Arctic Convoy PQ18: 25 Days That Changed the Course of the War

By John R McKay

Tells the story of one of the most significant maritime operations of the Second World War — the Arctic convoys providing the Soviets with the necessary equipment needed to win the war on the Eastern Front.

This superbly researched book tells the story of one of the most significant maritime operations of the Second World War. The importance of the Arctic convoys providing the Soviets with the necessary equipment needed to win the war on the Eastern Front has too often been underestimated. This book puts that right.

Following PQ17, the worst Allied maritime disaster of the Second World War, it was imperative that PQ18 got through. So when the convoy left Loch Ewe on 2 September 1942 the stakes could not have been higher. The Battle of Stalingrad was hanging in the balance. Had the convoy suffered unacceptable shipping and war supply losses, the Arctic route would have had to be suspended with potentially war-changing consequences not just for the Soviets but the whole Allied war effort. Consequently, as this work vividly describes, it was both the most heavily defended and the most heavily attacked convoy of the whole war.

The Author draws on contemporaneous accounts of the combatants from both sides including U-boat crews, airmen and, of course, the crews of the warships and merchantmen. Offering newly discovered facts about the convoy’s turbulent passage, this book is a valuable addition to the history of the campaign which will appeal to historians and laymen alike.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen and Sword
• Release date: Jan 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9781399036627

John R McKay

John R McKay served in the RAF before pursuing a career with the Fire and Rescue Service.He is the author of seven published novels including “The Worst Journey In The World”, based on the Arctic Convoys. Inspired by Charlie’s war service, he feels very privileged to have helped Charlie record his story.A keen football fan, John lives in Wigan with his wife Dawn. He has two daughters and one grand-daughter.

Book preview

Prologue

Luftwaffe Airbase, Bardufoss, northern Norway, 1300 hrs, 13 September 1942

Thirty-one year-old Major Werner Klümper threw his cigarette butt to the ground, zipped his flight jacket to his throat, thrust his hands deep into his jacket pockets and shivered against the cold. He knew, as far as the weather was concerned, that things were not going to get any better. It was approaching the time of year when temperatures were only going to drop a lot further and become increasingly uncomfortable. The thought of having to operate in such conditions did not appeal to him in the slightest.

Bardufoss, in the far north of Norway, was a far cry from the warmth he had enjoyed when the squadron had been based in the Tuscan city of Grosseto, 120 miles north of Rome. There he had been chief instructor at the torpedo-bomber school, teaching low-level bombing runs using Heinkel He-111 aircraft, before the recent transfer to Bardufoss, where his newly trained pilots would put into practice the skills he had taught them. Grosseto had been a wonderful place to be stationed; beautiful scenery, delicious food and wine, and almost constant sunshine next to a warm and bright blue Mediterranean Sea. In downtime he and his friends would drive to the golden beaches of the Tuscan coast and enjoy all the region had to offer. Yes, he thought, Bardufoss was very different to all that.

Prior to the transfer of the squadron to Norway, he had achieved promotion from Hauptmann to Major, and along with the burden of responsibility that the rise in rank had brought, he was filled with a sense of pride at the faith the Luftwaffe hierarchy had shown in him. The promotion was long overdue, for he was an excellent and very experienced pilot, and his abilities as a leader and instructor were equally impressive.

Bardufoss Airbase was one of the most important military sites in Norway. Close to the Arctic Circle, it was the perfect place from which to launch air attacks against the port cities of Murmansk and Archangelsk and the convoys that sailed from Iceland with war supplies for the Soviet Union. It was vital those ships were stopped, for they contained materiel that would be pitched against German forces currently fighting a fierce and bloody battle in the southern Russian city of Stalingrad, a battle that was apparently hanging in the balance.

And one such convoy was at that very moment north-west of Bear Island and steaming towards Russia – almost forty merchant ships with as many Royal Navy warships escorting them.

Hunching his shoulders against the wind, Klümper headed towards the row of aircraft lined up along the apron. All his pilots had been given their orders and knew exactly what was expected of them. Today was going to be extremely important. His squadron, 1 Kampfgeschwader 26, (I/KG26), containing twenty-eight Henkel He-111s, along with sixteen Junkers Ju-88s of Kampfgeschwader 30 out of Banak airbase, were to conduct a Goldene Zange (Golden Comb) operation, the first of its kind. Each aircraft carried two LT F5b torpedoes on its undercarriage, long, sleek, deadly missiles capable of causing sizeable damage to any ship they hit. Should the mission succeed, those vessels he was about to lead his squadron to attack would be annihilated. This would be the day when this Allied convoy would suffer the same fate as that which had sailed in July.

For some reason, he knew not why, that previous convoy had been ordered to disperse, scattering to leave the merchant ships without Royal Navy cover. Some had argued that this was due to the success of the air operations against them, but he was not so sure. It had, however, allowed the Luftwaffe and U-boat wolf-packs to pick the ships off one by one, and only a handful had made it through to Archangelsk. If the same result could be achieved again, then the British might think twice before dispatching any more convoys to Russia.

A small flight had set off half an hour ago. This was the first part of the plan; they were to reconnoitre and harass the ships, drawing their attention and paving the way for the larger attack that was to follow, the one Klümper himself was to lead. Flying low, in line abreast just above sea level, Klümper and his comrades would release their torpedoes together in one long line, effectively becoming the ‘teeth’ of the comb. If it went well, there was a strong chance that many of the merchant ships would be hit.

In theory, the plan seemed perfect, but Klümper was an experienced torpedo-bomber pilot and knew that the best-laid plans did not always go the way you wanted. Attacking at low altitude at 300mph, his planes would need to overshoot the outer screen of escort ships before their torpedoes could be released. Flying so low, with their undercarriages exposed, they would be vulnerable to the guns of the Royal Navy destroyers and the anti-aircraft ships that travelled with them. To avoid this, the strategy was to fly even lower still, along the bow or stern of the ships, thus avoiding the flak from the 4.7-inch turret guns that would struggle to depress their barrels that low. However, this would leave them closer to, and at the mercy of, the smaller calibre weaponry which he knew to be plentiful on the enemy’s ships.

He was also aware that this time there was an aircraft carrier in the convoy and so had to assume the Sea Hurricanes she carried would be airborne as soon as I/KG26 was picked up on the enemy’s radar and his commanders became aware of their approach. Sending the small flight beforehand was aimed at tempting the planes out early, hoping that they would need to refuel and re-arm as the Golden Comb aircraft came in to carry out the full attack.

Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, the commander-in-chief of the Luftwaffe, had issued a directive that the aircraft carrier was to be the main target, and so the squadron were under orders that the attack against it should be ‘so violent that this threat is removed’. Klümper, however, was not sure that this was the most important ship to focus on; surely the overall aim was to stop the delivery of the cargoes to the Soviets, making the merchant ships of much higher strategic importance. But he knew that no aircraft carrier had been sunk by the Luftwaffe in any theatre of war, and should they manage to sink it, this would be both a feather in Göring’s cap and a boost to the morale of the German public.

Klümper did not expect all those he flew with today to return. He did not have to tell his crews this; they already knew. He had seen it in their faces at the final briefing, when he had informed them of the convoy’s composition, course and speed, and explained to them the importance of the day’s mission: the ships they were to attack contained supplies that would be used against their countrymen on the front line in Russia, and they needed to be stopped at all costs.

Climbing on board, he waved good luck to the other crews as they too stepped up into their aircraft. Settling into his seat next to his navigator he took a deep breath and exhaled. He flicked the ignition switches and started the twin Jumo 211F-1 engines. As the ground crews removed the chocks from the wheels, he waved at them, and a few moments later he pushed the throttle forward and taxied the Heinkel to the runway.

All around, the throbbing of aircraft engines filled the air as the planes of the squadron formed up alongside and behind him. Each aircraft carried a crew of five: pilot; navigator, who also acted as bombardier and nose gunner; waist gunner; ventral gunner, who was probably the most exposed of all the crew, operating the machine guns situated on the undercarriage; and dorsal gunner, who had the added responsibility of operating the radio.

Klümper set the throttle to maximum and pushed forward, sending the aircraft hurtling down the runway. A few moments later, he felt the ground fall away as he pulled back on the control column, lifting the Heinkel into the sky. He checked to his left and could see the others following him as their pilots did the same, expertly guiding their planes into the early afternoon sky. Now airborne, he set a northerly course, determined to fulfil his mission and stop this convoy.

Klümper had mixed emotions about wreaking such slaughter. He knew that should the Goldene Zange attack be a success, many people would die horribly this day. He would be consigning many unfortunate souls to the bottom of the ocean. His mind flashed back to five years previously, when he had been flying with Seefliegerstaffel 88 as part of the Condor Legion during the Spanish Civil War. Seeing a defenceless enemy troopship en route to Cartagena, he had made the choice not to attack it. He could very easily have sunk the unarmed ship with 400 enemy combatants on board, but instead he told his Spanish translator to radio the ship’s captain and tell him there was a U-boat in the water nearby on its way to sink her. The ship was then ordered to sail to Melilla and surrender to General Franco’s troops. This was, of course, a bluff, but fearing that what Klümper had told him was true, the captain did as requested, thus saving the lives of all those on board and avoiding what would have been a massacre. This act of integrity had earned Klümper huge respect, not only from his comrades but also from those he was fighting.

With these thoughts still running around his head, he settled into the flight and tried to relax as best he could.

* * *

They had been in the air for two hours now, and Klümper looked out of the window to his left and right. The squadron was keeping formation, flying at a steady pace. Maintaining an altitude of around 200ft, above a choppy and restless sea, forty-four aircraft stretched out across the sky. It was an awesome sight.

The weather had been intermittently problematic. Flying conditions, although not the best, had become more bearable as they had progressed, the wind buffeting them occasionally and rain and sleet splashing hard against the front canopy. With visibility down to around six miles, he had been unable to locate the shadowing Ju-88 that was supposed to guide them in. Realizing that if he waited any longer for the missing aircraft he might have to turn back without conducting the attack, he had taken a chance and turned to the east, hoping his calculations were correct and he would soon spot the convoy.

And then he could see them, a huge fleet of ships heading in a north-easterly direction at a slow and ponderous pace.

It was like nothing he had seen before. They were so many that he didn’t bother to try and count them; it was pointless, they were so large in number. He tried to seek out the aircraft carrier but understood that recognizing it among such a vast number of ships would be too difficult. There were ten long columns of merchant vessels, evenly spaced, with Royal Navy escorts around them and others flitting between the columns like shepherds keeping their flock in order, providing a protective screen to stop predators from attacking. The logistical operation in getting such a number loaded, formed up and kept in order was impressive, he had to admit; the sheer scale of the British operation had to be admired.

But then he was not there to sit in admiration of the brilliant organization of the Royal Navy. His orders were to smash this convoy, and he was going to do his level best to do just that. He was under no illusion that the destroyers would by now have picked the planes up on their radar and would know they were coming. He allowed himself a small smile. What must their commanders have thought on seeing so many aircraft headed their way?

Although so great in number, to Klümper the ships looked like sitting ducks; easy pickings should they get this attack right. He scanned the multitude of ships again for the aircraft carrier but could not make it out among them. He did not waste too much time trying to find it as he needed to concentrate on maintaining formation and getting on with the Goldene Zange attack. Göring might have to wait a little longer yet for his prize.

He knew the destroyers were armed to the teeth, with 4.7-inch turret guns, Bofors, Oerlikons and a myriad of other weapons that could be used against him and his crews. They were headed towards a maelstrom of fire, there was no doubt about it. He knew that success and survival was all about his pilots keeping their nerve.

He flicked open the mic and spoke to the other pilots, giving them words of encouragement as they settled into the attack formation; Ju-88s and He-111s, spread out across the skyline, like a soar of eagles going in for the kill. As one, the planes dropped to an altitude of 70m above the surface, and as they drew closer, a sudden burst of ack-ack exploded around them as the turret gunners on the destroyers tested their range. However, most of the shells burst above them, the big guns unable to get their trajectories quite so low.

Speeding past the destroyers of the outer screen, flak and small arms fire filling the air around them, Klümper was relieved to see no Sea Hurricanes in the sky. It appeared the diversionary attack earlier had done its job, the British planes being forced back to the aircraft carrier to re-arm and refuel.

His concentration was now total as they approached the optimum range for release and, when he judged them to be 600m away he gave the order to fire. At once torpedoes dropped from the long line of aircraft, splashing into the water as their wet heaters kicked in and they were propelled forward at 40 knots, a long line of death on a collision course with the convoy. His ordnance now released, Klümper pushed forward on the column to take the aircraft even lower.

And then he was upon them, banking sharply to avoid hitting one of the ships, flying his plane only a few metres from her stern. With machine-gun fire and Bofors shells bursting all around him, he pulled back on the control column to take the Heinkel higher and away from the immediate danger. He could now see the muzzle flashes of the guns below. The air began to fill with tracer and exploding shells, as the 4.7-inch turret guns started to pound the skies, throwing shrapnel and destruction all around, buffeting his aircraft and shaking him and his navigator violently. The airman in the dorsal gun turret let out an oath, but Klümper ignored him. He needed to focus just to keep airborne, clutching the control column hard, his feet working the pedals furiously. If they were hit and had to ditch in the sea, there would be little chance of survival.

He observed the ships turning as the order was given by the convoy commodore for them to move 45° to port, away from the approaching danger. By turning parallel to the tracks of the torpedoes as they came ever nearer, ships could reduce the target area and thereby the chances of being hit.

Klümper was now flying alongside the ships, almost at mast height, speeding through the lanes between the columns. The bursts of heavy enemy ordnance were now ever closer, mixing in with machine-gun fire, some of which thwacked terrifyingly into the side of the plane. He glanced to his left and saw another of his He-111s, flames bursting from the port engine as it was hit by anti-aircraft fire from one of the destroyers. Almost immediately it cartwheeled into the sea, its wings ripped from the fuselage as it hit the water. For a brief moment it settled on the surface before rolling onto its side and sinking beneath the waves.

Klümper knew there was no hope for the crew. If the enemy fire hadn’t already killed them then, even if they managed to get out of the plane, the ice-cold water of the Arctic Ocean would do for them instead. They were gone. Time for mourning their loss would have to come later. For now, there was still a job to do.

A few minutes passed as the squadron tried to avoid the relentless barrage put up by the multitude of ships and attempted to drop more bombs onto them. He could see Hurricanes in the sky, having now taken off from the carrier HMS Avenger, harassing more of his planes. In his peripheral vision he saw another of the squadron go down, taking with it its crew of five airmen. As more of his planes looked to be getting hit, he gave the order to turn for home and banked towards the south. Still the constant fire from the destroyers shook his aircraft, but, luckily, from what he could make out, the plane had not been seriously damaged.

It was only now that he was able to see how successful the attack had been. It appeared that the whole of the starboard column had taken hits, and he could see at least five ships burning, smoke rising in great plumes into the mid-afternoon sky. As he looked on, he witnessed one of the merchant ships disappearing beneath the waves, gone forever, taking her cargo and crew with her. However, despite so many ships having taken hits, he could see the majority still afloat, the quick reactions of their skippers to the turn order having saved them.

He tried to count the planes that were now following him and realized they were rather fewer than had set out earlier from Bardufoss. Smoke trailed from the engine of one, and he wondered if it would manage to hold out until it got back to land or would become another casualty of this horrendous war.

He knew that the crews of the planes that had now gone were almost certainly all dead. However, from what he could gather from his initial observations, it looked as if the attack had had at least limited success.

Had it been worth it? he asked himself. Was the loss of so many crews justifiable in the whole scheme of things? One thing was certain: he could not have asked for more from any of his men. They had performed impeccably.

As the remaining planes of I/K26 continued south, he checked his watch. From start to finish, the whole attack had taken no longer than fifteen minutes; so much death and destruction in such a short space of time. He only hoped they had done enough, but he knew there would be more of the same to come. More attacks like this were required if the convoy was to be destroyed. Maybe, if his pilots held their nerve and were not too disheartened by their losses, they could achieve the victory his superiors so craved.

Only time would tell.

Chapter 1

2–5 September 1942

Loch Ewe, in north-west Scotland, is a bucolic and tranquil place. Its banks are home to small crofting hamlets, with the village of Poolewe at the head of the loch to the south and the larger village of Aultbea nestling on its eastern shore. Facing Aultbea is the large, picturesque Isle of Ewe, which occupies the centre of the loch. The area is home to hundreds of varieties of flora as well as a wide diversity of wildlife, including red squirrels, pine martens, red deer and numerous species of birds. In the summer, otters and seals can occasionally be seen popping their heads out of the water to observe golden eagles swooping majestically over the loch’s deep, calm waters.

In early 1942, Loch Ewe was to become home to more than just wild animals and interesting plant life. It was decided by the Admiralty that this peaceful and rather thinly-populated area was the perfect location to be the new mustering point for the ships that were to sail the Arctic convoy route. Previously, the ships of those convoys had travelled independently to Iceland from the ports at which they had been loaded, forming up in Faxa Bay at Hvalfjödur, near Reykjavik.

From these assembly points the ships sailed east towards Norway and then on to Russia to deliver their cargoes. The route took them partly along the Norwegian coast and then around the northern tip of Scandinavia, before heading east to the ports of Murmansk on the Barents Sea, just inside the Kola Inlet, and Archangelsk, further east on the White Sea at the mouth of the Dvina River. The route varied depending on the season, the frozen pack ice in winter making it impossible to sail too far north and forcing them closer to land and consequently nearer to the Luftwaffe bases in Norway.

However, with the threat of U-boat wolf-packs operating in the Western Approaches it was determined the ships needed to be afforded more protection in the early stages of the journey and so would travel in convoy from Loch Ewe to Iceland. There, they would rendezvous with other merchant ships coming from North America for the onward journey to Russia.

Over the course of only a few weeks, a number of anti-aircraft gun positions had been constructed, spaced strategically around the loch’s shore; an anti-submarine boom had also been stretched across the mouth of the loch, from Mellon Charles on the east, via the small isle of Sgeir an Araig, to Firemore on the west. Sailors, administrators and staff of the Women’s Royal Naval Service (WRNS or Wrens), along with civilian construction and maintenance workers, descended on the area in large numbers, bringing with them heavy machinery and all manner of military vehicles and hardware. Around 250 men of the Royal Artillery were also posted to the area to crew the air defences at places such as Boor and Rubha Nan Sasan. To add to this protection, barrage balloons were spaced out at different locations around the loch, with the building used to inflate them erected in Tournaig. At Poolewe, the stately home of Pool House was appropriated to act as Command Headquarters.

Almost overnight the population of the villages around Loch Ewe increased fourfold. To accommodate this influx of personnel, wooden dormitory huts, offices and equipment stores were constructed in Aultbea for over 1,000 workers, and a cinema was built in the village, which soon became the main social hub for locals and their new military neighbours.

As the ships arrived, laden with cargoes that had been loaded in such ports as Liverpool, Glasgow, Belfast and Hull, their captains and senior officers would meet at Pool House to receive orders and intelligence reports. If time permitted, their crews would be granted shore leave. Entertainment was often laid on by the locals; merchant sailors mixing with their Royal Navy counterparts to attend dances and the occasional movie screening; local pubs filled to bursting with sailors, Wrens and civilian workers from the shore bases making the most of the opportunity for one last blow-out before embarking on what Winston Churchill described as ‘the worst journey in the world’. For they knew there was a very good chance they might not return from the voyage on which they were about to embark.

And so, in no time at all, Loch Ewe went from being a quiet, unassuming place, so far untouched by war, to one of the busiest naval locations in the whole of the British Isles.

* * *

At the end of August 1942, the largest Russian convoy yet began to assemble in the loch.

As each ship arrived, crews already present, seeing the huge number of vessels already at anchor, presumed this would be the last; yet still more kept appearing, filling every available berth the loch had to offer. Heavy cargo ships lying low in the water, their holds laden with essential war materiel for the Soviets; tanks, trucks, aircraft (broken down and packed in boxes), ammunition, food, fuel, medicines and raw materials. When their holds had been filled to bursting point and no more room could be found, more items were strapped and chained firmly to their decks, including armoured vehicles and trucks (there was even the odd locomotive). Every