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An autobiography of a Radio Officer in the British Merchant Navy during World War II
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"Lycaon" Again
9/12/42 - 14/5/43.
By now, you know the preliminaries leading up to a new voyage as well as I do. So here it was, the 9th December, 1942 and I had just signed back on the "Lycaon" at Newport. We are to join a convoy and head back to the Mediterranean with a cargo of supplies for the Allied forces who were pushing ahead with "Operation Torch". The "Lycaon" was stuffed with army vehicles; thousands of shells; boxes of ammunition; and tons of four gallon tins of petrol. There were some members of the Pioneer Corps on board, but not as many as previously. It was to be a short quick trip, down to the Med, discharge and straight back home.
Head Office, in a most unusual magnanimous mood, volunteered that we should be home again in a couple of months. Elvira, who did not like farewells any more than I did, was quite chuffed about it and started planning what we would do next leave.
One convoy is much the same as another, and unless some outstanding event took place, you tend to forget all about the daily goings on, and the whole period drifts mentally astern and passes out of recall beyond the horizon of your memory.
We arrived safely at Gibraltar and in company with other ships dropped anchor. There we stayed for a few days, with steam up and ready to depart at a moment's notice.
The Harbour Defence Forces issued the D.E.M.s personnel with a box of special grenades and a very ancient Lee Enfield rifle. They were to be used to discourage frogmen from paying us a visit and attaching limpet mines to our hull.
Across the harbour was the neutral port of Algeçiras in Spanish territory. Moored over there alongside a wharf was a German vessel. Rumour had it that the German ship had been modified in such a way that frogmen and mini two men subs could leave and re-enter her hull through a special lock in her bottom. Such activity would have been undetectable from above the sea's surface. On a calm day there would have been some tell-tale air bubbles to have given the game away, but at night, or whenever the waves were choppy the chance of spotting a trail of bubbles would have been small.
The grenades, which looked like small brass jam tins, were designed not to produce shrapnel like a Mill's Bomb, but to create shock waves for stunning the frogmen. During the night and sometimes during the day, there was at frequent intervals, the noise of these grenades exploding.
Patrol boats continually searched the harbour for frogmen, and tried to discourage them from making any attempts to attack Allied shipping by dropping grenades in a random pattern.
The D.E.M.s ratings, armed with the ship's rifle and the one supplied by the shore authorities, plus a supply of grenades patrolled the "Lycaon's" decks watching for any sign of frogmen.
The Sergeant did not like the look of the loaned rifle and suspected that it was too old and worn out to be of any use. The bolt was floppy and loose in its fitting, so much so that the Sergeant requested the Second Mate to allow him to undertake a test firing to check whether the rifle was safe to use. The Second Mate agreed, so the ancient firearm was pointed on to a safe bearing and lashed to a stanchion. A piece of string was tied to the trigger and taken around a post to a position well out of harm's way.
The rifle was loaded, everyone ordered to stand clear and the string was pulled. The Lee Enfield fired OK, but while the bullet went one way, the bolt went the other and went whizzing over the side of the ship. Anyone holding and firing the rifle in the conventional way could have been killed by the bolt. We wondered who the person was who issued the rifle, and on which side of the war he was playing.
We stayed at Gibraltar for a few days before we proceeded to Bône. With hindsight, I guess that the reason that we were waiting was for other ships already in Mediterranean ports to complete their discharging of cargoes before we arrived.
Far too risky to spend any time hanging about waiting for a berth in the forward area. Enemy air activity was fairly intense and ships were being bombed and sunk.
We finally left for the 800 mile journey to Bône, a small port with wharf facilities for less than half a dozen ships of the "Lycaon's" size.
The first day of the voyage was uneventful, but on the second we were joined by an air escort of three fighter planes. When they first appeared we had gone to "Action Stations" but the "All clear" came as soon as we and the convoy had established that they had the correct markings.
The planes came whooshing down from thousands of feet above us and commenced playing "Follow the leader" in between the ships of the convoy. Very spectacular, and to us slow moving sea-bound mariners, a hair raising experience.
The planes flew low and fast, so low that those of us on the Bridge could look down on them as they roared past, their slip stream disturbing the surface of the sea. We could see the pilots clearly as they waved to us - unless they were flying upside down with their heads about ten feet above the waves. They wove their way in and out between the ships at better than 200 mph.
Our Captain and the Mate were getting edgy and muttered uncomplimentary remarks about foolhardiness. There was some justification for that, for the planes were skimming past and missing the ships by a matter of only a few feet.
Our gunners were having a ball. They were on "Stand-by" and were sharpening their aiming skills by following the planes with their guns.
The Commodore must have come from the same school as our Skipper, for the planes were ordered to stop playing "Silly B's" and to get "upstairs" where they could keep a proper lookout for enemy aircraft.
The following afternoon we had a sub scare and had gone to "Action Stations". One of the escorts was flying the signal that indicated she had made a contact and was heading back towards the convoy. Suddenly she let go a barrage of depth-charges and promptly turned to go back on her tracks to repeat the dose.
The depth-charges exploded, the water erupted and a conning tower emerged from the white flurry of water. Men started to climb out of the conning tower, but whether they were heading for the gun on the fore-deck or merely trying to save themselves I could not tell.
Every ship within range had commenced firing with Oerlikon and machine guns. Tracer bullets and shells were hitting and bouncing off the sub. The men who had climbed out never had a chance of getting near the gun, in fact, they never even had a chance.
We did not open fire for fear of hitting the escort and anyway, ships that were better placed were rapidly converting the conning tower into a colander.
The escort finished turning and headed straight for the sub, she had tasted blood and was going in for the kill. The rain of bullets and cannon shells continued to inflict damage to the sub and discouraged anyone who might have had ideas of sticking his head out.
As the distance between the attacking warship and the sub closed, the firing stopped. There was a silence you could feel and an air of expectancy. There on the surface was one of our worst enemies apparently helpless. The gap closed rapidly until, with a tearing crunch, the warship rammed the U-boat. As she struck, the escort shuddered, her bow rose a few feet as she climbed over the sub's side and deck. The sub's conning tower heeled right over and the sub, her hull holed and her back broken, sank.
The escort passed over the stricken vessel and in her wake there was just an oil slick and no sign of survivors. The cheering that went up from the merchant ships must have been audible for miles.
All was not well with the escort, the impact had damaged her bow and she was taking water. Collision mats, like enormous door-mats were lowered over her side in an endeavour to check the inflow of water. Water pressure forced the mats against the gaps in her plates, but she was too badly damaged and had to leave the convoy and return to Gibraltar for repairs.
We passed Oran and Arzew which we had visited last voyage, and then Algiers and Bougie. At each port some of the convoy broke off to enter and discharge their cargoes. Some ships, including the "Lycaon" carried on and completed the 800 mile journey from Gibraltar.
We had been warned that we could expect air attacks in Bône, and judging by the amount of ammunition we carried someone had done the right thing for once and given us sufficient where-with-all to hit back.
The escorting warships left us outside the harbour and started to shepherd those few vessels leaving Bône for the return trip to Gibraltar. Bône Harbour was protected by a breakwater, and alongside it was the smouldering remains of a sunken merchantman. Tied up to the main wharf was a British cruiser, upright but sitting on the harbour bottom. She had taken a bomb straight down one of her funnels and apart from the hole in her hull, some of her boilers and the main engines were out of action. She could still raise enough steam to provide herself with electricity and her fire-power was still intact.
We moved slowly past these two casualties, turned round 180° and berthed with our starboard side to the wharf. We were then facing the harbour entrance and ready to make a quick getaway should the necessity arise.
The Engineers instead of shutting the boilers down as we would usually do in port, kept up a sufficient head of steam to enable us to sail, if required, at a moment's notice.
The derricks and cargo handling gear had already been rigged while we were still at sea, so the discharge of cargo began immediately we were alongside. The shore based labour turned out to be many of the men we had landed at Arzew on the earlier voyage. As the Allies had advanced eastwards along the North African coast the Pioneer Corps had followed the troops and taken over the port facilities at each seaport suitable for ocean going cargo vessels.
We had hardly had time to exchange greetings as they started work when the air-raid sirens started wailing. A mad scatter as everybody rushed to "Action Stations".
The Sergeant was strapping himself into the Oerlikon as I climbed into the gun pit. We had on our tin helmets and life jackets. Our gas masks hung on the side of the emplacement.
All was quiet. Not even the drone of an aircraft. A loud hailer on the cruiser broke the silence. "Bandits approaching bearing one-three-five range twenty miles". That was interesting. Enemy aircraft at twenty miles, but the bearing reference had us puzzled. We guessed it must relate to the direction in which the cruiser herself was lying. I was still trying to nut that one out when the Sergeant pointed and said "Watch the cruiser's big anti-aircraft guns - see where they are turning and pointing. They will open fire when the planes get in range and we can follow their lead and take it from there".
"Bandits bearing one-two-zero. Range ten miles". The cruiser cut in. Her guns were elevating and slewing. We followed suit, and I called across to the other Oerlikon crew to do as we were doing and take their lead from the cruiser.
"Bandits bearing zero-nine-five. Range five miles. Commence - Commence". The cruiser started firing her 4.7" A.A. guns and we waited and watched for the shells to burst. When they did they were at a very high altitude. We looked for the planes. At first we would not see them, but as they got almost overhead we could make them out, just five little tiny dots, way way above us.
As we watched, they spread out and started "jinking" - flying about haphazardly while they chatted to each other about who was going to attack which ship. Once that was settled, they set their automatic controls and bomb releases and at a given command came diving down simultaneously, each plane from a different direction. By doing that, they reduced the concentration of gun-fire in any one direction and increased their chances of flying through the barrage unscathed.
To make the defence gunners' task harder, at least one if not two of the planes would attack with the sun directly behind them. The steepness of the dive from the attack out of the sun would usually be shallow, but the planes were all but invisible from the target ship until the last moments.
You could not tell which of the attacking planes was going to dive your way. Pick the wrong one and the plane you should have been concentrating upon would come in from behind you with perhaps unfortunate results.
Shore based batteries up in the surrounding hillsides joined in the fray and the sky gradually became more and more spotted with little black tufts of smoke from the bursting shells. The Sergeant yelled above the cacophony, "You watch the ones on the right - I'll take the left". So I tried to keep track of three little dots buzzing about in the blossoming puffs of smoke.
"Here they come!" The planes started diving, almost straight down. One of mine looks like its headed our way. I tap the Sergeant on the shoulder and point. No good shouting the noise was too great as everyone was opening up and joining the heavy A.A. barrage. Bofors; multiple pom-poms; Oerlikons; Browning and other machine guns were all letting rip as the planes came into range.
The Sergeant spun round and almost immediately pulled the trigger. The noise was deafening. The sky was full of tracer going in every direction. I saw a column of water rise out of the harbour, higher than our masts. The defence was scoring hits on the two planes I was trying to follow. The plane I had picked out passed low over our masts at better than 500 mph and headed out to sea. Another plane was on fire and vanished beyond the hillside. A large splash marked the end of a third. We had used up a drum of shells. Quickly I whipped off the empty drum and almost effortlessly put on a full one. Normally I would have been struggling to lift it. Amazing how a little boost of adrenalin can convert a weakling into a superman.
We looked around. The planes were gone. One's hearing was coming back. There was a brown stain forming on the harbour's surface where a bomb had raised that column of water and stirred up the seabed. There was a steaming crater on the wharf fifty yards away, but we seemed to be OK and the other ships appeared to have survived unscathed.
There was a steady "plip" "plop" sound, an occasional "whirr" and "clink". What went up must come down and those bursting shells had spawned a crop of shrapnel that rained down and dropped into the water or bounced off the ship. It was better not to look upwards least you collected a piece of hot jagged metal in the face.
The "All clear" went. The Sergeant was out of the gun pit and yelling at the D.E.M.s ratings to get cracking and re-load all empty magazines as soon as possible - if not quicker. The discharge of cargo resumed.
We gathered from the fellows in the Pioneer Corps, that based on past history, we would expect two or three raids like that each day. Apparently the German planes were based either in Sardinia some 150 miles away, or were flying the longer distance of 300 miles from Sicily. On the way over, they were frequently intercepted by fighters from one of our aircraft carriers and only the survivors got through to give us trouble. The attacks varied in strength, sometimes as many as ten aircraft had arrived over Bône, but generally there were about five, as we had just experienced.
What with the Free French and American shore based A.A. batteries, the cruiser, lesser warships and the merchant vessels, the port's defence system was quite formidable and usually bagged at least two of the attackers.
On the other hand, the battle wasn't exactly one sided as the sunken merchantman and damaged cruiser testified. Other merchantmen had also been lost a bit further away in the Med.
Apparently the Germans were not too keen to dive through a hail of steel so the planes were fitted with automatic controls, once set and the dive commenced, they could not be countermanded. The pilot could make minor steering adjustments, and use his cannons, but he could not pull out of the dive until the bomb was released only a couple of hundred feet above the target. One bullet in the control system's vitals and the plane just kept on diving.
The Pioneers volunteered a useful observation based on past experience. Most of the attacking planes preferred to commence their dive from above the encircling horseshoe of surrounding hills and make their escape out towards the sea. By heading that way they pickled into the water if the worst happened. Coming in the other way there was a good chance of spreading themselves over the landscape before they could regain sufficient altitude to clear the hills. We bore their advice in mind when the next air-raid came in the afternoon.
The attack was similar to the morning one, but six planes took part. The sergeant loosed off a drum and a half of shells and definitely scored hits but no "kill".
The "Lycaon" escaped damage, but a ship tied to a wharf just across the harbour, less than 100 yards away was not so lucky. A bomb penetrated her poop deck, passed out through the side of the ship, exploded on the wharf and the blast killed or injured the members of her 12 pdr crew.
Late in the afternoon a truck laden with dark green canisters drew up alongside. The canisters were smoke pots and a number of them were placed on our bow and stern. The Germans had a habit of occasionally flying over the harbour at night time and just to make their observations a little more difficult, smoke pots all around the harbour were set off to camouflage the layout and give cover to the ships.
Each metal pot was a giant firework and when triggered, gave off clouds of dense smoke for about twenty minutes. Outside in the smoke you needed a gasmask to be able to breath. Inside the ship it was not the best either. If the wind had its way the smoke came in through the ventilators and made life unpleasant.
That night we were lucky and continued discharging without any disturbance. Next day the Germans came back, only four of them, but this time I was first to the gun and was strapped in before the Sergeant arrived. As luck would have it, I chose the right plane. Down he came, seemingly straight towards me. He opened fire first, his wing mounted cannons emitting little twinkling flashes of flame. He was in range, nicely in my sights, a real sitter. I pulled the trigger - nothing happened. By the time the Sergeant had noticed something was wrong and had slapped downwards hard on the drum of shells it was too late, the plane roared overhead and flew out to sea.
I was furious. A golden opportunity and we had muffed it. The plane had been so close I could clearly see the pilot and I even saw the bomb drop away before the plane came out of the dive. But where had the bomb gone and why had our gun jammed?
The answer to the second question came first. Another bomb had hit the wharf almost alongside the "Lycaon" giving us a shaking and had unseated the drum on the Oerlikon. As for the bomb I saw fall, it landed on the unlucky ship that had been hit before. It penetrated her decks and had ended up embedded in her cargo of tins of petrol. Fortunately it failed to explode.
No more raids that day, but the sirens sounded at night and the smoke pots were ignited. The Sergeant and I sat up in the gun pit wearing our usual paraphernalia plus gas masks. The cruiser kept announcing what was going on, but the plane did not come near the harbour and the "All clear" soon sounded.
We had no air-raids at all the next day and our cargo was being discharged quickly. The Pioneers had started taking out the tins of petrol and we found we had a new hazard with which to contend. The cans were of a light weight disposable type, not designed for rough handling or being stacked too high. Many of them were crushed and leaking. There was a haze of petrol fumes rising above the combing of two hatches in which the petrol was stowed. Ventilator sails were rigged and all fire hoses laid out.
Down below, the Pioneers wearing sacking over their boots to cut down the risk of making sparks, were loading the tins of petrol on to cargo trays. They were becoming dizzy and drunk on the fumes and were only able to work for a limited time before they had to be relieved and taken to the Surgeon for treatment.
I gathered that a petrol hangover was one of the worst kind, and particularly hard to take when you had not had any pleasure in acquiring it.
The "Lycaon's" luck held and we landed the petrol safely, as did the ship with the unexploded bomb in her hold.
There was no going ashore in that port. Anything could happen at any time, and it was essential that the full crew be available for any emergency.
The 2nd R/O and I managed to buy a case of oranges and some pretty revolting vin rouge from a vendor who came down to the wharf. Oranges were a luxury at home and seldom seen in wartime. We expected to be back in England in three to four weeks and with any luck, most of the oranges should keep until then.
The air-raids had eased off, unfavourable weather and a shortage of planes brought about by our increasing air power in the area together with the success of the ships' defences was turning the tide.
As soon as the cargo was all off loaded we moved out of the harbour and anchored a little way outside the breakwater. If we were to be sunk in an air-raid, better that we sink in water where we would not block one of the few berths still operable.
That night an enemy aircraft came snooping around. The sirens had sounded, the smoke pots ignited and we were all at "Action Stations". At night the ships did not open fire for the flash of the guns gave away your position. Better to play possum and lie low under cover of the smoke screen. If however, a plane was to come so close that you could see it and the flames from its exhaust, then you could have a crack at it.
So there we were, the Sergeant and I up in the Oerlikon pit looking out for the enemy aircraft. The cruiser, using her radar, was giving a running commentary on the whereabouts and antics of the "Bandit". The plane after stooging around over the Med for ten minutes or so suddenly turned and headed for the harbour.
The shore batteries opened up and laid a box barrage right above the position where we were anchored. The gunners could not see the plane so all the guns were aimed in the general direction and the shell's fuses were set so that they all burst at a predetermined range - just beyond the breakwater where we happened to be.
From our point of view it was unfortunate that we happened to be right beneath the area where the shells were bursting. The cruiser, like a race caller, kept up the commentary. The plane had backed off and moved out of range. Silence, except for the drone of aircraft engines and the patter of shrapnel coming down.
The cruiser "spoke", the plane was coming back but at a lower altitude and the box barrage was to be lowered accordingly to stop him flying under the shell bursts.
Nice to know in advance what is coming, so we were not surprised when the shells started bursting above us again. This time, the explosions were a lot closer and the shrapnel had a nasty vicious buzz when pieces flew past. The plane decided it would not try to penetrate the barrage and again retreated, but not for long.
Back it came, flying even lower. The barrage was dropped to match its height. It wasn't funny up in the gun pit. Some of the shells were exploding so close that you could feel the warmth of the explosion and the smell of the fumes and smoke of the explosives penetrated the gas masks. Shrapnel buzzed angrily and clanged off the metal parts of the ship. One piece ricocheted around the gun pit, thumped into my life jacket and bounced off the kapok padding.
The Sergeant and I did our best imitations of mushrooms and crouched low in the gun pit trying to take shelter under our tin hats. One particularly wild shell burst about mast high and the blast blew down one of the canvas blackout curtains leading into one of the alleyways. The Sergeant expressed the view that he hoped that the plane wouldn't try wave hopping if it came back, otherwise life was going to be most unpleasant for us. I agreed and hoped that the shore batteries in their enthusiasm had not forgotten that we were sitting out there. The worst did not happen and the plane reckoned it had had enough and flew away.
The morning light revealed that the "Lycaon" had a couple of small holes in the funnel, a few dents in ventilators and her paintwork had minor chips here and there. Pieces of shrapnel were scattered about and the Sergeant picked up three bits in our gun pit.
A small convoy arrived and while the inward-bound ships moved into the harbour we joined the escort vessels and set off to return to Gibraltar. No excitement on the way back. As we passed other ports along the way, the convoy increased in numbers as we were joined by other empty ships.
Gibraltar was as we had left it. The patrol boats continued their non-stop search for frogmen and we were lent a more trustworthy rifle and a further supply of grenades.
We waited for our homeward bound convoy. It looked as though we were in for a long wait because next day, the Navy sent a representative out in a launch, and after a bit of palaver with the Captain took most of our gun's crews ashore for a gunnery course.
Lucky me, I got to go with them and escaped from the old routine. Once ashore we were taken straight to the gunnery school. No chance to do any sight seeing, nor indeed did we get any opportunity during the three day course.
Day one consisted of lectures and practical work on stripping down, cleaning and oiling guns. I met some types that I had not met before, such as the Hotchkiss and Marlin machine guns. Unlike the Lewis gun, these two were fed from belts instead of a drum.
The Hotchkiss had a belt made up from metal clips holding the rounds. When the gun fired, the belt, after passing through the breech, disintegrated and scattered all over the deck with the spent cartridge cases. Fiddling thing, after firing you had to collect all the bits of belt and reassemble them with new bullets - bit like making a daisy chain. The gun's rate of fire was about 500 rounds per minute, nowhere near as fast as the good old Lewis at 700/800 r.p.m. The Hotchkiss was easy to use, but prone to stoppages if the metal clips in the belt were in the least way damaged. The Marlin was a temperamental American machine gun that had been taken out of service in 1932 and put into storage. The British, desperate for machine guns early in the war bought some from America.
Instead of firing 0.303" ammunition, the Marlin used a smaller 0.30 calibre bullet. That meant another type of ammunition had to be carried which was not interchangeable with the other machine-guns. The Marlin's belt was made from cloth, a most unsatisfactory medium, for when it got wet from rain or spray, the belt either shrank or stretched a little - just enough to cause a stoppage at a critical moment.
It had another vice too. Sometimes it got over excited and when you released the trigger to stop firing, it ignored the command and continued spitting out bullets at the rate of 450 rounds per minute. There were two ways to bring it to its senses, either let it run out of ammunition, which was expensively wasteful, or better, quickly twist the belt as it fed into the breech. That choked the bastard and stopped its little caper. A truly horrid little gun and one which I never trusted.
The launch took us back to the "Lycaon" in time for dinner. The following day was much more interesting, we were taken to the "Dome". The "Dome" was an excellent device for training gunners without using any expensive ammunition. I suppose that in its way, it was a forerunner to the modern craze of "Virtual Reality".
The "Dome" was as its name suggests, a huge hemi-spherical shaped room with its interior painted with a white matt finish. On the floor in the centre of the "Dome" was a mock up gun mounted on a pedestal. In front of the "gun" was a movie projector. Spectators sat on benches behind the "gun" position.
Let us suppose you are about to go through a training session. You walk to the "gun", get hold of the controls and swing it about a bit to get the feel of it. The instructor asks you what sort of gun you usually use, and having got your reply selects and throws an appropriate switch. He asks you to pull the trigger and as you do so, sound effects come from loud speakers, the rattle of a machine gun, if that was your choice, or a "Thump, Thump, Thump" of a Bofors should you be a gunner of that ilk.
As it fires, your "gun" projects a beam of yellow light on to the "Dome's" surface where it shows up as a little "X". You can not see the "X" because the eyepiece of the gun is fitted with yellow glass which effectively filters it out. Everybody else in the room can see exactly where you are aiming.
"OK, stop firing. When the movie projector is started, it will show on the dome, moving shots of aircraft, some friendly, mostly foes, some will attack you, some won't, sometimes there will be more than one at a time and for variety you may encounter a submarine or E-boats. Try not to shoot down our planes. Standby. Action Stations!"
The projector commences whirring and around the lower quarter of the circular walls a seascape appears. A headland is to your right and there are some clouds in the sky. The picture spans some 180° round the room and reaches up the wall to the zenith.
You look around for the enemy. No sign - or is there? What's that little dot just above the waves to your left? It is getting closer, and as it does so, you identify it as a wave hopping enemy torpedo bomber coming straight for you. You take aim and wait.
Invisible to you in yellow writing on the dome's walls is information giving the closing range of the attacking plane and the maximum effective range of your gun. When the target is in range a little yellow spot appears on the screen, this shows the point to which you should be aiming to allow for the speed of the target. If you get everything right, the little yellow "X" projected from your gun should land on the yellow spot.
You open fire and nail the torpedo bomber, but because the picture on the film cannot be changed, the plane presses on with the attack and drops the torpedo right at you and passes over your head to the accompanying roar of sound effects. The first time spectators encounter this effect, most of them instinctively duck. Do not get too smug when the instructor credits you with downing the torpedo bomber. There is more to come.
A big bomber approaches, not one of ours, but he is too high and out of your gun's range. Leave it alone, but keep an eye on it in case its being sneaky. Two smaller planes come out of a cloud bank, they are heading for the bomber. Fighters of ours about to go for the bomber? They change course and are diving down at you. Whose are they? Ours or theirs? The head on shots make them hard to identify, but the bomb slung under each plane gives a clue. Let them have it. Concentrate on one, then, quickly switch to the other. The bombs whistle down and explode somewhere, the planes thunder past, mast high.
The big bomber has turned, dived and gathering speed is making a run past you with someone else in his sights. Rake him down the side.
An E-boat appears from behind the headland, you identified it when it was broadside on but it has turned towards you and now at full throttle is kicking up a cloud of spray. It lets a couple of torpedoes go, but it is still out of range and turns away.
The instructor stops the projector, praises you for what you did right. Explains at length what you did wrong and how to correct it. "Next".
We all took turns, and as there were several films you never knew quite what to expect. Sitting down and watching other people's efforts was most instructive, for by watching that yellow spot you learned more about where you should be aiming than you could do otherwise.
The afternoon session, when we all had a second attempt showed a marked improvement in everybody's aim. Nobody shot down any of our planes for the simple reason that there were none.
On the third day we were taken high up on a headland overlooking the Med. There, cut into the cliff face was a flat area where some gun emplacements had been built. A machine gun and Oerlikon were conventionally mounted, while a 12 pdr was set on a platform that could be rocked this way and that by turning wheels by hand, thus simulating the movements of a ship.
We were to use live ammunition and our target would be a drogue towed by an aircraft. The instructor spoke into a radio telephone and not long afterwards a biplane came into view pulling behind it a red and white striped air sock.
The 12 pdr was not to fire, but the other two guns had a go. We all had a session as the biplane passed and repassed the firing range.
It was then time for the 12 pdr crew to do their stuff. The plane moved further out to sea to increase the range, the gun's crew took up their positions and volunteers manned the wheels to rock the gun platform.
The faster you turned the wheels, the more violent the movement of the platform. To the consternation of the men aiming the gun, the volunteers applied themselves to the wheels with great enthusiasm and the platform reared, plunged and rolled about like a bucking bronco.
"AVAST!! I don't want a bloody hurricane. Settle down and produce a heavy ground swell", ordered the instructor. The wheel turners reduced their frantic pace, the plane and drogue came into range, the gun fired and the shell burst close to the target.
On the plane's second pass, something did not go quite right and the shell burst much closer to the plane than the target. The radio telephone sprang to life and an aggrieved voice came over the air "I say you chaps, the general idea is to aim for the bally old sock - not at me. Do that again and I'm jolly well going home for tea!" Chastened, the gunners improved their aim and those that "rocked the boat" eased up a bit to give them a better chance. The last thing anybody wanted was an unfortunate accident.
We heard later that the plane had sustained a couple of small holes from shell fragments. The weather started to turn nasty so we packed up. The plane went home for tea and we went down to the launch, only to find that it was not there and wouldn't be available for a while.
We hung about in a shed as the weather got steadily worse, and the sea in the harbour developed a decided chop. The launch finished whatever it had been doing and arrived. We piled aboard the rolling craft, cast off, and went towards the "Lycaon". Halfway there, the coxswain decided it was too dangerous. The sea was getting rougher, the launch was shipping water faster than her pumps were clearing it, better to turn around and head back to the wharf. There were a few hairy moments while he turned the craft and was broad-side on to the waves, but she came around and we went back to the wharf.
The problem then arose as to what to do with us. The Navy made some inquiries, kept us completely uninformed as to what was going on, and finally produced a very battered old steam tug that was almost 100 years old.
We all clambered on to her and once more we set off. The old tug creaked and groaned, leaked like a sieve, but her pumps were adequate. The boiler fire was bright and cheerful and did its best to boil enough water to make up for the escaping steam that hissed and spat from every joint and gland. The steam pipes were leaking so much that it was hard to see anything through the mist. Indeed, it was a wonder that there was enough steam left over to drive the pistons.
We all clambered on to her and once more we set off. The old tug creaked and groaned, leaked like a sieve, but her pumps were adequate. The boiler fire was bright and cheerful and did its best to boil enough water to make up for the escaping steam that hissed and spat from every joint and gland. The steam pipes were leaking so much that it was hard to see anything through the mist. Indeed, it was a wonder that there was enough steam left over to drive the pistons.
We ploughed through the storm, the tug emitting smoke, sparks, clouds of steam and flickering orange light from the open furnace. Old and decrepit she may have been, but the old veteran buffeted along and clawed her way out to the "Lycaon".
She did well, and as we waved goodbye, she started off on the return trip leaving a trail of choking sulphurous smoke, sparks and steam in her wake. They don't build vessels like her any more. A pity, for although a trip on a hydrofoil might be fast and exhilarating, such a craft lacks charisma and remains aloof, whereas an old steam vessel seemingly pulsed with life, was warm, friendly and had a dogged determination to take you to whatever destination you desired.
Back on board, dinner was long since over, but the Chief Steward rustled up some cheese and biscuits and that together with cups of tea kept us going until breakfast.
Riding at anchor near us was the "Theseus", which, as you will recall had also been at the Arzew landings. She had amongst her few passengers, some of the entertainers belonging to E.N.S.A. (Entertainments National Service Association). Another ship had other members of the group, so, one afternoon the E.N.S.A. folk got together and gave us a variety show.
Crew members from all three ships sat on our hatches while the show proceeded. Two acts in particular appealed to me. The first was an excellent magician whose conjuring and card manipulation was superb. We were almost sitting in his lap, yet his illusions had us baffled, and we still could not fathom out how his tricks were done.
The other act was that of a memory man and to me his most outstanding feat was to hand the audience a very thick book. Ask him, he said, anything you wished to know about the book and he would tell you the answer.
We passed the book about amongst ourselves, there was no assistant involved. "What was the subject matter in the third paragraph on page 172?" "How many times did the word "when" appear on page 65? "Who were the characters mentioned on page 216?" "How many words on page 33?" Ask what you would about that book - I can't even remember the title - and he could not only give the correct answer, but in many instances quoted whole paragraphs from the relevant page. Incredible ability, and to me, who struggled to memorise, but four lines of poetry at school, a seemingly impossible feat. It was a good afternoon's entertainment and enjoyed by all.
A convoy of ships arrived. They were calling in on their way from South and West Africa, fully laden and on their way to England. Perhaps this was what we were waiting for. Join up with them and we will all go home together.
The Captain and Chief R/O went off to a conference next morning. While they were away a ship close to us started calling with his Aldis lamp and I went to the Bridge to answer his call. "Have you a doctor on board?" "Yes" A middy was sent at the double to get the Surgeon up to the Bridge. "We have a man with a temperature of 107 degrees. Stop. What can we do for him?" "Please Wait". The Surgeon came puffing up the ladder and I gave him the message "Geez, don't fancy his chances, but send this - Pack man in ice. Stop. Am coming over." "Will do. Thanks".
The Surgeon went for his bag. A Mate had the motor lifeboat quickly lowered and the Surgeon was transported to the other ship. He was to stay there for sometime so the lifeboat came back without him. Later, we got another signal requesting that we pick up our Sawbones. The patient, suffering from malaria, was still alive, but it was in the lap of the gods as to whether he would survive.
The Surgeon had done what he could, but there was not a great deal that could be done. The Captain and Chief R.O returned from their briefing. The good news was that we were to sail in the morning. The bad news was that we were not going home. We were to visit West Africa instead.
Instant gloom throughout the ship. A disappointed Elvira was on the 'phone that night to my Mum and told her what had happened. Mum checked with my godmother who worked in the shipping office, but could get no confirmation. Two days later she rang Mum, yes, it was true, word had gradually filtered down to the department in which she worked, the "Lycaon" was headed for West Africa.
The convoy briefly called in to Dakar on the Senegal coast, reassembled and headed for Freetown in Sierra Leone.
We took our turn at the coaling station at Freetown. No mechanical equipment there to load the coal, just endless human chains of young men and boys running up long planks lying between the ship and wharf with baskets of coal balanced on their heads.
An overseer to each chain kept a tally on how many baskets each person delivered, for the labour was paid by piecework. The coal was tipped down the bunker hatches and the human chains ran down another series of planks back to the foot of the coal stack where men shovelled coal into the never ending supply of empty baskets.
Coaling went on, hour after hour. It had a sound all of its own, a strange mixture of the continuous patter of bare feet on the steel deck, punctuated frequently by the percussion of coal clattering down the hatches, the hollow wooden sound as the planks bent by the weight of running feet bounced up and down in protest, against the deck. Above all was the constant twittering of the voices of the adolescent human chains.
Refuelled and our decks hosed down, we rejoined the convoy and continued southwards. It was hot and humid in Freetown, but bearable. However, as we approached the equator conditions became most unpleasant.
There was no forced ventilation or air conditioning on the "Lycaon" nor could you use a fan whilst at sea. The humidity and temperature rose until they were both, more often than not, well up into the nineties.
Night time was the worst, for all portholes and their deadlights had to be shut and likewise any external doors. When you turned in it was to clamber into a damp bed, still soaking from your sweat of the previous day.
The Wireless Room, with batteries on charge, was comparable to sitting in a sauna. The only way to cope with the conditions was to take two towels with you when you went on duty. As soon as you had signed on watch, you stripped to your underpants, sat on one towel and laid the other on the desk to absorb the sweat from your arms. Blotting paper was essential to protect your message pad when you wrote down incoming signals.
Mildew would grow almost anywhere and a pair of black shoes, taken off at night, would acquire a green patina of mould by breakfast time. Keeping the brass work nice and shiny was a full time chore.
From 30 miles off the coast you could smell the land, not an inviting aroma, such as you smelt off the Canadian or new Zealand shores, but a hot fetid odour of rot and decay.
The oranges that the 2nd R/O and I had purchased as a treat for our families didn't like these conditions any more than we did. Obviously they were not going to last the distance of the extended voyage. We wondered what we could do to save them and eventually decided that the only hope was to squeeze them, put the juice into bottles and add some sugar and gin. From the Cook we borrowed a fearsome squeezing device, guaranteed to extract blood from a stone, scrounged some empty bottles and corks from the Second Steward and cadged some sugar from the Chief Steward. The idea was probably OK, but as we could only afford one bottle of gin each and the corks were second hand, we were beaten before we began.
It took about two weeks before our "orange cocktail" began to get lively and blew out some of the corks. There was nothing we could do about it, so to make the best of a bad job we shared our brew around with our friends and gradually drank the lot. The taste was quite nice and although there were some doubts as to what it might do to one's innards, no one suffered any ill effects.
The Engineers were busy assembling steam coils inside two huge tanks that occupied much of the space in one of the holds. Once the coils were bottled together and tested the enormous tank tops were lowered into place and bolted down. The only access into the tank was then through a couple of manholes in the tank tops.
The deep tanks were now ready for filling with palm oil, a substance that had to be kept hot to prevent it from solidifying, hence the steam coils. The oil had to be kept within a temperature range. Get it too hot and it could be burnt, let the temperature drop too far and the oil would not circulate properly around the tank and could "gel". Let that happen and your freight profit was gone, for instead of being able to pump out the hundreds of tons of oil, the whole lot would have to be scooped into drums. A most laborious and unpleasant task. Very expensive too.
We left the convoy, headed for land and berthed alongside a wharf at Apapa, the port for Lagos, capital of Nigeria. If conditions were bad at sea with the heat and humidity, then they became even worse when we were alongside the wharf.
A steamy mist rose from the sea's surface, the air seemed to lack oxygen and what air there was smelt of decay. A most depressing place. To add to our joys, at night time the mosquitoes came out in hordes and just loved a good swig of fresh English blood.
They were not adverse to Asian blood either, as any of the Chinese were quick to tell you. Joss sticks, and smouldering anti-mosquito coils had little effect on these savagely determined insects.
Much of West Africa was known as the "White Man's Graveyard" which was true enough, but the local population suffered too and life expectancy was not much more than 35 years of age.
If the mosquitoes did not infect you with Malaria or Yellow Fever, then the Tsetse Fly could give you Sleeping Sickness in the cattle areas. Snails carrying the Bilharzia parasite in the rivers infected the drinking water. Cholera, Plague and Elephantitis were not uncommon. White men rarely lasted more than five years in the area. The pay was phenomenal, about £2,000 p.a. with low taxes, but few men ever lasted long enough to enjoy the fruits of their labour. Those that did were racked with fever and riddled with parasites. Not a nice place to visit and certainly not one of my choice.
Palm oil, a browny orange coloured fluid was pumped into the tanks, some bauxite dumped into the lower holds and we took on board a lot of bags of cocoa beans.
There was a ramshackle club adjoining the wharf which we could visit. For entertainment there was a tennis court, swimming pool, and twice a week an out-door movie show. I never saw the tennis court used, I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to play in that stifling heat. The swimming pool was a much more appealing proposition and I did have a few swims in the somewhat tepid water.
A very large hairy spider shared the shower recess with those of us who were game enough to venture into the cubicle. It was probably harmless, but its appearance was decidedly off putting and any movement by the spider brought about a rapid decampment of the other occupant of the shower recess.
Going to the pictures was quite an event. For protection from the mosquitoes it was essential to wear those hot long white drill uniforms with every button done up tightly. Once you had taken a seat on a bench, you tucked the ends of your trouser legs into the two pairs of socks you were wearing. You kept your cap on your head and smothered your face and hands with citronella. As an additional precaution, you adopted the pose of a Chinese Mandarin, and tucked your hands and wrists up the opposite sleeves of your jacket.
The mossies thought that this was a huge joke. They drank citronella as an aperitif and ran competitions among themselves to see who could bore the quickest through the drill uniform and get thoroughly tanked on your blood. Anyone who couldn't get their proboscis through the clothing and get at least one swig of blood was a wimp.
There was some local beer available in bottles. To save you the problem of opening the bottle, they came with the top removed and a straw inserted. The modus operandi for consuming the contents was to open one button on your jacket, place the bottle inside with the neck and straw sticking out, and then re-button the jacket. You were then able to put your hands back into the shelter of your sleeves, but still control the bottle resting against your chest. Such an effort to get a drink - and it wasn't as though the beer was anything special. In fact, it tasted a bit like warm soapy water and had much the same effect, except that drinking it was preferable to having it inserted. A prudent man never drank more than one bottle.
The mosquitoes infested the ship so there was no peace from them when you tried to sleep. Sure, we had our mosquito nets to rig around your bunks and they helped, but if you turned over in your sleep and rested against the net, the blood suckers swarmed in and got at you through the net.
Natives from the Local Health Department came aboard and sprayed out our quarters every couple of days. It must have done some good, but not so much that you could tell the difference once night fell.
We stayed in this hell hole for a few days and then sailed 250 miles west to Accra in Ghana. Climate wise there was no difference and the mosquitoes were just as bad. Some of the crew developed malaria and for those stricken, the Surgeon bumped up the daily dose of quinine.
We picked up more cocoa beans and bags of coffee beans. By the time we left Accra, one third of the crew were either down with or recovering from a bout of malaria.
The run from Accra to Takaradi was less than 100 miles so we just snuck along the coastline from one port to the other. Takaradi, too was a very small port and we completed loading by filling the palm oil tanks and taking on more cocoa and coffee beans.
I wasn't taking much notice, I was feeling lousy even before we arrived at Takaradi and by the time we berthed I was running a temperature and had the periodic shivers and shakes. The shaking was quite violent, sufficient to make your bunk rattle and the sweating was unbelievable. The extra doses of quinine were horrible, but the malady was worse.
Malaria is a fearful fever, it weakens you, saps your will power and leaves you exhausted. The parasites stick around in your system and now and then build up their numbers to sufficient strength to trigger off another attack. They can lie dormant tucked away in some nook and cranny of your body for years, and just when you least expect it, they come out of hiding and go on a rampage. The wretched things bothered me for years after the initial attack.
In one week while we were at Takoradi I had two attacks and dropped two stone in weight.
We sailed before I was fully recovered and that night, the midshipman who called me at midnight had to help me to the Wireless Room There I sat listening for messages that thankfully never came for I was so addled I doubt that I could have got them down correctly. To make sure I did not fall out of the chair I was tied in with my dressing gown belt. Periodically the middy popped in to make sure that I was still functioning. That was a miserable long four hours before I got back to my now very soggy bunk.
Next day I felt much better, but very weak. My Steward dragged my mattress out on to the deck to air it in the sunshine. By the time we reached Freetown again, over two thirds of the crew had been down with malaria.
All we picked up at Freetown were a number of R.A.F. personnel and they were billeted down below in the holds in what had been the accommodation for the Pioneer Corps. They didn't like it very much and like the Pioneers, before them grizzled a bit.
They reckoned the food wasn't bad though and didn't we seafaring folk get it easy. Good food, good quarters, regular working hours, no square bashing or parades and all the time having a pleasant ocean trip. There wasn't much we would say in reply, but to help them pass the time they were allocated to lookout duties and made up the extra numbers for gun's crews.
Deck games were organised for them and the D.E.M.s gunners showed them how to make their version of cricket balls. Cut two thick waisted "8" shaped pieces of felt from the Oerlikon ammunition boxes and sew them together. Before you make the last lot of stitches, stuff the ball with a discarded heavy metal nut wrapped in cotton waste.
Inventive lads the D.E.M.s gunners, they had a little workshop right up in the forecastle where they were making cigarette lighters. They cut the round centre section out of a spent Oerlikon cartridge, squashed it enough to make it oval in section for the body. From brass flat bar they formed, by filing, the bottom and top of the body. The wheels which rubbed the flint were cut from a round file that had been heated to lose its temper.
The parts were soldered together and the various holes drilled and tapped to take the necessary screws and wick. Solder a M.N. badge on the side, polish up the lighter and you had an excellent souvenir. Sell a few and you had enough cash for more than enough pints plus the cost of the bits and pieces that were easier to purchase than make yourself.
The convoy plodded northwards, out past the Canary Islands and far out off the coast of Spain. We were well on our way home, but sadly, there were a number of men who were not going to make the distance. Each morning one or two ships called the Commodore and requested permission to drop to the rear of the convoy to bury their dead. These were the men for whom malaria had proved to be just too much strain.
The troopships, not surprisingly, made the greatest number of requests, and as the weather got colder, malaria seemed to make an extra determined effort to claim its victims. Happily we lost no one on the "Lycaon", but there were some pretty sick members amongst the crew.
Late one lovely afternoon towards the end of April there was a gentle swell running and the sea was fairly smooth with just a little chop on some of the waves. The convoy was moving steadily but somewhat slowly northwards and was well out to sea from the Bay of Biscay.
One of the Mates and I were standing on the port wing of the Bridge watching the Commodore for it was almost time for him to give his usual routine signals concerning his orders for the night. The lookout, high up in the Crow's Nest saw it first and yelled the warning. The Mate and I spotted it at the same time and pointed towards the track of a torpedo heading straight at us from a bearing some 60º off the port bow.
The Mate bolted for the wheel house and ordered the helm to be put hard over to turn us towards the on-rushing torpedo. The middy was blowing signals on the ship's whistle to warn other ships of the incoming danger.
A torpedo travelled at a speed of about 30 knots, so from the time we first spotted its track, at a distance of 200 yards, less than 15 seconds would elapse before it arrived. I looked for other tracks - there were none. I looked at the Commodore - no signals. I looked at the track of bubbles and disturbed water heading for us.
The torpedo was running close to the surface and as it passed through the swell its propeller now and again kicked up a little spray. I reckoned it was going to strike us well up towards the front of the ship and as we so slowly turned to face the menace it became more obvious that we were going to be hit on the bow. Ah well, at least there was no one in that part of the ship, but Oh Boy, weren't the D.E.M.s fellows going to be furious when they lost their workshop and the nearly finished cigarette lighters.
The torpedo was upon us. I crouched down below the steel plating at the front of the Bridge and waited for the explosion. None came. So after a couple of seconds I cautiously put my head up and saw the torpedo track on the other side of the bow. The torpedo had missed, but by no more than a few feet.
There is a little bit of water right in front and close to the bow of a ship that cannot be seen from the Bridge because of the flare of the bow. That torpedo had passed through that "blind" spot.
No second torpedo was coming that I could see, but the one that missed us carried on towards the next column of ships in the convoy. It missed the stern of the "Theseus" by much the same margin as it had missed us. Indeed, it passed between her stern and the point where the line towing her log entered the water.
The torpedo kept on going and I moved to the back of the Bridge to watch its progress. In the next column it found its mark. The smallest ship in the convoy, laden with a solid cargo of iron ore. The exploding torpedo blew her into halves. Her bow and stern rose up in the air, seawater rushed into her furnaces and boilers causing them to explode. The iron ore tore her bottom out and in less than ten seconds there were only a few bits and pieces to be seen floating on the sea amongst the air bubbles bursting on the surface.
Anyone who was not on deck at the time of the first explosion would not have had the slightest chance of survival, and even for those on deck, the odds would not have been too good.
The escorts were frantically trying to locate the sub that had made the attack, but got no joy.
I suspect that the U-boat followed the torpedo and had come in under the convoy and sheltered there until it was safe to sneak away. The fact that only one torpedo was fired from such a good position made us think that the sub must have been at the end of its patrol and had no more tin-fish left.
That night we noticed that most of our airmen passengers were sleeping on deck, or had tucked themselves away in lifeboats. The fearsome loss of the small ship had changed their views of life at sea and they no longer made wise cracks about our cushy existence.
Some of them never went below decks again, preferring to stay out in all weathers rather than run the risk of being caught below should we be torpedoed.
The "Lycaon's" reputation of being lucky held good and she berthed at Birkenhead on 13th May 1943. Elvira was pleased to see me, but said that there had been a couple of occasions during the voyage that she could have done without.
Chapter Seven.