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My father, Herbert Geoffrey Hall - Geoff Hall — was born in Macclesfield, Cheshire, in 1911, and died in retirement in North Wales in 2002, aged 90. During the Second World War he served in the Merchant Navy. He kept a diary of his experiences from which he later prepared accounts of some of the more memorable and important of these. This is Part Three of his account of his time with the Russian Convoy PQ16.

Val Myers (nee Hall)

RUSSIAN CONVOY PQ 16 (PART THREE)

The day we rounded Spitzbergen we expected trouble and got an alert but nothing developed though we learned that a large force of bombers had got within 20 miles of us. The next day the Leda, a mine-sweeper of the escort, was torpedoed at dawn and this was followed by a day punctuated by the noise of depth charges exploding. During the day we had the misfortune to shoot down one of our own aircraft - a catalina - which was chasing a Fokka-Wolf, and that night a Tribal class Destroyer, the Somali, was lost.
For some reason I have never understood, the Navy chose to route the convoy close to the west side of Jan Mayen Island. This suited the Germans very well. The subs could lie on the bottom without fear of being located by Asdic, and they made good use of the opportunity.
When we were hit by the bomb on the way north No.1 hold held 7 Hurricanes in crates and all sorts of other useful equipment amongst which was about 2 tons of tin cast into ingots of 28 lbs each. These ingots had been shattered and torn asunder by the force of the explosion and whilst the Russians salvaged all they could we came upon all sorts of bits and pieces as we cleaned out the hold. Rather than see these chunks of metal thrown over the side with the other rubbish I had collected them and now on the way home I was engaged in melting down the bits to pour them into a homemade mould for possible transfer to the scrap merchant in Glasgow.
On Tuesday 22nd September I went on watch at 4.00 am and around 6.00 am I heard a sound which I recognised as a ship being torpedoed. Deciding it was unwise to stay too near the molten metal in my melting pot I moved away from the bench and then we got it. The explosion caused us to bounce a lot and broke the shaft. It turned out to be in No. 5, right under the passenger accommodation, but in a hold full of wood pulp, a pretty good shock absorber. The engines raced away so I shut them down and rang "Finished with engines" on the telegraph, and set off up the ladders. At the top of the first stair I thought I'd better see about the firemen so turned back but before I got to the stokehold I thought better of it and that I would count them on deck. Retracing my steps I was just on the top grating when we got the second one. Right forward this time in No. 1 which again was full of wood pulp, none the less the shock was almost sufficient to knock me off my feet.
Realizing that we were not about to sink I slipped into my room, tore off my decrepit boiler suit and pulled on my best flannel trousers, put on my life jacket and my sea boots. It was very cold on deck, lumps of ice were floating in the sea, and as the passengers were mustering by the lifeboats I returned to my room and grabbed some rugs and warm coats which I thought might be useful in the boats. A quick run aft showed No. 5 hatch blown away and the passenger accommodation smashed to matchwood. One or two of the passengers were injured but none seriously. Unfortunately, as the hold flooded, the baby, in its suitcase, was seen floating away through the gaping hole in the ship's side, never to be seen again. This proved to be our only fatality.
Meeting the Mate he ordered me to assist the 3rd Mate with No. 4 boat. I said, "What about you, aren't you coming?" To which he replied, "Never mind me, that's an order!" We learned later that the Commodore, Skipper and Mate had decided that the rescue ships would be overcrowded and it might be a lot more comfortable to be picked up by a warship, which was, in fact, what happened.
Having loaded 7 ladies and 5 children into No. 4 I went down with the boat on the falls, only to find that what seemed a flat calm on the big ship had a rise and fall of about 6ft. I let go the blocks and someone hauled the aft end clear but the forward end remained dangling and with the heave of the boat there seemed to be a danger of serious damage to boat or occupants. Whilst the rest of our complement descended the scramble net I shouldered the block out of the way, and then wondered, next week, why I had a sore back.
Once loaded we rowed across to the Rescue ship the Zamalek, which was hove to near by. We were the last to arrive and it was with difficulty that we got the ladies - some injured - to climb the rope nets provided. Somebody threw me a line on which I tied a bowline and sent up a child of about 6. The line came back with the knot untied but, having removed my gloves to tie the first one, my hands were now so cold that I could not tie another, so the other 4 children went up with just a timber hitch round their middles.
At last the 3rd Mate, Alex Smith, and I were able to make the climb and unfortunately as I swung my legs over the rail I snagged on something and tore wide open the seat of my best and now only trousers.
The Zamalek was really a small cargo/passenger boat of about 2000 tons, which used to ply the eastern end of the Mediterranean between Alexandria and Alexandretta, now requisitioned for war service and converted to hold 120 survivors. When we counted heads there were 256 of us so - no beds, little food, not much water and not much room for legstretching. But it was warm and dry and she now set off at full speed, about 14 knots, to try to overtake the convoy which had continued its rather slow progress. As soon as we got up to speed we started to make dense clouds of black smoke, which was very worrying as this would be sure to attract the attention of the Huns.
I must have been making critical remarks about this, she was an oil burner and whilst I had been burning oil for years in my tanker days there didn't seem to be anybody amongst the survivors who felt they could improve matters. It was suggested I go down and see what, if anything could be done. I said "I can't go down there unless I get an invitation from their Chief Engineer" In due course this arrived and after checking their plant I was able to make adjustments which produced the necessary steam with only a wisp of smoke. After about 2 hours we caught up with the convoy and this permitted a speed reduction. As we were very short of food, you could have anything you liked as long as it was corned beef or dried peas, and more importantly, as we were nearly out of fresh water, we left the convoy on the Wednesday and with a small escort of 3 destroyers two rescue ships set off at top speed for the east coast of Iceland. Just as we got away a Fokke Wolf appeared and seemed to be waiting until we were clear of the main protection to launch an attack. At the right moment, however, a huge Liberator with RAF markings appeared and put the German plane to flight (no pun intended) dropping eight bombs as he went. Weren't we glad!
We arrived in port late that night and for the first time since leaving the Ocean Voice I was able to take off my life-jacket and more importantly shed my sea boots and give my feet an airing.
Leaving Iceland next morning we were on our own and made our best speed in spite of worsening weather until on the Friday we caught up with our convoy once more and on Saturday morning we sighted the Butt of Lewis and then started to run down between the islands with RAF planes overhead most of the time, finishing up in Loch Ewe once more. Here we were transferred to the Leinster for the final run to Glasgow. The Leinster was a great comfort, we were in the passenger accommodation, with good food, a bunk, and washing facilities. She was also geared to supply us with clothing. A bright young man said, "What do you need, sir?" "A pair of shoes, more than anything". "Yes,sir, what size?" "Elevens" "Sorry, sir, nothing bigger than nines." Oh dear. Right, "A pair of trousers" as mine were still held together with 3 safety pins. "Yes sir" To get my length of leg (33") the only ones he had were 46 waist and of very coarse flannel. (My waist was 34" at the time) He gave me a very heavy leather belt but as there were no belt loops one had to rely on friction to maintain decency.
Eventually I was very glad to get away on the 3.50 pm train to the south, having phoned Norah and asked her to try to get to Preston to meet me. As we ran into the dimly lit station at Preston I spotted Norah, making frantic signs to hurry up and get to platform 13 where the Burnley train was being held for our arrival. With panic bag under one arm, my sheepskin rug under the other and wearing my heavy sheepskin duffle coat I followed her across the footbridge and onto the platform, at which point my trousers slipped from the heavy belt and, clutch them as I would, it was a losing battle. The guard threw open a carriage door, Norah leapt in and I went full length on the floor between the knees of eight other passengers with my trousers round my ankles. Fortunately the train was completely blacked out and as it started immediately I was able to rearrange things before we got to the first station where we hopped out and got into an empty first class compartment. Back in Burnley we walked the mile and a half home, had some supper and turned in
After being torpedoed one was automatically given a month's leave as well as £66 to cover loss of clothes, etc. I reckon it cost me about £120 to replace my losses but I learned the hard way and never took as much gear with me again.

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