FRIGATE SEA CLIFF

On the morning of 2 February 1945 I was aboard Sea Cliff, feeling apprehensive I might not like the ship.

            I had left my gear on the jetty and somehow it had been mistakenly carried back to Avalon barracks.  This meant another trip to fetch it.

            Ashore again, I went to communion and later to a movie.  I returned to the ship, and that night I literally almost froze to death trying to sleep on the wooden seat-lockers.

            Saturday, 3 February.  In the morning, at long last, I picked up a new hammock.  It was just as well, for Sea Cliff was making final preparations for going to sea, which meant for me:  back into the battle of the Atlantic.

            Sea Cliff (Lt.Cdr. J.E. Harrington) had already made contact with the enemy.  On 27 December 1944 she was handy when U-877 came to her end.  On that day the corvette Edmundston (Lt. J. Lecky) had first picked up the U-boat with her Asdic.  The Castle class corvette St. Thomas (Lt.Cdr. L.P. Denny) picked up the same echo after Edmundston classified it as non-sub.  St. Thomas then made two attacks on it with squid.  Each attack resulted in a terrific explosion.  (Squid was a multi-barrelled mortar which fired its projectiles ahead of the ship.  The powerful charges were set to explode at different depths.  Squid had an advantage over Hedgehog in that the latter had to make a direct hit.)

            The escorts, including Sea Cliff, lost contact with the U-boat and, after vainly searching the area, were about to depart when the fatally damaged U-877 bobbed to the surface about two and a half miles away.  The ships opened fire but apparently made no hits.  The crew of the U-boat swarmed overboard and clung to one-man dinghies.  The escorts sped to the scene and St. Thomas picked up four officers and 30 men, while the remainder of the 55-man crew were taken aboard Sea Cliff.

            After I was settled in the P.O.s’ mess my immediate task was to attempt improving the ship’s W/T department.  My predecessor, I soon learned, had been drafted ashore and reverted in rank for “unsuitability” - whatever that means.  I was compelled to implement some changes:  and the first was to have the W/T office thoroughly cleaned and to stop the men from using it as a combined clubhouse and dining room in harbour.  Although at least one Tel had a chip on his shoulder, eventually conditions were improved to the extent that the work of the department began to function properly as in most ships.

            During my sojourn the telegraphists were:  John Howard, Carl Goyette, John Henderson, Bill McLean, Keith Grant, Derek Whale, Charles Bell, Albert Dawson, and Robert Mahood.  Our Coders were:  Vic Mandryk, Harold Turcot, Jim Minnis, George McKinnon, and Paul Ikona.  Yeoman of Signals was Frank Saville, and other signalmen remembered were Tom Brownson, Alex Tiboni, and Bill Jarvis.

            After dinner 3 February, Sea Cliff slipped out of harbour to head for another convoy.  Thoughts of my bete noire came to haunt me.  I had some supper then turned in.  Later, as I expected, I was terribly sick.

            Sunday, 4 February.  In the morning the W5 Western Local Group of Rosthern (Lt.Cdr. R.F. Wilson), Pictou (Lt. F. Cross), Galt (Lt. E.P. Taylor), and Lethbridge (Lt. F.H. Pinfold) handed over to our charge a small, slow 8-knot convoy of 34 ships, SC166.  Our group, C3, was composed of Sea Cliff, Kokanee (Lt.Cdr. W.J. Kingsmill), Riviere du Loup (Lt. R.D. Weldon), St. Thomas (Lt.Cdr. B. Hynes), and Stellarton (Lt.Cdr. M.G. McCarthy).  In addition, one Merchant Aircraft Carrier was with us.  Senior Officer of C3 Group was Cdr. C.A. King, sailing in the frigate Kokanee.

            I felt miserable all day suffering from both seasickness and, strangely enough, homesickness.  It was most difficult to be enthused about the war under these circumstances, and I resolved then that I would not volunteer for the war in the Pacific.

            Monday, 5 February.  It was a dull, cloudy day with here and there a patch of blue showing through - and I was still feeling wretched.  Outside on deck I prayed God to help me.  The only notable event was that a land-based aircraft covered the convoy for a while.  When it flew off towards base, my heart went with them.

            Tuesday, 6 February.  My seasickness was making me feel very weak.  In my present condition I wished the war was over.  The accumulation of sickness from previous sea trips was probably having its effect.  How much can a stomach take?  But I must confess I was not sick for every entire trip.  Mostly I suffered for a day or so at the beginning of each voyage; later I could cope with the movement of the ship, even though the seas were mountainous.  On one ship, after I raced to the nearest side to spew up, the coxswain threatened to put me on charge.  Apparently he figured I should have used the leeward side.  He seemed more ridiculous than compassionate.  Having been through my gehenna I always had empathy for others in the same predicament.  I recall once seeing a seasick Tiffy standing at the end of the torpedo tubes on the Skeena.  On his face was a ghastly pallor.  I was feeling well at the time and tried to console him.  I knew from experience what dreadful discomfort he was in.  But what good are words when you feel you are dying?

            Wednesday, 7 February.  I was beginning to fight off my seasickness.  The weather in the morning had begun to improve, but in the evening the sea was getting rough again.

            Thursday, 8 February.  Although there was sunshine through broken white clouds, the waves were mountainous.  However, with the sea at our stern, the ship was riding more comfortably, and thus I continued to improve.

            A merchant ship lost a man overboard; heavy with cargo, these ships were just as susceptible to this hazard as the low riding escorts.

            Friday, 9 February.  The weather was cold and grim, with dark clouds and rain.  The waves seemed more mountainous and we pitched and rolled in the heavy seas.  Our position was about 54 North and 25 West.

            Saturday, 10 February.  The blue of the skies began to peek through the breaking clouds, and the mountains of the sea were gradually shrinking.  The situation reports indicated there was U-boat activity concentrated around Ireland.

            Sunday, 11 February.  The weather was warmer and despite a rain squall later, the sun was out for most of the day.  The sea was reduced to gentle rollers.

            As our Radar had broken down, a seaboat brought over the maintenance officer from the corvette Stellarton.

            Monday, 12 February.  It was a windy day with rain.  As we were nearing land I was busy taking bearings of shore stations.

            In the evening visibility was clear and bright stars lit up the heavens.  We were off the north of Ireland and in the distance, friendly lights could be seen ashore.

            Tuesday, 13 February.  In the afternoon we proceeded cautiously through the Irish Sea.  St. Thomas picked up a contact, with no result.  Then we in turn picked up one, but it was termed “bottom.”  Nevertheless we strung Cat gear to offset any acoustic torpedoes.

            Wednesday, 14 February.  We had gone to action stations during the night but this contact also turned out to be non-sub.  Then about 0400, other ships began saturating the water with depth charges; and again no results.

            We escorted our section into the Bristol Channel.  Here the water was a muddy brown.  Then at 1300, with the convoy safely delivered, we turned and headed for Derry, zigzagging.

            Today, five Canadian Motor Torpedo Boats of the 29th Flotilla were destroyed by fire in Ostende harbour.  Losing his life in the conflagration was Telegraphist S.H. Bahleda, age 22.

            Thursday, 15 February.  About 1600, on a bright sunny afternoon, we arrived in Lough Foyle and commenced oiling.  Darkness had fallen and it was 2000 by the time we had tied up at Londonderry.

            Friday, 16 February.  In the afternoon many of the crew went on leave.  In the evening I went ashore to a dance at the R.N. Hall.  There I thoroughly enjoyed myself, particularly in dancing with a cute Wren from Yorkshire.

            Today, the frigate Saint John (Lt.Cdr. W.R. Stacey) was involved with another U-boat.  It all began not long after Escort Group 9 had picked up convoy WN74 at the North Minch.  In the group were Saint John (Senior Officer), Loch Alvie (Lt.Cdr. E.G. Old), Monnow (Cdr. E.G. Skinner), and Nene (Lt.Cdr. E.R. Shaw).

            Because of the tide the merchant ships strayed slightly off the convoy track, so the convoy Commodore steered 146 degrees in order to regain the original convoy track and subsequently a course of 110 degrees.  Then, because of intermittent fog, this change was not noticed by the escorts who found themselves off to the starboard wing of the convoy.  The escorts were in the process of recovering their original positions around the convoy when, at 1435, Saint John picked up a contact bearing 245 degrees at 900 yards.  This gave the impression that the U-boat had been lying slightly off the convoy lane to avoid detection.

            The echo picked up by Saint John was fuzzy, of small extent, and had no doppler.  It was immediately classified as an object on the bottom.  The course of Saint John was altered in order to run over the target for an Echo Sounder trace.

            When the centre bearing was steered the echo seemed to improve, and as Saint John crossed over the target the Echo Sounder trace showed the object to have the dimensions and shape of a U-boat.

            At 1455, Saint John attacked with a pattern of five depth charges that immediately brought to the surface a large flow of oil and small pieces of gray-painted soft wood.  A hedgehog attack produced more of the same.

            After dropping a five-charge pattern at 1555, Saint John lowered a seaboat and the following evidence was picked up:  a tube of boracic acid paste marked “Medical Stores, Kiel”, pieces of gray soft wood, a dented canteen, and a German signal pad.  A large radio tube with wire hanging from it was seen floating by, but could not be recovered.

            Further attacks were made throughout the night and the next day by Saint John, joined by the other ships of the group.  After a hedgehog attack at 1515, an Echo Sounder trace showed the target to be in two pieces as though the after section of the U-boat had been completely severed from the main part.  Although more attacks were made, even as late as the 20th, there was now conclusive evidence marking the destruction of a U-boat.  Its resting place was 58 09 30 North 02 23 00 West.  Later the unfortunate boat turned out to be U-309, lost with all hands - that is, 47 dead.

            The usual activities in port occupied the time in Derry.  On board ship, communication exercises kept us busy much of the time.  One big exercise, called Essex, had all communication ratings on board taking part.  This certainly prevented us from going rusty.

            In addition, there was such work as caring for the batteries or tuning the TBS transmitter-receiver.  Sometimes, Wrens worked on board and often dropped into the Mess for tea, bringing a decided but welcome change in the atmosphere.

            I received a letter from a Saint John pal, Joe McGovern, and was grateful for the service it represented.  Maintaining delivery of mail at both ends of the Newfy-Derry run was certainly a credit to the postal people.  Receiving letters was a great morale builder; but, of course, one had to write to receive - and I considered myself a fairly prolific letter-writer.

            Filling the time ashore were movies and visits to the R.N. Canteen.  And something different, I attended the quiet opening of the Canadian Red Cross Canteen on the 22nd.

            Then there was a necessary trip to buy some badges for my uniforms.  My new W/T 2 rate meant a change from the W/T 3 badge.  All this evolved from the basic Telegraphist badge which was a pair of wings divided by a bolt of lightning.  The Trained Operator badge had a star affixed above the wings; the W/T 3 badge had two stars, one above and one below, while the W/T 2 badge had one star above and two stars below the wings, making the last one a pretty colourful badge whether in gold or red.

            On Friday, my last important function in port was to drop in at Hunters Bakery to buy some of their nutritious buns.

            While we were in port, at sea on the 22nd the corvette Trentonian (Lt. C.S. Glassco) was torpedoed and sunk by U-1004 (OL Rudolf Hinz) in the English Channel.  Trentonian was escorting the UK coastal convoy BTC76, and suffered 11 wounded and six men killed.  U-1104 survived the war but was scuttled afterwards.

            Around 1600, Saturday, Sea Cliff slipped from the jetty and sailed down river for a special hedgehog shoot.  On board for the valuation of the experiment was a separate group of officers.  After arrival at Lough Foyle we anchored for the night.  On Sunday we remained at anchor and had our Huff Duff set calibrated.

            Monday, 26 February.  At 0800 we left the anchorage for an A/S exercise against bottom targets, and returned to Lough Foyle in the early afternoon.  The captain Lt.Cdr. Harrington, interviewed about twenty of the crew individually, with regards to volunteering for the war in the Pacific; and although I was slightly apprehensive about going back to civvy life, I declined to go to the Pacific.

            Eventually the newspapers announced that the Canadian armed forces contribution to the Pacific war would consist of two aircraft carriers, two cruisers, a number of destroyers and corvettes, 25,000 soldiers, and 20 to 30 squadrons of the RCAF.

            Tuesday, 27 February.  At noon we escorted a tug out to the shooting area where, along with Kokanee and St. Thomas, we took part in target practice.  Later, back at the anchorage we topped up our fuel from a tanker.  We were due to pull out at midnight to pick up the Clyde section of convoy ONS43.

            Wednesday, 28 February.  Having picked up the Clyde section of four merchant ships and one Merchant Aircraft Carrier, we rendezvoused in the afternoon with the Liverpool and Mersey sections.  For a while St. Thomas had a contact, but nothing came of it.

            In the evening we were proceeding through rough seas at four knots.  I was sick as usual.

            Thursday, 1 March.  The sea was smoothing out under broken clouds.  By evening I was beginning to feel better.

            Our convoy of 24 ships was headed west, eventually to take a southern route.  Escorting was C3 Group:  St. Thomas, Kokanee, Stellarton, Sea Cliff, and Trillium (Lt. K.E. Meredith).

            In the evening one of our engines broke down; but it was only temporary as an efficient engine room staff quickly made repairs.

            The time was retarded one hour.

            Friday, 2 March.  We received a wireless report of two ships being torpedoed in the Irish Sea.  These reports were becoming quite prevalent, with much U-boat activity around the UK.

            Today brought another temporary break-down:  this time the Asdic equipment.

            Saturday, 3 March.  Sea Cliff had the stern sweep today.  The convoy was headed on a more pronounced southern course.

            The meals weren’t very appetizing; the boys were glad they had recourse to vitamin pills.

            Sunday, 4 March.  Being Sunday, Church Service was held.  We RCs, the minority group, held ours topside on the flag-deck.  I loaned my prayer book to the conducting officer.  This book, “The Young Man’s Guide”, was given to me as a Christmas gift 25 December 44 by my brother Pat.  It was an inspiring book, and often I read it on deck where there was more solitude. Pat was twenty years old, three years younger than me. He was doing his bit in the war effort, being employed in the Merchant Seamen Manning Pool In Saint John NB, one of several Pools providing crews for Canadian merchant ships. The other Pools were in Montreal, Halifax and Vancouver.

            Back at sea the weather was fine, with broken clouds in the morning and very clear in the afternoon.  I watched aircraft taking off from the carrier as she was turned into the wind.

            Monday, 5 March.  From 2230 the previous evening to 0200 this morning, we were at action stations.  H/F D/F bearings had been taken of an enemy transmission that resulted in a fix of a U-boat 16 miles from the convoy.  We searched the area but found nothing.  Later in the day, though the sea was rough, we were able to oil in the convoy.  In the evening a friendly moon peeped through ominous dark clouds.

            Tuesday, 6 March.  This was mainly a sunny warm day.  By evening the sea was smoother than yesterday.  I felt good today, so I shaved and did my dhobeying.  Then for relaxation I tuned in the CBC on short wave for Canadian programmes.

            At midnight the time was retarded one hour.

            Wednesday, 7 March.  This was mostly a cloudy day, with a slightly rough sea.  Our position was approximately 45 North 30 West.

            I felt so refreshed after a nice warm shower that I must jot it down.  But, conversely, I also must note that the meals weren’t very good today.

            Elsewhere, La Hulloise (Lt.Cdr. J. Brock), Strathadam (Lt.Cdr. H.L. Quinn), and Thetford Mines (Lt.Cdr. J.A. Allan) sank U-1302 in St. George’s Channel.

            Thursday, 8 March.  In memory of Dad’s death two years ago this date, I said some prayers in private.

            It rained part of the day.  We attempted replenishing our fuel but the lines parted in the rough seas.  The refueling was therefore postponed until next day.

            In the mess I listened to the fellows as they reminisced about farm work and the animal life near where they lived: simple, but interesting talk.

            Friday, 9 March.  A cloudy day.  Late in the day the wind increased and in a heavy running sea the ship was rolling constantly.  For a while our progress was hampered by a rope caught in the screws, but it was eventually cut loose.

            Later in the day, after repeated attempts, we were successful in refueling.

            Saturday, 10 March.  The sea conditions were improving, with the white caps gradually disappearing.  It was colder but sunny.

            The talk today in the mess dealt with:  how long we would be in port, the next convoy, and War Bonds.

            Sunday, 11 March.  It was a nice morning, with a smooth sea.  Later on the wind increased stern on and the ship began to roll again.

            Three Liberators covered the convoy at different times.  Aircraft reports were received of U-boats being sighted on the surface.  Also received was a message advising that our relief would be Group W3.

            Monday, 12 March.  The sea was very rough and the ship was rolling monotonously.  The weather was cold with blinding sleet and snow, certainly not welcome by those men standing their posts topside.

            Having run out of spuds we had dehydrated potatoes for supper.

            Late in the night the Western Local Escort Group took over.  They were late and we had to home them to the convoy by wireless Direction Finding.

            Tuesday, 13 March.  Along with Kokanee and two corvettes we were on our way to Newfy.  Abreast of Cape Race we parted company, and Sea Cliff and Kokanee sped on ahead at 17 knots.  When we arrived in St. John’s about 2100, both ships had acquired a thin coating of ice.

            The day after our arrival I attended a conference of communication personnel.  Nothing important was discussed.

            I decline the opportunity to go on short leave.  However, I picked up a casual of $5.00 and went ashore for a short while, visiting the Cramms in the process.

            In the evening I spent my time back on ship writing letters.  There was much drunkenness on board.  The progress of the land war and the relative quiet of the Newfy-Derry run probably instilled in some of the men a feeling of complacency and premature jubilation, with the odd one behaving obnoxiously with seemingly new-found impunity.

            About 0730, Thursday, we departed St. John’s and proceeded down the coast to Bay Bulls.  On our way we had to pick our way through pack ice that crashed thunderously against the sides of the ship.  On arrival we anchored in the short narrow bay, flanked by big hills on each side.  Later in the day we were hauled up on the slips to have some welding done and repairs made to our Asdic dome.

            The small settlement at Bay Bulls had become an equally small Naval base comprising drab, brown buildings and a staff, which seemed to consist mainly of many Chiefs and Petty Officers.

            Living conditions on the ship were to continue as before, except that we had to wash ashore.  Our time at Bay Bulls was to last until the 20th.  My biggest chores seemed to be writing letters, although once I went into St. John’s by truck to call at Naval Stores, and another time I ventured up into the surrounding hills to test our portable TBY transmitter-receiver.

            On Sunday I went to Confession and Communion in an adjacent, small, white wooden church.  After Mass the priest invited me over to the house for breakfast, and while there he told me about the locality:  that there were 720 people in Bay Bulls, all RC; and that fishing was the main source of living.

            The day before sailing there was much drinking on board, especially in our P.O.s’ mess where, with one officer in attendance, a regular picnic was held.  It was a scene of great merriment, and while they feasted on beer, fried eggs, beans, and toast, I took advantage of the moment and had the wash room all to myself to dhobey my clothes.

            While we were on the slips on St. Patrick’s Day, elsewhere the minesweeper Guysborough (Lt. B.T. Russell) was torpedoed and sunk off Ushant by U-878 (KL Johannes Rodig).  The position was about 46 43 North 09 20 West, and lost with her were:  Ldg Tel W.E. Smardon, age 24; and Telegraphists R.J. Chalmers, age 20; R.G. Robertson, age 25; and S.J. Shinewald, age 20.  On 10 April, U-878 was sunk with all hands west of St. Nazaire by the British ships:  destroyer Vanquisher and corvette Tintagel Castle.

            Tuesday, 20 March.  In the morning Sea Cliff was out of the slips and tied up at a jetty for last-minute checking of the work done.

            W/T watch was set, and in the afternoon we returned to St. John’s where more stores were brought aboard, including a D/F set for the W/T department.

            At 2330, “Hands to stations for leaving harbour,” was piped by the quartermaster.

           

            There have been occasions in the war when Allied ships have had cause to ram U-boats caught on the surface; but today, the 20th, strange as it may seem, the reverse had happened:  a U-boat ramming an escort vessel.

            Actually it was more of a collision, caused by carelessness, nonchalance, and variety of happenings akin to the proverbial comedy of errors.

            It all started at dawn 19 February when U-1003 set out from Bergen on her second patrol.  Difficulties were encountered on the way to their operational area off Northern Ireland.  For example, when schnorkeling was attempted, the schnorkel was found plugged.  The schnorkel was a device that permitted a U-boat to run on its diesels and recharge its batteries while submerged at periscope depth.  Obviously a plugged schnorkeling pipe was a serious setback.  Then the screws securing the head were found loose.  Naturally, with two incidents like these, the thought of saboteurs arose.

            About 9 March, a hydrophone bearing was obtained on a suspected warship, but fog intervened before torpedoes could be fired and the contact was lost.  Later a convoy was sighted but the U-boat commander did not fire because he observed an escort vessel closing them.  However, the hydrophone operator did not hear the escort vessel, so the non-performance of duty of one of them certainly was suspect.

            On the night of 20 March, U-1003 began to approach its final destiny when it was sliding to the surface off Lough Foyle to schnorke.  Above it on the surface, Canadian Escort Group 26 was sailing merrily along at 15 knots with Cat gear streamed.  The ships, all frigates, were in line abreast and a mile apart.

            At 2317, the port lookout in New Glasgow (Lt.Cdr. R.M. Hanbury) reported what he thought was low flying aircraft, to which he added shortly afterwards, “Object in the water, very close!”  Though a periscope and schnorkel were identified just before they were obscured by a mushroom of thick smoke, these sighted objects were definitely too close, for the blundering U-boat soon crashed violently into the side of New Glasgow just below the wing of the bridge, lifting the ship out of the water.  Perhaps the collision could have been prevented if the German Search Receiver operator had reported his strength-four contact of an Allied radar transmission.  Obviously the crash came before he could make up his mind.

            With his boat listing 30 degrees to port, the U-boat commander ordered the diesels stopped, but somehow the Engineer Officer caused the motors to go half-speed ahead.  Consequently the misguided U-boat headed for the bottom, which it hit abruptly at 60 metres.

            After the collision, New Glasgow was joined by Ribble (Lt.Cdr. A.A.R. Dykes) and Sussexvale (Lt.Cdr. L.R. Pavillard), and all three illuminated the area with star shells and rockets, but nothing was seen and no asdic contact was made.

            The only sparkers known to me were those in Ribble, whose staff consisted of P.O. Tel L. Oddy, and Tels B. Pert, G. Desramaux, T. Goldie, D Hutchinson, M. Malone, P. Germaniuk, G. Pinkey, C. Lemmon, and L. Spencer, the last three being Huff Duff operators.  Also serving in Ribble was an acquaintance of mine, John Parrish, Yeoman of Signals.  John returned to the Navy after the war, and eventually retired as a Lieutenant.  On his release he took over the privileged task of commanding the famous Channel fighter, HMCS Haida, which had become a museum showpiece on the Toronto waterfront.

            After its sudden plunge, the U-boat’s damage was assessed.  Various gauges were out of action and Wireless Telegraphy installations were inoperative.  The conning tower hatch would not close properly.  The tower was flooded and had to be shut off from the control room.  About three tons of water gushed through the boat from a voicepipe, but the flow finally stopped.

            Shortly after, hydrophone contacts were picked up and the thud of exploding depth charges began to be felt.  The first five of about 30 depth charges fell in their vicinity and shook the U-boat violently.  An hour or so later, the U-boat move off slowly in a westerly direction.       

            On the surface, Escort Group 26 kept up the search.  They were joined the next day at 1100 by nine ships from Escort Group C4 and Escort Group 25.

            For 24 hours U-1003 was haunted by the sounds of ships’ screws, but at dusk on the 21st the U-boat surfaced.  Water was pumped out and the batteries charged, but the respite was brief; the detection of patrolling ships forced the U-boat to dive again.

            U-1003 re-surfaced between 0300 and 0400 of the 22nd for a short period of charging batteries and pumping of excess water.  Another contact compelled them to dive again, and after proceeding slowly for about an hour, the U-boat bottomed at 262 feet. 

            After 20 hours on the bottom, the U-boat came to the surface at midnight of 22/23 March.  The batteries were practically empty and the pumps were no longer workable.  The frustrated U-boat commander hoped to reach the Irish coast where, if repairs could not be effected, he would scuttle his boat.  But on surfacing, he found escort vessels all around so he decided to scuttle at once.

            At 0430, the crew opened the outboard vents in the bow compartment, control room, and the stern compartment.  The men donned their life jackets and came on deck.  In preparing the rubber dinghies, the crew discovered one of these would not inflate - and again sabotage was suspected.

            The submariners took to the water, and at 0730 saw their ill-fated boat roll over and sink.  Shortly after, the Canadian frigate Thetford Mines (Lt.Cdr. J.A.R. Allan), on her way to Derry, came on the scene and picked up 31 survivors - for indeed they can be termed survivors, because in their too early abandonment the choppy frigid water unfortunately claimed 16 of the crew.

            The frigate had been alerted earlier by means of a W/T message.  Sparkers in her at the time were H. Long, G. Stewart, H. Taylor, A. Marr, A. Eardley, and H. Good.  Telegraphist Harry Long, of Toronto, remembered helping the survivors up the scramble nets on the ship’s side, and using artificial respiration on one of the German sailors.  His humane effort was in vain, for the submariner was later declared dead by the Medical Officer of the frigate.

            And so the second patrol of U-1003 concluded almost ignominiously.  At least it had incapacitated New Glasgow, which put into Derry on the 22nd to find her damage more extensive than previously estimated, thus placing her on the repair list for the remainder of the war.  For the U-boat, the patrol had proved more exciting than their first outing from Kiel, which had been uneventful.

            U-1003, in retrospect, seemed to possess all the qualities of a jinxed vessel, with matters being complicated by a prescient commanding officer who, on the first patrol, had stated that the war was lost and that action was useless.  Perhaps this was an omen, for he was one of the sixteen lost in the scuttling.