After several days sucessfully evading enemy coastal guns, and awaiting calmer weather, the Derrycunihy should have landed A Squadron, C Squadron and HQ Squadron of the 43rd Reconnaissance Regiment, onto SWORD beach, near Ouistreham, France. Sadly, this was not the outcome for the regiment’s first steps into France.
43rd Recce Regiment War Diaries and Part 1 Orders
Move to JUNO Beach. Div HQ Fuminchon Acoustic Mine explodes aft.
2 aft holds full of sleeping troops flooded.
3 Ton ammunition lorry catches fire and sets oil on water alight.
Rescue by landing craft, SS Cap Tourain and HM Gunboat Locust.
Wounded returned to GB.
"Great gallantry by all troops in 2 aft holds".
Great confusion as to who is where! 180 killed and 150 wounded from A & HQ Sqns
Casualty list for 24 June 1944
The Sinking of the “Derry Cunihy” – By Major B Vigrass
Personal account by Lt Desmond Scarr.
Source: https://www.bbc.co.uk/history/ww2peopleswar/stories/93/a5847393.shtml. The BBC have archived their page, so text is reproduced here in order to preserve this important account of the regimental history. Copyright remains with the original rightsholder.
On 18th June we sailed aboard the SS “Derrycunihy” (a liberty ship) which took us into the Thames estuary and out to sea. We rounded the Kent coast, passed the cliffs of Dover and, in what had now become a large convoy, headed for the Normandy beaches. So far, in glorious weather, it had the appearance of a pleasure cruise. I shared a cabin with one of the ship’s officers somewhere near the bridge. Our vehicles were stowed in the forward holds and the rear holds were used to house the troops (two squadrons only since ‘B’ Squadron was to follow later). Douglas was already in Normandy with the advance party.
We arrived off the coast of Normandy on 20th June and were kept waiting due to bad weather. During the next few days our ship played a deadly game with the German shore batteries at Le Harvre (we were at the extreme end of the bridgehead). First a huge waterspout one side of the ship would indicate a ranging shot. At this point the ship’s engines would rev up. Then followed a second whoosh and a waterspout the other side of the ship. A bracket had been achieved but with agonising slowness the ship would move away and the guns had to start all over again, or, better still, choose another target.
Then, before dawn on 24th June orders came for our ship to move inshore preparatory to disembarkation. The troops were still below and most of us were in bed when a violent shudder shook the ship. I saw the washbasin on the wall of my cabin fly off its brackets and end up on the floor. I had no idea what had happened but presumed we had had a direct hit from one of the coastal guns. As I started to throw on my clothes my cabin mate, who had been on duty, rushed in saying “Quick — you have no time to dress- get out!” However, I completed dressing, which took a few seconds and went out onto the deck. I quickly came to a yawning gap of several yards and in front of me was a scene from Dante’s Inferno, which I simply could not grasp. The stern part of the ship had fallen away and was low in the water. On the as yet unsubmerged deck, part of which was in flames, lay several bodies. An ammunition truck near me was on fire and, feeling rather useless in that there was no way I could reach the stricken part of the ship, I turned a water hose on to the vehicle. Some small arms ammunition started to explode, adding to the general mayhem. Shortly after we were told to get aboard a small craft which had come alongside.
In this boat I found several injured men and I could not help feeling some shame that I was fully clothed and unharmed whilst others were in such dire straits. Our rescue boat was a launch of some kind and on a raised bridge two naval officers stood at the helm. As we moved off we passed within feet of the blazing ammunition truck and those of us who were standing sank to the deck instinctively. Not so the two naval officers who stood rigidly upright gazing disdainfully at the exploding vehicle although there was nothing to protect them other than plywood. This is an image of the Royal Navy which I carry to this day.
As we moved towards a large ship a mile or so away I spent my time comforting the injured. Our objective turned out to be a depot ship, the ‘Cap Tourain’, equipped with extensive hospital facilities. This was as well as, soon after we boarded, the ship received a hit from the shore batteries and two of our officers [ These were Lt J. O. Charlton of A Squadron, and Lt W. D. Cammel, of C Squadron] were wounded, among others. There was little I could do on this ship, where I found other survivors from the ‘Derrycunihy’. We still had no idea of the extent of the losses suffered by the regiment and this became apparent only later in the day when the roll was called. It then became clear that a great many men, especially from ‘A’ Squadron, had been killed or drowned immediately when our ship struck what I later learned was a mine. This was the so-called ‘oyster’ mine, which German aircraft parachuted down at night among the ships offshore. They were very powerful and activated acoustically when a ship passed overhead. At much the same time as the ‘Derrycunihy’ was sunk so also, by another oyster mine, was the destroyer HMS Swift with the loss of most of its crew of 150. The few survivors from that ship were also on the ‘Cap Tourain’.
I found that none of my own troop, except one, had escaped death or injury in the disaster. I grieved the loss of my own armoured car crew, Corporal Malcolm, my gunner/wireless operator, and Trooper Robertson, my driver, both whom lost their lives. They were tough Scots, short of stature and given to few words, but they were first class at their jobs and we had formed a close-knit team. I was to miss them even more later.
That afternoon some of us returned to the ‘Derrycunihy’. The ship had settled on the bottom with the front half still above the water. The rear part was submerged. After a short service conducted on the bridge by the Padre, The Rev. Gethyn-Jones, we went down to the forward holds and started to unload the armoured vehicles (which were largely undamaged). These were lifted out by cranes onto rafts manned by sappers. This work went on for 24 hours and finally, late on the evening of the 25th, I found myself landing on the Continent of Europe for the first time. We touched down at Ouistreham and I was much struck by the French scene, the houses with wooden shutters flapping on glassless windows and a few palm trees to complete the picture. There was also much dust and debris in evidence, and not a Frenchman in sight. It was clear that this area had been hard fought over.
We concentrated a mile or so inland near the Caen canal, within range of enemy mortars which did their best to make us uncomfortable. The next day I was given a group of vehicles and told to report to a RV near Pouligny, not far from Bayeux, about 20 miles away. I led off and after a while made my first and only map reading error of my campaign- perhaps distracted by the occasional German shell landing beside the road. We viewed these more with interest than concern; after all we now knew we were in the war. Be that as it may, I pressed on until, coming to a corner in the wood, my vehicle was stopped by a very small infantryman who suddenly emerged and said very politely
“...if you go round that corner, Sir, you will be in the German front line”.
I thanked him and with difficulty extricated my convoy which in any case was in no shape to fight since none of the vehicles were properly crewed- many having only one driver, all of whom were dressed in blue sailor jerseys. We were lucky to be shielded by the trees. I have often though of that helpful private soldier outside Caen, usually in the context of the Army saying — ‘the nearer the front line you are the nicer the people you meet’. I hope he survived the war. The odds against an infantryman doing that in the fierce Normandy fighting were not great but I hope he did. Thanks to him we reached Pouligny safely. There the regiment was sorting itself out, a process which took three weeks. During this time I was sent back to England to collect reinforcements. Returning with these we landed at the artificial harbour (“Mulberry”) which had, with astonishing engineering and naval skill, been built on to the beaches.
And from another account…
Early on the morning of June 24th, before reveillé, which was set back to 0830 hours in order not to clash, with the ships company’s routine, a landing craft came alongside with orders for the “Derry Cunihy” to steam to another and safer beach to unload. Nearly all were still asleep, the men in the holds or on deck and the officers either in the cabins beneath the bridge or on the boat deck. “The ship’s engines started up and with the first throb there was a violent explosion which split the ship in two between the engine room and number four hold. The stern half began to sink rapidly, and in a matter of seconds, number five hold was under water. Part of number four hold remained above water for some twenty minutes. The men of A squadron and H.Q. Squadron in number five hold had very little chance of escape. The fortunate were thrown clear, although few of these understand how they escaped. Sgt Pavey of A Squadron, was asleep in his hammock when the explosion occurred and awoke to find himself still in his hammock, but under water, and sinking fast. He obtained a grip on the edge of the shattered hold at the moment the whole of the stern sank, and managed to pull himself to safety along the ship’s rail.
Trooper Meikle, also of A Squadron, was sleeping in the back of a half-track lashed to the top of number four hold, and awoke as the vehicle fell into the water. He has no recollection of how he made his escape, but was saved from the wreckage of the hold later, Two other N.C.O.’s in number five hold, Sgts Wright and Ross, were carried by the rush of water into an escape hatch and through it to safety.
The sea was soon full of struggling figures, and floating debris and patches of oil began to spread. M.T.B.’s, landing craft and even rowing boats appeared very quickly and rescue work began. A large Motor Gun Boat (M.G.B) came alongside and one by one’the wounded were taken aboard.
The most impressive thing about the tragic scene was the calmness and discipline. There was no vestige of panic and very little noise. Wounded men dis-regarded their hurts and struggled to help less fortunate comrades. There were many deeds of bravery. A little man clad in vests and pants, one arm useless, his head bleeding, struggled to support an unconscious comrade, gripping him by the hair and holding his head above water until the two were passed to safety.
Sgt H. G. W. Drake, of C Squadron, had been sleeping on top of number four hold and the explosion had blown him into the air. His fall was arrested by a fold in a tarpaulin which had been covering the hold, and he managed to climb up this to the deck, where he set about helping other survivors. Later to be commended by the King, Sgt Drake found a rope, looped one end, secured the other round a bollard, lowered the rope into the hold and pulled several men to safety. Then he and others laid a number of rafts between the wreck and the M.G.B. alongside and from this platform handed many of the wounded to the M.G.B. crew. Squadron Sergeant Major Burr of A Squadron, who was also later commended by the King, plunged into the sea from the bows and towed a number of rafts back to the stern, helping a number of men in the water to safety and, when he had done all that was possible, returned to the bows, dressed, and left the ship for a landing craft.
For rescuing his comrades in dangerous circumstances Trooper F.M. Greener, of C Squadron, was awarded the George Medal and Sgt Law of the Mortar Troop who worked on, although himself wounded, received the B.E.M. In the sinking and burning hold, the Padré, and the R.M.O., Capt J. M. Ellis, worked desperately, encouraging the men, and helping the wounded to safety. The Rev. J. E. Gethyn-Jones was subsequently awarded the M.B.E. for his bravery and Capt Ellis a C-in-C’s certificate.
A truck on deck caught fire which soon spread to the patches of floating oil in the hold, and small arms ammunition caught by the flames popped and spitted in all directions. Then a depth charge was dislodged accidentally from the M.G.B. and fell alongside the wreck, but did not explode.
Finally, the officers and ship’s officers who had been cut off from the stern by the fracture of the hull just aft their cabins slid down a rope to the deck of the M.G.B. [Major Vigrass was one of these officers. Read his personal account from the deck]
A few of the survivors were taken direct to the beaches that day, but the majority were transferred from the rescue craft to a large depot ship which had been, in peace time, a French luxury liner, the “Cap Tourain”.
Some men were not accounted for several days. Trooper Ridout and his companions were at first feared lost but made a welcome reappearance on shore a day or so later. Sgt Pavey and a few others were rescued by an American trawler and were scrubbed with stiff brushes to remove their coating of thick diesel oil.
On board the “Cap Tourain” the wounded, numbering some 150, were placed in lounges, dining rooms, cabins, anywhere, in fact, where stretchers could be rested. doctors and orderlies from the depot ship and the many neighbouring ships of the Royal Navy. All through the day and night, surgeons, our own M.O. worked to save life and ease pain, and it is a tribute to them that only three men died of their wounds.
The unwounded were quickly given dry clothes (sailors’ suits from the ship’s stores and survivors’ outfits supplied by many a town and village at home) to replace the oil-soaked vests and pants which constituted the covering of the majority. Cigarettes and hot meals awaited the first boatload and every effort was made towards our comfort.
Soon after arrival on the “Cap Tourain” the C.O, and the Adjutant called the roll from the ship’s bridge, and it was heart-breaking to find how many failed to answer their names. Besides the wounded, 180 men were missing. Most, if not all, of these were either killed outright or so stunned by the explosion that they could not have known what had happened. On the following day a hospital ship took the wounded back to England.
Although the other half of the ship sank with only its masts above the surface the fore part of the ship remained well above water although listing slightly and a party of survivors returned to the wreck on the same afternoon and helped a R.E. party to disembark vehicles in the forward holds. Before this work began the Reverend Gethyn-Jones and a Roman Catholic from the depot ship, in the presence of the C,O. and some of the survivors, held a burial service over the wreck.
Those who died of wounds, and the men whose bodies had been recovered were buried at sea with full military honours by the Padré (the Rev. M. Martin Harvey) of H.M.S. Sirius, returning to England on that afternoon. The ship’s company and a number of Royal Marines and soldiers attended the service. The Reverend Gethyn-Jones remarks in his account of the sinking
“Looking back on that grim day, one realises that three factors prevented a major disaster from becoming the extinction of a Regiment. The first was the wonderful discipline of the men and their efforts to help each other; the second the promptness and skill of the Royal Navy; the third, the favourable weather.”
Meanwhile, part of the Regiment disembarked from the “Cap Tourain,” and the remainder, consisting largely of drivers and men of the Regimental R.E.M.E. detachment, working throughout the night of the 24th-25th and most of the next two days, succeeded in saving a large number of vehicles and much equipment from the wreck. These men were all dog-tired, many suffering from the shock of the disaster while German “planes came over to sow more mines during the night and enemy guns continued to shell the area. Two officers, Lt J. O. Charlton of A Squadron, and Lt W. D. Cammel, of C Squadron, were wounded when a shell struck the “Cap Tourain”. Food was short for this party at one time, and the “Derry Cunihy” lifeboat rations had to be broached.
Moving ashore in craft loads aboard L.C.T.’s or “Rhino” rafts, and landing near Lion-sur-Mer, these men brought the vehicles to join the rest of the Regiment in the assembly area on the eastern flank of the bridge-head, near the Caen canal. There, unpleasantly near the enemy and under spasmodic mortar fire, the Q.M., ably assisted by Cpl Curnock (who was subsequently discovered to have broken some ribs when the ship was lost), organised a meal, lifebelts were collected and the Adjutant tried, without much success, to clear his disembarkation documents.
The Divisional Commander visited the Regiment, spoke words of encouragement, put us in the operational picture and promised that we should have every help towards making a quick re-organisation. Soon afterwards we moved to a camp which had been improvised for us near-the village of Pouligny in the Bayeux area.
Some of those who had been landed in small batches from rescue craft had some difficulty in tracking down the Regiment. Most of them wore sailor’s jerseys and trousers and presented such an odd spectacle that they aroused suspicion. L/Cpl Hackney, of C Squadron, was nearly arrested as a fifth columnist, and others were hissed by the French who mistook them for German prisoners, but, somehow or other, they all finally reached the Pouligny harbour.
A 2002 newspaper article from Trooper John Young, also offers much detail of the day, and his subsequent experiences
https://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/1500029544
https://www.bbc.co.uk/history/ww2peopleswar/stories/42/a4557242.shtml