The Mighty Hood
The Mighty Hood
THE LIFE & DEATH OF THE ROYAL NAVY'S PROUDEST SHIP
by
Ernle Bradford
We that survive perchance may end our days In some employment meriting no praise;
They have outlived this fear, and their brave ends Will ever be an honour to their friends*
Epitaph by Phineas James, Shipmaster, "To his stricken comrades9* (1633)
CONTENTS
...” 15
Birth of a Ship 20
Her Ancestry 28
Mediterranean Cruise 36
Politicians and Others 45
The Sea Life 51
One Day in 1922 61
Start of the World Cruise 69
“Leviathans Revealed .. 77
To the New World ' 86
The Spanish War 95
The Guns of the Ship 104
North Sea, 1939 114
Mers-el-Kebir 122
Mediterranean, 1940 135
Watch in the North 144
Battleship Bismarck *49
Into the Arctic Circle 161
The Denmark Strait 167
Enemy in Sight 171
“Prepare for Action!” 180
Death of a Giant 187
Revenge *95
Post-Mortem 210
Envoi 220
Appendixes
MOVEMENTS OF H.M.S. HOOD (I92O-I939 ) 222
SPECIAL SERVICE SQUADRON 220
THE CAPTAINS OF H.M.S. HOOD (192O-I941) 228
SHIPS ENGAGED IN THE BISMARCK ACTION 229
Bibliography 231
Index 233
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This history could not have been written without the help of the Record Office of the Admiralty. In particular, I am grateful to Mr. E. Hepworth and Mr. E. R. Holly for their long forbearance with my requests for records and information, dealing often with matters more than a quarter of a century old.
I would also like to acknowledge my debt to the library of the Imperial War Museum, and to Miss R. E. Coomb. In enabling me to gain a general picture of the background against which the Hood played her part for the twenty-one years of her life, her assistance was invaluable.
I am indebted to so many officers and ratings of the Royal Navy, both serving and retired, who at one time or another formed part of the Hood's company, that I can do no more than ask them to accept this general acknowledgment. Their help has been of the greatest value in providing those small details, without which any portrait is no more than a lifeless mask.
E. B.
H.M.S. Hood Will Proceed
The dank of cable coining in, its heavy thump along the decks, the flicker of a dimmed torch, or the occasional glow as a blackout screen was pushed aside—these things alone showed that a fleet was getting under way.
To the whir of winches, or the “Heave! one—two—three— Heave!” of men, the last boats were being hoisted on board. Funnels rumbled and emitted, for a brief moment, a roll of oily smoke as additional sprayers were switched on to the boilers. Here and there auxiliary craft, some with mail and stores, others landing or embarking personnel, lingered alongside the darkened warships. An arrowhead of foam going past, quick and hard through the pewter-colored sea, indicated a high-speed launch, with senior officers perhaps, or last-minute dispatches. It was midnight, May ai, 1941, in Scapa Flow.
The great anchorage was dark and silent save for these few signs of activity. To the north loomed Mainland, or Pomona, largest island in the Orkneys, with its capital, Kirkwall, and its memories of the Norsemen—the Temples of the Sun and Moon, and the great monolithic Stone of Odin. To the east were the quiet islands of Burray and South Ronaldsay. To the west lay Hoy with the pinnacle rock of the Old Man of Hoy standing detached from its northwest coast, guarding the entrance to the sound. Norse islands—islands destined to hold long ships ever since Harold Fairhair had added them to Norway in the ninth century—they had been the main war base of the British fleet since Admiral Jellicoe had selected Scapa Flow in preference to Cromarty Firth in 1914.
Looking at the Flow today it is difficult to remember how many ships it held then, difficult to recall this inland sea filled with destroyers, with escort vessels coming and going, and the waters of the firths scarred by the wash of cutters and many launches. The sound of the bosuns’ calls no longer drowns the noise of seabirds over the headlands. In spring, though, when the islands are starred with wild flowers, and the salt sea smell is mixed with bruised grasses and herbs, it is even more hard to realize what it was like that May, eighteen years ago.
It was the long darkness when the dawn seems unimaginable. From Norway to the Atlantic coast of France an ironbound continent confronted Britain. Greece had been invaded. The battle for Crete was beginning. Everywhere the mounting losses of shipping reflected the contention that if Britian could ever be beaten, it would only be by strangling her sea lines and starving her out.
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