The periscope stayed up for maybe five seconds, then the bow of a destroyer appeared out of the smoke. The periscope was jerked down just as the destroyer passed over it. Why the sub didn’t fire a second torpedo at us, I will never know; perhaps she didn’t have time. We made the rest of the trip through the firth in safety.
The presence of these submarines showed that our work was beginning to have its effects. No longer could the subs round the north of Scotland and head down to their bases; their only paths of return lay through the narrow firths like Stronsay and then south, hugging the coast until clear of the barrage. In the next few weeks we would close up these bolt-holes also.
One of our worst moments came about not through enemy action but because of our own faulty machinery. Shortly after we had started mining one day, the steering wheel rope jumped a pulley on the lower deck and started to scrape against a steel bulkhead. If the rope parted, being unable to steer we would run into our own mines and if we reported a breakdown and fell out it would mean a gap in the barrage. We had never yet failed the commodore so I stationed a man with a bucket of grease and a brush to keep the points of contact heavily coated and we actually laid six hundred mines with our steering gear in that condition. The last mine having gone over I sent Kellerhouse, our old merchant skipper, below with a crowbar. When he reported, “Ready!” we suddenly put the wheel hard-a-port; this slackened the wheel rope and he deftly threw it back on the pulley before it tautened again. At the same time, on the bridge, the wheel was brought back to amidships before the ship could take a sheer.
While still eight hours away from home a second pulley did the same thing and the bucket of grease was once more requisitioned. Inspections were made every fifteen minutes to be sure the rope would last until we got in. About fifty miles from Inverness we ran into another group of submarines. The British destroyers deployed like so many pieces of clockwork, made their smoke screen, and dropped their barrage of depth charges while we forged steadily on through the darkness until their escort leader, the Vampire, resumed her station and the others, following their leader, slipped back to their regular positions on our flanks.
Submarine attack. The Vampire was the British destroyer escort leader.
Several times we were guests at some of the great places near Inverness which now, I fear, are no longer occupied by their original owners. I remember especially going to Moy Hall to dine with the Mackintosh of Mackintosh, head of the Clan of Cathan, “the clan of the wildcat”. We had a beautiful drive over mountains and down deep valleys. The heather was in full bloom covering the hillsides with purple and white. At the great gates of the castle we were met by the Mackintosh and his wife. He made a splendid and impressive figure in the scarlet and green tartan of his clan, a gray-haired man in middle life showing by his bearing the long years he had served as an officer of the Camerons.
The Mackintosh had recently lost his only son, an officer in the First Life Guards, who had been shot through the lungs. Even after being shot, he did not fall from his horse but by sheer willpower continued to advance at the head of his troops. They bred men in that part of the world.
The castle was a regular museum with enormous high rooms and all sorts of trophies from all over the world; tiger skins, heads of stags and of great gray wolves. I particularly enjoyed the many landscapes by Landseer, one of them, “Deer in October Woods”, covering the entire end of a room. There was also a blacksmith’s hammer mounted below the painting of a handsome woman. Bonny Prince Charlie had stayed in this castle and was nearly captured by the English. The laird of that day was away with the clans but his lady gathered the men on the place and, leading them out, fell on the flank of the searching party. The family blacksmith swinging his sledge downed the officer in command and the rest fled.
I expressed a desire to see the gardens at which the laird called: “Hey, Wully MacDonald!” and the head gardener appeared replying, “Yus, Mackintosh.” You see, it would be an insult to say “sir” to him or any other title. He is THE Mackintosh. The gardens covered about five acres and were magnificent. While we were inspecting them, an old dog followed us around carrying an empty tin plate in his mouth; he wanted his dinner.
At table that evening we had ptarmigan, a bird which I was assured never comes below two thousand feet, and pheasant from the estate. There were several officers from the kilted regiments and after the ladies had left the table, they told reminiscences of their wars. One man who had just returned from France said that as his regiment advanced through a village they saw a live kitten nailed to a door. A sergeant tried to take it down and was blown to pieces by an attached bomb. Another had served in the Boxer Campaign. Two of his men were captured by the Chinese and later they were found lashed to posts, the natural orifices of their bodies plugged with red clay. Still another had served in the Sudan and was in the desert column sent out to punish the tribes after the disaster to Hicks Pasha, the English officer in the pay of the khedive of Egypt who led a force against the Mahdi and his dervishes. Hicks’ force was ambushed by the dervishes at Kashgil and virtually wiped out. This officer told us, “for miles we marched past the bodies of Hicks’ men staked out alive on the sands and left to be killed by the sun.” I suppose these old Scottish families were an anachronism by 1918, but they certainly were a race of fighting men.
As our expeditions continued we met fewer submarines but a great many floating German mines. They were easily distinguished from our own as they had projecting points or “horns”. Whether they were deliberately set adrift, a menace to both friend and foe, or had parted their mooring lines we never knew. At first each one sighted was promptly reported and efforts made to explode or sink it by rifle fire but before long they began to appear in such swarms that our attention was entirely occupied in dodging them. Had we attempted to sink them all there would have been no time left to do anything else.
Our main protection against anchored mines was the paravane. As this device was to play so important a part in our work I had better describe it briefly. A paravane resembled a torpedo and was towed by a line passing around the forefoot of the ship. A paravane, or “fish” as they were usually called, had horizontal metal fins which made it run along like an aquaplane except, instead of being on the surface of the water, it was fifteen or twenty feet below it. The motion of the ship through the water kept it clear of the side. If the ship slowed down the “fish” would come alongside and stick closer than a brother, in which position it was useless and had to be hoisted on board and relaunched by means of a small swinging boom.
In the nose of the paravane was a pair of very sharp steel jaws. When a ship met an anchored mine, the mine’s mooring line would slide along the towing line of the paravane until it came to the steel jaws where it would be severed and the mine, cut adrift from its anchor, would come to the surface where it could be sunk by rifle fire. Each ship used two paravanes, one on either bow, when in mine-infected waters.
The paravanes cut down our speed about two knots and were very temperamental, constantly fouling themselves, but it was vitally necessary to use them.
Perhaps our worst day came on August 19th; I remember the date because it is my birthday. We were on a mining expedition when our starboard paravane ran in alongside the ship and stuck there. Thanks to the efficiency of Lt. John Price, it was hoisted on board without our having to slacken speed or lose position in the formation. Suddenly we sighted a big German mine about forty feet off the starboard bow. It seemed inevitable that we would hit it. I shouted to Price to get the starboard paravane over, any which way, even though I knew that the paravanes were useless against floating mines. It was our only chance. Assisted by several of the men, he lifted the heavy “fish”, carried it to the rail and threw it over. It fell on its back, sank, righted itself and in a moment was running bravely alongside. I saw it pass directly under the mine and, miracle of miracles, the next second the mine, instead of continuing
to approach us, was moving parallel to our course and about five feet from the ship’s side. Leaning over the wing of the bridge I could look directly down on it. Apparently a mooring line hanging from it had caught in the jaws of the paravane and the ship was towing it through the water.
As the paravane swayed and plunged, it was inevitable that one of the horns on the mine would strike us. It was too close to be exploded by rifle fire; it would have taken us down with it. I was afraid to touch the steering wheel lest the slightest sheer bring it against our side. Helpless, I could only wait for the explosion that was sure to come.
At this moment a seaman ran up to me and reported, “Sir, the ship’s on fire. The lower deck where the mines are stored is all in flames. The mines are going to explode in seconds.”
I looked aft. Smoke was billowing up the midships hatch. Not only would we go, but with a full cargo of mines the whole squadron would probably go up with us.
A merciful Providence has so constituted the human mind that it can occupy itself with but one vital problem at a time. I forgot all about the fire as I watched that mine swing in toward our side. It was almost touching when it commenced spinning around like a top. Whatever held it to the paravane was worn through and I saw it drift clear. I glanced at my watch. We were due to start mining in two minutes. I shouted the necessary orders and then, and then only, remembered the fire.
The smoke had stopped. I could not leave the bridge so I sent my orderly below to find out what had happened. He came back to report that the fire was out. Five of our mess cooks had been peeling potatoes in the galley when they saw the smoke and flames rising from the mines stored nearby. Calmly equipping themselves with small extinguishers they crawled through and over tons of high explosives, put out the fire and then crawling back continued peeling their potatoes. Afterward, they were astonished when I recommended them for the Navy Cross.
Our adventures that memorable day were not yet over. Toward the end of the planting it became very dark and misty and we could only see signals with the greatest difficulty. I was anxious to get rid of our remaining mines as word might come at any time to suspend operations and it was considered a disgrace not to have planted them all. Sure enough, the message came down the line, “Get rid of all mines.” We did it by shortening the launching interval until we had an empty hold.
It was pitch dark and raining when the word came to form double columns and return to port. I knew we belonged on the right-hand column behind the Saranac so I located her and followed her stern light like a bloodhound. All around us we could see ships exchanging call letters to find out who was who; it was crucial to maintain your correct place in line, otherwise you might find yourself in the mined area.
About one o’clock it was reported that a piston rod was red-hot, and we would have to stop to let it cool. There we lay while the other ships and the destroyers faded into the darkness ahead, leaving us to whatever fate happened to be abroad that night. There was one relief. When the last mine went overboard nobody bothered particularly about submarines. There is a considerable difference between having a ship sink under you and being blown to atoms. The rod took forty minutes to cool. Then we put on maximum speed and caught up with the squadron by three o’clock. Without wishing to seem sentimental, I sometimes think ships have souls. To hear our crippled engines straining, striving, doing their best to bring us safely in — surely they were something more than mere masses of metal.
When an explosion did occur, there was virtually nothing left of ship or crew. The next day we learned that a British minelayer which had been working with us had blown up, causes unknown. An officer’s arm was found a mile from where the explosion took place. That was the only trace of her that remained. For the next week, if a door slammed, even in port, everybody jumped. I noticed a large box that had been left on the forecastle and ordered it taken below. The men lifting it let it drop with a slight thump. In two seconds there were fifty frightened sailors on deck.
Winter was coming and the sun was above the horizon for only six hours out of the twenty-four; from nine in the morning until three in the afternoon. Gales would soon be sweeping the North Sea, making mine laying impossible. We speeded up our work. Then on October 4th we started out on an expedition which very nearly became our last.
We successfully planted our mines and started back, congratulating ourselves on an easy trip. We reached the western entrance of Stronsay Firth at eight o’clock in the morning. Conditions were excellent; the weather was calm, the sky cloudless and brilliantly blue. Just as we arrived at the exit from the pass, with its high jagged cliffs only two hundred yards to leeward, we were struck by the most terrific tempest of wind that I have ever experienced.
The firth formed a regular funnel through which the wind roared like a thousand demons, and it is an actual fact that the men were thrown to the deck by the force of the wind alone. The sea rose in a series of huge combers. Our bridge was forty feet high but the water went over it. I thought we were done for. The destroyers barely missed swamping and were obliged to turn and run with the wind and sea astern to save themselves.
We slowed and tried to force our way against the wind that was blowing us down on the rocks to leeward. I have had years of service in destroyers, the most lively of all ships, but I never felt such pitching and surging; I could not believe our old ferryboat could hold together. In the midst of it a petty officer came to the bridge and shouted in my ear above the howl of the storm, “Captain, do you know our rudder is broken?”
If we could not steer, we were finished. I turned the deck over to Fergus, the executive officer, and ran aft where I saw that one of the two arms of the rudder yoke had broken sharp in two. The only thing left to control the rudder was the other arm which commenced to bend while I was looking at it. We had the most primitive type of steering gear and the only connection between the wheel on the bridge and the rudder was this yoke. If the second arm broke the rudder would be useless and we would be swept down on the rocks. In that tremendous wind and sea the ship would go to pieces in a moment and everyone be lost as the water was icy cold.
For a moment I had the mad idea of trying to repair it underway but the arm continued to bend and a crack appeared on the surface of the metal. I ran to the bridge, we gave one prolonged shriek from the siren to warn the other ships that we were falling out of formation, and I put her before the wind heading down to get under the lee of a small island. It was touch and go but we rounded the corner and swung into Deer Sound just as the remaining arm parted.
I let go the anchor but it was a miserable place to lie with the wind howling and shrieking and the sea foaming and splashing around us. One of the British destroyers gallantly risking her own chance of survival, ran in to guard us from hostile submarines as we were dead in the water and an utter “sitting duck”.
While our very capable engineer, Lieutenant Antrobus, an ex-navy warrant officer, got to work with his men on the rudder we had an exchange of signals with the destroyer that reminded me of the comic strip characters, “Alphonse and Gaston” who were always elaborately polite to each other.
Quinnebaug: “We regret very much having delayed your return to port.”
Destroyer: “Please don’t mention it. It is a pleasure to be of service.”
This when both of us expected to capsize at any moment. Oh well, we would have gone down like gentlemen.
In two hours our engineers had “fished” the broken arms with steel bars and horseshoe clamps which they made and fitted in our coal-bunker machine shop. We weighed anchor and had a terrible time getting it on the billboard. Every time the ship took a surge the anchor crashed into our side until I was sure it would knock a hole in us. Our paravanes, so vitally important to our safety, had both appeared on the same side of the ship with their lines inextricably scrambled. With great difficulty we finally hoisted them on board but as it would have taken several hours
to get them in working condition again, we decided to chance the mines and make a run for it. Every moment was valuable as undoubtedly the Germans had picked up our radio signals and submarines would be headed our way.
We set out again into the gale, and I told Antrobus to give her all she had. Incredibly we made two knots more than the ship had done on her trial trip twenty years previously, although the poor old engines sounded as though they were tearing themselves apart. It was frightfully rough at first but, as we drew closer to the coast of Scotland, we found a partial lee.
About five o’clock we had an experience I will never forget. A cloud of smoke appeared which resolved itself into a fleet of twenty little trawlers out hunting subs. Kipling had aptly named them the Elizabethan Navy. They looked like a drove of small obstinate black pigs scudding along under their leg-of-mutton sails, cruising the North Sea in the teeth of the gale and in the face of the German Fleet ready to tackle anything that appeared. What courage and what seamanship! All these sailing ship captains were fishermen, the prototypes of the men who, under Hawkins, Howard, and Sir Francis Drake, drove the Spanish Armada on the rocks. I passed the trawlers close aboard in the heavy seas; their captains, in their high boots, standing firmly planted on the heaving decks, their pipes gripped between their teeth and, as we came abeam of them, I saluted and the Elizabethan Navy waved back.
Night fell while we were still twenty miles from our base and, as we approached the entrance to the firth we found none of the navigation lights were on; it was black as a pocket. I comforted myself with the thought that, at least, our accompanying destroyer knew her own coast. I looked around for her to guide us in and discovered that she had carefully dropped behind and was following our wake; her captain knew jolly well that we would run aground long before she did.
The Old Navy Page 28
