B00D2VJZ4G EBOK (55 page)

The events of this night, although we were the only ship hit – stand out in my memory. I cannot easily explain why, but it appeared to me at the time as peculiarly awe-inspiring and terror-striking. I do not admit fear; we got inured to that sort of feeling – at least, I did, and my outlook was decidedly fatalistic.

To illustrate how easily ships were sunk, I’ll give the following instance. We were a large convoy bound for Holland. It was August 15th, 1918, and our pay-day – that’s why I remember the day so accurately. The whole flotilla was out escorting them. The weather was fine and the sea like a millpond. About 11.30 a.m. I thought to go in for my dinner, as I was due on watch at noon. I casually looked across to the destroyers on the other side of the merchantmen and saw a cloud of water ascend in the air near a destroyer; shortly afterwards, only a few minutes, her bow went up in the air, and she slid, stern first, under the water. Before she sank the Scots had gone alongside and taken off survivors. Suddenly she began to settle down, and in about ten minutes she had gone. The two ships were hit and sunk in a quarter of an hour. The
Ullswater
was the name of the first one hit.

The marvel of it was that no one seemed disturbed or upset. We were two ships short, that’s all. The remainder of us carried on, the merchantmen on a steady course, and us with our zigzagging. Although I witnessed in broad daylight the sinking of these ships, at a distance of not more than two miles away, I did not know then, nor do I know now, what it was that sunk them, whether mine or torpedo. Such is modern war at sea.

J. Willey’s war service was prefaced by 2½years in the Persian Gulf under semi-active service conditions in H.M.S
. Fox.
During the first few months of war this ship patrolled trade routes, captured merchant vessels, convoyed troops to British East Africa, and the Indian Expeditionary Force half-way across the Indian Ocean. After a period on East Coast of Africa was sent to hospital (Mombasa), with beriberi. Invalided to England about the beginning of February 1915. After a period at the Torpedo School, Devonport, sent to H.M.S
. Melpomene,
and stationed at Harwich, under Commodore Tyrwhitt. Remained in the
Melpomene
until January 1917. Then served until the end of the War in H.M.S
. Satyr,
patrolling, mine-sinking, etc
.

The early days of February 1918 found me a minute cog in the machinery of the greatest Armada known, the Grand Fleet – a seaman on board the Superb, stationed in the melancholy regions of Scapa Flow.

One evening, in the midst of our usual festivities, namely, looking mournful at each other, Nemesis in the shape of a large overfed ‘crusher’ (ship’s police) overtook me, and I was informed that a large piece of ‘Gold Braid’ living an exclusive life at the far end of the ship had become interested in me, and would I favour him with an interview?

I followed the pompous ‘body-snatcher,’ along brightly lit passages, feeling dismayed, but on reaching the Commander’s cabin all fears were dispelled, as I was cordially invited to enter and found myself in a circle consisting of the Commander, Secretary, Master-at-Arms, and five able seamen, all wearing a vacant expression.

With my arrival a full quota appeared to be made up, as the Commander, rising to his feet and producing a paper, informed us that the Commander-in-Chief had sent him a signal for six seamen, for special service.

He went on to say that, not knowing himself what the stunt was, he could not give the least idea, except that it was dangerous work, and nine out of ten chances that we should ‘snuff it,’ and we should be under twenty-three, single, physically fit, and able to use a revolver and oar.

From these conditions it appeared to us as though the result of the War rested on us, and, needless to recount; oil was poured on troubled waters with phrases of honour, and glory. After letting his words sink in he gazed at the condemned ‘six’ and stated that if any did not want to volunteer nothing would be said, and the man could just carry on.

However, no one moved, and no doubt, thinking I looked the silliest pigeon there, the Commander asked if I would go. Having served a miserable six months in that, ship, and my third year in that dismal theatre of war, I informed him promptly that I would be glad of it. To get away from his tender care had been a cherished ambition of mine. Needless to say, the remaining five jumped at the idea, and we were beamed on with pride, solemnly shaken by the hand, and called heroes, and bidden to depart to our habitation and say nothing, but by that time all the ship was seething with excitement as to what was going to happen, and we found ourselves the centre of an admiring crowd all agog with excitement.

I never knew I was so popular; even old sailors of twenty-one and abouts who had hitherto passed me by with disdain (I was only nineteen), gave me fatherly advice. I retired happy.

The glamour had not worn off the next morning, and vainly I tried to concentrate on the day’s work, that bugbear of civilization known as ‘Saturday’s routine,’ a mix-up of salt water, sand, and scrubbers, and I was wandering round in a state of oblivion when an autocratic personage in the shape of the Captain’s Messenger came with the startling news that the ‘old man’ had expressed a desire to see us immediately. My scrubber was dropped and I was on my way to his cabin before he had finished his message.

Here, again; we were royally received with more handshakes and words of praise, and our tender young ears must have burnt, but by far the best news was that we would work no more in that ship, but confine our energy to physical training and revolver exercise.

Monday morning saw us step off in a fine style, in athletical garb, led by a high-stepping physical training instructor and watched by an admiring, envious and cynical crowd, and we were kept at it all the afternoon, our only respite being the ju-jitsu lesson, and later we landed for revolver practice, wandering round on a deserted island and practising drawing and shooting. I think it was a good job at first that the island was deserted.

As the days went on we grew into whalebone and whipcord, thanks to the slave-driver who had us in his care, and we understood the whys and wherefores of revolvers and the art of firing, the days passing all too quickly.

Again it was a Friday and we were beginning to think the affair was a fiasco, when the bombshell burst, and our instructions were to the effect that we were to leave the ship at 5 a.m. the following day and report on board H.M.S.
Hindustan
at Chatham the following Friday, thus giving us a few days’ leave to say farewell to all relatives and any other affair before being killed.

That journey south appeared the longest I had ever done. In fact, it took thirty-six hours before I arrived at the home station, but all was forgotten in the reunions, which might have been for me, as they were for many, the last.

But, like all good things, they soon came to an end and I took my leave of all with an uneasy feeling, wondering if I should ever come back. But at nineteen cares are light, and I slept soundly in the train that was taking me to this new adventure.

Holborn Station presented a curious spectacle the following morning; groups of seamen could be seen talking with suppressed excitement and looking questioningly at any seaman wearing the ribbon of some ship in the Grand Fleet.

The Chatham train drew all these adventurers into its compartments, and here the question, ‘Are you in this stunt and what is it going to be?’ was freely debated, but no one could throw any light on the subject, and whoever had organized the whole business had preserved its secrecy in no uncertain fashion.

A couple of hours later brought us to Chatham, and, knowing the dinner that would await us, we decided to join the ship with a good meal stowed away, so dined in town before attempting the miserable walk to the dockyard. Our knowledge stood us in good stead, as, once aboard the
Hindustan
, the usual emergency dinner was served, bully beef, bread and pickles, but, for once, ‘sailors didn’t care,’ and the natural excitement and high spirits took the edge off everybody’s appetite.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in recovering our belongings, which had been dispatched from Thurso the week previous; and getting to know the lay of the ship and making acquaintances. In the evening a strong contingent made their way to the barrack canteen in such a jovial mood that the clash that came with the men of the barracks later was inevitable (it’s a curious trait with a seaman, but he’d fight his own brother just for the sake of being antagonistic if the brother belonged to a different depot or fleet), and it was only after the guard had been turned out and the dockyard police reinforced that peace was obtained.

During the next few days we were formed into companies, platoons, and sections, introduced to our leaders and put through our paces on St. Mary’s Island both day and night, and then handed over to the instructors of the 5th and 6th Middlesex Regt. to be polished off and to be instructed in the fine arts of land warfare.

The weeks that passed then were one mass of bayonet drill, pointing and parrying, blob sticks, bombs, trench mortars, gas, night attacks, final assaults, and musketry, and we were gradually becoming excellent soldiers.

A slight change in the run of things found our section transferred into a 3-inch Stokes trench-mortar battery, and we were armed with a combination of nautical weapons, the pistol and cutlass (the latter article is only useful for deck cricket, when three of them make good wickets), and our training regarding the wielding of this barbarous weapon began again.

The whole of this period spent in training was glorious, the new surroundings and atmosphere, the unfamiliar work and the keenness to become proficient at it, and the high spirits between officers and men combined to make the work a most pleasing task, and, although our leave was stopped, we found ways and means of having a run ashore, a proceeding which was given the blind eye by our officers. The worst punishment a man could be threatened with was expulsion from the party. ‘The Mecca’ of our pilgrimage was gradually growing nearer, but we were still in the dark regarding the actual intention of all this strenuous training.

Our training was now nearing completion, and our massed attacks were taking on a sameness which pointed at some concerted item we were rehearsing for, and many inventions were tried, with a view to saving as many lives as possible, and we had practically reached the acme of perfection and were in danger of going stale.

One morning, about this period, our usual route was changed, and we found ourselves inside the Royal Marine Barracks, and, after being thumped, patted and pushed round by a rotund sergeant-major, we emerged into fresh air, in a dazed state, and a suit of khaki.

There was another trial and tribulation put upon us, the difference between our nautical garb and this warrior’s suit being as wide as the Poles, and the weather being warm for the time of the year, there was a distinct, subdued and muffled up feeling amongst our detachment, but in a day or so all strangeness wore away, and the mess-deck mirrors did a roaring trade. It had now reached the beginning of April and we had finally finished our training with the Army, when we got the order to get ‘under way’ and proceed to a certain rendezvous, and accordingly the same evening found us in a desolate waste of water known as the Swim just off Sheerness.

A couple more days aboard the
Hindustan
and orders were issued that we should embark in that curious stranger that had just arrived, an obsolete cruiser with a strange Noah’s Ark look about her, the
Vindictive
, and we were conveyed to her by the Liverpool ferry-boats
Iris
and
Daffodil
. Our going aboard of her synchronized with the arrival of three detachments of Marines, and the living accommodation was taxed to its utmost.

The ship itself was an exceedingly unique specimen of warship, there being no comparison to her former days when she had been a pride to all who sailed in her. She had been stripped bare of everything bar the essential parts, her mainmast having gone and her foremast cut short above the fighting top. Along her portside ran an immense wooden chafing band reinforced with huge hazelwood fenders and on the port quarter a part of the main-mast had been cemented to the deck to enable her to lay alongside any wall without swinging out, head on stem.

Covering her port battery ran a false deck lined with sandbags, and towering above this deck was an array of improvised gangways, sixteen in all, flanked by two huge metal huts housing the foremost and aftermost flame throwers. At the break of the fo’c’sle and the quarter-deck were two grapnels fitted to wire pennants and leading respectively to the foremost and after-capstans. Here fore and after guns had been replaced by 7.5’ howitzers and midships abaft the after funnel was an 11-inch howitzer, the port battery had been replaced with 2-pound pom-poms, with the exception of the foremost and after 6-mch gun, whilst two pom-poms adorned the fighting-top.

There is no denying it she was ugly, as she lay there, a veritable floating fortress, a death-trap fitted with all the ingenious contrivances of war that human brain could think of, but we took unholy pride and a fiendish delight in her, and if it were possible for men to love a ship, we loved her.

Now came the awakening: the platoons were gathered together under their commanders, who, fortified with models and aerial photos, explained to us our objective – we were to block the entrance of the Bruges canal at Zeebrugge and Ostend and our objective was to land and obtain possession of the Mole, to enable the blockships
(Iphegenia, Intrepid
, and
Thetis)
to get into position for sinking, and to cause a diversion to facilitate that project.

The magnitude of the scheme overwhelmed us, the sheer audacity of tackling a place like Zeebrugge under the muzzles of the world-famed Blankenberghe Battery, where a change in the wind or tide at the critical moment would undoubtedly result in the total loss of the expedition. Viewing the whole outlook in cold daylight the large element of luck that must accompany us for the scheme to be successful was evident, also the knowledge that such an undertaking was impossible without a huge loss of life, but the last thought lay the lightest, our chief worry being that the stunt might end in hot air and all of us be sent back to the Fleet. However, no time was wasted, for on April 11th we weighed anchor and proceeded out to sea in company with other ships of the expedition.