大象传媒

This is an account written by my mother-in-law, Dorothy Fairfield, about her journeys to and from East Afica with her husband Harold. They were 27 and 34 respectively in 1939.

In the second World War I travelled twice by sea as a civilian to and from East Africa where my husband was an inspector in the colonial police.

In December 1939 my husband and I joined a small convoy of ships leaving Tilbury for Mombasa. We were in a 10,000-ton Union castle ship. Magnetic mines were the great danger and, as we headed out to the Channel, we saw the funnels of a small coaster disappearing under the waves. We passed through the Bay of Biscay and rounded the Straits of Gibraltar. Keeping close to the Spanish coast we could see people working in the fields; our first stop was Marseilles where we spent two days. One evening we visited the cinema: when the newsreels showed Churchill there was a burst of applause but when Hitler appeared it was boos. Our next port of call was Genoa where we spent three days: Italy had not yet entered the war. Only neutral countries' citizens were allowed to land: we were termed a belligerent race. There was much clanking of bottles when the Irish returned to the ship. In 1939 there was no air conditioning in ships and owing to the dangers at sea the portholes were closed making the cabins very stuffy. When past Genoa the cabin steward carried our mattresses on deck and we slept there. One would awaken next morning, sit up to greet the next-door neighbour and await the steward bringing the morning tea; no cigarettes could be lit. From there we went to Port Said, through the Suez Canal to Port Sudan and Aden. After about 27 days we arrived at Kilindini Harbour, Mombasa. A daughter was born in April 1940 at the European Hospital, Kampala. We spent the war years in Uganda and our local leaves as P.G.s (paying guests) on farms in the White Highlands of Kenya. Many farmers had been called up and their wives left to run isolated farms with African staff: having P.G.s helped them to feel secure.

In May 1944 the Mediterranean was opened for civilian shipping. My husband and I plus small daughter joined the flying boat Cleopatra at Port Bell, a few miles from Kampala; we flew to Khartoum where we stayed overnight and then on to Cairo. After a week there we were called early one morning to go by train to the Red Sea port, Port Tewfik. There, upon the water, were ships as far as the eye could see; 40,000 people were joining the convoy. Our ship was the Willem Ruys, a large Dutch vessel and sister ship to the Simon Bolivar. There were about a hundred civilians on board and 3,000 troops. In addition there were about 100 prisoners - Italian officers - on board who were ignored by the other passengers; they tried to make up to the children by making paper flying birds. Boredom was our chief trouble. Before sailing the captain called us all on deck and said that he could not understand any government sending women and children on a sea journey at a time like this; he warned us that rails had been removed from the deck to facilitate the launching of the lifeboats. If anyone fell overboard the convoy would not stop. We carried around our panic bags, which never left us, plus life jackets. One passenger asked the purser if he should put his passport into the bag. The reply was "Don't bother about your passport but for God's sake don't forget your Yellow Fever certificate or they'll throw you back in the sea". So far it had been a trouble free journey; danger loomed after Gibraltar when messages were sent by spies to report a convoy in sight when enemy 'planes would attack. Italy had surrendered by this time. We sailed around the far side of Ireland and down the West coast of Scotland to the Clyde where we passed the King George V battleship on her way out. We docked in Glasgow, five days before D-Day when our ship was to take part in the invasion of Europe on June 6th 1944. Before leaving the ship each passenger was given a parcel of food to be used next day and was told to tell no one that we had arrived by ship. Sitting in a packed railway carriage we opened our parcels and, under the startled gaze of all, we took out hard boiled eggs and white bread. We in East Africa, like those at home, had eaten the national loaf. Our second daughter was born in August 1944.

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