Underwater Maginot Line

Northern Advocate, 30 April 1940, Page 3

Underwater Maginot Line

A new and deadly mine, the Royal Navy’s most closely-guarded secret, adds to the power of Britain’s east coast mine barrier—the underwater Maginet Line—which, stretching from the Straits of Dover to the Shetland Isles, is now complete. Every day minelayers are reinforcing the strength of these minefields by laying hundreds of the new mines. I watched young seamen—many of them lads of 18—launching them during a 200-mile trip in a fast minelayer into the North Sea, writes Bernard Hall in the “Daily Express.” For our men of the Minelaying Service, this constant anxiety is added to their daily task of never-ending hazard—that mines must fall with split-second accuracy and within .a possible margin of error of no more than a few yards. The outward journey in a minelayer is full of suspense. Suddenly flags break on the destroyer on our starboard bow. Ratings move precisely to their action stations. The destroyer has reported a contact on her anti-submarine detector. As photographers raise their cameras the destroyer races at thirty knots close across our bows. Tension Relaxes, As our cargo rolls slowly forward on the rails of the mining deck, as the bell rings, and each one at exact intervals plunges overboard, the tension relaxes. Soon hearts and the ship will be lighter. We soon got excitement. “Black object, green 45, sir," said the young starboard lockout, and a dozen pairs of glasses were focussed in that direction. What direction? Green 45 means a bearing of 45 degrees on the starboard bow—because the starboard light is green. On the port bow it would have been 45 red. While the captain remained on his bridge, the commander—son of a famous admiral—kept the crew busy at their gun stations, lowering the paravanes. Depth charges . . .? I asked a young officer. “What would be the effect of depth charges on our mines?” he grins: “If they get too close you will soon see." It was nothing, something dark on the aerial of one of our destroyers . . . but you can't be too careful on this job with enough explosive under your feet to wipe out a large town. No depth charges. . . . The destroyer takes her place again.

They carry on with the job. In gathering dusk we turn for our long journey home. The escorts become shadows, then fade into the darkness of the night. Down below, in the well-lighted, spacious wardroom —first-class smokeroom in peace—hot tea and toast and the light talk of men who have earned their rest. Shove-halfpenny, reading week-old newspapers—read and reread a dozen times by these newshungry. lonely men. to whom home is only a wistful memory. But it is cosy, and we all laugh like boys as some one pulls the leg of the “Doc," an incredibly young looking surgeon-lieutenant who confesses that he' is going to London on Saturday “ —er —to get married, you know." The commander, who changed, with the war, from the ease of the Royal Yacht to this night and day strain, and loves it, tells me about his home in Hampshire. I meet Chief Petty Officers Bert Pcarman and Fred Snowling. They joined the Navy on the same day in 1913, saw nothing of each other for 10 years in peace: then, when war came, these old friends met again. They are “old Navy." and they have taught raw reservists what the Navy is in war. [sis Job is Bene. At last—the port again. Down goes the anchor . . . it’s a beautiful sound. The captain, /ifter fourteen hours continuously on the bridge, comes down to greet bis visitors. His job is done, he is happy. I tell him of the messages his lads chalked on the mines after they had been primed and detonated and were ready for launching: "You can’t get the Navy down —much.” “Where’S that Nazi fleet?” “For Adolf” —all illustrated by sketches of that face with that moustache. He laughs. He loves his lads, is proud to know what a fine team they are—built out of pensioners, reservists and recruits. Here an ex-clerk, there a London bus driver.

For us it was good-bye to a dangerous day. To them —a few hours’ rest . . . a new cargo. . . to sea again. A voice calls: “Say hello to Piccadilly for me.” Our driftc-r moves away.