This html article is produced from an uncorrected text file through optical character recognition. Prior to 1940 articles all text has been corrected, but from 1940 to the present most still remain uncorrected. Artifacts of the scans are misspellings, out-of-context footnotes and sidebars, and other inconsistencies. Adjacent to each text file is a PDF of the article, which accurately and fully conveys the content as it appeared in the issue. The uncorrected text files have been included to enhance the searchability of our content, on our site and in search engines, for our membership, the research community and media organizations. We are working now to provide clean text files for the entire collection.
In August 1918, as a sub-lieutenant, Royal Naval Reserve, I was appointed executive officer of His Majesty’s Torpedo Boat 3, the last class of British torpedo boats. Built between 1906 and 1909, there were 36 in all. Originally classed as Coastal Destroyers to be named after insects, the idea was dropped in favor of numbers.
They were sweet little ships of 250 tons, 175 feet long, with a beam of 17% feet and a draft of 5 feet 6 inches. Their oil-fired turbines driving triple screws gave a speed up to 27 knots. The original armament consisted of two 12-pounders (3-inch guns) plus three 18-inch torpedo tubes, but when I joined T.B. 3, the after gun and torpedo tubes had been replaced by two
IATIONAL. MARITIME MUSEUM
racks of depth charges with 40- and 70-foot settings.
The ship’s company comprised a lieutenant in command, a sub-lieutenant as executive officer, two warrant officers—a gunner for torpedo, an engineer, and 30 petty officers and men.
The only cabin in the ship was a small chartroom under the bridge, on whose settee the captain slept while at sea. Otherwise the four of us lived, ate, slept, and had our being in the small wardroom towards the after end of the ship, where there were four bunks, two on each side, lockers for our clothes, and a table in the center. This space was heated by a coal fire which was never lighted at sea. The petty officers and men slung
their hammocks on the messdecks right forward. There was no cooking at sea; we just lived on sandwiches.
To compensate for the discomfort and cramped accommodations, we were paid "Full Hard Lyers” of 2 shillings a day (50 cents). Crews in destroyers with better accommodations were paid "Half Hard Lyers.”
T.B. 3 and T.B. 1, T.B. 14, and T.B. 22 made up the Newhaven Escort Flotilla. Our job was to escort the single ship convoys across the English Channel with supplies and ammunition to Boulogne, Dieppe, and Le Havre, for the troops fighting in France, with a sailing every night to each port. The fourth boat had the night in.
Being the Senior Boat, I was Flotilla Transportation Officer. The mode of transportation was one bicycle.
Until May 1917, when overseas convoys were inaugurated and the escorting destroyers had to remain with the convoys, irrespective of how bad the weather was, I doubt if it was fully realized what punishment destroyers and torpedo boats could take. What T.B. 3 could take, we were to discover later.
Our shallow draft stood us in good stead one night when we ran into dense fog on approaching Le Havre. We had lost contact with the convoy and were running in on dead reckoning when the soundings began to shallow up, so we dropped anchor. Next morning when the fog cleared, much to our surprise, we were anchored inside the net barrage, which was hung from buoys moored right across the entrance to the harbor. With our shallow draft we had steamed right across it without feeling anything. The convoy was outside.
Our real bad weather christening happened one bitter cold night in early November 1918 when there was to be only one night trip and T.B. 22 was the escort.
At 1900 we heard the convoy, a sturdy coaster built specially for the tough cross Channel trade, blow her whistle when she cast off and heard T.B. 22 acknowledge it as she slipped and followed her out to sea. As we sat in front of a cozy fire after an excellent dinner we were sympathizing with T.B. 22 when a signalman entered with copies of signals between T.B 22 and the Senior Naval Officer Newhaven (SNO) a Commander
42 U. S. Naval Institute Proceedings, November 1974
Royal Navy who operated the boats. Our captain read them out: "T.B. 22 to SNO. Weather too bad to proceed. Request permission to return to base.” The answer: "Approved.”
Turning to me, the captain said, "This is a very important convoy. She should have an escort. If 22 can’t make it, we can.”
That was a shocker. Gone was our cozy evening as the captain dictated a message to the SNO: "T.B. 3 is raising steam and will take over the escort duties.” Then again turning to me, he said, "Number One—be ready to slip at 2000.”
Fully realizing what awaited us outside, everything was very securely lashed down and all fires drawn. And that included the galley fire which normally was left burning to make hot cocoa during the night.
We slipped at 2000 and headed down the harbor in the rain and black darkness, all set for our 60-mile haul to Boulogne, and a cold one it would be, for there was no heat outside the engine and boiler rooms.
Once clear of the breakwaters we encountered the full force of a strong southwesterly gale blowing up the English Channel. T.B. 3 quickly commenced to pitch, roll, and wallow as she sheered all over the compass. After catching up with the convoy which had reduced speed to await us on orders from the SNO, course was set to make approximately 090° true, keeping her stern light a couple of points on our port bow.
Although our small bridge was covered in—front, sides, and top—the after end was completely open to the elements and, with the driving rain and spray whirling furiously in, we were soon soaked through, our special woollen coverall suits sodden under our oilskins. Encased in heavy knee-length, leather sea boots, our feet were soon like blocks of ice.
With the rain and spray swirling in front of the bridge windows it was very difficult to see, but along with the port lookout at the side of the bridge, we managed to keep the convoy’s stern light in sight as she rose and fell in the seas, two hundred yards ahead.
The gunner and I were watch and watch, four hours on and four off, and I had the first watch to midnight. The helmsman was having a tough time steering, and I stood for the whole four hours with my feet firmly wedged against the base of the two center wooden uprights supporting the bridge front, my arms thrust through rope grommets fitted on the uprights. We were so cramped for space with two lookouts, a signalman and a standby man, not to mention the man at the wheel, that when the captain came onto the bridge, the standby man had to go below to make room for him.
The seas were making a clean sweep of the decks and at each 30-degree roll to port—we rolled very little to starboard—half the breadth of the deck went under
and remained under for a few seconds as our little ship struggled to free herself of the water holding her down.
Each towering sea roared up out of the gloom from the starboard quarter as if about to engulf us, and its gleaming crest was a very unpleasant thing to see. As it lifted the stern high in the air, our short turtleback forecastle was buried in solid water as far aft as the 12-pounder gun platform, while our triple screws raced madly in space for a few seconds; then down came the stern with a whoosh, followed by a violent shudder as the propellors struck the water. It must have been sheer hell in the engineroom trying to keep the racing under control.
What with the shuddering and vibrating and the groaning of tortured metal, we expected she would fall apart at any time, but she didn’t—for which we had to thank the excellent workmanship of the builders, White’s of Cowes. I was sure that no other torpedo boat had ever gone through such terrific strains as T.B. 3 was going through.
When the gunner was due to relieve me at midnight, it took him over half an hour waiting in the pitch darkness, occasionally illuminated by the ghostly light from the breaking seas, before he had a chance to make a mad dash along the deck without being washed overboard. He was soaked through by the time he reached the bridge and he had to stand his 4-hour watch, cold, wet, and miserable until I relieved him again at 4 a.m
I h d the same problem getting aft and, although we did have lifelines rigged along the deck, it was impossible to run and hang onto them at the same time.
After quite a struggle, I managed to change into dry clothes and flop exhausted into my bunk. I wedged myself in as best I could with both arms and legs. As for sleep—no one got a wink of it during that ghastly night. On looking back, I must admit it was the worst night I have spent at sea in 42 years of sailing all over the world. How we lived through it, only God knew, but He was definitely on our side that night.
Eventually we made the French coast and the convoy headed into Boulogne. When the gunner, who was on watch, asked the captain if he intended going in for shelter until the weather moderated, the answer was a curt no.
As she turned to head back to Newhaven, T.B. 3 took several violent rolls. One was at least 50 degrees and she seemed to hang there momentarily as if uncertain whether to roll right over or not. It was a frightening sensation. It was bad enough running before the wind, but having to slug into it was infinitely worse.
Allowing for leeway, we brought the wind a little less than 3 points on the port bow to make about 270° true. Pitching and corkscrewing into it making 5 to
The T.B. 3 and The Savage Sea 43
6 knots, our little ship seemed to want to stand on her head at times as she buried her turtle deck forward up to and all but carrying away the 12-pounder gun platform just forward of the bridge. We could no more have used that gun or the depth charges than fly; even to see through the bridge windows was well nigh impossible. We appeared to be in the middle of a huge permanent wall of high-flying spray, like an ostrich hiding its head and just as blind. I marvelled how the engines and propellors could stand up to the punishing racing and vibrating.
When day dawned, the seas as seen from the bridge were a frightening yet awe-inspiring sight, especially when we dropped into the trough. That afternoon as we approached Beachy Head, the area round the lighthouse, a little offshore, was a welter of high-flying spray above sea-battered rocks. When we were two miles abeam we had to make a 2-point alteration of course for Newhaven which meant bringing the wind and sea further on the beam.
After the course change, we commenced to roll up to 40 degrees to starboard, but practically nothing to port. This meant that the starboard side of the deck was under water all the time.
When the lighthouse was 4 points abaft the beam my heart nearly stopped when a jangle on the engine room telegraph showed Standby, then a moment later, Stop. The engineer officer then called up through the voicepipe to say he had lost suction and had been compelled to stop the engines as they were running hot. Apparently, with our shallow draft, the heavy rolling to starboard was keeping the intake clear of the water.
I advised him that we were only two miles off a dead lee shore and unless a miracle happened we would be in serious trouble. Then I called the captain who hurried up to the bridge, but there was nothing anyone could do except pray for a miracle to happen. The idea of dropping a drogue over was mooted but to send anyone on deck meant that he would have been quickly washed overboard.
Once we had lost steerageway, the gale and high seas soon commenced to drift us in toward those rocks. It definitely looked as if the sands of time were running out for HM Torpedo Boat No. 3.
The coxswain, a grizzled veteran of a chief petty officer and quite a religious man, standing by the now-useless wheel, knelt down as best he could and offered up a prayer for our ship’s safety. This we heartily endorsed, for if a miracle didn’t happen within the next half hour, we would surely end up battered to pieces on those jagged rocks.
Looking now like tombstones, the rocks were coming ever closer. Suddenly we noticed that the bow appeared to be making a slow trend into the wind. Gradually
the heavy rolling eased as the bow came further into the wind and she began to pitch more. There was a ring on the telegraph: STANDBY. And through the voicepipe came an excited voice, "We’ve picked up suction again.” A few minutes later we were clawing our way off the land and putting distance between what could have been our graves. Then we continued to slog along, making sure we didn’t repeat that heavy rolling to starboard.
Yet we were still not out of trouble. When we arrived off the breakwaters it was dead low water on the bar. Under normal conditions we could cross safely, but there was such a heavy swell running between the breakwaters, it looked more than doubtful. We were now out of the frying pan into the fire. There was no other shelter for many miles and to anchor in such a high sea was impossible. There was only one thing left for our captain to do—make a stab at it. And he did.
In we went with everyone tense and holding his breath. As we rolled heavily to each following swell, first to one side then to the other, we could feel our bilge keels sliding and cutting through the sandy bottom of the bar. Only the scend of the swell saved us from grounding and possibly broaching to and rolling over.
Well—we made it over the bar. Taut faces gave way to happy smiles as the tension died down and we headed for our berth in the deeper water.
After mooring, there was no comment from the captain as he went ashore to report to the SNO. One thing we had learned. That type of weather was definitely not Torpedo Boat weather. We made no more trips in bad weather. Happily, one week later was 11 November and the Armistice.
The Torpedo Boats as such had made their last working trip for the Royal Navy. An interesting era was ended as their books were closed up for all time.
The author joined the Royal Navy from the Merchant Service in October 1915. During World War I, he served, successively, in the armed merchant cruiser HMS Alcantara, the cruiser King Alfred, the destroyers, Hardy and Spitfire, and T.B. 3. Between wars he served with the British India Line out of Calcutta and, later, on runs out of his native Canada to the Orient. He served for various periods of training in battleships, cruisers, destroyers, and in the aircraft carrier Hermes. His World War II service included East Coast convoys and command of HMCS Hamilton. Following his retirement, he served for 12 seasons as Port Captain at Goose Bay, Labrador.