One Day in August

by David O'Keefe

  Once inside, the IAU had orders to rifle through desks, filing cabinets, wastepaper baskets, fireplaces, and every nook and cranny of every room, searching for signs of the vital signals material and equipment they were after and stuffing everything useful they could find into their haversacks. If they came across the commandant’s safe, where they would likely find code books for future issue and other potentially vital documents, they would try to open it immediately. If they failed, they would call for the “safe cracker” attached to the IAU to blow open the door and reveal its contents. Once the Hôtel Moderne yielded its expected treasures, they would move on to the trawlers seized by the Essex Scottish and the tanks in the original assault. There they would collect what the Essex men had already pinched or, as Allon Bacon had done at Vaagso, conduct a detailed search of the vessels on their own.

  If for some reason the Essex and tank attack did not achieve its objectives, Jock Hughes-Hallett had put a third contingency in place. Huntington-Whiteley and his men would proceed to the trawlers, aided by the guns on the Locust and later the French chasseurs carrying Robert Force. Regardless of the situation, Titch Houghton’s men would follow down the narrow channel and into the port, exchanging fire if necessary with German guns in the caves at the bottom of Pollet Cliff, and land at the Quai Henri IV. Ideally, they would support both Tiger Force and the IAU, corralling captured vessels to be towed back to England. However, as yet another layer to ensure the pinch, Houghton received orders that “if Tiger Force has failed to land, or if it is obvious to Commander Robert Force that Tiger is NOT moving on its objectives[,] Robert Force will seize the objectives itself, informing Tiger of its progress.”32 To reinforce the bold and near-suicidal nature of the mission, the orders warned, “Should any vessel be sunk before berthing, all personnel will land at the nearest steps and fight their way to Tiger HQs” located on the island, to regroup and press on to their objectives.33

  The orders for the Royal Marine Commando also reveal why seizing both sides of the inner channel was crucial to the entire plan. Not only did it create a corridor to get into the harbour, but it also provided the pipeline to get the captured material out. The exit strategy had a distinct James Bond flavour to it all.

  In 2007, tucked away in an old, decrepit shed in the little town of Eye, in Suffolk, England, the son-in-law of Royal Marine Commando corporal Ernest “Lofty” Coleman made a fascinating and unexpected discovery: the partially destroyed remains of Lofty’s wartime experiences, which he penned in 1995 but never published. Coleman died just before I began my inquiry into Dieppe, but his son-in-law and I made contact when he reached out online to find anyone who might shed light on this remarkable memoir. His family subsequently sent it to me and have allowed me to quote it here, since the vivid quality of this unique first-person account provides revealing and compelling evidence, particularly when cross-referenced with the official documents. According to Coleman, who as an eighteen-year-old served under Huntington-Whiteley first at Chatham and later as part of No. 3 Section of No. 10 Platoon:

  As section leader, I had to have intensive training in the use of explosives and [the] art of demolition, [as] at this point I had no idea what I [had] got myself into. Further training took place at Portsmouth dockyard[;] it was at this time we were told that Portsmouth dockyard was very similar to Dieppe … At the briefing which took place prior to the raid I was given a most unusual job which I [was] rather looking forward to[:] the platoon were to make a landing at the Dieppe dockyard and give covering fire so that two other commandos could assist me in locating a building which was to be entered[;] within this building was a safe holding some important documents. For this operation[,] instead of the usual equipment, I was to wear a hiker’s type of haversack to take the explosives in and take the documents out. When I had the documents in my possession, I was to make my way to the dockside[,] where a boat would be waiting for me to take [me] back home. My two colleagues, one a team leader, the other a crack safe breaker, had to make their way back to the platoon[,] where they were expected to collect as many invasion barges together as possible and bring them back to England[;] the rest were destroyed.

  Although writing more than fifty years after the event, Coleman’s recollection is extraordinarily accurate. In the plans and operational orders for the raid on Dieppe, special instructions warned all commanders taking part of yet one more proviso regarding the IAU: “A unit of the R.M. Commando may be expected to bring a special report from Rutter Harbour to the HQ Ship. Any R.M. Officer or NCO giving the codeword Bullion is to be given priority passage in any R Boat from Rutter harbour.”34 Although there is no indication of this code word in either set of the Royal Marine orders—and it may even have been replaced with another word at the last moment—there are special provisions in the orders for Huntington-Whiteley and his platoon to report directly to Houghton on Quai Henri IV after seizing the material. In this case, a special motor launch, specifically laid on for this purpose, would arrive in the outer harbour to whisk the designated members of the IAU and their precious haul out of Dieppe. Meanwhile, the rest of the raid would continue, with the tanks and the Essex Scottish moving south and east of the port to cover demolition teams from both the Royal Marine Commando and the Royal Canadian Engineers, who would systematically destroy targets in the port, including the Hôtel Moderne, in order to cover their tracks before they re-embarked on the Locust.

  This crucial new evidence throws a completely different light on the military plan for the Dieppe Raid: the proportion of the forces allocated to the pinch mission establishes it as a “raid imperative,” firmly sealing it as a pinch by design rather than a pinch by opportunity. Nearly half the entire raiding force was involved with the pinch. Two battalions out of the five landing in the initial wave, one tank squadron, a series of engineer combat teams, Ryder’s Cutting Out Force (with the three hundred men of Picton-Phillips’s Royal Marine Commando), along with HMS Locust and nearly a dozen French chasseurs, tugs, drifters and Eagle ships all played a direct role in creating the conditions to ensure that the pinch succeeded. Even the selection of Ryder to lead the Cutting Out Force was a calculated decision: the planners were counting on his knowledge, his experience, and above all his leadership and guts to carry out this crucial mission.

  No other aspect of the military portion of the Dieppe Raid required resources approaching this magnitude, nor did any other military forces need the level of co-operation and coordination necessary to achieve this objective. Even the design of the detailed plan features the core principles associated with the developing pinch doctrine: an emphasis on surprise, speed and shock in order to overwhelm bewildered defenders so that the desired material could be seized before it was destroyed. This time the operation would also include a pipeline—to get the Intelligence Assault Unit quickly to its target and out again—a luxury no other intelligence organization taking part in the raid enjoyed. These same hallmarks had been seen in previous pinch operations, though not on the same scale as in the plans for Rutter.

  Finally, no other objective for the raid enjoyed the inherent redundancy of the various backup schemes the planners built in for the pinch. In this case, if the Essex Scottish and the Calgary Tanks failed to reach their target, then Tiger Force would prevail. If Tiger Force faltered, then Houghton’s Robert Force would take over. And if Robert Force failed, Major General Ham Roberts still had another, a fourth, card to play: his “floating reserve” of the Fusiliers Mont-Royal and the remaining squadron of the Calgary Tanks was waiting offshore, ready if needed.

  On June 1, at the inaugural meeting of the force commanders—almost a full week before detailed planning began for Operation Rutter with the finalization of the frontal assault and Mountbatten’s invitation to the intelligence agencies to hitch their wagon to the raid—the role of the Locust and the Intelligence Assault Unit grabbed centre stage. Concerned about the “political aspect” of covering the potential loss of the Locust in Dieppe harbour, Mountbatten suggested tha
t they publicly pass off her role in the operation as a block ship—one specifically sunk to render the port unusable.35 The force commanders immediately pointed out that this explanation would backfire because both this Yangtze River gunboat and the German invasion barges had flat bottoms, making them unsuitable for this purpose. Undaunted, Mountbatten suggested to Admiral Tom Baillie-Grohman, Air Vice-Marshal Trafford Leigh-Mallory and Major General Ham Roberts that, once the Locust ran the gauntlet through the narrow channel to the port beyond and the “special party” disembarked, she would then return to the channel to lend fire support to forces in the bridgehead rather than remain at risk in the tight confines of the outer harbour.36 Clearly, his request denotes not only that he had an intimate knowledge of the pinch but, even more important, that the plan for delivery of the IAU came in advance of the detailed plan. Even at this early stage, the pinch was the central driver for the entire operation.

  With the military and naval plans built around the pinch, Ham Roberts, his brigadiers, and certain battalion and company commanders had to be put in “the know” to varying degrees about this key objective for Operation Rutter. Roberts himself appears to have been told what this operation might mean for the overall war effort. On June 27 he held a conference with his brigade commanders and their staffs at his headquarters on the Isle of Wight to go over the essential elements of the “party,” as he called it. First on his agenda was the primary importance of security and surprise, and he reiterated the standing orders that no discussion of the operation would be tolerated in the mess or in any unsecured location. Failure to comply with this order would, he emphasized, be met with severe disciplinary action. “If information gets out,” he warned his battle-starved subordinates, the “party will be cancelled.”37 Second, he reinforced the point that speed was “very essential” for success and that “all defences” had to be “run over as soon as possible.” Indeed, indecision or hesitation would not be tolerated, he stressed, and the “speedier the assault the fewer casualties”—though he quickly assured his men that casualties would be “very few.”38 The mounting hubris within Combined Operations had obviously trickled down and infected the Canadian commander, igniting his enthusiasm. Saving his best salvo for last, Roberts confided to his brigadiers—the men who would coordinate the detailed military operations onshore—“Certain things which we are after may mean an important factor to the outcome of the war.”39

  * According to Paul McGrath, who discovered Huntington-Whiteley’s body in a gutter a day later, the young Royal Marine officer was killed as he accepted the surrender of German prisoners on the outskirts of Le Havre. Apparently, while the surrender was in progress, another German unit, annoyed at their brethren’s attempts to capitulate, opened fire on the entire group, killing friend and foe alike, including Huntington-Whiteley. (Interview with Paul McGrath for Dieppe Uncovered.)

  * McGrath’s sense of humour was again on display during the seventieth anniversary of the raid, when Wayne Abbott and I, with the generous help of History Television and Veterans Affairs Canada, hosted the world premiere of Dieppe Uncovered in a local theatre in Dieppe, less than a hundred yards from the Hôtel Moderne. After the showing, the group, which included two young executives from History Television, went for dinner at Les Arcades across from what used to be the Moderne. Not having met either of these young men before, McGrath was in top form, drawing one of the star-struck executives close to him as he sat down at the dinner table. He broke the ice with a question: “You know what the trouble with humans is?” Suitably intrigued by the man who had not only worked behind enemy lines on Ultra intelligence missions but possessed a wealth of worldly experience, my colleague listened intently, expecting the very secret of life to be revealed. “There are too many of them,” came the quick reply. “Now,” he continued with sly smile, “what’s on the menu?”

  * When I sat down to interview Miles Huntington-Whiteley in his living room, I noticed the paintings and pictures on the walls and end tables which revealed the family’s remarkable history, including a rare portrait above the fireplace of a very young Queen Victoria. After examining the photos from his side of the family, I inquired about the portrait. Miles simply shrugged and said, “My wife’s relations.” Soon after, his stunningly attractive wife appeared and introduced herself. Graciously responding to my question about the origins of the painting, she proudly explained that she was the great-great-granddaughter of Queen Victoria, the great-granddaughter of Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany, and the great-niece of both King George V of England and Czar Nicholas of Russia. Her full name, Viktoria Adelheid Clementine Luise Gräfin zu Castell-Rüdenhausen, evokes her aristocratic lineage, but disarmingly she quipped, “You can call me Vicky.” At that point, I realized I was chatting with perhaps the only living person with a direct family connection to the three men who played a central role in bringing the world to war in 1914. She went on to explain that, as a small child during the Second World War in Germany, she used to bounce on Heinrich Himmler’s knee when he paid a visit to her grandfather Charles Edward, who served in the Nazi Party. At the end of the war she moved to England, where she met and married Miles Huntington-Whiteley in 1960.

  TWELVE

  ALL ESSENTIAL FEATURES

  … within this building was a safe holding some important documents … When I had [them], I was to make my way to the dockside, where a boat would be waiting to take me back home.

  —ERNEST COLEMAN, UNPUBLISHED MEMOIR

  HMS Locust was not designed for speed; she was likely the slowest vessel scheduled to take part in the Dieppe Raid. Part of the Dragonfly class of river gunboats designed to project and protect British imperial might half a world away in China, she had been reassigned to duties in Europe immediately after her launch in 1940. Most of her short but charmed life had been spent in operations in the Thames Estuary and occasionally in the English Channel. Known as a “happy ship” but also a lucky one, she survived a pounding from German aircraft during the Dunkirk evacuation, where Dick de Costobadie guided her “in and out of Hell” during the harrowing departure. Two years later, all those who climbed aboard her for the raid on Dieppe hoped her legendary good fortune would continue to flow.

  The Locust weighed in at a modest 585 tons but measured more than three-quarters the length of a football field. With her flat-bottomed hull drawing a mere five feet, her trio of rudders enabled her to navigate deftly in shallow and swift-running waters but contributed to a pronounced roll when she encountered rough weather in the open sea. She topped out at only seventeen knots—but it wasn’t speed that had caught the attention of Captain Jock Hughes-Hallett. Along with her ability to manoeuvre with ease in strong currents and tight bodies of water—a useful quality for navigating the confines of Dieppe’s inner harbour—firepower was her strong suit. Equipped with two four-inch guns, one at the front on the bow deck and another at the back on the stern upper platform, a 3.7-inch howitzer positioned amidships, two three-pounder guns on each side, and a multi-barrelled forty-millimetre anti-aircraft cannon known as a “Chicago Piano” at the rear on the aft deck, the Locust packed a wallop.

  To give extra firepower for the run into the harbour, the Marines retrofitted the ship, adding four of their three-inch mortars to the upper deck, strengthening an already potent shipboard arsenal. They knew that the Locust‘s guns would be its only key to success: the ship was so lightly armoured that it offered little tangible protection from German guns at point-blank range. It would be kill or be killed, just as it had been for the commandos at St-Nazaire, meaning that the Locust‘s gunners had to be quick off the mark and dead on target, laying down a steady stream of fire on German gun positions in the caves to kill, suppress or incapacitate them—anything to prevent or curtail their firing on the ship. Such action required extreme skill and daring: the fifty-one-man crew would have to pull together to support the gunners even as they kept the Locust steady and prevented it from running aground in the narrow channel, all the while dodging German fire
from land and perhaps from the air as well.

  With Dick de Costobadie now firmly ensconced in Lord Louis Mountbatten’s headquarters, the fifty-four-year-old William John Stride took over as ship’s captain. A mature veteran of the First World War, he was capable and popular, having worked his way up from the lower decks to command. Red Ryder became a fan in the few short weeks they trained together, sensing that Stride’s “robust” and “unflappable” character made him an “excellent person to have as a kind of ‘flag captain.’ ”1 In Operation Rutter, the Locust would be under the overall command of Ryder, as the Cutting Out Force commander with the final authority and responsibility, but Stride would control the moment-by-moment operations of the ship while in battle.

  Anticipating the danger they would face once they breached the harbour mole at Dieppe, Stride took the precaution of boarding up the walls of the bridge with railway ties to provide an added measure of security—an act Ryder later admitted “probably saved our lives.”2 Below deck, the men, such as the nineteen-year-old seaman John Parsons, whose job it was to feed the Chicago Piano with ammunition hoisted on a conveyor, had little idea what they were about to face.3 Ryder’s appearance on the bridge alongside Stride, coupled with the Royal Marine Commando contingent on board with them, reinforced the idea among the crew that they were in for something big. Their initial excitement over having a legendary St-Nazaire hero with them soon gave way to the sober realization that his previous excursion into battle had included one of His Majesty’s destroyers specifically rigged as a ticking time bomb. As Parsons wrote to me, “Lower deck rumour had it that he would want to blow us up in Dieppe harbour. Which did not appeal to us much!” The arrival of nearly two hundred “escape kits” for use by the commandos, plus a vast amount of explosives and other specialized stores, did nothing to alleviate their anxiety.4