The HMS Glorious Disaster: A Controversial Sinking That Shocked the Royal Navy

In the summer of 1940, the British aircraft carrier HMS Glorious was steaming home from Norway, carrying over a thousand sailors and a controversial secret.

Her captain, Guy D’Oyly-Hughes, had an urgent appointment with a court martial in Britain—but he would never make it.

On June 8, 1940, the ship was intercepted by the German battleships Scharnhorst and Gneisenau.

Within hours, Glorious and her two escorting destroyers were sunk, claiming the lives of over 1,500 men.

The disaster sparked a controversy that still rages today: why was the carrier so ill-prepared, and why did nearby British ships fail to respond?

But the story of HMS Glorious began decades earlier, in the midst of the First World War.

Built as a battlecruiser under the rushed conditions of war, she was one of three ships of the Courageous class—large light cruisers designed to fulfill Admiral Lord Fisher’s ambitious Baltic project.

With minimal armor and massive 15-inch guns, these ships were a compromise, but they would go on to serve in some of the most pivotal moments of naval history.

Laid down in 1915 and commissioned in 1917, Glorious joined the Grand Fleet just in time to witness the growing threat of German minesweeping operations in the Heligoland Bight.

On November 17, 1917, she participated in a raid against German minesweepers, where she suffered an explosion in her forward turret—not from enemy fire, but from one of her own shells detonating inside the gun barrel.

The damage required five days of repairs, but it was a minor setback compared to the changes that would come after the war.

In 1918, Glorious began her relationship with naval aviation when flying-off platforms were fitted to her turrets.

She was present at the surrender of the German High Seas Fleet on November 21, 1918, and afterward was placed in reserve.

But the 1922 Washington Naval Treaty would change her fate forever.

The treaty limited the construction of new battleships and battlecruisers, but allowed existing ships to be converted into aircraft carriers.

With her large hull and high speed, Glorious was an ideal candidate.

In 1924, she began a conversion that would transform her from a battlecruiser into an aircraft carrier.

The work was completed in 1930, and she emerged with a two-story hangar, a flight deck, and the ability to carry up to 48 aircraft.

She was recommissioned into the Mediterranean Fleet, but her early years as a carrier were not without incident.

On April 1, 1931, while sailing out of Gibraltar, Glorious collided with the French liner SS Florida in heavy fog.

The impact severely damaged her flying-off deck and killed one of her sailors, while 32 lives were lost on the Florida.

Both ships survived, but the incident was a stark reminder of the risks of naval aviation.

After repairs, Glorious continued to serve, and by the mid-1930s she had been equipped with hydraulic catapults and upgraded armaments.

When World War II broke out, Glorious was called upon to support the Norwegian campaign.

In April 1940, she provided air cover for British forces and ferried RAF aircraft to Norwegian airfields.

The campaign was ultimately lost, and in early June 1940, the evacuation of British forces from Norway began.

Glorious was part of the evacuation effort, and on June 7, she successfully landed ten Gloster Gladiators of 263 Squadron.

The next day, she would attempt the first landing of high-speed monoplanes—Hawker Hurricanes of 46 Squadron—without tail hooks.

The pilots devised a clever solution: placing a 15-pound sandbag in the rear of each Hurricane to allow full braking upon touchdown.

But that same day, Glorious would meet her end.

Her captain, Guy D’Oyly-Hughes, had been granted permission to sail ahead of the main fleet to oversee a court martial.

Accompanied by the destroyers HMS Acasta and HMS Ardent, Glorious set sail for Scapa Flow.

At PM, funnel smoke from the British ships was spotted by the German battleships Scharnhorst and Gneisenau.

The British spotted the Germans about 15 minutes later.

Glorious maintained her speed and heading, dispatching Ardent to investigate while readying five Swordfish aircraft for takeoff.

But she had no aircraft airborne on combat air patrol, no aircraft on deck ready for quick launch, and no lookout in the crow’s nest.

She was ill-prepared for action.

At PM, Scharnhorst opened fire on Ardent.

The destroyer returned fire and laid a smoke screen, but she was no match for the battleship.

Ardent was hit several times, capsized, and sank, taking 152 lives.

Scharnhorst then turned her attention to Glorious.

The first two salvos missed, but the third scored a hit on the forward section of the main flight deck, penetrating into the hangar and starting a large fire.

The hit destroyed two Swordfish and prevented any aircraft from taking off.

The second strike hit the bridge, killing most of the personnel there, including Captain D’Oyly-Hughes.

A smokescreen from Ardent gave Glorious a brief respite, but Scharnhorst continued her onslaught.

Glorious was hit again in the center engine room, causing loss of speed and a dangerous list to starboard.

Meanwhile, HMS Acasta, severely damaged, emerged from the smokescreen and fired two volleys of torpedoes.

One hit Scharnhorst, causing significant damage.

But Acasta could do no more; she was ablaze and soon sank, taking 161 men with her.

The German battleships closed in on Glorious, inflicting further damage until she finally sank.

Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, fearing British reinforcements, withdrew without rescuing the survivors.

Over a thousand men were left in the water.

The Royal Navy was completely unaware of the sinkings.

It was only days later, via German radio, that they learned the truth.

The Norwegian ship Borgund, en route to the Faroe Islands, arrived on the scene late on June 10 and rescued 37 men, though two later died.

Another Norwegian ship, Svalbard, picked up five more, one of whom died.

One final survivor was picked up by a German seaplane.

The grim casualty list concluded: HMS Acasta lost 160 men, HMS Ardent lost 152, and HMS Glorious lost 1,207.

An immediate investigation commenced.

Attention was drawn to the fact that all ships were ordered to broadcast any enemy sightings, yet no such broadcast seemed to have been made.

However, some survivors testified that the sighting was indeed broadcast and received by a nearby British ship.

It became apparent that the heavy cruiser HMS Devonshire was within 30 to 50 miles of the battle, sailing under the command of Vice Admiral John Cunningham, who was carrying out orders to evacuate the Norwegian royal family to Great Britain and was instructed to maintain radio silence.

Controversy persists that Cunningham received the sighting report but chose to ignore it and continue his high-speed journey.

The nature of this controversy has long persisted and was the subject of a debate in the British House of Commons as recently as January 28, 1999.

The controversy surrounding HMS Devonshire’s failure to respond has never been fully resolved.

Vice Admiral Cunningham maintained throughout his life that he never received the sighting report, and that even if he had, his orders to maintain radio silence and protect the Norwegian royal family were paramount.

Yet the timing of the events has always troubled historians.

Devonshire was approximately 50 miles away when Glorious came under fire.

At the speed the carrier was making, and with the German battleships closing in, a rescue attempt would have been perilous—but not impossible.

The question that has haunted the Royal Navy for over eighty years is simple: was the sacrifice of 1,500 men justified by the need to protect a single cruiser carrying royalty?

Compounding the tragedy is the fact that Glorious was never supposed to be sailing alone in those waters.

The carrier had been granted permission to depart ahead of the main fleet for a reason that seems almost absurd in hindsight—Captain D’Oyly-Hughes wanted to preside over the court martial of his own air commander, who had refused to order an attack on shore targets during the Norwegian campaign.

The commander had argued that the targets were ill-defined and his aircraft unsuited to the task.

For that act of professional judgment, he was to face disciplinary action.

The court martial would never convene.

Instead, the captain’s haste to reach Scapa Flow placed his ship in one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the North Sea without the protection of the main fleet.

Glorious had no aircraft aloft, no lookout in the crow’s nest, and no aircraft on deck ready for immediate launch.

The first indication of trouble came when funnel smoke was spotted on the horizon—but by then it was already too late.

Survivors later described the chaos aboard the sinking carrier.

Men who had been in the hangar when the first shell struck were engulfed in flames.

Others were trapped below decks as the ship began to list.

The engineering crew, working in the engine rooms, kept the pumps running until the water rose too high.

Many never made it to the upper decks.

In the water, the ordeal was only beginning.

The North Sea in June is cold enough to kill a man within minutes without a life jacket.

Oil from the sinking ships coated the surface, choking those who tried to swim.

The German battleships, mindful of the risk of British submarines and aircraft, steamed away without stopping to pick up survivors.

For hours, the men of Glorious, Acasta, and Ardent clung to wreckage and rafts, watching their ships disappear beneath the waves.

It would be two full days before rescue arrived.

The Norwegian ship Borgund, bound for the Faroe Islands, stumbled upon the scene on the evening of June 10.

Her crew pulled 37 men from the water, though two would later die of exposure.

Another Norwegian vessel, Svalbard, rescued five more, one of whom also succumbed.

A single survivor was later picked up by a German seaplane and taken prisoner.

For the families of the missing, the wait for news was agonizing.

The Admiralty initially had no idea what had happened to Glorious.

It was only through German propaganda broadcasts that the truth began to emerge—the carrier had been sunk, along with her escorts, and over a thousand men were dead.

The official notification would take days to reach the next of kin.

The subsequent Board of Inquiry focused on several critical questions.

Why had Glorious not maintained a combat air patrol?

Why was there no lookout in the crow’s nest?

Why had the ship not begun zigzagging or taken evasive action when the German battleships were first spotted?

And most importantly, why had no distress signal been received by the nearby Devonshire?

The evidence was contradictory.

Some survivors swore they heard the order to transmit a sighting report.

Others claimed the radio room was destroyed early in the action.

The Devonshire’s log showed no record of receiving any message from Glorious.

Cunningham himself was adamant that he had received nothing.

The Board of Inquiry ultimately concluded that no blame could be attached to Vice Admiral Cunningham or the crew of Devonshire. “The Devonshire was acting under direct Admiralty orders,” the report stated, “and her primary duty was the safe passage of the Norwegian royal family.” The loss of Glorious was attributed to a combination of factors: the captain’s decision to sail independently, the lack of air patrol, and the overwhelming firepower of the German battleships.

Yet the controversy refused to die.

In 1999, a parliamentary debate reignited the question of whether Devonshire could have done more.

Historians pointed out that Cunningham’s ships were within radio range and that even a brief detour might have saved hundreds of lives.

Others argued that turning back would have risked the cruiser and its royal passengers to the same German guns.

Today, the wreck of HMS Glorious lies in the cold depths of the North Sea, a silent monument to the 1,207 men who never came home.

The sandbag that helped a Hurricane land safely on her deck is now a museum curiosity—a small reminder of the ingenuity and tragedy that marked her final days.

“The sea keeps its secrets,” one survivor said decades later, “but the questions never sink.”

What do you think—should Devonshire have broken radio silence to attempt a rescue, or was Cunningham right to follow orders?

Share your thoughts in the comments below.