LIEUTENANT PETER HINTON had received his watch-keeping ticket in late summer 1943 while serving as a sub-lieutenant aboard the Bangor-class minesweeper HMCSKelowna steaming up and down the British Columbia coastline. A short time later he received orders posting him to Falmouth, England. There, in the fall of 1943, the twenty-three-year-old was awestruck to be given his own command. Admittedly, Landing Craft Infantry, Large 262 was a rather modest ship, but still the burden of command rested heavily on the sailor, who had only ten months of sea experience.1
Like the twenty-nine other LCILs that were evenly organized into three Canadian flotillas, LCIL 262 had seen hard service in the Mediterranean since being first used for the invasion of Sicily. Twenty-four had sailed under the U.S. flag and the other six with the Royal Navy. Shortages of replacement parts and proper tools combined with the engine and ship maintenance inexperience of their American and British crews had reduced the craft to “a shocking condition” by the time they passed into Canadian hands.2
When Royal Canadian Navy flotilla maintenance crews and locally hired dockyard navvies attempted to effect repairs, the task was complicated by the sheer volume of shipping that plugged Britain’s repair dockyards. Such facilities “were already hard pressed with landing craft by the hundreds, and tools and spares were still in short supply, and such vital items as tachometers and temperature gauges were scarcely obtainable.”3 Some of the craft were in such desperate condition maintenance officers were unable to guarantee the flotilla commanders that they would even be seaworthy in time for the invasion.4
While LCIL 262 was undergoing repairs, Hinton and his twenty-two-man crew squeezed aboard to familiarize themselves with the vessel. The lieutenant was confident that 262 would be ready in time for any invasion, but was less confident in his own ability. And then there was his crew, of which only a quarter had ever been to sea. Neither coxswain nor chief motor mechanic had sea experience.
The LCILs were odd vessels, designed to be both seaworthy and capable of a beach landing. Unlike smaller landing craft, they sported a proper bow, but were flat-bottomed to enable a run onto a beach. Drawing only two feet of draft forward and five feet aft, they were 158 feet long and 23 feet, 3 inches wide at the centre. Two sets of quad General Motors six-cylinder diesel engines powered the vessel to a top speed of nineteen knots, but it cruised comfortably at fifteen knots. Each LCIL could carry about two hundred soldiers, who disembarked down two narrow ramps extended well ahead of the bow from the ship’s starboard and port sides in order to enable the troops to get ashore dry-footed.
Equipment aboard was basic. Hinton noted that there was “no echo sounder, no radar, no direction finding gear. Navigation was strictly by eyeball, magnetic compass, and sextant. Luckily we didn’t ever need to use the sextant as the only one onboard was pinched by the dockyard navvies before we left Falmouth.”5 The craft was armed with four Oerlikon anti-aircraft guns, twelve rifles, and two revolvers. Standing on LCIL 262’s bridge, watching the maintenance workers banging away at his ship, Hinton felt growing pride in his ship and the “great bunch” of men that formed his all-Canadian crew.6
LCIL 262 was deemed ready shortly after New Year’s for sea trials. A tug pulled the craft out of its berth, tightly wedged between two other ships. For the next few hours, LCIL 262 “shot around the harbour without bumping into anything,” Hinton later recalled. “When we headed back we were supposed to meet up with a tug to shoehorn us back into our berth because everything was just jammed with ships.” But the tug failed to show. Tired of waiting, Hinton decided he and his crew were up to the challenge of docking under their own steam. “Full of confidence and enthusiasm that only age and lack of experience could generate, I came into this narrow U-shape of two long jetties ready to do a 180 degree turn in order to tuck in bow out, which we all had to do. What I didn’t know is that in any breeze it was virtually impossible to turn without losing way—that is, you couldn’t turn the ship with the screws. Very rapidly we landed on the rocks at the end of the U, much to the amusement of the navvies who were eating their lunch in the sun. I looked around and all my sailors had gone below, much ashamed. But we weren’t harmed and were soon towed off by the tug and put in our berth.”7
Mock landing exercises followed. There was nothing fancy about the procedure—the LCILs just drove straight for the beach on a flooding tide at twelve knots. When the craft was about a hundred yards from touchdown, a large catch anchor was dumped off the stern. Then the craft skidded onto the beach and the ramps were extended to offload the troops. Although the intent was to enable the soldiers to make a dry landing, the pitch of the seabed fronting most beaches normally caused the LCIL to bottom out short of dry ground. Consequently, first to go down the ramps were two or three sailors who waded ashore, dragging with them long ropes secured to the end of the ramps. The disembarking soldiers, heavily encumbered with combat equipment, could use the ropes to steady themselves as they struggled through the usually hip-deep water to reach shore. The craft got off the beach by riding the rising tide while the crew winched it back out to sea by reeling in the catch anchor’s chain.
THE THREE LCIL FLOTILLAS were just a small portion of the ships the Royal Canadian Navy contributed to the massive armada assembling in the ports of southern England. At least some Canadian ships were to play a part in virtually every aspect of the invasion, which would involve the greatest concentration of vessels ever assembled. Total naval ships numbered 5,420, to which a further 1,256 merchant and private vessels were added, for a total of 6,676. Of these, the Royal Canadian Navy provided only 121, with total crew complements of 9,269. Scattered among the vast Royal Navy contingent of ships and crew was an additional 511 RCN personnel.
Although the number of Canadian sailors and ships was small in comparison to the American or British commitments, the various RCN roles in the invasion were of pivotal importance to the success of the landings. Many thousands of ships would not be directly involved in either the immediate assault landings or the essential follow-up phases of the first two days. Of the RCN contingent, however, 102 would be so engaged—consisting of LCILs, Landing Ships, Infantry (Medium), minesweepers, destroyers, frigates, corvettes, and motor torpedo boats (MTBS). The total number of ships drawn from these classes, from all Allied naval services to be involved in Operation Neptune, was 570, so Canada was providing 18 per cent of such vessels.
Many ship classes, of course, were not included in the RCN’s inventory. These ranged from massive battleships to the minute Landing Craft, Assault that would run many of the troops, including Canadians, onto the beaches. The total number of vessels to be involved in the actual assault numbered 1,850, of which the RCN share constituted 5.5 per cent of the whole.8
Originally, some RCN ships had not been assigned a role in Operation Neptune, but with General Bernard Montgomery’s January decision to land five divisions on as many separate beaches, the ship requirement suddenly increased. A critical shortage of minesweepers was immediately recognized by the British Admiralty, so on January 16 it formally requested that the Canadian government place sixteen Bangor-class minesweepers under Royal Navy command.9
Bangors came in two models, the larger at 180 feet long by 28.5 feet wide and the smaller at 162 feet by 28 feet. Maximum displacement was 672 tons. Both models had an eighty-three-man crew and a sixteen-knot top speed. As the Germans had laid few mines off Canada’s Atlantic coast, these ships had mostly been converted for use in anti-submarine patrolling and the crews had little or no minesweeping experience. The ships had also been stripped of winches and other minesweeping gear to accommodate extra depth charge weaponry.
As the British Admiralty wanted the vessels in England by the end of February, a frantic refit was undertaken at Halifax to ready the Bangors for the new assignment. In addition to reinstalling minesweeping equipment, the ships were outfitted with better and more numerous armaments to increase their survival odds during operations close to an enemy coast defended by powerful coastal batteries. The original light 4-pound bow gun was replaced with a 12-pounder. For anti-aircraft defence, two 20-millimetre Oerlikons were positioned either side of the bridge with a power-driven twin Oerlikon located aft.
The pace of the refit was badly slowed when the minesweeping equipment contracted from one of the two Canadian manufacturers was found to be inadequate. Most sea mines consisted of a weight linked to the explosive by a long chain, so that the weight rested on the seabed, holding the explosive charge stationary and submerged a short distance under the surface. Minesweepers cleared such minefields by reeling out from stern-mounted winches long wires fitted with cutters to sever the chain connecting the charge to the weight. The minesweeping wires were extremely heavy and at full extension placed tremendous strain on the winch—a strain that one manufacturer’s winch system was incapable of supporting. By the time the flaw was discovered, half the ships had already been fitted with the defective equipment and were deemed unreliable. So, although RCN command had assured the British Admiralty the ships would be “efficient and fully worked-up” before they sailed for England, this would not be the case.10
While the refit was underway, the crews learned new combat skills. Aboard HMCSBayfield, Able Telegraphist Stan Richardson was introduced to the Oerlikons on January 31. The twenty-year-old from Powell River and his shipmates spent the next few days either firing the guns or studying aircraft recognition manuals to enable them to distinguish between friendly and enemy planes. On February 8, Bayfield started loading up for sea duty. Richardson’s job that afternoon was to stow dozens of crates of Coca-Cola and cigarettes below decks. The next day it was depth charges and ammunition. Valentine’s Day was spent performing minesweeping trials at sea. After two days of such practice, the ship’s crew turned to live gunnery drills followed by an evening of shore leave. Richardson immediately headed for Lohney’s Restaurant where he “had a sirloin steak and all the trimmings! Who knows,” he confided to his diary, “it may be my last meal in Canada.”11
Before hoisting anchor, a formal inspection by Halifax harbour’s commander was preceded by a day of ship cleaning. Allowed to go ashore a final time that evening, Richardson lost his wallet on a streetcar, only to find it turned in later for safekeeping at the Nova Scotia Power Supply office. Wallet retrieved, he paid a barber for a one-inch-long brushcut, took in a couple of movies, and bunked for the night at the YMCA. Late the next afternoon, Bayfield received its final inspection and, at 1500 hours on February 18, “led the Mulgrave, Georgian, and Thunder through Halifax Boom Defense and Gates. So I took my last look at Canada through a porthole before going on watch. I must say I am sure glad to leave Halifax. I must have the wandering itch or something, but I sure like to see new countries.”12
Over the following three days, the rest of the minesweepers put to sea in divisions of four ships a day. They took an indirect route past Newfoundland and then south to the Azores before turning north towards Plymouth, England, because the ships had insufficient fuel storage capacity for a direct cross-Atlantic passage. Each four-ship convoy steamed directly into the maw of an endless series of gales. Alternately plowing through ice or heavy seas, the small ships started taking damage.13 On February 20, Telegraphist Richardson fretted that the ice building up on the ship was rendering it hazardously top heavy. “We are bouncing around at 45 degree angles,” he wrote. “All china dishes have been smashed in the mess.”14Bayfield spent the following night in St. John’s and then sailed towards Horta in the Azores. The ships slammed head-on into a gale on February 23, against which they could make only six knots.15 “Looked out port-holes, but could only see masts of other ships once in awhile. Wave after wave went clear over the whole ship.”16
Bayfield started taking water forward, while Thunder developed a serious condenser leak and started to give way. The struggling Bayfield took her in tow. In the following convoy, the flotilla flagship Caraquet was towing Vegreville. Bayfield was first to limp on a high tide into Horta on February 29. The Portuguese pilot put aboard Mul-grave to guide the ship into harbour made a navigating error that put her aground and caused serious damage. While the rest of the sweepers soon set out on the final leg of the voyage, Mulgrave stayed behind awaiting an oceangoing tug that could tow her to Plymouth for repairs. She would not reach the final destination until March 22.
By then, the rest were heavily engaged in minesweeping exercises. The Commander-in-Chief of Plymouth harbour, whose command the ships came under, had quickly realized that the Canadian Bangors were far from ready to assume operations in hostile waters and instituted a rigorous training plan, nicknamed “Pious Dream.” Each training phase was designed to last a week, but this schedule had to be abandoned as the ships—particularly those fitted with the deficient winch systems—were beset by equipment defects. Finally, it was decided that the ten most reliable ships would form a single flotilla, while the remaining vessels beefed up understrength British flotillas.
Caraquet became the flotilla flagship, with Acting Commander H.G. “Tony” Storrs in command. Bayfield was among the ships assigned to the flotilla. By March 27, the Canadian flotilla swept a dummy minefield in rough seas, cutting a total of ninety-four mines, of which all but one lost in heavy fog were successfully destroyed. The Admiralty staff reported being satisfied and deemed the flotilla fit for operational service.17
In addition to the minesweepers, the British Admiralty had requested that the RCN select several corvettes and two Canadian National Railway fast liners for participation in Operation Neptune. As the corvettes could make the Atlantic crossing quickly, they would not be required until almost the last minute. The liners, which had been converted shortly after war broke out into Armed Merchant Cruisers and were currently undergoing conversion to Landing Ship Infantry, Medium, were given sailing orders in late December 1943. With the refit at Burrard Dry Dock in Vancouver far from complete, Prince David and Prince Henry set out just after New Year’s Day on an almost month-long voyage to Britain.
Prince David arrived at Clyde on January 28 and “was at once besieged by the staff of the Rear Admiral, Landing Ships Unallocated who came aboard to see what she needed and what Canadian LSIs were like.” They were greatly impressed by the cafeteria-style mess. Equally impressive were the bunks, which a report written after the inspection described as “tubular steel frames stretched with canvas and slung in layers from stanchions so that they could be folded down out of the way when not required.” This system was deemed far “more comfortable… and slightly more economical in space than the hammocks and messing plan in RN LSIs.”18
On February 3, Prince Henry arrived. Dockyards were so in demand, however, that the two ships were not able to enter John Browns Yard at Clydebank for completion of their refits until February 22. More than one hundred modifications and equipment installations were required to ready the ships for their new role. Two twin Oerlikons were mounted on the flag deck’s forward wings, encryption machines were added to the signals room so the ships could serve a headquarters function, and various advanced radar systems were fitted into the chart room. More mundane equipment, such as a loud hailer system, was also installed. These ships would not carry the troops directly to the beach. Rather, eight LCAs mounted in davits on the main deck would run the infantry ashore by companies.
No sooner had this refitting operation got underway than severe labour unrest struck the shipyards. Strikes and slowdowns were common throughout the spring of 1944. Consequently, the work on Prince Henry and Prince David proceeded sluggishly. The former was only ready for trials on April 10 and the latter three days later. Trials were cursory, for on April 18 both ships sailed for Cowes on the Isle of Wight where Force J’s ships were concentrating.19
WHILE THE MINESWEEPERS and LSIs were sailing from Canada to Britain and completing their refits, most of Force J had been conducting increasingly complicated mock invasion exercises. Some of these focussed purely on the naval aspects of the plan, but more often they were carried out in tandem with 3 CID units. For Brigadier Stanley Todd, the divisional artillery commander, Exercise Savvy on February 12 was the most pivotal. Included in Savvy was an artillery firing demonstration from the decks of ships that was performed under the watchful eyes of Montgomery, King George VI, and a miscellany of other dignitaries and high command staff. With the new communication systems in place, the firing accuracy proved such that Montgomery readily agreed to the technique being incorporated into the division’s assault plan. This brought much relief to Todd’s staff, who had feared the entire scheme they had laboured long and hard over might be shelved.20
Between the larger exercises, navy and army units engaged in weekly schemes that focussed on mastering one specific skill. For Force J, “there were numerous LSI, LCI, and LCA flotilla manoeuvring, beaching, night navigation, signals and firing exercises.”21
Along with General Dwight D. Eisenhower and Prime Minister Winston Churchill, Montgomery was again present during Exercise Trousers. The codename “gave staff signals officers plenty of scope for fun with such code signals as ‘Trousers Down,’ ‘Trousers Up,’ ‘Trousers Wet,’ and ‘Trousers Torn,’ meaning to [respectively] start or stop loading, or postponement or cancellation of the exercise.” Exercise Trousers was conducted over several days in mid-April and involved ships from the entire invasion force attacking a series of beaches near Portsmouth.22
On April 12, Lieutenant Peter Hinton’s LCIL 262 and eleven other craft of the same type drawn from the three Canadian LCI flotillas put their assault troops dry-footed on a stiff gradient beach under the watchful eye of the assembled dignitaries. “To our delight,” he later recalled, “Monty detached himself and strode down the beach and I thought he was going to give us some inspiring message, but all he did was stop, unbutton his fly, solemnly urinate, button his pants up, and return to the group. I always thought it might have been editorial comment on our performance.”23
But that performance was becoming ever more polished. All that remained was one final full-dress rehearsal—Exercise Fabius. On May 4, Force J and all elements of 3 CID carried out a full-scale landing exercise. So extensive was the lead-up that rumours circulated wildly the night before that this was to be the real thing and they were bound for the French coast. Force J sailed from the assembly ports “in daylight and, in bright moonlight with a calm sea, spent the night on an excursion 25 miles into the Channel southeast of the Isle of Wight.”24 The waters through which the ships passed had been sporadically mined by German aircraft and there was the constant threat that lurking German motor torpedo boats, called E-boats, might pounce out of the darkness. Ahead of the main body of ships, a flotilla of British minesweepers cleared away the first threat, while destroyers and cruisers guarded the flanks against possible E-boat incursions. Shortly after dawn, Force J hove to off a long beach ten miles east of Portsmouth in Bracklesham Bay.
During the disembarkation of troops from Flotilla 262, of which Hinton’s LCIL 262 was part, a dangerous groundswell broke the grip of several heavily laden British soldiers from the steadying lines and the men quickly drowned. Hinton considered their deaths a bitter lesson in how “not to do things.” But he also thought it inevitable “that there was going to be a casualty rate with training.”25
Becoming a training casualty seemed an all too likely possibility to Royal Winnipeg Rifles’ Major Lochie Fulton during Fabius. Standing on top of a Duplex-Drive tank turret, watching 1st Hussars ‘A’ Squadron commander Major Dudley Brooks steer the tank in an ungainly manner towards shore, Fulton feared the contraption would sink any moment. As Brooks tried to keep it running true, the tank tossed back and forth in the current and waves slopped sporadically over the canvas screen. Fulton was uncomfortably aware that, having been tasked to accompany the tank ashore as a familiarization exercise, he had not been provided with a life jacket.
There was another worrisome problem. The scheduled bombardment of the beach by the guns on the ships had passed and all shelling had ceased. But, as yet, the flotilla of rocket ships that was to smother the beach with explosive charges had failed to fire. “You better slow down, Dudd,” Fulton told Brooks, as they closed on the shore. “Those rockets haven’t fired yet and there’s no place in that tank for me.”
Brooks replied that the tank had only one speed and given the increasingly rough waters he was going to have to land or risk being swamped. As the tank rumbled out of the sea onto the sand, hundreds of rockets started to whoosh towards them. Fulton yelled at Brooks to stop the tank and jumped down on the sand, throwing himself between the tracks. Rockets were exploding all around and making a hell of a noise. But when they finished exploding, Fulton crawled out from under the tank and saw no sign that they had caused any real damage. On D-Day, he suspected, the rockets would again be all flash and noise with little useful effect.26
Despite various glitches and delays, the Canadian assault battalions did get ashore quickly during Fabius and proceeded to conduct a mock breakout from the beach. The North Shore (New Brunswick) Regiment pushed inland, captured several vital bridgeheads, and by evening was dug in on its assigned objective. The next morning, the battalion loaded onto the backs of supporting Fort Garry Horse tanks and pushed well out ahead of the rest of the division to seize a key tactical feature. On May 6, Fabius concluded, with the umpires, who had been monitoring and assessing the performance of the North Shores, deeming that the battalion had successfully completed all its tasks.27 The question left to ponder, for all but the senior commanders in the know, was the degree to which Fabius mirrored the plans for the invasion itself. By early May, there was no question that the invasion of northwest Europe was imminent.