Yangtze Showdown Read online

  The United States sympathised with Britain’s position but did not offer any direct help. This was probably a good thing because it did not add to complications with Peking. The Americans, with reservations, were backing the Nationalists and their new base, Formosa. In June 1950 President Truman may have deterred any Chinese Communist military ambitions towards Hong Kong by sending his navy’s Seventh Fleet to the Formosa Strait.11 The Nationalists would be a thorn in Mao Tse-tung’s side for many years, but at that time he was more interested in helping to defeat the French in Vietnam and focusing on the developing war in Korea.

  24

  Kerans’s Drunken Escapade

  AS MILITARY CHIEFS STEPPED UP the defences of Hong Kong, community leaders were busy organising a full programme of entertainment for Amethyst’s crew, most of whom had been given twelve days’ leave. An Amethyst cap tally appeared to be a guarantee of free drinks. The telephone of the fleet recreation officer was ringing almost continuously with offers of hospitality from residents and companies.

  One of the events was the weekly lunch of the Rotary Club of Kowloon at the Peninsula Hotel. A party of forty sailors went along – and even Peggy the ship’s dog was invited. It seemed that everyone wanted to meet the men from Amethyst. The lunch saw a record attendance of members. The club’s vice president told the sailors: ‘You have withstood hardship and trying conditions in having to deal with an unruly mob which knows no justice. We are proud of you.’ He proposed a toast to ‘our gallant friends’. Then members sang ‘For they are jolly good fellows’. Loud and prolonged applause drew a bark from Peggy. Coxswain Leslie Frank replied on behalf of the sailors, admitting: ‘The welcome we have received on our arrival has, I am afraid, overwhelmed us.’1

  Messages of congratulation were pouring in to the Admiralty. The Chief of the Imperial General Staff, Field Marshal Sir William Slim, told the First Sea Lord, Admiral Fraser: ‘On behalf of all ranks I send you the warmest congratulations on this magnificent feat which has yet again proved to the world that the courage, endurance and seamanship of the Royal Navy are, as ever, equal to any challenge.’2 The message from the Norwegians was a typical example: ‘Norway and the whole of the civilised world are proud of the achievement of HMS Amethyst in forcing her way out of the Yangtze River, through boom obstacles and minefields and in the middle of the night, in a daring bid to regain her liberty. We have all a deep admiration for the excellent way in which the escape was planned and carried out.’3 The Chilean Navy expressed its admiration for the ‘brilliant action’, and the exclusive Roshanara Club in Delhi offered its ‘warmest congratulations’. Even the French, who had suffered so many defeats at the hands of the Royal Navy in the past, contacted the Foreign Office to say ‘how much they shared our rejoicing at the magnificent achievement of the Amethyst’.

  The publicity resulted in a remarkable somersault by Australia’s prime minister, Ben Chifley. It is worth recalling that Chifley refused to allow the frigate Shoalhaven to sail up the Yangtze, and he ordered that Australian warships were not to take part in operations off the coast of China. He also refused to help with the defence of Hong Kong. Most tellingly, when asked in his country’s House of Representatives on 1 June about Amethyst’s captivity, he replied: ‘It is not our problem to enquire what the Royal Navy does about its ships …’ But Chifley was quick to try to share in Amethyst’s glory. On the day the frigate reached Hong Kong he sent a letter to the UK High Commissioner in Australia inviting the ship to pay a visit. He wrote:

  The Commonwealth government and the people of Australia share the pride felt throughout the empire at the epic exploit of the sloop HMS Amethyst and would be very happy if Australia were given the opportunity of showing the captain and crew its appreciation of their effort. I should be grateful therefore if on behalf of the government of the Commonwealth of Australia you would convey a hearty invitation to the C-in-C Far East Station for the captain and crew of Amethyst to pay a visit to Australia as guests of the Commonwealth government. It is realised that the captain and members of the crew of Amethyst may wish to proceed at the first opportunity to their homes but the Commonwealth government would be quite prepared to await a visit when such would be most convenient to the Admiralty and the personnel concerned.4

  It would not have escaped the attention of political observers that Chifley and his Labor Party were set to face a difficult federal election. Any positive publicity would be a bonus. Strikes and a belief that Chifley was soft on Communism had helped to undermine the former train driver’s popularity. He did indeed lose power that year.

  Admiral Brind and the Admiralty had no intention of sending Kerans and his men to Australia. The high commissioner, Edward Williams, was told to inform Chifley that his invitation was ‘deeply appreciated’ and it had been given ‘very careful consideration’, but ‘with very great regret’ it could not be accepted. In a letter to the prime minister, the high commissioner wrote: ‘As you foresaw, Lieutenant Commander Kerans and the members of his crew are naturally anxious to return to their homes at the earliest opportunity – they are indeed very tired after their experiences – and it is difficult to say whether circumstances would make it possible for such a visit to be arranged later on.’5 Perhaps Brind was taking revenge on Chifley for the Australian government’s lack of co-operation.

  Strangely, Shoalhaven’s captain, Lieutenant Commander William Tapp, was removed from his command soon after Amethyst’s arrival in Hong Kong. Captain Alan McNicoll, a George Medal winner and a future vice admiral, replaced him. A report on Tapp’s conduct at that time did not suggest anything amiss: ‘A sound, capable and reliable officer. He has done very well in command of HMAS Shoalhaven and has proved his initiative and capabilities on many occasions. His ship is clean, efficient and happy. He should do well in the higher ranks of the service.’6 Tapp, who had been Mentioned in Despatches for his coolness under fire during the Second World War, soon found himself back in Australia, where he took up an appointment as executive officer of the shore base HMAS Penguin in Sydney. And before the month of August was out Shoalhaven returned to Australian waters. Had the friendly and chatty Tapp talked too much about the fate of Shoalhaven and Amethyst? It seemed that someone in authority no longer wanted Tapp and his frigate in the Far East. At that stage the Australian government’s decision to block Shoalhaven’s Yangtze mission was not widely known. The next assessment of Tapp was less than complimentary: ‘A hard-working, earnest and reliable officer who does his best to make the most of the average ability with which he is endowed. His comparative lack of the gifts which give a high standard of leadership is, to a great extent, compensated for by his determination, application and rectitude.’7 Later he was being described as ‘neither brilliant nor of impressive appearance, but can be relied upon to do any job, however boring or unrewarding with complete thoroughness and cheerfulness’.8 One senior officer pointed out that Tapp ‘would never set the Thames on fire’, and a rear admiral offered this opinion: ‘A slow plodder – careful and trustworthy – he has reached his zenith. His appearance is as uninspiring as his thinking is slow.’9 Tapp would not rise above the rank of commander, and most of his appointments after Shoalhaven were shore jobs. He left the Royal Australian Navy in 1963 and died in 1975, aged 59.

  William Stenhouse Hamilton, an Australian diplomat in Nanking, probably summed up his government’s attitude during the Amethyst crisis when he wrote years later:

  In retrospect, the stationing of warships at Nanking seems a strange enterprise. In the event of substantial civil violence we locals would have had little chance of reaching a ship at Hsia Kwan [the dock area]. And how were other people to be prevented from swamping these quite small ships? Evidently there had been no real regard for the risks of entering a war zone. Puzzling also was an invitation I had received to cocktails on board HMS London at Nanking for 10 May with the Commander-in-Chief Pacific Fleet and Lady Boyd [Admiral Sir Denis Boyd was Admiral Brind’s predecessor as Commander-in-Chief, Far East St
ation]. There seems no good reason for either to be in the area; and it seems also there was no awareness that major military activity was impending.

  The Amethyst affair was a tragic accident waiting to happen. The courage of the crew and of the boy seamen, their resourcefulness and endurance, have been largely forgotten. But the lesson delivered so brutally has been well learned. No uninvited foreign warship has since entered the inland waters of China. More than that – it brought an ineradicable realisation that the days of contemptuous or even unthinking disregard of Chinese sovereignty were over.10

  In Hong Kong in August 1949, dockyard workers were busy carrying out major repairs to Amethyst in preparation for her return to Britain. In London, the Chief of Naval Information, Captain Clarke, was busy trying to curb the press once again. The escape of Amethyst had excited the imagination of the austerity-suffering British, and the return of the ship was set to produce more stories. Clarke was keen that ‘the public acclaim, and consequential press publicity, should be kept within proper bounds’, in view of ‘a potential danger of the matter becoming vulgarised’.

  Clarke noted: ‘If, and this seems to be a certainty, some form of public march in London takes place, then it would be a wise thing to make the purpose of the march one of assembling in a place of public worship to render appropriate thanksgiving. Such an inclusion would not preclude a luncheon for the participants with appropriate speeches, but by doing the traditional thing as well this would have a sobering effect upon both the press and the public and put things in a more reasonable perspective.’

  He thought it would be a good idea if the First Lord or the First Sea Lord had ‘a heart to heart talk with the more important editors’, so that the dangers arising from ‘uncontrolled adulation’ could be explained. The editors could be invited to tea or a cocktail party at the Admiralty. If this took place in the boardroom, ‘all the better’. Clarke reported that the City of London had made an informal approach about hosting a reception.11 The Board of Admiralty decided that a working party should be set up to deal with all the arrangements for Amethyst’s return. Clarke was told that he would head the group.12

  There was some press criticism of the Admiralty’s apparent reluctance to announce plans. Sailors wounded in the Yangtze attacks had arrived in Southampton, but there was no official reception for families, who had been discouraged from going to the dockside. Press arrangements broke down in a muddle between the Admiralty and the Ministry of Transport. In a piece headlined, ‘The people want no more bungling over Amethyst’, the London Evening Standard declared: ‘This off-hand treatment of men whom the nation wish to honour was inexcusable. The Admiralty must do better when Lieutenant Commander Kerans and his men arrive.’ The newspaper suggested that after Amethyst reached her home port of Plymouth and the crew were given a spell of leave, the frigate should sail up the Channel to the Thames and moor in the Pool of London under the walls of the Tower to the city’s cheers. ‘There the Amethyst should lie, a triumphant symbol that the spirit of the men in the little ships who routed and burned the Armada, who won the victory of Trafalgar, who saved the flower of the British Army at Dunkirk, still flames brightly in the hearts of seafarers.’ After being honoured in London Amethyst should then sail around Britain, visiting Hull, Newcastle, the Forth, Glasgow, Belfast, Liverpool and Bristol before returning to Plymouth. ‘Everywhere the crowds will be waiting.’13 The day after the Evening Standard’s plea, the News Chronicle reported: ‘Naval circles in London do not incline to the view that Amethyst will be sent round as a “show ship” to the ports.’14

  Invitations for Amethyst were still coming in. Air Chief Marshal Sir Frederick Bowhill, of the Honourable Company of Master Mariners, wrote to the First Sea Lord, Admiral Fraser, saying they would like to invite the frigate’s officers to the livery company’s headquarters ship Wellington, moored on the Thames in London. Fraser replied that the officers and men of Amethyst were being overwhelmed with invitations. He observed: ‘In the navy we feel so many of these episodes occur which because they are not dramatic are unnoticed, such as our blockade of Palestine in which many feats of seamanship and endurance were performed. We have the greatest admiration of Amethyst’s feat in every way, but do not wish it to be overdone. They will probably march through London and lunch at the Guildhall and we think this should be sufficient before they take some leave and a rest.’ The air chief marshal’s invitation was passed to Captain Clarke’s working party.15

  On 9 September, a Friday, the commander of British forces in Hong Kong, Lieutenant General Festing, and the Commodore Hong Kong, Leslie Brownfield, went on board Amethyst to shake hands with Kerans and say farewell. The frigate had arrived in the colony to a great reception, but that afternoon she slipped away from the naval dockyard’s east wall with little fanfare, homeward bound. A small crowd waved goodbye. Among them was Marine Frank, son of the frigate’s coxswain. Also on shore was Lieutenant Commander Strain, the fleet electrical officer, who had endured Amethyst’s captivity after thinking he would only be taking a two-day trip from Shanghai to Nanking. Strain decided to complete his tour of service in the Far East rather than head home. Peggy the ship’s dog had been found a good home in Hong Kong after crewmen weighed up the cost of keeping her in quarantine in Britain. But Simon the cat was still on board. A sampan exploded crackers as the newly-painted Amethyst, showing few scars, headed out to sea escorted by the destroyer Concord and the frigate Hart. On board Concord was Vice Admiral Madden, who must have experienced mixed emotions. So much had happened since 20 April. He sent Amethyst up the Yangtze, and he greeted her in Jamaica after the great escape. He also tried to stop Kerans taking Amethyst back to Britain.

  Kerans was now a hero but his colourful past had not been forgotten. He was originally sent to the office of the naval attaché in Nanking as a form of punishment – ‘for disposal’ – and his behaviour since arriving in Hong Kong had attracted unfavourable comments. Kerans’s drinking was one of the problems. Madden came to the conclusion that Amethyst’s captain was unstable and he feared a scandal. He sent a personal message to Admiral Brind at his headquarters in Singapore advising that Kerans should not take the frigate home in view of all the publicity that was being generated. The commander-in-chief, well aware of Kerans’s run-ins with authority, was not surprised to get the warning, but he was left in a quandary. Tragedy had been turned into triumph. Could the Royal Navy disown its newly-created hero? It was not an exaggeration to say that Amethyst had attracted worldwide attention. Should they relieve Kerans of his command? Brind was in such a dilemma that he asked the Admiralty for advice. Back came the reply that for ‘political reasons’ Kerans must remain Amethyst’s captain and bring the ship home.

  Amethyst’s first stop on the voyage to Britain was … Singapore. Brind decided to take a chance and carry on with the tributes. The frigate arrived on 14 September. That day the Governor of Singapore, Sir Franklin Gimson, held a reception for the ship’s officers. In the evening there was a formal dinner party hosted by Brind at Admiralty House. Among the guests were the Commissioner General for South East Asia and army and air force chiefs. It was a prestigious occasion, and Lieutenant Commander John Kerans DSO was the guest of honour. There were drinks before dinner and all the guests had arrived by 2015 except one – Kerans. By 2030 he had still not turned up, and an embarrassed Brind decided he could not keep his guests waiting any longer. They sat down to dinner, with Kerans’s place of honour empty. No one could fail to notice the absence. The conversation was hushed.

  Shortly after the main course had finished a car came up the drive of Admiralty House and stopped at the main entrance. Brind’s flag lieutenant, David Scott, went to investigate. It was a taxi. The engine was running and the Chinese driver sat motionless. Scott opened one of the doors and found Kerans lying on the floor covered in vomit. He was wearing a lounge suit. The driver was paid and stewards carried Kerans to Scott’s room, where he was stripped and placed in a cold bath. Two minutes later he was lyi
ng on a bed being given a vigorous Chinese massage. Within five minutes Kerans was upright and dressed in one of Scott’s white dinner jackets. He was able to speak. By this time the dinner was almost over and Kerans was advised not to enter the dinning room, which was across a hallway. But he insisted on going and walked unsteadily into the room, where conversation immediately ceased. He was shown to his place. Malcolm MacDonald, the commissioner general, said a few words of welcome and asked how he was feeling. There was no response. Kerans declined to eat anything and refused a glass of port. He sat in silence.

  It would not be difficult to imagine Admiral Brind’s thoughts. The guests were shown to the drawing room and they left early, apart from Kerans. It was decided that he would stay the night at Admiralty House and sleep off his hangover. But Kerans had other ideas. He announced loudly that he was ‘going ashore’ for a drink, and asked for a taxi to be called. Scott and Commander Peter Dickens tried to persuade him that it was not a good idea and he should go to bed. Kerans became aggressive and there was a heated argument. He wanted to go to The Tanglin Club – the secretary was an old friend and expecting him. Eventually Scott and Dickens decided they would drive Kerans to the club and keep an eye on him. When they arrived Scott went to order drinks. Kerans spotted the secretary and the pair dashed away, pursued by Dickens. They reached the secretary’s office and the door was slammed in Dickens’s face and then locked. Scott and Dickens had the task of getting Kerans back to Admiralty House, and they guessed rightly that they were in for a long wait. Another drinking session was under way. Hours later a steward carrying a large jug of water and glasses opened the door with his own key. Kerans and the secretary were unconscious, one in an armchair and the other on a sofa. Scott and Dickens carried Kerans to their car and took him back to Admiralty House, where he was put to bed. He was finally roused shortly before 0900.