The last of the Oberon-class submarines, HMCS Ojibwa, on the Dartmouth waterfront in late May. The submarine, decommissioned in 1998, was one of three diesel-electric submarines purchased by Canada in the 1960s. The sub has been dry-docked on a barge and sent to the Elgin Military Museum in St. Thomas, Ont.
She had been laying here at Naval Armament Depot in Dartmouth, in the full view of all who crossed the Angus L. Macdonald Bridge, since her decommissioning 14 years earlier. I would often catch a glimpse of her as I crossed the bridge.
I always felt bad for her and pondered her fate. Having known her so intimately for so many years I hoped she would not suffer the brutal torches of the breakers yard. Having served so admirably, HMCS Ojibwa deserved much better.
On this particular day, May 26, 2012, I would have the pleasure of simply sitting on the submarine’s fin as she was loaded aboard the Heddle Marine Systems drydock.
As I approached her my heart rose to my throat with mixed emotion. I walked slowly down the jetty past her and observed that sections of her casing had been removed. I could see the flaking paint and rust showing through on her pressure hull and tank tops.
Torpedo loading rails were long gone and one of the berthing line stowage stag horns was broken off.
The jet black of the remaining casing and her once dominant fin had faded to large blotches of grey and white with streaks of red rust. Her starboard after plane guard, well clear of the water, was bent down like a sad dog’s ear. She had been handled roughly by someone who was not aware of her many years of gallant service to her crew and country.
Civilian riggers and seamen from Heddle Marine Systems were unceremoniously fitting her with unfamiliar rigging required for securing to the dry dock that would transport her to her final destination in Port Burwell, Ont. She was sitting very high in the water, void of torpedoes, equipment, liquids and stores removed many years earlier. Ugly dry marine growth covered her ballast tanks up to her original waterline. Up close she was a dreadful and pitiful sight. I think she could sense I was there.
I could feel her embarrassment. I could swear she hung her head to avoid my shocked expression.
Her appearance was far from what it was when she first entered the waters of Halifax Harbour on that cold windy day in January 1966. Even on that day she hadn’t looked her very best. The 11-day dived transit of the unforgiving North Atlantic, her first of many, had taken its toll on the linseed oil and lampblack mixture over flat black paint I had applied back in Chatham Yard after workups in Scotland. That treatment gave her the sleek, black messenger-of-death attitude we were so proud of.
But on that special occasion, like a true warrior of the deep, she wore her sea scars proudly. I stood on her casing with heaving line in hand as she approached Jetty 4 with authority. I could feel her swell with pride when the Stadacona Band broke into a rousing rendition of Hearts of Oak and the inboard berthing party and dignitaries applauded and cheered. On that day she was welcoming their inspection with all her glory. And my heart swelled with pride, feeling honoured that she trusted me to be a vital member of the crew that gave her the eyes, ears and tender loving care essential to her future performance.
However, 46 years and 4 months later, I wanted to apologize to her for crossing her brow to invade her misery. I snapped to attention at the top of the brow and chopped off a salute aft, as I had thousands of times in the past.
Normally a salute to our fine nation’s flag, today it was a mark of respect to her. I made my way up into the fin. I tried not to see the filth left behind by years of nesting birds. I was sorry to see that the deck of the bridge was gone.
I paused for a moment at the top of the ladder to recall the many times I had stopped there, on my way below, with main vents open, to shut the upper voice pipecock and then proceed quickly below through the conning tower as she slipped quietly into her comfort zone below the surface. And at the bottom of the ladder in the control room, watching the diving officer of the watch in the tower I would repeat his report to the captain, “Upper lid shut, one clip on, two clips on . . . upper lid shut two clips on, sir".
I could still hear the wash of the sea into the fin and over the conning tower as we slipped into an expanse very few would ever have the privilege to know.
I hitched myself up onto the top of the fin and sat just forward of where the attack periscope would silently slip out of its housing for the final attack setup on the surface target or one last all round look before going deep.
It didn’t take much imagination to see the compass repeat and the back of the officer of the watch’s head as he took a fix on an edge of land.
Just for a moment I thought I heard the request through the voice pipe, “Bridge, helm permission to relieve the lookout." Great, my lookout watch is over. I can’t wait to get below for that hot cup of tea and to watch the movie playing in the forward torpedo room.
Wow, I want to stay in this place I’m in right now.
It’s disappointing to come back to ruthless reality of age and decline … for both of us.
Once again in the present, down below on the casing the Heddle crew were scurrying around, taking lines from the tugs and preparing to slip the berthing lines from the jetty. It didn’t seem very seamanlike to me and it looked a bit disorganized. I thought, “Damn!
I wish I could go down and take charge of that lot."
But I closed my eyes to return to the past.
Now I can see submariners in their signature white turtleneck sweaters smartly handling lines and I hear the orders from the XO on the bridge at Harbour Stations, “let go four … let go three … hold two, heave in on the capstan, slow ahead port ... stop together, starboard 10, slow astern together … let go two, let go one … fall in the casing party, face to starboard." I felt a rush as the last line was gone and the tugs were setting us free of the jetty.
The tugs moved us out astern and began manoeuvring us out of the chamber and around the jetty. I swear I felt the guttural rumble and throb of the port donk (diesel engine) as it flashed up and belched beautiful huge white billows of diesel exhaust out of the surface muffler. Ahhh; that sweet permeating smell of diesel. As we cleared the north end of the jetty and moved south out past the Heddle dry dock I felt the strong southeasterly wind on my face blowing up the harbour. I could smell the open sea. We moved up ahead of the dry dock and they slowly began to move her astern into the cradle. She seemed to balk, reluctant to be pent up now that she felt the freedom.
With a ships head of 120° she was pointed directly out to sea, past Georges Island, McNabs Island, Maughers beach lighthouse. I felt her shudder and list, ever so slightly, to port. It might have been the little pup tug nudging her number four starboard main ballast tank to force her into position.
But in my heart it was the boat herself, shuddering in eager anticipation.
My last harbour stations in this fine lady was truly an honour. It gave me an excellent opportunity to reflect on the eternal esteem and comradeship that lies in the hearts and souls of my underwater messmates. I submersed myself in a flood of exciting memories afforded by this magnificent vessel. And I appropriately rounded off my time with her.
From commissioning on Sept. 23, 1965, at Chatham, England where she was built, to her grand entrance into Halifax Harbour on Jan. 26, 1966, to today, May 26, 2012, the last time she would grace the waters of this historic seaport. She has always been such an important part of my life and who I am.
So now I am content that her life will continue in a new role that presents the legacy of an era of the brotherhood of submariners who served her well. She will represent the finest of professionalism and tradition as an example for the new breed to follow. Complete with a facelift, a little makeup and a fresh coat of flat black paint, she will stand proud at the Elgin Military Museum in St.
Thomas, Ont., for all to see.
Until we meet again … fair winds and a following sea.
Retired submariner Jim (Lucky) Gordon was a member of the commissioning crew for HMCS Ojibwa. He retired in 1997 after a 36-year career in the navy.
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