They called her unsinkable…

When Winston Churchill sat down to plan Operation Pedestal in July 1942, he intuitively understood that he would have to turn to his old allies the Americans for help: not, it must be said, for the last time in World War Two.

The British merchant fleet had plenty of speedy cargo ships, but no large tankers fast enough to keep up with the rest of the 16-knot convoy. And a large tanker was needed to carry what was arguably the most valuable cargo at the time: fuel, without which Malta would be nothing less than a sitting duck for enemy bombers.

Only one ship in the world would do at the time: the Texaco tanker S.S. Ohio, at the time bound from Houston for the United Kingdom with a load of gasoline.

Churchill raised the issue in person with President Roosevelt during a mid-June meeting at his home in Hyde Park, New York. Initially there was opposition; some American military leaders wanted to reserve the ship for the country’s own use. But planning was also under way for the invasion of North Africa, so the Americans recognized the importance of saving Malta.

A few weeks later, the Ohio was at the River Clyde in Glasgow, being fitted with anti-aircraft guns, and manned by a British crew under the command of Captain Dudley Mason.

Her engines were remounted on rubber bushings to absorb the blow of near-miss bombs. Steam lines were reinforced and cushioned with springs. A second generator was installed for back-up power. The Ohio’s air compressors were reconfigured to pump air into the hold—a life-support system to keep the ship afloat if torpedoes or bombs pierced the hull.

Luxury tanker

Even without these precautions, Ohio was made of stern stuff. Built in Delaware County by Sun Shipbuilding, the Texaco tanker S.S. Ohio was launched at Chester in April 1940. She was named in deference to Florence Rogers, mother of W.S.S. Rogers, the president of Texaco. At her son’s request, Mrs Rogers came east from her home in Columbus, Ohio, to smash a bottle of champagne on her bow.

It would not be the only thing to get smashed on or around her hull: German and Italian bombers would likewise smash onto her decks between 12 and 14 August 1942. But that happened later.

Designed to move crude oil between the Texas oil fields and East Coast refineries, the Ohio—with a carrying capacity of 14,150 tons—was the largest tanker ever built at the time.

Though tiny by modern standards, the Ohio nevertheless pioneered features that are now standard. She was almost entirely welded —which back then was a new technique. Only the Ohio’s side shell, framing and part of its superstructure were riveted.

There were nine oil tanks down the middle and above the keel, plus 24 smaller ones on each side. All were served by a sophisticated pumping system.

Multiple tanks allowed the ship to carry a mixed cargo. The girders, bulkheads and beefed-up framing, required to separate and mount the tanks, added strength to the vessel: which would be put to the test in the most dramatic way possible.

Inside, the S.S. Ohio was considered luxurious for the type of ship she was. Officers’ cabins were panelled in mahogany, and all seamen had private cabins. There was a smoking room on the upper deck, separate messes for officers and seamen, and full pantries and large coolers.

Ray Morton, who sailed to Malta on Ohio during Operation Pedestal, remembers her as “luxury compared with the ships I had sailed in. Two berth cabins and food we had only dreamed about. She had been provisioned in the U.S.A. and had grapefruit in the cool rooms and a dozen varieties of cereal for breakfast followed by bacon and eggs! A whole variety of meat and fish and ice cream! Once in the warmer weather iced coffee was the order of the day. So much for creature comforts…”

As for power, this was provided by the latest Westinghouse steam turbines, which churned out 9,000 horsepower, spinning a bronze propeller 20 feet across. During sea trials between Cape May and Cape Henlopen, the ship hit a top speed of 19.23 knots (about 22 mph) in a measured mile.

“To the steel-cutters, shipwrights, welders, riveters and myriad craftsmen at Sun Shipbuilding, she was a ‘classy’ ship,” historian Michael Pearson wrote. “She was also a beautiful ship, from the elegant sweep of her schooner bow, along the graceful lines of her hull to the cruiser stern.”

Abandoned and reboarded

The Ohio would be put to the test quickly in Pedestal: she took her first torpedo on 12 August, two days past the Straits of Gibraltar, and the day after HMS Eagle was sunk in full view of the rest of the convoy.

She caught fire and lost steering. “Whilst we were fighting the fires, enemy planes commenced attack at masthead height,” Mason later recalled. “Near-misses were many and frequent, throwing deluges of water over the vessel.”

Eventually, though, the Ohio’s crew put out the fires, regained steering and proceeded after the convoy, though now well behind amd exposed to further attacks.

These came swiftly: 72 Junkers and Stuka dive-bombers now concentrated on the Ohio. The hull buckled, a forward tank filled with water and an attacker crashed on the deck. Another bomber hit the water nearby, bounced and crashed into the ship.

The Ohio avoided some mines and was missed by torpedoes; but was straddled by bombs that ruptured its boilers.

Still, the crew felt lucky. “That’s a welded hull for you,” said chief engineer Jimmy Wyld. “Rivets would never have stood it.”

The engines were patched again. But the Ohio was listing and speed was only seven knots. The compass and steering lines were gone, so a course was reckoned by observing the stars and instructions relayed by telephone to an improvised steering system on the poop deck.

“Thank God for an American ship with telephones,” Mason said.

Another aerial attack again knocked out the Ohio’s engines and broke the ship’s back. As the ship listed, Mason ordered the crew to abandon ship.

Yet the Ohio did not sink. On 14 August, volunteers returned to man the guns while another ship took Ohio under tow. When the heavy tanker repeatedly snapped its towlines, destroyers HMS Penn and HMS Ledbury strapped themselves to each side. Its deck nearly awash, the Ohio was literally carried into Malta’s Grand Harbour, where it discharged its cargo into two tankers and then settled to the bottom.

King George VI praised Mason’s “skill and courage of the highest order,” but never mentioned the Ohio—which was, after all, a foreign vessel. But when Malta’s governor, Lord Gort, took the convoy captains to lunch, he conceded that, if Ohio hadn’t made it, the island would’ve been just two weeks from surrender.

The Ohio was later raised and, in 1946, towed 10 miles out of Malta, where it was dispatched with armour-piercing shells.

Even then, she proved reluctant to sink. Peter Shankland, chronicler of Operation Pedestal, concludes his report with a description of her final bow.

“Shell after shell pumped into the buoyant forepart of the tanker. ‘Can’t think why she won’t sink,’ said number one. ‘Must have been a tough old ship. In some convoy or other was she?’

“The bridgework had been blasted away, the foremast had fallen, and now the shored up amidships section, where the torpedo had struck, caved in. Slowly the forward half also sank and the graceful bows reared up like a finger pointing to heaven. Then she was gone…”

This feature article first appeared in a special edition by MaltaToday marking the 70th anniversary of the Santa Marija Convoy