The Sinking of U90

SLt. Dan Dunlop RCNVR, served as the torpedo officer aboard HMCS St. Croix from January to December 1942, when he was drafted off the destroyer to take a long "T" course in England, thus saving him from the ill-fated events of September 1943 which would result in all but one of her crew being lost. The following is based on his diary and a number of other personal papers he has prepared over the years describing his life aboard. For the uninitiated, HMCS St. Croix was built by the Bethlehem Shipbuilding Corp. Ltd. of Quincy, Mass., and was completed in 1919 as the USS McCook. She was one of 50 flush deck destroyers handed over to the RN and RCN in 1940. She was torpedoed and sunk by U305 on September 20, 1943, and although 81 of her crew were rescued by the frigate HMS Itchen, she was torpedoed two days later with only one of St. Croix' crew surviving-stoker Bill Fisher who passed away at age 81 in Westerose, Alberta on April 14, 2001. Paragraphs appearing in italics are excerpts from Dunlop's diary.

When in St. John's, Newfoundland in December 1941, serving as the torpedo officer aboard HMCS St. Clair (a very happy ship and sister to St. Croix), I was told that a signal had arrived drafting me ashore to Halifax for a three month course which would "qualify" me as an anti-submarine officer in a destroyer. This seemed ludicrous to me as I was already a qualified torpedo officer, however, and despite the protestations of the captain of St. Clair, I was instructed in no uncertain terms by Captain D Newfoundland to pack my bags and report to Halifax forthwith!

On reporting to the A/S school in January however, common sense prevailed and it was decided not to duplicate the time and money already spent on my previous three-month torpedo officer's course. Thus it came to be that in January 1942, I was drafted aboard St. Croix, refitting in Saint John, NB, as her torpedo officer. The bright side to all this was that I got to spend Christmas in Halifax with the girl I was madly in love with-Lowis-and eventually married.

Coincidentally, St. Croix also received a new skipper at this time, LCdr. A. H. Dobson, RCNR, who would eventually be lost in the tragic events of September 1943. I was only 21 at the time and I recall thinking the captain was so old-he was likely in his 40s. He was an exceptional officer, fair and very competent. While strict and rather serious in demeanour, we had the greatest confidence in him. Although he was not one to participate in the raucous drinking parties we would have on returning to port following a terrifying convoy escort crossing, he would come down to the wardroom, have a drink and sing "Waltzing Matilda," then get up and leave to return to his cabin above the wardroom, leaving the rest of us to unwind and relax into the wee hours of the morning.

Once the refit was completed in Saint John in April 1942, we did a shakedown cruise to Halifax. Then, after taking on ammunition, sailed for St. John's, Nfld.

Our particular job was relieving the local escorts off St. John's and escorting the convoys into the Western Approaches of Britain. There we would be met by the local RN escort while we nipped into Londonderry, Ireland.

The escorts in those days usually comprised two destroyers and four corvettes per convoy. Of Canada's eight former USN four-stackers, there were only two, St. Francis and St. Croix, that had the fuel capacity to make the long haul across the Atlantic. We carried 100 tons more fuel than the other RCN Town-class, and believe me, there was many a time we wished we didn't carry this extra 100 tons!.

During the months following our refit, we ran steadily across the North Atlantic on escort duty with practically no breakdowns, or, in any event, nothing serious enough to lay us up for more than the usual turnabout time in St. John's or 'Derry. I believe this was some sort of record for the old destroyers of WW1 vintage.

We also set another kind of record; we never had an uneventful trip. By that I mean there was some kind of action on every trip and, I'm sorry to say, there were no trips where we didn't have casualties in the convoy.

The married chaps, Lt. Nelson (Nels) Earl and Lt. Ron Weyman are certainly missing their newly-married wives and cursing the day they came away to sea. It's pretty grim alright for dear only knows when we will get back. This is going to be a long haul. During the storm, the convoy was only making 4-1/2 knots. We are six days out and not near half way yet.

They tell me it's Sunday � not much different from any other day. I see the captain has a clean shirt on, but that seems to be the only visible difference on the Sabbath.

Our anti-submarine screen was very weak; two destroyers and four corvettes simply could not be expected to cover the danger area adequately, and our A/S sets, especially the old American sets we were operating with, had a very limited range. Our radar set was a fairly primitive type and didn't afford anything like the protective screen that the later sets did.

Another day passes. Had a contact last night which routed me out of a more or less peaceful sleep. We dropped a pattern in the usual manner but no subs came to the surface. So, as the captain says, we shall consider it a "non-sub."

During one of these trips we learned from news reports over the W/T that Tirpitz and Von Scheer were out about 600 miles north of our location Everybody suddenly got very anxious concerning the welfare of my torpedoes!

It is curious though, with what a queer detached, impersonal feeling one views these reports; still as if I were home sitting in my armchair in Windsor instead of being right out here in the thick of things.

Our chief engineer was a real character, a Scot from Stornoway in the Hebrides- a perfect W. C. Fields' double-known in the navy as "Wild Willie Pope." He was truly a magnificent engineer and a most amiable companion. He truly knew how to get the most out of the old girl's boilers.

On July 20, 1942, we sailed from Londonderry to rendezvous with Escort Group C2 and another convoy already at sea heading for North America. What a trip this was. We were all hollow-eyed from action station, action station, and then more action stations.

When Jack [Lt. Jack Isard] told me that a black cat was seen on our ship when we were refuelling at Moville, and when I found out that the number of our convoy was ON.113, I figured it would be an auspicious convoy, but never dreamt it would be as grim as it turned out to be.

In short, our convoy, ON 113, was continuously attacked by a pack of U-boats. Most of these action stations followed the same drill, but one was to be different.

The day was July 24, 1942, and we had been detailed by the senior officer (SO) aboard HMS Burnham, an RN Town-class destroyer, to sweep at visual distance ahead.

Lt. Nelson Earl, the senior OOW and I, were on the bridge. It was a bright, clear day and I was really enjoying the rare stretch of sunshine. Suddenly the lookout up the masthead shouted down the tube that he could see two objects, one dead ahead and one on the starboard bow. Radar reported nothing and we could see nothing from the bridge with our glasses. Nels decided to climb up to the crow's nest to see if he could verify the lookout's sighting, and after close scrutiny, confirmed he could see a couple of specks.

The captain was called to the bridge but did not immediately ring for action stations, for whatever the specks were, they were a long way off and didn't present an immediate danger. Failing to spot the objects from the bridge, he decided to climb to the crow's nest himself. After a very short time he agreed something was out there, but radar still reported nothing.

The yeoman flashed a signal across to Burnham on the opposite bow of the convoy, giving the SO the story. It was decided both destroyers would leave the convoy with Burnham pursuing the object dead ahead, and St. Croix heading for the speck off our starboard bow.

We could still see nothing from the bridge so the captain continued to delay the call for action stations. Yet almost immediately, there was an air of expectancy about the ship. The motion of the old ship changed from the slow, lazy roll of a Town-class destroyer zig-zagging at 6 knots, to a much sharper chop as she straightened out and began to pick up speed.

These old four-stackers had four boilers, so to conserve fuel we usually steamed on two boilers with the third on stand-by. The chief engineer gathered his crew about him and I'm certain, broke all existing records in getting the inactive fourth boiler flashed up.

Talk about making smoke, I'm sure we could have been seen in Londonderry! Without exaggerating, chunks of soot like snowballs came pouring out of that fourth boiler. It was my only experience in a Town-class with all four boilers going hellbent for election!

It took about an hour to get her fully worked up to speed. By this time the speck was definitely ascertained to be a U-boat on the surface. St. Croix was clanking and groaning at every seam; the quarterdeck so low that the boys at the depth charge rails were practically afloat. There was a tremendous wake behind us and altogether it was one of the most exhilarating experiences I have ever known.

The next part of the story is probably the most interesting, but I have to relate it second-hand, as I heard it through the phone from the bridge. It appeared the U-boat, which was now plainly visible moving directly away from us at high speed, throwing a great wash, was not the only object on the horizon. A new object had appeared which at our speed, soon proved to be a large merchant ship with distinctive diagonal grey and white camouflage markings. Single unescorted merchant ships were rarely seen, and when they were, they were viewed with great suspicion, even though they usually turned out to be quite harmless neutrals. While the unidentified ship was still some distance away, the captain started signalling from the bridge, warning her there was a German U-boat headed toward her. This is all a bit jumbled in my mind as I was still aft, however it appeared that no recognition signals were returned. Whoever it was, she chose not to understand us. At this point the strange ship was about three miles ahead of us and the U-boat between us, was about two miles ahead.

Now a strange thing happened. The sub veered to port and our captain, feeling no doubt that a U-boat in hand was worth more than a suspicious ship in the bush, promptly altered course to port after the sub. It was then that we "lackeys" on the quarterdeck got an opportunity to see this suspicious ship as she passed by down our starboard side. We guessed her to be a large merchant ship, in the range of 8,000 to 9,000 tons. While she had every appearance of a normal freighter, her camouflage looked too slick and clever for any neutral tramp. Speculation was rife that she might be a U-boat mother ship, or even a raider; something that could easily make mincemeat of our poor, tired, old destroyer.

The torpedo party immediately gained new stature. The old Mk. IV torpedoes we carried, usually the object of scorn by everyone on board, were suddenly looked upon with respect. If this unknown surface ship turned out to be what our fears painted her, the tin fish we carried were all we had to rely on. Any further debate concerning her identity came to a rapid halt with a great bang forward as our "A" gun, an ancient 4-inch on the foc'sle, fired upon our old friend the U-boat which was now about a mile and a half ahead, still high-tailing it on the surface. I believe we got off about three rounds when the gun jammed and could no longer be fired. If we had to go into action against the supposed raider, we now had just the 12-pdr. aft, and our antique torpedoes. The prestige of the gun crew fell to a new low.

All of this excitement on the bridge was galling to me and my crew on the quarterdeck, and as the chase was now nearing the two and one-half hour mark, we were more than frustrated by the meagre reports that the communications officer on the bridge relayed to us. Finally, when the U-boat was not much more than a mile off, he crash-dived. Our moment had finally arrived!

The sonar picked up the U-boat and held him right from the start. He apparently didn't alter course so we ran right over him and made a text book attack; everything working to perfection. Following this first attack, the sonar picked up the target again as we came around. Again we ran over him, dropping another pattern.

We (the depth charge gang) got into action and dropped three beautiful patterns on him in quick succession. Results were more than satisfactory, every possible type of evidence came up � too gruesome to mention in case feminine eyes scan this some day. Needless to say, we had sunk and sub � so we were all very proud.

We turned and came back into the flotsam and jetsam, and it was only then that we started looking around for our suspected U-boat mother ship. She was nowhere to be seen! In the excitement of the attacks she had slipped away out of sight. She wasn't that far from us when we started our first attack on the sub, so she must have had a fair turn of speed. Whatever the case, we never saw her again, and speaking for the torpedo party, none of us shed any tears at losing her. We had collected the terrible evidence of the U-boat's loss as proof of the "kill" for the Admiralty. Burnham, which came up at this time, corroborated our story.

As an aside, we believed the U-boat must have surmised we were a corvette, not a destroyer. Their tactics called for luring corvettes away from the convoy, as with their superior surface speed, U-boats could easily outrun a corvette. This of course, would make a hole in the escort screen, enabling their fellow U-boats to penetrate the convoy with often disastrous results. If this was the case, this particular U-boat, later determined to be U90, had made a fatal mistake.

[For the] next four days and nights, we were at action stations nearly all the time, attacked and harried by U-boats all the way. We lost four ships torpedoed, but luckily, most of the men were picked up. We made several attacks but no more successful ones, and it was a shagged-out, sleepy, deadbeat destroyer's crew that welcomed the local escort that took over from us at Westomp.

At that time it was the first accredited kill by a Canadian destroyer on the mid-ocean run, so when we arrived in Newfoundland the town literally lay at our feet. The admiral and his staff, not to mention countless others, came aboard with the inevitable result that our wardroom bar account grew by leaps and bounds. But nobody cared � success had truly gone to our heads!

However, pride goeth before the fall, and sure enough, we soon lost our glamour a few days later when HMCS Assiniboine limped into St. John's with her bow bashed in and her hull riddled with gunfire. She had been engaged in a running fight with a U-boat (U210) which she rammed and sunk- an exciting battle which made our depth charge attack pale in significance. The result was that the Admiral and his staff, and all the rest of the hangers-on, moved from the wardroom of St. Croix to that of Assiniboine, leaving us alone to muse at our fleeting fame, but not without the consolation that our wine bills would now descend to a more normal level!

During our stay in St. John's they decided to fit new pumps, so leave was granted to some of the married men while I was "browned" off to become a sort of super boy scout leader and take the crew up to a camp which Captain D had established for the men outside St. John's. I had a surprisingly good time and really enjoyed loafing around in the sun, playing ball, etc.

Back to sea, another trip over and back, weather not so hot.

Forgot to mention we have a new No. 1, Lt. Tim Porter RCN, ex-Assiniboine. Too bad the Assiniboine gets into action for the first time, gets a sub just two weeks after ours � and will be giving long leave to everyone while she gets patched up, and poor old No. 1 misses everything!

On another occasion I am reminded of the twenty survivors we picked up from the SS Seucia. They had obviously been in a lifeboat for a long time. One of them was a woman, though none of us knew it when we hauled them up on deck. When the fact became known, as the junior SLt. on board I was ordered to surrender my bunk to the poor girl. It was absolutely remarkable how, after a few days rest and nourishment, she changed into a very attractive young lady. As a parting gesture when we reached port, she gave me a pair of nylon stockings she had saved from the sinking, and my wife Lowis wore them two years later on our wedding day.

We now jump ahead to September 1942, having since made the most harrowing and nerve-racking trip back to St. John's.

I can't bring myself to write down what an appalling percentage of the convoy [ON.127] was lost. Our fellow destroyer, the Ottawa, was hit alongside us [torpedoed by U91] and 111 men died [later determined to be 141; 5 officers, 108 crew, 6 RN seamen and 22 merchant seamen]. All the escort vessels left are crammed with survivors from this and the many merchant ships gone forever. A picture or scene rather I shall never forget was the St. Croix steaming through crowds of survivors from, we think, the Ottawa, listening to them drown and call for help and we not able to stop, being in contact with the sub all the while.

We had a very short and maddeningly busy time during our stay in Newfie followingthat convoy. I was very busy taking stock, replenishing stores-came in with only two depth charges (we normally carry 100!). Did sight tests on the torpedo tubes and had to rush around making arrangements to get another "fish" on board.

The old doc is here in the cabin with me now [Surg. Lt. Adelard Trottier]. He is wearing that red plaid shirt of which he is so proud. His excuse is that it doesn't show the dirt, but I say he just has a flair for colour, and if the gunnery officer and leading steward can wear their's, why can't he?

Made another trip across, but uneventful. We were hove to for a couple of days due to a gale, but we will be quite thankful if gales are all we have to worry about.

Forgot to say that the old chief [engineer] is no longer with us. He was getting in pretty seedy shape-too much drinking after the last trip so the captain had him sent on leave. He deserved it, not having had any for 19 months. We think it is a tough life, but we must remember that the chief is over 50!

I managed to get leave on one of our trips to Derry and determined to go over to Scotland to look up some of my Scottish relatives. I had grown a beard, and I knew my rather conservative mother would not have approved of my meeting her sisters with a heavy growth, so I shaved it off.

On returning aboard ship I was understandably surprised and shocked to be summoned to the captain's cabin. I was promptly told by captain Dobson that I had no right to shave off my beard without his permission. Upon proclaiming my ignorance, he hauled out his copy of KR & AI and proceeded to thumb through it to show me the regulation. The upshot was that after a half hour of searching he couldn't find it, and finally told me in no uncertain terms to "get out!" I never heard any more about it.

On our way back to Newfiejohn we endured four days of continuous storms and gales. Not much fun constantly hanging on to stanchions, being heaved out of your bunk, and desperately performing juggling acts at every meal time.

On our next trip to Derry we only had five days of leave and I was duty for one of them.

Nels [Earl] and I saw Alice Faye in a show at the Royal Naval Hall our first night in. She certainly supplies a vital need after two weeks at sea!

On a later trip we found ourselves bound for the Azores, those romantic Portuguese islands of Sir Richard Grenville fame. It came about as a result of being buffeted and lashed by a stream of continuous gales which drove us far off course to the south, diminishing our never-ample fuel supply to an alarming degree. We dashed down to refuel and the spirits of the men rose considerably at the thought of seeing something new, arriving on October 22 (though it seemed like July!).

Nels and I, when our watch was over, went ashore about one in the morning. It was a pleasure to stretch the old legs again. You don't realize how cramped you are on a destroyer 'till you try walking again on land. I anyway, felt quite excited and elated at this, my first glimpse of a totally foreign country. This feeling was heightened by the dress of the Portuguese sentries along the jetty side, their dress and funny little round military hats reminding me of pictures of men in the French Foreign Legion.

We slipped at dawn the next day. We got what we came for, namely oil, and soon found ourselves roaring up on a nor-westerly course to overtake the convoy again.

On our way back to Newfiejohn, we experienced engine trouble and found ourselves dead in the water in the middle of a definite U-boat area. The old cry of "refit" was once more making the rounds of the ship and the old packet deserved a good rest soon, following a steady six months at sea.

Had a good chicken dinner yesterday-the chickens we bought in the Azores! Had to laugh at Leading Seaman Pettigrew our vociferous red-bearded Frenchman. He said they were, "Just f___ing sparrows, not chickens!" The chickens were rather small, but certainly a tasty change.

My tour aboard St. Croix came to an end in December when, much to my good fortune, I was drafted off to take a six month long (T) course at HMS Vernon in the UK.

In September 1943, HMCS St. Croix was lost when she became one of the first victims of the new German acoustic torpedo (GNAT). We lost one of the finest captains in the Royal Canadian Navy, and many of the fine officers and men with whom I had shared the grim experiences of the Battle of the Atlantic in 1942, indisputably the worst year for losses in the North Atlantic.