In the late spring of 1940, for the first time in her long existence, Great Britain came face to face with humiliating defeat. The British Expeditionary Force, which had crossed the Channel 300,000 strong, confident it would put a swift end to Hitler’s dream of world domination, was in full retreat.
On 10 May 1940, after eight months of the ‘Phoney War’, during which both sides had bombarded each other with propaganda leaflets and verbal insults from the safety of their respective bunkers, Hitler had finally let loose his dogs of war. Eighty German divisions, eight of them armoured, supported by squadrons of fighters and dive-bombers, rolled across the frontiers of Holland and Belgium. Little Belgium fought gallantly but was quickly overwhelmed; Holland, bombed and shelled into submission, surrendered within five days.
British and French troops advanced into Belgium in an attempt to stem the German advance, but lacking modern armour and short on air cover, they were outclassed and outfought. By the 20th of the month, with the encircling pincers of the German armies closing on them, the Allies were in headlong flight to the coast. As May drew to a close, Winston Churchill, now Prime Minister, authorized a plan, codenamed Dynamo, for the evacuation of the remnants of the BEF from the beaches of Dunkirk and Nieuwpoort. It was into this confused maelstrom that the small British steamer Abukir sailed.
The Abukir, under the command of Captain Rowland Morris-Woolfenden and with a British crew of twenty, weighed in at a mere 689 tons; she was in many ways reminiscent of John Masefield’s ‘dirty British coaster’, complete with a ‘salt-caked smokestack’ that belched forth black smoke on the rare occasions that she reached her top speed of 8 knots. She had been built on the River Tyne in 1920 for the London & Channel Islands Steamship Company, who had named her Island Queen and employed her in the cargo/passenger trade between Southampton and Jersey for the next fourteen years.
In 1934 the Island Queen was sold to Monroe Brothers of Liverpool and renamed Kyle Queen. A year later, bought by the Pharaonic Mail Line of Alexandria, she left British waters for the Mediterranean. She was registered under the British flag, but was in fact owned by the Egyptian Government, who named her Abukir after the bay where Nelson so roundly trounced the French in 1798. For the next five years she operated a service between Alexandria and ports in the Eastern Mediterranean and Red Sea.
It was a complicated background for an uncomplicated little ship that boasted just two cargo holds, four derricks, a few very basic passenger cabins and a 97 h.p. coal-fired steam engine. She was not ‘dirty’ in the true sense of the word; rust-streaked, perhaps, but she was twenty years old and sorely in need of a coat of paint. Nevertheless, she served her new owners well, going about her business in unhurried but reliable fashion.
When war broke out in Europe, the Abukir was rudely snatched away from her Mediterranean idyll and found herself back in the cold, often turbulent English Channel, where she had begun her voyaging twenty years earlier. She had been requisitioned by the Admiralty, who put her under the management of the General Steam Navigation Company of London to serve as a supply carrier for the BEF in France. As a concession to war, her wheelhouse was encased by concrete slabs, and a single Lewis machine gun, a relic of an earlier war, was mounted on her upper bridge to ward off marauding enemy aircraft.
When she sailed out of Southampton on the afternoon of Saturday 25 May 1940, the Abukir had on board a cargo of biscuits and flour for the British Army, to be landed in Ostend. For Captain Woolfenden and his crew this promised to be just another all too familiar trip up through the Dover Strait as far as the North Goodwin light vessel, across to the West Hinder to pick up a Belgian pilot at the Akkaert Buoy, and into the welcoming arms of the breakwaters of Ostend. This involved an easy twenty-four hours steaming, a night alongside in Ostend discharging and back to Southampton for Tuesday morning. They had done it so many times before that it had become pure routine. Rumours were flying around that ‘things were happening’ on the other side, but nobody told the men of the Abukir that they were sailing into the mouth of hell.
Leaving the Solent and entering the Dover Strait, it soon became apparent to Captain Woolfenden that all was not as it should be. Where he had expected to meet the usual chaos of criss-crossing fishing boats and ferries and to be engaged in a hair raising game of ‘dodgems’ with ships of all flags and sizes inbound and outward bound, he found only empty sea. Two British MTBs hurried by on some unknown mission, but they completely ignored the Abukir. It was not until he was abreast the North Goodwin, and about to alter course to cross the line of sandbanks that bisect the Dover Strait, that Woolfenden was made aware of the dangerous situation into which he was sailing. A British examination vessel on patrol hailed the coaster to warn her that the port of Ostend was under siege and had been closed to all shipping for some days. Woolfenden was advised to return to Southampton. He gave some thought to the matter, but decided that if the situation in Ostend was as bad as he had been told, then the British Army urgently needed the cargo he carried. The Abukir continued on course.
It was still light when the Abukir neared the Akkaert Buoy, where the Ostend pilot was usually to be found, and Woolfenden was not surprised to find that the pilot cutter was off station. Ahead, 15 miles or so, the breakwaters of Ostend were clearly visible, but an ominous pall of black smoke was hanging over the port. However, it was a straight run in, and Woolfenden decided to go in at slow speed, hoping to pick up a harbour pilot at the entrance. Again, he was disappointed.
Second Officer Patrick Wills-Rust takes up the story:
We got through the piers without a pilot and did not know where to go. There was nothing in the harbour. Presently a motor launch came along with a very excited pilot on board who said he would take us in, but that we should never get out. The Captain wanted to turn the ship round so as to be able to get out quickly when the Germans arrived, but the pilot would not do this. We berthed between a French sloop which had no armament and one other English coaster, the Maquis. We were asked to move, as the boilers of the ship astern of us were likely to blow up.
When safely moored in another berth, Captain Woolfenden assessed the possibility of landing his cargo. No one had come aboard to explain the situation, and the quay was in complete darkness. He left Chief Officer Lewis Evans in charge of the ship and went ashore. There he could find no sign of life. Most of the buildings were in ruins, still smoking from the last air raid, and it was soon obvious that the port had been abandoned.
While Woolfenden was ashore, German bombers arrived overhead and stick after stick of bombs came raining down. There appeared to be little opposition; just a single anti-aircraft gun was firing back. Dodging from cover to cover, Woolfenden finally ended up in a ditch with a party of British soldiers. With the bombs crashing down all around them and the air filled with choking smoke, the officer in charge, Lieutenant Harris, explained to Woolfenden that the advancing Germans were only a few miles outside the town and that he and his men had retreated all the way from the Belgian frontier and were desperately seeking a passage back across the Channel. He advised Woolfenden that it would be pointless to land his cargo, as it would almost certainly fall into German hands. Furthermore, he strongly recommended that the Abukir waste no time in quitting the port.
Now appraised of the true situation, Captain Woolfenden returned to the Abukir with Lieutenant Harris and his men in tow. As they were mounting the gangway, the German bombers came back, and once more the silence of the deserted port was shattered by the crash of exploding bombs as the high-flying JU 88s emptied their racks. Some bombs fell dangerously close to the moored coaster; so close that Woolfenden decided it would be wise to take cover in some nearby woods until the raid was over. To try to defend the Abukir with her Lewis gun and the rifles of Lieutenant Harries and his men would have been only a suicidal gesture, so she was left to her fate.
Miraculously, the Abukir survived the bombs unscathed, and half an hour later, when the German bombers had flown away, Woolfenden led his men back aboard and made preparations to leave the port. There was no pilot available, and all navigation lights on the breakwaters were out, but the moon had risen which, combined with the fires in the port, gave sufficient light to see the way out. Woolfenden decided to sail without a pilot.
The first mooring ropes were about to be cast off when an Army despatch rider skidded to a halt alongside the ship. He carried word from Admiral Sir Roger Keyes to Captain Woolfenden that the Abukir’s cargo of food was urgently needed ashore and should be landed without delay.
This was a request Rowland Woolfenden could not ignore, and as it was obvious there would be no help from the shore, it was down to the ship to discharge her own cargo. It is written into the Articles of Agreement of all British merchant ships that, when absolutely necessary, i.e. for the safety of the ship, the crew must discharge or load cargo. When this was put to the Abukir’s crew, who were by now more than anxious to get away from bomb-ravaged Ostend, they volunteered to a man. Officers and ratings turned to, opened the hatches, manned the derricks and began discharging.
Second Officer Rust wrote in his report:
There were no stevedores about and no one else who would unload the goods. We unloaded ourselves and Dutch and Belgian soldiers gave us a hand. We were bombed continually during the unloading and had to go and hide in the woods. Lorries came and took the goods to the front. After 36 hours we had unloaded most of the cargo, except some flour at the bottom.
There was another air raid and the ship astern of us, the Diamond, was hit. The Captain said we must get out tonight. That afternoon we received a message from Sir Roger Keyes saying that they were evacuating Bruges and that he was coming with us.
Admiral of the Fleet Sir Roger Keyes, later to become Head of Combined Operations, was then liaison officer to King Leopold of the Belgians. His British Mission was the only credible authority left in Belgium and was organizing the evacuation of the remnants of the BEF left in Bruges, along with any civilian refugees that could be got out. The Germans were at the gates of the town, and time was of the essence.
Within the hour, in a lull between air raids, the refugees came streaming through the dock gates led by a party of British troops, exhausted after fighting a rearguard action all the way from the Belgian/German border. They were taken on board the Abukir, along with fifteen German prisoners of war they had picked up along the way, a small number of RAF aircrew and ground personnel, some Belgian servicemen, six priests, forty or fifty women, including a party of nuns from the British convent in Bruges, and a group of British schoolgirls. When they were all on board, a collection of lorries, motor cycles and staff cars belonging to the troops were swung aboard and stowed in the holds.
The embarkation was carried out with German bombers overhead, and panic was never far below the surface. When the Abukir was ready to sail, her limited accommodation was packed and her decks crowded. There was no count made of the numbers, but it is believed the coaster had at least 250 souls on board.
Second Officer Rust’s report continues:
We were waiting for nightfall, and at 8.55 p.m. we received a message from Sir Roger Keyes to say that he would not come and that we were to get out. When dark came we set out, the air raids were terrible. I think they thought we had Sir Roger Keyes on board and wanted to kill everybody. The weather was in our favour with very low clouds. We decided to cut across for the North Goodwins. Planes were all over us and so we sent out an SOS ‘Aircraft attack!’
The bombers followed the Abukir out through the breakwaters and into the open sea. Miraculously, none of them scored a hit on the crowded little ship, but it was nearing midnight before they gave up and flew away. It was only then that Captain Woolfenden left the bridge. He had been on his feet for more than forty-eight hours and was completely exhausted. Leaving Second Officer Rust in charge, he went down to his cabin, hoping to catch an hour’s sleep. The low cloud had disappeared with the German bombers, and the moon had risen, conveniently lighting the way for the fleeing Abukir.
At about 01.15 on the 28th, while nearing the West Hinder light vessel, Rust saw what appeared to be the periscope of a submarine about 500yds off the Abukir’s starboard beam. Seconds later, he saw the track of a torpedo heading straight for the ship. Ordering the helm hard to starboard to comb the track of the torpedo, Rust dived for the voice pipe and called the Captain to the bridge.
The torpedo was running down the starboard side of the ship, missing by only a few feet, when Woolfenden reached the bridge. He immediately turned stern-on to the reported periscope and began to zigzag away. The Captain later said that he had also seen a periscope, but it must have been a trick of the light. The Abukir’s attacker was in fact the German E-boat S-34.
When it had become clear to the German High Command that the Allies were planning to evacuate the remnants of their beaten armies from the beaches of Dunkirk, a flotilla of nine motor torpedo boats, or Schnellboote, was transferred from Norway to Borkum Island. These shallow-draught MTBs were ideally suited for operations in the shoal-strewn waters of the southern North Sea and the Dover Strait. Powered by three Daimler-Benz diesels developing 6,000 h.p., giving them a speed of 40 knots, they were highly manoeuvrable and able to dash in, deliver their torpedoes and escape before their victim had time to retaliate. They were considered to be the perfect weapon to deal with the small craft expected to be used to evacuate the British and French troops. S-34 had fired the first shot.
S-34, commanded by Oberleutnant-zur-See Obermaier, was of 100 tons displacement and armed with two 21-inch torpedo tubes, a 20mm cannon and two 9mm machine guns. She carried a total complement of twenty men. Only a few days previously, along with the other boats of her flotilla, she had been moved from Borkum to a base at Den Helder on the coast of Holland, and she was on her first patrol from there.
Twenty minutes after narrowly escaping Obermaier’s first torpedo, the Abukir had reached a position 5 miles east of the West Hinder light vessel. Still zigzagging, she was keeping within the buoyed channel through the sandbanks that divide the northern end of the Dover Strait. Captain Woolfenden was holding his breath and silently praying that he had thrown off his pursuer. Then, without warning, a torpedo streaked out of the darkness to port and shot across the coaster’s stern. It was another very near miss.
Still unable to identify his assailant, Woolfenden ordered smoke floats to be dropped, but as the canisters were going over the stern he sighted what he believed to be a submarine on the surface some 300yds off the port bow. Having no gun on board of any real account, Woolfenden put the helm hard over, intent on ramming. It was a brave gesture born of desperation, for the little Abukir was far too slow to turn, and Oberleutnant Obermaier, guessing his opponents intentions, took advantage.
Second Officer Rust takes up the story again:
The submarine drew abeam of us and let fly with two torpedoes. One missed us and went across our stern. The other hit us amidships in the engine room. There was a terrific smash and everything was pandemonium on deck. The wheelhouse collapsed on top of me and I was trapped by the concrete slabs which had fallen on me and pinned me to the deck. I think the ship sank in about 30 seconds, after breaking in two.
Although I was trapped, I could see everything over my head. The stern burst into flames and I saw flames forward. I could see the water coming up and coming over my head. The ship hit the bottom and turned over, the debris was thrown off me and I was released and came to the surface. I was more or less dazed and could hardly breathe, but I can remember the submarine’s searchlight and the sound of the machine-gunning, and I saw people being shot in the water. When I picked up the Mate later he had a bullet hole right through the head.
The next thing I remember was two sailors floundering around me. I got them onto a hatch which was floating about. I got hold of a piece of wood and swam about to see what was happening. I blew a whistle and shouted to the people to keep calm and not to waste their strength. While this was going on I heard the Captain’s voice calling, ‘Is that you, Rust?’ The Captain said we must do what we could to save people. There was plenty of wreckage about for them to hold on to, but they gave up and would not hold on. When daylight came I was clinging to a piece of wood which I think was the top of the chart house.
I saw two fellows in the water and swam over to them, one of them was badly wounded – he was one of the Air Force pilots. He had a compound fracture in both legs, his pelvis was broken and he had a big hole in his back. I got a hatch and managed to get him out of the water.
It was later learned that Captain Woolfenden had been thrown into the forward cargo hold by the force of the exploding torpedo and had sustained two broken legs and a broken collar bone. Yet his first thoughts were for his passengers.
The two airmen Second Officer Rust gone to help were RAF Wireless Operator LAC Dear and Air Gunner AC 1 Stanhope, whose aircraft had been damaged and forced to land at Ostend. They, and three others of the Wellington’s crew, had joined the refugees boarding the Abukir.
LAC Charles Dear later related his story:
The ship’s Mate had made his cabin available to us. This was a small single-berth cabin totally inadequate for four persons – Stanhope had remained on deck – I therefore decided to vacate this somewhat overcrowded situation and join him, leaving S/Ldr Glencross, Plt Off Cameron and Sgt. Parkhouse in the cabin.
A short while later when standing at the stern rail, I saw the tracks of two torpedoes approaching, one missed the stern by a few feet and I vividly recall looking down at it as it passed. The second torpedo did not miss, and slammed into the Aboukir amidships.
My next recollection was of being an awful long way under water and came to the surface near drowning. Fortunately, there was some floating debris nearby which I eagerly clung to. Meanwhile the Aboukir had completely disappeared.
Strangely, I do not remember any noise, no cries for help, no machine guns, no engines – complete silence. Contrary to some other reports.
Sometime later, I saw a piece of wreckage in the distance offering greater safety than the inadequate piece of flotation I was clinging to. Kicking off my flying boots I swam to what proved to be the top of a deck cabin. From this I learned a lesson, always take your life raft with you since the deck cabin was further away than I had reckoned, and fully clothed was almost beyond my capability.
On reaching the raft I found Stanhope, a member of the ship’s crew and an RAF officer (Ian) already on board.
I cannot recall that we had a lot to say to each other. Sitting in the cold water up to one’s waist was hardly conducive to any form of banter. We simply had to bear it and await rescue.
That rescue came at daybreak on the 28th, and happened by pure chance.
The attack on the Abukir had been so sudden, and she had gone down so quickly – in less than half a minute, witnesses said – that her wireless operator had no time to get away an SOS. Other than the seagulls who circled noisily over the wreckage, no one was aware of the loss of the ship. It was sheer luck – or Divine intervention, as some would have it – that as the sun lifted from the horizon four British destroyers appeared from the north-east, steaming in line astern and heading for the North Goodwin.
HMS Anthony, Codrington, Javelin and Grenade, their decks crowded with men saved from the beaches of Dunkirk, where Operation Dynamo was in full swing, were heading for Dover. Codrington, under the command of Captain George Stevens-Guille DSO, OBE, RN, already had over 800 on board, but she stopped, dropped her boats and began the rescue.
Of the estimated 250 souls aboard the Abukir when she left Ostend, Codrington’s boats found just thirty-two survivors in the waters near the West Hinder light vessel, including the injured Captain Rowland Morris-Woolfenden, Second Officer Patrick Wills-Rust, two nuns and a handful of RAF personnel. They had been in the water for six bone-chilling hours and were all suffering from exposure. Chief Officer Lewis Evans, Chief Engineer Harry Lawrence and twelve others of the Abukir’s crew of twenty-one had been lost with their ship. The bodies of some of the missing were washed ashore on the beaches of France, Belgium and the Friesian Islands in the ensuing months.
HMS Codrington landed her pathetic human cargo in Dover later on the 28th. Next day, she returned to Dunkirk and over the following nine days brought back another 4,600 troops, thereby playing a vital role in Operation Dynamo. When Dynamo came to an end, on 4 June 1940, a total of 338,226 British, French and Belgian soldiers had been brought back to Dover to carry on the fight from British soil.
Several of those who survived the sinking of the Abukir described how S-34 turned her searchlight on those struggling in the water and deliberately machine-gunned them. It may be that Oberleutnant Obermaier was under orders to wage total war on those who had escaped, hopefully to fight another day, but it was still an act of sheer barbarism which cost the lives of many innocent women and children. This was one war crime of the many committed by the Germans in the years to come that was overlooked at Nuremberg.