Gregory Smith - Red Tobruk: Memoirs of a World War II Destroyer Commander

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by
Pen & Sword Military
An imprint of
Pen & Sword Books Ltd
47 Church Street
Barnsley
South Yorkshire
S70 2AS

Copyright Captain WFN Gregory-Smith

ISBN 978 1 84415 862 1
eISBN 9781844689613

The right of Captain WFN Gregory-Smith to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library

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I n 1922 William Frank Niemann Gregory-Smith was sent to Dartmouth Naval College, the school for Royal Navy officer cadets. He was twelve years old and had grown up in the suburbs of Manchester and the hills of Shropshire. There was no family history of service in the Royal Navy nor any significant connection with the sea; just an imaginative only-child with a head full of maritime history, inspired by stories of the Royal Navys past glories. Gregory-Smith had asked to go to Dartmouth and his parents agreed, thus starting a naval career that would stretch until his retirement in 1960.

Red Tobruk is the story of Gregory-Smiths experiences at sea during the Second World War, told in his own words. At the heart of Red Tobruk lies the story of HMS Eridge , Gregory-Smiths first command. This humble escort destroyer served in the Mediterranean from May 1941 to August 1942, when the Mediterranean Fleet fought some of the most intense periods of action experienced by the Royal Navy in the entire war. The Royal Navy struggled with the Italian Navy, German U-Boats and E-boats, and the Luftwaffe for control of this sea. The sea routes to North Africa were critical to the outcome of the struggle on land, where the Axis armies faced the forces of the British Empire fighting for control of the Middle East. If the Middle East had been lost, then Britain and her Navy would have lost their main supply of oil and Britains chances of survival would have been even more precarious. The determination and ferocity with which both sides fought for control of the Mediterranean is a testament to the importance of this struggle, and evident in HMS Eridge s constant fight to survive attacks from bombers, U-boats and E-boats.

Gregory-Smiths naval career spanned one of the greatest eras of change Britain has ever known. In 1922 the country was recovering from the traumas of the Great War though it remained confident of its role as one of the superpowers of the day; the British Empire still covered a quarter of the globe and ruled around a quarter of the worlds population. The Royal Navy, which protected trade between Britain and her colonies and projected British power across the globe, was still the largest navy in the world. But within a generation the Empire and her merchant navy had disintegrated, and the Royal Navy had become a navy of small ships. The change was so sudden and so dramatic that subsequent generations can easily forget the world outlook of Britons born into Empire. But this was the world that the men who fought in the Royal Navy in the Second World War were born into the world as it was for Gregory-Smith during the carefree days of service before the war clouds began to gather.

Dominic Symons, November 2007

May 1927

T o this nervous seventeen year old cadet Portland was looking even more depressing than usual and not even the presence of an Atlantic Fleet Battle Squadron could conceal the drabness of the little dockyard town, nestling in the shadows of the grim Borstal establishment. The ships were all veterans of the Battle of Jutland and my own ship, the battlecruiser HMS Tiger , was easily distinguishable by her three funnels and long slim hull. In the still evening air, bugle calls and the trill of bosuns pipes carried clearly across the harbour, reminding me that I was about to become a very small cog in the worlds mightiest navy. It was a humbling thought which made me feel horribly inadequate. I wanted companionship during the ordeal but, for some unknown reason, no other new cadets were waiting for the evening boat.

The jetty was quite deserted except for a bored policeman who answered my anxious questions in curt monosyllables. Hurt by his indifference, I swaggered along the jetty, hoping to persuade him that my brand new dirk and uniform were concealing a mariner of some experience. I doubt if I succeeded. I certainly did not deceive myself and, by the time HMS Tigers boat arrived, I was firmly convinced that no other profession in the world had such a terrifying initiation as this forthcoming boat trip, which proclaimed with such utter finality that one was leaving the land for the sea for the rest of ones working life.

The Coxswain shook his head on being asked if he had conveyed any other cadets so, with rising anxiety, I followed my luggage into his boat, which promptly headed towards HMS Tiger , every thud of its propeller emphasising that I was exchanging a boys life for a mans. By the time the boat glided smoothly alongside the gangway, I was such a bundle of nerves that I forgot all advice about climbing aboard in a dignified manner and scuttled up it like a startled rabbit.

From the gangways upper platform, the quarterdeck looked so vast that it was difficult to accept that this was only one section of a single ship. Nevertheless, the open space between the gangway and turret seemed to be filled entirely by gaping quartermasters, bosuns mates, corporals, call boys, side boys, messengers and buglers, beyond whom stood the officer of the watch whose eyes, to an oversensitive imagination, appeared to be bulging in shocked surprise at my sartorial untidiness. Feeling more insignificant than ever, I stumbled past the reception committee. With my legs tangling with my wretched dirk I saluted the officer of the watch and stuttered, C-come aboard to join, sir.

I half expected him to snarl, Youre a day late! Consider yourself under arrest! But, to my surprise, he accepted my hesitant report with an encouraging smile. A feeling of profound relief at having overcome this first hurdle immediately swept over me. The quarterdeck staff looked human, all of a sudden, and the side boys, at a curt command from the quartermaster, nipped down the gangway to fetch my luggage. A minute later, I was following a messenger into the superstructure where, for the first time, I became aware of that faint but bitter sweet smell of humanity, cooking, oil fuel and bilges. This smell haunts all those who go down to the sea in ships. The messenger lead me to the small, dark gunroom behind the ships armour plating where the cadets lived. Our chests were stowed in an open passageway and our hammocks slung in a hot airless space above one of HMS Tiger s eight boiler rooms. It was in constant use at night but we were kept so busy that we were invariably too tired to notice the noise and traffic.