大象传媒

The Sinking of the Efos.
My father Alan Thompson, was one of those unsung heroes of the war, a merchant navy sailor. His exploits would have made the pages of a boy鈥檚 own magazine with ease.
One such occasion came about in February 1940 when the war was in its infancy and Alan was on watch aboard the s.s. Efos, a coastal collier of the France Fenwick fleet. The vessel was bound for Davenport with a vital cargo of coal. It was a dark and moonless night when she steamed out of the Humber estuary. She reached the open sea and her course took her at a steady 7 knots past the mouth of the Wash on Monday 26th February around 10pm. In the forecastle A.B. seaman Alan Thompson was on watch that night.
In Alan鈥檚 words, 鈥滻t was a moonless night and pitch black. It made your eyes ache to stare into it. To make matters worse, being wartime, only low powered navigation lights could be used. I was staring into the freezing darkness, watching and listening for any sign of approaching ships. The only light that could be seen was the occasional phosphorescent wave below me in the water. The sea is like that, the wave crest giving off an eerie glow just now and then. It was around 10 o鈥檆lock when I saw something low in the water about 100 yards ahead. Going across the bow of the Efos and almost directly beneath us was a long black shape just under the surface. I could see it because of the phosphorescent trail it left in the water. I shouted aft to raise the alarm, but it was too late, the Efos struck whatever was under us with such force that we were lifted into the air and down again. I was almost thrown overboard by the impact, but I managed to hang on to the ship鈥檚 rail. As we hit the sea again I was aware of a huge cigar shape, which we had sliced into, and was now lifting into a V either side of us.
I heard and felt the rumbling of the cargo as it slid through the hole torn out of the ship鈥檚 bottom. I knew then that we had only minutes to get off the Efos and into the lifeboats. I ran aft to get clear as the ship was already sinking fast. I almost collided with the bosun who was running forward with a lead line to take a sounding thinking we were in shallow water and on a sandbank. I yelled at him to get off the ship, it was confusing in the darkness hardly knowing which way the ship was listing but she was already awash at the bow. We both made our way towards the stern where the lifeboats were already being lowered. I left the bosun and raced below to the cabins where I found some of the hands who, having been thrown out of their bunks by the collision, were still half asleep and trying to get back into bed.
The fireman, who had scrambled out of the bath, was running around without clothes. I gave him a coat and yelled to everybody to make for the lifeboats. We scrambled into them and hit the sea just as the Efos began to lift by the bow and turn turtle. We could feel and hear what was happening more than see, and as the ships side came down into the water, the funnel missed us by inches, the rush of air whistling past my ears as it crashed down. We pushed our boat off with bare hands, the boiling water rushing all around us and threatening to swamp the lifeboat. Then we were spinning around being sucked after the Efos as she disappeared beneath the sea.
The lifeboat gradually settled, gently bobbing on the sea, which was deadly calm once more, and I heard a voice yell out of the darkness, 鈥� Give us a hand Thompson!鈥� There was the mate in the water by the boat with his hand outstretched. We hauled him aboard and took a head count. Everybody, all nineteen, was there and the mate was the only one to get wet. It was a miracle that we were all safe and there were a few prayers muttered into the darkness that night. The crew was new to the ship, we had had no lifeboat drill and the whole incident had lasted no longer than four minutes. We all knew we would never be so lucky again. About half an hour later, we were picked up by a small Dutch cargo boat and treated to a very welcome breakfast. The captain explained he was heading home to bring his family out of Holland. We were transferred to a minesweeper which landed us at Great Yarmouth where we made news in the local newspaper and had our photos taken and we were made comfortable by the seaman鈥檚 mission. I often wonder if that Dutch captain reached safety with his family.鈥�
A miraculous escape for all hands of the Efos, but what was the mysterious cigar shape that did for the Efos, was it a submarine? If so, friend or foe? Officially listed as a wreck victim but what happened that night and the sighting of the cigar shape was witnessed by only one man, A.B. Alan Thompson a clearheaded, sharp young man of 24. He could still recall, vividly, the events of that night as if it were yesterday right up to his death. The sinking of the Efos remains a mystery. Alan died aged 86 in 2002, but about 2 years before his death; he was able to attend a reunion of some of the survivors of that night in 1940. Unfortunately by then he had become blind. However he had a grand chinwag and enjoyed the experience immensely. A few years ago I took my father to visit the local Volunteer lifeboat station at Roker in Sunderland and there on the wall was a framed photograph of the Efos on her maiden voyage. Being blind now my father couldn't see it, but was delighted to make its aquaintance. I photographed him holding the picture and we were able to complete the stations records of wartime wrecks. According to a newspaper report the incident happened northwest of the Haisborough Light Vessel while on a voyage from Sunderland to London.

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