Presentation: Dad's Navy Days Part 8 (2)

Dad's Navy Days, 1941 - 1945

By G. A. Harrison

D. Harrison, with 80th & 81st Canadian Flotillas, manned Landing Crafts,

Mechanized (LCMs) in Operation Husky, near Avola (lower right), July ‘43

Map of Sicily found in Combined Operations by C. Marks, London

Introduction: The following post will be part of a Nov. 2016 presentation regarding my father's WW2 service with the RCNVR and Combined Operations organization.

Part 8 - Operation HUSKY - The Invasion of Sicily, July 1943

In the 1990s my father wrote two more articles for the Norwich Gazette that concerned his WW2 experiences with Combined Operations during D-Day Sicily, July, 1943. They follow below:

COOL, DAMP, SAFE ROOMS AT THE SAVOY ON SICILY

At midnight July 10, 1943 a vast number of merchant ships carrying the machinery of war were strung out as far as the eye could see, close inshore off the southeast coast of Sicily. Aboard a number of them were about 250 Canadian sailors with their landing crafts, whose job it would be to deliver this machinery ashore for the Army and Air Force. Every article required was there in the correct spot, and in the early morning light we went over the side and the invasion of Sicily was on in earnest.

The surprise wore off before noon and bombs began to fall. Some ships were hit and many Canadian sailors suffered from shrapnel cuts and burns. The worst attacks from German bombers came in very early morning and late dusk when a ship’s masts and super structure could be clearly seen but the planes weren’t visible. Attacks out of the sun were so fast there wasn’t enough time to be scared or unlimber a gun.

One day, about day three, a large net full of wooden cases landed on my landing craft. Stencilled on the side of each case were the words NAVY RUM; destination Officers’ Mess. I decided that the Officers’ Mess was in the engine room of our LCM. I never worked so hard and enjoyed it so much in my life.

Late that same night, we were resting aboard ship, trying to round up some food and comforting a chap with a terrible toothache, when suddenly the sky all along the beach lit up like a ball diamond at night. A German plane - with its engine cut - had coasted overhead and dropped chandelier flares. Amidst the racket of ack-ack fire we all abandoned ship, toothache and all, and headed our landing craft out of the convoy. We knew the bombers would swiftly take advantage of the lighted sky.

A few miles up the beach we anchored our craft, took out our saltwater soap and went for a swim while all Hell broke loose down the beach. The word got around somehow that I had rum and before long I had more friends than you could shake a stick at. A fool and his rum are soon parted, but for a few nights we slept in the lap of the gods. In the wartime Navy, a sailor is rated as either G or T (Grog or Temperance). If Temperance, the sailor gets extra pay of six cents a day. Suddenly, every darn one is G, but as I said, we all slept well and although my head was splitting, I took it in good part. We needed each other. In the early morning it was back to the firing line.

After about a week of being continually harassed by bombers, ack-ack fire and dog fights in the sky (we Canadians shot down a wing tank and almost single-handedly drove the Americans from the skies) one of our fellows on a short reconnoitre ashore found an abandoned limestone cave. This cave, a huge hump in the beach landscape, was to become our shelter at night for nearly three weeks. About 60 of us slept there, including another Norwich boy, the late Buryl McIntyre. The remaining Canadian boys slept in holes dug along the beach, covered over by whatever they could scrape up.

The cave itself had been used at some time to house cattle to protect them from us. It was large enough to sleep many more. The roof was 70 or 80 feet thick and supported by huge limestone pillars inside. We soon obtained a barrage balloon (the same way I got the rum) which we anchored on top of the cave. Unless a bomb dropped in front of the door, we were as safe as a church. There wasn’t a bomb as yet that could pierce that roof.

The limestone underfoot was almost like wet cement, but we happily trudged through this, put our hammocks down doubled up, laid our mattresses on them, curled up in our blankets, clothes and all, and slept like logs. We even recessed navy lamps into the walls. The ceiling was about 20 feet high. It was cool, damp and safe and we shared our good fortune with several little green lizards who had cool feet.

Early each morning we paraded out and slung our sleeping gear over bushes or on the lower limbs of olive trees and they would be quite dry by night. We decided to free one sailor from duty and he was to take over as a cook, something we just didn’t have. The cook’s duties were to find food and cook it in a huge metal cauldron, which we had procured in the same way as the rum and barrage balloon.

The cauldron was raised on stones and heated by pouring gasoline on the limestone underneath. This worked out quite well. The cook scrounged tomatoes (pomadori) which were plentiful and we managed some bully beef (the same way as rum, barrage balloon and cauldron). This was all stirred up together and one night we had tomatoes and bully beef, and the next night we had bully beef and tomatoes. Once in a while we threw in a sea boot to add a little flavour. Although we were like a bunch of orphans, spirits always remained high. There were hundreds of cleverly contrived anti-personnel bombs about, but we and the cook were well-schooled on these.

Field Marshall Montgomery spoke highly of the Canadian flotillas through the British Admiralty and said he was glad to have us along. After about 38 days, the Army and Air Force had won the day and Sicily was freed. Our work was done. Our commanding officer, Lt./Cdr. Koyl gave us the news and said we could now return to Malta and prepare for Italy. In our glee someone shot down the barrage balloon and we said goodbye to the cave, which we had nicknamed The Savoy.

Since we remained on good terms with our officers and never heard anything about the rum, I concluded they didn’t know where it went and I didn’t enlighten them. On the next invasion, I was hopeful they would send food. 

The Canadian Flotillas of LCMs approach Malta for rest

and repair in early August, 1943 after the invasion of Sicily

Photo, used with permission, from the collection of Joe Spencer

*****

RECALLING MONKEY MISHAP ABOARD SHIP

Not many days slip by but that I think of my comrades in the navy. One I served with on landing craft during World War Two came to mind recently. This branch of the service was called Combined Operations because some of us navy men joined with the army and air force to invade foreign soil.

This time of year, close to Remembrance Day, memories of the war and my comrades come to mind more strongly. I have found that bonds formed in war are unbreakable. Although my comrades are scattered like leaves upon the ground, I have a mailing list of over 200 comrades and a memorial list of about equal number.

In the navy nicknames abounded. Depending on the time of day and the situation at hand, my nicknames changed. Usually in the evening aboard ship I was called Cactus because I carried a battered old guitar and it was time for a few navy ditties. At other times I was called Do-go, which when translat-ed into navy language by my comrades meant, “Get out of our sight, move it.”

This time of year as always I thought of my comrades and one in particular came to mind because he and his pet monkey added a very strange twist to the war during the invasion of Sicily. I have thought many times of the strange scene that transpired about July 14, 1943. I don’t believe I ever knew Murphy’s correct first name but he was hung with the nickname Ephus P. He was called Prairie Dog too because he hailed from one of the prairie provinces.

Ephus P. was a devil-may-care type of sailor, with a smile a mile wide and a very tender heart. I suppose he missed the animals of the prairies and in a weaker moment at Cape Town, South Africa, Ephus P. purchased a small fawn-coloured monkey for his pet and to be our ship’s mascot.

The monkey and Ephus P. soon became inseparable; wherever the sailor went the monkey travelled on his shoulder, smiling in his own way, like his master. Since bananas were a thing of the past the monkey usually chewed on a mango, or hardtack biscuit, on which he munched away, the chips flying. The biscuit container was dated 1917. Ephus P. and the monkey became a familiar sight aboard ship and although we disapproved of the monkey at the mess-table at meal times, the two of them just smiled at us and we accepted its presence before too long, provided of course that the monkey remained on his shoulder.

The early morning darkness of July 10, 1943 found the Canadian sailors and their landing craft shuttling war materials ashore, but as daylight came the surprise was over - the news had travelled fast and the German air force appeared in numbers with bombs and some strafing. The vast gathering of ships of all types offshore answered every attack with tremendous gunfire.

The ship that I was on, along with Ephus P. and his monkey and several other Canadian sailors and officers, was an American Liberty ship named the Pio Pico, and many of the trucks in the hold were already loaded. They contained artillery shells, land mines, high octane gasoline for aircraft and, although I’m sorry I didn’t find out sooner, several cases of high octane rum.

After about four days of incessant German bombing and the terrible din of exploding anti-aircraft shells, the poor monkey, in this crazy bizarre world of man’s inhumanity to man, went berserk and no longer clung to Murphy’s shoulder but climbed screaming to the farthest parts of the ship. It had gone completely mad and out of control. As I recall, a well-placed bomb would have blown us all sky high, so orders came down that we must destroy Ephus P.’s monkey before it bit or scratched us or a member of the American crew. How ironic. We Canadian sailors, realizing Murphy’s fondness for his pet, stalled for awhile hoping the monkey would improve, but such was not the case and the officer’s order was emphatic. We had no choice and explained this as best we could to Murphy.

With heavy gloves on their hands, the sailors placed the monkey in a bag of sand and lowered it over the side into the water. It was a very sad moment indeed, but the war had to go on, and we tried to comfort Ephus P. as his tanned face glistened with tears.

Whoever coined the phrase ‘war is hell’ would have received no argument from Murphy and his comrades that very hot day off the Sicilian coast.

“Ephus P. purchased a small fawn-coloured monkey (Jocko)”

Photo credit - combinedops.com

Articles are now found in the book "DAD, WELL DONE", pages 104 - 110.

Londoner Clayton Marks records several pages of historical notes concerning the adventures of Canadian Flotillas of landing craft in Sicily, July 1943. In Combined Operations we read the following:

SICILY - Operation HUSKY - July 10, 1943

The armies for the invasion were gathering in England. Many of their divisions were already hardened, trained and ready. Weapons, stores and supplies were accumulating in enormous volume, in incredible variety.

Great fleets of Allied bombers were now battering at German industries, cities and strategic centres; at the country's brain, nerve centres and heart. The war seemed to be moving toward its climax, as indeed it was. Yet the grand diversion, the round-about closing in from the south which had begun with Operation Torch on November 8, 1942, was still in progress; had still to reach the point where it could mesh and move forward as an integral part of the final assault. It had advanced through several phases during the mid-months of 1943, and in some of those phases the Landing Craft Flotillas of the Canadian Navy had again played a part.

About the middle of March, 1943, several large convoys left British ports for Suez. The end of the North African campaign was coming in sight, and the next step would be the forcing of a passage to the Italian mainland. Sicily lay between North Africa and Italy, separated from the toe of the boot only by the narrow Straits of Messina; and Sicily was chosen by Allied planners as the next step toward Rome.

The convoys, which were to round Africa and come up through the Red Sea to Suez and Port Said at the eastern entrance to the Mediterranean, carried the Combined Operations Flotillas and a portion of the troops for the landings on Sicily; and among them were the 55th and 61st Canadian Flotillas of LCAs (assault landing craft). Later convoys were to carry the 80th and 81st Canadian Flotillas of larger landing craft (LCMs) for the ferrying of vehicles and heavier stores. Together, the Canadian personnel manning these Flotillas totalled about 400 men, while another 250 Canadians served in British Landing Craft Flotillas or in the support ships. They were a microscopic proportion of a force which consisted in all of 2755 transports, escorts and landing craft of many kinds; yet they were to be an important part of the ferrying forces at the beaches where they were used, and their performance was to be of a high order.

Far from Sicily, as the battle for Tunisia swept on to its conclusion, the men of the Landing Craft Flotillas trained under the broiling sun of Suez. Large-scale amphibious exercises, as tough and realistic as possible, ironed out difficulties remembered from the Torch landings, tested the men and the craft to their limits, gave rise to excited speculation as to what actual coast resembled the "dummy" beaches against which the exercises were directed.

On July 4th all Combined Operations Officers were called together for final instructions, and on July 5th the assault convoys sailed from Port Said for a rendezvous position south of Malta. On the 9th the rendezvous was reached, and to the men of the 55th and 61st assault Landing Craft Flotillas, watching from the decks of the Landing Ships Strathnaver and Otranto, it seemed that every horizon was crowded with arriving convoys. At sea in the western Mediterranean and gathering at the rendezvous, were sixteen escorted convoys and two large Naval covering forces of battleships, cruisers, aircraft carriers and destroyers.

At the rendezvous position the convoys assembling from the eastern and western Mediterranean divided into two great forces which passed up on either side of Malta. The Western Task Force carried the American Seventh Army which was to land along the southwest coast on a front extending southward from Licata. The Eastern Task Force carried the British Eighth Army, which included the First Canadian Division and the First Canadian Army Tank Brigade. It was to land along a two-corps front extending from the western side of the Pachino Peninsula around northeastward as far as Syracuse. Canadian soldiers and sailors, for this operation, were not to have the satisfaction of working together. The Canadian Division was to drive in on the western side of the Pachino Peninsula, carried in British Landing Craft. The Canadian Landing Craft Flotillas were a part of the subdivision of the Eastern Task Force which was to land British troops on the eastern side of the Peninsula, a little to the north of Pachino itself.

Toward evening on the 9th of July, the Eastern Task Force approached the shores of Sicily, and the summit of Mount Etna loomed through the haze.

Two things went wrong in the early stages. The odds against bad weather in those waters at that time of year were long, but a gale blew up. D-minus one started as a hot day without a ripple on the water. By noon there was a seasonable breeze from the northwest. By 1500 it was blowing force 4 and three hours later it was more like force 7. Almost all the troops in the landing craft were sick. As the British came under the lee of the land, conditions for them improved, but the Canadians and the Americans had no such shelter, and had to disembark soaked to the skin and in full misery of seasickness. Yet the bad weather had one good effect; the enemy, certain that we could not make a landing, tucked up and went to sleep.

For a time it was thought that the whole operation would have to be postponed, but after darkness it was decided to continue in the hope of better weather at dawn.

The second misfortune concerned the airborne troops. Two operations were planned for the night before D-Day - a British glider borne landing and an American parachute drop. In both, the aircraft became badly scattered, owing to the high winds already mentioned; and only a fraction of the troops - though actually enough to do the job - reached their objective. Unfortunately in the British sector about a dozen out of 134 gliders were released too soon, and were lost in the sea, with many casualties. Air routes had been carefully planned to ensure that the airborne troops did not have to fly over the convoys; but something went wrong with the promulgation of these orders, and in a reinforcing operation three nights later, there were several cases of our own transport aircraft being shot down by our own ships. Failure in aircraft recognition was one of the causes.

Midnight brought the steady thunder of transport planes, passing over to land parachute troops inland. Half an hour later the assault convoy which included Otranto and Strathnaver arrived at its position seven miles off the coast above Pachino. Rolling in the heavy swell, the landing ships stopped their engines. Troops loaded down with battle equipment came up from the holds and began to climb into the landing craft hanging at the davits, a full platoon to each craft.

"the landing craft hanging at the davits, a full platoon to each craft"

Photo credit - RCN Photographer Lieut. Gilbert Milne

One by one, as the platoons settled into their places, the swaying assault craft were lowered forty feet to the water below. Motors began sputtering; the craft moved away from the ships and formed up for the run to shore. It had been planned to have Fairmile motor launches lead each Flotilla separately to the assault point; but as only one Fairmile arrived it was necessary for the 55th Flotilla to take station on the 51st which followed directly behind the launch.

At fifteen minutes past one the wavering columns of flat-bottomed craft set off for the beach seven miles away. The night was black and the sea was very rough. It was windy, wet and cold. The soldiers huddling against the gunwales became sea sick; buckets came freely into use.

Even some of the Naval stokers, working throttles amid the fumes of their torrid little engine rooms, began to feel the effects. Seas washing over the side called for constant bailing. Coxswains and Officers, peering ahead through the darkness, found it difficult to pick out the landmarks which had been shown to them on the charts before the operation began. Navigation of the craft, always difficult, became trebly so in the rough weather, with the southerly set of the water off the coast increased by the force of the wind. A searchlight knifed out from land, swung toward the craft, and illuminated every man's face in a white glare. Then it swept on, apparently having revealed nothing to the watchers ashore.

Canadians in Combined Ops: Photo - Combined Operations, Page 89

As the flights came nearer in they were unable to locate their beaches. Estimating that they had drifted a bit too far to the south, they turned and ran northward, paralleling the coast. A red flare, apparently dropped by a plane, blazed up; and in its light the exact landing place for the first wave of the Flotilla was revealed.

Abreast of each other the craft moved in. As they felt the scrape of sand along their bottoms, the ramps at the front went down and the troops stepped ashore, wet and miserable, crouching in anticipation of a blaze of fire. Only silence greeted them and they fanned out and made for their objectives. The empty landing craft began to withdraw, and it was not until they were again moving seaward that a single machine gun opened up to spatter the water about them.

The second wave of landing craft found their sector of beach protected by a breakwater which they had to skirt under light fire. As they rounded the breakwater and turned in to shore the fire grew a little heavier, but they grounded without casualties on the rocky beach. The ramps went down, the bark of orders began amid the whistle and spatter of machine gun bullets, and wet, whey-faced, seasick soldiers, bending under their heavy battle gear, stumbling along decks slimy with sea water, fuel oil and their own vomit, set off unheroically on a historic campaign. Sailors, equally wet, half as miserable, and certainly not envying their "pongo" brothers, made haste to get their craft back to the older element.

Canadians in CO, including Clayton Marks

Photo - Combined Operations, Page 89

Another wave of assault landing craft was standing off shore with parties of engineers whose work would be to clear mines when the beaches were secured. Some fire from machine guns and howitzers was falling unpleasantly near, but the main sounds of battle were retreating inland. It seemed clear that the beaches had been gained with little resistance, and the engineers and the landing craft men began to watch impatiently for the Verey light signals from shore which would call them in. The defenders were making things difficult by setting off their own flares of every colour, but at last the authentic signal came and the craft raced in to beach. Fire from shore grew sharper and was unpleasantly accurate, but once again no casualties resulted. By four-thirty in the morning, all the assault landings had been made. The beaches were securely held; mine clearing was in progress. It remained only to ferry the reinforcement troops ashore and empty the transports so that they could move away from the beaches before enemy aircraft arrived.

Sunrise came at three minutes before six, and promptly at six a JU88 put in an appearance. A little later two Messerschmitts swept down to strafe the ships with cannon fire.

They were ineffectual, however, and too late. Reinforcements were streaming shoreward in uninterrupted processions of landing craft, and by two o'clock in the afternoon the assault Flotillas had done their work. They were hoisted back aboard the landing ships, and the convoy, much relieved to be out of the area, sailed for Malta. In less than twelve hours the two Canadian Flotillas had landed two-thirds of a brigade of British troops with their essential supplies and gear. They had suffered no casualties.

Following the assault convoys and moving into station off the beaches even before the first arrivals withdrew, came ships with the heavier mechanized equipment and supplies for depots to be established inland. Vessels carrying the larger landing craft came with them, and two of these carried the 80th and 81st Canadian LCM Flotillas which were to land near Avola. The LCMs began their work four hours after the LCAs but instead of finishing in twelve hours, they were to be occupied for some ten weeks, first on Sicily and then on the Italian mainland.

The first of the LCMs were lowered from their parent ships at about five-thirty on the morning of the assault, a few minutes before sunrise. Loaded with vehicles and stores, they steered in toward beaches now securely held, deposited their freight, and turned back for more. For the first few hours there was no interruption to the ordered chaos of the build-up. Transports stood off the coast, each with its identification number placarded on its side. Landing craft ran in under their high sides, loaded with feverish haste and put off to unload at the same tempo ashore, satisfying the most urgent of the hand-to-mouth requirements.

At one point gasoline would be required to get vehicles moving inland; at another troops would be running short of ammunition. Headquarters units would require more signalling equipment; troops held up by resistance on the forward fringes might need a howitzer to break through. The landing craft was diverted from ship to ship and from point to point along the beaches to meet each need as it developed. This was the preliminary phase of the work, preceding the stage when shore depots would be established and stored; and it had to be got over with in a hurry before enemy aircraft arrived.

The comparative quiet was broken at nine o'clock in the morning. An enemy bomber came in very fast and dropped a stick of bombs along a stretch of shoreline occupied by two British vessels and by the Canadian landing craft carrying the Senior Officer of the 80th Flotilla. The smaller British vessel, a tank landing craft, was squarely hit and blown to pieces. The other British ship was heavily damaged, and every man on her bridge was killed. The Canadian craft, well up on the beach with some of her men ashore nearby, had a miraculous escape. The force of the explosions knocked down the men on the beach, and the Flotilla Officer was blown back into the well deck of his ship, but no one was injured. Considerably dazed, but marvelling at their luck, the men recovered and went to the assistance of the British merchantman, helping to take off her wounded and transfer them to a hospital ship.

Two hours later a series of heavier raids began. Throughout the night and for the next forty-eight hours the attempted blitz rose to a total of twenty-three separate raids, costing the invasion forces five merchantmen and a hospital ship. The decline of the Luftwaffe's efforts was rapid, however. Air cover from Malta began to show its murderous effectiveness, and by the third day planes flying from captured Sicilian bases were adding their strength to the Allied umbrella.

During the four weeks that followed, the work of landing stores and reinforcements settled down into a routine for the craft of the 80th and 81st Flotillas. It was a grinding routine, and it was never free from danger. Every type of cargo had to come.ashore in their craft; sixteen-ton tanks, heavy trucks, tiers of cans of high-octane gasoline, ammunition, army rations, small arms and mortars. Heavy seas often made both the run-ins and the work of loading and unloading very difficult. The huge requirements of the armies put heavy pressure on the ferry system and for the first forty-eight hours of the operation every man remained on the job without rest. Even after that, the best arrangement that could be worked out was a routine of forty-eight hours on for twenty-four hours off.

The Canadian Flotillas formed, of course, only a small part of all the Flotillas engaged, but wherever they operated the warmly admiring comments of British Officers seemed to indicate that they were pace-setters. The mechanical aptitude and the loving care which their maintenance parties lavished on the craft gave particular cause to marvel. During eighteen days of continuous work not one craft of the Flotilla was out of operation.

The demands of the armies proved higher and the demolitions in Sicilian harbours more inconvenient than had been expected, and landing craft had therefore to be kept longer on the ferry service. This meant a great deal of discomfort for the Canadians, as for all the landing craft Flotillas. The beaches of semi-tropical Sicily in late July and early August were far from being health resorts. Almost every man suffered at one time or another from a variety of disorders which included dysentery, septic scratches, jaundice, sandfly and malarial fever.

The small, amphibious craft were not equipped for life on the beaches. Moreover, their men were now everybody's children and no one's. Their parent landing ships had long since departed. They ferried cargo ashore from every ship that came, but their home was the hot beach, and there their companies had to make what living arrangements they could.

Some found accommodation of a sort in an old, disused Army camp and many more had to take shelter in a very dirty and uncomfortable cattle cave. Their food consisted of rations acquired from the Army, occasional largesse scrounged from the better-hearted merchant ships, and what they could acquire from an impoverished countryside. The cave-dwelling members of the Flotilla had improvised a stove of petrol tins in order to apply some heat to their unsavoury victuals; and one evening the stove blew up. Flames licked back into the cave, igniting another can of petrol and consuming most of the kit bags, hammocks and clothing of the men. About half the personnel of the 80th Flotilla had to get along for the next three months on borrowed gear.

On August 5th operations ceased on the Sicilian beaches, and the two Flotillas returned to Malta.

Combined Operations, pages 79 - 85

Please link to Presentation: Dad's Navy Days Part 8 (1)

Unattributed Photos GH

Presentation: Dad's Navy Days Part 8 (1)

Dad's Navy Days, 1941 - 1945

By G. A. Harrison

The Canadian crew of an LCM see downed gliders near Noto beach.

Photo by D.J. Lewis, St. Nazaire to Singapore

Introduction: The following post will be part of a Nov. 2016 presentation regarding my father's WW2 service with the RCNVR and Combined Operations organization.

Part 8 - Operation HUSKY - The Invasion of Sicily, July 1943

My father wrote the following about his month-long duties related to Operation HUSKY in his Navy memoirs:

July 10, 1943. We arrived off Sicily in the middle of the night and stopped about four miles out. Other ships and new LCIs (landing craft infantry), fairly large barges, were landing troops. Soldiers went off each side of the foc’sle, down steps into the water and then ashore, during which time we saw much tracer fire. This was to be our worst invasion yet. Those left aboard had to wait until daylight so we went fishing for an hour or more, but there were no fish.

A signal came through, i.e., “Do not fire on low flying aircraft, they are ours and towing gliders.” What, in the dark? Next morning. as we slowly moved in, we saw gliders everywhere. I saw them sticking out of the water, crashed on land and in the vineyards. In my twenty-seven days there I did not see a glider intact.

We started unloading supplies with our LCMs about a half mile off the beach and then the worst began - German bombers. We were bombed 36 times in the first 72 hours - at dusk, at night, at dawn and all day long, and they said we had complete command of the air.

We fired at everything. I saw P38s, German and Italian fighters and my first dogfights. Stukas blew up working parties on the beach once when I was only about one hundred feet out. Utter death and carnage. Our American gun crews had nothing but coffee for three or four days and stayed close to their guns all the time. I give them credit.

A signalman sends messages to an LCI (left) and LCT in Sicily 

Photo credit - Imperial War Museum (IWM)

Ephus P. Murphy’s pet monkey went mad and we put it in a bag of sand meant to douse incendiary bombs and threw him over the side. The Russian Stoker on our ship, named Katanna, said Dieppe was never like this and hid under a winch. Shrapnel and bombs just rained down.

My oppo (pal, chum), Leading Seaman Herring, was bothered constantly with constipation, but when bombs began to drop close in Sicily, his problem suddenly disappeared, he was so scared. It scared the beep beep right out of him. Hitler’s laxative, so he wasn’t all bad, was he?

Once, with our LCM loaded with high octane gas and a Lorrie (truck), we were heading for the beach when we saw machine gun bullets stitching the water right towards us. Fortunately, an LST (landing ship tank) loaded with bofors (guns) opened up and scared off the planes, or we were gone if the bullets had hit the gas cans. I was hiding behind a truck tire, so was Joe Watson of Simcoe. What good would that have done?

Our beach had machine gun nests carved out of the ever-present limestone, with slots cut in them to cover our beaches. A few hand grenades tossed in during the night silenced them forever.

Slowly we took control and enemy raids were only sporadic, but usually at dawn or dusk when we couldn’t see them and they could see us. At such times we had to get out of our LCMs and lay smoke screens, and travelled the ocean side or beach side depending upon which way the wind was blowing. Even then they could see the masts sticking up. During one raid I was caught on the open deck of the Pio Pico, so I laid down - right on a boiling hot water pipe. I got up quickly.

A stick of Axis bombs lands near LCTs and LCMs near Avola, Sicily. 

Photo credit - St. Nazaire to Singaopore, Volume 1 

We were never hit but six ships were hit in a sneak attack out of the sun by German fighters carrying a bomb apiece. At night they would drop chandelier flares with their engine motors cut off. Everything would be dark and then suddenly it was like daylight. The flares were on parachutes and took forever to come down. After the flares lighted us up in came the bombers. Fortunately our gunners got so expert they could shoot out the flares.

Our LCM was fortunate enough to pick up rum destined for the officers’ mess; but it never arrived there - we stowed it in the engine room. From then on we went six or seven miles up the beach at night, had a swim, slung our hammocks and drank ourselves to sleep, to awake in the morning covered with shrapnel, but never heard a sound.

One morning as we returned to the beach after a heavy bombing we noticed an LST with its bows completely gone and smoldering a bit. We went aboard to examine it and found under the rear canopy a sailor sound asleep in his hammock. After we awakened him he said he hadn’t heard a thing. The rest of the crew was missing.

We used a pail of sand saturated with gasoline to heat our meals on if any food was available. Later we moved into a limestone cave, dank and wet, but safe from bombs. We hung a barrage balloon over it, about 1,000 feet up, and one sailor got drunk and shot it down but we had 50 - 60 feet of limestone over our heads.

I had 27 days at Sicily living on tomatoes and Bully Beef. I swore I would kick the first bull I saw in Canada - right in the posterior - if I got back. Everywhere I looked there were anti-personal hand-sized grenades that needed only to be touched to go off. They were built to maim and not kill because it takes men to look after the wounded, but if you’re dead, you’re dead. We threw tomatoes at a lot and exploded them in that manner.

We had a hospital ship with us named the Alatambra (sic: Talamba) with many nurses and doctors aboard. She came in to about three miles in daytime and went out to seven miles and lighted up like a city at night. No one was to bomb a hospital ship and for days on end we took the wounded out to her, many being glider pilots with purple berets. Never a sound out of them, no matter how badly they were hurt. Mostly Scotch soldiers.

One night we saw what appeared to be a tremendous bonfire in the east, offshore a long way out. In the morning, the Alatambra was gone, nursing sisters, doctors, wounded and all. Seven hundred and ninety were killed or drowned. The Germans had either bombed or torpedoed her that night. So goes war.

Just another little sidelight. We had acquired a portable record player in a green round box with an ample supply of records by Artie Shaw, Glen Miller, Vaughn Munroe and Tommy Dorsey. We had to wind it by crank and we cranked it so much we broke the handle. Then we had to spin the record with our index finger. It was quite a chore to get the correct speed but with time we achieved it. How I wish I had that record player and records today.

One morning in Sicily I woke up in my hammock in our cave (the hammock was slung between two limestone piers and above the lizards) and I saw Hurricane planes taking off just a short distance away. We now began working eight hours on and eight hours off. When we were pretty well unloaded I decided, on my eight hours off, to investigate the air strip and, behold, they were Canadians with Hurricane fighters. I arrived about supper time and explained who I was and was invited for a supper of tomatoes and bully beef... Not that again!

“I have no mess fanny or spoon,” I said, and the cook told me there were some fellows washing theirs up and to ask one of them for the loan of their mess fanny and spoon. So I walked over, tapped a man’s shoulder and asked if I could borrow his equipment. The man straightened up and said “sure” and it turned out to be Bill Donnelly from my own hometown of Norwich, Ontario. I got my oppo, A/B Buryl McIntyre from the cave and did the vino ever run that night. Small world. So when we had had enough Bill crawled into his hole in the ground, covered himself with mosquito netting, and we headed back to the cave. Overhead, Beaufort night fighters were giving Jerry fighters and bombers hell. We felt the courage given us by the vino and slept quite soundly in our dank old cave ‘til morning rolled around again.

After approximately 27 days I came down with severe chills and then got dysentery. I was shipped to Malta on the Ulster Monarch and an intern came around and handed me 26 pills. I inquired how many doses was that? “Just one,” he replied.

As found in "DAD, WELL DONE", Pages 31 - 34

Editor's note: Details follow concerning his landing in Malta and I will share those later.

Many Combined Operations' veterans contributed stories to texts produced in the 1990s (and inspired by Londoner Clayton Marks' book). I provide a few excerpts from my father's submissions:

About the aforementioned officers' rum that went missing: 

One day when we were unloading a ship’s cargo into our landing craft in Sicily, several large wooden crates of navy rum came over the side to my craft. Stencilled on each crate were the following words - “Consigned to the Officers’ Mess.”

Question: Did the rum reach the Officers’ Mess?

P.S. I certainly did not help drink the Officers’ rum and I never will again.

As found in "DAD, WELL DONE", Page 70

My father adds a few more pertinent details about Canadians involved in Operation HUSKY in another submission:

In late spring of 1943 about two hundred officers and ratings of Combined Operations (CO) left Britain from various ports to man LCMs in the invasion of Sicily on July 10th. Some of these men suffered terribly from dysentery while camped in the desert waiting for slower ships to arrive with their boats and many were still in a weakened condition when they hit the beaches south of Syracuse near a town named Avola and in the Pachino-Marzamemi Beaches further south. These Canadian sailors, with no change of clothing, subsisted on what they could scrounge for themselves for over a month at Sicily. Some slept on the beaches and on landing craft and one group found safety from bombs in an abandoned limestone cave near the beach. Very damp and lizardly, it was a welcome haven at night.

“Ephus P. purchased a small fawn-coloured monkey (Jocko)”

Photo credit - combinedops.com

The men under a new commanding officer did yeoman work, although working long hours, under fed and pestered severely by Stukas and JU88s. The stokers kept the landing craft running, if not on two engines, then on one (no down time) and the Canadian Flotillas were highly praised by the British Admiralty and General Montgomery himself. Their monkey mascot went bomb crazy and was buried at sea in a sandbag. It was a sad occasion when it was chucked overboard for our safety.

Late in the Sicilian campaign, because of poor conditions, some of these now-seasoned veterans came down with dysentery and were shipped off to Malta to recuperate.

As found in "DAD, WELL DONE", Pages 74 - 75

More details about Operation Husky to follow.

Please link to Presentation: Dad's Navy Days Part 7

Unattributed Photos GH

Presentation: Dad's Navy Days Part 7

Dad's Navy Days, 1941 - 1945

By G. A. Harrison

“This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship”

Introduction: The following post will be part of a Nov. 2016 presentation regarding my father's WW2 service with the RCNVR and Combined Operations organization.

Part 7 - On Leave: Gracie Purvis, Christmas Pudding and Lively Pubs

Most of my father's stories about going on leave appeared in the 1990s as articles in the Norwich Gazette, his hometown newspaper. One unique story, however, can be found in the book St. Nazaire to Singapore, Volume 1, and tells of his unique relationship with Gracie Purvis of Croydon, a "lovely brunette" and WAAF Corporal, that formed in 1942, initially after the Dieppe Raid, and continued after the invasion of North Africa. 

It follows in its entirety, with an introduction by David Lewis, the RCNVR officer and member of Combined Operations who compiled and contributed to the afore mentioned volume: 

This beautiful story is about two people in those magical times and it expresses so wonderfully the feelings and experiences of thousands back then; the boundaries of conduct not everyone observed.

THE SILENT PACT AND ITS EPILOGUE 

My Navy buddy, Frank Herring, and I engaged in a Silent Pact overseas. When we were not required on board for duty we conspired to be the first ashore to get the pick. No Liberty Boat inspection for us - case the joint and slip ashore quickly and hopefully unseen.

Ashore very early at Southend-On-Sea, we went straight through the black-out doors into the Top-Hat pub. Oh Boy! Two WAAF Corporals, a beautiful blonde and lovely brunette. With two or three Johnnie Walkers tucked under our belts for courage, we asked if we could sit down with them. The answer was in the affirmative. I sat by the blonde and Frank by the brunette. Things are great, going according to plan. Time passes and all too soon it’s “Time Gentlemen Please” by the governor.

It was suggested by the girls that we go to a penny arcade down the street where there were pin ball machines and even one-armed bandits. Away we go. No pain. I grasp the arm of the blonde and Frank the brunette. There is a big pile up at the black-out doors. People going out and some coming in, trying to get a last beer. We finally manage to get out into the darkened street and when we arrive inside the lighted penny arcade Frank has the blonde and I have the brunette. Such is life.

The remainder of this story doesn’t sound so consistent with the Silent Pact. I suppose it is a Silent Tribute to all the WAAFs, I don’t know, but it’s all true. Events were to prove, in my own mind at least, that I did not lose in the shuffle in the black-out doors of the Top-Hat Pub at Southend. 

My father meets a young lady, CWAC; date and location are unknown

I am reminded of those often repeated words by Humphrey Bogart to Audrey Hepburn in the movie African Queen, “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship” because that was what it turned out to be although it wasn’t to last too long.

The WAAF Cpl who worked in the kitchen or bakery of an Air Force barracks nearby was named Gracie Purvis. Her home was in Croydon and she established very early in our relationship that she was engaged to an English Army Lieutenant with Montgomery in North Africa. She was firm that she wished to remain faithful to him. I accepted this loyalty which gained my respect for Grace, and our friendship was free of all encumbrances and we became very good friends.

Each day or evening we were free of duty we met at the Top-Hat Pub and had a drink or two, a sandwich, a game or two at the Penny Arcade and sometimes we walked arm and arm around Southend wishing in our hearts that there wasn’t a war and things could be different. We spoke of Mums and family and the Army Lieutenant. Also we spoke of letters sent and received, about after the war, our dreams and aspirations.

The barracks I was at was HMS Westcliff, I believe, and I think the time was after Dieppe and prior to the North African invasion. Grace and I arranged that if either of us were no-shows for two nights, she had been posted or I was on my way somewhere else - and she alone promised to write. We had pleasant times because she was a pleasant person. I often think of her and her fine qualities. It wasn’t to last because I became a no-show. There were no good-byes or “I’ll see you again.” No more spearmint gum or cookies from the baking either.

Six weeks later we arrived back from North Africa to Liverpool on the Reina-del-Pacifico and in a few days the mail arrived from FMO and among my stack was a letter from Grace, now serving at the summer resort town of Blackpool. Could I get a weekend leave? If so, she said she’d arrange rooming quarters and give me a phone number to call at a precise time. That’s if things became favourable for me, which they did, and quite soon I was stepping onto the train platform at Blackpool with Grace waiting with open arms.

I had a 72 hour pass and stayed at a Seniors Boarding House with a lovely room. I sat down at meal times with Seniors dressed in formal bib and tucker to shepherd’s pie - and Brussel sprouts, of course.

Friday night and Saturday night we had a drink or two and enjoyed a dance and restaurant and renewed our friendship. Then I went back to the boarding house. Sunday (this would be late November, 1942) we went to see a large aquarium, sharks and all. The weather was foreboding, like the feeling in our hearts. On the surface we were enjoying ourselves but underneath I think we were both quite sad for we feared the end.

We walked with arms about each other’s waist out over the shallow beach water on Blackpool’s famous long pier. The cool wind blew our hair and we sat on a bench at the end of the pier. I shared my Burberry (raincoat) as we huddled there and I confess I felt more than a friend as we spoke again for what we both knew would be the last time, of our meeting at Southend, our homes and what we both hoped would be in our future. This loyal lady had still kept up correspondence with her Lieutenant. I had deep admiration in my heart for her as I felt her warmth and sadness under my coat.

We strolled back to the beach area where there was a type of midway still operating along the beach and we attempted to lift our mood by taking rides on ferris wheels, etc. Grace had a few small red burns on her face from flying burning fat and declined to have her photo taken.

I returned to the boarding house to pick up my attache case and all too soon I am again on the train platform, whereas 72 hours earlier we had had such a happy reunion. A mist swirled around us as we once more shared my Burberry. Through it all not a word was spoken of future letters or anything else. We were friends just hanging on through the tears.

I’m not prepared for the “All Aboard.” I never liked good-byes. I still wanted this moment over with. It was taking too long. “All Aboard.” We kissed good-bye. I climbed aboard and my guts were churning as I took a seat by the window. Grace stood so alone. This was not a happy moment. The train slowly moved out and Grace Purvis of Croydon turned and walked away. We were as two ships that had passed in the night.

I have been unable to locate Grace. I pray her Lieutenant came safely home and all her dreams were fulfilled. We filled a need in each others lives and I have no regrets. 

St. Nazaire to Singapore, Volume 1, Page 48 - 49

*****

About a happier time during the same season, my father writes the following, as found in the Norwich Gazette:

CHRISTMAS PUDDING CAME FROM CANADA

I don’t know how to start this article but I must try. I am in the U.K. and moving from the Norwich, England area to London, England near Christmas Day, 1942. I was on leave and staying with my aunt (mother’s side) and uncle. I introduce them as Aunt Nellie and Uncle Wally.

A couple of friends came and five sat down to a great Christmas dinner complete with the English tradition of burning the pudding. The blinds were all drawn and the burning pudding made a nice sight. This was a first for me and I was a wee bit afraid at the opening explosion of rum.

The dinner ends, the dishes are put away, the friends depart and the three of us make ready to walk to South Kensington rail yard where work goes on, Christmas day and all. Remember there is a war and England is expecting an invasion. Uncle Wally works at the rail yard. But first we make a short pit stop at the South Kensington pub for a pint or two of ale, a few cracks at the dart board and off to work. It was quite a walk so Aunt Nellie and I took a bar stool and asked the Governor (owner) for a couple of pints. She gave Uncle Wally a peck on the cheek and he was off into the night through the black out doors. Aunt Nellie and I got to the singing stage, pushed our way through the canvas blackout doors and headed for home.

It was very dark, not a light to be seen except the amber coloured pole lamps. In the shadow of tall buildings it was darker still. We were almost unaware where we were going at times. Aunt Nellie and I walked arm in arm and without any notice she started singing a First World War song. My mother had taught me many WWI songs and soon we were singing song after song. Our mood was good and as we closed in on home, in a quiet moment I thought, we belong to London and London belongs to us. All is so quiet.

I locate 107 Emlyn Gardens on a trip to London, England in 2014

At the apartment we were met by the bomber alarm, a little wire-haired terrier. Dogs usually gave the alarm two or three minutes in advance of incoming planes. It was a busy day and I was soon sawing logs at 107 Emlyn Gardens, Shepherds Bush, Hammersmith, London, England.

Aunt Nellie lived to be 94 and I visited her twice. She was always thankful that my mother sent the ingredients (except for the rum for the burning) for the Christmas pudding in ’42.

****

STOUT HEART REQUIRED IN WAR-TIME ENGLAND

During the couple of years I was in Britain during the Second World War, I enjoyed more than my fair share of leave. When I wasn’t in training on landing craft or on an invasion, I was usually in London or Glasgow. Most often I was in London where I had relatives.

While training in England and being granted leave I stated on my ‘leave chit sheet’ that my destination was Glasgow. This earned me two extra days for travel. Then I just hopped into London where I always stayed at the Westminster YMCA for a couple of shillings a night. It was across the road from the Abbey, and I could hear Big Ben sounding the hours. When training in Scotland I did the reverse and put my destination as London, and claimed two days leave. (No vices, no virtues.) Had I been caught in this swindle I probably would still be singing the Prisoner’s Song, staring through the bars of some dark navy dungeon with my fingers bleeding from picking oakum.

There was method in navy madness. While on leave the navy did not have to feed me. I paid for my own meals and I could inflict my own form of punishment on London or Glasgow.

My friends whispered in my waiting ear about a pub up the way from the Y, and that I should visit it the next time in London. “This is not your average hole-in-the-wall pub,” they told me. I liked travelling in London alone and unhindered and at night. It is true I’m sure, that a person could live in London all his life and not see it all.

The next time I was in London I prepared myself for the Lord High Admiral pub. The clocks, during war-time in England, were set ahead at least two hours so I had plenty of time to walk the long mile up Whitehall to Trafalgar Square where my boyhood hero, Lord Nelson, stood on the tall column, guarded by his faithful lions, and where people milled about feeding large flocks of pigeons. Nearby was St. Martins in the Fields, and Canada House, where I could call to see if there was any mail from home. A fleet mail office was set up there for the Canadian sailors and it was staffed by Canadian girls - a reminder of ‘home sweet home.’ Close by also was the Beaver Club, an all-Canadian service club and oasis, where substantial meals were served at all hours by volunteer ladies. There was a staircase on either side of the entrance to the Beaver Club which led to a large landing. Many times I leaned on the bannister watching the entrance for Norwich boys and did visit with several.

The Lord High Admiral Pub. Photo - Pub History

Upon completing a meal at the club I walked back to the Y, tidied up, and then started up the way toward the Lord High Admiral. It wasn’t dark yet, but I have vivid memories of Old London at night; amber street lights, seemingly long distances apart, tripping on the curbs up to the sidewalks, hundreds of people walking silently and little chatter, gaiety or laughter. One fear, I suppose, was that we might awaken an enemy airplane. War was serious business for each and every one of us. There were weak, grotesque shadows cast upon the nearby walls whenever we passed a street light. Then it was completely dark again. Who could forget it? What those stout-hearted people endured night after night, clinging to the hope of better days and that the lights would come on again.

The taxis were not so quiet with their dim headlights reaching into the dark, and they seemed to go a mile-a-minute. The daring drivers knew the roads like the backs of their hands. It was to risk your life to cross the street. Taxis owned the roads at night, speeding past buses, horns honking, careening around corners with screeching tires as if there was no tomorrow. They never stopped; the buses, however, gave up about midnight.

‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ according to the old song, and it was even further to The Lord High Admiral. At long last, just after dusk, I reached the blackout curtains and stepped into the lighted bar. My friends were right. This was not a hole-in-the-wall pub. This was a big place with a piano covered with beer mugs, a built-in player sitting on his piano stool under a blanket of smoke which reached down to sting his eyes. The first song that greeted me from the group of young service men and women at the piano was ‘Happy Days are Here Again.’ The lyrics, in part, went like this:

     Happy days are here again, blue skies above are clear again,
     Let’s sing a song of cheer again. Happy days are here again.
     All together shout it out, there’s no one who can doubt it now,
     So let’s tell the world about it now. Happy days are here again.

Songs such as this were good therapy during the Second World War. We could use some like it now during these hard times.

Please link to Presentation: Dad's Navy Days Part 6 (2)

Unattributed Photos GH

Presentation: Dad's Navy Days Part 6 (2)

Dad's Navy Days, 1941 - 1945

By G. A. Harrison

Some of the inhabitants of Arzeu, meet the US soldiers on the beach (IWM)

Introduction: The following post will be part of a Nov. 2016 presentation regarding my father's WW2 service with the RCNVR and Combined Operations organization.

Part 6 - Operation TORCH - The Invasion of North Africa, November 8, 1942

The following description about Canadian involvement in the invasion of North Africa is provided from the files of Lt. Cdr. J.E. Koyl (D.S.C. - R.C.N.V.R. - deceased) as found in Combined Operations by Clayton Marks, page 174

Shortly after Dieppe, the Canadian Flotillas, now six in number, were making their preparations for a new operation which subsequently turned out to be "Operation Torch" eg. the North African invasion. For several weeks the British and American troops were trained in amphibious warfare and on completion of this training, the invasion was completed successfully. This operation, as compared to Dieppe, was a complete holiday as the opposition in most quarters was negligible. By the middle of December, 1942, the Canadian Flotillas were returning to England. The H.M.S. Ettrick was sunk off Cadiz with the loss of 18 Canadians. Survivors were picked up by a Norwegian destroyer and returned to Gibraltar. The S.S. Clan McTaggart was also sunk in approximately the same area with the loss of 1 Canadian. Picked up survivors were returned to England aboard a British corvette.

Jake Koyl (far right) in Scotland

About N. Africa my father mentions, "Our Coxswain was L/S Jack Dean of Toronto..." and in St. Nazaire to Singapore, Volume 1, details about Jack Dean's actions are recorded:

In the North Africa invasion Dean was in an LCM (landing craft mechanized), which landed on the coast between Oran and Algiers in the face of light machine gun fire and ran a shuttle service from ship to shore.

"We worked steadily for 11 days," Dean said. "It was a 24 hour a day job and we would catch a couple of hours sleep at night if the sea was calm when they were loading or unloading."

Dean's landing craft carried American troops ashore and then ferried in supplies: bulldozers, ammunition and tons of light equipment until the merchant ships were empty. He returned to Britain and obtained his commission as a Sub Lieutenant and in a few months he was back in the Mediterranean taking troops ashore in Sicily. (Page 71)

 

L/S Dean may be seen standing at the front of ALC 428 (IWM)

Londoner Clayton Marks records the following historical information in his text Combined Operations:

NORTH AFRICA - OPERATION TORCH November 8th, 1942

All information regarding Operation Torch was a very guarded secret, so secret that only a handful of men in the highest planning circles knew it's details. Along with a sketchy outline of the plan, some of the requirements and conditions were made known. Assault convoys and reinforcement convoys moving from the United States and the United Kingdom to the Mediterranean were expected to come under heavy attack by submarine and from the air. The escort forces much larger than usual, would be required, and it was hoped that Canada could furnish some of her Corvettes to assist.

The first objectives of the great Armada which got underway during the late days of October were the ports of Algiers, Oran and Casablanca. The Germans were well aware of the preparations for Torch, and were completely misled as to the objectives. Apparently convinced that Dakar was to be the point of landing, they had disposed their large submarine forces well to the south of the actual routes taken by the convoys, and the long processions of Allied ships passed to their destinations almost unmolested.

The French Navy was known to be much bitter against the Allies, and especially the British, than the other services; the destruction of their fleet at Mers el Kebir, the Naval base a few miles west of Oran, in 1940 was not easy to forgive. It was almost certain the port installations at the last moment would be sabotaged. To anticipate this a couple of ships - former American Sloops, now under the White Ensign and manned by the Royal Navy - carrying American troops were sent into each of the harbours of Oran and Algiers in the early hours of the morning. Both attempts failed with heavy losses. At Oran, first the Walney, which charged the Boom at 15 knots, and then the Hartland, which followed her, were fired on, burst into flames and later blew up; in the former out of 17 Officers and Ratings on the bridge, only Captain Peters survived, and the landing party waiting to go ashore, only five. The crew of the Hartland were more fortunate, and although they suffered heavy losses, were able to abandon ship before the end. Peters was awarded the V.C. and was killed in an air crash on the way home.

At Algiers the two ships were the destroyers Broke and Malcolm. The Malcolm was hit in the boiler rooms off the entrance and had to withdraw; the Broke got in at 0530 at her fourth attempt, and managed to berth safely, though under fire. For the next few hours, apart from some small arms fire all was calm, and some French Officials came on board and suggested that the American Officer take over the town, but at 0915 she was heavily fired on by a howitzer, and had no option but to pull out. She got clear and was hit repeatedly as she moved across the harbour. She was taken in tow by the "H.M.S. Zetland", and sank the following day on the way to Gibraltar. Despite these two operations, no sabotage was carried out by the French. The French General Juin, who was representing Admiral Darlan said that all resistance would cease at 1900, November 8th.

At Oran resistance was more prolonged, and the town had to be fought for before surrendering at noon on the 10th. The way was now clear for a clear thrust into Tunisia.

At Oran landings were made on three beaches covering a front of fifty miles - two to the west of Oran and one to the east at Arzeu (Arzew). At each of the three landings at Oran something went wrong. The westerly force encountered a small French convoy a few miles short of the beach, in a fashion somewhat similar to Dieppe. This caused delay to the minesweepers who were leading the way in, so that they were overtaken by the Personnel ships. Captain Allen (S.N.O.L.) decided to take a chance and go ahead without them, but there was some confusion, which was added to by a westerly current, and the non-appearance of a Motor Launch which was supposed to pilot the Landing Craft to their allotted beach. As a result, the second wave got ashore before the first, but there was no opposition and it did not matter. The Bachequero, superbly handled, beached on a tiny strip of sand between two rocky headlands, and proceeded to pour a stream of tanks and other vehicles to the African shore. By the 11th, 430 tanks and other vehicles and nearly 1200 tons of stores had been landed at X beach.

At Oran's Y beach, Les Andalouses, there was a false beach of sand running the whole length of the sector, five or six yards off shore, with five feet of water inside it. Air photos had not revealed it and it came as a complete surprise. Many Landing Craft damaged their rudders and propellers as they bumped over it and many broached to.

Captain Lees (S.N.O.L.) in "Glengyle" was thankful that he also had no opposition.

At Arzew, Z beach had been selected for the biggest of the three landings - here the S.N.O.L. was Captain Q.D. Graham. The assault craft lost cohesion, and instead of touching down simultaneously they arrived piecemeal over a period of more than twenty minutes. The American Commander insisted on sending so much gear ashore with his men that the landings from the LCM Flotilla were delayed by nearly two hours and the whole program fell more and more behind the clock. The troops went ashore greatly overloaded", and here again, any opposition would have been disastrous.

At Casablanca, the sea was rising, the wind in the most dreaded quarter and the forecast for surf 15 feet high. The Meteorological Officer prophesied that conditions would improve. He was rewarded, in that the wind at once began to veer and the weather to moderate; but even so, the two more northerly landings suffered considerably from surf and swell, which on several beaches was six feet. At Fedala, a number of troops, heavily burdened with their equipment, were rolled over and drowned in the undertow, and on one beach 18 Landing Craft were lost out of 25. At another beach it proved too soft so that only tracked vehicles could get off of them, and they were soon chock-a-block with stores, with stranded lorries and light tanks and with Landing Craft, which were unable to draw off the beach against the surf and were left there by the ebbing tide. There was three days of hard fighting, but all resistance ceased on the 11th of November.

The six Flotillas of Canadian Landing Craft included in the forces which made the landings at Oran and Arzew had an easier time than expected; and their heaviest casualties occurred after all resistance was over, when the ships returning to England were torpedoed. The H.M.S. Ettrick lost 18 Canadians and many Royal Navy personnel, and the sinking of the S.S. Clan McTaggart, with the loss of one Canadian seaman, and two Lascar seamen.

The Canadian Landing Craft ferried in American and British troops almost without incident, although they were occasionally under sporadic fire from French ships and shore batteries. After the nervous initial stage was over, the men were inclined to make a picnic of the work. Nevertheless, at the conclusion of the landings it was reported that it had actually been difficult to get the men out of their craft to be relieved. The assault landings were followed by a week during which reinforcements and supplies had to be ferried ashore. Some of the beaches were blessed with good weather; and the men worked stripped to the buff, resulting in a thick Mediterranean tan.

The order of the day - "a thick Mediterranean tan" (Photo by RN Photographer)

A host of minor complications ran down through all the graduations of rank. Canadian Ratings, often less sea-wise than their British counterparts, were better paid. Their mechanical aptitude, on the other hand, was often higher, and they were not reluctant to admit it. They were explosively volatile ashore; and there was a free-and-easy character about their discipline which at first sight caused the raising of some "pussers' eyebrows". The cousinly difficulties were long in unraveling, however an increasing familiarity and improving teamwork wove the groups together. Within a month or so, as the convoys ploughed back and forth, air attacks, submarine attacks and every variety of emergency had proved the essential quality, both the veterans and the newcomers and a gusty harmony reigned. (Pages 67 - 69)

Mr. Marks' book contains a bit of poetry as well:

THE SINKING OF THE S.S. CLAN MCTAGGART

AFTER THE NORTH AFRICAN LANDINGS - November 1942

T'was a peaceful land so far each deep in a dream of his own,
And things we'd do, in so bright a hue, we'd never tell on the phone:
Where events stand out so vivid with little or nothing in rhyme,
'Tis the land that we call slumber, where no watch is kept on time?

T'was into the night, fresh from the fight, we sailed on the sea alone
When disaster overtook us and the ship gave a lurch and a moan;
Most men were away in that land so gay, dreaming perhaps of home,
But in the moment's disaster, most men stood alone;

Then came the pipe "Take to the boats", we're torpedoed there by the bow,

While the howl and rush of the Darkies, was a jibbering, panicky row;
Most of our men took to the boats, few remaining on board,
But they went soon in the water, a word on their lips to the Lord;

Some of the men, just out of their teens, could swim nary a stroke,
But they paddled away into the night, a smile on their lips and a joke;
It takes a stout heart to make the start and courage to keep up the fight,
But these men were born to be, and they struggled for life that night;

The gallant old ship, was on her last trip, sinking fast by the bow,
How she took the strain, that gave us all pain, no one I'm sure knows how;
Then came the second torpedo, struck just there at the keel,
As she blew up there in our faces, going down in a drunken reel;

She'd heaved a great sigh in silent goodbye, to the men she had served so well,
While we in the boats and the water, a grand story of her we would tell;
'Twas a glorious sight at the Navies might, we were saved at the break of day
By a very grand crew, who fed us stew, a word for them we would pray;

All hands were saved excepting one*, where he went no one could tell,
But vows were made in silence, our foes to see in hell;
This story's not new just to us few, we are few of the fortunate many;
We again live to fight, in freedom's right and our King may his years be many.

by - W. Smith, C.P.O., O.N. 2333 (Page 70)

*Lost: L/S C.D. Grimmon - R.C.N. - 4026

Lloyd (Luke) Williams, a member of one of Canada's six flotillas present at N. Africa - and aboard the above-mentioned ship - adds the following story:

NORTH AFRICA - OPERATION TORCH - November 8, 1942

With regard to the 55th LCM Flotilla at North Africa my memory is quite hazy, so what follows is my recollection only, after fifty years. Others may differ or may be able to add more.

I recall that at the time we passed Gibraltar, the sea was crowded with ships as far as the eye could see. We landed just west of Mers-el-Kebir, at Oran's "Y" beach, Les Andalouses, on the "S.S. Clan McTaggart" which was our Mother Ship. The troops that we landed were members of the United States 1st Infantry Division complete with their mechanized vehicles and other necessary supplies.

We were shelled from the hills above the beach for a couple of days until a Royal Navy destroyer put a stop to it by several well-placed shells. On the third or fourth day after the landings and when all the ships had been emptied, the Officers and crews had an opportunity to travel into Mers-el-Kebir to see the results of the Royal Navy bombardment of the French Fleet in 1940.

Some days later the "Clan McTaggart" sailed in a small convoy to Gibraltar with orders to join other convoys all northbound under escort to the United Kingdom. Unfortunately we developed engine problems that necessitated repairs to be made in Gibraltar. These repairs did not take too long - maybe four hours or so - and we were then given permission to sail alone and catch up to the convoy.

At about 1600 - 1800 we sailed and I remember standing on a bridge watch from midnight to 0400 when I was relieved. I went below and had just jumped into my bunk (top) when there was a terrible explosion. I ran up on deck and was advised we had been torpedoed. I then went back to my cabin to check on my cabin mate, S/L Harold Walkely, who was still sound asleep. To wake him I had to literally pull him out of bed. As we got up on deck, we went to our boat station only to find that the Lascar crew had cut the rope falls and the lifeboat was hanging by one set of falls. These were ordered to be cut in hope that the lifeboat would land right side up - it did. Apparently others did not. I remember vaguely moving around the ship in search of people needing help. The ship had settled by this time but was considerably lower in the water. The Captain ordered 'abandon ship' and a number of people jumped in the water or shinnied down the boat falls into the water.

I remember being picked up by a Carley float and then transferring onto a half empty lifeboat. We pulled around the "Clan" looking for people and it was there we could see three follows standing on the stern. I believe one of them was Leading Seaman Grimmon. All three went down with the ship. Sometime the next morning, we were sighted by an R.A.F. Catalina flying boat out of Gibraltar, who radioed our position to the "H.M.S. Landguard", an ex U.S.N, sloop. Around 0900 we were picked up by this ship and then proceeded to join the original convoy.

That convoy had been attacked by U-boats on the previous evening and had lost some ships including the "S.S. Ettrick" that had on board another landing craft Flotilla. We carried on to the U.K. and eventually to "H.M.C.S. Niobe" in Greenock, Scotland. Our Flotilla Officer, at that time, was Lt. Judd Whittall, R.C.N.V.R. from Vancouver.

An interesting coincidence was that the American Officer in command of the troops aboard the "Clan McTaggart", fought his way through North Africa, Sicily and parts of Italy and was being returned to the U.K. to prepare for the Normandy invasion. We landed him in Normandy from LCI(L)-310 on either our third or fourth trip. (As found in Combined Operations, Pages 71 - 72)

Please link to Presentation: Dad's Navy Days Part 6 (1)

Unattributed Photos GH

Presentation: Dad's Navy Days Part 6 (1)

Dad's Navy Days, 1941 - 1945

By G. A. Harrison

American troops on board a landing craft going in to land at Oran during

Operation TORCH. November 1942. Photo - Imperial War Museum

US troops exiting landing craft assault on the beach at Arzeu, Oran

N. Africa. Ships of that convoy are seen in the distance. 1942 (IWM)

Introduction: The following post will be part of a Nov. 2016 presentation regarding my father's WW2 service with the RCNVR and Combined Operations organization.

Part 6 - Operation TORCH - The Invasion of North Africa, November 8, 1942

From my father's Navy memoirs:

After Dieppe we regrouped and went back to H.M.S. Quebec for further training, this time on LCMs or Landing Craft Mobile or Mechanized. H.M.S. Quebec was in Scotland on Loch Fyne.

During the odd times we had leave I visited London and saw my mother’s sister and brother and nephews and had many gay times with them. One Christmas time I took a whole kit bag full of food and clothes to London, and what a time we had because they were on short rations. Our mail caught up with us from time to time and when it did it was tremendous both in amount and content.

One memory sticks in my mind and it was a happy time. They call raisins ‘sultanas’ in England and Mum’s sister, Aunt Nellie, had written Mum about some. Mum sent some over and also sent a Christmas pudding. It arrived on Saturday and Christmas was on the following Monday, so Aunt Nellie cried. One tradition was to pour rum on the pudding, close the blinds, and then light it afire. I had never seen it before and it was a sight to behold and remember.

My group went through much more training at H.M.S. Quebec and then we entrained for Liverpool. Prominent pub was The Crown in Wallasey. We left Greenock in October, 1942 with our LCMs aboard a ship called Derwentdale, sister ship to Ennerdale. She was an oil tanker and the food was short and the mess decks where we ate were full of eighteen inch oil pipes. The 80th and 81st flotillas, as we are now called, were split between the Derwentdale and Ennerdale in convoy, and little did we know we were bound for North Africa.

I became an A/B Seaman (Able-bodied) on this trip and passed my exams classed very good. The food aboard was porridge and kippers for breakfast, portioned out with a scale. We would plead for just one more kipper from the English Chief Petty Officer, and when he gave it to us we chucked it all over the side because the kippers were unfit to eat.

We had American soldiers aboard and an Italian in our mess who had been a cook before the war. He drew our daily rations and prepared the meal (dinner) and had it cooked in the ship’s galley. He had the ability to make a little food go a long way and saved us from starvation. Supper I can’t remember, but I know the bread was moldy and if the ship’s crew hadn’t handed us out bread we would have been worse off. We used to semaphore with flags to the Ennerdale to see how they were eating; they were eating steak. One of the crew cheered us up and said, “Never mind, boys. There will be more food going back. There won’t be as many of us left after the invasion.” Cheerful fellow. However, we returned aboard another ship to England, the Reina Del Pacifico, a passenger liner, and we nicknamed the Derwentdale the H.M.S. Starvation.

In the convoy close to us was a converted merchant ship which was now an air craft carrier. They had a relatively short deck for taking off, and one day when they were practicing taking off and landing a Swordfish aircraft failed to get up enough speed and rolled off the stern and, along with the pilot, disappeared immediately. No effort was made to search, we just kept on.

One November morning the huge convoy, perhaps 500 ships, entered the Mediterranean Sea through the Strait of Gibraltar. It was a nice sun-shiny day... what a sight to behold.

Troops climb into landing craft, manned by Canadians, from Reina Del

Pacifico during landings in North Africa, Nov. 1942. Photo credit - IWM

On November 11, 1942 the Derwentdale dropped anchor off Arzew in North Africa and different ships were distributed at different intervals along the vast coast. My LCM had the leading officer aboard, another seaman besides me, along with a stoker and Coxswain. At around midnight over the sides went the LCMs, ours with a bulldozer and heavy mesh wire, and about 500 feet from shore we ran aground. When morning came we were still there, as big as life and all alone, while everyone else was working like bees.

There was little or no resistance, only snipers, and I kept behind the bulldozer blade when they opened up at us. We were towed off eventually and landed in another spot, and once the bulldozer was unloaded the shuttle service began. For ‘ship to shore’ service we were loaded with five gallon jerry cans of gasoline. I worked 92 hours straight and I ate nothing except for some grapefruit juice I stole.

Doug Harrison (centre) watches as troops and ammunition come ashore on LCAs

at Arzeu in Algeria during Operation 'Torch', November 1942. Photo credit - IWM

Our Coxswain was L/S Jack Dean of Toronto and our officer was Lt. McDonald RNR. After the 92 hours my officer said, “Well done. An excellent job, Harrison. Go to Reina Del Pacifico and rest.” But first the Americans brought in a half track (they found out snipers were in a train station) and shelled the building to the ground level. No more snipers. I then had to climb hand over hand up a large hawser (braided rope) to reach the hand rail of Reina Del Pacifico and here my weakness showed itself.

I got to the hand rail completely exhausted and couldn’t let one hand go to grab the rail or I would have fallen forty feet into an LCM bobbing below. I managed to nod my head at a cook in a Petty Officer’s uniform and he hauled me in. My throat was so dry I only managed to say, “Thanks, you saved my life.”

The Reina was a ship purposely for fellows like me who were tired out, and I was fed everything good, given a big tot of rum and placed in a ham-mock. I slept the clock around twice - 24 hours - then went back to work. In seven days I went back aboard the Reina Del and headed for Gibraltar to regroup for the trip back to England. During the trip I noticed the ship carried an unexploded three inch shell in her side all the way back to England.

Just outside Gibraltar, Ettrick was torpedoed in her side and sank, and one rating from Ingersoll, Ontario was among those killed. She took four hours to sink and many were saved. We arrived in England without trouble. Our ship was fast, could do about 22 knots per hour, a knot being one mile and a fifth per hour. (I am going to leave my memories about hilarious occasions during leaves I enjoyed until last.)

The job of the seaman on an ALC or LCM is to let the bow door down and wind it up by means of a winch situated in the stern of the barge. This winch is divided so you can drop a kedge (anchor) possibly about 100 or so feet from shore depending on the tide. If it is going out you can unload and then put motors full astern, wind in the kedge and pull yourself off of breach. The tide is very important and constantly watched. If it is going out (on the ebb) and you are slow, you can be left high and dry, and if so, you stay with the barge. If the tide is on the make (flowing in) you use the kedge to keep you from swinging sideways on breach. In this case your kedge would be out only a short ways. After much practice, however, the kedge can be forgotten and everything done by engines and helm. Each barge has two engines.

A convoy is only as fast as the slowest ship and fast ships that make over 20 knots usually travel alone on a zig zag course so a sub cannot get lined up on them. That wouldn’t work today as subs are much faster.  From "DAD, WELL DONE" PAGES 23 - 26

Excerpt from one of D. Harrison's submissions to St. Nazaire to Singapore, Volume 1

The RCNVR in WW2: Canadian Combined Ops (CO)

The remainder regrouped with comrades in England and were joined by other officers and ratings from Canada. They set sail for North Africa in late October or early November, 1942. The Canadian men, with a sprinkling of Royal Navy personnel were lowered with their LCMs over the side of tankers at midnight, November 8, 1942 to ferry goods and supplies to the undefended shores of North Africa - and against resistance at Arzew, just south of Oran.

After about a week of this and the loss of one coxswain who was killed, the LCMs were left behind and the Canadians boarded three ships for the return to England. The Reina del Pacifico arrived safely but a slow old blister named the Clan MacTaggart and the P & O liner Ettrick were torpedoed off Gibraltar. One sailor died in the sinking of the Clan MacTaggart. Eight died when a torpedo scored a direct hit on the mess deck of the Ettrick. So these fine Canadian sailors were buried at sea. (From "DAD, WELL DONE, pages 73 - 74)

One of D. Harrison's news article published in the Norwich Gazette, early 1990s:

REINA DEL PACIFICO SERVED WELL IN WAR YEARS 

This is the story of a large passenger liner converted to a troop ship called the Reina Del Pacifico which carried 200 Canadian sailors and other personnel back to Liverpool, England after the invasion of North Africa, which started November 8th, 1942.

Buryl McIntyre and I were among the 200 sailors who had worked on our landing craft ferrying army supplies ashore night and day for about a week at a little town south of Oran named Arzew.

During the invasion, the Reina Del had acted as a hospital ship which we Canadian sailors could go aboard when tired. We were given excellent food, excellent rum, help to tumble into a hammock where we remained horizontal for many hours. The Reina Del served as a passenger liner again for many years after the war but unfortunately burned about 1970.

Canadians in Combined Ops (dark uniforms) man landing crafts as U.S. troops

unload supplies. Arzeu, N. Africa. Nov. 8, 1942. Photo - Imperial War Museum 

Approximately Nov. 14th, 1942 the dark green, two funnel Reina Del lay at anchor at Arzew, and those two funnels were active enough to indicate steam was being brewed in the engine rooms, and she was as anxious as the sailors to head for home. Our landing craft, one by one, manoeuvered to the gang-plank on the port side of the Reina Del and Canadian sailors waiting for the proper swell of the wave jumped to the gang-plank and hurried up the steps and went aboard through the large cargo door. Each one was checked off by name by a Canadian officer standing inside the cargo door, complete with clip-board. The landing craft were now manned by English sailors returning at a later date.

As my turn came to jump aboard the gang-plank, my eye spotted a large unexploded shell imbedded in the side of the ship not far from the officer’s head. I was very tired but not that tired, and inquired of the officer about the unexploded shell and he replied that the Captain had the shell examined and it was a dud. “I sure hope he is right because my mother will miss me, Mr. Wedd,” I said.

Mr. Wedd was dog-tired too and in no mood for an argument. “Your mother will miss you a lot more if you’re not aboard on the next swell, Harrison, because we are leaving. Do you hear me?” He added a bit more which couldn’t be printed and his ultimatum enabled me to time the swell of the next wave perfectly and I jumped to the gang-planks, and though tired, I found new energy at the cargo door and was soon amidships. The shell never exploded but it was sand-bagged and roped off.

It wasn’t long before the clank of the anchor cable could be heard in the hawse pipe. The anchors stowed, the gang-plank came on board and we were underway and in a few hours steaming at 27 knots (about 33 mph) we were safely inside the submarine nets at Gibraltar. In those few hours we organized bridge and crib tournaments.

The scene at Gibraltar was one of carnage, war at its worst. Nearby were destroyers which had been mauled by bomb and torpedoes, with gaping holes in their sides and deck plating, and some of the large guns were bent and pointed at bizarre angles. Miraculously they floated with pride and here and there steam came from the odd funnel. We thought of what the crews had been through and the fire and heat that had buckled the plates, how anyone could have survived. But Malta had to be fed.

Aboard the Reina Del at Gibraltar the Captain advised us to sleep up top under cover at night and those Canadian sailors who were not taking part in the tournaments became look-outs as we sailed west into the Atlantic alone.

Naval tradition prevailed aboard the ship and at 11 o’clock each morn-ing we were given a tot of navy rum which we didn’t have to drink under the watchful eye of some Chief Petty Officer. Buryl McIntyre and I were partners at bridge; we received good cards and placed second in the tournament; there being no main prize it was agreed that whichever team won the rubber of bridge also won their opponents’ tot of rum. Buryl and I slept quite well most nights, but with one eye open and one arm through our Mae West life jackets. Each ship has its own peculiar quirks and sounds; it is the unusual sound that brings sailors awake.

The Captain wished to miss the Bay of Biscay and as we skirted the western edge heading north we ran into a severe electrical storm. Standing well inboard under cover we witnessed the worst electrical display of our lives. Also, it seemed to rain so hard it pounded the sea flat. The ship retained good speed throughout and reached Liverpool safely in about four days.

Liverpool, such a friendly city, has welcomed sailors for centuries and we went ashore soon after our arrival to a seaman’s home, a large, warm, clean barrack-like building with good food, showers, and cots with white sheets and pillow cases. Heaven! Soon mail arrived and I can still see myself and my friends discarding our boots and stretching out on the cots to read the latest from home. Everything went quiet until someone shouted, “Hey guys, get a load of this!”

“Pipe down!” The old familiar phrase. “Read it to us later!”

We shared our parcels with anyone who may have missed out and showed new photos all around. Although we had shore leave, many chose to stay where we were, get some rest, and write some letters home. We did not see the Reina Del Pacifico again. One evening she slipped quietly away, but I for one have never forgotten her, our home for a few short days. (From "DAD, WELL DONE, pages 89 - 91)

Excerpt from a lengthy and informative newspaper article that appeared on February 5, 1944 in The Free Press, London:

NORWICH BOYS IN THICK OF TWO INVASIONS BY ALLIES 

LS. BURYL MCINTYRE AND LS. DOUGLAS HARRISON 

WITH “BIGGEST ARMADA OF ALL TIME” 

After Dieppe, his seven day leave cut down to two, Buryl was almost immediately training for the next phase of the war. Late in October he and this time Douglas Harrison were in a great convoy bound for an unknown destination. Composed of all kinds of ships the convoy was loaded with machinery, bull-dozers, wire for landing sleds, jeeps, guns and the thousand other things which make up an invasion. They passed Gibraltar and proceeded along the North African shore. They saw and heard the silencing of shore batteries and presently were ready to land. Buryl handled a landing craft for the British First Army and Douglas worked with the Americans. 

American troops landing stores on Arzeu beach from a landing craft.

Various sized ships can be seen in the distance. Photo - IWM

For three days they worked back and forth with their cargos until the port was taken and the ships moved in. Then they enjoyed the sunshine, the fruit and the French managing to avoid the Arab snipers. They bought German films, trinkets, souvenirs and marveled at oranges selling at less than thirty dollars a ton. Barges reloaded on their carriers, they returned to Scotland for more intensive training. When not in action men of combined operations spend their time perfecting styles of landing and setting up beachheads. (From "DAD, WELL DONE, pages 118 - 121)

Lloyd Evans, another Canadian member of RCNVR and Combined Operations, travelled with my father on the Derwentdale to the shores of North Africa in November, 1942. His lengthy and informative memoirs are found at Combined Operations Command, a fine website developed and studiously maintained by Scotsman Geoff Slee.

An excerpt follows:

Around November 1942 we went aboard the RFA Derwentdale, an oil tanker anchored off Gourock on the Clyde. With purpose built gantries she could carry a dozen or more MLCs loaded with heavy equipment and launch them at a speed of about ten knots. My craft carried a large American Army truck and two American soldiers.

We spent a day or more loading thousands of 5-gallon cans of high-octane aviation fuel into one of the ship's holds. This was hard, gruelling, smelly and monotonous work. We secured a rope around the cans, lowered them into the hold, removed the rope and stored the cans away. We could only spend a short time in the hold because of the fumes, Surprisingly, feelings of nausea struck only when we climbed back onto the deck. The fresh air often made us throw up. When we reached our destination the aviation fuel was to be transferred into the landing craft and taken ashore. It was to last until a port was captured with proper unloading facilities.

As found at Combined Operations Command by Geoff Slee

After inspection by several high-ranking officers we set sail with a large convoy. The accommodation on board was totally inadequate as the ship was not designed to handle all the landing craft crews and the American soldiers. All services were hard pressed to handle the extra people and, near the end of the trip, only half of the bread was useable after the blue mould was cut off! We always ate better during an invasion as we took all the food ashore and made up for earlier deprivations. The two American truck drivers and I slept in their truck. At night the cold north Atlantic wind nearly froze us to death even with all our clothes on and blankets on top. To confuse the enemy we often sailed south at night and north during the day to waste time.

A few times we helped the merchant crew refuel some of our destroyer escorts at sea. The procedure was both dangerous and complex especially in heavy seas. The crew of the destroyer shot a fine rope line over to our ship by means of a special rifle. We secured it to a much heaver line and this was pulled on board the destroyer by their crew. Finally the fuelling line itself was attached to the heavy duty rope which, once again, the destroyer's crew pulled to their ship. The whole operation was much more impressive in the doing than in the telling.

One evening the merchant crew held a little party for us in their mess. There was plenty of black humour around. One Scottish wit said, optimistically, that it wouldn’t be so crowded on the return trip and an old hand almost had us convinced that his duties included the watering of wreaths that were to be thrown over the side in memory of the dead!

One bright sunny day, around noon, we left the Atlantic Ocean and passed through the Straits of Gibraltar. Another large fast convey of troopships, battleships, cruisers, destroyers and motor launches split up around us and passed by at full speed. What a glorious sight it was. Our convoy then picked up to full speed and that night we anchored off the beach of the little town of Arzew in Algeria. This was on the eastern flank for the attack on Oran.

We lowered the landing craft over the side, lined up in formation and headed for the beach. Unfortunately we couldn’t find the two American truck drivers when it was our turn to leave the ship. I had never driven a car, let alone a big army truck, but it looked as though I'd have to learn real quick since there was nobody else! I sure as hell hoped there wasn’t going to be too much enemy fire. Fortunately we landed with no trouble and one of the beach party was able to drive the truck ashore after I managed to get it started. I wasn’t keen on hanging around a moment longer than was absolutely necessary so made a quick turnaround!

US soldiers landing on the beach, Algeria, November 1942.

Photo credit - NewsletterYadvashem

It was reasonably quiet during the couple of weeks we were there - we were only strafed once by a Spitfire the French had captured. To the west of us, in Oran, there was more activity where a large French battleship sunk a small American ship that had approached to invite its surrender. The battleship could have sunk almost the whole landing fleet but a RN battle cruiser was standing by for just such a possibility - a few broadsides could have put the French battleship guns out of action in seconds. No one had wanted this to happen but there was no alternative.

We spent the next week or so unloading troop ships, cargo ships and ammunition ships that had just come from the USA. Other than the RN and RCN naval personnel this was strictly an American operation. It was strange for us to see the jeeps and trucks we took ashore loaded with cigarettes, gum and chocolate bars. One night we had to make an emergency trip ashore with a load of Tommy gun ammo for an American group who were almost surrounded by the French Foreign Legion and fast running out of ammo.

US landings aided by Canadian seamen in North Africa, 1942

Photo credit - History Stuff

On our last night there we pulled our craft alongside an R.N. Tank Landing Craft and went aboard for a visit. They had liberated wine casks from the thousands on the beach waiting to be shipped to France. The Americans had got into this stuff pretty heavy so they put it under guard to stop any more drinking; but a couple of the RN sailors had other ideas! They threw a hand grenade nearby and, when the American army guards went to see what was up, they rolled one of the casks on to the TLC and pulled away. In the dark they fumbled around in a vain attempt to open the cask so they just blew a hole in it with a .45. With the wine flowing freely we used our tin helmets and drank our farewell to North Africa.

We sailed next morning for the return to Scotland aboard the troopship Reno del Pacifico, an ex P&O liner. Not having fully recovered from the previous night's festivities I was grateful to find it was calm. We stopped at Gibraltar to set up a convoy and to pick up a few R.N. men. Some of us chose to sleep on deck because of the risk of being torpedoed in the Atlantic approaches to the Straits of Gibraltar. I was bitching the next morning because the RN boys paced the deck all night but calmed down when told that they had recently been torpedoed twice in the same night. Our convoy made it back without any trouble. On our return to the river Clyde we were given leave which I spent in Glasgow and in Edinburgh. The next few months were spent in training in the following ships and camps in England and Scotland - HMS Westcliff, Drake, Foliot, Glengyle, Keren, Ulster Monarch and Rosneath.

Please link to Presentation: Dad's Navy Days Part 5 (4)

Unattributed photos - GH