Captain Frederick John Walker: Royal Navy’’s German U-boat Menance

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From that moment, Walker became a quietly savage seeker of revenge against Germans. In a two-week hunting strike, Walker’s group sank six U-boats, claimed two more probables and damaged another. It was a tremendous achievement made all the greater because those were the days when German scientists had equipped their submarines with ‘gnats’–torpedoes that homed on propellers and followed an attacker no matter how he twisted and turned to evade them; and the snorkel, a breathing device that enabled U-boats to stay under water for prolonged periods.

The first of the six kills was U-264, commanded by Kapitänleutnant Hartwig Looks, a veteran submariner. Shortly after dawn one morning, Looks sighted the Second Support Group through his periscope. As the sloops passed, he fired a gnat torpedo in the general direction of the nearest–Starling.

On the sloop’s bridge, Walker spun around at an excited shout from a lookout to see the track of the torpedo approaching his stern, homing on the propellers. There was no time to increase speed or to take violent avoiding action. His mind raced. Unless he could think of a way out in the next few seconds, Starling was doomed. With eyes fixed on the line of bubbles, he rapped out orders: ‘Hard aport….Stand by depth charges….Shallow setting….Fire.’

Suddenly the air was rent by two almost simultaneous shattering roars. The first came from the depth charges and the second, by far the more frightening, from the torpedo, which had gone off 5 yards from the sloop’s quarterdeck. The depth charges had countermined the torpedo a second before it struck.

Walker led the sloops in a plaster attack. The pounding barrage was kept up for five minutes before the evidence of success appeared–a huge air bubble that collapsed to spread chunks of wood and ghastly human remains over the sea.

Once in the approaches to Liverpool, tension sapped away. The men were worn-out but happy. In this mood the sloops arrived off Liverpool to be met by a destroyer flying the flag of Sir Max Horton. A brief exchange of signals revealed that also aboard was the First Lord of the Admiralty, the then Right Honorable A.V. Alexander, later to become Viscount Alexander of Hillsborough.

The destroyer’s crew waved and cheered the proud line of sloops into the harbor as they maintained station as rigidly as guardsmen, with ensigns flying stiffly in the breeze.

Walter was promoted to captain, and a galaxy of medals (six in all) fell into his lap. He looked forward to rest, his future assured.

It was not to be, however. Scientists wanted an experienced seaman to take them on a hunt for enemy aircraft armed with guided-missile bombs, nicknamed ‘Chase-Me-Charles.’ So after only three days in Liverpool, Walker led his ships back to their old stamping ground, the Bay of Biscay, to patrol well inshore under the enemy guns to entice rocket-firing aircraft into the air.

In one day, the sloops were subjected to 12 Chase-Me-Charles attacks, a hair-raising experience because the scientists, experimenting with a device for breaking the radio contact between the aircraft and the missile, were upset at the thought of shooting anything down.

On the third day, two missiles were fired at Wild Goose within seconds of each other and, after wobbling on a proper course straight for the sloop, suddenly fell into the sea. One scientist thought this significant and asked Walker what electrical machinery was running then that would not have been running during earlier attacks. Investigation revealed that one of Starling’s officers had been shaving at the time, using an electric shaver.

Excited, the scientist begged Walker to sail even closer to the French coast to coax a further series of attacks. Walker did so, and the Luftwaffe sent up a squadron armed with orthodox bombs and guided rockets.

As the planes came in low and launched their satellites, four electric shavers–all the group could muster–were switched on. Every rocket swerved off course and crashed into the sea.

In March, Walker and his group were assigned to escort a unique convoy to Russia–unique because the most valuable ship of them all was the four-funneled U.S. cruiser Milwaukee. She was a gift from President Franklin D. Roosevelt to Josef Stalin, and although sailing under the Stars and Stripes with an all-American crew, she was placed in the care of the Royal Navy for the voyage.

Walker sank two more U-boats on this trip, and Milwaukee was duly delivered. She was handed over to the Russians, who rechristened her Murmansk, and the British group sailed for home with the American crew.

On the way back, a spate of urgent signals indicated that U-473 had torpedoed and sunk the American destroyer Donnell about 200 miles away. Having enjoyed his recent experience of working with Allies, Walker promised his passengers to seek out and avenge their compatriots.

It was a classic hunt. Although the enemy could be anywhere within a radius of 200 miles, Walker drew on his vast knowledge of U-boat tactics to calculate several possibilities. He chose the enemy’s most likely course and moved to intercept.

Two days later, U-473 stalked a fresh area of operations and found the Second Support Group already there. U-473 proved to be a slippery opponent. The British hunted the U-boat for 23 hours in a nervy, protracted wait punctuated by clouds of gnats that sent them scudding in all directions. Always they managed to regain contact.

Once again it was the lack of air that forced U-473 to surface, and again the combined fire of the group sent a U-boat to the bottom. Honor was satisfied. Donnell was avenged.

When the hunters returned to Liverpool, Eilleen Walker was aghast at her husband’s haggard appearance. The toll being taken of his strength and resistance frightened her. Walker was killing himself, gradually and inevitably.

General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Allied commander in chief, had decreed that the Normandy invasion forces–and if possible the entire English Channel–must be free from the threat of massed U-boat attack for the D-Day landings to succeed. From D-Day to D-plus-14, the assault forces would have to be landed safely, the beachhead consolidated, and the buildup of supplies assured.

On June 6, D-Day, 76 U-boats sailed from their Biscay bases into the Channel to disrupt the landings in Normandy. As sighting reports streamed into Starling, Walker said: ‘Eisenhower wants two weeks. He’ll not only get it, but this is our chance to smash the U-boat arm for all time.’

In those first three days, he directed his 40 ships into no fewer than 36 attacks, during which eight U-boats were destroyed and many more damaged. Aircraft claimed another six, and the first enemy wave withdrew. The U-boats returned later for another desperate effort to penetrate into the Channel, and for a week there was no rest for men or ships.

Each time it was Starling’s turn to retire for new ammunition her crew snatched a few hours’ sleep. But not Walker. He attended conferences, adjusted tactics, laid new plans and with seemingly inexhaustible energy took his ship back to sea to resume the struggle. Only a handful of U-boats needed to reach the landing area to create the havoc that would give the enemy vital respite.

The two weeks demanded by Eisenhower passed without a single U-boat getting through. In the third week, three slipped past the defenders and caused a moment of panic among the great invasion fleet, but they were quickly destroyed. After three weeks, the U-boats withdrew again, unbelievably mauled. They were never to return in strength.

Walker had achieved his final ambition–destruction of the U-boats as an integrated fighting force. The Battle of the Atlantic was won; the Battle for the Channel had never been lost.

Even Walker’s own officers were becoming alarmed at the gray, drawn face of their captain. His eyes had sunk back into a gaunt face that was itself little more than skin stretched across bones. His lean frame sagged, and his normal decisiveness was being replaced by growing hesitancy and an uncertain search for the right words when sending signals.

Yet no one could foresee the end. Johnnie Walker’s name was acclaimed in the press alongside those of the glamour boys–Patton, Bradley, Montgomery and Mountbatten. An Admiralty representative called on Eilleen at her Liverpool home to relay the news that her husband was to be knighted by King George VI. Now, she thought, he will have to take a rest.

The afternoon following his arrival home, the couple went to the movies to see Madame Curie. Afterward, he complained of giddiness and a curious humming noise in his head. At home he was violently sick, and the giddy spells returned.

Walker was rushed to the hospital and immediately examined. ‘All your husband needs is quiet and rest,’ Eilleen was told. But the next day it became apparent that something was seriously wrong with Johnnie Walker. The news that his life might be in danger spread from Eilleen to Sir Max Horton and then throughout the whole command.

At midnight on July 9, 1944, Eilleen was summoned to her husband’s bedside. Too late. Johnnie Walker was dead. Officially he died of a cerebral thrombosis. In fact, he died of overstrain, overwork and war weariness; his mind and body had been driven beyond the normal limits in a life dedicated to the total destruction of the enemy, revenge for his son and to the service of his country.

This article was written by Allan W. Steven and originally appeared in the May 1996 issue of World War II magazine. For more great articles subscribe to World War II magazine today!

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Tags: 20th - 21st Century, Historical Conflicts, Naval Battles, World War II

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