I liked Skeena. She was an all-Canadian ship, albeit she was built in the UK for the Canadian government. And she wasn't a young ship either, having been commissioned at Portsmouth, England, in June 1931. In her armament she was much similar to Assiniboine, torpedoes and all. At her full-power trials on 23 March 1931, she clipped along at 36 knots, a decided advantage in her constant prowling around the harried convoys.
In command was Lt. Cdr. K.L. Dyer, RCN. Other officers whose names stood out were, Lts. W. Kidd, E. Chadwick, E. Boak, and Gunner (T) D. Rigg.
The sparkers were a mixed staff of RCN and RCNVR telegraphists. The RCN people were P.O. Tel Joseph (Hammy) Wilkinson, and Tels Glen Sherman, Wilson F. (Wilf) Mouland, and Charlie Dixon. The VRs were Ldg Tel Bill Ivy, Tom Clegg, Frank Hibbs, and myself.
In the visual branch were Yeoman of Signals Frank Skinner, Ldg Sig John Harding, and Sigs Gord Stark, John Arnusck, Ed Kearney, and Alex Stewart. Two Coders rounded out the communications staff, Tom Cummings and Percy Robinson. Also on board was a friend, Stoker John King from my home town.
At sea I made myself at home and pitched in to do my share of wireless watch-keeping - at two dollars a day. The W/T office was situated just forward of the galley, somewhat under the wheelhouse, and off the port passage-way leading into the main mess deck in the foc'sle.
In the office our main function was mostly the receiving of messages. We stood two operators to a watch, one copying the broadcast from shore, while the other handled the miscellaneous waves, particularly the convoy inter-communication wave, 2410 Kilocycles.
The broadcast operator's receiver sat above a desk that was attached to the bulkhead running parallel to the port passage-way. The operator had only to turn around and he could touch the main transmitter - it was that small an office. A few feet away to his right was a smaller, second transmitter plus an HRO receiver for convoy Radio Telephone work.
Using a pencil, the broadcast operator would copy the messages from shore authorities onto a Naval message form, which, in the short form consisted of 50 blocks, or in the longer one, a 100 blocks. At the top of the form were entered the coded, 3-lettered address delivery groups, while into the blocks went the 4-figured cipher groups. At the bottom were spaces for logging the time of Receipt, the operator's name, the Wave Frequency, and other particulars. In all, the operator was kept fairly busy filling in these forms, especially with long messages pertaining to convoy dispositions and U-boat situation reports. This traffic also meant business for the Coders, who hoisted the messages in a small leather bucket up through a voice pipe to their office one deck above us. Our writing obviously had to be neat and legible in order to smooth the decoding process.
Skeena, as part of the Task Unit, only went half-way across the Atlantic with the 42-ship convoy, HX202. Also in the Unit were: the destroyer Saguenay (Cdr. D.C. Wallace), and corvettes Wetaskiwin (Lt. Cdr. G. Windeyer), Sackville (Lt. A.H. Easton), Galt (Lt. A.D. Landles), and Louisburg (Lt. Cdr. W.F. Campbell).
One dark night we went to action stations. Something had been sighted and thought to be a U-boat. After three shells were fired and fortunately missing, we discovered it was the corvette Galt.
At the midway point we exchanged places with another escort group and returned with a different convoy, ON121. The highlight of this voyage was watching a school of porpoise playing around the ship one day. This was pure entertainment. After handing our convoy over to a Western Local Escort group, we arrived back in Newfy on 22 August, to secure alongside the depot ship, HMS Greenwich. This old gray ship looked like any other tubby merchant ship, but as a repair centre it was always a hive of activity, and Skeena and Saguenay, side by side, often tied up alongside her.
While here in port I took advantage of the moment to write a letter to my mother. As was the requirement I took the letter aft to have it censored by the Medical Officer. The MO was absent from his cabin but the censor stamp wasn’t, so I took the stamp and marked my envelope EXAMINED BY DB/N 559. Then went forward and penned a PS to my letter outlining the sinking of the U-boat by Assiniboine. I wanted to assure my folks that I had come through the action unscathed as they were sure to get wind of it if Assiniboine went to Saint John for repairs.
On 28 August, the corvette Oakville (Lt. Cdr. C.A. King), in co-operation with a US aircraft, sank U-94 (Otto Ites) in the Caribbean Sea.
On 1 September six U-boats were besetting convoy SC97 escorted by the C2 group comprised of the RN destroyers Broadway and Burnham, and the Canadian corvettes Brandon, Dauphin, Drumheller and Morden. Two merchant ships were already sunk, but the attacks were broken off because of strong air support from Iceland, one aircraft of which damaged U-91. Forty-five years later Morden was given credit for sinking U-756.
On 2 September, Skeena left port to meet another UK-bound convoy, SC98. This convoy was being escorted along the American-Canadian seaboard by Local Escorts Walker, Columbia (Lt. Cdr. G.H. Stephen), Calgary (Lt. Cdr. H.K. Hill), Chicoutimi (Lt. Cdr. H.G. Dupont), and Kamsack (Lt. E. Randell). On reaching the rendezvous, our Ocean Group of Saguenay, Skeena, Wetaskiwin, Sackville, Galt, and Agassiz (Lt. Cdr. B.D. Johnson), relieved them of the 69 ships.
In other waters: on 7 September, while escorting the Quebec-Sydney convoy QS33, the Canadian armed yacht Raccoon (Lt. Cdr. J.N. Smith) was torpedoed and sunk in the gulf of St. Lawrence in position 49 01 N 67 17 W, by U-boat U-165 (KK Eberhard Hoffman). All hands were lost, including sparkers R.G. Ashmall, age 25, F.J. Gallant, age 23, and M. Sweeney, age 21. U-165 did not survive its patrol, for later in the month it was sunk, possibly by a mine, in the Bay of Biscay.
Also in the St. Lawrence, the corvette Charlottetown (Lt. J.W. Bonner) was sunk on 11 September by U-517 (KL Paul Hartwig). This U-boat was sunk later on 21 November by aircraft from the carrier victorious, southwest of Ireland in position 46 16 North 17 09 West.
Our convoy, in the meantime, was escorted safely across, the only interesting incident was the sighting of three neutral Swedish ships steaming nonchalantly along. After delivery of SC98, we arrived in Londonderry on 12 September.
On this very day, 12 September, MS Esso Williamsburg, a fast single-screw tanker, capable of 15 knots, was departing from Aruba, the Dutch island off the north coast of Venezuela. She was bound for Reykjavik, Iceland, with a cargo of 110,043 barrels of Navy fuel oil. Esso Williamsburg was commanded by Captain John Tweed and was manned by a merchant crew of 42 officers and men, aided by a US Navy armed guard of 18 men. She was due to arrive in Iceland about 24 September, but this voyage, her 29th since being built in 1941, was destined to be her last and was to play a big part in the proceedings of our return trip to Newfy.
On the 13th, while we enjoyed ourselves in Derry, out in the north Atlantic the destroyer Ottawa was fast approaching the end of her career. On board was my good friend and former Saint Johner, Yeoman of sigs Bill McQueen.
Ottawa (Lt. Cdr. C.A. Rutherford), destroyer St. Croix (Lt. Cdr. A.H. Dobson), corvettes Arvida (Lt. A.I. MacKay), Sherbrooke (Lt. J.A. Levesque), Amherst (Lt. H.G. Denyer), and British corvette Celandine, all were escorting the convoy ON127. The men of the escorts were tired and worn. For three days their convoy had undergone ferocious attacks by a wolf pack of 13 U-boats: a new "Vorwarts" group formed on 4 September and consisting of U-91, 92, 96, 211, 218, 380, 404, 407, 411, 584, 594, 608, and 659.
Action had begun as early as the evening of 5 September, when U-584 (KK Deecke) transmitted a sighting report of convoy ON127. Contact was lost during the night and was not regained until the 10th at which time U-96 (KL Hellriegel) torpedoed three ships, of which two sank.
During the night of 10th/11th, U-659 torpedoed one ship which was finished off later by U-584. This was followed by U-404 (KK Bulow) and U-218 (KK Becker) torpedoing one ship each, while U-92, U-594, and U-608 all had misses.
On the 11th, U-96 sank a nearby trawler, while the escorts inflicted some damage on U-659. Then during the night of 11th/12th, U-584 sank one ship; U-211 (Hauser) torpedoed two, both later finished off by U-608; U-404 torpedoed one; and U-380 had a miss, while U-92 missed with an attack on the destroyer Ottawa.
During the night of 12/13 September, both U-407 and U-594 missed with attacks, but U-594 knocked off a straggler in the daylight hours. Later, U-92 missed the convoy in an attack, while U-411 (KK Litterscheid) missed one of the corvettes.
On the 13th, the convoy was about 500 miles off St. John's, and Ottawa and St. Croix, both short of fuel, were expecting the arrival of their reliefs, HMCS Annapolis and HMS Witch. It was raining and close to midnight when Ottawa, ahead and on the port side of the convoy, picked up two Radar contacts: one bearing 305 degrees, and the other bearing 280 degrees. The range closed rapidly. One contact developed into the faintly visible shape of a destroyer, "Which ship? which ship?" Ottawa quickly answered, using plain language, "OTTAWA". The other ship replied with, "V WITCH, V WITCH". This established the arrival of destroyer Witch.
About this time, the U-boat, U-91, after lining up a particular destroyer in its sights, fired a double spread salvo above water without the destroyer noticing the attack. The captain of the Ottawa, Lt. Cdr. C.A. Rutherford, ordered a change of course to 20 degrees port. As the ship was executing this turn, the Asdic (sonar) operator reported he had picked up Hydrophone effect. In the next instant there came a great explosion as a torpedo tore its way into the Fore Lower Mess, blowing off the bow of the ship, and killing practically all the off-watch communicators and stokers, plus a large number of seamen in the upper Mess. The ship was lit up like a Christmas tree.
To the U-boat, it appeared that there were two medium-strong detonations in front and astern with fire clearly developing at the bow. Then, for a while, further observation was obscured.
On board Ottawa, the order to "stop both engines" was immediately given, and the action station alarm rung. The Commanding Officer then gave orders: for examination and report of damage, prepare to abandon ship, and prepare for the destruction of confidential Books. A signal, "Have been torpedoed, no immediate danger of sinking", was ordered to be transmitted by Radio Telephone to St. Croix, the Senior Officer ship. The message may have been in the process of being encoded when the end came, for it was not received in St. Croix. Sparkers in St. Croix at this time were D. McCuaig, C. Purvis, J. Newhouse, D. Ross, L. Weber, A. Gourard, J. Denneny, and W. Bunton.
Next on board Ottawa, the depth charges were set to safe and the primers withdrawn by order of the First Lieutenant.
Ten minutes after the first attack, U-91 fired a single torpedo at what it thought was another destroyer. This, however, was the hapless Ottawa, which had lost way and continued swinging to port about 180 degrees. The torpedo struck her amidships and she immediately began to break up and sink. The position was 47 55 North, 42 27 West.
The order to abandon ship was given, and the attempts at rescuing the men trapped below sadly and reluctantly had to be given up. Soon the survivors, handicapped by oil and stings of jellyfish, were fighting the effects of the icy water. Both seaboats had been destroyed and only a few Carley life-floats were able to be launched. Some men hauled themselves into the Carley floats, which capsized on several occasions. Others clung to the beckets around the floats or to pieces of floating wreckage.
The corvettes Arvida and Celandine were ordered to pick up the survivors, but by the time rescue operations were completed many of the men had perished from exhaustion and hours of submersion.
Later, at Naval Headquarters in the city of Ottawa, a message was received announcing the sinking of the destroyer. Decoding the message was a young lady, who by coincidence had a brother on the sunken Ottawa. This certainly must have been a shocking occasion for her. Fortunately the brother was one of the 76 survivors.
The list of casualties, however, was more lengthy; five officers and 108 men lost their lives. Among those lost were: Ldg Tel A.J. Deeves, age 24; Tel J.R. Dow, age 22; Tel A.G. Emerslund, age 20; Ldg Tel J.S. Harker, age 22; Tel F.C. Howard, age 19; Tel N. Kostenko, age 19; and Tel D.H. Pooles, age 24.
Among the survivors of Ottawa were Telegraphist Mansell McKellar, and my friends Yeoman of Signals Bill McQueen, and Coder Ritchie Seath. Ritchie, who defeated the sea on this occasion, subsequently was drafted to our ship Skeena and later, in 1944, was to perish with her in the frigid waters off Iceland.
The harassed ON127 convoy, originally consisting of 33 ships, ultimately reached the safety of air cover after suffering the loss of seven merchant ships sunk, four damaged, and the loss of Ottawa.
U-91 (Oberleutnant Heinz Wakerling), after firing its torpedoes, was subjected to a depth-charge attack by St. Croix, but escaped to fight again. On 25 February 1944, U-91 came to its end when it was sunk after a depth-charge attack by the British escorts Affleck, Gore, and Gould. Of its 52-member crew, only 16 survived the sinking.
Skeena's time in Derry came to an end, and on 19 September we sailed again as part of Task Unit 24.1.13, to pick up the 54-ship convoy, ON131. ships in the unit were: Saguenay as commander Task Unit, Skeena, Sackville, Galt, Wetaskiwin, Agassiz, and HMS Anemone. The corvette Sackville was delayed by compass adjustments, but sailed to join us later.
At this time the sparker branch of Saguenay, with whom we were in much communication, consisted of: P.O. Tel Ron Mulligan, Ldg Tel Reg Levens, and Tels H. Davis, H. Nelson, D. Cameron, H. Morgan, J. Clark, P. Herold, J. Johnson, P. Libbey, and K. Grant.
Leading Telegraphist Reg Levens, of Toronto, had the distinction of carrying an official permit for a movie camera he had bought personally overseas. Reg had taken various pictures, but he is especially proud of some black and white shots taken of a storm at sea.
In the visual signals branch of Saguenay was Ldg Sig Vic white, who was a fine lyric tenor. I had heard Vic at a concert in the Caribou Hut in St. John's and had enjoyed his singing.
On this return trip from Derry we ran into a spot of excitement that could be described as typical of the frustrations confronting escorts vessels on the North Atlantic.
On 24 September the position of the convoy was 55 43 North 30 51 West, on a course of 241 degrees at 7.5 knots. High Frequency direction Finding (H/F D/F) bearings of signals, of German and Italian origin, indicated that we were being reported and shadowed by at least two U-boats astern. Saguenay accordingly rearranged the escort dispositions, bringing Anemone back to the inner screen and giving us (Skeena) the outer front to patrol. Saguenay, herself, would proceed astern.
At 1012, our masthead lookout reported a U-boat bearing 245 degrees, 12 miles from the convoy. We reported the sighting by flashing light to Anemone, and by Radio Telephone over the convoy wave, 2410 Kilocycles, to the rest of the escorts, while at the same time closing the U-boat. Three minutes later, and before it could be seen from the bridge, the U-boat submerged. On the basis of our sighting report, the convoy made an emergency turn to starboard.
At the time of sighting the range of the U-boat was assumed to be 12 miles; however, our captain, Lt. Cdr. Dyer, felt this was an over-estimation, and said that it was probably only 10 miles away. Subsequent questioning of the lookout produced the fact that the U-boat's inclination was 90 degrees right, and was well out of the water.
A search was commenced and a single charge dropped. At 1125, Sackville (Lt. A.H. Easton) joined us and was stationed on the port beam at 2,500 yards.
Then at 1217, an echo was obtained at 400 yards which passed down our starboard side. Sackville did not confirm the contact, which we had classified as "doubtful". Despite this, it seemed worth attacking and so the range was opened. Soon we went speeding over the contact, dropping a pattern of ten charges set to 100 and 140 feet. After this, neither Sackville nor we obtained any further echoes, although the area was search thoroughly.
At 1400, a message was received from Admiralty stating a U-boat had made a first sighting report of our convoy on 10510 Kilocycles. The captain surmised that this could easily have been the one we were hunting, as the U-boat was sighted at 1012, submerged at 1015, with the sighting report probably being transmitted at 1030, before Skeena arrived in the area at 1039.
Saguenay closed us from astern, coming within visual signalling range. At this time, because of a leak in Number 4 fuel tank, our fuel situation looked serious. Therefore, at 1503, we were ordered to rejoin the convoy and refuel. The corvette Sackville was left in the area alone as Saguenay, herself, was also closing the convoy to attempt refuelling. Sackville had orders to remain in the area of the U-boat unit dark. Telegraphists in the corvette at this time were: Ldg Tel Charlie Goguen from Saint John NB, and Tels J. Blaine, L. Hartman, and F. Puttee. Also on board was Sig Basil Jackson, a fellow home-towner, who had been in my first draft from Saint John.
Upon entering the convoy Skeena attempted refuelling from the Commodore's ship. However, we were unsuccessful owing to the swell and the lack of proper connections.
At 2255, two mysterious explosions were felt. It was later agreed by all Commanding Officers, that the explosions were caused by two torpedoes exploding at the end of their run.
On 25 September the convoy's course was 236 degrees, and its speed, 8 knots. Skeena's position on the screen was 60 degrees, 5,000 yards on the starboard bow of the convoy.
H/F D/F bearings passed by Radio Telephone to the escorts from a ship in the convoy, pendants 51, indicated U-boats on the starboard bow and port bow. Saguenay therefore ordered a sweep outward on either beam to be carried out just before dawn.
It was apparent to us that the bearing of the U-boat on the starboard side of the convoy was dropping through the night. At 0400, course was steered for a position ten miles on the starboard beam with our ship's company closed up at action stations.
At 0530, when it was light, action stations were secured and the ship began steering a reciprocal course towards the convoy, to search the starboard quarter.
At 0601, one of our lookouts reported a U-boat bearing 345 degrees, 6 miles distant. We immediately raced towards it at full speed.
The U-boat remained on the surface for ten minutes, submerging at 0611. Its position, in relation to the convoy, was 18 miles on the starboard quarter. The range did not seem to be appreciably closed during the chase, although our speed was worked up to 28 knots on two boilers. It was estimated that the U-boat must have been doing 20 knots.
Arriving in the area, we soon obtained contact of the submerged U-boat. Although the original range was 1200 yards, Lt. Cdr. Dyer decided not to counter-attack immediately, but to hold the target longer for a deliberate attack.
At 1300 yards, the Anti-Submarine Control Officer reported the echoes were not tracing, so the ship was turned to the bearing of the U-boat. The Plotting Officer had already suggested that the U-boat was steering 090 degrees at about four knots.
A throw-off to starboard was made, the attacking course being 010 degrees, speed 18 knots. The bearing of the U-boat continued to draw right, so we made a last minute alteration to starboard. A ten-charge pattern, with settings of 100 and 140 feet, was quickly fired and, at 0638, before the astonished eyes of the crew - the U-boat, seemingly out of control, broke surface astern.
The conning tower was heeled to starboard and no periscope was seen. In the effort to turn Skeena quickly, too much heel was put on the ship, which unfortunately prevented the after guns getting on target. The U-boat remained on the surface for approximately 30 seconds, then disappeared beneath the waves. The only shooting accomplished was by a rating on "X" gun who shot some moving pictures which were later sent to Ottawa for developing.
As we approached the diving area, it was decided to fire what charges were ready by eye. A ragged pattern of five charges at 100-foot settings was fired. But, unfortunately contact of the U-boat was not regained in the stern sweep, nor in an 80-degree sweep while closing the area again.
At 0706, a lookout on the 3-inch gun reported seeing a periscope bearing 045 degrees. The position was closed, but nothing further was seen or heard.
Saguenay, in the meantime, reported she was coming to assist us, so a suitable smoke screen and snowflake shells were put up to guide her more readily to our position. However, after her arrival she reported her Anti-Submarine gear as being useless, so her trip out was in vain. We, ourselves, failed to regain contact of the U-boat and at 0905 rejoined the convoy with Saguenay.
According to German records, no U-boat reported a depth-charging at this time, so the damage by our charges, if any, could not have been very great; otherwise a wireless message would have been transmitted by the U-boat. A few days earlier, a number of U-boats had been in contact with convoy SC100 further north. Of this group, the first boats heading south had departed on the 22nd and 23rd. U-617 (KL Brandi) did sight our convoy ON131, and made an attack which was unsuccessful because of a torpedo malfunction. This could account for the mysterious explosion heard. The pestering U-boat/s could have been U-617 and/or other U-boats of Tiger Group: U-176, 216, 221, 258, 356, 373, 410, 569, 595, 599, 607, 615, 617, 618, and 755.
Earlier in September the forenamed U-boats were operating in two groups, the Lohs group consisting of 10 boats, and the Pfeil group of eight boats. U-boats of both groups were active at various times against convoy SC100, escorted by the Canadian corvettes Dauphin, Trillium and Rosthern, and the U.S. Coast guard cutters Campbell and Spencer.
U-596 and U-432 of the Lohs group were able to sink one ship each, while U-617 of the Pfeil group was credited with one ship from the convoy and two stragglers.
In an attempt on SC100 on the 20th, one U-boat nearly sent a Canadian corvette to her doom. U-373 (Loeser) fired a 3-spread at Rosthern (Cdr. Paul B. Cross, of Saint John, N.B.), but missed. At the time, Telegraphist Stuart Mair was serving in the corvette, as was my home-town friend, Tel Louis Kelly. Also in the short forecastle corvette was Sub. Lt. Alistair Hunter. He was at his action station along with AA3 rating Cliff Orr of Cowichan Bay, B.C., when the ship made a violent course change and Sub. Lt. Hunter fell and broke his arm.
In Skeena, great difficulty was still being experienced trying to burn the fuel oil contaminated by sea water. Saguenay therefore closed us in foggy weather, giving us orders to return to St. John's for refueling, and afterwards to rejoin the convoy.
On our way to port we transmitted the following message on the ship-shore wave addressed to AIG (Address Indicating Group) 302 and Commander Task Unit 24.1.13: "Proceeding to St. John's, Newfoundland, course and speed 237 degrees 13.5 knots, for refuelling and immediate return to ON131 in accordance with CTU 24.1.13's orders. Shortness of endurance caused by sea water leak into one fuel tank. Position course and speed ON131 at 1800Z was 053 degrees 31 North 037 degrees 11 West, 236 degrees, 8 knots."
Soon after, we intercepted a general message broadcast from Halifax that interrupted our passage to St. John's. This message reported a distress signal received at 1251 GMT on the 24th from a lifeboat of the tanker Esso Williamsburg, which had been torpedoed while on her way to Iceland.
Despite our perilous condition our captain thereupon decided to go to the assistance of the survivors, and advised Saguenay that we were steering a course to pass through the reported position of the lifeboat. Following this, we transmitted a message to the Commanding Officer Atlantic Coast requesting that the lifeboat be asked to transmit on 500 Kilocycles as we were in the vicinity of it.
The hours rolled by into 26 September. On this day, while Skeena ploughed ahead in colder waters, a short tragic drama took place off Venezuela when U-175 sank the unescorted SS Tambour in position 08 50 North 59 50 West, near Trinidad. Losing his life in this sinking was Radio Officer John Ronald Grant, a fine looking lad and fellow Saint Johner, who had lived just a few houses down the street from me. By coincidence U-175 was to meet its fate at the hands of USCG Spencer the following April when attacking a convoy protected by an escort group of which our ship Skeena was a member.
Regarding this deviation about Jack Grant, it is appropriate to continue the subject further, as the role of the Radio Officer was a vital one to the Merchant fleet in the war at sea.
Since Government regulations required each foreign-going merchant ship to carry three certificate-carrying Wireless Telegraph Officers, the Director of Merchant Seamen had worked out with commercial and private radio schools a system of subsidization to encourage the recruiting and training of men for this service. Students were paid a subsistence allowance while in training, and tuition fees paid to the colleges were refunded to the students, who, on obtaining their certificates, undertook to serve as Wireless Telegraph Officers at sea for at least two years.
In Saint John, one of these schools was located in an old building on the corner of Union Street and Hazen Avenue, which also housed the city School Board office. Attending this commercial wireless school in 1942 was a prominent Saint Johner, Thomas Bell. He saw service in two ships, Westmount Park and Outremount Park, making trips to England, to Italy, and to the Far East.
After the war Tom Bell continued his service on behalf of the Canadian people. He represented Saint John-Albert and later Saint John-Lancaster for many years as a Progressive Conservative M.P. in the House of Commons, Ottawa.
The Park ships saw good service, too. They had their official beginning on 8 April 1942 when the Crown-owned Park Steamship Company Limited was incorporated. The company’s purpose was to operate Canadian-built ships through Steamship company Managers, to assist in the war effort and to regulate foreign exchange. Some of the early vessels were named after various National Parks in Canada, and since it was decided that vessels to be retained for operation by Canadian Companies would also be named after National Parks, the name of the company was thus chosen. Then, from a trickle of vessels, their numbers grew until the year 1945 brought the cancellation of construction; by that time a grand total of 176 ships had been delivered to the Park Company.
Park ship losses were minimal compared to the Canadian-built Fort ships. The first Park ship lost was Jasper Park, which was torpedoed in the Indian Ocean on 6 July 1943, with a loss of four lives. The Fort-ship fleet lost three in 1942, followed by 19 in 1943 (one of which was Fort Howe: a fort located in Saint John, N.B.), and then a loss of 10 more ships in 1944. In the final year of the war four Park ships were torpedoed, the last one being Avondale Park sunk on 7 May 1945 in position 58 05 N 02 32 W by U-2336. The ship Fort Howe was sunk 1 Oct 1943 in the Mediterranean by U-410.
Back at sea, 26 September 1942. As Skeena carried on, a sharp lookout was kept for the lifeboat of Esso Williamsburg. In the W/T office we tried to pick them up on the wireless on 500 Kilocycles. Our efforts were finally rewarded when, at 0730 in the morning, we heard the calls for help from the lifeboat. From then on, the W/T office became a source of considerable interest to the rest of our crew.
We then advised Saguenay by wireless that we had received signals from the lifeboat, and that we intended searching to our limit. Also we sent a message to the shore authorities saying we were searching in the vicinity of 50 degrees North 41 degrees West, adding that we were now able to use the contaminated fuel and would search until dark. Our dead reckoning position at 0800 was 52 45 N 42 12 W. Our change in the fuel situation was accomplished by pumping considerable quantities of contaminated fuel over the side, thus making it possible to burn what remained in the tank.
Ship’s routine was normal for the day. Hands fell in at 0800 to clean ship. The depth charge and B-gun crews were exercised periodically. Our zone time at noon was Greenwich Mean Time plus two hours. And, because of the search, our courses were variable for most of the day, while our speed was varying between 13 and 15 knots.
We kept in touch with the lifeboat all during the foggy day. In this, Leading Telegraphist Bill Ivy did much of the work. The messages entered in the W/T log show how proceedings developed - then ended abruptly in mystery.
0745 - From Skeena: “Keep transmitting, we are trying to take a bearing.”
- From Lifeboat: “SOS We were carrying Navy fuel to Iceland when struck approx position 53 30 N 41 W SOS.”
0758 - From Lifeboat: “In God’s name send help quickly. We were swamped yesterday and could not send other messages. SOS SOS.”
0810 - From Skeena: “Received your signals. Make Z and long dashes if you can hear us.”
0838 - From Lifeboat: “SOS from WTKJ. Have receiver generator still working please take bearing 30 minutes past each hour.”
0930 - From Lifeboat: “SOS from WTKJ. Our approximate position 52 30 N 41 W. We will send 30 minutes after each hour so you can get a D/F bearing on us. Please hurry and get us in God’s name.”
Although Medium Frequency Direction Finding equipment was constantly manned, it was not until 1019 that a very rough bearing of 045 degrees was obtained. However, further Direction Finding was fruitless because the transmissions appeared to become weaker and no more bearings were obtained. The transmissions from the lifeboat seemed to have been transmitted by a fairly competent operator and, in this case, possibly were transmitted by Lea M. Gayle, the tanker’s listed official Radio Officer.
1059 - From Skeena: “Can you hear me. Please go ahead now. If you can hear me call me with call sign Abner.”
1200 - From Lifeboat: “SOS lifeboat WTKJ Williamsburg. Badly in need of water and medical assistance.”
1355 - From Skeena: “We are coming to your aid. Keep sending. Our call sign is Abner. Can you hear me now?”
1400 - From Lifeboat: “Yes and thanks to God old man to you. We will send from here on the hour and 30 minutes after the hour as the men get very tired of cranking the generator.”
1425 - From Skeena: “I am going to drop a depth charge in five minutes. Let me know if you hear it.”
At 1430 we dropped two depth charges. Skeena was carrying out a square search in an area worked out purely on the basis of the strength of signals received from the lifeboat. Visibility was very poor.
1435 - From Lifeboat: “We did not hear your depth charge.”
1545 - From Lifeboat: “Lifeboat from WTKJ Esso Williamsburg. Will send again in 10 minutes.”
1617 - From Lifeboat: “SOS from lifeboat WTKJ. Need medical aid and water immediately. Will send again in 15 minutes.”
At this point in the proceeding we made another attempt at establishing a guide to the lifeboat. This time we fired one round of H.E. from a 4.7-inch gun.
1633 - From Lifeboat: “The sun has just broken through to the west of us. We have a bright orange flag up from a 20-foot mast. We did not hear your gun fired or depth charge.”
1718 - From Lifeboat: “The sun in shining and the sea is very slightly choppy. We have to use oars to be kept from being swamped. The wind is blowing us outter to sea.”
Perhaps the operator, in using the word outter, was considering their estimated position in relation to the nearest land, and meant they were drifting further into the Atlantic wastes. Regardless, it was a very peculiar statement, considering the position, 53 10 N 41 02 W, (received ashore in their initial transmission), placed them far south of Cape Farewell, Greenland, and well into the Atlantic. This differs from the position, 53 30 N 41 W, transmitted by the lifeboat to Skeena and, of course, the position of the attack, 53 12 N 41 00 W (according to the report of the tanker), in German records.
We dropped two more depth charges, one at 1726 and one at 1731.
1730 - From Lifeboat: “We just sighted you northeast of us and coming closer. We are firing a flare in a few minutes.”
1735 - From Lifeboat: “Flare pistol won’t work but you appear to be steering towards us.”
1740 - From Lifeboat: “The ship that we sighted was 2 to 5 miles away. Is that you?”
1742 - From Skeena: “Am going to fire a rocket. Report if you can see it.”
1800 - From Lifeboat: “We are between you and the sun.”
1810 - From Lifeboat: “The ship we see has one stack.”
1815 - From Skeena: “Did you see my rocket or hear my charge?”
From this time on there was no further chatter, and although we kept a lookout the survivors were not seen.
The dialogue between Skeena and the lifeboat conjectured various thoughts. Did their transmitter suddenly fail at this last moment? Was the lifeboat finally swamped after sighting the one-stack ship? Or were they suddenly rescued by the mysterious ship? Or did the calls emanate from a U-boat laying a trap, and seeing that Skeena was a warship larger than expected, they retreated into the safety of the depths. The last was strongly suspected as a message from Flag Officer Newfoundland Force (FONF) estimated the affair as: “A possible ruse of a submarine to lure escorts.”
Accounts after the war - one of which appeared in the royal Canadian Navy’s magazine, The Crowsnest - described it as a poignant chapter of the war at sea and one of mystery and tragedy. The whole affair was very intriguing and seemed to cry for solving.
Naturally, in searching for the answer, various suppositions had to be considered. The obvious one to begin with was to reflect on the actual day of the sinking. On that day, 23 September 1942, Esso Williamsburg was torpedoed in position 53 12 North 41 00 West by U-211, commanded by Oberleutnant zur See Karl Hause. From the 20th of the month U-211 had formed part of a patrol line east of Newfoundland composed of U-boats: 91, 96, 211, 260, 380, 404, 407, 582, 584 and 619. The U-boat’s interception of the tanker was apparently fortuitous.
Did the U-boat transmit the messages as FONF suspected? German records reveal that U-211 may have been participating in an operation against convoy RB1 and must have been far east, at 26 degrees West, on 26 September, the day we were in contact with the lifeboat. No new German U-boat groups were set up in the area of Esso Williamsburg’s sinking, so it would appear that the transmissions were indeed from the lifeboat and not from U-211, or any other U-boat.
What of the one-stack ship the survivors mentioned? The destroyer Skeena had two stacks. However, on an angle the ship might be mistaken as having one stack. Nevertheless, if there was a one-stack ship it did not pick up the survivors, for no report of the rescue was ever made by an Allied ship.
In reflecting on the tanker and considering its build, it is conceivable that the tanker did not sink immediately. Esso Williamsburg was built in 1941 by Sun Shipbuilding Company, Chester, Pennsylvania. If she was like the tanker Ohio, built by the same firm, she must have been a strongly built ship, for in August 1942 the bombed and torpedoed Ohio bravely survived a decimated convoy sent to the relief of Malta. This was a great achievement for a tanker. Esso Williamsburg, at least, must have survived long enough to launch the transmitter-installed lifeboat, but perhaps not long enough for the main transmitter to be used.
The main transmitter was an RCA ET-8010-D, with a power output of 400/200 watts and a frequency range of 375 to 500 Kilocycles. Also installed in the ship was a reserve transmitter in the same range, but with 50 watts power, plus a High Frequency transmitter in the range of 5500 to 17,100 Kilocycles, with a power output of 150 watts.
Was it really possible that the lifeboat transmitter failed at the last moment and then, later, the boat was swamped, taking the men to a watery grave? The lifeboat transmitter was another RCA set, the ET-8022A, operating on the International distress frequency of 500 Kilocycles with only 4 watts power. The radios in the lifeboat consisted of a sealed unit with a separate hand generator bolted to the bulkhead. Informal information revealed that the hand generator was difficult to rotate, and would contribute to the supposed tired condition of the survivors which the operator mentioned. The weak signal, the result of the low power output of the transmitter and/or the low power output of the generator, could possibly identify the signals as being lifeboat-originated. But were they?
Suppose there were no survivors whatsoever and U-211 did not operate farther east as said before, but lingered in the area to coax more prey into a trap by false transmissions. Only a crew member of U-211 could really help explain the mystery. But looking at the records it hardly seemed likely, because on the moonlit night of 18 November 1943, while stalking the combined Sierra Leone/Gibraltar convoys SL139/MKS30, the U-211 was sunk by a Wellington bomber from the Azores flown by a Canadian, F/O D.F. McRae.
The affair still seemed closed in mystery. However, in 1971, through the assistance of the German U-boat Veterans Association, a veteran was located who served in U-211 at the time of Esso Williamsburg’s sinking. This was Franz Schubert, of Haarbrucken, who was a Leading Machinist in U-211 on the day of the fateful sinking.
To the best of his knowledge he remembered that:
“In the late afternoon of the 23rd our lookout sighted a tanker which was travelling alone without protection. We followed it until dusk when we assumed the correct position for shooting. The first shots were done over water with a double barrel, but because our commander had miscalculated the speed of the tanker we did not hit it well enough. It slowed down but did not sink. The tanker then transmitted an SOS distress message, ‘SOS - we are attacked by a German U-boat,’ which was intercepted by our radio operator.
“With the tanker slowing down we again assumed a correct shooting position and, using tubes 3 and 4, we fired two more torpedoes. These were right on target. The tanker broke amidships and went off in flames. All this happened in seconds. Then, as no other boats were around, we stopped a while and searched for survivors.
“Our radio operator transmitted the SOS messages on the distress frequency. These were sent on the order of the commander, Ob. Lt. z. See Hausse (SIC). After our lookout sighted an oncoming ship - which I suppose was one of your destroyers - we dived and left the area. Our commander did not wish to risk unnecessarily the lives of the men.”
In summation, considering Machinist Schubert’s information, the relatively impotent first torpedo attack enabled the tanker’s radio officer to transmit his SOS distress message, thus revealing enough particulars of the ship for the U-boat to adopt the masquerade. The second attack, the coup de grace, was obviously so devastating that it precluded the possibility of any survivors. So ended the life of a brave ship.
In Skeena we were a subdued crew. Sadly we packed up the search and proceeded to St. John’s. We did not know it at the time, but FONF was right after all: it had been the ruse of a U-boat.
Later the same evening, Action Stations! - a U-boat was sighted on the horizon. I was in the W/T office on watch when I heard our guns fire three times. A few minutes later “secure” came and into the office strode a couple of laughing sparkers. They explained their laughter by telling me that the U-boat had turned out to be a Newfy fishing schooner. Luckily our shells had missed it. No apologies were offered; we steered away from the schooner and carried on towards port.
Late that night one of our patrol aircraft flew over us. We had to flash our recognition signals quickly to the aircraft. Then it was gone. Our journey continued without any more events and we finally arrived in port next morning with barely enough fuel remaining.
Regarding our shooting at the fishing schooner - this was not the first time that friendly vessels were fired upon. Former Telegraphist Alex Collins, of Toronto, remembered a similar incident that happened late in 1940. At the time he was serving in the auxiliary minesweeper Arras, and just off Chebucto Head, near Halifax, they shelled an obscure shape in the distance. It turned out to be the merchant ship, Fort Townsend, and fortunately their aim was no better than ours - they missed. During those days, he recalls, their vessel went out for about six days at a stretch, sweeping for mines in the daytime, and patrolling at night. Alex was the only sparker on board, and stood single-operator periods on watch. To him, it seemed like he never got any rest.
On 6 October Skeena put to sea, heading to pick up the 38-ship convoy, HX210. This convoy had an average speed of 8.8 knots and had been brought up along the American and Canadian seaboards, first by a Local Southern Escort unit (Task Unit 24.18.7) composed of Columbia, Calgary, Kitchener (Lt.Cdr. W. Evans), and HMS Walker; then later by the Local Northern unit (TU 24.18.8) composed of Witch, Montgomery, Dauphin (Lt.Cdr. R.A. McNeil), Shediac (Lt. J.E. Clayton), and Brantford (Lt. W.D. Johnston).
Our Task Unit, 24.1.13, took over the task of escorting from the latter unit. For this trip, our unit consisted of destroyers Saguenay and Skeena, and corvettes Wetaskiwin, Agassiz, and Galt. Ships of our unit could be readily identified because each one wore the same special insignia on her funnel. This was in the form of a narrow band of diagonal red and white stripes stretching around the funnel. The insignia became known as the Barber Pole, and in 1943 somehow transferred to the C-5 Escort Group. Lt. Walter Melnyk, Calgary AB, remembers serving in the corvette Belleville in 1945 and the corvette proudly wearing the Barber Pole insignia.
We experienced no trouble on this trip and saw our convoy safely across - except for some damage caused by gales to deck cargoes of the merchant ships on the 13th and 14th.
The date 14 October also brought the war dramatically and tragically closer to home.
Earlier in October the U-boat, U-69, after a patrol off the American coast, had slipped grimly through the Cabot Strait into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, under the command of Kapitanleutnant Ulrich Graf. So far, with the exception of mine-laying off Baltimore, their patrol had been fruitless. Then suddenly on 9 October U-69 struck, sinking the small British steamer Carolus. But the worst was yet to come.
On the evening of 13 October 1942, the 2222-ton ferry, SS Caribou, sailed from North Sydney, Nova Scotia, on her usual run to Port aux Basques, Newfoundland. On board were 238 men, women and children.
At 2300Z (Greenwich Mean Time), the ferry’s escort, the minesweeper Grandmere (Lt. J. Cuthbert), slipped from Number 7 Jetty in the Sydney Dockyard. At 0030Z, she rendezvoused with Caribou, then steaming at about 12 knots.
Grandmere, assuming her night screening position, maintained a constant zigzag. It was a starlit night and Caribou was visible for approximately 2500 yards in a calm sea.
Early in the morning of the 14th, when Caribou was about 40 miles southwest of Port aux Basques, U-69 fired a deadly torpedo at her. At 0640Z there came a big explosion, smashing the ferry’s starboard-side rafts and lifeboats, and sinking her in a few minutes.
From the bridge of Grandmere the Officer of the Watch observed the explosion. Caribou was then bearing Red 30 degrees, at a distance of 1500 yards. Action stations were rung and speed increased to full. Telegraphists in Grandmere at the time were Eric Price, Bill Knight, and John Cappiello who was in charge as leading Tel Doug Turner was on leave. Tel TO Cappiello was in wireless contact with Sydney throughout the proceedings.
Survivors of the ferry claimed the U-boat surfaced, upsetting one or two rafts and smashing a lifeboat in the process. Some apparently thought it had machine-gunned the survivors, possibly because they had mistaken a star-shell barrage from the escort as enemy gunfire. Soon, however, Grandmere sighted it steering about 120 degrees true at high speed. The U-boat was about 350 yards away at Green 10, and the sweeper altered course to ram it.
When only 150 yards ahead, U-69 crash-dived, leaving a distinct white wake. As the wake passed the port beam of Grandmere, a pattern of six depth charges was dropped, set at 150 feet. The escort then altered course to starboard and, in the area port of the disturbance in the water, dropped a further pattern of three charges, set to 500 feet.
Although no Asdic contact was obtained, the ship swung again over the area and dropped another three charges close to that of the second pattern, this also set to 500 feet. The sweeper continued seeking a contact until 0820Z when it abandoned the hunt for the killer to hurry to the task of rescuing the survivors.
In the darkness and in cold water the passengers struggled for their lives. They clung to rafts and pieces of wreckage, while 20 others huddled in the one and only lifeboat found intact.
Purser Thomas Fleming of Harbour Grace, who is believed to have doubled as Radio Officer, rescued one child which later died on the trip to Sydney. Tom Fleming was the only officer of the crew to survive. Another youngster, 15-months old Leonard Shiers of Halifax, was lost three times but found a different rescuer each time. He was the only child to survive.
A passenger, Naval Nursing Sister Martha Brooke displayed great courage whilst in the water vainly attempting to save the life of another Nursing Sister, Agnes Wightman Wilkie, RCN. Nursing Sister Brooke survived and was later decorated as a Member of the Military Division of the most Excellent Order of the British Empire for her gallantry and courage at the time of the sinking.
Grandmere, in her search for survivors, was hindered by the darkness and consequently the first ones were not picked up until 0930Z. She was then ably assisted by two aircraft.
A total of 103 survivors were rescued, with most of them being in a very exhausted state. Two of these subsequently died on board the sweeper as a result of exposure, bringing the number of casualties to 137. Unhappily, the list of casualties consisted of 31 crew members and 106 passengers, many of whom were Canadian and American armed servicemen.
Among those lost was one entire family: John Tapper, his wife, and their three children. In all, 16 women and 14 children were casualties of the sinking. Also going down with the ship was the captain, Ben Taverner and his two sons, who were members of the crew.
After the event, Navy Minister Macdonald stated that the sinking of the Caribou, “...brings the war to Canada with tragic emphasis.” The toll had been heavy, and profound sorrow felt. But the Caribou would be replaced; passengers would continue to flow across the Gulf, and one day I would cross myself in its replacement.
A sequel to the Caribou’s sinking occurred on 17 February 1943 when, in position 50 50 North 40 50 West, U-69 was sunk with all hands by the British destroyer, Viscount.
In Londonderry I was granted five days leave and proceeded on this sojourn to London, accompanied by Signalman Gordie Stark, from Montreal. We travelled by train from Londonderry to Larne on the coast. From there a ship carried us across to Stranraer, Scotland, and the trip completed by train to London.
While in London we stayed at the Red Shield Club, but often ate at the Beaver Club. For a short period we were joined by Coder Harry Robotham off the corvette Galt, and another sailor.
With gas masks in khaki-coloured cases slung over our shoulders, we spent most of the time in seeing the sights. The London Transport system facilitated our getting around the sprawling city by providing Allied Forces on leave with day passes at one shilling each, coloured red, white and blue, and good for unlimited travel.
To newly arrived Canadians, the sights to see were: Trafalgar Square, Picadilly Circus, Madame Tussauds Was Works, the Tower of London, the Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, the Parliament Buildings, and Big Ben. Strings of skimpy two-board fences picture-framed the levelled bomb-ravaged ground around St. Paul’s, miraculously saved during the blitz. Uniformed men were multifarious, and of these I photographed several turban-clad and bearded Sikhs in Trafalgar Square. It was a very interesting holiday. During our time there, London had two alerts: a small town on the Thames River had been attacked by enemy aircraft.
Our return trip across the Atlantic, escorting convoy ON141, was another mild one. Along with Agassiz, Saguenay, Sackville, and Wetaskiwin, we had sailed from the Moville, Lough Foyle anchorage on 25 October. Then at the end of the month Skeena was ordered to leave the convoy to search for survivors of SS Abosso, reported torpedoed in position 48 30 North 28 50 West at 1000, 30 October. We were to search an area to a depth of 60 miles south of the reported position.
During the search we paused long enough to take on oil from a tanker in another convoy, KMS2. Oiling at sea was rudimentary at this time and, of course, difficult. In our first attempt we tried to oil while running abreast of the wallowing, dirty gray tanker. The water, squeezed in the gorge between the two vessels, rolled and whipped like rapids over unseen boulders and angrily thwarted our attempts to refuel in this side position. However, we were finally successful by oiling from a stern position and keeping on the same course and speed as the tanker.
Afterwards our captain, Lt.Cdr. Dyer, had some worthy comments. He suggested that when going alongside, it was essential to get both wires, a spring and a breast, on together, or if this was impossible, the breast should go on first.
It was noticed that when we were oiling, once the weight came on the spring, the pivotal effect was very great and threw the bows well out. This was due to the bollards being too far aft. Thus, due to the stern swell and the foregoing fact, Skeena kept shearing away and so two hemp ropes were parted.
When the two ropes parted, oiling was continued very satisfactorily by station keeping. During this time the convoy altered course once and increased speed. Accurate station keeping was maintained fine on the starboard quarter by posting an observer on the foc’sle to report the position of the bight of the hose.
We had taken station astern of the tanker at 1240 and commenced oiling at 1345. We stopped oiling at 1610 and cast off at 1625, having taken in 222 tons of fuel.
After oiling we carried on with the search for the survivors. We transmitted a message saying: “Have completed oiling - lifeboats reported in position 49 20 N 23 20 W. Can reach by 2 Nov.”
Various attempts to communicate with the lifeboats by W/T proved ineffective. We failed to find any trace of the survivors and sent a message advising: “Regret search unsuccessful.” We were then given permission by the commander in Chief Western Approaches to proceed to St. John’s. We set out, clipping along at 18 knots at times, and eventually reached port on 5 November.
While we were involved with the search for the survivors a convoy of 42 ships, SC107, was traversing Newfy waters, heading into the broad Atlantic and ultimately into disaster. Escorting SC107 during the ocean leg were: HMS Celandine, Restigouche (Lt.Cdr. D.W. Piers), Algoma (Lt. J. Harding), Amherst (Lt.Cdr. L.C. Audette), and Arvida (Lt.Cdr. D.G. King).
It was inevitable that SC107 would be sighted, for off Newfoundland lay an extensive U-boat patrol line comprised of: U-71, 84, 89, 132, 183, 381, 402, 437, 438, 442, 454, 518, 520, 521, 522, 571, 658 and 704.
On 30 October, U-658, a member of the Veilchen group, was sunk by an RCAF Hudson bomber. Shortly after, U-522 sighted SC107 southwest of Cape Race being escorted by the Western Local escorts. U-522 missed with an attack on the Canadian destroyer Columbia. Then U-520 was sunk by an RCAF Digby aircraft. U-522 was driven off by a destroyer and U-521 by a Hudson.
On 1 November other U-boats came in contact with the convoy and U-381, U-402, and U-704 - located by High Frequency Direction Finding - were repulsed by Restigouche and Celandine. In the evening U-71 was located by radar and forced to submerge. After midnight U-402 torpedoed one ship which was later sunk by U-84. U-381 then was foiled in an attack on Restigouche. During the night U-402 sank three ships and torpedoed a fourth which was finished off later by U-438.
U-522 sank two and the torpedoed a third which was later given the coup de grace by U-521.
On the 2nd, HMS Vanessa and the corvette Moose Jaw (Lt. L.D. Quick) reinforced the convoy. Undaunted U-522 made a day attack and sank one ship.
U-521 sank a tanker on the 3rd, while U-522 missed with an attack on Restigouche.
On the 4th, U-89 sank the Convoy Commodore’s ship, JEYPORE. This was followed by U-132 sinking two ships, and torpedoing a third that was later sunk by U-442. The U-132 disappeared mysteriously about this time and is believed to have been sunk in the explosion of a torpedoed ammunition ship.
The tugs Pessacus and Uncas, the rescue ship Stockport, all laden with survivors, and a tanker were detached to Iceland escorted by Arvida and Celandine. Then late in the evening the convoy was joined by more reinforcements: the USN destroyers Schench and Leary, and the US Coast Guard cutter Ingham; but these ships could not prevent the sinking of one more ship by U-89.
By 6 November the remainder of the convoy was being covered by RAF Liberators from Iceland, and the U-boats broke off their operations.
On 15 November Skeena was still in port, and Saguenay was at sea, her convoy career coming to a calamitous end. While escorting Lady Rodney from Halifax, Saguenay was in a collision with the merchant ship, Azra. The destroyer lost her stern and had one casualty when her depth charges exploded. Azra sank, but Saguenay was towed safely to St. John’s, never to escort again. She was ultimately made into a training vessel.
On 16 November, as part of Task Unit 24.1.13, Skeena departed Newfy to pick up the 45-ship convoy, SC109. On the 17th our first snow began to fall. A patrol plane flew over us keeping an eye on the 6.5 knot convoy.
About six in the morning of the 18th we went to actions stations. A ship in the convoy, SS Brilliant, had been torpedoed. It had been hit amidships, but luckily no one was killed. The position at the time was 50 45 North 45 53 West. The ship was still navigable so the corvette Sackville was dispatched to escort it to port. We transmitted a message in code saying, “Torpedoed ship Brilliant, Sackville screening her until air cover obtainable. Request tugs.” An aircraft was immediately sent to escort the merchant ship; when it arrived, Sackville returned to the convoy.
Brilliant was torpedoed by U-43 (OL Hans J. Schwantke). This U-boat ended its days on 30 July 1943 while on a minelaying mission to Lagos on the gold coast. U-43 had interrupted its journey and was preparing to fuel another boat, U-403, when it was attacked by aircraft from the US Escort Carrier Santee. The mines on board exploded and U-43 disintegrated.
The remaining sailing days of SS Brilliant were less brief. On 20 January 1943, while being escorted to Halifax in convoy JH-30, she broke in two in extremely bad weather. The survivors were picked up by the minesweeper Goderich and taken to Argentia, Newfoundland. The rescue tugs Frisky and Foundation Aramore made every effort to salvage the after end of Brilliant, but upon finding it impossible to tow, they were compelled to sink it.
Back with convoy SC-109 - about 0400, 19 November, action stations came again: a U-boat reported on the surface! Nearly every ship in the convoy fires starshells; the sky was lit up like day. One of the corvettes, sighting the U-boat, fired at it. The U-boat dived; the corvette dropped charges, but the enemy boat slid away. No ships had been hit and the convoy carried on.
When nearly three-quarters of the way across, an aircraft on patrol over the convoy sighted a U-boat to the rear. Skeena bolted out after it, but found no trace of the enemy. A day or so later, with our fuel running low and a relief ship on hand, we left the convoy and made for Ireland - this, despite the fact we had oiled earlier in the trip from a tanker. We arrived in Derry on 27 November.
In port, on 5 December, High Frequency Direction Finding equipment, FH3, was fitted in Skeena, making us a much stronger anti-submarine vessel.
The phenomenal High Frequency Direction Finder (H/F D/F), popularly known by the sobriquet, Huff Duff, was relatively new to us at this time. By telescoping to post-war knowledge a better understanding can be had of the H/F D/F service, which played such an important role in the Battle of the Atlantic.
From the beginning of the war a shore H/F D/F organization was in existence. It had its origin in World War I when, prior to the Battle of Jutland, a chain of direction finding stations was strung to alert the Royal Navy of any sortie of the German High Seas Fleet. The network of stations in the British Isles gradually grew to include shore stations in Africa, Iceland, Greenland, Bermuda, and North America - of which Cap d’Espoir, Gaspe; Coverdale, New Brunswick; Harbour Grace, Newfoundland, and Hartlen Point, Nova Scotia, were some of the important Canadian stations, while Winter Harbour, Maine, was an active American one. Cross bearings could thus be taken by means of all these stations and fixes plotted by special tracking centres. Escorts would then be alerted, and the courses of convoys altered, if necessary. It addition, aircraft, support groups or hunter-killer groups could be dispatched to the area of a Huff Duff fix. Bearings obtained by ships at sea could be run down, thus thwarting attacks on the convoy. It is to be noted that CPO Tel (SO) George Holme was in charge of Harbour Grace Special WT station in 1943. Special Operator Murray Dean, Napanee ON, remembers training at the D/F station in Bermuda before going to sea in the frigate Victoriaville.
In November, 1939, the Commander in Chief Western Approaches (UK Naval Command) recommended the fitting of Huff Duff sets in ships, but it was not until July, 1941, that the first set was in use. Production was slow, and experience in the correct operating techniques had to be gained step-by-step, but by the end of 1942 H/F D/F sets were accepted as an essential part of the equipment of escort vessels. Later, convoy rescue ships and some merchant ships were fitted with Huff Duff sets.
In the summer of 1942, three British H/F D/F sets were given to the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory, and by the fall of that year sets were being installed in American ships. The Americans succeeded in developing an improved version of the FH4, calling their set the DAQ.
In Canada, in September 1942, the Canadian Naval Staff approved in principle the fitting of H/F D/F set Type FH3 in one Canadian destroyer of each Escort Group. However, the Canadian destroyer, Restigouche, had her Huff Duff set fitted earlier when she was undergoing repairs in Glasgow during the period 21 December 1941 to 9 March 1942. Fittings in other ships followed during the winter of 1942/1943 with installation of the FH4. But not all ships were fitted so, since FH4 sets were not too plentiful. The Naval Staff, therefore, approved in principle the fitting of Type FH3 in RCN ships when FH4 sets were not available.
The FH4 set had a cathode-ray scope for direct visual bearing indication, and was superior to its predecessor in that a distinction could be made between the ground wave and the sky wave. Its scope was as big as a pie plate and was surrounded by the 360 degrees of the compass.
The problem of situating the Huff Duff cabin in the Canadian ships was solved in various ways. In the destroyer Restigouche it was built on the upper deck amidships directly aft the 3-inch gun platform, while the H/F D/F mast with the antenna was fitted to the forward end of the after superstructure. In the Tribal class destroyers the Huff Duff cabin was fitted under the lattice mast and over the crew’s galley, although they were fitted aft in the Huron and Haida. In frigates, for example Montreal and Wentworth, it was under the port wing of the bridge, and resembled a boy’s square club-house.
Security was paramount but inconsistent in these fittings. Official photographs of the ships would have the sparsely-ribbed, bird-cage-like antenna erased from the top of the mast, whereas standard Supply Demands would have the notation, “Shipment to be marked ‘For installation in the H/F D/F cabin’.”
Initially, as each Huff Duff-equipped ship was required to carry three additional W/T operators, Canadian ratings for the Huff Duff branch had to come from the fleet. Telegraphists drafted for the special course had to obtain at least 85 percent at 18 words per minute in tests carried out by the Signal Training Centres ashore. The special training consisted of a course in enemy W/T procedure and organization, and a course in operation and maintenance of the H/F D/F equipment. Training was widespread. George Hadden, Barrie ON, after serving at the W/T station in Gaspe QC, the armed merchant cruiser Prince David and the corvette Halifax as Ldg. Tel, was drafted in 1942 to Royal Roads BC for an officer training course. At its conclusion he was sent, along with Murray Westgate and three other former Ldg. Tels. To Eastbourne, England for H/F D/F training. Then it was back to sea. After graduating a Telegraphist Special Operator was distinguishable from a Ldg Tel General Service by the absence of stars from the W/T badge, and having only a pair of wings divided by a lightning flash. Later in the war, as more ships required operators, Wrens were enlisted to augment the shore staff.
At the same time, there was also a requirement for special operators for employment as Kana (Japanese Morse) operators. It had been urged, before August 1941, that in the event of hostilities with Japan, it would be essential to have a supply of Wireless Telegraphy operators, capable of receiving Japanese morse, for service ashore and one at least for every ship in the Pacific. In the beginning, very few operators were able to copy the Japanese code. Because the Japanese alphabet contains 52 letters (26 signs in addition to those of our own alphabet), plus certain associated signs, making altogether 56 characters, intensive training was required, even after speed had been attained in continental morse. Training was hodgepodge at the outset. In Ottawa, arrangements were made for a Lt. Hope to train four Department of Transport operators. Telegraphist J. MacFarlane and miss Mary Galloway, a stenographer in the Foreign Intelligence Section, were two other volunteers. At RCCS Special Service Station Rockcliffe, Ontario, Sgt Stover, a self-trained Japanese operator was training other operators, while in Esquimalt, some more operators were being trained by W.O. Denniston.
Phil Shepherd, a WW II RCAF Wireless Mechanic, remembers serving in Ucluelet on Vancouver Island. “While there,” he says, “we were sent, two at a time, for a period of a month or so, to Gordon Head outside Victoria, where the Navy had a wireless listening post. And there we were taught a shorthand way of reading the Japanese version of Morse code. This code is completely different from the continental code that we were familiar with. We were given 49 different combinations of dots and dashes, and their English characters. For example, dot dash, which is the letter “A” in Morse code is “I” in Japanese code. Dash dot dash dot dot, which is the letters “T” and “L” run together in Morse code, translates into “KI”. In the first example, dot dash, we would write down “A” and translate it later into “I”. In the second example, we would write down “TL” and translate it to “KI” later. All Morse code characters were written down as if we were copying Morse code while the rest were written in various ways that we had to memorize. I was stationed at Coal Harbour when Pearl Harbour was attacked. After the attack, all communications to Headquarters in Victoria had to go via landline.
It must be pointed out that since 1925 a station existed in Esquimalt whose D/F bearings and traffic was passed on to the Admiralty. Later Ucluelet and Coal Harbour became involved and with war in the picture Esquimalt was still controlled by the Brits, but now from the Far East Combined Bureau in Singapore. The Esquimalt station was replaced in 1940 by a new facility at Gordon Head near Victoria with the RCN acquiring a more significant role in Japanese ‘Y’ work and eventually employing a considerable number of Wrens. One of these Wrens was Joyce Arnold Dobson, formerly of Ottawa, but later of Wolfville, Nova Scotia. Joyce joined the WRCNS on her 18th birthday in September, 1943, but was not called up until March, 1944. She underwent basic training at Galt, Ontario, followed by seven months wireless telegraphy training in Japanese morse at the naval signal school in St. Hyacinthe, Quebec. On completion of her course she was drafted to Gordon Head station, near Victoria, on Vancouver Island. Gordon Head worked hand-in-hand with a chain of stations under the U.S. navy. Some operators were assigned known active communication frequencies while other were allowed to search the air waves. Joyce worked long hours of shift work, copying Kana on Japanese typewriters, and marking the readability as Fair, Good, or Excellent. Traffic was teletyped to Washington for processing. In June/July 1945 Joyce as part of a draft of ten Wrens was sent to the American intercept station at Bainbridge Island (in Puget Sound near Seattle) for a four week course in high-speed Japanese morse. At the conclusion of the course Joyce was expecting to be sent to Australia, but the war’s end came in August and she soon was drafted to Coverdale, N.B., and later to Bacarro, N.S. Joyce was eventually demobilized in March, 1946. Wren Doris Smelts Hocking now of Mitchell, Ontario, was another special operator and was a member of the first class, starting her training outside Toronto. She did eventually get to St. Hyacinthe when the septic system at Number 1 Station Gloucester blew up, so to speak. Wren Smelts served in the H/F D/F station at Coverdale, New Brunswick and later in the Loran station at Deming Island, Nova Scotia. CPO Irene Carter, who before the war was a CN telegraph operator, was awarded the British Empire Medal for her Huff Duff service.
The greater need for special operators in the war, of course, was in the Atlantic theatre. Here, a ship operator would listen out on an assigned frequency made known by Admiralty in numbered set called Series. On hearing a U-boat transmission, the intercepting operator would press a foot-pedal activating a convenient microphone. He would then shout a coded warning for other H/F D/F ships to switch to the frequency in use. After the other escorts and the convoy rescue ships obtained bearings, the results would be passed to the Senior Officer of the escort group and a fix thus obtained. If it was a ground-wave bearing (15 to 20 miles), the Senior Officer would send an escort chasing down the bearing. The S.O. would also have a message transmitted notifying shore authorities of the U-boat’s bearing or position.
Ashore, for example in Harbour Grace, the operators would listen and search on Marconi CSR5 receivers. When a U-boat’s transmission was picked up, the operator concerned would immediately warn another operator at a remote site where the actual work of taking a bearing would be done.
All Huff Duff operators knew how to recognize German transmissions. There was no dearth of signals. U-boats were strung out in patrol lines, and when an individual U-boat sighted a convoy it would immediately signal U-boat Command Headquarters. The U-boat then would endeavour to maintain contact with the convoy and transmit beacon signals so that other U-boats could home on to the convoy by taking bearings of the shadower. The initial first sighting report invariably commenced with a recognizable symbol, the B-bar. The following is an example of a first sighting report:
BB CLC WOND ETHG ISYO VNOC GIB
For transmitting homing signals, U-boats used different frequencies according to the time of day. Two popular frequencies were 384 and 437 Kilocycles. The signals were usually made at 15 and 45 minutes past each hour, and would begin by a series of Vs for three minutes. U-boats making contacts would make long E-bar or Enigma signals. Example:
VVVV ÉÉ 632 1630 TTCA TNOC GNIT NIAM VA
For establishing communication between U-boats and supply ships, the call and acknowledgment took the form of five-figure groups, interspersed with Vs or Ws. In contact, communication usually would consist of four-letter groups beginning with É. Frequencies used in the North Atlantic were 341 or 382 Kc/s (317 Kc/s was used in the Freetown Area).
Another notable transmission was the Naval Enigma message which was derived from a cipher machine utilizing mainly a typewriter-style keyboard and a selection of rotors internally wired to provide a variety of systems (see Appendix F). Although we at sea were not aware of it, the British were having great success in breaking this cipher. This was accomplished through preliminary help from Polish intelligence services, the recovery of rotors and documents in the capture of three German trawlers in northern waters, the recovery of an Enigma machine and cipher material form the damaged U-110 before it sank in May 1941, and the astuteness of British cryptanalysts. Huff Duff operators learned to recognize Naval Enigma messages by the following example:
2110/10 40 MEKM SCMA (36 4-letter groups) MEKM SCMA VA
In the early part of the war the limitations of the H/F D/F system precluded accurate position-finding of U-boats in the Atlantic. The gradual addition of more shore stations and the installation and improvement of Huff Duff in ships eventually produced a system that was amazingly accurate. Naval Service Headquarters in Ottawa received promptly all English bearings taken of U-boats. Ottawa was able to obtain fixes of enemy units in the area east of 30 degrees West with as equal facility and in approximately the same time as was done in the Plotting Centre at Admiralty. The positions obtained by Huff Duff were then broadcast to the escorts at sea.
Occasionally small problems arose. For example, at one time during late 1943 the comparison of convoy H/F D/F reports with shore Y stations showed a constant reversal of sense, giving a reciprocal bearing on a frequency of 4000 Kilocycles of U-boat transmissions. Ships showing this type of bearing on identical transmissions were: HMS Hotspur, Dundee, Berry, and HMCS Ottawa.
On the other hand, a greater problem presented itself in our own carelessness with communications. German shore stations, ships and U-boats, were always prepared to take advantage of any Allied radio indiscretion. An instance was the excessive chatter which took place on the 600-meter wave band after the USA entered the war. In this the Germans found the Americans sadly lacking in security, as coastal defence stations broadcast a veritable bonanza of intelligence, from aircraft patrols to ship anti-submarine schedules, while ships were freely voluble with their own positions.
Escort groups of the Newfoundland Escort Force were not above reproach. Ships, as a group, had the habit of tuning and testing their Convoy Escort Frequency about an hour prior to leaving harbour. This always heralded within a matter of hours the rendezvous with a convoy at WESTOMP (Western Ocean Meeting Point) off the Grand Bank.
When the TBS (Talk Between Ships) transmitter/receiver was introduced in the latter half of the war it undoubtedly initiated an era of indiscreet conversation between Escort Commanders, in the blissful belief that their Very High Frequency TBS set was secure in line-of-sight communication. It later became known that radio waves, regardless of the frequency of emission, are at times propagated over distances beyond the normal usable ranges.
Countering our H/F D/F services was the astonishing discovery after the war which showed that the Germans had great success with breaking British Naval ciphers, and those of Canadian ships who, of course, held the same ciphers. At the outbreak of war the Royal Navy had a 4-figure cipher that was used by officers, and an Administrative Code of five-figure groups used by ratings. On 20 August 1940 the Admin Code was superseded by Naval Code No. 1, while Naval Cipher No. 1 was replaced by Cipher No. 2. In June 1941, Cipher No. 3 was brought into force for use by the RN, USN, and RCN. We telegraphists were taught coding but rarely had the occasion to use it. To us the received 4-digit groups on the signal pad were simply a code and the responsibility of the coder. He had his own nook to work in. There he possessed a basic naval code book in which was found plain language words equating to 4-digit groups. He also had a cipher table (book) containing nothing but 4-digit groups. When a coded message was sent to the coder he first decoded the first two groups of the message and the derived information provided him with a page number and a line number in the cipher table where to start decoding (deciphering). This process involved subtracting, without carrying, the cipher groups in the table from the groups in the received message. Example:
6500 Received group
7329- Cipher table group
9281 Group equating to “enemy” in the basic decode book
To encode a message for transmission the coder looked up his plain language in the basic code book to find the equivalent 4-digit groups. He next added the 4-digit groups in the cipher table to the basic groups. Example:
9281 group for “enemy” in the basic code book
7329+ cipher table group
6500 group to be transmitted
The success with the convoy code faded for the Germans in June 1943 when the British brought in force Naval Cipher No. 5 for use by the RN and RCN, and later the USN . This system employed a stencil subtractor, that is a bakelite sheet in which small rectangular holes were randomly spread. The cipher table page was placed beneath the subtractor frame and from there the addition/subtraction was carried out.
Ashore, the Canadian navy had a more secure coding system. For instance at FONF HQ in St. John’s the coders in the Signal Distributing Office used a Type X, a machine that was similar to the German Enigma machine, but with additions and alterations to make it more unique.
The German wireless observation service, known as B-Dienst (Beobachtung-Dienst), was particularly of great assistance to Admiral Doenitz during the crucial early months of 1943. At this time the monitoring service frequently provided him with deciphered convoy details. This recovery of information was not a decided advantage: it was more than offset by the Allies with their combinational use of Huff Duff, Radar, Asdic and the breaking of the German Enigma machine code by the British at Bletchely Park. A classic example of Huff Duff occurred on 23 April 1943 when HMS Hesperus was acting as an escort of Convoy ONS4. In the afternoon Hesperus obtained a first class bearing of a U-boat (U-191) transmitting a first sighting report close to the convoy. The destroyer raced down the bearing and upon mutual sighting, the U-boat dived. It was soon picked up by Asdic and, after several depth-charge attacks, ultimately destroyed. From the foregoing, it can be clearly seen why H/F D/F was a prominent factor in helping to win the Atlantic war. (See Appendix F for a description of the Enigma machine.)
Now with our own Huff Duff aboard, the date Tuesday, 8 December 1942, found Skeena departing Londonderry for the return trip to St. John’s.
Off the Irish coast we held a few days of exercises. Then on Thursday we moved out to pick up our convoy, ONS152. On Friday I awoke to an awfully rough day. Many of the crew were seasick, including myself; but in a few days we were over it.
While we were fighting off our sickness, ashore in St. John’s the day, Saturday, 12 December, was a day of horror. If we had been in port, undoubtedly some of us would have been part of the proceedings taking place in the Knights of Columbus Hostel on Harvey Road that evening.
On Saturday evening, about 400 persons were assembled in the K of C dance hall where a Christmas party in the form of a barn dance was being held. On the stage Uncle Tim’s Barn Dance Troupe were broadcasting a radio programme when a flash of flame ignited the Christmas decorations.
Soon, the men and women were in panic as fire swept through the hall. They trampled each other as they dashed frantically for the exits. Some of the doors were found locked and the lights went out, adding to the confusion. Upstairs, servicemen were trapped in rooms where on occasions I had stayed myself. Doors that were battered down and smashed windows all created a strong draught, contributing to the quick spread of the terrible fire.
When it was over, nothing remained of the building but two smoking chimneys and the thoughts that it was all caused by sabotage. This seemed a convenient reason to explain the loss of 99 people, many of them Canadian, British, and American servicemen. Of these, it proved only possible to identify 17 as Canadian naval ratings, with six other ratings listed as missing.
At sea, during the night of 14 December a surface contact by Skeena’s radar operators took us to action stations. But in a short time we lost the contact, and secure was sounded.
On the 15th, USCG cutter Ingham and USN destroyers Babbitt and Leary were escorting the Iceland section to join ours the main convoy, when Ingham gained a sonar contact. She attacked with one depth charge in position 56 46 N 27 12 W. Much later Ingham was given credit for sinking a U-boat, because coincidental with the foregoing date and position U-626 had disappeared.
On Wednesday, 16 December, we in Skeena were making a sweep away from the convoy on the report that a U-boat was in our vicinity. We went to action stations, thinking we had a U-boat on the surface; but it turned out to be one of our corvettes. In actual fact U-373 did sight our convoy on the 16th, thus bringing up U-445, U-524 and U-615. However, in deteriorating visibility and the approach of a storm they lost contact. The U-boats continued searching but sighted only independents and stragglers, of which one was sunk by U-591.
On the 16th the weather in the morning was like a summer day with bright sunshine. This was the lull before the storm, as the saying goes. During the afternoon it clouded over, and that night the sea began to erupt into the dirtiest I have ever seen..
As we staggered through mountainous seas the seamen’s mess deck, soaked with water, became as slippery as ice. To transit the mess, one had to judge the roll of the ship and, at the opportune moment, go skiing across to grab a stanchion on the other side. Losing your equilibrium could be very dangerous.
In the communicators’ small mess, below the main deck, lived 21 men. I might add at this time that, when I arrived on board, there was not enough hammock-slinging space so I had to sleep on the deck or sometimes, on the seat lockers. Eventually I acquired a slinging spot as people got drafted, and I thankfully bequeathed the deck and the cockroaches to someone else. The storm with its wetness now added more misery to our living conditions; a number of plates were broken, leaving only seven or eight dinner plates for the 21 men.
A slight misfortune, almost humorous, happened to one of the sparkers. He had drawn some duff (dessert) for his dinner, and had brought it safely down the ladder to the mess - and just then the ship gave a fierce roll, sending him flying across the mess, smashing the plate and splattering the duff in all directions. However, he wasn’t hurt.
Thursday night, the moon appeared a few times through the breaking clouds, and the sea showed signs of flattening. However, on Friday morning it was still as rough as ever. In the afternoon I ventured up to the fiddly deck, above the galley, to watch the sea in its torment. Sometimes it was like standing on a hill, looking down into a valley of gray and white immensity. The ship, heading into one of these watery valleys, would hit with a violent thump. But it wasn’t scary - we had sublime confidence in the Skeena’s seaworthiness.
Great waves (green ones, we called them) were always breaking over the sides of the ship. This made it hazardous for anyone going aft or coming forward. Because of this, no one was permitted on the upper deck after dark. And as sometimes happened, when we kept an extra wireless watch in the secondary W/T shack over the officer quarters aft, we were required to stay there throughout several watches because of the bad weather.
During the day the ship weaved its way through curtains of snow and hail, thrashed by a fierce wind.
On Saturday the ship continued to take a pounding and in the afternoon we were enveloped by blinding snow. For a while we lay hove to. When we did gather headway, we proceeded only at about two knots. That night we left the convoy to make for St. John’s.
On Sunday the ship received a further pounding, and was blanketed by more snow storms. On Monday, ice began to form on the ship.
As we continued our journey towards port, we learned that an English destroyer was in need of assistance; she was running short of fuel. Several ships were on their way to aid her. By using our Direction Finding equipment we helped the rescue ships to come to her position. Early Tuesday morning we reached the destroyer, and because the rescue ships arrived about the same time, we carried on to Newfy. By this time the weather had turned extremely cold and the ship became thickly covered with ice. We looked like a giant white barley-toy candy. Clad in a duffel coat, I went on deck to have my picture taken amidst the icy surrounding; but Stoker Pony Moore stole into the picture, naturally taking away a little of the beauty.
We reached St. John’s on Tuesday afternoon. The fourteen days at sea had been a taxing trip. First, we ran out of bread; then the cooks baked fresh bread until the flour gave out; our tea supply was exhausted; we were without water for nearly three days; and at the end, we were running short of general food. The last meal I remember was a stew consisting of gravy devoid of the vegetables and meat. We were accustomed to being without water, because normally at sea the water was only turned on at certain times, and on these occasions one could cleanse himself by taking a “bird-bath” from a sinkful of water.
It was good to be in the snug harbour, safe from the sea and the enemy. Indeed the harbour was safe, for this very month a single-line anti-torpedo submersible gate - to be raised and lowered by a steam winch ashore - was placed across the harbour entrance. Furthermore, a controlled minefield traversing the outer entrance had been in operation since the previous June.
While we paused in port, at sea another Canadian escort group was headed for a disastrous trip. This group was composed of the destroyer St. Laurent (Lt.Cdr. G.S. Windeyer), and corvettes Battleford (Lt. F.A. Beck), Chilliwack (Lt.Cdr. L.F. Foxall), Kenogami (Lt. J.L. Percy), Napanee (Lt. S. Henderson), and Shediac (Lt. J.E. Clayton).
On 19 December they had left UK waters escorting ONS154, a convoy of 46 ships. Manipulated by fate they headed for Group Spitz, a pack of ten U-boats just formed. On the 24th, after a Spitz boat, U-664, sighted the convoy, another group of nine more U-boats - the Ungestum Group - was sent towards the convoy.
On 26 December, U-662 made contact while a message from Admiralty warned of the closing U-boats. H/F D/F interceptions and Radar contacts by St. Laurent confirmed their perilous presence. Leading Seaman Ernie Binnie, of Edmonton, Alberta, noted the beginning of the battle as 2145 on the 26th in the destroyer’s RDF (Radar) log:
“Reports on enemy U-boats, closed up to set doing all around sweep. Picked up echo from U-boat and reported to bridge, Range 4200 yards. Came head-on to echo and made attack. Held echo to 100 yards, (dropped charges). Later picked up new contact at 2200 yards, held same to 300 yards and made attack (gunfire and charges). Possible.”
In the preliminary attacks in the early hours of the 27th, U-356 (OL Ruppelt) sank three ships, while U-441 sank a fourth and missed with an attack on St. Laurent. The destroyer’s Radar log during this time showed:
“Picked up periscope at 2500 yards, tried to ram same. Held echo until enemy could be seen by captain. Ran over top of enemy, (possible hit). Picked up contact at 6000 yards, held same until seen by bridge. All contacts very good, no trouble holding them. Picked up approximately 18 definite contacts. Last attack at 0430/27, range 3000 yards, (possible). 0730 - Secure.”
U-356, after two attacks, was sunk by the escorts. Getting the credit were St. Laurent, Battleford, Chilliwack, and Napanee. The general position of the sinking was 45 30 North 25 40 West.
From the 27th to the 30th, successful audacious attacks were carried out by U-boats: 225, 123, 336, 591, 260, 662, 406, 628, and 435, thus bringing the total of ships sunk to fourteen.
On the 29th the convoy was reinforced by the arrival of two RN destroyers, Milne and Meteor. These two ships along with Battleford and Shediac had to depart the next day because of fuel shortage, leaving the convoy in a precarious condition. Fortunately by the 31st the enemy had withdrawn, and only U-455 was in contact up until that date.
Ernie Binnie, the senior Radar operator in St. Laurent, was on duty steadily for five nights and four days. For performing his duty with certainty and precision he was awarded the British Empire Medal. Ernie and I were to become shipmates in my next ship.
Back with Skeena. After only a few days in St. John’s we put to sea on Thursday afternoon (Christmas Eve) to escort a small convoy, JH56, to Halifax. Before leaving, the members of our mess ensured themselves of a proper Christmas dinner by pooling their money and buying a turkey downtown.
The trip was completed quickly and safely. In Halifax, Skeena went into refit and the crew, in divisions, went on leave. Eventually I had my turn, and my long leave was well spent in Saint John. I even took time out to be the friendly sailor uncle to my nephews, sons of my eldest brother, Leo. They were cute tykes and I naturally got a kick out of escorting one of them, Danny, to the “big” uptown. Although this would hardly endear me to any girls I might want to meet - presuming they might think they were my own children - the outings I think were mutually enjoyable. The highlight of my leave was meeting Kay Arseneau, a dark-eyed, very pretty girl, whom I met while skating at Lily Lake.
My father, Samuel N. Sampson, was the sparks on the Sir Huon, a merchant vessel sunk by U-66 in the Carribean on August 30, 1942. The Tambour rescued my father and his lifeboat mates a week later. My father noted in his journal that he met John Ronald Grant, the other sparks, and commented on swell service of the crew.
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