June 1942 Spitzbergen and Murmansk

My next appointment was to a paddle steamer, which was to have taken part in the "Raid on Dieppe". However, this was abandoned, only to take place later. In the meantime I was appointed to HMS Argonaut, a Dido class cruiser, of seven and a half thousand tons, with a maximum speed of around 32 knots and five 5.25" guns, three forward and two aft. We worked up in Scapa Flow from June to October 1942, under the Command of Captain Eric Longley-Cook RN.

	good view of the 5.25in guns - 1942	Rate this photo 239 6.992 217

Our first run, in the company of two destroyers, was to Iceland to re-fuel and then on to Spitsbergen. Here, we were spotted by a German Heinkel and we were told a Hipper Class German Cruiser was trailing us. She had 6" guns. We set off at maximum speed to avoid trouble from the German cruiser, but went a long way east of the Kola Inlet before returning under cover of darkness to Murmansk.

There we discharged cargo, took on other cargo, and many personnel in the form of Air Force officers that had been shadowing and bombing the two German battleships, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, which were sheltering in the Norwegian fjords during the summer months. There were also many merchant seamen whose ships had been lost in Russian convoys. We entertained Russian officers in the ward room and I well remember assisting a Russian woman engineer over the side when she missed her footing and fell into the well of the boat, and the arms of colleagues.

One day early in November of 1942, at about 0400 hours, we weighed anchor and set off up the narrow Kola Inlet to a very stormy and icy Arctic Sea with our two destroyers endeavouring to keep station, one to starboard and the other to port. The superstructure was a mass of solid ice, glistening like stalactites in the arctic sunlight. I was in the Captain's cabin entertaining RAF officers when a seaman dressed only in his combinations, and dripping wet, appeared at the door. He was on the quarterdeck when a mountainous wave hit him and about twenty other "passengers". They were swept off the ship but he managed to cling to a stanchion rail and as the ship rolled to the opposite side, was able to make his way to the Captain's cabin. I took him to the sick bay and left him in the care of the Sick Berth Attendant, before making my way back on the upper deck.

As the ship rolled to port, the weight of the frozen superstructure exaggerated her roll and an almighty wave hit me from behind, taking my legs and leaving me floating. I grabbed a stanchion rail and waited in the horizontal position until the ship rolled to starboard. Opening a manhole, I went down the ladder double-quick. I phoned the Captain on the bridge, explained the situation, and he had piped (i.e. ordered) that the upper deck was not to be used. I told him that the rescued man had said that about twenty men had been washed overboard.

The ship slowed down, ostensibly to look for survivors, but none were seen. The waves appeared to be up to 10 fathoms (60 feet) or more deep and with the icy conditions, no one could have survived for a moment in that sea. After a suitable time, the ship gathered speed and we soon lost our two escort destroyers as their speed, especially in these seas, could not match ours. Arriving back in Scapa Flow, we discharged our cargo and passengers and set off straightaway to join up with Force "H" for the invasion of North Africa.

November 1942 North Africa

Later in November, arriving in the Mediterranean after dark, Argonaut was dispatched to Toulon to request the French fleet to join us. They refused, and we returned to Oran and joined in the bombardment of Mers el Kabir, sinking several French ships. Next morning, their funnels were clearly visible above the water line.

The fleet then moved on to Algiers. Eventually we formed Force "Q" with another cruiser, HMS Aurora and two "Q" class destroyers, HMS Quentin and HMS Quiberon. During the daylight hours, we sheltered in the port of Bone and, as dusk was falling, the ships moved out and steered due west. When darkness fell, we about-turned, going due east to intercept convoys in "the narrows" coming from the Italian mainland and Sicily to reinforce Rommel's Army in North Africa.

On our first venture, travelling in line ahead, we encountered a convoy and, using radar - of which we had several sets - we counted the ships as we circled them and then opened fire with tracer shells as we moved through the Italian convoy. Several ships were set alight from stem to stern before sinking, while tracer shells could be seen passing through the other ships. The sea was alive with men shouting "camarade" but few survivors were picked up. There were four Italian troopships and three Italian destroyers. After the convoy had been destroyed, a flare dropped from a plane operating from Malta outlined one remaining, Italian destroyer, trying to make her escape. All guns were immediately trained on her. When the smoke subsided, there was no destroyer.

Readers should remember that, up until then, the enemy had had the run of the seas and the crew of Force "Q" were overjoyed to see the success of the allies in battle. Many shells were fired at Force "Q" but none hit their targets. During the return trip, HMS Quiberon was torpedoed and sunk with all crew being taken off by the other destroyer. The whole operation was under the command of Rear Admiral C.H.J. Harcourt in Aurora. We returned to Bone, anchored alongside, and waited for reaction from the enemy. Next morning a bomb crater had destroyed part of the jetty alongside Argonaut. A working party duly filled it in.

On a subsequent nocturnal trip from Bone to "the narrows", we encountered no enemy ships but, at dawn (around 0600 hours), while travelling in line ahead on our way back to Bone, the forward lookout reported:

"Ship torpedoed forward. Sir".

At the same time the aft lookout reported:

"Ship torpedoed aft. Sir".

To these reports the Captain replied:

"When you two chaps have made up your minds which end has been torpedoed , let me know".

	Argonaut after torpedoes blew off her bow and stern	Rate this photo 243 6.979 827

In fact both ends had gone. Argonaut had been hit by two torpedoes. The forward torpedo destroyed the bows and the rear took nine cabins into the sea and left one propeller in the air, and the others splayed beneath the water. The Aurora and the two destroyers made for Bone, leaving Argonaut floating, but only just. Great work was done by the crew shoring up both ends, and eventually we made it back to Algiers.

On being torpedoed

It was a calm night as we sailed from the North African port of Bone. Darkness had not fallen completely, as the white-bricked monastery in the midst of craggy mountains slowly faded away in the purple haze. As we gathered speed, steering a course due west, the mountains soon became a pointed silhouette against the glowing embers of the past day's warmth. The ship's company were at "dusk action stations" awaiting attacks from enemy aircraft.

The Captain spoke into a microphone and his words echoed throughout the ship:

"Tonight we are going at full speed to meet the enemy. We do not expect to encounter him until well after midnight. Hot cocoa and sandwiches will be ready at 2300 hours and at 2315 hours action stations will be sounded. Ever man must be on the alert. When our task is completed, we shall return to our base, but we do not expect to reach it until well after dawn, in the region of 1000 hours. We shall therefore be travelling in enemy waters and close to the enemy coast in broad daylight. Whatever may happen, it is up to every one of you to keep your ship afloat. This applies particularly to the damage control parties. I know you will not fail me, even at the cost of your own life, should this be necessary. We must get this ship back to port tomorrow. Good Luck!"

When darkness was complete, we swung round through 180

At 2300 hours, I slipped into the Officers' galley with the Pay Commander and the Assistant Accountant for some sandwiches and cocoa, brewed as only Jack knows how! At 2315 hours, the three of us were on X-gun Deck, complete with tin hats, anti-flash gear and leather ear protectors, ready for action. As I looked aft, the dim silhouette of the two following destroyers was just visible against the declining moon. Shortly after moon-down, we reached our target area, but alas no action was destined for us that night, and we turned back, to the bitter disappointment of all, particularly after the success of our previous effort when seven enemy ships were sunk or left blazing after a fifty minute night action. At 0230 hours, a message came over the loudspeakers, stating that no hammocks were to be slung, but that men off watch could sleep at their action station billet. About 0430, feeling a little weary, I went below to my cabin which was my action station sleeping billet. Soon I was sound asleep on my bunk, fully dressed with reefer and lifejacket.

At 0600 I was awakened by a "pipe". "Dawn action stations will be sounded in fifteen minutes' time". With that I stretched out a weary hand and switched on my table lamp. I woke up again some time later and thought to myself: "I switched on my lamp a few moments ago?" With that, I put out my left hand again, but no lamp! In a moment of thought, I somehow sensed that something was wrong. No voices. No movement. No stirring of people and silence in the after steering compartment, normally a very noisy place; but now only that strange sound of churning waters growing louder and louder.

I leapt off my bunk, only to land on my splintered writing desk, which had become unhinged from the bulkhead and was now lying on its side against my bunk. I stumbled over this into a mass of wrecked furniture, books, bookcases and clothes which lay on the deck, and the deck was slowly flooding. I flung back the curtain, to find that the sliding door was missing. In the dim light I could see it lying in the cabin, flat, and splintered. Looking upwards, the dark blue sky of a Mediterranean dawn greeted me through what was once the quarter-deck. This patch of blueness was bounded by the splintered ends of planks of wood and the twisted bulkhead which separated the cabin and after-cabin flats.

There was no-one about in the cabin flat, so I made my way forward along the starboard side. Through the watertight door, I was hailed by a Warrant Officer with "What cheer Doc! We've been looking for you. Warrant Electrical Engineer S is in the ship's office and doesn't look too good". He indeed looked very shocked as he stood only in his vest and pants. The last he remembered was bending down to pull on a sock. He was then found wandering on what was left of the quarter-deck. His cabin, along with eight other cabins in the after-cabin flat, were no longer part of the ship. They were now just flotsam and jetsam. The manner in which he was blown from his cabin onto the quarter-deck, whilst all the wreckage of the afterpart of the ship disintegrated around him, with the ship doing 30 knots at the time of the explosion, will forever remain a mystery.

After giving the Warrant Officer and others medical attention, I went aft and climbed down over the splintered end of the quarter-deck into the wreckage of the first cabin in the after-cabin flat on the port side. There was no trace of life. Just a photograph here and there, floating off into the churning waters, odd socks, a writing pad, a hairbrush case and other articles of personal possession followed into the white foam, as the ship pitched and tossed. Pasted on the blasted bulkhead were a few "pin-up" girls, only yesterday the cause of much merriment, now a symbol of tragedy.

In amongst the debris of the cabin, I found the left knee-joint of Lieutenant (E) Morgan, so, after climbing back onto what remained of the quarter deck, I telephoned the bridge. The Captain then broadcast for Lt Morgan to report to the bridge. No answer. Dawn was now well under way and I telephoned round the ship to ascertain whether all the officers from the after cabin were at their stations. No-one was missing.

As the sun came up, damage control parties worked feverishly to save the ship from sinking. The Captain announced that the ship had been torpedoed twice, once forward and once aft, and was the only ship of her class to be "fished" (torpedoed) and still remain afloat.

By this time, I was on X-gun deck, having cocoa with the other officers, when a marine came smartly to attention, saluted, and said "When do you propose to stitch my head, Sir?" I was a little astounded at this, and replied "Who are you? Have I seen you before?" To which he retorted "Yes Sir, you put this strapping on my head in the Sick Bay and said that you would stitch it later". With that, I went with him and did the necessary. But it was only then that I realised that I had been knocked out when the torpedoes hit us, for right up to this very day I have no recollection of ever previously having seen that marine in the Sick Bay.

I asked several others what the ship felt like at the time of impact of the two torpedoes, and they just looked vacant and thought I had "gone round the bend", but as the day wore on, the lump on my forehead and abrasions on my face which were now apparent, were ample testimony to my tale of ignorance. Subsequently I was unable to lift my head off the pillow each morning, unless I placed my two hands under my head and lifted it. Once in the vertical position I could carry on normally. Subsequent x-rays at the Military Hospital in Gibraltar showed a fracture of the neural arch of the first cervical vertebra. Symptoms gradually disappeared over three weeks.

For two days and two nights we remained at Action Stations while the ship limped along at a very reduced speed and the two destroyers which had been dispatched to escort us back to Bone, formed an anti-U-boat screen. We even fired our guns once more in anger, before staggering into port, every man almost in tears from sheer exhaustion. Other ships' companies lined their decks and blew their sirens in the drizzling rain as we entered Algiers harbour and made fast to the jetty. Having no anchors, we could not anchor in the harbour as on former occasions, and other ships were ordered to make room for us, as Argonaut inched her way alongside and made fast.

And so we came to the end of one small episode at sea, as experienced by a land lubber. As the official communication would have put it: "Damage was sustained by one of His Majesty's Ships, but all returned safely to harbour". The German Radio had by now announced that they had sunk H.M.S. Argonaut.

Christmas 1942 Return to Algiers

It was now getting on for Christmas 1942. In Algiers, the French Admiral Darlan was assassinated and we sent a posse of men from Argonaut to his funeral. Working parties were busy shoring up the ship, but it was January 1943 before she was fit to sail to Gibraltar.

Going ashore one day, I passed the shower room and noticed steam exuding from the upper half of the perforated metal door. Marine Mason, my Geordie servant, was dhobying, the bath full of washing and the bathroom full of steam. Remembering I had a bath the previous evening, I knocked on the door and after some moments the door was opened: it so happened that Marine Mason was behind the door with a towel around his waist. I explained that yesterday I had dropped my shaving brush between the wall and the bath, and would he be kind enough to bend down and retrieve it. He looked at me, smiled, stepped further behind the door and tightened his towel around his waist: "What Sir, after twenty years in the Navy? Not bloody likely". The story soon went round the ship.

We eventually made it to Gibraltar where we spent three months making the ship seaworthy for the crossing of the Atlantic to Richmond, Virginia, to be rebuilt.