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In May 1942, I was appointed one of two chief radio officers on the SS Atlantic. The Atlantic was a cargo ship, at that time being loaded at Sunderland Docks with Hurricane fighter planes, explosives and other war supplies, destined for Russia by the northern route.

How to avoid frostbite

We were all issued with arctic clothing, fur-lined coats, sea boots and so on, and a list of instructions on how to avoid frostbite. The sea boots were of thick leather that was as hard as iron and came with the legs folded flat. It was quite an effort to force them open enough to get a foot down inside, but once they had been broken in they were wonderful.

We sailed in convoy round the north of Scotland to Loch Ewe and then to Hvalfjord, Iceland, where we were joined by a convoy from America. Here I was given a third radio officer so we could keep a 24-hour listening watch for U-boats and plot their bearing. The voyage from the UK to Iceland had been this officer's first taste of the sea, and apparently he’d been seasick the whole time.

Leaving for Russia

On 21 May our convoy of 36 merchant ships, PQ16, set off for Russia with an initial escort of a minesweeper and four armed trawlers. We sailed between Iceland and Greenland and continued in a north-easterly direction, keeping as far away from Norway as the Arctic ice would allow.

On the 23rd we were joined by a destroyer, three corvettes, a fleet oiler and a merchant ship converted to an anti-aircraft warship.

The SS Atlantic had a three-inch Bofors cannon, four 20mm (four-fifths of an inch) Oerlikon cannon, two Hotchkiss machine guns and rocket projectiles as well as a four-inch naval gun, which was only of use against surface targets. The guns were manned by navy and army Defence-equipped Merchant Ships’ (DEMS) gunners and members of the ship's crew.

U-boat, aircraft and battleship protection

Early on the 25th, we were joined by four heavy cruisers and eight destroyers, so we now had protection against U-boats, aircraft and enemy battleships. The cruisers stationed themselves within the columns of the convoy.

Soon we were spotted by a Focke-Wulf or FW Condor. From then on we always had one of these spotters circling the convoy out of gun range, day and night — only there was no night, just 24 hours of daylight.

Attacked by torpedo bombers

During the day hours we passed a homeward-bound convoy, QP12. In the evening we were attacked by He-111 torpedo bombers and JU-88 dive bombers. The Hurricane on Catapult-armed Merchantman or CAM-ship the Empire Lawrence was launched and shot down one at least one He 111. Then the Hurricane itself was shot up, and the pilot had to bail out and be picked up by an escort vessel.

One of the cruisers fired its 15mm (six-inch) guns straight over us, and the ear-shattering 'crack' had to be experienced to be believed. It shook a lot of rust out of hidden spaces. One bomb damaged a merchant ship, which had to return to Iceland.

Late in the evening a dozen JU-88 dive bombers made an attack without causing any damage. Early the following morning a merchant ship was sunk by a U-boat. After this, the cruisers and three destroyers left the convoy.

No losses in two air attacks

On the 26th, there was persistent low cloud. Despite this, two air attacks occurred without losses.

Wednesday, the 27th, was a different story. Because of ice, the convoy was forced to sail close to North Cape and the enemy airfield at Banak. Visibility was good except for a high film of stratus.

Waves of bomb and torpedo attacks

The first attack came at 3.20am but did no damage. Then, from 11am until 9pm, the convoy was subjected to waves of bomb and torpedo attacks. The gunners sometimes hardly had a break. No sooner had one wave left than a new group of attackers would be sighted, although much of the time was spent just standing by the guns.

The torpedo bombers, the He 111s, would circle the convoy in groups, out of gun range, while the dive bombers, the JU 88s climbed high above the convoy, hiding themselves above the stratus. The only way to pinpoint their position was by watching where the guns of the anti-aircraft ship were pointing. It had radar, but its guns weren’t firing because the range was too great. The enemy would attack in a group, countered by an impressive display of tracers and shell bursts.

A glimpse of the action

I caught only glimpses of the action, because my post was in the radio room. None the less, I witnessed a cheeky incident during a lull between attacks, when the only plane in sight was the Condor spotter, circling the convoy at low level.

Our ship was near the starboard side of the convoy, in the second row. We were watching from the bridge as the leading destroyer on that side made a series of high-speed dashes diagonally away from the convoy. It did so whenever the spotter was out of sight on the opposite side. Then it would drop back to the convoy course and nine-knot speed as soon as the spotter came round again.

After doing this a few times it got gradually nearer to the spotter's orbit, by as much as a mile, without its action being detected. Finally, the destroyer fired two shells, after which there was a tense wait. Two puffs of smoke indicating shell bursts appeared just ahead of the spotter, only close enough to make it bank away steeply to a wider orbit. Ah, well, whether a regular tactic or simply a one-off, it had been a good try.

In dire straits

We learnt later that a U-boat wolf pack had failed to make contact with us. One or two individual submarines had got close, but they were driven off. At the end of the day — it seemed it would never end — five merchant ships were sunk and three badly damaged but still able to carry on. Other ships suffered only minor damage.

Taking stock, ships were being sunk at the rate of one every two hours. We still had at least 60 hours’ sailing to get to Murmansk with 29 merchant ships left. Moreover, our ship had used up more than half its ammunition, and presumably the others were in similar straits.

If the pace of the attacks was kept up, the arithmetic seemed to add up to the possibility of all our ships being sunk. The usual 'It can't happen to us', usually indicating a degree of confidence that nothing could happen to our ship, came to mean that even if the ship were sunk we had every hope of survival.

Everything depended on where the bomb or torpedo would strike. No. 3 hold was full of explosives. If that were hit, we would all disappear in a flash of light and a cloud of smoke — one ship had already done so.

The pressure slackens off

Fortunately, it transpired that the worst was over. The Luftwaffe weren’t able to keep up the pressure. As the 27th rolled into the 28th, the sky began to cloud over, making it difficult for the dive bombers. There was only one air attack, late in the evening, without any loss.

By this time we had been joined by three Russian destroyers, which put up a terrific anti-aircraft barrage. They didn't seem to stay with us very long — the rumour going round was that they had used up all their ammunition.

Heading for the Kola Inlet

Early on the 29th, there was another air attack, which was beaten off without loss. Late in the evening the convoy split up, six ships going to Archangel, which had just become free of ice, and the rest, including our ship, heading for the Kola Inlet.

Shortly after the parting of the ways, we were attacked by JU 88s, some going for the Archangel section and the rest attacking us. Both attacks were beaten off without loss.

About noon on the following day, just as we were lining up to enter the Kola Inlet, we suffered the final bombing raid, this time by JU 87s, the dreaded Stuka dive bombers. I have not seen mention of JU 87s in any publication, so this might be a case of mistaken identification. In any event, Hurricanes of the Russian Air Force drove them off.

Rum on arrival

We were greatly relieved to arrive, and the captain issued generous amounts of rum to celebrate. This was the first drop of alcoholic refreshment we had enjoyed since Sunderland.

In Murmansk, depending on the weather, we were subjected to almost daily air raids. The start of a raid was heralded by dozens of old biplane fighters circling up and up to reach a sufficiently high altitude to intercept the bombers. When the enemy arrived, the sky filled with shell bursts, around which dodged both attackers and defenders, Hurricanes now included. Bombs dropped, until, gradually, the action died down.

Strangely enough, now we were relatively safe in harbour and not allowed to use our guns, we felt more like spectators than potential targets. We didn't hear of any ships being damaged during these raids, although a lot of dud incendiary bombs landed on some of the ships near by.

A ghost town

Murmansk itself appeared virtually to have closed down. There was one restaurant that was open, where the food was not as good as we could get aboard ship, and a small club, where we could buy iced tea and some kind of soft drink. Both venues were reserved for use by non-Russians.

The girls in the club were quite friendly, but when, despite the language difficulties, we tried to chat them up outside they kept casting worried eyes at two uniformed men watching at a distance.

Dancing in sea boots

One evening some of us trudged through the snow to a local dance. It was the only time I have ever been to a dance in sea boots, but then all the Russians, male and female, were wearing similar footwear.

We soon sensed we were tolerated rather than welcomed and left. It may have been that the locals were chary of appearing too friendly in case they fell foul of the police. We had heard that Russians suspected of being friendly with foreigners were liable to be arrested and imprisoned. In contrast, the dockers who were unloading the ship were quite amicable. We were even invited aboard one Russian cargo ship by the crew.

Surprisingly relaxed

Despite all the rumours about red tape and officiousness, Murmansk was the only port I ever visited during the war in which the ship's radio transmitters were not sealed to prevent them being used in port.

Nobody objected either when we inspected closely the workings of some General Grant tanks on the quayside, although a sentry did become very threatening when we tried to collect souvenirs from a shot-down aircraft.

Accommodating convoy survivors

Meanwhile, we were all aware that survivors from the section of the convoy that had succumbed to attack were having a pretty rough time of it. Billeted in a ramshackle camp further down the inlet, nobody seemed to know what to do about them.

With this in mind, our chief officer called all the other officers into the saloon. His proposal was that each of us might share our cabin with a surviving fellow officer. There was the facility to do this with each cabin furnished with a full-length settee as well as a bunk. Accommodation for other ranks was to be provided in an upper hold; army gunners were already thus accommodated.

Like camping in a corridor

The scheme was adopted, and survivors were distributed among the various ships. We three radio officers were joined by the three fellow officers from the CAM-ship Empire Lawrence. All of them insisted on sharing our duties. I had started the voyage with one assistant. Now I had five.

On cargo ships, which in peace time only had one radio officer, it was usual to have the radio officer's cabin next to the radio office or at least accessed through it. The SS Atlantic was different, in that everyone had to go through my cabin to get to the radio office.

With one lodger and four radio officers constantly passing through, as well as the odd visitor, I sometimes felt I was camping in a corridor. That didn't worry me. Still a teenager, like all the other radio officers except one, I had the optimism and resilience of youth.

Leaving Murmansk

Eventually, all the ships were discharged. Some, like ours, had been loaded up with cargo for the return trip. On 27 June, four weeks after our arrival, we left Murmansk in convoy QP13. At the same time, the next supply convoy, PQ17, left Iceland for Archangel.

The following day we met up with the PQ16 ships that had gone to Archangel, plus some that had been frozen in there all winter. We were soon spotted by a German plane, though no attacks followed.

The disaster that befell PQ17

On 2 July we passed PQ17. The following day we split up, and, with 18 other ships, headed for Loch Ewe. The rest of the ships headed for Iceland.

At Loch Ewe all the survivors we’d accommodated were taken ashore, and we docked finally at Leith to discharge our cargo. We were fully expecting to go back to Russia, but, instead, we were despatched to Philadelphia, USA, because the Russian convoys had been cancelled. It was only later that I heard of the disaster that had befallen PQ17. The Germans, it seemed, had preferred to concentrate their fire on them.

Postscript

The third radio officer, having been seasick on the way to Iceland, was seasick on leaving Iceland, and again on the way to Loch Ewe. But in Leith he was introduced to beer, and having been sick on that he was never seasick again.

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