FRIGATE WENTWORTH , DECEMBER 1943 - MAY 1944

The frigate Wentworth still had civilian workers on board busy with last-minute adjustments in the Yarrows Shipyard, but I was glad to see her no matter what.  Larger than the small trawler-like corvettes, frigates were almost as big as destroyers, but not as sleek.  They were about 301 feet in length, 36 feet wide, had a single funnel about midships, and had a box bridge.  At full speed they could do 19 knots, and had an endurance of 7,200 nautical miles at 12 knots.

            On Wentworth, the superstructure containing officer quarters, extended beneath and forward of the bridge; on this sat our main gun, a single barrel 4-inch gun.  The smaller 20-mm Oerlikon guns were situated on the wings of the bridge and on two platforms on each side of the ship just abaft the funnel.

            Behind the main gun and on top of the wheelhouse, our circular Medium Frequency D/F antenna was located.  Our main antennas extended from the tripod mast just aft the bridge to a smaller mast above the quarter-deck.  On top of the smaller mast was the High Frequency D/F antenna.

            When I was drafted to Wentworth there were only a few Naval personnel on board; the ship was still under construction by Yarrows Limited.  As I was looking the ship over, some of the workers asked me, “How do you like her?”  I replied simply that I did like her.  I was hardly loquacious, but I was indeed happy in being part of the crew of this brand new ship.

            On the morning of 7 December the frigate underwent her final tests and was handed over to the Navy.  In the afternoon a skeleton crew came aboard; by the end of the week the rest of the crew were on board.  On the 8th, Lt.Cdr. S.W. Howell took over command of the ship.

            On 18 December we carried out D/F calibrations.  Then we sailed up the coast to Nanoose Bay for trials.  Soon, difficulties in the W/T office began to present themselves.  One of the transmitters became unserviceable, and a motor burnt up.  However, another transmitter was available and I was up in the early hours of the morning working Esquimalt W/T station.  Later, I had success in an exercise in which I took D/F bearings of a transmitting aircraft.

            The transmitter mostly used for ship-to-shore working was the Marconi PV500H high frequency set.  It was about the size of a small clothes closet and painted a light gray.  It stood, bolted to the deck, with a half-dozen meters at eye level.  The PV500H had a frequency range from 3 Megacycles to 19 Megacycles.  Its output was 500 watts on Continuous Wave, with a range that was world wide at times.  Most of our ships and shore stations were fitted with this set.  It was later modified to give it more range.

            Another set, the squat Marconi CM11 was a very versatile auxiliary transmitter-receiver.  The transmitter component had a frequency range in four bands extending from 375 Kilocycles to 13500 Kilocycles.

            Of course, for inter-communication between escorts, the mainstay of most ships was the small FR12 transmitter-receiver - that is, until the introduction of the American TBS (Talk Between Ships) transmitter-receiver.  The TBS, a black two-piece outfit, operated on voice in the 60 to 80 Megacycle range for short distance working.  It was used in the belief it could not be intercepted.

            Receivers varied from ship to ship, but those mostly used for the reception of morse were the MSL5, with a frequency range of 15 Kilocycles to 1775 Kilocycles, and the SMR3, with a range of 97 Kilocycles to 30000 Kilocycles.  They were mostly used to receive messages broadcast from shore.

            After our Nanoose Bay trials were completed the ship went into Vancouver, and shore leave was granted.  But as I was sick with the flu, I stayed aboard.

            On the 20th we returned to Esquimalt.  I had an invitation to the home of a pretty young lady who lived with a widowed mother near Pusser’s Corner (Yates and Douglas Streets), in Victoria.  As I was still weak from the flu, I must confess I was not the best of company.

            For the next couple of days we went outside the harbour for gun shoots and to drop a few practice charges.  We looked forward to starting our trip to the East Coast.

            On Tuesday, 22 December, a tragedy occurred.  We were outside the harbour when an aircraft, flying at a low altitude near us, developed engine trouble.  The plane nosed up for a moment, then started a plunge to the ocean.  The pilot baled out but his chute had barely time to open.  He landed in the water, apparently on our port side.  As there were two smaller vessels near at hand, our ship turned to starboard, intent on rescue.  By the time we turned, the pilot had disappeared.  Later on, other planes and flying boats flew over, but they were too late.

            On 3 January we moved out of Esquimalt bound for Halifax.  As we headed through the Straits of Juan de Fuca and into the Pacific, we were beset by rough seas.  A lot of the crew were seasick, including myself.

            On the 4th, tragedy struck again.  The barometer had been dropping, rain was increasing, and the vessel was pitching and shipping seas fore and aft.  About 0545, some depth charges had broken loose and were temporarily lashed to the port depth charge rails.  At 1159, when we were in position 40 30 North 125 59 West, there came a shout, “Man overboard!”  At this time, PO Ernie Binnie was down below in the flats with PO Dave Shultz.  When he heard the alarm, Ernie remarked forebodingly:  “I bet it’s Frank.”

            Under the charge of the Buffer, PO Frank Lawrence, some men were properly securing the depth charges on the quarter-deck, when a great wave swept over the stern.  One man was saved by a guard rail, but three others were washed overboard into the stormy sea.  Apparently two men had life-belts on, and when the ship swung around the two were seen briefly - then were lost to sight altogether.  We stayed in the area until 1410, when we abandoned the search and continued our journey southward.

            The three men lost were:  AB William R. Mennel, age 19, from Winnipeg; OS Robert R. Phillips, age 19, from Calgary; and PO Frank W. Lawrence, age 22, from Toronto.  Although he did not know why, Ernie Binnie had been correct in his premonitory statement about the Buffer, Frank Lawrence, being one washed overboard.  The Petty Officers had visited the Buffer’s home the night before sailing, and Frank had just become a father.  Perhaps this had something to do with it.

            Later, with regards to this tragedy, rumours began circulating in Victoria, based probably on leakage of a subsequent message covering the loss of these three men.  It was reported:  “That rumours are being voiced and broadcast over CJVI, Victoria, to effect Wentworth has been in action with four casualties.”  Some rumours.

            In the North Atlantic about this time, HMS Bayntun and HMCS Camrose (Lt.Cdr. L.R. Pavillard) sank U-757 on 8 January 1944.

            Here in the Pacific the further south we sailed, the finer and warmer the weather became.  At 1100, 9 January, our position was 20 49 North 110 29 West.

            Tuesday, 11 January.  As this was a very warm day a hose was strung up over the quarter-deck and connected to a pump.  This resulted in a steady stream of warm salt water in which many of the crew capered in their shorts and undershirts, including  some who were sans.  The feel of the water reminded me of swimming in the St. John River.  Some of the men formed gangs and prowled about the ship, grabbing unsuspecting fellows with their clothes on, then dragging them bodily off and under the shower.

            Wednesday, 12 January.  The sky was slightly cloudy and the sea was very smooth.  I voluntarily enjoyed another shower on the quarter-deck.  In the morning I paid a visit to the Asdic (Sonar) room on the forward part of the bridge and learned much about the interesting Asdic trade from one of the Leading Hands.  This included a brief period of listening to the “pings” fingering the depths for any transgressing submarine.

            That night I was up on the bridge again; it was very dark, in fact, the night was blacker than usual.  This background accented the phosphorescent flashing in the water made by the wake of the ship, while far out from the ship, the phosphorescence caused by the rolling of the waves appeared like flickering fire-flies in a summer field.

            Friday, 14 January.  We came upon a large shoal of leaping porpoise.  Later on, I saw four or five shark-like fish that, from their spouting, perhaps were killer whales.

            I lay on deck in my shorts most of the afternoon, aware of a new danger from the sky:  a number of gulls had joined us in passage and rested in the mast above.

            Saturday, 15 January.  I worked in the W/T office most of the day trying to find a short in the Remote Control Unit.

            In the evening, for practice and interest, I copied a U-boat situation report transmitted from Freetown.  This was a change from the other nights when I copied Halifax.

            Sunday, 16 January.  With one message to transmit, I experienced some difficulty in attempting to contact Balboa on the ship-shore H/F waves; I finally passed it on 500 Kc/s.

            In the middle of the afternoon landfall was sighted, and at 1720, “Hands to stations for entering harbour” was piped.  Later, we proceeded in through two “gates” and tied up at No. 18 jetty, near Panama.

            At 2000 I went ashore as part of a large Liberty Boat and ventured into mysterious Panama city, teeming with coloured people.  Dimly lit streets, dark shadowy niches, and weird brothels in lurid surroundings, all filled me with apprehension; it was just as well that we had to be out of the Panama area by 2230, and into the Canal Zone.

            Monday, 17 January.  We departed about 1000, proceeding at first slowly through the Miraflores Locks and lake, then at a faster speed through Gatun Lake and into the remaining Gatun Locks.  On our way through the canal we brushed past an American naval vessel, whose crew flung scornful epithets at us, presumably thinking we were Royal Navy types.

            At the end of the canal we tied up at Colon, and again I was privileged to get a few more hours leave.  Ashore I bought two sets of maracas for souvenirs.  Maracas are made from gourds, painted in colourful designs, and are filled with small pebbles.  Shaken with a rhythmic effect, they are used by dancers or musicians.  One of my sets was certainly enticing to someone else, the set of two pieces was stolen by some petty thief on board.

            Tuesday, 18 January.  On this very hot day we departed Colon in company with HMCS Prince Henry (Capt. V.S. Godfrey), a Canadian armed merchant cruiser.  It was like having a big brother at your side.

            Wednesday, 19 January.  I felt ill today, so I stayed out on deck for too long a period I’m afraid - and suffered an extremely painful sunburn.

            The next day I was feeling weak; I attributed this to the sunburn.

            Flying-fish were much in evidence.  Hurtling out of the water, their tiny bodies sparkled in the sun as they literally flew through the air, buoyed up by their large pectoral fins for a long distance.  It was a thrill to watch them.

            Friday, 21 January.  In the morning we passed between the islands Hispaniola and Puerto Rico.  That evening Prince Henry left us.

            Saturday, 22 January.  It rained most of the time.  This did not affect the flying, for I saw two flying boats during the day.  In the evening I copied a few German shore-station transmissions to U-boats.  Of course, the messages were in code and made no sense to me. 

            Sunday, 23 January.  This was a nice, bright sunny day.  Patches of brown seaweed covered the sea.

            Around noon our position was about 32 North.  In the distance I spotted a Yank carrier, accompanied by three destroyers.  Swarms of aircraft flew above it; I watched some of the planes making landings on her huge deck.

            We had a tasteful dinner today:  chicken.

            Monday, 24 January.  The weather was now colder.  In the evening I transmitted our Estimated Time of Arrival report.  Halifax W/T station answered me immediately; it was a relief to know our transmitter was O.K., remembering the trouble I had trying to call Balboa.  For the ship’s call sign when calling a shore station we could use any two-letter designator beginning with A, such as AZ, AK, AP, etc.  If the ship could not hear the shore station on the working wave, but the shore station (example, Halifax) could hear the ship, replies to the ship would be transmitted on the broadcast wave.

            Tuesday, 25 January.  About 0100 I had to get up and transmit another message - the other one was corrupt (that is, coded up incorrectly).  Calling the senior hand to transmit messages was normal routine, so I didn’t mind being awakened.

            During one of these transmissions it was reported to me that our antenna was emitting flashes.  I discovered that this was caused by loose, wet signal halyards striking against the antenna during the keying of the transmitter.  This was highly undesirable for a darkened ship.

            Later in the morning I busied myself taking D/F bearings of Sambro Lighthouse and the Halifax East Lighthouse.

            We arrived in port about noon and tied up at Number Three jetty.  In the evening I went ashore and phoned home.

            Wednesday, 26 January.  As I had the responsibility of the W/T part of the ship, I felt entitled to P.O.’s pay, albeit I was only a Killick (Leading Telegraphist).  I therefore appeared before the Jimmy (First Lieutenant), Lt. Lorne Clark, in the morning, and requested P.O.’s pay.  In the afternoon I appeared before the Commanding Officer who granted my request.

            Also to see the CO were about twenty defaulters; most of them had gone adrift in Panama and so were given 14 days stoppage of leave and one day stoppage of pay.  This punishment made the rest of the crew annoyed and unhappy, with some of them wanting a draft off the ship.

            I tried to get the weekend off, but under the prevailing conditions this might have been too much to ask.

            On Thursday I attempted again to get the weekend off, but to no avail.  On Friday the Signal Officer, Lt. Clare Shaver, advised me to submit my request again.  I did so, and anxiously awaited for “requestmen” to be piped.

            Just before dinner I was seeing the CO, First Lieutenant, and Signal Officer.  The captain seemed reluctant to approve the leave, but in the end he approved it.  I was very glad.  Soon I was on my way to Saint John on the 3:15 train.

            In Truro, I chanced to meet my old chum, Stoker Clifford (Huck) LeClair, who was also on the train and on his way home for a weekend.  Huck acquainted me with four other stokers.  The trip was now congenial with much singing, joking and laughing.

            I arrived home about 1.30 Saturday morning, and after a long talk with Mom and my sister Mary, went to bed.

            I spent most of the weekend visiting friends, and even had time to enjoy a concert at the Seamen’s Mission on Prince William Street.

            My train departed about ten to one Monday afternoon, and in Moncton I met and had a chat with my Provost brother, Bill.

            About 2330, with lowered window blinds, the train arrived in Halifax.  A taxi then took me to the Centre Gate of the Dockyard.  The Wentworth was gone from the jetty, but I found a telephone and learned that the ship was over at the Dartmouth gun jetty.

            A harbour-craft, chugging along under a nice moon, delivered me across the harbour to the ship.  Once on board I slung my mick and turned in.

            Tuesday, 1 February.  As the ship was under sailing orders, shore leave was granted only until 2200.  At midnight, in very cold weather, we sailed for Shelburne.

            Wednesday, 2 February.  Wentworth, covered with a thin coating of ice, arrived Shelburne around 1000, and anchored in the harbour.  Then at 1900 we tied up at a jetty to undergo what might be considered as a minor refit.

            Shelburne was a small town and therefore, at this time of the year, unexciting.  Other than ship duties, my time was spent mainly at the movies at the Naval base.  Twice I went skating at a lake off in the woods a few miles from the base.

            Once I almost made it home for a weekend, but the bus on which I was travelling became stranded in Yarmouth because the road beyond was blocked by deep snow.  I spent the night in Yarmouth, and later returned to the ship.

            The ship departed Shelburne on the morning of 22 February and arrived Halifax in the middle of the afternoon.  It was a good trip, enhanced by a bright sun and a sea smooth as a lake.

            Sailing this same day - on what was to be her last convoy duty - was HMCS Columbia (Lt.Cdr. R.A. MacNeil), formerly a U.S. Navy four-stacker destroyer.

            On her departure from Halifax with the support force to HX280, Columbia obtained her last accurate navigational fix.  From then on, because of a heavy overcast and intermittent fog, her exact position was never truly known.

            On 24 February she parted company with the convoy, but by this time there was a discrepancy of one hundred miles between her dead reckon position and that of the convoy Commodore’s.  The four-stacker, therefore, used her own reckoning with caution as she shaped a course for St. John’s.

            On the 25th, as she approached the coast of the Avalon Peninsula, Columbia obtained a fix by means of a D/F bearing of the radio beacon at Cape Race and a sun sight.  This was treated as inaccurate because of a misty horizon during the sun sight.  Her course now was 005 degrees, tending in towards the coast.  At 1710 and 1810, further bearings of Cape Race radio beacon were taken for a running fix.  Unfortunately these were plotted incorrectly on the chart making it appear that the ship was ahead and to seaward of her actual position.

            At 1845 Columbia altered course to the northwest to round Cape Spear and enter St. John’s but, because of the error, her new course took her into Motion Bay to the south of the cape.  She was now really in a predicament.  She was proceeding in a thick fog and through a field of ice.  Her Asdic was not working, and two men had gone below to the Asdic oscillator compartment to try and repair the equipment.  Worse, the Type 271 Radar set had broken down with a burned-out transformer some days before, and the SW2C was not behaving properly.

            The SW2C had been reporting land to the eastward where there was only open ocean, but nothing to the westward where Newfoundland lay just a few miles off.  As a result, when it reported land a mile and a half ahead at 1903 and at half a mile a few seconds later, these reports were disregarded.  It was learned later that when the SW2C antenna was iced, as Columbia’s antenna was at the time, the echoes were likely to appear to come from the opposite direction to that in which the targets really lay - a phenomenon that would seal Columbia’s ultimate destiny.

            It happened just after P.O. Telegraphist Bert Attwood, of Toronto, had been called to the wheelhouse to take radio D/F bearings.  He had only been able to take one bearing with the MDF5 when the ship crashed headlong into a rugged Newfy cliff, smashing in the bow.

            Down below tragedy struck.  One of the two men working on the Asdic equipment managed to get through the only hatch as a bulkhead collapsed, but the other man was trapped.  The compartment did not leak much, and the pumps were able to keep the water down while the damage control party strived to free their shipmate.  After some hours they were able to lift him carefully through the hatch, but he died almost at once.

            The destroyer’s other bulkheads held, but her exact position was naturally in doubt.  Upon reporting her situation by radio, the minesweeper Trois Rivieres (Lt. W.G. Garden) was sent out from St. John’s to locate her.  The sweeper did so by means of wireless D/F and Radar, and eventually the two ships entered St. John’s in company, securing alongside at 0153 on 26 February.

            Columbia was given a blunted bow at Bay Bulls, Newfoundland, and then was retired from service.  She was later used as a fuel and ammunition hulk for ships refitting at Liverpool, Nova Scotia.

            Out in the North Atlantic other Canadian ships were chalking up victories over the enemy.  On 24 February, the frigate Waskesiu (Lt.Cdr. J.P. Fraser) sank U-257.

            On 6 March, HMS Icarus, HMS Kenilworth Castle, Chaudiere (Lt.Cdr. C.P. Nixon), Chilliwack (Lt.Cdr. C.R. Coughlin), Fennel (Lt.Cdr. W.P. Moffat), Gatineau (Lt.Cdr. H.V.W. Groos), and St. Catherines (Lt.Cdr. H.C.R. Davis), all had a hand in sinking U-744.

            Then on 10 March, HMS Forester, Owen Sound (Lt.Cdr. J.M. Watson), St. Laurent (Lt.Cdr. G.H. Stephen), and Swansea (Cdr. C.A. King) teamed up to sink U-845.

            During Wentworth’s further stay in Halifax, the only notable events were two trips to the “Action Room” where simulated convoy action was conducted, and the arrival on board of Lt. J.G. Parkes, from Naval Service Headquarters, to supervise installation of the American DAQ H/F D/F outfit and the subsequent trials at sea.

            On Monday, 13 March, we carried out a gun shoot, followed by Medium Frequency Direction Finding calibrations.  Each day thereafter we proceeded out of the harbour and anchored about four miles off shore to undergo more calibrations, with all the time given to adjusting our more important High Frequency D/F equipment.

            On Tuesday, 21 March, the H/F D/F calibrations were completed and we moved farther out to sea for H/F D/F tests.  We returned to port about one o’clock in the morning.

            Wednesday, 22 March.  Preparations for making us operational for the North Atlantic Battle still occupied all our time.  But the events of the day would prove that the war at sea was not as far away as one would think.

            At 0930 we nosed our way into Bedford Basin to run the Degaussing Range.  About 1100 we received a signal advising that, along with some other ships, we were to remain at immediate notice for steam.

            In the afternoon we tied up to a buoy in the harbour for a compass swing.  Another signal was received saying leave could be granted.  But, at 1600 this was revoked.  We were to set watch on the broadcast wave, 105 Kilocycles, and proceed to sea.

            Messages came pouring in.  SS Watuka, a ship in the Sydney to Halifax convoy SH125, had been sunk off the coast in position 44 30 North 62 51 West, presumably by torpedo as other ships were already searching for a suspected U-boat.  Wentworth was ordered to take charge on arriving at the scene.

            Subsequently we cleared harbour and raced to the search area, about 15 miles from the Halifax lightship.  Around 2300 we went to Action Stations.  The contact turned out to be the ships we were to join.  Later, about 0100, we experienced Action Stations again.  This time it was because we got an H/F D/F bearing of a U-boat transmitting about 30 miles away from us.  At the same time ashore, Ottawa also obtained a bearing; this information was broadcast to us.

            All day Thursday we kept on searching, some of the time in the vicinity of a passing convoy, but with nil results.

            On Friday morning, in rough seas, another force joined us, and Captain “D” in the Wallaceburg took charge of the hunt.

            The minesweeper Swift Current sighted a U-boat on the surface, 30 miles south of Halifax.  The U-boat dived and unfortunately Swift Current felt compelled to interrupt her search for it in order to warn a troop transport which was approaching the position.  Swift Current (Lt. J. Evelyn) was unable to get a contact thereafter.

            Saturday, 25 March.  We were still searching.  At noon there were 16 ships in the hunt:  Wentworth, Alberni, Shediac, Truro, Kenogami, Port Colborne, Wallaceburg, Battleford, Dunvegan, Nene, Buctouche, Swift Current, Matapedia, Clayoquot, Vancouver, and Transconian; plus M.L. Flotilla 76, and aircraft - all in all a massive force.

            We were continually making sweeps around position 63 West 43 North.

            By Sunday morning our box search was narrowed to a small square area, around which the ships patrolled - and for awhile with Foxers towed astern.  (The Foxer was a noise-making device used to thwart acoustic torpedoes.)  Three ships made sweeps through the diminishing area with a hope that the U-boat was trapped in its centre.  But, nothing was found; it seems incredible that with so many ships after it, the U-boat had made good its escape.  This U-boat was the U-802 and it was to survive and surrender at the end of the war.

            In the afternoon our fruitless search came to an end and we set out for Halifax.  All the ships were in line ahead.  We were second in line and, of course, second into port.

            The time was about 1930 when Wentworth tied up to the oil jetty on the Dartmouth side near the mouth of the harbour.  It was not until 2230 when we continued further into harbour, tying up at Jetty 4 in the Dockyard.

            Tuesday, 28 March.  As the ship was under sailing orders, leave was only granted until 2200.  We sailed at 2330, bound for sunny Bermuda.

            On Wednesday we ploughed through a rough sea in the morning, but later in the day the sea began to smooth out.

            Thursday, 30 March.  We sighted a U.S. Martin-Mariner aircraft which signalled they had sighted an oil slick about 30 miles distant from us.  We set out to investigate.

            Arriving in the indicated area we found the oil slick and a greenish chemical-marker an aircraft had dropped.  There were now two martin-Mariners hovering above us.  We scouted the area, but finding nothing to report, we continued on our way.  In the evening we received orders from Bermuda to return to the oil slick and there rendezvous with two U.S. Naval ships.  I transmitted a message to Halifax on 4740 Kc/s, advising the shore authorities of our Estimated Time of Arrival at the oil slick.

            Friday, I was up at 0415; one of the Yank ships was calling us.  After tuning up on the irregular frequency I began to return the call, but was unable to contact them.  Perhaps they had ceased listening on that frequency, or our transmitter was slightly off.  Anyway, later in the morning we met the two Yank ships, one of which was the USS Tweedy.  Together, we conducted a further search of the area.

            At noon, after finding nothing - no underwater contacts or floating wreckage - we again headed for Bermuda.

            We arrived off Bermuda Saturday morning and by noon, after needling our way up a cleared channel, we were tied up at the Naval Dockyard.  The water on the way in, depending on the depth and the effects of the sunlight, was either a beautiful blue or green.  The islands were dotted with white bungalows nestling in surroundings of lush green vegetation, making a warm touristic picture.

            Although Hamilton was out of bounds to us, we were allowed ashore shortly after our arrival.  Leading Writer Bill Clark and I took to the narrow roads and, crossing several tiny bridges, tramped into a small village called Somerset.  There, using English money, we had supper at the IODE-USO Service Canteen.  We returned to the ship about 2130.

            On Sunday, Divisions - somewhat like falling in on a parade ground - were held on the quarter-deck in the morning; afterwards I arrived at Mass late.

            After dinner I went ashore for a stroll.  I was fascinated by twisted cedars, white sandy beaches, serene water, and strange varieties of fish I could see from the tiny bridges.  In contrast, Flying boats were always in sight overhead:  an out of place reminder of war.

            I returned to the ship about 1500 and went swimming off the stern of the ship.  After supper I joined four other lads of the communication staff in the sea-boat for some awkward, but fun-laden rowing.

            Monday, 3 April.  We sailed about 0800 to commence our work-up exercises.  This involved action stations, abandon ship stations - and all kinds of other stations.  But they did not affect our W/T department too much; we kept a normal watch.  At 1600 we returned to port and anchored in St. George’s Bay.

            Tuesday and Wednesday were repetitions:  out in the morning for exercises, and in at supper time to anchor.

            On Thursday we remained in port all day and conducted our exercises there.  The abandon ship station exercise was slightly different this time.  Everybody had to muster by their respective Carley floats, cut them loose, and then jump into the water with life-belts on.

            The life-belts were the vest type, blue in colour, and filled I believe with kapok.  This was the fourth type I had worn so far in the war.  The first was the small round type worn around the waist and, to be used, had to be blown up.  I had some apprehensions about that one, wondering if I would get it up in time in an emergency.  The next one was a similar round-the-waist type, but which had a device that, when set off, would chemically blow up the life-belt.  The third preserver was another vest type, held together by khaki coloured cloth.  Inside were sewn slabs of flat rubber-like material that made the preserver resemble an ancient vest of armor.  The blue vest preserver contained an embellishment.  It had a pocket holding a battery connected to a small hat.  On the top of the hat was a light that would flash on and off in an emergency.

            During the Bermuda exercises we were often in competition with other ships.  When the points for Thursday were totalled, we had placed last; the corvette Louisburg (Lt. J.B. Elmsley) came first, and the frigate New Glasgow (Lt.Cdr. G.S. Hall) came second.

            Our W/T department was required to rig a jury aerial (temporary, emergency antenna).  It took us about 15 seconds to get the jury aerial up and our transmitter on the air, principally because we strung it out on deck and used a lead-in through a port hole.  I was confident that we had raced the other ships in this, but apparently this exercise didn’t count in the standings.

            Good Friday, 7 April.  On this warm, sunny day we sailed again for exercises off Bermuda.  One exercise involved the rescue of a man overboard.  A life-buoy, representing the “man”, was thrown over the side.  When the ship turned about, a life-boat pulled away from the ship to pick up the man.

            For practice, we dropped two patterns of depth charges:  one in the morning, and the other in the afternoon.  The charges, set to explode at various depths, were rolled on rails off the stern of the ship and also catapulted from throwers on each side of the ship aft.  A distribution of six to ten charges produced a pattern with a devastating effect.

            In the afternoon, the Wentworth had two gun-shoot runs.  But, our aim was not as good as the New Glasgow’s gun crew, who, the target ship announced on R/T, were excellent.

            We returned to harbour at supper time and in the evening I busied myself tuning up a couple of frequencies on one of the transmitters.

            Homing exercises with an aircraft had been planned for Saturday, but we were unable to make contact with it.  However, New Glasgow, taking bearings of our wireless transmissions, homed us to them.  Late in the afternoon we returned to the anchorage in St. George’s Bay.

            Divisions, with everyone assembling in full uniform, were held on board in the morning, following which I went swimming - highlighted by a leap from the bridge.  I didn’t dare dive.

            After dinner, a meeting with the First Lieutenant was held in the P.O.’s mess where several issues were discussed.  One was a request to have the SRE system turned on again for entertainment.

            About 1600 we moved out of St. George’s and up to Grassy Bay, where we again anchored.

            On Monday, the crew painted ship; I was busy in the W/T office.

            Having requested a replacement for an unserviceable Loud Hailer on the bridge, I promptly received a new loudspeaker from the Dockyard.  This certainly illustrated the availability of supplies.

            Tuesday, 11 April.  We oiled in the morning from a tanker in Grassy Bay.  Just before dinner Wentworth departed Bermuda escorting a barge.  This barge, which was used for carrying mud, could only make six knots.  It was therefore not difficult for us to keep in front of it making wide sweeps - a task we had to do well, because of our exposed condition resulting from the incessant, heavy, black smoke belching from the barge’s solitary funnel.

            After a foggy Wednesday morning the weather began to clear, until in the afternoon the sun came peeking through broken clouds.

            At 1030 an aircraft zoomed over us on patrol.  At 2045 we exercised action stations.

            On Thursday, we ploughed through rough seas under cloudy skies.  At times heavy rain squalls reduced the visibility to about 50 yards.

            We had been heading north, but when the rough weather developed the barge could not make any headway, so the course had to be altered to south-west.

            By evening the storm was abating.

            On Friday, the barge was heading north again in calmer seas.  The sun shone down through a sky dotted with small islands of white clouds.

            The dinner menu brought us a novelty fare:  dehydrated potatoes, a product not particularly liked by many of the crew.

            In the evening our situation report had to be transmitted.  I called Halifax on 12685 Kilocycles, undoubtedly too high a frequency, for Newfy answered immediately and so I passed the message to them for forwarding.

            Elsewhere in the North Atlantic this day, Swansea (Cdr. C.A. King) and HMS Pelican sank U-448.

            On Saturday the ship was pushing its way through heavy fog.  Our Radar was unserviceable; consequently we had to blow our whistle often.  We received orders from the shore authorities to change our course.

            Dinner today brought us chicken - but no potatoes.

            Monday, 17 April.  As it was still foggy it was necessary I obtain bearings of Sambro.  For this I used the MDF 5 receiver.  The MDF 5 was a direction finder with a frequency range of 265 to 670 Kc/s.  The following condensation will briefly explain the D/F procedure used with this set.

            After particulars of a station were found in the Admiralty List of Radio Signals, Volume II, and the station tuned in, two zeroes or nulls in the signal of the station being DF’d would be found by rotating the goniometer (containing the degrees of the compass) with the Sense-D/F switch in the D/F position.  Next, with the Sense-D/F switch in the Sense position, the goniometer is turned to the position of one zero and the signal strength of the station noted; then it is turned to the position of the other zero.  The weakest signal indicated the correct bearing.  A finer bearing would then be obtained with the Sense-D/F switch in the D/F position.  Later Wentworth was to get an FM12 receiver, which I found to be a better D/F set.

            Around 1300 we arrived off Sambro.  Before entering harbour we had to mark time outside until a convoy of ships filed out.  It was therefore not until 1830 that we arrived in port.  Shore leave, ending at 0200, was subsequently granted.

            On Tuesday, we sailed out of the harbour and down the coast to St. Margaret’s Bay where we anchored for the rest of the day to prepare for more evolutions; it seems we will never be ready for full convoy duty.  Many other ships were there in the bay for work-ups.

            On Wednesday, we moved out beyond the mouth of the bay for A/S exercises with a friendly elusive sub; we also took part in some other exercises such as boarding one of the training submarines.  We returned to the inner bay just prior to 1700 and tied alongside Acadia, the conducting ship.

            Next day the P.O. Telegraphist from the Acadia came on board to examine our W/T organization.

            During the day more exercises followed, one of which, in the evening, had us firing star shells to illuminate another ship.  We returned to harbour about midnight.

            A wireless homing exercise was carried out Friday morning in which we took bearings of a transmitting aircraft.  The bearings were then passed by W/T to the aircraft, thus enabling it to home on to us.  The usual routine (that I would do often in convoy) was for the aircraft to transmit its call sign with five-second dashes on 385 Kc/s.  The ship would take the bearing and pass the result (the bearing and time) to the aircraft on 3925 Kc/s.  Example:

            BRJW  V  BRJ  -  095  -  1103  K

            On Saturday the Training Commander inspected the ship.  It almost appeared we were ready for North Atlantic convoy duty - but that was still to be in the offing.  After supper we weighed anchor, and in company with the corvette Moose Jaw (Lt. H. Brynjolfson), headed for Halifax.

            On arrival at 2200, we tied up at Jetty 3, and thereupon discovered we were to be converted into a Senior Officer (SO) ship.  This meant we would acquire an officer (senior and additional to our own captain), and a staff who would be in charge of a convoy Escort Group.  Additionally we would acquire a Petty Officer Telegraphist.  Flattered by the news of becoming an SO ship, some of us went ashore for a good meal.

            Elsewhere this day the U-311 was sunk by the frigates Matane (A/Cdr. A.F.C. Layard) and Swansea (A/Cdr. C.A. King).

            From 23 April on, Wentworth was under alterations.

            During these days personnel were gaining recognition of their service to the country by receiving the common award of two medals, after first completing an application form satisfactorily.  Actually it was a “provisional award” as the slip on the bottom of the form was so marked.  In addition, the slip advised the recipient of his award with the unceremonious words:  “Present this slip to the nearest clothing store for the issue of:  (a) Canadian Volunteer Service Medal Ribbon; (b) Clasp; (c) 1939-1943 Star Ribbon.”

            Although one might be qualified, the medals themselves were not issued at this time.  In explanation, the qualifications can be summed up simply.  To be awarded the Canadian Volunteer Medal a person was required to have eighteen months’ voluntary service, whether continuous or not.  For the Clasp to the medal, the person had to have a minimum of sixty days’ voluntary service on duty beyond the territorial boundaries of Canada.  Such period need not be continuous.

            To qualify for the 1939-1943 Star, a person was required to have six months’ service afloat in areas of active operations during the period from 3 September 1939 to 31 December 1943, inclusive.  Service after 31 December would not be reckoned.  Although I was qualified for these awards, somehow I never got around to going to Stores for the issue.

            On the other side of the Atlantic, in the early hours of 29 April, the Tribal Class destroyer Athabaskan had reached her destiny off the coast of Brittany.  Captain of her during these final moments was my former skipper of the destroyer Assiniboine, 32-year-old Lt.Cdr. John Hamilton Stubbs.

            Also in Athabaskan at the time was Leading Telegraphist Emile Beaudoin, of Ste. Foy, Quebec.  He well remembers those last sad moments of his gallant ship: 

               “At about 0300, the stand-by bell rang.  I ran to the Main W/T office, where I found Telegraphists Jim Martin, Bill Dempsey, and Ldg Coder Willie Hayes on watch.  George Quigley, Hank Bennetts, and P.O. Tel Don Lynch were on the deck, sleeping.

               “W/T messages from Plymouth reported two enemy destroyers in the vicinity of Ile de Batz.  Athabaskan and Haida (Lt.Cdr. H.G. DeWolf) soon detected them by Radar at a distance of five and a half miles.  Not long after we opened fire.  Athabaskan fired two salvoes - then a torpedo (one of a spread fired by the Elbing Class destroyer, T-24) found its mark aft and set us on fire.  Telegraphist Alfred Cross, at his action station in the auxiliary W/T office aft, was killed instantly.

               “From the bridge they passed the following message: ‘Am hit aft and stopped.’  In the W/T office, Jim Martin, of Carignan, Quebec, transmitted the SOS message.  Next, down the voice pipe came the warning from Signalman Jack Downey:  ‘Stand by to abandon ship!’

               “Then, what seemed to be a second torpedo exploded amidships.  (Later, in explanation, the massive explosion was attributed to the after magazine blowing up.  Ashore, Kapitanleutnant Wilhelm Kampmann witnessed the struggle of the ships.  He was Commandant of the Naval Artillery unit on Ile de Batz, and believed that Athabaskan was sunk by gunfire.)  The explosion caused the lights in the W/T office to go off.  I then heard Signalman Downey again yelling down the voice pipe: ‘Abandon Ship!’

               “I dashed into the flats, through acrid smoke, and onto the open deck through the port side flats.  The ship was rolling on the port side very fast, and the stern was under water.  On deck, I could hear the moans of the dying, and wounded.  One of these was Chief Stoker Bill Mitchell.  He was trapped in the wreckage, but his life was saved by a friend who freed and helped him overboard.

               “After sliding on the oil-covered steel deck, I suddenly found myself floating and swallowing oil-covered water.  Wreckage of all kinds was floating around.  I got away as fast as I could from the sinking ship.  It was with relief that I sighted a Carley float.  I eagerly climbed aboard.

               “By the light of searching shells fired by Haida later, I managed to recognize other men on the float:  AB Owen (Digby) Deal, of Halifax; Ldg Cook Bernard Laurin, of Penetang, Ontario; Telegraphist Willie Lambert, of Montreal; Ldg Seaman Jim Lesperance, of Winnipeg; AB Ray Miller, of Quebec City; AB Ray Moar, of Chatham, N.B.; Stoker Ed Polson, of Montreal; and Cook Jim Tyrie, of Kingston, Ontario.

               “Turning around I saw our battered ship, with bows pointing to the sky and a fire burning around the galley, sinking beneath the waves.  We gave the dying ship three cheers, and started to sing, “Roll Along Wavy Navy” - a song which was immediately picked up by men on neighbouring floats.

               “Near us I saw our captain, Lt.Cdr. Stubbs, hanging onto a flottanet.  Eventually Haida returned after driving a blazing Elbing destroyer onto the rocks.  She stopped in our vicinity and we paddled alongside her port side.  The current and tide were strong, making it difficult to get close.  Lambert, Laurin, Miller, and Digby Deal grabbed the scramble net and got aboard.  Digby returned with a rope to help Moar, who had a broken back.  While we were fastening the rope around Moar, we drifted away from the ship.  After great effort we succeeded in getting close to Haida a second time.  Then, just as Digby was half-way up the scramble net with the other end of the rope, Haida picked up speed and Digby was swept back into the turbulent waters.  (With breaking daylight and being close to the enemy-occupied coast, the destroyer was vulnerable to enemy aircraft and other coastal defences.  She headed for port with her survivors.  Altogether Haida and her motor cutter had rescued 48 men.  Of these, six were sparkers:  P.O. Don Lynch, of Lethbridge, Alberta; Ldg Tel George Quigley, of Toronto; Ldg Tel Henry Bennetts, of Esquimalt, B.C.; and Tels Bill Dempsey, of Toronto; Bill Lambert, of Montreal; and Bill Martin, of Drayton, Ontario).

   “After Haida left I noticed that our skipper was no longer with our group.  Half an hour later we picked up C.P.O. Cook Ray Stenning, who was too weak to climb aboard.  We hoisted him onto the float.  He was delirious and grabbing feverishly at everything around him.  Fortunately he calmed down at daybreak as we drifted towards land, only a few miles away.

   “About 0730, three German minesweepers appeared and our group of six was picked up.  They gave us a hot water shower and a blanket.  Then we were given food:  macaroni with five or six prunes on top, bread and jam, and ersatz coffee.  Afterwards my companions dozed off, but I kept alert all the time, not wanting to miss anything.  At 1400, wrapped in a blanket and wearing a pair of rubber sea boots we landed in Brest.  About 50 men armed with machine guns were on the jetty.  A bus then took us to the convent Kerbonne, occupied by the German Navy.  There we were each given a French sailor’s uniform and a bowl of soup.  Our first night in France was spent on straw mattresses on the floor under the watchful eyes of armed guards.”

            Of the survivors rescued by the Germans, 29 were hospitalized in the Chapelle Saint Mesmin, at Orleans, then used by the Germans as a military hospital.  Telegraphist Jim Martin, who had sent the SOS, was badly burned and spent some time in the hospital before being transferred to the prison camp of Marlang und Milag Nord.  At this camp, about 25 km from Bremen, 85 Athabaskan survivors (including two Royal Navy ratings who were Athabaskans) were held as prisoners of war.  In the POW ranks was Tel Walter Sheppard of Vancouver, B.C.

            In the sinking of Athabaskan, 128 officers and men lost their lives.  During the early days of May the bodies of Canadian sailors washed up on the shore, many of them between Keremma, Treflez and Saint Eden, Plouescat.  They eventually totalled 78, and now lie in eight cemeteries scattered throughout North Finistere.  Thirty-nine unknown Athabaskan men lie in six of the cemeteries.  Among them, most likely, is Tel Alfred Cross, 26, of Armdale, N.S.

            On Ile de Batz three Athabaskans, R.J. Henry and R.L. Yeadon, and one unidentified sailor were buried with military honours by the German Naval Artillery unit, under the command of KL Wilhelm Kampmann.  Afterwards a service was held in the local church in which the French inhabitants took part.

            The largest number of Athabaskans, 59, were buried in the Plouescat Communal Cemetery.  After the liberation of France the Commonwealth War Graves Commission exhumed the bodies, identified them, and reinterred them in individual graves.  Among the dead in Plouescat are two sparkers, Irvin V. Amiro, of Pubnico, N.S., and Reginald J. Watson, of New York, N.Y.

            Plouescat is a village and commune 25 miles northeast of Brest and 17-and-a-half miles northwest of Morlaix, on the main coast road of this part of Northern Brittany.  The small communal cemetery is south of the village some 400 yards from the church, and at the end of the Rue du Calvaire.  Near the west wall are the graves of the 59 Athabaskan sailors, of whom 25 are not identified.

            The graves are in a small plot of mown grass defined by a kerb, with continuous flower borders along the lines of headstones.  The Cross of Sacrifice, on a podium, stands on a lawn at the left of the graves.  And here among the Athabaskan crewmen, in his last resting place, lies their beloved Commanding Officer, Lt.Cdr. J.H. Stubbs, DSO, DSC, RCN, whose body was also washed ashore.

            Looking back, the Canadian Directorate of History says that Athabaskan sank at 0427B (0227 GMT) in the approximate position of 48 43 N 04 32 W, roughly five miles north-northeast of the Ile de Vierge, off the north coast of Brittany.  The French Hydrographic Service at Brest agrees with this position.  However, the British Hydrographer of the Navy, in the uncharted category of their records, gives the approximate position of the sinking as 48 43 00 N 04 31 24 W, based on the reported sinking position of true bearing 020 degrees, 5 sea miles from Ile de Vierge, in a depth of 40 fathoms.  The position becomes significant when it is considered that during a 1974 reunion (spearheaded by Emile Beaudoin) survivors of Athabaskan planned to drop a remembrance wreath over the sunken ship.

            In what could be described as a measure of retribution:  the Elbing Class destroyer, T-24, which had torpedoed Athabaskan, came to her grief on 24 August 1944, when she was hit by British aircraft.  Eighteen of her men were killed in the attack.

            In the early hours of 7 May, another Canadian escort ship was headed for disaster.  This happened shortly after the ships of Escort Group C-1 had turned over their convoy, ONM234, to the ships of the relieving Western Local Escort force.  A C-1 ship, Fredericton (Lt.Cdr. J.E. Harrington), was escorting a straggler, and the other ships:  Halifax (Lt. M.F. Oliver), Frontenac (Lt.Cdr. E.T.F. Wennberg), Valleyfield (Lt.Cdr. D.T. English), Giffard (Lt.Cdr. C. Peterson), and Edmundston (Lt.Cdr. R.D. Barrett) were zigzagging their way to St. John’s when fate stepped in.

            The weather was clear and bright; an almost full moon bore 180 degrees astern; a message on the broadcast warned of a U-boat patrolling in the area between Virgin Rocks and the Avalon Peninsula:  in all, the conditions were enough to engender caution in the group.  But numerous small icebergs, scattered over the sea, produced many dubious contacts.  So to cut down on side echoes, the Senior Officer at 2300 gave the order to cease zigzagging, having decided (it was later considered) that a steady course with maximum Radar efficiency offered the best protection.  Besides, Radar equipment in both Valleyfield and Frontenac was defective and periodically inoperative.  In any event it would not have helped to pick up the particular U-boat that now appeared on the scene.

            The U-boat that had been reported was the U-548, which was of Type IX C/40, but not fitted with schnorchel.  It was commanded by OL Eberhard Zimmerman, and was operating singly on patrol in the area south of Nova Scotia/Newfoundland.  While submerged the U-boat sighted Valleyfield, but proper observation through the periscope was not possible because of the swell.  However, with an underwater bow shot, Zimmerman fired a T-5 acoustic torpedo at the frigate.  U-548 then dived deep.

            At 0240 GMT, Valleyfield, now astern of the other ships, picked up a fast hydrophone effect bearing Red 60, and the A/S operator was ordered to investigate.  He had just begun an Asdic sweep to port when a torpedo struck the port side, amidships.

            To the U-boat, the sound of the loud and dull detonation came three minutes and 12 seconds after firing.  The sound of the ship’s screws had stopped.  The frigate broke in two and began to sink, observed in the moonlight by the U-boat.  At 0245 she was completely gone, sinking beneath the surface in position 46 03 North 52 24 West.

            In her dying moments, Telegraphist Robert E. Daley, RN, of London, England, was saved by the pledge of a shipmate.  He and his pal, Telegraphist Harry Norman, of Manchester, were on loan to the RCN, and had made a pact that if ever one was trapped in his wireless cabin, the other would first of all try to save him.

            And that is exactly what happened.  The door of the wireless cabin jammed with the explosion and Daley could not get out.  Afterwards he related what happened: 

               “I was just starting to hammer on it when I heard Harry’s voice from the other side: ‘Are you all right, Bob?’  I yelled that the door was stuck, and then I could hear Harry putting his weight on it from the outside.

               “The door sprang open.

               “I had my life-jacket on, but Harry had none.  Before I could say a word, the deck was canting so steeply that we both fell across the flagdeck, and Harry was blown away from me and crashed into the superstructure.  I suppose he was killed instantly.  I never saw him again.  I owe my life to him.”

            The corvette Giffard, after failing to contact the missing frigate by Radio Telephone, was returning to her last known position when the flares of the survivors were sighted in the water.  The other ships of the Group were quickly notified and a search for the U-boat commenced.

            Giffard returned after a short search to pick up the survivors, leaving the other corvettes to carry on the hunt.  The corvette succeeded in rescuing a small number of men.  Sick Berth Attendant Howard Bailey, of Saint John, N.B., worked without sleep on board Giffard, and was commended for his energy and initiative in caring for the survivors - two officers and 36 ratings.

            Along with Harry Norman, the other Telegraphists lost in the sinking were:  W. Denis, age 25; A.J. Lennox, age 22; V.S. Oakley, age 23; John A. Sillers (my former St. Hyacinthe classmate), age 21; E.E. Strachan, age 20; and S. Sullivan, age 26.  Altogether the casualty list was extensive:  five dead and 120 missing.

            Telegraphists saved, including Daley, were Don Gibson, Russell McLaughlin, and my shipmate of Skeena days, P.O. Telegraphist Bill Ivy of Toronto.  Bill had been in the wireless office until 1130, at which time he went below and turned in.  The explosion broke the head rope of his hammock, sending him tumbling to the deck.  Unhurt, he grabbed his lifebelt and made his way through the passageway of the canting ship to the upper deck.  He soon had no choice but to join other shipmates in the chilly water.

            The point was raised by C-in-C CNA after the sinking, though not in the report of the Board of Inquiry, about the inclination of Commanding Officers to treat R/T, whether VHF or HF, as a convenient telephone line.  Giffard’s log showed this to be the case.  It did not appear that any of the signals made on 2410 Kc/s need have been made with two possible exceptions.  It was considered that, in general, the belief existed in HM and HMC ships that the principles of W/T silence in no way affected the use of R/T.  Although it was continually brought to the attention of Commanding Officers and Senior Officers of Groups that no form of radio should be used unnecessarily, it appeared that this was not enough and the time had come for more drastic action from higher authority.

            It was submitted that it would probably be of benefit if the Department in conjunction with Admiralty were to issue further instructions to HM and HMC ships once more, drawing their attention to the undoubted use the enemy made of these seemingly harmless transmissions.  It was felt that in this sinking the U-boat could have gained a very good idea of the course of C-1 Group from the signals made, and this, together with the fact that ships were not zigzagging, may well have contributed to the regretted loss of Valleyfield.  (German records do not indicate that U-548 took advantage of any indiscreet R/T in the Valleyfield sinking.)

            In April 1945, U-548 was still operational, but not for long.  The U-boat had a new commanding officer, OL Erich Krempl, and on 18 April, while operating along the American coast, it sank the tanker Swiftscout in position 37 30 N 73 03 W.  On the 23rd the U-boat torpedoed the tanker Katy; however, it did not sink her as the Katy was towed into Lynnhaven.  But on 30 April, U-548 was cornered and sunk by US Destroyer Escorts Coffman, Bostwick, Thomas, and the frigate Natchez after a relentless hunt.

            In Halifax on 4 May 1944, I was one of a large crowd attending a Mart Kenny dance.  Had to have some fun!

            On the 16th Wentworth began to show signs of becoming shipshape again.  On that day we moved up to Bedford Basin for degaussing trials.  On the 17th we were at the lower end of the harbour for compass adjustments.  Then on a foggy 18th we changed locale by going down to St. Margaret’s Bay for Huff Duff calibrations.  The same day I finished erecting a new aerial.

            Tuesday, 23 May.  In the afternoon, finally bound for Newfy, we slipped through the gates of Halifax harbour, shepherding a single merchant ship, SS Erin.  We had good weather and at midnight of the 24th we transmitted our ETA (Estimated Time of Arrival) message on 1740 Kilocycles.  When transmitting a coded message to a shore station such as Halifax, CFH, it’s well to point out that our ship’s call sign would consist of any two letter designation beginning with the letter A.  Examples:  AK, AZ.  On the 25th we arrived without incident in St. John’s, where we were to endure another protracted week before embarking on the greatest of convoy tasks - Ocean Escort duty.