Formidable: Arthur Flint's War Against Tirpitz and the Kamikazes

By Terry Crowdy

HMS Formidable was a British aircraft carrier during the Second World War. One of four Illustrious-class carriers, Formidable was an armored carrier, able to withstand air attacks, guarding its precious aircraft hangar with an armor-plated flight-deck. As well as its squadrons of fighters and torpedo bombers, Formidable was armed with sixteen 4.5-inch dual-purpose guns, mounted in eight turrets. When action stations sounded, in one of these turrets, sweating in the tropical heat due to heavy asbestos anti-flash gear, lifting shells from the hoist to the gunner, while frantically turning the air into a ‘plum pudding’ of smoke and flame to smash the enemy kamikaze from the sky, was the author’s grandfather, Arthur Flint. Illustrated with almost 200 contemporary photographs throughout, Formidable is a memorial to the voyages and service of Arthur Flint and his shipmates during the war, from the Battle of Matapan, the landings in North Africa, Sicily and Salerno, to the arctic hunt for Tirpitz, before Formidable steamed east to Sydney in 1945 and joined the British Pacific Fleet, fighting alongside the Americans at Okinawa and the final assault against Japan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen and Sword
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781399087674

Terry Crowdy

Terry Crowdy has long been fascinated by many aspects of military history and takes great pleasure delving into forgotten historical sources and seeking information that has eluded others. The author of a number of articles and books including The Enemy Within: A History of Espionage, and Military Misdemeanours: Corruption, incompetence, lust and downright stupidity. Terry lives in Kent, UK.

Book preview

Introduction

Arthur Flint’s War

This is a grandson’s tribute to his grandfather, the late Arthur Flint (1924–99), Steward in the Royal Navy (1943–46) and a Fleet Air Arm rating on board the Illustrious-class, fleet aircraft carrier HMS Formidable . Although we have his medals, cap badge and some wartime souvenirs, Arthur left no written record of his war service, and there are no known photographs of him in uniform (his wartime photos were lost). However, I grew up listening to his tales of kamikaze attacks and his travels to Australia and the seas around Japan. In this book I will record Arthur’s wartime adventures for posterity and follow the Formidable ’s celebrated voyages, from its recommissioning in Belfast to the Arctic Circle, the Mediterranean, Australia, then Japan and back.

Towards the end of 1998, Arthur spent a day with me, not far from the decommissioned naval base at Chatham, his wartime port depot. Over ham rolls and cups of tea, Arthur gave a lucid account of his service and his opinion on various episodes of the war. I thought afterwards of making a more structured interview, recording him speaking and singing his favourite wartime songs. Sadly, Arthur passed away in the following February before I could arrange this. Five years later, I was working on a book about the Special Operations Executive (SOE) at the Imperial War Museum’s Photography Archive in Austral Street, London. While browsing through hundreds of images, by chance I came across a sequence of photographs taken from the deck of an aircraft carrier in the immediate aftermath of an enormous conflagration. There were men in anti-flash hoods and gloves, firefighting foam spewing from nozzles, and everywhere the twisted and mangled remains of aircraft being hauled up by cranes or manhandled over the side. My grandfather’s words came back to me, and I realised I was looking at the kamikaze strikes on HMS Formidable in May 1945. In my hands I had a complete photographic record of the story he told me. I ordered a set of these photos for the family, and over the following years picked up more photos and accounts by the officers and ratings on Formidable.

HMS Formidable in an official Admiralty photograph dated December 1943. At the time, Formidable had a crew of 1,600 men and was armed with sixteen 4.5-inch dual-purpose guns, mounted in four groups of turrets. (Author’s Collection)

We will discuss HMS Formidable in the pages ahead: its design, function and missions. We will learn of the astute foresight that went into its design, with an armoured hangar. We will read the fearful pounding the ship took, first from Nazi dive bombers and then from Japanese kamikazes, when ‘Formy’ was part of the British Pacific Fleet (BPF) and even became the flagship of the fleet’s carrier squadron. This ‘forgotten fleet’ was the largest, most powerful naval force in the illustrious history of British sea power. It should be better known and celebrated. Alongside the mighty, island-hopping armada assembled by the United States, Formidable took part in the Battle of Okinawa in 1945 and the final Battle of Japan. Formidable endured numerous trials and launched successive waves of aerial attack on the Axis foe. All that is to come.

A full history of the BPF and the Pacific War is beyond the scope of this work. It is an anecdotal retelling of my grandfather’s service, as I believe he would recognize it. I have relied on the notes of my discussion with my grandfather that I recorded more than twenty years ago, as well as the many published and archive documents, accounts, memoirs and anecdotes of his shipmates and the airmen who served on Formidable. I have corresponded with others who, like me, had a relative on board or with the BPF. Throughout the book, I will include my grandfather’s observations, as I remember them, and provided with the appropriate context.

I should first introduce my maternal grandfather. As I knew him, Arthur Flint lived in Rickmansworth in Hertfordshire, where he managed a fish and chip shop in Church Street. My brother Jim and I called him ‘Grandad Chips’. I remember even now the slightly sour smell of the tiled wet backroom where he portioned out cod fillets on a wooden block. From time to time he would come to Kent and stay with us. He would talk exhaustively. ‘Not ’arf!’ was his loud catchphrase, and he would often exclaim ‘Mates!’ to no one in particular. I remember being very fond of him, but that he had a wry cynicism, as if he had seen it all before, as he probably had. We have his medals (still in the original box) and he showed us where he used to keep cigarette matches in his cap badge (still there). We were naturally very proud of him. As far as I could tell, he did not take part in any veteran association events. We could not even get him aboard a car ferry for a day trip to Calais. ‘I’ve had enough of it,’ he would say about going back to sea. Knowing something of the horrors he witnessed, the blast of bugles and klaxon, the pounding thud of the 4.5-inch quick-firing guns, the savage rhythm of pom-poms and clatter of Oerlikons, the heat and exhaustion below decks in asbestos anti-flash gear and the terror of burning aviation fuel racing across the flight-deck, I think I now better appreciate his reluctance.

Arthur Flint and his daughter, Valerie, circa 1950. (Author’s Collection)

Arthur John Flint was born on 15 July 1924 and grew up in Barking, Essex. He was the second of five children. Leaving school at the age of 14, the outbreak of war found him 15 years old and working as a filler at a petrol station. His father, James (a ‘real Edwardian’, as Arthur described him – and by that he meant severe), was a stevedore on the docks at Barking Creek, first as a labourer and later operating cranes. On the banks of the River Thames, Barking was very much in the firing line as the dramatic summer of the Battle of Britain turned into the long autumn and winter of the Blitz: the Nazi aerial bombardment of Britain. Arthur’s youngest brother, great-uncle Bob, vividly recalled seeing the German bomber crews inside their low-flying aircraft in the skies overhead. At least three high explosive (HE) bombs landed near their home at 1 Digby Road, Barking. By the age of 17, Arthur was working as a plasterer’s labourer. He knew he would soon be called up to serve. The National Service (Armed Forces) Act, 1939 applied to all adult males between 18 and 41 years of age. Some essential ‘reserved occupations’ were exempted, such as farmers, bakers and engineers, but not plasterers’ labourers. His elder brother, Bill, had already gone into the Army and was a fitness instructor at Longmore camp in Hampshire. Arthur must have known he would be called up. But then what? The infantry? Marching day and night with little food and a heavy Bren gun digging into his shoulder? That was not for Arthur. He said he volunteered so he could choose which service he might enter, and claimed he chose the Royal Navy so he did not have too far to march and the food would be better. If this is true, Arthur’s wartime service should be seen as a calculated and pragmatic act of self-preservation. He would do his bit, but he was determined to survive the war.

The theme of self-preservation is an important one throughout this story. One of Arthur’s regular anecdotes was an address by Formidable’s captain ahead of the voyage to the Far East in 1945. ‘Some of you boys won’t be coming home,’ Captain Ruck-Keene told the assembled crew. Arthur Flint’s reaction? ‘Well if that’s your attitude, mate… .’ From that moment on, he did his duty but he took no undue risks. When the Royal Marine bugle sounded ‘repel aircraft’ (which crew members thought rhymed with ‘There’s a bomber overhead, there’s a bomber overhead’), he would not run across the flight-deck, but instead learned to navigate the labyrinth of corridors below to reach his action station as a gunner’s assistant in ‘A’ Group of turrets. When he went on a shore party to the recently liberated Philippines, Arthur also took no chances. He strapped a combat knife to his right calf and carried a pistol at his hip. By then he had obtained his captain’s permission to discontinue shaving and ‘grow’. Looking at this young Essex man, armed and heavily bearded, with his bronzed forehead, the officer leading the landing party remarked on Arthur’s terrifying appearance and ordered him to stay close to him while ashore.

Although his service was unremarkable in the grand scheme of things (as it was for the great majority), Arthur was reasonably well informed. True, his was a very junior rank, but as a steward to the pilots and in the wardroom, the streetwise Arthur no doubt listened to the officers’ conversations as he served them stilton and sausage rolls, having taken a share for himself in the bargain (he put on weight during the war, but he also said he took the leftovers from the officers’ dinners over to the stokers). He vividly recalled the build-up to the first atom bomb being dropped on Japan, because he noticed an unusual order on the noticeboard as he took cups of tea to the bridge: ‘The fleet will move 200 miles out to sea.’¹ Given they had been bombing Japan relentlessly, this order to move away from the mainland seemed out of the ordinary. Evidently, they wanted the fleet well away from the Japanese mainland when this terrible new weapon was unleashed. That said, some of his recollections have been difficult to corroborate. He was adamant the second kamikaze to hit Formidable was piloted by a woman. He reiterated this forcibly, right to the end of his life. Could it be true?

Arthur’s military service record is incomplete: the original was probably lost or destroyed on his voyages, and the information added to the replacement is very scant. The Royal Navy kindly reconstructed Arthur’s service history for this book from their old Payment and Victuals (P&V) ledgers. It initially came as a surprise to find him listed as a Fleet Air Arm rating, but it at least explained his stories of going to America and his prized souvenir cushion covers from the US Naval Air Station Brunswick, Maine. Arthur served first with 1841 Naval Fighter Squadron, before moving to its sister squadron, 1842. These two fighter squadrons were on Formidable from the time of the Tirpitz attacks until the end of the war. Arthur would have known the colourful airmen we will meet, like ‘Biggy’, ‘Judy’, ‘Pablo’ and VC winner ‘Hammy’ Gray. He certainly remembered the ship’s redoubtable captain, Philip Ruck-Keene, a figure looming large throughout this story.

On 24 August 1943, Arthur reported for duty at Billy Butlin’s holiday camp in Skegness, Lincolnshire. The camp had been requisitioned and converted into a naval establishment at the start of the war. Known as HMS Royal Arthur, the camp was a reception depot for naval recruits before onward transit to training camps. Prior to this he would have undergone a medical examination. Despite having terrible eyesight, Arthur passed. After the eye test, the examiner apparently patted him on the shoulder and said, ‘Nice try son.’ Arthur took it as a compliment. In fact the examiner was telling Arthur no one’s eyesight was that bad, and he thought he was trying to deliberately flunk the test. It therefore became one of the many little absurdities of wartime service that Arthur was sometimes posted as a lookout for sea mines even though he could hardly make out the water below him.

The new drafts at HMS Royal Arthur were housed in the camp’s chalets and took their meals in one of six large mess halls (Theatre, Windsor, Kent, York, Gloucester and Empress – Arthur was part of Kent House). They would march smartly up to the mess halls and then turn into something of a mob, scrambling for tables and chairs. It was here that my grandfather was taught some of the basic principles of seamanship, such as the art of slinging a hammock (a ‘mick’), the tying of knots and how to row a boat. There would have been trips to the dentist, vaccinations (more of which later) and hours of square bashing (foot drill), rifle drill, bayonet drill and being thrown into deep water with a life belt, as well as attempts to improve their physical condition through cross-country runs and games of football. There was ‘shore leave’ to visit the nearby town. On Sunday mornings there was ‘Divisions’ (a parade where the crew stood in their different departments) and church parade around the ‘quarterdeck’ (the camp flagpole), with the rest of the day left free for relaxation. There was paperwork too: authorizing a deduction in pay so his mother would get his pension if he was killed.

Arthur’s poor eyesight would have been noted during this period of basic training. This was the probable reason he was assigned to the Royal Navy’s Accountant Branch, which then included the writers, supply ratings, cooks and officers’ stewards. These servicemen did not wear the traditional ‘square rig’ naval uniform, but a ‘fore-and-aft rig’, with navy blue jacket and trousers, white shirt and collar, black tie and a blue peaked cap. On the left sleeve of their jacket they wore a badge in the form of a six-pointed star, with the initials of their department in the centre, in Arthur’s case ‘OS’ for officer’s steward. In theory this rig should have given them a similar appearance to the officers (without the gilt or embroidery), but one attendee at Royal Arthur said the uniform was a cross between ‘that of a taxi driver and a workhouse inmate’.²

A class of navy intakes at HMS Royal Arthur. All are wearing the ‘fore and aft rig’ uniform worn by Arthur Flint, except the matelot in the centre of the front row in ‘square rig’ uniform. (Author’s Collection)

Sleeve badges worn by ratings in the Accountant Branch of the Royal Navy. Officers’ Stewards were designated ‘OS’. (Author’s Collection)

On 28 September 1943, Arthur travelled by train from Skegness to HMS Pembroke in Chatham Naval Dockyard, where he spent the next twenty-one weeks at the Royal Navy’s Stewards School. Pembroke was a cluster of ornate brick Edwardian baroque buildings forming a barracks, large drill hall, gymnasium, officers’ quarters, administration buildings and classrooms. Here Arthur was issued with his BR 97 Officers’ Steward’s Manual and taught everything from the correct manner of setting tables to serving meals and drinks. It included elementary stock- and book-keeping, marketing (the purchase of goods), hygiene, cleaning, laundry, uniform maintenance, how to set out the correct uniforms for their officers for various occasions, and so on. The stewards assigned to the pilots would be up early to wake them with a cup of tea on flying days, and to set out a basin of hot water so they might shave. This may all seem somewhat archaic now, but even in wartime the Royal Navy was nothing if not traditional. Officers were gentlemen, and their wardroom was run very much as a gentlemen’s club, even with its own cooks and galley. To maintain the desired high standards, stewards were essential.

HMS Pembroke, or the Royal Naval Barracks, Chatham. This is a view of the Terrace, with the Grenville (centre) and Duncan (left) Blocks visible. The Stewards School was approximately 150 metres to the left of Duncan. (Author’s Collection)

The staff at HMS Pembroke, Chatham, where Arthur Flint attended the Stewards School. (Author’s Collection)

Arthur Flint’s cap badge and dog tag. ‘C’ showed his depot was Chatham; ‘L’ designated cooks and stewards; ‘X’ signified a renumbering which occurred in 1925. His department was ‘OS’ (Officers’ Steward) and his religion ‘C of E’ (Church of England). (Author’s Collection)

Handwritten breakfast menu card from the wardroom, HMS Formidable, dated 17 January 1941. The officers have a choice of figs, prunes, porridge or cereals, grilled sausage and bacon, and ham. The reverse has been used by a steward as a laundry chit, for one suit of pyjamas, two pairs of socks, two soft shirts, one towel and one pair of white stockings. There is a hole in the menu/chit where it has been pinned. (Author’s Collection)

One evening we drove Arthur home to Rickmansworth, passing along Chatham’s Dock Road, and he quickly remembered the tall brick perimeter walls, pointing out various landmarks. He once told me how he and his mates would take the bus to the village of Upchurch and then conduct a ‘pub crawl’ along the Lower Road back to the barracks (a little over 5 miles in distance). When given leave, he would take the dockyard branch line to Gillingham and from there a train to Gravesend, from where he took the Tilbury Ferry across to Essex before returning home. Then, in February 1944, his training came to an end. With the rank of Assistant Steward, he was sent by train with his kitbag and hammock up to a wintry Scotland. His great wartime adventure had begun.

Chapter 1

The Ship That Launched Itself

On Thursday 17 August 1939, the Air Minister, Sir Kingsley Wood, and his wife, Lady Agnes, arrived at the Harland and Wolff shipyard in Belfast for the ceremonial launch of the new aircraft carrier, HMS Formidable . They were met by a host of dignitaries, including Viscount Craigavon, the Prime Minister of Northern Ireland. A smartly dressed shipyard lad stepped forward, holding his cap in one hand while with the other presenting Lady Wood with a floral bouquet.

Sat on a launch cradle was the fleet aircraft carrier, Formidable, one of four Illustrious-class warships then under construction (her sisters were Illustrious and Victorious; the fourth, Indomitable, came later with a modified design). The keel of Formidable was laid down on 17 June 1936 and assigned the yard number 1007. After two years of hard toil, the hull was ready for launch. Even without its ‘island’ (the combined bridge/aircraft control tower that would be constructed after launch), the Formidable was an impressive size. It was 60ft tall (18.2m) from the keel to the flight-deck, the surface of which measured 670ft (204m) long (imagine the length of two football pitches) by 95ft (28.95m) wide. In readiness for the launch, its steel hull was propped on either side by a long row of upright timber baulks. Dozens of ship-workers walked nonchalantly beneath the 23,000 tons of steel and armoured plate, taking a final look at their handiwork, and began loosening the props ahead of the launch. A huge crowd of shipyard workers and their families stood alongside the slipway, with others climbing high into the gantry overlooking the ship. It was a great occasion to see the launch of one of Britain’s mightiest warships, the fifth Royal Navy ship to carry the name Formidable.

Formidable under construction at Belfast’s Harland and Wolff shipyard. (Courtesy of David Collins)

The chaotic aftermath of HMS Formidable’s launch on 19 August 1939. Dockers and spectators on the slipway inspect the broken cradle and recover casualties. (Author’s Collection)

Formidable seen afloat shortly after its calamitous launch. Note that construction of the ‘island’ has yet to begin. (Author’s Collection)

The ship’s badge of HMS Formidable consisted of a cluster of five golden tridents on a blue background surmounted by a Naval Crown. (Author’s Collection)

Half an hour before the naming ceremony was due to commence, there was an enormous groan and the ship began to lurch forwards. The cradle started to creak and crack, and there was a shout as the workers beneath the hull ran for their lives before the ship came down and crushed them. There was a colossal roar and a booming of steel as Formidable began to slide out of control towards the sea. The quick-thinking Lady Wood saw what was happening and smashed the ceremonial bottle of Empire wine against the hull. She then looked on in tears as ropes snapped and timbers shattered, iron beams and bolts flung into the air and raining down on the workers on the slipway