At 1100, 31 May, Wentworth departed St. John’s for her first adventure with a big convoy, HX293. The convoy this day was on its way to the Western Ocean Meeting Point (WESTOMP) escorted by Group W4 made up of the corvettes Sorel (Lt. J.A. Levesque), Dundas (Lt. R.B. Taylor), and Matapedia (Lt. C.F. Usher).
Thursday, 1 June. Because of fog we had trouble locating the convoy. Eventually, about 1300, we met the Western Local Escort and relieved them of the 94 ships. Our R/T and W/T were both extremely busy.
The ocean escort, C4 Group, was comprised of the frigates Wentworth (Lt.Cdr. S.W. Howell) and Montreal (Lt.Cdr. R.J. Herman), the corvettes Atholl (Lt W.D. Gardiner), Brandon (Lt. J.F. Evans), North Bay (Lt. B. Hynes), and Collingwood (Lt.Cdr. R.J.C. Pringle), augmented by three MAC ships (Merchant Aircraft Carriers).
Friday, 2 June. The prevailing weather, a smooth sea and an overcast sky, apparently was suitable flying weather because in the early morning carrier aircraft (Swordfish) were up on patrol. Also in the morning, one shore-based aircraft added to the cover.
In the evening, out in front of the 9.9 knot convoy, we picked up a ping and dropped a pattern of depth charges. No result. We then lost contact as we speeded through the convoy to its rear.
Saturday, 3 June. Around noon, under a bright sun and in seas choppy with white caps, we practiced replenishing depth charges from a ship in the convoy. A jackstay was rigged between the two ships and the charges ferried across without mishap.
Sunday, 4 June. I attempted a check of the portable TBY (transmitter-receiver). Initially it would not work, but the insertion of a new battery put us on the air.
At 1552Z, the frigate Montreal intercepted the transmission of a U-boat sending a first sighting report of our convoy. A bearing was taken of the transmission. Shortly after, we received a message on the broadcast giving us a shore-bearing of the same U-boat. Serving in the Montreal’s W/T branch at this time were: Ldg Tels S. Taylor and W. Whiteside, and Tels J. Muir, T. Stackhouse, G. Berube, J. Potter, B. Clarke, W. Taylor, L. Boulet, and D. McNish.
That night I slept in my mick with my clothes on, which was fairly normal routine. Nothing happened during the night excepting a small fluster caused by an unknown originator transmitting an alarm signal by Radio Telephone.
Monday, 5 June. We closed the corvette North Bay and a light jackstay was strung between the ships. Over this we pulled a Confidential Code book - one we should have held in our inventory.
I should mention here that corvettes carried a smaller W/T staff than that of a frigate. North Bay’s sparkers at this time were D. Bruce, K. Lyon, G. Geary, and D. Coull, headed by Ldg Tel W. Perry.
In my hammock that night I had a difficult time trying to sleep: the steady shaking of the ship in the foc’sle was like a vibrating spring-board.
Tuesday, 6 June. D Day! At breakfast we heard over the loudspeaker in the Mess the momentous news that the invasion had started. The Allies had landed in France!
About 1720, just as our exercise action stations had finished, we went to real action stations. The corvette Brandon had got a ping and was dropping charges; the frigate Montreal and the corvette Atholl were sent to assist her. Shortly after, Brandon reported the contact as non-sub.
At this time Brandon’s telegraphists were Ldg Tel B. Todd, and Tels S. Hare, E. Walker, and R. Cleary, while in Atholl the W/T staff consisted of Ldg Tel E. Johnson, and Tels H. Lamarche, E. Brown, B. Benham, and J. Day.
Around 2320 we went to action stations again. Our H/F D/F operators had obtained a bearing of a U-boat transmitting close to the convoy. We thereupon transmitted an enemy report to the shore authorities, and ordered Montreal to run down the bearing. Nothing finally came of this.
Telegraphist (TO) Stan Richardson, now of Powell River, BC, remembers the part his ship, the minesweeper Bayfield, played in the D-Day invasion and the period leading up to it:
“We left Halifax on February 18th with three other minesweepers, Georgian, Thunder, and Mulgrave for Plymouth, England via Newfoundland and the Azores, arriving on March 7th. We were then allocated to the 31st Minesweeping Flotilla. After extensive training and several mock invasions in the English Channel, we were ready for action.
“Our flotilla left on the evening of June 4th and started sweeping across the Channel, when we got a message that the invasion had been postponed. The following night we started out again. As we left the jetty, the ship in front of us put her engines half astern while we were going half ahead! Needless to say we ended up with a big hole in our port bort bow and had to drop a big collision mat from the deck over the hole. The outside pressure blocked the hole pretty good and we were able to carry on our way. We swept the Channel in the darkness of the night, and waited until the support groups and transports arrived. The USS Augusta was our flagship along with some heavy British cruisers lined up alongside a couple of miles from the Normandy coast. Our flotilla then began our sweep into Omaha beach. We were not detected until we had completed our sweep and were on our way back out. The shore batteries opened up and the Allied ships also began firing. We felt like being judges in a tennis match as the big red balls of fire roared back and forth over our heads! All seven minesweepers came through without a scratch and, after sweeping our lanes, we got out of range and the Landing Craft took over.
“It was not until noon that the Americans had the beachhead at Omaha secured. In the meantime, we had the only doctor for the flotilla on our ship and we took aboard quite a few survivors. The germans dropped mines by plane every evening and we were out sweeping from 0500 until 2200 every day, sinking them by gunfire. One night when we were anchored off Cherbourg, a torpedo from a German R Boat was fired at a transport ship and missed her and passed between our anchor chain and our bow! After a week or so we headed for Portsmouth to go up on the slips and have our hole in the bow repaired. We then returned and swept mines for a few weeks until we were sent to a rest camp at Port Tush, Ireland. It was like Heaven - no blackouts, everything was all lit up and we even had all the eggs that we could eat. What a paradise! We were then sent back to Halifax for a well deserved 28-day leave on August 13, 1944.”
(It is to be noted that Bayfield was one of the ships that took part in minesweeping operations at the entrance of Halifax harbour in June 1943 when the Germans tried to seal up the port.)
Wednesday, 7 June. In the afternoon I employed myself doing tailor-work on my trousers. I was becoming fairly proficient at tailoring, especially in sewing on new white stripes on my pusser (issue) collars to make them more tiddley.
In the W/T office, there were many enemy reports coming in from aircraft: reports of U-boats and surface vessels in the Channel and the Bay of Biscay.
Thursday, 8 June. I was occupied in the morning taking bearings of Irish shore stations. Later in the day we were sailing up the River Foyle. I was thrilled at seeing the bright green land again; it was a wonderful sight.
We arrived in Londonderry just after supper, and I went ashore that evening for a refreshing walk.
From the 9th to the 17th we remained in Derry. As there was a ban on travel to Britain because of the invasion of Europe, our leave was limited to the local area. Ships were not as plentiful as on other visits, and there were not many Yanks in evidence.
Two new sets were added to our W/T department; one was a D/F receiver (FM12), and the other, a VHF (Very High Frequency) transmitter/receiver - both of which the sparkers had to learn to operate.
The FM12 was a very good Direction Finding set. Its frequency range was 40 to 1000 Kilocycles. In taking a bearing, the use of the multi-purpose switch was very important. The operator first tuned in the signal of the station of which a bearing was being taken with the Aerial switch in the “Search” position. Then, with the switch in “loops” a minimum strength on the outside compass scale of the goniometer was found. Lastly, the operator would place the Aerial switch in the “Sense” position and would rotate the goniometer slowly clockwise. If the signal faded away, the minimum position was the true bearing. But if the signal began to rise, it indicated a reciprocal bearing and the true one would be found 180 degrees on the opposite side of the scale.
Saturday, 17 June. At 1730 we departed Derry. During the night we carried out surface and A/A shoots.
Sunday we were anchored off the mouth of the river having our D/F equipment calibrated. When this was completed we returned to Lough Foyle to oil from a tanker. Afterwards we anchored for the night.
Monday, 19 June. We weighed anchor about 0700 and two hours later, in thick fog, picked up our confused convoy, ONF241. Merchant ships, blowing whistles of varied sounds, loomed out of the fog unexpectedly, and seemed to be criss-crossing everywhere.
Our W/T office was very busy. By mid-afternoon we were in clear weather and the marshalling of the ships was finally completed. The convoy consisted of 95 ships, with C4 Group as escort, augmented by three A/C carriers, Acavus, Gadilla, and Adula. (Some of the airmen of these carriers would not see the end of the trip.)
At this time, Senior Officer of C4 Group was Commander E.W. Finch-Noyes, RCN. He was ably assisted by the Group Staff of Lieutenants: M. Waddell (E), P. Dery (G), R. Lort (S), E. Fraser (S), W. Rowlings (AS), G. Love (Elect), and V. Davis (Elect).
Wentworth, being an S.O. ship, had a substantial communications staff. Yeoman of (Visual) Signals was Len Murray, and he had in his branch Sigs John Cuddeford, Cortes Zickerman, Gord Gilroy, Art Wilcock, Albert Tippett, B. Coron, and D. Hopkins.
The coding chores were handled by Leading Coder Lawrence Matson, and Coders Larry Leboeuf, Jim Gibson, and Johnny Moran.
In the sparker branch were myself, as Leading Telegraphist, and the following Tels: Roy Sweeney, Ray MacDonald, Frank Amentea, John Vrooman, John Dingillo, John (Gordie) Glass, Gerald McLellan, and Jim Mullen.
Since becoming a Senior Officer ship we had picked up a Petty Officer Telegraphist to take charge of the W/T branch, but the manning of this position seemed to be in a state of flux. First, in May and June, we had P.O. Tel George Reid with us, then on 1 June along came P.O. Tel Edgar Harrison. This naturally changed my own status somewhat. I assisted in the supervising, and was a sort of general handy man. For example, during the last part of this particular day, I spent the time installing a loudspeaker on the bridge for the reception of convoy R/T.
Incidentally, my pay as a Leading Telegraphist was now 72 dollars a month, or 2.40 a day. The variance between my pay and that of a Telegraphist was not great. The Tel received two dollars a day, while the next increase, the pay of a Telegraphist Trained Operator (Tel T.O.), was only five cents more a day. One had to pass Trained Operator exams for the payment of five cents. Of course, the T.O. rate was necessary before going on to further training for Leading Telegraphist.
Tuesday, 20 June. The time was put back an hour during the middle watch. The weather was overcast, the sea running smooth, and the visibility was good. The ships in the hug convoy could be clearly seen stretching in all directions.
Wednesday, 21 June. After a cloudy morning, the sky began to break up as the day progressed, and after supper the sun came pouring through the broken canopy.
Using our FM12 Medium Frequency Direction Finder we homed a Sunderland flying boat to the convoy.
Around 1700 the frigate Montreal and the corvette North Bay both picked up different contacts and dropped charges. The corvette Atholl also dropped charges. All ships, later, lost their contacts. Repetitions of this continued into the evening.
Thursday, 22 June. In the morning a light mist lay around the convoy like a wrapping of gauze; now and then, ships in the convoy loomed out of the mist like wraiths of a nether world. Then for a while the weatherman opened windows in the clouds to accent the heavens with patches of blue, while to offset the gloomy dark clouds descending to meet the horizon, a friendly sun painted the sea with streaks of silver. In the afternoon the clouds closed ranks.
The escorts of a UK-bound convoy were close at hand and were getting many underwater contacts.
In the afternoon the corvette North Bay, of our own group, also got a contact, but soon lost it.
At 1620, with the Jimmy (First Lieutenant) doing the honours of pressing the alarm button, we went to action stations of a short duration. Probably fish, but we took no chances.
Friday, 23 June. I was surprised to see the sea still smooth. Just after supper the convoy became engulfed in fog, which later in the evening brought us near to disaster. We were sweeping in front of the convoy when, about 2100, a message was originated for flashing to a ship in the convoy. We turned and headed for the convoy so as to come closer to pass the message. The captain had just made his way to the bridge, when all of a sudden, out of the fog appeared a monstrous freighter - heading straight for us. It looked as if we would crash headlong into each other, but our captain coolly and quickly ordered the helm to starboard and the port engine hard ahead. The Wentworth swung around; our stern scraped by - we just missed having it sheared off - and we breathed freely again.
Saturday, 24 June. Thick fog still enveloped us. It was not until late at night that it finally lifted.
During the day an American Liberty ship, adopting an independent attitude, speeded ahead of the convoy. One of the corvettes - all but firing on her - tried in vain to persuade the ship to get back into position. So we sailed up and ordered her to rejoin by next morning. The Yank crew lined the rails and yelled defiantly at us - as if they had no need of an escort.
In the English Channel, HMS Eskimo, the Canadian destroyer Haida (Capt. H.G. DeWolf), and a Czech-manned aircraft of the RAF sank U-971.
Sunday, 25 June. For most of the day the sheer brilliance of the sun forced its way through a weak haze; in the evening the sky grew more cloudy.
In the afternoon, with the sea flat as a pancake, we oiled from the stern of a tanker in the convoy.
We began to pick up lots of R/T and W/T on the Convoy Wave, 2410 Kc/s.
Monday, 26 June. This was a day of distress. At 0605, in position 49 32 North 48 21 West, four Swordfish aircraft were launched from our carriers, Acavus and Adula. The Swordfish was a two-winged, three-seater aircraft with an open cockpit. Its cruising speed was about 115 miles per hour, with a maximum speed of about 130 m.p.h., and an endurance of about five hours. The aircraft could carry approximately an 1,800-pound load consisting of either bombs or a single torpedo. In addition its armament contained a Vickers .303-inch machine gun firing through the airscrew, and a Lewis gun fitted at the back of the rear cockpit.
At the time of the aircraft-launching the visibility around the convoy was approximately three miles ahead and seven miles astern. Wentworth was on the move from position Sugar to Able, and by the time we reached the front of the convoy, fog had settled quickly around the convoy reducing visibility to half a cable with zero ceiling - that is, about 100 yards.
The four aircraft were ordered by the carriers to return to base. The Senior Officer of the escort (in Wentworth) ordered the corvette North Bay to proceed from position Peter to join Acavus and stand by the carrier until she returned to the convoy. But at 1013Z North Bay came upon Adula first and decided to remain with that carrier, having reported her intentions to us. At 0937Z Montreal had been ordered to join Adula, but on receipt of North Bay’s message, Montreal was ordered to join Acavus instead.
Meanwhile, at 0900Z, one aircraft with the call sign Minus Nan sent the short message, “I think we can make it.” On his first attempt he had missed the carrier (Adula), but evidently on this next try, by following up the carrier’s wake, which was accented by a fog buoy towed astern, he was successful in landing.
Adula reported it was setting its course to 160 degrees and then began attempts to retrieve the aircraft Minus Easy. From these attempts the following messages evolved:
0907 “Hullo Minus Easy (aircraft) this is Minus (Adula) You are on my starboard side. Go astern and come in.”
0909 “Hullo Minus Easy this is Minus. You are astern of me. Minus Nan got on safely, no bother at all.”
0915 “Minus Easy this is Minus. What is your position from me?”
0927 “Minus Easy this is Minus. come in please, you seem to be going away. My course is 160 degrees.”
0945 “This is Minus. Carry out procedure for aircraft in distress and transmit on Alternative Frequency.”
The aircraft answered the carrier on each occasion, but when we listened out for him on the Alternative Frequency he was not heard. At 0958, however, we took bearings of the aircraft on 2410 Kc/s and immediately passed them to Adula.
1009 “Minus Easy this is Minus. You are on my port quarter. Go astern and come in.”
1018 “Minus Easy this is Minus. You will have 22 knots over the deck. Good luck.”
1033 “Minus Easy this is Minus. You’re a little to port, try again.”
1043 “Minus Easy this is Minus. You came in nicely just over my stern. Better luck next time.”
At 1046, the carrier began passing bearing and distances to the blind aircraft: “060 degrees, one and a quarter miles...085 degrees, one and a quarter miles...090 degrees, one and three-quarter miles...095 degrees, two miles...105 degrees, two and quarter miles...105 degrees, two miles...105 degrees, one and three-quarter miles.” Just then the aircraft broke in with “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday” - the distress call.
The carrier continued passing bearings: “115 degrees, one and three-quarter miles...your SOS has been received...110 degrees, one and a half miles...get alongside if you cannot come aboard...125 degrees, one and a half miles... closing in nicely.” At about this point the aircraft crashed somewhere off in the fog. Adula stopped, and North Bay, which had been trying to assist the carrier by using her searchlight, commenced a search for the ditched aircraft.
At 1140Z North Bay sighted a piece of propeller; at 1323 North Bay sighted further wreckage: 2 flares, 2 wings, and a glove; and at 1329Z they recovered the body of Temp Sub-Lieutenant (A) Davis J. Allan, RNVR. Sub-Lt. Allan was in his bare feet with safety strap unbroken. Artificial respiration was started immediately and medical advice obtained from Adula. North Bay continued the search, and at 1423 reported to Adula that she had recovered two other members of the crew: Temp Sub Lt. (A) John Sydney, RNVR, and Leading Air Gunner Allan Gillison, T.A.G. 3/c, FX 96222.
At 1515, North Bay reported having taken Adula’s Medical Officer on board. A few hours later, at 1807, North Bay reported that the condition of all three fliers appeared to be hopeless in spite of all efforts to revive them. She reported her intention to remain in company with Adula and continue reporting the situation. At 2030 the corvette reported that all three airmen were dead. The Senior Officer concurred with North Bay’s intention to escort Adula to Halifax, as Adula had fallen some distance astern of the main body of the convoy by this time. This course of action was approved by message timed 270055Z from Flag Officer Newfoundland. North Bay’s message of 262140Z reported having committed the bodies to the deep with honour.
Earlier Acavus had reported one of her aircraft had safely landed on her deck, and that the other one may have tried to make Newfoundland. At 1109 Acavus reported the possible ditching position of her lost aircraft as 49 09 North 48 37 West. This proved to be a good datum. The frigate Montreal (Lt.Cdr. R.J. Herman in command) was ordered to proceed forthwith to that position and carry out a search. At 1238Z the corvette Atholl was ordered to join Montreal in the search.
At 1621 Acavus reported her position as five miles astern of the convoy and rejoining. Meanwhile, Montreal had begun a box search, increasing the square a half mile every lap. At 1550, Atholl joined her, and in line abreast a mile apart, the two ships continued the search.
The fog remained very thick until about 1830Z when visibility, as if by a miracle, opened to about a mile. At 1900Z, with their attention drawn to a flare, Montreal sighted a float about a half-mile ahead on her starboard bow. Montreal’s seaboat was immediately lowered and the three airmen were soon aboard the frigate. They were Sub-Lt. (A) F.A. Carter, Sub-Lt. (A) W.F. Tremble, and LAC C.W. Martin (A). Upon examination none of the men seemed to be suffering from exposure, although they had been in the water for over 12 hours.
It was thought that the gunner, LAC Martin, may have been injured internally when he was thrown clear of the aircraft into the cold water of the Atlantic; fortunately he managed to crawl into the aircraft’s float which was within reaching distance. He paddled around some twenty minutes before locating the other two men, and then after a hard struggle, pulled them safely into the float. (The Senior Officer commended him highly for this fine work in a subsequent report.) The Commanding Officer of Montreal said he had never seen three more thankful or cheerful men than the aircrew when he appeared out of the fog, as they had resigned themselves to being left behind.
After the rescue the Senior Officer ordered Montreal to proceed direct to St. John’s, taking the corvette Atholl under her orders.
On board our own ship, one of the crew was scalded by accidentally spilling boiling-hot coffee over the front of his body. We arranged to have an ambulance waiting for him in port.
It had been a busy day for the W/T department in Wentworth. In addition to the large volume of inter-escort traffic, we transmitted 17 messages on the ship-shore waves; of these, I sent 11 myself. We were also busy homing HMCS Pictou (Senior Officer of W5 Group), our relief in the temporary absence of HMCS Winnipeg. Shortly after 2000, while we were still in thick fog, Pictou closed Wentworth and the convoy was turned over to her and the rest of the Western Local group.
We could have been in port by midnight but because of the heavy fog we delayed our entry until next morning.
Around eight in the morning of Tuesday we sailed through the gates. Highlight of the day was the welcome load of mail awaiting us when we tied up.
In retrospect, a report on our watchkeeping of the wireless broadcast showed that Broadcast BN (Whitehall UK) was at all times loud and clear, and no interference was experienced from Broadcast L (Halifax) until approximately 35 West. Watch was therefore kept on BN until 37 West, when it was shifted to the L Broadcast. Normally we shifted watch around 32 West.
On the other side of the ocean, HMS Statice, and the Canadian destroyers Kootenay (Lt.Cdr. W.H. Willson) and Ottawa (Cdr. J.S.D. Prentice), all helped in sinking U-678 in the English Channel on 6 July.
Friday, 7 July. About 2130, “Hands to stations for leaving harbour,” was piped. Wentworth now had a new Commanding Officer, Lt.Cdr. R.J.C. Pringle. Our former C.O., Lt.Cdr. S.W. Howell, had been transferred to the frigate Montreal.
Outside the gates a pronounced ground swell had me feeling seasick. I was not in the mood to sling my mick, so I slept on the seat lockers and consequently spent a cold and uncomfortable night.
Saturday, 8 July. In the morning the escorts of C4 Group were beyond the ground swell, moving steadily along in line abreast. By six o’clock we were closing in on the convoy we were relieving, HXM298, and before seven we took over from Sault Ste. Marie (Lt.Cdr. A. Moorhouse), SO of the Western Local Escort force. We now had under our care about 117 ships, with an average speed of 8.9 knots.
Later on, in the evening, the fog of the Grand Banks began to close in on the huge convoy. Our 117 ships was a considerably large convoy, but the largest one to cross the Atlantic followed shortly after ours. It was HXS300, and it included 167 ships. Some convoy.
Sunday, 9 July. In the morning it was still foggy, with visibility about a couple of hundred yards.
It was 1100Z when up on deck a touch of nostalgia struck me, and I thought that at this time back home everybody would be just getting up to go to Mass. I switched to the present and watched the sea. The water around the ship appeared black and cold, but the sea bird - Mother Carey’s chickens - seemed to enjoy it as they went skimming over the top of the waves. Their dusky backs seemed to match the colour of the water, but now and then a flash of white could be seen as they whipped and turned, showing the under part of their small bodies.
In the early afternoon a brave sun tried to break through the fog; by late afternoon it finally did.
Monday, 10 July. It was foggy again both in the morning and in the afternoon. The monotony of ships, fog, sky, and water was broken briefly by the appearance of a couple of small whales, conspicuous by the telltale vapourous air blowing from their nostrils as they surfaced to breathe.
In Wentworth the normal day’s routine goes on. The SO and his staff will be keeping abreast of events by actioning messages from within the convoy, by studying U-boat dispositions, and by consulting Situation Reports broadcast from shore. The Officer of the Watch keeps the ship on course, making the proper A/S sweeps. The Navigating Officer may be peering over his charts, and the Coxswain, responsible to the XO for the crew, may be studying the duty roster. The Buffer, responsible for upper deck work, will have the off-watch hands busy at hosing down, chipping, painting, cleaning or something.
Opening up another case of jam is the victualling storesman, while the cooks will be puttering around in their cozy galley, filling the big pots and saturating the air with a succulent appetizing aroma. The duty gun crew huddles around the main gun mounting, and lookouts rub their eyes and stare into the obscure distance, now and then lifting strong, black binoculars for better viewing. Engine room artificers and stokers sweat it out down below in noisy, smelly surroundings. The wheelhouse men are taking turns at their various jobs - quartermaster, helmsman, or telegraphman.
Signal-men on the bridge may be acknowledging the receipt of a flashed message by flashing in return a long dash, the letter “T”. And in the W/T office, the broadcast operator is copying with pencil a coded figured message, while near him a coder is busy decoding a message addressed to our escort group. And so the day goes.
In the evening I spent some time assisting the P.O. Tel in seeking a fault in the 12-volt battery supply to the FR12 transmitter-receiver. We finally traced it to one defective cell in a battery, which was then replaced by another battery.
Tuesday, 11 July. A light mist made it difficult to see the ships in the convoy. Some of the corvettes picked up contacts, but these were evaluated as fish. In the morning the Montreal closed us as we were sweeping in front of the convoy. Our seaboat was lowered in the calm sea and, after quickly rowing to the other frigate, brought back the Medical Officer.
In the afternoon, as we sailed down between the columns, there on Pendants 35 some girls were spotted by our ever-watchful lads. As one described it: “I noticed a big list to port. I turned and saw everybody leaning over the side, staring at some girls on one of the ships.” The proximity of the opposite sex, here in the middle of the North Atlantic, was quite a thrill to the watchers.
Earlier in the day a message on the broadcast informed us that a bearing had been taken of a U-boat transmitting a weather report in our vicinity. When the U-boat situation report came in, Admiralty had plotted a U-boat in a position quite close to our convoy. For our own interest, I pinpointed other U-boats on a chart in our W/T office. Our present course would take us straight through a U-boat position at 53 30 North 38 30 West.
Wednesday, 12 July. At 0030, I was awakened suddenly to the ringing of the alarm bell. I reached up, grabbed hold of the pipes over my head, and swung out of my mick to the deck. My life-preserver was hanging under the head of my mick and I quickly put it on. Then I picked up my sneakers and socks, and in my bare feet started running along the passageway.
Everyone was on the run. I went up the ladder leading from the wardroom flats and, as I got to the top, my feet caught on the lip of the hatch and I toppled on my face. My only injury, it turned out, was a skinned right foot.
Arriving in the W/T office, I learned that one of the corvettes had picked up a Radar contact. In a few minutes they advised it was a false alarm: the contact had turned out to be another of our own corvettes. The order was then received from the bridge to secure action stations.
I returned below and climbed into my hammock again. The boys sat around the table beneath me chattering about their conduct during the action stations. One Sig remarked how he went rushing along, crashing into the Buffer and sending him sprawling; then going on further, to bump into the Chippy (Shipwright) and sending him reeling back along the passageway. Such is a typical action evolution.
It was some time before I got to sleep again...but hardly had I closed my eyes, or so it seemed, when - bingo! - that trigger in the corner of my mind was set off again by the action alarm bell, and I was out of my mick in a flash. And again I went flying up to the W/T office.
The time was 0425. We were patrolling in the rear of the convoy when, during one of the Radar sweeps, the operator picked up an echo bearing astern of us. But as we moved to close the contact, the echo disappeared. We took it for granted that it was a U-boat and, after detecting our presence, it had dived. We had broadcast the alarm message on the convoy wave to the other escorts. Possibly the U-boat had intercepted our message - for it was just after transmission of the alarm that the echo disappeared.
Ville de Quebec (Lt.Cdr. H.C. Hatch) and North Bay (Lt. J.N. Finlayson) were ordered to close us (Wentworth). The two corvettes and our frigate were to carry out an A/S search in an area about two miles square. Secure was piped and I went below and turned in. Nothing came of the search.
When daylight came, an aircraft was sent aloft. It returned to its carrier with nothing sighted. The rest of the day was uneventful. Both Admiralty and Ottawa U-boat reports showed nothing exciting in the offing.
Thursday, 13 July. In the afternoon, over the convoy wave the corvette North Bay broadcast the alarm: “Suspected U-boat at periscope depth astern of the 11th column. Investigating.”
Montreal and Ville de Quebec were sent to assist her. The three ships were ordered to spread, search, and hunt. After a few hours of searching, the result was: negative contacts.
Later in the afternoon, all the ships in the convoy tried out their A/A guns. It was a thunderous barrage.
Friday, 14 July. It was a dull, cloudy day. The sea was not rough, but the ship rolled incessantly. At 1330 I joined a small group in the Sick Bay where the Tiffy (Sick Bay Attendant) gave a lecture on First Aid.
An Anti-Submarine exercise, in the afternoon, took Wentworth to the rear of the convoy. On returning to the van, we passed through the columns - deliberately it seems - so as to pass the ship with the females on it. When we came abreast of it, we slowed appreciably. Many of our wolves were now on deck for a morale-building glimpse of feminine pulchritude. The officers on the bridge trained their binoculars on the very important ship; Lt. Starrick used the binoculars attached to the large signal projector. However, there were only two girls on deck. But I suppose they were enough to lift any man from the doldrums. Undoubtedly, these young ladies would never again acquire such a large crowd of admirers - unless they went into show business.
The W/T department was busy receiving many messages from the shore authorities, advising the destinations of the various ships in our convoy.
Saturday, 15 July. Before breakfast, and under a gray cloudy sky, we began to oil from a tanker in the convoy. Replenishment was completed at 0900. In the afternoon we were again within the convoy to pick up some bulbs from the Vice-Commodore’s ship for delivery to the Convoy Commodore for the signal projector on the bridge of his merchant ship.
Just before supper, Ville de Quebec flashed a message asking for a doctor because one of her crew was accidentally shot in the chest. Montreal’s Medical Officer was in the Rescue Ship at the rear of the convoy, so Ville de Quebec was ordered to close the Rescue Ship to arrange the transfer of the M.O. Unfortunately before this could be accomplished the boy had died.
An unscheduled aircraft was sighted - presumably one of our land-based types. In the early evening it began to rain.
Sunday, 16 July. We were running into heavy banks of fog as we got closer to Ireland. By evening it had cleared and the convoy began breaking off into sections.
Monday, 17 July. Accompanied by the corvette Brandon, Wentworth had the task of taking the main section (about 56 ships) as far as Liverpool. On our way, we were met by a local escort, the trawler Southern Spray. In the middle of the day we were going through a smooth Irish Sea. The sun was visible overhead, but on the water a heavy mist lay. Sometimes the leading ships of the convoy could be seen clearly but the rest of them would be buried in the haze. We steered a straight course all day through swept channels. By the early evening the visibility had cleared. When darkness fell, all ships - including our own - were burning navigation lights. It was a strange sight.
Tuesday, 18 July. I awoke to find we had delivered our section of the convoy safely, and were on our way to Derry. The Irish Sea was covered with white caps, but later in the afternoon it smoothed out again. One aircraft carrier was spotted on exercises. By 1900 we were in port.
On Wednesday morning I made preparations to go on leave. I left Derry on the 1350 train bound for London via Belfast, Larne, and Stranraer. I arrived in London about 1030 Thursday morning and learned that during the night the city had suffered a heavy raid of flying bombs.
I took the subway from Euston Station to travel to Trafalgar Square, but by mistake got off at Leicester Square. I walked the rest of the way to the Beaver Club and took note of a sign that read “Alert”. I shaved and had dinner at the club, after which I went out to Lancaster Gate and booked a room at the Duchy Hotel for three days.
On the 20th while I was in London, the Canadian Escort Group 9 was being subjected to an attack by glider bombs from Dornier aircraft. The Group, consisting of Matane (Cdr. A.F. Layard), Stormont (Lt.Cdr. G.A. Myra), Swansea (Cdr. C.A. King), and Meon (Cdr. St.C. Balfour), were patrolling in the Bay of Biscay, some forty miles southwest of Ushant.
Sparkers in Matane at this time were: P.O. Tel John Baker, Ldg Tels Ken Stoneham and Frank Diamond, and Tels Rene Vinet, Albert Munroe, Harry Sabean, Jack Kirby, Bob Fellows, John Hawkes, and Ross Wright. Of these, Jack Kirby remembered that it was a beautiful, hot summer day with the water flat as a billiard table. Jack was on the 12 to 4 afternoon watch when the bridge sent down an exciting message for transmission. It was a shadowing report of enemy aircraft on the horizon. Later this message was replied to by Admiralty, who advised they must be mistaken. However, an explosion astern of Meon and the sighting of a Dornier proved it was indeed the enemy.
The enemy force, consisting of three Dorniers, were able to stay out of range of the guns of the frigates and launch their glider bombs at their own leisure. One bomb passing over Matane, struck the edge of a Carley float on the roof of Matane’s “Y” gun ammunition hoist, then continued on through the combing of the gun-deck on the port side, next through the ladder to the quarter-deck and into the water where it exploded.
The force of the explosion tore a large hole in the port side abreast of the after end of the engine room, which flooded immediately and stopped Matane dead in the water. “It felt like a whole pattern of depth charges going off,” said Jack. At the time, he was busy copying Whitehall on the MSL5 receiver, a task that was interrupted by a loss of power caused by the explosion. This was quickly remedied by switching over to batteries. They were also in the act of transmitting an O-A report, but all they got out was the heading of the emergency message. It is believed that Swansea took over sending out the report.
Casualties, in this the only hit of the attack, were not considered heavy. Two men who had been in the path of the bomb were listed as missing; another was killed, and one died of wounds. Eleven others, many of whom were scalded by escaping steam, were listed as wounded. Among the fatalities was Signalman Doug Waterhouse of Brantford, Ontario, age 19.
After the action, the wounded men were cared for by Matane’s staff and medical people brought over from the other ships. Then with the bulkheads shored up, Matane got under way, towed by Meon first and later, Stormont. Although, because of U-boat scares, they occasionally dropped the tow-lines and left Matane, the two frigates safely hauled the damaged ship into Plymouth in just 24 hours.
Matane was later repaired in Scotland, but she was not able to rejoin her Escort Group until 7 May 1945, just one day before the German surrender.
Jack Kirby was drafted to the destroyer Ottawa, and eventually that ship returned to Canada in company with the destroyer Restigouche. On their way from Newfy, where they had stopped for refuelling, Restigouche lost her coxswain overboard on 4 October, despite the use of flares and a liferaft thrown. The buzz going around at the time was that he was thrown overboard because he was considered a mean type.
Telegraphist Kirby served in one more ship until discharged after the war. In peace-time, Jack was afflicted with blindness, but despite this, he became a successful and devoted Amateur Radio Operator, a calling and profession shared by many ex-Telegraphists.
Before closing this sojourn into the Channel, I should add here the names of the W/T branch of that very successful fighting ship, the frigate Swansea. Her June 1944 listing showed the following: P.O. Tel Cassam Marlin (my former P.O. of Assiniboine days), Ldg Tels J. McFerran, J. Campbell, and Telegraphists: V. MacDonald, R. Gibson, A. Drouin, A. Wild, A. Tomlinson, K. Lidbetter, E. Cooper, and F. Rush.
Now that I was in London once again, my aim was to find out where my cousin Josephine was stationed, as I intended to visit her. Feenie, as the family called her, was with the Canadian Army somewhere near London.
I travelled over to CWAC headquarters at Hyde Park Gardens and there was immediately provided with the required information. With this tucked in my mind I took the tubes to Waterloo Station and caught a southern train for Bordon via Bentley. On arrival at Bordon, and after much inquiring, I located the CWAC barracks and my cousin Feenie, whom I found in good health and spirits.
The land and air war were much in evidence. I was amazed at the hundreds of different vehicles that were amassed in the surrounding fields. In the evening hundreds of bombers made an inspiring sight as they winged their way over the channel heading for the continent. I was given a bunk in one of the army huts and there spent the night.
After a bike ride Friday morning I watched tanks and motorcycles raising clouds of dust on the camp training grounds. Later I was surprised to meet a Saint John friend, soldier Joe Perkins, who was hard at work in one of the camp fields. We had a good chat.
In the early evening I went to Confession, Mass and Communion in the camp chapel. It wasn’t crowded, but it was all the more peaceful. Afterwards I felt good.
Fact or fiction, the story of the V-1 flying bombs was told to me by the soldiers in the hut. They called them Doodle bugs or buzz bombs, and described them as being a pretty sight at night with a white flame or vapor streaming from their tails, despite the horror they wrought. Most of the bombs flew into London and the surrounding countryside. Once they counted 12 inside of three minutes. Sometimes the motor of the buzz bomb would stop, then all of a sudden start up again; other times the motor would stop and the buzz bomb would glide for awhile before starting its dive to the ground. Another peculiarity, they said, was its habit of turning to the left before crashing. Fighter aircraft, barrage balloons, and A/A batteries along the coast all accounted for many of the buzz bombs not reaching London. During the night I had lain awake listening to what I thought was the sound of the flying bombs, but this I was told in the morning had been only a convoy of vehicles passing by on the road below camp.
I said good-bye to Feenie on Saturday evening and took the bus to Farnham, then the train to Waterloo Station in London. On making my way out of the station I found everybody on the run. I wondered about their haste. Going into the subway I found the subways lined with older people, and realized they were there for shelter from the bombs: an alert was on.
I could not get on the tubes so I walked down to Trafalgar Square and there was successful in taking the tubes from the Strand to Lancaster Gate. On the way I found the subway platforms crowded with old and young alike.
In the canteen at the Duchy Hotel I met a CWAC from Saint John: a Miss Trainor. Later, as I was eating, one of the two old ladies behind the counter says, “There. Listen - a flying bomb!” And I listened. Sure enough there came to my ears the sound of a motor overhead - like the sound of a motorcycle. It grew louder, and the old lady says, “E’s coming this way!” Anyone could tell it was coming our way. The sound of the motor was very loud and we all looked up at the ceiling instinctively. The other old lady ran around the end of the counter and ducked behind it; she only wanted to protect herself from flying glass if the windows were shattered.
The old lady spoke again. “There! E’s gone.” As the sound of the motor faded away, I wondered who the unfortunate people were who would get that one.
About half an hour after midnight, as I was undressing for bed, the sound of another buzz bomb came to me. It grew closer, closer - then passed on to some other part of London. Lying in bed, again I heard the motor of a buzz bomb. It was loud, not overhead, but off to the side. As I listened, the motor cut off sharply. There was an ominous silence; I knew then it was on its way down. Perhaps at that moment, someone in some house was listening also; and they lay there waiting, paralyzed with fear; waiting, perhaps each second like a year ... then, to my ears came the dull thud of the bomb hitting and exploding: a noise like the crumbling of buildings. As I still lay there, another buzz bomb winged its way over. A little later I heard the explosion of yet another one. The window shook slightly at that one. Then I finally fell asleep.
The bombs must have been coming over all night for no sooner was I awake Sunday morning than the sound of another bomb came to me. Shortly after, the sirens gave the welcome all clear signal.
Being Sunday, I went to Mass down the street at the K of C Hut. Later, I had dinner at the Beaver Club and after, took the tubes to Euston Station to commence my return journey to Derry.
While waiting outside the station I heard the rising and falling wail of the sirens, telling everybody the alert was on. Soon after I heard a Buzz bomb coming over - it seemed the closest yet - but as it passed directly over the station its motor cut off. I watched some people run for cover. I stood close to the side of the building. Then the explosion came - not a mile away. Soon after, the all clear of a steady note was sounded.
While I was talking to a policeman, who had caught a glimpse of the bomb as it went through the clouds, the alert went on again. Soon the sound of the explosion came to my ears, and later, the motor of another one. Then the all clear came.
As I was boarding the train, the sirens were wailing their foreboding sound again. Fortunately before we pulled out, the all clear came again.
In contrast to London the scene from the train was of: quiet looking towns with their houses of red brick; hedges dividing pastoral fields of cattle, sheep, and horses; friendly looking brooks; and bicyclists on narrow winding roads - a picture making one think there was no war on.
I arrived back in Derry on the 24th. Wentworth sailed the next day for gunnery shoots off the mouth of the Foyle. In the evening we returned to Lough Foyle, and after oiling from a tanker, anchored for the night.
Wednesday, 26 July. The group sailed at noon to pick up convoy ONM246. The corvette Brandon was not with us: she had caught fire in Derry and would be delayed in port for a few days.
We took over the convoy of 90 ships in the middle of the afternoon. USS Davis, a destroyer bound for the States, was positioned within the convoy and came under our care. She had been slightly damaged in the Channel and therefore was not fast enough for escort duties. In addition to C4 Group, three A/C carriers formed part of the protecting force.
The corvette Atholl picked up the first ping of the trip and dropped charges. But it was declared non-sub.
Thursday, 27 July. My seasickness and a somber cloudy sky made it a very cheerless day. The convoy moved quietly westward.
Friday, 28 July. After rain in the morning, a welcome sun broke through in the afternoon. An aircraft, attempting to land on one of the carriers, made its touch-down but continued on over the side of the vessel. When the crew was picked up, the observer was found dead.
Atholl obtained another contact; non-sub.
Saturday was another dull day: sun in the morning, a cloudy sky in the afternoon and the sea beginning to kick up.
Sunday, 30 July. It was a foggy day and the sea had gone down. It was difficult finding ways to kill time off watch. One could not help but feel in a languid state by the quietness of this trip. The situation reports showed a dearth of U-boats. There seemed to be only weather reporting U-boats around; and they were few and positioned far apart.
Monday, 31 July. A gale was blowing for most of the day. Four ships were detached at 36 West to proceed independently: a good sign that the U-boat menace had diminished.
Tuesday, 1 August. When we oiled in the afternoon it was misty and cloudy, and a fierce wind whipped the spray high over the ship. In the evening the blue of the sky appeared and the force of the wind began to lessen.
In an amateurish fashion, I was busy trying to write a short story. In this, I could lift myself from the boredom of the daily routine and live vicariously for a while with the characters of my story. I had picked up this habit from Telegraphist Sherman in the Skeena. One of my light-hearted stories was written for the amusement of the men in our communications branch. For the central character I used the name of one of our operators who took it all in good humour. He was depicted as a long-haired amorous zoot suiter - the kind with the extra long coat and baggy trousers narrowing at the ankle. Our zoot-suited civilian is involved in a madcap scene along with his latest girl friend, her dog, and her father. Eventually he joins the navy and immediately is confronted by the girl’s father, who turns out to be an officer in the same service. But the worst that happens to the ex-zoot suiter is, like Samson, he loses his long precious locks.
Others of the crew, to pass the time, continually played that old favourite game - crib. Some flaked out (slept), while others were occupied with model aeroplanes.
Today we were delighted to get fresh bread, baked by the cooks.
Wednesday, 2 August. It was a pleasant day. The sea was as smooth as glass. In the afternoon, at least three of the escort picked up “Queenies” (code word for contact), and some dropped depth charges.
We, ourselves, picked up a ping also. The large black flag, indicating a contact was being investigated, was hoisted to the yard-arm. Then came the ringing of the action alarm bell, and away we flew to our stations. We dropped one charge as we passed over the contact; then we spun around quickly to lay a large pattern of ten charges: some went flying through the air from the throwers on the sides of the quarter-deck, and the others were sent rolling off the stern of the ship. The pulverized sea heaved, boiled, and erupted. But nothing came of our attack.
Around the supper hour an aircraft had been aloft from one of the carriers. It returned to base before the omnipresent fog enclosed the convoy.
Thursday, 3 August. As we were nearing WESTOMP (Western Ocean Meeting Point) we were busy in the W/T office homing the Western Local Escort. After taking bearings of the Western Local’s wireless signals, we passed them back so they could steer our way. By supper hour we had turned over the convoy and were on our way to St. John’s. We took bearings of the Newfy coast stations to assist us on the way in.
Friday, 4 August. I arose about 0500 to take further bearings, this time of the Aircraft Radio Station. It was raining and we passed through a storm of thunder and lightning. However, it was foggy as we approached the gates. Ahead, through the murkiness we could make out the flashing of the signal lamp on the side of the hill where the Army battery was located. This was the port war signal station (PWSS). Earlier the PWSS was established at Cape Spear, and a temporary one was set up on Signal Hill. The temporary one subsequently moved to Fort Amherst, and became in fact the main port signal station. The flashing now from the hillside was the permission to enter.
It was just after breakfast when we tied up. It was good to be in port again. Our stay was to last until 16 August.
Elsewhere, on 8 August, the corvette Regina (Lt. J.W. Radford) was torpedoed and sunk off Trevose Head, England, in position 50 42 N 05 03 W. Lost with her were: Leading Telegraphist J.D. Asselton, age 25; Tel R. Sutherland, age 22; and Tel A.D. Taylor, age 20. Regina had been escorting convoy EBC66 when she was torpedoed by U-667, commanded by Kapitanleutnant Karl-Heinz Lange. Later in the month, on the 25th, U-667 was lost with all hands off La Rochelle, in the Bay Biscay, the victim of a mine.
Wednesday, 16 August. Just before 0700 we slipped from a buoy in the harbour where we had been tied. On board was Captain “D” on passage home to the UK. As we were passing O’Leary’s wharf a Navy band was there wishing him a bon voyage. While they played “Anchors Aweigh” he stood up on the bridge with his bull terrier cradled in his arm and waved good-bye with his cap; reciprocating were a number of officers who were present on a nearby motor launch.
At sea that evening our anti-aircraft crews put up a good show during a practice shoot. The sleeve towed by the target aircraft appeared to have taken a beating.
Thursday, 17 August. C4 Group was proceeding to meet convoy HXS303 at the rendezvous. Ships in the group were; Wentworth, Montreal, Brandon, Atholl, North Bay (Lt.Cdr. B. Hynes), Collingwood (Lt. H.R. Knight),and Amherst (Lt. D.M. Fraser).
The corvette Amherst was a newcomer to our group, and her sparkers were J. Martin, G. Gregory, W. Jones, and M. Eyford.
About 1800 we relieved W6 Group: Wallaceburg (Lt.Cdr. R.A. MacNeil), Saskatoon (Lt.Cdr. R.S. Williams), Dunvegan (Lt. J.A. Rankin), and Oakville (Lt. H.F. Farncomb); then we were on our way again with the 8 knot convoy of about 104 ships. In addition, four aircraft carriers were with the convoy.
HXS303 had first assembled under the wing of Group W5: Winnipeg (Lt.Cdr. R.A. Judges), Lethbridge (Lt. F.H. Pinfold), Pictou (Lt.Cdr. G.K. Fox), and St. Boniface (Lt.Cdr. J.D. Frewer). This group, after finishing the first leg of the journey, turned the convoy over to W5 who later passed the escort duties over to our C4 Group.
Friday was a quiet foggy day for us, but on the other side of the Atlantic this same day, the Canadian destroyers Chaudiere (Lt.Cdr. C.P. Nixon), Kootenay (Lt.Cdr. W.H. Willson), and Ottawa (Cdr. J.S. Prentice) sank U-621 in the Bay of Biscay.
Saturday, 19 August. The weather was warm and foggy. Out of five land-based aircraft that were scheduled to cover us, only one was able to come. Using our FM12 D/F receiver we homed it to the convoy without any difficulty.
Capt “D” made the rounds and paid a visit to the W/T office. He seemed to be an amiable type.
Sunday, 20 August. The convoy still ploughed its way through heavy fog. The cable-layer ship, Norseman, joined the convoy.
A makeshift band of two trumpets and an accordion assembled on the flag-deck in the evening and broadcast a concert over the ship’s SRE system.
Today, Chaudiere, Kootenay, and Ottawa struck again: this time sinking U-984 off the Finistere coast.
Monday, 21 August. The fog lifted briefly in the morning. The corvette Atholl reported she had a contact and was going to drop a charge. Shortly after, she reported, “False Alarm.” Then the corvette Brandon came up with a ping and also was going to drop a charge. Later, the echo was evaluated as a little doubtful, but they were going to drop a pattern anyway. However there was no result from this.
The fog had closed in again. Amherst reported a Radar contact. A little while after, she had lost touch.
Late in the evening both the frigate Montreal and the rescue ship in the convoy obtained a bearing of a U-boat, transmitting within 30 miles of our convoy. We immediately transmitted an emergency report to the shore authorities.
Today, in the English Channel, the corvette Alberni (Lt.Cdr. I.H. Bell) was torpedoed and sunk by U-480 (OL Hans J. Forster). Lost with her were: Ldg Tel D. Stephen, age 27; and Telegraphists R.F. Drew, age 28; I.S. Erickson, age 21; K.W. Jenks, age 19; and Stanley M. Kirkpatrick, age 22 (a fellow home-towner who had enlisted in the Navy following his graduation from Saint John High School in 1941).
Towards the end of February 1945, U-480, which had torpedoed Alberni, was sunk itself by the 3rd Escort Group in British coastal waters.
Tuesday, 22 August. Fog still enshrouded the convoy. We received a message from Admiralty informing us of a U-boat in our immediate vicinity. Also received were orders from C in C Western Approaches telling us to detach ships with a speed of 10 knots and over.
Today, in other waters, the escort carrier Nabob (Capt. H.N. Lay, RCN) was torpedoed by U-354 off Tromson, Norway, while taking part in strikes against the battleship Tirpitz. Twenty-one men died in the torpedoing and six were injured. While the carrier survived, U-354 did not. The U-boat was sunk a few days later by a Swordfish aircraft from Vindex.
Nabob’s war career was brief. She had been built in Seattle, commissioned into to RN under lend-lease on 7 September 1943, and manned by a Canadian ship’s company and an RN aircrew. After being hit she was towed to Scapa Flow, paid off on 10 October 1944, and finally sold in March 1947 to become later a freighter with a German shipping firm. By coincidence, one of her masters, Capt. Karl Kuhlig, was serving in a German warship just 50 miles from Nabob’s torpedoing.
Wednesday, 23 August. In the morning, in clearing weather and a choppy sea, 50 ships were detached under the escort of Montreal, Atholl, Amherst, and Brandon. We remained in charge of the slower portion, assisted by Collingwood, North Bay, and Lady Madeline.
Thursday, 24 August. With improved weather two aircraft went aloft in the early evening for a sweep around the convoy. Wentworth carried out joint exercises with them. First, we assisted in taking bearings of them while they transmitted as they circled over a simulated U-boat. Next, the Swordfish exercised being lost and we homed them to our ship. Lastly, they carried out bombing practice, slowly moving in their lumbering fashion over the wake of the ship and dropping two small bombs. We received a friendly wave from the pilots, who could easily be seen in the open cockpits.
Friday, 25 August. In the evening a local escort vessel joined us in screening the convoy. To finish a bright, sunny day, a lovely half-moon lit up the smooth sea that night.
Breakfast time Saturday found us at Lough Foyle oiling from a tanker. By 1200 we were tied up in Derry, joining there a group of Canadian frigates, a couple of destroyers, and some Yank ships.
Thursday, 31 August. We departed Derry about 1300 and proceeded to a position off the mouth of the river and there carried out new anti-submarine tactics. A gun shoot was cancelled because the target ship had engine trouble. Some other exercises were also cancelled because of a purported torpedoing of a ship off the coast.
Friday, 1 September. On the forenoon watch, I received over the broadcast-routine a message which, when decoded, told of the torpedoing of the Hurst Castle. The message had originally been transmitted by Eden Castle to the shore authorities who had the message retransmitted on the broadcast. It transpired that in about one day’s time our next convoy would be attacked by the U-boat that had torpedoed Hurst Castle, that is, U-482.
I was standing watch for one of the telegraphists who had suffered a nervous breakdown. He was a young handsome man, quiet, wavy-haired - he was the kind the girls could easily go for. I was certainly shocked to hear of his illness. In port, he had approached me in private, addressing me by my nickname “Ag”. He wanted me to accompany him to see a priest. We went ashore to a large Irish church and while he was in the rectory I waited outside. Later I learned he had been advised to see a doctor. It was difficult to ascertain what his problem was. I suspected possibly it was financial trouble at home, or perhaps the boys were kidding and provoking him too much - for example, for breaking a dish when washing up in the mess. However, after hospitalization in St. John’s, his service continued into 1945 when he was discharged.
We remained at anchor in Lough Foyle for the rest of the day, and in the evening oiled from one of the tankers. Continuous wireless watch on the broadcast and loudspeaker watch on the local wave still carried on.
Today, the frigates Saint John and Swansea concluded a long course of action that brought them well deserved plaudits for their tenacious hunting that culminated in the destruction of a U-boat. Because of its special significance - the frigate Saint John was named after my own home town - their persevering efforts are recorded here, even though the story may be typical of U-boat hunts where keenness and perseverance were prime requisites to success.
Serving in Saint John were P.O. Telegraphist Ed Seymour, Ldg Tel Walter Thomas, and Tels: Tom Dodds, Bob Livingstone, Finley McGibbon, Royal Herron, Paul Perreault, Steve Harrison, Bill Goldberg, and Max Martin. On board Swansea was fellow New Brunswicker, AB Wilbur Elhatton, of Bathurst, who remembered his action station was the foreward magazine hoist, but he was not called upon to take part in the proceedings.
It all started at 0900, 31 August, when Saint John (Lt.Cdr. W.B. Stacey), Swansea (Cdr. A.F.C. Layard, RN), Port Colborne (Lt.Cdr. C.J. Angus), Monnow (Cdr. E.G. Skinner), Stormont (Lt.Cdr. G.A. Myra), and Meon (Cdr. St.C. Balfour), forming the 9th Canadian Escort Group, all set out from Plymouth for a patrol area south of the Scilly Isles. On their way they were ordered by Commander in Chief Plymouth to search along the convoy route to Hartland Point and in a position 17 miles northwest of Trevose Head where an aircraft had picked up a Radar contact earlier that morning, at 0330.
Approaching Land’s End, Saint John obtained an underwater contact at 1845 in a position about five miles due east of Wolf Rock. The contact was soon lost, but since Saint John considered it promising and worth more investigation, the Senior Officer of the group, Cdr. Layard, ordered Port Colborne and Swansea to assist her in the hunt. The other three ships were detached to sweep along the convoy route.
About two hours late, at 2115, Swansea picked up a ping and dropped a single depth charge, believing the contact might be fish. Saint John, who was astern of Swansea, reported by signal that this single charge had produced a slight oil slick. On following astern, Saint John fired a hedgehog pattern that brought more oil to the surface.
The contact, which could only be picked up from one direction: down tide, was difficult to hold. Shortly before 2300 Saint John made another hedgehog attack, but by that time it was too dark to see the oil patch and the contact was completely lost.
It was presumed that the line of advance of the U-boat would be to the southwest, so at 2400, the ships began a down-tide parallel sweep from the datum point, thus taking them westward.
This sweep took the ships between Land’s End and Wolf Rock, then to the south when west of Wolf Rock, and then back to the east again to a point south of Wolf Rock towards the datum point. Their assumption proved correct when contact was regained by Saint John at 0155. This contact was plotted as 2050 yards from Saint John and in a position 200 degrees three miles from Wolf Rock Light.
Saint John did not attack immediately. Instead she ran over the contact and obtained a first class trace with her echo sounder. This trace, which formed the basis for Saint John’s optimism during the entire hunt, indicated a possible bottomed U-boat. It showed the U-boat to be in 42 fathoms of water, with a sharp peak clearly visible in the centre of its hull.
Saint John now carried out an attack, firing five depth charges; three heavy: to hit on or below the target, and two light: to hit above the target. Down through the murky depths the charges tumbled. Soon the water was ripped by a heavy explosion that brought a considerable amount of oil to the surface. At 0230, Saint John carried out a second attack, resulting in another tearing explosion and more oil. At this same time, commander in Chief Plymouth ordered the Group to remain with the contact until further orders.
During this time, Swansea had been unable to obtain contact while Saint John, after her second attack, had difficulty holding the contact - the echoes being obtained occasionally and only faintly. Port Colborne stood by outside the search area as she should not take part in the hunt because she was not fitted with TBS. Port Colborne could receive and transmit on High Frequency, but communication during the hunt was mainly carried out on the TBS (Talk Between Ships) Very High Frequency transmitter/receiver equipment.
One further attack was carried out during the dark hours when, at 0345, Saint John fired a pattern of hedgehog that exploded deep beneath the surface. The echo was difficult to regain and it was finally lost at 0410.
When daylight came the Senior Officer decided to investigate the position of the original contact of the previous night, five miles east of Wolf Rock Light. The three ships found some oil still left on the surface, but no contacts. The ships then returned to the second oil patch and, at 1350, Saint John signalled to Swansea she had obtained a good echo sounder trace. It appeared the U-boat had already been damaged.
Saint John made a re-run and at 1404, using her echo sounder as the A/S recorder had broken down, she dropped a five-charge pattern. The effects of the explosion were startling. Apart from oil, a great deal of debris floated to the surface, providing grim evidence that a U-boat had met its ultimate fate.
Boats were lowered from both Saint John and Swansea and a greater part of the proof-of-kill was collected and brought aboard the ships. The evidence included photographs, letters, a diagram of a radio set, part of a wireless cabin door, a rubber raft, a leather coat, a Light list of the Bay of Biscay including German swept channels, a German death notice, a portion of an engine room log marked with the number of the U-boat, and - a certificate commemorating the ten millionth engine revolution of : U-247.
Saint John and Swansea each carried out a further attack that brought no results. At 1742, Assiniboine, detailed by the Senior Officer of Escort Group 11, joined the scene of the hunt. Swansea and Port Colborne then were detached to investigate the reporting of another U-boat north of Trevose Head, and Saint John and Assiniboine continued the attack on U-247.
Both ships had difficulty in obtaining a contact because, since the explosion of 1404, the contact showed only a small extent of target. At 2025, Saint John carried out a depth charge attack near the end of the oil slick, and at 2035 Assiniboine did likewise, both bringing more oil to the surface. No further attacks were carried out, but both ships stood by during the night in deteriorating weather.
Finally, at 1050 on the morning of the 2nd, Saint John was ordered to return to her group, and she departed the scene of the kill 37 hours after she had first gained contact. On the bottom she left U-247 and all its hands.
Later Admiralty assessed the attack as known sunk and commended Saint John for her tenacity in holding the contact under unusual difficult circumstances. Undoubtedly the success can be attributed to the persistence she exhibited and, of course, to the assistance she received from the patient Swansea.
Saturday, 2 September - Lough Foyle. About 0600 Wentworth weighed anchor. Later in the morning we met the convoy, ONS251, off the coast. A cold wind was blowing and puffy white clouds scudded briskly along. The frigate Montreal, having sailed on Friday, was already hard at work shepherding portions of the convoy. It was almost noon when the convoy was completely formed in its orderly columns.
It was a slow convoy of approximately 138 ships. The escort force was composed of two frigates, seven corvettes, and one A/C carrier with its three aircraft. Land was still in sight at 1900, but we were heading west and it was receding from our view.
We were fully expecting some excitement on this trip, because the situation reports showed numerous U-boats at sea. Conditions this very night were to be dangerously favourable for U-boats, for the convoy was to lay temptingly exposed under a bright moon in a clear sky.
I turned in before 2000 and was soon asleep. But, then it happened. I was suddenly awakened by the alarm bell ringing action stations! Out of my mick I flew with my blankets tumbling after me. I left them lying there on the deck and grabbed my life-belt, shoes and socks, and away I went, barefooted to the W/T office. The place seemed in an uproar. The operators were extremely busy, so I immediately began assisting with the many messages coming in and going out.
We had an underwater contact and were going to fire hedgehogs. The ship, going about seven or eight knots, crept slowly along on the tail of the contact. But the contacts began drawing away from us. The captain ordered an increase in speed to 15 knots and to drop depth charges instead.
We churned over the contact and a pattern was dropped. In doing so, however, we lost the contact and were unable to recover it.
Then the frigate Montreal reported a merchant ship had been torpedoed. Later, 35 survivors out of a crew of 38 were rescued by Montreal. Since the sinking was on the starboard side of the convoy and our contact on the port, we assumed that at least two U-boats were attacking. We transmitted emergency messages to the shore authorities. Then, a somewhat belated message was received from Admiralty giving the bearings of a U-boat in our immediate vicinity.
The convoy continued on its way with no further attacks.
The torpedoed ship was SS Fjordheim and she was sunk by U-482 (Count von Matuschka). This U-boat made itself felt again on 15 January 1945 when it sunk the merchant ship, Spinanger, and damaged the escort carrier, Thane. But the next day, 16 January, U-482 was sunk with all hands in position 55 30 North 05 53 West by the British ships: Peacock, Starling, Hart, Loch Craggie, and Amethyst.
Sunday, 3 September. Two support forces were out hunting the U-boat or U-boats. As we had obtained some bearing of a transmitting U-boat, these were passed on to the support forces to help them in their search.
Today the weather was dirty with rain, while long land swells covered the ocean.
Monday, 4 September. Under a cloudy sky the sea became very rough, with great waves breaking over the ship. Later in the day a bright sun appeared to bleach the rolling waves with whiter caps.
Tuesday, 5 September. A message on the broadcast advised us that the convoy’s course was to be changed; we would not be going as far south as previously charted. Another message said that, according to Admiralty tracking, we were in the area of two or more U-boats.
The ferocity of the sea had lessened and the sun was shining friendly and warm between the broken clouds.
Wednesday, 6 September. A British corvette, Primrose, on meteorological duties, came to the convoy today to refuel.
Broken clouds filled the sky. Huge rollers swept the surface of the ocean and, every now and then, green ones were breaking over the ship.
Around the supper hour we went to action stations. The corvette North Bay had a contact in the port stern quarter; the corvettes Camrose (Lt.Cdr. L.R. Pavillard) and Petrolia (Lt. P.W. Spragge) joined her. They soon lost contact, but anyway we transmitted an emergency report to shore saying we had been in contact with a U-boat.
After secure, we hardly had returned to the mess when the action bells were ringing madly again. This time our own ship had a contact. As we prepared to drop depth charges we lost the ping.
Later in the evening, Montreal picked up a Radar contact and began investigating. As the range was steadily increasing, Montreal returned to her station. We assumed that it was the departing Primrose.
Thursday, 7 September. The sea had calmed.
Eggs, boiled, for breakfast again!
For the second day in a row we had freshly baked bread. In our mess, it was apportioned one slice per man. The crew considered it very tasty.
The hospital ship Westeria, all white with a large red cross on its side, crossed in front of the convoy just before noon. About this time, some of the corvettes were getting pings and dropping charges. We could hear the thuds as we sat in the mess; hardly an appropriate time for a hospital ship to pass by.
Our position at noon was 50 05 North 25 14 West.
So far, two ships had straggled. One was returning to the UK, but the whereabouts of the other was unknown.
In the evening it grew cloudy and began to rain.
Friday, 8 September. A UK-bound convoy was attacked off Ireland and suffered the same fate as we did, losing one ship.
In the afternoon we were in fog. Later we went to action stations after picking up a contact in front of the convoy. Subsequently we lost it; picked it up again; then dropped a pattern of charges. While we waited, the convoy came inexorably on. Soon we were in the middle of it. Then the convoy had passed, leaving us waiting patiently and hopefully for a further ping or for the U-boat to break surface. But nothing happened, so we returned disappointedly in clearing weather to the front of the convoy. On arriving at our station we could hear, as we sat in the mess, depth charges being dropped by one of the escorts. This proved a disappointment, too.
In the W/T office we heard that Force 33 had got a U-boat off Ireland.
Saturday, 9 September. I was standing the middle watch (midnight to four) and could hear on 2410 kilocycles, ships in action off Ireland. Their messages indicated they were getting contacts and dropping charges.
By coincidence, today in Hebridean waters, the frigate Dunver (Lt.Cdr. W. Davenport) and the corvette Hespeler (Lt.Cdr. N.S. Dickson) sank U-484.
In the morning, Saturday routine was carried out in Wentworth and the CO made rounds. In the afternoon, I continued preparations for shore leave in Newfy by ironing a lot of clothes. I already had done much sewing, so I was well prepared for port.
The sea was smooth and the fog had cleared leaving us under a cloudy sky, with the sun appearing only on a few occasions.
On the radio, we were always listening to the BBC for news of the war. Periodically we heard over the BBC, Canadian Press news about Canada; this was always appreciated. Sometimes we were able to pick up Yank entertainment programmes; these were preferable to those of the BBC.
Sunday, 10 September. In the morning we had Prayers in the stokers’ mess. In the afternoon the sea began to get rough, so being off watch I turned in and slept.
Monday, 11 September. The sea had calmed and much of the time we had sunny skies. A land-based aircraft had been scheduled to cover us but its sortie was cancelled. We were wondering when we were going to be relieved.
Tuesday, 12 September. It was a very pleasant sunny day, with the sea like a lake. Western Local escorts were to be envied weather like this.
During the night one of the W/T operators intercepted a message re-broadcast from a shore station telling of a ship being sunk in the approximate position of 33 30 North and 75 30 West, which was in US coastal waters off the Carolinas. This was the American steam ship George Ade. She had been torpedoed by U-518 (Offermann), and only damaged. However, while being towed to port, she sank in a storm.
Ottawa reported a U-boat between Cape Race and Cape Chat, obtained from the shore H/F D/F service.
An Anson bomber covered us for five hours. Aircraft from the carrier were also aloft. We received word that we were going to be relieved tomorrow at 0900Z by Western Local Escort Group W2.
On Wednesday, after handing over the convoy, we proceeded as usual to St. John’s. There, on the 18th, I was drafted via Avalon barracks to St. Hyacinthe for my W/T 2 course. I was delighted, for this would eventually qualify me for Petty Officer rank - providing I passed the exams.
No comments:
Post a Comment