If there happened to be any sort of a breeze from the N.E., then every member of the crew was more than satisfied to get back to the quiet of the buoy, fish manure notwithstanding.
What a coast it is in a N.E. Gale. To zigzag along with a Convoy, day after day, doing a bare 8 knots is enough the try the stomach of a lion and the heart of a Saint, and what a sight to see those forty-odd ships constituting the Convoy picking up their anchors and, one by one, steaming out round the Spurn as daylight broke and into the driving gale. One minute in a mill pond, the next diving and thrashing about with clouds of spray flying across the decks.
As S.O., we had to wait (and how willingly we waited) under the lee of the Spurn, till the last ship had picked up and got out. Convoy orders from the Convoy officer delivered on board and then we were for it. A cold winter’s morning and sea like nothing on earth. Out we would have to go, with nothing for the next couple of days and nights but roll, roll, roll. The one saving grace of the bad weather was that it made it impossible for the submarines to attack with any degree of accuracy. Furthermore, if an attack were made anywhere near the surface, there was a ten to one chance that her conning tower would show between the seas and that would soon put paid to her little efforts.
It was bad enough on the surface, but it must have been hell for those chaps under water. No wonder one heard of all sorts of wheezes to get rid of their Mouldies and return to the Fatherland. Still, by far the majority of their ships were manned by men of pluck and resource, the only pity being, that it was expended on such an unworthy cause.
The man that could sink a merchantman, from below the surface, without giving him the ghost of a chance, must have had a mentality lower than the worst aborigine and heaven knows, they glory in some pretty flthy practices.
Anyhow, that was my feeling about them and their work, so I suppose there was little wonder that when one did surrender to us, I refused to accept the hands-up business. In fact it was simply amazing that they should have had the infernal audacity to offer to surrender, in view of their ferocious and pitiless attacks on our merchant ships.
Destroyer versus Destroyer, as in the Dover Patrol, was fair game and no favour. One could meet them and take them on as a decent antagonist. But towards the submarine men, one felt an utter disgust and loathing; they were nothing but an abomination, polluting the clean sea.
We had made the usual rendezvous “somewhere in the North Sea.” Picked up our Convoy and had got nearly down to the Tyne. Forty odd ships, four Destroyers, six M.L.’s, six armed trawlers, one Convoy Leader and two Seaplanes. (The latter needed nearly as much looking after as the ships, for they were forever coming to grief.) Up until then we had not lost one ship, although there had been some pretty sharp attacks. We were cruising steadily along when suddenly up shot a periscope between the Garry and the Destroyer, zigzagging off the leading ships, just where he would come up to take his shot. Instantly the order was given “Full speed, Action.” The Garry leapt ahead of where we had sighted him and down went the first Depth Charge, almost immediately followed with a second, a third, and a fourth.
Had he fired? Would we see that terrific column of water leap up alongside one of our ships, to be followed by that metallic, clanging crash, signaling the doom of yet another victim to one of these unsporting beasts. Suddenly the lookout on the searchlight platform bellowed at the top of his voice: “Submarine breaking surface on the port quarter, sir.” Sure enough, our last Depth Charge had brought him up. “Hard aport. Submarine red one — two-o. Five hundred yards. Independent, Open Fire.” Having set that ball rolling, I then turned my attention to the good old Garry. By now she was dancing up to her 20 knots and swinging her head round in the direction of the enemy. Would he come to the surface and retaliate with his heavier metal, or would he submerge before we could get at him. The forward 12-pdr. settled the question as to whether he would or could submerge, by a direct hit at the base of his conning tower. Now the other guns were getting the range, but so far, what with the ship swinging so rapidly and increasing speed, accurate shooting was impossible. Now the submarine was coming still more to the surface.
“We shall get him. Steady the helm. Steer straight at him Coxswain.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” comes the quiet reply and the Garry tears through the water with ever-increasing speed.
Four, three, two hundred yards. At one hundred the order was,
“Prepare to ram.”
And, with a crash, we are on him. Now there is no question about losing him. All the same it was a glancing blow, though it has ripped our own bows wide open. Has it ripped him up sufficiently to put him out of action?
“Hard-aport, Coxswain.” And round we go again.
Shall I risk another run at him , as he is still showing up on the surface? I knew the Garry’s bows must have been seriously damaged and mainly under water. Still, at all costs, he must not escape, so, once again we race through the water and settle the matter by hitting again and this time ripping her up completely and ourselves as well. Down went “U ll0" where she belonged, (last — according to Von Lucknow — to be sunk in the war) and down we went by the bows.
I left the rescue work to the others, who picked up fifteen out of the water and then took stock of the damage we had sustained. No doubt it was serious and the vital question now was, should we beach her, make for the nearest port, or should we chance it and try and get back to our base in the Humber?
After holding a council of war we decided that we might just about be able to float long enough if we proceeded slowly stern first throughout the night, for the hundred odd miles that lay between us and the Spurn. Having made the decision we started off, but that night stands out as one of the most anxious nights I have ever put in and I have had a few.
If I got her back and rounded off the job, so much to the good and all the more credit. If she couldn’t float and I had to beach her, she would probably be pounded to pieces and I should be blamed for not making for the nearest port. If she sank out of hand I should get soundly scrubbed for the same reason — and heaven alone help me if I lost any lives in the process.
Well, we tommed down the forward mess decks above where the bottom had been ripped out, shored up bulkheads, and hoped for the best. We could make just 8 knots, and signaled our base to that effect, “Returning under own power stern first eight knots.” The signal that we had rammed twice and sunk a submarine had already gone through and, as I was told afterwards, the Engineer-Admiral brought all his influence to bear for us to be ordered into the Tyne. His contention being that having rammed the submarine twice, we couldn’t possibly float all through the night let alone navigate her back to the Humber. Naturally the Admiral and Captain “D” wanted her back and , as thy told me later, “they knew I would get her back if I could and anyway I had been long enough at sea to decide for myself just what was best to do.”