ML-286: The Thames’ greatest wartime secret
The River Thames offers no-end of secrets. Yet, sleeping in the undergrowth of the Thames embankment in Isleworth, hides a wrecked vessel whose story deserves attention. This is ML-286, the very last of her kind – and she’s hugely important to our wartime heritage
Lurking behind a covered pontoon on the banks of the River Thames, largely veiled from sight and slowly being claimed by thick mud, rests the sole vessel from a heroic Naval family.
The only known survivor of Britain’s WWI MotorLaunch Naval fleet, ML-286 was originally built as a submarine chaser by American firm ELCO, before assisting with the Dunkirk evacuation of 1940.
The ex-military craft later enjoyed civilian life as a houseboat until eye-watering repairs forced her aground at Isleworth Ait.
Still sitting on that spot, her condition today makes RMS Titanic look factory fresh. Rotted to the core and dissolving into the marsh, ML-286 is in danger of closing a chapter in British history that should never become forgotten.
ML-286. Catchy name
Her official title may sound like an early fax machine, but ML-(Motor Launch) 286 commands far more respect than mere office equipment – unless your fax machine offers heavy-calibre artillery.
No less than 580 Royal Naval Motor Launch served throughout the First World War, given a designation between ML-1 and ML-580, defending the British coast from foreign invaders and hunting down enemy submarines.
Of course, as an era of conflict always dictates, the Motor Launch vessels were tasked with much more than their original brief. These punchy little ships gained a heartfelt nickname from Royal Navy personnel as Movies, courtesy of their never-ending ability to perform difficult tasks for which they were never intended.
The term Movie, or 'Movy', originally stemmed from the craft’s movement through the water; but that didn’t mean comfort. Quotes from the time suggested that you required ‘sea-legs, sea-arms, sea-head, and a kind of armour-plated stomach’ to survive.
Slicing through the waves akin to a ‘drunken bolt of lightning’, seaward activities of the vessel remained alien to even the most experienced Royal Navy sailors.
The common roll and pitch of ocean-going craft were replaced by ‘a series of unexpected leaps or bounds’ making for unpleasant tenures aboard. While the boat could easily cope with gale-force conditions, the crew we not so easily inclined.
The vessels were given the code name ‘Sutphens’ (as will become clear), alongside unofficial titles – The Mosquito Fleet, the semi-submersible and (ominously) the Stink Pot – before effectively becoming the Royal Navy’s equivalent to a loyal terrier.
Regardless of the reputation for testing the stomach of sailors, the crafts became part of British wartime DNA. Seen as our last – yet furiously dependable – line of defence during WWI, these boats operated with devastating effect.
As Henry R Sutphen (see above for the codename) told the New York Herald in October 1917: “In the whole history of shipbuilding there has been nothing more romantic in conception and achievement that the mosquito fleet of submarine chasers – or M.L.’s as the British call them.”
Naturally, as the managing director of ELCO, Sutphen would always speak highly of his company’s work. However, the public dependence and military affection MLs gained speak volumes about the boat’s general opinion. They bordered on celebrity status, almost like the Spitfires of their day.
Why Britain fell in love with the MLThe Great War brought previously unknown fear to the masses, and as German submarine activity became increasingly destructive and seemingly unstoppable, the Motor Launch ‘submarine chasers’ injected a sense of equalisation and control into proceedings.
Born out of a collaboration between British engineers and American muscle, carrying a quick-fire gun and capable of 19 knots (roughly 22mph), the MLs were constructed of timber in Bayonne, New Jersey, before delivery to Quebec City by train – where assembly took place prior to shipment across the Atlantic.
Installed weaponry consisted of a short calibre 3-inch gun, paired with a supply of depth bombs (containing 250 pounds of TNT) and Lance bombs; 14-pound bombs on the end of long handles designed for fighting close-range submarines. These were later deleted from ML inventory.
Besides patrolling and disarming enemy submarines, the ML vessels swept for mines ahead of military and civilian ships, alongside providing bodyguard-esque convoy for merchant vessels, laying mines, and towing a range of explosives designed to scuttle German submersibles.
Almost all Naval operations included the ML as the core line of defence, and often attack; from the famous Zeebrugge raid to more routine escorting duties.
Built for speed and manoeuvre, the ML’s small size meant that there was little room for anything more than very basic crew accommodation (seven men living in 20 feet of space), the engine and the ammunition store. Despite the smaller scale when compared to Naval juggernauts, huge amounts of respect were given to those who piloted and crewed a 'Movy'.
Any person who lost his life on patrol aboard an ML was considered a hero, just as much as anyone who perished during the greatest naval battle in history. No need to take only my word for it. That was the opinion of the Royal Navy and general public alike.
ML-286: The last survivor
Despite raging popularity and abundant honours, the only remaining example of these once-celebrated boats now has an ongoing fight for survival.
Having been slowly reclaimed by nature over several decades, ML-286 is beyond poor condition and viability looks bleak.
Her fellow comrades have long since been lost to time. Not all MLs survived the First World War, with subsequent events slowly erasing other examples from existence.
ML-286’s first commander was Lieutenant Geoffrey Allfree (1889–1918), a war artist who sadly perished in the line of conflict. His body was never recovered from a fiery explosion aboard a different ML, but his original boat ploughed ahead with the war effort until armistice day brought an official end to the conflict between Germany and Allied forces.
Following the surrender of Germany, ML-286 was sold off (sometime between 1919 and 1924, when only eight MLs remained in service) and renamed Cordon Rouge. She enjoyed a slow-paced civilian life in private hands, being renamed Eothen in 1930 – a title that you will find in the list of ships that aided Operation Dynamo, more commonly known as the evacuation of Dunkirk.
As Britain hunkered down to face a prolonged clash with Germany during the first year of WWII, a massive rescue operation took place from the French port of Dunkirk, assisting more than 338,000 British and French soldiers.
The government employed every sea-worthy boat available, and – you guessed it – the indefatigable ML-286 was right on side. Between the lifeboats and motor yachts, channel ferries, sloops and destroyers, ML-286 nestled between the motley fleet of boats headed for the dangers of France.
She was one of the lucky ones. Not all boats returned from Operation Dynamo.
Following the evacuation, ML-286 returned to Britain and was towed to Teddington by Toughs. While her owners expected the return of their craft, she was in fact requisitioned for service as an auxiliary Thames patrol vessel.
Ultimately seen as unsuitable, she was eventually reunited with her owners in August 1940.
Surviving the onslaught of German bombers during London’s blitz, ML-286 then found amble attention as a showpiece for a Windsor-based boat rental firm.
Moored on the Thames in old Windsor (opposite the Bells of Ouzley pub), and still serviceable with all her original fixtures and fittings, she was then sold around 1979 to new titleholders and, according to those who remember ML-286 at her berth in the heat of 1978, things started to go downhill.
Stripped and refitted as a houseboat, the vessel passed between various families before it was dragged up the banking at Isleworth Ait pending repair. And with that, the owners promptly disappeared overnight – effectively leaving the war hero abandoned.
As months turned into years, and years into decades, ML-286 deteriorated further with each passing season until the grasses and trees smothered her from view.
Now only a rotten hull, with usable attributes having been utilised or pinched for other projects, the 'Movy' retains her secrets amid one of the globe’s most populated areas.
Her condition is being monitored by volunteer members of the Thames Discovery Programme (TDP), but renovation plans are yet to be realised. If the covered pontoon upon the Thames proves to be her final resting place, it would permit a quiet finale for history’s ‘little ships that could’.
Sleeping peacefully among the bracken and mud, she represents a generation who made the ultimate sacrifice. In a perfect world, she would be returned to her former glory as a shrine to those perished souls who gave everything for us to enjoy our freedoms, but in our current climate, that looks very unlikely indeed.
