Fates Crossed In Atlantic

Reprinted from the Toronto Star www.thestar.com by George Gamester

Apr. 18, 2004. 01:00 AM

Fates crossed in Atlantic

GEORGE GAMESTER

ENEMIES FRIENDS

No, you wouldn't call them buddies, exactly.

But Werner and Shonny still feel a bond - threads of fate pulling them together.

Especially in these mid-April days when shared memories carry them to the frigid waters off Canada's Atlantic coast. The killing zone where their destinies crossed paths.

So let's follow those threads for a bit, see where they lead us ...

We begin in Berlin, 1937, where 15-year-old Werner Hirschmann, inspired by tales of his father's World War I naval adventures, has enlisted as a sea cadet.

Three years later, he's in a world war of his own, assigned to the most dangerous duty of all: the German U-boat fleet.

At first, it's not so bad. Gifted with a flair for math and physics, he does well on early Atlantic and Mediterranean patrols, rising quickly to become an instructor on training vessels in the Baltic.

But as German losses mount in the Battle of the Atlantic, with two-thirds of his graduating classmates destined to perish, Lt. Hirschmann finds himself on a U-boat just outside Halifax harbour.

It is April, 1945. Luckily, Werner is on one of the more advanced vessels, equipped with breathing apparatus that has enabled it to stay underwater 50 consecutive days. As chief engineering officer, the 22-year-old is responsible for all diving operations, holding the fate of the 60-man crew in his hands.

Suddenly, while lurking near a stationary lightship marking access to the harbour, the submerged U-190 is "pinged" by acoustic sonar from HMCS Esquimalt, a modified Canadian Navy minesweeper on anti-sub patrol.

Rising to periscope depth, skipper Hans-Edwin Reith is greeted by the sight of Esquimalt bearing down on him at attack speed. He immediately fires a Gnat T-5 acoustic homing torpedo and dives.

Ka-boom! To the German's surprise after such a hasty shot, the torpedo scores a bull's eye, blowing a fatal hole in Esquimalt's starboard quarter. The Canadian ship goes down in less than four minutes, carrying a number of crew with her.

When the smoke clears, several dozen of Esquimalt's 70-man crew are still in the water, mostly clinging to rubber rafts. What will happen to them?

Now we pick up the other thread of our story, which begins in the fall of 1940, with a cheery young Montreal order clerk named Morris "Shonny" Shonfield signing on as a signalman with the Royal Canadian Navy.

Enjoying the camaraderie and structure of naval life - not to mention the attentions of young women attracted to military uniforms - Shonny copes well with his first-year postings in Halifax and Sydney.

But once he sets out on his first escort mission aboard the minesweeper HMCS Melville in February of '42, he quickly discovers the real war is not so far away.

The convoy has barely cleared harbour when three ships, including an oil tanker, are nailed by torpedoes from a U-boat. Pulling a tanker crew "survivor" from the water, he recalls: "I was stunned when I saw the lower half of the man's body was missing."

Over the next two years, Shonny becomes increasingly familiar with the rigors, tedium and terror of convoy duties in the North Atlantic, finding time along the way to woo and marry his back-home sweetheart, Violet Bailey.

Promoted to lieutenant, he transfers to another coastal patrol minesweeper, HMCS Sarnia, often assigned to sub-hunting duties off Halifax with her sister ship, Esquimalt.

Which brings us to 8 a.m. April 16, 1945, the time Sarnia is scheduled to rendezvous with Esquimalt off Chubucto Head, 16 kilometres south of Halifax. But when Sarnia arrives, there's no sign of her sister ship.

As officer of the watch, Shonny is concerned. And with good reason. Unknown to him, Esquimalt had been torpedoed by the U-190 two hours earlier - sinking too fast to get off a radio distress signal.

Naval command in Halifax is notified of the missing ship, but takes no immediate action. On her own, Sarnia begins to search, but loses time depth-charging a suspected enemy submarine, which turns out to be a false sonar reading.

Six hours after the sinking, Sarnia finally finds the desperate Esquimalt survivors. On the worst day of his life, Shonfield directs the seven-man lifeboat crew that picks up what's left of those perished and half-dead sailors.

`I was stunned when I saw the lower half of the man's body was missing'

Morris Shonfield, Royal Canadian Navy vet

"What distressed me most," he recalls, "was how some died just as they were being rescued. They were happy and cheerful when I reached them. But my sense of exhilaration turned to dismay when several that I spoke with suddenly died of exposure.

"They'd fought so hard to stay alive. Then, when they relaxed, they slipped away."

In the end, only 26 would survive the sinking of the last Canadian warship lost to enemy action in World War II. Three more weeks, and Germany would surrender.

Which is where we pick up the other thread. With Esquimalt in its death throes, U-190 scoots closer to shore where rock formations will confound the sonar capabilities of avenging sub-hunters.

They take no pride in this sinking. "We normally wouldn't bother with a little minesweeper," recalls Werner. "Our targets were merchant ships. But it appeared we were being attacked."

Later inquiries will reveal that, despite those sonar pings, Esquimalt crew weren't even aware the sub was there. Turning toward the U-190 in that apparent "attack" was just bad luck - like stepping on a deadly snake.

Three weeks later, the U-190 is headed home when a radio message is received from Grand Admiral Karl Doenitz, instructing the crew to surface and surrender to the Allies. The war is over.

Intercepted by Canadian corvettes, the U-boat is boarded by Canadian officers "who treated us very cordially," Werner recalls. While most of the Germans were taken into custody, he was allowed to remain on board to help manage the 600-kilometre voyage to Newfoundland.

Later he and the crew would be interned at a sort of upscale PoW camp near Gravenhurst, (the former Gateway Resort) for 15 months, where the officers played soccer and hockey while tending a model farm.

His ship is not so lucky. In 1947, after a tour of Canadian ports where she was ogled as a prize of war, the U-190 is towed to the site where Esquimalt went down. Pummelled by airborne rockets and naval gunnery, she sinks in 19 minutes.

By then, Werner is finally on his way back to Germany, where he will complete his degrees in physics and mathematics and look for work. But there's something missing.

"I realized how much I liked Canada," he recalls. Arriving as a landed immigrant in 1952, he's accepted at U of T for advanced studies in what would become a fortuitous career choice: computer science.

As a pioneer systems analyst and consultant, his business will grow with the city. Among his major projects is the computerization of Metro Toronto's traffic control system.

It's a proud day when he becomes a Canadian citizen. In time, he achieves the whole North American prosperity-and-freedom package - including a Lake Ontario sailboat to satisfy his blue water instincts. And two grandchildren, one an RCMP officer.

But there's no substitute for seafaring yarn-swapping buddies who've actually been there and shared the experiences. Which carries us back to our other thread.

For more than a decade now, Werner and his Canadian-born second wife have been welcome guests at Canadian naval veterans' reunions - including those of the Esquimalt and Sarnia survivors.

And guess who he's always happy to see there? An ebullient 82-year-old who still tears up the dance floor with his wife of more than six decades and figures his navy years have shaped his life. Why, he's even written a book, titled A Wartime Romance, to tell his six grandchildren all about it.

That would be Shonny, of course, who suggests the personal discipline and leadership qualities he developed in the service showed him the way to a fine business career in Toronto and happy retirement in Guelph and Victoria B.C.

Yes, he and Werner are close. Not intimate pals. But linked, nonetheless.

Joined together by pride, mutual respect and 59-year-old memories of a terrible day in April.

Thankful to have survived, united once more by bonds of fate.