SHIPS AND ADVENTURES
Independence of character is a great asset in any leader of men, but it
is an essential, basic virtue when a man finds himself in command of a
ship: without such an attribute he is dominated either by his officers,
his own emotions, or the vagaries of chance. In the case of a Q-ship
captain, this aloofness was raised to a greater degree of importance
by reason of the special nature of the work. Can you think of any
situation more solitary and lonely than this? There are, of course,
all kinds and conditions of loneliness. There is the loneliness of
the airman gliding through celestial heights; there is the loneliness
of the man in the crowd; there is the loneliness of the sentry, of
the hermit, of the administrator in the desert. But I can conceive of
nothing so solitary as the Q-ship captain lying alone on the planking
of his bridge, patiently waiting and watching through a slit in the
canvas the manœuvres of an artful U-boat.
Such a figure is morally and physically alone. He is the great brain
of the ship; at his word she is transformed from a tramp to a warship.
It is he who has to take the fateful, and perhaps fatal, decision;
and to none other can he depute this responsibility as long as life
lasts. Only a big character, strong and independent, can tackle such a
proposition. Alone, too, he is physically. Most of his men have left
the ship and are over there in the boats, sometimes visible on the
top of the wave, sometimes obliterated in the trough. The rest of his
crew are somewhere below the bridge, under the bulwarks, at their guns,
crouching out of sight. His officers are at their respective stations,
forward, aft, and amidships, connected to him by speaking-tubes, but
otherwise apart. He himself, arbiter of his own fate, his men, and his
ship, has to fight against a dozen contending impulses, and refuse
to be panic-stricken, hasty, or impetuous. This much is expected of
him; his crew are relying on him blindly, absolutely. However, by
long years of experience and moulding of character he has learnt the
power of concentration and of omitting from his imagination the awful
possibilities of failure. Before putting to sea, and whilst on patrol,
he has envisaged every conceivable circumstance and condition likely
to occur. He has mentally allowed for every move of the submarine, for
the wounding of his own ship: and he has had the ship’s action stations
thus worked out. Accidents will, of course, occur to spoil any routine,
though some of these, such as the breakdown of the wireless and the
bursting of a gun, or the jamming of a screen, may be foreseen and
allowed for.
But after all that could be prepared for has been done, there
always remains some awkward possibility which the wit of man can
never foresee. Take the incident of the Q-ship _Ravenstone_, which
was commissioned as a Q-ship on June 26, 1917, under the name of
_Donlevon_. A month later she was torpedoed one afternoon in the
Atlantic, 40 miles south of the Fastnet. Fortunately there were no
casualties, and fortunately, too, the ship did not straight away
founder. There was a heavy sea running, and she was soon down by
the head; but she was also prevented from using her engines, for the
torpedo had struck her in No. 2 hold, and the force of the explosion
had lifted and thrown overboard from the fore well-deck a 7-inch hemp
hawser. This had fallen into the sea, floated aft, and there fouled
the propeller so effectually that the ship could go neither ahead
nor astern. It was a most annoying predicament, but who could have
foreseen it? The submarine apparently ‘hopped it,’ for she made no
further attack, and one of Admiral Bayly’s sloops, H.M.S. _Camelia_,
stood by _Donlevon_, and from Berehaven arrived the tug _Flying Spray_,
who got her in tow. Another sloop, the _Myosotis_, had her in tow for
thirty-one hours, handling her so well in the heavy sea that, in spite
of _Donlevon_ being down by the head and steering like a mad thing,
she safely arrived in Queenstown, and was afterwards paid out of the
Service. Ten thousand pounds’ worth of damage had been done.
In the early summer of 1917, at a time when the United States Navy had
just begun to help us with their destroyers and the enemy was hoping
very shortly to bring us ‘to our knees,’ we had thirteen different
Q-ships based on Queenstown. There was the converted sloop _Aubrietia_,
commanded by Admiral Marx, M.V.O., D.S.O., who, in spite of his years,
had come back to the Service and accepted a commission as captain
R.N.R. For a time he was in command of H.M. armed yacht _Beryl_,
owned by Lord Inverclyde. From this command he transferred to the
more exciting work of decoying submarines, and it is amusing when one
thinks of an admiral pretending to be the skipper of a little tramp. Of
this thirteen there was Captain Grenfell’s _Penshurst_, about which
the reader has already been informed. Captain Gordon Campbell was in
_Pargust_, and Commander Leopold A. Bernays, C.M.G., was in _Vala_. The
latter was one of the most unusual personalities in a unique service.
Before the war he had left the Navy and gone to Canada, where he had
some pretty tough adventures. On the outbreak of war he joined up, and
crossed to England as a soldier, but managed to get transferred quite
early to a mine-sweeping trawler, where he did magnificent work month
after month; first in sweeping up the mine-field laid off Scarborough
at the time of the German raid, December, 1914, and afterwards in
clearing up the difficult Tory Island minefield, which had been laid by
_Berlin_ in October, 1914, but was not rendered safe for many months
afterwards. When in the summer of 1915 a British minesweeping force was
required for Northern Russia, Bernays was sent out with his trawlers.
Here, with his usual thoroughness and enthusiasm, he set to work, and
again performed most valuable service, and buoyed a safe channel for
the ships carrying munitions from England to voyage in safety.
But Bernays was no respecter of persons, especially of those who were
not keen on their job. With Russian dilatoriness and inefficiency,
and in particular with the Russian admiral, he soon found himself
exasperated beyond measure. His own trawlers were working in the most
strenuous fashion, whereas the Russians seemed only to be thwarting
instead of helping, and at any rate were not putting their full weight
into the contest. I do not know whether the yarn about Bernays in
exasperation pulling the beard of the overbearing Russian admiral is
true, but there was a big row, and Bernays came back to England,
though for his good work he received the coveted British order C.M.G.
After further minesweeping off the Scotch coast, where once more he
distinguished himself, he came to Queenstown to serve in his Q-ship.
Here he went about his job in his usual fearless manner, and on one
occasion had played a submarine as he used to play a fish. He had
slowed down, and the U-boat was coming nicely within range, when just
as everything was ready for the bait to be swallowed, up came a United
States destroyer at high speed to ‘rescue’ this ‘tramp.’ The submarine
was frightened away, and _Vala_ lost her fish. Then one day Bernays
took _Vala_ on another cruise. What happened exactly we do not know,
but evidently a submarine got her, and sank her without a trace, for
neither ship nor crew was ever heard of again.
Bernays was just the man for Q-ship work. He was one whom you would
describe as a ‘rough customer,’ who might have stepped out of a Wild
West cinema. A hard swearer in an acquired American accent, in port
also a hard drinker; but on going to sea he kept everything locked up,
and not even his officers were allowed to touch a drop till they got
back to harbour. The first time I met him was at 3 o’clock one bitterly
cold winter’s morning in Grimsby. It was blowing a gale of wind and
it was snowing. Some of his minesweepers had broken adrift and come
down on to the top of my craft, and were doing her no good. There was
nothing for it but to rouse Bernays. His way of handling men, and these
rough North Sea fishermen, was a revelation. It was a mixture of hard
Navy, Prussianism, and Canadian ‘get-to-hell-out-of-this-darned-hole.’
There was no coaxing in his voice; every syllable was a challenge to
a fight. On the forebridge of his trawler he used to keep a bucket
containing lumps of coal, and in giving an order would at times
accentuate his forcible and coloured words by heaving a lump at any of
his slow-thinking crew.
Having said all this, you may wonder there was never a mutiny; but
such a state of affairs was the last thing that could ever happen in
any of Bernays’ ships. From a weak man the crew would not have stood
this treatment a day, but they understood him, they respected him,
they loved him, and in his command of the English tongue they realized
that he was like unto themselves, but more adept. Follow him? They
followed him everywhere—through the North Sea, through Russian and
Irish minefields, and relied on him implicitly. And this regard was
mutual, for in spite of his rugged manner Bernays had a heart, and he
thought the world of his crew. I remember how pleased he was the day
he was ordered to go to the dangerous Tory Island minefield. ‘But I’m
not going without my old crew; they’re the very best in the world.’
Bernays, as an American officer once remarked, ‘certainly was some
tough proposition,’ but he knew no cowardice; he did his brave duty,
and he rests in a sailor’s grave.
Another of these thirteen was the converted sloop _Begonia_, commanded
by Lieut.-Commander Basil S. Noake, R.N., an officer of altogether
different temperament. Keen and able, yet courteous and gentle of
manner, tall, thin, and suffering somewhat from deafness, this gallant
officer, too, paid the great penalty. For _Begonia_ was destined to
have no ordinary career. Built as a minesweeping sloop, she carried
out escort and patrol work until one day she was holed, but managed
to get into Queenstown. Here she was repaired and transformed into a
decoy, with a counter added instead of her cruiser stern, and with
the addition of derricks and so on she was a very clever deception.
During one cruise she was evidently a victim to the enemy, for she
disappeared, too.
The remaining ships of this thirteen were the _Acton_ (Lieut.-Commander
C. N. Rolfe, R.N.), _Zylpha_ (Lieut.-Commander John K. McLeod,
R.N.), _Cullist_ (Lieut.-Commander S. H. Simpson, D.S.O., R.N.),
_Tamarisk_ (Lieut.-Commander John W. Williams, D.S.O., R.N.R.),
_Viola_ (Lieut.-Commander F. A. Frank, D.S.O., R.N.R.), _Salvia_
(Lieut.-Commander W. Olphert, D.S.O., D.S.C., R.N.R.), _Laggan_
(Lieutenant C. J. Alexander, R.N.R.), and _Heather_ (Lieutenant Harold
Auten, R.N.R.). In this list there is scarcely a name that did not
receive before the end of the war at least one D.S.O., while two of
them received the Victoria Cross.
_Acton_ had an indecisive duel with a submarine on August 20, 1917. It
was a fine day with a calm sea when the enemy was sighted, and on being
attacked _Acton_ abandoned ship. In order to make this doubly real,
fire-boxes were started in the well-deck, and steam leakage turned on,
which made the ship look as if she were on fire. The enemy inspected
the ship closely, so closely in fact that he actually collided with
_Acton_, shaking the latter fore and aft. But after he had come to the
surface and _Acton_ opened fire, hitting, loud shouts came from the
conning-tower, and he submerged, thus escaping. _Acton_ went on with
her work until the end of hostilities.
_Zylpha_ and _Cullist_ both had tragic ends to their careers. _Zylpha_
was a 2,917-ton steamer, built at Sunderland in 1894, and had been
commissioned as a Q-ship as far back as October, 1915. Early in June,
1917, she steamed along the south Irish coast and then out into the
Atlantic, as if bound for New York. On June 11, at 9.45 a.m., when
about 200 miles from the Irish coast, she was torpedoed by a submarine
that was never seen again, and totally disabled. Her engines had
stopped for the last time, and the sea had poured in, though her
closely-packed cargo of wood was at present keeping her afloat. Having
‘bleated’ with her wireless, one of the United States destroyers, based
on Queenstown, proceeded to her assistance. This was the _Warrington_,
and she stood by the ship for a whole twenty-four hours—from 2 p.m. of
the eleventh until 2.30 p.m. of the twelfth. By the time _Warrington_
had arrived _Zylpha’s_ engine-room and boiler-rooms were already awash,
Nos. 2 and 3 holds flooded, the wireless out of action, and one man
killed. The _Warrington_ kept patrolling round her, requested a tug by
wireless, and went on zigzagging through the long hours. By the evening
_Zylpha_ was in a bad way, and the Atlantic swell was seriously shaking
the bulkheads, but she was still afloat next morning. By this time the
_Warrington_, who had been some time on patrol, was running short of
oil, so, at 2.30 p.m., regretfully had to return to harbour for fuel.
This was a sad blow to the _Zylpha_ people, but whilst waiting for the
arrival of the U.S. destroyer _Drayton_ and two Queenstown tugs which
were being sent to her, _Zylpha_ actually made sail with what little
canvas she had, and made good at 1-1/2 knots. At noon of the fourteenth
she was picked up by H.M. sloop _Daffodil_, and was then taken in tow.
Next day, at 1 p.m., tugs reached her, but she could not last out
the night, and, after having been towed for most of 200 miles, she
gradually sank when quite near to the west coast, finally disappearing
at 11.20 p.m. near the Great Skelligs. So ended _Zylpha_.
_Cullist_ was commanded by an officer who had served a long time off
this coast in a sloop. Her real name was the _Westphalia_, but she was
also known as the _Jurassic_, _Hayling_, and _Prim_. She was of 1,030
gross tons, and in the spring of 1917 was lying at Calais, when she was
requisitioned and sent to Pembroke Naval Dockyard to be fitted out. She
was commissioned on May 12 by Lieut.-Commander Simpson, and Admiral
Bayly then sent her to cruise along certain trade routes. She was
capable of steaming about 10 knots, and was armed with a 4-inch and two
12-pounder guns, as well as a couple of torpedo-tubes, and all these
had been well concealed. A few weeks later, on July 13, _Cullist_ was
between the Irish and French coasts, and it was just after 1 p.m. when
a submarine appeared on the horizon.
About two minutes later the enemy from very long range opened fire,
but as his shots were falling about 3,000 yards short, he increased
speed towards the _Cullist_. By 1.30 a large merchant ship was seen
coming up from the south, so _Cullist_ hoisted the signal ‘You are
standing into danger,’ whereupon the big steamer altered course away.
_Cullist_ then zigzagged, keeping always between sun and enemy, and by
dropping eight smoke-boxes at various intervals succeeded in enticing
the submarine down to a range of 5,000 yards, a distance which was
maintained for the rest of the action. From 1.45 the enemy continually
straddled _Cullist_ so that the decks were wet with the splashes, and
shell splinters were rattling on masts and deck. By 2.7 the enemy
had fired sixty-eight rounds, but had not hit once. _Cullist_ now
decided to engage, and her third round was seen to hit just below the
submarine’s gun, the remainder hitting regularly along the deck and on
the conning-tower, causing bright red flames which rose higher than
the conning-tower. Three minutes after _Cullist_ had opened fire the
enemy sank by the bows in flames, and then the ship steamed to the spot
and dropped a depth charge. Three of _Cullist’s_ crew saw a corpse
dressed in blue dungarees, floating face upwards, but the submarine was
never seen again. By 3.30 H.M.S. _Christopher_ arrived on the scene
and both ships searched for the enemy. He was evidently seriously
damaged, but he had made his escape. Lieut.-Commander Simpson, for
this engagement, was awarded a D.S.O; Lieutenant G. Spencer, R.N.R., a
D.S.C.; Sub-Lieutenant G. H. D. Doubleday, R.N.R., also a D.S.C.; while
two other officers were ‘mentioned.’
_Cullist’s_ next adventure was on August 20 in the English Channel,
when she was shelled for most of two and a half hours at long range,
during which the submarine expended over eighty rounds with only one
hit. This, however, had penetrated the waterline of the stokehold,
injuring both firemen who happened to be on watch, and causing a large
rush of water into the stokehold. By plugging the hole and shoring it
up this defect was for the present made good. At 7.25 p.m., inasmuch as
the light was fading and the enemy declined to come nearer than 4,000
yards, _Cullist_ started shelling and seemed to make two direct hits on
the base of the conning-tower. This was enough for the German, who then
dived very rapidly and made off. _Cullist_ was practically uninjured,
for the only other hits on her had been that the port depth charge had
been struck with shell splinters and the patent log-line had been shot
away.
But on the eleventh of the following February a much more serious
attack was made, and this illustrates the statement that suddenly
without the slightest warning a Q-ship might find herself in the
twinkling of an eye changed from an efficient man-of-war into a mere
wreck. _Cullist_ at the time was steaming on a southerly course
down the Irish Sea, Kingstown Harbour being to the westward. The
officer of the watch and the look-out men were at their posts,
and Lieut.-Commander Simpson was walking up and down the deck.
Suddenly, from nowhere, the track of a torpedo was seen approaching,
and this struck the ship between the engine-room and No. 3 hold.
Lieut.-Commander Simpson was hurled into the air and came down on to
the edge of the deck with a very painful arm. Realizing the condition
of the _Cullist_, he ordered his men to abandon ship, but such was the
zeal of the crew in remaining at action stations until the last moment
that many of them were drowned: for in less than two minutes _Cullist_
had gone to the bottom. This part of the Irish Sea then consisted of
a number of Englishmen swimming about or keeping alive on a small
Carley float. The submarine when half a mile astern of where _Cullist_
sank, came to the surface and rapidly approached. Then she stopped,
picked up two men, inquired for the captain, examined survivors through
glasses, and having abused them by words and gestures, made off to
the southward. After swimming about for some time, Lieut.-Commander
Simpson was then pulled on to the Carley float, which is a special
kind of raft, very shallow, painted Navy grey, and usually supplied
with a paddle such as you find in a Canadian canoe. It was a bleak
February afternoon, and here were a few men able to keep from death by
joining hands on this crowded raft. As the hours went on, the usual
trying thirst assailed them and the fatal temptation to drink the
sea-water, but the captain wisely and sternly prevented this. How long
they would be left crowded in this ridiculous raft, cold and miserable,
no one knew: it was obvious that human strength could not last out
indefinitely.
But just as it was getting dusk, about 6 p.m., a trawler was seen.
Relief at last! Someone who held the Canadian paddle kept it high to
make it more easy for the trawler to recognize them. It was a patrol
trawler, for the gun was visible; in a few moments they would be
rescued. But just then these sopping-wet survivors were horrified to
see the trawler manning her gun and laying it on to the raft. What
hideous mistake was this? ‘Sing at the top of your voices.’ So they
sang ‘Tipperary’ with all the strength they had left. Then a slight
pause was followed by the trawler dismissing the gun’s crew and coming
towards them as quickly as her engines would go round. The survivors
were picked up and taken into Kingstown, where they landed about 10
p.m., and none too soon for some of them. By the time they were in
hospital they were almost done. But what was the trawler’s explanation?
She had sighted something in the half-light which resembled a
submarine, and on examining it again it still more resembled such a
craft. There was the conning-tower painted grey, and there was the
periscope too. It was only when the unmistakable sound of British
voices chanting ‘Tipperary’ reached their ears that they looked again
and found that the ‘periscope’ was the Canadian paddle, and the
‘conning-tower’ was the men linked together imposed on the grey Carley
float.
But it had been a near thing!
Even more varied was the career of the _Privet_ (alias _Island Queen_,
Q 19, _Swisher_, and _Alcala_). This was a small steamer of 803 tons,
which had begun her service in December, 1916, her captain being
Lieut.-Commander C. G. Matheson, R.N.R. On the following twelfth of
March she was on passage from Land’s End to Alderney, and was steaming
at 9 knots, when just before three in the afternoon a torpedo was seen
to pass under the ship at the engine-room. _Privet_ was presently
shelled by the submarine, who rose to the surface on the starboard
side aft, the first nine rounds hitting _Privet_ five times. One
of these rounds burst among the ‘abandon ship’ party, causing many
casualties and destroying the falls of both boats. _Privet’s_ hull
had been badly holed, and she was compelled to send out a wireless
S.O.S. signal, stating that her engines were disabled, but two minutes
later she opened fire with her port battery—she was armed with four
12-pounders—and during the first seven rounds the enemy received
punishment, being hit abreast the fore part of the conning-tower, and
twice well abaft the conning-tower. The German now tried to escape
by submerging, but evidently he found his hull leaking so badly that
he was seen trying to reach the surface again by using his engines
and hydroplanes. Thus _Privet_ managed to get in a couple more hits
and then the U-boat disappeared stern first at an angle of forty-five
degrees. _Privet_ in this manner had definitely sunk U 85, belonging to
the biggest U-class submarines, 230 feet long, armed with two guns and
twelve torpedoes. The whole incident, from the moment the torpedo was
fired to the destruction of the attacker, had covered forty minutes;
but now, ten minutes later, _Privet’s_ engine-room was reported to be
filling up with water owing to one of the enemy’s shells getting home.
Twenty minutes later the chief engineer reported that the water was now
over the plates and rising. Efforts were made to plug the hole with
hammocks and timber, but this was found impossible, and this small
ship, in spite of her victory, was in great peril. After another few
minutes the men and wounded were ordered into the lifeboat and skiff,
for the engine-room was full of water and the after bulkhead might give
way suddenly any minute. Half an hour later this actually happened, but
by this time the two British destroyers _Christopher_ and _Orestes_ had
arrived on the scene.
_Privet_ was in a pitiable condition, and, after throwing overboard
confidential books and rendering the depth charges safe, she was
finally abandoned, though she did not at once sink. In fact, an hour
and a half later she was still afloat; so Lieut.-Commander Matheson,
his officers, a seaman, and a working party from _Orestes_ went back
on board her, and within an hour _Orestes_ had begun to tow her
under great difficulties. However, everything went fairly well until
they were approaching Plymouth Sound, when _Privet’s_ last bulkheads
collapsed, and she started now to settle down quickly. This was rather
hard luck, having regard to what she had gone through, but there was no
mistake about it, she was sinking fast. Those in charge of her are to
be congratulated, for they were able just in time to get her into shoal
water, and she sank in only 4-1/2 fathoms opposite the Picklecomb Fort,
and that closed chapter one in her not uninteresting career.
From this position she was very soon raised, taken into Devonport, and
recommissioned at the end of April. Thus, having sunk a submarine and
herself being sunk, she returned to the same kind of work, and actually
succeeded in sinking another submarine on the night of November 8-9,
1918, this being the last to be destroyed before Armistice. The
incident occurred in the Mediterranean and the submarine was U 34.
Truly a remarkable career for such a small steamer, but a great tribute
to all those brains and hands who in the first instance fitted her out,
fought in her, got her into Plymouth Sound, salved her, fitted her out
again, took her to sea, and undauntedly vanquished the enemy once more!
In the whole realm of naval history there are not many ships that can
claim such a record against an enemy.
Another trying incident was that which occurred to the 1,295-ton
steamer _Mavis_ (alias Q 26 and _Nyroca_), armed with a 4-inch and two
12-pounders. This vessel had been fitted out at Devonport, her Merchant
Service cranes being landed and replaced by dummy derricks. The hatches
to her holds were plated over, access to the same being provided by
manholes. In order to give her the maximum chance should she ever be
torpedoed, she was ballasted with closely packed firewood; and only
those who have seen torpedoed ships carrying a cargo of timber can
realize for what a long time such an apparently sinking ship will keep
afloat, though necessarily deep in the water. I remember, during the
war, the case of a steamer torpedoed off Brow Head (south-west Ireland)
after she had just arrived from across the Atlantic. She was deserted
by her crew, the sea was over the floors of her upper-deck cabins, and
she was obviously a brute to steer in such an unseaworthy condition,
but with great difficulty and some patience we managed to tow her
into port, where, owing to her sinking condition, she drew so much
water that she touched the ground every low tide. But she was salved
and eventually patched up. It was her timber cargo which had kept her
afloat just long enough, and inasmuch as ship and freight were worth
no less than £250,000, this was more than worth while. So it was with
_Mavis_.
On the last day of May, 1917, under command of Commander Adrian Keyes,
R.N., this Q-ship had left Devonport to cruise in the Atlantic. At
6.45 a.m. on June 2 she sighted a ship’s lifeboat coming along under
sail and found it contained three men who were in a very exhausted
condition. These were the survivors from the Greek S.S. _N. Hadziaka_,
which had been torpedoed and sunk a little further to the westward.
This torpedoing had occurred in a heavy sea, and in lowering away the
boats, one of them had been smashed and the other swamped. The captain
and twenty-two men had clung to the wreckage when the German submarine
broke surface, approached, but made no attempt at rescue, and then went
away. For forty-eight hours these wretched men kept more or less alive
in the water and then gradually dropped off one by one until only three
remained. These then managed to patch one boat, upright her, bale her
out, and make sail. They had been sailing for ten hours during the
night when they had the good luck to be picked up by _Mavis_, having
been fifty-eight hours without food or water.
Having rescued them, _Mavis_ continued on her western course, but
after dark turned east, setting a course to pass 10 miles south of
the Lizard. During the following day she passed through considerable
wreckage. At 9.45 p.m. she was 20 miles south of the Wolf Rock when
a torpedo was seen to break surface 40 yards from the ship on the
starboard beam. It struck _Mavis_ abreast of the engine-room and
penetrated the side, so that the ship stopped at once, and both
engine-room and boiler-room were flooded. It was impossible to send out
a wireless call, as the emergency apparatus had been wrecked too, but
three rockets were fired and eventually the destroyer _Christopher_
came up, followed later by the trawler _Whitefriars_ and several tugs.
Then began the difficult and slow process of towing, and they got her
just inside Plymouth Sound, but by this time she was in such a crank
condition that it was feared she might capsize, so they managed to
beach her in Cawsand Bay on the west side of the Sound. It was her
ballast of firewood that had saved her from total loss, and for this
both British and Greeks must have felt more than thankful.
[Illustration: Q-SHIP “CANDYTUFT”
This Q-ship had the misfortune to be attacked by a submarine who
used torpedoes to blow both the bow and stern off the Q-ship. The
“Candytuft” was afterwards beached on the North African coast.
To face p. 174]
Another incident, which well illustrates the risks run by these
Q-ships, is now to be related. Among those officers who had retired
from the Service and come back after the outbreak of war was Commander
W. O’G. Cochrane, R.N., who for part of the war was captain of one
of the sloops off the south of Ireland. In the spring of 1917 I well
remember the very excellent sport we had in company, but in separate
ships, exploring and destroying the mine-fields laid by the enemy
submarines right along the whole south coast from Cape Clear to the Old
Head of Kinsale. At the beginning of the following November, Commander
Cochrane left Devonport in command of the Q-ship _Candytuft_, together
with a convoy of merchant ships bound for Gibraltar. _Candytuft_ was
disguised to represent a tramp steamer, and on the eighth, when in
the vicinity of Cape St. Vincent, had an encounter with a submarine, in
which the usual tactics were employed. One of the enemy’s shells struck
the Q-ship’s bridge, exploding under the bunk in Captain Cochrane’s
cabin, wrecking the wireless and steering-gear. _Candytuft_ was able to
fire three shots, but the enemy disappeared, made off, and was never
seen by the Q-ship again.
After having been repaired at Gibraltar, _Candytuft_ left in company
with the merchant ship _Tremayne_ for Malta. This was on November
16. Two days later they were off Cap Sigli, when a torpedo crossed
_Tremayne’s_ bows, but struck _Candytuft_ on the starboard quarter,
entirely blowing off the ship’s stern and killing all the officers
excepting Captain Cochrane and Lieutenant Phillips, R.N.R., who was on
the bridge, but very badly wounding Lieutenant Errington, R.N.R.
With sound judgment and true unselfishness Captain Cochrane now ordered
_Tremayne_ to make for Bougie as fast as she could, and in the meantime
the Q-ship hoisted her foresail to assist the ship to drift inshore.
Most of the ship’s company were sent away in boats, only sufficient
being kept aboard to man the two 4-inch guns, and everyone kept out of
sight. Within half an hour a periscope was seen by Captain Cochrane,
concealed behind the bridge screens. A periscope is a poor target, but
it was fired at, though ineffectually. On came the torpedo, striking
_Candytuft_ just foreward of the bridge, completely wrecking the fore
part of the ship. This explosion wounded several men in a boat, covered
the bridge with coal barrows and other miscellaneous wreckage, blew a
leading-seaman overboard—happily he was picked up unhurt—blew Captain
Cochrane up also, but some of the falling wreckage struck him on the
head, knocked him back inboard, and left him staggering off the bridge.
Presently the ship gave a sudden jerk, and rid herself of her bow,
which now floated away and sank. _Candytuft_ drifted towards the
African shore, and after the captain and one of his crew had gallantly
closed the watertight door at the foreward end of the mess-deck, up to
their middles in water and working in almost complete darkness, with
tables and other articles washing about, it became time for these last
two to leave the ship. They were taken off by a French armed trawler
and landed at Bougie. _Candytuft_, minus bow and stern, drifted ashore
on to a sandy beach, and eventually the two 4-inch guns were salved.
Lieutenant Errington had died before reaching land, and the wounded
had to be left in hospital. But afterwards some of _Candytuft’s_ crew
went to sea in another Q-ship, and so the whole gallant story went on.
Ships may be torpedoed, but, like the soldiers, sailors never die. They
keep on ‘keeping on’ all the time, as a young seaman once was heard to
remark.
[Illustration: Q-SHIP “CANDYTUFT”
This shows some of the damage done by the enemy submarine’s torpedo.
She is lying beached and one of the guns is being salved and lowered
down the side.
To face p. 176]