A NAVAL OFFICER'S WAR

Early in 1942, Pictou was ordered to refit in Liverpool, England. For the ship's company this offered a splendid holiday in the UK. So a staggered system of leave was organized, with only a skeleton crew remaining on board. I had to stay for a week or so to deal with the shipyard authorities who wanted to transform the ship's interior with teak and make other improvements, all at the expense of the Canadian government. It amazed me to discover how much requisitional authority a ship's captain was given-a legacy from the RN. But something instinctively told me that I would, at some point, be called to account. So I restrained my generous hosts. We did get some notable improvements, particularly to the bridge and to our equipment. But we did not get what we urgently wanted: British Type 271 radar to replace our Canadian type which was a bad joke; rather like the hopeless Ross rifle of the First World War.

Throughout that early part of the war when I was at sea, RCN technical equipment was much inferior to RN. We had the impression that, bearing in mind the magnitude of the Canadian responsibility in the Atlantic Battle, we were treated shabbily in this respect. Moreover, we felt that our masters in Ottawa were pitiably weak in fighting our case for us, both with the RN, and more important, with our own Canadian war production people. There was no reason why the excellent British radar could not have been manufactured under license in Canada. There had been criticism of the British for looking after their own ships first. But I never could blame them for that, considering their beleaguered position. What I could not understand was that with full access to the technology, our own Canadian industry did not turn out the radar and other equipment we so desperately needed. However, we in Pictou got many benefits, simply by refitting in the UK.

A ship in refit is a sorry sight: filthy dirty and swarming with dockyard mateys. I hated living on board. The ship's "soul" seemed to take flight. When my turn for leave came, I went to London and looked up many friends, mostly soldiers. The heavy bombing had ceased and there were only sporadic attacks. The RAF had, by then, basically won the Battle of Britain, establishing for themselves one of the greatest pages in all the annals of warfare.

London itself was a madhouse of fun and high spirits. I saw several plays, went to the opera and music halls, dined at what seemed to be lush restaurants (on rationed food), called on the Vincent Masseys, old friends of my parents (he was Canadian high commissioner and subsequently Governor General of Canada), and debated the course of the war at length. My friends in the army expressed violent indignation over the attitude of the Canadian government in keeping them out of the fight, hanging around in England, doing exercise after boring military exercise; unprintable references to the "old woman" (Mackenzie King) burst forth. It did seem to us sailors, who had been in the war from the outset, a craven, morally undermining policy to treat a vigorous young army with such disregard for its spirit, whatever the supposed political justification.

One of our early voyages in the Mid-Ocean Escort Force involved the loss of HMCS Windflower. We were in an escort group under the senior ship HMCS St. Laurent, commanded by LCdr. Herbert Sharples Rayner, whom I liked and admired. After the war he became Chief of the Naval Staff with the rank of Vice-Admiral. There were three or four other ships besides Windflower, including HMS Nasturtium. At the pre-sailing conference in St. Laurent, our ships were given the radio-telephone code names Sally, Nasty, Windy and Tony. We sailed in early December 1941, and duly picked up convoy SC.58 off Cape Race. Windy was stationed astern of us on the left hand side of the convoy, about fifty ships. On the fatal morning, the weather was dense fog with light southeasterly airs.

I was on the bridge with the first lieutenant at about nine o'clock when we heard the rumbling, groaning sound of ships colliding. Realizing that a ship in collision would try immediately to break free of the convoy, I hauled clear. Not clear enough. The navigating officer looked aft and saw a large ship coming down on us. Without pausing to consult me, he rang down "full ahead;" only by this initiative did we avoid another collision.

The merchant ship [SS Zypenberg]reported that she had struck and sunk a corvette, obviously Windy, and had picked up thirty-seven survivors, of whom two had died and several were seriously injured. I concluded it was inadvisable to move any of them to us. Shortly there was a loud explosion. This was Windy's boiler, blowing up as sea water entered the compartment. As I finished collecting all information from the master of the freighter, relaying it to Sally and beginning to search for survivors, Nasty announced that she had a contact and was about to attack it. We soon felt a powerful underwater explosion, much more intense than usual. To our dismay we heard from Nasty that she had attacked the wreck of Windy, detonating her depth charges. This put an end to our search for any survivors. Nasty reported extensive damage to her steering and the freighter advised us that she was making water through her forepeak. She could not make an ocean crossing without repair. Sally therefore ordered me to escort both ships to St. John's.

Ironically, it was our turn next. After one of our passages east to west, when our group detached at the western rendezvous, we were ordered to remain and screen a merchant ship which had developed temporary engine trouble and had "straggled," making it a prime U-boat target. The repairs were completed earlier than expected, and we soon redelivered her to the convoy. We then proceeded independently to St. John's. Off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland in moderate weather, a dense fog descended, and since our radar was, as usual, defective we had reduced speed. Suddenly we were surrounded by ships and knew we were in the middle of a convoy.

In this situation the first thing to establish is the course of the convoy and to assume the same course. Before we could do this, a very large merchant ship was right on top of us.

I will always remember the image of that enormous ship towering above us and heading straight for our 'midships. I knew that if she struck us broadside that we were finished (exactly what had happened to Windflower). The only hope was to take a glancing blow. So I immediately rang down: "Emergency full ahead, hard-a-port." She struck us aft on the port side with a terrifying crash and we listed forty-five degrees. The ship disappeared into the murk and we never saw her again.

All the off-watch hands came rushing to the upper deck, and immediately the damage control and survey party under the command of the warrant engineer took charge. He reported to me that the whole stern of the ship had been cut through and removed, including the rails where depth charges were positioned, fortunately set to "safe." He could not, at that point, assess the damage to the propeller and steering.

The bulkhead at the stern was immediately shored up with timbers, but because it was now wide open to the sea, I ordered the forward compartment to be flooded to get her stern up. The damage control party then began clearing away the wreckage and in four hours, to my relief and surprise, we were able to proceed, the propeller being undamaged.

When we reached St. John's, the misery and indignity of the affair were, to some extent, lifted by a light-hearted signal: "Report ETA your stern!"

At St. John's, a court of inquiry was established to check into "the circumstances surrounding the collision between HMCS Pictou and the Norwegian steamship Hindanger." The court found me responsible because of "lack of coordination in the ship's coding and cyphering department." Meaning that I should have known of the convoy and its course and position from the nightly "situation reports," which were transmitted in cypher every evening from Nova Scotia to ships in the western ocean, and from Rugby, England to those in the eastern half. For this I "incurred the displeasure of the Department."

I felt this deeply; but it was a fair judgement. My friend Duncan MacTavish was deputy judge advocate general in Ottawa at the time and he consoled me by telling me that at the review of the inquiry which he had attended, the members of the Naval Board took note of the final helm and engine orders which undoubtedly saved the ship. Moreover, they noted that, after all, I did get the ship to port. But it should never have happened. These were only two of several collisions which happened in the RCN within a short period. They gave rise to sarcasm in the RN who called us, unkindly, the "Royal Collision Navy." But their turn would come, and when it did they sank cruisers and destroyers!

The repair of the damage was a considerable undertaking, lasting two to three weeks. It was followed shortly after by an outbreak of scarlet fever on board, and the ship was quarantined in St. John's harbour. Kitty [Tony's wife] had come for a visit and my boss Captain D (Rollo Mainguy), ordered me to live ashore for the prescribed two weeks; we had a marvellous holiday. Technically I was not supposed to visit the ship but I did, nearly every day.

The long lay-over, however, had a detrimental effect on the ship's morale, especially as the first lieutenant, John Ruse, an attractive young man of twenty-one; was not a strong disciplinarian. To be alongside for a lengthy period tends to be undermining to a ship's company and, in retrospect, I should have resisted that direction that I live ashore.

At any rate, the quarantine was finally lifted and we sailed to join an eastbound convoy. On the night before sailing however, we had a ship's company dance. Kitty had sent from Toronto at Christmas a small cake to each member of the crew. This had made a big hit. On the night of the party, practically every sailor cut in to dance with her. At one point there was a roll of drums and she was presented with flowers (in Newfoundland, in winter!) with a most touching card: "From the men who man the ship of your beloved one."

On our way down the Newfoundland coast to meet the convoy, the warrant engineer came to the bridge with news of a serious defect. A crack had developed in one of the boilers and steam was escaping. It was his opinion that it was dangerous, that it was a dockyard job and that the boiler must be shut down immediately.

Back we went to St. John's on one boiler. As if we had not had enough, this repair took ten days. Captain D and I agreed at this point that the ship's company badly needed some hard retraining. "Harbours rot ships and men." So it was decided that we should be sent to the RN working-up base at Tobermory in the Scottish island of Mull. We left with another escort group to join another eastbound convoy. Unbelievably, on passage towards Cape Race to meet the convoy, Warrant Engineer Clark presented himself on the bridge again and reported a new leak, this time in the other boiler.

I went down with him to verify it. And there it was; steam hissing through a crack in the metal. The engineer shut down the boiler and wanted to return, but this time I dissuaded him.

The prospect of returning ignominiously to St. John's for yet another ten days alongside was so depressing that I decided to signal my senior escort that I had a minor engineering defect, for which our engineer warrant officer required dockyard examination. I requested permission to detach and proceed to the US naval base in Argentia nearby, at the south tip of the Avalon Peninsula. Following the examination I would overtake the convoy and rejoin. This was approved.

On arrival in Argentia, the US naval authorities told us to anchor; a dockyard technician would shortly come on board. He duly appeared: a short, muscular character with his baseball cap turned backwards, chewing a big cigar and carrying a large wooden box of tools. He took a long look at the damage, extracted a chisel and big hammer from his box and fetched the crack a series of heavy swipes. The steam jet disappeared, the crack was sealed and he said, "Ye're on yer way." And we were. I rather grimly compared this with what we had gone through in St. John's!

We duly overtook our convoy and were relieved in the Western Approaches with orders to proceed with our group to Liverpool. The approach to land creates a lively time on board a ship; there is a high spirit, "channel fever," which affects everyone after many days at sea and it begins when you first smell the land, long before you see it. All hands seem to sing.

I always enjoyed the passage down the Irish Sea, past the Mull of Kintyre, Ailsa Craig (the round rock known to sailors as Paddy's Milestone), the Bar Light Vessel and the long channel into Liverpool. There was a very detailed course to steer; U-boats were in the habit of laying mines every night and the channel was swept regularly. On one occasion an escort in another group struck a mine and made an urgent signal to shore, requesting immediate assistance. This gave rise to a wonderfully unsentimental signal: "Please do not sink in the swept channel."

My brother Billy, whose RAF base was nearby, joined us in Liverpool to take passage with us to Tobermory. This was to be the last time I saw him. He was interested in every detail of the ship's organization and spent hours on the bridge. It was extraordinary to see how the men took to him. But everybody always did; his character and personality invariably made an impression on all who met him.

We were only alongside in Liverpool for thirty-six hours before getting our sailing orders for Tobermory. This working-up base had an awe-inspiring record as a tough training establishment, with no mercy whatsoever for ships and captains that failed to measure up. It was run by an eccentric, hard-driving, retired Vice-Admiral who had been called back into wartime service as Commodore, Western Isles. His name was Sir Gilbert "Monkey" Stephenson, the "Terror of Tobermory."

I knew about Stephenson and his methods. Ships came to his base with trepidation. I was determined that Pictou would do well. I cleared lower deck and addressed the hands on what was coming: a great challenge, lots of fun and a chance for their ship to shine among all the others. Everybody on his toes.

It was an unforgettable, deliciously exhausting experience. The commodore and his staff had an immense catalogue of stratagems to show you up for how weak, inefficient or unalert you were. Some examples: they would silently board you in the middle of the night, wait until the duty quartermaster had left his post for any reason, good or bad, and then creep in and steal the ship's log. The next morning a signal, addressed to the entire fleet of over twenty ships: "HMS_________ is to recover her log, stolen by saboteurs last night while the ship was keeping inadequate watch." Another was to order you to slip from your mooring and steer towards the far shore. Suddenly the order came: "Your voice-pipe (bridge to helmsman) is shot away." This meant an immediate installation of a "runner" service to carry and shout messages from bridge to wheel. Then, as the shore is getting closer, another order: "The captain has been killed." And so on.

The atmosphere was highly competitive and we won a number of contests. We all caught the spirit of the place. An example of the sort of thing which appealed to Monkey: one afternoon there was a boat race with each ship represented by one boat (a whaler). We turned up with paddles instead of oars, our whaler turned into a war canoe. We won. He was captivated. Another incident: standing with me on the bridge he suddenly threw his naval cap down on the foredeck and shouted: "It's an incendiary bomb." One of my men grabbed a shovel and threw the cap over the side. (It was recovered.) He loved it. This was a favourite trick of his.

At the end of our stay Stephenson sent for me, asked me to lunch and told me we had been one of the best ships that had gone through his hands. He sent a report to naval headquarters in Ottawa. The commendation* arrived almost simultaneously with the "displeasure" regarding our collision. I treasured that Tobermory report more than any other compliment I received during the war.

In July 1943, I was confirmed in the rank of Lieutenant-Commander. Shortly after this I was designated a Qualified Officer. This meant that I took my rank as of the date of my seniority on an equal basis with permanent officers of the RCN.

Towards the end of my sea-time in Pictou, my young first lieutenant, John Ruse, was transferred to a destroyer as a watchkeeping officer. He went with a warm recommendation from me, even though I was conscious that, notwithstanding his many excellent qualities, he was a bit too easy-going. His successor, Philip Byers, was a quite different type. A young RCNR volunteer, he was a strong disciplinarian with a gimlet eye for any sign of slackness, and a determination to register his will with the crew; in all of which I encouraged him. Here I made an error of judgement. He had come down heavily on the crew and they were not prepared for it. I should have cleared lower deck, told them there were going to be changes and that I expected their cooperation.

One afternoon, alongside in Greenock, the pipe to resume work was sounded. Sitting in my cabin I was conscious of an unearthly stillness. The new first lieutenant, followed by the coxswain, appeared breathless at my cabin. "The men refuse to turn out, Sir; shall I call the shore patrol?" I was sure at that moment what the trouble was. "No, we shall deal with this on board."

I asked the coxswain who the ringleader was, and he told me that in his opinion it was Able Seaman Mann, a red-haired Liverpool Irishman who was combative by nature and a "sea-lawyer." I said, "Tell Mann I want to see him in my cabin." The answer came back: "I would do anything the captain commanded but my shipmates would tear me apart if I obeyed this order." I then wrote out an order to Mann: "You are to report to my cabin immediately. If you do not do so, you personally will be charged with wilful disobedience of an order. If you do obey this order, you will be returned to your messmates without a charge."

Mann appeared. Meanwhile I laid open on the table the relevant section on mutiny in the King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions; rather horrendous language! I said: "Mann, I am holding you personally responsible for this insurrection and will press to the utmost the maximum penalty for you"-which I then read to him. "Mann, I want you to tell me what the trouble is." He said it was the first lieutenant who was "bullying" the men. I told him that Byers had my full confidence, that his methods were different from those of his predecessor and that, as he knew, the whole appearance of the ship had improved since his arrival. I added that any unfairness would not be tolerated in my ship and that justifiable complaints would be dealt with. I then said, "Now, Mann, I want you to go back to your mess mates. The pipe will sound again in five minutes and you must all turn out. I will hear any complaints, through the proper service channel." The three of us, Byers, the coxswain and I waited, in some suspense! The pipe sounded, the men came out and the incident was over. There were no complaints. The men had made their point. Byers learned something and softened his methods. He ended his naval career with his own command as a Lieutenant-Commander. Mann became a dependable hand who was promoted to Leading Seaman.

This might be a place to say a word about the relationship between officers and men, which has changed considerably in the postwar period and particularly in the last two decades of this century. During the war, the ancient principle still existed in all three branches of the service that there was an "officer class" who were supposed to provide leadership. This is a quality difficult to define but it mainly embodies the capacity to inspire, to evoke loyalty and confidence, to administer discipline with fairness and, above all, to be totally concerned with the care and welfare of the men under command. There was a deliberate social distance between officers and men, combined however, with friendliness. There was a general acceptance of this principle by the other ranks of the service, subject to instant reaction to any perceived abuse of officers' privilege and status.

In between officers and men stood the noncommissioned officers, often described as the backbone of the services. They were, in effect, those promoted from within the ranks with a combination of superior technical skill and an authoritative quality. They were an essential component of the disciplinary process and they applied their authority in a much more direct and forceful way than officers could or should. It was quite improper for an officer to address his men using personal expletives or obscenities; but the noncommissioned officers could, and did.

This principle, which from today's perspective seems rather archaic, has undergone great change since the war, reflecting a levelling process in all of society, with consequent informality and, in the services, a blurring of the social distance between officers and other ranks. It is a commendable ideal to substitute team effort, among more-or-less equals, for a class structure with its inevitable rigidities. But I wonder, although I am in no way an authority on current standards, whether the irregularities in the services receiving so much publicity at present may not be attributable to some extent to a subtle loss of power of command, provided by the greater remoteness of authority, which was an essential feature of the earlier system.

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* Editor's Note - The commendation dated July 2, 1942 stated, in part: "The Department have been pleased to note the exceptionally favourable report on the state of efficiency of the Personnel and equipment of HMCS Pictou, rendered by the Commodore HMS Western Isles .... Lieutenant A. G. S. Griffin RCNVR, is to be so informed and congratulated on the keenness and offensive spirit evident in HMC Ship under his command."

(Originally Published in Vol. VII, No. 10, Spring 2000 issue of Starshell)