Recollections of World War II by Lt.Cdr.W.P.EdneyRECOLLECTIONS OF WORLD WAR 11 by Lt.Cdr.Walter Edney, 1918-2003

Cdr. Edney was twice mentioned in Despatches

This is an extract from his Autobiography written in 1993

It was May 1940 and although we had been at war for six months, by and large it had

been very quiet throughout the winter. The only naval action of any significance had

been the Battle of the River Plate in which three of our cruisers sank the Graf Spee – a

German armed raider who had been freely roaming the North Atlantic, sinking our

shipping at will. German U-Boats had also been quite active in the North Atlantic in

an endeavour to cut our life line with the US and Canada. To minimize this, our

merchant ships were formed into convoys of up to 100 ships and escorted zig-zag

across the Atlantic by destroyers, but we had insufficient destroyers for the task. The

Germans began a spring offensive in no uncertain terms in April and quickly invaded

Holland, Belgium, Luxenbourg as well as Norway – they were unstoppable, the huge

German machine just rolled forward. So, at the age of 21, I was allocated to HMS

Vanoc to be the leading Telegraphist in charge of the ship’s communications.

HMS Vanoc was a World War 1 destroyer of the V+W class, built in 1917. Although

classed as a destroyer, in those days she would not be a match for the present day

patrol boat. Her displacement was in the order of 800 tons with one 4 inch gun

forward and one aft, 6 torpedo tubes and depth charge throwers aft. Top speed 27

knots. The total crew, including officers, was about 70. The wireless office, of which I

was to be in charge, was situated on the lower part of the bridge and consisted of two

receiving sets and a very ancient arc/spark transmitter which jammed everyone else

within a radius of 20 miles when used. My original communication complement was

just 3 telegraphists.

When I was appointed to Vanoc she was in Norway doing her best to assist our army

stem the German offensive but in the main, evacuating our soldiers who had been cut

off. On 8th June, after most British troops had been evacuated, we sailed for Sullom

Voe, Orkney Islands. On the morning of 9th, about half way between Norway and the

Orkneys, we were attacked by a German Bomber - a Junkers 88 who straddled us with

his bombs, doing little damage except to blow away our aerials. Our stop at Sullom

Voe was brief, enough to refuel and reammunition, and then it was off to St.Nazaire

in Northern France. The British Army were taking a battering in France with the

heavily armed Germans pushing forward on all fronts. Our job was to evacuate as

many of the British troops we could and get them aboard for return home. At the same

time, in the English Channel, a mass evacuation was taking place at Dunkirk, where a

miracle was achieved in getting the majority of our troops home. We had just

completed loading one troopship with some 100 or more soldiers when she was

bombed and sunk by German Aircraft – I believe one bomb went straight down her

funnel and blew her to pieces. How many survivors there were I do not know but not

many I suspect. The job was completed by 18th June when we returned to Plymouth.

Nothing much happened until September when the German Luftwaffe attempted to

take control of the air. The Battle of Britain was fought and won by the few. In the

meantime it was our duty at sea to prevent landing craft crossing with troops to land

along our South Coast. So on 8th September we were assigned to the Anti Invasion

Patrol in the English Channel. By 28th September the invasion scare was over and I

settled in Portsmouth awaiting next instructions to sail. By now I had passed my

examinations for 2nd Grade Wireless Telegraphist, the qualification I needed to

advance to Petty Officer Telegraphist.

In January, whilst in harbour, bombs were dropped close to the ship and on 10th we

moved out to Spithead. It may have been a lucky escape as the Air Blitz on

Portsmouth took place and the town was still burning the next day. A new transmitter

and RADAR had been fitted on the ship and on 5th February we departed for

Liverpool and sailed with our convoy on 9th. These convoy trips lasted about 10 days,

we would stop at Londonderry to refuel. The speed of the convoy was that of the

slowest ship and at best was 6 knots on an irregular zig-zag course to avoid torpedoes

from U-Boats. The weather was often rough, uncomfortable, cold and unpleasant but

the job had to be done to keep our island fed and clothed. The respite in harbour

varied between 2-3 days to a week, depending on what maintenancewas required to be

done on board.

On 7th November 1940 I was promoted to Acting Petty Officer Telegraphist on the

basis of the examination I had passed in August. I was just 22 and not far from my

ultimate ambition of Chief Petty Officer, with 18 years yet to serve. At this time it

was almost unheard of for a rating with less than 8 years of service to be a Petty

Officer, but the war had helped and I did it in 4 years. I was moved from the sailors

mess deck in the bows of the ship to the Petty Officer’s mess which was much more

civilized and completely separate. It also meant that I could now partake of my daily

issue of rum, neat (without water added)!

Rum was a daily issue to all seamen not of commissioned officer rank, over the age of

21. For the sailors it was diluted – 3 parts of water to one of rum and had to be

consumed on the spot of issue, 12 noon daily. Alternatively for those who did not

want a rum issue they could be paid 4 pence daily. I found the concoction insipid and

elected for the extra pay. However, as a Petty Officer with neat rum available I chose

the rum which was ‘lifting’ to take and, although illegal, could be bottled as it would

keep. Mostly I drank mine daily.

Another concession of the Navy was a monthly issue of tobacco or cigarettes. This

amounted to one pound of tobacco, either pipe or cigarette, or 500 previously rolled

cigarettes. There was a small charge for this, but it was negligible as it was duty free.

There was also an issue of leaf tobacco in lieu, if required. This was the plain tobacco

leaf, which the old salts rolled tightly and bound with tarred hemp, what was known

as a ‘prick’ and was subsequently cut in thin slices to smoke in a pipe. Guaranteed to

make any normal youngster violently sick! It was a dying art, none of the navy could

take that. For my part I did not bother drawing my tobacco issue, sensibly knowing it

was no good for me.

The following week I met my future wife – on a blind date in Liverpool. The

attraction was immediate and our second date was at the local cinema where we sat

through a heavy raid on Liverpool and then had to walk home all the way from Lime

Street in the centre to Stoneycroft, a distance of 5 miles. There was no transport

running and more than once we had to drop flat on our faces on the pavement as the

bombs dropped. We always made it back uninjured. Thelma and I were married for

almost sixty years before she died in January 2003. We had four wonderful children

and twelve greatgrandchildren

The next convoy began quite peacefully, like the others, in very calm sea to

Londonderry for the usual refueling. Little did we know what was ahead of us. We

wasted little time in Londonderry and sailed again at almost full speed, 20 knots, to

pick up the convoy. During the night of 14th, although we had not met the convoy, it

was reported that one of their number, a tanker, had been torpedoed. We finally

reached them on Saturday 15th in mid Atlantic and joined HMS Walker to bring the

convoy home. During the night that followed, 4 more ships of the convoy had been

torpedoed by midnight and it became clear that U-Boats were operating among this

convoy, surfacing and firing torpedoes at will. What use could two First World War

destroyers be amongst this? Just after midnight, Walker sighted the fluorescent wash

of a U-Boat retreating on the surface and immediately gave chase, dropping a pattern

of depth charges (10) over the likely diving position of the U-Boat. Unfortunately

contact was lost, the U-Boat disappeared and Walker steamed to pick up survivors

from yet another tanker. What was not known, was the fact that the U-Boat had been

damaged by the depth charges and unable to stay under water for long periods. It

decided to surface for inspection of the damage. As it did so, my RADAR operator

immediately reported a dark green blob which he thought might be a U-Boat. This

fact was reported to HMS Walker and both ships then raced at top speed along the

bearing given by the RADAR operator. After a little more than a mile, the silhouette

of a U-Boat could be seen on the surface, so without hesitation our Captain gave the

order to “Stand by to Ram”. This we did, in no uncertain manner, at full speed, hitting

the U-Boat amidships and toppling her over. It brought Vanoc to a sudden standstill,

embedded in the U-Boat which was only cleared by both engines, full astern. The U-

Boat rose high in the air and sunk, the Captain still on the bridge wearing his white

cap but badly injured went down with her. There were few survivors, just five from a

crew of 50 who had probably jumped overboard before the collision.

It subsequently transpired that the U-Boat we had sunk was U100, captained by a

Lieut.Capt.Schwepke, a U-Boat Ace who had sunk many thousand tons of British

shipping. A further observation of this action that perhaps made history was the fact

that this was the first time that such a primitive and crude RADAR set had led to the

attack on a U-Boat, remembering that the set had only been installed a few months

before and that the aerial had to be rotated manually.

We next swept the surface of the waters with our searchlight in order to pick up

survivors. I well remember and will do so always, the cries of those men in the icy

waters “Camerade”. In my youth my bitterness towards them was extreme. They had

sunk our ships and many of our seamen drowned at sea. Their air force (the

Luftwaffe) had bombed our cities relentlessly killing thousands of innocent civilians. I

just had to shout “leave them there”. Fortunately perhaps the older members of our

crew had more compassion and pulled up the side as many as they could, before the

next alarm. It had amounted to just five, one officer and four men.

Whilst recovering these survivors, the Walker ASDIC operator reported a U-Boat

echo, which, on investigation, placed it directly under our stern (where we were

stopped, recovering survivors). There was only one answer, to get away quickly and

depth charge, which we did, followed by a run over the spot by HMS Walker who

also dropped a bank of depth charges. Any further swimmers that may have been in

the water (and there were some) could not possibly have survived this fierce attack.

After a short while, a U-Boat surfaced just astern of us, so close that it was necessary

to move out of the way fairly quickly for fear of being torpedoed or fired upon. It was

not to be. In fact both Walker and Vanoc opened a cross fire at the U-Boat. It was

quite clear that she was badly damaged and the crew would have to surrender. The U-

Boat flashed a message in English to Walker to the effect that she was sinking. The

bow of the U-Boat subsequently rose in the air and she slithered down to her grave.

The whole of the crew took to the water, all saved, including the Captain, with the

exception of the Engineer Officer and two seamen. What we had achieved! This was

U-99, captained by Lt.Cmdr.Kretschmen, the unchallenged Ace of the German U-

Boat fleet after Prien who had been sunk with his U-Boat a few days before by HMS

Wolverine – another of the old V+W class. But what of ourselves? The damage to our

bow was extensive, but the watertight doors were holding and the engines were

sound. We would be of little use but we remained with the convoy at slow speed and

left them for Loch Eive, Scotland on the morning of 18th. We had to leave at this

point because we were desperately short of fuel, having steamed at high speed to meet

the convoy and used much full power during the action. It took three hours to refuel

and we left to rejoin the convoy for Liverpool, but did not proceed into harbour as

usual. We anchored outside at the bay in the Mersey. The following day, which by

now was 20th March, we proceeded up harbour at 11am to be met by the Admiral of

Western Approaches and much other ‘top brass’. Here we received congratulations all

round, discharged our prisoners and settled ourselves in Gladstone Dock for what was

to be a period of repairs to our bow, among other modifications. In due course, many

months later, awards were made for this action, our own Captain and the Captain of

Walker were both awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, our ASDIC operator the

Distinguished Service Medal and for my part, not that I know what it was, I received a

mention in Dispatches. I suppose my part had been keeping sound and efficient

communications including the RADAR which was my responsibility. A good account

of this action is given in a book entitled “The Golden Horseshoe” by Terence

Robertson – of which I have a copy.

MTB 17 and "Flowers of the Field"

The story below was written by my father, Lt. Commander R I T (Pip) Falkner RN in

1972. He died three years later in May 1975. I now have the two precious books

mentioned in the story.

The name of the German Salvage Officer was Captain Hans Hankow. Although he

and my father never met face to face, they used to correspond after the war when my

parents sent him food parcels to Germany. We do not know when he died, but he must

have been quite elderly during the war, when he saved "The Flower of the Field",

having mentioned in his letters that he had fought for The German Imperial Navy

during the Falklands and Coronels battles.

We do not have a record of name of the Dutch aviator friend that father took with him

on that fateful day, but understand from my mother, that she recalls that he became

Comptroller of the Royal Dutch Household after the war.

The Story as father wrote it is as follows:

This is a true story about the long and charmed life of a book which was destroyed by

enemy action, but which was returned to its owner in almost its original state many

years later. What is fascinating is how this book brought out the brotherhood of the

sea between a German and a British Naval Officer who, at the time, were enemies.

I was that Royal Naval Officer. And in the afternoon of

8th September 1940, I and the other M.T B. Commanding

Officers were all sitting peacefully on the lawn of the M.T.B. Shore Base, H.M.S.

BEEHIVE. Suddenly, we were all recalled to our boats and, as the sun began to set,

M.T.B.’s 14, 15 and 17 roared out of Felixstowe Harbour towards the Belgian coast,

under my command in M.T.B. 17, with orders to sink enemy merchant vessels using

Dutch and Belgian coastal waters.

It always took us about four hours to make landfall on the enemy coast and when we

did, it was usually around 11p.m. By now, it had begun to rain hard and, at 30 knots,

the visibility was reduced to almost nil, so much so that one of the boats lost me in a

squall. Up and down the Belgian coast the remaining two of us patrolled, peering

painfully into the driving rain for the enemy. We saw nothing but on a hunch, I turned

back and told the other boat we'd have another look at Ostend.

This time, I went right into the anchorage and as the rain cleared, there appeared the

magnificent sight of about twenty German Merchant ships. At that moment, all hell

broke loose as the R.A.F. started to bomb Ostend, and a "Brocks Benefit" over the

town only served to give us an even better view of our targets. The other boat was still

in his appointed station half a cable on my starboard quarter, so I made him the naval

signal for "Disregard my movements — act independently” and myself went in to

attack.

This was the first time either boat had been face to face with surface enemy ships and

I found myself so taut with expectations, not completely void of fear, that it is

difficult to describe. Out of one eye, I watched the other boat gather speed as he

selected his first target, then seeing him clear, I increased speed myself and set about

the business of destroying the enemy.

“1400 revs”, “1800 revs”, “starboard a bit”, “Can you see the ship dead ahead,

Coxswain?” “That’s our first target”, “Slow down 1400 revs”, “Standby to fire port

torpedo", "Nil deflection ", “steady as you go”, “FIRE PORT", then that awful pause

of five seconds while the torpedo gets clear and the boat increases speed to maximum,

the target all the time drawing nearer and nearer. At last, Jacky, the torpedo-man's

welcome cry of “Torpedo clear”.

"Hard a starboard", "Open fire with all guns", I order, and the boat skids round like a

skier only 300 yards from the enemy.

As we opened the range again, we all looked back, then “Woosh", up went the target

and a muffled cheer could just be heard above the roar of the engines as we all saw

our first ever torpedo hit. Then back round again to fire the starboard torpedo at

another ship with the same tense quiet excitement as we went through it all again, this

time a little easier in the knowledge that all went well the first time. By now, the

enemy was wise to the fact that this wasn’t just another air raid on Ostend and there

was shooting from seaward. So we did not wait this time to see where our second and

last torpedo went.

The other boat, meanwhile, seemed to be having just as much success as we were, for

out of the corner of my eye, I'd had to watch him all the time to see we didn't get too

close and collide.

Now it was time to take the other boat under my command again as we had no more

torpedoes, and off we

set over the North Sea for home and breakfast. Next day, one of our aircraft reported

three new wrecks at Ostend and we knew that at least two were ours, which were later

confirmed. Congratulations all round followed and the rest of the day, after fuelling,

was spent as usual in writing the official report of the night’s proceedings.

This time, my report was different — we’d made the

first successful M.T.B. torpedo attack of the War.

Not long before this first successful M.T.B. operation, members of the Press had been

allowed to visit the 1st M.T.B. Flotilla based at Felixstowe and one of the War

Correspondents who came to sea with me in M.T.B. 17, was the late J.L.Hodson. In

his book “Through the Dark Night”, he wrote —

The ship's library had character - "The Bible To Be Read As Literature", Shakespeare,

Tolstoi’s “War and Peace”, Southey’s "Nelson”, the manuals of Navigation and

Seamanship, books on Wild Fowling, “My Mystery Ship" and a crowd of others".

Among the other books, all of which I always carried

in M.T.B.17, was a prize which I had won at the Royal

Naval College, Dartmouth, 10 years before, suitably inscribed with my name as a

Naval Cadet and dated 1930. It was a beautiful book with coloured plates, entitled

"Flowers of the Field" by C.A. Johns.

All these books had been used quite a bit during the dull early part of the "phoney"

war but from Dunkirk onwards, we were usually too busy or too tired to do much

reading.

And so, we continued patrolling across the North Sea nearly every night for the next

six weeks after our initial success but found nothing. So at least we knew we were

achieving our purpose in keeping the enemy's coastal ships immobile. During this

period, I had made friends with a Dutch Naval aviator who kept his seaplane at our

M.T.B. base. He had been pestering me for a long time to take him out on one of our

sorties when he wasn't flying, so that he could see the shores of his home country

again.

This was strictly against the rules, as the Admiralty rightly assumed that it was

dangerous enough for ourselves without risking another life unnecessarily. But as he

was such a pleasant fellow and we hadn't seen the enemy on the sea since that night, I

thought we could break the rule and chance it. Little did I know!

On the night of the 20th October 1940, I was ordered by Fleet Officer-in-Command

Harwich to take two other boats out with me. I also took the Dutchman, embarked as

our unofficial temporary duty ammunitions supply man! It was a perfect night with

hardly a ripple and the usual four-hour trip in close formation brought us over the

other side to the enemy coast.

Nothing in sight for miles - nothing in Dunkirk — up past that old wreck that looks so

like a real live ship that you almost attack it. On we went, close inshore as silently as

possible on one engine - Is that a dog barking onshore? Phew! so it is, we must be

close - there are shore batteries along here - and search lights, too - they must be blind

not to see us - getting near Ostend again - better pullout from shore a bit or they'll

hear our three engines when I start up — “Start both other engines, ahead all three,

1400 revs".

Then it was that we sighted him, a small trawler-type guardship off the harbour

entrance. I lead the three boats round to a good attacking position to seaward and told

the other two to wait while I attacked - she was only worth one torpedo if it hit! But,

before I let go my "fish", the shore batteries opened up with 6-inch shells and

machineguns and let us have it.

The other two boats crash-started and cruised around at high speed to make a difficult

target, while I went on in to attack. Same old routine this time, we were experts now.

"FIRE PORT", then the five seconds pause and "Hard a starb—--“. CRASH! We'd

been hit astern and from 30 knots, suddenly the boat was stopped and flooding by the

stern.

Both gunners had been shot into the air and were,

by now, in the water fifty yards astern. The coxswain had

picked himself up from the deck of the conning tower and I was conscious of a pain in

my back, but soon forgot it when we discovered that Nobby, the stoker, was trapped

half way

in and half way out of the Engine Room with the ship's dinghy flooded with water

pinning him down on his neck.

It was then, as we clung to the bow still above water, that I can clearly remember

saying to myself “Damn, now I’ll be a prisoner-of-war and it's only just started", but

just

as I thought it, one of my other two boats, seeing our plight, came up alongside and

we were saved!

But, M.T.B. 17 hated to go down and it wasn’t until we'd rammed, several times, the

6-ft of the bow which still stuck out of the water, had shot at it and had thrown hand

grenades at it, that she finally slid below the water. Those last few minutes were not

pleasant. I'd been present when her keel was laid in 1938, I’d stood by her while she

was built and I'd been her only captain for over two years, but as the enemy kept

hammering at us with his shore batteries, we finally had to leave. The other boat had

picked up my two gunners and had sent the target ship, now on fire, scurrying into

Ostend Harbour.

As the two boats returned home, my Coxswain turned to me in the wardroom of our

rescuer’s boat and said “You know, Sir, I didn't think we'd have a trip tonight. So I

was all dressed up to go ashore and now my best uniform, which was hanging up

forward with £5 in the pocket, is at the bottom of the sea!” I, too, was thinking of all

my things - silver cigarette case, binoculars, books and so on - which were down

there, too.

We were all glad to see Felixstowe Harbour next morning, particularly my Dutch

aviator friend who, poor chap, was never able to tell anyone of his trip, because he

was not supposed to be there. One of my cherished possessions is a book he gave me

inscribed "Thanks for the exciting trip, better luck next time". It is called “Skin and

Bones!” by Thorne Smith.

And, so the War went on and we all went our different ways to different new ships.

Some were unlucky and never

lived to see peace and others, like myself, celebrated V.E.

and V.J. Days.

The real point of this story is perhaps best told

by the following letter received seven years after the event

in 1947, from a German I had been advised to contact, for he had found my name in

the flyleaf of "Flowers of the Field" and had reached me through the Royal Naval

College, Dartmouth.

“I am sure you will like to know how I came by "Flowers of the Field". Well, I was, at

the time in the German Navy, in Ostende on the Belgian Coast. On that night, your

boat had been attacked and sunk near Ostende Port. The sinking had been observed

and on the morning that followed, the place was marked by two ropes and a diver.

When the tide went down, the upper parts of the boat appeared above the surface. I

was ordered to move the boat to Ostende and to examine it. I found large holes on the

stern and on the stem, but I managed to get the boat into dock. The hits had caused

considerable damage

on board. What was left was finally removed and handed over to the shipyard. Of

your private things, there was hardly anything that was not ruined, but I found your

book, absolutely soaked and quite soft. When I found your name on the slip of paper

reading “Field Club Prize awarded

to Naval Cadet R. I. T. Falkner”, I immediately decided to save the book and to return

it to you later on. On the next day, already I was sent to Boulogne Sur Mer, in order to

supervise the placing of salvage buoys, but I wrapped the wet

book in a towel and took it with me. I then dried it, page by page, on the pipes of the

radiator in my hotel room, which was somewhat difficult, as the pages and coloured

plates had a tendency to stick together, but finally I was fairly successful, as you will

be able to see for yourself when you

get the book. Unfortunately, it was not possible to save the cover and I had the book

re-bound in Berlin later on. I think it looks quite decent now”.

In due course, my German friend sent the book back to England, beautifully re-bound

in leather in Berlin. It was possible to buy new books to replace the others lost at sea,

but never that one which was a prize. So M.T.B.17's small library was once again

complete. Now, 25 years later, in 1972, it is still complete on board my 32ft.260 h.p.

27 knot Project 31 motor yacht. The name of the motor yacht? — “SEVENTEEN II”

HMS Edinburgh

HMS Edinburgh getting supplies at the Kola Inlet 1942.

This story was written by my father David Moore for publication in Warship World

1990.

"THE LOSS OF HMS EDINBURGH"

HARRIER AND THE SWEEPERS

HMS Harrier was leader of the British minesweeping force in North Russia at the

time of the Edinburgh sinking. Originally sent to the White Sea in August 1941, the

6th Minesweeping Flotilla had been tasked with keeping the approaches to Archangel

clear of mines for the incoming Allied convoys. When the White Sea was closed by

ice in the autumn, the 'fleet' minesweepers had been moved to a base in the Kola Inlet.

Here they were assigned to reinforcing the warships escorting the convoys as they

approached and departed form the ice-free port of Murmansk during the winter of '41

to '42. Harrier and the sweepers under her command were little shallow-draught ships

of some 800 tons with the latest British minesweeping gear and the new 10-cm

wavelength surface warning radars. They were too slow (maximum speed only 14

knots) and lightly armed (one 4- inch gun and two light Oerlikon anti-aircraft guns) to

be very effective as escorts. But they had sonar and depth charges, and every little

helped when the shortage of escorts was so desperate.

HMS Edinburgh, flying the flag of Rear- Admiral Stuart Bonham-Carter, was

providing strong support in close proximity to convoy QP1 1 of 17 ships which left

the Kola lnlet for the UK on 28 April 1942. The close escort consisted of four

destroyers, four corvettes and a trawler, the strongest yet allocated to a Russian

convoy. In addition the Harrier, with three of her sweepers (Hussar Gossamer and

Niger) backed up the convoy screen for the first part of the voyage. The air

temperature was still below freezing, and frequent snowstorms, low cloud and heavy

seas provided some protection. However, at this time of the year daylight extended

nearly all night and the ice pack prevented a wide detour to the north to keep the

convoy further away from the German air and naval bases in northern Norway.

After little more than a day in company the minesweepers were detached to return to

the Kola Inlet. But the convoy had already been found and reported by German

aircraft and U- boats. On the evening of the next day (30 April) Harrier had just

completed re-fuelling from a tanker in the Kola Inlet, when we received a signal

informing us that Edinburgh had been torpedoed by a U-boat.

This news was as surprising as it was unwelcome, because Edinburgh, zigzagging at

high speed some distance ahead of the convoy, was a far more difficult target to hit

than any of the slow-moving merchant ships. It is known that U-456 had made the

most of a golden opportunity presented by Edinburgh altering course towards her on a

fresh leg of her zigzag, and had obtained two torpedo hits, the first amidships and the

second in the stern. The latter virtually destroyed the stern abaft the after turret and

most of it subsequently sank including the rudder and at least one propeller.

Amazingly two propeller shafts were still working, and Edinburgh though almost

unable to steer, was struggling slowly in the direction of Murmansk, some 200 miles

to the south, escorted by two British destroyers (Foresight and Forester) and two

Russian ones.

In the minesweepers our expectation of a warm night in harbour rapidly disappeared

as we were ordered to proceed to sea again at full speed to find and assist the stricken

cruiser. Our captain in the Harrier, Commander Eric Hinton, took ail this in his stride.

He was a fine seaman, expert in shiphandling. Beneath his unassuming and humorous

manner, there was an irreducible core of courage. The minesweepers were never

intended to engage enemy surface ships, but we ail knew that our Captain would

never entertain the thought of running away,, even from a German battleship. My job

as Flotilla Navigating Officer was not only to navigate Harrier and the sweepers under

our command, but to act generally as the Captain's staff officer in organising any

operations on which our flotilla was engaged.

At 2018 on 30 April, four hours after the Edinburgh had been struck, we passed

outwards from Kola Inlet and began to retrace our course along the convoys track

towards Edinburgh's reported position, which we naturally assumed might in the

circumstances be considerably in error. By midday on 1 May we were near this

position, still searching to the northward with Gossamer and Niger spread out to the

westward to obtain the maximum width of radar coverage. Hussar was following

somewhere astern escorting a Russian tug to the scene. That evening we ran into the

edge of the ice pack and were forced to turn back to the south. In doing so we spread

our search line to the eastward and by great good luck we sighted Hussar soon after

midnight (it was twilight all night) and she told us that she had just found Edinburgh.

Visibility was now varying from about one to five miles because of continual

snowstorms.

By this time, early on 2 May, Edinburgh was still valiantly struggling to return to port,

possibly making about 3 or 4 knots in a southerly direction. The two Russian

destroyers, short of fuel, had left, but a little Russian gunboat, named Rubin, had

round her. Foresight and Forester were circling round to provide anti-submarine

protection. Soon the Russian tug was attempting to tow the Edinburgh but

unfortunately she was not powerful enough to make any headway. As an alternative,

Gossamer was then secured by a wire rope to the stern of the cruiser to try to keep her

on a steady course, white the Edinburgh pushed away with her two remaining

propellers, thereby continuing to make slow progress. Meanwhile the two destroyers,

the minesweepers and the Rubin circled round to keep U-boats at bay.

I was half asleep in the charthouse when I heard a shout form Lieutenant Holgate,

who was our Officer-of-the-Watch, to come up to the Bridge immediately. Going up

the ladder I was thinking 'My god, this is it'- expecting to see the German battleship

Tirpitz, which was stationed in Northern Norway and might well have been sent to

finish off the damaged British cruiser. In fact it was a German Z-class destroyer, and

her initial salvoes were straddling Hussar, who, like Harrier, was between Edinburgh

and the German attackers. The time was 0627.

Admiral Bonham-Carter had signalled the Senior Officer 6th Minesweeping Flotilla

previously that, in the event of meeting enemy surface forces, the sweepers were to

retire under a smoke screen. Either we never received this signal or Cdr Hinton kept it

to himself and chose to ignore it. At any rate, he immediately turned Harrier straight

towards the German destroyer, increased to our full speed of 14 knots and opened fire

with our single 4 in gun, We obtained one range of the destroyer of four miles, but our

radar then went out of action with the vibration of the gunfire. Soon three German

destroyers came in sight intermittently, dodging in and out of the snowstorms, and

making smoke that increased the haze. Edinburgh opened fire with the three 6 in guns

in her "B" turret, which was practically the only one of her four turrets still able to

fire. Foresight and Forester came dashing over from the other side of the flagship and

began to engage the Germans, who kept their distance at four or five miles and

refrained from approaching any closer.

Seeing gun-flashes coming from five separate directions, the Germans probably

imagined that they were confronting a superior force. Each of these heavy destroyers

was armed (we subsequently discovered) with five 5.9 in guns in addition to

torpedoes, so had they pressed in they might easily have sunk every ship in our force.

However, Harrier and the other .'fleet' minesweepers looked not unlike destroyers

when seen end-on, so probably the Captain's action in heading straight for the enemy

had saved our lives.

Minutes later a 4-gun salvo of shells fell 500 yards from us, another straddled our

forecastle and then another fell at the correct range just astern, but fortunately we

were not hit. Hussar was also engaging the enemy. The action continued, with the

Germans disappearing from view from time to time, until 0652 when we sighted

ahead a torpedo, apparently running on or near the surface in the direction of

Edinburgh. The latter had cast off Gossamer and was moving ahead, although

constrained in a series of circles. Unfortunately one of these circles carried Edinburgh

right into the path-of another torpedo from this salvo which was running deep and

struck her amidships exactly opposite the previous hit from U-456. It was now

estimated that only the upperdeck plating and a somewhat shaky keel were holding

the two ends of the ship together, and clearly she was in danger of breaking in two at

any moment. Had the ship's company taken to the water in this event, few would have

kept alive long enough to be rescued, the longest survival time in this water

temperature being (as we knew from previous sinkings) only about 10 to 20 minutes

at most.

The Admiral therefore immediately ordered Gossamer alongside his starboard side,

and Harrier, his port side, and both the minesweepers began to embark the sick and

wounded men, some of whom, injured in previous convoys, were taking passage

home in the Edinburgh. Following this the entire ship's company was transferred,

some 440 men to Gossamer and about 400 to Harrier. Fortunately the heavy sea had

subsided and it was almost flat calm while this was going on. Meanwhile, Edinburgh

was listing further and further until she reached an angle of 17 degrees. Despite the

list, the cruiser's "S" turret continued to fire on local control with Captain Faulkner

shouting down the bearings of the German destroyers, whenever they were in sight,

from the bridge to the lieutenant in charge of the turret just below him. Such was our

concentration on the battle and the job in hand that it never occurred to us that the

Edinburgh might capsize on top of us. It was about this time that the Rubin, having

misunderstood a signal, attempted to come alongside Harrier', and in doing so caused

some slight damage - of this more later. Eventually the 6 in turret was so far

depressed that the guns could no longer be brought to bear, and the whole transfer

having been completed in an orderly fashion, the Admiral and his staff came on board

Harrier. We lay off, expecting the cruiser to founder almost at once.

Harrier had now become the Admiral's flagship, and it was necessary to hoist the

appropriate flag designating a Rear-Admiral. The nearest we had was a white flag

with a red cross, but two red balls needed to be added to complete it correctly. I

instructed my Yeoman to improvise these with the red ink from the charthouse, and

the flag was duly hoisted.

Admiral Bonham-Carter was a jovial character, but with exceptionally sound tactical

judgement and shrewd common-sense. He was imperturbable in this misfortune, but

was now faced with the embarrassing fact that -the Edinburgh, despite the colossal

damage caused by the three torpedoes, obstinately refused to sink. Harrier was

ordered to encourage the process and fired twenty 4 in shells into the ship at point-

blank range, but these had little effect. We then steamed close alongside firing depth

charges set to explode at the shallowest possible depth. One of these actually rolled

down the side of the ship and went off immediately underneath her, but still without

result. Bonham-Carter began to think of going back on board with a skeleton crew

when the Foresight re-appeared form the murk, having finally driven off the Germans.

She was asked: 'Have you any torpedoes left?' - to which she replied: 'One'. It so

happened that this torpedo had misfired when Foresight had fired her entire outfit at

the enemy.

The Admiral now ordered the destroyer to sink the Edinburgh with her remaining

torpedo, and we watched her position herself at point- blank range (1500 yards)

abeam of the cruiser and saw the torpedo dive into the sea. There followed the longest

two minutes that I can remember, towards the end of which the Admiral was saying:

'She's missed': but just at this moment the torpedo struck and exploded, and we

witnessed the sad end of this fine cruiser as she rolled over and sank.

We made our way back to Murmansk, and as we got further from the scene of action

without any more interference from the enemy, our spirits rose. The sun actually

appeared through the clouds, and I was able to make observations with the sextant.

Cdr Honnywill, the admiral's Staff Navigating Officer, worked out the sights for me,

and I still have his calculations written on the back of the Admiralty signal informing

convoy QP1 1 that it was being shadowed by a U-boat. These sun sights enabled us to

fix the position of Harrier fairly accurately during the afternoon of 2 May, and we

made a good landfall and safely entered the Kola Inlet at 2040 on that day, some 12

hours after the Edinburgh had sunk. Our 'chicks' - the Niger, Hussar and Gossamer -

were with us. Foresight and Forester also got back unmolested, but they had both

sustained damage and casualties. Between them and Edinburgh there was a total of 74

killed and 43 wounded in this action, but all the minesweepers had escaped unscathed.

It transpired later that one of the German destroyers had been scuttled after sustaining

heavy damage, and that the other two had retired at high speed after rescuing the

crew.

On the way back Cdr Hinton had pointed out with some pride to the Admiral how we

had correctly improvised his flag with the red balls and hoisted it, to which Stuart

Bonham- Carter's reply was: 'Two balls! That's more that I expected to have this

afternoon !'

A few days after our return to harbour, the Captain of Harrier received a letter, written

in English, from the Captain of the Rubin, which I reproduce here, and which perhaps

forms a fitting tail-piece to this story:

"From Commander of Divisions, U S S R Gunboat Rubin 4th Day of May 1942

Dear Sir,

Soviets seamen was witness of heroic battle English seamen with predominants

powers of enemy. English seamen did observe their sacred duty before Fatherland.

We are proud of staunchness and courage English seamens - our allies.

I am very sorry what injured your ship by approach to board for what I must to beg

pardon.

Commander of Division."

As published in Warship World Vol 3 No8 Autumn 1990

Dunkirk: HMS 'Worcester'

The Memoirs of Gordon Keith Bonny:

'My job is chief and petty officers’ mess man. I keep the mess spotless, prepare food

for the galley and live in the mess. It’s a good crowd, Ben the Coxswain and Dick the

Buffer, the T1 and G1, are all nice blokes.

The Chief Petty Officer (CPO) ERA was in Haslar Hospital, two beds from me in

1937. He is still very chesty. The captain is Crash Allison, ex-Fleet Air Arm pilot. He

crashed three Osprey aircraft one day, while serving in the aircraft carrier Courageous.

The first lieutenant, Lieutenant Woods, was serving in the submarine Thetis, which sank

in Liverpool Bay last year, on 1 June 1939, with the loss of 99 lives.

Ammunitioning ship in Portsmouth

We are alongside in Pompey, ammunitioning ship, before sailing this evening to pick

up a convoy for Gib. We are off Cape Finisterre. The buffer, or petty officer, has

pinned a map of France and Belgium on a board and daily fills in the position of the

German army as we receive the news over the wireless.

Things look frightening for the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) and French armies.

The captain has received the signal to leave the convoy and proceed to Cherbourg to

pick up something he knows not and then proceed to Dunkirk to evacuate troops.

Dunkirk, 27 May

We arrive off Dunkirk at 02:30 hours on 27 May. I am on X gun deck, my action

station. Crash Allison comes up and stands looking at the deep-red glow coming from

the blazing oil tanks ashore. With the dawn light, we lay off the east mole on an ebb

tide.

Two Junkers 88, flying low, straddle us with bombs. We do not recognise them as

enemy and do not fire a shot — orders from bridge ‘independent fire’ in the future

without orders from bridge.

We are alongside, and the harbour is in chaos. We have started to take on troops.

They look worn out and certainly glad to see us. There are scores of dogs running

about terrified of the bombing.

Peeling spuds for tea in Dover

We cast off and arrive in Dover for tea. I manage to peel enough spuds, and we are

having ham, pickle and mash for supper. At the moment the mess is full of army.

We manage about three hours’ sleep. We are closed up again — E-boat alert and ship

in two watches. Three aircraft approach our stern, and X and Y guns open fire. They

take evasive action and signal they are Blenheims.

Enemy bombers from Dunkirk

I count 70 enemy bombers coming in over Dunkirk from the west. Two of them peel

off and attack shipping off the mole. Harbour installations are badly damaged, and we

have to go alongside a Channel ferry that is against the pier. We make fast, and

another ferry comes alongside us.

Troops are swarming all over. Gunner’s mate has brought me up a fried-egg

sandwich. We hear the Windsor and Wolsey have been damaged, and a French ship sunk.

Oil fire blazes on

The oil fire does not diminish and continues to swirl up and up. I watch an aircraft

dive into the smoke — never see it come out. There are Stukas over head. Some are

making for us, and we get two rounds away. They make a horrible screaming noise,

and their bombs are very close.

We are sweating well under our tin hats — it is a lovely summer’s day. Small packet

to starboard is sunk almost at once after receiving two direct hits. I can not see any

troops aboard. The TGM has [ordered] the motorboat inshore to pick up what troops

he can, but he can not get alongside anywhere.

The army is well organised, column on column — no panic whatsoever. The old fires

have been stoked up by bombing, but we can not see the two very plainly as there is a

terrific amount of damage and smoke.

Sleeping on the ammunition locker

Finally we manage to get alongside just before dark, and I get down to the mess for an

hour. During the early hours, while closed up on X gun, some joker starts to fire tracer

towards us. Aircraft are overhead, and Gerry artillery is firing star shells over

Dunkirk. We have to drop flat on the gun platform as tracers pass some two feet away

from the gun casement.

I decide to sleep on the ready-use ammunition locker, as the mess is full of army. The

old Wakeful, the Grafton and the Montrosehave been sunk by E-boats, according to mess-deck

buzz.

Stew, cheese and biscuits and lemon tea

We leave early this morning and have a short forenoon in Dover. I prepare a stew for

dinner and place out cheese and biscuits with lemon tea for stand-easy.

Come tot time, we are casting off on our way back to the hothouse. We can not make

it alongside anywhere and have lowered our boats while being under constant air

attack.

Carnage all around

The Calcutta anti-aircraft cruiser has arrived, and we feel good about that. The Clan

MacAllister, about the largest ship I have seen at Dunkirk, was taking troops, nurses and

wounded aboard when it received a stick of bombs — there is carnage all round.

We pick up a pongo. His right foot is missing, and his left is barely hanging on. I give

him a smoke, and he seems comforted, even managing a smile.

Grenadeis a goner

The Clan has again received direct hits after its skipper had gone astern to clear the

fairway. Stukas are having a field day now the smoke has cleared to the west. A large

paddle steamer has copped it alongside the mole.

The Grenade received a direct hit on its stern, broke its moorings and drifted out of

control. It sounds like a huge firecracker with its ammunition exploding. A trawler

has got it in tow, and the ship is clear of the fairway but looks a goner.

Paddle steamer ablaze

Troop loading is terribly slow again, and we can not get alongside anywhere. A near

miss astern and we shift billet further east to try and take troops off from the shore.

The Grenade has finally sunk. A dozen Stukas attack the mole, and two destroyers and a

few trawlers alongside suffer damage. The other paddle steamer, the Crested Eagle, has

received a direct hit. It is full of troops, and a terrific fire has enveloped its stern. It is

heading for the beach, and troops are jumping over the side and wading back to the

beach — their luck!

Tears of a French trooper

Loads of small craft loaded up with troops are beginning to come alongside. The

TGM has been at this all day and, at last, filled up, so boats inboard, we edge our way

out of Dunkirk.

We have French troops aboard for the first time. I saw one of them throw his rifle

over the side, then cry his eyes out.

The minesweeper Oriole has been beached purposely by its captain and used as a pier

for smaller ships to come up to its stern and unload troops. It loaded to the full, went

astern on the flood tide and got home safely.

Gerry gave the town a pasting

The Channel is like a millpond. There is no doubt the weather is playing a great part

in getting so many of the BEF off the beaches and safely home. We are all beginning

to feel the effects of the constant bombing and lack of sleep.

We are off Dunkirk. The time is 07:30. The harbour looks blocked with sunken

shipping. Trawlers and tugs are standing by, with tides on the flood. We have lowered

boats, and they are on their way inshore. No aircraft about and loads of small craft

ferrying from the beach.

Gerry certainly gave the town a pasting last night — fires everywhere. Rear Admiral

Wake-Walker has come aboard. He has been taking charge of everything that floats.

Hell, tea and cakes

I should think there is every type of small craft here today, and some H-boats

(destroyers) have arrived. Junkers 88 and Stukas are flocking in, and all hell is let

loose. The sloop Bideford is the first to receive a hit. It has run aground after having its

stern blown off.

Gunner’s mate has arrived on the gun deck with some tea and cakes. The chiefs and

POs aboard Worcester are the very best. Full astern and we are homeward bound.

A formation of Stukas has appeared to port. We let go with everything and hit

nothing. They have hit a transport, and it is stopped. Trawlers are closing in to take

off survivors.

A hard dusting ashore and at sea

We are back off Dunkirk. It is midday Friday and our sixth trip. There is a bit of a

panic on the quarterdeck. The captain, first lieutenant and buffer are looking over the

side. We have damaged our starboard screw propeller on a submerged wreck.

Once again we are being fed by small craft and loading well and fast. We have been

told Stukas are giving the troops ashore a hard dusting as well as us. Junkers 88 have

damaged the mole and killed a lot of troops, who were densely packed, awaiting

evacuation from there.

Dogfight to the north

To the north a dogfight is taking place, and a pilot has baled out — English or

German? What a motley throng — there must be every small craft from England here

today. Junkers 88 and Stukas are having a go at everybody, but nobody cares any

more.

The German army is shelling the town to add to the confusion. Lots of soldiers are

drowned trying to wade out beyond their depth to the waiting craft. At last we are on

our way home on one screw at approximately nine knots, with nigh on 1,000 men

aboard.

Bleak outlook, beautiful day

It is a beautiful morning, and our bows head once more for Dunkirk, the ship driven

by only one propeller. There is not a lot said. We are all feeling completely

knackered, to say the least. This will be the last trip, and, in our state, the future looks

bleak.

The smoke and flames are terrific. God knows how much oil has been burnt up — it

seems never ending. Junkers 88 have a go at the troops with bombs and machine

guns. We commence to take on more troops from the small craft with hordes of

Stukas above.

We have two attacks, and our old pom-pom must be worn out. I believe we have

suffered only a few wounded up to present, all caused by shrapnel.

We up anchor and shift position to the mole. The destroyer Keith is sunk after three

attacks by several Stukas, and the minesweeper Skipjack is sunk after a direct hit by

Stukas.

Stukas hang above like vultures

The sky is full of Stukas. We can’t take much evasive action on one screw. There are

loads of guardsmen aboard today. They are all armed with bren-guns, and during

attacks their fire has come uncomfortably close to our gun deck. Gunner’s mate has

given them a bollocking.

We are steaming up a narrow fairway, loaded to capacity and doing eight knots on

one screw. Stukas hang above us like a flock of vultures. I look up and astern, a mass

of them is coming into attack. We open fire, and, from that moment on, all I see is the

breech in front of me, together with the loading numbers of the gun crew.

We can’t come out of this lot

Stukas scream, and so do the bombs, and we’ve got several alongside. All hell is let

loose again. The pongos are having a go with rifles and bren-guns. Gunner’s mate is

riddled with shrapnel and has collapsed down the ladder. His broken pipe lies at my

feet. I think to myself, This is it. We can’t come out of this lot.

My trainer, an LR3 from Pompey, has rolled off his seat. His guts are ripped open,

and he looks a goner. A shell is being rammed home when a chunk of shrapnel

smashes the handle into two parts. Ginger, the starboard-rammer number, sinks to the

deck in agony, his right knee shattered. I feel a severe kick in my left buttock, there is

a colossal noise — Stukas howling, bombs screaming and explosions all round.

The sound of silence

Four of us are on the deck — silence. They’re gone. I lift myself up on the breech, my

left leg stiff. No Stukas astern. We look at one another in disbelief. I glance up

forward and note many bodies not moving among the army.

LR3’s body taken down to the upper deck and covered. Only one of the gun crew is

not wounded. We alter course to starboard and go aground on a sandbank. Two tugs

see our plight and soon draw us off.

We watch a destroyer in the fairway we have just left going through the same pasting.

Unfortunately, we witness several explosions aboard, and we learn later that it sank

with a great loss of life.

Man overboard

We enter Dover and prepare to go alongside. Gunner (T) has provided me with red

and green propeller flags, which I will raise on his instructions.

I am still on X gun deck, well in sight of the bridge, as a packet, the Maid of Orleans, comes

across our bows. I grab the breech handle preparing for the impact. As we collide, the

packet pulls us over port, gunwale almost awash, and I go neatly over the side having

lost my grip on the handle.

Sucked down towards the bows

I enter the water some eight feet from the port propeller, and just at that moment we

are ordered full astern. I am sucked down and towards the bows and surface abreast

the superstructure.

The bos’n recognises me in the water and throws a metal smoke float that misses my

head by some six inches. I hand a ladder floating alongside me over to several pongos

struggling in the water.

Hauled out by a French picket boat

A French picket boat hauls me out of the water and returns me to the Worcester. I make

my way to the mess and flake out on the locker.

Awakened by the surgeon lieutenant, wound dressed, I am told to pack my no. 1 suit,

clean shirts and shaving gear. The NAAFI (Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes)

manager washes me down and helps me pack my gear. I bid goodbye to all and settle

down in a carriage on the hospital train due to leave Dover harbour.'

A Life Under the Ocean Waves: History of a Royal Marine Diver

It started when I was stationed in Scapa Flowin 1941. Not a very exciting place for an

eighteen year old. So when volunteers for people with a trade were required to be

trained a divers, my oppo. Frank Clarke and I decided to have a go.

We had a very strict medical before leaving to a company in Southsea, from there, we

travelled daily to H.M.S Excellent on Whale Island for a six week course- there were

eight of us.

On the first day, in the forenoon, we had lectures, explaining the rudiments of diving

and instruction on dressing a diver. We were also told that diving is not a glamourous

job but hard work (we later found this to be true). After lunch, onto the diving boat for

our first dip. Dressing is quite a performance. A heavy woollen pullover and long

stockings, especially a stocking tucked in the belt and round the crutch, as under water

the pressure can make a fold in the suit and nip the skin, sometimes in embarrasing

places. Next the suit, then the collar, a cushion to protect the shoulders, before the

brass corselette is put on (with care to miss the nose)and bolted to the suit; then the

boots (20 lb each).

Helmet with air- hose attached (mind the nose again)and life- line around the waist;

the life- line and hose are tied to the helmet, within each reach of the hands for

signalling. Then a struggle over the gunwhale on to the ladder where two 40 lb

weights are tied on. Not forgetting the divers knife. Total weight 187 lbs.

The helmet is put on, then the pump started, and the face glass screwed in. It's a

strange feeling when you can hear your attendants, but as soon as the glass is screwed

in, all you can hear is the hiss of the air in the helmet. After that, down the ladder, just

under water, close the outlet. To test for leaks, bring the helmet out, when you get a

tap on the helmet it's o.k. to go down the shot rope. (It's a funny feeling to see the

water coming up past the glass). On the bottom it is necessary to adjust the outlet

valve to correct your buoyancy.

On the shot rope, about 3 ft. above the shot, is a coil, known as the distance line. This

is used to find ones way back to the shot, or for sweeping round when doing a search,

as at many times visibility is nil. During the course we all had various jobs to carry

out on which we were assessed for proficiency in various depths. On my course we all

passed. It had to happen that after the course we were sent back to Scapa. This was on

Flotta. There we were employed building a pier.

Our job was placing 2 and 4 ton concrete blocks under water, with the help of a crane.

it was an asset there to have a telephone in the helmet to give instructions to the crane

driver.

The water there is quite cold and we used to stay under water for 3 to 3 1/2 hours,

until nature called too strongly. If we came up earlier, it was a performance, either get

undressed and pull the suit down far enough, or have the weights and helmet

removed, pull ones arm out of the cuff to inside the suit, pt your hand up through the

corselette, take a milk tin (usually) down to the appropriate level, almost fill he tin,

pass it up to be emptied and repeat.

Also on Flotta we erected a small scaffolding jetty and later on at Lyness we built a

larger one.

I also installed a marker beacon at South Ronalday.

Later we were drafted to Deal (where the shells were whizzing over) to join a

Company going overseas. We eventually arrived in Algiers. After a short time in the

Transit Camp a detachment of Diving Officer, Lt. Park, myself and attendant Jock

Anderson and Chick Chamberain 9diver) and attendant Tony Speller, were sent to

ferryville, near Bizerte, where there are three large dry docks and one smaller one.

The Germans, having recently left, had blown up the channels that the dock gates sit

in. Our first job was to completely search all the dry docks to see if any mines were

left behind. We were told "they are fairly safe" as it takes 14 lb impact to set them off.

We thanked them and explained that one of the boots weighted 20 lb! After several

days searching up and down the dock shelves and among the keel blocks, we were

lucky enough to be able to declare them "clean".

Meanwhile, the rest of the company, with my oppo. Frank and the other divers

arrived. While some new Metal Pressure Channels were being made, we were busy

cleaning out the rubble and debris from the bottom. After many days of this the skin

of your fingers get extremely thin. The new channels were installed which we fixed in

place with concrete bags and built up the dock walls, again with concrete bags.

Behind these it was filled with concrete. Then when the new gate was installed the

water was pumped out and a proper face was built in front of the cement bags.

During these operations some Italian P.O.Ws were attached to us. Three being divers.

These worked under Chick Chamberlain in one shift, whereas I had three of our own

divers with me. One job we had was to build a sandbag damn in a 7ft. diameter

tunnel, so that it could be pumped out and repaired. At the time I was the only diver in

my shift. Access was through a manhole, too small for chest weights, so I had to wear

belt weights (very uncomfortable). It was the time of the "Sirocco" (hot dry wind).

After six hours, carrying and placing sandbags and breathing hot air, I was shattered.

We also picked up the odd bomb, dropped while unloading.

Another small job was to fit new screws on a landing-craft rocket ship. It was manned

by Royal Marines, with a Naval Skipper. the crew told us that the skipper used to

drive up the beach to get at the Jerries. There was a wonderful display of ack-ack

around the Bay of Bizerte, and we had a close call with a Stuka, Divebomber.

Next to Naples. We were installed in the old submarine Barracks, and the first job was

to inspect the Submarine Dry Dock, as we had done in north Africa, then clean out the

gate channel.

Next to the Naples Electric Power Station, to clean out the cooling pit, full of water

and half full of rubble, wires, glass etc. we were warned not to touch any wires as they

might be "Booby traps", but there was no option. After clearing the inlet valve, it was

able to be dosed and the pit pumped dry. We then went to the Dock Area to the

cooling water inlets at which the foot valve had been blown up. Our engineers made a

replacement which we fitted.

Meanwhile, a new dry-dock gate was being made, as the original one had been

sabotaged and sunk. Chick and i had to strip anything serviceable, flood gates etc.

While chick was doing this the gate slipped down, trapping his foot. He signalled (no

phone)for the assistance of another diver, so I went down. I was unable to lever it high

enough to get his boot out because of the big toe caps. He indicated that he wanted to

speak, so we put our helmets together and he said 2take the boot off" which I did and

up he went, with his leg out at right angles, being buoyant without his boot. i was then

able to retrieve his boot.

Next, some of our divers had to replace the screws, on the same Rocket L/Craft, that

had been up the beach again.

Chick and I, with Tony and Andy were sent to !Ischia" off Naples, which was a Motor

launch base. We were billeted with the crew of M/ L 126. Their boat had been sunk.

The Diving Officer came over with us, gave us our instructions, arranged a small gang

of italian pumphande and boatmen. (I must add, excellent boatmen).

Our job was to construct a slipway, with sleepers and railway lines. In between we

picked up two Asdic Domes that had been lost while refitting after repairs. Also

turned one round that had been fixed back to front. We also searched and found,an

Italian Machine Gun, lost from one of their M/Ls.

One unpleasant job was looking for the body of a M/L petty officer who was

suspected of falling overboard after celebrating his birthday. After a thorough search

we found nothing , but after a few days his body came up in the middle of the day.

Back to Naples and a small place called "Posillipo", where the R. N wanted a small

jetty. This was made with 6"x 6" wooden piles. We erected a piling frame, the driving

was a "Heath Robinson" affair. On the pull cable we tied a bowline on a bight, which

was hooked on the tow- bar of a lorry, which drove forward to pull up the "Dolly"

9weight), to the top of the frame. The cable was then knocked off with an iron bar to

allow the Dolly to drop. Primitive but effective. The divers then bored through the

piles with a brace and bit and bolted on angle iron bracings.

Off again to Maddelena (between Corsica and Sardinia) on a "T" Class Trawler, we

hit a storm and it was a very rough trip, but not as bad as the Pentland Firth at Scapa.

This was with a larger gang, two of the other divers were Wiley and another diver

Mne. Wiley joined us.

Again we used local labour, i gave instructions in Italian and the diving officer gave

them in French.

We needed a Bollard, so one of the locals went up the hill a short way and cut out a

piece of rock (all hand tools)and shaped it into a bollard. It seemed a shame that a

man so skilled as a mason had to work as a labourer. On the move once more to Porto

san Stefano.

First job- clearing a fouled rudder on M. L. 1271, carried out by Frank clarke. Then an

anchor on M. S. T. 679 which was fouled on an Anti submarine net, done by divers

Stevenson, Clarke, ginger Mather and myself.

After that, another bombed jetty, again local labour. Then up to Leghorn to inspect the

slipway, joined by another diver, Mne. Patterson. Job completed, back to Naples for a

while then up the East coast to Ancona.

We set off in a Bedford Troop Carrier, carrying myself and my divers and attendants.

All the diving gear was in a Dodge lorry. Just south of Rome the Bedford broke down,

so it was towed over the hills of Rome and down the other side, by the lorry with a

crazy driver from Norwich. After breaking a few of the tow ropes, we made it. The

rest of the company were already there. We first looked at the slipway- no damage,

then set about repairing the dock wall. After clearing the rubble we used pneumatic

drills, underwater, to make holes in the shelf, for scaffold poles to be inserted, which

were used to hold the framework in place. It is difficult using these drills under water

as there are no many bubbles coming from the exhaust valve that you can't see what

you are doing.

Note: when concreting under water, it is done with a large, long funnel, placed by the

driver and held by the crane, this is filled with wet concrete, lifted carefully by the

crane, until not quite all the concrete slips out, keeping the inside of the funnel dry, it

is refilled and repeated. This ensures that the concrete is only minimally disturbed by

the water. Work completed, back to Naples. On the way we stopped overnight at a

small village in the square, next to a bar. My attendant said "Toddy they seel rum

here". So we decided to try some after dinner. Meanwhile, as usual, we slung our

hammocks from the roof framework of the Bedford. Then we had a few. I awoke

about 5am, pitch black, with a sodden mass for a pillow and about 2" of water in the

hammock. It must have been good rum, for we slept in the wet gear for another two

nights and came to no harm.

We arrived at Naples just before the New Year, and were due to go North again. The

Scots in my diving gang were keen to stay in Naples to see the New Year in. On the

Sunday we were looking for a bar that was open and we met a R. N Eng.Off who took

pity on us and took us in for a beer. Noticing our driving badges, he arranged for us to

go to Posillipo, again to salvage the remains of the jetty that we had erected earlier.

The piles were riddled with holes, like honey- comb, caused by a marine beetle

prevalent in the Mediterranean.

Next to the dockyard, to the "degousing berth" to search for an instrument used to test

the Anti- magnetic mine equipment. This we found. Finally to "Dugenta" an

American Army Bridge Building School on the River Volturno. Here they had built a

bridge on Pontoons and left it up to see what happened when the river flooded. Well,

the obvious happened, the Pontoons filed with sand and sunk. We attempted to

salvage them and fixed cables on but the only thing they had for lifting was a tank,

rigged as a crane, which was not strong enough.

At last, back to England for leave, after that Bombay for two days, then by train to the

Southern tip of India and a ferry to ceylon, where we stayed at a Transit camp, in a

coconut grove at Kurrunigala, near Khandi.

After three weeks, to Singapore, but no more diving, to await demob. Back home on

the "Winchester castle".

A few years later, in association with a friend, Ray Marshall, we founded the Ipswich

branch of the Sub-Aqua Club, of which I was a Committee member, for over 20

years. The branch is still running and I am an Hon. Vice-President

HMS Terrapin's Final War Patrol

This account was given by George Cuddon, and is published here with his permission.

"I joined the Navy as a Seaman Boy in January 1941, leaving in April 1954. I served

continuously in Terrapin, from her first commissioning in December 1943 until she

was finally paid off for scrap in November 1945.

Since this account includes technical terms, the following may provide some

clarification, with specific reference to a wartime T boat.

The boat had trimming tanks inside the pressure hull: A tank forward, O tank

amidships and Z tank aft, between which water could be transfered to render the boat

level, and which could be flooded or pumped out to render the boat neutrally buoyant

at a given operating depth. Main ballast tanks outside the pressure hull were open at

their bottoms and closed at the tops by hydraulically operated vents. With the vents

open water flooded the tanks and the boat dived. With the vents shut, high pressure air

could be blown into the main ballast tanks, forcing water out through the open

bottoms, surfacing the boat. There was an additional internal Q tank which could be

flooded to make the boat extra heavy for quick diving, but which needed to blown out

as soon as the boat was well on its way down.

T boats had six external main ballast tanks: No. 1 right forward and Nos 2,3,4,5 and 6

in pairs on either side down the length of the boat. Later T boats, including Terrapin,

had 3 and 5 tanks on each side blanked off to act as additional fuel tanks, so that 3 and

5 tanks could not be blown to obtain extra buoyancy.

HMS Terrapin

Terrapin was built at Barrow in Furness and was commissioned at the end of

December 1943. Her first CO was Lt Cdr D.S.R. Martin, DSO* who had sunk two

German U-boats in the Bay of Biscay while in command of his previous boat, Tuna.

He was invalided off the boat after Terrapin's first Far East patrol, suffering from

active TB. He died of it in 1947.

Terrapincarried out war patrols in the Skaggerak, between Norway and Denmark,

based at the Holy Loch, on the Clyde. Later she did war patrols in the Strait of

Malacca and Gulf of Martaban, based at Trincomalee, Sri Lanka. At the end of March

1945, Terrapin moved to Fremantle, Western Australia to join US submarines

operating up into the Pacific. Up to this time Terrapin had sunk the German ships

Werth and Schwabenland, totalling 18000 tons, a Japanese Kosentai class minelayer

and a Hashidate class frigate, all by torpedo, together with twelve ships sunk by gun

action and six ships boarded and sunk by demolition charges.

Terrapin left Fremantle for what proved to be her final war patrol on 20 April 1945

and passed northward through the Lombok Strait, between Bali and Lombok, on the

surface and at maximum speed, after dark on 27 April. The Japanese maintained quite

intensive patrols in the Strait, from their base at Lembar on Lombok, since it was

known to be the route by which submarines from Fremantle entered the Java Sea and,

in the case of the US boats, the South China Sea. Unlike the US boats, British boats

did not have sufficent range to operate from Fremantle into the South China Sea.

After clearing the Lombok Strait Terrapin was twice attacked by aircraft which

dropped bombs and depth charges. During the following three weeks Terrapin sank

five vessels either by gun action or boarding and sinking, in each case the crews took

to the boats which were in sight of land.

Early in the afternoon of 19 May, close inshore just east of Jakarta, Terrapin attacked

a small tanker accompanied by two escorts, firing her three stern torpedoes. The sea

was glassy calm and the periscope or the torpedo tracks were probably observed,

since the target was seen to turn away. One explosion was heard immediately after the

estimated running time of the third orpedo. The escorts turned towards and came at

high speed down the torpedo tracks. The estimated depth of water on the chart was

150 feet and Terrapin attempted to go to 100 feet, but hit the bottom where there

proved to be only 57 feet of water. Her screws could be heard thrashing the silt loudly

and the motors were stopped.

The escorts could be heard closing fast and five charges were dropped, very close. All

the lights went out and the sonar stopped training. Five more charges, even closer,

were dropped and 40 feet of the hull on the port side forward buckled in to a distance

of 15 inches. There was considerable leakage into the torpedo tube space, where rivets

had been displaced inwards on the port side. The forward part of the main pumping

and flooding line was crushed. The tube space was evacuated and its watertight doors

shut. Leaks occurred in the forward auxiliary machinery space and in the control

room, fan jets of water spraying inwards. Blue flashes and loud thumps were heard as

seawater contacted electrical equipment. Emergency battery lamps were rigged up

and oilskins were placed to direct the sprays away from the batteries and into the

bilges. Several fires, including those in both AC generators, were started. The fires

were fairly quickly extinguished, but diminished the finite supply of oxygen. The

cases of both underwater signal guns were cracked and leaking. Q tank (the quick

flooding tank for rapid descent) and A tank (the forward internal trimming tank) were

flooded. Both periscopes were flooded, with water squirting from the eyepieces. With

all machinery, including ventilation, shut off the temperature in the boat went above

40oC.

There were several more crossing runs, accompanied by depth charges, two of them

very close. After ahout two hours there were several crossing runs which were not

accompanied by explosions. Two possibilities were considered: either the escorts

were out of depth charges, or that they had lost our position. However, on the next

crossing run a charge was heard to hit Terrapin and slide down the hull, presumably to

rest on the bottom, its depth apparently being overset. The thought occurred that since

it was pressure-responsive, another depth charge might trigger it. There was also the

possibility that the earlier crossing runs without explosions might in fact have

surrounded Terrapin with several charges, all waiting to explode. This was not a

comfortable thought.

An attempt was made to release Terrapin from the bottom, so as to move away from a

possible depth charge 'nest'. Nos 1, 2 and 6 main ballast tanks were partially blown,

together with A and Q tanks. The motors were run half astern. The screws made a

huge amount of noise and were stopped. Air could be heard leaking from the vent of 1

main ballast tank, at least. The attempt to move the boat was abandoned. The noise of

the screws, as well as the large amount of air from 1 main ballast tank seemed to give

the escorts something to aim at, because there were other crossing runs with close

charges which did not, however, add significantly to the damage already suffered,

though the knowledge that a depth charge lay close alongside caused us to be even

more teeth-grittingly apprehensive.

Though every crew member must have been in the same state of terror as myself, no

one said a word. We all played at being hard men, and the unforgivable thing was to

show, or admit to, fear. 'Hard man' in those days did not mean what it appears to mean

today, when it seems to mean throwing one's weight about and punching people in the

face. Then it meant indifference, real or pretended (mostly I think the latter) to

hardship and danger.

After dark at about 1900 Terrapin attempted to surface. It was by no means certain

that we would be able to do so, in view of the flooding of the tube space, 1 main

ballast tank and A tank. Numbers 2, 4 and 6 main ballast tanks were blown and the

stern came unstuck, leaving us with a steep bow down angle. It was not initially

possible to tell whether we were, in fact, surfacing, since all depth gauges were

smashed. The sound of the sea splashing against our hull suggested we were, at least

partly, on the surface, though very much bow down, and the skipper cautiously

opened the upper conning tower hatch. The gun's crew clambered out to man the gun,

though that would have availed us little if the escorts had seen us.

There was no question of surrender, we were aware of the treatment we could expect

as prisoners of the Japanese. A first-quarter moon was setting in the northwest and the

enemy were sighted up-moon of Terrapin, who turned stern on and moved out. The

enemy gave no sign that they had seen Terrapin, who worked her way round to the

north west with the intention of lying bottomed near the Thousand Islands, west of

Jakarta, during the next day, and leaving the Java Sea by way of the Sunda Strait that

night. That move was forestalled by the appearance of two ships apparently Japanese

warships, to the westward, and Terrapin altered course to the north east with the

intention of exitting the Java Sea by way of the Lombok Strait.

The air activity observed in the Lombok area when outward bound to the patrol area

meant that Terrapin would be likely to have to dive. At dawn on 20 May Terrapin

dived to attempt to obtain a trim. This was complicated by the fact that the fore planes

were jammed and would move only very slowly in response to the controls. They

could not be turned in. One guntower hatch was found to be leaking badly. Terrapin

surfaced and this hatch was tightened down, to an extent which would probably make

it difficult to open.

Terrapin dived again and was found to be very heavy amidships and forward. The

boat porpoised up and down quite steeply as a result of the extreme stiffness of the

fore planes. It was nevertheless possible to hold the boat with the fore planes

amidships, by partially blowing main ballast, though she could not be allowed to go

deep because of the leaks, particularly in the tube space. On that basis Terrapin made

for the Lombok Strait, keeping well away from the Java coast. The fact that both W/T

alternators were burnt out and the Type 55 transmitter was inoperable meant that

Terrapin could not transmit by radio. The 291 radar was still working since it was

powered by a small, very noisy, alternator sited below the set in the W/T office.

Several times aircraft were detected and each time Terrapin stopped, on the basis that

the most conspicuous thing about her was her wake.

Just after dawn on 23 May the US submarine Cavalla was sighted and Terrapin's

predicament explained to her. Cavalla signalled her intention of staying on the surface

to stand by Terrapin and escort her out through the Lombok Strait. Cavalla also

transmitted a signal from Terrapin to CO Task Force 71 explaining the situation.

Cavalla, who had been nearly two months at sea, signalled, 'Do any of your crew wish

to come aboard for a bath and a rest,' indicative of the fact that US submarines, who

could distill 2000 gallons per day, had no water shortage. Terrapin's CO declined,

saying that morale was 100 percent.

Terrapin's water situation was grim. The shaking had stirred up the 18 months of

sediment in the fresh water tanks and what came out of the taps was cloudy and

coloured a greenish yellow. Oil had got into everything and every drink of tea had

rainbow rings on its surface. The seamen's mess locker had sheared its mounts and

crashed down into the forward auxiliary machinery space below the deck, breaking all

but a few of the crocks. Most of the cutlery was in the bilges. The seamen's mess

mostly ate directly from the cooking dishes. There were insufficient intact light bulbs

left to replace all of those smashed during the depth charging, so the crew had to

grope about in the gloom, particularly in the accommodation space.

Just after midnight on 22 May, Cavalla and Terrapin entered the Lombok Strait,

where the strong southerly current aided Terrapinto make about 12 knots over the

ground and by 0400 she had cleared the southern entrance. Terrapin's crew all felt

they were off the hook, though it was necessary to keep a sharp radar and visual look-

out for aircraft for another 24 hours.

In the evening of 30 May Terrapin entered Fremantle harbour. Examination showed

that, in addition to the hull collapse, the forward torpedo tubes were distorted and out

of line. The boat had, in effect, become slightly banana-shaped. She was classed as

Total Constructional Loss, fit only for scrap. Fortunately the builders, Vickers, were

anxious to study the effect of close depth charging on a rivetted hull and it was

decided to send her home. She was patched up for a passage on the surface and left

Fremantle at the beginning of August 1945, arriving at Gosport in October. She was

subsequently towed to Troon for breaking up."

Glossary

Fore ends: the torpedo tube space and the torpedo stowage compartment immediately

aft of it. These two compartments were separated by a bulkhead having watertight

doors.

AMS: auxiliary machinery space below the main deck. It contained the pump for

transfering water between, or from, the A, O and Z trimming tanks.

Guntower: a tower forward of the conning tower, for rapid access to the 4" gun. It had

two upper hatches to enable the gun's crew to get out quickly. Note that the conning

tower is, properly speaking, the tube which extends between the control room and the

bridge. The bridge is ofter erroneously referred to by laymen as the conning tower.

Planes: the fore and after hydroplanes which acted like horizontal rudders to control

the boat when dived (assuming that the trim was nearly correct). The fore planes

could be turned in when on the surface.

W/T alternator: alternators that converted the boat's battery DC supply to AC, mainly

for use by the radio equipment.

A Week in Belgium

From Chatham to Dunkirk

On 21 May 1940, I left flagship HMS Galatea to return to Chatham depot ship, HMS

Pembroke, to commence a course to be made up to Trained Operator. In the middle of

the exam, a messenger entered the examination room and asked for me by name. The

upshot was that I was to be kitted out for a special project.

After I’d left the room for a partial kitting-out procedure, I was allowed back to

continue the test paper. Within two minutes I was called out again to complete

preparations for Dunkirk.

Transport to Dover then Dunkirk

I was issued with webbing, belt, holster and pistol, but there was no one to authorise

an issue of ammunition. With no time to lose I was doubled away to join a group for

transport to Dover. Once there, along with several others, I boarded a vessel —

possibly HMS Esk — to cross the Channel.

On the approach to Dunkirk, we turned east along the coast, and our group was then

taken inshore by launch. At a point too shallow for the launch, we scrambled over the

side with our gear — I had an Aldis lamp, semaphore flags and a pistol with no

ammo. We waded ashore at La Panne.

A pall of smoke over Dunkirk

A pall of smoke hung over Dunkirk. Between 26 and 27 May the evacuation and the

German shelling and bombing of the town both started.

On the 27th, we landed at La Panne, which we discovered was to be the location of

evacuation headquarters. For the next few days, our home was the beach. We billeted

ourselves on the shore.

We began the organisation and policing of orderly queues — lines of soldiers — for

embarkation into small rowing boats and floats. With the advent of bombs and bursts

of machine-gun fire from German aircraft strafing the sands, the lines often dispersed

into the dunes behind the beach. I was surprised at the deadening effect of the sand on

the bombs.

Evacuation craft in high demand

Our small landing party of Royal Navy (RN) personnel (several seamen and one

signalman — myself), under the command of one officer, was adopted by one of the

several Bofors-gun crews dotted along the stretch of open beach. The lads manning

the gun remained with us for the first few days and watched us policing the

evacuation, until such time as they too had to destroy their gun and be evacuated.

Commandeering floatable personnel-carrying material for use in the evacuation was a

problem, owing to the lack of available boats and rafts. This was compounded by the

fact that once a troop-laden craft had reached the comparative safety of an awaiting,

offshore rescue vessel, we could hardly expect anyone to volunteer to row it back to

land. Some abandoned boats did drift back to us and were rescued for further use.

Using rifles as oars

As space was at a premium, all troops for evacuation were ordered to abandon every

bit of surplus kit. Rifles, those not used for rowing purposes, were to be destroyed.

That didn’t go down well with the squaddies.

In the early days it proved difficult to get some of the soldiers to wade out to the

boats, with the result that some were overloaded too close to shore and got stuck in

the sand. When this happened, it was almost impossible to persuade anyone to jump

out to lighten the load, even though we offered reassurances that we would allow

them back on board once the boat reached deeper water.

A direct hit

On one such occasion, three of us (RN) had just managed to refloat a full-to-the-

gunwale cutter.

‘OK. Get going. Row like hell!’ we screamed at them.

We had just turned and were making for shore, wading through the water up to our

armpits, when I felt and heard an almighty bang. As I began to fall forward into the

sea, I realised I’d been hit on the back of the head.

When I surfaced, the situation became clear — and later a bit of a laugh. The soldiers

in the boat had responded well to our order to ‘Get going!’ — but on one side only.

Consequently, the cutter had swung round 90 degrees, got caught in a swell and come

down on you-know-who. I guess those lads in the boat got home somehow.

Abandoned memorabilia

It’s obvious that we RN lads were constantly getting wet through, but we were never

short of a change of uniform. All over the beach was the pick of the army —

discarded uniforms, kit, photos, everything. Perhaps some lucky ones were able to

grab their few most treasured possessions and cram them into their battledress

pockets, but for most it was a time for survival — and for leaving behind their old

memories.

So, sadly, at times, while looking for dry clothing among the discarded packs strewn

along the sands, I would come upon family photographs, out of which wives and

children looked up at me — a complete stranger. They were a poignant indicator of

the speed with which the soldiers had left, so great their haste that they couldn’t even

stop and salvage their most personal belongings.

We could only hope that the owners of these keepsakes would soon be united with the

loved ones in the photographs. But, not all of them would make it to England, and of

those who did — how long would it be before they were away again to some other

theatre of war?

A makeshift pier

After the first day or so we began to receive motorised units in La Panne, after which

a new evacuation stratagem was devised. At low tide, the highest vehicles were to be

driven out to a given point, and a pier formed by driving out and parking up more

trucks alongside. From these, the troops would be able to clamber into the boats that

were now able to come alongside.

The hard part was the organisation of the assembly of the pier between bouts of

shelling, low-level bombing and machine gunning from enemy aircraft. Once it was

done, though, this procedure was a most welcome break for us. It made filling the

boats so much easier. There was no more brute force required to push out the boats

and get wet through in the process.

Using enormous physical and mental resources

I know that none of the RN personnel realised just how much energy was required for

the sleepless hours and days that the evacuation entailed. By the time the army had

reached the beach, it was virtually drained. We of the RN landing party had arrived

fresh, so the frequent 24 hours we spent servicing boats did nothing to diminish our

enthusiasm for the job. Enthusiasm, however, did not entirely compensate for

exhaustion.

We were thankful, therefore, for the labour-saving piers that we helped to build. So

improved was the evacuation by this, that troops were now able to embark with fewer

directives from us, sometimes just under the orders of a senior army officer.

‘Anymore for the Skylark?’

We could now spend more time with our own group and discuss the future. HQ staff

at La Panne, plus General Gort (Lord Gort), would at some time soon have to be

evacuated. We had also to make provision for our own escape.

It was at one of these get-togethers, involving a foray into the Bofors-gun crew’s

rations, that a direct hit was made on one of our piers by a German bomber. Reading

about such an occurrence is one thing, but experiencing the frustration that it caused is

something else. The lads waiting on the pier, next in line to be taken off for their

journey home, had been so close. We no longer joked, ‘Anymore for the Skylark?’,

and the gap in our pier was never filled.

If you hear them they’ve missed you

We also had more time to watch where the enemy shells were falling as they

screamed overhead — if you heard them they’d missed you. Mostly, they were now

going over the beach towards the rescue ships lying off shore. A lot of harsh words

were spoken at the time. No one said it was going to be easy.

We saw a couple of dog fights, but nothing to stop the strafing of the beaches, and the

bombing and machine gunning, and nothing to stop the enemy from receiving

information about troop and shipping movements from the German recce aircraft.

With the evacuation of the guns’ crews along the beach, the time for the demolition of

everything of use to the enemy was approaching. The subsequent devastation was

strewn over miles of sand. I suppose it might be regarded as a vandal’s training

ground.

Changes afoot

Between 31 May and 1 June, General Lord Gort left HQ, handing over to General

Alexander. On 2 June, Major General Alexander left. By 4 June, any further

evacuation ceased.

As Dunkirk had become extremely hazardous as an evacuation point, more and more

troops were concentrated along the beaches to the north east. We at La Panne must

have looked from the air like an ants’ nest.

Unfortunately, German air activity increased. Probably, the most demoralising part of

this was the Junkers JU87s, also known as Stukas, which emitted a foreboding scream

on their downward dive.

At their approach, our neatly organised groups and lines of awaiting troops along the

sands would initially disperse into the dunes. Then, as the planes pulled out of their

dives, passing low overhead, soldiers everywhere could be seen firing their rifles in

anger and frustration — a gesture of defiance. Eventually, more groups and lines

stood their ground, so the evacuation resumed in some kind of orderly fashion.

Preparing our own escape

As the number of those awaiting evacuation dwindled, our chance of being left behind

increased. Consequently, our officer began letting our group off one at a time along

with the army. Night time on what was to be our last day found us searching for

suitable floating material for our own departure.

During the hours of darkness later that evening, while the officer and I were helping

some of the remaining soldiers into a boat from what was left of our pier, he asked

who I was and suggested that I should leave with the next lot. An hour or so later we

came together again and discovering who I was said, ‘I thought I told you to go off

with the last boat.’

I remember making some weak excuse to the effect that I’d thought my services

might be required for getting the last boats away, that the tide was going out.

Paddling into the unknown

We knew it was time to leave when we saw the flash of gunfire behind us in the town,

and there was shrapnel was hissing in the water around us. But where was our

transport?

We made up a group of four and wandered along the darkness of the beach to find the

two dinghies we had previously earmarked. These we carried to the water’s edge,

where we once again heard the disturbing hiss of shrapnel that hadn’t been noticeable

higher up the beach on the sand.

We waded out until we were able to pull ourselves into the floats. The officer and I

were in one — perhaps he was taking no chances with me this time — and his orders

were that both dinghies should stay as close as possible as to each other we paddled

into the dark.

‘After you, sir’

How far out we went with the receding tide I’ve no idea, but out of the blackness a

voice hailed us, and we came alongside. Scrambling nets were already down the

ship’s sides, and a voice rasped, ‘Up you go.’

My immediate reply was, ‘After you, sir.’

The officer, by now probably a little confused at my well-meant but unseaman-like

manner, shouted a brisk, ‘Get aboard!’

I was back in the Royal Navy. Well, almost. Grabbing at the ropes of the scrambling

net was the first thing we had done, and no way were we going to release our hold

until we were aboard the rescue vessel, whatever it was.

Giant steps and getting nowhere

My next task was to stand, usually a fairly hazardous procedure in a tiny dinghy in a

swell, though inevitable in the circumstances. I pulled myself upright and hauled my

legs over to the rope rungs.

At this point I should explain to the layman a disquieting phenomenon. As a person

first steps on to the rope rung of the netting with their full weight, any adjacent rungs

tighten to the horizontal as the rung taking the weight drops to its lowest point. (Are

you still with me?) The next step has the same effect, and so on. There is the feeling

of taking gigantic steps upwards to no avail.

That being understood, I was getting nowhere. My arms were pulling me up, but my

feet had suddenly become lead weights, with my legs not able to raise them to the

next rung. Welcoming hands reached down and hauled me aboard. The officer

suffered the same indignity with the same gratitude.

All in a week’s work

There was no sense of a job well done. No, it was all in a week’s work. Something

had required doing, and it had got done. I remember that, among others on top deck, I

just ‘got my head down’.

On arrival in England, at railway stations and on trains I joined up with the seething

streams of men whose ant-like purpose was that of rejoining their units. I arrived

eventually at Chatham RN Barracks, only to discover that I had contracted scabies

from the uniforms into which I’d changed on La Panne beach.

A process of kit fumigation and/or burning followed. The infected parts of my body

had to be scrubbed to break open the skin in order to treat the parasitic mites. Ugh!

After a stay in hospital quarantine, leave was very welcome.

Postscript

Some 58 years later I traced the officer concerned, who had written an article in a

NATO magazine with identical stories to mine, which confirmed our identities

To Murmansk and Back on the SS 'Atlantic'

In May 1942, I was appointed one of two chief radio officers on the SS Atlantic. The

Atlantic was a cargo ship, at that time being loaded at Sunderland Docks with Hurricane

fighter planes, explosives and other war supplies, destined for Russia by the northern

route. How to avoid frostbite

We were all issued with arctic clothing, fur-lined coats, sea boots and so on, and a list

of instructions on how to avoid frostbite. The sea boots were of thick leather that was

as hard as iron and came with the legs folded flat. It was quite an effort to force them

open enough to get a foot down inside, but once they had been broken in they were

wonderful.

We sailed in convoy round the north of Scotland to Loch Ewe and then to Hvalfjord,

Iceland, where we were joined by a convoy from America. Here I was given a third

radio officer so we could keep a 24-hour listening watch for U-boats and plot their

bearing. The voyage from the UK to Iceland had been this officer's first taste of the

sea, and apparently he’d been seasick the whole time. Leaving for Russia

On 21 May our convoy of 36 merchant ships, PQ16, set off for Russia with an initial

escort of a minesweeper and four armed trawlers. We sailed between Iceland and

Greenland and continued in a north-easterly direction, keeping as far away from

Norway as the Arctic ice would allow.

On the 23rd we were joined by a destroyer, three corvettes, a fleet oiler and a

merchant ship converted to an anti-aircraft warship.

The SS Atlantic had a three-inch Bofors cannon, four 20mm (four-fifths of an inch)

Oerlikon cannon, two Hotchkiss machine guns and rocket projectiles as well as a

four-inch naval gun, which was only of use against surface targets. The guns were

manned by navy and army Defence-equipped Merchant Ships’ (DEMS) gunners and

members of the ship's crew. U-boat, aircraft and battleship protection

Early on the 25th, we were joined by four heavy cruisers and eight destroyers, so we

now had protection against U-boats, aircraft and enemy battleships. The cruisers

stationed themselves within the columns of the convoy.

Soon we were spotted by a Focke-Wulf or FW Condor. From then on we always had

one of these spotters circling the convoy out of gun range, day and night — only there

was no night, just 24 hours of daylight. Attacked by torpedo bombers

During the day hours we passed a homeward-bound convoy, QP12. In the evening we

were attacked by He-111 torpedo bombers and JU-88 dive bombers. The Hurricane

on Catapult-armed Merchantman or CAM-ship the Empire Lawrence was launched and shot

down one at least one He 111. Then the Hurricane itself was shot up, and the pilot had

to bail out and be picked up by an escort vessel.

One of the cruisers fired its 15mm (six-inch) guns straight over us, and the ear-

shattering 'crack' had to be experienced to be believed. It shook a lot of rust out of

hidden spaces. One bomb damaged a merchant ship, which had to return to Iceland.

Late in the evening a dozen JU-88 dive bombers made an attack without causing any

damage. Early the following morning a merchant ship was sunk by a U-boat. After

this, the cruisers and three destroyers left the convoy. No losses in two air attacks

On the 26th, there was persistent low cloud. Despite this, two air attacks occurred

without losses.

Wednesday, the 27th, was a different story. Because of ice, the convoy was forced to

sail close to North Cape and the enemy airfield at Banak. Visibility was good except

for a high film of stratus. Waves of bomb and torpedo attacks

The first attack came at 3.20am but did no damage. Then, from 11am until 9pm, the

convoy was subjected to waves of bomb and torpedo attacks. The gunners sometimes

hardly had a break. No sooner had one wave left than a new group of attackers would

be sighted, although much of the time was spent just standing by the guns.

The torpedo bombers, the He 111s, would circle the convoy in groups, out of gun

range, while the dive bombers, the JU 88s climbed high above the convoy, hiding

themselves above the stratus. The only way to pinpoint their position was by watching

where the guns of the anti-aircraft ship were pointing. It had radar, but its guns

weren’t firing because the range was too great. The enemy would attack in a group,

countered by an impressive display of tracers and shell bursts. A glimpse of the action

I caught only glimpses of the action, because my post was in the radio room. None the

less, I witnessed a cheeky incident during a lull between attacks, when the only plane

in sight was the Condor spotter, circling the convoy at low level.

Our ship was near the starboard side of the convoy, in the second row. We were

watching from the bridge as the leading destroyer on that side made a series of high-

speed dashes diagonally away from the convoy. It did so whenever the spotter was out

of sight on the opposite side. Then it would drop back to the convoy course and nine-

knot speed as soon as the spotter came round again.

After doing this a few times it got gradually nearer to the spotter's orbit, by as much

as a mile, without its action being detected. Finally, the destroyer fired two shells,

after which there was a tense wait. Two puffs of smoke indicating shell bursts

appeared just ahead of the spotter, only close enough to make it bank away steeply to

a wider orbit. Ah, well, whether a regular tactic or simply a one-off, it had been a

good try. In dire straits

We learnt later that a U-boat wolf pack had failed to make contact with us. One or two

individual submarines had got close, but they were driven off. At the end of the day

— it seemed it would never end — five merchant ships were sunk and three badly

damaged but still able to carry on. Other ships suffered only minor damage.

Taking stock, ships were being sunk at the rate of one every two hours. We still had at

least 60 hours’ sailing to get to Murmansk with 29 merchant ships left. Moreover, our

ship had used up more than half its ammunition, and presumably the others were in

similar straits.

If the pace of the attacks was kept up, the arithmetic seemed to add up to the

possibility of all our ships being sunk. The usual 'It can't happen to us', usually

indicating a degree of confidence that nothing could happen to our ship, came to mean

that even if the ship were sunk we had every hope of survival.

Everything depended on where the bomb or torpedo would strike. No. 3 hold was full

of explosives. If that were hit, we would all disappear in a flash of light and a cloud of

smoke — one ship had already done so. The pressure slackens off

Fortunately, it transpired that the worst was over. The Luftwaffe weren’t able to keep

up the pressure. As the 27th rolled into the 28th, the sky began to cloud over, making

it difficult for the dive bombers. There was only one air attack, late in the evening,

without any loss.

By this time we had been joined by three Russian destroyers, which put up a terrific

anti-aircraft barrage. They didn't seem to stay with us very long — the rumour going

round was that they had used up all their ammunition. Heading for the Kola Inlet

Early on the 29th, there was another air attack, which was beaten off without loss.

Late in the evening the convoy split up, six ships going to Archangel, which had just

become free of ice, and the rest, including our ship, heading for the Kola Inlet.

Shortly after the parting of the ways, we were attacked by JU 88s, some going for the

Archangel section and the rest attacking us. Both attacks were beaten off without loss.

About noon on the following day, just as we were lining up to enter the Kola Inlet, we

suffered the final bombing raid, this time by JU 87s, the dreaded Stuka dive bombers.

I have not seen mention of JU 87s in any publication, so this might be a case of

mistaken identification. In any event, Hurricanes of the Russian Air Force drove them

off. Rum on arrival

We were greatly relieved to arrive, and the captain issued generous amounts of rum to

celebrate. This was the first drop of alcoholic refreshment we had enjoyed since

Sunderland.

In Murmansk, depending on the weather, we were subjected to almost daily air raids.

The start of a raid was heralded by dozens of old biplane fighters circling up and up to

reach a sufficiently high altitude to intercept the bombers. When the enemy arrived,

the sky filled with shell bursts, around which dodged both attackers and defenders,

Hurricanes now included. Bombs dropped, until, gradually, the action died down.

Strangely enough, now we were relatively safe in harbour and not allowed to use our

guns, we felt more like spectators than potential targets. We didn't hear of any ships

being damaged during these raids, although a lot of dud incendiary bombs landed on

some of the ships near by. A ghost town

Murmansk itself appeared virtually to have closed down. There was one restaurant

that was open, where the food was not as good as we could get aboard ship, and a

small club, where we could buy iced tea and some kind of soft drink. Both venues

were reserved for use by non-Russians.

The girls in the club were quite friendly, but when, despite the language difficulties,

we tried to chat them up outside they kept casting worried eyes at two uniformed men

watching at a distance. Dancing in sea boots

One evening some of us trudged through the snow to a local dance. It was the only

time I have ever been to a dance in sea boots, but then all the Russians, male and

female, were wearing similar footwear.

We soon sensed we were tolerated rather than welcomed and left. It may have been

that the locals were chary of appearing too friendly in case they fell foul of the police.

We had heard that Russians suspected of being friendly with foreigners were liable to

be arrested and imprisoned. In contrast, the dockers who were unloading the ship

were quite amicable. We were even invited aboard one Russian cargo ship by the

crew. Surprisingly relaxed

Despite all the rumours about red tape and officiousness, Murmansk was the only port

I ever visited during the war in which the ship's radio transmitters were not sealed to

prevent them being used in port.

Nobody objected either when we inspected closely the workings of some General

Grant tanks on the quayside, although a sentry did become very threatening when we

tried to collect souvenirs from a shot-down aircraft. Accommodating convoy survivors

Meanwhile, we were all aware that survivors from the section of the convoy that had

succumbed to attack were having a pretty rough time of it. Billeted in a ramshackle

camp further down the inlet, nobody seemed to know what to do about them.

With this in mind, our chief officer called all the other officers into the saloon. His

proposal was that each of us might share our cabin with a surviving fellow officer.

There was the facility to do this with each cabin furnished with a full-length settee as

well as a bunk. Accommodation for other ranks was to be provided in an upper hold;

army gunners were already thus accommodated. Like camping in a corridor

The scheme was adopted, and survivors were distributed among the various ships. We

three radio officers were joined by the three fellow officers from the CAM-ship Empire

Lawrence. All of them insisted on sharing our duties. I had started the voyage with one

assistant. Now I had five.

On cargo ships, which in peace time only had one radio officer, it was usual to have

the radio officer's cabin next to the radio office or at least accessed through it. The SS

Atlantic was different, in that everyone had to go through my cabin to get to the radio

office.

With one lodger and four radio officers constantly passing through, as well as the odd

visitor, I sometimes felt I was camping in a corridor. That didn't worry me. Still a

teenager, like all the other radio officers except one, I had the optimism and resilience

of youth. Leaving Murmansk

Eventually, all the ships were discharged. Some, like ours, had been loaded up with

cargo for the return trip. On 27 June, four weeks after our arrival, we left Murmansk

in convoy QP13. At the same time, the next supply convoy, PQ17, left Iceland for

Archangel.

The following day we met up with the PQ16 ships that had gone to Archangel, plus

some that had been frozen in there all winter. We were soon spotted by a German

plane, though no attacks followed. The disaster that befell PQ17

On 2 July we passed PQ17. The following day we split up, and, with 18 other ships,

headed for Loch Ewe. The rest of the ships headed for Iceland.

At Loch Ewe all the survivors we’d accommodated were taken ashore, and we docked

finally at Leith to discharge our cargo. We were fully expecting to go back to Russia,

but, instead, we were despatched to Philadelphia, USA, because the Russian convoys

had been cancelled. It was only later that I heard of the disaster that had befallen

PQ17. The Germans, it seemed, had preferred to concentrate their fire on them. Postscript

The third radio officer, having been seasick on the way to Iceland, was seasick on

leaving Iceland, and again on the way to Loch Ewe. But in Leith he was introduced to

beer, and having been sick on that he was never seasick again.

Fred Todd's Account of a Russian Convoy

Introduction

This is a copy of the diary, which my Father made during one of the convoys to

Russia. In this case I believe it would have been to Archangel on board the Destroyer

H.M.S.Marne. He served in the Royal Navy from April 1940 to December 1945.

CONVOYING TO RUSSIA. FREDERICK ARTHUR TODD R.N.

No doubt most people appreciate the dangers attached to the convoying of war

materials to Russia, but as I am serving on one of H.M. Destroyers engaged in

escorting merchant ships on this hazardous route, I intend to give my version of the

trip.

We start our journey on the evening of the 8th Sept 1942 in company with nine more

Destroyers, one Cruiser and one small Aircraft Carrier. We are to meet the convoy of

40 merchant vessels and also more escorting ships in 2 days time at sea. When we

catch up with it, we expect to be nearing what is called the danger area, that is the spot

where we first expect the enemy to try his best to stop us getting our convoy safely

through. Before I go any further, I think it would be of interest for you to know that

we have been informed by our Captain that the German battle ship “Turpitz”, a couple

of their heavy Cruisers and a number of Destroyers are spread out in various ports

along the north coast of Norway and it is quite possible that we shall have to engage

them if they decide to attack our convoy.

10th Sept.

We meet our convoy and all day we roll along at a terribly slow pace owing to the fact

that these large merchant ships cannot do much more than eight knots. Nothing much

happens this day except a few U-boats are attacked with depth charges.

11th and 12th Sept.

Again we get things pretty quiet and we proceed on our journey with nothing

happening out of the ordinary to ease the monotony of this snails pace. We are asking

ourselves what could have happened to the Germans that we should have been left

alone so long but each one of us knows full well that its ”Any Minute Now”

13th Sept.

We start off this day quietly enough but towards lunchtime we are spotted by an

enemy aircraft out on patrol. Now we know for certain that we shall be called upon to

let them have it. Yes its afternoon now and here comes a dozen J.U.88 bombers. We

all dash away to our respective action stations to wait for the attack to begin. Needless

to say we don’t have long to wait. In they come with plenty of bombs and courage but

owing to the number of guns blazing away at them they fail to score any hits. Now we

can see the famous German torpedo bombers away in the distance and as they

approach we can count no less than forty of them. The Aircraft Carrier releases some

Hurricane’s and they speed away to intercept the Germans but although they bring

quite a number down some of them manage to get through. Then the big guns start

raising merry hell with them. Still on they come to give the close range weapons a

chance they are all waiting for. It seems as if the torpedoes that they are now releasing

are meant for the convoys escort of Destroyers because at least four tin fish come our

way but our Captain very cleverly dodges them. While our guns are banging away I

manage to get a few bursts in with my Orlikon. Phew that was certainly hot while it

lasted. This is Sept “13”but we are all confident we can beat their best efforts off.

Towards nightfall we get another spell of fireworks and again its J.U.88s. One plane

is hit directly over our heads and in the failing light it looks a picture, descending in

flames. I shall certainly never forget the sight we all witnessed that evening. It put the

5th November in the shade. Thousands of red hot tracer shells and bullets streaming at

the planes as they came over in twos and threes and an aircraft or two burning brightly

on the sea. Anyway darkness arrives to give us a short break from attack from the air.

But although the night is upon us we still have enemy submarines to contend with and

depth charges can be heard exploding occasionally as one after another Destroyer

goes in to attack.

14th Sept.

The night in this part of the world does not last long at this time of the year, so we are

soon searching the skies again for aircraft and once again we expect to be at our guns

for another 20 hours or so. We are getting little or no sleep at all now but still

everyone is ready to carry on the battle but strange as it seems we get no air attacks

this daybreak. But in the afternoon again a formation of 20 and another of 15, torpedo

bombers arrive to attack us and our precious convoy. Again, hell is let loose!

Torpedoes are flying through the water and thousands of shells and bullets are flying

through the air with aircraft screaming all around. One of our ships is hit and I shall

never forget the scene. One second the ship was there and the next there is a blinding

flash followed by a terrific crash. Smoke towers into the sky and when it clears away

not even a piece of wood can be seen Of course we are having our losses but nothing

like what one would expect with such attacks as we are having and we are taking very

good toll of the enemy aircraft. Towards nightfall however things begin to quieten

down again and we know that for about three hours we shall get another rest from the

aircraft. Throughout the night though we all, or rather most of us drop depth charges

on subs.

15th Sept.

What have they to give us today? We most certainly expect a warm time of it from

their air attacks but the sky is overcast with cloud and all we get throughout the day is

2 or 3 (mostly J.U. 88s attacking from high level. Their aim is very poor at this form

of attack and we suffer no casualties. Nightfall comes once more and with it the U-

boats. Throughout the night dozens of depth charges are dropped and two submarines

are destroyed.

16thSept.

We start off this day feeling rather tired owing to the lack of sleep but we still feel

confident that we can get this convoy through with the minimum of losses. Most of

the day we are followed by enemy aircraft, which are working in conjunction with the

U-boats. All day we are dropping depth charges and in the afternoon the lookouts spot

a sub on the surface well ahead of the convoy. We make a dash for it but when the U-

boat commander realises we mean business he promptly crash dives. We get contact

with him though and drop our eggs. The contact fades after that and we can probably

say we have destroyed a German submarine. By night fall this day we have got our

convoy to a safe position and now we leave them to get to port by themselves. Now

it’s our job to pick up another convoy and make the journey back home with it.

17th Sept.

Well early this day we find this homeward bound convoy and take up our positions in

order to start the slow journey home but apart from the German shadowing aircraft

following us all day nothing happens.

18th Sept.

Again nothing out of the ordinary happens but we get a few snowstorms.

19th Sept

Once more we are free from action except for a few depth charges dropped. Now we

are getting plenty of snow and its getting damned cold. Hello! What’s this? Suddenly

we get a U boat attack and although the convoy itself escapes damage one of the

minesweepers we have with us is sunk (H.M.S. LEDA).

20th Sept.

Now we are well on our way to what is considered the safety zone and we don’t

expect any air attacks. Our only danger now is U-boats and mines.

21st Sept.

At the crack of dawn this day we get another submarine attack and another of the

escort is hit. This time it is the Destroyer “SOMALI” but she is taken in tow by the

“ASHANTI”.Bad weather compels the “SOMALI” to break loose and she eventually

breaks in two and sinks. Most of her crew are saved. Later in the day a British aircraft

has to make a forced landing on the sea and as this same aircraft is sinking we go in to

take the crew off. Luck is with us and we take off all the crew, which consists of 9

men.

22nd Sept.

Again we start off with U-boat attacks. I happen to be on watch at the time and I

witness hits with torpedoes but again we are lucky and we only lose one ship, one of

the convoy.

23rd Sept.

Nothing happens this day.

24th Sept.

We land the airmen we picked up from the sinking seaplane and put them ashore

safely at Iceland.

25th Sept.

This is the day when the “SOMLI” breaks in two. Nothing more to write about

happens.

26th Sept

We are nearing home now and we hear a report on the radio all about the convoy that

got through safely to a Russian port and the announcer tells us that the convoy we are

still at sea with is safely home but here we are still at sea and liable to attack from U

boats and the wireless tells us we are safely home.

27th Sept.

Late in the afternoon we leave our convoy in a safe position and make all speed for

our base. We get in just before nightfall and in time to get about a months mail from

home. Needless to say we are all damned pleased to get home again. Myself I feel I

could sleep for about three months.

The following notes are not part of the diary but come from various sources, which I

have researched through the Internet

Notes

1. Outgoing convoy would be PQ18 and return convoy QP1.

2. 13th September: German aircraft torpedo nine ships but next day Avengers

Hurricanes ensure that only one more ship is lost to air attack. In total over forty

German aircraft are shot down by the convoy’s defences.

3. 14th September: The ship which exploded is no doubt the ammunition ship ‘Mary

Luckenback’.

4. 19th September: H.M.S. Leda was sunk by U-435.

5. 21st September: H.M.S. Somali was sunk by U-703. The seaplane was a Catalina

which came down after attacking U-606. This was ultimately sunk 22nd February

1943 in the North Atlantic by depth charges from the US coastguard cutter USS

Campbell and the Polish Destroyer Burza.

6. 12th November 1942: H.M.S. Marne was torpedoed in mid-Atlantic whilst

escorting

the submarine depot ship ‘Helca’. Helca was sunk and Marne, having been hit in the

aft magazine, causing an enormous explosion, lost 40 feet off the stern and was

therefore unable to propel or steer. All that night H.M.S. Excellent patrolled around

them in an effort to protect them. Come dawn, Excellent, having taken off as many

crew from Marne as possible, had to leave as she was running out of fuel. (Dad was

one of those to remain on board). For three days Marne sat there waiting for a tug to

tow them to Gibraltar. Six months later she was back at sea.

Memories from D-Day and Beyond

I am not anxious. I am not even nervous. On the contrary, I am elated. I am

privileged. At this moment I would not change places with anyone. I am standing on

the bridge of H.M.S. "Rodney" as we steam towards the coasts of Normandy on this,

the moming of 6th June, 1944, as I see unfold before my eyes one of the great events

in the history of our time. Nothing like it has happened before; nothing to equal it is

likely to happen again. We are part of the Second Front. We are about to break the

Atlantic Wall

I am sorry for most of the ship's company, closed up to "Action Stations" in the

Engine-Room, in the Boiler Room, in the Gun Turrets, in the Transmitting Stations, in

the Damage Control Parties and in the First Aid Parties. Their horizon is limited to the

bulkheads of the compartments in which they are closed-up and having to rely for

reports from time to time over the P.A. system given by

the Chaplain on what is going on outside the confines of their own little world.

A few days earlier I had written home - "We've been entertaining recently. First, we

had General Montgomery on board. He walked round the ship and also made a short

speech. He spoke very well. The troops just lapped it up. How, when he was in Italy,

he had seen "Rodney" bombarding the Italian Coast, how the newspapers spoke of a

"Second Front", but it was his and our Fourth or Fifth Front; an appreciation of the

German soldier today, and how we were certain to win. It was all sound psychology -

how good we were and how he would like us to support him

again. It certainly was a morale-raiser".

Our assembly point was the Firth of Clyde. There were hundreds of ships in the

anchorage. We sailed on 4th June, escorted by a group of Motor Mine-sweepers. The

following day we were dismayed to be informed that D-Day had been postponed

because of bad weather and we passed

what seemed to be an endless day slowly circling off the Welsh coast fearful that the

whole operation might be abandoned. However, with no further news of

postponement we realised that the long-awaited Second Front would be launched the

following morning, 6th June.

We proceeded on our way. In the early morning we heard the Allied aircraft flying

overhead - remember, they flew 10,000 (some say 13,000) sorties that day. Many

were firing their guns. We could see no hostile aircraft and soon realised that they

were merely testing their guns.

D-Day dawned bright and clear, thought there was quite a heavy swell. We were not

among the early arrivals, and by the time we approached the beaches there was

already a swept channel marked by gaily painted buoys with little flags on top. The

closer to the shore we got the more

congested things became. Groups of landing craft continued to cross our bows

causing us to make violent changes of course. These changes seemed only to lead us

into further danger of collision. Eventually Captain Fitzroy declared - "We'll keep our

course. "They will have to take their

chance". There must have been many anxious moments among the tail-enders of

groups of

landing-craft as they saw the bows of "Rodney" bearing down on them. On a later

sortie from Portsmouth, at night, we ran over a landing craft. "Rodney" gave a slight

bobble, the landing-craft and her crew were gone forever.

As we proceeded to our allotted station, I remember a Signal Boy, horror-struck yet

fascinated, peering through his binoculars at bodies floating past, some head-less, then

going to be sick in a bucket in the corner of the bridge. Hundreds of dead cuttle-fish

and squid floated past,

killed by the concussion of shells exploding in the water.

The scene around was quite astonishing. Nothing like it had ever been seen before.

1,213 Naval ships took part in the assault and over 4,000 landing craft. As far as the

eye could see there were ships coming and going. Also arriving were tugs towing

strange-looking objects. We could

only describe them as being like small oil rigs. Only later did we discover that they

were to form part of the artificial harbour already being constructed around the

anchorage.

Shortly after our arrival a returning force of landing craft close to us was shelled by a

German battery near Le Havre. The landing craft were soon hidden by a smoke screen

and we fired two rounds of 16 inch shells at the battery. Their shelling ceased. To our

great disappointment

we were informed we were "surplus to requirements" and ordered to return to

Portsmouth until required. As we retired that evening heavy firing still continued

away to the West, and to the East

at Ouistreham our destroyers were firing away at close range at a group of houses

presumably still held by machine-gunners and snipers. On the shore directly ahead of

us what had appeared like a disturbed ant-hill was now more like columns of Warrior

Ants snaking away inland.

We had scarcely returned to Portsmouth when we received orders to return to the

Beaches. There followed three days in which we fired 300 rounds of 16 inch shells;

450 rounds of 6 inch shells and countless rounds of multiple pom-poms and Oerlikon

guns. Our targets were enemy

batteries and concentrations of Armoured Fighting Vehicles. Even without taking

direct hits the blast from our exploding 16 inch shells was fearsome enough to knock

a 45 ton Liger Tank over on

its side and obliterating personnel not behind armour. We were hammering, without

any possibility of response, tank concentrations as far inland as Caen. It must have

been devastating to the

morale of the German tank crews.

Memories of small incidents flood back. The artificial harbour, Mulberry, was almost

complete, consisting of the sections towed out from home and naval and merchant

ships used as block-ships. We got a call one day from a young Royal Marine officer

who had left us a few months before to take charge of a motor boat squadron running

what appeared to be a kind of taxi service. He had taken up residence in the partly

flooded hold of one of these merchant ships. When the tide rose a body floated up

from a corner of the hold to join him. As it receded the body disappeared to rejoin him

with the next tide.

An alarm! Someone saw bubbles appearing from the ship's side. Suspicious of a

limpet mine being placed on the hull the alarm was sounded and a small charge

dropped over the side. Investigation proved that someone had left a pump from a

bathroom sump running and after

clearing the water it was pumping air out!

A Guards officer, immaculately dressed, leaving the ship with two newly-baked

loaves wrapped in tissue paper under each arm.

Our Supply Officer, Commander Greswolde Ozanne Davis, a small wiry Channel-

Islander, wearing steel-rimmed glasses was not to be deflected of his custom of thirty

years by a small matter like a Second Front. While the rest of us in the Wardroom

wore white overalls and rank

shoulder-boards, he dressed for dinner each night. Dressing in his stiff shirt and bow

tie in his cabin, he walked the thirty feet or so to the ship's main safe, turned the

combination, pulled open

the heavy door and took from the safe, the safest place in the ship, his Mess Jacket,

donned it, and entered the Wardroom in time to have his "standard" drink before

dinner. He also had his very own Oerlikon guns. Whether he had ever had to go to

"Action Stations" in his Mess Dress I do not know as I would be otherwise engaged.

It would make an incongruous spectacle, someone in Mess Dress manning an

Oerlikon gun repelling a German air attack.

On one occasion we received a signal to fire 75 rounds on a German A.F. V.

concentration on a map reference which was a position near Caen. We opened fire

and continued with the bombardment. We then received a peremptory signal from

Flag Officer Gold - "Cease Firing.

Report why you have fired so many rounds." Captain Fitzroy, who was enjoying

himself, inquired -

"How many rounds have we fired?"

"Sixty-eight, Sir!"

"We might as well complete the seventy-five. Carry on firing!"

When we completed the firing, we puzzled over the Flag Officer's signal. The

signalman was

summoned - "Did you get that signal from Flag Officer Gold correctly?"

The signalman looked at his pad - "Yes, Sir. Fire fifteen rounds of 16 inch H.E. shell

at A.F. V.

concentration, map reference. . . . . ."

"But the signal says 'Fire seventy-five rounds'."

"No, Sir. Fifteen rounds. I always make my one's with a tick at the front!"

Our Chaplain managed to "borrow" three trucks from the Army and advertised a

"Free Trip of the Battlefields". The offer was vastly over-subscribed and the

successful "tourists" were picked

from a hat. I was unsuccessful but I got their story on their return. The appearance of

three trucks of matloes rubber-necking from a ship caused no little astonishment

among the troops trudging up to the front, and there were many ribald remarks -

"You're going the wrong way"; "Can you not take

it any more on the sea?" and indelicate suggestions as to the reason for the run ashore!

They finished up within a few hundred yards of the German position having a "picnic

lunch" with an Anti-Tank Battery, dug-in and camouflaged at the side of a road.

There was a little alarm

when they noticed that the guns were pointed along the road whence they had come.

When we got the signal to return to Portsmouth everyone was quite happy. Whilst our

destroyers and frigates had done a good job in keeping German U-Boats and other

enemy surface craft away

from the anchorage, we were disturbed every night by enemy aircraft flying over

dropping bombs and mines among our ships. We had brought down at least one

Junker 88. We were looking forward to getting some undisturbed sleep, some mail

and re-ammunitioning and reprovisioning.

However, we were infuriated when we heard the B.B.C. attribute all our successes

and efforts to our arch-rival, H.M.S. "Nelson", who, we grumbled, had spent the last

fortnight "swinging round a

buoy at Milford Haven", and there was not a word about "Rodney!"

In a letter I sent home on 16th June I wrote - "Well, we happened to be on tile" spot

from D- Day, and pretty often since, the big ships firing away at the coastal batteries

and inland; the destroyers flattened buildings that were used by snipers; thousands of

landing-craft in a

continuous stream and squadron after squadron of aircraft passing overhead. The

R.A.F. were first-class, they gave us complete air cover except for odd German

fighter-bombers which sneaked in once in a while.

We have had a very mixed bag - coastal batteries, field batteries, tanks, motor

transport, troops and villages - all in our own time and with scarcely any opposition.

We haven't been issued with the seasickness pills. I gather that they are now really a

success. We had a Russian Commander on board for a few days, now we have a

Chinese Lieutenant

named Wong. Typical Chinese too - always smiling. He says he likes our food better

than the Chinese food."

The Sinking of HMS Prince of Wales and HMS Repulse

This story was submitted to the People's War site by Jeanne on behalf of Commander

Ward and has been added to the site with his permission. Commander Ward fully

understands the site's terms and conditions.

The Sinking of HMS Prince of Wales and HMS Repulse by the Japanese on 10

December 1941

Written by R V Ward, Commander RNVR (VRD) Survivor

No-one seems to have heard of the awful event of 10 December 1941, when HMS

Prince of Wales and HMS Repulse were sunk near Kuantan on the east coast of

Malaya, by Japanese torpedoes and bombs, there being no worthwhile defensive

support. About 1200 men were lost.

I was one of the survivors of the incident, having experienced this dreadful attack,

swimming around the Prince of Wales for one and a half hours (among sharks) before

being picked up.

What I cannot understand is why nobody, either a private individual or a newspaper

has ever chosen to tell of this tragic event.

I am now 92 years old and feel it would be a pity if the public could not have this

story before it is too late.

I passed out as Paymaster Sub-Lieutenant RNVR on 29 September 1941 and went

home for leave. Then on 29 October I was ordered to report at Greenock to “Party

Piano” with whites. That didn’t mean much to me, except that I was obviously going

to the tropics. When I reached Greenock, it was clear I was privileged to join the

navy’s newest battleship, Prince of Wales, commissioned in March 1941. So I joined

the staff of the Commander in Chief and we left Greenock on 23 October. We sailed

well out into the Atlantic because of U-Boat activity, called at Sierra Leone to refuel,

then at Simonstown and Capetown, where we had two splendid days of leave, and I

was able to visit Muriel’s aunt and uncle (Ellen and Harry). I had a motor tour of the

area including Table Mountain. Some splendid photos were taken including the one

be found in “The Orient in Turmoil” showing me with two animal friends.

Next we proceeded to Colombo and then on the Singapore, being joined by HMS

Repulse and the C. in C., Admiral Tom Phillips. Because I was not a member of the

ship’s company, only “taking passage” I had no cabin but slept on a mattress on deck

under the 14” guns. One night I was woken up by holding (in my sleep) the chain

around the deck — I had not sleep-walked for years and this could have been a bad

time to try it. We did some cypher duties in the naval base at Singapore and then left

as Force Z on 8 December 1941 with Repulse and a destroyer escort. The purpose was

to frighten off the Japs who obviously had their eyes on Malaya, Singapore and the

U.S.!!

We sailed north-east around the Anamba Islands, as the water around the actual coast

of Malaya had been heavily mined. On the morning of the 9th, we were spotted by a

high flying enemy aircraft off Khota Bahru. By mid-morning waves of Jap planes

were coming over, some bombers, some torpedo carriers. The enemy had a very early

success, when a bomb hit our port side propellers, distorted them and so, as the shafts

continued to spin, the distortion caused them to open up gaps in the hull so there was

considerable flooding especially in the engine rooms. These were evacuated. Now

both ships were taking water and the tragedy was that because of the grounding of the

Carrier Indomitable off the US earlier on, we had no defence against air attack.

P.O.W. was listing 40 degrees to port. The cypher office was flooded, and so with

others I moved into the nearby lower steering position where Commander Lawson

was in charge. Main power had been lost, ventilation failed and only emergency

lighting was available, six decks down from the bridge, in that lower conning tower. I

was standing near the ‘plot’, where the actual course of the shop was being recorded

and I saw that the course was one of ever decreasing circles, obviously because we

had power on the starboard side only and the rudder had been damaged to that we had

actually lost control of the ship.

Now the ship was sinking lower and the list increasing, so the Commander ordered us

to get out on deck — he stayed behind and was lost. We left through the escape

‘tube’, inside which were small footholds, but the tube was too narrow for us to enter

it without first removing our life jackets — obviously an unwise, though inevitable

thing to do, considering our prospects for the next few minutes. A young sub-

lieutenant was ahead of me and part way up the tube he declared he could go no

further, at which I gave his bottom a huge shove so that he struggled to the hatch at

the top (fortunately it was not clipped shut) and we were out on deck seeing the

damage for the first time. HMS Express was alongside; men boarding her along ropes,

jumping from P.O.W. Some missing the deck and being caught between the two

ships. Some wounded were successfully transferred to safety. Because the rising keel

of the P.O.W. was threatening the stability of Express, she withdrew to a safer

position. The last person I spoke to was Captain Leach — I gave him a message from

Commander Lawson — but the Captain was lost, together with Admiral Tom Phillips

and 327 men from P.W.O. and 513 from Repulse.

I slid down the starboard side of the ship as far as the armoured layer and then jumped

clear into the oily sea and put a fair distance — say 5 yards between me and the fated

ship. Non swimmers were going under and I could hear the crashing of heavy items

below decks, falling from deck to deck head (floor to ceiling). In the water there were

several large baulks of timber, which had been stored on deck, presumably for

emergency repair work during the voyage. I swam to one of these and helped about

ten men to join me, showing them how to do a clumsy breast stroke to keep afloat.

There were some carley floats around but they were all more than full. We swam for a

total of one and a half hours and then Express returned, P.O.W. having gone under —

gracefully but tragically — so we swan towards her and safety. The survivors with me

tried to climb ropes let down by ship’s company of Express, but before they reached

safety, their oily hands lost their grip and they went back into the sea. I used my Fire

Service experience and tied a bowline around my body and was hauled aboard. The

first thing I saw was the Flag Lieutenant lying on the deck minus one leg — so there

were sharks around. Express men stripped off my oil-soaked clothing and cleaned me

off with cotton wool from the Sick Bay.

Now I must mention that as P.O.W. lay, keel up, for a moment before she

disappeared, I saw a man carrying a suitcase, running along the keel of the ship. Of

course he could not survive the sinking but would be dragged down in a gigantic

whirlpool. But he DID survive and I know this because when, 50 years later, I was

broadcasting my story for Radio Solent, he heard the broadcast, wrote to me and

reported that he managed to get away and was now retired and living in Portsmouth.

Like everyone else, I lost all my possessions, souvenirs etc., except my ring which I

still wear. We were taken back to Singapore on Express, provided with baths, food

and beds.

My wife was informed by telegram four days after the event, that I was a survivor.

This was unusual, because the practice was to report losses to the next of kin and not

survivors!

Statistics covering the attacks on P.O.W. are:-

Torpedo attacks 50

Hits 11

Bomber attacks 16

Hits 2

Repulse and Prince of Wales still lie 30 fathoms down in the South China Sea where a

white ensign, changed from time to time, ‘flies’ in the sea, attached to a propeller of

the P.O.W. It was originally put there by navy frogmen as a tribute to the total of 850

men lost in the action. The site is now protected as a War Grave, which is near

Kuantan on the west side of Khalangsian Peninsula.

After two weeks in Singapore on the staff of Commander-in-Chief Eastern Fleet,

Admiral Sir Geoffrey Layton, we moved to Java in H.M.S. Durban as the Japs were

already in Singapore. There we worked in Lever Building, then in the French

Consulate from 6 January to

16 January 1942, when we were taken to Colombo in H.M.S. Emerald.

From 21 January to 10 December 1941, I lived in the Grand Oriental Hotel, Colombo,

still on the staff of Admiral Sir Geoffrey Layton, now C. in C. Ceylon. Then I moved

to HMS Rajaliya, RN Air Station Puttalam, some 50-60 miles north of Colombo and

by the side of a spectacular lagoon, though the station itself was merely a large hole

cut out of the jungle, large enough to receive visiting aircraft from our own or foreign

ships in the area needing repair or servicing. Accommodation was in crude kadjan

huts but life was very interesting because of the local wild life — elephants,

crocodiles, cobras, monkeys and many other small mammals. We could swim in the

sea a few miles west of the camp. Routine was broken for me, first by a short

secondment to the Dutch Hospital Carrier, ‘Ophir’, and then to the US Aircraft

Carrier, Saratoga, both in the Indian Ocean. Whilst in Ceylon, I was promoted to

Paymaster Lieutenant (25.9.42).

It was at Puttalam that I was fortunate enough to meet Surgeon Lieutenant D W Bain.

I reported to him that my ears were troubling me. Both eardrums had been perforated

by the effects of explosions while I was in the enclosed ‘metal drum’ of the P.O.W.

Dr Bain treated my ears and, thanks to him, I have very good hearing indeed.

One morning, while at Puttalam, I received a phone call from my brother Alf who,

although I believe he was in the UK had actually arrived in Burma. But he had

managed to get to Trincomalee on the north east corner of Ceylon — could I meet

him there? I got permission to borrow a staff car from the Air Station and made my

way to ‘Trinco’ and spent a couple of very happy days with him.

I finally left Ceylon in HMS Sussex, went through the Suez Canal and the

Mediterranean, (calling at Algiers, Morocco for an unforgettable haircut!) and reached

Scapa on 28 May. From there I made my way, with much difficulty, back to

Southampton and Bitterne.

HOME AT LAST.

D-Day at Courseulles

This is an extract from the memoirs of Stan Hook, transcribed from an interview tape

by Byron Whitehead of the Folkestone Heritage Team.

Stan Hook was also a motorcycle messenger boy in the Auxiliary Fire Service. His

account of the London Blitz, especially the bombing of Docklands and the City of

London, has been published in We Remember the Blitz, compiled by Frank and Joan Shaw.Not the Russian Convoy

I was determined to get into the services. I was 18, 18-and-a-half, and I wanted so

much to get into the services. And I applied in the end. I wanted to get into the navy.

[Stan is a descendant of Sir Francis Drake!] And I went and they said 'No you can't

come in the navy... [But you can join the] air force.'

So I said, 'Alright.' So I had a medical, went into the air force and then the navy said:

'Oh... we can take you.'

I went into the navy, but then some [RAF] military police came down to the house

and tried to arrest me [according to Stan's mother]. I wasn't there! I was in the navy...

They thought I had gone from medical at the air force and joined. But of course, being

the war, signatures didn't really matter. I was only 18 anyway. Only a kid really.

I was in the navy then anyway. I did six weeks up at what was called HMS Royal Arthur. It

was Butlins at Skegness. It was an old holiday camp that they transformed into a

naval barracks. It was a good place. We were there for eight weeks. They made

'Sprogs' of us - that was the slang word: Sprogs, people that had just joined the navy.

We did some square bashing.

They told me, 'You can't be a sailor you have to be a mechanic.'

I said, 'Oh well, I wanted to be in the navy.'

They said, 'Well you're in the navy... You're what we call a PEM [Probationary

Electrical Mechanic].

So I went on a six-month course fitting Rolls Royce engines and learning about Diesel

Doxfords and things like that. That was in London, which was great, because I lived

in London. Then, of course, I was in the navy proper.

I was on sweepers [and] escort work on the Atlantic convoys. Russian convoys. I was

never actually on a Russian convoy... when they sent a convoy to Russia it used to go

up the Baring Straits to what we called the Skaggerak... what isn't written in history is

that, in order to draw the German bombers they used to go up the outside and we used

to go up the inside. We used to take a load of old Tramps [steamers]. We were a

dummy convoy really... so, while the real convoy went through, we would go out and

then we'd turn round near Norway somewhere and come back again.

It was really cold and if too much ice formed on top of a boat it would capsize. So

everybody, the skipper included, would have to spend two hours a day chipping ice.

I asked for a transfer and they put me on Sweepers, to teach me a lesson I think! If the

[convoys were] dull, mine sweeping was even worse. Just going up and down and up

and down the same stretch of water for weeks on end. We used to operate out from

Hull. It was awful. One day a notice went up on board: 'Volunteers Required for

Combined Operations'. I didn't know what combined operations were, but we all

volunteered down to a man, anything to get away from mine sweeping!Combined operations - D-Day landings at Courseulles

They sent me across to the States, where they were assembling landing craft in three

sections. We'd take them over in the dockyard in New York, break them into three

sections and put them on to a liberty ship, ship them over [to the UK]. One liberty

ship used to take three major large landing craft, tank landing craft this was. We used

to bring them over, assemble them and put them in every little creek all around Devon

and Cornwall. Everywhere there was a little harbour, there was landing craft. They

sent me up to North Africa and we did a landing in Italy. I finished up in Malta and

then they said 'We want experienced men home now to train for D-Day.'

What they did was use a long beach - this one was near Purbrook. They built this

beach with an exact replica of information the underground had sent from France. We

used to land there. This went on for about six to nine months. We used to land there in

all sorts of weather, sometimes about 30 foot high seas and sometimes it would be flat

calm. We would practice, practice, practice and they would keep making

improvements to the things.

Eventually, when we landed, our first job was to breach the sea defences at a place

called Courseulles in France. We had been trained specifically for this, they had this

beach rigged and they had it to perfection. When we landed there was the church,

Courseulles church and I remember the skipper say to the coxswain, 'Coxswain, can

you make out the steeple?' and he said, 'Yes Sir, I can just see it, just where the sky is

getting bright.'

The skipper said, 'Steady on that, that's where we're going in.'

When we went in, first of all, the noise was horrific. I've never heard noise like it. The

one thing they didn't allow for was the noise. They sent us a rocket ship for protection

and this rocket ship was laying down this covering fire of rockets. I always remember

two American fighters, just flew into this lot and exploded. The noise was horrific. By

now bodies were beginning to float in on the tide and there was thick smoke

everywhere. But, anyway, we'd done all the practice so there wasn't an order given. I

never remember an order because everybody knew what they had to do. We had so

much training, we all did it automatically.

The Germans had built scaffolding just on the water's edge and mines like huge quart

milk bottles painted black were on the ends of all these. We manoeuvred our vessel in

just between two of these. Now, the beach was mined. It was a sand beach. Then there

was a convex sea wall, so that had to be got over. At the top of the sea wall there was

a tank trap, an absolutely huge hole. So, somehow, we had to get our tanks across this

mined beach, up this convex wall and across this thing. But we'd been trained and we

had four tanks on board.

The first tank was what they call a flail tank. It had a huge thing built on the front and

it had long bits of chain which banged down and exploded all the mines in front of it

as it went up the beach. So the door went down and the first one made a road up to the

convex wall. We went up this road that had been carved by the flail tank, then he

pulled to one side. The 2nd tank off had a huge bridge built on to the front of it. He

went up this cleared piece of sand and manoeuvred the thing into position then [the

bridge] was detonated off and he slowly climbed this seawall to the top.

On the top of the third tank were huge logs. He went up the sand road, up the ramp,

got on top of the wall, then detonated off all of the logs which filled up the ditch. The

fourth tank off was a normal tank. That was it! That was the breaching of the sea wall,

then they all came in behind us.

By then it was just about dawn and getting lighter and the rest came in. That was how

we breached the sea wall at this place called Courseulles. We landed in the British

sector. We landed near Gold Beach. There was Gold and Juno and we landed just

about where Gold and Juno met at this place called Courseulles. Then there was

Omaha, the other side of Gold and Utah.

I think it was Omaha, that was the American beach. [They] had just said 'Give 'em

hell'. They lost thousands and thousands of troops on Omaha beach. We, OK, we lost

a few hundred but nothing like Omaha. The Americans hadn't done their homework,

they just depended on force. The airplanes were going to go in and soften up the

beach and they were going to just land and that was going to be it. But, from

experience, Monty had said 'No' and he had [made this plan]. All of our practice paid

off at that point.

I was in what they called the wheel house so I had a first class view of this. At one

point the door jammed right at the critical moment. After we'd dropped the tanks we

started to pull the door up and the door jammed. I could see this, so I ran, there were

shells and bombs exploding but I just ran up, freed this hawser from the door and we

pulled it up. And the skipper said to me afterwards 'That was a fantastic thing you did

there, I'm going to nominate you for decoration.'

And I said, 'Now you know what you can do with your decoration!' And that was it.

But that's another story. There were hundreds of people that earned the Victoria Cross

that day, but half of them dead, unfortunately.

Escorting Convoys in the North Atlantic on HMS 'Bulldog'

This is a further insight into the wartime life of Petty Officer Engineer Mechanic

George Fogden (service number P/KX100681), and follows on from George’s

Enigmatic Tale. George’s own words follow.

Continuation of the Battle of the Atlantic, May 1941, still on board HMS Bulldog.

After arriving in Gourock with our convoy after our encounter with U-110, we were

given two days’ break to allow each half of the crew to have a run ashore for relaxing

and a few pints of beer. In the meantime, another group of merchant ships were

arriving in the bay, ready to be escorted up to Iceland.

When our break was over and all the crew refreshed, we assembled the convoy in the

correct order (slowest ships at the fore and fastest at the rear), and then we were on

our way to Reykjavik.

We ran into some stormy weather on the way up and it was a great relief to see

Iceland on the horizon. However, our luck ran out because of the weather. The

Canadian Navy had failed to bring their convoy from Halifax, Nova Scotia, and we

had instructions to carry on without our convoy, after they were diverted into harbour.

We were to sail to Halifax to collect the convoy which we were supposed to escort

back to Scotland.

We sailed on to Halifax and expected to be able to call in to Reykjavik on the way

back to take on fuel and supplies, and have a two-day break, which was the normal

procedure. We assembled the convoy at Halifax and started our return journey to

Iceland. Everything was running very smoothly - or so we thought.

Refuelling with the enemy

About halfway between Halifax and Iceland we received orders to scatter the convoy

as the German battleship Bismarck and the heavy cruiser Prince Eugen were travelling down

between Greenland and Iceland with the intention of attacking the Atlantic convoys.

They were being chased by ships of the Home Fleet, including our battleships HMS

Hood and the Prince of Wales, the two cruisers HMS Norfolk and Suffolk, and the aircraft carrier

HMS Victorious. They would later be joined by battleships HMS King George V, Rodney and

Repulse.

Our instructions were to leave the convoy with a small escort and to steam south in

case we were needed to help in the battle against Bismarck later on. We duly sailed south

and eventually we were running desperately short of fuel, because we hadn't been able

to refuel at Reykjavik. We were by then approaching the Azores and, being a neutral

country, we could not enter the harbour without permission. Our captain radioed the

British Consulate on the Azores and explained our situation and asked if he could

help. A response was immediately put into operation and we were allowed to enter

harbour, where to our relief an oil tanker was at anchor.

After careful manoeuvring and tying up on the starboard side of the tanker, the next

operation was to connect up the fuel pipes to our tanks and start taking on fuel. We

also hoped that while we were in harbour it could be arranged for some stores (food

etc) to be brought out to us. However, after we started taking on fuel we noticed that

on the other side of the tanker, also re-fuelling, was a German U-Boat…

This caused great consternation, because if the U-Boat left harbour before us it could

be waiting when we got out and we would be an obvious target for their torpedoes.

Also while we were refuelling, news came through on the ship’s radio that Bismarck had

sunk HMS Hood. This was unbelievable as the Hood was always considered to be

unsinkable.

In view of all that had happened our captain decided that we could not wait for stores

to be brought out to us, so as soon as our fuel tanks were full we would leave harbour,

wait for new instructions and do the best with the stores we had on board.

On getting out of harbour our captain asked for further instructions, and Admiral

Jovey (on board HMS King George V and in charge of operations), radioed back that we

would not be required and should return north to reassemble our convoy and carry on

as normal.

Green bread and dog biscuits

We then spent a couple of days getting back to our convoy and reassembling them to

start our journey to Gourock. Of course in this time our stores of food were

diminishing rapidly, and it was a matter of tightening our belts. The worst thing of all

was our bread supply. First the crusts went green, which wasn’t too bad because we

could cut the crusts off. Then the inside of the bread started going green. This we

covered with jam and pretended it wasn’t there.

After a while, when the bread really was inedible, we had to go onto what is known in

the services as hardtack. This is a form of biscuit, just like a dog biscuit, and as long

as your teeth were good you had no problem eating them – and if you had a cup of tea

you could always dunk them to soften them up.

Besides running out of bread, our meat supply had also been diminished, so we had to

go onto another good old standby - tins of corned beef. These were 7lbs in weight and

were issued at one tin per mess (about 12 men’s rations). We also had tins of sardines,

which helped to give us a variety of food and vitamins, powdered milk, and

vegetables that included tinned carrots and dried haricot beans and peas which needed

to be soaked overnight.

Fortunately we were on the homeward journey and were looking forward to getting

back to Gourock and some real food.

The Bismarck is sunk

We were eventually (without any trouble with U-Boats) in sight of Scotland when

news came on the ship’s radio that Bismarck had been badly damaged and sunk by

Swordfish planes from HMS Illustrious, the air craft carrier, which had sailed from

Gibraltar with the Mediterranean Fleet to apprehend Bismarck before she got safely to

France.

We duly arrived at Gourock with our convoy, and then to the great joy of everyone

we were told that Bulldog was due for a boiler clean and general maintenance, which

meant we would be in Glasgow dockyard for at least ten days. Each half of the ship's

company would therefore have five days’ home leave.

The procedure was that the captain would decide which half would go on leave first

and those left behind would commence with the work in hand. Engine Room Ratings

would start on the boiler cleaning and machinery maintenance and the Seaman

Ratings would be cleaning and painting the ship. When the first ratings returned from

their leave, they would then take over the work and the second half would proceed on

leave.

Before you left the ship to go on leave you were issued with a railway pass to

whichever destination you were travelling to, and also a ration card so that you

didn’t have to sponge off your relatives' food while you were staying with them. This

was only for the same amount of food that they were getting, as there was no special

treatment for those serving in the forces.

Once your leave was over and you returned to your ship, everything had to be

checked out to make sure it was in running order and then the captain would report

'ready for sea' and await further instructions. These would usually arrive within 24

hours, or when the next convoy of merchant ships were ready to be escorted - and

then away we would go on our journey to Iceland, never really knowing what to

expect on the way.

I remained on HMS Bulldog, going backwards and forwards from Scotland to Iceland for

the next six months, sometimes having ships torpedoed but never able to capture

another U-Boat.

Then, in the middle of December 1941, it was decided that Bulldog should be fitted

with a new depth charge device called a Hedgehog. This was to replace the old depth

charge throwers, which were located along each side of the ship. The Hedgehog was

fitted to the forecastle and was a nest of 12 chambers containing what looked like

bombs.

I never saw this device in action. Before the completion of work, I and quite a number

of the crew who had served nearly 18 months on the Atlantic convoys were recalled

to HMS Nelson, Portsmouth Barracks, for a recuperation period. This was navy

procedure to enable you to refresh your mind and body ready for a new challenge.

This meant I and my colleagues were able to spend some of our time with our loved

ones at Christmas 1941, not knowing what the New Year of 1942 had in store for us.

That is another story and I will bring this one to an end by saying what a memorable

one it was for me in my young life.

The Three Convoys

THE THREE CONVOYS

Tripoli

It was now January 1943 and time, I thought, to catch up with my last three months

pay, as I returned to the shore base at Alexandria.

With the possibility of the termination of my service in the Mediterranean, I

considered my options and, recalling my experiences with the Home Fleet, I requested

to serve for a further 12 months in the Med., or transfer to the Pacific.

On February 5th, my former request was granted, and on the same day my ‘terms of

reference’ changed.

Daniel H Lownsdale was a United States Liberty ship, just over 441 feet long and just

less than 57 feet wide; she also sat high in the water — hardly miss-able in a convoy.

This was to be my next assignment: RN liaison signalman aboard this supply ship in

convoy to Tripoli. I just hoped that the escorting vessels, with all their expertise, had

more luck going for them than I had experienced.

The ship was built by Oregon Shipbuilding Corporation in Portland, Oregon, so it

wasn’t surprising to find many of the crew were from the West and South: Olester

Crane from Texas, R.L.Cross from Portland, Chester Earl Maxey from Texas, James

Virgil Young from Texas, were just a few of the (tongue-in-cheek) self-confessed

‘rebels’. They joked light-heartedly about ‘The Damn Yankees’ and proud to be from

the south.

With the full knowledge of what was expected of me, once we were under way, I

stepped ashore with two of the crew and introduced them to the sights of Alexandria.

On the next day, 6th February at 0900, we left harbour. What a difference it was to

walk around a bridge with so little gold braid and other humanity going about their —

and my - business. Here, the only person who required information from me was the

Captain. Mind you, he needed it constantly for signals about change of tactics —

mostly during the night — for station keeping during zigzagging.

On the day before my 22nd birthday a floating mine exploded ahead of us, clocks

were put back one hour and I spent that extra hour on duty. My birthday was just as

uneventful but with added wind and rain and, to close the day, at 2350, low flying

enemy aircraft attacked the convoy. Later, I took over my obligatory middle watch

(0000 to 0400 hours).

When we arrived at Tripoli, I went ashore with some of the crew. There was a certain

amount of souvenir hunting. I was content to take possession of an Italian bronze

medal that had been struck by Mussolini, to commemorate the Italian desert campaign

for the Italian troops.

Unfortunately, Quayle, a young cadet from the ship was killed by a booby trap, and I

experienced again the tears and emotions of grown men new to the horrors of war.

In harbour, as at sea, supply ships were very vulnerable to attack, so speed was

essential in the unloading of stores. With speed comes also, at times, carelessness.

Therefore, it wasn’t surprising that a crate or two would become damaged in

handling, and put to one side. Sometimes, these crates, containing broken glass, were

(un)fortunately forgotten by the delivery trucks and had to be removed from the

dockside - for safety reasons -, taken back onboard and disposed of.

It had been such a long time since I had tasted Haig’s Whiskey and Gilbey’s Gin

together, with such good company. Come to think of it, I’d never before tasted Haig’s

Whiskey and Gilbey’s Gin together!

I had expected to disembark at Tripoli for further duties. Throughout the unloading

and the journey back, I enjoyed the good company of the crew, the excellent

accommodation and the food of this ‘luxury liner’, despite the familiar enemy action.

Because of her size, D H Lownsdale, as I previously hinted, was very vulnerable to

attack, but her very size gave her a certain feeling of life-saving protection.

Eventually, from seaward I viewed the outline of Alexandria as we sailed past and on

to Port Said.

As the ship prepared to take aboard a pilot for the journey through the Suez Canal, the

friends that I had made urged me to remain aboard with them on the journey back to

the States.

Once I had made contact with Navy House at Port Said, however, all stops were

pulled out to get me off the D H Lownsdale and en route back to Alexandria.

With what little kit I had, I was given the authority to travel by train from Port Said.

At 1800, with the ubiquitous commuters, I arrived at Alexandria at 0530. It was now

the 3rd March.

Benghazi

Apart from duties in the shore base, I once more made acquaintance with the watering

holes of Alexandria during the occasional shore leave of the next four days.

On the 8th March I was assigned to a tanker, Fu Kwang, but the sailing was delayed

until 10th.

Under way, the superstructure of this vessel between the bows and the bridge seemed

to be always awash, which gave her the appearance of a submarine. We passed

Tobruk on the 12th and arrived at Benghazi on the 15th, quickly discharging the cargo

to sail away on the 16th. As was the usual procedure, the escort vessels had remained

offshore. We had received no trouble from the air and, although the weather and the

turbulent sea caused havoc with our now empty ‘tin can’, we were pleased to see our

escort waiting to shepherd us back to Alexandria.

The conditions continued throughout St. Patrick’s Day. The sea must have abated

somewhat on the 18th March as U-boats managed to operate successfully; at 1030,

two supply ships went up — empty tankers went that way.

The next day, the speed of the convoy was reduced to allow for one ship with defects:

little headway was made. Strangely, apart from alarms, we sustained no attacks. No

doubt due to the rain, storm and squalls.

This procedure continued, with the escort vessels dropping depth charges at each

alarm, until we reached Alex on 22nd March. The weather there was no better and,

because of the conditions, I had to remain onboard.

When I did get ashore, I called at the Fleet Censor Office to collect my films and

prints previously left there, to be told that, because of the flap of the Germans getting

so close to Alex., my photographs, along with others, had to be destroyed!

Back To Benghazi

It wasn’t until the 4th April that I got my next assignment, another tanker by the name

of Bassethound. She was slightly smaller than Fu Kwang, with less fuel storage space,

but again, at sea, there was far more superstructure below water than above.

It never took long to get acquainted with the ship’s company: there were so few

members. Apart from the few officers, my other contacts were the members of the

DEMS. These were gunners specially trained at shore bases: HMS President III, HMS

Wellesley or HMS Glendower, for defence onboard merchant vessels. The

abbreviation stood for Defence Equipped Merchant Ships. My information is, if they

were lucky, they would have a 12-pounder anti-aircraft gun with which to work. Their

vessels usually had a 3” or 6” gun, and maybe a couple of WW1 Lewis guns for them

to man. This was only the second time that I’d come across any of them. They were

there to man whatever guns were installed aboard the supply ships and, because of the

hazardous conditions, DEMS ratings were re-imbursed with ‘danger-money’, and

rightly so. (I often thought that we liaison signalmen should be entitled to the same).

During our trip to Benghazi, we experienced the usual U-boat scares and were sighted

by enemy aircraft — always a worrying sign. We met a larger convoy, no doubt

bigger pickings for the enemy, but didn’t join it.

Getting a bit blasé now, two of us rowed ashore at Benghazi on several occasions.

Discharging seemed to take forever, but each day in harbour with the diminished fear

of attack was a bonus. I even went over the side for a dip; the water was freezing, but

the sun was hot.

Like all these runs, the journey back to base was hazardous. The supply ships were

always the targets; their vulnerability was lack of both speed and manoeuvrability.

It was in fog that we sailed at last into the harbour at Alexandria.

Since February, I’d been engaged in a different aspect of the war and now, with my

liaison ventures with convoy merchant vessels at an end, in April I started a course for

further advancement, and whatever lay ahead — with the Royal Navy.

H.M.S.Victorious, A Sailor's Diary

James Pemberton was my father in law. He started to keep a diary on being called up.

He didn't want to go into the army, so he enlisted into the navy. He was an excellent

pianist. He played in Wally Pool’s band in and around Merseyside. He worked as a

clerk for Tate and Lyle. He died on 21st of October 1996 aged 83.This is his diary.

2nd March 1941, called up. Jean having baby got extension until 16th March.

No baby yet, received another extension until 2nd April.

2nd April. Joined Raleigh. At Raleigh 10 weeks, not too bad, change from civy life,

Missed home after a few weeks. Plymouth blitzes.

10th June 1941,left Raleigh for 7 days leave.

19th June. Returned to Drake after 2 days extension for removing furniture to Bell

Road from Jean's mothers. Got to Drake with brother in law and was drafted out to

Ebenezer Hall. A few compassionate leaves from there.

September. Had 7 days leave and took bad with bronchitis for 6 weeks.

October to December had a good job as sentry at Ebenezer Hall.

December 22nd 1941 drafted to Liverpool.

December to July, wonderful job as sentry at Mersey. July returned to Drake broken

hearted, July 18th put in for 7 days and got it. July 27th returned to Drake and drafted

immediately to Victorious. July 31st sailed for Malta convoy. Returning middle of

August and to Rosyth from August to September I think. September yes.14 days

leave. Exercises at Greenock and Scapa then November North African campaign,

back to Greenock the weekend. Back to Greenock then exercise until December 20th

sailed to join the U.S. Navy. Off to Bermuda 1st January 1943. Arrived at Norfolk 1st

February 1943.Left Norfolk for Panama middle Feb. Reached Panama for 5 days.

Arrived Pearl Harbour end of Feb.

March and April were spent in defence of Pearl Harbour and getting off Yankee

routine. End of April off to New Calidonia, 17 day trip. Arrived New Caledonia about

middle of May 1943.Immediate emergency as soon as we arrived, same day out after

the Jap fleet. Out one week and saw nothing, just submarine scares. Next trip was 28

days in the Coral sea.100 miles from Guadalcanal one afternoon. May and June were

spent in south west Pacific. Expected to be out there years.

July 1943 recalled to Pearl Harbour. One run ashore then off again for some port in

America. Beginning to think about going home, buzz very strong about being home in

September. August some time arrived San Diego but only for 24 hours and I was duty

watch. Next day off again for Bilboa. Arrived at Bilboa and went right through the

canal in the morning arriving at Colon at the other end of the canal 7pm same night.

Stayed overnight, leave only to chiefs and P.O's. Left next morning for Norfolk. In

Norfolk about a fortnight then off again for England. Arrived at Greenock on

September 29th.New orders to proceed to Liverpool. Arrived Liverpool next morning,

marvellous, but unfortunately duty that night. As I was putting a rope on a bollard,

met Ken Hamilton.

From October 1st March 8th 1944 in Liverpool. Good oh. March 8th leave Liverpool

for Greenock. Arrived Greenock same night. In and out of Greenock for a fortnight or

more, extra special exercises. Bloody awful. Only consolation was Maa messman.

Early April attack on Turpitz.Worst trip I ever did for cold and cleaning brass work on

ADP at 24 below zero, on Russian convoy. Middle April 1944,more exercises then

attack on Boda and attack 150 miles north of Boda on our own, sailing about in gales

for a week, absolutely chocker. Back to Scapa and glad of it. No sleep. More

exercises and then special 10 days cleaning programme.

8th Montgomery comes aboard for second front. I hope the sooner the war's over the

sooner I will be 10 years younger.

19th May King aboard, something's going to happen, splice the main brace.

May 21st Liverpool for 5 days then Scapa then more exercises. Bombing strafing

attacks on shipping harbours. June 6th D day.

June 8th sailed for Gib' didn't stop, went on to Algiers. There for 24 hours then to

Alexandria. There for 48 hours then through Suez to Aden. The heat here nearly

Killed me. I couldn't breathe most of the time, glad to get out of it and into the Indian

ocean.3 days later Bombay for 48 hours then down to Ceylon. At Colombo for 10

days refit and a jolly. More exercises with squadron who hadn't been on a carrier

before.

14th September off to raid, strafe, bomb and photograph Madong and other ports in

Northern Sumatra.18th September all raids completed and back again to Trincomalee.

Buzz about leaving the Eastern fleet for 16 weeks. I hope we are going home, the heat

is terrible, I can't stand the sweat, fed up wiping it off. Absolutely fed up with Foreign

Service and wish I could go home for good and not come back to this red hot hell

hole, I'm about chocker. November went to Bombay for about one month for small

repairs. December, back to Colombo for a few days then to Trincomalee for

Christmas.

1st January 1945 off to Sumatra for a month's raid. Just imagine, a month at sea and at

action for most of the time. Absolutely fed up with Japs and heat and skin troubles to

say nothing of the home sickness.

February 6th arrive at Fremantle Australia. Lots of fresh fruit ad presents come

aboard. Very good of the Aussies.

11th February arrive Sydney and now changed from the Eastern Fleet to the new

British Pacific Fleet. One thing about Britain, she is crafty, but it's hard on the men

who have to stand for it. The whole world thinks this is a brand new fleet of fresh men

from England. But no, it's the same men and ships that have been fighting this war

from the start. Some of them aboard here were in the battle of Jutland in the last war.

If they had any thought for us they would send us home and get men out here who

want to see the world and a bit of action. It's a long way from one's wife and family

and it's not playing the game.

27th February sailed for God knows where.8th March arrive at Manus in the

Admiralty Islands. A few days oiling, petrol, stores and ammo and off again steaming

north.12th march arrive at Oulithi in the Caroline Islands. A few days, 2 to be exact

for oil and petrol again.14th March off again, we don't know where but we know its

trouble for someone. Later Captain tells us we are going to bomb airfields in Okinawa

and other Japanese islands. March, April and May we bomb and strafe airfields, oil

dumps and various other things and we are pleased to know the war with Germany is

coming to a close.

May 7th in again to Rhyku islands between Japan and Formosa but weather too bad

so we only get one strike off.

May 8th in again, weather better so we smacked him hard with little opposition.

THANK GOD, THE WAR IS OVER

May 9th in again to smack old yellow belly. May 9th at 5.30 two suicide bombers hit

the flight deck, one forward and one aft. 3 dead and 14 badly injured and burned

terrible. All fires under control. Skipper makes hands put steel plates over hole in

deck to try to keep aircraft flying. Doctors plead with him not to go in again

tomorrow.

May 10th we go to oil and petrol for 2 days.

May 14yh back again. This is asking for trouble and I am frightened to death.

More suicides, one just hit the fire hose with his tail and exploded in the water thank

God.

May 14th back again to oil etc. Nothing happened then until we arrived in Sydney on

June 6th.Grand time in Sydney. June 26th Left Sydney for Tokyo, this is going to be

the real thing. (Diary ends)

X-craft, the Tirpitz and Inadequate Tow Ropes

Hidden in a shed

I was serving in B submarines when volunteers were requested for special hazardous

underwater services. At the time I didn't know anything about Operation Source, but I

decided to volunteer anyway. Lots of rumours were flying around and, when we got

to Fort Blockhouse, we had to take a medical, which lasted two or three days, and

then we went into the Davis escape tank. We were there for a week, doing longer

periods on the bottom, under water, where we played Ludo, or 'Ackers' as it was

called in the Navy.

We were ordered to go and see Lieutenant Heslett, the X-craft man, and he took us

over to Portsmouth dockyard. We were taken to a shed where this object was being

built - although we still had no idea what it was. An armed sentry stood outside and he

was given permission to take us into an inner room where there was another sentry.

They opened the inner door and that's when we saw this ghastly thing - the X-craft.

We looked at one another and said, 'Good heavens, is this it?' Our stomachs turned

over. That was X4 - she was just being assembled.

Lives lost in training

The training was dangerous. We lost quite a few people here and there. Taffy Thomas

was the first. He was lost from X4, washed out of the WD compartment as it ditched

gas, so we didn't find him again. And then Sub-Lieutenant Lock was lost. He was

down on the net and it's thought he died of oxygen Pete (oxygen poisoning) - he didn't

come back up. Lots of people fell unconscious at different times, getting used to the

diving gear.

Once we had confidence in the equipment we began to use it effectively. We had to

go down and off the beach on a life-line and we had to stay down as long as we

possibly could under water, which was anything up to six hours, and then we were

pulled out. You gave four tugs on your life-line as a signal that you were in trouble.

Edmund Goddard, who was the ERA of X6, was out there at the same time as me and

he was running out of oxygen so he gave four tugs and the midshipman on the other

end paid him out more line instead of pulling him up. Eddie then decided to keep

pulling the line until the midshipman was left with the end in his hand, at which point

he decided there must be something wrong down there. Eddie came out and he was

black in the face and unconscious. The midshipman left the job that day and was sent

back to general service. Some people were kicked out at that stage. They just couldn't

take the training and the strain; we lost quite a few people like that - sent back to big

submarines or general service.

Operation Source and adrenalin

As the date for the operation came closer, things became quite exciting. The adrenalin

started flowing; everybody was keen to go. The boats were ready, the crews were

ready and it was quite something to get together and talk about the same things.

Although only four boats made it to the fjord to attack, all the crews were at the same

peak. Everybody was excited. But the tow was too long - that could have been

planned better. We probably should have sailed from the Shetland not Scotland,

because ten days for the passage was a long, long time. Then someone in their

wisdom took the fourth man out of the passage crew. When there were four men in

the passage crew it was two men doing two hours on watch and two hours off watch,

which was sustainable. The two hours off watch allowed you to keep the rope dry,

clean and chase all electrical earths, because they were damp these boats.

Our manila tow ropes broke right, left and centre in training, even though they were

specially made for the job. The towing submarine and X-craft were in telephone

communication, or should have been, at all times - the telephone cable ran up the

centre of the tow rope. But the tow rope stretched and the telephone cables didn't, so

that was a problem. Then, when we got hold of a nylon tow rope, we had no trouble

whatsoever. You can imagine the surprise when there were only three nylon tow ropes

available for the final operation; they went to X5, X6 and X10, commanded by Navy

captains. We knew very well that we didn't have a tow rope which would last any

more than five days but we were told not to worry because the towing submarine had

a spare cable. It's all very well to change a tow rope when you're on a canoe lake at

Portsmouth, but when you're out in the middle of the North Sea getting close to the

Arctic Circle it's quite a problem - you've only got 18 inches free board above the

water line. Godfrey Place (CO of an X-craft) achieved it. He had his broken tow rope

replaced, then his second tow rope only lasted two days and he finished by towing

with a steel cable and he still got there on time. That was a remarkable effort. X8 and

X9 were lost purely through the breaking of the tow ropes.

Celebrations before the attack

The morning we left - about 4am - we saw the manila tow ropes and we weren't quite

so enthusiastic. We were envious of the other boats with nylon tow ropes. The night

before, the officers had a glorious banquet with all the bigwigs in the ward room, but

we, the engine room RTFs, had to go into a cowshed ashore with a barrel of beer and

that's where we celebrated.

We were given a survival pack, which included money and maps, compasses, and

little packs of hacksaw blades and files, which had to be hid in different parts of the

body in case we got ashore. We also were taught a secret code to use if we were taken

prisoner so we could send messages back to this country in the POW mail, although

we were strictly ordered not to use Red Cross mail for this purpose. Whether anyone

used it or not, I don't know. We were also taught methods of breaking out of prison

camps by Commander Newton, Royal Navy, who'd already escaped from a prison

camp in Italy.

We had a pistol each too, a Luger, and we went up to Mount Quinage [sic], up to the

snowline, and I saw a grouse there, which I aimed at but it looked up at me and I

didn't have the heart to fire. It was probably the safest grouse anywhere in the world,

because I would have missed it even if I had fired. That was our experience of getting

used to firing Luger pistols. Lovely things. Mine belonged to a doctor from the

Midlands somewhere - he didn't get that back, of course, as it's on the bottom of the

ocean.

The Tirpitz disabled

I honestly thought the Tirpitz would have been blown sky high and if everything had

gone to plan she probably would have been, what with 12 tonnes of explosive under

her - that would have broken her back without a doubt. But the real problem was the

tow ropes. I lost three very close friends. Three dedicated people - Ginger Hollett in

particular. He and I were the only two engine room people in the crews and he was a

bubbly fellow, full of life and always working, doing something for the betterment of

the boat.

Our flotilla was wiped out completely, all six boats had gone. We had nothing left.

When we got back, they asked us if we'd go again, but all three captains put their

views forward very strongly, so things changed. Six new boats were built inland and

we went down to Markham in Chesterfield to get our new boat, X22. But that's

another story.

Russian and Malta Convoys Part 1

Russian Naval Concert Party on Board HMS NIGERIA at Murmansk 1941. Picture taken in the hangar. The Cruiser carried two Seaplanes which were launched by Catapult crewed by the Fleet Air Arm.

Alfred Longbottom is a long-standing friend of my family. He has given me full

permission to write this account of his experiences on this website.)

Alfred Longbottom of Halifax in West Yorkshire spent the Second World War years

in the Royal Navy and three years on Russian and Malta Convoys as a decoder aboard

the Colony Class Cruiser HMS Nigeria with a complement of 750 men. The Convoys

carrying arms and ammunition, tanks and planes were vital to the allied war effort.

The ships were prime targets for German aircraft and submarines, and were

continuously under attack from air and sea as they battled their way to Murmansk and

Archangel with their armoured escorts.

Alfred said, "Escorting those convoys was sheer murder. We were continually under

attack, even after we docked at Murmansk. It was only 50 miles away from German-

occupied Norway."

"Sometimes the temperatures fell to minus 40 degrees C. We were given sheepskin

hoods and clothing by the Russians but they didn't keep the cold out. There was no

heating on board and ice formed on the inside of the cabins...we couldn't win either

way - when it melted everything got soaked. The days were long and exhausting."

Alfred remembers the PQ17 Convoy of 36 ships out of Scapa Flow in 1942 when

only six arrived in Russia. In Russia the sailors saw very little of the people, except

for the queues outside the bread shops and Red Army patrols.

"We used to exchange bars of chocolate with them for the Red Army badges. Russia

looked a very poverty-stricken country", he remembers.

A Pedestal Convoy to Malta was so battered it was estimated so many ships were

sunk on approach to the island there were 2000 men in the water at any given period.

During a particular Dog-watch Alfred says of his own ship, "It was 7.58 pm and

Charlie, his friend, was almost due to relieve George who was on watch. But George

rang to say he was feeling groggy and could Charlie relieve him straight away. No

sooner had Charlie relieved George and he came up top - a torpedo struck and Charlie

was killed. George soon felt better and was fine, but Charlie's death preyed on his

mind and caused him a lot of trouble. I would have been Charlie's best man at his

wedding next leave. I still have the letter I received from Charlie's fiancee."

THE ICEBURG

"The Navy were trying to locate a German Station providing weather and movement

of shipping news to their own ships and submarines. I was on HMS Nigeria (a colony

cruiser), and before getting under weigh we had a good idea of the general area in

which the Weather Ship would be found but, immediately before the incident, it is

most likely we simply 'came across' her. We were not at Action Stations, always

triggered off by radar contact and often the result of locating floating debris, empty

lifeboats and even whales! I was on deck as HMS Nigeria sailed into proximity to a

large iceberg when I first saw an orange glow in the 'iceberg', followed by splashes of

water in the sea near the stern of Nigeria. Almost with disbelief, I realised the iceberg

had opened fire on us with enormously heavy guns, the spashes so clearly disturbing a

perfectly calm sea - like a sheet of glass. At this point I could not see a ship. It was

covered from stem to stern in white canvas. Together with our two destroyer escort

we had located the German Weather Ship Lauenberg and it was June 1941. (Alfred

only recently discovered that on the day a copy of the Enigma Code was taken from

the Lauenberg by the boarding party from the destroyers. It was not the job of Nigeria

to stop or to take prisoners.) Scuttling-charges sent the Lauenberg to the bottom. I

well recall seeing two lifeboats packed with her crew being rowed away from their

ship to the destroyer HMS Bedouin and internment."

"On the 12th August, 1942, I was on the sloping deck of a torpedoed ship, and in what

appeared to be a hopeless situation. Everything was out of action - the guns, radar,

radio, steering, - all gone. Flames were leaping out of one of the funnels, with the

diesel on fire. Down below, fifty officers and men had perished, and others were

wounded - some mentally. Stationery, we were a sitting target for a further attack.

Privately, I said 'good - bye' to my mother and father and my brothers, as I was

absolutely convinced that I would never see them again. As a final act, our code

books and other secret machines were put into sacks weighted with lead, and sent to

the bottom of the Mediterranean. Suddenly there appeared on the horizon a group of

Italian torpedo bombers which were flying straight towards us - their huge torpedoes

clearly glistening in the evening sunshine. They flew straight through the destroyer

screen, directly towards us."

"At this point, there was a loud cry from the Chief Yeoman high up on the bridge -

'For what we are about to receive ....', and immediately my thoughts went back to the

little village where I used to live and the vicar saying those words before a meal at

local events."

"With massive damage amidships, we could hear water rushing into the HMS Nigeria.

Down by the bow, and with the stern rising, she was in danger of going down.

Admiral Burrough left the ship to continue the mission in the destroyer HMS Ashanti.

As the torpedo bombers got nearer, the Chaplain led a group of men in reciting the

Lord's Prayer - there was nothing else we could do. A three-badge 'Stripey' next to me

said, 'Keep your feet dry laddie as long as you can', (I was only 21)".

"Now the end was surely near as the Italian aircraft dropped their several torpedoes on

to the water. We watched, with bated breath. Incredibly, every torpedo missed us, nor

(I believe) did they strike any other ships in the convoy. This was so remarkable since

we were a motionless target, simply waiting for the end."

"A few hours later, I felt a sudden vibration under my feet which reverberated

throughout the ship. Engines were running! None of us could believe it but,.. and

miraculously, some power was restored to the engines. This in itself was beyond our

wildest dreams, and must have required tremendous skill and courage down below to

bring it about."

"I believe some form of emergency steering was set up, and slowly we moved,

escorted by destroyers, to start the long journey back to Gibraltar. On the way we

survived another torpedo attack from a submarine but eventually reached 'Gib', and

were able to bury, with full military honours, so many pals we had lost on just this

one journey."

LAST WORD FROM ALFRED

"These events had a profound effect on me - I'll admit to shedding a few tears as I

wrote it! But I am not ashamed of this!"

"I have never regreted being there. Most of the friends I made were killed. I think of

them often - unfortunately almost every night when I have nightmares."

POSTSCRIPT

At the age of 67 Alfred was awarded a medal by the Presidium of The Supreme

Soviet of the USSR - the country's highest state authority. It was only given to men

who served on the convoys. The medals are inscribed in Russian to commemorate the

40th anniversary of the defeat of Nazi Germany in 1945. He made 13 trips on the

convoys, including the PQ17 convoy of 36 ships in 1942. Only six ships arrived in

Russia as the rest were sunk.

This is the second part of Alfred Longbottom's war time experiences in the Navy as a

decoder (1941 - 1945), in his own words.

In May 1941, HMS Nigeria escorted the 'pride of the Navy' - HMS HOOD - out of

Scapa Flow into the North Atlantic, and left her to return at full speed, to Scapa.

Shortly after anchoring, the whole of the Navy, and indeed, the country, was 'rocked'

by an Admiralty announcement that the HOOD had been sunk in the Denmark Strait

by the German Battleship BISMARCK, with only three survivors out of a total of 95

officers and 1,323 ratings.

Some time later, a signal was received by NIGERIA from Admiralty stating that

MIDSHIPMAN DUNDAS was one of the three survivors of HOOD, and as this

signal was read by the Captain of NIGERIA, Captain DUNDAS, informing him that

his own son was one who had survived. I was told that tears were streaming down his

face.

Homeward bound, and just a couple of hours out of Murmansk, NIGERIA encounted

a submarine on the surface at a distance of several miles. She was proceeding slowly,

and was immediately challenged and asked to give the necessary recognition signal.

There was no response. Repeated attempts were made to gain contact with her, but it

was all to no avail. So the order was given for "full speed ahead, stand by to ram

submarine." As NIGERIA got closer and closer, the Admiral (we were flagship of the

10th Cruiser Squadron) arrived on the Bridge and at the very last minute, ordered the

NIGERIA to take avoiding action. With probably only seconds to spare, we

immediately altered course and left the scene. Later that day the NIGERIA received

the following signal from the Naval Officer in Charge, Murmansk, "DISABLED

RUSSIAN SUBMARINE HAS ARRIVED AT MURMANSK". No doubt a major

international crisis had been averted!!

On the 6th September 1941, to the East of North Cape, Norway, NIGERIA met a

German Convoy in very heavy weather and poor visibility.

In the action which followed, the German Training Ship BREMSE was sunk, but the

two troopships she was escorting, reported to be carrying 1,500 troops, managed to

make good their escape. NIGERIA was badly damaged and her bow was ripped off.

(One report was of torpedo damage, the other of having struck a submerged

shipwreck.) As the forward part of the ship was not strong enough (although shored

up by the shipwrights) to go "head on" into the waves, she sailed stern-first from

North Cape to Scapa Flow, escorted by the Cruiser AUROA. On arrival on 10th.

September, she was "cheered" as she sailed through columns of the whole Home Fleet

which was assembled to welcome her back - a wonderful sight and a unique

experience. As a result of this action, several medals were awarded to officers and

men of NIGERIA.

Heavily damaged in the "PEDESTAL" Convoy to Malta of August, 1942, HMS

NIGERIA was temporarily 'patched up' in Gibraltar before sailing to Newcastle-upon-

Tyne (our home port) for permanent repairs. We looked forward to some leave and

many of the crew bought a bunch of bananas to take home, as they were almost

impossible to get in the UK.

As we headed north through the Bay of Biscay, we received a signal prefixed (O-U)

which meant "MOST IMMEDIATE" - the very highest degree for action. I myself

decoded this message, which was exactly as follows:-

To : NIGERIA FROM ADMIRALTY. (MOST IMMEDIATE) OWING TO A DOCK

STRIKE AT NEWCASTLE, DIVERT FORTHWITH TO CHARLESTON, SOUTH

CAROLINA, U.S.A. REPEAT CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA, U.S.A.

So bang went all thoughts of home leave, and we had now to eat all our own bananas!

A dock strike in War Time? Yes, it's true.

ICELAND - JANUARY 1944 TO MAY, 1945

For seventeen months, I was in Iceland assigned to working in the Radio Station of

the Admiral in charge of Icelamd Command. The Naval Camp was just outside

Reykjavik, and was known as H.M.S.BALDUR 2. The Radio Station was a short

distance from the camp, and was manned by telegraphists, coders, and teleprinter

operators who decoded messages on the Enigma machine which we called TYPEX.

We were accomodated in Nissen Huts, and the only heating was from a small coke

stove in the middle of the hut. Quite often, the water in the separate Nissen Hut, used

as a washroom, would be frozen, and the only way to have a wash, or shave, was to

put some snow, or ice, into a tin can on top of the coke stove.

The weather in winter could be cruel, and it was sometimes impossible to breath when

walking against a gale-force wind, so the answer was to walk backwards! We

understood that anyone who served for nine months or more in Iceland could never be

sent there again by the Navy, as strong winds could possibly affect the lungs. It was

well known that any fractures could not be treated in Iceland, so a broken ankle meant

an immediate return to the U.K. For this reason alone, some would deliberately fall

off a ladder, or break a finger!

The weather in Spring and Summer could be beautiful. Sunday mornings saw Church

Parades marching into Reykjavik for worship in the church there. When off duty, I

was able to go skiing, or visit some of the hot springs and geysers, and magnificent

waterfalls. Strange as it may seem, Iceland has an abundance of wild flowers of many

varieties.

The Icelandic people were very much anti-British. I believe they felt we had invaded

their country. They would not sit next to you in the local Cinema, and as you walked

in Reykjavik you could expect empty bottles to be aimed at you from the top of

buildings. So we had little contact with the local population.

After one year, I was granted 14 days home leave, and spent 4 days in travelling by

sea and rail to Halifax, West Yorkshire, only to be greeted, on arrival, by a telegram

ordering me to return immediately to Iceland! I found out that an invasion by German

Paratroops was imminent. As it turned out, some paratroops were dropped, but were

quickly rounded up and marched into BALDUR 2 under armed guards.

On V.E. Day (8th May 1945) around the coast of Iceland U-Boats surfaced flying a

white flag of surrender. On the 31st May 1945, I embarked in an old Depot Ship

(HMS BALDUR) which had been moored in Reykjavik harbour for sometime, for

passage back to U.K. She had no engines and so had to be towed back to England. It

was a hair-raising experience, as several times the tow-rope broke and we simply

drifted in the North Atlantic.

And so I left Iceland, to await my next draft, which turned out to be COLOMBO.

IN THE JUNGLE OUTSIDE COLOMBO 1945.

Having left Iceland, August, 1945, saw me travelling through the night on a crowded

troop train to Southampton, to join a troopship for transit to HMS MAYINA, a huge

camp in the jungle, a few miles out of Colombo. Some joker had chalked on the

railway carriages the words. "TOKYO EXPRESS"!In the camp were thousands of

sailors who were to form the biggest fleet ever assembled for an invasion of Japan.

Conditions in the camp were pretty grim - water was strictly rationed - and was

delivered to the camp each day by tanker lorries.

There were snakes and scorpions, and 'tree-rats' which lived in the trees, together with

many strange noises from animals and birds which lived in the jungle. Because of

scorpions, it was not a good idea to sit on the toilet, so you stood up on it!

The heat was intense, and around noon each day we were not to be out of doors in the

open, as the temperature could rise to 120 degrees in the shade. Many suffered from

tropical boils, beriberi, skin rashes and deafness, the latter said to be caused by insect

bite.

Unexpectedly, the Atom-Bomb was dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and that

was to signal the end of the war.

AND SO - THE LARGEST NAVAL FORCE EVER TO BE ASSEMBLED NEVER

SAILED FOR JAPAN!

POSTSCRIPT

At the age of 67 Alfred was awarded a medal by the Presidium of The Supreme

Soviet of the USSR - the country's highest state authority. It was only given to men

who served on the convoys. The medals are inscribed in Russian to commemorate the

40th anniversary of the defeat of Nazi Germany in 1945. He made 13 trips on the

convoys, including the PQ17 convoy of 36 ships in 1942. Only six ships arrived in

Russia as the rest were sunk.

Alfred died suddenly in May 2004 just after he wrote his story