The Old Navy

by Daniel P. Mannix

  We ran along the coast of Scotland past high rocky cliffs smothered in veils of white spray, with stately snow capped peaks in the background and dimly glimpsed villages clustering at their feet. War seemed incredible in such a setting until we sighted the submarine nets ahead, vast webs that stretched across the harbor closing the funnel that forms Cromarty Firth. Outside lay the trawlers waiting to open the hidden gates of the net. The head of our column reached them and stopped; the trawlers gradually drew aside a section of the first net for us to enter. As we slowly ran through they opened another section of the second net, about half a mile south, and then, running south once more until they neared the wreck of the Natal, a big British cruiser that had mysteriously blown up a short time previously, they parted the third and last of the “naval barbed wire” and we came to anchor in the blue waters that meant, for a time at least, relief from anxiety.

  The next day, after two hours’ sleep, we motored to Inverness to call on the local authorities. We ran beside the sea over cobbles worn smooth with age, past little cottages with white curtains and turfed roofs where the grass grew thick and green, hedges and ivy and old stone walls covered with moss, some of them built by the Romans. The fields were full of Highland cattle, all shaggy with long hair hanging down over their eyes. A party of the Cameron Highlanders marched past us, their kilts swinging in unison. Just outside the town is Cawdor Castle and the “blasted heath” made famous by Macbeth, and Culloden where the clans made their last stand against the hated English. Further on is Nairn where Bonny Prince Charlie slept before the battle.

  We called on Admiral Pears of the Royal Navy, who was very pleasant, especially considering that one of our men had just batted a baseball through his window while he was having tea. We returned to Invergordon that evening.

  Invergordon was a little fishing village but the base of the famous Seaforth Highlanders and the Royal Scottish Rifles. We saw many of these men just returned from France virtually every one of them wearing at least one wound stripe. Some of their drummers seemed about ten years old but they marched along under a full equipment which included a dirk carried in the right stocking. In the ancient town hall were the old flags of the Highland regiments embroidered with the names of the battles they had fought. I saw “New Orleans” rubbing shoulders with “Waterloo”.

  On July 13th we started on our first mining expedition. At dusk we passed through the submarine nets to meet our escort of fourteen British destroyers from the Grand Fleet and stood out for Muckle Skerry Light where we took our departure and headed for Norway. We were in a dense fog most of the night, but at sunrise it cleared and we could see aircraft darting about above us. On the horizon lay a division of battleships and light cruisers guarding against a sally by the German fleet while, on our flanks, the destroyers of our escort were deployed watching for submarines.

  How a mine is anchored. (National Geographic Magazine)

  Our ships formed in two lines, one ahead of the other, moving on parallel courses five hundred yards apart. Of course, only the rear line of ships dropped mines; the front line stood by ready to change position with any ship in the rear that had a breakdown. The mines were carried on two of the lower decks, the “launching deck” and the “stowage deck”. The railroad tracks on the launching deck passed through the “barn doors” in the stern of the ship where an officer was stationed in a soundproof booth. When the signal of execution was hauled down on the flagship we started to drop mines, one every eight seconds, while the ship steamed steadily on her course. The men lined up on both sides of the tracks, two to a mine and the mining officer moved a controller that illuminated an electric dial with the word PLANT. Immediately the first mine was pushed through the open door, its momentum carrying it to the end of the tracks and overboard. It was fascinating to watch them; they would go over with a great splash, bob around in our wake while the anchor-box gradually filled with water, then suddenly sink with a dull plop as though a giant hand had reached up from below and pulled them down.

  Trucking mine cases. (National Geographic Magazine)

  We had been assured that a safety device on the mines absolutely prevented them from exploding prematurely. This device was a washer of compressed salt that fitted between the detonator and the firing pin; the mine couldn’t “go off” until it had been in the water half an hour and this washer was dissolved. Even so, we watched with considerable apprehension as our first mine went over the side. Fine! We dropped the second. Still fine! Free from all anxiety, we let go the third. A crash like the Day of Judgment! An enormous column of flames, smoke, mud, and water rose just astern of us. Men a ship’s length away were thrown on their faces and the entire ship quivered and strained so that it seemed impossible the rivets would not be sheered out of the side plating. On that first expedition about six percent of the mines exploded prematurely, in some cases detonating other mines that had already been successfully laid. There was something peculiar about these detonations of TNT; they were not like the explosions of gunpowder. They would be preceded by a deathly silence, then we would feel a heavy pressure on our chests and all the air in our lungs would be drawn away — sucked, toward the exploding mine. It wasn’t just a tremendous noise like the discharge of a big gun; it had a quality of its own.

  Premature mine explosion.

  These repeated detonations began to get on the men’s nerves and once, when we got slightly ahead of position so that our stern was abreast the foremast of the ship on our right, we received a prompt signal: “Please drop back”. At one stage of the operation our ship had to drop from the leading line to the planting line, it required nice work for, had we lost headway too suddenly and dropped too far behind, we would have been on top of our own mines.

  As mines were dropped from the launching deck those on the stowage deck were raised in elevators to fill the vacant places and to go overboard in their turn. We steamed at full speed dropping mines until the entire supply of eight hundred had been launched. The greatest accuracy and coordination were necessary and the physical labor was tremendous as, mining once started, there could not be a moment’s let up until the last mine had gone over, otherwise there would be gaps in the mine field. The mines were laid at three levels, upper, middle, and lower, so that enemy submarines whether running on the surface or at ordinary submergence or as deep as 250 feet could pass through the barrage only at great peril.

  When the last mine had gone over we headed back to our base. For a long time we could hear muffled explosions behind us. Curiously when they had become inaudible on the bridge they could still be felt by the quivering of the ship and could be heard in the engine room, the water transmitting the sound much further than the air.

  The mining over, the tension should have been over also but there was still some excitement ahead of us. It grew damper and foggier. North Sea fogs are like nothing else in the world and soon it was impossible to see the forecastle from the bridge. Radio could not be used as it might attract the submarines. We were in two parallel columns five hundred yards apart. At three o’clock in the morning there was a rift in the fog and, straining our eyes, we suddenly saw a ship directly across our bow seemingly just under our forefoot. The quartermaster, without orders, spun the wheel and barely missed cutting her down. As we swung around, another ship cut under our stern disappearing the next moment in the fog while a third surged up on the quarter. We were in the midst of an enormous convoy. Then the whole outfit vanished leaving us, like the Ancient Mariner, “all, all alone”.

  There was a channel swept clear of floating and anchored mines a short distance ahead and I was faced with the pleasing alternatives of either going straight on, thus insuring our being in comparatively safe water but probably ramming somebody or being rammed, or, on the other hand, continuing down the coast outside and taking my chances with the enemy mines. I chose the latter danger.

  Even overhead was misting closed while all
around us crawled the thick white fog, impenetrable as cotton wool. I remarked optimistically to the navigator, an old merchant skipper, that it was still partially clear overhead. “Yes, but we ain’t headed that way,” was his encouraging rejoinder.

  Leaning on the bridge rail and staring through the murky drip I could see nothing; the horizon had disappeared long ago and now sea and sky had blended into one indistinguishable and impenetrable gray. All sounds were deadened by the enveloping blanket and we unconsciously lowered our voices in speaking. The use of fog whistles, which would have enabled us to keep track of the other ships, was naturally forbidden as enemy submarines could hear them.

  As the fog covered the horizon, it was impossible to take an observation in the regular way. I had a bucket of water taken to the bridge and a film of oil put on the surface, then I sat on the deck straddling the bucket and with sextant ready waiting for the sun to show itself. For a second only it peeped out but in that second I snapped its altitude using the bucket as an “artificial horizon”. This observation placed us thirty miles to the eastward of the firth. Finally we came to the point where, if we were running on time, we should swing to the right to enter the firth. We turned and just missed colliding with the Baltimore.

  Shortly after this near disaster, we were lucky enough to pick up the entrance buoy and headed in for the submarine nets. In the fog it was like threading a mystic maze; we would sight a heavy net close under the starboard bow, hear frantic whistles from the guarding trawler, put the rudder hard over, miss it by the skin of our teeth, sight another net under the port bow, reverse the process amid wild cries of warning in Cockney and Scottish, stop the engines to avoid entangling the propeller and trust to our momentum to slide through. Once we went so close to a trawler that our quarterboat touched her yardarm. We did get through, however, and, after sighting the range lights on the wreck of the Natal, anchored again off Invergordon. I wondered if every trip was to be this bad. No, most of them turned out to be worse.

  The following week was spent in port. The premature explosions were a matter of serious concern as they left gaps in the minefield so the second expedition was delayed until certain changes in design had been worked out and the extreme sensitiveness of the mines somewhat reduced. The rain squalls became less frequent, and we began to enjoy those wonderful northern lights unlike anything in our latitudes. At ten or eleven o’clock the brilliant full moon would rise while the sun still shone above the horizon. Seen through the utter clarity of the cold air the green of the great mountains that ringed the harbor, the blue of the water and sky, all the little points of color, became intensified a hundred-fold into a splendor I have never seen equalled.

  The British supplied us with a number of drifters, big motor barges, for transporting men and stores. One of these was commanded by a very grouchy Scotch skipper who furnished endless amusement for our men. One afternoon, as he came alongside the Quinnebaug somebody, entirely accidentally, threw a bucket of water over the rail which landed with the utmost precision. When we ventured an apology, we found the old fellow furious not on account of being wet to the skin but because his pipe had been put out.

  Admiral Pears was always very gracious to us although he didn’t approve of our enthusiasm for the local Annie Lauries, grimly observing, “And when will you start wearing the kilt?” I’m afraid his efforts were useless for I have never seen such lovely girls. There certainly wasn’t anything “dour” about them, although I can’t say the same for some of the men. I became very good friends with a girl named Aline and we were always together in whatever time I could spare from the ship. Aline mimicked my accent quite cleverly and amused herself by pretending to be an American. She and I were having breakfast at the Queensgate Hotel and I reached for a jar of marmalade on the table. It was snatched out from under my hand by the waitress who snapped: “Major McTavish’s jam!” Aline remarked haughtily, “In America, people are more polite. Now tell me, are there any ostriches here in Scotland such as we have at home?” The waitress turned to a friend and made some remark, clearly uncomplimentary, in Scottish. The two women chatted sneeringly for a while until Aline burst into a tirade of broad Scots invective. They stared at her open-mouthed and then fled the room.

  On our second mining expedition the weather was clear but the wind tremendously strong, even for the North Sea, home of the winds. It was impossible to walk upright and anyone trying to face it had the breath blown back into his lungs. The “prematures” were fewer in number, although they continued to take place at the most unexpected times. We heard a particularly violent explosion from the field we had laid on the first trip and the quartermaster asked me, “What do you suppose that was?” His question was answered a short time later when we passed the bodies of several German sailors floating on the rough sea. We had made our first kill.

  The Germans were not long in responding. Obviously other submarines in the vicinity had also heard the explosions and now knew what we were doing. Suddenly we saw our escort destroyers make a dash toward the left flank and a regular Donneybrook Fair ensued, the Britishers weaving in and out at top speed, their guns depressed to the utmost limit hurling a continuous stream of fire into the apparently empty waters below while, at regular intervals, they let go depth charges from their sterns which sent cataracts of water into the air making our ships shiver violently. Fifteen minutes of this and silence fell. The escort commander, Captain Godfrey, DSO, came slowly back to report that several submarines had been trailing us, paralleling our course and waiting for the right moment to attack. As all our mines had been laid we increased speed to the maximum and headed for home.

  There was always a question in our minds which, luckily, was never answered. Should one of our ships be torpedoed with her mines still on board and be blown to atoms, would the explosion detonate the mines on the other ships and all of them go up together, just as the explosion of one mine in a field frequently detonates a whole line of them? The experts assured us that this couldn’t happen, but with the prematures continuing to flourish we committed the heresy of doubting the experts.

  One afternoon we were invited to tea by the Laird of Invergordon. His castle lay outside the town in the midst of a lovely wood. It was most attractive, enormous rooms filled with sunshine and flowers, very old furniture and china. One of his possessions was a great treasure chest taken from a ship of the Spanish Armada wrecked off the coast of Scotland; it was braced with beautiful ironwork and the keyhole was elaborately hidden. I felt sorry for the old Laird. He had served many years in the British Army, both his sons had been killed in the trenches of France, and a grateful government had taken most of his house to quarter munition workers imported from England. These people had killed all his deer and rabbits and he had no redress, although he was required to pay enormous taxes on land that any ragamuffin had the right to wander over at will. There was one thing certain about the war; no matter who won, the aristocracy on both sides were bound to lose.

  At first our expeditions did not last more than a couple of days but as the barrage stretched farther and farther across the North Sea, we were out for five days or a week. Now we began to glimpse the ice-clad mountains of Norway. Our net was slowly closing around Germany.

  I remember one trip especially. In order to avoid our own mines we were now obliged to run west into the Atlantic through Stronsay Firth which lay well to the north, go still farther north before turning east and then, running just south of the Orkney Islands, ease down until we were on the upper edge of the barrage where we were to start work.

  Stronsay Firth is a narrow passage enclosed by great rugged cliffs that rise sheer from the sea. As we approached the entrance five enemy submarines were reported ahead. It was too late to turn back; the van of our column was already in the shadow of the cliffs.

  As we went deeper into the passageway, there was a terrific roar from ahead and to port. A torpedo had been fired across our track, missing i
ts target, and struck the high wall of rock on our left. The confined space made the noise indescribable.

  The flanking ships opened fire with their guns and the destroyers raced to start smoke screens on both flanks, simultaneously dropping depth charges. In a moment we were running, loaded with mines, through whirling clouds of smoke. It was so dense that all we could see were the rocky pinnacles above us and, close alongside, the rough water covered with dead fish killed by the explosions. Then, for a moment, the smoke lifted and I saw the outline of a torpedo detach itself from the darker gray of the passage and rush toward us like a dog running across the road in front of a motor car. There was nothing we could do. Our guns would not depress enough to fire at it, and it was going so fast we could not possibly swing out of its way.

  Abruptly the torpedo began to “porpoise”, leaping up and down in the water as porpoises do before the bow of a ship. Something had gone wrong with its mechanism. It crossed our course to port and disappeared in a whirl of spray and smoke. At the same time not twenty-five yards off our starboard quarter, the thin, gray needle of a periscope rose above the water to study us. I simply crossed my fingers and waited.