BLUE FUNNEL "SPARKS"

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

CHAPTER FIVE

"Lycaon" and "Operation Torch"

28/9/42 - 26/11/42.

As soon as the paperwork and the Custom's formalities were completed, I was away, off to my home. Nothing seemed to have changed since I went away and nobody mentioned air-raids any more.

That evening I went to visit my brunewtte. I rang the door bell and my lass opened the door. "Come on in. We have been expecting you." "Expecting me? How did you know I was back?" The explanation took a little time and was surprising in its revelation. Elvira (not her real name, but it smacks of witchcraft and as such will do nicely) produced a little note book and proceeded to give me a rough outlined account of my recent voyage. She knew of our encounters with the submarines, our stay in New York and the nature of the cargo we carried. Where dates were involved she had them right.

Did she know someone in the Admiralty Offices, or the Shipping Company? Elvira denied such a suggestion. I was flummoxed. Where had she got the information from? My letters would not have given anything much away - except it might have been possible to have garnered "New York" from postmarks.

"No puzzle" said Elvira, "I can read your mind most of the time. Wherever you are, whatever you do - if it is out of the general run, I know about it". "That's true" her mother confirmed. "While you were away, she rang your mother a couple of times to tell her what you were doing and that all was well with you".

At first, I found this mind reading act a bit unsettling and a trifle creepy. Gradually I got accustomed to it and in the years ahead it came in useful if I wanted to get a message home.

Details usually evaded Elvira, but the main theme got through. At times it was a comfort to know that you were not "alone". On the other hand, my wings were clipped - one step out of line on the romance trail and Elvira would know all about it. Actually, the situation never arose, I was so fond of her that I had no eyes for anyone else. There was no need for me to make any conscious effort to "send" messages. In fact, the less effort, the better the result.

Elvira's mother confided in me that Elvira had a bible and that she had gone through it page by page and pencilled a ring around my name "David" every time it appeared in print. Elvira, she said spent quite a bit of time in her bedroom just reading the bible. Elvira was a Christian Scientist and while devout, was most certainly not a religious "nut".

I had signed off the "Antilochus" on 11th September, 1942 and after a fortnight had elapsed without getting a telegram from Head Office, I began to get edgy. My gear was all back from the cleaners and I was packed, ready to go. On 26th September, that horrid little yellow piece of paper arrived - I was to report to H.O. the following day. That evening I didn't have to tell Elvira about the telegram - she told me. Ah well, we had had a wonderful fortnight, seen this, seen that, been here, been there and done this and that. Perhaps it wouldn't be too long before I was back again.

When you visited H.O. you never knew quite what to expect, so it came as no great surprise, when I was given a railway ticket and told to get myself to Glasgow on the express leaving that night. I was to sign on to the "Lycaon" in the morning as 3rd R/O. I had lost my second stripe for no reason other than I should never really had had it in the first place, and I only got it because no one else was available at the time.

The express to Glasgow was packed tight with passengers. I had arrived early and had been lucky enough to obtain a seat. There was not a civilian in sight. Everyone was in uniform and the wearers came in a variety of ranks and ratings, from every branch of the Services. The corridor became jammed with kit bags and cases and covered with people either lying or sitting on top of the baggage. Every luggage rack above the seats had its occupants with their legs dangling down just above the heads of those seated below.

It was a cool autumn evening so the windows were hauled up and their straps fastened tight. Blackout conditions prevailed so the roller blinds were pulled down to prevent the escape of a glimmer of light emitted by the one small bulb fitted to the compartment ceiling. Most of the passengers smoked and the atmosphere became almost unbearable.

On my left sat a corporal from the Army. On my right a smartly turned out little member of the W.R.N.S (Women's Royal Naval Service). The feeble light from the little globe could hardly penetrate the haze of tobacco smoke, so I could barely see the occupants on the opposite seat. The other two persons sitting on my side of the compartment were also indiscernible.

Conversation was somewhat subdued. Most of the passengers would have been on their way to rejoin their units and few would have been going on leave. If you were rejoining your unit and had just said "goodbye", maybe for the last time, to your family and girl/boy friend, you were not exactly bursting with joie de vivre.

It was always a good idea to grab any sleep you could when opportunity presented itself, so it was not too long, and rocked by the motion of the train, that we were all asleep. I awoke, something was tickling my nose, and whatever it was, it smelt nice. The W.R.N., who was fast asleep, had slumped over my way and had her head resting on my shoulder. Her hair just brushed my nose. My right arm was getting numb so I tried to shift it a bit to ease it without disturbing the W.R.N. She must have felt the movement for she sighed, shifted her weight a bit and snuggled closer.

Periodically we stopped at a main station. There was the usual ruckus as passengers struggled to alight, while those who had no seats endeavoured to grab a vacated one before the incoming passengers got a chance. Doors slammed, a whistle blew, couplings and buffers clanked and clanged and we resumed our journey northwards.

I awoke for the final time just as we were pulling in to Glasgow. The lass next to me was already awake. She had smartened herself up and was just putting on her cap. We said "Good morning" to each other and went our different ways as soon as the train had stopped. No mention was made as to whether my shoulder made a comfortable or bony pillow.

The "Lycaon" turned out to be another elderly lady. She was built in 1913 just seven years after the "Antilochus" and was the smaller of the two ships being but 7,350 gross registered tons. The "Lycaon" had the reputation for being lucky and had survived a number of dangerous operations since the outbreak of World War II.

Shortly after the war commenced, she had been used, along with several other Blue Funnel ships to carry part of the British Expeditionary Forces to France. Later, she took a light Anti-Aircraft Brigade to Narvik to assist the B.E.F. in defending Norway. When the B.E.F. retreat from the Continent was taking place in June 1940, the "Lycaon" was not at Dunkirk, but again in conjunction with other Blue Funnel ships had rescued thousands of troops from Brest.

In May 1941 she spotted a submarine on the surface, took evasive action, and with gunfire forced the sub to submerge. The "Lycaon" escaped without damage. The following night she sighted, what at first appeared to be another conning tower and promptly opened fire. Closer inspection of the target revealed that the supposed conning tower was a raft and on it a very concerned seaman waving frantically. He was duly rescued.

The "Lycaon" was later in a convoy that got badly mauled by a pack of U-boats. She escaped damage and succeeded in picking up some 60 survivors from other ships. Could her luck hold out? I for one certainly hoped it would.

Having climbed on board I was in unfamiliar territory, but I had spotted the aerial insulators protruding from the after end of the boat deck. Obviously that was the direction to head.

The Wireless Room turned out to be located exactly where I expected. It was right beneath the boat deck, amidships, and its door and portholes faced aft. Accommodation for the Chief R/O adjoined it and access was via a doorway from the Wireless Room.

The 2nd R/O and I had a small cabin off the port alleyway. The good news was that we were well away from the fumes and flying ash of the stokehold. The bad news was that the one small porthole faced aft and it was a rare occurrence for any fresh breeze to find its way into our cabin.

The 2nd R/O showed me around. That did not take long. The equipment was similar to that of the "Antilochus" so there was no problem on that score. All I really had to do was to familiarise myself with the ship's layout.

Later, back in the Wireless Room the three of us were doing paper work and nattering. "Do you like cocoa?" the Chief asked. "Yes" "Have you got a mug?" "No" "OK, as soon as you have signed on today, go to Woolworths and buy one the same as these two. In port, on cold nights we often have a mug of cocoa. The Chief Steward provides the makings, but we have to fix it up for ourselves as the stewards are off duty".

Later that day I purchased a mug and added it to the Wireless Room equipment. Shortly afterwards we left our berth and moved to the Gare Loch where we dropped anchor. That evening we three R/Os were sitting in the Wireless Room. "Time for cocoa" said the Boss. "Can you make it Junior?" I replied "Yes" and was given the supper tray to take along to the galley. I made the toast, brewed the cocoa and returned triumphant to the others. My joy was short lived. My efforts were not to their tastes. Tomorrow night I would be shown how to do it properly.

When that time arrived the 2nd R/O and I armed with the supper tray made our way into the galley and shut the door. "Just watch" said No.2. He put two teaspoons full of cocoa powder plus one of condensed milk into each mug, added a little cold water and carefully worked each mixture into a paste. "See? NO lumps!" The mugs were placed in the oven. He then took the toasting fork and pushed the prongs through the side of the crust and into the slice of bread so that the slice was held in the same plane as the prongs. The cast iron door to the galley fire was kicked open and a blast of heat came out.

"Watch closely". Standing sideways to the range, No.2 held the bread close to the open door. "One, two, three, four, five" and he whisked the bread out of the fire's range. The fork, still with the bread attached was turned over and held in front of the fire. The count of five was repeated. The beautifully evenly browned toast was then removed from the fork, buttered and put on a plate, covered with another plate and popped into the oven.

This sequence was repeated five more times and the remainder of the butter was put on the top of the pile of six pieces of toast. The lot was returned to the oven. The mugs, now hotter than you could handle without a cloth were taken out of the oven, boiling water was poured into them and the cocoa stirred. They were placed on the tray and the pile of toast joined them, still with its umbrella of a plate. We went back to the Wireless Room. If the brew was not sweet enough, you added sugar to taste. The toast dripping with butter was superb. From then on, one of us made supper each night until we sailed.

We stayed at anchor and swung around our pick for a few days. Other ships were arriving and anchoring in the loch. It became apparent from their deck cargo that we were all being assembled for an assault somewhere. Our own holds were filled with Army vehicles. Each truck, Bren gun carrier; Jeep; mobile kitchen; water tanker; ambulance etc was fully loaded with guns; ammunition; petrol; communication systems; food; water or medical supplies. All the paraphernalia that an army requires.

Secured on deck, spanning the width of the ship, and lying across the hatches were six L.C.M.s (Landing Craft Mechanised). The other ships, apart from minor variations, appeared to be similarly laden. Where were we going? We were not told. All we knew, was that we now carried the designation "Military Transport Ship".

All shore leave had been stopped as soon as we had left the dockside. We had on board some extra hands. Army types from the Pioneer Corps. These men trained in cargo handling, would with our deck hands, unload the "Lycaon" when she reached her destination. Rough accommodation for these extra personnel had been built in the 'tween decks of one of the holds. It could not have been too good down there. No portholes and only the cargo ventilators to supply them with fresh air.

One day the Captain decided that the time was ripe to have a full lifeboat drill. Not just a case of fronting up to your lifeboat station with your life jacket on, but a proper exercise where the boats were lowered and you scrambled down into them. You then cast off, rowed half a mile from the ship, raised the mast and the sail and went for a nice little jaunt before lowering the sail and mast and rowing back to the ship.

I had been on one of these Cook's tours before in Sydney Harbour and had not enjoyed it. The movement of small boats is not agreeable to my stomach. That was the first problem, the second was of an entirely different kind.

Every lifeboat I encountered was a sturdy, heavily built wooden craft. Designed to withstand knocking about and to remain seaworthy in the worst of weathers. Most decidedly, Blue Funnel lifeboats would not be your choice for the Oxford and Cambridge boat race.

The oars were long, heavy and thick where you gripped them. Unless you were of good physique it took quite an effort to get your oar placed in its rowlock.

Those in the know, tried to obtain seats towards the middle of the boat. In that position, the gunwale was closer to the water and rowing was easier. If you sat near the bow or the stern, you were positioned well above the sea and it was much harder, in a bit of a swell, to get your oar into the water unless you "dug deep".

"Digging deep" necessitated the inboard end of the oar to be raised to the extent that, if like me, you were short in stature, your hands gripped the oar above your head. That position, I can assure you, is no way to effectively apply any power into your stroke.

I hoped I would be chosen to remain on board as part of the skeleton crew. No such luck, my Boss didn't like lifeboat drill any more than I did.

We got our boat lowered and all climbed into it. We cast off and rowed the brute clear. You guessed it, I got landed with a seat near the stern. No rowing "blue" for my efforts. Down the loch we went, put up our sail and slowly tacked to and fro.

The afternoon wore on, the weather which had been good, but misty, began to get unsettled. We headed back for the "Lycaon". The other lifeboats did likewise. By the time we got back all the other boats were alongside and were awaiting their turn to be hauled up to the boat deck.

It was getting dark and the mist was increasing.. We manoeuvred into position below our set of davits. A midshipman caught hold of the forward big metal hook and pulley block dangling from the falls. I was told to grab and hold on to the after hook. While the two of us hung on, everybody else made the long climb up the rope ladder to the boat deck.

We now had to wait our turn until a couple of winches were available to haul the boat up to the top of the davits. The sea was getting up a bit and the lifeboat was rising and falling some three or four feet. Hanging on began to become difficult.

At last the winches were free and the falls were slackened off a bit. The middy and I were ordered to "Hook on". The lifeboats had two metal rings, one forward, one aft attached to the inside of the keel. They were designed to slip over the hooks. What you had to do, was reach down to the bottom of the boat, pick up the ring and guide it through the mouth of the hook. The equipment was rugged and heavy. You had to be careful not to get your fingers trapped between the ring and the hook, otherwise you wouldn't be able to count up to ten.

We hooked on and called out we were ready to be hauled up. We were hardly clear of the water when an extra large wave lifted the lifeboat's bow, caught the middy off guard, and as bad luck would have it, freed the ring from the hook. My end of the boat stayed hooked to its fall. The middy grabbed the ring with the intention of trying to get it back on the hook when the bow rose on the next wave. Nothing went right, another wave surged up and threw him off balance and in falling he struck the heavy metal block with his temple. He slumped down into the bottom of the boat unconscious.

Now I was in a quandary. The boat was still held by the after hook, but that was dangerous. If the sea were to drop away steeply from beneath the forward end, the boat suspended at my end would tip and possibly toss both of us and the contents out. If I unhooked my end, that would stop that possibility, but would bring on another hazard. We would be adrift and there was no way I could get the boat back to the "Lycaon" without assistance and I did not particularly fancy drifting away into the oncoming darkness and mist.

The next wave helped me to make my decision. We pivoted momentarily and somewhat precariously on the hook and as the wave lifted us I freed the ring. Up on the boat deck a mate saw our predicament and organised some help. Now that the boat was free, the tide was slowly taking us past the ship. Fortunately we were keeping close to its side and not drifting too far away. A heaving line was thrown our way but missed us. We continued to drift and were level with the "Lycaon's" stern when the second attempt with the heaving line was successful. I made the line fast to the lifeboat's bow to stop our progress.

A heavier line was attached to the heaving line and I pulled that in and made it secure. The deck-hands started to drag us back to the davits. I went to see how the middy was faring. He was coming round and trying to sit up. He sported a gash and a big lump on his forehead. Feeling dizzy, he stayed seated while we were pulled back into position below the davits.

The Surgeon clambered down to the boat and was followed by two seamen. After a quick examination the middy was told to stay put. The Surgeon and I went up the rope ladder while the seamen re-hooked the boat back on to the falls. At this second attempt the boat was hauled up without any bother. "You been trying to desert by making off with a lifeboat, Sparks?" a D.E.M.S.rating quizzed as I passed him on the way to my cabin. Apart from a headache for an hour or two, the middy was quite alright.

We continued to wait and swing around our anchor, but there were some diversions. The "Queen Mary" arrived one day. To our consternation we saw that her bow was badly damaged. From below the water line and up to a point just beneath her anchors and extending backwards some thirty feet towards the Bridge there was nothing to be seen. Speculation ran hot as to what had caused such a massive chunk to have been bitten out. Some said it must have been a torpedo, but the more ancient and experienced of our mariners expressed the view that she must have been in a collision. In time we learned the truth. On 2nd October there had been a terrible accident. The "Queen Mary", zig zagging at 30 knots, had rammed an escorting warship which had made an error of judgement in crossing the "Queen Mary's" bow. The escort, the cruiser H.M.S. "Curacoa" was cut in two and quickly sank with a loss of 331 men. The "Queen Mary" with some 15,000 troops on board, dared not stop to assist for fear of becoming vulnerable to a sub attack. Other escorts rescued 101 survivors. The "Queen Mary's" forward watertight bulkhead was not breached and held until she had reached Glasgow for repairs.

The "Lycaon's armament consisted of a 12 pdr aft, a machine-gun in each wing of the Bridge and a pair of Oerlikon guns on the boat deck. Each Oerlikon was mounted in a steel gun emplacement perched on top of a steel tower. A crew of two, comprising a gunner and loader was need for each gun.

I had been allocated to the starboard gun and as I had not used one before, I spent some of the time at anchor learning how to operate it. The gun emplacement was circular and about 8½' in diameter. You reached it by climbing some twelve feet of vertical ladder and swinging yourself over the top of the half inch thick steel plates which were the walls of the emplacement. It was rather like climbing into a king sized saucepan which had lost its handle.

Inside the emplacement were a series of concentric steps leading downwards to the centre of the pit where the pedestal mounting for the gun rose up from the floor. The Oerlikon was a joy to use against aircraft. It was a 20mm cannon that could fire a drum of 60 shells in 7½ seconds. To protect its crew from incoming enemy fire were two metal shields fixed to the pedestal. The body and barrel of the gun protruded between them. When the gun was swung to the left or right on its pivot, the shields slewed with it. If the gun was tilted up or down, the shields stayed put and the gun barrel moved in the slot between the shields. Little cover was given to protect you from anything coming down on top of you, but at least there was some protection from other directions.

To operate the gun, you faced the butt and put your shoulders and armpits into two padded semicircular grips and strapped yourself tightly against the padding with a broad webbing belt. Your hands held a horizontal bar positioned in front of the shoulder grips. The trigger was attached to the right handle bar. A large ring sight with a rubber padded eye cup was mounted above and behind the breach. By tipping the sight to the left or right, it was adaptable for use by either eye. The ammunition drum was held in place by two projections on its casing which slid into corresponding slots above the breach of the gun.

When standing on the top step and strapped to the gun, the barrel pointed slightly downwards. As you walked down the steps the muzzle rose. By leaning back in the strap and letting your legs straddle the pedestal, the gun pointed almost vertically. To slew the gun left or right, all you had to do was to step sideways in the opposite direction to that were you wished to aim.

This might seem a bit complicated, but when you were strapped in, the gun was a delight to handle and aiming came naturally and was surprisingly easy. Quick movements and drastic changes in any direction were readily accomplished by hanging in the strap and pushing hard with the appropriate foot. It was possible to spin through a complete circle in less than half a second. I spent quite a lot of time waltzing around with that gun and getting the feel of it.

Nothing is ever too easy, and there were a couple of snags that made life a bit difficult for those of small stature and limited physical strength. The first problem was cocking the gun. Basically, the main requirement was sheer brute strength. A metal ring with two lanyards attached was slipped over the muzzle and down the barrel until it reached the main helical spring encircling the barrel. This spring had to be compressed by drawing it back down towards the breech until it became caught on retaining catches. If memory serves me right, that spring required 600 lbs of pressure to be applied to force it past the catches. Applying that pressure was by no means easy but by a bit of cunning strategy it could be accomplished fairly comfortably by two men and even one man if he was heavy enough.

The procedure was more or less as follows. The gun was depressed to its lowest position and the lanyards made fast to the mounting once the ring had been slid down the barrel. Both members of the team then each got hold of one of the shoulder grips and on the count of three jumped in the air and by keeping their legs tucked up and a firm hold on the shoulder grips, swung the gun into its vertical position. If you got the timing right, there was a satisfactory sounding click and the gun was cocked. Get it wrong, and the almost fully compressed spring took charge and would whip the gun out of your hands and inflict some nasty bruising if you happened to be in the way.

Heavily built men could cock the gun on their own without too much trouble, but 12 stoners, like myself, had difficulty. By using the roll of the ship for assistance and leaping well into the air I would just do it - sometimes. When I failed, the gun's spring driven rebound would almost toss me out of the gunpit.

The other problem was loading the gun. The drums of shells were so heavy that although they were fitted with handles they were awkward, and it was as much as I could do to lift one above my head and place it on the top of the breach. If you were tall the problem was easier, for you could at least see both the slots into which the projections had to slip. Those of lesser stature could not see the furthermost slot and were handicapped when trying to juggle the heavy drum into position.

Five loaded drums of ammunition were placed strategically around the perimeter of the pit, together with a spare gun barrel, spanners and asbestos covered gloves. If the gun was in continuous action, the barrel got extremely hot and after several drums of shells had been expended, the barrel had to be changed. Hence the asbestos gloves and spanners.

Oerlikon ammunition came from manufacturers located in at least three different countries and thereby created a trap for young gunners. In loading the shells into the drums one had to be careful that all of the shells came from the same manufacturer. Otherwise, because the propellant charges had minor differences, the gun when firing could develop "hiccups" instead of maintaining its rhythm and would jam.

We used three types of shell in each drum. Armour piercing, Incendiary and Tracer, and the order in which they were loaded was Tracer, Incendiary, Tracer, Armour piercing. Every second shell being a tracer, could be followed in flight and aided the gunner in correcting his aim.

The D.E.M.'s ratings usually loaded the ammunition drums. A man would sit on the boat deck surrounded by three boxes of brightly colour coded shells and a can of Cooper's grease. Between his legs was an empty drum. In the aforementioned order he would take a shell out of the appropriate box, slip off its cardboard separator, grease it and slip in into the drum. As each shell was pushed in alongside its neighbour, the shells moved around a spiral cage and ended up looking like jam in a giant swiss roll. After the 60 shells were in place, the powerful discharging spring, located in the hub of the drum was wound up with a demountable handle.

Oerlikon shells were sensitive little devils and were fitted in the nose with a Grey's fuse. Early types were too sensitive, and had a nasty habit of exploding on contact with heavy raindrops, frequently as soon as they had left the gun barrel. Later, the fuses were modified and the shells made less sensitive. Nevertheless, care was required in handling the shells and to drop one of the slippery greasy projectiles was courting disaster. The idea of dropping a box of them or a loaded drum didn't bear contemplation.

Loaded drums were hauled up to the gun emplacements by rope and were carefully stowed to be ready for use.

At long last, towards the middle of October, we sailed. Whatever we were going to be involved in had commenced, but we still had no idea of where we were headed. There was of course some speculation and some destinations were eliminated. No extra blankets had been issued, so we could not be going to Russia. The Surgeon had a good supply of quinine, so perhaps we were off to the tropics, but if so, where? Anyway, didn't "Sawbones" always have enough quinine in stock to supply us for months?

We formed up in a big convoy with a surprisingly large number of escorts, and moved off into the Atlantic. The weather varied and for much of the time was typical of the Atlantic. Overcast, dull, wet and squally. The smaller escort vessels made rough going of the heavy swell and life on board must have been extremely uncomfortable.

Included in the escort we had a small aircraft carrier. Periodically she would fly off a "Sword-fish" aircraft, a single engined biplane not renowned for its speed. Load them up with two depth-charges and it seemed to be almost beyond their capabilities to take off. I have seen "Sword-fish" aircraft making patrols during a half gale. Travelling downwind they made good speed, but once they turned and flew back upwind they all but stopped and made very slow progress.

Landing with depth-charges slung beneath the wings would have been far too dangerous, so before coming home to roost after completing a patrol, they had to jettison the "ashcans" some distance away from the convoy. By slowing down and heading into a very strong wind, those planes could almost hover above a flight deck before touching down.

The rest of the month of October passed. We had been at sea over a fortnight and not a single U-boat attack. Each day the truck drivers, when the weather permitted, opened the hatches and went below to start up the trucks engines to keep their batteries charged. The coxswains for the L.C.M.s did likewise with their craft.

The convoy reached a point well out into the Atlantic, turned south and turned towards the east. During the night of 6th/7th November, in bad weather and heavy seas, we passed through the Straits of Gibraltar and entered the Mediterranean Sea. The time had come for confidential envelopes with secret orders to be opened and the contents studied.

We were to play a part in "Operation Torch" - the allied landings in French North Africa. We had our orders, but knew little of the whole operation. That information came years later. The overall strategy was for three simultaneous landings to take place. One landing to be at Casablanca on the Atlantic coast by an all American Task Force comprising some 35,000 troops carried in American ships directly from America. The second attack was to be at Oran in the Mediterranean where the Central Task Force of 39,000 American troops were to be landed by British ships which had embarked them in Scotland. The third assault by the Eastern Task Force was made up from 10,000 American and 29,000 British soldiers who were also carried in British ships. Their landing was to be further east in the Mediterranean at Algiers.

Slow convoys, such as the one we were in, carried vehicles; tanks and supplies. Fast convoys which had been despatched over a week later carried the troops.

The British convoys were made up from some 250 merchant ships including 40 troop transports. British warships numbering some 160 vessels gave protection to the convoys.

In the Wireless Room we studied the signalling procedures and code names we were to use. We had been provided with an Army type transceiver with which we could communicate either by voice or morse key. We were to keep in touch with the Communications Control ship and the Beachmasters at the landing sites.

In our convoy we had apart from ourselves, two other Blue Funnel ships the "Alcinous" and the "Theseus". These three ships were part of the Central Task Force and were to be involved in the landing at Arzew, the back door to Oran. Two other beaches at Oran were to be attacked, making the assault a three pronged attack.

The "Glengyle", another Blue Funnel ship, was also at the Oran landing, but as she was carrying troops, she was in a fast convoy and would have arrived, put the men ashore and got away before we arrived. At Algiers, the "Maron" and "Glenfinlas" represented the Blue Funnel Line.

The day prior to the invasion, November 7th, passed peacefully, the weather improved and although the landing was to take place the following morning, everyone was cool, calm and collected, there seemed to be no sense of anxiety.

My midnight to four am watch passed without incident. The troop landings had commenced at 1 am, but at that time we were not due to commence listening on the transceiver so had no knowledge of how they were faring.

I turned in as usual at a little past four am and went to sleep. Shortly after five am I was awakened by the roar of aircraft passing low overhead. By the time I was fully dressed, they had gone. No one knew anything about them, but later we were told that they were French planes getting away from an airfield before they were captured.

Dawn was just beginning to rise so I climbed up to the Oerlikon. A better view was to be had up there, and anyway, if there was going to be any shooting I wanted to be gunner and not loader.

The D.E.M.S rating was not yet in the emplacement, so first up, best dressed and I strapped myself into the gun. In the improving light I could see the ships ahead and astern of us and the shore line on our starboard side. Away to port were other lines of ships.

The leading ships were passing a long stone breakwater jutting out from a headland beyond which lay a bay. A pinprick of light winked from the shore end of the breakwater followed by the "whoooo" of a shell in flight. A fountain of water rose up near the leading ship. The natives were hostile.

I mentally marked the spot where I had seen the spot of light and pointed it out to the D.E.M.S. gunner who had just climbed into the gun pit. A second pinprick of light and the shell dropped between the lead ship and the next column of vessels. The shore battery had not got the range - yet.

Our orders were strict. We were not to open fire unless we were first fired upon. We had no wish to kill the French. We just wanted them to surrender and let us get on with driving the Germans and Italians out of North Africa.

Other guns were firing somewhere out of sight and the shells could be heard sighing and whirring as they passed away above our heads. As the second ship drew almost level with the breakwater the shore battery had a crack at her. Two shells missed, but she might have taken a hit with the third. That was bad news. They had apparently got the range right at last, and we would expect to collect a few hits when we drew level.

We were getting closer and I could make out the gun's crew going about their tasks. Curses on the "no firing until" order. I had an open go and they were nicely in range at about half a mile distance. Once we drew level, the gunners would have more protection from the gun's shields and emplacement and be more difficult to hit.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a destroyer charging up between us and the shore. Thick smoke was billowing from her 'stack as she laid a smoke screen. She too, had seen the hostile gun and working under different orders to mine, she let go one round from a forward 4.7" gun. That was enough. A direct hit. Stones, pieces of metal, dust and smoke erupted from the gun site. After the haze cleared, there were no more signs of movement. We manoeuvred into the bay and dropped anchor. All the derricks and cargo gear had been got ready the night before, so as soon as the anchor was down, the L.C.M.s were released from their shackles and lowered over the side. Each L.C.M. was loaded with a truck laden with "goodies" and away they went to the beach to be greeted by the troops who had landed earlier and established a beachhead.

The rumble of artillery could be heard in the distance and there was the crackle of small arms fire. Where we were, apart from the hurried activity of discharging the cargo, all was surprisingly peaceful.

In the Wireless Room we occasionally received a message that concerned us, but mostly the traffic was the fighting units calling each other. They were reporting positions taken, or calling for assistance or equipment when they were meeting pockets of resistance.

The L.C.M.s came back time and time again for reloading. As the day wore on loading the L.C.M.s became more and more difficult. A swell was getting up and the L.C.M.s when alongside were rising and falling some eight to ten feet. Trying to put a heavily laden truck into those bucking little craft which were only just wide enough to accommodate the vehicles was a work of art. Dangerous too, more than one man had to jump into the sea to avoid being crushed.

Let the quick release gear go at the wrong moment and the truck might drop some feet down into the L.C.M. with the risk of damage to both of them. Worse, the truck might land on the L.C.M.'s gunwale and capsize the craft or tear its side out and the truck and its contents be lost.

The Pioneer Corps and our deck-hands worked very hard trying to keep up to the schedule, but Nature was slowing us down, and a counter attack by the French was not improving the situation ashore.

The L.C.M.s had other problems as well. The swell frequently lifted them up as they got close to the beach and like surfers, they rode the waves, and were forced further up the beach than they wished to go. Sometimes they got stranded and had to call to other L.C.M.s to take a rope and tow them off.

Our Engineers were kept busy. L.C.M.s with battered propellers, broken ropes twisted around the propeller shafts, holes in their hulls, malfunctioning engines and pumps, were coming to us for repairs.

We not only had our own L.C.M.s to maintain, but for some reason or other we also had some strays that limped alongside and requested help.

The Chief Steward had a brainwave prior to the invasion beginning. He had scrounged all the empty four gallon tins and drums he could find from the Engineers' and Deck Departments, plus of course his own Department. From the D.E.M.'s gunners he had obtained a lot of sheets of half inch thick felt - the discarded lining from ammunition boxes. The felt he wrapped and tied around the tins for insulation, and heavy wire handles were fitted by the Engineers. By the time our part of the invasion started the Chief Steward and his staff had the two huge steam heated cauldrons on each side of the ship bubbling away and brim full of stew.

Every time an L.C.M. left for the beach a four gallon tin of stew went with it for the troops. Judging by the grateful replies and the empty tins coming back for refills, our Chief Steward must have qualified as their fairy godmother.

By noon on the first day the Americans had Tafaroui airfield under control, but had not been able to take La Sénia airfield until later in the afternoon. Opposition from the French was getting tougher.

On the second day the resistance continued to build and a counter attack was made on one sector of the Arzew Beach. The transceiver was alive with urgent messages from units calling for assistance as positions became untenable.

The troops wanted more of everything and they wanted it right there and then. The tone of the voices indicated frustration and at times, desperation. The weather stayed fine, but the swell continued to make loading and discharging the L.C.M.s difficult.

At Casablanca and Algiers things had gone well. Algiers was in allied hands by the evening of the first day and Casablanca fell shortly afterwards. On the third day, 10th November, the swell eased somewhat and made operations easier. The French however were getting themselves organised and there were a series of counter attacks in the Arzew region. The Americans made a break through and followed it up with an advance towards Oran itself. By noon they had taken the town, resistance collapsed and the French commander surrendered.

On board we continued discharging our cargo of vehicles as quickly as possible. There were far less L.C.M.s available then, for the weather had taken its toll and a number had been lost.

When the ship was empty the remaining Pioneer Corps members went ashore with the last loads of vehicles. We remained at anchor for a while, but were soon ordered to join a convoy for Gibraltar.

Our stay at Gibraltar was short. The Captain and Chief R/O went ashore for briefing, but no one else was permitted to go in the launch. It was not long before the anchor was hoisted and once more we were in convoy and heading home.

A peaceful run with no attacks, but instead of berthing at Liverpool we sailed up the Bristol Channel and docked at Newport. I signed off on 26th November and caught a train for Liverpool. We had been away just a few days short of two months.

For Mum and Dad I had a bottle of duty free gin, tobacco and cigarettes purchased from the ship's canteen. For Elvira I had nothing! That would never do. Not having been ashore for the entire voyage, there had been no opportunity to purchase a gift. In Liverpool I visited a jewellers and bought a silver Merchant Navy brooch for Elvira to wear. In those days it was fashionable for girls to wear rings or brooches bearing the insignia of whatever branch of the forces her boyfriend or husband served.

The brooch was well received and another wonderful and hectic leave ensued. A fortnight elapsed before I was summoned back to Head Office.

Chapter Six.