At last, “Sights are on, sir,” and before the words were out of his mouth, bang! and away went the first tracer with its little trail of fire. “Over. Down fifty. Fire!” “Hit!” yelled everyone as the tracer went clean through the Zepp’s tail. He was now trying his utmost to get out of range. “Independent,” yelled the Gunner, and away with another bang goes the next shell. “Hit again,” reports the Gunner.
How on earth we didn’t set him on fire and bring him down, heaven alone knows. Just absolute rotten bad luck.
Then he tried to get us and at the same time lighten himself by dropping his bombs, for there was no doubt that he was badly hit. Another shot gets him and he dips sharply by the tail. “He’s coming down,” shouts everyone, now thoroughly worked up. But he wasn’t. Down came a rain of bombs instead, all exploding as they hit the water, like a Brock’s benefit and Crystal Palace show rolled into one. He’d had enough of it, and was throwing everything overboard, in a frantic effort to escape. By the flash from our gun, he saw where the shots were coming from; so he turned his tail towards us, giving, in the darkness, an impossible target. In the end, he managed to get away.
But London was spared that little lot. I was given the D.S.C. whilst our friend Zepp, went back and reported having “Sunk a destroyer in the mouth of the Thames.”
I was then promoted to the one and only Dover Patrol. I’m afraid I did not appreciate the honour, and kicked about the shift; just when I was nicely settled in the N.D.F. with my family housed at Minster (on the mud!)
“Did I fully realise what it meant to be singled out for a Destroyer of the Dover Patrol?” etc., etc., in the very best naval circumstance and style. Well, no, I certainly did not, but “orders was orders” and I might as well get on with the job.
So, once more, the family packed its grip, and moved along to No. 8, East Cliff, Dover, whilst I reported to the H.Q. and was greeted as follows: —
“Oh yes, Lightoller. Well, you are of course appointed to the Falcon. She’s over in Dunkirk working up the Belgian Coast. Carry on, please.” With which full, complete information and instructions I was introduced to the intricacies of the Dover Patrol.
The first thing was to find something to convey me across Channel. The Duty Destroyer filled the bill there, landing me in Dunkirk late that evening. I soon spotted a neat little craft lying alongside one of those contraptions of modern warfare — a 13 in. Monitor. The little craft was H.M.S. Falcon, of a type commonly known as the “30 knotters.” Not a great deal of space, unencumbered by guns and torpedo tubes, but palatial, particularly below decks, compared with the Torpedo Boat I had just left. A fair sized wardroom, and best of all, my own cabin to sulk in.
After the usual formalities of taking over from the previous Captain had been got through, the next thing was to try and get to know my own crew. Rightly or wrongly I always like to size up each man individually for myself. Furthermore I had a strong objection to the splendid isolation usually enjoyed by the Captain of H.M. Ships. Not through any particular desire to rip up hoary naval traditions, but the times being what they were, to my mind a unit was nearer her peak of fighting efficiency when there was confidence and close touch throughout the ship. This applies more, perhaps to a Destroyer (particularly when on more or less special service, as we were) than on a big ship, where everything must be based just on routine — though frankly I think a lot of said routine could be dispensed with without any loss of fighting efficiency.
The fact that I leaned pretty solidly on experience gained through long service in the Mercantile Marine, led to some comical patches at odd times. For one thing, I expected each man to think for himself, and, in an emergency, to act for himself. For instance, all the guns were kept loaded with just the handle of the breech mechanism lever withdrawn just sufficiently to break contact with the striker. To bring the gun into action, all a man had to do, was to push the lever home, and press the firing trigger. The idea being that if at any moment, a submarine, or, what was more likely, a periscope, broke the surface, the man who spotted her — and he was just as likely to be one of the hands round the decks as one of the proper lookouts — would swing the nearest gun, roughly in that direction, push home the B.M. lever, and fire. This, instead of the recognized method of dashing to the Officer of the Watch, and making his report to the bridge, and by the time the report had made its round the submarine was down again in the vasty deep.
The effect of a man jumping to the nearest gun and firing, was that the whole ship was instantly on the alert; everyone, including the O.O.W. heard the shot, and he dashed to that side of the bridge, knowing at once that a sub. had been sighted, and by the fall of shot he knew the direction in which it had been seen. All this was encompassed in just a couple of seconds of time.
Although this terrible departure from Naval customs distressed many of the R.N. officers and petty officers, they had, in the long run, to admit that it achieved its object, by instantly concentrating everybody’s sight and sense on one certain spot of water. The only man who would never admit the slightest element of good in the scheme was the wardroom steward; but he was prejudiced through unwisely standing too near the breech of a six-pounder, when one of the stokers loosed off, at what later turned out to be a porpoise. The steward got the breech of the gun in the small of his back, which successfully knocked out all the wind, and what little sense he had.
The Patrol’s ordinary job was, of course, to hold the Straits. Our secondary job was to journey up the Belgian coast and annoy the ubiquitous Hun; at the same time protecting the left flank of the British Army, which by now, rested on the sand dunes not far from Dunkirk itself.
To protect our ships, whilst on patrol, from attack by submarine from shoreward, there was a long line of mined nets. The Destroyers, in addition to forming a screen for the big ships, had to keep an eye on those nets, and light special acetylene lamps on Dan Buoys, so that our own submarines could navigate with a degree of reasonable safety at night.
Periodically, the whole Flotilla would indulge in exchanging a bit of hate with the shore batteries. By way of return, the German Destroyers would raid us. But this was usually at night time when the big Monitors were in the harbour. The latter’s 13 and 15 in. guns were just a bit too heavy for them, though they did work out a very successful scheme to annoy us, when there was not enough water for the Monitors to get inside the harbour. They evolved what we called an Electric Motor Boat, commonly known as an EMB. These were driven by internal combustion, and directed electrically from the shore by a wire attached to the boat. In the stern was a reel of wire miles long which supplied direction. An aeroplane formed the guiding star and gave directions by wireless back to the station ashore. In the bows, the E.M.B. carried a high explosive charge and traveled at some thirty knots. In consequence it was almost impossible to hit her. With us Destroyers we could always get out of the way, by either heaving up, if there was time, or slipping our cables if there wasn’t. With the unwieldy Monitors it was another matter, for they could neither slip, nor move quickly enough to dodge. The result was, they would see the feather of foam (which was all that could be seen of the E.M.B.), and then they promptly loosed off with every gun they possessed, with every hope, but little prospect, of registering a hit. Of course, the Monitor had its blister, or bulge, round the water line, so there was really no fear of her being actually sunk. But, as in one case, the E.M.B. came charging along, everybody blazing away with really more danger to themselves than the precious boat — and hit the Terror’s blister a glancing blow, leapt clean up and out of the water, exploding on her upper works. No small amount of damage ensued. Forthwith written suggestions were called for from all the Captains of the Dover Patrol, working up the Belgian Coast, as to the best manner of dealing with this “menace.”