IN RETROSPECT, IT IS EASY TO SEE THAT Mont-Blanc WAS A BOMB waiting to explode, and that the fire started by her collision with IMO posed an enormous threat to Halifax and Dartmouth. It was not at all obvious at the time. In fact, to those who saw what happened, the situation appeared innocuous. No one on either ship was killed or injured by the collision, and neither ship was in danger of foundering. IMO had pulled away from Mont-Blanc and Mont-Blanc, though on fire, was drifting along with the tide. From Halifax, it was clear that IMO’s bow was damaged, but it appeared Mont-Blanc was unscathed—Mont-Blanc’s gash was in her starboard side, the side facing away from Halifax.
However, the most important reason for this lack of reaction was that neither those in nearby ships, nor those watching from the shore, had any idea of Mont-Blanc’s cargo, or the risk it posed to the harbour and themselves. Spectators, including children, gathered along the waterfront and at windows in Halifax and Dartmouth to watch Mont-Blanc burning. They kept watching even when there were small, initial explosions. Until the last moment, it seemed like a wonderful display of fireworks. The only warnings to reach anyone came from the crew of Mont-Blanc, but no one understood them, or paid attention. Though the French sailors were running, no one else was. Because no one else was reacting, there was no apparent cause for alarm.
It may seem hard to believe that a collision between two ships should have attracted so little attention, but during the twelve-month period between October 1917 and September 1918, 103 Allied ships sank as a result of collisions with other ships. While a study by the British government suggested two reasons for this—ships were travelling without lights, and ships were in close quarters in convoys—that same report noted something else: the 300,000 tons of shipping lost to collisions during the twelve months studied represented only fifty per cent more tonnage than the 196,674 tons lost during the twelve months before the war started. Collisions, in other words, were not uncommon in the days before radar and radio communications. Indeed, they were so common that the White Star Line ignored the collisions Captain Edward J. Smith had caused in New York and Southampton harbours before making him captain of Titanic.
True, a few collisions were spectacular. One was Titanic and the iceberg. Another was the Empress of Ireland, which sank in 1914 in the Gulf of St. Lawrence—with an even larger percentage of passenger deaths than Titanic. The Empress went down only fourteen minutes after a collision with the Swedish coal ship Storstad. But most collisions were minor. There were three in the Mersey River in England the same week as IMO collided with Mont-Blanc. There were several involving the Dartmouth ferries a week or two after the explosion. Little is known about any of them, for they were unimportant. At first glance, the collision between IMO and Mont-Blanc appeared equally insignificant. Edward McCrossan, the sailor on Curaca who watched it happen, was so little interested that he went below for a smoke. The signalman on the Niobe told the executive officer, Temporary Lieutenant-Commander Allan Baddeley, that the incident was a minor one, and the Master of Arms on Niobe commented, “I’d seen vessels collide before. This one seemed no different.” If nothing else had happened, the incident would have faded from memory, much as fender-benders do today.
At first, the only people really concerned about the collision were Mont-Blanc’s crew: they knew the seriousness of the situation. “Immediately after the collision a thick black smoke escaped from hold No. 1 where the collision took place,” Captain Le Médec recalled. “When I saw the flames add themselves to the smoke I thought that the ship would blow up at once.”5 They could try fighting the fire, but given the speed at which it was progressing that seemed hopeless. They could open the seacocks, hoping the ship would sink—that would take too long. They could try to get Mont-Blanc moving, hoping that forward motion would force water into the hold. But it was too late for any of those options. Their ship was doomed. When the captain gave the order to abandon ship, they scrambled into two lifeboats.
After a hasty count, Captain Le Médec thought that his childhood friend, chief engineer Antoine Le Gat, was missing. When he realized that Le Gat was already in one lifeboat, he decided that it was a captain’s duty to stay with his ship. His crew shouted that was foolish. Another childhood friend, second officer Jean Glotin, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into the boat. The crew then rowed toward the Dartmouth shore. The pilot said it was the closest and safest place to go. As they rowed, Mont-Blanc’s crew yelled to others to seek safety. Again, Edward McCrossan: “Just as the IMO backed clear of Mont-Blanc, I saw the Frenchies’ port lifeboat in the water. They were pulling past the stern of their ship and were heading for the other shore. Two men were standing up in the boat shouting. What they were saying, I don’t know because I cannot speak French.”
When the Mont-Blanc’s crew reached Dartmouth, they lined up as the officers did a quick count to make certain everybody was safe. Then they started running. Later, the captain and the pilot were criticized for “not taking proper steps to warn the inhabitants … of a probable explosion.” The sailors did shout a warning, but it was in French. While language was part of the problem, there were other reasons why no one reacted to the shouts. Those watching had no knowledge of Mont-Blanc’s cargo, no experience with high explosives, and no reason to think the burning ship was dangerous. When no one warned them of any danger, they assumed that all was well.
Because almost no one except the crew recognized the danger, the other reactions to the fire were for different reasons. The first reaction was simply one of curiosity. Fires fascinate people and the burning Mont-Blanc was a spectacular sight. At the Royal Naval College, senior cadets watched from their gunroom. At the Hillis Foundry, workers gathered at a window. Children paused on their way to school. Teenager Audley Griffin recalls his reaction when he saw the fire engines: “I thought, ‘Oh, the heck with school. I am going to see where the fire is.’ I raced down the hill.” (Because of the war, some classes did not start until 9:15 or 9:30 a.m.)
Many residents of the North End watched from home. Because of the cold, most stayed inside, looking through their windows, an act that would cost some their eyesight and many their lives. Despite the cold, officers at the Wellington Barracks went outside for a better view. A number of soldiers watched until they were late for work. Later, some soldiers were told that their injuries were not fully covered since they were not officially on duty when Mont-Blanc exploded. Employees of Acadia Sugar Refinery (owned by the Richmond Refinery) climbed to the refinery’s roof—they had the best view of all.
Seeing a story developing, Jack Ronayne of The Daily Echo called his office to say he would cover the fire. Constant Upham phoned the fire department from his store. Someone else pulled an alarm box. Hattie Burrill wrote to a friend in Charlottetown: “I remember hearing the Patricia and the rest of the fire department go past the corner & they were flying. I said to myself, Gee whiz! There must be a big fire near us.” She was not the only one to react to the sound of fire engines. John Cranwell, an ensign with the Salvation Army, ran downstairs to see what was happening. Like Hattie Burrill, he saw the Patricia on the way to the fire. The Patricia was the department’s pride and joy, a new motor-driven pumper. As it arrived at the docks, flames and smoke were belching out of Mont-Blanc’s hold, and shells were exploding like fireworks. Patricia’s driver, Billy Wells, was struck by what he saw: “The ship was almost alongside the dock, and the multicoloured flames shooting from her decks presented a beautiful sight.”
However, while most people were merely fascinated, officers on both Niobe and Highflyer were alarmed at what was happening. This was not because of Mont-Blanc’s cargo—no one had told them what she carried—it was because of Picton. They knew she carried ammunition and they could see that Mont-Blanc was drifting toward the dock where she was being unloaded. Mont-Blanc herself did not appear to be a threat, but if she set fire to Picton, that would be dangerous. Something had to be done. Even before that, Frank Carew, the foreman supervising Picton’s unloading, sensed the same danger. He told his men to start covering Picton’s hatches. Later, Carew and his men were praised for staying at their jobs as Mont-Blanc drifted toward them. They did stay at their jobs, but that was not because they thought Mont-Blanc herself presented a danger. They thought the real danger was fire on Picton.
While the longshoremen set to work, Lieutenant-Commander Allan Baddeley on Niobe asked the acting boatswain, Albert Mattison, and a volunteer crew to take the steam pinnace and tow Mont-Blanc away from the docks. (Volunteers were requested because of the danger from Picton, not because of a perceived threat from Mont-Blanc.) On Highflyer, Acting Commander T.K. Triggs, the executive officer, and Lieutenant James Rayward Ruffles launched a whaler on the same mission. Highflyer would have sent a larger boat, but her steam cutter and sailing pinnace were in Dartmouth with the chief engineer and his crew. Spotting this activity, the captain of Stella Maris beached the scows he was towing and came to assist.
One person did react to the real threat: Lieutenant-Commander J.A. Murray, the Canadian officer on Rear-Admiral Chambers’s staff. Murray was on the convoy liaison tug Hilford, returning from Bedford Basin, when the collision occurred. He had gone to get some kippers for breakfast and on his way back he could see the damage to Mont-Blanc. There was a wedge-shaped cut in her side through which could be seen barrels of picric acid. However, since neither Murray nor Hilford’s crew knew what the barrels contained, they did not seem cause for alarm. In any case, the barrels had not broken open. Their attitude changed when Mont-Blanc’s pilot, Francis Mackey, called across to them and warned them to get away. Unlike the crew’s shouts in French, which no one understood, Mackey’s message was in English, and it was crystal clear: Mont-Blanc was in danger of exploding.
Murray told Hilford’s captain to head for Pier 9, where he disembarked and rushed to phone the port convoy office. He called just after 9 a.m. as Mont-Blanc drifted into Pier 6. Murray’s call came at a bad time—most people started work at 9 a.m., so they were en route to work when the collision occurred, and thus could not be reached at home or at work. Nevertheless, Captain Frederick Pasco, who was still at home, called and asked W. H. Lee, Gopher, and Musquash to respond and try and pump water on the fire. By then it was too late.
Although Murray told the port convoy office about Mont-Blanc’s cargo, no one thought to warn the sailors from Highflyer or Niobe or the crew of Stella Maris. No one told the firefighters, the officers at the Wellington Barracks, the general public, or the spectators, including the children who were now lining the waterfront. In fact, the officer who took Murray’s call did not even call Chambers. About the only ones to learn of the danger were the crew of Hilford—who had heard Mackey shouting to Murray—and a few people in the Richmond freight railway terminal beside Pier 9 where Murray used the phone. Even then, there was little reaction. One of Hilford’s crew, Joseph Cogan, tried to get his captain to move the tug farther away from the Mont-Blanc—he refused. In the station, telegrapher Vincent Coleman started to run for his life. Then, thinking of the danger to others, he returned to his key and started to telegraph a warning to incoming trains. Because that may have cost him his life, he is widely seen as a hero, including in a historical vignette on Canadian television. As will be covered later, his role in what happened has been distorted, but it was important to the early response.
By the time the boats from Niobe and Highflyer reached Mont-Blanc, her plates were too hot to touch. The sailors could not get a line on board so, driven by the outgoing tide, Mont-Blanc drifted into Pier 6 and set the pier on fire. When Stella Maris arrived, her crew decided to try again. They, too, were unsuccessful. Seeing that nothing could be done, Acting Commander Triggs decided to transfer to Stella Maris. If he could do nothing about Mont-Blanc, perhaps he should check up on IMO. He and the others were still unaware of the danger of Mont-Blanc exploding. Only Murray and the crew of Hilford had been informed—and they were headed in the other direction.
As the fire grew worse, the scene became more spectacular. The barrels of monochronobenzol and the shells stacked next to Mont-Blanc’s guns started exploding, sending spurts of flame as high as forty metres. At that point, the captain of the tug Wasper B guessed Mont-Blanc’s cargo and headed to the dry dock to warn those on shore. He was too late:
I heard the Belgian whistle blow and the only thing I remember after, was No. 1 hold of the munitions ship on fire on the starboard side. We made an attempt to turn back towards the offices at the dry-dock but, before reaching there, a shell struck us. We had 80 gallons of gasoline in both tanks, which exploded when [the] shell struck…. I think that I was the only one of the five on board the Wasper to escape as the ship was blown up. My son, Harold Prest, who worked at the dry-dock, was killed.
Fred Longland on Niobe saw the same thing as he was looking at the fire through a porthole:
The next thing there was a series of minor explosions as the Benzol drums ignited and exploded. By this time the fire had begun to get a serious hold, and a large column of black smoke rose from the desk of the stricken ship. I turned to Jock standing beside me and said, “They’ll never get that fire out,” and I had hardly spoken the words when there was a blinding flash, an awful shudder and a bang which made me think it was the end of the world.
In Dartmouth, Mrs. A.C. Pettipas said she counted nine minor explosions, each three seconds apart, before the main blast. Wondering what was happening, she raised her window and leaned out to call to two women on the street below: “A blinding sheet of fire shot about a mile into the area and covered the whole sky. Then a violent concussion rent the area…. A great black ball of smoke rose up to about four or five hundred feet and out of this came lurid cardinal-colored flames. It was a magnificent though terrifying sight…. As I leaned out to call I saw a blinding sheet of fire shoot a mile high in the air. It seemed to cover the whole sky.” Mrs. Pettipas was blown across the room, but, because her window was open, she was not struck by flying glass. Others, even those well out to sea, had similar descriptions:
The captain of the Acadien, twenty-four kilometres out to sea: “I saw an immense volume of smoke shoot up to a very great height with two red, angry looking flames of fire projecting some distance above its summit. The smoke looked like great balls of black wool but was black in the center. The flames were visible but less than a second, like a flash of lightning, and could be seen in several places thru the smoke.”
The lookout on the USS Von Steuben, thirty-five kilometres from Halifax: “A great column of white smoke and flames was observed, rising above the sea horizon in the direction of Halifax…. The morning was fine and clear. Smooth sea and no clouds in the sky. The column of flame and smoke hung long enough for its character and sources to be discussed and its bearing taken. A camera was sent for, to photograph it, when the shock of a terrific explosion was heard, and the column of fire turned to dense smoke. It was surmised that munitions ship had been blown up. Tacoma, then more than fifty miles from Halifax, heard the explosion so distinctly that she sounded to General Quarters.”
Audley Griffin, the young man who was en route to school when he saw the fire engines, was not sure what he felt: “Suddenly there was this curious sensation…. I slunk into a doorway right beside me and put my arms up over my head and all of a sudden the glass of the doorway collapsed on top of me and the little finger on my left hand was hanging by some skin.”
Many who watched the plume rise thought it was beautiful. Rear-Admiral Chambers described it as a “most wonderful cauliflower-like plume of white smoke, twisting and twirling, and changing colour in the brilliant sunlight of a perfect Canadian early winter morning.” Although it was not evident at the time, Chambers and the others who saw the explosion were describing the arrival of a new age. A quarter-century later, American scientists on the Manhattan Project would study what happened in Halifax so that they could better grasp the destructive potential of a new weapon—the atomic bomb.