BLUE FUNNEL "SPARKS"

An autobiography of a Radio Officer in the British Merchant Navy during World War II

CHAPTER THREE

"Antilochus" 10/11/41 - 2/7/42.



Late in September I passed the Postmaster General's exam for proficiency in Radio Telegraphy and was now qualified to go to sea as a Radio Officer. Better late than never. My godmother, Ruth Marshall who worked in the Head Office of Alfred Holt & Co made arrangements for me to be interviewed by their recruiting officer. Happily I was accepted, but as there was no ship in immediate need of an additional R/O. I was to get myself fitted with uniforms and then report back.

There followed a mad rush in obtaining uniforms, winter and summer; greatcoat; raincoat; shirts; shoes; cap and cap covers; topee; braid; brass buttons and epaulettes; socks both black and white; leather gloves and last but not least, a mosquito net especially shaped to fit a ship's bunk.

A special issue of clothing coupons helped one to purchase the gear required. Naturally it wasn't sufficient to cover the minimum of necessities, so the great aunts, grand parents and my own folks all pitched in with one or two coupons each from their very limited supply.

Early in November I was called in to Head Office. I was allocated to a ship and given some very sound advice. "You will be living in close proximity with other men from all walks of life for many months to come. If you should have difficulty in getting along with anyone, there is no way to avoid them, and tension between you can build up. Therefore, to reduce the chances of conflict, there are two contentious subjects, which in conversation, you should avoid at all times - politics and religion. Good luck and may you have a safe voyage".

On 10th November at the Mercantile Marine Office, I signed on to the SS "Antilochus" as 3rd R/O. There I learned that I would be paid £10-10-0 per month. Income tax would be deducted at a rate of 22½% equalling £2-7-3d; the Merchant Navy Officer's Pension Fund would take nine pence in the pound, and Health Insurance one shilling per week. I had an agreement with my father that I would repay him for the cost of my uniforms at £5 per month, so an allotment was arranged accordingly. Add up all the deductions - £8-19-1½d and at the end of a month I would have but £1-10-10½d left to play with. Percuniary matters were not quite as bad as it first appeared. There was a War Risk Bonus and a Differential Payment to be added. These two additions almost doubled my pay. They were of course, subject to Income Tax. In theory, one was supposed to save one's bonus, so that in the quite likely event that you lost your ship and clothing, you would have some money towards refitting yourself with uniforms.

Should you experience the misfortune of being sunk, there was an extra payment made to help you over the financial hurdle. It was of course, insufficient, and I was later to meet married men who were up to their eyeballs in debt, having had the gross misfortune to have had, in quick succession, two ships go down under them.

The Differential Payment was awarded to all members of the crews of British ships so that their wages might be more in line with the payments made to their counterparts in Allied vessels. This was a laugh, for it came no where near what was being paid to men of those ships, particularly those of America. Nevertheless, one should never look a gift horse in the mouth, and there were times when this skinny ribbed steed saved me from being penniless when I was badly in need of a few bob.

Dad was grateful for the £5 allotment per month, for his expenses were heavy. My brother was at boarding school, my little sister was billeted in the country away from the air-raids, and having lost his house, Dad was well out of pocket in having to pay for another. It took me two years to pay back the loan for my uniforms.

In one of his letters Dad mentioned that Mum had had a stint in hospital, and that the £5 allotment for that particular month had just arrived at an opportune moment and relieved his financial stress.

My instructions were to join the "Antilochus" next morning. So, after completing the formalities for obtaining my British Seaman's Identity card, joining the Merchant Navy Officers' pension Fund, and registering with the National Health Scheme, I went home to pack my gear.

Years earlier my maternal grandfather had given me a large "Fiberlite" suitcase for use when he and grandmother took me on holidays. We used to stay at Lower Raw Head Farm in Bikerton, Cheshire. Grandfather had carefully painted my initials on the suitcase. He was proud of his work, but had been slightly annoyed with himself for not getting the letters exactly square on, in relation to the edges. It took a very critical eye to spot the error, but to the discerning it was there and it irritated him.

Grandfather, a retired bank officer, had died some two years before the war broke out. He had been a perfectionist and it showed in his hobbies. For philatelists, his stamp collection was a joy to behold. He played a violin for the Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra, so he must have been considerably better than F.A.Q. with a bow.

As I packed the case, I thought of him and the holidays we had spent together on the farm. Burning the gorse bushes to clear the land, helping with hay making; shooting rabbits; clearing a pond of weeds; the memories flooded back. They were good, but sadly they could never be repeated. Never mind, Grandfather would have been pleased if he knew his gift was still being put to good use and it would be visiting places that he was only familiar with through his stamp collection.

Next day I ordered a taxicab and headed for the ship. Our family never went in for fond farewells, so Dad had wished me good luck the night before and had left for work in the bank before I had arisen. Mum was busy with household chores when the cab arrived, so I just called out that I was leaving. She acknowledged the call so I closed the front door behind me and handed my suitcase over to the cabbie. He placed it in the luggage compartment alongside the driver's seat. "Where to Sir?" "East Float, Birkenhead" "Very good, Sir" and away we went.

While we were passing through the Mersey Tunnel I recalled its opening by King George V and how, as a Wolf Cub, I had been one of thousands of boys and girls who had lined the Royal Route.

My reverie was broken by the cabbie "Which side of the Float, Sir?" I had not got a clue. Not being familiar with the Birkenhead Docks system, I didn't even know how many sides the Float had. I admitted as much to the cabbie. "Well Sir, there's the West Float and the East Float, and since you've asked for the latter, that cuts the problem in two. However, as the distance around the berths in the East Float is about two and a half miles, I doubt you'll be wanting me to drop you at the wrong gate - could be a long walk Sir. Do you happen to know the name of the ship you are joining?" Obviously I did, so I enlightened him. Not much point in withholding that information. If he wanted to, the cabbie could get the names of all the ships in the Float by looking in and reading the names off the hulls. True the names were painted over, and sometimes difficult to decipher, but the outlines of names that are frequently chiselled into the steel, are persistent and tend to show through many layers of paint.

Arriving at the first gate, the cabbie beckoned the guarding policeman over. "Got an officer here for the "Antilochus" - where's she berthed?" The bobbie asked to see my I.D. card and having glared at it, asked "First trip Sir?" I confessed it was. He then gave the cabbie the necessary directions, and wished me good luck and a safe voyage.

We drove off and were soon at another entrance. The cabbie checked that this was the right place, unloaded my suitcase and took it as far as the gate under the watchful eye of another policeman. I paid the fare and the cabbie wished me good luck.

My I.D. card was checked and the second policeman allowed me through to the quay, but not before wishing me good luck and a safe voyage. This continual wishing me of "good luck" was all very well, but coming so earnestly and so frequently from so many sources, it was beginning to get under my skin - just what had I let myself in for?

There she was, the "Antilochus". Dressed in battleship grey like all her other wartime sister ships. Compared with other vessels in the float, she was bigger than most and not at all attractive. Instead of having the conventional style of masts, this vessel was fitted with two pairs of masts. Each individual metal mast being located well away from the ship's centre line and mounted towards the sides of the ship. Heavy steel girders formed a cross bar between the two masts in each pair. In appearance each pair of masts resembled the letter "H" with the cross bar well up in the upper half of the "H". Small wonder then, that ships so fitted are known as "goal posters". This I had yet to learn.

My interest in the masts was for a specific purpose. The aerials would be up there - follow the leads down from them and you would know the location of the wireless room. There were no aerials to be seen!

The quay side was cluttered with cargo handling gear; slings; nets; and ropes all over the place; dock labourers handling cargo and stores, lorries and trucks bringing cases and drums - organised chaos. I gingerly threaded my way through that lot and headed for the gangway.

Now a cargo ship's gangway is an unsociable device, with an evil temperament. Basically, it is a long staircase comprising a set of steps mounted between two narrow side pieces. More often than not, there is no backing to the steps. The handrails are ropes loosely threaded through metal posts which fit into sockets mounted on the side pieces. The posts wobble in their sockets and as the ropes are usually slack, these hand railings give more moral than physical support. The whole gangway is hinged to the ship at its upper end and supported by a block and tackle at the lower end so that it can be raised or lowered to compensate for the rise and fall of the tide, or the changing draught of the ship as she is loaded or discharged. The whole contrivance sways at the slightest touch so that as you climb upon it, it gives all the semblance of being alive.

Now, because the gangway must be made long enough to reach down to the water level when a ship is riding high, that is in an unladen state, it follows that when the ship is alongside a wharf the gangway is far longer than required and as a consequence, is only partly lowered. So what happens? Quite simple, the flat tread of the steps, instead of being horizontal, repose at an angle somewhat towards the vertical. Therefore, instead of having a nice flat step to tread upon, you are faced with the thin noses of the steps on which to place your feet. Not too difficult to negotiate - once you have become accustomed to it, but for women in high heeled shoes it is a nightmare and a virtual impossibility. For new chums carrying a suitcase, it is a bit daunting, even if you see through the spaces between the steps that there is a safety net between the gangway and the water some thirty feet below. Barked shins and worse injuries are not uncommon amongst those who use gangways, but are more likely to be encountered by those who have spent a well lubricated evening ashore.

Up the gangway I went. Slowly and cautiously and was confronted at the top by a mildly amused Able Bodied Seaman, who had been watching my unskilled efforts. "You'd be the new Junior Sparks Sir?" I agreed and, upon request, proffered my I.D. card. "Wireless Room is at the for'ard end of the boat deck, up that companion way, Sir".

I stepped on to the deck. Ye gods, what a mess! The quay was bad, but this was infinitely worse. Some of the hatches were open and the last of the cargo and stores were being loaded. Winches rumbled and blew clouds of steam over the unwary, steel cables snaked about just waiting to trip you up; hatch boards were neatly stacked, but they reduced the walking space; arc welders were putting finishing touches to some metalwork and cascades of sparks and gobs of molten metal bounced on the steel deck. The welder's mobile generator and electric cables didn't improve the congestion either, and a huge pile of ashes and galley refuse all but blocked my path.

Come to look at it, there were piles of ashes all over the place. Even as I looked, a Chinese fireman was getting another load of ashes out of a hoist and depositing them on the deck. The ashes must have been hotter than he liked, for he stuck his head into the opening of the hoist and shouted his views down the shaft to his confreres far below. I don't know what he said, but from the tone I gathered he was far from impressed with his latest consignment.

The fireman pulled his head out of the hoist and, just as I was passing, turned a hose on to the latest pile of ashes. The hot clinkers hissed a protest and reacted violently. Steam, smuts and flying ashes went every which way. I emerged from this mini mock-up of Dante's Inferno a little spattered, but relatively unscathed and made my way up the external companion way - stair case, to the uninitiated - and came to the Wireless Room.

I knocked on the steel plated door and entered. The Chief and 2nd R/O were ensconced therein, and by the time I had squeezed in, leaving my suitcase outside, there would hardly have been room for anyone else.

Introductions all round. The Chief asked the 2nd R/O to show me to my quarters, so that I could park my case. I was then to report to the Chief Officer (Mate) and advise him that he now had the full complement of Radio Officers aboard, and after that, get back to the Wireless Room, there was work to be done before we sailed.

The 2nd R/O led me around the back of the Wireless Room and across a large metal grille, flanked by the funnel. Coming up through the wide spaces between the bars of the grille, from what seemed to be miles below, deep in the bowels of the ship were waves of heat and sulphurous fumes. Dimly discernible in the glow of furnaces and through the haze of smoke and steam were the shadowy figures of firemen busily stoking the fires and getting pressure up in the boilers. The screeching noise of shovels on steel and the scrunch of coal being shovelled could be distinctly heard accompanied by the clang of furnace doors.

Round a corner we went and my escort opened a door to a cabin. "This is the cabin you and I are sharing. You have the top bunk, so pitch your case and greatcoat up there for the time being". This I quickly did and just had time to notice that the cabin was small. "Now, go down this companion way, cross the deck and enter that alleyway straight in front of us and the Chief Officer's cabin is on the port side at the far end. The Saloon is there too. Beneath us is the toilet block - entry on the starboard side. See you back in the Wireless Room"

Down the companion way I went and across the deck. There wasn't so much clutter on this side of the ship and far less ashes. Made the alleyway OK, found the Chief Officer`s cabin without any difficulty, for there were little brass plates above each doorway delineating the occupant. Reported to the Chief Officer that all the R/O's were on board and went back to the Wireless Room.

Surprise, surprise. Radio Officers not only attend to radio matters, we also handle much of the ship's clerical work as well. My first task was to type out six copies each of "Boat Stations"; "Action Stations"; and "Fire Stations". Not having used a typewriter before, I found this a little disconcerting. I am introduced to a small portable typewriter, piles of paper both plain and carbon, shown the basics of loading the beast, and how to make it produce capitals and lower case letters upon request. Simple in principle, but not quite so easy in practice as would at first appear. Copies of previous lists, now out of date, gave me the layout.

I was left to my own devices and made a start. Anyone who has played "Hunt and Peck" on a typewriter will empathise with the situation. How come some letters can apparently temporarily vanish from the keyboard and be so elusive to find? Why doesn't a shift key shift as much as it should? What on earth is TAB? The space bar had a mind of its own and decided how much space should be allocated, irrespective of your wishes, and the back spacer frequently didn't. I struggled on.

The slowly emerging lists revealed that the ship's officers were European as were the cooks and seamen, but apart from the Chief and 2nd Steward, the other stewards and firemen were Chinese. Most of the ranks and ratings I could figure out. But, pray tell me, what does the Donkeyman do?

My Boss turns up and checks over the lists. The typewritten columns had a few kinks in them, there was evidence of corrections galore and there were spaces where they should not have been and vice versa. The lists were decidedly not works of art. Nevertheless they were readable and as time was pressing, they would have to do. I am told to retype the lot later when we were at sea.

The 2nd R/O took them away to pin up on notice boards whose whereabouts I knew not. It was then time for me to learn about the gear and equipment in the room. The wireless receiver was ancient and of a type I had never seen before. It was mounted against the bulkhead in the centre of the desk which ran the length of the room. This receiver had but three valves in its innards and to change from one frequency band to another, instead of rotating a switch, you pulled out two metal cans containing wire coils from the face of the instrument and inserted another pair. To cover the entire radio communication spectrum there were some fourteen cans stowed in pigeon holes in a rack.

I am told that there are times when this receiver is reluctant to work and that no amount of probing into its vitals has resulted in locating the intermittent fault. But no matter, a fairly solid slap on the left hand side of the metal outer case will bring it into the right frame of mind.

The transmitter, mounted on the desk to one's left, was a model with which I was familiar and since it had no temperamental quirks should not present any problems. On the right end of the desk was a polished wooden box with a framed glass lid. Inside could be seen a mass of gearwheels; cams; moveable electric contacts; a clockwork motor and a radio receiver. Truly a strange device. This mechanical wonder was an Automatic Alarm.

In peace time, when cargo ships such as this one take to sea they carry but one Radio Officer. There is obviously a limit to the amount of time that officer can be on watch, so when they are not on duty, the Automatic Alarm takes over.

This is how it works - Suppose you are on a ship that is in distress and you need to send a message urgently to summon help. For all you know, the R/Os on the ships nearest to you may be asleep. How then do you get their attention? You start by transmitting twelve long dashes each of four seconds duration, with a one second gap between each dash. On board other ships, the clockwork mechanism in the Automatic Alarm is turning a series of cams and electric contacts. When the receiver picks up a signal, the first contact is moved into place. If your first dash is of correct duration, the contact stays locked in place. If your dash was too long or too short, the mechanism releases the contact and moves back to square one, ready to start all over again. Let's suppose your dash and the one second interval were correct and you have now pressed your key to send a second dash. The Automatic Alarm will react by moving a second contact into place. Get your timing wrong and both contacts will be released and the works will reset. Get three sequential dashes and spaces correct and when the third contact completes its revolution, alarm bells will ring on the ships receiving your signal.

Simplicity! Easy as falling off a log! Don't you believe it. There are unfortunately lots of false signals generated by thunderstorms and over the ether comes a continuous hiss and crackle of atmospherics, which are usually of greater intensity in the tropics.

The radio receivers in those days were unable to sort out the genuine signals from the background clutter, so your nicely timed dashes may well be distorted into signals that are too long or too short. Tough luck! That's why you send off a dozen dashes, in the hope that out of that lot, any three in a row will hit the jackpot.

Atmospherics can of course play the opposite game and will quite regularly trigger off the alarms when there is no emergency. A good tropical thunderstorm, hundreds of miles away, could have you hopping out of your bunk and dashing into the radio shack several times a night.

But now it was war time and this Machiavellian device was not used for its prime purpose, its alarm bells have been defanged and the apparatus has been relegated to the status of "Stand by Receiver". It was now used to keep watch on the international frequency used by all ships and coast stations for making initial contact, during those periods when the operator was receiving messages on other frequencies.

Neither of the two receivers had a loudspeaker, for they were not powerful enough to drive one. Instead you wore headphones. During those times when both receivers were switched on, you wore two pairs criss-crossed across your skull. Not lightweight modern type headphones, I might add, but really solid heavy specimens that clamped tightly over your ears. Small wonder that I still have well developed neck muscles and sport ears that lie so close to my head, that I can barely squeeze the arms of my spectacles into the gaps.

On the bulkhead nearest the door was a telephone and a bell push, both were connected to the Chartroom on the Bridge. There was also a handsome brass encased clock which was conventional, except that the three minute periods between 15 and 18 minutes to and past the hour were marked in bright red. Why? Because that served to remind you of the International Silence Periods which everyone observed, at least in theory. Americans tend to have memory lapses. It is during these silence periods that a ship in distress, or a life boat transmitter has a better chance of being heard without the normal traffic hub bub of more powerful transmitters.

The bulkhead opposite the doorway sported an array of switchboards smothered in exposed double pole double throw knife switches. They were used to direct electric current to or from the banks of wet cell batteries that went towards making the whole outfit work.

Below the switchboards was a small hatchway that led directly on to the 2nd R/O's bunk in the adjoining cabin. That was the emergency exit, for the two portholes in the Wireless Room were far too small to grant a man egress.

Under the desk on either side of the knee space were cupboards. They contained the motor alternators; spare parts; tools; the typewriter and stationery. The operator's leather covered swivel chair had arms, and while it could be moved about a little, it was chained to the floor to prevent it and its occupant sliding about in rough weather. Behind the chair was a small built-in sofa and above it, mounted on the bulkhead, a bookrack.

Above the desk and protruding through the deck head were the inboard ends of two enormous long white porcelain insulators that wouldn't have looked out of place in a power station. They encased the leads to the aerials. Thin copper tubes connected the leads to terminals on a massive knife switch. Other copper tubes joined the switch to the transmitter and receivers. The shining copper blade of the switch was an inch wide and almost a foot long, while its long ebony handle could have doubled for a policeman's truncheon. This impressive device was used to switch your aerials from the receiver to the transmitter, and vice versa. While its prime purpose was to prevent your receivers from getting the full blast of a transmission and thereby popping their corks, it also served as a reminder that those folks who get hold of an aerial when a transmission is in progress don't usually survive more than a few seconds.

Last, but far from least, was the telegraph key, or if you prefer, morse key. This was screwed to the top of the desk in a position suitable for right handed operators. How you managed if you were left handed, I am not quite sure. I don't recall ever meeting a southpawed R/O, but there must surely be a few. Perhaps they bring their own key with them and mount it to suit their needs.

A gong sounded somewhere outside. My boss said "Hash Hammer - time for lunch. You will be attending second sitting. Stick close to the Wireless Room in case anyone needs anything. Come and get me if necessary". He and the 2nd R/O went down to the saloon.

For half an hour I was left to twiddle my thumbs and take stock of the situation. I stepped outside and looked around. The activity on the wharf had subsided. Beams and hatch covers were being placed over the holds, a feather of steam was emerging from the safety valve way up the funnel towering above me. Obviously we were nearly ready to sail. I looked at the lifeboats resting in their cradles further along the boat deck and wondered to which one I was supposed to go, if the necessity should ever arise. Made a mental note to ask.

Inside the Wireless Room I looked over the equipment and went through a practice drill of how to operate everything without actually switching anything on. The books in the rack caught my eye. Lists of Radio Navigation Beacons; radio stations that transmitted time signals; ships call signs; coast stations' call signs, an atlas and some maintenance manuals.

I was browsing through these when the other R/Os came back. "Go and get your lunch. Enter the saloon by the port alleyway, it is closest to your end of the table. If the Captain is still there, nod to him before you take a seat. You sit anywhere there is an empty place at the bottom end of the table. Don't start a conversation with anyone who has more stripes than yourself, let them make the opening gambit. Get permission to leave the table by catching the eye of the senior officer present and saying "S'cuse me" before you go. Don't be long".

I went down to the alleyway I had traversed earlier in the morning and entered the saloon. The Captain was still presiding at one end of the table. I nodded and received an almost imperceptible flicker of a response. Thus encouraged, I made for a vacant swivel armchair and sat down. A menu was being held before my eyes even before I had time to ease the creases in my trousers. For one who was used to war time boarding school fare, that menu proclaimed a banquet indeed. I selected my first course. The meal proceeded. All was quiet at the bottom end of the table. Two midshipmen, the Fourth Mate and junior engineers were concentrating on eating. The Captain, Chief Officer, Chief Engineer and Surgeon were discussing matters relating to India, where apparently the Surgeon had spent much of his life in the Indian Army. They soon departed, and the rest of us gradually dispersed.

I made my way back to the Wireless Room. "Took your time!" was my greeting. Now, as I had been away only twenty minutes, was I having my leg pulled or not? The two straight faces gave no clue.

A young lad, about 15 or 16 years of age appeared outside the Wireless Room and said "Bos'un says to tell you he's about to haul up yer aerials". The 2nd R/O rummaged in the tool box, selected a shifting spanner and a pair of pliers. "Follow me". We went outside, climbed up a vertical ladder attached to the Wireless Room and clambered on to the roof. Not much up there other than the other ends of those big insulators and a very large well protected box containing batteries. There were no railings to prevent you from going over the edge.

The aerials were already being hauled up the mast, so we grabbed hold of the down leads before they got away from us. There were two main aerials, one for each side of the ship and they spanned the distance between the for'ard and after pairs of masts. All went smoothly, and once the aerials were secured aloft, we threaded the downleads into the insulators and tightened up the clamps. I was surprised at the thickness and weight of the bare copper wire. It was multistranded and about as thick as a pencil.

Back down we went to the Wireless Room. The Boss switched on the main receiver and warmed up the transmitter. He listened briefly to the receiver and, as all was quiet, keyed "TEST" on the transmitter. The needles on the various meters indicated that all was well, so he shut down the transmitter, but left the receiver going.

"You will be taking the 12 to 4 watches. It is now 13:15 so you may as well sign yourself on in the logbook and we will then be open for business". As he spoke, there was some tooting as two tugs notified us of their imminent arrival, ready to guide us through the dock gates. There was a loud rushing noise as steam blasted up an insulated pipe that ran up the funnel to the whistle located near the top. The whistle gave an asthmatic wheeze and showered the deck below with big drops of water. Having cleared its throat, so to speak, the whistle's second attempt was impressive. Clouds of steam billowed forth and the deep sounding vibrations shook the Wireless Room.

"Never climb up the funnel without first advising the people on the Bridge. If you were up on the platform alongside that whistle when she blows, its goodbye ears and maybe, goodbye you as well. Similarly, no one goes up the masts to the vicinity of the aerials without telling us first". This advice from the 2nd R/O. "I will be back a bit before 1500 hours, the 2nd Mate wants a time check for the chronometers, so I will show you how it is done".

The door had been secured open, and as the headphones had a reasonably long lead I could reach the doorway and peer out. Longshore men were letting go the mooring lines, tugs were pulling us away from the quay side and on the quay two bowler hatted gentlemen wearing fawn raincoats and carrying attache cases and furled umbrellas were watching proceedings. "Bloody Hard Hats from Head Office come to see we don't scrape no paint off the hull when we go through the gates" volunteered a passing seaman, who with the others of his ilk were hoisting the lifeboats out of their cradles and swinging them outboard beneath their davits, ready for immediate use if so required.

We moved through the dock gates without loosing any paint and entered the Alfred Dock. We passed through the last of the series of dock gates and headed seawards down the River Mersey. On the other side of the river I could see the two green coloured copper Liver birds with outstretched wings mounted on the twin towers of the Liver Building. They gradually faded away astern, lost in that grey-brown haze that enshrouds the City of Liverpool. I wondered if I would ever see them again.

The tugs had cast off some time ago and we were proceeding slowly under our own power. My steward brought a cup of tea together with a tabnab, a small type of cake. Signals came and went on the receiver. Nothing that concerned us though. Since the three letter call signs of the coast stations as yet meant little to me, I looked them up in the lists to see who was who. "GLV" for Liverpool, "GLD" for Landsend, "GNI for Nitton in the Isle of White". The enemy coast station's call signs, being German, all started with the letter "D" and they came in loud and clear. In accordance with regulations, I made at least one notation in the logbook every 15 minutes, detailing the radio traffic that eventuated.

A few minutes before 1500 hours the 2nd R/O returned, showed me how to look up radio stations giving time signals in one of the books. The entries indicated what type of time signal was broadcast, when, and on what frequency. We switched on the standby receiver, and found the radio station we required on the main receiver. A telephone call to the Bridge warned them that in a couple of minutes the time signal would be coming through. This particular station transmitted a "beep" every second with a longer "beep" marking each minute. So that you could work out which minute was being signalled, the transmission left out one "beep" in each minute. For example, at five minutes to the hour, the time signal omitted the fifty fifth "beep". That indicated that come the long "beep", the time would be fifty five minutes past the hour, or, if you prefer, five minutes to the hour. We gave three presses on the bell to the Bridge for "Stand by" followed by one press to coincide with the time signal each time a minute went by. The exercise continued until the 2nd Mate rang to say that he had got what he needed.

A couple of minutes before 1600 hours the Chief R/O appeared. I signed off and we changed over the watch keeping. "No. 2 is in your cabin, report to him and he will show you a few things you need to know". I did as ordered, and the pair of us proceeded along the boat deck. As we went, the 2nd R/O pointed out which lifeboats each of us had been allocated.

We walked to the far end of the boat deck, down a companion way and doubled back into a starboard alleyway. The first door we encountered led into the Emergency Wireless Room. In it was a "spark" transmitter, an unsophisticated, rugged apparatus, that contained no glass valves. It could, at a pinch, be repaired if not too badly damaged.

There was no receiver, but should one be required, then the lifeboat transceiver would have to be used. The latter took the form of a fair sized water proof suitcase, and since it contained both a transmitter and receiver, plus wet cell batteries that would not have been out of place in a motor car, it was both cumbersome and heavy. A long coil of rope was attached to the handle.

While we tested the equipment the 2nd.R/O explained that when we went to "Action Stations", his position would be down here. The Chief R/O would be in the main Wireless Room, while I would head for the Bridge and help with whatever signalling might be required. If we were ever to "Abandon Ship", then I was to get down to the Emergency Wireless Room, grab the lifeboat transceiver and take it to the Chief R/O's boat. If the lifeboat had not been launched, then I was to wait until it was safely in the water before lowering the transceiver into it. No good putting it in any earlier, lifeboats not infrequently have mishaps while being launched. If No.1 lifeboat was incapacitated then I was to take the transceiver to the 2nd R/O's. If they were both out of action, and I couldn't see where either of the R/Os had gone, then I was to put the transceiver and myself into my lifeboat.

What would the Chief and 2nd R/Os be doing meanwhile? Either one or the other would be sending out distress messages until it was no longer practicable so to do. I got that briefing tucked away between the ears and hoped that I would never have to put it into practice.

Our next venue was the Bridge, or more precisely, the Chart Room, at the back of the Bridge. Tucked away on a corner of the chart table was a Radio Direction Finder, normally used for taking bearings of shore based radio beacons and from the information gained, plotting your ship's position.

We were going to use it for something a little more exciting. Our ship, together with eight other vessels in the large convoy, had been selected to listen for submarines transmitting to their bases. Naval Intelligence had learned that the German U-Boats transmitted their messages on any one of three wavelengths. If two, or better still, three ships widely spaced apart in a convoy were each able to simultaneously take bearings of the transmission, it was possible to plot the submarine's position. Not with pinpoint accuracy, but close enough to give the escort vessels a chance to hunt and pick up the scent.

To send their messages, the U-Boats had to surface and they naturally kept their transmissions as short as possible to reduce the chances of accurate bearings being taken. So that coming night when the convoy had formed up, we were to guard one wavelength with two other ships, while six more vessels covered the remaining two wavelengths. We would not be keeping our normal watch in the Wireless Room.

I knew how to operate the R.D.F. Switch on the receiver, put the headphones over your ears, select the wavelength required and rotate the goniometer back and forth through 180° until you heard a signal. Continue turning the goniometer back and forth to establish when the signal was loudest and at that moment read the bearing indicated on the goniometer's dial.

There was a snag though. When you obtained a bearing you could not tell for sure whether the signal was coming from the direction shown or from its reciprocal in the exactly opposite direction! When taking bearings of coastal beacons this usually presented no problem, for your charts and common sense would help you select the right one.

Miles out at sea, the story is different and a single ship had no way of telling whether a sub's signal was coming from ahead or astern, or from the port or starboard side. Nor does a R.D.F. tell you from how far the signal is coming. That was why, to obtain a "fix" it was necessary to obtain bearings from a minimum of two ships in order to ascertain a sub's position.

There was a further difficulty. No good just saying that a signal was coming in at, say 72° or its reciprocal, 288° without indicating in what direction the ship was heading at the moment the bearing was taken. To get the act together, it was necessary for the officer on the Bridge to read the ship's heading at the same time the R/O took the signal's bearing relative to the ship. Meld the bearings together and then dispatch the result to the Senior Naval Officer of Escort sooner than quicker by means of a signal lamp.

Signal lamps? There were two sorts. One was similar to a conventional medium sized flash-light, the main difference was that most of the glass was blacked out and only a small round aperture about ¼ inch in diameter was left clear. This type of torch was used at night, and although it emitted only a small amount of light, it was generally adequate. Bear in mind that the glow of a cigarette can be seen for better than ten miles under the cover of darkness on a clear night. The light beam was switched on and off by pressing a button on the side of the torch.

Daytime signalling was done either by hoisting International Signal Flags, which could be seen simultaneously by a number of ships or to an individual ship by morse using an Aldis Lamp.

I had never handled one of these lamps, so the 2nd R/O showed me how to use it. The outer casing of the lamp was a bit like an old fashioned car round headlight with the back portion flat and parallel with the front. There was a pistol grip underneath combined with a trigger. Looking in through the front glass you could see the bulb and behind it a parabolic reflector. Pull the trigger and the reflector tipped forward and would direct a beam of light straight through the front glass. On top of the lamp was a "V" sight to help you point the lamp directly at the person receiving your signal. Power came from a car battery via a long lead and entered the lamp through the base of the pistol grip.

To operate the lamp you held the pistol-grip-cum-trigger in one hand while you steadied the front of the lamp with the other. You switched the bulb on, and having lined up your "target" you were ready to start signalling. Pull the trigger and a beam of light would be directed at your target. Let the trigger go, and a spring tipped the reflector and deflected the light beam upwards and off target. You sent messages in morse by triggering long and short bursts of light to the receiver. Speeds of 8 to 12 words per minute were obtainable. I had a dummy run without switching on the lamp. Not too difficult to master, but I wished that they had trained me for this caper at Wireless College.

Our ship was now in the company of others, and all were taking up their convoy positions. Some of the vessels were towing small barrage balloons some hundreds of feet above them. The balloons were there to discourage any would-be attacking aircraft from making low strafing runs across the convoy.

I was to relieve the No. 1 R/O at 1800 hours so that he could go and get his dinner. As there were some 50 minutes or so to elapse before that time, I was told that I could fill in the interval by unpacking my gear and settling in to our cabin. So off I went. The way to the cabin was easier now. The piles of ashes had nearly all gone. Gone over the side and the remainder were being shovelled overboard.

The cabin was small. If you placed your feet wide apart in any direction you could straddle the available standing space on the mat covered deck. On the left hand side as you entered the doorway was an ancient fold up wash basin, similar to those that used to be found in railway sleeping compartments years ago. There was running hot and cold water, but to empty the basin you tipped it upwards away from you and the water fell into a metal container that the steward emptied each day.

A water jug, two glasses and a mirror were mounted above the wash basin. Next to the wash basin was a four drawer chest of drawers. The two lower ones were for my use. The upper and lower bunks were directly opposite the doorway and they, with a skinny wardrobe took up the entire width of the cabin. A settee barely wide enough to seat two persons and a tiny steam powered room heater took up the space along the remaining bulk head. An electric fan was mounted above the settee.

Swinging the proverbial cat would have proved to be disastrous for the feline unless it was a kitten with a stumpy tail and you had very short arms. It took me all of ten minutes to unpack and sort myself out.

I had noticed that most officers and men were carrying life jackets when they were moving from one part of the ship to another. The Chief R/O had brought one with him when he came on watch. There was one in the wardrobe, presumably mine, so I took it out and looked it over.

The jacket was of a waist-coat type that tied at the front. Made from a dark blue cloth, stuffed with kapok and quilted. Below the back of the neck a rope loop was attached, this for helping a rescuer to haul you out of the water. It is very difficult to get a grip on a man if he has been immersed in oil, as was a frequent occurrence when ships sank. A police type whistle was attached to the jacket by a lanyard. On one shoulder a red light was clipped on. The power supply came from a flashlight battery stowed in a watertight container tucked into a pocket. Another pocket contained a tin of "Etagon" tablets, which, if you believed the instructions, were supposed to supply enough nourishment to keep you alive for days.

Later, I learnt that those who had had to eat "Etagon" tablets, considered them to be made from compressed sawdust, suitable tucker for termites and apart from creating a mental diversion, were of no use what-so-ever. But for then, my ignorance was bliss. I tried the jacket on. No problems. From then on, where I went, it went too.

When I had entered the cabin, darkness was well and truly settling in, and when I came out, all was pitch black. Cautiously I felt my way around the back of the cabin, across the grille, round the corner and into the Wireless Room. All doors that lead outside were fitted with automatic switches, so that as soon as you commenced to open a door the interior light went out and prevented any chance of a glimmer of light escaping and giving the ship's presence away to enemy eyes.

I stepped into the Wireless Room, closed the door and the light came on. "You are early, it's not 1800 hours yet" I agreed, but as I was at a loose end and as it was too dark to see much outside, I had come to find out if there was anything else in which I needed instruction.

Talk about "ask a silly question". Of course there were other things about which I had to learn. Stacks and stacks of them. For a start, wartime signalling for merchant ships was somewhat different from peacetime procedures, so there was a fairly fat manual for me to study and I was also shown the code books and how to use them.

Just as I was getting nicely engrossed in the manual there was a rushing sound of interference from the radio. No. 1 took his headphones off, said "Take over" and vanished out of the room. Not much chance of being able to hear anything, but the loudest of signals through that hissing clatter, so I parked the headset around my neck and waited.

The cacophony ceased as suddenly as it had begun and a minute later the No.1 returned. "Bloody mechanical cow - supposed to have been fixed while we were in port". I raised an interrogative eyebrow and handed back the headphones.

It turned out that the "mechanical cow" was an electric motor driven device that had the remarkable ability of turning a barely edible form of whitewash powder plus a few mysterious ingredients into a liquid which was a substitute for fresh milk. There was now no chance of it being used on this voyage, for by switching it on, it would quickly advertise our position to anyone possessing an R.D.F.

If I ever heard any interference of a like nature I was to call the Bridge and an immediate search of the ship would be made to find the offending motor. No electric fans were to be used while we were at sea, nor was anyone who owned a radio be allowed to use it. Electric razors were notorious for making transmissions and were therefore banned.

The time slipped around to 1800 hours so we changed watch and I settled down to study what to do if attacked by "Aircraft", "Submarines" or "Raiders". The procedures to be followed when you were in convoy were not necessarily the same as those you employed when you were sailing as an independent ship.

Half an hour later we changed watch again. The ship was pitching and rolling very gently, but being unused to it, I was well aware of the movement. I gingerly made my way down the companion way, crossed the deck to the alleyway in utter darkness. I opened the door and negotiated the two canvas curtains which made a light trap and headed for my dinner.

No need to run. I wasn't due to go on watch again until midnight. After dinner I returned to my cabin. If I was to get up at a quarter to midnight, I had better be making tracks for my bunk. Not much preparation needed for getting into bed. The North Atlantic in winter time is no place to be sitting around in a lifeboat clad in only a pair of pyjamas, so it was a case of slipping off your coat and shoes, loosening your tie and climbing up into your bunk with your clothes on.

Now, I am but 5'7" in height, but when I lay in that bunk with my head touching the bulkhead, my feet were hard up against the wardrobe. If I lay on my back I found I was an inch or so wider than the bunk. The mattress was made of horsehair about two inches thick, beneath it were boards laid sideways across the bunk. They were slightly flexible and helped to reduce the general hardness. The upper sheet and blankets were never tucked in by the steward, but folded in such a manner that they almost formed a sleeping bag. Wriggle into this cocoon carefully and your body weight kept the lot together. It took me a week to master the art.

Sleeping on the running boards of fire engines, waiting to be called out during air-raids had trained me into being able to sleep in fairly uncomfortable places, so before I had time to go over the events of the day in my mind, I was fast asleep.

"Wakey wakey Sparks. It's one bell. Time for your watch on the Bridge" I opened a reluctant eye. The light was on and a midshipman was standing in the cabin. Once he was sure that I was awake he opened the door and he and the light went out while a blast of cold air blew in. The door shut, the light came on and I climbed down from my bunk. Quickly I donned shoes and coat, straightened my tie, combed my hair, grabbed my life jacket and went outside. The wind had freshened considerably and the sea was causing the ship's movements to be more pronounced. In the dark I felt my way round the back of the cabin down the companion way and into the Heads (Toilet Block). When I came out I realised that that side of the ship was more protected from the wind, so I stayed on the starboard side as I made my way in inky darkness across the deck, up to the Bridge and into the Chart Room.

The usual "off-on" with the light as I went through the doorway, only this time when the light came on, it was dim and orange coloured. It takes some minutes for human eyes to become adjusted to darkness, and if you were to keep coming into bright lights and then going outside again, your eyes would never get a chance to become fully acclimatised to the darkness. The dim orange light greatly helps to overcome the problem for the watch keeping officers. Without it, their night vision would not be operating at maximum capacity.

The 2nd R/O said that all had been quiet during his watch. Not a chirp out of a sub. He explained that the supper tray nearest the R.D.F. was for our use. On it were sandwiches wrapped in a napkin, milk and sugar. At 0200 someone would bring me some tea. I was to leave half of the sandwiches etc for our Boss to have during his watch. A second tray was for the use of the mates and midshipmen. He was then away to his bunk and I started my watch. Headphones on, no signals coming in, just the feint hiss of static to be heard. Turned the goniometer through 180o, left to right, right to left, left to right ad nauseam to start with, and then after a while, plus nausea as my stomach began to complain about the movement of the ship.

The Chart Room was located well above the water line and quite a bit higher than my cabin. The rolling movement of the ship was accentuated by the additional height. I took several deep breaths and, for a diversion, took stock of my surroundings. In addition to the supper trays there was a chart laid out on the chart table, and furtherest away from me, embedded in the table under a glass cover were three chronometers. These clocks with their faces uppermost, were gently tilting this way and that in their gimbals. Fascinating to watch, as in unison they seemingly tipped the opposite way to that which the ship and you were going. Almost hypnotic in effect and like snakes eyes - deadly. I pulled my gaze away before it was too late and my stomach subsided.

The 2nd Mate entered, looked at the barometer, thermometer and chronometers, made some notations in a log book, studied the chart and did some plotting thereon. "You're not looking too bright Sparks - first trip?" I agreed, and admitted I wasn't feeling too good. "Don't you dare be sick in this Chart Room" came the response. Problem, I could not leave the R.D.F, and my headphone lead acting like a dog's chain was only long enough to let me move about the Chart Room. The 2nd Mate departed. I went into my deep breathing act, kept turning the gonio and to distract my stomach tried to concentrate on thoughts of girl friends past and present.

The door opened and closed and as the lights came on, there standing alongside me was one of the tallest fellows I had ever seen. "Wee" Woodie, first trip midshipman, Derek Woods, six foot five inches in height and built to match. In his hand he carried an empty fire bucket which he presented to me. "With the compliments of the Second Mate". I thanked him, and since he didn't look at all well, I asked him how he felt.

No one can really adequately describe the distressing symptoms of mal-de-mer, but he was giving a good description before he excused himself and beat a hasty retreat to resume leaning over the lee side of the Bridge. Make a mistake and lean over the weather side and you stand a good chance of getting your own back. I tried desperately hard to concentrate on anything other than the ship's movement.

The fire bucket acted as a challenge - I was determined not to make use of it. Time goes slowly, oh so very slowly, when you feel lousy and you don't have anything to do except a monotonous task. Four hours seems like eternity, and seconds drag by on leaden feet. Periodically the 2nd Mate came in to check the barometer etc and to make notes. At least his presence made a diversion and eventually he was a bearer of good news. "We will be changing course shortly and the rolling should ease a bit." Well three cheers for that, my insides could hardly wait.

Sure enough, we turned into the oncoming swell, the rolling eased, but the pitching increased. That was a slower movement and one that caused me less discomfort. The light went out and when it came on again there had appeared in the room, like a genie out of a bottle, a Quarter Master. Clutched in one hand he had two pots of tea. "Here you are Sparks, little pot for yerself, big 'un for the Mate and Middy. Get it down with some ballast and it'll help. Empty guts is no good if you have to throw". I acknowledged the helpful advice and said I would give it a try. "That long streak of a Middy is having a tough time - geez, his belly muscles must be sore". The Q.M. vanished as the light went out. By the time it came on again, the 2nd Mate had reappeared and was looking for his supper. He poured out a cup of tea for himself, selected a sandwich and went back outside.

I contemplated my supper tray. Not with any great enthusiasm, but having said I would give it a go, honour demanded that I would at least make an attempt. I poured a cup of tea, three quarters full, no milk, two teaspoons of sugar. The surface of the tea crawled up one side of the cup and slid down the other, went into reverse and crawled up the other side. Better not to look at it. I unwrapped the sandwiches. One was cheese - no thanks. What was in the other? Jam. Well, that was perhaps possible. I took a tentative nibble. It took time and more deep breathing exercises, but I got the tea and the sandwich down. Meanwhile the 2nd Mate had come back and reloaded his cup. Woodie also came in, poured himself a cup and, armed with a sandwich went back to the wing of the Bridge where he made a valiant effort.

Given time, all things will pass and after an uneventful further long two hours, my watch came to an end. Back I went to my cabin, but on the way a thought struck me. The 2nd R/O should be asleep, and if I were to put the light on, it would surely wake him. Better to prepare for bed in the dark. This I did, without any mishaps, although I found the ship's movements a bit unbalancing when I couldn't see any reference points. A small cabin has its advantages, you don't stagger very far before you come hard up against something solid. I clambered up into my bunk and was soon asleep.

"Come on, Wakey Wakey. One bell. Rise and shine. Time to relieve the Boss for breakfast". The 2nd R/O already up and dressed was shaking my shoulder. Ye gods, it only seemed five minutes ago since I crawled into my bunk at 0410 and here it was 0745 and I was due on watch again. I heaved myself out of my bunk, donned the necessary, and went back up on the Bridge. This was a short stint, only half an hour. The weather was worsening, grey and overcast, the swell was increasing and the tops of the waves were being blown off by the wind. I was only too glad to come down from the Chart Room at the end of thirty minutes.

Breakfast! For me? Logic said "Yes", my stomach said "No". Logic won and I reluctantly entered the saloon, passing the servery with all its attendant smells of fried bacon, fish etc. I shuddered. Once seated, I was careful in my selection from the menu. Stewed fruit, toast and marmalade, washed down with black tea was all I could manage. Woodie was there making a terrific attempt to try and replace the previous night's losses. His efforts were in vain. Half way through his meal he had to retire - hurriedly. Give the man a round of applause, he was back in five minutes and started breakfast all over again. Evidently they bred them tough where he came from.

I went on deck and looked around. The rows and lines of ships in the convoy seemed to stretch for miles. We were in the front row in the ninth line. Way out in front of the convoy, down the flanks and covering the rear were the escort vessels; destroyers, frigates and minesweepers, ploughing their way through and across the rough seas. They were tossing up clouds of spray as their bows dipped into the on-coming swells and water poured off their foredecks as they rose out of the waves. I didn't fancy the idea of being aboard one of them. Life was definitely more sedate on our ship and our movement was more than adequate for me.

I went and shaved. Not too difficult once you found out how to wedge yourself between the wash basin and the door. The loss of blood was very minor. I popped into the Wireless Room. The 2nd R/O was inside doing some paper work. "Had your breakfast?". "Sort of". "Good, get a bottle of distilled water out of that cupboard, a hydrometer, the logbooks and we will go and check the batteries". Up on the roof of the Wireless Room we slid the concrete slabs off the battery compartment. We took a hydrometer reading of each cell in the batteries and recorded the result in the log book. Those cells that needed topping up had distilled water added and then we replaced the concrete slabs.

That concrete was not the conventional variety, it contained some bitumastic compound and stone chips. Its purpose was to stop and absorb small arms and cannon fire. If we got strafed, bullets and cannon shell fragments would, hopefully, sink in and not go ricocheting about the ship. The Bridge and Wireless Room were clad in these concrete slabs.

There were no slabs on the doors to the Wireless Room or my cabin. Instead, thick steel plates had been bolted on. Probably gave good protection, but made opening and shutting the doors a somewhat precarious exercise that required a bit of careful timing when the ship was rolling. There was no way you could pull those doors uphill towards you when the ship was rolling away from you. So, if you wanted to get into the Wireless Room, you would wait for the ship to roll towards you, turn the handle, dodge the door as it swung at you. Quickly slip round it, step over the weather step and get ready to ease the crushing weight of the door as it swung back on the opposite roll. If you did not get the timing right and ended up with one leg on the wrong side of the weather step, there was a good chance of a broken leg, or at least a badly crushed one.

It was a wise move, that whenever practicable to place both hands on the handle. That way you had better control of the door and there was less chance of a mishap occurring to your arms or fingers.

All doorways leading to the outside on a ship have a weather step. This is a vertical barrier about 15" to 18" high and 2" thick, fitted just inside a full length door and mounted across the doorway. They are designed to prevent water gaining access to the interior of the ship. However, they do present traps for the unwary and careless. Should you miss your step crossing over one, as indeed I have done, then you will at least get a barked shin from the hard brass edging on the top of the step, or perhaps even worse, you will trip up and take a heavy fall. My shin took weeks to heal and eventually had to be coated with collodion to get the petty wound to heal.

Never, ever, run down an alleyway and then either try to jump over or put your foot on the top of a weather step as you pass through a doorway. Only children and midgets can get away with that. Standard sized humans will crack their skulls against the top of the doorway, and will be wondering what hit them when they regain consciousness.

The pair of us went up to the Bridge to check the R.D.F. and Aldis batteries, and down to the Emergency Wireless Room to look at the lifeboat transceiver batteries. From now on, for the rest of the voyage this checking of batteries will be one of my daily chores. Where necessary, we put the appropriate batteries on charge.

Back in the Wireless Room we were tidying up when the Captain, Chief Officer, Chief Engineer and Chief Steward appeared. Daily inspection of the ship. The Captain asked the 2nd R/O a couple of questions and then told us that a Boat Drill would take place at 1100 hours and that to be followed by Fire Drill.

When the inspection party had moved on I asked the 2nd R/O what was required of me during the forthcoming exercises. For me, the drills turned out to be quite simple. I merely had to turn up by the appropriate lifeboat wearing my life jacket. The 2nd Mate checked that all members of the lifeboat's crew were present - bar watch keepers, that all lights on life jackets functioned, that our whistles worked, that all gear, rations and water supplies were present and correct in the lifeboat. Those of us who didn't know how to launch a boat were instructed in the procedure.

Fire Drill was easier still. All I had to do was head for the Bridge, stand by, and watch proceedings.

A party of men led by the Bo'sun were busy on the deck below and behind the Bridge some of the men had dragged fire hoses out and coupled them up to the seawater mains on the deck. They directed from the hose nozzles, jets of water over the ship's side.

A small group of men were strapping a man into a large leather cape on top of which was fitted a helmet with a glass viewing port. An air hose came from the back of the helmet and snaked across the deck to the airpump. The pump was of a type not unlike those used by divers. Two men were turning the handles to supply air to the helmet. Once he was kitted up, the man in the helmet was sent down into a hold that had been opened up. Like a diver he took a rope line with him for signalling messages.

Engineers and greasers rigged a flexible metallic hose to the steam pipe line and two men wearing asbestos covered gloves and goggles carried the nozzle to the side of the ship. Valves were opened and shrieking blast of steam, voided over the side.

The Surgeon, Chief Steward and his staff had a stretcher and first aid equipment at the ready. Almost underneath my cabin, men were priming a huge manual pump. Four men at a time were needed to turn the handles on this cumbersome beast. It was stubborn too, needed a lot of coaxing to get it to produce sufficient suction to lift any water from the bilges to the deck.

The Carpenter and some sailors were climbing up ventilators and were tying canvas covers over the openings to reduce the amount of air flowing down into the hold in which the "fire" was burning. Much activity and quite fascinating. But, compared with the equipment on which I had trained in the National Fire Service, this gear was archaic.

The drills were soon over and as it was almost noon I went up to the Chart Room and settled in to my watch.

The 2nd Mate came in at intervals and after he had taken a series of recordings from the barometer, made an announcement to the effect that he hoped I was getting my sea legs as the indications were that we were in for a bit of a blow and that come nightfall it could be getting rough. That being so, I suggested that it might not be a bad idea to leave the fire bucket where it was, reposing in a corner. 1600 hours came around and with it my relief, plus another job.

I was to be Librarian. There was one small room, aft of the Centre Castle and in it resided the books that made up the Library. There was nothing much to being Librarian. Open the Library at 1615 and close it down at 1645. In between times, enter the date and names of borrowers on cards and mark off the books when they were returned. Thank any donors who contributed reading matter, and at each port of call, providing you are in close enough proximity with another Blue Funnel Ship, swap part of your library with theirs. The Seamen's Mission too could sometimes be inveigled into doing a bit of exchanging. All up, there would perhaps have been some 200 books, mostly adventure and novels, but with a sprinkling of classics tossed in to balance the collection.

The 2nd Mate was right. The wind was whistling and moaning around the superstructure by the time I closed the Library. The sea was getting rougher by the minute, and the tops of the waves were being blown along the sea's surface in a like manner to sand being driven along the beach on a very windy day.

Everywhere one looked, all things were grey in colour. The cloud covered sky was mid-grey with darker patches where the clouds were thickest. The sea was a dark olive grey flecked with flying spume that was quasi-grey - a dirty white. The ships were painted in various shades of battleship grey and ploughing into the rising swells they punched up white bow waves and clouds of spray. There was a bit of colour though. Brightly coloured bits of bunting flying from the foremasts of all the ships. International signal flags. Down came the flags and the convoy altered course.

One of the escort vessels was signalling the Commodore's ship by lamp. To my relief, I found that reading the flashing light was no problem. If I had to do any signalling by that method then it shouldn't prove to be too difficult. From then on, I made a habit of reading every winking light that I happened to see. One technical point though; if you are taking morse by radio, you, the operator, can put directly down on paper that which you are hearing. When reading by lamp, it takes two of you to receive. One to keep watching the flickering light and calling out what he sees while the other member records what you are saying. Short messages in plain language would not overtax your memory of course, but a few groups of coded letters and numerals is quite a different story.

There was activity going on up by the bow of the ship. The 2nd Mate, Bo'sun and Carpenter, together with some seamen were using a derrick to haul in a device that looked a little like an eight foot long aeroplane. Once they had it safely aboard and secured, they proceeded to haul in a similar gadget from the water on the other side of the ship. Next they hauled up from the water beneath the bow, a steel framework that was pivoted somewhere below the waterline on either side of the bow. What on earth was that lot? It was getting dark so I went up to the Wireless Room to study signalling procedures until it was time to do a relieving dinner watch at 1800. The ship's movements were becoming more pronounced and the weather was worsening most decidedly. My stomach was complaining, but not too badly when I went for dinner and subsequently to my bunk.

Came one bell and my wake up call, I got out of my bunk and learned two things. Firstly, it was freezingly cold and secondly that the ship was rolling heavily. I countered the former by putting on an extra sweater and dealt with the latter by hanging on to whatever was convenient to grab. Dressed, I made my way down to the Heads, opened the door and placed one foot over the weather step while I hung on to the door and waited for the roll of the ship to help me close it. Nasty surprise, I have stepped into six inches of freezing cold water. I hastily withdrew my foot backed out and closed the door. Why should there be all that water sloshing about in the Heads? We were not shipping any seas as far as I could tell. I hadn't time to waste. I was due on watch in a couple of minutes. Nature was calling and I had a soaking left foot. There was time enough to attend to Nature, an open railing on the lee side relieved that problem. There wasn't time to go and change my socks and shoes, so I hurried up to the Chart Room. The 2nd.R/O and 3rd Mate laughed when I told them about the water in the Heads and explained the reason for it being there. The toilets on the "Antilochus" flushed directly out through the ship's side. The outlets were located a few feet above the waterline, and when the ship rolled heavily, the outlets went well beneath the sea's surface and seawater was forced back up the pipe, into the toilet bowl and overflowed into the room. There should have been a non-return valve in the pipe to prevent this occurring. There had been one, but corrosion had taken its toll and there had been no working valve for some time past. Somehow the shore based maintenance men had never got around to repairing it.

I am left alone with my cold soggy left foot. All is quiet on the R.D.F. The only excitement came when an extra heavy roll set the supper trays and their contents in motion. I managed to steady the lot and wedged them more securely on the Chart Room table closer to where I am swaying about.

Glancing at the chart I noticed that we were heading nor-nor-west towards Greenland. No wonder it was getting so cold. The ship was pitching as well as rolling and now and then would give a bit of a shudder as she plunged her way into an oncoming swell.

I get round to thinking about the toilets. What happens when the time occurred when one has to sit on one? As I contemplated the worst possible eventuality of a torrent of water rising beneath one at the most inopportune moment, I am reminded of a story told to me by my paternal grandfather.

The toilets at his school, Rugby, were strategically placed over a small running stream so that there was no necessity for any flushing system. Schoolboys being what they were had devised a fiendish method of initiating unsuspecting new boys. The procedure was as follows. Upstream, several lads armed with boxes stuffed with paper and straw would set them alight and place them in the water. At a given signal their fellow conspirators would rush into the toilet blocks, enter each cubicle - there were no doors on English boarding school toilets - and would hold down any unfortunate lad sitting on a toilet. "The Spaniards are coming!" "Send the fire ships to burn the Armada" "Singe the Spaniards beards". The "fireships" propelled by the current drifted underneath the newcomers.

Grandfather did not go into details of the injuries sustained, but I guess it could not have been too serious otherwise the authorities must surely have got wind of what was going on, and put an end to the practice.

Time dragged by. The effort of trying to keep my balance was tiring. My wet foot was gradually warming. The wind howled outside. The wooden panelling in the Chart Room creaked. Spray and rain rattled against the Bridge and Chart Room. Now and again the engines would lose their regular rhythm and would speed up as the ship's stern rose and lifted the propellers half out of the water. Nothing to be heard on the R.D.F. Could submarines attack in weather like this? One wet foot was bad enough, but imagine what it would be like if you got totally soaked and were sitting in a lifeboat. Or worse, not even in a lifeboat, just floating in the icy water. How long would you last?

The pots of tea arrived at 0200, closely followed in by the 2nd Mate in dripping oil skins. He made comments to the effect that some folks didn't know how lucky they were to be ensconced in a nice dry chart room while others had to stand outside on the weather side of the ship, keeping an eye on the Commodore's vessel, and copping all that nature was handing out. I made genuine sympathetic comments and tried changing the subject.

"What were the objects he had supervised being hauled on board that afternoon?" "Paravanes" he replied, and since I must have looked a bit dumb, went on to explain that they were used for protecting the ship from moored mines.

Mines laid by the enemy came in a variety of different guises. In shallow waters, estuaries and rivers, they used magnetic mines that detonated when the magnetic field of a steel ship passed over them. They also used acoustic mines that were activated by the pressure waves produced by a ship's propeller. Both these types of mines sat on the sea bed and lurked there awaiting their victims. To frustrate the mine sweepers, these mines were frequently set not to explode until a number of ships had passed over them. Just because a channel had been swept, it was no guarantee that it was safe.

In deeper waters, moored mines floated up in the water from their moorings on thin steel cables and stayed invisibly tethered some feet below the surface of the sea. Deep sea mines floated free to wander wherever the ocean currents took them. Sometimes they travelled in pairs linked together by a cable. Should a ship snag the cable, both mines would be drawn against her hull and explode. There were also tentacle or octopus mines that had long floating feelers which would trigger the mines firing mechanism should a ship brush against them. Cheerful thoughts for a miserable night.

The paravanes, as a counter to moored mines were towed by cables one to each side of the ship. The cables were held some feet below the ship's hull by the steel "A" frame which I had seen being hauled up earlier in the day. The paravanes operated like underwater aeroplanes except that instead of "flying" with their "wings" horizontal, they flew with them vertical. The towing motion of the ship combined with the set of the "wings" caused the paravanes to veer away from the ship. A fixed elevator on each paravane kept it well beneath the sea's surface. When a ship was streaming her paravanes, her bow made the point of a "V" and the paravanes, like outriders, took up positions at the end of the legs of the "V" some feet away from the ship's hull.

Theory had it, that should a ship encounter a moored mine, her bow wave would force the mine away from her hull, but before it could swing back on its tether and strike the ship, the mine's cable would be snagged by the underwater wire connecting the "A" frame to a paravane. The mine's mooring cable would be dragged along the towing wire until it encountered the paravane where sharp steel cutting jaws would sever the cable. The mine would then float to the surface to be detonated or sunk by small arms fire.

When a ship was sailing in deep waters, too deep for moored mines, there was no point in streaming the paravanes, so they were taken back on board, as ours had been that afternoon.

Next day, about mid-morning when I had finished checking the batteries, my Boss handed me an electric light globe. "Go aft to the Firemen's quarters and replace the bulb that has burnt out. Better take a torch, it could be dark in there". I made my way down to the main deck. Bit of problem there. We were shipping some water now and then, and at times there were several inches of water swirling about the deck. Dependant upon the roll of the ship, the water was either inches deep or almost non-existent. I stood and watched the water sloshing about for a minute or two and when I felt that I would gauge the rhythm I made a dash for the Poop. Wet feet I don't like. I got there OK, but only just in time. Water chased me all the way, and surged against the weather step I had just crossed over.

I learnt something during that sprint. Running on the flat is one thing, but when a ship is pitching heavily, you are running up hill one moment and downhill the next. Most disconcerting. On the downhill stretch I almost went through the door to the alleyway without opening it but managed to avoid busting the light globe. Found the Firemen's quarters right aft in the stern of the ship, situated above the propellers. When the stern was lifted well up in the water by the swell, the propellers raced and the noise of the blades thrashing the water was loud.

By the light of the torch I could see that there were at least a dozen bunks crammed around the bulkheads. Most were occupied and half the occupants were smoking pipes or cigarettes. There was an atmosphere that choked you. Thick tobacco smoke, sweaty bodies, the aroma of dirty clothes, dampness, Chinese talcum powder and spices. It was overpowering, so too was the motion of the ship. A few minutes of that combination and I would be undone. I spotted the light switch and tried it. As expected, no go. The offending light bulb was in the centre of the deck head but it was just too high for me to reach. Nothing in the room to stand on. I backed out.

In the mess room nearby there was a small wooden crate, so I took that and went back into the sleeping quarters. Now changing a light bulb is usually a simple matter, but when you are standing on a crate that wants to slide about as the ship pitches and rolls, this adds a new dimension to the task. The only way to control it was to use one hand to push hard against the deck head, so that you and the crate formed a pillar between the deck and the deck head. From then on, you worked in the dark, for your other hand had to remove the defunct bulb and could not hold the torch as well. As luck would have it, the bulb came out of its socket cleanly and easily. Praise be for that. I couldn't imagine myself being able to dismantle the fitting in the dark with all that movement going on. It was like being in a crazy express lift. One moment the deck went down rapidly and left you feeling light and airy. The next moment the deck would surge upwards and if you didn't stiffen your legs, your knees would buckle. The atmosphere and movement were getting to be too much for me. Quickly I put the new bulb in place, grabbed the crate before it slid away and flipped on the switch. The bulb lit. I left the room quickly before it was too late.

At the entrance to the main deck I gulped lung fulls of fresh air, while I awaited the chance to run the gauntlet across the deck and up to the Wireless Room to report that the light was now functioning.

I commented on the awful fug in the Firemen's quarters. My boss replied "Probably smoking opium. The Chinese use it frequently. Nobody offered you a puff? No? By the way, can you use a machine gun? No? Well go up on to the Bridge and learn how".

British merchant ships during World War II were not, as some folks think, entirely unarmed. At the commencement of hostilities they were hastily fitted up with all manner of ancient weaponry left over from World War I.

The "Antilochus" sported a 4" gun, manufactured by the Japanese about 1908 and acquired from them during World War I. This gun was mounted low down on the stern. Sited on the deck above was a 12 pounder. Also mounted on the stern were two sets of racks fitted with quick release gear containing some half dozen depth charges. Smoke floats, in the shape of large dark green canisters about the size of garbage bins, but dumpier, were lashed in convenient positions, so that they could be dropped over the stern for laying smoke screens. A machine gun mounted on each wing of the Bridge completed her armament.

As World War II dragged on, the merchant ships were fitted with more and usually better defence equipment. Some of it excellent and some positively bizarre. But more of that anon.

Men from the Merchant Navy are not normally trained in gunnery, therefore each ship carried a few men seconded from the Army. They wore their khaki uniforms and were referred to as D.E.M.S ratings (Defensibly Equipped Merchant Ships). Usually a ship carried a Sergeant and three or four lesser ranked men. The 2nd Mate, wearing one of his many hats was Gunnery Officer and in charge of the D.E.M.S ratings.

Obviously four or five men could not possibly man all the guns at the same time. To make up the numbers, any members of the crew who were off duty, or could be spared from their work were roped in to make up the teams.

Unlike Naval vessels, Merchant Navy ships do not carry a surfeit of spare hands. There were always gaps that needed plugging and sometimes, when you had passengers, they too were pressed into service. Even the frail usually had two eyes that could be used for additional lookouts, or could help in the first aid party.

Up on the Bridge, out on a wing, the Sergeant was cleaning a machine gun. I made my presence known and my reason for being there. He in turn asked about my knowledge of guns. I told him that my experience was limited to handling my air rifle. To my surprise, he expressed enthusiasm. Apparently the ability to use one type of gun stands you in good stead when you graduate to something more formidable.

All guns have much in common. They all have sights to help you aim, safety catches, and usually fire when you pull the trigger. The differences come in how you load them, what you load them with, their range, hitting power and rate of fire.

There is however one major difference in shooting from the shoulder and shooting with a gun fitted on a mounting. In the conventional way of shooting off the shoulder, you aim by raising or lowering the barrel with your leading hand and arm. You track left or right by swinging your body from the hips. This comes naturally and you don't usually give it too much thought once you have planted your feet firmly on the ground.

With a gun fixed on a mounting and pivoting a little above shoulder height, you have an entirely different set up. The gun is pivoted so that its weight is fairly evenly balanced with slightly more weight towards the rear. Both of your hands are placed towards the back of the gun. With one hand you control the trigger while the other steadies the gun and helps you to keep your shoulder tucked tightly against the butt. Meld your body to the gun so that it becomes part of you, and your shooting will improve. The only way to raise or lower the barrel is for your body to move in the opposite direction required. If you need to shoot almost vertically, then you have to go to a full knees bend position. Conversely, to shoot downwards, you have to stand on your toes. If you want the gun to track to the left, then you hang on to the butt and sidestep in an arc to the right. To swing to the right you of course do just the opposite. Not quite as difficult as it sounds, but it comes as a surprise and feels awkward when you have your first attempt. This is particularly so when the ship has a fair bit of movement.

The Sergeant showed me the basics. This gun was a "Savage". A modified and lightened version of the famous World War I "Lewis" gun. Stripped of all the cooling fins and casing around the barrel it was light enough to be taken off its mounting and fired from the shoulder. I am shown a steel cabinet near the gun, the "Ready for Use" magazine. In it are extra drums of ammunition and boxes of .303 cartridges. I am to be part of a team of two.

When "Action Stations" sounds the team member who reaches the gun first gets to do the shooting, the second man becomes "loader". The Sergeant is aware that at "Action Stations" my prime duty will be watching for or making signals, so in all probability I will not be doing any shooting. However, that did not mean that I could not keep an eye open for attacking aircraft or other potential targets that your gun could have a crack at. Nor did it mean you could not help to reload the gun if necessary. From experience, he said, there usually wasn't much signalling during an air attack - not enough time. The whole skirmish could be over in a few minutes.

Now that we were well out in the Atlantic, we were beyond the range of fighters and medium range bombers. Even if a long range bomber did appear, it would not be coming down low enough for us to shoot at it. Better for it to stay upstairs where the convoy couldn't reach it and lay its eggs from there.

The chance that we would get a shot at a sub on the surface while we were in convoy was also pretty remote.

The sight on the "Savage" was comprised of several concentric rings, held in place by eight wire radii. The rings were to help you estimate where to aim the gun at an aircraft. For example, if a plane was to fly past at 300 knots then you must aim well in front of it. If you did not, and aimed straight at it, then by the time the bullets reached the vicinity of the aircraft, it would have advanced a considerable distance and your bullets would be making useless holes through the air well behind the `plane. Each ring on the sight represented a speed of 100 knots. You estimated the speed of the plane, lined it up on the appropriate ring so that the plane appeared to be flying toward the centre of the sight, and pressed the trigger. Every second bullet you fired was a tracer so that you could see it glowing in flight. Being able to see where the bullets were actually going was a great aid in helping you correct your aim and get on target.

You don't go firing off guns in convoy unless there is an official practice or you are under attack, so I did not get a chance to actually fire the weapon. Instead, I spent the rest of the morning aiming the gun at seabirds and tried following their movements. Quite good practice in getting used to aiming a gun fixed to a mounting.

Back on watch at midday, busy twiddling the gonio, but nothing to be heard. My thoughts went back to that which I had learned that morning. Funny thing that the first gun I should be trained on, happened to be a variation of the Lewis Gun.

Dad had been a Lewis Gunner in World War I. Spent some time in the trenches in France and Germany. Never talked about it much, but I recalled one anecdote that he used to tell. Dad and his gun's crew were to be a little part of a big advance. When the whistle blew, they were to climb out of their trench, run across no man's land and fight their way into the front line of enemy trenches. Dad was to carry the heavy machine gun and tripod. To make it lighter for carrying, it was empty of ammunition. No good giving yourself a handicap when you were struggling through a quagmire of mud. The drums of ammunition were carried by other members of the team.

The whistle blew. The crew got the gun up over the top of their trench. Dad picked it up and started running towards the enemy. He was flanked by the ammunition carriers. The enemy fire was fierce so Dad headed for what appeared to be a quiet spot in the enemy line. One of the carriers went down. The rest struggled on. By the time Dad reached and dropped into the enemy trench he was all alone. The rest of the crew were either dead or wounded. Dad glanced up the trench in which he had landed. To his horror there was a party of Germans coming for him. Not a round of ammunition in his gun, and with his rifle still slung around his shoulder, Dad was as good as dead.

Strangely the Germans did not shoot. Either they wanted a prisoner or were going to bayonet Dad. That couple of seconds delay saved Dad, for a big burly Scot appeared at the top of the trench, instantly sized up the situation and lobbed in a Mill's Bomb (hand grenade) that he had already prepared to throw. Dad ducked and when the smoke cleared he found he was still in one piece, but the enemy had not been so lucky.

The rest of the watch was routine. Just plain boring. I was getting my sea legs and finding life more pleasant. Meals had much more appeal and I stoked up to make up for those from which I had only lightly partaken.

"Wee" Woodie recovered and had a voracious appetite. With that frame to fill he had a good excuse to get stuck into the tucker. Woodie had another problem. With his height of 6'5" it was all but impossible for him to fit into a 5'6" bunk. He did his best by curling up, but because he was solidly built, there really wasn't enough width in the bunk to allow him to curl. The Carpenter resolved the situation by cutting a hole in the wardrobe at the foot of the bunk and installed a shelf to support Woodie's feet. Someone suggested that Woodie in his altered bunk must have resembled Winnie the Pooh stuck in Rabbit's burrow with his feet sticking out into the wardrobe. Perhaps the other middies could hang their washing on his legs. Woodie took this ragging all in good part. He still had problems though, how to keep his feet warm since the blankets didn't reach all that way down. I think he solved that difficulty by tying knots in the cuffs of a sweater and shoving his feet down inside the sweater's arms.

Midnight came round again and I was once more turning that gonio, left to right, right to left, left to right. The movement was automatic and I changed hands whenever the fingers got tired and started to cramp up. In the Chart Room I noticed a printed coloured card which depicted the International Signal Flags with their corresponding letters and numerals. Sooner or later I might be required to give a hand in using such flags, so I filled in time by learning to recognise them.

It was getting close to supper time and I was looking forward to that pot of tea. Even the cheese sandwich. Suddenly a signal - LOUD AND CLEAR - fair hurt the ears. Frantically I pushed the button to ring the bell to warn the 2nd Mate. I twisted the gonio in an endeavour to receive the signal at maximum strength - it was so loud there was no real maximum - the hairs on the back of my neck prickled and my heart raced. I got what I hoped was the maximum signal, took a reading of the bearing and pressed the bellpush. There was another way to get a bearing, go for the minimum signal and add 90°. This I did and was more confident with the result. Pushed the bell for a second mark. The incoming signal ceased. All quiet. I rang the bell several times quickly to indicate that it was all over.

The 2nd Mate came charging in, took my readings, made some quick calculations and scooted outside to flash the result to the Commodore.

My legs were trembling. I had not felt like that since I stood outside a Headmaster's study waiting to get "six of the best". I wondered how my opposite number on the sub felt. Nervous too, maybe, because although he had given our convoy's position to his base, he had at the same time given away his position and might well have signed his own death warrant. Maybe he was just elated and keyed up at the prospect of making an attack.

The whole exercise took perhaps thirty to forty seconds. That signal had been very loud. The sub must have been close, probably within two or three miles.

Supper time. The 2nd Mate came in. "No more squawks from that box of yours?" I replied in the negative, but added that the signal we had received had been very strong. At that moment there was a dull reverberating sound of an explosion. "Don'n'n'ng" followed by several more in quick succession. "Depth charges!" said the 2nd Mate and was through the door in no time flat.

I was left to search for signals, but all was quiet except for the continuing explosions of depth charges at fairly frequent intervals. Woodie came in for his supper. He knew very little more than I did. All the activity was apparently being carried out, better than a mile away on the fringe of the convoy well away from our starboard quarter. He hadn't seen anything going on, as he was posted on the opposite side of the Bridge.

I was left on my own again. Had I, I wondered, been partly involved in that activity? Had the bearings the 2nd Mate and I had taken helped to lead the escort vessels to the sub? Had it been sunk? Were there others? What of the ships in the convoy? Like the players in a field game, individual ships in a convoy never got the full picture of what was going on. Indeed, lots of incidents happened in convoys, and unless you were more or less directly involved you rarely got to know about them.

There were more explosions, certainly some of them were depth charges, but I thought that there were at least two heavier ones intermingled with the others. Very hard to tell though. The 2nd Mate came in on one of his routine check ups. "There are parachute flares to be seen way over on the starboard quarter. Bad sign that. They generally only put them up when they are looking for survivors".

I asked why we had not gone to "Action Stations". "No point really. There won't be anything for us to shoot at, so no need to get anybody out of bed who doesn't need to be on duty." "What if we cop a torpedo? Shouldn't everybody be up and ready?" "No need. The depth charges will have woken up most of the crew. They will be lying in their bunks, dozing and keeping warm. They may have put on extra clothing, just in case, but it is better for them to rest rather than to be hanging about in the cold. They will know soon enough if we get hit. If the action was a lot closer, then that could be a different matter".

I was a bit surprised at the reply - but couldn't fault the logic. Long before I came off watch, all had settled down and there was nothing unusual to be seen or heard.

At breakfast the consensus of opinion amongst the mates was, that it was difficult to tell, but they thought that we had lost a couple of ships from the far side of the convoy during the night.

The day passed routinely and uneventfully. The weather improved and I had a go at retyping those lists. Not much joy in that effort though. Typewriters don't like being tilted this way and that, particularly if their main spring is a bit weak. They show their displeasure by refusing to advance the carriage when it has to go up hill and let the carriage jump several spaces at a time on the down hill run. Experts like the 2nd R/O overcame the problem by turning the typewriter 90° on the table and type sideways. I gathered that if things were to get really rough, a wet towel placed under the typewriter will stop the creature from wandering about.

My sleep that night was disturbed by explosions. Accepting the 2nd Mate's counsel, I resisted the urge to get up and stayed put until called for my watch. By then, all had become quiet again.

There had been more signals on the R.D.F., but my watch was uneventful, and indeed, so was the next day. The day after that, though, was different. The sea had gone right down and had a glassy appearance. Banks of mist and fog drifted about. I was looking at the slow moving gently heaving undulations and thinking how different they were to those we had experienced a few days ago.

Then I saw it - a feather of white water was rising up from the sea and was following astern of the ship next to us. PERISCOPE! Cheeky bastard! Fancy taking a look in daylight right in the middle of the convoy. I ran towards the Bridge to sound the alarm. Halfway up a companion way I looked sideways and spotted another feather of water, but further away. TWO? I stopped and looked around. To my amazement there were feathers all over the place. That didn't make sense at all. Half the German U-Boat fleet could hardly be skulking along under our convoy. Something else must have been causing the columns of spray to be kicked up.

Embarrassed by my unnecessary running, but very relieved that I had not reached the Bridge and made a complete fool of myself, I retraced my steps and went back to the Wireless Room. There I enquired as to the cause of the phenomenon. "Fog buoys - each ship tows one well astern in foggy weather. When you cannot see the ship ahead, the following ship keeps station close to the buoy and thereby avoids the possibility of running down the ship in front".

The buoys were nothing more than a scoop with wings, towed by a long cable. The wooden wings kept the buoy afloat and on an even keel. The scoop was similar to an open ended and almost vertical length of galvanised down pipe. There was an elbow at the lower end of the pipe, and its open mouth faced the direction of tow. The mouth was located well below the seas's surface. The forward towing motion of the buoy forced water through the mouth of the elbow, up the pipe and a couple of feet into the air. The white mini cascade that issued forth from the pipe, gave sufficient contrast to be fairly readily seen by a lookout placed on the bow of the ship. By watching the buoy, he was able to give directions for keeping his ship on station.

The lookout had to be careful. Overrun the buoy, and then you had problems. It takes time to slow a ship down and in the meantime where has the buoy gone? To port? To starboard? Under your ship? Have you damaged and sunk it? Are you closing the ship ahead? Better not to run a buoy down. Keep well astern of it.

There was a catch of course. If you kept too safe a distance, then there was a good chance of losing sight of the buoy in a thick bank of fog, and that too could cause problems. Where were you now in relation to the ship ahead?

The fog buoys helped to overcome the problem of keeping ships in line astern in foggy weather. However, they could not keep columns of ships from diverging or converging. These were the days when radar was in its infancy and Merchant Ships were not fitted with such navigational aids. Officers on the Bridge had to resort to old time remedies to keep the columns in the convoy at the correct distance apart.

Obviously, if you could keep the lead ship in each column on station, then all the other ships, by following the fog buoys would also keep their positions. Station keeping was done by each leading ship in turn, signalling its column number in morse code by blowing on the ship's whistle. Fine in theory, but not so good in practice.

Fog not only reduces visibility, but it plays tricks with sound. It can make sounds appear to be closer than they really are, and of course make them sound far away when they are actually being produced close at hand. This made it difficult to judge how close adjacent vessels were.

Extra lookouts were posted low down on the hull. Sometimes you can see under a fog bank. The lookout in the Crow's Nest, high above the deck, and invisible to those below, can, if the fog is not too deep, see the masts of neighbouring ships poking up through the swirling mists.

It is a weird experience to be high up a mast and unable to see your ship beneath you. Clouds of fog billow below, and you and your fellow lookouts on other ships ride above the fog as though on a magic carpet or witches on their broomsticks. Up there, behind you is a dark swirling vortex marking the location of the funnel. Down in its depths are the furnaces producing the upward spiral of hot fumes that disperses the fog.

Spectacular view up there. But it is not so funny if you happen to be up there during fog in an air attack. You are unprotected and are the only visible human target to attract the enemy's fire as he comes flying in to post a bomb down the vortex and into the boiler room below.

If you are on a leading ship in fog, forget about sleep. The blasts from the ship's whistle carry for miles and you at best are but a few yards from the source.

To keep your station in a convoy you not infrequently needed to adjust your speed slightly. Achieving these minor variations was done by slightly increasing or decreasing the speed of the engines' revolutions. Usually a change of plus or minus two revolutions per minute was all that was necessary.

The officer on the Bridge advised the Engineer of his requirements by use of the Engine Room Telegraph. Telegraphs are marked through a range of speeds from "Full Ahead" to "Full Astern". These markings were far too coarse for fine tuning your speed, so they were overlaid with a second set of markings which read "+6, +4, +2, 0, -2, -4 -6". If the officer wanted a minor increase in speed he would swing the Telegraph lever to "+2". Down in the Engine Room, by the controls, the corresponding Telegraph would ring and show "+2". The Engineer would acknowledge the request by repeating the signal back to the Bridge.

Well, it all happened one night on another voyage. The Watch Keeping Officer noticed with his rangefinder that our ship was very gradually creeping up on the ship ahead. Nothing unusual in that, so he walked into the Wheelhouse and with the Telegraph signalled "-2". The officer went back out of the Wheelhouse and on to the wing of the Bridge.

A couple of minutes later he checked to see how we were placed in relation to the ship ahead. A bit closer. Back he went to the Telegraph and signalled "-2". Again the acknowledgment. Within moments, the officer realised we were still closing so he signalled "-6". We continued to close. The officer hastily checked the Night Order Book fearing he had missed an instruction that the convoy was to reduce speed. No, nothing there. We were now closing rapidly. Again he telegraphed for the revs to be reduced by six.

We were getting too close to the lead ship for comfort, so for safety's sake the Helmsman was ordered to take her out of line and on to a parallel course. Again the officer rang for a further reduction in speed. The phone from the Engine Room rang. "Give us a chance - the firemen are shovelling like crazy to build up the steam pressure! What's the panic up there for more speed?"

By the time they had it all sorted out, we had passed the lead ship and were way out in front of the convoy and up with the escort vessels. It takes time and a fair distance to slow a heavy vessel down.

The Commodore was not amused. We were in disgrace and next morning we were relegated to a new position towards the rear of the convoy.

Back to the present voyage. As we approached the American Coast, the fog became intermittent and eventually lifted. There was a fair amount of signalling coming from the Commodore and it wasn't long before, at a given signal, the convoy broke up into two sections. One group of ships was bound for American ports, the rest, including our ship were to head for the Panama Canal and the Pacific Ocean.

Our new convoy formed up and headed south. The listening for submarines on the Radio Direction Finder was over and we Radio Officers reverted to normal watch keeping in the Wireless Room. This was a relief after the other duty. One could sit instead of stand. There were signals coming in now and then to relieve the monotony, even if they did not concern us. There were schedules to listen to, news bulletins to receive and a daily news sheet to produce.

While we were up working in the Chart Room, there was very little chance to keep up to date with what was going on at the battle fronts or indeed the world. Remember, no one could use a privately owned receiver, lest it oscillated, and gave our position away. The Chief and 2nd R/O had managed to garner some crumbs of information by doing some extra stints during their time off watch. Now it would be a whole lot easier to intercept news items from Reuters and A.A.P. as there was always someone in the Wireless Room and frequently two of us. It was a whole lot cosier too.

There was one snag in working in the Wireless Room - the brass work. Nearly 200 bits and pieces, ranging from the clock on the bulkhead to the clips for holding the fuses. The multitude of contacts and knife blades on the exposed switches; the aerial leads; the door knob; the cleats; dogs and frames of the port holes; they were all made of brass or copper and each and every bit had to be cleaned and polished daily. Salt air very quickly dulls the finish and every Chief R/O I ever met got mightily upset if he couldn't study his features in the reflection of even the minutest piece of brass.

No prizes for guessing who copped this chore. Now, while cleaning brass is a slightly messy and boring task, its most unpleasant aspect is the smell it leaves on your fingers. Nothing I ever tried seemed to take it away once the Brasso had impregnated the skin. The rewards for polishing the brass were two fold, nay threefold. One, it looked good when it was done, two, it helped to while away the hours on duty and three, if done properly, kept the Boss off my back.

For polishing the brass there were three things for which I was constantly on the lookout. They were, worn out singlets, and toothbrushes and new tins of Brasso. The first two items came from other members of the crew. The Brasso was supplied from Head Office stores,but there was a snag, it didn't matter how many tins of Brasso you ordered, one and one tin only was ever supplied. If the voyage was short, all well and good, but a voyage of some months duration left you thirsting for fresh supplies. Over the years I bought a number of tins in foreign ports at my expense.

The new chum invariably falls into the traps and I was no exception. There was an occasion when the ship was in port and I was polishing the brass. I was wearing my cap at the time, not something that I would normally be doing if I had been on watch and wearing headphones. The polishing cloth slipped out of my fingers and fell to the deck. I bent forward to pick it up. "FLASH-PHUT". Startled I jumped backward and left my cap welded to a pair of switch contacts. My bending forward to retrieve the cloth had caused the metal crown of the cap's badge to touch the contacts causing a short circuit which welded the badge to the switch. A fuse had blown with the overload. It took me a few minutes to free my cap, file smooth the contacts and repair the fuse.

Somewhere along the line of my seafaring career I met a R/O who had solved the problem of polishing brass. "I only polish it once". Said he "Then I give it a coating of clear lacquer. Choose a nice hot dry day to do the coating, and it will look good for months."

I could hardly wait for the chance to get ashore, buy a tin of lacquer and treat the brass work in accordance with his advice. It wasn't long before I had acquired a tin of the wondrous fluid. The weather conditions were right, so I polished the brass with extra care and coated the lot with lacquer. It was brilliant and looked fabulous.

I didn't tell the other R/Os what I had done, just waited to see what the reactions would be. There wasn't any reaction at all. Not a skerrick, until some days had passed and the Chief R/O said "I haven't seen you polishing the brass lately", so, looking smug, I asked him if he though the brass looked OK? He agreed it did, but being suspicious, asked how it could look so good if I wasn't polishing it. Full of enthusiasm, I enlightened him of the virtues of clear lacquer. The Chief R/O was intrigued. He inspected the brass work closely, couldn't fault it, and turned to me and said "Get the bloody stuff off and never coat the brass work again!" Some folks sure have the knack of spoiling other's little pleasures.

These days, at home, we have a few brass ornaments around the house. When they need polishing, I of course have the honour of applying the Brasso. It still stinks the same as ever it did, but a pair of industrial strength rubber gloves saves my hands from becoming contaminated.

Back to the convoy. We are heading south and the weather is improving by the hour. A message comes from the Commodore via the signal flags. There is to be a practice shoot of small arms. Nothing too exciting about that. All we are permitted to do is to fire a few rounds from both our machine guns. Not having actually fired one before, I am given the chance to loose off a couple of short bursts, and I mean short bursts.

Like all British Merchant Ships we were very short on ammunition. A few hundred rounds for the machine guns, no more than 18 rounds for the 12 pdr and only half a dozen or so shells for the 4" gun. Along with the others I go through the drill and at the appointed hour am allowed to fire two bursts of five shots.

In convoy, you have to be careful where you aim lest you hit one of the neighbouring ships. You are therefore ordered to fire on a "safe bearing". Most American merchant ships were armed to the teeth like Mexican Bandits, and with enough ammunition to start a full scale revolution. They frequently interpreted "safe bearing" as being any direction other than that of hitting parts of their own ship. If you were close to a Yank during firing practice, it was prudent to be cautious and get under cover rather than stand around and watch the pyrotechnical display of hundreds of tracer shells and bullets spraying all over the place from the American's guns. Several times, ships that I have been on, were hit by stray bullets fired by our over enthusiastic allies. Now and again bullets were found embedded in wooden hatch covers, or lying bent and battered in the scuppers where they had rolled after ricocheting off some metal work.

As I was becoming more proficient at doing my various tasks, I got through them quicker, and that in turn gave me more opportunity to notice what other members of the crew were doing. For instance, at noon on fine days, all the mates and the Captain, armed with their sextants, gathered on the Bridge to take sightings of the sun. Calculations following from their readings plotted our position. At night, star sightings were taken and used in a similar manner.

The Carpenter made periodic rounds of the ship along the main deck. At intervals along the deck, there were pipes leading down into the double bottom, freshwater and ballast tanks. At each pipe the Carpenter stopped, unscrewed the brass cover plug and lowered into the pipe a dip stick attached to a heaving line. Once the dip stick had touched the bottom of the tank, he hauled it up and checked it to see whether we had any water where there should not have been any. Or conversely, perhaps our supplies of drinking water were being used too quickly. All his soundings were recorded in a log book.

The Bo'sun kept the sailors busy doing maintenance work on the cargo handling gear, greasing this and painting that. There was always something that needed adjusting or repairing.

The 2nd Mate as Gunnery officer had the D.E.M.S ratings in his charge. He, they and other members of the 4" and 12 pdr guns might not have had much ammunition, but they were determined to make each shot count if they were ever to go into action. Daily, when the weather was reasonable they practiced and practiced the motions of loading, aiming and firing the guns. The Engineers had made them dummy shells and charges so that they could be used to go through the motions without the risk of there being any unfortunate mishaps.

I used to watch them training. R/Os don't get to be part of the crews of the bigger guns. Be close to one of them when they fire, and you won't be able to hear much morse for some time afterwards.

Loading the 4" was quite a prolonged procedure. It was as I mentioned earlier, archaic. Modern guns of that size have the shell and the propelling charge fixed together and look like a king sized bullet with its cartridge case. Not so with that old battler. The gunners had to open the breach, place a shell in its mouth, shove the shell right up the breach with a ramrod, two bags of cordite were rammed in after the shell. The breach was then closed and a brass cartridge, not unlike a .303 cartridge without the bullet, was inserted into a chamber in the breach. The gun was fired by pulling a lanyard. This released the mechanism which forced the firing pin to strike the cartridge which exploded and ignited the cordite. Away went the shell. After firing, the breach had to be swabbed out with water least any residual sparks, or too much heat should prematurely ignite the next loading of cordite.

Complex and quite a bit to learn. Each member of the gun's crew learnt not only his part, but could take over any one else's duty should there be casualties. There were extra hands trained as reserves, should they be needed.

The 12 pdr was far less cumbersome. The shells and the propellant were still separate, but instead of the cordite being in bags, it came in brass shell cases. No need to use a ramrod nor to swab the gun each time it fired. Because this gun was a dual purpose one, in as much as it could be used against subs or aircraft, the shells it fired could be set to explode after a given interval. It was the task of the range finder to calculate the distance to the target, the time it would take for a shell to travel that distance and to call out the result to the fuse setter. The latter would make the necessary adjustment to the timing mechanism in the nose cone of the shell. To help speed things up and reduce the time taken to set the fuses, groups of shells were already set at several different timings and were colour coded accordingly. The fuse setter therefore only had to make minor adjustments if he selected a shell already set to approximately the time required. Quick thinking, a bit of anticipation and accuracy were essential if the shells were to burst anywhere near their target. Slow targets were fairly easy to judge, but aircraft coming at you at 250/300 mph left you practically no time to get the fuses set.

The gun's crew trained and practiced sometimes together and sometimes with just part of the team doing their own particular thing. Day after day they kept at it. They didn't know it then, but they were to get their reward.

We continued our journey southward. The weather got warmer and it was not long before we were ordered to change into our white summer uniforms. Long white drill trousers, a jacket of the same material that had long sleeves and brass buttons all the way from the waist to the collar. Epaulettes graced the shoulders. All starched up so that the whole lot was as stiff as a board. These uniforms looked smart, but were most uncomfortable and impracticable. They were surprisingly hot to wear and so rough and starched that they abraded your skin. The metal clips holding the epaulettes dug into your shoulders unless you wore a shirt under the jacket. Being white, they showed up the least little dirty mark.

We R/Os had a difficult time trying to keep our uniforms clean. The soot and ash coming up from the stokehold gave us a real problem. To get a whole day's wear out of one set of "whites" was an achievement. I owned but three sets, so I had to be extra careful. Happily, my Chinese steward was a good laundry man. For a small fee he would take a uniform away in the morning and have it back to you in the evening all pristine and so starched up, it was almost able to stand up by itself unaided.

Later, on other ships, I was not so lucky and had to fend for myself. Became quite a dab hand with an iron and could even manage a fair result with the starch too. By then, white shorts, shirts and knee length socks were permitted. Much, much cooler to wear and easier to maintain. As the war progressed, khaki uniforms crept into vogue - unless you were carrying passengers - and they were far more practical.

We called into Bermuda and dropped anchor in the harbour. No going ashore. We were to wait overnight for reasons that escape me, before resuming our journey south. The water in the harbour was crystal clear, and it was possible to see right down to the sandy bottom. It was so clear that it appeared to be shallow. Fish could be seen swimming about and a beautiful electric blue eel went wriggling past, looking for all the world like a very wide ribbon.

The Chinese members of the crew were busy with fishing lines and landed a number of sting rays. These they gutted and then stretched them out on wooden sticks and hung them up in the sun to dry. We hoisted anchor next morning and continued on our way to Colon, the Panama Canal and the Pacific Ocean. Once there we would be able to relax a bit. We would be out of the Atlantic and away from the U-boats. True, there was the chance that we might encounter an armed raider, but the odds on that happening were pretty remote.

Eight days or so later we arrived at Colon having one night sneaked through one of the passages between the islands of the West Indies and then crossed the Caribbean Sea.

At Colon we waited for our turn at the coaling station, and then moved into place to take on coal. Tons and tons of the stuff was poured down chutes and into the little hatches that led down into the bunkers. Coal dust flew everywhere. It got between your teeth and into your eyes and hair. All the surfaces of our cabin and the Wireless Room got a patina of dust. Even the sheets inside your bunk felt gritty when you climbed between them. It was an impossibility to keep your "whites" clean. Periodically the coal stopped coming down the chutes. During these breaks, shore based trimmers climbed into the bunkers and shovelled the coal into the far corners of the bunkers to ensure that they were being filled to capacity.

Our crew were given the chance to draw an advance as we were to continue coaling throughout the night. The Chief R/O went ashore and obtained the money from the shipping agents. After he came back we three R/Os worked out the exchange rates between dollars and pounds and made up the pay envelopes. Most of the crew, like myself, had hardly any money to draw upon, so we did not put in for any, preferring to hang on to what we had for better things to come. Evening came, the coaling continued. It was a hot sultry night. We were not keeping a radio watch and as I was not required to be on board for a couple of hours I decided to go ashore. I wandered down the gangway, crossed the coal dust covered wharf and strolled into town. Nothing much to see or do. This was my first time ashore in a foreign port and the only thing that really impressed me was the tremendous continuous shrilling noise of the cicadas in the trees. I had no idea what a cicada was, and when told that they were large flying insects, some two to three inches long, I found it hard to believe that such a small creature could produce such a deafening racket.

A Pilot came aboard early next morning and guided us through a dredged channel about eight miles long to Gatun. The first of the lock gates opened and we moved in. The gates closed behind us. The lock chambers are huge at 110 feet wide, 1,000 feet long and 81 feet deep. In those days they could accommodate almost any ship afloat. Times have changed. Supertankers and the like are now built too large to fit into these locks.

The locks were built in parallel pairs so it is possible for ships proceeding in opposite directions to continue their journey without having to wait for a ship going in the other direction to pass through a set of locks. There are three pairs of locks, in series, at Gatun, one pair at Pedro Miguel and two more pairs at Miraflores at the Panama end of the Canal. On the top of the thick sided walls of the chambers are railway lines with a third rail lying between the conventional two. This third rail is toothed and forms the rack of the rack and pinion drive needed to give traction to the electric locomotives ("mules") that haul ships through the locks.

As our ship floated into the chamber, four "mules", two on each wall, each released a steel cable from a reel mounted on its back. We attached the cables one to each side of the bow and stern. By hauling in or slackening off the cables, the "mule" drivers can keep your ship in the middle of the chamber.

As soon as your ship is in position, water starts flowing into the chamber through pipes in its floor, your ship starts to rise. It takes about fifteen minutes for the swirling incoming water to fill the chamber and lift your ship to the top. As the ship comes slowly upwards, the "mules" keep hauling in the slack forming in the cables and keep you from bumping the side walls.

Once the lock is full, the gates ahead open and the "mules" haul your ship into the next chamber. Because of their rack and pinion drive, the "mules" can climb up or down ramps on the walls as they move from a lower chamber to a higher one, and of course, vice versa. By the time you have traversed the three Gatun locks, the ship has been lifted 85 feet.

The electricity for the "mules" and the whole canal system is powered by water which flows from the River Chagres and the Gatun and Miraflores Lakes.

On leaving the third lock we cast off the cables and entered Lake Gatun. The pilot took us through 32 miles of winding channel. This channel is but 500 feet wide which leaves little margin for ships to pass each other. Next came the Gaillard Cut some eight miles in length and this part really feels like a canal. After the open space of Lake Gatun, the cutting through the hill sides really seems to close in upon you. At the end of the Cut is the lock at Pedro Miguel which lowers you down 31 feet to Lake Miraflores. A short trip of a mile or so across this lake and you come to the two locks at Miraflores. We took these two steps down and were then back to sea level, having "crossed overland" in a manner of speaking. There was still eleven miles to go through yet another channel which led to the Bay of Panama and the Pacific Ocean.

The Panama Canal is an amazing feat of engineering. Work commenced in 1880 and finished in 1914. The equipment used was primitive compared with modern day earth moving and dredging machinery. Much of the work was done manually and over the years the number of labourers employed ran into the hundreds of thousands. Some 50,000 people working on the project lost their lives, mostly due to Yellow Fever, Typhoid and Malaria. Clear of the channel we dropped off the Pilot and headed into the Pacific. We should now feel a bit easier - the worst was behind us, or was it?

The very next day, the 7th December, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour and destroyed much of America's Navy. The battle for the Pacific was now well and truly on and our hopes for a more relaxed time had gone.

The news of Pearl Harbour was most disturbing, but looking on the bright side, it had resulted in bringing the Americans well and truly into the war.

We were on our own now, and no longer in convoy. That afternoon we spotted a smudge of smoke on the horizon. What was it? Friend or foe? Our 4" gun's crew made ready. It wasn't long before we could make out a warship going flat out and rapidly overtaking us. As soon as her bridge was clear of the horizon we were challenged by signal lamp. Up went our signal flags giving the response for the day.

The American destroyer, which we could then clearly see, was not entirely satisfied and ordered us to heave to. We slowed down while the Yank kept his distance and covered us with his guns. Having verified our credentials with his base he closed right up and gave us a good look over before giving us the OK to proceed. After being caught napping at Pearl Harbour the Yanks were in no mood to be caught off guard again and were consequently somewhat twitchy and extra cautious.

On the 10th December came the bad news that the battleship "Prince of Wales" and the battle-cruiser "Repulse" had been sunk by the Japanese using torpedo bombers.

The war was decidedly not going the way we would like and the situation was getting worse. We were headed for Singapore via New Zealand and Australia and it was beginning to look as though we were steaming towards trouble.

The Captain decided that since we were now all on our own, and no longer in convoy it would be the ideal time to have a practice shoot for the 12 pdr and 4" guns. We had so little ammunition that we couldn't afford to go wasting it. The shoot was to be limited to one round for each gun. But first, to give the trainers and layers practice, a rifle was strapped in turn to each of the guns' barrels. A weighted cardboard box was tossed over the side to act as a target before it sank. The gunners aimed at the box and triggered the rifle when they had it in their sights. The resultant splash from the bullet gave an indication as to how good, or otherwise, their aim was. A few rounds from the rifle were fired this way and then it was time to fire the bigger guns.

A new target was dropped overboard and drifted astern in the wake of the ship. The gunners followed it in their sights. When it had almost vanished from view the 12 pdr crew were ordered to fire when on target. A flash, staccato bang, cloud of smoke and the shell was on its way. A plume of water spouted up close to the target. Not bad.

The 4" crew went through the rigmarole of loading a shell, bags of cordite etc and were given the go ahead. Another flash, deafening bang, smoke and another water spout close to the box. It was followed by several more splashes as the shell skipped along the sea's surface, rather like those flat smooth stones that you skimmed along a lake's surface when you were a kid.

The 4" gun's crew learned several things from that shot. The flash from the gun swirled back towards you and scorched your eyebrows and the hairs on your arms and legs if they were not protected. The gun was so old and worn that after the barrel recoiled instead of sliding smoothly forward, back into the "ready" position, it slowly trembled and wobbled its way back. Worse, the breech came open of its own accord. This state of affairs raised speculation as to whether upon future firing the breech block might come adrift and kill some of the crew. Not a happy thought, but as there was nothing that could be done about it, it was a gamble that would have to be taken in the event that the gun was required in action.

The Carpenter and Cook made a discovery that didn't please them over much. They had some singlets, socks and underpants hanging on a line, drying in the sunlight. These items were well in front of, but clear of the gun and strung up on the deck below. When they came to collect them they found that the flash had scorched them to such an extent that the clothes disintegrated when they tried to wear them.

We continued on towards New Zealand. On the way we were to stop at Pitcairn Island and hand over mail and medical supplies. Pitcairn Island is the one upon which the mutineers took refuge after the mutiny took place on the "Bounty". The island is small and has an area of 1.75 square miles. It is but a fly speck in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and our navigating officers were pleased with themselves when it came into view, right dead ahead on the horizon.

I was on watch at the time when we slowed down and stopped close to the island. There is no harbour there, not even a jetty. To get ashore, which we were not allowed to do, requires a fair degree of skill. The only way in to the beach in Bounty Bay, is through a narrow passage in the rugged cliffs. The Pacific rollers surge and break around the rocks guarding the passage. It is essential to get the timing right if you are to successfully navigate the entrance which is only wide enough for small craft. Two long boats, rowed by men came out through the passage and headed towards our ship. The gangway had long since been rigged and lowered for the visitors.

The men from Pitcairn came aboard. They were tall, of good physique and were dressed in shirts and long trousers. They wore no shoes or socks, but did wear wide brimmed hats made from pandanus leaves. Their complexions were weathered and swarthy as might be expected since their ancestors mostly came from Southern England and Tahiti, and they spent most of their time outdoors. The Pitcairn Islanders spoke an old version of English and referred to "thee" and "thou". No problem in understanding them except when they tossed in the occasional Tahitian word or phrase.

Each man carried a basket containing wooden hand carved souvenirs made by himself. There were flying fish, inlaid boxes and models of the Bounty. There were also necklaces of shells, hats and baskets woven by their women folk. First day covers of the Pitcairn Island stamps were also brought aboard to trade.

A ship visiting Pitcairn is a major event on the islanders' calendar, for apart from their trade in souvenirs and stamps they have no other means of raising money. Naturally, they try desperately to sell or barter as many of their souvenirs as possible. The postage stamps are apparently a steady revenue raiser, while the trade in souvenirs is good in peace time when passenger ships call at Pitcairn.

In war time, their situation was tough, for there were no passenger ships and very few cargo vessels calling there. At best, they might expect a ship every six weeks or so,and if the weather happened to be bad, the islanders would be unable to get out to her.

The men swarmed all over the ship and it was not long before I had company in the Wireless Room. I ended up with a wooden flying fish and some first day covers. I had parted with some English money, sewing needles, cotton and buttons. I declined the suggestion that I trade the tools in the Wireless Room for more souvenirs!

When trading had finished, the talking began and over a cup of tea and tabnabs I learnt a little about life on Pitcairn. The islanders grow their own crops, keep fowls and sheep and do a fair amount of fishing. They are devout Seventh Day Adventists. The Bounty's Bible still exists and is in the church. The ship's anchor is mounted in the town square (Adamstown).

Normally they would have brought some of the women out to our ship, but because it was war time, you could never be sure that a ship was really going to turn out to be friendly. Therefore, they had left some men and all the women and children ashore. They would have liked to have had one of our machine guns to assist them in defending the island should the Japanese try to invade them. However, it was agreed that as we were more likely to encounter the Yellow Men, they would not press the point!

Their surnames, Christian; Adams; Young; Mills; Quintal; McCoy and Brown are of course those of their forebears, the mutineers. They had been aboard for about an hour when the signal was given for their departure. A frantic few minutes of bargaining ensued. "Last chance to get your souvenirs" "You may never get the chance again", "Very few people ever come this way twice in their lives".

The islanders piled back into the long boats taking mail; medical supplies; the unsold souvenirs and bartered treasures. We had drifted a fair way from the island, the weather was freshening, so we towed the long boats for a mile or two, so as to put them into a position where the wind would be favourable and assist them on their row back to shore.

While alongside and under tow the islanders entertained us with some singing. Unaccompanied four and six part harmony. Sounded wonderful and reminded me of Welsh miners and their singing. Very stirring and surely they would have won at least a place at an eisteddfod. They cast off and waved goodbye as we resumed our journey towards New Zealand.

On Christmas Day the Chief Steward and his staff excelled themselves in the culinary department and served a magnificent dinner. The day was marred, however by the news that Hong Kong had fallen to the Japanese. The Yellow Peril was really on the move and spreading rapidly through the Far East.

Two days or so out from Wellington, the Chief Steward was suddenly taken ill and collapsed. He died that night. The Surgeon suspected a cerebral haemorrhage and his diagnosis was confirmed by an autopsy held in Wellington. A funeral was arranged and pall bearers selected. One officer from each of the ship's departments plus two midshipmen made up the complement of six. I represented the Radio Department.

A day or so prior to arriving at New Zealand we had an unusual experience in the Wireless Room. I was on watch when I heard a Coast Station broadcasting its call sign. The signal was faint but clear - "GLD" (Land's End Radio). Now the normal range of coast stations using the standard medium radio wave band is about 600/1000 miles. So how could it be that I was hearing a signal coming from the other side of the world?

When I was relieved by the 2nd R/O at the end of my watch I mentioned this occurrence. He shook his head and suggested - nicely - that I was mistaken and had heard the Auckland Radio Station "ZLD". After all, the morse symbol for "G" is two dashes and a dot, while that for "Z" is two dashes and two dots. I must have misread the signal. The explanation was plausible, but I was not happy with it. The signal had been clear and there was no static to cause distortion. I was positive I had heard "GLD".

Even as we were discussing the matter another coast station started identifying itself "GNI" (Niton Radio). In the Isle of Wight. We both heard this and there was no doubt about it.

The Chief R/O came into the room so we told him about the extraordinary event. To start with, he thought we were both "nuts", but "GLD" saved our integrity by calling again and later a German station "DAN". Having heard both stations with his own ears the Chief was convinced.

Later, when we were in port and a Radio Inspector had come aboard to inspect and seal our equipment for the duration of our stay, we mentioned this unusual phenomenon. Oh yes, he had heard of other ships reporting such happenings, particularly from the region where we had been. No, he could not offer any explanation - just one of those freaks of Nature - maybe there was some magnetic field anomaly that caused the radio waves to bend right round to the opposite side of the earth.

As the ship had some cargo to discharge and load in Wellington we were to be there for a few days. The Navy made arrangements for those of us who were involved with the ship's armaments to be taken ashore and given some target practice. Out on the firing range we were introduced to a simple and novel method of training. A single barrelled shotgun was mounted on a stand in a manner similar to the machine guns on our ship. Clay pigeons were launched from traps positioned away on the left and right of the gun. You, as the gunner, had to try and shoot down these mock aircraft. Ammunition, as always, was in short supply so we were limited to five shots each. As I mentioned earlier, shooting off your shoulder is one thing and more or less comes naturally. When you have to swivel a gun fixed to a pivot, it becomes much more difficult and requires a fair degree of agility. I was glad that when it came to my turn, that I had spent some time practicing following flying seagulls in a machine gun's sights.

Perhaps I was fortunate in as much that my clay pigeons all flew true. I managed to bring down 3 out of 5 and fared better than most of the other would be gunners.

Our stay in Wellington was short, but I did get ashore on the last night and wandered around the township. I chanced to pass the fire station and having previously been involved with the National Fire Service, I was curious to see what kind of fire engines they had in New Zealand.

The station's doors were wide open so I wandered in to take a closer look at the fire engines. I did not get very far before I was pulled up by a friendly challenge. We exchanged credentials. The upshot was that I was given the full treatment. A tour of the station and a detailed explanation of the workings of all the equipment.

A cup of tea and biscuits was forthcoming and I sat around with the men on duty awaiting fire calls. Fortunately none came while I was there. The New Zealanders anticipating that they might be subjected to air-raids or bombardment from Japanese ships wanted to know all about the blitzes and how in England we had gone about dealing with the various emergencies that we had encountered.

The firemen were very keen and thirsty for knowledge and I spent over a couple of hours fielding questions. They must have found the answers enlightening, for they asked whether I could return the next day and give a repeat performance for the day shift. I explained it was a bit unlikely as I probably would be required to be on board and unable to get ashore again. They accepted that, reluctantly, and said that was a pity, as this had been their first opportunity to get some first hand information and given a little more time they were sure there would be a lot more questions they would like answered.

We finally said our farewells and as I walked back to the ship, I wondered how Wellington would fare under an incendiary attack. Many of the buildings, and particularly the houses were of timber construction. Once a dozen or so got alight there could be a major conflagration. Much of the city was on fairly steep hillsides and the flames from one building could easily leap to the next. This was particularly so, as the prevailing wind always seemed to be sweeping in from the sea and would fan the flames uphill.

Next day we sailed for Sydney. The voyage from New Zealand to Australia was uneventful. The only minor excitement came when we were still some miles off the Sydney Heads. A mirage appeared and we could see the Harbour Bridge floating above the Heads in a shimmering misty haze. The Pilot, after we had picked him up, said that the mirage was quite a common occurrence, but none the less spectacular for that.

Sydney Harbour is ranked amongst the best and most picturesque harbours in the world. As we came through the Heads and headed towards our berth at Woolloomooloo, those of us who had not visited Sydney before were most impressed.

Some months later when it was no longer a "military secret", I wrote to my father and mentioned that I had once berthed at a place called "Woolloomooloo". He was not unnaturally a bit sceptical. After all, eight "o's" in one word is a bit much. He thought I was pulling his leg, but was finally convinced by some of his friends who had heard of the suburb.

The ship had cargo for Sydney, so we were busy unloading. No radio watches are kept in port and our transmitters had all been sealed by the authorities. You might think therefore, that with no radio watches to keep, the Radio Officers would have all the time in the world to go ashore and enjoy themselves. If that be the case, then you are in for a shock.

Before entering port, all the members of the crew have been asked whether they wished to draw on their wages and, if so, how much? Once the ship's agent has been on board and attended to other matters of the ship's business, one of the Radio Officers would accompany him ashore and obtain the required money for the advance. Upon return to the ship the Radio Officer would take the money to the Wireless Room and the three of us would start to do the calculations to determine how much Australian currency each crew member will get for the pounds sterling he requested. As soon as we had completed the calculations and struck a balance we would start the payout.

It took time to get through all the crew. Some were impatient for they were not on watch and wanted to get ashore quickly. Others were asleep and the rest were on watch and had to be relieved before they could come and collect their cash. The money was counted out before each man and a signature obtained. In the case of those Chinese who were illiterate, they made an "x" on the document and having placed their right thumb on an inkpad added a thumbprint.

Once the payout was made, there were still plenty of things to do. The Chief R/O became the Master's Secretary and accompanied him ashore on ship's business and to Naval-Headquarters for debriefing and briefing for the future. The Second R/O handled the paperwork relating to the cargo. My tasks varied. Either I assisted the 2nd R/O or, as required, I helped in supervising the loading/unloading of "Specials" - cargo that is particularly valuable or vulnerable to pillage. At times I might be required for tallying mailbags. Always something to do, and I didn't get ashore until the evening.

After dinner I walked up to the city. Not much to see and the "brown out" didn't help over much either. I felt that "brown outs" were a bit of a joke really, they would still have given the game away to any attacking force, be it from the air or sea. I soon became bored and went back to the ship, keeping in mind the Agent's advice - "Keep in the middle of the road when walking down to your ship in the wharf areas, so that you will be less likely to be surprised by would-be muggers". "What about the traffic on the road?" you might ask. Quite simple really. There wasn't any except for the odd vehicle now and again. Petrol rationing had taken care of that, and in any case, folks didn't own cars to the extent that they do today in the nineties.

The following morning the Chief Officer sent for me. He had received an invitation from the Victoria League, inviting officers from the ship's complement to attend a party that afternoon. The Chief Officer had decided that the three Midshipmen and I were to attend. In cahoots with the Chief R/O he had arranged for the four of us to have the afternoon off. We received instructions to present ourselves to him in our best (only) uniforms, clean shirts and polished shoes before proceeding to an address which he gave us. We were told to be on our best behaviour, and no matter whether we liked the party or not, we were to stay there and accept the hospitality with all the grace we could muster. He offered the advice that in all probability we would be entertained by elderly ladies who felt that tea and cakes in a drawing room was the best way of giving a man a break from shipboard life.

The appointed hour arrived and the four of us - Senior Midshipman John Chapman, who later became the Harbour Master at Melbourne, Australia; Robert Arnott (Bob), who was to rise to the rank of Captain and command the "Queen Elizabeth II"; Wee Woodie and myself - presented ourselves for the Chief Officer's inspection. He found no fault so we went ashore to search for a tram to take us out to the Eastern Suburbs. We had been given rudimentary directions with the invitation and had gleaned more advice by quizzing the wharfies who were working on the ship that morning.

All went well and we were soon on board a "Toast-Rack" tram heading towards our destination. Now a "Toast-Rack" tram was of a vintage several generations earlier than the latest swish "Green Goddesses" back home in Liverpool. On the "Toast-Racks" the wooden slatted seats were fixed across the tram. Access to the seats was gained via a running board that ran along both sides of the tram. There was no alleyway down the middle of the body. The sides were to a large extent, open, although some trams had sliding doors. If bad weather prevailed canvas blinds could be pulled down to keep out the elements. The whole arrangement was fine and breezy in summer although a trifle dusty. Winter time presented a different story. The trams were unbelievably draughty, and in heavy rain the passengers sitting on the outer- most seats collected a fair amount of water.

The conductors were a hardy breed, and with the agility of monkeys they continuously moved along the running boards collecting fares in all weathers. At best, their position was precarious for the trams swayed and jolted about. Lose your grip on a stanchion and you could easily fall off. To facilitate the handling of cash and issuing tickets, the conductors used to crook an arm around a stanchion, thus leaving both of their hands free to collect fares.

Newspaper boys would frequently jump on to moving trams on the opposite side to the conductor, and would work their way along the running boards, selling papers as they went. They had to keep an eye open for trams coming in the opposite direction least they got crushed between the trams. Their ability to leap on and jump off, sometimes backwards, from swiftly moving trams was remarkable. There were accidents, but fortunately they were rare.

In due course we alighted at the tram stop closest to our destination. A short walk, and we arrived at a magnificent mansion. We were ushered in and introduced to our hostess. Formalities over, we were handed into the care of a delightful group of young ladies who were of a similar age to ourselves. From that moment onwards there was rarely a dull moment for me on those fortunate occasions when I visited Sydney.

The young ladies were all members of the Victoria League, an organisation dedicated to fostering good relationships between all the countries of the Commonwealth and supporting the British cause. They voluntarily gave much of their spare time to raising funds for such organisations as Barnardo's Homes and Food for Britain. They took officers into their homes for meals and home comforts; organised dances; picnics; theatre parties; treasure hunts; excursions around Sydney and generally made thousands of men from the Allied Forces feel at home.

Most importantly, they raised enough money to rent premises at the Circular Quay end of George Street, Sydney. In these rooms they kept a dry canteen open from 10am to 10pm daily. Light meals were served at lunch and dinner time. Each evening there was dancing or some other organised function taking place.

A small quantity of liquor, usually rum and coke was available at these affairs. Rarely was this privilege abused. Anyone getting slightly out of line was quickly put on course by his fellow officers.

Would be gate-crashers were more of a problem, and on occasions a group of us would be asked by the ladies to escort an undesirable personage off the premises. Tact, rather than force was the essence of those exercises and it usually worked.

But I get ahead of myself. There was at the party, as the Chief Officer had expected, tea and cakes. He had however only scratched the surface of the menu. There was also a great variety of other delectable comestibles. True, there were also, as predicted, some more mature ladies. They were extremely busy handling the catering aspects of the party. There would have been well over fifty and probably nearer a hundred guests.

Our group was soon at ease with our new friends and conversation flowed freely. Arrangements were made to meet the girls after lunch the next day, Sunday, at Wynyard Station and we would all go to Bondi Beach for a swim. Did we all have costumes? Yes, we did. No problem on that score. The party ended, we sincerely thanked our hostess for a marvellous time and left with some of the girls to return to the city.

At Wynyard two of the girls, Margot and Pam, showed us where to meet them next day. They took a train to Chatswood, we walked back to the ship and reported to the Chief Officer. He was mildly surprised at how events had turned out, and was I suspect, perhaps wishing that he and more of the officers had gone along as well. Subsequently, the four of us did take a number of other men along to the League's Club rooms and to picnics etc.

Next day as arranged we all met at Wynyard and proceeded to Bondi. The middies could all body surf and had been briefing me, who couldn't, as to the techniques required. So, full of confidence, I dashed into the surf with the others and waded out towards the breakers. The girls were content to bob up and down in the surf, and plunge through the oncoming waves. The middies wanted to go further out and into the breakers proper. They left the girls and headed out to deeper waters. I followed. Now, they were all well over six feet tall and not less than six inches taller than I, so it wasn't long before I could no longer touch the bottom, although they still had their feet on the sand.

"Watch what we do and then try and follow us back to the beach on the next decent wave". So I watched them turn around, just in front of a big wave, swim like crazy and saw them picked up by the wave and carried towards the shore. OK, my turn now, and there was a lovely wave coming, quite the biggest I had seen. I turned around, swam as fast as I could, arched my back and waited to take off towards the shore. But it was not to be. The wave broke above me, bowled me over and over and ploughed me along the sea bed. This was not what I had expected. I struggled against the swirling mass of sand laden water, bubbles and seaweed, trying to reach the surface. I eventually got there and just had time to get my lungs filled with fresh air before a second wave, seemingly larger than the other, broke over me and another buffeting along the seabed followed.

I surfaced somewhat disoriented, a bit scratched, decidedly out of breath and exhausted. Slowly I made my way back to the beach to join the others. "What took you so long?" "Where have you been?" My answers caused much merriment. "Why on earth did you try to ride a "dumper?" they asked. Until that experience, I didn't even know that "dumpers" existed, and I certainly did not have the ability to pick one sort of wave from another. For the next few minutes while I got my breath back, I was busy getting sand out of my nose, ears and mouth. Even my swimming togs were laden down with the stuff. I had learned one thing for sure - "dumpers" were definitely something to avoid.

Late in the afternoon we all went to Chatswood and were invited to stay for a roast dinner at Margot's and Pam's house. Their father had lost a leg in World War I. Mother worked as a courier with the Red Cross Blood bank and their brother Bob was away at sea, serving in the Royal Australian Navy. We had a most enjoyable evening and returned to the ship via the last train that night.

We had been given an open invitation to come and visit the family any time we happened to be in port. We marvelled at the hospitality and the kindness that had been bestowed upon us that weekend.

The following morning we sailed up the coast to Newcastle for bunkers before returning to Sydney. We were to load more cargo for the Far East and this time we are berthed at Walsh Bay. That suited us better for getting to Wynyard and visiting our friends at Chatswood.

Once back in Sydney, one of the first priorities was to telephone the girls and let them know we were in port. We had their telephone number and Christian names, but none of us could recall their surname. If their mother or father should happen to answer the phone, we would be embarrassed by not being able to address them properly. That would never do, so three of us set to in a bevy of public phone booths and armed with telephone directories started looking for the number.

The Sydney directory in those days came in one volume and was printed in larger type on thicker paper than today's version. Nevertheless, to go through the hundreds of pages was quite a task. We each undertook to search through a different section of a telephone book so that our efforts would not overlap. Within twenty minutes we had what we wanted. The magic number came up amongst the entries listed under "G" for " Geddes".

Because we were going to the Far East, the whole crew had to be inoculated against various types of typhoid fever and cholera. We were also to be vaccinated against smallpox. Half the crew was "jabbed" one day, and two days later the other half got their needles. It can happen that the effects of the needles may upset you, at least you suffer a fairly stiff and sore arm from the injections. So, just as a precaution one half of the crew is kept fully functional in case an emergency should arise.

I got my needles in the second serving and felt fine. That night the middies and I headed off to Chatswood and we were not too far into the evening when the various fevers I had been inoculated with began to make their presence felt. I became giddy and started running a temperature. Mrs. Geddes was sympathetic and practical. She had on previous occasions had visiting seamen similarly smitten. Cool lemon drinks and aspirin were administered, and a couch made available. I rested until it was time to get back to the ship. Luckily the middies had no adverse effects, other than sore arms, so they would have been able to assist me in getting back to the ship had I been unable to walk unaided. As it was, I was improving by the minute, and after a snooze on the train , was almost back to normal.

Our stay in Sydney only lasted a few days before once again we were on our way. Next stop was Fremantle, but before we got there, the Great Australian Bight had to be crossed. To first trippers this meant nothing. To the more enlightened, it meant that you could expect anything weatherwise from mill pond conditions, to tumultuous seas. The shellbacks warned us to expect the worst. Mother Nature is frequently contrary, and just to confound the pessimists, she turned on very reasonable weather and we crossed the Bight with no storms what-so-ever.

We arrived safely at Fremantle and stayed for a few days working cargo. Ashore, one could sense a degree of urgency. The Japanese had landed on Borneo and the Celebes. They were making rapid advances through these countries. We were ordered to make haste and sail as soon as possible for Malaya. We had military supplies on board that could be needed. The Australians were concerned and with good reason. There seemed to be no halting the Japanese, and an invasion of Australia was no longer an unlikely event. "What" - they asked us - "was Britain going to do about it?"

The Australians had sent many of their troops to the Middle East to do battle with the Germans and Italians. Now, they were in the invidious position of having sent men to help Britain, only to find themselves with another enemy preparing to invade their homeland. Not unnaturally, there was an air of animosity hanging about, and it was advisable to keep a low profile when ashore.

Towards the end of January we left Fremantle. Batavia, Singapore, Port Swettenham and Penang were to be our next ports of call. A week or so later we passed Rakata Island and the site of Krakatau volcano. We sailed through the Sunda Straits and entered Tanjung Priok Harbour, the port for Batavia, now Jakarta. The news was bad. The Japanese were established on the Malaysian Peninsular and were heading towards Singapore. We were to proceed there immediately. Unfortunately, we had trouble with one of our boilers and wouldn't have been able to produce enough steam to keep up with a small convoy heading for Singapore. The Engineers blew down the offending boiler and waited twenty four hours before it was cool enough for them to enter and commence effecting repairs.

Singapore was about 500 miles away to the north, but rumour had it that the Japanese were closer to us than that. There was talk amongst the Javanese that the Japanese had bypassed Singapore and had landed on Sumatra.

Ships leaving Tanjung Priok for Singapore were being repeatably attacked by aircraft and had to run the gauntlet of sailing through passages between the islands. There was not enough space to take much evasive action. Ships caught in that situation are virtually sitting ducks and bring joy and delight to the attacking bombers.

We were to stay in port, fix the boiler and discharge the military cargo that we had in the holds.

I went ashore on the first evening. Nothing much to see or do, but there was a Seamen's Club not far from the wharf. They were showing a Javanese film with captions in English. I watched that whilst drinking a warm frothy locally brewed beer. It was a hot sticky night and I was glad to get back on board and turn in.

Next day I was sent down into a hold to deter the wharf labour from pillaging cargo. Work was proceeding well and I was not having too much trouble with the gang in the hold when a siren sounded in the distance. The Javanese labour immediately stopped work and clambered up the steel ladders as fast as they could go. I got the impression that they were very scared. One fellow scooted past me and noticing that I was not moving, shouted "Jap come!" By the time I got to the top of the ladder, climbed over the combing and on to the deck, the labour was ashore, running along the wharf away from the ship.

Alarms were ringing and sirens wailing so I sprinted for the Bridge to take up my station by a machine gun. All went quiet. The cover was off the gun and as it was already manned there was nothing for me to do. "What's up?" I asked. "Air-raid" came the reply. There didn't seem to be any activity and there was no sign of aeroplanes.

We didn't have to wait long. Three single engined planes appeared over the township flying in line astern. The Japanese markings could be clearly seen. The planes were flying fairly low and practically broadside on to our stern. "Bang!" Our 12 pdr fired. The shell burst just in front of the leading plane and the blast made it wobble. A Dutch Army quick firing gun commenced shooting from its position on the roof of the warehouse level with our Bridge. Tracer shells floated towards the Japs.

The range was too great for our machine guns to be effective so they didn't open up. The second round from the 12 pdr, I believe, scored a direct hit on the leading plane. I didn't see the shell actually burst, but pieces flew off the plane, a plume of black smoke emerged. The remains of the plane went down in a steep dive. The third shell burst close to the second plane. The two remaining Japs immediately broke formation and dived. Once they had lost altitude we could no longer see or have a crack at them.

The "All clear" was not long in sounding after that, and cargo discharging resumed after the labour returned. The Japanese planes had apparently been raiding the local airport and followed up with a reconnaissance flight over the township and harbour area.

The 12 pdr crew were wildly excited. First time in action and they had bagged a plane. The Dutch gunners thought otherwise however, and claimed it as their victim. The Home Team finally got the official credit much to the disappointment of our men. Nothing would shake their view that they had indeed brought down that plane and I for one fully support them.

Singapore was in trouble. The Japanese were trying to enter by the back door and it appeared as though they would take the capital and overrun the Malay Peninsular.

Next day a troop ship arrived and berthed opposite to us. I never heard whether she was headed for Singapore or had evacuated some troops. Soldiers were all over her decks. High up on her boat deck was a Scotsman in full regalia playing his bagpipes. A very reassuring sound.

It was out of the question for our ship to proceed any further. Singapore's fall seemed to be inevitable and under the circumstances, the best thing we could do was to get out of the area before it was too late.

The boiler had been repaired, steam raised and that afternoon we sailed for Australia. Late in the afternoon we almost had a mishap. A troopship going flat out in the opposite direction almost collided with us and passed us far too close for comfort. Some parts of the Sunda Straits are none too wide, and a number of islands scattered about add to the hazards.

When I came on watch at midnight I heard that one of our cruisers, steaming in the opposite direction, had passed us at dusk. She had all but hit us and was so close it would have been possible to have thrown an orange on board. The sooner we were clear of this area the better. It was too congested with blacked-out ships going full speed in an effort to either escape or endeavouring to evacuate civilians and troops before the Japanese took over.

I settled down on watch. Nothing untoward on the radio except some Japanese morse. The Japanese code was different from the International Morse Code we used. The dots and dashes, of course, were the same, but the grouping of the dots and dashes bore no resemblance to our alphabet. Now and then a Japanese transmitter would start up. and some of the signals were loud, so the source could not have been too far distant.

Around 2 am I was startled to hear three loud blasts on a ship's whistle. Three blasts - the signal for "I am going astern". Who was going astern? Out here? Why? I opened the door of the Wireless Room to take a look. There, about sixty feet away and coming straight at me was a ship!! Her navigation lights were on and I could clearly see the red and green of her port and starboard lights. She was a lot smaller than our vessel.

I had barely time to take in this awesome sight when she "T" boned us. A booming crunchy sound, a shower of sparks as metal ground against metal and we heeled over very slightly to port. The other ship's bow and forecastle passed beneath our outslung lifeboats as she began to slip astern.

Quickly I closed the door and switched on the transmitter. It took a couple of minutes to warm up so I wanted it to be ready if any messages were to be sent. We had been struck on the starboard side, right beside the boiler room. The Chinese firemen were saying plenty, loud and clear and were getting out of the boiler room as fast as possible. Our engines were still going. We were not listing. I could not hear water rushing in below.

The Chief R/O entered the room in a state of dishabille and ordered me to the Bridge. I took my life jacket and ran. It was pitch black outside. As soon as I reached the Bridge the Captain gave me orders. "Get on the lamp to that ship. Who is she? Do they need assistance?"

I picked up the Aldis Lamp and started calling. Up until then, the unidentified ship still had her navigation lights showing. We did not. As soon as I commenced calling, someone on the other ship switched her lights off, or less likely, they failed. I kept on calling but got no response what-so-ever. I was ordered to cease calling when it was apparent our signals were being ignored.

Meanwhile the Chief Officer and Chief Engineer had gone down into the boiler room to ascertain what damage we had sustained. Reports began to reach the Bridge. We had several hull plates bent and buckled but none split or holed. A few rivets were leaking and the Ash Ejector was out of service. The leaks were being controlled by cement boxes shored into place by wooden beams. The Carpenter and Engineers were working on them. Seemingly, no other damage.

The firemen had returned below to tend the furnaces and the rest of us resumed our normal routine.

At breakfast time there was a fair degree of discussion about the night's happening. It was generally agreed that the ship that collided with us was probably a coaster and had a non European crew. We had heard them yelling in a language that none of us could identify. Our damage was comparatively light. Mainly due to the very thick steel plating from which the hull had been built. It was almost an inch thick, far stronger than that of modern day ships. We blessed the company's policy of demanding that their ships be of very sturdy construction.

What of the coaster? We could only speculate. She had definitely damaged her bow and might be taking water in her forward compartment. It was most unlikely that her damage would have been severe enough to have caused her to sink. In all probability there would not have been sufficient shock to have shifted her engine off its mounting.

We continued on our way and made Fremantle without any more untoward events. Singapore fell on 15th February, and the Japanese swarmed into Java. That country was under their control by early March.

The Navy made enquiries about our collision. They were able to account for all Allied vessels in that area, but none had reported being in an accident. However, they did offer a possible explanation. In confined shipping lanes, the Japanese were setting up ambushes by using ships to deliberately ram Allied vessels. This they did in such a manner that the collision appeared to be accidental. In the ensuing confusion, a high speed launch, which had been lying in wait, would manoeuvre into position on the opposite side of the victim. Two torpedos would then be fired at close range. We had neither seen or heard a launch nor indeed had we seen the wake of any torpedoes that had missed their mark. Had we been involved in a genuine collision, or were we lucky in springing a trap that for some reason was only partly effective? We never found out the answer.

Welders secured the leaky rivets and strengthened the battered hull. These were temporary repairs, effective enough to get us to Sydney. Again the weather was kind and we crossed the Bight with nothing worse than a heavy swell. The shellbacks reckoned we were not getting our money's worth.

You beauty! We were back in Sydney. Six weeks of marvellous fun were about to begin. Our cargo was quickly discharged and included in it were two 16" naval gun barrels, spares for our battleships. They were to have been discharged in the Far East, but of course never got there. If memory serves me correctly, the barrels weighed about 70 tons each. They were too long, heavy and cumbersome to be lifted out by the ship's gear so the giant floating crane "Titan" was brought alongside for the purpose. It took quite a while and a fair degree of skill to get them out of the hold and landed on to a barge.

Apart from doing my usual chores, I was also employed as a tally clerk and checked some of the cargo being unloaded. Shore labour was scarce and the Stevedoring Company needed everyone they could get. This extra occupation was a godsend, for you got paid for your labours by the Stevedoring Company. Work two eight hour shifts at the weekend and I would end up with more money than I normally earned in a month.

Once the ship was empty, she was moved to Woolwich. The port side ballast tanks were flooded to make the ship heel over and expose the damaged plates on the starboard side. Welders burnt out the rivets and the buckled plates were removed. There were no replacement steel plates in Australia of that thickness or size! Only one quick way to deal with that problem. The battered plates were railed to BHP steelworks at Newcastle. There, they were heated, rolled flat - albeit slightly thinner, and cropped to size. New rivet holes were punched and especially long rivets made to attach the plates back on the hull.

All this repair work took time, so the middies and I, once our routine work was done, would go ashore and meet our friends. The girls from the Victoria League worked as secretaries, bank officers or receptionists, and when they knocked off at the end of the day we would meet them. We visited picture theatres; the ice rink; dances; Luna Park and at the weekend, went on picnics, treasure hunts or swimming excursions. Just as well we had earned that extra money - we needed every penny.

Easter time came and we were invited to spend the night ashore at the Geddes' home. Permission to stay ashore was granted by the Chief Officer. On Easter morning, the four of us plus the Geddes girls and one of their neighbours, Barbara Oldham, went to church.

We moved into a pew and had only just got installed when a prayer book fell from the gallery above and hit Woodie on the shoulder. That started us giggling. Woodie retrieved the book, left the pew and went in search of the owner. When he returned, we realised that when we were all seated in the pew, there wasn't much room and we were rather tightly squeezed together.

The church was packed so we couldn't move to another pew. I passed along a message to the rest of the group. "Let's try alternate breathing". This idea tickled the girls sense of humour and they shook with merriment whilst they tried to suppress their laughter. This only made matters worse, for one could feel the vibrations of laughter emanating from the persons sitting next to you and that served to trigger off further outbreaks of barely controllable laughter.

The opening hymn brought relief, for in standing, we were not so tightly crushed together. There were sporadic outbursts during the service, but we managed to contain them.

One Sunday night we all forgot that the last bus from Chatswood for Woolwich left earlier than on a week night. By the time we had woken up to the fact, the bus had long since gone. We had not got permission to stay the night ashore, and two of the middies had to start work early in the morning. Somehow, we had to get back. We couldn't afford a taxi, even if one had been available - an unlikely event. There was only one way out of the problem, we would have to walk.

Our hosts briefed us about the route we would need to take to get to Woolwich. We set off immediately, for it was going to be quite a hike. It turned out to be even more of a hike than we expected, for we seldom met anyone from whom we could enquire whether we were taking the correct course. Signposts in wartime had all been removed. We should have turned off the Pacific Highway at Longueville Road, but we went past it and ended up right down by Greenwich Wharf.

Across the water, half a mile away lay our ship. Tantalisingly so near and yet so far. There were no ferries running at that hour and no fishing or rowing boats of any description about. All we could do was to turn back and retrace our steps.

We eventually got on the right track, but by then we were tired and footsore - you don't get much walking practice on a ship. We were also incredibly thirsty.

At Hunter's Hill we caught up with a milkman doing his rounds with a horse and cart. He confirmed that we were now close to Woolwich. Kindly, he provided us with milk to drink. We had nothing to put any milk in, so he took a big metal lid off a milk churn, turned it upside down and filled it with milk from one of the tanks on the cart.

I doubt if I ever enjoyed a drink of milk so much. We drank three full lids between us, but the milkman, generous soul, would not accept any payment. Rested and fortified we trudged on and it was not too long before we were back on board. Taking that wrong turning had added nearly five miles to what should have been a six mile journey.

Sadly, all good things come to an end. The ship's repairs were completed. She had been loaded with bales of wool and bulk wheat and was then ready to leave for home. We had had a whale of a time in Sydney and were loath to leave the wonderful hospitality. We hoped it wouldn't be too long before we came back again.

The voyage to Auckland was routine. A couple of days in port and we were on our way across the Pacific towards Panama. Part way across the ocean one of our boilers again gave trouble, a couple of the tubes were leaking and the boiler had to be closed down. The fire in the furnace was withdrawn and the boiler commenced to cool. The immediate result was a reduction in steam available and consequently a loss in the ship's speed. We all got a bit twitchy, for nobody likes to be limping along in a partly disabled ship, especially in wartime when it increases your chances of being caught by a raider or marauding submarine.

Normally, it takes a boiler a minimum of twenty four hours before it has cooled sufficiently for anyone to enter it. Even after that period of time, the residual heat is pretty unbearable and restricts the time a man can work in the boiler's confined space before collapsing from heat exhaustion.

The Engineers in consultation with the Surgeon decided that they would attempt the virtually impossible by entering the boiler after only twelve hours and they accordingly began their preparations for this very risky task.

Boiler tubes on that ship ran almost horizontally from one end of the boiler to the other and resembled a large bunch of drinking straws. Flames and hot gases passed through the tubes and heated the water surrounding them. If a tube split or became holed, then water under high pressure tended to douse the furnace.

Both ends of the tubes were accessible. The end nearest the furnace doors could be reached relatively easily by unbolting ports on the front end of the boiler. The tube ends at the far side of the boiler was an entirely different matter. An Engineer had to squeeze through a furnace door opening, crawl over a hump on the furnace floor and then worm his way to the far end of the furnace. Once there, he could stand up, but even that presented difficulties for space was limited.

In standing position he could reach the boiler tubes. Darkness, ashes and the terrible heat made it a dirty difficult task at the best of times and certainly not one for a claustrophobic.

The technique for sealing off a leaky tube was to pass a steel rod, threaded at each end, through the boiler tube from the front end. A flange and a nut to hold it in place were then screwed on to each end of the rod. Putting the rod, already fitted with one flange and nut through the tube from the front end of the boiler presented no problems. Putting the other flange and nut on the far end of the rod was the killer.

Two young Engineers volunteered for this horrendous task, the other Engineers being either too stout or elderly. The Surgeon examined them to see if they were fit enough to endure the heat, gave them salt tablets and made them drink a lot of water.

To prevent them from sustaining burns, the Engineers wore layers of old woollen "Long John" underwear beneath their boiler suits. Layers of sacking were wrapped around their legs and arms. Woollen socks and heavy boots encased their feet. On their hands were gloves made from asbestos fibre. The ship's fire helmet was to give head protection and air. The air inside the boiler was hot enough to scorch your lungs.

There was only room for one man at a time to be inside the boiler. If he were to collapse at the far end no one could get to him, for there was no second helmet. As a precaution a life line was attached around the Engineer's waist, so that with luck, he might be hauled free if he fainted.

Twelve slow hours elapsed while we wallowed along at reduced speed. Then it was time for the Engineers to make their assault on the tubes. The first rod was slid into place. An Engineer was shoved through the furnace opening. He took a torch so that he could see what he was doing plus a flange and two nuts - one being a spare, in case he dropped one into the dust. He wriggled his way to the far end of the boiler, stood up, fitted the flange on the rod and secured it with a nut.

Back he crawled to the anxious Surgeon and other Engineers. The life line and the sacking encasing his clothing were smouldering and partially burnt. They were quickly extinguished. While the Engineer received attention the nut on the front end of the rod was tightened. This drew the flanges hard up against the tube's ends, effectively sealing it off.

The Engineer, who had been inside the boiler, having had drinks and salt tablets, insisted that he should go back in to the boiler and fix the second tube. He was more experienced than the other volunteer, knew exactly what he was up against and reckoned he was recovered enough to go another round.
A quick discussion followed and it was agreed that that would be the best course to take. Fresh sacking was wrapped around his arms and legs. Again he entered the boiler. Happily all went well and the task was completed successfully. The furnace was stoked and relit. A few hours elapsed and once more we were going at full speed.

The Engineer was very modest about his achievement and shrugged off congratulations. Nevertheless, it had been a remarkable and life threatening effort. It was a job that very few men would have been game to attempt, even if they were physically capable.

There was another happening that occurred whilst we were crossing the Pacific. Shortly after midnight, I was receiving a distress call from a ship under attack. It was of interest only, for the event was hundreds of miles away and of no immediate concern for us.

I was right in the middle of taking the message down when the Chief R/O burst in, clothed only in his pyjamas. He glanced over my shoulder to see what I was receiving. Once I had the message down, I asked him what had brought him up from his bunk. Apparently he had woken up, sensed someone was in trouble and headed for the Wireless Room.

There was no way he could have heard any signal for it was very faint and his cabin was too far away from the Wireless Room. He explained his action by saying that Radio Operators, over time, develop a sense that warns them of impending incoming messages that may concern them. Sometimes this happens minutes before the message is actually transmitted. Mental telepathy we supposed.

During the next few years I was to witness similar feats to this one re-enacted by different Radio Officers. Towards the end of my service, I too could sometimes sense when signals were about to be transmitted, but not when I was asleep.

You just "knew" that a message was coming and started searching a little up and down the wave band hunting the signal. I imagine that the mind of an operator on a stricken ship must be under stress and concentrating on getting a message away. That message could result in getting him and his fellow crew members picked up and saving their lives.

If mental telepathy is the explanation, then in those circumstances at least the sender's mind would be well and truly concentrating. It doesn't always happen of course. Just as well, otherwise, in war time some fellows would have had very little sleep.

After reaching Panama, we travelled through the Canal, and took coal on at Colon. I didn't bother to go ashore.

The situation in the Atlantic was grim. The U-boats were out in strength and taking a heavy toll of Allied shipping. Just about the time we had cleared the Panama Canal they were particularly active along the American coast line. They were also attacking shipping in the Carribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico, right where we were headed.

For a few days all was uneventful, but in the afternoon of 30th May the lookouts spotted the red sails of lifeboats on the horizon. This situation presented a quandary for the Captain. Normally there would be no problem. You would naturally proceed to assist the survivors. However, in war time, there was always the distinct possibility that a submarine was lying in wait, using the lifeboats as a decoy.

Once a would-be rescuer came close and stopped to pick up survivors, a ship was vulnerable to attack. It is for the Master to make the decision. Attempt the rescue and put your own ship and crew in jeopardy, or turn away and high tail it for safety.

The weather was calm, which would make the rescue easy. A periscope could be more readily seen in smooth seas. No signal had been heard on the radio from the lifeboat's transmitter. The view through the telescopes showed the seamen to be sitting up, alive and well. They were not indicating danger by waving us away. The decision was made. We would attempt the rescue.

It took the best part of an hour to reach the lifeboats. In that time the gangway was lowered and preparations made to haul the survivors aboard should they be unable to help themselves.

I missed most of the action because I was on watch in the Wireless Room. There was an air of excitement. Crew members who were not on watch or helping with preparations came out on deck to act as extra lookouts. The Chief Stewards Department made preparations for extra meals. The Surgeon readied his surgery.

The engines stopped and we slowed down. It was not long before the lifeboats were alongside - four of them and the men came up the gangway. They were all in pretty good shape and needed very little assistance. They numbered about 80 and as luck would have it, they were from another Blue Funnel Ship the "Mentor". They came aboard quickly and the lifeboats were cast adrift. No point in hanging about hauling them aboard while sticking your neck out by prolonging the time we were motionless.

Several of our men knew members of the "Mentor's" crew having previously served together on other ships. To overcome the difficulty of accommodating all the extra personnel, each Department looked after their counterparts from the other ship. You did what you could to supply them with spare clothing - difficult when you didn't have too much yourself - shared razors and your bunk, and generally did what you could to help them recover from their ordeal.

Gradually we learned what had happened to the "Mentor". At 6:30 pm on 27th May when 180 miles off the Cuban Coast, she had been hit by a torpedo in the Engine Room. The 4th Engineer and three Chinese ratings were killed. Fortunately a small causality list. The Engine Room flooded and the main engine was wrecked. The Wireless Room too was put out of action.

Some of the lifeboats had been made unserviceable, but the crew managed to escape in four of them. Shortly after they had cleared the ship the submarine fired a second torpedo into the "Mentor" which caused her to sink. The submarine then surfaced and after there had been verbal exchanges she had continued her voyage on the surface.

That night the lifeboats stayed together and the lifeboat transmitter was used to send out distress messages. They stayed close to the position where the "Mentor" had gone down in the hope that assistance would be forthcoming. No help arrived.

The next day the Captain decided it would be better to sail for Cuba. Three days later, when they were making progress in that direction we picked them up.

The "Mentor's" Radio Officers wanted to know whether we had heard their distress calls. We had no record of receiving them. When they had first started to transmit, we were probably too far away and by the time we had drawn nearer, they suspected that the batteries were too exhausted to have generated an audible signal.

Late on the following day, we hove to off Key West, one of the more westerly islands in the Florida Keys chain. Arrangements were made to disembark the "Mentor's" survivors, and they were taken ashore by launch.

We continued on our way around the southern tip of Florida and headed north, hugging the American coastline. To my amazement, the coastal townships were not blacked out at night. Here was a country at war, open to bombardment from the sea, but they still kept their lights on. The submarine commanders knew this fact only too well. They placed their submarines off shore and waited until a nice fat merchantman or tanker was silhouetted against the glow of a town. The U-boats had a ball.

Between December 7th 1941 when Pearl Harbour was attacked, and July 31st 1942 the U-boats succeeded in sinking some 500 Allied merchant ships. Britain alone lost some 1,144,000 gross tons of shipping while the rest of the Allies lost a further 2,106,000 gross tons. Most of these losses were off the American Coast.

Britain was hard pressed to find sufficient escort vessels to protect the convoys in the North Atlantic and didn't have anywhere near enough warships to look after ships proceeding up the eastern American coast.

The situation commenced to change on August 1st 1942 when America brought out of mothballs a number of World War I destroyers, and, under treaty leased them to Britain. As the old escorts became available, the tonnage of shipping sunk off the American coast began to decline. The shipping losses still continued as the "Battle of the Atlantic" raged on, but now, more ships were being lost off the West African Coast.

From August 1st 1942 to May 21st 1943 a further 610 Allied ships went down in the Atlantic. Britain lost 1,974,000 gross tons and the Allies and Neutrals, 1,786,000 gross tons. The chances that your ship would be torpedoed were high and the casualty rate amongst the British Merchant Navy's seamen was one man in every five.

We continued on our way, up past the American coast, and picking up a Pilot entered Chesapeake Bay. It was foggy at the time and we cautiously made our way to an anchorage. We were to stay there over night until enough ships had assembled to form a convoy to proceed to Halifax in Nova Scotia. The Pilot remained on board so that when we were given the signal to form the convoy, he would guide us out of Chesapeake Bay.

I awoke next morning to the sound of activity. A lifeboat was being lowered and there was a fair bit of bustle and commotion going on. Quickly I dressed and went to find out what all the fuss was about. I was soon told - "Look at all the other ships!" So I did. There were, just discernible through the swirling mist, more than a dozen ships, all riding at anchor and all with their bows pointing in the same direction, into the tide. Just what you would expect to see. "So?" - "Now look at us!" - "Struth!" There we were, the odd woman out. Instead of lying like the other ships we were practically at right angles to the tidal flow. We were aground!

A very worried Pilot and our Captain were on the Bridge. One of the mates was supervising soundings being taken at various points around the ship. Another mate was in charge of the lifeboat and once that was in the water, soundings were taken at various distances from the ship's hull. The Carpenter was sounding all the tanks and double bottom to check whether we were taking in any water.

It transpired that the pilot had, in the previous foggy night, misjudged our position slightly and had anchored us just off the main deep water area. As the tide ran out, we had settled gently down on the sea bed. This is not a good situation to be in for a fully laden ship. If the sea bed happens to be rocky or uneven, the weight of the settling ship can cause rocks to penetrate the hull.

The chart showed the sea bed there to be sandy and muddy, which was a relief. Still, there was always the chance that an outcrop of rock could be sitting up like a drawing pin waiting to puncture our bottom. This was why the Carpenter was continually monitoring the tanks.

The next question was, were we fully or only partially aground? The soundings gave the answer to that. We were partially aground on the edge of a channel and only a few feet away from deep water. The tide was still falling but only had an inch or so to fall before turning. With any luck, and no rocky pinnacle, we should refloat on the incoming tide without having strained the hull or damaged the propellers or rudder.

Time passed - very, very slowly for the Pilot and Captain. The tide turned, and eventually, with a slight movement, we broke free of the mud and gently floated off the sea bed. We swung on our anchor chain to head in the same direction as the other ships. Not long after that we moved to another anchorage. No damage had been done.

In convoy, we continued up the American Coast. At one stage of the journey we had an air escort in the form of a USA Navy blimp. This was a slow moving airship that would have made a lovely target for anti-aircraft gunners. Indeed, there were times when submarines were cheeky or perhaps desperate enough to surface and take on a blimp.

We stopped at New York and I got ashore on the evening of 8th June, two days after my 19th birthday. Everything was terribly expensive. The few dollars I had drawn from my wages wouldn't even pay the price of admission to a picture theatre after I had done a bit of shopping. I purchased lisle stockings for Mum and my godmother, plus a pair of nylons for Thelma, the lass who had rescued me from hospital after the May 1941 blitz.

New York did not appeal to me. Too artificial, too mercenary, and the Americans were too brash and overbearing. Unlike the "Bobbies" at home, every "Cop" had slung on his belt a revolver fully exposed to view. The Cops always gave the impression that they trusted no one. The whole set up was so unlike the friendly atmosphere of Australia.

We moved on, past the Statue of Liberty, along East River and through Long Island Sound. It would have been a fairly suicidal mission for any submarine to have made an attack in that narrow 200 mile stretch of water. We passed through the Cape Cod Canal and headed for Halifax.

After we arrived there, we swung at anchor until it was time to form up in convoy and set out to cross the North Atlantic. There was the occasional skirmish with the subs. The muffled explosions of depth charges indicated that the escort vessels were busy keeping the subs at bay. I do not remember whether we lost any ships.

Two days out from England many of the crew went down with a strange disease. "The Channels". There is no known immediate cure. The symptoms are a heightened sense of anticipation of seeing your home and family again. Enhanced excitement, exuberance and the likelihood of making silly mistakes due to having your mind turned to matters other than those immediately to hand.

In the Wireless Room we had paper work to complete. Type out the large requisition forms for spares and replacements for the Chief Officer's and Chief Engineer's Departments. We also had one to do for our own section. The 2nd steward, now Acting Chief Steward, had his own Departmental typewriter, so typed his own requisitions.

There were Certificates of Discharge to be prepared for each man. Wages and deductions to be calculated and countless chores that I have long since forgotten.

We arrived at Liverpool on 2nd July 1942 and entered a dock. We had been away for nearly eight months. The dock workers had the hatches off and we were discharging cargo almost before we were tied up securely. The Customs formalities had still to be gone through, but as soon as I had made my declaration and been cleared I was free to go ashore.

The following day I was to sign off at the Shipping Office, collect my pay and report to Head Office before going on leave proper. My gear was already packed, so I picked it up and headed down the gangway - strange, that wobbly contraption no longer seemed to present the difficulties that it did when I first tried to climb it.

Way back in the 1940s, taxis were not fitted with radios - leastways not in Liverpool. Nevertheless there always seemed to be taxis waiting outside the dock gates when you disembarked. The drivers must have had their own grapevine upon which they passed information about locations where they might collect fares.

It was not long before I was home. Mum was there, but my brother was away at boarding school and my sister was billeted somewhere in Wales. I had just unpacked and Mum had taken my clothes down to the laundry to give them a "Proper good washing!" when Dad came home from the office.

We exchanged greetings and then Dad surprised me with "You had better get down to the Police Station as soon as possible. There is a warrant out for your arrest!" "What on earth is that for?" "Well, you didn't register for service in the Armed Forces on your 19th birthday. Within a week of that date the local Police Sergeant came knocking on the door to find out where you were. Don't worry, I explained what you were doing and he quite understood. The whole matter is a pure formality, but you will have to go down to the Police Station and sign a few papers. Take your Seaman's I.D. card and discharge book with you when you go".

So I went. The Police Sergeant was a friendly type. Apologised for mucking up my first evening ashore and explained that while the formalities were not of his making, he had to abide by the rules. We completed the paperwork quickly and then the Sergeant said "I knock off in a couple of minutes. If you have time to spare would you care for a quick one in the Pub next door?" I had, I would, so we did.

The Sergeant introduced me to the Publican and paid for our drinks. When it came to my turn to pay for a round, the Publican wouldn't hear of it and the second round was "on the house". The Publican also enlightened me to the fact that he always kept a few big bottles of beer stowed away for fellows coming home on leave. If I liked, I could purchase half-a-dozen. Bottled beer was very hard to get, so that was a pleasant surprise.

The Sergeant wished me "All the best" and made his departure. The Publican motioned me around to another section of the pub, put the aforementioned beer in a solid paper bag, and, after I had paid for it, let me out via a private entrance. "No point in advertising what you've got - all the crowd in there would want some. What they don't know about won't worry them!"

I carefully carried my precious cargo home. Dad was amazed. He was no beer drinker himself, but he was fully aware of its scarcity and he just couldn't believe my good fortune in obtaining six bottles.

Next morning I was away to the Shipping Office to sign off. My uniform had gone to the drycleaners and my black shoes to the cobblers. I was in civvies. In my lapel was the Merchant Navy Badge. It was comprised of the letters "MN" surmounted by a naval crown. Wear that, and you were less likely to be accosted by busy bodies who wanted to know why you "Weren't in uniform and doing your bit for Britain".

There were those of course who were ignorant of the badge's significance and asked what it stood for. The stock answer to that question was that the wearer was a Maternity Nurse. That usually resulted in producing the stunned mullet look on the face of the inquirer, and no further questions would be asked. There were exceptions and those enquirers who were not put off, were eager to glean intimate details of the confinements that you had attended.

Husbands did not attend births in those days. I used to give the game away at that point of questioning, but I heard of humorists who spun the most improbable horrendous yarns embellished with gory details and appalling sound effects.

After signing off, I headed for the Company's office located in the stately home of Lawrence Holt, the Head of the Blue Funnel Line. The city office had been damaged in the blitz, so parts of this roomy mansion were converted into offices.

The reception area in the main hall way was like that of a dentist's, with an atmosphere to match. Apprehensive officers sat on chairs all along one wall and waited to be summoned for an interview. (Grilling). Rank took precedence, so the more lowly types, such as myself, could be kept hanging about for a day or two. The only reading material available to while away the hours, were reports on the sinkings of Blue Funnel Ships. Sadly, there were a lot of reports.

At the outbreak of hostilities, the Alfred Holt Fleet, comprising the Blue Funnel and Glen Line ships, totalled 87 vessels plus another 7 under construction. Of these, 44 were lost due to enemy action.

I had heard tales about Lawrence Holt. From hearsay I gathered that he was a martinet, a perfectionist, and demanded everyone in his company to perform at nothing less than 100% of their expected ability. Outwardly at least, he apparently held the view that for a captain to lose a ship was sheer carelessness or incompetence. No ship should ever be lost from a torpedo attack if a proper lookout was maintained! I do not accept the rumour that he really believed that statement to be true, but was using that view to goad the masters and crews into a higher degree of efficiency.

One thing was sure - he had a lot of people scared stiff of him, even before they came to meet him face to face. I had heard tales of unfortunate fellows being interviewed by Lawrence Holt. "Did you wipe your feet on the mat outside the door before you came into this room?" Now, no one likes to think that they might have done the wrong thing, so this totally unexpected question tossed in during the interview, usually drew the response "Yes, Sir". The interview would continue and at its conclusion Mr Holt would say "On your way out, observe that there is no doormat outside this office".

Apparently another line of questions could flow like this. There would be some folders and papers on Mr Holt's desk. An envelope, facing away from the interviewee would lie on top of the papers. During the interview Mr Holt would pick up the envelope and place it in one of his pockets. Later, he would shuffle through the files on his desk and ask "Did you notice whether there was an envelope on my desk?" Most interviewees could tell him into which suit pocket he had placed it. "Good. Now tell me to whom it is addressed?" This was a Star Chamber question. Give the correct name and address and you would be blasted for being an impertinent busybody for not minding your own business. Alternatively, and perhaps more likely, you admitted that you had not noticed. That answer would provoke a lecture on your lack of powers of observation and inability to read things upside down. Should you ever be taken prisoner, such an ability might come in useful. Such incompetence would not be tolerated and must be corrected before he next saw you. "Heads", he won "Tails" you lost.

Mr Holt required his officers to be smartly dressed at all times, be they in uniform or wearing civvies. Strangely, he did not set an example. Frequently he could be seen down aboard his ships carrying a battered hat and wearing a scruffy looking fawn raincoat. His suits were rumpled and had seen far better days.

There I sat in the waiting room, hour after hour. Officers came and went. Around about lunch time Mr Holt came in through the front door. It was the first time I had seen him, but I recognised him from the description I had been given. Even without the description I would have guessed who he was, for there was an audible sigh of indrawn breaths from the officers seated near me.

We all stood up. Mr Holt, flanked by a couple of Head Office types came and spoke to us all individually. We were introduced and each gave the name of the ship upon which you were serving. When it came to my turn Mr Holt said" "Antilochus?" - I just met one of the Radio Officers from the "Mentor", get him and this young man and have a full inquiry as to why the distress signals were not received". The inquisition was arranged to take place the following day.

Mr Holt then noticed that I did not have a hat. I received a mild lecture for not being properly dressed. He then surprised me be taking a pound note out of his wallet, handed it to me, and told me to buy a hat during my lunch hour and report back to him with the hat immediately after lunch.

At the appointed hour I fronted up to the Great Man with my new hat. "Good. Now go to the cashier and ask him to deduct a pound from your wages. Good afternoon".

By the end of the day I still had not been interviewed. So much for my first day of leave. The enquiry next day really brought forth nothing new. Blame for the non receipt of the messages could not be sheeted home to the R/Os on the "Antilochus", nor could it be proved that the lifeboat transmitter from the "Mentor" had failed.

Finally, I did get interviewed by a Departmental Manager. The drift of that, was mostly about my performance, any problems that I might have, and what my opinions were of my fellow officers. I was guarded in my responses to the latter questions. I was surprised to be quizzed on such matters. Surely the Captain and Chiefs of Departments were the ones to whom such questions should be addressed.

Before I was told to go on leave proper, there was a final round of questions. "You live approximately two miles from this office?" "Yes". "That's nice and convenient. We will expect you to come here on next Saturday and Sunday nights. Arrive about 6 pm and bring your night attire. You will be given dinner and breakfast. A stretcher bed will be available to sleep upon. Other officers will be present and you will arrange shifts among yourselves to patrol the building and keep a fire prevention watch. You fellows get it easy at sea you know. We get very little sleep - the air-raids here have been something shocking."

Later, I gathered that there had in fact been virtually no air-raids on Liverpool since the hammering in the May blitz over a year ago!.

My day time leave was taken up by visits to my grandparents, great aunts and sundry adopted relatives. I got fitted for a battle-dress - a much more practical rig than the standard uniform. By scrounging clothing coupons from my great aunts I was able to collect enough to entitle me to buy three sets of khaki coloured shirts, shorts and knee length stockings. These were great. Far easier to launder and less susceptible to showing marks from coal dust than those horrible long white starched uniforms.

Mum and my godmother were given their lisle stockings and Dad happily accepted some duty free tobacco. One evening I cycled over to St Helens to present the nylons to Thelma, my rescuer.

Way back in those days, life was much more prim and proper, but there was a generally understood arrangement, that should you give a girl a pair of nylon stockings, the donor had the right to assist her in putting them on.

Full of anticipation for this forthcoming event, I knocked on the door of her parents house. Thelma welcomed me in. After meeting her mother, we were left to ourselves while her mother busied herself in the kitchen. Her father was at work. I produced the nylons. Thelma approved of them. I mentioned the agreement. She nodded and opened up the box of nylons, slipped off her shoes and called out "Mum, come and watch this!" Well, that put an end to that caper. I had been outsmarted, but still managed to see the funny side. Later I learned that while I was away, Thelma had met someone else whom she preferred, and I had slipped down a place or two on her list of boy friends. We corresponded for a while after that, but that too gradually lapsed.

I did have a second string to my bow in the shape of a lovely brunette. During my leave we went to picture shows or dances after she came home from work. She was keen on dancing and did her best to get me out on to the dance floor. I was hesitant, for my ability left a lot to be desired, and I seemed to be cursed with two left feet. I hated getting up and making a fool of myself. No one probably took any notice whatever, but I always felt that all eyes were concentrating on my bumbling efforts. In desperation I took some dancing lessons, just enough of them to get me utterly confused, before I had to rejoin my ship.

The fire watching had to be done and I reported on time. A butler ushered me in to the presence of five other officers who were the watch keepers for that night. After dinner we arranged the roster so that we each took it in turns to stay awake for a couple of hours. All was quiet on both nights, and after breakfast, served by the butler, we were free to go about our business. None of us were overjoyed at having had to give up two nights of leave.

On 13th July, just 10 days after we had arrived back, I received a telegram instructing me to report to Head Office the following day. I guessed what was coming, so I rounded up my uniforms and packed my bags. Sure enough, I was to sign back on the "Antilochus" on 15th July, but there was a surprise in store. I had been promoted to 2nd R/O. There wasn't any time to spare so I spent the rest of the day rushing around military stores trying to buy the correct epaulettes, and taking my uniform to the tailors to have the two gold braid zigzag bands sewn on to the sleeves. I made the deadline, but only just.

Chapter Four.