 |
An autobiography of a Radio Officer in the British Merchant Navy during World War II
|
"Antilochus" Again
15/7/42 - 11/9/42.
Your second voyage on a ship should always be easier than the first. You know where most things are located and you have reached a degree of rapport with the quirks and idiosyncrasies of the equipment. There may have been some crew changes, but at least you know the majority.
As soon as I sighted the "Antilochus" lying in dock, I noticed that there was something different about her profile. There were steel girders running from a point below the Bridge, over the forward hatches and on to the forecastle. It didn't look like deck cargo, so what could it be? I climbed aboard, dumped my gear, and made my presence known to the Chief Officer and Chief R/O. I then went to investigate the contraption on the foredeck.
It turned out to be an enormous catapult for launching aircraft. Mounted at the Bridge end of the catapult was a fighter plane. Had the "Antilochus" become an aircraft carrier? Hardly, but from then on, we were known as a C.A.M. ship (Catapult Aircraft Merchantman).
Our role was to supply air defence to a convoy well out into the Atlantic, away from the shore based fighter protection. Should a long range enemy bomber appear, a C.A.M. ship would launch its one and only fighter plane. The fighter pilot was to engage the enemy and, if successful, since he could neither land on a ship nor reach shore because of insufficient fuel, he was to stooge around until his tanks were empty. He was then to land in the sea as close as possible to a ship and trust that a favourable belly flop and weather made his rescue possible.
In convoy, C.A.M. ships were always the lead ship in a column. This gave them more freedom to manoeuvre their bows towards the wind when a launching was required. Being in a front position also relieved the fighter pilot of the additional worry of possibly colliding with a ship in front of him when taking off. Convoys that were not protected by the few small aircraft carriers available, usually had two or three C.A.M ships in their complement. Not all ships were suitable for the modification. A long clear run from below the Bridge to the bow was essential and there had to be no forward mast.
The "Antilochus" was ideal for the purpose. She had a long foredeck, goal post masts - between which the fighter's wings could pass - and usually, in comparison to other vessels, offered a reasonably steady platform. Still, the whole exercise was at best a risky performance. The take off was fraught with danger. The catapult might not generate sufficient power, the plane's engine could fail, and perhaps most likely of all, the pilot might misjudge the moment for take off with the ship's bow rising and falling. Get that wrong and the pilot might find himself and the plane headed into the sea.
Once airborne he had to gain sufficient height to engage the enemy and that took time. The enemy might stick around for the combat or decide to beat a retreat. The latter choice meant a long chase for the fighter. The longer the chase, the less the likelihood of him getting back to the convoy. Lastly, like it or not, he either had to ditch the plane into the sea and run the risk of its nose digging in and causing the plane to flip over and trap him inside or alternatively he could bail out and come down by parachute, hoping that he would be located and rescued. The odds on getting favourable results from all these hazards were not too good.
The fighter pilot, while accepting that there were risks, reckoned he was on a good wicket. The food and accommodation were better than on an air base. There was no C.O. to order him about. His services would not be required for the first day or two until we got past the range of the shore based fighter aircraft. Later, once we were past the range of the enemy bombers he wouldn't be required to fly. He was going to have a ball in New York (our destination) and on the return trip his time was his own until we again came into the bombers' range. He reckoned he was on easy street. Everyone to their own choice.
The plane was a "Sea-cane" a modified version of the "Hurricane" fighter. Some ships were fitted with "Sea-fires" which was the sea going version of the famous "Spitfire".
The new 3rd R/O arrived. He was not a first tripper and the only edge that I had over him was the fact that I knew my way around the "Antilochus". While I was showing him the ropes it came to light that he hated doing the 12-4 watch. I had tried the 4 to 8 and the 8-12 watches and I did not care for them. I told him I would be taking the 12-4. He couldn't believe his good luck.
The tide was right, the tugs arrived, the dock gates opened and we were away. We steamed slowly down the Mersey, dropped the Pilot and headed towards Anglesey. We rendezvoused with other ships a few miles off the Welsh coast and were just juggling ourselves into convoy position when "Boom!". My seat in the Wireless Room gave me a kick up the backside. Crockery could be heard smashing as it fell. The firemen were very vocal. The ship was gently oscillating up and down and a puff of black smoke shot out of the funnel. My first thought was "I will be home in time for supper". Other thoughts quickly came. The engines were still running. I couldn`t hear any sound of running water. We were not listing. It couldn`t have been a torpedo.
The Chief R/O arrived and I tore off up to the Bridge. The Commodore was calling us with a lamp. "Are you OK?" "What have you done?" We replied "Checking but seem to be OK. Think we set off a mine". A few minutes later we confirmed that we were undamaged. All we lost were a few cups and saucers. The Mates were fairly certain that we had passed over either a magnetic or an acoustic mine. It had probably been laid by an aircraft and fortunately it had landed and settled on the seabed in water that was too deep for it to be fully effective. Once again we were glad to have a hull made out of that robust thick plating.
For a couple of days all went well. We R/Os were kept extra busy, for in addition to our radio watches we were also helping with the signalling on the Bridge. Not much work with the lamp, but plenty of handling of the signal flags. One way or another we were working well over sixteen hours a day.
Being a leading ship required you to keep at least one pair of eyes glued to the Commodore's ship all the time, for his signals had to be repeated for the benefit of ships unable to sight him directly. When the Commodore's signalmen commenced to take flags out of the flag locker we tried to read them and called them out to a midshipman who matched them from our locker and clipped them together. As the Commodore's hoist of flags passed over his Bridge railing on their way up to the triatic stay we called them out and our flags were checked as they too were hauled up.
We took pride in our efforts and were rarely less than a couple of seconds behind the Commodore. Indeed, at the Naval de-briefing our Captain was complimented for his signalling. One point of flag etiquette. Even if it is possible, never ever get your flags fully hoisted before the ship instigating the signal.
You might think that there was not much effort required, either mental or physical in hauling a few flags up and down. In that case, you might be in for a bit of an awakening at your first attempt. There are forty flags in a set. Twenty-six differently designed and coloured flags for each letter of the alphabet plus three substitutes for use when you need to repeat a letter already incorporated in the hoist. Ten numeral pennants and an answering pennant. Our flags were made of bunting and measured eight feet by six feet each, about the size of a sheet for a single bed. A rope was sewn into the hem of one of the short sides of the flag and at each end of the rope was a brass Inglefield clip, an ingenious but simple device for joining the flags together quickly. Halyards, the ropes which ran up to the pulleys on the triatic stay were also fitted with a pair of Inglefield clips.
The moment you noticed a signalman on the Commodore's ship undoing a halyard from its cleat, you called out to the middy. He too would release a halyard from its cleat, move over to the flag locker and separate the Inglefield clips on the halyard. One clip would be held in his hand. The other clip would be placed on the deck and be trapped by his foot until he required to couple it on to the bottom of the last flag in the hoist. If he let it get away, it would scoot up to the triatic stay and be way out of reach. That halyard would be of no further use until the triatic stay was lowered - the next time you were in port. We had several halyards, but you won no Brownie points if you "lost" a halyard.
Any housewife knows full well, that in a stiff breeze, trying to hang out a wet flapping sheet has it awkward moments. Make it seven wet sheets and turn the breeze into a gale and you have clipped to your halyard a cantankerous and stubborn acreage of cloth that has a mind of its own. Aided by the howling wind the flags flap and struggle against you as if they have no wish to fly free in the air. They wrap their wet selves around your body, slap you across the face, cover your eyes and just make your life difficult.
In bad weather it took the combined efforts of two men to haul a seven flag hoist up to the triatic stay. Your hands needed protection against the elements and the possibility of the halyard running through your hands and producing rope burns. String gloves over a pair of woollen gloves were the ideal combination for getting a grip on the halyards. Most of us had no string gloves, but made do with just the woollen gloves.
All ships seem to have some cockroaches and other vermin and the "Antilochus" was no exception. The cockroach infestation was rapidly building up. One night I went into the galley for some hot water and switched on the light. The table and decking were covered with a seething brown mass of the insects. So many of them that they made a rustling sound as they scuttled out of the way of my feet. They were so densely packed they got in each others way and I squashed dozens without making any special effort. Periodically the Engineers would give the galley interior a blasting with a steam hose. The resultant corpses were literally shovelled overboard. This action never cured the problem, but it did keep them in check until a shore based fumigation could be carried out.
The subs started to attack. Day in, day out. Night in, night out, they kept it up and we were losing ships. The escort vessels worked hard trying to keep the subs at bay. The thump and rumble of depth-charges was mostly intermittent, but there was times when the bombardment lasted for half an hour or more. We continued to lose ships.
At four am one morning when I was due to come off watch, my Boss arrived and said, "Pop your head out of the door and listen". I did as bid. Out there was the distinctive throbbing noise of a diesel engine. I shut the door. "Diesel engine. Sub on the surface charging his batteries" said my Boss. "Cheeky devil, must be close to us".
Out in the darkness there was nothing to be seen of the sub. Apparently the U-boat was using its schnorkel. This was a large periscopic device invented by the Germans. A schnorkel enabled a submarine while still a little way below the surface, to take in sufficient air for its diesel engines and a change of fresh air for its crew. Using this device to avoid detection, a sub could, in a few hours use its diesel engines to recharge the batteries for the following days sojourn.
The chance of spotting a schnorkel in darkness while there was a bit of a chop on the waves was slight. All the escorts could do was to travel up and down between the convoy's columns and make life more awkward for the sub.
When a sub heard an escort approaching, he stopped his diesels, pulled in the schnorkel and under battery power slid under the nearest merchantman. There he took refuge like a frog under a lily pad, and was safe from predators attacking from above.
The Commodore and escorts suspected that we might be sheltering such an unwelcome visitor during daylight hours. Sudden changes of courses and speed had no effect and didn't leave the sub in clear water where the destroyers could get at it. The sub was wily, and by listening carefully with his hydrophonic gear, matched our every move.
One morning there was a bit of excitement. A destroyer, travelling at full speed came from astern in between our and the next column of ships. He hoisted a signal as he approached "Get out of my way". We swung away to port. The destroyer passed us and when he was a short distance ahead he dropped two depth-charges off his stern. His port and starboard "Y" guns fired and lobbed depth-charges out sideways. Another pair of depth-charges rolled off his stern and a second set of "Y" guns fired. More depth-charges rolled off his racks. We drew level with the position of the drops. The sea began to bulge momentarily in big smooth blisters and then immediately erupted into thick wide columns of white foaming water. Simultaneously the concussions of the explosions slammed into our ship and gave us a shaking.
The destroyer got results, but not the one he wanted. The firemen and trimmers came streaming up from the stokehold and fled to the poop. The Engine Room voice pipe whistle blew. They had no damage, no firemen and what the hell was going on?
The Captain sent for No. 1 Fireman. No. 1 came quickly. Full of apologies. He explained that his men refused to go back into the stokehold - too dangerous. I don't know what the Captain said to him, but No.1 Fireman left the Bridge in a hurry and went to speak with the other firemen. The Captain spoke to me. "I want you to do exactly as I say. Man that machine-gun, point it towards the poop. If I order you to open fire, put a short burst over the men's heads. DO NOT hit anyone. Now, stand by the gun".
I took hold of the gun, let go its lashing and pointed it toward the poop. There were Chinese everywhere. The stewards and deck-hands had joined the firemen. There were gesticulations and vehement arguments going on amongst them.
The Captain waited. Now and again he looked at his watch. The hubbub on the poop continued. The Captain looked at his watch again. "Cock the gun, Mister". So that there was no mistaking my action, I slowly and deliberately cocked the gun. The stewards and deck-hands bolted into their quarters like startled rabbits heading for their burrows. They slammed the steel doors shut behind them. "Gun cocked Sir." "Take aim" I trained the gun on the firemen, but left the safety catch on "safe". "Aimed and ready Sir". The firemen scattered and ran for the entrances to the stokehold. No.1 Fireman came puffing up to the Bridge, and reported to the Captain.
The Engineers were calling on the voice pipe. The firemen and trimmers were back and were working like crazy. I was told to uncock the gun and make it secure.
Later that day, I learned that a Blue Funnel ship sailing independently had encountered a submarine. Maybe the sub had run out of torpedoes, for it surfaced and chased the Blue Funnel ship. Both parties were shooting at each other without much success. The merchantman was actually outpacing the sub and was gradually drawing away when the firemen and trimmers panicked and refused to carry on working. They could not be talked back into the stokehold.
The Engineers and others did their best to keep up a maximum head of steam, but their efforts although valiant, were inadequate. Feeding a furnace is not just a matter of shovelling in great quantities of coal. Too much coal and you swamp the fire. Too little and you don't get the maximum heat. The fire must be trimmed by using long metal tools called "slices" if you are to obtain maximum combustion in minimum time. Ashes have to be raked and cleared away. To tend a furnace requires skill and experience. The inevitable happened and the submarine caught them.
In convoy, the result would have been different. The ship would have slowed down. A signal would be passed to the Commodore. An escort vessel would have come alongside, arrested the firemen and then obtained other firemen from around the convoy.
The escorts were running out of depth-charges. To augment their supplies, they came round to those ships like ours that had half-a-dozen fitted on their sterns and commandeered them. Depth-charges came in two sizes. The smaller variety weighed 300 lbs and the larger 600 lbs. Neither are easily passed from one ship to another, when both vessels are rolling about. The depth-charges were hoisted by a derrick, swung over the donor ship's side and landed on a destroyer's or frigate's deck.
The convoy plodded on. One evening just after dinner, while it was still bright daylight, a group of us were standing on deck enjoying the fresh air and engaged in conversation. The ship next to us on the port side was struck by a torpedo. A huge column of water and spray rose higher than her masts. Mingled in the spray, spinning through the air were hatch boards, debris and what looked suspiciously like two men.
By the time I had reached the Bridge, the stricken ship was listing, settling down and losing way. The convoy passed her by. Later the escorts would have picked up the survivors.
Next morning the Commodore decided he would split the convoy into two groups of ships. A fast group to proceed at twelve knots and a slower group of ships to be in an eight knot convoy. His plan was to confound the enemy forces and give the faster ships a better chance of getting to their destinations.
We were allocated to the slower group. This did not suit us at all. We were listed as a twelve knot ship and could hold that speed in all but the most adverse weather. We requested permission to join the faster section. Our request was approved on the understanding that if we could not maintain the speed we were to be on our own unless we would locate the slower moving convoy.
The convoy split into the two groups and each headed in different directions. There were no more attacks, but we had lost at least seven ships.
We had no trouble in keeping pace with the other ships and reached Long Island Sound without any further incident. The convoy broke up at that point and each ship was allowed to proceed the 200 miles along the Sound at its own pace. There were only a limited number of Pilots available at the far end of the Sound for piloting through the East River. It was a case of first there, best dressed. Late arrivals would have to anchor and await the return of the pilots a day or so later.
The Captain had a confab with the Chief Engineer. Blue Funnel ships, as a matter of policy, run their engines at about 70% of throttle. Consequently, they always have a little extra speed up their sleeve if it is required. There is less wear and tear on the engines, less fuel is consumed and the practice is economically sound.
Blue Funnel Engineers rarely had the chance to unleash their charges and fully open up the throttles. Here was a golden opportunity for them. The Captain wanted his ship to be amongst those getting the first chance of acquiring a Pilot. The Chief Engineer went down into the Engine Room. Within moments, the engines' revolutions began to pick up speed. Smoke billowed from the funnel and our bid for a Pilot was on.
It takes a while for a ship to build up to full speed, but by the time we had covered some twenty miles we had really hit our straps. The ship was shaking and vibrating so much that the officers on the Bridge had difficulty in taking compass bearings of the markers on the land. The sea hissed and swirled past the plates of the hull. Our wake stretched back all the way to the horizon. Best of all, we were overtaking some ships that were supposed to be faster than ours. By checking against the shore markers, the mates estimated that we were making better than 14 knots! A terrific effort for an old timer who was only supposed to do 12 knots.
On deck, little knots of off duty crew members gathered to watch the sea fairly whiz by. Now and then a sweaty fireman would come up from the stoke-hold to gaze in amazement at the water swirling past the hull before returning to his hell hole to assist in keeping up the steam pressure. Needless to say, we got a Pilot and were berthed in New York twenty four hours ahead of the stragglers.
We had been having difficulty in opening the Wireless Room door. Some of the bitumastic concrete armour slabs had slipped a little, and were causing it to jam. Now that we were alongside a wharf, shore side fitters came on board to make repairs. They removed a few slabs and discovered that some of the steel brackets securing the Wireless Room and my accommodation to the deck had rusted through.
Further investigation revealed that most of the brackets covered by the slabs were very corroded. In fact, their condition was so bad that had we encountered bad weather with the ship making violent movements, there would have been a very likely possibility of the remaining rusty brackets shearing clean off. The whole housing would then have slipped across the deck and over the side. Any occupant would not have had a chance of survival. Oh well, what you didn't know about, didn't worry you.
The cargo was discharged over the next few days, and once the ship was empty she was fumigated. All the crew were to go ashore from early in the morning until well into the evening. Breakfast was served very early and since no more meals were to be served on the ship that day, we were given an allowance of US 50 cents per officer and 25 cents for other ranks. That pittance was supposed to keep us in meals until the following morning.
Early that day before the fumigation commenced, all ventilators were capped with canvas covers. The fumigators arrived armed with protective clothing and gas masks. They had canisters of cyanide gas for the quarters, and big gas generators for the holds and large spaces in the ship.
We, the crew, went ashore. That day went slowly. I had very little money of my own and that 50 cents didn't look as though it was going to do much towards alleviating hunger pains.
We were berthed miles away from the city proper and there was little to see and even less to do. I found some shops and made a few purchases. I bought the required supply of lisle stockings and nylons and some unusual crayons for colouring the cargo plans. I priced luncheon. A reasonable meal was going to cost me more dollars than I possessed, and there was still dinner to consider. There was only one answer. Forget about lunch. Thirst was a bit of a problem though. The cost of a soft drink or coffee was going to make a hole in that 50 cents. How were the fellows on 25 cents making out?
The thirst problem was solved by my finding a water bubbler in a small park. Fortunately the weather was fine so there was no problem on that score. Walking about all day would only make me hungry so I settled down on a seat in the park and waited for the day to pass.
Towards evening I purchased a milkshake and a sandwich. Cost me 55 cents. I sat back in the park and consumed my somewhat frugal meal. Later I walked back to the ship as darkness descended. The crew were beginning to return and were straggling aboard. There was a decided smell of the fumigant hanging about. All portholes, doors, ventilators and hatches were wide open and we were warned not to close any of them before the following day.
I slept fitfully and awoke next day ready to eat all that was offering for breakfast. Tugs arrived and moved us to another berth - an explosives wharf.
There, the U.S. Army ran proceedings - very strictly by the book. Gangs of carpenters arrived with stacks of timber and installed wooden linings to the steel sides of the holds. Mesh grills to prevent sparks gaining access to the holds were fitted to the big ventilators. All our shoes were examined. Shoes with their soles sewn on were OK, but shoes with nailed on soles were condemned, unless the nails were brass. This was a precaution to remove the chance, that your shoes might kick up a spark on the steel decks. It took a few days to prepare the ship.
The hammering from the carpenters went on day and night. Eventually all was ready and we started loading shells, bombs, and cases and cases of ammunition. Grenades; 303 rounds; 2 inch rockets; cannon shells; .50 cartridges. You name it, we had some. In all, some 10,000 tons of explosives were loaded.
The Americans were very careful in loading the ammunition. Thick rubber mats carpeted the wharf at the loading points. Rubber mats were also used as landing pads in the holds. The steel wire cargo slings had asbestos cord wrapped around them to reduce the chance of a spark being struck. Metal hooks and other fittings were made from a metal that would not strike a spark. The wooden cargo trays all had tall solid sides to reduce the chance of any of their contents spilling out.
One unfortunate soldier on the wharf let an unfused shell slip through his fingers and it bounced gently on the rubber matting. No real danger in that though. Two Military Policemen seized the man, frog marched him up the wharf and shoved him into a Patrol Wagon. Tough luck.
Ammunition is very heavy stuff, so when the "Antilochus" was almost down to her marks, there was still plenty of space available in the holds. This space was not to be wasted and thousands of cartons of womens' sanitary pads arrived and were stowed on board. The odd thing about them was that they were all consigned to the Royal Air Force, not the Womens' Royal Air Force. A clerical mistake perhaps? No, they were for the Air Force! Aircraft, particularly fighter planes, parked outside on an aerodrome collect dew and rain on their wings. This additional weight of water retarded their take off. Every second was vital when they were scrambling to get airborne. Extra weight was something they did not want. The pads, being highly absorbent, were used by the aircraft handlers to mop up the water and kept the wings of the fighters dry at all times.
The "Antilochus" was still not quite down to her marks, but there was no space left below decks. So, just to put the icing on the cake, 200 sea mines were placed on her decks and securely lashed down. There they sat in their cradles like a clutch of some gigantic reptile's eggs. Evil looking and each one of them with enough potential power to destroy the ship. If we were to get hit the result could be a spectacular devastating fireworks display. One consolation, it would be quick and there would be no survivors hanging about in lifeboats.
One ammunition ship did explode in the Mediterranean Sea with such force that the resulting blast blew over several other ships in the convoy and they turned turtle and sank. We sailed, joined a convoy and headed home. Nothing too dramatic on the way. The occasional skirmish with a sub, but no losses that I can recall.
We docked and the labour started to unload our cargo. No special safety precautions as in America. Just the normal procedure. Going down the gangway I saw a tray full of shells make a rough landing on the dockside. Shells were scattered everywhere. Nobody gave a hoot, and there were no M.P.s around.
My second voyage had finished. We had been away just a little bit less than two months, but a spot of home leave was not going to be hard to take.
Chapter Five.