Instant flight was the only hope of safety for any ship. Crews faced the threat of German surface raiders appearing over the horizon at any moment.
Some of the escorts, like the corvette Poppy, which had been on the convoy's starboard hand, considered pairing off. She picked her way through the dispersing ships and sought out her fellow 'new girl', the Lotus, on the port side. Before any mutual tactics could be agreed between them, however, the Pozarica asked the corvettes to screen her. The 'ack-ack' ship had only a defensive asdic set and her commander was no doubt thinking of the menacing U-boats in the vicinity. So the Poppy, the Lotus and La Malouine, which flew the French flag as well as the British ensign, but whose crew were all Royal Navy, joined the Pozarica in heading north-east for the ice barrier – with many an apprehensive glance towards the glaring south-western horizon. A 'Shad' followed the hurrying group and was there to see them meet up with the Rathlin, which was carrying more than 60 survivors. The little rescue ship strained to reach her top speed of 12 knots to keep in company, black smoke belching from her funnel as the stoke-hold gang toiled with their shovels.
The minesweeper Halcyon struck north for the ice field, while the other two sweepers, the Salamander and the Britomart headed south-east along with the Palomares and the remaining corvette, the Dianella. This left only us four trawlers, the slowest ships in the convoy and the ones with the poorest chance of reaching safety. The River Afton and the trawler Ayrshire both signalled our skipper asking if we would join them, but since the escorts' orders were to proceed 'independently' our skipper declined. So the Ayrshire went off north. Our skipper would have liked to have gone with her, but eventually the captain of the Lord Middleton, as the senior officer, took command of the remaining trawlers. So, in line ahead with the Lord Middleton and the Northern Gem, we steamed north-east at our best speed to find the ice edge.
Some of the merchantmen were still scattered about in the distance, though the majority had vanished from view. Some were heading direct to the northern ice for protection from the U-boats – on one side at least. Others turned to make a dash eastwards. An added difficulty for many of them was keeping to a true course. In convoy their course had been set by the naval vessels, which were equipped with non-magnetic gyro compasses. Many of the merchantmen had only magnetic compasses, which were of little use in these latitudes. The farther north they ran, the more the variation of the earth's magnetic force pulled their compasses off, until it was almost impossible to make a true course.
So 4 July reached its incredible end. As we trawlers punished our boilers in all-out flight, the merchant ships we had been forced to abandon sailed alone to their fate. For all of them there was a brief, unnerving period of quiet as the surprised and jubilant enemy aircraft and U-boats mustered for the kill. Then the long, tragic hours of 5 July – Black Sunday – began.
The first to fall victim to the U-boats was, bitterly enough, an American vessel making her second bid to reach Russia. The USS Carlton had been on PQ 16. Four days out from Iceland on this convoy she was damaged by a near miss during a dive-bomber attack and had to be towed back to Hvalfjord by a trawler. Now, in the early hours of Sunday morning, some seven hours after scattering, she was quite alone on a calm sea, pushing along at her best speed of nearly 12 knots under some thinly protective patches of haze. Her master was endeavouring to hold her on a steady course east south-east for the White Sea.
Her five lookouts were given no warning of the U-boat stalking them. At 5.10 a.m. a torpedo struck her on the starboard side amidships, penetrating one of the two deeptanks containing 5,000 barrels of Navy Special. Ignited by the explosion, fire spread swiftly over a wide area. A sheet of flame leapt from the engine room and a column of water, thrown up from starboard, together with oil from the deeptanks, fell on to the midship housing. The two starboard lifeboats were hurtled on to the well deck. Hatch covers were blown off and the cargo – flour – thrown up on deck. Partitions in the crew's living quarters amidships collapsed and the gun turrets on the poop deck buckled.
The engine room, where the explosion killed two men, flooded immediately. With no one left to control the engines, the propeller continued to turn for several minutes until the fire room was flooded. All power was off and the emergency radio transmitter was smashed. The ship's gunners, having no sight of the attacker, quickly abandoned ship along with the others, on the captain's orders. He saw that his ship was sinking rapidly and feared that the 200 tons of TNT she was carrying might explode at any second. Seamen slid down ropes or jumped into the sea, swimming to the four life rafts and the one remaining lifeboat – another had been lost in a storm. All 32 surviving crew and 11 armed guards managed to scramble out or be pulled from the sea.
The Carlton settled rapidly on an even keel and sank in 12 minutes. The U-boat surfaced and watched her last dying moments but made no attempt to communicate with the survivors. She disappeared from sight inside half an hour, leaving them alone in the icy expanse of the Barents Sea.
To the north of the Carlton and within an hour of her sinking, the British Empire Byron was struck by a torpedo amidships. Ship's carpenter Frederick Cooper rushed on deck to find it a shambles. Wreckage was strewn all about and the motor trucks the ship had been carrying were no longer to be seen: they had been blown sky high.
The ship, which had been making a hard 11 knots, was hit in No. 3 hold under the gunners' mess deck. One gunner had just taken his watchmates a mug of cocoa each and had gone back below to the mess deck to replace his mug when the explosion struck under his feet and killed him. It shifted two big central cases containing aircraft, which slid across and pinned six gunners against the ship's starboard side.
When Captain John Wharton quickly gave the order to abandon ship Cooper ran aft to launch the remaining two life rafts. As he did so he heard screams for help in No. 3 hatch. The companion ladder had been blown up, so he lowered a rope and climbed down. Tanks and lorries moving wildly had stove in all the accommodation. The ship's stern was already well submerged under water and bodies were floating around in four feet of water.
Cooper managed to drag four dazed men to the companion, climbed up the rope and heaved each of them up after him. He went back a fifth time and tried to free the gunners pinned against the ship's side, as others had tried to do by desperately stripping the hatch, but to no avail. He took the hands of one man who was trapped by the legs. The terrified man kept shouting, 'For Christ's sake, don't leave me, Chippy. Chop my bastard legs off.' The water crept higher and higher until Cooper could feel the trapped man's life ebbing away in his hands. He could do no more. As he climbed the rope for the last time tears streamed down his face.
He quickly put lifejackets on the four men he had rescued and rolled them into the sea to be picked up later. Then, the last man to leave the ship, he dived over the side. He swam hard for nearly half a mile to reach the ship's jollyboat, which was floating empty.
Ten men went down with the Empire Byron, which sank in 20 minutes, stern first and flag flying. Besides those killed and trapped, another man lost had reached the lifeboat station but said he had forgotten his bank book and must go back for it. He was never seen again. Nor was an exhausted fireman. He was woken up by the crew, but simply turned over and went back to sleep. In the confusion, he was forgotten.
Two lifeboats got away safely, though one of the forward life rafts was smashed against the ship's side before the painter could be cast loose. Cooper, in the jollyboat, picked up several of his shipmates from the sea.
The U-boat surfaced. It circled the wreck, approached them out of the mist and handed over the third engineer, whom its crew had picked up out of the sea. The U-boat commander asked the name of the ship, her destination and cargo, and for her captain. He was told the last they had seen of him was on the bridge. In fact, he was in one of the lifeboats, but had stuffed his uniform coat under the seats. Instead the U-boat took an Army captain prisoner: he had been going to Russia to instruct the Russians in the use of the tanks the Empire Byron was carrying. Then, while cameras on the U-boat recorded the scene, the commander handed them sausages, black bread and cognac, and gave them a course to steer by. He expressed his regret at having to sink their ship, wished them a safe passage and ordered his men to give a salute – the British salute – before the U-boat drew away and submerged.
A new wave of enemy aircraft was now over the southern horizon. Its first victim was the Peter Kerr, which had headed south. Her master, Captain W A Butler, had elected to continue on a rhumb-line course for the White Sea, so, as the most southerly placed of all the merchantmen, she was the first to fall foul of the planes. In the late hours of Sunday morning three Junkers 88s swooped to attack. The Peter Kerr fought back, but though the tracer bullets from her small anti-aircraft guns hit the planes they made little impression. After some near misses one plane finally succeeded in dropping three bombs into the ship's hatch, between the bridge and the engine room. The explosions rocked the freighter, setting her ablaze, and with all the fire-fighting lines ruptured, the crew had no chance at all of saving her.
Capt. Butler gave the order to abandon ship and two lifeboats were launched without difficulty on to the glassy-smooth sea. 'Thank God I've got my good leg on,' exclaimed Chief Engineer Herbert Burkhead as he dropped into a lifeboat. He wore a wooden leg and always carried a spare, but one was his favourite.
The attacking planes circled the boats. As one passed over them very low an engine backfired. A fireman thought they were being strafed and leaped over the side. But the pilots were simply taking pictures, and when they had done so flew off with a jubilant wave.
No one among the Peter Kerr's 36 crew and 12 gunners was even slightly injured. They saw two vessels to the north under attack and decided that to return to their blazing ship would be extremely foolhardy. The merchantman was already settling in the water as they pulled away.
More U-boats now joined the kill. Some miles to the north the Honomu was steaming flat out at nearly 11 knots when, unseen by her ten lookouts, a torpedo struck her on the starboard side. The explosion completely demolished the fire room, shutting off all power and blasting the radio out of commission. The ship began to settle immediately. With no sign yet of her attacker her guns were useless. Nearly 40 of her company abandoned ship in good order but another 19 men were unaccounted for. Most were believed killed either by the first torpedo or the second, which struck her port side shortly afterwards. The ship sank rapidly, disappearing by the stern in ten minutes.
Soon after she had gone two U-boats surfaced close to the wreckage, while another broke water about a quarter of a mile away. The U-boat that approached the lifeboat and rafts had a victory 'V' over three dice painted on its conning tower. Its commander ordered the Honomu's captain aboard and he was taken prisoner. The survivors were then asked if they had sufficient drinking water and were given some canned meat and bread. They were bound to be picked up in a few days, the Germans said magnanimously. Then the three U-boats made off to the east.
East of the Honomu the Fairfield City and the Daniel Morgan were now both subjected to heavy attacks by the continuing wave of dive bombers and other aircraft. Junkers 88s soon stopped the Fairfield City, rocking her with several near misses and two direct hits. Her crew abandoned ship, pulling away from her as she quickly settled in the water.
Three miles away the Daniel Morgan retaliated strongly, fighting off her attackers for more than two hours. Her captain had set course for the islands of Novaya Zemlya, far across the Barents Sea. Now she was making a valiant 13 knots, zig-zagging to give a broadside rather than a fore and aft target for the dive bombers, as Heinkel 115s, Junkers 88s and 'Shads' all joined in the running attack. Her guns blazed away continuously, disabling two Junkers 88s. One landed in the water some distance from the ship, while the other flew off with black smoke pouring from it. The dive bombers dropped an astonishing 80 bombs. Thirty were near misses, but three were direct hits. They badly damaged and flooded two of the ship's holds, finally slowing her down. As she lost speed a torpedo struck her cruelly on the starboard side, stopping the engines and wrecking the steering gear. The ship's three-inch gun had jammed through overheating and her ammunition was almost spent. It was the end. In her desperate battle there had been only one casualty, a seaman killed in one of the bomb explosions, but now, as all hands abandoned ship in the lifeboats, two men were drowned when a boat capsized.
The Daniel Morgan sank by the stern. Soon afterwards a U-boat surfaced and approached the lifeboats, demanding the ship's name, tonnage and cargo. The captain gave false answers. One of the Germans took photographs of the survivors and they were then ordered to follow the U-boat. This they did, pulling behind it for about an hour and a half in a southerly direction, when the U-boat suddenly made off at full speed.
The survivors carried on, now resigned to a despairingly long, cold haul to land. A few hours later, however, a surprise rescuer, the tanker Donbass, came over the horizon. Though utterly exhausted, the Daniel Morgan's gunners volunteered to man the Russians' forward gun. Shortly afterwards they scored a direct hit on a diving Junkers 88, also beating off attacks by two others.
All day long, however, the slaughter of ships went on. Four vessels came in sight of each other as they steamed eastwards: the tanker Aldersdale, the Zaafaran, the Ocean Freedom and the Salamander.
The tanker had been shadowed for hours by a lone bomber circling in a bright, clear sky – too bright for comfort – so the crew were glad to find some cloud cover and close up a little with the Salamander and the Ocean Freedom. Most of the Aldersdale's company felt just a weariness, a loneliness and a fatalistic 'let it happen soon and get it over with'. It seemed impossible for any merchant ship to escape and Capt. Hobson's decision to head for Novaya Zemlya was regarded as just a gesture in the direction of safety. Nevertheless her gunners were prepared to give as good as they got.
The Zaafaran, carrying her survivors from the previous day's battle with the torpedo bombers, had pushed on at speed when she was warned by an escort that the German heavy ships were believed to be only 30 miles away. Captain Owen Morris of the Zamalek had invited the Zaafaran's captain, Charles McGowan, to steam in company with him, but there was some rivalry between the two rescue ships, especially between the masters, and Capt. McGowan had refused. The Zaafaran's flat-out speed was a good half a knot more than the Zamalek's so she was able to draw well ahead. Her crew were thankful. They cursed the Zamalek for the heavy smoke she made: when there was no wind a black cloud hung above her like a signal, ready to betray their position. Besides, on the radio she was the target of some of Lord Haw-Haw's direst threats. So the Zaafaran sped on. As she did so ship's carpenter James Ramsay brought out a bottle of whisky he had been saving to take home. Being a good Scotsman he could not bear to lose it if they had to go over the side, so in the early hours he drank the lot with some of the gunners.
It was late morning when a group of marauding planes descended on the four ships. Three Junkers 88s swooped down to bomb the Aldersdale. One was successful. As Gunner Thomas Urwin blazed away with his Oerlikon he saw the grey bombs drop off the port-side beam. They exploded near and under the ship's stern, splitting her engines right across. The aft flying bridge buckled, the pump room flooded, steam poured from the engine skylight and there was a stink of oil and petrol everywhere. One of the junior engineers, answering an anxious call from the bridge asking if anyone had been hurt, replied, 'Hell, what colour's blood?'
With the tanker immobilised and rescue close at hand, Capt. Hobson decided to abandon ship. One of the emergency duties of Third Officer Henry Phillips was to dump the ship's confidential documents. When he went into the chart room he found the navigator, Charlie Cairns, almost in tears. It was chaos. Newly corrected charts, coloured inks, glue and other cartographical debris lay all over the deck. Cairns's comments on the wasted effort were unrepeatable. When Phillips reached the lifeboat station he found that both boats had cast off, leaving six of them on board: the captain, the chief officer, the chief engineer, himself and two others. Each boat had assumed they were in the other one. They made their way aft and launched the jollyboat – after first seeing off some of the captain's rum.
They were all soon picked up by the minesweeper Salamander. Before abandoning their own vessel, Gunner Urwin and his colleagues had taken the Oerlikons off the mountings, their barrels red hot. These were now slung over to the minesweeper.
Aboard the Salamander Capt. Hobson and Lieutenant Mottram, her commander, talked over the situation and decided to try and tow the tanker. Just as efforts were being made to fix up a tow, the Salamander received orders to proceed with all speed. Capt. Hobson was given five minutes to decide whether to return to his ship or remain with the minesweeper. Reluctantly he chose to stay, so they decided to try and sink the tanker by gunfire. The result was as hilarious as it was sad.
The first shell from the Salamander's four-inch took some of her stanchions and wires away; when the order was given to elevate the gun it rose to its maximum and the breech block fell off. It was therefore decided to set the tanker ablaze by firing incendiary bullets into the pump room to explode her aviation spirit. The bullets simply rebounded off her shell plating – fortunately, some thought, for she might have taken them all with her in the resulting explosion. Finally some depth charges were heaved at her engine-room plating. Three or four charges were sent over, but still the Aldersdale did not sink, though as they drew away her stern was well down and her fore-foot clear of the water.
The other ships in the group had managed to fight off the aircraft, but not for long. The Ocean Freedom and the Zaafaran had each pulled away on their own: a single determined plane now dived on the Zaafaran, dropping three bombs across her. The middle bomb was either a very near miss on the starboard side amidships or it struck under the waterline: after the shock of the explosion the rescue ship was quickly down by the stern, covered with steam and with her engines stopped. Carpenter Ramsay, his left hand badly gashed in the explosion, made for the boat deck where some frightened passenger survivors had swung the jollyboat out. Tough Capt. McGowan threatened them and ordered them to get out of it. However, the boat was lowered and Ramsay and a deck hand tried to lower the heavier boats. None of the lifeboats had ever been swung out before. The jollyboat was on the ordinary swing-out davits, but the others were on heavy patent wind-out davits and were still resting on the chocks. After winding for some time Ramsay and his helper discovered that the davits had burst through the deck and the boats could not be lowered. Ramsay ran to the boats on the starboard side and found that exactly the same thing had happened there.
By this time the Zaafaran was pretty far down in the water. Capt. McGowan shouted for Ramsay to look after himself. The carpenter ran forward and released the raft on the port side. It was immediately crowded, so he crossed to the other side and went over into the water. He swam to a raft which kept overturning: it was built for ten men and there were more than 20 scrambling for places. Ramsay hung on to the side of the raft with the others and as they slowly drifted clear of the ship, the Zaafaran suddenly upended and went down stern first. It had all happened in four minutes.
Surprisingly, the sea was quite warm: one of the quirks of the Gulf Stream. Ramsay and his shipmates managed to reach two rafts and scramble aboard. By this time it had become foggy, and with no other ship in sight the outlook was miserable. After drifting for three or more anxious hours they sighted the Salamander far off. Then they saw the smoke-belching Zamalek. The ship they had cursed they now blessed – once they had got over their initial shock. It was strange to board a ship which, according to one of Lord Haw-Haw's last broadcasts over Zaafaran's radio, was listed among those already sunk.
When they counted heads they found that only one man had been lost, a gunner. There was a brief clash on the Zamalek when Capt. McGowan, the senior of the two masters, went up on the bridge with the idea of taking charge. He was put smartly in his place by Captain Morris, who, though not physically a big man, had the courage of a lion. Capt. McGowan went below and brooded for the rest of the voyage. He had had to swallow quite a lot in losing his ship and being rescued by his slower rival. Capt. Morris had already had some arguments over tactics with his own naval gunnery officer, who at times seemed to think he was running the ship. Capt. Morris gave the officer short thrift: after the 'scatter' order the Navy was very low in the estimation of the rescue ship's company.
Meanwhile the Earlston was steaming up in the north, towards the ice barrier. She was alone now, though in the early morning her crew had glimpsed the bow of the Empire Byron not far off. After scattering, the Earlston had turned all steam off the winches to get maximum pressure on her engines. She succeeded in pushing her speed to nearly 14 knots: one of her company said she 'got a wiggle on'.
A few hours after the Empire Byron had gone, when the Earlston's crew had just sat down to their Sunday dinner, the alarm bells rang. Five torpedo planes were swooping in on the port bow. The ship's old four-inch opened up at long range and planted its second shell right under the nose of one plane, which swerved and shuddered but dropped a torpedo that streamed straight for the ship. The command 'Hard a port' rang out and the ship began to swing, agonizingly slowly. But they made it, avoiding the torpedo by just 20 feet as it shot on parallel to them along the ship's side. The planes flew off, the damaged one lagging behind the others very low on the water, but now two U-boats were sighted astern. The four-inch crew opened up again but had to stop firing when the U-boats manoeuvred between two lifeboats of survivors from another ship. Then eight Junkers 88s droned in on the starboard beam. One peeled off to attack.
'Here he comes!' came the shout from the monkey island, 'right out of the sun!' For a few seconds all was quiet, then every hand on the ship burst into action. Down came the plane, closer and closer. Would it never pull out? They saw the bomb doors open and the bombs float out, the fins swaying about as they whistled down. One bomb fell to port, the other to starboard. There was a great splash and water burst over the ship, but she was not hit. The Junkers, however, never came out of its dive, smacking down into the sea on the port side. A second bomber flew in – though not so low. It dropped its bombs feet ahead of the ship and sheered smartly away. But still the ship steamed on unharmed. Then a third plane, two more bombs, but still no damage. From then on the Earlston's gunners had no time to count: they loaded and fired as fast as they could as the other planes came in and more bombs straddled the ship.
Then came the unlucky one. Its force lifted the Earlston right out of the water. All the pipes in the engine room fractured, the pumps were blown off their bed plates, and the whole engine seemed to have shifted nine inches across the engine room, which flooded fast. There was nothing more they could do. There was no point in remaining aboard. With no power the ship was a sitting duck; the best way of saving her crew's lives was to take to the boats. At 3.10 p.m., three hours and ten minutes after the alarm bells had rung for the final action of the Earlston, Captain Stenwick gave the order to abandon ship.
The first thought of Lance Bombardier Richard Crossley on leaving his gun station was to grab some warm clothing. He hurried below and grabbed his Army-issue sheepskin jerkin, together with half a pound of tobacco he had been saving to take home for his father. He then ran back to help get the lifeboats over the side. There were two, plus a dinghy and a raft. The dinghy was holed and started to sink, but all the ship's company got safely away, though the planes deliberately fired on them as they were getting into the boats. Besides the ship's crew and gunners there were five passengers: a Ministry of Supply man bound for Russia, another civil servant and three Russian seamen whose ship had been sunk.
The planes continued to circle the lifeboats and also made another run over the ship, but without dropping any more bombs. Then four U-boats surfaced: two within 200 yards of each other, another half a mile away and the fourth a mile distant. Now the Earlston's crew knew that the best decision had been made: if they had not taken to the boats it was more than likely that there would have been no boats to take to. The three nearest U-boats formed a triangle around the two lifeboats. The commander of one ordered the boat carrying Norwegian-born Capt. Stenwick to come alongside and he was taken aboard. He appealed for help for his crew but it was refused. A final 'Cheerio!' and he was gone. When the crew asked for a course to steer by the U-boat commander replied coldly, 'We are all at war – just find your own way!'
Three torpedoes were now fired at the helpless ship, which lay absolutely still and broken on the calm sea. Two missed and the third struck her amidships, but still did not sink her. The U-boats submerged. The Junkers 88s were still about and one flew very low over the boats, as if to machine gun them, but instead it gave a brief victory roll and flew off. The lifeboats joined up and pulled away together. The enemy planes resumed attacks on the crippled ship, flying down almost to masthead height before releasing their bombs, yet were still unable to hit her. Finally one succeeded in dropping a bomb in the Earlston's No. 1 hold where the naval ammunition was stored. There was an enormous dirty blue flash as the ship went up like a firework, the whole fore-end blowing to bits and the naval pinnace across her deck disintegrating in mid-air. All the survivors saw of the rest of the ship was the stern as it rose out of the water and turned over, disappearing beneath the surface. It was 4.30 p.m.
To the east, just as the Earlston was abandoned, the American Pankraft, a very old West Coast freighter, was also steaming hard alone at a manful ten knots when seven Junkers 88s swept towards her out of the sun. Three attacked the ship, keeping out of range of her fast firing machine guns, and dropped nine bombs. Six fell wide, but of the other three one dropped directly on to No. 3 hold, amidships between the bridge and the crew's quarters. Fortunately it landed in a large heap of bagged coal stacked on top of the hatch cover, which took the main force of the explosion. But the other two bombs were near misses, which buckled the ship's plates: her oil and steam connections were ruptured, the engine room began taking water and the engines were stopped.
The main transmitter went dead so the captain could not order abandon ship over the loudspeaker system. Radioman J E Blackwell left the radio shack to find that all the lifeboats had been lowered and had pulled away some 25 yards or more, except one, which still had the painter line tied to the ship but had drifted about eight feet away. He went back into the shack for the other operator. Then they climbed down the sea ladder and pulled themselves through the water by the painter line until they were hauled into the waiting lifeboat.
The captain was already in one of the other lifeboats. To the intense anger of the crew he and the chief officer had been among the first to leave. Some men believed that the damage to the ship could be repaired, enabling her to continue. Afterwards they accused the captain and chief officer of being incompetent in handling the ship. The captain had disposed of all his confidential American papers, but in his haste to abandon ship all the British papers were left on board.
In the confusion the second mate had stepped forward and taken the responsibility for seeing all the ship's company safely away. Radioman Blackwell and his colleague believed six or seven planes were coming in low to drop their bombs and machine gun the decks.
Aboard the Bolton Castle the crew's tea was laid out ready on the galley tables: cold meats, salads, fruit, cakes and pastries. Later on, during the long days in an open lifeboat, Chief Cook Leonard Osmundsen was to think longingly of all that food. Most of the ship's gunners were busy firing at circling Focke-Wulfs and 'Shads' when out of the blue, in a straight dive, a Stuka appeared. It straddled the ship from port to starboard, in a direct hit. The whole top part of the ship just forward of the bridge was torn apart. The blast hurled a gunner on the bridge into the sea. Those on the Washington thought the British ship virtually disintegrated. Amazingly, the ammunition she was carrying did not explode.
Cook Osmundsen dashed out on deck to the nearest lifeboat station, where the seamen were already lowering the boats. Though the ship was listing heavily to starboard they managed to launch two lifeboats and began pulling like blazes away from the rapidly sinking ship. Miraculously there were no casualties. Even the gunner blown overboard was pulled from the water after a few minutes and, though in very bad shape, suffering from cold and exposure, was later brought round in one of the lifeboats.
For 36 hours the Bolton Castle's tireless gunners had kept the enemy aircraft at bay. Now the stricken freighter died in five minutes. Suddenly she lifted herself out of the water and began to slide under, stern first, the red duster still flying as she slipped below the surface.
A plane swooped over the lifeboats with a burst of machine-gun fire but no one was hit. Then other aircraft flew in low. They were taking photographs. As they flew off, one pilot waved his hand as if showing the survivors which way to sail, but Norway and a prison camp were in that direction, so they decided to strike due east. After collecting all the bits and pieces floating around that might come in useful, they discarded a third lifeboat, sharing out its rations between the captain's motorboat and the sailboat. Then, with the power boat towing the other one, they pulled away.
Scarcely had the Bolton Castle been hit than it was the turn of the Paulus Potter. Her British gunners kept the attacking planes at bay until, for a third time, a stick of bombs dropped close to the ship. All the earlier near misses had sprung her plates and shifted her engines. These last bombs, narrowly missing the four-inch gun platform, blew the ship's rudder off and damaged her propeller. The captain ordered abandon ship, but Gunner David Richards and his comrades, who had a shell in the breech of the four-inch, continued firing at an aircraft flying astern. The plane lost height and dropped its bombs in the sea.
The four gunners were the last of the crew into the lifeboats, along with the captain and second mate. The planes continued to spray the Paulus Potter with machine-gun fire but did not attack the four lifeboats. When they had flown off the motorboat took the other three boats in tow, away from the helpless, burning ship.
And then it was the Washington's turn. More bombers appeared overhead and attacked her in force, dive bombing and strafing the decks, which were packed with tanks and truck chassis. The ship's small guns blazed away with no effect. Finally a stick of bombs exploded close on the starboard side, fracturing her side plates. She listed heavily, taking in water, while the deck cargo burst into flames from incendiary shellfire. Another stick of bombs astern disabled the steering gear. Captain Richter ordered abandon ship.
The entire crew got away safely in two lifeboats while the bombers continued to rake the ship with machine-gun fire. Because of the great danger of the fire spreading to the 500 tons of TNT stowed under her deck the boats pulled away from the fiercely burning ship as fast as possible. Soon afterwards four bombers circled low over the boats, but only to take more pictures. The pilots waved as they flew off, leaving the Washington's survivors to take up the oars for the long, daunting pull – some 360 miles – to Novaya Zemlya.
Only hours later the USS Olopana steamed up, finding the lifeboats from the three ships. She slowed and stopped. The Olopana had been lucky so far, though her master, Captain Stone, was doubtful if his luck would hold out much longer. The Washington's Capt. Richter boarded the Olopana by Jacob's ladder. He was asked if any of his crew wished to join the Olopana and take a chance with her. When he returned to his lifeboat, however, and put it to the men their answer was firm. 'I hollered back to Capt. Stone on the bridge,' he said. 'We are not coming aboard as my crew feel safer in the lifeboats. Wish you luck. Be on your way.'
So it was with the survivors of the Bolton Castle and the Paulus Potter, who also chose to remain in their lifeboats. They were more willing to fight the open sea than board a ship they believed to be doomed. During these exchanges a panic started: there were sudden cries that the bombers were returning. Some of the Olopana's crew took to the boats and lay off, while the rest of the crew, her master and all the gunners stayed aboard. It proved to be a false alarm. The tiny specks of 'enemy aircraft' spotted on the horizon turned out to be nothing more than a flock of birds. The Olopana men returned to their ship, handed out cigarettes and loaves of bread to the lifeboats and steamed on their way.
Many miles to the south-east a U-boat was claiming the enemy's last victim of the day: the commodore's ship. The River Afton was steaming for Novaya Zemlya when, totally without warning, a torpedo struck her in the port quarter engine room. It was 8.15 p.m. W N Marsh should have finished his four-hour watch at 8 p.m. but the crew were having to double up, so his watch carried on. He had just returned to the gun box when the torpedo hit the ship, causing an explosion. He ducked into the box and when he lifted his head again all he could see was a hole where the ship's stern had been. The port lifeboat had vanished and so had the three or four gunners operating the four-inch gun. They were never seen again.
Marsh and his shipmate Gilbert White, both Newfoundlanders, ran to their emergency stations. Marsh helped lower the starboard lifeboat and White released the rafts, cool-headed action to which many men owed their lives. It took a great effort to lower the lifeboat because the warps were covered with debris, and when they got into the boat it capsized with the speed the ship was still making. Nearly 20 men were trapped under the boat and drowned. Marsh dived over the side just in time and swam to one of the rafts. Three other men, one a badly injured fireman, struggled through the icy water to join him.
A second torpedo crashed into the engine room as the boats were being lowered. Adam O'Hagan rushed to lower the jollyboat on the second mate's orders, but this also capsized because the ship was still making way. O'Hagan got away with others on a raft. Among those not so fortunate was the ship's chief mate.
The U-boat manoeuvred and sent a third torpedo crashing into the stricken ship's starboard side. Only then did Commodore Dowding abandon her, one of the last men to leave. He found safety on a raft along with two seamen.
The surfaced U-boat moved alongside Marsh's raft and ordered one of the four men to come aboard and give particulars of the River Afton's cargo. The commander then handed them some wine and bread and took photographs. He told them to steer due east 200 miles to land, to Novaya Zemlya. They asked if he would take the injured fireman aboard. He said he was sorry, but he was 'full up'.
Later Marsh and his comrades were joined by another raft and the refloated jollyboat, which was carrying the ship's master, Captain Charlton, and another officer; the two men had had a struggle to keep the little boat afloat. All around in the rising mist there was wreckage and rafts with men clinging to them, with here and there the floating bodies of the dead.
Fourteen ships had been lost in one desperately black day. It was a huge figure. With the three ships sunk earlier, PQ 17's losses now equalled the entire losses of all the 16 previous convoys to Russia. But the mass destruction was not over yet.