Chapter Thirteen
Short Run to a Swift Death September – October 1942
In the course of our purely anti-E-boat activities at Dartmouth we had had three engagements in quick succession, only one of which had involved our true quarry. On each occasion we had required torpedoes; against the convoy off Alderney, to sink the stationary German torpedo boat at the entrance to Cherbourg and to deal effectively with the patrol of four trawlers north of Jersey.
I have described how forcibly this need had been brought home to me. The more we thought about it and discussed it the more obvious the requirement became. Half our value as offensive craft was wasted through inability to deal with any target larger than an E-boat, except for the rare and excessively risky chances of delivering a successful depth-charge attack. If even one torpedo could be carried we would have a good chance of tackling bigger game when the opportunity occurred. The ultimate ideal for the small fast boat was obviously for the gunboats to carry torpedoes and the torpedo boats sufficient guns to enable them to tackle E-boats. If this could be achieved there would be a vast saving of boats and personnel. Both types could tackle eithexsr job. When the weather was unsuitable for the small MTBs to operate on the enemy coast, there was danger of the larger E-boats attacking and the torpedo boats could assist the gunboats in their continuous watch and ward to seaward of the convoy route. When operational requirements took the gunboats over to the enemy coast, they could ship their torpedoes and be prepared for any target that might be encountered.
The difficulties confronting us were twofold. The inability to carry much extra weight in our light craft, and the extraordinarily intractable attitude taken up by the authorities immediately responsible for the development of our boats who turned their faces deliberately and steadfastly against our pleadings. The intense struggle that ensued, a struggle that lasted over many months and waxed bitter as more and more evidence in support of our contention piled in from seaward in the shape of burnt and battered boats staggering back from the enemy coast, was exclusively concerned with the human element. The weight problem was easy of solution had the authorities concerned not been possessed of an archaic outlook against which we battered our wits and tongues with as much effect as seabirds against the hard exterior of a lighthouse!
For another requirement of ours, by one of those fortunate twists of circumstance which rarely occur, dovetailed in with this necessity for reducing weight. The new seventy-one-foot-six gunboat was entirely armed with power-worked turrets driven by oil pressure from pumps in the engine room. These turrets were excellent, and where they were essential, as in the case of our two-pounder, which could not be controlled from the shoulder, nothing could have been better; but they were heavy, they were extremely vulnerable, and they could not be used when the boat was stopped, since the gun pumps were driven off the wing propeller shafts. Action experience showed that the pipes were almost invariably punctured by splinters if the boat was hit at all severely; this would certainly put the turret in question out of action and possibly bleed the whole system and disable both turrets. True, after our early action off Alderney when 77’s two-pounder was knocked out, we got the pipes laid along the keel in future, instead of under the deck, where they were much more vulnerable, but even so the defect of vulnerability was a serious disadvantage.
No less serious was the inability to fire when lying stopped, unless the ten horse power Ford auxiliary was started and the pipe lines switched over to another pump, when one turret could be used. When lying out and listening, the running of the auxiliary made audible warning of the enemy impossible. The problem was insuperable; we had to accept the disability.
For these reasons, where guns could be carried without involving the use of a powered turret, we were most anxious to do so. The Oerlikon could be controlled just as well, or almost so, from the shoulder, as had been the custom in the old boats. Beehive’s Gunnery Officer, Lieutenant Woods, RNVR, had had the simple but brilliant idea of constructing a dual cradle on the lines of the twin cradle in the powered turret and putting it on the existing single hand-worked mounting. Bailey had seen the importance of the idea and had pushed matters on and soon after our return from Dartmouth the first dual cradle was completed and proved satisfactory in trials on our boats.
Meanwhile we had been calling out loudly for a lightly constructed, hand-worked Oerlikon mounting. The mounting given us weighed one thousand five hundred and thirty pounds. We considered that we could have one built for three hundred or four hundred pounds if only the naval constructors would get away from their mediaeval ideas of mass, weight and strength and had repeatedly asked for it. As soon as we got the new boats, on the 2nd June 1942 to be precise, we had put up a requirement for a light mounting to carry an Oerlikon in the position of the Holman projector aft of the powered turret, the latter being moved elsewhere where it could function equally well.
It was suggested that the total weight of the gun and mounting need not exceed seven hundred pounds, that no extra ammunition need be carried, and that we had taken equivalent weight out of the boat in the shape of excess water and other unnecessary equipment. The suggestion was approved by the operating authorities and sent to the Admiralty where it immediately got bogged, or at any rate slowed and ensnared, in the hands of the appropriate authorities and civil servants.
The whole thing fitted like a jigsaw puzzle. If we could be given our light mounting carrying two guns we could replace the powered twin Oerlikon mounting aft. This would give us hand-working guns and save weight, thereby enabling us to ship torpedoes.
The Captain saw the point and backed us to the full. Indeed, he led us in the campaign. Our Flag Officer in Charge was magnificent, likewise and the Nore lent its aid. But would the shore authorities, who had the power to say yea or nay, listen to the sea-going officers or operating authorities? Not a bit of it. At first our ideas were treated as childish, our suggestions scarcely considered. As we persisted and became more obstreperous and some notice had to be taken, we incurred increasing odium and were treated as definite nuisances. The only thing that strengthened our arm was fighting.
They had to take notice of action reports. It had always been the same. Our ideas and requests had only received attention if backed by recent and decisive engagements. For months we had been pressing for some form of rapid R/T communication direct from captain to captain. We required it as much as fighter pilots. Our actions, in the dark, at high speed, with the tremendous noise, gun flashes and tracer, made signalling between boats as necessary and difficult as between fighter aircraft. Yet no one listened to us until, as a result of our series of actions at Dartmouth, we pressed and pressed for it, forcibly comparing our position to that of aircraft. Then at last the principle was adopted and four months later my flotilla, the first to be fitted, received a number of experimental sets.
Thus it was that we had to become involved in much more fighting and take considerable punishment before our gun and torpedo ideas received any serious consideration; even then the issue was only joined and the result remained in doubt for many months.
We returned to Beehive to find a somewhat depleted Sixth Flotilla. Bailey had had a fierce engagement not long before in which the torpedo boats had assisted. A merchant ship had been torpedoed and Bailey had wound up the show by going bald-headed for a flak trawler and depth charging her. It was an extremely gallant affair. The trawler had been well and truly dealt with, but not before she had wreaked bitter vengeance on 67, Bailey’s boat, during her close-in attack. Several of the crew were killed, nearly all on the upper deck wounded, including Bailey himself in the bottom. This, though it inconvenienced him considerably, mercifully did not incapacitate him, and he succeeded in subduing a fire in the port 0.5 turret, while the boat careered madly along, unsteered, weaving her way drunkenly. In the end, he just got her back to harbour half-full of water forward. A merciful Providence had decreed that the engines should be undamaged and reliable to the end.1
We immediately resumed our work of escorting the MLs on their mine laying ventures. Formerly we had had to lie off because our silencing had been inadequate. In the new boats slow speed and silence were improved. We reckoned that if we were to protect them effectively we must be with them during the trickiest part, the run in over the last few miles. If a patrol was met we would tackle it and allow the MLs to by-pass the trouble and get the mines to the right place. This soon led to our next fight.
We went with Tubby Cambridge and his henchmen to lay mines two and a half miles to seaward of the entrance of the Hook of Holland.2 Necessarily it was a dark night, quiet and windless. Creeping stealthily in, when a bare mile from the laying position, a bright light flashed ahead, seemingly challenging. We stopped, endeavoured to detect what it might be, consulted together and decided to carry on, the gunboats straight for the position of the light, the MLs slightly to port for the laying position.
All went well, the MLs did their stuff and retired. Nothing happened. We cut and waited. We were looking for trouble. The particular form of trouble that we expected was a patrol of four flak trawlers that we knew to be stationed in that vicinity. Presently we picked up a hydrophone contact, unmistakably slow reciprocating engines. It is hard to convey the thrill of such a moment. To know that the enemy is near, that you can intercept, that he is unaware of the surprise in store for him. The stealthy tracking down, the gunboats stealing along, subdued, held in leash, in close line ahead. The first glimpse of black shapes, blacker than the surrounding darkness:
‘Enemy Red 45,’ the tensely awaited signal. There were two hulls visible at first, out ahead of anything else, heading for the Hook, now less than two miles distant. We closed, gathering speed. A blue light flashed, challenging us with ‘W’s’. We replied with ‘C’s’. I thought the long short long short, unevenly made, might worry them. It did; they challenged again and yet a third time. That was all we wanted. We were right in close by now, about two hundred yards, where we could not miss these slow-moving solid hulls. Then the guns spoke.
In the event it turned out to be a small convoy entering the Hook. Due to the fact that we intercepted it so close to the harbour mouth the merchant vessels were ahead of the escort trawlers and we were able to wreak much havoc before they came up and the action became less one-sided. We disengaged fifteen minutes later with a number of holes in our boats, a few minor casualties and three gunsstill working, but cheerful and well pleased with ourselves. The enemy had been considerably damaged and remarkably scared.
77 had been hit several times and I fancied some had been in the engine room. I sent for Stay. A face appeared, covered in blood and oil, unrecognisable until the familiar words came:
‘Top line, sir. One of the oil tanks is stuffed up with rag and I had to plug one of the exhaust pipe jackets. But she’ll be all right.’
Some motor mechanics could be worth their weight in gold. A shell had exploded in the engine room, slightly wounding Stay in the face, puncturing one of the oil tanks and putting a hole in an exhaust pipe jacket. With jets of intensely hot oil and sea water pouring over him, Stay had promptly plugged both holes and kept the engines running without a falter.
The action had again demonstrated our requirements. Had we carried torpedoes, those two unsuspecting and unprotected merchantmen would have graced the sandy bottom at the entrance to the Hook. In the later action with the escort, two of our powered turrets had been put out of action.
For this action Hitch was awarded a second bar to his DSC. Again one wonders why a bar to a DSC was thought appropriate for an attack on a merchant ship which did not result in its sinking, whereas the destruction of at least two E-boats off Cherbourg six weeks earlier had merited a Mention in Dispatches. Perhaps the authorities at the Nore thought that he had been short-changed for the action off Cherbourg and were making up for it with a measure of generosity.
Boffin Campbell got a DSC for his work commanding 76, and Tommy Ladner in 75 a second Mention in Dispatches. Petty Officer Motor Mechanic Frederick Innis in 76 and Chief Motor Mechanic Vic Stay in 77 received the DSM. Being instrumental in the award to Vic Stay of a DSM probably gave Hitch more pleasure than anything else. It had been Vic’s robust optimism on the night of the 12/13 November 1941 that had decided Hitch to continue the patrol at the reduced speed of eighteen knots after 64’s pendulastic started to give trouble for the umpteenth time. Engine room crews were not often in the limelight, yet they toiled in the most unpleasant conditions and their attention to duty made the difference between whether or not these small, delicate boats got into action. In less than a month we were to have another engagement and suffer our first serious loss. Meanwhile the weather was rough. It was the time of the equinoctial gales, and operations were few. Nevertheless I went through a most alarming period. I received warning, a hint only, that the authorities were looking for an officer to teach gunboat tactics at the working-up base and that my name was being seriously considered. I investigated matters and found that it was all too true.
I was only too willing to help in developing and teaching tactics, but my view was that I could best do that by remaining at sea and passing on ideas, experiments and lessons learnt to a whole-time shore authority. I felt that if I went ashore I should soon be out of date. Tactics developed so fast that after a short time I should lack confidence in my ability to teach sea-going Senior Officers. I should feel that they knew more than I did. My experience in fast gunboats was of value at sea, where I could try out new ideas and continue development. Besides, from the personal point of view, I had just got a flotilla fully worked up of which I was very proud. It would be bitter to have to leave it.
At first it seemed that the authorities would not see my point of view. I went through a nerve-racking ten days. To be on the beach. To see my boats put to sea knowing that perhaps never again would I lead them. Never again to feel the lift and dance of the hulls as we headed for the enemy coast. Never again to feel a unit wheel at a word of command. With the war continuing, never again to feel the exhilarating anxiety of real responsibility at sea, the power of life and death, your brains against the enemy’s, with wounds and death as the stakes. It was unbearable. I wrote a letter explaining succinctly my views and my unsuitability for a teaching job. It worked. To my intense relief the appointment went elsewhere.3
On the evening of the 2nd October we set out, as so often before, to accompany the MLs. The old moon would rise at 1.30 in the morning. The lay, to take place on the enemy convoy route near the Middle Bank, was scheduled for 1.15. Thereafter we were at liberty to search where we would and good luck to us.
All went according to plan except that we were a little late. A humpbacked moon was riding low in the heavens by the time the mines were laid. It was a fascinating scene to watch. The white grey hulls glimmering dully in the faint moonlight, their straight stems throwing up a feather spray of water at their creeping gait. The sharp orders intoned at exact intervals. The clank and clatter as each long, black, cylindrical object fell at the word of command. The glint and flutter of spray thrown high on board from the splash. The sluggish roll of the boat, released thus sharply of a heavy load on her gunwale
Their work done, the MLs headed for home. Clear of the Dutch coast we bid them good night, stopped and considered how best to seek out the enemy.
We knew there was probably a trawler patrol a short distance away to the north-east. I slipped into the wheelhouse to study the chart. The tiny confined space, dimly lit by the red tachometer lamp and the plotting lights, seemed tight-packed with instruments and equipment. the echo sounding machine, white and lumpy, a compass, the new Hallicrafter R/T set, headphones, the first to be issued, hanging on the bulkhead, our experimental gyro repeater, the instrument panel, and RDF repeater, dotted with varied brightly coloured knobs, a CB safe, navigating instruments, polished and shining under the shaded light, lashed to the curving canopy a fireman’s axe, the blade gleaming sullenly, the white sheet of the chart covering the little table on the starboard side. If the dustbin was the head of the ship, containing her eyes and brains, the wheelhouse was her heart, the source of life and energy. Some oilskins, hanging against the side, swayed gently to the quiet movement of the boat. Her heart was beating; there was life here, apparent in every rustle and creak. A ship is only dead, really dead, in dry dock or hoisted ashore. Then her gear hangs still and listless, even the softest slap and ripple of the sea is absent, animation seems suspended, her heart stopped, until life returns upon renewed contact with the water.
I put my elbows on the edge of the chart table, head in hands, and contemplated the position. We were opposite the outlet of the East Scheldt; the patrol was said to be in the Buiten Deep to seaward of the mouth of the River Maas. My eye, as it travelled up the Dutch coast, caught the black lettering and uncompromising confirmation of the word Roompot. Roompot! This name had greatly pleased us, written as it was across our charts opposite one of our most fruitful hunting grounds. In search of a collective call-sign for the new flotilla, the Eighth, we had lighted upon it, altered the spelling to Rumpots, and adopted it as descriptive of our social activities. Listening Germans, intercepting the oft repeated cry of ‘Hitch calling Rumpots’, doubtless considered it as yet one more confirmation of the inveterate madness of all Englishmen.4
Following up the coastline there was the Buiten Bank and Buiten Deep. It was no more than twelve miles. We should be going northeast, the moon would be on our starboard bow, the distance being short we could afford to proceed at low speed in silence. If the enemy were there we should have every chance of surprising them.
The decision was taken. We had had a run of successes without serious loss. Though this may have tended to over-confidence, I had enough sense to see that surprise had been the decisive factor throughout. On every occasion, except the Ostend battle where we had not decisively damaged the E-boats, but had turned them from their purpose by sheer hard fighting, the object had been obtained as a result of complete tactical surprise. It must always be so in our type of warfare. Fighting at night, generally against vastly superior and more powerfully armed vessels, extremely vulnerable in our unprotected bulk of high octane petrol, the lightning thrust was our chance. Catch the enemy on his heels, go for him bald-headed, hit him hard and quickly, then get out. That was how to make war with our little ships. Stab him again and again with rapier thrusts. To increase the effective weight of those thrusts was our continual concern. By the summer of 1942 we had a boat, still only seventy-one-foot-six inches long, that had a sting which would have seemed incredible to our eager eyes in the early days when, a bare two years before, we swept the seas with nothing but our 0.303 automatic guns.
They say that pride goes before a fall. Maybe I was over-confident with our recent success. Certain it is that I was about to have it brought home to me in forceful manner that good luck, the supreme importance of which I had always maintained, was at least as vital an element as surprise in the attainment of victory at sea. We were heading for our first serious loss.
The boats got under way on their wing engines, bumbling off quickly at twelve knots. 77 was leading with 78, 81 and one of the old Sixth Flotilla boats, 60. We swept up the coast, the moon, riding high now, fine on our starboard bow. Visibility was good. It would be possible to see our quarry quite a mile away, possibly farther.
Boffin was with me in 77. I was standing on the canopy top scanning ahead steadily through glasses. We had always sought out the enemy and attacked and so far all had gone well. But there was an uneasiness lurking in the back of my mind. Surprise was essential with bigger ships, such as trawlers. Could we effect it in this bright moonlight and good visibility? If not, an attack would be wrong. The risk would be too high for the possible benefit. But the Eighth Flotilla always attacked! Commonsense and experience were at variance with inclination.
Nevertheless I decided that unless I could surprise them and cause a diversion I would not allow an attack to be pressed home close. The men might even have to see the enemy pass by unmolested. A bitter experience, but in this form of warfare conditions must be selected in order to achieve success. Thinking thus, suddenly I saw them. First one small black blob in the moon path, then another. I held my peace and watched. There was another and yet a fourth. Thirty seconds more and I was sure that was all. I slipped down from the canopy.
‘There they are, bearing Green 20, four of them,’ I said quietly to Boffin. ‘We’ll stop the unit and settle a plan of attack.’
Vigorous use of the lungs brought the unit to a halt. Engines were cut. So far so good. We were in a perfect position. The enemy approaching slowly, on a course to pass us a few cables to starboard. They were in line abreast doing about four knots. I was up again on the canopy, watching intently, thinking furiously. Down moon; well camouflaged as we were they would not see us until they were a few cables away. We could give them a good dose of two pounder and Oerlikon, but that would not be decisive. We could not get one separated in that close formation and good visibility. Should we try out our much discussed and practised ‘Attack Single’? This was our method of executing a thought-out and pre-arranged depth-charge attack, where we had tactical surprise, as on this occasion. Briefly the plan was for one boat to be detached. While the rest of the unit attacked the enemy with gunfire at moderate range, thereby causing a diversion, attracting all attention in their direction, the detailed boat would dash in from the opposite side at maximum speed, drop her depth charges close in front of the selected target and disappear as rapidly as she had come, afterwards rendezvousing with the rest of the unit in a pre-arranged position to seaward of the scene of the attack.
The depth charge was an exceptionally clumsy and dangerous weapon; to be effective it meant closing to within a few yards of the enemy; but we had no other, nothing that could sink a trawler. Here was a chance to try out our oft-discussed plans. The trouble was the moonlight and good visibility. Such an attack needed conditions of darkness and low visibility if possible; then the single attacking boat could not be seen until very close. Tonight, if unlucky, she might be sighted at several cables and have to run the gauntlet going in.
I looked down moon. It was surprisingly difficult to see our little boats in the toneless obscurity. With a well sustained diversion there should be every chance of the attacking boat getting right in unobserved. We should never get a better chance of pre-arranging such an attack. Had we not always attacked before? With a bit of luck we should get one of them. Luck! The fickle jade had been on our side too long. How was I to know that she was absent tonight?
‘We’ll do an ‘Attack Single’.’
It was settled.
The enemy were drawing steadily nearer. Time was short. Who should make the attack? Thoughts raced through my mind. My first reaction was to do it myself. A bare two months before 77 had carried out a successful depth charge attack. She had been smitten, but then there had been no diversion. We were the most suitable, the most experienced. But the limelight had consequently fallen all too brightly upon us and me in particular. The depth charge attack off Alderney, the battle off Ostend, both had been solo affairs; the resultant acclamations embarrassing so far as I was concerned. I desperately wanted my other officers to share to the full in the Flotilla’s success. George Duncan I knew to be pining for an opportunity. He had kicked himself for days after the action off Jersey. He had been last in the line, the best position for breaking off and delivering a depth charge attack at the Commanding Officer’s own initiative. The first trawler attacked had been well subdued. George considered that he could have seized the opportunity and finished her off with a depth-charge. I knew that had been on his mind, that he was dead keen for his chance to make up for the opportunity he considered he had missed.
Thus swiftly I reasoned, as the black shapes of the enemy loomed larger and clearer. After the event I taxed myself bitterly. Why had I not undertaken the attack myself? Had not fear, personal fear, fear for my own wretched body played its part in the decision? With George gone and myself unhurt and in comfort at home, such reaction was inevitable. The great advantage of naval warfare, especially our small ship fighting, was that as leader one shared to the full the risks and hardships of every member of the flotilla. Mercifully absent was the terrible responsibility, so often inherent in military command, of ordering others to the attack whilst remaining oneself in comparative security. Had I funked it on this occasion? Had I sent another man in because, even subconsciously, I had feared for my own life? Later the thought tortured me. I have tried to analyse precisely my feelings at the time. Confident as I was then, possibly over-confident, I do not think that anxiety for the result, either for 78 or 77, consciously affected my decision.
‘Would you like to carry out the attack, George?’ I shouted. I knew the question to be superfluous. Nothing would hold George back.
‘Yes I would,’ came the unhesitating reply. A very brave man was started on the short run to swift death.
Details were settled. We were to attack on the beam, work round up moon, slowly extending the range, leaving the down moon side clear for 78’s attack, which was to be delivered as soon as possible after we had got the fight well under way.
We were on the trawlers’ beam now, about four cables distant. Their course was south-west, the moon bore east. 77, 81 and 60 crept away, moving through west to south and south-east, closing and turning slowly on opposite courses to the enemy. They were less than three cables away now, large as life, the moon path just astern. Still they did not see us. Two cables off, they challenged us; it was time to start. A stream of tracer swept from the gunboats into the nearest trawler. Slowly at first, rather hesitantly, the answering fire gathered momentum, each trawler in turn becoming alive to the situation. We increased speed to twenty knots, circled round the stern of the enemy, slowly opening range as we became silhouetted against the moon and their fire improved, maintaining a steady barrage of tracer.
Minutes went by, still no sign of 78. She was slow. I had expected her attack soon after we had become fully engaged. We had hit that first trawler hard, the others in varying degree; we were being hit ourselves from time to time, but most was passing over, the tracer seeming to flare out and up at you like a projected flame, the near bullets whistling shrilly.
It was not until we had worked round to the south-east of the enemy that a sudden eruption of tracer from the trawler in a southwesterly direction indicated that 78 had gone in. Up till then all their fire had been directed towards us. This burst of tracer was at rightangles to the general direction of their shooting. Short, sustained, it was immediately followed by a violent criss-cross of tracer; evidently 78 was firing back and being fired on more heavily. This again was only momentary, lasting at the most for a minute or two. Then silence.
We had ceased fire at the sign of 78’s attack. We drew away down moon, passing across the trawlers’ line of advance. Suddenly I noticed a patch of mist. I remembered then that a peculiar obscurity had been developing round the moon during the engagement. Was there a fog coming up? This was the first real indication of it.
Using glasses, I could watch the enemy about half a mile away, without fear of them seeing us. They were stopped now, huddled together in a bunch, a cloud of black smoke hanging over them. George’s attack had been a success by the look of it. It seemed that they were standing by one of their number. If only we had torpedoes, what an opportunity! Stopped in a close group!
At that moment the fog came down in real earnest, blotting them out. I turned my attention to 78. All seemed to have gone well. She had evidently got in unobserved. This was evident from the momentary nature of the engagement. By the same token she had got out again quickly. Had she suffered severely and been slowed up, the cross-fire would have been prolonged. At the worst she would have been stopped or set on fire; either eventuality would have been obvious. It seemed that all was well. Good old George! Of one thing I was sure, the attack had been pressed home to the limit. To within a few feet of the enemy’s sharp rising bows.
We called him up by R/T and W/T. No answer. That was nothing. It was rare that one of our boats, delivering a determined attack and suffering some damage, was able to use her wireless again. More often than not the aerial was shot away, the set itself damaged or the power supply cut off.
‘Tracer in the air, sir,’ an excited shout from Head.
‘What bearing?’ I replied.
‘Over there,’ said Boffin pointing to the north-east.
That was different. Tracer shot in the air was our flotilla signal of distress. It was an extremely efficient method of calling attention to oneself, the tracer leaping skywards being visible for a great distance in good visibility. Later it came to be very generally adopted in Coastal Forces flotillas.
‘Starboard wheel.’
‘Steer North forty-five degrees East, Coxswain.’
‘North forty-five degrees East, sir.’
We sped shorewards in the direction of the tracer. There had been but one short burst. Few had seen it; I had not. Whether or not this was a signal of distress from 78 will perhaps never be known. At the time of writing it is still mere speculation. It might have been fired from the shore, a bare three miles away. Certain it is that no other shots were seen, though we raced to the estimated position of the firing. If it was 78, continued firing in the air would have been expected. Possibly more were fired, but the tracer may have been enveloped in the thick mist.
Viewed in the light of later knowledge this was a disaster. At the time we were comparatively unconcerned. We had no reason to suppose that 78 was in dire distress. We thought her W/T was out of action, that if she had fired in the air it was with a view to rendezvousing, especially as she had apparently not repeated the signal.
We stopped and in the ensuing silence listened. There was nothing to be heard except the faintest bumble to the north and north-east. If that was George, he was going strong and a good way off. If he were in trouble we would hear his engines near by, or his guns. So we thought. There was nothing. We listened with the hydrophone. The trawlers could be heard intermittently to the south, stopping and starting, maintaining the same bearing. Evidently they were moving around slowly in the same position, further evidence of their discomfiture.
A signal came through. It was from Harpy Lloyd, who was investigating the Hook of Holland, ten miles to the north of us, with a unit of MTBs.
‘Two E-boats stopped in position …’
A quick look at the chart showed them to be just north of the Hook. Exactly what we had been praying for. Blast this fog! I sent a signal in reply:
‘Am proceeding from position … to find and attack E-boats.’
We bumbled north as fast as the fog would allow. It got worse. Off the Hook it was an impenetrable blanket. It was hopeless. We could find nothing in this. We stopped in the hope that we might hear something by ear or hydrophone. Nothing! The silence of the grave! Soon it would begin to dawn. We began to creep out, to head for home. A few miles clear of the land the fog vanished as if by magic. With little to go on I was, nevertheless, worrying about 78. Something intuitive, unreasoning, hammered at the back of my brain. Anxiety, unwelcome, unbidden, was there. Here was an opportunity to continue the search.
‘We’ll nip back to the scene of the action and fire a lot of tracer in the air,’ I said to Boffin. ‘It’s only twelve miles; we can just do it before dawn. If by any chance he went gash5 around there, he’ll see it and answer.’
This we did. Burst after burst of red tracer roared heavenwards from our twin Oerlikons. There was no reply. Just before first light we finally turned for home, mentally satisfied. If they were in trouble there, they must have seen us. It was clear now, as clear as it had been thick before. We roared home across the North Sea in the slowly gathering light of a grey dawn.
‘I expect we’ll meet 78 at the Sunk Light,’ said Boffin.
‘Just about,’ I replied. But still there was that gnawing anxiety at the back of my head. We tied up in the dock. No, George had not got in yet. We gave details of the fight. We had breakfast, baths. Shaved and dressed. I met Boffin again.
‘I expect he went gash in one engine,’ I said; ‘he wouldn’t be in for another two hours in that case.’
‘That’s about it,’ Boffin replied.
Two hours later there was still no news. We went to SOO’s office to see if the Cork Light vessel had rung up with anything to report. Nothing.
‘He may have had two engines knocked out,’ said Boffin. ‘If so he wouldn’t be here for three or four hours yet.’
‘Maybe that’s it,’ I said. ‘Or maybe his remaining plums packed up on the way over.’
But we could not conceal from each other the anxiety in our eyes.
‘Could he have hit a mine on his way home, do you think?’ I said.
‘There’s always a chance,’ said Boffin.
The minor casualties and damage in the other boats were forgotten, unimportant in the increasing anxiety.
An aircraft search was instituted without result. Our gloom deepened. In the afternoon we laid plans for our own search. They might have hit a mine or be near the Buiten Bank still, though the chances of finding them were low. The Sixth Flotilla searched the western half of the return journey. We swept the eastern half, ending up quartering the scene of the action firing tracer in the air repeatedly. No reply except star-shell, flares and tracer from the nearby Dutch coast. In the early morning we headed sadly home. There was nothing more we could do.
Bitterly I taxed myself for not having delivered the depth-charge attack myself. In the increasing westerly wind, keeping watch alone in the dustbin, I communed with myself. Forlorn and self-tormenting was my mood. Though I could not reconstruct what had happened, something impelled me to bid ‘good-bye’ to George. In my mood of self-abasement, it seemed unforgivable that it was he and not I. It seemed that by not being killed or captured with him I had let my friend down.
George had been straight and simple and brave. So full of life, so keen on his job. Of all the people that I knew Conrad’s praise of the Anglo-Saxon male seemed most applicable to him. A man of courage, initiative and hardihood, yet so little stained by the excesses of many virtues.
We could not construct an adequate theory as to the loss of 78. The short outburst of firing, the fact that the boat appeared to have disengaged satisfactorily, the almost negligible attempt, if any, to attract our attention; how to reconcile these observations with her non-appearance? Had she hit the trawler, or a sweep perhaps? If so we must have seen something of it at the time. Had she been hit in the engine room and stopped? If so surely she would have been able to attract our attention.
We still do not know at the time of writing what happened. We only have scraps of guarded information to go on. They are as follows:
The German wireless reported that they had picked up the crew of a speed boat off the Dutch coast hanging on to the wreckage of their craft. The First Lieutenant got word home that he had been badly wounded with the Coxswain in the dustbin, and that George Duncan had been killed beside him. From another prisoner we had the mysterious message that 78 had done what the Fourth had done at Dover, a reference to the grounding of the whole unit.
It would seem therefore that 78 received a most unlucky blast of fire in the dustbin, killing the Captain, wounding and knocking out the First Lieutenant and the Coxswain. With the ‘brains’ of the ship out of action she had careered on at over forty knots, no one had recovered sufficiently, or with sufficient intelligence to stop her or guide her away from the enemy shore, before she had struck the sandbanks less than five miles away, a matter of under eight minutes. It seems to be the only theory that even approximately fits the facts. Later the First Lieutenant recovered sufficiently to destroy the boat. They were picked out of the water from amidst the wreckage next morning. Some day we may know the truth. The only thing that I am quite certain of is that George pressed home his attack to the limit and with success. No man could have engaged the enemy more closely, the Navy’s time-honoured endeavour. Thus he died.
George Duncan’s sad death ends my father’s book. The last words must have been written in the first two weeks of April 1943 before he himself was killed in action on the night of the 13/14 April.
The loss of MGB 78 and his friend and long serving brother-inarms George Duncan weighed heavily upon Hitch’s conscience. Given the uncertainty about what had happened to 78 a Board of Enquiry was ordered. The two issues in front of the Board were what had happened to 78 and whether the depth charge attack ordered by the Senior Officer was justified in the circumstances.
The Court heard the evidence of Hitch himself, Sub-Lieutenant Rodney Sykes, commanding 81, Lieutenant K.H. Perry, who was out as a guest in 81 with Sykes, Boffin Campbell who had been a passenger in 77 with Hitch and Sub-Lieutenant J.D. Dixon, the Commanding Officer of 60. They had all read Hitch’s Report of Proceedings on the action and declared themselves in complete agreement with it as a fair description of what had happened.
The questioning surrounded the issues of whether 78 had successfully delivered its depth charge attack and why it had then disappeared, whether it had been 78 firing tracer into the air as a distress signal that had been spotted by some boats, and whether breaking off the search to pursue the E-boat report had been justified. After hearing the evidence the Board’s conclusion was brief:
The President and members of the Board were satisfied that under the circumstances adequate steps were taken at all stages to search for MGB 78 and the loss is regarded as one of the misfortunes of war.
That was not quite the end of the matter. Rear Admiral Hext Rogers forwarded the findings of the Board of Enquiry to the Commander-in-Chief Nore and he in turn forwarded them to the Secretary of the Admiralty with the following covering memorandum:
It is conjectured that MGB 78 sustained some damage as a result of collision with one of the enemy’s vessels or some other cause unknown, the extent of which was not realised until no call for help could be made owing to the W/T being out of action and low visibil-ity preventing the use of visual signalling.
Nore Operational Memorandum 113 purposely leaves a wide dis-cretion to the officer on the spot as to the degree of risk which may justifiably be accepted. In this case the object of the operation was to cover mine laying by MLs, and would have been sufficiently served by engaging the patrol trawlers with gunfire. Lieutenant-Commander Hichens, however, would have been fully justified in seeking to destroy one of them if the conditions favoured a surprise attack, eg if one of the trawlers was isolated from her consorts. Available evidence does not indicate that MGB 78 was overwhelmed by gunfire, but a depth charge attack on a formed body of ships in line abreast is necessarily a risky one, and requires more favourable conditions than were present on this occasion. It is proposed to inform Lieutenant-Commander Hichens accordingly.
This politely phrased criticism of Hitch’s decision to order a depth charge attack was rejected by the Admiralty. Captain D.M. Lees,6 then DDO(C), in a covering memorandum dated 29 October 1942, wrote:
I do not concur with C-in-C Nore’s covering remarks and the sentence gives a fair indication of the lack of offensive spirit in the C-in-C’s office. MGBs cannot destroy trawlers by gunfire. They can do so with depth charges. Accordingly Lieutenant-Commander Hichens planned his operation so that three of his MGBs created a diversion from up moon whilst his fourth boat carried out a surprise depth charge attack from down moon. All Coastal Forces actions are risky and it is considered:
That the risk taken by Lieutenant-Commander Hichens was justifiable.
That it would be a great mistake to damp the ardour of the gallant officers serving afloat in Coastal Forces by administering a reprimand for what was, in fact, a well planned operation.
It must be realised that Coastal Forces actions cannot be fought without occasional losses and one would have expected Commanders-in-Chief to back up their Senior Officers when such losses occur instead of reprimanding them.
Below this forthright dissent from a senior staff officer in the Admiralty is written by hand:
Approved. I would like to see a draft which makes clear that their Lordships do not hold Lieutenant-Commander Hichens to blame.
On the 18 November a letter was sent to the Commander-in-Chief, Nore by the Secretary of the Admiralty.
Their Lordships are not disposed to blame Lieutenant-Commander Hichens for the loss of MGB 78 and it appears to them that the risks taken in this case were justifiable. They consider that anything in the nature of a reprimand in these circumstances would tend to discourage the excellent offensive spirit which has so often been shown by the Coastal Forces under your command, a result which, their Lordships appreciate, you would deprecate strongly.
By the command of their Lordships. S.H. Phillips.
There was a sequel to this judgement. David James, who was taken prisoner after his own boat was lost in February 1943, met Sub-Lieutenant Eggleston, George Duncan’s first lieutenant in 78, in a prisoner of war camp. Eggleston confirmed that they had dropped their depth charge but that George had been killed outright on the run in. They had fired tracer into the air vertically but shortly afterwards the ship’s company had had to leave their sinking craft after hitting a sand bank. Hence no further firing. After several hours in the sea, all bar George had been picked up by the Germans.
It was also clarified after the war that the depth charge had been dropped right under a trawler’s stem and she had sunk. Thus, in spite of the tragic loss of Duncan and his boat, the depth charge attack had achieved its objective.
Hitch had been in action on the night of the 2/3 October and had gone out again on the afternoon of the 3rd in his search for 78, to return in the small hours of the 4th. Yet he was called upon again to take a unit to sea on the afternoon of the 5 October when a signal from the Admiralty was received at Beehive to say that a large merchant vessel with an escort had left Boulogne and was proceeding north-east. Presumably 77 was not in a fit state to go to sea again because Hitch went out in Boffin Campbell’s 76, accompanied by Tom Ladner’s 75 and no less than five MTBs, 30, 69, 70, 241 and 29. This joint patrol was aimed at giving the MGBs the chance to create a diversion while the MTBs could stalk the larger prey. It didn’t quite work out that way on this occasion.
The unit arrived at the designated position off the Dutch coast at 2345, cut their engines and set hydrophone watch. Almost immediately they heard the sound of propellers from the south-west. They didn’t think that this could be the convoy they were waiting for which was not due to pass through their position until 0130. They had orders to avoid contacting patrols until the arrival of the main target, so Hitch ordered the unit to withdraw on silent engines to a rendezvous about three or four miles to the north-west of the original position. As they were doing so, with their main engines still cut to keep silence, they were attacked by two German torpedo boats, approximately 600 tons each, and a number of E-boats. It seems likely that the Germans either had intelligence of their coming or had observed them and laid an ambush. Hitch thought afterwards that possibly they had been spotted when they had briefly turned on recognition lights at the rendezvous point. However as it was, both MGBs and MTBs were at a severe disadvantage because their powered gun turrets would not function until their main engines were started and it took time to gather speed, their best defence against enemy gunfire. In the confusion, MTBs 29 and 30 collided with sufficiently severe damage to 29 that, although she started on her way home, she disappeared. One of the other MTBs put a torpedo into one of the E-boats and sank it, an unusual event because E-boats normally had too shallow a draught to be successfully attacked by torpedoes and, indeed, were not regarded as sufficiently important enemy craft to expend a torpedo on.
MGBs 76 and 75 suffered considerable shellfire damage while they were disengaging from the scene of the action. They became separated. 75 was so badly damaged that Tom Ladner took her behind a buoy they came across where she was out of sight of the pursuing E-boats, laid low until they had gone and then limped back to Felixstowe on one engine. 76 received hits from a number of incendiary shells which started a fire. This was successfully put out and she also made for the English coast, waiting short of the convoy route at 0400 for fear of running into further E-boat patrols, and then starting again at 0600 when the coast was likely to be clear. At 0635 there was a sudden explosion and the entire canopy around the cockpit blew out and the deck above the petrol tanks burst open. An incendiary shell may have lain dormant in one of the petrol tanks, exploding more than two hours after it had been fired.
The entire boat was ablaze within thirty seconds, apart from a small section forward where the crew gathered. It was realized that the boat would have to be abandoned. The whole of the crew, with the exception of the motor mechanic who was killed by an exploding shell, took to the float and were rescued an hour later by MGBs 61 and 64 who, returning from a quite separate patrol, found them, having seen the fire at a great distance.
That is the bare outline of what must have been Hitch’s most unsuccessful action during his time in MGBs. Two eyewitness accounts survive which are worth repeating.
Although his account confuses the events of the 2/3 October, when George Duncan was killed, with the events of the 5th/6th, it is interesting to record Tom Ladner’s description of what happened to MGB 75 this night, contained in a letter he wrote me:
Along the coast were large navigational buoys which could be mistaken for small vessels. They marked the shoreline, which was a sand bar. I myself was under very heavy fire and I headed close to the next buoy and stopped. The convoy moved on and I could see in the dark that Hitch was attacking it from the other side of the convoy with torpedoes and all attention was directed to his boats. When the convoy had moved off and quiet was restored I hung by the buoy and tried to assess what had happened to my boat. We had three gunners who were wounded, two engines out of action and one engine reasonably operational as far as I could tell.
I waited around for some time to see if someone would come to check up on us. … When I concluded that no one was coming, on one engine I started to return to base. It is hard to recollect how much time passed but when daylight came and as we approached the English coast we met some offshore patrol vessels who communicated with our base and finally someone came out to tow us back in.
I could never understand why Hitch did not send somebody out from the base or otherwise to pick us up or help but then I did not know what his problems were.
Hitch’s problems made it impossible for him to send succour to Tom Ladner.
The best account of what happened to 76 came to me from John Motherwell, another Canadian, who joined the Eighth Flotilla as aspare officer the very day that the unit had put to sea, the 5 October.
It was my understanding that we were to be off Blankenberg at midnight and the tanker was expected in half an hour to an hour after that. We got to our intercept point and all the engines were shut down so that the primitive hydrophones could be used. This involved putting a receiver on a long pipe over the side in a bucket. The first report said that the operator could hear many propellers close by and just then the enemy shooting started. They were obviously there first, expecting us. I am unable to tell you any of what happened on the surface around us because I was confined to the wheelhouse to help keep track of the navigation and there were a lot of alterations of course. We were hit before we got moving and a fire was extinguished in the tank space. We withdrew and then tried to go back but were again hit and I hit the deck and saw the flash of a tracer passing through our hull just below the wardroom hatch about a foot below my nose. I was then briefly on the bridge and saw multicoloured tracers going back and forth, the German ones passed above us and our own red were going towards what I think was a trawler. There was also a parachute flare burning, an eerie and dangerous sight.
Lieutenant-Commander Hichens was standing on top of the canopy holding on to the mast. Our fire broke out again and once more methyl bromide extinguishers were used to put it out. We withdrew shortly after this and went to a rendezvous point but no one else showed up. I did first aid in the wardroom for two of the crew who had received minor flesh wounds on their arms. The sickly smell of one hundred octane petrol was very strong and we smelled smoke again and started out through the mess deck when there was an explosion and we climbed out of the forward hatch to find the rest of the crew all gathering there on the foredeck. The whole mid-section of the boat was on fire and our ammunition in ready use started exploding.
Lieutenant-Commander Hichens was very composed and ordered the Carley float over the side and the crew were then ordered to go over the side. One poor lad panicked because he couldn’t swim and ran back towards the stern and I think he was blown over by exploding ammunition. The rest of us who could swim took turns hanging on to the side of the Carley float, which was nearly submerged by those who couldn’t swim. Lieutenant-Commander Hichens showed great lead-ership and courage and kept everyone from panicking. Shortly after we left the boat there was a great explosion that blew it in half and I remember seeing the two pounder pom-pom on its turret mounting dropping off the bow section shortly after this. The fire was covering what was left of the stern section and I believe that the engines got blown out of the bottom. The wisdom of telling us to go over the windward side was very apparent then. Another thing was glaringly apparent as everyone, excepting Lieutenant-Commander Hichens, had taken off their goon suits and were without flotation. They were just too heavy and too hot so no one even had time to get back into them.
I really don’t know how long we were in the water but it became light and shortly after we could hear engines in the distance. Lieutenant-Commander Hichens thought they would be friendly but I recall him reminding everyone to give only rate and number if they weren’t. We were now worried as to whether they would see us as the wind had blown the still slightly burning and floating bow section of 76 some distance away, I think close to a mile. Lieutenant-Commander Hichens soon recognised the sound as friendly and it turned out that they were two of his old Sixth Flotilla boats. They went to the bow and then shortly after saw us and came over to us. It turned out that they had seen the reflection of the fire from their patrol area some distance away and decided to come and see what it was. I remember that I was too weak to climb the scrambling net and had to be helped up but was soon wrapped in a warm blanket with a large tot of rum for medicinal purposes. We were soon back at Beehive.
It was an ugly introduction to Coastal Forces work for Motherwell and few young officers can have been thrown, quite literally, in at the deep end as he was on their very first night. He survived this awful experience to write to me from his home town, Calgary, Alberta.
Hitch must have been mortified to lose a second gunboat within three days, even though the casualties were surprisingly light. Unfortunately we have no record of what he thought about this disaster. His Report of Proceedings has not been traced and he had not reached this point in his book when he was killed.