A NAVAL OFFICER'S WAR

We in Pictou did a number of convoy escort operations, of which the one described earlier (in the previous episode) was the most dramatic. We were now part of the Newfoundland Escort Force on regular mid-ocean passages between St. John's at the western end, often Moville in the east, at the entrance to the river Foyle near Londonderry, Northern Ireland; sometimes Liverpool or Greenock. Most often we went to Hvalfjord, situated up a long fjord from Reykjavik, Iceland. On one or two occasions we anchored in Reykjavik harbour itself. The shoreside activities in all these places varied between nonexistent (in Moville and Hvalfjord) and limited in the rest. It was hard on the troops. There was no entertainment except in Liverpool, and to some extent, Greenock.

My memory of Moville, apart from its sudden impression of Irish greenness, which was breathtaking, is confined to sleeping. We entered the bay almost always after a tussle with the sea, dog-tired and dirty. Alongside the oiler, scarcely able to keep their eyes open, the off-watches would climb into their hammocks and simply expire. For the captain it was the worst; constantly on the bridge in those infested waters and with an unrelenting sense of responsibility. Once, in Moville, after refuelling and anchoring, I slept straight through twelve hours.

On one occasion only, I took the ship up the Foyle to Londonderry. Some ships went up regularly; the narrow river with its peaceful pastoral green vistas was such a contrast to the harshness of the sea. There was a lot to see and do in Derry, but we never experienced the shoreside delights, being alongside for a few hours only on our one visit.

I remember once doing an important deal with local Moville farmers who rowed out from shore asking if we could let them have some tea, almost unobtainable in Ireland. We asked them if they could let us have some chickens, plainly to be seen clucking away over on the shore. The deal, two packages of Salada for thirty-five chickens, was very popular with the troops.

On another of our layovers at Moville, three of us in our escort group put on civilian clothes and travelled by train down to Dublin. This was technically against the rules, the Irish Republic being neutral and widely suspected of collaborating with the Germans who maintained a large embassy in Dublin. We had the time of our lives, meeting three amusing and attractive girls who showed us everything of interest in that most fascinating city and in the lovely Irish countryside. We went to the Abbey Theatre to see a play by Sean O'Casey and dined at Jammet's Restaurant at a table right next to a large group of German officers. This gave us an idea; to go around next day to the German embassy to sign the visitors' book. So off we went as three beer salesmen from Milwaukee (this was before Pearl Harbor). Of course the mission was a failure; a burly Teuton at the front gate said "Nein, all visits stopped during war." But it was a great idea!

I also remember going ashore in Reykjavik. The populace was quite hostile; the island had been arbitrarily occupied, for obvious strategic reasons, by the Allies, and attitudes were cold. In the evening the officers went to the Borg Hotel where very beautiful (and icy) Icelandic girls sat in chairs around the dance floor awaiting invitations to dance. They did dance, but that was it. No conversation and immediate return to the chairs. There were stories, of course, of triumphant conquests, but they were heavily discounted!

Hvalfjord was better. There at their moorings, lay units of the Home Fleet and they gave one the impression of stupendous power. We all lay to moorings; the fjord was very deep and winds of as much as sixty knots could rise within minutes. In mid-harbour lay HMS Hecla, a huge destroyer depot ship in which I was invited to dine with the captain one evening. He had been, I believe, commanding officer of the Royal Yacht and was a stickler for form. The invitation came "RPC (request pleasure of your company) dinner tonight 1930." My answer: "WMP" (with much pleasure). Then his: "WSB (will send boat) 1915." As I mounted the ladder with two pipes sounding, I was greeted by a lieutenant of marines and escorted to the captain's quarters. I had not had a meal to compare with that for months. As we got to the main course (out of four), we both tried to swat a fly that was circling about. The captain called out to his steward: "Smithers, the captain of the Pictou has brought a fly in with him. Remove it, if you please." He was a literary type, highly educated and very kind to me, a mere lieutenant. I was in the Browning stage of literary pursuit and he was a devoted "Browningite."

Another incident in Hvalfjord is worth mentioning. My ship was moored not far from the Home Fleet Flagship HMS King George V. One morning she signalled us by light, "We are having a mess dinner tonight and wonder if you could let us have a few onions for bread sauce." We replied, "As many as you want." She signalled, "Many thanks, WSB." I was sitting in my chair on the bridge and saw the watch clearing away a boat on KG5 (as she was known). I also saw Admiral Sir Jack Tovey, C-in-C Home Fleet, on his quarterdeck looking at us through his telescope.

At that point a flag hoist appeared in Hecla: "All boats return to their ships immediately-gale force winds." Already it was beginning to blow. A signal from KG5, one word: "Alas." So, after checking with the warrant engineer that we had steam, I signalled KG5, "I will come alongside you." And we did, close enough to throw across the small bag. There was a big concentration of hands ready for us, some with huge fenders!-but we never touched, were loudly cheered and recovered our mooring successfully in forty knots of wind. A final flag hoist out of the fleet signal book from KG5, which I hoped and thought must have come from the famous admiral since he closely watched the whole procedure: "Manoeuvre and practice well executed."

On almost all of Pictou's voyages in the Mid-Ocean Escort Force, something happened to break the tedium of those long days and nights. As captain, I did not keep a watch. Although this seemed to be a privilege, in some ways it was a hardship. I felt an obligation to go to the bridge, even for a short period, in all of the night watches and, of course, gave orders to be wakened and told at once about anything irregular, as well as to be shown every signal, on receipt, affecting our convoy.

I learned, very early in my time as captain, the truth of Conrad's description of the loneliness of command. There was a natural impulse, accentuated perhaps by inexperience, to seek other opinions, to trade ideas with brother officers. But something instinctively told me that there was a limit to this, a borderline beyond which looking for opinions comes across as indecisiveness. And no impression can so undermine leadership. The ideal is simply for the leader always to be open to advice and to make it clear that he is receptive to it.

The routine I had to adopt during the two years I was in Pictou affected my personal resources forever. I became a good reader and developed a deep interest in poetry; my memory always quite good since childhood, became highly dependable. My power of reflection was much enhanced. Life in the wardroom itself was a curious mixture of conviviality and quietness. One watch was, of course, absent and the other two were either resting or attending to ship's business. The largest attendance was usually in the two dog-watches, 4 to 6 and 6 to 8 pm. Then, there was often lively conversation or listening to the radio, the selections usually including the German broadcasts of Lili Marlene and the British renegade, "Lord Haw-Haw." (William Joyce was hanged at the end of the war for treason, but I always thought he should have been given an OBE for the splendid way he entertained the troops!) It was not the custom to drink at sea, and nobody did. We had cockroach races, quite exciting, but the stakes were low.

One job in the wardroom we all hated was censoring letters. It was a strictly personal matter and any wardroom discussion of the contents of letters would have been sternly dealt with. I myself managed to develop a kind of mental immunity to what I was reading except, of course, any reference whatever to our operations, where we had been, or where bound. Then one had simply to reach for the scissors. It was impossible however, no matter how one tried, not to notice and be moved by the simple expressions of devotion, accompanied often by hilarious humour, mainly earthy, which predominated in these letters home. It reinforced one's ever hopeful belief in the fundamental decency of most of humanity and of the stability, in those days, of family life. This can be said, even though Lord Nelson's observation continued to be true: "Once past Gibraltar, every man is a bachelor."

The captain of a naval ship is not a member of the officers' wardroom. This, in a practical sense, applies only in large ships; in small ships it is not workable and the captain messes with his fellow officers. Nevertheless, I always made a point of knocking before entering the wardroom.

No record of wartime life in the navy could be complete which omitted reference to the "f-word," without which the entire Allied war effort would have ground to a halt! The word insinuated itself into every sentence, even into words, such as abso-fucking-lutely! It became so prevalent that the use of it had to be curbed in harbour when guests were in the wardroom; the crew were told that it would be a punishable offence to use the word on the upper deck in that situation. One afternoon in St. John's, with guests in the wardroom, "Where's the fucking paint pot" came loud and clear. "Take that man's name." The offender was "put in the rattle" and duly appeared before me.

He confessed right away and I awarded him three days' restriction of leave. "On cap, about turn, quick march." As he marched off, he was clearly heard to say in a stage whisper, "Three fucking days for one fucking fuck." The solemnity of the occasion was broken; there was general laughter. I called him back and suspended the sentence, telling him that next time it would be something more. This incident is related in the superb 1995 film, No Price Too High, for which I was a naval adviser and which was produced and sponsored with great success by Dick Nielsen and my friend Barney Danson.

One dark night in December 1941, in mid-ocean with tough weather conditions, a signal was received from FONF addressed to Pictou designated "Personal, Important," and reading: "One able-bodied Wren mark VII Admiralty pattern joins Pictou, all well." This announced the safe arrival of my daughter Ann, seven pounds and helped into the world by Dr. van Wyck in Toronto. In the morning watch I went to the bridge to see all the other escorts, their lights blinking congratulations. I thought how Kitty would have loved it. The Germans were equally capable of such light touches; when the U-boat ace Günther Prien was at sea in U47 and his daughter was born, his signal from Admiral Dönitz told him of the arrival of a "new U-boat without periscope."

The most heart-rendering experience in all our escort work in Pictou took place in an outward-bound (east-west) convoy in 1942. We were stationed on the port side of the convoy off a beautiful three-masted merchant ship with elegant lines. This ship was crammed with refugee children with their mothers. We were well to the south of our usual latitudes and the warm weather had brought all these passengers out on the upper deck. Our zig-zags in towards the ship delighted the children and the off-watch men were not slow in reciprocating. They produced hilariously funny skits which simply convulsed the kids, and in the finale, I brought the ship in close so that songs could be heard. A happy rapport grew between the ships.

One afternoon we decoded a signal from C-in-C Western Approaches instructing the convoy commodore and senior escort to "Detach after dark, ships A, B & C for South Atlantic ports." I thought when I read this signal, surely they aren't going to let "our" ship, with all those women and children, proceed unescorted. Less than twenty-four hours later we intercepted a signal from the ship, "SSS," the standard merchant ship broadcast that she was being attacked by a U-boat. I announced this over our loudspeaker system and groans filled the ship. Later I found out that there had been a heavy loss of life in the sinking of this vessel.

On another of our convoys the escorts included a "Mac ship." This was a merchant ship converted to a "flat-top" and it carried about sixteen Swordfish aircraft secured on the flight deck. The Swordfish, or "Stringbag" as it was popularly known, was a one- or two-man biplane and it looked rather like the Wright brothers' original model! But its features were effective for the job: highly manoeuvrable, slow speed for landing on a pitching, heaving deck and, above all, crewed by gutsy, devil-may-care personnel. Its main armament consisted of one or two depth charges.

On the passage in question, a submarine contact was reported and all the aircraft were flown off. The weather was hazy in light airs. Some time after takeoff, a heavy fog descended and it became necessary to recall the aircraft, which were reaching the limit of their endurance. A dramatic episode took place. The carrier vectored the aircraft home but at a given point when it was above and just astern of the flight deck, the pilot was on his own, catching through the fog fleeting glimpses of the carrier and trying to determine exactly when he should go for the deck.

We were stationed well forward on the convoy's flank but could hear, loud and clear by R/T, the urgings and advice of the carrier's flight director to the individual aircraft as, one after the other, they made their perilous run in. We heard one aircraft strike the carrier's topside and fall into the sea. The pilot was picked up by a corvette stationed at the rear of the convoy. Another aircraft fell directly into the sea and was lost, along with its pilot. At one point we heard the flight director pleading with an aircraft, "lower, lower, lower, steady there, come on, come on, your pal just made it." My memory tells me three aircraft were lost but several were badly damaged. One pilot was missing and one or two severely injured.

On one of our convoys in 1942, we were in an escort group under a delightful and capable senior officer, LCdr. "Sunset" Chavasse, in a UK destroyer. On a dark night, Pictou was stationed on the forward port wing of the convoy, with "Sunset" ahead in the middle. Over the horizon, on the port side, a ship came from astern with all lights blazing, on a parallel course. The words "IRELAND-EIRE" were painted on the hull in large letters; she was a neutral. Came a signal to me from Chavasse: "Take my place." "Sunset" then went for the ship at twenty-five knots. I remember his signals: "Steer 350 degrees at once." No response. The signal was repeated, this time accompanied by a burst of light gunfire over the merchantman's bow. She altered course. Final signal from "Sunset:" "I will report you for not obeying me." Neutrals were under strict orders to avoid coming near convoys; they were a great danger when U-boats were in the vicinity.

In late 1941, the U-boats entered their second "happy time"-Operation Paukenschlag (einem Paukenschlag auszu-holen, "beat the drum"). Or the "American turkey shoot" as the German crews called it. This took place off the US east coast, between the St. Lawrence estuary and the south tip of Florida.

The obstinate American Commander-in-Chief, Atlantic Fleet, Admiral Ernest King, who was also an obsessive anglophobe, refused any advice coming from British sources, notably the crucial importance of adopting the convoy system as soon as the US entered the war.

The British had themselves learned this the hard way. Enormous losses were sustained in the First World War without the system. In 1916 U-boats sank 1,360 ships with the loss of only four boats. Dramatic improvement occurred once the convoy system had been put in place.

But in spite of the history, there was a curious reluctance on the part of senior officers at the beginning of World War Two to adopt it. Something to do, perhaps, with a perceived loss of the offensive spirit. Or a tendency to consider anything other than fleet work in big ships as somehow not naval. There was certainly an element of snobbery involved, and anti-submarine work was not the road to promotion.

It is interesting to note that in British naval exercises between the wars, there is no record of a single convoy protection exercise. Destroyers were designed for fleet work not at all for anti-submarine activity in defence of commercial shipping.

The convoy system, though far from perfect, left no doubt very early in World War II that it was absolutely essential. But Admiral King wouldn't accept it, and the consequent slaughter was beyond belief. At one point, nearing the area, my radio (W/T) operators were reporting an SSS every ten minutes or so. The Americans also failed for several weeks to black out their coastline at night.

Between mid-December 1941 and mid-May 1943, U-boats sank more than 300 ships in American waters with a total tonnage of over two million aggregate tons and a loss of nearly 5,000 merchant seamen. This was the worst five-month period of the whole war, and it was the direct outcome of the failure of the Americans to adopt the convoy system and to darken both their ships and coastline. We all felt indignant about this, since we ourselves had escorted ships across the entire ocean, not without heavy losses sometimes, and always with acute discomfort.

On one of my ship's lay-overs in St. John's in early 1942, I was directed to act in a court martial as prisoner's friend, equivalent to defending lawyer, for a fellow corvette captain, Lt. James A. Tullis, Captain of HMCS Dunvegan. Jim Tullis, whom everybody liked and who was considered a competent officer, drove his ship ashore entering the harbour of Reykjavik, Iceland. This resulted in a formal court martial charge in the following austere language:

For that he, Lieutenant James Arthur Tullis, Royal Canadian Naval Reserve (Temporary), then being the Commanding Officer,HMCS Dunvegan, and being a person subject to the Naval Discipline Act, on the fourth day of December, 1941, did negligently or by default strand the said ship.

					
						(E. R. Mainguy)
						CAPTAIN, R.C.N.
						CAPTAIN (D) NEWFOUNDLAND
		

The charge against Tullis was a tough one and his prosecutor, as is usually the case in courts martial, was his "boss," Captain D.

Reykjavik is not the easiest harbour to enter; there are nasty hazards off the buoyed entrance. At night, one must take care to remain in the "white sector" of the chart showing Engey Island light. In Captain D's circumstantial letter of prosecution, poor Tullis had done everything wrong; he had not studied the harbour chart, no course had been laid off, the navigating officer had not acquainted himself with the situation and was up forward for anchor duties rather than standing beside and advising his Captain. The whole exercise was conducted entirely by eye.

Captain D sent for me and pointed out the hopelessness of Tullis' case. While I totally agreed, I was rather taken aback by D's recommendation that I throw in the towel immediately and plead Tullis guilty. When I respectfully questioned the propriety of this, D became a bit irritated and said that if a not guilty plea were entered, he as prosecutor would be obliged to press his case with the utmost vigour; Tullis, he said, was an RCNR (merchant service) officer who should have known far better; the court would therefore be more severe. On the other hand, if a plea of guilty were made, and an officer, senior to the accused, who knew him, presented a "statement of mitigation of punishment," this would soften the court's attitude.

Tullis and I decided to take this advice; when the court martial opened, he pleaded guilty. Then when the court asked if the accused wished to make any statement, I stood up and said, "The accused, with respect, would like to ask Captain D if he himself would make a statement in mitigation of punishment." There was some astonishment over this, but D came forward nobly and gave Tullis a good general recommendation. He was "dismissed his ship and severely reprimanded" but was soon appointed as captain of another ship. Sometimes the punishment includes a loss of seniority, but that did not apply in this case.

HMCS Pictou's gun shield badge, a rampant griffin clawing a U-boat.

episode 1
episode 2
episode 3

(Originally Published in Vol. VII, No. 8, Autumn 1999 issue of Starshell)