SKEENA, JANUARY - JULY 1943

While Skeena was spending much of her time in the Dartmouth slips, out on the Atlantic the war was still being waged relentlessly.

            On 29 December, the corvettes Battleford (Lt. F.A. Beck), Chilliwack (Lt.Cdr. L.F. Foxall), and Napanee (Lt. S. Henderson), and the destroyer St. Laurent (Lt.Cdr. G.S. Windeyer) teamed up to sink U-356 in mid-Atlantic.

            In the Mediterranean, Canadian ships were at grips with the enemy.  On 13 January, the corvette Ville de Quebec (Lt.Cdr. A.R. Coleman) sank U-224.

            On 6 February, the corvette Louisburg (Lt.Cdr. W.F. Campbell) was torpedoed and sunk by enemy aircraft attacking a Med convoy.  The ship was hit in the engine room by an aerial torpedo.  Leading Seaman Jack (Scotty) Keill, of Cornwall, Ontario, was a survivor.  He remembered that the depth charges next exploded, the boilers blew up, and fires broke out.  Of the ship’s company of 85, only 47 men survived this holocaust.  Ldg Tel W. Robinson, and Tels K. Crone and L. Dupont were survivors, while among those lost were P.O. Tel A.J. Smith, age 20; and Tels W.M. Gilbert, age 22; T.M. Ninian, age 21; and E. Robinson, age 24.  Many of those who died are buried in the Canadian Cemetery outside Algiers.

            Chalking up a victory for our side in the Med was the corvette Regina (Lt.Cdr. H. Freeland) when she sank the Italian submarine Avorio on 8 February.  But then came another Canadian loss when, on 22 February, the corvette Weyburn (Lt.Cdr. T.M. Golby) struck a mine and sank off Tangier.

            On 1 March, Skeena received a new commanding officer when Lt.Cdr E.E.G. Boak took over command of our ship from Lt.Cdr. K.L. Dyer.  Lt.Cdr. Boak was formerly our First Lieutenant.

            In the North Atlantic, the corvette Shediac (Lt. J.E. Clayton) and the destroyer St. Croix (Lt.Cdr. A.H. Dobson) sank U-87 on 4 March.

            In Halifax on 3 March I received some good news by way of a signal from Newfy stating that I could be rated Telegraphist Trained Operator.  Then on the 8th I received saddening news from Saint John.  A telegram from my brother Chris informed me that Dad had died.  I was granted leave to go home for the funeral.  I had been home only a few days previously, and from the way Dad grasped my hand when saying goodby he must have known he hadn’t long to live.  It was the first time he held my hand that I could recall.  My Dad, known as Buff Riley in sporting circles, was a star centrefielder in the Maine-New Brunswick Professional Baseball League in the teens and early twenties until a broken leg in 1923 terminated a distinguished baseball career.

            On Tuesday, 9 March, I was up at ten to five in the morning, impatient to be on my way.  I left Halifax on the afternoon train and took a bus from Moncton, arriving home in Saint John at two in the morning.  After a short sleep I went down to be with Dad.  The funeral was held Thursday morning.  Brothers Pat and Leo wept openly.  I took it very hard but contained myself until another time in the future when I made a solitary visit to Dad’s grave.  On a happier note I was able see Kay Arseneau on a few occasions before kissing her goodbye on Saturday.

            Back in Halifax I occupied my time in a variety of activities, such as working on board amending Confidential books and cleaning the ship; dhobeying and ironing clothes; taking my turn as Cook of the Mess (drawing the meals); and, working in the Dockyard occasionally and undergoing training there in the Tactical and Action Rooms.  For entertainment I went pleasure-skating, refereed and played hockey.  Attending movies also helped to pass the time.  Some of the shows that I saw were:  This Above All,  Gentleman Jim, China Girl, and Star Spangled Rhythm.  There was also the pleasant task of exchanging letters with my Saint John friend, Kay Arseneau.

            On 13 March  the corvette Prescott  (Lt.Cdr. W. McIsaac) sank the U-163. The corvette was operating in an escort group on the UK-Gibraltar convoy route, but was not given credit for the sinking until a reassessment of records in 1987.

            Near the end of March Skeena made her way up to Bedford Basin and there we made a compass swing, took on ammunition, and had a tilt test.  This was followed by calibration of our Direction Finding equipment.

            The D/F calibration involved the comparison of simultaneous visual and radio bearings of a distant transmitting station, on relative bearings around the compass at intervals usually not exceeding five degrees.  To accomplish this, the ship is moored or anchored, and the simultaneous visual and radio observations were made of the transmitting station which was contained in a small auxiliary vessel chugging slowly around the ship.  Of course, calibration could also be done with the ship being swung in relation to a fixed radio station.  For our H/F D/F calibrating purposes,  special auxiliary vessels were available on both the East and West coasts of Canada.  Two of these were HMCS Seretha II at St. John’s and HMCS Merry Chase on the West coast.

            On Wednesday, 31 March 1943, we moved out of harbour for a gunnery shoot, following which we made a quick trip down to St. Margaret’s Bay to anchor for the night.  The next day brought exercises consisting mainly of anti-submarine trials.

            Saturday found us cleaning mess for Saturday morning rounds.  Later the ship was involved in boat races.  We departed St. Margaret’s on Sunday afternoon, and after an A/A shoot off Halifax, entered harbour about 1700.

            I took advantage of the few days in port to renew acquaintances with my ol Saint John buddies, Telegraphist Mickey MacWilliams and Signalmen Jack Britton and Lou Coyle.

            Skeena glided out of Halifax harbour at 1115, Thursday, 8 April, bound for Newfy.  We were not allowed to relax; on the way we carried out exercise action stations, abandon-ship stations, and dropped a few practice depth charges.  We arrived in St. John’s about 1400 Friday afternoon.

            As part of my duty, I was up early on Saturday to draw breakfast and the other food issues for the men of our mess.  I cleaned up after and then wrote a letter to my brother Pat.

            In the afternoon I went ashore, taking in a movie before dropping in for supper at the Cramm residence.  Mr. and Mrs. Cramm, and their daughter Dorothy, whom I had met through Coder Tom Cummings, were always entertaining and, whenever I made a visit to their home, presented cordiality at its best.  Tom and I were always welcome.

            After my visit I dropped in at one of the Service clubs where a dance was being held.  I stayed only a short time because leave was up at midnight.  With other sailors, I then climbed into a small bum boat at a wharf a few yards from the Caribou Hut, and was soon ferried across the darkened harbour to the ship.  The Caribou Hut, incidentally, was a popular hostel to the servicemen, providing a number of facilities for their welfare, such as sleeping accommodation, a canteen, swimming pool, and recreation and lounge rooms.

            Wireless watch was set on the broadcast at 0230.  I should mention here that since our acquisition of H/F D/F equipment, our staff had changed and grown perforce.  Now in charge of all sparkers was CPO Tel John Crawford.  His wireless crew consisted of Ldg Tels Bill Ivy and Fred Ross, and Telegraphists (some of whom were Huff Duff operators): Wilf Mouland, Tom Clegg, Charlie Dixon, Glen Sherman, Frank Hibbs, Don Ramsay, Bill McDowell, Don Dunham, George Godsall, John Bates, and myself.

            Our Coders were Gerald Byron, Tom Cummings, Bruce Witherspoon, and Ritchie Seath.

            It was Sunday, 11 April, and the weather was cloudy with snow when Skeena slipped through the gates about six o’clock, sailing to meet convoy HX233.  We would form part of the Ocean Escort consisting of Canadian ships Arvida (Lt.Cdr. D.G. King), Wetaskiwin (Lt.Cdr. J.R. Kidston), and Skeena (Lt.Cdr. E.E.G. Boak); HM ships Dianthus, Bergamot and Bryony; and, US Coast Guard Cutters Duane (Capt. H.B. Bradbury), and Spencer (Cdr. H.S. Berdine).  The Senior Officer of the group was Capt. P.R. Heineman, U.S. Navy.

            On Monday we picked up the convoy of 57 ships, taking over from the Local Northern Escort (Task Unit 24.18.7) composed of Lincoln, Oakville, Brockville (Lt. R.C. Chenowth), Lethbridge (Lt.Cdr. R.S. Kelly), and Medicine Hat (Lt. J. Bevan).

            The convoy, in its beginning stages, had been escorted by the Local Southern Task Unit made up of Oakville, Brockville, Hepatica (Lt.Cdr. T. Gilmour), and Dunvegan (Lt. J.E. Hastings).

            I was working the forenoon watch and the second dog watch (1800-2000)  -  and feeling seasick.

            After working the morning watch on Tuesday I stood on deck staring at the ships in the convoy and wondering what the folks at home were doing.  It was a lovely morning with bright sunshine.  Later the wind increased, bringing with it clouds and snow.  Despite this, I snapped a picture of the Spencer.  Twenty to thirty U-boats were reported ahead; consequently the course of our 9.5 knot convoy was changed.

            Wednesday, 14 April.  I was on deck in the morning watching the convoy and breathing the fresh air before taking over the afternoon wireless watch.  At this time there were about seven convoys at sea, with 53 escort ships for their protection.  Word was received that reinforcements were being sent from the UK for our own convoy.

            Skeena interrupted her screening duties to pick up a sick fellow from the corvette Wetaskiwin.

            Thursday, 15 April.  In the afternoon we oiled from a tanker in the convoy.  I used the opportunity to take some pictures of the tanker and the rest of the convoy.  The Yanks on the tanker threw some fresh fruit across to us.

            The interception of four U-boat transmissions indicated a nearing wolfpack.  That night, unmindful of the advantage it might give an adversary, a bright moon shone down on the plodding convoy.  In fact, U-262 had sighted the convoy, and subsequently U-boats: 175, 226, 264, 358, 382, 614 and 628, all were ordered to attack the convoy.  Regardless, watching the sparkling seas this night I could not help but blissfully think of my Saint John friend, Kay Arseneau.

            Far away across the ocean on 13 March, while employed on convoy duties in aid of Operation Torch (the British and American landings in Algeria and Morocco) the corvette Prescott (LCdr W. McIsaac) sank U-163.

            Friday, 16 April.  Action!  USCGC Spencer went chasing after a U-boat she had sighted.  It was U-262, but it escaped.  Then USCGC Duane dropped some depth charges in the early hours of the morning.

            In Skeena, I busied myself playing records in the afternoon over the SRE (Sound Reproducing Equipment) for the entertainment of the crew.  My favourite records were the light classics, and naturally these got slipped in amongst the popular records.  The SRE was located in a small cubby-hole off the seamen’s mess and near the W/T office, and primarily was looked after by the communicators.

            Around 10 o’clock in the evening we went to action station  -  lasting about eight minutes: the RDF (Radar) operator had picked up a contact of one of our own ships.  Later we raced away to an exercise alarm, after which the Quartermaster piped that it would be the “real McCoy” next time.

            Saturday, 17 April. During the night U-175 made contact with the convoy, and thus was able to bring in U-382 and U-628.  Shortly after 0500, although no explosion was heard, a ship in the convoy staggered out of line, torpedoed.  She was displaying a red light when spotted by another merchant ship.  The stricken ship turned out to be the freighter Fort Rampart, and she was observed with her davits outboard, her lines down, and with her lifeboats in the water.  They were filled with 52 survivors.

            In this attack by U-628, in position 47 22 North 21 58 West, only one man had been killed.  A few months later, on 3 July, U-628 was sunk northwest of Cape Ortegal, Spain, by a Liberator of No. 224 Squadron.

            Four English destroyers joined us at 1100.  One of their tasks was to sink the derelict sections of Fort Rampart which later broke in two.

            Also around 1100, Spencer was pounding an underwater contact with depth charges.  She lost the contact temporarily and had to slide between columns 6 and 7 of the convoy searching for it.  At 1117, after being joined by her sister-ship Duane, the contact was regained and pounded once more.

            Eventually the damaged U-boat, U-175, broke surface and Spencer, assisted by Duane, attacked with blazing guns.  The U-boat’s crew fought back briefly, and in this exchange Spencer suffered one man killed and eight men wounded.  The fatal casualty was J.T. Petrella, Radioman Third.

            At 1145, as she raced to ram the U-boat, Spencer ceased fire: the U-boat crewmen were seen abandoning their riddled craft.  Subsequently 41 German survivors were picked up  -  19 by Spencer and 22 by Duane.

            Spencer also dispatched a boarding party, but salvage of the wallowing U-boat was impossible.  U-175 was completely finished; at 1227, it slid into the sea, stern first, gone forever.

            At 1230 Skeena went to action stations  -  Impulsive had a contact.  But nothing developed from this.  At 1330, a Liberator with call sign Thermos was patrolling over the convoy, helping to shake off the attackers.

            We oiled again.  Then at 1830 we scrambled to action stations once more, this time dropping charges.  The Coast Guard cutter Spencer was in front of the convoy dropping charges also.  With all these counterattacks U-226, U-264, and U-382 were driven off.

            In the evening two patrol planes were over the convoy.  There were many H/F D/F bearings of U-boats being reported.  I stood on deck, looking at the smooth sea and thinking briefly of home, before proceeding to work on the first watch  -  from eight to midnight.

            Sunday, 18 April.  At 0130, all escorts dropped two depth charges each, hoping to frighten away any skulking U-boats.  Two of the enemy were sighted by patrol aircraft.  The destroyers were running down the D/F bearings in attempts to catch the U-boats or chase them away.

            The last U-boat in contact with us was U-614, on the evening of the 17th.  When this U-boat lost contact, the enemy called off their operation against our convoy on today’s date.  German records indicate that their eight U-boats on their way out had attacked our convoy, but were not successful, owing to air cover and very heavy seas.  Our convoy had air cover, but heavy seas?  -  hardly.

            At 0620 Skeena left the convoy, heading for Ireland.  At noon our speed was 24 knots, and our position was about 51 North 15 West.

            Monday, 19 April.  We arrived Lough Foyle and oiled off Moville at 0800.  Two hours later we twisted our way up the river to Londonderry.  I was allowed ashore in the afternoon, and I immediately sent off a cable to my mother.  Next I bought some fresh bread at Hunter’s bakery; this was always a treat.

            Back in Skeena I dashed off a letter to another Saint John chum, Willard “Moon” Kelly, who was with the 8th Princess Louise Hussars in the south of England.  I outlined hopes and plans of visiting him some day.

            Tuesday, 20 April.  Burning obsolete signal papers at the American base was my first chore of the day.

            The Yanks were on board Skeena working during the day.  The story of Spencer sinking U-175 was going the rounds; the buzz (rumour) had it that 34 Germans were taken prisoner.  A little discrepancy there about the number of U-boat survivors, but a buzz can’t always be correct.

            I wrote a letter to my sister Mary, then worked in the wireless office until late in the evening. 

            Wednesday, 21 April.  I worked in the office all day, mainly on corrections to signal books.

            Wireless watch was set and we took our departure from Derry about 2000.  It had been a short stay.  Skeena descended the Foyle and anchored in Lough Foyle at 2100.

            Thursday, 22 April.  Skeena was underway again, heading for Larne.  We paused off the mouth of the Foyle for a gun shoot, both surface and A/A.  The lovely summer-like day was accented by the sight of playful porpoise and lively sea gulls.  On the way to Larne I snapped a picture of the liner, Queen Mary, sailing by in the distance.  Skeena then anchored off Larne for the night.

            Friday, 23 April.  In weather cloudy with rain, Skeena exercised off Larne all day.  In the evening we re-anchored.

            On the last dog watch I enjoyed myself in some morse transmitting.  Like musical notes, the varying short and long sounds of the code rippled into the ether.  For this I used a simple up-and-down key as was normal with all our operators  -  not a semi-automatic one.

            When close to shore, a Local Port Wave was available for calling shore stations.  In operating, one notable difference from International procedures was the use of “V” for “from” instead of “DE”.  Additionally, although we could use “Q” three-letter operating signals, naval ships used the “X” signals, e.g., JVD V RZY X257  (meaning: ship with call sign JVD “from” ship RZY - “I have nothing for you.”)

            When transmitting a coded message to a shore station such as Halifax, CFH, our ship’s call would consist of any two-letter designation beginning with the letter A.  Examples:  AK, AZ, AP.

            The chance to transmit in morse was well appreciated because usually ship operators did not get too many opportunities to use the morse key.  Radio Telephony was predominant at sea when in company with other ships; that is, when flashing light was not employed.

            Saturday, 24 April.  In foul rainy weather the ship carried out anti-sub exercises off the Irish coast.  In the evening, while working in the Remote Control Office, I received a disconcerting blast from the captain for some trivial indiscretion.   (I had the habit of answering voice-pipe communications with the expression, “Right!” instead of with, “Yes, Sir!”)

            Sunday, 25 April. We moved from Irish waters to Scottish waters and anchored in the south of the Clyde near Largs for D/F calibration.  In this vicinity I saw several carriers, one of which I believe was the Unicorn.  After calibration Skeena left for Lough Foyle.

            Monday, 26 April.  During the middle watch (midnight to 4 o’clock), I received three messages for the ship and transmitted one.

            We arrived at Lough Foyle about 8 o’clock and tied up alongside an anchored tanker.  We took our departure a few hours later, heading out into a gale and a rough sea.

            Tuesday, 27 April.  Skeena reached the convoy, ON180, consisting of 67 ships, about 1015 hours.  The weather fortunately was moderating.

            Escorting the convoy was our C3 Group:  Burnham (Senior Officer), Skeena, Eyebright (Lt. H.L. Quinn), Mayflower (Lt.Cdr. V. Browne), Bittersweet (Lt.Cdr. F.B. Brooks-Hill), La Malbaie (Lt.Cdr. J.S. Davis), HMT Northern Sun, and the tug Samsonia.

            Wednesday, 28 April.  Skeena oiled from a tanker in the convoy.  It was a fine day, so I snapped some pictures with my little pocket-size F8 Kodak.  I stood the afternoon and the first watches, and in between wrote two letters.

            On this day the German U-boat command had at sea several packs of U-boats of potential danger to us.  Code-named Star, a pack of 16 U-boats was situated southwest of Iceland and about 400 miles east of Cape Farewell, Greenland.  Another one, Specht group of 20 U-boats, was distributed northeast of Newfoundland, while still another, Amsel, was placed south of Star group.

            In convoy ONS5, which had preceded us in sailing, the escorts were becoming aware of the possible U-boat menace.  During the early hours of the day, an operator of their escort picked up an enemy wireless transmission bearing 159 degrees from them.  This was likely U-650, and it faced the escort commander of ONS5 with the dilemma of estimating whether his convoy was being reported or convoy SC127, which was on bearing 159 degrees, bound for the UK.

            Later in the morning another Huff Duff bearing confirmed it was ONS5 being shadowed, so the escorts of the convoy prepared themselves for the attacks to come.

            After darkness fell, the first contact of the enemy was picked up on Radar by the British corvette, Sunflower, commanded by a Canadian, Lt.Cdr. James Plomer, RCNVR.  The U-boat submerged, but Sunflower picked up an Asdic contact, which although of doubtful quality, prompted Lt.Cdr. Plomer to drop charges anyway.  U-386 was damaged in this attack.

            Thursday, 29 April.  The sea was turning rough.  The position of our own convoy at midnight was 62 North, 25 55 West. 

            Ahead of us, convoy ONS5 had a busy night of many attempts by U-boats to attack the convoy.  This brought many retaliatory depth-charge attacks from the escorts.  However, the U-boats drew first blood when one merchant ship was torpedoed.  ONS5 was then given a respite when a fierce gale engulfed the convoy.

            Friday, 30 April.  Heavy seas all day made life a little miserable; the constant rolling of Skeena created difficulties in eating and dishing up.  The malicious ocean sent many green ones breaking over the sides of the ship.  The fury of the elements did not prevent air cover;  Three Hudson bombers from Iceland were over our convoy.

            Our Huff Duff operators obtained a fix of a U-boat transmitting about 15 miles from our convoy;  a subsequent search for the U-boat was in vain.

            Saturday, 1 May.  For a while I watched the stormy, heaving seas from a position over the galley  -  at the same time, having misgivings why I joined the Navy.

            On the first watch, an O-U (most immediate) message was received on the broadcast wave from shore.  It was addressed to our escort and was a re-broadcast of an enemy report from the crew of a Yank bomber who had sighted a U-boat on the surface.

            Sunday, 2 May.  The seas were gradually flattening.  The course of our convoy was now close to Greenland; we were approaching the dangerous area.

            Ahead, the seven escorts of convoy ONS5 were joined by the 3rd Support Group of five destroyers.  A big battle for them was in the offing

            Monday, 3 May.  In the distance I saw a solitary iceberg with two points on it.  We tried to oil in the morning, but were prevented because the sea was too rough.  It was a sea that made the ship bang into the troughs, producing a feeling sometimes that one was walking on air.  At 4 o’clock we logged our speed at 3 knots in position 58 52 North, 41 12 West.

            Tuesday, 4 May.  I worked the middle watch.  The incessant rolling of the ship was beginning to chafe the nerves.  Later in the day the rolling was still severe.

            Perhaps it was the rolling that allowed the sea to affect the fresh water tanks;  The drinking water tasted salty.  Along with this bane was the added fact that we had run out of Irish bread, and the cooks were daily baking fresh loaves.  The brown Irish bread was only good when it was fresh.  A day or so after being supplied, the bread ossified into the consistency of cobblestones.  Our favourite way of eating it then was to cut away the crust, saturate the centre of the bread with eggs, and fry it à la French toast.  The fresh bread made by our cooks was hardly enough; it had to be rationed by the slice.  While our convoy sailed persistently along, the nearby convoy of ONS5 was heading for trouble.

            The German U-boat command had combined the Specht and Star groups into a tight patrol-line called Fink.  On this very afternoon, ONS5 plodded straight into the middle of this line:  a potential attack force of 28 U-boats, while ahead of the convoy were deployed Amsel group 1 of six boats and Amsel group 2 of five boats, and two returning U-boats.

            Based no doubt on decode intercept-messages, the Germans at first thought the oncoming convoy was ours, ON180.  But, fortunately for us, it was the luckless ONS5, delayed by the storm and now consisting of 31 ships, the others having straggled during the time from 1 May to the 4th.

            Intercepted transmissions picked up on 12215 and 10525 Kilocycles warned of the presence of the gathering U-boats.

            Further evidence of increasing danger to convoy ONS5 was provided by Canso aircraft of No. 5 RCAF Squadron, Gander, Newfoundland.  The first of two aircraft involved was Canso “W” carrying the following crew:  Squadron Leader B.H. Moffit, Captain; Flying Officer J.D. Hooper, 2nd Pilot; Flight Sergeant L.A. Hunt, Navigator; Warrant Officer C.E. Spence, Wireless Air Gunner; Flight Sergeant P.A. Corbett, Starboard Blister gun; Sergeant W. Bedwell, Engineer; and Corporal H. Knelson, Port Blister gun.

            Aircraft “W” was on close convoy escort when shortly before 1800 it picked up a blip on its ASV (Aircraft to Surface Vessel) Radar.  The Canso began homing onto the contact, and in hazy weather Sgt Bedwell spotted a U-boat on the surface at a range of two and a half miles.  It was U-630 poking nonchalantly along at a speed between six and eight knots, with four of its crew topside.

            At a speed of 150 knots, S/L Moffit winged in unhesitantly to the attack.  Then, with the clock reading 1758 Greenwich Mean Time, four 250-pound torpex depth charges, set to 22 feet, were dropped from 75 feet on the surprised U-boat.  The first depth charge fell ahead and slightly to starboard.  The second and third fell fore and aft of the conning tower, hitting respectively about eight and twelve feet off the port side, and lifting the hull considerably.  The fourth fell slightly forward of the conning tower on the starboard side.  Like a cow pole-axed, the doomed U-boat sank horizontally without any further forward motion.

            Shortly after, its life blood began coating the surface in a huge tell-tale oily patch that was dotted with pieces of torn timber resisting burial.  U-630 had descended to its grave in position 56 38 North 42 32 West, taking with it all hands.

            About two hours later Canso “E”, also in support of ONS5, came upon the surfaced U-438, plodding along at about eight knots in a choppy sea.

            On board the aircraft were the captain, Flight Lieutenant J.W.C. Langmuir, and the 2nd pilot, Flight Sergeant M.W. Paul in their respective pilot seats; the navigator, Flying Officer E.C. Snider, at his table; Wireless Air Gunner, Warrant Officer C.C. Hazlett, at the wireless set; 2nd WAG, Leading Aircraftman R.D. Allgood, in the port gun blister; 1st Engineer, Sergeant E.A.W. Skee, in the engineer’s seat; and, the 2nd Engineer, Corporal L.H. Greenough, in the starboard blister.

            When first sighted by F/Sgt Paul, the U-boat was about 18 miles distant.  The unlimited visibility must have been mutual, for the crew of the Canso soon discovered that they had come upon, not a sitting duck, but a veritable tiger.

            At 10 miles distance the aircraft manoeuvered into the sun, shut off engines, and turned for the attack.  Four 250-pound torpex depth charges were readied; but as the Canso cruised in to attack U-438 using tracers, the U-boat retaliated and opened fire with its 2-cm gun.

            The depth charges went hurtling down, straddling the enemy boast between the conning tower and stern.  The U-boat, pitching and rolling, made a complete 360-degree starboard turn, while F/L Langmuir swung the aircraft to port briefly out of range of the enemy fire.

            Showing great courage and lowering from 250 feet to 50 feet, the crew of the Canso winged in again for an attack at about 80 degrees from the U-boat’s starboard beam.  The U-boat’s fire began fingering the sky at 600 yards, but the Canadians held theirs until at 400 yards, when with great accuracy their fire swept over the conning tower.  Three men were seen to fall: one backwards into the water, the others forward.

            As the Canso manoeuvered for another attack the U-boat dived and escaped, to live for another day; but to be more precise, only until the 6th.

            The enemy also was successful this day with U-125 sinking one ship.

            Wednesday, 5 May. Taking advantage of a smooth sea Skeena oiled in the convoy.  We picked up word on the Halifax broadcast that confirmed that convoy ONS5 was being severely mauled by a pack of about 30 U-boats.  Because ONS5 was fairly close to our convoy our H/F D/F operators were very busy intercepting U-boat transmissions.  Fortunately for us all the U-boats’ attention was on convoy ONS5, and our convoy steamed on unmolested.

            During the night of the 4th/5th, the pernicious enemy inflicted staggering blows on convoy ONS5.  U-628 sank one ship, U-264 sank two, and U-358 sank two, while U-952 sank a straggler.  For our side the destroyer Vidette damaged U-270 with depth charges.

            In the daylight hours of the 5th, 15 U-boats reported contact with ONS5, and five more ships were sunk: one each by U-70 and U-584, and three by U-266.

            But the busy escorts were exacting revenge.  The corvette Pink, which was protecting some stragglers, destroyed U-192.  Then, just before nightfall, fog settled in, giving the Radar-equipped escorts the advantage.  Subsequently the corvette Sunflower damaged U-267 by gunfire and the corvette Loosestrife sank U-638 with depth charges.

            A message from Admiralty said it was possible that convoy ON180, ours, was being shadowed.  However, a message from Naval Service Headquarters Ottawa indicated the concentration was around ONS5.  How right Ottawa was!

            Thursday, 6 May.  At 0140 the ringing of the alarm sent our crew to action stations, but only for a short duration:  the Radar operator had picked up a contact of one of our own ships.

            Early in the day, in convoy ONS5, the British destroyer Oribi rammed U-125, damaging the U-boat that was later sunk by gunfire from the British corvette Snowflake.  Then HMS Vidette sank U-531 with a hedgehog attack.  (The hedgehog was a torpex mortar bomb.  Looking like huge cattails, they stood 24 to a cluster in their mounting on the foc’sle.  When fired from the ship they landed about 250 yards ahead, hitting about 12 feet apart in an oval area approximately 125 feet in diameter.  Being contact-fused they exploded only on hitting the target.)

            Another group of five escorts, the 1st Support Group, joined the beleaguered ONS5 escorts, and one of the support ships, Pelican, picked up U-438 on the surface with Radar.  Pelican raced to the attack with gunfire, then sank the diving U-boat with depth charges.

            We received a message that seemed to sum up the ONS5 situation; the convoy had 24 attacks and five U-boats were reported sunk by the surface escorts.  How peaceful it was for us!  What a difference a few miles made.  The sea around us was placid as a lake, but the visibility was becoming obscured by a gathering fog.

            At this time in our own convoy, a small misfortune befell the corvette Bittersweet.  She had finished oiling and had just cast off from the tanker Norsktank, when she suddenly rammed the merchant ship, New Zealand Star, in station astern of the tanker.  The corvette was slightly damaged with a hole, 15 feet long by one foot wide, ripped in her port side.  The collision was later explained as having been caused by a failure in voice-pipe communication between the bridge and the wheelhouse of the corvette.

            Friday, 7 May.  Around eight in the morning we crunched our way slowly through an ice pack.  The fog of the Grand Banks was now very thick.

            Except for several merchant ships being damaged by icebergs, we had brought ON180 safely across.  About 1445, upon being relieved by the Western Local Escort, we left the convoy and headed for St. John’s at a speed of 27 and a half knots.

            Saturday, 8 May.  Skeena arrived St. John’s around five in the morning.  The first logistic, the satisfying of the voracious appetite of the ship herself, was soon accomplished: and that was, oiling.  I burnt the obsolete signal papers.  Then the ship’s company was paid, and to make life more cheery the mail was brought aboard.  Well, not too cheery. There was no mail from Kay, my Saint John friend. Surely a case of Platonic love that faded with distance?

            Later in the day I proceeded ashore via bumboat for necessities such as a haircut and a shower at one of the service clubs, followed by a visit to the Cathedral, then back to the ship for lunch.

            Three more days in port quickly passed by, with the time mainly used in writing letters home, entering the customary corrections in our signal books, and lastly, spending a pleasant evening at the Cramm’s.

            But there was one rankling moment when, on Sunday evening, everyone on board was called to “clear lower deck” to see which knaves stole ashore without handing in their station cards.

            Wednesday, 12 May.  Wireless watch was set at 0930.  Along with another operator I took over the afternoon watch during which I sent the message ordering the ships of our escort group to sail out of harbour.  We left St. John’s about 1530, heading for a rendezvous with HX238, a convoy of 44 ships.  It was being escorted by the Western Local Escort (TU 24.18.8), made up of Chelsea, Sudbury (Lt. D.S. Martin), Shawinigan (Lt.Cdr. C.P. Balfry), and Milltown (Lt. E.H. Maguire).  This group had taken over from the Local Southern Task Unit 24.18.7 of Lethbridge (Lt.Cdr. W. Woods), Oakville (Lt. H.F. Farncomb), and Brockville (Lt. R.C. Chenoweth).

            Thursday, 13 May.  In the morning, while passing through an ice flow, the gun crews sharpened their aim by shooting at some of the icebergs.  About 1330 we met the Western Local Escort who turned over the 9.6 knot convoy.   Before taking up our station we passed pertinent orders to Chelsea and also to the Convoy commodore in his merchant ship at the head of one of the columns.  There was one aircraft carrier in the convoy, Fencer.

            The Ocean Escort was composed of destroyers Burnham and Skeena, and the corvettes La Malbaie, Eyebright, Mayflower, Bittersweet, and Pictou (Lt. P.T. Byers).

            Ahead of us, in convoy HX237, HMS Lagan, the Canadian corvette Drumheller (Lt. L.P. Denny), and a Sunderland of No. 423 RCAF Squadron sank U-753 in a combined effort.

            Friday, 14 May.  We interrupted our sweeps to oil in the convoy.  I then took advantage of the closeness of the convoy to snap a picture of Fencer.

            The commander of the destroyer Burnham was on board to pay us a brief visit.  The quiet day ended in a bright golden sunset.

            Saturday, 15 May.  It was a nice, bright sunny day.  In the morning our whaler took the Signal Officer plus Chief P.O. Tel John Crawford, and Yeoman of Signals Bill Kelly, over to Burnham on a visit.  Bill Kelly had relieved Frank Skinner just before sailing.

            Later we closed the carrier and took on fresh water.  Aircraft cover seemed more than sufficient today:  there were eleven Liberators over the convoy; of course, not all at once.

            Sunday, 16 May.  Most of the day we were further out from the convoy making a wide sweep, during which we held a revolver shoot  -  a change from the bigger gun shoots.  We took advantage of the bright sunny weather to dhobey our clothes and air our hammocks.

            At 1700 we were back at close-escorting of the convoy.  Then came a little excitement  -  the corvette Pictou and we had a contact.  We dropped about 36 depth charges, but nothing came of our attacks.

            Monday, 17 May.  Skeena oiled again in the morning; the constant zigzag sweeping certainly was eating up the fuel.

            It was raining most of the day, but we telegraphists were snug inside.  We were working four operators to a watch; normally we worked two to a watch.

            The position of the convoy at midnight was 54 53 North 29 16 West.

            Tuesday, 18 May.  A quiet cloudy day.  As we moved into another time zone, the time was put ahead one hour.

            Wednesday, 19 May.  I had the forenoon watch and, with headphones clamped on, was pencil-copying messages practically asleep.  In the afternoon a “pipe down” was declared, so I slung my mick and slept.

            We were notified that the Red watch would get leave in Derry.  This was certainly gratifying news  -  I was in the Red watch.  The other two watches, the White and Blue, would take the strain while in port.

            On the 17th and 18th the B-Dienst intercept service discovered that convoy SC130 and our convoy HX238 had both changed course.  Hoping to physically intercept these convoys the Germans set up Group Oder, of 8 U-boats, in a more southern patrol line.  Our convoy successfully skirted the southern position of this line, but the following convoy of SC130 was sighted and a concentration of 13 U-boats developed around it.  Their attacks were beaten off by the close escorts, covering aircraft, and the 1st support Force.  Three U-boats were sunk:  U-954 by a Liberator of 120 Squadron; U-381 by the corvette Snowflake; and, U-209 by the cutter Sennen and the frigate Jed.  Not a single ship was lost by the convoy.  Good work!

            Thursday, 20 May.  My birthday.  I shaved; it was the first time since we departed Newfy.

            At dawn Skeena left the convoy, escorting the carrier.  The weather was warm with a bright sun.

            Friday, 21 May.  About 1730 Skeena arrived Lough Foyle.  After oiling, we went up river to Derry.  The mess then was given a good cleaning; the mail came aboard, and I received a letter from Moon Kelly.  For the rest of the day I stayed aboard, duty.

            On Saturday I headed for London, first taking a bus to the railway station on the other side of the river.  From there, with about 200 men going on leave from our own and other ships, the train departed at 1445.  We arrived at Larne and boarded the ferry which left port at 1830.  A few hours later we arrived Stranraer, Scotland, and left there by train about 2200.

            The next morning we passed through beautiful country where quaint houses sprawled identical to one another and where small boats plied small canals.  We arrived in London about 1030, and I took the subway to the Duchy Hotel, where I registered.  I had lunch and, later, supper at the Beaver Club.  Afterwards I took in a show, “The Edge of Darkness”, and in between these occasions, I tried to find out Moon Kelly’s (Princess Louise’s Hussars) exact location as I intended to visit him.  I gained no information from the soldiers I questioned; I had the impression they wished to avoid any indiscretion on their part in providing information on troop whereabouts.

            On Monday, I was up early and, to pass the time, walked down to the Parliament Buildings.  I met and had a brief chat with another Saint Johner, one of the Frontin brothers.  Later, at the Beaver Club, I scouted around for telltale shoulder patches.  Eventually I was rewarded in my search when a soldier immediately provided me with the whereabouts of Kelly’s outfit.  I finished the remainder of the day by seeing in the evening the stage play, “The Watch on the Rhine”, featuring Anton Walbrook.

            I stayed in London another day, mainly to see the show “When Johnny Comes Marching Home”, and the operetta “The Vagabond King”.  Then on Wednesday morning I took the 9.05 train from Victoria Station, travelling first to Groombridge, thence to Crowborough and lastly, Jarvis Brook.  There I asked further directions from an unknown soldier who guided me in what seemed to be circles; but eventually, at noon, I reached the large army camp at Warren and ultimately, Kelly.  Moon escorted me on a camp tour, during which I met more Saint Johners:  “Slugs” Stanley, George Brigden, Ned Sparks, Don Cunningham, and David McDonald.  The tour include, in particular, a look at the formidable Sherman tanks in which he was to fight later in Italy.  Finally came spectator-ship at a baseball game, followed by an Army supper using the unfamiliar tin mugs and plates.

            I returned to London and indulged in some more quiet relaxation by watching two more shows:  “They Came to a City” and “Crystal Ball”.  After one of these shows a young lady approached me and touched my sailor collar  -  a peculiarity that might bring good luck, so I was informed.

            On Friday, I departed London from Euston Station; the next day I arrived in Derry about five in the afternoon, just in time to acquire a haircut before going back to the ship.

            Sunday, 30 May.  We set wireless watch about 0200.  Skeena departed Derry at 0600, and upon arriving the mouth of the river, we laid off Moville to calibrate our H/F D/F.  In the evening we tied alongside the ever present tanker to refuel and stayed there all night.  Sloppiness in refueling resulted in some of the oil polluting the mess deck.

            Monday, 31 May.  We let go the tanker about 0900 and, in rainy weather, proceeded to sea.  Our destination was Iceland.

            Tuesday, 1 June.  After working the morning watch (4 to 8) I slept on the lockers in the mess.  In the afternoon I spent much of the time over the galley, breathing fresh air and watching a gladdening sun trying to break through a cloudy day.

            Wednesday, 2 June.  Iceland was sighted at 0025.  There was no darkness at this time of the year, hence the sighting just after midnight.  At 0530, in view of the rugged Icelandic mountains, we anchored in the harbour of Reykjavik.  Overhead, throughout the day, roared scores of aircraft.  At 1630 Skeena moved up the Hval Fjordur and, in the midst of a host of warships, re-anchored.

            Thursday, 3 June. Having learned the names of the big ships, I snapped a few pictures of the Duke of York, Milne, Berwick, Kent, Furious (Aircraft Carrier), USS South Dakota, and USS Alabama.  At 0945 we refueled, and at noon headed for the open sea.

            About 1600, along with an American escort vessel, USS Symbol, we took under our care a small ONJ convoy of four ships heading for a rendezvous with a westbound convoy.

            Friday, 4 June.  It was windy and slightly cold all day, and as usual, I was afflicted with terrible seasickness.

            Sub-Lieutenant Chance delivered an exhortation over the SRE on behalf of the Victory Loan campaign.  In my condition, I was hardly impressed.

            Saturday, 5 June.  About 0400 we joined the main convoy, ON187, of 76 ships with an average speed of 9.4 knots.  Escorting were destroyer Burnham (Senior Officer), and corvettes Bittersweet, Eyebright, La Malbaie, Mayflower, and Pictou.

            At 0530, in misty weather, we topped up our oil tanks.  Later, two Medical Officers went across by lifeboat to one of the freighters, to carry out an operation on a seaman with appendicitis.

            Sunday, 6 June.  Our position at 0800 was 34 07 West 58 05 North, in a smooth sea and fog.  The mess and W/T office were given a scrubbing-out in the morning.

            About 1500, five more escorts joined us  The wireless Situation Report when decoded show no U-boat activity for 24 hours.

            Monday, 7 June.  In the morning I sat  -  a la Caribbean cruise  -  in a chair in front of the RDF (radar) shack, reading.

            During my afternoon watch it started to rain.  Skeena and other escorts oiled again in the convoy.

            The sea was beginning to kick up, and with fog settling around us the weather was declared unfit for the four aircraft that were supposed to cover the convoy.

            Tuesday, 8 June.  the weather was cloudy and the seas were still rough, but this did not hinder air cover today:  two Liberators were over the convoy.

            The Situation Report now showed no U-boat activity during the last 48 hours.

            Wednesday, 9 June.  I relaxed in the morning by playing records over the SRE (Sound Reproducing Equipment).  About noon we obtained an H/F D/F bearing of a U-boat transmission.  We increased speed and went roaring down the bearing, but found nothing.

            During the day three aircraft, one of which was a Catalina, were over the convoy.  The M.O. was taken over to one of the ships in the convoy so he could treat a man who had been shot.

            Thursday, 10 June.  One aircraft patrolled over the convoy early in the morning. 

            At 0830, upon being relieved of the convoy by the Western Local Escort, we headed for Newfy.  On the way a practice gun-shoot was held, using icebergs as targets.

            After tying up in St. John’s about 2100, we were gladdened by the arrival on board of sacks of mail.

            Post-war revelations revealed why we enjoyed such a relatively quiet trip.  Unknown to us, on 24 May the Commander of U-boats decided to stop temporarily the battle against the North Atlantic convoys.  This was because of the heavy losses suffered in May and the unsuccessful attacks by the Donau and Mosel groups.  U-boats with adequate fuel supplies were moved south to the USA/Gibraltar route while 15 boats with limited fuel supplies were distributed widely over the North Atlantic in order to simulate by their wireless traffic the presence of stronger groups.

            We were to linger in port about nine full days, and I spent the time in such things as:  Confession and Communion; a game of softball; a shower at the Red Triangle - a real treat from the bird-baths on board; dhobeying clothes; movies; correcting signal books; writing letters; shopping - such as picking up photo snaps and a watch strap; radio listening (one day I was amused by the song, Der Fuhrer’s Face); and time out to have a chest X-ray.  The ship herself went into Dry Dock on Tuesday and was out on Thursday.  On Saturday, I made a Church visit, then went up to the smart USO Club where I had supper and bumped into another Saint John friend, Harry Forestell, who was in the Royal Canadian Air Force.  On the last evening I attended a movie and after, dropped into a dance before returning to the ship.

            Sunday, 20 June.  Wireless watch was set on the broadcast wave at 0400; Halifax W/T station was booming in.

            We cleared harbour about 0930, heading to pick up convoy HX244.  At the outset this convoy had been escorted by Group W-1 made up of the Local Southern section consisting of HMS Chelsea, and the Canadian corvettes Barrie (Lt. H.O. Magill), Shawinigan (Lt.Cdr. C.P. Balfry), and Quesnel (Lt. J.M. Laing); at the later stage the escorting was done by the Local Northern section of HMS Buxton, the Canadian sweeper Nipigon (Lt. W.J. Piercey), and the Canadian corvettes Buctouche (Skipper Lt. G.N. Downey), Barrie, and Quesnel.

            The rest of our C-3 Escort Group had preceded us from harbour on Saturday and had already taken over the convoy.  In the evening, about 2200, we caught up with them.  On this occasion our Group was composed of Burnham, Bittersweet, Mayflower, La Malbaie, Pictou, Skeena, and Barle.

            Monday, 21 June.  Although it was cloudy all day, shore-based aircraft were able to cover the convoy of 86 ships; the total should have been 93 ships, counting the stragglers strung astern.  The speed of the convoy was about 9 knots.

            Tuesday, 22 June.  It rained all day.  Through the watery curtain I glimpsed, three or four times, a protecting Liberator flying low over the convoy.

            Skeena oiled in the afternoon.  In the evening the movie “My Sister Eileen” was shown in the upper Mess Deck.

            Wednesday, 23 June.  At 1230, aircraft were again over the convoy.  A support force of four ships reinforced the convoy.

            In the evening an escort dropped one depth charge after picking up a contact; it was considered fish.

            Thursday, 24 June.  Aircraft were still able to provide us with extra protection.

            The relative calm of the Atlantic war was interrupted by a report that a Liberator, on its way to cover a westbound convoy, was slightly damaged in the process of sinking a U-boat.

            Friday, 25 June.  The quiet crossing continued under mainly cloudy skies.  Our position at 1600 was 55 North and 30 West.

            Saturday, 26 June.  The afternoon watch was busy.  Bideford had picked up a contact on the port bow of the convoy; we joined her in the investigation.  Bideford dropped number of charges; we dropped about six.  La Malbaie also picked up a contact and dropped charges.

            Ships with a speed of 12 knots or over were detached from the convoy under the escort of the support force.

            Sunday, 27 June.  I had the forenoon watch, thus in the afternoon I was able to see “My Sister Eileen” shown again for those who had not seen it previously.  The showing of movies at sea was a pleasing innovation and certainly a great morale builder.

            In the evening a sing-song was held on the upper deck to the accompaniment of fiddles and guitars.  On slinging my hammock that night I discovered the prank of one of my jocular messmates:  a chunk of bread stowed in my mick.

            Monday, 28 June.  At noon, Barle could be heard dropping charges on the starboard bow of the convoy.  A call sign ruse was put into effect to thwart any listening U-boats.

            Skeena nosed her way through the convoy to investigate the report of a suspicious looking object between two of the columns, but found nothing.  Bright sunshine and a calm sea gave us the opportunity to open the portholes and purify the air in our mess, a not too common occurrence.

            I went out on deck before going on watch at midnight and in the twilight at that time an unusual sight presented itself in the appearance of an Irish vessel - burning navigation lights.

            Tuesday, 29 June.  Early in the morning the convoy broke into sections and headed for different ports.  Upon being relieved by a trawler we made for Derry.  Skeena did not proceed all the way up river but tied up at the Yank base just below Derry where we oiled.  While there I took in the movie, “Dr. Gillespie’s New Assistant”.  Afterwards I was entranced by the beautiful soft Irish twilight spreading itself over the lush countryside, vanishing the war in remoteness and making the whole world seem gentle and serene.

            Wednesday, 30 June.  Skeena continued her way up river to tie up at Derry about 0800.

            Part of the crew went on leave.  I was duty, but for part of the afternoon I relaxed, stretched out on the roof of the Radar hut enjoying a sun bath.

            In the evening, the inspiring Naval movie “In Which We Serve” was shown on board.

            Temporarily free from the crowded conditions, I was content to stay on board much of the time during the remaining days in port.  I went ashore only three times; one, to attend Sunday Mass; the second occasion was to see the movie “Seven Sweethearts”; and the third time, to send cables, and make a Church visit.  The cables, of which I speak, were selected at the commercial telegraph office from a list of simple messages equating to figured groups.  The selected several-digit groups were written down on the cable form and obviously, in this abbreviated form, were a convenience to the telegraph companies.  On receipt at the other end they had only to be decoded and the plain language version sent to the addressee.

            On board I did not vegetate entirely; there was much to be done.  On Thursday I bought some fresh milk from some youngsters on the jetty; later the ship acquired its own supply of milk and there was plenty for everyone.  One of my daily jobs was taking care of the batteries.  I cleaned and checked them, and when they needed topping up with distilled water, I obtained the needed liquid from the Yank battery shop in the base.  Cleaning out the Sound Reproducing Equipment room and cleaning the alternators were other chores.  Parts of several mornings were spent in copying morse SBXs (Standard Buzzer Exercises) transmitted by a local station.  On two afternoons I took part in R/T (voice) exercises with other ships.  On another day I called the base W/T station on our HT-11 as a means of testing this small H/F D/F inter-com transmitter-receiver.  The HT-11 was a marine 12-watt piece of equipment manufactured by the Halicrafter Company of Chicago, and had a crystal controlled range of 550 to 3000 Kilocycles.  Huff Duff operators used it for communications between H/F D/F equipped ships.

            Personal activities on board involved reading, playing records, writing letters and sewing such items as my jacket and dungarees.  I might add that most of the clothing worn on board was of a civilian nature and, of course, was bought out of our own pockets.  Another activity on board was sun bathing, but while taking a sun bath on B gun deck, an unfortunate incident wrote finish to this health activity I was spotted with a covering of soot and had to make for the wash room.

            Thursday, 8 July. Wireless watch on the Whitehall broadcast was set at 0300; I went on at 0400.

            We sailed at 0730, making our way to the waters off Lough Foyle where, for the remainder of the day, the ship carried out surface and A/A gun shoots, plus Asdic trials.  Later we continued down the Irish coast and anchored off Larne at 2130.

            Friday, 9 July.  In the morning we took part in a convoy exercise off the coast.  About 1300 we headed for Lough Foyle and at 1700 anchored off Moville.  In the evening the ship took on oil.

            The replenishment of fuel was usually a normal evolution.  But this routine was not always faultless; Stoker Bill Baker, of Peterborough, Ontario, can vouch for this from his own experience.  He recalled the time, in 1945, when he was on his way to Esquimalt for service in the Pacific war theatre.  His ship, the frigate Cape Breton (Lt.Cdr. J.C. Annesley), had stopped one day in Bermuda for refuelling.

            It was a beautiful, bright, hot day, and the Chief Stoker had given Bill the job of watching the oil intake.  The Chief, a permanent force (RCN) man who had been in the service since 1938, was a French Canadian from Anticosti Island.  He gave Bill strict orders to stay in the Stokers’ mess, and to report to the upper deck when sufficient oil was loaded into the tanks.

            The round brass caps had been removed from the mess deck to allow Bill to observe the amount of oil coming into the tanks, so his task was simple enough.  but he was alone in the mess, and the time dragged on and on.  So, with the minutes passing like hours, he decided to go up to the upper deck and see what the hold-up was.

            After finding little or no activity on the upper deck, he headed back to the mess.  As he passed the wash room, the path to duty was blocked by an enticing sight.  No one was in the wash room; all the basins were empty.  It was just too inviting.  Bill slipped in, stripped to the waist, and had a refreshing wash.  Consequently when he did arrive in the Stokers’ mess, he could not see the deck for oil!  The overflowing, black, slimy liquid was a sickening sight.

            All leave was cancelled for stoker ratings, and all stokers not busy elsewhere were sent down with buckets, mops, and cotton waste to soak up the oil.  Luckily it had not seeped into the lockers.  Bill was about as popular as a skunk at a garden party.  The clean-up job was eventually completed and leave was once again in effect.

            Bill has often wondered why he was not charged over the embarrassing incident.  Well, perhaps it was because his particular Chief had experienced that sort of blunder before.  Who knows?

            Having included this incident about stokers, I would be remiss if I did not add this one about the gunnery branch. One night the crew of the corvette Arrowhead had gone to action stations because of a report of a submarine on the surface. The 4-inch gun had misfired, putting the ship in a perilous predicament. Repeated attempts to fire it, failed. It had come to the crucial point in the proceedings: the breech had to be opened, and although the shell itself was harmless, the sack of cordite behind it might well be ready to explode on ejection.  An explosion might smash the gun and deck, and even part of the bridge. So the bridge and gun-deck were cleared of the men, and Gunnery PO Jack Polan, of Scarborough ON, stepped forward to do his duty: to open the breech. He did not proceed gingerly but went about it in a gunner’s normal manner.  He quickly opened the breech, grabbed the cordite, and just as quickly, heaved it overboard, bringing a collective sigh of relief and accolades to Jack from his shipmates.

            Saturday, 10 July 1943.  Skeena returned to Derry at 0700 to have the Radar gear repaired.  At 1400 we were under way again.

            Sunday, 11 July. At 0212 we met the convoy of 83 ships, ON192.  For its protection there were ample escorts, namely:  Saskatchewan (Cdr. R.C. Medley, Senior Officer), Bittersweet, Burnham, La Malbaie, Mayflower, Pictou, Skeena, and one trawler and a rescue tug.  In addition, the convoy was to be supported to about 20 degrees West by Escort Group 40 consisting of HM ships Landguard, Hastings, and Waveney.

            The destroyer Saskatchewan had commissioned in London, England, on 31 May 1943.  Commander R. C. Medley was her first Commanding Officer, and with her continued his role of Senior Officer of C-3 Group.

            Later on this day, we heard the good news of the Allied landings in Sicily.  After a languid existence in England, Canadian troops were finally being put to good use in the battle for that Mediterranean island.

            Monday, 12 July.  Around our convoy the weather was cloudy in the morning, but later in the day the sun appeared.  I was feeling starved:  the brown Irish bread was now unpalatable and I longed for some scrumptious white bread.

            We received messages telling of the bombing of the troopships, Duchess of York and the California, and warning that two other convoys were threatened by enemy aircraft.  The two liners were set afire by Focke-Wulf bombers several hundred miles off the coast of Portugal and had to be sunk by the escorting ships.  Most of the troops were saved.  The Canadian Tribal class destroyer, Iroquois (Cdr. W.B. Holms), was one of the escorting ships; she picked up 628 survivors.

            In the following summer of 1944, Iroquois (Cdr. J.C. Hibbard) distinguished herself in the sweeps into the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay, by sinking and damaging numerous small coastal vessels.  Late in August of that year, Iroquois was involved in an unusual event when one of her patrols took her close to an island call Ile d’Yeu.

            Several French inhabitants, putting out in a small boat, advised that the Germans had departed the island and requested a landing party and supplies from the Canadian ship.  Iroquois complied, sending ashore a group composed of Lieutenants J. Saks and R. Scrivener; and P.O. Tel R. Mulligan, Tel J. Chevalier, and Sig G. Sheppard who were to maintain communication between shore and ship. 

            They had landed in the forenoon with a Type 53 battery-operated transmitter-receiver.  By the time the sparkers had set up in a lighthouse, Iroquois had moved out of range.  P.O. Mulligan and Tel Chevalier took turns on watch, but it was not until the next A.M. that the P.O. Telegraphist made contact with the ship.  The party eventually returned to the destroyer after having been successful in delivering provisions, gathering information, and in being treated royally.

            Other sparkers in Iroquois in ‘44 were:  Elmer Deedo, R. Pudden, T. Thomson, A. Pulver, D. Dobbie, G. Brindle, E. Withers, L. Kleven, N. Luoma, M. Hornyak, W. Gadsen, R. Doucet, J. Setter, and H. Moon.

            Tuesday, 13 July 1943.  The sea had levelled off somewhat and we had a cloudy sky all day.  Our patrol area was in front of the convoy, but we interrupted our sweeps long enough to oil in the convoy around noon.

            The time was put back one hour.

            Wednesday, 14 July.  The position at 0800 was 56 21 North 32 17 West, and we had switched over to the Halifax W/T broadcast.

            It was a quiet trip.  The sea was perfectly smooth today, so we took advantage of this and opened two portholes in the mess.  I contented myself in the afternoon playing records over the SRE.

            Thursday, 15 July.  During the middle watch, midnight to 0400, I indulged in some delightful hot ki (cocoa).  This was usually made from great slabs of chocolate and was a welcome treat during the night watches. 

            It rained through the night, but during the day the sun made some brief appearances, enabling some Liberators to cover the convoy.

            The 40th Escort Force left us to go to another convoy.

            Friday, 16 July.  About 1700 a thick fog settled around the convoy.

            The cooks began baking bread today; the Irish bread had turned green.

            Saturday, 17 July.  Except for a short period during the evening there was heavy fog all day, and under the protection of its cotton-wool consistency the convoy sailed peacefully along.

            Sunday, 18 July.  During the middle watch we were in wireless contact with the Western Local Escort, and at 0630 we were relieved by them.

            At noon we arrived in St. John’s, and after dinner the ever welcome mail was brought aboard.

            It had been a very quiet trip.  Actually the only real excitement to convoy ON192 happened at 0450 GMT on the 21st, after we had left it, when the corvette The Pas (Lt.Cdr. E.G. Old) of the Western Local Escort force was in collision with the ship Medina.  The corvette was badly damaged and had to be escorted to Shelburne, Nova Scotia, by the minesweeper Blairmore (Lt.Cdr. W.J. Kingsmill).

            This brings to mind a similar happening of a year ago, when the corvette Pictou (Lt. A.G. Griffin), (now of our escort group), was nearly obliterated from the Atlantic scene. On 5 August 1942, she arrived in St. John’s from convoy ON105 after having had part of her stern sliced off in a collision with a merchant ship.

            Pictou sparkers of that era were Ldg Tel Roy Adams, and Tels:  Bob Dick, Walter Leggett, Victor Martnello, and Walter Smardon.  Signalman Gerry Sloat, of Saint John, was also serving in Pictou; Gerry had been in my first draft from the home town.

            Telegraphist Bob Dick, of Toronto, remembered that after the collision, Pictou’s depth charges were dangling precariously in the water still on their stern rails.  Fearing they might explode, Pictou lowered a boatload of men to pry loose the charges with crowbars.  Tommy Lewin, also of Toronto, was one of the volunteers who put away in the whaler.  His only worry was what his wife might think if she only knew of the task they were undertaking.  But any worry would have been unfounded.  After the charges were pried loose and began to sink, the corvette, with the whaler in tow, scurried off at maximum speed before any explosion could finish her.

            The next few days in port were to be my last in Skeena.  During that time I was kept busy reading morse exercises, assisting in the voice exercises, cleaning motors, and working on the aerials and one of the bridge loud-speakers.  On Thursday, Godsall and I handled the R/T (voice) exercise, and that day I heard that Telegraphist Wilf Mouland and I were drafted to St. Hyacinthe, Quebec, for a W/T-3 Leading Telegraphist course.

            I immediately commenced preparations for leaving by finishing the dhobeying of my clothes and lashing new clews on my hammock.  The next morning we packed our gear, and a truck picked us up in the afternoon, carrying us out of the city to the W/T station.  I was immediately put on the four to midnight watch - and something new for me:  I was employed on the teleprinter circuit, operating two-finger-wise.

            Without any compunction they took wholesale advantage of our week at the wireless station.  For myself, I was busy waxing floors, pushing a heavy roller over the outdoors basketball court, clearing land by hauling stumps, scrubbing stairways, and painting.  In addition there was some wireless watchkeeping, during which we worked four hours on and four off for 48 hours, then off duty for 24 hours.  I was employed on the 1740 Kc/s local wave, and although I was getting a fair amount of receiving and transmitting practice - good for the coming course - the watches seemed long and tiresome.

            I relaxed on one day off by journeying into town via stationwagon and by making the rounds of the Skeena, RCN Barracks, Church, USO Club, a movie, and lastly the “Y” where I acquired a bed and turned in.  The “Y” or as it was also known, the Red Triangle club, was near the waterfront, beyond the basin and west of Water Street.  It was a popular place for it had lounge rooms, recreation rooms, a canteen, and accommodation for 350.  The beds upstairs were in long dormitories, and foreknowledge of the layout was a requirement to finding one’s bed in the almost total darkness when arriving on board late in the evening.  There was no cause for squeamishness in these dormitories, for one was not among people called strangers, but really among fellow servicemen - like shipmates.  With my naval trousers turned inside out (to keep the press) and placed beneath my pillow, I was usually fast asleep.

            On Saturday, Wilf and I lashed our hammocks, packed our gear, and eagerly awaited a truck to pick us up; at 1130 we were on our way.  We arrived in Avalon Barracks in time for dinner; afterwards we did the barrack In Routine.  A visit to grassy, wooded , and monumented Bowring Park for pleasurable quietness, then a movie in town, and the day was completed with nostalgic thoughts of my former shipmates now at sea.

            Our stay in Avalon was short.  About 1300 on Sunday, Wilf and I started around barracks doing the Out Routine.  Later, our gear was taken by truck to the railway station.  At 1800 the train pulled out, we were on our way to St. Hyacinthe at last.

            I enjoyed watching the scenery, even though the middle of the country had a barren appearance about it.  Stopping at Humber Mouth, I got off the train and made the brief acquaintance of a pretty girl.  In the evening Wilf and I boarded the ferry at Port au Basque.  A prerequisite before sailing was boat drill.  Presumably this was mandatory because of the torpedoing of the ferry’s predecessor, SS Caribou, and the resultant loss of 137 people.  After boat drill I turned in and slept.

            At 0700 the ship departed under escort.  We crossed the Gulf of St. Lawrence and arrived safely in North Sydney at 1600.  At this Nova Scotian port we went through Customs, a necessity at this time when travelling from Newfoundland into Canada.  Our train departed at 2000, and at Mulgrave three obstreperous sailors were taken off the train.  We weren’t among them.

            In Truro we changed to a crowded Montreal train, and when it stopped at Moncton I had time to telephone home my good fortune of being in Canada once again.  Then on to St. Hyacinthe.