100 nautical miles east of Halifax sits the village of Drum Head. Before the demise of the cod fishery, it was a thriving community like so many others nestled along Nova Scotia’s saw-toothed coastline. Many of the once fine homes are now crumbling ruins or have long disappeared under coarse grass and alders and only a handful of descendants remain.

In the early twentieth century, a fisherman and his wife raised two sons in Drum Head. My father was born during the first great war and his brother shortly after. They were among the seeds of a new generation destined to fight the next great war. When the time came, both joined the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve. My father was assigned to a destroyer escort, a ship provided through the Lend Lease Act, and spent much of his time shepherding convoys crossing the wide North Atlantic. His brother would serve on the ill-fated minesweeper – Esquimalt, guarding the waters close to home. My father would survive the Battle of the Atlantic, but his brother would not.

In the spring of 1945, the most destructive war in history was winding down and Canadians, along with much of the world, were breathing a collective sigh of relief. But the war was not over, and our enemies still lingered near our shores. On the evening of April 15, the Esquimalt left harbour on a search and destroy mission. She was to rendezvous with her sister-ship, HMCS Sarnia, at 08:00 the next morning. Her crew knew the routine well, having been on duty in this part of the Atlantic since September 1944. Little did they know this would be Esquimalt's final voyage.

Early the following morning, the Esquimalt deviated abruptly from her course. She was unaware that her new heading had placed her on a collision course with the U-190 until a torpedo slammed into her hull. She would become the last Canadian warship lost to enemy action. It was 06:30, April 16, 1945. Huntley A. Fanning had been promoted to Chief Electrical Artificer the night before. He survived the sinking, but not the long ordeal in the cold Atlantic clinging to a Carley float. He was 23 years old and was to be married soon after returning to port. He was my uncle.

Neither my father nor my grandparents ever seemed to find closure. Some say it was because the body was never recovered, but I doubt that. While on family visits to Drum Head during my youth I could sometimes overhear my father and grandparents reliving the tragedy and trying to make sense of it all. “Why would they attack s ship so close to home when they knew as well as we did that the war was nearly over?” VE-Day had been only three weeks away. Even as a child, I sensed their lingering resentment and was learning to be wary of Germans.

When my father passed away in November of 2003, I believe the loss of his only sibling, so early in life, still haunted him. Among his prized possessions I found the last letter that my uncle had written. It was addressed to his mother and father and posted the night before he sailed. It was still in its original envelope on which my grandmother had written “Huntley’s last letter”.
He talks about his pride in his ship, his recent promotion, his infant niece, his nervous excitement about his up-coming wedding, the honeymoon, and the possibility of having a family of his own one day. Between the lines it is clear that he’s looking forward to returning to a familiar way of life and refers to lobster fishing as simple getting more sea time. All his dreams and aspirations, of course, would soon be cut short.

*****

An old friend from my high school days lives in Miramichi, New Brunswick. He is well known in the region for writing books and plays on topics of local interest. In 2018 I told him about my uncle’s surviving letter. He immediately took an interest in the precious heirloom and asked if he could have a copy. He wished to use the letter as the basis for a play he planned to write for the upcoming Remembrance Day celebrations. That fall, actors played the parts of my grandparents sitting at home reading the letter. In the background a contemporary CBC Radio broadcaster makes the belated announcement of the ship’s sinking. There was not a dry eye in the theatre.

The following day the local newspaper carried the touching story, complete with pictures of my uncle and his fiancée. The article reached much further afield than anyone would have predicted. Two days later, my daughter, a professor at Mount Allison University, received an email from a ninety-six-year-old man. He had been the Chief Engineer on the U–190, the submarine that sunk my uncle’s ship. The message began with “What can I say, what can I do?”

It had been more than seventy-three years since that cold April morning in1945, but our one-time enemy was bravely reaching out to us, not knowing what reception he might receive. I am proud to say that the email was soon followed up with a heartfelt phone call and unhesitating acceptance of this ancient mariner’s offer of good will. “You too are a victim of that terrible war,” my daughter told him. The old man seemed emotional and had difficulty continuing. A few days later he followed up with another email:

“Thanks, Sarah, for your lovely and understanding message. Yes, it was a long time ago, but I am still overwhelmed by the friendship my former enemies offered me. I don’t know whether you know that in 1995 I became a card-holding honorary member of the Esquimalt Survivors Association. It is amazing how they accepted me. Unfortunately, none of the survivors are still alive… But now, I have to admit that I am tired. I am, of course, very happy to be still around although, … but without any contemporaries … It can be lonely.”

A week following the conversation between my daughter and this ancient mariner, I called him. I admit I had mixed feelings when I heard his voice for the first time. But my daughter had already set the tone and within a short time we found common ground of a more pleasant nature. When he discovered that we had a mutual interest in history, he suggested books for me to read that he felt had a balanced view of historical events and in particular about those that led to two world wars. The books became the bases for our friendly debates about the political issues of the past.

Early on, I learned that my new acquaintance had written a book called “Another Place, Another Time”, so I acquired a copy. It tells of his life growing up in the Germany of the 1920s and 30s, his involvement with the Hitler Youth as a boy, his time in a German naval academy at the beginning of WW2, and of course, his active-duty experiences, and eventually as a prisoner of war. When I shared with him that I had been writing stories about my own early life, he expressed an interest in reading some of them so I forwarded a few chapters to him. While I was reading about his experiences as a boy and a young man, he was reading about mine. Each chapter was faithfully returned with his helpful edits and comments. It was a rather unique way to get to know one another and answer the lingering questions that had been background noise for so many years. There is nothing like the mutual sharing of ideas and experience to find common ground.

*****

Only a small fraction of German submariners survived WW2. To find a survivor after more than seven decades is improbable. To find a senior officer from the submarine that sank my uncle’s ship was extremely unlikely. To become friends, rarer still. Unfortunately, my new friend would leave this world only a year after we connected. I have no doubt that our friendship would have continued to grow had time permitted. I feel certain that my father and my uncle would have approved. I can only hope that my grandparents would have done so as well. But the war for more recent generations is like the ruins of that once proud fishing village where it all began for my father and his brother. A relic of the past with seemingly little relevance.

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