Red Sky in the Morning Read online

  Life aboard ship was miserable in the ‘work horses’ of convoy escort – destroyers, corvettes, minesweepers, trawlers and the like. A ship at sea works, in twenty-first century internet parlance, 24/7 or twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. For the day-to-day business of convoy escort, a destroyer crew would be organised into four ‘watches’ of four hours each, except for the dog watches which would be two hours – 4–6 p.m. and 6–8 p.m. This ensured that each watch rotated its time and took a turn at the unpopular ‘graveyard shift’, midnight to 4 a.m. Each watch had an officer plus four lookouts on the bridge, one lookout to each corner, while other members of the watch performed routine but essential tasks, which in the Arctic usually entailed using chipping hammers in the constant battle to prevent ice build up on the upper works. Guns would be unmanned but rotated at frequent intervals in an effort to prevent them freezing up.[28] Off watch below, things were not much better. Officers had cabins aft, except the captain, whose sea cabin would be below the bridge, enabling him to be called up at short notice. The men slept (or tried to) in hammocks slung in the mess decks. The atmosphere below would be warm, but fetid with stale sweat and damp clothing; steel doors banged to and fro as crew members working the ship came and went, while in heavy weather icy seas crashed over the ship and down companionways to the decks below. With little or no time to clean up, this would soon turn into a rancid greasy soup 2 or 3 inches (5–7 cm) deep, slopping about the deck. This, and bulkheads streaming with condensation, made keeping anything dry impossible.

  Unlike larger ships, the turrets of Royal Navy destroyers were not enclosed; they comprised the gun and a partly enveloping shield. This would cause more problems in the freezing conditions, as ice would form not only on the barrels of the guns but also on breeches and other mechanisms. Anti-freeze grease would help, but would not completely eliminate the problem. If ice did form, the heat of the gun firing would cause it to melt, and water might well seep into the breech, causing the gun to jam.[29]

  Northern Norway and the Kola Inlet

  Destroyers did not use Murmansk when they were in Russia, but were based with the submarines at Polyarnoe, just inside the Kola Inlet. A ‘run ashore’ for a little rest and relaxation was another pipe dream, as Paddy Donovan recalled.

  ‘What recreation was there ashore?’ I asked him.

  ‘None at all. Except the Russian Officers’ Club.

  ‘What recreation was there at the Russian Officers’ Club?’

  ‘None at all!’ [30]

  There might have been nothing ashore, but the trip could be eventful. London-born Captain Michael Hutton, OBE, RN, then a seventeen-year-old midshipman fresh from Dartmouth Naval College, on his first posting to the new Fiji class cruiser HMS Jamaica, remembered an incident during Christmas 1942. With the ship at anchor off Murmansk he was midshipman of a ship’s boat, and having ferried a sailor with appendicitis to the small hospital ashore on Christmas Day, a further trip was necessary the following day:

  Another quick trip ashore in the boat on Boxing Day and a real pleasure to hand round my cigarette case to Russian soldiers. On the return trip another important lesson was confirmed. Never, never, wear sea boots (wellies) as boat’s crew. I had not spotted my bow man was an offender and he slipped overboard. His boots filled up and within seconds in that freezing water he was in real trouble and I knew he could not last for long. Probably within a minute we had him back onboard, just alive, and later I was pleased on behalf of myself and crew to be congratulated on our seamanship. As soon as the lucky sailor had recovered, I insisted he go all the way to Captain’s Report.

  Good old Naval justice… the lesson had been driven home.[31]

  —♦—

  Given the years of brainwashing by the Communist regime and the resultant frostiness of the local population as well as the climate, Murmansk and Archangel were not the most popular ports of call for naval or merchant seamen. Most sailors would certainly have echoed the words of one young Jamaican merchant seaman (a world away from his Caribbean home in both temperature and temperament) who, when asked for his thoughts on North Russia, replied, ‘I’d sho’ like to go any place else – jes’ any place a-tall’.[32]

  It would be wrong to suggest, however, that the Russians were completely unappreciative of the Allies’ efforts. Mentioned in Dispatches for his part in the Barents Sea action, Paddy Donovan was also awarded the Russian Order of Patriotic War. This order came with a monthly payment, calculated in roubles, which his bank manager advised equated to around 7 shillings (35 p) per month. Some twenty months later, with Obedient in home waters and his wife Enid expecting a baby, it seemed to Paddy that the £7 or so which had accumulated would come in handy so off he went to the Russian embassy in London to collect. Finally a staff member handed over a large envelope which Paddy took to a nearby park to investigate. On examination it turned out to contain £77 – a pleasant surprise in the circumstances. His comments on his bank manager’s arithmetic are not recorded!

  —♦—

  It might be assumed that life aboard the larger ships would be easier, but this was not necessarily the case. As a seventeen-year old Boy 1st Class, Lieutenant-Commander Albert Twiddy, DSC, RN, had his first seagoing posting to the Southampton class cruiser HMS Sheffield, joining in July 1942. He recalled life on board.

  What I did know at the time was that the ship was to be employed in Northern waters, and I was to get used to my new surroundings, new experiences of living with so many others… of confined living quarters well below decks, and the complete lack of any privacy whatsoever, at whatever the time of day or night. Furthermore, I had not appreciated that in just a few weeks’ time I would find myself suffering extreme distress from seasickness, that the ship would be pressing its way through ice slush and frozen fog, and my messdeck quarters [would be] streaming with condensation, or iced up, with continuous mopping up to prevent water swilling around…

  My duty tasks at sea involved lookout duties on the Bridge and Air Defence position for 8 hours in every 24, and a further 4 to 6 hours on general maintenance tasks, mostly spent chipping ice from the guns and upper decks when we were well into the Arctic Circle… Long Johns and duffel coats were the extent of our special warm clothing, though for bridge duties we were loaned a sheepskin coat which was passed onto our relief when he turned up to take over duty, as we had insufficient coats to be provided with one each. Balaclavas of course were an absolute essential, and parcels from home and some voluntary organisations provided us with these, together with woollen gloves and scarves. Of course we normally slept in hammocks, but under certain states of readiness for action we were required to sleep at or very near our action station. This, in my case, meant trying to sleep fully clothed on the steel deck of ‘A’ turret[33] where my action station was… It was almost a relief to pass into the Arctic Circle where we were freed from the constant dripping of condensation and of mopping it up, by virtue of the fact that the condensation simply froze, and remained to be chipped off from time to time.[34]

  The weather was a powerful opponent, and it was not only the small, lightly built destroyers that were at risk. Paddy Donovan described an occurrence in February 1943 which illustrates the dangers:

  We were going up to join a convoy… when the Sheffield went past us. We were in a heavy gale and the destroyers were slowed right down, but the cruiser was able to get past us. Two hours later we caught up and passed her… we could see ‘A’ turret, the whole of the lid was peeled right back… by weight of water.[35]

  The incident also created a lasting impression in the mind of Boy 1st Class Albert Twiddy – he was in Sheffield’s ‘A’ turret at the time.

  The voyage to Iceland… encountered violent storms and monstrous seas, so much so that the ship had to heave to in order to ride it out. There was considerable damage around the upper decks. The whalers at the davits were completely destroyed, and some ladders smashed away. It was almost impossible to go on deck and any necessary movement could
only be made by hanging on to lifelines rigged throughout the open spaces. It was chaotic below decks, water swilling around the messdecks and flats, and reeking with the vomit that even the hardiest sailors fell victim to. Generally one felt safest when closed up at action stations, and I think that, for most of the time during this appalling weather, was where I was required to be. I was certainly closed up in ‘A’ turret on the forenoon when the heaviest of waves struck.

  For any degree of comfort it was a matter of wedging oneself into position and staying there. The noise of the bows crashing into the oncoming seas, the rattle of anchor cables and other objects being moved around was a constant source of deafening noise and discomfort, but I cannot recall being alarmed for my own safety, the ship was so big and well built… but then I had never experienced such extreme conditions before. I could not see the sea, I could only feel its effect on me and the others around me. Solid food or even the thought of it was out of the question and ‘Kye’ [thick cocoa] was the only warming sustenance available if it survived the journey from the galley. I can readily recall that mid-morning, someone had managed to get some and that it was being dispensed into mugs when there was an almighty crash and a sudden flash of light, like lightning, then water cascading down upon us as we saw that one third of the [armoured] turret roof had disappeared and we were exposed to the violent sky and tons of foaming water breaking over the bow forcing its way into what had been just a few moments earlier, our watertight gun turret. Our immediate thoughts were that we had been attacked and struck by the gunfire from an unseen enemy, but apart from being shaken there were few physical injuries… Each successive wave poured more water in, which was swilling its way down into the lower areas of the turret.

  Having informed the control tower of our plight, we were shortly ordered to evacuate the turret. It was of course impossible to get out on deck, and there was just one vertical ladder immediately below my telephone position so I was in the prime position to get out first. However, the hood of my duffel coat got caught up on a hook, and I was left virtually hanging over the only escape route. Strong hands soon lifted me clear and I got to the bottom faster than intended. This all seemed to happen so quickly… [but] the personnel in the handling rooms below quickly opened the watertight door leading us out to the lower deck. [We] were confronted by the damage control operator, who on being told that the turret was flooding, immediately closed the door again and put on all the watertight clips, effectively locking us all in. It was only after he had made his report and sought further instructions that we were released from the confines of the turret, but no escape from the water which had flooded a great part of the fore end of the ship.[36]

  The daily round of a sailor’s life when not on escort duty consisted of all the routine tasks of a shipboard existence, and as ‘…there were no ENSA comedians or dancing girls in North Russia’,[37] the men had to make their own entertainment. Concert parties would be arranged and acts would volunteer or be shanghaied into doing a ‘turn’. Paddy Donovan remembered that with the ship at Polyarnoe several Russian officers were entertained in the wardroom of Obedient, while down below the men indulged in that forces sing-song known to all as a ‘Sod’s Opera’. Paddy’s suggestion that they go below and join in provoked a horrified response from the Russians – officers mixing socially with the lower ranks, whatever next!?

  Convoy escort was a stressful affair with little time to relax, but there were occasional moments of humour. Commander Loftus Peyton-Jones, DSC, DSO, RN, at the time a first lieutenant on board the destroyer Achates, related a story which may be apocryphal but may just as easily be true, concerning Richard Onslow, escort commander for PQ16 in the destroyer Ashanti. The weather being fine, a Luftwaffe long-range reconnaissance seaplane had been circling the convoy just out of range of the escort’s guns for hour after hour, relaying position, course and speed to waiting U-boats. This so irritated Commander Onslow that he is reputed to have signalled to the seaplane, ‘You are making me dizzy – please go round the other way!’ The German pilot must also have had a sense of humour, as he apparently complied with the request![38]

  Progress up the slippery rope of promotion was no less sought after in war than in peacetime, and aboard the 17th Destroyer Flotilla leader HMS Onslow, Acting Leading Stoker Walter Watkin looked forward to confirmation of his rank. However, while the ship waited in Iceland to pick up convoy JW51B, Engineer Lieutenant Kevin Walton notified Watkin that the engineer commander had blocked his promotion for the time being as he had insufficient service time in the Royal Navy, and the appointment had gone to another rating. ‘This did not go down very well with me as I had always been keen to do work on boilers, pumps, evaporator and distilling plant (changing sea water into pure distilled water) etc. However Kevin Walton told me there was no alternative.’[39] He may have been disappointed at missing his promotion at the time but, as events were to show, it was a disappointment which may have saved his life.

  —♦—

  For the Germans service in the Arctic was also arduous, but with the considerable advantage that their ships operated from Norwegian ports, making long voyages in those storm-tossed latitudes less likely. Johann Hengel, EK11, U-Hunt & Mine Search Military Insignia, Destroyer-War Insignia, served as radio mate for 1½ years in the port protection flotilla based at Brest, and later as radio station commander in the torpedo boats TA11 and TA24 in the Mediterranean. Between these postings, he served as radio mate and guard commander in the main radio room of the destroyer Z30 at the time of the Barents Sea action. In the summer of 1942 the twenty-one-year old was despatched with his kit bag and gun as his only companions, on the ore train from Germany through Denmark and Sweden to Narvik on the Norwegian coast. He recalled his arrival on board the destroyer, and service in the northern latitudes:

  For me as a young mate reporting onboard Z30 was a totally new experience. I was used to small boats, and this was a destroyer with a 300 man crew and a displacement of 3000 tons… At the beginning I found it very difficult to adjust to my new life because I was still a ‘greenhorn’. This was also the way my new comrades treated me. But with an ability to assert myself I managed to become accepted. I had the advantage that I suffered less with seasickness than most of the others… Thanks to the seasickness of my comrades I happily received double meal allocations…[40]

  Radio communications aboard Z30 were carried out from two stations, the main radio room under the bridge and a second room aft which was manned during alerts. Johann Hengel’s task during alerts was to man the aft station with two radio operators. He was also trained to be radio mate for a prize crew should a freighter be captured. Z30 operated with the 5th Flotilla (North Sea), which later became the 8th Flotilla (Baltic Sea). Usually there would be six ships (half a flotilla) on station with the remainder at German yards for repairs and maintenance. The flotilla would often be based at Altenfjord, in company with Tirpitz and the mother ship controlling the Luftwaffe BV 138 reconnaissance aircraft scouring the Barents Sea for Allied shipping.

  Despite the spectacular displays of the northern lights, long periods of almost perpetual darkness during the Arctic winter could be depressing for the German sailors (unlike their Allied opposite numbers, who welcomed the extra protection offered by the dark); however aboard Z30, even during these periods, if there were no operations planned there was usually something to do, as the ship had thirty pairs of skis onboard. Despite the inhospitable climate and the inevitable stresses and dangers of war, not all Johann Hengel’s memories of Arctic service are bad:

  The summer was a wonderful time, sunshine day and night… We tried to forget about the war, which we all hated… but nevertheless we did our duty. On occasion our destroyer berthed at the skerry of waterfalls, which enabled us ordinary seamen to take an extensive shower… We also sometimes went on shore leave into the mountains. Unexpectedly we found redcurrants, [and] in the early autumn we collected masses of mushrooms and blueberries on a lot of the islands. We would set out
on small ships’ boats to catch plaice with sticks.

  One only likes to think back to life’s good times.[41]

  CHAPTER 3

  THE BEST LAID PLANS…

  Having accepted C-in-C Home Fleet Admiral Tovey’s recommendation to run the December 1942 convoy through to Murmansk in two fifteen-ship sections, designated JW51A and JW51B, the Admiralty put in hand plans to assemble the necessary merchant ships, cargoes, and escorts. This last proved to be an extremely knotty problem (see p. 17). Stretched between operations in the Mediterranean, home waters, and the Atlantic, and unable to obtain destroyers from the United States due to the requirements of Operation Torch, it was decided to reduce the close escort from fifteen to seven destroyers, with a detached covering force of two light cruisers in the Barents Sea, plus the Home Fleet heavy ships operating to the westward. Anxious to avoid repeating the fate of the cruiser HMS Edinburgh, torpedoed and sunk by U456 while part of the QP11 escort, Admiral Tovey proposed that the cruisers should proceed no farther than 25°E, roughly the meridian of the North Cape (see map A, p. 144), in order to avoid the U-boats which gathered around the convoys from that point onwards. In this he was overruled by the First Sea Lord, who maintained that they should shadow the convoy all the way through to Murmansk. As Admiral Tovey was later freely to admit, it was extremely fortunate that they did so.

  —♦—

  At Kriegsmarine Headquarters Northern Norway (Gruppe Nord), there had for some time been in existence a plan to attack Allied convoys using capital ships in a two-pronged pincer movement. Authorised by Grand Admiral Raeder to prepare for an operation against the next suitable target, Vice-Admiral Oskar Kummetz, Befehlshaber der Kreuzer (Admiral Commanding Cruisers – BdK), opted to amend this plan for his attack, designated Operation Regenbogen (Rainbow). Assembling a powerful battle group comprising the heavy cruiser Admiral Hipper (flagship), pocket battleship Lützow and six destroyers, he would commence an offensive sweep from astern of the convoy – by attacking from west to east he would have the benefit of what little light was available, silhouetting the convoy against the eastern horizon. Kummetz calculated that at that time of year he would have two to three hours of twilight, approximately 9 a.m. to 12 noon, during which to make his attack. After that, his heavy ships would be particularly vulnerable to night torpedo attack from enemy destroyers, and he had at all times to keep in mind Hitler’s strictures concerning minimum risk.