by Mark Zuehlke
The 1st Hussars and Fort Garry Horse had been selected to support the initial assaulting infantry brigades, and each was to have two of its three squadrons equipped with DD tanks. The crews from these squadrons received their nautical training at Great Yarmouth under the tutelage of Hobart’s tankers and several British submariners. Corporal Jim Simpson, a crew commander in the 1st Hussars’ ‘B’ Squadron, was struck by the intense secrecy that surrounded this training. Although the twenty-five-year-old, who had enlisted only three days after Canada declared war on Germany, was a seasoned tanker, he had never seen training like this. Normally, because tank operations at night were extremely rare, training was a daylight affair. Fear of the top-secret tanks being detected by German reconnaissance planes, however, resulted in the tankers being ordered to take the DD tanks out on the water only at night.
Although the DDs were seaworthy, they were easily swamped. The slightest damage to the screens by enemy fire or battering by heavy surf could cause the tank to founder and sink like a stone before the crew could safely bail out. To ensure the tankers were able to avoid being entombed in a watery grave, they were taught to escape from a tank turret stuck at the bottom of a twenty-foot-deep shaft into which thirty thousand gallons of water was pumped through two high-pressure pipes. Three crewmen at a time were each equipped with a Davis Escape Apparatus—standard evacuation equipment for British submariners—and put inside the turret with instructions to make their way to the surface once the tank was submerged.
It took only seconds for the fast-flowing stream of water to fill the turret, making it essential for the crewmen to remain calm and do precisely as they had been instructed. When Simpson’s turn came, he moved with careful deliberation as the water gushed through gaps in the turret’s steel skin. The mouthpiece and nosepiece of the escape vest had to be fitted with precision to prevent salt water entering his mouth or nose and causing a life-threatening choking fit. Once the oxygen flow valve was turned on and he could breathe comfortably, Simpson dropped down to the bottom of the turret. Here the three men waited for the tank to finish flooding. Then, one after the other, they slowly and carefully wormed up past the many sharp edges that jutted out from equipment in the tight confines. The first man in line opened the hatch and led them out into the shaft, where the increasing rate of oxygen flow entering the vest provided sufficient buoyancy to carry them to the surface.
Often men panicked during the escape and lost their mouthpiece, nosepiece, or both. They hit the surface spitting and coughing, usually hysterical with fear. But the training officers kept them at it until everyone knew what to do in the event that his tank sank off the shores of France.25
The DD tank was not the only specialized armoured vehicle the Canadians received from Hobart’s strange collection. There was also the Crab, which had a rotating cylinder mounted on its front to which long flailing chains were attached that literally churned up the ground ahead of it to detonate mines. A turretless Churchill tank chassis provided the platform for the Armoured Vehicle Royal Engineer (AVRE). This versatile device mounted a short-barrelled 12-inch demolition gun called a petard, which fired a 40-pound, square-shaped round nicknamed a “flying dustbin” for destroying fortifications or breaching obstacles such as concrete walls. Additionally, an AVRE could carry bridging such as fascines—bundles of rods for filling ditches—or short lengths of girded ramps able to bear forty tons that could be winched into position using a 30-foot cable mounted to the chassis. The Armoured Ramp Carrier, known as the Ark, bore two foldout steel ramps that could be dropped to create a bridge, with the Churchill tank upon which they rode forming the centre support. On the back of the Bobbin was a 110-yard spool of sections of coconut husk carpet attached to bamboo poles that could be unravelled and spread over mud or deep sand so tanks and trucks could cross without becoming bogged down. Because these tanks were so highly specialized, all but the DDs were crewed by 79th Division personnel seconded to the assaulting divisions of the Second British Army. When the Funnies were offered to the Americans as well, their commanders scoffed at the utility of the strange vehicles and decided to use only the DD tanks in their assault.
By contrast, Keller noted in a report that as a result of the various exercises it was “apparent that special assault equipment was necessary,” and that through Hobart’s Funnies “this was indeed provided.” His soldiers, he added, were, through “patient trial and experiments,” learning to waterproof everything from their rifles to wireless sets. Vehicles such as jeeps and trucks were fitted with tall air intake and exhaust stacks that would allow them to continue running while entirely submersed. As one training exercise followed another, Keller described his division “as being ‘web-footed.’”26
It was also a division with a headquarters staff frantically doing their all to plan for every eventuality that might arise in a massive invasion operation unlike any ever undertaken in military history. In November 1943, Don Mingay was promoted from his position as second-in-command of the Essex Scottish Regiment and posted to 3 CID as a lieutenant colonel to be Keller’s General Staff Officer, Grade 1. When Mingay reported to Keller, the general did not deign to rise from his chair. “Mingay, I didn’t ask for you. I don’t know anything about you. You have not had any experience and I will give you one week to satisfy me that you can do the job or back you go to where you came from. You are excused.”
Saluting smartly, Mingay turned sharply on his heel and marched out of the office. He quickly learned of Keller’s drinking habits and his lack of interest in the operational side of the division’s management. Mingay’s first task was to gather a planning staff, but he also recognized an immediate problem within the division over communication between the administrative and operational wings of the headquarters staff. Simply put, “they hardly ever spoke to one another.”
The simple solution to this, Mingay decided, was for him to move his desk right into Lieutenant Colonel Ernest Côté’s office so the two divisional wings were sitting shoulder to shoulder. When this proved a workable idea, the two men directed all their subordinate staff to link up with those carrying out parallel tasks and work together.27 It was several weeks after his arrival at the division that Mingay realized Keller must be satisfied, for the general had not followed through on his threat to sack him after a week’s probation.
[ 3 ]
Learning New Skills
LIEUTENANT PETER HINTON had received his watch-keeping ticket in late summer 1943 while serving as a sub-lieutenant aboard the Bangor-class minesweeper HMCSKelowna steaming up and down the British Columbia coastline. A short time later he received orders posting him to Falmouth, England. There, in the fall of 1943, the twenty-three-year-old was awestruck to be given his own command. Admittedly, Landing Craft Infantry, Large 262 was a rather modest ship, but still the burden of command rested heavily on the sailor, who had only ten months of sea experience.1
Like the twenty-nine other LCILs that were evenly organized into three Canadian flotillas, LCIL 262 had seen hard service in the Mediterranean since being first used for the invasion of Sicily. Twenty-four had sailed under the U.S. flag and the other six with the Royal Navy. Shortages of replacement parts and proper tools combined with the engine and ship maintenance inexperience of their American and British crews had reduced the craft to “a shocking condition” by the time they passed into Canadian hands.2
When Royal Canadian Navy flotilla maintenance crews and locally hired dockyard navvies attempted to effect repairs, the task was complicated by the sheer volume of shipping that plugged Britain’s repair dockyards. Such facilities “were already hard pressed with landing craft by the hundreds, and tools and spares were still in short supply, and such vital items as tachometers and temperature gauges were scarcely obtainable.”3 Some of the craft were in such desperate condition maintenance officers were unable to guarantee the flotilla commanders that they would even be seaworthy in time for the invasion.4
While LCIL 262 was undergoing repairs, Hinton
and his twenty-two-man crew squeezed aboard to familiarize themselves with the vessel. The lieutenant was confident that 262 would be ready in time for any invasion, but was less confident in his own ability. And then there was his crew, of which only a quarter had ever been to sea. Neither coxswain nor chief motor mechanic had sea experience.
The LCILs were odd vessels, designed to be both seaworthy and capable of a beach landing. Unlike smaller landing craft, they sported a proper bow, but were flat-bottomed to enable a run onto a beach. Drawing only two feet of draft forward and five feet aft, they were 158 feet long and 23 feet, 3 inches wide at the centre. Two sets of quad General Motors six-cylinder diesel engines powered the vessel to a top speed of nineteen knots, but it cruised comfortably at fifteen knots. Each LCIL could carry about two hundred soldiers, who disembarked down two narrow ramps extended well ahead of the bow from the ship’s starboard and port sides in order to enable the troops to get ashore dry-footed.
Equipment aboard was basic. Hinton noted that there was “no echo sounder, no radar, no direction finding gear. Navigation was strictly by eyeball, magnetic compass, and sextant. Luckily we didn’t ever need to use the sextant as the only one onboard was pinched by the dockyard navvies before we left Falmouth.”5 The craft was armed with four Oerlikon anti-aircraft guns, twelve rifles, and two revolvers. Standing on LCIL 262’s bridge, watching the maintenance workers banging away at his ship, Hinton felt growing pride in his ship and the “great bunch” of men that formed his all-Canadian crew.6
LCIL 262 was deemed ready shortly after New Year’s for sea trials. A tug pulled the craft out of its berth, tightly wedged between two other ships. For the next few hours, LCIL 262 “shot around the harbour without bumping into anything,” Hinton later recalled. “When we headed back we were supposed to meet up with a tug to shoehorn us back into our berth because everything was just jammed with ships.” But the tug failed to show. Tired of waiting, Hinton decided he and his crew were up to the challenge of docking under their own steam. “Full of confidence and enthusiasm that only age and lack of experience could generate, I came into this narrow U-shape of two long jetties ready to do a 180 degree turn in order to tuck in bow out, which we all had to do. What I didn’t know is that in any breeze it was virtually impossible to turn without losing way—that is, you couldn’t turn the ship with the screws. Very rapidly we landed on the rocks at the end of the U, much to the amusement of the navvies who were eating their lunch in the sun. I looked around and all my sailors had gone below, much ashamed. But we weren’t harmed and were soon towed off by the tug and put in our berth.”7
Mock landing exercises followed. There was nothing fancy about the procedure—the LCILs just drove straight for the beach on a flooding tide at twelve knots. When the craft was about a hundred yards from touchdown, a large catch anchor was dumped off the stern. Then the craft skidded onto the beach and the ramps were extended to offload the troops. Although the intent was to enable the soldiers to make a dry landing, the pitch of the seabed fronting most beaches normally caused the LCIL to bottom out short of dry ground. Consequently, first to go down the ramps were two or three sailors who waded ashore, dragging with them long ropes secured to the end of the ramps. The disembarking soldiers, heavily encumbered with combat equipment, could use the ropes to steady themselves as they struggled through the usually hip-deep water to reach shore. The craft got off the beach by riding the rising tide while the crew winched it back out to sea by reeling in the catch anchor’s chain.
THE THREE LCIL FLOTILLAS were just a small portion of the ships the Royal Canadian Navy contributed to the massive armada assembling in the ports of southern England. At least some Canadian ships were to play a part in virtually every aspect of the invasion, which would involve the greatest concentration of vessels ever assembled. Total naval ships numbered 5,420, to which a further 1,256 merchant and private vessels were added, for a total of 6,676. Of these, the Royal Canadian Navy provided only 121, with total crew complements of 9,269. Scattered among the vast Royal Navy contingent of ships and crew was an additional 511 RCN personnel.
Although the number of Canadian sailors and ships was small in comparison to the American or British commitments, the various RCN roles in the invasion were of pivotal importance to the success of the landings. Many thousands of ships would not be directly involved in either the immediate assault landings or the essential follow-up phases of the first two days. Of the RCN contingent, however, 102 would be so engaged—consisting of LCILs, Landing Ships, Infantry (Medium), minesweepers, destroyers, frigates, corvettes, and motor torpedo boats (MTBS). The total number of ships drawn from these classes, from all Allied naval services to be involved in Operation Neptune, was 570, so Canada was providing 18 per cent of such vessels.
Many ship classes, of course, were not included in the RCN’s inventory. These ranged from massive battleships to the minute Landing Craft, Assault that would run many of the troops, including Canadians, onto the beaches. The total number of vessels to be involved in the actual assault numbered 1,850, of which the RCN share constituted 5.5 per cent of the whole.8
Originally, some RCN ships had not been assigned a role in Operation Neptune, but with General Bernard Montgomery’s January decision to land five divisions on as many separate beaches, the ship requirement suddenly increased. A critical shortage of minesweepers was immediately recognized by the British Admiralty, so on January 16 it formally requested that the Canadian government place sixteen Bangor-class minesweepers under Royal Navy command.9
Bangors came in two models, the larger at 180 feet long by 28.5 feet wide and the smaller at 162 feet by 28 feet. Maximum displacement was 672 tons. Both models had an eighty-three-man crew and a sixteen-knot top speed. As the Germans had laid few mines off Canada’s Atlantic coast, these ships had mostly been converted for use in anti-submarine patrolling and the crews had little or no minesweeping experience. The ships had also been stripped of winches and other minesweeping gear to accommodate extra depth charge weaponry.
As the British Admiralty wanted the vessels in England by the end of February, a frantic refit was undertaken at Halifax to ready the Bangors for the new assignment. In addition to reinstalling minesweeping equipment, the ships were outfitted with better and more numerous armaments to increase their survival odds during operations close to an enemy coast defended by powerful coastal batteries. The original light 4-pound bow gun was replaced with a 12-pounder. For anti-aircraft defence, two 20-millimetre Oerlikons were positioned either side of the bridge with a power-driven twin Oerlikon located aft.
The pace of the refit was badly slowed when the minesweeping equipment contracted from one of the two Canadian manufacturers was found to be inadequate. Most sea mines consisted of a weight linked to the explosive by a long chain, so that the weight rested on the seabed, holding the explosive charge stationary and submerged a short distance under the surface. Minesweepers cleared such minefields by reeling out from stern-mounted winches long wires fitted with cutters to sever the chain connecting the charge to the weight. The minesweeping wires were extremely heavy and at full extension placed tremendous strain on the winch—a strain that one manufacturer’s winch system was incapable of supporting. By the time the flaw was discovered, half the ships had already been fitted with the defective equipment and were deemed unreliable. So, although RCN command had assured the British Admiralty the ships would be “efficient and fully worked-up” before they sailed for England, this would not be the case.10
While the refit was underway, the crews learned new combat skills. Aboard HMCSBayfield, Able Telegraphist Stan Richardson was introduced to the Oerlikons on January 31. The twenty-year-old from Powell River and his shipmates spent the next few days either firing the guns or studying aircraft recognition manuals to enable them to distinguish between friendly and enemy planes. On February 8, Bayfield started loading up for sea duty. Richardson’s job that afternoon was to stow dozens of crates of Coca-Cola and cigarettes below decks. The n
ext day it was depth charges and ammunition. Valentine’s Day was spent performing minesweeping trials at sea. After two days of such practice, the ship’s crew turned to live gunnery drills followed by an evening of shore leave. Richardson immediately headed for Lohney’s Restaurant where he “had a sirloin steak and all the trimmings! Who knows,” he confided to his diary, “it may be my last meal in Canada.”11
Before hoisting anchor, a formal inspection by Halifax harbour’s commander was preceded by a day of ship cleaning. Allowed to go ashore a final time that evening, Richardson lost his wallet on a streetcar, only to find it turned in later for safekeeping at the Nova Scotia Power Supply office. Wallet retrieved, he paid a barber for a one-inch-long brushcut, took in a couple of movies, and bunked for the night at the YMCA. Late the next afternoon, Bayfield received its final inspection and, at 1500 hours on February 18, “led the Mulgrave, Georgian, and Thunder through Halifax Boom Defense and Gates. So I took my last look at Canada through a porthole before going on watch. I must say I am sure glad to leave Halifax. I must have the wandering itch or something, but I sure like to see new countries.”12
Over the following three days, the rest of the minesweepers put to sea in divisions of four ships a day. They took an indirect route past Newfoundland and then south to the Azores before turning north towards Plymouth, England, because the ships had insufficient fuel storage capacity for a direct cross-Atlantic passage. Each four-ship convoy steamed directly into the maw of an endless series of gales. Alternately plowing through ice or heavy seas, the small ships started taking damage.13 On February 20, Telegraphist Richardson fretted that the ice building up on the ship was rendering it hazardously top heavy. “We are bouncing around at 45 degree angles,” he wrote. “All china dishes have been smashed in the mess.”14Bayfield spent the following night in St. John’s and then sailed towards Horta in the Azores. The ships slammed head-on into a gale on February 23, against which they could make only six knots.15 “Looked out port-holes, but could only see masts of other ships once in awhile. Wave after wave went clear over the whole ship.”16