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Occasional Paper 56: Recollections of founding the Naval Historical Society

June 2019

In 1970 Lew Lind, Rod Atwill, Alan Payne and myself found ourselves with the responsibility of putting together an association which we were to call the Naval Historical Society.  There were not very many founder-members, but we set to and designed, in the months to follow, an anchor logo for the mail which we sent out, and a tie for the members to wear.

I had the combined duties of Secretary/Treasurer for some time, and I remember developing a system whereby I knew when people became unfinancial, by arranging twelve envelopes addressed to individual members at the time they joined; when there were no more envelopes, then we were due for another annual subscription.

The arrangement for addressing them was itself quite ingenious – I found a stationer’s shop in North Sydney, it is so long ago now that I have quite forgotten where, who sold a little roller-printer like a rubber stamp, with ink in the handle, and a typed stencil which was clipped across the semi-circular roller; once each address had been typed and the stencil fitted, it was a very easy job to run off twelve envelopes, one for every month of the Bulletins which Lew produced so efficiently.  We utilised the Kalamazoo system of accounting, which was so simple and so easy that even I could operate it.

At one time, around 1974 or 1975 I had one bedroom full of the books that Lew and Alan had written; it had been necessary to store them somewhere when various buildings in the Dockyard were changed in their uses, and so my little house in Dover Heights became a book store: I had been in the habit of collecting them directly from the printers and they were stacked right up to the deckhead, and eventually, when space became available in the Dockyard again, it took dozens of carloads to shift them all down there.

There was one time when Lew and I went to see Manly Council.  We had a scheme, drawn up in considerable detail, for the aircraft carrier SYDNEY to be installed alongside the old gas-works by Kurraba Point, and although they were in agreement with the scheme on the first occasion we saw them, only two or three days later when we went back to see them again, it was as though they had all been poisoned against the idea, because there was not a single consenting voice, and we were completely frozen out.

On another occasion we had a beautiful proposal for mounting the complete superstructure of the old SYDNEY by the southern pylons of the Harbour Bridge.  I got hold of the drawings from the Drawing Office, and I worked out, from the plate thicknesses (remembering that 1” plate weighs 40 lbs per square foot) the total weight of the steel in the structure; but for one reason or another, the scheme never came to fruition – it was a great pity, she would have looked jolly good, mounted there, with all her navigation lights shining brightly at night.

But the one project which did actually see the light of day was the salvage of the bows and stern of the old PARRAMATTA, stranded high up on the mud of the banks of the Hawkesbury River.  We had a lot of fun with that one, with the contractor’s crawler crane mounted on a lighter, and another lighter for the bow and stern sections of the old ship.  She was very dangerous to crawl around, as most of the steel plating had corroded nearly right through, and was only paper-thin in most places.  I shall always remember seeing the thick growth of mangroves through her bottom-plating in the Engine Room (what there was left of it).  She had been there since 1934.

It was Wednesday afternoon, I fancy, when we steamed back from the Hawkesbury, with our two big trophies, and we paraded them past the ships in the Dockyard, with a big sign on the bow section – ‘HMAS PARRAMATTA – FIRST SHIP OF THE RAN’.

The contractor did all the work, and he found it dangerous when his crane fell through the rotting deck of the lighter, at Church Point, while trying to get the crane back ashore; there was only the tip of the jib showing above the surface, and a great big jagged hole in the deck of the lighter.  It was also difficult when he had to shift the huge pieces of the old ship down the Parramatta Road to get them into the Council’s yard.

Lew’s book on PARRAMATTA has photographs of these events, but not the crane having fallen through the lighter’s deck; it was very fortunate that nobody was hurt that day.

HMAS Parramatta bow at Garden Island

When the time eventually came to unveil the stern section of the ship in Queen’s Park, the Mayor, making his speech of introduction, got his aldermen and his admirals hopelessly confused.  Admiral V.A.T. Smith was the senior officer present on that particular occasion.

HMAS Parramatta stern at Parramatta

The little tin shed between the Sign writers’ Shop and the back of the Barracks Building became a general storehouse for the Society after all our various bits and pieces (and there were a lot of them) had to be shifted from the cupboards in the Personnel Building.  Racks and racks of books, magazines, old pictures and historic photographs had to be sorted and sifted, and collected when needed.

During those early formative years, we had meetings all over the place; Johnnie’s in Grosvenor Street in the City was a favourite spot; a grand old building, full of Naval history.

We used to tote around an amplifier and a couple of loudspeakers, with miles of wire so they could be mounted in the most suitable position.  One particular occasion I remember was the launching of Lew’s book on PARRAMATTA; he had invited RADM Doyle, who was her Engineer Officer in 1914; it was indeed an honour to meet him.  The launch was made by Commodore ‘Red’ Merson.

We had one wonderful evening onboard MELBOURNE, and we got Austin Frauenfelder to come with us – he was a flying instructor before the formation of the RFC, and that’s a long time ago; he used to discourage his pupils from flying over the sea, as “they might get their feet wet”. He was one of the very few men who had actually flown the very aircraft in which Bleriot crossed the Channel on 25 July 1909.  It was a 25-HP plane, of his own design, and the story goes that only because it was raining at the time did the engine keep cool enough on the way over.

The whole story of the Naval Historical Society is one of great credit to Lew Lind, the founder, first President and father of the Society which has gone from strength to strength since that first day in the classroom by the Post Office.

 

Author Churchill, Peter, Lieutenant Commander, RN (Rtd)

Occasional Paper 55: Reuben Mitchell DSM, RAN – Survivor of HMS E14

June 2019

The following story is of an Australian Able Seaman whom some military historians believe should have been awarded the Victoria Cross for his courage and compassion while under enemy fire from Turkish guns in the Dardanelles during World War I.  The most senior survivor was Petty Officer Coxswain Robert Perkins, DSM who wrote in a report, ‘Reuben Mitchell acted most gallantly.  He was on the conning tower with three officers, passing orders below to the helmsman.  All the officers were swept off the bridge by shellfire and he was left all alone. Although the enemy had the exact range and he was clearly visible, he stuck to his post and took charge of the boat until it sank.  When in the water, he then rescued the wireless operator who was unconscious from head wounds.  There was no senior officer left to recommend him for his outstanding gallantry, and his only reward was the self-evident fact that he had done his duty.’

Reuben Joseph Edward Mitchell was born in Ballarat, Victoria on 28 July, 1894.  Having joined the Royal Navy based on the Australian Station, he served on several ships before joining HMS Challenger and sailing to England on the ship’s return in 1913.  It was while at Portsmouth that he volunteered for submarines and on completion of his training at HMS Dolphin based on Fort Blockhouse, and at HMS Vernon, which included training in HM Submarines A6, A13 and E4, he joined HMAS AE2 to return to Australia as an Able Seaman.

The complete crew of HMAS AE2, taken in the UK in 1914.
Mitchell is second from the right in the top row

When AE2 was deployed to the Mediterranean, Mitchell found himself transferred to spare crew on a submarine repair ship when AE2 undertook her sortie up the Dardanelles in April, 1915.

On 27 January 1918, Able Seaman Mitchell was included in the crew of HMS E14 under the command of Lt-Cdr G.S. White, RN, when they set out to torpedo the German battle cruiser Goeben, which had been damaged by a mine and run aground off Nagara Point in the Dardanelles.

HMS E14

The source for most of this story was written by Mitchell himself in a report which was recently found in a file located in the Sampson Collection on Spectacle Island. It is reproduced here verbatim.

Mitchell’s own account

‘HM Submarine E14, Lieutenant Commander White, RN, left a naval base on the evening of 27 January with an escort as far as the entrance to the Dardanelles. At 3 am 28 January, we forced our way through the first line of nets without resistance. All went well until about 6 am, when we ran aground and were caught in the nets, which we could not clear, so we surfaced, and the Captain went out and cleared the obstacle. We believed it to be the nets, but the Captain did not say. Before going out, the Captain left orders for the Lieutenant to dive at once should he whistle or sing out, and to ‘look after himself as there were 31 men inside; never to mind him.’ While the Captain was on the surface, he found the gates of the Narrows, and that we were at Chanak. He did not hear a shout or anything and came inside the boat and went astern into deep water, and got away without being seen. These were the last nets we felt.

Now the search for the Goeben started and I believe we went on for two miles past Nagara Point and found the Goeben had gone. We found out during our capture that she was taken away six hours before, this we got from a Turkish naval man, who helped get her off. When the Captain found that she had gone, he went back for home, but at Chanak, there was a large German liner which we believed had ammunition for the Goeben.

SMS Goeben

We fired one torpedo at her and a heavy explosion took place. Our boat came to the surface and a heavy fire came from all the forts. Many pieces of shrapnel hit the boat, then a large shell hit the conning tower and did a bit of damage. The captain was pleased at the moment with the behaviour of the crew, not a man moving from his station. Several shells were then heard to pass overhead, but luckily they did not drop a depth charge.

After a time, the boat got out of control, and as we had only three bottles of air left, the Captain thought it would be best to surface. At once we could hear heavy fire and we could hear pieces hit the hull of our boat. As a result of a hit in the centre of the boat, it could not dive again. We ran the gauntlet for half an hour under murderous fire from all round, only a few hitting the hull of the boat. Our wireless operator was badly wounded in the mouth and the left hand, and fell unconscious. The Captain, seeing it was hopeless ran the boat towards shore. His last words were, ‘We are in the hands of God, my men. Do your best to get ashore’.

Captain killed

A few seconds later, I saw his body mangled by shellfire, roll into the water and was taken under. The same shell killed the Navigator, and left me by myself, and other shells killed nearly all the hands.

Had the Turks stopped firing as soon as they saw us sinking, with a few wounded on deck, many more might have been saved. It must have been half an hour before they put out for us. Amid the cries of the wounded men in the water, several voices were heard saying ‘Goodbye, goodbye all’. Their hands went up and they disappeared for the last time.

Only nine survived

It was hell; when I look back at that fatal half hour, it haunts me. As no boat seemed to be coming out to pick us up, we made for Kum Kale, and were picked up only a few yards from the shore. Soon after the Turks got hold of us, all our clothing was taken from us, and we had to walk through Kum Kale naked. It broke our hearts when we saw only nine had been saved out of 32 officers and men. The three wounded were in a very bad state and unconscious when I saw them last.

On arrival at a small hut, a short pair of trousers, all patchwork, was given to us to put on, which we found to be full of lice. No underclothing was given to us. A small fire was made in a room, and we were very glad to get it as we were very cold; and shortly a filthy-looking Turk brought us some hot tea without milk or sugar. That is all he gave us to bring us round again.

In the evening, we were sent to Chanak and handed over the Germans, and here we remained for two days. Here we were sent to a small room for the night, feeling very tired and hungry, as the crew had nothing while submerged in the Dardanelles and it was midnight when a Turk came with some black barley and maize bread and a dish of beans boiled in olive oil which we could not manage to eat. This was our daily meal; two meals a day and one maize loaf and a bucket of water. During our time at Chanak many visits were paid by newspaper reporters and Germans of high rank.

Sleep was out of the question that night. Many questions were asked of us concerning England. They were under the impression that England was in a very bad state, as the submarine menace was hitting us hard. On the following day, we were sent to Constantinople, and when we arrived were taken on board a German liner, used as German Headquarters. Here we went before a court of German and Turkish officers, one at a time, and many jokes were passed.

At 5.30, we were taken over to the Turks and were taken through Istanbul thinking we were going to a British camp, but found ourselves behind prison bars, for what reason I do not know. We were housed in filthy compartments, among some of the biggest criminal prisoners in Turkey, sitting in a room with huge chains and handcuffs on.

The place was full of lice and bugs. We remained there for two days and then went to another room with 150 of the same kind of criminals, some dying of cholera and dysentery. When we arrived we asked for bread which was not brought to us until 36 hours after. A man named Firuze Hanzandian, an Armenian subject, bought four loaves of bread with one Turkish pound and then gave them to us. He got a flogging for it and was not allowed to talk to us. He said, ‘I am not a rich man, but I am a man.’

Time went on and we were getting very bad; no clothing to cover us up at night, and nothing to lie on but the cold bare floor. We complained of the filthy rooms in which we had to eat and sleep, suffering the same punishment as the criminal offenders who were guilty. After this, another room was allotted to us, which was quite as bad, the smell and stench being abominable. Owing to this, fever and dysentery broke out, which eventually became so bad that two men lay weak on the floor. A doctor was asked for; he came 24 hours after, and the two men were sent to hospital. During our time in prison, no bedding or any covering was given to us. Drinking water had to be obtained from the urinals.

British camp

We eventually saw two British officers and told them of the conditions we were living under as prisoners of war. Pressure having been brought to bear, we were sent to British camp at Samatyra and that consisted of a school room with 150 English (servicemen), some with arms and legs off, waiting to be exchanged. We had no fires unless we could buy our own fuel; no books or anything to read, and hardly any food, only two meals a day and one loaf of bread. I remained in the camp two days and was sent to hospital with typhus fever and dysentery. Weak as I was, I had five miles to walk, arriving almost dead and hungry. A Turk was turned out of one bed and I was told to get in it. I refused and was handled roughly, and given another bed, which was just as bad. The bed and clothing was covered in lice and not many hours after I was covered with vermin.

The following morning I was sent to the typhus ward, and there I found one of my comrades. I was put in the next bed but one, after turning a Turk out, and getting into his clothing. I was in this ward for about two weeks, and left it like a bag of bones and my body almost black with lice. On three occasions the Dutch Embassy gave two ½ lb tins of milk and a third one to go between three Englishmen. My meals were mostly baked wheat or spinach, and that was what I pulled around on.

At times the Embassy used to bring us a little food, about three parcels for all the English, and you got a little tea, sugar, butter, jam, just enough for one piece of bread. What food you received from the hospital was no good. At last we asked to be discharged and weak as we were, we were sent to a working camp.’

After the War

Mitchell returned to London after being liberated at the end of the war where he was able to recuperate from his time in prison. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Medal on 12 December, 1919. He returned to Australia where he married and raised three children. He passed away on 16 August 1954, aged 60.

Victoria Cross

In a footnote to the above, the Commander of the E14, Lt-Cdr Geoffrey White RN, was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross, gazetted on 24 May, 1919 for his part in the action in the Dardanelles, which had started the day before the boat set out.

He flew as a passenger in an aircraft during the aerial bombing of Goeben to see her position for himself and to plan his method of attack.

The award of the Victoria Cross to White created a record as HMS E14 is the only vessel in the history of the Royal Navy in which two different commanding officers had won the Victoria Cross, the other Commander being Lt-Cdr Edward Courtney Boyle, RN, who was presented his Victoria Cross on 1 March, 1916 for actions during the 1915 Gallipoli campaign. when the submarine went on a sortie through the straits and past minefields into the Sea of Marmara.

Wreck identified

The wreck of HMS E14 was identified in 2012 found lying at a depth of 65ft at an angle of almost 45 degrees with sand covering nearly all the 181ft vessel.

At least one shell hole was visible near the bows, but that appeared to be the only one.

 

 

Occasional Paper 54: The Church Pennant

May 2019

The Church Pennant: A Naval Furphy

While researching naval history Society’s Senior Researcher, John Smith regularly encounters mythology which is perpetuated over time unless cation is taken to correct them.  This paper is intended to correct misunderstanding about the origin of the Church Pennant flown in many navies.

John Smith is a long-term member of the Society and former Committee member.  As a researcher he regularly responds to a broad spectrum of requests from around the World.

The Church Pennant is hoisted as a signal indicating that the ship’s company is engaged in divine service.  It may also be flown by a vessel or craft when carrying a body or ashes from shore to a ship for committal at sea or by a vessel or craft carrying out a funeral.  It is also flown by Shore Establishments when church services are being conducted.

It is accepted routine that when the Church Pennant is flown that;

  • other vessels should reduce speed and pass with caution.
  • other warships do not send signals except in an emergency. This applies to marks of respect and saluting other warships.

So, what is the origin of the Church Pennant?

There is an oft-repeated version that attributes it to the Dutch Wars of 1652 to 1674.  Both opposing Admirals, Tromp and Blake, were devoutly religious and agreed that, when it became necessary to carry out the burial of the dead or to conduct divine service, the ship concerned would hoist the national flags of both countries during which operation no action would take place.  This combined hoist was reputedly the red cross of St. George to which was attached the red, white and blue horizontal tricolour bands of the Netherlands flag.

Incidentally the earliest recorded use of the Church Pennant is to be found in article 10 of the RN Additional Instructions of 1778.

This is a naval furphy !!!

Well before the Dutch Wars there was a similar pennant in naval use called the Common or Union Pennant which had no meaning as a signal flag when flown by itself.  However, when flown in conjunction with other flags, it could be used to indicate;

  • working the cable.
  • man overboard.
  • Recall for ship’s boats.

The Common Pennant was also the masthead pennant worn by all British private war vessels until the middle 1800s, the three red, white and blue stripes representing the red, white and blue squadrons.

When these squadrons were abolished in 1864, the horizontal stripes were removed and the Common Pennant became what we now know as the Commissioning Pennant.

As it had no individual meaning during the Dutch Wars which it’s use definitely preceded, it was used as the Church Pennant.

In an unrelated epilogue, the Dutch Wars have a connection with the Royal Australian Navy.  In 1667, a Dutch force of marines sailed up the Medway, attacked the fort and occupied the small town of Queenborough after which HMS/HMAS Queenborough was named.  This was the first invasion and occupation of part of Britain since William the Conqueror in 1066.

Further Reading:

Encyclopedia Britannica, Anglo-Dutch Wars

Encyclopedia Britannica, Raid on the Medway

 

Occasional Paper 53: Petty Officer Fredrick Harold Harvey and Colombian Naval Service

May 2019

As told by his son CMDR Vic Harvey, RAN, Rtd

Fredrick Harold Harvey was a proud Geordie lad, born in Newcastle-upon-Tyne’s suburb of Benwell, on 13 August 1899. Benwell in the West End of Newcastle, with many streets of neat terraced houses, is dominated by its colliery. After leaving school at 14 Fred found work with the tramways and became a tram conductor.

Only known photo of
Frederick Harvey in naval uniform – Family

At the time of the Great War on 30 July 1917 he entered the Royal Navy as a Boy Seaman, a month later on his 18th birthday, he signed a 12 year engagement. On entry Fred was only 5 feet 3 inches tall, so he instantly earned the nickname ‘Shorty’, had brown hair, grey eyes and a fresh complexion with a couple of well–earned scars, as Shorty was known for getting into scraps.

At this time there was little shore–side training and his first ship was the formidable looking four-funnel cruiser HMS Powerful, but she was from a past age, had most of her armament removed, and was used as an accommodation ship. He later joined the armoured cruiser HMS Shannon, she had been built pre-war and after Jutland became flagship of a cruiser squadron patrolling in the North Sea. Fred remained in her until she paid off in May 1919. There must have been some action concerning ship salvage as post-war Fred received £4/13/6 in prize money.

It was then off to warmer climes for service with the 3rd Light Cruiser Squadron in the Mediterranean in HMS Centaur. On New Year’s Day 1921 Fred was promoted to Able Seaman. With vast post-war reductions to the fleet Fred had quite a few posting ashore to the training depot HMS Vividat Devonport, which later became better known as HMS Drake.Fred was promoted to Leading Seaman while still in Vividon 10 December 1925 and passed out for Petty Officer on 6 July 1926.

At the time his engagement expired on 12 August 1929 he was serving in the distinctive new battleship HMS Rodney. Her main armament comprised nine 16-inch guns in three turrets, all forward of the bridge. From Rodney Fred was issued with a ‘Gunnery History Sheet’ providing a record of his proficiency in gunnery examinations conducted in all his seagoing ships and a ‘Trade Certificate’ signed by Captain F.L. Tottenham, RN (later Admiral Sir Francis Tottenham). The latter document notes ‘a thoroughly reliable Leading Seaman displaying intelligence, energy, initiative and power of command’.

In 1926 Fred married childhood sweetheart Dorothy Elaine Rodgers and they set up house in Plymouth where the first of two boys, Frederick Harold, was born in 1927. But 1929 was not the best of times to be leaving the comfort and security of the Royal Navy with the Great Depression beginning to cast an ominous shadow over industrial England. With little prospect of work the family migrated to Windsor in Ontario where they had relatives. While some work was found conditions in Canada were not much better than England and the harsh winters did not suit Mum especially with young Victor Edward coming along in 1931. The next year they returned to Plymouth.

South America

In the 1920s the Admiralty authorised the establishment of British Naval Missions in various countries with the aim of providing training and support with increased cooperation through targeted ship visits. This in turn aimed to demonstrate British technical expertise and encourage foreign shipbuilding orders.

In 1932 a conflict erupted between Colombia1 and neighbouring Peru regarding a border dispute in the region of the Amazon River. This led to the re–establishment of a Colombian naval service, which had previously been disbanded. A Royal Naval Mission was quickly dispatched to assist the Colombians. This was mainly in response to a potential ‘Red Threat’ with Peru acquiring two older Russian destroyers, renamed Almirante Villar and Almirante Guise, from the politically unstable Republic of Estonia in 1933. Colombia is strategically placed between South and Central America with many neighbours and responsibility for its naval waters over both the Atlantic (Caribbean) and Pacific oceans. In this instance the Peruvians, with their naval forces based only on the Pacific coast, sailed a task force into the Atlantic – so the threat was real.

Post WWI the Admiralty invited requests from British shipyards for new destroyer designs. The winning designs were from Yarrow and Thorneycroft resulting in the construction of one ship from each yard, HM Ships Ambuscade and Amazon. A year after commissioning in 1928 these ships were sent on a cruise around South America, which included calls at Colombia and Peru, and home via Panama and the West Indies.

The Washington Naval Treaty of 1922 called for significant reductions in naval tonnage resulting in the Royal Navy having no suitable ships to offer Colombia. However a class of six new destroyers based on the Ambuscade design was being built for the Portuguese Navy. The first quarter of the 20th century was tumultuous in Portuguese politics as Britain’s oldest ally transitioned from a catholic monarchy to a socialist republic, cumulating in a 1926 military coup. Despite this two ships were built in Britain (NRP Vouga and Lima) and the remainder in Portugal.

With British assistance two of the Portuguese built vessels were purchased off the stocks by the Armada Nacional Republica de Colombia (ANC) and renamed Antioquia and Caldas. The Portuguese then built two further replacement ships. Royal Naval support was provided in commissioning, storing, manning and working up these vessels.

Leading Seaman Frederick Harvey joins the Colombian Naval Service

A recruitment campaign was undertaken in England to help man the two new destroyers. No mean perk for those in the know, with a two year contract being offer on very similar conditions to service to those afforded under Kings Regulations & Admiralty Instructions (KRAI) which included medical cover, insurance and death benefits. The real incentive, in these times of grave unemployment, was 33⅓% additional pay in £stg for an equivalent RN rank. While this was a single man’s posting, at the completion of the contract a fully paid return passage to England was provided, plus an additional two months pay in lieu of leave.

NRP Lima constructed by Yarrow & Co., Glasgow

On 23 February 1934 a formal ‘Contract for Ratings’ (written in English) was entered into between the Chargé d’Affaires of Colombia representing the Government of Colombia and Frederick Harold Harvey. This was witnessed by a Royal Naval officer. On New Year’s Day 1935 another bonus was received with Fred promoted to Petty Officer.

There is an interesting aside in the report of a football (soccer) match between the two ships when working up. This notes that Antioquia’s goalkeeper ‘Shorty Harvey’ accidentally collided with an opposing player with the result that Shorty lost most of his teeth but with true British grit he continued playing with his ship winning 5 – 1. Shorty was not carted off to hospital until the end of the game.

Eventually both new destroyers reached their home port of Cartagena in Colombia on 14 May 1934. They were more of an insurance policy as the dispute with Peru had been settled before their arrival. We are not aware of Fred’s service in country but it does not appear to have been arduous and, strictly in accordance with his contract, he returned home on 22 February 1936. Upon return, with tales to tell and employment gradually improving, Fred became a postman in his native Newcastle. He also joined the RNR.

Had Fred remained in Antioquia he might have seen some unusual action. On 21 January 1936 on the occasion of the death of King George V the Bermuda Militia Artillery were instructed to fire a ceremonial salute from their 4.7-inch gun battery. This salute consisted of 70 blank rounds – one for every year of the sovereign’s life. Because of damp storage conditions there were insufficient blanks so the shortfall was substituted with life rounds fired at maximum elevation. As they opened fire the gunners were unaware that Antioquia was making for the Royal Naval Dockyard, where she was scheduled for refit. Although straddled the ship was not damaged.

Once more with the outbreak of war in 1939 Fred volunteered for naval service but was knocked back. This did not stop him from joining the Army as a private. Now over forty years of age he remained in the United Kingdom, mainly employed as a Batman/Driver to a senior officer based in Scotland.

After the war Fred was welcomed back into the Post Office where he worked as a driver until the time of his death in 1963. He is buried in Newcastle. His widow Dorothy came to Australia and lived with her son Victor and his wife Connie until her death in 1986. The eldest son Frederick Harold (junior) with his wife Violet migrated to Canada where they made successful business careers and raised two children. Finally younger son Vic continued the family tradition, joined the Andrew and, with many years of distinguished service in the RAN … but that is another story.

 

Notes:

  1. 1. In terms of population, present day Colombia, with a population in excess of 49 million, is the second largest country in South America.

Occasional Paper 52: The RAN and the 1918-19 Influenza Pandemic

May 2019

Editor’s Note: This article first appeared in Issue 6 of Semaphore, the publication produced by The Sea Power Centre Australia in March 2006. We are indebted to them for their permission to reproduce the article.

Between April 1918 and May 1919, influenza, or its secondary complications, caused up to 50 million deaths, far more than had been killed in four years of war. Many died within the first few days of infection, and nearly half of these were young, healthy adults. The speed with which it spread has been described as ‘…perhaps the most extraordinary feature of this extraordinary pandemic…‘, for the easy transfer, from shore to ship and ship to shore, meant that even communities isolated by sea were vulnerable. A rigorous maritime quarantine policy reduced the immediate impact in Australia, but by the end of 1919 the nation had still suffered more than 11,500 deaths.

The ships of the Royal Australian Navy (RAN), dispersed as they were around the world, were certainly not spared. The pandemic occurred in waves and the cruisers operating with the British Grand Fleet suffered several outbreaks in 1918, with up to 157 cases in a single ship. Outbreaks in the Mediterranean were even more severe with the cruiser HMAS Brisbane recording 183 cases between November and December 1918, of whom two died of pneumonia. In all, the RAN lost some 26 men to the disease. When the cramped mess decks and poorly ventilated living spaces of early 20th century warships are recalled, it is perhaps remarkable that the toll was not greater. The saving factor was largely the ready availability of professional medical treatment.

Pacific Islands

Some of the most virulent outbreaks occurred in the islands of the South Pacific, where few among the indigenous populations escaped infection. The disease arrived on the regular cargo vessel SS Talune, which had sailed from Auckland on 30 October 1918, knowingly carrying sick passengers. Successively calling at ports in Fiji, Samoa, Tonga and Nauru, the steamer’s visits were marked by the first cases of influenza appearing ashore a few days after her departure. With local authorities generally unprepared, the infection spread uncontrollably, a situation aggravated both by the shortage of suitable drugs and the fact that local health workers were among the first to fall.

Hardest hit was the former German territory of Samoa, where inept New Zealand administration resulted in no attempts at patient isolation and the rejection of medical assistance offered from nearby American Samoa. With the forced closure of government institutions and stores, few people being in a fit state to assist with the distribution of food and medicines, and a growing number of uninterred dead, the Samoan situation rapidly became critical. On 19 November the military governor in the capital of Apia telegraphed Wellington for help, but had his request turned down on the grounds that all doctors were needed in New Zealand. Australia offered the only alternative source of aid.

The Commonwealth Naval Board was already aware of the developing regional crisis. The sloop HMAS Fantome, stationed at Suva in Fiji for police duties, had reported her first cases of influenza on 11 November, and soon had more than half her ship’s company incapacitated. More importantly in terms of an effective Australian response, of all government departments only the RAN had suitable assets at immediate readiness. On 20 November, the Board began gathering a joint relief expedition from among the available naval and military medical personnel, placing it under the command of Surgeon Temple Grey, RAN. The commanding officer of HMAS Encounter, Captain Hugh Thring, RAN, was then ordered to embark the expedition at Sydney and proceed at the earliest possible date to Samoa.

HMAS Encounter

Even today the speed of Encounter’s response must be admired. Her sailing orders were telegraphed from Melbourne on Friday, 22 November, and throughout the next day and night the ship’s company worked tirelessly to get in relief stores. Without any information from Samoa as to specific requirements, Thring loaded almost 150 tons of cargo ranging from blankets and tents through to drugs and dry provisions, expecting that these would meet any emergency. The weekend created further difficulties as shops were shut and some items not in stock had to be purchased. Nevertheless, on Sunday forenoon the medical teams embarked, the last of the stores were in by 1550, and ten minutes later Encounter sailed from Sydney.

Double inoculations

Encounter was not a modern ship, but she had led an active service life, most recently involving convoy escort and patrol duties in the Malay Archipelago and Australian waters. Just the previous month she had suffered 74 cases of influenza while operating out of Fremantle, and now, as a precaution against further infection, all members of her crew (over 450) were doubly inoculated. Encounter’s normal passage speed was only 13 knots, but this had to be regulated by coal consumption and navigational requirements. Without modern navigational aids, it was sometimes necessary to arrive at certain points in daylight, while fuel replenishment, and hence range, relied on an efficient logistics system. A coaling stop in Suva would be necessary, but naval stocks there amounted to only 300 tons, so the Naval Board arranged for a rendezvous with a collier. This vessel could not, however, reach Fiji until at least 5 December.

Strict quarantine

Arriving in Suva on 30 November Encounter took on half the available coal and, almost more important, 39 tons of water. With influenza still prevalent, Thring implemented a strict quarantine enforced by guards placed on the wharf. The ship’s company completed all coaling, rather than the native labour normally employed. As no one could return from ashore, Thring communicated by letter with Britain’s resident High Commissioner for the Western Pacific, C.H. Rodwell. The news was not good. The Samoan epidemic showed no sign of abating, with deaths in Apia reaching 50 a day. Moreover, a message from Tonga indicated that conditions there were at least as bad while the facilities for coping with it were worse. On his own initiative, Thring extended Encounter’s mission to include Tonga, but to avoid further delay, landed a nine-man team under the senior Army surgeon, Major Alexander, to take immediate passage in SY Ranadi. Unfortunately, the yacht broke down soon after sailing and was forced to return to Suva.

Sailing from Suva on the evening of 30 November, Thring called for 80 volunteers from his own ship’s company should it prove necessary to provide greater assistance ashore. Despite the dangerous and unpleasant nature of the work, and the fact that any party landed would be left behind – missing their first peacetime Christmas at home – all the officers and most of the ratings volunteered. It would be difficult to find a more telling example of the Australian Navy’s tradition of ‘service before self’.

Encounter anchored off Apia on the morning of 3 December. The harbour was small for a ship of her size and, when combined with a considerable swell and strong winds, made unloading extremely hazardous. Although the ship rolled through more than 20 degrees, within six hours `                                                                                                                                  the landing party (six surgeons, eighteen medical orderlies and three naval sick berth ratings) and their stores were safely disembarked.

Ashore Surgeon Grey and his teams immediately set to work, yet the scale of the disaster remained daunting, and for many of those afflicted help came too late. A Sydney newspaper reported that the Australians ‘…with their motor trucks are doing wonderful service day after day gathering up the dead, who are simply lifted out of their houses as they lie on their sleeping-mats. The mats are wrapped around them, and they are deposited in one great pit.‘

Economic and social collapse

Made worse by the deaths caused by exhaustion and starvation, the two-month epidemic eventually killed 25 per cent of the total Samoan population, and often more than half the male adults in individual communities. Economic and social collapse followed.

Meanwhile Encounter had proceeded direct to Tonga reaching the capital, Nuku’alofa, on 5 December. Here the British Consul advised that, although subsiding, the epidemic had struck down 95 per cent of the indigenous population and left 10 per cent dead. The situation in the outlying islands was just as bad. Thring attempted to get Fantome to bring out Major Alexander’s party, which had been doing good work in Fiji, but the sloop had experienced a fresh outbreak of influenza and remained unable to go to sea. Rodwell had no other craft available for the task.

Thring landed his last surgeon together with five orderlies and the remaining drugs and stores, but there was little more he could do. Yet even this small contribution was of great relief to the European and indigenous community. In thanking Thring for Encounter’s ‘timely aid’, the Consul remarked:

‘Though conditions had greatly improved before the party arrived there was still a good deal of work to be done of a nature that required professional skill and knowledge‘.

The party, he added, ‘…has been indefatigable… in efforts to eradicate the disease‘.

Effective measures

With Encounter running short of coal, Thring sailed for Suva on 7 December. Arriving two days later he received orders to return directly to Sydney. Encounter reached Sydney on 17 December and was immediately placed in quarantine. Only one member of her crew had shown any signs of illness during the voyage, and as testament to the effectiveness of the prophylactic and quarantine measures employed, none developed influenza.

Humanitarian assistance

Thus ended Australia’s first overseas relief expedition. This was one which, although unusual for the times, foreshadowed the now regular employment of the RAN’s assets to provide humanitarian assistance and demonstrate national interest in regional affairs. Indeed, in the context of the maritime doctrinal concepts of flexibility and adaptability, it should be noted that Thring’s orders were not restricted to providing medical aid. Preserving order in the Pacific was among the many subsidiary duties undertaken by the early RAN, and warnings of trouble brewing among the inhabitants of the Gilbert and Ellice Islands (now Kiribati and Tuvalu) had been received by the Naval Board in the weeks before the expedition.

While in Suva, Thring took care to discuss with Rodwell how best a warship might support his authority. On this occasion, no immediate assistance was necessary, but Encounter’s mission might easily have been extended to provide presence elsewhere, and back this up with a large landing force if necessary. It remains a poignant reminder that, by their nature, seaborne forces possess a variety of characteristics and attributes which are not necessarily present in other tools of government foreign policy.

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