Post by Dave Homewood on Jul 15, 2020 21:34:11 GMT 12
Here's an article from the Evening Post dated 20th of June 1945
CONVOY TO RUSSIA
PLANES, U-BOATS, AND STORMS
As soon as we came within air range of Norway a German snooper aircraft spotted us, and next morning the first torpedo-bomber attack started, said Lieutenant Howard French, in a B.B.C. talk reported in "The Listener." Fifteen Ju.88's were coming in, low on the water. Fighters began breaking up the groups, and the enemy had to try again in penny numbers, and they were completely outwitted by Admiral McGrigor. Standing on a stool which put him well behind the bridge windscreens, the admiral manoeuvred the convoy, almost nonchalantly. With one hand in his duffle-coat pocket, his gold-leaf cap rammed down against the wind, and his glasses — which he never used — slung round his neck, he might have been an interested spectator at a Rugby match. In fact, he was the star player. The battle lasted an hour. Then the admiral stepped down from his stool, smiling as he had been all through the action. The enemy, with hardly enough petrol left to reach land, had been forced to retire with nothing to show for it, except scars.
It was two days before we saw any more of the enemy, then just as we were passing the grave of the Scharnhorst near North Cape, 30 Ju.88's appeared. The scene was like an underexposed photograph: grey skies, grey sea, and grey ships misty in the Arctic haze. Torpedo-bombers appeared and disappeared in and out of the mist like evil goblins. Fighters from the Campania and Nairana went up to meet them; two Jus. were shot down almost at once, but several got inside the screen. Soon it was impossible to tell whether ships' guns or our fighters were doing the most damage. There was a mushroom of black smoke on the horizon where one Ju.88 had crashed. I saw a second flashing past the rear of the convoy in a ball of fire like a comet's tail. Someone shouted "Look," and I just had time to catch a glimpse of a third disappearing into the sea a quarter of a mile from us. It had passed through a storm of tracer which looked like a squall of red-hot sleet. Nothing could stand up to firing like that. So it went on for an hour, too fast for anyone to see all that was happening.
TWELVE-MINUTES' RESCUE.
The admiral's flag lieutenant, Bill Graham, was shouting orders to his signalmen. The captain's yeoman was doing the same with his. Yet the two lots of orders never got mixed up. And all the time tracer was flying round us, and the signalmen were working in a space no bigger than a small billiard table. In the middle of it all, one of our fighters was damaged. It came back to land on, could not make it, and crashed into the sea. Immediately a destroyer went to the rescue. Her bows plunged into the rising sea, sending water over her bridge. She had to get that pilot within 15 minutes or he would be frozen to death. She got him in 12, just before he became unconscious from the cold.
Another damaged fighter managed to reach our deck, but it was a crash landing. All this, as well as handling the ship, was on Captain Short's mind. Yet when I spoke to him afterwards he told me that several torpedoes had come our way and he had had to alter course to dodge them. I did not see them and I don't suppose anyone else on the bridge did; they were all too busy with their own jobs.
H.M.S. Whitehall, the oldest destroyer in the force, on her tenth run to Russia, was attacked by no less than 16 bombers. From "signals" we discovered that she had beaten off that attack, and later—when three more tried to get her she had damaged the first, shot down the second, and shared the third with H.M.S. Lark. After this defeat the Luftwaffe did not worry us again for some days. Snoopers were there and U-boats in the vicinity, but our antisubmarine patrols managed to keep them away, and we got to Russia with all our merchant ships intact.
THE RETURN JOURNEY.
From the naval point of view, of course, that is only half the, battle; another convoy had to be brought home with timber and the things we need in this country. Sooner or later we had to come out of our Russian harbour. The U-boats knew it and they were waiting for us. All through the night we heard the faint boom of depth-charges, and with the dawn came- the welcome news that the Lark and Alnwick Castle between them had sunk one U-boat. The Alnwick Castle said she had a prisoner to prove it. Believe me, we were glad to hear it, for in less than three hours we were in the thick of a battle which lasted for twenty-four hours. Thick patches of sea smoke arose from the water due to the intense cold. It was very eerie with the stuff curling round the ship like cotton-wool. For the U-boats it was perfect. We could not see their periscopes, but we were pretty sure they could see the hulls of our ships, and it was not long before we were certain. An escort was damaged by a torpedo, and an hour later a merchant ship, hit by another torpedo, caught fire. All round us, destroyers and corvettes were counter-attacking with depth-charges. The admiral estimated that at least six or seven U-boats were in touch with us, and it was decided to fly off our aircraft. The Campania turned into the wind to do her stuff, and even while the first aircraft was leaving the deck, a destroyer was letting off depth-charges less than a quarter of a mile from us. From a purely personal point of view, this was the most sweat-making ten minutes of the whole operation. All that afternoon, and late into the night, escorts were chasing U-boats, beating them off with hundreds of depth charges.
In the first lull we buried a rating who had died of wounds. As the padre read the service, I glanced round the quarter-deck. It was packed with sailors, their battle-grimed faces
I contrasted vividly with the smartly-dressed firing party; and standing bareheaded among those ratings was the admiral. It was the only time he left the bridge flat while we were at sea.
The lull did not last more than half an hour, then we were at it again: more depth-charges, more deafening explosions. In such a battle, it would have been a miracle if we had not been hurt. But when it came the blow was severe. Just after dusk, there was a brilliant orange flash which for a second lit up the whole sky. It was a corvette, the Bluebell. A torpedo had got her and she sank. Destroyers who went to the rescue reported there was nothing left; they picked up one survivor, Petty Officer Albert Holmes. By some amazing chance he had been blown clear of the ship unharmed; he was the only survivor.
FLYING IN A STORM.
Though the battle went on all night, the weather gradually took a hand. By morning it was blowing a gale. The next day there was not an indicator in the flagship which could record the wind's full force. The needles jammed against the stop mark and stayed there, this was a hurricane—a hundred miles an hour steady, with gusts even stronger than that. For a certainty the convoy was going to be scattered. After thirty-six hours like this, the wind went down to fifty miles an hour, and then, just as the admiral was getting the convoy back into some sort or order, twenty torpedo-bombers arrived. The Onslow and the Zealous each shot one down, and other escorts damaged some more. Then came the finest achievement of the convoy: the carrier Nairana sent up four fighters: in spite of the most appalling seas she got them into the air somehow. Those fighter pilots risked their lives even before they went into battle, and what's more they knew that landing afterwards was going to be even more risky.
Throughout the action the wind increased rapidly. By the time the fighters returned there was a seventy-mile-an-hour gale blowing. The Nairana's bows were dipping under the huge waves; her screw almost cleared the water each time she pitched. Everyone with glasses was watching the aircraft and the heaving flight deck The first fighter came in; it looked as though the stern would touch her wheels. Then the deck canted the other way; it looked as if the fighter would hit the deck in the middle. At the last moment the ship steadied, so the plane made a perfect landing. The pilot and the batsman on deck had timed it perfectly. Only one of the four planes crashed, and even she landed on all right, but the pitching bounced her over the arrester wires and she hit the barrier. The pilot was unhurt. And to crown it all, these fighters had snot down one Ju.88 for certain, and another probable.
ANOTHER HURRICANE.
Another hurricane, lasting 24 hours, scattered the convoy for the second time. The furious seas were exhausting for us in a 16,000-ton ship, but in the destroyers and smaller escorts it must have been a thousand times worse. In the Campania, it was almost impossible to stand without support. Men walking along the alleyways looked like drunks staggering from side to side. I tried going from the bridge to ward-room aft; one moment I felt like a fairy with my feet hardly touching the ground, and the next I was like an elephant with feet of lead. I could hardly get my feet off the ground. To get to the ward-room required almost as much effort as walking three miles.
I just got there when the ship gave a terrific roll from side to side. She went through 81 degrees, officially recorded. Tables screwed to the deck were wrenched from their mountings; chairs, crockery, books, settees —everything was slung in a heap of debris in one corner, and on top the mound of struggling officers. It was amazing no one was hurt. Yet, even more amazing, everyone was laughing. The Germans would have cursed; Italians probably wept; but these British men were laughing. In the alleys and mess decks it was the same. The sailors were laughing, and in the operations room a few minutes later I found Captain Short. He was standing with a mug of cocoa in one hand and a huge sandwich in the other. He was talking to the Admiral and they were both grinning as though they had paid a bob to ride on a non-stop switchback.
WEARY DRAG HOME.
After twenty-four hours the wind began easing and the Admiral started reforming the convoy for the second time. We began to take stock of the situation. It was not very encouraging. One merchant ship reported a split deck, as a result of the bad weather, another was steering with tackle because her normal steering gear had been smashed. Others could move at no quicker than a walking pace. Destroyers reported smashed boats and wrecked gear. Then once again the torpedo-bombers arrived. But instead of the convoy they chose a single straggler. Nineteen of them attacked her. She didn't have a chance, but she fought for a quarter of an hour and damaged two aircraft before she went down herself, and I'm glad to say our destroyers picked up most of her gallant crew.
For the rest of the dreary voyage we rolled and rocked along at three to four knots; an occasional hour or two at six knots was a luxury. Then, when we were almost in sight of Britain the sun came out, a pale watery sun that showed up the salt-caked funnels of the merchant ships and escorts against the wintry sky, like black shadows on a back cloth, but to us, this sun was a symbol of home. Bone weary and exhausted though we all were, Admiral McGrigor had got us home.
CONVOY TO RUSSIA
PLANES, U-BOATS, AND STORMS
As soon as we came within air range of Norway a German snooper aircraft spotted us, and next morning the first torpedo-bomber attack started, said Lieutenant Howard French, in a B.B.C. talk reported in "The Listener." Fifteen Ju.88's were coming in, low on the water. Fighters began breaking up the groups, and the enemy had to try again in penny numbers, and they were completely outwitted by Admiral McGrigor. Standing on a stool which put him well behind the bridge windscreens, the admiral manoeuvred the convoy, almost nonchalantly. With one hand in his duffle-coat pocket, his gold-leaf cap rammed down against the wind, and his glasses — which he never used — slung round his neck, he might have been an interested spectator at a Rugby match. In fact, he was the star player. The battle lasted an hour. Then the admiral stepped down from his stool, smiling as he had been all through the action. The enemy, with hardly enough petrol left to reach land, had been forced to retire with nothing to show for it, except scars.
It was two days before we saw any more of the enemy, then just as we were passing the grave of the Scharnhorst near North Cape, 30 Ju.88's appeared. The scene was like an underexposed photograph: grey skies, grey sea, and grey ships misty in the Arctic haze. Torpedo-bombers appeared and disappeared in and out of the mist like evil goblins. Fighters from the Campania and Nairana went up to meet them; two Jus. were shot down almost at once, but several got inside the screen. Soon it was impossible to tell whether ships' guns or our fighters were doing the most damage. There was a mushroom of black smoke on the horizon where one Ju.88 had crashed. I saw a second flashing past the rear of the convoy in a ball of fire like a comet's tail. Someone shouted "Look," and I just had time to catch a glimpse of a third disappearing into the sea a quarter of a mile from us. It had passed through a storm of tracer which looked like a squall of red-hot sleet. Nothing could stand up to firing like that. So it went on for an hour, too fast for anyone to see all that was happening.
TWELVE-MINUTES' RESCUE.
The admiral's flag lieutenant, Bill Graham, was shouting orders to his signalmen. The captain's yeoman was doing the same with his. Yet the two lots of orders never got mixed up. And all the time tracer was flying round us, and the signalmen were working in a space no bigger than a small billiard table. In the middle of it all, one of our fighters was damaged. It came back to land on, could not make it, and crashed into the sea. Immediately a destroyer went to the rescue. Her bows plunged into the rising sea, sending water over her bridge. She had to get that pilot within 15 minutes or he would be frozen to death. She got him in 12, just before he became unconscious from the cold.
Another damaged fighter managed to reach our deck, but it was a crash landing. All this, as well as handling the ship, was on Captain Short's mind. Yet when I spoke to him afterwards he told me that several torpedoes had come our way and he had had to alter course to dodge them. I did not see them and I don't suppose anyone else on the bridge did; they were all too busy with their own jobs.
H.M.S. Whitehall, the oldest destroyer in the force, on her tenth run to Russia, was attacked by no less than 16 bombers. From "signals" we discovered that she had beaten off that attack, and later—when three more tried to get her she had damaged the first, shot down the second, and shared the third with H.M.S. Lark. After this defeat the Luftwaffe did not worry us again for some days. Snoopers were there and U-boats in the vicinity, but our antisubmarine patrols managed to keep them away, and we got to Russia with all our merchant ships intact.
THE RETURN JOURNEY.
From the naval point of view, of course, that is only half the, battle; another convoy had to be brought home with timber and the things we need in this country. Sooner or later we had to come out of our Russian harbour. The U-boats knew it and they were waiting for us. All through the night we heard the faint boom of depth-charges, and with the dawn came- the welcome news that the Lark and Alnwick Castle between them had sunk one U-boat. The Alnwick Castle said she had a prisoner to prove it. Believe me, we were glad to hear it, for in less than three hours we were in the thick of a battle which lasted for twenty-four hours. Thick patches of sea smoke arose from the water due to the intense cold. It was very eerie with the stuff curling round the ship like cotton-wool. For the U-boats it was perfect. We could not see their periscopes, but we were pretty sure they could see the hulls of our ships, and it was not long before we were certain. An escort was damaged by a torpedo, and an hour later a merchant ship, hit by another torpedo, caught fire. All round us, destroyers and corvettes were counter-attacking with depth-charges. The admiral estimated that at least six or seven U-boats were in touch with us, and it was decided to fly off our aircraft. The Campania turned into the wind to do her stuff, and even while the first aircraft was leaving the deck, a destroyer was letting off depth-charges less than a quarter of a mile from us. From a purely personal point of view, this was the most sweat-making ten minutes of the whole operation. All that afternoon, and late into the night, escorts were chasing U-boats, beating them off with hundreds of depth charges.
In the first lull we buried a rating who had died of wounds. As the padre read the service, I glanced round the quarter-deck. It was packed with sailors, their battle-grimed faces
I contrasted vividly with the smartly-dressed firing party; and standing bareheaded among those ratings was the admiral. It was the only time he left the bridge flat while we were at sea.
The lull did not last more than half an hour, then we were at it again: more depth-charges, more deafening explosions. In such a battle, it would have been a miracle if we had not been hurt. But when it came the blow was severe. Just after dusk, there was a brilliant orange flash which for a second lit up the whole sky. It was a corvette, the Bluebell. A torpedo had got her and she sank. Destroyers who went to the rescue reported there was nothing left; they picked up one survivor, Petty Officer Albert Holmes. By some amazing chance he had been blown clear of the ship unharmed; he was the only survivor.
FLYING IN A STORM.
Though the battle went on all night, the weather gradually took a hand. By morning it was blowing a gale. The next day there was not an indicator in the flagship which could record the wind's full force. The needles jammed against the stop mark and stayed there, this was a hurricane—a hundred miles an hour steady, with gusts even stronger than that. For a certainty the convoy was going to be scattered. After thirty-six hours like this, the wind went down to fifty miles an hour, and then, just as the admiral was getting the convoy back into some sort or order, twenty torpedo-bombers arrived. The Onslow and the Zealous each shot one down, and other escorts damaged some more. Then came the finest achievement of the convoy: the carrier Nairana sent up four fighters: in spite of the most appalling seas she got them into the air somehow. Those fighter pilots risked their lives even before they went into battle, and what's more they knew that landing afterwards was going to be even more risky.
Throughout the action the wind increased rapidly. By the time the fighters returned there was a seventy-mile-an-hour gale blowing. The Nairana's bows were dipping under the huge waves; her screw almost cleared the water each time she pitched. Everyone with glasses was watching the aircraft and the heaving flight deck The first fighter came in; it looked as though the stern would touch her wheels. Then the deck canted the other way; it looked as if the fighter would hit the deck in the middle. At the last moment the ship steadied, so the plane made a perfect landing. The pilot and the batsman on deck had timed it perfectly. Only one of the four planes crashed, and even she landed on all right, but the pitching bounced her over the arrester wires and she hit the barrier. The pilot was unhurt. And to crown it all, these fighters had snot down one Ju.88 for certain, and another probable.
ANOTHER HURRICANE.
Another hurricane, lasting 24 hours, scattered the convoy for the second time. The furious seas were exhausting for us in a 16,000-ton ship, but in the destroyers and smaller escorts it must have been a thousand times worse. In the Campania, it was almost impossible to stand without support. Men walking along the alleyways looked like drunks staggering from side to side. I tried going from the bridge to ward-room aft; one moment I felt like a fairy with my feet hardly touching the ground, and the next I was like an elephant with feet of lead. I could hardly get my feet off the ground. To get to the ward-room required almost as much effort as walking three miles.
I just got there when the ship gave a terrific roll from side to side. She went through 81 degrees, officially recorded. Tables screwed to the deck were wrenched from their mountings; chairs, crockery, books, settees —everything was slung in a heap of debris in one corner, and on top the mound of struggling officers. It was amazing no one was hurt. Yet, even more amazing, everyone was laughing. The Germans would have cursed; Italians probably wept; but these British men were laughing. In the alleys and mess decks it was the same. The sailors were laughing, and in the operations room a few minutes later I found Captain Short. He was standing with a mug of cocoa in one hand and a huge sandwich in the other. He was talking to the Admiral and they were both grinning as though they had paid a bob to ride on a non-stop switchback.
WEARY DRAG HOME.
After twenty-four hours the wind began easing and the Admiral started reforming the convoy for the second time. We began to take stock of the situation. It was not very encouraging. One merchant ship reported a split deck, as a result of the bad weather, another was steering with tackle because her normal steering gear had been smashed. Others could move at no quicker than a walking pace. Destroyers reported smashed boats and wrecked gear. Then once again the torpedo-bombers arrived. But instead of the convoy they chose a single straggler. Nineteen of them attacked her. She didn't have a chance, but she fought for a quarter of an hour and damaged two aircraft before she went down herself, and I'm glad to say our destroyers picked up most of her gallant crew.
For the rest of the dreary voyage we rolled and rocked along at three to four knots; an occasional hour or two at six knots was a luxury. Then, when we were almost in sight of Britain the sun came out, a pale watery sun that showed up the salt-caked funnels of the merchant ships and escorts against the wintry sky, like black shadows on a back cloth, but to us, this sun was a symbol of home. Bone weary and exhausted though we all were, Admiral McGrigor had got us home.
