Of the 21 million tons of Allied shipping lost during World War II, 15 million tons were sunk by U-boats. The Allies retaliated by sinking 781 U-boats, which resulted in a loss of nearly 35,000 of the 38,000 Kriegsmarine personnel serving in the U-boat arm of the German navy.

There was nothing accidental about this victory at sea. It was the direct result of a relentless pursuit of the enemy by the ‘little ships,’ largely inspired by the brilliant exploits of one man, Captain Johnnie Walker of the Royal Navy. Today, Walker is officially recognized as ‘the man who did more to free the Atlantic of the U-
boat menace than any other single officer.’

In 1941, Great Britain and Canada maintained 400 assorted escort ships along the Atlantic convoy routes, but the rate of U-boat sinkings remained dismally low, approximately two per month. Then Johnnie Walker took command of an escort group of nine ships–two sloops and seven corvettes. While defending his first convoy from England to Gibraltar, he sank three U-boats in 10 days, and on the 22-day return trip with another convoy he sank four more.

These were major victories won without loss and by unorthodox methods. Since the outset of the war, it had been accepted that escorts should stay close to their charges to ward off U-boat attacks. Walker, then holding the rank of commander, had achieved his successes by ignoring this principle and hunting his victims well away from their quarry. Two U-boats had been destroyed 40 miles from the convoy he was protecting.

In high places at the Admiralty there were powerful forces at work seeking to brand Walker as a lucky heretic. Only his success and the unqualified backing of Admiral Sir Max Horton, the commander in chief of Western Approaches, prevented Walker from being posted ashore.

While Admiral Horton was in a favorable mood, Walker persuaded him to try a revolutionary theory: Six modern, fast, specially equipped sloops, freed from the fetters of convoy duty, should be given a roving commission to hunt down U-boats in their most vulnerable grounds, the Bay of Biscay, which they crossed when beginning or completing patrols, and far out in the Atlantic where they surfaced with immunity because the sky was clear of aircraft.

In the spring of 1942, Walker took command of the Second Support Group, first of the new striking forces. From the bridge of Starling, his own sloop, he drilled Wild Goose, Cygnet, Wren, Woodpecker and Kite until they became a team, swinging into action with few orders, no fuss and no mistakes.

In June, Walker found an opponent worthy of his guile, a fair, lithe German officer, Kapitänleutnant Gunter Poser, commanding officer of U-202. This U-boat was returning home after a special mission in which she had landed five Nazi agents in the United States on Long Island’s Amagansett Beach. It was U-202’s ninth operational trip of the war, and 27-year-old Poser was a quick-witted, capable captain.

On June 13, Poser’s officer of the watch sighted mastheads through the periscope and called him to the control room. Poser took over the eyepieces and went suddenly rigid. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘They are destroyers. Diving stations!’ Horns sounded, and within seconds U-202 was down to 500 feet. Poser had met Walker’s Second Support Group hunting in fresh pastures.

On Starling, the asdic (sonar) officer was already reporting, ‘In contact, sir.’ The captain turned to the asdic officer and announced, ‘Going in to attack now.’ Starling surged forward, her bows cutting swiftly through the placid sea. The ‘ping’ of the sonar beam echoing from the hull of U-202 came faster as the range shortened. ‘Stand by depth charges…Fire!’ came the order.

Tons of high explosives rolled from the stern rails and shot from throwers on either side of the quarterdeck to curve gracefully downward through the air. Ten charges rumbled through the water toward the hidden enemy.

For a few seconds there was silence. Then miles of ocean and the waiting sloops quivered as the blasting charges exploded in a series of deafening, crackling roars. Huge columns of water boiled to the surface and sprayed into vast fountains astern of Starling. The great cascades subsided; there was no U-boat. Walker settled down to the game relentlessly. His adversary was proving tough to hold and hard to find.

During exercises, Walker had evolved a form of attack known as Operation Plaster. It called for three sloops steaming in line abreast to roll depth charges off their sterns. Now he ordered Wild Goose and Kite to join Starling, and the three sloops steamed forward dropping a continuous stream of charges–the naval equivalent of an artillery barrage before an infantry attack.

The sea heaved and shook under the impact of the explosions. Twisting and turning and always leaving a trail of charges, the ships plastered the area. In three minutes, 86 depth charges had rocked and shaken the attackers almost as much as it had U-202.

Poser decided to dive deep under the fearsome barrage. ‘Slow ahead both engines,’ he ordered. ‘Take her down slowly.’ Tensely, the control room crew watched the depth gauge. How far down would she go? Could they ever get below the rolling roar of the depth charges? The engineer officer called out the readings, ‘Five hundred feet…550…600…650…700.’ That was the limit. Much more and the submarine would crack under the tremendous pressure. ‘Seven hundred and fifty.’

Poser’s eyes were fixed on the controls, and his mind was concentrating on the creaks and groans reverberating from the straining hull.

‘Seven hundred and eighty…800….’ came the engineer officer’s warning. Poser remained silent. ‘Eight hundred and twenty…850….’

Poser snapped out his commands: ‘Level off and keep her trimmed at 800 feet. Steer due north with revolutions for 3 knots.’

Far above, Walker was talking to his officers: ‘No doubt about it. She’s gone deeper than I thought possible, and our depth-charge primers won’t explode beyond 600 feet. Very maddening indeed.’

He grinned and continued: ‘Well, long wait ahead. Let’s have some sandwiches sent up. We will sit it out. I estimate this chap will surface at midnight. Either his air or batteries will give out by then.’ It was shortly after noon on June 13.

By 8 p.m. Poser had taken several evasive turns without result. He could not shake off his tormentors. At two minutes after midnight his air gave out. He ordered reluctantly, ‘Take her to the surface.’

Without any audible warning, U-202 rose fast through the water to surface with bows high in the air. Her crew leaped through the conning tower hatch to man her guns, and Poser shouted for full speed in the hope of outrunning the hunters.

On Starling’s bridge, the tiny silver conning tower was visible in the moonlight. ‘Star shell…commence,’ ordered Walker.

One turret bathed the heavens with light. Then came a flashing crash of the first broadside from all six sloops laying a barrage of shells around the target. A dull red glow leaped from behind the conning tower of the U-boat.

A dimmed lamp blinked from Starling, and firing ceased while Walker increased speed to ram. Then he saw the jagged stump of the conning tower ablaze and shouted in triumph. U-202 was obviously too damaged to escape. He ran alongside, raking her decks with machine-gun fire and firing a shallow pattern of depth charges that straddled the submarine, enveloping her in smoke and spray.

Poser clutched the hot periscope column, drew his revolver and shouted a last order: ‘Abandon ship! Abandon ship!’ The cry was taken up and passed through the U-boat. Poser turned to say goodbye to his officers. Rather than be captured, he was taking his own life.

At 12:30 a.m. the battle was over–16 hours after it had begun. When the Second Support Group returned to Liverpool with U-202 and two more killings to its credit, Walker learned that his elder son, Timothy, had joined the crew of a British submarine operating in the Mediterranean.

The following month, Admiral Karl Dönitz, commander of the U-boat fleet, threw 150 U-boats into a midsummer blitz against the increasingly busy Atlantic convoy routes. Johnnie Walker again led his striking force into the Bay of Biscay to meet the enemy at his departure points.

On July 29 the enemy came in sight on the horizon, three conning towers in line ahead. Walker’s inherent love for the dramatic came to the fore. He beckoned to the signalman and ordered, ‘Hoist the General Chase.’ For a moment the signalman was confused. Then, with a gleeful grin, he ran up a signal used only twice before in the Royal Navy, once by Sir Francis Drake when he chased the Spanish Armada from the English Channel, and again by Admiral Horatio Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar.

Off the leash at last, the five British sloops sallied forward. On Starling’s bridge, Walker waved his cap in the air as though urging her to greater efforts as the guns of the entire group thundered a broadside at the unsuspecting U-boats.

In 30 seconds, all three had been hit from a range of four miles, making diving impossible. Ten minutes later it was all over.

In August, Johnnie Walker took his ships back to their Liverpool base. He was conning Starling alongside the tricky berthing dock when a signalman reported, ‘There is someone ashore waving as though he wants to come aboard urgently, sir.’

It was an officer from Sir Max Horton’s staff. As Starling neared the dock, he jumped aboard and ran to the bridge where he saluted Walker and said, ‘I have been ordered to report to you, sir, that your son Timothy has been killed in action while serving in a Mediterranean submarine.’

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