Titanic and Other Ships By Charles Lightoller
Chapter 36 THE WAR
All the mail boats were potential cruisers, with built-in gun platforms, so it was no surprise to see a shoal of draughtsmen, naval architects, Government representatives, and so forth, hurl themselves on board and turn our well-ordered routine into chaos, and the ship into a man-o'-battle, or an imitation one anyway, for we didn't see ourselves doing much battling with old and antiquated 4.7's.
In due course--and a mighty long one--we commissioned as one of His Majesty's ships, and hoisted the white ensign. Our crew were duly "fell in" (something new for them right away) and asked if they would wish to volunteer to remain in the ship in view of the service for which she would be required.
It seemed rather a futile question to me, and one I could, with the utmost confidence, have given the answer to in the next breath. The men belonged to the ship, had been in her for years, and they had no intention of leaving her unless they were chucked out, which certainly would not happen so long as they had behaved themselves. If she was going "off the run" there might be additional fun, which would be welcome, but beyond that they were not interested. In response to the order "those now wishing to volunteer to remain in the ship, once pace forward march," they all quietly walked forward across the deck, to make evident that it was one very good pace.
The Navy chap was a bit horrified, but I told him to never mind, they understood in the main, what he meant.
Unfortunately, a good sprinkling were Royal Naval Reserve men, and ex-service men who were quickly drafted to other and perhaps more useful spheres--we were sorry--and believe me, so were they.
Our Carpenter and Bosun were informed that they were now Warrant rank, which didn't seem to impress them greatly, till they found themselves each invested with a sword. As old "Chips"--not notorious for either cleanliness or choice of language--asked me, "What the hell am I supposed to do with this damn thing? Take it round with me when I'm sounding ship?"
What disgusted this quaint couple most was having to more their quite comfortable quarters, as it was considered infra dig. to be quartered so near the crew. When told the exact meaning of the words, the Bosun feelingly replied, "Infra dig., eh? If any of my watch is looking for a nice thick ear, let 'em try the infra dig. on me."
Evidently he had not quite got the exact meaning, though he certainly had the sense of it, and did not need a sword and new quarters to put a point to it. A mail boat man in a mail boat, is a round peg, fitting nicely into a round hole; a hole that is rapidly squared with the introduction of Navy ways and manners. But when it came to drafting a lot of Hebredian fishermen on us, they were any-shaped pegs, endeavouring to fit impossible holes, naturally leading to utterly impossible situations.
I was promoted to First Lieutenant and Mary of the Messdecks; also the thankless task of trying to get these fellows from the north firstly to understand English as we spoke it, and secondly, when it took the form of orders, to instill in them just what was expected of them, when these orders were given.
There were Action Stations, Collision Stations, Fire Stations, and many other Stations and evolutions, but none that our fellows from the north had ever heard of. Furthermore, it was sometime before they realised that it was necessary to practice these efforts, so as to be ready if and when the occasion arose. After a lengthy explanation of what each individual was to do, where to go, and how to act, when Fire Stations were sounded, the order was at last given to the bugler, "Sound off fire stations." This he did, immediately followed by the "Still," then the indication, "Fire in the forward magazine," and the bugle call, "Carry on." Everyone dashed off, except three."
"Come on, what the hell are you standing there for? Didn't you hear? Fire is in the forward magazine,"
Now I ask you, what would you do when a big fellow, with his eyes nearly popping out of his head, replied in sepulchral Scotch, "Guid God, sir, ye dinna say so!"
It was not that they were by any means born stupid, nor were they scared, but they were a bit slow in the uptake. Excellent material, but a wee bit raw, till they became accustomed to "Navy Ways." When anything needed doing, they, as with the Merchant Service men, had a perfectly simple method of just slipping into it, and getting it done, without waiting for pipes and whistles and bugle calls.
Our own Boatswain gave an amusing illustration once when an order was given to clear and lower the gangway ladder. It was a great big cumbersome teakwood affair, weighing a couple of tons. His method in our way was to take a few hands, heave it out, and lower away, in very short order, but no particular manner, except that the operation embodies the essence of seamanship. But now we were the Navy, and the hands must first of all be piped. Then fallen in. Then told off with their Petty Officers for that particular job. By the time they arrived down on the main deck, and started to get busy, the Bosun was just about boiling with impatience, but being now a Warrant Officer, must not lay his sacred hand to unseemly toil. I watched him, more than a bit amused, as I'd seen him have that ladder out, and down, time and again, in the shortest of shakes. He stood it for a while, then with a real Western Ocean Bosun's flow of language, he leapt on to the ladder, yelled at a couple of his own men to "Come on" and the rest of them to "get the hell out of it." Breaking all sacred Navy traditions and disregarding his rank, he had the ladder tipped out and lowered down in not much more time than would have been taken to clear it away.
Forcing the Merchant Service man into Navy ways was almost as hard as making water run uphill. Yet, such is his adaptability, that within a few months of was he clicked his heels and turned to the right about, with the best. In fact, when the war was over, and we were back again in our own happy and respective spheres it took him some time to quite clicking his heels--and get some work done.
With our heterogeneous mixture we were bundled off on the Northern Patrol. Gun crews formed of men who had never seen a gun before, much less fired one. Small wonder then that when with the Fleet one night at "night firing", the ship towing target for us signalled that it was quite all right, "we were not hitting her, but would we mind firing at the target, which was some few hundred yards astern of her."
The Oceanic was really far too big for that patrol and in consequence it was not long before she crashed on to one of the many outlying reefs and was lost.
The fog was as thick as the proverbial hedge when she ripped up on the rocks; and in all fairness one could not lay the blame on the navigator--my old shipmate of many years, Davy Blair--trying as he was to work that great vessel amongst islands and mostly unknown currents.
The fact remains that early one morning she caught this outlying reef, and was pounded to pieces by the huge sea then running. Lying broadside on to the reef, with the tide setting strong on to it, she was held there, lifting and falling each time, with a horrible grinding crash. I know it nearly broke my heart to feel her going to bits under my very feet, after all these years. The sensation, as those knife-edged rocks ground and crunched their way through her bilge plates, was physically sickening.
How she held together long enough for us to get everyone out of her was a miracle in itself, and certainly testified to the good work put in by Harland and Wolff.
What with the heavy sea and swift current--to say nothing of the fog--we had our work cut out to get the stokers and engineers away without loss of life. With the seamen, and eventually the officers, although the weather conditions had become markedly worse, the operation was somewhat easier. Our much discussed Hebredian contingent certainly shone that day. The calm and collected manner in which they went about their work made it seem as if abandoning ship, under such trying conditions as then existed, was of daily occurrence with them--personally I was tremendously glad of their self-reliant help, and proud of their fearless ability.
We stood by in the boats till next morning when another ship of the Patrol turned up in response to our wireless signals. All the same, I couldn't resist taking my boat back alongside what was left, at daylight, to have a last look at my old love--this, despite frantic signals from our rescuer who, as it turned out, had just had information regarding an enemy submarine in the vicinity.
I jumped on board the old hooker for a quick look round. A last glance at the old cabin where I had spent so many comfortable hours--and damnably uncomfortable ones. Then, just as I was rushing out to return to my boat, whose crew were expecting the ship to roll over on top of them every minute, I spotted the ship's clock on the bulkhead. The clock I had looked at so lovingly, when I came below for eight long hours, but whose inevitable fingers I had cursed so heartily as they drew inexorably nearer the last zero minute, when I must at last leap out of my warm bunk to hurriedly dress, and dash for the bridge.
All these and many other memories seemed to lie behind that smug and friendly face. On the impulse of the moment, I seized it in both hands, and tore it bodily from off its wooden wall, and bore it away in triumph.
I still look at it and call up many happy memories--but now on board my own little craft.
I got a severe strafeing from the impatient skipper, who said I was responsible for more grey hairs in his already grey head; I didn't mind his grousing, I had my clock.
I was never so fond of any ship as the Oceanic, either before or since, and her loss was like the snapping of the last link that held me to the Merchant Service and the White Star Line. Aboard her it had been like carrying my home to the War, but now I felt I was into the War neck and crop.
Back to barracks at Devonport, a cushy job for those that liked to start playing bridge in the forenoon and continue consistently throughout the day. I'm not particularly fond of Bridge, immediately after breakfast, even if there was a War.
Davy Blair, my old Oceanic pal, and I volunteered for a job that we had got wind of in the Flag Lieutenant's office. The main qualification for the men who were to get it, we were told, as that they should be "Hard Cases." Well, Davy and I had both done the Western Ocean, and knew it in its worst moods these many years. If the Mail Boat Service didn't qualify us as far as weather was concerned, then nothing ever would.
We were accepted and told to get fixed up with fishermen's rig, such as is use by the Brixham trawlers. A visit down sailor town soon completed the outfit, blue jersey, smock, rough serge pants, heavy weather cap, and seaboots, making us the imitation of a perfect fisherman. My first disguise! And if I looked as bit a fool as I felt, then I'd need to be sorry for the success of our venture.
Davy was given a section of the coast from Newquay round the Lizard including Falmouth to Dodman point. Here my section ended and carried on past Mevagissey, Looe, round by Plymouth, Start Bay, Dartmouth and on past Tor Bay to Teignmouth. A fairly big patrol with a roving commission to find out what I could get, and report back in a week's time to the C. in C. Devonport. My craft was a pure and simple Brixham smack, with no attempt to disguise the discomforts.
I arranged with my wife to meet me in Brixham in a couple of days' time, and for her to do a bit of snooping on her own account along the shore side. Also I asked the Flag Lieutenant to take the necessary precaution of notifying the War Stations and Coastguards along the coast and any others likely to trip me up.
We sailed away merrily into the teeth of a S.W. gale and I can truly say, it was somewhat different from sea going in an Atlantic liner.
After cruising along that ironbound coast from Bolt Tail to the Start, we at last got a bit of welcome shelter in Start Bay. The weather easing down, we cruised along close in shore making slowly for Berry Head. Just before opening the Dart, I was examining the cliffs of Penlee Point just outside Dartmouth, with a pair of strong glasses, when I noticed two sets of steps cut in the cliff and leading down to deep water. Nothing terribly unusual, but odd. However, I tucked it away for future reference, pushed on to Brixham, and trotted off ashore to make tough with the Coastguard, as arranged with my wife. Of course, in Brixham every one knows everyone; therefore it was perfectly apparent that for one thing I didn't belong, and for another that I was no fisherman.
I trudged out to the Head to find that no lady of that nor any other description had been along nor had they been notified as to anyone of my name, type, size or build, and furthermore, not to put too fine a point on it, who was I anyway?
My advice to them was to get in touch with the C. in C. and find out. Meantime I clumped off back, smock, seaboots and all. Half way down the hill I met an antiquated growler coming up, and sitting in it was the wife of my bosom.
At the first hail the cabby just looked, but he did not stop. At the second hail he did stop and leaning through the cab window I informed the lady that I had already been to the coastguard and that they didn't know me from a crow, but were evidently out to satisfy their own curiosity. Well! We'd try and make for an hotel and get some inward comfort. This we did, and as I opened the door of the cab and took the seat beside my wife, an audible whisper went round from the crowd that by this time had collected, "E's got in with 'er."
My wife, by this time, was thoroughly enjoying the War. But I'd an idea that another war was coming, and I wasn't very far wrong. When we got to the hotel my wife went inside to do the chaffering whilst the crowd paraded past the cab window. I took off my smock. Not a bit ashamed they just peeped round through the window. As last, completely fed up, I got out of the cab, and stood on the steps of the hotel to give them a really good view. Apparently they decided then and there that I was a German spy, and that, without a shadow of a doubt.
My wife came out with the information that they would take us in. But I decided that if I was going to be stared at, or run in, it was not going to be in those ridiculous clothes. So back on board I went and changed into mufti. Of course, that completely tore it. There was not a shadow of doubt left that I had at least a couple of German Cruisers, if not in my pocked, then they were on board the smack, which as I have said, hailed from Brixham.
I wasn't a bit surprised when the Chief officer of Coastguards called with his retinue, no doubt supported by the local constabulary secreted behind the door. In the meantime I had tucked away a much needed meal, and in consequence, my somewhat vivid welcome to Brixham had to some extent paled, with the result that explanations followed and we were soon good friends and we remained good friends throughout the time I had that patrol.
The Flag Captain was the culprit, he had completely forgotten to notify anyone.
My wife enlisted the local padre and made one or two useful enquiries regarding Penlee House (where I had discovered the steps) whlst I had a nose round from the seaward side.
The unanimous opinion of our committee of three was that we did not like the look of the place one bit, and I reported back to the C. in C. to that effect. All right, that's fine. Take the Kermac. Keep our eye on the coast I've given you, and the spot you mention in particular. Push off, but don't get foul of the Military authorities ashore, if you can possibly avoid it.
Being "in all respects ready for sea," I found myself outside Plymouth Breakwater, Captain of the Iceland trawler Kermac armed to the teeth with a Six-pounder and ready to do battle with the best. Also I had been presented with a nice selection of foreign flags, any one of which I was at liberty to dangle in front of a prowling periscope, as an inducement for him to come up and be sunk. "But you must be careful to break out the White Ensign and haul down your foreign colours before you actually open fire."
Well, that was all right. The orders were quite sound, and I daresay the precaution necessary. All the same, I should have been sorry for the sub that relied upon our choice of the correct flag being hoisted at the precise and exact moment.
As a first effort we went steaming gaily past a War signal station under the Dutch colours, and never saw his frantic signals challenging our identity. Of course this extremely suspicious occurrence was instantly flashed far and wide. "Look out for suspicious vessel passing up the coast flying Dutch colours." "Stop and examine her." As it happened we did not pass up the coast; I suddenly took a notion, when off the Start, to push off into mid channel for the night, on the off-chance of falling in with some sort of adventure.
When it was discovered we had disappeared into the blue, then everyone got on their toes and at least one division of Destroyers was despatched to take up the chase. We fell foul of this little lot at daylight next morning, just as we were about to enter Dartmouth, after our night's outing. No doubt the Destroyer Skippers were also on edge after being kept out on a wild goose chase all night. Still that was no sort of excuse for opening fire before they even got in range. Probably they were a bit befogged after being at sea so many hours, and it didn't dawn on them that once inside Dartmouth I should be reasonably safe, as I could not very well disappear overland or even up the Dart, drawing over sixteen feet. However, having successfully carried out the intricate manoeuvre of surrounding me, with guns and torpedo-tubes, trained to a nicety in case I did take an ill-advised notion to suddenly submerge or even rise out of the water and vanish into the clouds--the representative of the Senior Officer of the Division came on board, and with due solemnity I escorted him to my cabin and stood him a drink.
Penlee Point is a cliff rising sheer out of the sea, and Penlee House sits thereon facing seaward. Day by day, and week by week our suspicious increased until at last one night I happened to see the occupants flagrantly signalling out to sea with coloured lights. I was now absolutely certain that the house was being used for imparting information to submarines off shore, but I kept the information to myself in the hopes of being able to bag the submarine. It was more than likely there was only one submarine working here at a time. It is a rocky and risky bit of coast, and for some time I was puzzled to account to the accuracy of navigation that would let a submarine approach with the certainty of getting into the exact line of light for receiving signals. The method of signalling was such that unless you were in the precise line of light the signals were absolutely invisible. I happened on the solution to that purely by chance.
We had been over towards the French Coast one night, and were returning in the early morning as usual to Dartmouth--which I used as a sub-base. Just as daylight was breaking, we picked up the English coastline, which I examined very closely, trying to locate Berry Head or the Start, in order to get the rough bearing on the entrance to the Dart. By and by the sun rose and it shone directly on the land ahead, which showed up in a black irregular line. But on this black hillside I could make out through my glasses a distinct, short, vertical white line, looking all the whiter by contrast with the surrounding blackness. As we approached, this white line became still more and more distinct. From the bearing of Berry Head and the Start (by now well in sight) I knew we must be heading just about direct for the mouth of the Dart, and therefore, this white line must be on the hillside just outside Dartmouth, and above Penlee Point.
Now, back of Penlee House, the main road runs, and on the other side of the road is steep rising ground, and on the hillside there are three houses which had always seemed to have an odd look about them, but up to that time I had not been able to put my finger on where the oddness lay. I now discovered that their odd look was due to the fact that they were painted all white. White fronts, white roofs, and even white chimneys. Coming in from the sea these three houses formed a distinct white line, which if kept in line led you direct to the steps at the base of the cliff. At night, a light in the centre window of each house, kept in line would not only lead in, but would give you the precise distance off the land, when the ridge of the roof of the house in front cut off the light of the house behind. Perfectly simple. Absolutely effective.
A very sore point with the Brixham fishermen was that Start Bay had been closed for years to trawlers, although this bay is noted for its very fine soles. Across this sheltered bay runs a sandy shoal, protecting it from a swell from seaward. Here was the submarine's base, from where she operated in perfect immunity, whilst from the house she got her information as to what ships were expected up and down channel.
It was from here that she obtained her information that H.M.S. Formidable was bound down channel. She waited for her off the Start, and sunk her with pretty heavy loss of life. When that took place, then things did begin to move a bit, but up until then I had steadily bucked my head against the brick wall of Navy Customs and traditions. I was loath to tell all I knew for fear that I should scare my bird away before I could catch her. That nearly happened after telling the C. in C. about some of the signalling I had seen at times. As it had taken place from the shore I suppose etiquette compelled him to inform the O. C. troops of the district. Be that as it may, the very next morning, two British heroes mounted on their chargers, in full uniform, Sam Browns and swords complete, rode up to Penlee House, knocked, and demanded to be told "Why had they been signalling out to sea, and to whom?" The inhabitants of the house were unreasonably reticent, for I don't believe they told a word about the submarine!
It is hard to believe, and the only extenuation one can offer is that it was early in the war. We had not yet taken off our gloves and that likewise was the reason I suppose, why the authorities at Devonport would not consent to supplying me with a depth charge to deal with my lively little quarry. Beyond sending more and more ships for the patrol, till I had a fleet of twenty, nothing would move them. The powers were concerned that the submarine was merely using this place to take in oil. The tune changed when the Formidable went down, and they then took off their gloves and went for her baldheaded, eventually blowing her up off the Slapton Sands where she had been hiding all along. Unfortunately, and to my bitter disappointment, I was not in at the death. I was in hospital. Not with honourable wounds, but of all wretched things, with measles!
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