My father, John Anderson Gilmour (1904-1992) wrote these recollections in the mid to late 1980s, when he was over 80 years old. Like many who saw war service, he did not talk much about his experiences till several decades later. He wrote down some of his recollections in one of my old college notebooks - he was never a man to waste anything. The contents of that notebook provide the narrative reproduced here. My amendments and clarifications to his text are enclosed in square brackets.  

I have combined two of my father's versions of the SS Empire Javelin story to give as full an account of it as possible. There are a few inconsistencies of detail between the sources, but I have left them as they were written, so that my father's story remains what it is: his recollection of wartime events after an interval of 45 years. His recollections are supplemented by the information contained in his retained copy, reproduced here, of the report he had to make to the Admiralty after the sinking of SS Empire Javelin.  

My father enlisted with the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve (RNVR) in 1942. His first experience of the sea was on the corvette HMS Honeysuckle K27 as part of the Arctic convoy JW51A to Russia. After officer training, he qualified as a gunnery officer. His first posting in that role was on HMS Akaroa, then on SS Empire Javelin.

I hope this narrative will provide a different perspective and some information on what life was like on board SS Empire Javelin before and during her loss on December 28th 1944.

Lieutenant John Anderson Gilmour, R.N.V.R. seen in the summer of 1943 shortly after he had completed officer training.

To carry troops to the Normandy beaches and possibly to the Japanese-held islands, some assault ships were built in the USA from British designs. They were all named after old weapons: Broadsword, Battleaxe, Cutlass, Javelin, Rapier, Lance, and so forth. There would be about twelve of them. They were well armed with guns and had ten infantry landing craft slung outboard on each side. The tonnage was about 11,000, so they were a good size. There was accommodation for 1,500 soldiers with bunks and good eating and other areas. There were 80 Royal Navy (RN) gunners with one Gunnery Officer, who ranked senior to all other deck and ship's officers, but junior to the Captain. He and the ship's crew were all Merchant Navy personnel. In addition, there was the flotilla commander (a Royal Navy Lieutenant) who had several Sub-Lieutenants and Royal Navy crews to maintain and man the landing craft. They numbered 60 or so. The Merchant Navy crew and officers totalled about 250. This gave a total complement of about 1900 men. There was also an RNVR doctor with three sick bay attendants, plus six Royal Navy signallers. I was the RNVR Gunnery Officer on SS Empire Javelin.

As is usual, I mustered all my men and gave them an introductory talk. I met the RN Lieutenant who was in charge of the landing craft, and the other officers of the flotilla. I had already made my number to Captain [McLean], (a Merchant Navy officer) and the other officers, engineers and so forth.

Our part in the invasion of Normandy was to sail with the first part of the invasion armada and put our 1,500 troops on to the beaches. To do this, we, as the parent ship, had to sail as close as possible to the beaches. Each landing craft carried 30 soldiers, so 600 were put ashore in our first landing. The craft returned and filled up again. This time, the soldiers scrambled down special leaving nets into the craft, and the next 600 went ashore, then the last 300. As soon as we were able to hoist the landing craft back on board, we had to return.

We were part of 'Force G', and sailed from Portland. We carried only US troops of the First US Division. Our beach was Omaha, which turned out to be the toughest of all. My part, and that of my gunners, was to defend the ship if we were attacked. Our battleships, [including] the Rodney [and] the Warspite, had bombarded the enemy prior to our arrival just after dawn, and we were protected against U-boats by frigates and corvettes on our flanks. When our job was completed, we sailed back to Portland, refuelled, etc, took on board another 1,500 US troops and returned to the beaches on D-day+3. Some advance had been made, but the battle was still visible and the enemy was fighting back.

My part was to be on the bridge from sailing time, usually about 2am, and I 'closed up' my gunners at their sailing stations. There were three watches, which meant they were at their guns for four hours, and off for eight hours, but if there was a threatened attack, then it was 'action stations', with every gun ready for action. My Chief Petty Officer relieved me at meal times, apart from which I was on duty, and I did my sleeping before and after each trip. This was not as onerous as one might think, but made a stretch of 12-14 hours. After about three trips, we were changed from Portland to Southampton, which was a better base for loading. Also, we were more sheltered in Southampton Water at anchor while awaiting orders. It all worked very well.

On the first run across, it was obvious that the organisation had been well nigh perfect. All our ships did exactly what they had been ordered to do. Naturally, we were all a bit apprehensive. There was gunfire, there were bombs dropped, but the troops were put ashore. We had left the UK in the dark, but sailed back in daylight. We usually sailed between midnight and two o'clock in the morning because we were supposed to be safer in the dark. All the time, there was a steady stream of ships heading for the beaches. All sorts of craft: tank landing ships, freighters, oilers, infantry landing ships taking men and supplies outward and returning empty. I don't know how often we did the trip.

Sometimes the weather was fine, but often it was foul, wet and windy, and unpleasant to be on the open bridge, or like my gunmen who were on watch. The marker buoys were lit, but very low-powered, and about five miles apart. The journey was about 100 miles each way.

The normal procedure was that we took troops on board and then went to anchor somewhere in the lee of the Isle of Wight at the Needles end. Later on, we usually lay at anchor off the Nab Tower at the other end of the island. One particularly bad evening, our sailing had been cancelled because of the weather. We were ordered, with all the other craft, to 'heave to' and anchor where we were. There were some 30 ships with troops and supplies, and we were due to sail 'in line ahead'. I was on the bridge, and went below till we had further orders. About 3am, 'would the Gunnery Officer please come to the bridge.' We had been lying on two anchors, and such was the force of the storm that both chains had broken. The Captain had decided to sail a circular course round a small buoy with a flashing light (at a quarter normal strength). My job was to make sure that we didn't lose it. Not the easiest job, but I coped, and when dawn came, it was still in sight. In the morning, troop transports and others [were] all over the place. That night, 27 anchors were left on the bottom. One by one, we were signalled to proceed to Southampton, where we were [to be] given new anchors and chains. The troop decks were a bit unpleasant, as many of the 1,500 US Army boys had been a bit ill during the night. Ships have no brakes, so we had to be careful. They were ready for us, tugs nosed us alongside, and ere long, we were off [to the beaches] again. This time, the weather had improved.

Then there was the time when we ran into fog, and our entrance was at the Needles, where the foghorn was sounding off. I was on the bridge with the Captain, and as I though we were dangerously close, I said so to him. Luckily, he had the anchor party on station, and ordered them to 'let go' while he rang 'full astern'. Equally luckily, we were on the ebb tide, and as the fog cleared about three hours afterwards, we were thankful that we were no nearer. If the tide had been 'making' when we stopped, we would have knocked the lighthouse down.

On another occasion, after we had put the troops ashore, we were sent off on a special mission. We remained at anchor, and when it was almost dark, we set sail for an inlet in Brittany. As a diversion, some American troops had been put ashore in Brittany on D-Day, and they couldn't do anything, as the Germans had enough armour to see them off if they tried to break through. Our job was to get them off and land them at Omaha beachhead. We had to sail past the Channel Islands at about two miles distance. My surface guns had an accurate range of five miles, so for quite a time we were at action stations. We had no radar, [unlike] the German soldiers who occupied the islands. They had good defences and some gun boats. On their radar screens, they would get an echo of a ship about the size of a cruiser. We were watching for a gun flash from them, which would give us a target to aim at. We did not expect them to reveal themselves, but we were ready with range and deflection on the gun. We could make out the islands in the dark. It was rather odd that we all talked in whispers and made as little noise as possible, though we knew that they couldn't possibly hear us even if we shouted. They didn't open fire, and we found our way to the inlet, where we picked up about 1,200 US troops. We landed them on the beaches after another night voyage round the Channel Islands.

One danger that I haven't mentioned [was] the magnetic mines, which were all over the place. They lay on the sea bed, and as a ship passed over, they shot up and hit the ship, being activated by the throb of the engines. This was counteracted by the ship's speed being reduced as the water became shallower. It sometimes happened that a mine would suddenly shoot up and explode after the ship had passed. If yours was the next ship, [this] was a little disconcerting, to say the least.

Then there was the whisky ration. After each trip, the Captain sent for me and gave me enough bottles to give each of my gunners a free tot 'and a bottle for yourself, Guns.' The whole ship's company was treated the same way. A good supply had been put on board for this purpose. It seemed a very generous action by the Government. One day, not long before Christmas [1944], he sent for me. He had asked for a further quantity, and was staggered when he was sent the bill for the first consignment. He read the original instructions again, and discovered that he should have charged for what he dispensed. 'What must I do now, Guns?' I told him to let the matter rest till the New Year. Obviously, we could not now ask everyone for payment, and there would have been a mutiny if we had. I said that I would make discreet enquiries ashore and see [if] we could work out something. I told him that when a ship was sunk, all its debts went down with it, but I didn't advise that. [This was all] a little bit prophetic, as it turned out later.

Later on, the Admiralty decided that our landing craft flotilla was no longer needed, as we could discharge our troops at Le Havre or Cherbourg, both of which ports had been captured and were usable, though with difficulty. We were ordered to go along the coast to Fowey. We arrived there in the morning, and the landing craft were dropped and tied up at the far end of the harbour. 'Father' (the Captain) decided to have a party for all the flotilla officers and it duly took place. The doctor and I were invited. As we were not due to depart till the next morning, it was decided that we would go ashore after dinner. There was only one sailor who was teetotal, so he was left on board to look after the ship, which was moored fore and aft so [she] could come to no harm. A naval liberty boat took us all ashore, and it was quite a night. Never had the pubs and hotels done such business. In the end, we were ferried back. How we all got up the side of the ship safely, I will never know. I suppose in a way it helped to break the tension. There was no damage ashore, and when we left, most of the natives lined the shore to cheer us out.

Weather at times was still a problem, but we had always to be on the alert because the 'front' was still not far away. One day, we picked up over 1,000 battle-stained British [para]troops to give them passage to the UK. They had been dropped in advance of the actual invasion, and had fought on ever since. They were filthy, and were so surprised and grateful to have hot water, soap and everything available, not least hot meals and a bunk to sleep on. When we reached Southampton, they were unrecognisable - in fact, they could have mounted guard at Buckingham Palace. Some brass hats ashore had decided to greet them with a band playing on the dockside. They were showered with pennies. The paras were given two weeks' leave, and sadly, soon after that, they were dropped at Arnhem, where many of them perished. Like the band, it was not successful.

Just before Christmas [1944] the Germans made a most determined attempt to stop the Allied advance. They broke out at the Ardennes and also put [on] a great effort at sea. One of our sister ships, the Battleaxe, was sunk in the Channel with a considerable loss of life. Like us, she had no landing craft and no lifeboats or rafts. This put us all very much on the alert.

Christmas Day we spent coming back from the beachhead empty, but the Chief Steward did us proud. We had a wonderful Christmas dinner, thanks to him having stocked up in New York (the ship had been built in the USA). Turkey, York ham, asparagus tips, smoked salmon, Dover soles, and wonderful sweets. We were at anchor off Cowes, so we were able to enjoy it all, or as much of it as we could face. By this time, we sailed in daylight, which made things easier.

Soon, of course, we were back on the job again, and then it all happened. We had left Southampton in the morning [of 28th December 1944] with 1,500 US Army troops. It was blowing up a bit. As always, I was on watch on the [open] bridge. The quartermaster steered from the lower bridge which was glassed in, controlled by the officer on watch by telephone. I was relieved at mealtimes by my Chief Petty Officer. Sitting next to me at lunch was the Electrics Officer, a very nice young man of 23. He showed me snaps of his wife and daughter. He said he was off watch but was going back to the engine room to finish a job, He died there. Our doctor, who usually got his head down (had a nap) after lunch, said that he was going back to the sick bay [which] he and his sick bay attendants were painting. His cabin was blown to pieces, but he wasn't in it. Back on the bridge, all went as usual till about 2.30pm. When we were about halfway across, [there] was a sudden thump. A torpedo hit us right in the engine room. The ship was blown over on the port side, and I thought we were going right over, but she righted herself, though was settling low at the stern. It was then that I realised it was up to me, and I ordered 'Close all watertight doors and scuttles.' 'Troops to boat stations.' 'Guns crews and ship's company to action stations.' This had to be done by loudhailer, as all electricity and power had gone. The engines stopped immediately and all was deathly quiet. There were no lights, so below decks, there was darkness. We had no boats, as the landing craft and their crews had been put ashore at Fowey two or three weeks before. The US troops behaved splendidly. They obeyed every order that I gave them and stood at their boat stations though we had no boats.

The Captain was in his cabin and the Third Mate was on the bridge with me. [The Captain] came up the ladder to the bridge. At the time, I thought: surely he must know that we have been torpedoed, but then I realised that he [couldn't] possibly know. He had been resting on his settee and there had been this terrible bang, and he had landed on the deck. His cabin light went out, but his cabin door had swung open. He had grabbed his [cap] and a bottle of Scotch. The Third Mate had [by now] gone aft to his action station. The Captain said 'What happened, Guns?' and I replied 'We seem to have been hit by a tin fish on the starboard side midships and all immediate action has been taken.' He opened the bottle, and as he took a swig at it, I noticed that his hands and arms were shaking badly. When he offered the bottle to me, I took it as a matter of grace, not of need. I felt quite calm. I thought: poor chap, he has had an awful fright, but when I held the bottle, I discovered that I too had hands all a-tremble. He then set about finding out the extent of the damage while I remained on the bridge. We had no means of signalling, as everything on the ship was dead. We had had a sister ship astern of us, but she shot past us at full speed. I learned afterwards that she had radioed our position and need for help.

When we had put the landing craft crews ashore at Fowey, they left us with six signallers ('bunting tossers'). They had been a problem to me, as Force J, of which [they] were a part, had been disbanded and they were not on my 'strength', [so] no one really owned them. They were now to be very useful, as one of them produced semaphore flags.

For the moment, immediate action had been taken. The US troops were all at their boat stations. My gunmen were all at their action stations and the ship's company were at their posts. There seemed to be a very odd silence. We were floating powerless on a rising sea, and were quite alone, with no sounds apart from the sea, the wind and some chatter from the troops. I was on the bridge alone. I had many thoughts. I realised that unless help came soon, most of us would drown. As the nearest land was 50 miles away, it would be a long swim. If the worst happened, I wondered how Olive [his wife] would feel when the telegram was delivered the next morning, and what future there would be for her and Margaret [his daughter]. It was a time for prayer 'for those in peril on the sea'. Without boats, our chances were not great. Then some of the troops asked if they could collect their kitbags. The answer from me was 'No, we will see to that.' The Captain sent word to me that the bulkheads were under great strain and that the sea was breaking through.

I withdrew my gunmen from the most affected positions. About an hour later, a ship was seen on the horizon, approaching from westward. We had no electric power to light the bulbs in our large Morse lamps, but we had our signallers, so I wrote out a short signal which the senior 'bunting tosser' sent by semaphore flags. When the ship came close to us, [we saw] she was L'Escarmouche ('The Skirmisher'), an British frigate transferred to the Free French with an all-French crew. She had a British liaison RNVR officer to translate. Having discussed the situation with our own Captain McLean, I requested her, through my Yeoman of Signals, to come alongside to take off our troops. When the Frenchman heard that we had 1,500 men, he said he couldn't take that number, so I asked him to have a bloody good try. He said he would, but [asked for] four or five of their officers to be put on board first to ensure that the men went below immediately. This I did, and he brought 'L'Escarmouche' alongside. There was quite a sea running, and the heavy cast iron davits which [had] supported our landing craft immediately smashed into the starboard side of [their] bridge, damaging it quite badly. Meanwhile, slip ropes had been passed and the two ships held fast. Slip ropes are normal ropes, but can be slipped free should one ship (ours) start to sink. Down went our scrambling nets, and the disembarking of the troops started. Part of my training had been never to show panic, and you must always appear to have the situation in hand. [The] natural reaction is to want to get off. Anyhow, I kept the troops under control. As half were on each side of the ship, I kept moving them to keep some sort of balance so that we did not have too much weight of men on either side of our ship. They did exactly what I said.

Looking back on the incident [after] over 40 years, I have come to the conclusion that as Captain McLean was Merchant Navy and I was Royal Navy, he expected me to take command of the situation, [and] his job was to look after the ship. He had to keep himself up to date with the bulkheads and [the ingress] of the sea. In times of crisis the Royal Navy is in complete control and is trusted to do the job properly. This must have affected the US troops also. At the time, I would gladly have been the first overboard, but I was trained not only to fight but to defend those in my care. My trust was in God and my prayer that I would be equal to the task. The only other RNVR officer on board was the young doctor. He was busy with his staff, patching up the casualties. The ship's officers were doing their jobs in the parts of the ship to which they were appointed, and the Captain [was] in control of them from his position below the bridge. One of the engineers escaped up the funnel casing and came out on deck, where the doctor treated him. Some US troops escaped when cutting gear made a hole in the deck to free them.

As the last of the soldiers was leaving, I went off the bridge to see the Captain. He told me that the bulkheads were breaking up, and that she could not last much longer. I asked if I should give the order that no one ever wants to give: 'abandon ship', and he agreed. In this case, it was 'Abandon ship; stand fast gun crews.' We still had to shoot back if we were attacked. Another 200 or so men went down the scrambling nets, then I ordered my own sailors off the ship. Captain McLean was standing under the bridge with the Chief Engineer. I reported to the Captain, who said 'We want no bloody heroes here; off you go, and that is an order, but please ask their Captain to stand off for a little in case anything happens.' He expected a quick break-up of the Javelin, and he and the Chief Engineer elected to remain on board. With that, I saluted, jumped out to catch a rope, and slid down to the frigate's deck to the waiting arms of some of my sailors, who kept shouting 'Come on, sir, hurry.' How L'Escarmouche was able to take so many extra men on board is nothing short of a miracle.

The French Captain agreed to 'stand off', but only for a short time. He ordered 'Sea duty boats crew to close up and prepare for a fast drop.' We had moved off to a distance of about a hundred yards when another torpedo hit the Javelin. There was a tremendous explosion. About a third of the Javelin was blown apart. I think the second torpedo hit my main magazine, and it all went up. The Captain and Chief Engineer jumped into the sea and struck out. The sea boat was off in a flash, and picked them both out of the water, which was a bit rough (about half a gale force). They were quickly brought aboard and taken below to the sick bay. Meantime, the Javelin raised her bow to the sky, and with quite a commotion, slid to the bottom. From the second explosion to the disappearance took only three and a half minutes. From the first torpedo to the end was little more than half an hour.

Our RNVR doctor and I had now nothing to do, so we sat in a sheltered spot behind the funnel. L'Escarmouche now headed for the Isle of Wight, which was about 50 miles away. Soon, we met up with a large tank landing ship, and as it was empty, we went alongside, and they took off all the Merchant Navy crew, including the Captain and Chief Engineer wrapped in blankets, and quite a number of the US [troops]. I never met up with the Captain and Chief Engineer [again]. When we were off the Nab Tower at the Isle of Wight, we were signalled to turn about and return to Le Havre to discharge the [remaining US troops]. This we did. It seemed a peculiar order, as the US troops had no gear and no arms, so would have to be brought back to battle condition. Such are the ways of those in authority.

Having considerably reduced our numbers, conditions for the rescued improved. Our RNVR doctor and I were given the freedom of the officers' mess, and as it was now dark, we were able to stretch out on settees and have a snack and coffee for breakfast. Didn't really sleep. We tied up alongside Le Havre quay. The US soldiers were taken over by their own people, while we of the Royal Navy were put on board a British frigate [ HMS Hargood ] which was about to leave for Portsmouth. Oddly enough, the first person I met was Charles Stern (known as Fulla) who was a shipmate on the Flower Class corvette HMS Honeysuckle K27. He was now a Sub-Lieutenant, and he introduced me to his Captain. Things were much easier now. The doctor and I and my men were able to relax and clean up. I cut out a new collar from an old chart to use when I had to report to the Admiralty, as I probably would. On the way back, we saw a pack hunting for our attacker.

We were landed at the RN dockyard at Portsmouth about noon on Saturday [30 th December] and were happy to find a WVS mobile canteen with tea, coffee and sandwiches while I telephoned the Naval establishment. Because it was by then about 1pm, I had a lot of trouble getting the HMS Victory duty officer to send some transport to get us to them. I didn't realise it, but they now liked to have weekends off. But with a grim determination I got them to send trucks to get into the barracks and I also (against their wishes) got them to conjure up some food. My men were not very well clothed, in that they had rushed to their action stations in whatever they were wearing. I was told that the clothing store was closed, so I asked for two WRNS to get it opened and I soon got [the men] all kitted out. I then got them all passes and cash to get them home on seven days survivors' leave. I phoned Lt. Commander Gillespie to let him know that we were safe. He was our shore contact with the Admiralty. He hadn't heard anything about us, and thought we had gone down with the ship. He was much relieved, and said I should report to the Admiralty with an action report the next day.

I then had to settle down and type my action report to deliver to the Admiralty on Sunday morning [31st December 1944]. While there, I was put in the hands of a Wren officer who saw that I got a cheque to cover my clothing replacement and a travel pass. I got home that night. My leave was just long enough to get all the gear I wanted, then the letter posting me to another ship [arrived] and soon I was back at sea again.

John Anderson Gilmour seen in 1987.

A carbon copy of the original typed action report was retained by my father John Anderson Gilmour. This reproduction of it follows the style of the copy.
D.E.M.S. stands for 'Defensively Equipped Merchant ships'.
L.S.T. stands for Landing Ship, Tank.
M.R.A. - meaning of this not traced. May refer to men of the Royal Army listed on the final page of the report. Some figures in the personnel numbers are not very clear.

S.S. E M P I R E J A V E L I N .
REPORT OF ACTION ON 28 th DECEMBER 1944.
FROM THE SHIPS GUNNERY OFFICER (D.E.M.S.)
30/12/44.

On 28 th December 1944 the s.s. EMPIRE JAVELIN was carrying U.S.A. Troops about 1,490 in number to Le Havre. The D.E.M.S. Gunners were closed up to Cruising Station Watches, in the following positions: One man at each of the four Bridge Oerlikons, Two men forward at the 12 Pdr Gun and one man aft at the 4 inch Gun.

The convoy comprised two ships, the s.s. Empire Javelin (Commodore Ship) followed by the s.s. Monowai and escorted ahead by the French Frigate L'ESCARMOUCHE Pendants K.267.

At 1440 hours while I was on watch on the Navigating Bridge there was a cracking explosion behind me. The ship heeled over about 15 degrees to Port but recovered stability in about two minutes, There was a certain amount of flying debris and just aft of midships there were clouds of smoke and steam, which quickly cleared away. The ship settled down by the stern almost at once and then appeared to hold. The telephones and broadcast speakers were rendered useless but the Emergency Alarm Bells were sounded. The Duty Watch remained Closed Up and searched the surface of the sea for torpedo tracks but none was observed.

The visibility was poor, about 3000/4000 yards. The wind from N.N.E., about Force 3/4. The sea was slight. The sky was clear. The speed of the ship was 12/13 knots and her position, as far as I could estimate about two miles to the West of 'J' Buoy.

Due to congestion of deck by the U.S.A. Troops the D.E.M.S. Ratings reported to the bridge for orders. I fully manned the Bridge Guns and detailed some men off to the Promenade deck to assist the ships crew to get rafts over the side. In that position they were readily available to close up to other Oerlikons if required. I did not close up the 4 inch gun aft as the after end of the ship was low in the water and I considered that it would endanger the ship if that gun were fired. I did not close up the 12 pdr gun forward as the ship was high by the bows and could not have engaged targets in visibility range.

The Frigate K.267 came close in and stood by for instructions. The Monowai turned to Port and continued on her course. Petty Officer Morris reported to me that all the D.E.M.S. were safe and uninjured. Reports came to the Bridge that the ship was holding up and the Master said that he thought she would float for some time. K.267 stood off on guard about 2000 yards to Starboard.

At about 1600 hours reports came to the Bridge that the ship was slowly making water aft and the Master requested the K.267 to come alongside to take off the U.S.A. Troops. K.267 came alongside and disembarkation started. About 1645 hours reports came to the Bridge that the ship was cracking badly. The Master said to me 'Everybody off now'. I enquired 'Abandon Ship?' and he replied 'Yes, I think it would be better to get them moving quickly'. I passed this word forward to all hands and the few troops still on board and saw that all D.E.M.S. personnel were disembarked. I rejoined the Master and the Chief Officer on the Bridge. The Master then instructed me to disembark.

At about 1700 hours having completed the disembarkation, apart from the Master and several other Officers of the ship, the K.267 moved off to Port and stood by at about 1000 yards.

At 1700 hours a second explosion occurred on the s.s. Empire Javelin about the region of No.5 hold and the whole after end of the ship disintegrated. The flash was slightly orange in colour with very little smoke. The s.s. Empire Javelin very quickly settled and at 1715 had sunk.

About 700 of the U.S.A. Troops were discharged to an L.S.T. but due to a freshening breeze and a rising sea it was impossible to transfer the remainder to a second L.S.T. K.267 proceeded to Le Havre and disembarked the remainder of the Troops. There I with all the D.E.M.S. personnel, the Medical Officer and his Staff, and twenty four on the M.N. crew were transferred to H.M.S. HARGOOD which carried us to Portsmouth where I reported to the D.E.M.S. Staff Officer who took charge of the party. In addition to the D.E.M.S. personnel I had charge of three Signals Ratings who were also handed over to the D.E.M.S. Staff Officer.

It is my opinion that the first explosion was caused by a mine. My opinion is based on the location of the damage which was at the Engine Room and No.4 Hold. The s.s. EMPIRE CUTLASS, a sister ship to the s.s. Empire JAVELIN sustained damage to a similar part of her hull and I have seen other ships with damage at that part. The second explosion I think might have been caused by a mine, magnetic or otherwise as due to lack of power the de-gaussing gear would be out of action. It appeared to take place about No.5 Hold in the region of the 4 inch gun magazine. Some of this ammunition and ammunition in adjoining lockers may have been detonated at the same time.

The behaviour of the D.E.M.S. personnel was excellent throughout. The U.S.A. Troops deserve every praise for the manner in which they conducted themselves at all times. They were calm and cool and splendidly disciplined. The Master of the s.s. EMPIRE JAVELIN made the correct decisions at the correct time but the greatest factor in the saving of almost all the lives of those on board was the splendid manner in which the Captain of the Frigate L'ESCARMOUCHE K.267 came alongside at considerable risk to his ship, which was damaged, and took on board some 1,600 persons. I must also make mention of the hospitality which was extended to us by the Officers and men of that ship and also of H.M.S. HARGOOD.

(Signed) John A. Gilmour Lieut. R.N.V.R.

(Signed) Henry R. Pottle Lt. Cdr. R.N.R.
D.E.M.S. Staff Officer, Portsmouth