2258 Hours
November 11th, 1940
Port of Taranto, Italy
In Roman times, the warm, vast southern sea was known as the Mare Nostrum, for it belonged to them utterly. Their empire encompassed its every shore, from the Italian coast, to the Hispanic shores, to the borders of the African desert, all the way around the arid lands of Galilee, Syria, and Turkey, finally touching the beaches of Greece and the Adriatic lands. It was a crucial avenue of commerce and fast transportation - a key element for the survival, prosperity, and unity of the greatest empire in the West, and perhaps the entire world, had ever seen. From end to end, the Mediterranean was theirs.
Of course, the Roman Empire had long since fallen by 1940. But the desire to rebuild a latter-day version of it had not nearly abated in the hearts of some in the former Imperial lands. To facilitate his dream of creating a new Rome, Il Duce Benito Mussolini had made numerous steps to make Italy a militarized, modern, colonial power, with himself in the implied position of the new Caesar. Though Italy had not yet had the opportunity to cover itself in glory in this new war with Britain and her Allies, its leaders had every confidence that it soon would.
One of the sources of this confidence was the powerful and newly modernized Italian Navy, the Regia Marina, one of the most powerful fleets in the world. Though it had no aircraft carriers, and many of its capital ships dated back to the Great War or even some years before, a longstanding modernization program as well as plenty of newer smaller vessels such as destroyers and submarines made the Italian Navy a force to be reckoned with. Even though its nemesis the Royal Navy outnumbered it considerably, the Italian navy was centralized and whole in the Mediterranean, while the Royal Navy had to be split apart all over the world to defend Britain's colonies. With the conflict so localized and with the facilities and airfields of Italy so close to hand, surely the Royal Navy could be overcome.
And if the Italian Navy could drive the British from the Mediterranean, the possibilities were intoxicating. The conquest of Malta, Greece, Egypt (and the destruction of the growing British army there), Gibraltar, and vast swathes of Africa and the Middle East would all be immediately possible. Italy would finally prove itself as a martial power second to none, and could show those Nordic upstarts that Italy was the true successor to the Roman Empire, and logically, the true torchbearers of Western civilization. However, in the meantime, the Regia Marina needed to bide its time, and wait for the correct moment to strike. There was no need to extend itself on dangerous patrols looking for the enemy, when the enemy could quite practically come to it trying to escort its African convoys. It could remain safely hidden in its harbors, eagerly awaiting the word to strike.
In the prime southern harbor of the Italian Navy, that of Taranto, the Regia Marina was in supreme force on the night of November 12th. The entire active battleship force was present and accounted for: the pride of the Italian fleet, the Vittorio Veneto, a fast, modern, powerful battleship (the first to be constructed by the Fascist government) was moored there, as was its first sister ship, the Littorio, two of its dreadnaught-style predecessors, the Caio Duilio, and the Andrea Doria, as well as a pair of ancient pre-war battleships, the Conte di Cavour and the Giulio Cesare, in addition to a swarm of cruisers, destroyers, submarines, and the many subtypes of smaller vessels that a heavy battle fleet needed to support itself. This arrayed fleet, if unleashed against some unsuspecting convoy or even the main body of the British Mediterranean Fleet, would surely wreak great havoc. The Admirals of the Italian Navy, as timid as they were, believed they had the best of both worlds - close proximity to the prospective battlefront, and a secure home port where their ships can moor without fear of interdiction or ambush.
On the latter score, they were very wrong.
For if everything goes as planned tonight, the gloriously modern, expensive, proud, and powerful Italian Navy, upon which the hopes for a new Rome rest, will be utterly laid to waste by two dozen tiny, horrifically outdated British biplanes held together with glorified twine and fabric.
The operation has been planned as a contingency for five years. It has been planned as a serious plan for several months. It has been ordered and aborted once before due to a near-disastrous hangar fire onboard the carrier HMS Eagle some weeks before, rendering that carrier out of action for the operation, mandating Illustrious as her replacement. But now, the mission is fully underway: 21 ancient Swordfish torpedo-bombers are inbound on Taranto harbor in two waves, with their armaments evenly split between torpedo-carrying aircraft and bomb-carrying aircraft. Their targets are the largest ships they can find in the harbor, and to use every weapon at their disposal to neutralize or destroy them.
In the vanguard of the formation at about 5,000 feet, Squadron Leader/Captain Robert Page of 319 (Excalibur) Squadron took a deep breath (as deep a breath as he could muster, with the oxygen situation being what it was) as the dramatic lights of the Taranto harbor came into view. It looked just like it did on the maps they'd studied over and over again on the voyage over: the main inlet into the large, central harbor, known as the Mar Grande, and then the channel to the nearly landlocked inner harbor known as the Mar Piccolo, restricted to cruisers and smaller ships. Both areas were packed, and were dramatically speckled with light from the ships, the searchlights crisscrossing the air above the harbor, and the port facilities
Page involuntarily gasped as the light emanating from the searchlights framed and silhouetted the massive, sinister shapes in the Mar Grande, far below. The recon reports had confirmed the presence of the Italian fleet, but seeing the huge battleships all together outside of the grainy pictures was something else altogether. The enormous, hulking, angular shapes in the black night seemed to project an aura of menace and unstoppable power, the likes of which he hadn't seen before. Back during Operation Falkland, he'd led Excalibur on a mission to hunt a German battleship, but that was done at day, and the Graf Spee by comparison looked very tiny, all alone on the massive ocean. Here, the scale of the Italian battle fleet was demonstrated by the buildings they were moored next to, the miniscule support ships that were secured around them, and by the structure of the port itself.
He wondered for a moment if their ridiculous stringbag planes would even carry enough ordnance make a dent. Then, he smiled as he remembered the mantra he'd been repeating to himself for weeks now when reviewing this operation:
They'll never see this coming.
Indeed, they wouldn't. And as had been proven by the unfortunate Royal Oak incident, the smaller foe could sometimes carry a crippling sting.
He keyed the radio to the squadron frequency. Excalibur was operating alongside one of Illustrious' torpedo groups, and he made sure to sync up his orders with theirs, coming in over his radio a moment or so before.
"319 now approaching the final waypoint. When I give the signal, Red Flight and Blue Flight are to form on me and descend rapidly to torpedo level. We'll then line up on our target packages, just like we practiced. White and Gold flights, you'll stay up at this altitude and break onto your approved bombing target packages. Remember the dive-bombing standard - as steep and fast as the plane and you can take, and make sure you get lined up right coming down. Once you get your ordnance away, do not linger around - get out as fast as possible. Gunners, keep eyes on for potential aerial hostiles. If this works, we should be out of here in scant minutes."
Page tightened his gloves and readied himself to descend about 4,900 feet, rather quickly. He realized his hands were shaking with excitement. The firing hadn't even started yet. Wait a few more seconds, Luigi, and it won't make a difference. Well, until the second wave.
"All right - Gladiator, Gladiator, Gladiator. Tally-ho, and give 'em hell!"
The flights broke apart, two going low and two staying high, ready to hit the Italian fleet with all they could muster as the lights of the harbor began to reveal their archaic silhouettes against the black sky...
