Читать книгу Fragments of War - Joyce Hibbert - Страница 11

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Aboard the Algonquin

His time in the Royal Canadian Navy, and more especially the year on HMCS Algonquin, Welsh-born Mervyn Davies would never forget or regret; the close-knit 250 man unit, the good quarters, the taking of the fight to the enemy to hasten the end of the war, and he had had the great luck to have been a sailor who was never seasick.

His first taste of life at sea had been in job-scarce 1929 when he had spent six weeks at Gravesend Sea School before signing up as crew on the British Diplomat, one of the largest oil tankers of the day.

“We sailed to Persia (now Iran), took on the oil and delivered it to Norway, Belgium, and England. I was young and my attitude on return was, I’ve been to sea – now I’ll try something else,”

A brother was a fireman with the Westmount Police and Fire Department, Montreal and in 1930 Mervyn too, left his home in Neath, Wales for Canada. He found work in the shipping department of a textile firm and in 1933 he sent for and married Edna Rowlands, his hometown fiancee.

But it was not the siren call of the sea that caused him to leave his wife and two children and the comforts of home in August 1942.

“I’d decided that it was my duty to get into the war. My wife understood. I already knew a bit about life aboard ship and I’d been trying to join the RCN for some time before I was accepted. My first draft in November was to HMCS Dawson, a corvette on loan to the American Navy in the Pacific.

“As Leading Supply Assistant, I was one of a team responsible for the ship’s supplies which included all provisions and navy stores. Based in Dutch Harbour, we were convoying GIs and Sea Bees out to Amchitka in the Aleutians. There was little action in the area and the routine work lasted ten months. The usual razzing took place between Canadians and Americans. Once, when we were alongside a troopship in Dutch Harbour, the Yanks were teasing ‘C’mon fellas, it’s time for you to get your afternoon tea.’ One of our boys checked his watch with ‘So it is’ and went below. He re-appeared carrying mugs and a bottle of rum. We drank a tot each and watched them drool.”

Next it was back to HMCS Naden, the Victoria Base until his request for a transfer to Halifax to be nearer his family came through.

“Canada’s first Fleet Class destroyer was almost ready for commissioning in Scotland and I was one of a hand-picked experienced crew ready to man her. They shipped us first to Charleston, South Carolina where a British cruiser from the Mediterranean pulled in for repairs. HMS Arethusa had been badly bombed and a temporary plate covered a gaping hole in her superstructure, a hole so big that you could have driven a railway engine through it. We heard that she’d lost 140 sailors when it happened. After six weeks of repairs she sailed for Britain with us as passengers, stopping at Newport for gun trials and then at the Azores to refuel. Local people came out from the islands in small boats. ‘Buy this, or this, or this’, they cajoled. ‘You won’t be able to get it in Britain.’ I recall buying half a dozen lemons and stashing them in my gas mask container. Fellows would come in and sniff about, swearing they could smell lemons. I never let on or they might have vanished.

“The destroyer was still not quite ready and I was able to go on leave to Neath. Between trains at Crewe, I was taken aback at the sight of a woman porter hauling a great load of luggage. I gave her a hand and pushed, inquiring where I might get a bite to eat. I had a cup of tea and a sandwich on the station: God only knows what was in the sandwich, satisfying but tasting like sawdust.

“Hungry again when I arrived home at mid-morning, I kept wondering when my mother was going to feed me but the three of us sat and talked and talked. Then someone knocked at the front door, mother answered and put something in the pantry. Someone came to the back door and she went again. Then she cooked me a good feed of bacon and eggs. She’d had to borrow the food from neighbours and would return it in kind from the next week’s rations. Food rations were small for two persons and she was thrilled to get my ration book, and the lemons. On my next visit I made sure that I took extra food to help them out.”

Her crew boarded the newly-commissioned HMCS Algonquin 17 February 1944 and sailed to Scapa Flow to join the 26th Flotilla of the Home Fleet. The destroyer was kept busy on patrols, Russian convoy escort duties, and special naval operations along the enemy-held Norwegian coast. Davies recalls making three of those perishing cold and dangerous convoy runs up to Polygarnyy and back. The merchantmen would sail on to unload at Murmansk; only two ships were lost from the three convoys.

“We preferred rough weather because it limited U boat activities. In August 1944, on the early part of a Murmansk run, the first Canadian escort carrier, HMCS Nabob, was torpedoed off the Norwegian coast. She was hit astern and twenty-one men were lost. Other escort vessels including Algonquin, took on as many of the crew as could be accommodated. A number remained aboard the badly-damaged carrier and managed to get her back to Scapa Flow.

“We had little to do with the Russians at Polygarnyy; we did our job and they did theirs. If you went ashore to their canteen you had to climb up a steep winding path with a long-coated sentry posted at each turn. Musicians provided plenty of cheerful music and they sang a lot in the canteen. The language barrier stopped most communication but occasionally you’d meet a well-travelled merchant seaman who spoke some English. I gave one such chap a few cigarettes and he insisted I take two knives he’d made. I still have them.

“Sometimes we’d carry raiding parties of Commandos to points on the Norwegian coast and then return them to Britain when their mission was completed.

“In the spring of ’44 we took part in special manoeuvres and training and everyone was guessing that the big one wasn’t far off. In late May we joined other ships gathering at the Isle of Wight.”

Ratings aboard HMCS Algonquin piling shell cases and sponging out guns after bombardment of Petit en Fer, France, 8 June 1944.

6 June: Operations Neptune and Overlord were under way. HMCS Algonquin was in the vanguard of the 5000 – armada that crossed the English Channel that day. Behind the leading ships, others carried the army assault forces including the 3rd Canadian Infantry Division scheduled to attack Fortress Europe from Juno Beach, the code word for a stretch of Normandy coastline from St. Aubin-sur-Mer to Graye-sur-Mer.

“My regular action stations were to supply shells from the magazine to the 4.7 inch aft gun, and to man a depth charge with settings received from the bridge, but for the most part at invasion time I was working in the Code Room. Prior to the landing and in pre-dawn darkness, we took our offshore positions and demolished strategic buildings across the promenade with our 4.7 inch guns.

“Later in the day we knocked out a battery of three 88 mm guns two miles inland. We were in radio contact with army specialists who’d trained with us in Scotland. They’d been dropped in earlier and our man informed us that thirteen of our fifteen salvos had been direct hits on the battery. Behind us, the cruiser Arethusa and the battleship Nelson and other large warships were pouring shells on their specific targets much further inland.

“As time wore on, bodies of men killed in the assault action were being washed out from shore. When possible we’d take them up, check the identification tags, and bury them at sea. Wounded were taken aboard and attended to by our ship’s doctor and his staff.

“My younger brother was in the British Commandos and passed by the Algonquin as he went in on D Day. Knowing that I served on her, he hollered trying to get someone’s attention but without success. Hardly surprising that day. He told me about it later on when we were home on leave and enjoying our first reunion in fourteen years.

“On 7 June, I went on deck and watched numerous concrete caissons up to 60 feet long go floating by. They would be sunk to form part of the huge Mulberry Harbour. Dozens of old merchant ships were brought in to be deliberately sunk at high tide to form a “Gooseberry” or shallow breakwater. They passed so close to us that one could see the face of each captain standing on his bridge – the faces reflecting the emotions of captains about to scuttle a ship. The Mulberry itself was an amazing sight when completed and all manner of supplies were unloaded from ships and rolled off on to the beach-head to fuel the Allied war machine.”

Burial at sea from HMCS Algonquin, 8 June 1944.

Two invasion survivors are cared tor on HMCS Algonquin, June 1944.

A section of the shoreline at St. Aubin-sur-Mer, June 1944.

Immediately following the initial invasion operations the Algonquin and sister destroyers patrolled up and down the embattled coastline, dealing with any remaining enemy strongpoints and on the lookout for pesky E. boats.

“The Germans had sown some new and effective acoustic mines that were attracted by the vibrations of ships’ engines. We were about half a mile from HMS Swift when she caught one and went down fast but not before the secret radar equipment had been salvaged from her mast. Many of her crew were less fortunate.

“We carried Lieut-General H.D.G. Crerar, Commander of The First Canadian Army, and his staff over to France on D Day – 12. From informal chats with some of them, I gathered that they expected the war to be over within six months.”

Shortly thereafter it was back to Scapa Flow and northern duties for HMCS Algonquin. One short and vicious operation code-named “Counterblast” took place on 12 November 1944. Algonquin was one of six warships attacking a German force carrying supplies to troops in Arctic Norway. Nine vessels, including ammunition ships in the convoy, were blown out of the water at the entrance to the Skagerrak.

At 2045 hours the Home Fleet ships were twelve miles from the coast and closing in. By 0102 hrs it was all over. In the middle of the fray the Algonquin’s log recorded:

2325 Engage with all armament that will bear.

2330 Algonquin has hit two freighters and one escort, enemy on starboard beam 800 yards – one ship just blew up – tanker – shell passed between us and director – shore batteries opening up.

2335 Another ship blown up.

“It was horrible, horrible, to see those ships burning and know men were struggling for survival in the icy water. Under different conditions we’d have picked them up but no way could we risk losing our own ships and men by going in that close to shore. Their 8 inch shore guns were blasting away and when Admiral McGregor signalled from the cruiser HMS Kent to the effect – ‘Come on boys, let’s get the hell out of here’ – we were off.

“A real boost came on the way back to Scapa Flow when we received a personal message of congratulations and thanks from Winston Churchill.”

In February 1945, a year and a lifetime after her commissioning, Algonquin was taking her original crew back to Canada.

“We ran into the worst storm of my experience. Some of her plates separated and water was rushing into the magazine. There was ice everywhere and when we came out of that, one of the crew developed appendicitis and instead of going straight to Halifax we had to put in at St. John’s, Newfoundland.”

Davies said goodbye to Algonquin in Halifax. It was home for leave, some marking of time in barracks, and then a job on the minesweeper, HMCS Ungava. After being sent aboard to straighten out the books, he stayed on that ship for several months.

Then VE Day arrived and with it, the Halifax riots.

“My impression was that nearly everyone was drunk that day. The navy felt that it had been treated shabbily in the war by some storekeepers who hiked up prices for the sailors. And then again, everything was shut up tight. They couldn’t get home and there was nowhere for the thousands of young service people to buy a drink and celebrate the great occasion. They were frustrated to some extent but it was no excuse for the sort of behaviour that erupted. The mess and damage on Barrington Street was unbelievable. Disgusting. Unlimited drinking and the results. They’d broken into breweries and liquor stores, lugging out as much booze as they could carry. Members of the three services were there although the majority were navy. Some would pick up bottles, full or empty, swing them around and let them go smash through plate glass windows. It was a miracle that your shoes and feet were not cut to ribbons as you walked. Glass was everywhere. The servicemen did most of the damage but the civilians were quick to reap the benefits. They appeared with trucks to cart away the loot, even to three-piece chesterfield sets.

“The victory parade had just passed and my friend and I had seen enough. On our way back to the dockyard, we were passing the cemetery when a sailor stopped us and opened a club bag with ‘Wanna buy a watch?’. The bag was half full of watches with price tags attached. We’d barely got a look when he closed it in our faces and took off. The Shore Patrol had just turned the corner.

“It wasn’t long before the Shore Patrol arrived on our minesweeper; they were searching all vessels thoroughly and finding stuff hidden in air vents and other odd places. Those forewarned threw stolen articles overboard.

“After the chaotic day feelings were running high between the navy and civilian authorities. To help defuse matters the navy moved most of the ships out of Halifax Harbour. We sailed to Charlottetown for a few days.”

Mervyn Davies left the RCNVR in November 1945 and returned to his textile job, later retiring to Picton, Ontario.

King George is piped aboard HMCS Algonquin at Scapa Flow, 1944.