Sergeant Elmo Hugh Munroe

Atlantic Crossing - HMS Chitral

October 24, 1941 - November 2, 1941

 

The Personal Account of

Elmo Hugh Munroe

As Told To His Daughter Mary Lynn Smith

 

 

MUNROE, ELMO HUGH

 

April 10, 1921 - Oct. 22, 2008

 

WWII RCAF - PFF 405 SQUADRON

 

As a young girl I was captivated by the stories that my Dad told me about his youth and wartime experiences. He was a natural story teller and blessed with an incredible memory. When Dad talked about the "old days" we were transported to other times and places through his detailed and vivid descriptions. We touched down in England and Scotland, visited the state of Maine, wandered around the maritime provinces of New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island and Nova Scotia, and even sailed past the colony of Newfoundland before it became part of Canada in 1949. I was a little in awe of how much Dad had done and seen before I came into his life when he was twenty nine.

Elmo Hugh Munroe was born in the northeastern state of Maine, USA on April 10, 1921, just a day after his parents crossed the international border from New Brunswick. As a youngster he worked on a potato farm in Littleton when he wasn't in school, and he was the eldest of "four" as I am. His sister Clara and brothers Don and Bill were also born there. Dad had fond memories of the Houlton area, especially the local cinema where he was a regular visitor. When prompted he could rattle off all the counties of Maine in alphabetical order at breakneck speed and this was always a showstopper, especially in his later years. At Dad's funeral my brother Ronald hurriedly recited them with the help of a list and found it challenging.

When Dad was thirteen he moved with his family to the Canadian village of Tabusintac, New Brunswick. Eric Munroe, a veteran of Word War I, was born there and had married Eunice Carroll in 1919 after the peace. Dad inherited his Mother's beautiful smile and his Father's love of the outdoors. Young Elmo worked in the woods, toiled on the "mud skunk", and fished for a living. Dad had lots of stories to relate about those days and I was always struck by how much he enjoyed them despite their obvious hardships.

He also attended a one room schoolhouse in that village as a teenager, as did a "little girl" named Reta Wishart who was five years younger. When Dad returned to Tabusintac after World War II Miss Wishart was the teacher there, and all grown up. They married in the summer of 1948. Dad's tie and Mom's long white gloves worn on that happy occasion are stored with other precious mementos in their cedar chest that is now a family heirloom.

At some phase in his development Dad became intensely interested in "internal combustion engines" and how "the moving parts" were "timed and synchronized to produce power to drive vehicles". He took a course in Chatham, New Brunswick from late 1939 to March of 1940 under the youth training plan, at a service station run by Nevin and Goulette. A few months later he attended a course in Moncton that changed the direction of his life. It was on aero-engine mechanics and upon completion Dad went to the local Post Office and promptly enlisted in the RCAF. He boarded a train that very night for Manning Depot in Toronto where he received his "basic training in drill and discipline".

Whenever we got together after I moved away from home Dad would reminisce about the wartime years. His little black address book had hand drawn crosses beside the names of several comrades, and there was visible sadness whenever he turned the pages. Elmo made friends for life and never forgot the ones who were taken too soon. Keeping in touch with family and friends was like breathing to Dad and it gave him great pleasure. There was hardly a day when we, his "four", did not get a call or a visit. In later years Dad always had his portable phone and long list of numbers at the ready. Everyone on the roster got a call regularly from Elmo, including his RCAF buddies.

As time went by Dad continued to reflect on his World War II service, and I began to understand that one of his experiences from that "interval" had affected him more than the others. One day out of the blue he simply said, "Manny", a name he has called me since childhood, "I wonder whatever happened to the Chitral? I'd love to know."

In an effort to get some answers I visited the Saint John Public Library, and eventually sent several letters of enquiry out based on what I'd found there. On his 63rd birthday I was able to present Dad with a binder book of random articles, historical information, statistics and a few photocopied pictures of the Chitral. He was surprised and delighted that his question had been answered. The armed merchant cruiser had indeed made it through the War. A short time later I received two black and white photos of the ship from a librarian of the P & O Lines and had them framed for him. We continued to chat about the Chitral and enjoyed getting the binder out to leaf through whenever we got together.

SS Chitral was built by Alexander Stephen & Sons of Glasgow, Scotland. She was launched on January 27, 1925 by the daughter of the P&O Chairman and left London March 7th on her maiden voyage to Australia. Ten years later the Chitral was transferred to UK/Far East service and in the summer of 1939 she was requisitioned by the British Admiralty for service as an armed merchant cruiser. Seven 6-inch and two 3-inch guns were fitted during the conversion and her after funnel was removed. HMS Chitral was commissioned by the Navy on October 4, 1939. A month later her crew rescued survivors of HMS Rawalpindi, sunk by two German battleships while trying to defend a convoy. She served on Northern Patrol, Northern and Western Patrol, Bermuda and Halifax Escort, and from May through October of 1941 was part of the North Atlantic Escort Force.

Dad's crossing was her last in that service, for in early November she was assigned to the East Indies Station and became part of the Eastern Fleet (Indian Ocean). Near the end of 1943 she began duty as a troopship for the Ministry of War Transport and her second funnel was replaced. She was returned to her owners in 1948 and completed her circle of life when she reentered the Australian trade. In 1953 the Chitral was sold to the British Iron and Steel Corporation (Salvage) Ltd., and handed over for demolition to W.H. Arnott Young and Co Ltd, Dalmuir.

As I studied the Chitral's history I wondered if original records from Dad's Atlantic crossing still existed. They would be "the icing on the cake"! The Public Record Office in London, England got back to me after a time. They had all of HMS Chitral's logs that had been preserved, and yes they did have October, 1941 but November was missing. That meant that I could get all but the last few days of Dad's voyage and I was ecstatic. They arrived and were wrapped and presented to him at his 65th birthday party. My husband Ron put them in a big black binder, and filled a second one with maps he had created to show the coordinates and position of the Chitral as she journeyed across the Atlantic with Dad on board. In order to record the events of those days I encouraged Dad to tell me everything that he could remember about his crossing, and I raced to keep up with him as I scribbled it all down.

In 2008 Dad spent his final days in a room on the eighth floor of the Halifax Infirmary that looked out over the old fortifications of Citadel Hill. His "four" believed until the very end that he might get better but on the 22nd of October he died there. It was exactly 67 years to the day after he marched down to the waterfront from that historic area's barracks and boarded HMS Chitral. His final journey would reunite him with Mom after four lonely years and that was all that made it bearable.

It is the summer of 2009 now and I am assembling a little package about Dad that will be attached to his "Commemorative Brick" on the Wall of Service at Pier 21 in Halifax, Nova Scotia. It can be found at Column 29, Row 10 and provides the following information: Sgt Elmo Hugh Munroe 405 PFF Squadron RCAF. He enjoyed visiting that waterfront museum in his later years and reflecting on his departure from that area way back in 1941.

The last time Dad came west to visit me was in the spring of 2008, just six months before he died. In his own words he was not "one hundred percent" or "in the pink", but he made the long flight out from Halifax to Vancouver on his own. My sister Heather and her husband were on another plane that virtually flew alongside his most of the way. Last minute reservations and change restrictions meant they could not travel together, although they landed within minutes of each other. After a few days rest and catching up at my place Dad flew another 700 miles north to visit my sister Lorna and her family in Smithers. He saw some bears and was whisked away to Price Rupert for fish and chips before he returned to Vancouver on the way home. His grandchildren and great grandson are fortunate to have some beautiful memories of their last get-togethers.

My son spent a day sightseeing with his grandfather and the two of them had a wonderful little chat the next day as they rested up together. Peter knew that I had always planned to record some of Dad's colorful stories and he turned on the camcorder and taped their conversation. Once Dad got used to the idea he relaxed and got into the groove. It was several months after he passed away before I listened to the recording, and when I finally got up the courage I was overjoyed to hear his familiar voice again. It was just as if he was right back in the living room with us. Although he was a little hoarse Dad reminisced about his time overseas and related for the last time his memories of the Chitral. I hope to attach the treasured recording to what's been written here.

This then is Dad's Atlantic Crossing - HMS Chitral story as told to me, the eldest of his "four", in 1986:

"I met Mel Lunney and Martin Keough for the first time early in 1941 in Moncton, New Brunswick where we took our basic RCAF aero-engine training and during the four or five months that we studied there we became great friends. After completing this basic training the three of us boarded a train for Manning Depot in Toronto. The train was filled with servicemen - indeed most trains running in those days seemed filled to capacity with troops on the move. We spent a month in Toronto where we were outfitted in our RCAF uniforms - blue great coats that seemed to weigh a ton, blue suits with CANADA badges on the arms, grey flannel shirts, wedge caps and big shiny black boots.

The month passed by in an endless blur of drills. We were supposed to proceed to St. Thomas, Ontario for our next phase of training but we ended up in Ottawa because of an epidemic of sleeping sickness in western Canada. Eventually we were cleared to go to St. Thomas and we spent another four or five months there on the advanced part of our aero-engine training. About one hundred of us were in the 63rd Entry in St. Thomas and from that number twenty-three of us were selected for duty overseas. The whole Entry had volunteered but due to the sleeping sickness only men from Ontario east were selected. Martin, Mel, and I, all New Brunswickers, were among the twenty-three.

I left St. Thomas for my hometown of Tabusintac, in northeastern New Brunswick, where I stayed a week before moving on to Halifax, Nova Scotia and the jumping-off spot. The three of us met up again at the Citadel Hill Barracks where we waited every day for our orders. We marched and drilled constantly and we were packed and ready to leave any time on a moment's notice. By day we wandered through the streets of Halifax, frequently taking the ferry to Dartmouth for something to do. We wondered when the call would come.

On the evening of October 22, 1941 at approximately 10:00 PM we were told to gather our belongings together and assemble on the parade square. We didn't know what was happening, until the Commander ordered us to march down the hill to the docks. We walked a long distance, over an hour it seemed, carrying all our belongings - personal effects, clothes, shaving gear, mess tins, respirators, and gas capes. When we got to the dock we were each given a hammock number, two blankets, and a Mae West. We were told to put them right on and to keep them on for the duration of the trip. They fitted around our necks like pillows and it took some adjusting to comfortably sleep with them on. These supplies were given out to us quickly and quietly in the dark. Then we proceeded single-file over the gang plank and onto the Chitral for the first time.

We went down into the hold of the ship below the water line. Canvas hammocks suspended by ropes hung there in long rows. We had a difficult time at first mastering the art of getting into them without spilling out onto the floor, and there was a lot of laughing and joking about it. They were so close together that it was almost impossible to move in one without bumping into the guy next to you.

Our first job was to familiarize ourselves with the ship and to meet the crew, and then we were assigned our action stations. I was given the job of helping certain sailors roll out depth charges in an emergency situation. We were all assigned to lifeboats and taught the proper procedure to follow if it became necessary to abandon ship. On October 24, 1941 the Chitral sailed. We were on our way!

A task that we quickly and out of necessity became adept at right off the bat was handling a mop, for no sooner did the Chitral get underway than the seasickness began. For most of the trip the hold and the decks were constantly in need of scrubbing. Some people were sick throughout the crossing, and most were intermittently. My years of fishing in New Brunswick must have toughened me up for I was never once sick. But I sure did my share of cleaning up anyway. Mops, buckets, and hoses were in constant use and every so often a heavy swell gave us a helping hand as it washed over the decks.

I found the crew friendly and helpful and I got to know some of them quite well during the trip. Most were merchant sailors hailing from Scotland, Ireland, and England, and a few were Newfoundlanders. They maintained a constant vigil, manned the guns and the depth charges, and by day one of them was always on watch in the crow's nest. It was our job to stand by and assist them if and when they needed us. As I recall only the Captain wore a regulation navy uniform, and I plainly remember seeing the braid on his arm.

In the beginning just out of Halifax we seemed all alone, but when we neared the Grand Banks off Newfoundland we rendezvoused with other ships. From then on, in the daytime, we spread out from horizon to horizon as far as the eye could see. I think there were four or five of us and some looked like merchant ships to me. Gradually at dusk we began to move closer until we came together after dark. We zigzagged constantly and it seemed to me that we changed direction every seven minutes, in fact I recall timing it once for awhile. It was a strange feeling standing on the stern and watching the last sight of land on the North American continent. When there was only ocean in sight I felt a lump in my throat, and I wondered when I'd see my home again and where I was going. But that was privileged information and in fact it wasn't until we spotted the coast of Ireland that we were really certain it was England.

Some days the sea was very heavy and the Chitral rolled around sickeningly as waves crashed over her decks. On those days there was a steady moaning and groaning from below and the mops came out in full force. We spent most of every day below deck, but when the rattlers (sirens) blared, all hands immediately went to their action stations and from there to lifeboat drills. The drills were frequent, and we became fast and proficient in carrying them out. We practice-fired the guns (pom poms), and spent time sliding down and climbing up poles that ran between the decks.

Below deck we played cards, smoked, sang, told jokes and slept to pass the time. When we weren't in our hammocks, we were usually in the galley. I remember the boiled eggs, cut-up pineapple, kippered herring, mutton stew and bread. Tea was the main beverage and I drank lots of it. Sometimes the smell of the food was overwhelming but I was usually able to eat it. It was usually a tough job to even get it down as the dishes constantly slid across the tables, often onto the floor. We kept ourselves busy cleaning dishes, tables, and floors and carrying rations from the bottom of the ship's hold up ladders to the galley which seemed to be located on the waterline.

I spent a little time each day writing a letter to my folks and I have it in my possession to this day as my Mother saved it for me. There wasn't a lot I could say in the letter since all our mail was censored. I thought about home a lot. Most of us did. Some were very lonely but most kept it to themselves. I can't remember any showers on the ship but there may have been some. I believe I wore the same clothes day in and day out throughout the trip. We had to be clothed at all times in case we had to abandon ship. At night we slept fully dressed.

At night everything was totally blacked out, not a light could be visible from outside. Most nights were uneventful but the night of October 30th was a different story. I think it was the only night that the rattlers sounded. We heard them often in the daytime before practice drills but when they wailed that night we knew it was for real. I had been sitting in a small room talking to one of the sailors who was giving me a lesson on English money when suddenly the siren blared and instantly the sailors shot up on deck with us right on their heels. We raced to our action stations. The engines stopped and we lay quietly in the water, rolling with the swell. The only sounds we could hear were our own pounding heartbeats and the waves slapping the sides of the ship.

There was only a little whispered conversation as we peered into the dark, straining our eyes to see what was out there and wondering whether a torpedo might come through our side any minute. We were scared and in the inky blackness we imagined we saw so many things. It seemed as if we stood there for hours. I was ready to load depth charges onto the launching ramp and we had one on there ready to roll. We had our Mae Wests on but we knew they would not keep us alive long in that icy water. Sometime before dawn the all clear came. I don't remember if a siren sounded or if it was by word of mouth, but we knew for sure when the engines started up again.

The next morning we were all brought up on deck where the Captain told us that the RDF (Radio Direction Finder) had detected a submarine near us for a time, and that an American ship had been sunk. This must have been the USS Reuben James, for she went down around 5:30 AM on October 31, 1941 some six hundred miles west of Ireland. Later in the day we spotted a huge convoy heading towards us. At first, still jittery from the night before, we thought it might be the enemy but we could soon clearly see the American flags flying. What a welcome sight they were! There were huge battleships and fast gunboats and they opened up to let us pass through their midst. At this time the Americans were not at war but were ferrying supplies back and forth across the Atlantic. Their ships were enormous compared to ours and the big cannons mounted on the decks made them all the more imposing. We looked like a dory beside them and as we moved through their convoy the American sailors stood on their decks waving down at us.

It seemed no time though and they were all out of sight. We felt more alone than ever then and very aware of how small and vulnerable we really were. Shortly afterwards we spotted RAF reconnaissance planes overhead checking out our position. They circled around and we waved at them. Later British escorts came out to lead us in. As we made our way through the Irish Sea under cover of darkness we watched shells bursting and anti-aircraft fire flaring on the coast. That was our first glimpse of actual conflict and it was an eerie sight.

The sight of red and purple heather growing on the banks of the Clyde was a beautiful first impression of Scotland. As we moved into the River we were elated to be close to land again after twelve days on the open sea. We opened up the galley portholes and tossed food scraps into the river, and incredibly hundreds of porpoises almost immediately appeared and moved up the river alongside our ship. What a sight that was! People stood on the banks and waved to us. We knew we were getting close to our destination.

When we arrived in Greenock the sky was covered with big green balloons (dirigibles) suspended by cables fastened to the ground. They provided cover against enemy aircraft and prevented dive bombers from coming in. But they could not stop bombs being dropped from above, and when we tried to tie up we were unable to because all of the docks had been blown up. We were taken off the Chitral a few at a time in tugs, brought into a cafeteria, fed a lunch of sandwiches, tea and coffee etc., and hurriedly loaded onto a train. We traveled all night and when we woke up the next day we were somewhere in the south of England.

In Bournemouth I was billeted at a hotel called the Cecil. It was one of the many hotels that were used for troops waiting to find out where they would be posted to. I was finally able to mail the letter I had written on board Chitral. Suddenly I felt very lonesome and I went off by myself and cried my eyes out. But this soon passed and I decided to check out my new surroundings. I was only there a few days when I was transferred to 405 Squadron, First Canadian Bomber Squadron, which was located at Pocklington. It was time to put my training to the test. These are some of the stations our Squadron operated from - East Yorkshire, Topcliffe, York, Beaulieu, Hants, Leeming York, and Gransden Lodge where our roll was changed to Pathfinder Squadron. Eight hundred and one paid the extreme sacrifice on the Squadron.

I returned to Canada aboard the Ile de France, landed in Boston, USA, and from there traveled by train to Lachine, Quebec. I was given a new uniform, some money and was sent home for leave before being released on March 12, 1945.

I often think back over those days that I spent on that little ship. I will never forget the Chitral. Two pictures hang on my wall to remind me, one of her in her heyday before the War as a luxury liner for the P & O Line, and the other of her dressed in wartime grey with guns mounted. She was a tough little ship and I recently discovered that she made it safely through the war. I wonder how many men she carried across the oceans. For sure they have their special memories of her too.

I'm still in touch with Martin Keough who lives in Campbellton, New Brunswick today. Mel Lunney and I remained close friends over the years until his death last year in Minto, N.B. We shared so many good times during those war years and we liked to talk about the Chitral. That was an experience that stayed with us both. I would like to dedicate this story to Mel for it is his story too".

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In conclusion I will add a poem here, one that I have grown to love. Two lines of it were etched in 1972 on the tombstone of Manford Carroll. Dad was very like his kindly uncle in many ways and I continue to visit his grave in Vancouver from time to time, especially on Remembrance Day. It was only recently though that I took proper notice of the abbreviated verse on the monument, "Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me". I don't know why I was oblivious to its meaning for so long.

A few months later I read The Kingdom By The Sea - A Journey Around Great Britain, by Paul Theroux. The author traveled around that country's coastline and penned a most interesting account of what he'd seen. He described places that my father had frequented during the War, and I was happy to gain some understanding. Theroux was briefly in Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight, "a very cozy harbor...an ancient place...it faced north". There on the Solent an aged Tennyson wrote a most beautiful poem "recommending his soul to Heaven". Dad was stationed nearby for a time at Bournemouth and for certain gazed south at that sea between the Island and the mainland. He loved the ocean and was at home on it, especially in his beloved little fishing boat that he bought in New Brunswick after the war ended. For a short idyllic time he was a fisherman again until the responsibilities of a growing family nudged him back into the RCAF. He even had a story from those days about "Jumping the Bar" and it was a dandy. This magnificent and comforting poem seems just right somehow.

 

Crossing The Bar

By Alfred Lord Tennyson

 

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crossed the bar.