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At the end of July strange things began to occur, many felt and some seen. Senior officers went about giving the impression that they knew something. By August 1 there were too many physical manifestations to be denied. Some officers had to vacate their cabins and double up—a sure sign of VIPs in the offing—and a Captain Pim and a ‘two-and-a-half’ arrived from the Admiralty. They set up a War Room in a large office and I was deputed to assist them, painting in parts of a huge chart of the Atlantic. On this they stuck flagged pins showing the positions of convoys, escorts, ships in company or detached units and U-boats, the latter represented by little black coffins. Extra communications ratings arrived on board and a stream of signals began to flow in to the War Room, from which the positions were continuously updated. There was also a map of the Russian front, which had recently erupted.
HMS Prince of Wales was fitted as a flagship, the Captain normally living in the Admiral’s palatial quarters, but he now vacated these for his sea cabin on the bridge. Everyone was agog. Obviously we were due to receive someone of importance, but whom? Rumours abounded. Some wag in the Wardroom organised a sweepstake of personalities and their destinations which included: ‘taking Hess back to Germany’, ‘taking the Grand Duchess of Luxemburg to Canada’ and ‘taking Mrs Cochrane’s young ladies to Dakar!’ ‘Taking Mr Churchill to see Roosevelt’ was drawn but not thought much of.
August 4 arrived and all our questions were answered. As the only RN Officer in the Officer of the Watch’s ‘union’ (otherwise comprising Lieutenants and Sub-lieutenants RNVR), it was ordained that I should officiate on all important occasions, having the necessary experience to cope with the ceremonial and other niceties that I now thanked my Nelson days for supplying. This was often irksome but in the next three weeks paid dividends indeed. So I was OOW on the quarterdeck when HMS Oribi, one of our newest destroyers, shaped up to come alongside. No doubt there were several in the know by this time but I was not. Who was that stocky figure on the bridge in a British Warm and Service cap? The Prime Minister. Winston Churchill!
As the Oribi glided in towards us the general salute was sounded, the Commander brought the ship’s company to attention and the bugle blared. Mr Churchill returned the salute. By now we could see the cigar. The Oribi eased alongside, there was a brief thrash from her propellers, heaving lines already across brought her wires to bollards on the Prince of Wales and in moments a brow was being run up to our quarterdeck. Mr Churchill came up it to the shrilling of the side party’s calls and came forward to shake hands with Captain Leach.
There was a momentary relaxation of tension and then the First Sea Lord was on the brow followed by a General whom one recognised as Sir John Dill, Chief of the Imperial General Staff; then an Air Chief Marshal, small and dapper, who proved to be Sir Wilfred Freeman, Vice Chief of Air Staff; another small, dapper figure in plain clothes (Sir Alexander Cadogan of the Foreign Office) and the bulky and recognisable scientist, Lord Cherwell. They were followed by a round dozen lesser luminaries, including the well-known authors, H.V. Morton and Howard Spring, who we learnt were to chronicle the coming events.
Special Sea Dutymen was sounded off as the last newcomer disappeared below and in half an hour the ship was under way. Just as had occurred ten weeks before, three destroyers picked us up outside the Flow, course was set for the Atlantic and the Captain broadcast to the ship’s company. He said that we had on board the Prime Minister and the Chiefs of Staff and that we were going to Placentia Bay, Newfoundland, where they would meet the President of the United States, Franklin D. Roosevelt and his staff. We would be four and a half days at sea … that is, excepting any diversions on the way. As the little groups who had gathered round loudspeakers so as not to miss a word drifted away, there cannot have been a man who did not realise that here was a prize of truly historical proportions for Hitler to grasp.
The weather got up after 24 hours and at 20 knots the destroyers were leaping about in such agonies of effort that our 10-inch winked a consoling message before we forged ahead, to let them drop out of the picture. There was a brief pause at Iceland, where, the weather having moderated a little, three others from a recent convoy joined ( Ripley, an ex-American ‘four-stacker’, Restigouche and Assiniboine, both Canadian). After the reported position of a U-boat had been skirted, little occurred beyond the daily round of dawn action stations, bridge watchkeeping, dusk action stations and night watchkeeping while the ship drove on across the Atlantic at three parts speed, creaking and groaning as her plates protested, cabin articles dancing and the entire environment shaking in a way we hardly noticed but which was anathema to the unfortunate non-naval guests.
Mr Churchill found sleep so difficult that he was transferred to the Admiral’s sea cabin on the bridge. A long way from the thundering propeller shafts, and at the ship’s point of balance, he slept well. Characteristically, he made the decision on the spur of a tortured moment and went forward (the expression hardly does justice to his progress, bent double under swaying hammocks, along a corkscrew path between watertight doors and hatches—most of the latter reduced to manholes—and then up a dozen steel ladders with very inadequate chain handholds) in the company of a Lieutenant with a torch. The latter was full of praise the next day, as apparently Mr Churchill said nothing throughout. Perhaps at 66 he was conserving his breath!
He had brought a good supply of films with him and these were shown every night in the Wardroom. There was no room for Gunroom officers but we heard that between reels he would sometimes turn from where he sat with the other VIPs and give a little homily on the story. One, Lady Hamilton, all about Nelson, he was seeing for the fourth time. On these occasions ‘the Prime’ as he had been dubbed, wore the mess dress of the Royal Yacht Squadron, a mess jacket with brass buttons but no stripes. He worked with his advisers most of the day but one got occasional glimpses of him in the famous ‘siren suit’ of blue denim, with which the cherubic face and portly figure combined to resemble a huge baby in rompers, zipped up the front. He took to sleeping most of the night—obviously the pressure of work was less than usual—to the great relief of his entourage who normally had to be on call at all hours and get their routine work done as well.
I was sent for on the third day and told to take General Dill over the after director; the forward one was, of course, ready for action. Somewhat awed at first, I found him very easy and charming—as all accounts agree—a handsome, rather aesthetic looking man. When I had got him through the cramped entrance and settled in the Control Officer’s seat, I was describing the sequence of events when he missed a point. Rather over-engrossed, I said testily ‘No, of course not, you obviously haven’t understood’, and then suddenly remembered I was talking to the Army’s ‘First Sea Lord’ and became confused. He thought it a good joke and from then on we never looked back; in fact I found myself very reluctant to deliver him back to his papers.
Over halfway across the Atlantic the weather subsided pleasantly, though this made the U-boats’ task easier. All the time our position and the Atlantic situation was pinpointed in the War Room. This was no stamping ground for Sub-Lieutenants and one had to await publication of H.V. Morton’s Atlantic Meeting to get a real peep inside. The position of the Prince of Wales on the map was, of course, of outstanding interest. I often went in to find out where we were and also to look for the nearest U-boat; and some seemed to me quite near enough! Delighted on one such occasion to see the death of a U-boat, I said to Captain Pim: ‘Has that U-boat been sunk?’ A well known voice took me to task. Winston Churchill had quietly entered the Map Room. ‘Only British submarines are sunk’, he said with a smile. ‘German U-boats are destroyed!’
On the day before our arrival there was a rehearsal on the quarterdeck of the President’s reception on board, with Sir Alexander Cadogan representing Mr Roosevelt and the Prime Minister, an interested spectator, breaking in from time to time with a suggestion. August 9 proved calm and grey. Three American destroyers appea
red and eventually led in towards a misty streak on the horizon that materialised into low-lying hills, not—at that distance—unlike those we had left. But Placentia Bay proved to be much larger than Scapa Flow and the hills heavily wooded. Of habitation, however, there was little sign. But it was not at the land that we looked as, rounding a promontory, the American force was revealed at anchor.
In the centre was the cruiser Augusta which was known to have the President on board, flanked by another, Tuscaloosa, the battleship Arkansas and a flotilla of destroyers. With strange single-float seaplanes cavorting overhead, the Prince of Wales, which must have looked oddly weather-beaten to the curious American eyes, with her inevitable streaks of rust from hawsepipe and bow flare, was led close past the Augusta. Our ship’s company were fallen in and as Officer of the Watch (aft)—on entering harbour this post was in addition to the OOW on the bridge—I could see little until the Augusta was nearly abreast of us. Mr Churchill and staff were close by on the quarterdeck, and with him at the salute the band played The Star Spangled Banner. The National Anthem came back to us over the water and one saw an awning spread on Augusta’s fore turret, under which was a small group. Prominent was a tall man in a fawn suit, hat in hand and leaning slightly on an army officer at his side; obviously Mr Roosevelt, who one knew had been a polio victim.
The tremor of the cable running out on the fo’c’s’le heralded the ‘G’—one long note on the bugle—at which gangways went down, booms swung out, cranes raised their heads over boats to be lowered, and the Jack was hoisted at the bows. All the business of arrival ensued and the Captain duly appeared after his first proper bath since Scapa. Morton, an unobtrusive but keen observer of the scene, went up to Captain Leach, whom he had not then met. They talked and he later wrote ‘I said something about the responsibility of taking Winston Churchill across the Atlantic in wartime, and received in reply an eloquent glance of tired blue eyes and a weary but contented smile’. Admirals had staffs to advise and share some of the load during the war, but Captains of ships were alone with their responsibilities. Captain Leach’s must have been one of the heaviest in naval history.
The Prime Minister, with the Chiefs of Staff, went over to the Augusta at 11:00. We could see him greeted by Mr Roosevelt, to whom he handed a letter from the King, and then all went below for the first of several conferences. During the afternoon, launches came over from the American ships with a carton for every man in the Prince of Wales. Each contained an orange, two apples, 200 cigarettes, half a pound of cheese and a card inscribed ‘The President of the United States of America sends his compliments and best wishes’; a very kindly human touch amidst all the pomp and ceremony. But it was Saturday and an orgy of hospitality began to bubble through the surface courtesies, officers and men from both Navies circulating freely in each other’s ships. They showered us with cigarettes and as far as the officers were concerned we reciprocated in the only way we could, 13:00–23:00 non-stop. The US Navy is ‘dry’ and so this was a success.
From then on a pleasant peacetime atmosphere warmed the whole visit, but what really brought things nostalgically home to us was that all ships remained brightly lit at night, a luxury we had not known for nearly two years. No one was allowed ashore, except a handful on official business, but it did not seem to matter.
The American Midshipmen were some three or four years older than mine but our being at war, and recently in action at that, evened the conversational scales. It was somewhat inflating to visit them—I went on board the Arkansas—and be plied with questions, though my tact was exercised to the limit when asked directly how I thought the very old battleship would fare. The questioner was a southerner with an attractive Gone with the Wind drawl and later we were walking about the upper deck of the Prince of Wales. The sun shone, the band was playing catchy tunes and life felt good. Dozens of foretopmen were washing the bridge from wooden stages, lowering themselves down its face as they progressed. The band struck up a current transatlantic favourite, Paloma, my pretty little poppee … at which they began whistling the tune. My new-found friend turned to me and said ‘Say, your boys sing our songs?’ It is hard to say which of us was the more incredulous. Whenever I hear Paloma—it seems to have been revived lately—I see the two of us looking up at the great grey facade, with all the men whistling.
That first Saturday evening, his boat’s wake turning the limpid reflections of the other ships’ lights into a thousand sparkling points, Mr Churchill went over to dine with Mr Roosevelt. One of the things they discussed was the morrow’s ‘Church’ in the Prince of Wales, which turned out—another deft touch among the weightier considerations—to be a most successfully integrated affair. It was conducted by our own and an American padre with both British and American hymns and sailors from all the ships present (at Mr Churchill’s express request there was no ‘marching about’, the visitors being met informally at the gangway and led aft to the quarterdeck).
At the last moment the destroyer McDougal cast off from the Augusta and came alongside and when all was ready Mr Roosevelt, in a dark blue suit and with an ivory-handled stick, came slowly across the brow, leaning heavily on the arm of the same officer (who proved to be a son in the Air Corps). Officer of the Watch again, I scrutinised him as closely as I dared; a fine, lined, tanned face with an alert air despite his disability, and distinct aura of authority. Then came Admiral King, Admiral Stark, General Marshall, General Arnold; also Mr Sumner Wells, Mr Averell Harriman and Mr Harry Hopkins, all to sit in the stern facing the big guns of ‘Y’ turret. The service began and about a thousand sailors, singing like they used to sing in those days, must have made a brave sound as their voices rolled out over the water to the other ships and the dark green hills beyond. One felt it was an ill omen for our enemies. When the last hymn had died away I saw to my horror men of both nationalities advancing on the Prime Minister and President with cameras. Officers on the spot began to wave them away but the two targets beckoned them on and so there was a photographic free-for-all lasting some minutes.
Mr Roosevelt was then taken on a tour of the upper deck to see places of interest especially to do with the Bismarck action. McMullen told him how narrowly the US Coastguard cutter Modoc had come to disaster and the President (who was preparing US psychologically for war) replied that it was just as well nothing like that had happened as he would have had a very difficult time ‘explaining it to the great American public’. Mr Churchill then entertained Mr Roosevelt and his Chiefs of Staff to lunch, which took place in the Wardroom. This, of course, was the WR messman’s big moment and he had asked me if I could do something special in the way of menus; so I produced a set with British and American flags crossed at the top and pen and ink drawings of the ships in Placentia Bay at the bottom.
After lunch there was an incident that gave me a considerable kick. It was arranged that all the officers of the Prince of Wales should be introduced to the President, seated in the Wardroom anteroom. They would file past and shake hands, the mess president concerned introducing each by name. The Wardroom officers went in first. When they had finished I led in the Gunroom officers, was introduced by the Captain and then stood beside the President to do the rest of the introductions. The last Midshipman was departing when I sensed drama. There was no sign of the Warrant Officers! The Captain moved forward and, looking most embarrassed, bent to say something; but I suppose Mr Roosevelt had taken in the hiatus because he asked me a question about the Midshipmens’ training. I answered it and he asked another. Seeing us getting on satisfactorily, the Captain retired discreetly and I then had ten minutes’ fascinating conversation with the President. He had been Naval Secretary and knew everything there was to know about the US Navy. I think he was genuinely interested in how we trained our officers and men and I had to go through it all, with many questions. He then gave me a graphic rundown on the US methods, laughing heartily at his own description of certain reservists as ‘90-day wonders’. When I eventually saw the rotund Mr Luxton— pr
esident of the Warrant Officers’ mess—hovering very breathless in the doorway (someone had forgotten to tell him) I tactfully closed our conversation with genuine regret. It is a measure of Mr Roosevelt’s magnetism that I had quite forgotten those around us, including the Prime Minister!
After his guest had returned to the Augusta, Mr Churchill went ashore in a whaler, towed by a motorboat, with four others. He was in his siren-suit and on return was seen to be happily clutching a bunch of pink wild flowers. It was just as well (perhaps carefully arranged) that he dined with Mr Roosevelt that evening, because the Wardroom held a guest night attended by about 20 American guests. The usual rough games were played and the rear part of the ship resounded to the goings on. Lieutenant Ian Forbes played his bagpipes and in the middle of the racket an American officer said to Anthony Terry (who, as recounted, had already been sunk three times) ‘I guess you boys take this war very lightly’. Little did he imagine that poor Terry would be sunk three more times before March was out.
A day later salutes were again exchanged as we steamed past the Augusta, the central actors in the week’s drama waved to each other and soon we were clear of the harbour behind a screen of US destroyers. As Placentia Bay, with its brief glimpses of a kinder world, reverted to the grey streak we had first seen and then disappeared, defence stations were sounded off, soon followed by night action stations, and the realities of wartime life crowded in again.
Alarm Starboard!: A Remarkable True Story of the War at Sea Page 11