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Westwards

I recall little of the following day; food must have been brought to me, for I know that by the late afternoon enough strength had returned to my legs to let me move out from the messdeck and join other Manchester survivors on the torpedo deck. They were enjoying the combination of sunshine and breeze caused by the ship's speed; on the mess deck it had been very airless. Our ship — I discovered she was the Eskimo, a tribal class destroyer — was leading, and her sister-ship, the Somali, following some four hundred yards away on our starboard quarter. We could see that a lot of survivors had assembled on her deck amidships too, to enjoy the early evening air.

Suddenly, quite without warning, an enormous plume of spray shot skywards from the port side of the Somali, very close to where many of the survivors had been standing, and quite obliterating them from view. Immediately the spray was mingled with brown and white smoke.
'She's hit!' several voices called out, as the thump of the explosion reached us. It looked so much like the torpedo hit on the Nigeria that I thought at once of a submarine, and waited in trepidation for us to be struck too.
But just then the Bofors on our ship began firing, and we looked up to see, high overhead, the silver flash of an aircraft turning away. All the anti-aircraft armament from our vessel then opened up, joined by some from the other destroyer: the hollow bark of the Bofors, the angry bursts from the Oerlikons, and the kettledrum rattle from the multiple pompoms.

The deck underfoot tilted as our destroyer slewed round to starboard, and black smoke poured from her funnels as we made a screen to drift downwind and so envelop the stricken ship in a thick pall. She had lost way, and the bow wave had sunk right down; as the smoke gathered round her, she seemed to be listing, but we could see no other damage.
I remember feeling anxious at the thought of our perhaps having to take all those sailors on board too - a whole ship's company plus as many survivors again: could one destroyer carry so many men? And if she were struck, if a tinfish ran into us, there wouldn't be enough floats, or even rafts, for more than a small proportion of the men pitched into the water. But as the superstructure of the other destroyer reappeared, we saw her bows were cutting through the water again, and then the whole bulk of the vessel emerged, visibly picking up speed.
We gave her a ragged cheer, and a few sailors on board semaphored OK back at us. Within minutes we were both making high speed westwards again bound for Gibraltar, with the maroon-brown African coast on our port side giving off the heat it had absorbed during the day's baking. Until nightfall our necks were craned, and eyes combed the sky overhead, so as not to be taken unawares again by another a sneak high-level bomber.

On my second night on the destroyer I slept a lot better, and by next morning we were so far west that the threat of air attack had almost disappeared. It was also most unlikely that Italian surface units would try to engage so small and nimble a target as two destroyers. The only real danger was from submarines: we were in the general area where, on the way in, a carrier had been sunk. But our speed made it very difficult for a sub to mount an attack, and in the clear water it should be much easier for look-outs to spot a torpedo track in time to shout a warning; moreover, within only a few seconds a destroyer could turn to present an almost impossibly slim target.

That morning some of us were watching the water when suddenly the surface to starboard of us flashed with three white and black shapes lancing through the blue water.
'Subma - !’ shouted someone.
But the rest of his warning was drowned in laughter as two dolphins leapt into the air in a wonderfully lissom curve, and plunged back under. They dashed along for awhile, fifty yards from the ship, keeping pace with ease, and showing their frolicsome spirit by leaps into the air every now and again, always elegantly, in a kind of marine choreography. Then, at some signal in their own language, they burst effortlessly ahead of us, crossing just forward of our bows, and re-appearing first to port and then to starboard, and back to port again. The ease and fluidity of their motion fascinated us, and the power of their propulsion astonished. We gazed and gazed at this spectacle of playful grace, and all the seasoned seamen agreed it was a good omen - we would certainly make it back to Gib.

Some hours later, when in late afternoon the humid summer heat of that port was at its stickiest, we entered harbour and tied up alongside. There were handshakes for our rescuers as we took our leave of the destroyers. An uncomplicated affair, since none of us had anything to put together: all we had was what we stood up in. Barefoot and bareheaded, with nothing on but a singlet, underpants and overalls, I made my way with the others along the jetty to HMS Maidstone, a submarine depot-ship, and together with several hundred others was crammed into the quarters normally occupied by British submarine crews when in port. The Maidstone had lain in Gib without moving for a long time: the messdeck walls dripped with the humidity of that August heat, and from cracks and crannies cockroaches scuttled out and in, in great numbers. We were living in nobody's home; the place had a depressing and untenanted air.

The only relief was to walk ashore — in my case still barefoot — and stroll up and down the High Street, past the little shops and bars, up to the Spanish frontier: beyond lay a neutral country, at peace. At night the lights of Algeciras, across the bay, twinkled tantalisingly: we had forgotten what peace time was like, with no need for black-out …

HMS Victorious

After three or four featureless and dispiriting days in those moist surroundings, we were mustered on the dockside. In a ragged train, watched with silent curiosity by dockers and ship's crews, we were marched three hundred yards. Still barefoot and capless, I realised that this must be how the poor and destitute feel. We halted by an aircraft-carrier; its edge towered over us.
'It's the Victorious!' The word passed along.
A moment later we were filing up a gangway leading into the huge ship's side, and escorted up to a very large space like a recreation room, stretching from port to starboard, under the bows of the flight deck. This, we were told, was to be our home for the journey home. The idea of returning to Britain sounded wonderful, but we knew that there were some two thousand miles of sea passage over the Atlantic to reach home. Moreover the Germans must know that there were to be British vessels breaking out of the Med, and would station U-boats to wait for them …

The space we were in housed not only the Manchester survivors, but hundreds more - maybe about four hundred all told. How would we be able to get out of that space, if a torpedo struck, with only two double doors as the exit? It would be every man for himself, with a panicking throng pressing to get into the corridors and more of a fighting mob at the companion way struggling to get up onto the flight deck. That would no doubt be tilting by then, as the Eagle had been; so would we, would I - for that was what it came down to - be able to grab a rope and shin down into the water before the great mass of the ship capsized, and swim clear?

But there was nothing any of us could do. For the time being we had to stay in the recreation space. Very soon after we came aboard, the Victorious cast off her mooring wires and was hauled and butted into mid harbour, turned round. Her engines began throbbing and the great metal surface of the flight deck started pulsating above us, as the big vessel slowly passed the breakwater. It was afternoon: still several hours of daylight before night would protect us from sighting by a sub.

We lost no time in getting through the narrows, and there we were joined by two destroyers as we steamed west. As soon as it was permitted, we went up on the flight deck to add our eyes to the hundreds of other pairs scanning the surface for the merest feather of foam betokening the presence of a U boat. The distance from Gib gradually increased; the mountains of Morocco showed up yellow in the evening sun. Dusk fell swiftly as the huge red globe dipped below the horizon, leaving at last only a red rim, followed by its afterglow.

It was night; we were to sleep wherever we could find a place. I took a patch of floor in a corridor where feet would not normally pass, and slept there fitfully, my body still half-tense, prepared for the heave and lurch of a torpedo striking, ready for the scramble up a nearby companionway up on to the flight deck.

The following morning, after breakfast and what sounded like a rather formal Divisions ceremony on the flight deck above us for the crew of the carrier, all the survivors were assembled by ship's companies on the flight deck. I was surprised to see how many Manchester seamen were there: maybe a hundred and fifty in all. Jokes were exchanged, and quips made about not having taken the opportunity of finishing the war at ease in an internment camp in North Africa. It was even suggested that the least worthy were being taken back to England - the speaker naturally excluded - whilst the cream of the ship's complement were to be forced to remain idle, under the French.

In a quieter vein, news was swopped about the final hours of the Manchester. I heard that some CPOs and POs had broken into the wardroom spirits locker and helped themselves liberally. Amongst them, apparently, was Toop. It was said that he had drunk heavily and then, well under the weather, taken to a carley float with others in a similar condition. At some point, still before dawn, he had taken it into his head to swim off alone, perhaps for another float or raft, or under the impression that he could make the shore. His mates tried to call him back, but he paid no attention. When morning dawned, he was nowhere to be seen …

We learnt too that the torpedo had struck not far from where a bulkhead separated the TS from the engineroom. One Y-scheme sailor from the TS who had survived told me that when at action stations that night he had felt a sudden and compelling urge to ask permission to go to the heads to relieve himself, even though there was no real physical need. It was most unusual for such a request to be granted, but he kept insisting, and finally his request was allowed. He had climbed the vertical ladder leading up to the deckhead of the TS and was just opening the hatch above his head when the torpedo struck. He was blown through the opening and knew nothing more till he found himself lying in a crumpled position somewhere in a corridor. It was some time before he came to sufficiently to piece together what must have happened; to begin with he had believed he must be dreaming. But he managed to pull himself together in time to make his way to the upper deck and climb down and to haul himself aboard a carley float.

It appeared too that the hole made in the engine room had been large, and water flowed steadily in, thus causing the gradually increasing list to starboard we had noticed while waiting in the turret. It was this water, slowly filling the large open space where the engines were housed, that finally caused the vessel to heel over. The final sinking however resulted from the charges that had been placed at the inlet valves and seacocks. All of these details came out in disorder as we talked. The general reckoning was that about forty men had lost their lives, mainly stokers, together with some who had drowned later, such as Toop. I felt only a faint sense of awe at how swiftly death could strike, but I pondered on the fact, hard to grasp, that several stokers had become memories. I did not grieve for them; rather I felt thankful to be alive - a selfish reflection, as I realised at the time.

Yet it was real and strong, and strengthened my determination not to be caught in the mêlée at the exit to the recreation space if we were hit. That afternoon, as I was standing at one of the exits, a Chief Petty Officer came and stood by me and bellowed:
'Six volunteers for the galley!'
I spoke up at once, acting out of instinct. I was taken, along with five other seamen, to the deck below to report for duty. In the Navy it was an unwritten rule on the lower deck never to volunteer for anything - or you would live to regret it. But, apart from being bored with doing nothing in the recreation space, I wanted to spend as long as possible out of it for safety reasons. Working in the galley, even if only for a few hours, would increase my chances of survival. So within minutes I was sitting on a stool with a cook's apron round me, peeling spuds and dropping them into a huge vat - and feeling very contented with my lot. As we worked on, the cooks let us know that we could have our supper there in the galley, and when it came, the helpings were bigger than they had ever been on the Manchester …

I think it may have been the following day, when we were several hundreds of miles out west into the Atlantic, that an issue of hammocks took place. How it was that the Victorious had such a supply on board I have never worked out; maybe there was only a limited issue and I was one of the lucky ones to be standing in the right place at the right time. Once I had the hammock, however, I lost no time in working out where I would sling the moment tea was piped on the tannoy, so as to occupy the billet before anyone else seized it. It was near a companionway leading aloft to the flight deck, but two decks down. I had chosen the spot with escape very much in mind.

So that evening, having slung in my chosen spot, and with my belly well filled from the galley, I turned in early in a stiff new hammock, and stretched out at last in the clean-smelling cocoon with sensuous delight. The only disturbances came from shoes clattering up and down the metal stairs, and from the lights in the corridor, which were never even doused. But these were slight drawbacks; I now enjoyed both comfort and relative safety.

The following morning we turned north, and the weather turned from summer heat to cooler blustery winds. Again the Victorious opened her lockers and found clothing for us: I got some socks and plimsolls and a seaman's sweater. With that, still capless, I would have to make do. There may have been an issue of soap, but not of shaving kit. I hadn't shaved since the third day into the Med, so a thin beard was now beginning to show, mostly under my chin, with a slight silky growth in front of my ears, and sparse strands of moustache. Weak though this evidence of manhood was, I took pride in it. I had long envied older sailors their beards, and had wanted to pluck up the courage to ask for 'permission to grow' on the Manchester, but had never dared.

On the carrier, however, we were under no recognisable disciplinary structure, but merely sailors in transit. No-one could say me nay, so I decided to let the wispy strands flourish as best they might, and paid more visits to the bathroom than was my wont, simply to see how my beard was coming on. My Manchester messmates - Coates was one - jeered amusedly at the little I could produce, and kept saying 'Shave off!'
But I merely smiled, and persisted. It was wonderful not to have to think about shaving every day. And I wasn't alone: many others among the rescued sailors took the same course of action, and the strange shapes and even unexpected colours that appeared on their cheeks and chins were a source of fun, and came in for ceaseless ribbing.

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