We were Senior Ship so I had to make the decision.
Well, I made up my mind I was going to try for Dunkirk and the night in, but the Racehorse could please herself. I would not hoist the “One Pennant A,” which means “Form Line Ahead,” or in other words a definite order for him to take station astern. I gave him a compass signal which merely indicated what course I was intending to steer and the speed, viz. twenty knots. He could then make his choice as to whether he would take a chance and follow us, or go into Dover.
Frankly, I did not think he would come, so jumped right off into the fog at twenty knots as I was a bit surprised to see him a little later loom up astern, having picked up our wake and followed it up till he sighted us.
Two fools instead of one!
We must steer straight for Calais, this being the only reasonable course. Make Calais Green buoy, a mile off shore and then turn up along the coast and try, as best we could, to strike the entrance to the Gravelines Channel, between the side of the minefield and the shore. It would have been utterly crazy to have tried to strike the channel at an angle, on a straight line from Folkestone, as we then should, a thousand to one, either misjudge and run into the minefield, or overrun and hit the beach, which at the best of times is low and difficult to see. We calculated most carefully the exact time it would take us at 20 knots from the Folkestone Gate to Calais Green buoy; also the course and then let her go — trusting to a considerable element of luck not to ram anything meanwhile. If we ran our time and distance to the buoy, that should bring us a mile off shore and allow us exactly three minutes to come and go on, before she was due to pile up.
Time up, and still no buoy in sight.
“Let her run for a minute and three-quarters.”
That brought us within 500 yards of the beach, and heading for it at 20 knots.
Quite near enough, so immediately the 105 seconds was up and still no sign of the buoy, over went the helm, hard a starboard and up she came on to the course for Gravelines buoy, which we ought shortly to make on the port bow.
Time up again and no Gravelines Pile Buoy. Another half minute and I would show down and take a sounding.
Suddenly the gunner called out “There she is, sir,” and sure enough, there was the big Pile Buoy, but red instead of black. Number One was the first to spot the color and growled, “By God, it’s not Gravelines, it’s Haut Frond,” it was indeed, and we were just exactly in the middle of the minefield that had so successfully blown up five of our own ships already. All the officers were on the bridge and pretty well all hands on or around the decks, so everyone saw where we were and knew full what the chances were. We kept on at the 20 knots (it was the only thing to do) but brought her slowly round so as to disturb the mines as little as possible, till she was on the bearing for the Dyck Lightship; and then, just held our breath.
Would she go up or would she come through?
I stood facing aft to watch if the Racehorse went up, which to my mind would have been a worse catastrophe than gong up ourselves, for I had led her into it.
The relief when at last we sighted the Dyck and the still greater relief as the Racehorse swung round in our wake into the channel, can well be imagined. We were all right now and would get our valued “night in” in our bunks. Having made fast in Dunkirk with the Racehorse alongside, Welch, the Skipper of her, came on board to have dinner with me. “Damn good course you made, Lightoller.”
“Oh yes? See all the buoys?”
“All except Calais Green,” said he.
“Did you see Gravelines?”
“Of course, you went round it.”
I then told him, “We went round Haut Frond.”
He stared for a second, as the full meaning sank in and then, with a world of expression, just said, “Oh, Hell.”
Evidently we were not meant to add our names to the many who are represented by the memorials standing to-day, one on each side of the Channel. Silent testimony to the many brave fellows who played and lost. My own hat comes off, more especially, to the crews of the trawlers and drifters in the Dover Patrol. They were continually raided by Huns armed with the very latest guns, 4-2’s, fifteen to a salvo against the drifter’s puny little 6-pounder. Why, they hadn’t the proverbial cat’s chance. Even we destroyer chaps had little enough chance when we came up against a division of those modern Destroyers. But then we had some sort of armament to hit back with and anyway it was our specific job. Not so with the trawler and drifter men, they were just like sitting hens and the Huns deserved about the credit a sportsman would get in like circumstances.
However, we managed at last to put a stop to both the above and below water raids by instituting Lightships burning flares of three million candle power, at irregular intervals. These lit up the whole Straits. Added to this, we mined the Straits at varying depths, so that no submarine could venture below the surface at all. If she was on the surface when one of these lights went off, then she must dive, or be sunk by gunfire. If she dived, it was merely the worst choice of two evils, for she was almost certain to touch off one of the mines.
It effectually put a stop to their activities in the Straits of Dover and from then on the strain eased up considerably.
The Straits, from a weather point of view, is one of the very worst places in the world for a ship of the Destroyer type. The seas are just big enough for her to make the worst possible weather in the worst possible kind of sea. Actually it is the tremendous current that makes the sea so bad. I have seen the Falcon burying herself right up to the bridge, when only making about four knots. On some crossings a hand had to be stationed on the telegraphs all the time and the utmost speed we dared make at any time was three or four knots. Frequently I have had to stop and even then she would hardly ride up to those huge, wall-sided seas. I’ve had bad weather on the Atlantic and driven hard into it year after year, but I can safely say, even that was sometimes child’s play compared with what we had to contend with, during some of the S.W. gales in the Straits.
Those who had had Atlantic experience stood it best. Many of those who had not, simply cracked up. With the Skipper of one Destroyer, his hair went completely white.
Winter was naturally, much the worst and often I have come off the bridge after one of these nights and had to wash off with warm water, the thick crusted salt, that had gathered round my eyes during the night. If you rub any of that sea salt into your eyes, you certainly do know all about it. Having got rid of the thick of the salt one then proceeds to thaw out; for even with thick underclothes, a heavy suit and a suit of Duffle over all, the cold pierces through. You can go on the bridge at dusk all nicely dry and every stitch individually warmed, yet by about three a.m. the cold has got through everything and from then on till daybreak one gets steadily colder and stiffer.
I had two and a half years with the Falcon in the Patrol and though I enjoyed them, I think they were two of the hardest of my life. Even in the harbour of Dover, there was no rest day or night with a S.W. gale.
Whoever the bright boys were who designed that harbour and breakwaters, they certainly had not the remotest relation to sailors. If they had merely consulted anyone of the Cross Channel skippers and taken his advice, the harbour would not have been the ghastly failure it has since proved. Open, as it is to a S.W. gale, no small craft can lie there with the slightest degree of comfort. The tide has been allowed to sweep across the entrance, so that big ships cannot enter except at stated times and of course, mail boats (for which it was designed) cannot wait for these times. The net result is that it has been practically abandoned. Even Destroyers with all their immense engine power and ability to manњuvre, often found the utmost difficulty in picking up their moorings and making fast to the buoys. Many a time they would have to give it up and anchor in the Downs.