大象传媒

Action at Tobruk

In the meantime, we carried on our routine convoy work enduring numerous bomber attacks, while at the same time the war in the desert was at its most critical time, with Rommel up to El Alamein preparing for a final assault on Alexandria. During this time, along with the destroyer, Zulu, we left harbour, not with a convoy but with a hundred and fifty marine commandos on board, bound for we knew not where. It was only on the following day that the Captain told us our mission:
"We are going," he said, "to Tobruk. Along with the Zulu, we have three hundred commandos, and as we arrive at Tobruk, an air raid will be taking place, hopefully to distract the enemy's attention from the sea. We will stop about half a mile out from Tobruk, and land the commandos in two waves from small boats, one powered boat towing three others. Our own fifth column is in Tobruk, and they will show two small lights one above the other. The boats will steer for these and land at the only small beach in Tobruk. After they have landed they will destroy Rommel's ammunition and fuel dump, and clear the way for us to cross and enter Tobruk harbour and tie up and refuel. Now in the meantime, we will have painted the Italian colours across our fo'c'sle, like the Italian fleet does, and raised the Italian flag so that if any aircraft comes over, we will put the ship on a list and make black smoke. This way they will think we are an Italian destroyer on fire, and not attack us. When the operation is complete, we will take the commandos off and return to our home port."

Now somebody hadn't played the game, because they told the Germans as well, you see, which to my way of thinking wasn't fair! It meant that we couldn't surprise them, which was the whole idea!

So the scene was set for what, in later years was to be looked upon as one of the bloodiest and most suicidal operations of the whole war.

It was about 3am when we approached Tobruk on a dark, moonless night. As arranged, an air raid was taking place over the port and there were searchlights probing the skies. We kept saying, "You keep up there. We don't want you down here." With all the commotion going on, we were able to creep in to our position undetected. When we had stopped, they lowered the first small powered boat and then the other three boats, which the first one had to tow to the beach. As the last one was being lowered, one of the blocks jammed and with one thing and another took about half an hour to repair it. The boats eventually left with their contingent of marines on board, bound for the small landing beach.

As they left, I looked towards the land and saw two small lights, which our lads on shore were showing to guide the boats. The air raid had finished before this operation took place so all was quiet and with the searchlights off, darkness had returned. My action station was on the diesel engine down the forward boiler room. This engine drove the generator, which provided the power to operate the gun turrets, etc. Although the boiler itself was at full pressure, it was not being fired. So along with a stoker, we had the boiler room to ourselves. I was just turning to go down below and took a last look towards the landmass, when a single searchlight came on and swept across the skies slowly. I held my breath then saying softly "Keep off there, keep off there". Then, ever so slowly, it came down onto the water, swept from left to right twice, catching us in its beam. When it returned the third time it just stopped straight on us and we were bathed in a brilliant light. Almost immediately, one gun opened up and then others joined in. They were using tracer shells, which left a light trail behind them so you could see the actual path of the shell. The first one fired, seemed to be coming straight towards us so I quickly dived into the fo'c'sle, though if it had hit us the thin plates of the fo'c'sle wouldn't have been any protection. Our own guns now opened up and all hell seemed to be let loose with the sound of gunfire and the exploding enemy shells filling the air. Suddenly I heard a dull thud from the stern of the ship. A shell had got our range and hit us in a most vital area, the steering gear. This was completely destroyed and as it was on a port reading at the time, the ship could only steer round in circles. To make matters worse, an other early shot, hit the gearing room, which was the after part of the engine room and destroyed the main engine lubricating system. So shortly afterwards, as we steered slowly round in circles, the engines began slowing up until they seized up and then stopped. There we were, no engines, no steering equipment, stopped in the water, 800 yards from the enemy guns with no possibility of going anywhere, anytime except down.

The boats, which had taken the first lot of marines to the beach, were to return to pick up the second lot. We soon realised on seeing and hearing machine gun fire from this area, that the Germans had obviously had the guiding lights and drawn the boats on to the rocks where the marines, we found out later, were mown down. The remaining seventy-five marines therefore couldn't be landed so they were put in the fo'c'sle deck out of the way. There was a small cross passage there, where the entrance to my boiler room was and as this passage was full of marines, I had to push past them to get down to my diesel engine.

Whilst this action was going on up top, I started checking round the diesel which was now essential for our firing power. It sounded quite good, so I was just chatting to the stoker, when a particularly loud explosion rocked us. I remember, we looked at each other and I said "That one was damned close". What in fact had happened, was that a shell had come into the fo'c'sle and exploded. This in turn had caused a store of cordite for the for'ard gun turrets to flash sending a searing flame throughout the whole of the fo'c'sle mess deck. This happened in a split second but the effect was devastating as I soon found out. One of the valves of the diesel this time had started knocking, one of the tappets. So I told the stoker I would just go up on deck and pick up a bag of tools, which was always placed by the engine room hatch when we were at action stations. I therefore went up the ladder to the deck hatch, which was alongside the cross passage, and opened it. The first thing I was aware of was the acrid smoke caused by the explosion. The second, most harrowing sight I saw, was all the young marines I had just pushed past a few minutes before. They were all piled up on top of each other in various unnatural positions, all of them obviously dead and horribly burnt, their shorts and shirts practically burnt off and their skin in shreds. The bare skinless flesh of almost the whole body, was bright pink. There was no blood and the smell, to be crude but truthful, was of over burnt meat in the air, I always used to think of this when I had roast beef. It's an awful thing to say but quite true. It was impossible for me to walk around them, to be able to get the bag of tools. I did the only thing possible; I walked on top of them. Soft moans could be heard coming from within the fo'c'sle but nothing could be done for them. The lights were out, and there was smoke and it was still dark outside. No one could tell if there was still any deck forward to walk on.

As I emerged from the foc's'le onto the deck, I came across the ship's cook, a big burly chap standing there. I remarked to him that a lot of the lads had copped it forward, and he said, "Yes, I know. I copped a bit myself". He showed me his hands and all the skin from his arms was hanging down in long shreds attached only to his fingernails and walked the ten or twelve yards to the engine room hatch, picked up the tool bag and turned to go back to the fo'c'sle. There, a few yards in front of me lay the cook on his face. As I reached him, I bent down and started to turn him over but his intestines started to fall out onto the deck so I let the poor lad lie there. He was of course dead. Within a couple of minutes of me speaking to him, a piece of shrapnel had torn him apart. It could so easily have been me, but my time, obviously hadn't come.

As always happens on these occasions, although you don't think of it at the time, a comical thing happened in the midst of all this terror. One of the ERAs, Danny Rankin, they used to call him the mad Irishman was on the after flooding station, when a piece of shrapnel hit a tank on the stern containing acid used for making smoke. This blew up and a river of burning acid rushed down the deck, chasing poor Danny and as it gained on him, he took one look behind him and leapt over the side, into the water. The last sight I got of him, he was streaking along at a rate that would have done justice to a powerboat. The strange thing was, you know, he couldn't swim a stroke.

I used to wonder, before this action, how I would behave and feel if I was ever in real danger. I suppose all servicemen had thought of that. I couldn't have been in any worse danger than I was then. The strange thing was, I wasn't afraid, not in the least. I think the mind had accepted the situation and told me that as I couldn't change it, then just to get on with it. I felt as if I was in a bit of a trance looking back on it, and I seemed more concerned with that damned diesel.

I went down below again and adjusted the faulty tappet. The HMS Zulu, our sister ship, had previously tried to take us in tow, so we could be taken out of range of the shore batteries, but by a million to one chance, a shell hit the actual line and of course parted it. The Zulu got hit so often trying to hitch it up again that our senior captain told him to steam off and save his own ship. The Zulu skipper sent a message across, "God bless" and our skipper just replied "Thank you".

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