Saint Patrick's Day 1943

On the North Atlantic, 1943, a selection from the diary of the British Merchant Navy's only sea-going chaplain at that time, a new position and rank designated by the Admiralty as "Fleet Padre." In his three years at sea he served aboard 26 ships.

"Forty ships of various types stretched across thre Nort Atlantic in eleven short columns, moving eastward, bound for Liverpool from Halifax. A small escort, one destroyer and two corvettes, is doing its best to maintain patrol ahead and to the flanks. The area these little craft must cover is great. The corvettes have not much speed, and the weather is against them.

"As night falls the moon, near full, comes through the clouds to shine brightly on the whitecaps. It is just this sort of night when it is most difficult to spot the wake of a submarine or its bow-wave as it moves to the surface. Sudenly the peculiar metalic "pung" of an underwater explosion is heard. The alarm bell rings. We are out on deck to see what is happening. Two columns to starboard a ship has burst into flames amidship. A corvette hurries to the stricken ship which is now rapidly dropping astern.

"A few hours later three more explosions are heard, followed by depth charges. Two more ships in the outside starboard colum have been hit, and one torpedo has streaked right across the convoy to pick off a ship in the extreme port column. One ship goes down in a matter of minutes, leaving nothing but a cluster of bobbing red lights on the surface where a few of her  crew have got away and are floating with the lights on their Mae Wests to guide any possible rescuers. But with this sea and so small an escort there is little chance of rescue.

"Another lull for a few hours follows. We still keep on our Mae Wests, our all-weather suits, and fire-proof hoods in their cases. (The tanker I was on, the NICANIA, was carrying several thousand tons of 100-high octane at the time.) The crew stands in groups on the after deck. I make my way down to the Engine Room and have a few words with the Chief and the Second; all strained white faces, for in a bad hit there is little chance of escape for them and things that happen in the Engine and Boiler Rooms can be slow and horrible.

"Suddenly a loud Morse distress signal. An explosion nearby follows. We run out on deck. The ship immediatle ahead of us, another on our starboard beam, and a big whale-factory ship on our port bow have all got it. The first is going down rapidly; the second more slowly. The great whale-factory is blazing furiously forward of her bridge. As we slide past her the glaring heat and spark-laden smoke sweep over us. We can hear the shouts of men trapped in her foc'sle,The greenish glare of the fire lights up the whole vessel. We see the crew silhouetted against the flames working to get two boats forward on the port side lowered. It looks as if the flames are actually licking all around the men. And there is a Mate standing there, his hands in his pockets, calm as if it were a boat drill, giving orders clear and unruffled  - - 'All clear? Lower away. Steady her. Cast off your stern line'. We can hear him distinctly above the noise of the sea and the roar of the fire. It steadies us a bit.

"Daylight brings a lull in the confusion. Gaps arwe closed up and the convoy reforms. We feel that anyway we shall be undisturbed until night falls again. Hardly had I lain down before the bell rings again. Three more ships have been hit. One goes quickly. Another burns steadily as we leave her until, far out on the horizon, we see an explosion and she disappears. The third remains for a long time with just her bow and foremast showing above the surface.

"During the afternoon more escort show up. The topmasts of two destroyers are visible on the horizon. But some of the ships are understandably jittery by this time. Four of them open up with their 4-inch guns, thinking that what they see are periscopes. The destrioyers are not so much endangered as we are, with shells landing all over the place. A small Panamanian tramp joins in the fun. Everytime she fires her stern gun, she puts on an extra five knots, and she comes 'whoofing' up the column in grand style - - a pioneer of jet-propulsion.

"That night we hear what sound like depth charges in the distance. When morning comes, we count up the convoy. Three more are missing. Fifteen have gone in 24 hours, and of four stragglers, we subsequently are told, three are lost. Eighteen out of forty ships and a great company of gallant men is the toll.

"Addenda. Some years ago after the war, I came acrtoss a paperback of the submarine campaign from the German point of view, Wolfgang Frank's 'The Sea Wolves', which included the attack on my convoy.  I got into correspondence with him to help clarify my recollections with his version. Of course we were looking at it from opposite ends of the torpedo. That book was rather shocking then. At the time of the attack we figured that there must have been three submarines that were able to keep just ahead of uus all the time because the torpedoes came in three at a time from the same angle nearly every time. When I got it from the point of view of the submarine commanders, there were thirty submarines around us. So it was surprising that any of us got out of it."

After the war this former Merchant Navy chaplain went on to serve Episcopal parishes in California and Washington State until he retired. He died in 1993 at the age of 92. Today, November 21, would be the Rev'd. Eric W. Jackson, my Dad's, birthday.