The Coal-Scuttle Brigade

by Alexander McKee

  A COLLIER master has left a description of A.A. Guard gunners coming on board his ship at Southend. The convoy was due to sail at two o’clock in the afternoon. At one o’clock precisely an officer brought them aboard. There were four of them, carrying their kit, their bedding, their Lewis guns and their ammunition. They were Cockneys, cheery, quick-witted, at home anywhere. They dumped their kit on the deck, clamped their guns to the rail with a special gadget made for the purpose; they looked around the deck, saw that the cargo of coke was higher than the hatchways, and borrowed shovels from the crew. Then they began to dig.

  In a few minutes they had dug themselves foxholes in the coke, curled themselves up on deck by their guns — and were asleep.

  These were the men who probably saw more action than anyone else, for they did more trips than anyone else. In his wallet, each man carried a card given to him by his unit before leaving to join his first convoy. The card bore, approximately, the following message:

  ‘When you go aboard this vessel, you will say to yourself: “I am the Navy.” Throw out your chest, go immediately to your gun and make ready. Never leave your gun at any time.’

  Experience had shown, that if a man did leave his gun for any reason, and there was an attack, he never got back to it in time to be of use. So they slept by their guns, in the one hour that was left to them before the convoy sailed.

  It would be a ‘night on the tiles’ for everyone, and they wanted to be fresh for it. The master knew about D.E.M.S., of course, but this batch were new to him. Later, he came down from his bridge for a moment to talk to them. Two of the men were from Carter Paterson, one was a butcher, the other a pitman; none of them had been in the Navy for more than a few months, but they were strikingly well-disciplined and keen, and obviously knew their job. Their unit, the A.A. Guard, was as brand new as they were.

  They had come from its headquarters in Portsmouth, as anti-aircraft protection to a ship sailing in convoy from Spithead to Southend; now they were going back in this ship. They did the run three or four times a week, never spending more than 48 hours ashore either at Portsmouth or at Southend. Accommodation was still a little rough; in fact, at Southend there wasn’t any. They were fed in a requisitioned hotel, but slept on the pier — that is to say, on the boards of the pier.

  No two men will ever give exactly the same account of a battle, but here the evidence was unanimous — those boards were hard.

  They took their guns with them because, after Dunkirk — with the Army crying out for machine-guns to defend the country against invasion — there were not enough to go round all the merchant ships, which spent a good deal of their time in port, loading and discharging, or just hanging around waiting for a convoy to form. To make a few guns go a long way, they were simply moved from ship to ship, and the ammunition for them. If this convoy had not been sailing, they would have returned to Portsmouth by train, with their guns and ammunition, in the hope of picking up a convoy from there.

  The A.A. Guard was formed as a direct result of the hammering received by C.W.8 on ‘Black Thursday’. It was obvious now that the Channel convoys were a special case, taking for the moment the brunt of the German onslaught; their defence called for an efficiency in the gunners far above that needed normally in other areas, where a gunner might perhaps get in an occasional shot at a surfaced submarine or long-range bomber. A Channel convoy was certain to be attacked; and, as ‘forcing the Straits’ was now a naval operation, it must get through. And that meant thickening up the A.A. defence; to pack the colliers with as many A.A. guns as possible, manned by men as highly trained as possible.

  It was not until early in September 1940 that the A.A. Guard was ready for action because, if they were to be effective, their training had to be exceptionally thorough. After going through a normal gunnery course at Whale Island, they went to Eastney ranges for anti-aircraft training — both of these establishments being at Portsmouth. The address of the 180 ratings of the Guard was: the Infants’ School, Northern Parade, Southsea; newcomers were always thunderstruck when entering the lavatories for the first time — the seats were so low. And the view — from the seat — was unusual. Tacked to the door, facing them, was a celluloid sheet of aircraft silhouettes, so that they could brush up their aircraft recognition at the same time.

  While the A.A. Guard was still forming, an anchored convoy had been caught off the Motherbank. This was the convoy assembly area between Ryde and Lee-on-Solent, only a few miles from Portsmouth. There had been no dive-bombing, no warning. The aircraft had come boring in just over the sea, wave-hopping towards the ships — they had rocketted over the mastheads before the gun’s crews knew what was happening; and by that time, it was much too late. Half the convoy had been sunk.

  The natural reaction of many recruits was to be afraid of a gun — afraid of being hurt by the kick. Any loose, nervous holding of the gun will leave the man’s shoulder black and blue with bruises; it will also leave the target unscathed. The men had to be trained to feel offensive, to swing the gun and fire as fast and effortlessly as a farmer will handle a shot-gun, for that was the sort of shooting it was. A countryman, who had probably done a fair amount of poaching in his time, would present no problem — he was ideal material for short-range A.A. work. A Birmingham bank clerk, on the other hand, might take much longer to learn, and be disconcerted if there were any doubt about whether or not to fire.

  Because the offensive spirit had been so thoroughly instilled into its officers and men, the A.A. Guard once accounted for an R.A.F. flying boat from Calshot.

  By the spring of 1941 the Channel Guard had proved so successful in protecting coasters on the run Southend-Southampton that their activities were extended to all merchant ships on passage as far west as Falmouth. That in turn meant a reinforcement of 60 men and a search for new accommodation. It was found at Calmore, near Southampton, where too the men back from service in the Channel could get a good night’s rest, instead of having to take shelter from air raids. This was the period of the heavy night blitzes, when the Luftwaffe struck at all the big seaports in turn.

  The strength of the Channel Guard increased rapidly, finally reaching 400. Many of these men were dentally unfit — that is, they had false teeth. On the longer trips, which they were soon to take, it was unlikely that they would be closed up at the guns all the time; some would go below to sleep — and the first thing a man does, before he goes to sleep, is to take out his false teeth. Then, ten to one, if the alarm goes, he dashes to his gun without them — and is a casualty before he starts.

  By July 1941, the emergency in the Channel was over, and the Canadian officers who had seen the Guard through the worst of the fighting were released; in most cases being able to pick the job they wanted. Their places were taken by young R.N.V.R. officers. At the beginning of the New Year, the Guard took on new commitments in merchant ships sailing from the Bristol Channel to Liverpool and Belfast; and in June 1942 they went even further afield.

  It was a very mysterious affair at first. Their commander, Commander Spencer, received a telephone message: ‘How many men have you got?’ He replied: ‘None — they’re all at sea.’ The reply came back: ‘I want a draft of 18 men, with their officers. You provide them. They will catch the 7.50 from Euston tonight.’

  ‘If any men come in within the next few hours, I’ll send them straight away,’ was Commander Spencer’s reply. And some of them did come in, at the very last moment, tired and hungry after seeing a convoy through. It was too late to catch the train from Southampton, they would have to go by road, and without a meal. With their guns and ammunition they were stowed into a car and a lorry — food, cigarettes, and beer bottles being slung in at them as the vehicles were actually moving off.

  They had no idea where they were off to; even Commander Spencer didn’t know, and the voice on the telephone wouldn’t say. But the resourceful Chief Petty Officer in charge of the lorry had a good idea that, if he didn’t do something, they would miss the train. As
they entered the outskirts of London, he stopped the truck — outside a police station, and got swift action.

  In a few minutes they were off — flat out through London — led by three police motor-cyclists.

  The 7.50 left Euston that night at 7.55 — but the Channel Guard were on board. Few of them came back. The convoy was P.Q.17.

  It was ironic that the Channel Guard, formed to defend the coastal colliers plying between Southend and Southampton, should at length send some of its officers and men to die in the Barents Sea. One or two of the survivors lost their feet, from frost-bite; the crew of the ship they were defending — not a British ship — took to the boats on the approach of the enemy, and before ever an attack was launched.

  By this time the A.A. Guard had virtually worked themselves out of a job. After mid-1942 a serious air attack on a coastal convoy was a matter for surprise; there were not many German aircraft left in the West, and what there were, were wary. The convoys were prickly with guns and feeling aggressive. The Guard were disbanded, but H.M.S. Safeguard remained, as an ideal central training depot for D.E.M.S. The Admiralty sent the Channel Guard a final signal which, for the professional Navy who are inclined to take efficiency and bravery rather for granted, was perhaps unique:

  ‘The untiring effort and magnificent spirit of the Officers and men of the A.A. Guard in the defence of Coastal convoys over the past two years has been an inspiration to all. Though the A.A. Guard has now been absorbed in D.E.M.S., it is confidently felt that Safeguard in her new role as D.E.M.S. Depot will continue to instil that same spirit of efficiency and pride of Service in others.’

  But perhaps their finest tribute lay simply in the statistics, which recorded that, though many ships were sunk under them by mine or torpedo, the A.A. Guard never lost a ship to air attack.

  7 - Soldiers at Sea

  THE Orderly Sergeant passed down the rows of bunks while two soldiers, blinking, wondered vaguely if there was time for a wash, shave, bootshine, and breakfast, in addition.

  That morning the two soldiers, one of whom had been a London journalist, were in a truck — on their way to Southend and the ‘dirtiest, rustiest, most down-at-heel old collier’ they had ever set eyes on. The cook, who manned the collier’s armament, a ‘shaky old Lewis’, was delighted to see them; and was soon giving them a brew in the galley.

  Scenes like this, with variations, were being enacted in Infantry Battalions all over the country. One day, men would be square-bashing in some Army camp; the next day they might be on the deck of a coaster standing out of the Humber, with Spurn Head to port. The Navy had found another source of supply for the A.A. defence of merchant ships.

  The first batch of 300 men were simply ‘borrowed’ by D.E.M.S. quite early in 1940. They were strictly on loan, for a few months; after that they would have to be returned. By July, when a real emergency had developed, their units were demanding them back; but the soldiers had done so well that D.E.M.S. was most unwilling to let them go. The decision to use them in the first place was anything but illogical. The need was not for sailors, but for expert light machine-gunners — and the Army or, more precisely, the infantry, had more of them than anyone else.

  The organisation, if such it can be called — for it was then only a skeleton framework — was known simply as the ‘A.A. Defence of Merchant Shipping’. It was commanded by a Major of the Scots Guards, with twelve liaison officers under him.

  The first to be appointed was Captain F. A. Rundall, of the Royal Scots. On 20th February, 1940, he went to Methil — in peacetime, a loading port for colliers. Now, in wartime, not only was it the most northerly port of call for colliers, it was also the assembly point for convoys in the north. On 7th July, Lieutenant H, P. Stephenson, of the East Yorkshire Regiment, went to Hull to organise army gunners embarking or disembarking there; a number of the ships were colliers bound for or from the coal-loading port of Goole, further up the Humber. On 21st August, Second Lieutenant J. A. H. Peacoke, of the Queen’s Regiment, went to Southend; and on 29th November Lieutenant R. C. S. Cooper, R.A., took up his duties at Tynemouth, which for a period of a few months replaced Methil as the main convoy assembly area on the north-east coast. The collier-loading port was Blyth, just north of the Tyne, from which the colliers steamed south to join the convoys near Newcastle.

  These routes had been subject to attack by German aircraft flying on ‘Armed Reconnaissance’ almost since the beginning of the war. That part of the war was called the ‘Phoney War’ because there was no land fighting in the west and because civilians, by an unspoken, unwritten mutual agreement, were not being bombed. Shipping, since it did not involve the accidental killing of civilians on land, was regarded as a legitimate target which would not invoke retaliation on cities by the Not-So-Great Deterrent. The war off the east coast was by no means ‘phoney’.

  However, Hitler’s impatience to be active on land — and the fact that while Germany had a powerful bomber force we had an exceedingly weak one — eventually nullified the unspoken agreement.

  But Dowding never allowed anyone to dictate his battle for him, and he rotated his squadrons; those which were tired and decimated, he rested — and he rested them in the north. They met Stumpff’s bombers and long-range fighters out to sea. Very few got through to Tyneside. The Germans discovered, that day, that the Me 110 was not to be compared to the Me 109; it was almost a matter of fighter versus bomber, with the odds very much on the fighter. Their losses exceeded acceptable limits, and it was clear that daylight action by the Luftwaffe on any scale was possible only within the very limited range of cover by the Me 109s. That meant the south-east; but roving bombers in cloudy weather could still range the north coast — and shipping badly needed the protection of the army gunners.

  The men took to it like ducks to water. Theoretically, these men were soldiers; in the same way that, theoretically, the D.E.M.S. ratings were sailors. In fact, many of them had been in the Army a matter of two or three weeks and had got no further than an Initial Training Centre. They had been introduced to the rifle, could name the parts of the Bren, done a little bayonet drill, and some square bashing. It is not true that the first nine years of Army life are the worst, but the first few weeks or months certainly are; they had experienced the Army at its worst, and they did not like it. They were glad to get away.

  The spectacle of soldiers taking to the sea was not really novel. In fact, there was a direct comparison with Elizabethan times.

  By August 1940 teams of 20 gunners were allotted to most of the major ports engaged in the coastal trade, as a Pool. By November more men, guns and equipment were pouring in. Even in a crisis such as this, the baser elements of human nature were at work below the surface.

  The training, at first sketchy because of lack of equipment, later became excellent; with Dome Teachers, films, and target practice at drogues towed by aircraft. There was also a certain amount of boatwork. so that the men would not be complete novices at sea. To ensure that men put on their own in civilian surroundings shouldn’t slack off, there was an N.C.O. in each gun team — one man at least who had something to lose. If there were only two gunners, one would be a lance-jack. If there were six, probably a sergeant would be in charge. But if there were only two gunners, and both private soldiers, one of them would be promoted on the spot. Promotion was rapid and, because the officers at that time did not know their men very well, it was a difficult problem. To a certain extent, they had to guess.

  In January, still another category of gunner was added to the already long list of those serving in merchant ships — these were the Port Gunners. Their job was to guard the ship while in harbour, mainly as a precaution against sabotage. As the A.A. gunners came off the ship, they went on; and vice versa. The experiment did not last very long, because there were in fact no saboteurs.

  Hull, particularly, was a frequent target — it was more frequently attacked than anywhere else, and the attacks continued long after they had died down elsewhere. The basic
reason was that it was not only our third largest port, but it was also easy to find. Kesselring’s bomber crews, roving off the east coast on the look-out for shipping, would unload on Hull if the seas proved to be empty or the ships hidden by bad visibility. New aircrews, doing their first few operations or training navigators, would be sent to Hull — the easy target. And if the weather closed in on targets further inland, then the bomber crews would be diverted — to Hull. Night after night, the bombs came whining down, the ships in the harbour ringed with fire from the blazing port installations. Next day, the newspapers would report a raid on a ‘North East Coast Town’. Almost invariably, it was Hull. And through all this, and in spite of it, the gunners had to be got to and from the merchant ships lying at the heart of the target area.

  In May 1941 the organisation was taken over by the Royal Artillery, the officers and men being formed into Regiments and Batteries while continuing to do their job at sea and on shore. Their new name was the Maritime Royal Artillery and, from a small emergency force of infantrymen serving only in coastal convoys, the expansion was rapid. At the end of the war, there were six Regiments, each of about 2,500 men, one based in India; they served in every merchant ship, from colliers to ‘Queens’, in every ocean in the world. The Memorial to one Regiment alone contains the names of more than 400 killed or drowned at sea.

  It has been said that, while few Englishmen are ‘born soldiers’, every Englishman is at heart a sailor. They proved the truth of it.

  8 - Eagle Squadron Strikes

  BY 4th June, 1940, the Germans were on the Channel coast. They were very surprised to be there. Operation YELLOW had succeeded far beyond the directive, which had originally aimed only at the occupation of the coasts of Holland and Belgium, as a means of forcing England to end the war. The success momentarily unnerved Hitler, he did not realise that France was in collapse and that the southern flank of the penetration was safe.