One July In World War II

The density of the sea fog was such that it was almost a physical
entity, rolling in grey waves of moisture that clung to anything of a
solid nature, beading and dripping in monotonous repetition. The twin
beams from the lighthouse tower stabbed outward into this dismal miasma,
impotently endeavouring to send their message to mariners that would
guide them as they sailed up and down the coast. Carey Chickens chuckled
as they hovered and flitted to and fro in the beams of light, rejoicing
to be in their element. The waves on the Southern Point moaned softly.

Around ten PM, as the family was having tea prior to retiring, a muted
thumping sound made itself known, not so much an actual noise, as a
pervasion of the aural senses, a subliminal beat, as drums, heard from afar.

My dad went out on the veranda to see if the sound was more audible from
outside. It was and sounded much nearer, but the exact direction was
difficult to pin point. Dad immediately thought that some coasting
vessel had had for some reason left the fairway buoys and had run in
‘til it was near the island, for he recognized the sound as that of a
heavy diesel engine.

As he stood on the veranda listening to the sound he wondered why the
vessel was not “blowing,”sounding it’s fog signal, but decided he would
sound the station hand horn, so, making his way up to the lantern; he
opened the door and stepped out on the deck, where the fog horn was
kept-----high up for better range. He operated the horn at one minute
intervals for about twenty minutes, but received no reply from the
phantom vessel.

All through the night when he would be up to check the light the rumble
was still audible, until the four o’clock check, when the stranger had
gone……all was quiet as the grey cloak of the omnipresent July sea fog
turned a lighter shade in the east as a harbinger of the dawn .

Dad stayed up, because it was time to leave for the nets (bait nets) and
then to the fish grounds. July was known as the month of the month of
‘dark stoggin’ by our forebears on account of the ever present fog,
which of course made it very difficult to find ones nets or trawls, and
with no electronic depth sounders; the fishing grounds.

Next night the same deep rumbling occurred, but sound was carrying
better and it was easily determined that the engine(s) were close in
east of the island. It was then that dad twigged as to who our visitors
were…..a u-boat charging batteries under the safety of Green Island light!

This was 1942, before the R.C.A.F. got around to installing the radio
telephones, so the only way for a keeper to report any suspicious
activities was by letter, or land line telephone, a media that they were
not encouraged to use, due to security concerns. Dad wrote the D.M.A.
(District Marine Agent) and apprised him of the situation, which was
continuing on a nightly basis. The monotony of the fog continued, giving
the u-boat commander and his crew a respite from the deadly game of
undersea warfare……..Then one day it cleared.

The evening of the first clear day was beautiful; the wind a very light
breeze from the nor’west, and the sun was just touching the western
horizon when we heard the drone of aircraft engines coming from the
direction of Drum Head/ Seal Harbour. As we watched a Mosquito fighter/
bomber appeared over Brier Hill, like some giant raptor from a
nightmare, clearing the stunted spruce trees by only a few feet; the
pilot quickly brought the aircraft to sea level, flying so low that the
wash from the twin props was actually drifting twin plumes of spray
behind him. On a southerly course he crossed the Western Shoal and when
he reached the range of Isaac’s Harbour fairway buoy, he began to climb
very steeply; in less than a minute we could hear the pitch of the
engines change once again as he made the dive on his prey. 

There were three detonations, then quiet returned to Green Island as the light
began it’s repetitive warning; flash; 5 seconds interval. Flash; 15
seconds interval. 

Cousin Fritz, auf weidersehn.