Let’s start this story where the
hunt began. In the early eighties, Gary Gentile invited some hearty north-east
wreckers to explore shipwrecks along the rocky coast of Nova Scotia. The
saturation of nautical history and the number of lost ships in the approaches
to this rock laden port is vast. Haligonian divers had become accustom to
hiking long, steep, unstable trails to reach divable areas. At the time,
converted fishing/dive boats were sporadically available. Gary had researched
new areas to explore. He promised adventure, discovery and arduous days
bouldering up and down cliffs to search for barely visited or virgin sites. He
kept his word; many perilous treks and exhausting hikes brought those divers to
several concealed wrecks. Deep diving beyond one-hundred-thirty feet was also
in its infancy. Many wrecks in Halifax Harbour were past the sanctioned limits
of the sport diving community. The area was ripe for deep wreck hunting.
Sources were limited for those
researching. In the seventies and eighties, there was no internet, any research
was accumulated by days of examining news articles, scanning microfilm, or
reviewing dusty charts and manuscripts in libraries, museums, and other
nautical sources. Wreck researcher, Jack
Zink presented two volumes of books on Nova Scotia shipwrecks. These remain a
canonical source even today. Gary had a few hand drawn maps, he sketched out as
he rediscovered word of mouth sites from locals and old charts. Steve Giza, a
local diver and the owner of Timberlea Divers was a great source of
information. He made suggestions where to look for undiscovered sites and
revealed his own discoveries. Steve owned the salvage rights to the La Tribune,
a British, 36-gun frigate wrecked off Herring Cove, Nova Scotia on November 16,
1797. Steve worked the site for several
years uncovering museum pieces and spent countless dives looking for her
treasure. In his quest he became familiar with many local wrecks. The sites
were often found by searching beaches for the remnants of wreckage tossed up on
shore. Physical markers included iron
breecher buoy rings tamped into rocks where rescue and salvages were attempted.
With the landowner’s permission,
we started our arduous journey down to the beach through their back yards. Our
first trip was exploratory, investigating the hull tossed on the shore. More
notably, we searched for a route amidst the ragged rock face where we could
safely make the dive.
In order to take
advantage of the deeper unexplored wreckage, we armed ourselves with double
tanks, twice the normal weight. Additionally, we hefted our drysuits,
underwear, regulators, weight belts, mask, fins and assorted gear. Typical of September,
when we started, the morning air was cold, a brisk fifty degrees. As the day
progressed, the temperature rose into the seventies, with as the sun reflecting
off the rocks. Starting off in coats and hats in the cold, after our second or
third commute, we stripped down to shorts and t-shirts. The route to the beach was
only a direction not a trail.
We
gingerly walked down a slippery path shaded by pine trees that ended a few
hundred feet before a cliff. At the edge, we lowered our tanks down a six-foot
ledge. Here your imagination improvised a trail. Gigantic boulders were strewn
in our route blocking a contiguous direction. After a few football fields
bounding from rock to rock, we slid down a gully onto a beach made up of large
four to five-pound egg-shaped stones. Each stone was weathered into this shape
after centuries of wave action. This was the location of our base, where we
prepped for the dives.
We made several
grueling treks to this base hauling all the essentials. By the time we had
organized all our gear and suited, several hours had passed. The entry and exit
spot were a rock pitched valley between two humongous rocks. You had to
carefully time your entry to avoid being crushed by the breaking waves. When
returning, you planned your escape with trepidation or risked being pitched
onto the slick kelp covered ridges of jagged rocks. There was no mercy for a
faux pas. Despite these obstacles, after lunch, we made a second dive. When I
view that shoreline today from a modern dive boat, I shake my head and wonder
how we negotiated down that steep cliff to the beach. It is so much easier
walking six feet off a boat and falling into the ocean.
The round five-pound rocks we
found on the beach fit nicely hidden in the bottom of a dry suit boot. After our final dive, John Moyer and I
instinctively and unbeknownst to each other, placed a rock in each of Eric
Garay’s boots. Eric was twice our age,
but he too made the arduous hike hefting his doubles and gear. Passing Eric on
the steep incline, I felt guilty and confessed my digression. John too
announced his culpability to Eric. Eric’s suit was draped over his shoulder
wedged in the top of his tanks. Indignantly he stopped, wiped the sweat from
his brow and protested that he was quite capable of managing the hike. When he
reached his car, Eric felt the clunk of the rocks bang against his trunk. Later
that night, John found the lumpy rocks stuffed in his sleeping bag… Touché
Eric.
The hearty maritime history of
Halifax Harbour is motivation for any wreck enthusiast. After numerous trips to
the port, I became enchanted by the endless number of sea dramas that took
place there. How close the U-Boat war came to the east coast during World War
II is well documented. Hunting for the lost tanker British Freedom became an
obsession of mine after researching her history. The story of the tanker’s
slayer, the U-1232, remains extraordinary. Halifax was a priority target as
many convoys sought refuge in its sheltered harbor. Although the war was
closing, this thrilling battle ensued in the harbor at the end of World War II
and captivates the imagination. Under the command of Kapitän zur See Kurt
Dobratz, age forty, one of the oldest U-boat commanders of WWII, U-1232 cruised
out of Horten, Norway in November of 1944. It reached Halifax Harbour in mid-December.
Charging his batteries at night and slipping beneath the surface during the
day, Dobratz eluded the Canadian and American patrols while Christmas and the New
Year passed. He had attempted several attacks expending two torpedoes on
distant targets, but now on the evening of January 13, 1945, a sensational
shooting gallery was approaching Halifax Harbour. Through his periscope, the
Convoy BX-141 appeared on the horizon.
The U-boat commander patiently waited on the morning of January 14,
1945, as nineteen ships entered the harbor.
As the ships lined up, the U-1232 slipped into the eastern edge of the
harbor. Dobratz was about to attempt a daring attack, that unforeseen by him,
would evoke a remarkable counterattack. The
story of his dramatic attack escape and survival would soon be muffled by the
drums of his conquerors.
The British Freedom and the
Anthelviking remained afloat until they were targeted and sunk to prevent
further collisions and losses. The Martin Van Buren ended up on Duck Reef, near
Sandy Cove just inside of Sambro Island after an attempted tow failed. Kapitän zur See Kurt Dobratz returned to base
in February 1945 and received the Knights Cross for his campaign. He replaced
Donitz as the last Kommandierender Admiral der U-Boote during the final days of
the war. After Germany surrendered, he spent nine months in military detention.
When the war ended, he returned to Germany where he practiced law. U-1232 was
captured by the British in the port of Wesermünde, Germany in May 1945 and sank
while in tow for the scuttling grounds. In May of 1996, a small group of
Haligonians and Americans finally dived the stern of the British Freedom for
the first time.
When
Captain Jim Smith first took us to the reef, he was aware of the infamous shoal
and ominous enduring history. He knew
it would be a good starting point to look for wrecks. Swimming on Blind Sisters
is tenuous. On a calm day, you can search the kelp laden shallows where bits
and pieces of wreckage have been pummeled by the sea. It is amazing to see the
destruction of man-made objects obliterated by the oceans unceasing motion. One should remain wary, as a swell or wake of
a passing ship could pull a diver from the shallows and toss them like a rag
doll over top of the reef. Seals frolic in the deeper sections occasionally
surprising divers. While diving the
Sisters, Andy Pierro was startled when a seal dipped down to take a bite of a
strand of his hair protruding from the vent of his dry suit hood. The curious
fellow followed Andy until he reached the ascent line. Bored, it then swam on
to harass other divers as they meandered in the shallows. On another occasion, Steve
Seeberger and I ran across a gruesome site lying on the rocks. Half of a small
harp seal was cleanly bit and still oozing blood. The murder had to have taken place shortly
before we happened upon it. A grime reminder that we were not alone and are still
a component in the food chain. Grey seals are very social and often interact
with the divers on the boat. From a distance they are occasionally mistaken as
mustached divers swimming back to the boat. They seem to enjoy the distraction
as they bark to gain our attention. Normally, these jumbos can be observed hauling
out on the rocks, to bask in the sun, sleep, and to court. The larger males,
weighing up to seven-hundred pounds, dominate the herd. While these brutes rest
on the rocks, the females gather nearby swimming until the bull’s appetite
beguiles him to roll in for a pollock fish meal. Immediately, the females
splash back onto the rocks avoiding his undesirable advances. The entertaining
cycle continues throughout the day.  |
Seal lounging on Sambro Island
photo taken by Steve Seeberger |
Sambro
Light, erected in 1758, is the oldest lighthouse in North America. Today, operating
autonomously, it remains a warning to mariners of the treacherous approaches to
Halifax. Just outside the light lies one of Nova Scotia’s most tragic wrecks,
the S.S. Daniel Steinman. The steamer built in 1857, was 177 feet long. While
sailing a regular trip from Antwerp, her homeport, to New York, on April 3,
1884, one-hundred-twenty-four mainly German immigrants and crew were lost.
Entering the harbor after a routine voyage, dense fog and high winds engulfed
the vessel. The passenger-steamer struck Broad Breaker rock, then lost her
rudder and propeller. Unable to steer or make any headway, she then careened
into Mad rock after an attempt to anchor failed. The steamer was soon swamped
by waves and sank in ninety feet of water less than a mile from Sambro Island. Most of the passengers, already standing on
the deck, were overcome by the breaking waves consuming the ship. Remarkably, Yohanna Niederman, a 26-year-old
Bavarian who was not a swimmer, survived by holding on to the rigging below the
water as the ship settled. He pulled himself up the mast after being submerged
for over two-minutes and lashed himself to the rigging. After a punishing
night, he and Captain Schoonhoven survived by clinging to the mast sticking out
of the sea. Only eight others were rescued.
As the ship sank, five crew and three passengers rowed way from the
panicked horde in a jolly boat. Struggling passengers leaped toward the boat
grasping onto others as they tried to claw their way to the overloaded dinghy. Miraculously,
Florentine Von Geissel, a crew member manning the boat, had survived several
other sinkings including the Manderin in which over 300 passengers perished. Captain
Schoonhoven, although severely censured by the press, was not charged with any
misconduct after a formal inquest. Although caution was taken approaching the
harbor, Captain Schoonhoven confused Chebucto Light for Sambro Light ultimately
condemning the ship. The testimony of the survivors favored his actions even
though he miscalculated his position entering the harbor due to the bad weather
and dense fog. The fact that there were no lifeboats on Sambro Light could have
certainly changed the outcome of the lives lost. This was also taken into
consideration during the inquest. It is unlikely even if there were boats, that
the outcome would have changed. The huge surf made the Steinman unapproachable
in the storm. The sounding whistle alerted three rescue tugs, which were
immediately dispatched from Halifax. Overcome by the high seas and dense fog,
they only made it as far as Herring Cove before they were forced to turn back. Two
years before the sinking, in June 1882, the steam-ship Daniel Steinman, lost
her propeller and was towed 600 hundred miles to New York by the White Star
liner Republic. On March 29, 1884, the
district court of New York ruled a $25,000.00 award to the White Star line for
the service. Unbeknownst to Captain Schoonhoven, the ruling was made just a few
days before the Daniel Steinman sank off Halifax.
 |
| Diving the S.S. Daniel Steinman |
The
Steinman had only been dived by a handful of locals prior to our first exploration.
One of those provincial divers came along on the search to put us on the wreck.
He had only been to the wreck once before but thought he could find it.
Regrettably, we spent the entire day hunting with no success. I made half a
dozen descents ranging in depths from forty feet to one-hundred-twenty feet.
The frustrated guide also made a couple descents but to no avail. The next day we returned. Ruling out all the
areas from the previous search, Captain Jim dropped the anchor in a place
described from a newspaper published a few days after the sinking in 1884. Once
again, I descended into the clear waters hoping to chance upon the lost ship.
At first, I could only see rocks.
Continuing into the current, some unusual debris appeared on the
seafloor. A trail of coral-covered bottles sporadically lay mixed amongst the
rock and kelp laden terrain below me. The further I swam, the greater the
number, until there were piles of three or four bottles in one spot. Then a
large cask shaped form appeared ahead in the distance. It was once a wooden
barrel, but the wood had long since been eaten by Teredo worms. Now only a
solidified plaster form remained. Swimming further, bits and pieces of wreckage
started to accumulate. On my left, a rock wall began to form. Then, conclusive evidence lay a dozen feet
ahead. A pile of twisted rigging made up
of coral covered cables, pulleys, and deadeyes had gathered. Swimming another
few dozen yards, a large fantail of a ship emerged near the rock wall. A place
to make a secure tie-in for the anchor line was just ahead. On top of the
engine, high above the hull, I attached the boat’s tether. There was no doubt
this was the steamer Daniel Steinman. Hundreds of barrels had rolled off the
hull into a debris field scattered throughout the dell below. Numerous piles of
green, coral covered ale bottles and crushed case gin bottles were fused inside
the cargo hold.
Large freight cases strapped
to the hull with metal bands were still in place. The volume of cargo packed on
this little ship was tremendous. Over 2000 tons of assorted housewares, ale,
champagne, gin, and hardware was packed in the ships hold. Nestled within the rocks,
rising to the same height, was a large section of the bow. A part of the mast
towered above the stout section of bow. Returning to the stern along the port
side, the hull appeared more intact. Portholes remained loosely scattered and standing
deadeyes ran in a row above the hull held up by stiff rigging cables. Piles of
loose deadeyes and another mast were strewn in the shallows. The area was so
pristine and unspoiled you could visualize the ship settling in the rocks after
the sinking. It was thrilling to know, few before had the privilege of visiting
this section. Swimming back to the stern, china cups and bowls lay under the
deck cemented together in the pink coral. Lamentably, it was evident that the
continuous motion of the sea was obliterating the ship. Additionally, the
weight of the coral has caused the ship to flatten and powerful surges have splintered
pieces of the hull throwing them far into the gorge below. Although this is
still an exciting dive, recent visits to the wreck have confirmed that the
caustic effect of the sea will prevail. Today, the wreck is far more
dilapidated and eventually there will be less proof of this tragic disaster.
 |
| Deadeyes on the Steinman |
Discovery
is man’s greatest stimulant. The sensation of discovery is exhilarating and
terrifying in the same. The threshold of fear and not knowing what you may find
can elevate the heart rate and intensify your senses. Hearing your breathing
has always been a part of your descent no matter what kind of dive, but when
you drop down onto an unexplored site, the magnitude of each breath resonates
throughout your being. Training yourself to control your anxiety and your
emotion is a psychological struggle. Divers have been caught in nets, hung up
in fish line, and worse, unknowingly entered wrecks in poor visibility. For
those explorers, the gain outweighs the risk. Being the first one to touchdown
on a virgin wreck is an extraordinary experience.
Offshore
of Mad Rock, where the Steinman crashed, the British Freedom lies in deep water
on the inside approach to Halifax Harbour. The position of the ship was
forgotten after the ship was hurriedly bombed by the Canadian Navy to keep the
traffic lanes clear for wartime shipping. Finding the Freedom would be an epic
adventure. It was a quest fulfilled after numerous searches and descents on the
rocky approaches to Halifax Harbour. This story continues…
“Far
better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though
checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither
enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows
neither victory nor defeat.” ― Theodore Roosevelt
 |
| Rockage covered with anemones |
Haunted Wrecks and Isles of the Nova Scotia.
by Gene Peterson
In the summer of 1998, I led a group of divers to investigate the lone
St. Paul’s Island of Nova Scotia in the Cabot Strait. An abandoned island where
numerous shipwrecks were lost, and hundreds of soles conceded to the elements.
There is an eerie feeling rendered for those whom have explored the island.
Here the souls of hundreds of shipwreck victims remain, perished by drowning,
starvation, and the bitter cold. Those
shipwrecked victims that made landfall onto the island in the early months of
winter, were destined to fend for themselves on the frozen atoll. St. Paul’s is
an exposed rock where low conifers take on elongated forms in the constant wind
and deciduous trees topple in the precipitous hills. Animal
life is non-existent except for the marine life of the surrounding sea. Rabbits
were once introduced to provide sustenance for the shipwreck victims, only to
become nourishment for the Bald Eagles that scan the shore. Victims built
bonfires to signal the shore residents. Regrettably, the winter ice flows
prevented any chance of rescue during those harsh winters. Victims were forced
into starvation on the desolate isle until the spring thaw. Then, evidence of
cruel losses would be discovered, where desperate souls were reduced to eat
their belts, shoes or to chew on roots and bark until their demise. It wasn’t
until the later 1800s when lighthouses were constructed on the North and the
South points in an effort to prevent further tragedies and provide stores for
survivors.
Our group was briefly marooned on this deserted island when a violent
storm engulfed us. We were wafted by 60 mile per hour winds, and mountainous
seas that broke over the small island. The two boats that transported and
supported us left for safer shelter on the mainland. Due to the treacherous
seas and riotous conditions the crew was unable to contact us. They were forced
to depart without being able to retrieve our group. The night of the storm our
only zodiac was located at the bottom of a forty-foot cliff on a spit of gravel
beach. It was securely anchored and tied off to the shore, but If the tide
rose, it would take a beating in the rocky surf. We believed this would be
unlikely because of the prevailing wind direction, but I remained concerned.
Our only means of transportation back to the boats and safety could be
destroyed with a change in wind direction.
At one o’clock in the morning, my anxiety
was realized. The wind direction did change. Gusts near hurricane force had
blown down several tents and snapped poles. The rain was relentless and those
of the group in conventional tents were soaked while struggling to hold down
their temporary shelters. Throughout the night, one could hear recurrent cursing
and tamping of hammers. The construction work of our fellow camp neighbors was constant,
as they attempted to rebuild their makeshift dwellings. Lines were tied to
trees and rocks were used as ballast to secure stakes and poles. The modern
expedition tents designed to withstand higher winds were flexing to the ground
and popping out their fasteners. My tent partners’ Lynn DelCorio, Gary Gentile
and I were awakened and unnerved by mother nature’s unleashed fury. Several times wind gusts flattened our tent and
snapped down upon our heads. When subsiding, it would then spring back into
position. The effect was like being in a parachute collapsing and inflating.
The whipping lines pounding against the tent’s shell sounded much like the lashing
of sheets on a sail boat bashed by a storm. Blowing off the nearby cliff could
be a reality, if the wind got more intense.
Unable to sleep, I abandoned the tent and took vigil crouched over the
cliff with my spotlight. I scanned the jagged shoreline below me. Destructive
forces were bearing down on our little craft. White breakers were crashing over
the rocks taking gigantic leaps as the wind power-washed the cliffs eroding the
shore line. It was a fearful demonstration of an incredibly violent sea. Like a
vision, I momentarily imagined the terror shipwreck victims must have
experienced after their sturdy vessels careened into the ominous rocks and then
were pounded into splinters on the shore. An estimate of more than four hundred
ships had met their fate on the rocks of this island. One such ship, the
Norwegian, a steamer, had driven itself up on the rocks on June 14, 1863. Five hundred passengers survived by scaling
the treacherous high cliffs, including an immigrant woman in labor. That night miraculously,
she gave birth on the barren island and all five hundred-one souls were saved.
Other ships that struck the island were not so lucky. With fully rigged
sails they smashed into the piercing rocks, split open their hulls and left the
shores littered with dead. Some were lost in fierce storms during hostile cold
months making their rescue impossible.
 |
| Landing on the cliffs of St. Paul's |
Now, we would be tested mentally and physically by similar forces. By mid-night,
the storm had reached full intensity. The ocean now washed over the beach and
was smashing the zodiac with its motor up against the razor-sharp walls of the
beach crevice. Decisive action needed to be taken at this moment or the vessel
would be obliterated by the crashing surf that was devouring the shoreline.
Without a signal, the group was on hand. Apparently, a mutual anticipation of
the necessary duties was realized. In the pitch-black, all able bodies were
perched over the cliff gazing down at the riotous sea attempting to crush the
boat. Instinctively, we knew what must be done. Unrehearsed, yet working in
regimented unison, my comrades began the arduous task on the dangerous glassy
rocks. Equipped with grapnel and lines, the team scaled down the sheer granite
wall, as the rolling surf broke over us. We held fast in our tenuous positions,
anchoring lines and hauling up gear mechanically. The earsplitting wind, rain
and showering waves were thunderous. Essential commands were shouted to
reinforce the safety of those dangling precariously on the cliff.
Boldly, in the tumultuous storm, members bounded like mountain goats
securing and fastening down lines. Momentary
lulls in the wave sets allowed for a short struggle to gain ground and
stabilize the zodiac. John Galvin seized the moment, jumping into the wobbly
boat as it buckled and pitched with each bounding wave. He decisively
unfastened the motor mounts as ferocious waves pounded the zodiac against the
rocky cliff. The beach was gone, and the water had risen over our heads as we
held the boat off the rocks. We barely managed to stabilize the boat as John
hefted the heavy 25 horse motor over his shoulder. Incredibly, he bore all the
weight of the unwieldy motor. Pure adrenalin coursed through his veins as he
and the rest of the group hauled the burden up the cliff. His amazing strength
was undeniable.
 |
|
Now to save the boat itself, the whole group simultaneously pulled and
lifted the vessel up the rock wall inch by inch. Ingeniously, Greg Modelle
drove a grapnel into the earth and anchored the boat into a position safe from
the savage sea. At ease, we stood in awe of the amazing feat we had just
performed. There was no doubt of the necessity of this risky undertaking.
Afterwards, we smirked at each other upon seeing the unique sleeping attire
that some of us remained in for the event. Appreciating that our task was
complete, we retired to our shelters with pride. The comradery we shared on
that cliff will long be remembered.
Nearly 250 miles to the south, a
granite monument marks the area overlooking Sandy Cove. Here, just south of
Halifax Harbor marks the site of one of Nova Scotia’s most tragic disasters,
the wreck of the S.S. Atlantic. Considered one of the finest luxury steamers
afloat, the Atlantic was 435 feet long and displaced 3,707 tons. She had a
41-foot beam and a hold depth of 36 feet. Her hull was framed with angle iron,
three iron decks eight feet high reinforced by wooden bulkheads and there were
seven watertight compartments in the ship. The vessel was powered by four,
two-cylinder steam engines and could average better than 12 knots on Atlantic
crossings from Europe. In addition, she was stepped with four auxiliary, ships
rigged masts 150 feet in height. Her interior was securely fitted, making
the long passages relatively comfortable, despite the large volume of
passengers she regularly carried.
Her master, Captain John A.
Williams was considered one of the most competent officers in the world and was
well liked and respected in Europe and America. Her crew was well disciplined
and there were four other officers on board at the time of the
sinking. There were 931 passengers on the ill-fated voyage from Liverpool,
England to New York.
Her departure was on March 20,
1873. The seas were calm, and the trip was uneventful for the early part of the
crossing. Then, on the evening of the fourth day, a storm developed. The ship
began to pitch and heave with greater intensity each hour. The ocean became
mountainous, raging furiously for the next three days. To maintain the speed in
the storm more coal was used. After four days of pounding at sea, the coal
bunkers were dangerously low, and Captain Williams diverted the ship to Halifax
to take on more fuel.
On the night of March 31, the
Atlantic steamed toward the red light of what Captain Williams believed was
Sambro Lighthouse. Captain Williams failed to consult his chart and he
mistakenly headed his ship toward the jagged rocks of Peggy’s Point Lighthouse.
At 2:40 a.m. on the morning of
April 1, 1873, the steamer crashed into the rocks off Peggy’s Point Lighthouse.
The horror of the disaster was unfolding below deck as the hundreds of mostly
women and children desperately failed to reach safety as the steamer rolled
over on her port side toward the sea. More than 300 hundred drowned almost
immediately and another 262 succumbed to the bitter cold and dropped from the
decks, rigging and spars into the icy water. It is most unfortunate that
the ship rolled toward the open sea instead of the rock covered coast.
Some of the domed may have been able to reach safety had the ship rolled
toward the shore.
Captain Williams was severely
censured for his neglect of duty and lost his license for two years. A lenient
penalty was imposed on him for his noble efforts to save lives after the
disaster and for his previous unblemished record. The tremendous loss of life,
over half of the passengers on board, made the Atlantic’s sinking the greatest
sea tragedy to occur at the time, in North America.
In September of 1981, John Moyer, Gary Gentile
and I boarded a lobster boat owned by Harry Bartlet in Propect Cove. I
researched the Atlantic’s sinking and we traveled over 1200 miles to this
remote harbor to explore this famous wreck. I was anxious to see the
wreck site of the once luxurious White Star liner that was now lying in these
shallow waters.
 |
| with Gary Gentile and John Moyer over the Atlantic |
Harry Bartlet’s boat was unique.
Unlike the typical dive boats of modern times, Harry’s boat had little in the
way of comfort, shelter, or space. It did feature a sapling ladder, a
moss-covered bow and a weathered life ring for safety. Harry would often tow a
smaller skiff, just in case this sturdy craft foundered. The best thing about
Harry’s boat was the location. It was a 15-minute ride to the wreck of the
Atlantic and a buoy was in place marking the site. We suited up, lowered our
gear with a hoist, donned our doubles at the dock and enjoyed the short ride.
After Harry lassoed the buoy, we rolled off the stern and plunged to the
wreckage scattered below. Here wolf fish postured themselves at high points on
the rocks where the broken hull extends from the waist high shallows to depths
of ninety feet. Piles of broken china lay strewn mixed throughout the rocks and
wreckage. Occasionally, an intact piece of china or a crest washes out from
beneath the sands. Dead eyes, portholes, marble decorations, organ keys,
assorted brass valves and assorted parts lie strewn in the rock crevices.
Ironically, several St. Christopher metals have been discovered. The most
exciting discoveries have been the occasional gold coins.
On a later occasion, Harry failed
to lasso the buoy after several attempts. Feeling Harrys growing dismay, Gary
Gentile touted the phrase " Harry, if you can hook it, we can dive
it". With breakers surrounding us
and a distressed captain manning the helm, we bowed out lest we sink our boat
over the wreck. Gary was referring to the noted quote by the “Grandfather of
wreck diving” Mike DeCamp. Mikes exclamation was denoting the swaggering
attitude of New Jersey wreck divers. It
doesn't get much better than this when creating a legendary adventure.
Over the years, I have returned
to the wreck on several trips. Surprisingly little has changed, although
sadly, Harry, “host of the SS Atlantic” has long passed. Today the waters are consistently
clear, cold, and the intimidating wolf fish that guard the wreck remain.
 |
| Tom Fagan over stern gun of British Freedom. |
Finding the Freedom, the
Discovery.
By Gene Peterson
Within view of Sambro Light and
Chebucto Head, Nova Scotia an intense sea battle had ensued. A couple miles east of Mad Rock, near the location
of the S.S. Daniel Steinman, lies the oil tanker British Freedom. It is on the edge
of the separation zone for outbound shipping traffic of Halifax Harbour. On the cold winter morning of January 14,
1945, villagers of Halifax Harbour witnessed the battle as the British Freedom,
the Martin Van Buren and the Athelviking were torpedoed by the U-1232 during
one of the final sea battles of World War II. The attack was audacious, and the
U-boat commander earned an Iron Cross for his merit. The desperation of the collapsing German war
machine was obvious when the sub returned to the pier in Saint-Nazaire. It was sparsely lighted and only a few of the
flotilla’s brass found time to greet the returning protagonists. The daring
attack made by the U-1232 and its remarkable escape during a counterattack, are
previously noted in part one. In 1995,
the tanker British Freedom was found by the Canadian Department of Natural
Resources while side scanning the harbor. The site, in 220 feet of water, had
remained undisturbed for over 50 years. Currently, a wreck symbol indicates its
discovered location on the latest charts.
In contrast, two previous attacks
were also within the harbor view in the Canadian province of Newfoundland. The
bold raids took place in Conception Bay near the village of Lance Cove. The
following narrative is not amplified. On September 4, 1942, the U-513 crept in
with the convoy and settled near the Wabana anchorage. Like a plot from a
Hollywood war movie, the German sub U-513 tucked itself under the stern of the
SS Evelyn B and trailed it into harbor. Allied ships sailed here for the ore extracted
from Bell Island’s deep iron mines, crucial for making steel and thusly for the
war effort. Before the war, the Germans
traded with Canada for the iron commodity. Aware of the valued war asset, the
German command sent U-boats to plunder the allied supply ships at the start of
the war. On the morning of September 5, Captain Rolf Ruggeberg of the U-513 waited
for the ships to be fully loaded, then fired upon the Lord Strathcona two torpedoes.
The German torpedo crewmen failed to arm the torpedoes which did not damage the
ship but did alert the harbor of the invaders. Immediately, the Evelyn B
detected the sub and opened fire as the U-513 plunged beneath the surface safely
avoiding the intensity of the deck gun.
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| Rose Castle sinking off Lance Cove. |
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| inspecting the engine room telegraph |
In the late afternoon of September 5, at
4:15 p.m., the brash commander fired two additional torpedoes at the S.S.
Saganaga. Both torpedoes struck dead center with such explosive force, it
cracked the hull of the ore carrier in half. The intense blast catapulted the
ships massive bow anchor hundreds of feet into the air. The anchor then
careened down, landing midship, carrying tons of chain with it. The heavy
burdened ship went down in minutes with the crew of thirty. Witnessing the explosion,
Captain Charles Stewart of the SS Lord Strathcona pulled anchor and took
aggressive action ramming the U-boat’s conning tower to sink the predator.
Ruggeberg took the sub to the bottom of the bay and accessed the damage. Although jolted by the impact, the functional
sub surfaced and again fired two torpedoes from its stern tubes at the Canadian
ship Lord Strathcona. Thirty-one minutes after the Saganaga sank, the Lord
Strathcona also sank. The waters were crowded with drowning and injured sailors.
Alerted rescuers from the cove picked up survivors and the dead as escaping
ships fled the harbor.
The U-513 slipped
out of the harbor concealed in the chaos and the nights blackness. Exacerbating the harbor’s inadequately
prepared state, two months later, a second bold German assault mirrored the
earlier sneak attack. Without protective barriers or submarine cables, the
harbor remained freely accessed. At 3
a.m., on the morning of November 2, 1942, the U-518 under K/L Friedrich
Wissmann, edged into Conception Bay undetected in the cover of darkness. Wissmann
hugged the bluffs of Bell Island, masked in the dark shadow of the cliffs. The
German invaders could see car headlights traveling overhead on the above fringes.
Cognizant that the harbor may now be fortified with heavy artillery and
spotlights, Wissmann wasted no time and took swift action. At 7 a.m., the commander fired a torpedo at
the three-thousand-ton collier, Anna T, lying in anchor. The torpedo missed, running
just below the stern of the Flying Dale berthed at the Scotia Pier, and
obliterated the dock. Even though it was an unintentional miss, this faux pas
turned out to be the only direct land attack on the East Coast of North America
during World War II. Warned by the
explosion and wary of the previous attack, the other ships began to make
headway for the open sea. This time Wissmann adjusted the torpedo depth and
took aim at the 7,546-ton ore ship, Rose Castle. Firing two bow torpedoes, he
sent the freighter to the bottom, sinking it with the loss of 28 men. Several
fishing boats and rescue launches from the village managed to save Captain
Walter J. MacDonald, seventeen of his crew and two gunners from the Rose Castle
in the frozen waters. After sinking the
Rose Castle, Wissmann took aim on the French vessel
Paris-Lyon-Marseilles 27,
firing just a single torpedo. The charge struck the PLM-27 amidships on her
port side, sinking the ship in less than a minute. Seven crew members were lost
in the blast. The master, Jean Baptiste along with thirty-five crew and six
gunners managed to swim to the rocky beach in Lance Cove. They were taken into local homes, received first
aid, were warmed up and given coffee and sandwiches. A temporary morgue was set
up in the house of Emma Rees on the shore of Lance Cove. Infuriated by the sinkings, the Governor of
Newfoundland, Admiral Humphrey Walwyn castigated the Chief of Staff, Captain F.
L. Houghton. He declared to Houghton, “It was madness to let ships lie
unprotected”. Houghton rejected the reprimand standing fast on his primary duty
protecting the harbor of St. John. Soon
the Canadian Provinces placed barriers in all the harbors including Conception
Bay, St. John, and the highly trafficked Halifax Harbour. This was done to
deter another invasion inside the boundary waters of these crucial ports. This
prevented further attacks within the inner harbors, but the approaches remained
a shooting gallery for guileful hunters.
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Giant anchor heaved to the center deck.
Photo by Rustin Cassway |
The U-518 continued to haunt the
coastline searching for prey and covertly dropped a spy, Werner Alfred Waldemar
von Janowski, alias William Brenton, in Chaleur Bay a week after the attack in
Conception Harbor. Janowski was captured when Earle Annette, the heedful son of
the owner of the Hotel New Carlisle noticed inconsistencies in his speech,
dress, outdated money, and his Belgian matches. After following him to a
railway station, Annett contacted Constable Alfonse Duchesneau of the Quebec
Provincial Police. Duchesneau boarded the train for Montreal with the suspect and
after some exchanges, Janowski admitted his baggage contained a radio and that
he was a German agent. Janowski spent the remainder of the war as a prisoner of
war in England. The U-518 escaped from
Chaleur Bay and Wissmann continued to ravage the sea on six more successful
patrols. On April 22, 1945, Under the command of twenty-two-year-old Oberleutnant
zur See Hans-Werner Offermann, the U-518 was sunk off the Azores with hedgehogs
and depth charges during its tenth patrol. The young captain and fifty-six crew
members perished in the sinking.
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| Werner Alfred Waldemar von Janowski |
Provincial shore divers
discovered most of the coastal wrecks strewn throughout Halifax Harbour. The
deeper wrecks beyond one-hundred thirty feet accessible by boat remained
unscathed. In the summer of 1994, after several successful boat hunts with
Captain Jim Smith, we determined it was time to start looking offshore for other
undiscovered wrecks standing alone on the harbor floor. Renowned and highly
sought after, the British Freedom torpedoed by the U-1232 was an elusive quest.
Within the limits of technical diving, the massive tanker was in a challenging search
location. Historical accounts put it within the incoming or outbound approaches
to Halifax Harbour. Anchoring in the lanes was prohibited due to the volume of transportation
making way in and out of the harbor. The
narrow lanes allowed no options to detour shipping in the highly trafficked port.
The depths would require a few hours of time to conduct diving operations with safety.
Logistically, if the wreck were found in a lane, it would remain un-divable
without extensive permits and possibly hazardous detours. The harbor trade is
so intense, that if it was found in either lane it may not be possible to get clearance
from the harbormaster to dive.Hooking up with a local captain
like Jim Smith was a golden chance. Jim knew many of the regional divers and
boat captains that were hunting for shipwrecks. A few co-ordinates were passed
on to Jim and he knew we would be eager to check those sites. Many of the
anomalies were rocks, but occasionally we happened upon a hunk of a shipwreck
hull, boiler, or a patch of contiguous beams. Unlike the familiar flat sandy
bottom off the Jersey Coast, the bottom grounds off Halifax are lumpy, uneven
patches, filled with ship sized boulders, cliffs, pits, and dips. This made it
difficult pinpointing a wreck location. A bottom scanner recorded glitches
which required visual confirmation to verify a shipwreck. Plummeting a shot
line marker to a 200-foot-deep rock was a disappointing affair. Divers became weary
of these look and sees, mandating such exploits to one or two attempts per day.
In one instance of searching, I spent nearly two hours swimming in the rocky
crags off the Sister ledges. I depleted the battery in a scooter and had
switched to a second set of tanks but continued to swim searching various
pinnacles of rocks. Even the most faithful of divers who wait topside can grow
weary of this indolence. The doldrums of staring at a blank sea caused a few to
dress down in the sweltering heat. Getting a crew to bear that type of tedium
is challenging. This is the wager one
must tolerate if you seek to find something new. Many times, in the past, these
loyalists persevered without reward. Sensing the amount of time passing, I
ascended, and addressed the group. I could tell Captain Jim was also becoming
drained maneuvering the boat as he and lookouts followed my exhausted bubbles.
I asserted to the group that if I did not see anything within the next dozen
minutes, we would head in. Dashing back
to the depths, I swam with even more tenacity. Passing ledge after ledge, I was
struggling to get ahead in the current. Swimming over the next grouping of
rocks, I found myself on a slope plummeting down to a gap. Remarkably, lying in
the gap a Scotch boiler rested teetering on the edge of a boulder. Swimming
along the cliff-face below, I spotted a rows of portholes attached to a long
sheet of rusted steel. I quickly dispatched a lift bag marking the spot and
ascended. Waiting on the surface, the faithful crew gathered at the stern of
the boat for the update. “A wreck” is all I needed to say. The elated group
began splashing over the side as I boarded. I was worn out but rejuvenated by
the group’s enthusiasm and the discovery. You just cannot give up. Doggedness will
prevail with luck in the end. Earning
the trust of a group is important for future and more daunting hunts. On the
next few trips, similar searches evolved as Captain Jim and I gathered more new
areas to probe. After a few more exciting discoveries in the summer of 1995, we
eagerly pledged to search again the next spring. Paradoxically that fall, a government
scanning project mapped the harbor and fortuitously happened upon an
irregularity in the underwater terrain. An unnatural glitch appeared on the
side scan, and the British Freedom was exposed. The project put investigative
divers on the bow section after the discovery to confirm the structure. The co-ordinates
remained confidential, but truth has a way of rising to the surface.
In May of 1996, I readied a group
of American and Canadian divers for another search for the British Freedom.
This time, we were armed with a side scan and a ROV (remote operated vehicle).
No longer would I need to drop down into the cold unfamiliar abyss as a
self-contained explorer lighting up giant geological abnormalities commonly
known as rocks. Reaching the site where the government
discovered the wreck, we dropped the ROV over the side. While Captain Jim
finessed the joystick, the tethered robot descended as we enthusiastically
watched a monitor in the heated cabin. The anticipation was tremendous as a
huddled group viewed the seemingly endless descent into the blue
emptiness. On the back deck, the umbilical
was paid out following the undersea satellite to the bottom. Finally, after the long descent, fish
appeared schooling in front of the camera as it neared the pale sand. Scallops
lay scattered over the field ahead of the rover, while bottom fish darted out
of its path. Ahead, a colossal shadow darkened the ambient light which
penetrated the depth. Intently we watched, as Jim maneuvered the ROV
ahead. Before the rover, a massive wall
of hull stood blocking forward progress in any direction. Elevating the vessel
off the bottom, we could see the sunlight streaming through the ship’s railings.
Rising over the edge, we could see the intact stern as the ROV hovered above.
In situ for fifty-one years, the ship remained nearly intact. One could imagine the last moments of battle
on January 13, 1945. Gun shells and boxes of ammo remain strewn throughout the
wreckage, the deck canted to the starboard from the explosion, the foyer deck
gun and anti-aircraft guns remained pointed away from the ship. Both guns looked
loaded and ready to fire. The British Freedom sank stern first, yet the bow continued
to protrude above the waves blocking the entrance to the harbor. Later that day,
HMCS Goderich was dispatched to sink the Freedom with depth charges as the
staunch ship continued to float. Of the forty-eight crew and nine gunners
onboard, there was only one unfortunate casualty. Engineer William Henderson was
lost and trapped below deck when the U-1232s torpedo exploded in the engine
room.
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Descending in search of the Freedom photo by Paul Whittaker |
We were about to experience an
epic moment. Although this was not as legendary a vessel as the Titanic or prominent
as the Andrea Doria, the British Freedom was historically important. The
Freedom was notable in that it was a significant loss during the last epic sea
battle in one of the most protected harbors of North America. As Captain Jim
hovered the boat over the site, fellow divers Paul Whittaker, Tye Zinck and
Jared Rainault dropped a weighted line over the side marking the highest point
on the depth sounder. Readied for the dive, I jumped into the green icy brine. Hitting the sea was punishing as I broke
through the thick layer of surface slush. The freezing water instantly gave me
a painful brain freeze. I fought the
unsettling nausea in the cold, knowing the numbing sensation would soon ease
the pain. This was the coldest deep-dive I have ever made even to this day.
During my final ascent, I noted the temperature stood at 27 degrees
Fahrenheit. The Canadians onboard bore
huge bottles of Argon purging thicker gas into their oversized neoprene suits
stuffed with thick synthetic underwear. I added an electric heat pad in
addition to a heavy layer of underwear to combat the cold arduous decompression
at the end of my dive. Regardless, it was still a bitter dive where your
extremities deadened after ninety-plus minutes of dive time. Reaching the dive
ladder to ascend, divers found themselves lifting their numb legs into place on
the rungs and massaging their calf muscles to resume circulation before
climbing to the deck. Once on board, the post dive elation and adrenaline pulsating
through the body shunned the pain. This was a chance opportunity worthy of the
temporary anguish.
Even in the frigid water, mental
and visual clarity prevailed as I reached the top of the wreck. Cutting the
weights away on the tie in line, I swam the boat tether to the highest point on
the starboard side where a fifty-caliber machine gun tower stood. I tied the
loose end of the line through the gun swivel and watched the pivot rotate as
the dive boat tightened the line. You could not have asked for a better place
to anchor; no matter where the boat swung in the current, the swivel would turn,
and divers could easily locate the tower. Looking down from the turret, one
could see the entire stern. On the starboard was an anti-aircraft gun just aft
of the machine gun tower. Across the deck on the portside was another
50-caliber machinegun tower. The boilers lie just ahead of the massive exposed
diesel engine. Long sections of fuel hoses lay in place on wooden rollers
designed to be pulled out when connected to a huge pump system on the deck. A rectangular
deck house with a galley lay ahead of a large open deck where a smaller deck
house and steering station stood. Behind the steering station, a gigantic
six-inch deck gun remained with its barrel pointing abaft of the stern. On the port side, a hatch was open which was
easily accessible to the deck below. I swam down to the stern deck over a
rubble pile of loose portholes, dishes, cups, gun-shells, deck lights, deck
prisms, the ships helm and a conglomerate of assorted parts and cases of
ammunition. Ducking below deck, I swam through the tight passageway where a
wooden compass stand remained maintaining the ships direction for half a
century. Passing around the curved corridor, gun-shells in leather protective
cases leaned against the hallway walls. The starboard side was collapsed opening
to a blast hole where sunlight pierced through the blue water. The shocking
coldness beckoned me to return to the warmth above. My forefinger was numbed by
the cold and locked on to my light. I rose to the gun tower and followed the
ascent line. Waiting for my confirmations, a slate was lowered by the anxious
team expecting me as I reached my twenty-foot decompression stop. I scratched a
few notes, “Freedom, stern, guns, dishes, portholes, helm, Awesome! Go diving!”
It was truly a spectacular experience. Being
able to see and sense the aftermath of this dramatic battle firsthand is
unfathomable. Watching those eager divers splash over the side was equally
rewarding to me as being one of the first to see the wreck. This was a rare event
which was well earned by this hardy team of American and Canadian wreck divers
after numerous attempts to unveil the lost tanker.
Over the course of the next two
decades, the British Freedom became a popular destination for the technical
wreck diving enthusiasts from all over the world. In 2003, the powerful
Hurricane, Juan, careened directly into the Nova Scotia coast, battering
Halifax Harbour. The British Freedom stern collapsed in the torrent. The
starboard side already weakened from the initial torpedo blast crumbled to the
seafloor and the deck fell to the sand from the relentless wave surges. The wreck is now unrecognizable compared to
the once intact ship. The scathing effect of the ocean and future powerful
storms will certainly reduce the once vast tanker to a rust-pile. The opportunity
to dive such wrecks is dwindling. I feel fortunate to have been aligned with these
tough, loyal divers that shared my passion. In the most arduous of conditions
they remained resolute.
“Don’t wait. The time will never
be just right.” Mark Twain
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| Rocky shores of Nova Scotia's St Paul's Island. |
