Out of the deep have I called unto thee, O Lord: Lord, hear my voice
Psalm 130, v.1
During their early years of service, the Rescue Ships’ main area of operations was the North Atlantic, accompanying the transatlantic convoys. However, initially there had been much doubt about the ability of these small and ancient coasting vessels to stand up to the violence of Atlantic winter gales and they were not called upon to make the complete journey across the Atlantic. Instead it was customary for the Rescue Ships to call at Reykjavik which, since Iceland’s occupation in April 1940, had proved of increasing value as a halfway station for the air and sea forces supporting the convoys. As such, it was a convenient port for the escort vessels and trawlers to land men picked up from ships sunk in the mid-Atlantic; the survivors then had to be brought back to Britain and invariably the Rescue Ships were charged with transporting them in company with a homeward-bound convoy.
This was not a very satisfactory arrangement, because it meant that the space which should have been reserved for further survivors was often taken up by passengers. For example, on one voyage in September 1941 the Rescue Ship Zamalek embarked 106 members of the crews of two ships which had previously been sunk. These men took up all her available accommodation, which was anyway extremely limited – so cramped were they that the ship’s officers vacated their cabins for the masters and senior officers. Fortunately, she was not called upon to rescue others on the way home and subsequently Zamalek’s accommodation was increased by constructing cabins in her ‘tween decks.
In relation to the Rescue Ships’ seaworthiness, thanks to the fine displays of seamanship by their masters, even without crossing the Atlantic the Rescue Ships had already weathered some of the worst storms ever known in that part of the world, though not without damage. In January 1942 the Dewsbury, escorting an outward-bound convoy, had run into very heavy weather four days out. She lost one of her lifeboats; two others were severely damaged and the bridge ladders were carried away. The 2-inch thick teak doors leading to the midships’ accommodation were smashed to pieces by the force of the waves, giving the sea access to nearly a third of the quarters below decks. By good seamanship and quick work on the part of her crew, and with the help of tarpaulins and spare hatch covers, the watertight integrity of the ship was restored, but it was a foretaste of what was to be expected and of what many Rescue Ships had to endure.
Despite the hazards, in February 1942 history was made when, on her sixteenth voyage, the Copeland became the first Rescue Ship to cross the Atlantic, in company with convoy ON 64. Her arrival in Halifax, Nova Scotia created much interest in the Canadian port, and led to the establishment of a link with the Canadian Red Cross which was to prove extremely beneficial. From that time on, when sailing with a North Atlantic convoy the Rescue Ships remained in company throughout the journey, adding to the commendations so frequently made of their endurance.
Meanwhile, in 1942 several more Rescue Ships were brought into service. In addition to the Rathlin, Dewsbury, Stockport and Bury already mentioned, the Gothland and Accrington (sister ship to the Bury) had been requisitioned. Together with the early Rescue Ships, Copeland, Toward, Zaafaran, Zamalek, Perth and Melrose Abbey, this brought the total number of the rescue fleet to 12. But, as the Director of Sea Transport informed the Trade Division of the Admiralty, the balance of ships needed could only be met by allocating cargo vessels, and he indicated that the Ministry of War Transport would resist any further demands made on them. As already emphasized, the choice of vessels suitable for rescue work was limited and, highly important as the Rescue Service was, the Ministry had to take other factors into consideration. When, quite early in the war, the east coast ports became unusable for deep-sea ships, a very heavy strain was thrown on internal transport, in which vessels of the coasting and short-sea type played an essential part.
At one time these ships were carrying a volume of goods greater than that of the entire overseas import programme. Outlying islands like those of Orkney, the Shetlands and Faroes had to be kept supplied and, although ideally the solution would have been to construct new ships especially for the job, pressure on the shipyards for repairs and for new ships to replace those sunk ruled this out. The Ministry of War Transport had no option therefore but to accept the situation, albeit with great reluctance.
Following the United States’ entry into the war, the focus of the struggle in the Atlantic shifted to the eastern seaboard of the United States, but U-boats continued to operate in the mid-Atlantic and casualties remained significant. On her eighteenth voyage the Toward was crossing the Atlantic with convoy ON 67 – following in the wake of the Copeland after her historic voyage – when on 22 February the convoy was attacked. ‘We had just changed watches and the Second Officer, who was on watch, sent for me and stated he thought a ship on our port side had been torpedoed,’ recorded Captain Knell (who had briefly taken command of the Toward in place of Captain Hudson.)1 As was soon evident, the British tanker Adellen had been hit in the engine-room and sank within a few minutes. The Toward’s lifeboat, still only a pulling one, was launched, but after two hours of searching had succeeded in rescuing only six survivors. ‘I could see the red lights on the men’s lifejackets, but owing to the heavy swell the Chief Officer [in the No. 4 lifeboat] could not see them,’ recalled Captain Knell. He continued to manoeuvre the ship through the water and oil and, by means of throwing lines to the men, managed to pick up five more men, but the rest of the crew perished. At about the same time the Sama was torpedoed, the survivors being picked up by one of the escorts.
Two days later, Inverarder, another British tanker sailing in the same convoy was sunk. Knell recorded, ‘I was on the bridge when I heard an explosion on our port hand. I then saw that the Inverarder, an auxiliary tanker, had been torpedoed… I immediately proceeded to her assistance and took off her entire crew of 42 before she went down.’ While rejoining the convoy, Captain Knell noted that the Norwegian motor tanker, Eidanger, had also become a casualty and was sinking, so he closed her to rescue the members of her crew. An anxious moment occurred during the rescue when a surfaced U-boat was sighted. It dived immediately and fortunately no attack followed. ‘After picking up 39 men I zig-zagged at full speed for two hours, finally rejoining the convoy about mid-day on the 24th. By this time I had picked up 92 survivors.’2
As a result of the experience gained during this voyage, two important additions were made to the equipment of the Rescue Ships. These were the boom nets (described in Chapter 1) and motor rescue boats to replace those of the oared type. In consequence the efficiency of Rescue Ships in carrying out their duties was greatly improved. However, the statistics of ships sunk presented a gloomy picture. In March 1942 a record figure of 834,164 gross registered tons of Allied shipping was sunk, 64 per cent of it in the North Atlantic: the demand for Rescue Ships by the authorities responsible for operating the convoys grew accordingly.
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The Admiralty had now agreed that Rescue Ships could proceed right through with the convoys bound for Gibraltar; prior to this the southbound Rescue Ships had left the convoy in the Bay of Biscay and cruised around until they were able to join a homeward-bound convoy. The first Rescue Ship to make the voyage, with convoy OG 80 in late February/early March, was the Gothland, embarking on her first voyage as a Rescue Ship and commanded by Captain James Hadden, ‘a stocky man of pugnacious build and appearance, when he smiled it was with a cheeky infectiousness … he handled his ship with affection; though he was an unlettered man he was learned in the ways of the sea.’Throughout he was ably supported by Chief Engineer D. McAdie, ‘a large man, a taciturn and reserved Scot.’3
‘The Gibraltar convoys were very dangerous and we did only one,’ related the medical officer, Hamilton, in the Copeland. ‘We ran into the first nest of submarines off the French coast. The Admiralty sent out an extra two escort vessels. By this time we had been fitted up with radar location and so we had first-hand knowledge of how many submarines were around. Looking back I think it might have been better not to have known at all.’4 On the homeward journey from Gibraltar with HG 84 in June, the Copeland picked up 17 survivors from the Norwegian tanker Slemdal, as well as 68 men from the British ships Pelayo and the City of Oxford, which together with two other ships, the Etrib and Thurso, had been torpedoed and sunk.
By the spring of 1942 Rescue Ships were regularly accompanying convoys across the Atlantic. Typical of the work being performed were the actions of the Bury, whose master, Captain Laurie E. Brown, had been in command of her while she was still a short-trade passenger ship and consequently was only too aware of the changed circumstances of his command. ‘To fight the weather in a deeply laden ship (with coal for fuel) was bad enough especially when day after day one saw the bunkers being burnt up and no knowledge of when the Commodore would allow us to leave the convoy and so only just be able to make Halifax on the sweepings. To fight this and Jerry too was almost more than men could do,’ recalled Captain Brown.5 Apart from the weather the Bury’s first three voyages had been uneventful, but her fourth in May 1942 while sailing in company with convoy ON 92, provided the opportunity for her first rescue.During the voyage the HF/DF bearings taken by the Bury’s radio operators indicated that submarines were closing in on the convoy, and Captain Brown was eventually able to tell the senior officer of the escort and the commodore of the convoy the time and direction from which an attack might be expected. His estimate proved correct.
On the night of 12 May, south-east of Cape Farewell, Greenland, the British ship SS Llanover was torpedoed. Hearing the explosion, the Bury at once proceeded to the scene and succeeded in rescuing 45 survivors of the crew in as many minutes.6 Later, rejoining the convoy, she came across 21 survivors of the torpedoed SS Empire Dell, all of whom were rescued in less than an hour. Having searched the area for more survivors, the Bury proceeded at her best speed to overtake the convoy, which Captain Brown had observed was under heavy attack. While doing so he encountered the wreck of the Llanover, whose master asked to be put back on board with a volunteer crew. However, the convoy was still under attack, and since the Llanover appeared to be sinking the attempt was not made.
Next, 38 survivors of another victim of U-boat attack, the Panamanian ship Cocle, were rescued, though one man was so badly injured that he died soon afterwards. On rejoining the convoy the Bury was ordered to search another area; three hours later she sighted three boats containing 34 survivors from the Swedish ship Tolken, which had sunk after being hit by two torpedoes. A little farther northward she found two more lifeboats, and took from them 40 survivors of the torpedoed British merchant ship, Batna. Now with 178 survivors on board in addition to his own crew of 62, and with food running short, Captain Brown was given permission to make for the harbour of St John’s, Newfoundland, which he reached safely on 16 May.
For this extensive rescue work Captain Brown was awarded the OBE. It is not surprising that when reports such as these reached the Admiralty, representations were again made to the Ministry of War Transport for the provision of more Rescue Ships as a matter of urgency. It was also suggested that inquiry be made in the United States for suitable vessels, but unfortunately this source proved unproductive.
The rescue of such a large number of men by the Bury also indicated that more catering staff and supplies were needed as well as more personnel. As a result, an additional RN signal rating and a sick bay attendant were appointed to all Rescue Ships; a deck officer was recruited for duty as rescue officer as well as an additional engineer officer.7
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In June on her third voyage (and second to Halifax), the Gothland was escorting a slow outward-bound transatlantic convoy ON 100, when U-boats were detected closing in on them. In the early hours of 12 June the British ship Dartford was torpedoed and sunk. Although she did not manage to send off a distress signal and the night was more than usually dark, the Gothland made over in the direction from which the noise of the explosion had come, and soon found herself in the midst of wreckage. Four men were sighted clinging to an upturned lifeboat and four more were seen on a raft. All were quickly rescued by the ship’s oared lifeboat, which Hadden decided was preferable to the motor lifeboat on account of the amount of wreckage strewn over the area. Seven more men clinging to pieces of wood were also taken on board, the difficulty of their rescue increased by the fact that most did not have the red flashing lights which later became a standard fitment on life-jackets. Two of them did not even have jackets. The last man to be picked up was the Dartford’s chief engineer, but the time he had spent in the water proved too much for him and he died as a result of exposure.
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Throughout the summer, as the Battle of the Atlantic worked up to its desperate climax, the Rescue Ships continued their fearless work. While many of their numerous voyages were uneventful, some tested human endurance to the limit. On 24 August the Stockport, commanded by Captain Thomas Ernest Fea on her sixth voyage, was attached to the slow outward-bound transatlantic convoy ON 122, when she was called upon to rescue the crew of the stricken British ship Sheaf Mount. The motorboat was despatched and while she was away the Stockport herself, with the help of the boom nets, trawled up 40 survivors from the Latvian Katvaldis, which had shared a similar fate. Meanwhile the motorboat had collected 20 of the 51 members of the Sheaf Mount’s crew (although one man died after being brought on board); the remainder were never found.
While engaged on this operation the Stockport received a signal that another ship, the Empire Breeze, had been torpedoed, but a thickening fog prevented her from finding the survivors, who were picked up by one of the escorts. HF/DF bearings now showed that a number of U-boats were operating between the Stockport and the convoy. Captain Fea doubled the lookouts and ordered his gun crews to maintain utmost vigilance. The fog grew worse and visibility dropped to a few yards. Just after he had managed to contact one of the convoy escorts and establish his own identity, Captain Fea distinctly heard the sound of a U-boat surfacing. ‘Sound heard as if submarines were blowing tanks,’ he recorded. ‘Immediately after this firing heard, and gun flashes seen through the fog very close to this ship, & on our starboard beam.’ However, the German U-boat had been spotted by the escort vessel and was successfully sunk – danger averted.
During the night-long operations, Captain Fea reported that the behaviour of the whole crew was ‘excellent, the work went smoothly & as quickly as possible.’ The arrangements for the medical care of the survivors ‘in the hands of Surgeon Lieut N. Douglas, RNVR, were excellent & speedy.’ He also commended Chief Officer H. K. Earnshaw ‘for his untiring efforts to save life.’ Fea and his crew received the praise of others. ‘Everyone is filled with admiration at the way in which you carried out your rescue duties,’ the Senior Officer of the escort force in HMS Viscount, signalled to Captain Fea. ‘Knowing, as you must have done, that there were more U-boats in the vicinity than thought possible. Allow me to congratulate you on your invaluable aid to the Convoy.’8
Returning to the United Kingdom on the homeward leg of her fourth voyage, the Gothland ran into very heavy weather seven days out of Halifax. The convoy SC 104 was in a dangerous area of the Atlantic which at that time could not be covered by shore-based aircraft from Canada, Iceland or Britain. At the height of the gale in the early hours of 13 October, German U-boats delivered a concerted and sustained attack. Several ships were torpedoed within a short space of time, one of them being the whale factory ship, Southern Empress, which went up in flames, lighting up the sea and the convoy for miles around. Captain Hadden described the dramatic sight – the white combers of the breaking waves, the red distress rockets soaring into the air from stricken ships, the brilliant light of the snowflake rockets fired by escort vessels searching for surfaced enemy ships and the thunder of exploding depth charges. Men could be heard crying and screaming for help amongst the wreckage, but as they had no lights they could not be seen and the heavy sea and swell made it impossible to lower a boat. Every effort was made to save them but without success. It was with a deep feeling of remorse that Captain Hadden left the area.
Fear among the merchant ships had also set in. ‘At the time of the attack we were forced away to port of the convoy by panicking ships proceeding from the starboard side of the convoy. It will be appreciated that this badly hampered the Gothland from getting to the scene of operations. By the time we got clear of these ships and slowed down no evidence of survivors could be seen. Timely action was prevented by these vessels not maintaining their course and speed.’ Another attack in the evening on the starboard side of the convoy resulted in further sinkings. ‘The weather was still very bad and overcast and very dark … Gothland left the convoy and proceeded in the direction of the attack with all hands at action stations. Several vessels appeared at various intervals to be hit.’
Once in position to rescue the survivors, Captain Hadden manoeuvred his ship carefully among the men in the water, in boats and on rafts, and was able to ‘trawl’ them into his ship’s side with the boom nets, where the willing hands of his crew hauled them to safety, often at the risk of their own lives. In this manner 20 men were rescued from the Yugoslav merchant ship Nikolina Matkovic, and a further 21 from the American (Filipino) ship Susana.
Hadden noted: ‘A heavy sea was running by this time and it took a good deal of ship manoeuvring on my part to get these men out of the water. Lifeboat work was out of the question.’9 Making a wide sweep around the area of attack, the Gothland successfully rescued 39 men from the British merchant ship, Empire Mersey. The still-burning wreck of the Southern Empress, belching a huge column of black smoke, was then investigated for further survivors, but none was found. After spending 24 hours searching the area, Captain Hadden set course to rejoin the convoy.
The gale was followed by fog; two days later, the convoy was again attacked. The Gothland, by now back in her station with the convoy, heard the sound of gunfire and steered towards it. While the lookouts were peering through the fog, watching for damaged ships, they suddenly sighted the dim grey silhouette of a submarine. Captain Hadden put his helm over and attempted to ram it, but the U-boat disappeared from view, and although the Senior Officer of the escort was informed of the sighting by radio telephony, the U-boat presumably dived, as she was not seen again.
Many of the 80 survivors now aboard the Gothland were in a very bad way as a result of exposure and wounds. The ship’s medical officer and his staff, aided by members of the ship’s company, worked night and day to provide medical treatment and comfort for these men. The rescued officers and men from the sunken ships who were fit doubled the lookouts and helped in every way possible. Both Captain Hadden and Chief Engineer McAdie were awarded the OBE for their courageous rescue work during this voyage.
The gale buffeting the convoy in which the Gothland was sailing was actually the tail-end of a West Indian hurricane which, following the usual path of such phenomena, had curved back to the north-east on reaching more temperate latitudes.10 While the Gothland escaped the worst of it, the Bury escorting an outward-bound transatlantic convoy, ON 137, encountered its full fury. The first sign of its approach was a rapid fall in barometric pressure which began about noon on 17 October. ‘Wind cyclonic force, high confused sea,’ Captain Brown recorded in his report of the voyage.11
The wind carried away the look out station over bridge. 2100 hrs a tremendous sea reared up on my port beam and broke with a thunderous roar, completely enveloping my ship. A fireman had his head badly bashed in [when he was flung against the bulkhead as the ship heeled over] and my doctor operated under appalling conditions with success. My ship was thrown bodily over and listed to at least 50 degrees. She righted after a while. Engine room and stokehold were flooded, wireless aerials carried away.
The port bulwark was flattened against the fore-deck, and the rafts on the port side and their steel supports had collapsed and stove in the hatch to No. 2 hold, into which tons of water had poured. There was damage too to bridges, rigging and boats. No. 1 lifeboat was adrift.
Fortunately their head of steam was not lost. The pumps were immediately started in an endeavour to rid the ship of the tons of water she had shipped. While the master was wondering whether his little vessel would survive the violence of the storm, and all hands were striving to repair the damaged hatch cover, he sighted the bright glare of snowflake rockets on his port beam, indicating that U-boats were attacking the convoy which, as he well knew, meant casualties. A few minutes later he received a message informing him that an American tanker, the SS Angelina, had been torpedoed. An agonizing choice now faced Captain Brown. Should he attempt a rescue with his ship in such a parlous state or should he follow the dictates of prudence and consider the safety of his own vessel and crew first? To a man of his stature and experience, only one answer was possible. He turned his battered ship in the direction of the stricken tanker, even though this brought her beam on to the sea and the risk of again being engulfed by another great wave, an event which would almost certainly have spelt her doom.
As the Bury was steaming towards the stricken tanker, 43 members of the Angelina’s crew abandoned ship in one lifeboat. They had just managed to pull clear when the boat broached to, as a mighty comber bore down upon it. The imposing white crest towered above the unfortunate men, then crashed down, capsizing the boat and throwing them into the water. When it had passed, only half their number remained struggling to get a hold on the upturned hull. The waves tossed and battered them as they clung to the bilge rails on the bottom of the boat. It did not take long for hands and feet to numb in the freezing water. One by one, they slipped away, too tired to continue the fight for life.
When eventually the Bury, steaming at her best speed of 4 knots, reached the scene six hours later, the numbers had dwindled still further. Before reaching the capsized lifeboat, the Bury sighted the Master of the Angelina, Captain William Duncan Goodman, and a few others on rafts. Four men were rescued with considerable difficulty, the crew of the Bury having to go down the scrambling nets and haul them aboard. One moment they were high in the air, the next in water up to their necks, as the little ship rolled and pitched in the mountainous seas. Unfortunately, Captain Goodman was lost when the painter of the raft to which he was clinging, broke and he drifted away. ‘I circled again and approached, but the wind blew the raft away and the man was too exhausted to hold a line. Three times I circled and tried to get him but to no avail. I lowered my motor boat but a big sea swamped and sank it,’ recorded Captain Brown, and the boat’s crew had a narrow escape from drowning.12
At daybreak the capsized lifeboat was sighted. ‘Clinging to the keel were five men. Seas were washing over them and first one would be washed off and then another.’ But there was one of their number, the ship’s carpenter Gustav Alm, who would not give up. Each time a man was washed off, Alm,
by feats of courage and strength, managed to haul them back onto the upturned boat. Whilst I with great difficulty was manoeuvring my ship alongside the capsized boat one man was washed off. I managed to get my ship close to him and by the bravery of my Third Officer, who went over the side up to his waist in water and tied a line around this man, he was hauled aboard. After much effort, with my ship rolling and pitching very heavily to a high sea I managed to get the capsized boat near. Twice a line was thrown and missed, the third time the carpenter held it and made fast to the hand holds. The others on the boat were too far gone to do anything. Other lines were thrown and the carpenter put them around the shoulders of each man on the boat in turn disregarding his own safety. A line was thrown to him and in trying to catch it he fell into the sea. His efforts for the others seemed to have taken his last particle of strength. By a supreme effort he managed to put a bowline over his shoulders and by great exertion my Officers were able to haul him up and onto the deck. He was covered in black oil and was crushed several times against my ship by the lifeboat.13
For his heroic conduct Gustav Alm was awarded the Distinguished Service Medal of the Merchant Marine by the United States Marine Administration, and after a few weeks’ rest he went back to sea. In his letter to the US Consul, Brown emphasized how honoured he felt ‘to have played a part in the rescue of a man with such a spirit. A true American.’ The Bury’s Third Officer, H. Lyne, was awarded the MBE.
On 8 November the Bury reached Halifax, where repairs were made to the damage she had suffered in the gale. On her return voyage she added to her growing reputation by securing first-class bearings of U-boats converging for an attack on the convoy to which she was attached, SC 109, and by subsequently successfully rescuing nine members of the crew of the American tanker Brilliant, which caught fire after being struck by a torpedo, but was able to reach port under her own steam.
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We must now return to the Rescue Ship Stockport, on her seventh voyage, escorting the homeward-bound convoy SC 107, which left Halifax on 27 October and was sighted by a U-boat patrol off Newfoundland three days later. HF/DF bearings obtained by the Stockport clearly indicated that the U-boats were closing in for a massed attack, but before they were able to do so they lost two of their number to aircraft of the Royal Canadian Air Force. On 1 November, when the convoy passed beyond the range of air escort from Newfoundland, there were still seven U-boats in contact with it. At five minutes past midnight the attack began, and it continued almost incessantly for the next 36 hours.
To Captain Fea, on the Stockport it seemed as if a succession of ships were being torpedoed and ‘a constant stream of survivors coming on board to be cared for.’ The first to be hit on 1 November was the Empire Sunrise; her entire complement of 51 was saved. Three hours later the British ship Dalcroy was torpedoed and again the whole crew, numbering 49, was picked up. Almost at the same time the Greek steamer Rinos was hit and while proceeding to rescue her crew the Stockport almost collided with the wreck.
Fea recorded, ‘I had steamed the Stockport to within 100ft of these men when I found that what I thought was wreckage near them was in reality the Rinos bottom up, and I only just managed to get my ship clear.’ 26 survivors were rescued out of a crew of 31. During this operation, Chief Officer Earnshaw made use of a holed and water-logged lifeboat from the sunken ship to collect men from a raft – once in the boat they sat in water up to the thwarts, with the seat normally occupied by the oarsman lying across the boat. On returning to the ship, Earnshaw was so exhausted that he could not climb the scrambling net and fell back into the sea. He was quickly rescued.
Next the British ships Empire Antelope and Empire Leopard were torpedoed simultaneously. The whole crew of the first ship was saved (the master, 41 crew members and eight gunners), but the second, loaded with zinc concentrate, blew up leaving only four survivors, one of whom subsequently died. Meanwhile the weather had begun to deteriorate and by 5pm on 2 November it was blowing hard and ‘a heavy sea’. Having taken on board the survivors, the Stockport was preparing to rescue those of another ship, the Parthenon, but while going astern to take the way off the ship her propeller struck an abandoned steel lifeboat, ‘stopping my engines dead, though they were working full speed astern at the time.’
Although most of the lifeboat fell clear, some part of it remained fast and, for the next eight hours, every revolution of the propeller was accompanied by a loud thump on the stern frame. As a result the ship’s speed was reduced to 8½ knots, but, despite the mishap, 23 out of the 29 members of the Parthenon’s crew were saved. ‘During the whole of that night the Stockport had two submarines for company (one ahead and one astern) apparently trying, as I was, to find the convoy. To avoid them and also to avoid leading them to the convoy I made an alteration of course and got clear.’
While the Stockport was still some way astern of the convoy, another American ship the Hahira was torpedoed on the morning of 3 November. All but three of the crew of 56 were rescued. Because of the number of U-boats in the vicinity Captain Fea was reluctant to stop and lower his motor rescue boat, but, by skilfully manoeuvring his ship, and with the aid of the boom nets, down which members of his crew went to help men out of the water, the rescue was accomplished. He commented: ‘The weather was very cold and men who had been any time in the water were so numb that they could not help themselves at all, hence I had to put the Stockport alongside every man.’ An attempt to pick up two of the Hahira’s boats failed ‘despite great efforts and much risk on the part of my crew’. By now the Stockport had on board 320 men (256 survivors and 64 crew). Captain Fea therefore requested permission to proceed to Iceland, having limited food and water ‘and only boat and raft accommodation for 200 men’.
Late on the evening of 3 November, while the Stockport waited for further instructions, she was badly shaken by a violent underwater explosion. As a result, the main deck was set up on the starboard side, while the boat and upper decks, the forepeak and No. 1 hold developed leaks. At first it was thought that the ship had been torpedoed, and some of the survivors on board rushed to the boats and cast them adrift. ‘They were stopped, however, and boats re-secured.’ Several ships in the convoy also felt the explosion, and some false alarm signals were made. Calm was eventually restored and, having received permission to detach from the convoy and land her survivors in Iceland, the Stockport left the convoy, accompanied by two tugs, one small tanker and two corvettes, also loaded with survivors.
Fea wrote, ‘We had great difficulty in breaking out of the ring of submarines which were surrounding the convoy, the nearest submarine crossed our track 7 miles approx. astern apparently on its way to attack the convoy. We later saw the convoy being attacked in the distance.’ The Stockport finally reached Reykjavik under escort on 7 November, returning to Glasgow a week later.14
SC 107 lost the most ships of any transatlantic convoy throughout the winter of 1942–3, with the sinking of 15 out of 39 merchant ships. It was later assessed that the explosion – described as one of the largest non-nuclear manmade explosions in history – was caused when the wreck of the British ship Hatimura whose cargo included 200 tons TNT, 250 tons gunpowder and 300 tons incendiary bombs, had blown up after being torpedoed; the attacking submarine, U-132, was also destroyed in the explosion.15
The whole 36-hour rescue operation is an unsurpassed achievement in the annals of the Rescue Service. ‘In addition to picking up survivors there was very heavy HF/DF work to attend to on my bridge and from Nov. 1st to arrival in Iceland on Nov. 7th my Officers were practically without rest as were the HF/DF operators, and the 3 Radio Officers. I snatched such sleep as I could alongside the helmsman on the wheelhouse deck,’ recorded Captain Fea. For this achievement – saving the lives of 256 men ‘thanks to the skill and devotion to duty of the officers and men of the Stockport’ – Captain Fea was awarded the OBE (as was Chief Officer Earnshaw). Alas, by the time it was gazetted, Fea and his gallant ship had been lost with all hands, on his next and final voyage.16
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By no means every voyage made by the Rescue Ships had endings either as dramatic or as tragic as those which have just been described. The Perth, still under the command of Captain Keith Williamson, had made sixteen voyages since being requisitioned; she had only been called upon to carry out four rescues from five ships, saving the lives of 184 men. On one of these voyages, in June, the American ship Seattle Spirit had been torpedoed and the Perth succeeded in rescuing 42 men. Hearing that four men were still aboard the sinking vessel, a further rescue attempt was made during which the Seattle Spirit’s First Officer was found to be trying to open the Captain’s safe to retrieve the ship’s papers and a large amount of money. Dissuaded from what was a hopeless endeavour, he and the three others were also rescued. Some of the survivors were badly scalded and one died and was buried at sea. After another rescue operation that August, with convoy SC 97, a US Navy lieutenant on board the stricken Panamanian ship Capira retired to the hospital suffering from seasickness, so different was the motion on board the 2,258-ton Perth compared with the 5,625-ton Capira!
On the Perth’s seventeenth voyage – now under the command of Captain Ambrose Williamson, since Captain Keith Williamson had been relieved following a serious accident in June – she found her resources severely challenged.17 During the evening of 17 November the outward northbound convoy ON 144, to which the Perth was attached, was set upon by a pack of U-boats and two ships were torpedoed almost simultaneously. The Perth stood by the Greek ship Mount Taurus, which sank very quickly, and picked up 38 of her crew from rafts, boats and out of the water, ‘but owing to the cold many of the men were unable to help themselves… four men were sent to the sick bay for attention, one was found to be suffering from internal injuries.’ She then searched the area for survivors from the British ship Widestone, but no one was found; her crew of 42 men were all lost and after five hours the Perth rejoined the convoy. In the early hours of the following day the U-boats struck again. This time they torpedoed and sank the American Parismina.18 Williamson recorded:
Rescued 54 men a great many of whom were swimming about singly or in small groups. The first boat alongside was waterlogged and all in it were smothered in oil fuel as were the swimmers. Owing to cold and exposure the majority of the men were unable to help themselves. Thus their general helplessness and greasy condition made it very difficult to get them on board. One whole hour was spent in picking up a man on a small drifting raft who had no light and could only be located by the use of his whistle. The majority of these men had been in the water and four of them needed treatment for shock and exposure, one was apparently dead on arrival and all efforts to revive him failed.
The Perth then turned her attention to the French ship President Sergent, Williamson noting, ‘Picked up 34 men one of whom was badly injured having fractured skull and right wrist fractured. At 0700 sent motor boat to pick up the 10 remaining on wreck.’ The engineer, George Campbell, who had died after being rescued was ‘committed to the deep with religious ceremony.’19 Among those saved were the convoy commodore, Commander James Brook, and Captain Patrick Dove, who was making his first trip since his capture and release from the Admiral Graf Spee, which had sunk the MV Africa Shell in 1939 and taken him prisoner.20
While making his escape from the President Sergent, a Chinese member of the crew dived from the ship’s bridge and landed head first in the bottom of one of the lifeboats, resulting in a compound and depressed fracture of the skull, a broken wrist and complete left-sided paralysis. Surgeon Lieutenant Kelly, the Perth’s medical officer, decided that an operation to remove the piece of bone pressing on the brain was necessary immediately if the man’s life were to be saved, and he asked the master to ‘nurse’ the ship as much as possible while this delicate surgery was performed. As the two sick-berth attendants were busy looking after the survivors, an off-duty radio officer volunteered to act as anaesthetist. The ship was steaming slowly along on a course which would keep her as steady as possible.
A critical point in the operation had been reached when there was a shout from one of the lookouts on the bridge: ‘Submarine approaching from the starboard quarter!’ Captain Williamson went to full speed and opened fire with his 12-pounder gun, at the same time taking violent evasive action to put the U-boat commander off his aim. These tactics proved successful and the Perth got away. Despite the extremely adverse circumstances Kelly had carried on with the operation and it proved successful: the injured man was subsequently landed at Halifax with every chance of making a complete recovery.
As a result of all this the Perth, which by then had on board 136 survivors, had fallen a long way astern of the convoy, and Captain Williamson knew that U-boats were following in their wake, in between him and his allotted station. Later that afternoon he sighted some U-boats on his port bow, but the Norwegian corvette Rose, which had dropped back to harry them, managed to keep them from interfering with the Perth as she regained her station. Although further attacks on the convoy were threatened, none developed, and the Perth reached Halifax safely with her company of survivors.
During her homeward voyage, while travelling in convoy HX 217, the Perth was required, at midnight on 7 December, to rescue the crew of the British tanker Empire Spencer, which had been torpedoed and – loaded with aviation spirit – had caught fire. The tanker was fitted with Admiralty Net Defence (AND – a naval anti-torpedo device) but it had been streamed only on one side, and the crew were just about to put out the nets on the other side when she was struck forward in No. 1 tank. She was soon a blazing inferno from stem to stern and, as the Perth approached her, it did not seem possible that anyone could be left alive on board. However the Perth continued to close her and Captain Williamson found, to his astonishment, the whole of her crew in the water clinging to the Net Defence on the windward side. He reported, ‘Proceeded to pick up survivors but owing to sea of burning oil unable to close until she turned head to wind.’Fifty-seven men were hauled on board, two of whom were sent to the sick bay suffering from severe burns and two with leg injuries.
Early the following morning the motor merchant ship, the Charles L.D. was torpedoed, turned turtle and sank almost immediately. ‘So men were swimming in oily water or clinging to individual pieces of wreckage scattered over a wide area. After picking up 12 the majority of whom were suffering from cold & exposure also two injured men who were sent to sick bay, continued search amongst wreckage and oily water until 0850 without further success.’21 Captain Diégo Emmanuel Canoz said he had no recollection of being saved, having blacked out; a total of 36 men were lost.22
So, the work of the Rescue Ships continued in the North Atlantic, with intermittent voyages to Gibraltar. But their services were already in great demand in another even more perilous theatre.
No rock, no danger, bears a warning sign,
No lighthouse scatters welcome through the dark;
Above the sea, the bomb; afloat, the mine;
Beneath, the gangs of the torpedo-shark.