by Sam Moses
“Some people seemed to have nerves of steel,” said Follansbee. “While the rest of us were petrified with fear, Larsen was blazing away at the bombers with a 40mm Bofors. He had a personal grudge against the Germans. I remembered the pictures of his wife and son in his wallet.”
“I fired at anything that came at us,” said Larsen. “One time some planes came directly out of the sun, which they were not supposed to do. I fired at them, and shortly after, someone called out that they were friendly. I hope I did not hit them.”
Musham was firing from an Oerlikon amidships, and he claimed a kill, but the bomber was more likely downed by Larsen from the Bofors—Musham didn’t use up much ammunition, because his Oerlikon was not in a good position; and, said Captain Hill, “He complained that he was forced to use hosepipe firing instead of eyeshooting, as the sights had already been stolen by another gunner of HMS Ledbury.”
“When the attack was over, we had four ships in a row,” said Hill. “The Ohio with Penn alongside, heading more or less for Malta, then the Ledbury alongside Penn, heading the opposite direction, and Rye alongside Ledbury, also heading the wrong way. The chaos of wires, ropes and cables hanging down into the sea had to be seen to be believed.
“And of course, as we lay four ships stopped in a row, down came the next Stuka attack.”
CHAPTER 44 •••
NERVES OF STEEL
Fred Larsen wasn’t the type of man to say much about his own heroics. He never mentioned the first Stuka he had shot down, and he didn’t claim a second one, either. Likewise, Lonnie Dales didn’t initially report the E-boat he had blown up. But he had to, after he received a letter from the commander of the merchant marine:
Your valorous actions as well as those of Mr. Larsen’s have come to the attention of the [Merchant Marine] Committee, and they are desirous of securing further information. It is noted in your report of the sinking of the Santa Elisa that you have refrained from mentioning any personal achievement. Your modesty is commendable, but in order that your deeds may be recognized and rewarded, it is desired that a complete factual account of all your actions and those of Mr. Larsen be submitted promptly.
Larsen and Dales were still on the Ohio when the Rye broke the tow yet again. The Bramham came along the port side of the Ohio, with the Penn to starboard, and the pontoonlike destroyers dragged the unwieldy tanker along at 2 knots. When she swung off course, the Ledbury put her bows against her and pushed her back in line.
“A great deal of time we were under attack,” said Larsen. “We were being attacked a lot. And every time we were attacked, the captain of the Penn, he’d come on the loudspeaker and say, ‘Volunteers on the Ohio, stand by! We’ll come back after the attack!’ They’d back off a little bit, slacken the line, then take off, and bust all the lines. They’d circle us and gave us protection, and we fired the best we could to try to keep the Germans and Italian bombers away from us.”
When the bombers came in and the Penn raced away, she played “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” over her loudspeakers. It was the only American recording on the ship, a current hit, and they played it again and again during the dive-bomb attacks, so loudly you couldn’t hear the whistle of the bombs, said Follansbee.
Another crash from above. Then the sound of music. Music? I must be going crazy. Crazy as a bed bug. I listened. It was music, all right.
“The only other people on board Ohio were the crew members of the Ledbury or the Penn, who were constantly trying to adjust the cables holding the ships together, and help fight fires when they broke out,” said Dales. “But they immediately returned to their ships under an attack, and we were cut loose, so it left just the five of us at the Bofors on board.”
“By now there was mostly dive-bombers comin’ in,” said Larsen, “and they were comin’ in very fast, especially in the morning and late in afternoon. As the sun was setting or rising you could almost count on them comin’ in. You could hear them quite a distance away, so we knew they were comin’.”
The Axis was throwing everything it had at the tanker. The near misses from oil bombs showered her decks with splashes like fat flaming raindrops, and now the Stukas carried blockbusters. There were only five Stukas this time, but Regia Aeronautica was determined to get through the screen of Spitfires, so twenty-three of the fastest fighters, Macchi 202s with the hot Daimler-Benz engines, escorted the bombers.
Each Stuka carried one 500-kilogram bomb under its belly, like the bomb that had devastated Illustrious, even with its armored deck. Below the Ohio’s thin decks there were thirty-three honeycombed tanks containing 12,900 tons of fuel oil, kerosene, and diesel, minus the kerosene that had already burned or been lost.
Spitfires shot down a Macchi fighter, as well as one of the Stukas.
“As we arrived I saw one Ju 87 diving and went for it, overtook it rapidly, opened fire at 300 yards and broke away at 30 yards,” said Squadron Leader Tony Lovell. “I saw strikes all over the engine and fuselage. White smoke poured from both sides. He lost height, smoke stopped, and he did a steep turn to port and flew west losing height. I turned back towards the convoy and saw the Ju 87 crash into the sea.”
The destroyers saw the dive-bombers approaching and cut the tanker loose. Two Stukas broke through the Spitfires, and one of them dived at the Ohio. From his seat at the Bofors, Dales cranked like crazy, oblivious to the pain in his forearm from the cracked bone, and the big barrel moved sideways. Larsen cranked from the pointer’s seat, blind to the pain in his fractured back. The gun climbed toward the Stuka in a diagonal sweep as the two men meshed the gears of their souls for the shot that could win or lose it all. Larsen was trying to save his family; Dales was just doing what he’d been raised to do. The Stuka screamed down at the Bofors as the loader pumped in 20-pound clips and Larsen fired bursts from the cannon at two rounds per second.
Some people seemed to have nerves of steel, Follansbee had said. While the rest of us were petrified with fear, Larsen was blazing away at the bombers with a 40mm Bofors. He had a personal grudge against the Germans.
Larsen missed.
The 500-kilogram bomb landed hard in the flat wake of the Ohio, dead astern, tossing her forward on the wave of the huge concussion. Her twenty-foot bronze screw was twisted by the underwater blast, and her jammed rudder was blown all the way off. The sea rushed in through a new gaping hole in her stern.
But Larsen’s barrage from the Bofors had caused the pilot to release the bomb just early enough to prevent what otherwise would have been a direct hit on the poop deck, or on the main deck over the pump room, where her back was ready to snap. Had the big bomb landed on the Ohio, she would have sunk on the spot.
As the 500-kilo bomb landed in the wake of the Ohio, Captain Mason watched from the motor launch, about 600 yards astern.
“The Ohio began to settle by the stern, as the engine-room flooded,” he said. “I watched the ship settling aft, and sent a message to the Penn for the chief engineer and chief officer to assist as much as possible with the air compressor gear, assuming these officers, and most of the crew of the Ohio, were now on board. The reply from the Penn was ‘Come aboard.’”
Aboard the Penn, Mason discovered that all his officers and engineers were in Malta: more than thirty men, including seven navy and twelve army gunners. When the Ohio had first been abandoned, they had all boarded the second motor launch, ML 168. Its engines had been damaged by a near miss during the dusk attacks, so in the middle of the night Captain Swain had sent ML 168 sputtering into Malta—“much to the surprise and regret of these men,” said Mason, “leaving only two firemen, two greasers and two other seamen belonging to the Ohio.
“I therefore boarded the Ohio and made a complete examination of the vessel with the assistance of these men.”
By now anyone could climb over the railings from the Penn or Bramham; their decks were nearly even, with the Ohio having less than three feet of freeboard. As Captain Mason was belowdecks, inspecting his ship with the chief enginee
r of the Penn and trying to figure out how to keep her afloat, the unofficial acting master of the Ohio, gunner Musham, appeared on the bridge wearing Mason’s cap and uniform jacket.
“In these desperate circumstances this was an amazing touch of humor to which all responded with a great cheer,” said Robin Owen, a midshipman on the Ledbury. “Later he continued his temporary authority by opening the Ohio’s duty free locker and sending around refreshments.”
Some sailors found paper party hats waiting for an occasion, and this seemed like it: Friday Happy Hour, after a long, hard week. Captain Swain cranked up “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” again and flipped the 45 over to the other side, “Elmer’s Tune.”
“My mate Paddy, an Irish AB [able-bodied seaman], a real character, enjoyed a tipple from a rum bottle, sitting on the boat deck,” said Allan Shaw. “He said, ‘Allan, I’m too drunk to stand. Do me a favor. Throw me over the side.’ I told him I was too tired. He offered me a tot, to carry me over. But the bottle had only a thimbleful left.”
Larsen and Dales stayed at the Bofors at the stern of the long ship, as far from the party as they could be, watching and waiting for enemy aircraft.
Over on the Bramham, more volunteers for the Ohio’s guns were being recruited. “The coxswain lined us up,” said Ron Linton. “He asked, ‘Any of you guys MSGs [merchant seaman gunners]?’ Some hands went up. He said, ‘Right. Over there on that tanker, you’ve just volunteered to go.’
“First they gave us a feed, and half of the ‘volunteers’ disappeared by the time he came back. I would have too, but I said, ‘What the hell, I’ve got nothing to lose.’ With the Ohio, at least we knew we were going to Malta. Stay on the destroyer, and we could end up in Greece or somewhere. You never know with a destroyer.”
Linton manned the Oerlikon on the port bridge. “But we were up there only if needed,” he said. “Captain Mason came along and said, ‘Come, I’ll show you where to get something to eat,’ and took us to his private pantry. Captain Mason seemed to be the only one there. He came down to us, to show us the way back up. He said, ‘You better stick close by, with me.’
“We stayed on the bridge for the clean air. Another thing was, she smelled. Boy, she stunk when we first got on, but the further we went, it lessened. Because she really stunk. The smell of that stuff. There’s nothing worse than the smell of burned oil.
“The one thing I can remember is I had a bloody good sleep. We found some very comfortable bunks. I think we slept solid for about six hours. We weren’t just sleeping, we were dead.”
Mason continued his inspection with the half-dozen greasers, firemen, and seamen, and with the Penn’s engineering officer, Lieutenant Commander John Sweall, who had begun reducing the flooding with pumps from the Penn before Mason got there.
“We sounded all the empty spaces and tested the air compressor gear,” said Mason. “The empty tanks, numbers ten and eleven, were still intact and dry, but the kerosene was overflowing from the port tanks and the water was flowing in through the hole in the ship’s side, forcing the kerosene up with it, as all the lids were buckled. And nothing could be done with the compressed air, because all the lines were broken. HMS Penn was endeavoring to keep the engine room pumped dry, but the water was gaining six inches per hour.
“From this examination I came to the conclusion that the ship could still be saved, and would last at least another twelve hours, providing she did not break in half at the main deck where she was buckling, in which case the stern half would probably have fallen off, leaving the forward section still afloat and salvable. I passed this advice to the senior naval officer and also told him that if the after end did part, towing operations would be easier and we should still get 75 percent of the cargo to its destination. This conclusion I continued to impress on all those interested, insisting that it could and must be done.”
“The afternoon dragged slowly on, matched only by the progress of the tanker, as Penn and Bramham, constantly changing their engine revolutions, carried her along,” said Roger Hill. “We longed and longed for darkness when the enemy air attacks must cease.
“By evening we were tense and ready for the expected synchronized attack, and I felt if we had any more bombs around, I would lie down on the deck and burst into tears.”
CHAPTER 45 •••
THE TEETERING TIRADE
As sailors wearing party hats were having rum and biscuits on the shattered and scorched decks of the Ohio, the Maltese were dancing on the edge of the cliffs over Grand Harbour. The Brisbane Star brought another 10,000 tons of supplies into Valletta under a halo of six Beaufighters and four Spitfires, with a jagged expanse of sunlight flashing through the huge holes in her bows.
After hugging the coast of Tunisia, Captain Riley had brought her in on his wits. An exchange of signals with the Vichy station at Hammamet had gone like this:
HAMMAMET: You should hoist your signal letters.
BRISBANE STAR: Please excuse me.
HAMMAMET: You should anchor.
BRISBANE STAR: My anchors are fouled, I cannot anchor.
HAMMAMET: You appear to be dragging your bow and stern anchors!
BRISBANE STAR: I have no stern anchor.
HAMMAMET: You should anchor IMMEDIATELY.
BRISBANE STAR: I cannot anchor, my anchors are fouled.
HAMMAMET: Do you require salvage or rescue?
BRISBANE STAR: No.
HAMMAMET: It is not safe to go too fast.
He had turned his wounded ship east at dusk, to “strike across to Malta during the night, and hope that the enemy would be too busy with the convoy to take much notice of us,” said the liaison officer.
A French patrol boat sped after the Brisbane Star and fired a warning shot that landed thirty feet from the broken and flooded bow. Two French officers came aboard, and Captain Riley invited them below to his cabin, where he stashed his Irish whiskey. Well into the balmy black night, the Frenchmen emerged smiling and wobbling. They shook the captain’s hand, wished him “Bon voyage,” boarded their boat, and steamed off.
There were no more dive-bombers that day, after Larsen and Dales fought off the final Stuka. Patrols of sixteen Spitfires were maintained continuously over the Ohio until dusk, and that pretty much ended it. That, and the Axis’ belief that victory was theirs.
“The fact that an extraordinary success has been achieved is beyond doubt,” said Radio Berlin.
“Britain has been forced to recognize our magnificent victory,” said Mussolini. “Their ships now lie at the bottom of the sea.”
“Mussolini is moderately satisfied with the results, because the guns of the Navy were not engaged in the battle,” said Ciano.
But the Ohio was still floating. Her honeycombed holds limited the flooding from the 500-kilo bomb that had hammered a hole in her stern, and the loss of her jammed rudder actually improved her handling. The southeastern cliffs of Malta came into hazy view, their bleached limestone burned gold by the setting sun, and a cheer went up from the crowded decks of the Penn.
“Later in the night,” said Roger Hill, “we were entertained by a circus act.”
The ancient paddle-tugboat Robust arrived from Malta and began towing the Ohio by herself; her skipper, J. P. Pilditch, was the acting king’s harbormaster, a position that put him in command. When he tried to increase the speed of the tow, the Ohio sheered to port and her nose turned starboard, whipping the tugboat into the blackness and smashing her into the Penn, which was standing by.
At that moment there was a dinner party in the wardroom of the Penn for some of the surviving officers. Captain Thomson and Captain Mason were there, along with Jack Follansbee and Ensign Suppiger. They were eating well.
Supper consisted of vegetable soup and roast beef and baked potatoes and canned peas. I asked Logan to pass the bread to me. Taking a piece, I broke it in two and began to spread it with plum jam.
My knife froze. A loud crash came from the starboard side of the lounge. The steel plates buckle
d inward. The couch toppled over, spilling the lifejackets out on the deck. Two armchairs fell over on their sides. The sound of running feet and shouts came from above.
At the supper table, the men stared dazedly across the table at each other, their forks poised in mid-air. Then with calm deliberation we placed our utensils on the table and laid our napkins beside our plates. One by one we rose, as if in a dreamworld, and filed out the door leading up to the main deck.
The stern quadrant of the Robust had burst into the wardroom, punching a huge gash in the Penn’s hull above the waterline. Suppiger said it was twenty-five feet long. Captain Swain had been sitting at the head of the table and the full ferocity of his Irish temper flared into the black hole in the bulkhead, over to the churning paddle of the Robust. The sorry tugboat ran back to Malta with its jammed rudder like a tail between its legs. Her master, Pilditch, had previously been commodore of Operation Harpoon, a larger disaster.
Mr. Musham and most of the other volunteers had returned to the destroyers to sleep. There were only a few men left on the Ohio as it was dragged toward Malta in the moonless night.
Soft singing from the Bofors platform drifted over the ship’s quiet wake. Larsen was trying to keep himself from falling asleep. First he sang, then he hummed, then he whistled a song popular in Europe: “Can You Whistle, Johanna?”
“Of course, we were very tired,” said Larsen. “To cheer them up and to cheer myself up, I hummed a tune, I sang this little song that I knew, and they didn’t know what I was singing. They laughed at me. I’d fall asleep singing, and I’d wake up and suddenly I’d say, ‘Are they coming?’ and they’d say, ‘No, there’s no bombers here,’ and I’d doze off again. I was sitting in this gun seat on the Bofors, and they had a big kick out of me, the way I was falling asleep and waking up and talking and singing. That’s the way it went on for the night.”