大象传媒

SUMMATION OF THE SALIENT EXPERIENCES OF RICHARD WILLIAM GOULD DURING WORLD WAR II 鈥� 1939-1946

As the year 2003 draws to a close, I reflect on the events of my life with the sagacity of an eighty-two year who has lived a full and colourful life. My only real claim to fame is that I managed to survive the experiences and repercussions of World War II and I feel that it is now time to share my war experiences with my family. Indeed, I am a survivor. But how can one survive the emotional, spiritual and psychological angst that is manufactured in the theatre of war? The New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary dedicates almost an entire page to the implications of war, yet, despite explicating the many adjuncts of war, it ironically fails to define the persona of 鈥榳ar victim鈥� or 鈥榳ar survivor鈥�. This suggests to me that even the succinct superlatives embedded in a language that propagates a love of crown, flag and Empire, cannot define the scarred psyche of those like me who witnessed one of the greatest conflicts of the modern world. I have seen at first hand the reality and actuality of human hostility, ideological, political and physical conflict. I have seen destruction beyond human comprehension. Aggression, strife, maiming and killing are as history confirms, an inherent facet of the universal human condition. This knowledge however, does little to neutralize the ongoing guilt that being a survivor engenders. Why should I have been spared to tell my tale when so many others perished? For me then, war signifies the oppression of the weak by the strong, the manipulation of the masses by the few, futility, human hatred, jealousy and greed. The evils of human warfare have tainted my life, scarred my personality and maimed me emotionally. As I recall and record the events that have haunted me for most of my life then, I am left wondering why survivors of both World Wars were deprived of monetary compensation, psychological counselling or even recognition for their immense sacrifice. It is not surprising that war veterans like myself cringe at newly coined phrases such as 鈥楶ost Gulf War Syndrome鈥�. In my day, it was summarily assumed that survival was compensation enough. But what of the courageous young men like me who fought patriotically for king, flag and country? What respite has there been from the grotesque images imprinted on the human psyche? How does one explain human suffering, the loss of loved ones, the theft of one鈥檚 youth? Six years of our nation鈥檚 young potential was chiseled away by war, and I believe that I have never recovered mine. As you ponder my story then, I ask you to judge the resonance of war. Is it really the means to equality, democracy and freedom, or is it merely a platform where power-hungry politicians live out their own egocentric fantasies?

I was really just a boy when I started my naval training that commenced at H.M.S. Ganges early in the war and comprised courses of instruction in basic seamanship and gunnery. Once this basic training was completed, the recruits were given ratings according to their particular areas of expertise and were then transferred to one of three major naval depots. These were Portsmouth, Chatham and Devonport and I was selected to become a Portsmouth rating. The first ship that I served upon was a cruiser, the H.M.S. Fiji. This vessel was later torpedoed in the Atlantic Ocean, but despite being brought to her knees, she was fortunately, not sunk. Later she underwent massive repairs at John Brown Shipyard on the banks of the River Clyde, in Glasgow.

During the early months of 1941, we were engaged in shadowing Atlantic convoys, and became part of Force 鈥淗鈥�. This task force consisted of the battle cruisers H.M.S. Hood, H.M.S. Sheffield, H.M.S. Fiji, and four destroyers whose names completely escape me. We were assigned to patrol the waters around the French coastal town of Brest, a task that on the face of it seemed simple enough. However, here we were confronted by the knowledge that two of our most formidable enemies were lurking in the same waters. These were the German Pocket Battleships the Scharnhorst and the Gneisau. Not surprisingly, these two vessels assiduously threatened the continued wellbeing of our convoys, and though we never actually engaged them at sea, they ultimately reaped a particularly heavy toll on our forces.

Patrolling the Bay of Biscay was nothing short of a nightmare. In this expanse of water it was commonplace to lose sight of the destroyers because the sea was so rough and inhospitable. I remember being amazed that such huge vessels could be completely obscured from view when the heavy seas washed right over their funnels. It seems ironic that such a simple thing could make such an impression on me, but I was just a boy, and at that time had no idea of what I still had to endure. The obvious discomforts of life at sea were child鈥檚 play when compared with the imminent threat of German bombs, and the horrors that I was to witness shortly. For example, the H.M.S. Hood became a tragic casualty of the war when the German battleship, the Bismarck sank her in May 1941. Out of the somewhat fifteen hundred men aboard, only two lone men survived to recount the abysmal tragedy that would no doubt haunt them for the remainder of their mortal lives. Colossal loss of life, and senseless killing was to become synonymous with the theatre of war. It was simply part of the cause and effect syndrome that legitimizes world conflict. Personal, individual attitudes and preferences just never entered the equation. The choice was either do or die, kill or be killed.

Our Atlantic patrol took us far afield. We sailed to Freetown in Africa, Gibraltar, off the coast of Spain, the Mediterranean Island of Malta, and the ancient port of Alexandria in Egypt. During these routine patrols, we experienced frequent bombardment by a few enemy aircraft, but these minor skirmishes proved to be relatively mild in the greater context of war. On one particular occasion, while our ship was docked peacefully in Alexandria harbour, we were called without notice to serve in one of the bloodiest and most macabre battles of the war. In an instant, trivial ship chores were disrupted by what appeared to be an invasion of allied troops. Suddenly, masses of troops began to gather on the quayside, and just as quickly boarded the H.M.S. Gloucester as well as our own ship. Men filed up the gangways and filled every available space. Once both ships were filled to capacity and all available arms and ammunition were on board, we set sail for the Greek Island of Crete.

As we approached the coastal town of Canea, the atmosphere on board the Fiji was charged with a galvanizing sense of surreal anticipation. We had no idea what to expect, but instinctively sensed the magnitude of the operation. Not surprisingly, we proceeded cautiously through the blanket of utter darkness that enveloped the coast. The battalion of troops, which incidentally hailed from the Royal Leicestershire Regiment, was silently and stealthily discharged from the two cruisers, and as we slipped equally silently out of Canean waters to continue our patrol, we were left wondering what awful ills might befall these frightened young soldiers. I also recall that seamen suffering from severe seasickness disembarked at Canea.

These events occurred on May 16th, 1941. It was only later that we understood why we were called to transport British troops to defend Crete. In the event, the King of Greece and his government had capitulated to the Nazis in mid-April 1941, and relocated to Crete. It was believed that the presence of the twenty five thousand British troops that were eventually based on Crete would ensure the defence of the Mediterranean against Nazi occupation. Furthermore, the reason that the H.M.S. Fiji and the H.M.S. Gloucester were used in the deployment of these troops was because they were extremely fast and could outrun enemy vessels without the aid of a destroyer escort.

After this operation we gained some respite from the pressure of being constantly alert and on our guard, as we had to return to Alexandria to replenish consumables and refuel. Although I am not sure how long it took us to achieve this end, my mind clearly recalls the rapidity with which we once again found ourselves in the thick of active service. On May 21st 1941, the destroyer H.M.S. Juno was sunk. All hell was let loose as dive-bomber after dive-bomber attacked us. These aircraft were Junkers 87, better known as Stuka. They dived almost vertically with their engines racing and their sirens screaming an intimidating cacophony of deafening noise.

What exactly we were doing there escapes me, but what is clear in my mind is the unrelenting hammering that we endured. Nightfall arrived with a gratifying sense of reprieve, but the conversations that emerged from our ranks, merely confirmed our own sense of hopelessness. Heartfelt speculation on our chances of survival clouded our youthful optimism, since we knew that once the sun began to rise we would again be exposed to enemy aircraft. Young and relatively inexperienced seamen like myself were naturally dubious about our chances, especially since older seamen were heard to say that we had little chance of surviving another day of such intense bombing.

However, we clung to the knowledge that we had a celebrity survivor named Arthur Stoker on board. He had ostensibly survived four times, the first of which occurred when he was serving on the submarine Thetis. Interestingly, Thetis was the name of Achilles鈥檚 mother, and Achilles had been the hero of the Trojan War. However, in 1938 the Thetis became a topic of world news when she was sunk in Liverpool Bay whilst undergoing trials. Only Stoker Arnold and one other lucky man escaped to tell the tale while all the other members of crew perished. Later, the ill-fated Thetis was refitted and renamed the Thunderbolt, but she was nevertheless to become a victim of the war when she was sunk again.

Even though Stoker offered us a slight glimmer of hope, at the crack of dawn the Battle of Crete resumed. No sooner than 鈥渁ction stations鈥� was piped, than the savage attacks recommenced almost instantly. Inexorably, they were to wreak havoc and inflict massive damage. The H.M.S. Greyhound, the H.M.S. Fiji and the H.M.S. Gloucester were subjected to heavy bombing and continuous machine gun fire. On the twenty-first of May, cruisers H.M.S. Naiad and H.M.S. Carlisle, and battle-ships H.M.S. Warspite and H.M.S. Valiant were all severely damaged. By May 22nd, destroyers H.M.S. Greyhound, H.M.S. Gloucester, H.M.S. Kelly, H.M.S. Kashmir, and my own ship the H.M.S. Fiji had all been sunk and in the mayhem that ensued, H.M.S. Kingston and H.M.S. Kandahar were ordered to pick up the few survivors who were still floating in the water.

Interestingly, Lord Louis Mountbatten who ironically was later killed in peacetime by the IRA, was the captain of the H.M.S. Kelly. Legend has it that during the attack by German Stukas in the Battle of Crete, Lord Mountbatten risked his own life to save his men and ship. Apparently he positioned himself on the bridge and laid himself down on his back so that he could assess the precise moment when the German bombs were released. This tactic enabled him to order hard to port or starboard so that the respective bombs would miss their targets. Alas however, the brave captain and his crew were to be outwitted by their formidable adversaries, and like the rest of us, ended up swimming for their lives. The H.M.S. Juno was also dive-bombed and sunk, and for all concerned abandoning ship was horrific.

As I can only speak from my own personal experience I can portray the scene only as it appeared to me. The H.M.S. Fiji was listing so severely that it was impossible to stand up without holding on. Simultaneously, machine gun bullets were striking steel in all directions, and the list to starboard meant that a massive body of water was rapidly infiltrating mid-ship. Before long, the Fiji started turning over, and I knew at that moment that it was every man for him self. The simple truth is that there are no heroes. Surrounded by men shouting and screaming amidst flying bullets, and standing on a sinking ship, one tends to disregard every scruple but the will to survive. I recall the presence of a sixteen-year-old boy called Bates, who like me hailed from Leamington Spa. Unlike me however, Bates perished in the ensuing events and his family, no doubt like many others, never found out the exact details of their loved one鈥檚 death.

When I was about nineteen and on shore leave, I went to a pub in Leamington called the Althorpe. It was on this occasion that I overheard a conversation that made me realize that the woman speaking was young Bates鈥檚
mother. Even though she was a complete stranger to me, I knew who she was when I heard her talking of her son who had been lost at the Battle of Crete. She had no idea that I had witnessed her son鈥檚 death, nor did she know whom I was, or that I had served with her son, and I now wish that I had had the courage to explain the circumstances in which her son had died. She believed that he had gone down with the ship, and even now I regret not telling her the full story. In a sense I deprived her of the closure one needs in times of bereavement, and as it happens, that single opportunity was lost forever. I never imparted my knowledge and she never had the comfort of receiving it. There is evidently a kind of unavoidable guilt that one feels for surviving while less fortunate compatriots perish.

I am grateful that I have the opportunity to find my own closure to my wartime experiences, and that I can share these events with my own progeny. Surviving then was all that consumed my mind and body. I slipped over the side of the ship into the dark water and it instantly occurred to me that I was just another head bobbing up and down like a miniscule cork in a gargantuan sea. My life belt was deflated so I quickly inflated it by blowing into the necessary tube. Life belts in those days resembled a broad belt rather than the current-day vest. They were like small inner tubes with a teat, and were flat to the body under the armpits when not in use.

By the time I had inflated my life belt, the Fiji had turned completely upside down, with the keel barely visible above the water line. Even in this desperate situation, a Stuka dived once again and emitted a shower of bullets into the water. Excitedly, the pilot executed a victory roll over the ship and finally turned away. As he did so, a feeling of utter desolation and absolute loneliness swept over me. I could do little else but anticipate a watery death that at this stage seemed imminent. Thoughts were running rampant through my imagination. I was in a state of shocked disbelief and I suddenly became aware of an almost ethereal silence. The bombs and bullets had ceased and there was an eerie sense of calm. The maelstrom had indeed come to an end, but the personal battle against the elements was only just beginning. I was like a plastic bag being swept effortlessly by the power of the wind. I was buoyant but I had no control. One moment I was a tiny head on a big swell, the next I was sucked down into the depths of a trough where I was surrounded by solid walls of icy-grey, water. The motion was repetitive, high then low, high then low, high then low. When I mounted the crest of the swells I could see horizons in every direction, but there was no land, no plane or ship to come to my rescue. I was totally alone, isolated from all that was familiar. For me, the world had gone awry. I did not feel like a survivor, but a victim of circumstances over which I had no control. I was simply a number and a rank, but I was still alive.

I considered my options and found they were frighteningly few. Drowning naturally seemed the most obvious of my choices so I tested how the inevitable might feel by submerging my head under the water. My lungs reached almost bursting point, but thoughts of home wandered into my mind and I came up for air. I considered what I might have lost forever, and it did not amount to very much. I thought about my ten shillings a week allotment that would in the event of my death become a pension to my mother. Strangely, I contemplated my mother鈥檚 inherent meanness. The last time I was on shore leave I had exhausted my funds before it was time for me to return to my ship, and trying to get money from my mother was like trying to get blood out of a stone. That however, is another whole story, except that in the event, I found myself reliving the memories of desolation and despondency that I had experienced as a young boy when my mother had left me at the army band boarding school. Amongst other things I suddenly felt very angry with my mother. The time in the water seemed indeterminable, and I was overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness, an almost complete loss of hope. The inevitability of death loomed ever closer, and even though there were others, both dead and alive floating in close proximity, not a single word of conversation was exchanged. As each man was no doubt consumed with his own thoughts and regrets, we silently drifted further and further apart.

And then 鈥� as I mounted a towering sea crest for the umpteenth time, I saw on the horizon what appeared to be two trees. Was it an illusion? No! These two trees were coming closer. They were real! Exciting hope sprang into my heart as the two trees rapidly took on the shape of masts. 鈥淭hank God! Thank God! Thank God!鈥� The masts resembled those of the destroyers H.M.S. Kandahar and H.M.S. Kingston and even though they were growing bigger, they were still moving very slowly. I estimated that when I first sighted them, they were about twenty miles away, and according to my calculation, it would take at least fifty minutes sailing time before they reached us. Not surprisingly, when they eventually came within swimming distance, there was a furious race to get on board. We had to scramble up the ship鈥檚 netting that was draped over the side, but it is amazing where one find鈥檚 the energy at times like these.

They say that truth is stranger than fiction, but I was amazed to be plucked out of the freezing cold water by someone who knew me. His name was Harry Eales and we had met as teenagers after I left the army band, and returned to Leamington to live with my mother. He exclaimed, 鈥淗ello Dick! What a place and way to meet!鈥� All I could manage in my state of exhaustion was a weak, 鈥淵es, isn鈥檛 it鈥�. What I did not know or appreciate then, was that Harry鈥檚 sister Nancy was married to the headwaiter at the regent Hotel, Albert (Mickey) Walker, and that four years later, I would marry Albert Walker鈥檚 sister Gladys, whom I had yet to meet.

Once I was safely aboard the H.M.S. Kingston, I began to wonder if all the men in the water had been picked up. I knew that it was customary to save the ship before the men, and I also knew that the captain of my own ship had abandoned some of the crew from the H.M.S. Gloucester. They were simply left in the water to fend for themselves. This made me realize just how lucky I was to have been rescued. Shortly thereafter, the two destroyers set sail for Alexandria as they were rapidly running short of ammunition. Moreover, there were the dead bodies to bury. The Kingston鈥檚 crew began this task almost immediately, even despite the fact that enemy aircraft continued bombarding us with dummy ammunition. This occupation seemed bizarre to say the least, but such is the milieu of war. Eventually we reached Alexandria, disembarked and almost at once boarded the supply ship Maidstone.

I am not sure how long we remained on the Maidstone, but before long we were on a train headed for Port Suez via Cairo. On this journey, we learnt that the British battle cruiser H.M.S. Hood had been sunk by the formidable German battleship the Bismarck. Strangely, we acquired this information from an informal group of Arab beggars who walked next to the train when it slowed down. I can still hear their ominous chorus as they chanted, 鈥淗ood sunk, Hood sunk鈥�. We were naturally loath to believe this distressing news especially from such an unlikely source, but as it turned out, the information was correct. This May 1941 event added dramatically to the already colossal numbers of lost lives, but there was no going back, totalitarianism had to be eradicated.

Immediately upon our arrival in Port Suez, we embarked on a luxury cruise liner called the Strathmore. We were ensconced in cabins that were the absolute personification of luxury and the epitome of all the imagination could desire. This was a far cry from the living quarters that we were used to, but we certainly did not complain. From Port Suez we set sail for Aden in Arabia which is without doubt one of the hottest places in the world. However, when we reached our destination we were, for some mysterious reason, forbidden to go ashore, so we just whiled away our time at anchor in the harbour.

From the Strathmore we were transferred to the Empress of Australia, a ship that was used as a troop carrier during World War II, but had been captured by the Germans in World War I. This ship was old, shabby and very dirty, and worse still; it was ridden with cockroaches. As a naval gunner I was appointed captain of the six inch gun that she bore on her stern, and I was in command of four other crewmen, also gunners. We soon departed for Mombassa in Kenya and for the duration of that excursion, our lives were routinely uneventful.

Our next port of call was Durban in South Africa. Here we were given a warm reception and the kind people who took us into their homes were wonderful. These ordinary people supplied us with clothing and sustenance, while their adulated sympathy left us feeling like heroes even though we had actually lost the battle. After a few days in Durban we were deeply encouraged by the way the people had regaled us, and sad though we were to leave, we waved our last good-byes and sailed away to Cape Town.

In Cape Town we received the same warm and friendly welcome that the Durban folk had offered us. My friend, able seaman Somers, who came from Aberdeen in Scotland, and I were to meet two young sisters named Maude and Kitty Harmse. They lived with their father who was a trolley bus driver, and their mother at 14 Woodstock Road in Wynberg, Cape Town. I can honestly say that the reception we received from the Harmse family was overwhelming. Their congeniality was emotionally charged and Somers and I were very nearly reduced to tears. In a way, being able to let off some emotional steam was therapeutic because it helped us to deal with the psychological angst that the gory battle had spawned. Even though the horror of that experience was to scar our minds forever, there is no doubt that the kindness and compassion of people like the Harmse family could never be forgotten.

After we had spent many happy moments in the company of this amazing family, we were naturally loath to leave. However, as the imminent day of departure drew closer, we began to realize that our next port of call would be England. Our 鈥済ood-byes鈥� were tinged with sadness and we left amidst empty promises that we would return after the war. Indeed, I did return to South Africa eventually, but by then I had a wife, four children and a grandchild.

Once we were on our way, we soon recalled the dangers that lurked beneath and above the Atlantic Ocean. We wondered if it was even possible to reach our homeland without escort, and we knew without question that German U-boats could sink us at any time. We all knew that the Germans were masters of warfare and it was common knowledge that they were winning the Battle of the Atlantic. Yet although we were in such a dangerous position, we remained optimistic for two reasons. One, the celebrated survivor Stoker Arnold was on board, and secondly, The Empress of Australia still had the German emblem painted on her stern.

I am not sure just how long the voyage took, but I would estimate about a month. Eventually, we sailed into Liverpool harbour, but I have absolutely no recollection of disembarking or returning to Portsmouth where I was once again expected to embrace Royal Navy Barracks procedures, rules and protocol. The first thing I can remember is when I went home to Leamington on survivor鈥檚 leave. As I walked past a pub called the Green Man in Tachbrook Street, I happened to see my mother and my stepfather who were coincidentally turning the Berry鈥檚 shop corner. Needless to say, this chance meeting was an emotionally charged reunion, yet I am still not sure whether or not my parents knew if I was dead or alive. In fact, I am unable to recall whether or not I had turned twenty by this stage of 1941, nor can I remember if it was summer or winter. The important thing was that I was alive, and going to the Green Man with my family was a welcome reprieve from my recent war experiences.

However, I only stayed at the Green Man for a short while because I liked the company of my friends and I was soon on a pub-crawl. Before I left my family at the Green Man though, my younger sister Mary arrived there with her friend Gladys Walker. She was probably about nineteen at the time, and although we were formally introduced, neither one of us expressed any real interest in the other. Little did we know that at a much later date we would become attracted to one another, fall in love, marry and have a wonderful family.

In the interim, my survivor鈥檚 leave came to an end and I was expected to return to the theatre of war. I was assigned to the battleship H.M.S. Howe, which was the most recent addition to the Royal Navy鈥檚 fleet. She was in fact one of the newest class of battleships and was the last of five to be built. This fleet comprised the H.M.S. Howe, H.M.S. King George V, the H.M.S. Prince of Wales, H.M.S. Duke of York and the H.M.S. Anson. In August 1942 I boarded this brand new shiny ship at Fairfield鈥檚 Dock in Glasgow, and it was then that I learnt that the Howe had never been to sea.

After a series of tests and trials we eventually steamed down the River Clyde and out to sea where we continued to test the proficiency of this formidable fighting unit. These tests were crucially important to the war effort. We had to ensure that the Howe could run at speed, fire guns with precision and efficacy and all in all confirm her might as an efficient war machine. Once she had passed all the tests we were briefed on our destination 鈥� Scapa Flo, Orkney Island. Our mission was to lend battleship support to Russian convoys since the Bismarck鈥檚 sister ship, Tirpitz, was known to be lurking somewhere in the Norwegian Fjords. My memory of this expedition encompasses the image of the Howe swinging around a buoy to which we were shackled, and waiting to be of use.

Nevertheless, we ran backwards and forwards to Murmansk for ten months covering the Russian convoys. Our guns were festooned with icicles and we had to keep them active in order to prevent their freezing up. We eventually left Scapa Flo and proceeded to the warmer waters of the Mediterranean. There we called at Gibraltar, then moved on without incident to Oman. The geographical details of this expedition escape me, but I clearly recollect that the beer was awful. From Oman we went to the French colony of Algiers where we spent time refurbishing the ship in order to maintain its competency as an immaculate fighting unit. In the harbour there, picket boats were employed to detect miniature Italian submarines whose objective was to place mines on the hulls of ships in port. Occasionally, Italian aircraft were wont to attack us, but we had closed up repel aircraft stations. Although we never issued a counter attack, an American cruiser that was alongside us fired dangerously close to our superstructure. Thereafter, we remained below deck whenever there was an air raid warning.

Yet, even despite our caution, a tragic incident occurred there when an ammunition ship was blown up alongside the destroyer H.M.S. Arrow. I never found out whether or not this disaster was the result of a midget submarine鈥檚 dirty work, but I do know that there was a considerable loss of life. I was selected as one of five members of the crew to accompany an officer on board the decimated ship. Our task was to recover the bodies, and mutilated body parts of those who had been blown to bits. There were disjointed limbs, torsos, organs, blood, guts and charred remains. I have been plagued by nightmares of these sordid images for most of my adult life, but it was a job that had to be done. There were no questions asked you simply followed orders. We had to bag them up, but it was impossible to identify anyone except those who had been trapped in the water-filled compartments below deck. These men had drowned and their bloated, eerily disfigured bodies were just drifting around. I was lowered down to recover them. It was ghastly. I had to reach around those grotesque bodies to secure the rope that would pull them out. This was a cargo of silent death with bloated, staring unseeing eyes.

Once this intolerable task was completed, the respective bodies were sewn into canvas bags. On each bag, a projectile was attached so that when the bodies were dropped into the water, they would sink. The job was finally done, but the horror of those unimaginable experiences would never leave those who witnessed these macabre events. The cutter berthed alongside us had been laden with body bags, and since they were obstructing our pathway, we had little choice but to walk over them. As we did so, the canvas tombs squelched under our feet. It was horrendous. Worse still, we had to carry those body bags ashore, past all the ships docked at the quay, and finally deposit them at the mortuary. We carried the bags on our backs. Blood and human excrement oozed out of the bags and mingled with the sweat on our own naked flesh. To add to the poignancy of the moment, the ships piped 鈥楾he Still鈥�. What an impact this had on the psyche, the spirit and emotions. There was a kind of soundlessness that froze the sordid images into the soul. This was a personal holocaust, the death of youthful spirit, and the transformation of boys to men. Unlike today, there was no psychological counselling available for those traumatized by such incomprehensible human endeavour. Neither was there monetary compensation for psychological war wounds. Orders had to be followed and the Germans had to be defeated no matter what the cost.

The H.M.S. Howe was next involved in the invasion of Sicily. Our part in the campaign was to shell the land targets, and in particular a town called Trapani. During this operation we learned that the Americans had shot down one of their own planes. It seemed ridiculous under the circumstances that such a tragedy could occur, but life is full of such inconsistencies. Italian aircraft continued with sporadic attacks on us during this time but fortunately we managed to scare them off with our immense firepower.

After the invasion of Sicily, we found ourselves involved in the aftermath of the Italian capitulation in the Mediterranean. We had to usher Italian vessels from various ports where they had taken refuge. On the face of it, this seemed like a simple enough task, but one dark night when we were escorting part of the Italian fleet into the port of Tarranto, a minelaying cruiser of the Manxman class that was just ahead of us, hit a maverick mine. There was a terrific explosion and the cruiser disappeared. Five men, including me were ordered away in a whaler to search for survivors. Since the whaler was very small, we had to use our oars to maneuver ourselves slowly through the mist. Gingerly, we proceeded around the harbour, because we realized that at any moment, we too could hit a maverick mine. Ships' headlights were reflecting on the surface of the water, but visibility was minimal. Adrenalin was pumping to its limit and the entire scenario seemed surreal. Finally, the galvanizing tension was broken by the familiar voice of the quartermaster who was ordering us to return to our ship. We were obviously relieved once we were safely back on board the Howe.

From Italy we returned to Alexandria, but nothing worth relating springs to mind. Day-to-day life on board ship continued as usual and for a while life was consumed by the mundane chores and normal routines of life at sea. I must say, we were more than grateful for the respite. We had seen too much bloodshed and been involved in too many super-human trials. Shortly thereafter, we returned to Devonport for a refitting, and most of the crew returned to their respective depots, mine being Portsmouth. This was at the end of December in 1943, but as fate would have it, I was never to return to the H.M.S. Howe that later sailed for Australia.

After a period of time spent routinely in the Portsmouth barracks, I was drafted to the H.M.S. Quebec, a shore base on Loch Fyne near Inverary. However, before my departure, Portsmouth, suffered a similar fate to the city of Coventry. There was a massive German bombardment and the town was brought to ruins. Needless to say that after this incident, I felt a certain affinity with the feline species. It appeared that I had 鈥榥ine lives鈥�.

Once on the H.M.S. Quebec, I was appointed as quartermaster. I enjoyed this immensely because it alleviated the tedium of routine. My task was to organize the daily activities of the entire base, and I was pleased to have a position of authority. Later, I graduated to coxswain on the duty pinnace. This meant that I was essentially in command of the vessel. Even if the captain of another vessel came aboard, he was obliged to take orders from me. The pinnace was situated on the sea loch where the water was so rough at times that it could become like a potboiler. My duties comprised transporting personnel from shore to ship and vice versa. Those I transported were frequently senior officers and I felt proud to be endowed with authority over them all.

During times of extreme weather conditions the pinnace continued its duty. While other boats were berthed and shackled to buoys, the pinnace just carried on regardless. Gale force winds were the norm, so negotiating buoys and ships, especially in the dark was extremely difficult, and coupled with the weather conditions, was the advent of total blackouts. My crew and I had some hair-raising experiences during this period when we were required to tie the boat to the ship or landing pier while the relentless rolling seas and blustering winds tossed the pinnace about like a cork. This was just another kind of battle that was at times frightening.

As I came to the end of my journey through the war years, I found myself in a new kind of hell. One day I saw a notice on the Admiralty Office notice board that was calling for miners. Effectively, men who had served on active duty for more than five years could apply for release to work in the mines. At the time I would have done anything to get out of the navy, and before long I found myself out of the forces and shovelling coal from the bowels of the earth. I was effectively released from my naval rating in March 1946. The war was over and I had survived to tell this tale. However, I have never been able to forget my experiences, and I have paid dearly - psychologically, spiritually and emotionally.

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