Murch Family Worldwide

Norman Robins Murch  ‘What a party!’

 

Lt. Commander - HMS Beagle – A Unique Kind of Hero

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Norman was gazing out from the windows of the bridge, across towards beaches where

Operation Overlord was in full swing.   His ship, Beagle, taking part in the naval contribution to

the D Day landings, Operation Neptune, was surrounded by hundreds of ships as far as the eye

could see from one edge of the horizon to the other and dotted amongst them thousands of

landing craft, packed with troops, tanks and equipment bobbed in the water on their way to land

for the invasion of Normandy.  Turning to his second in command he commented “what a party. 

I wouldn’t have missed this for all the tea in China”.

 

An officer of singular character and purpose Norman was an experienced commander and had recently returned from escorting convoys to and from Russia to take part Operation Overlord.   

 

It is no surprise that he was a swashbuckling type of commander as he was the son of Navy hero, Arthur Murch, who had fought in the Boer Wars and was mentioned in dispatches during the Great War.  Born in 1907 in Devon, Norman was from a family of granite hard, firm jawed, Devon countrymen who were brought up on farms or with the sea in their blood.  Norman was as tough as any west-countryman who ever entered a battle, but ‘Rocky’ as he was known to Admiral Mountbatten was also charming and principled, with a deep sense of humanity and duty.  He loved to play Polo and his sociable, urbane character not only gained him friends in the Admiralty but made him a success with the ladies.  During his service in the far east, he met and married Valentina, a beautiful Russian film actress in Shanghai. However his choice of bride was frowned upon by the top brass who considered a Russian an inappropriate choice.

 

He was a career seaman at heart and sailed with the Blue Funnel line around China before taking a commission in the Royal Navy.  He delivered home all manner of strange gifts from the Far East when he visited his parents in Dawlish, one time bringing home huge Samurai swords. Despite his extensive experience in the merchant marine, Norman did his 9 months initial officer training on HMS London.  His stellar rise to the bridge of Beagle came through commanding ships around the world.  Stationed in Malta (HMS St. Angelo 1935 and HMS Despatch1936-7) and China (HMS Mantis 1937) prior to the war, his postings grew in size from smaller gunships to destroyers, and most significantly as 1st Lieutenant on the battleship HMS Ramillies (1938).

 

As World War two began, he was the commander of gunboat HMS Mantis but posted to gunboat, HMS Seamew and further on to HMS Gnat (1940-1). Then in February 1943 he got his first command of a destroyer, the HMS Charlestown, joining her at Tobermory.  The Charlestown joined the 17th Destroyer Division and took part in minelaying operations from the west coast of Scotland. She also assisted on convoy escort duty and, during his year as Commander, the ship trawled the northern Atlantic and Barents Sea escorting merchant marine ships carrying essential goods such as oil, munitions and gun cotton. Putting into practice years of experience, he played cat and mouse with U boats and E boats, dodging their attentions and avoiding serious attack.

 

But it was on HMS Beagle, his favourite ship, that Norman sealed his reputation as a hero.

 

Norman took command of Beagle on 4th May 1943.  She was undergoing repairs and a refit

in Scotland when Norman arrived after a trip home to Devon.  The ship was used as support

and protection to huge convoys that sailed to and from Russia and in and out of North

Atlantic and Arctic ports, protecting shipping from U Boat and E Boat attacks in what

Winston Churchill called ‘the worst journey in the world’.  During Normans command, there

were six arctic convoys over seven months, and one Special Escort duty to Kola Inlet to

collect the crew of USS Milwaukee. His experience on convoys gave him a level of

expertise that earned utter respect from his crew.  Time and again he demonstrated his

exceptional sixth sense at sensing danger and avoiding the lurking enemy.

 

Plans for Operation Overlord were well under way during 1944 with American troops practicing for the D Day landings in the South Hams, the home of Norman’s family, and coordinated by his cousin Frank from Salcombe.  As the practice landings came to an end the ministry waited for the weather to turn in its favour before finally ordering the beginning of the Normandy landings.  Combined U.S, Canadian and British troops were to be involved in the landings, backed up by thousands of ships in naval support (Operation Neptune) and air support by both US and RAF fighters and bombers. 

 

On June 6th the operation began.  On board the Beagle were top brass, scheduled to watch the

invasion from the destroyer.  There were two Brigadiar generals and two captains, also, Lt General

Bucknall of the U.S Army supreme command, who was on board to observe the Gold beach

landings and later that evening transferred to HMS Bulolo to go ashore on Gold Beach.

The story of Beagle is taken up in the following accounts in the words of the men involved. 

Starting with Beagles last run on the Russian convoys, the stories take us to D Day and an incident

the following night in the channel that threatened to end Normans’ career.

 

Full credit for these accounts are due to Ian Hawkins and his book Destroyer, An Anthology of

First-Hand Accounts of The War at Sea 1939-1945 – these are abridged versions of the reports in

his book which give much fuller, extensive accounts.  Credit is also due to the late Peter Ward and

his book ‘From Africa to the Arctic’ published by Brewin Books, which sets the scene for the Arctic

convoys.

 

 

Doctor at Sea – Surgeon Captain R. S. McDonald, RN HMS Beagle

 

I was called to the Commodore’s office to find I’d been appointed to HMS Beagle, a destroyer.   I was given an identity card, naval pay book and a travel voucher by a Wren.  Charming as she was, she would only tell me that Beagle would be somewhere on the east coast of Scotland and I was to enquire at the Rail Transport Office, Glasgow.  I travelled overnight to Glasgow, via Crewe.  On arrival in the very early hours, it was cold, dark and miserable.  My fellow passengers vanished into the gloom.  On enquiring at the RTO they’d never heard of HMS Beagle and suggested I come back later that morning after breakfast.  I thought Beagle would be at Scapa Flow or Loch Ewe.  I was lucky.  A nearby taxi driver had overheard our conversation.  He offered to take me to Beagle and off we went to Govan Dock.

There she was – in dry dock, clad in electrical leads, wires, cables, ropes and hoses, hissing compressed air.  Here and there a light glowed, struggling to illuminate running repairs.  A solitary sailor appeared at the prow and welcomed me aboard.  He informed me that the captain, Lieutenant Commander N. R Murch, was on leave.  I was shown to the wardroom, dropped my bags and went to the First Lieutenant’s cabin.  He was asleep at the time and seemed upset by my reporting my presence: ‘See you after breakfast.’

 

When I arrived back at Beagle I found the Captain on board.  The refit was finishing and the urgent haste was noticeable.  After breakfast I had a short interview with the Captain: “Ciphers, Doc; no scrimshankers; stop VD; keep the wine books in order, I see them on Mondays. Welcome aboard a good ship.”

It was then that I met my Sick Berth Attendant, Hamer, and my valet, MacDonald.  I was shown the medical stores, first aid posts and secondary medical stores.  Then I was taken round all the different departments and exhibited to them. The tour took the remainder of the forenoon.

 

The ship now hummed with activity.  The next day the dry dock filled and all hell was let loose as a few errors and omissions became apparent – everything and everyone in sight moved like lightning.  However, the hectic activity quickly subsided to quiet and efficient order.

 

I explored Beagle thoroughly, identified peoples tasks with the relevant equipment, machinery or armament.  There appeared to be no spare space on deck or within the hull.  I was told that the ship was about 500 tons heavier in 1943 than in 1939.  I also discovered that, as more medical or cipher stores arrived, so did my bunk rise toward the deck-head. I could touch the deck-head when lying on my bunk.  Then one day, all managers, supervisors and ‘dockyard mateys’ disappeared. We cast off fore and aft and spend the day at Tail O’Bank swinging the compass.  Then back alongside Gourock.  We set off for Russia.  Sitting in my cabin I noticed that, with the rolling and pitching I could see daylight between the deck and the bulkhead – and when the roll was to port water came in. ‘Oh yes, Sir,’ said Hamer ‘and it will become ice very soon.’ and it did…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Len Perry, Stoker HMS Beagle

 

 

It was, to the best of my recollections, in early April 1944 and Beagles last run to Russia prior to D Day. We were assembling off Iceland, expecting to join up with the merchant ships, but we met up with five small boats, American submarine chasers, similar to our wooden five-ply Motor Torpedo Boats, but all metal.  We were to escort the Russian-crewed sub-chasers, with two other destroyers – I believe they were Bulldog and Westcott – to Kola Inlet.

 

The first day at sea there was a heavy swell running and the sub-chasers were pitching their bows in deep, so they had to slow down.  The next day the weather moderated and good progress was made, but by the third evening it was blowing and gusting, heralding a typical Arctic storm as we neared the North Cape.  By the following morning visibility was limited, the sub-chasers had been scattered, and re-assembling them was proving difficult. Then one of the destroyers reported that one had foundered but its Russian crew had been picked up in time.  Beagle then came across another sub-chaser that was hove to, its engine swamped by sea water.  We secured a tow line, took the crew off, but after a short time it became very low in the water. The tow line was cut, and it was scuttled by gunfire and we eventually made port with our somewhat battered charges.  We were very surprised at the excellent winter clothing of the rescued Russian seamen.  Ours was very poor in comparison, apart from the thick woollen knitwear sent up to us by the dear ladies of Newton Abbot, in distant Devon.

I’m not sure if it was that particular occasion, but Beagle had returned to Scotland from a Russian port from a similarly rough escort duty, with its inevitable losses, and tied up to a buoy near the battleship Duke of York which, incidentally, hadn’t participated in that extremely harrowing convoy. 

An urgent signal was blinked across the anchorage to Beagle by Aldis Lamp from the mighty battleship’s bridge. ‘WILL YOU KINDLY WEAR THE RIG OF THE DAY – STOP – YOU LOOK LIKE A CROWD OF PIRATES – END.’ Before responding, our Chief Yeoman of Signals, nearing exhaustion with little sleep was overheard to murmur to Number One: Sir, how do you spell ‘BOLLOCKS?’

 

I was a stoker aboard Beagle from 1943 to 1945 so I have no recollections of the early, eventful and most interesting years of 1940,1941 and 1942 at sea.  That’s not to say that the war was over, far from it.

 

 

‘The Navies Do It Again’ by Desmond Tighe – Reuters Special Correspondent on HMS Beagle – D Day

 

Guns are belching flame from more than 600 Allied Warships.  Thousands of bombers are roaring overhead, fighters are weaving in and out of the clouds as the invasion of Western Europe begins.

We are standing 8000 yards off the beaches of Bernier-sur-Mer and from the bridge of this little destroyer I can see vast numbers of naval craft of all types. The air is filled with the continuous thunder of broadsides and the crash of bombs.  Great spurts of flame come up from the beaches in long snake-like ripples as shells ranging from 16-inch down to 4-inch find their mark.  In the last ten minutes alone more than 2,000 tons of high-explosive shells have gone down on the beachhead.

 

It is now exactly 7.25 a.m. and through my binoculars I can see the first wave of troops touch down on the water’s edge and fan up the beach.  Battleships and cruisers are steaming up and down, drenching the beaches ahead of the troops with withering broadsides.  Great assault vessels are standing out to sea in their hundreds, the invasion craft are being lowered like beetles from the davits and head towards the shore in long lines.  They are crammed with troops, tanks, guns and armoured vehicles of all types.  The tin hatted British and Canadian forces in this sector are cheerful and smiling as they go in.  A tank Landing Craft has just passed, with the crew of one tank sitting on tip of the turret.  The tank is named ‘Warspite’.  The crew give the ‘thumbs-up’ sign and grin at us cheerfully.

Allied bombers are passing over us in their thousands.

Fighters keep up a constant patrol, protecting the great invasion fleet. Just ahead of us lies the town of Berniere-sur-Mer. We can see the spire of Berniere belfry rising out of the swirling smoke.

Some German shore batteries are opening up on us, but their fire is ineffective and ragged.

Gallant little fleet destroyers are steaming up and down, close inshore, protecting the landing troops and plugging shore batteries with 4-icnh shells.  The whole planning of this great amphibious operation – the greatest in world history – has been done in the utmost secrecy and has taken nearly twelve months.

Hundreds of factors had to be taken into account before the assault could be launched, the most important being the question of weather.  It is giving away no secret now to say that weather conditions for the landing were not perfect, but despite high-running seas and a strong north-westerly wind, a bold decision was taken to go ahead.  From the bridge of this destroyer, commanded by Lieutenant Commander Norman R. Murch, of Dawlish, South Devon, I have had a grandstand view of every phase of the operation.  Just after four o’clock we reached a position some 18 miles off the coast of France.  The night bombing was in full swing.

 

Events then moved rapidly.  Here is the diary kept on the bridge as wrapped in duffle coats and

thick mufflers, we watched the dawn and saw the invasion start.

 

05.07 Lying eight miles from the lowering position for invasion craft

05.18 Spitfire with clipped wing-tips skims low over our deck.

05.20 Grey light of dawn. The great shapes of innumerable assault ships appear smudgily on

our starboard beam.  A little MTB follows in our wake – obviously off his course.  A young signalman

stands on the bridge flashes: ‘we are lost’ Please direct us to ---- beach.’  We put him on his way.

05.27 Night bombing has ceased and the great naval bombardment begins.

05.33 We move in slowly.  Coastline becomes thin smudge of grey.

05.36 Cruisers open fire off our starboard bow.  We can recognise Belfast and Maritius. They are

firing tracers.

05.45 The big assault ships start lowering their boats crowded with tin-hatted Tommies.

05.46 There are at least one thousand ships of all sizes in our sector alone.  Big battleships join.  On our port bow we see Warspite, the ‘old lady’ of Salerno fame, belching fire from her eight 15-inch guns.  Orion, Mauritius and another cruiser, Black Prince, are belting away with all they’ve got.  Fleet destroyers are darting round us.  Everybody seems to be there.  ‘What a party!’ I hear the captain say, ‘I wouldn’t miss this for all the tea in China.’

05.50 I see the first flash from a German short battery.  Above us we hear the sweet drone of our fighter cover.  Sky cloudy, but fairly high ceiling. So far, not one enemy plane has shown up.  It appears we have taken the enemy by surprise. 

05.55 On our port beam I can see a thin line of stout tank landing craft heading towards the shore.

06.00 The coast is now clearly visible.  Enemy batteries are opening fire spasmodically. Cruisers continue to belt away. 

06.50 The fleet destroyers now close to shore.  Weather is worsening. Sky is turning grey and big clouds are coming up.

 

Len Perry –Stoker HMS Beagle

 

Those nights in the crowded English Channel were, to put it mildly, hell.

  Not much has been written about the first few weeks of the build-up

following the Allied landings in Normandy on 6 June 1944, but ‘Jerry’

knew what he was doing, and doing it very effectively and quite

ruthlessly.

 

During the night of 8/9 June 1944, Beagle was escorting American

LST’s (Landing Ship Tanks). The voyage towards the French coast was

proceeding as scheduled when suddenly, off Cherbourg, two LSTs

were hit simultaneously and immediately began burning furiously,

rapidly turning night into day.  Evidently, an unseen German E-boat

had opened fire.  I’ve always felt that there was more than one enemy

E-boat lying in wait, stationary, as Beagle was leading the convoy, and

allowed the destroyer to pass by in order to ensure their ‘kill’.

It was already like daylight as Beagle turned to go in for the rescue

attempts.  The first of the American GIs were in the sea.  A lot of them

were not going to see dawn, as the whole terrible scene worsened with each passing minute.

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The scrambling nets were lowered over Beagles sides and we began to haul the first of the GIs aboard.  They were surprisingly young, as most of us were, their fixed, glazed expressions seemed to prevent them from talking or crying. They were very cold, covered in oil and shivering uncontrollably. They clung on to us so tightly with a vice-like grip which visibly bruised whatever part of our hands, arms or shoulders they were clinging to.  Consequently, it was almost impossible to pull out two or three water-sodden human beings.  They, in turn would not release their grip which resulted in several of Beagles crew themselves being pulled into the oil-covered sea. The problem was partly overcome by launching the whaler and hauling them aboard into it, thereby enabling the survivors to be handed up one at a time from the whaler.  Then some of us decided to move forward away from the nets.  We hastily made up ropes with a float on the end and threw them out to the struggling GIs in their life jackets and hauled them in.  By that time of course, we were literally covered in oil, vomit, blood and excrement.  Lieutenant McDonald, Beagles doctor, and his Sick Berth Attendant, were moving quickly around the decks, checking the rescued and exhausted GIs and showing us how to stop them choking.  One young soldier, who we pulled out quite easily, was helping himself and was talking to us. Suddenly he went limp, and slumped to the deck, apparently unconscious.

I then said “Come on, wake up!”… He looked so peaceful.  He was dead.

That was my first experience of witnessing a death.  His body was taken down to the Seaman’s Mess Deck where some of the bodies of other American soldiers were laid out, as dignified as possible in the circumstances.  However, even the grimmest situations have their moments of farcical humour.  We saw a US Army Sergeant almost cruising across Beagle’s bows.  He appeared to us to be waist-high, out of the water.  He held a five-gallon petrol can under each arm, the type you see on the back of a jeep.  We didn’t know if he was drunk or not, but when we threw him a line with a float, he refused our offer, yelling “get all those other bums in first…Get ‘em in first!”

Then the order came down from the bridge to clear all personal lockers for dry clothes as the soaked, cold and shivering survivors had already used all our blankets.  One or two hours had passed since the initial attacks and some of the GI survivors had recovered sufficiently to play an active role in the rescue attempts, in fact some were in better shape than us, as we were nearing exhaustion ourselves.

By that time the LST had gone down to the bottom of the channel together with its precious cargo of Sherman tanks, trucks and jeeps.  The other LST had somehow stopped burning, and together with Beagle, had drifted into a known minefield.

 

Our skipper, Lieutenant Commander Murch, in a calculated risk, then ordered our searchlights to be switched on, thereby again turning night into day, which we all thought was a bit ‘hairy’.  We suddenly became lit up like an illuminated Christmas tree and became an easy target for the E-boats, either still lurking in the surrounding darkness, or speeding back to their bases on the Dutch coast.

In retrospect, our Skipper was well aware of what he was doing.  His actions was three-fold: sweep the searchlight to locate more survivors: keep a lookout from all quarters of the ship for mines on the surface; and the E boats were not likely to venture anywhere near the minefield.

 

Eventually, the eastern sky gradually lightened, heralding the grey dawn after a truly horrific

night.  There seemed to be no more survivors; the surviving LST was barely afloat, just a

smoking, drifting hulk.  It was decided, reluctantly, to sink her by gunfire, a decision which

evidently didn’t please some of the GIs.  However, it was done and we gently moved off and

set course for Portsmouth.

 

About halfway back, we were met by a US navy ship which we would have liked to have gone

alongside, but they lowered a boat with a medical team and took off the dead and some of the

injured.  We would have preferred to transfer all survivors, but too much time would have

elapsed and Beagle was only two hours from Portsmouth.  So we steamed direct for

Portsmouth and disembarked all survivors for the superior, well-equipped facilities at Haslar

Royal Naval Hospital. 

HMS Beagle was in an awful state.  Most of the problems were caused by the black, slippery

and foul-smelling oil, but we were given 24 hours to clean up and get some much needed

sleep, to be ready for sea and another convoy escort duty the next morning.

 

Surgeon Captain R. S. McDonald, RN

 

I was called to the bridge by the Captain, Lieutenant Commander Murch, who said, “Doc, get over there to that burning LST and make sure no one is trapped under the anchor chains or cables – you can amputate as necessary…”

 

I quickly collected my gear and was in one of Beagle’s two whalers, with the Sub Lieutenant and his crew, within two or three minutes.  We rowed towards the burning LST, only to see it sink when we were about halfway across. So we rowed on until we were in the midst of a group of struggling survivors.  They were in a very poor state – badly burnt, covered in oil, already much weakened, coughing and vomiting.  We managed to get them inboard the whaler until we were dangerously overloaded.  We then rowed back to where we thought Beagle might be, but no sign of her.

 

Suddenly a searchlight pierced the surrounding blackness and almost blinded us.  It was a very gallant act by Beagle’s Captain and extremely dangerous as we were then in a known minefield and only a few miles off Cherbourg. The searchlight turned the blackness of the night into day and enabled us to come smoothly alongside and transfer our load of survivors, with much help from the ships’ crew, several of whom jumped down into the sea to help the wounded on board.  Some of the survivors were so weakened and exhausted they could do no more than hang onto the lines and the scrambling netting hastily draped over the ship’s side.  When we had transferred all our survivors safely on board Beagle we immediately returned to collect more, passing our other whaler loaded with survivors on its way back to Beagle.

 

After two more rescue missions, I came back on board, feeling that I could be more useful in the ship, and started work on the wounded, to the obvious relief of my SBA.  Every available space on Beagle was occupied by injured American military personnel. Some were badly wounded, but all were in some degree of shock, burned, grazed or cut.  All survivors had a coating of oil from the oil fuel on the surface of the sea, and a lot of them had respiratory distress.

 

It was during this time I injected one US sailor with morphine who, despite what must have been several painful fractures, appeared to be unduly happy.  The reason for this apparent jollity became clear when I met a US Army Medical Officer in another area of Beagle who had also given the sailor an injection of morphine.

 

In the meantime, more Allied naval units had arrived to take over the escort of the remaining LSTs and to beat off the E-boats.  We had rescued about 300 military personnel.  We went swiftly to Portsmouth, stopping only to give a short but moving ‘Burial at Sea’ service for those few who regrettably had died from their injuries after rescue while on board Beagle.

 

What a night it had been…By the time we had issued warm blankets to those survivors able to walk, their soaking wet, oil covered uniforms, clothes and life jackets made a huge pile on Beagle’s upper deck, reaching almost to the top of the torpedo tubes.

 

A large silent crowd of medical personnel and ambulances awaited our survivors at South Railway Jetty, Portsmouth Harbour, where they were landed.  Before disembarking, each of our patients expressed their gratitude for the crew.

 

While having a wash-up in the wardroom before lunch, the Captain came in and announced that he had been warned that he might be court martialled for ‘hazarding his ship’ in a minefield.  However, the US authorities sent a most pleasant and complimentary signal, accompanied by a Commendation for Lieutenant Commander Murch.  My SBA and I were also graciously thanked for our services.  There was no subsequent court martial for our Captain.  Beagle left Portsmouth to resume our patrols off the Normandy beaches, supporting the build-up following the invasion of Occupied Europe.

 

Desmond Tighe – Reuters Special Correspondent on HMS Beagle wrote in his dispatch for Reuters

 

Steaming inside an enemy minefield off the peninsular of Cherbourg, a British destroyer, HMS Beagle, Lieutenant Commander Norman Murch RN saved the lives of some American soldiers from a blazing tank landing craft. It was the most courageous and cold-blooded rescue venture I have seen at sea.

 

It was a dark, overcast night in the summer of 1944, with a slight drizzle, reasonably clear visibility and a relatively calm sea, as HMS Beagle nosed its way out of Portland harbour, an American wartime base, escorting five large landing craft, destination Omaha Beach. Everything was proceeding normally when suddenly there was an enormous explosion and it became obvious that one of the landing craft had been torpedoed. A prepared plan came into operation and whilst 'Beagle' stood by to rescue survivors, the other LST's proceeded on their way to the French Coast.

 
Can you imagine a worse nightmare scenario than being a crew member aboard a destroyer drifting into a minefield, with a blazing landing craft and searchlights silhouetting it against the night sky, with German submarines and 'E' boats lurking to make a kill, the crew of the destroyer in the process of rescuing some 150 American sailors from a torpedoed LST (landing craft) including some corpses, thus doubling the personnel aboard the destroyer, with the resulting chaos?

It was 2am.with rain falling, when the craft was struck, and as we began rescue work the destroyer's searchlights were deliberately switched on, illuminating the grey waters and the struggling figures. The blazing hulk of the landing craft made us stand out an easy target. The bravery of the 'Beagle's' officers and ship's company was something I shall never forget.

After the LST was torpedoed we had to chase off some German 'E' boats, causing us to nearly ram a convoy travelling in the opposite direction!! The decision to enter the minefield was an instant but conscious one on the part of the Captain and, either because of programmed behaviour established over many months serving on the 'Beagle', or because of the crew's confidence in the 'Skipper' (built on the memory of his skill and seamanship in avoiding torpedoes and mines etc.) we entered into this highly dangerous exercise with a certain amount of trepidation but, more importantly with an overwhelming desire to save as many American personnel as possible. Sadly we had to bury the non-survivors (at sea} on the way back to Portsmouth where there was a welcoming party of doctors, nurses and friends, ready to attend to our American friends; some were stretcher cases, some walking wounded and some were able to disembark unaided.

 

William V. McDermott USN. LST314
 

 

LST 314 was assigned to ‘Omaha’ Beach, one of the two US beaches from the five beaches to be

attacked.  We had loaded 15 amphibian DUKWs and sailed with a huge armada of ships for

Normandy.  The pre-invasion bombardment was awesome, with battleships, cruisers, destroyers,

etc. all hurling high explosive shells of every calibre at the German fortifications. The skies above

us were filled with Allied bombers and fighter aircraft going to and fro.  We had many USAAF P-38

Lightning fighter bombers constantly flying over us, ensuring no German aircraft had the chance

to threaten us.  The sights and sounds were incredible to behold.

We had no need to go ashore as our cargo was launched offshore.  We began to discharge the

DUKWs so they could make their run up to the beach.  We got them all launched, but as they circled,

nine from the fifteen were swamped and sank to the bottom of the English Channel due to the

choppy seas.  We had our small boats out and managed to rescue some of the survivors.  In retrospect, an additional factor was that the DUKWs were possibly overloaded with extra 105mm ammunition. But the main thing was that the troops of the 1st infantry division, although suffering heavy casualties, had managed to get ashore and were holding on, supported by Allied naval gunnery and overwhelming air power.

 

On our return to England for more supplies, our tank deck had many American casualties, with their ID tags, killed in the first assaults on Omaha Beach. We had very little sleep before leaving on the return trip to Normandy.

 

Our destination was the Cherbourg Peninsula and we left England close to Midnight on Thursday 8th June. There were five LSTs in the convoy, with the destroyer HMS Beagle as escort, three on one side and two on the other.  LSTs 314 and 376 were last in the line.  We were nearing the French coast when out of the blackness of the night, at about 0200 hours, a German E-boat approached us from the rear.  A torpedo stuck LST 314 on our port side, blew away much of the hull in a tremendous explosion and our ship went down barely 20 minutes later.

 

I was sleeping at the time of impact.  I slept near mid-deck, alongside a short downward sloping passageway that led into the screw drive compartment.  The force of the explosion blew me out of my bunk, landing at the bottom of the passageway.  I was dazed for a few moments and by the time I’d eventually managed to clamber my way up to the top deck there were very few people around.

 

On the way up, I’d tried to open the starboard side passageway hatch, but couldn’t. I then ran to the port side passageway.  This hatch was hanging sideways, partially in and out, but I was just able to squeeze through.  I ran up the passageway, but couldn’t open the port side top deck hatch.  I then crossed over to the starboard side, along the galley way passage and thankfully up to the top deck.  All I had on was my underwear shorts, and I was barefooted I became increasingly aware of the unbearable heat transferred to the iron deck from the uncontrollable fires raging below.  It was obviously the end of the line for LST314.

I then joined two other sailors and three soldiers hurriedly trying to release a life raft.  Eventually, we succeeded, but the raft was still attached to the ship by its safety rope.  One of the soldiers hastily hacked away at the rope with his small pocket knife, freeing the raft, which we immediately launched over the side and clambered in.

 

A short time later, we saw a German E boat approach our rapidly sinking LST.  I can only assume the Germans were looking for our LSTs identification number.  Strange to relate, we found a drifting broom nearby and used it as a paddle, and desperately tried to propel our raft away from the blazing ship. But I was convinced we were gradually and relentlessly being sucked into the large gaping hole in the port side where the torpedo had exploded minutes earlier. My fears must have been shared because one of the three soldiers who wasn’t wearing a lifebelt, suddenly got up and jumped off the raft into the sea.  I was later told the temperature of the water was around 13 degrees Centigrade and I thought the air temperature was not much better.

It was shortly after that when I was convinced the Good Lord worked one of his miracles.  When we reached the gaping hole in the port side, our raft was suddenly propelled rapidly and powerfully away from the sinking ship as if by an unseen hand.

We were about 100 yards behind the stern of the LCT314 when she went down, stern first, twenty minutes after being torpedoed.  We also saw LCT 376 burning fiercely, but there was no sign of the other three LCTs, presumably they’d continued heading for Normandy.  We then floated around the English Channel in the darkness, neither seeing nor hearing any other survivors, entirely at the mercy of the prevailing currents and wind, with no idea where we were heading or the direction of the nearest land.  As we drifted aimlessly, we came across the soldier who’d earlier decided to jump off our raft, floating face up.  Unfortunately, he was dead.

The raft’s netting had broken away and this enables us five survivors to stand chest deep I the water while holding

onto the raft.  We moved about, sometimes almost submerged and sometimes sitting on the sides of the raft. 

Eventually, the eastern sky gradually brightened as the grey dawn arrived, heralding Friday, 9 June 1944. The

westerly wind was noticeably stronger which in turn made the seas distinctly choppier.  I was very cold.  We still

couldn’t see anyone and I could feel the first insidious stages of exhaustion and exposure.

 

At about 0800 hours a whaler manned by British sailors suddenly appeared on the crest of a large wave.  The

whaler was from HMS Beagle. The sailors quickly hauled all five of us aboard and took us back to their destroyer. 

The Beagle must have known where we were and kept us in sight while they were busily rescuing other

shipwrecked soldiers and sailors, mostly covered in fuel oil from the sea.  We later learned that the destroyer

had sailed into German laid minefield and had switched its searchlights on, looking for struggling survivors. 

The ship was also within range of German batteries on the French coast.

 

The Beagle’s crew wrapped us up in warm blankets and gave us generous shots of rum from their own rum ration

I honestly thought I could never be warm again, but the combination of shelter, blankets steaming hot drink and

one or two generous swigs of strong rum changed my mind.

 

Tragically the number of rescued Americans on board Beagle from both LSTs died from a combination of exposure and serious injuries, mostly extensive burns.  During Beagles return to southern England, we met a US Navy ship. The more seriously wounded and those who had died after rescue were transferred to the American ship in mid-channel.

 

The fact that Beagle’s Captain and crew had deliberately sailed into a known minefield within range of enemy shore batteries, at great risk to everyone on board, on its mission of mercy to pick up about 250 struggling, mostly oil covered survivors of our two LSTs, confirmed that no greater heroism was ever displayed than that of 9 June 1944.

 

Albert E. Duncan.  USN LST376

 

After we had unloaded our cargo, we returned to the south coast of England and reloaded with about twelve Sherman tanks on our tank deck and about twenty 6x6 trucks on the main deck, along with the military personnel to operate and support them in Normandy.

 

We sailed on the return trip across to France during the late evening of June 8 in an unescorted convoy of five LSTs when the British destroyer HMS Beagle overtook us and asked for permission to join us.  Of course we were glad to oblige and the destroyer led us toward the coast of Normandy.  We were under what we called ‘Condition 2’ at that time, which meant that all compartment hatches were closed and watertight, with half of the ship’s crew on duty and half off, in four-hour periods of duty.

I happened to be on duty in the radio shack early on June 9 when, at about 02.20 hours, I heard

a very loud explosion, the ship lurched violently and all lights were immediately extinguished.  I didn’t know what had happened, was partially stunned by the explosion and just sat in complete darkness, dazed for a few minutes.

 

Then the familiar voice of our Communications Officer called out from the ladder

which led up to the radio shack, saying we had been ordered to abandon ship.  I

quickly began to recover and felt fully conscious again.  I searched and felt around

until I found a battery- powered lantern.  Turning it on, I found my pneumatic life belt,

put it on and squeezed the mechanism that punctured the inflating cartridges. 

Then, to this day I don’t know why, I turned the lantern off and hung it back up on

its hook.

 

I then went down the ladder and quickly walked out onto the main deck.  I was

shocked to see the military trucks were all well ablaze, with their gasoline tanks and

their loads of ammunition exploding in what was literally a horrifying inferno.

 

The ship appeared to be listing to port and the main deck was only a few feet above

the sea.  I then heard and saw a life raft full of men from the ship, about a hundred

feet away.  They were calling for me to swim to them.  Without a moments’ hesitation,

I plunged into the sea and found the water extremely cold.  Swimming with an inflated

life belt was rather difficult, but I managed to make it out to the raft eventually.  However, I found there was no room for me to get on the raft, so I just grabbed a rope that was attached to its side and hung on for dear life. 

 

Soon after I’d reached the raft, a beam of light stabbed through the darkness.  It was Beagles searchlight.  Her crew quickly got a lifeboat, called a whaler, lowered it into the water and began pulling our men into it.  At that point I was feeling relieved, convinced that we’d soon be picked up. Some of our survivors were able to make it across to Beagle and grab onto a cargo net that had been draped over the destroyers’ side enabling them to clamber aboard the destroyer assisted by her crew. 

 

It was a shock to us all to see Beagle suddenly turn off her searchlight and speed away.  It was later learned that some men in the water near Beagle were pulled into her twin screws as she sped away to repel the German E-boats that were about to attack again.

 

By that time I was beginning to feel quite numb with cold and tried to get a better grip on the rope.  I noticed that there were not as many men on and around the raft as there had been.  It seemed like an eternity when the blackness of the night gradually gave way to dawn and Beagle returned.  Her whaler had remained throughout and picked up all the men it could carry without itself being swamped by endless waves whipped up by a bitterly cold wind.

 

After the survivors in the whaler had been assisted aboard Beagle, the whaler then made its way over to our raft.  Along with the other survivors, I thankfully felt my numb body being pulled from the water.  We were then taken across to the Beagle, handed up to the strong and willing hands reaching down.  Once safely aboard we had our soaking clothes ripped off, quickly covered with blankets, lined up on deck, taken below, given hot tea, shots of rum, cleaned up and given dry clothing.

 

One of the officers from the Beagle, who had been in her whaler during the rescue efforts, said they’d counted 270 dead soldiers floating in the sea.

 

It was a horrible experience, but that is war.

 

In order to save our lives Beagle’s Captain, Lieutenant Commander Murch, had disobeyed orders and put his ship and his crew at risk by deliberately entering mined waters.  All the American servicemen he saved in doing so owe him our lives.  He was subsequently reprimanded by his superiors, but our country awarded him a medal.

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Norman's Career Takes Him East

 

The top brass were unimpressed.  On Beagle’s return to Portsmouth, Norman was a targeted man as the Admiralty was determined to express their discontent with his actions.  However, the U.S Navy top brass commendation saved him from the looming threat of disciplinary action. 

 

Norman was soon posted to another ship, appointed as commander to HMS Whimbrel, stationed in the far-east.  It seemed that Norman had been side-lined for his act of humanity and courage.  However, the Whimbrell was in the right place when the Japanese agreed to surrender.   The Whimbrel sailed to Tokyo Bay and Norman was present to witness as the treaty of surrender was signed. 

 

Norman was, later, awarded the Legion of Merit on 20th March 1945 for ‘distinguished service during the invasion of Normandy’.

 

He was back in Britain in 1946, where his daughter was born in 1948 following his wife’s brief appearance films in particular Anna Karenina, filmed in 1947 with Vivienne Leigh.  Normans career concluded in 1950 with his last posting to the Tyne Division on the Kaile of Loch Alsh, a small salvage tug.   An uninspiring posting for a man of such stature and humanity. His days of polo and mingling with top brass or minor royals a dim memory as he pursued a simpler life.

 

His glamorous wife, Valentina, who appeared in the film Quiet Weekend

in 1946 and Anna Karenina in 1948 had removed herself from her dull

wartime existence in a small house in Dawlish, with his mother and

relatives, to a comfortable life in Kensington, more suited to such an

elegant and ambitious lady. The birth of Anna Valentina put paid to her

acting ambitions in December 1948 and she rarely appeared after that date. 

Norman became virtually a single parent to their daughter and brought her

up while Valentina lived a more glamorous existence.

 

Valentina died in 1992 and was buried with her mother in Chiswick by

Vicar Robin Murch (Norman’s nephew) and lies with Russian compatriots

nearby including an Imperial naval lieutenant called Nikolai Fedorov and

several exiled Russian Princesses, like Irina Galitzine, author of a bilingual

memoir.

 

Norman also had a son, Geoffrey, (only later a part of Normans life) born in

Shanhai who is an artist and ceramicist in Canada. Anna became an

accomplished artist and a professor of art in California.

 

In later life, Norman applied his urbane charms to fund raising, gaining great pleasure from that period of his life.  He remarried and settled in Croydon.  He suffered from Alzheimers in later life and died in October 1986. 

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