大象传媒

Story written up by Karen Rouse-Deane for the 大象传媒 Open Centre in Hull.

Following an early Commodore鈥檚 Conference, a procession of about twenty vessels filed out to sea and after some confused manoeuvring, assumed allotted convoy positions; a brave sight indeed, position flags flapping at the masthead and homeward bound in our thoughts. The weather cooperated fully with our progress, despite the sustained roll that we in the 鈥楨gyptian鈥� endured. Fiddles were up and in position at the saloon table with everything lashed down that might move, even so it was an uncomfortable wallowing sort of progress, making for an uneasy sleep with knees wedged hard against the bunk side board.
The wind freshened as the flotilla with its escorts, two frigates, two corvettes headed Northwest then due North. Classed as a 鈥榮low convoy鈥�, seven knots was a fair speed but our 鈥榦ld tub鈥� was hard-pressed to keep up as the weather deteriorated and the roll more violently pronounced, accompanied by a thumping, teeter-totter pitch. Food became the last thing on our minds, we gratefully accepted a couple of ship鈥檚 biscuits dunked in hot cocoa 鈥� sometime we kept it down!
Towards the end of February with even stiffer North Easterly winds and dropping temperatures we reverted to warmer, winter clothing and dug out the oil-skins. Still heading North, on a parallel due West of the Canary Islands, the escort constantly exhorting us to 鈥榢eep station鈥�, we knew the old girl was faltering as twice we dropped up to ten miles or so astern for 鈥榤inor鈥� steerage repairs. Incredibly there had been no U-boat contact but as February died on us, a nasty reminder dropped out of the clouds.
The Focke-Wulf Kondor 鈥� a four-engined German bomber mainly used for naval reconnaissance provided much information on convoy whereabouts to U-boats and like a vulture in the desert following a caravan, it was just about as welcome. It floated in and out of medium heavy cloud as the convoy under 鈥榓ction stations鈥� loosed off a fairly ineffectual umbrella of shell-bursts and machine-gun fire.
Our luck still held, after nosing around for ten minutes it climbed into overcast and disappeared. The next alert, again an aircraft attack warning came the following day; our position was obviously charted by the enemy and our vigil increased. The skies had temporarily cleared as our friend the Kondor appeared at about ten thousand feet. So busy were we, waiting and watching for the bombs to fall that no-one noticed at first that a second aircraft had joined us 鈥� quickly identified as a Catalina flying boat, one of ours! For the next half-hour these two heavyweights danced around the ring, never crossing over the convoy and never getting too close to one another. The result of such a duel might have proved interesting but fortunately, the Kondor tired first, then retired into heavy cloud to the East. March did indeed come in like a lion.
As we steamed and battled our way Northward, the wind sharpened it鈥檚 bite with hail and freezing rain, howling in the rigging like crazy banshee.
Nosing into the dark troughs, our bows disappeared into walls of water, we no longer counted up to thirteen, the pitch was more hair-raising than the roll!
Somewhere west of Ireland we misplaced the convoy, the North Atlantic Ocean seemed terribly large and we were awful small; double lookouts scanned the sea and the sky but we were apparently the lone vessel in this storm-tossed world. With only a couple of days to go to reach our destination Greenock, it would indeed have been an ironic twist of Fate if anything happened at that point.
As darkness descended, we turned Easterly to run up to the North Channel. At midnight I was heading up to the wireless shack at the rear of the bridge to commence my watch when raised voices from the bridge caught my attention 鈥� perhaps I should more correctly say a 鈥榬aised voice鈥�. The Old Man was screaming his head off from his cabin and laced into the Second Officer who clutching a chart, stood near the binnacle; from the look of him I figured he鈥檇 do better clutching his heart.
鈥淣ot yet, not yet 鈥� hard-a-port-due North, -you blind son-of-b!xM- can鈥檛 you see the breakers? Hell you can hear them!鈥� I had never seen the Captain lose it like this and quietly disappeared to the wireless shack. Whilst I couldn鈥檛 hear the breakers I could certainly see them 鈥� a thin, ragged white line with plumes at intervals near the horizon off to our starboard side as the ship, answering the helm swung to head North. Another blinding squall blotted out visibility as we steamed on for another six hours before turning East again.
Next day I sneaked a look at the charts, to satisfy my curiosity. Our first turn before the Captain intervened would, it appeared, have put us on the rocks at Bloody Foreland in County Donegal! I also noted our projected course meant turning East past Malin Head, we鈥檇 actually at first turned East to pass Malinmore Head 鈥� fifty miles South. No, I couldn鈥檛 believe that! And still the real story eludes me, the Second Mate certainly wasn鈥檛 talking.
Working our way into the Firth of Clyde around the Mull of Kintyre brought back a flood of memories 鈥� this was home territory 鈥� ahead lay Ayrshire and Prestwick, No 1 A.O.N.S. In 1939, call-up for the R.A.F. had located me at this Air Observer Navigation School, all my navigational training had been done here and in the surrounding skies.
So we proceeded around the Isle of Arran and up the Clyde, a dirty British steamer, salt-encrusted and ancient, listing badly, limping home. I promised myself I would never forget her- it was no sailor鈥檚 promise!

EPILOGUE

Our goodbyes were cursory and brief. Paid-off in Glasgow, we struggled to the station with kit-bags and cases and I guess the real world seemed unreal until the ground settled down under my feet. I travelled home to Yorkshire for a short leave, my shipmates already had become casual acquaintances, our paths never again crossing.

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