大象传媒

Written By A. H. Archer.

H.M.S. Cloughton Wyke was a fishing trawler taken over by the Admiralty early in the war, complete with its civilian crew. The gear used for trawl fishing was easily adapted for minesweeping, which was to be its ultimate use. I joined it in Falmouth, in September 1940, straight from training. It was then my visions of doing my service aboard one of the Naval vessels the like of which I had seen in Plymouth were shattered. The training I had had was all centred around bugle calls, the raising and lowering of the colours, parades, marine bands, and being told each morning what the "rig of the day" was to be. The routine had been very rigid, and you were in trouble if you did not obey. I was deposited over the rails of a dirty and rusting trawler, with not a uniform in sight, all the crew, about a dozen of them, being in dirty overalls or "civvies" What a let down, I felt.

This was my first drafting after training, and I was aged a few months over twenty one. Being a very green "rookie", I am eternally grateful to the gunner, Arthur Baker, the only one who did possess a uniform. He had served his time in the Navy, and part of it on H.M.S. Hood as a gunner. As a reserve, he had been recalled for war service. I was the first newcomer to join the ship, and as such, Arthur, who became a great friend, took me under his wing and protected me from what I could have expected from the rest of the crew, especially as I was to be the officers steward. This was not my choice of rating, it being forced on me, and all requests to change had been turned down. Their fishing skippers had never had them, and because of that, there was a bit of resentment to me at first. I was, though, to find my job very easy, as the skippers themselves were not sure what I was supposed to do either. There were none of the comforts of the larger ships, the quarters were cramped, crew outnumbering the available sleeping berths, especially as the crew was being increased.

At first we had nothing for our entertainment, until I contacted a fund for supplying comforts for the troops in the local paper in my home town, Luton. My request for a radio was answered, and it was most welcome. The boat stank of fish. There was a sickly smell of oil, and there was coal dust everywhere. Life aboard sweepers, especially converted deep sea fishing vessels, was at times, as I look back, very funny, although it could have been far from that. When I joined, the ship's radio was not working, nor could anyone of the crew read flag signals. Once, in Falmouth, after a raid, it was feared the entrance to the harbour had been mined, with a type which were difficult to sweep. After two days we were given special permission to leave, providing we kept to a very precise channel. As we got under way, other ship sounded their sirens, and crews frantically waved to us, wishing us luck, as we thought. On reaching Fowey, we had to explain why we had steamed right through the danger area. So that was what the other ships were trying to tell us.

For some time I was sleeping on a locker until 2.00 am, then used the bunk of an engineer when he went on watch, to finish the night. We got an extra copper or two a day as compensation for our discomfort and lack of amenities. Everywhere was damp, our washing having to be dried either on lines in the messdeck, or over the coal burning engines, where they not only stank of oil, but were also covered with coal dust. Because of the dampness, we had to have frequent chest X-rays. After one, I was recalled for what turned out to be a thumb print smudge. Shortly after joining, those of the crew needing it, were sent to Plymouth to be given uniforms. I will never forget the sight of them leaving the ship in "civvies", but returning in uniforms. What a sight they looked, trying to get used to the trap-door trousers and tight jumper tops. After that, they were only worn to go ashore in.

No attempt was made to give them seamanship training, as that would have been an insult to them. They had been at sea all their lives, in conditions the Navy never experienced, so knew more about it than those who would have had to teach them. We were in a branch of the Navy called the Royal Naval Patrol Service. This in itself was a joke. The more usual title, however, and known the world over, was Harry Tate's Navy. Our base "ship" was H.M.S Europa. It was "docked" at Lowestoft, and was in fact their Municipal Gardens, called The Sparrows Nest, hence we were nicknamed "Sparrows", as we kept leaving the nest, only to return again later to be redrafted. It was complete with a concert hall, which served as our drafting office, and a band stand. Many a story could be told of the latter.

We had to be billeted around the town, and again many a story could be told of that. The first few weeks we spent on E-Boat patrol off Fowey, then, after a change of skipper, we were sent to Plymouth, where the fish holds were converted into living accommodation, and sweeping gear installed. After several months sweeping off Devon and Cornwall, we were sent to Yarmouth on the East coast, to sweep the channel for convoys between there and the Humber.

This story really begins early in January 1942. One member of the crew was a very young lad, Eric, who had large blue eyes, therefore we nicknamed him "Baby Blue Eyes". His pride and joy was his issued service knife. Hour after hour he spent honing it, until it was so sharp you could cut anything with it. He got a lot of leg-pulling over it, but then we did not know what lay ahead. This new skipper was not the most loved of personalities, and was not at all like the usual fishing skippers, who had no respect for the ranks they had been given because of their seagoing experience. To them, Kings Rules and Regulations were a joke. Only one regulation was willingly accepted, and that was the daily rum ration.

This skipper, a younger man, and very conscious of his rank, for some reason had a down on Eric. Nothing he could do was right, and at every opportunity, he would show him up in front of the rest of us. It was getting him down, and the day came when his frustration reached breaking point. That day, on a north bound sweep, and having again given Eric a rough time, the captain looked over the bridge rail, right down the barrel of a rifle, which was always kept loaded ready to sink any floating mines. Another of the crew rushed to take it off him. We wondered why he had not been placed under arrest, in which case he would have been taken off the ship when we docked. and everyone expected a Courts Martial awaited him. The entire crew would have been on the side of Eric. We steamed on into Grimsby, where I went ashore. There was an ice rink there, and that week I had had my skates sent from home, and I was keen to use them. On returning to the ship, late in the evening, I was amazed to find a new skipper in his cabin. The last one, realising he could not look forward to a safe future with us, had applied for immediate transfer, and within the time I was ashore, had packed his bags and gone.

Being his steward, I could go in and out of his cabin at will and I was surprised to find the cox鈥檔 with him, despite the hour, and in front of them they had the crew list. The new skipper introduced himself, he being Lt. Larter and I took an instant liking to him. He was more elderly, and quiet spoken. Only in recent years I have found out he had both the D.S.C. and O.B.E.

On joining a ship, you are allocated stations for fire drill, action stations, and abandon ship stations. Our gunlayer, Arthur, had made sure we knew our action stations, as that was his responsibility, and gave us frequent gun drills. We had never, however, been given more than that. The new skipper had said we would not go to sea again without us knowing what to do in an emergency, and so worked late into the night to complete a list of our stations. Before we sailed in the morning we had all been drilled in them.

What a different atmosphere among us on the southbound sweep, especially as no action had apparently been taken against Eric. Back at Yarmouth, we berthed at Gorleston, on a narrow strip of water running parallel to the sea. The next morning, February 4th., we were to join the other sweepers to go North again. If it had been peacetime, and we were going fishing, I am sure we would not have gone to sea that day.

Fishermen are very superstitious, and every ship had a cat. I had been told of fishing gear being cut away at sea to rescue a cat washed overboard. Early that morning, the order to let go the ropes was given, and the cat, sitting on the gunnels, jumped ashore, only to be passed back. Again it jumped ashore, and again was passed back. When we were finally clear, with a terrific leap she was away again, and was last seen crossing some fields at a great speed. Self preservation came before maternal instincts, as she had kittens aboard.

At sea, we joined up with the rest of the sweepers in our flotilla. It was a very bad day to go to sea. The clouds were very low, the weather icy, there being snow in the rain, and the seas were very rough. We took up our positions to sweep, and at a slow speed, preceded north. Off Cromer, we developed a problem, and were told to break formation, haul in our sweep, and stand to one side until the problem was sorted out, and we were able to get going again. This we did, and so most of us were able to relax, and were lounging about on deck, enjoying a brew up to keep warm. Suddenly we heard the sound of a plane above the clouds, and it seemed to be circling around us. Without warning, with a roar, we saw a four engines bomber bearing down on us, its machine guns firing tracer bullets, and the noise was deafening. It was a Fokka Wolfe Condor, we later found out. We saw four bombs leave the plane, and they straddled our ship, but with none hitting us. I had rushed round to the side away from the attack to take shelter under the Orapesa float. This was a heavy steel float, shaped like a fish and attached to the end of the sweep cable. The plane disappeared, up into the clouds, and although it could still be heard, we gathered to discuss what had happened, and see if anyone had been injured.

Without warning, it did a second attack, from the same direction, and again we scattered for shelter. Once again we saw the tracers, and four more bombs. We were a sitting target. This time although there were no direct hits, one did explode beneath the ship, which promptly broke its back, the stern sinking like a stone. We were told to abandon ship, which thanks to our skipper, we knew. Most of us rushed to our stations, one being a life raft, and mine being in the small boat, which we managed to lower into the rough sea. It took careful timing to jump into it, as once it was in the water, the heavy seas caused it to be one minute sucked away from the side, the next crashing into it.

We all managed it except Eric, and he was crushed against the side. We pulled him into the small boat, unconscious. Then we could see we were in great danger, as we were lashed to the fore part of the ship, which had by now also started to sink fast. Frantically we searched our pockets for a knife, but none of us had one on us. Our fate appeared to be either dragged down with the ship, or jump overboard into the icy water. Someone then thought to go through Eric's pockets, and there found the knife he was so proud of, and it went though the rope like butter.

Our oarsmanship that morning was nothing the Navy would have been proud of. As we pulled away, I saw what I have never been able to forget. In the water were three of my shipmates, struggling in the water trying to keep afloat, and being taken away on the tide. One was my friend the gunner, Arthur, wearing a heavy duffle coat. Another, by the name of Pellow, was wearing a heavy yellow oilskin fisherman鈥檚 smock. His body was never recovered. This makes me believe they had been blown overboard in the explosion, not having time to get out of their heavy gear.

Two of the other sweepers broke formation to pick up survivors, while the rest closed up their guns, but it was over so quickly there was nothing they could do. The consensus of opinion is that it was all over in not a lot over two minutes. On the way back to Yarmouth, radio messages between the two boats confirmed four were missing, and that five, including the skipper, had been injured.

Once we were safely aboard the rescue boat, and given blankets and hot coffee, we had time to reflect how fortunate we had been, as at that time we fully expected the missing ones to be rescued. Also, it dawned on us that now we had lost every personal belonging we had, apart from what we were wearing, and they were wet through with oily salt water. I remember the seaman who had been in the wheelhouse at the time of the attack, watching his mug being smashed, saying his concern at the time, was how he would be able to replace it. I got a little bit of satisfaction when it came to replacing my Post Office savings book during the leave which followed. When I reported it lost, the postmaster really read me the riot act for being so careless in losing it, saying there would be a delay in replacing it, to give me chance to search for it. Finally he asked if I was sure I had no idea where it might be. I said I knew exactly where it was, it was three miles off Cromer, at the bottom of the sea. His apologies were profuse, and the book replaced immediately.

I have often wondered what became of Eric and his knife, and do hope it was returned to him. That, and the fact the skipper had insisted we rehearsed our emergency stations, must have saved some lives. I often think back on to that day, especially at Armistice time, and consider the irony of war. Three of the crew had in peacetime earned their living fishing with the boat as their home. Now they were destined to die with it.

漏 A.H.Archer.

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