Authors: Jon E. Lewis
Our send-off lacked nothing in heartiness as the crew of the
Hindustan
cheered us on our way, and what with our responding cheers, the huge harbour sounded for all the world like some cup-tie arena; the momentary sadness that inevitably follows these partings (for your bluejacket is not totally callous) soon gave way to the thoughts that we were at last on the way for our objective.
The land left behind, our fleet took up some semblance of order, but proper order among such a strange assortment of craft was impossible. In the centre steamed the
Vindictive
with the
Iris
and
Daffodil
in tow, astern of these came the
Thetis, Intrepid, Iphegenia, Sirius
, and
Brilliant
, whilst surrounding these disreputable looking ships were destroyers, motor-launches, C.M.B.s, and a sturdy little picket boat could be seen towing a submarine, whilst far away monitors were taking up position to cover the attack.
As the final hour approached, the finishing touches were put to a well-organized ship, ammunition was fused and placed in readiness, hoses run out and all preparations made prior to going into action.
The night was dark, and far away could be seen the British aircraft making a bombing attack on Zeebrugge, and further still the dull red flashes of the artillery in Flanders. The ship slowed down and stopped whilst the heads of departments conferred, until slowly the whole significance dawned on the troops; the wind had changed and we could not carry out our plans, and it was a disappointed ship that sailed for England that night.
The following day another attempt was made, but this again was unsuccessful, as the wind, this time in the right direction, was too fresh and made it impossible for the smaller craft to proceed, and these were needed to ensure the success of the operation.
Another shift was our portion, for on account of the. congestion of the living accommodation, the battleship
Dominion
was sent out to act as an overflow ship, and we duly found ourselves aboard her. The days were spent now in keeping fit, but I think most of the time was spent in sleep and, on the whole, we had a fairly easy time.
The time was approaching when, if the next attempt failed, the whole stunt was likely to be postponed, as after this period the necessary flood tides would not occur at the times required. April was nearing its end when we embarked on the
Vindictive
again. This was on the morning of Monday, April 22nd, and once all the troops were assembled we lost no time in breaking our moorings, taking the
Iris
and
Daffodil
in tow, and proceeding to sea in the exact formation of the previous attempts.
The trip across the Channel was uneventful and most of the time was passed with impromptu concerts and dances and I doubt if any there thought of the serious mission of this strangely assorted fleet. After supper had been served, practically everybody snatched an hour or two’s sleep before the fateful zero hour; how anyone could sleep with an adventure like the one before us speaks volumes for the mental and physical fitness of the party. Our slumbers were disturbed by a bugle call, and a ration of hot chicken-broth was served out, supplemented by a ration of grog, the latter ration being left practically untouched, it being thought that a clear head and steady eye were more beneficial. Word was passed round then, and the men assembled at their stations for the attack as leisurely as if going to a football-match.
A cheerless scene greeted one’s arrival on the upper deck. It was a black night, everything was wrapped in fog, while behind, the ships were unnaturally quiet, the only sounds being those of the engine going slow, the lap of the water against the ship’s sides and the subdued murmur from the bridge, with now and again the rattle of the helm; nothing could be seen.
Suddenly the quietness of the night was shattered by a single rifle-shot; this was followed almost immediately by a dull red flash over the fo’c’sle and the angry crack of a bursting shell, a few yells and an isolated call of ‘Mother.’ The game was on, and Jerry had drawn first blood.
The wind had now changed and was blowing the smoke screen and artificial fog back over us, leaving us the target for the shore batteries, but ahead of us loomed the Mole, 200 yards away, and for this we raced.
Following the burst of the first shell the night had turned into day by searchlights and star-shells, and all the venom and hatred of the shore batteries seemed concentrated on us, salvo after salvo struck the ship, doing indescribable damage in the packed starboard battery where all the storming party were awaiting to land; the foremost howitzer’s crew were wiped out with the exception of the voice pipeman, who was a couple of yards away.
The strangest part of this was that the trench mortar battery, not more than 4 feet away, did not receive injury at that time. Within the space of a few seconds the leading seaman in charge of our battery had been hit in the back of the head, whilst half a dozen of our battery had received superficial scratches.
We were now alongside the Mole and sheltered a little from the murderous hail of shell from the forts, which continued to keep up a burst of shrapnel around our funnels, which showed up and made excellent targets. Every gun in the
Vindictive
that could bear had now given tongue and the night was made hideous by the nerve-racking shatter of the pompoms, the deep bell-like boom of the howitzers and trench mortars, and all-pervading rattle of musketry and machine-gun fire; it was hell with a vengeance and it seemed well-nigh miraculous that human beings could live in such an inferno.
Meanwhile, down on the quarter-deck the ship was being secured by means of the large grappling irons fitted on wire pennants, which had continually been thrown back from the wall by a few Germans whose bravery was eclipsed by none, until they were driven off by rifle-fire. After what seemed an eternity, the anchor rattled down and the all-fast signal was given. Of our sixteen specially constructed gangways only two remained, but these were already in position and up into the night went one huge yell, all the pent-up feeling of the years of war and hatred and the lust for killing, and the seamen’s storming party landed, followed by the Royal Marines.
To many, that yell was their last earthly sound, as the Germans kept up a concentrated machine-gun fire on the gangways, and the dead and wounded were piled up three or four deep, but the remnants of the platoon staggered through, reorganized, and carried on as though still in the peaceful heart of Kent. To see these men, the cream of the youth of England, laughing, cheering, and swearing, rushing into what seemed certain death, was not inspiring; it was heartbreaking to think that in these enlightened days the youth of the country was being butchered in the cause of civilization, and St. Peter must have wiped his eye as he greeted most of them home.
Once on the top of the Mole one was assailed by the overwhelming feeling of nakedness and maddening desire to go forward at all costs and stop the hail of death that swept the upper Mole; sense and reason were replaced by insane fury and the events that followed cannot be remembered coherently; it was a horrible nightmare of sweating and cursing men, thirsty for blood, the sickening ‘sog’ of bayonets and of shots at close quarters. Of the individual deeds of heroism that were enacted that night there are hundreds that never will be told, they are kept a jealously guarded secret in the hearts of the survivors.
At last, through the din and uproar, rose the wailing of a siren, the signal that the job had been done, telling the storming parties to retire and the remnants of the platoons, by now sadly depleted, to fall back to the ship, bringing wherever possible their wounded. But what of the
Vindictive?
Whilst the landing-party was on the Mole, she had been subjected to a galling bombardment of shrapnel, and her upper-deck was a veritable shambles, while the superstructure presented a sorry appearance. Willing hands had ventured forth under heavy machine-gun fire and cleared the wounded below and given help to the returning parties from the Mole.
After the safety limit of time had been reached in allowing the parties to return orders were given to slip the cable, while the guns that were still serviceable put up a barrage to prevent a counter-attack, and the wind, now favourable, again carried down the artificial fog and blotted out the ship from the shore batteries whilst we steamed all out for England and home.
W. Wainwright joined the Royal Navy in 1915, at the age of 16, and served in H.M.S
. Monarch
(Grand Fleet) in the North Sea, taking part in the Battle of Jutland. Was drafted to H.M.S
. Superb
in 1917, and served in her until volunteering to take part in raid against Zeebrugge (April 23rd, 1918). Returning to depot was sent to H.M.S
. Gardenia,
engaged on anti-submarine warfare and convoying duties in the Irish Sea and North Atlantic, and later in the Mediterranean. Was in Tripoli (Syria) when Armistice was signed and proceeded to Constantinople with the occupying Fleet. Engaged in 1919 in operations against Russia, around the Crimea and Black Sea ports, and on repatriation duties in Turkey-in-Asia. In April 1920 left H.M.S
. Gardenia
with the Engeli Expedition (a party of 31 men) in an attempt to reach Engeli (North Persia) via Batoum and Baku, to reorganize the volunteer Fleet on the Caspian Sea. The party arrived in Baku (Azerberzium) the day that state turned Bolshevik, was surrounded by the 11th Red Army and forced to surrender. The whole party, along with a few other Britishers, being confined first at the Checka and then in cells in the Bieloff Prison, on the outskirts of Baku. Exchanged, in November 1920, reaching England December 1920
.
Served later in H.M.S.s
Bruce, Malaya,
and
Serapis,
and was finally discharged in June 1928
.
The early part of April 1917 found H.M. Transport
Arcadian
, as she then was, with a full complement of ‘cannon-fodder’ pushing her nose through the grey seas in the direction of the Eastern theatres of War, Salonika and Palestine.
At that time the submarine blockade, which was intended to bring Great Britain to her knees, was in full swing, and the constant fear of the ocean traveller was the making of the unwelcome acquaintance of a torpedo, or ‘tin fish,’ as that death-dealer was familiarly known.
Apart from one or two scares, no untoward incident occurred this side of Malta, and reaching that stage of the journey, one of the two Japanese destroyers that, so far, had afforded us protection, remained in harbour, leaving the
Arcadian
for the remainder of the journey with only one destroyer zigzagging at a respectful distance across our bows. The Japanese destroyer brought us, after days and nights of steaming, within sight of the African coast. This was the scene of our first brush with the enemy.
A submarine had been spotted, and with the destroyer circling around at full speed, belching out the while a thick black smoke screen, we raced as fast as the engines would turn over, to a place of comparative safety, that being a small river on the north coast of Africa. There we were literally bottled-up for three days together with another crowded transport, while our underwater foe patrolled the river’s mouth waiting and watching for us to come out.
Upon the morning of the third day, the other transport set out only to return in the early afternoon in a sinking condition.
After that, we were not too optimistic as to our chances, but in the early evening the
Arcadian
directed her nose seawards once more, steaming out into the open without mishap. Our Japanese friends, of course, still playing the part of protector.
Arrived at Salonika, the troops intended for that front disembarked, and, under cover of darkness, we of the Egyptian contingent put forth to sea bound for Alexandria. Three hundred souls of us, however, were destined not to reach that objective.
Through the night we sped on our way down the Aegean Archipelago, and the following evening, a Sunday, saw our real encounter with the U-boat that had dogged us so relentlessly. Without one moment’s warning, a terrific explosion occurred, made hideous by the splintering into matchwood of great timbers, the crash of falling glass and the groaning of steel girders wrenched asunder, followed by the hissing rush of escaping steam from the ship’s boilers.
Nobody needed enlightening as to the fact that the old
Arcadian
, which had so often completed the Eastern trip, had received a ‘Blighty’ one, and was shortly due for Davey Jones’s locker. If doubts existed, these were soon dispelled, since, having given one convulsive shudder from end to end, the great ship began to settle down on her port side with the loose deck paraphernalia slithering about in all directions and dropping into the sea.
To get away easier, I discarded my military boots, and donned a life-belt. On reaching the side of the ship and peering over, one of the two small boats which had survived the explosion was to be seen putting away full to overflowing with men. Nothing else remained but to make the descent into the sea by a rope conveniently to hand, and this I attempted. Unfortunately, my equilibrium on the ship’s rail was disturbed by someone in great haste to be among the rescued, and, falling, my arm became jammed at the wrist between two steel uprights employed as supports.
For moments that seemed long years, I was dangling from the side of the rapidly sinking
Arcadian
, but was rescued just in time from that perilous position by two comrades, one easing my weight from underneath the shoulders while the other wrenched the caught arm from the fixture. I do not know the identity of my rescuers to this day.
Seizing the means of escape, I shinned quickly down into the sea – my hands suffering badly from rope-burns, and was surprised to find the water comfortably warm. My attire consisted of trousers, shirt and socks. The lifebelt, I found, supported my body so that my head from the chin was above water, and I looked about me, taking in the seascape. Being a non-swimmer at that time, I was unable to get clear of the ship, and her enormous bulk seemed likely to topple over upon me at any moment, supposing I was not sucked down one of the huge funnels by the inrush of water. That actually did happen to our Chaplain. He was, subsequently, vomited out again like a rocket and suffered no ill effects, when the water charging up against the heated boilers caused an explosion.