A NAVAL OFFICER'S WAR

If one had to be ashore in the Navy in wartime, St. John's was the place to be. As I noted earlier, it was a most fascinating port, crammed to the last corner with naval ships by the score, representing every Ally: Free French, Norwegian, Polish, Dutch, American. But also present were damaged merchant ships awaiting their turn for the dry-dock which had been operating there since before the war. Almost always, one of the big, romantic-looking four-masted barques of the Portuguese fishing fleet was in, after a month off the Grand Banks, to re-provision before heading homewards. Across the harbour, plying back and forth between Water Street and the south side, where the naval ships were berthed, were the bumboats-fare twenty-five cents or a few cigarettes-their owners sometimes barely intelligible with their Newfy lingo, but great characters.

We on FONF's staff mostly lived in the Newfoundland Hotel, though a few who had brought wives lived in rooms rented from the locals. FONF's Command, Captain D's (which included several officers on loan from the RN) and the staff of Air Officer Commanding were all lively, amusing characters who knew how to entertain themselves.

I remember, particularly, one unique endeavour: the Tin Can Racing Club. This was the brainchild of Engineer Captain Sims, RN, who had won the DSO as engineer officer in the heavy cruiser HMS Exeter at the Battle of the River Plate (which resulted in the scuttling of the powerful battle cruiser Graf Spee). The contest consisted of racing tin cans down a long stretch of fast water in a river on the outskirts of St. John's. All those participating, including the Governor of Newfoundland, Sir Humphrey Walwyn, other members of the government, and senior business and professional men, were given an identical tin can, painted in personal colours by the dockyard. Every entry had a name in appropriate racing style: e.g., "Playboy; by Dash out of Bedroom."

There was a good deal of mock formality and rules which "Simsy" applied through judges, stewards, clerks of the course, etc., whom he appointed. Nobody was allowed to enter the water: if you can got stuck behind a log it could be freed by a long stick; if it got caught in an eddy, it could be cleared only by a clerk of the course.

The day of the meet was announced by a widely circulated notice: "The Terra Nova Summer Trots will be held on the Kentucky Course on [date and time]." Over two hundred people, including spectators, turned out for the meet and I recall the roar of "They're Off!" when a group of sailors dumped cans into the river from big gunny sacks at the starting gate. The race lasted nearly two hours, was enormous fun and was followed by drinks and tea at the dockyard.

I mention all this because it demonstrates the capacity for self-entertainment which marked not only all our lives in wartime but the attitude of our whole generation before the advent of television and other passive forms of entertainment. Social life in general was active and varied. The Old Colony (a nightclub, Newfie style) was the evening haunt, especially Saturday night. There was a chronic shortage of women, which sharpened the zest and kept the atmosphere lively. Most of the women were young English marrieds whose husbands had parked them in St. John's to escape the bombing while they, the husbands, conveniently for us, went off to the Middle East and other posts (where, no doubt, they all sang the popular wartime Middle East song, "I'm dreaming of a white mistress!"). These girls were great fun and loved the attention and competitive spirit.

One family in St. John's which showed me great kindness was the Outerbridges. Leonard, later Sir Leonard Outerbridge, was one of the retail moguls of Water Street, Governor of Newfoundland at the time of the referendum on joining the Canadian confederacy. He was a charming public-spirited man with a huge sense of humour and a great interest in the Navy. His house in St. John's and his country place not far outside, were filled with parties of naval officers of all ranks, and "refugee" English girls. His wife, Dorothy Strathy of Toronto, was equally charming and a target of his penchant for practical jokes.

The Seagoing Officers Club (the Crows' Nest) became a legend, and still exists. It was a heaven-sent rendezvous for officers in from the sea, but with a more or less permanent quota of shore-based staff who looked after the administration. It was noted for having on its walls the badges painted on the gunshields of the escorts. Pictou's was there, a U-boat being torn in two by a rampant griffin.

In March 1945, in response to my earlier requests and notwithstanding that the end of the war was by then clearly in sight, I was told by FONF that I was to be given a seagoing appointment. This would allow me to accumulate more sea time in case I should be invited, as he implied I would be, to stay on in the postwar RCN as a career.

I saw the signal recommending me for a sea appointment and further, as senior officer of an escort group. I knew the latter was unlikely for an RCNVR officer coming from a staff job without up-to-date tactical and weaponry experience, and I never expected it. I had to revert to the rank of Lieutenant-Commander and humbly confess that I found it difficult to give up the "brass hat!"

The appointment was not what I had hoped for. It was to the frigate HMCS Toronto, which had been alongside in Halifax for a long time with a chronic engineering problem. This defect, in one of the main propeller shafts, seemed to defy diagnosis and repair. The situation was not helped by the ship's engineer officer whom I suspected immediately to be reluctant to go to sea (he was married on board shortly after I arrived).

I saw however, on joining, that here was a first-class ship's company, a crew in a remarkable state of efficiency, discipline and morale, considering the length of time alongside. This was almost entirely the work of the first lieutenant, Jack Bankes. In the three months only that I was in the ship, I recognized Bankes as perhaps the best number one I had come across in my whole naval experience. He was tactful, energetic, had good power of command, and was very effective both with officers and men. He went on after the war to become a senior vice-president of the Royal Bank. My number two was Bill Gooderham, one of Canada's great Olympic sailors; in the postwar I raced against him in Albacore dinghies. It was a congenial group and the ship sparkled. It may be added that, contrary to all my previous shipboard experience, the meals were delectable. Our cook's prewar experience had been as "swing cook" in one of the top Bermuda hotels. His buffets for wardroom parties were comparable to the best anywhere.

It was obvious however, that the ship's company needed a life, of the Tobermory variety. Tobermory itself at that stage of the war was out of the question; but a similar working-up base had been established by the RCN in Bermuda, and it was agreed that in spite of the dodgy main shaft, we should go there.

The voyage itself was uneventful. But on our arrival outside St. George, the port war signal station advised that pilotage was compulsory and that a local pilot would board shortly. It was blowing force six from the north when the pilot, Mr. George Fielding Swan, boarded and took charge of the ship, in accordance with regulations.

We had been directed to go to a mooring directly to the left of the narrow entrance. I would have gone right there but Mr. Swan counselled against it because of the high wind and the risk of getting the buoy inside our turning circle. Accordingly, we went down the harbour intending to make a wide sweeping turn to port. However, in the middle of the turn, we fouled a small uncharted mooring and this, coinciding with a heavy gust of wind, drove the bow of the ship towards the shore. It became clear that the turn could not be completed and Mr. Swan rang down "full astern." This endangered a group of Fairmile motor launches rafted to HMCS Provider, a depot ship. I have a clear memory of half a dozen naked bodies diving over the side as our stern approached to crush these wooden boats like egg shells.

At this point I relieved Mr. Swan and never saw him again (he later became Prime Minister of Bermuda). But it was too late; we stranded and took a list of thirty-five degrees. I sadly made a signal: "REGRET I HAVE TAKEN THE GROUND. PLEASE SEND TUG" Captain J. D. "Chummy" Prentice, the commanding officer of the base, came on board and appreciated the situation immediately, expressing sympathy. The tug hauled us off and we proceeded to our mooring. There was damage to one blade of the propeller (on the good shaft!) and we had to wait nearly three weeks for the drydock. There was a board of inquiry which almost completely exonerated me.

This episode sent my popularity rating on board soaring. There weeks in Bermuda! For ten days we did the work-up. It was nothing like Tobermory, but still well organized and good fun. Our training officer was Chuck Rathgeb, a most amusing personality who took service passage back to Halifax with us. He became a director of a number of important Canadian companies after the war.

Our return passage, two days to Halifax, was uneventful. On arrival there was further examination of the shaft, without result, and on Bankes' and my insistence, we were sent around to the Bay of Fundy to assist in the programme at HMCS Cornwallis, the training establishment. The war's end was now imminent.

We did short cruises, including a visit to St. Andrew's, New Brunswick, where I felt for the first time the extraordinary tidal action in Passamaquoddy Bay, which gave the sensation that the ship was out of control. We also visited Saint John, New Brunswick, were we experienced the sixty-foot tide while alongside, requiring mooring lines to be adjusted every ten minutes.

Following this, on the assumption that an armistice would be signed within a few days and that my ship might be needed for surrender operations for nearby U-boats, we sailed to Shelburne, Nova Scotia, arriving just before V-E Day. I went up to Halifax to find out about discharge procedures. That night, the shameful Halifax Riot took place, during which most of the downtown section of the city was demolished. I had changed into civilian clothes and gone out to dinner with a fellow officer. When we came out on the street, the first thing we sighted was a car overturned and on fire. Then a streetcar blazing and a big crowd of naval ratings throwing large stones through a plate glass window. There was an atmosphere of total chaos.

I stopped one of them without identifying myself and asked him what possessed these men to indulge in such an orgy of destruction. He naturally assumed I was a native Haligonian and said, "We're going to repay you bastards for the way you've treated us over six years." Then came a group of three staff cars, all blowing their horns, the leading one carrying the flag of Admiral Murray, addressing the rioters through loud-hailer, telling them they should recover their senses and go back to their ships or barracks immediately. He was totally ignored. After a while, seeing the downtown section of the city laid waste, and having no authority or connection with the Admiral's staff, I went back to my hotel and slept fitfully, feeling quite sick. I woke early and went back to the scene. The naval personnel were hardly to be seen; but Halifax citizens were out in full force, carrying loads of loot from the shops. I asked one citizen what he thought of such behaviour and he merely shrugged and said, "Everybody's doing it."

There was a Royal Commission of Inquiry which placed the blame almost entirely on the Navy, and hence on Murray, the senior officer concerned. He paid the price, resigned prematurely, went to England and studied law at the Inns of Court. It was, in my opinion, a miscarriage of justice. The real culprit was the government of Canada. It had failed to recognize that Halifax had, on the outbreak of the war, become a wartime city, hopelessly overcrowded with naval personnel, who were miserably exploited, gouged by high room rentals and denied proper entertainment facilities. All this simply asked for retribution. Perhaps the most inflammatory action had been the sudden closing of the liquor store, days before Christmas, thus denying the men any access to spirits. The officers could get their liquor from their wardrooms, at $1.70 for a bottle of Scotch. (I always considered this privilege an unfortunate anachronism, leading inevitably to resentment.) It wasn't surprising that the liquor store was the first and chief target of the rioters. Early in the war the government should have declared Halifax a closed city, with entry only by permit; fixed rents should have been established and living quarters allocated. A wet canteen and full amusement facilities would also have been wise. To put all the blame on Murray seemed to many of us a most lamentable example of political cowardice.

The next day, we were ordered to take part in the surrender of U889 off Shelburne. This involved nothing more than standing off and covering the U-boat as Captain Gus Miles boarded her and hoisted the white ensign. I was interested in noting the physical condition of the crew and their attitude to the act of surrender. They all seemed in first-class shape and in quite good spirits. The captain in particular was full of goodwill and charm. It was clear they were glad it was all over.

At this point in this narrative, after nearly six years of deadly conflict, I should like to pay my respects to the enemy. The U-boat arm of the Kriegsmarine numbered approximately 40,000. These men served in conditions which were, at the best of times, physically demanding. At the worst of times, in midwinter, under attack, conditions became simply unspeakable. Yet there was, throughout, a high state of morale in the U-boat crews, even in the latter part of the war when the Allies got the upper hand and the number of U-boat sinkings skyrocketed. The standard of bravery knows no parallel. Out of the 40,000, no fewer than 25,870 (63%) were lost, the greatest losses of any branch of the fighting services on either side. The man responsible for the creation of this amazing young force was Grand Admiral Karl Dönitz. He was a hard man but one of the greatest leaders of the war. Had he been given what he asked for by way of new U-boat construction, if he had been able to convince Hitler of the folly of continuing to support the capital ship programme, and the clear necessity to concentrate his whole naval effort on the U-boat arm, it is virtually certain that the crucial Battle of the Atlantic would have gone the other way.

On return to Halifax, in response to my wish (for family reasons) to be discharged as soon as was convenient, I was posted to Ottawa to the wartime assets disposal branch and confirmed in the rank of Commander. Back came the brass hat!

To be concluded in the next episode.

"HMCS TORONTO, a River-class frigate of the 1943-44 programme, as photographed on May 31, 1945 off HMCS CORNWALLIS while the author was in command."

episode 1
episode 2
episode 3
episode 4
episode 5
episode 6

(Originally Published in Vol. VII, No. 12, Autumn 2000 issue of Starshell)