The Last Big Gun: At War & At Sea with HMS Belfast

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

(SELECTED)

THE SHIP OF THE LINE (2 VOLS)

THE ARMING AND FITTING OF ENGLISH SHIPS OF WAR, 1600–1815

NELSON’S NAVY

THE 74-GUN SHIP BELLONA

BUILDING THE WOODEN WALLS

NELSON AND THE NILE

SHIP

HORATIO LORD NELSON

JACK AUBREY COMMANDS

HOSTILITIES ONLY

THE ISLAND NATION

RIVER CLASS FRIGATES AND THE BATTLE OF THE ATLANTIC

CHURCHILL’S NAVY

SHIELD OF EMPIRE

IN WHICH THEY SERVED

CHURCHILL GOES TO WAR

THE FRIGATE SURPRISE

ROYAL TARS

ABLE SEAMEN

ALL HANDS

ROYAL NAVY OFFICERS POCKET-BOOK (ED.)

ASSAULT LANDING CRAFT

WE SHALL FIGHT ON THE BEACHES

EMPIRE OF THE SEAS

SS GREAT BRITAIN

THE CONQUEST OF THE OCEAN

NELSON’S VICTORY

This edition published in Great Britain in 2015 by

The Pool of London Press

A Division of Casemate Publishers

10 Hythe Bridge Street

Oxford OX1 2EW, UK

and

1950 Lawrence Road, Havertown, PA 19083 USA

www.pooloflondon.com

© Brian Lavery 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

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A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN (hardback) 978-1-910860-01-4

ISBN (ebook) 978-1-910860-07-6

ISBN (kindle) 978-1-910860-08-3

ISBN (pdf) 978-1-910860-09-0

Editing, cartography and design by David Gibbons

General arrangement drawings (pages 6–7) courtesy Ross Watton

Printed in the Czech Republic by FINIDR s.r.o.

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CONTENTS

Preface

Prologue: Mined

1     The Birth of a Cruiser

2     Preparing for Sea

3     War with Germany

4     Repair

5     Russian Convoy

6     The War in the North

7     The Scharnhorst

8     To Normandy

9     To the East

10   Showing the Flag

11   Wars in the East

12   Recovered from the Reserve Fleet

13   Bibliography

HMS Belfast

General Arrangements 1942, after extended refit

HMS Belfast

General Arrangements 1962, after refit

PREFACE

HMS BELFAST HAS BEEN MOORED IN THE VERY CENTRE of the British capital for more than forty years now. She has perhaps the most prominent site of any preserved ship in the world, moored in the Pool of London, which was associated more with merchant than naval shipping – except that medieval warships belonging to the King were described as being ‘of the Tower’, that is the Tower of London, and of course the main job of the navy was to protect merchant shipping. She is by far the largest and most important representative of the country’s oldest fighting service during perhaps its most dramatic and world-changing conflict. Despite this, when John Lee, now of Pool of London Press, suggested that I might consider some kind of book on the ship, I was surprised to find that there is no full narrative history of her. This volume hopes to fill that gap.

One of the great advantages of writing about the Belfast is the great range of material which as available. It is often vivid and informative, while other items are highly detailed but equally revealing. Unlike destroyers and smaller vessels, the logs of cruisers were preserved in the National Archives. They are not always easy to understand out of context, but as well as navigational data they provide information on matters such as leave and punishments; and they are invaluable in checking exactly what the ship was doing at any particular moment. There are numerous reports by captains and admirals in the same archive, which are far more revealing about the nature of the voyage and the commanders’ instructions and intentions.

These items would be preserved for any ship of the period of cruiser size and above, but what makes the Belfast unique, apart from the existence of the ship herself, is the wide range of personal papers and oral history that is available. These range from senior officers such as Captain Dick, through more junior officers including George Thring and Brooke Smith, vivid midshipmen’s journals by the likes of J. A. Syms and R. L. Garnons-Williams, petty officers including William Read, to junior seamen such as Richard Wilson and K. J. Melvin, and even Boy William Crawford. Between them they describe every level and department of the ship. It is a feature of naval history that quite ordinary men and boys might witness the great events of war, though as one of the Belfast’s men put it, each was only working to ‘twiddle his particular knob and hope for the best’.

The accounts come in several kinds – manuscript autobiographies, oral history, papers collected at the time and letters to friends and family. The majority are in the Imperial War Museum, but others are to be found in the National Maritime Museum and Royal Naval Museum. The stock of personal papers is less rich after about 1947, but that is compensated for by the commission books for two of the voyages and the captain’s order book and wardroom mess rules, which tell us much of the mores and practices of the age.

On a personal note, I see this book as a part of a study of many different types from the Second World War. I have already written on the ‘River’ Class frigates and Assault Landing Craft, which were very different in building and role from each other and from the Belfast. As such, the cruiser represents the ‘big ship navy’ of battleships and cruisers. In each case I have tried to provide an allround view of the ship – its design and building, equipment and its operation, the social background, training and daily lives of its officers and crew, and its role in naval operations. I hope by these examples, as well as in more general works such as Churchill’s Navy, In Which They Served and All Hands to help record and commem - orate the varied experiences of those who served in the navy in very different ways.

I would like to acknowledge the help by the staffs of the National Archives at Kew, the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, the Imperial War Museum in Lambeth, the Royal Naval Museum in Portsmouth and the London Library. Thanks are due to John Lee for the original idea and to David Gibbons for editing the text and pointing out errors.

Brian Lavery

September 2015

PROLOGUE

MINED

HMS BELFAST WAS READY FOR WAR as she steamed away from her anchorage outside Rosyth Dockyard in the Firth of Forth at 9.17 in the morning of Tuesday 21 November 1939. She was a brand new ship, commissioned just fifteen weeks earlier, a month before war was declared on Germany. She had had a few teething troubles, and it had taken several weeks for the catapult that launched her aircraft to be fully fitted, but now she was ready for almost anything. She had a fully professional crew of regular sailors, for wartime volunteers and conscripts had not had time to complete their basic training. To Lieutenant Commander George Thring, ‘We were undoubtedly a very happy ship. The organisation ran smoothly, and people smiled.’ Different branches such as seamen and stokers only mocked one another gently and did not clash seriously. The officers were not too ‘pusser’ or officious. Captain George Scott was popular, a ‘nice man’ according to one junior member of the crew. He had impressed them with his skill during an exercise when he played the part of a German raider and took the ship through the treacherous waters of the Pentland Firth in the dark. He took good care to inform the crew of events over the ship’s Tannoy or loudspeaker system and with weekly briefings.

It was a ‘lovely sunny morning’ according to the master-at-arms, William F. Read, as ‘members of the ship’s company on the upper deck were going about their allotted tasks stripped to the waist and singing happily’. Belfast passed under the Forth Bridge in the wake of her fellow cruiser Southampton, which was flying the flag of Vice Admiral Sir George Edward-Collins, commanding the 2nd Cruiser Squadron. The two ships were to carry out gunnery exercises in the open waters outside the Firth. The tug Krooman (named quaintly after the native seamen often recruited on the African coast) was with them to tow a target. Thring and his colleagues ‘could not help feeling that the navy was the only part of the nation that was actually doing anything’. The expression ‘phoney war’ was already in use. The armies in northern France were not pursuing the campaign with any vigour, and air forces on both sides were severely restricted in their choice of target. But it was different at sea, where many ships had already been lost to bombs, mines and torpedoes. The officers and men of the Belfast were well aware of the dangers from submarines – the ship had been present in Scapa Flow on the terrible night of 13/14 October when the great battleship Royal Oak was sunk by a U-boat inside a supposedly protected harbour. The Belfast had her own Asdic system to detect submarines, but most of her protection would come from the two escorting destroyers, which were better equipped for that kind of work. Air attack was another possibility. The Southampton herself had been bombed at anchor in this very Firth on 16 October, the day when the first enemy aircraft were brought down over British territory, and the officers of the Belfast had taken some advice from her experiences. Air attack could develop in seconds, so the crews of the anti-aircraft guns were ‘closed up’, or sitting at their stations. The director towers that would control the fire were all manned, along with the 4-inch guns, the 2-pounder ‘pom-poms’ and the .5 inch machine-guns. Radar, known as radio direction finding or RDF, was still very rare aboard ships and the Belfast had none. Instead six lookouts were posted to scan the sky with binoculars, being relieved every half hour to aid concentration. Others were detailed to look out for tracks of torpedoes. It was a clear day, but they could see nothing of any significance.

Apart from that, most of the crew were at their normal duties when not having a ‘stand easy’ on deck. The captain was on the bridge directing operations, and Lieutenant Commander Thring was up there with the chief telegraphist rigging up a microphone to give a running commentary to the crew in the event of an air attack. The twelve 6-inch guns, the ship’s main armament, were as yet unmanned, though they would soon be prepared for the gunnery exercise. But for the moment Ordnance Artificer John Harrison and his two assistants were changing an air bottle at the top of a 20-foot ladder to the shell room under a gun turret. Below decks the engineers were running two out of the four boilers to conserve fuel, though the others were fired up so that they could be ready if needed. The steam from the boilers was being fed to the four cruising turbines that were used when the ship was sailing a moderate speed. Repair work was going on in the paint store, the main naval store, the cooling machinery compartment, the wardroom wine store and No. 6 store, so the doors to these compartments had to be left open. Otherwise all watertight doors were kept shut to prevent flooding in the event of a sudden attack, and two able seamen were employed to check this in each part of the ship. The ship’s cooks were preparing dinner, the main meal of the day for the crew, with all of them except the chief cook in the servery or the preparing room.

At 1030 the two ships were well out into the Firth. The Belfast was four cables, or 800 yards, astern of the Southampton, her engines turning at 130 revolutions per minute and creating a speed of seventeen knots. On the bridge, Captain Scott followed the flagship and ordered an alteration of course to 295 degrees, then at 1042 to the exact opposite or reciprocal course of 115 degrees as part of a manoeuvre, then to 60 degrees at 1053. The turn was completed, and the helm was put amidships so that the ship could settle on her new course.

Despite several weeks of war and the trauma of losing the Royal Oak, what happened next was a shock in every sense of the term. There was a huge explosion in which the ship rose some feet in the air and then vibrated violently – was ‘bounced up and down’ according to a witness – for several seconds. The gunnery officer, with a good view high in the ship, saw a column of water 60 feet high abreast of the foremast, and then another one 100 feet high half a second or so later. He and his warrant officer were soaked as it came down again. Thring and the chief telegraphist held on tight to a rail and then found themselves ‘garlanded’ with wireless aerials. Thring noticed that the topmast was at an angle of 30 degrees. Forward in his store right in the bows, the ship’s painter, H. Stanton, was thrown against the deck above and seriously injured in the head. Midshipman Syms reported, ‘Suddenly there was an almighty bang and the ship shuddered as if being shaken by some giant hand. Standing at the back of the bridge to witness the shoot, the shock knocked me off my feet and my first reaction was that the other cruiser with us had somehow hit us rather than the towed target.’ Able Seaman Lawrence Conlon was making his way along the corridor outside the chief petty officers’ mess when he felt the shock. He picked up a key he found on the deck and continued on his way, noting that ‘the passage seemed to be crumpled or bent’, but he soon reached the open air. Boy 1st Class Peter McSweeney was coming from his mess and crossing the catapult deck when, as he said, ‘I just went sliding.’ From inside the turret Ordnance Artificer Harrison reported, ‘I felt my spine going into my skull.’ He thought the air bottle he was working on had exploded. He and his assistants climbed through an S-bend to get out and tried to go through a hatch between the centre and right-hand guns on the turret. At first it would not open, and water was rushing in. They feared that the ship had sunk, but eventually they forced it open. ‘Much to our relief we got out and assessed the damage.’ The galley was closer to the centre of the explosion, and all the cooks were flung to the deck. The range caught fire, but Petty Officers Brooker and Sadler shut off the fuel supply, which put it out. Nearby in the bakery, bags of flour were stored on the floor and apparently acted as sandbags to reduce the shock. The two ratings in there were unhurt but buried in flour.

Captain Scott ordered the stopping of all engines as soon as the explosion happened, then tried to move the ship forward with the order ‘half ahead’ – but there was no power. The ship still had enough speed to steer, and he had her turned on to a course back to Rosyth before she came to a standstill. At least the ship was not heeling to one side or the other, though she seemed to be deeper in the bows than the stern. No one knew what had caused the explosion, but it was natural to suspect a torpedo from a submarine, so the destroyers circled round looking for it. The tug Krooman abandoned the target she was towing and prepared to take up the tow of the Belfast instead. A line had been attached by 1140, less than 50 minutes after the explosion. Signals were sent out to get more help from the dockyard.

All the uninjured men headed for the upper decks, not knowing whether they would be ordered to abandon ship or to try to save her. It was fortunate the ship was not at full action stations because the ammunition supply parties might well have been injured if they were handling 6-inch shells weighing 112 pounds each, even if they were practice rounds containing no explosives. All the ship’s boats had been damaged by crashing against the crutches that supported them except the two sea boats, which were hung on davits. The emergency life rafts, the Carley floats, were mostly intact, and a part of the crew got them ready in case they were needed. Boy McSweeney got to his feet on the catapult deck – ‘we had to start sorting ourselves out and mustering.’ They were assembled by their officers, while the boys’ instructor went round and tried to account for his charges. The men did not stand still for long: soon they were found duties in an attempt to keep the Belfast afloat. Apart from the damage to the hull, the most immediate problem was that the electrics had failed, so the men below were in pitch darkness unless they could get hold of torches or miners’ helmets. Telephones were out of action, and many other services were not working. The steam-operated generators were unserviceable, and the ship’s ring main had fractured in many places, but a diesel generator was started and electrical parties carried out local repairs. Power was restored after about ten minutes.

The medical staff had been shaken by the explosion but were uninjured. The sick bay had to be abandoned as oil flooded in, and patients were lifted up on deck, squeezing wide stretchers though narrow passages. The three doctors set up medical stations in different parts of the ship, aided by the sick-berth attendants. Class distinctions no longer applied, and the exclusive territory of the officers’ wardroom became a hospital ward. There were two severe head injuries including the painter, and others with concussion or fractures of the lower body, who were given morphine. The principal medical officer, Surgeon Commander E. J. K. Weeks, was pleased with how his team performed in their first emergency and was ‘wreathed in smiles’ by the end of the day according to Thring. In his white operating dress stained with blood he ‘looked a bit sinister’. In all, 20 officers and men had sustained injuries that would need hospital treatment, and there were 26 more minor cases, including Captain Scott who had a small incised wound on the nose. He was regarded as ‘highly strung and easily excited’ by some of his superiors, but he kept his nerve in the circumstances.

Meanwhile the crew was fed using emergency supplies of corned beef and other tinned food, tin mugs and mess kettles of drinking water that were kept near the ship’s boats. The domestic staff issued blankets for warmth. Later the men were given a meal of herring in tomato sauce, one of the least favourite items in the naval menu. The crew was calm, and there was no sign of panic. There were orders for dealing with underwater attack, but these were useless with the damage below the ship rather than in the side. However, the ship’s organisation, prepared by the executive officer, Commander James G. Roper, held together well in difficult circumstances. There were no cowards and a few heroes, especially the ship’s joiner, P. S. Davies, who ignored his own fractured dorsal vertebra to rescue two badly injured men, moving them over the raised coaming of a watertight door. The ship’s pumps were now working and keeping the water at an acceptable level, for there was no large hole in the hull. Just after one o’clock the tug Brahman arrived from Rosyth and attached a line, to be joined by the Grangebourne, Oxcar and Bulger within the hour. Now the ship was making progress back towards Rosyth and passed the island of Inchkeith at 1411.

It did not take long for Captain Scott to work out that the ship had been damaged by some kind of mine. There was no sign of aircraft. Neither the cruisers nor the destroyers had made any Asdic contact with a submarine; no torpedo track had been seen despite numerous lookouts; and the ship had carried out major changes of course just before the explosion, all of which made a torpedo hit unlikely. The explosion had not been on one side of the ship as might have been expected, but underneath, causing a different kind of damage and casualties. In fact, the Belfast was the first major casualty of ‘Hitler’s secret weapon’, the magnetic mine. It could be laid in relatively shallow water, in this case 16 fathoms or 29 metres, and was set off by a ship’s magnetic field. This was one of several laid by a U-boat five weeks earlier. There had already been warnings with the loss of many merchant ships off the east coast and severe damage to the liner City of Paris by an underwater explosion in September. Exactly 24 hours before the Belfast explosion the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, had presided over a meeting in his office ‘to consider steps to meet the enemy’s magnetic mine’. On 23 November, two days after the Belfast explosion, Lieutenant Commander J. G. D. Ouvry recovered an intact magnetic mine off Shoeburyness in Essex, and countermeasures could be devised. The magnetic mine made it necessary to maintain a large fleet of minesweepers to clear the shipping lanes and for every ship to have its magnetic field reduced by ‘degaussing’, but it was not the war-winning weapon its inventors had hoped.

By five in the afternoon of the 21st the crippled cruiser was secured in the lock at the entrance to Rosyth Dockyard, and casualties were landed by crane to be taken to local hospitals. Stanton the painter eventually died, the only fatality. Later in the day the ship was taken further in, to a dry dock where the damage could be examined. Thring watched as the water was slowly pumped out: ‘The ship started to rest on the chocks. This caused her to creak and groan like an animal in pain. Rivets were sheered, and the deck itself began to crack. Pumping was therefore stopped, and the ship was left floating, just clear of the chocks.’ Most of the crew were sent to the dockyard canteen for the night, but the officers remained on board. ‘It was an eerie feeling on board a nearly deserted ship, with all the usual machinery stopped. Continuous groans from plates and frames prevented most of us from sleeping, although we were very tired.’

Most of the crew were given a week’s survivor’s leave. Thring returned from his on an overcrowded night train where a party of drunks kept the others awake until they fell into ‘a state of torpor’. They arrived four hours late in Edinburgh, and he refreshed himself in the North British Hotel before the last leg of the trip. By Christmas, ‘there was a strong rumour that our happy party would have to break up’. Captain Scott tried hard to have the men transferred to a similar ship under construction, but to no avail. Special trains were laid on for the men, and Thring and some of the officers ‘stood on the lines watching one of the finest ships companys [sic] drive out into the night, bound for Portsmouth barracks whence they would be scattered to the four corners of the earth’. He was initially told he would become first lieutenant of an aircraft carrier – assistant to the commander and ‘just another cog in the machine’, but he was delighted when that was changed to the command of the sloop Deptford. Lawrence Conlon went to the old destroyer Wrestler, a ‘home for cockroaches’. His colleague, W. M. Crawford, was one of many sent to the ill-fated battlecruiser Hood. Most of them regretted the loss of a happy ship and the separation from good comrades, but this they had to accept: it was the way of the navy and the fortune of war. To Master-at-Arms William Read, the Belfast was the happiest ship he served in during a 23-year career.

Many thought that the life of HMS Belfast was over after less than four months in service. Among them was the German radio propagandist ‘Lord Haw-Haw’, who announced that the ship had been sunk with heavy loss of life. Peter McSweeney was on leave at his sister’s at the time, and they could laugh over it. It was more serious for John Harrison, who was one of the technical staff kept behind at Rosyth. He desperately needed to phone his wife to tell her it was not true, and he had to light matches to operate a blacked-out phone box in Inverkeithing. Meanwhile the experts were assessing whether the Belfast had any future.

1

THE BIRTH OF A CRUISER

HMS BELFAST WAS A CRUISER, launched in the city of Belfast in 1938. The type was recognised as second in the naval pecking order, below the battleship, which had much bigger guns and thicker armour. The cruiser was versatile and could perform several functions. It might scout for the battlefleet, though that was becoming less important in the days of air reconnaissance. In the past it had been used to lead squadrons of destroyers, but that function became obsolete as specialist ‘destroyer leaders’ were built. It could police the British Empire with its dominions and colonies on five continents, deterring aggression or revolt and ‘showing the flag’, or it could patrol the seas against enemy commerce raiders in wartime. It was much cheaper to construct than a battleship, so larger numbers could be built; they did not necessarily have to be concentrated in a large fleet, so they could be dispersed as necessary. A cruiser’s 6- or 8-inch guns were powerful enough to take on enemy ships of the same type, while its armour would hopefully keep out their shells. And, like all good fighting ships, it was able to run away from an enemy it could not hope to fight, so it was designed to be faster than a battleship.

Battleship development had tended to ‘move in a straight line’ since the famous Dreadnought of 1906 set the pattern. Ships became ever larger and faster with heavier main guns – though in that sense the new ships of the King George V class were a throwback with only 14-inch guns compared with the 16-inch armament of the Rodney and Nelson. Cruisers, however, had more varied functions, and so their development was more complicated. During the First World War there were no less than five distinct types. Armoured cruisers were made obsolete by battlecruisers, which matched the gun-power of the battleships. Protected cruisers had only light armour, but their coal was arranged to absorb shot. Scouts were designed to lead destroyer flotillas and carried only light armament. The ‘Town’ class cruisers were much larger and intended for long-range operation. Armed with a small number of 6-inch guns and with long, narrow hulls, they provided the basis for the new light cruisers that were built in some numbers during the war. They were very suitable as a scouting force for the battleships of the Grand Fleet in the North Sea, but less useful for world-wide deployment. This led towards the end of the war to the larger Hawkins class with 7.5-inch guns and able to operate with either coal or oil throughout the British Empire; they represented a great increase in gun-power compared with the early war ‘C’ class, from 500 to 1400 pounds.

After the war, the disarmament treaties of Washington in 1922 and London in 1930 altered the picture. The United States Navy was recognised as equal to the Royal Navy, and both were allowed to build up to 525,000 tons of capital ships. Japan was allowed three-fifths of that tonnage, 315,000 tons, while France and Italy had 175,000 tons each; Germany was still out of the naval race, tightly restricted by the Treaty of Versailles. Two types of cruiser were now accepted – heavy, with 8-inch guns (slightly larger than the Hawkins), and light, with 6-inch. Cruiser size was limited to 10,000 tons.

The British were highly sensitive about their position. During the negotiations they always insisted that they needed a large cruiser force, on the grounds that both their merchant shipping fleet and their empire were bigger than those of other nations. In addition, the homeland had to be protected against invasion. The country was determined to maintain a fleet bigger than that of any potential enemy, a category which excluded the United States in most people’s minds. At the same time, Britain took the treaties far more seriously than other powers. A secretive and militaristic nation like Japan could build its ships largely under cover and saw no shame in exceeding the tonnage. The United States, on the other hand, was happy for the moment to be recognised formally as first-equal among naval powers, while a largely isolationist Congress did not always vote the money to build up to the tonnage limits. But in Britain the legalistic minds of the civil service made sure that the figures were not exceeded, either generally or for individual ships, while the navy was determined to squeeze the last ounce of value from its allocation. The naval constructors who designed the ships and supervised their construction had to resolve this conflict by building almost exactly to the limit. One solution was to use a special type of steel known as D-quality. It was lighter and stronger than normal steel, but it needed special equipment to work it. In a supreme irony, it was very difficult to weld, a process that would have saved much more weight as compared with the more traditional riveting.

* * * * *

Naval constructors were the product of a rather cruel and wasteful system dating back to Victorian times, by which about half the dockyard apprentice shipwrights were weeded out every year. According to one of their number:

In 1927 only 50 apprentices were accepted at Portsmouth. At the end of each [school] year an examination was held and apprentices who failed to qualify had to leave. So after four years only a dozen of the original fifty survived and these, together with the fourth year students of Plymouth, Chatham, Sheerness … had to compete for one only constructor cadet post and one only electrical engineer cadetship.

British