Can the Rescue Ship do it?
From initially being almost an afterthought in the conduct of the war, by 1943 the remaining Rescue Ships, operating in their different theatres, had become indispensable. ‘We don’t look much more than a gadfly on the water, you know,’ observed one master quoted in the Merchant Navy’s official history. ‘We’re not only rescue ship, but we’re errand boy and charlady and God knows what, for we often pass messages from the Senior Naval Escort or the Commodore and we help to round up stragglers. One of our chaps once went down the line giving out the wireless news on his loud hailer.’1 His comment was fully justified. So handy and efficient were these little ships that whenever a new requirement arose in the convoy organization the first question asked was: ‘Can the Rescue Ship do it?’
Thus, when the Merchant Ship Aircraft Carriers (known as the ‘MacShips’) and escort carriers became available to give the convoys air cover in areas beyond the reach of shore-based aircraft, it was the Rescue Ships which were to act as ‘crash ships’ during flying operations. This meant that they had to follow in the wake of a carrier and be prepared to rescue any aircraft crew who had to land in the sea. This duty they performed with their customary efficiency, rescuing in all 32 airmen, only one being lost when he was carried down by his sinking aircraft. On one occasion three men were picked up within four minutes of a crash. However, the vulnerability of the Rescue Ships was a constant. As Commander Archdale observed, the Rescue Ships ‘had a quite unglamorous and unpleasant job which was far more dangerous than any escorts since it meant stopping behind, usually without any escort, as a sitting target.’2
In addition to the North Atlantic and Arctic convoys, after the Allied landing in North Africa in November 1942, one of the most important convoy routes was that between Britain and Gibraltar. Although it kept well away from the German-occupied coast of France, it was not possible for convoys to avoid coming within range of German aircraft based in France. Furthermore, when crossing the Bay of Biscay, the convoy route took them across the tracks of U-boats entering and leaving the Biscay ports.
It was while escorting one of these convoys, designated KMS 23 (from the UK to the Mediterranean) in August 1943, on her fourteenth voyage as a Rescue Ship, that the Rathlin added to the laurels she had already gained during her exploits with the Arctic convoys. During the forenoon of 15 August, six days after leaving the Clyde, a series of air attacks by Focke-Wulf aircraft took place, but no hits were scored. But after a pause of six hours, the Germans made a more determined attempt. About 20 aircraft took part in a series of attacks which began at 6.05 pm.
‘First attack made by very high flying aircraft. From this time on,’ wrote Captain George Glass, who had succeeded Captain McKellar in command of the Rathlin in June 1943, ‘Continuous runs were made over the convoy by individual planes, all at very considerable altitude … bombs were dropped at frequent intervals throughout the convoy, one stick landing between Rathlin and her next abeam to starboard, very close to the other ship.’ At 7pm the British ship Warfield was hit, but ‘by pure good chance’ it struck in the engine room, ‘as it is understood that the ship was loaded with at least 2,000 tons of H.E. and a large number of torpedoes, amongst other general cargo.’3 The Rathlin succeeded in rescuing all but two of her crew of 96; one missing man was believed to have been killed by the explosion of one of the bombs.
Within five minutes of setting out to rejoin the convoy, the Rathlin was singled out for attack by high-level bombers. A stick of bombs, landing 100ft from her starboard bow, severely shook the ship. Five minutes later a Focke-Wulf aircraft at a height of about 100ft passed down the starboard side a mile away, but despite intense fire from the Rathlin and her escorting corvette, it survived. In his report of the incident, the master especially commended Second Officer R. McRae, who was in charge of the ship’s armament of a 12-pounder gun, a Bofors and two anti-aircraft Oerlikon guns – first delivered to the Royal Navy in the spring of 1941. McRae also did duty as navigation officer, fulfilling both roles by snatching sun sights between the attacks.
The Rathlin’s next voyage in mid-September 1943 was even more eventful. Two North Atlantic convoys were involved in the battle which took place: a slow one, designated ONS 18 and the fast one, ON 202, to which the Rathlin was attached. The fast convoy had sailed after the slow one and was overhauling it, when it became clear to the Admiralty that a U-boat attack was developing on one or both. To pool their defensive resources, they were ordered to combine and form one convoy. They were only about 30 miles apart when the first attack took place on ON 202, on 20 September 1943.
On the bridge of the Rathlin two simultaneous explosions were heard. They appeared to come from the direction of her port bow. It was then noticed that two ships on that bearing were in difficulties. As he approached them Captain Glass observed that only the bow section of one, the American Theodore Dwight Weld, remained afloat. She had been blown in half and the stern portion had sunk almost immediately. The other ship, also an American, the Frederick Douglass, had a large hole amidships, but did not appear to be in any immediate danger of sinking. The Rathlin therefore concentrated on rescuing the men in the water, which was covered in a film of fuel oil.
The rescue motorboat was launched in record time, while the Rathlin trawled up 26 survivors with her boom nets, most of them in pretty poor shape, having swallowed some of the heavy black oil. The oil was so thick that it choked the circulating system of the motorboat’s engine and brought it to a halt. The ship’s engineers rapidly stripped it down and had it back in action within half an hour, then picked up another 12 survivors. The oil slick was spread over around 3 miles and Captain Glass combed it for further survivors, noting in his report, ‘Cruised throughout patch of oil, but no more live men observed.’ The Rathlin then steamed over to the Frederick Douglass, which had managed to launch her own lifeboats. The entire crew of 70 was rescued, including a female stowaway and the ship’s dog.
The Rathlin returned to have a final look at the bow section of the Theodore Dwight Weld, which now appeared to be sinking. It was as well that she did, because one man was still on board and was taken off by the rescue boat. Among the 108 survivors in the Rathlin were a number of badly injured men, and the ship’s medical officer, Surgeon Lieutenant W. E. Broughton had to perform five major operations. One of the survivors died and the Rathlin stopped briefly to bury him at sea. The weather throughout was ‘fine, cloudy and clear.’
Unfortunately, the radio message ordering the two convoys to join forces was received in a mutilated condition by the senior officer of the escort force with ON 202 and so it was not until late on the evening of 20 September that the rendezvous with ONS 18 took place. That night three attacks were made on the combined convoy. All were repulsed by the strong and reinforced escort force, but two of the escort ships (the Canadian vessel HMCS St Croix and HMS Polyanthus) fell victim to a new weapon which the Germans were now using for the first time, the acoustic homing torpedo – which aims itself by listening to sounds characteristic of its target.4 The following day dense fog was encountered but the U-boats managed to trail the convoy and shadow it during the night of 21/22 September, though the escort force shielded it from attack.
Meanwhile the Rathlin had lost touch with the convoy, which had become scattered in the fog, and found herself alone. Twice she sighted U-boats, once on the surface and once at periscope depth, but took successful avoiding action: ‘Zig-zagged henceforth until full dark.’ She rejoined the convoy just as the third escort vessel, HMS Itchen, was torpedoed. Itchen had on board the survivors from the two escort ships which had been lost earlier (HMCS St Croix and HMS Polyanthus). ‘Escort observed to blow up with violent detonation and fierce flame,’ recorded Captain Glass. Rathlin went to her assistance, but another escort vessel arrived first on the scene. There were only three survivors, two from the Itchen and one from St Croix.
On the morning of 23 September, the American steamship Steel Voyager was torpedoed.
I went over towards her and found that the crew had abandoned ship, despite the fact that the vessel was not even down by the head. As I approached her, a Flower Class Corvette [Free French Navy (FFL) Renocule] joined me, and passed a message from the SOE to the effect that I was not to pick up the vessel’s crew pending further instructions. I therefore pottered around at slow speed in the vicinity of the casualty, finding myself in some difficulty avoiding the two motor boats containing Steel Voyager’s crew, which repeatedly attempted to close me. After some little time, the crew of Steel Voyager were ordered back on board their own ship, and obeyed, I think, with some reluctance.5
However, another attack on the Steel Voyager meant that the crew was forced to abandon ship for a second time. Fog in varying degrees of density was encountered during the rest of the voyage, the Rathlin finally berthing in Halifax just before midnight on 28 September. ‘Throughout the exciting events of this voyage, I was most deeply impressed by the magnificent behaviour of my entire crew,’ wrote Captain Glass in his report, ‘as always’, the medical officer, Surgeon Lieutenant W. E. Broughton, ‘exerted himself tirelessly’ on behalf of the survivors.6 A total of six merchant ships and three escorts were sunk, with the loss of three U-boats, in what was described as one of the major convoy battles of the war.
* * *
As a result of constant pressure from the Admiralty, and careful scrutiny of the employment of all ships which might possibly be converted to Rescue Ships, during 1943 seven more vessels had been selected. These were the Dundee, Perth and London Shipping Company’s Dundee; the Aberdeen, Newcastle and Hull Steam Company’s Aboyne; the Clyde Shipping Company’s Fastnet and Eddystone; the Prince Line’s Syrian Prince, and the MacAndrews Company ship, Pinto.7 Finally, a North of Scotland, Orkney & Shetland Steam Navigation Company ship, the St Clair, formerly serving as the base and accommodation vessel HMS Baldur in Iceland, was also taken in hand for conversion in November 1943, although she did not undertake her first voyage until July 1944. Thus, by the end of 1943 the strength of the Rescue Ship Fleet had risen to just over half of the Admiralty’s constant target of 30 ships. But, as far as the Ministry of War Transport was concerned, after the introduction of these latest vessels the prospects of further additions to the Rescue Ship Fleet were poor – the bottom of the barrel really had been scraped and they had no immediate hope of finding any more suitable vessels.
By the time the later Rescue Ships began their service the peak of the Battle of the Atlantic was almost passed, meaning they did not take part in dramatic rescue operations such as those described in earlier chapters. In October 1943, the Aboyne completed her conversion and was ready to sail. Built for the coasting liner trade, before the war her regular run had been from Aberdeen to London, with provision for the carriage of 140 head of cattle in the ‘tween decks in specially constructed portable pens. Captain James Harris – another Scot with an outstanding record – had joined the ship as master in September, having briefly been in command of the Dundee, which came into service shortly before the Aboyne.
Like so many of the Rescue Ship masters, Harris’s pre-war service had been eventful. The son of a missionary, born in South Africa, he served as an apprentice at sea during the First World War but decided that life was not exciting enough, so he enlisted in the King’s Royal Rifle Corps. Drafted to France, he was wounded at the Battle of Loos in 1915. After the war, having served in the Auxiliary Division of the Royal Irish Constabulary, he returned to sea, gaining his master’s certificate in 1924. With a reputation for fearlessness and determination, in the 1941 New Year Honours List he had been awarded the OBE.8
In the whole of the Aboyne’s service she only rescued 20 survivors. But her contribution to the efficiency of the rescue work was great, and the medical care she was able to provide was equally valuable.9 Having observed the challenges of transferring a sick or injured man to the Rescue Ship in a seaway, Captain Harris had decided that some better system than the usual transfer by motorboat could be contrived. The idea came to him after watching the operation of a Merryweather turntable ladder supplied to the Fire Service.10 He conceived the notion of using in a similar way the 40ft-long fore-derrick with which his ship was fitted. The Rescue Ship was brought close in on the quarter of the ship from or to which the transfer was to be made. Both ships reduced speed until they just had steerage way, and a rifle rocket to which 30 fathoms of point line had been attached was fired across. To the end of the point line 30 fathoms of two-inch rope were fixed, and this in turn was made fast to a hook on the end of the derrick purchase. A similar two-inch line from the hook was manned in the Aboyne. If the doctor needed to board, he climbed into a basket which was hoisted up and hauled across to the poop of the ship concerned.
‘I used to die a thousand deaths every time I climbed into that damned basket, wondering if I would ever get safely across to the other ship,’ recalled Dr G. M. Baird, the Aboyne’s medical officer. ‘But I had complete confidence in Captain Harris and we never had an accident. [Though] in a heavy Atlantic swell the combined rolling of the two ships was considerable.’11
If, on the other hand, a patient had to be transferred, a special kind of canvas stretcher, designed by Chief Officer William Hughes, was used. When all was ready, the patient in the stretcher was lifted to the rail, and, taking advantage of a moment when one ship lifted to the swell as the other dipped, the purchase was hove in and the human cargo eased over, the Rescue Ship sheering out as soon as the stretcher was airborne. The derrick was then swung inboard and the patient landed on deck.
The first time the derrick was used was on the Aboyne’s second voyage outward-bound with convoy ON 218, when it was needed to transport a patient from the American freighter Samuel Chase. After this experience, various improvements were made. The derrick was lengthened to 61ft, allowing more room for manoeuvre, and improvements were made to the standard line-throwing rifle which greatly increased its range and accuracy. The great advantage of the ‘Aboyne Method’ was the time saved. From the moment of firing the line until the patient arrived in the ship’s hospital, often no more than four or five minutes elapsed, compared with the minimum quarter of an hour taken when using the rescue motorboat. Moreover, in the case of patients with fractured limbs, transfers from ship to ship were made without any of the shocks which inevitably attended a transfer by boat.
For the success of the scheme Captain Harris deserves much credit. During the two years in which the Aboyne was employed on rescue duty, over 60 medical cases were transferred by the ‘Aboyne Method’, and innumerable visits were made by the doctor to other ships, without a single mishap. Chief Officer Hughes’s keenness and interest in rescue operations earned him a well-deserved MBE. Another of his devices was a small raft fitted with two cockpits. A member of the Rescue Ship’s crew secured himself in one cockpit and the raft was then lowered into the sea close to a survivor. Once the survivor had been hauled into the raft, a line was secured around him and using this he could be hoisted aboard the Rescue Ship. This method was also adopted by the other ships in preference to the basket slung on the end of a derrick, which was liable to tip up at a critical moment.
Regardless of what duties they had to perform, the experience of being part of a convoy made a deep impression, as Captain Harris eloquently (and unusually since the Masters Reports were normally dry and factual) described on the Aboyne’s second homeward journey:
The forming up of an ocean convoy is a spectacle that must surely touch the tenderest root of every poet-minded sailor’s heart? As the grey, sad looking shapes noiselessly take up their pendant numbers, there is such a sombre dignity and weary nonchalance about their movements that it makes one feel, what one is witnessing is not real, but only a fantasy of the mind’s weirdest imagining. How justly, and deservedly proud and glad the Commodore and Escort must be when the silent flock is safely shepherded into haven with no sheep astray from the fold.12
Amongst Harris’s many qualities was a love of music and in the Aboyne, whenever weather and other conditions allowed, he would broadcast to the ships in company a concert from the radio-gramophone that sat in his cabin under the bridge. On one voyage, when a young Scot on board one of the convoy vessels had been killed in an accident, the body was transferred to the Aboyne for burial at sea. Captain Harris read the Burial Service and, as the body was committed to the deep, broadcast that wonderful lament, The Flowers of the Forest. The skirl of the pipes echoed across the waters of the for once calm Atlantic, and the dead man’s shipmates lining the guard-rails of their own ship were singularly touched by this thoughtful tribute.13
* * *
Like their predecessors, the ships joining the Rescue Service in 1943 had had a previous life undertaking short coastal trips. ‘Pre-war the Eddystone had been a coastal cargo passenger liner sailing from Glasgow to Dublin – Waterford – Cork – Plymouth – Southampton – London and back’ recalled Captain Adam Shearer, a deep-sea master, who joined the Eddystone as chief officer for her first voyage in November 1943. Captain Augustus Banning took command after she finished her conversion. Described by Shearer ‘as the finest seaman I was privileged to sail with’, Shearer soon learnt, like those who had served with Banning previously, that ‘he was a stickler for duty and took an immense pride in his work, his ship and his crew.’14
A challenge which seemed to affect the Eddystone more than others was seasickness. ‘I think we rolled more than most ships due to the bottom weight in the low heavy ballast,’ continued Shearer, ‘we had one poor wireless operator landed in Halifax, very ill from seasickness. He fully expected them to send him home in a liner, but as no berths were available he was sent back on board after a week, and he went home passenger (without pay) so his sickness didn’t help him any. A few others would do one trip and pack up, but the ones that could take it, kept coming back trip after trip, but I think that was because it was such a happy & lucky ship and we were pleased to sail with “wee Banning”.’
As will be seen, throughout their service, the Eddystone and Dundee were mainly occupied in dealing with the effects of the North Atlantic weather, rather than rescuing the survivors of torpedoed ships. However, for all those in the service there was no lack of work to be done: monitoring the U-boats’ transmissions on HF/DF, rescuing airmen who had come down in the sea, and providing a first-class medical service to the floating population of the convoys. ‘In the last two years of the war we had very little to do fortunately as regards rescue work, but what we did do, was to keep up the morale of the crews manning the ships,’ observed Adam Shearer. ‘They knew we were there if needed.’
The best of the new additions was the Syrian Prince commanded first by Captain J. Hastie and later by Captain O. L. McLoughlin. Coming into service in early 1944, she made 10 round trip voyages, including one to North Russia which was recorded as being ‘without incident, normal convoy routine was followed and signal repeated. No extreme cold was experienced throughout the voyage, and weather was mainly favourable.’15 The 16-year-old Fastnet, by contrast, was rather too small, and certainly too slow, yet her hospital was larger than the hospitals in most of the Rescue Ships and could accommodate eight patients at a time. The Pinto was a diesel-driven ship, and although this relieved her master, Captain Laurence Boggs, of the anxiety about bunkers, which plagued most of the coal burners, she was not quite as reliable.16
Since the normal station for a Rescue Ship was at the rear of one of the middle columns of a convoy, they were in a good position for passing and repeating signals, a circumstance made much use of by the convoy commodores. And, as the convoys grew larger, the services of the medical officers and the first-class medical equipment were increasingly called upon.
‘At first the medical staff was carried to give medical aid to the rescued men,’ observed Martyn, ‘but as the numbers of ships in the convoys increased, they brought a new set of conditions to seafaring.’ Yet again the Rescue Ships had adapted. ‘Medical skill and equipment were made available to all, so the convoy had a medical service. It will be appreciated that where there are up to 160 ships in one convoy with a total of anything between 8,000 and 10,000 persons on board, there were bound to be many cases requiring medical attention.’17
Adam Shearer wrote:
We did a mountain of work with the doctor and his surgery. We had on an average a little over 100 ships with about 50 of a crew in each, and there was always somebody ill. One night we left Halifax and we had an urgent call from one of the MacShips that they had a rating needing a Dr. They had one of their own but they had such a small surgery, they couldn’t do more than tend burns and broken bones. So we had to take the case – an appendix – we launched our boat in a moderate to heavy sea.
Since they were in an area where submarines were patrolling, the only light they could use was Shearer’s blue-screened torch to get the patient over safely. When they reached their destination eleven days later the patient was able to walk down the gangway ‘which I think spoke well for surgery in these little ships and of course to the skill of the Dr. On another occasion we were in company with the largest Icelandic passenger ship (bound N. York) with passengers, 3 of whom where doctors, and yet they called us over to take the patient off. He had a burst appendix but the Dr fixed him OK.’
Surgical cases were common and, as the war progressed, numerous operations were performed at sea. ‘Some days we had the lifeboat out 6 times for 6 different cases so that the Dr didn’t have a great deal of free time to himself,’ continued Shearer. As recorded by Lieutenant Commander Martyn the operations undertaken on board the Rescue Ships included ‘one on a brain, over fifty appendixes removed, mostly from Americans, and numerous cases of fractures and burns.’18
Even so, it was not quite so easy to ‘send for the doctor’ as it sounds, especially in stormy weather, perhaps with darkness approaching or signs that a U-boat attack was about to develop. To enable a proper assessment of the risks, it was desirable that more information should be conveyed to the medical officer on board the Rescue Ship than, for example a laconic signal from the commodore such as: ‘Pennant Number 99 has a man requiring urgent medical attention.’ Was it really an urgent case, or could it wait until the sea moderated, or until daylight? Clearly the master of a ship could not be expected to answer such questions as these, dependent as they were on a correct diagnosis of the patient’s state. On the other hand, a lengthy exchange of signals between the Rescue Ship and that of the patient to enable the medical officer to decide on the right course of action was equally undesirable, especially at night, when signals could be made only on a shaded, directional blue light of limited range. The use of radio was of course out of the question. It must also be remembered that ships of many nationalities were sailing in the convoys, and not all the masters could express themselves clearly in English.
Having been made aware of the problem, on 10 November 1943 Surgeon Rear Admiral Sir John McNee observed: ‘In a recent convoy passage the Medical Officer of the Rescue Ship Goodwin reports that nearly seventy signals were passed connected with medical aid. Copies of all these signals have been seen by me, and it is clear that an abbreviated medical code of the type suggested would have saved much time and some unnecessary boarding of ships in bad weather.’ Sir John had in fact forwarded such a code to the Admiralty through the Flag Officer-in-Charge, Glasgow, the previous July. This was being circulated to interested departments in the Admiralty; it also had to be agreed with the United States Convoy and Routing Authority. All this took time, but Sir John kept up the pressure and eventually had the satisfaction of seeing the abbreviated code issued for use in March 1944.
The principal features of the code were a combination of alphabetical and numerical flags preceded by the flag W. It conveyed briefly but accurately to the medical officer the essential details of the case – for example, injury, illness, part of body involved, thus enabling him to decide whether an immediate attempt to visit the sick or injured man was necessary to save his life or whether boarding might safely be delayed. The whole code was short enough to be printed on a card, which could be hung up in the communications centre in every ship (see Appendix III). The simplified medical code proved a great success and eased considerably the strain on the hard-worked medical officers of the Rescue Ships.
* * *
By the beginning of 1944, the value of the Rescue Ship Fleet was now firmly accepted. ‘There is no doubt in my mind that the introduction and work of Rescue Ships during phases of the Battle of the Atlantic when the U-boats were on the offensive did a tremendous lot towards maintaining the high morale of the Merchant Navy at that time,’ Admiral Sir Max Horton, Commander-in-Chief, Western Approaches wrote to Sir John McNee in March. ‘Since last spring, when the U-boats ceased to take a big toll of our convoys, they have been invaluable in attending to the numerous cases of sickness that arise during passage, and also in assisting to detect the enemy before he becomes a danger to the safety of the convoy.’
His sentiments were echoed by Commodore E. C. Denison, who had sailed with both transatlantic and Arctic convoys:
It is desired to pay a tribute to the Rescue Ships attached to the North Atlantic convoys. In addition to their invaluable help when a disaster occurs, their presence in the convoy inspires a great feeling of confidence, which contributes to a large extent towards keeping up the high morale of the personnel of the Convoys. They are always in station, however bad the weather may be, and they are of very great assistance to the Commodore, both in repeating signals and in keeping him informed of what is going on in the rear of the convoy. It is considered that the Masters, Officers, and crews, and Medical Officers and their staffs, of these ships are worthy of the highest praise and have earned the gratitude of all sailing in Convoys.19
‘I like to believe we did good work not only in rescue but in taking off men from other ships in need of an operation, as well as giving moral support,’ observed Christopher Chestnutt in the Rathlin, demonstrative of the Rescue Ships’ ‘gadfly’ qualities.20
Unrecognised, you put us in your debt;
Unthanked, you enter, or escape, the grave;
Whether your land remember or forget
You saved the land, or died to try to save.