"Malicious Damage"

H.M.S. Urania, a 1,710-ton World War II destroyer, lay at a Liverpool dock, undergoing conversion that would turn her into a fast, light, submarine-killing frigate. Her steel superstructures were being replaced with aluminum and she was being equipped with Britain's new, secret "Limbo" sub-finder, a sort of electronic bulldog that locates and "locks on" to a submarine until it can be destroyed. One afternoon, when the last work shift left the Urania, the security patrol combed her and found nothing amiss. She was floodlit, and two guards stayed, as usual, in a hut by a gangplank. But in the morning, workmen found that some 30 of the Urania's master electrical cables had been cut clean through. The damage postponed the Urania's readiness by a month, and will cost thousands of pounds. One day last week, electric wiring was cut on the frigate Loch Lomond, undergoing repairs at Bristol, and on the submarine Turpin, which is at Chatham for installation of secret equipment to help her evade detection by hostile surface craft.

Choice of Words. These were the latest incidents in a long and baffling epidemic of naval sabotage that has stirred up the British press, public and Parliament and embarrassed the Admiralty. The run of incidents stretches back to pre-Korean war days: sand slipped into lubricating systems and steering gear, wiring cut, gauges and indicators smashed, equipment and ammunition thrown overboard at sea. Early this year, a stoker on the light aircraft-carrier Ocean was caught and sentenced to 15 months for smashing pressure gauges, sight glasses, clocks, lights and other equipment. When H.M.S. Eagle, Britain's newest, biggest and costliest carrier, left Portland last month, she could fire no salute because the guns had been disabled. Also, the ammo blanks had apparently been tossed over the side.

The Admiralty refuses to use the nasty word "sabotage" and calls the wrecking "malicious damage." In several of the incidents, no naval personnel were aboard ship when the damage was done, and the admirals first suspected an organized campaign to "lower the navy's efficiency" (which implies Communist sabotage). It discovered, however, that some of the acts had been committed by disgruntled young sailors fed up with crowded quarters and with life aboard modem warships.

Price of Exit. Oddly emphasizing this limited explanation, with its reflection on Her Majesty's Navy, the Admiralty launched a new morale-building program: better food and snappier uniforms for the "lower deck," liberalized leaves, shorter foreign-service tours, more opportunity for families to join sailors at overseas stations. Some men below commission ranks will be allowed to buy their way out of the navy, a practice suspended since World War II. The price: $140 to $350, depending on training and length of service.

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