大象传媒

FAMILY PILGRIMAGE TO HMS BARHAM WAR GRAVE

It was December 1941 just two years into the Second World War but before Pearl Harbour. The days were short and the nights were long and cold. The air raid sirens sounded their unforgettable and eerie warnings and we would huddle in blankets under the stairs. I was 8 years old and my sister was 6. Each evening with my mother, we would listen to the 大象传媒 Home Service 9:00 pm News on the old Philco radio. It started with the opening bars of Beethoven鈥檚 5th Symphony signifying 鈥淰 for Victory鈥� followed by the chimes of Big Ben. It was somehow reassuring to know that in spite of the Luftwaffe, Big Ben was still there in the centre of London. There was little good war news. Even to a small boy it was bleak. One lived in fear of bombs, German paratroopers and of having to put on the suffocating gas mask. We hated the damp, dark cellar and soon chose the less secure but less dank space under the stairs when the air raids started. They were not happy times, but for us they were to get much worse.

On a wall in the small, cold cottage we were renting near Pangbourne, Berkshire was a map of the world. At first glance there was comfort in seeing that much of the world was 鈥淏ritish pink鈥�, but on closer scrutiny one could see the small 鈥渂lack鈥� figures denoting the numbers of the enemy ranged against us. Other than the Commonwealth nations, the bulwark of our defence was the Royal Navy, still the most powerful in the world. The political climate between the wars had been such that Britain had failed to re-arm against the danger that now faced us. My father had been suddenly called back from a comfortable three-year appointment in Singapore to take up the position of Principal Medical Officer on the battleship HMS Barham. This was the reason he was no longer living with us. Life for my parents had changed forever. Like so many naval wives, my mother was faced with the stark reality of shortages of just about everything during those dark days. Her true mettle was to be tested and proved in the coming months and years.

It was a December afternoon and I had just returned from school. I was in the dining room and happened to look out through the lead-paned window when I saw the postman open the front gate and come up the path. Upon seeing him I had a sense of foreboding. His purpose was the delivery of the dreaded 鈥淥HMS鈥� (On His Majesty鈥檚 Service) buff envelope which was in his hand with the news that my father was missing and presumed dead. It changed our lives forever. It was two months later that it was officially announced that the Barham had been sunk by a German U-boat on November 25th, 1941 taking 862 Officers and Men with her. I am not sure if I have ever come to terms with the loss of my father until the family Commemoration voyage in June 2003, sixty-two years later.

Three weeks before my mother died, her grandson James Pritchard-Barrett made her a promise. He promised that he would buy a boat, sail to the spot where the Barham went down and throw a wreath in memory of his grandfather. After the interment service, James invited me, my sons Robert and David and his brother Alexander to join him on the voyage. In spite of other considerations, all of us accepted gratefully and without question. None of us could fail to be part of a unique family pilgrimage and the spiritual and emotional experience of a lifetime. The grandsons only knew of their grandfather from reading the letters he wrote home from the Barham. It was a way of ensuring that his memory survives for future generations, and the memory of his brave shipmates who paid the ultimate sacrifice in defence of freedom and liberty.

Early the next year James bought a 39 foot sailboat 鈥淧apageno鈥�. She was fitted out, put through sea trials and sailed in stages from her homeport of Plymouth, England to Paleochora, a small fishing village on the south coast of Crete. This took about a year by way of Portugal, Morocco, Gibraltar, Spain, the Balearics, Sicily and Levkas in the Ionian Islands.

Plans were made to throw a wreath in memory of my father and one in memory of his shipmates at the exact spot where the ship went down. Two six-foot candlesticks had been dedicated in February 1943 in Westminster Abbey to commemorate those lost in the Barham, together with a Book of Remembrance. Each year there has been a Memorial Service on the Saturday closest to November 25th attended by a dwindling number of survivors and relatives of those lost on the ship. In light of this connection, the Dean of Westminster Abbey kindly agreed to have the wreath blessed at the Abbey before the Commemoration Sail. The Barham Survivors Association contributed the shipmates鈥� wreath which was blessed at the Naval Chapel at Portsmouth.

By mid May 2003 arrangements were well in hand. 鈥淧apageno鈥� was close to Paleochora, Crete, and transatlantic flights booked such that 鈥淧apageno鈥檚" crew would meet at Gatwick for the flight to Athens and then Chania, Crete. As the Barham鈥檚 homeport was the City of Portsmouth, the wreath was made to feature the colours of the St. George鈥檚 Cross by using red and white silk flowers and ribbons.

It was raining as the family walked down Victoria Street to Westminster Abbey carrying my father鈥檚 wreath and a vial of my mother鈥檚 ashes. The Abbey personnel were ready for us and treated us with great courtesy, sensitivity and kindness. In my father鈥檚 honour, I wore his medals on my right breast. We ended by paying homage at the 鈥淏ook of Remembrance鈥� which had thoughtfully been opened at the page upon which my father鈥檚 name is inscribed.

The next day, the four grandsons and I landed at Suda Bay on a beautiful Cretan evening. There was less snow on the mountains than is shown in the oil painting in my study of 鈥淗MS Barham entering Suda Bay in 1941鈥�. We had gathered from British Columbia, Texas, and Colorado to join the two English grandsons to be part of 鈥淧apageno鈥檚鈥� crew for the family pilgrimage.

We spent the night in Chania, the capital of Crete. The next morning, I wondered at the beauty of the day and reflected on the deeper meaning of our pilgrimage. The doves cooed soothingly and the sea was calm, sparkling, clear and blue. The caf茅s, which had been so busy the previous night, were readying their tables and chairs for another sunlit day. I was one of the very few customers sitting under the shade of an umbrella, happily watching the odd jogger, the numerous cats and listening to the peal of church bells as I had my coffee. The service was slow but I was in no rush. It was all so peaceful, so different from November 1941, a peace paid for by the lives of those lost on the Barham, and by so many others.

James, Robert, Alexander and David joined me after a while and we spent an hour or so in the Chania Maritime Museum which is filled with exhibits relating to the 鈥淏attle for Crete鈥� in May 1941, in which the Barham played a large part. Later that day we caught the bus for the three hour trip through the mountains to Paleochora, a fishing village on the south coast of Crete. We followed the direction of much of the fighting during the paratroop invasion and later evacuation of Crete, going past Galatos, Maleme, and Kantanos on the way to Paleochora. All that is left of Kantanos is a road sign. It was totally destroyed by the Germans in June 1941, all inhabitants and livestock being killed and houses set on fire as a reprisal. It seems that the Reich鈥檚 vow 鈥淚t will never be rebuilt鈥� stands true to this day.

鈥淧apageno鈥� had been sailed around from Levkas by Royal Cruising Club friends of James and was in good order. We spent almost a day making final preparations for the voyage putting in at the delightful fishing village of Loutro for a few hours before setting course for the exact spot where HMS Barham went down.

We sailed past Chora Sfakion and saw the beach where the Royal Navy evacuated some 15,000 British, Australian, New Zealand and Greek troops in May 1941 after the 鈥淏attle of Crete鈥�. This was the same coast which Saint Paul visited on his voyage to Rome as described in Acts 27. Imprinted in our consciousness was the rich history surrounding this part of Crete.

It was a beautiful evening as we set off on Monday June 9th on a course of 145o for the next 210 nautical miles passing the Island of Gavdos to starboard. It was off Gavdos, the most southerly point of Europe, that the Barham fought in the crucial 鈥淏attle of Matapan鈥� in March 1941 from which the Italian Fleet never recovered. It put a conclusive end to Mussolini鈥檚 claims of 鈥淢are Nostrum鈥�. We were bound for the site at 32o 34鈥橬 26o 24鈥橢 some 55 miles NNE of Sidi Barani, Egypt, scene of many 鈥淒esert Rat鈥� actions during the North African Campaign. The sunset behind the west coast of Crete provided a spectacular photograph and a comforting start to the pilgrimage.

One will never forget the sunrise over the eastern horizon the morning of June 11th. It was shortly after 6:00 am that skipper James said, 鈥淲e are 5 miles from the site鈥�. There was a very slight chop as the sun rose in the sky. It augured well for the service of commemoration we had come so far to perform. 鈥淧apageno鈥� was hove to and a giant Union Flag hoisted two thirds up the backstay in honour of the event and to make plain to all and sundry that 鈥淧apageno鈥� was a British vessel. We were alone on the deep with nothing other than the five of us and the blue Mediterranean. Thanks to GPS navigation we were exactly 10,000 feet above the spot where the Barham lay and the watery graves of my father and his 861 shipmates.

Having pinned my father鈥檚 medals on my jacket, I spoke a few words about why we had come this far in small sailboat, to this very spot. We had come as a to pay our last respects after so many years. We had come to make an unforgettable tribute to both him and to my mother, to his shipmates and to HMS Barham. After a few words and a prayer I threw the wreath on the waters ending with the words 鈥淟et no member of the family ever forget鈥� and 鈥淢ay God rest his soul鈥�.

Then James, using prayers from the Book of Common Prayer, sprinkled and committed to the deep my mother鈥檚 ashes such that, symbolically, she and her husband would be joined together for eternity. Namesake Robert dedicated the HMS Barham Survivors wreath to all those lost on that fateful day with a couple of special mentions, one in memory of 鈥渢he Irish Boys鈥� Section鈥�, honouring a request made to James by Royal Marine survivor Jack Nealon. Alexander read a very moving tribute from my sister to both our parents. Finally David read a poem which Robert had written, honouring James for having the vision to plan, organize and lead such a moving and unique commemoration.

We spent several minutes each lost in his own thoughts, as the wreaths floated away. It was an emotional time for all of us. My thoughts went back to two days in late 1941; what happened on this spot on November 25th and the day I heard that I had lost my Dad. For me it was the closure I had never had. I felt a powerful emotional and spiritual peace for the father I lost when I was a mere 8 years old and the mother I had loved for 66 years.
After a few hours at the site, we sailed away on a port tack bearing NE to Karpathos. It was if 鈥淧apageno鈥� was almost reluctant to leave. The sun continued to shine and we saw a flying fish that flew seemingly for ages across our bow. As we approached the treacherous Kaso Strait the wind continued to freshen until it steadied at Force 8 gale gusting Force 10 with waves that built to some 15 feet. With a partly furled genoa and three reefs in the main 鈥淧apageno鈥� handled the sea conditions admirably and we put into Karpathos at 8:30 pm the next day.

When it was under Italian jurisdiction Karpathos was known as Scarpanto. The Stukas that bombed the Barham during the 鈥淏attle for Crete鈥� and which caused loss of life, burn injuries and serious damage to 鈥淵鈥� turret, took off from Scarpanto. It seemed that during the course of our sailing we had traced many of the actions in which the Barham took part in the Eastern Mediterranean. We sailed a total of 650 nautical miles with the wind from the northwest, and a maximum speed of 7.7 knots. The chart depth at the site was 2,935 metres, close to the deepest part of the Eastern Mediterranean.

This account of 鈥淧apageno鈥檚鈥� commemoration sail would be incomplete without a heartfelt tribute to skipper James Pritchard-Barrett for having conceived, planned and arranged the unique family ceremony remembering and honouring my parents, my father鈥檚 shipmates, and the great battleship HMS Barham. The rest of us, Robert, David, Alexander and I, remain in awe of his quiet skill in organizing the voyage with crew coming from England, British Columbia, Colorado and Texas, his leadership and his superb seamanship.

A final tribute must also be made to my niece Sara, who with vision and compassion created the Barham Survivors website four years ago. It serves as an ongoing source of knowledge and interest to all who visit it. It is a tangible memorial to those who on November 25th, 1941 made the ultimate sacrifice for their families, friends, nation and the free world, and a further tribute to those who survived what was a tragedy of war.

I was privileged and proud to have been part of 鈥淧apageno鈥檚鈥� Commemoration Sail. My father and mother would also have been pleased and proud. I am confident that they know. It was truly an unforgettable family experience consolidating the memories of three generations.

Gra毛me Sorley, son of Surgeon-Commander E.R.Sorley, RN June, 2003
Victoria, British Columbia

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