大象传媒

TORPEDOED IN THE ATLANTIC

My dear father, Leonard Temple, died eight years ago, in the same year as Princess Diana and Mother Teresa.

I meant to do this even in his life-time, at last I am putting out the story that he laboriously typed out himself, of his journey from his beloved Rio, Brazil to enlist for WWII.

I notice now that being a very modest man he has not embellished the tale by telling how he gave his jacket to the freezing, homesick cabin boy on the raft after his ship was torpedoed. Neither has he divulged the episode when, refusing to give in to the demon of nausea, he ate the kippers of twelve of his crew mates who felt too green to consume their breakfasts!

I am posting this story in totally unedited form. If anybody wants to publish it further afield I am happy to copy edit.

Here is his tale:

"Anglo-Brazilian, as the name implies, half English and half Brazilian. In my case, born in Brazil of English parents. There were quite a number of us half-breeds in Rio when World War Two broke out in 1939. We all held two passports, one our birthright and the other hereditary. Many of us, whether fired by patriotism or appalled by Hitler's foul deeds, volunteered to go to England to fight in the cause of freedom together with scores of ex-patriots working in the country. There was conscription in Brazil and when my military papers were cleared at the age of 26 I joined the British volunteers. I worked in a British bank and several of the staff enlisted, four of us eventually flew with the R.A.F.

All set with Brazilian passport with which to leave the country and a British one with which to enter England, I proceeded to Santos to embark for the U K. The single railway track from Rio to Sao Paulo took some twelve hours, followed by a gentle slope down to Santos and a glimpse of what was to take us across the Atlantic, the 鈥淏ritanny", a 4,500 ton freighter. After being used to seeing luxurious liners like the "Andes" and the "Arandora Star" also other magnificent ships docking in Rio, our transport was not exactly awe inspiring. Still, it had a crew of 54 and took on 4 volunteers, 3 British and one French.

We set sail on Tuesday the 22nd September 1942, zigzagging across the Atlantic to Freetown in Sierra Leone, where we arrived some ten days later. Here we waited at the river mouth for a week or so without going ashore, for a convoy to assemble. Eventually 44 ships gathered in eleven columns, 4 deep, with a corvette on each side and set sail for Blighty. The "Britanny", counting from the left, was in the tenth column, second vessel down. The whole convoy zigzagged along so as to misguide our course to any submarines that might be prowling. The four volunteers got to know each other quite well: Boris Trapp, British born from Sao Paulo, who knew Russian fluently and hoped to join the Intel1igence, Gordon Jackson, another ex-patriot working in Sao Paulo and George Steinberg, a Brazilian Paulista of French parentage.

After a week the sea was rough, a storm raging with gale force winds.
It was a Tuesday evening when the First Officer calmly came out with - "I don't want to alarm you boys but keep lifebelts and survival kit handy, from now on, as submarines are known to he in the vicinity." A little excitement at last, we thought.

Ten minutes later there was a loud explosion and a ship on our left, the first in the 9th column, went up in flames. It was the 鈥淪tentor鈥�, which must have been carrying some very inflammable cargo. How anyone survived I don't know, however, some minutes later I did see a couple of lifeboats tossing about like corks on the angry sea. As other ships began to sink, we realised it was a pack of submarines. The whole convoy sent up flares to light up the skies, trying to locate the submarines. In more peaceful times it would have been a magnificent fireworks display. The convoy did not stop to pick up survivors, just continued on its zigzag course. By daylight peace again reigned. Some four vessels were missing.

Wednesday evening, after dark, there was another fireworks display and next morning four or five more ships had gone down.

By Thursday the 鈥淏rittany鈥� was now the second ship in the ninth or outer column. At about 9pm, fireworks again and some five minutes later, the first mate or the chief officer explained that instructions from the commander of the convoy were that should there be another attack, the two outer ships were to turn at right angles to the convoy and proceed at full speed for ten minutes, and thus escape from the main target of the subs. He was lightly dressed, going for a kip on deck, confident that we were now out of danger. Some five minutes later, as the 鈥淏rittany鈥� was chugging along at full speed with sparks flying out of her funnel, there was an explosive bang and a terrific thud on our port (left) side. We passengers were sitting in the lounge on the boat deck. One of us came out with - "That's us boys". After politely saying to the other three -"After you", I gently strolled to the lifeboats. There were four in all, two on each side, by the time I reached the one allocated to me, number one on the starboard side, it was halfway down so I dashed on to the second one and then the trouble began. Two crew stayed aboard to lower the lifeboat, a hoist at each end had to be manipulated simultaneously to let the boat descend evenly. In our case, the man handling the front end let it go rip, while the chap holding the rear was steady so that the boat went front down and rear up. We all thought that we were going to be thrown into the sea. A cabin boy sitting next to me panicked - "Mother, mother!" he called out - "We're all going to die". Luckily the rear was being worked by one of the cadets, Robert Manley, who managed to straighten the drop. There were four oars on each side of the lifeboat, each handled by two people. As mentioned there was a roaring gale and a raging sea and the harder we tried to row away from the sinking ship the more the wind blew us towards it and eventually round the stern to the port side and by now the stricken vessel was turning over to port. As she was capsizing, it was apparent that the mast was going to strike the lifeboat and take it down with it. Several chaps dived overboard to avoid being hit by the mast. I stayed put and was just spared being hit by the great mass. I now found myself in the sea, luckily with lifebelt on and survival kit strapped to the waist. Miraculously a raft came in sight and I managed to scramble on, joining some other four survivors. The timing had been: 9.15pm first torpedo, 9.17 a second one and at 9.22 we saw the ill-fated "Britanny" turn turtle and in an undignified position, with her propellers in the air, dive into the deep Atlantic. The raft consisted of four barrels, one at each corner with wooden planks in between and raised on each side forming two bunks or benches upon which we sat. After a couple of hours, we were mostly in the sea, as three out of the four barrels were taking water. This was no joke, so we decided to call for help, hoping that one of the lifeboats would hear us and come to our aid. The strategy was - 1, 2, 3 - "HELP". This was repeated again and again but to no avail. There was no means of propulsion, no oars, just the high seas with towering waves tossing us about like some flotsam or jetsam. The crew were armed with police type whistles but the constant blowing brought the same negative result. At about 12.30 am there was the sound of a whistle approaching, it was Robert Manley, who had dived off the lifeboat some two hours earlier. We yanked him aboard, his first words were - "Isn't it just about time for cocoa?". Cocoa used to be served on the "Britanny" as a nightcap.

The barrels were now taking in water speedily, we were getting more and more immersed in the ocean. After five hours in that storm ridden sea none of us thought that we would see the dawn. I hadn't told my widowed mother, who was very sick in a sanatorium in Devon, that I was on my way to England and my only thoughts were for her and the probability that she would never see me again. Suddenly looming out of the dark a ship appeared and manoeuvred towards us. The crew sent down ropes and pulled us aboard one by one. It was the "Kelantan", a flat-bottomed river boat of some 1200 tons, that had been taken over by the Royal Navy after the fall of Malay and was also part of the convoy. Trouble had developed with the steering gear which caused it to lag behind and bump into the lifeboats and us. I was taken below, given some Navy Rum which was promptly spewed up. Then meeting the lucky ones who had also been picked up, so happy to greet each other with embraces full of joy.

Not so good for some. The second torpedo had exploded under number two lifeboat on the port side, throwing people back on board, poor Gordon Jackson was killed as were others of the crew and some were trapped in the engine room. Winsor, our steward, did not have the strength to hang onto the rope that was handed down to him and was swept away under the ship. May, the chief steward, was over 50, what I then assumed to be elderly, had a heart attack and died when hauled aboard. He was buried at sea the next day. The toll: out of 58 people aboard, 14 lost their lives.

The following afternoon, we caught up with the convoy and again in the evening another fireworks display and more ships sunk. Saturday morning, a destroyer joined the convoy and a little later when it was some 600 yards on our right, it flashed - "There is a submarine on your starboard beam. " We could see it dropping depth charges after which there were no more attacks and we proceeded to the UK. As mentioned the "Kelantan" had been taken over by the Royal Navy, a round of duty was four hours on and four hours off. There was little accommodation aboard and one was lucky to catch a little sleep on a petty officer's bed during his four hours of duty. Nobody worried about clean sheets, any port in a storm. Alternatively one would steal a nap in an armchair. Somehow or other, we lost the depleted convoy and after 10 days of the Navy's hospitality, on the 8th of November, a Sunday, docked in Greenock, the port of Glasgow. How wonderful to tread on terra firma after 47 days at sea. Strange the land appeared to go up and down as if it were a ship riding the waves. Alas my joy was short-lived as my mother died three weeks later, thankfully unaware of her son鈥檚 hazardous voyage.

I afterwards learnt that out of the 44 ships in the convoy 18 were sunk and that we were torpedoed 50 miles west of Madeira.

Fortunately I kept my two passports on me and though they had water damage I was legally admitted into Great Britain.

I joined the RAF and after initial training was posted to South Africa for Final Navigation Courses. During the voyage the convoy was attacked by Messerschmidts in the Mediterranean. Unfortunately two ships were sunk and there was one fatal casualty aboard before our anti-aircraft guns shot down an enemy plane. I remember vividly that during this attack four of us were calmly finishing a rubber of bridge on the mess deck.

Back in England as a sergeant navigator I eventually joined 296 squadron belonging to 38 group, the airborne airforce, responsible for dropping supplies, paratroops and towing gliders. It was part of Fighter Command. We flew Halifaxes, four engined bombers, with a crew of seven who affectionately called me 鈥� 鈥淭hat Anglo-Brazilian Jew".

After the war in Europe ended, the group was taken over by Transport Command and the Halifaxes were fitted with paniers in the bomb bays for carrying mail and other freight. By now, after also being a Flight Sergeant, I was commissioned and duties included taking Hali鈥檚 to and from India, Iraq, Egypt, Malta and other interesting places.

Eventually 296 squadron was disbanded and I was due to be repatriated, but having met a delightful English girl, I married her and have lived in England ever since. I still, however, frequently remember with sadness, my three aircrew colleagues from the bank who were shot down and did not survive, the 14 missing from the "Britanny" and the many volunteers from Brazil who never returned."

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