Memories of HMS Royal Oak
By Stanley Ivan Cole
(From The Orcadian dated October 18, 2001)

Able Seaman Stanley Cole (Picture: Orkney Library Photographic Archives)

At the age of 13 I had asked my parents to send me to the training ship Arethusa, to pave the way to my entry into the Royal Navy at 15-and-a-half, as a boy seaman, second class.

Both refused, fearing each would accuse the other of driving me from home. This led to me haunting the Recruiting Office to the point where a Marine Sergeant threatened to "boot my backside" if I didn't stay away, or get parental permission.

At 17 and four months I was able to join without my parents' permission, as an ordinary seaman, although service time would not count until the age of 18 years. I signed for seven years active service with five years reserve and, with three others, caught the train for Portsmouth to report to the Barracks, H.M.S. Victory, now known as H.M.S. Nelson. We four were caught up with thousands of Naval Reservists, called up for the 1938 crisis.

The first weeks were spent in class-rooms, learning knots, splices, flags - international code, etc., "square bashing" on the parade ground, boat-pulling and boat drill at the harbour, also boat sailing.

We also had firing (rifle) at the range, and Physical Training in the Gymnasium, also the swimming baths to pass the required test, wearing white canvas duck-suites. Three lengths of the baths, then float for three minutes. Small destroyers took us out to sea for us to observe target practice by the ship's gun crews. Big gun instruction entailed three weeks on Whale Island gunnery school under tough gunners-mates and parade ground drill that would have reduced Guards regiments to tears. Everyone, including officers in training, and high rankers was bawled at and chivvied at all hours, no quarter given. The Chief, and Petty Officer Instructors, all with ram-rod backs, yelled at us "not to walk, not to run, but to b ----- well FLY"

Punishment was to carry a 6"' shell around the island - 100 lbs - until you found someone who could tell you its weight. Of course no-one could enlighten you! Not possible to put it down - an instructor would trail you on a bike! Following this sort of "Physical Training," any one of us could have taken on Mike Tyson.

On completion of Barrack Training some of us were sent to a light cruiser, ex-China station, now in harbour, to spend ten weeks in "practical" seamanship to prepare for dispersal to the fleet. My first sea-going ship was the Royal Oak. My three former mates went to other ships, and I never saw them again.

Royal Oak proceeded on a training, and shake-down cruise, finally joining the Fleet in Scapa Flow. As part of the Fleet, we took part in exercises, and "sub-calibre" shoots - small bore barrels fitted into the 15-inch guns. Dummy torpedoes were fired, and recovered by the ship's boats, 27' whalers under oars. Before war was declared, a major exercise was carried out down the Norwegian coast.

Only hours before Royal Oak was sunk, the "C-in-C" fearing air attack, ordered the Fleet to sea.

Being too slow to keep up, the Oak was to stay behind in the anchorage, to act as A.A. Guardship for Kirkwall. During the day, and evening of the 13th October we were kept busy taking on, and stowing stores. My close mess-mate, a lad from the Newcastle-on-Tyne area and I turned in about 9pm. The last sounds I heard were the duty working parties going through the mess-decks closing down the heavy hatches, and watertight doors.

The first explosion woke all on the mess deck and we swung out of our hammocks to see what it was all about. The story was that it was either a CO bottle explosion, or something in the paint store - right forward - and some even said the anchor cable had snapped as it was "blowing up rough".

My mate, Bill, said "I don't like this, I'm going up top", and off he went. I never saw him again. Believing the situation to be not serious, many turned-in again, but about ten minutes after, I heard two very loud explosions, separated by only seconds, and the ship listed whilst the lighting failed.

Secondary lights working off batteries did not seem very effective, and there began a crush of men making for the ladder to the next deck up. I had pulled on my overall suit over my underpants and attempted to grab my plimsoles but they slid down the sloping messdeck out of sight.

There was some milling, and jostling at the foot of the ladder, and I was aware of a lighter being struck, and a voice of authority calling for no panic. By the feeble light I could just make out a face and a chief petty officer's cap. My abandon-ship station was to report to the port side whaler - one of the ship's boats. I was one of the crew of five men on the oars, in [the] charge of a coxswain, usually a leading - seaman.

The boat deck was several decks, up and, still not thinking the ship would sink, although listing considerably, I struggled to get through to the ladders, thinking of the consequences if I wasn't at my place of duty.

Finally gaining my objective, still in darkness, I soon established that I was the only one there, and wondered if I had heard no orders, or instruction over the ship's tannoy.

The whaler weighed about a ton and a half - according to what the instructor had told us - and, due to the list was pressed hard against the davits. I had to support myself by clinging to the guard-rails. Having no knife, I could not even cut through the boats-falls (the ropes for hoisting, or lowering) and it occurred to me that if I had been able to, the boat could have crashed down the ship's side and sustained damage, it might have crashed down on to some of the swimmers already in the water. There was nothing I could do, and from the cries, and splashes coming from the sea and the few heads I could just make out bobbing around in the water, I decided it was time to go, although I still did not think the ship would sink.

I pulled myself through the lower gap of the guard-rail and launched myself in a half dive, half slithering movement down the ship's side. So far down my right foot was jammed in the guttering of the "blister", the anti-torpedo bulge (which seemed not to have been effective on the starboard side). I stayed trapped, head down, for several seconds until I was able to free myself by pushing with my hands before slipping on down into the water.

I could smell the oil-fuel, but could not avoid getting some in the mouth, nose, and ears, but keeping my eyes closed until I surfaced. Coughing and spluttering, I became aware that my right foot and leg seemed to be hanging in the water as I began to swim away from the ship's side, along with some others. It was like trying to swim through liquid tar, and I was convinced I wasn't going to make it.

The water was bitterly cold, and from all around me in the darkness I could hear cries for help from injured, burned despairing bodies. Kicking out as best I could with my good leg, I was sure I could feel bodies of drowned shipmates under my foot. My hand caught something - a small piece of wood about two feet long by six inches wide - and I hung on to it in the blind faith that it would keep me afloat! I would have killed anyone who tried to take it from me! Then, another stroke of luck - what I took to be a five-gallon oil-drum came within range and how I tried to hold my arm over it, as it slipped, and rolled in the oil. Finally, after what seemed ages, I made out three or four bobbing heads paddling slowly a long length of timber which I suppose could have been one of the "deals" we adapted for seating for the church service, etc.

I let go of the drum but not my small scrap, of, wood, and joined up with the lads paddling the deal. We tried shouting and singing with hoarse throats without success, growing colder and more exhausted.

One of our number slipped off the plank and we never saw him again. My last view of Royal Oak was of her keel, silhouetted against the dark skyline. She appeared to have turned right over. Then, just as I had all but given up the struggle, along came a ship's whaler and I felt myself hauled over the boat's side with two or three other lads dumped on top of me in a cold, sodden, oily heap.

Whilst the individual bodies were being taken from the water the drifter, Daisy 11, under the command of skipper John Gatt, with his crew members, were valiantly picking up, and coping with scores more until Daisy herself was in danger of capsizing under the sheer weight of numbers.

The Daisy transferred us to the sea-plane carrier Pegasus whose crew did what ever they could for us, washing us down with blessed hot, clean water, turning out their lockers for every item of spare clothing, and anything else they could get hold of.

I re-call being treated by their sick-bay staff, who dressed my foot in wads of cotton wool and wooden splints, giving me shots of pain-killer then lifting me into someone's vacated hammock. They opened their canteen to give us whatever there was to be had cigarettes, chocolate, biscuits - anything.

The following morning we transferred to the armed liner Voltaire, then on to the hospital ship Abba. I shared a cabin with a Petty Officer, on the Voltaire and - as I was cot-bound - he waited on me hand and foot, fetching meals etc., and even found me a large pair of bedroom slippers.

The burned and injured also had a spell in a small hospital at Invergordon where the whole staff tended us with much care, and devotion. There were few dry eyes when we left them.

Proceeding to Aberdeen, the Abba was attacked by German fighters - down below decks in small cots, we could hear the rattle of machine-gun bullets.

Eventually we landed and, I think, taken to a hospital just outside Aberdeen, called Newmackar. I recall some weeks of attention and convalescence. My foot had sustained fractures, and was encased in plaster of paris.

Wearing only the bits of uniform given to me by our rescuers, I was not properly kitted out until I was returned to Portsmouth Barracks, where followed more visits to see the Medical Drafting Officer.

I had been given a draft-chit to report for duty on a mine sweeper - still with the casing on my leg. The MO squashed that, and I was sent back to hospital, this time just outside Bristol, for a further spell of care and convalescence. I think it was called Barrow Gurney - here, again, the nursing staff, both male and females, would bring us small items back (writing paper, stamps, etc.) all done in their limited time off-duty, and would never take any money off us.

Whilst in care, we "Oak" survivors swapped stories of how we got clear of the ship, and our various experiences. One harrowing story was how the boy seamen's mess-deck became a mass of flame from the burning cordite, many of the boys, aged around 15, had joined the ship about three weeks before from training shore establishment.

As Able Seaman, Peter Judge, or Judd, was said to have gone back to the boy's mess-deck to help some of the boys to escape, only to lose his own life.

Returning to duty, I was part of the Naval Heavy Gun Battery operation along the South Coast between Shoreham, Sussex, and Dover. After this I joined other ships on convoy escort, including Russia, North Africa and the Far East.

Following the end of hostilities with Germany and Japan, and having returned to Portsmouth Barracks, I was declared unfit for further service due to my foot injuries, and was discharged on Medical grounds.

I would like to pay tribute to Daisy 11 and skipper Gatt and his men, without whom many of us would have died in those early days of 1939.

See Also

The Sinking of HMS Royal Oak