Sink and Destroy

by Edward Kay

  As part of the gun crew, I shared lookout duty. Once a day I spent an hour in the crow’s nest about 30 feet above the deck. I got my first taste of that job the morning after we left Sorel. The petty officer woke me just before dawn. One of the things about Navy life that most people found hardest to adjust to, including me, were the four-hour watches — being on duty for four hours, then off duty for four hours. From the captain on down to the lowliest ordinary seaman, nobody ever got more than four hours of uninterrupted sleep. It always seemed that just when I was finally asleep and oblivious to the clanging, the voices, the rumble of the engines, a petty officer would give me a nudge and tell me it was time to get up.

  When I opened my eyes the mess deck was dim, lit only by blue lights that were kept low to make it tolerable for people who were trying to sleep. I climbed out of my hammock, in full uniform. We learned right away that everyone always slept with their clothes on, because we never knew when there might be an emergency. The last thing we wanted to do, especially in the icy North Atlantic, was to go into combat in our underwear!

  I made my way to the galley, where the fellow who was on duty as cook handed me a steaming cup of tea. He didn’t have any cooking experience, so my breakfast was a ship’s biscuit with jam. We were still in the St. Lawrence and the water this morning was calm. The sky was just beginning to get light, with a faint rim of red above the eastern horizon. The countryside was beginning to emerge from the dark. Here and there, I could make out the silhouettes of farmhouses and barns on either side of the river, and little villages that reminded me of Iroquois.

  About half an hour into my watch, the cliffs of Quebec City came into view, glinting golden as they caught the first rays of morning sun. Toward the end of my stint atop the crow’s nest we passed beneath the Plains of Abraham. The ancient battlefield where General Wolfe’s army had defeated Montcalm’s now looked so deserted and peaceful, it was hard to believe that a battle that decided the fate of North America had taken place there. It occurred to me for the first time that lots of the guys I was fighting alongside were descendants of people who had fought on both sides of that conflict. And now here we were, depending on each other for survival, fighting together against an enemy far more ruthless than anyone our ancestors had faced.

  Soon the river began to widen, giving a breathtaking view out toward the Gulf of St. Lawrence. I was actually a little disappointed when it was time to come down and let the next guy take over the watch duties.

  An hour or so later we passed Grosse-Île. It gave me a melancholy feeling. My O’Connell grandparents and great-grandparents had come to Canada together as refugees from Ireland during the Potato Famine a century earlier, crammed into what were called coffin ships. According to stories I’d heard passed down through my family, so many people died on their ship and were buried at sea that sharks began to follow it. My great-grandmother was terrified of dying at sea and being eaten by those sharks. She almost made it to Canada, but caught typhus within sight of land, died within days and was buried right over there on Grosse-Île. It gave me a wistful feeling to know that somewhere on that lonely looking island she lay buried far from her loved ones in an unmarked grave.

  And I thought about those sharks. But not for long, because the shoreline was growing distant, so we could now safely test fire our guns. Ken and I practised by shooting at the whitecaps on the waves. Just like that day out on the rifle range, I had to get a feel for the quirks of this gun. With a few minutes’ practice I was able to hit my targets accurately. I now felt ready to take on the Kriegsmarine and the Luftwaffe — at least if we could ever get close enough.

  Late that day when we reached the mouth of the Saguenay River, the man in the crow’s nest shouted, “Whales!” A pod of belugas skimmed the surface as they came up to chase small fish. The largest was as big as a car and looked like a giant, white ghost as it glided effortlessly just beneath the waves. They swam right beside us on a parallel course for about five minutes, before veering off and diving away. As I stood by the railing watching them fade from sight, the spray from a wave splashed onto my face. I ran my tongue across my lips and tasted salt in the water. The St. Lawrence, the familiar river that I’d spent my entire life on, was giving way to the ocean.

  Next morning when I woke in the gloom of the mess deck, I knew immediately that something had changed. The ceiling, just above my head, was tilting on much steeper angles than when I’d climbed into my hammock. The Wildrose pitched up and down along its length, climbing over each wave, then dropping down the other side before starting the whole process all over again. There was a yaw too as the bow swung slightly from left to right. I felt a slight queasiness in my own stomach just as I caught a whiff of vomit. With the waves growing larger and choppier, people were beginning to get seasick.

  The hatches had been closed because of the rougher seas and the air was heavy with the breath of fifty men sleeping in an enclosed space. Fumes from the paint and solvents that were stored beneath us in the bowels of the ship were blending in with the smell of the puke and the stale air. The queasy feeling in my stomach got more intense. It wasn’t quite time for my watch to start, but I had to get some fresh air. I slid out of my hammock and put my feet down. As soon as I felt the ship rocking and bobbing beneath me, the urge to throw up became uncontrollable.

  I raced down the narrow corridor and up toward the main deck. I made it outside just in time to vomit over the railing and down the side of the ship. I hung there, puking, till I thought my guts would fall out. When there was nothing left to come up I grabbed my kit, went into one of the tiny, cramped washroom stalls and brushed my teeth, trying to get the taste of bile out. I even put some toothpaste on my finger and rubbed it around in my mouth, but the taste was still there, and I was so queasy that even having my finger touch my tongue made me gag.

  Because my stomach was still churning, I took my turn in the crow’s nest without eating breakfast. It was swaying from side to side at the top of the mast like an amusement park ride. I felt the nausea building again. Down below, a couple of other guys next to the depth-charge racks were throwing up over the stern. Just then my stomach started heaving. I looked over the rail again but the bridge was immediately below me. I figured that barfing onto the captain or the first mate would be frowned upon, so as the scorching vomit surged up my throat, I pulled off my cap and threw up into it. It was disgusting, but there was no other choice.

  For the rest of my watch I had to hang on to the crow’s nest railing with one hand and my cap with the other so the puke that filled it wouldn’t spill onto the officers on the deck below. After that my stomach settled down a bit and I could concentrate on my job.

  We were now so far out in the Gulf that no land was in sight. For all I knew, there could be a submarine out there right now, waiting for a chance to slam a torpedo into us. So despite the constant pitching, I managed to suppress the nausea and ride out the rest of my shift.

  We joined up with an eastbound convoy in St. John’s, Newfoundland. All forty merchant ships in it were heavily loaded. Some had lumber lashed to the decks; others carried trucks and airplanes — I could make out their shapes under the tarpaulins. On one big freighter, a row of tanks was lashed down, gun barrels poking out from under their coverings.

  Ken couldn’t resist another remark. “Jeez, O’Connell,” he said, “too bad we couldn’t carry one of those tanks. Then we’d have a gun to shoot!”

  Oil tankers were positioned here and there throughout the convoy and, in the middle of an inner row, was another tanker that we had been told carried high-octane aviation fuel for Spitfire fighter planes. Ken wasn’t so smart-alecky now.

  “I hope we don’t have to get too close to that one,” he said. “If it takes a torpedo, it’ll go up like a bomb!”

  “Just imagine the poor bastards who have to sail her, and be glad you’re not one of them,” commented a voice behind us.

  I turned and saw that it was our captain.

  “Yes,
sir!” we both said, saluting.

  The captain made no further comment and continued on his way. Suddenly I was especially glad I’d made a point of vomiting into my cap instead of onto the bridge.

  Heading east, we were soon south of Greenland. The waves were relentless, but after a few days at sea everyone in the crew gradually became used to the motion and our seasickness subsided. I conducted regular maintenance of the Lewis guns, making sure the salt water was cleaned off them, and shooting into the wavetops for practice.

  Much more impressive were the depth-charge drills. The charges were our main anti-submarine weapon. Each one, looking like an oil drum, was packed with 300 pounds of explosives. Its fuse was controlled by the amount of water pressure, so it could be set to detonate at a particular depth, usually 50 feet. They were rolled off a rail at the back of the ship, above where we hoped the submarine would be if our ASDIC operators had been able to track the sub accurately.

  On this occasion, the crew was given a hypothetical depth and bearing. The explosion when the first pattern of depth charges detonated behind us was spectacular. The ocean boiled up and out of it shot a huge column of white water 60 feet into the air. The shock wave rattled the hull, and even the steel deck beneath my feet. After that I was feeling a little more confident about our chances against a U-boat, as long as we caught it underwater and kept it there.

  When we reached the mid-Atlantic we had a couple of days of heavy rains. That’s when I discovered one of the least likeable features of the corvette. To get our food, we had to walk through an open area between the galley and the mess deck. This wasn’t such a problem in fine weather. But if it was raining, or the sea was choppy, the food would get covered in water, and it was hard even keeping it on your plate.

  One stormy afternoon when we were getting our lunch, Fontaine was right in front of me, carrying a plate of canned sausages, when he slipped and fell and the sausages went flying.

  “Tabouère!” he cursed. Then he picked them up, looked at them and went to wipe them off on his oilskin.

  “Careful,” I said, “I’ve done that. That just makes them even dirtier.”

  We laughed. He held the sausages out over the railing, where the salt spray washed at least some of the gunk off them.

  “Better cold than covered in diesel oil,” he said. He popped one in his mouth and we kept on going.

  I also quickly learned why our corvette was known as a “wet” ship, and it wasn’t just because of the effect on the food. Even with the hatches closed, there was always water leaking in from somewhere below deck. It dripped down onto us while we slept in our hammocks. After a storm, so much water sloshed around the mess deck that it would soak everything in our lockers. I had to master the art of sleeping in wet clothes, under a wet blanket. Fortunately, because they were wool, they would warm up quickly, so I tried to think of it as a hot, wet cocoon. There was no room for washing facilities like on bigger ships. We did our best using buckets and rags, but before long, we were filthy. The stink in the mess deck became so bad, I got used to breathing through my mouth, just so I wouldn’t have to smell it.

  Early one morning, after nearly two weeks of working, eating and sleeping in wet clothing, we heard a shout from the crow’s nest. “Ireland! I can see the coast!”

  A cheer went up throughout the ship.

  We were all ecstatic, but so exhausted and sleep deprived that seeing that emerald strip of land rising out of the steely grey water felt like a dream.

  A career petty officer warned us, “All right, lads! We’re almost there. But don’t let your guard down. Even this close to port, there can be U-boats on the prowl. And now we’re in range of the Jerry bombers, so keep your eyes peeled.”

  “What do you say, O’Connell,” Ken quipped. “Shall we go upstairs and check the peashooters?”

  “Good idea,” I replied. Then we climbed up to the gun positions and test fired a few rounds on the Lewis machine guns. But despite the threat of German bombers, I knew we would soon be ashore, and I had to conceal my excitement.

  The next day we steamed up the Firth of Clyde to the base at Greenock, one of the main assembly points for the North Atlantic convoys. It was filled with British battleships, cruisers and everything on down, all of them bristling with guns. One of them was absolutely massive.

  A sub-lieutenant noticed me watching and filled us in. “That’s the Prince of Wales,” he said. “Seven hundred and forty-five feet long. She’ll do twenty-eight knots under full steam.” Twenty-eight knots — more than thirty miles an hour — was an impressive speed for a craft the length of three city blocks. The Prince of Wales weighed forty times more than the Wildrose, yet was nearly twice as fast. Its ten 14-inch guns looked incredibly powerful. Next to it, our corvette seemed like an overgrown bathtub toy, especially when the Royal Navy sailors lined up for inspection on the battleship’s deck in their crisp blue uniforms, while we wore our sweaty, filthy, slept-in clothing. I felt like a naïve, pathetic colonial who was lucky to have made it across the Atlantic alive.

  Chapter Four

  Mid-April 1941

  Greenock was where we and HMCS Wildrose were to part company. The ship would now be sent into the dockyard, where workers would fit it up with its 4-inch gun. There was no time for us to wait around. There were convoys returning to North America, and other escort ships in need of fresh crews. So we assumed that we’d be reassigned to a different ship, hopefully to something more potent this time, like a destroyer.

  Meanwhile the base at Greenock was well equipped, and we were at last able to wash up and get into some clean clothes. After we did, we stowed our kit and explored the town.

  “This is amazing,” I said to Ken. “I’ve heard more languages spoken in the first ten minutes here than I’ve heard in my entire life.”

  The place was buzzing with sailors whose countries had been overrun by the Nazis, but who had chosen to leave their families and homelands behind to come here and fight on. There were French, Dutch, Poles, Norwegians, Danes and Greeks in addition to us Canadians, the New Zealanders, the Aussies and the Brits.

  Interesting as Greenock was, Glasgow, the biggest city in Scotland, was just up the river and that was too tempting to resist. Ken and I boarded a train in Greenock and in less than an hour had reached downtown Glasgow. The streets were bustling and full of life. People were shopping, working, going about their business. I immediately noticed that sailors and other armed forces personnel mixed with the civilians. It wasn’t like Halifax, where the local people avoided us, and we sailors were expected to keep to our own area. Even so, I was surprised when a woman carrying groceries paused, took a look at our shoulder flashes and said, “Good to have you here, Canada.” Then she reached out and touched both our collars in turn.

  “Thanks, glad to be here,” I said. I was happy for the warm welcome, but a bit taken aback. Still, it was a nice change from Halifax.

  “Funny the way she touched our collars,” said Ken.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Maybe we remind her of her sons?”

  Ken grinned. “Then I must remind her of the handsome one.”

  “More likely the mouthy one,” I replied.

  We were eager to find something fun to do. The Navy hadn’t provided any recreational facilities for us in Halifax. It had only one movie theatre so there were always long lineups. If we didn’t get to the theatre well ahead of time, we usually couldn’t get in. So Ken and I were glad to finally be in a place that was full of music, cafés and cinemas. Walking along a downtown street, we spotted a movie marquee and posters for not one but two movies that were playing simultaneously in separate theatres. The first was for a movie called The Sea Wolf. It was about people in dire circumstances on a sealing ship.

  “Dire circumstances on a ship?” Ken snorted. “No thanks!”

  “No kidding,” I agreed. “We can get that for free on the Wildrose. We don’t need to pay to see a movie about it.”

  Our eyes immediately drifted ove
r to the other poster, for a movie called High Sierra. On it was a picture of an upcoming actor named Humphrey Bogart. He glared out from the poster with a tough-guy expression and held two Colt .45 calibre pistols, one in each hand.

  “Jeez, that guy’s packing more firepower than the entire Wildrose,” I said.

  “Maybe they should stick him in a canoe and send him out against the Krauts,” Ken shot back.

  We had a good laugh over that, then bought our tickets and got into line.

  While we were standing there, an elderly man emerged from the busy pub next door. As he passed us he smiled and said, “Enjoy the film, Canada.” He reached out and touched my collar, then ambled off down the street.

  I looked at Ken. “That’s really weird. That’s the second time somebody’s touched my collar since we got here.”

  Suddenly I heard a young woman’s voice right behind me. “Didn’t you know, Canada? It’s good luck to touch a sailor’s collar.”

  I turned and saw a girl about my age, grinning at me. I tripped over my words, but I managed to blurt out, “It’s good luck?”

  “Well, normally it is, but I suppose it depends on the sailor,” she answered. She and her friend started to laugh. “So I hope you’re lucky,” she continued as she reached out and touched my collar.

  “I hope so too,” I said. “This is my shipmate, Ken Luke, and my name’s Bill O’Connell.”

  “I’m Aileen Henderson, and this is Heather Murray,” she responded.

  “So what do you do on your ship?” Heather asked Ken.

  “I’m a small-arms expert. Bill is our chief gunner.”

  “A gunner?” Aileen exclaimed. “Firing a big cannon? That’s impressive,” she said with a hint of mock admiration. “What kind is it?”

  I started to answer, about to tell her that it would normally be a 4-inch gun.

  But Ken jumped in. “Actually, Bill hasn’t been given a gun yet.”