大象传媒

I suppose I can class myself as being one of the lucky ones, although the youth of today wouldn鈥檛 think so. I was just sixteen years old when I joined Silver Lines SS Silverceder as a Peggy, as a deck boy I ran errands and fetched food whilst learning deck duties and the running of a ship. We were bound for New York and I was excited, but I was about to grow up fast. It was quite rough and everyone seemed to not mind. I soon found out why, as the weather abated, the wolf packed closed in on us and I witnessed for the first time, ships in my convoy being torpedoed. The memories are forever with me, feeling the explosions hitting the hull like a giant hammer, then watching with fear and disbelief as the crews of the stricken ships, jumped into the freezing oil heavy sea. Our orders were clear, we could not help. Whenever possible an escort destroyer would lower nets and ropes, sadly only the strong and able were saved, the rest were left and their cries for help were etched forever in all our minds.

I left the Silverceder on August 11th 1941, just as well as a u-boat sank it two months later, along with its captain and twenty of the crew.

A former Blue Funnel Line Ship renamed the SS Botavon, was my next ship on which I witnessed the same horrifying events. Whilst in convoy, I myself now hoped for bad weather. I resigned on the Botavon at Hull on the 28th October 1941, where we loaded Churchill and Matilda tanks. We left Hull not knowing our destination, but we had suspicions that it would be somewhere very cold. We arrived at Reykjavik and were told we were bound for Archangel, but we were informed later it was frozen up, so without escort (known as running h gauntlet) we left for Murmansk. Conditions were terrible; the heads were frozen and we had to use buckets to wash in, buckets for toilets, paper carefully
Placed around the rim prevented your backside freezing to them. Normal deck duties were not possible, so we continually chipped ice from the weather side, as the sea froze on the deck. We wore two long-johns, jerseys and heavy and heavy duffle coats and we were still freezing. Our feet ached due to too many socks squeezed into sea boots. Not knowing who was who, among all the balaclavas, we jointly hacked away as the ice had to be cleared to maintain the ships stability. I remember the lookout falling off the last steps from up on the monkey island, after a two hour watch. He struggled to his feet then walked off towards the accommodation like a zombie with icicles hanging like fangs from his balaclava. Even with both bogies blazing full out, there was ice adorning the bulkheads. The four blankets, a pillar and a very solid straw mattress weren鈥檛 much comfort and we all slept in our clothes. There were fourteen of us crammed in two-tier iron beds, the place stank awful and it was hard getting to sleep, with the noise of the screw thumping and cavitating and always in everyone鈥檚 mind was the fear of attack, then a struggling end in the black icy water.

We arrived, tired but safe in Murmansk. The ship had a heavy list to port, due to the ice that clung like a big claw trying to pull us over. Everyone looked as if they were on fire with their breath billowing steam into the air. It was 50 degrees below and freezing, hardly any men were seen; hard faced women wrapped in anything flexible with sacking wrapped round their feet, swarming down the holds and onto the winches, then began unloading the tanks, spare parts and ammo as efficient as any dockworker back home. As soon as the tanks touched the dockside, they exploded into life filling the air with black smoke and fumes. Then one after another, they began their one-way journey to the battlefront. We gave them tea, which they eagerly drank whilst huddled in our deckhouse around the two blazing bogies. They smiled and thanked us with true sincerity. The conditions they lived in were terrible.

We left cold Russia, bound for South Shields; we were off the tip of Norway and I was dashing from the galley, struggling to hold onto the two lifelines, which led to the accommodation aft, with two-food billy鈥檚 each containing four sections holding meat, vegetables and stew. I had to be fast or I鈥檇 get blamed for the food being cold. Suddenly the lookout called out while pointing, they called out, 鈥淪tukas! Stukas! There was a roaring sound, and then the pinging of metal, as bullets sparked all round us. I raced undercover, leaving heaps of steaming food on the deck, much to the cook鈥檚 annoyance. South Shields was a welcoming site after running the gauntlet for almost 138 days at sea. I asked if the ship would be returning to Russia. 鈥淢ost probably鈥�, was the reply. 鈥淣ot on your nelly鈥�, was mine!

I left the Botavon on the 10th March 1942, though sadly an air-launched torpedo sank her seven weeks later, with a loss of twenty of her crew and one gunner, whilst she was heading for Murmansk.

I am eighty years old now, yet when I close my eyes, I still see my brave comrades who paid the ultimate price

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