My wife, by this time, was thoroughly enjoying the War. But I’d an idea that another war was coming, and I wasn’t very far wrong. When we got to the hotel my wife went inside to do the chaffering whilst the crowd paraded past the cab window. I took off my smock. Not a bit ashamed they just peeped round through the window. As last, completely fed up, I got out of the cab, and stood on the steps of the hotel to give them a really good view. Apparently they decided then and there that I was a German spy, and that, without a shadow of a doubt.
My wife came out with the information that they would take us in. But I decided that if I was going to be stared at, or run in, it was not going to be in those ridiculous clothes. So back on board I went and changed into mufti. Of course, that completely tore it. There was not a shadow of doubt left that I had at least a couple of German Cruisers, if not in my pocket, then they were on board the smack, which as I have said, hailed from Brixham.
I wasn’t a bit surprised when the Chief officer of Coastguards called with his retinue, no doubt supported by the local constabulary secreted behind the door. In the meantime I had tucked away a much needed meal, and in consequence, my somewhat vivid welcome to Brixham had to some extent paled, with the result that explanations followed and we were soon good friends and we remained good friends throughout the time I had that patrol.
The Flag Captain was the culprit, he had completely forgotten to notify anyone.
My wife enlisted the local padre and made one or two useful enquiries regarding Penlee House (where I had discovered the steps) whlst I had a nose round from the seaward side.
The unanimous opinion of our committee of three was that we did not like the look of the place one bit, and I reported back to the C. in C. to that effect. “All right, that’s fine. Take the Kermac. Keep our eye on the coast I’ve given you, and the spot you mention in particular. Push off, but don’t get foul of the Military authorities ashore, if you can possibly avoid it.
Being “in all respects ready for sea,” I found myself outside Plymouth Breakwater, Captain of the Iceland trawler Kermac armed to the teeth with a Six-pounder and ready to do battle with the best. Also I had been presented with a nice selection of foreign flags, any one of which I was at liberty to dangle in front of a prowling periscope, as an inducement for him to come up and be sunk. “But you must be careful to break out the White Ensign and haul down your foreign colours before you actually open fire.”
Well, that was all right. The orders were quite sound, and I daresay the precaution necessary. All the same, I should have been sorry for the sub that relied upon our choice of the correct flag being hoisted at the precise and exact moment.
As a first effort we went steaming gaily past a War signal station under the Dutch colours, and never saw his frantic signals challenging our identity. Of course this extremely suspicious occurrence was instantly flashed far and wide. “Look out for suspicious vessel passing up the coast flying Dutch colours.” “Stop and examine her.” As it happened we did not pass up the coast; I suddenly took a notion, when off the Start, to push off into mid channel for the night, on the off-chance of falling in with some sort of adventure
When it was discovered we had disappeared into the blue, then everyone got on their toes and at least one division of Destroyers was despatched to take up the chase. We fell foul of this little lot at daylight next morning, just as we were about to enter Dartmouth, after our night’s outing. No doubt the Destroyer Skippers were also on edge after being kept out on a wild goose chase all night. Still that was no sort of excuse for opening fire before they even got in range. Probably they were a bit befogged after being at sea so many hours, and it didn’t dawn on them that once inside Dartmouth I should be reasonably safe, as I could not very well disappear overland or even up the Dart, drawing over sixteen feet. However, having successfully carried out the intricate manњuvre of surrounding me, with guns and torpedo-tubes, trained to a nicety in case I did take an ill-advised notion to suddenly submerge or even rise out of the water and vanish into the clouds — the representative of the Senior Officer of the Division came on board, and with due solemnity I escorted him to my cabin and stood him a drink.
Penlee Point is a cliff rising sheer out of the sea, and Penlee House sits thereon facing seaward. Day by day, and week by week our suspicious increased until at last one night I happened to see the occupants flagrantly signalling out to sea with coloured lights. I was now absolutely certain that the house was being used for imparting information to submarines off shore, but I kept the information to myself in the hopes of being able to bag the submarine. It was more than likely there was only one submarine working here at a time. It is a rocky and risky bit of coast, and for some time I was puzzled to account to the accuracy of navigation that would let a submarine approach with the certainty of getting into the exact line of light for receiving signals. The method of signalling was such that unless you were in the precise line of light the signals were absolutely invisible. I happened on the solution to that purely by chance.
We had been over towards the French Coast one night, and were returning in the early morning as usual to Dartmouth — which I used as a sub-base. Just as daylight was breaking, we picked up the English coastline, which I examined very closely, trying to locate Berry Head or the Start, in order to get the rough bearing on the entrance to the Dart. By and by the sun rose and it shone directly on the land ahead, which showed up in a black irregular line. But on this black hillside I could make out through my glasses a distinct, short, vertical white line, looking all the whiter by contrast with the surrounding blackness. As we approached, this white line became still more and more distinct. From the bearing of Berry Head and the Start (by now well in sight) I knew we must be heading just about direct for the mouth of the Dart, and therefore, this white line must be on the hillside just outside Dartmouth, and above Penlee Point.
Now, back of Penlee House, the main road runs, and on the other side of the road is steep rising ground, and on the hillside there are three houses which had always seemed to have an odd look about them, but up to that time I had not been able to put my finger on where the oddness lay. I now discovered that their odd look was due to the fact that they were painted all white. White fronts, white roofs, and even white chimneys. Coming in from the sea these three houses formed a distinct white line, which if kept in line led you direct to the steps at the base of the cliff. At night, a light in the centre window of each house, kept in line would not only lead in, but would give you the precise distance off the land, when the ridge of the roof of the house in front cut off the light of the house behind. Perfectly simple. Absolutely effective.
A very sore point with the Brixham fishermen was that Start Bay had been closed for years to trawlers, although this bay is noted for its very fine soles. Across this sheltered bay runs a sandy shoal, protecting it from a swell from seaward. Here was the submarine’s base, from where she operated in perfect immunity, whilst from the house she got her information as to what ships were expected up and down channel.
It was from here that she obtained her information that H.M.S. Formidable was bound down channel. She waited for her off the Start, and sunk her with pretty heavy loss of life. When that took place, then things did begin to move a bit, but up until then I had steadily bucked my head against the brick wall of Navy Customs and traditions. I was loath to tell all I knew for fear that I should scare my bird away before I could catch her. That nearly happened after telling the C. in C. about some of the signalling I had seen at times. As it had taken place from the shore I suppose etiquette compelled him to inform the O. C. troops of the district. Be that as it may, the very next morning, two British heroes mounted on their chargers, in full uniform, Sam Browns and swords complete, rode up to Penlee House, knocked, and demanded to be told “Why had they been signalling out to sea, and to whom?” The inhabitants of the house were unreasonably reticent, for I don’t believe they told a word about the submarine!