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THE SIXTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF D-DAY

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H.M.L.C.T. 7074- Sixty Years On.

D-Day is celebrated as the greatest sea-borne invasion ever carried out. Sixty years after the event the men involved, such as survive, are nothing like their former selves, and of that great fleet of ships virtually nothing remains. There is H.M.S. Belfast, but very little more. Many of the landing craft on display are anachronistic, the one Churchill tank, poised in isolation on its vessel, is a very different kettle of fish from a Mk..iv L.C.T., reverberating like a biscuit box, with five Sherman tanks jammed into her hold, their engines roaring for a sprint start, their guns, together with the oerlikons from the wings of the bridge, firing at the beach ahead. The discipline and teamwork required to deposit those five tanks on the beach, in the two or three minutes which elapsed, after the kedge anchor had been dropped, was breath-taking. The first tank was moving before the door was down, the last tank was leaving the door as it came up, and the L.C.T. was sliding astern into deeper water.

It would be unreasonable to expect the organisers of the celebrations to produce such verisimilitude. Yet, it is the absence of the skilled teamwork involved in combined operations which falsifies, in one sense, the impression left by the celebration. There is acknowledgement of the inventiveness which produced the flail tank or ‘Pluto’ but there has been no examination of the inventiveness which produced the landing craft constituting so great a part of the shipping, which so staggered the enemy. It is not merely that vessels had to be invented which could land the troops and their vehicles, but, equally, many of the vessels of the support squadron had to be invented and perfected at the same time.

One of the most vivid pictures from the Dunkirk evacuation is of the long lines of troops, standing in seawater up to their necks as they awaited rescue. The reason for this is that very few vessels, then, would float in less than twelve feet of water. Hence the importance of the small boats in the evacuation, for they could get much further inshore than any sea-going vessel could. But there was, then, nothing, of any size, which could float in less than six feet of water, slide on to a beach, and then kedge herself off again. One of the chief ambitions of naval officers, at this period was to keep their vessels off the mud. ( Damage and Collision Forms(in triplicate ) The Seamanship Manual, issued to me in 1943, described the landing of troops, including artillery, in terms which would have made sense in the Peninsular War. It was small boat work, and relied upon such seamanship skills as knots and splices and the ability to manage small boats.

Yet, between Dunkirk and D-Day a whole range of landing craft developed. Several, such as the Dukw, the Landing Craft Infantry (Large), and the Mk V L.C.T. emanated from the U.S.A., as did the much larger L.S.T. Between Dunkirk and D-Day, Britain developed a series of Tank Landing Craft. In 1943 the mark 2 T.L.C. participated in the Ill-fated raid on Dieppe. By D-Day, Britain possessed substantial numbers of Mk.3 and Mk. 4 Tank Landing Craft, and their dazzle-camouflaged hulls filled most of the harbours in southern England.

The mark 3 Tank Landing Craft was quite a graceful vessel, with a degree of tumblehome about her stern. She was 192 feet long, 31 feet in the beam, and of nearly 350 tons displacement. She proved to be very versatile, being converted into Landing Craft Rocket, Gun, and Flack (anti-aircraft). As a Tank Landing Craft her weakness lay in a canvas- covered hold , the bottom of which lay below her waterline, so that pumps were required to keep her dry. Mark 4 Tank Landing Craft were shorter and wider, slab-sided vessels, whose tank decks were above the waterline, so that scuppers kept such vessels clear of water. These craft did much of the assault work.

In a recent programme, Max Hastings has said that these flat bottomed invasion vessels were unseaworthy. Nobody said so at the time. Crews were certainly paid ‘Hard-Lying money’ but this referred to the sub-standard conditions of living aboard such vessels rather than any hazard in taking them to sea. They were not to be sailed in conditions worse than force 6 on the Beaufort scale, but this is not to say that they were never at sea in such conditions. The Admiralty were certainly prepared to sail them from the U.K. to the Far East once the European war was over, either under their own steam, or towed in pairs behind merchant ships.

As to the ‘Hard-Lying Money,’ never was it better earned. The picture at the head of this article reveals all the living accommodation of the entire crew. The officers lived in the box-like structure above the main deck, rather like caravan dwellers, though part of that box included the wheelhouse, the galley, and a separate cabin for the commanding officer. The rest of the crew lived in that little box covered by the numerals on her stern. It was heated by a single coke stove, together with the residual heat of the engine —room, to which the crew’s quarters gave access. The capstan machinery obtruded through the deck-head. Originally intended to house a crew of ten, these quarters later held fifteen men, when L.C.T. moved from a two watch to a three watch system. Everyman slept in a hammock slung from the deckhead. Washing facilities and the heads were located right forward, adjacent to the door winches. This meant, on a frosty morning, the crew members had to acquire a bucket of hot water from the engine room and, clad in sea boots and duffle coat, walk right forward to the bows to wash and shave. It is a tribute to all concerned that libertymen from landing craft were not markedly less smart than others in the Service

To be at sea, in rough weather, aboard a Tank Landing Craft, left a lasting impression. The most characteristic feature of such a vessel was the great flat steel door at the bow, replacing the sharp stem of conventional ships. This door, in harbour, menaced the utility of wooden jetties, being capable, in a misjudged approach, of causing a deck of firm-set, wooden sleepers to ripple like a Venetian blind, or, of crippling serious warships by whipping off, in passing, two or three plates from their hulls. This same door, having plunged into the trough left by the latest wave, rose to meet the advancing crest of the next and plunged into it. Several consequences followed. There was a jolt, succeeded by a shudder which passed down the length of the vessel, and a great sheet of foam rose into the air and moved aft, a visible line of moisture advancing on all watchkeepers on the upper deck, eventually, by the end of the watch, penetrating all waterproof gear. This primary shock having passed, it was rapidly followed by a second vibration as the screws turned uselessly in thin air, as the trough of the wave reached them. And so it went on for four hours, until the watch was relieved. The nadir of this way of life came in the Middle watch, from midnight to 4A.M., when, about two in the morning, the first drops of seawater trickled down the chest from the towel, thoughtfully placed beneath the neck fastening on one ‘s oilskins. At such times, a cup of kye from the galley, or a jacket potato gave one a more sanguine view of life amidst the unrelieved gloom.

When the war was finally at an end, it paid the Admiralty to sail back to America many of these, so called, ‘unseaworthy’ landing craft. There were many crews awaiting demobilisation, and supplies of surplus American ammunition. We found L.C.I.( L) 292 in Oulton Broad, an echoing tin box, and set about bringing her back to life. She was taken, under tow, out of Lowestoft harbour, where trawlers, raising steam, showered the dock in fine ash. Our destination was Gravesend, where 292 was put on a slip and given a refit and repaint. ( During this time, we went through her papers and discovered that she had been cut in half, just forward of the bridge, during the Mediterranean campaign.) Eventually, we sailed for Devonport, where her troop holds were filled, from deck to deckhead, with green ammunition boxes containing surplus American shells. Against this green wall my berth was situated for the rest of the voyage.

We sailed to Norfolk, Virginia by way of Gibraltar, the Azores and Bermuda, a flotilla of infantry landing craft together with two wooden minesweepers. All was plain sailing through the Bay of Biscay, until we sighted Gibraltar, when something blew out of the Mediterranean which threw us into disorder. We became isolated units in plunging seas, glad to make the safety of The Rock. Not all of us, that is. One of our number had the forward gun pit torn from her foc’s’le head, and, in distress, put into Algeciras. Much to her amazement she was received with trumpets, a crate of wine, and an official greeting. It turned out that she was the first British warship to visit that port since the outbreak of war.

Thereafter, matters steadily improved. After lingering in Gibraltar for nearly a fortnight we sailed for Ponta Delgada in the Azores. The seas became smoother, the weather became warmer, and porpoise could be seen off the bow escorting us on our way. In Ponta Delgada came the first signs of the drift of international politics. A bumboat loaded with fruit and vegetables drew alongside. A large man held up a sign which read,’English Spoken.’ His first words were, ‘Say, Bud,’ It was the first token of many, proclaiming the new dominance of America. As the days passed, after we left the Azores, little by little, the New World began to exert its influence. There were flying- fish , skipping from wave crest to wave crest by day, and discovered to have come aboard by night. Then, growing daily more audible, there was the sound of commercial radio punctuating its gripping serial with banal advertisements. This amused us no end! There was the air-conditioned cinema in Hamilton, Bermuda. Who had ever experienced the like? —and the drug store? and stories of American dominance in the banana trade. In Bermuda our small force split into two, half of the vessels sailing for New York, four infantry landing craft and the two wooden minesweepers sailing for Norfolk, Virginia. There, after some minor excitements, we ultimately arrived, to sail past the great flaring bow of the U.S.S Iowa and a backdrop of American naval might. Our American pilot wanted us to go full ahead to our destination, but we insisted that we had to keep station, three-quarters of a cable astern of our senior officer. And so this stately little progress of Lilliputian craft maintained its naval dignity against the overwhelming power of the new rulers of the waves. Petty —when even the vessels we were in were theirs? Perhaps, but the Royal Navy had found the crews to sail these spent vessels back, as it had sailed them, as untried vessels, across the Atlantic in the first place.

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