During all this time the fleet of yachts had gone clear of misfortune. In fog and mist and blackness they were banging up and down the rock-bound Breton coast amid ragged reefs and pinnacles, through crooked passages, and over German mine-fields. Offshore they dodged collisions by a hair or steered where the “Allo, Allo,” of the wireless submarine warnings indicated that the enemy was active. Good luck and good seamanship had saved them from disaster. It seemed as though these yachts bore charmed lives, but the pitcher can go too often to the well and the Alcedo was fated to be the victim. She had often cruised with the Corsair on escort duty, and between them there was bound to be a feeling of companionship. In port the officers and men had become acquainted, either visiting aboard or meeting ashore. And together they had stood by to aid the people of the Antilles and the Finland at the risk of destruction by torpedo attack.
CHIEF YEOMAN PAULSON
GUNNER’S MATE WILEY
The Alcedo left Quiberon Bay in the afternoon of November 4th with a convoy bound to the United States. In the middle of that same night, with murky weather, the yacht was fairly blown to pieces and twenty men were killed or drowned with no chance to try to save themselves. It was assumed by the survivors, and quite plausibly, that in the darkness the yacht might have been mistaken for one of the transports by the commander of the U-boat, who, if he knew his business, would have preferred to pot one of the big troop-ships rather than a small escort vessel.
Commander W. T. Conn, Jr., of the Alcedo, was carried down with his ship, but somehow came to the surface and fought his way clear of the suction and the fearful confusion of débris and agitated water. He described the disaster as almost instantaneous, a disintegration of the yacht whose frames, bulkheads, and plates must have been ripped apart from end to end as though they were so much cardboard.
While asleep in the emergency cabin immediately under the upper bridge [said he], I was awakened by a commotion and received a report from some man unknown, “A submarine, sir.” I jumped out of the bunk and went to the upper bridge where the officer of the deck, Lieutenant Drexel Paul, informed me that he had sounded general quarters at sighting a submarine on the surface about three hundred yards on the port bow, and that a torpedo had been fired. From the port wing of the bridge I was in time to see the white wake of the torpedo as it drove straight for the ship. Lieutenant Paul had put the rudder full right before I arrived, hoping to avoid the blow. The ship answered slowly to her helm, however, and before any other action could be taken I saw the torpedo strike the ship’s side just under the forward port chain plates.
I was thrown down and dazed, for a few seconds, by falling wreckage and torrents of water. On regaining my feet, I sounded the submarine alarm on the siren to call all hands if they had not heard the general alarm gong, and to direct the attention of the convoy and the other escorting vessels. I shouted to the forward gun crews to see if they were at their stations, but by this time the forecastle was awash. The foremast had fallen, carrying away the radio aerial. I passed the word to abandon ship.
I then left the bridge and went into the chart-house to obtain the ship’s position from the chart, but the lights had gone out and I was unable to see. Stepping out of the chart-house, I met the Navigator, Lieutenant Leonard, and asked him if he had been able to send a radio and he said, “No.” I then went with him to the main deck and told him to take charge of cutting away the forward dories and life-rafts.