The Ghost Ships of Archangel: The Arctic Voyage That Defied the Nazis
William Geroux. Virginia Beach, VA: Viking, 2019. 338 pp. Notes. Biblio. Index. Illus. $28.
MOST IMMEDIATE: Convoy is to scatter.
“Having heard the expression ‘All hell broke loose’ used many times as a figure of speech, we found ourselves in the middle of the real thing.”
–Lieutenant William Carter
Thus begins the core of The Ghost Ships of Archangel, which chronicles four crews fighting the worst convoy massacre of World War II. Deserted by their Royal Navy escorts, fighting swarms of Luftwaffe aircraft, and stalked by U-boat wolf packs, only 15 of convoy PQ-17’s 39 ships survived. Instead of continuing east through the enemy gauntlet, which almost would have ensured their destruction, four ships made the perilous choice of heading north into an ice field.
Geroux does an excellent job explaining the political and military background and situation in the summer of 1942 that led up to PQ-17. Correspondence between Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin make interesting reading. This is particularly true of Roosevelt’s faith that Stalin would keep his promises, a belief that was proven to be naïve.
As with previous authors, Geroux minutely examines the origins of the faulty intelligence that led Admiral Sir Dudley Pound, First Sea Lord, to unilaterally issue the fateful dispersal order. Also covered is Hitler’s order to Admiral Erich Raeder for the battleship Tirpitz to interdict the convoys instead of remaining safely anchored in a Norwegian fjord. Relating these parts of the story is de rigueur for any work about the Arctic convoys.
For the human side of the story, the author’s main focus is on the four “ghost ships”: SS Troubadour, Ironclad, and Silver Sword and HMT Ayrshire, the one Royal Navy escort remaining in the convoy. The story of the ships primarily is told using excerpts from the previously untapped diaries and interviews with the families of Ensign Howard Carraway, U.S. Naval Reserve, who commanded the Naval Armed Guard on board the Troubadour; Lieutenant William A. Carter, U.S. Navy Reserve, leading the Naval Armed Guard on board the Ironclad; and Lieutenant Leo Joseph Anthony Gradwell, Royal Naval Reserve, commanding officer of the Ayrshire. Perhaps the most interesting stories come from interviews with one of the remaining living survivors of PQ-17—James Baker “Jim” North III, one of the Troubadour’s merchant seaman.
The author follows the men’s round-trips from Hvalfjödur, Iceland, to their seemingly interminable stay in Archangelsk, and back to Hvalfjödur. While the four ghost ships occupy center stage, stories of other PQ-17 ships and men flesh out the narrative.
Geroux’s inclusion of their impressions of events, activities, and people in Archangelsk and the nearby ports adds much to the narrative. Through North’s voice, Geroux tells of the routine brutality political prisoners and German POWs were subject to. This, to some extent, is explained in that the men assigned to guard the POWs were veterans of the Eastern Front. The one failure Geroux makes relating the events in Russia is that he does not mention the ruthlessness of Stalin’s secret police, the NKVD, toward their own people and Allied personnel. For example, in Murmansk, the NKVD detained or simply shot sailors seen climbing over the wall of the compound where they were billeted. Any woman discovered to be involved with a foreign sailor was either sent to Siberia or drowned in the harbor.
In the last chapter, Geroux tells what happened to the PQ-17 survivors who returned home. Again, this is a nice touch and often missing from other stories. His 21 pages of notes and sources are well worth reading.
The Ghost Ships of Archangel is a remarkable and well-told story of ingenuity and heroism. And it offers fresh insights into the an oft-told tale of the four ships that chose to risk possible death in nature’s ice fields rather than almost certain death at the hands of their fellow men.
To Master the Boundless Sea: The U.S. Navy, the Marine Environment, and the Cartography of Empire
Jason W. Smith. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2018. 280 pp. Illus. Notes. Biblio. Index. $35.
Jason Smith is an assistant professor of history at Southern Connecticut State University. In six chapters and 209 pages of text, he traces the U.S. Navy’s development and use of hydrography and cartography during the 18th and early 19th centuries. His basic thesis is that work by “naval scientists” gave the United States invaluable tools for its imperial interests in acquiring new lands for the nation and controlling the oceans. It was an uneven history that included four wars as the United States and its navy moved around the globe with increasing confidence.
Other major maritime nations were following similar paths. For example, by the mid-1800s, the world’s leading source of hydrographic knowledge and production of maritime charts was the United Kingdom’s Hydrographic Office. In 1855, it produced more than 130,000 nautical charts that were widely available to mariners worldwide. Its catalog listed 1,981 charts covering much of the world.
The author’s impressive research and analysis about the early years of the U.S. evolution of sea power has contemporary importance. The durable takeaway here is that effective use of the sea depends on a working partnership between the scientific community and seagoing operational forces.
Smith states that this book is derived from his doctoral dissertation. That type of data-rich academic rigor is evident here, with 55 pages (20 percent) of the book being notes (references), bibliography, and index. There are 32 illustrations, but they are difficult to decipher. They would have been more useful in supporting the text if the publisher had used full-page formats.
The author uses some terms that are a bit different from those used in the oceanographic community. He uses the term “control of the oceans” not as a strategic concept alone, but also implying control of the natural environment. The reality is that you can resist nature but not control it.
In referring to the U.S. expansion of territory in the era of global colonialism, Smith often uses the term “the Imperial United States.” This seems pejorative when comparing U.S. expansionist activities of that time relative to those of the major European powers.
One small nitpick. On page 205 it was Lieutenant Colonel “Pete” Ellis, U.S. Marine Corps, who did clandestine survey work for the Marine Corps in Micronesia during the early 1920s, not “LCDR Ellis.”
As a former dissertation, the prose in this book can be somewhat dense for many readers. However, for scholars interested in early U.S. historical experience in the hydrographic and chart-making fields, this will be a good source of references. Full of useful research material, it should be in your library.
Wade McClusky and the Battle of Midway
David Rigby. Oxford U.K.: Osprey, 2019. 384 pp. Notes. Biblio, Index. $35.
In the 1942 Battle of Midway, Lieutenant Commander C. Wade McClusky was one of history’s briefest players on the global stage. Like one-shot heroes Wyatt Earp, Admiral George Dewey, Charles Lindbergh, and John Glenn, McClusky played his vital role—more vital than any of those others—and quietly exited stage right.
As commander of the USS Enterprise’s (CV-6) air group, McClusky was a 40-year-old alumnus of the U.S. Naval Academy, class of 1926. His dogged pursuit of the Japanese carrier force on the morning of 4 June was critical to the outcome of the historic battle. He put his years of flying experience to superb use, leading two squadrons of SBD Dauntless dive bombers that destroyed two of Japan’s four carriers. Within minutes, the USS Yorktown (CV-5) Dauntlesses wrecked the third, leaving the final imperial flattop to its fate in the evening. Wounded that morning, McClusky was sidelined for the rest of the battle.
McClusky’s post-Midway career was unremarkable. As biographer David Rigby details, he filled various instructor and staff positions, commanded an escort carrier, and retired with a “tombstone” promotion to rear admiral in 1956.
Using family contacts and a variety of records, Rigby provides an in-depth treatment of McClusky’s life from childhood to retirement and his death in 1976. The text is heavily footnoted, with an extensive bibliography.
However, the author makes some peculiar statements, such as the Japanese were “actively beaten” at Midway. Presumably the alternative would be “inactively beaten.”
For reasons obscure and unfathomable, Rigby declares that, “the bulk of Midway literature persists in describing McClusky’s actions . . . as ‘routine.’” More significantly, Rigby flatly states that McClusky “is generally disliked by historians.” Both statements are untrue and scuttle any pretense of objectivity. Every significant Midway historian—from Samuel Eliot Morison to Walter Lord to Gordon Prange to Jon Parshall and Anthony Tully—has lauded Wade McClusky’s contribution to victory. In my first book (The Dauntless Dive Bomber of World War II, Naval Institute Press, 1976) I wrote of McClusky, “It was as if a British major had been called upon to decide the crucial moment at Waterloo.”
Much of Rigby’s Midway chapter focuses on McClusky’s controversial targeting of two Japanese carriers. Presumably, standard doctrine held that the trailing squadron would attack the nearer target, though the author demonstrates inconsistencies in the doctrine. Also, possibly because of radio problems, McClusky led his scouts and most of the bombers down on the Kaga, the nearer carrier. Lieutenant Richard Best, trailing with his two Bombing Six wingmen, astutely tackled the farther target, the flagship Akagi, with lethal results.
Contrary to most biographies, Rigby adopts a familiarity with his subject. Throughout, he refers to “Wade” rather than “McClusky.” Furthermore, he displays an unfamiliarity with naval terminology. He refers to CVE “composite air groups” when escort carriers operated composite squadrons. At least one aircraft type is misidentified: the “Douglas R5-D” when the R5D was the Curtiss Commando, C-46 to the Army.
Rigby touches on the notion that McClusky deserved the Medal of Honor. By any objective measure, he did nothing above and beyond—he was a combat commander who commanded his unit. What he lacked was political clout, as both Theodore Roosevelt and his namesake son received the medal merely for leading their units in combat. But it is safe to say that “the big one” has been awarded for less than what was done in battle by McClusky.
Despite its lapses, Rigby’s McClusky biography fills a long-empty space in naval history. It is lamentable that another one-shot Midway player remains far better known. Then-Ensign George Gay enjoyed celebrity status for more than five decades based on his spurious claim as “the sole survivor of Torpedo Eight.” (In fact, there were two other VT-8 survivors, from the land-based detachment.) Aside from their relative contributions to the battle, the difference between McClusky and Gay is that the former cared little for the public eye while the latter relished it.
More to the point: George Gay was merely lucky. Wade McClusky was a war winner.