Another Door Part 1: War in the Far East

This story is taken from my father's unpublished autobiography, which covers the

early years to the end of the war. He never finished the book, which he called Another

Door, because he suffered a stroke which affected his speech and memory - and in

fact now he cannot properly communicate with us.

I have also included his account of his time in the Far East on this website, but this

story covers his account of the invasion of Africa. My father worked for the Marconi

company as a ship's radio officer. He was a chief radio officer in the Merchant Navy.

Here is his story:

Japan declared war on December 7/8th 1941, the exact date depending upon where

one was situated at the time.

They did this by attacking the American Naval base, Pearl Harbour, at Hawaii at

dawn with a massive air strike by carrier-born aircraft of the Japanese fleet. That

attack was co-coordinated closely in time with bombing attacks on Hong Kong and

Singapore, and amphibious landings on the north-east coast of Malaya, between Kota

Baru and the border with Thailand. But of course I knew nothing of this at the time.

The first inclination I had that something was amiss was actually being shaken awake

personally in the early hours of the morning by Captain Thomas and being told to

stand-by the radio. I wondered later how he could possibly have known about the

attack at such an early hour, since the Americans themselves on the island were taken

by surprise. History tells us now that they ought not to have been, for information had

been available concerning the movements of the Japanese fleet, both in America and

Britain.

Dawn in Hawaii would have been about 0300 on board the 'Pinna' in our position, so

no doubt the captain must have heard a news flash on his radio just before coming

down and waking me.

Although Japanese intervention had been a topic of conversation on board having

seen an increasing Japanese presence as we sailed around, we had been of the opinion

that they would not start anything until events showed a sure sign of an axis victory in

Europe. So, I was quite perplexed as I went along to the radio room, wondering what

the urgency was all about. The old man had disappeared without explaining and I was

not prepared to go wandering up to the bridge accommodation when he had instructed

me to go to the radio room. I was on friendly terms with him, but I did not feel that it

was expedient to be as friendly as that under the circumstances. It was 0500 in the

morning and the deep indigo sky had paled towards sunrise in the east. It was a lovely

early morning; cool and fresh on deck, the sort of morning that makes one wonder

why early rising is not the norm for every day.

I need not have gone on watch, for as I would have expected at that hour, and still

dark, my headphones were full of static roar. In addition, superimposed were electric

stabs of lightning. This went on until daybreak making the reception of any signals,

impossible.

Just before breakfast, around 0730, an American ship, the 'Admiral Cole' started up

with loud signals saying that she was being attacked by Japanese aircraft. After

repeating the message, further signals said that the vessel had been bombed. After

that, silence. Later we received official news, via Rugby radio and the BBC, that we

were now at war with Japan. Then later still, we received radio instructions to divert

to Balikpapan in mid-east Borneo, one of our previous ports of call halfway up the

Macacca Strait. We were three days out.

The position given by the American ship had been 4 degrees north and 124 degrees

east, which placed it (if the transmission or reception was accurate) east of the north

end of the Macassar Strait. By that evening we had heard of the wide areas covered by

the attacking Japanese. Since aircraft carriers do not normally float about without

accompanying naval support, we wondered where was the task force whose aircraft

had bombed the 'Admiral Cole' and which way were they heading the East coast of

Borneo with its valuable oil supply terminal ports of Tarakan and Balikpapan? In

view of our destination with respect to the 'Admiral Cole' message and the Japanese

demonstrated capability, I kept the phones glued to my ears all day. There could be

another diversion message for us. Well there was not, and we duly arrived at Balik.

With reference to the diversion instructions referred to before, I should clarify here,

that throughout the war period there was a strict radio silence at sea, except when

attacked. Messages for ships were broadcast, and there were schedules of

broadcasting times to which ships strictly adhered and listened out to without the need

to reply themselves. Ship's call signs were broadcast first after which a ship called

would copy the coded messages. The decoding books on board were of course

sensitive documents to be ditched if circumstances demanded. In addition, throughout

hostilities, the ship's position, correct to an hours sailing time, or sometimes half-an-

hour, was always kept in the radio room, night and day.

In the event of a ship being attacked, the first information that the radio officer had to

transmit, was the ship's position, before providing any other information which he

might or might not be able to do, depending on circumstances.

Instead of the international signal, SOS, the nature of the attack was indicated in the

address. If by a surface vessel, “RRR' was first transmitted three times, if by aircraft,

'AAA' or by submarine, “SSS”. A typical message would read, 'AAA AAA AAA” -

position of the ship - name of the ship'.

With that message successfully transmitted, the captain would then initiate further

helpful information. The use of those prefixes not only alerted authorities who might

be able to counter-attack, but also alerted merchant ships in the vicinity to take

'disappearing' action. It was perplexing to have received our first orders to proceed to

Balik. It was even more perplexing after we had docked to learn that we were to go to

Tarakan 450 miles north of Balik in the region 03° north, and after loading for

Singapore proceed there via the NORTH of Borneo and NOT south! In view of the

attack on the 'Admiral Cole' 04° north, and that possibly somewhere near that position

and heading towards Tarakan, was the Japanese task force, with it's supporting

aircraft, our instructions were difficult to swallow. The old man was not one to 'lose

his cool' but he was doing so with a few well chosen words, prior to saying, 'Follow

me Sparks and bring that bloody wireless log with you ...'

When he produced the information ashore about the 'Admiral Cole' nobody locally

seemed to know about it, but obviously somebody else did somewhere, for later the

order was cancelled. Obviously the original one had been despatched before the

Japanese hostilities.

Next day there were new orders. We were now to evacuate the residents of

Balikpapan - 1200 Asians and 100 Europeans, and deposit them at Surabaya in Java,

leaving a skeleton staff to carry out the demolition of the oil installation with the co-

operation of the defending garrison, should it become necessary - and it did.

During the next day a bevy of American Naval craft arrived and anchored. Two

cruisers, two or three destroyers and a small aircraft carrier. I thought at the time that

they could be doing something useful like engaging that task-force, but they did not

seem to be in a hurry to go anywhere, for they were still there a week later when we

had departed. Hindsight tells me now, that a small force like this American one,

would have been helpless against Japanese bombers operating from a carrier. While

we had been tied up at the wharf there had been plenty of activity on board. Shelters

had been built on deck to accommodate the evacuees. Rows of cookhouse facilities

and latrines were installed, also extra life rafts fitted and numerous amenities. It was a

sad sight to see these bewildered looking parents and kids, or just mothers and kids

and grandparents, carrying armfuls of belongings, climbing aboard, then looking

around for a suitable spot on which to establish squatters rights on a patch of deck

before spreading their pans and beds.

Looking over the ship' ship's side the scene below was one of a great sea of up-turned

faces. I thought, surely they could not ALL get on board, well no, fortunately that was

not their intention. Presumably they were friends and relations who had arrived to

wave good-bye and who did not want to be evacuated.

In the end, the passenger count was now 900 ex-residents, six Europeans from the oil

installation and three nurses. I looked hard among the gathering on and off the ship,

but I did not see Elli, and because there had not been any shore leave, there had not

been any visits to the 'Golden Drake'. I wondered since, if later she was serving

'Shanghai Gestures' to the Japanese with her usual gusto, and I wonder if she had

managed to protect her good girls?

Probably after the first official panic that the Japanese could be just over the horizon,

and then after a week without any disturbing news of imminent invasion, a few minds

had been changed about rushing off too quickly. We would most certainly have

preferred to be on the move. The old man voiced his opinion on the matter quite

loudly as our cargo of people settled down to a new life on board a ship ... tied up to

the wharf!

Although there had not been any air-raids, there had been a number of alerts possibly

because of reconnoitring aircraft sightings, but now, with this huge crowd on deck,

and the patiently waiting crowd on the wharf below, it began to feel an uncomfortable

situation. The Japanese might not want to wreck an oil installation, but a harbour full

of ships could be a tempting alternative. There was a strange lack of official

information as to the local situation and one wonders if officialdom ashore knew

anything about it, or if they were keeping quiet, or like us, listening to the BBC to find

out.

There were now rumours that the Japanese had landed at Sarawak across the island on

the west coast of Borneo, and if this were true, then aircraft could be operating from

there very soon ... So, it was with a sigh of relief that we eventually set sail on

December 16th, and much to Captain Thomas's disgust (which he voiced loudly to

departing officials) not one of the American ships accompanied us, notwithstanding

renewed news of Japanese submarine activity in the Java Sea. The most dangerous

weapons we had on board were my spears and bows and arrows acquired in Papua.

The voyage to Surabaya on the north coast of Java was uneventful. We sailed due

south out of Balik, across the Java Sea, and then hugged the coast, passing on the

inside of the island of Madura and finally docking at Surabaya on December 20th.

That evening after our passengers had all been landed, we sat on deck after dinner

with the ship blacked-out, as too was the town, discussing and conjecturing as to our

future movements. The area around us was aglow with numerous fireflies and now

and again there were vivid lightning flashes across the sky that lit up the sea.

Just ahead of us (we had moved to an offshore anchorage) there was an American

cargo ship and from it came strains of the piano accordion and singing. It sounded so

nice as the sound floated across the water and roused quite a few nostalgic memories

of family occasions at home and Scout campfires.

The radio that night gave more details of the Russian resistance to the German

advance, and our own bombing raids on Germany. This better news of our increasing

ability to fight back was upset by the disheartening report of the Japanese successes in

the Pacific and their rapid advance down the Malayan peninsula, after landing on the

North east coast. Also, that Penang, an undefended island on the west coast, had

surrendered on December 18th after suffering quite unnecessary bombing attacks

which had killed hundreds of civilians. The attacks had been made possibly after the

Japanese had occupied the airfield at Kota Bharu 120 miles or so east.

'It was sad to think of pleasant dreamy little Penang being subjected to such carnage

and subsequent Japanese occupation” is what I wrote later, and also 'I wonder if the

Japanese are now relaxing in the E & O hotel lounge' where I had had many pleasant

mornings with some of our “Kistna” passengers, enjoying chats and Singapore gin-

slings.

Like the Sea view Hotel in Singapore, it too had a dome roof like a mini St Pauls,

offering the same whispering gallery effect. Going ashore, I used to enjoy the quiet

tranquillity that I did not experience in Singapore' s busy shopping area. I nursed

happy memories of the island. To me, it had an atmosphere of serenity that prompted

the thought, that here, time had found a place in which to rest undisturbed ... Alas it

had not.

We were still swinging around at anchor the following evening without any

knowledge of our next move. The steadily deteriorating news, since the old man had

given me a shake that early morning, had not improved. Quite the opposite. The

Japanese were reported to be still advancing at great speed southward down Malaya,

with our forces in retreat, and there had been frequent bombing raids on Singapore

and on shipping in that area.

The American naval base at Wake island had been taken and now we heard officially

that the Japanese had actually landed in Sarawak at Miri (Northwest Borneo) on

December 16th, so confirming the rumour heard in Balik. We heard for the first time

the news of the disastrous loss of the battleship “Prince of Wales” and the “Repulse”

sunk by enemy aircraft on December the 10th in the Gulf of Thailand.

So it was with mixed feelings the next day when orders were received to sail and that

we were to proceed to Singapore taking a course that would eventually keep us close

to the east coast of Sumatra. We assumed that this had something to do with the

landings at Sarawak. That morning I heard signals from the tanker MV 'Harper' she

was being bombed west of Singapore. It was a shock because we knew her Captain

and his bridge crew and we had met many times at Bukom. Since there was plenty of

time before sailing, it was decided to open our reserve stock of Christmas wine for

lunch, as was voiced, 'we might not get another chance' (alcohol was not on the menu

at sea).

Later that day we received further instructions as to our route. We were to avoid the

Java Sea because of reported submarines in the area, and take the longer route first

east and then west via Bali and then southern Java. Later I heard a vessel being

attacked north of Semarang in the Java Sea not far west from Surabaya. Well that

again confirmed the reports of submarines in the Java Sea.

I reported this to the old man, who said, 'Keep it under your hat. There is no need to

cause any further despondency, there is enough around already'.

The voyage around the western tip of Java and past Bali was uneventful in nice

comfortable sailing weather as we sailed up the south coast of Java, where Christmas

lunch was enjoyed, if not celebrated. But we did have a scare just before levelling

with the Sunda Strait at the north end of Java, but first I should explain the following.

The hostilities procedure when one vessel was challenging another at that time, was to

signal WBA. This letter group represented a command 'Stop your ship: do not use

your radio: do not lower boats: do not scuttle: if you disobey, I will open fire'. If the

signal was not obeyed, action followed. This would be the case, if say a German naval

or armed merchant vessel accosted one of our ships, when the first action that would

take place would be to silence the radio, should it be used, to prevent the attacking

vessel's position from being disclosed. This was not difficult since DF loops and

aerial terminations indicated the position of the radio room on the merchant ship quite

plainly.

Being so near the Java coast, I had been relieved of the continuous watch order and

had reverted to the regulation two hours on and two off routine. It was breakfast time

and I was in the saloon with the Captain, Chief Engineer and the second mate. The

third mate was still on the bridge where he had been since 0400 and where he would

normally remain until relieved by the second mate when he had finished his breakfast

at 0830.

I think we had all more or less finished when the second mate received a message to

go onto the bridge which was unusual, and which was indicated by his raised

eyebrows. After a time lapse, equal for the time taken for the second mate to get onto

the bridge and Shorty Armstrong, the cadet, to get down with a message, the old man

left too. To me that departure indicated trouble so I hurried into the radio room

leaving the perplexed chief engineer sitting at the table.

Upon arriving there, the first thing that confirmed that there was trouble, was cadet

Armstrong, whom we nicknamed Shorty, falling over the door coaming with the

ship's latest position, and then the brr-brring of the telephone. The old man said,

'stand-by sparks' ... so I did, wondering ... As I did not yet know, for what, I stood up

and turned to Shorty but he had disappeared. However in doing so I had the shock of

my life for I saw a tiny shape of a vessel in the far distance, it's signal lamp blinking

WB8 at me through the porthole!

I started up the transmitter generator, more a reflex action and not a brave one, for in

that instant I remembered tales of operators not getting enough time to send the last

groups of their RRR’s messages. The thought that I might have to soon start pressing

that transmitting key was a very nasty one as I hung on to the telephone and waited

(“the coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave man only once') I heard the clanking of

the ship's telegraph to the engine room, then the change of motion of the ship. My

immediate thought was “Hell's bells, we are making a run for it” then brr-brr again.

The old man said 'It's OK sparks, we have just been challenged by a Dutch cruiser!'

When I look back on that incident I wonder now, and also wonder why I was not

curious at the time, why it was that that Dutch cruiser was not seen before it became a

shape on the skyline. Normally one sees another ship by the top of its mast or funnel

or perhaps smoke before it becomes a complete recognisable ship. It had been a very

sensitive situation ever since we had left port, so where were all the other lookouts?

Well perhaps the cruiser came rapidly out of the morning haze. Just before that

incident I received confirming messages that the Japanese had landed at Sarawak and

also on the west coast of Borneo, and that their aircraft could be now operating from

occupied airfields there. I had received the same information when I went onto the

bridge to receive the Aldis lamp signals from the cruiser, who also signalled,

'Important you keep west of Banka Island and report Naval Control at mouth of Musi'

(the Palembang river).

We sailed through the Sunda Strait and towards Banka, passing the ex-crater of the

volcano Krakatoa that did not look very much at all - just a small island with a crater-

shaped hill rising out of it. When it erupted in 1883, it was, as far as records indicate

the biggest bang the world had ever known since Santorini obliterated the civilisation

of Crete. Following the eruption of Krakatoa that caused tidal waves and the deaths of

thousands of coastal inhabitants, dust travelled right around the world causing

spectacular sunsets for years afterwards. What I saw, was not what caused the

devastation, but what meekly rose up out of the sea afterwards - Krakatoa.

We had not gone very far through the Sunda straits when I heard the 'Harper' being

attacked again in the Strait of Malacca, and also the “Aldegonda”. They were being

attacked by aircraft and sending out the regulation “AAA” signals.

The remainder of the voyage was uneventful. We did not see the Naval Control at the

mouth of Musi, so the old man pushed on regardless, but hugging the Sumatra

coastline. We finally dropped anchor 25 miles south of Singapore, north of the Rhio

islands as the sun set on December 31st.1941. The captain had been told, that in view

of the now enforced precautions, arrival in the Singapore area at night might mean

being shot at first and questions asked later.

We arrived at Pulau Bukom mid morning the next day. As already referred to, Bukom

was one of the two oil installation islands for Singapore (the other one being Pulau

Sambu a few miles further east) that provided wharfing and fuel handling facilities. I

had enjoyed many social evenings at the island's club which sported a bar and a piano.

It was a cool peaceful little island, probably half-a-mile wide and one-and-a-half

miles long located south of Singapore Island, with a very frequent ferry service.

This time, the club was unusually packed with a motley crowd of sailors and soldiers,

the former mostly survivors off the sunken battle ships 'Repulse' and 'Prince of

Wales'. There were also some of the crew off the 'Harper' that I had heard being

attacked a few days before our arrival. She was attacked and sunk later in the Rhio

Strait on the 27th January, with the loss of a cargo of fuel destined for Batavia.

We were In Bukom for nine days, and during that time as far as air raids were

concerned we had a peaceful time because all the aerial aggro was taking place over

Singapore, of which we had a grandstand view. One might assume that an island like

Bukum, loaded with fuel and all the facilities associated with it, would have been a

prize for Japanese attacks. But not so. It was never attacked because I suppose, the

Japanese needed the island intact for their own use after they had taken Singapore, of

which, even at that early stage, they must have been so very confident.

From the idyllic untroubled existence that we had been enjoying slowly and surely

that situation was deteriorating daily. I went across to Singapore by the ferry two or

three times and I was quite surprised to see how little damage there was on the couple

of visits, except for the first bomb which had hit Robinson’s department store in

Raffles Place.

It seemed that most of the damage that had been done, which I saw later, was in the

Chinese and Indian quarters. The docks at Keppel did not appear to have been

damaged, although I did not manage to see much of that area at that time. I assumed

that Keppel docks had been ignored by the Japanese for the same reasons that Bukom

had not been attacked.

The Keppel harbour dock area ran for quite a distance along the south coast of

Singapore Island sheltered on the seaward side by the long length of Blakang Mati

Island (now renamed Santosa). It was on the summit and the seaward side of Blakang

Mati which accommodated some of the much-talked about Singapore defences that

looked out to sea.

If the Japanese had done what was expected of an attacking force approaching

Singapore, they would have had a very warm welcome from Blakang Mati and all the

other coastal guns. Instead, they arrived by the back door, so to speak, and there was

little that Blakang Mati or any of the other coastal defences could about it to any great

extent.

In the past, a lot of accent has been placed on those guns that looked out to sea, which

could not look the other way. I have since read that that is only partly correct,

applying only to large calibre guns. By turning through 180° they were deprived of

remote control facility but not their ability to fire. If they did they still did not possess

the correct shells for the annihilation of troops. The shells available, only in a very

small quantity, the armour piercing type essentially for that purpose i.e. making holes

in naval armour.

As I went about the city, it seamed to all outward appearances that Singapore life was

continuing normally. The only thing that I noticed out of the ordinary was the digging

up and the defacing of the sacred cricket ground. I thought that perhaps they were

digging slit trenches, but at the same time, they looked sadly like graves. Mind you, if

I had bothered to move further away centre at that time, as I did later, I would have

had different thoughts on normality.

The second mate, John Wood and I, went to the “New World” taxi-dancing “joint”,

Raffles Hotel, and then shopping in Change Alley (the bargain-hunters mecca off

Raffles Place) then, on Sunday, out to the Sea View Hotel just around the coast. Later,

on several occasions this time alone, I went to the swimming club all day. I mention

mundane items merely to bear out my remark, that if I had not known the Japanese

were only a matter of 75 miles away and closing-in fast, I would have thought that

what I was experiencing was the everyday life of the city hitherto enjoyed.

. . . .

We received our sailing orders on January 9th 1942 having taken on a half-cargo to be

topped up with a load to be picked up at Pladjoe, en route to Balikpapan. That

information was hard to swallow, since to get to Balik, it would have to be via the

Java Sea! You will remember that on our voyage to Singapore from Surabaya after

dropping off our “cargo” of evacuees, we had been routed around southern Java in

order to AVOID the Java Sea because of submarine activity. Then, just before sailing,

we took on additional petrol for Tarakan (about 450 miles north of Balikpapan). This

last straw made the old man explode. It just did not make sense at all. Our humble

surmise, which was emphasised loudly at dinner that night, was that before we had

time to get anywhere near those parts, the Japanese could have already arrived.

The interesting thing, that is if one could mildly call it interesting, was that we were

being sent out alone with a volatile cargo, not to mention a valuable ship and crew,

without any defensive support. I wonder if we would have felt any happier if someone

had said 'Sorry Captain, we can’t give you an escort because we just haven’t got a

single ship to spare'. Such was the plight of the siege of Singapore. A pitiful shortage

of naval and airborne facilities. Arthur Greene, the new 3rd engineer who had just

joined us said “It’s a pity we can’t swap our cargo for one of balloons - blown up

ones'

Arthur was a great person and we got on very well together. He had been transferred

to the 'Pinna' from another tanker ship, the MV “Trocus”. He told me that while

crossing the Indian ocean they had picked up a raft full of 25 German sailors around

November 20th (1941) and eventually landed them into the hands of the Authority in

Freemantle. They turned out to be survivors of the German armed merchant cruiser

“Kormoran” a vessel of 9000 tons which had been responsible for the sinking of many

thousands of tons of Allied merchant shipping.

From an entry in my diary, Arthur said, that according to the men they had picked up,

The German ship had attacked and sunk the Australian Naval vessel 'Sidney”. The

'Sidney' had signalled, and then approached to within three-quarters of a mile of the

disguised German ship, to ascertain it's identity, which then opened fire with guns and

torpedoes. However before the 'Sidney' sank, she hit the German ship putting her

partly out of action, but also setting her on fire to the extent, that the crew had

eventually to abandon ship.

Two factors stand out in the case. About 300 survivors off the ' Kormoran” were

eventually picked up, but not one single man from the 'Sidney' was found by

searching ships and our aircraft only one machine gun riddled life-raft. It was the

recovery of the German survivors that sadly solved the riddle of the missing 'Sidney'...

Forty years later and with the availability of Naval information, Michael Montgomery

has written the book covering the incident, entitled 'Who sank the Sidney'.

The whole sad event is still clouded in mystery. Who helped the “Kormoran'? Who

disposed of the 'Sidney’s” survivors? Despite intensive investigation, the main facts

known as I write these lines are still only as much as those Arthur conveyed to me in

1941. We duly set sail from Bukom the following afternoon except for one 'Stand-by

sparks' as we negotiated the north end of the Rhio Straits when a bevy of aircraft was

sighted, but who thankfully ignored us. We hugged the east coast of Sumatra

southwards, and picked up the pilot at the mouth of the Musi River two days later on

January 12th.

It was a pleasant repeat journey up the River Musi to Palembang. The deep channel

was so narrow in places that it seemed that we would soon be pulling leaves off the

trees as we sailed along with large areas of mango swamp on either side. The scent of

the trees and the wet earth was delightful. During the first few days that we were tied

up at the Pladjoe oil installation, there were several air-raid alerts but nothing we

could see or hear happened. We met up with the crew of the ship that had sailed up

from the south. They said that a Dutch ship had recently been attacked by submarine

in the Java Sea, after which, the escaping crew had been gunned. Only three

remaining alive were picked up.

Well that confirmed reports about enemy activity in the Java Sea. About the same

time, we received news that the Tarakan north Borneo oil installation had been

destroyed, and the area evacuated as a result of the attack and landings by the

Japanese troops on January 11th. The following day our cargo destined for Tarakan

was off-loaded. Well that made sense after the previous nonsense! That evening out

on deck enjoying our after-dinner drink and chat which had become routine since

there was no necessity for strict watches, we wondered about the news situation. Who

was it, that was first waiting for news from the BBC before issuing orders? We hoped

that the BBC would keep it up and whoever was waiting for the news, would keep his

ears pinned back.

The following day, still without any further news as to our future movements, we

moved from Pladjoe out to an anchorage downstream from Palambang, where we

were still swinging around our anchor two weeks later!

Day after day, either from the BBC or Singapore radio broadcasts, usually the former,

we listened dismally to the news of stepped-up air-raids on Singapore, one of which

was 80 aircraft strong and the overnight withdrawal of troops down the Malay

Peninsular to strategic defence positions. The latter piece of news we interpreted as

being that our hard-pressed troops were being driven back by the highly organised

and better-equipped mechanised Japanese.

The next withdrawal could very well be on to Singapore Island proper! The war news

from home still described the continuing bombing of our cities; the very little

improvement in the Middle East situation, and the still recurring merchant shipping

losses in the Atlantic. It was all very depressing.

In contrast nothing had happened or was happening to us on board, we were living a

life of Riley compared to the others in the different war zones and on the home front.

Our surroundings were idyllic with all the attributes of a pleasure cruise. Placid river,

pleasant cool breezes, chairs on deck, sun bathing by day and watching the flashing of

the millions of fire-flies at night as we chatted over drinks. We would go to bed with

the croaking of bull frogs and the many sounds out of the jungle that echoed across

the water, then wake up in the morning to the shrieking of birds and the chattering of

monkeys.

We were still swinging at anchor on January 26th and just as we had begun to think

that we really had been forgotten, the old man received instructions that we would

soon be leaving the anchorage and returning to the wharf.

So, our idyllic holiday had really come to an end. I wondered what the BBC had

heard? While we had been at anchor during the last few days, there had been several

air-raids on the airfield a few miles away, with the passing aircraft ignoring us and the

Pladjoe oil installation - another Bukom? I wondered.

There had been news of attacks on shipping in the harbour at Balikpapan, and then the

news that Balikpapan had been occupied and also ports on the Celebes across the

Macassar strait. Well that would remove Balik from our ports-of-call along with

Tarakan.

I learned later that the capture of the Borneo oil fields and the port of Balikpapan

could provide the Japanese with over 50,000 barrels of oil a day, which more than

fulfilled their requirements of petrol to continue the war in the East.

We had learned of our return to the wharf when the shipping agent boarded us. He

said that he thought that now we would be going direct to Darwin, and that like

another ship, we would be given a route via Banka, Sunda Strait and southern Java

instead of the normal route via the Java and Flores seas. The old man rolled his eyes

at this and suggested that there was nothing new about that, we had already done it -

well, in reverse.

“Anyway” he said, 'its bloody obvious now isn't it ... ' He was not one to mince his

words when the occasion demanded it. After the agent had departed, leaving the

instructions that we return to the wharf the next morning, I heard two more ships

being bombed, the 'Lamatang' and the “Larut”. Then a short time later the call sign

VSJB off the West Coast of Sumatra, then the 'Van Himoff' - a submarine attack off

southern Sumatra. The first three were in the region of the Rhio islands south of

Singapore.

I was quite pleased about Darwin and the route there, but the later news of submarine

activity around Banka Island area soured it somewhat. Perhaps the sub that had

attacked the 'Van Himoff' had come around the corner and through the Sunda Strait -

or was there another one? The old man's remark when I reported this to him was.

'Does anyone know about all this?' “No” I said. 'Then keep it that way,” he said.

I found it very hard to be as cheerful as the others were at dinner that night, and later

on deck, for the prospect of a safe get away at dawn to Darwin had gone down well.

But as I saw it, there did not seem to be any safe alternative direction that we could

now go, except for up or down, and they could hardly be called safe!

We duly tied up at the Pladjoe wharf the following morning, while the Japanese were

having another go at the RAF airfield. Several flights went over that morning but

none was interested in shipping - just the airfield. We wondered from where they

could be operating.

Shortly after arriving, three shiploads of RAF and RA troops arrived from Singapore.

They had been bombed on route; they had made it, but with many casualties. They

had been attacked twice, once 50 miles south of Singapore in the Ehio Straits and

again near the mouth of the Palembang River. A ship that had passed us the previous

day, going out, the “Juno”, came limping back. She too had caught it upon reaching

the river mouth. I had heard her “AAA” signals but had not caught the name.

I have dealt with events described above in detail in order to convey how slowly, then

at a quickening pace, the situation worsened from peacefully enjoyed existence, from

songs of welcome and farewell from the islands, to the state now when we were

virtually being hemmed in with problems.

It was fortunate for the crew they were not aware of information that the Captain and I

had shared as to the deteriorating situation. The knowledge that we had gleaned from

ships arriving, and from some of the RAF personnel, made them particularly happy

that instead of Singapore the ' Pinna' was now going in the opposite direction - to

Australia.

The news from the BBC the next day was to the effect that last night all our troops

had evacuated the mainland of Malaya and were now on the island and preparing for

the defence of Singapore proper. The thought did cross my mind that we could be

involved in the evacuation of Singapore, but I dismissed it as being just too

preposterous. Singapore could not fall. .. It was too British!

There was further news that the causeway linking the island to the mainland had been

blown-up, and I wondered just how much difference it would make to the extremely

efficient Japanese campaign which had brought than so quickly down the Malay

Peninsula.

Arthur Green and I spent the morning at Pladjoe swimming club where we stayed for

a very large hot curry. Except for a few bangs that came from somewhere, we could

have been on holiday. Some of the chaps that I met expressed their opinions that

everything coming in and out of Singapore was being attacked in the Rhio Straits

area, and I wondered why so persistently Rhio? In the afternoon, I accompanied the

old man to the Naval Control. I do not know which bit of bad news should have come

first, but anyway, the first was, that we were now to return north to Singapore taking

with us 19000 tins of petrol that had just been loaded for the RAF base at Darwin.

There, pick-up some special oil cargo that we were to have picked-up at Balik, had

that port still been open to us, and then return south to Darwin via Banka and Sunda

straits!

The second bit of news, delivered very much as matter-of-fact information, was that

the Japanese were making regular aircraft attacks on shipping arriving at the river

mouth after having left Palembang to catch the morning tide (it was at the river mouth

that the “Juno” was attacked before she limped back to Pladjoe).

Walking back to the ship the old man was quiet for quite a time and then he said, 'You

know Sparks' (he always called me that, but when I was not around he would perhaps

say to someone within ear shot 'where is that sparking bugger' this was because an

Aborigine pointing at me had once said “Hey im fella sparking bugger, what im do?”)

'I have spent so many years out here among the islands and I could hang up my jacket

on any one of them, but I have never felt so far from home as I do at this moment'

Although I recorded those words and the prevailing circumstances in my diary written

at the time and from which I am now able to quote, I have no idea whether or not I

replied to his remark. But what could I have said? If I had voiced any private

thoughts, then they must surely have been the obvious ones. The old man had every

reason to feel far from home, for, if we can believe that 'coming events do cast a

shadow before', his spoken words in reality were to take him even further away from

home - as a prisoner of war in a Japanese hospital.

At dinner that night the topic of conversation was the obvious one. Who on earth

could have conjured-up such mad instructions? It could only have been somebody so

far away and out of touch with the real local critical situation as to risk a valuable ship

and an equally valuable cargo not to mention the crew, in such a way.

It is interesting to conjecture on life's patterns and how things fit together. Could

events really be pre-ordained? On February 9th, 150 carrier born Japanese Naval

Aircraft attacked Darwin, killing 240 people and injuring many more. Eleven

transport ships, a destroyer, and a number of merchant ships all sunk or disabled. If

we had gone south, and not north to Singapore, we would have been in Darwin, that is

assuming that we had not bumped into the Japanese Naval task force on the way

there!

Interestingly enough, as we moved out onto the promenade deck after dinner with a

bottle of brandy which had been saved for such an occasion as this, the subject was

closed. There was no reference to the situation that surely must have been foremost in

everyone' s mind. By this time we had moved off from the wharf to our moorings

downstream again in anticipation of our departure, and the pilot joining us the next

morning. According to the notes I made at the time, .'... The river was placid although

flowing quite rapidly; bringing with it large bunches of wild hyacinths that looked

like small floating gardens. The sunset had been beautiful, leaving behind it, for a

lingering 10 minutes, a golden, then deep red to purple hue, making the whole

landscape of trees, huts and mirror reflections near the river bank where the water was

still, look quite unreal ...' (Sunsets are rapid near the equator).'

... Later the near full moon was rising, but still quite low in the sky and looking like a

large yellow-red paw-paw resting itself on top of the trees, and in the water, a long

avenue of yellow juice. It seemed that we could be blissfully enjoying our

surroundings with the war a long way off just as we had done six weeks before.

The following morning dawned in the same way as it had done on previous mornings

heralded by the first muted sounds from the jungle; it filled the sky with purple,

turning to pink. And then shafts of golden light elbowed their way through the trees.

They then skated across the river this morning to meet the pilot launch head-on as it

chugged it's way from Palambang pushing a white moustached bow wave ahead of

it...

With the pilot on board and pleasantries exchanged we duly weighed anchor and left

the mooring for our several hours journey to the river mouth. It is just possible they

were a bit slow in getting there which was fortunate for us, but not for the “Katong”

that had left before us or perhaps had stayed the night down river. With a cargo of

volatile explosives stored she had received preferential treatment from Japanese

aircraft, and it gave us our first sight of what war looked like. Survivors where being

picked up by a BI. ship, the 'Delaware' This was for real, it was awful…... I could not

believe my eyes. I just couldn't believe it. didn't want to believe it ...

Half an hour later we were well and truly stuck on a mud-bank. The pilot who had so

successfully beached us was all for leaving us with the promise of returning in time

for the next tide. He had obviously not liked the sight of the ship going up when he

was normally used to ships going forward or astern. It must have put him off his

navigational stroke and hence our present predicament.

However the old man would not accept that arrangement and made him stay on board.

For he said “If that little man has friends up there then he can sit on this boat load of

petrol and give them a wave when they come back'

I thought it rather a shame for the pilot was a nice little man (a Malay) and he was

obviously very disturbed. I think the old man was too, for he was normally a placid

and understanding person, always friendly and he never pulled 'captain' on us. In fact,

quite the reverse. Whenever he went ashore - that was usually the only tine he put on

his uniform cap - he would frequently invite one of his officers to accompany him.

Unlike one captain I once sailed with; he always put his cap on when he spoke to any

of his crew, at any time.

I offered the suggestion that I could get a coded message off on short wave (note 5)

which would be safe but the captain declined saying that the tide would get us floating

before a tug could possibly arrive from Palembang.

From my diary. '...We sweated it out for the rest of the day, not only with

apprehension, but also in the sizzling heat our position wasn't very far south of the

equator. Unlike up-river there was just not the slightest breeze or movement of air at

all. By lunchtime the ship was one great big iron oven. Numerous distant birds were

mistaken for approaching aircraft such was the prevailing anticipation. But on

thinking, what help could early warning of approaching aircraft be to us anyway? We

could not fight back, and there was no air-raid shelter to run to ...'

We duly lifted off the sandbank with the rising tide. Later as the ladder was dropped

over the side and the pilot descended into his launch, the old man waved jovially and

said jokingly, 'Tell them we couldn't wait' and he pointed skyward. The pilot smiled,

waved, and gave a victory 'V' sign.

The next morning, as the sun rose above the horizon and was quickly delivering

increasing heat, we were well on our way north to Singapore. There was not a cloud

in the sky to take advantage of the mirror-like quality of the sea.

As we pressed on up the coast of Sumatra, the voyage was uneventful. A lot of

tension had disappeared as though having avoided anticipated aggro whilst on the

mud-bank, and after, we had left trouble behind and a relaxed atmosphere prevailed. I

say relaxed collectively, but not so for me. I had been keeping continuous watch from,

each daybreak and there had been numerous ships sending out their “AAA” signals,

sometimes, Singapore repeating them only to be interrupted by further “AAA”

signals. Sometimes a ship's position was included, sometimes chopped-off. The

positions that I was able to log were generally north from our position. Shortly after

lunch I could hear the 'Madura” sending out AAA's and saying that she was being

bombed, and then on top of those signals, the 'Lochranza' which I lost because of

interference from Singapore radio repeating the 'Madura's' message with it's more

powerful signal. Later the 'Siperok' and then shortly afterwards the 'Subidar'' giving

her position which was in the region of one degree north. (She was lost later in the

Banka Strait on February 13th) I checked our position chit on my desk, probably half-

an-hour old ... A quick calculation - could that mean the “Subidar' was 10 or 15 miles

away? - two or three minutes away, perhaps less?

I rang the bridge and reported the message and position and continued listening and

conjecturing. I was still engrossed in my conjecturing thoughts, with my ears listening

to the Singapore radio calling the 'Siperok” and asking her to repeat her message,

when suddenly,” Brr Brr Brr' of the bridge telephone. It was the old man.

'Standby Sparks' and he rang-off. I started up the main transmitter generator and

waited - still conjecturing, but now doing so worryingly. I felt the ship tremble and

then lean over as I watched the curtains on either side of the porthole over my

operating table begin to move out in sympathy. Still standing-by as I was instructed, I

stood up. Looking through the aft-looking porthole, I could see the foaming wake of

the tight turn that we were making and then, through the porthole over my desk, I just

caught sight and a glimpse of a Naval vessel before it disappeared from view,

probably a mile away.

A Japanese? - It had not been visible long enough for confirmation but then the 'stand-

by' instruction was doing so in my head for a few seconds of uncertainty. I was

tempted to send the 'RRR' signals thinking, I suppose, that I might not get another

chance, for my subconscious vision still had the last WBA message in it's store, with

it's ominous portend, through that same porthole. But the old man had only said

“Stand-by'. And then Brr Brr Brr Brr again ... “Send it Sparks'. I still had the Navel

vessel in mind, so I said, 'Send what?'

The old man snapped back 'Aircraft'. I had just tapped out my 'AAA' signal and was

halfway through the ship's position when it seemed that the whole radio room shook.

Documents, books and bottles of ink launched themselves out into the room, and over

my desk, and the draught caused by the radio room door slamming closed blew all the

papers out of the basket and round about.

As I continued with my transmission, I could sense that there was something wrong.

There was but I didn't know until later that the large output valve in the transmitter

had broken.

As I started up the emergency transmitter and adjusted the aerial switch, I could hear

engine noises and what seemed to be gunfire. Then another explosion as gallons of

water sloshed through and over my operating desk, washing away everything on it. As

I attempted to continue with my message, I realised again that there was still

something that changing the aerials over again would not rectify.

Out on deck, I squinted up into the brightness of the sky and through voluminous

clouds of thick black smoke to locate the aerials. In the far distance there were aircraft

in a tight turn to starboard, and in the near distance, both aerials were down and lying

across the bridge structure and the radio room. One end of the emergency aerial was

still attached to the funnel amidships. There were angry flames and black smoke, lots

of the latter driving horizontally down the deck due to our forward speed.

Dropping down into the for'd well deck, I managed to find the end of the emergency

aerial - it still had its lanyard and insulator attached - and eventually managed to

reinstate and secure it. Not knowing what the future had in store for us, whether it was

more bombs or a gunning run, or both, I was anxious to be anywhere other than where

I was. The homing pigeon part of me wanted to get back in my “safe” radio room,

while the ostrich in me was prepared to get underneath a newspaper or in a gunny

sack, which ever came first! Climbing down to the deck it was impossible to see if the

aerial downlead was clear because of the thick smoke that was being blown aft. For'd,

it was an inferno of fire. Descending from the top of the radio room after freeing it, I

could hear the telephone brr-brr-ing. I remember saying to myself, “Hell, not again'.

The old man said 'That you Sparks'. I said, 'Yes' (wondering who he thought it might

be). 'Report bombed and on fire ...'

I then noticed that I had left both the transmitters running and their generators were

whining away. I switched off the main, and tuned-up the emergency transmitter to suit

the changed aerial conditions, and sent off the “AAA' signals again, this time

successfully, and adding the Captain' s last instructions.

Singapore radio (call-sign VPS at that time) came back immediately with, ' What ship'

in plain language and not “QRA?” I had of course given him the ship's name but in

my hurry I may have scrambled it a bit, so I repeated 'Pinna'.

Before I could receive his receipt, the “Lockranza” came on giving 37' N 104° 14' E,

saying that she was beaching on Abang Island, Rhio Strait.

There were two more signals mixed up together which I couldn't read because of the

noise that was going on. I wondered what was going on outside on deck, and how

many more attacks there might be. I called up VPS again giving him “QSL?” He

replied confirming that he had received my query, with “QSL” “R” and then carried

on with other ships. He was having a busy tine. I was desperately trying to deal with

the log book I had retrieved from the pool of water on the deck, and having

difficulties with the indelible blue pencil marks that were running down the page,

when “Brrr-Brrr” The old man said, “did you get the message away?' Before I could

answer he said 'they're here again'.

I sent off another string of 'AAA's and waited for acknowledgement. VPS came back

'Repeat position and condition' I did and added, “attack in progress'. It was the old

man's last remark that made me initiate it. It was during the interchange of signals I

had to give 'wait' while I dashed across to the door and closed it, because I couldn't

breathe for all the smoke that was rolling in. I hardly had time to get back again when

there was the “brr-brr” again.

The old man said, 'It's OK. They've gone', then 'did you get the messages away?' I said

'Yes''. 'Did they get them?' I said 'Yes' again. “Well tell them bombed and on fire, and

we need some bloody help” I called VPS again and gave the Captain' s message,

(modified) VPS came back “QRU' (I have nothing for you).

“Brr-Brr” again, 'You alright down there Sparks?' I said I was but I wasn't sure. All in

one piece, yes, but when someone has been dropping bombs on you, a situation so

alien to one's normal peaceful life ... well ....

I wasn't surprised at VPS's 'QRU”. I had heard other ships asking for help and getting

the same reply, or, as in one case, 'no help available'. I stood up, closed the portholes

and put the deadlights over them - after the horse had left the stable - and switched on

the lights. If I could have experienced what people in London and other cities had

done, during Hitler' s blitz I might have thought I had got off very lightly, and taken

the incident in my stride. Instead, I felt distinctly unhappy ... unhappiness too is

relative.

As you can guess, during the period described above, I was not sitting there writing

up my diary as events occurred from which I am now able to repeat here. My diary

ended in Palembang and was not resumed until I had time on my hands later hence

my ability to describe events and names which I would have otherwise forgotten

(albeit that there may be errors).

Contrasting with the quiet normality of the radio room, with the 'Pinna' gently lolling

in the sea-swell - engines stopped; out on deck there was chaos, the smell of explosion

and burning. There was the angry noise of the flames plus lots of smoke and squirting

water everywhere as Watts, the mate, (he always insisted he was that and not chief

officer) urging the surviving deck crew to point their hoses in the right direction and

to stop looking up.

The old man poked his head round the radio room door and indicated that I should

leave my post and give a hand on deck, for he said “You will be more use out there

than you can in here'. He said that the bombs had also dropped right into the crew

accommodation for'd, just fatefully timed as a number of the crew had gone in there

to join others there off watch. He said that he thought there must be at least twenty

dead in addition to injured ones outside. Pointing to the water on the deck he said,

'Where did that come from?' (I wonder where he might have thought it did cone

from?) I explained that I had only just closed the starboard porthole and he enlarged

on that by describing how the same near miss had flooded the port side of the bridge

too. He added that the RNVR boat (the one that I had seen through my porthole) had

been attacked first etc , . . . He didn't know if it had any defensive armament but there

certainly wasn't any retaliatory shooting on our behalf.

I thought it very surprising that it should disappear so smartly, leaving us alone with

our problems. Not only could we be seen to be on fire, but also our radioed message

for help could not have been missed at one-mile range!

In my diary I wrote 'it was mid-afternoon when we were attacked, but by sunset,

things were getting under control, although the fires were still burning. I noticed how

the flat calm sea was reflecting a beautiful sunset ...”

'Everyone had worked so hard trying to get crew members out of the wreckage and

sorting out the dead from the injured, despite the heat, smoke and the threat of further

combustion from our volatile cargo. Arthur Greene and Sniffy Wilson (third and

fourth engineers) worked like beavers on the wounded, some so badly injured or

burned as to be almost unrecognisable. One of, the engine room crew was only

recognisable because of his bowlegs. Many were not, they had just been blown apart

and pieces scattered about or lost in the fire.

There was so much to be done ... I worked mechanically ... there was so much

disorder ... there seemed to be two of me, the other one leaning on the rail and

watching the sunset, as I had done so many evenings before.

Up to that time I had lived a very unsophisticated life, and except for a minor problem

with a rickshaw coolie in Singapore, a very peaceful one. Bombings, muggings and

terrorists were commonplace news items of the future. There had not been any TV in

my life depicting such violence that could have prepared me for that day's experience.

I remember feeling very miserable, not so much because of the trouble around me, but

I think, because of the bottled-up feelings of fear inside me that hadn't had the

opportunity to get out - fear that anticipates the worst that could have happened, but

didn't.

One of the crew, a Chinese, who had not seemed badly hurt at first had the back of his

knee sticking out at the front and whatever had done it had also taken his trouser leg

through it too. There wasn't any bleeding but he was in great pain. He died a short

time later, perhaps from an undetected internal wound, or perhaps just fatalistically

giving up - who knows? He had been moved away and laid outside the bathroom door

all night and the next morning I had to step over him so many times. I recall this

minor incident from amongst the greater ones, because his half-open eyes seemed to

stare at me so accusingly, making me feel guilty that I had survived. Others far more

seriously ill were still alive next morning.

'... In our dirty state we were served with a scratch meal on deck of tea and

sandwiches just around dusk. The sandwiches that were not eaten were so very

conspicuous by their presence on the cargo hatch top that had remained intact so

preventing flames reaching the volatile cargo beneath it.

The fire had been controlled but was still giving off acrid fumes and smoke. In the

dimming light, the bare skeleton framework stood out in silhouette very grimly

amongst the debris. There were still charred remains ... Nobody was hungry ...”

We were all wet and filthy and it was concerning to see how the cheerful faces I knew

could change into such looks of gravity and haggard lines appear so rapidly. By this

time I felt ashamed of myself for actually feeling cheerful when I should have been

unhappy because of such death and suffering around me. I suppose it was because of

my feeling of sheer relief that I had come through the attack unscathed, for which I

had experienced so much worrying anticipation. Had the bombs dropped more

amidships and hence through the bridge structure and into the volatile cargo, it could

have been catastrophic.

I really was tired. I had hardly slept since leaving the Palembang anchorage and had

more or less kept a continuous radio-watch on the shipping bands, and also on Rugby

radio, just in case there could be a broadcast message that might affect our situation…

There had not been. I could just as well have enjoyed my regulation rest periods.

Twice during my on-deck activities, the old man suggested that I call Singapore “‘for”

he said initially, “you might as well use that bloody radio of yours, that’s what it’s

there for… the Japanese know we are here anyway… check if there is a message for

us”

Although the fire was now under control, I think that the old man was still harbouring

the worry that the fire might still break through and into the for’d cargo hatch, in

which case, it certainly would be ‘abandon ship’.

I had called VPS each time, and as expected, the reply was the same – ‘nil’. (“Sorry

nil” might have helped a little).

Eventually a certain quietness prevailed. Crewmembers’ whose job it was to be on

duty were; others had turned in leaving a few watchers over the still smouldering

‘sharp-end’. The only sign of life amid ships was Sniffy Wilson wandering about.

I went along the deck for a shower and tripped over the body outside the door, and

automatically said ‘sorry’. Back in the radio room it was hot and stuffy and it reeked

of trapped smoke, and occupying my settee was a casualty. So as not to disturb him I

put the phones through the aft-looking port then went out on deck, then with them

round my neck, I leaned on the rail. There was no need to put them on, for the static

noise, as to be expected, was deafening.

I was letting my thoughts wander as I looked out across the calm still sea. They were

not about the day’s activities, but far ahead to our arrival in Singapore and would

repairs to the ship be possible, and about our return voyage, when Sniffy joined me. A

lot of reaction had set in and he was now experiencing the trauma of his afternoon and

evening work on the wounded.

'Behind us the gentle roll of the ship caused moon-inspired shadows to wander across

the deck and up the vertical side of the bridge structure. For'd beyond the smouldering

wreckage, the sea sparkled in bright moonlight, and in the far distance, against a

backcloth of starlit sky - the nearest of the Rhio islands.'

We talked for a while until he felt more relaxed and then I went to my cabin. I didn't

feel like sharing it with another casualty who was in there - all the fo’rd crew-

accommodation having been destroyed - so I went into the saloon and stretched out

there. But sleep would not come. Sniffy's melancholia had wiped off on me. I tried to

think back to happier times - there were so many but it didn't work. Sleep still would

not come. Instead my thoughts kept drifting back to the past few hours on deck, and

ahead to an uncertain future. There was no escape in dreams. After half-an-hour I

arose and went on deck, and then decided to listen out on the HF bands which would

be free of static. Out on deck again, Sniffy was still there where I had left him. He

asked if I had any aspirin. I had, and he eventually disappeared.

Back in the radio room later, the casualty had gone, understandably so it was baking

hot, the steel structure having soaked up all the day's heat was now behaving like a

huge night storage heater. I had just switched back to 500 kc/s when the old man put

his head round the door. He said, “Why don’t you get some rest Sparks, you can’t do

any good with that bloody row going on' (actually it was my official on-watch

period).

I agreed. He intimated that we would be moving off in three hours or so and that he

would like me on watch then – noise or no noise.

After he departed, I went aft to my cabin collected a pillow switched on the electric

fan in the radio room and lay down on the settee, I began to think about the aerials

and my report to the Marconi Company office…. then there was the ding-dong of the

bridge telegraph the brr-ding initiated by the engine room in reply and then the steady

vibration of our engine .It was nearly midnight …I’d been asleep for three hours. So

ended February 3rd 1942. The day my war broke out.

By the next morning, as I went into breakfast we were well north of the Rhio strait

and a half a days run from Singapore and our destination at the Pulau Bukum oil

installation. In the bright morning light the scene on the deck for’d was one of

disorder but by noon there was a bit less of it, but still the confusion of metal at the

sharp end and bodies of crew. It was sad to see some of them being lowered over the

side. I don’t know what sort of burial procedure the Chinese religion would have

demanded but under the circumstances and with a temperature of over 100° F the

mate, Watts and Shorty Armstrong the cadet were solving the problem in the only

practical way

I watched one go over the side, stiff as a poker and looking like a revolving “X” and

then a large splash. Shorty was only 17. He had worked hard the day before and now

here he was helping with the dead and with a smile on his face as I passed.

The mate, a quite person who seldom raised his voice or swore was saying what

sounded like “that’s it Shorty the Gentlemen ashore can deal with the mess in the

fo’c’sle”. I learned later he too had been on watch all night and had his breakfast out

of a glass.

Beyond the north end of the Rhio archipelago and the beginning of the wartime

southern approach to Singapore, the boarding officer came on board off his launch.

He told the captain that he would have to anchor because the port of Singapore was

closed, and if we proceeded we were likely to be fired upon. He was terribly jumpy

and very anxious to leave us - I suppose he didn't want to be on board such a prime

target with aircraft flying about. There was no “wee tot' in the Captain's cabin this

time; he was on board and off again inside five minutes. He said that he was surprised

to see us ... he hadn't been informed ... etc.

Presumably, whoever it was who had not informed him, must have thought that we

had not survived yesterday 's aggro .The old man carried on, ignoring the order to

anchor. If it had been possible to lower the anchor, we would not have been able to

raise it again since all the steam pipes and winches had been destroyed. To be fired

upon if we proceeded seemed to be a minor hazard. The old man told the 3rd mate

Sandy, to hoist identity flags, and me to keep a good listen-out (as if I needed telling)

and to go up on the bridge if the phone rang. He was obviously anticipating Aldis

lamp signals.

As we approached with Pulau Samboe appearing on our port bow, things didn't look

at all good. There was a low dark smoke cloud over Singapore in the distance, with

columns of smoke looking like black waterspouts. By this time, February 4th, the

Japanese were in Johore, and facing our troops across the demolished causeway

(narrow passage between Singapore and the 'Mainland) prior to a grand assault on the

island, but of course, we did not know that at the time.

It was 1.30 p.m. and I had just returned from the bridge, having deposited the code

books for safe keeping in the captains safe. Two or three of us were chatting on deck;

I had the phones hanging round my neck as I sat on the radio room door coaming.

There was no way I could not hear VPS’S loud signals, or the telephone bell from the

bridge. There had been a continuous drone of aircraft engines for some time but we

had not been concerned about them, thinking (mistakenly) that they were RAF since

we were now in home waters. Every now and then isolated aircraft approached

overhead, flying in and out of the cloud.

The mate, John Watts had been expounding again on the wisdom of staying on board

when we tied up at Bukom island and not to cross to Singapore because of the

frequent air-raids on he city. Just before going up on to the bridge, he had been saying

that he could not face going near the sharp end again, it was too sickening, he would

let the shore people deal with the remains. The latest count had been eighteen dead,

not by count but by their absence on the bridge or below. Some of the aircraft that we

had seen began to assemble in to threes They looked like silver birds in the sky, and

as we looked up we agreed that they were Lockheed Hudson's by their twin engines

and twin tail fins. I popped into the radio room and collected my binoculars and

handed them to Arthur who was looking skyward. I don’t know if he used them, but

seconds later he said “Bloody Hell, they’re Japanese”

By then I could see that they had lined up in the distance and were making steep dives

towards us. I shot into the radio room to start the transmitter (which was quite

unnecessary in view of the ship's position) Sandy and Arthur falling in after me. By

this time machine gun bullets were spatting and twanging all over the place.

I had just sat down and bent over my desk when life became a bit confused yet

without taking in the explosion, which seemed seconds later. The room blacked out I

thought it was my eyes but it was because the door had blown closed with the

explosion and the only light available was that getting through the bullet holes. I

fumbled to find the emergency lighting and shouted out (as if it would help the

situation) 'For God's stop that fan' A bullet must have gone through it and it was going

clankerty clank etc. Arthur moved and switched it off and at the same time hurled

himself on me in a kind of rugby tackle and shouted

'Hell Sparky, get down' right in my ear which sounded louder that the bomb. He

proceeded to hug me in bear-like grip-then it happened again with eye gripping pain

and shaking bulkhead. I was about to speak to Arthur when it happened again. This

time the deck shot up hitting me in the middle against his pressing weight. The

bulkhead hurled inwards throwing the MF transmitter on to my desk where I would

have been leaning except for Arthur's rugby tackle, and the HF transmitter to lean out,

defying gravity.

We eventually got up from the deck, and Sandy from the settee as though we had

first-hand information that it was not going to happen again, but it was the sound of a

hundred blowlamps or an express train hurling down the alleyway - on the other side

of the door and the increasing black smoke that was driving in through the burst

bulkhead making breathing difficult, that demanded instant attention.

I leaned on the MF transmitted feeling a bit surprised that I was all in one piece. I

wrote later... 'Dense foul tasting black smoke was billowing into the room through the

burst bulkhead nearly cancelling what bit of light that had been getting in through the

bullet holes making it increasingly difficult to see and breath. In the darkness I could

just see a shape at the door which turned out to be Arthur, he was trying to open the

door without success. He shouted 'the door's jammed . . .give me a push....you ok

Sparky'

I shook off my temporary immobility to join him and fell over my up-turned chair en

route. In my mind’s eye I can still see a still-frame picture of the three of us (two up

and one down) smoke all around, and Sandy coughing loudly. I am sure that I speak

for all of us when I say that in that short time we realised the seriousness of our

situation.... and that our time was running out fast, emphasised by the noise outside

and the heat and smoke inside.

As I realised the gravity of our situation imprisoned as we were, a thought, a vision,

an echo of words, albeit only of a few seconds duration assailed my consciousness so

vividly as to cut me off from reality. It dug itself out of my subconscious memory

store where it had been locked up for twenty years or so and presented itself.

The family had just moved into the chip-shop, so it must have been around 1920-

1922. I don't know where it came from but I had discovered quite a lot of old (then)

cinematograph film, looking very much like the present day perforated 35mm camera

film except, being that date, it was highly inflammable.

I had discovered, that by rolling up a strip of film in a piece of paper, resembling a

cigarette shape, lighting one end, and then blowing out the flame, the device then

continued to smoulder furiously, spurting out thick smelly black smoke at the other

end. It made the ideal stink bomb. Alfie and I got up to quite a bit of mischief

dropping our stink bombs through letterboxes, or in a shop, and then running. When

my parents got to know about it, after complaints from irate customers, I was very

much in the doghouse.

I must have been very much hooked on this stink-bomb activity, for some time later I

was still at it when I was caught by my very angry mother. I had caught some flies

and had put them into a bottle and followed that, by inserting a stink bomb before

corking it up - just as she arrived. She was furious, and lost for the appropriate words

to suit the occasion, she concluded “and perhaps one of these days you will be trapped

like that and it will teach you a lesson ….” Probably those very words. She obviously

didn’t really mean what she had said, but used those words in a way that would best

sink into my head to suit the occasion. I don’t recall even thinking or remembering

about the incident in all the years that followed. I might never have remembered the

occasion ever again, had it not popped out to grin at me in that smoke filled room

Joining Arthur and Sandy at the door, it didn't require any confirmation from me that

it wouldn't open, despite our many repeated combined efforts. Stepping back from

them, I stumbled over my chair again, which, gave me the thought of using it on the

door, then that effort triggered off another one that had been slow in arriving. I’d

known that there was something, but my brain was still sluggish the explosions and

good thoughts were not forthcoming - then. That was it ... The iron bar.

I had used it during yesterday's activities on deck, and on coming into the radio room,

perhaps to satisfy the captain's request concerning the radio message, I had dropped it

down - somewhere, but now, my brain knew exactly where it was to an inch.

With adrenaline assisted swipes soon the door was partly open and sagging on one

hinge. It opened outwards, and so great was the pressure due to the chimney effect

down the alleyway that Arthur had difficulty in pushing the door against it, and

opening it enough for us to get through.

Although I have forgotten so many things and occurrences of that time, which I have

also regrettably omitted from my diary, I do remember that treacly black smoke,

mixed with orange flames hurtling down the alleyway and past the door.

Well once more, another door had opened, even though it was a squeeze to get

through this one! It seemed that the only way to go where the fire was not, was aft, so

I followed Arthur who was putting on his best speed down the prom' deck. I didn’t see

in which direction. Sandy went although I found out later.

Three quarters of the way aft, I remembered my skin-out bag. This was an expression

that young Shorty had used when describing the small-bag-cum-satchel that I always

kept by me, containing important items like my diary, PMG certificate, some cash in

different currencies and a few other important items suitably water-proofed. I also had

a second less important duffel bag that I kept in my cabin aft. It was touch and go as

to whether or not I would get back into the radio room, but the partly opened door

fortunately helped as a screen. Inside the room seemed now pitch black and the thick

smoke was being sucked out of the door. I didn’t need any light. I knew exactly where

the bag was hanging, grabbed it, and shot out again and down the deck.

Getting to the end of the promenade deck, I could see down into the aft well-deck, and

Arthur and someone, who later turned out to be Noel, the 2nd engineer, were down

there on the starboard side, although I didn't know why they were there then. Being

outside my cabin, I decided to go in and get my other bag that contained a few extra

sensible Boy-Scout-be-prepared things.

It is plain that I just wasn't ticking on all cylinders, for there I was thinking of extra

luggage and I didn't even know at that time how I was going to get off the ship! With

one leg halfway in the cabin, I remembered that the bag was not in there. Because of

the injured man in my room my boy that morning had taken it into the radio room. So

I hotfooted back again.

It is at this stage I seem to alternate between clear and dim thinking. I still had a

problem. I remember getting near to the radio room and finding that the flames had

driven right past it. Also at some time or other, going or returning, taking a dive

behind the cover of a deck pump because I heard engines and I anticipated more

gunning. Then attempting to get up and having a terrific pain in my middle

presumably due to the deck hitting me as it had been heaved up by the explosion.

I must have crossed over to the starboard side for I remember quite vividly, the sea all

alight due to the escaping petrol, but vague as to where I saw an overturned lifeboat. I

do recall quite clearly passing the midships hatch that was belching out flames as I

crossed back over to the port side, and then walking slowly aft down the promenade

deck and past open toilet and cabin doors. Slowly, not because I didn’t think there

was still an urgent situation to overcome, but because I was trying to get my head to

tell me which was the best way to find a life-jacket. Mine was in the radio room.

Somehow it seemed that although thankfully I had an intact head on my shoulders,

good answers were slow in forthcoming. I was jolted back into quick thinking action

when a loud plop, which suppressed itself into a long hiss, made its presence known

about a dozen yards behind me. It looked like a ball of fire wrapped up in black

smoke.

I don’t think my feet touched the deck for the next two or three yards towards my

cabin, and then a quick Charlie Chaplin turn to starboard brought me level with the

companion ladder leading down to the well deck. As I turned and commenced to

descend, I was looking right into my cabin. There was so much of me in there. It was

like leaving home.

I climbed up and shot in with the thought to collect a few valuables. I grabbed some

Niello work jewellery that I had bought in Bangkok to take home, some packets of

correspondence and a few other items, then lacking any pocket-room, I stuffed them

in my skin-out bag: a ring that dropped, I put on my little finger. In this bent position,

the pain assailed me again and I sat on the high door-coaming and hugged my middle.

It is again interesting that I should give a few odds and ends priority over the more

pressing need of self preservation.

I have only a vague recollection of what followed. Apparently, when I had seen

Arthur and Noel in the well-deck, they were looking up at a raft lashed to the mast

rigging, but were having difficulty in launching it, - it had jammed on its skids. Then

later, just as I was joining them it suddenly plopped down into the sea, taking with it,

the tether-line which should have kept it near the ship.

Arthur said later that before he had time to think he went in after it, perhaps with the

subconscious thought of stopping the raft before it drifted away. In view of the fuel

that was burning on top of the water and approaching down the length of the 'Pinna' in

a large arc, it was a very courageous thing to do. Arthur said, 'it was a bloody daft

thing to have done'. Many years later, Arthur was to receive the MBE for a similar

unselfish act in descending into a gas filled chamber to rescue some workmen.

He had to duck and swim under the flames before reaching the raft then furiously

paddling it to halt it Noel climbed on next after receiving a line from Arthur, and then

after that, they both hauled me aboard.

My memory of that 'first it's hot, then it's cold' swim to the raft has dimmed to

oblivion like a dream upon awaking when the more one tries to remember and recall

it, the more vague it becomes. It has been Arthur' s memory that has helped to record

those last few minutes.

Paddling furiously to keep away from the ignited water surface, we picked up the

boson, and looking beyond him, the 'Pinna' was ablaze from for'd to midships with

black smoke billowing up, and trailing horizontally. Then from high up on the stern of

the 'Pinna' came hoarse shouting. It was the 3rd mate Sandy Robertson, very

recognisable by his untidy red beard. He had been responsible for the safe lowering of

the only port side lifeboat that got away - in fact the only available lifeboat- after

which Sandy had been left behind. Not only was he the last man to leave the ship, he

was a very angry Scotsman.

What he had been doing in the interim period from the boat getting away to appearing

on the stern, I never thought to ask, but now he was an even more angry Scot, for he

thought that we were paddling away from him. We were not. Just the reverse. His

coloured shouts were anything but complimentary ones. It was during this little drama

that we had back-paddled to pick up the ship' s boson who was swimming pushing a

life belt that was supporting him, and trying to dodge the surface flames that were

spreading fast and which would soon be overtaking us Having got the message into

his head that we were trying to get near to him and not the reverse, we finally

persuaded him to jump (it was a long way down to the water from where he was). He

made a very big splash and followed that with many expletives emphasising that he

was done for. After catching the boson’s life jacket that Noel had thrown, we

eventually got him onto the raft.

Paddling to and picking up Sandy could have been our undoing, for now, with so

much weight on the raft (five of us) our efforts to paddle to safety could not compete

with the capillary attraction of the 'Pinna' and the advancing ignited water. We also

had another worry, although unnecessary, thinking that the circling aircraft might start

the aggro again. However on scanning around we spotted the lifeboat which hitherto

had been obscured from our view by the 'Pinna'. The captain in the lifeboat had not, as

I learned later, purposely left Sandy behind. The lifeboat had been snatched away

from the ship's side, and then Sandy had disappeared from view. Our shouts to the

Captain's lifeboat were not necessary. He had now seen us, and was rowing towards

us and eventually towed the raft away.

Shortly afterwards, we were all picked up by the RNVR “Bulan', and then later

transferred to its launch. I recall, upon boarding the “Bulan', having the contented

feeling that my skin-out bag was still round my neck!

The Malay crew on the “Bulan’s” launch were very attentive, immediately providing

the British comfort for all circumstances - tea. Most of us had got away with only

minor burns, mine being somewhat self-inflicted by my return to the radio room, but

Captain Thomas and the mate were in poor shape and needed more professional

treatment than could be administered on the launch. That reason alone was as good as

any for us to get away from the side of the “Bulan”. With those aircraft around, it

seemed a greater priority than drinking tea.

As we were being ferried across the two or three miles of water to Changi on the

south eastern tip of Singapore island, the exhilaration that I was still alive and in one

piece diminished as I looked out from the launch. Looking one way, Singapore lay

beneath a canopy of black smoke with numerous funnels of smoke betwixt cloud and

earth: looking the other way, the 'Pinna' and the sea all around it was enveloped in

flames and more black smoke contrasting vividly against a cloudless sky.

The feeling that I had in Palembang of being hemmed in now changed to being

trapped in - of having sailed out of the frying pan and into the fire.

The launch duly dropped us at the Changi barracks wharf. Changi was later to become

infamous in its use as a prisoner of war camp where so many suffered as a result of

inhuman treatment by the Japanese. Having established our identity, a lorry was

organised to take us to the city and thence to the Seaman’s mission. The captain and

mate John Watts and with three other crewmembers, were taken by car direct to the

General hospital.

The ride from Changi along East Coast road to the outskirts of the city was not at all

comforting and did nothing to amend my previous miserable thoughts, in fact just the

opposite. The Kalang airfield was just a black shell sitting in smoke and surrounded

by all sorts of debris. Right along the Beach road it was just one long sad sight of

wrecked houses and shops. I learned later it was a result of a very recent air raid, the

biggest so far when 380 people had been killed and 500 or so injured.

In the city centre things didn't look as bad as I was expecting, remembering all the

black smoke I had seen earlier. It vas surprising to see so many people about, and

things looking so very normal! Negotiating Fullerton road and Robinson road and

finally Anson road junction we arrived at the mission about 4.00 p.m.

Our little party comprised the elderly Chief Engineer, 2nd and 3rd engineers Noel

Green and Arthur Greene, 4th engineer 'Sniffy' Wilson, 2nd and 3rd deck officers

John Wood and Sandy Robertson, Shorty Armstrong, and of course, me. It didn't take

long for us to decide that we had come to the wrong island. A nice big one like

Australia would have been a better one'.

As a result of some of our party chatting with the crew of the 'Bulan' and then the

chaps at Changi later we learned that the aircraft that we had mistakenly taken for

Lockheed Hudson, were actually Japanese Navy 96. (See note 9)

Seven had attacked us in two waves, approaching from fore and aft of the ship,

gunning, then releasing their bombs. Several had landed just for'd of the bridge and

had obviously penetrated the deck, and then exploded in the petrol cargo below (and

hence why the radio room deck came up). As far as I remember, others landed for'd

amidships and the sea around.

According to mate John Wood who was on the bridge with the Captain and Watts,

they were both without jackets (because of the midday heat) and hence the reason for

their extensive burns, but Wood himself, fully dressed, escaped with only a few minor

burns beneath his burned uniform. The few days that followed while resting at the

mission could hardly be called restful. The rumblings of gunfire day and night, the

frequent air raids and the disturbing reports of the approaching Japanese all

contributed to the nasty feeling of being trapped. Not those official broadcasts said a

great deal. It seemed that the emphasis was always on the way our troops had

withdrawn to more defensive and strategic positions, than that the Japanese had

advanced; and landings on the island were imminent. I didn't sleep too well at first. As

an alternative to counting sheep I tried to tabulate in my mind, all the articles I had

lost on the ship. My camera, radio, typewriter, brass-ware bought in Calcutta,

jewellery from Thailand, and in particular, my numerous pen and ink sketches of parts

of Singapore's shanty areas. But that didn't work. Instead I was assailed with mental

pictures of fire, bombed out fo'c'sle charred bodies and magnified pictures of

numerous things that never happened. The more I tried to shut them out, the more

insistent they became.

At breakfast time, all was well, and the nice feeling of being all in one piece prevailed

again. A day or so later, after our arrival at the mission, ex-second mate John Wood

and I went into the city centre, which was only a short walk from the mission. It was

difficult to believe that such a grave situation existed, for it seemed that everywhere it

was business as usual, just the same as on my previous visit. In fact, I don't think the

situation was thought to be grave. Chatting to people here and there, it was a case

of ...'Yes, the situation is rather sticky, but it will sort itself out'. I doubt if it was ever

anticipated then, that it would sort itself out the way that it did - well, not until a few

days later.

The walk from Anson Road, along Robinson Road and past the Marconi office, across

into Raffles Place, then down Change Alley, and on to Collyer Quay, Fullerton Road

and then over the bridge to Raffles Hotel, was just like the walk I had done so many

times before.

I saw practically no damage, Robinson's department store was flourishing (despite the

bomb damage that had wrecked the restaurant a few weeks earlier) as too was Kelly

and Walshe's bookshop and Maynards chemist etc. Change Alley was so packed that

it was difficult to get along it. Elevenses at Raffles were very little different from the

many previous visits I had made, and with exactly the same service. I learned later

that it was practically impossible to get a table there in the evening unless reserved

previously. Dan Hopkins band still played, and entry for 'other ranks' was still

prohibited. The only problem to an evening visit was the lack of taxis. They had

stopped operating at night - not that either of us wanted an evening visit.

It was interesting to see the crowd that was going into the Alhambra theatre - it was

showing, unless the poster was an old one, “The Ziegfield girl'. It was also amazing to

think that the Japanese army was now less than 20 miles away and facing our troops

across the demolished causeway prior to an invasion assault on the island proper.

Moving away from the city centre, like the scene I had witnessed along Beach Road

after leaving Changi, it was a different situation of bombed streets and dwellings, and

it seemed that it was the local population of Indians, Chinese and Malays who had

suffered the most from the raids, with hundreds killed and maimed.

The sirens went while we were near Clifford pier and then a squadron of aircraft came

over. Before we heard the multiple explosions, we could see bombs leave the aircraft

simultaneously then lazily fall in the direction of Anson Road and Keppel docks. We

decided it might be a good idea if we returned and checked if the mission was still

there ...and standing.

Well it was, but not far down the road beyond it towards where the dock area and

godowns began, huge flames and black smoke was shooting skywards with an

accompanying stench of burning rubber. Upon arriving back at the mission there was

quite a little panic brewing, because apparently there had been a desperate need for a

driver because promised transport had not turned up and there was no one around who

could drive a car. The first words that greeted us were, 'For God's sake can either of

you drive a car? ...' I thought there must have been some casualties as a result of the

bombing, so I said 'Yes, I could', but all it was, was a bunch of people who had

obtained tickets for a place on a ship that was due to leave that afternoon! Under the

prevailing circumstances I would have dumped that bulky luggage and gone down the

road at a steady trot until I arrived at one of the few ships that would be taking me

home and away from the 'Fortress and jewel of the east'.

Somebody once said, ''as you go through life you should always be prepared to

abandon your luggage ...' Here was an instance when it would have paid off. Anyway

fate took a hand and placed me in the driving seat of an old - well old now, not then -

Austin 16 with a gate change gearbox. The drive to the docks along Keppel harbour

road wasn't exactly I nightmare quality, but as the saying goes, the thing that dreams

are made of.

Having passed the still burning godown (docks warehouse), there were convoys of

people carrying bags, soldiers travelling both ways. Air-raid sirens were whining

repeatedly, and nearly every conceivable bit of space on footpaths and road filled with

not just parked but abandoned cars, left haphazardly, as their owners had driven as far

as they could and then left them without even bothering to close the doors.

What a treat if one could have kept the conditions yet changed the circumstances!

Any car you want, complete with ignition keys absolutely free for the taking -

provided of course you could get it out!

Partly along Keppel Road it was impossible to get past the congestion which was

solved almost as soon as I arrived - a big army vehicle just bulldozed through several

vehicles, leaving them blocking the approach road to the station instead. (I remember

smoke billowing out over the station, but I'm not sure if it was on that occasion, or a

later day).

Pausing on the roadside, it was an incredible sight to see Japanese aircraft lazily

soaring about the sky unopposed while here below, luggage-laden and child carrying

evacuees progressed toward their destination apparently resigned and unconcerned.

One of my passengers was an officer from the Empress of Asia that had been one of a

convoy of ships comprising the 'Felix Roussel', the 'Gorgan' and perhaps two or three

others. Being an old ship she had not been able to keep pace with the others bound for

Singapore and had fallen behind after the Sunda Straits. She had survived earlier

attacks but had finally been bombed and wrecked just short of Singapore Island then

finally beached on Sulton Shoal and abandoned. I was to pass the burned out wreck of

the 'Empress' later.

Surveying the incredible sight of what appeared to be hundreds of abandoned cars, the

officer said that while waiting at the mission, he had been told that there may be a

problem getting along Keppel Harbour Road. The abandoned cars had been left

mostly by the evacuees desperate to catch what was thought (but incorrectly at the

time) to be the last ships likely to be leaving the harbour. One had been the

'Westpoint” and others the 'Wakefield' 'Duchess of Bedford” and 'Empress of Japan'

which had left a short time before. The now bombed and wrecked 'Empress of Asia'

had been bringing a contingent of troops, their equipment and also much needed

armament and supplies to Singapore. But instead, those supplies were lost, and the

hundreds of survivors from the wreck had ended up as a negative fighting force and a

liability on the island's survival and hospital facilities.

It is sad to reflect now, that instead of being a bolster to the hard pressed Singapore

defenders, they were destined to join them as prisoners of war and on the notorious

bridge and railway construction camps, where so many suffered and perished.

I dropped my passengers in the region of whatever number dock gate it was, where

they joined what appeared to be an enormous stationary queue .It probably took me

half-an-hour to turn the car round because of the many vehicles proceeding towards

the city and hampered by the congestion. During that time it didn’t seem as though hat

queue had moved more than a couple of yards!

On my way back, as I left the dock area and Keppel Road with an inward sigh of

relief, a chap I recognised carrying a large parcel flagged me down, obviously

requiring a lift. As I braked to stop, I was digging in my memory for his name.

Climbing aboard he introduced himself. Hammond, - that was it.

I had a good reason for remembering him. He was on the staff of the 'Tribune'

newspaper. We had met several times at the Sea View Hotel, at least a year previously

when he learnt I was on the 'Kistna” visiting Bangkok. He was interested in getting

information from me, so much so, that later, he invited me out to lunch. We had a

shell fish meal. A week later I was still getting over the effect of the fish poisoning!

Hammond said among other things, that the Tribune newspaper works, just off Anson

Road (a little way off from the Mission) had received a direct hit and hence his

presence on my route. In response to my remarks about the waiting queue I had seen

at the dock gate, he said that one of his colleagues had taken his wife to the dock to

board an outward bound ship, and that there had been one man sitting down taking

passes and writing down names laboriously, as if next week would do, and one soldier

opening and shutting the dock gate for each entry.

I took the newspaperman and his parcel into the city centre and was glad to be

returning to the Mission after the chaos along the Keppel Road. I had had

expectations, fortunately not fulfilled, of those lazily circling aircraft suddenly doing a

diving shoot-up along that straight length of road. It had been stiflingly hot too. I felt

like a lump of lard.

Turning off the road into the Mission forecourt, I was dismayed to find yet another

small bevy of hopeful passengers also waiting to get transport to the docks. Two of

them were Marconi men, one I think was off the 'Harper' that I had heard being

attacked, and which later had been attacked again and sunk. The two were being

repatriated and they wondered why I was not going with them - so did I. I decided that

tomorrow I would be on the Marconi office doorstep at opening time. I had been there

only that morning while out with John Wood, and was told that they were doing their

best to get me repatriated.

Eight bodies eventually crammed themselves into the Austin - four of them, two of

which were the Radio Officers, would not have any truck with the amount of luggage

of the other four which was impeding entry, for there was no external luggage

accommodation on the Austin. Typical of cars of that period, luggage extensions that

could be fitted on the back of the cars were an optional extra. The four had their first

lesson as to when it was expedient to abandon their surplus luggage. I felt for them,

having just experienced my own loss.

There was no fuss, prudence triumphed over chattels. The party was already an hour

late on the scheduled departure of the ship. I had said to them at first, that I wasn't

prepared on this trip to go any further than the railway station, which was a quarter of

the way along the dock area, having experienced my first journey. But I relented. I

was niggled that they could be so stupid as to wait around for transport when they

could have set off at that steady trot down Keppel Road. However, as I learned later

from then en route, there had been long long queues and delays for berth passes, and

they had only just arrived at the Mission a short time before my arrival. I also learned

later still, that they need not have been in such a hurry, for after all, the “Felix

Roussel' did not sail until the following day anyway.

Whether because it was in my genes that we British didn't lose battles, I hadn't

thought really seriously about Singapore actually giving up, not withstanding the

obvious indications. I think it was that second return trip from Keppel docks with the

setting sun behind me accentuating the darker sky ahead with the huge black smoke

drifting over the city that later gave me a very worried sleepless night. Sleepless

because of the many explosions and the rumbling of guns becoming audible,

indicative of the nearness of the Japanese - plus biting mosquitoes. Sleepless also

because of the now nagging worry (the way worries do nag in the small hours) as to

how I was going to get out and away from Singapore. Most certainly I would be at the

Marconi office pronto tomorrow, and to hell with 'don't ring us, we'll ring you! ...”

But in the morning light my attitude was softened. Mr. Robertson in the Marconi

office was not in the position to offer me immediate transport home. There were

waiting queue's, and anyway, he was not to know I was going to arrive out of the

blue. Both he and Mr. Thompson in the office were in a worried tizzy themselves, for

both their wives had caught a ship a few days ago, and they had had no news as to

whether or not their ship had got through the airborne blockade.

I wonder how I would have reacted if I had been offered a passage on a ship going

back the same way that we had arrived?

I learned later that those large ships full of evacuees did suffer bombing attacks but

did get through safely. Mr. Pinto the Indian clerk, lived with his wife and family in

the city. How any of the staff fared, regrettably now, I never bothered to find out.

For the next three days it seemed that I did little else but provide a taxi service which

included making two more trips to the docks.

Arthur Greene had developed tonsillitis due to stress a couple of days after our arrival

at the Mission, and had been received into the General hospital just off Outram Road.

I don't actually remember taking him although I must have done so for it is unlikely

that we would have walked. I did make several visits to the hospital at that time while

I was ferrying with the Austin. I remember being there on February 6th because a

bomb had just been dropped on the hospital and there was quite a pandemonium.

When I replied to a query from the oil company's representative later, I said, 'In

accompanying Arthur Greene to the hospital, I also went to see Captain Thomas and

Chief Officer Watts. They both appeared to be progressing satisfactorily'.

I wasn't to know then that in ten days time they were to be still in hospital suffering

from sceptic burns complications, and also as POW's. Although Arthur Greene

escaped I learnt much later that Captain Thomas survived internment but that John

Watts did not.

Sometime on, February 9th, I had taken one of the Mission staff to the Central Market

- or it could have been the cold storage in Orchard Road for some urgently needed

supplies which were getting increasingly difficult to obtain because of the run on

commodities up to that time. As we were returning from the Orchard Road, Bridge

Road area, which had just been at the receiving end of a bombing raid, we were

flagged down by, two what must have been ARP chaps. There were casualties, water

and debris everywhere. I was asked would I take some casualties to the General

Hospital in Outram Road which was fortunately on our way back to the Mission

anyway.

I was quite happy to co-operate, if it would get me moving from that spot, particularly

as the chaps had said that long range shells from the Japanese artillery had been

arriving spasmodically. But I did feel a bit ashamed as I observed those ARP people

just pressing on, and appearing unperturbed.

Arriving at the hospital, which is why I recall this incident, it seemed to be in an even

bigger state of untidiness since my previous visit. Further large areas of the once neat

grounds had been dug up to provide more long communal graves and there were rows

of bodies lying out and awaiting burial. The smell was awful Somebody said that

although they had not hit the hospital with shells, some had been falling in the

grounds, but I wasn't interested in investigating for myself. The fact that the Japanese

were now near enough to be actually lobbing shells into the city, to say the least, was

very disturbing. If I hadn't known how grave the situation was before I picked up the

casualties, I certainly knew now...

Also living at the Seaman’s Mission, which by the way, was an exceptionally nice

place with every 'mod cons” and not the sort of establishment that the title 'Mission'

might convey, was a chap whose name was Moss. I had seen him before and

recognised his happy looking round face. To all around he was known as 'Mossie' and

a very nice character too, probably about 35 years old and was the Captain of a small

refuelling vessel of about 75 tons called the MV 'Kulit'.

The 'Kulit” was one of a small fleet of similar vessels owned by the Oil Company. He

had been living at the Mission for ten days or so because his Chinese crew (deck hand

and engine room man) had decided to go AWL and he was awaiting instructions.

When we first arrived at the Mission, it was Mossie's smiling face that greeted us, and

he gave us his ear while we unwound from our respective experiences. Later on he

confessed that while he would not have wished on us the circumstances that had

brought us to the Mission, he looked upon our arrival as 'Manna from heaven' and he

lost no time in presenting himself to the marine superintendent. From the Super' he

learned that the company had been desperately trying to get their small craft

operating. There had been the need, not only for additional refuelling service to ships

alongside and in the Roads (offshore anchorage), but also to comply with a request

from the Military to assist in running fuel and supplies to the fighting units on the

West side of the island.

Apparently hitherto, supplies had been amassed on the East Side of the island where it

was expected that a main Japanese assault would occur. Unfortunately this had taken

place on the West Side, and now there was a panic to get supplies transferred back

again to where the Australian troops needed them.

Hindsight tells us now, that by the time that February 9th had dawned, it was far too

late anyway. Was the Super aware of that then? The outcome of Mossie's visit to the

office resulted in a request that we 'Pinna' survivors attend a meeting there and so we

presented ourselves. The superintendent asked if we would be prepared to volunteer

for work on, and manning, some of the Company's small craft although he had

already put the wheels in action for our speedy evacuation on the grounds that we

were technicians who would qualify for early evacuation.

For my money and from my very recent observations we didn't have a thing to lose. If

we had to wait our turn for evacuation permits, and boat tickets, then far better to be

on something mobile that floated rather than an island that wasn't and didn't!

We had quite a long and convincing sales talk from the Super' of the importance of

getting the small craft operative and seaworthy for the important and strategic work

already specified. 'And' he said, 'the Company will not forget your co-operation', and

then 'this applies to you Sparks'. For as you appreciate I didn't actually work for the

oil Company, and hence that remark.

His chosen remarks were so convincing, inspired no doubt from an understandable

personal motive, that sitting there at the meeting, I was fully convinced that our

contribution to this last ditch stand in the defence of the island would be a turning

point in the war, and that Britain would emerge victorious in winning the battle that

she always won - the last one!

I lost some of his final remarks because my fantasising thoughts had our little vessel

nosing its way up some jungle creek with Japanese firing at us from behind every tree

- missing us of course. If I had thought about it at the time I could have added to those

fantasising thoughts, remembering Jimmy Bloodso (Appendix Two) and in the epic

poem of the Prairie Bell ... 'I'll drive her nozzle agin the bank until the last soul gets

ashore ...” we would discharge what was left of our cargo fuel in the waiting Sherman

tanks that would drive the Japanese back into the sea from whence they came.

But such fanciful thoughts would soon have been nipped in the bud had I known, that

our harassed and exhausted defending army, was not only lacking in adequate air

power, but also that it did not possess a single Sherman tank anyway.

As my thoughts came back to the present, the Super' was really putting it across with

his final rhetoric, very much condensed here, but clear in its meaning. “Mossie, you

and your little band of volunteers are the only chance that I and the rest of the office

staff have in getting clear of this mess. I know it might be exceedingly difficult for

you but your presence at Keppel Harbour, wharf 50, at the right time, would be very

much appreciated'. Then, 'If we get away safely, I shall see to it personally, that you

all get a square deal ...” With a final dramatic gesture he said, 'or I will resign'.

I wondered if we should all have stood up and tossed our toupees in the air and

cheered! Later at the Mission, with the first part of the Superintendents message of the

afternoon still aglow in my bosom and the last part fraught with thoughts of disaster, I

wondered, as did we all, how was anyone going to know in advance that escape was

necessary before it was too late to do so? And why the Super's opening gambit in

view of his closing one?

The small craft that we had to locate, and make seaworthy, were scattered about.

Chatting amongst ourselves, we wondered just how were we to be contacted, carrier

pigeon, rocket flares or a relay of runners? (The last one from necessity in view of our

likely location being a good swimmer.) When Mossie joined us he said that he was

clear as to where to find the small craft, but not where we were to operate with them

when made seaworthy. Well he hadn't missed the information - it wasn't given. The

answer to that question was shrouded in the portent of the Superintendents' remarks -

and wharf 50.

Towards midday on February 9th, after a previous disturbed noisy night, and my

return from the cold storage and the hospital visit, I joined Mossie and the others -

well, except for the Chief Engineer and Shorty Armstrong who had already fixed

themselves up as crew members with Les Clayton. He was Captain of another similar

small craft, the MV “Ribot”. Les had already received his instructions and was to

stand by at Bukom with a view to evacuating the staff there should it become

necessary. By 12.30 we had all caught the ferry, doing so between air raids, and were

on board the MV “Kulit” where she was tied up at the oil installation wharf at Bukom.

To make our presence legal, Noel, (Pinna's ex 2nd engineer), Sandy Robertson and I

were duly signed on as engineering and deck officers. If the worst happened, and deep

down, we still didn't think it would, we could demand officer status if we became

Prisoners of War ... We, and the world, had yet to learn how the Japanese treated their

prisoners, no matter what their status.

After we had fuelled and watered-up the “Kulit”, and Noel, in his role of Chief

Engineer, had familiarised himself with the mysteries of the 'Kulit's' diesel engine and

ancillary machinery, we set off for an anchorage at Tanjorg Rhu. My feelings were

that we were setting off into the unknown from peaceful Bukom (well, peaceful

except for the noise across the water from Singapore).

Tanjong Rhu was a small creek mooring and wharfing facility about 1½ miles east

from the city centre, and probably about four miles by sea from Bukom via Keppel

harbour. There, we were to locate the MV “Kepah'.

Like the MV “Kulit” and the 'Ribot”, it was also a small tanker vessel about 50 ft long

with fuel tanks for'd and a tiny bridge structure aft, with engine room beneath. When

it was made seaworthy ex 'Pinna” 2nd Officer John Wood would become Captain

with Sniffy Wilson and George Robinson as his crew. George had been 2nd engineer

on the 'Pinna” on a previous voyage. He had been waiting for another appointment

that had not materialised, and had joined us that morning, a very welcome addition to

our mini task force.

The view across the two to three miles stretch of water in the direction of Singapore

Island as we made our way across, was not a happy one. The sight of several waves of

aircraft prompted Mossie to take shelter beneath the steep overhanging side of the

“Plioden' wreck, referred to as the “hulk', which was beached beneath the seaward

side of the island of Blakang Mati. There were anxious moments as aircraft circled

above us, and the guns on the summit of Blakang Mati blazed away, making a

frightful din without any end product. Then a more deafening noise as the aircraft

dived over us to attack the defences.

Leaving the doubtful security of the hulk when things quietened down, Mossie put on

his best speed of 8 knots and sped round the western corner of the island, and then

east along the channel between the Keppel docks and Blakang Mati. Passing on the

inside of Pulau Brani, an island at the eastern end of the docks, avoiding two Chinese

junks, one listing steeply and one on fire, we hugged the coastline past Telok Ayer

basin, the city water front Raffles quay and Collyer quay and headed for Tanjong Rhu

a little further east.

I do not recalled much (nor does my diary help) about that outward journey but I do

remember in response to Mossie's 'quick Sparky grab this wheel' I was fully occupied

at “Kulit's' helm. He dashed off to do whatever it was leaving me wishing that one of

the other sailors had been there - I didn't consider that I was one. I was out of my

element steering a boat. (It had been Mossie's wish that I remained there with him in

case of possible visual signals addressed to us.) Instead the hairs on the back of my

neck seemed to be curling not being able to see what might be coming from my rear

while my eyes wanted to see what was going on around me and not the direction of

'Kulit's' bow.

When Mossie returned with John and took over, John and I then stationed ourselves

on either side of the wheelhouse in the tiny bridge wings as lookouts - for what it was

worth. Meanwhile Noel and George were in the engine room, Sniffy and Sandy in the

tiny galley below the bridge making a meal. There were fires burning on the Fullerton

Road as we passed Jardine steps and way beyond shells or bombs could be seen

exploding in the direction of Orchard Road, or probably Fort Canning area. We did

not know at that time that the Japanese were spreading across the island having

successfully crossed from the mainland on the night and day of February 8/9th.

We duly arrived at Tanjong Rhu, and after locating the 'Kepah' at her anchorage, we

then towed her and made fast alongside the “Kulit”. We then spent the rest of the day

baling out, retrieving her little lifeboat from its stowage on the wharf, securing it on

board, pumping fuel and water and numerous other necessary tasks. It was gaspingly

hot work, slowed down too because of the need to keep taking cover against low

flying attacking aircraft - not on us, but on what appeared to be a very knocked about

and abandoned Kalang airfield behind us and a bit too near for comfort.

But despite a lot of coaxing and the pumping-up of compressed air bottles used for

starting we finally had to accept that 'Kepahs’” engine was not going to start. I say

“we” collectively, for I personally was not involved in the operation of actually

starting the brute.

With the approach of sunset, and the very rapid transition from light to dark in that

latitude there was no alternative but to cease our labours and stay where we were for

the night and a very disturbed one too! Disturbed not only because of the noise of

distant guns that seemed to be getting noisier, the huge canopy of red sky above us,

and mosquitoes by the million, but because we had no knowledge of the form the

Japanese advances had taken beyond what we could hear. We did not have a radio on

the “Kulit” and portable transistor radios had not yet been invented. Mossie said that

before we left Bukom, he had heard – from where I don't know because useful news

didn't come over the radio, even if you had one - that the Japanese had also landed at

Changi on 7/8th February, having previously occupied Pulau Ubin island in the mouth

of the Johore strait (between Malaya and Changi).

It was with this information in mind plus the fact that the East Coast road from

Changi ran directly past the Kalang basin and the Tanjong Rhu wharfs, a mere

distance of 10 miles, that we felt that some precaution was necessary.

If the Japanese could move at speed all those miles right dawn the Malayan peninsula,

what was a mere l0 miles! So, before sunset, we changed places with the 'Kepah”,

leaving her against the wharf and us, in the “Kulit”, on her starboard side, thus

facilitating our quick getaway should it be necessary. Added to that precaution, we

split up the night hours into watches. Consequently, that night, on or off watch, my

wakeful hours envisaged hordes of Japanese hotfooting it along the coast road in our

direction.

So it was with relief when morning came, that there was no change in our immediate

surroundings from the previous night. Here at Tanjong Rhu, we seemed to be so much

part of the war, while at Bukom we enjoyed the role of spectators.

After renewed efforts to start the 'Kepah's' engine without success, we had downed

tools and were preparing for a quick get-away and a dash back to base, when Mossie

said, 'Right lads, get the tow-line fixed and we will tow her back to Bukom. I for one

couldn't believe my ears. It seemed such a ludicrous suggestion ... . It spoke well for

the feeling of well being that existed because the morning had only brought a hot sun,

that there was not a single word of protest from anybody. After a delayed decision as

to when it was expedient to depart, because of air raids and minor problems with

“Kulits” compressor that had worked overtime charging up bottles for the 'Kepah', we

eventually left at midday with John at 'Kepah's” helm. His only deck crew, Sandy,

was at her bow taking care of the tow-line betwixt the two vessels, “Kepah” was

pulled along at our best speed of something like walking pace. Had 'Kepah' had

brakes like a car, the task would have been less eventful.

As it was, Sandy stationed on our stern, was kept busy protecting “Kulits' propeller

from the repeated slackening of the tow-line, due to hazards ahead.

The journey back past the city waterfront again was as depressing as our pace was

worryingly slow, and I felt so naked out there on “Kulit's” tiny bridge wing. I don't

know why I was out there other than as look-out for Mossie, but thinking about it, I

don't suppose it would have mattered where any of us were on that small craft if we

had been attacked. Nevertheless, I envied George and Sniffy Wilson on the “Kepah”

as they disappeared from view down into the comparative but doubtful safety of the

tiny engine room, and Noel into ours. Yet, at the same time there was Sandy looking

quite unconcerned at “Kulit's” stern and John giving me a wave from 'Kepah’s” helm

and pointing to some activity ashore.

We turned the corner past Pulau Brani Island and heading up the Keppel docks

'straight', only to be looking skyward at stick of bombs falling towards us. It was

either a wide miss on Blakang Mati or a near miss on the dock, and the 'Empire Star'

that was taking on evacuees, but whatever it plopped into the channel just 100 yards

ahead of us with a huge plume of white water. The shock wave and the swell that

ensued seemed destined to separate us from our tow as both vessels bobbed “yukked

and yawed” alarmingly.

Behind us a huge fire was blazing from a recent attack on a docks godown, and there

were dozens of helmeted figures scurrying about. Through the wheelhouse doorway

Mossie blew out his cheeks and then followed that up with an eyebrow wipe.

After making fast beneath the comparative safety of the hulk, it was Mossie's decision

that we rest awhile instead of continuing on at our snail-pace across the piece of open

water between the hulk and Bukom. Not that continuing would be any less hazardous

than hitherto, but somehow that open stretch of water looked uninviting.

The decision was accepted with enthusiasm, although it was open to conjecture

whether or not it would be safer at that moment, or later.

But hardly had the conjecture been put into words, when the only two small craft in

the immediate vicinity, less than a mile away, were attacked. One remained floating

and one left burning fiercely.

The decision was immediate. We would stay where we were and think about it! Later

that night as Mossie's whisky helped down the tea, and what food there was left over

from the day before, it became quite noisy again as what sounded like depressed ack-

ack guns blazed away over us and across the water to what appeared to be an enemy

landing on the coast of Pasir Panjang, 3 miles or so west from our position.

There was some light relief as George produced the wind-up gramophone he had

found on the 'Kepah' which wasn't easy to hear with the noise that was going on. It is

just possible that our whisky intake made us appreciate one of the three records found.

It was, 'oh what a wonderful night we've had tonight'.

Although we tried to pass away the dark hours cheerfully, it didn't cancel the thoughts

that there could be other landings which led to another sleepless night. Although on

and off watches were arranged, nobody really slept beyond frequent awakened dozes.

As the angry red reflected in the black smoke-laden sky over the city and beyond,

paled with the advent of dawn light, fate that had been cussed with us at Tanjong Rhu

surprised us. The “Kepah's' engine burst into life and sticking out of the engine hatch

was George with a self-satisfied grin all over his face.

The rest of that day at Bukom was a busy one, which to a certain extent kept us from

brooding too much on the activity, above and across the water. All the contaminated

fuel was drained from the 'Kepah's' fuel tank, the water tank was drained and then

filled with fresh water, then its only lifeboat re-slung more ship-shape and numerous

other chores dealt with.

While Noel and Sniffy Wilson worked on the “Kulit’s” malfunctioning compressor,

the rest of us set about provisioning both vessels. From the Bukom club we 'acquired'

dozens of tins of fruit and veg, numerous large hard plain biscuits, evaporated milk,

and various utensils, and distributed them between the two vessels. In the past, we had

enjoyed some very jolly times at the club, including singsongs around the piano,

enjoyed by all. (Incidentally a pastime not often enjoyed by the young today.) Now

the empty clubroom and bar looked forlorn.

In the mid-afternoon, Mossie returned from telephoning. He had not had any success

in raising the chaps at the Marconi office for me, or the hospital concerning Captain

Thomas, Watts and Arthur Greene. He intimated (but in my words now and not his)

that there were not going to be any “Jimmy Bloodso” heroics; the situation was far

too grave and without a doubt, the vessels would not be required for running supplies.

I learned later, that the idea had been abandoned as far back as February 4th. Whether

the Super' had been made aware of this date before he delivered his pep talk and that

what we had been doing to date was quietly preparing the vessels for an evacuation

purpose without causing alarm and despondency, is more than likely. Hence the

intimation we had grasped from his delivered rhetoric.

We were all very hot, tired and sitting down for a rest, suffering, I rather think, from

dehydration and loss of sleep. In particular, because of our hitherto sedentary

existence, we were very much out of condition which prompted John Wood to say

that we would 'all be as fit as a bag full of fleas when this lot is over ...'

Up to the moment of Mossie's return, we had still been harbouring thoughts that what

we were doing was going to be operationally useful. But with the increasing assault

activity going on, and the previous night's experience while at the hulk common sense

now prevailed and any lingering thoughts about the 'last battles' were as dead as a

dodo. Since there was no official information and particularly at our location we were

completely in the dark as to the overall situation and whether or not hoards of

reinforcements were due. Hence our future action had to be, from necessity, a matter

of using our heads and playing it by ear.

There had been a bevy of aircraft around and shrapnel had been descending from the

spent ack-ack fire. Obviously what goes up must come down. After one lump had

plopped down not very far from Shorty (who had just joined us) making a hole in an

oil container as big as an apple, we were prompted to sit down under cover. It was

Mossie's return that broke up our conversation which was mostly to do with “when do

we start packing our grips and getting out of here....” Our last task had been to get a

small launch, the 'Makota' ready. New batteries had been fitted, fuelled and

provisioned, and she was as seaworthy as whatever sea she might be in would permit.

We now assumed that that was our very last task, so it was with surprise that we heard

Mossie say, 'Right, there's now the “Gewang' ...' This was another similar vessel to the

'Kulit' and tied up at the far end of Bukom’s wharf.

Mossie wasn't too popular for a few moments for we just couldn't see any sense in any

renewed activity in view of his earlier information. But as he pointed out, not only

had we promised to get ALL these vessels seaworthy, but also he said, 'We now won't

be the only ones needing a boat' - a typically Mossie altruistic remark that we couldn't

argue about.

After hauling the “Gewang” from one end of the wharf, Volga boatman fashion to

where the amenities were, she too reacted in the sane way as the 'Kepah' at Tanjong

Rhu. She refused to start, so we shelved that problem temporarily.

Like the remark I made about brakes on the towed “Kepah”, the starting of those

engines might have been easier if we could have tow-started like a car instead of

fiddling about and exhausting air-bottles.

As Confucius might have said, 'Chinese men better at starting diesels than clever

British engineers' which more or less would have confirmed Mossie's remark when he

said that, 'If only Chung fu' (or whatever his Chinese engineer was called) 'had been

here, we wouldn't have had all this trouble ..”

Just after sunset, Mossie said, 'Okay chaps, let's go'.

I for one had a lovely thought, but a selfish one, forgetting momentarily about Arthur

and the others in the hospital, and the office staff who were no doubt relying upon our

assistance.

But what he meant was, let's go across to the hulk for the night. Earlier there had been

several low flying aircraft nosing around the island and in Mossie's mind, as he

explained, was the thought that the Japanese may do something to prevent any

demolition work on the installation. For now, in the distance, Pulau Samboe was on

fire and filling the sky with black smoke that was drifting over and joining that over

the city. Soon it would be Bukom's fate.

It must have been the looks on our faces that prompted Mossie to give a fine portrayal

of 'Any more for the Skylark. Nice trips round the hulk ...”

It had been Mossie's cheerful face and his refusal to show concern in some of our

sticky or exasperating moments that had really kept us going in reasonable spirits. He

was a great person and a perfect example of loyalty to a cause, yet ever kind and

understanding to those around. It is with sadness that I recall now, that due to

prevailing circumstances later, I wasn't able to say good-bye, (nor do I remember

being concerned at the time as to where he was).

We lay alongside the hulk together with the launch 'Makota' that had followed in our

wake. Counting the ' Kepah”, 'Gewang” (whose engines we assumed would be made

to operate when fresh air bottle supplies were applied) and the “Ribot” with Les

Clayton, Shorty Armstrong and our elderly chief engineer off the 'Pinna' aboard, we

were four vessels strong (plus the “Kulit”) all fuelled up and supplies aboard ready for

- what? when? and who?

Les Clayton with the “Ribot” and his crew were standing by ready to evacuate the

Bukom installation staff and the demolition party just as soon as the 'scorched earth'

policy was completed. This duly took place the following day.

We tucked in to our first meal since the previous day. Like a blind date in the

darkness, we just opened tins and hoped for the best. This turned out to be an

amazingly tasty soup of tomatoes, potatoes, sardines, peas and different sorts of fruit

backed up with hard biscuits. We couldn't have enjoyed it more had we been at the

Ritz. What it lacked, tea laced with whisky that Mossie had acquired from the club,

helped considerably. So much so that notwithstanding the anxious situation of the

previous night, between watches, we managed to get some sleep.

Whether it was actually a quieter night, or whether the whisky made it seem so, I

don't know. The last thing I remember as I lay on the deck was seeing the red sky

above me and wondering if there had been as many mosquitoes the previous night.

When morning came, it did so commencing with the same dull red sky brightening

from the east and contrasting vividly with the black smoke billowing from the Pulau

Samboe installation.

Until Mossie reminded us, we had forgotten all about the arrangement concerning the

office staff ashore. Unless one of them was that swimmer referred to earlier, we were

not likely to learn of any staff pick-up by skulking around the hulk.

Discussing the situation over breakfast tea and whatever we had, Mossie said that he

had been prepared to go to Keppel wharf and wait, and if possible, telephone from

there hoping that the telephone lines were still functional. But after what we had

witnessed the night before the last and not knowing anything about the situation

ashore, the Japanese could be sitting on the wharf. After all, it was only three or four

miles from Pasir Panjang and the landings we had seen two nights ago.

But there was one certainty-Bukom. A trip across would resolve the situation. The

telephone may be working or there could be a message. Mossie said he would take the

'Kulit'-the 'Makota' to stay at the hulk. Noel said he would rather go to Bukom than sit

and listen to Blakang Mati's guns, although at that moment all the noise was due to

the guns at the harbour entrance near the brickwork’s. I decided to go too though I

preferred to stay behind with the others, but I had left my skin-out bag and a few other

items, and I was also anxious to try and raise the hospital and the staff at the Marconi

office. At Bukom, after returning from telephoning and not getting a reply. Noel and I

spent some time transferring food from the now non-starting- 'Gewang' on to the

'Kulit” and leaving the starting of the 'Kepah' in the hands of the 'Pinna's” chief

engineer and Shorty - now Les Clayton's crew on the MV “Ribot”

While Noel had a bath under a tap, I retrieved my 'luggage' which included three

bottles of whisky acquired from the now abandoned and deserted club, nicely portable

in an also acquired, small duffel-bag. I had just returned, when so did Mossie. He had

also tried to telephone the hospital for me. Although he had heard the dialling tone,

there had not been any answering reply. Whether he had managed to contact the Oil

Company or whether it was a result of a message left for him, I didn’t ask, for I was

far to concerned about his news.

He said 'The balloon's not going up, its gone up....” and “it seems that it is wharf 50

now, or else..' and a few other remarks appropriate to the occasion which included the

absence of any known problem at Keppel. He had brought along a couple of small

axes and gave one to me saying, “hang on to that' and to Noel, 'start her up engine-

man, and top gear as soon as you like'. After Mossie had conveyed the information to

Les about the current situation and the course that we were going to take after picking

up our passengers, we set off. I was sorry to leave Shorty, and also the chief engineer

with whom I had had so little contact since leaving Changi. Shorty's usual grin didn’t

indicate whether he was concerned at being left behind, or not.

The trip back to the hulk was only two miles or so but we seemed to be taking so long

to get there. There was intermittent arial activity - all of the Japanese kind. We hadn't

seen a single RAF machine since leaving Palembang. We were not to know then, that

the RAF had been forced to abandon the Kallang and Tengah airfields because of the

constant air attacks and the advancing Japanese, and transfer to Sumatra. A pitiful few

aircraft and pilots had been left behind to operate from Kallang (the airfield behind

Taffjong. Rhu where we had located the 'Kepah' before towing her back to Bukom).

Despite the valiant efforts of those few, the hard-pressed defending troops and those

involved in sea borne operations were effectively without air cover. Neither did we

know at the time, that the gaggle of aircraft - Vilderbeasts, Brewster Buffaloes and

probably two or three Hurricanes that we had seen leaving Kallang and flying south

on February 9th or l0th, was the evacuation of the RAF from the island.

Although the defenders of the island had out-numbered the enemy by something like

a ratio of 9-l, an army operating without adequate air cover or ground mobile

armament, against an enemy that had both, greatly increased the odds for defeat.

There has been much controversy concerning the pro's and con's, particularly

concerning defensive and campaign errors, and what has been blamed, as the British

Government's appalling lack of preparation against an invasion of the island. This has

been dealt with elsewhere and is not part of my story.

Nearing the hulk we were startled to see lines of white splashes commencing just

ahead of the 'Kulit' and stitching their way ahead on to and over the hulk. It was only

after did we find ourselves ducking at the roar of diving aircraft from behind us which

then disappeared over Blakang Mati and then numerous explosions. The chaps on the

'Makota' saw nothing of this, tucked away as they were, but as was said later, they

shared our fright as bullets, cannon shells, or whatever they were, twanged across the

decks of the hulk

Each time something like that happened, whether it was bombs or bullets, it brought

the same exclamation from one of us- 'it cannot last', meaning of course, our luck.

Leaving the hulk- the 'Makota” tagging behind, we duly arrived at Keppel. It was a

very noisy time waiting at wharf 50 at the extreme end of the dock area, with no sign

of our passenger’s only smoke and activity in the distance. We were all feeling the

suspense of the situation for we had no information as to what was happening, how

far the Japanese had advanced, or if our would-be passengers would ever arrive.

Mossie and I found a telephone in one of the godowns offices but although it seemed

as though it was working, with a ringing tone, there were no spoken replies. Walking

up to the dock gate that opened out on to Keppel road and where I had driven down

when ferrying my passengers in the Austin, the state of disorder did nothing to dispel

my worry about our uncertain situation, for the harbour road was in a far worse state

than when I had driven down it. Vehicles were mixed up with debris as far as the eye

could see, overlooked by drunken telephone or power lines, bending every which way

in drifting smoke, and now, albeit temporary an uncanny quietness. It was so contrary

to what we had expected. No hordes of people fighting for access which was Mossie's

reason for handing me the axe. Not that I was likely to have hit anyone with it, but as

Mossie said, 'it might be useful as a deterrent against undesirable boarders and with

one of his grins “provided that they are not armed to the teeth'.

It was quite a topsy-turvy situation. We had arrived at the wharf at about noon

expecting to find a band of hot anxious passengers who had been waiting and

wondering if we were ever going to turn up. Instead, we had found an empty wharf.

Two hours later, it was still an empty wharf with us being the hot and anxious ones,

wondering where they could be and if ever they would turn up. In addition, we had

the recurring worry about those landings at Pasa Panjang. As we saw it, the Japanese

could, although late, be heading our way or coming through those dock gates at any

moment. We would have had one less worry if we had known that such an event was

48 hours into the future.

What we did not know then, was that the Japanese advance had been delayed by the

valiant action of the Malay Brigade outside Pasa Panjang, but by Friday l3th they had

been defeated and the Japanese poured through, although they were 'not to actually to

enter the city until later. Noel Barber, in his book, 'Sinister Twilight', published in

1987, describes how, after they sped through from Pasa Panjang, one of the first

things encountered was the Alexandra hospital. Here they perpetrated vile atrocities,

killing patients in their beds, and staff.

Fortunately, the infiltration stopped there, and there was no repetition at the General

Hospital nearer to the city centre in Ootram Road where we had left the Captain, the

Mate Watts and Arthur Greene. In fact, I learned later that the General did not see a

single Japanese until the second day after the surrender on February l4th.

It was on the previous day, a fateful Friday l3th; hundreds of desperate people had

fled to the docks and city waterfronts. The ones that were fortunate in getting away in

one of the 40 or so small craft were lucky. But that was where their luck ended. When

they set off, they were not to know that a small Japanese Naval fleet under the

command of Admiral Ozawa was waiting for just such an evacuation via Rhio and the

Banka Strait - the reverse course to that of the 'Pinna' on her last voyage.

The sad irony of their fate is also revealed in Noel Barber's book. Before the small

boats sailed, the Dutch in Sumatra had learned of the presence of this fleet and

frantically tapped out messages to Singapore. The messages were received, but alas,

the man who could have decoded them had gone, and the code books with him.

“...Ozawa launched his first attack at dawn with cruisers, destroyers and aircraft and

blew the defenceless vessels out of the water. Out of 44 small craft that left Singapore

under Admiral Spooner’s official evacuation on the fateful black Friday, 40 were

sunk. Scores of other vessels including a small flotilla that had left the previous day

(Feb.l2th) suffered a similar fate..'

From my diary I read, 'we were fairly busy with one thing or another most of the time,

if only to combat the suspense of waiting and our ignorance of the overall situation. It

was stiflingly hot and our tin hats seemed to weigh a ton, but it was not wise to

remove them with so much rubbish falling”

At first, when things hotted up, we all descended into 'Kulit's” little engine room.

There, although a trap in itself, we thought, rightly or wrongly, it was the best thing to

do since below the water line there would little blast in the event of a near miss. Plus

the fact that the wharf itself on one side of us would also provide us with some

protection. Not that a near miss would be very pleasant or safe for that matter, but at

the best, it was safer than on deck, in the wheelhouse, or on the wharf. In the event of

a direct hit, well it wouldn’t matter where we were. After a time, it became noisier

and noisier until we couldn’t hear aircraft coming anyway and numerous times we

were taken by surprise as sweeps of aircraft roared down to attack nearby targets,

when the overshooting sticks of bombs fell uncomfortably near. It also seemed that

much heavier guns were firing over us and not just the irritating staccato of ack-ack at

attacking aircraft.

Sometime after 2.l5, John Wood and I found another telephone in one of the dock

buildings. I was surprised to find it actually working in view of the tangle of wires

and poles along Keppel road. John's call to the Marine office drew a blank, either

because the particular lines were down, or they were not there -we didn't know either

way and it didn't help a bit, but my call was more successful. The answer I received

was that Mr. Greene was not in the hospital. I tried to ask about the Captain and

Watts, but the noise of aircraft and explosions prevented me, and when the noise

abated the other end had rung off. I tried again, but this time there was no reply, and I

wondered at the time if perhaps all three had been picked up. There was no dialling

tone and consequently no reply from the Marconi office after several attempts.

On the way back, we had to drop hurriedly behind a toppled crane as more aircraft

swept over, which more or less added weight to our interrupted conversation as to

what was the point in hanging about any longer, and if we lost the 'Kulit' then what

would we do. Then in the distance we could see a thin line of people carrying bags.

The time was 2.30. Five minutes later, several small parties carrying an unbelievable

amount of luggage arrived. It was ridiculous to think, that there we were, risking our

safety just to stand on deck sliding luggage down into the empty fuel tank space. I

think we had reached saturation point to the effect that, what did it all matter anyway

The reason why our passengers had been so delayed was not only the problem of

sheltering from numerous air-raids, and the congestion on roads, but also, the

organised confusion of groups of people waiting in the wrong place for the promised

transport that would bring them to the docks. Then finally, when those problems had

been solved, there was the inability of their transport to get along the Keppel road.

This meant that they had to walk the remainder of the way to the wharf.

At that time, I just could not understand why they had bothered to lumber themselves

with so much luggage. But on reflection now, I wonder if most of them thought that

they were joining a neat little passenger ship with all mod cons? If so, then it must

have been quite a shock when they saw the 'Kulit” and a bigger one when they

climbed aboard. Two in the party wanted to go back down Keppel Road and retrieve

some luggage that they had been unable to carry. They changed their minds when

Mossie said that we had waited long enough. They need not have been concerned for

they would have lost it later anyway.

The first twelve or so passengers to arrive were helped down the jetty wall and into

the “Makota' and they went off with Sandy to the hulk, and out of the way of some of

the danger. During the next fifteen minutes, after what would have been the arrival of

the last few stragglers, I could see that Mossie was ignoring us. He knew what our

hard looks in his direction meant. In words, they would have been 'For God's sake

Mossie, enough is enough, very soon we will have been here three hours'.

But it was thanks to him, when ten minutes later, the last if they were the last six

arrivals climbed aboard for we did not have room for more

At exactly 3 p.m., Mossie said 'quick, axe those springs (steel rope-like cables holding

'Kulit' to the wharf). It was as though he had said earlier, 'I'll wait ten more minutes

and then that's it' I could see what he meant, for the springs were as tight as bow

strings and would have been difficult to get the bight over and off the bollard. It

surprised me how easily that little axe sliced through the steel-wire cables, and how

quickly the 'Kulit' moved away from the wharf and nearly left Sniffy and me standing

on it.

John Wood swung the 'Kulit' round into the current and then round again with it as

though he had been handling 'Kulit's' helm all his life. Having sat around for three

hours, it seemed ridiculous that we should now be in such a hurry. We arrived at the

hulk and joined Sandy, with nothing more catastrophic happening than a passenger

losing his spectacles over the side. It was nice to be at the receiving end of 'Blessed is

he who expects everything but gets nothing'...

Tied up as we were beneath the steep sloping side of the hulk, it was a tempting

thought to linger there. Mossie had suggested earlier that we should move from the

hulk just after 6pm which would be a safe time since it would be too dark for any

aerial activity - taking a chance on the curfew. But now he was getting more worried

by the minute, and more so our passengers. He had insisted, against much opposition

that they all went down into the storage tanks and out of sight as we moved off from

the wharf. That is what he and George were enforcing as we left. He didn't want the

'Kulit' to look like a military evacuation and thereby attract undesirable aerial

attention.

Now, safely tucked away behind the hulk as we were, they were all out on deck

including the ones from the launch. They looked a very hot crowd, well the ones who

had been in the tank, for it must have been very uncomfortable down there. Our full

compliment was 34, including the six ladies. When to move became a worrying

decision, and looking at Mossie, it seemed that he was shouldering the responsibility

for the safety of us all....he looked very strained. It was so exasperatingly noisy

making it difficult to think let alone converse. The desire to move away was as

tempting was the urge to stay hiding there. When it was possible to talk, the pro's and

con's were tossed around as to when we should set off.

Mossie agreed that he had previously suggested 6pm, but he was now having second

thoughts about it. Since we had no information on the situation, we could be trapped

if we delayed moving from the hulk should the Japanese Navy come round the corner,

or shot at if we moved at night. The watchers manning the defences could be very

trigger happy about craft moving on water in the dark, as we had witnessed two nights

ago. But if we ignored that contingency and departed when it was dark we might not

be able to negotiate our way past the many shoals and small islands safely if we were

to avoid the minefield area. There certainly would not be any navigational aids to help

us.

It had already been decided which route we would take. It was our decision, and

nothing to do with our passengers who were not aware of any additional problems

beyond the ones they were just leaving behind. Most certainly that route would not be

south via Rhio. Mossie had been happy to accept the ex-'Pinna's' crew's feelings about

that one which he had passed on to Les Clayton on the 'Ribot' before leaving Bukom.

We would sail Northwest up the Malacca Strait. The fact that we would be sailing

near, and parallel to, the enemy held coast of Malaya was dismissed, the Japanese

would be too busy elsewhere. That just left the hazard of aircraft which was a matter

of swapping one hazard for another.

It was just 3.45pm when the decision was made to move. The 'Pinna’s' high-diving

Sandy would stay with the 'Makota' and its passengers, George Robinson assisting

him, and they would tag along behind the 'Kulit'. Mossie suggested that Sandy should

keep at least half-a-mile away so as not to attract undue attention and also keep to port

or starboard of 'Kulit's' wake. The reason for this seemed a feasible precaution at the

time so that an attacking aircraft would not have two targets .in line. A final 'order of

the day', was that everyone should be out of sight and off the deck until sunset.

We set off at 4pm into rolling banks of nasty evil smelling black smoke the result of

the demolition of the several oil installations, and Singapore. The 'Ribot' was standing

by ready to pick up and evacuate the demolition party from Bukom – Without

stopping we sailed across the half mile of water that separated us and headed north

west in the direction of the Malacca Strait. I wrote later '....looking back towards the

city there were drifting clouds of dense smoke from many sources and angry noises

echoing across the water. I saw a stick of bombs drop in a line about l00 yards short

of the hulk, then beyond it, and then further still to land near the brick works and the

harbour entrance: a replica of what we had experienced when in that area. But viewed

from a distance, it looked very dangerous. I looked across at John through the

doorway of the tiny wheelhouse and we exchanged glances, would our luck last?....

During the period after first setting off, John and I had taken up our positions on

either side of the wheelhouse as lookouts again, Mossie, of course, at the helm, Noel

and Sniffy down in the engine compartment. Out on deck there was not a soul to be

seen. Occasional aircraft passed over us from different directions and we

pessimistically expected a downward swoop from any one of them. Mossie was

worried because, due to the protruding end of the wheelhouse deck head, his angle of

vision, ahead and skywards was restricted. This meant that he would not be able to

see a diving aircraft in order to make the necessary evasive turn at the right moment.

John said 'Ok, but what about one diving from aft or abeam?' Mossie slapped his

forehead in self-criticism and said “Right, you two watch out and shout out NOW if

you see one of the sods lining up on us and I’ll turn. John, tell Sniffy to keep an eye

on those hatches, I don't want a single eye-ball visible topside”

Well, I suppose Mossie’s tactic idea was feasible since a small craft like the “Kulit”

could change course more easily than a diving aircraft but I would like to have had a

dummy run with friendly aircraft first to prove it. Looking aft the 'Makota” was

bobbing along behind us about a mile away and I wondered if Sandy was having the

same logical thoughts.

From my diary '. ...The next hour and a half of daylight that followed seemed endless

as I kept looking at the wheelhouse clock the sky abeam and astern then the retreating

coastline of Singapore and Malaya and I wondered what each few minutes would

bring.

About a mile away a small Naval vessel was bombed. I watched transfixed, willing

the bombs to miss as they left the aircraft and descended. Then the aircraft flew past

our stern between us and the “Makota” towards the coast, leaving the vessel burning.

Beyond it there was the burned out half sunken wreck of the “Empress of Asia' that

had been bombed previously (chapter l8). A second small Naval vessel passed us en

route to help the other one that had launched a lifeboat. The figures on the deck were

waving and pointing and indicating that we should turn back, then making descending

arm movements and pointing ahead - meaning dive bombers. We assumed that they

were warning us of the dive-bombers operating from the now occupied airfield ahead

in Malaya. We indicated NO with crossed horizontal arm movements and carried on.

Some of the figures on deck were giving victory-V signs. John and I returned them

without any enthusiasm.

It was with mixed feelings that we looked back a mile later to see our advisers being

attacked themselves with gunfire by an aircraft that had passed right over us to do so.

It was a fighter aircraft flying so low that we could see the pilot's head - and he didn't

even look down at us

Grave though the situation was, it was made to feel more so because all the time we

were anticipating something might not happen, but I for one was so very tired that my

mind was prepared to anticipate anything including a tropical snowstorm. It felt as

though there were hundreds of binoculared Japanese eyes all watching us from the

Malayan coast which was so much in view, and that every aircraft that might be

taking off was doing so especially for our non-benefit. Looking astern through still

drifting smoke haze I could just see the little bobbing dot of the “Makota' and I

wondered how those on board had felt, being so near to that aggro.....” Mossie had

carried on in his usual quiet way, and whenever I caught his eye, he always produced

a smile, but now a worried one. I felt for him for I am sure that he was still accepting

responsibility for our safety by his accurate navigation, and also for his ability to cope

with the unknown. Whether he was aware of the position of the minefield area with

any accuracy, and just keeping his fingers crossed, or if he were taking the decided

upon diversion, I don’t think I wanted to know.

When I idly dropped that iron bar where I did on the 'Pinna' that later got the three of

us out of the radio room, I gave a passing thought to Providence. When we missed

that increased activity at Keppel harbour by the skin of our teeth and then were

ignored by those passing aircraft a short time ago, I had a similar thought, but when

just before dusk set in (when it was expected that aircraft activity would cease) a

typical tropical rain squall set in, obscuring us from land sea and air, I was convinced

of Providence, and that someone somewhere was batting on our side. I stood out in

the lashing cold rain - it was great. I would like to have cheered. With everyone on

deck looking very wet but certainly happier than they had been in the different hiding

places, particularly those out of the tanks, I joined them and had my first meal since

the night before.....Was it only last night that we were tied up beneath the hulk? It felt

like last week!

After consuming about a pint of tea, all I wanted to do was to sleep, but that wasn't to

be. We had lost the 'Makota' as the squall had started and the sky darkened, and we

were now rolling about alarmingly with the engine stopped and all hands peering out

into the darkness. At last she turned up only to be lost again. By this time it was so

dark it was impossible to see such a small craft even a dozen yards away. It was very

eerie in the darkness and too risky to flash a light, although perhaps it wouldn’t have

mattered if we had switched on our navigational lights and waited for Sandy to turn

up. Mossie was worried in case the little 'Makota' had been swamped by the same

swell that had rolled the 'Kulit' about so much. As the sky cleared a little, giving a

little more light on the water, he took the boat round in wide sweeping circles, but to

no avail. He decided to resume our original course and press on, for as he said he

could not jeopardise the safety of all those on board any more for the few on the

'Makota' who might be perfectly alright anyway. The important thing now was to

clear the Malayan coast and to be as far away from it as possible by first light.

As we increased speed back on course the two little lifeboats that were strung out on

either side of the bridge structure were swinging out and in with great crashing sounds

which didn't help to reduce the generally tense atmosphere on board. They had been

left unlashed in case they should be needed in a hurry. With the help of one of the

passengers, I tried to get a lashing round the boat on my side while John on the port

side did likewise. With only the flat piece of deck to stand on, where the lifeboat

normally rested and no handrail or coaming to hang on to, all there was to stop either

of us from plopping into the sea as the “Kulit' rolled was the lifeboat itself. When it

swung in there was not enough time to get a lashing round it before it swung out again

and out of reach over the sea, leaving us hanging on to the davit until it came back

again. The problem was solved by my helper bravely leaping into the boat on its

inward swing.

Sometime later I asked Mossie the question that had been on the tip of my tongue for

quite a long time, and that was, why had he bothered about having the 'Makota” come

with us in the first place? There was no point in her tagging along behind us when

there was room to spare on the 'Kulit', to which he replied, with his usual grin, 'I

thought it would lower the odds. We only have room for four in each of our lifeboats'.

While all the look-outs, posted around the decks stared ahead and abeam for any dark

shape silhouetted against the dark skyline, Mossie maintained a North Westerly

course, keeping the diminishing red glow in the sky directly astern. His theory was

that while it might appear too late if a vessel that could be a Japanese one were

sighted, possibly with our low profile, we could be invisible to watchers on deck.

Depending on the sighting, he would either stop-engine, or change course. That

voiced theory of Mossie's was in response to a complaining passenger, who did so

loudly, saying, 'What the hell is the use of keeping look-outs we can't run'. As I

watched Mossie's face reflecting the dim light from the binnacle, I envied his apparent

inner calm feelings which contrasted so much with my own which I felt could be seen

glowing visibly a mile away....

'...My last vision of Singapore as it had faded away behind us, had been that of a huge

blanket of smoke hanging in a darkening sky, flat at the bottom and billowing at the

top. Beneath it, the darker line of land was spotted with stabs of bright red. I

wondered under what circumstances I would see the island again if ever...'

I learned later that the surrender terms were handed to General Percival on February

l4th, and their acceptance was inevitable. It didn't require any superior military

wisdom to acknowledge that Singapore had been lost for days, and was, in Winston

Churchill’s words, 'The worst disaster and the largest capitulation in British history'.

History confirms now, that we had the men, and they far out-numbered the Japanese.

While our troops were burying surplus ammunition, the Japanese were desperately

running short of theirs. But we did not have sufficient air power or mobile ground

armament, while the Japanese had plenty of both.

As it was, we lost Singapore, 'Europe's gateway to the East' , the impregnable fortress,

with all its big guns, probably the largest in the world at that time and never used in

anger for the purpose for which they were originally installed. However as was

pointed out by Noel Barber in his book 'Sinister Twilight' ...we lost more than an

island, we lost face in the East. The Japanese, with an inferior force in numbers to our

own, but employing superior tactics and armament were instrumental in destroying

for ever, the white man's domination which was a contributory factor which lead to

independence throughout Asia.

Although we did return eventually as liberators, things were never to be the same

again. The magic, mystique, or whatever it may be called that had cloaked the Tuan

Basar for so long disappeared like the smoke that was now rising from the city.

Today the opulent port of Singapore can be more accurately and reciprocally called

instead the “Gateway to the West”

Next morning as the dawn broke red and gold behind us; the coast of Sumatra was

silhouetted against a darker sky.

It could be argued that there should have been a cast-iron plan before we left

Singapore. After all, we had had plenty of time during our long waits at the hulk at

Bukom and while at wharf 50, to talk it over. I suppose we all thought that since

Mossie had been the organiser so far, he would have a plan in mind. Well he hadn't.

As he now said, except for heading in a direction away from Singapore on the agreed

heading which would be northward and not southward, he had not given a destination

any priority. The prevailing one that suppresses all other thoughts in that tense noisy

existence, was a successful escape from Keppel. He would consider number two

priority, and where we should go, after the successful accomplishment of number one.

Now, in the dim morning light, Mossie confessed that he had not dared think of the

future with so much of the present around the previous day. If we had cleared

Singapore and the tip of Malaya safely, he would make for the coast of Sumatra and

continue Northeast. What he had not given a thought to, was whether or not the

Japanese may be crossing the Strait of Malacca since they now held Penang and all

the coast-line south. The Strait could be unhealthily congested.

In the long watch through the night hours, the situation as to what to do became

obvious. To travel any further on our present course with the Japanese still within

flying-time and with possible sea patrols out from the coast, would be pushing our

luck too far. We might have put 85 miles and Singapore behind us, but the enemy-

held coast of Malaya was still only 40 miles away.

At the same time as the sun was lighting up the east behind us, it was with relief we

could see the 'Makota' happily bobbing along less than a mile away. We had slowed

down considerably as the sea calmed about an hour before dawn and Sandy had kept

pace with the 'Kulit' He said later that the small launch had taken the sea very well.

What the 'Kulit had ploughed through, the 'Makota' had just gone up and down with it

and not a drop of water in-board, although it was a bit uncomfortable at times. When

we had parted during the night, Sandy said that he had taken note of our course, and

since he knew that Mossie would stick to his, he wasn't a bit worried. As the sky had

lightened, he had seen our larger silhouette long before we saw his.

By the time that the 'Makota' was sighted, and I had recovered from the inevitable

sea-sickness that had assailed me through those rolling night hours, number two

priority was being discussed. With the sky brightening rapidly and every one on deck

where they had been since the rainsquall, there could still be the likelihood of

reconnoitring aircraft spotting us.

So a decision was made. We would head west and make for the coast of Sumatra, now

clearly visible, sail up the nearest river as far as we could, then make plans depending

on circumstances. Sumatra was not so backward and there was bound to be some sort

of transport that would take us somewhere. The port of Padang on the West Coast was

a possibility. We would just have to hope that the Japanese had not already arrived.

After the sun rose and the morning progressed with Sandy and company following

behind us, we pressed on in an inland direction via a wide river mouth and as the land

on each side of us started to narrow, there was a general feeling of relaxation. Without

a chart of the area we had no knowledge of how the river might snake about, so it was

quite perplexing as the morning wore on, that our course was so constantly north and

not westerly.

By mid-afternoon, the river had not narrowed as would be expected, in fact, quite the

reverse, and we were still heading north! We had passed a settlement a short time

before on our starboard side, and now it seemed that we were going out to sea again-

and we were! Turning about, Mossie re-traced our wake back towards the settlement

or village that was tucked away behind the greenery. By the time we reached it,

Mossie and John between them with heads together had decided what we had done.

The land on the starboard side just before we had turned about just had to be Benkalis

Island, and the habitation we had seen was Benkalis itself. Instead of a river we had

been sailing between the coast of Sumatra and the island and then heading out to sea

again. This was soon verified.

Transferring the passengers from the 'Makota' to the 'Kulit', Sandy, having sailed the

'Makota' safely through the night, decided that he would stay on board and take her in

alone and ascertain who was in charge, the Dutch or the Japanese - a very brave

mission. Sandy disappeared from view as we lay a distance away.

Five minutes passed, then ten, and then ten lengthened to half an- hour as we all

waited anxiously...then 'Burp burp burp on 'Makota's' groggy hooter as she came

round the bend and into sight. All was well. The Dutch Resident was at home, and we

were invited to come alongside. I don’t remember any of us slapping our brave envoy

on the back. It was not a task that I would have enjoyed undertaking. Sandy said

afterwards, 'Och, it wa nothin, I did'na think the Japanese wa there or I would'na gone'

Mind you, what we would have done if they had been there is debatable. We would

not have got very far if they had. But we could not have been using our heads, for

surely, if the Japanese had arrived by crossing the Malacca Strait which been in our

thoughts during the night, they had would not have been just sitting around waiting

for visitors, what is more, there would have been transport around.

Our navigational error was confirmed by the Dutch Resident Officer for Bengkalis.

What we now had to do was to re-trace our steps and he showed Mossie the mouth of

the river Siak on a wall map. The river would be navigable up to Pekam Baru, which

was a small town in the centre of Sumatra. On arrival we could make arrangements

with the Resident there concerning our next move. He suggested that perhaps Padang,

a port on the West Coast could be best for us provided of course that transport could

be arranged.

There were no plaintive songs of farewell as we left this island and I don’t think that I

would have noticed if there had, been I was more than anxious to keep moving. The

Resident did say that he was not aware of any Japanese landings in the area, but he

did confess that because of recent reconnoitring aircraft, he had been expecting

visitors for several days.

It was late in the afternoon when we set off with the descending sun on our estimated

75-mile journey up-river to Pekam. Later as we pressed on into the darkening

evening, there was a relaxed comfortable feeling on board as the river, this time, did

narrow from the mouth and the jungle on either side snuggled up, wrapping us in

anonymity

That night beneath the brightness of a million stars, we had a delightfully restful trip

up the winding river, following a silver road in a tunnel of blackness - John relieving

Mossie at the helm to enable him to catch up on a bit of well earned rest.

I found sleep very hard to achieve at first....I had been on the go for so long that I was

all wound up and finding it hard to wind down again. As I lay down on the deck,

looking up at the stars, I could not help but reflect on our last 24 hours activities, from

the anxious hours at the Keppel harbour wharf and our departure west, when we

wondered where the next bombs would fall or what the next aircraft would do. We

had worried ourselves stiff, probably grown a few grey hairs, searched the sky and

horizons, imagined all sorts of catastrophic situations, and what had happened to us?

Absolutely nothing! Surely there must be a moral somewhere. Perhaps there is sense

in what a certain learned gentleman said - although his name escapes me, 'There is no

need to worry until you have to worry'

Obviously I did sleep otherwise I could not have awakened to the sound of birds, the

loud chatter of monkeys and a conglomeration of noises (contrasting so much with

those of the last few days) as the beat of our engine exhaust disturbed the early

morning. It was delightful to stand up on deck and enjoy the lovely freshness of the

morning air, and the thankful feeling that we now had a more than fifty fifty chance of

survival, and what was more, we were on our way with a determined plan. There was

still one slight worry - if it could be called slight, as I learned later. Mossie said that

upon leaving Bengkalis, the Resident had added that the airfield at Pekam Baru had

had several reconnoitring sorties by Japanese aircraft. Because of the airstrip, it

pointed to a possible landing by airborne troops. We should approach with caution.

We arrived at Pekam Baru in the early afternoon of the 14th February. The number of

small craft on the river and, the happy salutes of the occupants, told its own tale.

Notwithstanding our relief at having arrived, it would have been much more of a

relief if this had been the end of the road, and not another beginning.....

What next? ..If we were to keep ahead of circumstances, most certainly we would

have to keep to our slogan 'keep moving', and without delay but how now that the

river seemed to have healed up at Pekam?

As Mossie and several others set off to seek help from the Resident officer, we who

were left on board anxiously awaited their return. Now that we had stopped moving,

the urge to continue doing so was strong. I wondered how far it was to Padang and

how long would it take to walk, and conjectured on the adage. 'He who travels fast

travels alone'

As a few of us returned from a much needed river bath following Noel's remark to

John 'if we are going anywhere, we might as well set off clean'-so did George with a

small consignment of beer he had purchased “from the off licence wigwam down the

road”. A few minutes later Mossie and company returned bearing the awaited news.

The Resident had said that to attempt to take the mountainous route to Padang would

not be wise because of the uncertainty of shipping calling there. If we did arrive there,

so might the Japanese at an early date (well not exactly in those words) He had an

alternative suggestion which he considered safer for us. It was that he would provide

transport for us to proceed to Palembang in the south of the island. At Palembang,

trains would be running from the railhead there that would take us to Oosthave (Telok

Betong) and from there a ferry across the Sunda Strait to Java. The Resident's offer

was accepted with enthusiasm, despite the long road journey involved, but with the

bonus that we would be travelling fast in the right direction. Furthermore, according

to the Resident, in a recent BBC broadcast message, Mr. Churchill had emphasised

that reinforcements were available and that Java would be held at all costs

Our two vessels were formally handed over with an exchange of documents, and we

were provided with an ancient looking bus vehicle complete with driver. What I liked

about the idea was that even if Jap infiltration behind us was imminent, we were

bound to travel faster.

I didn't need to pack, I just grabbed the small duffel bag that I had acquired at Bukom

containing essentially my skin-out bag, diary, and three bottles of whisky, I was ready

for the road for I was as anxious as anyone to 'keep moving'.

By 11pm that night we had covered 80 miles when we drew into a village, possibly

Taluk - after we had negotiated a fast flowing river via a man-powered pontoon raft. It

had been an eerie and hazardous operation, getting our vehicle on board, secured and

transported, but we were successful. We spent the night in a Sumatran longhouse with

a rush floor which we shared with families of creepy-crawlies, and above, a vicious

brand of mosquito with stings like spears. I had a couple of burra pegs of whisky to

keep them away, and as I wondered why I had not stayed in the bus, it was suddenly

morning.

By 5.30am we were away, (scratching our bites and discussing the possibility of

malaria) bouncing along a dirt track road at break-neck speed - well perhaps more

correct, rattling and bumping, for the springs on our vehicle had experienced better

days. Our driver must have been taught at the same school as the Sikh driver who had

driven me down the mountainside from Darjeeling. We spent the day hardly reducing

speed for hairpin bends and various other obstacles. If he had been told that we were

in a hurry, then he was certainly doing his best to oblige.

As we sped along, the terrain varied from drab to beautiful, flat to undulating ragged

to desolate but mostly jungle and dense vegetation. It was such a pity that we were in

hurry. Such a pity that I was not interested in where we were, but where I hoped we

would be eventually. It was very hot and uncomfortable, and we were all suffering the

discomfort of the journey. Nevertheless, nobody was in favour of slackening our pace,

or stopping to rest, so it was with a mixture of relief and then consternation that, upon

arriving at a small village, our driver disappeared. He was eventually tracked down in

the village-eating house, and he was adamant.

'No more driving today Tuan. Tomorrow, early, yes. Today, no'

A few of us were not bothered anyway, but there was plenty of opposition. It did seem

to me, that if the Japanese had landed in Sumatra -a thought that had bugged us in the

Malacca Strait- and were behind us, then they would have to put their skates on to

beat our mileage so far. Despite the road conditions and our rather senile vehicle, we

had clocked up 200 miles since leaving Pekam Baru. Who could blame the driver for

stopping? He had driven for nine hours. By 3pm we were on our way, wined well

beered-and dined and hastened on our way by a very wet tropical storm. The Malay

driver had been amply awarded with Malay money to relinquish his status and

become a passenger; drivers in our party would take over his job and drive through

the night thus avoiding further delay.

For the next few hours or so it rained real stair-rods. The road surface that had been

steadily getting worse was getting narrower and steeper. In fact, at times, ridiculously

so for a main road to Djambi and Palembang. Eventually, just before dusk, the

weather cleared revealing a reddened after-sunset sky, which after while prompted a

voice from the back of the bus to exclaim, 'Hey, that's a hell of a funny place for a

sunset'. The voice had a good point, for, despite the many twisting around deep

ravines, it was obvious that we had been generally moving westward. As was to be

confirmed later, we had been climbing the Barison mountains that ran north and south

down Sumatra hence the indication that the road was 'healing up'. Our route should

have been generally southward, parallel to and not over the steep areas. We had, at

some stage in the poor visibility, taken the wrong turn. A lot of valuable time was lost

before we were able to turn ourselves round, including a nasty bogging down due to a

mini-landslide.

At last we hit the main road to Djambi which made it seem so ridiculous that we had

ever missed it in the first place. We now pointed southward into clearer weather and

sky. In the darkness later, except for our sidelights and the stars that were now visible

between large gaps in the clouds, we feasted on sardines and dry biscuits softened

with beer - the latter as result of stocking up at our last stop, confirming that Sumatra

wasn't so primitive. There were nostalgic remarks as the labels on the bottles

indicated Singapore Tiger beer.

Notwithstanding our tiring experiences so far, and the few grumblers who were

prepared to complain about anything that came in the way of our forward progress

(well, understandably so) the atmosphere was that of a jolly barbecue to the

accompaniment of croaking frogs. For most of us, with so many miles between us and

the unknown hazard behind it was probably a matter of working off a bit of tension.

There was a slight rocking of the boat as laments were voiced about the luggage left

behind, but this was turned to laughter as one of the party slipped backwards into the

mud and emptied beer over his face.

Because our resting driver thought that there were about 250 miles to go before

reaching Palembang there was a general approval that that we should press on and

stop when we got to Djambi later in the morning. It was then just after 1 am

Contented chatterers were wondering if there would be first or second class carriages

on the train; would it go right on to the ferry, or would they have to walk and would

there be toilets on the train, and so on. Then silence prevailed except for the roar of

the engine as we rolled on through the night, stopping only occasionally to replenish

water or fuel from our spare tins, and attend to the calls of nature. Then off again

following the miles of empty road beneath an amazingly bright starlit sky, before the

first tints of dawn coloured it. Then there was the occasional passing vehicle, then

two's and three's with the friendly flashing of lights as from one lone traveller to

another.

We made poor time on this last leg of the journey - no doubt due to the changing of

drivers while our local driver still rested - so, as we rolled into Djambi, contrary to our

instructions at Pekam that we should contact the Resident, it was decided that we skip

this one and not waste time stopping and resting. So we bowled along through and out

of Djambi, like, as somebody said 'schoolboys twagging it from school'

As we ate up some of the remaining miles southward towards Palembang, we came

increasingly aware of the volume of travellers, varying in size and shape which was

quite noticeable after the many miles of deserted road, but particularly since they were

going North. Then as we progressed South they were replaced by pedestrians and

handcarts, then later still, quiet deserted roads again and we wondered why? . .

One of the Malay speaking passengers said that while we were stopped some miles

back to fill our petrol and water cans, the man serving had said to him 'Why you not

go north Tuan?” He didn’t say why he terminated the chat without pursuing the

reason for the question. We were not to be kept waiting for long for as we rolled down

a steep hill we could see a lone car coming down the opposite slope. By the time that

we reached the bottom of the hill it was stationary and a Chinese lady was beckoning

us to stop.

As our driver leaned out through his window she said, 'You must turn round and go

back, the Japanese captured Palembang on Saturday'.

As this information was relayed down the bus the atmosphere in it became electric

and there was silence for quite a few seconds as though the occupants were having

difficulty in believing what they had just heard. By the time that our driver had

explained where we had come from and why we were speeding towards Palembang,

passengers from the front of the bus had alighted; those from the rear had crowded

forward so as not to miss a word.

Although shaking her head as though not agreeing with what had just been said, she

did supply a slightly encouraging alternative. It would be very dangerous, but if we

could get to Lubic Lengau little north of Palembang, -by turning west there was a

railway station there where trains called after leaving Palembang on their way to

Oosthaven. She said that the road we were on was the only road in and out of I

Palembang. It would be dangerous for us to carry on. 'You should turn round and

follow me to Padang where I will catch a ship'.

The lady was duly thanked for bothering to stop and warn us and her concern for our

safety, and in return it was pointed out to her that she could bump into the Japanese

who may have landed in the north and already be at Padang.

She looked a very aristocratic lady, ageless features that could have just left Shangri-

La. Departing, she said, 'The Japanese killed my parents in Tiensin, if they see a

Chinese lady, they will not be very kind'. As her car disappeared northward, Sandy,

who had been the last to get down from the bus, said 'Hey. did ya no see that bloody

great banger she had on her front seat?' . Apparently her travelling companion had

been an army type revolver.

We now had a problem: those of the party who had been speculating on such things as

trains with first and second class compartments possibly with toilets were jolted back

into harsh reality. Blame for our predicament was freely apportioned. Those who had

been quite content not to stop at Djambi now complained we would have known the

situation 50 miles back had we done so. Standing outside the bus in the baking heat

arguing which way to go was an incongruous situation. Some gave up and sat down in

what ever shade they could find as the pros and cons continued.

My mind was in turmoil. Going back seemed no better than going forward and the

recurring pain in my middle as a result of that blow I received on the 'Pinna' was

voting not go anywhere. If the Japanese track record were anything to go by, then

once established in the Palembang area with all its available facilities they would not

lose any time in expanding and occupying available ports and railheads. Somebody

reasoned the Japanese were not magicians. The initial spearhead invasion would need

backup support and most of all, transport. At the moment it was more than likely that

they were consolidating their positions around the reason they were there - to ensure

oil and airfield facilities for their further expansions.

Mossie was in favour of setting off for Lubic Lengau and not wasting any more

valuable time. He emphasised his point by kicking a stone a dozen yards. That

stopped a lot of chatter 'I think we ought to take a chance and set off for Lubic NOW.

What the hell have we to lose?'

So finally there was a general agreement - what had we to lose. Mossie had ignored a

small voice from someone, 'perhaps the Japanese are already on the way to Lubic' as

we all headed For the bus. Climbing into it - another step into the unknown- the heat

was almost unbearable until we started to move. I started to count the days since

leaving Keppel. Saturday in Pekam Baru was February 14th. Today was the 16th; the

Japanese had been in Palembang area for two days. (I learned later that the Japanese

had dropped a large force of paratroopers on the 14th and by the 15th they had

completely occupied Palembang the oil installations at Pladjoe and the RAF airfield.)

For the next 25 miles or so we were driving along the only road into, and out of,

Palembang. According to the Malay driver who had now taken over his driving role

again, there would be a right turn road junction, probably at Kluang or Betoeong, he

wasn't sure, and this would lead us to Sekaju where we could get more petrol, and

then continue on to Lubic Lengau. After the turn off we would then be going west and

away from Palembang.

As our ageing and uncomfortable bus ate up the miles and every mile was taking us

nearer and nearer to Palembang it was very depressing in fact, down right worrying,

for the road that had had the occasional vehicle or pedestrians loaded with bundles

going northward, was now empty. The atmosphere in the bus was silently loaded with

apprehension. This apprehension was one kind when we were going pell-mell south

and away from possible danger behind us but another kind now that we were speeding

towards it.

One could almost hear the intake of breath as we rounded each sharp bend, then the

sighing out as the road was seen to be clear ahead. The deserted road had that eerie

feeling like walking through a graveyard or a haunted house at night.

One of the last vehicles we had seen was an RAF one loaded with personnel and we

wondered where they were going without so much as stopping or waving. What extra

did they know that we didn't? Just before they passed us, we were advised by some

passing pedestrians, that if we were going to Lubic then we should hurry, for

pontoons and bridges were being wrecked to impede Japanese movements.

I began to have the nasty little worry...Perhaps that luck that we had enjoyed so far

was about to run out? . . Had we been given all the signs and not heeded them? ..

Perhaps we should have gone straight to Padang from Pekam after we had abandoned

the boats? .. Perhaps there had not been any Japanese landings in the north. Oh well, it

was too late to conjecture now. All would be revealed one way or another.

At last we reached the turn-off road junction and headed west, and then for the next

few hours, having left the road that went to Palembang, we breathed more freely.

Except for several rivers that had to be crossed and the men in charge of the pontoons

who so leisurely pushed us across, the journey was uneventful- well that is, ignoring

the heat and the reckless pace of our driver as he sped towards Lubic.

We stopped at Sekaju and bought petrol patronised the Sumatrian version of a loo

dined and generally relaxed in of the shade after the mid-afternoon heat. Once again,

tension had diminished and there were further chats as to the facilities expected on the

train at Lubic Lengua, and if they ran overnight. The children who gathered around us

couldn’t have been more entertained at our presence had we been a travelling circus!

We were not very far from Lubic- probably 50 miles. We had been driving into the

sun which was now descending down into the western sky ahead (this time it was in

the right place) and enjoying at last the coolness of the late afternoon. The terrain

which had been flat was now undulating and broken up by rugged areas as it stretched

itself ahead into the start of the southern end of the Barison mountain range, when

suddenly...Brrr brrr bang!

Our vehicle screeched to a stop as our driver stamped his foot on the brake pedal, and

another vehicle which seemed to have joined us from nowhere, hit our rear with a

metal bending ker-rump. Just visible ahead around the bend that we were negotiating,

matching the dappled light and shade as the last of the sun's rays shone through the

trees, was a single figure dressed in camouflage complete with the automatic weapon

that had caused the noise.

Then, almost simultaneously from the grassy banks on either side of us, there poured

20 or 30 or so similarly dressed figures, all armed to the teeth. From the crashes on

the side of the bus, it was obvious that we were expected to get out - which we did,

quickly. By the time that a second single figure had arrived who had approached very

leisurely down the road, we were all lined up hands high in the air looking down the

barrels of too many automatic weapons.

A film hero may look very heroic and lantern jawed under such circumstances, but in

reality would probably have felt stupid, I did. But that doesn't mean that I didn't feel

scared too. Hell's bloody bells, I did, right up to my back teeth!

With the arrival of what turned out to be a Dutch army officer, all was revealed. He

was in charge of a platoon of local military who had become a guerrilla group since

they had left Palembang upon the arrival of the Japanese. He had given orders to his

men to stop and examine every vehicle that came from the direction of Palembang.

We just experienced them doing that very thing to the letter. The officer was very

apologetic in delightful English.

From him we learned that trains had been running from Lubic station up to the

previous day, but he was dubious about connections with the ferry at Oostaven. There

had been a Japanese task force of naval vessels through the Sunda Strait and they had

been operating in the region of Banka.

He went on to say that he had just received (I wondered how?) information to the

effect that many people escaping from Singapore had been killed south of Rhio and

Lingga islands, and that many small boats had been blown to pieces by gunfire and

bombs. 'How very fortunate for you that you chose this route instead of the sea route

to Java' he said.

He saluted and wished us a safe journey then joined his soldiers who disappeared into

the trees as magically as they had arrived. It was many years before I learned more of

the awful truth of what he had said.

It seems as though from that moment a curtain of secrecy came down over the sad

plight of the citizens of Singapore. Men women children and army personnel found

themselves trapped between an enemy occupied island behind, them and an ocean in

front over which the enemy had complete control. In contrast there had not been any

secrecy concerning the wonderful evacuations of our armed forces and civilians from

Dunkirk twenty months earlier. The English shores were forty miles away with sea

and air protection and organised welcome.

Alas, from Singapore to temporary safety was five hundred miles away with constant

air attacks. Many died in the sea and on uninhabited islands from wounds, starvation

or caught and murdered by the Japanese. Many found help and transport on the

Sumatran Island only to be caught later and interned.

The sad story of the fall of Singapore, the plight of the people and the thousands of

troops who were interned has now been well documented and readily available. We

all climbed back into the bus, feeling better than when we climbed down from it and

set off. The party of four, probably local people out of the car behind us, we left

standing on the roadside by their car. We waved, but it seemed that they had not yet

got over the shock sufficiently to lift an arm in reply. Three hours later we rolled into

Lubic in the evening darkness to learn that the last train to the coast had left at noon

that day, and now, the railhead was closed and deserted.

did not record, nor do I remember now, anything about that evening in Lubic Lengau.

Most certainly there must have been quite a lot of worried talk, for this predicament

was a new one. Hitherto we had moved from one situation to hopefully a better one.

This one was different. At that moment there was nowhere else we could go, and

further more, we could not go back even if we decided to do so.

Where most of the party went to in that mini mini-town, besides the ones that stayed

with me in the bus, I don’t know. Despite the grim situation, it didn't cause me a

sleepless night - not because I wasn't worried, but I think I was becoming adjusted to

'first the good news then the bad news'. I offered my whisky to whoever it was who

was next to me, but he refused it. Taking a liberal dose myself to keep off the

mosquitoes again, the very next thing was, 'Wake up you lot, we are going to

Benkulen..'

The voice and its cheerful intonation were backed up by Mossie's wide grin always

guaranteed to chase away the blues. At that moment I hadn't a clue where Benkulen

was, and I wasn't the only one, for a waking-up voice said, 'Where the hell is that?'

It was revealed later, that Mossie and two others had been to see the Resident the

night before and had been told of this small port on the west coast about 85 miles

away on the other side of the mountain range. Although the resident had mentioned

Benkulen's existence, and yes, it was possible for our vehicle to get there, he said he

would not advise it, and was very pessimistic about any ship calling at the tiny port. In

addition, since the para-troop landings on February 14th, he had now heard that a

large Japanese force had sailed up the Husi River and had arrived at Palembang. He

also said that he did not expect it would be very long before their vehicles arrived in

Lubic. Consequently it would be declared an open town. Enlarging on the brief notes I

made later, the Resident's gloomy opinion was that he expected the Japanese in Lubic

because of its railway station, probably in two or three days, then probably Benkulen

because of its port facilities. After listening to Mossie's description of our

experiences, our escape from Singapore and subsequent journey that had brought us

to Lubic, the Resident was surprised that we had not taken the shorter route to Padang

initially. It was the only port with shipping facilities now available. There was nothing

at Benkulen. We should go north immediately by taking the narrow road north out of

Lubic and join the main road near Djambi. One of the party voiced the query as to

possibility of bridges and pontoons being destroyed that would prevent us from doing

so. I don’t know what the answer was to that query, but later events did prove it to be

a valid one.

After everyone had been rounded up, the situation was discussed at length and

decided upon, on the lines that, nobody was in favour of a wearying and

uncomfortable 400 miles journey to Padang - a matter of driving north towards the

very hazard that we had just been moving pell mell away from. If we were lucky

enough not to encounter the problems of destroyed bridges and pontoons, what did

Padang have to offer was it a tiny port? nobody knew and neither could they know

what the situation would be like in two or three days time. Since we were not going

north, and we couldn't go south, and in view of the Resident's remark, we couldn't

stay in Lubic, then it just had to be Benkulen, which substantiated Mossie's early

morning remark. At least, going west we would be gaining time.... and there was

hope.

We eventually set off at 9am that morning. It was the 17th February. We had been

itching to get moving much earlier, but there had been a problem with one of the

wheels and then some time was wasted finding the man who operated the petrol

pump. It was hard to believe, that only five days ago, less a few hours, we been

waiting at wharf 50 wondering who would come first, the Japanese or our passengers.

The journey to Benkulen was to have been 85 miles if we could have gone straight

there but by the time we had climbed through a considerable part of the 6000 feet high

Barison mountain range of steep inclines, hairpin bends, and varied surfaces it seemed

much more. It was a long laborious haul and the bus whined miserably and boiled

away gallons of water. It was fortunate that we had plenty of spare cans and plenty of

water in the form of rivers and waterfalls

It must have been a very scenic trip, but I did not record any detail. I do remember,

that just as I was beginning to think that we would never see the end of all those

bends, there ahead, for a few brief moments 20 miles away, was the line of the Indian

ocean sparkling in the late afternoon sun. Then later, as we freewheeled down the

mountain side for the next few miles, Benkulen could be seen occasionally, a tiny

cluster of dwellings nestling on the coastline.

It was a very emotional moment, as the small town became recognisable as such, far

below. Instead of being a last ditch, it was as though we had set off from Pekam Baru,

500 miles ago to get there, and that we were arriving at our holiday destination. I

turned to speak to the chap next to me, but changed my mind. He was gazing into the

distance and his eyes were moist with emotion. I could have joined him for I did have

a sort of tightness in my chest, but real emotion on my part had already been frozen

up inside me on that other evening in that bombed wrecked bow of the 'Pinna'.

We rolled into Benkulen in the dimming light of the late afternoon. The setting sun

was falling visibly, leaving behind an orange and purple sky. Under different

circumstances the situation would have looked enchanting in the tinted half light, a

variety of buildings stretching out from the town square and a tiny Old World wharf.

There were the remains of a Marlborough fort, a relic of Admiral, Lord or whatever

he was when he visited the area and occupied it in the name of Britain in the 1800's.

The secretary of the town Resident-cum-mayor lived in a house, or more accurately, a

re-built dwelling on the site of the Marlborough temporary home. I didn't glean that

information until later for there was an obelisk and plaque near the wharf, informing

posterity of Marlborough's arrival and claim. However, if I had, I do not think I would

have been interested, for what was decidedly more interesting and urgent, was how do

we 'keep moving' having arrived in this bottleneck mini-town?

When our party representatives presented themselves to the Resident, he said that the

Singapore party was not the only one to arrive in Benkulen as escapees. A party of

Dutchmen from the Palembang oil installation at Pladjoe had arrived the day before,

having escaped when the Japanese over-ran the area. Once again, there was the same

advice that the party should 'go north to Padang'. That advice was getting to be quite a

gramophone record.

It was the wrong time for him to tell us that, even if we had never heard of the

suggestion before. We were travel-weary, disconsolate and in need of a wash and

food. Despite his argument of the unlikelyhood of any ship calling at this tiny port,

here we were, and here we were going to stay.....well, one way or another.

The Resident was quite helpful, and caring for the predicament in which we now

found ourselves after the experiences so far. He found accommodation for us at a sort

of hotel called the 'Oranji', and that night we fed sumptuously, actually sitting down at

a table. Then later the delightful extra comfort was a bath and hot water too. After the

discomforts of the journey, even the mattress on the floor later was a luxury.

We ex-'Pinna' band and Mossie had a long chat before retiring for the night,

essentially, I think, to convince ourselves now that we were feeling better, that the

decision we had made was the right one, not withstanding that it was still a worrying

one. We reasoned in the end that it just had to be the right one. With all that sea out

there, we didn't have to be trapped, and anyway, what about all those likely blown up

bridges? Tomorrow would be February 19th.The Japanese had dropped in on

Palembang on the 14th and that evening we had confirming news that troops and

transport had arrived there. We didn't think - remembering the Resident's remarks at

Lubic - that we had any more than two or three days, perhaps four, before there could

be unwelcome arrivals following our wheel marks down that mountain road. We took

those thoughts to bed with us...

It was after doing so that a few hours later there was quite a to-do going on outside in

the town. Loud explosions and all sorts of movements, sounds of vehicles and

shouting. My immediate waking thought was 'Oh no, not so soon' which was matched

by various waking remarks around the room. Tension soon subsided as we learned

that there was no panic just a scorched earth policy being put into practice, and the

commotion outside was the sounds of it taking place.

Later the oil storage tanks were set on fire, and there was an exodus of cars from the

town and those left behind were broken up in the town square. I have wondered since,

where were the drivers and passengers going to that could be better and safer than

Benkulen in the long term? At the time I wondered what urgent news had been

received that had triggered off the activities. How bad was it, and where did it come

from?

A few of us did a recce’ in the morning light and a smoke laden atmosphere. The

ravages of last night’s activities were all around. The smashed vehicles in the square

were certainly of no use to anybody now. We looked for our bus, but there was no

sign of it anywhere. Although the town was very much at a standstill, I did manage to

do what I had set out for which was to buy clothes, and not just curiosity. I returned

looking quite respectable, plus a topee. I was glad to get out of the rather dirty boiler

suit that I had been wearing since Bukom.

Later that morning, Sandy and John Wood returned from where they had been doing

their recce’ing on the beach. They had seen on the deserted shoreline, a native

wooden prauw not dissimilar to a Chinese junk boat. It was listing and stuck on a

sandbank, just a hundred yards or so from the beach. Noel, whose tubby six-foot

frame never hurried teasingly tapped me on the head and said 'Come along sonny, I'll

take you to the seaside', and he was nearly out of sight before I could join him. By the

time the others arrived, I was already at sea in the balloon pictures over my head. The

state of the prauw, which we called ‘Prow’ was very off-putting but the longer I gazed

at it. - with more balloon pictures of hotfooted Japanese coming down that mountain

road. -the more a God-given escape vehicle the prauw became.

It was quite a large vessel, probably 30-feet long, heavily constructed with a deep hull

of stout timbers, but alas, apart from being badly holed below deck, its hold was full

of sea-soaked bags of tapioca. A measure of its condition, listing on a sandbank and

partly submerged, was Mossie's lack of enthusiasm, back up by several others of the

group who were eyeing the wreck. Eventually with everyone presumably succumbing

to the same picture thoughts that I had, there was general agreement. The prauw was

repairable.

Two or three of the group lost no time in seeking out the Malayan harbourmaster,

who, in turn, referred them to the Resident. The upshot was, permission was given to

commandeer and the operation to be treated as salvage.

Meanwhile the Dutch party referred to by the Resident upon our arrival had gone

across to the 'Oranji” to find us, and by the time that everyone had arrived there, the

following enlightening information had been gleaned. Seeing the prauw upon their

arrival, the Dutchmen had started negotiations with the owner of the prauw with a

view to sailing with him, or acquiring the vessel by means of barter with their car

topped up with cash notwithstanding that none of them had any sailing experience.

Unfortunately, before a transaction could be completed, the over-enthusiastic Mayor

and plus willing helpers, had included the prauw in their scorched earth activities. It

had been scuttled and now lay on the sandbank with its useless cargo that had been on

its way to Java, and its owner evacuated in last night's exodus.

With the return of the three who had brought back the approval of the Resident and

the remainder of the party who had now all seen the prauw the situation was discussed

by all present. One of the company spoke up saying that since there was nothing else

to be enthusiastic about, then the prauw was the next best thing. He said, “In fact at

this moment, it was the only thing - having rejected the journey back to Padang.

Anyway, even if we could get transport, there wasn't any petrol now. What did

everybody think” well, we agreed.

Since somebody had to be in charge, not only for the tough task ahead but also the

voyage afterwards; who better than a sailor? So it was put to Mossie...would he

accept? So Mossie was out of the ranks, and back with four rings again...Having

accepted leadership, he made no bones about the problems ahead, it was not going to

be a picnic. We had a difficult task in which everyone must be involved; not

withstanding that in the end the project could be abortive. . .

Enlarging on the notes I made at the time, he said that if we were successful in

making the prauw seaworthy, then after that, the voyage itself must be considered

carefully by all before accepting it. Survival would be primitive, particularly as we

were a mixed company. The tip of Java was about 400 miles away although we could

actually sail 500 before getting there. We could be a week at sea, possibly more

depending upon the wind, or rather the lack of it - which was the reason for the prauw

being here in the first place.

There were more pros than cons. First on the list, pro-wise, we would be escaping

from our present trapped position in Benkulen and we may meet up with another ship

out at sea soon. On the other hand, the first ship sighted could be a Japanese one,

when our chances of survival could be worse than staying where we were. There

could be food and water problems - the latter aggravated by the intense heat. With no

compass to be found either on the prauw or in the town navigation would be

precarious to say the least...and so Mossie went on. However, if he was trying to talk

everyone out of the venture, he didn't succeed.

So, we set to work on a plan that was worked out for the task of emptying, re-floating

and repairing the prow. I was thankful, upon waking that morning, that I was feeling

better. During our activities in Singapore and Bukom, and throughout our wild bus

drive down Sumatra, I had been in a lot of trouble with my 'Pinna tummy'. After the

discomfort I had experienced on and after leaving the 'Pinna', and after the first couple

of days at the Mission, I had greatly improved despite all the hard work on the small

craft up to and leaving Singapore. No doubt the graveness of our situation promoted a

mind-over-matter endurance. Whatever the problem was, I couldn't have improved it.

As I had watched the terrain of Sumatra go by during that long bumpy ride, I had

experienced so much discomfort that I began to worry that I may be getting worse,

and that I may not 'make it' without treatment, but from where? So, after waking and

feeling quite fit, the good news of the prauw had chased off a lot of the blues and I

was as anxious now to get stuck into the job, as were the others.

To be able to DO something, whether or not it was likely to turn out for the best was

exhilarating. By nightfall I don’t think anybody was the tiniest bit exhilarated. That

was lost, dead and buried in fatigue. It had been such hard work removing the 1cwt

sacks of tapioca (now plus the weight of the water) out of the cargo hold and sloshing

about in ankle deep, to waist deep in water. One half of the body experiencing tepid

cool water and the other half scorched by the sun. (Benkulen is just below the

equator)

It was so hot and smelly inside the hold that it was impossible to work there for more

than five minutes at a time. So it had been arranged that tasks be separated by rota so

that helpers lifting up, pushing out, dragging, emptying or resting in turns be done

with maximum efficiency to avoid anyone flopping out from exhaustion. I found that

particularly beneficial since it gave me the chance to take a bit of time off without

appearing to be dodging the column so to speak. Since I didn't know what was wrong

inside me it was hard to decide whether activity should be avoided particularly as the

pain could develop when I was at rest!

Sometime we learned later during the afternoon we had visitors; a party of Dutch

soldiers arrived (actually we learned later they were Marines who had escaped from

Palembang after losing their ship), and like us, they were seeking an escape facility. It

was explained to one of the three officers, replying to their query, how we had

arrived, what we were doing and intended doing if we managed to make the prauw

seaworthy. The officer asked if they could come with us if we were successful.

Courtesy now demanded that the question be put to Mossie - now Captain Moss! He

of course agreed, but when the officer said that their party included 25 more men, he

retracted saying that we already had too many passengers and crew. I did not record

all that transpired, but it was on the lines that, what was important, was that even if all

the marines could be squashed in, military personnel on board would make subterfuge

and survival impossible should we be sighted by the Japanese. The officer suggested

that just the three of them might come, to which Mossie agreed, provided that they

were suitably dressed. Replying to the question, Mossie said that we hoped to sail the

next day, but more likely the following one.

Throughout the rest of the day, a bevy of marine soldiers stationed themselves near

the jetty with a mounted machine gun and slung automatic weapons. It seemed as

though someone was making sure that we did not sail prematurely, although a voice

said calming troubled waters - 'Perhaps they have been put there to protect us. Just

before dusk, they departed. Also that afternoon there was the roar of an aircraft. It

flew over us and our first reaction was duck, hide or run for cover, but then, almost

immediately the aircraft was seen to be a Netherlands flying boat, a Sunderland.

There wasn't any wing wagging, circling, or waving to show that we had been seen. It

just disappeared to the Southeast.

By the late afternoon we had the prauw looking quite shipshape, but we had to get a

move on. Not because of circumstances, important though they were, but because the

high tide was just round about sunset, probably 5pm. It was our only chance to float

the prauw without waiting another day on the sandbank. During the exertions of the

afternoon, there was the lighter side. A lot of the townsfolk had been sitting on the

beach and jetty and watching us with great interest - in fact, amusement....tuans

working! The children were having a whale of a time. It seemed as though half of the

town had turned out, just to see the tuans working, and in all that heat too!

Nevertheless, the best moment was yet to come. Our procedure for getting rid of the

tapioca, after a sack had been man-handled from below deck, was to drag it along the

deck to a convenient position, then, with it half-over the gunwales, slit the bag to let

the contents cascade into the sea. As the tide began to rise, one of the resting 'tuans'

decided to paddle-cum-wade round the prauw from stem to stern just at the right

moment to receive a hundredweight of wet tapioca all over him. The result on the

beach was absolutely electric. If there had been any aisles our spectators would most

surely have rolled in them. The chaps who had slit the bag enjoyed it too. As

somebody said later, that incident would be remembered long after the Japanese

invasion had been forgotten. (That 'somebody' must have known that the Japanese

would be defeated)

As the tide started to rise in the late afternoon, the prauw was showing signs of

floating....then, no signs of floating. We hauled on ropes and levered with poles to no

effect until it was discovered that holes which had been above the water when the

prauw had been listing, were now below it and letting in the sea.

While we were working hard to lever the prauw, there came frantic shouts from the

beach. It was a Dutchman, absolutely beside himself, and waving franticly. Where he

had come from, we had no idea and he certainly was not one from our Dutch. Then

suddenly he was shouting, and stumbling over his words that he had a wife and

children in Java, and for pity's sake, would we him with us. Thinking that we were

actually going, he came splashing through the water between the beach and the

sandbank.

Although he was told that we were not leaving and had yet to float the boat he didn't

catch on. His ears must have received the message but it seemed his brain could not

interpret. He became more frantic when we renewed our efforts with the poles and

thinking we were pushing off and about to leave he began pleading again in a most

desperate way to let him come aboard. So we let him. He sat down looking as though

he was about to have a heart attack. He could speak English but it seemed that

although he could hear he could not understand a word that was said even when

addressed by a Dutchman who went and sat beside him. I wondered what could have

happened to him before arriving in Benkulen that had left him in that zombie state.

At 4pm. picking up their guns, the soldiers departed. By 6.15 the prauw was afloat

and it was now dark and by 7.15 we had her alongside the primitive little jetty. She

looked good as though having sailed in and tied up and was waiting for her master to

return. That was the rather poetic observation I made at the time.

We all trooped back to the “Oranji”. leaving behind two volunteer guards on watch.

not only over our handiwork, but also on the 'flying Dutchman' for that is what we had

called our somewhat disoriented guest who refused to move from his original position

on top of a hatch. It is interesting to reflect on life and circumstances and the way

things affect one and why. I dropped into my bed on the floor that night absolutely

weary. All I could think of beforehand while consuming the evening meal which was

sparse and worse than the previous night was getting there and sinking into oblivion.

But I could not. The oblivion from which one wakes up refreshed and unaware of the

passage of time would not come. Our 'Flying Dutchmen' would not keep away with

my thoughts. He invaded what would have been my oblivious ones which then

resulted in dreams that were just partly dreams and partly waking thoughts. These led

me on to fantasising ones what might have been his experiences prior to boarding the

prauw.... then complete wakefulness.

It was 5 am. I went outside and stood on the veranda and looked across the mini-town

with its drifting smoke. It was quiet and not even the sound of the distant waves. I

wanted to enjoy the cool peacefulness of the morning, but that restless night was still

hanging around me like heavy cloak.

Later, as the sky lightened with the advent of dawn, I walked down to the beach. Our

two watchers were sleepily sitting on the jetty with their charge still safely floating,

tied up behind them. On it, silhouetted against the sky, the cause of my restless night

of dreams, was still sitting bolt upright in the stern, as though he had never moved

since the afternoon before.

Later still that morning, Mossie called a meeting in his capacity as leader. He wanted

to make sure that everyone was fully aware, without any illusion, as to the hardships

and possible dangers to be endured during our projected journey - particularly the heat

and complete lack of any individual privacy, and so on. After much discourse, he

concluded with, 'We will not have a single life jacket on board'. Every one was

prepared to take the risk, but later, just before sailing time, six of the Tuans who had

given us as much support as they could declined the voyage, leaving now a full

compliment of passengers and crew of 35.

After the business had been settled, we discussed strategy should we be sighted by the

enemy, and how we should dress in order to look as indigenous as possible well from

a distance.

Sailing time was fixed for as soon as we could get a load of food and water aboard

and attend to the rigging. Before we broke up for the night, and how it was promoted I

don’t know, but a small service was held, and one of the party was invited to read a

passage from the hotel bible. Unbelievable though it may seem although it was

opened at random, the passage selected included the words ...' and the dangers that

encompass us and deliver us from our enemies'.

The next morning, February 19th, acquired food stores were loaded aboard. Some of

the drier sacks of tapioca had been left on board as ballast and to provide stowage and

a sitting area around the keel shape of the hull. Somebody had discovered dozens of

one gallon and half gallon earthenware jars in the town and these were washed, filled

with water and stowed away. By the time that all had participated in these chores

which included the many visits in and out of the town, in particular, filling and

lugging the heavy water jars, we were all very hot and tired, so it didn't help a bit to

have the marines back with their mounted artillery, watching us to-ing and fro-ing like

spectators at the tennis match.

We had finished our work by the late afternoon, and just as the crew were

familiarising themselves with the sail and rigging the marines stood up, weapons at

the ready as their officer came down to the jetty, followed by the Resident. Gone was

the officer's hitherto friendly approach, for after eyeing us all for five or six seconds,

he demanded to know who was in charge. Obviously he had a memory problem for

Mossie was standing right in front of him. Matching the situation Mossie said 'I am

Captain Moss, what is the problem?' 'I want everyone off this vessel; it is now

commandeered in the name of the Dutch Navy. (He may have said Netherlands Navy

I can’t remember) If you are not prepared to accept the order it will be taken by

force….”

The last bit was quite a laugh, if the situation could be called laughable. How could

we resist with such a one sided share out of weapons? .. Mossie said later, that for the

first two or three seconds, he was prepared to laugh - thinking it was a joke because

we had been laughing and joking a few minutes previously and was slow in taking the

smile off his face. Then the situation hit him like a brick, and quoting his actual

words, 'I was absolutely speechless; how could those men have been so bloody rotten

as to sit around like they did, watching us work so hard and then pinch our labours

and our only means of escape..... '

As we started to evacuate, the final message was, 'Everything must remain on board.

Just leave with your personal possessions'(actually he said 'lessons' and then corrected

himself), so we did. I wrote later, '.....it had been very oppressive and dull all

afternoon and the sky to the east and over the mountain range, had been getting

increasingly black with clouds. Now, behind us, a dull red sun was dipping towards

the sea, and, over the town, black smoke was spreading - the results of renewed

demolitions. It seemed as though the whole aspect had been especially synchronised

to be in keeping with our feelings. Nobody wanted to see the prauw sail away.... 'red

sails in the sunset' ...At the 'Oranji' it was too late for tea and too early for the evening

meal, so we just flopped down in the dining room-cum lounge. George walked over to

the ancient wind-up gramophone in the corner and set it going - after he had sorted his

way through a pile of '78's. It was Richard Tauber singing My Little Grey Home in

the West' .I could have murdered him....'

I suppose that if I say 'I' it no doubt refers to 'we'. I felt utterly miserable and weary.

When in decent physical condition, it is easier to take the knocks that fate has to hand

out, but being in the state that we were, that afternoon's experience was hard to

swallow. There was very little chat. Unless that miracle KLM Company boat turned

up (there had been - probably wishful thinking - rumours) we had just lost our means

of escape. Nearly an hour later, Mossie turned up. It was his face round the door that

we saw first, with 'guess what?', then walking in everybody upright. 'Well, there is

some good news' we all remained sitting like ramrods. 'Yes' he said. 'I watched her

sail out; she looked fine, she went straight out and then tacked south. Our Dutchman

got away. He went splashing out into the water shouting his head off and the soldiers

hauled him on board. As Mossie walked in and then rested on the back of the chair, he

continued, 'She really looked fine. We did a good job'. Straightening up he offered a

smile and secretive wink to all, and left.

Eventually the gathering broke up, some disappeared, and some went to the tiny bar

although they were not likely to get much there for we had been told that morning that

it would be emptied in anticipation of a Japanese arrival.

Later as the lounge emptied, we 'crew'. went upstairs where we found Mossie in a

small room. As we entered he spoke first, obviously to scotch any gloom, along the

lines that he had just been thinking how lucky we had been having travelled so far

without any scratches and nobody missing. That started us recalling the many

occasions when luck or was it providence was on our side, in particular that we had

taken the northern route from Kepel. Somebody said 'If we had hit that minefield we

could have been enjoying heaven now'. which went down rather flat, and somebody

else wondered where had the army officer on the road to Lubic obtained his

information about the Japanese attacks on the ships that had taken the southern route

from Singapore. Thinking that perhaps the chat might go in the direction of our

present plight, I went down and collected my last bottle of whisky, as I returned,

Mossie said 'snap', he had already put one down on the table. After few light hearted

jibes about being secret drinkers and hiding our booze, etc., someone said, 'lets have a

party', so we did.

Later when it was appropriate, I asked Mossie 'what was all that smiling about when

you came in downstairs?'

'Me?' he said, 'smiling? .. 'I wasn't smiling I was breaking my bloody heart, that's

what”

Later, after dinner which was more like a snack, for supplies in the 'Oranji' were

running low (or perhaps they were being reserved for an uncertain future) Mossie said

he had an appointment with the Resident and left us.

When he returned he told us what had transpired. Apparently the three Dutch marines

officers had not been very happy about sailing away with us and leaving the men

behind, and less so, trying to take everybody. They had consulted the Resident and he

gave them the same advice as he gave to us upon our arrival - to go north to Padang.

While the officers made up their minds, they had put the armed guard on the jetty, as

we know. Then later in the afternoon they decided to take the Resident's advice, so

collecting their men they set off north for Padang in their vehicles - and that was when

we saw the men depart with their armament. Half way through the night they were

stopped by a demolished bridge. They then made a wide detour only to find a pontoon

ferry also demolished, so they had no alternative but to return to Benkulen. Therefore,

presumably while the officers caught up with some sleep, the beach party was back in

position where we saw them that morning.

At that point we tossed the situation amongst ourselves with a certain amount of

satisfaction because what had happened to the marines is what would have happened

to us had we followed the Resident's advice and set off north.

Mossie went on. When they returned that morning, having had to leave one vehicle

behind because they had used up all their spare fuel, they reported back to the

Resident and then departed. Mossie had asked him why it was that from morning until

late afternoon, we were allowed to work so hard without any assistance from the men

who had already decided that they were going to take the prauw. The reply was that

the officer in charge returned to him only at 4pm with the information that he was

going to commandeer the prauw legally in the name of the Netherlands Navy, and that

the Navy had priority over any civilian evacuation.

I had another disturbing night, not from things that went bump in it or demolition

activities, but from the problem that was lurking in my middle. For, whatever it was

that was lurking in there, it had not liked the day's exertions and now in my relaxed

state it was protesting now that the anaesthetising effect of the party had worn off. I

lay awake listening to the deep breathing of my room mates, and in particular, Sandy,

who intrepid he might have been few days ago at Benkalis had made a bit of a

nuisance of himself after two or three whiskies. I wished that I could have been asleep

also and oblivious to our trapped situation.

Outside the 'Oranji', what had been demolition the night before was now the noise of

the thunderstorm that had been working itself up to a big one since the late afternoon.

I wondered how the commandeerers of the prauw were getting on.

In the morning light, we ex 'Pinna' band and Mossie assembled in his room again.

Firstly from choice, but secondly from the situation that had arisen, that somehow, we

'common sailors” were not compatible with tuans and pukka sahibs - unless it was

that our passengers were all friends together and we were strangers. Putting it to

Mossie as to why there seemed to be two camps, he said that its a pity we couldn't be

just leaving wharf 50 that way we would soon have known who wanted to be in which

camp.

We talked. Whether we now wanted to or not, we couldn't go to Padang, or anywhere

for that matter for there was no petrol in the town. Even if there had been, we did not

have a bus to put it in and what was more we would never get passed the demolished

bridges.

That was not the only depressing situation. If we were to believe local news which

common sense suggested that we should a Japanese advance party had arrived in

Lahat a few miles to the east of Benkulen two days ago, and also later in Pagaralen.

We really had to start thinking fast. There just had to be something we could do if we

were to avoid internment - or worse.

There was another problem, food. All our stocks of food except for a small amount

had gone off with the prauw and now the 'Oranji' was not going to guarantee being

able to feed us any more after that day. There was only one answer to that.... to go.

There was still only one way to go and that was out to sea. But how? . .

So while we placed our dwindling hopes on the possibility of that -wishful thinking? -

KLM boat arriving, it was decided that we would search the beaches for anything that

would float. (As sailors, it would seem that it was thought that any thing that would

float was far better than being on land, !) Well, we did and came up with four small

two-man catamarans which looked as though they may have been abandoned - they

were in a rather sad state so we decided that we would acquire them. Upon closer

inspection it was found that one was beyond repair, but the other three could be made

seaworthy.

Looking back now, the idea of going out to sea in them with the hope of intercepting

one of those ships that had been just smoke on the horizon, seems a bit mad but it was

very real at the time. The idea was that if we were picked up, we would hope to bring

back help for the others. We didn't talk about the alternative situation. Those left

behind would arrange for three smoke signals in a row to be lit if the Japanese were

seen heading towards the town.'....Mossie had another idea. While work was in

progress on the catamarans, he asked if I could make a transmitter I said that

obviously, given the right bits and pieces, I could, thanks to my hitherto impecunious

radio-ham days.

Meanwhile, while we had been busy, there had been another development a party of

20 or 30 RAF chaps had arrived. I didn't ask, but I did think that they could have been

the ones in the vehicle that had shot past us going north on the day that we learned

that Palembang had been overrun. I did overhear that they had arrived in Benkulen

from the North

I wasn't around to hear the precise arrangements, but I gathered they would organise

two parties; one would go 10 miles back - they held the necessary armament-and hold

the mountain pass against any approaching Japanese. If a ship was seen to be

approaching, they were to be alerted. Meanwhile the remaining party would police the

town against any eventuality. If a ship arrived, then if necessary, they would

commandeer it and ensure that everyone got on board

Well, that arrangement savoured of a far better gesture than that of the Dutch marines

who were only thinking of themselves. Later, the Resident, Mossie and I went to the

now deserted Posts and Telegraphs building, but there wasn't anything there to be had.

I suggested we break into a radio/electrical shop but the Resident said “No, we are

still a democratic country you know' but after consideration he changed his mind and

we eventually acquired some radio sets that could be dismantled for components;

some chassis-making material. insulating material, wire and essentially, a meter and a

soldiering iron. I worked for the rest of the day and all night and by early morning I

had a primitive-looking but reasonable little transmitter assembled powered by a

couple of receivers power supplies connected in series giving me about 350V. This I

felt would provide for enough transmitting power in the HF band with which I was

familiar, and with the fixed stations frequencies. I thought, how simple it would be if I

could call up a ship on 500kc/s, but not only would that have been unwise, but I

wasn't able to receive on 500kc/s anyway since none of the all-wave receivers covered

that band. In fact, as the night wore on, or rather the early morning, I was thinking

more soberly about the use of the transmitter at all - assuming I could make it work.

When Mossie had the bright idea, don’t suppose his immediate thoughts, any more

than mine, got past the enterprising constructional part of the idea a clutch at a straw.

Instead of being soft headed with Boy Scout thoughts, I should have used my

intelligence and drawn Mossie's attention to the fact that if he thought all I had to do,

having made the equipment, was to call up somebody on MF and say 'Please come

and pick up civilians and RAF personnel from Benkulen, it could hardly be done

without inviting the Japanese Navy, and probably their airforce as well. Even using

the HF bands, which I was planning to do, without being able to code a message

would also be very risky. In fact, quite mad!

Well, having nearly completed the easy parts of the transmitter amplifying circuit and

having ‘suped-up’ the I.F. stage of the broadcast receiver so that I could receive and

monitor my own Morse signals, I knew that I would need another day to wind an

oscillator coil and make it oscillate. That would be the difficult part.

Whether it was because of the dismal thoughts I had been having because of my

misguided enthusiasm that had festered during the night hours, or whether it was

because it was 5am and I was tired, the effect was the same. I downed tools. Looking

back as I closed the workshop door, I felt a bit sad, for really I had been enjoying

myself, as though I had been in my shack at home experimenting with enthusiasm

when tomorrow would have been another carefree day.

Walking back to the “Oranji”, the first signs of dawn were creeping into the eastern

sky and in the narrow street there was the acrid smell of demolition in the pockets of

smoke that hung about.

The previous day and before I had set about my task, Mossie had said that he had

heard the rumour circulating again, reputedly originating from the Resident's office,

that there was still the chance that the KLM boat might arrive. So, on the strength of

that ‘straw’, and while I had pressed on with my project, volunteers had taken it in

turns to keep watch throughout the night for any signs of a vessel on the skyline, or

approaching, so that the RAF boys could be alerted. Some flares had been found

which were to be set off at intervals during the night and into the morning, but in

retrospect, I am surprised this action was not considered foolhardy. If there had been a

sighting, what nationality might it have been?.. Moreover, if the Japanese had arrived

in Mana, what would they have thought about flares in the night sky?

It was on the previous night that Mana, a town somewhere down the coast south of

Benkulen, had been mentioned. Noel Green and Sandy had been chatting with the

'Oranji' proprietor. Sandy's opinion was that all those rumours, Pegeralem, Lahat and

now Mana. were just rumours and that was all, and 'Do they no have any bloody

telephones in Sumatra, and if they no av'em, where did the KLM boat rubbish come

from?'

It didn't help not to know, one way or the other. Even rumours were comforting and

better than no rumours at all.

At 7am, someone was shaking me. He had just come from the beach; smoke had been

seen on the horizon. We both chased down to the jetty, and sure enough, there was

smoke. Which way was it going? . .. An hour later there was a mast, then half an hour

later again, a whole mast and funnel as a ship sailed in our direction. There was no

doubt about it.

Before the KLM boat the “Kheong Hwa” dropped anchor off-shore, The RAF had

been alerted and had returned from the pass. Somebody paddled out in one of our

repaired catamarans, and shortly afterwards, a motor boat was lowered from the

'Kheong' and this was used as a ferry twixt ship and shore. Everybody in the town was

given the opportunity to be evacuated if they wished, although very few of the

remaining town inhabitants that were left after the exodus a couple of nights

previously, took advantage of the offer. Neither did the Resident, for I did not see

him, or his secretary among the evacuees.

Irony of ironies! After the days of working on the prouw and then the catamarans, and

the suspense, wondering if a ship would arrive, then the all-night vigil and the

unnecessary work on the transmitter, another vessel steamed in and then anchored

next to the 'Kheong' . She was the HMS 'Pengar', an ex-passenger-cargo boat of about

a 1000 tons, now managed by the RNVR. Both vessels sailed out just before noon the

naval ship, one might say, acting as escort, although she was not very capable of

providing protection if it came to a fight.

As I sat on the deck of the 'Kheong' and watched Benkulen slowly disappearing out of

sight at the end of our foamy wake, I experienced quite a nostalgic feeling of loss, like

losing a friend. The memory of all that worrying and anxious waiting, fruitless hard

work on the prauw and subsequent disappointment was already dimming. Instead, my

mind latched on to that warm feeling of relief that I had experienced as the town came

into sight on that first evening. It was just like when we freewheeled down the

mountain, trouble had been abandoned behind us, and ahead lay hope.

Well, as it turned out hope plus reality had lain ahead. Once more, we need not have

worried, for nothing bad had happened. We could have sat back and enjoyed a well

earned rest. Done some idle swimming, explored the town and area, and taken

advantage of any amenities available. Then, today, walked leisurely down to the

beach and boarded our ship! However, if everybody possessed a crystal ball could we

still be happy? We would also know when our doors were going to close too! Later

that day, and I am puzzled why it came about that we did not board her in Benkulen,

we British civilians were transferred to the 'Pengar” and the two ships parted

company. The Dutch ship destined for Tjilijap on the south coast of Java, and the

“Pengar” to Batavia (now Jakarta) on the North coast.

The voyage to Batavia - about 500 miles- from Benkulan was quite uneventful,

discounting the food problem. It seemed that we all settled down as though we had

joined a pleasure cruise that is assuming that sleeping on the hard deck was acceptable

-without any thought that there was still the possibility of attack from the air and sea. I

do not recall giving such possibilities any thought, although if I had thought about it, I

might have remembered that we were sailing in the same area in which I had heard

the 'Van Himoff' being attacked by a submarine when were safely tucked away up the

river near Palembang.

As we pressed on down the coast of Sumatra, there were smoke plumes and echoing

rumblings like distant thunder as demolition activities continued. We never set eyes

on the Dutch marines with our prauw. They should, with correct wind, have taken the

exact course on which we were now travelling, and being in sight of land, their lack of

compass would not have been missed . Adverse winds may have taken them further

west.

We did however pick up some more chaps out of two small vessels who had done the

very thing that we were intending doing had the 'Kheong' and the 'Pengar' not turned

up when they did. They had put out to sea from the coast south of Benkulan to avoid

an anticipated Japanese arrival behind them from Lahat. It was quite a surprise to

recognise one of them, from when I was in Palembang/Pladjoe although difficult at

first because when I knew him, he was clean shaven. He couldn't walk because of

blistered feet, but he was more concerned about his unshaven appearance. The razor

from my skin-out back solved Robb's problem.

With a safe arrival in Batavia anticipated in the next few hours, I was looking forward

to what Batavia had to offer, but in particular, a convivial and relaxing beer and a

large meal. When we first boarded the 'Pengar', we fully expected that we mariners

would be well received by fellow RNVR officers, who in all probability would have

been ex-Merchant Navy chaps. We didn't expect a “gin in the ward room treatment',

neither did we expect to be called 'Singapore harriers' whom they were not going to

feed - well, they would, provided we wash the deck or some other menial task, which

might have been peeling spuds, I do not remember. We didn't do either, I think we

had had enough of menial tasks to last longer than a meal would do. It didn't matter in

the end. The chaps in the galley were more understanding. When the ladies of our

company learned what hospitality had been offered to them, and not to the male

“passengers', they refused what was offered and queued 'behind the galley door'.

I can appreciate that taking on a gaggle of unexpected passengers could have been a

drain on their resources which would be needed to be in reserve for a more

operational crisis, but we didn't think that the 'Singapore harriers' was at all nice.

Well, that is putting it nicely now. Actually one of the party was nearly in the act of

punching one of the officer', but I didn't record what transpired I wish that I had

We turned the corner into the Sunda strait, passing the island of Krakatoa that I had

seen when passing in the 'Pinna' and duly arrived in Batavia late on Monday

afternoon, Feb.23rd. I don’t remember where everyone went to for effectively, it was

every man for himself. We “Kulit” crew did stick together, well initially, and we

ended up at the 'Oud Vasanaar' Hotel, arranged for us by the Oil Company's

representative.

We had a very noisy welcome the next morning as a large number of Japanese aircraft

came over and attacked the airport. I could see the bombers quite plainly, and it was

interesting to note that there did not appear to be any aerial opposition or the sound of

any ack-ack fire. I wondered why? The first thing I did that morning was to go along

to the post office and send off the news home of my arrival in Java. I had written

home just before the 'Pinna' was lost, but as I learned later, by the time that letter was

received, Singapore had also been lost, in addition to the 'Pinna'. When my parents

received the news that my ship had been lost, they received no indication whether or

not there had been any survivors. Obviously, it was a very worrying time for them as

week after week went by without receiving any more information. It didn't help to

have a daughter in the WAAF with the many attacks on airfields, and another son also

at sea. (Frank had followed in my footsteps, acquired a war time special PMG

certificate and was at sea as a radio officer) Batavia, which had hitherto enjoyed

peace, was now suffering air-raids. With the fall of Singapore, the occupation of

Borneo, southern Sumatra, Sarawak, Celebes, and then the island of Bali off the

eastern tip of Java the previous week on February 17th, things were looking grave. It

was beginning to look as though, once more, we had come to the wrong island

That surmise became a reality. We had hardly had time to get ourselves organised, or

receive any instructions or advice concerning our movements, when government

orders were issued on February 24th (or 25th?) for the preparation and withdrawal of

all the fighting forces from Java!

So much for the emphatic assurance from Mr. Churchill that Java would be held at all

costs, and essentially the reason why we had originally chased down Sumatra to get to

Oosthaven ferry (Telok Betung) in order to get to Java. I could certainly have done

without that 'Welcome to Java' news. On the last leg of the voyage from Benkulen,

and with Krakatoa disappearing behind us, I was nicely getting myself into a relaxed

state for the first time in weeks.

Although I have detailed the encircling successes of the Japanese here at that time

with no radio news for a couple of weeks, I had no idea how the local situation was

changing.

With the prevailing situation in Batavia, it was understandable that we would

experience difficulties in obtaining a 'get away chit' , for unexpected late arrivals, like

us. were not likely to be given any priority. We did, of course, have the oil company

batting for us, but even they could not magically produce sailing chits immediately.

Unlike our Singapore and Benkulen circumstances. we were not in the position to

select our own transport so that WE could keep moving.

The situation that had reasonably been under control, now became abnormal with the

news of the latest government edict concerning military withdrawal. It did not now

require a crystal ball to deduce that Java was about to surrender at an early date.

Hence it was now, every man for himself, and our slogan 'keep moving' could be

added, 'he who travels fast travels alone'.

As will be appreciated. we did discuss the matter at length amongst ourselves,

because here was a Singapore situation all over again, but this time. with added

complications, one being that we did not have a 'Kulit” facility, and if we had, there

was still a strict Naval Control.

Consequently we decided that we would press on individually. While the Oil

Company may be having difficulty with a block-booking for evacuation, we as might

as individuals just fit into a corner somewhere - even to stowing away. Early next

morning, I hitch-hiked my way to Tanjong Priot docks at somewhere around 6.30am,

where I also spent some time the next day. I didn't get anywhere. In fact I seemed to

spend a lot of time ducking for air-raids and repeated rain squalls before returning to

the hotel. It was because of the 'prevailing circumstances' referred to earlier in chapter

19 that I never saw Mossie again. .I learned later from one of our 'Kulit' evacuees, that

Mossie and Noel Green had been successful in getting on board a Blue Funnel line

ship which was taking troops back to Australia. That of course was good news, but I

was very sad that I did not get the opportunity to say goodbye to them, in particular,

Mossie to thank him for his fortitude, skill, and understanding and his ever smiling

face that helped us through the many worrying days. Looking back now, I might have

done something about it had not circumstances forced upon me more pressing

thoughts of self-preservation..

The difficulty of evacuees getting away, was not only because of the prevailing

situation in the area, but because of transport. For people to get away, civilians or

military, there had to be ships, and where possible, Naval escorts. Therefore it was

natural that delays ensued until the right facilities became available - for instance by

diverting ships at sea exactly in the same way that the 'Pinna' was diverted to evacuate

Balikpapan.

Then, just like our previous experience, a door opened. We remaining ex 'Kulit' crew

(my diary doesn’t mention Sniffy Wilson I wonder where he went to?) returning to

the hotel, having had no success in locating transport that day, were approached and

given the opportunity of volunteering to man a vessel that was at anchor in the

harbour at Tanjong Priok. (The docks associated with Batavia). It had been abandoned

and was destined to be scuttled before any Japanese arrival. Not only was this

opportunity providing us with our get-away facility, but our participation would

provide one more vessel that was urgently needed to reduce the swelling numbers of

would be evacuees.

The next day, after our quick acceptance of the idea, we were at Tanjong Priok docks

by 9am. Except for another air raid - although not much of one, that delay our arrival,

but as it turned out, it wouldn't have mattered if we had arrived three hours later for

we didn't board the 'Perak' (Perra) until around mid-day. She was an old Straits

Settlements line of about 1000 tons and not unlike the 'Pengar' that had brought us

from Benkulen.

While we were waiting for assistance to get us on board the 'Perak' where she was at

anchor awaiting scuttling, we met up with our other shipmate volunteers; Captain

Cleaver and two of his deck officers Durran and Dewsbury. Their ship, the 'Larut'

which I had heard being bombed, while the 'Pinna' was in the Palembang river, had

been lost. They were lucky in getting out of Singapore on the 'Empire Star', and

although bombed en route, they arrived safely in Batavia.

For the next three days, my diary tells me, 'we worked hard on a variety of jobs

through numerous rain squalls in humid heat to get the 'Perak' in a seaworthy

condition. One of the tasks was finding and slinging only two lifeboats - a poor

substitute for the ship's required complement. We were all dog-tired again. This

activity of getting ships ready for sea was getting rather regular. John Wood said that

we should put six notches in the funnel of this one, and a few other remarks

appropriate to the occasion. The additional problem we had on this one was that we

were also getting ready for an unknown number of passengers in the limited time that

we had before the closure of the port, which was by then imminent.

Unlike our Singapore and Benkulen departures this one was subject to Naval Control.

We were escorted out of Tanjong Priok as a three-vessel convoy by a small Naval

vessel until we were clear of the north coast of Java and heading for the Sunda strait

and the Indian ocean. We set sail with all passengers aboard about mid-day on the

27th of February into a very prolonged rain squall which we didn't object to at all.

We did not have enough life jackets or life boat room, in fact probably only probably

50%, but essentially it was hoped that we had sufficient water and fuel in our bunkers

to get across to Ceylon. No doubt those deficiencies could have been avoided had we

had more time. Captain Cleaver didn't think we had. Despite the thoughts of the

voyage ahead that we had possible Japanese naval or aircraft to contend with, we had

to accept those possibilities against the dead certainty that once again, we had the

enemy coming up behind us ….'keep moving”

That dead certainty was very real, and had we known at the time, we would have had

even more hurried thoughts about our departure. During the last days of February, the

Japanese had sunk eight Allied naval ships (cruisers and destroyers)and had made

troop landings at Wekan, Eratan and Kragan on the north coast of Java. The main

objective being taking Batavia and the docks at Tanjong Priok

It wasn't until later that I learned of our sailing instruction between Captain Cleaver

and the Naval Control, hence upon leaving Tanjong Priok I had no idea as to where

we were going. At that time, I was only concerned with the fact that we were going to

move, which we did. Apparently the instructions were after clearing Sunda, we were

to meet up with another vessel that had left Tjilijap (southern Java, and destination of

the 'Kheong' after leaving Benkulen). But after clearing Java Head there was no sign

of it, so the Captain did what was expedient under the circumstances - full speed

ahead in order to get away from the coasts of Java and Sumatra as fast as possible.

Where the two other ships that left Tanjong Priok with us went to, I don’t know.

Because of the reported surface craft and submarine activity, and anticipated aircraft

reconnoitring out from the now occupied areas, it was with grateful thanks to

Providence- that we experienced so many heavy rain squalls and accompanying poor

visibility conditions. It was sometime later, when the bright orb of the moon dimmed

and then dimmed again to near invisibility before slowly brightening. I really felt that

'Somebody' somewhere was still looking after us as they had done since the 'Pinna'

this time in the shape of an eclipse of the moon, and total too! Looking back after so

many years, I have thought about that moon, and wondered, if in my stressed state,

my wishful thinking, albeit subconscious, had been turned it into memory. I therefore

contacted Patrick Moore, the astronomer, and the reply I received was ' Total eclipse

of the moon, March 2nd 1942, I was there'. . . Well, I know what I was doing in that

area, but I would like to know where he was, and why? I did ask but did not receive a

reply.

The bright moonlit nights with almost perfect visibility, were almost as worrying as

the blue sky and dead calm seas in daytime as we left behind us a long trail of filthy

black smoke - caused by the chaps down below pushing the old engine to its limit.

However, not all the time, for our best speed was only maintained up to being well

clear of the coast of Sumatra as we headed Northwest over the Indian Ocean in the

direction of Ceylon. After that, the 'Perak’s” speed was reduced in daytime to

economise on fuel and to reduce our smoke output.

Twice we altered course away from something that was spotted, imaginary or not but

whoever was on the bridge at the time altered course just the same, but then a real

scare it was not imaginary a periscope less than a mile away!

It was one of those nasty moments that was always expected, while praying silently

that it never would happen. On lookout watch on the bridge, I tended not to look at

the miles of calm sea in case I saw something - a sort of ostrich syndrome. We had

been plodding along at four or five knots with the just occasional puff of black smoke

from the funnel while the engineers below carried out some presumably necessary

smoke reduction measures. I had been on my bridge look-out watch for about half an

hour gazing out from the port side of the bridge, seeing nothing. Suddenly, Captain

Cleaver shouted out to the third mate with whom I was doubling up. On not seeing

him. he said 'Quick Sparks, get down below and tell them to give me all they've got

and to hell with the bloody smoke. (There had been a bridge to engine room telegraph

problem, and hence this verbal message) Halfway down the engine room ladder I met

the third mate and passing the message on to him I shot back on to the bridge, still not

knowing what was the matter. Captain Cleaver said, 'Get down there and stand where

I can see you. If I wave, get down there again and tell them to give me full astern for a

minute, then stop engine and every one on deck'.

He explained to us later that it was all he could think of in a hurry. If the submarine

looked like surfacing and attack imminent we hadn't a chance of escaping and it

would be easier to launch lifeboats with the ship at rest, or nearly so. The submarine

must surely have seen or heard us, so why did it leave us alone, allowing us to go on

our way? Could there be a clue in our sighting of a small southern bound convoy a

short time later?

Two interesting points emerge from that experience. Before sailing from Tanjong

Priok, the Captain was told by Naval Control that if we cleared Sunda safely and

Northwest up to two days sailing, then after that, our next danger area would be two

days out from Ceylon. At the time of sighting the sub, we were just two days out.

In Noel Barber's book, 'Sinister Twilight” he describes the ill-fated voyage of the SS

'Rooseboome', a small vessel which had sailed out of the Sumatran port of Padang

(the port that we had been urged to go back to several times during our journey down

Sumatra). She left Padang on the 26th February with a large passenger list of

evacuees, some whom had escaped across Sumatra from Singapore. When the

'Rooseboome' was 36 hours out of Ceylon, their destination being Colombo, a party

was being held in the saloon to celebrate their escape, the safe crossing and

anticipated arrival in Colombo. They did not arrive. A submarine surfaced and its

torpedo struck the ship, sinking it in four minutes. By the time that the only lifeboat

reached a small island off the coast of Sumatra almost back where the “Rooseboome'

had set off from 26 days earlier -there were only four survivors left alive out of the

135 that left the sinking ship,.

After all these years since 1942, I wonder now; was it the same submarine that captain

Cleaver sighted from the 'Perak' and why did we not suffer the same fate as the

'Rooseboome”, and did the sub see that southbound convoy?

When we reached Colombo safely on March 10th without any further incidents, I

learned that Java had surrendered in the first week in March. Although it would seem

that we would have had more time to prepare for our voyage, instead of our makeshift

departure, the Port of Tanjong Priok had closed on the 28th February consistent with

an extensive and prolonged bombing attack. That being so, then for us to have got

away it would have necessitated an overland journey to the south coast port of

Tjilijap, along with many others, where we would no doubt have had to join a queue

for evacuation. During the first week in March, Japanese Naval forces patrolled the

southern coastal area of Java to prevent evacuations and in doing so caused much loss

of life and losses on our shipping. On March 5th aircraft bombed the port of Tjilijap,

destroying the harbour and sinking 17 ships. I learned many years later, that one of

our 'Kulit” passengers was obliged to leave Batavia and travel overland to Tjilijap,

and there, joined a small vessel, the “Paelo Bras'. After a day's sailing, heading

Northwest from the port, the vessel was bombed by aircraft. What pitiful few

survivors that got away on the only usable lifeboat, drifted for over a week, arriving

more dead that alive on the west coast of Sumatra not far from Benkulen. Upon

arrival they were betrayed by local inhabitants and taken prisoner by the Japanese.

On 28th Feb/March 1st, after we had safely passed through the Sunda strait and into

the Indian Ocean, Allied ships intersected a Japanese invasion fleet landing troops at

Merak (on the western tip of Java). In that engagement, in addition to the .losses

inflicted on the Japanese, the American and British cruisers 'Houston' and “Perth”

were lost, and later, the “Everton” Simultaneous with these landings were the landing

at Eratan, Wetan and Kragen further east (as already referred to).

Relating those events above prompts me to say again, 'why were we so lucky?'

Well, after all those worrying times since Benkulen, and then in Java, finding that we

had arrived at the wrong island, and then the anxious hours on the 'Perak'. nothing had

happened to us - it had all been in the mind. It is a sobering thought that all our good

fortune had been due to our grim determination to keep moving. If our departure from

Singapore had been perhaps only a short time later or if we had taken the southerly

course and not a north westerly one there could have been quite a different set of

circumstances from which we might not have survived.

Many hundreds did not. Of the men women and children who did survive shipwreck,

bombing and gunning, in an attempt to escape from Singapore via the fateful

southerly route, and who managed to make the Sumatran coast or the many small

islands scattered about between Rhio and Java, many were to perish from exposure,

wounds, or as a result of capture and internment.

It is a sobering conjecture, that had we finally given in and succumbed to the repeated

advice to make that return journey northwards up Sumatra to the port of Padang, we

could have been on board the ill-fated 'Rooseboom'. The dates do coincide. And the

Dutch sailors who commandeered the prauw, and the 'Flying Dutchman', I wonder

how they fared? If they had not taken the prauw and circumstances had placed us all

on it instead, and excluding any problems that we could have experienced at sea, we

could have arrived in Java to find the Japanese there' And the Chinese lady on the

road to Palembang. I wonder if she was on the 'Rooseboome'?

None of those thoughts of course crossed my mind as we paralleled the coast of

Ceylon (Sri Lanka now). Instead I had a lovely feeling of well-being that I had not

experienced since that early morning on the 'Pinna' after the Captain had awoken

me. .And I was clean too, I had just had a shower - the first one since leaving Batavia,

because of the water shortage - and then a second one with my shorts and shirt on

because it was more convenient to wash them that way.

It is interesting that I should record such mundane actions as those ablutions, yet after

spending fourteen days on the 'Perak' I cannot remember seeing a single passenger

onboard arriving or leaving. As I dried out on deck in the hot sun, the Japanese war

was 2000 miles away, and ahead, shimmering in the heat haze, Colombo looked

beautiful, and this time, It just had to be the right island - and a safe one.

Having dealt with the usual port arrival formalities, my first priority was a telegram

home; my next one was to buy some clothes, for although I was clean, I was in a very

un-pressed and rather un-cared for state, but I had to shelve that priority until I

procured some necessary currency. (As an evacuee/refugee, I had enjoyed the facility

of a free telegram home)

I could have gone along to the Marconi company office which would have been the

correct thing to do, but instead, I went with other Oil company employees. The first

thing that I heard on walking into their office was, 'Sparky'... followed by a familiar

bear-like hug. The last time I had experienced it, and not to be forgotten, was in the

radio room before we lost the 'Pinna'.

For the next half an hour Arthur Greene and I were locked in 'how did you'

exclamations followed by more detailed explanations. Arthur had been experiencing

the increased tempo of Japanese bombing from his bed in the General hospital in

Singapore, followed by one of the long-range artillery shells landing in the hospital

grounds. With those foreboding indications of the situation, he had decided that he

would be far better off out of hospital with tonsillitis, than in bed when the Japanese

arrived. Hence why I could not reach him by telephone from wharf 50. Discharging

himself along with another patient, he was helped from Ootram road to the water front

where he joined other evacuees. Boarding a small vessel, the 'Mutiara' all arrived

safely in Sumatra via a short route south and then west of the Rhio islands, despite

aerial activity around them. Like the 'Kulit', the 'Mutiara' followed a river inland, and

eventually all aboard were helped to get across the island to Padang. Here Arthur

boarded a collier bound for Colombo and duly arrived there a week or so before the

'Perak'. What difficulties he experienced on the 'Mutiara' and then in Padang with so

many would be evacuees requiring transport, my diary does not record.

The business over at the Oil Company agents office, we remaining ex-'Pinna' crew,

which now included Arthur Greene, were found accommodation at the Mount Lavinia

hotel at Mount Lavinia, just a short train ride from Colombo. I did that short train

journey so many times during my stay in Ceylon that even now the station stops from

Colombo station of Slave Island, Bambalamatia, Colapatia and Moilnt Lavinia are

still locked in my memory.

Upon arriving at the hotel, there was another happy re-union for me; this time,

'Pinna’s' cadet Shorty Armstrong, and Les Clayton the captain of the 'Ribot'

responsible for evacuating the Bukom demolition party and some of the Oil Company

staff. They had been lucky in getting away from Bukom unscathed and across to

Sumatra, and like Arthur and party, they were fortunate in getting prompt transport

help across country to Padang. At the docks, they were not quite so fortunate in that

the vessel they boarded - the HMS Encounter' took them backwards to Batavia and

not their preferred destination, of Ceylon. However they did get away quickly which

must have been about a week before my arrival there in the 'Pengar'.

Although not possessing operational navigational experience (although he was

studying the subject) young Shorty accurately piloted a boat load of evacuees in a

small craft named the 'Ho Kwahg' out of Tanjong Priok and across the Indian ocean,

arriving a short time after Arthur Greene in the collier. Eventually arriving home,

Shorty (Ralph Armstrong.) was awarded the BEM and also the Lloyd's medal which

he well deserved, not only for his navigational expertise, but also for his stoical work

that day on the 'Pinna'

After our varied experiences on and off the water, it was a happy and relaxing

interlude, drinking together and enjoying the afforded amenities. The Mount Lavinia

hotel, was (and I expect still is) on a rocky outcrop right on the sea shore with the

beach framed on one side with the white surf rollers of the Indian ocean, and on the

other, coconut palms prolifically endowed. If there was anything that could make us

forget there was a war on, it was the millionaire style existence which we enjoyed -for

me, six weeks. Those six weeks more than compensated for the worries of the

previous six. Mind you, I would not have enjoyed the existence so well if I had known

during that time, that the occupation of Ceylon and Australia, the latter via Darwin,

was on the Japanese agenda. Also, that they had, between the first and last weeks in

March (after their occupation of the Dutch East Indies from northern Sumatra to

eastern Java and Timor) occupied the Nicabar and Anderman islands in the Southern

Bay of Bengal west of Malaya

Had I known, I might have thought that they were catching up with me again! Had I

harboured such a thought, I would not have been so surprised when it materialised

that Sunday morning, 5th April. I had awakened quite early to the sound of lashing

rain and thunder and had dozed off again, but became conscious again later, thinking

that the storm was really developing into a heavy one. Then ‘Hells Bells’, that not still

the storm, its gunfire...lots of it. Looking through the French window door, I could see

that the dark sky was riddled with flack. That didn't bother me immediately because I

felt there was something else more important to be concerned about. It was those loud

rumblings that seemed to be coming across the water, the low flying aircraft, and the

long and short bursts of gun-fire from different directions, together with two large

explosions behind me.

'Invasion' .. . . . . In thirty seconds flat I was ready for the road. I had travelled about

3000 miles to get away from danger; I wasn't going to get caught on another island.

By the time I had got to the bedroom door I was more awake and thinking sanely. A

beleaguered Singapore situation just could not have developed overnight....or could

it? Out on the veranda I did a quick look-see, but scanning the whole beach left to

right and then out to sea, there wasn't a single landing craft or ship to be seen. What

was all the noise about, and where were all those aircraft coming from?

I went out into the corridor and banged on George's door and nearly banged him in

the face as he it opened and came out. I then made a quick dash back to my room

grabbed my skin-out bag and joined George outside. Flights of Japanese aircraft were

sailing over the hotel from the direction of the sea without any apparent opposition,

and so low that I could see figures inside the cockpits. It seemed that their only target

was the RAF base at Ratmalan in the distance somewhere behind the hotel.

Ack-ack guns were now barking with greater intensity it was getting really noisy. One

aircraft crashed down in the garden behind the hotel and one plopped down in the sea

at the front. Smoke could be seen rising in the direction of the city resulting from a

separate flight of aircraft which I learned later, also attacked ships in the harbour.

It really did seem that the battle for Colombo at started Then suddenly, at 9.15, all the

activity stopped. the raid sirens wailed the 'all clear' and then the quietness sounded so

quiet. Later that day while looking around, we came across the aircraft that had come

down. It was a burnt-out shell. so amazingly intact, with the two men inside looking

like two skeletons with a few parts missing. A soldier was also wandering about and

helping himself to a piece of skull, 'Souvenir', he said.

Although there was a repeat raid on the Naval base at Trincomalee on the other side

of the island a few days later, where the HMS 'Hermes', a corvette and two tankers

were sunk, Ceylon was not raided again. Strategically both the Japanese attempts

were failures, but we did lose 35aircraft.; the Japanese may have lost 25. If they

expected to do a 'Pearl Harbour' on our fleet at Trincomalee, they must have been

disappointed it was not in port

I learned later that both attacks had originated from a Japanese task force, I00 miles

south of Ceylon, and I wondered how such a surprise attack could have happened, and

a bevy of ships get so near without being detected on radar or by patrolling aircraft.

Perhaps the RAF did not patrol, for we didn't see a single aircraft or Naval vessel as

we crossed over in the 'Perak'. However, I learned many years later, that a patrolling

Catalina aircraft spotted the Japanese fleet, three days before the attack. It was shot

down, but not before the signaller had transmitted a report back to base - yet our

defences were still taken by surprise!

Well perhaps that was a small price to pay for the surprise the Japanese experienced.

With no British fleet at Trincomalee on which to do their 'Pearl Harbour' attack, and

the fact that reconnaissance had pin-pointed the position of the task-force, their worry

must have been, where was the British fleet? History now tells us that the Japanese

having lost the surprise initiative, were not again able to attempt an occupation of

Ceylon.

The attack on Ceylon was described by Winston Churchill as 'His most dangerous

moment'. For an enemy base there, could have, made a serious difference to the war

in the East. An account of this 'Dangerous moment' is covered in Michael Tomlinson's

book of that name, from which I have obtained some of the above information.

After the raid on Colombo, the Governor, in a broadcast speech, praised the brave

behaviour of the populace, but by the following day they were not so brave as to

remain in the city, for there was a grand scale exodus. Thousands left and all kinds of

workers downed tools and filled every form of transport moving out of the city. The

trains which dwindled to just a few passing through Mount Lavinia station, were

packed and bulging with bodies half out of windows, or sitting on the buffers between

carriages: there were some perched even more dangerously on top of them.

By this time, George and I were the only ones left in the hotel, all my other

companions 'The Singapore harriers', plus the chaps that had arrived before us, had all

left for home or joined other ships. George had only recently arrived in the hotel. He

was a Blue Funnel line employee recovering from an appendix operation.

I don’t know why it was that I was the last one to leave out of the Singapore party. Up

to that time I had not been a bit concerned as to how long I stayed at Mount Lavinia,

provided that the trouble in my middle didn't get any worse. After the raid,(and this

was before we were aware of the permanency of the Japanese withdrawal) the idyllic

walks along the palmed beach collecting fallen coconuts for their milk or lying on

sand to be washed by the surf, ceased to be the relaxing interlude it had been. My

thoughts had now changed to 'I must get away from here - to keep moving...', that

even the relaxation afforded by the hotel service, and its ever open bar, would not

dispel. I started to make frequent visits to the Agent's office, on one pretext or

another, to ensure that it would not be a case of 'out of sight, out of mind'. I was fed

up with islands. They were not a bit safe!

The week laboured on, as did the next one the only change in circumstances were the

loaded trains, bulging again, with habitants returning to Colombo. Then suddenly

without any previous hint, I received a telephone call late one evening and the

following day, April 20th, accompanied by George who had received similar advice.

We were to travel on the troopship SS 'Devonshire', bound for Bombay where George

and I were to re-embark.

At Bombay, I was glad to leave the very over-crowded and uncomfortable

'Devonshire' in favour of an Australian passenger liner, the SS 'Awatea'.(The “Awatea

was later sunk during the North African Invasion in 1942) We sailed on my birthday,

April 25th. 1942 bound for somewhere in the UK, unaccompanied because of the

'Awatea's” high speed, and blacked-out.

After calling at Durban, and then Capetown where I equipped myself with wardrobe

more suitable for weather at home, we then jig-zagged our way at high speed west, far

into the Atlantic in order to present a more difficult target for German U-boats. Like

the 'Devonshire' the 'Awatea' was also 'full to the gunwales’ but this time, with Polish

military personnel, with some room left for civilian passengers. The Poles were a

courteous. happy. cheerful and noisy crowd, taking over all that was available by way

of the amenities aboard which included the few female passengers the latter with

much bowing and heel clicking. Remembering the voyage now, it seems that George

and I who shared a cabin, spent most of our time reading every book in the ship's

library, with occasional exercise on deck, when it was not too congested. In addition

to that exercise, I made many extra compulsory walks between my cabin - which was

three or four decks down - and the open deck, and also from the library and dining

room, so that I knew every straight, bend, corner and stairway in detail. My

experiences to date had left me with an extreme sense of self-preservation phobia,

coupled with my Boy Scout motto of 'Be Prepared'. I wasn't going to trust the

emergency lighting should we be torpedoed; the last one had not worked.(George said

he hadn't been a Boy Scout!)

Just when I thought that if we didn't alter course we might be seeing the South

American coast we headed north, after which we approached 'Home' from around the

north coast of Ireland. We sailed up the Clyde; the green hills were beautiful in the

morning sun. We docked at Glasgow the date was the 31st of May – exactly three

years since . I departed from London on the 'Corfu'. Sadder and wiser?, not

particularly. A bit older? yes. Experienced? .. , very much so.

The journey home by train was similar to the many journeys I was to make between

ports of arrival and departure as the war progressed. Blacked-out carriages with either

dim or no lighting at all, making it impossible when travelling at night, to read.

Numerous stops some of short duration and some as long as a couple of hours due to

an air-raid or the aftermath of one. Crowded carriages because of the volume of

military passengers in addition to the civilians. If one were lucky, a seat, otherwise the

guard's van or the draughty corridor.

I had almost forgotten the indigenous and familiar smell of smoke from the engine

and the sound of escaping steam; the clanging of milk churns; porters opening and

closing doors, calling and assisting with luggage rarely seen today. Then the poo..ooff

of the moving engine. The blacked-out stations had their name-boards removed for

the same reason that roads where without signposts, so it was always a puzzle as to

where one was along the route of the journey.

Just off the platform and through the light-proof doors and curtains the station buffet

was another world of brightness and seeming plenty. Spirits were hard to get but beer

was plentiful and of course, tea by the gallon. I found the station buffets always a

happy oasis in a desert of railway lines well, there was the occasional 'Hey don't you

know there's a war on?'. From my experience a station buffet of today cannot compare

with the cheerful atmosphere of the same place during the war years.

On this particular journey, I caught my train at Glasgow in the late afternoon, and

travelling into the late evening, changing trains three times. Clickerty-clacking

through a completely blacked-out world after dark was a new and eerie

experience....like travelling through a pitch-black desert. Because the old railway lines

still had their expansion joints, speed at night could only be assessed by the rate of the

clickety-clacks. As the carriage wheels rolled over them. During the daylight it was a

happy journey through pleasant countryside with which I had been so familiar in

peace time. I don’t remember seeing anything untoward that indicated that I was back

in a Britain at war. In consequence the dark foreboding I had experienced the night

before docking, as to how I would find things at home, slowly melted away, and upon

arriving at my destination, even dingy Grimsby Town was welcoming in as much as it

was still dingy looking.

I was expected home since my telegram from Glasgow had heralded the event. When

I stepped over the threshold - it was 2am - my father said 'They've been feeding you

well', and my mother said “Oh you've lost your golden hair” (my hair was now quite

dark) Next day, sitting in my ham shack in the garden, where I had first put my

adventurous thoughts into action and burnt so many midnight candle hours studying,

it seemed to have shrunk somewhat. Since all privately owned transmitting radio

equipment had been impounded during the war, mine was also missing for the

duration. Lying on the desk beneath a pair of pliers was my Marconi Telegram

“Report.........'. Was it only three years and a bit since I had responded to the

instruction and closed the shack door?

As I sat on the chair where I had studied for so long and had fantasised adventures on

the high seas, it crossed my mind that I never did lean on that rail and smoke a pipe.

The summer of 1942 passed all too quickly, amounting to four months at home,

comprising accumulated leave (having been away for three years) plus a period of

sick leave. A few things got in the way of complete relaxation in the form of a dose of

shingles, my recurring problems in my middle which necessitated investigation, and

air-raids. Interestingly enough, it was our dog who was agitating to get down the

garden to the air raid shelter quite a few minutes before air-raid sirens could be heard

by us. Being so near to the Grimsby docks- airborne time - frequent warnings were

inevitable, but not always a hazard.

After being so well fed at sea, it wasn't easy to adapt to the war-time rationing (note

7) although I don’t recall suffering unduly. As the war progressed, the food situation

in our house improved as brother Frank and I returned home from voyages abroad,

particularly from Canada and America, loaded with a variety of tinned foods and

other commodities that were hard to obtain, even on 'points'

There were two happy occasions when Frank's and my return from sea coincided with

sister Olive's 48 hours leave from the WAAF. We made the best of wartime

conditions of blacked out streets and roads and the lack of transport. although this was

partially solved by borrowing bicycles. Frank knew a young lady by the name of Jean

Hardy and he introduced me on a casual meeting, then later, we visited her home

where her parents owned a long established photographic business and studios in

Cleethorpes. It so happened that Jean was home on vacation from the teachers training

college in Bingley, and so the friendship blossomed. I didn't know at that time that she

was destined to be my wife several years later. Marriage at that time was not on my

war time agenda – not knowing what survival points were being marked up for me in

the great scheme of things.

During that summer went to London twice visiting the Oil Company and my

employers, Marconi Company. As I wandered around, it was very disturbing sight be

see the extent of the bomb damage caused during the worst of Hitler's blitz, and a

unique experience travelling on the underground, where, night and day, access to the

tube train was over numerous sleeping bodies occupying the platforms which were

also serving as very safe air-raid shelters. The eerie sound of the air-raid sirens, and

the ensuing activity on the streets as the populace took shelter, certainly brought home

to me, more than the descriptive radio broadcasts what the people of London and

other cities had endured night after night during the worst of the air-raids. There were

no air-raids during my second visit ton London, consequently I slept peacefully at the

Royal Hotel Kingsway. My accommodation cost me 12/6d a night, bed and breakfast.

I doubt if 63p equivalent in today's money would now pay fur my return fare on the

bus between King's Cross station and the hotel.

On 12 November I received a message from the Marconi Company to report to the

Hull depot, which I duly did, repeating the journey via New Holland ferry that I had

made so many times before when attending the Technical College. I was to join the

Ocean Freedom as chief radio officer and to expect my 2nd and 3rd men sometime during

the following day.

After spending the night in Hull without any disturbing sirens I presented myself at

the shipping office the following morning to sign on the ship's articles, and then went

in search of the Ocean Freedom. I eventually found her in the dock undergoing repairs after

a safe return from Archangel, which is more than can be said of other ships in that ill-

fated Russian convoy, PQI7 (convoy PQ17 is described in David Irving's book

Destruction of convoy PQ17). She was also taking on cargo which would be completed in Hull

and Dundee later.

The ship was a nearly new American-built Liberty-type affording very spacious and

well furnished accommodation and a well equipped radio room. It obviously had lots

of other qualities which did not interest me at the time. Upon boarding, my natural

first question was, 'Where are we going?' Nobody knew, but wherever our cargo was

bound it certainly was not Russia again because all the extra fittings required for an

Arctic voyage were being removed.

A few days later after the ship had moved to a berth in Hull, I and my 2nd and 3rd

ROs and also a couple of the deck officers, attended a three-day gunnery course.

Judging from the array of defensive weapons visible on the Freedom, this attendance was

very necessary, since for my part I had never handled a gun in my life, well excluding

Charlie Greens, let alone fired one in anger. Not that any of us would be expected to

do so later, but all the ship's officers were expected to have a working knowledge of

the armament on board, and to be able to use them should the occasion arise. When

the ship sailed, there would be experienced DEMS army personnel to man and

maintain the weapons.

There were four twin-barrelled Oerlikons that fired one-inch shells, and these were

located around the bridge structure with an extra two mounted fore and aft. Scattered

about were a number of small machine guns. On the poop was a defensive 'stern

chaser', a 15-pounder. A very satisfying collection when compared with the ship

operating in those Far Eastern waters did not have up to the fall of Singapore.

We were not to know of our destination until after we had joined up with the convoy.

Later. However by the time we left Dundee (where we called to complete loading

after leaving Hull) there was no mistaking the nature of our voyage; for now, our

cargo holds below decks were packed with tins of petrol and explosives of all kinds

and every inch of the decks above were jam-packed with a variety of tanks and guns

and support vehicles.

During our course around the north of Scotland, there was according to my diary...

enthusiasm on board as we listened to the BBC. Success after success in North Africa

and Montgomery's magnificent drive west (following his successful El-Alamein

campaign) chasing Rommel's army and the Italians. Tobruk and Benghazi had been

re-taken and much further west, a Vichy French surrender and Dakar occupied by

Allies. Over Germany, the RAF was hammering industrial targets. To top all that, the

Russians were driving the Germans back out of Leningrad, taking 50,000 prisoners. In

the Pacific, the Americans had dealt heavy blows on the Japanese and the Australians

had advanced in New Guinea...

With such good news, I wondered if perhaps the war could be over before we got to

wherever we were going, but I was so wrong. In fact three years wrong.

After one week of uncomfortable rolling round the north of Scotland due mainly to

our very top heavy deck cargo and not the easterly gale that was delaying us we duly

anchored between the sombre looking hills surrounding Loch Long, joining other late

arrivals. Later there was the convoy conference attended by captains and chief radio

officers concerning convoy discipline, tactics and communications should the convoy

be attacked - but no word as to our destinations. This was still to be a secret until a

certain projected date. Later that day we left the Loch after meeting up with other

ships that had arrived from different anchorages about the Clyde. By the next day, all

ships had assembled in lines abreast and astern from the Commodore ship (appointed

at the conference). Like marching bands men all ships dressing from the one for'ard

and abeam.

The speed of our convoy was to be 7.5 knots, the normal speed of the slowest vessels

hence the Commodore ship maintained that speed, and all others kept station by

increasing or decreasing their engine revolutions, up or down as the occasion

demanded. Accurate station keeping was not only important in the event of poor

visibility, it also enabled the Naval escorts to locate a particular ship speedily, and

ships to recognise one another from the convoy plan on board. Complete radio silence

was maintained and all inter-ship communications were made by the use of the Aldis

signalling lamp which was as efficient by day as it was at night with its blue lens.

During the daytime, a lot of use was made of the conventional flag hoists. In this

convoy, ROs, in addition to their routine radio room watches, they also shared

watches on the bridge for signalling and look-out duties. After my varied experiences

to date, I found this new organised convoy existence, which I was to experience many

times before the war ended, quite exhilarating, and the view from the bridge of our

fighting back ability with gun crews standing around, very satisfying.

After an uncomfortable voyage round the north of Scotland, which I didn't enjoy one

little bit, the weather later as we sailed southward, changed to flat calm seas and blue-

sky conditions, and so warm too. The sight of 60-odd ships all gliding along in perfect

visibility during the day, and equally so in the bright moonlit nights was certainly

very inspiring. I suppose it would have been also for any enemy submarines that

might have been around. However, a week passed and our tranquillity lasted with

only minor aircraft and submarine activity. Even later when the whole convoy waited

outside the Mediterranean, twisting and turning for a whole day before orders were

received as to where parts of the convoy were to proceed we experienced no

problems. Then, late in the evening, we re-assembled and headed towards the Strait of

Gibraltar and the Mediterranean with the friendly looking lights of neutral Spain and

Tangiers twinkling in the distance.

At last we were given our sailing instructions and our destination. Except for eight

ships, of which the Ocean Freedom was one, all other ships of the convoy which consisted

mainly of Americans, were destined for Casablanca, Oran and Algiers.

We eight remaining British ships were to push on further east to Bone on the Algerian

coast - the nearest enemy unoccupied port for the transportation of our cargoes that

would be off-loaded and conveyed to the Allied armies that were thrusting their way

across Tunisia. Well, at least we were not going to Malta. I wasn't anxious for our

gunners to be so fully employed, although as it turned out, by the time that we left

Bone, they had been kept quite busy indeed.

A note in my diary reads... 'Just a year ago the Pinna was on the way to evacuate

Balikpapan in Borneo after the start of Japanese hostilities. Remembering my mixed

feelings at that time as to what the future held, it seems that history is having another

try. We have just learned that Bone is 30 minutes flying time from the Axis base at

Cagliary on the tip of Sardinia and less from the Axis held ports of Bizerta and Tunis.

Tonight the German radio broadcast news claiming that the Stuka aircraft had

attacked and successfully closed the port of Bone and attacked and sunk shipping in

the area....'

The Stukas did attack ships in our convoy, but none was sunk, although two ships

ahead of the Ocean Freedom and one on our port side had been unlucky. As we eight ships

steamed into Bone, it certainly was not closed to us. Somewhat battered, yes, but as a

port certainly very operative. Considering that probably 80,000 tons of war material

was about to arrive in Bone for the immediate transport by road out to their

destination, it is not surprising that Axis tried to do something about it. Considering

the nearness of the enemy bases and the capability of those Stuka dive bombers, our

small convoy was very fortunate.

Our nights, tied up to the wharf that was littered with every type of explosive device

and the many implements of war that had been discharged from the ships, were to say

the least, very noisy and very worrying. Stuka after Stuka zoomed down for five or

six hours every night with various intervals between 10pm and 4am, and they

plastered what they planned would be the wharf, ship, and then the town, but certainly

not the water which was where most of the bombs landed. While our DEMS gunners

retaliated, I took refuge, along with others, whoever they were, in the lower space

beneath the bridge structure, wondering if the bombs would penetrate three decks

before exploding. I comforted myself with the knowledge that the petrol was all

stowed in the fo'rad part of the ship, and that only the explosives were beneath!

Those dive-bombing attacks continued each night right up to us leaving the port, with

the exception of the Christmas 48 hours. Many times throughout the day, delayed

action devices that had been dropped in the night raids would explode unexpectedly

and huge water spouts would leap out of the water. The incredible thing was, that all

the time that we were alongside the wharf at Bone, not one piece of war material of

any consequence was lost. There was only the odd daytime raid and unloading

continued uninterrupted.

It was fortunate that the low flying aircraft attacks came in from over the high ground

that rose up immediately from the wharfs. It was safe for the diving aircraft because

they could not be seen to be shot at by our gunners until they actually arrived, and of

course, swiftly gone before the gunners got aligned on them. But at the same time, the

pilots were hampered by the high ground. Consequently, when bombs were released,

they overshot the wharf and the ships, and fell in the sea beyond the ships. Had the

attacks been made from the seawards side it would have been different, but very

dangerous for the Axis powers to risk their aircraft and pilots, which by that time they

could ill-afford to lose.

Those Stuka dive bombers were equipped with banshee wailing-type sirens which

became operative as the aircraft dived down. They were supposed to create a

demoralising effect on strafed troops - I don't think that ships' crews liked them either.

Why high level bombing on the ships and wharfs was never employed is a puzzle,

well, to me.

Bone had been once a peaceful pretty little town and a curious mixture of old and

new. Nice tree-lined boulevards, wine shops and pavement cafes, open spaces and a

bandstand. While I was there it was just a badly damaged front line town under

martial law. The Vichy French it seemed still operated the civil laws and were not

exactly friendly... non-co-operation abounded. They didn't want the Allies there with

their troops, and the attitude was that if we had not brought the war to Bone, they

wouldn't have been in such a mess. Well I suppose they were a bit right in that

respect.

Chatting with the military personnel on duty, I gleaned that a lot of very disrupting

things went on seriously affecting the rapid transportation of supplies out from the

docks such as catching men and locking them up on silly civil pretexts and losing

keys to essential equipment. Late arrivals from other Vichy held ports like Algiers and

Oran spoke of similar problems, including armed resistance against the Allied

occupying troops.

On Christmas day being British we had the time-honoured British midday dinner with

the compulsory line up of turkey, trimmings and Christmas pud and the 'cup-that

cheers' that came mysteriously from somewhere.

Then later the Chief engineer and I went to the church on the hill where we sang

'Silent night' and two or three familiar carols. Afterwards we walked around the

outside of the town. En-route, we picked pockets full of Satsuma type oranges and

quite forgot that there was a war on. It seemed that the enemy did too. He left us alone

for the 24 hours of the Christmas period but made up for the lapse with a really

worrying daylight raid on Boxing Day afternoon.

Well, all the raids may have seemed like raspers to us on board, but in truth, those

attacks on Bone were a mere fleabite considering the effort that was really necessary

to prevent those supplies getting through to the Allied armies. At that time they were

driving east to connect with General Montgomery's Eighth Army that was driving

west (this was after their success at El Alamein). The Axis powers should have been

strong enough to prevent a single supply ship getting anywhere near that North

African coast, but they were not. By May 13th 1943, they had lost the battle.

Earlier orders that we were to load up with phosphates were cancelled, and as result,

except for some ballast, we sailed empty out of Bone on the morning of December

27th just as the red sun was lighting up the red roofs and white-washed walls of the

town houses. There was never a truer observation - 'distance lends enchantment'.

Contrary to expectations and with all guns manned until night-fall that day, we sailed

the length of the Mediterranean without a single incident and duly dropped anchor in

Gibraltar harbour where it was less peaceful than being at sea. For each night the

harbour resounded with exploding depth charges that were the measures taken to

combat small sub-marines and skin-divers who sneaked out from the Spanish coast to

stick mines on ships in the harbour.

My recollections of the town of Gibraltar are just a hazy recall of steep narrow streets,

shops overflowing with goods and the ridiculous price of spirits - something like 4d a

tot, and a good one at that. I would not have bothered to go ashore at all for, I was

more concerned with catching up on lost sleep, but it fell on me to go ashore to take,

and collect, the ship's mail, the morning after our arrival. As it turned out, that trip

ashore was fortunate because I became familiar with the layout between the dock

where I landed off the tender, the area, and the route into the town, which was quite a

long hike along the dock road.

Later, in the evening, the captain received instruction to be ready for sea at first light

the next morning. This was quite a surprise because it had been thought that we would

be staying for several days, consequently most of the crew were having a well-earned

whoop ashore. Because the 1st and 2nd officers had turned in and the 3rd was on

anchor watch, the captain asked me to go ashore to try to round them up. This is

where I was glad that I had made that trip, for the visiting tender dropped me on the

dock road, but this time it was completely blacked out. Remembering that long stretch

of dock road bordered by posts and droopy chains, I more or less kept one hand on

them all the way to the town.

It wasn't difficult finding the venues accommodating the different crew members. The

first difficulty upon making contact however, was convincing them that they had to

return to the ship, the second was convincing them why they had to return and third,

getting away from them, for they were in such high spirits, or rather more to the point,

high with spirits. At such encounters it was repetitions along the lines of 'good old

Sparks' and, or, 'Hey we've never had a drink with Sparks'!, or' Mr. Sparks doesn't

mind drinking with the fo'castle and ...'hey, Fred, he wants another drink - which I

didn't, but did so as a 'one for the road' then we must go. I don't think that I had ever

bothered about rum before, perhaps because I didn't like it - I still don't but after the

first two, or perhaps three, it became quite pleasant.

Returning to the ship I was very grateful to find those posts and chains along the pitch

black dock road, and navigated on them. At some stage along the journey, I was very

poorly indeed and thankful that there was a post to lean on. After I had parted with

everything possible from inside me, I felt a little better and very thankful for the lines

of posts stretching to where the tender would be waiting.

Upon arriving at the jetty, wharf, landing stage or whatever it was called, the tender's

black shape had not arrived, which was fortunate for it gave me time to drift back to

normality. It was while I was doing this drifting back that I began to wonder what was

different. My first thought was that I had come to the wrong place, then I decided it

wasn't the place that was different, it was me, I felt funny and certainly not 'funny ha-

ha'.... Then suddenly I knew! Teeth.

It was as though I had suddenly been given an anti-alcoholic jab. I was instantly alert

and put my hand up to where my four front false teeth should be for confirmation -

they were not there! Just my gums that were slowly coming back to life and beginning

to belong to me.

I don't know how many posts there were there must have been dozens of them along

that road where I may have stopped. I searched the base of each post in turn, wishing

that I had thought to bring a torch with me, instead of having to rely on my sense of

touch to establish the difference between all sorts of things and my teeth. By the time

I had found them, I was stone cold sober and my alcoholic remorse hurt much more

than my pumping head.

Upon returning this time the tender was already waiting, and only then did it suddenly

occur to me that I was back, yes, but what had I done with the shore-leave crew that I

had set off to capture. The thought of going back to town and starting all over again

was just as miserable a one as the thought of returning to the ship empty handed, for

at that moment, I hadn't a clue as to what had transpired earlier. Then, that anonymous

eye that had watched over me from the 'Pinna' to Colombo, and for all I know, in

Bone too, came to my rescue. Out of the night, in the distance down the dock road,

came the sounds that just had to be from boisterous tanked-up sailors whose

constitutions were more tolerant to alcohol than mine.

When my thoughts drift back to 'Operation Torch' which was the code name given to

those North African landings they don't latch on to that anxious and noisy experience

of the Stuka dive bombers, which, in our case, made more noise than damage. Those

memories have dimmed beyond recognition among my three or more years at sea.

Instead, I can recall and relive instantly, those feelings of shame and misery when I

allowed myself to get into such a ludicrous situation. Then the stabbing anxiety

experienced, as I searched for my teeth and afterwards, water to wash them coupled

with the awful thought that I might have to return to the ship, and then home, looking

all gummy. Had it been a week or so earlier I could have appropriately voiced the

song 'All I want for Christmas are my four front teeth'...Operation Torch

This was the code name given to the landings of an Allied army and its equipment

along the westerly North African coast. This enabled an advance to be made easterly

from Algeria and Tunisia, thereby attacking the Axis forces from the west while

General Alexander's army was attacking from east to west. At the onset of the

landings, delays and problems ensued because of resistance at the Vichy French held

ports, and hence the problems experienced at Bone too. Bone was the nearest and

most forward port available to the Allies. The next ports east were Bizerta and Tunis

which were in enemy hands at that time.

After the fourth day of reasonable weather off the Portuguese and Spanish coast lines,

our welcome into the Bay of Biscay was intermittent sleet and snow, high winds and

accompanying rough seas. Being an empty ship, well except for ballast, like the others

in the convoy who were returning home empty, the Ocean Freedom rolled to such angles,

port and starboard, that there was the continuous thought that 'this time she really is

going over'. However, each time it seemed that she considered it shuddered and then

rolled back again. Everything that was not fastened down, moved. Trying to stay in

my bunk between watch periods was trying, but contemplating food, or keeping it

down after bravely partaking, more so. Keeping things on the table during meals did

provide a diversion requiring an extra pair of hands. So it was with a sigh of relief

after clearing the north coast of Ireland, that the convoy broke up, and we headed for

the Clyde, and I to my bunk, and hopefully, to be able to stay in it.

Ten days later we were safely tucked up in Sunderland docks, notwithstanding that we

had sailed on the 13th and were number 13 in the coastal convoy around the north of

Scotland. Here, we all wondered where our next voyage would take us and whether or

not we would be able to snatch a few days shore leave. The answer came the

following day. Yes, a whole ten days in which to go home and return.

Those ten days went by all too quickly, most of which was wasted in overcoming the

heavy cold I had picked up just before docking - the depleting result of two weeks of

sea sickness and the time travelling between the ship and home. The return journey

was a particularly bad one. Bad because none of the train connections connected,

consequently hours of waiting... and the weather, although improved somewhat as we

docked in Sunderland, by the time I left Grimsby, it had turned deathly cold and

wasn't at all conducive to waiting around on draughty platforms and travelling in cold

trains. Well, perhaps they were not all so cold, it was just that I was not in the best of

health as it shortly transpired. The last straw was hiking around Sunderland docks in a

near blizzard, trying to find the 'Ocean Freedom' that had been moved to a different

quay for loading. The next day I felt distinctly under the weather and by the next

morning, more so, and as the day progressed, so did my temperature, so by the time

the doctor was eventually called in, my rising temperature was nicely coming up to

boiling point. I can remember the captain coming down to see me (the mountain

coming down to Mohammed for the second time) and getting me to sign myself off

the ship's articles in the late afternoon, and saying 'You are lucky, we are going to

Murmansk and Archangel'.

I can remember refusing to go to hospital and having morbid thoughts of dying in

Sunderland. I can just remember a taxi taking me to the station, but of the long

journey home to Grimsby and the taxi dropping me at the door around 2pm the next

day, I do not have the slightest recollection It was six weeks before I recovered from

what proved to be pneumonia - no antibiotics at that time - and my system returned to

normal. By that time, the 'Ocean Freedom' would have been fitted out with the

modifications to withstand and cope with the Arctic conditions, and joined that

convoy bound for Russian ports. A voyage that nobody ever wanted, winter or

summer. For me, Another Door, but thankfully this time, a closed one, for the 'Ocean

Freedom ' did not return from the Arctic - she was bombed and lost off Murmansk.

The Royal Navy on Omaha Beach

My father-in-law Jimmy Green wrote this article about his wartime experiences and

how he came to remember events more recently:

I was born on the 4 July 1921 in the city of Bristol, England. It had a long association

with the sea for the Cabots sailed from Bristol in 1497 and discovered Newfoundland.

Bristol was also involved in the triangular trade — providing workers for the

plantations in Virginia in return for the tobacco that the local manufacturers W D and

H O Wills turned into the Woodbine cigarette so popular with British servicemen in

the two world wars.

Seeing ships from all over the world in the centre of Bristol gave me a longing to go

to sea. My family spent their holidays in the 1930s at Weymouth and it was there I

saw the British fleet and went on board HMS Hood on a Navy Day.

As soon as war broke out in September 1939 I volunteered for the Royal Navy, but

there were no vacancies. It was not until after the Fall of France in 1940 that I was

able to join the Fleet Air Arm as a trainee pilot. I was fortunate (though I did not think

so at the time) in not passing the course, as most of those cadets who became pilots

did not survive the war.

I was given the option of staying in the Fleet Air Arm as observer or joining the

executive branch as a potential officer. I spent most of 1941 in HMS Bulldog, an old

destroyer on North Atlantic convoys. In May 1941 we captured U-110 with its

Enigma machine and code books intact. I was on deck behind the 3.5-inch guns when

U-110 was captured. A British sailor who could speak German took my place in the

boarding party. The German prisoners were told of the invasion of Russia, which we

heard over the ship’s radio, but they would not believe us, saying it was British

propaganda. I spoke with one of Goebbels' propaganda officers, who was at sea for

the first time. We spoke in French. He would not believe me.

Life aboard HMS Bulldog was dreadfully uncomfortable. Above deck, waves as high as

houses would crash down. I was often very cold, spending endless hours staring out to

sea. Below deck, there were too few hammocks, so I had to sleep on a locker, tossed

and turned by every movement of the ship, with seawater sloshing around

everywhere. It was the worst year of my life!

After being commissioned as a sub lieutenant in February 1942 I opted to serve in

Combined Operations and joined 24th R Boat Flotilla. I was a keen sportsman,

playing rugby, cricket and football. Being part of an assault flotilla allowed me to

indulge my interest in sport more frequently. We were assigned to Lord Lovat’s 4th

Commando and took part in the Dieppe Raid and lost our Flotilla Officer when we

ran into a German convoy.

Early in 1944 I joined 551 Landing Craft Assault (LCA) Flotilla at Plymouth as its

Divisional Officer (otherwise known as Executive Officer, 1st Lieutenant or second in

command, and generally known as 'Jimmy the One'.) I joined the navy as George and

came out as Jimmy.

551 Flotilla was based in HMS Ceres, an old cruiser permanently anchored in Plymouth

Sound to protect the dockyard and city from German raids. The Luftwaffe flattened

the centre of Plymouth in 1940 and 1941, but the dockyard was virtually untouched.

The German air raids ceased in 1941 so life on board HMS Ceres was peaceful. Our 18

LCAs were moored close to Ceres and we were able to carry out exercises and use

dockyard facilities to bring our craft up to operational standards. We also managed to

play an occasional game of football against local opposition.

We were really awaiting the arrival of SS Empire Javelin (our mother ship) recently built in

the USA and converted to a Landing Ship Infantry (Large). It was manned by a

Merchant Navy crew and had davits equipped to hoist our LCAs on board. The Javelin

spent a few days in Plymouth where we worked out operational procedures for

hoisting and lowering the LCAs with mixed RN and MN crews.

After a short stay in Plymouth, SS Empire Javelin sailed to Scotland and anchored in the

Holy Loch north of Dunoon. Here we came under the orders of a Commodore of the

US Navy. The Javelin carried a Royal Navy Lieutenant as Liaison Officer between the

US Navy, Royal Navy and Merchant Navy. He was the Senior Naval Officer

Transport and known to all of us, unfortunately, as SNOT. He had received from the

US Navy two manuals entitled 'From Ship to Shore. Volumes 1 and 2'. He passed

them to the Flotilla Officer, Lt Freddy Grant, who passed them on to me to read, learn

and inwardly digest. The books detailed the procedures for taking troops on the

landing craft, which circled off the troop ships until such time as they were called in

to load their passengers from scrambling nets. We took part in a couple of exercises

using these procedures with limited success.

The LCA had a crew of four — a coxswain, two seamen and a stoker in the engine

room responding to a telegraph and voice pipe operated by the coxswain. The LCA

had two petrol engines fuelled by 100 percent octane, which it gobbled up rapidly

giving a comparatively short range. It was also not designed to go round for a long

time in circles and I was made aware of the discontent of the crews, particularly the

stokers who had bells constantly ringing in their ears as coxswains tried to maintain

station. I wasn’t particularly happy circling around the rear of a transport waiting for

my number to be called. I conveyed my criticisms to the Flotilla Officer and SNOT,

having doubts about the system working in the English Channel in the night and in a

possible gale. My arguments were accepted and it was decided to invite the

Commodore to lunch aboard the Javelin to discuss our problems. I assembled a colour

detail complete with Bosun’s whistle to pipe the Commodore aboard. He duly arrived

on time, acknowledged the presentation of arms by the colour party and greeted us

with a 'Hiya Boys! Where’s the bar?' He later agreed to our method of having troops

loaded on board the Javelin, loading them into LCAs at the davits and lowering them

into the water. We found that troops normally preferred this method rather than using

scrambling nets.

We continued our training in Scotland, exercising with troops both by day and night.

The Javelin did sail south to take part in Exercise Fabius on Slapton Sands. Live

ammunition was used in this exercise and my first wave had little time after the

ceasefire to make for the shore. At the given time the bombardment ceased and we

made full speed for the beach. As we neared the shore about ten minutes after cease

fire we were straddled by a salvo of 14-inch shells from USS Texas, which missed our

craft but soaked most of the occupants. Observers reported that we were all sunk,

which gave rise to rumours over casualties. There was of course another action off the

Isle of Wight during the earlier Exercise Tiger with the landing craft for Utah Beach,

when E-Boats got amongst the convoy of troop ships making for Slapton.

Early in June the Javelin arrived at Portland and we took on board from Weymouth

harbour the 1st Battalion of 116th Infantry Regiment, 29th Infantry Division along

with other support units. They were a friendly but shy bunch of fresh-faced country

lads who must have felt at home in Ivybridge — a small town in Devonshire, where

they had trained for the invasion.

There were a series of briefings at the Pavilion in Weymouth and I had a separate

briefing for my particular assignment. I was the leader of the first wave and it was my

task to land A Company of 116th Infantry Regiment at Vierville sur Mer at 05:30 on 5

June. We were referred to in the flotilla as 'The Suicide Wave', something that we felt

with pride represented the danger we faced rather than the prospect of casualties. We

had trained day and night, including fog. Many of the men in 551 Flotilla had taken

part in earlier landings in the Mediterranean. Like so many men on D-Day, we felt we

simply had a job to do and that we were ready for it — ready for the war to end and

ready to get on with it. When troops were aboard the Javelin, it was very cramped and

the bar was closed, so we were ready to get the troops off the ship too.

I had six craft of 551 Flotilla under my command plus two LCAs from HMS Prince

Charles carrying two platoons of C Company 2nd US Rangers. They were to come to

the Javelin and tag on to my right column then come into line abreast on my signal so

that we all landed at the same time 05:30 on 5 June.

The officer commanding A Company 116th Infantry Regiment was Captain Taylor

Fellers who I believe served in the National Guard at Bedford Virginia. He was a very

serious, thoughtful officer who seemed a lot older than our sailors who were in their

late teens or early twenties. It was his objective to secure the pass at Vierville sur Mer,

which led off the beach between the cliffs. It was my task to put him and his

Company plus the Rangers on the beach at the right place and at the right time. For as

far as I could see on D-Day in both directions, Captain Fellers was the first American

soldier to set foot on Omaha Beach in front of the Vierville sur Mer draw. The beach

was empty, apart from the beach obstacles laid by the Germans.

Taylor Fellers spoke to me of his concern that this would be the first time that he and

his Company would see action and asked me to give them every support. He sought

me out on the Empire Javelin. I assured him that if we saw any Germans we would

certainly open fire with our Lewis guns. In the event, we were unable to do so. We

landed about 100 yards below the beach obstacles soon after low tide and hundreds of

yards from the edge of the beach. It was dull, grey and overcast. Like so many, we

could not make out a single German. We knew they were there, but we could not see

them. With the LCAs rocking up and down on the surf, we were in more danger of

shooting down the American troops in front of us.

The Javelin sailed from Portland harbour on the evening of the 4 June 1944 in the teeth

of a gale. A few hours later we were recalled to Portland harbour as the invasion had

been postponed for 24 hours. H Hour was amended to 06:30.

I turned in at about 22:00 hours on the night of the 5 June with instructions for a call

at 04:00 as we were due to launch at 04:30. I was shaken at about 03:30 by Able

Seaman Kemp who combined his duties as Captain of the Heads (toilets) with looking

after the officers — I don’t think there was any reason why he combined both tasks.

He asked me if I would be good enough to report to the Flotilla Officer as the

launching time had been changed. At first, I was annoyed at being woken early. The

ship was bouncing around in the heavy seas — little different from the previous day.

Freddy told me to get the first wave launched as soon as possible as I could not make

my planned rate of knots in these conditions. My craft LCA910 was on the starboard

side of the lower deck with LCA911 behind me followed by the LCA coxed by

Leading Seaman Massingham.

Captain Taylor Fellers and 31 of his men were waiting at the davits opposite LCA910

and were soon taken on board to be launched in the pitch dark into unfriendly sea.

The lowering into the water was a bit of a nightmare as the heavy block and tackle

was moving around and had to be secured against ones body before the hook could be

released from the ring of the LCA. The after hook had to be released first while the

LCA maintained position until the forward hook (my responsibility) could be

released. My coxswain was Leading Seaman Martin of Newfoundland (How I blessed

those Cabots from Bristol for discovering a land which produced such an excellent

seaman). Instead of my normal sternsheetsman (the sailor at the back) I had been

given at the last minute Signalman Webb to work a brand new signal set — also given

to me at the last minute. Webb was delighted to be given the opportunity to see action

instead of manning the signal station in the Javelin. As LCA910 was being unhooked

we were hit in the stern by LCA911 and the stoker told the coxswain through his

voice pipe that we were taking in water in the engine room. I had to clamber through

the troops to the engine room only entered through the stoke hole on the after deck.

After a discussion with the stoker and Webb we thought we could keep afloat if

Webb, sitting at the open stoke hold, used a hand pump at its maximum.

After this minor diversion we found the American patrol craft, which was to escort us

part of the way to Vierville. We set off in two columns of three, like Nelson at

Trafalger, with LCA910 at the head of the starboard column and my second in

command Sub Lieutenant Tony Drew at the head of the port column. There was no

sign of the two LCAs from HMS Prince Charles, so we set off without them. In fact, they

were close behind us on my right flank, but I could not see them in the dark. I had

been aboard the US patrol craft after Exercise Fabius and had seen its radar, which

was far more accurate than my magnetic compass.

It was heavy going in the rough seas and we were shipping water over the bows.

However we were on course and on time. About five miles from the coast we parted

company from the US patrol craft with mutual signals of respect.

A few minutes later we came upon a group of Landing Craft Tanks (LCTs) wallowing

in the heavy seas and making about half our speed. I muttered something like 'What

the hell are they doing here!' Taylor Fellers, who had been sitting on a bench with his

men, joined me and told me the LCTs were carrying tanks scheduled to land before us

and lead A Company up the beach. This was a complete surprise to me but it didn’t

make much difference, as they had no hope of getting there on time. We left them in

our wake and never saw them again.

It was beginning to get light and the bombardment by the battleships and cruisers had

ceased. I could vaguely make out the French coast through the gloom and noticed

puffs of smoke moving along the top of the cliffs. Dismissing the thought that it was

the USS Texas emptying its gun barrels, I believed that it was a steam train puffing its

way along the coast to Cherbourg.

It was approaching the time to form line abreast and make our dash for the shore. I

turned round to see how the other craft were coping. I was just in time to see the bow

of LCA911 dipping into the sea and disappearing below the waves. I believe 911 had

been damaged during the collision with 910, whilst lowering the boats from the Javelin.

All the crew and soldiers had life jackets and I could only hope they would keep

everyone afloat until I returned. It goes against the grain for a sailor to leave his

comrades in the sea, but LCA910 had no room and our orders were explicit that we

were to leave survivors in the sea to be picked up later. It was essential to land on

time.

A few minutes later as we neared the shore I picked out some nasty looking pill boxes

and hoped they were not manned. A group of LCT(R)s — tank landing craft carrying

rockets on their decks — came up behind me and launched all their rockets woefully

short. Not one came anywhere near the shoreline. The heavy swell must have played

havoc with their range finding. I remember shaking my fist in anger.

I then gave the signal to form line abreast and told signalman Webb to stop pumping

and take cover. Martin pulled down the cover over his head and was guided by me

through slits in his armour-plated cockpit. I was watching a particularly menacing

looking pillbox at the mouth of the Vierville sur Mer draw in my binoculars and

thinking that if it was manned we were going to be in trouble. There was a loud bang

in my right ear and I turned to see a LCG (Landing Craft Gun) blazing away with its

4.7s and scoring direct hits on the pillbox. I wished it could have stayed longer but it

disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. I had no idea we were getting support from

other landing craft. One of the LCAs in the left flank was hit by an anti-tank bullet,

passing through the armour plating on both sides of the boat and catching one of the

American troops, who was vary badly injured.

Now we were alone, at the right beach at the right time. Taylor Fellers wanted to be

landed to the right of the pass and the other 3 boats in the port column just to the left

of the pass. We went flat out and crunched to a halt some 20 or 30 yards from the

shore line. The beach was so flat that we couldn’t go any further so the troops had to

go in single file up to their waists in water and wade to the shore through tidal

runnels. Taylor Fellers was gone as soon as the ramp was lowered before I could wish

him luck, followed by the middle file, then the port file and the starboard file as

practised and in good order. They all made the beach safely and formed a firing line at

a slight rise. At this time there was a lull in the German firing. They had been

plopping mortar shells around us and firing an anti-tank gun but suddenly they ceased

fire. A German veteran told me recently that they had been ordered to preserve

ammunition. They had been ordered to wait until they had a clear target within range.

The beach was very wide. About 100 yards from the shore line were some obstacles.

We knew the beach was mined and this was why we landed at low tide. About

another 200 yards further on from the obstacles were the dark cliffs where the

Germans were in their prepared positions. In my briefing I was told that the beach

would be bombed the night before and there would be craters where the advancing

troops could shelter. The beach was flat as a pancake with not a crater in sight.

The landing took quite a time and I was itching to return to the survivors of LCA911

hopefully still afloat about a mile offshore. I looked to my left and saw Tony Drew up

to his neck in water around the stern of his LCA and obviously in some sort of

trouble. He told me much later that he had reversed off the beach into a tank, most

probably from the US Navy LCT(A)2227, which landed immediately to our left.

I was intending to see if I could help Tony Drew, when my coxswain told me that

there were some of our lads on the beach. I thought it unlikely but he was right. The

two craft with the Rangers on board had landed just behind us and to our right. The

crew of one of these craft were waving frantically at us and wanted us to take them

off. I thought twice about it, with Tony Drew and the survivors from LCA911 in

mind, but I couldn’t leave them on the beach so 910 went into the beach again,

grounded and picked up the crew. One of them was wounded and had to be supported

by his shipmates. They told me that they had been hit by 4 mortars on landing which

destroyed their LCA and killed a number of the Rangers. There was no one else

nearby so I assumed the Rangers had looked after their own casualties.

Tony Drew was still up to his neck in water around the stern of his LCA. He told me

that his rudder had jammed, but he could fix it. This LCA made its way ten miles

back to the Javelin without steering, using the twin engines to steer the boat.

It was about this time that I remembered to send a signal reporting our landing. I

looked round for Signalman Webb who was on the after deck sweeping off the

remains of our smoke float which had probably been destroyed by a near miss from a

mortar or anti-tank shell. He obviously enjoyed his role as a seaman — much more

exciting than relaying signals in the Empire Javelin. We sent a signal to the effect of,

‘Landed against light opposition.’

We formed up again and set off to find the survivors of LCA911. They were still

bobbing around in the heavy swell. I was told that the crew of 911 had been picked up

by a patrol craft, which then made off at speed with Petty Officer Stewart hanging on

to a rope. (His arm was later amputated and he was invalided out of the Navy). We

managed to get everyone on board with some difficulty as an exhausted sodden

soldier carrying a vast amount of kit is very heavy to lift. I had to use my sailor knife

to cut the straps releasing the kit before being able to lift survivors aboard, leaning

over the side of the boat and being held by my legs. In some cases I had to lower the

ramp and lift exhausted soldiers in over the bow. No one was left in the water. Years

later, I was informed by survivors from A Company of 116th Infantry Regiment,

which the signalman had downed, weighed under by his signal equipment.

The survivors asked about their comrades and I told them that they had landed as

planned. Many wanted to be taken to the beach, but they were in no fit state to take

any further action. I handed round my ships Woodbines (made by W D and H O Wills

of Bristol from Virginian tobacco) and apologised for not having any American

cigarettes.

We returned to the Empire Javelin and took several shots at hooking on. The Javelin had to

up anchor and make a lee, the conditions were still so rough. We had never set sail in

such seas. Martin was hit by a swinging block which threw him from one end of the

boat to the other, splitting his forehead open to the bone but we eventually made it

and handed our survivors over to the waiting medical staff.

I have absolutely no idea what I did when I returned to the Javelin. There is a gap in

my memory and my next recollection is of entering Plymouth harbour the following

day to an amazing reception. Plymouth sound was full of ships waiting to depart to

Normandy and they recognised that we had come from there as our six empty davits

revealed our losses. The surviving landing craft were badly shot up. As we came to

anchor we were greeted by all the ships sounding their sirens as a signal of their

respect. It was a very moving and rare experience. We were the first vessel to enter

Plymouth harbour from the invasion. 551 Flotilla formed up on deck. We had been

told to expect one-third losses and in respect of the landing craft, the planners were

right. We returned with 12 out of 18 LCAs, with many of the remainder badly shot

up.

The second and third waves of LCAs from our flotilla had landed between 0700 and

0800, by which time the tide and reached the beach obstacles and the Germans had

them within machine gun range and subject to more accurate mortar fire.

One sailor from our flotilla, Bill Wheeldon, was killed on Omaha Beach. One of our

crews had called to him from the water’s edge, but Bill continued to cross the beach

with the American troops and was shot down. Many of our flotilla were injured and

invalided out after D-Day.

All of the American troops on LCA911, including the CO Captain Taylor Fellers,

were killed on Omaha Beach. Many other troops transported on the Javelin and

landed by 551 Flotilla were killed. It was a long time before we discovered the extent

of the casualties. The last time I saw the troops of A Company of 116th Infantry

Regiment, they had been in conference at the water’s edge and were forming an

assault line parallel to the water line, like a scene from The Somme. I expected them

to run off in various directions, like the commandos we had trained with.

Having completed our task, our attention turned to getting back to the Javelin and

away from the beach. Captain Fellers had discharged himself from hospital to lead his

men on D-Day.

It is not widely known, but there was a substantial Royal Navy presence on Omaha

and Utah Beaches on D-Day. On Omaha Beach, four battalions of American troops

were landed from seven British transport ships and LCA Flotillas. Both of the 2nd and

5th the US Ranger Infantry Battalions were with the Royal Navy, as were the 1st

Battalions of 116th Infantry Regiment of the 29th Infantry Division and the 1st

Battalion of 16th Infantry Regiment of the 1st Infantry Division.

Some of our sister flotillas, including 550 Flotilla on the SS Empire Anvil at the eastern,

Colleville end of Omaha Beach, suffered higher casualties. A number of British

sailors were killed on Omaha Beach. Many other landing craft, amongst them LCTs

for example, were British.

We had to replace and repair our craft at Plymouth and take on fresh crews as quickly

as possible so as to make many more trips to Normandy, ferrying men and equipment

until suitable harbours could be opened. In November 1944 our services were no

longer needed and we left the Javelin at Fowey where we moored our craft in the river

there. Shortly after leaving SS Empire Javelin we heard that she had been sunk by a U Boat

in the Channel off Cherbourg, where she still rests at the bottom of the sea.

551 Flotilla was earmarked to take part in the recapture of The Channel Islands — the

only part of Britain to be captured by the Germans. The reception given to us by the

Channel Islanders was rather different from the one we received in Normandy. We

were the first into harbour, with the Germans still at their stations. We enjoyed several

days of celebration then rounded up the German Garrisons and took them back to

Southampton to POW camps. I remember being driven around Jersey in a car that had

been hidden in a haystack for the duration of the War.

The flotilla then sort of disintegrated. We were destined for the war against Japan but

VJ Day arrived as we were embarking for the Far East. The officers’ postings were

cancelled but the crews were sent as far as India where they remained for several

months before return to Britain for demobilisation.

I buried my wartime memories for over 50 years and it was not until I became a

widower in 1995 that my thoughts returned to my old shipmates. I joined the Landing

Craft Association and through them discovered that my flotilla had been holding

reunions for a number of years. They had tried to contact me but I had joined the

Army after taking a history degree at Bristol University and spent several years in

territories throughout the world linked to Britain. I left the Army Education Corps as

Lt-Colonel in 1976, so I had flown, sailed and also served in the army during my

military service.

I eventually made a reunion in 1997 and once the initial reticence was overcome

became shipmates again. There was however an underlying rancour directed at

American writers, which had escaped me as I had no desire to resurrect old forgotten

nightmares. However, when I read these accounts written by S L A Marshall and

Stephen Ambrose, I could see why our veterans were angry. These two writers had no

idea what occurred at 06:30 on D-Day so invented some cock and bull yarns to cover

their ignorance. According to these writers reluctant British coxswains had to be

persuaded at the point of a Colt .45 to land their soldiers on the beach, including the

boats under my command. If these two writers had bothered to study photographs of

LCAs they might have noticed a box shaped turret ‘forard’ on the starboard side (up

front right). This armour-plated turret enclosed the coxswain where he controlled the

LCA — well clear of any Colt-toting mutineer intent on assuming command.

I can personally shoot down another flight of fancy dreamt up by Marshall and

repeated by Ambrose, who describe how the lead craft (mine) with Captain Taylor

Fellers and 31 men aboard was struck by a German weapon (A V3 perhaps) which

‘vaporised’ the LCA and all of its occupants before it could reach the shore. As

Taylor Fellers and his men all landed safely and were later killed on the beach one

wonders how Ambrose could write such fiction. The body of Taylor Fellers was

found on the beach and brought back to the USA and buried in Bedford Cemetery. I

laid a wreath on his grave on behalf of 551 Flotilla when I was privileged to attend the

dedication of the Memorial gate at the magnificent D-Day memorial.

A bare minimum of research was all that was required to find out how Taylor Fellers

died and where he was buried.

Matters were hardly improved by the film 'Saving Private Ryan'. I have no objection

to the film as such because it wasn’t a documentary and Spielberg can use his

remarkable talents to portray a story. But when asked by a BBC interviewer why he

did not show any British involvement, he replied ‘This is a film about Omaha Beach.

There were no British on Omaha. There is no role for the British.’ Spielberg also

claimed that 'Historical accuracy is the bedrock of films such as Saving Private Ryan.'

He follows the tradition of Marshall who wrote in an article ‘Normandy was a great

American victory.’ Perhaps it was all a bad dream and I was not there.

'Saving Private Ryan' depicted C Company of 2nd Ranger Infantry Battalion landing

on the Dog Green sector of Omaha Beach. Their two British LCA landing craft and

the six LCAs carrying A Company of 116th Infantry Regiment of the 29th Infantry

Division of the Army of the United States of America came under my command at

that exact point and time. I was British then, as were all of the hundreds of other

British sailors landing American troops on the morning of D-Day. Denying the

presence of the Royal Navy on Omaha Beach or dishonouring them was a gross

injustice.

On a more serious note, Omaha deserves a place in American history. Those who died

bravely at Omaha deserve to have their death recorded accurately. We who survived

owe it to them. We owe it to those who served in World War Two to remember their

stories, like mine, and we owe it to them to remember them accurately, as they

actually happened.

As Lieutenant Ray Nance, a veteran of and second in command of A Company of

116th Infantry Regiment put it 'We were with the British. They were the best.'

Jimmy Green

One of the Many (Re-edited): A Surgeon in the Royal Navy

It was about the month of October. I was exactly twenty-three years of age, I was

newly qualified as a doctor and I was anxious to get out and get a job and earn some

money after years of being a poor student. Accordingly I sought out the British

Medical Journal and looked for an appointment as a locum somewhere. There was a

vacancy in general practice in Coventry and so I applied for the post while the doctor

was away for a fortnight and I commenced my first venture into the active practice of

medicine. However, after a week of general practice I got tired of vaccinating babies

and treating nappy rash and decided that general practice was not for me and I would

become a surgeon.

In order to become a surgeon one needed a hospital and therefore I applied for a post

of a surgeon at the local hospital and finally was given the job of Casualty Officer.

This in those days was the lowest form of hospital life. Shortly after I had obtained

the post, the clouds of war were looming and the Ministry of Health, fearing there

would be dozens of bodies lying in the streets from bombing sent a memo to all

hospitals offering the doctors there a permanent post for the next three years during

which time they were assured they would not be called up for any of the armed forces.

However the idea of being out of the war did not appeal to me and so I resigned my

post and, as an unemployed doctor, decided to join one of the services. The choice lay

between the Air Force, the Army and the Navy. I knew nothing about flying so that

ruled out the Air Force, and I loathed walking and marching so that ruled out the

Army and the one place left, obviously, was the Navy. How did one get into the

Navy?

Well, I had a friend who had been at prep school with me who was a Royal Naval

Lieutenant and I wrote to him and asked him what to do. He told me I must write a

letter to the Admiralty and he kindly dictated the format. The letter would read

"To the Lord Commissioners of the Admiralty. Sirs, I have the honour to submit my

application for a Commission in the Royal Navy. I am twenty-three years of age, fully

qualified as a doctor, I am a good swimmer and a keen rugby player. I have the

honour to be your obedient servant".

In due course I received a reply which thanked me for my offer but pointed out that

the Royal Navy was no longer giving short service commissions, that the RNVR was

full and that the RNVSR, the Supplementary Reserve, was also full. However, they

saw no prospect of an immediate conflagration but thanked me for my offer once

again. Six weeks after receiving this reassuring message we were at war, the Germans

having marched into Poland!

I was now an unemployed doctor and wondered what was the next move. In the town,

there was a shop which had been turned into a recruiting office, and in the window

was a poster of a fierce looking man saying "Your country needs you!". I decided that

I must go into this shop and see how one got into one of the armed forces. I duly went

into the shop and a scarey looking man with three buttons on his sleeve who, for all I

knew, might have been an Admiral but I learned later was a Chief Petty Officer,

barked at me and said "What do you want?" "Please, Sir" I said "I have come to join

the Navy". He looked me up and down and said "Seaman or stoker?" The thought of

shovelling coal in a hot engine room below the water line did not appeal to me and so

I decided that the proper answer would be seaman. I therefore replied "Seaman, Sir".

He said "Fall in there" and pointed to a queue of men standing outside an open door. I

fell in, as requested. The column of men shortened, as each one went into the room. I

peered through the open door and to my surprise I saw the man who was standing

next to me and the one who had gone in just before me, were standing with their

trousers round their ankles while an elderly grey haired man sitting on a stool was

closely inspecting his private parts with the aid of a torch. I began to wonder if the

stories I had heard about the Royal Navy were true. However, I decided I would not

drop my trousers and have my private parts examined by a stranger, so I stepped out

of line and went back to the scarey looking man with the three buttons on his sleeve.

"I" I said "am a doctor". "You are a doctor" he said, "and I am Emma Hamilton. Now,

get back there". Well, I had always remembered my father telling me that when

addressing a member of what he termed the lower classes you could always put them

in their places by saying "Now look here, my good fellow". So I said to this man

"Now look here, my good fellow", his manner changed immediately. His face turned

bright pink, indeed he was so suffused I thought it might be an impending stroke.

However, taking of his cap, he tucked it under his arm and marched in to where the

grey haired man with the torch was still inspecting private parts. He whispered

something into this man's ear and the man came out and taking me by the arm said

"My dear chap, are you really a doctor?" "Yes, Sir, I am a doctor, and I am at the local

hospital". "My dear chap" he said "you should not be in here. This is for ratings". I

explained that I had written to the Admiralty and they did not want my services, so

how could I get into the Navy? He said to me "Write down you qualifications, your

age and I will see that due attention is given to your application". This he must have

done because ten days later precisely, I received a letter informing me that I must

proceed to a house in Birmingham for a medical examination by one of their surgeons

and agents. At that time I was very fit, training with the Coventry rugby team, and my

only sins were an occasional beer after the match on Saturday and the best of three

falls! I gave up these pleasures of the flesh and went into strict training, running a

couple of miles each morning before breakfast and doing several press-ups.

In due course I arrived at the house in Birmingham and run the front door bell. The

door was answered by a maid, dressed in the uniform that they wore in those days,

"The surgery is closed, she said you have to come back tomorrow". I said "I am not a

patient, I am a doctor, and I wish to see the doctor". "Oh" she said, and she ushered

me into a large room where a lady was sitting by an open fire. She said "Ah, you are

the doctor who has come for an appointment". "Yes" I said. "Well, I am Peter's wife,

do come in and have a drink". "No, no", I said, fearing I might fail the examination if

alcohol had passed my lips. "I won't, thank you very much". I just sat down and we

commenced a little general chit chat when the door opened and in came a very large

man who said "My God, what a shower". Then, noticing me, said "Who is this?". His

wife replied that I was the doctor who had come for a medical examination prior to

joining the Navy. He said "Have a drink". And I said "No, thank you, Sir". And he

said "Don't you drink?". And I said "No". Immediately the atmosphere became a little

chilly and, marching up to me, he said "Well, are you healthy? Have you got piles?

Have you got an hernia?" I said "No". He said "Drop your trousers". Now, this was

the second time I had been asked that and I really begun to suspect the Navy.

However, I said "Sir, your wife is here". "She has seen it all before" he said. "She may

have done, but she has never seen mine. Can't we go into your surgery?" "Oh, well,"

he said "if you don't have piles or a hernia that does not matter. So you are alright,

eh?" Then he put a stethoscope on my chest and said "Take a deep breath", and that

was that. I said "Aren't you going to test my eyesight?" "Oh, yes, yes, yes, of course"

he said. And he marched into the surgery with the usual white card, propped it up

against the wall, took me by the arm, marched me to the end of the room and said

"Now read the bottom line". We were so far away from this card that I said "Sir, I

cannot even read the top line". "Good God" he said "good God". I said "Can you read

the top line?" Covering one eye with his hand and said "I can't even see the bloody

card! How far away should you be?" I said "Six feet, Sir". "Six feet?" So we

approached the card and I duly passed the test by reading the bottom line. He then

said "Is there anything that you would like to ask me?". Having passed the test, I said

"Yes, Sir, I would like to have that drink". Immediately the atmosphere thawed and

we started to talk about rugby. Having learnt that I had played once on the sacred turf

of Cardiff Arms Park, he informed me that he was an Irish international and late into

the night we talked rugby and, between us, sank an entire bottle of Scotch whisky.

Two weeks later I received a telegram from the Admiralty which read "You have

been appointed as Acting Temporary Surgeon Lieutenant to HMS Drake and will

repair aboard that vessel at 0900 hours" and it gave at date just three short days away.

Now, all over the country there were posters saying "Don't say where your ship is

because Hitler is listening and there are spies everywhere". And how was I, in the

middle of Coventry, to find out where HMS Drake was laying or indeed was sailing.

Fortunately, the Chief Medical Officer had a brother in law who was in the Navy and

who, in the next two days, was about to visit him. I told him my dilemma and he

invited me over to meet this officer, who informed me that Drake was the name for a

barrack - a stone frigate, it was the name given to Plymouth, and Raleigh the name

given to Portsmouth". I thanked tthem both and two days later packed my few

belongings including a set of golf clubs and a fishing rod and departed for Plymouth.

I arrived to see the streets literally packed with sailors and, approaching one of them, I

said "Can you tell me where the barracks are?" He gave me the directions and I

entered this very large building, crossing the square, which again was practically was

sailors moving in every direction. I had been told that I should go to the Ward Room

and stopping the nearest sailor to me I said "Can you tell me where the Ward Room

is?" He said "What is your rank, Sir?" And I said "Surgeon Lieutenant". He

straightened his cap, and stubbed out his cigarette before advising me accordingly.

I thanked him and walked over, in a cubby hole in the hall was another man in

uniform with three buttons on his sleeve. By now I knew the correct method of

address was to call him Chief because he was the Chief Petty Officer and I said

"Chief, I have come to join the Navy and I am commissioned as Surgeon Lieutenant".

I produced my telegram, which was the only form of identity I had and he said "You

ought to go up to the Billiard Room, there are still places under the billiard table

where officers are sleeping, because all the cabins are full". I duly went to a very large

room in which there were four billiard tables and underneath all of them were

sleeping bags. Just as I entered this room, I bumped into a very tall fellow who had

two stripes on his sleeve, but one of them had obviously recently been taken off

because you could see the gold thread hanging down. He said "Hello", and I said

"Hello. What happened to your other stripe?" He told me his name was Miller and

that he had been serving on a gun boat on the Yankgste, while his Captain was ashore

he was entertaining a Chinese lady in his cabin when a Labour MP had come up quite

unexpectedly to see what the Navy was doing. Subsequently there was a board of

inquiry, which resulted in Miller losing six months seniority and the Captain being

court marshalled. This was my introduction to naval discipline and also to the fact that

the Navy drank gin and lime. I had always considered gin and lime to be a drink for

tarts but Miller told me that it was to prevent them having the scurvy, which was why

the lime was there. It was rather interesting that when I got to sea we always drunk

pink gins rather than gin and lime in spite of the threat of scurvy.

I waited in the barracks for a fortnight, and each day all of us temporary lieutenants

would go down to a box in the hall and look under our initials to see if there was any

message for us. On the tenth day there was a letter addressed to me informing me I

had been appointed as Surgeon Lieutenant to His Majesty Ship Weston, which was a

ship in the destroyer flotilla based at Rosyth and I should join the vessel forthwith. I

drew my railway chit, in those days officers were given railways chits, indeed so were

the men, so you would travel free, and I went down to Rosyth. When we got to Crewe

there was a great kafuffle and the train stopped while everybody got out. We were

then told there was a bomb on the line further up and we would be delayed for some

time. Whilst I was at the railway station, I bumped into a man I knew who had joined

the Army. We had a drink or two together and then, when the scare was over, I went

back to the train. I was carrying my suitcase and the train was packed absolutely

solidly, people were jammed in the corridors. I managed to squeeze myself in

between a crowd of sailors and I noticed, as I looked around, that just behind me the

curtain of this particular compartment were drawn tightly and there were some

scattered confetti on the floor. Being of a curious nature, I pushed over the door to see

the happy couple and there, stretched out alone in the compartment, was an Army

officer. “ Hello he said, you have rumbled me, would you like a bed”? I accepted his

offer and closed the door and we, he on one bunk and me on the other, had a very

pleasant journey all the way up to Rosyth.

On arrival I registered in an Edinburgh hotel and each day went down to the dockyard

at Rosyth to enquire to the whereabouts of my ship. This lasted for a period of about

twelve days, during which time I had made the acquaintance of a new rather agreeable

WREN who was also staying in the hotel. On the eleventh day I failed to go to the

dockyard because I was a little delayed in my room and, Sod's law being what it was,

when I went down the following day, I found that my ship had come in to refuel and

re-ammunition and was already back at sea. Well, there it was, and one must never

question fate too closely, so another twelve days passed happily in this hotel in the

company of this charming lady. At the end of that time, when I went down to the

dockyard, to my dismay the ship had returned and I fell in to make my number.

Having boarded the ship, saluted the quarter deck and being greeted by the sentry, I

asked him where the Wardroom was and he directed me towards it. The ship was old,

she was a sloop and this meant that, although she lacked the speed and the armament

of a destroyer, she could stay at sea much longer, indeed while a destroyer would

have to return for re-ammunitioning, and refuelling within the space of about a week,

the Weston could stay comfortably at sea for three weeks at a time. Having entered

the Wardroom I was greeted by the First Lieutenant who told me how delighted he

was to see a real doctor. I asked him what he meant by a real doctor and, pointing to

my wavy stripes as opposed to his straight ones, he told me that most of the doctors in

the Navy who were regulars were really young disreputable characters who could not

get a decent job ashore. Having received this welcome, I was shown to my cabin

which was down a hatch aft between two sets of watertight doors and whilst we were

at sea these doors were closed and I slept on the wardroom floor in a sleeping bag.

When asleep, like all the other officers, I merely removed my shoes and kept my life

jacket close by.

The sick bay contained two swinging cots and had an elderly sick berth attendant He

did not like the First Lieutenant who had been acting as a doctor prior to my

appointment and there was no doubt he was delighted to see me. It is a strange thing

but in the Navy the sick berth attendant was known as the doctor and the doctor was

known as the quack. That is the sailors' particular sense of humour. However, we

went to sea and we were given a convoy to take out into the North Atlantic.

One terrible night, out of thirty-five ships filled with food and fuel we were escorting

we lost thirteen to U-boat attacks. At this time ther yanks were not in the War but Mr

Churchill made a trip to America where, by establishing friendly relations with the

American President Roosevelt, he received the loan of fifty First World War

American destroyers. These were fitted up with our RADAR which the Americans

did not have (this, by the way, is an anti-submarine detection device which later on

we passed to the French and then, unhappily, when France surrendered, it came to the

knowledge of the Germans who very soon produced a locking device of great

efficiency). However, instead of having two destroyers, or perhaps one destroyer and

a corvette to shepherd a fleet of perhaps thirty merchant ships, we now had fifty

American destroyers and we began to sink the U-boats to such effect that The German

Admiral Doenitz called off his “woolfpack” unable to sustain the losses. Thus the

whole battle of the Atlantic changed in our favour. Food and fuel had to come across

the Atlantic arriving at Rosyth in Northern Scotland after traversing the Pentlan Firth

It then came down through the North sea to the port of London. Our task in the

Western was to shepherd the convoy of ships to their destination in London. The

Germans standing on the beach at Calais could clearly see the movement of some odd

vessels sailing in convoy towards Dover. And in a hope of avoiding the Stukas (dive

bomber) these vessels had a Barrage baloon attached by a cable so that they flew

some 100 feet above each vessel in the hope of trapping any Stukas making a dive

bomb attack. The most dangerous part of the passage to London was off the mouth of

the Thames estuary early in the war we had laid a line of mines about a mile off the

English coast and through this narrow passage our vessels could move safely.

At night the Germans flew over the Thames estuary dropping magnetic mines which

would lie on the bottom until attracted by the metal of the ship passing over them

when they would immediately rise towards the hull. Having lost a number of ships to

this device the backroom boys came up with a solution in which a long (deguassing

gear?) electrical cable was laid right around the deck of the ship so as to neutralize her

magnetism. However very rapidly the Germans devised another type of mine, the

acoustic mine which was activated by the sound of passing ships propellers. To

counter this, large vessels were towed out of harbour in the open sea before they

started their engines. However the noise from the towing tug’s propellers resulted in

the loss of a number of these tugs. At this stage the Luftwaffe came over night after

night dropping mines into the Thames estuary the only method of counteracting this

move was by using the flotilla of mine sweepers. These vessels towed rafts some

laden with iron bars to simulate the hull of an iron ship and thus attract any magnetic

mine over which they passed. However the sound of their own propellers often

activated an acoustic mine e many of these tugs were lost.

Nevertheless sufficient fuel and food was getting through. These supplies of course

coming from America had to cross the Atlantic avoiding if possible the German

warships which patrolled these waters. A helpful America although not in the war,

escorted these ships as afar as 23 degree west (half way across the Atlantic) We in the

Western would sail out there to meet them and escort them safely to England. This

journey travelling no more that 8 knots took some three weeks. Thanks to the

reinforcement provided by the American destroyers we were able after each trip to

have a week rest in harbour.

It was customary for The Medical Department of the Admiralty to give doctors after

twelve months at sea in a small ship a shore job. Sure enough, a signal came through

that I was appointed as a Surgeon Lieutenant to a motor torpedo boat based in

Lowestoft. In due course I arrived in Lowestoft where I found to my delight that we

were billeted in a cottage in the gardens of a big house. Actually it was the private

dwelling of the owners of Bourne and Hollingsworth, the well known London

department store. The senior officers slept in the house while we more junior officers

were put up in the gardener's cottage at the back of the main lawn, behind the tennis

courts. This we soon found had great advantages, because the Wrennery was next

door although protected from the attentions of such junior officers as ourselves by

some coils of barbed wire. It took very little effort for us to make a gap in the wire

and there were some very pleasant evening spent in the company of these Wrens.

Now it must be remembered that the whole of Europe was occupied by the Germans

and the fledgling pilots taking bombing raids for the first time were sent over usually

to Lowestoft on the East Coast where, night after night, they bombed

indiscriminately, sometimes causing dreadful carnage, especially one night when a

bomb fell on the main hotel where officers wives, sweethearts and daughters were

staying over a long weekend. There was very little we could do in the way of

antiaircraft fire, all we could use were the first world war Lee- Enfield rifles, until one

glorious day a Swedish anti-aircraft gun mounted on a moveable chassis came to us

through the offices of Mr Winston Churchill and we managed to shoot down a

German bomber in a raid over the North Sea.

However, after six months in this very pleasant appointment, I began to feel that I was

really missing the war and as I had never been out East, I decided to go up to the

Admiralty Medical Department and ask for a ship going East. In those days there was

a rule that any doctor passing through London would call at the Medical Department

of the Admiralty in Whitehall, would fill in the chit saying "On duty", "On leave" or

"Request" when he would be ushered into the presence of an elderly Irish Rear

Admiral Medical who would ask him what he wanted. I was duly ushered in and met

the Rear Admiral who said to me "I suppose you want a shore job". I said "Certainly

not, Sir, I have had a shore job for the last six months and want to get back into the

war". He said "Very well, what would you like?" and I said "Well, I spent the winter

in the North Atlantic and the North Sea, Sir, I would like to go somewhere warm, I

have never been out East and I would like to do that". He then consulted the sheet in

front of him and said "We have a cruiser which will be leaving shortly for Singapore.

Would that suit you as Second Doctor? She carries a Surgeon Lieutenant Commander

and you would be under his orders as Surgeon Lieutenant." I said "That would do

admirably, and a few days later I got a letter telling me I had been appointed to His

Majesty's light cruiser Dauntless which was refitting in Portsmouth. After a few days'

leave with my parents I went down to Portsmouth and in the dockyard, after some

enquiries, found the cruiser Dauntless. I went on board and was met by a sub-

Lieutenant who showed me my cabin. She seemed vast compared to my previous

ship, good old Weston, and I had a birth in a larger cabin and what was really more of

a hospital than a sick bay. The following day the Surgeon Lieutenant Commander

joined the ship and there was no doubt that from the beginning we were not going to

get on. He was an anaesthetist and had spent the whole of the war in a hospital when I

had been flogging up and down in the North Sea and the North Atlantic. He was also

rather fat, spending most of his time sitting in the Wardroom drinking gin and left me

entirely to do the sick bay, which I did not mind in the least, as by so doing I got to

know the ship's company much better than he did.

Ten days after I joined the vessel, we slipped and proceeded down the Channel,

calling at Gibraltar, which we reached having traversed a very smooth and placid Bay

of Biscay and because it is the duty of doctors in the Royal Navy to be in charge of

the wine cellar, I had a pleasant, really very pleasant three days as a guest of Saccone

and Speed the wine suppliers, drinking sherry whilst putting in the order for the

whisky and gin as requisite.

Three days later, because the Mediterranean was too dangerous, we sailed for the

Cape. In due course we arrived at Simons Town, which was the naval base close to

Cape Town and there we were to spend the next three happy weeks whilst waiting for

further orders and putting on extra anti-aircraft guns. Cape Town was a revelation to

us all and indeed one would not believe that there was a world war taking place.

There was no blackout, the night clubs were full, the local people were very

hospitable, cars would come down to the dock and ask us if we would like to ride or

play golf or swim and it was indeed a total, total contrast to those bitter cold winters

in the North Atlantic. However, all good things come to an end and at the end of this

brief but very pleasant respite we slipped and proceeded to go and join the fleet at

Mombassa. This journey was round the Cape and up the whole of the east coast but

first of all, prior to Mombassa, we were directed to Durban.

Durban was really every sailors' dream of home. It had absolutely everything: warm

sunshine, splendid hospitality, excellent wine, and I was fortunate enough to meet an

old shipmate of mine who was enjoying life very much in a shore job in Durban. He

had a flat and a girlfriend and he soon introduced me to the delights of Durban in so

far as his girlfriend produced a girlfriend for me and good time was had by all. At the

end of three weeks we were ordered up to Mombassa where we were told that there

was going to be an invasion of Madagascar and we were to join the fleet.

We set off to the great island of Madagascar, and it must be remembered that this is

the second largest island in the world, Australia the first, and it also has at its northern

extremities one of the greatest natural harbours in the world. The harbour at Diego

Suarez could accommodate the entire British fleet as well as the German grand fleet.

We arrived there in the company of the aircraft carrier Illustrious, the great battleship

Warspite, a cruiser squadron, a Birmingham assault ship whose name I can’t

remember and the Polish assault ship Spobeiski as well as four Australian destroyers.

It was decided that we would invade at dawn and, as it broke we were close up at

action stations wearing anti-flash gear, with buckets of sand spread about the deck to

cover any blood that might be spilled and we anchored off the entrance to the harbour.

Madagascar was a French Protectorate and we signalled to the governor "We arrive as

friends, we ask you to surrender so that any bloodshed might be avoided". We knew

that there were some Vichy French in the island and so it was necessary to make this

preparatory signal. The reply came back from the governor "My honour will not allow

me to surrender". The Admiral in charge of the fleet was an Admiral Syfet and he

made another signal shortly after dawn again requesting the surrender and again he

got the same reply. He was decided to make one more effort and accordingly it was

agreed that we would send in a high ranking officer and a white flag. The Captain of

my ship was chosen and as British ships do not carry white flags, the Wardroom table

cloth was taken attached to a pair of crossed oars and this was mounted on the motor

boat which proceeded towards the shore. It is had hardly got two cables from the ship

when the French opened fire with a machine gun. Immediately the entire fleet let go

but hardly had got off more than two rounds before a Frenchman appeared with a

white flag and hastily mounting the steps which circled the lighthouse at the end of

the pier began to wave his flag. At this point an Australian destroyer went zooming

past the lighthouse, let go of the aft turret and blew away the man, the flag, the steps

and the top of the lighthouse. This brought the action to a close.

It was then agreed to enter the harbour, and my ship, the Dauntless, was chosen to

lead the fleet in. I remarked to the navigator that this must be a high honour and he

told me not to be so naive - it was merely that we were the oldest ship in the fleet and

therefore the most dispensable, if the harbour had been mined we would be the first to

get it and serve as a warning to any ship following us. In the event, we safely entered

the great harbour at Diego Suarez where we were to remain swinging around a buoy

for the next three months.

HMS Whelp: Reminiscences of a Young Naval Officer

was 13 and living with an aunt and uncle when on 3 September 1939 I heard the

announcement that we were at war with Germany. This did not mean much to me at

the time, except for the eventual prospect of some restrictions and food rationing.

Dig for victory

However, the opportunity to give up Wednesday afternoon’s sports at school (King

Edward VI, Lichfield) in order to cultivate an allotment was certainly something I

welcomed. I received more praise from the headmaster for producing good vegetables

(in the Dig for Victory campaign) than I would have had from the sports master for

playing cricket and rugby.

I left school at the age of 15, having completed a modest Cambridge school

certificate. I’d decided I was not academically inclined, so I didn’t stay on in the sixth

form. I went instead to work in a drawing office at the local Cannock Chase colliery.

The uncle I lived with was chief engineer at the colliery. He paved the way for my

employment, although I had proved to be a capable draughtsman at a much earlier

age, and I loved technical drawing.

A time of great loss

It was always a shock to read the newspaper headlines about how the war was

creating so many casualties. In our locality, there were several mothers grieving for

their sons, who had gone missing or been killed in action. There were also a lot of

wives whose husbands were never to return or remained POWs for the duration of the

war.

I had personal reasons for feeling sympathetic as my mother had lost my father when

I was five as a result of injuries he had suffered in World War One. She had had to go

back into nursing to afford to raise my brother and me. The uncle and aunt I’ve just

mentioned looked after me, while my brother went to live with grandparents.

Mother was a nurse and became matron in the local cottage hospital. This was

eventually the place I came to consider home while on leave from the navy.

Why the navy?

I organised dances and played the drums for a small dance band at a local village hall

to raise money for Forces comforts. Little did I know this was an experience that

would later stand me in good stead.

Coal mining was an occupation of national importance. Working as I did in the

colliery, I could have stayed in the drawing office and made a contribution to the war

effort there. But instead I decided to enlist in the navy.

Why the navy? I can not say. I lived landlocked in the middle of Staffordshire. I had

never been to sea or even sailed inland, although I gather my father had sailed

sometimes.

Covering the reservoir with railway sleepers

I joined air-raid precautions (ARP) as a messenger for a while and used to cycle to the

local ARP post whenever there was an air-raid warning. I also learnt basic first aid.

Living relatively close to Coventry and Birmingham, our area was a prime location

for jettisoned bombs. This was especially so because of the large reservoir that we

lived alongside, which acted as a due north-south landmark when moonlit. The

reservoir (Norton Pool, now Chasewater) was eventually covered with railway

sleepers attached to hawser wires as a deterrent to enemy-seaplane landings.

Enlisting in the ATC

I enlisted in the Air Training Corps (ATC), seeing it an opportunity to gain experience

of discipline, marching and rifle drill. I achieved the rank of corporal.

I never intended to join the Royal Air Force (RAF). I volunteered to join up in

advance of conscription to make sure of getting into the navy rather than being placed

where the need was considered greatest.

I enlisted as an Y-scheme entrant but not before undergoing special medical tests –

ostensibly because of sugar discovered in the urine. A certificate was deemed

necessary, even though I’d already had the first medical in the process of naval

recruitment, during which the medical officer (MO) had discovered the symptoms.

My mother had to pay again for a specialist to say that, in his opinion, I was grade A1.

I recall him commenting on how the Oxford and Cambridge boat crews always passed

sugar in their urine immediately before a race as a result of being nervous and excited.

I was not therefore to concern myself. On the subject of which, I remember some very

well-built men keeling over at the thought of some of the jabs required by the MO

prior to additional medicals.

Basic training begins

It was 60 years ago, in mid-August 1943, that I was posted to HMS Collingwood,

Portsmouth, for basic training as an ordinary seaman and Y-scheme entrant. I

remember parting from my tearful mother, the train journey from Birmingham’s

Snow Hill Station and change at Reading. My eventual arrival at the shore-based ship

was not as flamboyant as one recruit, who turned up in a chauffeur-driven Rolls-

Royce.

As Y-scheme entrants, we were allocated three to a hut, one of us in overall charge.

The two subordinates were responsible for organising activities such as cutting the

grass with a jack-knife to pass the time while the inspecting officer was doing the

rounds.

Folding bell-bottoms

Kit inspections were the order of the day. Folding bell-bottoms so that they had the

obligatory (seven) creased rings was vital. We wore white headbands as a distinction

and, I suppose, to attract extra attention from the chief petty officers (CPOs) and

officers.

I disliked the physical training – shinning up and vaulting over scrambling nets or

raising sheer-legs, the hoisting apparatus for masts or heavy loads – although sporting

activities such as sailing and rowing were enjoyable.

The kit inspections, hut cleaning and not being allowed to sweep anything under the

carpet eventually came to an end. I was happy to put behind me the basic training of

drill, seamanship, signals and knots as well as the case of impetigo I’d contracted and

the consequent unsightly treatment with gentian violet.

Sea experience and the yellow peril

We were sent to Leith, Scotland, for sea experience. This was a revelation from the

start. After a long and slow train journey, we arrived at the base very early on a

Sunday morning to be greeted by a breakfast of porridge and yellow peril. I was used

to my porridge being made with milk, laced with golden syrup and, as an added

luxury, carnation milk. The porridge on offer was thick and, horror of horrors, made

with salt. The yellow peril, to give it its proper name, was smoked haddock.

We were soon to board ship, where we would learn practical seamanship. There were

three training ships – two old D-class cruisers and the SS Corinthian. Thankfully, Peter

Guly, a friend from Collingwood, from the same hut and the Y scheme, was allocated the

same ship as me – the SS Corinthian.

Some of the seamanship instruction was qualified by the statement, ‘This is a

merchant ship and some things are different from those of a Royal Navy (RN) ship.’

In other words, what we learnt had to be re-learnt when it came to naval ships.

Learning to sleep in a hammock

I had my first experience of sleeping in a hammock. Learning how to sling it and stow

it in the morning was very precise. Among the more hazardous tasks was painting the

ship’s side. You were very dependent on your fellow painter, and it was vital that you

worked together, lowering or raising the plank simultaneously.

There were other things to learn too. One day I was leaning over the guard rail,

talking to a friend and admiring the sunset, when the captain came by and started

screaming at us. This was not a cruise ship, he yelled. We should get off the rail

immediately and make ourselves scarce.

Gash-chutes and coal

We used to take it in turns to collect the meal for the table then clear up and wash all

the plates and utensils. One day, on tipping the waste down the gash- or refuse-chute,

there was a horrible clanking sound – yes, I had disposed of all the knives, forks and

spoons. I don’t recall what happened by way of reprimand, or even whether I was put

on a charge.

This sea time was enjoyable, although marred somewhat at the end because of the

ship being coal-fired. Before we finished our training, we had to coal the ship and

clean up afterwards. Of course, this was something we were not going to be faced

with on proper fleet ships.

Shore leave

The first short leave was a relief, though I still bore the marks of the impetigo, which

was an embarrassment. There was a problem on the journey from Birmingham Snow

Hill to the hospital in Hammerwich, where mother nursed. It was very late at night.

There were no buses to Walsall, and a taxi was only allowed to travel a few miles.

My mother and a cook from the hospital, who came along for company, met me at the

station. In our attempt to get home, we found ourselves deposited in the middle of

nowhere at the end of a short taxi ride. We had to walk several miles before hitching a

lift in a lorry for some of the remainder of the journey. We’d been lucky, because

vehicles were more likely to stop and offer a lift to someone in service uniform than

in civvies.

The Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve

On leave, the first question generally posed by friends was ‘When are you going

back?’

I was posted to HMS King Alfredat Hove, another land-based vessel. This was where I

would complete my training as a possible Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve (RNVR)

officer. Although there were the usual rifle drills – stripping down a bren-gun, for

example – marching, Morse code (concentrating on a small blinking lamp in Lancing

College, where we were based, and taking down messages), the training was more

academic than before, and, might I say, we led a more civilised existence.

I was in Nelson division along with some 115 others, not all of whom would

eventually make the grade. We were schooled by a CPO for seamanship, by a sub-

lieutenant for drill – usually in the underground car park of the swimming baths at

Hove – by a lieutenant schoolmaster for further education. Our commanding officer

(CO) was an RNVR lieutenant.

Our ages ranged from 18 to late 20s, and we were from all walks of life. Thankfully, I

still enjoyed the friendship of Peter Guly, who became a life-long friend.

Rites of passage

This was a period that tested our leadership qualities as much as extended our

knowledge of seamanship and navigation – ‘If both lights you see ahead, starboard

wheel and show your red’ – and appropriate further education.

At the end of term, as a display of initiative and enterprise, the outgoing division had

to entertain the newer intakes with a concert or play. The division that left before us

had put on a marvellous show; its finale a brass band that marched through the

audience. The blare of the sousaphone remains a vivid memory.

‘Red Sails in the Sunset’

We knew it was going to be a hard act to follow. However, having organised a dance

band, I proved useful in this respect. I played the drums for part of an entertainment

that included songs such as ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’ and ‘The Stars at Night’. There

must have been other acts that followed or preceded us, but the memory has dimmed.

I do recall the CO complimenting us, so we must have passed that particular test.

We were allowed some leave at one stage but not permitted to travel far. I was able to

spend one weekend with Peter, whose family lived within limits, in north London. I

did take a risk on one occasion and go home to Staffordshire. But I did so with a great

deal of trepidation in case I was challenged by military police during the journey.

The thrill of my new uniform

Eventually, the day of reckoning came when the lists of successful candidates were

posted. To my great relief, I was promoted midshipman. I enjoyed the thrill of getting

my new uniform. The RNVR midshipmen lapels were maroon as distinct from the

Royal Navy (RN) midshipmen, who wore white lapels and would have been trained at

Dartmouth Naval College.

I took a short leave before I was posted to the Royal Naval College at Greenwich for a

short spell. This was a superb few weeks. We were called in the morning with a cup

of tea, made and brought to our cabin by Wrens, and they served meals in the great

Painted Hall. Not all the officers from King Alfredwere sent to Greenwich, and I am not

sure what selection process was involved to grant me such a privilege.

War service at sea, April 1944 to August 1945

During leave from Greenwich I received my posting to HMS Whelp. I had to report to a

dockyard at Hebburn on Tyne. At the time I didn’t know what type of vessel I’d been

posted to and was relieved to discover it a newly built W-class destroyer. After sea

trials the Whelp was commissioned on 17 April 1944 as R37 and assigned to the 3rd

Destroyer Flotilla Home Fleet.

The captain was Commander G A F Norfolk, RN. He was very senior in rank and

therefore second in command of the flotilla, and the ship had its funnel painted to

denote this. He once remarked that he was the same age as the ship’s pennant R37.

First lieutenant was Philip, Prince of Greece and Denmark (later Prince Philip, Duke

of Edinburgh). There were six other officers plus a medical officer and two

midshipmen. A guestimate of 135 NCOs (non-commissioned officers) and ratings

made up the ship’s full complement.

In the wardroom was an original of ‘Jane’, the scantily dressed cartoon character in

the Daily Express. Apparently, the ship’s captain, or his wife, knew the cartoonist. I’m sure

there was a reference to Whelp, but I can not recall the caption.

Another detail I recall was that there was always a bible on the bridge as a ready

reference for the quotations that, whenever it was appropriate, formed the basis of

signals between ships. Competition between captains to get the best response was

intense.

Exercises in Scapa Flow

We were involved in exercises in Scapa Flow to track submarines, set and drop depth

charges and undertake target practice for gunnery. Both towed targets by sea, and

drones towed aircraft. I was in charge of B gun deck, from where, when instructed by

the gunnery officer, we fired star shells for night-time attacks.

Some modifications were made during this bedding-down period. One of my tasks

was to sit and relay messages from the asdic or sonar operator (an underwater

detecting device, an early form of sonar, the name derived from Anti-Submarine

Detection Investigation Committee).

I did this by way of a voice-pipe in the lower well of the bridge that conveyed

information to the captain standing above. While conning the ship the captain would

kick me in the backside when he wanted another reading. In due course this particular

voice-pipe was extended to the binnacle, so that the captain, or officer of the watch,

could simultaneously take a bearing and give instructions to the asdic operator.

An unfortunate accident

We had an unfortunate incident involving one of our destroyers. Having completed an

attack with depth charges, it had come to anchor in Scapa Flow. Due to the orders fore

and aft being misunderstood, the anchorage took it astern over its own depth charges.

The vessel’s stern was broken, and it was out of commission for some months.

Eventually, however, it did join the British Pacific Fleet. I believe it was the HMS

Wrangler, which arrived in the Far East in June 1945 and then took part in the re-

occupation of Hong Kong.

Operation Brown

On 12 May we left Scapa Flow to escort and screen a battleship (I think it was HMS

Renown) for Operation Brown. This was an unsuccessful attempt to attack the German

battleship Tirpitz.

Later, in early June, still in Scapa Flow, we witnessed a huge fleet being assembled

prior to the D-Day landings, though we were not aware of its significance until very

early on 6 June.

Scapa Flow was deserted but for us – a lone destroyer ‘to protect the northern

approaches’, or so we were told – and a few boom defence ships that were

permanently on station. A disgruntled ship’s company was none too pleased at not

being able to take part in the landings at Normandy.

Crossing the Arctic Circle

In mid-June we left Scapa Flow in the company of the cruiser HMS Belfast and one

other destroyer in Operation DB. We were to relieve the garrison in Spitsbergen,

Norway. This was Norwegian territory that had been occupied by the Germans, and

we were assisting by taking stores and personnel.

I was in charge of a motor boat, ferrying stores back and forth to a jetty. Although I

didn’t land as such, the operation to reach Spitsbergen meant that we crossed the

Arctic Circle. As a result, the ship’s company was presented with a commemorative

Blue Nose certificate. Sadly, I have lost mine.

Subsequently, we also received a certificate for crossing the equator – along with the

appropriate ducking for the first time across. But, once more, I’ve misplaced my

certificate.

Aboard the Altmark

In Scapa Flow we had the opportunity to board the German supply ship Altmark. This

was the vessel in which many merchant seamen were imprisoned as a result of their

ships being sunk by the Graf Spee. It had been rescued from a Norwegian fjord in

early 1940. The officers’ quarters were quite palatial, and the wide staircase to the

upper deck was reminiscent of a transatlantic liner.

We were intended to join the Eastern Fleet. On the way east through the

Mediterranean we covered US Army landings in Provence. We escorted capital ships

(perhaps the HMS Ramilles) through the Strait of Gibraltar at night to avoid spying eyes

on Spanish territory.

En routewe called at Algiers then Malta for a brief shore leave, where the famous oil

tanker Ohio was berthed. It was this oil tanker that was heavily bombed in the convoy

bringing desperately needed fuel for aircraft involved in defence of the island. It had

achieved its mission but was badly damaged and had had to be towed into harbour.

Based at Trincomalee

We called at Alexandria en routeto the Suez Canal, then the Red Sea with a brief stop in

Aden before proceeding to Bombay and Colombo (Ceylon, now Sri Lanka). On 26

August 1944 we were assigned to the 27th Destroyer Flotilla, Eastern Fleet, based at

Trincomalee.

A captain (D) in Kempenfelt led this flotilla, but all the other destroyers had names

beginning with W – Wager, Whirlwind, Wessex, Wrangler and Wakefuland, of course, us – Whelp. We

had a brief shore leave in Trincomalee, in what could be described as a holiday camp

with sheltered accommodation on the beach. The climate was sub-tropical, and it was

a welcome opportunity to relax. Other officers went up to Kandy for a short leave, but

either I declined or wasn’t permitted or simply couldn’t afford to go.

Meeting Mountbatten

Lord Louis Mountbatten (Supreme Allied Commander, South-East Asia) visited the

ship when we were in either Colombo or Trincomalee, presumably to see Prince

Philip.

On being introduced he remarked to me that I was lucky to be in a destroyer as

opposed to a battleship, where, in his experience, there were many midshipmen

aboard in the gun room.

My other brush with fame, on a subsequent occasion, was returning from a day’s

shore leave. Sea conditions were too bad to get a Liberty boat back, so I spent the

night in Nelson’s cabin on board HMS Victory.

Operations Millet, Outflank, Robson and Lentil

In October 1944 we took part in Operation Millet, an intended diversion for the US

landings on Leyte in the Philippines. A task force attacked the Nicobar Islands in the

Indian Ocean. In mid-November we escorted the Royal Fleet Auxiliary (RFA) Wave

King, an oil tanker for refuelling ships and aircraft fuel, in Operation Outflank, an air

attack on Pangkalan Brandan in north-west Sumatra.

In December there was an unsuccessful attack in Operation Robson – Task Force 67 –

on Belawan Deli (north Sumatra) and Medan. Then, in early January 1945, we

escorted the task force that attacked the Pangkalan Brandan oil refineries code named

Operation Lentil.

Swimming at night in heavy seas

The rescue of one of the submarines (HM Sub Shakespeare) in January 1945 was

memorable. This sub had been badly damaged by gunfire off the Malacca Strait, and

its fellow sub (HM Sub. Stygian) stood by until we took it in tow some 320km (200

miles) east of Trincomalee on 3 January.

We picked up the sub in darkness and fairly heavy seas, but the real problem was

securing a tow, because all her crew either wounded or too exhausted to make a line

fast on deck. It was too hazardous to launch a motorboat.

A leading seaman volunteered to swim to the sub with a line attached, then haul on

board a stronger line and secure a towing hawser. The volunteer was Leading Seaman

Shreeves, who, for this exploit and his evident courage, was eventually awarded the

BEM (British Empire Medal) and promoted petty officer.

Task Force 63

We arrived back in Trincomalee on 8 January. On 16 January we left again with Task

Force 63 and transferred to the British Pacific Fleet as Operation Meridian, which was

to continue attacks on the Japanese oil refineries on Sumatra.

Thereafter we were transferred to the Pacific and routed to Australia, calling at

Fremantle en routeto Sydney. We had shore leave in Sydney, where some alterations

were made to the ship.

There was one period – I think during the journey from Trincomalee to Sydney –

when we took on board several specialist officers: medical, engineering and radar. I

had to give up my shared cabin for them and sleep on a camp bed in one of the cabin

flats. The engineering officer usefully discovered that one of the ventilating fans in

my cabin was operating in reverse.

A new assignment and identification

On 18 February we were assigned to the combined US and British Task Force CTF

113. Our identification was changed to US pennant D33.

We took on board an American lieutenant (Junior Grade or JG) United States Navy

(USN), who was a signals officer. He had to interpret US Fleet signals, both visual

and radio, since the RN and USN systems were different. He was a most jovial

officer, not averse to slapping the captain on his shoulder with a ‘Good morning,

Cap’n.’

Operation Iceberg

We left Sydney for Manus in the Admiralty Islands with the battleship HMS Howe. In

March we took part in Operation Iceberg (attacks against Formosa and Sakishima

Gunto islands), which precluded the attack on Okinawa in support of landings by the

USA.

This task force sailed in a large circular formation, with destroyers screening the outer

perimeter and carriers in the centre, which, in turn, were surrounded by battleships

and cruisers. Often our radar was suspect. We were detailed to station ourselves astern

of the carriers – the actual centre of the fleet – and pick up aircrews that ditched on

landing or were injured and couldn’t make the flight deck.

Rescues at sea

In an earlier operation we rescued Sub-lieutenant (A) RNVR Roy ‘Gus’ Halliday

from HMS Victorious, who had been shot down after a second strike on the Palembang

refinery. He eventually became a Vice Admiral, KBE, DSC, and commanded the

British Naval Staff in Washington, DC. He was subsequently appointed Deputy Chief

Defence Staff of Intelligence.

Sadly, on one occasion, we rescued a pilot who was so badly injured that, in spite of

very good medical attention, he died on board later. We buried him at sea. This was

our first and only experience of such a tragedy. I’ll never forget the vivid green of the

water surrounding him, a result, I understood, of the shark repellent that was released

by ditched aircrews on entering the sea.

Suicide-pilot attacks

We developed faults (with radar) on 25 March 1945 and rejoined the Task Force on

30 March. On 1 April we witnessed the kamikaze (divine wind) attacks on aircraft

carriers. On Easter Sunday, while I was operating the plot for incoming bandits, I saw

a kamikaze hit one of the carriers.

It was remarkable how the aircraft were able to fly on and off again in such a short

time and maintain their position in the operational line. In contrast, when a kamikaze

damaged the flight deck of the American carriers it put them out of action for a

considerable time.

This resilience was an aspect of the British-constructed armoured flight decks that so

impressed the Americans. In the light of it they requested Task Force 57 to strike at

airfields on Formosa, where the most effective suicide units were thought to be based.

Manual and digital dexterity

At action stations I was responsible for maintaining the plot of aircraft from radio

reports and for relaying the information to the gunnery officer. I always remember an

Admiralty directive instructing that this task should be given to a young officer ‘who

displayed manual and digital dexterity’.

In early May 1945, we left Leyte for Sydney to be refitted. However, on the way, we

were re-routed to Melbourne, where we stayed until July. On shore leave there was

the opportunity to meet Australian families. I remember escorting a young Australian

girl around a suburb of Melbourne, wearing long ‘whites’ with the midshipman’s

lapel on the tunic collar. Someone asked me if I was in the Fire Brigade. This odd

remark has stayed with me 60 years.

Up the Great Barrier Reef

Later I was commissioned as sub-lieutenant RNVR and gained a full watch-keeping

certificate, though there were always two officers on watch on the bridge. I recall the

effort of the concentration of having to change course, in both direction and time, of

having to create the zigzag patterns selected at random and agreed with other ships in

the formation.

We left Melbourne for Sydney and Darwin, travelling up the Great Barrier Reef. We

were to join HMS King George V (Admiral Sir Bruce Fraser) and screen her (with Wager) en

route to Tokyo Bay to witness the surrender of the Japanese.

The fleet train

We oiled from KG5at one stage, at the same time as Wager. I have a photograph of this,

showing the way ships oiled at sea, generally from a tanker of the fleet train.

The fleet train was vital for replenishing ships with food, ammunitions, spares, oil

and, not least, mail. It was a triumph of improvisation that stretched thousands of

miles from Australia to wherever the fleet was operating. It existed for only a year

before the end of the war with Japan, but it was fitting that it was present in Tokyo

Bay to witness the surrender.

Sinking a junk

After the war ended we came home via Sydney, Melbourne, Fremantle and Hong

Kong, where we spent a spell patrolling the harbour for Japanese pirates, thought to

be operating under the guise of Chinese junk fishermen.

We sank one accidentally. Thankfully, I was not on watch, so couldn’t be blamed. I

heard the awful crunch, however, as I was relaxing in the wardroom, on a break after

having been on the bridge for my watch.

Watch-keeping

At sea or in harbour, apart from during action stations, I always kept the afternoon

and middle watches. This meant that I never had any long period of unbroken sleep.

Dinner in the wardroom was usually after 8pm, when the captain joined his officers

for a social drink beforehand. After the meal I had to try and get some sleep before the

middle watch (12 midnight to 4am). By 8am I was expected to undertake other

responsibilities – chart corrections and so on. I was on watch again from 12 noon to

4pm, when others could relax. I once complained about all this to the first lieutenant,

but my complaint was just dismissed for some reason or other.

Enjoying life on board

Life on board ship had its high points, especially in harbour or alongside

replenishment ships. This was when we were able to hire films, shown to the ship’s

company on the forecastle. I also enjoyed the wardroom food and was introduced to

savouries instead of pudding. The issue of lime juice was always very welcome.

During midnight watch I became adept at making good cocoa.

I was the youngest officer on board, but eventually I reached the age at which I could

have a mess account for drinks other than soft ones. After the loyal toast –

traditionally given sitting down in the navy – ‘To our wives and sweethearts’,

invariably, the response was, ‘May they never meet’.

One of the Forgotten Fleets

Our home coming, flying the paying-off pennant, was emotional. We arrived in

Portsmouth, from Gibraltar, on 17 January 1946 – one of the Forgotten Fleets.

I finished post-war naval service in HMS Fencer, a converted US-built Woolworth

escort carrier. Our task was to ferry colonials, including Belgian White Fathers, to

Mombassa, East Africa, and then proceed to Ceylon to pick up personnel for demob

and homecoming.

I left the ship and was demobbed before it was crewed to return to the USA. I did

have the opportunity of sailing to America. It is of some regret that I did not do so,

because the return journey was on one of the Queens.

I was commended for a medal. To this day, I don’t know what it was. Ultimately, it

was changed to a mention in despatches, published in the London Gazette on 11 June 1946,

of which I am immensely proud.

HMS Euryalus — An Engineer's Reminiscences

This article was written by my father, Eric R Wilkinson, in 1992.

Joining the ship, and engineering officers

I joined HMS 'Euryalus' in August, 1944, at John Brown’s Shipyard in Clydebank,

where she was refitting. Although there wasn’t a full ship’s company aboard, she had

a full complement of Engineer Officers, namely a Commander (E) (the Chief), a

Lieutenant Commander (E) (Senior) and four watch-keeping officers, three being

Lieutenants (E), and one a Commissioned Engineer. Six of the seven were permanent

navy. The fourth watch-keeper was a Lieutenant (E), Temporary RN. I was a Sub-

Lieutenant (E), and I was to replace one of the Lieutenants.

Officers with the rank of (E), Temporary RN, were university graduates who had been

given a month’s indoctrination at Royal Naval Barracks, Portsmouth, followed by six

months training/experience with a marine engine constructor. We ‘Temporary RN’

engineers were well accepted by our permanent RN colleagues. After all, our

background was very similar. They had been educated in the RN engineering college

and worked in RN dockyards.

I was lucky in my fellow engineering officers: they were all extremely competent and

enjoyable to work with. One of them, Temporary RN like myself, was the best

practical engineer I have ever met. He had an instinctive feel for machinery and was

respected by all, officers and ratings alike. We all wore straight stripes with a purple

insert which signified that we were ‘capable of raising steam’.

'Euryalus' had an extra engineer officer: he was there to look after the new system of

Fire Control which had been installed. He was very fully occupied indeed.

Scapa Flow

We sailed for Scapa Flow about August 1944 to work-up. This proceeded in fits and

starts because the new fire control system had a lot of teething troubles. Amongst

other problems, there was swarf in the lubricating oil. It was decided to carry out

repairs with ship’s own personnel, and we swung round a Scapa buoy for two weeks

while they worked all hours. Those who had been hoping for a return to a dockyard,

with home leave, were disappointed.

We made a number of short working-up cruises around Scapa, and at least one

operational foray to the Scandinavian coast. In the end, however, it was decided that a

dockyard visit was necessary, and we sailed to the Tyne and tied up at the Tyne

Commission Quay for a few days. From the engineers’ point of view, the work-up had

gone quite well, despite minor problems with boiler feed-pumps which weren’t

sufficiently rugged for the job, and persistent steam leaks from the main steam lines.

Joining the Pacific Fleet

In November we went to Rosyth. The ship’s company were given leave and the ship

was fumigated to get rid of rats. Previously this would not have been possible, for it

was not thought prudent to fumigate a ship with ammunition on board, and the work

of de-ammunitioning was formidable. However, an Admiralty committee including

'Euryalus's CO had recently decided that there was, after all, no danger, and so we got

rid of most of our rats. Not all. The fumigator, a private contractor, had been short of

time and had missed some of the myriad compartments in the ship. By the time we

got to the Pacific, there were as many rats as ever on board. During the fumigating in

Rosyth a skeleton crew stood by, but for twenty-four hours, the ship was empty of

people — probably for the first time since her original commissioning.

In December we joined an assembling convoy in the Mersey, including the

‘Rimutaka’ with the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester aboard. He was heading for

Australia to take over as Governor General. We escorted the convoy to and through

the Mediterranean. We spent Christmas Day in Malta, arriving in the morning and

leaving in the evening. It was a beautiful day and the sun shone warmly. A rope

ladder was dropped from the Quarter deck and sailors swam in Grand Harbour.

Still with the convoy we sailed through the Suez Canal and across the Indian Ocean to

Colombo. Then, alone, we steamed round Ceylon to Trincomalee where the British

Pacific Fleet was assembling. When we arrived the fleet was out exercising. With

three other engineer officers I went for a sail in the ship’s dinghy and while we were

sunbathing on a lovely little beach the fleet returned to harbour, sailing past us in line

ahead. It was the biggest assembly of big ships any of us had ever seen — two

battleships, three aircraft carriers, cruisers and destroyers. Immensely impressive.

Very soon we sailed again, this time as part of the Fleet. Nobody had yet told us

where we were going, but as we cleared the harbour, Captain Oliver Bellasis informed

the ship’s company over the intercom that our next port of call would be Fremantle,

Australia, and on the way the carriers would be flying off aircraft to strike oil

refineries under Japanese control at Palembang in the Dutch East Indies.

Oiling at sea

This is the time to write about oiling at sea. Ship’s companies in cruisers and

destroyers were used to a life in which it was always necessary to visit a port to take

in oil fuel every few days. The time between refuelling varied with all sorts of factors

— the speed we sailed at (as I recall we used at least twice as much oil per mile at full

speed as at cruising speed) and how low in fuel it was acceptable to be in the

circumstances of the place and time. But every week or so, and often more frequently,

we put into a port to refuel. This brought respite from the monotony of watch-keeping

at sea, at least for the few hours it took to refuel.

But such frequent visits to port would obviously not be possible in the Pacific, and

therefore we learned to refuel at sea. This had been part of our working-up

programme at Scapa. An oil tanker steamed at constant speed while the ships being

fuelled kept station on her, on each side or behind. Flexible hoses were hoisted from

ship to ship, and the fuelling proceeded. It was a fraught period for many in the ship.

The shipping of the hoses was difficult at the best of times and almost impossible in

poor weather. Occasionally the hoses disconnected and fuel gushed everywhere.

Keeping station imposed continual strain on the bridge personnel who had to steer and

adjust the ship’s speed very precisely.

It was also stressing for the men in the engine rooms who had to adjust the big wheels

which controlled the throttle valves which admitted steam to the engines, as orders

were telegraphed from the bridge. The engine designers had not envisaged this sort of

close speed control being necessary, and the tachometers fitted to each engine gave

only rough readings. Fine adjustments had to be made by repeatedly clocking the rev

counters. Finally, the engineer officer in charge of taking in oil fuel had to be released

from his watch-keeping duties in the engine room so the other engineer officers had to

take over his watches.

Fremantle, place of plenty

We reached Fremantle in February 1945 and during our 24 hours there everybody had

a few hours ashore — just time to visit Perth. This was one of the experiences of my

life. To go almost straight from the rationed food and nightly blackouts of England to

the sunshine, lights and free availability of everything in Fremantle was mind-

boggling. Also, we’d just had three weeks of continually watch-keeping at sea which

was longer than most of us had experienced before.

We were quickly off to Sydney where we settled down for two weeks and met a lot of

very welcoming Australians. But that’s another story. There were a number of

machinery repairs to be carried out, and, as so often, the boilers had to be cleaned. So

the engineers didn’t get as much rest and rehabilitation as everybody else.

We steamed off from Sydney in a great hurry and made port in the Dutch East Indies,

at Manus where we tied up to a buoy and waited. Days went by while we lay at

anchor in Manus harbour, very hot, with no shore facilities, bemoaning our lot and

wondering why the C in C couldn’t have left us to wait in Sydney.

It wasn’t until long after the war that I heard what had been going on. Churchill was

determined that the British Fleet should get involved in the Pacific, but the Americans

were reluctant to accept us. The American Navy had mastered the logistics of sea

warfare in the Pacific, and the Royal Navy had much to learn. Reasonably enough, the

Americans required reassurance that we would be able to look after ourselves and

wouldn’t need help from their resources, but there were also other, political reasons.

Finally our masters resolved their differences, and we set off for the Central Pacific.

Working life of an engineer at sea

In the Pacific we worked basically to a four-day cycle — two days for the aircraft

carriers to fly off aircraft on operations, roughly half a day steaming back to the

rendezvous with the oilers, one day taking fuel, and half a day steaming back to

operational positions. For most of the two operational days we were at action stations,

even if not on watch, and the long routine prevented much rest on the off days. It was

a wearing routine. Looking back, I’m surprised we didn’t get more exhausted. But we

were young……

We had two long spells in the Northern Pacific with short breaks in The Philippines

and a rest and rehabilitation trip to Brisbane, Australia. When the dropping of the two

atomic bombs presaged the end of the war we weren’t far away from Japan, and I

remember the eerie feeling as we took in this new development. If the Americans had

an atomic bomb, we couldn’t help wondering, was it inconceivable that the Japs

might have one too?

Imperishable memory, and war end

I have one imperishable memory from the last weeks of the war. We were at sea

somewhere in the northern Pacific not far from Japan, steaming towards our ‘strike’

position, escorting the carriers whose aircraft were going to do the attacking. It was a

grey morning. From deck I could see a few ships of our fleet — carriers with aircraft

taking off, a battleship ahead on them, cruisers and destroyers just visible in the far

distance. Being off watch and not yet at action stations, I went up to the radar office

below the bridge. The radar officer invited me in, and said 'Look at this'.

On the PPI radar screen the beam was showing the blips of 12 or 15 ships — the

British Pacific Fleet. Then the operator increased the scale and we saw a scan of the

sea surrounding us for 30 or 40 miles. Beyond our fleet was another fleet of the same

size, and beyond that, another, and beyond that, another. They were three American

Task Forces, each as big as the British Pacific Fleet. I had an overwhelming sense of

the scale of the American war effort.

After the war for a while we worked harder than ever, steaming fast to Manus to

refuel and take in stores, then to Hong Kong to relieve the Colony, then on guard and

patrol duty in the South China seas, then, at last, to Sydney for rest, rehabilitation and

refit.

Then followed a South Sea Islands cruise, a visit to New Zealand, a return to Hong

Kong, Shanghai, Yokohama, and Saigon. I left 'Euryalus' for demobilisation in

October 1946.

Part Two: The Engineers' Angle

Flashing-up

Whenever we went to sea, the engineering department started work before everybody

else. Steam machinery has to be warmed-up slowly, so we had to flash up the boilers

and introduce steam gradually to the pipes and turbines, a routine which took two

hours or so.

So the duty engineer officer with the Chief Stokers, Chief ERAs and other ratings

would turn up in the machinery spaces and start work. As the ship usually sailed in

the early morning it seemed we were always flashing-up at ‘Oh Christ Double Oh’.

In emergency, we could light up the boilers and pass steam almost straight through to

the turbines, but the sudden expansion of all the pipes and machinery, and the lack of

time to ‘bleed off’ trapped water, could damage the turbine blades and cause steam

leaks which would have to be repaired at the first opportunity.

Steam joints

Superheated steam is difficult stuff to handle, and the Admiralty at that time insisted

on face-to-face flanged joints between steam pipes. As compared with material joints,

in which a ring of jointing material fits into grooves in the flanges, face-to-face joints

were better in case of trouble — a material joint could always blow out — but were

very difficult to repair when they did leak. The flanges had to be pulled apart, which

was often very difficult, because an engine room is a maze of pipes and machinery,

and often to get at one pipe, others must be moved. Coping with these face-to-face

steam joints was one of our recurring problems and we envied the Americans who

always used material joints.

Boiler Cleaning

High pressure three-drum water tube boilers were particularly subject to furring inside

the tubes, even though distilled water was always used — evaporators on board

provided water for all purposes while we were at sea, and there was often conflict

between supplying water for the boilers and for the use of ship’s company.

But every so often, every two or three months, the boilers had to be cleaned. The

routine cut harshly into engineers’ recreation time in port. 'Euryalus' had four boilers,

two in each boiler room, and each had hundreds of tubes. First the drums had to be

opened up, and all the baffles and other gear stripped out. Then a brush had to be

pushed down each tube to clean it. Then the tubes had to be ‘sighted’ to make sure

that nothing had been left in — if the boiler had been steamed with an obstruction in

one of the tubes, there could have been no water circulation in that tube and it would

have heated to incandescence and melted, allowing steam to blow out. That would

have been potentially lethal to the boiler room personnel.

Sighting the boiler, then, was very important and was supposed to be done by an

officer. Ball bearings were dropped down the tubes to make sure they were free. A

wooden board with holes like a solitaire board held 36 balls. Because nobody could

go into the boiler after the sighting had been completed, all the gear had to be in

place. The officer wormed his way in with some difficulty, lay on his stomach and

dropped a ball down each tube to be caught in the drum below by a stoker wielding a

small bag. The officer chalked each tube as he dropped a ball down it. Then there was

a pause while the solitaire board was passed down to the lower drum and the stoker

fitted his recovered balls into it.

The pause lengthened while he searched for the balls he had failed to catch. Finally

the filled board was returned to the officer in the upper drum and the cycle started

again. When the check was completed, the officer was the last man to leave the drum,

and the boiler door was bolted in place. The last thing to be remembered was the

piece of chalk.

As I watched the hatches being bolted into place after sighting, the thought often

occurred to me that an unpopular engineer might easily vanish without trace.

Personnel

The core of the engine room ratings were the Engine Room Artificers. The regulars,

the dedicated Royal Navy men, well trained and on the whole well motivated, were

tradesmen who really knew the machinery. A Chief ERA on each watch saw to the

smooth running of the engines. The ‘labourers’ of the department were stokers, with a

Chief Stoker in charge of each boiler room.

By the end of the war, a lot of the ERA were temporary, hostilities only. They varied

a lot. They had been tradesmen in civilian life, but not necessarily in the most suitable

trades. I remember a cheerful stoker from Bradford who was a plumber — literally a

plumber. I’m sure he was good at fitting bathrooms, but hadn’t a clue about

machinery. The task of fitting men to tasks they could successfully carry out occupied

a lot of the engineer officers’ time and ingenuity. It also complicated the giving of

leave to engineering ratings. For example, particular skills were needed for boiler

cleaning, so if that was due, we had to make sure that enough suitably experienced

men were available on board without denying due leave.

Chief ERAs and Engineer Officers spent a lot of time together watch-keeping at sea.

Watch keeping involved periodic inspections and checks of the machinery, but unless

the ship was manoeuvring, there wasn’t much to do, so we talked about everything

under the sun. I came to know the chief ERAs very well, and to have a great respect

for them.

Boats

We had a lot of trouble with the ship’s boats. The small engines supplied were

satisfactory for small British harbours with clean water and short distances to cover,

but were nothing like rugged enough for Eastern harbours. The engine cooling water

circulating system was always bunging up with filthy water. We cracked a cylinder

head, and, with no replacement available, struggled mightily to weld it, pre-heating on

top of the galley stove. The Americans provided their ships with much more rugged

though less glamorous craft.

Conditions

It might be thought that engine room personnel would suffer down below decks in the

tropical weather of the Pacific, but in 'Euryalus', the engine and boiler rooms were

often the best places to be. There were huge forced draft fans which supplied air for

combustion in the boilers, and there were very adequate fans to cool the boiler room. I

don’t recall ever being in any discomfort in the machinery spaces. There was

ventilation trunking with louvers throughout the ship, but the wardroom and mess

decks used to get quite hot.

Emergencies

We were very well instructed in damage control. Recent incidents, particularly the

sinking of the 'Ark Royal' in the Med, has alerted the Admiralty to the importance of

damage control, and how much could be done by proper discipline in controlling

water-tight compartments. My Lords were clever, knowing the infinite capacity of

naval personnel to avoid going on apparently boring courses in remote locations, they

organised a damage control course in Baron’s Court, London, from Monday to

Friday. Thus people going on this course could get two free weekends, to go home or

spend in London according to choice.

It was a well presented course. There were ship models with watertight compartments

and I remember vividly a demonstration of the sinking of the 'Ark Royal' showing

how it could have been prevented if good water-tight discipline had been observed.

I don’t remember any drill in procedures for escaping from the engine room or

abandoning ship. All training was directed to the more positive subject of saving the

ship. I suppose this was good psychology — it is extraordinary, in retrospect, how one

lived one’s life down in the engine rooms or boiler rooms, surrounded by all that

superheated steam - and heavy machinery revolving at high speed - with very little

thought of what would happen if a bomb or torpedo hit us.

At action stations we had damage control duties, but most of these were standby. We

were kept informed of what was going on by one of the bridge officers, through the

tannoy. But because while anything was actually happening they were all very busy,

we didn’t hear about it until some time afterwards. We would sit there, at our action

stations, hearing bangs and explosions and bumps, followed by silence, and then,

eventually, over the tannoy, the Gunnery Officer in his Canadian drawl, 'What

happened then was……….'.

I don’t remember a single serious emergency incident in 'Euryalus'. So far as enemy

action was concerned, we were lucky — despite many threats, we were never hit. So

far as everything else — on the whole we were able to anticipate trouble and avoid it.

Morale

Every sailor wanted to be in a ‘happy ship’, but it was an elusive concept. It grew

gradually during a commission, based on mutual experiences and successful

achievements. It depended on the interaction of all the members of the ship’s

company. Obviously some members carried more weight than others. The

Commanding Officer set the tone. I don’t think a ship could be happy if the men were

not good at their jobs, but there was no correlation between superior ability and higher

morale. I served in 'Euryalus' under two captains, Oliver Bellasis and R S Warne.

Bellasis was probably the cleverer man, but Warne the better leader.

It was vital to morale to receive regular mail from home, and the achievement of the

Fleet Mail Office was remarkable. Letters addressed from UK to ‘HMS 'Euryalus' c/o

Admiralty, London’ were delivered regularly an astonishingly short time later. They

even came up on the oilers, so every time we took in oil fuel, we had a mail delivery.

Memory can play tricks, but I think I’m right in recalling that at best letters were

reaching us in mid-Pacific ten days after posting in England.

We had a padre, a C of E vicar, a most resilient man, who ran an excellent concert

party for us. We had a doctor, and a dentist. We were well looked after.

The food wasn’t bad at all. We stocked up with the best fresh food from whichever

port we called at. The introduction of dried vegetables added a lot to the diet at sea —

dried potatoes made excellent chips.

When we met the American Navy they couldn’t have been more friendly. They

always had more supplies than we had, more ice-cream and more recreational

facilities. More of everything. But they were completely generous in sharing it all

with us. At my level I never came across any hint of resentment or disapproval that

we were there. When an American ship was tied up near us there was a brisk trade in

ice cream and other goodies for gin or Scotch or rum.

As an officer I had a Division — a group of about 20 stokers. I was responsible for

their welfare, promotion, grievances, pay and everything else. Occasionally I had to

drill them. On one occasion when the ship’s company were being mustered on the

Quarter deck, I distinguished myself marching my division towards the sterns and at

the critical moment shouting ‘Shun!’ instead of ‘Halt!’. Fortunately, not wishing to

march over the stern they halted.

Spares, the Fleet Train

Of course we were always needing spare parts for the machinery. The Admiralty had

established a Spare Parts Distribution Centre (SPDC) in Sydney. We used to

requisition from them and they had many of the things we needed. The Fleet Train

included a service ship containing a well-equipped machine shop and a small foundry,

and that produced one or two things for us when we happened to meet them in port. I

remember the Fleet Train best for the ‘Amenities Ship’ — ‘Menelaus’. She carried a

floating brewery, which brewed real ale. Also a theatre, cinema and comfortable

lounging accommodation. Very popular with everybody, but she didn’t appear until

after the war. If the war had gone on, it would have been marvellous to have her in

remote ports like Manus.

We had work carried out by local shipyards in both Sydney and Brisbane. In Sydney

Harbour, we spent a month in dry dock at Cockatoo Island, a major shipyard.

Happy times

I was 23 years old, unmarried, an engineer more or less practising his trade. I wasn’t

wasting time as so many were, and I wasn’t everlastingly missing wife and family.

The watch-keeping at sea was monotonous, but nothing went on for ever. Eventually

we got back to some port or other. And contrast heightened the pleasures of shore

leave. I loved being in the Royal Navy. In the good old North Country phrase, almost

everybody aboard ship had ‘something about him’. Many were entertaining. All were

interesting.

As every sailor knows, a ship at sea is a living thing. Although we were always glad

to get into port, I always felt a sense of loss when the ship stopped moving and the

vibration of the engines died away. Conversely, when we went to sea, sad to leave

whatever port we had been in, there was a compensation — the ship came alive again.

'Euryalus' was very seaworthy. We sailed through some bad storms, particularly in the

Pacific, but I never felt any anxiety about the seaworthiness of the ship. I was a little

sea-sick when, alter a long spell ashore, we sailed out into a rough sea, but I was

lucky — it never lasted long.

Eric R Wilkinson 31/03/1992

Lady Luck Part 1

H.M.S."Norfolk" in the Artic circle 1943

LADY LUCK

Part one

BY

T.HULBERT

September 1939, the Prime Minister has just announced, that we are at war with

Germany. My father, mother, sister, and brother, are at home in Potters Bar, when the

warning siren goes off.

My brother who is only a few months old, does not know that in twenty years from

now, he will be in Kenya, fighting the Mau-Mau, doing his National Service.

We all make a dash to the Anderson shelter, a false alarm, one of many. The shelter

was at the bottom of the garden, supplied by the government, was made of corrugated

iron about eight foot square and sunk roughly three feet in the ground. The earth that

was taken out , was put on top of the shelter, in the winter, it was flooded three feet

deep, absolutely use-less.

A few month’s later they supplied us, with an indoor shelter, about the size of a king-

size bed ,and three feet tall; we put it up in the front room. It was made of thick steel,

like a big coffin. with two open sides, that were covered with wire mesh, inside you

had a mattress, blankets, water, and a whistle, the Idea being , that if you was not,

gassed, drowned, or electrocuted, you blew the whistle until somebody came to dig

you out, luckily it never came to that, our nearest bomb landed about 400yards away.

Luck was to play a big part in this war.

I had known Stan since I was 11 years old, he was my best mate, and we went

everywhere together, did everything together. We both started work at fourteen years

of age in 1937. Stan was working in the city, at a lock smiths, round the corner from

ST. Paul’s Cathedral, I worked as a Toolmaker improver at Barnsury Square,

Islington, near Kings Cross, my father was the supervisor of the tool-room.

It was at this time, at the factory, that I met a young lady, named Florrie Williams,

little did I know that in ten years time we would marry, and stay together for fifty two

years, but, that’s another story.

When the bombing started, Stan’s mother, sister, and brother were evacuated to

Wales, Stan did not want to go, so, him and his ration book came and lived with us,

his father stayed at Dagenham, to look after the house.

Stan and I and my father, traveled from Potters Bar station to Kings cross every day ,

a journey that should have taken about an hour and quarter, sometimes it took us three

hours, because of bombs on the line. On the night the City was set on fire with

thousands of incendiary bombs, Stan’s factory was burnt to the ground, his foreman

told him to get another job, so, he turned up at our factory in the afternoon, dirty and

tired, after climbing over all the rubble ,and was taken on as a toolmaker improver.

The next day, it took us ,six hours to get to work, there bombs on the line, at East

Barnet, and Wood green, and a land mine ,in Font hill road, at Finsbury Park, it took

three trains and three buses to finally get there.

The next day Stan suggested we cycle to work, which I thought was a good idea. So,

for the next eighteen months we rode fifteen miles there and, fifteen miles back, six

days a week, it took us fifty five minutes from door to door, with week-end cycling

we were doing about ten thousand miles a year.

On the way to work, we used to stop, and pick up shrapnel, some of which, was still

hot , we had between ten and twenty pounds of the stuff by the time we got to work.

We sorted it out on the bench, the Idea being, to find a piece with a Swastika on it, we

never did find any, most of it had English writing on it, from our own ack-ack guns.

One day, on the way to work we were cycling down the Archway road, a block of

luxury flats was hit during the night with a five hundred pound bomb. The firefighters

and A.R.P. (Air raid Precautions) were still digging out the bodies as we went by;

rumour was that over fifty people were killed that night.

During the day at work, if the siren went off, Stan and I, had to go on the roof of the

factory, on incendiary watch, we had stirrup pumps, and sand bags, luck was with us

again, we never had to use them.

During the winter of 1941, Stan and I were cycling home in the blackout, we got as

far as Wroxham gardens in Potters bar when we heard two bombs whistling down.

Stan, who was by the nearside curb swerved to his right to dive behind a wall, I

swerved to the left to dive behind a wall, we both smashed into each other and

finished up in a heap in the middle of the road , the bombs landed about five hundred

yards away.

It was Saturday afternoon; for a change, we were going home via Southgate. We were

cycling up the Cockfosters road, but found a barrier across the road with a notice

stating unexploded bomb, detour this way.

The detour meant going about four miles out of our way, as there was nobody about

we decided to take a chance, the bomb had landed on one side of the road, so we

ducked under the barrier, got on the pavement and pedaled like mad.

I looked down into the crater as I went by, but I could not see the bomb because the

earth had collapsed in on top of it. We went under the wooden pole at the other end,

and went on our way, nobody was any the wiser.

1942

In May 1942, Stan and I were both 18 years old, we decided to volunteer for the

armed forces, Stan wanted to join the Navy, and I fancied the Air Force, so we

compromised, and joined the fleet-air arm.

Our nearest recruitment centre was at Edgeware, so one Saturday we cycled down

there, I was the first in the door, which was our first mistake; I gave my Potters-bar

address and then went into the next room for my medical, Stan came next and gave

his Dagenham address, our second mistake.

The recruitment officer told Stan, “you cannot enroll here you have to go to

Romford”, I had all ready signed up as an aircraft mechanic. It was about 3 pm so we

jumped on our bikes and pedaled like mad to Romford.

We got there with about half an hour to spare; Stan went in and signed up and said

he” wanted to be a aircraft mechanic”. The officer said “there is no such thing your”ll

have to be an air-frame fitter”, that was our third mistake.

Three weeks later, I went to Cheshire, two weeks after that Stan went to Dorset, and

we did not see each other for the next four years.

I had to report to the Edgeware road recruitment office, when I arrived there I found

another five young lads there, the officer said to me, “you’re the tallest so you’re in

charge, and you’re on your way to Warrington”.

Promotion already and I had not been in the navy five minutes that was not bad, but

Warrington where the !!!! In England, was Warrington?

The officer gave me the travel warrant, and gave me instructions, we got the

underground to Euston station, there was a wait of about two hours for the next train,

one of the lads said” I only live just up the road I’m going to pop home for a few

minutes, that was the last we saw of him

We finally got to Warrington, and for losing a recruit, I was de-promoted; I think that

was the reason why I never quite made it to an Admiral...

All shore bases are named after ships; the one I went to was HMS Gosling.

I was there for three months doing basic training, which involved .303 rifle

shooting .22 shooting, throwing a live hand grenade with a six second fuse, very

frightening, square bashing, three days night manoeuvre’s and mathematics’, that I

failed.

On the rifle range, I got nine bulls out of ten at 100yards, seven at 200yards, five at

300yards, not bad for a beginner. There were thirty young lads in a class, one day we

went to a arms factory, we crawled along a trench and was told to crouch down, and

go forward one at a time.

When it was my turn, I went to the parapet, there was a Chief-Petty officer (CPO)

there, and on the ground was a box of hand grenades and fuses, he told me to look

over the top. We were on a fairly high bank; down the bottom were three oil drums,

the Idea being to lob the grenade into one of the drums, I should be so lucky! I got

down behind the sandbags, the CPO put the fuse in the grenade slapped it in my hand,

and said “Its all yours lad”, that’s when I started shaking.

I stood up, and took the lobbing position, I pulled the pin out, I gripped the grenade as

hard as I could in case I dropped it, and waited a few seconds. I was a bit reluctant to

let it go, as I lobbed it my hand hit the parapet and the grenade just rolled down the

bank.

I ducked down behind the sand bags, the CPO said “get up and have a look at it lad,

you have another three seconds yet”, I took a quick look and got down again, there

was a mighty explosion. Shrapnel was whistling about all over the place, was I glad

that was over.

Having failed the mathematics course and given the choice of general duties on an

Aircraft carrier, or, transferring to the Royal Navy, I chose the Royal Navy, and was

sent to H.M.S. Raleigh in Torpoint near Plymouth.

I did a six-week crash course on seaman-ship and sea duty watch keeping; I

completed the course and was transferred to H.M.S. Drake in Plymouth on 7th

February 1943, as ordinary seaman T.Hulbert D/JX 104015. I was paid three shilling

and sixpence a day (approx. 124p metric, per week).

The dockyard and barracks area was known as Devonport, the barracks H.M.S.Drake,

the place was filled with hundreds of matlots {sailors} all trying to find something too

do.

Meal times was one big push and shove, I think that is where the old saying came

from, f!!! you jack I’m all right. The mess{ dining hall} was called Jago,s don’t ask

me why, sometimes if you got there late and there were left-overs you could get

second helpings, but if there was nothing left all you got was sympathy, and you had

to go too the canteen and buy sausages and chips.

You was not allowed to queue until the bugle sounded, so, just before meal times, it

was funny the number of matlots that had jobs walking up and down outside the mess

hall. Mind you if you looked close enough you would have seen me, I was the one

with the broom.

One morning, I was marched down to the docks with about thirty other matlots; it was

swarming with pongo, s {navy slang for soldier} they were all armed with Thompson

sub machine guns.

We marched towards a Warship tied up along side the jetty. We went up the gang

plank to a hatch on the quarter-deck, up came a hoist with some small box’s on it,

both the officer ,and petty-officer were both armed with .45 Webley revolvers and

clip-boards with numbers on. A rating picked up and handed me a box, about the size

of a house brick, which I nearly dropped owing to the weight of it.

I suddenly realized we were unloading GOLD BULLION, every box was checked

every 100 yards, we walked between two rows of Tommy guns, to a train about 300

yards away were it was finally checked against a clip board. The gold had come from

South Africa to pay for the war. Somebody said each box was worth about £5000, I

worked it out that I unloaded around £40,000 gold bars that day, and did not even get

a thank you. I could do with one of them box’s now, to supplement my pension, still

as Frank Sinatra would say, THAT’S LIFE!

In April 1943,I was sent on a six weeks gunnery course, I fired a Lewis machine

gun,.500 water cooled, first world war machine gun, four barreled 2pdr {pounder}

Pom-Pom , eight barreled 2pdr Pom-Pom, 20mm Oerlikon.

Most of the firing took place on Drake’s Island, In the middle of Plymouth Sound,

where I also did anti-aircraft watches as habour defence Pom-Poms crew. When we

were off watch, we used to launch the dingy and row across to the lighthouse keeper

on the breakwater and have a chat and a cup of tea with him, just to pass the time

away.

We had to fire at moving targets, mainly drogues, a long sleeve made of cloth towed

by an aeroplane, a very dangerous job for the pilot. Some people got carried away

with the adrenalin, and actually fired at the aircraft, some of which were shot down.

If anybody fired at the plane accidentally, he was dismissed from the course. One day

we shot a drogue down, there was a big cheer from the lads, but we were reprimanded

for hitting the wire cable and not the drogue.

Having completed the gunnery course and passed out, my pay was increased by three

pence a day, one shilling and nine pence a week (9p). I then went on a four-week’s

commando course some where in Devon. The first morning the Instructor walked us

around the obstacle course, we then, came back to the beginning, changed into our

P.T. gear and had to run around the course twice.

I thought I was reasonable fit, with all the cycling I used to do, but when I got back, I

was exhausted, the next morning I was aching all over.

At the start of the run, you went over a swinging bridge, two planks suspended on

ropes, then up a steep hill. Through a tunnel just large enough to crawl through, it was

pitch black and zig-zagged inside so you could not see the end.

A couple of the lads were brought out screaming, dragged out by their ankles, by the

Instructor, obviously suffering from claustrophobia, we never saw them again. We

went hand over hand across a tidal river that was eight feet deep when the tide was in,

woe betide any body that fell in with a full pack and a lee-Enfield .303 rifle strapped

to their back.

We scaled 12ft walls, swung on ropes across trenches 3ft deep with water, and waded

though mud and slime. At the end of the course, we had to run round the obstacles

twice with a full pack, rifle, and twenty rounds of ammunition.

Then run down a steep hill, stop at two hundred yards, lay down and fire, ten rounds

at a target, get up, run another hundred yards, fire another ten rounds, and with your

heart thumping like mad try to hit the target.

In the afternoon, we had small arms target practice.

I started with the.45 Webley revolver. A difficult gun to shoot with owing to its kick,

the Sten gun, a cheap throw- away gun, the Lancaster, a better version of the Sten

with a wooden stock, and more precision built.

I also fired the Thompson sub machine gun, with a round magazine, used by the

Chicago gangster in the 1920s, that kept getting jammed, and the straight magazine.

The Thomson was also a awkward gun to fire, you could fire it singlely, or on

automatic, the best way to fire, was in short bursts, if you kept your finger on the

trigger to long you could not control the gun.

We also did hand to hand combat, how to kill a man with one blow of your hand, how

to tie up a man with his boot lace, the best place to bayonet a man, and a few more

gruesome things, all this, and I still wasn’t yet nineteen years old.

I passed out of the commando course, was drafted to Devonport barracks to await a

posting to a ship.

About two weeks

later, over the tannoy,

my name called out

to report to the

drafting office.

They told me to get

my gear together and

report to the dockyard

where a train was

waiting to take me to

H.M.S. Norfolk an 8”

gun cruiser, berthed at Portsmouth dockyard.

When I got there the first thing I saw was three tall funnels, this was no sleek cruiser.

She was built in 1929, at least 13 years old, she was swarming with dock yard maties,

with welding torches, paint brushes, caulking chisels, riveting guns, you name it they

had it.

There were wires, ropes, cables, gas bottles all over the place, the Master-At - Arms,

said to me, you are only in the way here, take fourteen days leave, when you get back

we will be sailing the next day.

H.M.S."Norfolk" on Russian convoy in the Artic circle 1943

LADY LUCK Part two When I returned off leave, I reported to the Master - At- arms,

who allocated me to mess 24, the lowest mess deck there was, below the water line.

When we went to sea, all the hatches were closed, and a small one was left open, just

big enough for one person at a time to get through. If you had a collision, hit a mine,

or had a torpedo come inboard you did not stand a chance. Many of the lads only

came down for their meals.

When not on duty they spent most of their spare time in the games room, on the upper

deck, playing cards etc. One day I was sitting in the mess, with my back against the

ships port side, when over the tannoy system came the warning “mine about to hit the

port side”.

Before I could move the ships side bulged in, right were I was sitting pushing me

forward, I heard the mine clang its way right down the length of the ship with out

exploding, it must have been an old mine corroded and filled up with sea water.

Lady luck was certainly smiling at me that day.

We left Portsmouth in early June, we sailed through the English Channel, steamed up

the Irish Sea, and around the outer Hebrides to Scotland then to Scapa Flow, to start

our two months working up period, I was glad to see it was flat calm all the way up

there, it took us just over two days. We anchored at Scapa Flow, a bleak place,

nothing but green hills and sheep, not a tree anywhere, because of the high winds.

The next day we went out on manoeuvres, in a force eight gale, and for the next three

days, I was seasick, and I just wanted to lay down and die, I found myself a nice

warm place next to the funnel, and did not move.

I could here my name called out on the tannoy, but I just did not care, I had nothing to

eat for three days. On the third day I was feeling a bit better, so I reported to the

Master-At -Arms, he gave me a right telling off for not reporting and said “everybody

had thought I had fallen over board”, from that day on I was never sick again.

I was starving hungry, I went down on the mess-deck and ate the biggest meal I’ve

ever had, I was still hungry, so I went to the N,A.A.F.I and bought a tin of peaches,

that’s all they had, and ate the lot.

The working up period consisted of going to action stations, anytime, day or night.

Loading and unloading magazines, clearing misfires until you had it off to a fine art,

firing hundreds of rounds of tracer, and high explosive shells at moving targets,

launching lifeboats, test firing all guns, firing dummy torpedoes, checking the radar

system, boxing the compass. Speed trails, fire drill, damage control drill, and

streaming Para vanes.

This consisted of running out two wire cables, one each side of the ship, with a

torpedo shaped object on each cable, which had wire cutters attached.

The Idea being, if you was in a mine field the wire on the mine ran up the wire on the

Para vane away from the ship, the cutters nipped the wire, and up popped the mine,

then you could fire at it and sink it.

You should be so lucky!

One day over the tannoy system came the order,” number 16 Oerlikon, open fire on

mine on starboard bow,” up on deck came everybody not on watch, there were cooks,

sick bay attendants, stokers, writers, stewards, and Officers.

Now imagine this, you have a target about four feet in diameter, 400 yards away. The

ship is going up and down, rolling from side to side, you have to calculate the wind

speed, the speed of the ship, the speed of the tide, plus the fact that the mine is rising

and falling about thirty foot on the waves.

In addition, you have a fine spray of ice-cold seawater hitting you in the face like

thousands of pins and needles.

I watched the tracer heading straight for the mine, at the last few seconds the mine

went down in a trough, and the tracer missed by about fifty yards; sometimes the

tracer hit the waves before the mine and ricocheted up in the air. Everybody gave an

Ironic cheer, some wit shouted out,” lets surrender now we haven’t got a chance”, I

am glad it was not me firing that gun.

Sitting on top of “X”turret, manning the twenty-millimeter Oerlikon, I was to

experience the firing of the twin 8” inch guns. It was the most horrendous experiences

I have ever had; first the turret starts slowly revolving, then, both barrels started

elevating, if there was no wind, you could hear the orders being given inside the turret

by the marine gun crew.

As soon as you heard the order “fire”, you held on to something, and you tensed

yourself, your whole body shook from top to toe, like some giant picking you up and

giving you a good shaking.

Next, a big wave of hot air came over you, you think you are going to be roasted

alive, in the last few seconds it clears away, and then a big cloud of ash, burnt cordite,

and pieces of hot rag descend on you, covering you in a layer of white ash.

After the firing of about twenty rounds, we both looked like a couple of snowmen,

and you were glad to get off the turret. We had anti-flash gear and ear pads, but it is a

wonder I am not stone deaf, mind you, I had a first class view of the depth charges

going off when we were attaching U-boats.

After completing our working up period, we went across the Atlantic Ocean to

Akureyri in Iceland to escort a convoy from Russia back to Scotland, in the distance,

you could see German reconnaissance planes circling around, but they never came to

close.

Twice I went ashore in Reykjavik; it was not a pleasant experience. The Icelanders

hated ours guts, they were all pro German, and they wouldn’t serve you in the shops,

if you spoke to them they turned there backs, a few of our lads got into fights with

them. We were eventually banned from going into the town, and could only go ashore

to our own canteen; it was not worth the effort to get ready to go ashore.

After escort duty we returned to Iceland, this time we went to Akureyri, waiting for

another convoy, the crew were getting fed up as nothing much was happening.

Having returned from Scotland once again, this time we returned to Seydisjordur in

Iceland..

Every time we went to one of these Fiords, my duty watch was, Harbour Defence,

these Fiords were very narrow, with mountains either side, a plane could quite easily,

come in drop its bombs and be gone in a matter of minutes, so we always manned

some machines guns, fully cocked and loaded.

On top of the turret at night, we had a beautiful view of the northern lights, and the

Aurora boalasis, all the colours of the rainbow zigzagging all over the sky, mind you,

even that’s gets boring after a few weeks, the nights were bitter cold.

August 25th, 1943.

We had our first death on board to-day; leading Seaman James Flynn broke his neck

practicing on the parallel bars. I saw them carry him down in a cane straight jacket;

the ship dedicated this poem to him.

A Burial at sea.

No sight so rare and majestical,

Than a burial at sea.

On the quarterdeck our shipmate lay,

We there, our respects to pay.

Sewn in his hammock, a funeral pall.

At his feet a cannon ball

Upon him was the ensign spread,

Tribute to him, who lay dead,

Whilst the prayers we said, we thought of him,

Our eyes grew moist and dim.

Of him, we knew a man so brave,

We cast down to an ocean grave,

And the Captains voice so reverent deep,

"I appoint you in gods keep".

Written specially to the memory of

Our shipmate, the late JAMES FLYNN

Died on active service August 25th, 1943.

I still have the original poem in my possession, buts it is getting a bit faded now.

Little did I know that before the year was out, a few more members of our crew were

to be buried at sea?

Early September we sailed from Scotland. We escorted a aircraft carrier up the coast

of Norway to bomb the German battle-ship Tirpitz in Alten fjord. When we got there,

the weather was quite calm, so the planes took off, while we patrolled up and down

outside the Fjord, but before they got back a bit of a swell got up.

How some of those Fleet air arm pilots landed those planes, I do not know, what with

the carrier pitching and rolling. I saw one plane coming in nice and steady, then the

ship rose up on a wave, the plane crashed into the rear of the ship, killing the pilot and

a couple of the gun crew on the stern.

One plane managed to land bounced up and down along the deck, missed all the

arresting wires, and went straight over the bows, he was pushed along by the carrier

then disappeared, never to be seen again, you didn’t live long in those freezing waters.

We did about three raids up the Norwegian coast to bomb the Tirpitz, once with two

carriers and a destroyer escort, one carrier was H.M.S.Illustrious.

After Norway, we did our first Russian convoy to Murmansk, we had a few U-boat

scares and saw some German aircraft, we dropped a few depth charges and fired some

4” rounds, and that kept them away.

We had to sail through Bear Island Passage, a narrow stretch of water between

Spitsbergen and Norway, where the U-boats used to wait for the convoys to go

through.

We had to stay on watch for three days and nights when the ship went through the

passage. At meal times you were given twenty minutes to go to the galley, grab a mug

of hot soup and some corned beef sandwiches, you were also given a sealed tin of

concentrated tablets that consisted of Horlicks, chocolate, barley sugars, chewing

gum, and a few other strange things.

At night, you got permission to go to the galley for a cup of kye (cocoa), this was

made from big bars of dark brown chocolate, and you could stand your spoon up in it,

delicious on a freezing cold night. After three days of not washing and shaving the

ships company looked more like a bunch of pirates than members of the Royal Navy.

You dozed where you could.

We were about two days steaming out from Murmansk.

In a big storm, I started getting these terrific pains in my right jaw, I went to the sick

bay, they sent for the dentist he took one look and said, “ you’ve got an abscess on

your back tooth, I don’t usually pull teeth in a storm, but this has to come out straight

away”.

He gave me an injection and told me to come back in ten minutes; I was due on watch

so it just gave me time to arrange for a relief.

Going back to the dentist surgery, he told me to sit down and proceeded to strap me in

the chair, to stop me falling out. The ship was tossing and rolling like a bucking

bronco, I could see the waves rushing past the starboard porthole, the surgeon went to

the door of the surgery and gave two knocks.

In came two burly stokers, they went behind me, one put both his arms around me and

pinned both my arms to my side, the other got me in a head lock. The dentist got his

knee and shoved it in my stomach; there was the four of us rolling around like

wrestlers in a tag match.

The dentist put his arm around my neck, he jammed a wedge in my mouth, with the

pliers in his other hand he said, “I’m afraid this is going to hurt, but it's got to come

out”.

He extracted the tooth, it did not hurt all that much. The dentist said, “what ever you

do don’t swallow or the poison will go into your stomach. So I went on watch with a

bottle of water, and for the next couple of hours I was rinsing my mouth and spitting

blood over the lee side of the ship.

When we got to Murmansk, we went ashore for four hours. That is all you needed, as

there was nothing there, no pubs, no shops, and no servicemen clubs, the only thing to

do was skiing and tobogganing. We saw these children on a high slope and decided to

see if we could borrow a sledge.

My pal and I started to walk up the hill, we had on all our artic clothing, sheep skin

coat, hat, gloves, boots, thick woolen jersey, two pairs of trousers, two pairs of socks,

it was freezing.

By the time we got half way up the hill, we were sweating; we came upon a large pile

of logs and thought we would have a rest, all of a sudden, Swish! Swish! Somebody

was talking to us in Russian.

We looked behind us and there was two Russian solders on ski’s all dressed in white

armed with spargen,s, Russian type Tommy guns, beckoning us to put our hands up,

which we did promptly.

After a few sign language’s and showing them our Identification papers, they

apologized and went on their way. It turned out that the wood belonged to the

community and any one caught taking it was shot on sight. There was a shortage of

everything especially wood for heating.

We visited the community hall where everybody had their meals, for dinner they were

having black bread and soup, we offered the children some chocolate but they would

not eat it, they had never seen chocolate before and were a bit suspicious.

We escorted another convoy back to Scotland, and we went to Scapa Flow, to pick up

provisions, fuel and ammunition. My mate smithy and I decided to go ashore to see

the film. Scapa Flow was a bleak place not a tree or a woman to be seen anywhere,

sailors only, very windy.

On a small Island they had built a cinema, café, and canteen, first you saw the film,

then you had something to eat, and then you went to the beer canteen, on entering, if

you fancied ten pints you bought ten tickets.

Going into this massive room, there was a long bar full up with hundreds of pints of

beer, you grabbed a tray then took ten pints, and sat down with your own ships

company, once everyone had their beer they closed the bar, there was only one kind

of beer and no spirits.

There were three to four hundred sailors from every ship in the fleet, from trawlers,

destroyers, cruisers, battleships, every man thought his ship was the best, and woe

betide anyone that disagreed, there were fights all over the place, it was bedlam.

Smithy and I were waiting for the drifter (small boat) to go ashore, there was a storm

blowing, when it came along side, smithy misjudged the rise and fall of the boat, fell

about fifteen feet twisted his ankle slipped on the wet deck and broke his leg.

We got him back on board, they radioed for a boat, and in the meantime, I went down

and got all his gear and hammock. We loaded Smithy and his gear onto the boat, I

waved him goodbye.

H.M.S."Norfolk" on convoy to Murmansk 1943

LADY LUCK Part Three Boxing Day, 26th December 1943, we were up in north

Russia at the north cape, we were on our way to Murmansk escorting another convoy

JW55B, when we were told that the German Battleship the Scharnhorst , had put to

sea, and was going to attack the convoy.

In winter in Russia, it is always dark so as we were steaming towards the Scharnhorst

somebody fired some star shells over our ship.

We got the order to open fire and try to shoot them down. The canvas cover was stiff

with frozen sea spray that we had to break off. There had been snow flurries off and

on all day.

If left on the gun the magazines froze solid, so they were kept in a steel locker with

the tension taken off the spring. By the time, we got them out the locker and put 60lbs

of pressure on, the star shells had burnt themselves out.

H.M.S.Norfolk, was the only ship that did not have flash less 8 inch ammunition, so

every time we fired our 8 inch guns, we were lit up like day, consequently the German

battleship used us to get their range and direction.

My gun platform was high up in the superstructure;

I could see both sides of the quarterdeck. The Scharnhorst fired a salvo at us, the first

two 11 inch shells landed one each side of the quarter-deck, I saw two spouts of water

shoot up in the air, I thought to myself, if they have straddled us with the first two

shells, what’s going to happen with the next two.

I was soon to find out, the most frightening thing was to stand there, hearing those 11"

shells rushing to-wards you, knowing there was not a thing you could do.

The best way I can describe an 11 inch shell coming towards you is, its like standing

in the middle of a railway track with a express train thundering towards you at 150

mph, It starts off very faint, gets louder and louder and finishes in a big explosion, and

shrapnel flying all over the place.

The next two shells hit the ship, one exploded about fifty yards away on “X” turret

which was manned by marines, killing an officer and four rating. I saw the turret rise

about two feet in the air, and then drop back on its mounting, the 8"guns slumped to

the deck. The other 11" shell went directly underneath me, two decks down and

exploded inside the ship killing two stokers, five other rating were seriously injured.

The blast from the shells blew me off my feet. My ears were ringing, on picking

myself up in a bit of a daze; I found flames surrounded the gun platform.

There were over fifty thousand’s rounds of 2pounder Pom-Pom ammunition stored

under the platform, plus thousands of 20 mm shells on the platform. So I decided to

get off the as soon as possible, I could not use the outside ladder to get down because

of the heat and flames, so I opened the hatch in the middle of the platform.

The hatch was just big enough for one person to get through at a time and as I had my

artic clothes on, I could not get through. I was wearing a sheepskin hat, Russian style

with earmuffs, gloves, coat, also, two pairs of trousers, two pairs of socks, sea boots,

thick jersey, overalls, woolen scarf, plus anti-flash gear.

I could feel the heat from the flames on my face, so I stuffed my cloths down as

quickly as I could and managed to get through to the after steering position.

I found it full of officers and ratings.

Also there was the padre who’s name was David Sheppard somebody said he used to

play cricket for England, I don’t know if it was true or not.

I asked one chap who I new, what was going on. It seems that the shell that exploded

underneath me had cut the steering gear in half and they could not steer the ship from

the bridge, so they had to use the secondary position that was underneath my gun

platform.

As the ship could not be steered, we had to temporary stop the engines until they had

engaged the necessary equipment. We were a sitting target for any U Boats in the

area. However, it was not for long, we were soon on our way again.

Chief Petty Officer Ogilvy was in charge of the four-barreled Pom-Pom. He called up

the hatch to me to come down and help him to put out the fire that was coming out of

the air-vents.

On reaching the snow-covered main deck, I took the fire hose off the bulkhead,

unrolled it and connected it up to the fire hydrant. The main and secondary guns were

still banging away, every time the eight inch guns fired a broadside the ship shook

from stem to stern, the noise was terrific.

The C.P.O. picked up the nozzle and told me to turn it on, nothing happened, the same

shell had also cut the sea water supply. In his frustration, he grabbed a bucket that we

used to use when on watch, full of urine. He threw it down the air vent, there was a

hiss and we both staggered back with the smell of ammonia choking us. The fire went

out, but not by us, the stokers below decks did that.

It was then that I heard this terrible screaming; coming towards us was a marine from

“X” Turret a ball of fire from head to toe.

He went to climb over the guardrail to throw himself into the sea to put out the

flames, which would have been certain death. Chief Petty Officer Ogilvy ran down

the deck, grabbed hold of the marine threw him down on the deck rolled him over and

over, and put out the flames; he then took him down to the sick bay.

If any man deserved a medal, he did, but as I was the only witness to the event, I am

afraid he did not get one. As for the marine, I still do not know whether he made it or

not.

Finding myself alone on the upper deck, I decided to return to the gun platform where

I found the other three gun crew.

Our main 8 inch, and four inch guns were still banging away, what with the noise and

flashes and vibrations of the ship every time a salvo or broadside was fired, I was in a

bit of a daze, there was a smell of cordite, and burnt paint fumes everywhere, I was

also scared stiff.

I looked towards where the German battleship was, as it was dark I could only see a

small glow and some smoke, every ship was firing at the glow, the order was given to

cease-fire, then the Destroyers and cruisers went in and finished her off with

torpedo’s. The next thing I heard was somebody blowing a whistle; there were

survivors in the water.

We put on our searchlight to help the destroyers pick up anybody alive, not many

lived in those freezing waters, thirty six rating were picked up, no officers survived,

we could not keep our searchlight on to long, in case there were U- boats in the

vicinity, over 1,800 men died that day, mostly German.

After the battle, we sailed across the Barents Sea to Murmansk, we were about two

days sailing away, and we felt safe, as the Russians had sent two aircraft to escort us.

The day after the battle, after breakfast, I fell in for general duties. Walking along the

deck to the quarterdeck I saw a strange sight, there on the deck were about eight brand

new galvanized shining silver buckets full up with what looked like milk, eight brand

new scrubbing brushes, eight brand new mopping up clothes.

As I got nearer I could smell the disinfectant, the Petty Officer said” grab a bucket

and follow me”. We went down to the office flats where one of the 11-inch shells had

exploded, blowing to bits two stokers.

The Petty Officer said to me” you start scrubbing here”, after a few minutes I realized

I was cleaning up bits of skin, bone, pieces of finger nail, and blood, the disinfectant

that was once white was now a milk chocolate colour, after an hour I was relieved and

somebody else took over.

When we got to Murmansk, we sent our wounded ashore to a Russian hospital, that

night Murmansk was being bombed again. I was on harbour defence Pom-Poms crew

on the middle watch (midnight to 4am), we had orders not to open fire unless

attached, so as not to draw attention to ourselves, as we were short of 4-inch shells. It

was pitch black, so they probably they did not know we were there.

The next few days we spent tidying up the ship. Doing a few minor repairs, plugging

a few holes etc. “X” turret was a complete wreck. The 8" guns had been blown off

their mountings, and were resting on the deck. You could see two decks down through

the shell hole in the office flats. It was one mass of twisted pipes and bent metal

fitting.

The same 11-inch shell had gone straight though the 3/4 inch thick metal deck

horizontally and curled it over like a furrow in a field, before exploding on the other

side, killing the two stokers.

Before leaving Murmansk, we took on board one of our crew who had died ashore of

his injuries to be buried at sea, with the two stokers. After sailing for about 36 hours,

the ceremony took place. As I was the cook of the mess on that day, I made the

excuse that I was too busy to attend.

About four o, clock in the afternoon I went to draw the bread ration, I went up the

ladder to the main deck where the bakery was, and found myself slap bang in the

middle of the burial service.

The ship had slowed to half speed; there were three planks of wood, one end resting

on the guardrail. The other end held by two rating, one either side, three white canvas

shrouds lay on the planks covered with the Union Jack containing the body’s or parts

of body’s. Most of the bulk made up of the stoker’s hammocks each one containing a

6-inch shell that we had borrowed from one of the other cruisers as we had run out of

eight-inch shells.

The Padre said a few words about “committing them to the deep”. The bugler

sounded the Last Post; the rating’s slowly lifted up the planks, and one after the other

the canvas bags slid from underneath the Union Jacks to land with a splash into the

artic waters. We lost one Officer and eight rating killed in that battle.

In the Battle of the North Cape, as it became known, H.M.S. Norfolk was the first

ship to sight the Scharnhorst, the first ship to hit the Scharnhorst, and the first ship to

be hit by the Scharnhorst.

This was also to be the last big sea battle between Battle-ships, firing broadsides at

each other. Its like will never be seen again, the day of the battle-ship is nearly over.

We sailed back to Newcastle for a re-fit. The crew was a bit on edge, somebody

dropped a fork on the iron deck, and everybody jumped up off there seat and swore

like mad, as every good sailor should. I went back to my gun position and took a good

look around me.

I was amazed to find that the funnel that I leant against for a bit of warmth looked like

a pepper pot. There were hundreds of shrapnel holes in it, the funnel was holed

everywhere except at the place where I stood.

I assume that with the noise of the exploding shells, and the broadsides of the eight-

inch guns, I never heard the whistle and clang of the shrapnel hitting the funnel.

Lady luck was certainly smiling at me that day.

On 31 December 1943, I was promoted to Able seaman, which meant another three

pence a day, a total of twenty-eight shilling and four pence, (about 142p per week).

1944

We sailed around the north coast of Scotland to the river Tyne. As we were steaming

up the river, there were hundreds and hundreds of people along both sides of the bank,

cheering and waving. There were dockyard workers, office girls, housewives, wrens,

sailors, soldiers, you name it they were there, all the ships on the river were sounding

their sirens, it was absolute bedlam.

We tied up along side the jetty. The place was full of people, newspaper reporters,

photographers, and dignitaries. As soon as we lowered the gangplank the press dashed

on board, taking photos of the damage and interviewing the crew. All the big

newspapers were there, Daily Express, The Daily Sketch, The Daily Mirror, there was

also some provisional newspapers, with the reporters running about shouting” anyone

from Manchester”, “anyone from Coventry”, it was quite a hectic day.

After a few days in Tyneside, the powers that be decided it was going to take months

to repair the ship, so it was thought best to split the crew up, a very sad day, we had

been together for about six months.

I was sent to a rest camp somewhere in Devon; for two weeks I didn’t have to do

anything, no parades, no drilling, no work, have your meals when you wanted them,

within reason, get up when you felt like it, all I did was play football, cricket, cards,

darts etc.

We made tea and toast on the coal fire in the centre of the Nissan hut, it was cold

outside, being April 1944.

In March I was drafted to another three funneled 8” cruiser H.M.S Devonshire, once

on board I reported to the gunnery Officer, who put me in charge of a twin barreled 20

mm hydraulically operated Oerlikon machine gun, and a loader.

To operate the gun you sat in a seat on the gun, in front of you was a joystick, similar

to what a pilot has in a cockpit of a plane, with a trigger on the stick.

On board our ship we had some marines, now, there was no love lost between marines

and matlots. Some of them were all right, one used to play Boogie- Woogie on a

lashed down piano in the game's room, the marines thought they were a cut above us.

So who did I get for a loader, yes, you’ve guessed it, a marine.

He was about the same age as me, and he was trouble right from the start. He had

signed on as a boy marine, and was not going to take orders from a mere H.O. sailor

(Hostility's only).

I tried to show him how to load a magazine. Incendiary first, high explosive second

(H.E.), ordinary solid bullet last, then put 60 pounds of spring pressure on the

magazine

It was important that the last shell in was a solid one, as this one had to split the

condom open that we put over the end of the barrels to stop the sea water corroding

the inside.

If the first one out were a H.E., it would have blown the barrel to bits injuring the gun

crew

I tried my best to teach the marine but he just would not listen, and he was not the

least bit interested.

The next time we had a gun drill I’m glad to say he never turned up, I should have

told the gunnery Officer but I did not want to get him into trouble, so, for the next two

years I did my own loading and unloading.

Once when firing at a German plane, one of my guns jammed, I climbed out of my

seat, and tried to free the magazine. It would not budge, after whacking it a few times

it came loose.

I removed the magazine, and found a shell jammed in the breech, with the gun in the

firing position. I got the cocking lever and re-cocked the gun; this action threw the

shell out of the gun, on to the deck.

The shell was bent up like a letter "V", I also noticed it was painted red, a High

Explosive one. I turned my face away and very carefully and quickly, I picked up the

shell, and tried to throw it over-board. It hit the guardrail, and fell in the scuppers.

I went to the guardrail, White Sea foam was rushing by, once more, I picked up the

shell, this time I put my hand through the rail, and dropped it in the sea.

The loader should have done all this.

It was early in the year that we escorted the Queen Mary back from the Azores, with

Winston Churchill on board, the Captain of the Queen Mary always went at full speed

ahead and zig-zagged all the time to out run the U-boats, and if you could not keep up

to bad.

H.M.S"Devonshire" on Russian convoy 1944

Lady Luck Part four After the Azores run, it was back to Russian convoys, we were

heading towards Archangel when three Junkers 88s, torpedo-carrying planes, attached

us.

One of the easiest planes to hit was one flying straight towards you; all you had to

allow for was a bit of wind and ships speed and just point the gun at the plane. The

first one came in, I opened fire at about one thousand yards, and so did another seven

machine guns down the port side.

The Pom-Poms were already firing, the plane had dropped its torpedo, suddenly there

was smoke coming from the cockpit, the plane banked sharply and crashed right into

the icy cold sea, a few hundred yards from the ship.

The second came in, dropped his torpedo and sheered off, but there was smoke and

flames coming from his tail, whether he made it home or not I do not know.

I was banging away at the third one that went right over the top of my head. There

was an almighty bang, and I thought the plane had crashed into the ship. I felt what I

thought were pieces of a plane clanging on top of my steel helmet, and then I found I

could not move.

I felt something warm at the back of my neck and I thought I was paralysised. Fearing

the worst I put my hand up to my neck expecting to find blood, instead I found an

empty Oerlikon shell case that was still warm lodged in the collar of my sheepskin

coat. I still could not move, I managed to wriggle my legs, but my shoulders were

heavy, I looked around, there were hundreds of empty shell cases everywhere,

I had only fired about a hundred, I couldn’t make out where all the others came from,

with a struggle I managed to get out of the cockpit and check myself over, I’m glad to

say I didn’t have any injuries.

Lady Luck was looking after me.

What happened?, well, my gun was on the main deck, above me about twenty feet up

in the superstructure there was a single barreled Oerlikon.

Above him was the wireless aerial, consisting of five heavy duty copper wires

connected each end of the mast by a single wire.

When the plane went overhead, the gunner should have stopped firing. Instead, he

continued to fire even though the plane was going away from the ship, hence all his

empty shell cases falling on my head.

One of his shells cut through the wireless aerial bringing the whole lot down on my

shoulders pinning me in the gun cockpit, I am glad to say all the torpedoes missed.

The next day, I was called to the Gunnery Office to give my version of what

happened, I claimed to have shot down the first plane and hit the second, so did seven

other machine gunners and the Pom-Poms crew, but at least we definitely had one

destroyed and one possible. The third Junkers 88 flew over the top of the ship and

disappeared over the horizon...

May 1944, I was twenty years old and I was now entitled to a daily Pussers rum

ration, you had two choices, one was to have the rum the other was to take three

pence a day in lieu; I chose to have the rum.

At midday the bugle sounded rum call, this had to be collected by the leading hand, he

also had to measure it out in cups, and the rum was watered down 3to1 to stop people

from bottling it. When it was your birthday you had sippers from everybody's cup,

and you finished paralytic drunk.

If we were in harbour and you had to go ashore you could cancel the midday issue

and collect it at 6 o'clock at night, and then you got neat rum. You were supposed to

drink it in front of the duty Officer, but most of them did not bother, so you could

bottle it and smuggle it out when you went on leave.

I took my dad a bottle home once, but he said it was to strong for him, so I stopped

doing it; well that is my story anyway.

Every gun on board has a number, mine was number 11, one day coming back from

Russia I was walking up and down trying to keep warm when I saw three torpedo

tracks heading towards the ship.

I got on the radio and called the A.D.P (Air Defence Position) on the bridge, “ number

eleven Oerlikon to A.D.P,” a Officer answered “what do you want number 11,” “three

torpedo tracks on the port quarter sir, “ Officer, “don’t worry number eleven we can

see them.” Even as he was speaking, I could feel the ship heel over and start

shuddering as she went hard to port steering towards the torpedoes.

The first missed by about two hundred yards, the second by 100 yards, the third by 25

yards; to this day, I swear I could hear the electric motor as the last one went by.

We dropped several depth charges, with no results, but at least it kept the U- boat

submerged.

Hitler always thought the invasion would take place in Norway. Three days before D-

Day, we went out with several other ships as a decoy, to patrol up and down the

Norwegian coast making ourself's a nuisance, shooting off a few guns and generally

causing havoc.

Whether it made any difference or not, I do not know, but I suppose it tied up a few

troops, we never saw one German U-boat or plane; in fact, it was a quiet voyage.

Every night at nine o’clock, you have Officers rounds. The duty officer walks around

all the messes to see if everything is clean and tidy. Half an hour before, this the bugle

sounds for the duty watch to fall in to tidy up.

This night I was on duty, normally more duty crew turn up than is necessary, and half

are dismissed. This time I thought I would give it a miss, so did nearly everyone else.

Instead of thirty people turning up only six did.

The next thing I heard was my name called over the tannoy, to fall in on the

quarterdeck, I was told to appear at Captains Defaulters in the morning.

The Captain gave me 14 days jankers (Punishment), it consisted of peeling spuds at

the galley for two hours every night. Getting up half an hour before everybody

else and stowing the hammocks. And worst of all, running around the ship with a rifle

above your head for an hour, first with the right arm, then the left arm, then with both

arms, it was absolute purgatory.

After Norway, we went back on Russian convoys. This time we had a Aircraft Carrier

with us, they were called banana boats by the crews because they were formerly

merchant ships with the top cut off and a deck fitted for the aircraft to take off and

land. We were two days sailing time away from Scotland coming back from

Murmansk.

I was sitting on one of my magazine containers looking aft at the Aircraft Carrier,

when all of a sudden there was a large explosion. A column of fire and water shot up

in the air amidships of the carrier, she started listing to port. I thought she was going

to sink, but she heeled over about 20 decrees and came to a halt.

The destroyer’s went full speed after the U-boat, dropping depth charges where the

Asdic (Radar) had picked up a ping, the carrier managed to re-start her engines and

limp home to Scotland. We were about a mile in front of the carrier, so the U-boat

must have let us go by for a more prized target, the carrier.

The ship sailed to Rosyth in Scotland, and I went on fourteen days leave. I thought I

would have a nice relaxing time; I went down to Leicester Square to see a film, and

have a meal at one of the servicemen's clubs. Coming home, I went down the tube to

the Piccadilly line and caught a train to Cockfosters, then jumped on a number 29 bus

to Potters-bar.

It only went to the high street so I had to wait for a connection to South Mimms. First,

I heard this strange engine noise; it was pop pop popping along. Next, I noticed

everybody was looking up, some were pointing at this small looking plane, it passed

overhead and then the engine cut out. It started diving and coming back on itself.

As I looked around, I noticed everybody was lying down, so I threw myself behind

the wall of "The Lion" a public house.

There was a big explosion followed by the blast of hot air, I was covered in brick

dust, and splinters of wood.

The Flying bomb had landed about 200 yards up the Southgate road, the very road I

was standing in. I ran up to offer my help, but theA.R.P (Air Raid Precautions)

warden said they had enough helpers; the A.F.S (Auxiliary Fire Service) were already

there. The bomb demolished some six houses and a Catholic church and damaged

dozens of others; it killed several people, and injured many others.

When my leave was over, I went back on board H.M.S. Devonshire in Rosyth, and

once more, we sailed to Russia. It was winter, and when we got near Archangel, we

were stuck in the middle of an ice flow and had to stop our engines in case the ice

damaged our propellers.

We were stuck for about 18 hours, until the ice started breaking up and we were able

to get out. As Archangel was iced up, we went to Murmansk.

At the end of 1944, things were getting a trifle quite and some of the crew were

getting bored. A few fights were also breaking out on board, so one day the captain

anchored the ship just off an uninhabited Island, I think it was near Spitzbergen.

We lowered the whalers and rowed ashore; we stormed up the beach and started to

scale the cliffs. They were only about thirty foot high, all of a sudden, dozens of flour

bags came hurdling down and we were covered in blobs of dough where the flour had

mixed with the sweat and snow.

A few more fights broke out at the top of the cliffs, but it did let off a bit of steam.

After things had quietened down, the cooks who were already on the Island made

some sausage sandwiches and hot cups of tea. Everybody had a good laugh.

The people who were first on the Island, had left the ship on the motor launch very

early in the morning before anybody was up, and had set up on the cliff top, know

body suspected a thing.

Rowing back to the ship, we stopped half way and the Officer in charge produced

some hand grenades, and tossed a dozen over the side. Up came hundreds of all types

of fish which we spent the next half an hour or so collecting. The lower deck had

fresh fish and chips for supper that night, I can recommend that type of fishing, beats

the old rod and line any day.

Just before Christmas the Russians sent a concert party on board, they were very

good, danced all their traditional dances. Several played the balalaika, and they

finished singing in English, It’s a long way to Tipperary, and, pack up your troubles in

your old kit bag, GREAT STUFF!

1945 We were patrolling up the Norwegian coast acting as an escort for some

minesweepers, laying mines at the entrance to a fiord. Suddenly, up popped what we

thought was a German U- boat.

I opened fire and could see my tracers ricocheting off the conning tower, every other

machine gun also opened up at the same time. Smoke started coming from the top of

the conning tower, a white flag appeared and started waving like mad, and everyone

stopped firing.

Good, I thought; we have captured a U -boat; I wondered how much a U- boat was

worth in prize money. However, it was not to be, it turned out to be a submarine

manned by a Free Polish crew, volunteers in the Royal Navy.

They had been on patrol, and had been depth charged so badly, that all the compasses

were damaged and useless; they did not know where they were. They were following

the Norwegian coast, when they saw us and popped up to ask the way, and to borrow

a compass, I'm glad to say nobody was injured, alls well that ends well.

When the war started and the Germans invaded Norway, the government felt it was

best for King Haakon and his family to evacuate to England, so they sent the cruiser

H.M.S. Devonshire to do the job.

When the European war ended, they sent the same cruiser to take him back. It was

about this time that I was detailed off to become bowmen on the Captains barque,

which meant I was now on the captain’s staff. Only three people on the ship could

give me orders, the Captain, the coxswain of the barque, and the Captain’s valet. The

barque was a thirty-foot motorboat with a Perkins diesel engine, with a crew of four,

coxswain, engineer, stern sheets man, and bowman.

When I first got this job I wasn't to keen, because it meant wearing my number three

suit (second best suit) all day, everybody else had overalls on. In addition, I would be

on call 24 hours a day, but it turned out to be one of the best duty’s I had ever had.

I got on well with the Captains valet and every now and then he would slip me a

couple of the Captains specially brewed beers, the only bottled beer I had ever seen

with hops inside the bottle. Being on the captain’s staff we were excused all duties, no

church parades, no work duties, no scrubbing the decks at seven o, clock in the

morning.

We could also lie in for an extra half an hour every morning, I just tied a sheet of

paper on my hammock saying Captains staff and nobody could do anything about it.

Mind you, it also had its drawbacks.

One night, we took the Captain to Scapa bay. He was going to a party at Kirkwall

given by some wren Officers, he told us to come back at midnight. We started back to

the ship that was about five miles away when a storm blew up, and it started pouring

of rain and you could only see 10 yards in front of you.

When we left the ship the coxswain should have taken a compass bearing, being the

bowman I sat with the Petty Officer Coxswain up front, and should have taken a

bearing, we both forgot. The waves were breaking over the bows and hitting me in the

face, I had trouble trying to keep a lookout, and we were soaking wet.

The further we went the bigger the waves got, suddenly there was a crash, I heard the

crack of wood. We had run into a boom defence buoy a sure sign we were heading out

to sea. I grabbed a boat hook and secured it to the buoy; if the boat went down, we

would have to jump onto the buoy.

We lifted up the floorboards in the bottom of the boat, our luck was in, there was no

water coming in. We took a bearing on the buoy and went in the opposite direction,

the rain started to ease off a fraction.

After a while, a grey shape appeared out of the mist, a battleship, we pulled along side

the ladder and called the Officer of the watch. He gave us a bearing of the Devonshire

and we arrived back safely, later when we went to pick up the Captain we made sure

we took a bearing.

The European war had been over less than twenty-four hours. We were sailing down

the Skagerrak towards Oslo, on board was King Haakon of Norway and his

entourage.

We anchored in the fiord; the duty Officer piped away the Captains barque. We were

going to take the King, his people, and the Captain ashore; we left the ship and headed

towards the jetty.

As we got near we could see crowds of people all cheering and waving flags, we tied

up at the jetty, the King and our skipper disembarked. Before he went he said, “you

can stay here or come back in four hours, please yourselves”, we decided to go ashore

and have a look around. We tied the boat up to the jetty and went ashore; I believe we

were the first British crew to step on Norwegian soil since the German occupation.

People kept coming up to shake our hand, a couple of people told us to be careful as

there were still armed Germans walking about. We did not have any arms, only

knives, which most sailors carried when on board ship, to cut away lashing on carley

floats (life rafts) and lifeboats in case the ship went down.

As we were walking through the town people were waving and stopping us to talk,

English was their second language so we had no trouble communicating. Walking up

the road we came across a large mob of people hollering and shouting, as we

approached they made way for us.

Prince Eugen and Numberg,two German battleships being escorted back to Germany after the war by H.M.S."Devonshire".

Lady Luck

Part five

When we got to the front there was a young girl about twenty years old tied to a lamp

post stark naked. Her hair had been shaved off, and was laying in clumps on the

ground; a couple of people were tarring and feathering her.

She was sobbing her heart out, I thought it was a bit much but the mob was in an ugly

mood. It seems she had been collaborating with the Germans and had a German boy

friend.

A few people suggested we visit the German Gestapo Headquarters in a forest, part

way up a mountain. The four of us started walking up the hill towards the railway, we

passed another mob round a lamppost, and some other young girl tied up naked

paying for her past.

We continued upwards, when all of a sudden coming down the hill were two German

soldiers armed with rifles, the war had only been over less than twenty-four hours, we

wondered if they knew this. After a quick discussion we decided to carry on walking,

on drawing level with the soldiers they gave us a smart salute and continued on there

way, we did the same, and after a few backward glances we carried on.

Just up the road we came across the railway, the conductor was glad to see us and told

us to” get aboard, there’s no charge” the train ascended the very steep track with

wooden houses on each side, it was only a short ride but when we reached the end the

view was beautiful.

The conductor pointed out the path we should follow; we entered the forest and

walked for about three hundred yards when we came to a clearing. There were eight

or so wooden huts surrounded by a barbwire fence, there was know sign of anybody

so we went into the first hut.

Someone had obviously been there before us, there was masses of writing paper and

envelopes scattered all over the place, we searched all the other huts but one, and all

we found were a few pairs of nylons.

We went to the last hut, opened the door and there it was! The room was choc-a bloc

with cases and cases of champagne, there must have been nearly fifty crates, four

magnum bottles to a crate, 200 magnum bottles of the best champagne, and we did

not have a cat in hells chance of getting it down half way up a mountain.

Even if we did we still had the problem of getting it aboard the ship, I do not think the

Captain would have been impressed seeing fifty crates of Illegal booze on board his

barque.

We tried carrying two crates each, but even they were too heavy, we finish up with

one crate apiece.

As we were staggering back to the railway, I swear I saw a tear roll down our stern

sheets man Geordie's face. When we got back to the barque we put the crates in the

stern and, and covered them up with the boat cover. The Captain never suspected a

thing.

We got back to the ship and waited until it got dark, threw the crates overboard, and

smuggled the bottles aboard in buckets, that night 16 mess had champagne for supper.

The next day when we went ashore the ships company were invited to a reception and

received free champagne, the Norwegians had been up the mountain and confiscated

what was left of the bubbly and was giving it to the grew of H.M.S. Devonshire, alls

well that ends well.

In return for the reception, on the 18th may 1945 the ships company gave a children's

party on board the ship. There were hundreds children running about all over the

place, we had fixed up,see-saws,slides,hoopla stalls, and aunt sally's, we used the

Oerlikons as round- abouts.

A wire stretched from the bridge to the forecastle, with a small wooden plane

attached, and was used as a slide, a favourite with the children. Chocolate was given

as prizes, the band played on the quarterdeck. These children had never seen white

bread or chocolate before, so for tea they had white bread and jam, cakes, ice cream,

and chocolate.

We had a good write up in the Oslo newspaper “The Aftenpost”, a good time was had

by all. Later on in the year the whole ships company was presented with signed

certificates from King Haakon and the Norwegian people thanking us for helping in

the liberation of Norway.

After staying in Oslo for three days, we steamed back up the Skagerrak, and then

down the Kattegat, our next destination was Denmark. We were heading towards

Copenhagen to escort the Prince Eugen and the Numberg two German battleships

back to Wilhelm shaven in Germany.

The next day when we went ashore, everybody was asking for cigarettes. You could

barter packets of fags for, camera's, binoculars, clocks, watches etc. Money was no

good, we went to the Tivoli a sort of amusement park and had eggs and bacon for a

packet of cigarettes.

On the way back to the ship we went to a dive on the waterfront, full of prostitutes

and villains, we only went in for a beer and there was a near riot among them

clamouring for cigarettes. We got out of there a bit sharpish.

We sailed out of Copenhagen with the two German battleships, we had orders to keep

our guns cocked and loaded as the German ships still had there ammunition on board,

but we safely delivered them back to Germany, where they were disarmed.

Our next port of call was Plymouth; we entered Plymouth sound and tied up in

Devonport dockyard. The ships company was due some leave, which we had. On

returning to the ship, we were kitted out with tropical gear.

The ship was going to become a troopship, taking new recruits out and bringing

personal due to be demobbed back. Our destination was Sydney, Australia, going

across the Bay of Biscay, down the Atlantic Ocean to Gibraltar.

We steamed through the Mediterranean Se a to Malta, onto Port Said. Through the

Suez Canal and Red Sea with deserts all round. We sailed cross the Arabian Sea to

India, stopping at Bombay for a couple of days. Buying and sending tea home at

Colombo in Ceylon (Sri Lanka).

Then down the Indian Ocean to Freemantle in Australia, visiting Perth, sailing once

more across the Indian Ocean, through the turbulent Great Australian Bight. Into the

Tasman Sea, then round to Sydney. It took us about a month to get there.

Our first lot of passengers were a mixture of all the armed forces. The ship left

Devonport and picked up a convoy, including the Queen Mary that was going to pick

up the A.I.F. sixth division (Australians) from the Middle East and take them home to

Australia; we were picking up and putting down personal all over the place.

After being on Russian convoys, sailing out east was a pleasure, the sun was shining

all day; we walked around in only a pair of shorts and sandals.

We used to sleep on the upper deck on camp beds; the biggest draw back was the

cockroaches.

There were thousands of them, quite often when you were having your dinner one

would plop down in your plate, and you flicked it off with your spoon onto the deck

and put your foot on it.

They were all over the bulkheads (walls) and deck heads (ceiling), we tried

fumigating them, but they returned in a couple of days.

One of the benefits of the job was the rum ration, when the army or royal air force

personal joined the ship; they were entitled to draw their tot of rum. However, once

we left the harbour, the ship started pitching and rolling, most of them were seasick,

and drinking rum was not there first priority.

The crew took full advantage of the situation, so did this sailor. I have never drunk so

much rum in all my life.

On our first voyage to Sydney, we anchored in the harbour near the bridge. The duty

Officer piped away the Captains barque; we manned the boat and took him ashore,

and had about a five-hour wait. So we went on a tour of the sights, we visited Luna

Park, Bondi Beach, Sydney Zoo; we went under the famous Sydney Bridge.

We also stopped and chatted to all the Shelia's on the harbour wall.

After four hours we were getting short of fuel, so we had to dash back to the ship for

some diesel oil, we used that motor boat for our own pleasure more than the Captain

did.

On the second trip we were about fifty miles out from Port Said, when we got a

S.O.S. from the steamship Empire Patrol, she was on fire, on board were 567people of

whom 513 were Greek refugee's returning from camps in Abyssinia (Ethiopia). There

were other ships in the area all picking up survivors. We also rescued several of them.

After sweeping the sea in ever-increasing circles and not finding any more survivors,

we continued on our way to Port Said.

A while later the lookout spotted something in the water. As we got nearer we could

make out a young boy about 10 years old clinging to a carley float only six foot

square, we picked him up and gave him a bath and a good meal. After a few hours, he

was running around the ship, none the worse after his adventure.

There are not many 10-year-old black boys who can say they've been sailing on a 8”

cruiser.

When we got to Sydney Australia on our second trip I went ashore with Andy a

Scotsman, Andy was into all the fiddles going, he used to run an Illegal crown and

anchor game every time we went into port.

He had the game printed on a piece of cloth so that if the shore patrol came along he

just folded it up and stuck it down his trousers. He made loads of money especially

when they were all drunk, he also got a lot of trouble with people turning nasty if they

lost, but you did not mess with Andy he could look after himself.

Ceylon had its own gold and diamond mines, so jewellery was cheap to buy, Andy

used to go ashore with about three hundred pounds and buy just one diamond ring that

he smuggled back to Scotland and sold for four times the price that he had paid for It.

There was a shortage of cigarettes even in Australia, on board we could buy fags for

sixpence a packet (two and a half pence metric), and you were supposedly allowed

one packet a day. Andy went around to all the non-smokers and bought their cigarette

ration off them.

Andy and I went ashore in Sydney, he had a kit bag with him, we went to the centre

of the town, and he picked the biggest and poshest club he could find. We went in and

with me following behind, he went up to the bar and ordered two whiskies, he said to

the barman, “I want to see the boss”, the barman called a bouncer over, he

disappeared and came back with the boss.

We followed him through a corridor to a big posh office where Andy opened the kit

bag and tipped about fifty cartons of cigarettes (200cigarettes to a carton) on to his

desk.

After some discussion, a load of money changed hands then we followed the boss

back to the bar, he said to the barman "give them what they want” and we sat there all

afternoon drinking whisky free of charge.

I do not know what would have happened if we had been caught with the duty free

cigarettes in our possession.

I went to Australia and back three times, on the last trip as well as calling in all the

usual places, we stopped at Aden to pick up some rating. Then on to Malta to take a

prisoner on board, he was going home to be court marshalled for striking an Officer.

I was also going home to be de-mobilised, along with three other mates on 16 mess.

For more than three years we had lived, worked, played, and been though some

dangerous times together.

When we got to Plymouth those on the mess not on duty went to a pub in the town

called “The fellowship” where we all got blind drunk.

The next day I was sent to a shore base in Torpoint, where I picked up my de-mob

suit and railway warrant. Then I was on my way home. After nearly four years of

boredom, adventure, and sailing the world, I was to become a civilian again.

H.M.S.NORFOLK was so badly damaged that she had a 11months refit and rejoined

the home fleet in november 1944.sent to the scrapyard 19-01-1950.

H.M.S.DEVONSHIRE was used as a cadet training ship, and went to the scrap yard

on the 10-12-1954.

16 mess consisted of leading Seaman P.Falconer; all the others were Able-Seaman,

R.Seymour, D.Silvey, N.Parkinson, R.Noble, N.Moss, D. Craker, M.Newman,

D.Roberts, R.Ford, H.Pegg, F.Street, G.Crankley, R.Piever, J.Williamson, and myself

T.Hulbert. Printed 8th January 2003.

HMS Phoebe in World War Two

9 September 1940

Along with a large draft, I travelled by rail from Chatham to Glasgow to commission

HMS Phoebe, which was near to completion in King George V Dock. When the

ship’s company was complete, we carried out trials at sea, and she was finally handed

over to the Royal Navy with a seal of approval'.

During our stay in Glasgow we, the crew, got to know each other and friendships

were struck up. It was natural that the closest bonds were those made within our own

class rating: stokers, signalmen, seamen and so on, mostly because we worked and

messed together. Our shore leave, more often than not, resulted in two or more of us

going off together to a cinema or dance. In and around Glasgow there was plenty of

choice.

Around this time Ken (Kenny Boy) Kent and I discovered that we were both from

Yorkshire, though I had left there at an early age. We each had our own friends, but I

believe that we were the only ones with in intense love of music and - perhaps

because we made it obvious in our conversation - the two of us were ‘detailed off’ to

take a consignment of flags to deck the concert hall of a hotel where Leslie Henson —

a music hall artist of the day — and his cast were to perform. We arrived to find

Leslie Henson himself stage directing the decor. Ken and I 'dressed overall' the stage

and hall. Then Mr Henson decided that the piano was in the wrong position. Ken and I

were conscripted and promptly swung into action. We moved the piano around from

one side of the stage to the other, following instructions from a voice in the stalls - Mr

Henson had to be seen whilst he played the piano, and mustn't be obscured by the

dancing girls. We then swung it on its axis, and when the piano was to Mr Henson’s

liking … it was back where it started. Was Leslie Henson a stickler for detail or just

having fun at our expense?

Ken and I were given invitations to attend the concert and meet the girls. Now,

unfortunately, we had a most unpopular senior rating, and I think I was least liked of

all. So it was not really surprising when I found that I was on duty that evening and

Ken wasn't keen to go alone. During the evening the ship received a shore-to-ship

telephone call from the hotel asking why we were not at the concert and party

afterwards. Leslie Henson had promised the girls a couple of sailors. But HMS

Phoebe was a fighting ship, a cruiser, and there was a war going on out there.

Atlantic Convoy

Eventually, we sailed down the Clyde, but not for trials. This time we knew we would

not be returning to the nightlife of Glasgow. From Govan we slowly made our way

down the river, passing by the headland at Greenock. I looked up and remembered the

times I’d spent there looking down at the waters of the Clyde.

We were later to join up with, and become part of, the escort force for a massive

Atlantic Convoy. As the convoy formed and grew in size we reached our first port on

the African continent, Freetown (Sierra Leone) — affectionately known as the ‘White

Man’s Grave’.

Leaving there, and joining the main convoy again, we proceeded far from the African

coast into the mid Atlantic, turning southwards to cross the equator, where the usual

ritual of the ‘crossing the line’ ceremony was carried out. As we escorted the convoy

around the Cape of Good Hope, I believe some of the ships entered Capetown. HMS

Phoebe and others sailed into Port Elizabeth. I got my first glimpse of Table

Mountain from seaward as we passed by. The Phoebe then sailed on to Durban.

I remember Durban as hot, dry and clean. One particular night, a PA system was

blasting out from a Concert Hall to an overflow of people on the lawns outside. Some

contralto from within the hall was singing 'Land of Hope and Glory. A group of us

went along to a Snake Garden. While we were there taking on provisions and fuel and

so on, we managed to arrange a challenge cricket match with the soldiers from the

troopships. It was a great morale booster and a marvellous experience for me, as we

played on the Durban Cricket Ground, known as ‘The Timeless Test Ground’ — look

it up! Throughout all this I was still remembering happier, peacetime days in New

York.

From South Africa we sailed through the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea. Those

experiences are legendary. I think we were lucky — we saw most things. I was

amazed at how far ‘flying fish’ were able to glide; so many of them shooting out of

the sea and landing on our deck. Probably the worst experience was running into a

swarm of locusts. They seemed to have neither sense of direction nor built-in radar,

but were forever on a self-destruct course. Unfortunately they were not content

knocking their own brains out against bulkheads and funnels, but seemed intent on

taking any humans that got in their way. I can only say that it was very scary to be in

the middle of such a black mass — black because they blocked out the light from the

sun.

Alexandria

We arrived at Port Suez at the southern entrance of the Suez Canal, took aboard a

pilot and commenced the slow memorable journey through the narrow passage to Port

Said and the entrance to the Mediterranean Sea. After a short stay, HMS Phoebe

sailed on to Alexandria, which was to be our Home Base.

To recap on the events of 1940: in April, Germany invaded Denmark, Norway,

Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg. In May, Belgium surrendered. Mussolini got

together with Hitler, and Italy joined Germany in declaring war on the Allies. Britain

stood alone. June saw the armistice between first France and Germany, then France

and Italy. The Germans then occupied the Channel Islands. The Royal Navy was busy

keeping the trade lanes open, escorting convoys with provisions until we were cut off

from importing from Europe. Strict rationing was then imposed.

The stories of the Royal Navy’s part in the evacuation of troops is well recorded, as

well as its part in seeking out and destroying enemy warships, surface vessels and U-

boats. Our RN forces carried out many raids and bombardments on enemy occupied

coastal towns and strategic ports. In many of these actions, the cruisers Southampton,

Galatea and Edinburgh — the ships in which I had previously served — were

involved. Now aboard HMS Phoebe I was entering a new theatre of war.

When France capitulated, it was feared that the French fleet would become an added

threat to us, as the Vichy Government of France was willing to collaborate with the

Germans. Fortunately, that was soon resolved by the RN putting the French warships

out of commission by direct action or, as I discovered in Alexandria, by interning the

disarmed vessels in harbour under scrutiny. Working out of French-occupied Syria,

some Vichy French fighter aircraft caused us a little aggravation, shooting down two

of our Skua reconnaissance aircraft while we were operating off the Levant coast.

Haifa was an interesting port. Gigantic oil pipelines seemed to run everywhere, to and

from the jetty in the harbour. Once ashore I could see the evidence of the endless

strife between Palestinians and the Jews. Where they hadn’t already been vandalised,

shops were either boarded up or barred. But for the time being there was tranquillity

of a kind amongst the locals as they stood back and watched others struggle in what

was now World War Two.

Because of the short-term leave granted to us, I was not able to visit Bethlehem or

Nazareth, but Haifa was a place from the past. To wander through the narrow streets

and light-heartedly barter in the bazaar or souk (market) was a great experience —

though not readily appreciated at the time. I remember being more impressed when

walking up Mount Carmel. Then another first - built on the side of the mountain was a

cinema with a natural tier system. As I sat looking at the screen that was below, the

roof slowly began to roll back to reveal the star-filled sky above, a beautiful romantic

setting wasted! And so the modern world had come to Haifa.

Our Eastern Mediterranean fleet was based back in Alexandria, and from there our

warships patrolled the Eastern Mediterranean, supplying escorts to convoys of supply

ships moving along the North African coast and backing up Allied troops sent to halt

the advance of the Italian army.

Defence of Greece

In October 1940, Mussolini decided to invade Greece for strategic — and other -

reasons. Greece had until this time remained neutral, but now became our ally against

a common enemy. The small Greek nation gallantly resisted the powerful onslaught

of the Italian forces, and so effective were the Greeks that the Germans were sent to

assist the Italians to crush their resistance. At first the Greeks were reluctant to accept

help, but soon the Allied troops were sent to assist in the defence of Greece. But it

wasn’t long before the troops that had been landed on the mainland were being

withdrawn, and a second ‘Dunkirk’ began. HMS Phoebe, along with ships of the

Eastern Mediterranean Fleet, was involved in the evacuation of Greek royalty and

government along with troops from Kalamata to the island of Crete.

Soon after, we were to enter the seas around Crete at night-time, once more to

evacuate troops - this time to take them to safe haven at Alexandria. Most of the army

evacuated by HMS Phoebe was either from Australia or New Zealand. Several of

them insisted that I have their home addresses so that I could visit them should I ever

get to Oz or NZ.

After the fall of Greece and Crete, the waters of the Eastern Med became more

hazardous. Hitler and Mussolini tried to break the spirit of the people of Malta by

insistent bombing and constant attacks upon merchant ships, which were bringing

vital supplies for the inhabitants. My own notes of that period were:

Yugoslavia, Greece and Crete, April 1941

6th Germany invades Yugoslavia and Greece. Cruiser Ajax lands British troops to

assist the Greeks repel German attack from the north. 21st Greek Army capitulates

and evacuation of troops is scheduled for the night of 24th — for a maximum of 4

days. 24th HMS Phoebe, along with destroyers Stuart and Voyager, corvette

Hyacinth and transports Glencarn and Ulster Prince, approached Navplion to

evacuate. Glencarn was hit during attack by dive-bombers and had to stop to

extinguish fire. Ulster Prince ran aground and had to be abandoned. Using small

craft, like caiques, 1,130 troops were ferried to Phoebe for transfer to Suda Bay.

Italian fleet at Taranto was only 12 hours away!

25th should have left at 3am, but was delayed until 4.15am. Cleared Gulf of Navplion

at 6am. At 7am air attacks by 30 dive-bombers. Dutch vessel Slamat was sunk along

with destroyers Diamond and Wryneck. 26/27th Destroyer Griffin returned from

Suda to find survivors at 2.30am on the 28th. Athens Radio closed down a few hours

later with a signal to Malta and Alexandria, which was acknowledged before the final

silence.

Meanwhile... evening of 28th. Phoebe, Perth and six destroyers sailed to pick up

about 7,000 including about 1,200 fighting units at Kalamata. At 9pm news came

through that the Germans had occupied the town and had mined the harbour. TOTAL

LIFTED 50,662. TOTAL TAKEN TO SAFETY 50,162.

MAY EVACUATION OF CRETE: Lost seven warships and merchant ships and

approx' 2,000 seamen. Quote: 'There appears to be nowhere more naked than a ship

with dive-bombers and sticks of bombs streaming downwards.' 28th To Sphakia for

evacuation. 29th Commenced embarkation. 30th 3.20am we left area and were

attacked from the air. Ships in company were: Phoebe, Perth (was hit), Calcutta,

assault ship Glengyle and three destroyers. 31st Ships in company in area of

evacuation: Phoebe, Abdiel and three destroyers under the orders of Admiral King.

June 1st at 3.00am, embarkation completed. Sailed for Alexandria.

When we, HMS Phoebe, set out from Alexandria to carry out the above, our Captain,

Guy Grantham, said over the ship’s PA system, ‘Our job is going to be a discouraging

one. Britain has decided that Greece cannot be held and it has been decided to

evacuate as much of the Army as we can get out of Greece.’ Our Navigating Officer,

Lieut Lumsden, did a great job of manoeuvring our group into the bay at Navplion.

We crept in under the cover of darkness with no navigation lights and no local pilot.

Our second foray into Greece had to be at Kalamata, as the Germans had already

occupied Navplion. We were always more vulnerable as daylight uncovered our

actions. That’s when the high-level Dornier 217s appeared, followed by the Stuka,

JU87, dive-bombers and also the JU88s. Throughout this entire barrage that we were

throwing up, our ammunition was dwindling at an alarming rate, so it was necessary

to conserve as much as possible without jeopardising the safety of the operation. What

was demoralising and distressing was the sighting of the remains of one transport ship

that had been sunk and the RAF and Army bodies, which we passed and were unable

to recover, there being no signs of life. At Suda we were again bombed whilst in

harbour.

Phoebe, Perth (Australian and Senior Officer) and three destroyers returned to

Kalamata under cover of night. A boat was sent inshore and returned to the Perth with

information that the Germans were already there. The captain of the Perth didn’t want

to take any chances and ordered the fleet to retire at all speed. Guy Grantham, our

skipper, was against this decision, and wanted to run the gauntlet to try and get some

of the remaining soldiers away, even if the Germans were nearby. Although the

Phoebe's ship’s company were with him, he had to abide by the Senior Officer’s

orders, and leave hundreds of soldiers behind to become prisoners of war.

On 29 April the Phoebe did join up with other cruisers to return to Greece to escort

some destroyers, which had taken off the last soldiers from a pickup area, returning at

full speed to Alexandria. During six days, it was estimated that no one had more than

15 to 20 hours of sleep. The war-weary soldiers that we had taken to Crete were

unable to withstand the onslaught, and so on 28 May we were off again under the

cover of darkness - this time to Sphakia to embark as many troops as possible before

dawn broke, to leave with all possible haste for Alexandria. We evacuated thousands

but the bombing became fiercer. We had no air cover and the cry from both the army

and navy was ‘Where is the RAF?’

When we reached Alexandria, and disembarked our troops, we refuelled while the

crew of the damaged HMS Naiad came over to reload ammunition, allowing our

crew to get some well earned rest before setting off once more for Crete. We left at

4am for Sphakia and en route encountered the ubiquitous Junkers 88s. The Phoebe

and the Abdiel managed to lift thousands of troops and raced back to Alex’. This time

the RAF released some air cover for us.

The Mediterranean had developed the reputation as a graveyard of navies, the Italians

and ours. We had been greeted upon our arrival with, 'We’ll give you two months!'

We had survived until 1st June, so how much longer?

One last reference to the Greece and Crete evacuation: the New Zealand Army in

Alexandria arranged a large party in honour of the Navy that evacuated them from

Greece and Crete. The party was held on the Phoebe. Admiral Cunningham flew his

flag for the event. Representatives of all ships went aboard. The NZ Army sent a large

delegation and presented a huge cheque to be a fund to assist the dependants of those

members of the RN who lost their lives during the operation. From the speech by the

Army it was said, ‘We in the Army didn’t worry much while we were retreating to the

beaches at Navplion, Kalamata, Sphakia and Piraeus. We knew the Navy would be

there and our hopes and wishes came true. When we got to the beaches, the word was

passed around… 'It’s all right; the Navy’s here.'

Life ashore

I enjoyed my times ashore in Alexandria, where some of us had our favourite

watering holes. The bathing was superb at a spot called Stanley Bay at Sidi Bishr.

Later I was to spend time at Sidi Bishr army camp under canvas, where you either

slept with your boots on or shook them out each morning to eject any foreign bodies

— such as scorpions. There were no ‘roads’ on the camp; all the tents were erected on

sand, and sand was what you got. When you cleaned your mess kettles and tins after

meals you used sand. You could see your own reflection mirrored in them when

you’d finished.

My brother, Jack, and I hardly ever discussed our service experiences, so it was many

years before I discovered that Jack had been on a troopship leaving England to go out

East, when I had been on HMS Phoebe escorting the convoy. When I mentioned it to

him, sitting on the grass outside Durban Town Hall listening to the warbling of some

contralto, he said ‘I was there!’ He eventually carried on to Iraq, while we continued

into the Med'. Later still, I was to learn that he too was at Sidi Bishr camp at the same

time that I was. So twice we just missed each other en passant.

Anyway, we had enjoyed four months of constant sunshine with not a drop of rain.

Our rig of the day was always Whites, sometimes trousers, sometimes shorts, unless

you had duties, which called for boiler suits. There were many times when I had to

wear khaki drill. For a while we experienced the lesser evil of Action Stations in

harbour instead of at sea until we were once again in fighting trim and seaworthy.

The Phoebe takes a hit

Our forces at this time were just about holding out at Tobruk, which was surrounded

by Rommel’s forces. The only means of providing supplies and backup was by sea.

This is where we came back into action — The Tobruk Ferry! Our job was to escort

supply ships along the coast to Tobruk. We would leave Alex’ at 8am and arrive off

Tobruk around midnight, stooge around outside the port while the supplies were

unloaded from the transports, and join up again about 4am to return to Alex’. There

was always opposition from bombers, of course - all part of the deal.

Through August we kept this schedule going and lived a charmed life. We left Alex’

as usual on 27 August and received the usual reception as we approached the Libyan

coast. We had Naiad, my old ship Galatea and the Latona in company. In the

darkness, around 9pm, we knew the aircraft were around but couldn’t see them until

they flew low, right by us, and into the moonlight. They were torpedo bombers

coming out of the darkness as we became silhouetted against the rising moon. Our

armament opened up immediately. The torpedo passed harmlessly astern of us, but a

second aircraft again coming in low was more successful. With an almighty boom we

had been hit. It was 9.30pm.

The torpedo had caught us forward of the engine rooms, which was serious enough,

but not it appeared terminal. We lurched, shuddered and listed, settling over at about

15 degrees. Our watertight doors were holding out preventing any further major

flooding. Damage control throughout the Phoebe was checked and reported upon. In

fact all heads of departments reported back to the bridge, and it appeared that we were

still a fighting ship with slightly less armament, but able to make way slowly with

creaking bulkheads at about 12 knots. There were fatalities in B magazine and on the

Quarterdeck messdeck.

Everyone remained busy, especially the shipwrights shoring up bulkheads and

strengthening existing decks as we slowly wended our way back to Alexandria. Oil

and water swished around everywhere. To lighten the load on our starboard side,

where the damage was, three torpedoes, an anchor and a motorboat were jettisoned.

The ship seemed to hold herself up despite the hole in her side and the list to

starboard. We were confident that she would stay on top if we could only maintain the

status quo, with no drastic alterations of speed or course, and no further enemy action.

The Italians were jubilant and announced over the radio that they had sunk us. We

were still lucky later when a single Junker 88 swooped down on us and flew off. He

must have cursed the fact that he had run out of ammunition, or have been asleep,

which was fortunate for us. When we finally reached Alex'. it was a great relief from

the heightened tension aboard during that long, slow voyage back to base; a relief

from the vigil of listening and searching for any possible foreign noises that could

prove a threat to us.

The following day, we went into dock. The hole in our side, just below the bridge,

stretched from our waterline down to the keel - big enough to drive a double-decker

bus through. Thank goodness for watertight compartments. Along with the clearing of

tangled wreckage was the grisly job of finding and removing the bodies. Several

volunteers spent hours moving tangled steel and piles of ammunition to reach their

dead shipmates. There was a funeral service at the British cemetery at Alexandria,

where the sailors were laid to rest alongside other fellow countrymen.

Last days on the Phoebe

The Phoebe was not ready to leave dry dock until October. Although many things

had been repaired or replaced, the hole in her side had only been given a temporary

patch to make her seaworthy to steam to a proper dockyard. Following on the

knowledge of previous similar circumstances, I was banking on us sailing for

Brooklyn Navy yard. I was, therefore, looking forward to visiting Long Island and

seeing the American girl called Phoebe I had met in the peaceful days of June 1939.

Ship and girl — the same name. Couldn’t have planned it better!

The skipper, Captain Grantham, addressed the ship’s company to thank everyone and

said he was sad to be leaving the ship, but many of the ship’s company would be

leaving also, as more key men were required to stay behind on the Mediterranean

Station. And …you guessed it: I turned out to be one of the key men!

With others, I left HMS Phoebe to go to a shore base, while she sailed off to the

USA.

D-Day: The Very First to Arrive

Here is a true-life story, written by my father-in-law, 'Engineman' Louis Caldwell

Gray (born 1922 in South Shields), of a man and a ship, operational off Arromanches

on the night before D-Day, 6 June 1944. I also have a number of photographs of the

ship and her crew.

Harbour Defence Motor Launch 1383

Of the various classes of naval craft, none was so misnamed as the Harbour Defence

Motor Launch (HDML). For the two and a half years of its commission, HDML1383

entered harbour only to refuel, re-store and, once, to carry out major repairs.

For the rest, we were constantly engaged on a range of duties, from escort and anti-

submarine operations to rescue and mine-sweeping, as well as convoy guidance and

investigative patrols. Wherever there was need for us, we, in common with most

HDMLs, were there.

Hostilities Only recruits

I entered Royal Naval general service in 1942. As my experience is probably typical

of Hostilities Only recruits, it might have some marginal, historical interest.

After induction and initial training at HMS Royal Arthur, in company with a large number

of other recruits, a battery of aptitude tests left me classified as suitable for motor-

mechanic engineering school. However, I had joined the navy to go to sea, not to be

employed in a workshop ashore. So, on being drafted to barracks in Portsmouth and

hearing a call for volunteers for Patrol Service, I put my name forward.

Patrol Service

The Patrol Service had a reputation for hard and dangerous conditions, and maybe the

payment of sixpence (2.5p) a day hard-lying money had a certain panache. I found

myself on a train to Lowestoft and the engineering school at St Luke’s Hospital.

After a period of training on internal-combustion engines, I received a posting to

HMS Memento, then busy with a variety of escort duties out of Oban on the west coast of

Scotland.

No greyhound of the ocean

HMS Memento was no greyhound of the ocean, having been a ring-netter out of Buckie

before the war. Tubby McCleod, the engineman, had in fact been her engineer then.

The first hand had skippered his own trawler out of Fleetwood. The gunner was a

fisherman from Grimsby. The cook, a good-humoured Liverpool docker, delighted in

serving us his local delicacy, Scouse.

The captain, who we rarely saw, was a frail-seeming, reputedly very wealthy man. He

spent most of his time in the spacious wardroom that had been constructed in the old

fish hold.

Microcosm of the old navy

As with the recruits at Royal Arthur, the crew was almost a microcosm of the old navy of

press-gang days. Then a ship took not only the fit and able but also the idle, the stupid

and the criminal and made seamen of them.

For an impressionable youth, fresh from a merchant bank in the City, it was a glimpse

of attitudes and life styles hitherto undreamed of.

Primitive conditions

One seaman returned aboard after a run ashore one night. He had met a girl, and

together they had walked into a quiet hillside outside Oban. At some point he turned

on to her to have his way, but she resisted. In matter-of-fact tones he related how he

simply hit her until she submitted to being undressed and raped. It was the very

casualness of his tale that was so chilling.

Crew conditions were primitive with ten double-tier bunks built around the curve of

the ship’s hull in the stern. The foredeck steam-winch boiler stood next to the only

water closet, so that one sat in warmth. It was no place for the prudish, though, as

crew members passed to and fro, making whatever comment they felt appropriate. Of

course, being sited so far forward, movement was hastened in rough weather.

Hot water for washing oneself or one’s clothing was obtained by pulling a bucket of

sea water from over the side and blowing a stream of super-heated steam through it

from the winch boiler.

The marvel of the engine room

It was the engine room that was the marvel. The main engine was an enormous six-

cylinder Gardiner semi-diesel. The exposed domes of the six cylinders were fitted

with individual blowlamps. The lamps had to be lit, and the domes brought to white

heat, before compressed air was blown into the engine to get the pistons moving and

the crankshaft turning.

Starting the engine was a brutally hot, noisy performance. It demanded great agility to

orchestrate the entire ballet.

A harmonious nine months

HMS Memento was cramped, odorous and completely lacking in refinement, but after the

initial shock I loved every minute of my nine months among the Western Isles.

We suffered brutal gales in the winter, when an enforced swim in freezing water left

me wondering if my head were still connected. We collected seagulls’ eggs for

breakfast from the islands in the spring. We enjoyed languid airs among the islands in

the summer, when a cry of ‘Man overboard!’ from another ship found me in the water

once again, pulling out a panic-stricken idiot.

We had freshly baked baps from a baker on returning to Oban in an early morning.

We swam and rowed and sailed the sheltered waters when duty allowed. Even my

leaving had its moment when the commanding officer (CO) expressed regret, for he

had had, he said, ‘Plans for me.’

Ah, well, we’ll never know!

Training as an engineman

I left Memento in June 1943 and returned to St Luke’s. Here the commanding officer was

reputed to have made the famous comment about how, ‘The petty officers walk

around as though they own the place, and the men walk around as though they don’t

care who owns it.’ I was to train as an engineman.

My wish was to go rapidly back to sea, but I was sent to Thornicrofts’ (known today

as VT Group plc) in Reading for a six-month course on their diesel engines. I enjoyed

the smell of machine oil and the creative satisfaction of seeing inanimate pieces of

metal turning under my hands into sophisticated machinery.

At the end of the course I was delighted to find myself transferred from Patrol Service

to Light Coastal Forces with a posting to a brand-new motor launch then nearing

completion at Brightlingsea.

My first encounter with HDML 1383

I met my new commanding officer, Lieutenant B. Kingdon, RNVR (Royal Naval

Volunteer Reserve), in London, and we travelled together to the builders’ boatyard

where we saw it: HDML 1383. What a contrast with HMS Memento.

The boat was 72-sleek-feet long with everything new and shining. She was fitted

throughout in smooth mahogany to very high standards of workmanship.

It was a joy to have my own engine room to order as I wished. The twin Thornicroft

diesels were responsive and easy to manage. The auxiliary engine for lighting and

battery charging was a sturdy single-cylinder Gardiner diesel, which I was to meet ten

years later pumping water from the Kafue river in Africa.

Well-organised ship

For once in naval construction, thought had been given to accommodation. The

crews’ quarters were for’ard, as was the galley, with an internal companion way to the

enclosed wheelhouse.

Behind the wheelhouse was an open bridge, where a hatchway led down to the engine

room, while another gave access to the after quarters. These comprised a cabin with

its own toilet facilities shared by myself with the coxswain. Across the companion

way was a radio cabin and aft of that a well-fitted wardroom.

Well-equipped too

As an escort vessel we were quite well equipped. The 20mm Oerlikon aft was

excellent. Two racks of depth charges looked purposeful, although we never dropped

any in anger. The bridge carried twin Vickers .303 machine guns on each wing.

On the foredeck, at first we had a three-pounder gun, from which the shell would

sometimes scream into the far distance or cause consternation by almost dropping out

of the muzzle. Once it was replaced by another Oerlikon we were more effective. In

my years afloat I never fired a weapon of any sort, nor was I ever hurt by one.

Minimal sea-going experience

The crew was typical of those found on most small craft. The majority were in their

late teens or early twenties, plus an occasional older hand or two, but almost none

with any previous seagoing experience.

Our commanding officer, known among the crew as Bert, was a quiet, self-contained

man who had worked with the BBC before the war. The first lieutenant, Sub-

Lieutenant de Nobriga, RNVR, inevitably known as Nobby, was fresh out of

university.

He was young and keen for activity and new experience, and we became as close to

being friends as was practicable. At the end of the commission and after

demobilisation, he arrived at my home in west London one day in a dashing, red MG

sports car, and we renewed our acquaintance.

The coxswain, Ernie Knott, was a street-wise character from the East End of London

and, at 34, the oldest man aboard. He possessed a fund of earthy aphorisms, which

tended to stick in the memory, and a street philosophy that sometimes shocked

younger crew members. I quote: ‘A standing prick has no conscience,’ which seemed

appropriate for the seaman mentioned on HMS Memento.

A motley crew

The seamen, stokers, signallers, cook, asdic, signals ratings and gunners were all no

older than their early twenties. One, known as Tich, had the face and physique of a

youthful boy but with adult tastes that gave him great success with young girls.

Another seaman had been a shop assistant before joining the navy, where he proved to

have a natural talent with guns. With a 20mm Oerlikon he was a deadly shot and

unless forcibly restrained would pick a soaring seagull out of the sky as easily as

swatting a fly.

He was an oddity in another way by completely disproving the saying ‘There is no

smoke without fire’. He was a compulsive liar, who told the most blatant and

pointless lies for no obvious reason or advantage. All they ever earned him was

punishment.

An astonishing endowment

One of my stokers, a competent and practical man fresh from a Manchester mill, was

engaged to a girl at home. On hearing we were to spend several days in port on one

occasion he arranged for her to visit.

As he prepared to go ashore, there was much loud speculation and backchat on the

mess deck as to how he could possibly entertain her in such a dead-and-alive place.

He stopped all speculation by appearing stark naked from the heads — the latrines —

and displaying an astonishing endowment. It was quite remarkable.

But enough! They came from all walks of life with their own weaknesses, strengths

and moral attitudes, but to the navy they were all seamen.

Enjoying enforced shore time

In the January of 1944 we carried out a shakedown cruise, in which a fresh crew got

used to the new ship. We ran the full length of the east coast, during which a series of

particularly severe winter gales drove us into the shelter of a variety of ports.

We lay in Hartlepool, where during a run ashore we found the biggest dance hall I

have ever seen. On runs ashore the crew usually went as a body, except for watch

keepers, and almost always headed for the local dance hall in search of company.

We ran into the Tyne for shelter, where I was able to contact friends not seen for

years. In the Firth of Forth we were storm bound for several days, and I was able to

renew family ties in Edinburgh with an uncle and aunt. Discipline was always easier

on small ships, and by bottling my daily tot of navy rum I brought a gleam to my

uncle’s eye when I presented the elixir.

Message in a pack of tobacco

I also took opportunity to get away from the coldest east wind I had ever known and

slip across to Paisley to visit Marion, a girl whose name, address and photograph I

had found inside a tin of Dobie’s Four Square pipe tobacco. This was something

frequently done by girls working in tobacco factories making up duty-free issue for

naval ships.

It was a harmless practice that brightened the lives of many sailors and illustrative of

a time when all kinds of people reached out desperately for friendship and reassurance

in what were very uncertain times. I had dinner with Marion’s family and paid a

second visit but like all sailors eventually sailed away.

Powdered coffee and Scottish Sundays

We left Leith but were soon driven to shelter in Buckie harbour, where we

experienced at first hand the full, drab, tedium of a Scottish Sunday. We moved on to

Inverness, and rather than face the brutal tidal races of the Pentland Firth in winter we

entered the Caledonian Canal to cross to the west coast.

At a small shop halfway through the canal I met Nescafé powdered coffee for the first

time. I enjoyed the next leg of the journey, for we lay in Oban for several days. Then

south to Falmouth.

A pipe line under the ocean

At first we operated largely out of Dover, which, after years of shelling by the big

guns on the coast of Calais, was a desolate place. We tended to spend our shore leave

in Folkestone. But, as plans for the invasion of Normandy began to take shape, we

grew to know the English Channel and other channel ports very well.

During the months leading up to D-Day we undertook many and varied duties. One of

the most interesting was acting as an asdic escort when PLUTO, the Pipeline under

the Ocean, was being laid for the purpose of providing a continuous supply of fuel to

the invading forces once ashore.

Guiding beacon for the invasion fleet

Nearer the day we were fitted with specialised navigation equipment and, with

additional crew aboard, sailed under cover of darkness for a point off the coast of

Arromanches. We anchored there to act as a guiding beacon for the first ships of the

invasion fleet, even then leaving English Channel ports.

Dawn revealed the astonishing sight of serried ranks of ships heaving over the horizon

and passing in wave after wave, packed to capacity with soldiers and weaponry. It

revealed also seemingly endless flights of aircraft passing overhead to saturate the

countryside behind the beaches. In full daylight we watched and listened with awe as

heavy naval units with famous names hurled salvos of shells at selected targets

ashore.

Remembering the little things

I have often been asked for my impressions and experiences of D-Day and the days

that followed. So often it is the trivia that stays in the mind.

I was a pipe smoker and had recently broken mine. I was looking over the side one

day when I saw a pipe floating past. Who had lost it and under what circumstances I

do not know, but after retrieving it I could not bring myself to use it.

A highly planned operation

My overwhelming impression was of the almost incredible degree of imagination and

ingenuity that had been planned into the whole operation. It was evident in almost

every experience.

Perhaps the first sign of it was the impressive sight of the slow-moving arrival of the

Mulberry harbour. At first the old cargo vessels, which were sunk as block ships, and

then the immense concrete caissons sunk off the open beaches to provide shelter for

the invasion force against the raging Channel gales, and, my word, how they raged.

Floating bakeries and kitchens

My second impression of detailed planning was the sight of landing craft fitted out as

floating bakeries and kitchens. They served fresh bread and meals to the crews of the

huge number of small craft without the time or facilities to provide for themselves.

I felt that if this degree of attention could be paid to such mundane provision, it must

surely be reflected across the entire operation, and the war must inevitably be won.

Dogsbody duties

With the invasion of Europe firmly under way, we resumed our dogsbody duties. We

pulled a beached landing craft off the Arromanches beach under the cutting tongue of

a fierce naval captain, Red Ryder, who thought Bert was showing lack of drive,

whereas he was really trying to preserve my engines, which were never intended to

serve in a ‘tugboat.’

We guided vessels between coasts. We escorted a small convoy in company with a

destroyer through a brutal gale to Cherbourg, only to find, on arrival, that the others

had been turned back by the weather. As the senior naval officer was not with us, the

Americans refused us entry, and we had to sit out the gale in the outer roads, where at

times I thought the engines would leave their mountings.

Sighting the first flying bombs

One night, while heading for England, we heard an aircraft engine overhead. The craft

must have been in trouble, because it carried a long tail of fire and fell into the sea.

We headed for the spot but found no survivors. It became clear later we must have

seen one of the first of the German V1s, that is the flying bombs.

With the invasion launched, and the land action having moved well inland from the

Normandy coast, our duties varied again. We were attached to a mine-clearance unit

of fleet sweepers, and after the fall of Dieppe were sent there to see if the channel was

clear. I imagine our arrival and return proved something. German pressure mines were

becoming a problem in the shallow Dutch waters.

Acting as asdic escort

One spring morning, after a long and bleak winter, the clouds opened, and the sun

poured down from a deep blue sky. We were acting as asdic escort to a flotilla of fleet

mine sweepers trying to find an answer to the latest bit of horror. This perhaps

allowed several ships to pass unscathed, but the next would activate the mine. The

sweepers were towing a complex structure, which was said to exert the same pressure

as a 20,000-ton ship.

We had cleared Ostend early and were moving slowly across a smooth blue sea about

three miles offshore. I happened to be on deck getting a breath of fresh air and taking

a series of unofficial photographs of a passing convoy of merchant ships, making

perhaps ten knots towards Rotterdam.

Rocked by explosions

Astern of us a dispatch torpedo boat was leaving a broad, creamy wake across the

blue water towards England. Suddenly, we were shaken by an explosion. The first

glance was towards the fleet sweepers. Had they found a mine? A second explosion

turned our attention seawards, where the eighth merchantman in the convoy line was

burning furiously.

Bert, our CO, obtained rapid permission from the flotilla leader to stand by the

burning ship. It was quite large, about 15,000 tons, carrying a mixed cargo of oil and

ammunition. The explosion had caught it amidships, which was a blazing inferno. The

flames fanned by its continued way through the water left a trail of blazing oil astern.

A hazardous rescue

As we drew near the sight was awesome. The hull plating amidships was white hot

and gave an odd impression of transparency, while a thin line of flame ran right along

the waterline. On deck, great shoots of flame and smoke carried the fire astern, and a

new dimension was added when ammunition began to explode.

The only obvious survivors were grouped well forward in the bows. We ran to take

them off, only to discover two hazards with the curve of the bows, forcing us up to the

stem, where the ship’s way threatened to push us under.

We had to complete the rescue in instalments by holding position momentarily, while

a man or two dropped on to our deck, then sheering off in a tight circle that brought us

back under the bows again. We continued until all still alive had been recovered.

From tanker to scrap iron

The survivors were handed over to the flotilla leader of the fleet sweepers, where a

doctor attended to injuries, preparatory to getting them ashore to hospital. The burning

tanker eventually grounded on one of the sandbanks that littered those waters, where

it burned for two or three days before turning into scrap iron.

For ourselves we earned a repaint because the port-side hull and superstructure were

well and truly singed. We were just thankful the wooden hull had not caught fire.

Someone must have been pleased because awards of a DSC or Distinguished Service

Cross, a DSM or Distinguished Service Medal and a Mention in Dispatches followed.

Not all sound and fury

All campaigns have their quiet periods. During one such Bert must have been talking

with his fellow COs in the flotilla and made a bet that he had the best-maintained

engine room of them all.

The fact is that life at sea is not all sound and fury. There are long periods when hands

need to be kept busy. In my case I liked to have engines painted silver, fuel and water

lines painted distinctive colours and brightwork highly polished. An emery cloth, held

against a rapidly spinning propeller shaft, produces a shining silver shaft.

All these things must have been in Bert’s mind when he issued the challenge. When

the COs made their inspection of every ship’s engine room they admitted defeat when

I removed the bilge covers and exposed dry and white-enamelled bilges. Our

winnings gave the crew a good run ashore.

The A-bomb

And so it went on week after week until the war in Europe was over.

We re-equipped for a long voyage in preparation for sailing to the Far East under our

own power and to the war against Japan. Then the Americans could not resist the urge

to see if it worked and dropped an atom bomb on Japan, and it did.

A haunting legacy

Suddenly, it was all over, leaving a legacy that still haunts us today. Yes, it was all

over, and HDML 1383 became FDB 84. We puzzled over the new designation: Fast

Dispatch Boat? Fleet Dispatch Boat? No! For Disposal Board.

We took HDML 1383 to East India Docks in London, left her alongside the wall and

went home. For years I missed her.

A Tale of Six Scaffolding Poles: Juno Beach on D-Day

A Tale Of Six Scaffolding Poles

The date was the 3rd June 1944 . The place H.M.S Northney III, a ‘stone frigate’

which was a requisitioned holiday camp situated at the end of Fishery Lane on the

eastern end of Hayling Island Hampshire. This comprised of wooden chalets, a dining

hall a NAAFI a wardroom and a single GPO coin box public telephone.

The unit was 802 LCV(P) Landing Craft Flotilla Royal Marines. I was a 19 year old

Lieutenant.

The LCV(P) (Landing Craft Vehicle / Personnel is a small craft invented by the

Americans to carry assault troops from Landing Ships to the beach in an invasion.

They were designed to be carried on the davits of Landing Ships and lowered into the

sea about 4 miles from the shore and then carried the troops to the beach. They were

definitely NOT designed for long distance.

The craft was about the size of a small single decker bus and capable of carrying

about 22 men and their weapons or a Jeep and trailer. It had a ramp at the bow which

could be lowered on reaching the beach to allow men and vehicles to disembark. The

draught at the bow was nil and at the stern about 24 inches. This made handling

difficult as they were easily blown off course by a cross -wind. The power came from

a 250 hp petrol engine driving a single screw. It ad a superb gearbox which could go

from full ahead to reverse without slowing down. Being a short distance craft it was

not equipped with either a radio or a compass.

The crew consisted of a coxwain and two deckhands who were interchangeable. The

coxwain who drove the craft stood upright on the port side near the stern completely

unprotected from the sea, weather and enemy action. The deckhands handled the bow

and stern ropes when coming alongside and let down and raised the ramp when

beaching.

There was a special drill for beaching, to assist in getting off once laned and

preventing the craft from broaching to (turning side on to the beach) and being tipped

over by the following tide. This consisted of the coxwain lining up straight on to the

beach, taking the power off and at the same time ordering one of the deckhands to

throw a kedge anchor over the stern. This anchor is designed to dig into the sea bed

and by attaching the anchor rope to a bollard on the stern of the craft it was possible to

keep the craft bow on to the beach and assist when reversing off.

We had been on Hayling Island for several weeks practicing beaching an pulling off

until we hoped we were perfect. Unfortunately all training except on one occasion we

ere unladen. The occasion when we did have a load was when we took a platoon of

Canadian troops from Hayling Island to Rye in Sussex to acclimatise them to a sea

journey. Unfortunately the sea was dead calm and we didn’t land them onto a beach,

they just stepped off at Rye Harbour and marched away.!

The 3rd June was a lovely calm,warm, sunny day. After breakfast my C.O told me to

take my craft and crew to Bucklers Hard on the Beaulieu River to pick up some stores

for the flotilla. It is easy to find the Beaulieu River from Hayling Island , you just go

into the Solent turn right and go past the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour and

Southampton Water and then look out for some poles sticking out of the water on the

starboard side which indicate the mouth of the river. Keep close to the poles

particularly at low tide and you should avoid going aground.

Our trip to Bucklers Hard was idyllic, the sun was shining,the sea calm and it was like

being on a summer holiday cruise. We found the Beaulieu River without any trouble

and made our way up to Bucklers Hard which in peacetime had been a boatbuilders

yard but was now requisitioned by the Navy. The Yard was covered with every sort of

naval store imaginable. In charge was an old bearded Chief Petty Officer wearing

First World campaign medals. He looked as though he had arrived with the Romans

and got left behind. I told him who I was and that I had come for some stores for 802

Flotilla. He said ‘Right Sir follow me’. He took me over to six very long scaffolding

poles which were laying on the deck. ‘There you are Sir’ he said.

I replied ‘What are they for ?’ He relied ‘Don’t ask me Sir but we shall be glad to get

rid of them, we keep tripping over them.’

The problem with the poles was that they were too long to lay flat in the hold so we

had the option of placing one end at the base of the ramp and letting the other end

hang over the cockpit thus getting into veryones way of laying one end at the stern

end of the hold and letting the other end hang over the top of the ramp. We decided to

do the latter because we needed to move about the cockpit. Having lashed the poles to

the ramp we made our way back to Hayling Island. We moored the craft to the buoys

in the creek at the back of the camp and made our way to the camp.

While we had been away the camp had been closed and sentries doubled. No-one was

allowed in or out of the camp and there was an electric air of excitement. The funny

thing was that the G.P.O telephone box was still connected and there was a queue of

men waiting to ring their wives and girlfriends telling them that they would not be

able to meet them that night.

During the evening the weather started to turn nasty, it started to rain and the wind got

up. The C.O called a briefing of all officers for 8am thew following morning .

At 8am on 4th June we all gathered in a classromm. The C.O. started by saying ‘Well

Gentlemen it’s on for tomorrow the 5th June.’ He didn’t say what was on but we

guessed it might be the invasion ! He then described our task which was to assist in

the build up after the initial assault by ferrying troops and stores to the beaches from

Landing Ships. We were to expect to be away for several weeks if all went well.

A beachhead was to be constructed by sinking old merchant ships in a ring off the

beaches to create a breakwater and artificial harbour. We were not told of the

Mulberry Harbours.

Our accommodation was to be on an old troopship the S.S.Ascania which would be

anchored inside the ring of blockships opposite Juno Beach. Our craft were to be

moored on buoys which would be laid before we arrived. Recently I came across a

remarkable coincidence . I had been researching my wife’s family and found that her

father Duncan McLeod a New Zealander who served with the ANZAC in The First

World War had travelled on S.S.Ascania in 1916 from Alexandria in Egypt to

Marseilles.

To return to the briefing, we were to man our craft at midnight and at 3 am move as a

Flotilla (12 Craft) in line ahead to RV an the Nab Tower which is just off Hayling

Island and marks the beginning of the deep water channel down the Solent. When we

reached the Nab we were to look for a naval trawler bearing a particular number and

follow it to our destination. We had no idea where we were going and this was the

first indication that we were going under our own steam and not on the davits of a

Landing Ship. We also realised that the nearest bit of the French coast was at least

100 miles from Haying Island./ We were given an Admiralty chart showing the south

coast of England from Swanage to Brighton and the equivalent section of the French

coast which was no use to anyone.

My own task was to deliver the scaffolding poles to the Beachmaster on ‘Nan’ /‘Red’

sector of Juno beach and then return to S.S.Ascania. I could identify the place by

looking for a large letter ‘J’ above a red board bearing the letter ‘N’.

During the briefing the weather deteriorated and the wind got stronger. We were all

very relieved when later in the day we heard that the invasion had been delayed 24

hours to 6th June. We spent the rest of the day on 5th June briefing our own crews

and making sure the craft would at least get us to the Nab !

D Day 6th June we were all settled on our craft from midnight having stored our kit

and some compo rations and six 4 ½ gallon jerry cans of petrol with the scaffolding

poles in the hold covered with a tarpaulin from the ramp to the cockpit.

At 3am engines were started and we left the creek in line astern with the C.O in the

lead like a mother duck followed by her chicks. The journey to the Nab was short and

we ere accompanied by dozens of landing craft of all shapes and sizes which had

come from all along the south coast. In spite of the blackout the Nab had a huge

illuminated ‘V’ on the top.

Somehow we found our trawler and shouted our number to the crew. The reply came

by way of a loudhailer ‘Follow me !!’ Off we went behind our leader in two lines side

by side. The sea was calm and the wind had moderated a bit.

Everything was fine until we left the lee of the Isle of Wight when we were hit by a

strong gale blowing up the Channel from the west. This was accompanied by a deep

swell from starboard to port. This meant that when we were in the trough of a wave

the craft beside us on the crest of the next wave was between 30 to 40 feet above us.

Fortunately none of the crew was seasick and it was just a case of holding on for dear

life. We took it in turns to do an hour about as coxswain,. which was the worst job of

all.

After about 6 hours after leaving the Nab I noticed the craft was not coming up from a

trough of a wave as quickly as it had at the beginning of the journey and was

wallowing in the sea somewhat.

I told one of the crew to go under the tarpaulin to see if everything was O.K. He

disappeared for a couple of minutes and came back looking green and was

immediately seasick over the side. He reported that the hold was half full of water

caused by the ramp leaking due to the weight of the scaffolding poles which made the

craft bow heavy.

We were now faced with two alternatives, either we slowed down to prevent the water

from coming over the ramp top when we were in danger of either sinking or being left

behind by the other craft who were leading us to our destination, or we stopped and

tried to pump out the hold using the bilge pump withy the engine in neutral and at the

same time lightening the load or at least shifting the load to the stern thus raising the

bow. I decided on the latter option.

One solution was to transfer the petrol in the jerry cans to the main tanks in the stern

thus raising the bows. This task was easier said than done because it it was necessary

to remove the filler cap- which was just within reaching distance from the cockpit and

then placing a funnel in the top of the tank and pouring the petrol from the jerrycan

into the tank through the funnel. This would not have been easy on a flat calm sea let

alone in a gale. I decided to do the job myself and with the rest of the crew holding

me by the legs with me laying flat of my stomach on the rear decking I managed to

pour the contents of two of the cans into the tank. This took so long that we were in

danger of being left behind so I decided to jettison all the spare fuel overboard and

move slowly on. Fortunately the bilge pump had got rid of some of the water and the

bow was higher in the water. By this time the top of the flag mast of the last craft was

just visible of the horizon and disappearing very quickly. We all watched this mast

avidly because if we lost sight of it we would not know which way to go or even

which way ‘north’ was. So we progressed very gingerly as fast as we dared.

At about 3.30pm , over 12 hours since leaving Hayling Island the French coast

appeared on the horizon. There was no sign of the beachhead and everything was very

quiet. No shooting , smoke or heavy shellfire in fact we began to wonder whether the

assault had been beaten off and everyone had gone back home. To find the beachhead

we turned towards the west and eventually found the where the assault had taken

place. Even then there was no noticeable noise. The odd bang but that was all . There

were a lot of wrecked LCTs (Landing Craft Tank) on the beach but no sign of

movement. We eventually found Juno beach and Nan Red sector. We turned towards

the beach marker between two LCTs. The beach at this point is very flat and the tide

which was flooding ,was moving at a tremendous rate and we went in like a

surfboard. We followed the drill and threw the kedge anchor over the stern, the anchor

took hold and because of our speed the rope parted and whipped back knocking me

overboard. The craft then broached to in the surf and overturned on to its side

throwing the rest of the crew overboard.

Fortunately none of us were injured and in true Royal Marines tradition we secured

the craft to one of the LCTs to stop it being washed away during the night and

unloaded our kit and the scaffolding poles on to the beach. Fortunately the

beachmaster was located in a sandbagged shelter right opposite where we had

foundered. He was a Royal Naval Commander who looked rather like the

beachmaster in the film ‘The Longest Day’except that he did not have a bulldog with

him.

Still soaking wet, I reported to him and asked him what he wanted us to do with the

scaffolding poles. His reply was unprintable indicating that not only did he had not

expected to receive any poles but that he had quite enough already.

Instructions stated that if wrecked on the beach landing craft crew were to place

themselves under the command of the beachmaster and carry out whatever task he

wished. I did this and his reply was ‘If I were you I’d f---- off and get dry.

My crew decided they would prefer to sleep on the beach in the sand. Displaying most

un-officer like qualities I decided to sleep on one of the wrecked LCTs and did so on

a bunk under an Oerlikon anti-aircraft gun mounting which fired a barrage all night. I

didn’t hear a thing !

The following day was bright and sunny and we soon discovered a naval signal unit

near us on the beach . They assured us that they were in contact with Ascania and

obligingly sent a message to my C.O explaining what had happened and asking to be

picked up by one of our crews. We then settled down on the LCT which didn’t seem

to be going anywhere and dried our clothing by hanging items on the rigging. We also

managed to to get most of the water out of our craft so that when the tide came in she

floated and could be lashed to the side of the LCT. The electrics had been damaged by

the water, so we were unable to start the engine.

During the day very little seemed to be happening and there was absolutely no activity

on the beach except for burial parties removing the bodies of Canadian soldiers who

had fallen in the initial assault. Every now and again one or other of the naval support

ships would fire a salvo in support of the army. These ships consisted of HMS

Ramillies, HMS Nelson, HMS Rodney, HMS Warspite, HMS Belfast and HMS

Glasgow which if they all fired together made a pretty impressive noise.

The next day as nobody had come to rescue us , I sent another message to Ascania

which incidentally we could see not far from us anchored off the beach. There was

still no activity on the beach and no sign of any of our flotilla craft moving about the

anchorage . At the end of the second day the captain of the LCT told us that he was

being towed off the following day and unless we wanted to go back to Portsmouth we

would have to vacate our accommodation ! At this point I decided to write to my

mother giving the names and addresses of all the members of the crew who were with

me asking her to write saying we were O.K. I gave the letter to the captain of the LCT

to post when he got back to Portsmouth.

The following day my C.O arrived having walked the whole length of the beach

looking for us before he reported us missing as the last anyone had seen of us was

when we stopped in mid Channel to stabilise the craft. He told me what he thought of

me but calmed down when he realised that none of my messages had found him on

Ascania. We were then taken off the LCT before she went home and made ourselves

comfortable on Ascania which became our operating base.

Our main task was to provide a sort of taxi service all round the beachhead including

taking German prisoners off the beach to naval ships to be taken to England. One day

a group of very disconsolate German soldiers were sitting on the beach started to talk

to us ,one was particularly fluent in English and I asked him where he had learned to

speak the language. He replied that he had a degree in English from Oxford

University and asked if I thought his prison camp would be anywhere Oxford. I’ve

often wondered what happened to him.

Another task we had was to try to discourage German one -man submarines from

entering the anchorage. We did this by patrolling the area and throwing slabs of

explosives attached to underwater fuses indiscriminately about the sea. We did not

find any submarines and I don’t know if we put any off. All we did was kill a lot of

fish and make ourselves very unpopular with sailors trying to sleep in their hammocks

because the explosions sounded like someone hitting the hull with a large

sledgehammer.

After I few weeks we moved into a tented camp behind the beach and Ascania sailed

away. The day to day routine remained the same except our craft were kept in a small

harbour at Courseulles which was the nearest small town. One night we were woken

be a large bang and a lorry in the next camp to ours burst into flames followed be

several other bangs. It took some time for us to realise that we were being shelled by a

gun to the west of us. The following day we furiously dug out the inside of our bell

tents leaving the tent pole balanced on an oil drum so that we were below ground. The

shelling only last about three days before the R.A.F identified the gun which was in a

railway tunnel near Le Havre and bombed it blocking the tunnel entrance.

Apart from the trip across the Channel on 6th June two things stick in my mind from

the time we stayed in Normandy. One was the nightly anti- aircraft barrage put up

every night just to deter enemy aircraft (We never saw a single one) and second was

watching a 1000 bomber daylight raid on Caen when Lancasters followed one after

the other towards Caen. Every now and again one the aircraft would fall out of the sky

for no apparent reason apparently hit be anti-aircraft fire.

We left for home in August, this time on the davits of an Infantry Landing Ship. As

we passed the Nab the Captain dropped us off and we sailed back to the creek at the

back of HMS Northney III.

The scaffolding poles were still laying where we had put them on D Day. If any of

you are on holiday at Courseulles and you trip over a scaffolding pole IT’S MINE.

The Malta Convoy 1942 Operation Pedestal

The Malta Convoy of August 1942 — HMS Penn

We left Scapa Flow at 0430 on Monday 4 August 1942 and proceeded to

Londonderry to join convoy at full speed and on our own - time of arrival being 1630.

We oiled and proceeded at 20 knots to rendezvous with Rodney and Nelson and 14

destroyers in company with the convoy of 14 ships. All were merchant ships very low

in the water, thus denoting that they were heavily laden.

The convoy and escorts then proceeded at 10 knots to Gibraltar. This stage of the

voyage was uneventful.

On approaching Gib, Penn, Pathfinder and Quentin left the convoy and proceeded to

Gib at 23 knots arriving at 0600.

On 10 August 1942, the convoy passed through the Straits during the night and it was

arranged for us to rendezvous with them that night. Whilst in the pens at Gib,

Pathfinder came alongside at 2330 and carried away our second whaler, and for the

next couple of hours we were engaged in clearing away the wreckage. We finally

slipped at 0500 Monday.

We rendezvoused with the aircraft carrier Eagle very early and became the rearguard

of the convoy nearly 40 miles astern of same. Closed up at action stations during

Monday forenoon, but saw no action.

Morale was very good and all hands had smiling faces.

All day Monday passed with no action.

13.08.1942

All Monday night we remained as escort to Eagle and we caught up with the convoy

early on Tuesday forenoon. We then parted company from the convoy leaving the

Eagle with same and proceeded at 25 knots in company with 2 other destroyers to

rendezvous with an oiler some two miles ahead. We refuelled and at midday Tuesday

13 August 1942 all ships closed up to first degree of readiness.

Reports came through that the convoy was being bombed but we saw nothing. As we

approached we saw that things were not quite right.

A large pall of smoke hung over the rear of the convoy. As we drew closer we saw

that Eagle had been hit and she was listing heavily.

Cruisers and destroyers stayed with her till she finally sank dropping charges all the

time. The sub was probably sunk and the Eagle sank in 15-20 minutes. Everybody's

spirits were damped by this tragedy and this left us with two carriers.

Tuesday evening quite a few bombs were dropped but no other ships were hit. At

sunset the real fun started. A large force of JU 88's and 87's attacked us and the fleet

sent up a hell of a barrage at them. They had plenty of nerve for they dived clean

through the barrage, and dropping their eggs narrowly missing the ships which they

picked as targets.

Our barrage drove them off and our own fighters from the carriers went after them,

and managed to down a number of them. Bombs dropped on both sides of us, but our

luck held and we incurred no damage.

The attack ended at 2230.

The morale of our own crew was high, and we were very confident that we would see

the convoy through.

But what we had just experienced, was only a mere drop in the ocean.

Tuesday night passed without any trouble, but just the same, a good lookout was

maintained.

Wednesday 14.08.42

Reports of aircraft (enemy) were constantly received during the forenoon, but our

fighters were 'up and doing' early in the day, making protective sweeps, and reports

came through of the numbers shot down. Fortunately our losses compared with those

of the enemy were few.

Convoy again attacked during the forenoon, but our ships brought down three planes

and damaged two more. It was believed that our planes finally got these two. Towards

late afternoon we realised that Jerry had been waiting for us. Torpedo and dive

bombers came at us from every possible angle and made a combined attack on us. Our

guns began to talk and we set up a terrific barrage to try and split up the formation of

planes. Wave after wave came over, bombs dropped close on either side of us and it

was only by a miracle that we got through without damage or casualties.

They gave us a rest for about 45 minutes. Our fighters kept taking off to keep us clear

from other attacks. At 1645 they came at us again, and sparks began to fly. All hell

had been let loose above and all around us. The same combined attacks by torpedoes

and dive bombers followed.

They attacked the left flank of the convoy and we could not fire (except at some lone

wolf who singled us out to attack), because we were on the right flank. Our guns were

trained to port, but most of us kept looking to starboard, expecting a surprise attack

from that side. Sure enough it came and we shouted to the bridge, who were quite

unaware of the fact that 30-40 torpedo bombers were heading for us and above them

were dive bombers.

The horizon was dotted with the torpedo bombers as they flew low over the water,

and our forward guns went into action at once. Funnily enough we were the only ship

on the flank who had opened fire at them. Our four 4" guns split up the attack, but

they tried to retaliate by letting their 'tin fish' go at us.

Many of these deadly missiles streaked past us, as we twisted and turned to dodge

tem. They tried their best to get us that time. Then one formation turned to attack the

Rodney and Nelson. We all thought that they were doomed, but no, they came

steaming through, with fountains of water caused by exploding bombs on both sides

of them.

Suddenly we realised that one merchant ship was missing and decided that it must

have been hit in the last attack without us noticing. Believe me, we had no time to be

glancing round, we were too busy defending ourselves.

We got another shock, as we saw that the aircraft carrier, Indomitable, was being used

as a target. Suddenly she was hit, and smoke and flames burst from her, both aft and

forrard. She turned away from the wind and at the same moment also, the main fleet,

namely the aircraft carriers and the Rodney and Nelson turned around, for we had

reached the Straits of Pantaleria, and from here the convoy carried on to Malta with

just the cruisers and destroyers as escort.

We turned back to go to the assistance of HMS Foresight. After we had exchanged

signals, we prepared to tow her, for she had no way on and seemed to be settling on

the starboard quarter.

As we approached, the Ashanti (Capt D) steamed up and told us to accompany the

convoy as arranged.

So started the mad dash through the Straits of Pantaleria to Malta.

When we joined up with the convoy we were ordered to take the place of a cruiser,

(quite a compliment to our gunnery), and we steamed up to the head of the screen on

the left flank. As we steamed into position, we counted thirteen merchant ships, not

bad going so far. We had not been in position two minutes when a terrific explosion

shook us from stem to stern, and its echoes had hardly died away, when another, just

as loud as the first, followed and then two more. Looking to starboard, we saw a nerve

wracking sight.

Two cruisers, the Nigeria and Cairo, an oil tanker and another cargo ship were all hit.

The Nigeria was listing heavily and we feared she was going to turn turtle. The Cairo

was rapidly sinking by the stern. The oil tanker, well she had been blown clean to

hell, and all that remained of her was a large patch of blazing oil and some wreckage.

We could hear her crew screaming in agony as they vainly tried to swim through the

blazing hell, but we could not help them. Poor devils, we had to just leave them to

their fate.

The other merchant man kept afloat, and later was able to get under way again.

We thought we had run into a minefield, but we soon changed our minds when one of

the other destroyers suddenly dropped some charges. Two more destroyers followed

and then a periscope was sighted. All guns loaded S.A.P. and fired at it, then we

turned to port and dropped a pattern of charges. We got him alright, for a large patch

of oil came to the surface.

We returned to the Nigeria and Cairo. A destroyer went alongside the Cairo and took

off the crew as she had to be abandoned. A skeleton crew was left on the other ship

and she got under way and returned to Gib.

We picked up several survivors and returned at full speed to join the convoy, of which

eleven ships remained.

It was dusk as we reached the convoy and than came the worst attack of the lot. The

torpedo and dive bombers were determined to sink the lot of us.

Tracer and explosive shells were all over the sky. Our own 4" were firing like the

devil. Three more ships went up leaving us silhouetted in the fires they caused, and

the attack was being pressed home all the time.

We were just off Sardinia and everything the enemy had was sent out to try and get

us. We were in a very precarious position because the fires from the other ships lit up

the place like daylight.

We steamed towards one of the crippled ships, the SS Empire Hope and we saw some

of her crew struggling in the water and others were in the boats.

Lifeless and mutilated objects that had once been men floated past on both sides and

our bows struck two corpses as we steamed forward to assist the remaining survivors.

Some of our crew shouted to them to hurry up as we all had the jitters by now and we

wanted to feel some speed under us.

These survivors all being aboard safely, we turned towards another ship and picked up

more survivors. In the distance a tanker was blazing furiously, but as a destroyer was

already standing by her, we turned once more to the Empire Hope.

Then came the order 'All guns with SAP load' and we fired in all about 16 rounds of

semi armour piercing shells into her. This was not enough, so we manoeuvred into

position and fired two tin fish into her to sink her so that she would not be a menace

to navigation. We then swung round and made a detour round the tanker and then

went after the convoy. We could see the tracers going up and guessed that the convoy

was being attacked again.

We steamed into battle and opened up on the enemy planes. After this action we

contacted one of the ships which appeared to have left the convoy.

We ordered her to follow us. All night through we escorted her until we at last caught

up with the convoy again.

The next morning we picked up more survivors and to our dismay we saw that only

four ships remained. The previous night U boats had made an attack and played merry

hell with the convoy. Three ships had been sunk, plus two warships, HMS Ithurial and

HMS Manchester. The convoy was costing us very dear indeed.

During the forenoon we received another attack. Torpedo and dive bombers screamed

down in their usual manner and our ammunition was getting low so we had to be

careful how we used it. Fighters from Malta came out to protect us and there is no

doubt that they made a good job of it, but at times, no matter how hard they tried they

just could not prevent enemy planes from getting through.

In the first round of this fight no ships were hit, but at the second attach the US tanker

Ohio was holed forrard by a near miss. She reduced speed and we stood by her. In the

third attack she suffered a near miss and lost all weigh. The convoy, or what was left

of it steamed on towards Malta while we stayed put by the Ohio. Her crew made

every effort to restart the engines but with no success. We went alongside several

times to see how she was getting along, but as she would never use her engines again

that trip, our captain decided to tow her.

When all was ready, we went alongside and received her manilla hawser, secured her

aft and began to tow her. But her helm was jammed hard to port, causing her to swing

from side to side. This was no good as we were only doing roughly two hundred yards

an hour. During this time we were bombed several times and we had to slip the tow.

The task seemed hopeless, and if we remained as we were, we would certainly have

been eliminated during one of the bombing raids. Finally it was decided to abandon

the Ohio and this was speedily done, and for the rest of the day we circled around her,

keeping away the enemy planes who did their utmost to prevent the tanker from

reaching Malta.

We did this successfully until night fell when we once again went alongside the

stricken vessel. Her crew went aboard again. The tow was passed and secured. We

had just started to move when the boys spotted more dive bombers coming straight for

us. They dropped their bombs on our port quarter, over our starboard bow and

between us and the Ohio. We slipped the tow again because we were then free to open

fire on the enemy without any bother. When things quietened down again we again

took the tow and proceeded.

Down came Jerry again, but this time we did not slip the tow, but fired back just as we

were even though we were a sitting target.

A minesweeper and two MJB's, which were sent from Malta arrived, and the

minesweeper took a wire from over our foc'sle, but the tanker still swung from side to

side making towing impossible.

Seven planes appeared above and we shouted to the bridge who thought they were

Spitfires and told us so. The 'Spitfires' banked and screamed down narrowly missing

us with bombs but one hit the Ohio square on the stern. We really thought the whole

damn lot of us were going to blow up, but our luck held. Thank God! The attack was

so sudden that B gun only fired eight rounds. It was getting dusk and the planes were

able to get gloriously close to us without being seen. We saw one going away which

appeared to be badly damaged.

The morale of the Ohio's crew cracked at the last attack and they abandoned her with

more speed than I have ever seen before, and they were picked up by ourselves and

the MJB's.

We circled the tanker again until it became quite dark. During this time another

destroyer HMS Bramham had been standing by another hulk about seven miles away.

She had been hit and was sinking. Her crew had left her and had been picked up by

the Bramham. She came over and joined us and remained with us right to the end.

Darkness came as a godsend and then we really got to work.

An MJB came alongside and took A guns crew over to the Ohio to prepare for towing

by a different method.

The minesweeper towed ahead, while we tried to keep the stern from swinging. This

also proved to be a failure, so that idea went west.

A Guns crew came back after an hour (not a very pleasant one) on the tanker.

Later we decided that the Bramham should go alongside the tanker on her starboard

side and that we should tow her between us. The MJB took B guns crew to the Ohio

to receive the wires, but before this could be done a lot of debris had to be cleared

including a damaged whaler.

However, at last we were secured to the skipper's satisfaction and although we were a

lovely target for any lurking submarine we remained still until the following morning.

Then we started the last stage of the hellish trip to Malta at seven knots!

All that day we were left alone, this being due to the fighter escort from Malta.

We sighted the Island at 1930 and hoped we would make it that night.

But we were informed that we would not arrive till next morning. So it was at 0800

the next day we steamed through the breakwater into the Grand Harbour at Malta.

Two ships, small destroyers, of only 1600 tons, with an oil tanker between them had

safely brought the last ship of the convoy safely to its destination.

The people of Valetta lined the harbour to cheer us, and the military band played

'Hearts of Oak' as we entered, making us feel very fed up because we did not ask for

praise. We had only done what we set out to do.

That night we went ashore and down the 'Gut', getting gloriously drunk on Ambete,

the local wine, but commonly called Stuka juice. Can you blame us? I think we

deserved it.

We remained at Malta for about a week to square the ship up a bit. Then we sailed

again for Gibraltar and later England. Thus ended the Malta convoy of August 1942.

This is an eye witness account by a member of the guns crew of HMS Penn.

W R Cheetham AB in conjunction with D Burke AB QR2 (Captain of B Gun)

Memories of WW2

HMS "BARHAM", THE ONLY BRITISH BATTLESHIP SUNK AT SEA BY A

GERMAN SUBMARINE

Following training at HMS "Ganges", and "St George", (stone frigates), in August

1941 I joined my first ship, HMS "Barham" as a Boy Seaman Class II (the lowest

form of animal life). The ship's company comprised of approximately 1275 officers

and ratings. During the first three months aboard this vessel, I gleaned the

whereabouts of my mess (where we dined and slung our hammocks), where I worked

daily from 06.30 hours, the locations of my action and defence stations, the canteen

and the 'Heads' (ship's lavatories).

In late November 1941, the Eastern Mediterranean Fleet, comprising the battleships

HMS "Queen Elizabeth", HMS "Barham" and HMS "Valiant", accompanied by

cruisers and destroyers (two of the latter being "Hotspur" and "Nizam") set sail from

the Egyptian port of Alexandria to support the army in its North African desert push

westwards.

During the afternoon of Tuesday 25th November, an enemy aircraft began to shadow

the Fleet, obviously to keep the enemy submarines, aircraft etc informed of the Fleet's

position. The enemy aircraft remained out of range of the Fleet's anti-aircraft guns.

Unfortunately, the RAF was not in the position to provide adequate cover. The only

'air' support being our inflated life belts.

The three battleships proceeded in line astern, the flagship "Queen Elizabeth" with the

CinC Eastern Mediterranean command, Admiral Cunningham aboard, followed by

the "Braham" and as the rearguard the "Valiant".

At approximately 16.25 hours, a German submarine managed to penetrate the

destroyer screen surrounding the three capital ships without detection, and fired a

spray of torpedoes. It must be explained that when a submarine attacks three vessels

in line ahead, the middle ship is made the target, so that should any of the torpedoes

be off target, the ship ahead, or the rearguard vessel could receive a lucky strike.

Unfortunately for the ship's company of the "Barham" all 3-4 torpedoes found their

mark! Within seconds the vessel listed to port, and within one and a half, to two

minutes, the "Barham" was blown to smithereens, killing nearly 900 officers and men.

At the end of 3 minutes (at about 16.28 hours) all that was left of the vessel was a

huge cloud of black smoke, and a large patch of oily seawater.

The enemy submarine had been very close, and the underwater explosions forced it to

the surface, close to the "Valiant". The latter was unable to depress it's guns low

enough to obtain hits. The submarine dived and escaped.

At 16.10 hours, I was at my defence stations, which was the 'Transmitting Station' (a

forerunner of today's computer) which, when given necessary details, could provide

information to the gunlayers to enable the guns to be elevated and traversed before

firing. The TS was located several decks below the waterline. To obtain entry one had

to open and close several watertight doors below decks, with the last access through a

porthole built into the last door, which had to be kept closed at all times with

watertight clips after the last occupant of the TS had passed through. The number of

personnel manning the TS was 6 to 8.

At 16.15 hours the crew of the TS was relieved for tea, (a cup of tea and a sticky bun

partaken on the mess deck). At 16.30 hours the relieved crew was due to return to the

TS again for "dusk action stations"; the period of gradual darkness. i.e. twilight, and

final pitch black night; when defence stations would be resumed.

At 16.25 hours when the torpedoes struck, I was just finishing my tea. The ship

immediately began to list to port. No one seemed to know what had happened! Was it

bombs or torpedoes? All of us on the mess deck immediately made for the gangway

leading to the upper deck. I was clad in overall, underpants, socks and boots, with a

lifebelt already inflated, stowed on the mess stool beside me.

Making my way up the gangway, I arrived on the upper deck and found it difficult to

negotiate the sloping deck. taking off my boots and putting on my lifebelt, I and many

others looked towards the bridge, now in chaos, listening for the order to 'abandon'

ship. It was obvious that order would be forthcoming.

I decided to start sliding down the side of the ship, and as I neared the bilges there

was a gigantic explosion which blew me off the ship's side and into the sea. My next

recollection was of being dragged under, and wondering when I was going to stop

going down! Eventually I surfaced, but only to take a deep breath before being sucked

down again.

It was disconcerting, and I started to swallow seawater and oil. Surfacing for the

second time I took another deep breath, and again was pulled under (obviously the

undertow caused by the sinking ship).

As I was sucked under for the third time, I recalled the saying that three times was the

end! However, I proved this saying wrong, and bobbing up like a cork (cheers for the

lifebelt) was unable to see anything because of the oil on the surface. There were no

signs of the rest of the Fleet, presumably proceeding out of the area in case of further

submarine, and possibly air attacks.

A considerable amount of debris was floating on the surface, and heads could be seen

bobbing about. There were awful cries of the wounded. There is always comfort in

numbers and gradually small groups of men clustered together, using the debris for

support. Someone, somewhere, struck up the hymn "Nearer my God to thee" which

gave great support.

Eventually two destroyers returned, "Hotspur" and "Nizam" (the latter a New Zealand

vessel), both began the task of picking up survivors. Because the "Hotspur" was quite

close, I made for it and scrambled aboard using the lowered scrambling nets. I

estimated I had been in the water for about two hours, but did not feel cold.

Subsequently, I learned that the Mediterranean has its quota of man-eating sharks.

Perhaps the hymns, the explosions and the oil had kept them away?.

I was able to watch other survivors being picked up from the "Hotspur" guardrail.

There were many of the "Hotspur's" ship's company who earned medals that day,

although their efforts were not recognised! Some members of their crew dived over

the side with lines attached, and brought in the straggling survivors who were either

wounded or exhausted.

One particular person I saw being helped aboard, I recognised because he was, in my

eyes, very old, at least 50 or early 60's. At that time I was 17. He had been pointed out

to me one early morning in his dressing gown, taking what appeared to be a stroll

along the deck. In my ignorance I asked who he was and was told, in no uncertain

terms, that it was the Admiral Priddam-Whipple. He had survived the sinking, and I

recognised him even without his insignia. A 3-badge able seaman (a time serving

matelot with little ambition apart from wine, women and song) leaned over the

scrambling net and said, "come on you doddering old b.....d, come aboard". The

Admiral never uttered a word apart from "thanks".

A destroyer has room for the ship's company only. Hence some survivors had to

remain on the upper deck. A few did not survive their wounds. Jugs of rum were

passed round which had a similar effect to morphine. At that time I had not begun to

imbibe. Although I have made up for it since!

Now that the adrenaline had ceased to flow, I took stock of my position. Someone on

the "Hotspur" had given me an old naval reefer (a long overcoat) to don, though it

was without buttons. I noticed that my underpants were no longer with me; the back

end of my overalls was non-existent at the rear and I had lost my socks. Reaction set

in, and I began to feel pain. I had scraped my hands, feet, bottom and part of my back

on the barnacles as I slid down the side of the ship, but I counted myself lucky to be

alive. Later we were provided with hot soup and tea, and there were periods of

slipping in and out of sleep.

One or two days later, the Admiral addressed those of us who were not disabled, to

the effect that on arrival at our destination of Alexandria, and in our letters home, we

were neither to discuss nor to relate our experiences, essentially for security and

morale reasons. Our parents and next of kin were informed of our survival of the

sinking in 'February 1942'. However, on arrival at Alexandria, it was clear that the

local population, particularly the dockworkers, were well aware that some major

catastrophe had befallen the Fleet, because the tops of buildings and sheds were thick

with spectators. They had spotted the survivors on the upper deck, and merely two

battleships had returned. Soon the news would be all over Alexandria and the Middle

East.

On disembarking, we mounted the gangway of the "Resource", a submarine depot

ship. As we passed along the gangway, we were given a packet of Woodbines, a large

bar of "Pusser's Hard" (an eight inch long bar of yellow soap about two inches square)

and were invited to go below for a shower, to get rid of the oil on our bodies. Some

time elapsed before all traces of oil disappeared from all orifices!

Each survivor was issued with a skeleton kit, and we were sent to the outskirts of

Alexandria, into the desert, where we were housed in tents. We lazed around for a

couple of days, and then following a muster, were informed that survivors would be

going home via the Cape of Good Hope (and didn't they have a rave up there!) but not

the boys or the ordinary seamen! It was considered they would lose valuable training

time, (it took 6 to 8 weeks in slow convoy to get back to the UK via the Cape).

Meanwhile in Alexandria, Italian miniature submarines had penetrated the submarine

screen by following surface shipping underwater, into the harbour. Undetected, the

crews of the mini-subs had attached limpet mines to the hulls of the battleships

"Queen Elizabeth" and "Valiant". When these exploded the vessels did not sink

completely, but because the harbour was so shallow, were left sitting on the harbour

bottom.

The Italian submariners who had been unable to escape, were located clinging to

buoys in the harbour and taken prisoner. In less than two months the enemy had

written off 3 battleships, and left the Eastern Mediterranean Fleet much depleted.

The "Queen Elizabeth" and "Valiant" were given temporary repairs in dry dock, and

were eventually dispatched to the U.S.A. for complete repairs. Thus the Fleet was left

with just a handful of cruisers, destroyers, mine layers, frigates and submarines.

On New Year's Eve 1941 I was drafted to the cruiser "Euryalus", which had just

arrived from Chatham. My first duty was 'Seaboats Crew', the members of which

were required to sleep together in hammocks, one deck below upper deck, to be 'on

call' in case of emergencies.

At frequent intervals, the bottom of all shipping in the harbour were scraped by

passing a wire from starboard to port, beneath the ship and dragging it along the

bottom of the vessel from bows to stern. This was to prevent further attacks by limpet

mines. All watertight doors were kept closed and clipped.

At about 23.00 hours I lay in my hammock dozing, with my inflated lifebelt lodged

on an overhead fan shaft just above my head, when someone came through the

compartment on his way to get a shower. Passing through the watertight door

opening, he slammed the door shut behind him.Before one could say'Jack Robinson' I

was out of my hammock, lifebelt on, up to the upper deck, thinking we had been "tin

fished"!!

The 'Chief GI' (Chief Gunnery Instructor) determined defence and action stations

aboard "Euryalus". Unfortunately, when questioned I told him that on "Braham" my

defence and action stations were the TS.

Where did they place me on the "Eurylus"? You've guessed it! The TS! That was the

last place I wanted to be. I well remember that there was a request for someone to go

up topside to fetch a jug of ice-cold water, there was always one quick volunteer, I

used to ensure that there was a queue (at least according to me). I took a long time; I

always felt safer on the upper deck.

On another occasion, when manning the TS at action stations, we were bombed and

sustained a near miss. The lights went out leaving us in total darkness. After what

seemed like a lifetime, the emergency lighting came on and who was to be found at

the watertight door opening the clips? The officer in charge and me. He asked, "what

are you doing here?" MY instant reply, "the same as you! trying to get out!!"

Eventually, I cajoled the 'Chief Gi' into giving me a change of defence station i.e. on

the bridge as lookout. I felt much safer now that I could see what was going on.

I always felt that medals should be awarded to those employed below decks i.e.

stokers etc. At action stations, Cooks and Stewards manned the magazine (way down

in the depths of the ship). In event of either bomb or torpedo attack these members of

of the Ship's Company stood little chance of survival.

Our "training" then comprised 'Malta Convoys' i.e. escorting 'Merchant Shipping' to

Malta loaded with petrol, foodstuffs and so on. again there was no air support against

sustained attacks by the Italian and German Air Forces (the latter were more superior

in their attacks), which included Stuka, torpedo and high-level bomber attacks. There

were attacks by 'E' boats, and the Italian Battle Fleet. We sustained a 15" shell

through our after upper deck superstructure. We were lucky! Many HM cruisers and

destroyers were sunk, but all admiration should be heaped on the Merchant Navy who

were, after all, the real target.

It was a question of setting sail from Alexandria, with up to 8 merchant vessels

escorted by cruisers and destroyers arriving off Malta with perhaps 2 or 3 merchant

ships, 5 to 6 having been sunk together with HM ships. Back to Alexandria again: re-

ammunition, oil and store ships and out again to Malta with more merchant shipping

arriving via the Suez canal. At one stage 4 destroyers were sent to sea, to carry out a

sweep for enemy shipping (both naval and merchant shipping). En route a squadron of

Stukas set upon them. They sunk 3 out of 4.

There were survivors who survived all 3 sinkings, finally being saved by the 4th,

HMS "Jervis", which returned to harbour with the survivors who were "round the

bend". They did not have counselling in those days!

We took the war to the enemy by bombarding the island of Rhodes, held by the

Germans, just off the Greek mainland with our ten 5.25 inch guns.

Slowly the tide of war was changing, following the invasion of Russia by the

Germans. Malta was relieved, Valletta was full of partially sunken HM and Merchant

shipping. We found on arrival at Valletta that the Maltese population were starving:

they scrambled for tins of herring that we threw them. During our stay in Malta we

were rationed to one slice of bread per man per meal. Our ship's baker was

overworked turning out bread. There were always queues at the galley for any spares

that might be going. On one side was the ship's company forming a queue, and on the

other side were the Maltese who were working on the ship while we were in harbour.

Eventually, there were to come Monty, El Alamein and the invasion of West North

Africa. The USA supplied air support, but unfortunately, at sea their pilots decided

that everything that floated had to be bombed!

In order to avoid being sunk by our own forces, all allied shipping painted their bridge

superstructure with red lead.

The next operation involved the allied forces invading Sicily. Support of the landings

came from seaward by bombardment ship to shore. One action I well remember took

place one sunny Sunday about noon, off the island of Pantelleria. At 11.45 hours we

had a short church service on the quarterdeck, when the chaplain gave us "Save us

from the violent enemy" etc (I have never figured out why God was always on our

side!!)

At noon we bombarded the island with our 5.25 guns. There was no reply apart from a

white flag!

The next action was the invasion of Italy, with support from the troops across the

Messina Straits with bombardment etc.

There followed a landing by Allied Forces at Salerno. We escorted, together with our

sister ships and destroyers, what we call 'Woolworth' aircraft carriers (converted

merchant vessels) to supply air support for the invading forces. There was a constant

air raid warning red over the invasion area. The sea chose at that period to cut up

rough. I think we had more damage to A/C landing (crashing into barrier) than in

enemy action.

Further out to sea, a further naval force supplied air cover for us. By the time the

Germans had developed a radio-controlled bomb, which posed problems for us. The

Captain could no longer avoid any bombs aimed at the ship by ordering change of

course to starboard.

Hong Kong - Lisbon Maru Sinking/2

Chris Pix

16th May 2005

The Sinking of the Lisbon Maru — Originally by G.C. Hamilton.

Preface:

In the annals of modern warfare, the sinking of the Lisbon Maru, as a result of which

over a thousand officers & men lost their lives, does not perhaps rate very high as a

horror story.

There have been many incidents in which many more people have been killed, in a

more brutal fashion. But it stands out as an example of unnecessary killing, and a

callous disregard for human lives which could have been saved. Each of the survivors

remembers with clarity his own part in the affair, but few know all the facts. The

account which follows is based on the account by Martin Weedon in his book “Guest

of an Emperor”; the newspaper accounts of the War Crimes Trial’s of the Japanese

responsible; extracts from the log of USS Grouper, which torpedoed the Lisbon Maru;

newspaper accounts of the presentation to the Sing Pang Islanders who helped rescue

the survivors; newspaper account in the Japan Times Weekly dated 20th October

1942; Knights of Bushido” by Lord Russell of Liverpool; personal accounts written at

the time; and personal reminiscences.

One matter should be placed beyond doubt: The official Japanese account quoted the

survivors as voicing indignation against the American Submarine which sank the ship.

This is quite untrue. The Lisbon Maru was armed and carried Japanese troops as well

as prisoners of war; she bore no sign that she was a P.O.W. ship. The American

submarine was fully justified in sinking her, and I never heard any criticism of the

Americans for their action.

The affair is worth recording for another reason: the gallantry of a number of

individuals and the high standard of conduct of all the men. Some individual acts are

recorded in these pages, but there were many others of which I have no personal

knowledge. The general steadfastness was due in large measure to the leadership of

Lieut. Col. H.W.M. Stewart O.B.E., M.C., the Commanding Officer of the Middlesex

Regiment (The Diehards.)

February 1966 — THE SINKING OF THE “LISBON MARU”.

Preparation in Hong Kong

On 25th September 1942, 1816 British prisoners of war were assembled on the parade

ground of Shamshuipo Camp, Hong Kong, and were addressed by Lieutenant Hideo

Wada of the Imperial Japanese Army through his interpreter Niimori Genichiro.

“You are going to be taken away from Hong Kong” he said, “to a beautiful country

where you will be well looked after and well treated. I shall be in charge of the party.

Take care of your health. Remember my face.”

Reactions among the prisoners were mixed. After the initial shock of the surrender on

Christmas Day 1941 had been absorbed, hopes had run high for an early release. But

now it had become apparent that no relief was to be expected from the Chinese Army.

Singapore and the Philippines had fallen to the Japanese, and the news from Europe

was bad.

Conditions in the main camp in Shamshuipo and in the Officers’ Camp in Argyle

Street were poor. Quarters were crowded and food was inadequate. Medical supplies

were scarce and a diphtheria epidemic had reached alarming proportions. Deaths were

common. A few intrepid men had escaped, but reprisals on those who remained were

so severe, and the punishment for those who were caught was so savage that future

escapes were doubtful, even for those who still retained sufficient stamina to make the

attempt.

There were some who argued that a move to Japan, which seemed the obvious

destination, would be an improvement since (they believed) the Japanese would not

wish to display in its own homeland its in humanity to its prisoners of war and that

consequently better treatment might be expected. The more cynical scorned these

ideas and would have preferred to stay in Hong Kong, where, perhaps the chances of

rescue and escape were slightly greater. But discussion was futile, for a prisoner of

war has no choice of action.

On Board the “Lisbon Maru”

The men were divided into groups of 50, each group being in the charge of a

subaltern, while the whole party was commanded by Lt. Col. H.W.M. (Monkey)

Stewart, O.B.E., M.C., the Commanding Officer of the Middlesex Regiment (The

Diehards), assisted by a small number of officers.

After an exhaustive but (as it turned out) ineffective medical examination, the

prisoners were loaded on 27th September into lighters from the pier at the corner of

Shamshuipo Camp and taken out to a freighter of some 7000 tons, the Lisbon Maru ,

under the command of Captain Kyoda Shigeru, where they were accommodated in

three holds. In No.1 hold, nearest the bows, were the Royal Navy under the command

of Lieut. J.T. Pollock. In No2 hold, just in front of the bridge, were the Royal Scots

(2nd Btn.), the Middlesex Regiment (1st Btn.), and some smaller units, all under Lt.

Col. Stewart. In No3 hold, just behind the bridge, were the Royal Artillery under

Major Pitt. Conditions were very crowded indeed, all the men lying shoulder to

shoulder on the floor of the hold or on platforms erected at various heights. The

officers on a small ‘tween deck half way up the hold were similarly crowded.

Food was quite good by prisoner of war standards: rice and tea in the morning; and

rice, tea and a quarter tin of bully beef with a spoonful of vegetables in the evening.

There was sufficient water for drinking, but none for washing. Some cigarettes were

issued, a great luxury. The latrines consisted of wooden hutches hanging over the side

of the ship and were too few for the numbers on board. About half the men were

provided with kapok life belts. At the subsequent War Crimes trial Interpreter Niimori

claimed that every man had a life belt, which he checked at every roll call.

There were also on board 778 Japanese troops and a guard of 25 under the command

of Lieut. Hideo Wada. The ship sailed on 27th September. The first 4 days were

uneventful. The weather was good and the prisoners were allowed on deck in parties

for fresh air and exercise. There were four lifeboats and six life rafts, and according to

the Captain it was decided that the four lifeboats and four of the rafts should be set

aside for the Japanese if required, leaving two life rafts for the 1816 prisoners.

The Torpedo Attack

On the night of the 30th September 1942, the U.S.S. Grouper (SS 214), belonging to

Division 81 of the United States Pacific Fleet Submarine Force, was engaged in its

second War Patrol in an area south of Shanghai. It was a bright moonlight night, and

at about 4 am “Grouper” sighted about nine sampans and a 7,000 ton freighter, the

Lisbon Maru. Her Commanding Officer decided that the night was too bright for a

surface attack, so he paced the target in order to determine her course and speed, and

then took up a position ahead of the ship to await daylight on 1st October. While he

was doing so he passed within 4,000 yards of two fishing boats equipped with fishing

lights and side-lights.

In No.2 hold of the Lisbon Maru Lieut. G.D. Fairbairn of the Royal Scots, Duty

Officer for the day, visited the lower deck at 6.30 am on 1st October to rouse the men

and ensure they rolled up their bedding and dressed before roll call at 7 am. Several of

the men took the opportunity of visiting the scarce latrines on deck before the

morning rush began — a wise precaution as it turned out.

At daylight, the Lisbon Maru changed course about 50 degrees leaving the submarine

in a poor position from which to attack. She dived and began her approach at 7.04am,

she fired three torpedoes at the closest range attainable (3,200 yards) but scored no

hits. The ship remained on course; the Commander fired a fourth torpedo and in two

minutes ten seconds heard a loud explosion. He raised the telescope and that the ship

had changed course about 50 degrees to the right and had then stopped. There was no

visible sign of damage. The Grouper then headed for a position abeam to starboard for

a straight bow shot. The Commander then continues his report: “Target meanwhile

hoisted flag resembling “Baker” and was firing at us with what sounded like a small

calibre gun. Sharp explosions all around us”.

On board the ship the prisoners heard and felt the explosion, after which the engines

stopped and the lights went out; but they did not know whether the ship had been

torpedoed or whether there had been an internal explosion in the engine room. There

was wild activity and shouting among the Japanese; some prisoners who were up on

deck were hustled and pushed into the holds, the ship’s gun began firing. About ten

sick men, who had been allowed to remain permanently on deck, were also sent down

into the packed holds, with an order that they should be “isolated”. In the holds, the

prisoners sat gloomily, wondering what was happening and whether they were going

to get any breakfast.

The account in the Japan Times Weekly of 20th October 1942 was different. “We

must rescue the British prisoners of war was the foremost thought which leaped into

our minds when the ship met the disaster” said Lieut. Hideo Wada, “It was just the

hour for the roll call of prisoners; somewhat taken aback they were about to stampede.

‘Don’t worry’, we told them ‘Japanese planes and warships will come to your rescue’.

The commotion died down. It was encouraging to note that they had come to have

such trust in the Imperial Forces during a brief War Prisoners’ camp life”.

By 8.45 am USS Grouper had reached a firing position for a 0 degree gyro, 80 degree

track, range 1,000 yards. She fired the fifth torpedo with a 6 foot depth setting, but

missed.

The ship had now developed a slight list to starboard. The Commander did not wish to

use another bow torpedo so he worked around to a position 1,000 yards on the port

side and at 9.38 am fired a sixth torpedo from the stern tube 180 degrees gyro, 80

degrees track, with a depth setting of 0 feet. He did not wait to see the results but

immediately went to a 100feet dive and heard a loud explosion 40 seconds later

“definitely torpedoish”.

Just before firing this sixth and last torpedo the Commander spotted a light bomber

Mitsubishi Davia 108 over the target, and about two minutes later three depth charges,

none of which was close, exploded.

It is doubtful whether this sixth torpedo hit. The prisoners did not observe it, but it

could have passed unnoticed among the depth charges exploding around the ship.

The Japanese claim to have destroyed this torpedo. “It was just about 10.30 am that I

happened to discover the sixth torpedo rushing towards the ship” said one of the

gunners. “Corporal Moji gave us the order to fire at the torpedo …. Surprised beyond

words, but faithful to the order, we charged our cannon with e shell, aimed at the

torpedo, and fired. We looked ahead of us and discovered that we had scored a direct

hit”.

The submarine then came up to periscope depth. The plane could be seen but the ship

had disappeared and the Commander assumed, incorrectly, that she had sunk.

In the Hold.

On board the Lisbon Maru the Japanese had calmed down but had become

uncooperative. Requests for food and water were refused. There was no latrine

accommodation in the holds and many of the men were suffering from dysentery or

diarrhoea. Requests for permission to attend the latrines on deck, or for receptacles to

be passed down were ignored.

The submarine stayed in the vicinity throughout the day, occasionally hearing depth

charges, as did the prisoners on the ship. Dusk settled, the sky was overcast and

visibility through the periscope was poor. At 7.05 pm the Commander sighted lights

astern and he decided to surface “and remove ourselves while the removing was

good”.

For the prisoners it was a long, uncomfortable and increasingly anxious day. It was by

now clear that the ship had been disabled and was listing; but the prisoners had no

means of knowing the extent of the damage or what measures were being taken for

their relief.

In the course of the day the Japanese partially closed the hatches, leaving a canvas

wind funnel through which some air could reach the men in the hold.

According to the evidence of Captain Kyoda Shigeru, master of the Lisbon Maru, at

his trial in Hong Kong in October 1946, the Japanese destroyer “Kure” arrived at the

scene during the afternoon of 1st October and an order was received about 5 pm to

transfer all the 778 Japanese troops to the destroyer. While this transfer was taking

place, with the aid of two lifeboats, the “Toyokuni Maru” arrived under Captain

Yano, and a conference was held on board the Lisbon Maru at which it was decided

that the remaining Japanese troops should be transferred to the “Toyokuni Maru” and

not to the “Kure”. The 77 members of the crew and the 25 guards under Lieut. Wada

were to remain on the Lisbon Maru and arrangements were made for her to be towed

to shallow water.

After the Japanese Troops had been removed to safety, Capt Kyoda Shigeru and

Lieut. Wada discussed what should be done about the prisoners. According to the

Captain, Lieut. Wada said that it was impossible for 25 guards to guard 1816

prisoners and that the best solution would be to close the hatches. The Captain said

that he objected to the closing of the hatches on the grounds that ventilation would

become very bad and also that if there were another attack and the ship sank with the

hatches closed, there would be a needless waste of lives.

Wada appeared to accept this, but, according to the Captain, at about 8 pm one of the

guards came and adopted a very truculent attitude. He told the Captain that the guards

did not wish to be killed by the POW’s and asked why the hatches should not be

closed. The Captain asked the guard if he was a soldier, and he then left.At about 9

pm Wada came to the bridge and ordered the Captain to have the hatches closed.

Wada said that he was responsible for guarding the POW’s and that the Master of the

ship had no authority to interfere. The attitude of Wada was very threatening, so the

Captain ordered the First Officer to close the hatches.

On the instruction of Lieut. Wada, who, according to the official account in Japan

Times Weekly, “directed the rescue atop the mast of the sinking Lisbon Maru”, the

hatches were then closed, canvas tarpaulins were stretched over them and roped

down, leaving the prisoners in complete darkness. As the night wore on the air

became very foul indeed, and men began to wonder how long they could survive. No

food had been received for over 24 hours and most men had finished the small ration

of water in their water bottles. It was also over 24 hours since the prisoners, with the

exception of those who had been on deck at 6.30 am, had been to the latrines; and in

the packed holds, with everyone shoulder to shoulder, no facilities could be

improvised. But despite these discomforts the men remained calm, and were reassured

by Col. Stewart’s insistence that even the Japanese would not abandon a ship and kill

all the POW’s. Indeed morale remained remarkably high. C.Q.M.S. Henderson, of the

Royal Scots in particular, his beard jutting out aggressively, encouraged non-

swimmers like himself by insisting that now was the time to learn. Repeated attempts

by Lieut. Potter of the St. John Ambulance Association, who spoke Japanese, to

communicate with the guards on deck brought NO response.

In the course of the long night, the men in No.2 hold got in touch with …

*** unfortunately my copy of G.C. Hamilton’s story is blocked at this point where the

photocopy has been partially obscured — but clearly men were dying. Conditions in

No.1 hold — where my uncle George Christopher Stare RN telegraphist age 22 was

held must have been terrible — diphtheria sufferers dying, extreme heat etc …

Col. Stewart decided to prepare for a break out. He accordingly approached Lieut.

H.M. Howell, who was something of an expert in these matters, having been in two

previous shipwrecks, and ordered him to try and make a hole in the hatch covers. One

of the resourceful British troops produced a long butcher’s knife which had escaped

the eyes of the Japanese searchers; and armed with this, Lieut. Howell mounted an

iron ladder in pitch blackness and tried to make an opening. But having to hold on to

the ladder with one hand and suffering from a lack of oxygen, he was unable to effect

any purchase, and was obliged to abandon the attempt.

X-craft and Operation Source

Robert Aitken took part in a Timewatch programme that was broadcast in 2004. The

following story was written, with his permission, using the transcript of his interview.

Joining up

When I joined the Navy and still in civilian clothes, I had a medical examination and

was told to report to my divisional officer, who told me I had defective colour vision

and asked if I wanted to be a stoker or a steward. I said if I was not wanted as a

seaman I'd try the Army. My divisional officer decided the best thing would be to

allow me to complete my preliminary training as a seaman. In due course I'd find

myself at sea and would then have to say that I had defective colour vision. When I

eventually did so, the Officer of the Watch simply said, 'Nonsense, you wouldn't be

here if you were.'

I was able to complete the minimum three months at sea before going on to officers'

training. After that I had a humdrum job because no one knew what to do with a

colour blind midshipman, until one day the appointments officer said, 'There's a job

which might accept two colour blind people. Are you interested ?' I was interested in

anything that would get me out of the humdrum job. It wasn't until I got to HMS

Dolphin, which was the main base of the submarine service, that I realised I was going to

have anything to do with submarines.

Summer of fun

You did as you were told in the Navy, but at age 19 and having been well disciplined

at school, I didn't find that difficult. As far as we all were concerned it was a

marvellous summer on the west coast of Scotland. We were kept active, our days

were roughly divided into three periods of eight hours each - training, keeping fit and

sleeping. What better part of the world to do those three things? Also if you give a

teenager what is essentially an underwater motorbike that's great fun. Between the

training exercises we could chase crabs and other fish. Life was taken light-heartedly.

X-craft

When we were asked if we'd transfer to X-craft we said, 'No thank you. We

volunteered for chariots.' That brought the Commanding Officer of the 12th

Submarine Flotilla up from the Clyde, who charmed us by saying that he understood

the reasons why we were refusing, but it did leave him with a problem. He wondered

whether we could meet him half way by going down to the Clyde, where there was a

mock-up of the Wet and Dry Compartment (W&D) of an X-craft - just to show his

chaps how it could be done. As an afterthought he added, 'Well, if you're going all

that way, you might like a few days' leave in Glasgow.' We said, 'Oh yes, we'll help

you out.'

We did that, returned to our Depot Ship, HMS Titania, completed our chariot training,

and were then told we were wanted on the X-craft. We said, 'Well, we'll agree to do

one operation on the understanding that we return to chariots and won't lose our place

in the operation list.'

Training

Designed for a crew of three, the X-craft were very small - that couldn't be changed.

We knew it would be cramped, and learnt it was also going to be very damp and cold.

We had a lot to learn during training. In addition to handling the boat, the divers had

to practise cutting through antisubmarine nets (which protected the entrances to where

battleships were moored). This meant getting into a diving suit, climbing into and

flooding the W&D (which could be done by pumping water from one of the other

tanks to avoid altering the buoyancy), waiting for the pressure to equalise before

opening the hatch and climbing onto the casing. Then the cutter, which was connected

to an airline hose, had to be taken from its locker in the casing, hooked onto a wire of

the net, the valve opened and the first wire was cut. That was straightforward, as long

as the bow was pushing into the net and the boat was at a right angle to the net. If the

boat was alongside the net, which happened occasionally, a larger hole usually had to

be cut and the boat manoeuvred through. This took much longer and was exhausting.

Secret operation

As soon as I joined X-craft I learned that they had been designed and developed

specifically for the job of attacking the German fleet in Norwegian fjords, and we had

to be ready to do so within weeks. Just by sitting in Norwegian fjords the Germans

were a constant threat to the Russian convoys, which kept many of our battleships in

home waters. While we were training we couldn't tell any of our friends or family

what we were doing or where we were doing it. So we just had to talk about walking,

sailing or other recreational activities, without mentioning which part of the country

or the world we were in. Those restrictions remained even when we were prisoners of

war.

Living on an X-craft

We slept in the battery compartment in the bow, on boards on top of the batteries.

One, sometimes two men could rest there. Normally three positions were manned in

the control room. Unless he was resting the commanding officer (CO) would be on

the periscope and navigating, the 1st Lieutenant at the hydroplanes keeping depth and

the ERA at the helm steering. Apart from relieving the 1st Lieutenant or the ERA, the

diver had little to do but help with the catering.

We had what was really a glue pot to warm up food. That was the only source of hot

food but I don't recall feeling hungry. Food was not an important part of life during

the operation.

The attack

The night before the attack we surfaced alongside a small island to rest and charge the

batteries. Just before dawn we set off to the first challenge, the antisubmarine (a/s)

net. This was the one the diver had to cut if the CO couldn't get through it in any other

way (which all the COs was quite determined to find). As we approached the CO saw

the gate in the a/s net had been opened to let a trawler through. We dived underneath

its wake and got through without having to cut the net. Having got through the gate

the CO, looking through the periscope, saw another boat was about to cross our path.

We had to dive below periscope depth and whilst unsighted hit a bunch of anti-

torpedo (a/t) nets moored in the fjord. In the reconnaissance photograph these nets

were protecting a German battleship which had gone to sea.

The bow had caught on something we couldn't see and we couldn't move. All we

could do was to shuffle the boat forward and astern, making it alternatively more and

less buoyant, hoping to shake off the net. With no success after about 30 minutes the

CO told me to get dressed and go and see what the problem was. Getting into a diving

suit in an X-craft without assistance took a long time and was quite exhausting.

Before I was ready to dive the CO said, 'Take it off. I don't know how it happened, but

we're now free,' and we were on our way again.

The CO tried to find a way through the a/t nets protecting the Tirpitz. He tried one way

after another and I don't think Godfrey Place (CO) was ever absolutely sure how but

he suddenly found we were inside the nets surrounding theTirpitz. These were

antitorpedo (a/t) nets with wire too heavy for the cutter to cut. These nets are usually

laid in sections which overlap. Without knowing it, the CO may have slid over the

top, found a gap or the open gate.

Collision

A quick sighting through the periscope enabled the CO to order a course which took

X7 straight to the Tirpitz - we actually banged into her - and were able to get underneath

the after turret, where we dropped our first side cargo set to explode at an agreed time.

We then 'crept' along the keel of the Tirpitz to the forward turret and dropped the other

side cargo. The job done, the CO set a course for home! But we didn't get very far

because we hit the a/t nets again. The CO decided to try and get underneath the a/t

nets.

'Crawling' along the bottom a cable caught X7 across the bow and once again we were

unable to move. We were all very apprehensive because we began to hear explosions.

We thought some were depth charges - smaller ones may have been hand grenades

but there was one much louder than the others. We looked at each other, thinking, 'Is

that ours?' If it was we felt it should have been much louder and we would have been

severely damaged. It blew the wire off our bow and we got under way once again, but

the boat was uncontrollable.

Because the boat went to the bottom or the surface, the CO decided to abandon ship.

There was no possibility of getting out of the fjord to rejoin our towing submarine.

Each time we surfaced, bullets rattled on the casing but none penetrated the pressure

hull. Fortunately we were too close to the Tirpitz to enable her heavy armament to fire at

us. The CO opened the W&D hatch, waving a rather dirty white sweater to indicate

surrender. The small arms fire stopped but as the CO climbed onto the casing he

realised we were about to hit a moored target and with the hatch open the boat, with

little buoyancy, would be flooded. He turned round to shut the hatch, which I was

trying to push open from below and quite a bit of water came in before the hatch was

closed. It was enough to sink the boat, which plunged to the bottom.

Escape from the depth

The three left on board discussed what we should do. The two alternatives were to try

to get the submarine back on the surface again, or to escape using the Davis

Submarine Escape Equipment, which was an oxygen breathing set. We were

apprehensive about trying to get the boat to the surface because it had been damaged

and by running compressors and motors we were going to make noise, which we felt

would immediately attract depth charges. We decided that it would be wiser to escape

using the breathing apparatus. We all put one on and started to flood the boat (the

hatch could not be opened until the boat was fully flooded to equalise the pressure

inside the boat with that outside). Unfortunately this took longer than we anticipated

because some of the valves couldn't be fully opened. As the water crept up it reached

the batteries which fused, giving off fumes, and we had to start breathing oxygen

before the boat was fully flooded.

During that time there was nothing to do except wait. As soon as we went onto

oxygen (after the fumes came) we could not talk to each other, the oxygen

mouthpiece prevented that. There were no lights, we couldn't see each other and we

were left with our own thoughts. I remember throughout that I was very confident I

would escape. 'It couldn't happen to me, I was going to survive,' I thought, and that's

the way it turned out.

Through the hatches

Initially we decided Bill Whitham, the 1st Lieutenant, should get out through the after

hatch, he was very tall which made it more difficult for him to get through the W&D.

Bill Whitly, the ERA, would get out through the W&D and I would use whichever

hatch became available first. However, when Bill Whitly and I tried to exchange

places we found the oxygen bottles and the periscope prevented us getting past each

other. Bill signalled, 'It's OK, you carry on.'

I went into the W&D to try the hatch, but the pressure hadn't equalised and when I

returned to the control room I couldn't feel Bill until I stumbled over his body on the

deck. I bent down and felt his breathing bag which had two small emergency bottles

of oxygen in it. Both had been emptied which indicated Bill had run out of oxygen.

I went back to try the W&D hatch again. Fortunately the pressure equalised just after

I'd broken my first emergency bottle. I opened the hatch, climbed out and jumped. As

the pressure began to reduce, the oxygen expanded, leaving me with far too much. I

made what I thought was a correct escape. I unrolled and held out the apron (provided

with the escape kit for use as a brake) so I didn't go up too fast and blow out my

lungs, and thinking how pleased Chads (WO Chadwick, my diving instructor) would

have been to see me doing what I was told.

When I surfaced I first looked around to see whether Bill Whitham had got out of the

rear hatch and was floating about. There was no sign of him. Then I looked up and

saw the Tirpitz. I didn't get an awfully good view, bouncing about on the surface, but it

was a great disappointment to see her afloat. She was very large, the pride of the

German Navy, and I had been very hopeful she had been sunk, but she looked intact

from my limited viewpoint. (We now know a tremendous amount of damage was

done during the attack and she was never able to be repaired for action. The turrets are

thought to have been lifted six metres in the air and when they settled down their

bearings were wrecked. They brought about a thousand men from Germany to try and

repair her, but she was eventually taken at very slow speed to Tromso, where she was

to become a defensive gun emplacement. Credit goes to the RAF, who dealt the final

blow which put her on the bottom.)

Prisoner of war

Having surfaced, a motor boat picked me up, took me to Tirpitz, where all my clothes

were taken away and replaced with a blanket in which I was interrogated. I think

rather half-heartedly because the crew of X6 and Godfrey Place, my CO, had already

been interrogated and put in separate cells. There wasn't one for me, I was put in a

hammock store, a large steel cabinet.

The following day we were all put on what I think was a German mine sweeper to be

taken to Tromso. We were kept in solitary confinement and all the ship's officers

came to have a look at the prisoners. Later that morning, my door opened and an

officer stood and watched while a rating placed a bowl of soup on the table. As he

turned to go he flicked a packet of cigarettes behind his back, onto the table. That very

friendly gesture reminded me of the comradeship of those who sailed the seas.

We spent, I think, two nights ashore in Tromso before boarding another small boat to

take us to Narvik, where we were transferred to a train prepared for prisoners of war,

staffed by guards from prisoner of war camps. They weren't such a friendly lot. We

were taken by train to Germany and still in solitary confinement put in cells in an

interrogation camp for six weeks before being moved to Marlag O, the POW camp for

naval officers.

A successful operation

Operation Source was a major operation during the war because it was directed at the

major German battleships, it involved a great number of people. Six midget

submarines had to be designed, built, manned and developed from scratch and six

large submarines had to be taken off normal patrols. The focus naturally falls on the

survivors, but we must remember that the survivors represent a much larger body of

men who were all essential to the attack on Tirpitz.

There is no doubt I was extremely lucky. Maybe because I had more experience as a

diver than the two Bills who drowned and I may have used less oxygen. That is pure

speculation. I don't know, but the loss of two members of the crew after the attack had

been successfully completed was tragic. I had every anticipation of seeing Bill

Whitham on the surface and it was a great disappointment when I couldn't see him.

HMS Forward (1939-1945)

The Secret Tunnels of South Heighton

By Geoffrey Ellis

This is the story of the abandoned and little-known tunnels of Royal Naval

Headquarters HMS Forward at Newhaven, East Sussex, between 1939 and 1945. The

account that follows has been compiled by Geoffrey Ellis, Secretary, Friends of HMS

Forward.

A desirable prize

Newhaven was originally a casualty clearing station for the British Expeditionary

Force (BEF) in France. Twelve fully equipped hospital boats transported the sick and

wounded to the east Sussex port from Dieppe, with special trains to carry them further

inland on arrival. Medical supplies were loaded on to the boats for the return journey.

Newhaven, lying roughly midway between Dover and Portsmouth, features the only

river in the area navigable at all states of the tide. Its harbour had marine workshops

and facilities for maintaining cross-channel steamers and vessels with tail shafts of up

to six metres (19 feet). The ample berthing facilities and marine passenger terminal

with its own dedicated railway terminus made the port a desirable prize for the

enemy.

My first visit

In 1941, when I was a seven-year-old lad, I walked to and from school along the

B2109 Newhaven-to-Beddingham road. One day, in May 1941, the army arrived and

started digging a tunnel into the bank at the side of the road by Heighton Hill, just

north of Newhaven.

After the tunnel was completed, I often used to stop to chat with the sentries that

guarded its entrance, but none could be persuaded to let me see round the bend that

turned enticingly, just inside the entrance.

When the tunnel was abandoned at the end of 1945, I finally had my chance to take a

proper look. Accompanied by a friend and with the aid of a couple of torches, I inched

into its depths. The complex interior was swallowed up by the seemingly

impenetrable darkness.

An indelible impression

I remember vividly the mixed emotions of exploring the apparently endless labyrinth

of corridors, galleries, rooms and stairways. Was there anybody else in there with us?

Could we get lost? What if our torches failed? Would we ever find our way out again?

That initial visit remains indelibly etched in my memory. Large quantities of naval

message pads and rolls of teleprinter paper littered the floor. There was a myriad

wooden stairways and complex air-conditioning trunking with fish-eye louvers.

Numerous cables were neatly secured to endless Braby cable tray.

Looters had ransacked the tunnels and wrought carnage in their attempt to liberate

anything they considered to be of value. Much of what I saw then no longer exists or

remains accessible.

An extraordinary secret

Unbeknown to me at the time, this visit was to mark the start of a lifetime’s

fascination with what I later discovered was a once vibrant naval intelligence centre

built deep beneath Heighton Hill.

During World War Two, it was undetected by the foe. After the war, it retained its

obscurity even in the village in which it was built. Upon its abandonment, legal

ownership of the labyrinth passed to the original landowners, although, officially, it

remained a secret place for some 30 years. Just how secret, and how vital its

contribution to the war effort was, I had yet to realise.

Deciding to investigate

In 1991, I took early so-called voluntary retirement from British Telecom. With some

40 years' experience in all contemporary forms of communication, I decided to

investigate what remained beneath Heighton Hill, to satisfy my continuing curiosity.

I discovered that few official records survived the Royal Navy's withdrawal from the

complex. No national body had ever attempted to record or publicise its extraordinary

history. In 1996, the Imperial War Museum, London, initially denied its existence.

My early research at the Public Record Office produced no tangible results. I appealed

for further information through local newspapers, 'Service Pals' teletext pages, Charlie

Chester's Sunday Soapbox show, 'Yours' magazine and the newsletters of many

military veterans'associations including the Association of Wrens.

Response to my appeals

I received a wealth of information, from carefully preserved autograph books,

photograph albums and other paraphernalia, all of which had been retained by the

veterans who responded to my appeals. These revealed almost everything there was to

know about the Royal Naval headquarter's intelligence hub. I discovered the exact

purpose of the various tunnel rooms. They told me exactly what equipment was

installed there, and even the names of many of the crew. None of this grass-roots

detail had been available from any other source.

My research had unexpected consequences, in that it rekindled many lapsed WRNS

friendships. On a personal level, I was encouraged by the way I was welcomed as a

friend into the homes of many of my correspondents and their genuine appreciation

for what I was doing. What follows is a résumé of my research.

Origin of the naval headquarters

Newhaven Royal Naval Headquarters originated during the tumultuous early years of

the war, when invasion seemed a likely sequel to the fall of France. There had been

some earlier discussion about whether the town might be demilitarised and declared

open under the Red Cross Geneva Convention. With the fall of Dunkirk, however,

military defence quickly thwarted any consideration of open-town status.

The army arrived and evicted the navy from their quarters at the Sheffield Arms

Hotel. The Senior Service, in turn, requisitioned the highly suitable Guinness Trust

Holiday Home from 20 June 1940. There they remained for the duration of the war.

The Guinness Trust property was an architecturally pleasing building. Built in 1938, it

stood majestically on Heighton Hill, looking down on the lush, green meadows of the

Ouse Valley, with views to Newhaven Harbour, Seaford Bay and the English

Channel.

It was used as holiday accommodation for city-based tenants of the Guinness Trust

estates and had 16 dormitory apartments with a communal dining room and sun

lounge. Most apartments had access to a large sun terrace and lawn, and a private

suite on the first floor housed a resident caretaker.

Requistioning Gracie Fields' house

Under the sterner title of HMS Forward, the Guinness Trust house became a Royal

Naval headquarters. As such, it was responsible for HMS Marlborough at Eastbourne,

HMS Aggressive and HMS Newt at Newhaven, HMS Vernon at Roedean, HMS

Lizard and HMS King Alfred at Hove and the two resident naval officers at Shoreham

and Littlehampton.

Naval-stores depots were established at Lewes and Burgess Hill to supply permanent,

consumable and after-action stores. A naval-canteen service was organised for the

area. Gracie Field's former home, later known as Dorothy House, at 127, Dorothy

Avenue, Peacehaven, was requisitioned to provide a special, fully staffed and fully

equipped, sick quarters.

Numerous other large residential establishments were also requisitioned, both locally

and at Seaford, to accommodate the WRNS (Women’s Royal Naval Service). There

were eventually over 10,000 naval staff on HMS Forward's ledgers.

Protecting the Sussex coastline

A captain (often an admiral serving in the rank of captain) always commanded the

naval headquarters. He occupied the conveniently appointed caretaker's suite. In 1940,

his immediate responsibilities included the reorganisation of the sub-command as well

as provision of maritime protection for the Sussex coastline and harbours with

minefields and blockships.

In March 1941, an Admiralty directive required specified ports to establish and

maintain naval plots in conjunction with a coastal-radar chain, giving surface

coverage from the Dover area. This coverage soon spread to Newhaven.

Adequate security was necessary for the communications equipment required for

intelligence gathering, interpretation and dissemination. A decision was made to

accommodate the equipment in a shelter more than 22 metres (some 66 feet) below

ground, deep beneath Heighton Hill. It was excavated for the Defence of the Realm

under the Emergency Powers Act (EPA), in great secrecy and as such, was not

recorded with the Land Registry.

Prepared for any emergency

The principal operational entrance to the underground shelter was located in room 16

of the Guinness Trust Home. 122 steps led to an impenetrable fortress that contained

the most sophisticated and contemporary communications devices then available.

There were two telephone exchanges, ten teleprinters, two Typex machines, a WT or

wireless telegraphy office with 11 radios and a VF-line (voice-frequency) telegraph

terminal for 36 channels. The tunnels housed a stand-by generator, an air-conditioning

system with gas filters, a galley, toilets, cabins for split shifts, and the recently

invented phenomenon of 'daylight' fluorescent lighting. No expense was spared. The

complex was equipped for every contingency, from failure of the public utilities to

direct enemy action.

Designed and built by the Royal Engineers

The complex was designed and built by the Royal Engineers. The 172nd Tunnelling

Company dug it, and 577th Army Field Company fitted it out. Excavation of the

tunnel commenced in May 1941, and some 550 metres (1,800 feet) of tunnel was dug

in the chalk over 13 weeks. It was commissioned later that year and used until

decommissioned on 31 August 1945. The Canadian Corps Coastal Artillery shared the

underground complex and maintained a headquarters there.

Ten coastal-radar stations between Fairlight and Bognor Regis reported directly to

HMS Forward every 20 minutes, more often if necessary. All their information was

filtered and plotted, before being relayed by teleprinter to similar plots in Dover and

Portsmouth.

HMS Forward plot maintained comprehensive maritime surveillance of everything

that moved on, under or over the English Channel from Dungeness to Selsey Bill.

Further intelligence was obtained from military airfields by private telephone lines.

For operational-security reasons, each naval plot understudied its neighbour, with

HMS Forward standing in for Fort Southwick at Portsmouth and vice versa.

Morse keys not machine guns

Initially, WRNS personnel staffed the WT office, teleprinters, cipher office, telephone

switchboards, signals-distribution office and naval plot on a continuous three-watch

rota. They were supplemented by Royal Naval (RN) ratings for special occasions. On

D-Day, they were joined by members of the Royal Air Force (RAF), WAAF

(Women's Auxiliary Air Force) and ATS (Auxiliary Territorial Service).

The crew wore headphones, not helmets; brandished Morse keys, rather than machine

guns; dispatched bulletins, not bullets and carefully contemplated the courses of

clandestine convoys.

HMS Forward was heavily involved in the saga of German battle cruisers

Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Prinz Eugen on 11 February 1942. It played a major part

in the raid on Dieppe of 19 August 1942. Its role was crucial in the nightly naval

motor-torpedo-boat (MTB) harassment raids on enemy-controlled harbours and

waters, frequent SAS commando 'snoops' on the occupied French coast, the D-Day

landings and, ultimately, the liberation of France. For a while, it also co-ordinated air-

sea rescue.

Everything was obliterated

After the war, the tunnel was abandoned, neglected and ignored. In 1964, I learnt of

the proposed redevelopment of the Heighton hillside and took the only photographs

known to exist that show details of the derelict disguised observation post and hillside

pillboxes.

During the 1970s, the hillside was redeveloped. All five internally accessed hillside

pillboxes (including one cunningly disguised as a chicken shed, complete with hens)

were demolished. Cable and ventilation shafts were also obliterated, leaving only the

bricked-up western entrance as evidence of what lay beneath.

A detailed survey

News of the proposed and partial demolition of Denton House (formerly the Guinness

Trust holiday home) inspired members of Newhaven Historical Society to approach

the Guinness Trust with a view to reopening the former principal (east) entrance in the

floor of room 16.

The idea was to conduct a detailed survey of the labyrinth below. They kindly

consented, on condition that there was no publicity that might draw attention to their

vacant property and thereby increase the likelihood of vandalism.

A complete inventory

Over the ensuing months, every passage was measured, every step and stair counted,

every room plotted and every remaining artefact recorded. The entire complex was

photographed using prints, transparencies and professional-quality video

photography.

The data obtained has enabled detailed, scale drawings to be produced. A model of

the complex is displayed at the near-by Newhaven Local and Maritime Museum,

Paradise Park, Avis Road, Newhaven, BN9 0DH.

Unfortunately, the partial demolition of Denton House in 1996 precludes further use

of the principal entrance of the former maritime-intelligence centre. The western wing

of the house, containing room 16, was razed to the ground to make way for new

homes.

The only visible sign of past military activity at the house is a granite commemorative

plaque above the fireplace in the main hall. On it, carved in relief, is a crown, flanked

by the dates 20 June 1940 and 31 August 1945. The words Royal Naval Headquarters

appear beneath.

One other date was recorded covertly by the bricklayer who built the solid wall that

sealed the principal, operational entrance to the tunnel. This read 21 November 1945

and is a certain indicator that the property was still in the hands of the Ministry of

Works at that time.

A slice of local history

In 1996 when local-history publisher Steve Benz learnt of my research, he pressed me

into writing a book. Happily, this slice of local history became an overnight success.

Video footage of milestone moments that occurred during the research and recorded

interviews with ten HMS Forward veterans were combined to produce an hour-long

tribute to this historic centre. The personal anecdotes and memoirs provided authentic

and corroborated first-hand information about the complex. Without them, details

concerning the equipment, accommodation, procedures and administration, otherwise

unrecorded, would have been lost forever.

In 1997, South Heighton Parish Council named a new road Forward Close. This was a

very public commemoration of the Royal Naval headquarters that very nearly

disappeared not just without trace but without its existence ever having been generally

acknowledged.

Some chance finds

In 1998, a chance enquiry led to the discovery of mining-consultant engineer

Lieutenant Colonel Dennis Day, RE (retired), C.Eng., Hon. FIMM, FIMin.E. As a 24-

year-old lieutenant in the Royal Engineers (RE), he was in charge of the Sappers who

excavated the tunnel. He presented me with his original working plans, endorsed with

the weekly progress reports and detailed notes of the methods, aids and materials

used.

Another lucky find was a series of photographs in the Imperial War Museum of what

is described as 'an underground operation control centre under construction

somewhere in the SE Command'. These excellent pictures have been positively

identified and present a precise picture of the state of construction on 2 October 1941.

Forward with Newhaven

The Friends of HMS Forward was formed in 1999. Our objective is, and I quote, 'to

restore the former HMS Forward tunnels to a standard conforming with current

legislation suitable for public access as a site of historical interest'. Our slogan is

'Forward with Newhaven'. Visit our website www.secret-tunnels.co.uk to see some

unique pictures of the site and its artefacts, and for further information.

In 2000, English Heritage accepted an invitation to visit the tunnels and take a look at

what we'd come up with in the course our research. After reviewing the publications

and touring the tunnels, they wrote a report on their conclusions, stating that the

monument be classified as near complete 'the equivalent of Class 2. They also agreed

that the site should be visited as part of the Monuments Protection Programme (MPP),

having performed a 'vital role in the forefront of both offensive and defensive

operations carried out in WWII'. In March 2004 English Heritage decided to propose

to the Secretary of State that this site be considered for scheduling.

Saved for posterity

The Friends of HMS Forward wish to acknowledge, with gratitude, a grant awarded

by the Millennium Festival Awards for All Scheme for the setting up of our group.

We should also like to thank Newhaven Town Council for their grants toward our

expenses. We also acknowledge, with thanks, the visiting rights and assistance given

by the Guinness Trust and other landowners.

Finally, we should like to convey our appreciation of the willing assistance of the

former HMS Forward crew, WRNS, RN, ATS, WAAF, RE, and civilians. Without

their memoirs and photographs, the story of this establishment, from its conception to

demise, would never have been recorded for posterity.

You'll find more about HMS Forward on the BBC WW2 People's War web site if you

search for Newhaven. There is also a personal account of one Wren's memoirs of

service life on and off duty whilst at HMS Forward.

On Board HMS Ramillies during the Normandy Invasion (D-Day)

The following diary of the events around the D-Day Landings was written by my

father, Edward Francis Wightman, who served as a Royal Navy Seaman/Gunner on

board HMS Ramillies.Friday, 2 June 1944, 8pm

Just put to sea and being rather bored at 'just another exercise' when the commander

comes on the broadcaster. 'Here is the captain to speak to you,' said he. Then we

realised - this was something important. Was it about to begin at last? Our minds were

soon set at rest, for the old man recounted our various working up periods then gave

us the 'guff'.

'We are about to meet the enemy,' said he in short. Followed by the statement that no

further information could be given yet because the possibility of inclement weather

might cause a postponement of the operation. As the full meaning of his words broke

upon us, there was much speculation as to time, place and importance of the great

event. From Norway to the South of France was the limit, generally no panic, no

bragging, no anything out of the ordinary. Ah well, I've got the middle watch so it's

head down.Saturday, 3 June 1944, 8am

Came on watch this forenoon and found the horizon thick with merchantmen and

naval craft, but these were seen passed during the course of the day. Our squadron

once more on its own, pursuing its zigzag way, steadily, remorselessly. 'Wonder if the

Germans have wind of our coming. Do you think it will be postponed after all?'

Everybody will be thoroughly 'chocker' if it is.

Time 7.30pm: Just had orders re action securing of messes etc. Action stations

tomorrow night 8.30pm till - well - we'd all like to know! Maybe we never will. By

now the northern coast of France is favourite for the speculators. Looks that way. I

judge zero hour to be about 4.45am Monday 5 June. Place - Dieppe. Submarine stand-

to short while ago. Nothing doing though. Everything is quiet and in perfect working

order. Nothing to do except watch and wait.

Time 9.10pm: Getting cold up top now and windy. Foam crested waves showing

everywhere. We all pray it will be suitable weather. Cheerio till tomorrow. There's

nothing really worth while to write about.Sunday, 4 June 1944, 6am

Dawn, action stations some time ago. Weather quite good not too cold. Our own

squadron stretched out ahead. Another one in the rear. Just been browned off as

Rocket Projector operator in case of need. What a fine time they do choose (to find

new jobs).

Time 8.45am: The captain has broadcast what we all feared would happen.

Postponed! For 24 hours owing to the weather. Everybody disappointed but bearing

up. About turn, back again.Monday, 5 June 1944, 5am

Horribly tired at dawn action stations. Steaming south again. Hope to pull it off

tomorrow.

Time 8.30am: Captain just been on the broadcaster again. This is it! We are attacking

from the mouth of Seine to Cherbourg. Americans to the right flank, British to the

left, so my Dieppe forecast wasn't far out! Our job is to engage shore batteries and

anything that will oppose the soldiers' landing, which should be about 7.30am. Our

bombardment commencing at dawn. We have been promised the largest air attack

tonight that has ever been seen. Eisenhower is C-in-C [Commander-in-chief] Allied

Forces. Sir Bertram Ramsay C-in-C Naval Forces. Nothing much to do now. We are

steaming along as far as the Isle of Wight and then - then turn south! No more for

now. Action stations tonight 9.30pm till - when!

Time 9pm: Made our rendezvous just off the Isle of Wight with lots of squadrons of

landing craft. All around as far as the eye can see we are able to discern craft of all

description. From battleships to tugs! Received a bit of 'guff' from the commander re

the operation. Biggest air attack ever on coast off Northern France. Our first

paratroops and airborne divisions will be let loose tonight. Our own bombardment

commences 5.30am on 6 June. Our targets will be 6" coastal batteries. We may come

under fire of these and bigger guns! Warspite is looking after one big 16" gun known to

be there. She'd just better thump it good and hard or else!

Altogether we hear there are five large naval task forces. And HMS Ramillies has the

honour (doubtful?) to be with the main landing support squadron. The army should

land at 7.30am. Let's hope the boys have it all their own way with all the opposition

blasted to hell and back. E-boats and submarines and minefields are expected. Should

be quite a party. We are going to drop the hook (anchor) there and drop bricks over

any old where, where the Army Forward Observation Officer wants them. And we are

to enter harbour with full ceremony, dress of the day No. 3s and band playing. All this

is alleged to buck up the morale of the pongoes (soldiers) on shore. Seems good

psychology to me, let's hope it works out that way! Not seen any German bombers

yet. Would have thought they'd have tried before now. Still - they're on tons of time!

Action stations in ten minutes time. All that we have trained for etc is going into this

effort. Pray God it shall not fail.Wednesday, 7 June 1944, 10.15pm

Had neither the energy nor the time to write yesterday so I'll try and give a record of

the events in chronological order.

We were at our bombardment position about 5am after passing through the minefields

in the Channel, swept and Dan-buoyed by the sweepers. As we approached the French

coast numerous air raids were seen and we watched pretty fireworks displays for quite

a while. About 5.10am, just five minutes before schedule, we opened fire with 15" on

a 6" battery on a high ridge. This battery had six guns and they were in armoured

casemates, so it was no walkover. After about one to two hours firing, enemy shells

landed uncomfortably close without doing damage. This went on intermittently all

day. About 6.30am two enemy destroyers attacked with torpedoes. Five were fired

and three came perilously close. No more than 50 yards away the nearest. A pack of

E-boats was observed and the 4" and 6" armament were blazing away and were very

effective, causing the enemy to retire. They attacked again later on and were again

driven off. By this time we had ranged the enemy battery and put four of the six guns

out of action The remaining two were quite a nuisance and some of their shells landed

no more than 20 yards away.

In the meantime one of the tinfish fired at us, and hit the destroyer Svenna, a Norwegian

escort of ours. She sank almost immediately and I don't think any survivors were

picked up. Bodies and wreckage, rafts, timber etc floated past and we observed the

bow and stern of the wreck showing above water. Must be pretty shallow here.

Apparently she broke her back. Poor chaps - leaves a nasty taste in the mouth.

Aircraft were now thumping the hell out of German positions ashore and at 6.30am

the first wave of troops landed. Later in the day we heard they had succeeded at all

points and our Royal Marine Commando battalion had taken a coastal defence battery

intact! The day wore on with numerous alarms for aircraft but we saw none. One

dropped a stick of bombs between a destroyer and cruiser. JU88 I believe. We carried

out several bombardments in the afternoon and evening and eventually completed the

obliteration of the last 6" gun of the battery. We then had orders to proceed to

Portsmouth to re-ammunition. Fired 220 15" shells and goodness knows how many 6"

and 4". Not one AA gun opened fire! What a difference to 1940 (note 15" shell

weighs nearly one ton).

Just as we were preparing to leave, hundreds and hundreds of gliders came in, in great

masses. Each one had a towing plane and they came over for an hour, solid. We

estimated over a thousand, so they probably landed at least one complete division.

What a sight! Just like a Wellsian dream of the future. I forgot to mention before, that

as we went into battle, the captain donned the Maori skirt so how could we come to

any harm? Battle ensign was flying from the gaff. Lots of fireworks displays as we

left. RAF again giving Germans a bad night.

Time 6.30am: arrived Portsmouth and re-ammunitioned all day. Were we worn out!

Sailed again 8.30pm and we still had our deck full of cordite to be stowed. Wonder

where we are bound now.

Time 11pm: Too dark now. Write again tomorrow.Thursday, 8 June 1944, 2.15am

Action stations, large number of E-boats about but none too near us. Just heard an

ammunition ship was blown up ahead of us. Altered course to avoid E-boat pack.

Arrive Le Havre early this morning. Anchored near Rodney who engaged shore

targets with 6". Frobisher was pounding concentrations of enemy tanks with 5" gun

broadsides!

Time 8.30am: Up anchor, transfer to bombardment position. Engage enemy 6"

battery. This battery reported by aircraft to be completely destroyed by 11pm.

Engaged further shore targets with good effect. No air raids.

Time 10.45pm: Alarm to arms sounded. FW190s and ME109s. One bomb dropped

near destroyer.Friday, 9 June 1944, 2am

Browned off to patrol forecastle with Lanchester to open fire on mines, torpedoes, E-

boats etc. Engaged motor boat (one of ours) which came straight for us port side. She

soon sheered off. Fired at several suspicious objects. No apparent results.

Time 4.20am approx: Stick of bombs dropped between Rodney and ourselves. No

apparent results.

Time 8.30am: Opened fire on several targets ashore. Concentrations of enemy tanks,

guns, infantry, motor vehicles etc grouped in woods, villages or on the roads. Very

good effect reported by Forward Observation Post. Rodney, Mauritius and ourselves all

firing broadsides at the same time. Forgot to mention, about 3am Rodney opened fire

with 16" on shore targets, made an awe-inspiring sight at night.

Time 6.30pm: Sat down to supper - air raid. Flight of FW190 and Melok 9. Narrowly

missed the Roberts with bombs. None near us.

Time 10.45pm: Air raids ashore. Very pretty flak display, quite as good as Belle Vue!

Time 11.30pm: Just been having a look round ashore through the telescope. Lots of

damage along beach to houses etc. Can see tanks, motor vehicles, armoured cars,

lorries etc moving up to the front (which is not fixed at all but is quite fluid). No air

raids, pretty tired though. A week since I had a night's sleep.Saturday, 10 June 1944, morning

Nothing of importance.

Afternoon: Bombardment of railway marshalling yards near Caen. Also troop and

transport concentrations. Apparently our salvos are doing a great deal of damage.

Very, very few projectiles being outside the target area. Rear Admiral reports he has

had many congratulatory signals from ashore on the precision and terrific help given

to the army. It's really good to know we are vital, as on board you can't see any visible

effect of course. By all reports up to date, we have been tearing up railways, blasting

tanks and troops vigorously and generally making a thorough mess of things for the

Germans.Sunday, 11 June 1944, morning

No air raids last night or tonight. Just heard over the broadcaster that we have to

support the paratroops and 6th Airborne Division. They are on the left or Eastern

Flank.

Afternoon: Attacked concentration of 200 enemy tanks with good effects. Shifted

target to an important railway bridge in the centre of Caen. Evening. Strafing with ten

shells every half hour. Cruisers also lobbing 6" bricks over. The most surprising part

of this invasion (from our point of view) is the almost complete lack of retaliation

against the naval ships. After the first day we have had no real attempt at engagement

by either shore batteries (if any) or aircraft or submarines or E-boats.11-12 June 1944, 11pm to 1am

Hundred-and-twenty armour piercing caps fired at marshalling yards at Caen.Monday, 12 June 1944, 2am to 4am

Ninety rounds armour piercing caps at another marshalling yard. Thirty rounds HE.

Programme postponed for 24 hours. Nothing of note during day except physical

training on the Quarter Deck with the bomb happy physical training instructor.

Time 11pm: Bombardment opened - finished 3.45am. Apparently a very good effort.

Army trying to capture Caen tonight.

Time 2am: Dive bombed by enemy plane - bombs fell between Nelson and us but

forward 200 yards of tanker - 400 yards. Forenoon, bombardment continued 227 HE

and ADC shells lobbed over during the early hours. About 60 shells this morning.

Time 11.30am to 12.30am: Enemy 6" shelling of landing crafts. Where the heck are

they from! We suspect the battery we originally engaged. Hear it is a mobile battery.

Time 4.30pm: Opened fire again on enemy troops and concentrations on the main

road along which 6th Airborne Division is advancing. About 60 salvos. Altogether

about 350 shells fired today. Observation points ashore say our shooting very good.

Quite a recommend in fact. Approximate layout of front line. It was reported on the

6.30am news bulletin that Ramillies carried out fiercest bombardment ever known by a

battleship.

Time 11.45pm: Quite a sharp air raid developed ashore. Tons of flak and many sticks

of bombs. One really large fire.14 June 1944, 3.34am

Another raid occurred, not very effective though. Forenoon - enemy tried shelling

Nelson. Presumably mobile batteries. Nelson replied. No further fire. Carried out

bombardment of enemy strongpoint north west of Caen. Forward Observation Officer

reported six direct hits out of 14. The other eight all within 100 yards. Range 11

miles. Some shooting! Highly commended by shore observer.

Time 5.15pm: Opened fire on shore battery and then in support of 6th Airborne

Division again. Fired 29 shells completing X and Y turrets ammunition.

Time 9.15pm: Watch five large transport planes go over the 6th Airborne Division

and land 100 paratroops.

Time 11pm: More raids. None meant for us though several planes passed overhead.15 June 1944

An LST of the USN just passed by with a large hole in her starboard bow just on the

water line. She seems quite seaworthy. I hear we have 98 shells left! When these are

done we shall have fired 1,000.

Afternoon - moved to our original bombardment position and engaged original battery

which has brought up new mobile guns. Two direct hits. Two very near misses.

Fifteen within 100 yards. As we moved away at approx 5.30pm, another enemy

battery engaged us. Their shells fell very close and we were splattered with fragments

of 4.7 shells. One signalman received a hit in the leg. He's OK though. We were all

cleaning the decks - with our guts! (Me anyway.) Went full speed astern quickly and

were thankful to be out of range. Thirty-two shells fell very close to Ramillies. Good

gunnery. Good Lord!

Time 10.30pm: Air raid on shore installations and beaches. No attempt to attack ships.

One plane caught in S/Ls and tons of flack put up. Results not visible.16 June 1944, 3.30am

Air raids again. Not meant for us.

Time 1.30pm: HM The King arrived in HMS Scylla. Carried out bombardment

intermittently.

Time 6.30pm: Still bombarding. Must be near the end of our ammo now.

Time 11pm: Great event. Mail arrived and were we thankful.

Time 11.45pm: Usual air raid. None looking for us.17 June 1944

Nothing until 1.30pm when we commenced bombardment with 30 HE on the mobile

battery and Fire Direction installations which were such a trouble the other day.

Aircraft reported very good shooting indeed. Two direct hits on casemates, eight

within 50 yards, 15 within 100 yards. This target was the most difficult to engage. It

was likened to throwing a ring at a watch which is guarded by a stick. You see these

on fairgrounds. Every time you are on the target you hit the stick!18 June 1944

Left for Portsmouth, our job reportedly very well done. Altogether 37 different targets

bombarded and 1,002 - 15" 'bricks' fired. Just a small part in a big do!

The Secret Tunnels of South Heighton

This story, written by Geoffrey Ellis, Secretary, Friends of HMS Forward, is about the

abandoned and little-known tunnels of HMS Forward at Newhaven, East Sussex,

which, between 1939 and 1945, was a Royal Navy headquarters. The account that

follows has been compiled from what he told Peter Mason.

A desirable prize

Newhaven was originally a casualty clearing station for the British Expeditionary

Force (BEF) in France. Twelve fully equipped hospital boats transported the sick and

wounded to the east Sussex port from Dieppe, with special trains to carry them further

inland on arrival. Medical supplies were loaded on to the boats for the return journey.

Newhaven, lying roughly midway between Dover and Portsmouth, features the only

river in the area navigable at all states of the tide. Its harbour had marine workshops

and facilities for maintaining cross-channel steamers and vessels with tail shafts of up

to six metres (19 feet). There were ample berthing facilities and a marine passenger

terminal with its own dedicated railway terminus. During the war, all of these benefits

made the town a desirable prize for the enemy.

My first visit

In 1941, when I was a seven-year-old lad, I used to walk to and from school along the

B2109 Newhaven-to-Beddingham road. One day, in May 1941, the army arrived and

started digging a tunnel into the bank at the side of the road by Heighton Hill, just

north of Newhaven.

Some months after the tunnel was completed, I frequently used to stop to chat with

the sentries that guarded its entrance. They could never be persuaded, however, to let

me take a peep around the bend that turned away enticingly, just inside the entrance.

When the tunnel was abandoned at the end of 1945, I finally had my chance to take a

proper look. Accompanied by a friend and with the aid of a couple of torches, I inched

into its depths. The complex interior was swallowed up by the seemingly

impenetrable darkness.

An indelible impression

I remember vividly the mixed emotions of exploring the apparently endless labyrinth

of corridors, galleries, rooms and stairways. Was there anybody else in there with us?

Could we get lost? What if our torches failed? Would we ever find our way out again?

That initial visit remains indelibly etched in my memory. Large quantities of naval

message pads and rolls of teleprinter paper littered the floor. There was a myriad

wooden stairways and complex air-conditioning trunking with fish-eye louvers.

Numerous lengths of cable were neatly secured to endless Braby cable tray.

The tunnels had been ransacked by looters, who’d wrought carnage in their attempt to

liberate anything they thought might be of value. Much of what I saw then no longer

exists or remains accessible.

An extraordinary secret

Unbeknown to me at the time, this visit was to mark the start of a lifetime’s

fascination with what I later discovered was a once vibrant naval intelligence centre

built deep beneath Heighton Hill.

During World War Two, it remained undetected by the foe. After the war’s end, it

was destined to remain equally unknown in the country in which it was built. Upon its

abandonment, the labyrinth passed into the ownership of the original landowner(s),

although, technically, it remained a secret place for some 30 years. Just how secret it

was, and how vital its contribution to the war effort, I had yet to realise.

Deciding to investigate

In 1991, I took early so-called voluntary retirement from British Telecom. With some

40 years’ experience in all contemporary forms of communication, I decided to

investigate what lay beneath Heighton Hill, largely to satisfy my continuing curiosity.

What I discovered was that few official records survived the Royal Navy's withdrawal

from the complex. Indeed, no national body had ever attempted to record or publicise

its extraordinary history, to the extent that, in 1996, even the Imperial War Museum in

London, initially, denied its existence.

My early enquiries of the Imperial War Museum and the Public Record Office

produced no tangible results. I appealed for further information through local

newspapers, ‘Service Pals’ teletext pages, Charlie Chester’s Sunday Soapbox show,

Yours magazine and the newsletters of a plethora of military-veterans’ associations

including the Association of Wrens.

Response to my appeals

I received a wealth of information, from carefully preserved autograph books,

photograph albums and other paraphernalia, all of which had been retained by the

veterans who responded to my appeals. As a result, I learnt almost everything there

was to know about the naval headquarters’ intelligence hub. I discovered the exact

purpose of the various tunnel rooms. I found out exactly what equipment was installed

there and even learnt the names of many of the crew.

None of this grass-roots detail had been available from any other source.

I’m pleased to relate that my research had other, unexpected consequences, in that it

rekindled many lapsed WRNS friendships. On a personal level, too, I was encouraged

by the ways in which I was welcomed as a friend into the homes of many of my

correspondents. What follows is a résumé of my research.

Origin of the naval headquarters

Newhaven Royal Naval Headquarters originated during the tumultuous early years of

the war, when invasion seemed a likely sequel to the fall of France. There had been

some earlier discussion about whether the town might be demilitarised and declared

open under the Red Cross Geneva Convention. With the fall of Dunkirk, however,

military defence quickly thwarted any consideration of open-town status.

The army arrived and evicted the navy from their quarters at the Sheffield Arms

Hotel. The Senior Service, in turn, requisitioned the highly suitable Guinness Trust

Holiday Home from 20 June 1940. There they remained for the duration of the war.

The Guinness Trust property was an architecturally pleasing building. Built in 1938, it

stood majestically on Heighton Hill, looking down on the lush, green meadows of the

Ouse Valley, with views to Newhaven Harbour, Seaford Bay and the English

Channel.

It was used as holiday accommodation for city-based tenants of the Guinness Trust

estates and had 16 dormitory apartments with a communal dining room and sun

lounge. Most apartments had access to a large sun terrace and lawn, and a private

suite on the first floor housed a resident caretaker.

Requistioning Gracie Fields’s house

Under the sterner title of HMS Forward, the Guinness Trust house became a Royal Naval

headquarters. As such, it was responsible for HMS Marlborough at Eastbourne, HMS

Aggressive and HMS Newt at Newhaven, HMS Vernon at Roedean, HMS Lizard and HMS King

Alfred at Hove and the two resident naval officers at Shoreham and Littlehampton.

Naval-stores depots were established at Lewes and Burgess Hill to supply permanent,

consumable and after-action stores. A naval-canteen service was organised for the

area. Gracie Field's former home, later known as Dorothy House, at 127, Dorothy

Avenue, Peacehaven, was requisitioned to provide a special, fully staffed and fully

equipped, sick quarters.

Numerous other large residential establishments were also requisitioned, both locally

and at Seaford, to accommodate the WRNS (Women’s Royal Naval Service). There

were, eventually, over 10,000 naval staff on HMS Forward’s ledgers.

Protecting the Sussex coastline

The naval headquarters was always commanded by a captain (often an admiral

serving in the rank of captain), who occupied the conveniently appointed caretaker's

suite. In 1940, his immediate responsibilities included the reorganisation of the sub-

command as well as provision of maritime protection for the Sussex coastline and

harbours with minefields and blockships.

In March 1941, an Admiralty directive required specified ports to establish and

maintain naval plots in conjunction with a coastal-radar chain, giving surface

coverage from the Dover area. This coverage soon spread to Newhaven.

Adequate security was necessary for the communications equipment required for

intelligence-gathering, interpretation and dissemination. A decision was made to

accommodate the equipment in a shelter more than 20 metres (some 60 feet) below

ground, deep beneath Heighton Hill.

For this purpose, under the Emergency Powers Act (EPA) for the defence of the

realm, and, as such, not recorded with the Land Registry, a tunnel was dug into the

hillside.

Prepared for any emergency

The principal, operational entrance to the underground shelter was situated in room 16

of the Guinness Trust house. Via 122 steps, it gave access to an impenetrable fortress,

one that contained the most sophisticated and contemporary communications devices

then available.

There were two telephone exchanges, ten teleprinters, two Typex machines, a WT or

wireless telegraphy office with 11 radios and a VF-line (voice-frequency) telegraph

terminal for 36 channels. The tunnels housed a stand-by generator, an air-conditioning

system with gas filters, a galley, toilets, cabins for split shifts and the recently

invented phenomenon of 'daylight' fluorescent lighting.

No expense was spared. The complex was equipped for every contingency, from

failure of the public utilities to direct enemy action.

Designed and built by the Royal Engineers

The complex was designed and built by the Royal Engineers. The 172nd Tunnelling

Company dug it, and 577th Army Field Company fitted it out. Excavation of the

tunnel commenced in May 1941, and some 550 metres (1,800 feet) of tunnel was dug

in the chalk over 13 weeks. It was commissioned later that year and used, until

decommissioned, on 31 August 1945. The Canadian Corps Coastal Artillery shared

the underground complex and maintained a headquarters there.

Ten coastal-radar stations between Fairlight and Bognor Regis reported directly to

HMS Forward every 20 minutes, more often if necessary. All their information was

filtered and plotted, before being relayed by teleprinter to similar plots in Dover and

Portsmouth.

HMS Forward plot maintained a comprehensive maritime surveillance of everything that

moved on, under or over the English Channel from Dungeness to Selsey Bill. Further

intelligence was obtained from military airfields by private telephone lines. For

operational-security reasons, each plot understudied its neighbour, with HMS Forward

standing in for Fort Southwick at Portsmouth and vice versa.

Morse keys not machine guns

Initially, WRNS personnel staffed the WT office, teleprinters, cipher office, telephone

switchboards, signals-distribution office and naval plot on a continuous three-watch

rota. They were supplemented by Royal Naval (RN) ratings for special occasions. On

D-Day, they were joined by members of the Royal Air Force (RAF), WAAF

(Women’s Auxiliary Air Force) and ATS (Auxiliary Territorial Service).

The crew wore headphones, not helmets; brandished Morse keys, rather than machine

guns; dispatched bulletins, not bullets and carefully contemplated the courses of

clandestine convoys.

HMS Forward was heavily involved in the saga of German battle cruisers Scharnhorst,

Gneisenau and Prinz Eugen on 11 February 1942. It played a major part in the raid on Dieppe

of 19 August 1942. Its role was crucial in the nightly naval motor-torpedo-boat

(MTB) harassment raids on enemy-controlled harbours and waters, frequent SAS

commando 'snoops' on the occupied French coast, the D-Day landings and, ultimately,

the liberation of France. For a while, it also co-ordinated air—sea rescue.

Everything was obliterated

After the war, the centre was abandoned, then neglected and ignored. In 1964, I learnt

of the proposed redevelopment of the Heighton hillside and took the only photographs

now known to exist. They show details of the derelict and disguised observation post

and hillside pillboxes.

During the 1970s, the hillside was redeveloped. All five internally accessed hillside

pillboxes (including one cunningly disguised as a chicken shed, complete with hens)

were demolished. Cable and ventilation shafts were also obliterated, leaving only the

bricked-up western entrance as evidence of what lay beneath.

A detailed survey

News of the proposed and partial demolition of Denton House (formerly the Guinness

Trust holiday home) inspired members of Newhaven Historical Society to approach

the Guinness Trust with a view to reopening the former principal (east) entrance in the

floor of room 16.

The idea was to conduct a detailed survey of the labyrinth below. They kindly

consented, on condition that there was no publicity that might draw attention to their

vacant property and thereby increase the likelihood of vandalism.

A complete inventory

Over the ensuing months, every passage was measured, every step and stair counted,

every room plotted and every remaining artefact recorded. The entire complex was

photographed using prints, transparencies and professional-quality video

photography.

The data obtained has enabled detailed, scale drawings to be produced. A model of

the complex is displayed at the near-by Newhaven Local and Maritime Museum,

Paradise Park, Avis Road, Newhaven, BN9 0DH.

Unfortunately, the partial demolition of Denton House in 1996 precludes further use

of the principal entrance of the former maritime-intelligence centre. The western wing

of the house, containing room 16, was razed to the ground to make way for new

homes.

The only visible sign of past military activity at the house is a granite commemorative

plaque above the fireplace in the main hall. On it, carved in relief, is a crown, flanked

by the dates 20 June 1940 and 31 August 1945. The words Royal Naval Headquarters

appear beneath.

One other date was recorded covertly by the bricklayer who built the solid wall that

sealed the principal, operational entrance to the tunnel. This reads 21 November 1945

and is a certain indicator that the property was still in the hands of the Ministry of

Works at that time.

A slice of local history

In 1996 when local-history publisher Steve Benz learnt of my research, he pressed me

into writing a book. Happily, this slice of local history became an overnight success.

Video footage of milestone moments that occurred during the research and recorded

interviews with ten HMS Forward veterans were combined to produce an hour-long

tribute to this historic centre. The personal anecdotes and memoirs provided authentic

and corroborated first-hand information about the complex. Without them, details

concerning the equipment, accommodation, procedures and administration, otherwise

unrecorded, would have been lost for ever.

In 1997, South Heighton Parish Council named a new road Forward Close. This was a

very public commemoration of the Royal Naval headquarters that very nearly

disappeared not just without trace but without its existence ever having been generally

acknowledged.

Some chance finds

In 1998, a chance enquiry led to the discovery of mining-consultant engineer

Lieutenant Colonel Dennis Day, RE (retired), C.Eng., Hon. FIMM, FIMin.E. As a 24-

year-old lieutenant in the Royal Engineers (RE), he was in charge of the sappers who

excavated the tunnel. He presented me with his original working plans, endorsed with

the weekly progress reports and detailed notes of the methods, aids and materials

used.

Another lucky find was a series of photographs in the Imperial War Museum of what

is described as ‘an underground operation control centre under construction

somewhere in the SE Command’. These excellent pictures have been positively

identified and present a precise picture of the state of construction on 2 October 1941.

Forward with Newhaven

The Friends of HMS Forward was formed in 1999. Our objective is, and I quote, ‘to

restore the former HMS Forward tunnels to a standard conforming with current

legislation suitable for public access as a site of historical interest'. Our slogan is

'Forward with Newhaven'. Visit our website www.secret-tunnels.co.uk to see some

unique pictures of the site and its artefacts, and for further information.

In 2000, English Heritage accepted an invitation to visit the tunnels and take a look at

what we’d come up with in the course our research. After reviewing the publications

and touring the tunnels, they wrote a report on their conclusions, stating that the

monument be classified as near complete — the equivalent of Class 2. They also

agreed that the site should be visited as part of the Monuments Protection Programme

(MPP), having performed a 'vital role in the forefront of both offensive and defensive

operations carried out in WWII .'

Saved for posterity

The Friends of HMS Forward wish to acknowledge, with gratitude, a grant awarded by

the Millennium Festival Awards for All scheme for the setting up of our group. We

should also like to thank Newhaven Town Council for their grants toward our

expenses. We also acknowledge, with thanks, the visiting rights and assistance given

by the Guinness Trust and other landowners.

Finally, we should like to convey our appreciation of the willing assistance of the

former HMS Forward crew, WRNS, RN, ATS, WAAF, RE, and civilians. Without their

memoirs and photographs, the story of this establishment, from its conception to

demise, would never have been recorded for posterity.

HMS Bruiser's Mediterranean Commission 1943 - 1945

HMS Bruiser

Transcribed from audio-tape, January 1 1997)

My name is Alwyn Thomas, of Eaglescliffe, Stockton-on-Tees.

I joined the Royal Navy in 1942 as a volunteer for hostilities only. My civilian

occupation was a clerk with Shellmex and BP Petroleum Company and I joined the

Royal Navy in 1942 at the age of 18. I served on HMS Bruiser, landing ship tank, a

6,000 ton ship, from June 1943 - 1945.

My rank was Leading Supply Assistant and my stations were as follows. My beach

action station was the tank hanger, and my action station at sea was the sick bay, and I

was a first aid attendant on the action stations.

HMS Bruiser was a specially designed landing ship tank, built by Harland and Wolff,

Belfast in 1941. It was 6,000 tons, it carried 20 tanks in a tank hanger in the lower

deckm it had a lift which took lighter vehichles, armoured vehicles, and light guns to

the upper deck, and fully loaded.

I joined HMS Bruiser on the Clyde in June 1943. There were tanks aboard and

Canadian Army tank units. We left the Clyde with an assault convoy, of 9 landing

ships infantry, 3 landing ships tank, The Bruiser, the Boxer and Thruster, for a fast

convoy, a 16 knot convoy, across the Atlantic and into the Mediterranean. We

zigzagged on the trip and after about ten days we arrived off Malta and we were told

by the Captain that we were going on to make an amphibious landing at Cape Passero

on the south-east corner of Sicily. Off Malta we ran into a 70 mph gale. There were

2,000 ships involved in this Sicily landing so they delayed the landing for 24 hours.

We landed on a beach at Cape Pasero with very little opposition.

(That's just some comments on the first landing I did in the Mediterranean)

Following this landing, we then went on to make a landing at Salerno, south of

Naples.

The Captain was a Lieutenant Commander RNR, which meant that Royal Naval

Reserve officers had also served in the Mercantile Marine for may years before. Most

of the crew were volunteers for the wartime only, and very young, from 18 to 22.

There were some Royal Navy crews, who were much older men.

The living conditions on the ship were not particularly good. You slept in hammocks,

the same as you did in Nelson's day, you slept and ate in the same space, the food was

allright but the living conditions were very cramped. We did have entertainment. We

did now an again do our own entertainment with ship's concerts and we had some

very clever people that could sing, dance and do a bit of acting. We had a few cats,

they were the ship pets. And we had a tannoy system, that's a system for broadcasting

all over the ship.

The Captain had a brilliant idea, he played naval tunes as we were entering or leaving

harbour, like 'Anchors Aweigh' or 'Hearts of Oak', which is an old Royal Navy Tune.

The other oustanding thing about entertainment was a tot of rum at 12.00 o'clock

every day, which many sailors appreciated. So I have given you some idea of the

living conditions.

Training, not a lot of training was done on board ship except for firing at targets, anti-

aircraft target guns.

One of the saddest experiences I had was my friend, who was also a Petty Officer, we

were lying off a beachhead at Anzio, and a German shore battery opened up and a

shell landed alongside our ship, and my friend the Petty Officer was killed and a

number of others were wounded. The sad thing in the Royal Navy in action is that we

buried him at sea, just sewn in a hammock and over the side he goes with a White

Ensign. That is one of the saddest moments aboard that ship that i experienced.

The other interesting experience is when you put a 6000 ton ship on the beach, the

Captain has to be very experienced and a good seaman. You hit the beach, a 6000 ton

ship hitting the beach at two or three knots, you don't want to hit it too hard, because

you have got to get off, and as the ship is approaching the beach you let out a stern

anchor, which is a kedge anchor, and when we had got all our tanks and vehicles off

the ship onto the beach and they went into action, we had to get off.

Well sometimes the ship was so stuck hard on the bottom that we went full astern

pulling on the kedge anchor but we couldn't get off. So the Captain had a brilliant

idea, he had 200 of the ship's company on the quarterdeck running from one side to

the other to try and get some movement, get our ship off the beach, which was a bit

worrying because there were air attacks and enemy aircraft all the time, and I thought

it was a bit risky because if a German aircraft had come down and machine-gunned,

they'd have shot a hundred men or more.

In fact this idea of getting a load of men running about on the quarterdeck to move the

ship didn't work, and we did get eventually pulled off by a big ocean-going tug.

The next experience I would like to tell you about took place on a beachhead at

Salerno, south of Naples. The procedure was that when the ship got on the beach, we

opened the bow doors and extended a ramp, which was a hydraulic ramp, so the space

between the end, you put the ramp on the beach from the end of the ship and you got

your tanks off. Well on this occasion, we sent the first tank off and then there was a

gap between the end of the ramp and the beach of about ten yards, fifteen yards or so,

and the first tank went off and the result was it went in, it got covered by water,

dropped in the water and the crew had to get out very quickly to save their lives.

So, this was a mistake, and what we should have done before that tank had gone off,

we should have taken the depth of the water and known that it was too deep for the

tank to get off. So there was always something to learn on these amphibious landings.

That is just one particular incident.

Of course, our job was to get the tanks off. onto the beach as quickly as possible and

unfortunately there was still shell-fire going on on these beaches and it was by no

means an easy matter.

The biggest amphibious landing that Bruiser took part in was the Salerno landing,

which was south of Naples. There were two other sister ships, called Boxer and

Thruster, so there were three British LSTs and we left Oran with American tanks,

British tanks, Oran in North Africa, for the beach at Salerno and we got there on the

D-Day and it all went wrong for a start off, with a lot of ships being mined.

This was a combined amphibious operation that quite a lot of books have been written

about. It was American warships, American cruisers, British cruisers, and we got our

tanks on the beach under heavy fire and managed to get away all right, and then we

ran continuously for about four weeks from North Africa to Salerno on the beaches.

The first three or four days were very difficult and the Germans pushed our troops

back within a few miles of the beach and we were told to stand by to evacuate, which

never happened. The significant thing about that landing that I always remember is

that there was the USS Savannah, heavy cruiser, was hit by a german glider bomb on

the fo'c'sle with 200 killed.

We were getting continuously shelled by German 88 mm up in the mountains, all the

ships off the beachhead were getting shelled, so they brought up two Royal Navy

battleships, Warspite and Valiant, and it was very heartening to see those two

battleships opening up broadside with 15 inch guns and silencing the German shore

batteries up in the mountains, but it was three or four weeks before the troops got

further inland and established the beachhead.

The Germans were still very active in the air in those days and we had some heavy air

attacks. They attacked the two battleships, with all the other ships firing anti-aircraft.

They hit the Warspite and damaged her so she had to leave and go back to Malta for

repairs. But we lost a number of ships, British and American, at Salerno. We got very

friendly with the American tank Crews, we carried a lot of from North Africa.

In January 1944, the Bruiser and other ships in the assault convoy took part in the

Anzio operation. This operation is well known to the Americans as well as the British.

We were landing south of Rome to help the Army out really, and we didn't spend too

long at Anzio because we got hit and damaged, and had to return to Malta, but on D-

Day at Anzio we had a number of ships put out of action through heavy mining.

When you are organising an amphibious landing it is a very complicated operation

because you have to sweep lanes with minesweepers to get your tank landing ships in,

and you have to clear the beaches of obstacles, the infantry goes in first, so it is quite a

complicated job. There was a small harbour at Anzio and we managed to get in there

and managed to unload under air attack.

We had a problem there coming out because going full astern there was something

wrapped round our propellers and we wanted to get divers down, but because of the

air raid, we couldn't risk it, we just had to pull out and hope for the best, and hope that

the propellers wouldn't get mangled up with some steel rope which seemed to be at

the bottom.

I have a photo of the Bruiser and the Boxer under air attack taken out of an English

newspaper on D-Day at Anzio, and there were a number of ships sunk at Anzio. and

the Americans played a big part in it, and unfortunately ( whether you know the

history of it ) the troops were pinned down on the ground, only a few miles off the

beaches, for 90 days before they could make any headway and get to Rome, and a

number of ships were lost, it wasn't really a successful operation.

Three months after Normandy (June 1944), in August 1944, we joined in an

amphibious assault force to land in the South of France, on the French Riviera. We

left from North Africa, and strangely enough we took French troops that had left

France in 1940 when the Germans pushed them out of France, so they were going

back to their own homeland. We also took some Americans and we operated from

North Africa to the South of France and it was to a place called St. Raphael on the

French Riviera. It was called the Champagne landing this one, I think, there was very

little opposition because the Germans had pulled back and when we were on the

beach some of the lads, some of the sailors went up and picked grapes out of the

vineyards, and it was one of the easier or better operations that we had.

Next, later on in 1944, we did what we called the Greek Operation. This is probably

not very well known by the Americans, or anybody else for that matter, but we took

British troops back into Athens in Greece.

The Germans were pulling out of Greece because they were fighting on too many

fronts, so we made a number of trips, from Egypt actually, from Alexandria, and took

British troops to take possession of Athens, and in Greece as well. We had one

unusual experience there for a Royal Naval ship, and that was there was a civil war

developed, the Communist Party of Greece were fighting the Greek government and

the British government decided to support the Greek government against the

Communists. We had to go, it was Christmas Day, it was a bitterly cold day, we had

to go into Corfu and pick, Corfu was being under siege by Communist guerrillas and

we were told to go in there and pick up all the civilians that we could, take them out

of Corfu and take them down to Athens. Well, we had hundreds of refugees all over

the ship, on the upper deck, it was cold on the upper deck as well, we had hundreds of

them everywhere and they were so frightened that we had to have sailors with their

fixed bayonets stopping them rushing to get aboard when we were on the wharf, but

the unusual incident, we had a number of pregnant women and we had a baby born

which the surgeon, we carried a surgeon in the sick bay, and this was quite unique to

have a birth on a Royal Naval ship, but in one way that was a very distressing

experience for the Greeks to be fighting amongst themselves after they had already

defeated the Germans.

(I'm just looking to see the number of the experiences, amusing or otherwise, that

happened during wartime, and I have made a few notes of some.)

We had one unusual situation when we were going to Salerno from North Africa. We

were taking French Moroccan troops, native troops with French officers, and with

their tanks and vehicles we would have about 200 of them altogether and they wanted

to bring their own women with them, their own brothel, and our Captain refused to do

so at first, but after long argument, we more or less had to take them, so we had about

20 women, these Arab women, with them, which was another unusual thing to

happen.

The other incident was we picked up about ten German U-boat prisoners at Gibraltar

to take back to England and they were all in their early twenties and young and very

pale, and in a way they looked frightened. Well, we had to feed them on the way back

to England and under the Geneva Convention, they have to have more or less the

same food we had, and it surprised me that we had a number of arguments with

people saying why should they have bacon and eggs for breakfast when they were U-

boat prisoners, and during the Battle of the Atlantic there were a lot of tankers,

British, American and all nations, blown up and we lost a lot of ships, so on the way

back we were hoping we wouldn't get sunk because we think these U-boat prisoners

would have probably gone down with us.

The other thing I must mention is a lot of LSTs (Landing Ship Tanks). The Americans

had a number on them, not names, and we had a lot of American LSTs on all these

amphibious operations.

The other problem in Italy when we were making these landings south of Naples and

at Anzio and Sicily, we had to come at these landings with carriers, airborne carriers,

which was a difficult job because the Germans were bringing their aircraft from land-

based airports, so this is a thing that we often forgot (or failed to remember) is that the

aircraft carriers, they were mainly Royal Navy, that were covering these landings. The

favourite time for attack by German aircraft off the beachheads was at dusk or dawn

and one of the things that we did there was lay smokescreens to cover ships. One day

we were making a smokescreen down the engine room, and the engine room nearly

caught fire so we had to put that out.

( These are just a few things that I have added after reading the kind of questions that

you needed answered. )

A Snapshot of Eric's War

This story was submitted to the site by the BBC's Peoples War Team in the East

Midlands with Eric Davies permission. The author fully understands the site's terms

and conditions.

It was 15th February 1939 when I joined the London Division RNVR HMS President

at the age of 19. In September of that year I was called up and was sent to HMS

ROYAL ARTHUR at Skegness as an Ordinary Signalman. By November 1940 I had

been promoted to Temporary Sub. Lieut and served in HMS GLENROY.

HMS GLENROY was one of three Assault Ships, sent to the Middle East, carrying

Commando troops. We had various tasks, one of which was being in Crete during the

German Paratroops’ Assault, and subsequent evacuation made under heavy air

attacks, in May 1941.

Around the beginning of March 1942 I was sent to Port Said where I took command

of LCT 117 where we worked up the new crew going through the usual training

procedures. We sailed to Alexandria about 150 miles to the west where we took

aboard ammunition for the Eighth Army and sailed for Tobruk, Libya, about 400miles

distant.

We sailed in company of three other LCT’s and kept station of each other two in line

and two abreast. In the morning about 10.00am a flag signal was run up by the leading

boat to seaward of us, ‘submarine in sight on my starboard side’.

Immediately each craft was turned ‘hard a’ port’ heading towards the shore. I was of

course on the bridge and gave this order and I anxiously watched as the slow turn was

being made. Suddenly I saw a torpedo coming through the water towards us and

unconsciously I was pressing down on my right leg, willing the craft round out of the

way of this danger.

Eventually it appeared that we had successfully avoided the torpedo, as it slid under

our bow, and I breathed a sigh of relief. My right leg ached for some hours after we

eventually got into Tobruk harbour. Meanwhile, my senior leading hand, who had

been amidships on the catwalk, said that he had been coming up from the store room

which was located there, ie half way along the ship, when he had seen a torpedo come

out underneath where he was, so we were very fortunate. As we stood there, four

explosions came from the shore about 2 miles distant as we headed that way. That

submarine CO could not have known much about the shallow draft of our LCT’s…..

Later that morning a submarine surfaced about half a mile distant and that was a nasty

shock. Our armament was only 2-pounder pom-poms which would have been useless

against a U-Boat gun. Fortunately he submerged and left us helpless LCT’s alone.

We finally got to Tobruk mid-afternoon, 20th June 1942, and secured to one of the

many sunken ships with only their masts showing, to which we were directed. Shortly

afterwards we were called in to unload our cargo on a beach alongside a jetty with the

instructions to wait there. Later we were told to evacuate personnel from Tobruk.

Activity increased in the harbour with the German aircraft around and the gunfire,

whilst we were only getting stragglers coming aboard. Then German tanks appeared

on the eastern escarpment and at that moment a Motor Torpedo Boat (MTB) came

tearing back into the harbour laying a smoke screen. This was a very brave act by the

CO (Lieutenant Solomons) braving the shell fire from his side of the harbour. The

MTB then stopped laying smoke . The guns started firing at targets clear of the smoke

which included us.

When no one was coming down to be evacuated I thought it was time to go — we had

a stick of bombs across us and the jetty we were near. We went astern slowly until we

had cleared the end of the jetty. We were turning round until the bow was pointing

towards the harbour entrance and I had just called for ‘full ahead’ when the ship

received a direct hit from a shell.

I was not sure whether it was more than one shell but think it must have been because

the shell which hit the bridge put splinters in each one of us — that is 2x3 men on the

pom-poms, the signalman and myself. In addition the engine room was hit severing

the fuel lines which prevented the landing craft moving. The Wardroom which was

the main office and Officers living quarters was fully ablaze, and I lost all my clothing

and belongings. We had to organise boats and rafts for all those aboard — we had

plenty.

After making sure everyone was OK we took all of the first aid aboard into the boat

— we left in the last boat to leave. We were only a couple of hundred yards from the

shore.

Just before we had taken shell hits — when straightening up to go ahead — there had

been a Naval Motor Launch nearby which carried two depth charges and this took a

direct shell hit and the boat just blew up. There was nothing left. As we passed the

bow of our craft going into the beach we picked up a chap holding onto a towing eye

just above the water line. He hadn’t a stitch of clothing left on him. We gave him

morphine when we got him ashore, but he died in the night.

The Coxswain then checked the injured and bandaged where necessary. We spent the

night on the beach partly in a cave, and early the next morning the German Army

came along and took us away — those injured, to the hospital and the rest to a camp

somewhere. It was very civilised — no rough stuff!

I spent the next six weeks in one of the wards of English personnel with English

Doctors looking after us. In hospital, those of us who could move about helped the

more injured. I particularly assisted a Naval Captain Smith, who had been in charge of

Tobruk and was the NOIC who had been severely injured on a craft trying to run out

of the harbour. I sat with him whenever there was an RAF raid as we had many

bombs dropped in the hospital grounds and he was unable to move.

One other patient I can recall with some amusement. His injury caused him to have

his left arm in plaster-of-paris, fixed in an upright position, so that he looked as if he

was asking for a dance! As there was space between his body and the bandage, for

some days he had a heaving mass of maggots there, keeping the wound clean…….

My own wound did not trouble me. The surgeon told me that in order to take out the

splinter he would have to cut the muscle so left it there as it would most likely work

its way out. I am still waiting……..

We were transferred by open lorry , which had two or three trailers, to Benghazi. The

local people were very kind, offering us water. As soon as we reached our destination

we boarded an Italian aircraft which flew up to Lecce in the heel of Italy. From Lecce

we went by train to Bari (a transit camp) where we stayed a few days.

Our next move was to our permanent camp at Sulmona, situated just south of the

cross-country railway from Pescara, on the east coast of Italy, to Rome — in the

Appenine Mountains.

A very pleasant and healthy environment on the lower slopes of the mountains.

Conditions were very reasonable really. We were mustered twice a day, otherwise

free to do whatever we wished. We received Red Cross parcels regularly from which

our Mess Officer withdrew items he could use to provide us with a mid-day meal. In

addition he purchased vegetables etc, at the gate, from local sources.

From our captors we received a meat ration once a week which was about 2ins in

diameter and daily a bowl of ‘skilly’ which was macaroni, of sorts, in a weak juice.

Hence my permanent dislike of pasta of any sort. The Italian’s ‘skilly’ came once a

day but our own catering could not always be available as it depended on whether the

Red Cross parcels had arrived.

We were housed in long single-storey buildings with a single cast iron stove for which

fuel was provided — mostly wood but a little coal. This was not enough for the really

cold weather but better than nothing — after all, there was a war on……..Fuel

shortages were experienced in all countries involved.

There were about 50 men in each hut. To keep us occupied a schedule of classes was

organised with subjects such as Languages — French, German and Italian.

Accountancy, Building and Surveying and others were run by experienced prisoners.

Many of us talked about our work. It all helped to keep us occupied — some men did

nothing but play cards all day and evening too. I learned to play Bridge and four of us

played each evening all the time I was there. A friend of mine, Jim Taylor, was pretty

good and I learned with him. We played the Culbertson 2½ tricks opener. Also we

played football, England versus Australia and Scotland or against the Other Ranks but

they had many men to chose from and were too strong for us.

Men in the prisoner-of-war camp enjoyed the freedom of choice and many of them

grew beards. I always thought it was a lazy way out and I shaved every day. It gave

me a sense of well-being. The Army never wore beards but the Navy could always

request their CO if they wished to ‘grow a set’ as it was called.If a beard became

straggly a rating would be told to shave it off.

There was one compound only of Officers but possibly six or seven of Other Ranks.

Half of our compound was made up of Australians who were captured in the first

push of Italians who somehow managed to capture Aussies in North Africa. Amongst

these was one Naval Lieutenant but I never did find out how he got there.

One evening a Petty Officer, with whom I had been in touch since I arrived, came to

see me. He had not been seen for some time. It appeared he had just come from the

local Italian hospital where he had been recovering from meningitis.

He asked me if I knew what the Royal Navy men were going to do? I said all I knew

was that I had to be packed up to leave shortly and thought perhaps that I was to take

a working party out of the camp. So he said ‘well, the buzz is repatriation’-which I

could not believe.

The Petty Officer said that he had become friendly with the Italian Padre in the

hospital, where he said that, because he was very weak and under nourished, his

meningitis had been diagnosed early, with the result that he had made a rapid

recovery. The Padre had told him he must be sure to go back to camp as it would be in

his interest to do so.

My instructions came to be ready to leave. I packed what little I had and, after the

farewells, was let out of the compound and taken down to where the rest of the Navy

lads were assembled. Our belongings were searched and they took every single piece

of paper away from us. I lost all the names and addresses of people I had known on

my travels.

Apart from the Navy chaps, there were New Zealanders (Army men) with whom we

trained, private citizens in Alexandria who spoke French and to whose home I was

invited — open invitation. Also people I stayed with in Durban etc. Obviously they

would not want information, that could affect the course of the war, to be taken out of

their country. I was upset at this action.

When this procedure was completed we walked the short distance to the railway

station and boarded a train bound for Bari — the transit camp we passed through

when we came into Italy.

On arrival at the camp in Bari I was suddenly surrounded by my crew from the LCT

which had been shot up in Tobruk. What a lovely moment that was — to see them all

OK and pleased to see me. True to form, they asked whether I had got certain items

for my welfare, and whatever I had not got was produced instantly.

We were taken aboard a hospital ship the GRADISCA and we sailed to the Turkish

coast — the Mersin Straits — where we anchored. Also there was a P&O ship at

anchor. I think here I should point out what had happened.

When the Allied armies were liquidating countries in the Horn of Africa, Somalia was

a Protectorate and was called Italian Somaliland. Sailors in the Italian Navy took their

ships and escaped to Saudi Arabia. King Ibn Saud imprisoned them on an island at

Jiddah and did not want them. However the Allies were not going to let 800 odd

sailors go back to Italy and there were not sufficient sailors in Italian hands to make

an exchange.

Eventually, as time went on, the British lost two destroyers and a cruiser in the

Meditteranean and the numbers increased sufficiently to arrange an exchange of fit

British Navy personnel. The numbers were 843 — this number included some

disabled, amongst whom was the Captain Smith whom I had tended in Tobruk

hospital.

I often wondered how the Australian Naval Lieutenant must have felt for the British

not including him, but, of course, it could not be done.

Now back to the Straits of Mersin. The exchange was arranged that a boat load of

British would leave the GRADISCA and a boat load of Italians would leave the P&O

ship — this went on to the conclusion of the operation. This was the first time we had

been able to feel free to do as we wished. Warnings were issued to us not to over-eat

or drink as our stomachs would not be able to take rich food. Naturally Jack Tar isn’t

one for being denied and quite a number were the worse for wear……FREEDOM,

what a wonderful feeling that was.

I had only been a prisoner-of-war from June 1942 to March 1943 — 9 months. Others

had been much longer. We were all glad to get to Alexandria. The Petty Officer who

had meningitis needed a lot of attention throughout the journey back to the ship.

Around 6 weeks after arriving at Alexandria, I was walking out one day and saw two

Naval Petty Officers approaching me, one of whom I recognised. The other turned out

to be my friend, who had been so ill, but now recovered and filled out to a condition I

had never seen him in.

We went by train to Port Tewfik at the southern end of Suez Canal where we boarded

ISLE DE FRANCE- a large French liner for the voyage home via South Africa. Our

first stop was Durban where we were feted as returning prisoners-of-war. We were

guests of some of the well-to-do people of Durban who made us extremely welcome.

It was their summer time and the gardens and houses were a real luxury for us, after

the times we had been through.

Our journey back to the UK was, fortunately uneventful. When we came up the

Clyde, the most wonderful sight to see were the rolling hills of the lovely green fields

and beautiful mountains. After so much sand and parched areas, green grass was

something special to the eyes.

After returning from being a prisoner-of-war and a couple of months leave, I was

promoted to Temporary Lieutenant RNVR and appointed to a new LCT, being built

on the Clyde, in Scotland.

We then sailed round the British Isles training at various locations with Army

personnel. Eventually we landed troops ashore in Arromanche on D-Day.

After six and a half years I was demobbed and returned to Civvy Street in May 1946.

X-Craft Diver 1943 - Part 1

X-CRAFT DIVER — Part 1

-- A chance of action! --

We returned from leave to HMS Titania, conscious that our training programme was

over, and hoping for news about operations. We were all longing to get our first active

engagement done, and so prove we were capable of carrying out missions on chariots.

But there was no news: just more training, albeit at a reduced tempo, to keep

ourselves in trim, ready for an operation whenever it should be announced. Rumour

and speculation began to flow around the messdeck, and the ratings in our chariot

pairs kept asking us for the latest buzz about action. Alas, we could give them

nothing; we were all disappointed. Weeks went by…

One afternoon, however, a ship rounded the bluff and entered Loch Corrie, anchoring

astern of Tites. She flew the White Ensign, and was thus entitled to drop her hook in

our secluded zone, but she didn't look like a warship. Questions flew around Tites,

and we discovered that this was HMS Alecto, a vessel used by some very rich man in

peace-time. She had been taken over, probably commandeered, to serve the Navy in

wartime for the transport of personnel up and down the coasts of Scotland. But what

her purpose was in entering our hideaway, we could not figure out.

Next morning, however, Commander Fell called all the officers on Tites to a meeting

in the wardroom. This was an unusual move and we therefore sensed he had some

news to give us. My heart began beating fast in anticipation. Perhaps this was going to

be it: we were going to be given the chance to prove ourselves. When we entered,

senior officers were already present and had occupied the armchairs, as custom

demanded. We juniors were meant to remain standing. Jock Shaw and Hobby Hobson

shut the doors and stood guard.

Fell stood up, smiling, looking eager. 'Gentlemen, I have news for you.'

This must be it, I thought at once - and wondered who had been selected, hoping it

was me as well as others. Above all I didn't want to be left out - yet at the same time

the adrenalin of fear pumped through my veins.

'I've asked you in, because what I have to say concerns us all.'

All of us? Even the officers in Tites's complement? So was it an operation, or not?

'But in particular the charioteer officers.'

So it must be an operation! But how could it be so big, and take in over a dozen

charioteers?

He scanned us swiftly with his eyes. 'I shall be asking you later to make a choice, one

which some of you may find difficult. You'll understand why when I've explained

what it's about.'

This didn't sound at all clear. We waited in silence.

'But before I begin, I have to insist that what I say is not merely confidential, but top

secret. And when I say top secret, I really mean so secret that nothing in the field of

active operations by the Navy in this war so far matches it in degree of secrecy.' Fell

looked uncharacteristically earnest, almost frightened by the burden of what he was

carrying. 'So I must ask you beforehand, everyone of you, to undertake, as officers

and gentlemen, never to divulge anything of the details I'm about to give you - until

the operation is over.'

So there was an operation intended! My heart gave a bound, and began thumping

faster.

Captain Fell's eyes searched us one by one, anxiously. 'Is that fully and clearly

understood?'

'Aye, aye, sir,' came from several throats; the naval form of assent showed that we

appreciated the solemnity in his manner. He had given us an order to obey.

'Now you all know,' Fell began, 'that we belong to the Twelfth Submarine Flotilla,

under the command of Captain Banks.'

We nodded, though this sort of information didn't really touch us charioteers; I had

more or less forgotten about our belonging to Willy Banks at Rothesay, on the Isle of

Bute. I had never been there, and doubted whether any other charioteer had either.

'So chariots come under him, as do Welmans... But there's another type of craft that's

been developed, also in secret. The midget submarine.'

A tremor of interest ran through us juniors.

'They're called X-craft. X for secrecy. An X-craft carries a three man crew, two

officers and an ERA Petty Officer. They attack as chariots do, by penetrating enemy

harbours and placing explosives under the target, then making their way out again

before the charge goes up.'

'A sort of warhead, then, Sir?'

'I can't tell you that at present,' Fell replied. 'But what I can say is that an operation has

been planned for six of these midget submarines, to take place in less than three

months.'

'That's good-O for them, sir,' Hobby put in, 'but how does that touch the charioteers?'

Fell smiled. 'The operation planned requires these craft to be able to get through nets.

They can't do so without a diver. Without men who know their way about nets. So we

are asking for volunteers to go with the midget subs, to serve as divers, and cut them

through the nets.'

That would be six divers, I thought quickly - but there were over a dozen of us in the

room. I felt Geordie Nelson's right hand steal into mine and press it firmly. He must

mean he was already committed: I returned his pressure and so - in effect - was I. He

clearly expected me to say yes.

'I can see signs that some of you are wanting to speak up right away,' Fell added. 'But

before you do so, there's something you have to consider. The six who go as divers

will be away from chariots for the whole period of the operation, say about three

months. This means that the chariot crews, six of them, will be split; you'll lose your

Number Twos. That's the difficult part. For there's no guarantee that those who return

from the operation -' he paused significantly '- will be re-united with the other man in

the pair... In fact it's very unlikely.'

I realised that I hadn't even thought of this aspect, so keen was I to get into action. It

would mean giving up the partnership with Pearcy. But in the next moment I had

abandoned him; I wasn't going to let that kind of loyalty prevent me from tasting the

operation offered. I had done so much training; now I wanted to prove to myself that I

could do it - or die in the attempt. Either would do.

-- Who goes? --

'I don't want volunteers now, this very moment,' Fell went on. 'I want you to think

about losing your crewman. But I also want you - all of those who wish to, that is - to

have a try on a midget submarine, getting the feel of these craft. That means going

down to HMS Varbel at Port Bannatyne on Bute, and having a trial run at being a

diver on an X-craft.'

'Getting in and out, sir? Like we did recently on the T-boat here?'

'Yes … and no. Same basic principle, but on a very much smaller scale.'

'When do we leave, sir?'

Fell smiled. 'Good man! This evening, on Alecto.' He scanned us with his bright,

warm eyes. 'Now I want you all to understand that I need volunteers. But we have to

have those divers, to help the midget sub through the obstacles. The kind you know

already — cutting through A/S nets, and getting round or under A/T netting.'

'How big are the midgets, sir?'

'About fifty feet long, and eight in diameter.'

The sound of PHEW from several sources.

'Have to make a big hole in the A/S nets, sir, to get her through.'

Fell smiled. 'It's been done … Now I shall leave a sheet of paper headed X-craft

Divers on the desk of my cabin from noon to one, and those who want to volunteer

can sign. We want six of you, but more can make their way down to Varbel to try out

being in one of these X-craft. They're small inside — you can't stand up in them!'

Another gasp of surprise from many quarters. 'What about the escape chamber, sir?'

He grinned. 'It's a cosy little compartment — you sit on the heads, in fact!'

Sudden laughter released some of our tension.

'Right, gentlemen! That's all — except for one thing. You'll have to tell your Number

Two's if you decide to volunteer. Tell them nothing about the midgets — just that you

have been called away on another operation, and that the pairs will be reshuffled

accordingly.'

The charioteers crowded into one corner of the wardroom as Fell and the other

officers left.

'Ah'm ganning!' Geordie declared at once.

'Decided already?' Strugnell commented, with a superior air.

Ede tossed his head. 'Doesn't sound like anything worth doing!'

'It's an op, isn't it?' Spike countered. 'That's what I want — one way or another!'

'I don't trust them,' Strugnell stated. 'They'll slip through and leave you on the net.'

'I like chariots!' Pod stated roundly. 'I know what I'm doing, and in charge. And I don't

want to give up my Number Two. We form a team, already.'

I had expected there to be more enthusiasm for an operation, and began to wonder

whether I was wrong to think of volunteering. I would once again lose the

companionship of three of the original training group — and knew I would miss their

friendship.

In the event, six of us signed up: Geordie Nelson, Dickie Kendall, Bob Aitken, Chick

Thomson, Spike O'Sullivan and me. We packed our bags that afternoon and

transferred to Alecto after tea. We were shown to our quarters, a kind of compact

dormitory inserted by the Navy to suit the transport of personnel: double bunks,

somewhere below the main deck, dark and poorly ventilated. But that contrasted

totally with the appearance of the ship at main deck level. For Alecto, we learned

from the engineer officer, had been built as a pleasure steamer for a rich industrialist

at the turn of the century, and the fittings in the wardroom were of finer quality than

anything I had seen so far in the Navy. It was meant for luxury cruising, and that was

in a sense what appeared to lie ahead for us: a passage of 15 to 18 hours, depending

on the weather. We were to sail down Loch Linnhe, turn south making past Jura, and

then all the way round the Mull of Kindred, till we could head north again up the Firth

of Clyde and so reach Bute.

-- Seaway --

So we waved goodbye to the others at four bells that evening — six o'clock, marking

the start of the Second Dog — and stood at the guard-rail chatting and watching the

Scottish coast-line drift past in the July sunshine, as Alecto rumbled her way down

Loch Linnhe, making a seemly ten knots. A freshening wind from the south-west

whipped the smoke off her one funnel and trailed it back towards Loch Corrie, as if in

a final reluctant adieu. As the distance increased, I wondered whether I had made the

right choice … But to have been given the chance of action, and then turned it down

… Unthinkable!

Alecto was already pitching a little as she made her way that evening down the loch.

We six charioteers went in to dinner a little before seven thirty. I saw with surprise

that the octagonal table, laid out with a crisply starched white table cloth and a full set

of gleaming cutlery, was fitted with wooden edging all round, to prevent the plates

sliding off in a storm and depositing their contents on your lap — or the carpeted deck

below.

The two-ringer grey-haired RNR skipper was already there with a whisky in hand,

talking with the Scots engineer, a one-ringer long-service RN officer promoted from

the ranks and drawn back into service from retirement. The skipper broke off to offer

us striplings a drink from the bar.

'After this one, it'll be up to you to pay. No messing rights for trips on Alecto.'

It was clearly up to us to behave, and play the part of the very junior. There was

clearly to be no deference paid to us, in spite of our being involved in hazardous

service.

Not since my unhappy fortnight at the Royal Naval College at Greenwich had I seen

so well appointed a table. The steward ladled in a generous helping of soup into the

Victorian plates, and we fell to. I made some haste, for I saw that the brown liquid slid

this way and that as Alecto now pitched and rolled significantly. The fear of allowing

a slurry to come on that table-cloth aroused all my boyhood fears of misbehaviour at

the family table. Both the skipper and the engineer were old enough to be my uncles

…

I was glad to get out into the fresh air after the meal, and let the wind streak through

my hair on the weather side of the vessel. The slow dusk of the north was beginning

to gather, and coating the waves with grey, flecked with spume where the crest had

been scattered. The vessel was now pitching and rolling with the kind of corkscrew

motion that I remembered all too well from the passage to and from Iceland on the

Manchester. But this little ship was not even a quarter of the size of the cruiser, and

seemed to be just the right shape to respond to each feature of the swell.

I tried to fight the tell-tale signs of incipient sea-sickness, but within half an hour

knew I must turn in, and go horizontal. That had always eased my sufferings on the

cruiser. I clawed my way down the companionway, tore off my outer clothing, and

stretched out on my bunk, looking forward to the sense of relief. But the motion of

this ship was sharper and more sudden than I had known on the Manchester, and I

continued to feel queasy, and slept only in uneasy snatches, well aware that the

motion of Alecto grew more pronounced as the night passed. At six bells of the

morning watch I rose, and struggled into my clothes, leaning against the stanchions

that supported the bunk so as to prevent my being thrown about.

Up on deck the fresh air helped, but the ship was being tossed about like a plaything

in waves that belonged out in the Atlantic, to my way of thinking. I could see a

coastline to port, and looked around to pick out any feature I recognised. Far off, half

hidden in low scurrying cloud, I picked out the characteristic steep cone of Ailsa

Craig. That would mean another four hours of sailing up the Firth of Clyde. It would

be mid morning before we got to Varbel.

Breakfast? The thought made me feel instantly worse. But I decided I must try, and so

made my way into the covered part of the upper deck, and along the pitching, rolling

corridor until I entered the wardroom. The Engineer Officer was tucking in to a plate

of bacon and eggs.

'Come on in, sub, and get something under your belt!' He grinned at me.

I smiled weakly, and sat down, as far from his plate as possible. The steward brought

me some porridge, and I spooned some of it down — and then knew I couldn't hold it.

I stood up, burst along the corridor, and reached the lee side of the open deck just in

time.

HMS Varbel

Three hours later Alecto was behaving herself decorously as we proceeded smoothly

past Rothesay and headed towards Port Bannatyne, where HMS Varbel — the shore

base headquarters for the XII Submarine Flotilla — was located. A skimming dish

came out from there, and two RNVR lieutenants climbed nimbly up the

companionway that had been lowered for them. They were in submarine sweaters,

like us. They lost no time in assembling us charioteers in the wardroom to instruct us

in what was to happen that day. We were to proceed up Loch Striven on board Alecto

to a kind of offshoot of the main headquarters called Varbel Two, where we would

exercise getting out and in of X-craft. Excitement grew in us when we were told we

would soon joined up with one of these creations, and try out our diving skills.

‘What do we have to do, actually?’

‘Get in the X-craft on the surface, and do a dummy run of getting out.’

‘While she’s still on the surface?’

‘Right. And get back inside again.’

‘Just get out on the casing, is that it — and then down into her again?’

‘Correct. And then the same thing again, only underwater.’

‘How deep?’

‘On the bottom of the loch — at twelve feet.’

We smiled. That was kid’s stuff, as regards depth. ‘You got the gear for us, then?’

‘The suits.’

‘The full kit?’

‘Not the bottles. Just the DSEA kit will do.’

‘And then?’

‘Get inside the chamber and pump the water in till it’s full, then swing the arm, press

the equalising cock, and lift the hatch. Get out, crawl around on the casing, and then

back in. Reverse drill.’

‘Do we control the pump?’

‘No, that’s from inside. You signal to the skipper through a porthole covered with

thick glass.’

‘So we need to learn the signals.’

‘They’re quite straightforward. It only took us a morning to learn the whole drill.’

We looked at the officers. ‘So you’re X-craft crew too?’

‘We’re part of the whole outfit, but put on to training others.’

We nodded; that was familiar. These two had jobs like Hobby and Jock Shaw.

‘So it’s a dry run first, and then in the wet?’

‘Correct. One man at a time.’

The X-craft

On the way up Loch Striven we were all on the look-out for the midget submarine,

and had been told it lay ahead of us, having set out from Varbel One an hour

beforehand. But what we saw first, far ahead, was the erect figure of a man, in some

kind of weatherproof materials, moving along on the surface of the water, and holding

on to a piece of metal piping that protruded almost vertically. Not until we had come

up much closer were we able to make out some stout metal brackets near his feet, and

perceive that they were there to protect the periscope housing. Once he was within a

few hundred yards we could see that he was standing on a flat casing, which rose only

a few inches above the calm waters of the loch. For rougher weather we could see the

value of the waterproof suiting he was wearing, with a towel round his neck, in

genuine submariner style.

We were full of questions about the craft’s performance, but the two lieutenants

would only answer what related to diving, on the grounds that we had not yet

acquitted ourselves in the necessary skills and might therefore simply have to return

to Tites. The fewer in the know, the better. Alecto drew ahead and anchored at the

head of the loch, and a few minutes later the X-craft chugged past and drew up further

inshore. A skiff pulled out from a jetty, behind which a large house showed from

amongst trees. That place, we were told, was Varbel II, a training headquarters.

We studied the strange craft, only fifty yards away. A hatch opened forward of the

periscope guard, and a head appeared and vanished again. The engines coughed and

stopped, and two men climbed out of the hatch and looked back at Alecto.

‘Ready for the dry run!’ One of them called out.

A skiff took us divers across in twos, to take a look inside the X-craft. When my turn

came round, I was astonished to see that the space below the forward hatch was so

small. There was a loo seat, but it was almost flush with the metal floor of the escape

chamber, which we now learned was regularly called the wet-and-dry by midget

submariners. I dropped inside and crouched in it. Looking forward I saw planking

stretching about eight feet towards the bows; the space there smelt of battery acid.

Looking aft I saw into the control room. Nearby was the helm, a wheel mounted

horizontally, and further aft was the hydroplane wheel, set vertically. One of the

officers was touching the things in rapid succession as he explained, but his bulk often

obstructed a proper view of the equipment. I could see there was little room for

movement, and wondered how we would be able to manage to dress into full diving

rig in so restricted a space.

But it was time for the dry run: that was what we had come for.

‘My name’s Jack,’ he said, sitting on the loo seat; I watched him from inside the

control room, and Geordie from the battery space forward.

‘Your controls are only three, apart from the door clips fore and aft. There’s the

flooding lever -’ he operated a large handle behind him ‘- the hatch clip above your

head, and the equalising cock.’

We soon learned the drill for flooding and emptying the wet-and-dry — on a dummy

run, and then had to go through the sequence, first with our eyes open, then closed.

When submerged we would be operating in the dark, apart from the faint light that

would show through the thick glass giving on the control room. Geordie and I did the

actions four times in all. I noticed how low I had to crouch to see through the glass

into the control room. It was going to be very cramped, in a diving suit, and I realised

there would be no possibility of getting the air properly out of the suit, until you were

out on the casing underwater.

The two X-craft lieutenants came on board Alecto for lunch, and were ready to

answer the many questions we found to ask.

'Where do you sleep, when you're out at sea?'

'Forward, over the batteries,' came the reply. 'Fine for stretching out.'

'And how about eating?'

'There's a primus. Always rustle something up - soup. or eggs, from powder you

know. And have a brew of tea.'

'Are you crouched, and crawling about all the time, then?'

'No, you can almost stand by the periscope. At least you can if you're short.’

‘Where do you keep the diving gear?’

‘In the battery compartment, I suppose.’

‘You haven’t got a place assigned for it? And the protosorb tins?’

‘The what?’

‘Protosorb. To absorb the carbon you breathe out, and send the rest back as oxygen.’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t know what you’re on about.’

‘Have you ever dressed a diver inside the X-craft?’

‘We’ll do it this afternoon. Or rather you will — you know how, I take it?’

‘Of course! We’ve done it dozens of times.’

‘There you are. That’s why we need divers.’

‘To cut through the nets, Tiny Fell told us. Have you done that?’

The lieutenant looked shocked. ‘Good God, no! But they’ve been practising that up in

HHZ.’

‘In whattee?’

‘HHZ. Top secret operational base up in the far north.’

‘In the Hebrides, you mean?’

‘No, mainland. If you can say that about some godforsaken loch. Haven’t been there,

myself. But Maxie Shean is up there and working at the techniques of cutting an X-

craft through the nets.’

‘Is he a diver, then?’

‘You could say that, I suppose.’

‘Can we meet him, then?’

‘You will — that’s if you get through the escape and re-entry drills this afternoon.’

‘How come?’

‘Alecto will take you up there, lickety-split.’

My stomach lurched. A sea passage probably twice as long as the one we had just

done.

‘So we’ll be able to practise on nets up there?’

‘That’s the plan, as I understand it. Our job here is simply to take you through the

motions. And I have to say that most of us X-craft people don’t like being in the wet-

and-dry, and have the water rise up around us. It gets bloody dark in there. Dark and

tight. Till the equaliser finally works.’

‘Sounds as though it takes its time.’

‘Too bloody long, for my liking.’

Wet-and-dry

The idea for our drill was clear enough. The diver would board the X-craft on the

surface, settle himself in the escape compartment, close the entrance hatch, and wait

for the craft to submerge and settle on the bottom, in about fifteen feet of water. Then

he would put himself on oxygen, and signal to the crew through the glass port for the

compartment to be filled with water. Once it was full, he would press on the equaliser

and wait till he could open the hatch above him manually. Then he would exit from

the midget submarine, crawl aft to the end of the casing, then forward again, and

finally re-enter the craft, shutting the escape hatch above his head. He would signal to

the crew to pump the chamber dry with the vessel still submerged, and then make

direct verbal contact with the crew through the inner hatchway. Finally he should wait

for re-surfacing before re-opening the hatch, and then get out on the casing and step

across to the skiff. The sequence of actions was thus similar to that adopted for the

exercise with the large submarine some weeks earlier: the contrary to what it would

be in action.

My turn came quite early. As I stepped on the X-craft casing I noticed that the whole

vessel yielded slightly to my weight. I was also very conscious of how little freeboard

there was between the deck and the water. If the X-craft were on the surface in a

seaway, the waves would be breaking over the casing, and threaten to sweep

overboard the officer in command.

The training officer preceded me into the X-craft, and squatted at the hatch giving on

the control room, while I manoeuvered my body, now enclosed in the diving suit, but

with the visor open, on to the loo-seat in the wet and dry.

'When shall I go on O2?'

'That'll have to be later on, just before we flood the compartment you’re in.’

I nodded, but thought how restricted it would be when wearing the full breathing kit;

normally we had to do three full forward bends to rid our lungs of all the nitrogen.

He turned to the skipper. ‘Ready for the exercise.’

‘Close the forward hatch!’ came the order.

I reached above my head, and found the edge of the circular lid, and drew it down

over my head. Then I swung the locking arm through ninety degrees to secure it.

‘Forward hatch secured shut!’ I reported.

‘Stand by to dive!’

I half listened to the commands to vent the ballast tanks, but ran across the few

controls with my hand, first looking, and then with my eyes shut. I would have to feel

my way in the dark.

I heard the hiss of air escaping from the saddle tanks on both sides. The craft began to

settle, very gently. The small waves stopped slapping against the casing. The light

through the observation dome dulled, becoming greenish.

'Five feet!' called out the first lieutenant, sitting at the depth gauges. There was a faint

bump as the keel touched the bottom. The whole craft settled with a slight nose-up

angle. ‘Ten feet!’

The training officer looked at me. 'All right?'

I raised a thumb.

‘Then break your oxylet and go on to O2.’

It snapped easily, and heard the hiss of transmission, I felt the bag; it was inflating. I

put on my nose-clip, and settled it firmly into place. Leaning forward as far as I could,

I emptied my lungs, and breathed in the slightly sweet oxygen from the bag — three

times.

‘All right?’

Thumbs up.

The glass observation hatch swung shut, then the heavy metal hatch. I was in total

darkness. Two thumps came from within; I answered with another two. Now I was on

my own.

I yanked the lever beside my hips. At once a great gurgling of water and hissing of air

began, reverberating in the confined metal box in which I sat. I felt the cold water grip

my calves, encircle my loins, crawl up to my knees, finger up my chest, envelop my

neck. It swished around my visor. Now I was fully underwater, and bouncing around

in what space I had, for I had been unable to vent my suit in the way we normally did

on the shotrope. I did what I could to release the trapped air, then searched for the

equaliser and pressed. No sound could be heard. Was it working? Had it clogged up?

But I could just feel that there was some outflow through the lower end of the narrow

nozzle. I pressed and pressed. I tried opening the main lever to see if the hatch would

now open. But a minute more was needed before suddenly, quite easily, it lifted. The

familiar green light of the sunlit shallows beneath the surface streamed over me.

I raised the hatch on its hinges to open fully, and stretched upwards to be erect, and

just managing to arrest my ascent by hooking my toes round the lip of the hatchway.

Now I was able to vent the rest of the air from my suit. Then I crawled aft, hooking

my finger in the holes made in the casing, and acknowledged skipper’s wiggle of the

main periscope at me. I reached the end of the casing and looked out over the stern of

the craft; The rudder and hydroplanes were clearly visible, as were some of the blades

of the propeller. The X-craft looked more purposeful below the surface, where its

shape could be properly made out; on the top it looked like a short and ineffectual

piece of casing, with a hump in the middle.

I turned round and pulled myself along the top of the casing, and swung down again

into the wet-and-dry. This time I was able to settle myself much more naturally on the

seat, and lowered the hatch over me, eclipsing the daylight again. Carefully I pulled it

tight down over my head, and swung the locking arm through ninety degrees, housing

it firmly shut. My two knocks on the control room hatch brought an immediate

response: I heard the pumps working; the water level was already crawling down my

headpiece.

Once the gurgling had finished, the hatch opened.

'All right, then?'

I grunted a Yes.

‘You can come off O2 then. Stand by to surface!'

'Stand by to surface.'

'Shut main vents!'

'Main vents shut.'

'Blow main tanks!'

'Blow main tanks.'

The hiss of air was powerful, like the noise of a train in a tunnel. The X-craft began

rising, and in a few moments bounced slowly as if broke surface. The bright sunlight

broke through the glass setting shafts of light dancing inside the control room,

reflected off the water.

'Open main hatch!'

I did so, and stood up, then clambered out on the casing.

The skiff engine was already puttering, eager to carry me back to Alecto, and bring

the next man out to go through the same drill. Back on board the luxury yacht, I found

Geordie Nelson waiting for me at the top of the companionway, his eyes dancing with

eagerness..

‘We’re gannin’ … We’re gannin’!’

He took it for granted that I would be as enthusiastic as he.

‘Getting out and in’s all right,’ I observed, this time not slipping into Northumbrian

dialect so as to give myself the distance I needed. ‘But we have no idea what is

involved in getting these monsters through the nets. And that’ll be the main task,

surely.’

‘Whativer it is, I’m for it!’ he asserted.

His mind was made up. But I would have liked to practise cutting through an A/S net

and seeing the X-craft follow, before making a decision. As so often in wartime, it

was a case of hanging around for months, and then having to rush at the last minute,

ill-prepared for the task. And Strugnell’s words about being left stranded on the nets,

while the X-craft disappeared on its way, kept reverberating in my mind. That would

mean making my way ashore, climbing out of my suit, and then trying to make an

escape along one of the routes we had heard about, with the help of local patriots - a

pretty chancy business, surely.

Yet I knew I was going to say yes. So I re-assured Geordie that I was still for the X-

craft action. As the evening advanced it gradually became clear that no charioteers

had given it the thumbs down.

HMS Bonaventure

The operation for which the X-craft were being prepared was now deemed of such

urgency that Alecto was to take us divers immediately up north to the secret loch

where the X-craft were based. That, we presumed, would enable us to practise cutting

the midgets through the nets, and getting to know our way around on these compact

vessels so as to make ourselves more generally useful. We looked forward also to

getting to know the other three members of the crew of the X-craft to which we were

to be assigned.

Fortunately the storm had blown itself out, and we had a less disturbed trip north,

even though Alecto continued to respond to the faintest swell. Two nights and a day

of steaming brought us into the bight of Eddrachillis bay - though then I didn't know

its name - and approaching Port HHZ. I could see that this was another kind of

landscape we were nearing, quite unrelated to the smooth green slopes at the head of

Loch Corrie, or the high rounded shoulders of hills edging the wider waters of Loch

Linnhe. Here in the far north-west the headlands were gnarled with rock, ancient and

menacing; they promised complex, treacherous shapes underwater. Inland, the patches

of grass looked yellow and sparse; outcrops of grey stone speckled the landscape.

This was a bleak coast worn down by wind and weather, and savaged by the power of

the great Atlantic swell, whose massive lift we could feel below us even on this calm

summer's morning, raising and lowering the slim grace of Alecto as if she weighed no

more than a cockle-shell.

We made for the most inhospitable corner of the bay, up in its north-east corner. Not

until we were within a couple of hundred yards of a craggy, riven hillside did Alecto

swing rapidly to starboard and set her bows into a loch entrance that quite suddenly

revealed itself. As we rounded the point to the south of us, the extent of this gully into

the land became apparent; for two miles, three perhaps, the loch extended inland. On

its southern shore, tucked away near a cliff, a vessel lay at anchor, as well as moored

to the shore, her bows pointing seaward: HMS Bonaventure. The name seemed to

harbinger well.

This depot ship was much larger than Tites: that we could see at once. Her freeboard

looked about twice as high, and the cranes at the well-decks were much more stoutly

built. Tites was black, having kept her more ancient merchant ship colours from

before the war; this depot ship was a light grey, quite in keeping with many other

units of the fleet. By now we were abreast of the larger vessel. As Alecto swung

through a half circle, and moved closer to the big depot ship, we could see several X-

craft moored to the boom protruding to starboard.

The six of us who had volunteered for service as divers on X-craft transferred to

Bonaventure almost at once. The change in atmosphere from Tites was immediately

palpable. In place of homely warmth, with much easy boyish buffoonery in the

wardroom, Bonaventure was severe and purposeful, bustling with activity and tense

with deadlines to be met, virtually from hour to hour. The working-up schedule for

the operation was already tight, yet constant revisions had to be made as one or other

mechanical fault would show and have to be put right, or some supply material fail to

arrive on time, necessitating yet another change of plan.

To begin with, we divers were at a loose end. This was partly because provision had

not originally been made for practice at cutting through nets; we were therefore yet

another item to be fitted somehow into the busy schedule. But it was also to give the

operational commanders of the X-craft the opportunity of taking our measure

individually, and thus of making their choices as to which diver each was prepared to

have in his crew. In the confined space of a midget submarine, it was important to

have men ready and able to cooperate with each other. The diver would be the new

man, added at the eleventh hour to a crew of three who had already got used to

working together. So the commanding officers were eyeing us and appraising us from

time to time, probably a lot more closely and critically than we imagined.

Geordie and I had come on board the Bonaventure in a truculent frame of mind. We

were primarily charioteers, but as divers had skills that the X-craft couldn't do

without. We may even have thought

it was we who were making the operation possible: such a conclusion would have in

any case been in keeping with my mood on the first day. At lunch, and perhaps at

dinner too, the charioteers took to sitting in a group of six, noticeably separate from

the X-craft people; there was a distinct feeling of us and them.

I remember throwing off remarks loudly to Geordie on the second day, as he sat

beside me, about those X-craft types, and making myself obnoxious. I think I felt

disturbed by the change from being the centre of attention on Tites to simply one of a

much larger team, and a somewhat unwelcome late arrival at that. Certainly I

remember no warmth towards us from the X-craft crews, when we arrived. So if they

were going to be stand-offish, we could be hostile in return. This led to a sharp

exchange I had in the wardroom at lunch with an RN lieutenant who took exception to

the style of my remarks, and snubbed me in public. I learned afterwards that this was

one of the X-craft commanders, Lieutenant Godfrey Place. I hadn't experienced this

kind of nastiness since my training at King Alfred, and I found it particularly

unwelcome in the context of an imminent hazardous operation.

But we still didn't know what it was we were going to do, what the operation actually

entailed specifically, not with any precision. Of course the senior staff knew, and we

believed the X-craft commanders had also been let into the secret, but even they

would not admit to anything. The view was taken that the strictest security was to be

maintained. And as people were still moving in and out of the base, and even going

into Inverness and beyond on duty, no information was given other than that an

operation was due in September, and that nets were expected; what kind of nets was

not made clear, however, to our discomfiture. For if they were anti-torpedo nets, we

would not be able to cut the midget through them; these were normally made of rings

of wire a few inches in diameter, looped together like chain-mail. This doubt about

our utility to the operation remained with us during the working-up period and

presumably was in the minds of the other crew members as well.

I was certain that Godfrey Place wouldn’t want to have me as his diver; nor would I

have wished to be enclosed in the confined space of an X-craft with him. It took me

some time to find out who were the operational skippers for the trip, because each X-

craft had a passage crew as well as an action crew. That meant twelve commanding

officers, as well as a dozen second lieutenants, drawn from a wide variety of sources,

including several from Australia and South Africa. The action CO who attracted me

most strongly was a British RNVR lieutenant called Henty-Creer; he had a twinkle in

his eye and wore his cap at a jaunty angle that seemed to me to fit the character of a

hazardous undertaking. More and more I felt drawn to him, and hoped that he would

pick me.

Australians

We had to wait, however. The commanding officers, both passage and action, were

busily engaged in getting their craft ready, and tasks kept appearing that required the

X-craft to be hoisted inboard, at a time when there were only limited berths on deck

for this to be carried out. So I felt they were jostling for priority in the queue, and had

little desire to bother about choosing their divers; that could wait till later. As the

days, indeed weeks, went by without our having the opportunity of practising on the

nets, I became more and more uneasy.

There was one officer amongst the X-craft crews whom I recognised, however: Jack

Marsden, an Australian who had been with me in the same training division at King

Alfred. In fact I remembered him from earlier, in those infamous barrack buildings at

Portsmouth, for it was he who had talked about his homeland to a group of sailors,

extolling its opportunities, and saying that after the war men like us were needed in

Australia needed to swell its population. So I must have made contact with Jack, and

perhaps shared a beer at the bar, and he may have gone to his CO, another Australian

called Buck McFarlane, and talked to him about me. But I think it was several weeks

after our arrival before Buck came up to me, again in the bar, and asked me straight

out if I'd like to be their diver. I was already inclined to favour Australians in general;

Buck had a keen and sunny eye; so I accepted at once.

'You know Jack, don't you?' Buck asked.

'Yes, from KA.'

'But you'll not have met the ERA yet, Jock Murray. He's down in X8 now, doing a bit

of maintenance. Like to come down? That way you can meet him and have a look at

the craft as well.' 'Right.' I was keen to have a proper look inside an X-craft. So far I

had had little more than a glimpse. Now I would be seeing the X-craft of which I

formed one of the crew.

We clambered along the boom and down a jacob's ladder to the craft. Again I noticed

how she yielded to our weights as we stepped aboard. Buck led the way down,

leaving the main hatch open. As I crouched down in the wet-and-dry I heard

hammering from aft. Buck was standing in the centre of the control room, with his

head up in the periscope dome. He ducked down to see me.

'Well, here she is. Squat down there by the wet-and-dry and I'll take you through the

controls. You know the levers for the main hatch and flooding already.'

'And the equaliser valve. But what is there forward of the wet-and-dry?'

'We'll take that last. Now here's the helm.' Buck slipped into the seat and worked the

wheel. I twisted my head round and saw the compass.

'Does it work off a giro?'

'Too right it does. Magnetic would go haywire near any other ship.'

'Yeah ...We had that trouble on chariots.' I was already using the past tense. For on

jeeps, the compass had frequently swung wildly during the last fifty yards of an

underwater approach.

I looked aft. ‘She seems full of pipes and cables and levers ... What have I got to

avoid touching?'

Buck thought for a moment. 'Not a lot. really. The flooding lever in the wet-and-dry -

but you know about that. The wheels to turn the charges out - but they're locked

anyway.'

'Which are they?'

Buck stepped aft and crouched down again. He was a small man, and could move

easily in the confined space. I felt enormous and clumsy. 'Here they are.' He touched

two large wheels that looked like old-fashioned lorry steering wheels, one on either

side of the hull. 'But there's nothing mounted there.'

'Nothing mounted where?' I had no idea what he was talking about.

Buck turned to look at me, almost as mystified as I was. 'On the saddle tanks. of

course ... Jeez - haven't they told you?'

'Told me what?'

'The explosives ... They're carried on the saddle-tanks. one each side.'

'You mean like torpedo warheads?'

Buck laughed. 'They really haven't told you a thing. have they? Well. that's good for

security. But as you're the diver. you've got to know. You'll be getting us through the

nets...' He turned to me with a pre-occupied look. 'That's what we hope, at least.'

So Buck shared my uncertainty about getting through the nets: I felt relieved.

'No,’ he continued, ‘the explosives are shaped to fit round the tanks. like thick scoops.

They make the craft a bit fatter. but echo the general lines.'

'And these wheels are to wind them out?’

'Right. And let them drop to the sea-bed.'

'They don't have to be fastened to the ship's belly with magnets then?'

Buck looked taken aback. 'No, no ... Is that what you do with your warheads?'

‘Sure!’

‘No, no. The explosive in the side-charges is made of amatol, and that's so powerful it

can lift thousands of tons of water, and anything that's floating up above. The seabed

makes all the thrust go upwards, where the water pressure is least.'

A grimy face poked out from a hatchway aft.

'That job's done. Surr.' It was at once clear that Jock Murray came from Glasgow.

'Good on you, Jock. Meet Sub-Lieutenant Hindmarsh. He's our diver.'

'Welcome aboord, Surr.' The face grinned for a brief moment. then resumed its

lugubrious expression. In the Navy, engineroom artificers were traditionally expected

to be dour and doleful, convinced that the commander and officers of the watch had

no regard for the health of the ship's engines, for which each ERA cared with jealous

maternal pride. The face disappeared aft again, into what I assumed must be the

engineroom; there must be even less space to move around than in the control room, I

surmised - rightly, as it turned out.

Buck took a pace aft, and stood up to his full height, his head almost touching the

periscope dome. 'Good to have a stretch,' he smiled. His teeth were a dazzling white;

with his fair hair, tanned complexion and golden-brown beard, he looked a picture-

book mariner.

I moved to try to stand beside him, but only succeeded in straightening my legs. My

trunk remained bowed in a caricature of simian posture. 'Too short for me, Sir.' I had

caught the sirring from Jock Murray, and regretted having used the formality.

Buck looked slightly embarrassed too. He looked down at the deck, then up into my

eyes. 'There's no room for quarterdeck bullshit here,' he announced. 'I'm the skipper,

and I give the orders. But it's Jack and Buck between us, and I call the ERA Jock,

though he calls me Sir. That feels right to me. But it wouldn't be right for you. So it's

Buck and - what do they call you?'

'Lefty is what I get mostly.'

Buck didn't look convinced. 'Odd name, that. Still, if it's yours...'

'How does the periscope work?'

Buck switched on and a thin tube hissed up close to my shoulder.

'Take a look, this way.' He pressed his eyes on the soft rubber housing for a moment,

and I copied him, holding the handpieces and swivelling the slim metal shaft this way

and that, and trying to focus on the far shore of the loch. The image was small,

lacking in detail.

‘It’s the attack periscope. The navigating one is further aft, and sticks out permanently

above the casing. But the real works are back here,' Buck asserted, with a note of

pride.

'The engines - the motors?' I tried to correct myself.

'Well, yes, both are there of course, just like on the big jobs... But I meant the controls

- speed underwater, and depth. Jack sits here while I have the con; Jock Murray's at

the helm ... Can you steer a course, hold the helm against the sea?'

'I'd like to try,' I smiled. 'At any rate I can read the compass.'

'Good-O, we might need that. Give Jock a spell, so he could see to the engines while

we're on the surface.'

I was studying the dials and levers. 'Feet or fathoms?'

'Feet!' Buck exploded. 'We can't go much below two hundred feet in these craft,

Maybe two hundred and fifty at a pinch.' I peeped into the engineroom. Jock was still

there, with a spanner and an oily rag.

We left him to it and went up to the wardroom for tea.

That evening in the mess when the charioteers gathered, we discovered that each of us

had been allotted to an X-craft, and had met the crew members. Geordie was to join

X5, skippered by Henty-Creer, who had the reputation of being the most original of

the skippers present. Bob Aitken's strength and solid calm had commended itself to

Godfrey Place of X7. Chick Thomson, lithe and athletic, seemed to fit in well with

fellow Scot Don Cameron. Spike O’Sullivan would have been assigned to Terry

Martin’s X9, but developed persistent sinus problems and had to withdraw, and was

replaced by Maxie Shean, the Australian who had been working out techniques for

cutting X-craft through A/S netting. Dickie Kendall was assigned to another Aussie,

Ken Hudspeth, the CO of X10; both men were trim and lean in build, and so seemed

to harmonise.

As divers, the main difficulty we faced was getting enough training in. Things were

made worse when we stated what we would need to have with us in the way of gear:

two diving suits, three breathing sets, three sets of oxygen bottles, a canister of

protosorb, various instruments, spare boots, weights, wrist rings, nose clips, paste for

cleaning the visors. Some of these items were quite small, but others were very bulky.

The officers were appalled at this extra volume to be carried inside the craft, not so

much because of the weight, but because it cut down on the number of cubic feet of

air to breathe inside: the less air, the shorter the time we could stay submerged

without surfacing for air replenishment. In the end some kind of compromise was

reached, but I remember feeling that what we would be allowed to take with us was

dangerously insufficient.

Another serious setback to our training programme was that the pressure cutters had

yet to be fitted to the X-craft when we arrived. This meant that each vessel had to be

hoisted inboard and set up on chocks, but this operation was laborious and would

have to wait until the next phase of preparation, when other adjustments had to be

made the craft on the main well-deck of Bonaventure. Before that occurred the most

we could hope for was to practise getting in and out of the midget sub underwater,

and simulating cutting it through the anti-submarine net by touching the wires in the

right sequence. But even that seemed not to be forthcoming: we felt increasingly

frustrated, and uneasy. Still unsure of being really wanted, even if needed, the days

went by without real hands-on experience.

Trial run

It was thanks to pressure from Maxie Shean that we finally got the opportunity of

having a dummy run at the nets. He had actually cut an X-craft through, and worked

out a technique for doing this, with hand signals to the skipper, who would respond

with wiggles at the periscope. I was in doubt about the feasibility of such signalling,

but at least he knew about diving, and this we respected. He must have used some

other means of cutting through, for the high-power cutters were yet to be installed on

the operational X-craft.

So the day came when it was X8's turn to carry out a dummy run at the nets. I

prepared the diving gear in the battery space forward, and sat in the wet-and-dry in

normal working clothes while Buck took the craft away from Bonaventure on her

engines. They struck me as very noisy; the explosions in the cylinders reverberated

through the confined space, echoing off the metal hull. In a little while however we

had proceeded to the north side of the loch, not far from where the anti-submarine

nets hung. With great care Jack began to trim down, until X8 was just hanging to the

underside of the water surface; another burst or two of the pumps, and we were

below, and moving slowly ahead.

'How's the trim, Jack?' Buck asked.

'Pretty good, I'd say,' Jack replied, turning the hydroplane control wheel lightly to

keep the craft just below the surface.

'Fifteen feet, slow ahead!'

'Fifteen feet, slow ahead.'

'Steer 270!'

'Steer 270, surr.'

Buck took the fixed periscope - the larger one with no hoist, mounted a foot or so

above the casing -and looked ahead underwater.

'Depth fifteen feet,' Jack called out.

'Ship's head on 270, surr.'

Buck was swivelling from side to side. 'Should be nearing the net soon now.'

I could sense the tension mounting. The crew of X8 had never approached a net

before, and had the submariner's fear of getting entangled in it. For me the A/S nets

held no fears; I had clambered about on them in Loch Corrie, and on a chariot gone

under them too.

'Can't see any bloody net,' Buck complained. Suddenly he whirled the periscope round

to point it abeam, then slightly aft. 'Bugger!' Then he swung round one hundred and

eighty degrees. 'We've gone right through the bloody thing.'

The crew exchanged looks of astonishment, and then turned enquiringly to me. 'That

make any sense, Lefty?'

'You didn't go round one side?'

'Not sure.'

'What did you see of the net?'

Buck explained.

'Then that means,’ I told them, ‘that this net has already been used for cutting

practice, sufficient to leave large holes in it. Maybe charioteers have been at it. Our

net in Loch Corrie was more holes than anything else.'

'How do we find a part without holes? I can't cruise alongside it looking.'

'Go deeper. Chariots cut through at about fifteen feet. Try twenty-five. or even thirty.'

'What about forty?'

I gave Buck an alarmed glance. 'That could give me O2 poisoning — and make me

flake out.'

'Not below thirty then. Port twenty! Periscope depth!'

The craft heeled slightly to starboard as the rudder bit. The bows inclined up. I

thought I could see more light coming through the thick glass ports by the periscope

dome.

'Steady on 090!'

'Steady on 090, Surr.'

'Ten feet,' Jack announced.

The periscope hoist hissed as Buck pushed the button.

'We'll go around again, Jack, and try at thirty feet.'

'Right.'

The second time we nosed our way quite gently into the nets at twenty-eight feet.

'She's riding quite steady, it seems,' Buck said, at the fixed periscope. 'Hold her there,

Jack?'

Buck nodded to me. I drew the diving gear from the battery space, and he helped me

draw the legs of the suit on to my legs. But the confined space made it hard to get it

over my loins. I think I had to go down on all fours to give him space to get enough

purchase. I sat on the deck beside the helmsman to give headroom for the upper piece

to be drawn over my head. I folded the apron myself, and put on the clamp to close up

the opening through which I had crawled. The rest of the dressing was easier: the

boots, the weights around my waist, the wristbands to stop water entering there - until

we came to the bag and bottles. In the end these had to be passed to me inside the wet-

and-dry and slid on in there, as far as I remember, as I would have been too bulky to

get in through the hatchway with them on. By now I was sweating with the exertion

of pulling on the rig. It was hard to put myself on O2 with so little room to lean

forward to expel the air from my lungs. I did what I could, and hoped that there was

no nitrogen left to give me bends. At last I was ready, my visor shut. I gave Buck the

thumbs up.

The glass door closed, then the real hatch. I was in darkness. Two thumps from inside

meant it was up to me now. I heard the pump working, transferring water from the

ballast tanks to the compartment I was sitting in. The water began swirling around my

ankles, and as the level travelled slowly up my body I welcomed the cold. I vented as

much as I could, aware of pockets of air trapped around my thighs and knees, and

knowing that I must vent that out too before quitting the wet-and-dry, or that air could

upend me, and my bag could rapidly empty - its vent hole was underneath. The water

was up to my chest, my neck, my visor ...The gurgling stopped. I placed my thumb on

the equaliser and pressed. And pressed. Every few seconds I tried the main hatch, and

checked that the lever was fully open.

All of a sudden, and with deceptive ease, the hatch yielded, and dark greenish light

flowed in. I hooked my feet under the combing as I rose, and gave the suit time to

vent. Then I pulled myself down again, slid the fingers of one hand into the apertures

in the casing, and shut the hatch. It was a rule to keep the hatch shut underwater as

well as on the surface when under way. Underwater it was needed so that if I fell off

or was lost in some other way, say by enemy action, the crew inside could pump the

water in the wet-and-dry and continue with the operation or the journey. Nevertheless

it felt to me as though I was saying a kind of potential goodbye to them.

Outside the X-craft I was once again on my own. I guffed up the bag a bit to give me

plenty of lung capacity to draw on. Then I crawled aft, or rather drew myself aft by a

series of handholds in the casing to the spot where the cutter would be stowed when it

was fitted. I simulated taking out the cutter, and hand-dragged myself forward again

to the bows of the midget. This was much harder work, for now I was going against

the incoming tide. Finally I reached the net, and still one-handed, drew myself

through the diamond above the nose of the midget. I looked up as I did so, and was

able to see, over to my left, a large gap in the net higher up. That might have been the

one we slipped through the time before. I swung down to one of the lower diamonds,

pretended to cut first one wire and then the other; then up to the final one, the one that

would release the submarine, and let her through. After waiting a moment, to study

how the craft rode against the net, I slipped aft again, gave the thumbs up to the fixed

periscope, which wiggled in answer, and slid down into the wet-and-dry.

As soon as I had the hatch securely shut, I gave the two thumps and heard the reverse

action begin from inside, A minute later the hatch to the control room opened. I was

already off O2.

'All right, Lefty?' Buck was smiling.

'Fine. Everything OK.'

'Slow astern, Jack!'

'Slow astern.'

'Are the bows going to snag on the net, Lefty?'

'Shouldn't do, Buck. Nothing for them to catch on.'

Buck was at the fixed periscope. 'They seem to be following us, though.'

'That could be the effect of the tide. We've been pushing against them all the time.

There's probably a dirty great bend in the buoys on the surface.'

Buck looked concerned. 'That'd show something was there, wouldn't it ... But now

we're clearing them ... Yes, they're slipping away. Can't see them any more. Half

astern!'

'Half astern.'

In a few seconds we had gone far enough to reverse the motor and take X8 back up to

the surface. The exercise had gone very well … as far as it went.

The Kylesku Inn

But that was as far as we could get in the way of diving practice until the cutters were

fitted to X8. So we had to wait, and hang around, and try and make ourselves useful to

our respective commanders, each of whom reacted in his own way. Buck was

friendly, but didn't see any need for help from me; he had his own working-up

schedule to follow, and no time to spare. I was there as a diver; that was my job, and

that was that.

But there was to be another problem regarding divers. While on the nets with X6,

Chick Thomson impaled his hand on a strand of wire. He simply dragged it free, and

carried on with the dummy run, but the wound quickly festered, and within hours he

had developed a temperature, while the throbbing grew ever more painful. When he

began to have hallucinations, the MO called up a seaplane from a base further south,

and had him transported in all haste to hospital. He had to be given a new drug to

keep the effects of the poison under some degree of control. It was clear that Chick

too must be counted out of the running, and would have to be replaced. Another

charioteer was flown up from Tites, one who had trained even later than us: Jo

Harding. But Donald Cameron had asked for, and obtained, the transfer of Dickie

Kendall from X10 to X6. So Harding, a midshipman, went to Ken Hudspeth on X10.

Whenever we were allowed ashore therefore, we took the opportunity to stretch our

legs on dry land. It lay within fifty yards of us, for the coast next to us formed a

grassy bluff, cutting steeply down from a couple of hundred feet to the water's edge,

and then continuing to drop away sharply under us. At the shore line were rocks and

boulders, and the skiff deposited us there when we wanted some exercise with plenty

of freedom and space about us.

The contrast with the cluttered and often noisy deck of Bonaventure was startling. As

we scrambled up the gully to get on the bluff, the heady scent of summer grasses

invaded us, and at the top the wind scooped up pockets of air laden with the smells of

earth and peat and heather. The only house I can remember seeing was far away on

the other side of the loch, an area I never visited, though I believe some of the others

went over to the north shore once to do a day's trekking.

Our commonest destination became the Kylesku Inn, four or five miles away. To

reach it, we made our way across grassland and peat bog; to our right, the turves of

peat already dug lay drying in the sun beside the trenches from which they had been

taken. After a while we came upon a track, rather than a road, and this wound inland,

sometimes losing sight of the loch, and then revealing it again in new vistas. It always

felt a long road to me, until we finally came in sight of the inn - a farmstead in stone,

with low scattered buildings, set at the foot of a long slope covered in rough

pastureland, near the shore of the loch.

We were received into the main room of the farmhouse, and given high tea. The farm

reared a few pigs and kept chickens, so eggs and bacon could be relied on, as well as

girdle cakes, and butter from the cows, also plenty of fresh milk to drink, or tea by the

jug. We knew better than to ask for alcohol: this was the country of the Wee Frees, a

version of Christianity so severe that it was said to make a Kirk dominie from Stirling

look like an Italian debauchee.

The room we ate in had a low ceiling. I had to bend down to enter the doorway. But

once we were sat down at the worn starched linen, and the smell of bacon and eggs or

of steaming kippers came through to us, and we were lining our stomachs with

farmhouse bread and country butter, our good spirits generated a warm sense of

relaxation such as was impossible to achieve on board Bonaventure. So after

consuming often two helpings of kippers or bacon eggs, and a very large number of

griddle cakes with honey, washed down with a pint or more of tea, we would

contentedly rise, and pay our dues: her prices were incredibly low, yet she would ask

for the sum owed with some embarrassment.

Outside we might pause for a moment to look up the two lochs that forked inland, and

if the weather was clear my eyes would be drawn to the smooth dark cone of Suilven,

exuding a sense of menace. Frequently however clouds would obscure its peak, and

we would take a look about us to estimate whether we would have to step out to get

back to our ship before the weather broke, or whether we might take it easy, and let

our meal digest peacefully as we ambled along.

Targets

At the beginning of September, quite suddenly, all leave was cancelled: no-one would

be permitted to leave the loch area until further notice, and any outgoing mail had to

undergo much severer censorship than hitherto; I have the impression that junior

officers were subject to censorship as well as crew. The clamp-down told us

something was due to happen soon, and excitement mounted rapidly. Within a day, all

the officers forming X-craft crews, both passage and action, were summoned to the

wardroom to a meeting behind closed doors. We gathered already well before the

appointed hour, finding a place with difficulty; I was surprised to see how many there

were of us when all assembled. Don Cameron sat up on a sill by a porthole, filled his

pipe with affectionate care, and lit up with his customary look of quiet pleasure. I was

standing not far from him, with Geordie Nelson by me.

Bonaventure's senior officers were all there too; even Captain Banks himself from

SXII in Rothesay. It was the first time I had set eyes on the four-ringer who was in

charge of us all. As he stood up to address us, voices instantaneously hushed. Geordie

glanced at me: we knew this was the moment when we would be let into the secret.

My heart was thumping furiously with nervous excitement: this was no adventure

story I was hearing about from the safety of an armchair. This was reality - and I was

involved in the operation, directly. I might, or I might not, return.

'Gentlemen, you will have noticed that all leave has been cancelled for the whole

ship’s complement, and that special measures to censor mail have been established.

These measures are essential to safeguard the operation on which you are engaged.'

I noticed the use of the present, not the future: we were in it already.

'This operation is, in the view of their Lordships, possibly the most significant naval

action of the whole war.'

One or two amongst us stirred to relieve tension; the rest scarcely breathed, waiting

for the revelation to be made.

In his light, incisive tones, Banks resumed. 'Gentlemen, our target is the pride of the

German fleet: the Tirpitz.'

A great sigh of feeling was expelled: of relief at finally knowing; of huge satisfaction

at the scale of the target; and of anxiety at the challenge involved.

'And that's not all: the battle-cruiser Scharnhorst and the pocket battleship Lützow are

with the Tirpitz. We're attacking all three.'

We looked at each other in startled pleasure: if we could sink all three, no doubt this

would be the biggest single blow that could be wreaked on the enemy. Geordie looked

flushed, rapt with attention. Others were turning to their skippers, and smiling, as if to

say: 'You knew this all along, you crafty old fox, and yet you were able to keep it

from me!'

A buzz of excited talking sprang up, and for a few seconds Banks let it run. 'You're no

doubt beginning to wonder how the targets have been allotted. X5, X6 and X7 will

attack the Tirpitz, X8 the Lützow, and X9 and X10 the Scharnhorst. We are

convinced this distribution will give the greatest chance of success all round. The

largest target is given to three midget submarines, the next one in size is to be

attacked by two, and the pocket battleship by one only. If X8 fails, therefore, the

Lützow gets off unscathed. But it may take two sets of charges to sink the

Scharnhorst, and as many as three to hole the Tirpitz fatally.'

Banks paused, to let this reasoning become clear to us. There was no question of any

change being made. No doubt there was some disappointment amongst the skippers

who were not getting the big one, but they had known this for some time and must

have accepted it. The crews, officers and men, would have to do likewise. I felt a

twinge of annoyance at not getting the Tirpitz myself: it would be Geordie, Bob and

Dickie. I didn't care about the Scharnhorst — anyhow it was the divers I had least

contact with who would go for her. But we in X8 had to get through to the Lützow

alone. I wondered what kind of nets she had round her.

'Now the best conditions for a successful attack,' Banks resumed, 'are in the spring

and autumn. There must be a rough equality between the hours of light and darkness;

there should be little moon; and most important of all, the sea must be calm enough

for long enough to enable the necessary manoeuvres to take place.'

We looked mystified, and he smiled.

'Let me explain. As some of you may know, the Tirpitz is at present based in the north

of Norway, deep in an inner fjord, well over fifty miles in from the main Norwegian

coast. Within a few miles of her lies the Scharnhorst, while at the far end of a long

narrow fjord some way away the Lützow has her anchorage.'

At once I saw in my mind's eye a dark narrow cleft with high bluffs on either side, so

high they prevented the sun from shining on the water surface; my imagination began

placing nets across the fjord entrance, and others round the ship. Look-outs placed on

shore on the bluffs would at once be able to spot bulges in the lines of buoys

supporting the nets, if the X-craft started pressing in on them. But perhaps the fjord

was so deep that we could get underneath without cutting ...

'The question arises,’ Banks continued, ‘how are the X-craft to get to the north of

Norway? It's much too far for their fuel capacity. They could be re-fuelled at sea, but

that's too tricky a manoeuvre to perform, when there is so little freeboard. Moreover,

it would take about twelve days at cruising speed to get up to the north of Norway,

and by then the crew would be so exhausted that they would be in no fit state to carry

out the operation. And to attack large units of the German fleet, you have to be on

your toes.'

This registered: it made very sobering sense.

'So we have devised a different scheme, that of using two crews for each X-craft: one

for the passage to a point fifty miles off the coast of northern Norway, and one for the

operation itself. That's why there are so many of you here today: together you make

up twelve crews. The passage crews play an essential role in getting the X-craft to the

point where the operational crew take over. That means a transfer at sea; and that

manoeuvre can only be carried out in reasonable weather conditions.' Banks paused

and looked around.

'What about the fuelling, then, Sir? How does the passage crew get her there?'

'That's where we really had to put our thinking caps on,' Banks said with a smile,

seeming to welcome a question having been asked. 'If the X-craft couldn't get there

under her own power, then she must use someone else's. We couldn't use a surface

vessel, for that would mean unloading X-craft into the water from derricks. Even a

slight roll, and the X-craft might smash into the ship's side, and the charges could be

damaged. Moreover a lone surface ship might attract the very ships we are trying to

destroy - the Lützow at any rate, and perhaps the Scharnhorst too. We're not trying to

provoke a naval battle out at sea; we want the Germans to remain in harbour, lulled

into a false sense of security, so that they are there when we attack.'

'That leaves subs, Sir?'

'Exactly, but how. Piggyback? Or tow? ... Which would you choose?'

There was a second's pause, then a confused hubbub of voices, and swift thrusting

exchanges all over the room. I noticed that Don Cameron and Place took no part, but

merely smiled, Cameron with a twinkle and Place superciliously. Banks allowed the

excitement to simmer down, and silence to spread into every corner of the room.

'A tow,' he declared quietly. 'There's no other way. Six of His Majesty's submarines

have been fitted out for towing X-craft, and will be here in ten days' time to start

towing trials, each with its allotted X-craft. Once that's done, the balloon goes up.'

Many of us couldn't restrain a gasp. That was close. Everything would have to be

done before the big subs arrived, for we must be towed in battle conditions, with the

charges mounted and all our gear on board - or so we presumed. Would the cutters be

mounted in time to give us divers the opportunity for cutting the X-craft through the

net - at least once? I gulped at the inadequacy of this preparation: surely three goes at

the net would be the minimum needed to develop the right skills and degree of

cooperation between commander and diver? I didn't like the way we were being

rushed onward, but the timing seemed to demand it.

‘When's it for, Sir?'

'The attack on the three units of the German fleet must take place, if it's to take place

at all this autumn, between the 2Oth and 24th of September. Say in three weeks from

today. Passage and approach will take about a week. That leaves two weeks for

everything, repeat everything, to be got ready.'

We sat there stunned. The room had filled with the smoke of cigarettes and of Don

Cameron's pipe. All in a fortnight from now!

'Just one other thing, gentlemen,' Banks said in a deeper tone as he gathered his

papers. 'Security. Absolute! The operation, and your lives, depend on that.'

The other senior officers accompanied Banks out. The moment they had gone, we

turned to each other, and tongues were loosened in a crossfire of question and

exclamation, of expostulation and answer. The period of anticipation was over, and

our pent-up excitement flowed out in a torrent of conjecture and comment. It felt

wonderful to be released from doubt and uncertainty, but at the same time fear had

taken on a new dimension of reality. Some of us, I was almost sure, were into the last

month of our lives. It could be me ... or Bob … I looked across at him. He had lit up

his pipe, and was puffing away, smiling, looking calm and confident. Dickie Kendall

was wearing a more mature air than his usual boyish expression, and different again

from the dedicated look on his face when he was engaged on his favourite reading

'Soils and Manures'; he said he was planning to be a farmer after the war. Would there

be an after for him? How could I know? And what about Geordie? He was already

talking to Henty-Creer.

I went up to Buck and Jack.

'Well, Lefty, now you know,' Buck said with a smile.

I nodded. 'The Lützow.'

'Disappointed it's not the Tirpitz?'

I shrugged my shoulders. 'It's all part of the same attack,' I commented. In truth I was

still too overwhelmed by the fact of knowing, to have had time to take stock and make

comparisons.

Not so Jack, however. 'Rather have the Lützow, Buck. We're on our own with her -

none of the other craft frigging around. If we get her, it'll be our doing.'

'We shall,' Buck announced with simple confidence.

'Do we know anything about the nets yet?' I asked Buck.

'Not for sure. We're waiting for air reconnaissance - should be here in a few days. Last

autumn the photos showed like some lines across the fjord - nothing very clear.'

Across the fjord … that could mean … 'Did Banks say that she lay at one end of a

long narrow fjord?' I wanted to verify.

'Right, that's what I heard.'

'That could mean high ground on either side, cutting steeply down to the water's edge,

and making a deep V in the seabed of the fjord.'

'Meaning we might be able to slip under in the middle?'

'Yeah ... provided the charts are accurate enough for that fjord, just there.'

'Well, let's wait and see, when the new photos arrive.'

If the only nets were anti-torpedo, and the Germans had made them like we had, there

wouldn't be anything for me to do, as a diver. And it seemed as though Buck only

thought of me in that capacity. I began to feel let down, and rather pointless,

superfluous. Unless the air reconnaissance - Buck turned to me, a brief exchange

about supplies with Jack over.

'We'll be cutting through the nets the day after tomorrow. With dummy charges.

Right?'

'What about the cutters?'

'They'll be fitted tomorrow, when X8 is hoisted inboard. And Jack, while she's dry,

take a look at the gland round the shaft. And get on to Jock about the rudder housing,

it's been playing up. And do some maintenance on ...'

I inspected the cutters the next day, as they were about to be fitted, and was pleased

with their size and delighted with their power when I tried them out on a length of

spare mooring wire. It only took them a few seconds to crunch their way right

through, ending cleanly, without any final strands left uncut - as had sometimes

occurred with the lighter power cutters we used on human torpedoes

Cutting through

So when our turn came to go out to the nets, with the dummy charges one on each

side, I felt happy to be undertaking a full-scale trial under something like operational

conditions. As we were proceeding towards the net area, I more or less dressed myself

in the ungainly diver suit, with occasional help from Buck, such as putting on the tight

wristbands; they required someone else’s two hands to stretch them and slip them

over the diver's wrists. By the time we dived for our approach, I was in the wet-and-

dry, putting myself on oxygen, from the bottles slung on my back.

The X-craft nudged into the net, but I felt nothing. Buck gave the signal, I okayed

back with my thumb, and he shut the glass, then the steel hatch parting me from the

control room. Two thumps exchanged, and the pump started. As water swirled up

around my calves, I realised that I had forgotten to check with Buck how deep we

were. As it rose higher, I vented from my headpiece as best I could. The pump motor

laboured, and stopped. There was water right up to the main hatch; I felt it with my

hand, then pressed on the stud to equalise the last few pounds of pressure. I pressed

and kept trying the main hatch, leaving the lever in the open position. It seemed that I

had been pressing for much longer than on the previous occasion. Perhaps the pump

had laboured because something was wrong?

Suddenly the main hatch lifted, and I eased my body into position for rising. With my

torso half out, I held myself by the knees within the compartment and vented. There

was much less light than I was accustomed to, for daytime. I glanced up, and saw with

a spasm of anxiety how far underwater we were. The buoys were quite out of sight,

and the state of the net showed that Buck had taken it much deeper to avoid hitting a

hole again. Around me there was no evidence of any cuts.

Once clear of the hatch, and horizontal, the power of the tide bore me swiftly aft. I

grabbed hold of the periscope standard just in time to stop myself being swept over

the stern portion. When I turned to face forward again, the tidal pressure on the upper

part of my breathing bag half emptied it; I had to guff up more than usual so as to

maintain enough O2 to work with. I opened the cutter box in the casing, and took it

out, checking that the lead of the cable was clear for extension to the bows of the

craft.

All this I had to do one-handed, for the other hand had become a claw to grapple me

on to the casing, two fingers inserted into one of the holes that punctured it at

intervals of a few inches. Hugging the cutter to my side, I then hauled myself slowly

and laboriously forward, against the tide. It was heavy work, and I had to drag myself

far enough each time to make sure that I could guff up with my free hand (the other

was holding the large cutter) before slipping back to the same point on the casing as I

had just been at. Gradually I managed to develop a technique of shouldering the tide

in such a way that I could haul two or three times between having to guff up, and

found myself at the bows of X8, surveying the wires to be cut, in the right order.

The cutter responded well, but I found myself being swept against the net by the force

of water at my back: cutting was always done facing the craft. Two cuts were done,

and now I selected the spot for the final cut that would - or should - let the craft

through. I glanced aft, and tried to estimate how much fatter the sides might have

become now that the charges were mounted. There was no way of telling but to try. I

opened the valve: the cutters bit through.

At once the X-craft pushed ahead, snagged for moment on some protuberance, then

drove ahead again. She was more than half way past me, and I was down where her

sides were smooth. I was sinking, holding the weight of the cutter, out of reach; she

was passing me. I grabbed the cutter cable, let the cutters drop into the depths below,

and held on, then pulled myself gradually up to the midget sub again, each haul a

mighty heave, guffing up desperately against the tide and now the speed of the craft

too. For we were sweeping ahead, and it was getting darker. Buck was taking her

down, even deeper! The spectre of O2 poisoning loomed up: I had been exerting

myself greatly at depths well below the safety level of thirty feet.

I made it finally to the casing. and hooked myself on, well aft of the periscope

standard. The effort had been prodigious. We were still deep, and moving faster

underwater than I had ever experienced. I found breathing difficult, and clung on,

feeling my field of consciousness rapidly dwindle. For a moment or two I must have

blacked out, for I came to with a start, panicked at the realisation that I had lost

consciousness, and guffed desperately so as to gain enough O2 to make it back to the

wet-and-dry. The cutters were forgotten, trailing somewhere below the X-craft. Very

slowly I struggled back to the hatch. To have the lever in my hand was reassuring; as I

slid into the opening, I noticed there was more light around me, and the water

pressure against my body and bag was less. I shut the hatch over my head, and in the

darkness thumped twice. The compartment emptied, and I heard the slap of waves on

the casing. We were on the surface. The control room hatches opened.

Buck looked worried. 'You all right, Lefty?'

'Yeah ... but I had to leave the cutters unstowed.'

'What! Where are they then?'

'Hanging on the end of the cable, below.'

'What the hell did you do that for?'

'I had to get back inboard ... I blacked out, hanging on to the casing.'

'You blacked out?'

‘Yeah ... the pressure of the water. Then you increased speed, and went deep. I could

scarcely hold on — kept having to guff up to get enough O2.'

Buck looked shaken. 'I don't like the sound of that at all ... Not at all.'

Nor did I. I had only come near blacking out once before, when I got lip twitch at

seventy-five feet in Portsmouth harbour. But this time, for a couple of seconds - or

perhaps more - I had been 'out'. If I hadn't been hooked on with my fingers, I would

have been swept off, and might now be at the bed of the loch, and dying or dead. Or I

might, if I had had positive buoyancy at that moment, have floated up to the surface;

probably then I would have come to, and been able to swim for the shore. But if that

happened on an operation, the X-craft would have lost its diver, one way or another,

and the operation endangered.

Buck took the craft to a sheltered spot, then got out on the casing and hauled in the

cutter, stowing it in the locker provided. Luckily it was undamaged; it had not fouled

or struck any rocks underwater as it trailed along in the depths of Loch Cairnbawn.

But it might have done, I reflected.

As we went back to Bonaventure on main engines, there was a gloomy atmosphere

aboard; and I was the cause. Or mostly. Yet we shouldn't have had to go through at

fifty feet; and presumably the trim hadn't been right, if the craft had had to increase

speed so much after going through to overcome dropping down even deeper. I worked

out that we must have gone down to seventy, maybe ninety feet, as I was clambering

up the cable and holding on grimly, struggling for breath.

I felt bad about this exercise. I had suddenly and unexpectedly lost confidence in

myself, and realised I did not really know how to manage the cutters underwater

against a strong tide or current. New techniques of holding and movement were

needed, and special vigilance at the moment when the final cut was made. For the

power of the X-craft to push ahead underwater seemed greater than the diver's ability

to survive underwater when holding on. What were the limits to be observed? And

what should the drill be for handling the cutters and so make sure that they could be

stowed smartly after use, while still underwater? I think I was one of the first divers to

take an X-craft through the nets. Naturally I told the others what had happened, and

they cast me anxious glances, more out of concern for themselves than for me. But

my hopes of getting another go on the nets were never realised. There was just too

tight a schedule of other things to get done.

The X5 plan

Frequently I could only form a hazy idea of what these were, though I tried to piece

some of it together by listening to Buck, Jack Marsden and Jack Smart, the passage

crew commander. Together with a Petty Officer called Pomeroy and a leading stoker

called Robinson, Jack Smart - a lieutenant in the RNVR - was to take X8 from Loch

Cairnbawn to the dropping zone that lay off the north Norwegian coast, and then

swop places with the operational crew, by means of a rubber dinghy attached to a line

from the towing submarine. For all the days of the passage therefore, Jack Smart

would be in charge, and had therefore to have as much knowledge about X-craft as

Buck. So the team of people working on X8 really numbered seven, with me the least

useful member. Jack was from Durham, and so he and I had something in common,

both of us coming from the north-east. But I still felt very much the extra hand, not

wholly part of the team.

Around this time we started to be visited by various people with special functions in

the war. We were issued with specially warm clothing lined with kapok, to protect us

against the cold of being submerged in arctic waters for days on end. I took to

wearing that article a good deal, thinking it gave me a jaunty air. That was something

I strove to cultivate, partly to disguise the increasing fears inside me that I was one of

those who would not be coming back. The nonchalant look was my chosen image,

and some were perhaps taken in by it, even amongst the divers. Jo Harding came up to

me, and quietly introduced the subject of danger, and risk, and so worked round to

telling me, as we leaned on the guardrail and looked over to the bluff opposite, that he

was sleeping badly and waking up scared, fearful that he mightn't be returning from

the operation. I told him that I thought most of us had those thoughts from time to

time, and that there was no need to pay any special attention to them; I treated the

matter in a rather blasé manner, and he seemed to be somewhat reassured, drawing

upon my own apparent lack of fear about the outcome. As I felt him drawing strength

from me, I felt weaker myself, and knew that I now had less in my own resource of

courage to draw on.

Geordie Nelson, X5's diver, then came to talk with, me. I had known that Henty-Creer

had a madcap streak in him: a finely-tuned eccentric. I assumed that it was his

ambiguous intensity that his crew members found hard to live with. But it was more

than his character that induced their sense of strain: it was the scheme he had evolved

for X5's attack on the Tirpitz. Geordie told me about it, against Henty-Creer's

instructions. The envisaged mode of attack was perhaps only also known to Cameron

and Place, since they had been given the same target as X5. Yet even they may not

have been taken into Henty-Creer’s confidence.

'Come ower here, man, I want to taak with ye,' Geordie said to me one day. We

walked to a quiet spot on the guardrail, up in the bows of the ship. 'Now ye knaa yon

Henty-Creer's a daft bugger. Wiel, he wants tae attack the Tirpitz in his ain way,

like ...' Geordie looked about him to make sure we weren't being overheard. 'Noo he

doesna want me to say what it's gannin tae be, but I'm tellin’ ye aal the seim, 'cos it

gies the diver a special job tae dae.'

I looked him quickly: what could Geordie mean? Our job was to get the X-craft

through the nets: both getting in, and what was worse, getting clear again once the

charges had been laid on the seabed under the target; for if the craft got caught in the

nets and couldn't get clear before the charges exploded, great damage would be done

to the midget, and she might find it hard to surface for long enough to let her crew get

out. The diver, however, if still on the nets, would have his guts blown out and die

instantly. So what could the special job be that Henty-Creer had in mind?

Geordie explained. It was an incredible idea, fully in line with Henty-Creer's bizarre

fancy. Instead of laying the charges on the seabed under Tirpitz, he would attach them

directly under the ship's counter, using ropes to lash them on to each of the propeller

shafts, or else to one of the blades on the great screw, near the rudder. In this way, he

argued, far greater explosive effect could be gained. And it was to be Geordie's task,

as diver, to make the charges fast under the battleship. Henty-Creer had asked

Geordie whether it could be done, and if so whether he would be prepared to do it. It

was up to Geordie to decide.

And now Geordie was asking me what I thought; more than that, what I would do if I

were he. My skin ran goose-pimples, and my heart pumped furiously. At once I

imagined the diver there in the half light under the stern - Geordie, me - wrestling

with ropes and the awkwardly shaped charges, trying to manoeuvre their great bulk up

close to the propeller shaft, while the X-craft lay nearby, waiting to ease the other

charge out from the hull. It might just be done: but it would require positive

buoyancy, just a little in each charge, instead of the negative buoyancy with which

they were fitted to take them to the bottom. But not too much, or they would start

slithering up under the ship’s counter, gathering speed, and then break surface like a

couple of walruses.

My heart still beating fast, I went through the moves under the battleship with

Geordie, each of us checking the tactics to be adopted to get the charges in place. We

combed through the sequences again for snags, and found solutions, the best solutions

we could think of. There was no doubt in our minds, finally: it would call for a close

understanding between skipper and diver, including a set of signals passed underwater

through and by the fixed periscope. And it would require a lot of luck. But it could

just work.

So I told Geordie. I even began, if I remember rightly, talking with him about doing

the same under the Lützow. But he would at once have pointed out that if I did so,

Henty-Creer would realise at once that I had heard of his scheme through his own

diver. Geordie had spoken to me in confidence. Let it remain like that. He faced me

then, and took my hand.

'Thanks, Lefty.'

We both knew how much was at stake.

Escape briefing

A different kind of secrecy, one we were to share in common, was about to be

imposed on us. One morning all the operational crews were assembled in the forward

hold of Bonaventure, which had been converted into a kind of temporary lecture

room. When I went in, I was astonished to see two army officers at the far end,

standing by a table on which a whole variety of objects was stacked. My sense of

inter-service rivalry was at once aroused: I resented their presence, deeply. Why

should they be let in on our secret? How far could we trust them to understand the

extreme need for confidentiality? As I took my seat, I studied them closely: could

they be in the pay of the enemy, not real army officers, but frauds? But they stood in

that square-shouldered way army officers so often seemed to affect, and brushed their

flowing moustaches.

One of the senior naval officers from Bonaventure stood up to speak.

'No doubt you'll all be wondering what the army's doing here,' he began. 'The answer's

simple. They know something we don't. This morning we're going to learn about it

from them. About escape.'

My first thought was of escape from the X-craft, through the wet-and-dry. But that

was nonsense: we, the divers, were the experts there.

'Both of these officers have been prisoners-of-war, and have escaped from enemy

hands. More important, both of them made their way across hundreds of miles of

Germany before being picked up by the maquis - that's the name of the French

resistance movement. And that didn't mean they were safe. There was a lot of walking

by night, and holing up by day, and much living rough in danger, before they finally

made it to the Spanish frontier.'

I looked at them with new eyes, and had to believe what I had heard. Yet they bore

themselves with such assured panache that I found it hard to imagine them scruffy,

living rough, sneaking by moonlight into the corner of a potato field and grubbing up

a few spuds to keep themselves alive.

'These officers come from a special unit set up by the army to brief commandos and

similar services on escape techniques. They have drawn together information from all

escapees, as well as from those who failed in their attempts - how this was possible

you'll be able to piece together from what they have to say. Just one more thing: they

know what our targets are, but not how we are going to get there. They know the

German units lie in north Norwegian fjords; they know therefore the kind of terrain

lying between that coast and the safety of neutral Sweden. They don't know exactly

how we propose to attack, nor when - apart from its being some time this month. They

don't know more that and don't want to either.'

The officers - a major and a captain - nodded vigorously.

'One more point, and then I'll hand you over to them. You'll notice that the doors are

firmly shut, and that only the operational crews are present. That’s done intentionally

- on the need to know basis - as it is for our two visitors from the army. Security is the

key to this whole operation.'

Some of my resistance to having the army in on the act had been dispelled by this

address; but much remained. The major spoke first, and began with the trek across

country from Kaa Fjord, where the Tirpitz lay, to the nearest point of the Swedish

frontier. It was clear he had no direct experience of those northern latitudes, and was

speaking from second or third-hand knowledge. He couldn't describe how much snow

would be lying in September, nor what the terrain would be like in any detail. He

knew there wouldn't be much in the way of forests to hide in, and spoke of how to

hole up by making yourself a kind of igloo of snow, a cave in the snow with a small

opening to allow for replenishment of air. These, he maintained were invisible from

the air, and kept out the wind, which was more of a danger in lowering body heat than

the snow itself. He assured us that we wouldn't meet any polar bears, but couldn't say

what other wild animals we might come up against.

The Captain then took over. 'Your main problems, if you should have to abandon your

craft, and make your way across country, will be cold and hunger. Now you've been

issued with kapok-lined clothing to keep you warm; you'll have noticed how high the

trousers come, up over the rib-cage. That's to keep your waists particularly warm,

where so many of the vital organs lie. Against hunger we have these survival rations.'

He held up a flattish box about twice the size of a tin of sardines. 'You can carry this

in a deep trouser pocket, and it's got enough food value in it to keep you going for

three or four days.'

I strained to see what there was in it, then found that several other tins were being

passed round for us to inspect their contents. Everything was in highly concentrated

form, we were told, and much had to be diluted in water to become edible or

drinkable.

'Where do we get the water from?' someone asked.

'Should be plenty of mountain streams about,' the major replied.

'Might be frozen by then.'

'Break up the ice with your heel.'

'What do we dissolve it in?'

‘The cover to the box forms a flat pan; you can see the handle folds out.'

'What about heat, then?'

'There are fuel cubes and matches in the pack.'

'And what's all this food made of — it all looks greyish-brown to me.'

'Soups, broth if you like; pemmican - that sort of thing.' The captain held up a cube of

pemmican concentrate, so I tried licking it: the box happened to be with me at that

moment. It tasted of ancient peppery ham. I glanced across at Bob and made an

appropriate grimace.

'Any food to be got locally?'

'Not a lot, I imagine ... You see, the most heavily guarded area is bound to be round

the fjord, and the adjoining coastline, plus the villages within ten or fifteen kilometres.

Best to get away from them as soon as possible. Increase your chances of getting clear

away. Move south all the time - we're giving you a compass too,' he held a small

package up in the air, 'and a map for good measure ... We may as well give them out

right away.'

When mine reached me, I found that the compass was tiny, and the map printed on

silk, on both sides. Much of the north of Scandinavia was shown, with roads and

settlements marked in very small print. The fineness of the material meant you could

fold it up and hide it in a very small space.

'Supposing we get lost? Don’t suppose the roads are marked, no more than there are

now in England, or Scotland.’

‘Do we try to find someone to ask? Are the natives friendly?'

It was the captain who spoke in reply. 'Most of the Norwegians are whole-heartedly

for the allies. There are very few Quislings. But there are many who fear to give any

kind of help, unless they are sure they haven't been seen doing so. So don't approach

anyone, or any group of people, unless they are the only ones in view. Single persons

are always better than twos or threes or larger numbers. But my advice would be to

avoid all human contact, and keep off the roads. Move in a southerly direction s much

as the terrain will let you; and don't move in a bunch. If one of you is seen, then the

others may not be. I would guess that in that part of Scandinavia you won't meet

anyone once you have left the coast - maybe a few Lapps. Don't trust them any more

than the Norwegians themselves. Keep going as hard as you can. The aim is to get

into Sweden - and the frontier is unfenced and largely unguarded - just fell and tundra

as far as you can see. Keep on higher ground all the time, and make any valley

crossings swiftly at night if you suspect there are settlements about. Preserve bodily

warmth, and set yourselves intermediate goals - to reach that crest before nightfall, for

instance. Keep each other's morale up.'

We were all paying more attention, now. Here was a man who knew how to compress

the essential information into a few telling phrases.

'What about if we get captured on the way - or even in Kaa Fjord?'

‘Usual drill,' answered the major. 'Name, rank, number. Then keep your mouth shut.

Geneva Convention, that sort of thing.'

'But will they recognise us as armed forces? Might they not think we are to be

considered as saboteurs, in league with the resistance.'

'Best to be wearing some article of uniform. Get things off on the right foot.'

'If we get taken, I suppose we could be taken on board the Tirpitz - if she's still there.

What could we expect then?'

'Interrogation, certainly. 'There's bound to be a number of officers on board, or up in

the North of Norway, who know enough English to question you, though they may

not be trained interrogators. Those are the johnnies you've got to watch out for - lull

you into a false sense of confidence, then spring the trap. You may not even realise

you've fallen into it.'

'But if we stick to name, rank and number, surely we'll be all right?'

'Most people find it's very difficult to do that - to resist a remark about the weather for

example. But just that could betray, through some reference to the last few days, for

example, where you have been, since weather variations can be quite localised. Or

some reference to food and drink; that might tell an interrogator whether you've made

the passage direct from Britain, or called in somewhere in Norway en route, or been

supplied from a British warship, or even the truth about how you reached those

northerly latitudes.'

'So innocent remarks are loaded?'

'Yes. And there's another factor that plays into the hand of an interrogator.

Exhaustion. There are two kinds: the bone weariness you feel after long periods .of

strain, just after capture, for instance, and the kind they induce by depriving you of

sleep. The first one is especially dangerous, because you haven't got accustomed to

being vigilant, and holding your tongue. The other wouldn't be likely to occur till you

get to Germany.'

'Where would we be put, some sort of camp?'

'Might be a purpose built camp, wooden huts on a heath. Or else a castle, stripped

bare of all its furnishings. An Oflag, they call it, for officers.'

Secret code

The younger officer now seized his cue, and began to explain that if we got to a POW

camp in Germany we would be allowed to write a postcard each week to family or

friends - not more than fifty words per time; these would be routed via the Red Cross

in Switzerland to England. But the important point to remember was that this gave us

an opportunity to send secret messages about the operation back home - by code. An

unbreakable code system had been devised: each man chose one word that would be

his personal key, known only to the boffins in the Admiralty. If for example he chose

DAD, then this would mean that the fourth, fifth, ninth, thirteenth, fourteenth,

eighteenth letter and so on — based on the numeral order of the letter in the alphabet,

taken serially - would spell out the letters of the secret message.

'So it's the duty of any prisoner of war,' the captain concluded ' to use this system to

pass home information under the very nose of the enemy. No one can break this code

without the key word. Before I leave the ship this afternoon, I want you to have

written out on a piece of paper and sealed inside this envelope the key word you have

chosen.' He waved paper and a small buff envelope about in the air. 'I shall take them

under secure conditions to our headquarters, where they will be held in a safe until

needed. Of course,' he added rather unconvincingly, 'I hope that won't in fact be the

case after this operation, but our job is to prepare you for all eventualities.'

'Should the word be long or short?’

'A short key word like Dad is easier to remember, but harder to work with, because

you have so little space between the letters that make up the message. But that's only

so if you choose letters from the beginning of the alphabet. If you took Mum, the

message would come only every thirteenth or twentieth letter - or something like that.

But then you can say that much less in the fifty words you're allowed.'

'Aren't words like Dad and Mum too obvious? Mightn't the Jerries be on to them?

What about some odd-looking word like ...'

'Squeegee,' a voice volunteered. There was a ripple of laughter at the incongruity.

'Lots of e's in that,' someone else remarked. 'Too regular.'

'I think I'll take a word I can remember, like whisky.'

'No, no,' broke in the army man. 'You mustn't say what you choose. The whole point

is to have absolute security, so as not to be forced to give the Boche someone else's

word, under torture.' Some of us began shifting uneasily. The exercise was taking on

the quality of boyish adventure stories. I was getting tired of this young officer's

ways, and looked across at the senior man.

'It's good to have a key to use when you need to,' he commented quietly. At once I got

the impression he was speaking from experience. 'You can use the code to send

messages home to your people too, the sort of thing you can't put in the sort of stilted

language the Germans expected POWs to use. Tell them how you're really feeling,

how they're treating you. We'll process the message and send it on, confidentially. All

you need say is, for instance: FOR DAD or TELL SUE. You can write the name and

address of the person you want to send messages to on the same piece of paper as

carries the code key you decide on today.'

The mood had changed, and it was time for the meeting to break for lunch. As we

stood up, I was thinking of a word to fox everyone. Maxie Shean announced his

openly: NAN - so much for the security-mindedness of the younger officer. An hour

later I had chosen mine: GNOMIC.

I was surprised at the way several others copied Maxie's example and stated openly

the code word they had chosen: the code could be broken by forcing anyone in the

know to blab, if we were taken prisoner. So throughout lunch I kept my mouth shut;

but as I worked things out in my mind, I realised that the word I'd taken (and it had

already been registered by one of the army officers, in a sealed envelope) would make

for relatively little message in quite a long text. The letters N,O and M were all in

mid-alphabet, so the message letters would be widely spaced out across the words in

the open letter. A word like DID would have been more economical. But by then it

was too late.

Towing practice

That evening thoughts about being a prisoner for the rest of the war kept coursing

through my mind, as if somehow the war were already over for me. But the following

morning this fantasy was dispelled by the powerful reality of the presence of two long

lean grey shapes anchored on the far side of the loch: the first two of the towing

submarines had arrived. Lying low in the water, with their true length invisible, and

only the casing surmounting part of their cigar-shaped hulls to be seen, together with

the slim conning-tower protruding amidships, they spoke of secrecy and attack.

During the morning and afternoon the other four towing submarines slid into Loch

Cairnbawn, at two-hour intervals for security reasons, and anchored in their allotted

stations. The captain's skiff from Bonaventure went out to each in turn to collect the

skippers for an initial meeting with the senior officers in charge of the operation, and

with the X-craft commanders.

Two essential drills that had to be done by X-craft and big submarines together. One

was practising towing, on the surface and underwater; the other was transferring

crews from the X-craft to the big sub and vice versa - the swop of the passage crew

and the operational crew that would have to be carried out off the coast of North

Norway. Each sub had been fitted with a towing bar and housing right aft, almost at

the final point of the cigar; and also a towrope - it must have been over a hundred

yards long - which was stowed below the after casing. Three of these towropes were

made of an entirely new substance called nylon, much thinner than the bulky manilla

ropes with which we were all familiar. The three X-craft commanders who had been

allotted manilla were I think well pleased not to have another unknown hazard to

contend with; boffins were always coming out with some new invention they would

swear by, but when tried out under real conditions it would fail for some reason

obvious to seamen, but ignored by the enthusiastic inventor. Inside both types of

towrope was rove a telephone cable, to enable the two commanders to speak to each

other: that of course had been another last minute job, to fit the mike, and the wiring,

and the connections through the hull of each craft - someone had failed to foresee

what would be involved in the process of towing as an operation at sea.

The submarine allotted to X8 was the Seanymph, captained by Jack Oakley. Just how

the submarine commanders were matched up with the X-craft skippers I have no idea,

but Jack and Buck shared at any rate two important features: a boyish sense of

humour, and a commitment to informality. There may have been cultural arguments

in favour of pairing Don Cameron with fellow Scot Alexander; and of putting two

Australians together - Ken Hudspeth of X 10 and Ian McIntosh of the Sceptre. The

dashing Henty-Creer was paired with a commander who had a growing reputation for

seeking out and accomplishing the spectacular, known in the service as Baldy Hezlet.

But all of this is conjecture on my part, and at the time I gave such matters no

thought; all I cared about was that Seanymph would be towing us, and that I liked

Jack Oakley's informal ways.

Even when we came to the towing practice I had to keep out of the way however.

Others floated out the manilla from the big sub to the X-craft, where Jack Smart and

his two crewmen had already taken up position; and as Seanymph gathered way and

the manilla stretched out astern, I had to go below into the wardroom to let the

operation proceed smoothly. In Seanymph’s control room, the complex array of

machinery and valves and dials, handles and periscope motors, wheels and attack

equipment, impressed me. From outside a submarine looked extremely simple,

smooth in line, with very few of the many protuberances carried by a surface vessel.

But inside all was complication and congestion. From the wardroom I could see some

of the rituals being carried out, in ceremonials I could only guess at interpreting.

Once we were in deep enough water, the big sub prepared to submerge: another ritual,

with a special sense of importance. The engines shut off, and the hum of the electric

motors started up, propelling the vessel along and down slowly under the waves. The

conning tower hatch had been shut soon after the order 'Dive, dive, dive!' had been

given from the bridge. Last down the ladder into the control room was Jack Oakley.

After the drumming of the engines while on the surface, and the inrush of air down

the conning tower to feed them with air, we were now in a much quieter, smoother

world. Orders were given in the tones of a drawing room conversation. The first

lieutenant was holding the trim, giving orders to pump water from one tank to

another, and watching the depth of the submarine. Jack had ordered periscope depth,

and was studying, through one of them, the effects of the towing manilla being

submerged both on the X-craft and on his own vessel. Buck was beside him, and

invited to take a look as well.

I recall little of this part of the exercise, however, apart from my astonishment at how

cramped the interior of the submarine was, and how tiny the wardroom. Even the

bunks for the officers were shorter than a man's length, and served both as bed and

seat for those gathered round the tiny table. Only the fourth side was open, and that

formed part of the corridor running from the control room forward through the PO’s

mess to the bows, where the torpedo tubes lay. In the end it was time for the crew

transfer to take place, so that the operational crew could carry out the same towing

trials. The telephone, which had been working, if somewhat croakily, came much into

use before the drill was verified. The actual sequence had been determined well

beforehand: it was essential that the passage skipper and Buck should meet on board

the X-craft for a proper handover. At the same time the rubber dinghy would only

take two men at once, plus whatever personal gear they had to take with them. So it

had to make four journeys in all: two out and two in. I think Buck took Jack with him

on the first trip out, and that the engineer PO and rating came back. Then it was my

turn to get into the dinghy, with Jock Murray, the Scots ERA.

I made my way up the vertical conning tower ladder, the air intake for the engines

blowing hard against my shoulders and whistling past my body as I climbed through

the hatch. It was good to be out in the open air after the tight throng of people in the

sub. I climbed over the combing of the conning tower, and down the ladder on the

outside, then walked aft along the casing. There was only a modest swell running. The

dinghy was bobbing about near the after-planes of the big sub, and the two of us

scrambled in and were pushed off.

'Keep clear of the manilla!' someone shouted at us as we dropped astern.

I looked over the side of the dinghy. The manilla was only a couple of feet below the

surface, and we were drifting over it, carried by the wind. At the same time I noticed

the manilla was rising; the big sub had to keep going ahead to counteract the effect of

wind and waves, and stop the X-craft drifting abeam. In a few seconds the manilla

would be directly below us, and could lift the dinghy and tip us into the water.

Another unforeseen eventuality! Nothing to fend ourselves off with! I leant out and

grasped the manilla underwater, thrusting us aside. As it rose further, it provided a

purchase to help ourselves along with for awhile, then sank below the waves again. I

wondered how we would manage if we were transferring in the dark.

Finally we reached the X-craft, and with some difficulty changed places with the

skipper man of the passage crew; X8 rocked with our movements. In a few moments

we were all four below, and the hatch shut. Buck seemed pleased to be back on board

his own command. I was told to go into the forward space, above the batteries, but the

intervening hatches were left open. I felt the surge as the speed of the tow increased.

To begin with all was easy, but when we submerged Jack Marsden found it tricky

keeping depth. The effect of the heavy towing bar in the casing above our bows could

be felt, and the rope seemed to pull us along first faster and then slower, as we

porpoised slightly underwater. But finally he seemed to get the knack of anticipating

the movement, and making a due correction. It was dark before we got back to

Cairnbawn, and a late supper.

Royal inspection

For some days previously, the anti-aircraft defences of Bonaventure and Titania had

been tested out; the Oerlikon armament had been put to unwonted firing, and with live

rounds too, at imaginary targets. I assumed that this was part of the build-up to the

start of Operation Source, to make sure any intruders would be repulsed or even

destroyed. Precautions were taken on land as well to make sure that no-one had

strayed over from Drumbeg into the secret area of Port HHZ. The precautions went so

far as to include a mock attack by a couple of fighter planes - I think they were

Hurricanes - which came and buzzed the ships; the gun crews were instructed to keep

them within their sights as they swept towards us and zoomed overhead, but not to

press the trigger! We watched the display of these aircraft, and caught our breaths at

how close they zoomed to our masts. Finally one outdid the other by flying between

the masts of Bonaventure, under the aerial stretched between them!

The morning after the towing trials a destroyer anchored abeam of Tites. What did

they have to do with the Tirpitz operation? Why did everybody seem to be coming up

into HHZ? That morning there was unusual activity in the loch, with Walrus

seaplanes flying in, and what seemed like a flurry of gold braid on the bridge and

upper deck. Finally we were told: in two hours time the King himself was due to visit

us! We were to parade on the forward well-deck of Bonaventure - all the X-craft

crews, operational and passage together, and the captains and Number One's of the

towing submarines; also the charioteers from Tites, two of whom were to be in diving

gear; together with her senior officers as well as those of the Bonaventure. All other

ranks were to assemble, but not parade, on the fo'c'stle and upper works of the ship.

A thrill of delight coursed through the ships’ companies to hear that the King was

coming in person to pay us a visit: it seemed to give final confirmation of the

importance attached to the whole enterprise. We paraded in operational, not

ceremonial gear, and were ready drawn up in the confined space on the for’ard

welldeck of Bonaventure when another Walrus appeared, escorted by a couple of

fighters weaving this way and that over the loch as the seaplane made its lumbering

approach. Within minutes we were called to attention, and the King was amongst us.

From the corner of my eye I noticed how suntanned he looked, as he stood chatting

with the submarine commanders. Then, in the uniform of Admiral of the Fleet, he

began moving along the X-craft crews, paused briefly to exchange a word or two with

Buck before moving on, saying something like 'Splendid!'.

I was astounded to see that his lips were scarlet, as if he were suffering from strange

illness; but when I saw that his cheeks were rouged, I realised that make-up had been

used on him, and I felt acutely embarrassed, and let down. Kings shouldn't be painted

up like women, I strongly felt. He paused with interest before the charioteers in diving

rig: Pod Eldridge and Tiger Smith; Tiny Fell was there, showing the King various

pieces of equipment and how they worked. Even at this stage I felt myself drawn to be

amongst them again, counted amongst the group which I had joined nine months

earlier. Then the assembled ships’ companies were called upon to cheer His Majesty

in person; we were his Navy. And so it was entirely fitting that he ordered

Bonaventure and Titania to “splice the main brace”, and was cheered spontaneously.

Within an hour or two he was on his way; we cheered him once again as the Walrus

lifted him off the grey waters of Port HHZ.

Departure

Came at last the day of departure. The morning was spent on all the final details. and

the last conversations between friends. Geordie Nelson was buoyed up, even though

his premonitions about dying remained. Bob Aitken exuded his usual quiet

confidence. Dickie Kendall was going to take his tome on soil and manures with him.

Buck and Jack Smart conferred while Jack Marsden was seeing to the loading and

trim of the X-craft. and checking his sums over and over again. Our last meal on

board Bonaventure was lunch on September 11, for immediately afterwards the work

of passing the tow began for the first two submarines and midgets to leave. These

were the two Scotsmen, Alexander in HM Submarine Truculent (one of the two larger

subs taking part) with Don Cameron's X6 in tow; and Jupp in Syrtis, towing Terry

Martin's X9. There was scarcely a single man aboard Bonaventure and Titania not on

deck watching the preparations. At 1600, the senior submarine commander,

Alexander, with the midget in tow, and the passage commander, Paddy Kearon on

deck by the stanchion and voice-pipe, stood ready to salute. So both vessels passed

Bonaventure, crews standing at attention, with Rear-Admiral Barry on the bridge. He

had come for the final two days, having master-minded the operation from the outset.

And now all the planning and the manoeuvering was over and Operation 'Source', as it

had been named, was beginning.

A few minutes later Syrtis drew past. Astern of her, X9 was drawn along in the wake

of the big submarine. On the casing stood Paddy Kearon; his salute was

characteristically energetic and joyous. Even at two hundred yards we could see he

was bursting with the sense of the occasion. And suddenly he broke out in a

semaphore signal. using his arms: 'Up spirits!' We all waved and cheered him on;

there was no doubt but that his spirits well and truly alight.

Then it was Geordie's turn to prepare; a final shake and a backslap, and he was gone

down the companion way to the motorboat plying back and forth. At six in the

evening, while it was still light, Baldy Hezlet's Thrasher sailed past, with him on

board; I thought I could make him out among the officers on the bridge; the passage

captain was Terry-Lloyd, a South African with quite a mad streak in him too (and a

fine singing voice, I now remember) to match the temperament of the operational

skipper of X5.

We were next. The motor boat took us across in the gathering dusk. and we climbed

aboard the big vessel; Jack Smart and the other two members of the passage crew

were already aboard the X8, and I think the tow was being passed and secured. This

time I was allowed to remain on the bridge for the ceremony of leaving harbour. By

the time we were clear to proceed, it was quite dark. so there were no friendly waves,

but instead the familiar appearance of Titania and Bonaventure, both looking very

snug and secure and homely. We stood to attention as we passed them and heard the

answering bosun's pipe from their upper decks. Then it was over; we were leaving

them astern. The night time contours of the loch disappeared in the night. We were

off.

Living space

Once we had left Port HHZ, the bridge was cleared of everyone but the two skippers

and the watch: the officer on duty and the two lookouts, one to either side. The boat

swung to starboard for a northerly heading, but wide enough to keep clear of the

skerries off the little settlement of Scourie. Down in the control room telephone

contact was kept with Jack Smart, the passage skipper, in X8; the line was crackly,

and sometimes temperamental, but on the whole its users managed to make

themselves understood both ways.

Meanwhile the operational crew had to find somewhere to keep out of the way. For

the Scots ERA, this was less of a problem than for the three officers. Jock Murray

found a place at the ERA’s mess-table. But Buck and Jack and I had to make

ourselves as small as possible in the tiny wardroom of H.M.Submarine Seanymph.

This was a rectangular space immediately forward of the control room, within the

same bulkhead, and separated from it only by a thin partition. On one side the

wardroom was open, giving access to the gangway along which all the Petty Officers

and AB’s had to pass to go from their quarters to the control room and beyond. There

was thus no question of any real privacy for the officers, even though a green curtain

could be drawn across the side giving on to the gangway.

Much of the wardroom’s compact rectangular space was taken up with five bunks: an

upper and a lower on two sides of the wardroom; against the bulkhead there was only

one, for the captain, higher than the rest, with an inbuilt chest of drawers underneath

containing official documents for the boat. Wedged in between these bunks was the

wardroom table, with two narrow padded benches athwart, that is, across from side to

side of the space available. Sitting on the bench on the skipper's side, and facing aft,

you could lean your back against the chest of drawers; on the other side, facing

forward, you had no support, while at the narrow end of the table, opposite the

gangway, you had to sit on the inboard edge of the lower bunk - provided it wasn’t

occupied -and lean forward.

This restricted space, I realised, was to be home for the three of us from X8, as well as

for the five officers of Seanymph. Heading them was the skipper, Jack Oakley, all of

twenty-eight years old, and balding, seeming more or less middle-aged to the rest of

us, apart from the Engineer Officer, who had risen through the ranks, and might be

abut forty, an old man therefore, with quiet voice and gentle. The first lieutenant was

a Canadian called Forbes; his fair hair was cut very short, his blue eyes seemed still

dreamy with the forests of Northern Ontario. He wore the two wavy-navy rings of the

RCNVR and had won the nickname Fircone. Next came a tall sub-lieutenant called

Wilson, with a sour manner; he claimed to have been forced into submarines against

his will, and this seemed to rankle incessantly with him. He seemed to do everything

under protest, even navigation: he was the 'pilot'.

Finally there was a very young Sub-Lieutenant, perhaps just turned twenty, the fourth

officer able to take command on the bridge, or when submerged in the control room:

these were Jack Oakley (who took watches when he chose), Forbes, Wilson and

Mallows. On the other side of the bulkhead, just forward of the captain's bunk, lay the

galley, a narrow passage crossing three quarters of the vessel’s beam, equipped with

cupboards and a stove on either side: here the chef had to prepare, cook and serve up

food for well over forty men, counting in the crew of X8. Like any other chef, this one

was temperamental, and drove out of his galley anyone trying to set foot in there to

have a sniff of what was brewing; we simply had to bear our hunger till he announced

grub was up. When that might be remained a secret until the moment arrived. That

first evening on board was no exception: the roast meat and fried potatoes could be

smelt, temptingly, for long before we were finally summoned to table. To my relief

the sea behaved itself that evening; I was able to eat heartily.

On board submarines in World War Two, the main meal of the day was generally

eaten at night, sometimes quite late. This was because no cooking could be attempted

while submerged; and since for the greater part of a patrol the boat would be

submerged during the day, cooking began after nightfall. In consequence the

submarine’s crew was at its liveliest in the earlier hours of the night; that was when it

was no longer necessary to keep activity down to a minimum in order to save oxygen.

So the period from nightfall to midnight, or thereabouts, was when people came to life

and swopped yarns or jokes, when you could light up: almost everyone did smoke, in

those years in the Navy. Not to do so was regarded as both unsociable and mean, and

in any case tobacco was very cheap, being duty-free. A packet of twenty cigarettes

cost sixpence in the old coinage, corresponding to 2 pence in later terms; and every

sailor also had the right to a regular issue of tobacco in the leaf, which he could then

prepare for his own use. This was called 'pusser's', because it was issued from the

Purser’s office. Officers did not get this issue, nor the daily tot of rum available to

everyone over 20 on the lower deck.

But then came the problem of where and when we were going to sleep: there were

five bunks for five officers - and now three more of us had been added. Only one

officer would be away on watch at any one time; the only other absences would occur

if one of Seanymph’s officers had work to do, such as the pilot at the navigation desk,

or the Engineer Officer checking the engines or motors or other machinery. Priority

on use of the bunks had clearly to be given to the Seanymph officers, so the three of

us from X8 simply took turns to get our heads down in any vacant bunk, whichever it

might be - but never the captain's. I remember spending long hours with an acheing

back sitting at the wardroom table, sometimes with my head on my arms, trying to

doze; we had to take what sleep we could when we could. Much of the trip was thus

spent in a somnolent haze. But when we livened up, we would try to solve one of the

crosswords in a book someone had brought on board. Those crosswords, and the

tantalizing nature of some of the clues, are among my clearest memories of the whole

time spent on Seanymph.

Broken tow

Seanymph and X8 had been the fourth pair to depart from HHZ. We all bore up past

Cape Wrath, and proceeded in a NNE direction, several hundred miles to the west of

the Norwegian coast. Our compass courses were identical, but our track through the

sea ran in parallels with some forty miles between them. The weather remained

relatively benign, which was just as well, since the reports coming through the

unreliable telephone wire from X8, at any rate, showed that it was difficult to

maintain depth when being towed. The X-craft showed a persistent tendency to

porpoise: to dive deep and then gradually turn bow up again, and return to shallow, or

even break surface. The intention was that the midget should remain submerged by

day, so that if a Focke-Wulf reconnaissance plane or long range bomber should spot

the big sub from a distance, the midget in tow would not be seen; also there would

only be one vessel to get below the surface in the seconds available.

The porpoising put a very great strain on the tow rope. Ours was manilla, and parted

during the night of the third or fourth day. On the big sub we didn't know what had

happened until the 4.00 a.m. phone contact was attempted and failed completely,

unlike on previous occasions when words could be interrupted by cracklings. An

examination of the record of revolutions or fuel consumption or both enabled the

skipper and Buck to calculate just when the tow had parted: the drag of the X-craft

was no longer felt. We returned on a reciprocal course, very uneasy as to what might

have happened, but hoping that with the dawn we would be able to pick out the X-

craft from the lone figure standing on its casing, beside the schnorkel. Nothing was to

be seen. We searched for several hours along reciprocal tracks, up and down in the

area where the tow must have parted, without avail.

Later in the day we received a signal from the admiralty that X8 had been seen by

another big sub, and was proceeding in company with her: a rendezvous was made

and we met up, but by then X8 had disappeared again.. It was night and a course

bearing had been misheard. It wasn’t till we carried out further searching that we

finally located X8 again, and took her in tow using the spare manilla, stored for just

such an eventuality.

Just how dangerous a procedure towing was showed itself with X9. The manilla tow

parted there too, but when the fact was discovered and the big sub went beck on a

reciprocal track, all that cold be seen on the surface - it was daylight at the time - was

an oil slick running roughly in the direction of the course bearing it had been on. That

was all: at the time, hope wasn't entirely given. up, for the skipper, Paddy Kieran,

might have tried to make harbour, even in Norway (the nearest land) to give himself

up after the date of the attack. He could have opened the seacocks on X9 to send her

down deep in some fjord. But events proved that the craft must have gone down under

at the time the tow parted, no doubt when the bow was pointing down, and the weight

of the heavy iron towing bar in the bows had proved impossible to counter. So the

craft simply went on diving, until the pressure of water buckled her hull.

Dinghy in the dark

A day or so later we received information that the weather was due to worsen. The

decision was made to transfer the action crew to the X8 by rubber dinghy while this

could still be done without undue risk. Perhaps a further consideration was that by

now Jack Smart must be exhausted; but I know that Buck was anxious to make sure

that any further parting of the two would leave him aboard X8, with the operational

crew in place. Then he would be able to steer the midget towards the Norwegian

coast, and get into action against the Lützow.

So we waited till nightfall, and then began the change-over. Quite a swell was

running, a long one, coming in slow from the Atlantic, but the surface of the water

was only lightly stirred. Buck and Jack went first, slipping away into the dark with a

torch to signal to the-X craft. After a while the Petty Officer and Leading Seaman

from the passage crew came down into the control room, looking haggard and drawn.

I wondered whether I would be able to stand the strain of the remaining days in the X

craft during its approach to the coast and then be fit enough for the challenge of

working at the kinds of netting that would enclose our target.

Now it was the turn for me and the ERA to make our way across. With a few

belongings we clambered out on the curved tanks on the sub's side, timing our

approach to board the dinghy as it bobbed about on the surface; we wanted to avoid

the swell washing up around our knees. We stepped awkwardly in, and were pushed

off; the sub was keen to get this operation over as quickly as possible. As we rose and

sank over the swell, the big sub vanished in the dark, and all we had was the light rope

being paid out as we floated away astern, hopefully in the direction of the X craft. I

had the torch, and shone it into the water, to see if we could see the manilla on either

side. It was nowhere to be seen. So I shone the beam directly downwards: the manilla

was below us, and rising. If it came up underneath us, we could be tipped into the

water.

There was no paddle; it had been lost on one of the previous journeys. Feverishly I

used my hand, shouting to the Scotsman to do likewise; the manilla rose from the

water, dripping; I pushed away from it with my hand, to give us more distance. Then

it sank slowly again. Shortly after there was a hail from the X-craft, and within

seconds we were scrambling on to the casing, and holding the dinghy steady for Jack

Smart to take his place and be hauled back.

The interior of X8 felt and smelt like a place lived in with difficulty; above all it was

cold and clammy. So I wasn't sorry when Buck told me to go forward into the battery

compartment and lie down on the boards. First I stowed the items we had brought

over as best I could amongst all the other gear that had been .equipment crammed in;

all my diving gear was there as well. As I lay down, Buck closed the hatch to the wet-

and-dry, for safety's sake perhaps, or possibly simply because it was the practice to

isolate the control room from the forward parts of the vessel. In any case, I was on my

own on the battery floorboards, with not quite enough headroom above me to sit up,

and nothing to do. I formed a pillow out of some spare clothing, and put on my kapok

jacket; that, with the thick wadded trousers and leather seaboots kept me warm. All I

had to do was wait until we were getting nearer to the target area, and give a hand

now and then if Buck asked, for in- stance to take a spell at the wheel.

Porpoising

Just above me, outside the hull, lay the six-foot-long towing bar, lodged in a tube in

the upper casing. I think it must have been held firm by a shackle at the inboard end,

for there was some play between the bar and the tube. As the big sub gathered way - I

realised that the transfer must now be complete and the dinghy hauled inboard and

deflated an stowed - this bar began clanking above me, reverberating through the

casing with each dip and rise of the swell, and sending echoes through the hull. Even

when we had reached our maximum towing speed of eight knots, the bar did not settle

down into one position and stay there. The swell, which I could feel was increasing,

caused the pull of the tow to vary in angle both vertically and horizontally. The X

craft began swaying, swerving, dipping and breasting the next swell with sufficient

motion to make me feel grateful to be lying prone, for I guessed I would not be

seasick provided I stayed horizontal.

All I could do was doze uneasily as we slid along and across the swell during the rest

of the night. Then the hatch opened, and Buck called to me to come and have some

breakfast. He was trying to fry eggs on a primus stove, and boil water for tea; there

was some bread, rather stale, and margarine. Squatting on the lip of the hatchway, I

gave what help I could. The smell of the eggs was turning my stomach, for the seaway

had much increased; it was hard to stop liquids from spilling about, and the primus

had to be held steady. The control room seemed a lot damper than the battery space,

and rather colder too; breakfast was a meal without comfort, and so I was glad to

regain the floorboards in the forward compartment once more.

Dawn had broken, and it was time for X8 to dive. I heard the vents ease and the air

escape, and looked forward to calm running underwater, after enduring the seaway on

the surface; the motion of the X craft through the swell had been strange to me and

had made me feel quite queasy. The waves stopped slapping at the casing; we were

below, and sinking. Soon I could scarcely feel the swell. The bow down angle held

and held. Suddenly there was a heavy clank as the towing bar shifted; we were

running level, but I guessed, from creakings that seemed to come from the hull, quite

deep. Another clonk, and the nose of the craft was pointing up. Up and up we rose, till

the swell began swaying us, and suddenly the waves were striking the casing again,

and the swell had us in its grip. But only for a few seconds; then we were pointing

down again, running deeper until the clank from the towing bar once more reversed

the trend, and we were rising. This time we didn't break surface, and I thought that

Jack, on the hydroplanes, must be getting the hang of how to counter the porpoising

we had been doing.

For a minute or so we ran even, and not very deep; but, imperceptibly to begin with,

and then with increasing velocity, the plunge into the depths took hold of us, and

would not let us go till we had reached an angle of vertical tow sufficient to break that

arc of the porpoising motion. Then we would be once again in the grip of the upward

movement, and it was and go whether or not we would surface.

The truth of the matter seemed to be that being towed simply hadn't been practised

enough. Depth-keeping under your own power, with the screw acting directly on the

after planes of the X craft, with a direct sense of the trim of the vessel - whether she

was slightly bow heavy or stern heavy; whether the buoyancy of the whole craft was

neutral, or a trifle positive or negative - none of this was possible when the power

came from another submarine, through a two or three hundred foot long manilla,

attached to an iron bar that in itself made a profound difference to the weight

distribution along the length of the vessel. We were under-rehearsed. Now, on the

operation itself, we were having to discover by trial and error how to maintain depth

while being towed. Jack Smart had complained about the porpoising, now we knew,

with a vengeance, what he meant, for we were having to handle the effects of a long

swell into the bargain, and worsening sea conditions.

After a while the hatch opened and Buck called me in to take the wheel; the ERA

crawled forward into the space I had vacated to get some rest. I twisted my body into

the tiny seat, got the bearing, and tried to hold it as best I could, though the effects of

the swell when we rode shallow often made me yaw off course to begin with. Once I

had got the sense of when to correct the craft's head when the swell took us, Buck

went aft to relieve Jack, whom I had noticed earlier looking flushed and angry as he

wrestled with the controls, at times cursing and swearing at the way X8 was behaving.

'I’ll take over for awhile now, Jack.' Buck stated.

'Yeah, you can take the cowson!' Jack replied.

He half-rose, keeping his hands on the wheel till Buck had got installed, then

squeezed onto a diminutive bunk at the entrance to the engine room, drawing a

blanket over himself as he did. Buck was calmer than Jack, but no more successful at

depth-keeping; there seemed to be no effective way of controlling the porpoising. My

job on the wheel, steering a given bearing, was a great deal easier than Buck's. He was

seated before the inclinometer (showing the angle of dive or rise) and the depth

gauge, and trying to balance the angle of tow against the supposed trim, and

counteract the effect of the swell. It was a strange sensation, being dragged and

yanked along below those northern waters, now deep, now shallow, not really in

command of the craft in which we were penned.

I visioned the depths below us: green, dark green, shading into black. The bottom was

about a. thousand feet down; we were in no danger of striking any rocks when we

plunged. The risk was much more that the hull, or some valve or joint, would start,

owing to the enormous strains that the craft was being subjected to during each dive.

Or that the explosive charges on either side of the craft, also fitted with buoyancy

chambers, would themselves give way and suddenly make us much heavier …

At length Buck wearied of the struggle with the planes, and took us up to the surface

by putting some air in the side tanks. It was time for lunch, and we needed fresh air

for the primus, as well as for our lungs. We broke open one of our emergency rations

- an escape kit for travelling across Norway - and tried to make soup from a cube that

had been much praised by the army men. It made a thin liquid, tasting faintly of meat;

that, with bread and marge and tea, constituted our meal. It was a poor enough affair,

but I couldn't get much down at all, for the swaying and bucking across what was now

quite a rough swell made me drowsy and heavy, signs of the onset of seasickness.

As we sat or crouched, warming our hands on the mugs of tea, the ERA remarked:

'There's battery gas in that forward compartment.'

'Much of it?' Buck enquired.

'Enough tae gee me a thick heed.'

'Jack Smart thought there might be a cell cracked, ' Buck commented. 'Notice

anything, Lefty?'

'Bit of a sweet smell, I thought,' I replied. I had no idea what battery gas smelt like,

nor what its effects were.

'Shall I go and have a look?' asked Jack Marsden.

'Yeah, see what you think.'

Jack crawled through and rummaged around. He came back to report that he thought

he could smell battery gas, but had no idea how much damage there might be to one

of more of the cells. It would be too long a job, and probably impossible to carry out:

it would mean taking up the floorboards and identifying which of the units was

cracked. With all the extra gear now stowed in that small space, and the movement of

the craft in the seaway, or plunging and rising when dived, the risk of accidents with

uncovered batteries would be great. So we simply left it, and I returned to lie on the

floorboards in there.

When we dived again, I noticed that the depth-keeping was even more erratic than

before. Sometimes the downward plunges would go on and on and on, so that I took

to using my will, quite ineffectually, as if to help Jack overcome the force dragging us

into the depths. The craft strained and creaked at the bottom of these porpoisings, so

much so that I began now to fear that each of them might be our last, and my senses

became keyed up to a higher pitch of attentiveness, listening for all the noises, trying

to identify them, wondering whether it would be the wet and dry chamber that would

first succumb, through its hatch seating or its inlet valve, and admit the first fatal

inrush of water. Buck must have had a similar idea, for he put his head through to shut

the hatch between the battery space and the wet and dry, which could only be done

from the outside. Now if the wet and dry gave, we could at least try pumping it out,

and so retrieve our buoyancy. But the plunging continued as bad as ever, and finally I

heard and felt that we had come to the surface again, and were staying there.

Explosion

Buck had me come back into the control room. I noticed that Jack and the ERA were

both looking glum and pre-occupied.

'We're in this together,' Buck began, 'so I want us to decide what to do by talking it

through.'

I felt relieved to be out of the battery space and freed of the anxiety of listening to the

creaking of the hull underwater; but I sensed that something very serious had

occurred.

'I've checked carefully,’ Buck continued, ‘and there's no doubt of it: we've developed

a list to starboard. It's not our tanks, so it must be the charges, or rather the charge on

the starboard side.'

That might explain why the craft had been so difficult to control, I thought.

'Each of us has listened to see if he can hear water moving about in the buoyancy

compartment. Now we want you to listen too, Lefty.'

I leaned over and put my ear to side of the vessel; all I could hear were confused

noises of the waves slapping against the casing; and said so.

'We could hear it clearer when we were below,' Jack said, 'especially when we

changed the bow angle.'

That seemed to me to make sense.

'What does it mean, if the charge has flooded - that it’s been put out of action?'

Buck looked down and paused. 'Worse than that, I'm afraid. The book of words -’ he

flourished a pamphlet ‘- says that water in the charges may set a chemical change

going which ... can lead to the charge exploding.'

I looked up at him to make sure I had grasped his meaning. 'You mean it might go off

any minute?’

'If there's water in the charge, and if the chemical change has begun,' Jack repeated.

He was perhaps seeking refuge in the if's.

'But we don't know for sure about there being water in the charge,' I countered. 'And

perhaps a leak into its buoyancy chamber isn't dangerous. Does it say anything

specifically about that?'

'Only what I've read out,' Buck replied.

A silence followed, each of us perhaps wondering if the charge was going to blow us

all to smithereens in the next second. There was no knowing; only uncertain surmise.

'Put it this way,' Buck began again. 'If that starboard charge goes off, then we've

bought it, and the whole operation for the Lützow is scuppered. Also the Seanymph

may be badly damaged. That’s a risk we daren’t take. But if we ditch this charge, we

still have one of them left to use. And two tons of amatol ought to be enough to blow

a big hole in the guts of our target.'

'I'm for ditching,' Jack said.

'Lefty?'

'Me too.'

The ERA merely nodded agreement.

'That's it then,' Buck concluded.

He turned to another page in the instruction booklet.

'We'll set it to safe, and then ditch.'

After reading and checking with Jack, he turned the setting dial round to safe; I

wondered if that was faulty too, and after a moment would trigger off the explosion.

But all was quiet. Then Buck took hold of the winding out wheel, a large metal ring

with spokes, standing out from the side of the craft inwards into the control room,

roughly amidships. With Jack's help, for it was stiff to work, they turned it round,

many revolutions. This was the action we would have performed during an attack,

while under the target. It struck me as clumsy and slow: I had imagined that the

charges would be laid with the X craft in motion. It took so long to wind the charge

out, that it wasn’t clear when it had fallen away. We had to assume that when the

wheel wouldn't move any further, the charge was gone.

Even on the surface, we noticed the righting of X8, however. Since she was more or

less on an even keel now, that showed that the charge had taken in water, a good deal

too, and had been jettisoned. The tension eased, and now we hoped that things would

go better, for we felt X8 had had its share of bad luck, what with the tow parting, and

losing contact, and wasting time in finding her again - and now jettisoning half our

attacking power. Buck reported on what had been done to Jack Oakley, explaining the

reasons for the decision. We were about to prepare for diving again - I was still in the

control room - when there was a muffled explosion in the sea aft of us, and a modest

shock wave hit us, lifting us a little, and reverberating in the hull.

We looked at each other, one thought in our minds.

'She went off!' Jack exclaimed. ‘We set her to safe, but she blew up!’

'Can't have been anything else,' Buck commented.

'No damage to us, anyhow,' Jack said, with some relief.

I looked at him, suddenly aware of what he must be thinking. If we had delayed

another fifteen minutes, we would all have been dead by now; for the safe setting had

not in fact worked. The chemical reaction must have been started, and that was what

had caused the explosion.

Buck was already calling Seanymph. They had heard the bang too, but there was no

damage; just relief that we had acted when we did, and not later.

Chemical reaction

So we prepared for diving, and went under. I returned to the battery space. As I

crawled in, I thought that the sweet smell was much more perceptible, but said

nothing. Buck closed the door on me, and I lay down. The porpoising started again,

but to begin with it didn't seem quite as hard to control, and there were periods of two

or three minutes when Jack, or Buck, appeared to have got the hang of how to

maintain depth without plunging or breaking surface. I fell into fitful dozes again, and

lost all sense of time, feeling strangely fuzzy. Once when I came to I wondered if they

had forgotten me. The plunging seemed to have re-assumed its earlier pattern and we

were porpoising violently. I heard the creaking in the hull as we went deep, and

imagined the manilla parting, and us being carried down into the darkness to be

crushed by the pressure of water. The fantasy of dying became half a reality as time

moved on, and no-one came to open the hatch. I began tossing from side to side,

feeling imprisoned in the battery space, unable to signal to the others, for my banging

on the hull would not be distinguishable from the now multiple clanking of the towing

bar.

Reality had become a strange blend of noise and fantasy, peril and solace, when

suddenly the hatch opened. I heard it, but was too bemused, and exhausted, to react. I

heard Buck’s voice calling me, but lay there, supine.

'Lefty! Christ, this place is thick with gas! Lefty!'

I heard the fear in his voice, and stirred, giving a moan of consciousness. He took me

by the feet and dragged my body towards the wet and dry. As I felt the cleaner air

from that compartment wash around me, reality shook itself free from imagination,

and I was propped up on the seat in the wet-and-dry. Buck patted my cheeks, and I

raised my head fuzzily at him.

'Christ, I thought you'd gone,' he breathed, with a faint shadow of a smile.

The fumes were clearing from my head. I realised we were once again on the surface

and noticed that the primus was on; they were brewing tea. The ERA was holding the

legs of the stove steady.

'Like some char?' Buck asked.

I nodded, still too dazed to speak. I felt as if I had come back from the dead.

Trailing high explosive

The warmth of the mug between my hands did more to bring me to than the liquid

going down my throat. I began to look up and take stock. Why were we on the surface

again? I could see through the glass in the conning tower that it was still daylight. Or

was it the next day? My sense of time had completely gone. Somehow it didn't seem

to matter. What I noticed were the dark rings of weariness round the eyes of the three

others. They were visibly sagging, and there was in their expressions the old concern,

the same anxiety as before.

'We've got another piece of thinking to do,' Buck announced, bracing himself against

the periscope hoist. 'Now there's a list to port. Can't say when it began, no more than

with the first charge. But there’s a list.' He paused, as if this declaration had been hard

to make. 'We're less than a day from the dropping zone, and if we slip the tow now,

we should have enough fuel to get in and do the job, and come out again to

rendezvous.'

He had used again, and my thoughts moved slowly among the implications. I took it

to mean that we could be free of the big sub now if we wished, and thereby save it

from any damage, if the second charge exploded while still attached to X8.

'So the choice is: do we slip the tow now and try to get in and out again; or do we

wind this charge out too?'

I looked at him; he looked unhappy, uneasy even. I looked at the others; they were

looking at me. It was obvious that they had been turning around these alternatives in

their minds for some time - at any rate Buck and Jack. Buck was really asking me: do

we risk the chemistry of these charges and go in, knowing that any moment we may

be blown sky-high; or do we give up the operation? I didn't know what their views

were; I was being asked to react on the spot.

I felt resentment rising in me at the thought of giving up, when we had come so far,

and porpoised through hundreds of miles of ocean. Now we were within striking

distance of our target, and could be free of the big submarine; I had come to feel its

presence as a weight, an incubus of which I wished to be rid. At the same time, there

was a great weariness in my body, and a longing for safety: perhaps I need not die

now after all. Perhaps I might yet meet that girl I dreamed of, and be able to do

something wholesome in life. But could I live with myself if I took the easy way

now? The answer, I knew, was no. And why not take the risk? After all, the explosion

would be so massive that we would never know.

Suddenly my mind was made up. 'I'm for going on,' I told the others. 'There's a chance

of doing it, and if the charge does go up, we shan't know.'

They looked at me with some incredulity; for a moment I thought Buck looked

embarrassed. I think Jack muttered 'Christ!' under his breath and turned away. I

glanced at them again; this hadn't been the answer they were hoping for.

'There's something else, Lefty,’ Buck began. 'Maybe we could get in and do it ... But

supposing we get into the fjord, and are approaching the target, and then the charge

goes off ... Don't you see? The Germans will know something's afoot, and the whole

place will go on alert ... So the other X-craft will be put at risk, and maybe the whole

operation will come to nothing - because one explosion gives the game away.’

I hadn't thought of that. I dropped my head; we couldn't, we mustn't jeopardise the

whole thing. And a premature explosion would alarm all the Germans in North

Norway. The nets around the battleships would be trebled, extra lookouts posted,

sorties flown. Our bravado might be responsible for the deaths of other X-craft crews

- a total shambles ...

I raised my head again, and saw Buck was still waiting. 'You're right,’ I admitted. ‘We

can't take that risk. We'll have to ditch, then ...' I thought Jack gave a sigh of relief; I

know the Scotsman did, for he was by my side. Buck looked satisfied, though

crestfallen.

So we went through the routine once more, but more swiftly.

'I don't trust the safe setting,' Buck announced, 'so I’ll set her to go off at two hours.

That should give plenty of distance between us, about four sea miles.'

I looked up, and was about to ask why so little as four. 'Seanymph’s below now;

we’re getting too close to the dropping zone for her to proceed on the surface,' Buck

explained.

He turned the timing switch two hours, and then wound out the charge, with Jack's

assistance; again the action was stiff, much stiffer towards the end.

'Do you think she's gone, Jack?' asked Buck.

'Think she must have done.'

Buck took the craft under to see. The list to port had disappeared. Jack found a trim,

and held the craft steady for a time.

'She feels strange,' he said finally. 'As if she was dragging something.'

We all looked aft at him, and then at each other. Was the charge still with us? Trailing

on some wire that the boffins who made the charges hadn't told us about?

Buck had a try on the planes, but couldn't tell whether there was a dragging effect or

not.

Taking a look

'Surface!' he ordered.

Once there, and swinging in the swell, he turned to me.

'How d'you feel now, Lefty?'

'Better than I did in the battery space,' I replied.

'Think you could go out, and have a look?’

'A look at what?'

'To see if there's any wire dragging from the port side.'

'I can't get under her, not without a lifeline to my suit...'

'I don't mean dive, not full diving rig. Just put on a rubber suit and take a look from

the casing. The swell falling away should show most of the side.'

I thought this over, not convinced that I could give complete reassurance. But here at

last was something I could do better than them, for I was used to clambering about on

the casing, using my hands; I would have to cling on owing to the force of the swell.

'Right,' I agreed. In a few minutes I was inside a rubber suit sufficient to cover my

body, all but my neck and head. I slipped into the wet and dry, and Buck clanged the

hatch shut. I waited for the swell to pass over, and opened the upper lid. The fresh air

whistled all about me as I raised my head, my trunk. Its invigoration gave me a surge

of happiness, after the musty, clammy constriction of the interior of X8. In my

exhilaration I jumped out and made straight for the periscope standard, to hold on to it

before the next swell washed over the low casing. As I got there, I noticed the main

periscope waggling at me, fast. I gave the thumbs up sign, assuming that Buck was

asking if I was all right.

From within the hull I thought I heard a sound coming, but very faint. The swell

washed over the craft, slightly submerging the casing. I was facing aft and working

out how best to take a look when the second swell came over the craft.

Suddenly there was a furious yell from behind me. I turned. Buck was standing in the

wet-and-dry, his trunk showing, rigid.

'You bloody fool! Why didn't you close the hatch!' Just then a third swell came, and

caught Buck as he was shutting the lid. This time the craft went a lot lower, and I

found my legs floating away from the casing as the wave passed over it. The X-craft

had taken on water, and was sinking under the extra weight, under me; I had forgotten

a basic rule; keep the hatch shut at all times when under way, except during entry and

exit.

From the quivering transmitted to the periscope standard I could tell he had switched

on the main motors, but the casing was already underwater, and sinking. I was being

dragged through the water as I clung to the periscope standard, my head just breasting

the troughs, and then dipping under it briefly as the swell washed over me. Two or

three swells submerged me entirely. Then I sensed the craft was regaining buoyancy,

and rising to break surface again. I held on with all my strength, till the casing re-

appeared, and X8 was riding the surface again. Now I was able to take a look on both

sides of the craft here was no sign of any wire trailing, on either side - as far down as I

could see; what the situation was underneath the X-craft I had no real idea.

Almost reluctantly, I went back to the wet-and-dry, and got in between two waves. At

the moment of closing the upper hatch, the opening to the control room was swung

open and a dripping, angry face glared at me.

'Why didn't you close the hatch after you?' Buck expostulated. Furious looks came

from the other two as well.

I mumbled something, knowing it was no excuse.

'I thought for a moment I’d lost you!' Buck added, his tone softening.

'What did you see, Lefty?' Jack asked.

'Both sides clean as a whistle,' I replied. 'As far as I could see.'

'How far was that?'

I tried to describe. But I could only see a little way past the bulge. The charges were

gone, but whether the second was still trailing we didn't really know.

One and three quarter hours after winding out the second charge, there was a mighty

explosion below and astern of us. We were lifted forwards in a surge of speed, lights

went, and a leak started near the periscope; also somewhere in the engine room. The

second charge had exploded, and with such force that even Seanymph sustained

minor damage. The explosion should have been three and a half miles astern; it could

not have been. Had we in fact been trailing a time-bomb all the way since then? Its

power was impressive.

The last of X8

It was all over. The X-craft was even more seriously damaged than we at first had

thought. Miraculously, the telephone still worked, and so Buck and Jack Oakley were

able to assess the consequences. The decision was made to scuttle her, and to take us

on board Seanymph again. It was daylight when this happened, but what time of day I

no longer recall; indeed I don't think I really knew. We slipped the tow, and the big

sub came round, and moved slowly alongside; the four of us jumped from X8 on to

the saddle tanks, and were helped on to the casing by sailors standing by. I climbed up

to the conning tower, and was told to go below at once. I remember seeing Buck

standing at the salute as his command slid below the waves, the seacocks having been

opened.

It was wonderful to get back into the warmth of the big submarine; circulation came

back to long frozen limbs. We were welcomed inboard by Jack Smart and soon we

were sitting down to a mug of hot tea and some real food to eat: I was famished, and

happy to be alive. The contrast with my confused imaginings of death only twelve

hours or so earlier was bewildering. Seanymph dived as Buck came in, thoughtful, sad

to have seen X8 sink beneath the waves, and to find the whole operation so fruitless.

But we were all tired, and an exception was made about the bunks rule: we all three

turned in, and I remember sleeping very heavily for a long time, waking every now

and then, only to drop off again for yet more sleep, warmly conscious of the comfort

and safety and familiarity of the big sub once again around me.

Homecoming

It was well into October when we turned into the Firth of Clyde, late one night, in the

rain. We drew up, shortly before midnight, offshore from Varbel in the Isle of Bute,

the base from which the whole X-craft operation had been master-minded. The seven

of us stepped out on the conning tower, climbed down to the casing, and into a

waiting motor dinghy. We landed on a wooden jetty, and felt the strange sensation of

terra firma underfoot again. We were hurried up to the main building of HMS Varbel,

with some mysterious urgency. Then, as we entered, we found the wide hall full of

people, cheering us, and smiling gladly to see us returned, showing their admiration at

what they thought we had achieved.

I responded to the warmth of their greeting with an embarrassed smile, but Buck

looked angry. 'What the hell are you cheering for?' he asked, amid the tumult. And

then, as it died away: 'But we didn't do anything!'

The reply was a wave of good-natured disbelieving laughter, and more clapping and

cheering. We were shown to our quarters, enormous rooms, with clean sheets, I went

to sleep thinking of the inexpressible delight of a hot bath in the morning.