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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Roger Marsh of the ‘Action Desk — Sheffield’ Team on behalf of Philip E. Marshall, and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

A Slice of Autobiography (1939 to 1946) — Part 5

By
Philip E. Marshall

The next incident illustrates how mistaken impressions may last a lifetime, or almost. For over fifty years I have believed that Turnkey was the call-sign of a ship we often sailed with, H.M.S. Tintagel Castle, known to us as Tintaz, and that, in naval code, hamstrung meant damaged, and staggered meant sunk. Having consulted naval record books, I find that I have lived with a false belief; why I did not sort out the correct details in 1945, I don't know. Perhaps we were too busy.

We knew that there were U-boats in the Irish Sea, for we had picked up survivors, and had also been ordered to sink a small coaster, which was floating bottom-up, a danger to other ships. I was pleased not to be in charge of the gun any more, at first because I wondered if there might be anyone trapped in an air-pocket inside the coaster, and then because the Captain became more and more angry as the crew failed to hit the wreck. At last we sailed very close in and finished the job. Some time later, probably the next day, we were back in position, as leading escort ahead of the convoy, north-west of Anglesey. It was calm fine weather, around 10 a.m., on 26th January, 1945. I was in the Asdic room, on the Bridge, when the ship-to-ship radio crackled and announced: "All ships. Turnkey hamstrung". Not long afterwards: "Turnkey staggered". I think someone on the Bridge must have exclaimed "That's Tintax", but the records say that it was H.M.S. Manners a Captain Class frigate, like Inman. Its stern had been blown off by an acoustic torpedo, but it was eventually towed into Barrow-in-Furness, so staggered must have meant merely out of action. Perhaps we were later detached for other duties, and thus I never saw Tintax again. At the time I faced the daunting thought that Inman; and the convoy, must have sailed right past the U-boat, before it picked off our rear escort, yet my Asdic team had detected nothing, not even a "possible submarine". However, we were ordered to continue with the merchant ships, while other escorts chased the attacker. Records say that, after a long hunt, they sank U.1172.

From March 1945, we were employed again on the Atlantic route, and were on an outward journey when "Victory in Europe Day" was declared, on May 9th. By the time we returned to Londonderry the celebrations were over, and several surrendered U-boats were tied up in the River Foyle. However, the Admiralty decided that one or two U-boats might have missed the surrender signal, or might be hell-bent on a final act of defiance. Towards the end of May, therefore, we set off with a convoy of 76 ships, west-bound. For some inexplicable reason we were routed to the far north, and when approaching Newfoundland Banks, ran into thick fog. For several days the convoy crept along at minimum speed, with visibility estimated at less than 200 feet. Then the leading escort reported icebergs ahead, and the merchant ships were ordered to turn 90° to port. In the thick fog some turned quickly, some slowly, and possibly some not at all. One ship hit an iceberg, twenty-two others collided, but mercifully no ships were sunk, and no lives lost.

Perhaps it was an illustration of the modern driving slogan: "It's speed that kills". (Remember the Titanic?) All our bumps were in slow motion. After that no attempt was made to re-form the convoy; all escorts and merchant ships were ordered to grope their way independently to port; no more convoys were despatched; and so ended, rather farcically, the enormous effort to keep Britain supplied with food and materials for five and a half years.

At the end of July 1945, I was sent on home leave to await a new posting. My naval documents reveal that I was then put on the books of H.M.S. Pembroke, a shore establishment for anti-submarine courses, so it looks as though the Captain had recommended me, belatedly, for ASCO (anti-submarine control officer) training. But I was never ordered to report. The German war was over, the Americans had sufficient escorts for their Pacific convoys, the Japanese submarines were less of a menace than the U-boats, and the Admiralty were, no doubt, frantically busy trying to re-locate ships and men to a new theatre of war. My leave was extended, and I stayed on with my parents, who now lived in Blackpool. Whenever I have felt, in later years, inclined to grumble about children, I have reminded myself, with some discomfort, that for ten weeks, in 1945, when life was hard for civilians, I "parked" myself on my parents. No doubt I had an emergency ration book, but I don't think I offered to pay anything for my board and lodging. Nor can I imagine how I occupied my time, since the few friends I had left behind lived in Newcastle-under-Lyme. I must have been something of a burden.

In August, the atom bombs were dropped, the Pacific war ended abruptly, and military plans were once more in turmoil. By September I was writing complaining letters to the Admiralty, asking if they had forgotten about me, and in October they decided to send me as far away as possible, perhaps to shut me up. I was told to join H.M.S. Portland Bill, in Vancouver, Canada.

H.M.S. PORTLAND BILL
First I had to find out why the ship had such a
funny name, thus revealing my ignorance of the geography of the south coast of England. Then I applied for some details of the posting, and discovered that Portland Bill was a supply, maintenance and repair ship intended to back up the British Pacific Fleet. She would be much larger that anything I had previously served aboard; more like one of the merchant ships I was used to escorting. There was also the interesting question of what use the ship would now be, but that was not my worry.

The reader will have guessed, by now, that I did not keep a war-time diary. In fact, we were forbidden to do so, though some ignored the order. My memories are therefore often sketchy, especially of names, and only occasionally can I check details with some public record.

So I do not remember the name of the Troopship which took me back across the familiar Atlantic, but it sailed from Southampton, and arrived at Halifax, Nova Scotia. Four young R.N.V.R Officers, including myself, appeared to have orders to join Portland Bill. Most other personnel, some wounded, were returning to their homes in Canada. As a result, we were given a hero's welcome at every stop along the stations of the Canadian National Railway to Toronto. Flags fluttered, bands played, the locals distributed food, drink, and even presents. Our little group felt out of place, though we were always treated kindly, and invited to join in. The celebrations faded away as the train emptied, especially after Toronto, and we headed for the Pacific coast.

"We joined the Navy to see the World, And what did we see? We saw the Sea", as the song goes. Now we were reaping our reward as, more or less, tourists. I don't think it is possible nowadays to cross Canada on an uninterrupted train journey, and I don't know that I can whole-heartedly recommend it. The month was October, the harvest had been gathered in, and the central flat-lands beyond Toronto were unexciting; we would look out of the train window in the morning to see perhaps one solitary farmstead and miles of empty landscape; then in the evening we would look out and see miles of empty landscape and, if we were lucky, one solitary farmstead. An enemy submarine, or plane would have been a welcome distraction. (My apologies to Central Canada. If travellers are bored, they must blame themselves, not their surroundings.) At last, though, we reached the Rockies, which were spectacular. I woke up one morning and gazed down at the river about 200 feet below; looking back, I could see the rear end of the train curving like a snake along the mountainside. That one experience repaid many hours of flat travelling.

In Vancouver we were billeted with a well-meaning but garrulous lady. Occasionally we visited the ship in Burrard ... was it a suburb or a ship-building yard? I have no idea. I remember that we had to take the ferry across the harbour to North Vancouver. There was also time for some sight-seeing, and strolls in Stanley Park, but these amusements do not linger in the memory so vividly as the occasional moments of convoy duty. We began to meet the rest of the crew, and tensions were already apparent. First of all, there was no, longer a common purpose of "defeating the enemy". Secondly, Portland Bill was a curious hybrid; although the Captain was R.N.R., there were a few R.N. Officers in some positions; beneath them was our happy-go-lucky group of R.N.V.R. Officers, unused to pukkah Royal Navy ways, and already contemplating a return to "Civvie Street"; a separate entity was the group of fitters, mechanics and engineers, to man the huge workshops in the bowels of the ship. They were headed by an Engineer Commander, a civilian really, very recently awarded his three stripes to put him on a par with the ship's R.N.R. Commander. He was soon infuriated by the airs of the R.N. group, who did not consider him a "naval officer" at all. He was just a "workman" dressed up, and they were "gentlemen". These products of Dartmouth or Greenwich Naval College had not absorbed the lesson of the General Election, six months earlier, which had swept Churchill and the Conservative Party from power, and replaced them by Attlee's Labour Government. There was revolution in the air, and "Mac", the Commander(E) was very willing to lead the rebels. I believe that he announced his intention of standing as a Communist candidate at the next General Election, a declaration which sent a wave of horror through the more conservative ranks in the ship. Our little R.N.V.R. group liked him, for he was friendly, jovial, willing to join in sporting events, and nothing like a Naval Commander, whereas we saw almost nothing of the R.N. group, except in the line of duty. Perhaps we could have united to fight the Japanese. As it was, it was fortunate that Portland Bill's crew were soon to demobilise.

Pr-BR

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