of active involvement and where it has had to face a wide variety of challenges. The British government’s 1997 Strategic Defence Review identified the Mediterranean and Gulf as areas where the future employment of British forces was likely.37 This appears to have been borne out by subsequent experience in Kosovo and in operations against Iraq in 2003. Even with the limited geographical focus of this book a large number of important operations have been omitted. This was a deliberate, and necessary, choice. The case studies have been chosen to examine specific aspects of the employment of maritime power. They are not intended to provide a history of the Royal Navy in the Mediterranean and the Gulf. The individual chapters in this book examine different campaigns and operations in order to illustrate the utility and limitations of maritime power. The challenges facing commanders in both peacetime and during war are familiar 7

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material for the maritime historian. The peculiar problems facing those who operate in the uncertain military and political environment that exists during the transitional period when hostilities are imminent but not yet declared has received less attention. Andrew Gordon examines this complex area with reference to the hunt for the German battlecruiser Goeben and the cruiser Breslau at the outbreak of World War One. He demonstrates the dilemmas and constraints facing officers placed in an unenviable position by circumstances beyond their control and identifies challenges of command that many contemporary naval officers may be able to empathise with. The challenges facing commanders in wartime are no less complex. Jon RobbWebb discusses the impact of maritime power on the Mediterranean theatre in World War Two. He examines the different means of securing sea control with specific reference to the battles of Taranto and Matapan and emphasises how organic aviation, in conjunction with the battlefleet, played a vital part in both operations. Greg Kennedy also concentrates on the war at sea in the Mediterranean in World War Two. He shows how Malta was both an asset for the Allies and also a drain on scarce resources. He establishes that naval and air forces operating from Malta played a vital role in securing Allied victory in that theatre through a combination of sea denial and maritime interdiction. The crucial role played by Royal Navy submarines is evident. Kennedy illustrates the important role that Malta played as a symbol of British resolve and capability. Maritime support for the island thus represented a diplomatic as well as a military imperative. Stephen Prince’s examination of the navy’s role during the battle for Crete in 1941 reinforces many of the issues identified by Robb-Webb and Kennedy and focuses in particular on the difficulties faced by the Royal Navy in conducting a major evacuation in the face of dominant enemy land-based air power. Christopher Tuck examines how Allied sea control, once established, was exploited to conduct a number of amphibious operations in Sicily and against the Italian mainland. He identifies successful and less successful operations, demonstrating both the strengths and limitations inherent in this mode of warfare. One of the most unusual tasks performed by the Royal Navy during the Second World War was the neutralisation of the French fleet after that country signed an armistice with Germany in June 1940. Stuart Griffin examines the circumstances that led to the tragic decision to attack the French at Mers-el-Kebir in July 1940 and that resulted in something akin to an undeclared war between Vichy France and Britain. The importance of political considerations, and indeed, political interference, in the conduct of operations is evident. Political considerations were vitally important throughout the conduct of operations during wartime. One does not need to be a student of Clausewitz to realise why this must be so. Such considerations were even more evident during the long period of ‘armed peace’ that occurred after 1945. The Royal Navy was, once again, called upon to fulfil a wide range of roles in a bewildering variety of circumstances. Geoffrey Till examines the difficult, distasteful and ultimately unrewarding task faced by ships attempting to stop illegal immigration into the 8

INTRODUCTION

British-run mandate of Palestine in the period 1945–1947. He focuses upon political and legal complexities, the problem of media coverage in addition to some of the obvious tactical challenges facing officers tasked with stopping ships that were often overloaded, unseaworthy, and whose civilian passengers could not be expected to accept their fate without a fight. Stuart Thomson studies the political and legal problems facing a navy determined to maintain its right to freedom of navigation at a time when expanding claims to offshore jurisdiction had begun to encroach on the traditional practices of maritime power. His focus on the Corfu Channel incident of 1949 is supported by an analysis of the contemporary disputes between Greece and Turkey over jurisdiction in the Aegean Sea. This remains an area of potential conflict and one where Royal Navy ships may find themselves embroiled in the future. The broader issues of maritime law that Thomson addresses will continue to have an impact upon the way in which navies operate in the twenty-first century. Chapter nine examines Operation Vantage, the reinforcement of Kuwait in the face of a perceived threat from Iraq in 1961, in order to illustrate some of the strengths and limitations of maritime forces in crisis situations short of war. In Chapter 10 Warren Chin investigates the contribution made by the Royal Navy to the support of British policy and interests in the Gulf region during the Iran–Iraq War of 1980–1987. He maintains that the navy was able to play an important role despite the limited number of assets that were deployed to that theatre and despite the difficulties of operating in a war zone while maintaining non-belligerent status. Many of the strengths and limitations of maritime forces that were evident during Operation Vantage were also evident 30 years later as the navy was once again called upon to be ready to deploy limited military force in support of government policy overseas. Andrew Dorman studies the navy’s contribution to peace support operations in recent years, analysing the changing nature of peacekeeping and peace support operations and the contribution that maritime forces can make to such activities. These case studies naturally focus on operations where maritime power played an important role. In doing so they identify areas where maritime forces could contribute towards national strategy. Both strengths and limitations are apparent. Some of these limitations were specific to a particular time and event, others may reflect something about the basic nature of maritime power. Similarly, the manner in which maritime forces contributed towards government policy in, for example, the Mediterranean in 1941 or off Kuwait in 1961 may reveal something of value to contemporary commentators and policy makers; equally it may not. The reader must decide this for themself. The aim of this book is to introduce some of the complexities involved in the application of maritime power in a range of different circumstances. It does not seek to establish laws or maxims or even principles but merely attempts to contribute to the ‘fertilisation’ of knowledge in this field. Such knowledge is likely to retain its value in a new century that has already seen maritime forces engaged on a wide variety of missions in a range of different circumstances. 9

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Notes 1 Francis Bacon, The Essays, London: Penguin, 1985 ‘Of the True Greatness of Kingdoms and Estates’, p. 154. 2 Colin Gray, The Leverage of Sea Power. The Strategic Advantage of Navies in War, New York: The Free Press, 1992 p. (ix). 3 The ideas and opinions presented by each contributor are their own and should not be taken to represent those of any third party unless explicitly identified as doing so. 4 For example, see A. T. Mahan, The Influence of Seapower upon History 1660–1783, Boston: Little Brown and Co., 1890 and, more recently, Gray, The Leverage of Seapower. Geoffrey Till discusses the issue of definitions in his most recent book. He uses the terms ‘sea power’ and ‘maritime power’ interchangeably, but distinguishes these from the more limited concept of naval power. Geoffrey Till, Seapower. A Guide for the Twenty-First Century, London: Frank Cass, 2004 pp. 2–6. 5 BR1806. British Maritime Doctrine. Second Edition, London: The Stationary Office, 1999 p. 28. 6 Julian S. Corbett, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy, London: Conway Maritime Press, 1972 ; first pub., 1911 p. 13. 7 Ibid., pp. 13–14. 8 See Michael Howard, The Causes of Wars, London: Unwin, 1985 and The Continental Commitment: The Dilemma of British Defence Policy in the Era of the Two World Wars, London: Ashfield Press, 1989. 9 Mahan, The Influence of Sea Power. 10 Ibid., pp. 1–23. 11 Corbett, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy. 12 Ibid., p. 169. 13 Ibid., esp. pp. 1–27. 14 Michael Howard, ‘The Use and Abuse of Military History’, in Journal of the Royal United Services Institute, October/November 1961, p. 10. 15 Ibid., p. 7. 16 Gray uses the term ‘sea power’. 17 Arthur Marwick, The Nature of History, London: Macmillan, 1970 p. 100. Carr used the phrase ‘inferences’ in preference to ‘principles’. 18 Geoffrey Till, ‘Sir Julian Corbett and the Twenty-First Century: Ten Maritime Commandments’, in Andrew Dorman, Mike Smith and Mathew Uttley, The Changing Face of Maritime Power, London: Macmillan, 1999 p. 19. 19 For example, see Andrew Lambert, “History is the Sole Foundation for the Construction of a Sound and Living Doctrine”: the Royal Naval College, Greenwich, and Doctrine Development down to BR1806’, in Dorman, Smith and Uttley, The Changing Face of Maritime Power, pp. 33–56. 20 BR1806 had been the reference number of the previous classified Naval War Manual issued in the 1960s. The number was retained in order to emphasise the continuity between the two documents and to set the newer version within a tradition of naval doctrine. This was obviously not something that the navy felt could be taken for granted. BR1806: The Fundamentals of British Maritime Doctrine, London: HMSO, 1995. 21 Eric Grove, ‘BR1806, Joint Doctrine and Beyond’, in Dorman, Smith and Uttley, The Changing Face of Maritime Power, pp. 57–64. 22 BR1806 2nd Edition. 23 Ibid., p. 4. 24 Ibid., p. 6. 25 Vice Admiral Sir Peter Gretton, Maritime Strategy. A Study of British Defence Problems, London: Cassell, 1965 Chapter 2.

10

INTRODUCTION

26 Ibid., p. 3. 27 Bernard Brodie, A Guide to Naval Strategy, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1944 p. 2. 28 For example, see Admiral Sir Herbert Richmond, National Policy and Naval Strength, London: Longmans, 1928 and Statesmen and Seapower, Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1946. Captain S.W. Roskill, The Strategy of Sea Power, London: Collins, 1962 and The War at Sea, 1939–1945. Volume 1 The Defensive, London: HMSO, 1954 Chapter 1. 29 Gray, The Leverage of Sea Power, passim. 30 Corbett, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy, pp. 87–104. 31 BR1806. 2nd edition, glossary. 32 In particular they mention Sir Philip Colomb, Alfred Thayer Mahan, Sir Julian Corbett and Sir Herbert Richmond. BR1806. 2nd edition, p. 33. 33 Ibid., pp. 22–27. 34 Gretton, Maritime Strategy, p. 22. 35 Marwick, The Nature of History, p. 245. 36 Readers should note that the analysis, opinions and conclusions expressed or implied in this book are those of the individual authors and do not necessarily represent the views of the Joint Services Command and Staff College, the UK Ministry of Defence or any other government agency. 37 Strategic Defence Review: Modern Forces for the Modern World, London: HMSO, 1995.

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1 THE TRANSITION TO WAR The Goeben debacle, August 19141 Andrew Gordon ‘They pay me to be an admiral.’ The arrival of the German battlecruiser Goeben and light-cruiser Breslau in Constantinople (Istanbul), the capital of neutral Turkey, a few days after the outbreak of war in August 1914, might have passed as a curiosity against the backdrop of the mobilisations and deployments going on elsewhere in Europe at the time – a strategical footnote similar in kind to Graf Spee’s flight to Montevideo 25 years later, in the opening phase of another world war. But it was to prove very much more than that. The nominal ‘selling’ of the two ships to Turkey, the appointment of Goeben’s admiral to be head of the Turkish Navy, his leading the decrepit Turkish fleet into the Black Sea to bombard Odessa and Sevastopol, Turkey’s joining the war on Germany’s side, the isolation of Russia from her western allies through the closure of the Dardanelles, the misbegotten attempt to kick open the door known as the Gallipoli campaign, and even, perhaps to some degree, the eventual collapse of the Russian war effort, all add up to make the Goeben episode seem, in retrospect, one of the most catalytic examples in history of what today would be called defence diplomacy. Because of the surreal chain of consequences, the saga of the escape of Goeben and Breslau from the British Navy, and their unexpected (even by Berlin) resort to Turkish hospitality, seem now to be laden with heavy issues of strategy and world politics. But that is hindsight. The main players at sea were, for most of the time, unconscious of treading the grand strategic stage, in the fateful slowmotion of historical determinism that we imagine. The British had to begin on the defensive and ‘make do’ on a daily basis until the wartime status quo clarified and settled down. Their job was to defend maritime supremacy – to ensure, as far as possible, business as usual on the wartime sealanes – and to do so they had to reconcile conflicting priorities and ambiguous orders, in the light of scant intelligence and obsolete political assumptions. The underlying failure lay in the Admiralty’s attention being focussed almost entirely on events that might be unfolding in the North Sea arena, rather than on the Mediterranean backwater. And behind that lay years of Whitehall complacency towards relations with

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Turkey. The direct mechanics of failure took place at the operational and even tactical levels – or rather, had things gone well at those levels, the higher issues, and all those consequences, would never have arisen.2 For naval officers, there is much in this story to give you sleepless nights, if that is what you seek. The simplistic ‘bloody fools’ explanation of events is clearly not good enough. How would you have fared? In recent conflicts, from the Falklands to Iraq, British or coalition forces have been assembled to suit the task and then deployed into theatre. It may not always happen like that. The Goeben episode is an example of an escalating crisis which had to be dealt with by the commanders and the order of battle which happened to be there at the time. War was still breaking out. On both sides, coalition teams were still forming: who was on whose side was not yet clear. Certainty had to wait for political mandates, and participation for mobilization processes. There were fast-changing neutrality issues, and hanging questions about territorial waters. And of course, in this early untested age of wireless there was endemic long-screwdriving – aggravated on the British side by the interference of the impetuous young First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill. In 1914 the great powers of Europe were polarized into two counter-balancing blocs: the Triple Alliance and the Triple Entente. The core and bulk of the Triple Alliance were the ‘central powers’: Imperial Germany and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, united by language and to a large extent by culture. The former was arriviste, thrusting, and (in its own certainty) the shape of the future; the latter was elegant, economically feeble and beset by ethnic splinter-movements. Apart from a certain moth-eaten class, the value of Austria to Germany was geography and manpower – the latter especially important to help counter the untold conscriptive resources of Russia. Austria also had a fleet, based in ports in what is now northern Italy and Croatia, which, while small by Anglo-German standards, was the largest indigenous fleet in the Mediterranean after the French. But ‘Greater Germany’, for all its strident claims to Weltpolitik and global status, was haunted by the prospect of continental encirclement. And the embrace of Italy as the third member of the alliance, along with the institution in 1912 of the German Navy’s Mittelmeer (Mediterranean) Division were both symptoms of an imperative to forestall a ring of enemies. Italy, who made the alliance ‘triple’, was at best a country member. She was not an easy ally of Austria, her traditional enemy, and was obliged to join hostilities only if one of her partners were the victim of attack. Further, having just triumphantly annexed Libya from Turkey, she would have little incentive to join a war against the main arbiters of sea control in the Mediterranean. The summer of 1914 found the Italians studying the small print. The German Mittelmeer Division consisted of just two ships, Goeben and her small consort Breslau, based as house guests of the Austrians. Notwithstanding that her sister ships Emden and Konigsberg were to run the British ragged in the empty wastes of the Pacific and Indian Oceans, Breslau was a light cruiser of no great consequence in the Mediterranean theatre. Goeben, on the other hand was a 14

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very high quality unit: the most modern operational capital ship in the Mittelmeer. Like all German battlecruisers, she was named after a Prussian general. August Karl von Goeben had been a hero of the Wars of German Unification and the Franco-Prussian War, and an associate of Helmuth von Moltke. And along with her sister-ship3 Moltke, Goeben had been Germany’s answer to the Royal Navy’s Indefatigable Class, and like all Tirpitz’s responses was superior, one for one, to her British template, being bigger, more strongly built and better armoured. Rear-Admiral Wilhelm Souchon (a German of French Huguenot descent) who flew his flag in Goeben was a restless, independent officer of considerable presence of mind. In photographs he resembles more a provincial station master than the buccaneering admiral he proved to be. Since his arrival in the Mediterranean in 1912, his peacetime terms of reference had been gloriously vague: from Austrian bases, his ships were to cruise the Mediterranean showing the Imperial German ensign and spreading German influence in as many ports and harbours as they could. In wartime, his prospects were less sunny. No-one can have supposed that his two lonely units could have much of a career ahead of them in this AngloFrench dominated inland sea, and the prospects of breaking out and getting back to Germany were as unlikely as those of being bottled up in the Adriatic with the Austrian fleet were unattractive. In fact Moltke would soon have relieved Goeben in the Mediterranean had war not broken out when it did – and Goeben was in need of relieving. She was well overdue for a refit and her boiler tubes were ripe for wholesale replacement. Souchon arranged what repairs he could from Austrian resources, but knew his flagship’s machinery would remain below par until she could reach a German dockyard. The Triple Entente, between France, Russia and Great Britain, had come into being to counter the growing threat from Germany. Until quite recently France had been Britain’s putative enemy. They had come close to hostilities over spheres of influence in North Africa (vide the ‘Fashoda incident’ in 1898), and the French building of fast armoured cruisers in the late 1890s had been a threat to circumvent the Royal Navy’s fleet strength and interdict British trade. In 1902, fear that France might combine with Russia prompted London to sign the Anglo-Japanese Alliance, to ensure that if Britain were attacked by both, her enemies would find themselves at war on both sides of the world, which was more than the Russians were likely to be bargaining for. But then, the charm offensive of King Edward VII, combined with successive German ‘Navy Laws’ and the diplomatic heavy-handedness of Kaiser Wilhelm II, focussed the two traditional enemies on their converging interests. The Entente Cordiale first became a force in European politics in 1904 – the year after Erskine Childers had scared the public with his Riddle of the Sands tale of German invasion plans against England – and then the Japanese disposed of the Russian maritime threat at Tsushima in 1905. Although substantially self-induced, the prospect of a hostile alignment of France, Britain and Russia fed the Germans’ nightmare of encirclement, and led 15

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them to place hopes in splitting up the entente: a task that might have been achievable but for the methods they employed, which conspicuously included the bluster and threat of their ‘Dreadnought’ naval race with Great Britain. The expectation that ‘the English’ would befriend Germany through fear of her navy seems, in retrospect, amazingly stupid. The logic, of course, worked in exactly the opposite way. The Germans could lose a naval battle without nationally fatal consequences; but the British, with their trade dependency and their maritime empire, could not possibly risk their command of the sea, and it was a visceral necessity that they out-build Germany with a fleet increasingly tailored to fight just that one putative enemy. Out-build, and also out-deploy. This is where informal naval conversations with the French in the Mediterranean had their role in British strategy. Nothing had been officially ratified, but an understanding had evolved from meetings in 1908 and 1912 whereby, in the event of war with the Triple Alliance, the British and French navies would, geographically speaking, specialise. The British would withdraw most of their major fighting units to home waters to concentrate against the German High Seas Fleet, while the French would accept overall maritime responsibility for the Mediterranean. There would necessarily be a handover period while the going-to-war processes ran their course, before the new arrangement could be formalized and made effective. But such was the logic of this concept, and the now implausibility of hostilities between England and France, that the inventory of the once-prestigious British Mediterranean Fleet was whittled down as the battleships were brought home. As Goeben will take us to what Churchill called ‘scandalous, crumbling, decrepit, penniless’4 Constantinople, and there change the world, it is necessary to sketch in the atmosphere in the country that would receive her. Great Britain had long been Turkey’s protector, choosing to bolster the ancient but now feeble Ottoman Empire on the flank of communications with India as a buffer zone against Russia, but had come to regard the Turks with something approaching contempt. After the Crimean War, when Britain had been part of a coalition defending Turkey from Russia, Lord Salisbury remarked ‘We have put our money on the wrong horse’ – and this casual, dismissive mind-set towards the ‘Sick Man of Europe’ persisted. In 1911 a Turkish request for a formal alliance with Britain was turned down in London. The idea was assessed as a one-way trade, carrying a high risk of onerous entanglements, which was probably correct as Greece was squaring up for another naval war in the Aegean, and Italy was annexing Libya and Cyrenaica from Ottoman rule. Unsurprisingly, in view of the procession of blows to Turkish pride, a dynamic movement of national recovery led by the Minister of War, Enver Pasha, was gaining support. The ‘Young Turks’, as they were called, saw alliance with Germany as the way ahead for their derided, put-upon country. It was in these fertile circumstances that in 1913 a German military mission led by the politically adept General Liman von Sanders arrived in Constantinople. The scene was set; and ‘from then on the Turks felt creeping over them the shadow of the oncoming day 16

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when they would have to choose sides. Fearing Russia, resenting England, mistrusting Germany, they could not decide.’5 One reason why they hesitated to follow the radical path urged by the Young Turks, was the fact the two great battleships were being built in England for the Turkish Navy. The public had scrimped and saved, women had sold their hair, to pay for these Dreadnoughts,6 which would dramatically alter the balance of power in the Aegean and (it was hoped) avenge recent humiliations at the hands of the Greeks. By the summer of 1914 the Mediterranean Station was no longer rightly a British ‘four-star’ command; but the incumbent commander-in-chief, Admiral Sir Archibald Berkeley Milne, would remain in place until the end of his due tenure, which (like Goeben’s) was only a few weeks away. The fleet now comprised eleven significant warships which fell into three groups under the broad generic title of ‘cruisers’, plus an assortment of attendant destroyers. The main punch of the fleet was supplied by three battlecruisers from Fisher’s ‘Dreadnought’ stable: Inflexible (flagship), Indomitable and Indefatigable. The first two were sisters of the more famous Invincible, the third a half-sister. They carried eight 12-inch guns, and had a turbine-driven nominal speed of around 25 knots. The next group comprised four armoured cruisers – ships of the type made obsolescent by Invincible in 1908 – Defence, Duke of Edinburgh, Black Prince and Warrior. They were slower than the battlecruisers, having inefficient reciprocating engines, and had an assortment of medium-calibre guns from 9.2 inches downwards, with primitive fire-control arrangements. In Dreadnought terms, they were big, slow, targets. Then there were four modern light cruisers, fast and nimble with 6-inch armaments – each at least the equal of Breslau – Dublin, Gloucester, Chatham and Weymouth. Admiral Berkeley Milne, the man with the ultimate in-theatre responsibility for British naval affairs, and who (being based in Malta) was the most likely Triple Entente commander to have to deal with Goeben in event of war – was the son of a distinguished First Sea Lord. He was a society dandy whose attainment of high rank was widely attributed to his long service in royal yachts. Fisher, the irascible ex-officio eminence gris of the ‘Dreadnought’ Navy, rated him ‘an utterly useless commander’ and ‘a serpent of the lowest order’. There was a heavy element of the personal in this, for Milne was, specifically, a favourite of King George V, whereas Fisher had been a confidant of Edward VII, and had lost patronage upon the latter’s death in 1910. When the new First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, whose naval apprenticeship Fisher was supervising, appointed Milne to the Mediterranean in 1912 (along with two other controversial postings), Fisher turned his face to the wall. ‘You have betrayed the navy in these three appointments’, he wrote to young Winston, ‘and what the pressure could have been to induce you to betray your trust is beyond my comprehension … I am going to transfer my body and my money to the United States ... and it’s no d-d use squealing. Adieu.’7 The unlikely pair was back, happily exchanging vitriol within a month, but many consider the old man’s views to have been vindicated in respect of Milne over the Goeben affair in the first few days of the war. 17

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There had been an incident in the 1910 manoeuvres, when the new First Sea Lord, Sir Arthur Wilson, discovered the facility of wireless, and used it to usurp tactical control of Milne’s squadron off the coast of Portugal. Milne found his ships being given their formation changes, courses, speeds and even expected landfalls by the unseen hand of ‘Old Ard Art’ in Whitehall, and remarked: ‘They pay me to be an admiral, they don’t pay me to think!’. At the time he was surely being ironic, but the story was widely told against him, and history has concurred with being unkind to him. The question of how far any competent admiral could have surmounted the confusing orders and strategical uncertainties of those few fateful days is one which has no easy answer. Milne’s precious, unapproachable personality, combined with the lofty isolation of the two-star gulf in rank between him and his next in command, undoubtedly served to obstruct any coherent ‘community of thought’ with his subordinates. His direct junior was Rear-Admiral Ernest Troubridge, who commanded the four armoured cruisers described above – the 1st Cruiser Squadron – and flew his flag in Defence. A great-grandson of Nelson’s favoured Captain Thomas Troubridge, the ‘Silver King’ was a tall, elegant, good humoured man with a fine head of silvery hair and a fine reputation as a sportsman. He was unfortunate in his private life. His first wife and a newborn child had died within a fortnight of each other; and his second wife was to prove distinctly ill-chosen, and would involve him in high scandal. But in the face of all vicissitudes, private and professional, his dignity and forbearance remained outwardly unruffled. He was an impossible man to dislike. Milne was at the British secondary base of Alexandria, in Egypt, with most of the fleet on 27 July when the Admiralty warned him that war between the Triple Entente and the Triple Alliance was not impossible, and ordered him back to Malta. He sailed at dawn on 28 July – the day Austria declared war on Serbia – and reached Malta on 29 July – the day the Czar of Russia mobilized 1.2 million troops in support of Serbia. While he was on passage Their Lordships advised him that in event of war, Italy might in fact remain neutral. They also gave him his operational priorities (version one).8 His first task would be to cover the transportation of the French North African Army from Algeria to France, by intercepting fast enemy ships, such as Goeben, which might threaten that movement, but he was not to be brought to action by superior forces, except in combination with the French. This was the first mention of the undefined phrase ‘superior force’ which was to play such a disruptive role in subsequent events, and which the most recent ‘Goeben’ author, Geoffrey Miller, adopted as his inspired title. Here, it could only have referred to the Austrian fleet (issuing out through the Straits of Otranto), but that was not actually spelt out. He was also advised that he would be told when the time had arrived to consult with the French – leaving him little chance of acting in combination with them until then. On 31 July, there were two far-away events of which Milne was unaware. In London, Churchill decided that the Sultan Osman, the first of the two Turkish 18

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battleships completing on Tyneside, was too valuable to be released into the clutches of a foreign power at this time of crisis, and wrote to Messrs Armstrong Ltd forbidding them to hand her over to her awaiting crew. A detachment of the Territorial Army with fixed bayonets placed her under guard, and in due course she was commissioned into the Royal Navy with the name Agincourt. Her rightful crew could only watch from their troopship across the river and then sail miserably home to Turkey in humiliation. The other ship, Reshadieh, was to be requisitioned in the same manner, and renamed Erin. Meanwhile in the northern Adriatic, Goeben slipped out of Trieste and headed south to join up with Breslau, which had been visiting the Albanian port of Durazzo (Dures). Rear-Admiral Souchon lacked a coherent plan, and had left harbour in some haste, without completing with coal. He knew Germany would probably soon be at war, at least with France, and if Goeben was to have any sort of impact, she must get out of the Adriatic before the British and French closed it. Worse, if he were still in Trieste when Germany joined hostilities, his little squadron would simply be absorbed into the Austrian fleet and placed under Austrian orders. Goeben met up with Breslau in Brindisi on 1 August, and set about trying to elicit coal from the Italians, who were strangely evasive. Eventually Souchon lost patience and, trusting that coal would turn up somehow,9 took his ships out of Brindisi, through the Straits of Otranto and south-west round the toe of Italy to Messina. There he found a German liner, the General, full of dignitaries bound for Tanganyka, whose jubilee they were going to celebrate. He evicted the passengers, requisitioned the ship and set about extracting her coal. It was a gruelling task, as liners were not designed for that purpose, and several hours’ hard labour left Goeben and Breslau only partially satisfied. In the early hours of the next morning, 2 August, the Admiralty learned of Goeben’s arrival in Brindisi, and after twelve hours’ delay (by which time Souchon was in Messina) informed Milne. They revised his operational priorities, in a way which confused, but did not directly contradict, their earlier wishes about French troop convoys. Goeben, they said, must be shadowed by two battlecruisers, while the approach to the Adriatic must be watched by cruisers and destroyers. This suggests the Admiralty was assuming that Goeben would leave the Adriatic, and that the cruisers and destroyers would stay behind watching the straits after she had passed through. Neither the Admiralty nor Milne yet knew that Goeben was in Messina. Milne himself was to remain near Malta to be near the end of the undersea telegraph cable from Marseilles, but it rather suggests that the Admiralty was untroubled by the prospect of Milne’s not being in tactical command should the ‘shadowing’ escalate into a battlecruiser engagement. Milne complied with these prescriptive orders in the only way possible. He despatched Troubridge to the Straits of Otranto – having briefed him about ‘superior force’, or so Milne later claimed – with his 1st Cruiser Squadron (1CS), Indomitable, Indefatigable, Gloucester and a number of destroyers. The rearadmiral left Malta at 9.00pm with his, and duly headed north-east. Chatham was 19

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sent to guard the southern approaches to the Straits of Messina, while Milne himself remained in Valletta with Inflexible, Dublin and Weymouth. In the wee small hours of 3 August the news came through that the horse had bolted from the Adriatic, and for the rest of the night there was a welter of signals (here mostly paraphrased) as senior officers tried to grasp exactly what was going on. 2.36am, Milne to Troubridge and Chatham: Goeben and Breslau arrived at Messina, 1.00pm 2nd August. 3.37am, Troubridge to Milne: Do I continue watching Adriatic? 4.23am, Milne to Troubridge: Yes, but Goeben is primary consideration. Chatham is to go through the Straits of Messina. She can then report if Goeben has gone north. 5.06am, Troubridge to Milne: Shall I send battlecruisers to westward, passing south of Sicily? 5.47am, Milne to Troubridge: Should delay until you get authentic news of Goeben. 6.50am, Troubridge to Milne: I am diverting to a position 30 miles south of Messina. If Goeben goes north I shall send battlecruisers south about Sicily and remain with cruisers. In view of uncertain attitude of Italy I am not going with the heavy ships through the Straits of Messina. Goeben and Breslau sailed from Messina, before Chatham could reach that city on her northerly passage through the narrows, headed north and vanished. Chatham reported the fact, and was told to follow and turn westwards, interrogating merchant ships as she encountered them.10 The C-in-C now realised that Troubridge’s diversion from his orders to guard the Straits of Otranto had left them unwatched. So he told Troubridge to detach Gloucester and some destroyers for that purpose, while Troubridge himself was to take the rest of his considerable force south about Sicily. At this point (9.40am, 3 August) the Admiralty decided that Milne might now talk to the French, and authorised him to make use of the contents of ‘Secret Package A’ – which comprised an English–French dictionary and a rudimentary code book. They also nudged the Admiral about the importance of picketing the entrance to the Adriatic, which they had last ordered him to do with cruisers (plural) and destroyers. Maybe they knew something about the Austrian fleet. So Milne changed his mind about Troubridge’s whole force of heavy ships going westwards, and sent: 20

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2.33pm: 1CS to support Gloucester and destroyers south of Adriatic. At 3.18pm the two battlecruisers and the four armoured cruisers parted company, the former continuing south-westwards to round Cape Pessaro in southern Sicily; the latter, with Troubridge in command, turning back ‘up threat’ towards Otranto. The sea command set-up was now topsy-turvy. The strongest British force, consisting of the battlecruisers Indomitable and Indefatigable, was under the command of Captain Kennedy of the first-named ship. The next strongest force, the four armoured cruisers, Gloucester and more than a dozen destroyers, was commanded by a two-star admiral. And the least force, Inflexible, was still in Malta with two light cruisers and a couple of destroyers, under the flag of a four-star admiral. Elsewhere, in the main European arena, on this third day of August 1914, Germany declared war on France, and Britain warned the Kaiser that she would stand by her treaty obligations to Belgian neutrality. In Scapa Flow, Sir John Jellicoe was ordered to supercede Sir George Callaghan in command of the ‘Grand Fleet’, as the combined Home Fleets were now called. That afternoon Admiral Milne sent a situation report to Their Lordships, confirming the dispositions he had ordered, down to each of his four light cruisers.11 Another generation of commanders would have scorned such a slavish, selfprotective audit-trail. He also announced that he would shift out of Valletta and take up station in the Malta Channel; and, owing the failure of the Contents of Secret Package A, he was sending Dublin to Bizerta in Tunisia with a letter for the French senior naval officer. Drafting that letter, with the necessary courtesies, no doubt consumed valuable time and effort, but Dublin left Malta in late afternoon. Somebody at the Admiralty, possibly with cigar and brandy, had been standing further back from the wallchart and concluded that Goeben and Breslau were making a break for home waters. There was no intelligence to this effect: it was gifted intuition. The Flag Officer, Gibraltar, had already been alerted to keep a ‘careful watch’ for them, and now Milne received this: 6.30pm, 3/8/14, Admiralty to Milne: The two battlecruisers must proceed to Straits of Gibraltar at high speed, ready to prevent Goeben leaving the Mediterranean. Without demurring at the havoc this wreaked with the priorities which the Admiralty themselves had orchestrated, or the possible consequences of Their Lordship’s assumptions being wrong, the C-in-C relayed the order on to Indomitable and Indefatigable, who duly wound up to 22 knots, which was their realistic maximum with peacetime manning and Indomitable in need of a refit. Chatham was to rejoin Milne. Nightfall on 3 August therefore found: ● ●

Milne, with Inflexible and Weymouth, in the Malta Channel; Indomitable and Indefatigable heading west at speed; 21

ANDREW GORDON ● ● ●

Troubridge with the armoured cruisers and Gloucester up near Corfu; Chatham completing her anticlockwise circuit of Sicily; and Dublin on passage to Bizerta.

Of the elusive German Mittelmeer Division, or indeed of the Austrian or French fleets, the British had no information. What of Goeben? Souchon learned by wireless telegraphy of the state of war with France. He had been expecting this, and was going to attack French North African ports at first light. He, like the British, assumed that the French would have troopships preparing for sea, and that Algerian harbours would be rich in targets. As he headed towards Sardinia, to get a running fix off Cape Carbonara before descending on the African coast, he received the astonishing order to make for Constantinople – Berlin erroneously believing that an alliance had been secured with Turkey. He decided to ignore it for the time being: he wanted his men to smell gun smoke before he turned east in compliance. But he did signal the liner General to leave Messina and make for the Aegean, for what her remaining coal was worth. At 5.40am Breslau briefly bombarded Bona (Annabe), and at 6.30 forty miles further west Goeben bombarded Phillipeville. There were few ships in harbour and little damage was done. The Germans then stood out to the north-west until out of sight of land, before reuniting and heading east. Thus it was that, for the British, the last day of peace began with: Received 8.50am, 4/8/14, Admiral Superintendent Malta to C-in-C Med: Eastern Telegraph Company reports message from Bona that four German ships bombarded Bona earlier this morning. Indomitable and Indefatigable, speeding westwards past Tunisia, caught versions of this in which the group for Bona was corrupted, and there ensued a semaphore debate from bridge to bridge between Captains Kennedy and Sowerby: ‘my copy read Dover – can’t be true! Could it be Oran. Perhaps it means Bona?’ Then, suddenly, dead ahead of them, on a reciprocal course, were Goeben and Breslau. They tumbled to action stations while Kennedy got off an ‘enemy’ report: 10.46am, Indomitable to C-in-C Mediterranean: Urgent. Enemy in sight [position], steering E, consisting of Goeben and Breslau. This signal did not get through, but another sent five minutes later did, although it omitted the ‘steering east’ bit, leaving Milne and (as soon as he told them) the Admiralty to assume that the drama was heading westwards. Meanwhile the dynamics of the encounter were complicated. The use of the term ‘enemy’ was strictly incorrect, for the UK and Germany were not yet at war. With guns manned, but trained fore-and-aft, the two pairs of warships rapidly closed each other. Breslau moved to cross ahead to close Goeben, but Kennedy 22

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altered to block her, and thus the British passed between the two Germans. They scanned each other’s mastheads for admirals’ flags which would require gunsalutes, but there was no British flag officer present, and Souchon had hauled his colours down (and pretended to be Russian) before the bombardment. Indomitable and Indefatigable swung round and took up station three or four miles astern of the Germans, and eased speed to match their 15 knots. Souchon was staggered. Here, bearing down on him under a huge pall of funnel smoke was the only Triple Entente force in a million square miles of Mediterranean which could (on paper) both match his speed and sink him. With war between Britain and Germany probably only hours away, was he going to pay a terrible cost for his perfunctory shore bombardment? How he must have regretted not at once obeying Berlin’s nocturnal order to turn back and make for the Turkish capital. He had somehow to get out of range before war formally broke out (or the British battlecruisers astern of him informally started it). And so, in spite of the parlous state of his boiler tubes, he set about trying to out-steam his pursuers, with a fanaticism which the British could not match. The coal heaped at the back of the furnaces in Goeben’s boiler rooms was raked forwards and the forced draught increased. Seamen ratings were ordered below to augment the ‘black gang’ digging coal and hauling trolleys. Men collapsed from heat exhaustion and dehydration, and one was scalded to death by a bursting boiler tube. Goeben’s speed steadily rose. A curious clutch of messages now emanated from the Admiralty, where Churchill had, in the Foreign Secretary’s words, ‘all his warpaint on and is dying to sink the Goeben’ – and where the German squadron was still understood to be heading west. At 11.20am Captains Kennedy and Sowerby had (rather unnecessarily) been told: ‘Hold her. War imminent.’ But Their Lordships then sent 12.10pm, Admiralty to C-in-C: If Goeben attacks French transports, you should at once engage her. You should give her fair warning of this beforehand. What is wrong with this is that, under Hague law, a French troopship was a legitimate target for a German warship given the declared state of war between their two countries, and for a (neutral) British warship to have intervened with force would have amounted to a premature declaration of war. Britain had just given Germany an ultimatum to withdraw her troops from Belgium and, however unlikely, she just might yet have complied. It is evident from the hesitant wording of the signal that Churchill was uneasy about it; and his feet got colder: he hastily sought the Foreign Office’s approval, in a form of words which pretended he had not already sent it: (Time not given) Admiralty to Foreign Office: Goeben and Breslau have been found west of Sicily and are being shadowed by Indomitable and Indefatigable. It would be a great misfortune to 23

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lose these vessels, as is possible, in the dark hours. They are evidently going to interfere with French transports who are crossing today. The following has already been sent: ‘Good. Hold her. War Imminent.’ We wish to add to this: ‘If Goeben attacks French transports, you should at once engage her.’ An immediate decision is required.12 As it happens, Winston was lucky. The Germans were going the wrong way for French troops convoys (which were not at sea anyway), and his ‘start a world war’ signal evidently did not get through until late afternoon. How the Foreign Office would have wished Kennedy to behave had it befallen him to watch Goeben attack a French troop convoy in the last hours of Anglo-German peace, is perhaps a question best not asked; but one may guess that the mere proximity of two British battlecruisers would have prevented the event. Goeben, meanwhile, had worked up to 26 or 27 knots, and the British, with their peacetime complements of stokers13 and Indomitable’s need for a bottomclean, gradually fell astern. By late afternoon, only the British light cruiser Dublin, which had joined in the pursuit fresh from Bizerta, was still keeping up, her captain, John Kelly, unimpressed by Breslau’s attempts to draw her off to the north: 4.55pm, Dublin to Indomitable and C-in-C: Breslau has parted company from Goeben. Shall I engage her? Both replies: No. Finally, at around 7.00pm, off the NW corner of Sicily, Goeben was lost sight of in the gathering dusk. Kelly was reined back, while Kennedy rested his stokers, conserved his coal and pondered what Goeben might do next. Would she double back to the west? And where should he station himself? About now an Admiralty signal, sent some five hours earlier at 2.05pm, came through, warning of war and acting on (what one assumes to have been) the Foreign Office’s reply to Churchill’s earlier cavalier request: Admiralty to C-in-C: British ultimatum to Germany is due to expire midnight GMT tonight. No act of war should be committed before the War Telegram to commence hostilities is despatched. This cancels the authorisation to engage Goeben if she attacks French transports. Meanwhile Admiral Sir Archibald Berkeley Milne had been redeploying. He sent the light cruisers Chatham and Weymouth westwards to guard the Pantellaria Channel, and he moved off his patch in the Malta Channel and set out to join the other battlcruisers NW of Sicily. He was probably nervous of meeting Goeben with just Inflexible (if so he was right), and there was the question of coal. The 24

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French authorities in Bizerta had offered coaling facilities via Dublin this morning; and if one of Kennedy’s two ships went in for that purpose, the other would have been left on her own. He apprised his command of his movements in a general signal at 9.00pm, and adding that the 1st CS (Troubridge, up near Otranto) ‘will remain watching the Adriatic but is not to get seriously engaged with superior force’. Apart from the addition of ‘seriously engaged’, this was the same undefined stricture that the Admiralty had imposed five days ago, but that new phrase contained a tiny, opaque, hint that Serious Force meant the Austrian Fleet and not Goeben, for only in respect of the former would Troubridge’s 21 knot speed enable him to control how seriously he got engaged. It was not hint enough for Troubridge. Goeben arrived back in Messina at 1.00pm on 5 August; Breslau about an hour later. Souchon was in a serious fix. He was clearly not still being closely followed by those two battlecruisers, but he was in the dead centre of a very Anglo-French sea, and was, loosely speaking, surrounded. Worse, his order to sail to Constantinople was now countermanded: Berlin had misread the signals from the Turkish Cabinet, which was deeply divided about siding with Germany. Souchon called for help from the Austrians, but they were still manning up with reservists and so on, and were unready for sea. Nor were they interested in getting embroiled in a precipitate battle with the combined French and British fleets (as they imagined) to rescue a foolhardy German whose adventurism had gone wrong. What was he to do? Had Milne’s main force been visible out in the strait – and Fisher thought they should have closed Messina and trained their guns over the breakwater – he might have had to consider the course of action adopted by Graf Spee’s Captain Hans Langsdorf 25 years later. But ‘out there’ there was nothing. After several hours an Italian port official came on board and reminded them that, as belligerents in a neutral port, under international law they were obliged to leave within twenty-four hours of arrival. Souchon argued that the twenty-four hours should count from notification rather than arrival, and gained a few hours thereby. Meanwhile he set about trying, by bluster and bribery, to replenish his depleted coal stocks from any obliging merchant ship which happened to be in harbour, a task not helped by the fact that, on his own orders, the General was on her way to the Aegean. He later denied the tale that he drank the skipper of a British collier under the table for his coal, but that was the kind of legend that attached to him.14 Some of the ships had to be cut open to get at their bunkers, and for a day and a half in the blistering heat of August, amid a choking cloud of coal dust, his men slaved with steam hoists, shovels and barrows. The drama being acted out in the Mediterranean passed virtually unnoticed by the British public, in the excitement of going to war and the expectation of a new Trafalgar in the North Sea. The Daily Mail for 5 August had long columns on the Grand Fleet, and new admiralissimo, Sir John Jellicoe (the ‘Kitchener of the Navy’), with comparison with the German High Seas Fleet and prognoses as to the likely outcome of a meeting. There were just two lines to the effect that ‘A German 25

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warship attacked the French port Bona in Algeria.’ But for the people of Messina, this was the greatest excitement they had ever had. Crowds gathered on the waterfront, as in Montevideo in 1939, and pestered the Germans for souvenirs. Vendors sold ice-cream and postcards, and priests said prayers for those about to die. But what of the British? Milne effected the rendezvous of his three battlecruisers near Pantellaria at 11.00am on the 5th, and dawdled towards Bizerta whither he detached Indomitable to go in and coal. The light-cruiser Dublin (Joe Kelly) he sent to reinforce Troubridge after coaling in Malta on the way. Meanwhile a sistership, Gloucester (Joe’s brother Howard Kelly) was detached from Troubridge and sent to picket the southern approaches to the Straits of Messina. On arrival her captain was able to confirm Goeben’s proximity from the strength of her Telefunken W/T transmissions. Milne now asked the Admiralty an entirely reasonable question: ‘Is Austria neutral?’ (Nobody had thought to tell him.) The reply he got was more correctly phrased: 12.30pm, Admiralty to C-in-C: Austria has not declared war against France or England. Continue watching the Adriatic for double purpose of preventing the Austrians from emerging unobserved and preventing the Germans from entering. This second sentence contains a stronger hint that only the Austrian fleet was to be regarded as superior force, but it is not clear whether Milne passed it on verbatim to Troubridge, and, if he did, whether it would have been explicit enough. That afternoon the C-in-C received a curious statement (a question, really) from Troubridge: ‘If I encounter Goeben, I will attempt to draw her into narrow waters where I can engage her at our range.’ This was actually a cry for advice from a rear-admiral unsure of how he should use his armoured cruisers. Milne’s reply seems strongly to suggest that Goeben was superior force after all (an intended meaning which the admiral furiously denied afterwards): Received 7.19pm, Milne to Troubridge: In event of meeting Goeben use destroyer flotilla night work. Dublin will coal Malta. Give directions to Dublin where to join. The morning of 6 August found things much the same as yesterday. Indomitable was delayed in her coaling in Bizerta, and Kennedy, on enquiring after those vaunted troop convoys, was amazed to be told that there were no convoys at risk, that the French fleet was at sea in strength, and would the British like some cruisers to help them catch Goeben? At midday Milne gave up waiting for Indomitable and decided to close up to the Lipari Islands, about forty miles NW of Messina. At 2.00pm Joe Kelly, in Dublin, left Malta as per schedule and headed ENE, with two destroyers, Beagle and Bulldog in company. He had not got very far by early evening when a signal which changed everything was received from his brother in Gloucester: 26

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Received 6.13pm, Gloucester to Troubridge and Milne: Goeben [at south end of Strait] steering east. When Milne, steering east off the north-west coast of Sicily, received this, he reversed course and started round the island anti-clockwise. He would have carried on to Messina and thence south in distant pursuit of Goeben, but for the fact that the Straits are less than two miles wide and the Admiralty had cautioned him to be scrupulous about the territorial waters of neutral Italy. Soon another signal came in from Gloucester reporting that Breslau was in station one mile astern of Goeben. The Germans passed inshore of Gloucester without reacting to the cruiser’s presence, and Howard Kelly took up shadowing station as light faded into dusk. Goeben should have tried to damage the British cruiser while she had a chance, but she was expecting to shake her off during the night. In the meantime she tried to jam her transmissions, but by switching frequencies Howard Kelly would get eighteen signals through in the next six hours. At 8.00pm the Germans rounded Cape Spartivento and turned north-east towards the Straits of Otranto and Troubridge, with Gloucester sticking like glue and a full moon rising in the east. At 8.30, from the other end of Sicily, Admiral Milne chipped in with a tall order to Dublin, which was on passage across the Ionian sea, a hundred miles on the enemy’s starboard quarter: ‘Get position course and speed of Goeben from Gloucester. If possible sink him tonight.’ It has to be said that this generation of naval officers, with all their new weaponry, were only now beginning to ‘test the envelope’ as to what was, and was not achievable. With a great deal of luck (or radar) Dublin, Beagle and Bulldog just might have torpedoed Goeben; but with the enemy’s current course and speed Joe Kelly could not possibly have caught up until an hour after dawn. The Admiralty now tried to be helpful: ‘If Goeben goes south from Messina, you should follow through Straits, irrespective of territorial waters.’ But Milne was by now committed to his intended track to the south of Sicily. Breslau now began jigging about to draw Gloucester off Goeben’s scent, but had no more success than she had had with Dublin two days ago. In this process, Howard Kelly got himself between the two German ships in the near-darkness, and was unaware of Breslau’s altering to the south-east at around 10.15pm, but he did not fail to spot, and report, Goeben’s similar turn at 10.30. Souchon had only been feinting towards the Adriatic. He knew a substantial British force was guarding the Straits of Otranto (shipping in Messina will have told him that), and he was resolved to go to Turkey in spite of his revised orders. He had hoped to shake off his tail before changing direction, but further delay would increase the risk of running into Troubridge, and Souchon also knew that the state of his machinery would prohibit speeds similar to those achieved on the afternoon of the 4th. This night his ship never exceeded 20 knots, and averaged around 17. Up in the north-east, near Corfu, Troubridge responded by turning his four armoured cruisers southwards and working up to 20 knots. His purpose was to 27

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cross Goeben’s bows at dawn. The Germans’ change of direction of course put Dublin firmly back in the plot: Joe Kelly was steaming, in effect, along one side of a triangle to Goeben’s two, and he was now well placed to try to carry out Milne’s (at the time impossible) order to try to sink her. He pressed on, plotting his brother’s reports. His two destroyers (by no means the most modern) were flaming from their funnels, and Beagle burst one of her boiler tubes but maintained station. At 2.30am he discerned a pale grey shape down moon to the north of him: Dublin to Milne and Troubridge: My [position couse & speed]. Goeben right ahead. Kelly did not realise that the ship in his sights was actually Breslau, and he set about trying to attain a torpedo-firing position. Meanwhile, astern of Goeben, Gloucester had been plotting Dublin’s reported positions, and at 2.57 Howard Kelly broke the news to his brother that he must be dealing with Breslau and not with Goeben. Joe Kelly now jilted Breslau (perhaps fortunately for Sub-Lieutenant Doenitz, one of her watchkeepers) and set about trying to find Goeben. About now an extraordinary scene was taking place in Ernest Troubridge’s cabin in Defence. The squadron, pounding southwards, had relaxed from actionstations for a few hours, and the rear-admiral was resting on his bunk. At 2.45am there came a knock at his door and his flag captain, Fawcett Wray asked if he could come and talk. Wray was a respected gunnery expert: one of the technicians who had ridden the wave of innovation in the Edwardian Navy. He sat down and said: ‘Sir, are you really going this do this?’Troubridge replied that he did not like it, especially as they would be out-ranged and up-light, but he felt he had no honourable choice. Wray asked what his reputation mattered against the suicide of the squadron. The flag-captain was taking a very one-dimensional view of the problem, with direct comparisons, always to the disadvantage of the 1st CS, of the basic known statistics of the opposing sides. Goeben’s speed, armour, shell size or gun range was this, against merely that for the armoured cruisers. He left to see the navigator, but returned later with a technical explanation of what (in his view) would happen if they took on Goeben. The term operational analysis had not been invented in 1914, but OA was what Wray was trying to do, on the back of an envelope if not with a computer. No-one was better qualified, and to a non-specialist like Troubridge, his advice counted for much. Finally, the rear-admiral, in tears, said ‘Very well, then. I shall turn away!’ As Wray left, he said: ‘Sir, this is the bravest thing you have ever done.’ Hence, the following signal from Troubridge (from close to the position in which Illustrious would fly off her Swordfish to attack Taranto in 1940): 4.49am, 7/8/14, to Milne: Being only able to meet Goeben outside the range of our guns and inside 28

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his, I have abandoned the chase with my squadron. Goeben evidently going to the Eastern Mediterranean. This crossed a similar signal from Dublin: 4.40am, to Milne and Troubridge: My position [lat & long], course N27E, speed 24 knots. Chased Breslau S55E, then turned to attack Goeben but failed to find her. What appears to have happened is that Joe Kelly, manoeuvred north from Breslau, and turned west, hoping to have placed Goeben up-moon, but while his attention was mostly focussed to port, the German battlecruiser slipped by down moon to starboard. When it became clear that he had missed her, he simply turned northwards towards the Straits of Otranto, where he must have thought he would still find his boss, Troubridge, as if this local affair was no longer his business. There are four good reasons why he should have turned round towards the SSE and followed Goeben, whose course and speed he knew from his brother’s signals: ●

●

●

●

At this stage of affairs, he should have been looking to the enemy (rather than his own previous instructions) for his orders. Together the two Kellys would have decisively outgunned Breslau, and with his two destroyers in company, even Goeben would have had to treat them with circumspection. Gloucester had been at sea for several days and was using coal at a rate of one ton every five minutes. Dublin was fresh from Malta with full bunkers. The time was fast approaching when brother Howard would have to hand over to someone. One can only suppose that this night was the genesis of the notorious hostility that lasted between the Kelly brothers for the rest of their lives. Finally, if John was so keen to find Troubridge, the surest way to do that should have been to stick with Goeben, but we know what had gone wrong there.

Howard Kelly stayed on Goeben’s case, alone. In early afternoon, Goeben began to stretch out ahead, so he attacked Breslau, causing the battlecruiser to drop back in support. This brief exchange represented the only British gunsmoke in the Goeben episode. By now Gloucester was steaming on little more than coal dust. Finally, when the Germans rounded Cape Matapan, Kelly halted and, not far from the spot where the next HMS Gloucester was sunk by Stukas in 1941, turned slowly back towards Kephalonia after twenty-four hours of classic cruiser work – but not before the wardroom furniture had been consigned to the boilers. Archibald Berkeley Milne, meanwhile, had arrived in Malta with Inflexible and Indefatigable at noon, shortly followed by Indomitable, and coaled. It was later revealed that none of his ships had less than 2000 tons already on board – 29

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enough to steam to Beirut and back at full speed. Soon after midnight he left Grand Harbour and steered eastwards at an economical 15 knots. He was halfway across the Ionian Sea on 8 August when a hair-raising farce took place. A breathless signalman arrived on the compass-platform of Inflexible with this: Admiralty to all ships: Commence hostilities at once against Austria Milne at once turned north towards Troubridge and the mouth of the Adriatic. But the signal was a mistake: an Admiralty clerk had busied himself in times of slack by drafting signals the need for which could be foreseen, and this one had been found on his desk by his relief and rushed to the signals office. An hour and a half later, the signalman was back on Inflexible’s bridge: Admiralty to C-in-C Med: Negative my telegram hostilities against Austria. Acknowledge. Urgent Milne continued northwards while he sought clarification: To Admiralty: Am I to understand last Admiralty telegram cancels orders to commence hostilities against Austria? 5.35pm, Admiralty to C-in-C Med: Yes Their Lordships followed this with an attempt to save face by saying how serious the Austrian situation was, which Milne took as a chance to escape from the Goeben problem. In truth, there seemed little mischief Souchon could do in the Levant: he would surely just have to come back and run the gauntlet again. The main threat was the Austrian fleet. On 9 August, however, Their Lordships attempted to readdress him to finding Goeben, but it was far too late. Even then Souchon was bluffing his way through the Turks’ Dardanelles minefield, with the complicity of Enver Pasha. The rest is, well, history. We might reflect that it took Nelson a long time to find the French both before Aboukir in 1798 and Trafalgar in 1805; but we are driven to fix blame for Goeben partly by hind-knowledge of Gallipoli and the 50,000 Allied dead. We seek the security of ‘knowing’ what went wrong. And there are plenty of opportunities for blame. Mistakes in policy or wrong decisions can be identified at four rank levels from the Admiralty down to captain, and while circumstantial alibis can be put forward for the lower three of those levels, all to some extent had too slavish a regard for orders from above. Young naval officers writing essays on the subject sometimes completely change their villains in the course of the writing, and have to start again. 30

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The buck should have stopped with Milne as C-in-C. Fisher called him ‘Sir Berkeley Goeben’ and thought he should be shot. But Milne did his best to pass the buck downwards, with some measure of success, and Their Lordships refused to court-martial him – it is said, to keep the lid on the worm-jar. It was Troubridge, not he, who was brought to trial. Troubridge got off the charge of negligence in pursuing an enemy ‘then flying’. Nobody could doubt his personal courage or commitment to the good name of the Royal Navy. He had not clearly failed his orders. He had met both parts of the Admiralty’s order of 5 August (if he received it) to ‘continue watching Adriatic for double purpose of preventing Austrians from emerging unobserved and preventing Germans entering’ – and done so without casualties. The irony is that if he had, as he intended, blocked Goeben’s path at dawn on 7 August , Souchon would probably have turned round and made for the Adriatic, knowing that its door was now unguarded. Turkey might not then have been pushed by the pace of unplanned events into war on Germany’s side, and Troubridge would have failed. The ‘command’ issues which arise from the story are many. One – especially relevant in this era of estimate processes – will be touched on here: the functional relationship between a commander and his staff. Given his specialist expertise, Fawcett Wray was only doing his duty in presenting Troubridge with the ‘OA’ estimate that he did. Troubridge, however should have been aware of where Wray was ‘coming from’, professionally speaking, and placed his advice in a wider operational–strategic context. There were other ways of addressing Goeben than that depicted by Wray, as Henry Harwood would demonstrate with Graf Spee in 1939. And, even in 1914, many officers in the service held Wray’s advice, and Troubridge’s taking it, to have been the key link in the chain of errors which let down the Royal Navy in the Goeben debacle. In 1759 Edward Hawke was quite rightly urged by his navigator not to pursue the French Fleet into Quiberon Bay in a following gale and without charts. Hawke thanked him for his advice and overrode it, to win a great victory. In 1941 Andrew Cunningham’s staff gave him several very sound reasons why he should not take the battlefleet towards an unidentified enemy in the dark. Cunningham, in his words, listened respectfully (they recalled it differently) and went ahead anyway, to win the night action of Matapan. Regrettably, Hawke was not in the Mediterranan in 1914, and Cunningham was there only as the lowly commanding officer of the destroyer Scorpion.

Notes 1 The writer has been using the Goeben debacle as a case study of ‘Crisis Escalation and Command Dilemmas’ for senior naval and joint courses in the UK since 1997. This chapter is heavily drawn from that presentation . 2 There are several excellent books on the Goeben episode, such as: Redmond McLaughlan’s The Escape of the Goeben, London: Seeley Service, 1974, Dan Van der Vat’s The Ship that Changed the World. The Escape of the Goeben to the Dardanelles in 1914, London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1985 and Geoffrey Miller’s Superior Force.

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3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

The Conspiracy Behind the Escape of Goeben and Breslau, Hull: Hull University Press, 1991. Less specialised are Julian Corbett, History of the Great War Naval Operations. Vol. 1, London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1920, Paul Halpern, A Naval History of World War One, London UCL Press, 1994. The author is indebted to all of them, and all are commended to the reader. In point of fact, German ships are masculine. Winston Churchill, World Crisis, 5 vols in 6. New York, Scriber’s, 1923–31. Barbara Tuchman, August 1914. The First Month of the First World War, London: Papermac, 1988. See Richard Hough, The Big Battleship, London: Michael Joseph, 1966. Arthur Marder, Fear God and Dread Nought: the correspondence of Admiral of the Fleet Lord Fisher of Kilverstone, Vol. II, London: Jonathan Cape, 1965. pp. 451–2. Signals, and paraphrases of signals, are drawn from the Naval Staff records, such as Monograph 4 of the Naval Staff Monographs Vol.1, for which I thank Captain Chris Page of the Naval Historical Branch. There was alleged to be a German collier (or two) in the Balearics. Few merchantmen had W/T in 1914. Signal of 5.10pm In official post-war Admiralty listings this message is actually placed (without time notation) before the ‘Good. Hold her. War imminent’ signal, which is obviously impossible. Goeben also had a peacetime scheme of complement, but may have stood down from action-stations to supply seamen for the stokehold . News of the state of war between Britain and Germany took a while to reach every merchant ship.

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2 SEA CONTROL IN NARROW WATERS The Battles of Taranto and Matapan Jon Robb-Webb This chapter explores the way in which two battles during the Second World War contributed to securing control of the Mediterranean. It also raises issues concerning the role of airpower, both land and sea based, in this process. The campaign reveals the interrelationship between the three services: army, navy and air force. The entire Mediterranean campaign was dependent upon seapower. If one or other side was able to achieve command of the sea then it would be able to utilise the sea for the transportation of military forces and war material and deny this to its opponent. The Mediterranean could be used as a medium to bring a nation’s military power to bear upon the land washed by the sea. Alfred Thayer Mahan, the American naval theorist, writing at the end of the nineteenth century, argued that the primary function of a navy was to secure one’s own means of sea communications. ‘If navies, as all agree, exist for the protection of commerce, it inevitably follows that in war they must aim at depriving their enemy of that great resource.’1 Mahan declared: It is not the taking of individual ships or convoys, be they few or many, that strikes down the money power of a nation; it is the possession of that overbearing power on the sea which drives the enemy’s flag from it, or allows it to appear only as a fugitive; and which by controlling the great common, closes the highways by which commerce moves to and from the enemy’s shores.2 For Mahan this was ideally achieved through a decisive battle that would remove the threat from an opponent’s battlefleet, thereby rendering to the victor command of the sea. This command of the sea and the subsequent ability to control sea communications was to be the Royal Navy’s preoccupation during the Second World War. The strategic, operational and tactical advantages that flowed from command of the sea were immense. As the Navy’s official historian put it: [C]ontrol of sea communications [is the ability to] enable our trade convoys, our troopships, our cargo vessels and tankers, our coasters

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and fishing vessels and, indeed, all forms of traffic upon the surface of the sea to pass on its way unhindered.3 Sea lines of communication were the medium through which Allied industrial power was brought to bear on the Axis. The struggle to control sea communications through the Mediterranean was at the core of the naval war waged by both the Royal Navy and the Axis partners. The movement and disruption of convoys carrying men, material and fuel set the strategic parameters of the entire Mediterranean campaign. Appreciating the varying degree of strategic priority accorded the war in the Mediterranean by its participants is vital to any understanding of what took place. For the Germans the campaign was little more than a sideshow, for the Italians it was central. Hitler saw Germany’s future in the east; Mussolini sought to dominate the Middle Sea in order to create another Roman Empire. This divide was mirrored to a degree on the Allied side. The United States saw the Mediterranean as a distraction from the major task of crossing the channel and striking directly into the heart of Nazi Germany. In contrast, for the British, defeat in North Africa could mean the sequential loss of Egypt and the Suez Canal route to the rest of the Empire, the domination of the Levant by a hostile power and ultimately, the fall of the Middle Eastern oilfields. The threat from Fascist Italy was in marked contrast to the beginning of the century. During the First World War Britain and Italy were allied together. Italy focused her main energies fighting the Austrians, whilst the British with enormous support from the Empire, expended their attention in the Mediterranean on countering German support for the Ottoman Empire. The main event as far as the Royal Navy was concerned, however, did not take place in the Mediterranean but rather in the North Sea: Jutland. The Navy’s anticipation was that there would be a decisive clash between two battlefleets giving the victor command of the sea. The belief that dominated naval thinking on the eve of the conflict was that the goals of the war at sea could, would, and ought to be settled by a single, all destructive clash between massed battlefleets.4 The debate over who won, who lost, and who was at fault at Jutland, began almost immediately. The controversy that raged for years after the war between the pro-Jellicoe and pro-Beatty camps produced more heat than light on the subject, much of the literature that was produced was an attempt to second guess Jellicoe’s choices in the difficult circumstances of Jutland. The debate became as much a political squabble as an attempt at serious analysis and was gravely hampered in consequence. The argument did, however call into question the organisation and tactics that had created those difficult circumstances, and in that way was instrumental in exposing Royal Navy surface doctrine to overdue critical scrutiny. The Jutland experience began to influence British doctrine for the better even before the First World War ended – Jellicoe’s cautious but actual reforms of the Grand Fleet’s Battle Orders in the months following the battle were the start of a journey that would lead to undoubtedly impressive performances in the 34

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Mediterranean twenty-five years later. ‘By 1918, the Royal Navy was already well on the way to a more flexible and offensive-minded system.’5 The establishment of the RN’s Tactical School in 1924 and the publication of the German official history the following year, created an environment in which the annual large scale simulation of the battle was rigorously examined. The main fleets continuously exercised with new tactics and styles of battle between fleets. ‘The result of these academic and practical studies was a steady pattern of improvement in Royal Navy surface doctrine from the 1920s through 1939.’6 Writers from both within the service and outside debated the role of surface action in naval warfare, the effect that aircraft would have on war at sea, the continuing relevance of seapower and a host of other topics in an effort to prepare for the future. Doubts were cast on the continuing utility of the battleship. Commander Russell Grenfell, in his 1938 book Seapower and the Next War,7 argued that air power would constrain the freedom of action enjoyed by capital ships and consequently undermine their utility. Grenfell drew a comparison between the cautious employment of the battlefleet during the First World War in the face of underwater threats and a likely repeat in the face of the new threat from airpower. The Admiral of a surface fleet who pins his faith to the orthodox gun duel between the rival battleships is likely to be as anxious to expose his ships to the untoward consequences of sporadic air attack as his predecessors of the Great War were to brave the risks of submarines and mines.8 The uncertainty surrounding the operational and tactical use of naval forces during the inter-war period was further complicated by a difficult and constraining grand strategy. In the aftermath of the First World War Britain faced a severe problem of imperial overstretch; the policing of an Empire that now included expanded League of Nations mandates at the same time as severe economic restrictions on defence expenditure. During the inter-war period the Royal Navy’s main focus was turned toward the Pacific where Japanese expansion provided a naval opponent to be countered. The Royal Navy’s strategy following the series of naval arms limitation treaties during the 1920s, was to develop Singapore as a major fleet base from which the Navy could protect the British Empire in the Far East. It was the conclusions of the Defence Requirements committee in 1934 that led to the Mediterranean becoming the focus of British sea power. It proposed that, because Britain could not fight widely separated enemies such as Germany and Japan, the Mediterranean had to be the pivot point. It is also evident that, as a result of the more ominous threat posed by Germany, a European focus was inevitable and entirely sensible. It was to be the Mediterranean rather than the Pacific that the Royal Navy would put into practice the battlefleet tactics and operations that had been developed during the inter-war period. The Mediterranean was the scene of a succession of crises that confronted Britain during the 1930s: an aggressively expansionist Fascist Italy; a state of 35

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simmering civil war between Arabs and Jews in Palestine; a growing movement objecting to Britain’s presence in Egypt; the Spanish Civil War; as well as nationalist and separatist tensions in Yugoslavia. All of these drew the Royal Navy more deeply into the region as it provided support for the Government’s foreign policy. Italy invaded Albania on Good Friday, April 1939, gaining a foothold in the Balkan peninsula and controlling both shores at the entrance to the Adriatic. During the last months of peace in Europe a German squadron visited Spain, causing some anxiety within the Royal Navy. Germany and Italy had both actively supported the Spanish Fascists during the Civil War and the prospect of antiBritish naval forces operating from Spanish bases was a major concern. Italy had also been extending her power through the seizure of territory in North Africa as well as the Aegean. The grand strategic picture was further complicated by the uncertain position of other important countries. Although agreement had been reached with France to the effect that its Navy would be responsible for the western Mediterranean and the Royal Navy the eastern, there was the very real danger of Japan actively joining the Axis powers. This would have placed Britain’s Far Eastern possessions under threat. Britain’s inter-war plan for dealing with such a threat was the dispatch of a sizeable naval force to Singapore. These assets would have to be drawn from the Mediterranean, leading to a precarious situation that the French Navy might not have been able to maintain. The Nazi–Soviet non-aggression pact had effectively removed a major worry to Germany and created in British minds the possibility that Germany might attempt to establish itself in the eastern Mediterranean and dispute British control. When War finally broke out over Poland in September 1939, Italy remained neutral. Whilst she stayed out of the conflict the Royal Navy could continue to utilise Malta as a base. However, the island’s vulnerability to land-based air attack from the Italian mainland made such a base untenable if Italy entered the war. Consequently the Royal Navy looked to Gibraltar and Alexandria as their principal fleet bases in the western and eastern Mediterranean, respectively. Alexandria had been utilised as a main fleet base during the Abyssinian crisis in 1935–36 but in 1939 remained primarily a commercial port. As a first measure a battleship floating dock was installed in July 1939. During the autumn some 800 men were employed there, rising later to 2500.9 The majority of the work carried out sustaining the British presence was undertaken by the repair ship HMS Resource until 1942 when various Admiralty repair shops came into being. The Royal Navy’s C-in-C Mediterranean was Admiral Sir Andrew B. Cunningham. He had taken over from Admiral Pound in June 1939 when Pound took up the Navy’s senior office, First Sea Lord. Although Cunningham had been in post only three months when Britain declared war on Germany he had plenty of experience serving in the Mediterranean, including a year as Rear-Admiral Commanding Mediterranean destroyers during the Abyssinian Crisis. 36

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Cunningham’s strategic objectives should war against the Axis break out were: first, the destruction of the Italian Fleet and merchant vessels, and German ships if they too appeared, denying the former access to her North African possessions; second, support to the Army in North Africa or any expedition it might undertake; third, the safe conduct of British and Allied merchant ships through the Mediterranean and Red Sea; finally, the prevention of enemy attack by sea on Gibraltar, Malta, Cyprus, Egypt or the Levant coast. In August 1939 HMS Warspite left Malta for Alexandria flying the flag of Cin-C Mediterranean. Germany’s signing of a non-aggression pact with the Soviet Union on 23 August was taken as a clear indication of imminent hostilities, and Britain began preliminary mobilisation and the Admiralty assumed control of all merchant shipping. On the 27 August shipping through the Mediterranean was suspended because of uncertainties over Italy’s attitude. The following day Britain renewed her pledge to Poland and on 29 August, the Admiralty ordered the fleet to mobilise. Germany’s invasion of Poland on 1 September 1939 was followed three days later by Britain’s declaration of war. At this time both Japan and Italy declared their intentions of remaining out of the conflict, announcing neutrality and non-belligerence respectively. As a result British naval forces were not dispatched to the Far East and a general easing of tension surrounded the situation in the Mediterranean. At this stage, September 1939, the balance of forces in the Mediterranean was as shown in Table 1. The Mediterranean’s importance has always been connected with the transport of commercial goods and military force and the Second World War was to be no different. The naval actions in the Mediterranean between 1939 and 1943 were concerned with the movement of convoys, either their protection or their destruction, directly or indirectly. Table 1 The balance of forces in the Mediterranean i Country

Battleships

Aircraft carriers

8-inch 6-inch Destroyers cruisers cruisers and torpedo boats

Submarines

Escort vessels

Great Britain

3

1

3

3

44

9

4

France

3

1

6

4

37

55

8

Italy

4

–

7

12

111

101

10

Spain

–

–

1

5

29

5

42

Greece

–

–

1

1

23

6

–

Turkey

–

–

–

2

4

6

–

Yugoslavia

–

1

–

–

8

4

–

(small) i

Confidential Book 3302 (1) Naval Staff History of the Second World War, Mediterranean Vol. 1 Sept 1939–Oct 1940, Historical Section Admiralty 1952. p. 8.

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While the Italian fleet remained neutral the Royal Navy’s primary task became the interception of German shipping and cargoes and the protection of Allied shipping. Convoys were instituted for all shipping under 15 knots. Vessels faster than 15 knots were to proceed independently, zigzagging to disrupt submarine attacks during daylight. Convoys leaving Gibraltar and heading west toward Alexandria were designated Green, those travelling the opposite direction were designated Blue, the first ones leaving their respective ports on 7 and 9 September. From spring 1940 until the invasion of Sicily, all except the fastest shipping was diverted from the Mediterranean to the long haul round the Cape.10 Between November 1939 and March 1940 the Mediterranean theatre had an uneasy calm about it. There was no tangible evidence of German U-boat activity in the theatre: such sightings by aircraft or contact by ASW surface vessels as there was, were considered most likely to have been Italian boats engaged in reconnaissance patrolling. The main burden of activity consequently fell to Allied light forces that were employed in contraband control or escort duty. As a result the British reduced their battleship and modern cruiser strength. This period of relative calm was not to last. Italy declared war on Britain and France on 10 June 1940. Two weeks later France was forced into capitulation. This immediately pulled the rug out from under the Anglo-French naval plans for the containment of Italy. The Royal Navy now had to contain Italy’s modern battlefleet with no outside assistance. German success on land had entirely changed the strategic situation at sea in the Mediterranean. It was not just the Italian Navy that the Royal Navy had to contend with. Italy’s geographic position meant that her air power could play an equally important role in the struggle for command of the sea. Pre-war Italian thinking concerning the role of airpower is usually associated with the work of General Giulio Douhet. Douhet was undoubtedly one of the foremost theorists of the new dimension of warfare. He advocated the development of a strategic bomber force which could bypass the armed forces of an opponent and strike directly at the heart of an enemy society, population and industrial centres, thereby compelling him to surrender. This independent role for air forces militated against co-operation with both the army and navy. In addition the place accorded airpower in Fascist Italy reinforced the conception that inter-service co-operation was unnecessary. The Regia Aeronautica was seen as the embodiment of Mussolini’s regime. It was the modern way of warfare and represented Fascist Italy’s desire to been seen as an advanced forward-looking state. High altitude bombing from bases in the north of Italy across her Alpine border was the principal envisaged role of the Italian Air Force during the inter-war period. Such methods were particularly ineffective when it came to attacking naval surface forces. The test of war demonstrated the difficulties in hitting ships from high altitude and the relatively lightweight bombs utilised did little damage to armoured warships. The failure to develop an adequate torpedo bombing force can be seen as a consequence of the Regia Aeronautica’s focus on strategic bombing. The Italians therefore entered World War Two with no doctrine for joint action between the Navy and the Regia 38

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Aeronautica, despite a belief that airpower could be decisive at sea and that airpower could be land based. Cunningham’s primary aim in the Mediterranean was to deny Italy the ability to sustain and reinforce her position in North Africa. This was not an easy task. Geography gave the Italians a more favourable strategic position than the British. The southern Italian sources of supply were little more than 300 miles from their destination (Benghazi and Tripoli). In contrast the Royal Navy’s use of Alexandria as the main fleet base, twice this distance, could allow carefully timed Italian convoys to reach their goal before the British could intervene. In addition land-based aircraft could provide air cover. As Greene and Massignani point out, Italy’s geographic position in the central Mediterranean permitted her to influence, if not control, most east–west shipping movement.11 Julian Corbett wrote that ‘an inferior fleet will normally avoid action, placing itself beyond the reach of any attack’.12 In essence Corbett was arguing that a belligerent at sea would only engage in battle if there was a reasonable chance of success and, furthermore, if this was not the case the belligerent could, unlike land warfare, avoid any such engagement. A weaker opponent could dispute control of the sea by pursuing a strategy of fleet in being, which required constant watch by the more powerful belligerent and therefore constrained their freedom of action. The Royal Navy had long struggled with the difficulty of bringing an unwilling opponent to battle and forcing a decision. The British, during the First World War, were compelled to concentrate the Grand Fleet at Scapa Flow as a counter to the German High Seas Fleet even though post Jutland there was little likelihood of it emerging. Striking at a reluctant enemy in its own base would obviously be one way round this problem, but such an operation was potentially suicidal. During the age of wooden sailing ships land-based gunnery, which could be heavier, not subject to the movement of a heaving deck and fire heated shot capable of starting a ship-killing fire, usually ensured the safety of any fortified naval base. With the technological developments of the nineteenth century, torpedoes, mines and improved gunnery, fleet bases remained reasonably secure places. The advent of aircraft capable of carrying a ship-killing weapon appeared to offer a means of overcoming these problems. Admiral Beatty had requested 120 Sopwith Cuckoos with which he hoped to attack the German Fleet at anchor during the First World War.13 The prospect of conducting a similar strike on the Italian Fleet at anchor was also considered during the Abyssinian crisis of 1935–36. The results of the first five months of the war with Italy brought these ideas to the fore. Although the Italian fleet was certainly not inferior, having more modern battleships than the Royal Navy, there appeared a reluctance on the part of the Italians to engage the British in a fleet action. The Royal Navy had conducted some 16 sweeps of the central Mediterranean varying in length from three to seven days but only on three occasions had the Italian fleet been found at sea. Contact between minor surface forces had taken place as well but the only encounter between battlefleets had been a partial action off Calabria on 9 July consisting of little more than a distant exchange of gunfire. 39

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The Italian attack on Greece at the end of October 1940 created new strategic circumstances which had a dramatic effect upon Cunningham and the Royal Navy in the Mediterranean. The Italian assault achieved little success in the face of determined Greek resistance. This necessitated a plea for assistance by Mussolini to Hitler; a request that the Fuhrer felt compelled to answer despite having been opposed to the operation. At the same time Churchill ordered the occupation of Crete. Hitler’s concern was that a British presence in Greece would bring airpower within striking distance of the Romanian oilfields upon which Germany was dependent. The Italian move meant that Cunningham would be able to use Suda Bay in Crete as an advanced base for operations in the Central Mediterranean. This was undoubtedly an advantage but it also entailed support for Greece with troops and other war material convoyed by already over-stretched Royal Navy escort forces. The threat to these convoys from the Italian fleet based at Taranto was very real, such that Cunningham took his whole fleet to sea at 0130 on 29 October, the day after the Italian attack on Greece. His intention was to be off the west coast of Crete by dawn on 31 October in order to provide cover for the passage of convoys to Suda bay, hopeful that the Italian fleet would also sortie and present an opportunity to bring them to battle and force a decision. Cunningham’s memoirs record a sense of disappointment that though spotted and shadowed by Italian reconnaissance aircraft no sign of the enemy fleet emerged.14 The reluctance of the Italian fleet to offer battle put a renewed emphasis on the idea of striking it while at anchor in Taranto harbour. Rear-Admiral A. L. St. G. Lyster had arrived in the Mediterranean in the fleet carrier Illustrious to take command of the Carrier Squadron and all responsibility for the Fleet Air Arm in theatre. At his first meeting with Cunningham in early September he had brought up the idea of attacking Taranto. Encouraged by the C-in-C’s support he began detailed planning and staff work for such an operation. Working up the aircrews to participate in the operation also began in earnest. For the operation to have any chance of real strategic success it was dependent upon accurate and timely reconnaissance. While not a once only operation, its greatest accomplishments would probably be on first undertaking when Italian surprise and concentration of vessels would be greatest. This entailed close cooperation with land-based RAF reconnaissance from Malta. Cunningham was in luck in this regard. Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Longmore, Air Officer Commanding Mediterranean, was an ex Navy officer who had learnt to fly as one of the Navy’s first batch of pilots before the First World War. When the Royal Naval Air Service was incorporated with the Royal Flying Corps on April Fool’s Day 1918 to form the RAF, Longmore swapped the dark blue of the Royal Navy for the light blue of the new service. His background in the Navy was a tremendous asset, however: when Cunningham made requests for air support for the Navy in the Mediterranean, Longmore realised what he was trying to accomplish. When Longmore eventually left the Mediterranean theatre Cunningham described him as ‘a true comrade and a friend. His early upbringing in the Navy 40

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had given him a real understanding of naval problems …. We felt a great sense of loss when we heard he had gone.’15 Air reconnaissance was to provide the latest news of the disposition of the Italian fleet in Taranto harbour and if possible photographs which greatly aided the detailed tactical planning of the operation. Longmore had an appreciation of how vital it was to neutralise the Italian fleet and prevent it interfering with Allied shipping, as such he did not hesitate to provide extensive long range reconnaissance. Jointery is one of the interesting issues thrown up by the Taranto operation. It is obvious that in the constrained waters of the Mediterranean the interaction of air and sea power was pivotal to the outcome of the whole theatre. Although many at the time recognised this, the smooth working of inter-service co-operation was dependent upon personalities as opposed to anything more structural. The same might well be said for most of the Second World War; when the different fighting arms worked well together it was more often a result of individual relationships than deliberate policy. For the British, the inter-war squabbles over shrinking defence resources goes some way to explaining the mutual suspicion that existed between the services. Nonetheless, though senior officers in each service understood their dependence upon each other, few formal procedures were put in place to support joint operations before the war made them unavoidable. Indeed Cunningham in the Mediterranean consistently held out against co-locating his headquarters with those of the other two fighting arms in Cairo. The port of Taranto, located in the Gulf of the same name, lies some 320 miles from Malta and consists of an inner and outer harbour. It is probably the finest naval port in Italy. The inner harbour (Mar Piccolo), reached via a narrow channel known as ‘the canal’, is completely landlocked and immune from surface torpedo attack. The larger outer harbour (Mar Grande), open to the westward, was protected from surface attack by long breakwaters. The Italians had instituted extensive defences against the possibility of air attack. These included numerous anti-aircraft (AA) batteries with reporting stations and searchlights, balloon barrages and anti-torpedo nets round warships. In addition there had been a carefully worked out plan for co-ordinating the shore based AA fire with that of the ships.16 The plan drawn up by Rear-Admiral Lyster for the attack on Taranto was substantially the same as one he worked out while commanding the carrier Glorious in the Mediterranean under the direction of Admiral Sir Dudley Pound (then C-in-C) at the time of the Munich crisis in September 1938 when war with Germany and her ally appeared imminent. Admiral Lyster later commented that it was ‘fortunate [to have] planned an attack in detail in peacetime and carried it out in war time’.17 Lyster’s plan embodied the following three main aspects: first, a moonlight torpedo attack against battleships in the outer harbour with a simultaneous dive-bombing attack on ships in the inner harbour; second, the torpedo attack being made from the west, towards the moon, which would dictate the date of operation; finally, the total flight of attacking aircraft not to be more than 400 miles. The strike on Taranto had originally been scheduled for 21 October, the 135th anniversary of Trafalgar, but a fire in Illustrious’s hangar delayed matters. The 41

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next available date was 11 November, when the moon would again be suitable for a night attack. The changes in the scheduling of the attack had a knock-on effect on a number of other shipping movements in the Mediterranean. This clearly reveals the nature of the naval war in the Narrow Sea being intimately bound up with the use of the sea as a means of transportation. The attack on the Italian fleet at anchor in Taranto harbour was part of a larger series of operations centred on the movement of several convoys through the Mediterranean. The first convoy, MW3 (Malta West 3), was to proceed from Alexandria north of Crete, where it would leave two ships bound for Suda bay, and continue on to Malta carrying fuel and other military supplies. The second convoy AN6 (Aegean North 6), carrying resupply, was to travel from Egypt to Greece. Convoy ME3 (Malta East 3) consisted of four large empty ships heading from Malta to Alexandria and finally there was AS5 (Aegean South 5) made up of ships from Greece and Turkey proceeding to Egypt. To cover these movements Cunningham decided to take up a central position with the battlefleet. This would also permit the junction with a number of reinforcements; the battleship Barham, the cruisers Berwick and Glasgow, plus three destroyers from Gibraltar (Operation Coat). Operation Coat, the attack on Taranto (Operation Judgement) and a raid by light forces into the Strait of Otranto and the passage of the various convoys were collectively known as Operation MB8. The strike on Taranto harbour itself was one means of securing unimpeded use of the Mediterranean. By dealing a devastating attack on the Italian surface fleet they would be unable to interfere with Allied convoys and their own would be vulnerable to the British. The sequence of operations began on 4 November with the sailing of convoy AN6 from Port Said. After an uneventful passage it arrived at Piraeus in Greece with its much-needed load of stores and petrol. On 5 November, convoy MW3 left Alexandria with five ships for Malta and two for Suda Bay. The following day Cunningham also left Alexandria with the Warspite, Illustrious, Valiant, Malaya, Ramillies and destroyers heading westwards. After two days sailing the fleet was halfway between Crete and Malta when it sighted convoy MW3 and took up a covering position to the north of it. On 9 November Ramillies and three destroyers were detached to take the convoy on to Malta while the main fleet remained some 100 miles to the southeast of the island. The weather was overcast and consequently no air searches were carried out but two cruiser sweeps were undertaken to the north. As the day wore on the weather improved and Italian reconnaissance aircraft appeared and continued their shadowing until the middle of the afternoon. A Fulmar two-seat reconnaissance fighter shot down one Italian aircraft. After a night steaming Cunningham rendezvoused with reinforcements at 1000. The three cruisers, Berwick, Barham and Glasgow, plus three destroyers had entered the Mediterranean with Admiral Somerville’s ‘Force H’, which had accompanied them as far as Sardinia and included a bombardment of Calgari on 8 November. By noon the fleet was some 40 miles west of Malta and further airborne snoopers were sighted at 1230. An hour later ten Italian bombers were detected and commenced an attack from about 1400 feet. The formation was 42

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intercepted by Fulmar fighters and though they were unable to prevent the release of the bombers’ cargo no damage was done to the battlefleet. Later that afternoon convoy ME3 was sighted away to the east. Cunningham turned his fleet east to again provide cover for the transiting convoy. By 1200 the following day, 11 November, he had reached a position halfway between Malta and Crete. The last convoy had made safe passage through the central Mediterranean and Cunningham could now turn his attentions to the two remaining aspects of the operation: the strike on Taranto harbour and the sweep of the Otranto strait. At 1800 that evening Rear-Admiral Lyster in the Illustrious, accompanied by four cruisers and four destroyers, parted company with Cunningham and the rest of the battlefleet. The C-in-C took up a position some 95 miles south of the intended flying off position so that the battlefleet could provide support if necessary. The latest photographic reconnaissance taken by the RAF from Malta revealed that no important changes had taken place at Taranto except the arrival of another battleship earlier that afternoon. All looked good for the impending operation. The plan for the strike had been modified in the light of damage preventing the participation of the carrier Eagle. Instead of thirty aircraft in two ranges, the strike force was composed of twenty-one aircraft in one range of twelve and a later one of nine. It was decided to use flares to illuminate the targets and, on account of the restricted number of dropping places caused by Taranto’s balloon and net defences, only six torpedo aircraft were to be used in each attack. Illustrious reached her flying off position, 170 miles from Taranto, and the first range of aircraft were away by 2040; the second range took off an hour later. The first flight entered cloud at 2115 and four aircraft became separated. Nonetheless the remaining eight aircraft (five torpedo, two flare droppers and one bomber) continued and at 2252 they sighted the flash of guns from Taranto. Four minutes later the flare dropping aircraft broke away to release their flares along the east side of the harbour. The Italians were clearly on the alert and as the first flares began to illuminate targets at 2300, barrage fire from the fortress batteries opened up, being joined by machine gun fire from the assembled battleships a few minutes later. Into this fire, three aircraft began their torpedo attacks from the west, heading over the island of San Pietro, which formed part of the outer harbour, and toward the battleships moored on the eastern side of the Mar Grande behind anti-aircraft balloons and torpedo nets. The first of these aircraft dropped its torpedo at the battleship Conte di Cavour and a large explosion was flamed up alongside her. Two other torpedoes passed close ahead and ran on towards the battleship Andrea Doria. The heavy anti-aircraft fire took its toll and one aircraft (L4A) was brought down, crashing into the sea near the floating dock. Three other torpedo bombers now came in from the north and fired their torpedoes at the new battleship Littorio, one of which hit her starboard bow, another her port quarter. The torpedo attacks had lasted around five minutes and all aircraft, save one, now made their escape. The bombing attacks lasted a little longer. The two flare dropping aircraft bombed the oil storage depot, and the remaining four aircraft 43

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attacked cruisers and destroyers in Mar Piccolo, and the seaplane base, where a large fire was started. By 2335 all the aircraft from the first wave had withdrawn but the anti-aircraft fire rising from the ground continued as the second range approached the harbour. Two aircraft dropped more flares in roughly the same position as the first wave. Five minutes later the torpedo craft came in from the north-west. Four fired torpedoes, two at the already struck Littorio, one at her sister ship, the Vittorio Veneto and one at the Doria class battleship Caio Dullio. Two of these struck their mark, one on the Littorio and one on the Dullio. The bombing aircraft struck at the oil storage tanks and the ships in Mar Piccolo again, obtaining a hit on the heavy cruiser Trento which failed to explode. This second strike wave also lost a single Swordfish shot down in the Mar Grande. The Royal Navy’s battle report summed up the attack by saying, ‘The torpedo bomber had justified its existence in no uncertain terms. In a first-class defended port, half the Italian battlefleet had been put out of action for six months or more, for the loss of two Swordfish and four officers, two of whom happily survived as prisoners of war.’18 These losses were remarkably light considering the volume of anti-aircraft fire the Italians put up; the shore batteries expended some 13,489 rounds. As it was the remaining nineteen aircraft safely rejoined Illustrious by 0250 on the 12 November. Whereupon Admiral Lyster rejoined the Commander-in-Chief, being greeted by the flag signal, ‘Illustrious manoeuvre well executed’. The strike had a significant and immediate effect on the strategic situation. The Italian fleet was redeployed to Naples. From here it would still be able to sortie into the central Mediterranean but only by passing south through the straits of Messina where it would be under more intense air reconnaissance from the RAF in Malta. In Cunningham’s memoirs, the C-in-C remarks that Taranto ‘reduced if it did not altogether abolish, the threat of the enemy fleet interfering with our never-ending succession of convoys to Greece and Crete, and enabled our battleship strength in the Eastern Mediterranean to be diminished’.19 Within weeks the battleships Malaya and Ramillies departed for Britain. Clearly displaying an undimmed sense of the stress caused by the Navy’s overstretch, he goes on to write, ‘this in turn brought relief to our hard pressed destroyers, as fewer were now required as an anti-submarine screen for the smaller battlefleet’. The fleet was not getting much rest, however. The strike had obviously reduced the threat from the Italian surface fleet and now was an ideal opportunity to run convoys; each of these still faced threats from the air and from submarines. The battlefleet itself provided an adjunct to Alexandria’s anti-aircraft defences. The Italians continued with bombing attacks on the port facilities. Although Cunningham comments that there was a noticeable reluctance to endure the combined weight of fire that the fleet and shore batteries could put up, he was concerned at the vulnerability of his repair and replenishment facilities while at sea.20 Being at sea, exploiting the benefits of the Taranto strike, was the fleet’s main business. Within a fortnight it was back at sea covering more convoys sustaining Malta and the fleet’s own base at Alexandria. Almost everything came by 44

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sea: troops, supplies, equipment, dockyard technicians – men and material in sufficient quantities to sustain the Commonwealth war effort in theatre. The Italian ground assault into Egypt had begun on 13 September; by December it had paused while stores were gathered for further action at Sidi Barrani. The British pre-empted any further move on Cairo by counter attacking on 8 December. The fleet supported the seaward flank of the Army, bombarding Sidi Barrani and running a myriad of small craft from the front to rear replenishment areas, taking off wounded and prisoners and returning with fresh stores. The Army of the Nile captured Tobruk on 21 January 1941 and by the beginning of February was in possession of the eastern half of Libya as far as El Agheila. It was here that the ground attack culminated; it had reached the point were it was no longer strong enough to advance. The demands of other fronts in the Mediterranean theatre were draining men and material away. It was at this point that the Germans entered the Mediterranean as a significant presence. The Italians were under pressure in Greece and North Africa and unless Hitler supported his ally, defeat looked likely. In addition to this an Allied footprint in the Balkans threatened the southern flank of any German move against the Soviet Union and placed the vital Romanian oilfields within striking range of air power. German assistance came in two forms; General Rommel with the Afrika Corps and the Luftwaffe’s Fliegerkorps X. Fliegerkorps X was a self-contained, specialist anti-shipping unit. It was a balanced force of some 450 aircraft, including long-range bombers, fighters, and reconnaissance aircraft. It also possessed its own transport and signalling capabilities, fuel and ordnance stocks, ground and anti-aircraft defences. It had been redeployed from Norway where it had protected the Reich’s northern flank. The Luftwaffe announced its presence on 10 January when it attacked a convoy bringing supplies for Malta and Greece from the west. During the forenoon it rendezvoused with the main body of the Mediterranean fleet, halfway between Malta and the Tunisian coast. Around midday a strong force of aircraft approaching from the north was detected by radar. The fleet’s combat air patrol (CAP), provided by Illustrious, had been drawn away to the west chasing off some Italian torpedo bombers. Illustrious turned into the wind in order to fly off more fighters. In the middle of this turn to starboard some twenty JU-87s (Stukas) attacked and Illustrious was hit six times, mostly with armour piercing 1100 lb bombs.21 Twelve further aircraft attacked the battleships and screen. Although the convoy reached Alexandria, Illustrious limped into Malta harbour where she was patched up before proceeding to Alexandria for more temporary repairs. After these had been completed she was withdrawn from theatre for a full refit in America. The land-based naval aviation provided by Fliegerkorps X had effectively closed the passage past Sicily. Working from Sicily and Tripoli the relatively short range of some of its aircraft, particularly the JU-87, restricted the area that could be dominated. But where its reach extended, ensuring the safe and timely arrival of convoys was a bloody and costly business. Effective though this air power was it could not compensate for an inability of the Axis to take it to sea. 45

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Taranto had given the Allies a degree of sea control that was both limited in range and liable to dispute by Fliegerkorps X, as well as temporary; Cunningham would be required to reassert it at the end of March 1941. Like Taranto, the battle of Matapan was a first for naval aviation. It was the first time that sea based aviation played a significant part in the outcome of a fleet action and presaged the dominant role of the carrier that emerged in the Pacific. Also like Taranto the battle revolved around the use of the sea as a means of moving men and material. The Italians, under pressure from the Germans to sortie, were seeking to interdict British sea communications to and from Greece. Cunningham had advance knowledge through Ultra (signal decrypt intelligence) of the operation and disposed the fleet between Cape Matapan, the southern tip of mainland Greece and Crete. He had with him the battleships Warspite, Barham and Valiant, the carrier Formidable, four light cruisers and some thirteen destroyers. Air intelligence had reported three Italian cruisers in the Ionian sea heading southeast and on the morning of 29 March scouting aircraft from Formidable made contact with a force of three cruisers and three destroyers. This force was part of a larger group of six heavy cruisers, supported by the battleship Vittorio Vento, two light cruisers and thirteen destroyers. As the British cruisers closed the contact the Italians turned away hoping to lure them onto the Vittorio Vento’s 15inch guns which had still not been sighted. Coming under heavy gunfire the British cruisers withdrew. During this time Formidable had flown off her Albacore aircraft armed with torpedoes to attack the cruisers. Sighting the battleship they switched targets. This was the first indication the Italians had that they faced a naval force with a carrier. Without air cover of his own, Vice-Admiral Iachino declined to receive another attack and turned for home. Iachino had been assured that air cover would be provided by both the Italian Air Force and by Fliegerkorps X but a combination of poor weather, inexperience of joint operations and the limited range at which landbased fighter cover could operate all conspired to leave the Italian fleet exposed. The battle now became a chase, which the retiring Italians appeared to be winning. The Vittorio Vento was making an average speed of 25 knots in comparison to the British who, 25 miles astern, could only manage 24 knots. It became obvious to Cunningham that unless the Vittorio was slowed the Italians would escape. During the developing afternoon chase a variety of aircraft were called upon, land-based RAF bombers from Greece, Fleet Air Arm Swordfish from Maleme in Crete. Though not realised at the time the Vittorio was hit at 1530 by a torpedo and had her speed reduced to 16 knots for four hours. As the evening’s gathering darkness drew in, Cunningham launched the Formidable’s remaining eight Swordfish for one last attempt to slow the Italians. Joined by two further aircraft from Maleme, this strike hit the heavy cruiser Pola, immobilising her. Admiral Iachino decided to send back the heavy cruisers Zara and Fiume with four destroyers to render assistance to the Pola under the mistaken assumption that the British were over 100 miles to the east. At 2230 the Italians were surprised by the appearance out of the darkness of the three British battleships. Opening up with 46

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15-inch guns these battleships swiftly turned both Fiume and Zara into ‘blazing infernos.’22 All three cruisers were sunk along with two destroyers. At the time of the night action the Vittorio was some 50 miles away steaming at 19 knots for the safety of air cover and Taranto. Cunningham was reluctant to expose his valuable capital ships to Axis land-based air power during daylight on the slim chance of catching up with the Italian battleship and consequently also headed home. Although Cunningham regretted that he had been unable to bring the Vittorio Vento under the guns of his battleships, he had nevertheless confirmed the Royal Navy’s superiority over the Italian surface fleet yet again. The destruction of three cruisers was important in maintaining the command of the sea won at Taranto. Matapan also clearly demonstrated the value of organic air power in fleet action, even in the restricted waters of the Mediterranean. Air power did not sink any of the vessels lost at Matapan but it was absolutely central to the British victory. land-based reconnaissance, together with cryptology, gave Cunningham important intelligence. The presence of a carrier gave the British the ability to slow down a fleeing enemy and subsequently bring up their big guns to destroy the fighting ability of the Italian heavy cruisers, ultimately sinking them with torpedoes fired from destroyers. This pattern of action was to be repeated a few months later with the sinking of the Bismarck. The Italians were handicapped by their reliance on land-based aviation. Despite the promise of air cover from both Fliegerkorps X and the Italian Air Force, their limited range and the difficulties of operating jointly with the navy left Iachino dangerously exposed. Cunningham summarised the strategic effect of Matapan in his dispatch to the Admiralty following the battle. [S]ubstantial results were achieved in the destruction of the three Zara class cruisers. These fast, well-armed and armoured ships had always been a source of anxiety as a threat to our own less well-armed cruisers and I was well content to see them disposed of in this summary fashion. There is little doubt that the rough handling given the enemy on this occasion served us in good stead during the subsequent evacuation of Greece and Crete. Much of the later operations may be said to have been conducted under the cover of the Battle of Matapan.23 Matapan occurred at a time when the Allied position in the eastern Mediterranean was beginning to look bleaker and bleaker. The inshore squadron of the fleet, working along the coast of Libya, was facing an increased air threat and struggling to maintain communication along the Army’s seaward flank. German troops were assembling in Italy and Bulgaria for the impending attack on Greece. If the Italians had managed a victory at Matapan, then the whole situation would have been immeasurably worse. True, neither Matapan, nor any victory at sea, could have saved the Allied position in Greece and Crete, but the Italian fleet never again ventured east of Cape Matapan. Land-based air could dispute British control but without a surface fleet the Axis could not guarantee their own use of the 47

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sea nor permanently prevent the Allied use of it. It would be a further two years before Axis forces were finally cleared from North Africa and the task of maintaining sea communication between Gibraltar and Suez immeasurably simplified. As the Royal Navy’s historical section commented: Although many an anxious day was to pass before this happened, along the Libyan coast, off Greece and Crete, in the Aegean and the coasts of Palestine and Syria, as well as the perpetual and pressing needs of Malta, it can be truly said that as a result of the victory of Matapan the British Fleet supported, as time went on, by the increasing power of the RAF – remained mistress of the Levant.24 The victories at Taranto and Matapan had provided the Royal Navy with a degree of control of the sea. They were of immense benefit in freeing Commonwealth convoys from the threat of surface attack. Both battles witnessed the emergence of air power from the sea as a vital factor in fleet actions. They were both actions which required the full use of the battlefleet. At Taranto the Fleet Air Arm struck a heavy blow against a modern fleet in a protected harbour. At Matapan, they demonstrated that organic air could assist the battlefleet in securing victory. The Italian belief that land-based air could compensate for the lack of organic naval aviation had been misplaced; primarily because of the difficulties encountered in co-ordinating joint operations. Land-based air power in the guise of Fliegerkorps X did have an important impact on operations at sea. It too, however, was limited in terms of range, capabilities and speed of response. It could disrupt and dispute British command but could not on its own achieve a working command of the sea for the Axis powers. The Royal Navy had thus demonstrated that battle remained a necessary but not sufficient condition to the establishment of command of the sea. The experiences in the Mediterranean were to contribute to a significant shift in the Navy’s conception of command of the sea, however. In the post-war world the Royal Navy would adopt the more realistic concept of ‘Maritime Zone of Control’, rather than command of the sea, to describe the temporary and limited nature of what could be achieved.25

Notes 1 A.T. Mahan quoted in P. Paret (ed.) The Makers of Modern Strategy, Princeton: Princeton UP, 1986 p. 455. 2 A.T. Mahan, The Influence of Seapower upon History 1660–1783, Boston: Little Brown & Co., 1890 p. 138. 3 Captain S. W. Roskill, History of the Second World War. The War at Sea Volume 1, London: HMSO, 1954 p. 3. 4 Jan S. Bremmer, ‘The Burden of Trafalgar: Decisive battle and naval strategic expectations on the eve of World War I’ in G. Till (ed.) Seapower: Theory and Practice, London: Frank Cass, 1994 p. 33. 5 MacGregor D. ‘The Use, Misuse, and Non use of History; The Royal Navy and the Operational lessons of the First World War’, Journal of Military History, Vol. 56 No. 4 Oct 1999 p. 608.

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6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Ibid. p. 609. Cdr. R. Grenfell, Sea Power in the Next War, London: Geoffrey Bles, 1938 p. 34. Grenfell, Sea Power in the Next War, p. 75. Confidential Book 3302 (1) Naval Staff History of the Second World War, Mediterranean Vol. 1 Sept 1939–Oct 1940, Historical Section Admiralty 1952 p. 4. The restriction on convoys through the Mediterranean was first imposed on 27 April 1940 and after a temporary relaxation was re-imposed on 16 May 1940. Jack Greene & Alessandro Massignani The Naval War in the Mediterranean 1940–43, London: Chatham Publishing, 1998 p. 16. J.S. Corbett, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy, London: Conway Maritime Press 1972 pp. 158–9. G.Till, Air Power and the Royal Navy 1914–1945, London: Jane’s Publishing Co, 1979 p. 143. Viscount Cunningham of Hyndhope, A Sailor’s Odyssey London: Hutchinson & Co. Ltd. 1951 p. 283. Ibid. pp. 364–5. Details of Italian AA defences are drawn from BR 1736 Naval Staff History Selected Operations (Mediterranean) 1940, 1957 Appendix H. These included 21 batteries armed with 4-inch guns; 68 machine guns mountings with a total of 84 guns; 109 light machine guns ashore and afloat; 13 Airphonic stations, 2 linked with searchlights; 22 searchlights, mostly modern long range types, placed on shore and on pontoons, supplemented by two searchlights from each ship; some 4,200 metres of anti-torpedo netting for the protection of ships moored in the outer harbour (this amounted to only about one-third of what was deemed necessary); 27 barrage balloons. Rear-Admiral Lyster quoted in BR 1736 Naval Staff History Selected Operations (Mediterranean) 1940, 1957 footnote 2 p. 42. BR 1736 Naval Staff History Selected Operations (Mediterranean) 1940, 1957 p. 45. Cunningham, A Sailor’s Odyssey, p. 287. Ibid. p. 288. BR 1736(49) Naval Staff History Mediterranean Vol. II November 1940–December 1941, Admiralty 1957 p. 45. Ibid. p. 76. BR 1736(35) Battle Summary No44 The Battle of Matapan, Admiralty 1950 p. 36. Ibid. p. 37. UK Public Records Office, Kew ADM 239/382 Confidential Book CB04487 The Fighting Instructions 1947 para. 10.

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3 SEA DENIAL, INTERDICTION AND DIPLOMACY The Royal Navy and the role of Malta, 1939–1943 Greg Kennedy

During the Second World War, the operational significance of Malta’s role in the Mediterranean theatre was unquestioned. Since then, historians have debated the British Chiefs of Staff (COS) and Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s dogmatic desires to retain the tiny island at all costs during operations in the period from 1941–43.1 Seen as an unsinkable carrier and a vital refuge for British submarines intent on severing the Axis’ sea lines of communication (SLOCs) between mainland Europe and North Africa, the surrender of the island was not an option. This strategic decision was not the result of any misguided concepts of British prestige or amour propre, but was due to a sound Royal Navy assessment of what had to be achieved in order to continue to support the British Army in the desert, as well as an insightful appreciation of the symbolic worth of the island’s defence in the realm of alliance formulation and diplomacy.2 The question that must be answered when assessing the operational impact and worth of Malta to British operations in the Mediterranean, primarily in support of the British Army’s campaign in North Africa,3 is to what extent would not having possessed or losing the island have made to British efforts? Indeed, by looking at the resources committed to the defence of the island, the uses made of the island to interdict Axis shipping to North Africa and the cost of such operations, and considering the diplomatic impact the surrender of the island would have had on potential allies, such as the United States, it is possible to use that analysis as a means of measuring whether or not the continued possession of the island was of vital importance to the overall British operational abilities not only in that theatre but to the strategic direction of the British war effort itself. At all times the Royal Navy operations reflected a conscious attempt to influence the battle for the Mediterranean through the use of sea denial, interdiction and naval diplomacy. British efforts in North Africa depended on the Royal Navy strategy providing the conditions for adequate supply to reach army units; on denying the same lines of communication to the enemy forces in the desert; and on providing a symbolic gesture of defiance and resolve. The maintenance of Malta as an operational base was critical to all of the above.

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Pre-war planning for Royal Navy operations in the Mediterranean, in the event of a general European war, recognised the central Mediterranean as being the centre of gravity for the navy’s very existence in that sea. Without control of the central Mediterranean, British maritime operations in North Africa and Egypt, along with the re-supply of Singapore, were no longer viable options.4 And, in order to control the central Mediterranean, the Royal Navy needed to maintain the island of Malta. Only naval and air units based from the island fortress could consistently interdict the Italian SLOCs from mainland Italy to North Africa.5 In late July 1939, the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Dudley Pound, explained the Royal Navy’s approach to the Mediterranean theatre to the Commander in Chief (C-inC) Mediterranean, Admiral Sir Andrew Cunningham. Pound made it clear that the navy would not be able to provide any sort of knock-out blow that would take Italy out of any war. Instead, what the Royal Navy was capable of doing, bearing in mind its mandate to also be prepared to reinforce the garrison at Singapore, was to cut Italy off from its imperial possessions. The First Sea Lord hoped that such a strangulation or throttling would lead to a weakening of Italian heart for war, but was sceptical that such a campaign would ‘knock’ Italy out of any war: To my mind cutting off their supplies, interfering with their communications bombarding their ports, killing their submarines and later on the capture of Libya and some of the Dodecanese Islands are all part of ‘throttling’ them, not knocking them out. If they are as gutless as we imagine them, in time the throttling may kill them without their being given a knock out blow.6 The air defences of Malta, both anti-aircraft guns and fighter aircraft, were being increased. Due to the pressing needs of Fighter Command, however, no radar or ground control systems would be transferred to the island. Any aerial attack would be met with World War I vintage visual and audio warnings and standing patrols. Pound asked Cunningham which location he considered more important for receiving the upgraded air defences: Malta or Alexandria, the Royal Navy’s fleet base in the eastern Mediterranean. The C-in-C Mediterranean immediately replied that his main concern was Malta. His views concerning the throttling, rather than knocking out, of Italy from the war coincided exactly with those held by Pound.7 Malta held the key geographic location for aerial reconnaissance so necessary if the meagre British forces available in that sea were to have any chance of effectively finding and engaging the Italian fleet at sea. The need for Malta as an air and naval base, for both surface and sub-surface units, was deemed absolutely essential if the British fleet was to support the British Army operations in North Africa through interdiction operations; and if the Italian surface combat vessels were going to be deterred from conducting operations against surface forces and the island itself. Therefore, Cunningham’s prioritisation of scarce anti-aircraft guns and fighter aircraft resources in the Mediterranean was,

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… I think more fighters for Egypt and a fighter squadron for Malta are both urgent but I consider that for Malta should have priority, because there are none at all there and Malta has no means of taking the offensive in the air, either (a) by intercepting enemy bombers, or (b) by attacking aircraft in Sicily on the ground. Malta is of immense value to us and everything possible should be done to minimise the damage that Italian bombers may do to it.8 This decision reinforced the RN’s belief in Malta acting as an ‘island in being’, a theme later taken up by Prime Minister Churchill in his quest to hold the Mediterranean against the Axis Powers.9 Still, with the main effort with regard to RAF aircraft being made in France, Britain and Norway, Malta never realised any potential as an effective base for air or naval operations in 1940.10 By 10 June of that year, when Italy declared war on France and Great Britain, Malta was still without a system of adequate air defence that would allow major British naval units to operate safely from its harbours. Italian air raids from airfields in Sicily took only twenty minutes flying time, thus allowing the sizeable Regia Aeronautica to marshal numerous sorties against the island. By 30 June the floating dock had been destroyed and all Royal Navy submarines regularly operating from Malta had been moved to Alexandria.11 British submarines had had an exceptionally poor start to the war in the Mediterranean. In the first six months of the war against the Axis nine British submarines were lost, with little to show for their efforts in return.12 This lack of effectiveness was the result of many things. A combination of a lack of experience, poor technical equipment, debilitating rules of engagement for the submarines, the use of inappropriate submarines not meant for operations in the shallow waters of the Mediterranean, and the unexpected effectiveness of Italian ASW (anti-submarine warfare) measures, in particular static mine fields around harbours and choke points and the use of aircraft, were the key components. As early as 27 June Cunningham reported to Pound that, ‘With one exception every submarine operating off an Italian port has been lost, and we don’t know how, which is the worst part of it. Myself, I think the Italians have the approaches to their ports smothered in defensive minefields laid very deep, and I think our submarines must have gone up on them.’ Submarines brought from duty in Far Eastern waters were not appropriate in terms of size, noise levels, and crew/commander experience, presenting the capable Italians with easy targets.13 Also, a lack of aerial reconnaissance from Malta made the direction of British surface and sub-surface vessels onto Italian targets extremely difficult, if not impossible. British submarine patrols, therefore, were lacking in the most up-to-date intelligence regarding Italian ship movements, a situation which added to the less than spectacular beginning of the RN’s interdiction campaign. Therefore, without an effective and protected anti-ship aerial striking force based at Malta, and with an ill-directed and vulnerable submarine force unable to use the island as an operational base, the British position in the central and eastern Mediterranean was 52

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precarious indeed. In all, between June and December 1940, Italian maritime efforts successfully moved over 690,000 tons of shipping to North Africa, with under 2 per cent of Italian shipping presented being sunk by all manner of British attack.14 By late 1940, the situation with regard to the use of submarines from Malta had begun to change. Reinforcement convoys containing desperately needed antiaircraft guns, ammunition, modern fighters, and aircraft fuel were being pushed through by the Royal Navy, making it a more viable base of operations.15 Further, more modern submarines were making their way into the theatre. Reluctant in August to let the more capable U-class submarines go, because of the invasion threat still being eminent, Pound had reinforced Cunningham with first of the more modern T-class submarines in September. As the threat of invasion faded in the autumn, the U-class vessels began to appear in the Mediterranean waters. These units, while more technically capable, also contained crews who had gained valuable combat experience in the North Sea.16 In the wake of the daring attack at Taranto, and as the navy gained greater control over the central Mediterranean with its surface forces, the utility of Malta as a base for light surface raiding forces, positioned to interdict the Libyan convoy traffic, became an effective threat and deterrent to Italian attempts to reinforce army forces in North Africa.17 Plagued by a lack of fuel oil for its naval units, every extra mile of steaming by the Italian merchant and naval vessels was a victory for the British forces. And, with the sea and air forces from Malta now exercising a direct influence on the nature of the routes required by the Libyan convoys, feints, misdirection and multiple changes of course became the regular fare of such attempts. All such motions carried a cost in the irreplaceable expenditure of valuable bunker fuel. Attempts to disperse convoys in smaller, less noticeable packages also placed a greater onus on the now stretched Italian escort forces, while simultaneously contributing to the more rapid consumption of scarce naval fuel reserves.18 By November 1940, therefore, the pre-war strategic utility of Malta was being recognised in the reality of events in the theatre. Its continual ability to attract enemy assets that could have been utilised elsewhere meant that the Italians could not achieve the necessary concentration of force required for victory in North Africa. The ‘island in being’ concept, and the Royal Navy’s ability to sustain that posture, put a burden of resource expenditure and effort on the Italian navy and air force that those respective bodies could ill afford. The ‘throttling’ concept, now a core strategic aspect of the British Chiefs of Staff plan for course of action in 1941, was proving successful, even if results were as yet limited. By the end of 1940, due in great part to the retention and maintenance of Malta, the Royal Navy’s operational position regarding attacks on the Libya convoy traffic had begun to appear as if it could flourish.19 Still, the impact of the British air and submarine forces deploying from Malta in early 1941 was very limited. The submarine force still suffered from a lack of useful intelligence, due now to the Luftwaffe’s appearance in the skies around the island. Not able to subdue the base on its own, the Italian military had requested 53

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German assistance in reducing the island fortress.20 Help had been allocated to the Italian effort by Hitler in the belief that if the Axis gained control of the Mediterranean the British strategic position, especially with regard to oil, would be made untenable. Therefore, in January Fliegerkorps X turned its considerable attention of over 500 dive and medium bombers, and associated fighters, against Malta. In such conditions the still inadequate air defences of the island were once more stretched to the limit and the naval bases on the island were precarious havens at best.21 The resurgence of long-range patrol aircraft available for supporting submarine operations was again very limited, due to their destruction on the ground and in the air, and the lack of facilities for their maintenance. Demands in other theatres, especially the North Sea, saw a decrease in the number of T-Class submarines available for operations in the Mediterranean. There was, therefore, a decrease in the overall number of British submarines available for operations in that theatre during the first half of 1941.22 One positive development with the submarine fleet in the Mediterranean at this time was the change in the rules of engagement regarding merchant shipping. In January new ‘sink-on-sight’ rules were implemented, allowing greater latitude for where and when the British sub-surface force could engage enemy merchant targets. Now those submarines could attack all escorted or independent vessels south of Malta, and eventually the area of engagement was expanded to include the entire central Mediterranean from Sardinia to a line from Taranto/Benghazi.23 German ships were also eligible now as targets, which was an important aspect to consider in light of the increase in German shipping supporting the move of the Deutsche Afrika Korps (DAK) to Libya. Hitler’s determination to knock the British forces out of North Africa and to seize Suez and the oil available in the Middle East created an increased flow of shipping into Libya as General Erwin Rommel’s German troops and equipment flooded into that area of operations.24 The Malta-based aircraft and submarines, for the reasons mentioned above, were unsuccessful in the first four months of 1941 in interdicting any sizeable portion of that supply traffic. As a result, by April 1941 over 90,000 tons of supply had been delivered to Tripoli for the use of Axis forces.25 This failure to stop the movement of Axis reinforcements into Libya, along with the loss of naval units in the evacuation of Greece and Crete, meant that by the spring of 1941 the Royal Navy was being pressed farther east. German and Italian advances on land, as well as the continued harassment by enemy air units, prevented British surface units from operating effectively from Malta after May of that year.26 The German attack on the Soviet Union lessened the air threat to some extent, but not enough to allow the Royal Navy free usage of light destroyer and cruiser forces in an interdiction role. In any event, the steady drain on those types of units in the Crete evacuation, along with the demands of the Atlantic convoy system, meant that Cunningham’s ability to use surface forces to disrupt the SLOCs to Libya was very constrained. Axis aerial mining caused the C-in-C Mediterranean great worries about the effectiveness of Royal Navy units operating from Malta, although his belief in the need to retain the base at all costs was never in doubt. 54

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On the positive side, British intelligence efforts had cracked German naval codes. This force multiplier allowed for a much greater chance of the badly stretched submarine forces making an interception of a convoy, while assisting in the avoidance of enemy ASW units.27 The submarine forces in the Mediterranean (along with the RAF units available), and in particular those from Malta, would have to improve their skills in the guerre de course against enemy convoys if the British land forces were to have any chance of mounting an effective defence against the DAK and its Italian partners. May 1941 saw the beginning of a new attempt to ‘throttle’ the Axis forces now in place in North Africa. The combined Axis force required over 130,000 tons of supply a month for its offensive operations. The British COS were aware of the supply needs of the DAK as it moved forward towards Egypt. Every ship sunk at sea or turned back by the Royal Navy and RAF meant that the delicate logistics needs of the Axis land forces would not be met and thus the advance and attack slowed.28 In July British submarines from Malta accounted for over 20,000 tons of Axis shipping, signalling a marked increase in performance. Over the next two months the combination of submarine and air attacks would cut the Axis supplies arriving in North Africa by over 16 per cent. In particular, submarine attacks were directed against enemy tanker tonnage as the highest priority, posing a direct threat to the combat effectiveness of Rommel’s mechanised forces.29 September saw the greatest increase in enemy tonnage lost to submarines: over 45,000 tons in that month alone. In particular, four British submarines, directed by accurate air observation, fell on to a fast moving Italian convoy steaming along the east coast of Tunisia. Two 20,000-ton troopships were sunk. Small enemy ships carrying troops and supplies were destroyed regularly in the inshore waters that were now the domain of the Malta submarines. However, by October the amount of enemy shipping sunk had plunged to below 5,000 tons actually destroyed.30 That reduction in sinkings was not a reflection on British submariners’ ability, however, but rather a vindication of their worth. The lower sinkings reflected the fact that there was less Italian shipping taking to the waters of the Mediterranean due to the effectiveness of the British submarine campaign. So, even though the total number of sinkings was down from previous months, Rommel was not receiving the supplies that were vital to an assured offensive campaign.31 Any attempt to charge forward to and lay siege around Tobruk would be an operation fraught with dangerous logistical gambles that put the taking of the initiative and the maintenance of such an offensive tempo into grave doubt. The combined air and submarine forces now operating effectively from Malta, in conjunction with light surface forces that were also able to stage from the island, were strangling the Axis forces in Libya slowly, but surely. By December 1941 Rommel was forced to retreat from Cyrenaica due to an inability to obtain adequate supplies for operations at that distance from a major port. This reversal in Axis fortunes was recognised as a serious setback by the German General Staff and Hitler himself, who personally ordered German U-boats into the Mediterranean in the autumn of 1941 to help try and break the tightening noose, along with greater Luftwaffe assets freed up from the Russian front by the onset of 55

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winter.32 Once more, due to its central position in the British strangling strategy for the conduct of the war in the Mediterranean, the German war machine turned its attention to neutralising the thorn in their North African campaign’s side: Malta. Early considerations of an airborne assault, carried out in a manner similar to the German operations on Crete, were made impractical by the realities created by that operation itself. Due to the losses incurred during the air assault on Crete, in conjunction with the needs created for both transport aircraft and paratroopers by the Germans opening the Russian front, Malta was thereafter never under any serious threat of such an airborne attack.33 From July until the end of 1941 the Axis approach to nullifying the bases from which the long range RAF bombers, reconnaissance and fighter aircraft operated, as well as naval vessels, was to conduct an aerial bombardment campaign of the island. However, again due to the needs of the Russian theatre, vital German air units were no longer available for this duty. Thus, the effectiveness of the bombing campaign on the island was not critical.34 However, the Axis forces left in the theatre had begun to target the resupply convoys headed for Malta for special attention. Without those vital supplies Malta was vulnerable to the same attritional effects as its own forces were inflicting on the Axis efforts in Libya. Admiral Cunningham was forced to utilise valuable British submarine resources in efforts to carry supplies from Alexandria to Malta in what were known as ‘Magic Carpet’ operations. Also, the Royal Navy surface warfare units gained greater attention, as the Italian and German combined forces worked to cripple the navy’s effective surface forces in the eastern Mediterranean. Both forms of Axis attack on the navy’s fighting and logistic units were successful.35 By December 1941, and the Japanese attack on the United States’ fleet in Pearl Harbour, the fleet aircraft carrier HMS Ark Royal, and the battleship HMS Barham had been sunk by German submarines and aircraft operations, while Italian special forces in the shape of specially trained mining teams had crippled both of Cunningham’s remaining battleships, the Queen Elizabeth and Valiant. Winter had set in in the Soviet Union, allowing the German General Staff to divert a massive aerial fleet southward into the Mediterranean in an attempt to knock the British forces out of the region once and for all.36 The Royal Navy surface forces in the Mediterranean had been reduced to light cruiser and destroyer units, all badly in need of rest and refit. The convoys to Malta were being heavily hit, with little in the way of vital oil and ammunition supplies getting through, to say nothing of the damage done to escorting vessels and valuable merchant shipping units. The start of 1942 signalled the most critical period of the war for the beleaguered British Mediterranean fleet, and in particular the continued utility of Malta as the lynchpin of the throttling action against Axis efforts in North Africa. Britain had lost control of the air and sea spaces in the central Mediterranean. Axis forces now possessed supremacy in both areas and were determined to use this newfound control to their best advantage: supporting Rommel’s North African offensive to throw the British Army out of the Middle East and the eventual seizure of the Suez Canal.37 56

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The American entry into the global war that was now the British war effort reinforced the belief, at the strategic level, of the centrality of the Mediterranean campaign to the protection of Great Britain’s vital interests. In particular, Churchill, for whom the need to include the United States in a full and open partnership for the prosecution of the war had been paramount, now saw the Mediterranean as the only way of harnessing the American commitment to a Europe-first strategy.38 Thrown out of the Far East with the fall of Singapore, unable to bring effective naval and air forces to bear in that theatre because of the huge distances involved, and willing to let the American naval forces take the lead in the Pacific campaign due to no other option being available, the British Prime Minister realised his options for remaining an equal partner in the now formalised ‘Special Relationship’ depended on bringing America into the war in the Mediterranean. Despite the scepticism of American military planners about the soundness of the British desire to retain the Mediterranean, British political and military decision-makers won the battle of strategic direction in this opening phase of alliance policy-making.39 Arguing for the need to win the war in the Atlantic first, to build up confidence in the Anglo-American armies regarding their equipment, doctrine and training being able to match the German standard, and to impose an attritional, grinding approach to the defeat of Nazi Germany, British strategic policy makers convinced their American counterparts of the necessity of throwing the Axis forces out of North Africa first. To open up the Mediterranean ‘superhighway’ would also ensure the more rapid and effective use of limited merchant shipping resources, needed in both the Atlantic and Pacific theatres. Any days saved in such transport meant a faster build-up and prosecution of the war in the Far East, an important imperial consideration for the British.40 Most importantly, however, was the fact that with American military power now part of the equation the overall strategic objective had changed from using maritime power to throttle Axis assets, and thus putting pressure on the Italian will to continue the fight, to a strategy of territorial conquest. Now the aim of the exercise was to first eliminate the Axis threat from North Africa and then continue the fight onto the European mainland, with an invasion of Italy proper being the knock-out blow. With the Mediterranean theatre now central to the new alliance strategy, Malta and its place not only as a thorn in the Axis supply lines’ side, but as a symbol of defiance and a resolute willingness to resist, as well as a major naval and air base for strikes against mainland Italy in the future, retained its primacy of place in this new strategic reality as it had since the start of the war. As 1942 opened there were promising results from the British submarines based at Malta. The renewed Axis efforts to re-supply Rommel, who was preparing for another attack against the British North African army, and in particular with the capture of Tobruk as its objective, had created many more targets for the patrolling submarines. The newer type British submarines were performing well and experienced crews were now able to use better aerial reconnaissance and intelligence with effect. British submarines based in Alexandria were becoming more proficient, adding to the range of coverage available to the British raiders.41 So, despite 57

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a lack of air and surface combat units, the Royal Navy still held on to the hope of being able to strangle the Axis forces on the vine in North Africa. However, despite the best efforts of the limited British forces left in the Mediterranean, by 21 January 1942 two considerable convoys had managed to reach Rommel, allowing him the supplies necessary for the conduct of his long awaited offensive. Maltabased submarines were responsible for most of the damage done to the convoys, but the overall losses to Axis convoys in the period of January to March was only 9 per cent. Some tonnage had not arrived due to vessels not proceeding after failed British attacks, but the trend was clear: a steady rate of supply was getting to the Axis armies in the desert. By April of that year Force K, the small naval surface force using Malta as a staging base, and the submarines, would be forced to leave the island due to the ferocity and accuracy of enemy air attack.42 The most important factor in the Axis ability to retain command of the sea was the air superiority now available to them. With over 500 aircraft attacking the air and naval facilities at Malta on a daily basis, the overwhelmed island defences were once more brought to the verge of collapse. Without long-range reconnaissance and attack aircraft flying from the island, tracking the Axis shipping became more difficult. Without safe harbour facilities for the submarines to carry out repairs and crews to rest and recuperate, patrols became less frequent and less effective.43 The effective range of influence, the distance from Malta from which the Axis needed to operate in order to assure safe passage, fell to less than 50 miles distant from the fortress. The situation worsened with every mile Rommel advanced. Axis control of the airfields in and around Benghazi meant that German air units operating from Cyrenaica would be able to close off the eastern route of re-supply available to Malta, to say nothing of the threat such enemy air bases poised to the Royal Navy facilities and units in Alexandria.44 Cunningham, fearing that the Axis aerial fleet was now putting a noose around Malta in the same fashion that the British had hoped to strangle the Italian and German forces in North Africa, cautioned Pound in February that You will have appreciated the serious effect on the Malta situation following the recent military reverses in Libya. These reverses have been a bitter disappointment after efforts and sacrifices made in supporting Tobruk and in moving army supplies forward. It is not yet possible to say how far the retirement will continue. Auchinleck realises need to hold as far to Westward as possible and is making every effort to do so, but the line is already too far to the East from the Naval and Air viewpoint and we may yet find ourselves back on the frontier. It has always been my view that if we can hold the line at Derna it would just be possible to run Malta convoys with a reasonable degree of safety. That line is now gone and the Army does not forecast a limit to offensive until 1 April at earliest or even as late as 1 May … In these new circumstances it appears to me necessary to accept a considerable degree of risk at once in order to build up Malta supplies and that as the risk will certainly 58

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increase the sooner we can run a convoy the better while the enemy Air Forces are still not reorganised and the enemy remains preoccupied with his offensive.45 The C-in-C Mediterranean realised that there was a good chance that the entire resupply mission could be lost, but was willing to risk the convoy given the critical nature of the Malta situation. More importantly, he realised that the battle for control of the sealines of communication now rested on wresting command of the air away from the German air fleets besieging Malta and threatening the lines of communication between Malta and Alexandria. First, air control had to be established once more over Malta itself, in order that the air, surface and sub-surface forces could return to their interdiction roles, and second, that air control required the Royal Air Force (RAF) providing their best fighter aircraft, the Spitfire, in large quantities to the theatre in order to counter the German technical and numerical superiority in the skies over the island.46 The final, crucial race for supply dominance was underway. The strategic question now was: could Rommel’s offensive continue to receive the logistics necessary for maintaining the initiative, or, would the Royal Navy and RAF re-establish control of the sealines of communication in time to cripple the German momentum and prevent the British army in North Africa from being routed? If the latter was to be the answer Malta’s role as the thorn in that Axis logistics formula needed to be assured. That assurance was an uncertain thing by the end of 1942. With Force K and the submarines gone, the airspace over the island controlled by the Luftwaffe, the harbours and seas around them mined around the clock, Rommel’s rapid advance eastward providing more Luftwaffe bases that helped tighten the noose, and the question of how to supply the fortress with enough protective forces to enable it to become an offensive base again still not resolved between the RAF and Royal Navy, the future of the island and Great Britain’s position in the Mediterranean theatre was not assured. Scholars who question the primacy of Malta in British war planning in 1942 fail to appreciate the changed global strategic circumstances that allowed for the dedicated efforts to reinforce the island that took place from March to November of that year.47 With only American naval forces able to operate effectively in the Pacific, protecting Australia and New Zealand from Japan, Royal Navy and British merchant assets could be concentrated in the Mediterranean. If the war was won, then worries about the British Empire’s status in the Far East could be dealt with at a later time. America was now recognised as the senior alliance partner in that region of the world. It was a question of how much British global influence would be salvaged from the Russo-American-British effort to return Europe to a state of peace. When measured against the scale of resources expended in the Battle for the Atlantic, with the efforts to supply the Russian armies in 1942, along with the building up of Britain’s own military strength in terms of new aircraft, divisions and ships, the effort put into maintaining Malta cannot be escalated out of context. In the entire year only sixty-one merchant vessels with escorts were sent to attempt to re-supply the island. Of those vessels the

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Royal Navy lost an aircraft carrier, two cruisers, nine destroyers and an anti-aircraft cruiser. Of the supply ships thirty-two arrived safely, nineteen were lost and ten were forced back.48 When measured against the other British strategic supply actions taking place simultaneously and mentioned above, the Malta Convoys were valiant, brave and necessary, but were a limited effort in terms of overall British maritime energies being expended. In the face of continued enemy air attacks the convoys were an attritional approach by a service and nation that had for decades deplored such strategies in favour of manoeuvre. However, secure in the knowledge that American shipyards were now tooling up to replace merchant and naval shipping losses and providing much needed raw material to British yards, the risks were seen as being acceptable, if not preferential. In an action similar to the RAF’s gratitude to the Luftwaffe’s concentration on London in the autumn of 1940 instead of continuing its attacks on Fighter Command’s airfields, British commanders in the Middle East were thankful for the magnetic effect Malta had on the Luftwaffe’s efforts. If the aircraft and crews that had been launched in the attempts from January to May 1942 to neutralise Malta had been free to deploy in aid of Rommel’s operations there is every reason to believe that the British Army in the desert would not have been able to hold. Certainly that air armada amassed in the desert and focused on Alexandria would have made the Royal Navy’s ability to operate from that base heroic indeed. Therefore, both the offensive potential for the British, the ‘island in being’ posture, and the defensive drain placed on the enemy decision-making process produced by the island status, were decisive strategic contributions overall. The period from March until August 1942 was the critical time for the island. With shipping diverted to efforts to reinforce the Eighth Army’s attempts to finding a way to stop the Axis advance, and then, to building up the necessary forces for a decisive counterattack, spare capacity for supply runs to Malta was hard to find. Luftwaffe attacks increased in number and in ferocity until May, when the German High Command concluded that it had reduced the effectiveness of the island to act as a base for interdiction strikes. From March until June 1942 the island struggled to survive and nothing more than that. Thoughts of offensive actions and interdiction strikes were not a realistic expectation during those months. All efforts were focused on either fighting through valuable supplies or thwarting Axis air attacks. By the end of May, however, German demands for aircraft and manpower in Russia prevented any planned airborne assault on the island from taking place, so once again the island was saved from an actual invasion attempt by Soviet actions and their influence on German planning for the Mediterranean. Rommel’s need for troops and aircraft also interfered with German attempts to make such an assault a reality rather than a desire.49 This letup in the enemy’s efforts to smother Malta’s capabilities proved to be a costly error.50 Even in the face of such a determined enemy effort, British attempts to maintain and build up the air force assets on Malta were succeeding. The first Spitfires began to arrive on the island in March, signalling the determination with which 60

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the British war effort was now willing to go to maintain the island. A scarce and valued resource, the allocation of these aircraft to Malta was recognition of the centrality of the island to the whole Mediterranean strategy. On 9 May American naval power now began to show its worth as the USS Wasp was used again, along with the British carrier HMS Eagle, to ferry another instalment of 64 Spitfires to the island. Between March and August over 100 Spitfires would be sent to the island’s defence. The island’s ground-based anti-aircraft capability had been greatly enhanced and was beginning to have a telling impact on the accuracy and effectiveness of Axis sorties, particularly those targeting the naval installations. Supported now by ground-based and ship-based fighter control via radar, the air defence of the island was becoming more formidable all the time.51 While unable to make any interdiction or sound reconnaissance contribution at that time, the period of March and April saw British efforts consolidating the defences of the island. The largest effort to supply the island came on 10 August, with four carriers, two battleships and assorted other Royal Navy vessels being used to escort sixteen merchant ships in operation Pedestal, a convoy from Gibraltar. In the face of the fiercest Axis air and submarine attacks the convoy brought the necessary aid to the island to ensure its viability for months to come. In particular, the heroic effort to get the tanker Ohio into Malta, with over 10,000 tons of aviation fuel on board, was a strategic success of no little consequence.52 With supplies now in place to ensure the continued successful defence of the island against air attack, air and sea control in the central Mediterranean once more contested, and Axis supply shipping taken off the seas due to the presence of the Royal Navy strike forces included in Pedestal, the British naval and air forces now went on the offensive. Rommel’s troops received over 260,000 tons of shipping in July and over 210,000 in August. However, the crucial fuel tankers needed to keep the mechanised Axis forces mobile were being given special consideration in British efforts. Intelligence reports guided Royal Navy surface, sub-surface and RAF air assets onto these critical shipments. With the arrival of the fuel from the Ohio air attacks were once more viable, submarines could patrol in safety with air cover provided by the growing number of Spitfires, and surface forces were able to deny enemy small attack craft the freedom of manoeuvre. The true measurement of the worth of Malta and the effort put into its continued influence on the Axis strategy is a figure best derived by a look at Rommel’s inability to operate with any confidence in his supply situation after 15 August. Given over to having to salvage, scavenge and rely on booty captured from British dumps, the DAK was not a military formation that rested on a sound logistic foundation. Even the Axis supplies which reached their North African destinations were of limited value due to the great distances that those supplies now had to be transported, the fuel such land transportation consumed itself and the lack of timeliness of such deliveries. Without the ability to exploit coastal shipping as a means of more effectively moving the supply closer to the front, Axis efforts to enhance their logistical position in preparation for another offensive push were limited. Those uncertainties all combined to deprive the German commander of 61

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the combat power necessary for the final destruction of the rebuilding Eighth Army.53 From August until November over one-quarter of the Axis supplies sent to North Africa failed to reach their destination. British submarines contributed to approximately a little over a third of those losses, with aircraft taking the lion’s share. Surface forces and mines contributed little in terms of actual losses, although their effects in terms of denying the enemy access to more efficient routes or as a deterrent from consequent attempts cannot be discounted. The overwhelming evidence from the Axis army efforts in that period points clearly to the fact that the interdiction operations made possible after August, due to the retention of Malta as an air and submarine base, effectively throttled the Afrika Korp from the end of August and onwards, until the British offensive at El Alamein in late October 1942. While Malta was to have a role to play in the continued efforts to interdict Rommel’s supply lines after his retreat from Alamein began, there was little doubt by then of the continued survival of the island. Still under air and sea threat, with rations tight and life by no means in any way ‘normal’, the island was, however, secured, sustained, and acting in the offensive fashion that British maritime planners had always envisioned it would: throttling Axis forces in North Africa and putting pressure on the Italian government at home. Radar on the island was now allowing the Spitfires a greater opportunity to inflict heavy losses on attacking forces. Convoys were still in grave danger when attempting to supply the island, but increased strategic capacity from the shipyards in America and Canada made the losses acceptable and not as critical as they had once been. Once the Stoneage and Portcullis convoys reached Malta in late November and early December 1942, delivering over 55,000 tons of supply exclusive of heavy oils, British planners were confident of the island’s ability to endure until April or May of the following year.54 Having lost the opportunities presented to it throughout the first half of 1942 to deal a decisive blow to the Royal Navy in the eastern and central Mediterranean, and thereby seal off Malta from anything but western supply convoys, the Italian surface fleet was now once again the hunted and not the hunter. New British carriers and surface units, as well as RAF aircrews, now more skilled in the art of naval warfare, were able to press the Italian warships throughout the central Mediterranean area. Without control of the sea, and struggling to exert any form of sea denial to Allied forces, the Axis naval effort to re-supply North Africa forces became a nocturnal, small unit effort, a circumstance not likely to allow Rommel to reconstitute his beleaguered forces for any final act of conquest. The war in North Africa was not concluded by the end of 1942, but it had been won. And the British strategic decision to retain Malta, at all costs, had been the major contributory factor. Though it is true that acts in other arenas and by other nations, such as events taking place on the Russian Front, the act of aggression in the Pacific that brought into reality the Anglo-American Alliance, or, indeed, the inaction or actions taken by Italian and German commanders charged with the prosecution of their Mediterranean strategy, might have been as important as the British decision to 62

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maintain Malta, the fact is that without that initial British decision to maintain Malta the others, with regard to a war in the Mediterranean, would not have occurred. Therefore, the retention of Malta must be seen as the pivotal aspect of the British strategy in that area and thus its conquest central to their defeat. No matter that other, more creative, manoeuvrist or insightful strategies were available. Once the British determination to hold the island had been set, the Axis’ failure to understand the centre of gravity which the island represented for the entire British war effort in that theatre was a catastrophic event. Barnett argues that the forces lost in the Mediterranean, and particularly in the holding of Malta, were squandered. But what was the alternative? Let the Middle East, with its oil, its SLOCs to the Far East, its proximity to the lines of communication towards India, and what little global prestige Britain still retained, go silently into the night as the Royal Navy let go of the seas that it had controlled for the last 150 years? Would not such a decision have hastened the Japanese attack on British interests in the Far East, without the need for an attack on the United States? Yes. Would it not have made American intervention by the Roosevelt Administration in any substantive, combative way almost impossible? Again, yes. Was the Axis effort, particularly in German air and land units diverted from the Russian Front to the Mediterranean, a decisive example of the indirect approach? No. But certainly the willingness to continue to take the fight to the Axis in whatever theatre they could had some influence on the development and coherence of Anglo-Soviet strategic relations. Thus, the battle for Malta was a battle that had to be fought by the British forces, win or lose. It was by no means certain that it was a battle the British forces could win. In fact, a good case for the Axis losing rather than the British winning can be made. But that is another story. Without secure lines of communication to mainland Europe the Axis land offensive in North Africa was a victim of its own success. Unable to maintain lines of communication from the front to the strategic supply areas in the rear, momentum was lost by the advancing Axis forces. As the British forces retreated, making not only the strategic lines of communication around the Horn of Africa and through the Suez Canal more effective, that act, the pendulum of war, allowed even a weakened RAF and RN to act with effect against the now overstretched Axis supply lines. The British strategic policy-making elite, primarily the Admiralty and Prime Minister Churchill, maintained their strategic aim with regard to Malta. Often in other aspects of the Mediterranean campaign that was not the case, particularly with regard to the operations in Greece. But with Malta the strategic effects of endurance, tempo, morale, concentration of force, the power of the defensive versus the offensive, sea denial as opposed to sea control, and the primacy of the battle of supply in modern war: interdiction, combined to prove their decisions were correct.

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Notes 1 One of the most critical commentators on the British strategic calculations regarding Malta and the Mediterranean is Correlli Barnett, Engage the Enemy More Closely: The Royal Navy in the Second World War, London, Hodder and Stoughton, 1991. His views on the strategic value of the British effort in the Mediterranean are incorrect due to his misunderstanding of British Imperial Defence and a bias created by Britain’s Cold War strategic weakness. Churchill, though involved in the first modern deployments of RN battle cruisers and cruisers to Malta in 1912, was not blinded by any strategic myopia to the pros and cons of maintaining Malta throughout the Second World War, Keith Hamilton, Bertie of Thame: Edwardian Ambassador, Royal Historical Society, The Boydell Press, 1990, p. 288; Robin Brodhurst, ‘Admiral Sir Dudley Pound’, in Malcolm H. Murfett ed., The First Sea Lords: From Fisher to Mountbatten, Westport, Praeger Publishers, 1995, pp. 185–200, p. 189; and A. Danchev, Very Special Relationship: Field-Marshal Sir John Dill and the Anglo-American Alliance, 1941–44, London, Macmillan, 1986; Alex Danchev and Daniel Todman eds, War Diaries, 1939–1945: Field Marshal Lord AlanBrooke, London, Phoenix Press, 2001. This is not to say that Churchill’s meddling in the naval conduct of the war was always right, nor, however, was it always wrong. See Lord Ismay, The Memoirs of General the Lord Ismay, London, Heinemann, 1960; John Charmley, Churchill: The End of Glory, New York, Harcourt Brace, 1993; Tuvia Ben Moshe, Churchill: Strategy and History, Boulder, Colorado, Lynne Reinner, 1992. 2 On the pre-war and wartime strategic thinking concerning the Mediterranean and Malta see: Reynolds M. Salerno, Vital Crossroads: Mediterranean Origins of the Second World War, 1935–1940, Ithaca and London, Cornell University Press, 2002; Robert Mallet, The Italian Navy and Fascist Expansionism, 1935–1940, London, Frank Cass Publishers, 1998; Gerhard Schreiber, ‘Italy and the Mediterranean in the Power-Political Calculations of German Naval Leaders, 1919–1945’, pp. 108–146, Michael Simpson, ‘Superhighway to the World Wide Web: The Mediterranean in British Imperial Strategy, 1900–1945’, pp. 51–77, and Paul G. Halpern, ‘French and Italian Naval Policy in the Mediterranean, 1898–1945’, pp. 78–107, all in John Hattendorf ed., Naval Strategy in the Mediterranean: Past, Present and Future, London, Frank Cass Publishers, 2000; Stephen W. Roskill, Naval Policy Between the Wars, 2 Vols, London, Collins, 1968–76; D. Alves, ‘The Resupply of Malta in World War II’, Naval War College Review, September, 1980, pp. 63–72; M. Jones, Britain, the United States and the Mediterranean War, 1942–1944, London, Macmillan, 1996; Jack Greene and Alessandro Massignani, The Naval War in the Mediterranean, 1940–1943, London, Chatham Publishing, 1998; Michael Howard, The Mediterranean Strategy in the Second World War, London, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1968; Brian P. Farrell, The Basis and Making of British Grand Strategy, 1940–1943, Lewiston, New York, Edwin Mellen Press, 1998. 3 For the British Army in the desert and the links to naval campaign, especially in questions of fuel for Rommel’s forces, see Niall Barr, Pendulum of War: The Three Battles of El Alamein, London, Jonathan Cape Ltd, 2004. 4 Malcolm H. Murfett, ‘Admiral Sir Roger Roland Charles Backhouse’, in Murfett ed., The First Sea Lords pp. 173–84, p. 178. 5 UK Public Records Office, Kew [henceforth PRO] CAB 16/183A, London, Minutes of Strategic Appreciation Sub-Committee, 17 April, 1939; PRO: CAB 16/182, Defence Policy Committee, 15 July, 1937. See also The Royal Navy and the Mediterranean, Vol. I: September 1939–October 1940, in the Whitehall Histories: Naval Staff Histories, London, Frank Cass Publishers, 2002, p. xiii. 6 Michael Simpson ed., The Cunningham Papers Vol.1, Navy Records Society, Aldershot, Ashgate Publishing Ltd, 1999, letter from Pound to Cunningham, 24 July, 1939, p. 23.

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7 Ibid, Cunningham to Pound, 26 July, 1939. 8 Ibid, Cunningham to Pound, 1 August, 1939. 9 Charles W. Koburger Jr., Naval Warfare in the Eastern Mediterranean, 1940–1945, Westport, Praeger Publishers, 1993, pp. 13–15. 10 Bernard Ireland, The War in the Mediterranean, 1940–1943, London, Arms and Armour Press, 1993, pp. 27–43. 11 Alastair Mars, British Submarines at War, 1939–1945, London, William Kimber and Co. Limited, 1971, pp. 80–97. 12 Jürgen Rohwer, Allied Submarine Attacks of World War Two: European Theatre of Operations, 1939–1945, London, Greenhill Books, 1997, pp. 126–127; John Wingate, The Fighting Tenth: The Tenth Submarine Flotilla and the Siege of Malta, London, Leo Cooper, 1991, pp. 4–15. 13 Cunningham Papers, Cunningham to Pound, 27 June, 1940, p. 83; and Cunningham to Pound, 3 August, 1940, pp. 123–4. 14 Ibid, War Diary, 1 July, 1940, p. 97 and, War Diary, 3 August, 1940, p. 123. Statistics on Italian shipping from Stephen Roskill, The War at Sea, 1939–1945, Vol. 1, London, HM Stationary Office, 1954, p. 307. 15 Richard Woodman, Malta Convoys, 1940–1943, London, John Murray, 2000; The Royal Navy and the Mediterranean, Vol. I, pp. 51–62; Michael Simpson ed., The Somerville Papers, The Navy Records Society, Aldershot, Ashgate Publishing, 1995, Sommerville to his wife, 10 November, 1940, pp. 180–1. 16 Cunningham Papers, Pound to Cunningham, 14 August, 1940, p.126; Wingate, The Fighting Tenth, pp. 10–22. 17 The Royal Navy and the Mediterranean, Vol. I, pp. 73–81. 18 Barnett, Engage the Enemy More Closely, p. 524; Raymond De Belot, The Struggle for the Mediterranean, 1939–1945, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1951, pp. 152–5. 19 Roskill, The War at Sea, pp. 419–420; PRO:CAB 66/12, War Cabinet Papers, ‘Air Reinforcements for the Middle East’, 14 October, 1940; Ibid, ‘The Middle East. Despatch of Reinforcements’, 5 October, 1940; for the attritional nature of British strategic planning for 1941 see PRO:CAB 66/12, ‘Future Strategy: Appreciation by the Chiefs of Staff Committee’, 4 September, 1940. 20 Major-General I.S.O. Playfair, The Mediterranean and Middle East, Vol. II. Official History of the Second World War, London, H.M. Stationary Office, 1956, pp. 43–59. 21 Admiral Sir W.M. James, The British Navies in the Second World War, London, Longmans, Green and Co., 1946, pp. 82–88; Halpern, ‘French and Italian Naval Policy’, p. 101; Cunningham Papers, War Diary, January 1941, 15–19 January, pp. 259–62 and, Cunningham to Pound, 18 January, 1941, pp. 262–4; Playfair, Vol. II, p. 47. 22 Tony Spooner, Supreme Gallantry: Malta’s Role in the Allied Victory, 1939–1945, London, John Murray, 1996, pp. 25–37; Peter Padfield, War Beneath the Sea: Submarine Conflict, 1939–1945, London, John Murray, 1995, pp. 131–41. 23 B.J. Mellor, ‘The Impact of Allied Submarine Operations in the Mediterranean, 1940–1945’, The Naval Review, Vol. 87, No.4, October 1999, pp. 327–331, pp. 327–8. 24 S.W.C. Pack, Sea Power in the Mediterranean, London, Arthur Barker Limited, 1971, pp. 186–9. 25 Mars, British Submarines at War, pp. 91–7. 26 Simpson, ‘Superhighway to the World Wide Web’, p. 62. 27 On Cunningham’s fears of Axis mining see Cunningham Papers, letter from Cunningham to Pound, 3 May, 1941. F.H. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence in the Second World War, 3 vols., New York, Cambridge University Press, 1979–1988, vol.2, pp. 416–27. 28 The Royal Navy and the Mediterranean, Vol. II, November 1940–December 1941, pp. 92–3.

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29 Alan J. Levine, The War Against Rommel’s Supply Lines, 1942–1943, Westport, Praeger Publishers, 1999, p. 18. 30 Figures here are taken from data compiled from original sources in Lt. Col. A.H. Hannemann, ‘What is a Possible Enemy Impact on Logistics in a High Intensity Conflict? A Historical Example: The German Africa Campaign in World War II’, a Defence Research Paper, Joint Services Command and Staff College, UK, 1999. 31 Ibid. 32 On the increased effectiveness of the FAA, submarine and surface forces operating from Malta and their impact see Spooner, Supreme Gallantry, pp. 44–102; Playfair, Vol. II, pp. 282–3. 33 Playfair, Vol.II, pp. 247–64. 34 The Royal Navy and the Mediterranean, Vol. II, pp. 172–177; Cunningham Papers, War Diary, June 1941, p. 489; letter from Cunningham to Pound, 25 July, 1941, and memo from Chiefs of Staff to Cunningham, 18 October, 1941. 35 Woodman, Malta Convoys, pp. 178–276. Simpson, Somerville Papers, pp. 59–64l. 36 Cunningham Papers, letter from Cunningham to Pound, 28 December, 1941, pp. 557–559; Ibid, letter from Ford [CinC Malta] to Cunningham, 3 January, 1941, pp. 560–561; The Royal Navy and the Mediterranean, Vol. II, pp. 224–230; de Belot, The Struggle for the Mediterranean, pp. 142–51. 37 D. Macintyre, The Battle for the Mediterranean, London, B.T. Batsford, 1964, pp. 110–14; Playfair, Vol. III, pp. 117–8. 38 Barnett, pp. 491–4. 39 CAB 79/13, COS Committee, Minutes 21, 22, 24, July 1941; Danchev and Todman ed., The Alanbrooke Diaries, pp. 213–50. 40 Simpson, ‘Superhighway to the World Wide Web’, pp. 64–66; Douglas E. Delaney, ‘Churchill and the Mediterranean Strategy: December 1941 to January 1943’, Defence Studies, Vol. 2, No. 3, Autumn 2002, pp. 1–26. 41 Mars, pp. 134–137; Wingate, pp. 125–141. 42 Playfair, Vol. III, pp. 139–141, p. 163; Hannemann, pp. 12–16. 43 Laddie Lucas, Malta: The Thorn in Rommel’s Side; Six Months that Turned the War, London, Stanley Paul, 1992, pp. 13–33; Playfair, Vol. III, pp. 161–2. 44 Levine, The War Against Rommel’s Supply Lines, pp. 20–2. 45 Cunningham Papers, letter Cunningham to Pound, 6 February, 1942. 46 Ibid, letter to Pound, 10 February, 1942. 47 Barnett, p. 492; On the role of logistics diplomacy and the Anglo-American Alliance efforts in World War Two see Kevin Smith, Conflict over Convoys: Anglo-American Logistics Diplomacy in the Second World War, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1996. 48 Woodman, pp. 277–455. 49 De Belot, pp. 156–59; Playfair, Vol. III, pp. 177–95. 50 For the best discussion of the impact of the island on the land campaign from March until October 1942 see the forthcoming book by Naill Barr, Note 3 above. 51 Cunningham Papers, letter Leatham to Cunningham, 12 March, 1942. 52 Greene and Massignani, The Naval War in the Mediterranean, pp. 242–60. 53 Ibid, pp. 261–2; Barr, The Pendulum of War. 54 Playfair, Vol. IV, pp. 193–213.

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4 AIR POWER AND EVACUATIONS Crete 1941 Stephen Prince It takes three years to build a ship. It would take three hundred to rebuild a tradition. The evacuation will continue.1 It takes two years to build a battleship: it would take two hundred to rebuild the Commonwealth.2 Admiral A. B. Cunningham, May 1941 The Battle of Crete commenced with intensive German air attacks on the island from 14 May 1941.3 These were followed, on 20 May, by invasion, first by air delivery of troops and later by attempted landings from the sea. While these landings were entirely frustrated by the Royal Navy, the airborne forces, after intense fighting, were able to gain a foothold on Maleme airfield. As this foothold proved impossible to dislodge, and was expanded through air supply, the land force commander, Major General Bernard Freyberg, judged that the battle was lost and recommended evacuation on 26 May. This request was authorised the following day, and on four consecutive nights from 28 May to 1 June the Royal Navy successfully evacuated around 16,500 men.4 This chapter examines the Royal Navy’s role in this short but intense joint and combined campaign.5 However, in order to provide a really satisfactory assessment it is necessary to locate it in its long-term context, both because this determined much of the nature of the operation and because this aspect is absent from most accounts. The major elements of context are the progress of the war until May 1941 and the long term interaction of maritime and air power and its particular influence on the Royal Navy.

Air power and the Royal Navy The Royal Navy was the world pioneer in the use of aircraft over water, founding the Royal Naval Air Service in 1912. In 1918 it commissioned the world’s first true aircraft carrier, HMS Argus, and from 1917 it was developing plans for large scale raids on ports, exploiting the opportunities provided by torpedo carrying aircraft to attack enemy shipping at source.6 However, the end of the First World War meant that these innovations were never put to the test.

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The post-war Royal Navy, in common with other navies and services, investigated the likely impact of aircraft on the maritime environment. Its conclusion was that the primitive capabilities of existing aircraft and aeronautical technology meant that planes would be a valuable auxiliary to the conventional fleet but not a fundamental threat to it. This position reflected the expert consensus of most contemporary airmen. In 1921 Lord Trenchard, Chief of the Air Staff, stated ‘We are ineffective against an enemy capital ship.’7 Aircraft struggled to carry ship-killing weapons, their capabilities were severely limited by bad weather or darkness and the electronics required for their effective navigation were virtually non-existent. Given this situation it was hardly surprising that the emphasis remained on the proven weapons systems of gun armed battleships, cruisers and destroyers, which combined endurance with all-weather delivery of firepower. Inter-war Royal Navy concepts sought to integrate aircraft with these systems, seeing them as a valuable way to optimise the effectiveness of artillery equipped ships. It was envisaged that aircraft could damage the enemy’s ships in harbour if they refused battle. If the enemy was at sea, aircraft would fulfil an important reconnaissance role and could also inflict damage, increasing the chances of a decisive gunnery engagement. This concept of operations was summarised in the phrase ‘find and fix’. From the mid-1930s however these perceptions of air power at sea were being challenged by technical developments that permitted a rapid maturing of the potential of military aircraft. As biplanes reached the limits of development they were superseded by metal monoplanes with enclosed cockpits and retractable landing gear. When these innovations were combined with more powerful engines and early electronic navigation systems the combat potential of aircraft was dramatically increased. They could now operate effectively at greater distance and approach targets more rapidly with heavier weapons.8 In naval terms this meant aircraft now had the ability, under some circumstances, to inflict fundamental rather than superficial damage on major warships. This exponential evolution of air power had not been fully predicted and many of its military implications were not visible immediately. In the absence of a large scale conflict to test it many of its potential implications remained speculative. In application many aspects of air power were unpredictable. One early example was the vulnerability of multi-engined bombers, equipped with powered gun-turrets, to fighters when operated against distant targets by day. This reality shocked the RAF during its ineffective attempts to attack the German fleet in 1939 and forced the fundamental restriction to night usage for its heavy bomber force for much of the war.9 It would be April 1940 before aircraft sank a major warship, the German light cruiser Königsberg, and this ship was at anchor having already been damaged by shore batteries. Overall the result of the Norwegian Campaign of 1940, the first major interaction between maritime power, including aircraft carriers, and land-based airpower, was inconclusive about the combat balance between ships and aircraft.10

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Two of the three major naval powers of the Second World War, Japan and the United States, had the opportunity to analyse these events and the first two years of the conflict, including Crete, as relatively detached observers. They were spurred by the example of global conflict, the freedom of unprecedented levels of peacetime military expenditure and planning scenarios that required an emphasis on open ocean warfare. Both invested heavily in ship and shore based naval aviation, as well as new conventional warships. However, their investment in maritime aviation had already been greater than that of Britain even before 1939, with one indication being their operation of around 600 carrier aircraft each. This contrasted to the 230 operated by Royal Navy, the original pioneer of the capability.11 The issue of inter-service relations complicated the Royal Navy’s relationship with maritime aviation. In contrast to the navies of the USA and Japan, the Royal Navy did not control maritime aviation. It was an element of the independent Royal Air Force from 1918 until 1939, when ship based aviation was returned to the Royal Navy.12 As well as removing most aviators from the navy, this arrangement had the impact of overlaying intra-service technical arguments with inter-service agendas, where advocacy of the capabilities of aviation could often be perceived as advocacy for a rival service. Control of maritime aviation by an air force, ironically, also did little to promote investment in it. The RAF’s main priorities, which helped to shape but also reflected Britain’s grand strategic concerns, were the acquisition of an offensive bomber force and then a fighter defence for Great Britain. By contrast RAF interest in maritime aviation was marginal, and the resources allocated to it were frequently reduced to increase those for higher priority items.13 This low level of investment also influenced the operating procedures of the Royal Navy’s carriers. Low numbers led to multiple tasking for the available aircraft, further reducing their performance in any particular role. With few aircraft available planes were generally struck below deck to preserve them, leading to a slower operating tempo than that achieved by other navies and the association of air groups with hangar rather than deck capacity. The net result of these factors was that, until the outbreak of war, the everyday experience of the Royal Navy was of small numbers of low performance aircraft and a virtual absence of larger landbased maritime planes. Although naval aircrew sought to compensate for this through skill and innovation in areas such as night flying, Friedman has assessed that, ‘senior naval officers … could not guess what they were missing’ and the logical extension of this is they could not fully guess what they might have to face.14 Despite this lack of exposure to air power, the Royal Navy did take the threat of air attack seriously, particularly from the mid-1930s. However, in a pre-radar era with limited air groups, it was considered unlikely that sufficient fighter sorties could be generated to base defence primarily on interception. Therefore the Royal Navy invested heavily in anti-aircraft (AA) guns for both new and existing shipping. The implications of this were extensive: The threat of attack by fast and robust aircraft meant that elaborate power-operated HA [High Angle] mountings had to replace manual LA 69

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[Low Angle] mountings; that single mountings had to be replaced by twins (which meant twice as many shells) …. Higher rates of fire meant mechanical shell supply from larger centralised magazines … and advanced calculating machines had to be invented to supply guns instantly with the correct deflection. To eliminate human error as far as possible between computer and gun, mountings began to be remotely controlled. All this at a time when no operational warship had ever been sunk by air attack.15 The realities of Britain’s rearmament impinged on this programme. Medium calibre artillery proved to a be a major bottleneck in industrial capacity as naval requirements competed with army orders for similar weapons for both ground and AA use. The navy also had to balance improvements against the opportunity costs of the resources they absorbed. The 4-inch and 4.7-inch gun systems in widespread use were recognised as having limited AA capabilities, with many inputs that had to be estimated manually.16 However, the costs of replacement with a new fully dual-purpose gun were prohibitive, so effort was concentrated on improving the armament in new-build ships. Equally, in short range weapons the limitations of existing ‘pom poms’ and 0.5-inch machine guns were recognised, particularly as aircraft speeds increased, but these systems had the advantage of current production availability. Provision of superior 20 mm and 40 mm systems from abroad was investigated but took time to secure.17 By the time they were becoming available dramatically changed circumstances meant that national demand for both these weapons and their limited supplies of ammunition and guidance systems would have grown exponentially.

The progress of the war until the battle for Crete The dramatically changed circumstances which affected the demand for AA guns were those which also had a fundamental impact on all Britain’s military operations from 1940 onwards. The fall of France was a scenario that had never entered Britain’s defence planning assumptions. It was a strategic earthquake that negated many of the assessments which had governed Britain’s preparations for war. For the Royal Navy vastly increased German access to the sea was the major adverse change. The simultaneous loss of French assistance and the addition of Italian forces as adversaries reinforced this, a shift of advantage that was most manifest in the Mediterranean.18 The new circumstances also meant immediate and unexpected exposure of the Royal Navy to the potential for large-scale air attack in most of the littoral waters of Europe. Ironically, major deployments in hostile littoral waters were also one of the first requirements of the new strategic landscape, as the Royal Navy and its auxiliaries retrieved Britain’s expeditionary forces. Three distinct operations were required in the summer of 1940 to evacuate forces from Dunkirk, wider areas of France, and Norway. The largest, at Dunkirk, from 26 May to 4 June 1940, rescued over 70

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338,000 troops. This was principally by Royal Navy warships but with invaluable assistance from civilian craft, some of them civilian manned – a combination that provided an ad hoc substitute for the navy’s lack of substantial amphibious shipping.19 Four destroyers were lost to air attack but, relative to the scale of the operation, the losses were small. This was to a considerable extent due to the largescale commitment of RAF Fighter Command to protect the operating area from their bases on one edge of the immediate vicinity, which provided air parity. In the evacuations of Norway and wider areas of France air cover was more erratic, due to the greater distance from land air bases and the limited resources of naval aviation. This was largely counter-balanced by a lower scale of German air effort, equally due to problems of establishing viable bases and continuing tasking ashore. There were serious local losses to air attack, such as the liner Lancastria, which was sunk when crowded with 6,000 men, of whom around 3,000 were lost.20 Overall 576,000 personnel were saved from the European mainland, with Royal Navy losses to aircraft in areas of extensive air activity, amounting to five destroyers and a converted AA cruiser.21 Given the scale of operations these losses were perceived to be tolerable but left the Royal Navy’s senior officers realistic about the impact of air attack. Even before Dunkirk the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Dudley Pound, wrote to Admiral Cunningham stating, ‘The one lesson we have learned is that it is essential to have fighter protection over the fleet.’22 The challenge though would be how far recognition of this requirement could be reconciled with the increased burden of tasks that the RN would now be required to perform in the new strategic situation. This dilemma was also rendered more acute by the inroads the Norwegian campaign had made into the RN’s shallow organic air resources.23 Following the evacuation of Europe, Britain’s main theatre of joint operations switched to engagement against Italian forces in Africa and the Mediterranean. Admiral Sir Andrew Cunningham’s Mediterranean Fleet sought to press the Italian Navy as soon as war was declared, with HMS Warspite severely damaging the Italian battleship Giulio Cesare as early as 9 July 1940. Faced with this aggressive attitude the Italian Navy adopted a largely passive ‘fleet-in-being’ stance in harbour. This led to the Royal Navy’s air attack at Taranto on 11–12 November. This action utilised the conceptual elements of the First World War plans for attack at source from carriers, and the skills the Fleet Air Arm had developed to compensate for small numbers of low performance aircraft – in this case night attack. Three battleships were badly damaged and, as David Brown has put it, for the loss of two aircraft the Royal Navy had achieved, ‘not only material parity but moral ascendancy’.24 This advantage permitted the RN to pass convoys through the Mediterranean and support the Army in North Africa. In March 1941 it was renewed at the Battle of Cape Matapan. In this action Cunningham’s fleet was deployed to intercept an Italian sortie due to signals intelligence. It was then also guided by the reconnaissance provided by aircraft from the carrier Formidable, which were also able to damage a battleship and heavy cruiser with torpedoes. Although the battleship Vittorio Veneto escaped, the cruiser Pola together with two further cruisers and two destroyers were sunk in a night surface 71

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action. This action was the result of the Pola having been delayed by damage inflicted by naval aircraft, some flying from Formidable and some from Crete, in exactly in the manner of pre-war concepts.25 The renewed physical and psychological dominance over the Italian Navy would be an important factor in the subsequent evacuation from Crete. The Royal Navy’s successes, coupled with General O’Connor’s devastating offensive in Libya, inflicted enormous damage on the Italian armed forces but also triggered German intervention in the Mediterranean. The first evidence of this was the arrival of the Luftwaffe’s Fliegerkorps X in Sicily in January 1941. This unit was the Luftwaffe’s specialist anti-shipping force, trained after the experience of Norway, and it achieved immediate success. It crippled the carrier HMS Illustrious and sank the modern cruiser Southampton, the first major modern warship destroyed by aircraft while operating at sea. These were the most serious losses yet inflicted on warships from the air. This level of effectiveness was in sharp contrast to the limited impact Italy’s land-based airpower had had on the Mediterranean fleet. The fleet had previously been able to operate successfully, even without air cover, by countering Italian aircraft with a mixture of careful deployment, manoeuvre and AA fire.26 The losses off Sicily were partly the result of an intelligence distribution failure, which left the Admiralty ignorant of the Luftwaffe deployment to the island until the eve of the attacks.27 They also, however, indicated the fundamental increase in the seriousness of the threat from the air, a factor appreciated by the Royal Navy in the theatre. The Mediterranean fleet’s January War Diary stated that the losses: … quickly made it clear that until adequate fighter protection was available, not only must the through Mediterranean convoys be suspended, but the fleet itself would operate by day within range of the dive bombers only at considerable risk.28 This document articulates a theme which would recur in the Royal Navy’s assessment of its confrontation with the Luftwaffe in the coming months. This was recognition that adequately addressing the dramatically enhanced prospect of air attack now required greater protection in the air. This would add a layer of much increased depth and flexibility to the immediate defence surface units could provide for themselves, preventing orchestrated saturation attacks. This analysis in turn then drew attention to the larger strategic issues concerning Britain’s overall allocation of fighter aircraft between theatres, as well as the particular scarcities of aircraft and crew capable of operating from aircraft carriers.29 In the absence of fighter cover the fleet sought to enhance its use of AA fire, in particular trying to achieve an enhanced mutually supporting ‘umbrella barrage’ over groups of ships.30 There was a consensus that the method most likely to limit losses from air attack was to operate at the greatest possible distance from German air bases, particularly during the good weather, daylight hours when their aircraft were 72

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effective. However, the strategic requirements of the spring of 1941 prevented this policy from being pursued. In February Churchill’s government decided to send an expeditionary force to Greece. The government’s decision was determined by its wish to support its obligations to Greece, the hope of a new Balkan front and to demonstrate its aggressive commitment to the war to America. The latter was a particularly significant strategic factor as the Lend-Lease Act, the economic basis for Britain’s ability to continue major operations, was being debated at this point.31 Ultimately, the evacuation of Crete would be the last operational legacy of this decision. The grand strategic effects required by this expedition were entirely dependent on maritime access to Greece and, from 5 March, the fleet escorted the ‘Lustre’ convoys to Greek ports. These convoys provoked increasing Axis basing of aircraft in Rhodes and the Dodecanese and to the Italian naval sortie at Cape Matapan but 58,000 Commonwealth troops were delivered to Greece without loss. Shortages of both aircraft and suitable bases meant that air cover was minimal but this was counter-balanced by the simultaneous difficulties Axis forces had in building up their local air combat power and operating it in the complex environment of the Greek littoral. While merchant ships were lost to aerial attack and mining it was possible to confine these losses to supply ships or returning troopers.32 The increasingly dangerous situation did, though, compel the increasing use of warships as fast troopers in order to minimise the period spent within range of enemy forces.33 The successful deployment to Greece was, however, almost immediately overtaken by wider events in the theatre that added further to the fleet’s daily tasks of escort, bombardment, interdiction, and deterrent. Rommel’s offensive in Libya left Tobruk as an isolated fortress that had to be supplied from the sea from 11 April.34 This was undertaken despite the lack of shore based air support, as the African littoral bases were now operated by the Luftwaffe, also increasing the ring of Axis air bases that encircled the communication route to Greece and Crete.35 Simultaneously, events on the ground in Greece led to the decision to evacuate the expeditionary forces there. The evacuation, Operation Demon, was carried out between 24 April and 1 May, despite an ever increasing scale of Axis air attack. This scale was determined by the development of the enemy’s local air infrastructure and the destruction of both the RAF’s limited forces and its operating bases.36 Heavy use was again made of warships as fast troop transports and considerable efforts were made to achieve successful night embarkation. This system was facilitated by the activities of a naval control organisation ashore under a flag officer,37 these measures being designed to limit exposure to the evacuation to air attack. As in 1940 most equipment also had to be sacrificed, a measure determined both by the priority given to personnel and by the lack of significant specialised amphibious lift capacity.38 Air attacks by up to 300 aircraft badly damaged Greek port capacity and sank large numbers of Greek merchant ships but many of them unconnected with the evacuation, demonstrating the Luftwaffe’s inability to identify priority targets. Three transports, two empty, were lost to bombing and when 73

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the destroyers Diamond and Wryneck delayed to rescue survivors from the Slamat they were attacked while isolated and overwhelmed by dive-bombers. Both sank within minutes with the loss of over 90 per cent of their crews and passengers – over 900 men.39 This was a powerful illustration of dilemmas and restrictions now being imposed on the Royal Navy by Axis air attack. Overall, however, 50,700 personnel were evacuated, representing around 80 per cent of the forces available for evacuation.40

Crete: from defence to evacuation With the evacuation of Greece, Crete abruptly became a frontline base and an obvious next theatre of operations for both sides. For Britain the island represented a first layer of defence for the regional base in Egypt and the first location where the scale of a German ground assault could be limited. For Germany Crete had potential danger as a base for attacks on both the Romanian oil fields and the coastal shipping that carried much of the oil. An assault on the island would clear the flank for the imminent invasion of the Soviet Union, but one reason the task was given to the Luftwaffe to command was to ensure minimum interference with the dominant operation.41 Crete had been a British operating base since November 1940, with the Royal Navy using Suda Bay for refuelling, while the RAF established three basic airfields. All these facilities were concentrated on the northern coastal plain of the island, now fully exposed to Axis bases as little as 40 miles away. However, development of their defence had remained a low priority as late as mid-April, due to pressing demands elsewhere and only on 14–15 May did the Defence Committee make Crete the top priority over British projects in North Africa, Syria and Iraq.42 Churchill hoped two advantages would compensate for this neglect. The first of these was excellent signals intelligence which gave warnings of the German intention to launch an airborne assault, supplemented by landings from the sea. The second was the capability of the Royal Navy, not just to sustain the garrison but also to prevent amphibious landings. These potential advantages however had limitations in their application. While General Freyberg, the new garrison commander, was given excellent intelligence on the German invasion plans, he was simultaneously required to ensure there was no risk that his deployments might indicate this foreknowledge. Therefore his forces remained widely distributed between airfield and coastal defences, though this pattern also reflected his judgement that amphibious landings would be an ultimately more serious threat to the island, given their potential to deliver a high volume of formed units, together with heavy weapons.43 Freyberg’s inability to redeploy his forces during the battle, in order to address how it actually developed, arose from the lack of transport within his unbalanced command, which consisted largely of survivors from Greece. This lack of mobility was increased by the circumstance that also threatened to undermine Britain’s maritime advantage, the absolute air superiority enjoyed by Axis forces in the area 74

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of Crete. By mid-May the Axis had massed 1,280 aircraft in the immediate area, including over 700 combat aircraft.44 By contrast the RAF began May with only 40 fighters on Crete and with no ability to reinforce or sustain them from theatre resources. On 19 May the last seven surviving fighters were withdrawn and landbased air operations had to be conducted from bases in North Africa.45 As has been observed this was the equivalent of trying to conduct the Battle of Britain from the Scottish Border.46 This was beyond the scant capabilities of the RAF in the region, as well as reflecting the inherent limited endurance of airpower without suitable local bases. By contrast the Royal Navy was able to operate in the area of Crete despite a similar 400-mile detachment from its support structure. There were few illusions about the inevitability of casualties from a deployment under the intensely unfavourable circumstances that had developed. The Royal Navy would have to operate within a ring of developed adjacent enemy air bases, during fine weather with long hours of daylight and without an effective air component.47 However, as Tedder recorded, there was also recognition across the services that the Royal Navy was the only service capable of frustrating the seaborne invasion, thus giving Freyberg’s limited garrison a chance of successfully resisting the air assault.48 Cunningham’s fleet remained continually occupied as the battle for Crete approached. The air situation meant that, in addition to Tobruk, his warships now had to make fast transport passages to Crete as attempts were made to enhance the effectiveness of the garrison. Also in early May the fleet had to sortie to the Sicilian Narrows during Operation Tiger, to meet a special convoy from Gibralter carrying tanks and Hurricane fighters. While the convoy included a battleship and two cruisers as reinforcements, its successful protection attrited the air group of Formidable, the only carrier available, as well as the fleet’s AA ammunition. Given the particular scarcities of carrier capable aircraft and crew this meant Formidable had only four Fulmar fighters when Crete was invaded, and so was not immediately deployed. With regard to ammunition the fleet also had to commence the battle for Crete with only 75 per cent of the required anti-aircraft ammunition.49 Simultaneously the ships’ exhausted companies were starting to show signs of the strain they had been under since the start of the Greek campaign, with members of HMS Ajax’s crew being identified as suffering from stukaritis.50 Despite these circumstances Cunningham deployed his forces from 15 May, the timing reflecting signals intelligence of German invasion plans.51 The German plans were ultimately delayed by the problems of establishing air infrastructure and by sea mining of the Greek coast, exactly in the manner Germany had feared. Though there was some rotation of units, Cunningham’s deployments followed a similar pattern. A force of battleships and cruisers stood off to the west of Crete, to cover against a sortie by the Italian fleet. Simultaneously cruiser and destroyer groups remained closer off the south-east and south-west coasts of Crete, ready to sweep north into the Aegean after dark to intercept seaborne invasion.52 These deployments survived air attacks through their mobility, ‘over the horizon’ positioning and German concentration on the island itself. While the ships refined 75

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their ‘umbrella’ barrage defence they were also forced to reduce their already depleted AA ammunition.53 On the night of 20–21 May the cruiser/destroyer forces swept the sea north of Crete and their presence deterred the planned sailing of invasion convoys.54 On 21 May these forces encountered air attacks and the destroyer Juno was lost, but on 21–22 May German invasion flotillas were intercepted north of Crete. These flotillas had been despatched due to the desperate situation of German airborne troops ashore but the Royal Navy forces were guided to them by both signals intelligence and shore based air reconnaissance before they appeared on radar.55 The three cruisers and four destroyers of Force D comprehensively destroyed the convoy of Greek caiques carrying around 4,000 German troops from 2330 on 21 May. German casualties were limited to 300, contrary to contemporary British claims of 4,000, but the effect of completely frustrating the invasion by sea had been achieved.56 The second enemy convoy was not intercepted until 1000 on 22 May, 90 miles north of Crete. It had already been recalled due to the earlier action but was now forced to completely disperse and flee due to interception by Force C of four cruisers and three destroyers. The effect of preventing the German seaborne invasion had been completely achieved, but Admiral King, commanding Force C, withdrew rather than remaining to destroy the convoy. This was because of the scale of air attack he was now facing and the shortages of AA ammunition on his ships. King’s force was still subject to over three hours of continuous, saturation air attack. The cruiser Naiad was damaged, forcing the dilemma of reducing the force’s speed to 16–19 knots to maintain collective defence, but increasing the time spent within enemy range, or abandoning the ship. King reduced speed and the force survived, joining the main covering task group of Force A1, which had steamed into the Aegean to support him, at about 1330.57 As the forces joined, Admiral King assumed command of the whole fleet but shortly before the junction of the forces Admiral Rawlings had detached the destroyer Greyhound from A1 to destroy a caique. Detached from the mutual support of the fleet at a time when 300 German aircraft were in the area, she was sunk. King ordered two destroyers and then the cruisers Gloucester and Fiji as a rescue and covering force. This order was later reversed when King realised the cruisers had expended virtually all their AA ammunition, but first Gloucester, and then Fiji, were both sunk as they returned. On 23 May two further destroyers were lost after patrols north of Crete. In exchange the Royal Navy could only claim up to eight German aircraft destroyed. On 24 May Cunningham signalled the fleet, ‘We can and must outlast them. STICK IT OUT’ but the day before he had signalled to Pound: The operations of the last four days have been nothing short of a trial of strength between the Mediterranean Fleet and the German Air Force … we had no air assistance at all … I am afraid that in coastal area we have to admit defeat and accept the fact that losses are too great to justify us 76

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trying to prevent seaborne attacks on Crete. This is a melancholy conclusion but it must be faced. As I have always feared enemy command of air unchallenged by our own Air Force and in these restricted waters with Mediterranean weather is too great odds for us to take on except by seizing opportunities [for] surprise and using utmost circumspection.58 In response to this Cunningham, in common with the other Commanders-inChief, Middle East, was urged by London to keep throwing everything into the battle regardless of losses.59 Cunningham’s reply on 26 May stated he was not afraid of losses but wanted to avoid ‘losses which without commensurate advantage to ourselves, will cripple the fleet out here.’ He effectively drew attention to the closing part of his signal, stating that limited night patrols of cruisers and destroyers were still being undertaken but that these would continue to be cautious until there was intelligence on further seaborne invasion forces to intercept.60 That morning he had taken the offensive by having Formidable mount an attack on Scarpanto airfield with the nine serviceable planes she could muster.61 The attack had had little effect, but in evading air attack from the Aegean bases as she withdrew, Formidable had become exposed to the Luftwaffe’s bases in Africa, and had finally been badly damaged.62 Ultimately, though, Germany’s undisputed control of the air had been sufficient to deploy a force to defeat Freyberg’s troops ashore and even as Formidable was limping back to Alexandria the Royal Navy’s task was evolving from blockade and sustainment to evacuation of the 22,000 troops still under effective control.63 Cunningham’s headquarters spent much of 27 May planning this operation and for it they received new and senior Army and RAF liaison officers. On the same day however, Tedder informed Cunningham that while he would provide what air cover he could, ‘Owing to distance from our bases such cover can only be spasmodic and meagre.’64 Cunningham articulated the characteristics of the evacuation: warships would be used due to their speed and manoeuvrability; evacuations would take place between midnight and 0300; the embarkations would be three bays on the south coast and Heraklion on the north. All of these decisions were designed to minimise the effect of enemy air attack. The southern bays offered no facilities but greater distance from German air bases; Heraklion’s harbour capacity was balanced against its greater exposure to air attack. As the evacuation developed Cunningham found that his greatest problem was to be the constant variation in the numbers reported as available for embarkation. This issue effected the task groups that he despatched, a problem increased by the inevitable time lag involved in the assembly of the groups and their outward passage.65 At 0600 on 28 May the first evacuation force left Alexandria, Force C of three cruisers and six destroyers under Admiral Rawlings, bound for Heraklion. Its north-east approach route around Crete meant it was exposed to air attack during the evening, with the cruiser Ajax and the destroyer Imperial both suffering damage from near misses. As Imperial’s damage seemed superficial she continued, but Ajax was ordered back in order to prevent her from slowing the group. 77

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Heraklion was reached at 2330 where the destroyers initially ferried men to the cruisers. Though there was some delay as army units were assembled, the ships having arrived 30 minutes early, the embarkation, under the naval officer in command (NOIC), Heraklion, Captain M. MacDonald RN, went smoothly.66 By 0320 the task group was at sea with all 4,000 troops and proceeding at 29 knots. However, at 0345 Imperial’s steering failed, probably as a result of her earlier near miss. Rawlings faced the now familiar dilemma of balancing the risk to the task group and to single units. He ordered Imperial abandoned and ordered the destroyer Hotspur to recover those onboard. The rest of the task group proceeded but he reduced speed to 15 knots to give Hotspur a chance to catch up. This was achieved by dawn but the task group was now 90 minutes behind its schedule to escape the enemy bomber zone. This disadvantage was compounded when the pre-arranged fighter cover failed to make contact.67 The task group was subject to air attack for nine hours, with enemy aircrew compensating for their lower numbers by increasingly practised skill in their attacks. The destroyer Hereward was hit at 0625 and Rawlings decided to abandon her. Drifting towards Crete most of her survivors were rescued by Italian craft. Cumulative damage to the group reduced its speed to 21 knots and at 0900 the cruiser Orion was penetrated by dive bombing causing over 500 casualties in her crowded mess decks. After 1200 shore-based Fleet Air Arm Fulmars provided some air cover and the scale of German attacks fell off as the group proceeded south. When the force arrived in Alexandria at 2000 Orion had two rounds of 6-inch high explosive remaining. One of Hotspur’s officers later wrote about the following day: It was a difficult day, for most of the crew were suffering after-effects from the previous day’s strain. They were tired out and jumpy and I had to be pretty tactful all day.68 Troops numbering 3,486 had been saved against around 800 killed, wounded or captured after embarkation, and two destroyers had been lost and three cruisers damaged. Cunningham signalled the Admiralty debating the factors surrounding whether the evacuation should continue. He cited the fact that losses might cripple the Mediterranean fleet for future operations and that casualties among troops on crowded ships could be very heavy, as in Orion. On the other side though he cited the fact that abandoning men ‘deliberately in enemy hands is against all our traditions and will have a bad effect on our prestige, perhaps more particularly as so large a proportion is of Empire troops’.69 Ultimately there was a consensus among the C-in-Cs to continue the evacuation, one partly underwritten by the success of the evacuations from the southern bay of Sphakia that were already proceeding. Although three southern bays were originally considered, the evacuation ultimately focused on Sphakia, where Freyberg established his last headquarters in a cave with a single radio link to Egypt. This HQ included Captain J. Morse RN, the former NOIC Suda Bay, as the naval controller ashore. The advantage of this inlet was its relative remoteness from Axis airbases. This though had to be offset 78

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against its disadvantages, as summarised by Major General E. C. Weston R.M., who commanded the rearguard: The road dropped from the top of the mountains where a height of 2,000 feet was reached to a narrow plain below in a series of acute hairpins, the lower half of the road being unfinished and covered with loose road metal, coming to an abrupt end on the hillside 500 feet above sea level. The plain below was the roughest scrub and limestone crossed only by a few ill-defined tracks. The beach at Sphakia was about 60 feet wide and approached by a single narrow footway.70 These disadvantages were increased by the disorganised state of many of the troops retreating into the area, a situation that resulted in a huge lorry jam at the top of the cliffs. Four destroyers arrived off Sphakia at 0030 on 29 May, delivering 15,000 emergency rations and departing at 0300 with 700 troops. Though they also failed to meet the fighter escort arranged for them, they reached Alexandria at 1700 having been attacked by only four aircraft and suffering one near miss. Before either of the initial groups had returned Cunningham had had to despatch the next night’s lift. On the basis of information from Crete it was assumed this would be the last night and so Cunningham made a maximum effort with one of the rare landing ships, Glengyle, being committed, together with four cruisers and three destroyers. As news of the losses from the Heraklion lift filtered out, General Wavell suggested turning Glengyle back and that evening the Admiralty ordered this measure. Cunningham protested this was too late to be practical but arranged for three destroyers to meet the evacuation ships as they returned, both as additional AA defence and as rescue ships. The 29–30 May lift at Sphakia from 2330 to 0320 went well, with the presence of landing craft allowing a rapid embarkation from shore to destroyer and then out to the major ships. Three landing craft were left for future lifts and 6,000 troops were rescued, half of them on Glengyle. As Royal Navy/RAF co-operation improved so did fighter cover and despite being subject to raids by groups of up to twenty aircraft the group returned with only one hit on the cruiser Perth. On the same night German ground attacks almost undermined the positions covering the beach but they were forced back. Given the reports from Crete that the evacuation position was still holding, Cunningham had already arranged another four destroyers to evacuate forces on 30–31 May, the night that Freyberg had also been ordered to leave. Realising the previous ships had not been as ‘packed’ with men as he had hoped, in order to limit risk, Freyberg appealed during 30 May for another lift 31 May–1 June. This appeal was reinforced by the New Zealand Prime Minister, Mr Peter Fraser, who was in Egypt and stressed the disproportionate effect that leaving significant New Zealand forces would have on his country. Cunningham therefore agreed to a final evacuation on 31 May–1 June.71 Simultaneously the four destroyers of the 30–31 May lift were reduced to two after Captain Arliss ordered two to turn back following a mechanical fault 79

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and a dive bombing near miss. The two remaining ships utilised the landing craft to embark 1,500 men. Their return was largely covered by land-based fighter but during a gap in coverage both were dive bombed and damaged by near-misses but sustained no casualties. Freyberg’s 30 May appeal had requested a last lift for 3,000 troops but Cunningham and Wavell agreed that, with the shipping available, 2,000 was the maximum that could reasonably be embarked. Admiral King sailed at 0600 on 31 May with the fast minelayer Abdiel, the cruiser Phoebe and three destroyers. When Cunningham was informed by Captain Arliss, returning with the previous lift, that perhaps 6,500 troops remained, he permitted the figure to rise to 3,500. After a further meeting with Prime Minister Fraser, Wavell and Freyberg, Cunningham allowed King to fill his ships to capacity. Wavell simultaneously ordered General Weston to return by flying boat that night, making arrangements to surrender the remaining forces the next day. King’s force arrived off Sphakia at 2320; the air attacks on its outward passage having been light and apparently largely frustrated by fighters. The embarkation, using the three landing craft, proceeded quickly and at one point there were no units available to embark from the beach. Four thousand troops were embarked by 0300. More could have been packed in but King decided he could not risk staying longer given the need to distance himself from air attack. His task group returned without incident but two AA cruisers sent out to reinforce him were attacked by two Ju88 bombers and two bombs sank HMS Coventry. London pressed Cunningham to organise a further evacuation but he was resistant to the risk and by this stage the troops at Sphakia were already surrendering as ordered. The evacuation from Crete was over.72

Conclusions … the zenith of effort and the nadir of hope. Lt Cdr Hugh Hodgkinson DSC RN, HMS Hotspur73 The Royal Navy lost 1828 killed in the battle for Crete, a greater number than were killed ashore.74 Three cruisers and six destroyers were lost and many more ships damaged. In broad terms the Mediterranean fleet lost a quarter of its combat power sunk; a quarter damaged beyond local repair; a quarter that could be restored locally within weeks, and a quarter that survived unscathed. A third of the ship losses came during the period of evacuation, though much less than a third of the total casualties and damage. The blockade of the island had prevented any German seaborne forces effecting the decisive combat phase ashore and 16,500 troops had been saved, about 75 per cent of those available for evacuation, only a slightly smaller proportion than from Greece. This figure includes over 7700 Australians and New Zealanders. This had particular significance given the extent to which Britain was reliant on Commonwealth forces at this stage of the war. Between the fall of France and the Second Battle of El Alamein in October 80

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1942, fourteen divisions fought under British command in the Mediterranean – ten of them were Commonwealth formations.75 Much of the course of the battle at sea was determined by the context of longerterm interactions between maritime and air power. Britain’s policies towards the impact of airpower at sea were cautious but not unreasonable, particularly given the strategic situation, priorities of the nation and the problems of re-armament. That they were rapidly overtaken by dramatic changes in both technology and the strategic situation does not undermine their broad validity at the time. Alterations in both attitude and policy were agile as this transformation occurred. Implementation, though, was restricted by the simultaneous crisis in resources compared to tasks. Importantly, however, it was possible to build on the existing communities and capabilities in maritime aviation, which were superior to Britain’s European enemies. Dominance over the Italian fleet was achieved both by Cunningham’s aggressive use of his fleet and the valuable advantage given to it by naval aviation. It was this domination that determined one of the most striking advantages the Allies benefited from during the battle for Crete – the complete failure of the Italian Navy to participate in a genuinely combined assault on the island. This was an omission that amazed many participating in the campaign. Also as crews endured Crete they heard first of the loss of Hood, but then of the sinking of Bismarck, with the limited forces of naval aviation making a vital contribution by fulfilling exactly the sort of open ocean ‘find and fix’ role that had been envisaged for them. 76 Deploying off Crete the Royal Navy was aware of the virtual certainty of loss to aircraft in this strongly adverse environment. Equally, though, there was consensus that such naval deployment was the only way to fulfil the mission required. When a member of Churchill’s staff regretted the navy’s losses Churchill replied, ‘What do you think we build ships for?’.77 To the House of Commons after the battle the Prime Minister stated: No one who bears any responsibility for the decision to defend Crete was ignorant of the fact that conditions permitted only the most meagre British air support to be provided for our troops in the island or for our Fleet operating round the island. …. There are some … who say that we should never fight without superior or at least ample air support and ask when will this lesson be learned? But suppose you cannot have it? The questions which have to be settled are not always questions between what is good and bad; very often it is a choice between terrible alternatives. Must you, if you cannot have this essential and desirable air support, yield important key points, and after another?78 Cunningham wrote to Pound on 30 May, ‘Three squadrons of long range fighters and a few heavy bombing squadrons would have saved Crete for us.’79 The reality was that this would have probably represented a greater number of modern aircraft than were available in the whole of the Middle East. That these aircraft were not available in theatre was a result of the priorities accorded to the RAF home 81

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commands. While these allocations reflected a genuine need to protect the home base, they were also larger than were required for defence. In particular Fighter Command had pursued a policy of ‘leaning into France’ since the end of 1940 with offensive operations despite their limited operational effects.80 Both Longmore and Tedder had disputed this allocation with Tedder seeing the forces as being ‘out of balance’.81 Even if the aircraft had been available, Britain’s strategic requirements had led to the development of short, rather than long range fighters, principally the Hurricane. Operating these from the fixed, but also crude, airbases on Crete, in the face of hundreds of German aircraft would probably have been as impossible as it had proved to be for smaller numbers. Equally Hurricane operations from Egypt were virtually impossible due to range. If Hurricanes had been able to operate from Formidable, supplementing her air group up to a really viable level, this would have been a far more effective contribution. It would have provided some interception of the German air bridge to Crete and air defence of the fleet, as well as rendering the ship more capable of self-defence. Ironically, on the very eve of the battle, the Fifth Sea Lord reported to the Naval Staff on successful Hurricane trials onboard HMS Victorious.82 In terms of how the battle at sea actually developed, the blockading ships showed remarkable endurance when their losses are considered within the scale and duration of the air attacks they were subject to. As Cunningham observed, the most serious losses arose from the detachment of ships from the collective defence of a task group. However Cunningham’s preference that the second German convoy should have been pursued and destroyed, despite enemy air attack, would have certainly led to far heavier Royal Navy losses without any greater effect on the battle ashore. This dilemma of balancing gain with risk led to a more cautious policy of deployment after 23 May. This policy made greater use of stand-off forces, capable of responding to indications of Axis attempts to use the sea, and gave more emphasis to AA ammunition state as a guide to availability. These measures proved appropriate given the overwhelming attrition and deterrent effect the Royal Navy had already achieved through its earlier interceptions. This effect is confirmed by German sources and the Royal Navy succeeded in preventing any enemy invasion from the sea.83 Increased realism was also exhibited in the tighter operating procedures employed by the fleet during the evacuation. Timings off Crete were strictly adhered to and ships that would inhibit the group immediately abandoned, as in the case of Imperial. Though Rawlings reduced speed to allow Hotspur to catch up by dawn, this compromise reflected the increased number of troops she now carried, as well as the hope of fighter cover. Overall, the flexibility and endurance of the naval forces deployed had been severely eroded and constricted by the air attacks but not fatally undermined. The improved fighter cover provided during the evacuation, partially through improved joint liaison, was a valuable addition despite its limits, as it disrupted German attacks, preventing the overwhelming of AA defences. As many have observed, the scale of German attack was also being reduced, by the withdrawal of 82

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forces for the invasion of the Soviet Union.84 While this was an important factor it also needs to be considered as part of a larger dynamic. The small improvement in relative distances from bases for the allied side was significant. This in itself was the result of the flexibility the Royal Navy could apply in withdrawing forces from as marginal a facility as Sphakia. The Luftwaffe was also suffering from the increasing challenge of over-water navigation and the problems of maintenance from forward operating bases. Finally the evacuation also reaped the benefit from the success and sacrifice of the earlier blockade. Given how close the German forces were to overwhelming the Sphakia pocket, and the state of surviving allied forces, any German heavy weapons would have been decisive, but none were available due the lack of access from the sea. This limitation of the German forces also indicates an important aspect of the German reaction to the experience of Crete. Many commentators have stressed their heavy losses in airborne forces and transport aircraft and how this caused a subsequent abandonment of this offensive capacity, particularly with regard to assaults on other targets in the Middle East. This is largely accurate, but it is important to note the German post-Crete assessment that airborne assaults ultimately ‘required naval and air superiority’ to be successful, so that airborne forces could be sustained.85 As for the Royal Navy, Crete would not be the last occasion when its surface forces would be exposed to heavy air attack without significant air cover, with a prime example being the loss of Prince of Wales and Repulse later in the same year. However, as off Crete, these losses would not be driven primarily by ignorance of the risks involved. Recognition of risk was part of the strategic equation behind deployment in adverse circumstances.86 This situation was fully addressed by the time the Royal Navy returned to the European littoral in July 1943 for Operation Husky – the invasion of Sicily. This was again a joint and combined operation, but by this time the forces involved were ‘balanced’, with significant land-based and organic air cover, much of it provided through the ‘Lend-Lease’ supplies that the Greek campaign helped to secure.87 Later operations would see the deployment of technology such as proximity radar fusing which significantly enhanced AA fire and enabled warships to deal more successfully with even heavy air attacks.88 This oscillation of both relative advantage in technology and the priority for air defence at sea has been continuous. Its current priority, as a pre-condition for projecting joint expeditionary operations ashore, is represented by the current Royal Navy/RAF Joint Force Harrier as well as plans for new high capacity carriers. However, off Crete in 1941 the Royal Navy was compelled to knowingly deploy an unbalanced fleet, in a desperately unfavourable situation, in order to give the army a chance of success. Much of this reality was determined by its larger context. Despite severe physical losses and erosion of its endurance and flexibility, the fleet fulfilled its tasks. It prevented seaborne landings and, when the flawed garrison could no longer resist, it rescued the vast majority of those that remained. That it was able to do this was a demonstration of the most significant and enduring characteristic of the Royal Navy – ‘the human factor’ of the skill and dedication of its personnel. 83

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Notes 1 The Public Records Office, Kew [henceforth PRO]:ADM 234/320, Naval Operations in the Battle of Crete, 20th May–1st June 1941, Battle Summary No. 4 & B.R. 1736(2) (1941, revised 1960) Para. 44, Note 2. 2 Jack Greene and Alessandro Massignani, The Naval War in the Mediterranean 1940–1943 London: Chatham Publishing, 1998 p. 169. 3 For the best overall summary of the battle see Callum MacDonald The Lost Battle: Crete 1941 Basingstoke: MacMillan, 1993. For a concise review of the literature see Stephen Prince ‘World War II: Middle East, Crete, 1941’ in Charles Messenger (Ed.) Readers Guide to Military History London: Fitzroy Dearborn, 2001. 4 The exact total for the evacuation varies considerably between sources. PRO: ADM 234/320, Appendix F gives a figure of 16,457 by sea and 54 by air. Roskill, The War at Sea, Volume I, London: HMSO, 1951 p. 446, states around 18,600 embarked, while Christopher Buckley Greece and Crete 1941, London: HMSO, 1952 records the total as 14,967 disembarked in Egypt (p. 318). All authors had access to official material. Some of Roskill’s variation is likely to be due to inclusion of evacuees before the main withdrawal and later escapers. Buckley’s low figure is likely to arise from the fact his source is a document from Middle East Command that may well exclude non-Army personnel. Sixteen and a half thousand seems the most likely figure for the main evacuation. 5 Joint campaigns involve more than one service working together, while combined campaigns involved forces of more than one nation working together. In addition to Greek forces the British Imperial garrison on Crete included large numbers of New Zealand and Australian troops. The Royal Navy’s Mediterranean Fleet of May 1941 included seven Royal Australian Navy destroyers and many international personnel. 6 The RNAS was originally the Naval Wing of the Royal Flying Corps. For a concise history of early RN aviation see Christina Goulter ‘The Royal Naval Air Service: A Very Modern Service’ in Sebastian Cox and Peter Gray (Ed.) Air Power History, London: Frank Cass, 2002. 7 Quoted in Brian Ranft (Ed.) Technical Change and British Naval Policy 1860–1939 Hodder & Stoughton: London, 1977 p. 111. 8 Richard Overy The Air War 1939–1945, London: Macmillan, 1980 p. 5. 9 John Terraine The Right of the Line, London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1985 Ch. 9. 10 For excellent summaries of the maritime–air interaction in the Norwegian Campaign see Geoffrey Till, Air Power and the Royal Navy, London: Jane’s Publishing, 1979, Ch. 1 and David Brown ‘Preface’ in Naval Operations of the Campaign in Norway, London: Frank Cass, 2000. 11 Ibid. p. 187. 12 Land-based maritime aviation remained under RAF control, in contrast to the control exercised of these aircraft by the United States Navy and the Imperial Japanese Navy. The Admiralty assumed operational control of the home based Coastal Command of the RAF on 15 April 1941. 13 Till, Air Power, pp. 190–1. 14 Norman Friedman, British Carrier Aviation, London: Conway, 1988 p. 19. 15 Andrew Gordon, British Seapower and Procurement Between the Wars, Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1988 pp. 196–7. 16 See G. Connell Valiant Quartet, London: William Kimber & Co, 1979 pp. 146–7 17 It would be November 1940 before Air Marshall Tedder saw a trial of the new 40 mm gun in the UK. See Lord Tedder, With Prejudice, London: Cassel, 1966 p.33. The principal advantages of the later systems were their increased muzzle velocities and rates of fire, which dramatically improved effect against faster aircraft. See Gordon, British Seapower, p. 225.

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18 For details of Anglo-French planning and co-operation in the Mediterranean see David Brown (Introduction), The Royal Navy and the Mediterranean, Volume I: September 1939–October 1940, London: Frank Cass, 2002. 19 To a greater extent than for maritime aviation pre-1940 defence planning assumptions did not envisage a prominent role for amphibious warfare in likely war scenarios. Only a small cadre of expertise and equipment was maintained as the basis for long-term expansion if required. See Ian Speller, The Role of Amphibious Warfare in British Defence Policy, 1945–56, Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2001 Ch. 1. 20 Roskill, The War at Sea, p. 235. 21 Ibid. pp. 192–3 and 239. 22 Pound to Cunningham, 20 May 1940, quoted in Michael Simpson ‘Wings over the Sea: The Interaction of Air and Sea Power in the Mediterranean, 1940–42’ in N. A. M. Rodger Naval Power in the Twentieth Century, Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1996 p. 134. 23 David Hobbs ‘The Aircraft Carrier: the experience of its conception, procurement and operation’ in John Reeve and David Stevens (ed.) The Face of Naval Battle, New South Wales: Allen & Unwin, 2003 p. 137. 24 David Brown ‘Lyster: Taranto, 1940’ in Eric Grove (Editor in Chief) Great Battle of the Royal Navy, Godalming: Colour Direct Library, 1994 p. 188. 25 Roskill, The War at Sea, p. 429. It is believed Pola was damaged by one of the Swordfish flying from Crete. See David Brown ‘The Royal Navy & Crete’, S10598, Naval Historical Branch Collections. 26 David Brown (Introduction) The Royal Navy and the Mediterranean, Volume II: November 1940–December 1941, London: Frank Cass, 2002 p. xii. 27 F. H. Hinsley et al. British Intelligence in the Second World War, Volume 1, London: HMSO, 1979 pp. 384–5. 28 ‘Fleet War Diary for January, Part II – General Summary,’ Para 1. Document No. 142 in Michael Simpson (ed.) The Cunningham Papers, Aldershot: Ashgate & Naval Records Society, 1999 p. 271. 29 See Tedder, With, p. 75; A. B. C. Cunningham, A Sailor’s Odyssey, Hutchinson & Co.: London, 1951 pp. 319 and 351. 30 Cunningham to Pound ‘Report on Operation EXCESS’, Para. 8, 19 March 1941. Document No.135 in Simpson, Cunningham Papers, p. 253. 31 MacDonald, Lost, p. 102. 32 Total British merchant ship losses during ‘Lustre’ (6 March–23 April) amounted to twelve ships of 67,000 tons. Only two of these were lost during the main deployment of forces, 6 March–2 April. See Brown, Mediterranean II, p. 86. 33 Cunningham Report on Operation ‘Lustre’, 11 December 1941, Para 1. Document No.155 in Simpson, Cunningham Papers, p. 296. 34 See PRO:ADM 234/334, The Tobruk Run, June 1940 to January 1943, B.R.1736(10)(1956). 35 As at Crete the RAF found it impossible to sustain a fighter force of Hurricanes from the besieged base of Tobruk. See Tedder, With, p. 77 and p. 98. 36 The RAF lost 209 aircraft and 150 aircrew during the Greek campaign. See MacDonald, Lost, p. 126. 37 See A. Heckstall-Smith & H. T. Ballie-Groham, Greek Tragedy, London: Anthony Blond, 1961. Ballie-Groham was the flag officer ashore. 38 The limited number of ‘A’ lighters and landing craft from Glen landing ships significantly enhanced the volume of troops that could be evacuated. See Brown, Mediterranean II, p. 84. 39 S10598, Naval Historical Branch (henceforth NHB) Collections. 40 Roskill, War at Sea, p. 436. 41 See MacDonald, Lost, Ch. 4.

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42 Ibid. p. 122; Hinsley, British Intelligence, pp. 418–9. 43 MacDonald, Lost ,Ch. 7; Buckley, Greece and Crete, p. 177. 44 Gerhard Schreiber et al., Germany and the Second World War, Volume III, The Mediterranean, South-East Europe and North Africa 1939–1941, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995 p. 536. 45 PRO:ADM 234/320 Para. 5. The failure to destroy Crete’s airfields following the withdrawal of the RAF remains one of the most contentious factors with regard to the fighting ashore. See MacDonald, Lost, pp. 162–4 and D. M. Davin, Crete, Wellington: Dept of Internal Affairs, 1953 p. 460. 46 A. J. P. Taylor, The Second World War, London: Hamish Hamilton, 1975 p. 92. 47 Admiral Cunningham ‘Despatch on the Battle of Crete’, 4 August 1941, Published as a Supplement to the London Gazette, 24 May 1948, Para. 8. 48 Tedder, With, p. 99. 49 Cunningham, Odyssey, p. 363. 50 C. Hadjipateras and M. Fafalois Crete 1941: Eyewitnessed, Athens: Efstathiadis, 1989 p. 120. 51 For the Crete campaign Cunningham was based at his naval HQ in Alexandria. The other Middle East C-in-Cs, Wavell and Tedder, were co-located in Cairo. 52 For detailed accounts of the composition of each task group see PRO:ADM 234/320; Cunningham ‘Battle Despatch’; Eric Grove Sea Battles in Close Up, World War 2, Volume 2, Abingdon: Ian Allan, 1993 pp. 36–52. 53 Hugh Hodgkinson Before the Tide Turned, London: Harrap & Co, 1944 p. 120. 54 Schreiber, Germany, p. 539. 55 Hinsley, British Intelligence, p. 421. 56 Schreibier, Germany, p. 547. Cunningham, Odyssey, p. 369 makes the 4,000 claim, which continues to be repeated. See Correlli Barnett, Engage the Enemy More Closely, London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1991 p. 353. 57 PRO:ADM 234/320 Para. 13. 58 Mediterranean Fleet War Diary, 24 May 1941 and Cunningham to Pound, 23 May 1941, Documents No 219 & 220 in Simpson, Cunningham Papers, pp. 409–10. 59 MacDonald, Lost, p. 252. 60 Cunningham to Admiralty, 26 May 1941, Document No. 224 in Simpson, Cunningham Papers, pp. 411–12. 61 For this operation Formidable had a total of thirteen operational aircraft, four Albacore bombers and nine Fulmar fighters. See S10598, NHB Collections. 62 A large part of Fliergkorps X was now operating out of North Africa in support of the German Army there. 63 Warships continued to land urgent supplies and reinforcements on Crete until the night of 26/27 May. 64 Tedder to Cunningham, 27 May 1941, Document No. 225 in Simpson, Cunningham Papers, p. 413. 65 PRO:ADM 234/320, Para 41; Cunningham ‘Despatch on the Battle of Crete, Phase IV – The Evacuation of British & Imperial Troops from the Island’ 14 September 1941, Published as a Supplement to the London Gazette, 24 May 1948, Para. 4. 66 Hodgkinson, Before, p. 136. 67 PRO:ADM 234/320 Para. 43. 68 Hodgkinson, Before, pp. 149–50. 69 Cunningham to Pound, 29 May 1941, Document No. 225 in Simpson, Cunningham Papers, pp. 413–4. See also Tedder, With, p. 101. 70 PRO:ADM 202/442, Major General E. C. Weston, Despatch Covering Operations on Crete 22 April–31 May 1941, pp. 11–12. Much valuable information about the events of the Sphakia evacuation ashore can be found in Donat Gallagher ‘Sir Robert

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71 72 73 74

75

76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88

Laycock, Anthony Beevor and the Evacuation of Crete from Sphakia’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, Vol.78, 2000. Cunningham ‘Evacuation Despatch’ Para. 41. For details of subsequent escapes see Davin, Crete, Wellington: Dept of Internal Affairs, 1953, Appendix VII. Hodgkinson, Before, p. 117. See I. S. O. Playfair The Mediterranean and the Middle East, Volume II, London: HMSO, 1956 p. 147. A total of 1,742 are listed as having been killed, apart from losses to the RN at sea. This total includes 114 Royal Marines and it is unclear if this includes troops killed in RN ships. Nearly 12,000 troops were captured ashore. See H. F. Joslen Orders of Battle, 2 vols, London: HMSO, 1960. Overall Imperial and Commonwealth forces provided around 20 per cent of ‘British’ manpower and units. See F. W. Perry, The Commonwealth Armies, Manchester UP: Manchester, 1988. Peter Fraser praised the Royal Navy’s role in rescuing New Zealand troops from Crete at the 1944 Imperial Conference. See Cunningham, Odyssey, p. 602. Hodgkinson, Before, pp. 127 and 151. Quoted in MacDonald, Lost, p. 252. Hansard, 10 June 1941, Column 147. Cunningham to Pound, 30 May 1941, Document No. 227 in Simpson, Cunningham Papers, p. 416. Basil Collier, The Defence of the United Kingdom, London; HMSO, 1957 pp. 290–295 Tedder ‘Air, Land and Sea Warfare’ in the Journal of the R.U.S.I., Vol XCI, February 1946, p. 63. Minutes of a Staff Meeting in the Upper War Room, 19 May 1941, T11574, NHB Collections. See also Tim Laurence ‘The Evacuation from Crete’ Naval Review, 2001, p. 264. Schreiber, Germany, p. 548. MacDonald, Lost, p. 294. British Cabinet Office Enemy Documents Section Report quoted in Paul Freyberg Bernard Freyberg V.C., London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1991 p. 331. These ships were sunk by Japanese aircraft flying from French Indo-China, their bases being a further consequence of the fall of France. Roskill, War at Sea, Vol III, Part I, Ch. VI. See Bernard Brodie, A Guide to Naval Strategy, Princeton UP: Princeton, 1958, p. 25.

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5 AMPHIBIOUS OPERATIONS The Italian campaign, 1943–1945 Christopher Tuck In the Italian campaign, maritime power was the vital enabler for victory. Though the outcome of the Italian campaign would depend on the actions of armies and land-based air forces, the contribution made by the allied navies generally, and the Royal Navy specifically, constituted the sine qua non for eventual success. This chapter will examine one of the important roles played by the Royal Navy through an examination of amphibious operations in the Italian campaign: predominantly, though not exclusively, the landings at Sicily, Salerno and Anzio. The chapter will first present an overview of amphibious operations during the campaign, before going on to examine the theatre and tactical level issues that shaped the impact of these operations. It will highlight the successes achieved by the Royal Navy in these operations, but also the failures and debates over lost opportunities. The Italian campaign has particular utility in illuminating the challenges of amphibious warfare. A combination of the well-developed existing Allied amphibious capability and theatre geography broadly sympathetic to the conduct of landings promised an important, perhaps even decisive role, for forces landed from the sea. Yet the historical outcome was ambiguous. The Italian landings demonstrate in full measure the range of problems that can confront amphibious planning and execution in the unforgiving environment of actual conflict. An analysis of amphibious operations during the Italian campaign is of more than just historical interest: it provides a fruitful case study of the challenges that face navies in conducting complex joint and combined operations in a littoral environment; in parallel, it also has much to say about the synergistic relationship between land, sea and airpower.

The Italian campaign In successive summit meetings from early 1941 onwards Winston Churchill had argued that the Allies lacked sufficient shipping or forces for an invasion of northern France and that instead the focus should be the Mediterranean, the Axis’ ‘soft underbelly’. Indeed at the Cairo conference in November 1943 Churchill was willing to see plans for an invasion of northern Europe pushed back in order to ensure that resources were made available for operations against Italy.1 He saw in

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such a campaign the prospect not only of dealing a major, perhaps fatal, blow to Italy itself, but of successes there acting as a catalyst for a political and military transformation of the Balkans; bringing Turkey into the war perhaps, and even of opening up a meaningful ‘second front’ in the South that might threaten Austria. Given the geography of the Mediterranean it was only through amphibious operations that Allied land and tactical air power could be brought to bear against Italy. After significant Allied disputes,2 Sicily was finally agreed upon as the first Allied target. In an amphibious landing codenamed Operation Husky, XV Army Group under the command of General Sir Harold Alexander landed on Sicily three hours before dawn on 10 July 1943.3 The operation was immensely complex; it represented at that time the largest amphibious operation that had ever been conducted, involving 160,000 men, over 1,000 artillery pieces and 600 tanks, and naval forces amounting to over 3,000 ships and craft of all sizes.4 The operation itself was an almost complete success, landing the US Seventh and British Eighth Armies onto Italian soil ready to commence attempts to capture the island. Amphibious operations continued to play a limited role in the campaign with several smaller landings used in support of land offensives. Despite the success of the initial landings, progress in the land campaign was slow and difficult, with heavy casualties. Operations continued on Sicily until 13 August, when the Axis forces were able to withdraw across the straits of Messina to mainland Italy. By August 1943 operational orders for the next phase of the war against Italy had been formulated.5 These consisted of a two-pronged advance; in Operation Baytown, the Eighth Army was successfully transported across the straits of Messina, the fruit of effective sea control, air superiority and a German defensive concept that focused on withdrawal from the toe of Italy. The second prong was more ambitious. In operation Avalanche, the US Fifth Army (which included as many British troops as American) commanded by Lieutenant-General Mark Clark was landed 30 miles southeast of Naples in the Gulf of Salerno. In co-operation with a thrust from forces in the south, Avalanche was designed to threaten the communications of Axis forces in the whole of southern Italy and, it was hoped, lead to a rapid collapse of their positions: as Churchill put it, why ‘crawl up the leg like a harvest-bug from the ankle upwards? Let us rather strike at the knees …’.6 The Allies amphibious capability thus gave them new and potentially decisive means to force Italian surrender and unlock the Axis defence of Italy. Transported and protected by a naval force of around 900 ships,7 the assault landed at 0330 on 9 September 1943. Although the landing themselves were successful, exploiting Avalanche proved difficult. The German commander in Italy, Field Marshall Albert Kesselring, rushed reserves to the landing area and German forces pushed to within two miles of the beach. Clark asked the navy to prepare plans for an amphibious withdrawal from one of the beaches to reinforce the other. The navy was not at all keen given the potential pitfalls with withdrawal operations, Cunningham arguing that it ‘would have resulted in a reverse of the first magnitude’.8 Thankfully, withdrawal proved unnecessary; the allied troops hung on, more gunfire support was provided by the Royal Navy and reinforcements brought 89

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in. By 16 September the German counter attack had been defeated. Contact was finally made with elements of Eighth Army and Naples was taken on 1 October. With the link up of Fifth and Eighth armies the Allies gained firm control of the south of Italy. However, further operations designed to push north became bogged down in the face of a skilfully handled defensive withdrawal, facilitated by difficult terrain and atrocious weather, that led the allies finally onto the Gustav line. Held there by the Germans, the Allies sought a solution to the deadlock in the form of an amphibious turning movement; Churchill arguing that the ‘stagnation’ in Italy could be ended by landing an allied division on the west coast of Italy at Anzio, a point 50 miles in front of the allied positions and 26 miles south of Rome. This force would then push 15 miles inland with the intention, in the words of Alexander, ‘to cut the enemy lines of communication and threaten the rear of the German 14th Corps’.9 Codenamed Operation Shingle, its successful execution and exploitation promised to unlock the whole Gustav Line and re-energise the Allied push northwards to Rome. Revised to include an expanded landing force, MajorGeneral John Lucas’ VI Corps of Clark’s Fifth Army, it was hoped that Shingle would force the Germans to strip the Gustav line to find units to deal with the landing and so facilitate a breakthrough by the Fifth and Eighth armies.10 In the event, as with Avalanche, the landings were successful, but consolidation and exploitation proved to be difficult. Lucas spent too long building up his forces around the beachhead, and by the time he was ready to push inland the Germans had heavily reinforced their own positions and begun to launch counter attacks. During February, heavy fighting continued as the Germans attempted to dislodge the allies. In fighting off the German counter attacks the allies were helped by powerful artillery and air power as well as intelligence resources. Finally, giving up on the idea of crushing the landing, Kesselring instead settled for containing it. For nearly four months the beachhead was hemmed in and a massive logistic effort was required to keep it supplied. The allied ‘main effort’ therefore ground to a halt and instead had to be rescued by the ‘subsidiary’ assault from the south. Eventually, an offensive from the south broke through the Gustav line at Monte Cassino and on 25 May 1944 spearheads from the Anzio lodgement and the southern forces linked up. Even then, opportunities were squandered; Clark diverted troops northwest to capture Rome rather than northeast to cut off the Germans11 – Rome fell on 4 June but the German Tenth army escaped, falling back on its next major defensive position, the Gothic Line. On 6 June 1944 Operation Overlord began; this event instantly relegated Italy to a secondary theatre of operations and the amphibious capabilities kept in theatre were strictly limited. This naturally reduced the potential scope for further amphibious operations, which took the form of much more limited and sporadic tactical landings. The Allied progress until the surrender of German forces in Italy on 2 May 1945 had thus to be undertaken without the option of large-scale amphibious landings. What the preceding discussion illustrates is the sometimes ambiguous impact of amphibious operations in Italy from 1943–45. On the one hand, it is clear that amphibious operations were the vital building block for success – failure in these 90

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operations would have prevented a land campaign at all. However, each of these operations carries with it debates about lost opportunities: of landings that might have had an even greater bearing on the land campaign. What factors, then, shaped the influence of amphibious operations on the Italian campaign? It is useful first to examine some of the generic issues involved in amphibious operations before going on to examine some of the ways in which these operated in the specific context of the Italian campaign.

Amphibious operations and the Italian campaign Amphibious operations are those operations ‘launched from the sea onto land by naval and landing forces’.12 There are five main types of amphibious operation: assaults; raids; withdrawals; feints; and demonstrations. Assault operations are those designed to land a force on hostile territory; withdrawals involve extraction operation of forces by sea; raids combine temporary assault operations with a withdrawal; feints and demonstrations are conceptually similar; feints are designed to distract an opponent by threatening landings which must be countered; demonstrations are designed to deceive an enemy into taking up an unfavourable position.13 While each of these operations has its particular uses, amphibious capabilities give the possessor a number of generic advantages: strategic reach, through the ability to extend the reach of land and air forces; mobility, capitalising on the instrumental advantages of moving in the medium of the sea; and flexibility, through the range of forces that can be embarked. However, amphibious operations are also inherently difficult operations to prosecute; ‘Conducted at the juncture between the military and naval spheres of competence, they have the potential to demonstrate the worst characteristics of both and the best characteristics of neither’.14 Vulnerable on the passage to the landing area and during the landing itself, amphibious operations can pose immense problems in issues such as protection, command, co-ordination, logistics and exploitation. The great potential of amphibious operations has been demonstrated throughout history. However, history is also replete with examples of amphibious operations that have failed to have the desired impact; Gallipoli provides an obvious example. In theory, one might have expected amphibious operations to be a potentially decisive feature of the Italian campaign given the geography of the theatre and level of Allied sea control. In the Second World War, seapower was ‘the engine of strategic possibilities’ for the British and Americans.15 This was determined by the strategic geography of a war in Europe that pitted two Allied maritime powers against Axis countries that were continental in focus. In order to bring land and supporting airpower to bear, which would be the only way to force a final decision, Britain and the United States had to use the sea as a means to project and support forces ashore; thus amphibious operations would constitute an important part of the Allied war effort. This general proposition found detailed expression in the Italian campaign of 1943–45 – only amphibious operations would bring 91

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Allied land power to bear against the Italian homeland. Moreover, the geography of Italy, one portion an island, the other a peninsular, both with long coastlines, promised great potential for seaborne landings. The opportunities afforded by an invasion of Italy could only be realised because of the long struggle by the Royal Navy that had finally yielded to the Allies an effective measure of sea control.16 Although the battles of Matapan and Taranto are perhaps the most famous of its Mediterranean victories, the Royal Navy made a wider contribution through its struggle against Axis air, surface and sub-surface forces, carrying out a wide range of activities: surface actions; raids; air strikes; convoying; naval gun support; deception operations; transport; amphibious withdrawals; and interdiction of Axis sea lines of communication.17 It was the attainment of a workable degree of sea control in the western Mediterranean that reinforced Churchill’s predilection towards a ‘Blue Water’ peripheral strategy, an important facet of which would be operations to exert pressure on Italy. Despite these generic advantages, amphibious operations during the Italian campaign often proved problematic due to the inherently complex nature of such operations. Although the detail of each amphibious operation will vary, most go through a number of definable stages: planning; preliminary operations; passage to the objective area; the assault itself; consolidation and exploitation.18 Each of these stages contains its own set of problems relating to issues such as force protection, command and control, and logistics. By breaking down amphibious operations in Italy according to these generic stages it is possible to examine the specific tactical level challenges facing each operation, and the extent to which answers were found for these problems. Ultimately it would be the success, or otherwise, in finding solutions to the tactical challenges of amphibious operations that would determine if the potential impact of amphibious operations on the Italian campaign could be realised.

Planning Amphibious operations are some of the most complex of military operations to conduct because they require the co-ordination of diverse air, sea and land assets. Amphibious planning requires reconciling air, naval and land perspectives on a number of basic planning issues: the concept of operations; assembling the necessary forces; supplying them; and determining the landing place. Addressing such issues in the Italian campaign was complicated by the complexity of the operations and by time, resources and command relationships. The broad planning challenges were exemplified by the landings in Sicily. Husky was a large operation: around 3000 ships and smaller craft were required for the operation as a whole.19 Indeed, the needs of the campaign, particularly in shipping, cast a shadow over attempts to create the resources for other activities.20 Planning was commenced by a relatively small staff in February 1943, but until May the demands of the Tunisian campaign relegated Husky to second fiddle leaving the operation with a relative paucity of planning resources until the 92

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Tunisian campaign was over.21 The problems regarding the lack of planning resources were compounded by continuing debates over the form that the operation should take. These debates were initially between politicians and the military and reflected the perceived risk of Husky – General Eisenhower, appointed Allied Commander in Chief for the operation, was pessimistic, arguing that the operation risked failure if it met more than two enemy divisions.22 Only the robust intervention of Churchill ensured that the operation took place. Once the decision had been made that the operation would go ahead, the perceived risks involved in the operation led to disputes about the most appropriate plan. Since Naval planning for the transport and landing operations would have to be tailored to the Army’s plan for action ashore, this further caused delays. The first incarnation of Husky focused on landings in the west of Sicily designed to take quickly the port of Palermo. Montgomery, commanding Eighth Army, argued forcefully that this plan dispersed the attacking forces too much and would put the Western landings out of range of fighter cover, so this was dropped and replaced with a plan for a landing in the southeast with a more focused assault.23 Whatever the merits of this new plan, which was approved on 13 May, it required the almost complete revision of the naval convoy plans, causing many problems and great unease. These debates reflected, and also contributed to, another problem: the clash of service interests, worsened by the personalities involved. Montgomery’s focus on concentration of forces was articulated with his usual abrasion, leading to clashes with Sir Arthur Tedder, the Air Commander-in-Chief, and Sir Andrew Cunningham, the Royal Navy’s Commander-in Chief, Mediterranean. Cunningham, another strong personality, appeared not as committed in practice to jointery as he was in declaratory terms – Admiral Ramsay, in charge of naval planning, commented that Cunningham ‘… regards anything to do with Combined24 operations as anathema & that the R.N. must keep well clear and all to themselves’.25 Ultimately, these problems meant that a final plan for Husky could not be agreed upon until 12 May – only two months before the planned landing date. Avalanche and Shingle suffered from similar challenges; for the latter, for example, D-Day was finalised very late on, allowing only fifteen days to carry out training and preparation for the landings.26 Another problem was the availability of sufficient amphibious transport. Landings subsequent to Sicily faced continued problems confirming the necessary sea-lift due to political wrangling over strategic priorities. Both Russia and the United States were committed to an Anglo-US landing on mainland Europe as quickly as was practicable. The preparation and execution of what would become Operation Overlord made a repetition of operations on the scale of Sicily impossible. Salerno and Anzio were both undertaken by landing forces dictated as much by constraints in amphibious and transport capabilities as by operational requirements. In addition, both operations suffered from the inherent tension between the need to plan properly, which required time, and the need to maintain the momentum of previous operations, which required celerity.

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If timing was one problem, complexity was another. Husky was the largest amphibious operation in the Italian campaign: 115,000 British troops; 66,000 US troops; 2590 ships and craft of varying sizes, of which 1614 were British and the rest were mainly US. Multi-national forces of this size had to be assembled at different concentration points, often far from the amphibious objective area. UK forces were assembled and moved from ports in the Middle East, North Africa, Malta and Britain. Some of the US forces had to come from the continental United States. Organised into both slow and fast convoys, planners had to enable the convergence of over 800 major vessels from a variety of points of origin. For the British eastern landing these included fast and slow convoys from the Middle East (Force G), an assault convoy and a landing craft convoy from Tunisia (Force B), and fast and slow convoys from the UK (Force V).27 The convergence of forces south of Malta had to occur as late as possible in order to avoid alerting the Axis forces.28 Avalanche and Shingle were easier, but still difficult. For Avalanche alone the RN deployed six battleships, two fleet carriers, five light carriers, ten cruisers, six anti-aircraft ships, twenty-seven destroyers, forty-four escorts, twenty-four submarines, two headquarters ships, twelve infantry landing ships, and around three hundred smaller craft.29 These formed only part of a wider combined force that would have to protect, transport and land two army corps. This litany of planning challenges begs the question of how it was possible to mount these operations at all. Planning challenges certainly had an impact on the quality of preparation. Compromises had to be made in training and rehearsals. As far as possible amphibious training needs to simulate the conditions of the landing.30 Actual preparations for Husky included rehearsals of the assault landings, with the training often carried out at night. Large-scale exercises were conducted; for example the British fifth and fiftieth divisions exercised in the Gulf of Aquaba from 13–14 June. Nevertheless, the truncated planning time for Husky meant that the training carried out was no more than a ‘dry run’ and was thus far from ideal.31 Training problems bedevilled the other landings: rehearsals for the Shingle landing, carried out only five days before the assault itself, showed up glaring problems including poor Army–Navy co-operation, communications difficulties, and challenges in the co-ordination of the assault waves. As one officer commented: ‘… the whole thing was just a debacle. We were just trying to do too many things in three short weeks.’32 In fact, amphibious operations in Italy demonstrate that the planning challenges outlined need not be insuperable. One advantage that the Allies possessed was in the quality of intelligence that was available for landings, especially the information delivered by Ultra. For the Husky landings, for example, Ultra intercepts gave an accurate picture of the defenders – two German divisions were identified (Herman Goering and 15th Panzer) and nine Italian divisions, of which five were coastal defence formations; of the remainder only one, the Livorno division, was assessed as likely to be effective.33 More important, the Allies’ planning was informed by lessons derived from previous experience and doctrine. Amphibious operations had made little contribution to final victory in the First 94

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World War: indeed, the only large operation of the war, at Gallipoli, was a failure. In the interwar period budgetary problems, inter-service politics, and a Navy ethos that focused on decisive battle left the Royal Navy denuded of the kind of specialist personnel and equipment required for effective amphibious operations.34 Instead the UK relied on an understandable but problematic policy of developing thinking and experimental equipment on amphibious operations without investing in a major capability.35 From 1940, the UK adopted a raiding strategy and the organisational and training establishments for combined operations expanded, although not without many problems. The largest of these was Combined Operations Headquarters established in 1940. Raiding operations – notably operation Jubilee, the terrible repulse at Dieppe in August 1942 – had demonstrated a number of lessons in the requirements for modern amphibious operations that would inform planning for the Italian campaign: the utility of specialist amphibious equipment; the need for sufficient supporting air and naval gun support; the importance of being able to reinforce the beach head rapidly and interdict the movement of enemy reinforcements. These lessons were amplified by the experience of the first major combined amphibious operation: the Torch landings in North Africa of November 1942. The planning lessons of this difficult, though successful, landing included the need for sufficient craft to unload ships quickly; the importance of good beach organisation; the importance of amphibious training and rehearsals; good intelligence on beach conditions; and the value of dedicated headquarters ships.36 In overcoming the planning challenges, continuity in staff at the higher level was also an important factor so that the lessons of each operation were taken forward to the next.37

Preliminary operations Preliminary operations are those operations designed to shape the best possible circumstances for the success of the landing itself. The range of operations that can be undertaken is wide and can include activities such as: naval gunfire support; deception operations; reconnaissance; and air strikes. The aims of such operations can be diverse and can include gaining sea control, degrading enemy defences or attaining surprise. Preliminary operations played an important part in Husky, Shingle and Avalanche. Prior to Husky, for example, the islands of Pantelleria and Lampedusa were taken on 11 and 12 June 1943; this helped to strengthen Allied control of the sea in the region and added to Malta and Gozo as forward bases for aircraft. In order to ensure that the beaches hid the minimum of surprises for the landing force, beach reconnaissance was carried out by a combination of covert landing parties, supported by submarines, and photo-reconnaissance from the air.38 Naval covering forces were used as part of a number of deception plans. Unless the Italian fleet moved to threaten the assault convoys, Force H was to move as if to threaten the west coast of Greece on D-1. Then it was to move back on D-day to conduct its covering role in the Ionian sea. Force Z was also used in 95

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a diversionary role (Operation Fracture), as was Force Q (Operation Arsenal).39 More elaborate deceptions were undertaken in Operation Mincemeat in which HMS Seraph dropped the corpse of an officer on the coast of Spain with spurious plans of an Allied invasion of Sardinia. The RN was also involved in more direct diversionary operations – the night preceding the attack, surface ships bombarded Favignova and Marsala. Prior to Shingle, diversionary attacks were launched on the Gustav line to draw German reserves southwards away from the Anzio area. Diversionary bombardments and amphibious feints were carried out at Civitavecchia, north of Rome. Air interdiction was used to try and destroy the Luftwaffe on the ground and isolate the landing areas.40 While these sorts of activities made a useful contribution to the success of amphibious operations in Italy, they also illustrated some challenges. There is no guarantee that they will work. Although the Shingle and Avalanche landings achieved surprise, the Husky landings were expected, despite the elaborate deception operations. Air interdiction operations conducted as part of Shingle failed to isolate the beach area from German reinforcements. Moreover, because preliminary operations need to be integrated with the landing assault, they can cause problems of co-ordination. Poor air–land co-ordination was reflected on the US beaches where transports of the 82nd Airborne Division arrived over the navy during dive-bombing attacks and were mistaken for the enemy: twenty-three transports were shot down.41

Passage to the objective area Before amphibious landings can take place the assault forces must first move from their ports of embarkation to the area in which the assault will take place. The passage of amphibious forces to the landing zone represents a period of vulnerability for landing forces. These problems were potentially acute during the Italian campaign. The Mediterranean is a narrow sea with several chokepoints, much of the critical water being within range of Axis airpower: on Sicily and Sardinia, for example, there were nearly 500 Axis fighters and fighter-bombers.42 In addition to possible air attack, the Italian Navy remained a potential threat until Italian surrender on 9 September 1944; it comprised six battleships, seven cruisers, thirty-two destroyers, as well a respectable submarine force of around forty-eight boats.43 German U-boats were also a threat, as well as attack by smaller craft such as E-boats. The vulnerability of the landing forces increases as the forces mass near the objective area and during the landing itself. The day before the Husky assault found the invasion force massing in daylight in the middle of waters around 20 miles offshore. It was expected that surprise would be lost by 1200 on D-1.44 Part of the answer to these problems lay in effective preliminary operations; so, for example, Axis airpower on Sicily was severely degraded by air attack. Allied preliminary bombing reduced available Axis aircraft on Sicily to fifty German and seventy-nine Italian aircraft.45 However, protecting the force en route 96

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depended mainly on providing effective naval and air covering forces. Naval covering forces were provided overwhelmingly by the Royal Navy. The largest deployment was as part of Husky. Submarines of the 1st, 8th and 10th submarine flotillas were deployed between Corsica and mainland Italy to cover the north. Submarines were also deployed north of the straits of Messina and off Taranto to cover the Italian ships within. A covering force was also provided by ViceAdmiral A. Willis, commander of Force H, in order to fight off any interdiction attempts by the Axis: this covering force consisted of four battleships (HMS Nelson, HMS Rodney, HMS Warspite and HMS Valiant), two fleet carriers (HMS Indomitable and HMS Formidable), six cruisers and eighteen destroyers with another two battleships in reserve. This force, deployed to the east in the Ionian Sea, served to protect the landings from enemy sorties from Taranto. In addition, a detachment, designated Force Q, would provide cover for the eastern landings at night. To the west of Sicily was Force Z (HMS Howe, HMS King George V, two cruisers and six destroyers). Force Q would cover the eastward movement of convoys in the western Mediterranean and act as reserve.46 A second force, Force K, consisting of four cruisers and six destroyers, under Rear-Admiral C.H.J. Harcourt, would operate close to the beaches in order to provide naval gun support and sea control functions. Numbers of coastal forces were also involved in screening activities: motor gun boats of the 19th and 20th flotillas, and torpedo boats of the 7th, 10th, 18th, 20th, 32nd and 33rd flotillas.47 Some British vessels were also allocated to the US landings. A Royal Navy screening force of gunboats was detailed to protect the Western flank of the western landing.48 For Avalanche, the naval covering force of four battleships, with two carriers and an escort of destroyers under Vice-Admiral Willis entered the Tyrrhenian seas on 8 September and was able to place itself to provide air and gun support for the landing forces as they moved up. A secondary force including Howe, King George V and destroyers escorted elements of the 1st Airborne Division that took Taranto.49 Protection in the air was also vital and was provided by a combination of landbased and organic air. A perennial problem with this kind of support was proper co-ordination between the air and surface elements to ensure that aircraft were available when required and that they did not mistake friendly ships for the enemy. In order to facilitate better co-ordination, air cover for Husky was provided by North African Coastal Airforce and 201 Naval Co-Operation Group, the latter a vindication of encouraging greater joint co-operation: there were no mistaken attacks on convoys by friendly aircraft.50 The availability of adequate force protection assets on land and sea and proper co-ordination between these elements ensured that force protection was successfully carried out. As the Italian campaign progressed, these issues became even less problematic as Axis surface capabilities declined and Allied land-based air established itself more fully in Italy.

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LANDING Whatever the problems and opportunities offered in the phases prior to the amphibious assault, the landing itself is always likely to remain a difficult operation.51 Generic challenges can be posed by the mutually reinforcing problems of enemy opposition, weather conditions, command and control, and logistics. In Italy, the challenges posed by enemy forces at the landing site varied. For Husky there was an expectation of strong enemy attack from E-boats, submarines and aircraft, as well as the possibility of mines, but it was considered that ‘It is difficult to find, at any season, a theater [sic] of operations more favourable to landing operations from the consideration of weather and sea conditions alone.’52 Ironically, the reality was the opposite. The initial landings were conducted very successfully against only light resistance mainly from coastal artillery and machine guns. Enemy air attack had only ‘some nuisance value’53. The problems experienced in the landing derived mainly from the weather and the topography of the beaches. At 1200 on D-1, the sea was force 4; by 1700 it had risen to force 6 or 7. Heavy seas disrupted the landing craft as they formed up offshore. Most managed to land although not all at the right time and on the right beaches. Landing problems were caused by offshore reefs and sandbars, despite preliminary beach reconnaissance, leading some landing craft to become beached short of the main landing site. At Anzio, too, the initial opposition was minimal; the landings managed to achieve complete tactical surprise due to a combination of Allied deception and German intelligence failures, and elements of VI Corps were able to land almost unopposed. Resistance was very light with enemy gunfire and air attack causing minimal damage. At Salerno, however, the landing was heavily opposed from the outset, with heavy fire brought down on the assault troops and their landing craft. Aware of the opportunities afforded to the Allies by their amphibious capability and the length of Italy’s coastline, the German high command intended the defence of Italy to be concentrated in the north, the plan being to use south and central Italy as a delaying ground.54 The navy conducted preparatory operations in order to achieve tactical surprise, using smaller craft to conduct shelling and raids at Naples and to the north. However, Ultra intelligence revealed that the Germans expected an attack and that troops had been alerted on 8 September to meet an attack the next day. Kesselring deployed the 14th Panzer Corps in the Naples area, and the 76th Panzer Corps to the south with orders to conduct a slow withdrawal if southern Italy were invaded. More than this, Kesselring had already devised an operational plan for the theatre in which the lines south of Naples were merely a delaying operation; he was already preparing a thick defensive belt 135 miles wide from Gaeta to the Adriatic, Italy’s narrowest point, in good defensive terrain. Rather than a single linear defence, the line consisted of an array of fortified strong points deployed in depth. Thus, unless a quick break out could be attained, the operational impact of Avalanche was likely to be mitigated. Even the hope that Italian surrender would sow confusion in the Axis defenders was also unrealised;

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fearing that Italian surrender was imminent the Germans developed contingencies to disarm the Italians – these were implemented successfully on 8 September, although the Italian fleet did escape, removing one potential threat to the assaulting forces. As Husky and Anzio demonstrated, tactical surprise was clearly one way in which the problems of an opposed landing could be avoided. This led to competing army and navy perspectives on the best way to conduct the landings. The army argued that surprise was a major asset in landings – for this reason it favoured landings conducted during darkness and without heavy preparatory air and naval gunfire support. However, where surprise was achieved this was not down to the use of such tactics; in Sicily, for example, it was because bad weather convinced the defenders that no landing was practicable. At Salerno, the landing forces did manage to achieve almost complete surprise because although the troop transports had been spotted by the Germans, their objective was not clear.55 Instead, pre-dawn landings made the task of the navy more difficult by complicating command and control. In dealing with the opposition that was encountered, the navy played several roles including minesweeping, gunfire support and air support. Minesweeping was a critical part of all of the landings and there were few losses to mines. During the landings the Royal Navy provided useful naval gunfire support; during Husky, for example, HMS Eskimo silenced enemy coastal batteries. The Salerno landings were launched at the extreme edge of land-based fighter protection, so the Royal Navy provided organic air support. Four ex-US escort carriers (HMS Attacker, HMS Battler, HMS Hunter and HMS Stalker) were deployed, each capable of carrying around eighteen aircraft. These four escort carriers were grouped with the light carrier HMS Unicorn to form Force V under Admiral Vian. Force V was protected by Force H; Nelson, Rodney, Illustrious, Warspite, Valiant, Formidable, 4th, 8th and 24th Destroyer flotillas. It was anticipated that Force V would be able to maintain a continuous presence of twenty-two Seafires over the landing area; supported by thirty-six land-based fighters these would protect the landing force until the assaulting troops seized Montecorvino airfield, allowing land-based fighters to be based there.56 Command and control was complex given the joint and combined nature of the operations and the size and dispersal of the forces involved. For example, in Husky, the Commander-in-Chief of the Naval Force was Admiral Sir Andrew Cunningham, based in Algiers. Direction to Cunningham emanated from the Admiralty. From Cunningham, command then flowed to the command ships of the assault force commanders; Admiral Sir Bertram Ramsay for the Western landing force, and Vice-Admiral H.K. Hewitt, USN for the Eastern landing force. Command of the naval forces was retained by Cunningham until the landing forces reached the amphibious objective area when assault force commanders assumed control. Command and control problems were caused by the dispersed service HQs; the navy and army were based at Malta, but the air HQ remained at Marsa.57 Problems were also caused by headquarters ships. The importance of dedicated headquarters ships had been shown during the Torch landings and they 99

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were used in each of the major amphibious landings in Italy. Though a valuable asset, these ships were still improvised rather than purpose built assets and were not ideal either in terms of the space available or communications equipment.58 The logistics of landing, of getting forces ashore in an organised manner, was facilitated by implementing the lessons of previous operations, especially Torch. Submarines would act as navigation beacons at the beaches to guide in the assault forces; in Sicily these included HMS Safiri, HMS Shakespeare, and HMS Seraph for the Western landing and HMS Unrivalled, HMS Unseen, HMS Unison and HMS Unruffled for the British landings. Sonic buoys and folbots (folding boats) were used to guide landing craft onto the right beaches. The landings featured the use of ‘shore to shore’ assaults; instead of moving forces by ship to the assault area and then transferring them to landing craft, an often laborious and dangerous procedure, some of the troops embarked from their ports already in their landing craft. Although this technique could only be used for those forces embarking relatively close to the objective (for Husky this was North Africa and Malta) it was a useful technique that greatly speeded up the landing of the assault troops. Once on the beach itself, troops and stores were organised through special logistic structures. On British beaches a Senior Naval Officer Landing was appointed to direct the naval dimension of the assault; supported by an experienced staff these officers were deployed with the first assault landings.59 These were supported by joint ‘beach groups’ including Naval Beach Commandos, specially trained in beach logistics – these would help to control the boat traffic, and communicate with shipping. The faster rate of offload that could be achieved by this better organisation meant that divisional artillery could be deployed ashore quickly on the beach edge – this played a key role in beating back German counter attacks in Sicily.60 This initiative was supported by new equipment including amphibious DUKW61 vehicles and the use of US Landing Ship Tanks (LSTs, large vessels which beached themselves and disembarked equipment via a ramp); these proved especially useful in transferring equipment from landing craft stuck short on sandbanks to the beach and speeding up the rate of logistic offload more generally. The Royal Navy also proved vital for repairing harbours and landing special port repair and control parties; in Sicily, the navy had Syracuse and Augusta harbours working within three days which made consolidation of the beachhead much easier. By previous standards, all of the major amphibious operations undertaken in Italy were a qualified success judged in terms of the ability to organise, move, and land a large assault force on an enemy shore. By implementing lessons learned from previous experience, by utilising the broad range of capabilities that had been developed, and by exploiting the instrumental advantages of amphibious power Husky, Salerno and Anzio placed sizeable forces ashore ready to achieve their next objectives.

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Consolidation and exploitation In amphibious operations, success in the landing operation itself is insufficient. The key once landed is to build up combat power through consolidation in preparation for exploitation. In all three of the major operations in Italy it was the transition from the landing phase to the exploitation of the landing that created problems in capitalising on the initial success of the landing. One important dilemma posed to commanders is what balance to strike between the two; premature exploitation may invite defeat as lines of communication lengthen and forces reach a culminating point too early; and exploiting too late risks surrendering the initiative to the enemy. In the Italian campaign the problems of exploitation were due to a combination of: geography and modern communications; command and control; co-ordination; and relative combat power. In Sicily, a combination of mountainous terrain and poor roads favoured the defence. On the mainland, better communications allowed the Germans to adopt a mobile defence concept; combined with the failure of Allied attempts to ‘seal off’ the beachhead through air interdiction this allowed Kesselring to rush reserves to the Salerno and Anzio landing areas. Command failures were demonstrated in Sicily; for example, there was a marked lack of consensus between Patton (commander of the US land forces), Montgomery, General Sir Harold Alexander (overall land commander) and others about how the land operations should progress once the landings had been made. The disconnect between the landing and its exploitation robbed Husky of some of its impetus.62 At Salerno, problems were posed by the relative combat power of both sides. Consolidating a viable beachhead with sufficient ‘tactical logistic space’63 requires the attacking amphibious force to build up its combat power at the beachhead faster than the defender; if it fails to do this, it is unlikely to have the capacity to break out very easily and, indeed, may even be overrun and destroyed at the water’s edge. As part of Husky 160,000 men were landed; for Salerno the lack of sea lift limited the attack force to around half that spread over a 35 mile front.64 Although the beach was taken by nightfall it required heavy support to achieve this both from naval gunfire from cruisers and monitors, and from the air; Vian’s force flew 265 sorties in support. The gains were also much less than hoped: the beachhead was only three miles at its deepest; the two army corps remained separated by a five mile gap; Montecorvino airfield, which needed to be taken if land-based air was to be brought in, remained in German hands; and although Salerno was occupied by the Allies, the shallow beachhead meant that it was within range of enemy artillery; on the beaches, chaos ensued. German reserves moved up and the German commander believed that there was a genuine opportunity to crush the landing forces. Counter attacks were launched and artillery fire was able to play the depth of the Allied lodgement. In terms of the race to build up combat power between the attacker and the defender, the Allies were at this point in danger of losing with potentially disastrous consequences. Salerno also exhibited problems of co-ordination; it rapidly became clear that the

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planned link up between the amphibious operation and the land offensive from the south could occur only much later than anticipated, because of heavier than expected German resistance.65 Shingle, perhaps the most successful of the initial landings, failed largely because it exhibited all of the problems identified. It is often argued that the central failure was Lucas’s focus on consolidation and his failure to exploit the landings in a timely manner; he had been ordered by Clark to ‘seize and secure a bridgehead in the vicinity of Anzio’ and ‘to advance to the Alban Hills’.66 Within a week, and despite air attacks and bad weather, Lucas had deployed a force of 70,000 men, over 500 guns, nearly 240 tanks and more than 27,000 tons of stores. It was vital for his troops to seize the Alban hills around 20 miles inland which would effectively interdict the north–south communications of the German forces. However, Lucas’s caution may well have been justified. First, there was a lack of agreement at the higher level of command on how the landings should be exploited; Clark and Alexander could not agree on the relative weight to attach to consolidation and exploitation. Clark, mindful of his problems at Salerno, counselled Lucas: ‘Don’t stick your neck out, Johnny. I did at Salerno and got into trouble’.67 Second, the expedition was too small; before the operation Lucas criticised ‘the diminutive size of the proposed expedition’68 which, given the rapid German build-up that occurred in front of him, meant that the balance of forces tipped against the Allies. Lucas’s understandable reluctance to exploit his successful landing allowed the enterprising Kesselring to gain control of the Alban hills, seal off the beach head and to counter-attack. Lucas’s problems were multiplied because, once again, the Allied land offensive from the south did not make the expected gains. Ultimately, Shingle, which was supposed to be a dynamic operation, became a besieged pocket. Churchill commented that he thought ‘we were hurling a wild cat on the shore, but all we got was a stranded whale’.69

Lost opportunities: Desant operations Husky, Avalanche and Anzio each constitute, to a greater or lesser degree, a qualified success in the landing itself, and a qualified failure in exploitation. The debate regarding ‘lost opportunities’ has also been extended by some commentators to include the smaller tactical landings that also occurred during the campaign.70 This was the case in Sicily, for example, as the land campaign slowed down after the taking of Syracuse and Augusta. The Royal Navy saw in these problems on land an opportunity to use amphibious forces in classic Desant style operations, a Russian term describing relatively small-scale amphibious landings designed to have a tactical effect. Some attempts were made. US forces attempted on three occasions to outflank the German lines from the sea; for example on 8 August 1943 a reinforced battalion of the 30th infantry landed behind lines and drove back German reinforcements.71 Cunningham was keen on these sorts of operations, describing the US activities as ‘a model of amphibious tactics’.72 He was correspondingly critical of a lack of such operations by the British forces, 102

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even though two infantry landing ships were kept on standby and landing craft were made available should they be needed. In July and August three attempts to land behind German lines were prepared; of these the first two were cancelled and the third landed too late to prevent German forces from falling back. On the Italian mainland, attempts were also made to use smaller landings to affect the land battle. On 3–6 October, for example, 40 Commando, 3 Commando, Special Raiding Squadron and elements from the 78th Division landed at Termoli. They were successful in pushing the Germans from the defensive line of the Bifurno. On 9 April 1944, Eighth Army opened up a new offensive to break onto the Lombardy plains. Facing strong defensive positions an amphibious turning movement was carried out; this turning movement could not be carried out by a true amphibious operation because the assets were no longer in theatre;73 instead, in Operation Grapeshot, troops were embarked upon amphibious vehicles and assault craft across Lake Commacchio and landed on the enemy’s rear.74 This successful move unhinged the German front allowing a rapid advance and crossing of the River Adige, although the advance was quickly contained by the Germans. An amphibious operation was also used to take the island of Elba on 17 June 1944.75 However, the impact of Desant operations was relatively limited. Unlike in Russia, where these smaller operations were used to great effect, the geography and the balance of forces in Italy was not such that these tactical successes could be converted into major operational or strategic gains. Success at Termoli, for example, resulted in the Germans withdrawing ten miles to the next defensive line. In Italy, the landing forces were generally too small to cut the German communications and the Axis forces were able to withdraw before the main elements disembarked. Other operations were projected. General Alexander planned landings in Istria, and also the transfer of major elements of the Eighth Army to the Dalmatian coast. In each case however, constraints in sealift, and opposition on political grounds from President Roosevelt, killed these ideas.76

Conclusion The Italian campaign was controversial even at the time, a fact reflected in Allied wrangling over its priority and objectives. This controversy has continued. For some, Italy constituted vital preparatory work in 1943 for the task in 1944 of opening up a major second front against Germany: the diversion of German resources, the impact on German morale all helped tip the balance for later operations.77 The Mediterranean operations may well have contributed to an ultimately useful delay in the carrying out of the invasion of France, which, if it had been enacted earlier might have met a much stiffer defence and possibly disaster.78 However, for others, the Italian campaign represented an unnecessary and disproportionate diversion of allied resources.79 These debates are unlikely to be resolved categorically one way or the other given that, as Colin Gray has argued, German defeat as a whole can be explained only by comprehending ‘the 103

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complementary interactions among allies, different theatres of war, and the several military instruments’.80 What cannot be denied is the importance of the contribution made by maritime forces in shaping the Italian campaign. Amphibious operations, in which the Royal Navy played a key role, made two primary contributions to the fighting in Italy. First, it was only through amphibious operations that land power could be brought to bear against Sicily and the Italian mainland. In that sense maritime power made victory possible, though it could not ensure it. Second, German fear of the operational flexibility given to the Allies by amphibious operations shaped German strategy in Italy; the decision to enact broadly a delaying strategy in southern and central Italy was directly related to the perceived vulnerability of the Italian coastlines to amphibious landings that might cut off a defence placed further forward. The potential impact of amphibious operations might have been even greater: Husky, Avalanche and Shingle are all associated with lost opportunities. What these operations demonstrate are the tensions between the potential inherent in the imaginative use of amphibious operations on the one hand, and the complexities of executing them on the other. The mobility, flexibility, and versatility of an amphibious capability open up great possibilities for operational success. But the problems of preparation, coordination, force protection, consolidation and exploitation can constrain these possibilities. With regard to this tension two themes weave themselves through amphibious operations in the Italian campaign. First, the growing capability of the Allies generally and Royal Navy specifically in conducting these operations; important lessons were learnt, codified and enacted so that the technical capacity to conduct these highly complex operations grew. Second, however, were the problems caused in the transition from amphibious landings to land operations; too often higher command failed to develop a coherent and realistic plan of operations to exploit the initial amphibious success. Ultimately, then, amphibious operations in the Italian campaign reinforced a cardinal lesson of amphibious warfare; that in planning a campaign such operations must be regarded as a means to an end, not an end in themselves.

Notes 1 Corelli Barnett, Engage the Enemy More Closely: The Royal Navy in the Second World War, London: Penguin, 2001 p. 685. 2 The acrimonious debates on overall Allied strategy are covered in Field Marshall Lord Carver, The Imperial War Museum Book of the War in Italy 1943–1945, London: Pan, 2001, Chapter One. 3 Details of the operational plan are contained in UK Public Records Office, Kew (henceforth PRO): WO 204/6938, ‘Operation “Husky” Naval Operation Orders’, 20 May 1943. 4 Arch Whitehouse, Amphibious Operations, London: Frederick Muller, 1964, p. 244. 5 Though not without major disagreements between the Allies: see Carlo D’Este, Fatal Decision: Anzio and the Battle for Rome, London: Fontana, 1992, pp. 32–3. 6 Barnett, Engage the Enemy, p. 655.

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7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

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Barnett, Engage the Enemy, p. 662. D’Este, Fatal Decision, p. 41. Carver, War in Italy, p. 108. Details of the plans are presented in S.W. Roskill, The War at Sea, Vol. III, Part 1, London: HMSO, 1960 pp. 302–3. Carver, War in Italy, p. 205. BR 1806: The Fundamentals of British Maritime Doctrine, London: HMSO, 1995, p. 199. Ibid. Ibid, p. 8. Colin S. Gray, The Leverage of Sea Power: The Strategic Advantage of Navies in War, New York: Free Press, 1992, p. 245. Sea control is ‘the condition in which one has freedom of action to use the sea for one’s own purposes in specified areas and for specific periods of time and, where necessary, to deny its use to the enemy.’ BR 1806, p. 66. Amphibious operations are possible without control of the sea, as was demonstrated by the German invasion of Norway in 1940, but the risk to the assaulting forces is very high, as was demonstrated by the fate of German sea borne forces at Crete in 1941. These issues are addressed in Col. M.H.H. Evans, Amphibious operations: The Projection of Sea Power Ashore, London: Brasseys, 1990. Barnett, Engage the Enemy, p. 634. See for example, PRO: CAB 122/1202 ‘Future Operations in the Mediterranean. Shipping Required for Administrative Preparations and Re-Equipment of Formations’, 17 July 1943. On the planning problems see L.E.H. Maund,, Assault From the Sea, London: Methuen, 1949), Chapter XVI. D’Este, Fatal Decision, p. 20. See also Dwight D. Eisenhower, Crusade in Europe, New York: Doubleday, 1952. Carver, War in Italy, pp. 6–7. At the time, the term ‘Combined Operations’ was used to refer to what would now called ‘Joint’ operations. Barnett, Engage the Enemy, p. 630. D’Este, Fatal Decision, p. 108. PRO: WO 204/6938, ‘Operation ‘Husky’ Naval Operation Orders’, 20 May 1943. Barnett, Engage the Enemy, p. 636. Ibid., p. 662. PRO: WO 204/6962 ‘Notes for Use in Preparation of Training Programs and Directives’, 20 February 1943. PRO: WO 204/7607, ‘Western Naval task Force: “The Sicilian Campaign”, Operation Husky July–August 1943’. D’Este, Fatal Decision, p. 108. Theodore L. Gatchel, At the Water’s Edge: Defending Against the Modern Amphibious Assault, Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1996, p. 41. Ian Speller, The Role of Amphibious Warfare in British Defence Policy, 1945–56, Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2001, p. 15. Speller, Amphibious Warfare, p. 20. See also David Massam’ British Maritime Strategy and Amphibious Capability 1900–1940 (PhD Dissertation, Oxford University, 1995) and Kenneth J Clifford, Amphibious Warfare Development in Britain and America from 1920–1940, New York: Edgewood, 1983. Maund, Assault from the Sea, p. 116. Gatchel, Waters Edge, p. 57.

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38 PRO: ADM 199/943, ‘The Report of the Commander-in-Chief. Mediterranean on the Invasion of Sicily’, 1 January, 1944. 39 PRO: WO 204/6938, ‘Operation “Husky” Naval Operation Orders’, 20 May 1943. 40 D’Este, Fatal Decision, pp. 119–21. 41 PRO: WO 204/1410, ‘Narrative of Husky Ops’, July 1943. 42 Barnett, Engage the Enemy, p. 639. 43 Roskill, War at Sea, III/1, p. 120. 44 PRO: ADM 199/943, ‘The Report of the Commander-in-Chief. Mediterranean on the Invasion of Sicily’, 1 January, 1944. 45 Gatchel, Waters Edge, p. 42. 46 PRO: WO 204/6938, ‘Operation “Husky” Naval Operation Orders’, 20 May 1943. 47 PRO: WO 204/6938, ‘Operation “Husky” Naval Operation Orders’, 20 May 1943. 48 PRO: WO 204/4581, ‘Western Naval Task Force Operation Plan No.2’, 26 May 1943 49 Roskill, War at Sea, III/1, p. 170. 50 ADM 199/943, ‘The Report of the Commander-in-Chief. Mediterranean on the Invasion of Sicily’, 1 January, 1944. 51 For a general overview of the modalities of beach assaults see J.D. Ladd, Assault From the Sea, Vancouver: David & Charles, 1976, pp. 10–16. 52 PRO: WO 204/4581, ‘Western Naval Task Force Operation Plan No. 2’, 26 May 1943. 53 PRO: ADM 199/943, ‘The Report of the Commander-in-Chief. Mediterranean on the Invasion of Sicily’, 1 January, 1944. 54 D’Este, p. 88. See also Manfred Kehrig, ‘The German Conduct of Operations in the Italian Theatre 1943–1945. An Overview’, http://stratisc.org/partenaires/ihcc_juin_ KEHRIG.html and Kenneth Macksey, Why the Germans Lose at War, London: Greenhill, 1996, Chapter 13. 55 Gatchel, Waters Edge, p. 52. 56 Roskill, War at Sea, III/1, pp. 173–4. 57 PRO: ADM 199/943, ‘The Report of the Commander-in-Chief. Mediterranean on the Invasion of Sicily’, 1 January, 1944. 58 PRO: WO 204/7607, ‘Western Naval Task Force: ‘The Sicilian Campaign’, Operation Husky July–August 1943’. 59 Roskill, War at Sea, Vol.III, Part 1, p. 119. 60 PRO: WO 204/1410, ‘Narrative of Husky Ops’, July 1943. 61 A 2.5 ton amphibious lorry known as a ‘Duck’. See Ladd, Assault from the Sea, pp. 146–9. 62 D’Este, Fatal Decision, pp. 24–5. 63 Sufficient space to unload and organise supplies and reinforcements, and to re-configure the land and air elements for the land battle. 64 D’Este, Fatal Decision, p. 37. 65 Carver, War in Italy, p. 62. 66 Ibid., p. 109. 67 William Breuer, Agony at Anzio, London: Robert Hale, 1989 p. 44. 68 D’Este, Fatal Decision, p. 105. 69 Carver, War in Italy, p. 118. 70 W.R. Sendall, ‘Lost Opportunities of Amphibious Warfare in World War Two’, in Merrill L. Bartlett (ed.), Assault from the Sea, Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1983, pp. 331–3. 71 PRO: WO 204/1410, ‘Narrative of Husky Ops’, July 1943. 72 PRO: ADM 199/943, ‘The Report of the Commander-in-Chief. Mediterranean on the Invasion of Sicily’, 1 January, 1944. 73 Roskill, War at Sea, III/2, p. 247. 74 Carver, War in Italy, p. 278.

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75 76 77 78 79 80

Roskill, War at Sea, III/2, pp. 78–81. Carver, War in Italy, p. 257. A case advanced by Carver and Roskill. Gray, Leverage of Sea Power, p. 247. A case advanced by Barnett. Gray, Leverage of Sea Power, p. 238.

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6 MARITIME POWER AND COMPLEX CRISES The Royal Navy and the undeclared war with Vichy France, 1940–1942 Stuart Griffin

Encompassed within the scope of naval diplomacy, discussed in detail in Chapter 9, exists a grey area where force is used, or threatened, somewhere on an ambiguous margin between peace and war. Such operations are usually confronted by complex operational difficulties and moral dilemmas. They are therefore highly problematic to undertake. Nowhere was this more apparent, or more bitterly divisive, than in Britain’s last ‘war’ with France, fought in Europe, Africa and Asia between 1940 and 1942. Further, the geo-strategic peculiarities of that conflict placed the Royal Navy in an unenviable position as Britain’s reluctant military tool of choice. Its actions at Mers-el-Kébir in July 1940 would have profound consequences for both the balance of military power in the Mediterranean and future Anglo-French relations. This chapter explores the difficulties of operating in such ambiguous circumstances by setting the Anglo-Vichy conflict in its strategic context, examining the fateful operations of 3 July 1940 and analysing their impact upon subsequent events. After the devastating defeat of the Allied French and British forces in northern France in the summer of 1940, Britain was faced with the unwelcome but very real possibility that the considerable naval assets of its former ally could fall into German hands. This could irrevocably alter the relative naval balance in the Mediterranean and north Atlantic, with potentially catastrophic implications for Britain’s ability in the first instance to defend itself and, ultimately, to mount a counter-offensive on continental Europe. Under these circumstances, the decision to neutralise the threat of the French fleet, diplomatically if possible but forcibly if needs must, though morally abhorrent to many was without doubt a strategic imperative. Though Churchill found the task personally distasteful, he was typically decisive in instructing the War Cabinet to act ‘solely in accordance with the dictates of our own safety’1 when addressing the latent threat posed by the French Navy. In the event, it fell to the Royal Navy, as the only instrument capable of undertaking decisive operations against the French Navy available to Britain at

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this time, to fulfil the explicit orders of the War Cabinet. This it did within days of a decision being reached, executing largely bloodless coups de main on French ships in British ports and the French squadron at Alexandria but, tragically, being forced to violently neutralise the most significant French squadron at Mers-elKébir near Oran, killing 1297 French naval officers and men in the process. Unsurprisingly, Anglo-Vichy relations plummeted rapidly and the two former allies fought a sporadic conflict that only ended after the Torch landings in North Africa in November 1942.

Naval diplomacy on the margins of war: theory and practice First, for the reasons espoused in the Introduction to this volume, it is important to put all of this in its proper theoretical place. Though this chapter takes the view that British actions from 1940–1942 were a form of naval diplomacy, it is debatable whether Britain’s unofficial conflict with France falls short of warfare simply because there was no declaration to that effect. Naval operations conducted against both the French fleet and France’s colonies in North and West Africa were not undertaken with the express intention of managing or resolving a debilitating conflict within French territories, nor to bolster an ailing ally, but to prevent the use of French material and physical assets against Britain in its ongoing war with a third party (the Axis Powers). Further, there is no disputing that the attacks of 3 July 1940 were unprovoked. Arguably, France’s long-term interests were at stake (that was certainly Churchill’s position) but the immediate cause for forceful intervention was narrow national self-interest not wider internationalism. This ‘complex crisis’ was therefore governed by a different set of principles to those normally associated with the majority of naval diplomacy activities. Nowhere is this better summarised than in the work of Sir James Cable. Reference to Cable’s study of ‘gunboat diplomacy’2 in current British Maritime Doctrine3 demonstrates how his theoretical constructs remain useful today. One concept in particular is relevant to this study: that of ‘definitive force’. Cable’s ‘gunboat diplomacy’ is effectively a sub-set of what we would term ‘naval diplomacy’ made up of activities at the higher end of the spectrum included in that concept. The concept encompasses a broad range of activities revolving around the threat or use of limited physical force in all circumstances short of full hostilities. It is an inclusive definition embraced by many practitioners and theorists alike including the Royal Navy. However, to be practicable it required further elaboration and this Cable did by drawing distinctions between the different types of activity included within his wider definition. Significantly, he divided the application of gunboat diplomacy into four categories: ‘definitive, purposeful, catalytic and expressive’ use of force.4 The latter two categories refer to the threat or use of force in ambiguous circumstances or in support of vaguely articulated aims either to seize upon, or mould, a developing situation to one’s own advantage (‘catalytic force’) or to send a message of some sort (‘expressive force’).5 Such displays have unpredictable effects usually 109

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due to their often ill-defined motivations and the inherent difficulties of articulating such goals. It is doubtful that either would have been useful instruments of naval diplomacy with regard to resolving the issue of the fate of the French fleet in 1940. In fact, Britain’s obvious concern with the French fleet, expressed through an increased presence in and around French owned ports from mid-June, only exacerbated tension with its wounded ally. For example, Admiral Ollive’s understandable decision to order the aptly named HMS Watchman out of his port (Casablanca) on 25 June, because it was clearly there to shadow the newly commissioned battleship Jean Bart, forced Watchman to continue its surveillance duties by patrolling just outside territorial waters, thereby confirming French suspicions and antagonising them further.6 Similarly, and with more tragic consequences, Admiral Gensoul’s refusal to receive representatives from HMS Foxhound at Mers-el-Kébir on 3 July came about, at least in part, because he did not grasp the gravity of the situation. Once it became apparent that the Royal Navy genuinely intended the use of definitive force against his fleet, Gensoul submitted to parley by which time the window of opportunity for a negotiated settlement had been critically reduced. Definitive and purposeful uses of force have well defined aims that require clear articulation and credible capabilities to be successful. Thus, both actively rely upon a combination of crystal clear communication of intent and the obvious military wherewithal to back it up. They differ, however, in one crucial respect. While the threat or use of definitive force seeks to attain its ends regardless of the opponent’s (or victim’s) reaction by presenting them with a fait accompli,7 the threat or use of purposeful force ‘does not itself do anything: it induces someone else to take a decision that would not otherwise have been taken …. This is a less direct, and hence less reliable, expedient than definitive force, which itself removes the cause of dispute, because purposeful force depends for its success on a choice made by the victim’.8 In 1940, given the dire consequences of the French fleet potentially falling into Axis hands, the British War Cabinet took the decision that only definitive force would suffice. Cable takes a case study contemporary to the conflict with Vichy France to illustrate the potential pitfalls of using force definitively, citing the difference between British and German breaches of Norwegian neutrality in February and April 1940 respectively. In February, HMS Cossack stopped and boarded the German merchant vessel, Altmark, in Norwegian waters and rescued 299 British prisoners of war after a tense but ultimately bloodless stand-off with Norwegian naval forces. By contrast, in April, the German cruiser, Blücher, entered Oslofjord and was immediately sunk by Norwegian shore batteries. Both interventions had violated Norway’s neutrality yet, critically, the Royal Navy’s actions had been deemed tolerable by the victim whilst the German actions had not. Cable uses this to emphasise the point that, to be successful, the purpose of definitive force must not only be clearly articulated but it must also be supported by credible military assets capable of fulfilling their task regardless of opposition and the action must, at some basic level, be viewed as ultimately acceptable by the victim. It must 110

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therefore be seen as limited. In the Blücher’s case, though the Germans were able to seize Oslo, their actions were deemed unacceptable and so the Norwegians fought anyway. More significantly, Germany’s occupying forces were confronted by a hostile populace throughout the rest of the war, a significant drain on valuable manpower. Thus, if one misjudges either the likelihood of success or the line between force and violence both credibility and tolerability can be lost and longterm negative consequences ensue (even if one still attains the immediate objective). An example from another era is illustrative here as it bears striking comparison with the situation in 1940, highlighting both the potential benefits and dangers of using force against the French fleet. The summer of 1940 was not the first time that a major European conflict had placed Britain in the difficult position of needing to deal with a ‘friendly’ fleet. In 1800, at the height of the Napoleonic Wars, Denmark joined Russia, Sweden and Prussia in an ostensibly defensive pact that sought to protect their maritime trading interests with France against British interdiction. However, it quickly became apparent that Tsar Paul of Russia, the driving force behind the initiative, intended far closer ties with France and the group’s activities rapidly became more aggressively anti-British. In fairness, the Royal Navy had been less than diplomatic when dealing with merchantmen in the Baltic Sea but given the region’s strategic importance and trading value (especially in crucial naval stores such as timber) it was unlikely that Britain would tolerate this situation for long. ‘As London saw it, the so-called Armed Neutrality was likely to prove nothing less than a direct and substantial augmentation of the French navy. It would range most of Europe against an island which was fighting for survival, and which could afford to pull no punches’.9 As in 1940, the British government felt that it had no alternative but to act forcefully and on 2 April 1801, Nelson, under the nominal command of Admiral Sir Hyde Parker, attacked and destroyed a substantial element of the Danish fleet acting as floating defences protecting Copenhagen harbour. Nelson personally negotiated terms, Denmark withdrew from the Armed Neutrality and Nelson’s aggressive plan for a follow-on attack against the Russian fleet at Reval, together with the assassination of Tsar Paul, convinced Russia to abandon its grand schemes for alliance with Napoleon. Lambert asserts that, in essence, ‘over 2000 men had died to prove the point that second-rank powers had no business challenging the belligerent rights of great powers engaged in a struggle for survival’,10 and he is correct, but the implications of British naval action were more profound than that. It had sent a signal to friends and enemies alike that Britain remained undaunted in its isolation and, further, that it would be ruthless in its prosecution of the war. Strategically, the Royal Navy remained pre-dominant, forcing Napoleon to shelve plans for a future cross-Channel invasion. Most important, it allowed breathing space for a shift in the balance of power. After the brief respite offered by the Peace of Amiens of 1802, Britain took the initiative in 1803 by using the Royal Navy this time as an offensive weapon, attacking the allied French and Spanish fleets and merchantmen to substantially reduce France’s own offensive capabilities. Not only did this 111

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make Britain’s own position more secure but it afforded the other European powers the opportunity to begin the process of re-joining the war on Britain’s side.11 Dramatically, after the disastrous defeats of the Third and Fourth Coalitions at Austerlitz (1805) and Jena (1806) respectively, Britain found herself in real danger of invasion once again. Prussia’s humiliation, embodied in the Treaty of Tilsit (1807), effectively left the hapless Danes as a vassal state of France and presented Britain with another serious dilemma. Together with the Russian and Swedish navies, this could have added forty-seven ships of the line to Napoleon’s forces and therefore seriously undermined Britain’s ability to defend itself. Once again, an expedition was immediately dispatched, this time with substantial landing forces (over 25,000 men), Copenhagen was besieged and almost the entire Danish fleet was seized and taken to England. Once again, ‘the benefit to Britain was what Denmark and thus Napoleon had been deprived of.’12 In terms of negative consequences, it was many years before Anglo-Danish relations returned to normal but, as eventual victory over Napoleon testifies, the benefits far outweighed the costs. This foray into the Napoleonic Wars is relevant here for one very important reason. British victimisation of the Danish fleet in 1801 and 1807 bears striking resemblance to its attacks on the French fleet in 1940 and offers important insights into the potential consequences of such action. Further, this was clearly in the thoughts of those involved at the time. Nelson’s 1801 victory is specifically mentioned in the minutes of the War Cabinet meeting of 27 June, when the decision to take definitive action was made.13 As Churchill would later write, the first Copenhagen attack had been recalled to mind because it reminded all concerned of how there were times where strategic imperatives had to take precedence even over honour and loyalty to an ally. In his own words, ordering the Navy to neutralise the French fleet ‘was a hateful decision, the most unnatural and painful in which I have ever been concerned …. It was Greek tragedy. But no act was ever more necessary for the life of Britain and for all that depended upon it’.14 Though benefit of hindsight indicates that the French Navy was highly unlikely to allow itself to fall into German hands, it is difficult to argue against this rationale. As in the first Battle of Copenhagen, Britain’s actions both removed a significant incipient threat and sent a strong signal of defiance to friends and foes alike. Both Roosevelt and Hitler saw it for what it was and respected the action accordingly. However, like the second attack on Copenhagen, it also had the kind of negative consequences that Cable refers to as a major danger of definitive action. In 1807, Denmark’s wrath at an unprovoked attack on a genuinely neutral state was mirrored in much of European society and even segments of the British press. Beyond that, however, there was little comeback. In 1940, the consequences were much more far reaching. As will become clear, though the use of force was clearly limited in scope the issue of tolerability was unclear and the impetus for revenge was great in some French circles. Certainly, it helped turned the Vichy government increasingly anti-British and this caused significant problems in the middle phase of the war. 112

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Fateful decision: the actions of 3 July 1940 From the day that British and French forces were routed in northern France the spectre of the fate of the French fleet hovered over the deliberations of the British War Cabinet. As the last elements of the BEF were finally being evacuated from Dunkirk, the government and the Chiefs of Staff were pondering the implications of the loss of France for the continued prosecution of the war. Most obviously, Britain no longer had any toehold on continental Europe, and German forces were now poised within easy range just across the Channel. Britain’s first strategic imperative, therefore, was to secure itself against invasion. Its second was to begin creating the conditions for an eventual return. Obviously, critical to both was a stabilisation of the situation and a strengthening of the British position. Within this context, the future of the French fleet was pivotal because of its potential impact upon the relative balance of naval forces between Britain and the Axis powers. Prior to France’s collapse, the combined naval power of Germany and Italy was already challenging the Royal Navy’s hegemony in and around home waters and the Mediterranean, a problem that was only made worse after the failed Norway operation and the Dunkirk evacuation left Britain with a critical destroyer shortage. The prospect of the French fleet, which included five older battleships, two modern battle cruisers, two battleships in build, eighteen cruisers, two aircraft carriers, fifty-four destroyers and seventy plus submarines being added to Axis naval forces was quite simply unthinkable.15 Even if Britain could retain enough primacy to forestall a cross-Channel invasion there was a very real possibility of defeat via the strangulation of Britain’s maritime lifeline. First, there was an immediate and dramatic jump in U-boat successes against merchant shipping when Germany gained access to French Atlantic ports in June (sinking 284,000 tons of shipping that month alone) that presaged how close-run the Battle of the Atlantic would become in the latter part of 1942 and early 1943.16 Second, the raiding activities of the pocket-battleship Admiral Scheer and the cruiser Admiral Hipper at the end of 1940, though of variable success,17 highlighted the potential impact that the addition of the French fleet to Axis naval forces could have had upon Britain’s supply routes. Unsurprisingly, the Royal Navy had begun contingency planning even before France finally surrendered. As early as 7 June, the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Dudley Pound, had expressed the opinion that the French fleet must be sunk (preferably scuttled by the French Navy itself)18 and on 11 June the Chiefs presented a united front to Cabinet in a report echoing Pound’s sentiments.19 The fate of the French fleet rapidly came to dominate the thoughts of the War Cabinet, which initially hoped for a peaceful settlement, somewhat wishfully thinking that Admiral Darlan, the French Navy’s Commander-in-Chief, may order the sailing of France’s main capital ships for British ports. Failing the French Navy actively joining with the Royal Navy, it was hoped that Darlan would comply with the British request that he scuttle his ships instead. Neither option appealed to the French Navy, particularly Darlan who had no great love for the British anyway.

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Marder recounts the telling testimony of Paul Reynaud, the former French Premier imprisoned under Vichy rule, who frequently heard Admiral Darlan comment that ‘I did not create a Fleet to offer it to the British’.20 By the same token, the Royal Navy, and the British government more generally, for their part were less than enamoured with the French Navy’s C-in-C. Roskill comments how ‘we felt a good deal of mistrust towards Admiral Darlan … who possessed immense influence over his service, but had remained in conquered France and was plainly subject to German pressure’.21 There was good reason for this suspicion. Despite fighting talk and promises that he would never allow the French fleet to fall into German hands, Darlan made a dramatic political U-turn on 17 June when Marshal Petain, who had led the socalled ‘Defeatist’ coup that toppled Reynaud’s pro-war government the previous day, asked him to join the new government as Minister of Marine. He immediately changed his mind from preparing to sail the French fleet to Allied or neutral ports beyond Germany’s reach to ordering it to stay put. When asked why, Darlan replied with disarming simplicity: ‘I am now Minister of Marine’.22 Finally, when France accepted Germany’s armistice terms five days later on 22 June, Article 8 stipulated that the French fleet should be ‘demobilised and disarmed under German or Italian supervision’ in ports as then to be decided. This was the final straw for Britain. Though it was widely acknowledged that neither the French Navy, nor Darlan himself, was in any way pro-German, and that they had done a considerable amount to put the fleet beyond the immediate grasp of the Germans (by sailing key assets to North Africa or keeping them based in Toulon, relatively secure in the south), there was now no way of reliably ensuring that they would, or even could, stay true to the promise to scuttle the fleet if the Axis powers attempted to seize it at a later date. Churchill bluntly concluded: ‘In a matter so vital to the safety of the whole British Empire we could not afford to rely on the word of Admiral Darlan’.23 Planning for the use of force majeure therefore went into overdrive simultaneously with a charm offensive by the Royal Navy that tried to persuade the French Navy to come over en masse to British ports. This was an unlikely eventuality, particularly as the grip of Anglophobe elements on the Vichy government tightened in response to increasingly subversive British diplomacy that culminated in the blockading of metropolitan France (25 June) and the official recognition of General Charles de Gaulle as the leader of ‘all Free Frenchmen’ (28 June). By this time, the weight of intelligence gathered by the Admiralty via its various liaison officers had led it independently to conclude that while the French Navy was unlikely to willingly submit to German terms, its officers and men remained loyal to Petain’s new regime which they regarded as the legitimate government of France. Perhaps more important, almost all the senior officers in key positions were personally beholden to Darlan and therefore never going to disobey their commanding officer.24 Precautionary steps were immediately put into effect with all French ships in British ports (upwards of 200 vessels) and the battle squadron ‘Force X’ at Alexandria refused permission to sail for home. 114

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British planning naturally focused upon the most significant units of the French fleet. These were the new battleships Richelieu and Jean Bart at Dakar and Casablanca respectively; Force X, consisting of a battleship, four cruisers, three destroyers and a submarine, attached to the Royal Navy’s Mediterranean fleet based at Alexandria; and, most important of all, the cream of the French navy, its Atlantic fleet (Force de Rade), based at Mers-el-Kébir (near Oran). Force de Rade was known to comprise the two powerful battle cruisers Dunkerque and Strasbourg, the older battleships Bretagne and Provence, a seaplane carrier and six large destroyers. Further, it could be complimented rapidly by seven more destroyers and four submarines stationed practically next door at Oran.25 ViceAdmiral Gensoul, Flag Officer commanding the Atlantic fleet, was personally loyal to Darlan and little respected by the Royal Navy.26 However, there was still some optimism about whether the French fleet could be turned. While Admiral North’s27 personal interview with Gensoul on 24 June led him to answer Pound’s inquiry about this possibility with a blunt ‘no’,28 a joint signal from the British Naval Liaison Officers (BNLOs) directly involved in sounding out the French Navy, sent on 28 June, suggested that a display of purposeful force, the arrival of a powerful British squadron off Oran, may inspire the French fleet to join with the Royal Navy after all.29 Whether this opinion was strongly held or wishful thinking underpinned by the navy’s profound distaste for the role it was likely to have to play is unclear but certainly both Pound at the Admiralty and Somerville, in command of the force that would subsequently assault Mers-el-Kébir, hoped for a peaceful solution right up to the opening salvo. In truth, however, the decision had already been reached at the War Cabinet meeting of the previous day. After long deliberations, the War Cabinet agreed that the best strategy was to make simultaneous moves against French ships in British ports, Force X in Alexandria and Force de Rade at Mers-el-Kébir/Oran at the earliest possible date (3 July). Both the Jean Bart and Richelieu, initially the Cabinet’s primary concerns, were recognised to be presently non-threatening, incomplete and under close surveillance as they were.30 Admiral Cunningham’s overwhelming material superiority at Alexandria made the neutralisation of Force X a foregone conclusion and securing those French ships sheltering in British ports also seemed relatively straightforward but dealing with Force de Rade was an entirely different proposition. First, it was obviously a powerful force and second, it was relatively well defended within a military harbour. It was improbable, therefore, that it would submit willingly and the War Cabinet was aware that this made heavy bloodshed a strong possibility. Interestingly, the Joint Planning Sub-Committee of the Chiefs of Staff, asked by Pound to examine the potential consequences of such action, came to the conclusion that the long-term danger of provoking active French hostility out-weighed the benefits of neutralising the French fleet by force.31 As will be seen, this was somewhat prophetic, highlighting once again the complexities of using definitive force. The unenviable task of dealing with Force de Rade fell to Vice-Admiral Sir James Somerville who was informed of his appointment to command Force H 115

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(awaiting him at Gibraltar) straight after the fateful War Cabinet meeting on 27 June. Somerville was at sea within a day, assuming command when he boarded his flagship, the battleship HMS Hood, at Gibraltar on 30 June. Planning for Operation Catapult was disrupted somewhat by the not unexpected disapproval of his officers who once again protested the task32 but a subsequent Admiralty telegram put paid to any hope of compromise by explicitly ordering Somerville to sink the French fleet if it refused British terms.33 Those terms were laid down once again (and in their final form) to Somerville at 0103 the following morning as either: 1 To sail their [French] ships to British Harbours and continue to fight with us. 2 To sail their ships with reduced crews to a British port from which the crews would be repatriated whenever desired. 3 To sail their ships with reduced crews to some French port in the West Indies such as Martinique [a change from previous instructions that had required demilitarisation in situ]. 4 To sink their ships.34 Capt. C.S. Holland of HMS Ark Royal, a former Naval Attaché to France, was to act as emissary, sailing ahead of the main body of Force H aboard the destroyer HMS Foxhound and presenting the alternatives directly to Admiral Gensoul (with whom he was on good terms). Critically, he was to be explicit about the Royal Navy’s preparedness to use force if necessary (something he was loathe to do). The important thing to note about Force H was that it was a genuinely powerful naval squadron capable of fulfilling its objective by force if necessary, a prerequisite for any definitive use of force. When it was constituted on 28 June, it consisted of the aircraft carrier Ark Royal, the battle cruiser Hood, battleships Resolution and Valiant, the cruiser Arethusa and seven destroyers; a number that could be supplemented at short notice for major operations such as that at Mersel-Kébir (where the cruiser Enterprise and four more destroyers joined it).35 When it arrived off Oran early on 3 July it should therefore have been readily apparent that British intentions were serious. However, this does not appear to have been the case. Unfortunately, Holland’s mission quickly ran into trouble. Foxhound anchored at Mers-el-Kébir on schedule ahead of the rest of the squadron at 0805 on 3 July but Holland was refused permission to see Gensoul and instead ordered to weigh anchor and leave immediately as the rest of Force H made its approach (0845). Gensoul was apparently furious at the obvious attempt at coercion but tragically seems to have failed to appreciate Britain’s genuine determination to prosecute the operation should its terms be rejected. A crucial opportunity was wasted over the next few hours as the French Admiral continued to refuse to meet with Holland and signalled his own intention to ‘meet force with force’. Somerville, who had arrived off the coast at 0910, began to lose patience around noon, after receiving news of Gensoul’s repeated threat of counter-force and noting that the French ships had begun raising steam. Holland was forced to remove 116

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Foxhound to relative safety beyond the outer boom as Somerville committed the first belligerent act at 1330, using seaplanes from Ark Royal to mine the outer entrance. He subsequently signalled Foxhound his intention to open fire at 1500, giving Holland one last chance to get through to Gensoul and avert disaster. Hopes of this were briefly raised at 1450 when the French Admiral finally appeared to comprehend the gravity of the situation by inviting Holland to parley. However, Somerville’s suspicion that this was simply a ruse to gain more time for Gensoul’s ships and shore batteries to prepare themselves36 was seemingly confirmed at 1646 when he received an intercepted French Admiralty signal ordering the Admiral to fight and promising immediate reinforcement.37 True to its word, the French Admiralty ordered all available squadrons to sail for Oran and so the situation became extremely time critical. Somerville resigned himself to the fact that the time for prevarication was over and signalled Dunkerque (Gensoul’s flagship) at 1712 that he had until 1730 to comply with one of the British alternatives. When no reply came, Somerville reluctantly ordered firing to commence at 1754 and the final chapter of the tragedy of Mers-el-Kébir rapidly unfolded. Though the French returned fire they were severely outgunned by the three British capital ships, each with 15-inch guns. In a short but savage fifteen-minute burst, thirty-six salvoes wreaked havoc among the French ships, badly damaging Dunkerque and Provence and sinking Bretagne. It was in Bretagne, which exploded, capsized and sank at 1809, that the vast majority of the 1297 killed French sailors lost their lives. Somerville broke off the engagement at the earliest possible opportunity to give the French enough time to evacuate their crews from the remaining ships but was unaware that there was a narrow escape channel to the south through which the Strasbourg and five destroyers (the sixth, Mogador, had also been badly damaged) were able to make their escape. The subsequent escape of the French carrier (Commandant Teste) and two more destroyers from the neighbouring Oran harbour meant the operation remained a success but only a partial one. Mers-el-Kébir was an episode that nobody really wished to recall and from which no one emerged with great credit. Force H had done its job and certainly could not be held to account for the tragic outcome, which looked likely from the very start, but questions were raised concerning whether it could have been handled differently. Both Holland and Somerville had their critics; Somerville for entrusting the diplomacy to a more junior officer and allowing the Strasbourg to escape (for which he candidly accepted responsibility) and Holland for being too pro-French, something that several critics charged distorted his judgement and impaired his negotiations. However, most of the blame has been laid at Admiral Gensoul’s feet, first for refusing to meet with Holland for so long, second for lacking the vision to grasp the gravity of the situation until too late and third for persistently failing to accurately communicate the terms of the British ultimatum to the French Admiralty. Though all these criticisms have some grounds they are also somewhat harsh. With the exception of the last accusation levelled at Gensoul, it is difficult to envisage how any slight differences in approach would 117

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have materially affected the situation. As an exercise in the definitive use of force, Mers-el-Kébir was only ever going to end one way because Britain did not hold sufficient initiative at either the strategic or the operational level. Simply put, the British government did not have the kind of relationship with its French counterpart that would encourage it to willingly acquiesce to British demands and the Royal Navy had the necessary wherewithal to successfully complete its mission but not to sufficiently cow its victim into submission. Thus, British actions were deemed unacceptable and Force de Rade put up a brave but futile fight. By contrast, Admiral Cunningham’s position vis-à-vis Force X at Alexandria gave every opportunity for a bloodless demonstration of definitive force. Though strategically identical, the situation was fundamentally different at the operational level. Cunningham outgunned Godfroy by a massive margin, making resistance utterly pointless. That is not to say that things could not have gone very differently. There was still no guarantee that Godfroy, who was a very able commander in charge of a well-trained squadron, would not fight. Here, though, is where the nature of Cunningham’s diplomacy was critical. First, the two admirals were already on friendly terms and Cunningham continued to foster this as much as possible by personalising their diplomacy. Second, the C-in-C, Mediterranean clearly decided to exercise his personal judgement as to the spirit of Admiralty instructions at the expense of the letter of those instructions. Marder comments that ‘it early became apparent that the Admiralty and the man on the spot were approaching matters from a very different point of view. To Cunningham it was a question of how to win over erstwhile and highly esteemed colleagues and avoid force, whereas from the other end the whole atmosphere was one of how best and most quickly to get possession of the French ships.’38 Like the French ships in British homeland ports, and unlike Mers-el-Kébir, this was a genuine possibility at Alexandria but it was fraught with dangers. Cunningham was aware of this and weighed up his alternatives carefully, correctly identifying that the critical requirement (the spirit of his instructions) was to neutralise Force X as a threat, not to seize it by force. Less than two weeks previously, Cunningham had been planning to take the whole fleet to sea to conduct operations against the Italians, an operation that had to be cancelled because of the signing of the armistice. Nevertheless, his show of faith in Godfroy and personal explanation of his reasons when he was first forced to refuse Godfroy permission to sail for home ports, on 24 June, headed off the immediate crisis. Darlan, unsurprisingly, was furious as Godfroy’s decision immediately undermined the terms of the armistice39 but, in truth, there was little he could do anyway. The French ships were anchored in the inner harbour at Alexandria with Alex’s substantial shore batteries and almost the entire British Mediterranean fleet including four battleships, an aircraft carrier, seven cruisers, twenty-four destroyers and twelve submarines standing between them and the open sea. A gentleman’s agreement was reached that the French would not try to sail and, in return, the British would not attempt to seize their ships40 (though this was not agreed by the Admiralty).41 Cunningham, in a message to Pound dated 27 118

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June expressed his concerns about the evolving British policy (‘I fear there is little to save from the wreck here’)42, his dislike for Darlan (‘I never trusted him. Too political’)43 and his continued faith in the French squadron formerly under his command: ‘the younger officers and men are all for fighting on …. Godfroy is a very honest man and they cause me no anxiety.’44 However, events took a more serious turn when first the Admiralty proposed he attempt to seize Force X simultaneously with the operations at Oran45 and in Britain, and then Godfroy became aware of that action on 4 July. Cunningham’s robust response to the Admiralty’s 30 June signal was immediate: ‘I am most strongly opposed to proposal for forcible seizure of ships in Alexandria nor can I see what benefit is to be derived from it.’46 It resulted in an immediate climb down that gave him more leeway to resolve the issue peacefully by negotiating the effective neutralisation of Force X on 3 July,47 something that he achieved through skilful personal diplomacy. Godfroy was invited aboard Cunningham’s flagship, HMS Warspite, where he was greeted warmly by Cunningham and presented with the various options in such a manner that they did not appear the ultimatum that they effectively were.48 The preferred option was that Force X joined the British fleet but loyalty to its government precluded this. Alternatively, the Admiralty instructed Cunningham that Godfroy should either de-mobilise his ships and reduce their crews or sink them at sea.49 This proved awkward because Godfroy felt honour-bound to do the latter in the absence of the acquiescence of the French Admiralty to the second alternative (no reply came to his signal asking for guidance). Cunningham was loath to see their working relationship end so disastrously and spent the afternoon considering alternatives. Finally, his suggestion that Godfroy retain his crews but discharge oil and remove warheads was deemed an acceptable compromise by the French Admiral but not by the British government. Therefore, after feeling that a delicate situation had been resolved, Cunningham was staggered to receive a remarkable signal later in the evening of 3 July (2015) ordering him to make sure that the French crews were disembarked. It ended with the line ‘Do not (R) NOT fail’.50 Showing considerable moral courage, he ignored the signal entirely, later writing that ‘It is the perfect example of the type of signal which should never be made. Apart from being quite unhelpful, it showed no comprehension whatever of the explosive atmosphere at Alexandria or the difficult conditions in which we were working.’51 This situation worsened once again when news of the attack on Mers-el-Kébir filtered through to Godfroy who immediately halted the discharge of fuel and began raising steam. Throughout the morning of 4 July the relations between Force X and the Mediterranean fleet deteriorated to the point where the Admiralty actually asked Cunningham to consider removing the fleet to sea and opening fire on the French ships moored inside his own harbour.52 Cunningham wished to avoid this but, critically, did not shy away from the possibility either; writing at 1317 ‘I fully realise the vital necessity of an early solution if necessary by force’.53 This determination was communicated to Force X by his actions throughout the afternoon as 119

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Cunningham took a new tack, repeatedly sending signals in French to Godfroy’s whole squadron (and reinforcing this by sending boats with placards communicating the same messages to circle the French ships), imploring it not to do anything that would result in a tragic loss of life and inevitable defeat. In response to several French ships training their guns on their British counterparts, the fleet was instructed to sink Force X where it sat if engaged. Meanwhile, Cunningham, having made his intentions crystal clear, pulled a diplomatic masterstroke by sending the captains from Force X’s ‘chummy ships’ (Royal Navy ships assigned as hosts to their French counterparts when they were first integrated into the Mediterranean fleet) to meet with their opposite numbers. It was a trick that he found personally distasteful54 but proved pivotal as the unease fostered in the French crews by Cunningham’s deliberately open signalling was transferred to their captains by the visits of their recent friends. Soon the French captains could be seen conducting shuttle diplomacy with their C-in-C and, in midafternoon, the watching British witnessed them boarding Godfroy’s flagship, the cruiser Duquesne, en masse. At 1529 Cunningham was able to signal the Admiralty that Godfroy had bowed before force majeure and begun de-militarising his ships.55 Oil was discharged, gun breeches and warheads were removed and crews reduced. It was over and Cunningham and Godfroy formally signed an agreement on 7 July that effectively re-iterated their gentleman’s agreement of just over a week before. What did all this mean? Seen purely in military terms, the operations of 3–7 July had been largely successful. Alexandria was an unqualified success, ending without bloodshed. Operation Grasp in British ports had also gone well, with the vast majority of French ships secured without casualties (though one French rating and two British officers were killed in a sharp clash on the giant French submarine, Surcouf). Finally, Operation Catapult, at Mers-el-Kébir, had been a qualified success, neutralising much of Force de Rade but at a heavy price. Ironically, by the end of September, Strasbourg, which had escaped Mers-elKébir, was the only French capital ship left at large, the others having been chased to ground or rendered unseaworthy by repeated attack. Significantly, Richelieu was put out of action by Fairy Swordfish operating from HMS Hermes on 8 July. In broader strategic terms, however, the consequences were more far reaching. The concerns expressed by many in the Royal Navy that its actions against the French fleet would bear rotten fruit in the longer term were certainly confirmed at least in relation to Vichy France.

Consequences: the war with Vichy There was an immediate positive impact upon the Royal Navy’s ability to conduct offensive operations in the Mediterranean. For the previous few weeks the Italian fleet had been taking advantage of the uncertain strategic situation to act more aggressively and Cunningham now saw an opportunity to deal with this. Within two days of Mers-el-Kébir, the Mediterranean fleet initiated offensive air and naval 120

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operations against Italian bases and shipping. Operation MA.5, ostensibly convoy protection, had the ulterior motive of bringing the Italian fleet to action, which it did on 9 July. Though the combined might of the Mediterranean fleet and Force H held a three to two advantage in battleships it was outnumbered and outgunned in all other departments. Despite this, it attempted to force the enemy to engage by interposing itself between the Italians and their home base of Taranto. Sporadic engagements occurred throughout the afternoon until the faster Italian vessels fled behind a heavy smokescreen with Cuningham in hot pursuit. Most notably, at 1522, Vice-Admiral Tovey’s cruiser squadron, consisting of four 6-inch cruisers, ignored the odds to engage twelve Italian cruisers (six having 8-inch guns) sending the very strong signal that the Royal Navy was determined to wrest back sea control in the Mediterranean. Within a week of dealing with the French fleet the Royal Navy had ‘in fact established moral superiority over the Italian navy which had shown little determination to dispute with us the command of the waters of the Med.’56 Further, the potential threat to Britain’s Atlantic supply routes from French raiders was also removed at a time where maritime strangulation was becoming a very real danger. For his part, President Roosevelt, observing British actions closely for any sign of weakening conviction, ‘saw Mers-el-Kébir for what it was – a precautionary measure and a clear indication that the British had no intention whatever of suing for peace’57. It therefore served an important politico-strategic end as well by raising Britain’s standing with a crucial ally at a critical moment. However, Britain had also done irreparable damage to its relationship with the Vichy government and this had significant strategic consequences of its own. Mers-el-Kébir turned the already largely Anglophobe French government permanently against Britain and sparked a sporadic but vicious undeclared war between the former allies. British support for de Gaulle actively ranged it against Petain’s regime and, by extension, much of the French population and military that remained loyal to Vichy. Throughout 1941 and 1942 Anglophile members of the French government were gradually ousted. Most notably, the elderly General Weygand, Petain’s pro-consul in North Africa, had bravely, but unwisely, made no attempt to hide his anti-German feelings from the very beginning and was finally placed under house arrest at the end of 1941, thus removing a key potential ally at a critical time (he was one of the few senior Vichy officials not to be tried for treason after the war). By April of the following year Vichy’s now intractable opposition to Britain was summed up by the re-appointment of Pierre Laval as effective head of government. Laval’s hatred of Britain was well known, as was his desire to bring France back into the war, this time on Germany’s side. All of this compounded the strategic complexities of the time. Though de Gaulle made considerable inroads into West Africa and the Resistance began to grow within metropolitan France it would be 1943, after the military-strategic balance had already shifted decisively, before a significant proportion of the French military outside of the occupied zone declared for the Free French. Until then, de Gaulle’s attempts to co-opt his countrymen often met with passive hostility or active resistance. 121

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Nowhere was this more painfully learned than in the ill-fated expedition to Senegal, Operation Menace, to take the defended port of Dakar. With hindsight, it is easy to view Menace as a disaster waiting to happen from day one. What makes it more embarrassing, and tragic, is that the Chiefs of Staff saw it this way at the time and did everything in their power to get it cancelled. Unfortunately, it was one of Churchill’s numerous pet projects where good intent got the better of good judgement. Alanbrooke often said of Churchill that his strategic brilliance made him an inspired war leader but his fascination with special operations and willingness to force them through could also make him capricious.58 His personal involvement in Gallipoli, Norway and Dieppe is testimony to this. Dakar was just such an expedition where Churchill’s desire to take the war to Germany as fast as possible ignored military and political realities.59 The aim was to mount an expedition to capture the strategically important French West African port of Dakar. As well as giving Britain enhanced access to the Atlantic it would deny Germany the potential future use of Senegal as a U-boat base and kick-start de Gaulle’s campaign to win over first the French colonies and then the loyalty of the French people. Despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary, Churchill and de Gaulle steadfastly held to the belief, initially espoused by the former British Consul General, that the French Senegalese authorities were simply awaiting the opportunity to come over to the Allies. A quickly mounted expedition with de Gaulle as its figurehead would be welcomed with open arms and Dakar would provide a timely boost at little or no cost. Despite the Chiefs of Staff pointing out that the Consul General’s opinion had been formed prior to the 3 July attacks on the French Navy and the Royal Navy’s deep apprehension about undertaking a potentially difficult amphibious assault against a heavily defended port at such short notice, Churchill forced the plan through, diverting precious naval and military resources in the process. By the middle of August the operation had grown from a matter of the transportation and protection of a small Free French force to a combined operation involving five battalions of Royal Marines (over 4000 men) as well as over 2000 Frenchmen. Neither Menace’s naval commander, Vice-Admiral J.H.D. Cunningham, nor its landing force commander, Major-General N.M.S. Irwin, had any faith in their ability to effect an opposed landing and so accepted that they were entirely reliant upon the accuracy of the assumption that they would be unopposed,60 an assumption that the Joint Planners had challenged from the start.61 Their fears were confirmed when the expedition was joined in transit by Dakar’s two former British liaison officers, Commander Rushbrooke (RN) and Captain Poulter (army), who both had more accurate and recent intelligence than the former Consul General. Neither believed Dakar likely to declare for de Gaulle, supporting the Royal Navy view pre-Oran that he was disliked intensely by the French colonial authorities. Both therefore concluded that any attempted landing would be met with force and, to make matters worse, affirmed that Dakar’s defences were considerably stronger than previously assumed. Their accurate assessment was that coastal artillery was twice as strong as thought and that military forces in 122

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the area, far from being outnumbered roughly four to one by the assault force, actually held an advantage of nearly 2000 men (8400).62 By this reasoning, the operation was effectively doomed and so it proved. When the flotilla finally arrived off Dakar early in the morning of 23 September the true situation rapidly became apparent. De Gaulle’s emissaries barely made it ashore before being fired upon and a consequent attempt to land Free French forces was beaten off with contemptuous ease. Naval gunfire support (NGS) from the two supporting battleships (HMS Barham and HMS Resolution) caused no significant damage to the shore batteries but the cruiser HMS Cumberland and two destroyers were hit by return fire. Despite increasing pessimism, Cunningham and Irwin tried twice more over the next two days but finally accepted inevitable defeat after Resolution was put out of action by a torpedo from the French submarine Beveziers on 25 September. ‘All that we had accomplished was to add fuel to the flames of antagonism in Vichy France – and especially in the French Navy – and to get several valuable warships damaged.’63 There were more casualties (39 Allied and 166 Vichy French killed), French reprisal bombings of Gibraltar were immediate and British failure at Dakar was a humiliating defeat that almost immediately damaged Britain’s improved standing in the eyes of its would-be ally, the United States.64 Marder called it ‘a copy-book model of how to court disaster in the circumstances of 1940 … an object lesson on how a combined operation should not be conducted.’65 Menace demonstrated how fast residual goodwill towards Britain from its former ally had faded in the aftermath of Mers-el-Kébir and presaged conflicts everywhere French colonies intersected with British strategic imperatives. Over the next two years, British and Free French forces would clash violently with Vichy forces in Gabon, Syria, Madagascar, Algeria and Morocco. The Syrian campaign in particular, Operation Exporter (June–July 1941), proved especially bloody with 4600 and 6500 Allied and French casualties respectively. Before any of these conflicts, however, Menace claimed one more victim: Admiral Sir Dudley North (FOCNA). In the context of 1940, Dakar was a disaster that needed a scapegoat and, unfortunately for North, he was the obvious choice once Churchill had established that de Gaulle was too important to his future plans to be reproached. The excuse was afforded by an incident that occurred two weeks prior to the Dakar debacle. On 9 September, North received intelligence that a French cruiser squadron out of Toulon may attempt to pass the Straits of Gibraltar within 72 hours. This was confirmed at 0008 on 11 September.66 The ships were sighted less than five hours later (0445) by the destroyers Hotspur, Griffin and Encounter (who immediately began shadowing). In the absence of orders to the contrary, and in accordance with revised Admiralty instructions regarding policy toward French warships issued on 12 July,67 North allowed the six French ships (three cruisers and their destroyer escort) to pass unmolested though he continued to monitor them via surface ships and reconnaissance aircraft. It was not until 1347 that the Admiralty signalled Somerville on Renown to put to sea with Force H to intercept the French squadron and ascertain 123

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its destination. If it was Casablanca it was to be let go but under no circumstances was it to be allowed to proceed to Dakar. Unfortunately, the signal came too late and the French squadron reached Dakar on 14 September. North heard nothing for over a month and then, on 22 October, received a hand-delivered letter relieving him of his command. He was stunned. A month earlier the Director of Operations Division (Foreign) had also been relieved, with more justification as it was his office that had failed to relay the intelligence ‘MOST IMMEDIATE’. It seemed that North’s reasoned explanation of his decision had been deemed acceptable but Churchill’s misdirected wrath had not been quelled nor was the First Sea Lord, Pound, inclined to defend North who had annoyed him too with his persistent criticisms of Admiralty policy.68 There was never an official inquiry, or a court martial, despite North’s willingness to brave the ordeal of either. Most authoritative sources acknowledge his innocence69 seeing his dismissal, in the words of Plimmer and Plimmer, as purely ‘a matter of expediency’.70 It remains another classic demonstration of the potential pitfalls of using definitive force in an ambiguous strategic context. The final act of Britain and France’s undeclared war was played out once again in North Africa with the Torch landings of November 1942. In the summer British pragmatism finally overcame Russian desperation and US over-optimism for the opening of a second front in Europe. Instead, the western Allies opted for northwest Africa and planning began in earnest on 25 July. They were speeded by pre-existing British plans (Gymnast) and the operation was set in motion within two months. This was a remarkable achievement given that, at the time, the Torch landings, with 200 warships, 1000 aircraft and 70,000 troops in 350 transports, were the largest combined operation ever undertaken. They consisted of three separate amphibious assaults on Casablanca, Oran and Algiers, conducted simultaneously overnight on 8 November. What was interesting, and relevant, here was that the state of Anglo-French relations at the time made it necessary for Torch’s Supreme Allied Commander, General Eisenhower, to be an American despite the majority of the troops being British. Bizarrely, Gibraltar flew a US flag while the Torch convoys staged through it and consideration was even given to placing the British assault forces in American uniforms.71 With the 120,000 French defenders outnumbering the assaulting forces President Roosevelt himself requested that Churchill keep British troops in the background as much as possible while US representatives negotiated with the French colonial authorities to avoid prolonged conflict: Gaullists were by-passed entirely.72 Sensitivity to Vichy sensibilities paid off as, in a remarkable twist of fate, Darlan (now Petain’s successor-designate) was in Algiers at the time. After two days of awkward negotiations (where Darlan refused to shake hands with the British representative)73 Darlan ordered a cessation of hostilities (which had been particularly fierce in Morocco) and French north-west Africa finally came over to the Allies. In response, Germany occupied the rest of mainland France and Tunisia and attempted to seize the rest of the French fleet at Toulon. The dramatic epilogue came on the night of 26–27 124

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November 1942. Upon hearing of the arrival of the 1st SS Armoured Corps inside his docks, the Commander of the French High Seas Fleet, Admiral de Laborde, ordered the destruction of his own ships. Ironically, his flagship, scuttled while he was still on board, was Strasbourg. This final link back to the events of Mers-el-Kébir serves a purpose. It is a reminder of the promise made by the French Navy before the armistice and consistently reiterated after it. In the event, it was able to keep its word and the French fleet never fell into German hands. But should this knowledge change our perception of the legitimacy of British actions on 3 July 1940? Morally, those actions were always hard to justify, not least to those who had to follow them. Pragmatically, however, the attacks on the French Navy were a sensible precaution. The British War Cabinet did not have the benefit of hindsight and simply could not afford to take the risk. Without doubt, the decision did remove an incipient danger that did have the potential to threaten the whole naval balance of power at a critical stage in the war. But it came at a heavy strategic price that emphasises the value of Cable’s work on gunboat diplomacy. Britain’s use of definitive force in Britain, Egypt and Algeria was successful militarily but the bloodshed at Mers-el-Kébir had profound consequences for its unfolding relationship with Vichy France. The enmity caused by the loss of so many French lives fuelled antipathy for the British and contributed to the bitterness of subsequent clashes in strategically vital French colonies from Senegal to Syria and even Madagascar. This has led many to argue that the long-term costs outweighed the short-term benefits. Even after the war, de Gaulle’s ascent to power failed to end the animosity, as he was well aware of how little faith Roosevelt had shown in him and how close Britain had come to jettisoning his cause as a result. If circumstances had been different after Torch and Giraud, one of the few French generals left untarnished by the increasing collaboration of the Vichy regime, had proved a more amenable and competent leader, de Gaulle would have been replaced.74 But de Gaulle himself had recognised the necessity of British actions in 1940 and this is an important fact to remember. Many in France disliked Britain for its actions but understood why they had been taken. Finally, placed in the context of the Second World War, the undeclared war with France was little more than a tragic sideshow. By contrast, for Britain not to take the decision to neutralise the French fleet it would have had to accept potential consequences that could fundamentally affect that wider conflict. As it was, Britain came desperately close to strangulation on several occasions during the war. Seen in this light, though the war with Vichy does highlight all the inherent dangers of using definitive force, it also makes its benefit very, very clear.

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Notes 1 The UK Public Records Office (henceforth PRO): Conclusions of the War Cabinet, 1939–45, Cabinet and Cabinet Committees Series (henceforth CAB) 65/13, 179(40) 3, Confidential Annex. 2 The third edition is used here. James Cable, Gunboat Diplomacy, 1919–1991: Political Applications of Limited Naval Force. 3rd Edition, London: Macmillan, 1994. 3 Naval Staff Directorate, BR 1806: British Maritime Doctrine. 2nd Edition, London: The Stationary Office, HMSO, 1999, p. 88. 4 Cable, Gunboat Diplomacy, pp. 15–64. 5 Cable, Gunboat Diplomacy, pp. 46–64. 6 Naval Staff Histories, The Royal Navy and the Mediterranean, Vol. I: Sept 1939–Oct 1940, London: Frank Cass 2002, p. 31. 7 Cable, Gunboat Diplomacy, p. 22. 8 Cable, Gunboat Diplomacy, p. 34. 9 Oliver Warner, Nelson’s Battles, Barnsley: Pen and Sword, 2003 re-print, p. 108. 10 Andrew Lambert, War at Sea in the Age of Sail, 1650–1850, London: Cassell: 2002, p. 169. 11 For an interesting, though heavily land-centric, study of the Napoleonic Wars see Gunther E. Rothenberg, The Napoleonic Wars, London: Cassell, 1999. 12 Richard Woodman, The Victory of Seapower: Winning the Napoleonic War 1806–1814, London: Chatham Publishing, 1998, p. 118. 13 PRO: CAB 65/13. 14 Winston Churchill, The Second World War (Vol II): Their Finest Hour, London: Cassell, 1949 p. 206. 15 For a more detailed examination of the relative naval balance in June 1940 see Arthur J Marder, From the Dardanelles to Oran: Studies of the Royal Navy in War and Peace, 1915–1940, London: Oxford University Press, 1974, pp. 180–2. 16 Basil Liddell Hart, History of the Second World War, London: Papermac 1997, p. 390. 17 Liddell Hart, p. 390. 18 PRO: Admiralty Series (henceforth ADM) 205/4, First Sea Lord’s Records, 1939–1945. 19 PRO: Chiefs of Staff Report to the War Cabinet (henceforth COS) (40) 444, ‘Plans to Meet a Certain Eventuality’, CAB 80/12, 11/06/1940. 20 Marder, From the Dardanelles to Oran, p. 190. 21 Stephen Roskill, The Navy at War, 1939–1945, Ware: Wordsworth Ltd, 1998, p. 81. 22 Warren Tute, The Reluctant Enemies: The story of the last war between Britain and France, 1940–1942, London: Collins, 1990, p. 64. 23 Churchill, Their Finest Hour, p. 125. 24 Marder, From the Dardanelles to Oran, pp. 204–8. 25 Correlli Barnett, Engage the Enemy More Closely, London: Penguin Classics, 2000, p. 174. 26 Michael Simpson (ed.), The Somerville Papers: Selections from the Private and Official Correspondence of Admiral of the Fleet Sir James Somerville, GCB, GBE, DSO, Aldershot: Scolar Press for the Navy Records Society, 1995, p.42; Marder, From the Dardanelles to Oran, pp. 240–1. 27 Admiral Sir Dudley North was Flag Officer Commanding North Atlantic Station (FOCNA), based at Gibraltar. 28 Marder, From the Dardanelles to Oran, p. 206. 29 Signal from BNLO (Sud) at Casablanca to Admiralty, C-in-C Med and FOCNA (1108/28/6/40). 30 PRO: War Cabinet Minutes, 27 June 1940 (WM 184 (40), CAB 65/13).

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31 PRO: COS (40) 505 (Joint Planners), `Implications of Action Contemplated in Respect of Certain French Ships’, CAB 80/14. 32 Simpson, The Somerville Papers, p. 40. 33 PRO: Admiralty Series 1/10321, 1 July 1940. 34 ADM 0103/2/7/40 (text in square parentheses is additional). 35 Naval Staff Histories, The Royal Navy and the Mediterranean: Sept 1939–Oct 1940 (vol. I), T.O.O. 1724/28/6/40 (henceforth all references bearing this abbreviation are taken from this source). 36 Papers of Admiral of the Fleet Sir James Somerville, ‘Report of the Proceedings of 28 June–4 July 1940’, para. 45, in Simpson (ed.), The Somerville Papers, p. 99. 37 PRO: Admiralty Signal 1613/3/7/40. 38 Marder, From the Dardanelles to Oran, p. 260. 39 Benoist-Méchin, Sixty Days that Shook the West: the Fall of France, 1940, London: Jonathan Cape 1963 p. 487. 40 Michael Simpson (ed.), The Cunningham Papers, vol. I (1939–1942), ‘Message from Adm Sir Andrew Cunningham, C-in-C, Med, to Admiralty (British Library Document – BLAM 52569, 27/6/40)’, Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing for Navy Records Society, 1999. Henceforth, all documents referenced as BLAM are taken from this collection of Admiral Cunningham’s papers. 41 Message from Admiralty to C-in-C, Med, (BLAM 52569, 27/6/40). 42 Message from C-in-C, Med, to Adm Sir Dudley Pound, First Sea Lord, (BLAM 52560, 27/6/40). 43 Ibid. 44 Ibid. 45 Message from Admiralty to C-in-C, Med, (BLAM 52566, 30/6/40). 46 Message from C-in-C, Med, to Admiralty (BLAM 52566, 30/6/40). 47 Message from Admiralty to C-in-C, Med, (BLAM 52566, 2/7/40). 48 Warren Tute, The Deadly Stroke, (Collins: London, 1973), p. 113. 49 Message from Admiralty to C-in-C, Med, (BLAM 52566, 2/7/40). 50 Message from Admiralty to C-in-C, Med, (BLAM 52567, 3/7/40). 51 Admiral of the Fleet Viscount Cunningham of Hyndhope, A Sailor’s Odyssey, London: Hutchinson, 1951, p. 250. 52 Message from Admiralty to C-in-C, Med, (BLAM 52566, 4/7/40). 53 Message C-in-C, Med, to Admiralty (BLAM 52567, 4/7/40). 54 Cunningham of Hyndhope, A Sailor’s Odyssey. 55 Message from C-in-C, Med, to Admiralty (BLAM 52567, 4/7/40). 56 Naval Staff History, The Royal Navy and the Mediterranean, Vol. I, p. 44. 57 Tute, The Reluctant Enemies, p. 17; Marder, From the Dardanelles to Oran, pp. 218–22. 58 Alex Danchev and Daniel Todman (eds), War Diaries, 1939–1945: Field Marshal Lord Alanbrooke, London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 2001. 59 Correlli Barnet, Engage the Enemy More Closely, p. 202. 60 Arthur J Marder, Operation Menace: The Dakar Expedition and the Dudley North Affair, London: OUP, 1976, p. 57. 61 John Williams, The Guns of Dakar, London: Heinemann, 1976, p. 17. 62 Tute, Reluctant Enemies, pp. 105–6. 63 Roskill, The Navy at War, p. 109. 64 Williams, The Guns of Dakar, p.150; Barnet, p. 205. 65 Marder, Operation Menace, p. 26. 66 T.O.O.1809/10, received at Admiralty 2350, 10/09/40 (repeated to North, 0008, 11/09/40).

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67 Message from Admiralty to Commanders-in-Chief and Flag Officers Commanding (Home and Abroad), T.O.O.0241/12/7/40. 68 Williams, The Guns of Dakar, p. 174. 69 Stephen W Roskill, The War at Sea: 1939–45, vol. I London: HMSO, 1954, p. 311; Charlotte and Denis Plimmer, A Matter of Expediency: The Jettison of Admiral Sir Dudley North, London, Quartet Books, 1978. 70 Plimmer and Plimmer, op. cit. 71 Tute, The Reluctant Enemies, p. 231. 72 Peter Calvocoressi, Guy Wint and John Pritchard, Total War: The Causes and Courses of the Second World War, vol.1: The Western Hemisphere London: Penguin, 1989, pp. 385–95. 73 Tute, The Reluctant Enemies, p. 267. 74 Calvocoressi, Total War, p. 389.

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7 QUARANTINE OPERATIONS The Royal Navy and the Palestine Patrol Geoffrey Till Now the Lord said to Abraham, ‘Go from your country ... to the land I will show you. And I will make you a great nation’. Genesis XII, v 1–3 I will take the children of Israel ... and will bring them into their own land ... and they shall dwell therein, even they and their children forever. Ezekiel XXXVII, v 21–25

Introduction1 As part of the British effort to control the influx of Jewish refugees into Palestine after the Second World War, the Royal Navy formally instituted the ‘Palestine Patrol’ in October 1945, although some refugee ships were intercepted before this date. The patrol lasted until the end of the British mandate over Palestine in June 1948. Figures vary greatly, but during the period of the patrol, some sixty ships carrying rather more than 50,000 refugees sought to break through the Navy’s quarantine in order to put illegal migrants ashore in Palestine covertly since this would allow them to evade the authorities and melt into the Jewish population of that troubled area. Just under 3,000 of them, in eight ships, got through.2 For the Royal Navy, recuperating after the simple brutalities of the Second World War, this was a difficult, complicated and generally distasteful operation. It was an important part of a policy towards, and a set of circumstances that surrounded, the ‘Jewish problem’ that had results that continue to divide the world, fifty years afterwards. The Royal Navy’s role in these events shows how it is possible to win battles but still lose the war. The Palestine Patrol needs to be considered at the three levels of war – strategic (its place in British policy) operational (seen as a Mediterranean campaign) and tactical (boarding and physical contacts).

Strategically hopeless … After the Second World War, the British government was confronted by a host of problems at the level of grand strategy which made the future of Palestine seem

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relatively unimportant. Domestically, Britain was, quite literally, bankrupt; despite this, and after a landslide election victory in 1945, its new Labour government was determined to transform the country this time into one fit for heroes to live in, by creating a welfare state. Internationally, Britain was faced a few hundred miles to the east by a Soviet Union that seemed ever more threatening. Britain presided over a global empire that was quite clearly failing, with independence in the Indian sub-continent seemingly imminent and South-East Asia in a state of dangerous turbulence. If anything, the internal and external affairs of the rest of Europe were in an even worse state, and the British assumed they had some residual responsibility there too. Britain’s capacity to weather these storms depended absolutely on the United States. It was important for the British to encourage the Americans to recognise their international obligations economically, politically and militarily and to avoid reverting to the isolationism of the 1920s and 1930s. Against all this, the future of Palestine could hardly be at the top in British strategic priorities. Nonetheless, the future of Palestine was important because of the bearing it had on the future of the whole Middle East area. This was ‘of vital consequence’ to Britain as a source of oil and for the geo-political significance of the Suez canal.3 The British knew most of the area would be independent sooner or later and were anxious to see regimes in place that would be sympathetic to Western rather than Soviet interests. Initially, there was a sense in some quarters that an independent Palestine with a strong Jewish element in it might well be just such a regime. The continuing ability to use Haifa as a military base had many attractions. But of course, all of this would depend on finding a solution to a Palestine problem that already seemed intractable. The British had got themselves into what turned out to be a veritable quagmire, largely in order to keep the French out of it. Under the terms of the infamous Sykes-Picot agreement of 1916, the British believed they had won the ‘right’ to administer the area until it was ready for the independence the Arab world had been promised. But inspired by a genuine feeling of gratitude for specifically Jewish support for the war effort (as exemplified by the Zion Mule Corps in the Gallipoli Campaign), anxious to keep on side a ‘powerful and cosmopolitan community which, not from New York alone, controls the loan markets of the world’4 and apprehensive about the growing anti-war feelings of the six million Jews in Russia, Germany, Austria, Poland and Ukraine, the British also promised land in Palestine to the Jews under the terms of the Balfour Declaration of 2 November 1917: His Majesty’s Government views with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish People and will use their best endeavours to facilitate the achievement of this object. The declaration was deliberately caveated. There was no indication here that Palestine would ever be a Jewish state. Instead in Churchill’s words on Mount 130

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Scopus, ‘[W]e assured the non-Jewish inhabitants that they should not suffer in consequence.’ 5 Because the interests of the local Arab population would be protected, there seemed no contradiction in Palestine’s being the twice-promised land. What looks in retrospect like a desperate and dishonourable attempt to square the circle, at the time did not seem so. This was because assumptions were made. The first derived from the fact that barely 10 per cent of the land of Palestine was cultivated. This being so, there seemed much sense in Ben Gurion’s 1918 references to ‘unbuilt-up stretches of land that require the productive force of a progressive, cultured people.’6 On the face of it, there seemed no reason to suppose that allowing Jews to develop areas that were currently barren would in any way prejudice the economic or social interests of the existing population of Palestine. Indeed, and in striking contrast to the widespread and often virulent anti-Semitism of Europe, the Arab world provided many examples of the two peoples living side-by-side in reasonable harmony. These optimistic assumptions underpinned the policy of the Balfour Declaration, were accepted by the powers at the Versailles Conference and became the objectives of the British League of Nations mandate over Palestine. Sadly, these assumptions proved totally wrong almost immediately. Firstly, the pressure of Jewish immigration proved much higher and much faster than anticipated, not least because of the appalling situation in much of Eastern Europe which, in the period immediately after the First World War, was plunged into chaos, revolution and hardship and in which local Jewish populations were often particularly victimised. According to some estimates, 100,000 Jews were murdered in the Ukraine in 1924 alone. This encouraged Jews to feel that they could rely on no-one but themselves and that they needed a secure area somewhere (and where better than in Palestine?) in which they could aspire to be masters of their own destiny. Nor did the widespread British assumption that quite a few Jews would eventually move on from Palestine to other areas ever really materialise. Secondly, the pattern and nature of their immigration, when allied with the numbers anxious to come, was increasingly to be seen as a social and political threat by the local Arab population. The new migrants were often better educated, more skilled, more determined to make good, and they tended to keep themselves apart, to be more collective in their approach. In effect, they did relatively better than either the British had expected or the Arabs were happy with. Taken together, these two factors spelled trouble. Even though the Jews were still only a small minority of the population (some 17 per cent by 1932) Arab dislike of their arrival steadily increased through the 1920s. By 1929 widespread rioting made the assumptions of the Churchill White Paper of 1922 that the Arabs would stand calmly by while immigration made them a minority in their own land seem utterly naïve. In 1936, by which time the Jews made up nearly one-third of the population, the Arabs finally revolted. This led to the Colonial Secretary Malcolm MacDonald’s so-called ‘Black Paper’ of 1939.7 The White Paper stopped immigration completely for six months, and limited it to 15,000 per year for the next five years (and the complete 131

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prohibition in most districts of land sales to Jews.) At the end of a ten-year period, legislative power would be handed over to the Arabs (who would still be in the clear majority) for a decision on the future rate of immigration they were prepared to tolerate. This was seen by the Jews, and indeed by the Permanent Mandates Commissioners themselves as reversing the admittedly somewhat ambiguous ‘preferential’ Articles 4 and 5 of the Mandate and could mean that the Jews might never get the level of sustainable autonomy and/or independence they sought. It plainly reversed the intentions of the Churchill White Paper of 1922 which contemplated facilitating Jewish immigration into Palestine to an extent that Jews would become the majority community there sooner or later. Their natural opposition to this major reversal of policy meant the Jews became Britain’s main adversaries in Palestine, once the Arab revolt had petered out in 1939. But whereas the Jews argued that 75,000 immigrants over the next five years was far too few, the Arabs thought it far too many. The exiled Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, for example, and nearly all other Arab interests refused to accept it and continued their resistance so far as they could. The Grand Mufti’s opposition in fact led him to seek accommodation with Nazi Germany. All this greatly exacerbated intra-communal strife, with the British at its centre, attacked by both sides. ‘What a country …’, observed one British resident, ‘… more hatred to the square mile than in any other country in the world!’8 Paradoxically, the extent to which the situation in Palestine had deteriorated by 1939 was obscured by the onset of the Second World War. Jewish opposition to British policy in Palestine was suspended while Britain was fighting Hitler; indeed some 30,000 Palestinian Jews volunteered for service with the British forces.9 Initially, the British took an unsustainably hard line on illegal immigrants ‘above the quota’, many of whom came over in the ‘first fleet’ sailings of 1939–42 when German policy was to expel Jews from the parts of Europe they controlled. During this period, the British planned to intern illegal immigrants until the war was over and then repatriate them. In the circumstances, this policy depended on some very optimistic assumptions about the future areas to which such unfortunates could eventually be repatriated. The first fleet of 1939–42 amounted to roughly fifty boatloads of refugees. These sailings were supported by a major industry in Eastern Europe which supplied, often at very high costs, dubious visas and landing permits to ‘tourists’ heading for obscure places in South America and a shadowy transportation system involving countless corrupt officials, smugglers and ship brokers which would take desperate refugees in sealed trains from places like Warsaw and Bucharest and cram them into unseaworthy vessels in run-down ports in the Black Sea and the Aegean.10 Inevitably tragedies ensued. One was the deliberate sabotage by Munia Mardor of the Haganah (the Jewish underground) of the liner Patria at Haifa in November 1940 which the British planned to use to deport illegal immigrants to Mauritius. The liner sank unexpectedly fast and 260 immigrants drowned when the ship capsized. The aftermath revealed the extent of Britain’s dilemma and its muddled 132

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policy. The High Commission in Palestine insisted that the deportation of many of the Patria’s survivors should continue. Zionist opinion was outraged by this inhumanity. The British Cabinet in London, meeting during one of the worst weeks of the Blitz, reversed the decision and directed that they be allowed to stay as a ‘special act of clemency’. In Palestine, the British authorities, well aware of what the Arab reaction to this would be, were furious at this countermanding of their policy, and did what they could to circumvent it. Another was the even more tragic story of the Panamanian registered steam yacht Struma which struggled to the Dardanelles where she was held for over two months (during which time the refugees were kept on board in appalling conditions) while the Jewish Agency, the Foreign Office, the Palestine High Commission, the Turkish authorities and the British Ambassador in Ankara argued over their fate. In the end the Turkish government lost patience, towed the Struma out of their territorial waters where she sank under mysterious circumstances in the Black Sea on 24 February 1942, killing all but one of the 769 Rumanian immigrants crammed on board. Recent research suggests that the Struma was probably sunk in error by a particularly cavalier Soviet submarine, SC-213.11 These tragic incidents (which did not of course involve the Royal Navy) eloquently demonstrated how desperate the situation had become. Because, as Secretary of State for the Colonies, Lord Moyne had supported the current limits on immigration of 1500 a month and so was considered indirectly responsible for the situation which had led to the sinking of the Struma, he was assassinated in Cairo by Stern Gang terrorists, in February 1944. But worse was to come. The infamous Wannsee Conference of 20 January 1942, where Germany switched from expulsion of Jews to a policy of brutal exploitation and extermination, in effect cut off the flow of illegal immigrants to Palestine for the worst of all possible reasons. These terrible experiences of course eventually reinforced the desire of the survivors to find a distant haven in which they could be safe from such bestialities. In response to all this, the immigration limits were gradually eased in the late Summer of 1943. Any Jew that reached Turkey, for example, would get a visa for eventual entry to Palestine. In January 1944, the Cabinet agreed that the partition of Palestine was probably inevitable, whether the Arabs liked it or not. In December 1945, the British allowed the 1500 a month quota to continue for the time being, even though this decision was in clear breach of the 1939 promise to the Arabs that they, in effect, would decide the rate of Jewish immigration five years on from that time. The end-of-war revelations of what had been going on in German concentration camps shocked and horrified world opinion and greatly increased Western sympathy for the Zionist cause.12 This made it even more difficult for the British, who were far from immune to such very human reactions, to resist the surge in immigration to Palestine that would inevitably follow the final defeat of Germany. All the same, from the end of hostilities in 1945, the British felt they had no choice but to maintain the broad outline of their Palestine strategy of controlling 133

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the flow of Jewish immigration to levels that the local Arab population might just, eventually, be persuaded to accept. The governments of Eastern Europe, of France and of Italy, largely free of such responsibilities, acknowledged the theoretical desirability of controlling the flow of refugees to Palestine but in practice were all too often far from energetic in stopping the fitting out, loading and sailing of vessels that were likely to head to Palestine with their desperate human cargoes. In France, for example, the local authorities of key ports such as Marseilles and Sète were instinctively unsympathetic to British attempts to limit the sailing of immigrant vessels and were certainly open to bribery. There is evidence moreover, that elements in French counter-intelligence helped Mossad in its efforts to outmanoeuvre British information-gathering activities. It was much the same story in Italy, another key area. In both countries, opinions about what had best be done were divided. Some were anxious not to offend Britain, and disliked the widespread lawlessness associated with the traffic in illegal immigrants. But in many cases this was outweighed by sympathy with its victims, and a sense of guilt that not enough had been done to help Jews in the recent past. Americans were the least cooperative. Almost half the immigrant ships that sought to challenge the blockade were purchased in the United States and manned by mainly Jewish-American volunteer sailors.13 No doubt influenced by the electoral importance of the Jewish vote in the United States, the Truman administration advocated a much higher rate of refugee access to Palestine than the British thought the situation could bear. Under American auspices, the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Authority (UNRRA) worked to encourage and facilitate Jewish immigration to Palestine, even going so far as to provide military training in some instances.14 The American media were particularly unsympathetic to Britain’s handling of the issue. Richard Crossman angrily commented: Why should these people from a safe position across the Atlantic lambast my country for its failure to go to war with the Arabs on behalf of the Jews? America was not prepared either to receive the Jews from Europe or to risk a single American soldier to protect them in Palestine.15 But neither was the British political system itself immune to the activities of those sympathetic to the Zionist cause. Britain had, for instance, a Jewish Maritime League that sought to find ships that could be used to transport immigrants to Palestine.16 Prominent figures like Professor Harold Laski, Chairman of the Labour Party Executive, made no secret of their lack of support for official British policy. Of course, Britain sought to counter all this, and had its successes such as: the Honduras government agreement to ships flying its flag being stopped by the Royal Navy if they were suspected of carrying illegal immigrants; the UN General Assembly calling on all states to support the UN’s aims over Palestine; 134

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the Italian government’s denunciation of UNRRA and the tightening up of its regulations. Even so, the ethnic balance in Palestine moved inexorably against the Arabs, and as it did so they grew steadily more hostile towards the prospect of further Jewish migration, legal or otherwise. British and indeed UN attempts to manage the problem by partitioning the disputed land between both communities were rejected by the activists of both. By the January of 1947, Azzam Pasha, the Secretary of the Arab League, finally resolved against any form of partition and insisted on no further Jewish immigration.17 At more or less the same time, the British were coming, somewhat belatedly, to the conclusion that they could not solve the problem, and that if the disputants could not be persuaded to come to some kind of last-minute agreement, they would simply abandon the Palestine Mandate.18 When a Special Committee of the UN recommended partition and the immediate admission of another 150,000 immigrants, and both communities made it clear that this compromise was not acceptable, the British said they were not prepared to try to impose this unwelcome compromise by force and intended to withdraw. This they did on 15 June 1948. Their fundamental problem was that Britain had got itself into a no-win situation in which it broadly sympathised with the main aims of both protagonists but could satisfy neither. The British dilemma was elegantly summarised by the findings of the 1937 Royal Commission into the causes of the Arab revolt: Under the stress of the [First] World War the British Government made promises to Arabs and Jews in order to obtain their support. On the strength of those promises both parties formed certain expectations... An irrepressible conflict has arisen between two national communities within the narrow bounds of one small country ... There is no common ground between them ... we cannot – in Palestine as it now is – both concede the Arab claim of self-government and secure the establishment of the Jewish national Home ... this conflict between the two obligations is the more unfortunate because each of them, taken separately, accords with British sentiment and interest ...19 In sum, the Royal Navy’s Palestine Patrol was a small but important part of a much broader policy that, certainly in retrospect, seems to have been doomed to fail. Perhaps the situation was simply impossible to resolve. Fifty years after the event, it remains hard to see what realistic alternatives were open to the British. Against this, however, the attempts that the British made to stem the flow of illegal immigrants to Palestine showed the Arabs that Britain really was trying an even-handed approach to the problem. The Navy at least believed that it had contributed to the maintenance of reasonable relations with the Arab world that had always been an object of British policy.20 Admiral Willis toured some Arab capitals in February and March 1948, and as the report on his visit concluded,

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Although the Commander-in-Chief’s visits to the Arab states were not intended to indicate any measure of support for the Arab cause in Palestine, their primary object was to exploit the high regard in which the British Navy is held by the Arab peoples, particularly for its part in preventing illegal Jewish immigration into Palestine.21 At the level of grand strategy, the Palestine Patrol had some influence in securing Britain a degree more influence in the Middle East than it might otherwise have had. But as a means of helping solve the problem, or even to make it solvable, the Palestine Patrol has to be regarded as a strategic failure.

Operationally efficient … The Royal Navy’s overall campaign of maritime interception was conducted with the barest minimum of resources. At home, the rate of its demobilisation from war-time levels in personnel and combat strength verged on the catastrophic, with nearly half a million men being released by the end of 1946.22 In the early days, the patrol was maintained with inadequate ships and maritime patrol aircraft, and with personnel who were often ‘Hostilities Only’ ratings, there on sufferance. The resources devoted to the task later increased. By early 1946, six of the Mediterranean fleet’s fourteen destroyers were allocated to the Palestine Patrol. The numbers increased later on and considerable forces were devoted to particular incidents. The two large ships, Pan Crescent and Pan York for example, were dealt with by the 6-inch gun cruiser HMS Mauritius, the smaller cruiser HMS Phoebe, the destroyers HMS Chequers, Chivalrous and Volage and the frigates HMS Cardigan Bay and Whitesand Bay. Because it was important to ensure that there was sufficient rotation of people and platforms to sustain a campaign of maritime interception that in the end lasted the better part of three years, the total number of Royal Navy ships engaged in this operation at one time or another comprised some ten cruisers, twenty destroyers, nine frigates and eleven minesweepers, plus nearly twenty in-shore launches run by and for the Port and Marine section of the Palestine Police. Transhipment of apprehended refugees to Cyprus also required the deployment of a large number of corvettes and converted cargo ships, which likewise required protection, civilian crews, fuel to be paid in scarce dollars, and, of course, naval escorts. Large as this commitment was, it barely sufficed to meet the need. This shortage of resources put a special premium on gathering and exploiting accurate intelligence on Mossad le Aliyah-Bet’s23 preparation of ships, the collection of passengers and their sailings from ports all around Europe. In the circumstances, this campaign could only be successful if it was intelligence-led. As such the Navy’s interception operations need to be seen as but one part of a much wider political campaign directed at circumventing the attempts of Mossad and the Jewish Agency to help, indeed encourage, illegal immigrants reach Palestine. 136

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While it is easy to point to instances where local governments in France and Italy were not particularly cooperative or perhaps competent, in, for example, preventing the departure of unseaworthy vessels with passengers who were likely to be illegal immigrants, it is nonetheless true that the British were generally well aware of every sailing before it reached the Mediterranean. Rarely were the organisers of such voyages able to spring a surprise. Indeed, according to a recent historian, Since the start of the Palestine patrol in November 1945 only one ship had reached Palestine without being identified beforehand as a suspect, and only one interception had not been assisted by Intelligence identification of the ship concerned.24 This priceless intelligence was the product of a very successful international information campaign fought by the British mainly, but not exclusively, in Europe and the United States. Those responsible for running the transport ships found themselves up against what they thought a relentless and sinister adversary relaying and harassing every detail of their passage from start to finish. As the SS Paducah secretly slipped from New York under cover of darkness in May 1947, its Captain was infuriated to find a launch alongside taking pictures: It was lucky the Paducah was unarmed, I thought, because I was mad enough to sink that long, sleek, black launch with its popping flashbulbs. It was very clear to me now: within a few days there would be in London a complete description of the SS Paducah, together with a fairly accurate estimate of her speed and a set of detailed photographs. Months before we got there, every British warship in the Mediterranean would have our picture. They would be waiting for us.25 In striking contrast to the situation ashore in Palestine,26 the British more than held their own in this shadowy information campaign against Mossad and the Jewish Agency, perhaps profiting from the fact that some of its operatives were known from the period when they had cooperated with one another in the war against Germany. Nonetheless, mistakes were made, sometimes serious ones. The particular difficulties of boarding the Guardian/Theodore Herzl in April 1947 (when between ten and twenty immigrants were shot, three fatally) was partly due to the shortness of warning. This meant there was little opportunity for that psychological ‘softening-up’ that often led to a certain resignation on the part of passengers and crew that they would not in fact make it, once the British turned up. Thus as the Paducah approached the Straits of Gibraltar, its crew spotted a ‘small, trim ship coming towards us ... a destroyer mean-looking in grey battle paint’. She was really a beautiful craft, every line of her combining grace and power perfectly proportioned, but to us she looked hard and malevolent. 137

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She bore down upon us and suddenly wheeled and slowed in a marvel of manoeuvrability, placing her directly abeam, paralleling our course and matching our speed, not more than thirty yards off.27 A sense of frustration borne of realism pervades the rest of the Paducah account but in the case of the Guardian/Theodore Herzl the particularly violent reaction of the crew and immigrants to their boarding by HMS St Bride’s Bay was partly attributable to their knowing they were only a few miles off Tel Aviv, almost in sight of their goal.28 Getting timely intelligence partly depended on securing the full cooperation of foreign governments. A mixture of past guilt, the freshly remembered horrors of the Holocaust, personal sympathy with its departing victims, and sometimes residual anti-Semitism increased the reluctance of many to stand in the way of the Jews’ return to Israel. In that part of the information campaign concerned with outputs rather than inputs, the British therefore had an uphill but nonetheless crucial media battle on their hands. The leaders of the illegal immigrants had every incentive to ‘play to the gallery’ by making it seem as though their people were uniformly half-starved and ragged (where often they were not) and badly treated by the British (the use of devices such as bandages stained with red ink was not unknown). Newspaper reporters and camera-men were often discovered concealed amongst the immigrants. At the very least boarded ships would often arrive carrying emotive banners and placards such as ‘Will the British Succeed where Hitler failed?’29 Overall, the British did not handle this ‘Movietone factor’ well. Newly opened MI5 and Foreign Office papers show that the British were anxious to make the most of their case. One productive line was to draw attention to the criminal irresponsibility of those who organised such dangerous sea voyages. Ships were often barely sea-worthy, were invariably grossly overloaded with very high passenger/ton ratios and were sometimes badly handled by their crews. The British also attacked the allegedly mercenary motives of those engaged in the shipping operations. Less effectively, the British sometimes sought to discredit the immigrants themselves. They were sometimes accused of providing involuntary cover for sinister forces – Nazi sympathisers in the 1939–42 period and later in 1946–7, pro-Soviet agents working against Western interest in the Middle East. Unsurprisingly, neither of these largely spurious accusations did much to undermine the Zionist case.30 Nowhere were the faults of this aspect of the British information campaign better demonstrated than in the difficult boarding operation of the very large President Warfield/Exodus 1947 where both sides took significant casualties and where many of its passengers were returned to displaced persons camps in Germany of all places. Even though this was meant only to be a temporary arrangement and the passengers could have disembarked in France if they had wished, this was particularly ill-advised, even if only for presentational purposes, and was a media battle the British definitely lost. As one American historian has observed, this affair caused, 138

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... Britain exquisite embarrassment as the world’s press converged on the spectacle, and Zionist publicists dilated with great success on the emotional theme of British inhumanity and callousness. The entire incident, painfully prolonged over nearly two months, was a public relations disaster of the first magnitude for the British authorities, and became the material for literary and cinematic exploitation that still resonates.31 All this had its effect on British personnel as well as international and particularly American public opinion towards which it was chiefly directed. The British did better in handling the extremely ambiguous legal aspects of the campaign. The situation within the three mile territorial sea limit was clear enough. A ship could be boarded if there was reason to suspect that Palestine’s municipal law was being broken. The problem here was that large ships such as destroyers operating within the territorial sea had worryingly little time or depth of water to undertake their boardings, especially if their masters were non-compliant and/or prepared to risk or desired to beach their ships on the beach anyway. For this reason, the Admiralty argued for an expansion of the motor launch fleet of the Maritime Police, although the use of small boats against larger non-compliant vessels was often impractical. But it was a different matter outside the territorial sea. Here the presumption was the other way about. The Navy had no rights to stop and search unless it felt it could show: ●

● ● ●

There was cause to suppose that international law was being broken. This could include doubts about the seaworthiness of the vessel. The ship flew the flag of a recently hostile state. The nationality of the ship was unidentifiable. The flag state had given permission.

There was enough ambiguity in these conditions for a case to be made in many instances, but legal counsels within the British government were much divided on the wisdom of trying the issues out. Correspondence between the Foreign Office, the Colonial Office, the Cabinet and the Admiralty became extremely convoluted.32 One of the reasons for this was the sure and certain knowledge that every stage of the interception, boarding and transhipment process would be subject to challenge in the municipal Palestinian, British and international courts. To the dismay of Admiral Willis, the Commander-in-Chief Mediterranean and his staff, the masters and crews of ships full of illegal immigrants were sometimes released without charge on the grounds that what they were doing was not necessarily illegal. The truth of the matter, though, was the Admiralty itself was disinclined to take action that might restrict the historic rights of free navigation, particularly at a time when it was vigorously defending this issue over the Corfu Channel incident.33 This did not, however, preclude attempts to ‘persuade’ the masters of such ships to change course, or to the Admiralty’s being willing to turn a Nelsonian 139

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‘blind eye’ to occasional boardings outside the three mile limit, in the hope that such masters would not know, or be able to prove, where they had been intercepted or boarded anyway. It was certainly understood that the Navy should seek to extend the range at which they could make interceptions. The coastal waters of Palestine were shallow, and criss-crossed with north–south east–west sea lines of communication thickly populated with small coast-hugging caiques. Mossad made the most of these difficulties by sneaking occasional ships into the north–south coastal stream where it was easy for them to hide; the bulk of the successful attempts at blockade running in 1945–8 were of this sort – small ships with relatively low passenger numbers. Occasionally, Mossad also sought to overwhelm the British patrol system with numbers, four or five challenges being made simultaneously.34 The British, under Admiral Willis, responded to this by instituting a carefully thought out patrol system. The sea area was divided into patrol zones determined by factors such as the speed of British destroyers and the likely destinations of the vessels they sought to intercept. Usually two destroyers were out on patrol at any one time, but with access to further reinforcement if required. The President Warfield/Exodus 1947 for example required one cruiser and five destroyers, several of which were damaged during boarding operations. Given the shortage in warships available in the operational theatre, the maritime patrol aircraft of the Royal Air Force had a vital role to play in ‘cueing’ the ships of the patrol onto the target vessels. This greatly reduced the incidence of aimless patrolling but mandated close and effective cooperation between the Navy and the RAF. Despite the pressures of post-war demobilisation, and the manpower requirements of having to defend installations ashore, the RAF managed to increase the range and the accuracy of their monitoring activity and, profiting from the tendency of Mossad operatives to talk too much, were able to use ship-to-shore radio chatter to home in on immigrant ships with reasonable accuracy up to nearly 200 miles from shore. It was important, too, to maintain the closest of links between the Navy and the forces ashore. The Army or the police needed to be able to take the immigrants into custody before they had a chance to melt away into the rest of the population. The Army’s problem was that, locked into a losing situation ashore and with inadequate resources, they were very hard-pressed to meet the commitment to mop up such leakages. They were aided in this, however, by the fact that the Jewish organisations ashore, who were prepared to receive illegal immigrants as they struggled ashore, were far from faultless. As the campaign wore on and more and more immigrants arrived, the problem arose of where and in what circumstances they should be kept. This was to have profound consequences for the campaign. Initially, the British decided that illegal immigrants would be taken into custody, with the expectation that sooner or later, they would indeed be released into the population outside the wire. This was extremely ill-advised since it provided incentives for immigrants to ‘jump the queue’, thereby displacing legal immigrants and discrediting the whole 140

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immigration process. Moreover, the temporary camps soon filled up, and guarding them against Jewish attack was a major drain on resources. In July 1946, the decision was taken to divert the immigrants to camps in Cyprus even if they had first been allowed ashore in Palestine. The belated decision in November 1946 to award only half the monthly quota of 1500 to Cyprus detainees exacerbated feelings. From August 1946, Mossad instructed its people to use force to resist boardings.35 All this increased the level of opposition to boarding operations and subsequent passenger transfer. The sad story of the President Warfield/Exodus 1947 demonstrated that opposition escalated still further when the idea arose of taking the immigrants back to where they had come from, under the policy of ‘refoulement.’ Not surprisingly, the British did not try this again. But overall, the British largely succeeded at the operational level in providing the conditions in which effective boardings could take place. In large measure this was due to the generally efficient integration of all the forces involved. This was in striking contrast to the Mandatory Authority’s performance ashore, where London and its local representatives were often at loggerheads over the direction of the campaign and where the Army was faced with an internal security situation inexorably slipping beyond its control.

And tactically successful … The final level at which this campaign needs to be assessed is the tactical one, of intercepting the illegal ships, boarding them with the minimum of casualties and taking the illegal immigrants into custody. Although naval ships have conducted boarding operations of non-compliant civilian ships since time immemorial, this was essentially a new problem for the Royal Navy of 1945. Conducting high intensity operations against enemy forces during the Second World War was one thing; boarding old leaking ships full of desperate men, women and children was quite another. In the early days of the campaign there was very little in the way of experience to draw on in order to provide specific guidance for ships’ commanders and boarding parties. They had no Rules of Engagement to refer to, apart from a generalised instruction to use the minimum of force while getting the job done. When the immigrants and their organisers were confident that they would be taken into Palestine and issued with places in the quota queue, boardings were not resisted. It was largely a matter of boarding parties arriving and exchanging cigarettes and cups of tea with the passengers. The more uncertain the immigrants became of their ultimate fate, the more the degree of resistance increased. For this reason there was a tendency for the unpleasantness to escalate gradually throughout the period of the patrol. The interception of the Ulua in February 1947 was not untypical: As the vessel entered territorial waters off Haifa, on the morning of the 28th [February 1947], H.M. Ships ‘Welfare’ and ‘Rowena’ [both 141

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minesweepers] boarded simultaneously, but the illegal [ship] took violent avoiding action and increased speed to over 13 knots so that only 13 of the boarding parties got on board. Some of these were soon over-powered and thrown overboard to be rescued by the destroyers. [HMS Chieftain and a police launch] HMS ‘Rowena’ succeeded in getting a further party onboard as the vessel grounded itself on Ras el Krum at Haifa. Some Jews swam ashore and were rounded up by the army. The boarding party soon gained control but not without casualties on both sides.36 Another waymarker in this trail of increasingly violent interceptions was the boarding of the 600-ton Fede II in September 1946, where six officers and seventy ratings were needed to subdue resistance among nearly 1000 passengers. In the end five ratings and twenty immigrants were badly knocked about. The degree of resistance probably reached its peak with the boarding of the President Warfield/Exodus 1947 in July 1947. This involved a two-hour battle between the ringleaders of the 4500 refugees and small parties of often isolated British sailors from five different warships. Three immigrants died of gunshot wounds and another ten were quite seriously hurt; there were three significant casualties among the boarding parties. It was, concluded Admiral Willis, ‘a nearrun thing.’ And it could have been far worse, for several of the destroyers and the President Warfield/Exodus 1947 were seriously damaged in the operation, with the latter raising some apprehension that the irresponsible conduct of its master might actually lead to the ship’s sinking.37 This episode shocked both sides and there was a noticeable de-escalation afterwards especially when it became more and more likely that Britain was likely to abandon the mandate anyway. Admiral Willis sent out instructions allowing commanding officers discretion not to try to board if they thought it too dangerous. This was particularly likely to be the case against the much larger Pan Crescent and Pan York which carried some 15,000 immigrants between them. But even though its policy of going for larger ships appeared to be paying dividends, its obvious dangers allowed wiser heads in Mossad to prevail and it withdrew its orders to use force to resist boardings. In the event, the Pans agreed to follow the warships to Cyprus, without significant incident. The tactical problems of intercepting, boarding and taking command of these ships were considerable, especially when their masters were uncooperative. In many cases the ships themselves were barely seaworthy, and risks could not be taken. Ships’ masters would make boarding operations as difficult as possible for the British warships by weaving about or by steering towards the Palestinian shore at full speed. These evasive manoeuvres were generally countered by commanding officers with ship-handling skills well honed in war. One effective but demanding technique was to block in illegal ships by the simultaneous manoeuvring of two ships on either side. Boardings would be resisted by the building of physical defences and also by the use of hot oil and steam hoses. Once aboard, small parties of naval personnel 142

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were often beset by screaming, shouting passengers, threatening them with an array of improvised weaponry ranging from iron bars to hat pins. Especially later on in the campaign, they could expect the bridges to be fortified, steerage systems sabotaged, the master and the crew nowhere to be found. More often than not they found conditions of dire distress on board, with cases of sickness, women giving birth, and grossly unsanitary conditions. Most upsetting, in some respects, was the savagery that sometimes broke out among the immigrants themselves, occasionally by men against women. Given the terrible experiences of many of these people it is perhaps hardly surprising that some of them were brutalised by it, and behaved accordingly. ‘He who lives with wolves, usually learns to howl’ was an old Rumanian saying that seemed to sum up the ‘wild kids’ on the Paducah quite well, or as another historian commented, Years of deprivation and degradation – then persecution – had driven many of the Jewish D[isplaced] P[ersons] into a mental make-up that was both menacing and demoralizing. Survival came to the clever, the wily, and the exploiters of human fallibility; the weak and righteous went to the gas chamber.38 In their reports, the boarders, however, often singled out the American volunteer crewmen as offering the most savage resistance, distancing them from the majority of passengers who tried to keep out of trouble. But above everything there was the knowledge that these people, some of them old enough to be the ratings’ grandparents, had suffered unimaginably in the recent past. It was all very difficult for young ratings and inexperienced junior officers to cope with. One senior officer put it like this: The Jews’ attitude to the British has a depressing effect on the sailors who have no wish to persecute them but are daily accused of doing so in the press. There is also a very genuine dislike of using force against the illegal immigrants especially as it entails fighting with women as well as with men.39 This required naval personnel really to believe that what they were having to do was right and justified – in the circumstances, this was no easy task. Patrol operations were essentially a dynamic process, a competition between the Royal Navy and the Haganah and other organisations responsible for sending the migrants to sea. Nor was the battle restricted to the sea. Haganah attacked shore stations supporting the patrol and sabotaged several minor war vessels and transports used to take immigrants to Cyprus. The constant threat of underwater terrorist attack on ships alongside in Haifa made life difficult. Propellers had to be turned regularly, counter-terrorist divers sent down to ensure that all was well, scare charges constantly dropped to deter attack. Such unceasing operations did not make for restful nights alongside. 143

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At sea, British tactics improved. Ships developed particular skills in coming alongside, rigged netting against missiles thrown from the immigrant ships and constructed wooden platforms and used grappling irons to make boardings easier. Specialist equipment was provided for the boarding parties, especially when it was realised that the unwieldy, obsolete 303 Lee Enfield rifles were unsuitable for close-quarter combat and that it was equally unwise to rely too much on the dated Lanchester sub-machine guns in support of boarding operations. Naval boarding parties were rigorously trained for such operations by a Royal Marines detachment at Ghajn Tuffieha, in Malta. As one officer recalled, Although some of us were armed, our main offensive weapon was a heavy cosh, an arm shield with steel rods for protection, a tin hat with a leather extension to avoid a rabbit punch and a cricketer’s box to prevent some sadistic female going for our privates with a large hat pin !40 It was increasingly realised that fast, thoroughly professional shock tactics would usually work, even against the least cooperative. In Malta, they were taught, To avoid timidity, to look self-confident and menacing, to develop a general appearance strong enough to crush the commitment and desperate resolve of the refugees and their Haganah guides.41 But as the degree of resistance and the size of ship and the numbers of immigrants embarked rose, so did the required size and professionalism of the boarding party. By the end more or less everyone on a boarding warship was involved in the operation. In a destroyer, the boarding party would typically comprise twenty-eight ratings; another sixty would act directly in their support. Of course, the other side in this melancholy campaign responded too, with ever increasingly sophisticated tactics and equipment. Mossad often crewed the ships and trained the immigrants in resistance tactics too. Interception and boardings became especially demanding and potentially hazardous when the Mossad’s ships became faster and larger and thus more difficult for the warships to handle and when their desperate immigrant passengers were faced with the prospect of not making Palestine at all, but of being turned back for Cyprus, or even worse, Europe. Among the passengers there was a small minority that was quite prepared to use excessive force in resisting boardings. One early lesson learned was the need to identify, isolate and deal with the ring-leaders fast and if necessary hard. Once that was done, resistance usually collapsed – as it did on the President Warfield/Exodus 1947. Even so, things did go wrong sometimes. One such incident was the arrest of the Guardian/Theodor Herzl by HMS St Bride’s Bay in April 1947. Ten of the twenty immigrant casualties were shot, three or four of whom died as a result of their wounds. But this level of fighting was generally very unusual and, given the 144

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circumstances, it is surprising that casualties on both sides were as low as they were. Two sailors and one officer were drowned in an accident with one of HMS St Brides’ Bay’s boats and another sailor shot himself by accident.42 Figures vary considerably but perhaps six or seven of the 21,000 immigrants on the ships that saw some fighting died of their injuries.43 This owed much to the skill and professionalism of the Royal Navy, not least in ship-handling and to the restraint of its boarding parties. ‘To the captains of the patrolling warships, it was always a matter of utmost importance that no lives should be lost.’44 The self-control of the boarding parties was usually remarkable, not merely in relation to the level of provocation often encountered aboard, but also to what was going on ashore in Palestine. The day the President Warfield/Exodus 1947 arrived in Marseilles also saw the hanging of three Irgun terrorists at Acre; in response Irgun hanged two captured British sergeants. The day after, British police went on the rampage in Tel Aviv, killing five Jews. In contrast to these events the conduct of the Palestine Patrol was very well handled at the tactical level. This also owes much to the fact that the great majority of the passengers on the immigrant ships were not looking for trouble but merely wanted, desperately, to get to Palestine as soon as possible. Tactically the Palestine Patrol was a clear success, especially when compared to the failings of British forces ashore. Despite everything there were no major breaches of Britain’s immigration policy from the sea, the great majority of illegal immigrants were intercepted and the human costs of the operation were kept surprisingly low.

CONCLUSIONS Two sets of conclusions seem to emerge fairly readily from this review. The first is to do with the immediate significance and consequence of the conduct of the Palestine Patrol. Operationally and tactically it was perhaps surprisingly successful from the Royal Navy’s point of view, as we have seen. On the broader, strategic level, however, it is hard to dispute that the Palestine Patrol was part of a policy that comprehensively failed. In this case, the Royal Navy could not be used to solve a political problem on its own, but nor was it expected to. But if the British lost this campaign, their opponents only ‘won’ at the continuing cost of war, strife and terrorism for the next fifty years. The events of 1945–48 have turned out to be far from an unalloyed victory, even for the Jews. It is also true that the British emerged from this imbroglio with their reputation in the Arab world largely intact; the decline in their influence since had more to do with the radicalisation of the Arab world and the effects of the Suez operation of 1956 than it did with their failure to sort out the Palestine imbroglio. Second, the experience of this kind of ‘maritime operation other than war’ has considerable salience in the twenty-first century world where illegal immigration by the sea often by desperate refugees from famine, war and chaos has become a major source of controversy and instability. What was then an exceptional task for 145

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conventional navies has since become all too commonplace. The accidental sinking by the Italian corvette Sibella of an Albanian refugee ship in March 1997, with the drowning of eighty-three people, reinforces everyone’s need to take the lessons of the Palestine Patrol to heart.45

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

24

I am much indebted to Mr Freddy Liebreich MA BSc [Econ] for his generous and authoritative help in the preparation of this article. The views expressed in it, however, are mine. They should also not be taken necessarily to reflect official opinion. These figures are from S.A. Cohen ‘Imperial Policing Against illegal Immigration: The Royal Navy and Palestine 1945–48’, The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, Vol. 22, No 2, May 1994. Ritchie Ovendale, ‘The Palestine Policy of the British Labour Government 1945–46’ International Affairs, Vol. 55, 1979, p. 401. H.A.L. Fisher, author of A History of Europe, London: Edward Arnold, 1936 when a member of the cabinet. Cited in Ninian Stewart, The Royal Navy and the Palestine Patrol, London: Frank Cass, 2002 p. 4. Quoted in Martin Gilbert, Israel: A History, London: Doubleday, 1988 p. 40. Cited in ibid, p. 4. The 1939 ‘White Paper’, Cmd. 6019, London 17 May 1939, Great Britain, Colonial Office, Palestine; Statement of Policy by His Majesty’s Government. G. Eastwood, diary entry of 17 June 1937 cited in A.J. Sherman, Mandate days: British Lives in Palestine 1918–1948, London: Thames and Hudson, 1997 p. 88. Gilbert, Israel, p. 199. Sherman, Mandate Days, pp. 129–30. See J. Rohwer, Allied Submarine Attacks of World War II, European Theatre of operations, London: Greenhill Books, 1997, p. 107. For an exploration of alternative theories see Douglas Frantz and Catherine Collins, Death on the Black Sea: The Untold Story of the Struma and World War II’s Holocaust at Sea, New York: Harper Collins, 2003. For a contemporary account of this sort, see Osmar White, Conquerors’ Road: An Eyewitness Report of Germany 1945, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Esp. pp. 79–93, 188–91. J.M. Hochstein and M.S. Greenfield, The Jews Secret Fleet, Jerusalem: Gefen Publishing, 1987, pp. xvii, 171. Stewart, Palestine Patrol, pp. 21–2. R.H.S. Crossman, Palestine Mission, New York, 1947. Stewart, Palestine Patrol, pp. 23–4. Gilbert, Israel, p. 141. Gilbert, Israel, p. 142. Cited in Sherman, Mandate Days, pp. 13–14. Cited in Gilbert, Israel, p. 141. Cited in Eric Grove, Vanguard to Trident, London: Bodley Head, 1987, p. 157. Ibid, pp. 1–38. Literally ‘B Immigration Bureau.’ This international organisation under Shaul Meirov was set up to facilitate illegal immigration to Palestine, in contra-distinction to organisations which helped legitimate ‘A’ stream immigrants. Mossad ran operations in thirteen countries. Stewart, Palestine Patrol, p. 139.

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25 Capt. Rudolph W. Patzert, Running The Palestine Blockade: the Last Voyage of the Paducah, Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1994, p. 13. 26 David A. Charters, ‘British Intelligence in the Palestine Campaign, 1945–47’, Intelligence and National Security, Vol. 6, No. 1, 1991. 27 Patzert, Running the Palestine Blockade, p. 87. 28 At any rate this was the view of Cdr J. Mowlam of HMS Haydon 16 April 1947, PRO: ADM 1/20643. Given this predictable response, it was perhaps unwise for the boarding party to have opened fire, under the orders of the commanding Palestine Police Officer, to cut the ship’s aerials and then to fire ‘over the heads’ of the protesting immigrants. This further inflamed the situation. Other factors which contributed to the unusual level of violence offered to the Guardian by HMS St Brides Bay included the crews’ remembered anger at the drowning of two ratings and one officer when the frigate’s whaler capsized a few weeks earlier in an attempt to assist the army in rounding up a number of immigrants who had managed to land from the Susanna near Nitzanim. Furthermore there was a near total breakdown of communications between the boarding ships and RN headquarters (Commodore DeSalis) at Stella Maris on the Carmel. 29 Wiesenthal Centre (http://motlc.Wiesenthal.com/albums/palbum/p01/a0067p3.html). 30 For a detailed review of this melancholy affair, see K. Morris, Propaganda and the End of British Rule in Palestine 1945–48, London: Taylor and Francis, forthcoming. 31 Sherman, Mandate Days, pp. 206–7. See, for example, the best-selling novel Exodus by Leon Uris published in 1959. The constant evocative naming and renaming of immigrant ships was partly inspired to confuse the British and partly for its propaganda effect. 32 PRO:ADM 116/5648, PRO:CO 733/395/5, and PRO:CAB 128/6 show ample evidence of this. 33 Stewart, Palestine Patrol, pp. 79, 90–2. 34 Cohen, ‘Imperial Policing’, pp. 281–2. 35 Cohen, ‘Imperial Policing’, p. 284. 36 Ibid., p. 284. 37 Stewart, Palestine Patrol, pp. 112–128. See also David C. Holly, Exodus 1947, Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1995. 38 Patzert, Running the Palestine Blockade, p. 122; Holly, Exodus, p. 77. 39 Cited Stewart, Palestine Patrol, p. 71. 40 Cited, P. Smith, ‘The Palestine patrols: part I’, The Army Quarterly, Jan 1992, pp. 31–36. There is in fact no documentary evidence of such an attack ever having taken place, common though the story is! 41 N. Bethell, The Palestine Triangle: The Struggle between the British, the Jews and the Arabs, 1935–48, London, Andre Deutch, 1979. 42 This was an unfortunate sailor who used a loaded pistol to hammer open a tin of fruit compotte, in a session of reciprocal hospitality with Jewish ship’s crew members! 43 Cohen, ‘Imperial Policing’, p. 290. However, according to some estimates at least, some 3000 would-be Jewish immigrants died in their attempt to reach Palestine. 44 C. Hampshire, The Royal Navy Since 1945, London: Routledge, 1990, p. 20. 45 Keesing’s Record of World Events – Digest for March 1997, p. 41558.

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8 MARITIME JURISDICTION AND THE LAW OF THE SEA Stuart Thomson

This chapter examines the constraints and obligations that customary law of the sea and conventions sponsored by the United Nations (UN) have placed on nations and their navies. It assesses the potential for such issues as national sovereignty, maritime boundaries and economic uses of the seas to cause disputes that may lead to armed conflict today, despite or because of UN conventions. Two case studies will be used to present the potential for conflict between a sovereign state’s demands for security and other sea users’ claims for freedom of navigation. The Corfu Channel Incident of 1946, between Albania and Britain, will be used to show how different interpretations of customary law can lead to armed conflict and loss of life.1 The prolonged dispute between Greece and Turkey over jurisdiction in the Aegean Sea will be used to demonstrate both the imprecision of modern international law and the continuing inability of the International Court of Justice (ICJ) to arbitrate or impose a settlement without both parties’ consent. The Royal Navy has had a long tradition of being interested in and shaping International Law, and the nature of this law as it develops will have a bearing on future Royal Navy operations. Inevitably, conflicts that arise over jurisdictional disputes still have the potential to draw in HM Ships. The gradual development of the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS) between 1958 and 1982 provided opportunities for states to claim jurisdiction over larger bodies of water and seabed, while restricting other sea users’ freedoms. The extension of territorial sea from three to twelve miles, the claims to a 200-mile exclusive economic zone (EEZ), the renewed value of islands and their waters, and the possibility of exploiting the wealth of these zones have all had an impact on those who use the sea, including navies. States that have claimed these extended zones have reaped substantial economic benefits and, in many cases, continue to do so. However, the claimant states also have a duty to protect the legitimate rights of other sea users. Any extension of jurisdiction imposes a requirement to police the zones, which usually has become the task of navies or other maritime forces. Hence, any disputes over the ownership of offshore waters and islands have had, and continue to have, the potential to escalate to armed conflict. It is thus inevitable that there will be constraints and obligations placed on navies, whether policing national offshore zones, or operating within

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waters and airspace claimed by other nations. While the Royal Navy plays its part in protecting and policing the waters around the United Kingdom (UK), it has also had to ensure that its legal rights of passage and exercise are not infringed in other states’ waters. The timing of the Corfu Channel dispute is of importance in two ways. First, it occurred during the confused aftermath of World War Two when Britain was attempting to re-establish its status as a major maritime power and undertake its duties in the Mediterranean, which included mine clearance on behalf of the Mediterranean Zone Mine Clearance (MedZon) Board. Those mines had to be cleared so that normal trade by all nations could continue without undue hindrance. Mediterranean Routeing Instructions (Medri notices) were published for all shipping to follow once routes were cleared. Royal Navy minesweepers had swept the Corfu Channel in 1944 and 1945, and declared it safe. It was also common practice for the navy to transit the Corfu Channel when sailing to and from its anchorages in Corfu Town, considering the channel to be an international strait connecting two areas of high seas. By so doing, the navy was reaffirming customary law. Second, the other party to the dispute, Albania, took a different view of the channel and considered, above all, the security of the country and defence of its recent hard won independence. Enver Hoxha, the country’s leader, was highly suspicious of his Greek neighbours who disputed the ownership of the southern sector of Albania. His country was at a high state of alert and coastal batteries overlooking the Corfu Channel were constantly manned because Greek ships, including warships, frequently approached close to the Albanian shore of the channel. Any ship transiting the Corfu Channel was compelled to sail close to the Albanian shore. At its narrowest the channel was barely three miles wide and therefore Albanian and Greek territorial waters extended to a median line one and a half miles offshore. Furthermore, the narrow swept channel in 1946 generally followed this median line but, because of the shallow, rocky and shelving nature of the seabed on the Corfiot side, ships using this route were forced to navigate within a mile of the Albanian coast as they negotiated the narrow swept channel off Saranda Bay. What was at stake, therefore, was the British assumption of a recognised right of passage through an international strait versus the Albanian demand that warships ask for clearance to pass through its territorial waters. The exact legal status of the waters in the Corfu Channel is important. If, as Britain claimed, the channel had been used traditionally by vessels of all nations as a means of transiting from one area of high sea to another then the waters had the status of an international strait. This enabled ships, including warships, to navigate through without hindrance or due notice and without having to receive permission. It also prevented the coastal state from impeding the right of navigation in any way, provided the navigation was continuous and non-threatening. Hence Britain was asserting customary practice and law. However, if the Corfu Channel did not have the status of an international strait, but was territorial waters alone, then Albania had the right to interrupt temporarily the innocent passage of shipping provided 149

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she gave due notice. As will become clear, the exact status of the waters formed a major part of the argument at the ICJ and subsequent judgment. On 15 May 1946 two Royal Navy cruisers, HMS Orion and HMS Superb, entered the northern end of the channel steaming south, the first British warships to use the swept corridor since the end of the Second World War. Ships transiting north–south appeared almost to be touching the mountainous coast before the sharp turn to starboard, following the swept channel that, at this point, was well inside Albanian territorial waters. As the ships’ companies were assembling at their respective stations for entering Corfu harbour they were astonished to hear and see the first of several shots fired from the Albanian shore towards the cruisers.2 All shots fell astern as the ships rapidly increased speed and shortly thereafter arrived in Corfu. An immediate signal was sent to the Admiralty, and the Labour government, which had been about to exchange ambassadors with Albania, delayed this while an exchange of diplomatic notes occurred. The British demanded an apology for the firing incident and punishment for the person responsible. Albania’s reply insisted that it was all a mistake caused because the ships had not answered signals from the battery and appeared to be heading right into the bay. The firing had ceased once the ensigns were flown.3 This account conflicted with standard Royal Navy practice of always flying a clearly visible white ensign. The Albanian note also called the presence of the warships an intrusion (author’s emphasis) into Albania’s territorial waters. Quite clearly there was a complete lack of agreement as to the exact status of the waters in the narrow channel. If they were part of an international strait then, provided the naval ships transited in a continuous and non-threatening manner, the passage would be legal and no permission required. Since all guns were unmanned and trained fore and aft, and the ships’ companies were not at action stations, there could be no intent to threaten; hence the passage must have been legal. If, as the Albanians later claimed at the ICJ, these were Albanian territorial waters and not an international strait, then she would be within her right to expect Britain to ask for diplomatic clearance. However, the shots fired at the passing British cruisers could not be considered as warning shots across the bows as they all fell astern and were high explosive. Despite an understandable degree of determination by a small nation that felt under threat from more powerful neighbours to defend itself, what was at stake was the balance between sovereign rights and the freedom of navigation through the waters in the Corfu Channel. Perhaps understandably, the Admiralty had taken umbrage at the Albanians’ use of the word ‘intrusion’ and despatched a signal to Royal Navy headquarters in Corfu. The establishment of diplomatic relations with Albania is again under consideration by H.M. Government who wish to know whether the Albanian Government have learned to behave themselves. Information is requested whether any ships under your command have passed through the North Corfu Strait since August and, if not, whether you intend them to do so shortly.4 150

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Admiral Willis, the local Commander-in Chief, had not been directly ordered to route Royal Navy ships through the channel, though the general intent of the Admiralty signal was clear enough. Though the Mediterranean fleet’s normal series of autumn cruises was already planned, it was but a small adjustment to reroute ships north through the strait to make a diplomatic and legal point about the status of the Corfu Channel. The C-in-C’s reply was succinct and to the point. ‘They have not done so yet. But my intention is that … HMS Mauritius, with HMS Leander and two destroyers in company, should do so when they depart from Corfu on 22nd October.’5 As had been the case on the southbound passage of Orion and Superb in May, the ships’ guns were trained fore-and-aft but, on this occasion, gun crews and ammunition were ready to hand. There was no hostile action from Albanian guns as the ships altered course to clear the awkward dogleg off Saranda Bay. The leading ships, Mauritius and Saumarez, were beginning to clear the narrows, following the route laid down in Medri notices through Albanian waters, when there was a loud explosion and gouts of oily smoke and flame billowed from Saumarez’s bow section. As the smoke gradually cleared it was obvious that she was seriously stricken, down by the head and in danger of drifting out of the previously swept channel and towards the Albanian shore. Oil spilling out of the ruptured fuel tanks caught fire and spread out around the ship’s bows, making any attempt to attach a line forward extremely hazardous. Although the cruiser Mauritius was nearest, she was too large to turn around in the narrow swept channel, which itself was now suspect, and so the destroyer HMS Volage was ordered to take Saumarez in tow. Leander was ordered to pass by and take the North Channel out of harm’s way.6 Volage manoeuvred close to the blazing destroyer and successfully passed tow wires from stern to stern and, taking the strain, began slowly to steam back towards Corfu Town. There was now an astonishingly unhelpful intervention from the Albanians as a motor fishing vessel arrived from Saranda and demanded to know, ‘what are you doing here?’7 There was no offer of help and no explanation of the presence of mines. Since there was no official response from the British ships, the Albanian craft returned to port; this bizarre episode was the sole communication from the Albanians throughout the ensuing drama. Not long after, Mauritius received a sickening signal from Volage that she too had ‘been mined forward.’8 Both destroyers were now drifting helplessly until Leander, which had made a high-speed three-hour dash north about the island, arrived from the direction of Corfu Town. Over the next several hours a sorry procession of damaged ships limped back to Corfu harbour, Leander towing the two stricken destroyers; Saumarez still in a sinking condition and burning fiercely and Volage minus a forty-foot section from bows to ‘A’ gun turret. During the next few days the ships were made safe and the wounded were cared for in Corfu’s hospitals, while forty of the destroyers’ officers and men were buried with full honours. Meanwhile, in London, Parliament was initially told that the ships had suffered mine damage and that ‘some casualties were sustained’. Two days later this was 151

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amended with the announcement of a board of inquiry and a further clarification that admitted the loss of life and that damage had occurred when ‘both ships were in the very centre of a swept channel … that had been open to merchant ships for nearly two years.’9 It was imperative that the channel was checked again. Within a week the MedZon Board declared Albanian waters unsafe and ‘dangerous to shipping,’ and asked the Central Mine Clearance Board to have the channel swept once more.10 Although the Soviet member of the Board objected that any sweep without the permission of Albania would be a further violation of her sovereignty, Britain went ahead with the planning of Operation Retail whose purpose was to recover mines that would help prove when they had been laid and perhaps by whom, as well as making the shipping channel safe once more. Albania had a very different agenda and President Hoxha complained to the UN about Britain’s unauthorised entry into Albania’s territorial waters in May and October 1946. The language used was instructive, mentioning ‘penetration’ and warships ‘violating sovereignty.’11 Such was the determination to find mines that Britain went ahead and ‘violated’ that sovereignty in mid-November. The minesweepers were protected by a large force of RN warships and covered by aircraft from the carrier HMS Ocean, while a neutral member of the MedZon Board observed proceedings as the channel was swept on 12 and 13 November.12 Despite this incursion, not a protest was made from the Albanian shore, nor was a shot fired, as a succession of mines popped up to the surface. One was taken in tow to shallow water on the Corfiot shore and successfully disarmed. Its fresh paint, clean grease, weed and barnacle free mooring cable and general new condition pointed to a conclusion that this had been laid recently.13 Other mines exploded while being swept or were sunk by small arms fire, some being found as close as 300 yards from the Albanian shoreline. On conclusion of operations, the commanding officer of the sweeping force, Commander Whitford, reported that ‘more mines undoubtedly remain in the Corfu Channel and it cannot be recommended that the Channel be reopened.’14 His plot of the positions of thirty mines in regular lines, when superimposed on the tracks of the British warships in October, suggested how close to disaster the cruiser Mauritius had been and that, indeed, Leander must have been.15 More importantly for the forthcoming case at the ICJ, the fresh condition, position and regular pattern of the laid mines all indicated that they were recently and deliberately laid in a shipping lane. Now the British had what appeared to be proof of Albanian disregard of her duties towards safety of life at sea, they demanded reparations and an apology. If there were no satisfaction, the matter that Britain considered to be ‘a serious threat to, and breach of, international peace and security [which showed] criminal disregard of the safety of innocent seamen on any nationality lawfully using an international highway’ would be raised at the UN Security Council.16 The wording of the diplomatic note was very carefully composed to stress the innocence of the passage and the callous threat to the lives of anyone going about their legal business in these restricted waters. Despite the first note being delivered in December 152

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it was mid-February 1947 before the issue was aired at the UN. After stalemate, the matter was referred to a neutral sub-committee of Australia, Columbia and Poland, which reported back four weeks later that they had been unable to reach agreement. By the end of March, the full Security Council again debated the matter and again ended in stalemate, since the five permanent members were not in agreement. Although the council had considered Britain’s case proven by seven votes to two and one abstention, the Soviet Union cast a veto.17 Nonetheless, Britain’s resolution which declared that ‘laying mines in peacetime without notification is an offence against humanity’ and that these mines ‘could not have been laid without the knowledge of Albania’ was some kind of moral victory.18 Eventually, on 9 April 1947, the Security Council accepted Britain’s suggestion that the matter be passed to the ICJ at The Hague.19 Although the representatives of Britain and Albania began their submissions to the panel of sixteen judges in February 1948, it was not until November that the latter’s interminable procedural delaying tactics had been finished and the full hearings started. Britain produced a former Yugoslav naval officer who gave strong circumstantial evidence of the mining of Albanian waters with modern German mines by Yugoslav minelayers. Despite brilliant cross-examination by the lawyer representing Albania, this evidence made a considerable impact.20 Following a visit by a committee of experts to Yugoslavia and Albania to check claims, the court announced its findings on 9 April 1949. By a clear majority of eleven to five the judges found that Albania ‘had failed in her duty to warn ships proceeding through the straits of the danger to which they were exposed’ and that this ‘omission involved her in international responsibility.’21 Crucially, the Court stated that, ‘the passage of the British warships was innocent both in principle and in its method of execution.’22 Further, the Court underlined this with a statement of general principle. It … is generally recognised and in accordance with international custom that States in time of peace have a right to send warships through straits used for international navigation between two parts of the high seas without previous authorisation of a coastal state, provided passage is innocent [and] there is no right for a coastal State to prohibit such a passage.23 Thus the Court had adjudicated on both ‘the abstract right of warships to transit international straits and the manner in which they are required to conduct themselves while doing so’, accepting the right to transit ‘while cleared for action.’24 Of equal importance was the decision, by fourteen votes to two, that Britain had not violated Albanian sovereignty while transiting the strait on 22 October 1946. These judgments were full justification of Britain’s claim that there was a right of unimpeded transit through the Corfu Channel and a rejection of Albania’s attempt to deny that passage. However, the Court did decide unanimously that Britain had violated international law, and Albania’s sovereignty, by sweeping 153

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mines in Albania’s territorial waters during Operation Retail.25 Despite the fact that Albania refused to pay the assessed damages of £843,947 and victims’ families received scant compensation for the loss of their kin, the undeniable point that the navy had established was the clear statement in international law that warships had the right of transit passage through international straits. So fundamental has this become that it is at the heart of published Royal Navy doctrine today. Under the heading of Freedom of Navigation Operations, current doctrine states that ‘If a state’s claim to territorial seas is not accepted or it attempts to restrict the use of the high seas or international straits, it may be necessary to use naval forces to demonstrate intent to use those waters.’ However, doctrine goes further and states that ‘Freedom of navigation operations are designed to persuade or dissuade a government and are therefore a form of naval diplomacy (that) may be symbolic or coercive.’26 Naval vessels are, by definition, floating representatives of the state and their actions are carefully choreographed to have maximum effect. US Mediterranean fleet challenges to Libya’s excessive claims to territorial waters in the Gulf of Sidra and similar transit passages by the Royal Australian Navy through Indonesian straits in the 1980s are further examples of protecting legal rights of passage. Not only does this action prevent a state creating customary law through lack of robust challenges but it also reinforces the freedoms upheld in the ICJ judgments of 1949. This was later underlined by the inclusion of this right in UNCLOS3 and its extension to include similar rights to warplanes and submarines that made continuous and non-threatening passage in their normal mode of navigation. This is the legal basis of freedom of navigation through over 100 international straits worldwide today and is one of the reasons why ‘blue water’ navies are so valuable as an instrument of policy when a nation’s interests overseas are threatened. The importance of this will now be discussed with reference to the prolonged dispute between Greece and Turkey over the exact nature of the Aegean Sea, the various zones of jurisdiction, and the potential impact on other nations using the sea and air space. Many of the points of customary law and practice involved in the above case were subsequently codified in UNCLOS1 (1958) and UNCLOS3 (1982), the latter becoming International Law when receiving its sixtieth ratification in 1994. Thus the disputes over the Aegean have been played out in the light of these conventions, although much customary law informed the wording of UNCLOS3. As a result, although Turkey has maintained a 6 miles territorial sea in the Aegean, it extended its territorial seas in the Black Sea and the Mediterranean to 12 miles in 1982. It did so because this was becoming recognised state practice in customary law, not as part of any Turkish recognition of the 1982 convention per se. Although Greece ratified the Law of the Sea convention on 29 May 1995, it did not extend its territorial sea limits to the full extent allowed, remaining at the currently claimed 6 miles, though it reserved the right to extend to 12 miles at an appropriate time.27 A complication arose from the fact that when Greece set its current 6 miles limit in 1936, it left the limit of its airspace at the original 1931 claim of 10 miles sea and

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air space, which is incompatible with the 1982 convention. This will be discussed later when analysing the current disputes concerning air traffic control and security issues over the Aegean. Since Turkey has not signed, ratified nor acceded to UNCLOS3, the ICJ has decided that it cannot adjudicate in any disputes arising from different perspectives in the matter.28 Under the terms of UNCLOS3 both countries have the right to a 12 miles Territorial Sea and an additional Contiguous Zone, a 200 miles EEZ, as well as a Continental Shelf. Had the Aegean been totally without islands, the delineation of these zones would have been a simple matter of drawing boundaries from adjacent or opposite mainland coasts. However, the reality of over 2,500 Aegean islands and their changes of ownership throughout the last 100 years, as a result of the treaties of Lausanne (1923) and Paris (1947), have had a dramatic impact on attempts to find an equitable solution satisfactory to both parties. The related case of Cyprus will be examined separately at the end of the chapter. At Lausanne, Turkey surrendered all claims to territories of the former Ottoman Empire occupied by non-Turks. As a result, Greek ownership of all Aegean islands was confirmed, other than Imbros and Tenedos, which were returned to Turkey. Greek occupation of Smyrna on the Turkish mainland ended, but Italian annexation of the Dodecanese and British annexation of Cyprus were confirmed. All this necessitated an agreed removal of approximately one million Greek Orthodox population from Asia Minor to Greece and a similar move of 350,000 Muslims to Turkey from Greek territory and a shifting of the border between them, guaranteed by international supervision and compensation. The Treaty of Paris, which formally ended hostilities between Italy and the Allies, ceded the Dodecanese islands to Greece with the proviso that the islands, which had been Turkish for most of the previous three centuries, be demilitarised. As a neutral in World War Two, Turkey was poorly placed to contest the transfer. Thus, a long and sometimes bitter history infuses the current disputes in the Aegean, which are: freedom of navigation and the width of the territorial sea, the associated width of the airspace and, finally, sovereign rights in the 200 miles EEZ and on the Continental Shelf. Relevant definitions that were agreed in UNCLOS3 are briefly discussed below. The sovereignty of a coastal state extends, beyond its land territory, ‘to an adjacent belt of sea, described as the territorial sea’ and that this sovereignty ‘extends to the air space over the territorial sea.’ Equally, ‘every State has the right to establish the breadth of its territorial sea up to a limit not exceeding 12 nautical miles.’29 With regard to innocent passage in territorial seas, which applies to all ships, including warships, Article 17 states ‘ships of all nations, whether coastal or land-locked, enjoy the right of innocent passage through the territorial sea.’ However, submarines ‘are required to navigate on the surface and show their flag.’30 Thus, one nation’s warships may navigate through another’s territorial sea, but ‘innocence’ precludes any threat of force, exercising of weapons, information gathering, and the launching or landing of aircraft.31 The coastal state may ‘suspend temporarily … innocent passage of foreign ships if such suspension is 155

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essential for the protection of its security’ provided due notice is given.32 Manifestly, this series of restrictions on operations would not be entirely welcome to a neighbouring state during periods of tension, such as have regularly occurred in the Aegean. In the case of straits used for international passage, ‘all ships and aircraft enjoy the right of transit passage, which shall not be impeded.’33 Further, transit should be in ‘normal modes of continuous and expeditious passage,’34 meaning that submarines would be submerged and aircraft would be airborne while in transit through the strait. This contrasts with the regime for aircraft in another nation’s territorial waters, where aircraft and helicopters must be in hangars and have no right of flight. The regime of islands is covered in the three short sentences of Article 121, which have considerable importance in regard to the Aegean. The definition of an island is ‘a naturally formed area of land, surrounded by water, which is above water at high tide.’ Islands have rights to a territorial sea and its contiguous zone, an EEZ and a Continental Shelf ‘applicable to other land territory.’ However, rocks that are not capable of sustaining human habitation, or economic life of their own, are denied the right of an EEZ and Continental Shelf.35 Thus, for example, when Britain acceded to UNCLOS3 in 1997, any claim to a 200 mile Exclusive Economic Zone, or a Continental Shelf based on ownership of Rockall became unsustainable. But rocks dry above high tide do still have territorial rights, and this is important in the Aegean. Manifestly, whichever nation is able to claim ownership of the many islands in the Aegean has possession of, and responsibility for, a very large body of water. From the same base-line as territorial waters are measured, an EEZ gives the state ‘sovereign rights for the purpose of exploring and exploiting, conserving and managing the natural resources, whether living or non-living’ of the waters, the sea-bed and its subsoil, in a zone not extending beyond 200 nautical miles.36 However, normal rights of sea users in the 188 miles of the EEZ beyond the territorial sea are protected, including navigation, over-flight, the laying of submarine cables and pipelines, and ‘other internationally lawful uses of the sea related to those freedoms, such as those associated with the operation of ships (and) aircraft.’37 Thus Britain regularly sends ships to join the NATO exercises in the international waters of the Aegean, which often entails transit through Greek territorial waters. Finally, because of Turkish views on the issue, it is worth mentioning the Continental Shelf. A state has a right to a shelf that is ‘the natural prolongation of its land territory’ to the continental margin or to a median line with a neighbouring state, over which it has ‘sovereign rights for the purpose of exploring (and) exploiting its natural resources’ on the sea bed and in the subsoil.38 Such is the unusual nature of the Aegean and Greek ownership of many islands close to the Turkish coast that there is bound to be inequity in the allocation of sovereign rights in the area, despite the statement that where ‘a conflict arises between the interests of a coastal State and any other State or States, the conflict should be

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resolved on the basis of equity.’39 Given these brief definitions, it is now possible to assess the reasons for Greek and Turkish actions and the potential for dispute. While the two countries retain their current 6 miles territorial sea limit, some 35 per cent of the Aegean is designated Greek territorial waters, while only 8.8 per cent is awarded to Turkey.40 Although the remaining 56.2 per cent comprises the high seas, many of the islands’ 6 mile limits overlap or link up, which leave relatively narrow and sinuous corridors of high seas between the Greek owned Cyclades and Dodecanese islands for international shipping to and from the Dardanelles and the Mediterranean. Of course, shipping can use any part of the seas while on purely innocent passage. Nonetheless, by using existing high seas corridors, Turkey has two routes of direct access to the rest of the Mediterranean from its Aegean coast. Thus its shipping and aircraft, including military ones, have no requirement to seek Greek permission and submarines may remain submerged. However, ownership of islands and their associated territorial rights is still important. An incident in January 1996 indicated the intensity with which both countries regard ownership of even uninhabited islets. After the accidental and temporary grounding of a Turkish freighter on the precipitous and barren islet of Imia, or Kardak on Turkish charts, there followed a succession of planting and uprooting of national flags, challenges by patrol craft, intensified vitriol in national press and television and heightened military tension.41 The slightest misjudgement may have led to an outbreak of hostilities between NATO allies. It took considerable pressure from the Americans before both nations backed off and withdrew forces. Should Greece ever extend its territorial limits to the 12 miles allowed by the 1982 convention then, effectively, existing high seas routes would be closed and the Aegean would become a Greek lake. Greek territorial waters would comprise 63.9 per cent of the Aegean, while Turkey’s share would only increase to 10 per cent. The high seas portion would be reduced to a mere 26.1 per cent.42 However, another source calculates that Greece would have 72 per cent to Turkey’s 9 per cent, leaving just 19 per cent of the Aegean as international waters.43 Crucially, whatever the exact percentages, a wide belt of Greek territorial waters and airspace would extend unbroken across the central Aegean, on an axis from Athens to Bodrum, from Greece to the Turkish coast. Turkish military vessels sailing to and from the Black Sea, Istanbul and Aegean coast ports into the Mediterranean and back would have to use Greek territorial waters under restricting innocent passage rules, or follow the tortuous path along the Turkish coast, unless and until Greece nominates which sea passages through her islands should be designated as international straits.44 While this would have little or no effect on merchant shipping, the implications for the armed forces would be considerable. The restrictions on passage would be such that, following Greek ratification of UNCLOS3, the Turkish parliament passed a resolution in June 1995 ‘authorising the Turkish government to use military force’ should Greece exercise its legitimate rights concerning the extension of territorial waters from 6 to 12 miles.45

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While Greek territorial water claims remain at 6 miles, there are corridors out into the Aegean high seas where Turkey can legitimately fly, protect its sovereignty and conduct realistic military exercises, as can other nations such as the Americans or NATO forces on exercise. However, the continuance of the Greek 10-mile airspace does not fit with customary law, nor with provision in UNCLOS, both of which assume that the boundaries should be the same width. The 1958 Convention on the Territorial Sea and Contiguous Zone makes it clear that ‘sovereignty was … to extend to the airspace above the territorial sea.’ The earlier Chicago Convention of 1944, which deals with civil aviation law, quite clearly states that ‘every state has complete and exclusive sovereignty over the airspace above its territory’, which is further defined as ‘the land areas and territorial waters adjacent thereto.’46 Over many years Turkey has routinely penetrated claimed Greek airspace between 6 and 10 miles to make this point.47 More recently, Greece claimed that there were over 700 Turkish infringements of her airspace during the months of the Imia-Kardak crisis of 1996. Paradoxically, if Turkey pushes too hard for a proper alignment of the zones, the Greeks could move to 10 or even 12 miles for both, as is allowed in UNCLOS3. Thus, this potentially destabilising assertion of Turkish freedom of navigation rights in the Aegean airspace means that there would be virtually no Aegean airspace for Turkish exercises or realistic warning time of potential attack from the west. An associated area of dispute concerns the Flight Information Regions in the Aegean. Between 1952 and 1974 the boundaries set by the International Civil Aviation Organisation (ICAO), which coincided with the 6 miles territorial sea limits, worked well for both littoral nations and international aviation, including NATO and US warplanes on exercise in international airspace. The Turkish invasion of northern Cyprus in 1974 immediately altered this as both protagonists issued urgent Notices to Airmen (NOTAM).48 Turkey’s NOTAM 714 required all aircraft to report their position when reaching the median line between Greek and Turkish mainland coasts, so that air traffic controllers could distinguish civil from military aircraft and respond accordingly to suspect radar tracks. Greek NOTAM 1018 followed which stated that the Turkish notice was contrary to ICAO regulations. Once the Turks implied that it would not take responsibility for those aircraft that ignored its notice, Greece issued NOTAM 1157 declaring the Aegean to be a ‘danger zone,’ which resulted in international airlines avoiding the area.49 This situation remained until events in 1980, when both sides withdrew their notices under pressure from NATO, which was negotiating the re-entry of Greece to the military structure of the alliance.50 However, some elements of airspace management in the Aegean have yet to be solved satisfactorily. Greek insistence that military aircraft report their presence within the Athens Flight Information Region (FIR) is ignored by Turkey, who point out that the Chicago Convention and ICAO are ‘applicable solely to civil aircraft.’51 While US military aircraft tend to follow ICAO rules while simply navigating through the area, they ‘do not strictly comply with ICAO requirements in military contingency operations, classified or politically sensitive missions, or 158

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during carrier operations, but instead operate with “due regard” to the safety of civil aviation.’52 An example might be the transit of US aircraft based elsewhere in Europe, through Greek airspace to the Turkish base at Incirlik, as part of the northern watch on Iraq and ‘Operation Provide Comfort’ in recent years. As in so many of the disputes outlined above, there is a conflict between rights and duties of a sovereign state in the protection of its own territory, and the freedom of navigation of other states. It is fair to say that important American and European interests are at stake in the region. These include the expansion of the EU, the unity and coherence of NATO, the security and expansion of international trade, recovery of air travel from the shocks of 11 September 2001, and the requirement for base support for the sort of out of area military operations mentioned above. While many issues have bedevilled bilateral relations in the region, a potential solution to one issue is often complicated by other unresolved matters between the governments, as well as the difficult history of the last hundred or more years. Concessions can be seen as weakness. One such issue is the remilitarisation of the Dodecanese islands in the wake of the invasion of Cyprus. Although the Treaties of Lausanne and Paris forbad military fortification of many of the Aegean islands that changed ownership, the Greeks began improving their defence after Turkish occupation of northern Cyprus in 1974, including troop deployments, armoured vehicles, and the construction of an airbase on Lesbos. In 1975 the gendarmerie in the Dodecanese began receiving training and equipment to make it ‘barely distinguishable from a regular army force,’ the rationale being that demilitarisation of the islands could not deprive Greece of the ‘natural right to defend the islands if their security is threatened.’53 Given the stationing on the Aegean coast opposite of the newly configured Turkish Fourth Army of approximately 123,000 troops that included some amphibious capability and was not assigned to NATO, there could be some sympathy with this position. Having outlined some of the many complex issues that divide the two nations in the Aegean it is now possible to see whether the impending accession of Cyprus to the European Union and Turkish wishes to be accorded the same privilege will help or hinder Greek–Turkish relations. If the strategic goal of Turkish inclusion in the EU is sufficiently important then Aegean disputes, however long running and complex, should become more manageable. Ever since Turkey indicated a desire to become a member of the EU in 1987 Greece has consistently pursued a policy that ‘sought to link the feasibility of Turkish membership with the settlement of the Cyprus (and) Aegean Sea issues.’54 The complexity of these issues was compounded by the Cypriot application in 1990 to join the EU and the latter’s positive response. Given that the EU is considering the application for the whole island, a time will come that either Turkey will have to make concessions or European forces may face Turkish troops on a divided island that is part of the EU. This is a prospect that has serious implications for NATO as well as regional security. The issues then revolve around a mechanism whereby both Greece and Turkey have something to gain and not too much to lose. Full Turkish membership of the EU would attract regional and 159

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structural funds, job opportunities and easier access a market of over 400 million consumers, beyond that guaranteed by the present ‘half-way house’ of the Association Agreement. A settlement in the Aegean may attract funds from multinationals eager to exploit potential energy and mineral deposits that would benefit both countries in terms of jobs and royalties. A reduction in tension would almost certainly reduce the high percentage of national wealth and manpower currently required for national security. These opportunities are less likely while tension remains high and boundaries are still disputed.55 What has made a resolution to all the issues surrounding the Aegean disputes so complex is the high profile that they have in domestic politics. Powerful rhetoric in parliament and inflammatory reporting of periodic clashes from the 1970s onwards has made it exceptionally difficult for leaders to compromise on issues of sovereignty. Equally, it is difficult for any third party, whether NATO, EU, America or the ICJ, to put sufficient pressure on the parties while appearing even handed. It may be that the positions are so entrenched that it is difficult for the parties to weigh their different approaches to the law against what is politically practical. The one positive angle is that whenever flash points have reached danger level both sides have been persuaded to back down without military clashes, as if both are aware that there is too much to lose if hostilities do break out. Consideration of these two case studies in the central Mediterranean during the last fifty years has been based on attempts to establish workable law. In the case of the Corfu Channel dispute the Royal Navy’s actions and Albanian responses resulted in a clear and unambiguous statement of the legal position from the ICJ, that has relevance today and universal applicability. Provided there is evidence that a strait has customarily been used for international navigation, and that custom is regularly followed, then navies have the right of transit passage, including over-flight and submerged passage where applicable, that cannot be suspended by the coastal states whose territorial waters are being transited. This is central to the ‘freedom of navigation’ passages of RN ships and aircraft wherever they may be, and is a standard operating procedure of many other navies. The Soviet, and now Russian, navies were and are equally determined that passage should not be restricted. This applies as much in the in the Aegean as it does in other geographical choke points like Gibraltar, the Straits of Hormuz, Tsushima, Bab-el-Mandeb or the Baltic exits. Whilst all navies are aware of and willing to follow the limitations of innocent passage in territorial waters, they are keen to maintain their unique ability to transit to trouble spots and poise in international waters outside the 12 mile limit. They are particularly keen that there is no degradation of high seas rights, such as over-flight and exercising naval manoeuvres, in the remaining 188 miles of the EEZ. It is, and has been for decades, the standard operating procedure of the Royal Navy to emphasise as regularly as possible the right of warships to transit through other nations’ waters and, where applicable, exercise the ship’s company’s war fighting skills and seamanship drills. For that reason, as well as enhancing NATO navies’ abilities, the Royal Navy regularly contributes ships to exercises in the international waters and 160

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airspace of the Aegean and elsewhere in the Mediterranean. The use of the commando carrier HMS Hermes to remove thousands of holidaymakers from the shores of Cyprus in 1974 reinforced both the notion of freedom of navigation and good governance at sea. It also demonstrated the way in which disputes between Greece and Turkey could draw in British warships. The many unresolved issues in the Aegean have serious implications for the two countries in dispute and for other sea users. While no agreed solution appears, everything is likely to cause angst, whether disputes over fishing limits, the right to make exploratory bore-holes for oil and gas, or the right to exercise national or NATO forces in the area. The simmering tension adds a particular constraint on the military forces of both countries and, potentially, those of other regional states, as well as an unnecessary burden on Greek and Turkish taxpayers.56 Little international investment is likely while such boundary disputes remain unresolved, and there is the possibility of intended, or unintentional, armed conflict. In other examples of semi-enclosed seas, such as the North Sea or the Baltic, there have been workable solutions to similarly complex boundary disputes that produced an atmosphere that encouraged international investment and removed many areas of potential conflict that could have involved naval forces. Instead, maritime forces are used for lower level patrolling on tasks like traffic separation and fishery protection, and anti-pollution, drugs, and illegal immigration tasks in concert with other government agencies. One of the most intriguing aspects of the prolonged and often bitter disputes in the Aegean is the relative restraint that both protagonists have displayed in the use of maritime force. Although both nations have navies that range in capability from patrol craft to frigates, and air forces that can cover the whole Aegean, open hostilities have been avoided, even during the Turkish occupation of northern Cyprus or the provocation of the Imia-Kardak clash. A combination of the realisation of the awful consequences of the use of military power and the swift pressure from the US and fellow NATO nations seems to have set limitations on the use of maritime forces as instruments of national power in the Aegean.

Notes 1 The term conflict is used because lives were lost to mines sown in an international strait within Albanian waters though there was no direct fighting or gunfire damage to, and no return fire from, British ships. 2 For a full account see E. Leggett, The Corfu Incident, London: Seeley Service & Co. Ltd, 1974, p. 4. 3 Ibid. p. 5. 4 See L. Gardiner, The Eagle Spreads his Claws, Edinburgh and London: Blackwood and Sons, 196), p. 77. 5 Ibid. 6 For the full account of the reactions of Admiral Kinahan, the force commander, and his subsequent orders, see Leggett, The Corfu Incident, pp. 52–3. 7 Ibid. p. 59. 8 Ibid. p. 75.

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9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

Gardiner, The Eagle Spreads his Claws, p. 98. Ibid. p. 121. Ibid. p. 101. The officer concerned, Commander Mestre, was the French delegate to the Board. For a full account see Gardiner, p. 132. Ibid. p. 136. Id. Leggett, The Corfu Incident, p. 122. This was the first time that a veto had been cast in the Security Council, which destroyed the hopes of the founding fathers that the post war ‘big five’ could work together; a sad indication of the familiar pattern of behaviour thereafter until the end of the Cold War. Leggett, The Corfu Incident, p. 127. Ibid. p. 128. For the full account see Leggett, The Corfu Incident, pp. 134–48. Keesing’s Archives 9939A for 9 April 1949. Ibid. G. Smith, Restricting the concept of Free Seas, New York: Robert E. Krieger Publishing Co, 1980, p. 40. See O’Connell, D. The Influence of Law on Sea Power, Aylesbury: Manchester University Press 1975, pp. 102–3. Keesing’s Archives 9939A for 9 April 1949. BR 1806 The Fundamentals of British Maritime Doctrine. London: HMSO 1995, p. 99. Politakis, G. ‘The Aegean Agenda’ International Journal of Marine and Coastal Law. Vol. 10, No. 4, November 95, p. 498. In fact, the Greeks had applied to the ICJ for an interim order to prevent Turkish drilling for oil in a disputed area in September 1976. The Court ruled that it lacked jurisdiction in the matter in January 1979. See United Nations Third Convention on the Law of the Sea, 1982, Articles 2 (1,2) and 3. Ibid. Articles 17 and 20. Ibid. Article 19. Ibid. Article 25 (3). Ibid. Article 38. Ibid. Article 3 (2a). Ibid. Article 121. Ibid. Article 56 (1a) Ibid. Article 58. Ibid. Articles 76 (1) and 77 (1). This is expected to be the basis for resolution of conflicts regarding the attribution of rights and jurisdiction in the EEZ. Article 59. For full details see map in annexes to A. Wilson, ‘The Aegean Dispute’, Adelphi Paper No. 155, 1979. See A. Chircop et al. (eds), The Aegean Sea after the Cold War, London: Macmillan Press, pp. 76–7. See Wilson, Adelphi Paper No. 155. See C. Maechling, The Aegean Sea: A Crisis Waiting to Happen. US Naval Institute Proceedings, March 1997, p. 71. For clear charts depicting the varying extent of national waters based on 6 and 12 miles territorial seas see Wilson, Adelphi Paper No. 155. See Chircop, The Aegean Sea after the Cold War, p. 66. See Schmitt, ‘Aegean Angst: The Greek–Turkish Dispute’ Naval War College Review, Vol. XLIX, No. 3 (Summer 1996) p. 59.

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47 See A. Boroviec, The Mediterranean Feud, New York: Praeger Press, 1983, p. 28. 48 As a result of the invasion the Royal Navy used HMS Hermes, Andromeda and Rhyl to evacuate many hundreds of British and foreign holidaymakers from Kyrenia, Cyprus on 14 July 1974. 49 See Schmitt, ‘Aegean Angst’, p. 61. 50 Greece had withdrawn at NATO’s perceived inaction following the Turkish descent on the north of Cyprus in 1974. The US now wanted Greece back in NATO and a stronger southern flank following renewed signs of a deep chill in the Cold War. 51 See Schmitt, Aegean Angst, p. 61. 52 Ibid. pp. 61–2. 53 See Wilson, Adelphi Paper No. 155 p. 16. 54 See H. Arikan, Turkey and the EU: An Awkward Candidate for EU Membership? Basingstoke: Ashgate Publishing Ltd, 2003, p. 147. 55 Ibid. p. 169. A full debate on these and other aspects of Turkish membership bid are covered in Chapter 6 of Arikan’s book. 56 Similar disputes in other parts of the world, such as the Spratlys in the South China Sea, have led to tension and occasional military action leading to loss of life, which has discouraged large-scale exploration of the wealth of the sea. Another example is the difficulty of delineating the EEZ of Bangladesh, India and Myanmar in the Bay of Bengal, because of the constant growth of new ‘islands’ at the mouths of the Ganges, which may have curtailed or inhibited international investment because of uncertainty of national zones of jurisdiction.

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9 NAVAL DIPLOMACY Operation Vantage, 1961 Ian Speller Contemporary British maritime doctrine defines naval diplomacy as ‘The use of naval force in support of diplomacy to support, persuade, deter or compel’. It involves action designed to ‘influence the will and decision-making apparatus of a state or group of states in peacetime and all sitations short of full hostilities’.1 In essence, naval diplomacy is about the use of naval forces to provide power and influence in situations short of war. This does not imply an absence of force. The exercise of naval diplomacy may require navies to undertake active military operations. However, in such circumstances the use of force is deliberately restricted to the achievement of specific, limited objectives and has symbolic as much as physical effect. As with all forms of coercion, perception is critical and the key target is the opponent’s mindset rather than their armed forces. The use of the term ‘naval diplomacy’ may be misleading. In reality, in many circumstances navies will be only one element in a much wider diplomatic effort. Even when navies play the lead role in an operation the force employed is liable to be maritime in nature rather than strictly naval.2 In an influential study of such activity James Cable used the traditional phrase of ‘gunboat diplomacy’ as shorthand for the use of limited naval force in order to secure advantage or avert loss in the furtherance of an international dispute in situations short of war.3 Those responsible for writing contemporary doctrine have avoided this rather provocative term. Nevertheless, in essence they are writing about the same thing. Cable was keen to emphasise that ‘gunboat diplomacy’, far from being an outmoded tool belonging to a discredited imperialist past, was a constant and enduring feature of international relations. He believed that navies provided a particularly useful and flexible tool for supporting government policy in a wide range of circumstances.4 These ideas have been shared by numerous other authors and are reflected in the official pronouncements of many modern navies.5 One distinguished commentator, Robert E. Osgood, went as far as to describe sea power as ‘… the most versatile and extensive instrument of foreign policy’.6 Different authors have identified different means by which naval or maritime forces have achieved this. Edward Luttwak identified the inherent mobility, tactical flexibility, and wide geographic reach of naval forces as particularly valuable. In common with most of his contemporaries, he contrasted this

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with the political complications associated with the forward deployment of landbased armies and air forces.7 Ken Booth developed similar ideas, identifying seven basic assets of warships as diplomatic instruments.8 Despite a difference in terminology Booth’s list is essentially the same as the distinctive operational attributes of maritime power currently proclaimed by the Royal Navy. While Booth wrote of versatility, controllability, mobility, projection ability, access potential, symbolism and endurance the Royal Navy currently emphasises access, mobility, versatility, sustained reach, lift capacity, poise, and leverage.9 Lists such as these can be misleading. Certain maritime forces may display some of these attributes in particular circumstances but few would claim that all maritime forces can do so all of the time. Booth was careful to avoid any such claim. In the real world of politics and diplomacy theoretical assumptions about the utility of navies may prove unrealistic. As with all military activity, much depends on circumstances. Nevertheless, theories about naval diplomacy are founded on the assumption that maritime forces employed in this role offer potential advantages denied to other forms of military power. Cable used British intervention in Kuwait in 1961 as an example of this in action.10 This chapter will examine the British intervention in Kuwait in 1961 in order to assess the degree to which maritime forces played an important part in the success of this operation. It will question the extent to which they displayed the particular attributes that have been claimed for them and will consider the extent to which the navy proved to be a ‘versatile and extensive’ instrument of British foreign policy.

Defending Kuwait The security and stability of Kuwait was of considerable importance to the British. In 1961 Kuwait was the third largest oil producer, behind the United States and Venezuela. Kuwaiti oil provided the basis for 56 per cent of British Petroleum’s crude oil production and almost 40 per cent of Britain’s total oil supplies. Payment for this oil was made in Sterling and the Kuwaiti government had amassed a large Sterling reserve. Kuwaiti investments in Britain were estimated to be worth more than $100 million a year.11 The country had in effect been a British protectorate under the terms of the 1899 Anglo-Kuwaiti Treaty whereby Britain had been responsible for foreign affairs and defence. This treaty was terminated in June 1961, being considered ‘inconsistent with the sovereignty and independence of Kuwait’.12 In its place, on 19 June 1961, an Exchange of Notes was signed between the Amir of Kuwait, Sheikh Abdullah as-Salim as Sabah, and the British government. Under the terms of this agreement Kuwait was recognised as an independent state and the British agreed to provide military assistance to support this independence if requested.13 The main threat to Kuwaiti independence appeared to come from Iraq. As a successor state to the Ottoman Empire Iraq had an historic claim to Kuwait and this claim was reasserted once it became clear that Kuwait would gain independence. A violent coup in 1958 had ousted the pro-British government in Iraq and 165

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brought to power the nationalist General Qasim.14 Qasim saw himself as a revolutionary Arab leader who would liberate the Arab world from imperialist influence. He had an ‘intense and personal hostility’ to the British and to the Kuwaiti ruling family.15 In a speech on 25 June 1961 he denounced the 1899 and 1961 AngloKuwaiti agreements as illegal as Kuwait was an ‘integral and indivisible’ part of Iraq. He described the Exchange of Notes as a ‘new dangerous imperialist agreement’ and a blow to the independence and security of Iraq. He did not, however, threaten to annex or occupy Kuwait. The speech was accompanied by a vigorous and bellicose propaganda campaign.16 These developments were greeted with some concern in the United Kingdom. As early as 1959 plans had been made for intervention in Kuwait under two different circumstances. Plan ‘A’ catered for intervention at the request of the Amir with the object of forestalling or suppressing internal insurrection or deterring an invasion from Iraq. Plan ‘B’ provided for intervention without a request by the Amir in a situation where he had lost control of the internal situation. Consideration was given to a plan to evict Iraqi forces that had invaded and occupied Kuwait. This plan was not developed as, while it was militarily possible, such an operation would take around twenty-four days to mount and, in view of this delay, it was considered to be unrealistic politically.17 A key problem for the British was that the Amir was extremely reluctant to sanction the deployment of troops or aircraft there in advance of any attack. The closest thing to a permanent British military presence was half a squadron of Kuwaiti-owned Centurion tanks stockpiled with their ammunition and available for use by British crews should the need arise.18 The Kuwaiti army included a Frontier Force of 1200 men equipped with jeeps, armoured cars and armoured personnel carriers and a lightly armed Security Force of 1500 men. Although they were equipped with a total of eighteen Centurion tanks, unaided the Kuwaiti Army could not be expected to hold off any Iraqi attack for very long.19 The British developed a series of different plans for intervention, codenamed Alecto, Cabrilla, Alderdale and Rigmarole.20 In June 1961 the existing plan was Reinforced Theatre Plan Vantage. This plan was in the process of revision and a successor, Bellringer, was being prepared. Events overtook this course of action and it was a modified version of Vantage that was actually implemented. Vantage was based on the assumption that prior to any invasion the Iraqis would move an armoured brigade from Baghdad to the Basra region and that this would take seven days. It was also believed that any Iraqi move against Kuwait would be accompanied by internal subversion and that these two factors combined would provide four days’ warning of any attack. It was believed that, given this warning, transport aircraft would be able to reinforce Kuwait with two battalions of infantry and supporting arms within twelve hours. These troops would be supported by RAF fighter and ground attack aircraft and backed up by supplies and vehicles stockpiled at Bahrain. Subsequent reinforcement would lead to the deployment of a reinforced brigade group.21 The ability to transport troops to Kuwait rapidly by air from Aden, Kenya, Cyprus and the UK was central to the plan. Maritime forces also played an 166

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important supporting role. In October 1959 Ministers agreed to deploy the Amphibious Warfare (AW) Squadron to the Middle East in order that it might be available to support operations in Kuwait. The ageing ships of this squadron were air conditioned at a cost of £407,000 and moved to their new station in June 1960.22 Under Vantage, the primary task of the AW Squadron was to provide follow-up lift for troops transported by air. Although an opposed landing was not anticipated the squadron was to be prepared to face minor opposition either on the beaches or ashore before the sea landed elements could meet up with the air landed element. As it would take nine days for a slow Landing Ship Tank (LST) to sail from Aden to Kuwait it was decided to keep one LST with half a squadron of tanks embarked permanently poised in the Persian Gulf. Two Royal Navy ships would provide this Seaborne Tank Force, rotating as required. When two such ships were not available an army operated LST would fill the role, although in this case the lack of air conditioning in the army ships meant that during summer months the tank crews would remain ashore, to be flown forward if required. In order to provide the necessary lift of vehicles and stores from the military stockpile at Bahrain to Kuwait, the Landing Craft Tanks (LCTs) Bastion, Redoubt and Parapet were based there permanently.23 The final element of the AW Squadron was HMS Meon, a converted River-class frigate designed to act as a small headquarters ship. In the immediate aftermath of Qasim’s speech British intelligence assessments continued to stress that Iraqi military action was unlikely.24 However, after some prompting from London, on 28 June the Military Attaché in Baghdad concluded that the possibility of an Iraqi attack ‘cannot be excluded’. Furthermore, he noted that if such an attack did occur then Qasim was ‘most likely to stage a quick dash from Basra with one brigade group plus tanks, artillery and air support, of which no advance warning can be given’.25 This lack of warning threatened to undermine the entire basis for Vantage. Unfortunately, the Embassy in Baghdad advised against the pre-emptive deployment of British forces into Kuwait as this would be portrayed as anti-Arab imperialism and would present the Iraqis with a propaganda coup. In London there was an appreciation that, at the very least, any deployment had to be seen to be at the request of the Amir.26 On 29 July the Cabinet Defence Committee sanctioned a number of precautionary moves designed to improve military readiness short of actually landing troops in Kuwait.27 A Cabinet meeting the same day approved a proposal by the Foreign Secretary to instruct the Ambassador in Baghdad to inform the Iraqi government that they had given the Amir of Kuwait an assurance of military support if this were requested. Meanwhile the Political Agent in Kuwait was instructed to inform the Amir of the nature of the Iraqi threat and to ask him to issue a formal request for British military assistance. In the absence of a Kuwaiti intelligence service able to verify the British warning Sheikh Abdullah issued a formal request for British intervention on 30 July and that evening the British Commander-in-Chief, Middle East,28 Air Marshal Sir Charles Elworthy, received instructions to implement Vantage.29

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Operation Vantage The British were fortunate that when the crisis occurred they had additional assets within theatre. The ‘commando carrier’ HMS Bulwark was at Karachi en route to the northern Gulf in order to conduct hot weather trials. This ship carried the marines and equipment of a Royal Marines Commando unit and could land these ashore using its sixteen Whirlwind HAS7 helicopters. It was not part of the force permanently held in readiness for Vantage. In addition, the army operated LST Empire Gull was about to relieve HMS Striker in its role of Seaborne Tank Force. As a consequence there were two rather than only one LST loaded with tanks in the Gulf at the critical moment. On 28 June Rear-Admiral Fitzroy-Talbot, Flag Officer Middle East, had ordered HMS Bulwark to proceed directly to Kuwait. On 29 June HMS Meon and Striker were also ordered to Kuwait but, like Bulwark, they were to remain out of sight of land. Crews for the tanks in the Empire Gull were ordered to proceed to Bahrain as soon as possible. The Hunter FGA9 fighter/ground attack aircraft of No. 208 Squadron deployed from Nairobi to Bahrain30 where they were joined by Hunters from No. 8 Squadron arriving from Aden. The presence of these aircraft gave limited air cover for any operation in Kuwait. Two Shackletons from No. 37 Squadron were also deployed to Bahrain to provide a night reconnaissance capability. The Bahrain stockpile and emergency camps at Bahrain and Aden were activated. Further afield, the Ministry of Defence ordered the aircraft carrier HMS Centaur to sail from Gibraltar to the eastern Mediterranean. Another carrier, HMS Hermes, sailed from the UK but did not proceed beyond Gibraltar. The Ministry ordered a Canberra bomber squadron to re-deploy from Germany to Sharjah, two battalions of 24 Brigade to move to their concentration areas in East Africa and 29 Field Regiment, Royal Artillery, less one battery, to be brought to strength in the UK. Middle East Command was informed that the aircraft carrier HMS Victorious, which had been en route to Hong Kong, had been ordered to Bahrain and was expected to arrive on 8 July.31 Elworthy considered that as an Iraqi attack appeared imminent it was important to get as many fighting ‘teeth’ forces into Kuwait as soon as possible, if necessary at the expense of building up balanced forces. He was instructed that in order to allow time for formalities at the United Nations no British forces should land in Kuwait before 070032 on 1 July. As intervention was at the request of the Amir and there had been no sign of any insurrection there was no requirement for a parachute assault to seize the airfield or for an amphibious assault to secure a beach. In view of the limited warning period, Elworthy hoped to have in Kuwait a force of two battalions of infantry, a squadron of tanks and an armoured car squadron by dawn on 2 July. This force, while not able to repel a serious Iraqi invasion, would provide a visible deterrent and could, if necessary, delay any Iraqi advance long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Unfortunately, an unexpected but not unforeseeable problem presented itself. Turkey and Sudan both refused to allow British military aircraft to over-fly their

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territory. Neither country had previously had any objections to such over-flights and Turkey was formally allied to Britain through both the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation and the Central Treaty Organisation. This, in conjunction with the existing ‘air barrier’ presented by Iraq, the United Arab Republic (Syria and Egypt) and Saudi Arabia, meant that aircraft bound for the Persian Gulf had to fly a long and circuitous route via Africa and Aden. The RAF was forced to covertly ignore the Sudanese ban in order to allow the timely redeployment of Canberra aircraft and, fortunately, both countries lifted their bans on 1 July.33 The Turkish government was only willing to allow aircraft to fly at night and in secret. They withdrew this permission on 4 July when news that this route was being used leaked out. The immediate consequence of the over-flight bans was that the parachute battalion in Cyprus could not be flown directly to Kuwait via Turkey and Iran as had been planned. Fortunately the amphibious ships assembling off Kuwait were not subject to the political sensibilities of neighbouring states. The only troops that Elworthy could guarantee to have ashore in Kuwait on 1 July were No. 42 Commando from HMS Bulwark and the half squadron of tanks embarked in HMS Striker. The helicopters of No. 838 Squadron RN landed the first Commandos from Bulwark at Kuwait New Airport shortly after 0900 on 1 July. Poor visibility made this task more difficult but high winds enabled the helicopters to embark full loads while the ship was at anchor. The helicopters and marines were followed by ten Hunter aircraft from Bahrain which landed at the airport and assumed immediate readiness. They were soon followed by transport aircraft bringing the necessary ground crews and other RAF personnel. The landing of tanks by HMS Striker was hampered by the ship’s age and the fact that the designated landing ‘hard’ had been demolished. An alternative landing site was found and the ship disembarked its cargo using a Rhino ferry. By the end of the first day of Operation Vantage British forces in Kuwait consisted of only No. 42 Commando, the half squadron of tanks landed by Striker, two companies of Coldstream Guards flown forward from Bahrain and a platoon of marines landed from the frigate HMS Loch Alvie which was offshore alongside HMS Meon and Bulwark. By nightfall the marines had begun to deploy along the Mutla Ridge, a defensive feature to the northwest of Kuwait City that was already occupied by Kuwaiti troops. Blowing sand precluded reconnaissance flights by Hunters or Canberras34 and would have ruled out any ground attack missions. Even if supported by the 4-inch gun of the frigate offshore, these forces were hardly of sufficient strength to repulse a determined Iraqi attack. The lifting of the Turkish and Sudanese over-flight bans and a decision to allow the over-flight of Saudi Arabia, at night and away from centres of population, eased the problems of air transport considerably. RAF Transport Command was supplemented by chartered civilian aircraft and three Canadair Argonauts provided by the Royal Rhodesian Air Force.35 No. 45 Commando began to arrive in Kuwait by air on 2 July, completing the move from Aden the next day. On 2 July the Parachute Light Battery arrived, albeit without their mortars and vehicles, as 169

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did a squadron from the 11th Hussars. The LCTs of the AW Squadron landed equipment, stores, ammunition and armoured cars from Bahrain and the half squadron of tanks was landed from the Empire Gull. The following day the Second Battalion of the Parachute Regiment finally began to arrive from Cyprus and crews for the tanks stockpiled in Kuwait also arrived from the UK. Elworthy’s plan was now to deploy two infantry battalions along the Mutla Ridge, supported by tanks and artillery with a third battalion and a squadron of tanks as a counter-attack force. A fourth battalion would remain in Kuwait as a mobile reserve and a fifth would be held in readiness in Bahrain. British and Kuwaiti armoured cars would provide a screen between the Ridge and the Iraqi border. The military build-up was not complete until 9 July, by which time there were 4,112 army personnel, 596 RAF personnel and 960 Royal Marines ashore. The military force was under the tactical control of Brigadier D.G.T. Horsford, officer commanding 24 Brigade. With the arrival of this brigade by air the two Commando units were able to fall back from the Ridge to form a reserve. The Coldstream Guards returned to their internal security duties in Bahrain on 6 July. On 20 July the Arab League voted to admit Kuwait as a member, against the wishes of the Iraqi delegation. The League agreed to provide 4000 troops for the defence of Kuwait in the place of the British troops. British forces remained in Kuwait until 19 September when forward units withdrew from their operational positions. The last British troops withdrew from Kuwait on 19 October.

The maritime contribution to Operation Vantage Maritime forces played a vital role in Operation Vantage. The Commando unit landed by helicopter from HMS Bulwark on 1 July was the only complete unit in Kuwait until the early hours of 3 July when No. 45 Commando completed its airlift from Aden. Prior to 3 July, when the crews for the tanks stockpiled in Kuwait finally arrived, the only British tanks in Kuwait were those landed by HMS Striker and the Empire Gull. After landing their tanks these ships joined the three LCTs of the AW Squadron and the army operated LSTs Empire Grebe and Empire Skua in lifting personnel and equipment from Persian Gulf bases to Kuwait. The headquarters ship, HMS Meon, played an important role acting as a communications link between the army in Kuwait and the joint headquarters that was established in Bahrain. The frigate HMS Loch Alvie acted as a naval gunfire support ship, despite the limitations of its armament in this role. This was particularly important as in the early stages of the operation the forces in Kuwait lacked artillery. At night this ship undertook patrols across the Shatt el Arab to stop any Iraqi attacks on the amphibious ships offshore. HMS Bulwark had a particularly important role to play. The ship’s ability to sail to Kuwait and poise offshore prior to any official request for assistance enabled the rapid insertion of forces within hours of the Amir’s initial request. The sixteen Whirlwind helicopters that it carried enabled it to land its embarked force directly at the airport. Initial plans to land the troops at the Mutla Ridge were 170

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abandoned through fears that the Kuwaiti troops already occupying positions there might mistake them for Iraqis and open fire.36 The Commando landed by Bulwark was fully equipped with all of the equipment, ammunition and vehicles that it required and could be supported in combat operations from resources held within the ship. It was the only British unit to arrive in Kuwait ready to fight. After landing the marines Bulwark remained off Kuwait in administrative support of the Commando. With the arrival of large numbers of troops in theatre the airconditioned Bulwark was used to provide rest and recuperation facilities for parties of around 200 troops at a time. In addition to this, the ship’s radar was used to offer limited radar cover out to a maximum of 80 miles. The commanding officer of the ship, Captain Robert Franks, was pleased with the opportunity that Vantage had provided to demonstrate the utility of his vessel, writing: I could not be more grateful to General Kassim [sic]; the operation was tailor made to our requirements. The whole concept of the commando ship and our eighteen months of intensive training was proved to be exactly what was required. We were able to put a small but efficient unit down in the right place at the right time and support it with all its requirements, which undoubtedly helped to souse this particular bushfire’.37 A powerful maritime force was mobilised in support of Vantage. The frigates Loch Fyne and Loch Ruthven had arrived off Kuwait on 5 July and 7 July respectively. The aircraft carrier HMS Victorious arrived on 9 July in company with the frigate HMS Lincoln and the destroyer HMS Cassandra. Further naval reinforcements for the Gulf included the aircraft carrier HMS Centaur, which arrived off Kuwait on 31 July to relieve Victorious. The destroyers HMS Camperdown, Finisterre, and Saintes and the LST HMS Messina accompanied Centaur to the Gulf. The frigate Loch Insch was brought forward from the Mediterranean and two more frigates, HMS Llandaff and Yarmouth, were sent from the Indian Ocean to the region. The 108th Minesweeping Squadron sailed from Malta, arriving in the Persian Gulf on 21 July.38 A strong naval force was thus eventually concentrated within Middle East Command, but it took some time to assemble. In his official report on Vantage Elworthy noted that, had hostilities broken out, a decision would probably have been reached before all reinforcing ships reached the Gulf.39 The plan for Vantage had envisaged the arrival of a carrier group from the Far East. It was nine days after the initial landing before HMS Victorious arrived with its escorts. The need to sail at 22 knots to preserve fuel and to enable the slow frigate HMS Lincoln to keep up delayed the arrival of these ships. There was only one escort with HMS Bulwark until the arrival of HMS Loch Fyne on 5 July. This was inadequate to deal fully with the threat of Iraqi attack and thus Bulwark was forced to withdraw southward each night.40 The minesweeping force was particularly slow to arrive and no minesweeping vessels had been maintained in the Gulf. This could have 171

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been costly given the vulnerability of the Kuwaiti coastline to mine-laying and the British dependence on seaborne access to land tanks and heavy equipment from the stockpiles in Bahrain and Aden. The situation regarding air defence was an area of particular concern. Prior to the crisis Kuwait had possessed no radar. Indeed, as hostilities did not commence civilian flights into the civil airport at Kuwait continued throughout Operation Vantage. These flights depended on Iraqi air traffic control for their safe navigation.41 The only transportable RAF radar that existed in theatre was a Type Sc 787. This was a lightweight equipment that had limited performance, lacking a height finding capability. This equipment was flown forward from Bahrain at an early stage and was manned by an operating crew from the UK. The equipment was pressed into service before its planned date and before essential test equipment had arrived. Not surprisingly, difficulty was experienced in bringing it to operational standards and the radar did not become fully operational until 18 July.42 From 1 July RAF Hunters operating from Kuwait and Bahrain offered a limited daylight air defence capability, directed by Bulwark’s radar. A full air defence capability was not achieved until HMS Victorious began operations on 10 July. In the opinion of Sir David Lee, prior to the arrival of this ship the problem of air defence ‘could have posed almost insuperable problems for the two Hunter Squadrons’.43 Elworthy considered that Victorious’ complement of Sea Vixen fighters provided ‘for the first time a reasonably sophisticated day and night air defence for the forces in Kuwait’.44 The ship’s Scimitar fighter/ground attack aircraft complemented the RAF Hunters in the ground attack role, although lack of wind in the Gulf meant that they could not take off carrying long range fuel tanks and this limited their time over the operational areas to around twelve minutes. Due to dust conditions ashore, the carrier’s Type 984 three-dimensional radar proved to be inefficient over land and so the frigate HMS Lincoln was stationed close inshore to provide cover with its Type 960 radar. 45 In his report on the lessons learnt from Operation Vantage the Flag Officer Aircraft Carriers, Rear-Admiral R.M. Smeeton, was very critical of the air defence situation. He concluded that prior to the arrival of HMS Victorious air defence was ‘not effective’. Even after the arrival of this ship some problems persisted. The ability of HMS Lincoln’s radar to provide cover over land was facilitated by the flat terrain ashore. Despite this, the relief for this ship, HMS Llandaff, noted that the need to remain close inshore in order to provide naval gunfire support led to blanking of its Type 982 radar due to proximity to the Mutla Ridge. This reduced the degree of air warning that could be provided against low flying aircraft. The ship also admitted to a lack of interception practice that would have made it difficult for it to control fighters. Smeeton recommended improvements in the training and equipment of ships to allow them to fulfil their air defence role more effectively. His conclusions indicate that had hostilities broken out then British forces on land and at sea would have been vulnerable to Iraqi air attack:

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All reports show that the Royal Navy improvised a workable air defence organisation which made the best use of the available ships, aircraft and equipment. Nevertheless, I very much doubt whether the organisation would have been able to repulse an attack on either the Carriers, Kuwait Harbour, Kuwait New Airfield, or the Army Forward Defended Localities.46 When assessing the contribution that maritime forces made to Operation Vantage it is important to consider the strengths and limitations of the other forces involved. The shortcomings of the air defence environment provided by the navy’s aircraft carriers must be set against the inability of the RAF to provide adequate air defence in a pre-planned operation within range of an established air base at Bahrain and with airfield facilities provided within Kuwait itself. Without the maritime contribution there would have been no radar cover at all for the first two weeks of the operation. The ability of the RAF and the Royal Navy to provide air defence was undermined by political limitations that ruled out pre-emptive air strikes on Iraqi airfields and allowed only ‘hot pursuit’ of intruding aircraft back to their base, where guns and rockets could be used to destroy them on the ground, but not bombs.47 This placed a premium on effective early warning and air interception. The RAF could not provide these. Plan Vantage was based on the ability to airlift troops quickly to Kuwait from within Middle East Command and beyond. The limited bulk and heavy lift capacity of aircraft meant that these troops would need to be provided with vehicles and heavy equipment on arrival. Many of these would arrive by sea from the stockpiles in Bahrain and Aden. Troops airlifted into Kuwait could not be considered operationally effective without this equipment and thus, while the arrival of personnel was linked to the speed, range and payload of their transport aircraft and the unloading facilities in theatre, their ability to actually fight remained linked to the passage of slow transport and amphibious ships. Fortunately the short distance between Bahrain and Kuwait facilitated the rapid delivery of stockpiled equipment and in reality the critical delays occurred in the air-transported rather than the sea-transported elements of the British force. The arrival of British troops by air was based upon the existence of extensive host nation support in Kuwait. This included airport facilities, transport, accommodation and a safe water supply. Use of the newly built Kuwait New Airport caused difficulties as it lacked the unloading, refuelling and handling facilities available at the established airport. This was exacerbated by the decision to prioritise ‘teeth’ arms at the expense of the administrative personnel designed to unload aircraft and organise the arrival of incoming cargo. The result was considerable delay and confusion at the airport. Some aircraft had to return to Bahrain still loaded with important equipment because there was no means of unloading their cargo.48 Accommodation that had been promised did not arrive in full and a similar problem was experienced with the transport. The Kuwaitis were able to supply only 355 out of 688 vehicles that had been promised. Of these, only 78 were four-wheel drive and 173

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the remainder proved to be of limited use off the road in the desert. This had an impact on the mobility of British forces. An Army Operational Research Group, sent to examine events and conditions in Kuwait, concluded that the overall mobility of the British land forces was so limited that they were incapable of fighting anything but a static battle. The marines of No. 45 Commando were more fortunate than most army units in this respect as they were able to borrow military vehicles belonging to their sea-based colleagues in No. 42 Commando.49 In his report Elworthy concluded that hostilities would probably have been over before all of the Royal Navy ships arrived in theatre. The Air Marshal could also have said the same about the air-transported element. The imposition of overflight bans illustrated the political vulnerability of air routes that crossed the territory of other states, even the territory of allied states. If the Iraqis had chosen to launch ‘crash action’ as the British feared it is at least possible that they could have over-run Kuwait before the first air-transported unit completed its journey on 3 July. Without the presence of the marines and tanks landed from the sea there would have been no significant British military presence in Kuwait to stop them. The experience of No. 45 Commando provided a good example of the problems facing the air transported troops. Initial elements of the unit began to arrive by air from Aden at 0630 on 2 July and the unit was ‘complete’ by 1515 the next day. They arrived without tactical transport and had to rely on local vehicles, twenty-one of which broke down on the way to their forward positions. The mortar teams had their mortar barrels, but not the base plates as the RAF had unloaded these somewhere along route. They were fortunate enough to still have their Mobat anti-tank weapons, but none of the ammunition that they had begun their journey with had arrived. This ammunition did not appear until 6 July. An army report concluded that at nightfall on 3 July No. 45 Commando were ‘sadly lacking in many of the necessities of war’. This was contrasted with their counterparts in No. 42 Commando who were ‘100% operational’.50 Unfortunately this experience was not unusual. The 29th Field Regiment, Royal Artillery was accompanied by 28,000 lbs of freight when it flew from the UK on 5 July. Five days later only around 10 per cent of these supplies were with the unit in Kuwait.51 An additional problem facing units flown in from outside the region was that of acclimatisation. Newspaper reports highlighted the difficulties faced by British troops transported directly into the heat of the Kuwaiti summer.52 In the period 1–15 July temperatures in the shade in Kuwait City varied between 105 and 112.7 degrees Fahrenheit (between 40 and 45 degrees Centigrade) and these figures were exceeded outside the city. Relative humidity was 14–27 per cent and there were sandstorms on eight out of fifteen days. In these conditions basic British equipment such as boots, berets and sand goggles proved to be unsuitable and smoke grenades had to be destroyed as they started to smoke of their own accord in the heat. Temperatures within the armoured fighting vehicles proved to be particularly uncomfortable and the metal surfaces of the tanks became too hot for infantry to ride on them.53 In his report on Vantage Elworthy claimed that the press had exaggerated the incidence of heat exhaustion among British troops. He 174

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noted that the incidence of sickness incurred by British forces in Kuwait was below expectations and that all cases treated in hospital were mild.54 This reflected the conclusions of the HQ Middle East Medical Report. The report by the Army Operational Research Group was rather less sanguine. They noted that the HQ Middle East Medical Report had based their conclusions on the acclimatisation of troops on the numbers of hospital admissions. This presented an incomplete picture as it included only personnel whose conditions were sufficiently advanced to require hospitalisation. It did not include personnel treated at unit level, by field ambulance, in HMS Bulwark and at a number of other locations. The Research Group were unable to gather complete figures but concluded that incidence of heat illness was higher than reported. On the basis of the evidence that they collected they found that the number of personnel unavailable for active duty in the first five days due to heat illness was 2.9 per cent, 4.5 per cent and 8.7 per cent in individual units airlifted from Cyprus, Kenya and the UK respectively. This was without the added pressure of active hostilities and in a situation where water and even ice was in plentiful supply from local sources. In comparison, there were no cases of heat illness among a squadron from the 11th Hussars originally based at Sharjah and therefore acclimatised to local conditions. The report suggested means of reducing the incidence of heat illness, including better water and salt discipline and alternative clothing and rations.55 Nevertheless, it appears that it was unrealistic to expect troops to be able to operate efficiently in an extreme climate without an opportunity to acclimatise to local conditions.

The most versatile and extensive instrument of foreign policy? The British considered Operation Vantage to have been a great success. Despite various difficulties, complications and shortcomings a sizeable military force had been deployed to Kuwait in a relatively short space of time, protecting a friendly state from the threat of Iraqi invasion. The operation confirmed Britain’s ability to project military power into areas of vital interest and demonstrated British resolve. In contrast to the Suez Crisis five years earlier, British action gained the wholehearted support of the United States government.56 The crisis was debated in the United Nations Security Council between 2 July and 7 July. Predictably the Soviet Union vetoed a British resolution seeking UN recognition of Kuwait’s independence and of the right of the UK to send armed forces to its assistance; however, a proposed resolution by the United Arab Republic demanding immediate British withdrawal failed due to lack of support.57 In reality it is difficult to ascertain whether an Iraqi attack had actually been deterred. There is no solid evidence that any such attack was ever contemplated. In the days after the initial British landings Iraqi military activity appears to have been entirely defensive in nature. Some authors have suggested that the British deliberately created the crisis in order to demonstrate their own capabilities and to ensure that the Amir of Kuwait and other Arab leaders within the region recognised their dependence on 175

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Britain even after independence.58 If this is true then Operation Vantage was doubly successful. It demonstrated British power and resolve to potential opponents and reinforced British influence in a region of vital national importance. James Cable argued that a basic condition for the successful use of limited naval force was that the forces employed must be regarded by both sides as being sufficient to achieve their specific purpose. An opponent could thus be faced with a choice between acquiescence to limited demands or retaliation with limited prospect of success. The actual use of force should remain proportionate to the aims of the operation in order to demonstrate to an opponent the limited nature of those aims. The ideal combination is thus maximum military potential but minimum employment. He concluded that without the maritime element the British forces deployed in the early stages of Operation Vantage may have been too weak to deter an attack and this may have made the conduct of the operation too risky for the British to contemplate.59 The British were well aware of just how weak their position was in the early stages of the operation. The Prime Minister, Harold Macmillan, described that position as being ‘hazardous’ on the night of 30 June and ‘somewhat precarious’ on the following two nights.60 Elworthy accepted that on the first two nights of the operation deterrence, such as it existed at all, rested on the presence of the commandos from HMS Bulwark, the tanks from HMS Striker and aircraft directed by the radar of the commando carrier.61 Maritime forces were particularly useful as they could use the politically free medium of the sea to deploy balanced forces into Kuwait without reliance on either host nation support or the political goodwill of neighbouring states. It is significant that the only unit to arrive in Kuwait ready to fight was No. 42 Commando from HMS Bulwark. No. 42 Commando was also the only unit that could have landed in Kuwait without use of an airfield that, presumably, would have been the first target for any pre-emptive Iraqi air strike or Iraqi sponsored insurrection. The presence of Bulwark provided Elworthy with a degree of flexibility that would not otherwise have been available. The fact that the availability of this vessel was rather fortuitous reflects policy decisions on the size and deployment of Britain’s amphibious capabilities; it does nothing to undermine conclusions about the political utility of such vessels when they were available. An additional advantage that maritime forces possessed was their ability to poise unobtrusively within the theatre of operations prior to the invitation to intervene. The value of this capability was demonstrated by the LSTs HMS Striker and Empire Gull which were able to relieve some of the limitations associated with the Amir’s refusal to have British troops permanently based in Kuwait. HMS Bulwark was ordered to proceed to Kuwait on 28 June, before the Amir of Kuwait had requested British assistance. The initial intention was that once off Kuwait the ship would remain out of sight of land, boosting British capabilities without appearing either provocative or aggressive. Similarly, both HMS Victorious and its replacement HMS Centaur were ordered to remain out

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of sight of land once operating in the Persian Gulf in order to avoid their presence being seen as escalatory, a good example of maximum potential and minimum employment.62 It would have been difficult for land-based reinforcements to have offered a similar degree of flexibility. Vantage was a pre-planned operation in support of a friendly regime able to provide significant host nation support. It was supported by the existence of established RAF facilities in theatre and by the opportunity to use an airfield within Kuwait itself. The ability to provide heavy equipment by sea was facilitated by proximity to the stockpile at Bahrain and the availability of equipment stockpiled at Aden. An operation conducted in response to an unforeseen contingency at some distance from established bases would have relied to an even greater extent on maritime capabilities. In particular, the ability to project balanced military forces using the politically free medium of the sea, without reliance on bases, over-flight or host nation support and, if necessary, to poise unobtrusively out of sight but available for action would have provided a capability that could not have been replicated by other means. It is clear from the above that the success of Operation Vantage depended upon a major contribution by maritime forces. It is equally clear that maritime forces alone could not have guaranteed success. Most of the personnel and many of the aircraft deployed in support of Vantage were land-based and arrived in theatre by air. Ships provided an effective means of deploying key men and material but could not replace the RAF’s ability to airlift troops over thousands of miles in a relatively short time. land-based aircraft provided a superior ground attack capability to that which could be offered by the aircraft carriers. In this sense Operation Vantage provided an illustration of the way in which the different capabilities of the navy and the air force complemented each other and enabled an outcome which neither service could have provided on its own. In the years after 1961 the Admiralty was to stress this point, developing a scheme for the projection of British power overseas using a combination of amphibious task groups, aircraft carriers and land-based RAF aircraft. This approach proved attractive to a government intent on maintaining a British presence east of Suez. It was rather less seductive to their successors once the cost of maintaining that presence became clear.

Notes 1 Naval Staff Directorate, BR1806. British Maritime Doctrine. 2nd Edition, London: The Stationary Office, 1999, pp. 56 and 223. 2 For a discussion of the distinction between ‘naval’ and ‘maritime’ forces see the introduction to this book. 3 James Cable, Gunboat Diplomacy, 1919–1979. Political Applications of Limited Naval Force. 2nd Edition, New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1981, p. 39. 4 Cable, Gunboat Diplomacy, passim. Also see James Cable, Navies in Violent Peace, London: Macmillan, 1989 and James Cable, The Political Influence of Naval Force in History, London: Macmillan, 1998.

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5 For example, Edward N. Luttwak, The Political Uses of Sea Power, Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 1974; Ken Booth, Navies and Foreign Policy, London: Croom Helm, 1977; Eric Grove, The Future of Sea Power, Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1990; and, Norman Friedman, Seapower as Strategy. Navies and National Interests, Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2001. 6 Luttwak, The Political Influence of Naval Force, p. (vi). 7 Ibid., chapter 1. 8 Booth, Navies and Foreign Policy, Chapter 2. 9 BR1806. British Maritime Doctrine, pp. 22–7. 10 Cable, Gunboat Diplomacy, pp. 65–7. 11 Mustafa Alani, Operation Vantage. British Military Intervention in Kuwait, 1961, Surbiton: LAAM, 1990, p. 36; W.B.R. Neave-Hill, British Support of the Amir of Kuwait 1961, The Historical Section, Ministry of Defence Library, 1968, p. 14. 12 Ralph Hewins, A Golden Dream. The Miracle of Kuwait, London: W.H. Allen, 1963, pp. 284–5. 13 The UK Public Records Office, Kew (henceforth PRO): CAB 21/4860, note to Prime Minister, 12 June 1961 ‘Kuwait: Future Relations with the United Kingdom’. 14 Qasim is often misspelled as ‘Kassim’ in British documents. 15 Alani, Operation Vantage, pp. 64–5. 16 Ibid. pp.76–77. Hewins, A Golden Dream, p. 285. 17 PRO: DEFE 13/89, ‘Intervention in Kuwait’. 18 PRO: ADM 234/1068, BR1736(55), Naval Staff History. Middle East Operations: Jordan/Lebanon 1958, Kuwait 1961. 19 Neave-Hill, British Support, p. 51. 20 PRO: DEFE 13/89. 21 Ibid. PRO: DEFE 5/118, COS (61) 378, Report by the Commander in Chief Middle East on Operations in Support of the State of Kuwait in July 1961, 18 Oct 1961. 22 PRO:DEFE 11/220. 23 PRO:DEFE 5/111 COS (61) 73, Letter from C-in-C Middle East to Chiefs of Staff, 2 March 1961. The main military stockpile was at Aden. The stockpile at Bahrain consisted of vehicles, equipment and supplies that would be required immediately after intervention in Kuwait. 24 PRO:PREM 11/3427, Telegram no. 639, Baghdad to the Foreign Office, 26 June 1961. 25 PRO: PREM 11/3427, Telegram no. 658, Baghdad to the Foreign Office, 28 June 1961. Accurate intelligence was not helped by the fact that a military parade was due to take place in Basra to celebrate Iraq’s national day on 14 July. It was therefore natural that some troops and armour should move to that city. 26 PRO: PREM 11/3427, Telegram no. 644, Baghdad to the Foreign Office, 27 June 1961. PRO: CAB 128/35 part 1, CC (61) 36th conclusions, 29 June 1961. PRO: DEFE 131/26, D (61) 41, 30 June 1961. 27 PRO: CAB 131/25, D (61) 11th meeting, 29 June 1961. 28 In October 1959 the British established a unified command at Aden under the control of a joint Commander-in-Chief. Originally given the title ‘British Forces, Arabian Peninsula’ the command adopted the title ‘Middle East Command’ in March 1961. 29 CC (61) 36th Conclusions. PRO: PREM 11/3427, Telegram no.413, Foreign Office to Kuwait, 29 June 1961. COS (61) 378, pp.7–9. For further details on the diplomatic background to Operation Vantage see Monice Snell-Mendoza, ‘In Defence of Oil: Britain’s Response to the Iraqi Threat towards Kuwait, 1961’, in Contemporary British History, Vol. 10, No. 3 Autumn 1996, pp. 39–62; Nigel Ashton, ‘Britain and the Kuwait Crisis, 1961’ in Diplomacy and Statecraft, Vol. 9, No. 1, March 1998, pp. 163–181; and, Richard A. Mobley, ‘Gauging the Iraqi Threat to Kuwait in the 1960s’, in Studies in Intelligence (unclassified edition), No.11, Fall–Winter 2001.

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30 RAF Muharraq. 31 Unless stated otherwise the following account of Operation Vantage is based on the Commander-in-Chief’s Report (COS (61) 378), the internal Ministry of Defence History of the operation (Neave-Hill, British Support of the Amir of Kuwait), and on Sir David Lee, Flight from the Middle East. A History of the Royal Air Force in the Arabian Peninsula and adjacent territories 1945–1962, London: HMSO, 1980 chapter 9. At the time of Operation Vantage Air Vice Marshal Lee was a senior officer within Middle East Command. 32 All times given are in Greenwich Mean Time. 33 PRO: CAB 131/26, D (61) 43, notes from a meeting held on 30 June, 1 July 1961. 34 Reconnaissance was carried out by RAF Twin Pioneers and Kuwaiti Austers. 35 At the peak of its commitment RAF Transport Command provided fifty-three transport aircraft, the Royal Rhodesian Air Force provided three aircraft and two civilian ‘Argonauts’ were chartered. This was in addition to Air Force, Middle East’s medium range transport fleet of eighteen aircraft. COS (61) 378. 36 R.D.F [Captain R.D. Franks], ‘Kuwait’, in Naval Review, Vol. 50, 1962, pp. 39–42. 37 Ibid. 38 PRO: ADM 53,155427, HMS Centaur. Ship’s Log. PRO: ADM 53/156513, HMS Saintes. Ship’s Log. PRO: ADM 53/155339, HMS Camperdown. Ship’s Log. PRO: ADM 53/15571, HMS Finisterre. Ship’s Log. PRO: ADM 53, 156858, HMS Victorious. Ship’s Log. PRO: ADM 53/156061, HMS Llandaff. Ship’s Log. PRO: ADM 53/157032, HMS Yarmouth. Ship’s Log. PRO: ADM 53/156095, HMS Loch Insch. Ship’s Log. COS (61) 378. 39 COS (61) 378. 40 Author’s interview with Captain R.D. Franks, 8 May 1996. A Joint Intelligence Committee report in March 1961 identified that the Iraqis possessed nine ex-Soviet P-6 patrol boats and four river gunboats. Mobley, ‘Gauging the Iraqi Threat’, p. 3. Despite this the possibility of an Iraqi attack at sea was discounted at a relatively early stage and even when more ships became available the aircraft carrier HMS Victorious was escorted by a single frigate. PRO: CAB 131/26. 41 Hewins, A Golden Dream, p. 298. 42 COS (61) 378. 43 Lee, Flight from the Middle East, p. 180. 44 COS (61) 378. 45 Ministry of Defence Naval Historical Branch, Whitehall; Box T2644–T2673, Summary of lessons learnt by Flag Officer Aircraft Carriers from the Kuwait Operation’, 25 Oct 1961. 46 Ibid. 47 PRO: WO 32/20719. 48 See Royal Air Force Historical Society Journal, no. 21, 2000, pp. 96–151. PRO: WO 32/20721, Army Operational Research Group No. 6/61. ‘Operation Vantage’ pp. 10–11. 49 Army Operational Research Group pp. 8–9 and p. 29. 50 Ibid. 51 Ibid., p. 13. 52 See Phillip Darby, British Defence Policy East of Suez, 1947–1968, London: Oxford University Press, 1973, pp. 248–9. 53 Army Operational Research Group, pp. 18–23. 54 COS (61) 378. 55 Army Operational Research Group, pp. 18–28.

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56 In addition to offering diplomatic support for British action the US Secretary of State, Dean Rusk, also offered to divert to the Gulf a small US Navy force of two destroyers and a landing ship with 500 marines embarked that was currently off East Africa. In the event it was decided that this force was not required. PRO: PREM 11/3428. PRO: CAB 21/4860. PRO: CAB 128/25, CC(61) 37th conclusions, 30 June 1961. 57 Neave-Hill, British Support of the Amir of Kuwait, p. 17. 58 Most notably Alani is particularly critical of British motives. Alani, Operation Vantage, Chapter 12. Hewins, A Golden Dream, pp. 295–301. 59 Cable, Gunboat Diplomacy, p. 66. 60 PRO: CAB 128/35 part 1, CC(61) 38th conclusions, 3 July 1961. 61 COS (61) 378. 62 PRO: WO 32/20720, message from the Ministry of Defence to CINC MIDEAST (Bahrain), 7 July 1961.

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10 OPERATIONS IN A WAR ZONE The Royal Navy in the Persian Gulf in the 1980s Warren Chin This chapter examines the deployment of the Royal Navy’s Armilla Patrol in the Gulf during the time of the Iran–Iraq War (1980–88). Although the Armilla Patrol did not represent a major commitment of British naval assets, its role in this conflict is significant. This small force, which usually consisted of no more than two frigates and a supply ship, played a crucial role in preserving the right of shipping to move freely through the Gulf. In addition, it also fulfilled a wider range of political and diplomatic objectives and consequently provides an interesting illustration of how naval power can effectively be used below the threshold of general war. Historically, navies have played an important role in being used as a political instrument; however, within the context of the post Cold War era, the significance of this activity has increased, particularly within the realm of ‘wars of choice’. The linkage between British intervention in the Iran–Iraq War and ‘wars of choice’ might seem strange because the defining characteristic of the latter is the lack of any real interest on the part of the intervening power in the conflict. Under such circumstances, while governments have been morally or politically obliged to deploy forces to such conflicts they frequently adopted a low risk strategy which made the effective use of force all but impossible. Underlying this paralysis was the view that, although there were strong political imperatives that cajoled governments to deploy military power, at the same time governments also feared the human and material losses that such deployments might entail. The result was what one observer termed the creation of symbolic ‘security politics’: the deployment of force in a potentially hazardous environment, but little meaningful use being made of this capability.1 In the case of the Iran–Iraq War, the geo-strategic importance of the region and the dependence of the advanced industrialised states on oil supplies that flowed through the Persian Gulf suggest that this is a clear cut example of a war that potentially threatened the vital interests of the dominant economic powers. Therefore the concept and practical problems flowing from the idea of a ‘war of choice’ do not apply. However, the actions of the intervening powers in this war indicate that the political and strategic situation was not so ‘black and white’ and that, while there was a strong political imperative to deploy force, political circumstances also dictated that their role would be limited. These political

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constraints were to have important operational and tactical consequences for the deployment of the Armilla Patrol. However, before discussing the actual nature of this naval commitment and the problems it faced it is first important to provide a general narrative of the war and the actions of the protagonists. Following this an attempt will be made to explain why the UK decided to intervene in the conflict and related to this, why the intervention assumed the size and shape that it did. Finally, the remaining part of the chapter will look at how the Armilla Patrol operated in this conflict and attempt to make some tentative assessment of how successful it was in political and military terms.

The causes of the Iran–Iraq war and the conduct of the war at sea The causes of any war are complex, and the case of the Iran–Iraq War is no exception. Certainly there is a long history of rivalry and conflict between the Arabs and Persians in this region where these two distinct cultures and civilisations overlap. In terms of modern Iran and Iraq, relations between these two states were never friendly and were overshadowed by territorial disputes over the border between them and control over the strategically important Shatt al Arab Waterway. The Shatt al Arab was Iraq’s principal outlet to the Gulf and one of the primary means through which it exported oil to the world. Consequently, it is hardly surprising that Iraq took exception to the Algiers Accord of 1975 which resolved this dispute in favour of Iran. It was clear that the Iraqi government only accepted this agreement because Iran made veiled threats to support Iraq’s Kurdish population in a war against the regime in Baghdad. To a large extent Iran was able to impose its will on Iraq simply because it was so much more powerful than its neighbour. Iran’s population was three times greater than that of Iraq and its gross national product was five times more. Although Iran’s armed forces were only a third larger than Iraq’s the Iranians had a big advantage in terms of the quality and superiority of their equipment.2 In addition they also enjoyed a close economic and military relationship with the United States. Although perhaps simplistic, the catalyst for this conflict can be traced to the internal turmoil that followed the overthrow of the Pahlevi Dynasty in 1978 and the creation of an Islamic Republic. The revolution within Iran produced two important effects that extended beyond its immediate borders. The first was a strong antipathy towards the Ba’athist regime in Baghdad, which resulted in the implementation of a series of actions that were designed to undermine the Iraqi government and which became an important source of tension between both states. The second effect produced by the revolution was that it resulted in the collapse of Iran as the dominant military power in the region. This was caused by the new government’s attack on the armed forces, which were seen as a creature of the Shah’s regime. In their first year of power the new government of Iran executed nearly one hundred senior officers and hundreds more were imprisoned or fled the country. By 1980, the Iranian air force had lost half its trained fighter pilots 182

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and the army lost half of its officers of the rank of major and above. So suspicious was the new regime of the old Imperial armed forces that they attempted to supplant them with a new military force known as the Pasdaran or Revolutionary Guards. The result of this action served to demoralise the Iranian military.3 The new Iranian government also weakened the material dimension of the Iranian military. The government having adopted a hostile policy towards the United States and the West in general, the response of the Americans was to withdraw the thousands of American technicians who maintained their equipment and weapons. Equally important, the Americans also stopped providing the spare parts needed to maintain the weapons systems used by the Iranian army, navy and air force. As a result, by 1980, 50 per cent of the Iranian air force was grounded because of mechanical and technical problems. The demise of Iran as the dominant military power in the region resulted in a fundamental shift in the balance of power. Most important, it created an opportunity for Iraq, a longstanding rival to Iran’s ambitions to be regional hegemon, to launch what it hoped would be a short but decisive war against a weak and unstable Iran. The strategic goals of this war were to establish Iraq as the dominant regional power, overthrow the Algiers Agreement and redraw the border between Iran and Iraq on terms more favourable to Iraq.4 Saddam Hussein was convinced that the war he launched in September 1980 would be short and that the Islamic Republic would quickly collapse under the pressure of the attack. Consequently, only five of Iraq’s ten divisions were committed to the initial offensive into Iran. This was meant to be a limited war. As such the Iraqi offensive was brought to a halt after only six days. It was assumed that enough had been done to declare a victory and that the Iranians would concede defeat. Unfortunately for Saddam, Iran refused to comply. Instead, in spite of their military weaknesses, the Iranians escalated the war and made it clear that for them this was a total war in which they would not be satisfied with anything less than the removal of Saddam Hussein from power. For the next eight years Iraq and Iran were to be locked in a bloody attritional war fought over a front of 700 miles that came to be compared to the trench-deadlock of the Great War of 1914–18. Like that war the casualties were horrendous and it is estimated that between 1.5 million and 3 million men were either killed or wounded in a war that ended in stalemate.5

The naval war In the early years of the conflict the threat posed to shipping was more latent than real. The lion’s share of Iran and Iraq’s investment in the war remained heavily focused on the land war and both belligerents possessed only limited maritime capabilities. At the start of the war the Iranian Navy had eleven destroyers, frigates and corvettes and nineteen patrol craft and minesweepers. Its maritime air arm possessed only a limited offensive capability because the three squadrons of fighters dedicated to support the Navy at sea had not been trained to conduct 183

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attacks against ships. The effectiveness of Iran’s air force was reduced even more by a lack of spares for their US made aircraft and a lack of trained pilots to fly them. Iraqi naval assets were even more limited in that most of its vessels were fast patrol boats. However, they did have a squadron of helicopters armed with Exocet missiles and this force was to play an important role in the war at sea.6 In the opening phases of the war both sides used their naval forces to attack their opponent’s oil infrastructure on the coast. The Iranians proved more successful in this venture and a combination of naval and commando assaults resulted in the closure of Iraq’s oil outlets into the Gulf. Despite having only limited means to prosecute the war at sea, first Iraq and then eventually Iran escalated the war so that attacks against merchant shipping moving through the Persian Gulf increased in frequency. In the case of Iraq, its decision to begin attacking merchant shipping stemmed from the realisation that the war was not going to be the short and decisive campaign that had been anticipated at the start of hostilities. Realising his mistake, in April 1982 Saddam offered to withdraw from all Iranian territory if the Iranians would agree to a peace settlement. Unfortunately, the Iranian leadership was in no mood for compromise and they demanded the removal of the Ba’athist government and reparations of $150 billion as a condition for any ceasefire.7 Faced by this threat to his position of power, Saddam Hussein responded by attacking tankers that were en route to Iran. Exclusion zones were declared around Iran’s principal ports and ships within them were deemed to be legitimate targets. The radius of these exclusion zones gradually increased as Iraq became more desperate and eventually the war zone was set at 29 degrees, 30 minutes north latitude. This included Iran’s most important oil terminals, like Karg Island, but left much of the Gulf free from attack, which meant that the Arab Gulf states remained unaffected by Iraqi action. The object of the exercise was to suffocate Iranian oil exports and coerce the Iranians to accept a ceasefire. However, it was to take some time before the Iraqis obtained the necessary skill and equipment to implement this strategy effectively. As a result, the strategy of attacking merchant shipping enjoyed only limited success in the first three years of the war.8 The mixed fortunes of the anti-shipping campaign did not persuade the Iraqi government to abandon this strategy. In fact, the continuing success of Iranian offensives in 1984 made this coercive campaign more appealing because it provided an alternative avenue to exert pressure on the Iranian government that entailed minimal political and military risk for Iraq. Circumstances also combined so that the Iraqis were able to concentrate sufficient force on this Iranian weakness. In contrast, the ability of the Iranians to resist these attacks continued to diminish as more of its air force fell into a state of disrepair through lack of spares and proper maintenance; by this stage of the war the Iranians had fewer than 100 operational fighters.9 In January 1984, Iraq announced the launch of a much larger and better air campaign against commercial shipping in the Gulf. The object of the exercise remained the same: to coerce Iran into stopping the war. 184

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During this period the Iranian reaction to Iraq’s campaign at sea was one of restraint. According to Navias and Hooton, the Iranian government was eager not to antagonise outside powers by attacking merchant shipping. Equally important, the Iranians wanted to concentrate their resources on fighting the land campaign where they stood the best chance of achieving victory. It was also unclear whether the sporadic and ineffective nature of Iraq’s attacks warranted retaliatory action in kind.10 Moreover, the Iranians were heavily dependent on merchant vessels continuing to transport Iranian oil out of the Gulf. As such they had a vested interest in limiting the attacks in the Gulf and preserving a sense of normality. However, by 1984 the increased effectiveness of Iraqi air attacks against shipping in the Gulf and the pain this was causing the Iranian economy forced the Iranians to retaliate. Iran’s decision to initiate its own anti-shipping campaign represented a significant escalation in the war at sea. The absence of any Iraqi shipping in the Gulf meant that the Iranians were forced to attack Iraq’s Gulf allies. This action also served a broader political function in that it reinforced earlier warnings issued by Tehran to the Arab Gulf states that they should stop supporting the Iraqi war effort. Equally important, Iranian attacks were conducted outside the designated war zone. The Iranians hoped that attacks of this sort would deter Iraq from continuing to attack merchant shipping in the Gulf, but the reaction of the Iraqis was to escalate the war and increase the scale and intensity of their campaign in the Gulf. The result was a series of tit-for-tat air strikes against shipping in the Gulf, the intensity of which varied according to ebb and flow of the land war. Thus, in 1985, the failure of a major Iraqi land offensive and the continuing success of the Iranians to isolate the port of Basra forced the Iraqis to again escalate their attacks against Iranian owned and chartered shipping. The Iranians responded to these attacks by striking at Kuwaiti shipping and threatening to close the Gulf to all ships. This pattern was repeated in February 1986 when the Iraqis lost the vital port of Umm Qasr and the Al Faw Peninsula. Iran responded in kind attacking Kuwaiti and Saudi shipping in the Gulf. As a result, attacks against merchant shipping increased from 7 in 1983 to 73 in 1984 and reached a peak of 165 in 1987.11 Like the Iraqis, Iran relied on fighter aircraft and helicopters firing air-tosurface missiles at shipping in the early phase of the war. However, the contrasting fortunes of the Iraqi air force which seemed to have unlimited access to the global arms market, and the Iranian air force which did not, meant that by late 1986, Iran possessed fewer that fifty operational combat aircraft and these were badly needed to support the army’s operations.12 As a result, the Iraqis were able to establish air superiority over the northern end of the Gulf, which made it easier for them to use air power to attack merchant shipping. In contrast, the Iranians were forced to adopt what might be termed ‘asymmetric’ tactics that circumvented Iraq’s superiority in the air and allowed them to strike at merchant shipping via unorthodox means. In the first instance the Iranians relied increasingly on their frigates to attack merchant shipping. The frigates would first stop and search a ship, let it continue 185

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with its journey, follow it and then attack during the night. The limited success of its frigates in this type of operation resulted in Tehran relying more on the use of the Pasdaran, or Revolutionary Guards. These were volunteers who had little practical experience of naval warfare, but possessed more than enough zeal and courage to compensate for any lack of skill. The Pasdaran contained over 20,000 men and operated from two naval bases at Abu Musa and Farsi Island. These forces were supplied with fifty or more large speedboats and hundreds of fishing boats and they were armed with heavy machine guns and rocket propelled grenades. Obviously, such weaponry was useless in terms of crippling or even sinking an oil tanker or merchant ship. So instead, the Pasdaran used their weapons to attack the crews of the ships in the hope that this would instil sufficient terror to deter merchant shipping from completing their voyages. More worrying was the decision to use the Pasdaran to deploy mines in the Gulf. Starting in January 1987, Iran began using its many fishing boats to lay mines off the coast of Oman, the United Arab Emirates and Qatar. The Iranians also began using surface-to-surface missiles to attack shipping as it moved through the Straits of Hormuz. To do this the Iranians relied on the purchase of the Chinese Silkworm missile. This represented a new and significant threat to shipping in the Gulf. The Silkworm had a maximum range of 95 kilometres and carried a warhead three times as heavy as that found on the Exocet missile which proved so effective in the accidental Iraqi attack against the American frigate USS Stark in May 1987.13 Approximately two Silkworm batteries were deployed on the coast in fixed and mobile sites near the Straits of Hormuz. At least two of these missiles were fired at ships at anchor off Kuwait’s oil terminal at Mina al Ahmadi. The effectiveness of these measures was such that by the end of 1986, the Kuwaiti government made a concerted effort to deal with these attacks by acquiring external protection for its merchant fleet. The Kuwaitis did this by leasing three tankers from the Soviet Union and reflagging eleven Kuwaiti tankers in the United States. Most importantly, the US government guaranteed to provide naval escorts to protect these vessels from attack. This decision brought the US Navy into direct conflict with the Pasdaran in a series of engagements between1987 and 1988 which effectively resulted in the destruction of the Pasdaran and a significant part of the Iranian Navy. Apparently, the outcome of this action was one of the key factors that convinced the Iranians to agree to a ceasefire in August 1988.14

Motives for British intervention Why then did the United Kingdom become involved in this war? This is an interesting question given that financial austerity at home had forced the Labour Government of 1966–70 to surrender the UK’s global military commitments east of Suez, which effectively meant withdrawal from the Middle East and, most important, the Persian Gulf.15 Britain’s presence in the Gulf officially came to an end in 1971. However, this did not signal the end of British military involvement 186

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in the region. Both the Wilson and Heath governments maintained the presence of a small special-forces contingent to support the Sultan of Oman in his war to defeat a Marxist insurgency in the province of Dhofar (1965–75). Less evident was the presence of the Royal Navy, which, with the end of the east of Suez role, confined itself to the occasional visit to friendly countries in the region. In view of the strategic importance of the Gulf (nearly 60 per cent of the world’s known oil reserves are located in this part of the world16) the absence of a permanent British naval presence during the 1970s might seem odd. As Cable points out, however, both the US and UK were content to rely on Imperial Iran to protect Western economic interests. This reliance on a client state to protect the economic interests of the West represented a cost effective solution to the problem of preserving the security of Western oil supplies. Equally important, it allowed both the UK and the US to concentrate their military assets in more vital theatres of operation. From the perspective of the UK this resulted in the concentration of its military power in north-west Europe and the deployment of its naval forces in the eastern Atlantic, where their principal function was to protect the sea lanes of communication between the US and western Europe. The Iranian revolution in 1978 brought this cosy quasi-colonial arrangement to an end. It is interesting to note that, in spite of the real strategic interests at stake for the West in the Persian Gulf, Western governments were generally unwilling to intervene in the war. Even the United States, which possessed the military means to deploy a significant military force that had been configured for operations in the Persian Gulf, was not directly involved in the war until 1987. This suggests that the threat to Western oil supplies did exist but that it was a latent rather than real threat. Western governments were able to be passive rather than proactive in this crisis because the threat to their oil supplies was not that acute. This was due to a combination of factors. First, Western governments had learned from the experience of the Yom Kippur War in 1973 to maintain a strategic reserve of oil in times of crisis so that they were better placed to withstand the effect of a breakdown in global supplies. In general, states stored thirty days supply of oil and usually had a similar quantity at sea making its way to the homeland. Second, economic recession in the United States and western Europe in the late 1970s and early 1980s meant that global demand for oil was relatively low. In fact, there was a glut of oil on the global oil market and the price of crude oil was generally depressed throughout the course of the war. Thus, in 1981, the price of oil was $36 a barrel. By June 1987 it had fallen to $17 a barrel.17 Third, in overall terms the tanker war affected only a tiny proportion of the merchant shipping moving through the Gulf and it is estimated that only 1 per cent of merchant shipping was attacked.18 Finally, and most important, both protagonists had a vested interest in selling their oil so that they could fund their military operations. Obviously both Iran and Iraq also had a vested interest in preventing their opponent from earning revenues from oil sales, which was one of the reasons why the Iraqis initiated the ‘tanker war’. Equally important was Iraq’s covert aim of using the tanker war to provoke international intervention. They hoped to do this 187

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by goading the Iranians to close the strategically important choke point of the Straits of Hormuz and thus cut the supply of oil from the Gulf. The Iranians themselves threatened such action on a number of occasions but never acted on their threat. According to Karsh, the failure of the Iranians to carry out their threat stemmed from the fact that they understood what the Iraqis were trying to do and so were determined not to provoke the international community through such a reckless act.19 It also seems that most Western governments realised that Iran’s threats to close the Gulf to merchant shipping was an empty one and therefore saw little need to take direct action.20 In the case of the UK the reasons for intervention appear to have been even less pressing. Unlike its European counterparts, Britain, because it possessed its own oil resources, ‘had no obvious strategic vulnerability that conditioned her response to the outbreak of the war’.21 This did not mean that the UK was immune to the potential economic effects of this conflict. However, even though it possessed its own indigenous oil reserves it was still in the interests of the UK, and hence an important foreign policy objective, to ensure that oil supplies flowed freely from the region so that the global price for oil remained affordable to the industrialised world.22 Moreover, oil from the Gulf accounted for nearly a fifth of the UK’s oil supplies so its immunity was actually quite limited.23 In political terms the UK also had a vested interest in promoting stability within the region and preventing the war spreading to the other Gulf States. Finally, the UK was also eager to prevent the Soviet Union from exploiting the war as a way of increasing its own influence in the region at the expense of the West. Underlying this desire to limit Soviet influence was the fear that the war could escalate to become a more widespread conflict between the West and the Soviet bloc.24 Clearly, then, the UK had good reason to be concerned about the war between Iran and Iraq, but it is also important to note that the ability of the UK to influence the outcome of the conflict was limited. As Chipman explains, the legacy of colonial rule in Iraq and the close association between the Shah of Iran and former British governments meant that the UK had little influence over the belligerents. Equally important, the British did not possess sufficient military power to affect the military balance within the region or coerce the belligerent states. Under such circumstances it might have been better to let the United States act as the protector of UK and Western interests generally. However, UK and US policy on how to manage the conflict varied significantly on some matters. Of particular concern was the difference of opinion between the US and Europe over the use of force and in particular the possibility that the United States might deploy the Rapid Deployment Force in the Gulf. Both the British and Europeans feared that this could be destabilising and distract US attention from the defence of Europe.

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Problems and challenges The decision to deploy the Armilla Patrol in 1980 was intended to address some of the concerns already highlighted. The destroyer HMS Coventry and the frigate HMS Alacrity began the first patrol in the Persian Gulf in October of that year. The size of the patrol was increased for a short time to four ships (three frigates and a supply ship), but in the aftermath of the Falklands war in 1982 this commitment was reduced to a single Type 42 destroyer, which was responsible for air defence, and a Type 22 frigate, which was supposed to deal with the threat posed by air-to-surface and surface-to-surface missiles. The principal mission of the patrol was to operate in the waters of the Southern Gulf, the Straits of Hormuz and the Gulf of Oman and ensure freedom of navigation in these waters to British shipping. In theory at least, naval power is an extremely useful instrument of policy and the Armilla Patrol provided the UK government with a number of benefits, some of which became more apparent as the Iran–Iraq war escalated. Naval power is perhaps the most ‘fungible’ of military assets available to a government when seeking to use force below the important threshold of war, where it functions as part of a broader diplomatic and political bargaining strategy. By fungible, I refer to the versatility and utility of military power in terms of how it can be used to persuade, deter and coerce an opposing power to do something that they would otherwise not do simply because of the latent threat posed by the deployment of that force.25 In essence, the significance of the Armilla Patrol was that it demonstrated the political and psychological uses of naval power short of war. An understandable question to ask is how the deployment of two combat ships and a supply ship in the Gulf could achieve anything meaningful in terms of political and/or military effect. According to Luttwak, a token naval force that does not command a military superiority in a theatre of operations can still exert influence if the ship is seen as a symbol of a great power which has the wherewithal to enforce its will if challenged.26 A classic example was the employment of ‘gunboat diplomacy’ by the Royal Navy during the heyday of the British Empire. But sadly, by 1980, the UK was no longer considered a great power and its navy no longer ruled the waves. Interestingly, both Cable and Booth challenge the idea that only a powerful naval force can exert influence in a political and military strategic context. Cable notes that ‘no fallacy is harder to eradicate than the common notion that major naval powers enjoy monopoly rights in gunboat diplomacy’. He points out that during the Cold War both the US and Soviet Union were frequently the victims of gunboat diplomacy even though they possessed the first and second largest navies in the world at that time.27 Booth also commented on the lack of a connection between the size of a navy and the political influence it exerted. Diplomatic success was dependent on the ‘quality, quantity and appropriateness’ of the navy’s capabilities and the skill of its personnel. Equally important was the skill of the diplomatic support behind it and nature of the government being influenced.28

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The successful deployment of naval power is also dependent on the mission it is given. Booth identifies three major roles or functions that naval powers adopt to achieve their aims: ●

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a diplomatic role, which is concerned with the use of naval power short of war; a policing role, which focuses on the maintenance of law and order within territorial waters; a military role, in which naval forces are used to complete a range of missions.29

For the Armilla Patrol, carrying out any of these roles was complicated by the war and the political and legal constraints within which the patrol operated. At the outbreak of hostilities between Iran and Iraq the British government adopted the position of strict neutrality. Its primary aim was to encourage both parties to work towards a ceasefire and eventually a final settlement.30 In line with this policy the British government made strenuous efforts to ensure that UK manufacturers complied with the introduction of an arms embargo and sought to maintain cordial relations with both belligerents. It is also important to bear in mind that the British government wanted to avoid contributing to the escalation of the conflict or becoming directly involved in hostilities with either Iran or Iraq. Force packages, tactics and rules of engagement had to be calibrated to support wider diplomatic and political actions. As such, the main function of the Armilla Patrol was to protect British flagged vessels, and the force structure was therefore designed to be as non-provocative as possible. As Bruce George pointed out, special care was even taken by the British to ensure that the presence of the Royal Navy in the Gulf was not associated with any of the states in the region. Thus, unlike the US, which re-supplied its ships from the port of Manama in Bahrain, the Royal Navy relied on supply ships sailing direct from the UK.31 Specific rules were also laid down to ensure that the presence of the Armilla Patrol was not interpreted as an attempt by the British to relive the glorious days of empire or re-enact gunboat diplomacy. The rules of engagement were clear: ships could not use their weaponry unless attacked. The patrol was not even permitted to conduct traditional convoy duty by providing close escort to merchant ships as they moved through the Gulf. Instead they were ‘merely to supervise transit through the Straits of Hormuz’.32 In addition, there were important constraints on the size of force that the Royal Navy could maintain in the Gulf. The need to rotate ships on the patrol required three ships to be on station, three more either preparing for duty or making their way to the Gulf and a further three ships returning from the region. In total this commitment consumed 18 per cent of the Royal Navy’s surface fleet.33 However, political and physical constraints on the size of the Armilla Patrol were breached when the need arose. Thus, Iran’s escalation of the tanker war in 190

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1987 resulted in the British sending a third frigate to reinforce the patrol. Similarly, when it was realised that the Straits of Hormuz had been mined the British government, under some pressure from the United States, deployed four minehunters to join their naval forces already there. A more direct form of protection for British shipping was also adopted and the Royal Navy now accompanied merchant ships through the most hazardous parts of the Gulf. However, this still did not entail providing close escort or convoy duty.34 Equally important, the British refused to place their minehunters under the command of the Americans because they did not want to be too closely associated with the actions of the US Navy. The physical dimensions of the theatre of operations also presented a challenge to the Royal Navy, trained as it was to function in the open seas of the Atlantic. Both the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman are relatively small, virtually landlocked bodies of water; the Persian Gulf is only 200 miles at its widest point and approximately 35 miles at its narrowest point, which is at the Straits of Hormuz.35 As a result, naval forces were exposed to a range of threats from the sea, air and land. Matters were made more complicated because this was also a busy hub of economic activity. There were some eighteen air corridors across the Persian Gulf covering 50 per cent of the navigable water and it was estimated that 1,775 commercial airline flights passed through the area on a weekly basis. Although the sea was less busy than the aerial dimension, over eighty ships passed through the Straits of Hormuz every day.36 The complexity of the littoral environment was such as to make the effective implementation of rules of engagement extremely complicated. Under such conditions it was difficult to regulate air and sea traffic, create stand-off zones around warships or identify a threat. The existence of this ‘fog of war’ in the littoral zone partly explains why the Aegis Cruiser, USS Vincennes mistook a commercial airliner for an Iranian F-14 Fighter and shot it down resulting in the tragic death of 210 Iranian civilians.37 In the Gulf War of 1990–91, it was again found that the performance of the powerful sensor and surveillance system of warships like the American Aegis Cruiser, which was designed for warfare in the open oceans, was degraded when operating in the Gulf by the proximity of mountainous terrain, high temperatures and amount of activity on land.38 A further problem was the lack of close cooperation between the various navies deployed in the Gulf. It is estimated that by October 1980, eighty-nine ships belonging to nations outside the Persian Gulf were operating within the Gulf and Indian Ocean. The Soviet Union encouraged the creation of an integrated United Nations Force to manage the crisis unfolding in the Gulf, but this idea came to nothing because of the problem of national politics. Even meaningful cooperation between Western states was difficult to achieve. For example, when the United States requested help from its European allies to clear minefields in the Gulf not only was the response from European capitals rather slow and hesitant, in addition the UK, Belgium, the Netherlands and Italy refused to place their minehunters under the command of the US Navy because of concerns over US policy in the region.39 191

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Cooperation between the Europeans, via the Western European Union, was more effective in so far as the British guaranteed to use their frigates in the Gulf to protect all the European minehunters from attack. In addition, the Dutch and the Belgians agreed to place their vessels under the command of a Belgian officer. The Italians remained aloof from these arrangements and sent a significant force which contained three frigates and three minehunters. This force was intended to offer protection to Italian merchant shipping and demonstrate that Italy had special interests in the region that required a powerful national contingent. It is important to stress that, despite the recommendation of the naval commanders that closer integration of the European naval forces made good sense, governments took the view that each of the European forces should remain under national command. In Grove’s view there were two issues that were foremost in the minds of the UK government on this matter. First, such an act might strengthen the case of the pro-Europe lobby which could result in the UK being dragged further down the path of integration with Europe. Second, there were fears that the creation of a Western European Union naval force might alienate the Americans.40 So how successful was the Armilla Patrol in terms of achieving its political and strategic objectives? In general terms the Armilla Patrol fulfilled the first and last of those functions of naval power cited by Booth as a means of demonstrating the effectiveness of a naval deployment. Thus, in diplomatic terms, the presence of the Armilla Patrol helped reassure friendly governments in the Gulf which feared attack.41 The patrol also supported the British government’s broader political efforts to contain the war and negotiate a ceasefire. Finally, the presence of the Armilla Patrol promoted cooperation and cohesion within the western alliance. In military terms, the patrol acted as a deterrent to both Iraqi and Iranian forces contemplating an attack against British shipping operating in the Gulf. Although the deployment was not designed to be provocative the British government reserved the right for the patrol to defend itself and if necessary conduct wider attacks that were intended to punish and coerce an aggressor.42 The legal basis for this action was that the UK government was upholding international law and the right of freedom of navigation in the Gulf which also falls under the remit of Booth’s military role.43 How successful this policy was in terms of protecting British merchant shipping is, as Cable explains, more difficult than it appears. As he points out: If there were few attacks on ships flying the American, British, French and Russian flags, was this because these nations maintained warships in or near the Gulf, or simply because relatively few merchant ships in the Gulf flew these flags?44 Over the duration of the war it is estimated that 16,800 ships passed through the Gulf and British owned or controlled merchant ships accounted for 1 per cent of this total. In terms of the number of attacks initiated against non British shipping, 192

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Cable estimates that 1.25 per cent of this total was subjected to attack. In the case of British shipping only 0.05 per cent of British merchant shipping was subjected to an attack from either Iraqi or Iranian forces.45 These figures were supported by the estimates put forward by the Ministry of Defence to the Foreign Affairs Committee in 1988. From 1984 until 1988 there were some 360 attacks on merchant ships in the Gulf. During this period only eight British owned or flagged ships were attacked and of these only six were damaged.46 What is also interesting is that when the tanker war was at its height in 1987–88, no British merchant ships were attacked.47 The Ministry of Defence point out that no attacks against British shipping took place when the vessels from the Armilla Patrol were in the vicinity, but the presence of the Royal Navy did not deter or stop the Iranians from searching British controlled ships, even when a British frigate was in the area. In January 1986, the Barber Perseus was stopped and searched by the Iranians while in international waters. The Royal Navy did not challenge this action. At first glance this seems to confirm the belief that the Armilla Patrol was ineffective. However, the view of the government was that the Iranians were legally entitled to conduct such a search if they had grounds for suspecting that the ship was carrying arms to the enemy, but if no arms were found then the ship had be released and allowed to go on its way. This is precisely what happened in the case of the Barber Perseus, which meant there was no need for the Royal Navy to intervene or take action.48 Obviously, the most impressive use of naval power was the US naval operation to stymie Iran’s Revolutionary Guards between 1987 and 1988. As has been said, it is claimed that this action helped convince the Iranians that they could not win the war, and that this resulted in the Iranians deciding to agree to a ceasefire in 1988. It is also important to note that the Armilla Patrol played a significant role in the successful prosecution of this operation. Iran’s decision to deploy mines in the Gulf exposed a critical weakness in this US naval task force deployed in the Gulf and Indian Ocean. Although this force consisted of over thirty ships and 25,000 personnel it did not have any minesweepers to deal with this threat. This was not just an oversight. The US Navy did not possess a significant capability in this area at all. In total it owned only twenty-one minesweepers. These vessels had been in service for over three decades and were of limited use against some of the sophisticated mines that existed at that time. Thus, although it deployed its own minesweepers it was forced to ask the Europeans to assist them in minesweeping operations. The British, Belgians and Dutch neutralised over eighty mines.49

Conclusion Although the Iran–Iraq War was a classic inter-state conventional war, the intervention it generated created political and strategic challenges for both the British and other Western governments that were to become all too familiar to the militaries of those countries in the post Cold War world. The Iran–Iraq War resulted in states like the UK deploying forces to the region even though the political support 193

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for such action was fragile. As a result, important constraints affected the use of force by the intervening powers. Through such micro-management it was hoped that casualties could be avoided and that the UK would not become directly involved in fighting somebody else’s war. These constraints produced an operational environment that was characterised by a degree of complexity that provided a foretaste of the nature of future military operations. The Armilla Patrol had the challenge of attempting to remain impartial throughout the conflict, was forced to operate under strict rules of engagement and, as part of the broader political process, attempted to work with the belligerents. Within this highly charged atmosphere, the Armilla Patrol also conducted a range of military functions, power projection, reassurance of allies, deterrence, mine clearance and even humanitarian assistance to the crews of ships attacked by both the Iranians and the Iraqis. In more general terms the Iran–Iraq War and in particular the US Navy’s engagement against the Iranians demonstrated the determination of the Iranians to challenge conventional military superiority via unconventional means50 and the dangers of asymmetric challenges to Western military superiority were clearly highlighted during this conflict. How such attacks can be prevented or deterred remains uncertain even today. The most important lesson learned is the need to deploy a force that has a range of capabilities to cover all likely conceivable threats.51 Without exception all the extra regional powers which deployed naval forces to the region lacked this combined arms capability. Overall, given the relatively small size of the Armilla Patrol, it is possible to claim that it was an excellent example of how to achieve economy of effort in the use of force. Obviously there were limits in terms of what frigates could do in the region, but the alternative of concentrating a British fleet in the Gulf simply was not feasible or desirable. The fact that the Armilla Patrol is still operating in the Gulf some seventeen years after the ceasefire between Iran and Iraq came into effect indicates the valuable service that has been rendered by this force during periods of peace and two Gulf Wars.

Notes 1 S. Badsey, ‘The influence of the media on recent British military operations’, in I. Stewart and S. Carruthers, War Culture and the Media, Trowbridge: Flicks Books, 1996, p. 3. 2 See the International Institute for Strategic Studies, The Military Balance 1979–80, London, IISS, 1979. 3 Chaim Herzog, ‘A Military Strategic Overview’, in The Iran Iraq War Impact and Implications, Basingstoke: Macmillan Publishing 1989, p. 256. 4 For an overview of the causes of the war see Dilip Hiro, The Longest War: The Iran–Iraq Military Conflict, London: Grafton Books, 1989, pp. 7–39. 5 Anthony. H. Cordesman and Abraham. R. Wagner, Lessons of Modern War Volume II, Boulder/San Francisco, Westview Press 1991, p. 3. 6 Martin Navias and E.R. Hooton, Tanker Wars: The Assault on Merchant Shipping during the Iran–Iraq Conflict, 1980–1988, London: I.B. Tauris, 1996, p. 24.

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7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Nadia El Sayed el Shazly, The Gulf Tanker War, London: Macmillan, 1998, p. 4. Cordesman and Wagner, Lessons of Modern War Vol 11, p. 173. Navias and Hooton, Tanker Wars, p. 71. Navias and Hooton, Tanker Wars, p. 61. Nadia El Sayed El Shazly, The Gulf Tanker War, pp. 19–23. Ibid., p. 121. Cordesman and Wagner, The Lessons of Modern War Vol II , pp. 274–91. For a critique of the effectiveness of US policy in ending the Iran–Iraq War see Thomas McNaugher, ‘Walking a Tightrope in the Gulf, in Karsh (ed.) The Iran–Iraq War, pp. 171–99. Statement on the Defence Estimates, 1968, Cmnd.3357, 1967–68, (London: HMSO, 1968) p. 2. Anthony H Cordesman, The Iran Iraq War and Western Security 1984–87, London: RUSI, 1987, pp.12–17. Bruce George, ‘The Gulf War and the Protection of Shipping’, Brassey’s Defence Yearbook, London: RUSI Defence Publishers, 1989, p. 199. Navias and Hooton, Tanker Wars, p. 131. Effraim Karsh, ‘The Islamic Republic and the Gulf’, in The Iran Iraq War Impact and Implications (ed.) Efraim Karsh, Basingstoke: Macmillan Press, 1989, p. 37. Navias and Hooton, Tanker Wars, p. 95. John Chipman, ‘Europe and the Iran–Iraq War’, in The Iran Iraq War Impact and Implications (ed.) Efraim Karsh, Basingstoke: Macmillan Press, 1989, p. 218. The Foreign Affairs Committee, The Iran Iraq Conflict HC279–I, 1987–88, London: HMSO 1988, p.3, para. 15. Ibid., p. 9, para. 9. Ibid., para. 16. Robert J. Art, ‘The Fungibility of Force’, in Robert J. Art and Kenneth N. Waltz (eds), The Use of Force: Military Power and International Politics, Oxford: Rowan and Littlefield 1999, pp. 3–22. Edward Luttwak, The Political Uses of Sea Power, Baltimore, Maryland: John Hopkins University press, 1974, pp. 30–1. Sir James Cable, Navies in Violent Peace, Basingstoke: Macmillan 1989, p. 45. K. Booth, Navies and Foreign Policy, London: Croom Helm 1977, pp. 28–9. Ibid., pp. 18–25. Foreign Affairs Committee, HC 279–I, 1987–88, pp. 3–4 paras 16–18. Bruce George, 1989 Brassey’s Defence Yearbook, p. 211. Ibid. Ibid. Foreign Affairs Committee, The Iran/Iraq Conflict HC 279 vii, 1987–88, London: HMSO, 1988, p. 108, para. 3. Christopher C. Joyner, (ed.), The Persian Gulf War: Lessons for Strategy, Law, and Diplomacy, Westport, Con: Greenwood Publishing, 1990, p. 2. Cordesman and Wagner, The Lessons of Modern War Vol.II, p. 580. Eric Grove and Michael Pugh, ‘Operational and technical requirements’, in Michael Pugh, (ed.), Maritime Security and Peacekeeping: A Framework for United Nations Operations, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1994, p. 177. Ibid., p. 175. Eric Grove, Maritime Strategy and European Security Common Security Studies no. 2, London: Brassey’s ,1990, p. 59. Ibid., p. 62. House of Commons Defence Committee, 13th Report.

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42 Foreign Affairs Committee, The Iran Iraq Conflict Minutes of Evidence, HC 279–iii, 1987–88 London: HMSO, 1988, Qs 397–402. 43 Booth, Navies and Foreign Policy, p. 21. 44 Cable, Navies in Violent Peace, p. 62. 45 Ibid., p. 63. 46 Foreign Affairs Committee, HC 279–ii, 1987–88 p. 108, para. 5. 47 Nadia El Sayed El Shazly, The Gulf Tanker War: Iran and Iraq’s Maritime Swordplay, Basingstoke: Macmillan Press Ltd, 1998, pp. 22–8. 48 Ibid., p. 120, para. 12. 49 Cordesman and Wagner, The Lessons of Modern War Vol.II, p. 338. 50 Ibid., p. 565. 51 Ibid.

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11 FROM PEACEKEEPING TO PEACE ENFORCEMENT The Royal Navy and Peace Support Operations Andrew Dorman1

Introduction The British armed forces have had a long history of involvement in peacekeeping, peace support and peace enforcement operations. Some have been undertaken under United Nations (UN) auspices, such as the UN mission to Cyprus which has been ongoing in various forms since the 1960s or more recently the deployment of forces to Bosnia before the Dayton peace agreement of 1995.2 Others have been undertaken outside of the United Nations but under the umbrella of a regional body such as NATO’s deployments to Bosnia and Kosovo.3 The United Kingdom has also undertaken such operations alongside such international organisations as the United Nations and a recent example of this has been the British involvement in Sierra Leone since May 2000.4 What these examples demonstrate is a continuing willingness for successive British governments to commit themselves to such operations and sustain them over the long term. The reasons for this are varied, bringing elements of real politik and morality together in the use of military forces.5 This latter element directly relates to the idea of ‘forces for good,’ enunciated by the current government in a speech made by the Prime Minister entitled ‘The Doctrine of the International Community’,6 but which has formed an element of British foreign policy for the past two centuries at least. This internationalist perspective is shared across the political spectrum within the United Kingdom and partly explains the support of the Conservative government in 1991 for the creation of safe havens for the Kurds in Northern Iraq in the immediate aftermath of the 1991 Gulf War.7 ‘The Doctrine of the International Community’ encompasses many of the ideas incorporated within the concept of cosmopolitanism8 and Tony Blair has argued for change both nationally and within the European Union. In the same year a Franco-British initiative led the European Union to agree to develop its own military capability capable of supporting the Petersberg Tasks.9 More recently, the British government has strongly supported the French-led European Union mission to the Ivory Coast. It has put forward proposals with

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the French for support of the United Nations in Africa including the creation of an on-call EU force.10 The United Kingdom has also pledged a force centred upon an infantry brigade capable of rapid deployment worldwide to the United Nations. Taking this commitment a stage further we subsequently witnessed the United Kingdom pursuing this agenda in the immediate aftermath of 11 September 2001 and during the subsequent war in Afghanistan. Here Blair promised to match war fighting with nation-building with equal vigour11 and we saw this being developed with the British emphasis upon the creation of International Stability Assistance Force in Kabul, initially under British command, now after several handovers under NATO’s ambit.12 Within this context this chapter will examine the Royal Navy’s involvement in peace support operations. To undertake this task the chapter has been divided into three parts. First, it will examine some of the developments within peace support operations looking at the range from peacekeeping to peace enforcement and how they relate to the UN Charter and the context in which they work. Second, the chapter looks at the case study of Sierra Leone as an example of how the Royal Navy contributes to peace support operations. Finally, a number of conclusions are drawn about the Royal Navy’s involvement and how this is likely to develop in the future.

Peace support operations: a growing spectrum of operations? In traditional wars success was usually easy to define. Commanders needed to focus on how to defeat an opponent’s armed forces and in that way inflict defeat upon him and win.13 However, if we look at the range of peace support operations that have been undertaken it is clear that the picture is far more complicated. Victory is rarely the defined end state. Indeed, for peacekeeping operations where the United Nations is involved they act as a neutral party with the acquiescence of the warring parties. Moreover, we can often see so-called ‘Mission creep’ with a moving political end state. Additionally, since the end of the Cold War we have witnessed a complete redefining of what we mean by peacekeeping to incorporate humanitarian operations and peace enforcement. First, it is worth acknowledging that the UN Charter does not actually refer directly to peacekeeping but instead makes the assumption that disputes between nations will be resolved.14 Thus, the Korean War was formally a war in which the United Nations came to the assistance of South Korea when it was attacked by North Korea. To this day there is technically a UN headquarters in South Korea, although in reality this is almost entirely an American–South Korean organisation. The UN allies continue to guarantee the armistice, but a peace treaty has yet to be agreed. However, Cold War experiences showed that some disputes cannot be resolved in the short term and the international system needed a mechanism to provide short term stability. What has emerged over time is a spectrum of activity drawing upon elements of the UN Charter. Richard Connaughton has divided these thus: 198

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Chapter VI

Chapter VI 1/2

Chapter VII

Traditional peacekeeping

Military and humanitarian intervention Conflict assumed

Traditional intervention – peace enforcement Limited war

Non-conflict

Source: Richard Connaughton, ‘The Mechanics and Nature of British Interventions into Sierra Leone (2000) and Afghanistan (2001–2002)’, Civil Wars, vol. 5, no. 2, Summer 2002, p. 77.

During the Cold War this problem of stabilising situations in order to permit a long-term resolution led to the development of peacekeeping under UN auspices. Such operations were almost always with the agreement of the parties involved and the UN acted as a neutral body. A good example of such an operation was the UN deployment to Cyprus, which currently involves UN peacekeepers monitoring the dividing line between the Greek and Turkish controlled parts of the island. Those operations were mandated using the articles contained within Chapter VI of the UN Charter and the forces deployed worked for the United Nations with blue helmets and white vehicles to emphasise their neutrality. These UN forces had no authority to use force except in self-defence and were entirely dependent for the success of their mission upon the parties involved. The problem for such operations is that the stalemate that the UN effectively supervises is often in the best interests of the various parties involved. This results in few of their missions ever coming to an end because the issues that led to them are never resolved. What has emerged in particular since the end of the Cold War is a requirement to conduct operations where not all the parties involved agree to a UN involvement. Such operations can be divided into two. First, Chapter VII operations, which are designed for a multinational group to maintain or re-establish peace or enforce the terms of a particular mandate. The goal is not to defeat or destroy one or more of the parties involved but to compel or coerce the parties involved to comply with a particular course of action. A good example here was the 1990–91 Gulf War where Iraq refused to comply with the wishes of the international community to leave Kuwait and it was forced to do so. Another type of operation to emerge lies somewhere between the Chapter VI and Chapter VII operations and is frequently referred to as a Chapter VI1⁄2 type operation in the literature. Such operations are often linked to humanitarian support in times of war and conflict where one or more of the warring parties are acting against civilians. A good example here was the UN involvement in Bosnia prior to the Dayton Agreement where UN forces attempted to provide humanitarian assistance to the people of the region and act as a moderating factor over the protagonists. The spectrum of peacekeeping to peace enforcement operations can be grouped within the sub-heading of complex emergencies. Such operations require a multifunctional response. According to NATO the requisite response: co-ordinates the actions of military, diplomatic and humanitarian agencies, to include international, governmental, non-governmental, and 199

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private voluntary organisations. As a PSO is multidimensional in tasks and participation, co-operation between all participating elements and co-ordination of all agencies is essential to achieve the strategic objectives and political end-state. Such a composite response should be designed to control, contain and redress the immediate and underlying causes and symptoms of the problem such that the operation can progress towards a lasting settlement.15 In all three categories the operations are invariably undertaken in support of an internationally recognised authority, normally the United Nations. However, this can at times be a regional body, such as NATO or occasionally, and potentially more divisively, a coalition of states. The authority will issue a mandate, such as a UN Security Council Resolution, which provides direction and authority to the participants. While such organisations may formally be given authority over the deployed units, and in the case of the United Nations this might include deploying them with ‘blue helmets’ to emphasise UN command, the reality is that national control over such units is never fully relinquished and one of the challenges of such operations is coordinating and managing this area particularly when there are a number of contributors. A good example of this revolved around the deployment of ground forces into Kosovo by NATO and Russia in 1999. The quarrels between NATO’s Supreme Allied Commander Europe (SACEUR) who was American and the British commander on the ground in charge of NATO’s ground forces became quite open and reflected their divided loyalties.16 In theory the defined end state should be an achievable political resolution. Contained within this there should also be a defined military objective and the role of the military element is to help achieve the political end state. It therefore remains subservient to it. However, frequently an agreed end state is absent and, partly as a result of this, in most operations a senior political authority is invariably nominated. In the UN’s case this is a Special Representative acting on behalf of the UN Secretary-General. The role of the political authority is to coordinate all elements acting within the area to achieve the end state defined by the mandate.

The maritime dimension Given the above it would be easy to assume that peace support operations are largely a land function. However, this would not be the case.17 Maritime operations can be divided into two broad categories: those that take place on the sea and those that take place from the sea. Each is examined in turn.

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Operations on the sea Maritime operations at sea are defined within two legal contexts. First, there are those operations which are undertaken within international waters. Second, there are those operations undertaken within national waters. The former are less confrontational from a peace support point of view. The initial maritime deployments to the Adriatic are an example of this. In this case naval task groups from both NATO and the Western European Union (WEU) undertook to intercept shipping in international waters to ensure that they were not breaking the arms embargo imposed on the Yugoslav region by the UN.18 It was difficult for the protagonists of that civil war to actively object to the operation without finding themselves in a direct confrontation with a combination of the WEU, UN and NATO. However, the problem with such operations is that they could be circumvented either through the use of territorial waters or via a land border. In this example, the embargo was subsequently extended to territorial waters and there were a number of confrontations between the ships maintaining the embargo and those from the Yugoslav Navy. Both operations need precise rules of engagement that set out how the forces overseeing the embargo will operate. In general they are at a disadvantage if a confrontation escalates, for the initiative invariably resides with those trying to break the embargo. They are also operations aimed at containing a situation and not resolving it. However, their importance should not be underestimated as part of the overall operation. Operations from the sea The maritime environment also provides the opportunity to project military forces from the sea and act in support of a land deployment or to contribute to air operations. There are a number of advantages to such activity. First, the use of the maritime environment can significantly reduce the ‘footprint’ ashore, i.e. a number of assets can be sea based but influence what is going on ashore. This may be important politically in terms of the size of a mission or it may be important from a security point of view especially if the operation is under a Chapter VI1⁄2 or Chapter VII mandate.19 Second, the basing of more military forces afloat offers the potential to have forces close at hand capable of increasing the capability of the force engaged in the peace support operation but without actually having them deployed ashore and thus antagonising the parties involved. This gives the potential for escalation control. Third, maritime forces while slower to deploy than those by air are capable of carrying far greater amounts of equipment and again this can be retained offshore if required and thus is less vulnerable. The Royal Navy has frequently used a Royal Fleet Auxiliary (RFA) to provide support. In Mozambique and Sierra Leone a Landing Ship Logistics was stationed in the harbour of the capital where it could provide accommodation, spares support and offer command and control

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facilities. In Bosnia a larger RFA was used; initially this was the Reliant and subsequently one of the Fort-class. The other advantage of such a facility is its ability to rapidly re-deploy back to sea and safety if the mission goes wrong, something that a land depot cannot do. Fourth, force can be deployed by sea close to most states without infringing upon national territory or having to fly over another country. This means that it is possible to deploy forces close to a potential crisis covertly and without escalating tensions. One of the challenges that the United Kingdom was confronted by in building up its forces in the Persian Gulf prior to Operation Telic – the war on Iraq in 2003 – was obtaining over-flight rights for its aircraft delivering personnel and material to the region. This is not a new occurrence as the case study of the reinforcement of Kuwait in 1961 showed. Fifth, in some cases operations will only be undertaken if there is a known way of withdrawing forces if things go wrong. If a mission is close to the sea then maritime forces may serve as a potential extraction force. The British and French forces deployed to UNPROFOR in 1994 were there with the proviso that the US would assist their withdrawal if the mission failed and had to be abandoned. The US government always ensured a US Marine Force was deployed in or close to the Adriatic at all times.

The Sierra Leone case study In 2000, just as Britain deployed military forces to Sierra Leone, The Economist painted a bleak picture: At the start of the 19th century, Freetown was remote and malarial, but also a place of hope … At the start of the 21st century, Freetown symbolises failure and despair … The United Nations’ peacekeeping mission had degenerated into a shambles, calling into question the outside world’s readiness to help end the fighting not just in Sierra Leone but in any of Africa’s many dreadful wars. Indeed, since the difficulties of helping Sierra Leone seemed intractable, and since Sierra Leone seemed to epitomise so much of the rest of Africa, it began to look as though the world might just give up.20 In early May 2000 the United Kingdom successfully deployed a force of approximately 4500 personnel including an aircraft carrier and an Amphibious Ready Group (ARG)21 over a distance of 3500 miles in seven days. In the course of that week they evacuated approximately 500 civilians, stemmed the advance of the Revolutionary United Front (RUF), breathed new life into the United Nations peacekeeping mission and ensured that the democratically elected government of Sierra Leone remained in power.22 Four years on the situation in Sierra Leone has been transformed and while the majority of British forces were not formally part of the UN mission to Sierra 202

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Leone they worked in conjunction with it and in support of various UN Security Council Resolutions. As a case study it also shows the advantages maritime forces can bring to a complex and changing situation. In July 1999 the Lome Peace Agreement was signed between the Sierra Leone government and rebel Revolutionary United Front (RUF). The Lome Agreement called for the United Nations to oversee a new disarmament, demobilisation and rehabilitation (DDR) process. To support this, the UN established the United Nations Assistance Mission in Sierra Leone (UNAMSIL) via UN Security Council Resolution 1270 and approved an initial force of 6000 peacekeepers.23 In February 2000 a further resolution (1289) gave UNAMSIL a more robust mandate based on Chapter VII of the UN Charter and expanded its authorised strength to 11,100 including the 260 UN Military Observers (UNMOs). However, the United Nations commanders on the ground still thought and operated in terms of the Chapter VI mandate and assumed they were there to act as impartial observers. On 30 April 2000 ten RUF combatants surrendered their weapons to a UN team at Makeni and entered the DDR process. This resulted in a violent reaction by the RUF and led to the seizure of a number of UNMOs and UN peacekeepers. UN mediators sent to resolve the situation were also taken hostage. Included among those seized was a British UNMO at Giema, while three more British UNMOs24 and a Department for International Development team were surrounded at Makeni along with seventy Kenyan peacekeepers. On 3 May the UN Secretariat called an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council to brief them on the initial seizures. By 4 May it was believed that the RUF was once again on the offensive and the UN had suffered casualties and a considerable number of its personnel were held captive. All that appeared to stand between the RUF and Freetown was a weak Sierra Leone Army that had been significantly reduced as part of the DDR process and what remained of UNAMSIL. The British response proved to be the largest purely national operation since the 1982 Falklands War. It demonstrated a number of capabilities developed since the end of the Cold War and reinforced some of the conclusions made by the Strategic Defence Review.25 As the situation deteriorated over the weekend the British government decided to deploy forces to the area to provide the capability to conduct a non-combatant evacuation operation (NEO) and offered support to the failing UN mission.26 The overland routes to neighbouring states all went through potentially hostile territory and were not considered viable. Entitled Personnel could only be evacuated by air or sea. The United Kingdom maintains a number of units at high alert as part of the UK’s Joint Rapid Reaction Force (JRRF). These include the Spearhead Battalion, which is based around an infantry battalion of around 650 personnel plus supporting units. This is capable of deploying anywhere in the world at short notice by air for a short duration. At the time of the crisis the assigned battalion was the 1st Battalion of the Parachute Regiment (1 PARA) and they were duly dispatched. By chance other elements of the JRRF were close to Sierra Leone. These included an Amphibious Ready Group (ARG) carrying 42 Royal Marine 203

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Commando (42 Cdo) at Marseilles in the Mediterranean and the aircraft carrier HMS Illustrious on exercise in the eastern Atlantic. Their benefit would be in their ability to reinforce and support the rapidly deployed landing force. RAF transport aircraft were also brought off other tasks to support a possible deployment and authorisation was given to deploy the first two of four CH-47 Chinook helicopters to Gibraltar so that they would be nearer to the region.27 Meanwhile, permission was obtained from various governments to allow the routing of the helicopters, and the governments of Senegal and France were approached to obtain consent to use a French air base in Senegal as a staging point if required. For the ARG at Marseilles it meant routing it through the Straits of Gibraltar to a holding position in the Atlantic.28 HMS Illustrious was warned that she might be detached from her exercise and HMS Argyll, a Type 23 frigate, was redirected to the region. By 7 May the situation had deteriorated further with UNAMSIL’s leadership in disarray. Following discussions with the United States, Nigeria, the UN in New York and others the British government agreed that the situation needed to be stabilised in the short term and UNAMSIL needed time for it to be brought up to its mandated strength and reorganised to make it more robust. This also encouraged the use of the air route both for its speed for the evacuation mission but also as the most rapid means of bringing in reinforcements to UNAMSIL. The weakness of UNAMSIL’s command discouraged any idea of placing British forces under UN command. The aircraft carrier, HMS Illustrious, was detached from the Exercise Linked Seas and quietly ordered to deploy to Sierra Leone. She had a combined RAF/RN Harrier Force embarked to test out the new Joint Force Harrier Concept and would offer the ability to conduct offensive air operations if necessary from the sea without the requirement to maintain vulnerable bases ashore.29 By early afternoon of 8 May the British High Commissioner requested the commencement of the evacuation and within a few days almost 500 people were evacuated. While this mission proceeded the future of Sierra Leone and the UN mission remained in the balance and support was given. Meanwhile, frantic efforts were made by the international community to bring forward the deployment of the other infantry battalions and permission was given for the RAF Chinooks to ferry Jordanian reinforcements forward from Lungi airport. In the meantime British forces were directed to avoid getting embroiled in any conflict but to use their presence to sow seeds of doubts in the minds of the RUF’s leadership about their role. This they hoped would deter further RUF action while UNAMSIL was reinforced and the Sierra Leone Army and its accompanying militias were mobilised. A number of steps were taken. Two naval frigates, HMS Argyll and HMS Chatham, remained visible from the shore and occasionally went well up the Sierra Leone River to rehearse the provision of Naval Fire Support to 1 PARA and make their presence known. Aircraft from HMS Illustrious were permitted to undertake reconnaissance flights and make the RUF aware of their presence. What this showed was a maritime ability to influence and provide support to what was going on ashore. This ensured that the United Kingdom could 204

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control the ladder of escalation. Moreover, the carrier could move and thus ensure that it was always able to conduct air operations – something that a land base could never do. The RUF continued to press westwards and a force attacked the Pathfinder Platoon dug in at the village of Lungi Lol on the morning of 17 May. The geographical importance on Lungi Lol lay in it being on the land route between Freetown and Lungi Airport. There the RUF was successfully repulsed in a short engagement, which had a far wider impact. Only a few hours later their political leader, Sankoh, was found and taken prisoner. With Sankoh in custody and the RUF having received a setback at Lungi Lol there were heightened concerns about RUF attacks on British forces. To reinforce the capability of British forces permission was given to deploy 105mm light guns ashore from the recently arrived ARG. This was an example of not over-deploying forces ashore so as to be seen to be acting reasonably by all the parties but retaining the capability to rapidly increase the deployed forces in land if the situation required. As tension eased 42 Cdo was not required to reinforce 1 PARA but instead was able to replace it as part of a rolling programme, which ultimately saw a battalion from Kenya replacing 42 Cdo at Lungi Airport. When this occurred 42 Cdo was quietly withdrawn to the ARG in mid-June and when there was no RUF response the ARG was withdrawn to the United Kingdom from where it could still offer an over-the-horizon deterrent capability. The UN Security Council agreed that UNAMSIL should be reinforced and tasked to consolidate territory captured from the RUF by the Sierra Leone Army. This policy was dependent, however, upon retaining and attracting credible peacekeepers as May’s experience had shown. As a result, there was considerable UN pressure for a British contribution to UNAMSIL, even of only a token number, because this would emphasise the British commitment to Sierra Leone. The British government chose to retain its forces under national command but the UN’s decision to alter UNAMSIL’s remit led the Jordanian and Indian governments to decide to withdraw their forces. This caused considerable concern within the UN and for the British government, especially from November onwards as the rainy season came to an end. To offset this, and indicate the continuing commitment of the United Kingdom to Sierra Leone, the MOD decided to divert the ARG to spend a week off the Sierra Leonean coast in November as a show of force by conducting an Amphibious Demonstration.30 This worked well and the RUF did not return to war but instead returned to the negotiating table and subsequently its forces entered the DDR process.

Conclusions What this chapter has sought to demonstrate is that the Royal Navy has been an active participant in peace support operations. Its role has not always been obvious but has ranged from the supply of individual personnel acting as Military Observers to the deployment of an Amphibious Ready Group and aircraft carrier 205

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group in support of war fighting. Frequently such operations have been as a supporting rather than supported environment, i.e. they are aimed at trying to affect what is going on ashore but the principle area of focus is on or over the land. The British government continues to stress the importance of such operations and they are likely to continue into the future. While successive British governments believe that it is important that Britain retains its position as a permanent member of the United Nations Security Council and as one of NATO’s leading powers there will remain an expectation within the international community that the United Kingdom will actively support such operations. Domestically this also remains the case although the financial cost of such operations may, in the future, bring such support into question as public opinion looks to focus resources in other areas. Experience has also shown that these operations are frequently complex, requiring a considerable degree of political sensitivity and often lead to ongoing deployments lasting a considerable length of time. Here the Sierra Leone experience is particularly pertinent. It highlights a number of important factors. First, it highlights that relatively small forces can have a considerable impact. At no stage did the United Kingdom have more than a thousand personnel on the ground in contrast to the United Nations which had more than ten times this amount. Yet it was these forces that made the difference and turned things around so dramatically in May 2000. Second, it shows a capability to rapidly deploy by air and sea that is matched by few other countries. With the British government pledged to provide an on-call force to the United Nations it remains important for British leaders to continue to emphasise that it is their capability to move rapidly that is of most advantage to the United Nations and that they should not be included on the rotation plot for general peace support operations. Such a capability remains fully in line with current maritime doctrine and looks unlikely to be significantly altered by the current defence review.

Notes 1 The analysis, opinions and conclusions expressed or implied in this paper are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of the JSCSC, the UK MOD or any other government agency. The research undertaken in support of this paper was funded by a grant from the Leverhulme Trust for a study on ‘British Defence Adaptation in the post-Cold War World’. 2 For a list of current deployments see IISS, The Military Balance 2003–4, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003, p. 63. 3 See Joyce Kaufman, NATO and the Former Yugoslavia, New York, USA: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers Inc., 2002. 4 See Brigadier D. J. Richards, ‘Operation Palliser’, Journal of the Royal Artillery, vol. CXXVII, no. 2, Autumn 2000; Richard Connaughton, ‘The Mechanics and Nature of British Interventions into Sierra Leone (2000) and Afghanistan (2001–2002)’, Civil Wars, vol. 5, no. 2, Summer 2002, pp. 72–95. 5 See Andrew Dorman, ‘British Defence Policy in the Post-Cold War Era: History Comes Full Circle?’ in Andrew Dorman, Mike Smith and Mathew Uttley (eds), The

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6 7 8

9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 18 20 21

22

23 24

Changing Face of Military Power: Joint Warfare in an Expeditionary Era, Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2003, pp. 177–99. Tony Blair, ‘Doctrine of the International Community’, Speech made 23 April 1999, Chicago, USA, www.number–10.gov.uk/output/page917.asp. See John Major, John Major: The Autobiography, London: HarperCollins Publishers, 2000), pp. 242–3. See Paul Taylor, ‘The United Nations in the 1990s: Proactive cosmopolitanism and the issue of sovereignty’, Political Studies, vol. 47, no. 3, October 1999, pp. 538–65; Ian Shapiro and Casiano Hacker Corsdn (eds), Democracy’s Edges, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999; Wyn Rees, ‘Britain’s contribution to Global Order’, in Britain and Defence, 1945–2000: A Policy Re-evaluation, by Stuart Croft et al., Harlow: Longman, 2001, pp.29–48; Andrew Dorman, ‘United Kingdom: Loyal Ally’, in Global Responses to Terrorism: 9/11, Afghanistan and Beyond, edited by Mary Buckley and Rick Fawn, London: Routledge, 2003, pp. 66–78; Gwyn Prins, The Heart of War: On Power, Conflict and Obligation in the Twenty-First Century, London: Routledge, 2002. Joint Declaration of the British and French Governments on European Defence, Anglo-French Summit, London, 25 November 1999; ‘Moving Forward European Defence’, MoD Press Release, no. 421/99, 25 November 1999; Ministry of Defence, Statement on the Estimates, 1999. www/mod.uk/policy/wp99, para. 17; see Michael Clarke, ‘French and British Security: Mirror Images in a Globalized World,’ International Affairs, 76/4, 2000, pp. 725–39. ‘Declaration on Strengthening European Cooperation in Security and Defence’, Franco-British Summit, London, 24 November 2003, available via www.fco.gov.uk. Tony Blair, ‘Prime Minister’s statement on military action in Afghanistan’, 7 October 2001, www.number–10.gov.uk/output/page3577.asp. www.nato.int. See Carl Von Clausewitz, On War, London: Penguin, 1968. See UN website at www.un.org. ‘Peace Support Operations’, Allied Joint Publication 3.4.1, NATO, 2001, pp.1–2. See General Wesley K. Clark, Waging Modern War, New York: Public Affairs, 2001. See Michael Pugh (ed.), Maritime Security and Peacekeeping: A Framework for United Nations Operations, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1994. Ibid. pp. 264–6. Note current UK debate. Richard Scott, ‘UK looks to develop seabasing concept’, Jane’s Defence Weekly, 10 March 2004, p. 5. ‘Hopeless Africa’, The Economist, 13 May 2000, p. 17; see also Brian Urquhart, ‘Some thoughts on Sierra Leone’, New York Book Review, 15 June 2000. An Amphibious Ready Group is defined as ‘A high readiness amphibious force, based around a commando group with supporting joint assets, operating forward in the area of likely employment’. ‘The British Maritime Doctrine’, BR1806, London: The Stationery Office, second edition 1999, p. 194. Major-General David Richards, ‘Expeditionary Operations: Sierra Leone – Lessons for the future,’ World Defence Systems, vol. 3, no. 2, July 2001; Philip Wilkinson, ‘Peace Support under Fire: Lessons from Sierra Leone’, ISIS Briefing Series on Humanitarian Intervention, no. 2, June 2000. For further information on the UN involvement in Sierra Leone see the UN website at www.un.org. It is worth noting that these three comprised a naval, marine and army officer, i.e. the Royal Navy supplied two out of the three. For a full account of the escape see Major Phil Ashby, Unscathed: Escape from Sierra Leone, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan 2002.

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25 Available via www.mod.uk. 26 A non-combatant evacuation operation (NEO) is defined in British parlance as ‘an operation to relocate designated non-combatants threatened in a foreign country to a country of safety’. ‘Non-combatant Evacuation Operations’, Joint Warfare Publication 3–51, Joint Doctrine and Concepts Centre, August 2000, Glossary p. 6. 27 Because of their size the Chinooks could not be ferried by any of the RAF’s transport fleet and their relative slow speed compared to a fixed-wing aircraft meant that they would take some time to reach Sierra Leone. By deploying the aircraft to Gibraltar the time for them to reach Sierra Leone was reduced. 28 The proposed deployment to a position west of the Straits of Gibraltar was a classic example of the attribute of what is known as poise. This is defined in British Maritime Doctrine as ‘Once in theatre, maritime forces can remain on station for prolonged periods, either covertly or overtly. They can retain or size the initiative or signal political resolve, and act as a force for deterrence or action coercion. The ability of maritime forces to poise in international waters lessons the ‘footprint’, that is to say the political complications and military risks of deploying forces for extended periods on land. Their unique capacity to match the pace and reflect the tone of diplomatic activity is particularly useful in the dynamic and uncertain situations of the modern world. This is because poise exploits mobility, versatility, sustained reach and lift capacity.’ ‘The British Maritime Doctrine’, BR1806, London: The Stationery Office, second edition 1999, p. 26. 29 HMS Illustrious Millennium Commission, London: Stacey International, 2002. 30 This is an operation conducted to deceive an enemy or illustrate a capability. They must pose a credible threat to a land commander, which then requires him to allocate sufficient forces to counter that contingent risk. Demonstrations can be used as components of shaping operations and exploiting operations, prior to or during an amphibious assault. The demonstration is perhaps the most elegant expression of amphibious capability. The limited liability offered by poising at sea, both in a military and political context, provides a unique form of leverage, which can easily and rapidly be converted into combat action ashore. BR 1806, p. 136.

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213

INDEX

abbreviations xii–iii Abdullah as-Salim as Sabah, Sheikh 165 Abu Musa 186 Admiral Hipper [cruiser] 113 Admiral Scheer [pocket battleship] 113 Adriatic, peacekeeping operations 201, 202 Aegean Islands: Flight Information Regions 158; ownership 155, 157–8 Aegean Sea dispute 148, 154–61 Afghanistan, peacekeeping 198 Afrika Korps 45; in Libya 73; North African offensives 56, 57; supplies to 55, 57, 58, 61–2 Agincourt 18–9 aircraft, development 67–8 air power, RN and 67–71 Ajax [cruiser] 75, 78 Al Faw peninsula 185 Alanbrooke, Lord, on Churchill 122 Albacores [aircraft] 46 Albania: and Corfu Channel incident 148, 149–54; invaded by Italy 36 Alderdale Plan 166 Alecto Plan 166 Alexander, Field Marshal Sir Harold, and Operation Husky 89–90, 101–3 Alexandria: air defences 42, 44, 44; evacuation force from 77, 78; French navy at 109, 114, 115, 118–20; RN at 18, 36–9, 115, 118–20; strategic importance 51; supplies from 56 Algiers, assault on 124 Algiers Accord 182 Altmark [merchant ship] 110 amphibious operations, Italian Campaign 88–104 Amphibious Ready Group (ARG), Sierra Leone 202, 203–6

Amphibious Warfare Squadron 167, 170 Andrea Doria [battleship] 43 Anglo-Japanese Alliance 15 Anglo-Kuwaiti Treaty 165 Anglo-Vichy conflict 108–25 Anzio landings 90, 93, 98, 99–100, 102 anti-aircraft defences, RN 69–70, 72–3 Aqaba, and Operation Husky 94 Arab League: and immigration 135; and Kuwait 170 Arabs, and Palestine 130–2, 135 Arethusa [cruiser] 116 Argus [carrier] 67 Argyll [frigate] 204 Ark Royal [fleet carrier] 56, 116 Arliss, Captain, and Crete 80 Armilla Patrol 181, 189–94 Army Operational Research Group, on heat exhaustion 175 Atlantic, Battle of 113 Attacker [escort carrier] 99 Augusta, Sicily 100, 102 Australia: and Crete 81; and Indonesian straits navigation 154 Austria: and Triple Entente 14; false signal about 30 Axis: and Crete 74–83; and Greek littoral 73; and Italy 88–102; domination of Mediterranean 56–7, 58–9; shipping, actions against 55; see also Germany; Italy Azzam Pasha, and immigration 135 Bab-el-Mandeb, international straits 160 Bacon, Sir Francis 1 Bahrain, and Operation Vantage 172–3 Balfour Declaration 130–1 Baltic alliance [1800] 111

INDEX

Baltic exits, international straits 160 Barber Perseus [merchant ship] 193 Barham [battleship] 42, 46–7, 56, 123 Barnett, Corelli 63 Bastion [LCT] 167 Battler [escort carrier] 99 Beatty, Admiral: and air power 39; and Jutland 34 Belgium, and Armilla Patrol 191–2 Bellringer Plan 166 Ben Gurion, David, on land use 131 Benghazi, Germany and 58 Berwick [cruiser] 42 Beveziers [submarine] 123 Bismarck 47, 81 Black Prince [cruiser] 17 Blucher [cruiser] 110–1 boarding parties, training 144 Bona, bombarded by Breslau 22 Booth, Ken, on naval diplomacy 165, 189–90, 192 Bosnia: peacekeeping 197, 199; RFA 202 Breslau [light cruiser] 13–31 Bretagne [battleship] 115, 117 Brindisi, Souchon at 19 Brodie, Bernard 5 Brown, David 71 Bulwark [commando carrier] 168–71, 175, 176 Cable, Sir James: on Armilla Patrol 192–3; on naval diplomacy 109–12, 125, 164, 176, 189; on West and Iran 187 Cabrilla Plan 166 Caio Dullio [battleship] 44 Cairo conference 88 Calabria, exchange at 39 Calgari, bombardment 42 Callaghan, Sir George 21 Camperdown [destroyer] 171 Cardigan Bay [frigate] 136 Carr, E. H. 4 Carrier Squadron 40 Casablanca: assault on 124; French navy at 115 Cassandra [destroyer] 171 Centaur [carrier] 168, 171, 176 Central Mine Clearance Board 152 Chatham [cruiser] 17, 19–20, 21, 24 Chatham [frigate] 204 Chequers [destroyer] 136 Chicago Convention 158 Chieftain [destroyer] 142

Childers, Erskine, Riddle of the sands 15 Chin, Warren ix, 9 Chipman, John, on Iran–Iraq War 188 Chivalrous [destroyer] 136 Churchill, Sir Winston: and Crete 40, 74, 81; and Dakar expedition 122, 123, 124; and Fisher 17; and Goeben and Breslau episode 14, 17. 18–9, 23–4; and Italian campaign 88–9, 90, 102; and Malta 50, 52; and Operation Husky 93; and Torch landings 124; and US 57; and Vichy fleet 108, 109, 112; ‘Blue Water’ strategy 92; on Istanbul 16; on Palestine 130–1 Civitaveccia 96 Clark, General Mark, and Italian Campaign 89–90, 102 coaling; Mediterranean [WWI] 25, 26, 29–30; Souchon and 19, 22, 25 Cold War: and Iran–Iraq War 188; and peacekeeping 198–9 Commacchio landings 103 Commandant Teste [carrier] 117 Connaughton, Richard, on peacekeeping 198–9 Constantinople see Istanbul Conte di Cavour [battleship] 43 continental shelves 156–7 Corbett, Sir Julian 2–5, 39; Some principles of maritime strategy 3 Corfu Channel incident 139, 148, 149–54, 160 Corfu, Troubridge at 22 Cossack 110 Coventry 80 Crete: and air power 82; assaults on 54, 56; evacuation 67, 70, 74–83; Fleet Air Arm base 46; frontline base 74; occupation ordered 40; Suda Bay 40, 74 Crossman, Richard, on US and Palestine 134 Cumberland [cruiser] 123 Cunningham, Admiral Sir Andrew B.; and Crete 75–83; and Dakar expedition 122–3; and French navy at Alexandria 115, 118–20; and Italian campaign 89, 99; and Italian navy 71; and Malta 51–3, 56, 58–9; and Matapan 46–8; and Operation Husky 93–104; and Taranto 36–7, 39, 40–1, 43, 44 Cyprus: and EU 159; refugees in 136, 141; territorial disputes 155; Turkish

216

INDEX

invasion 158, 161; UN peacekeeping 197, 199 Cyrenaica, Germany and 55, 58 Dakar Expedition 122–3 Dakar, French navy at 115, 122–3 Dardanelles, Souchon at 30 Darlan, Admiral 113–20; and Torch landings 124 Dayton peace agreement 197, 199 de Gaulle, Charles 121: and Dakar 122–3, 125 Defence [cruiser] 17 Desant-style operations 102–3 Diamond [destroyer] 74 Dieppe repulse 95 Dodecanese 155 Dorman, Andrew ix, 9 Douhet, General Giulio 38 Dreadnaughts 15, 17 Dublin [cruiser] 17, 20, 21, 24, 26, 27 Duke of Edinburgh [cruiser] 17 DUKW vehicles 100 Dunkerque [cruiser] 115, 117 Dunkirk evacuation 70–1, 113 Duquesne [battleship] 120 Durazzo, Breslau at 19 E-boats 96 Eagle [carrier] 43, 61 economic exclusion zones 148–9 Economist, on Sierra Leone 202 Edward VII, and Entente Cordiale 15 Egypt [WWII], ground assault 45 Eighth Army, and Italian Campaign 89–90 103 Eisenhower, General Dwight D.: and Operation Husky 93; and Torch landings 124 El Alamein 62 Elworthy, Air Marshal Sir Charles, and Kuwait 167–77 Emden [light cruiser] 14 Empire Grebe [LST] 170 Empire Gull [LST] 168, 170 Empire Skua [LST] 170 Encounter [destroyer] 123 Enterprise [cruiser] 116 Enver Pasha 16, 30 Erin 18–9 Eskimo 99 European Union: and Aegean 159–60; peacekeeping force 197–8

Exodus 1947 see President Warfield/ Exodus 1947 Farsi Island 186 Fashoda incident 15 Favignova 96 Fede II [refugee ship] incident 142 Fiji [cruiser] 76 Finisterre [destroyer] 171 Fisher, Admiral Lord 17, 25, 31 Fitzroy-Talbot, Rear Admiral, and Operation Vantage 168 Fiume [cruiser] 46–7 Fleet Air Arm 46; in Mediterranean 40 Fliegerkorps X 45, 46, 48; and Malta 54; in Sicily 72 Flight Information Regions, Aegean 158–9 Force de Rade 115–20 Force K, and Malta 58 Formidable [carrier] 46, 46, 71–2, 75, 77, 82, 97, 99 Foxhound 110, 116–7 France: and Gabon 123; and Madagascar 123, 125; and Morocco 123; and refugees to Palestine 134, 137; and Syria 123, 125; and Triple Entente 15; Anglo-Vichy conflict 108–25; capitulation effects 70; evacuation 70–1; Mers-el-Kébir action 108–25; Vichy fleet (Churchill on) 108, 109, 112 (Marder on) 114, 118, 123 Franks, Captain Robert, and Operation Vantage 171 Fraser, Peter [NZ], and Crete 80 Freedom of Navigation Operations 154 Freyberg, General Bernard, and Crete 67, 74–5, 77, 79–80 Fulmar fighters 42, 43, 75 Gabon, clash with Vichy 123 Galbraith, V. H. 7 Gallipoli 13, 91, 95, 130 General [liner], Souchon and 19, 22, 25 Gensoul, Admiral 110, 115–7 George, Bruce, on Armilla Patrol 190 Germany: and Crete 75–83; and Greece 73–4; and Italy 96; and Jewish people 131–3; and Malta 53–4, 56–63; and Toulon 124–5; and Triple Entente 14; and Turkey 16–7; Fliegerkorps X 45, 46, 48, 54, 72; Goeben & Breslau episode 13–31; Mittelmeer Division 14–5

217

INDEX

Gibraltar 116; and Torch landings 124; international straits 160 Giulio Cesare [battleship] 71 Glasgow [cruiser] 42 Glengyle [landing ship] 79 Glorious [carrier] 41 Gloucester [cruiser] 17, 19, 21, 26, 27, 29, 76 Godfroy, Admiral 118–20 Goeben, August Karl von 15 Goeben and Breslau episode 13–31 Goeben [battlecruiser] 13–31 Goering, Hermann, in Italy 94 Gordon, Andrew ix, 8 Gothic Line 90 Gozo, and Operation Husky 95 Graf Spee 13, 25 Gray, Colin 1, 3, 103 Greece: Aegean Sea dispute 148, 154–61; and EU 159–60; evacuation 73–4; expeditionary force to 73; Italian attack on 40; see also Cyprus Grenfell, Russell, Seapower and the next war 35 Gretton, Vice-Admiral Sir Peter 4, 6 Greyhound [destroyer] 76 Griffin, Stuart ix, 8 Griffin [destroyer] 123 ground-based operations: and Operation Vantage 168–75; maritime support 201–2 Grove, Eric, on Armilla Patrol 192 Guardian/ Theodore Herzl [refugee ship] 137, 138, 144–5 Gulf War 197, 199; see also Iraq Gustav Line 90 Haganah: and Patria 132; and RN vessels 143 Haifa, as military base 130 Harcourt, Rear-Admiral C. H. J., and Operation Husky 97 Heraklion 77–9 Hereward [destroyer] 78 Hermes [commando carrier] 161, 168 Hewitt, Vice-Admiral H. K. 99 Hitler, Adolf, and Lybian campaign 55–6 Holland, Captain C. S., and Force de Rade 116–7 Honduras, and refugees to Palestine 134 Hood [battle cruiser] 81, 116 Hormuz Straits 160; Armilla Patrol 190–4; Iran and 186, 188, 190–4

Horsford, Brigadier D. G. T., and Operation Vantage 170 Hotspur [destroyer] 78, 82, 123 Howard, Michael 2, 3 Howe [cruiser] 97 Hoxha, Enver, and Corfu Channel incident 149 Hunter [escort carrier] 99 Hurricanes 75, 82 Iachino, Vice-Admiral 46 Illustrious [carrier] 40, 42, 43, 44, 45, 72, 99, 204 Imbros 155 Imia-Kardak crisis 157–8, 161 Imperial [destroyer] 78, 82 Indefatigable [Dreadnaught] 17, 19, 21, 22 Indomitable [carrier] 97 Indomitable [Dreadnaught] 17, 19, 21, 22, 26 Indonesian straits navigation 154 Inflexible [Dreadnaught] 17, 20, 21 intelligence service, and refugee interception 136–7 international straits, status 149–50, 153–4, 160 international waters, maritime operations 201 International Civil Aviation Organisation (ICAO) 158–9 International Court of Justice 148, 151, 152–4, 160 International Stability Assistance Force 198 Invincible [Dreadnaught] 17 Iran: air power 183–5; and Gulf shipping 184–94; armed forces depletion 182–4; Iran–Iraq War 181–94; naval forces 183–4; naval operations 185–6; relations with Iraq 182 Iran–Iraq War 181–94 Iraq: air power 185; and Kuwait 165–77; exclusion zones 184; Gulf War 197, 199; Iran–Iraq War 181–94; Iraq War 202; Northern, peacekeeping 197 Irish Defence Forces Command and Staff School xi Irwin, Major-General N. M. S., and Dakar 122–3 Istanbul, Goeben & Breslau at 13 Istria landings 103 Italian campaign 88–104 Italy 34, 36, 39–40; air power 38, 42–3; allied invasion 88–104; and Armilla

218

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Patrol 191–2; and refugees to Palestine 134, 137; and Triple Entente 14; antisubmarine defences 52; Libyan convoys 53, 54, 55; naval forces 96; navy, passivity 71; throttle strategy 51–2, 55, 56 Ivory Coast, EU peacekeeping 197 Jean Bart [battleship] 110, 115 Jellicoe, Admiral Sir John 21; and Jutland 34–5 Jewish Agency 136–7 Jewish Maritime League 134 Jewish refugees: and Palestine Patrol 129, 135–46; treatment 132–46 Joint Rapid Reaction Force 203 Joint Services Command and Staff College xi, xiv, 1, 7 Juno [destroyer] 76 Jutland, controversy over 34–5 Karg Island 184 Kelly, Captain Howard 26, 27, 28, 29 Kelly, Captain Joe 24, 26, 27, 28, 29 Kennedy, Greg ix, 8 Kennedy, Captain 21, 22, 23, 24 Kesselring, Field Marshal Albert, in Italy 89–90, 98–9, 101 King, Admiral, and Crete 76, 80 King George V [cruiser] 97 Konigsberg [light cruiser] 14, 68 Korean War 198 Kosovo, NATO and 200 Kuwait: air defences 172; and Irani attacks 186; British intervention in 165–77; heat exhaustion 174–5; importance 165; shipping attacked 185 Laborde, Admiral, at Toulon 125 Lambert, Andrew 4; on Nelson and Danish fleet 111–2 Lampedusa 95 Lancastria [liner] 71 Landing Ship Tanks 100 Langsdorf, Captain Hans 25 Laski, Harold 134 Lausanne, Treaty of 155, 159 Laval, Pierre 121 law of the sea 148–61 League of Nations, Versailles Conference 131 Leander [cruiser] 151, 152 Lend-lease supplies 73, 83

Leyte Gulf, Battle of 6 Libya: and Gulf of Sidra 154; Axis and 53–6; ground assault 45 Lincoln [frigate] 171, 172 Littorio [battleship] 43, 44 Livorno Division 94 Llandaff [frigate] 171, 172 Loch Alvie [frigate] 169–70 Loch Fyne [frigate] 171 Loch Insch [frigate] 171 Loch Ruthven [frigate] 171 Lome Peace Agreement 203 Longmore, Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur 40–1; and Crete 82 Lucas, General John 90, 102 Luftwaffe: and Crete 75–83; and Greece 73–4; and Italy 96; and Malta 53–4, 56–63; Fliegerkorps X 45, 46, 48, 54, 72 Lustre Convoys 73 Luttwak, Edward; on naval diplomacy 164–5; on token forces 189 Lyster, Admiral A. L. St G., and Taranto 40, 41, 43–4 MacDonald, Captain M., and Crete 78 MacDonald, Malcolm, and Palestine 131–2 Macmillan, Harold, and Operation Vantage 176 Madagascar, clash with Vichy 123, 125 Magic Carpet operations [Malta] 56 Mahan, Alfred Thayer; on command of the sea 33–4; The influence of sea power upon history 3–5 Malaya [battleship] 42, 44 Malta: air defences 51–2, 58–62; and Operation Husky 95, 99, 100; convoys near 42; Milne at 29–30; RN and 36; strategic importance 50–1, 59–60, 62–3; submarines and 50, 52–63; supplies to 56, 59–61; WWII role 50–63 Marder, J., on Vichy fleet 114, 118, 123 Mardor, Munia, and Patria 132 maritime jurisdiction 148–61 maritime operations, peacekeeping 200–6 Marsa, and Operation Husky 95, 99 Marsala 96 Matapan: air attack on 71–2; Battle of 46–8, 92 Mauritius [cruiser] 136, 151, 152 Mediterranean: air power in 38, 39–41;

219

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attitudes to 34, 35–6; balance of forces 1939 37; strategic importance 51; WWI, 13–31 Mediterranean Fleet, and Palestine Patrol 136–7 Mediterranean Routing Instructions 149 Mediterranean Zone Mine Clearance 149, 152 Meon [Frigate] 167–9 merchant shipping, rules of engagement 54 Mers-el-Kébir action 108–18; consequences 120–5 Messina 89; Goeben at 19–20, 25–7; Husky forces at 97 Messina [LST] 171 Miller, Geoffrey 18 Milne, Admiral Sir Archibald Berkeley, and Goeben and Breslau episode 17–31 Mina al Ahmadi 186 Mogador [destroyer] 117 Moltke, Helmuth von 15 Moltke [battlecruiser] 15 Monte Cassino 90 Montecorvino 102 Montgomery, Field Marshal, and Operation Husky 93, 101 Morocco, clash with Vichy 123 Morse, Captain J, and Crete 79 Mossad, and refugee ships 134, 136–7, 140–5 Moyne, Lord, and Palestine 133 Mozambique, Landing Ship Logistics 201–2 Mullaney-Dignam, Karol xi Mussolini, Benito 34, 40 Naiad [cruiser] 76 Naples 90; Italian Fleet at 44 Napoleonic wars 111–2 national waters, maritime operations 201 NATO: and Adriatic 201; and Aegean 158–9, 161; on peacekeeping 199–200 Naval Beach Commandos 100, 103 Naval Co-Operation Group 97 Naval Historical Branch xi Navias, Martin and Hooton, E. R., on Iran–Iraq War 185 Nazi–Soviet Pact 36 Nelson, Horatio Lord, and Danish fleet 111–2 Nelson [battleship] 97, 99 Netherlands, and Armilla Patrol 191–2

New Zealanders, and Crete 80, 81 North, Admiral Sir Dudley: and Dakar 123–4; and Toulon convoy 123–4 North African Coastal Airforce 97 Norway: evacuation 71; neutrality breaches 110–1 Norwegian campaign, air power and 68–9 Notices to Airmen (NOTAM) 158 O’Connor, General, and Libya 72 oil market, and Iran–Iraq War 185, 187–8 Ollive, Admiral 110 Oman: and Dhofar 187; Irani minelaying at 186 Operation Arsenal 96 Operation Avalanche 89, 93, 94, 96–7, 102, 104 Operation Baytown 89 Operation Catapult 120 Operation Coat 42 Operation Demon 73 Operation Fracture 96 Operation Grapeshot 103 Operation Husky 83, 89–90, 92–104 Operation Jubilee 95 Operation Judgement see Taranto, battle of Operation Menace 122–3 Operation Mincemeat 96 Operation Overlord 90, 93 Operation Pedestal 61 Operation Retail 152 Operation Shingle 90, 93, 94, 96–7, 102, 104 Operation Telic 202 Operation Tiger 75 Operation Vantage 164–77 Oran: assault on 124; RN at 115; see also Mers-el-Kébir Orion [cruiser] 78, 150 Osgood, Robert E., on naval diplomacy 164 Oslofjord 110 Oswald, Admiral Sir Julian xv Otranto 27 Paducah [refugee ship] 137, 138, 143 Palermo 93 Palestine, British Mandate 131 Palestine Patrol 129–46; tactical issues 141–6 Palestine Police, Marine Section 136, 139 Palestine, UK policy 129–32 Pan Crescent [refugee ship] 136, 142 Pan York [refugee ship] 136, 142

220

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Pantelleria 95 Parapet [LCT] 167 Paris, Treaty of 155–7, 159 Parker, Admiral Sir Hyde 111 Pasdaran (Iran) 183, 186 Patria [liner] 132–3 Patton, General, and Operation Husky 101 peace support operations 197–207 Persian Gulf: attacks on shipping 185; Operation Telic 202; RN and 181, 189–94 Perth [cruiser] 79 Petersberg Tasks 197 Pétian, Marshal, and navy 114 Phillipeville, bombarded by Goeben 22 Phoebe [cruiser] 136 Pola [cruiser] 46, 71–2 Portcullis Convoy 62 Poulter, Captain, and Dakar 122–3 Pound, Admiral Sir Dudley 36; and French fleet 113, 115, 124; and Malta 51–3, 58–9; and Taranto 41; on fighter protection 71, 82 President Warfield/ Exodus 1947 [refugee ship] 138–9, 141, 142–5 Prince of Wales 83 Prince, Stephen x, xi, 8 Provence [battleship] 115, 117 public relations, and refugee interception 136–9 Public Records Office xi Qasim, President, and Kuwait 166 Qatar, Irani minelaying at 186 Queen Elizabeth [battleship] 56 Ramillies [battleship] 42, 44 Ramsay, Admiral Sir Bertram, and Operation Husky 93, 99 Rapid Deployment Force (US) 188 Rawlings, Admiral, and Crete 76–82 Redoubt [LCT] 167 refugees: and Palestine Patrol 129, 135–46; interception, international law on 139–40 Regia Aeronautica 38–9 Reliant [RFA] 202 Renown 123 Repulse 83 Reshadieh 18–9 Resolution [battleship] 116, 123 Resource [repair ship] 36 Reynaud, Paul 114

Richelieu [battleship] 115 Rigmarole Plan 166 Robb-Webb, Jon x, 8 Rodney [battleship] 97, 99 Romania, oil fields 74 Rome, fall of 90 Rommel, Field Marshal; in Libya 73; North African offensives 56, 57; supplies to 55, 57, 58, 61–2 Roosevelt, Franklin D.: and Italian Campaign 103; and Torch landings 124, 125 Roskill, Stephen 5, 114 Rowena [minesweeper] 141–2 Royal Air Force: and Crete 74–83; and Malta 53, 55–63; and naval air power 69; and Operation Vantage 168–75; and Palestine Patrol 140; reconnaisance [Malta] 40 Royal Fleet Auxiliary, maritime support 201 Royal Marines, training boarding parties 144 Royal Naval Air Service 67–8 Royal Navy BR 1806 The fundamentals of British maritime doctrine 4, 6 Royal Rhodesian Air Force, and Operation Vantage 169 Rushbrooke, Commander, and Dakar 122–3 Russia: and Triple Entente 15; see also Soviet Union Saddam Hussein, and Iran 183 Safiri [submarine] 100 Saintes [destroyer] 171 Salerno landings 89, 93, 98, 99–102 Saranda Bay 149, 151 Sardinia 96 Saudi Arabia, shipping attacked 185 Saumarez [destroyer] 151 Scapa Flow, Grand Fleet at 21, 39 Scheer, Admiral 6 Seaborne Tank Force 167 Secret Package A 20, 21 Senegal see Dakar Seraph [submarine] 96, 100 Shakespeare [submarine] 100 Shatt el Arab Patrol 170 Shatt al Arab waterway 182 Sibella incident 146 Sicily: Fliegerkorps X and 45; Operation Husky 88–90, 92–104

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INDEX

Sidi Barrani, bombardment 45 Sidra, Gulf of 154 Sierra Leone: Landing Ship Logistics 201–2; peacekeeping 197, 202–6 Singapore: loss of 57; supplies to 51 Slamat [transport] 74 Smeeton, Rear-Admiral R. M., and Operation Vantage 172–3 Smyrna 155 Somerville, Admiral Sir James 42; and Force de Rade 115–7; and Toulon convoy 123–4 Sopwith Cuckoos 39 Souchon, Rear-Admiral Wilhelm, and Goeben & Breslau episode 15–6, 19–31 Southampton [cruiser] 72 Soviet Union: and Corfu Channel incident 152, 153, 160; and Iran–Iraq War 188; and Kosovo 200; and Kuwaiti oil protection 186; and Operation Vantage 175 Sowerby, Captain 22, 23 Spartivento, Cape 27 Speller, Ian x Sphakia, Crete 78–80, 83 Spitfires, and Malta 59, 60–1 St Bride’s Bay [destroyer] 138, 144–5 Stalker [escort carrier] 99 Stark [frigate 186 Stern Gang 133 Stoneage Convoy 62 Strasbourg [cruiser] 115, 117, 125 Strategic Defence Review 1997 7 Striker [LST] 168, 169, 170, 176 Struma incident 133 Suda Bay, Crete 40, 74 Sudan, and Operation Vantage 168–9 Suez, and Palestine 130 Suez crisis 175 Sultan Osman 18–9 Superb [cruiser] 150 Surcouf [submarine] 120 Swordfish 44, 46 Sykes–Picot Agreement 130 Syracuse, Sicily 100, 102 Syria, clash with Vichy 123, 125 T-class submarines, in Mediterranean 53, 54 Taranto: air attacks 42–4, 71; battle of 42–4, 46, 53, 92; Goeben and Breslau episode 28; Husky forces at 97; Italian fleet at 40–1

Tedder, Air Marshal: and Crete 75, 77, 82; and Operation Husky 93 Tenedos 155 Termoli landings 103 territorial seas 148–50, 155–6 Thomson, Stuart x, 9 Till, Geoffrey x, 8–9 Tobruk 45, 55, 57 Torch landings 95, 99, 109, 124–5 Toulon, Vichy forces at 114 Trenchard, Air Marshal Lord 68 Trento [cruiser] 44 Trieste, Goeben at 19 Triple Alliance 14 Triple Entente 14, 15 Tripoli, Fliegerkorps X and 45 Troubridge, Rear-Admiral Ernest, and Goeben and Breslau episode 19, 22, 25, 26, 27–31 Tsushima 15, 160 Tuck, Christopher x, 8 Tunisian Campaign 92–3 Turkey: Aegean Sea dispute 148, 154–61; and EU 159–60; and Operation Vantage 168–9; Souchon and 30; WWI 13, 16–7; see also Cyprus U-boats 96; and merchant shipping 113; in Mediterranean 55–6 U-class submarines, in Mediterranean 53 Ultra intercepts 94 Ulua [refugee ship] incident 141–2 Umm Qasr 185 UNAMSIL, Sierra Leone 203–6 Unicorn [carrier] 99 Unison [submarine] 100 United Arab Emirates, Irani minelaying at 186 United Arab Republic, and Operation Vantage 168–9, 175 United Nations: and Adriatic 201; and Corfu Channel incident 153; and Operation Vantage 175; and refugees to Palestine 134–5; Charter, and peacekeeping 197, 198–200; Convention on the Law of the Sea [UNCLOS] 148, 154–7 United States: and Gulf of Sidra 154; and ICAO 158–9; and Iran 182, 183; and Iran–Iraq War 187–94; and Kosovo 200; and Kuwaiti oil protection 186; and Italian Campaign 89–90; and Malta 61; and refugees to Palestine

222

INDEX

134; Pacific involvement, effect on Mediterranean 59 UNPROFOR 202 UNRAA, and refugees to Palestine 134 Unrivalled [submarine] 100 Unruffled [submarine] 100 Unseen [submarine] 100 Valiant [battleship] 42, 46–7, 56, 97, 99, 116 Vantage Plan 166 Versailles Conference 131 Vian, Admiral, and Operation Husky 102 Vichy France see France Victorious [carrier] 82, 168, 171, 176 Vincennes [cruiser] 191 Vittorio Veneto [battleship] 44, 46, 47, 71 Volage [destroyer] 136, 151 Wannsee conference 133 Warrior [cruiser] 17 wars of choice 181–2 Warspite [battleship] 37, 42, 46–7, 71, 97, 99 Wasp [USS] 61 Watchman 110

Wavell, General, and Crete 79, 80 Welfare [minesweeper] 141–2 Western European Union: and Adriatic 201; and Armilla Patrol 191–2 Weston, E. C., and Crete 79 Weymouth [cruiser] 17, 20, 24 Whitesand Bay [frigate] 136 Whitford, Commander 152 Wilhelm II, diplomacy 15 Willis, Admiral A.: and Corfu Channel incident 151; and Operation Husky 97; and Palestine 135–6, 139, 142 Wilson, Sir Arthur, and Mediterranean fleet 18 Wray, Captain Fawcett 28, 31 Wryneck [destroyer] 74 Yarmouth [frigate] 171 Yom Kippur War 187 Young Turks 16–7 Yugoslavia, and Corfu Channel incident 153 Zara [cruiser] 46–7 Zion Mule Corps 130

223