大象传媒

The following story by Terence Robertson is out of copyright and appears courtesy of and with thanks to Mike Kemble, and Captain Frederic John Walker.

While Commander Wemyss and his officers were celebrating their victory the idea of giving Wild Goose a ship鈥檚 banner was born. When he had commanded a submarine during the First World War, Sir Max Horton had flown a black flag on returning to harbour to signify a successful voyage. This flag carried the skull and cross-bones and bore other strange devices to commemorate the submarine鈥檚 exploits. Wemyss could see no reason why an anti-submarine vessel such as Wild Goose should not do the same, although in discussion with his officers he insisted that the design should be dignified as befitted the sloop鈥檚 size and appearance. 鈥淭he outcome,鈥� he says, 鈥渨as a really handsome banner. It was dark blue in colour with the ship鈥檚 crest in white in the middle.鈥� As the Second Support Group celebrated 鈥渒ills鈥� by splicing the mainbrace, it was decided to portray the victories by drawing empty grog casks in the top right-hand corner. The design having been approved by their captain, the crew of Wild Goose settled down to have the banner ready for entering harbour. After this patrol, the Group sailed to the support of a westward-bound convoy, ON 224, from which Walker decided to take on more depth charges. He took twenty-six from the Panamanian tanker Belgian Gulf who also sent across a water proof bag containing bottles of brandy and cigarettes. That night Walker took overall command of the three forces, the close escort, the Seventh Support Group and his own Group, in readiness for a fight through an area reportedly jammed with U-boats. The next two days saw only minor skirmishes and, on the 19th he led the Group away to retrace the convoys course in another attempt to catch unawares any of the enemy who might be shadowing. He reported this decision to Liverpool and received in reply a signal telling him to stay with the convoy. By that time the Group were in line abreast some nineteen miles astern of the convoy and, like Nelson before him, Walker turned a blind eye intending to disobey only for a few minutes while they investigated a weak contact reported by Woodpecker. This turned out to be a firm U-boat contact. Ignoring the signal entirely, Walker formed up his ships for the hunt. For the last ten days since leaving convoy SL 147, U-26 had been wandering around the mid-Atlantic battlefield seeing a lot of activity without actually taking part. Kapitan Looks was still confident of his 鈥淪chnorkel鈥� breathing device which had enabled him to stay submerged and out of trouble at times when he would have been forced to surface in most embarrassing circumstances. With some confidence he attacked ON 224 during the night of the 18th and 19th of February. He was somewhat less confident when he succeeded only in bringing a destroyer of the close escort screen racing across to bombard him with depth charges for the next two hours. Eventually the destroyer gave up the hunt and U-26 with a chastened and grumbling crew, slunk away to the stern of the convoy. Shortly after 10 am the menacing bows of the Second Support Group filled Looks鈥� periscope and he gave the order to dive deep. Throughout the 19th in heavy seas, with a gloomy overcast sky and a high wind, the Group attacked their target, but asdic conditions were poor and they kept losing contact. One creeping attack after another was producing no more result than to disturb the already highly angry seas and by 4 pm the battle had settled down to one of endurance. But if Walker and his Group felt capable of continuing the struggle until a decisive result was achieved, Looks knew that time was running out. The continuous depth charging had caused havoc inside U-264. Her lights had failed, her engines had been shaken loose from their mountings, the new 鈥淪chnorkel鈥� had broken down and one propeller shaft had jammed. The attack went on and the noise of the crashing, roaring, exploding depth charges made it impossible to hear anything on the hydrophones. Looks decided that he would have to surface and abandon ship. At 5 pm exactly he broke surface a mile from the Second Support Group whose guns bore down and blazed into action. On the bridge of Starling, a wild-looking figure in a patchwork waistcoat stood on the chart table, waving his hat in the air and cheering as each shell exploded in a dull red flash against the U-boat. On the conning tower, despite his desperate plight, the captain of U-26 gave the order, 鈥淎bandon Ship鈥�, and stood by until the last of his crew had leapt into the water. Then he went below, set the scuttling charges and, with shells hitting the U-boat at every salvo, saluted and dived overboard. Seven minutes later, U-26 sank stern first. The complete crew of seven officers, nine petty officers and thirty-five ratings were rescued and taken aboard Starling, Wild Goose and Woodpecker. Walker signalled the Group to "splice the mainbrace". In his report he wrote: 鈥淭he enemy threw in the towel after receiving a big wallop in the belly from Starling鈥檚 last creeping attack.鈥� The Group had just reformed when Kite reported engine defects and had to be detached to return to Liverpool. She was never to rejoin the Group. After completing her repairs, she reinforced another striking force covering Russian convoys in icy, Arctic waters. (The waters were not that bad actually). There she was torpedoed and sunk, all but seven (actually 14 were rescued of which 5 died on board HMS Keppel) of her ship鈥檚 company of more than 150 (217 in truth) men going down with her. In those icy seas, it was impossible for a man to live longer than minutes. (Kite died due to the relative incompetence of a temporary commander - see my pages on Kite). Kite鈥檚 departure left an empty feeling in the Group who knew that with damaged engines she would have to pass through dangerous areas at slow speeds. That night, shortly before midnight while the sloops were steaming in line abreast, a heavy explosion sounded from somewhere on Starling鈥檚 port beam. Walker. who had been snatching a few moments鈥� rest in his sea cabin, rushed to the bridge and the Officer of the Watch pointed out two flares sparking on the surface about four miles away. They were startled again by three more explosions swiftly followed by an urgent call on the R/T. It was Woodpecker reporting her stern blown off by a 鈥済nat鈥� torpedo. The first explosion had been the 鈥済nat鈥� hitting her, the flares being automatically set off from her spare lifejackets when they hit the water, and the last three explosions had been depth charges going off from her sinking stern. In seconds every man in the Group knew what had happened and was shocked at the disaster; for too long they had believed themselves indestructible. Without thinking of revenge, the Group formed a protective screen round their stricken sister ship and, after half an hour, Woodpecker 鈥� as able to report no one hurt and that she was capable of staying afloat. Relief flowed through the ships; they were still invincible and the enemy could not claim a victim yet. Walker, indifferent ship handler but brilliant sea man, decided to do the towing himself while the Group acted as an escort. While closing in to pass over a towing line, he nearly finished off the U-boat鈥檚 job by colliding with Woodpecker. But he grazed her side and eventually the operation was successfully completed and Starling, with Woodpecker in tow, was making about four knots in the general direction of the United Kingdom. However, the weather was too rough and, after the tow lines had parted several times, Walker signalled Liverpool asking for tugs to be sent to their assistance. On the 21st the ocean going tug, Storm King, arrived and took the tailless Woodpecker in tow at a cracking rate of six knots and on an accurate course for Liverpool. All except a skeleton crew were transferred to the other sloops. Handing over their damaged 鈥渃hick鈥� to another escort Group, the sloops headed for home. The Group was on its last legs; ammunition was low, depth charges had been expended and fuel exhausted in non-stop attack and counter-attack. Officers and men were haggard, irritable and jumpy under the constant strains of alarms and the fear of 鈥済nats鈥�. While they steamed, red-eyed and drawn, towards base, the grey Atlantic took a hand in the towing of Woodpecker. Great rolling seas piled up around the helpless ship and gallant little tug; huge, mocking breakers crashed heavily on the sloop until her captain ordered the skeleton crew to abandon ship. The last man had jumped into a tiny lifeboat and pulled clear when Woodpecker heaved into the air, twisted and writhed as though in mortal agony, then leaned over on her side finally to capsize and sink with a long, low groan of escaping air.
Only rapid action by the tug, Storm King, saved her from being dragged under with her charge. The first of the Second Support Group had been destroyed, not by the enemy, but by the impartial, vindictive sea. Almost at the same time, Walker, leading the Group up the Irish Sea, received a signal from the Admiralty saying that the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet wished to convey their congratulations on the excellent work performed by the Second Support Group. Worn out but happy, they sailed in line ahead towards Liverpool; now the shorter, choppy seas of coastal waters replaced the long Atlantic rollers and heralded sanctuary and sleep. With the need for action stations and alarms gone, the spirited internal rivalry between the Group supplied an outlet for over-tensed nerves. While Walker paced the bridge of Starling, leaving his Officer of the Watch to handle the ship, signal lamps blinked domestically ribald messages which he considered it wise to ignore. 鈥淭o O.O.W. Wild Goose from O.O.W. Starling鈥擸ou are astern of station.鈥� 鈥淭o O.O.W. Starling from O.O.W. Wild Goose鈥擶hy don鈥檛 you keep a steady speed. You are travelling in leaps and bounds like a kangaroo.鈥� 鈥淭o Navigator Starling from Navigator Wild Goose鈥擸ou are leading us slap into the middle of a minefield.鈥� This was a direct attack on Starling鈥檚 leadership and her navigator indignantly rushed into his chartroom to make a rapid check on his course. A few minutes later he re-appeared on the bridge with seeming unconcern to tell the Yeoman of Signals: 鈥淢ake an appropriate reply, Yeoman. Not more than one word.鈥� The Group were still some hours out of Liverpool when Starling鈥檚 doctor was transferred to Wren to assist her medical officer in an urgent operation for acute appendicitis which proved successful. As Burn remarked irreverently afterwards: 鈥淏oth those Docs would try anything once.鈥� In this mood the sloops arrived off Liverpool to be met by the training ship, Philante, carrying the flag of Admiral Sir Max Horton, a fast piece of regulation signalling informing them that also aboard was the First Lord of the Admiralty, Mr. A. V. Alexander. Philante steamed down the line of ships signalling to each the First Lord鈥檚 congratulations on the successes of their voyage. As they passed, he could be seen through a porthole wearing a dressing gown and hurrying to get dressed in time to wave in person from Philante鈥檚 bridge. The Group entered the swept channel in line ahead 200 yards apart and steamed into harbour majestically, maintaining station as rigidly as a line of guardsmen with guns laying fore and aft, White Ensigns flying stiffly in the breeze. From Wild Goose鈥檚 masthead fluttered the victory banner with the strange devices. As the line of sturdy 鈥渓ittle ships鈥� approached Gladstone Dock, nearly 2,000 officers, sailors, Wrens, civilian port employees and dockyard workers lining both sides of the docks and cheered wildly, while at Captain (D鈥檚) signal station a proud signal ran up: 鈥淛ohnnie Walker still going strong.鈥� Two military bands combined to play Starling鈥檚 signature tune 鈥淎-Hunting We Will Go鈥�. Tied up opposite the Group鈥檚 berths an aircraft-carrier and an American destroyer flew signals of congratulations and their crews manned the sides to join in the cheering. Philante went past first and from Starling鈥檚 bridge they could see the First Lord, the Commander-in-Chief and several Staff officers take their places ashore for the official welcome. It took a few moments for Walker to understand what all the fuss was about. Soon he had entered into the spirit of the occasion and ordered his First Lieutenant to see that the ships and her crews were smartened up as soon as possible. Inwardly, he was as excited as a schoolboy at Christmas time; outwardly, the only indication of his pride in his ships was the usual broad grin which sparkled into a smile of joy when he saw Eilleen, Nicholas home on leave, and Gillian standing near Mr. Alexander and Sir Max. Captain (D) had sent a car for the family earlier in the morning, a dull grey, typically Liverpool morning, and when they arrived. Mr., now Sir, Reginald Hodges, of the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board, greeted Eilleen and took her across to the group from Philante. A Staff officer was the first aboard to warn Filleul that crews were to be paraded ashore to be inspected and addressed by the First Lord. A low moan passed from the Wardroom to the mess decks as the news spread. Although some first-aid work on the sloops had followed the captain鈥檚 order, they were hardly in a state to be inspected; bearing the scars of a 7000 mile cruise in winch they had been in almost continuous contact with the enemy. Officers and men were desperately tired and wanted nothing more than to be allowed to sleep undisturbed. For a while, minor panic reigned. Someone found a battered bugle; and a sailor who could barely remember the last time he had seen the instrument was locked away in a remote part of the ship to polish up both the bugle and his version of the various calls required to impress the First Lord and Commander-in-Chief.

Continued.....
'This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by 大象传媒 Radio Merseyside鈥檚 People鈥檚 War team on behalf of the author and has been added to the site with his / her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.'

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