1914 - War Declared
1915 - Dartmouth College
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1917 - Off to Sea

Keppel
An amusing episode recently recounted by Nicholas Monsarrat, in his naval memoirs, which I neither refute nor remember, indicates that I was getting around and making a nuisance of myself in the little ships, as befitted my job. On my small staff, two characters I remember. One was the international bridge player who, with loyalty at heart, refused to play bridge with me but who, otherwise, never forgot anything. The other, whom I saw the other day, was the best Naval padre I ever met and went by the improbable nickname of the Playboy of Bootle. After a few months, I turned the Liverpool Command over to the one and only Johnny Walker, second to none escort leader who because he, personally, was such a brilliant anti Uboat device had been ruthlessly overworked and needed a rest as well as a chance to spread his invaluable doctrine beyond his own escort group. Casting away that "acting" fourth stripe before it was even sewn on, I was more than happy to head for Londonderry to become EG I in the destroyer Keppel. I soon found that policies, discussed, approved and rubberstamped at headquarters, took more that a magic wand to implement and establish in practice at sea. The Group System, which, I fondly imagined, would be organised and running smoothly by the time I reached Keppel was, in fact, little more than a wishful cloud. The reason: there just weren't enough escorts to make it work. The convoys had to press on, they had to be escorted. My group would sail for an escort job with, say, four ships short; one refitting, two under emergency repairs, and one, because of the shortage, halfway across the Atlantic with another convoy. At the last moment, I might be supplemented by two strangers, pulling up their trousers, so to speak, having been hurried out of dock. I was, undoubtedly, lucky. On paper, my group was allocated four other destroyers. This labelled us as faster than other groups, and logically assigned us to the fast troop convoys, which were the most valuable of all, so maintenance wise, we got preferential treatment, and who were we to object?

A slight, spicy moment returns to mind here, in connection with the greatest, noblest lady I ever had the honour to escort, Queen Mary. Whether or not she was ever sighted through a Uboat's periscope, I don't know; but, neither she nor her sister, in spite of their colossal sea mileage, were ever interfered with at sea. Their protection lay, of course, in their high speed and manoeuvrability in almost any weather. Otherwise how could Uboats have missed ships that size? If Uboats had got close enough to fire torpedoes, of course, they couldn't have missed, but these mighty ships seldom steamed less than 25 knots and always zigzagged with large alterations of course at seemingly unpredictable intervals on either side of their lines of advance. A surface Uboat might sight a Queen at fifteen miles. The Uboat would dive immediately because, if sighted by the Queen, avoiding action on her part, would be simple. Diving would restrict the Uboat's speed to about 7 knots. On diving the Uboat could only guess the Queen's mean course and whatever action she took, in those precious moments, to close her target's track, the first look through the periscope would, probably, find the old lady miles away, on another leg of her zigzag. The Uboat's only chance of a shot would come a mere half hour or so after sighting and the chances of finding herself in a firing position, at the exact moment, would be very remote. Another 10 seconds would be too late. The Queens, generally, had an arrowhead screen of destroyers escorting them from the time they cleared harbour to 100 miles or so from land. Thereafter, they marched alone.

At that time, when we simply couldn't afford to allow destroyers to smash themselves up in rough weather, they often had no escort at all; in any case, their destroyer’s escort was only physical, our Asdic equipment was useless at those speeds. The secret of their sorties was well kept. On this occasion, before leaving Londonderry, I only guessed whom I would meet at dawn that morning off Ailsa Craig, at the swept channel entrance to the Firth of Clyde minefield, by the fact that my team consisted of five destroyers only.

Taking station on my majestic charge was the spicy moment I remember. It was a clear, calm dawn as I led my four destroyers towards our rendezvous. Passing the Mull of Kintyre, we sighted a wisp of smoke to the northeast, then a speck. An experienced handler of destroyers would, probably, have turned to the westward right away, spread his destroyers, and eased himself into position as she advanced. I increased to 27 knots and held course. We were, therefore, approaching Her Majesty at a closing speed of 54 knots. I can't remember exact details, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes before it dawned, or rather exploded, on me that we would drop so much speed on the 180 degree turn that we'd better go round pretty damn quick. We did and, fortunately, I ordered full speed too. Round we all went, beautifully together, heeling right over and finishing up in our exact screening positions. On Keppel's bridge, my Navigator, OfficeroftheWatch, Chief Yeoman of Signals, knee deep in finger bitings, looked at one another, and then at me, all of us knowing that as the centre ship of the screen, Keppel was what Queen Mary would have hit, had our turn been a few seconds later. As we tried to light our cigarettes, we reminded ourselves that a few months previously, Queen Mary had hit an escorting cruiser crossing her bow and cut her in half. The tension was interrupted by a signal from the Queen's Commodore: “VERY IMPRESSIVE BUT RATHER FRIGHTENING”. To any experienced destroyer skipper, high-speed manoeuvres were child's play; to me, this was and remained, my one and only attempt.

I also remember a charming signal from that same Commodore as we left her at the end of our stint: “THANKYOU FOR THE COMFORT OF YOUR COMPANY”. Many convoys of varying sorts and sizes followed, and there was nothing unusual when Keppel was summoned to Greenock to attend a convoy conference on a troop convoy, which my Escort Group was to pick up off Northern Ireland, the next day. On arrival at Greenock, the size, quality and number of ships assembled showed that this was to be no ordinary convoy. Indeed, I soon learnt that it was to sail right round the Cape, carrying the backbone of what was to be the 8th Army. Like all really important conferences, this one passed quickly, without fuss. When it was over, I looked at my watch and found that instead of staying overnight and sailing with the convoy, I had plenty of time to get down the Clyde, into the Lough Foyle and up the river to Londonderry for all to enjoy a final night ashore with wives, families or girl friends, before sailing early to pick up our convoy. I also rejoiced in the privilege of being allowed to take my ship up or down the River Foyle after dark without a pilot. What good is a privilege if it isn't used? As we cleared the Cumbraes, in warm sunshine, on a sea like glass, I told the Quartermaster to ring down to the engine room, the special signal which meant "We're heading for home, and when we arrive is your business." Down went our stern, up thundered our wake, as the speedometer rose to 32 knots.

Spy in the water
On the bridge, our idle gossip was interrupted by the buzzer from the radio office, followed by: "A long top priority cipher, sir, addressed Keppel from Admiralty - the Doctor's deciphering it." Bridge faces lengthened; was our extra night ashore being tampered with? With a flurry a signal pad, the Doc arrived. I read the signal aloud: “ENEMY AGENT KNOWN TO HAVE BEEN IN ALDERSHOT RECENTLY SEEN YESTERDAY GREENOCK MINGLED WITH TROOPS EMBARKING OVERSEAS CONVOY. MOTOR BOAT BELONGING LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER MULL OF KINTYRE REPORTED MISSING 0900 TODAY WEDNESDAY. CONSIDER POSSIBLE AGENT HAS STOLEN BOAT AND NOW MAKING FOR IRISH FREE STATE WITH IMPORTANT INFORMATION ABOUT CONVOY SAILING TOMORROW. MOTOR SKIFF HULL GREEN RUBBING STRAKE ORANGE TANK FULL MAN 6 FEET FAIR FRESH COMPLEXION LAST SEEN WEARING KHAKI BATTLEDRESS. NO OTHER SHIP OR ANY AIRCRAFT AVAILABLE. SEARCH FOR BOAT REPORT WHEN YOU HAVE FOUND IT.”

The first reaction came from the Navigator: "Wouldn't it have been more gracious to say report ”if you find it?" On a small-scale map, even a large-scale chart, the problem might look almost simple. But, reality is different; there's always much more sea. The target was a needle in a haystack of several hundred square miles with a time limit of barely an hour before dark. I left the hawkeyed Chief Yeoman of Signals to organize the lookouts, while my First Lieutenant (Number One), Navigator (Pilot) and I gathered round the chart. "Let's make it easiest for him and difficult for us; if you were the spy, Number One, what would you do? I'll give you a pocket compass and the boat 5 knots. "He settled for going flat out for the Free State border, south of Belfast. I fumbled with the dividers, made the distance over a hundred miles. Guessing the fuel endurance, he wouldn't have a hope. "What about the strong north and south tide running in that bottleneck?" added the Pilot. "So much depends on what time he cleared the Mull. If the tide was on his side, he could be in a pub in the Free State by now. If it was running against him, he'd barely be out of sight of the Mull. "I knew these tidal problems; we could have been arguing all night, but we only had 45 minutes daylight left to find him. I drew a line on the chart joining the Mull and the extreme limit I reckoned the boat could reach down the Irish coast. "My guess is somewhere near this line," I said. "Agreed?" They agreed. "Your job, Pilot, is to guess how far along it." "He's there", said the Pilot, making a dab with his pencil, which was nothing less outrageous than guesswork, because he had nothing to go on. "O.K. Pilot, put the ship on your pencil mark, pronto. Conference over."

By this time, my crew, although possibly apprehensive about their last night ashore, were beginning to take interest. The Buzz, as always, had travelled faster round mess decks that the signals initiating it took to read. Volunteer lookouts had already posted themselves everywhere. Someone told me that I had offered a pint to the man who spotted the boat. That was sheer, but acceptable, blackmail. The next few minutes were my first chance of realising what a real menace this chap could be to that convoy, once he got in touch with the German Embassy in Dublin. There was just time for a brief prayer before: "Green one oh, five miles, object in the water" from the masthead lookout's voice pipe. Leisurely, and with polite tolerance, we directed our binoculars and telescopes on the bearing. We didn't want to discourage the lookouts, but they were getting a bit report happy. "There is something there, be Jesus" muttered the Chief Yeoman, lamping his telescope alongside the torpedo director. If the Chief saw something, that was different. I altered course to the bearing, then confirmed myself that there certainly was something. Thereafter, as we closed, there followed an unrehearsed duet by the masthead voice pipe and the Chief: "It's a boat green and yella  one bloke in it  'es tryin' to row it, an' I reckon it's my pint". Holding a copy of Admiralty's signal, I tried to believe my eyes, as the details checked, one by one. I turned to Number One. "It's him, all right. I'll try and talk him into letting us hoist him in. Get two or three tough types and stand by torpedo davit. Be firm, search him and watch it, he's more useful to us alive than after he has swallowed his spy extinguisher. Hand me the mike someone". By then, the boat was close enough to see that the motor was stopped, and the man, leaning over a heavy pair of oars, was pretty exhausted. I told him my job was looking after fishermen and there was a storm coming up; if he had broken down, I would hoist him inboard, fix his motor, and take him in to the Irish coast. He raised an arm. "OK" I said. "Stay where you are."

As his escort led him up on the bridge, the first thing I noticed were his oily hands clutching the ladder rail. They were raw. He was a fine-looking chap, about thirty, fair, straight blue eyes. "Your hands'" I said, "What happened?" "The engine died two hours ago" he replied in flawless English. "I had to get back." "Back where?" I asked. "I am on leave," he said. "I borrowed this boat from a friend, and promised to return it before dark."I shall never know if this conversation was getting anywhere, or how it would have ended, for at that moment Number One, whom I had told to search the boat and everything in it, popped up on the bridge and, standing behind the man, held up a small book. Incredible, but true, it was Mein Kampf in German. "Well, well" I said, looking over his shoulder. He turned, saw the book, levelled his blue eyes at me and with a shrug and a smile, said: "All right, you win." A brave man who nearly completed a mission which might have cost us heaven knows how much. By then it was dark. Feeling as if I had just finished a game of rugger, I went to the Radio Office voice pipe: “ADMIRALTY FROM KEPPEL. MOST IMMEDIATE.BOAT RECOVERED.MAN ARRESTED”. Having got that off my chest, I turned to find the imperturbable little figure of the one and only Petty Officer "Jump" Jordan, my cockney steward: "Beg pardon, sir, with the masthead lookout's compliments, if it's all the same to you, e'd prefer a scotch to a beer." The speed of Admiralty's congratulatory reply conveyed their relief. I was ordered to take the prisoner to Larne. When we berthed alongside the jetty, we were greeted with that unmistakable clank of arms, then the slithering of hobnail boots on our steel decks, then a purple subaltern clambering up to the bridge and saluting with such vigour that he nearly fell off it. Our guest was rounded up and escorted ashore. As he was being marched down the jetty, and we were casting off our lines, I succumbed to inexcusable vaunt. I switched on the loud hailer and in an amplified voice, almost lifting the roof off the jetty, I said: "You might have foxed the Army mate, but with the Navy you hadn't got a hope."The whole adventure cost us less than two hours. We made Londonderry, had our night ashore and met our convoy the next morning feeling that, at least, we had cleared the air a bit. Because of our low endurance, the 1st EG could only get as far as the Azores but we left those history making soldiers still well escorted, and the convoy never lost a ship.

Back to troop convoy. Our filling station in the Azores was Punta Delgado. We only rested a few hours in that attractive little harbour, but it was long enough for every stomach in the First Escort Group to take over from its owner. Pineapples! I don't know when any of us had last seen one but, suddenly, we saw nothing but. All spare space in every ship soon received every pineapple it could take. Had we gone into action on our trip home, there is no doubt, whatever, that pineapples rather than shells would have been fed to the guns from the magazines. Jordan saw to it that my after cabin, which I never saw at sea, was stacked amply for himself, as well as for me. Back at sea, to admit to my group that we were in this pineapple racket as much as everyone else, when one ship made some routine request by signal, instead of replying with the ordinary "affirmative flag, Keppel hoisted a pineapple. Later, back in Derry, when my wife was wheeling four pineapples to a friend, in an otherwise empty pram, a group of devout natives stopped in their tracks and crossed themselves.

Shore Leave in Londonderry
These colourful interludes seem far easier to remember than the anxieties and frustrations common to any professional sheepdog but, let me remind myself proudly, up to then, I hadn't lost a sheep. We all liked Londonderry very much as a base. A big, strong, wild, born leader of men, with blazing blue eyes and a bubbling, infectious enthusiasm, an ex-submariner, a tyrant, a rebel who in another age could have been a top pirate, Nelson's favourite captain or a dangerous rebel languishing in chains in the security wing of the Tower, all adds up to the image of Captain Philip Ruck Keene, Captain later Commodore (D) Londonderry, our no bloody nonsense boss. A great, unpredictable character whom some feared, all respected. Many of us had our wives and families there. The residents were kind to us, specially the Goodliffes; Grace, Irish with French blood; Guy, a retired Major in the Gunners; their lovely home, Birdstown, across the border, a few miles into the Free State. Ah! The memory of those un-rationed dinner dates at Birdstown! The thrill as we reached the border, with finger groping in the blackout, to flick that magic switch. Headlights! Another world! On through an enchanted village, then the white gates, long drive and Birdstown, lit up like a Cathedral. Inside, that big drawing room with its dazzling ever-fresh flowers, in a nest of warmth and welcome. Yes, I am one of many who remark the memory of those two, and who count their friendship and hospitality a valid contribution to the sanity of all who sailed in the Londonderry Escort Force. One can't dismiss Derry without a glance at that imposing little Customs House on the Free State Border, and Baxter, the big ex-chief stoker RN, who ran it. Baxter maintained it was natural and wholesome to smuggle; those who never tried were beneath his contempt. But, he liked to know what was going on. An old woman in the Free State had an ailing husband whom she supplied, quite illegally, with ship's tobacco and other forbidden luxuries from HM ships. She had a dog trained to walk round the far side of the hedge surrounding the Customs House. It carried a basket, which she loaded with contraband in Northern Ireland and recovered in the Free State. Baxter trained that dog. Carrying any form of firearms either way, was a serious offence, punishable by confiscation and imprisonment. When we went shooting, the drill was to thrust barrels, however cold they felt, down our trouser legs. Having sized up our intentions as we stopped at the gate, Baxter would thrust his great head into the car and say: "Not to worry at getting out, gentlemen, I know the Commander has a stiff leg." On the way back it was "I hope your leg wasn't too stiff, Commander, to prevent you catching up with a snipe or two for me breakfast." Navigation up and down the River Foyle, between Derry and Moville at the mouth of Lough Foyle, could be exciting. I remember a small derelict lighthouse, uninhabited, with neither light nor foghorn, but a very helpful dog, which always barked when, ships came too close.

I also remember an escort running ashore in fog and finishing up with her bows sticking out across the Belfast-Londonderry railway line. Her enterprising captain sent his signalman up the line with a red burgee. He flagged down the daily train, just in time. In the Lough off Moville, a fat tanker was moored; as a filling station, it did a roaring trade. The way that tanker's crew handled those great black, snaking, flexible hoses in all weathers, all round the clock, was marvellous. We just dumped our ships alongside, sometimes by no means gently, in those gales and swingeing tides and didn't even bother to shout "fill her up". While I was there, the tanker's skipper was the distinguished Captain Dove whose freighter had been sunk in the South Atlantic by the German raider, Graf Spee. He had been imprisoned on board and many times have I encouraged regalement of his adventures while Keppel quenched her thirst alongside. What an experience he and his shipmates went through, crowded together, battened down beneath locked hatches of Graf Spee during the River Plate action. Whenever they heard an explosion, even though it might be turning their sealed messdeck into a watery grave, they cheered. He admired and respected Graf Spee's Captain Langsdorff who he contacted, frequently, because he happened to be the senior merchant navy prisoner on board.