Before us a massive ship was docked with long, steep gangplanks reaching up to the top decks high above the dock side. It was the biggest vessel I had ever seen and it was painted in the most remarkable paint scheme imaginable. The entire hull, some seventy feet from gunnel to waterline, was painted in a bizarre pattern of geometric shapes, all having brilliant contrasting colors. Blues, yellows, greens, oranges, reds, and whites were splashed in these seemingly nonsensical patterns.
“What the frig is that?” asked Dan McKee.
Sean said he felt seasick just looking at the boat. A nearby deck hand overheard the comments and approached the group offering up his educated insight.
“Well, Lads, that is your ride to England. She is the RMS Olympic,” he said with a distinct Irish brogue. “She measures eight hundred eighty-two and-a-half feet in length overall with a beam of ninety-two and-a-half feet.” He swept his arm along the length as he described the ship in solemn terms. “The four stacks or funnels stand seventy-five feet above the top deck. She’s one of the fastest cruise ships at twenty-four knots, with the power of two large steam engines developing fifteen thousand horsepower each, and one low-power turbine developing sixteen horsepower. She was launched in 1910 at Harland and Wolff’s Belfast yard as one of the largest luxury liners ever built and had been converted to a troop transport just recently. She can now carry as many as seven thousand troops in one crossing.”
We all looked from him back to the ship nodding our heads in quiet appreciation.
“What about this peculiar paint job?” I asked.
He looked left and right as if to ensure that the coast was clear, then leaned toward us.
“It’s the dazzle paint job,” he said conspiratorially in a loud whisper.
Our puzzled expressions told him he needed to provide additional explanation.
“All the strange shapes and the angles with the bright colors create confusion,” he said.
“Confusion for who, the fish?” Bill Lewis asked.
“No smart guy, the Germans,” the Irishman said. “With this pattern, the U-Boats can’t tell which way we’re going or how close or far away we are! It makes it bloody hard for them to judge when launching torpedoes at us and it works like a charm.”
A small crowd had gathered around this well-informed gentleman as he rattled off the statistics pertaining to his ship. He said the HMS Olympic had also been outfitted with small cannons whose function was to blast the U-Boats out of the water.
Again, we all nodded with appreciation. The anti-submarine guns did provide a degree of comfort and the paint job was certainly optically confusing. The fact that the ship was several times faster than a U-Boat was reassuring. But because hardly a day went by without the newspapers reporting yet another sub attack, we weren’t completely sold on the safety of our crossing.
A sergeant was calling out orders to the multitude on the dock and it appeared that it must be time to board, so we gathered up our knapsacks, our Ross rifles, and webbing. By the way, webbing was the nickname for what was known as the Oliver pattern of straps that criss-crossed you and from which hung a shovel, a canteen, mess kit, a number of tools, some useful, some not, and a pouch for ammunition. The ammunition was useful in case your Ross rifle decided to fire properly. All in all, about 35 pounds of rubbish was attached to the webbing. Problem was when you walked you sounded like the donkey of a pots and pans salesman. We, of course, also had our pipes and drums to transport, which added to the weight and made for a laborious trek up the steep gangplanks.
We were directed to our quarters below deck and were surprised to find that, for a luxury liner, the accommodations were anything but luxurious. In her transformation to a troop transport, Harland and Wolff had stacked bunk beds into the small cabins of the upper decks and had turned steerage into a massive dormitory of endless cots, hammocks and bunks. My group claimed a small cabin with six bunks in it and settled in for our weeklong crossing.
THE CROSSING
As the giant ship prepared to cast off, Terry Manning tried to muster up an impromptu band to play on deck as we left the docks and harbor. Once a pipe major, always a pipe major. We grabbed our pipes and joined him. The drummers were less enthusiastic and had to be coaxed into joining us with promises of copious amounts of whiskey.
On the upper deck, we could see the tugboats far below, like Lilliputians trying to tug Gulliver. They moved us slowly away from the dock. Terry quickly tuned our chanters and then rapidly tuned all the drones. He had a great ear and could move through the small band tuning so quickly that it was really remarkable. Our old instructor, Victor Matthews would not have approved of his haste, but we were in tune and playing in less than ten minutes.
The tugboat hands waved their hats when they finally figured out where the piping was coming from.
A crowd stood on the docks and saluted as we played “Going home”. The people of Nova Scotia or New Scotland have a profound appreciation for the bagpipes and were obviously moved by the performance and, of course, the sacrifice that all aboard were accepting.
The pipes and drums are most conspicuous and attract attention anywhere they are played, as evidenced by the number of our shipmates that had assembled around us on the aft deck. They were smoking, sipping whiskey and generally taking in the moment, perhaps thinking about the uncertainty that lay ahead.
Further up the ship, near the bow, we could see several figures dressed in white and sporting white hats. They had also noticed our performance and one of them headed toward us with a determined gait.
We continued to play “Rowen Tree” as this stocky man in the white uniform arrived and stood conspicuously on the periphery of the crowd of interested shipmates. We finished our set and neatly stopped to a raucous display of approval by the crowd. The uniformed man strode over to Dan McKee who had, as drum major, been calling out the tunes.
“First Mate John Spader” he said, introducing himself.
“And?” McKee asked, raising his eyebrow. He towered over the first mate who may have measured but five-nine.
Spader was not intimidated in the least. “The Captain requests your band join him at the captain’s table and he would be honored if you would perform for the men before the meal.”
Dan turned to Terry Manning. “Pipe Major, what say you?”
The Pipe Major outranks the Drum Major and so the question was deferred to Terry. Terry responded positively without hesitation. Sean Lyons suggested that for two drinks we could be coaxed to play longer, to which Spader laughed and said he’d pass the suggestion along to the Skipper.
That evening in the dining room, the drummers seemed more enthusiastic. Perhaps the prospect of good food and free whiskey served as a motivator.
We all circled up to Dan McKee’s directions and played for almost a half-hour. The crew and men loved the performance and spurred us on with hoots and hollers for more. Hunger and thirst, however, seemed to compel us to end our show and join the captain for our well-earned payment.
First Mate Spader escorted our small band to the captain’s table and formally introduced us to Captain Bertram F. Hays. He was a pleasant English gentleman–very fit, with a smooth, confident demeanor.
He was about six feet tall and lean with close cut gray hair and a pencil mustache, a very handsome fellow.
“Gentleman, thank you for joining me this evening and welcome aboard the RMS Olympic,” Hays said as he stood with his hat tucked neatly under his left arm. “I enjoyed your performance immensely and hope to hear more of the same on our voyage. Please remain standing and we’ll have a toast to the Queen.”
We all scrambled for our glasses.
“To the Queen,” he said, raising his glass high.
“To the Queen,” we responded. The whiskey was warm going down and helped put us at ease.
“Gentleman, be seated and please introduce yourselves, I must know more about your group.”
As introductions were made, I watched how the ship’s crew tr
eated this man. They had an obvious profound respect for him, and he for them. He had an unmistakable air of authority, but it was tempered by a charming social grace that had obviously been perfected after many years of dealing with wealthy, upper crust cruise ship passengers.
“Allow me to offer another drink,” Hays said waving his hand at the glasses on the table. A steward rapidly responded with a flask of the amber liquid.
Most of us had come from modest backgrounds and were not versed in the social graces. We watched the Captain and followed his lead–except, of course, for the drummers who grabbed rolls and began to heavily butter them without regard for social niceties.
Terry sat next to the Captain and they were chatting about the ship. Sean and I were next to each other and were idly talking about nothing important while trying to eavesdrop on the Captain and Terry’s conversation. The ship was Captain Hays’ favorite subject and he spoke of it with fondness, as though it were a family member.
Perhaps the second glass of whiskey had gone to my head and common sense had retreated, for I spoke up at that point and said, “Captain I noticed this ship looks a lot like the Titanic.”
As I recollect, I believe I was trying to be somewhat of a smart aleck to make my comrades laugh.
Captain Hays took on a somber tone. “Yes, that’s very astute of you to notice. The Olympic is, in fact, the sister ship of the ill-fated Titanic. The difference is that the aft deck of the Titanic was covered or enclosed and the LOA was a mere nine inches longer than the Olympic.”
The table had become silent and every ear was now tuned to what the Captain was saying.
“This ship has been in service for five years and has made hundreds of Atlantic crossings without incident. After the Titanic tragedy, the White Star Lines took the Olympic out of service. No one would set foot on her, even after they doubled the life boats. She remained empty, so they sent her back to Belfast for extensive renovations. It took over six months to add several layers of bulkheads increasing the water tight compartment twofold. They also saw fit to add a double hull to her, increasing her beam by two full feet. This ship has, in fact, a stronger hull than most of her majesty’s battle cruisers.” He paused to let this information sink in.
“That, along with the doubling of the lifeboats, seemed to ease the fears of the traveling public. We had the ‘unsinkable Molly Brown’ join us as a publicity stunt.” Hays looked out over the table with a wry grin. “She is, by the way, a wonderful woman with the remarkable ability to see only the good in life. She is, in fact, an infectiously happy person.”
The faces of most at the table had gone from looks of concern to smiles of amusement.
“You are, gentlemen, on a remarkably safe ship,” Hays said. “The unfortunate reality is that safety is very often realized in the wake of tragedy.”
That night, I lay in my bunk, unable to sleep and thinking about the sister ship of the Olympic. That horrible night when so many lives were lost or forever changed. The story was widely known, of how the men on board demanded that the women and children take the far too few lifeboats and save themselves.
What a helpless feeling those poor men must have experienced, being in a situation where the requirement of the moment took over and they had to ask themselves to–and willingly did–sacrifice their lives for strangers. Mass heroism and sacrifice in the face of death just seemed to be remarkable to me as I imagined myself on board the Titanic that night.
Little did I realize that I, and so many others, were being unwittingly swept along by similar tides of misfortune. There were going to be sacrifices far greater in number and for a purpose far less gallant or tangible than that of the men of the Titanic. I pushed the thoughts from my head, remembering what my father had once told me: “Don’t burden yourself with unproductive thought.”
Amid my snoring comrades, I finally fell asleep.
The seven days aboard the Olympic went by surprisingly fast. It was easy to meet people and commiserate, as we were all in the same boat–both literally and metaphorically.
Our practice sessions on deck had attracted other musicians both pipers and drummers. Mike Brill from Toronto, a drummer with a slapstick sense of humor, joined us. Balding and bulky, he could change his expression from a broad toothy grin to a sinister scowl and back to the silly grin in the blink of an eye. You could seldom take him seriously, except when he was playing the drums.
Another addition to the group was a medical student from Magill University by the name of George Cohen. George loved the pipes, as evidenced by his unbridled enthusiasm. Often, Terry would have to tell George to slow down his playing as he had a tendency to race ahead of the group in a tune. For the most part, he was a good solid piper and a fine addition to our group.
At first, George was a bit shy and standoffish and, being Jewish, he was a curious phenomenon to pipers. After all, Scots and Irish, even the occasional Englishman played the pipes, but, a Jew was most unusual. He was rather short and prematurely bald with abnormal amounts of hair on his back and chest–even his fingers were hairy. I had my doubts about his fitting in, but he would later prove to be a great friend and beloved member of our group.
Near the end of our voyage, the coast of Ireland came into view far ahead on the horizon. It was a beautiful spring day, and, for the most part, we had had fine weather for our trip across the Atlantic. The sea had a sort of haze that hung over it, almost a light fog that would deposit dew on your eyebrows and eyelashes as the Olympic churned on toward Great Britain.
We had assembled on the aft deck for our mid-morning practice and had just finished our tuning when the Olympic let go with a deafening blast of her horn. The noise caught us completely off guard, and we collectively jumped about a foot in the air.
“Must be some kind of signal to Ireland,” Sean said. It was a ridiculous notion as we were still too far away from the coast for anyone to hear us.
As I was pondering the horn blast, Dan McKee called, “Band ready!” I snapped to attention with my mouthpiece squarely in place and began to fill the bag so as to be ready for the strike in.
“The Minstrel Boy Set!” Dan yelled. “By the center... quick, March!”
Before the bass drum could pound out cadence, we were all startled by two loud booms. It was cannon fire coming from the bow of the ship. When the Olympic had undergone renovation in Belfast, Harland and Wolff had installed two anti-submarine cannons. They were not very large guns, only a three-inch bore, but they were capable of causing substantial damage to a U-boat.
The crew, however, was ill-trained and if they hit a sub, it would have been more by luck than skill. We all ran to the rails and moved forward for a better look.
“There it is!” someone yelled pointing off the port bow.
Several more cannon blasts were followed by three large splashes, well short of the sub.
The U-boat had fully surfaced, and you could plainly see the white hat of the captain along with three other sailors standing on the tower. U-103 was painted in large white letters on the tower and could be seen until the U-boat turned toward us.
Another man yelled, “A torpedo coming right for us!” The streak of bubbles and steam that followed the weapon made it easy to spot its direction and speed.
U-103, 4910N LONGITUDE, 04551W LATITUDE
[Recreated from historical records]
Claus Rucker was the commander of the U-103. He stood very erect and appeared much taller than a man barely five-foot, eight inches. Perhaps it was his white hat perched atop his head of white hair or maybe his authoritative demeanor. Whatever the case, the perception was undeniable.
Next to Rucker was his first mate, Hans Schwieger, a young man of 23 who had been on the water for only a year. He had done very well to achieve first mate in just one year, but he had ambitions of being commander soon. It was really just a matter of time, inasmuch as he was the younger brother of the famous Captain Walther Schwieger.
Walther Schwieger had been the commander o
f the U-20 which on 7 May, 1915 sank The Lusitania, killing 1,119 of the 1,924 people on board. This attack on an unarmed civilian vessel was widely considered the most infamous maritime crime committed during the war. And even though the world unanimously condemned the attack, the Kaiserliche Marine (Imperial Navy) looked upon Schwieger as a hero. Hans was planning on capitalizing on his older brother’s fame.
As the U-103 glided over the uncommonly smooth seas at her long range cruise speed of twelve knots, Rucker leaned over the rail of the conning tower and admired his U-boat. He recalled his first command on an old kerosene burner. Those ships belched billows of black smoke out of the stacks and gave your position away.
Rucker yelled over the sound of the wind and sea, “We have at least 10,000 miles of range remaining.”
Schwieger nodded. “We could go to New York Harbor and back and still have reserve fuel,” he said.
“Perhaps we should, I have relatives there,” Rucker replied with a broad smile of yellow, smoke stained teeth.
The diesel-powered U-103 was a Mittel U class of unterseeboot. She carried sixteen torpedoes and had an eighty-eight millimeter deck gun for weaponry. Her length overall was two hundred ten feet, and she could maintain a maximum speed of nearly seventeen knots on the surface, and just over nine knots submerged.
Captain Rucker breathed the cool salt air in deeply through his nose, hoping to flush out the ever-present smell of diesel that was inescapable inside the U-boat. His lips were pressed tightly together, giving him the appearance of having just a slit for his mouth.
Rucker’s full concentration was on the horizon through his binoculars. This was the hunt. Something caught his eye and, without lowering his glasses, he tapped his first mate on the shoulder pointing in the general direction of his sighting.
The Last Lady from Hell Page 8
