Titanic and Other Ships By Charles Lightoller
Chapter 38 DOVER PATROL
Having spent one winter and one summer in this manner, I was not looking forward with pleasurable anticipation to another winter in those latitudes. Darkness at 2 p.m. daylight at 10 a.m., is not funny when there is little or nothing to do. So there were shouts of joy when we heard the good news, with the inevitable introductory preamble "Being in all respects ready for sea," we "were to proceed with all dispatch" to Liverpool for refit.
With a bit of luck I was going to see the last of that old hybrid, and she was going to see the last of me. A talk with the Skipper. A little judicious strain placed on a few correct strings and then "Would I like an independent command?" Would I not. In due course my appointment to H.M.T.B. 117 came through, just before Christmas day! No matter. I'd willingly sacrifice Christmas Day and a good deal more to get away from that deadly monotony of "Somewhere in the North Sea."
Life was now worth while. Hectic and hard, but more what I was used to. It wasn't long before I distinguished myself in the Nore Defence Flotilla by discovering a bank that wasn't there, and bending my main shaft in consequence. The N.D.F., as we were called, had been given a retreat up Stangate Creek off the Medway, with the parent ship lying at the mouth. One bright and cheery morning, I had difficulty in getting away from my moorings and, as a result, had dropped well "astern of station". To make up, we were doing about 18 knots (instead of the sternly regulated eight for the creek) when my prop took ground. I quickly took a bearing by the buoys, and noted the position.
So much inshore from those buoys there should have been deep water, according to the chart. Well, there wasn't, and that was that. Now, should I make the usual statement. "Regret to report having struck wreckage in the Black Deep during the night of so and so," or should I stick to my guns and was that there was no water there, and chance my arm. Well, wisely or unwisely, I took the latter course, and got my leg pulled unmercifully in consequence. "A new discovery. Lightoller's bank!" "Ho! Ho! Ho! Had anyone seen Lightoller's bank?" This in addition to shirty signals from the Flag to "go and find it."
The Survey Boat had been cruising around for days and the chap in charge happened to have been a shipmate of mine in the old White Star days, Harbord, by name. "Well, Lightoller," said he, "I'm awfully sorry but I can't find it." We sounded, and better sounded. Yes, tons of water, where I had said there wasn't! and I began to scent a Court of Enquiry.
Finally, and for no reason, Harbord says, "Let's go off to No. 1 buoy and take a shot." We did, but frankly I don't know to this day what spirit moved him. When the coxswain gave his reading from his sextant, "No," says Harbord, "you must be wrong. Here take this sextant and see what you get." He did. "Why hang it," said Harbord, "the buoys are all wrong." And sure enough they were. The dockyard had laid every line of buoys in a wrong position as compared with the chart. Not only was it my turn to do the chuckling, but the Admiral, to signify his annoyance with the dockyard, sent for the Harvey, the big survey ship, and made them take a survey of the whole creek and shift every buoy; whilst I felt my halo increase by a good couple of inches.
About this time London was getting it badly from Zepps. We knew quite well when they were coming over, but so far had been totally unable to prevent them discharging their load of bombs, as, when, and where they wished. Periodically, we of the N.D.F. would get the "Executive Signal" and dash off to take up our respective positions in the estuary of the Thames, in hopes of sighting them.
My pitch was just round the Tongue Lightship, and one such night, after getting "Raid Stations" I blinded out to my position and told the Lightship to put up a small riding light (Her regulation light being a thing of long past.) But a little glimmer would just enable us to keep station and concentrate on listening, instead of dodging sandbanks.
Amongst my signalmen I had a chap who had the most extraordinarily acute hearing. I've known him to hear and describe sounds quite outside the ken of anyone on board. I told Number One--in other words the First Lieutenant--to put him on the bridge with nothing else to do but to keep his ears open. Let him sit down, stand up or go where he pleased; for if we were going to have any chance at one of these blighters, we should have to hear him first. All things set; a Tracer in the breech of our one and only anti-aircraft fun, ship just stemming the tide, and I slipped down into my cabin. Not ten minutes later and the Gunner was shouting down the hatchway in a hoarse whisper, "Zeppelin right overhead, sir." Up on deck like a shot I went, but coming up out of the light, I could see nothing. "There he is, sir," said the Gunner excitedly, pointing straight up, and there sure enough he was; so close as to blot out the sky, and so directly overhead that the anti-aircraft gun would not bear. In those days they only came within a few degrees of the absolute perpendicular. Everyone in the excitement of the moment had adopted a whisper, for fear we should be heard, I suppose, though what chance there was of that with the row his engines were making, heaven only knows. Calling for the engineer, I told him to give her what steam he could without touching his fires, in case a spark should scare the Zepp away. Slowly we drew out, whilst No. 1 of the gun, with his eyes glued on the telescope waited for the gun sights to "come on." Everyone was holding their breath, whilst the propeller slowly churned round.
I'd given the order "Action" which the Gunner had supplemented with "Fire when your sights come on."
At last, "Sights are on, sir," and before the words were out of his mouth, bang! and away went the first tracer with its little trail of fire. "Over. Down fifty. Fire!" "Hit!" yelled everyone as the tracer went clean through the Zepp's tail. He was now trying his utmost to get out of range. "Independent," yelled the Gunner, and away with another bang goes the next shell. "Hit again," reports the Gunner.
How on earth we didn't set him on fire and bring him down, heaven alone knows. Just absolute rotten bad luck.
Then he tried to get us and at the same time lighten himself by dropping his bombs, for there was no doubt that he was badly hit. Another shot gets him and he dips sharply by the tail. "He's coming down," shouts everyone, now thoroughly worked up. But he wasn't. Down came a rain of bombs instead, all exploding as they hit the water, like a Brock's benefit and Crystal Palace show rolled into one. He'd had enough of it, and was throwing everything overboard, in a frantic effort to escape. By the flash from our gun, he saw where the shots were coming from; so he turned his tail towards us, giving, in the darkness, an impossible target. In the end, he managed to get away.
But London was spared that little lot. I was given the D.S.C. whilst our friend Zepp, went back and reported having "Sunk a destroyer in the mouth of the Thames."
I was then promoted to the one and only Dover Patrol. I'm afraid I did not appreciate the honour, and kicked about the shift; just when I was nicely settled in the N.D.F. with my family housed at Minster (on the mud!)
"Did I fully realise what it meant to be singled out for a Destroyer of the Dover Patrol?" etc., etc., in the very best naval circumstance and style. Well, no, I certainly did not, but "orders was orders" and I might as well get on with the job.
So, once more, the family packed its grip, and moved along to No. 8, East Cliff, Dover, whilst I reported to the H.Q. and was greeted as follows:--
"Oh yes, Lightoller. Well, you are of course appointed to the Falcon. She's over in Dunkirk working up the Belgian Coast. Carry on, please." With which full, complete information and instructions I was introduced to the intricacies of the Dover Patrol.
The first thing was to find something to convey me across Channel. The Duty Destroyer filled the bill there, landing me in Dunkirk late that evening. I soon spotted a neat little craft lying alongside one of those contraptions of modern warfare--a 13 in. Monitor. The little craft was H.M.S. Falcon, of a type commonly known as the "30 knotters." Not a great deal of space, unencumbered by guns and torpedo tubes, but palatial, particularly below decks, compared with the Torpedo Boat I had just left. A fair sized wardroom, and best of all, my own cabin to sulk in.
After the usual formalities of taking over from the previous Captain had been got through, the next thing was to try and get to know my own crew. Rightly or wrongly I always like to size up each man individually for myself. Furthermore I had a strong objection to the splendid isolation usually enjoyed by the Captain of H.M. Ships. Not through any particular desire to rip up hoary naval traditions, but the times being what they were, to my mind a unit was nearer her peak of fighting efficiency when there was confidence and close touch throughout the ship. This applies more, perhaps to a Destroyer (particularly when on more or less special service, as we were) than on a big ship, where everything must be based just on routine--though frankly I think a lot of said routine could be dispensed with without any loss of fighting efficiency.
The fact that I leaned pretty solidly on experience gained through long service in the Mercantile Marine, led to some comical patches at odd times. For one thing, I expected each man to think for himself, and, in an emergency, to act for himself. For instance, all the guns were kept loaded with just the handle of the breech mechanism lever withdrawn just sufficiently to break contact with the striker. To bring the gun into action, all a man had to do, was to push the lever home, and press the firing trigger. The idea being that if at any moment, a submarine, or, what was more likely, a periscope, broke the surface, the man who spotted her--and he was just as likely to be one of the hands round the decks as one of the proper lookouts--would swing the nearest gun, roughly in that direction, push home the B.M. lever, and fire. This, instead of the recognized method of dashing to the Officer of the Watch, and making his report to the bridge, and by the time the report had made its round the submarine was down again in the vasty deep.
The effect of a man jumping to the nearest gun and firing, was that the whole ship was instantly on the alert; everyone, including the O.O.W. heard the shot, and he dashed to that side of the bridge, knowing at once that a sub. had been sighted, and by the fall of shot he knew the direction in which it had been seen. All this was encompassed in just a couple of seconds of time.
Although this terrible departure from Naval customs distressed many of the R.N. officers and petty officers, they had, in the long run, to admit that it achieved its object, by instantly concentrating everybody's sight and sense on one certain spot of water. The only man who would never admit the slightest element of good in the scheme was the wardroom steward; but he was prejudiced through unwisely standing too near the breech of a six-pounder, when one of the stokers loosed off, at what later turned out to be a porpoise. The steward got the breech of the gun in the small of his back, which successfully knocked out all the wind, and what little sense he had.
The Patrol's ordinary job was, of course, to hold the Straits. Our secondary job was to journey up the Belgian coast and annoy the ubiquitous Hun; at the same time protecting the left flank of the British Army, which by now, rested on the sand dunes not far from Dunkirk itself.
To protect our ships, whilst on patrol, from attack by submarine from shoreward, there was a long line of mined nets. The Destroyers, in addition to forming a screen for the big ships, had to keep an eye on those nets, and light special acetylene lamps on Dan Buoys, so that our own submarines could navigate with a degree of reasonable safety at night.
Periodically, the whole Flotilla would indulge in exchanging a bit of hate with the shore batteries. By way of return, the German Destroyers would raid us. But this was usually at night time when the big Monitors were in the harbour. The latter's 13 and 15 in. guns were just a bit too heavy for them, though they did work out a very successful scheme to annoy us, when there was not enough water for the Monitors to get inside the harbour. They evolved what we called an Electric Motor Boat, commonly known as an EMB. These were driven by internal combustion, and directed electrically from the shore by a wire attached to the boat. In the stern was a reel of wire miles long which supplied direction. An aeroplane formed the guiding star and gave directions by wireless back to the station ashore. In the bows, the E.M.B. carried a high explosive charge and traveled at some thirty knots. In consequence it was almost impossible to hit her. With us Destroyers we could always get out of the way, by either heaving up, if there was time, or slipping our cables if there wasn't. With the unwieldy Monitors it was another matter, for they could neither slip, nor move quickly enough to dodge. The result was, they would see the feather of foam (which was all that could be seen of the E.M.B.), and then they promptly loosed off with every gun they possessed, with every hope, but little prospect, of registering a hit. Of course, the Monitor had its blister, or bulge, round the water line, so there was really no fear of her being actually sunk. But, as in one case, the E.M.B. came charging along, everybody blazing away with really more danger to themselves than the precious boat--and hit the Terror's blister a glancing blow, leapt clean up and out of the water, exploding on her upper works. No small amount of damage ensued. Forthwith written suggestions were called for from all the Captains of the Dover Patrol, working up the Belgian Coast, as to the best manner of dealing with this "menace."
Those boats were absolutely devoted to speed, and, as I knew, carried no skeg, which as a rule protects the propeller from anything in the water, a bit of wood, rope, or such like. They traveled at an angle of almost 30° tail down and nose up. That was how this one came to jump the Terror's blister, and blow in her upper works. Well, gunfire having proved utterly ineffective, I "had the honour to suggest" that as a Destroyer was supplied with one grass line forward and another aft, each said Destroyer should, on sighting an attacking E.M.B., bend the two grass lines together and trail them astern, placing them directly across the course of the oncoming E.M.B. She might, by smart handling, have missed the first, but I'll guarantee she was bound to run over the second, and a few dozen turns of two inch grass line round the prop would quickly put paid to her little joy ride.
I was thanked, very courteously, but informed at the same time that "the method to be adopted must be concentrated gunfire." I wasn't altogether surprised, being, by this year of grace--and War--fairly familiar with Navy traditions and Tape. The grass line was obviously too silly and simple.
However, our side soon retaliated with the C.M.B.--short for Coastal Motor Boat. These were real boats and carried a crew of four. Two engineers, two officers and a twenty-two inch mouldy (torpedo). They had a speed of anything up to thirty-five knots, and later in the war reached forty-five. Originally they were based on Harwich, but not allowed to do anything worth while. Many might wonder why. Well, the story oft told, said that what the Navy couldn't do, no one else was going to get a chance of doing--and collecting kudos! Be that as it may, the High Lights in the C.M.B. world worried the Higher Lights till, in desperation, they sent a Flotilla round to Dover--much to Admiral Bacon's disgust. He promptly pushed them over on to "Commodore Dunkirk," and that's how this collection of splendid fellows with their wonderful boats, came to be based on Dunkirk, using the Destroyers as chummy ships.
Some of their efforts up the coast were epics. They got the Commodore--a real sport--to send a bombing squadron of aeroplanes up the Zeebrugge. It was well-known that apart from submarines, a division of German Destroyers was also based there, and in the case of a raid on Zeebrugge the latter invariably put quietly out to sea, till the flap was over. Then, as quietly returned. All this was common knowledge, but when the bright young sparks of C.M.B. fame, heard of it, they said, "Why, there's a hell of a fine chance. Turn us loose." The Commodore, like a good fellow, sent up four bombers to drive out the Destroyers and then turned the C.M.B.'s loose, who promptly sunk one Destroyer, and put another out of action; all in one perfectly good night's work.
A C.M.B., in effect, was nothing more than a glorified hydroplane, decked-in forward over the engines. Aft she sloped away to the transoms in two complete sections, leaving a lateral gap between. In this gap reposed a twenty-one inch torpedo, with its business end facing forward, propellers and rudders aft.
Fitted over the nose in the warhead of the mouldy, was the cup end of a compressed air ram. On pressing the firing key, the ram forced the torpedo along her slides to the rear and into the water. The action of the torpedo striking the water actuated the trigger, which, in turn, opened the compressed air chamber to the propellors, and at the same time elevated the diving rudders. The net result was that sufficient time having elapsed for the C.M.B. to get clear, the torpedo then shot forward on a course identical to that on which the C.M.B. had been traveling when the firing key was pressed.
These boats must therefore steer straight at their objective until they were well within torpedo range; then fire,--and do their best to get away. Even under the cover of night, they needed a modicum of luck to get out of gun range without being hit--once they had been spotted.
It can't be denied that some of these boats did have a spot of luck at times. On one such occasion, just as one chap had loosed off his mouldy and put his helm hard over to pull out of the scrum, his port tiller wire broke. The only thing he could do was to put the helm hard over the other way with the remaining wire, and jam the rudder against the stern to keep it quiet, whilst he--the Skipper--leaned over the stern and repaired the offending wire. Meantime his craft was gong all out, some thirty knots, circling round and round. One part of each circle took him clean through the objects of their kind attention--the Division of German Destroyers--who by way of return loosed off impartially, with everything, even including revolvers, for he passed some of them within fifty yards, yet not one of the crew was hit, nor the engine, nor any other vital part. The skipper hitched up the wire, got away, and she returned home, none the worse, beyond a few punctures above the water line.
Another time a chap having let go his mouldy and turned; was making back, when the oil-feed pump broke down, and the engine instantly seized up. They were still within sight, even though it was night, so the nearest Destroyer commenced lobbing salvoes of four inch shells at them. First salvo "over," next one "short." Another "over," and so the game went on, whilst the engineers and officers merely sat under the fore deck, alongside the engine, waiting for the cylinders to cool down sufficiently for them to start up again.
Between them and the four inch high explosive shells was exactly half an inch of perfectly good mahogany.
Once the engine cooled, they were all right, as they were supplied with an auxiliary oil feed. But, meantime, they listened to the shells either whining overhead, or crumping short, sometimes heaving sprays right over the boat. Eventually they also got their engine going, and came away, not a penny the worse.
All the boats were not so lucky, and as time went on an occasional one, here and there did not return. In fact the German Destroyers were not a great while before they discovered a method which effectually put a stop to these little night excursions. We never knew exactly what their practice was, but the evidence was clear, by the increasing number that failed to report. Finally the Commodore called the circus off.
It isn't to be supposed that the German Destroyer chaps took these attacks lying down. They retaliated by raiding the Straits again and again, and their method of attack made it very difficult for us to locate them. Usually they worked with a division of four modern ships mounting 4.2 guns. (The Grand Fleet collared all our modern Destroyers, so we had to make out as best we could.) The Germans would come down, when there was no moon and tear up and down the Straits, sinking everything on sight. Trawlers, Drifters, Destroyers, or anything else that came within their ken. Their practice was, on anything being sighted by the leading ship, to instantly pass the word down the line, keeping their own sights "on" till the fourth ship picked up the prospective quarry and fired. The other three pressed their triggers at the same instant. The result was one solid salvo of sixteen or twenty guns and then blank darkness again.
Unless one was near and actually looking that way, it was impossible to get a bearing, for they never fired again at that object--usually there was not need. Over went their helms, and off on another tack. Then another flash, in a totally different direction, and still another of the Dover Patrol had paid the price.
A drifter had been put down in this manner one night, and H.M.S. Fairey (Destroyer of our Flotilla) seeing the flash and hearing the report, dashed off in that direction to discover some half a dozen men struggling in the water. He'd got it fixed in his own mind that the explosion had been a mine, and switched on his searchlight to help him see, and rescue the survivors. The Huns, of course, spotted him at once, and after swinging round, came up on his blind side and gave him a salvo also. Only one man out of the crews of both ships was saved.
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