Blitz Kids, page 34
There were other boys of John’s age who suffered at sea. Fourteen-year-old James Campbell was serving on an Arctic convoy when his ship, the SS Induna, was sunk. He and another boy spent five days in an open lifeboat before being rescued by the Russians and taken to hospital in Murmansk. There, his right leg, left foot and left fingers were amputated as a result of frostbite.4 Another boy from the ship, sixteen-year-old James Anderson, is buried in the military cemetery in Murmansk.
Though all the deaths were tragic, none were more dreadful than those of the fourteen year olds who died whilst serving at sea.5 Whilst thousands of their age group had been evacuated to safety, these boys paid the ultimate prize for the sense of adventure that had taken them into the front line. For many years, it was believed that the youngest of all casualties was fourteen-year-old Raymond Steed. Born in Newport, south Wales, in October 1929, he joined the Merchant Navy in December 1942. In April 1943 his ship, the Empire Morn, struck a mine off the coast of Morocco. Raymond and twenty other crew members died, their bodies taken ashore and buried at Ben M’Sik military cemetery outside Casablanca. He was just 14 years and 207 days old when he died.
It was later discovered that another boy had the dubious honour of being the youngest casualty. He was Dewsbury-born Reginald Earnshaw, just 14 years and 152 days old when he died. He was below decks in his cabin on the SS North Devon when she came under attack by German aircraft in coastal waters between Edinburgh and the River Tyne. As the engine room burned, the flames reached Reginald’s cabin, trapping him despite rescue efforts. His body, along with the other six seamen who died that night, was taken to Edinburgh and buried in an unmarked grave. It was not until 2009 that he finally received a headstone and recognition of his status as the youngest casualty of the war at sea.
There were tragedies that had an impact on close communities. In December 1941 four former classmates from Walton, Merseyside – John Barret, sixteen; Freddy Hall, seventeen; Patrick Gallagher, sixteen; and Tommy Kavanagh, fifteen – died when their ship, Blue Star Line’s Almeda Star, was lost en route to Argentina. Even greater tragedy had only been avoided when Tommy Kavanagh’s thirteen-year-old brother Jimmy had been prevented from going by their father who decided he was too young.6 Another terrible tragedy was the sinking of SS Fiscus in October 1940. Onboard were two brothers, Raymond Lewis, aged fifteen, and his fourteen-year-old brother, Kenneth. They were thought to have forged a letter stating that their father had given them permission to go to sea.
Whilst enemy aircraft and submarines were a constant threat to all wartime seamen, they also faced another enemy: the weather. The great irony was that heavy seas deterred enemy submarines, but they put all shipping at risk. Whilst those on modern, well-maintained ships were relatively safe, those manning old ‘rust buckets’ were in constant danger. Having been spoiled on his first ship, and bombed off his second, Bernard Ashton joined the City of Oxford. She was an old tramp steamer, hardly fit for the sea. In November 1940, the City of Oxford sailed from Liverpool. Within twenty-four hours of leaving port, they hit a gale. At four in the morning, he came off watch. There was no hot food or drinks available since the galley had closed due to the rolling of the ship. He made his way to his bunk only to find the whole ship shaking. Trying to sleep, he heard the steering chains above him rattling and he braced himself so that he wasn’t thrown out. He soon realized there was little chance of sleep:
They called, ‘All hands on deck.’ The starboard lifeboat was hanging in two pieces. As the sea increased we had to go on the boat deck and swing the other boat back in to secure it. As we worked, the sea was breaking over the front of the bridge. There were concrete plates from the front of the bridge being washed off.
The captain realized they were being blown off course and had the deck crew try to take soundings. It was an impossible task. Though tied on, the crew felt they could not survive. Water was running over the decks, the power of the sea tearing off boards and hurling them towards the crew. Bernard found this more frightening than enemy bombers or submarines: ‘I was looking out at the front of the ship and the waves were like mountains. I was new to this. I’ve never been so frightened in my life. This was more frightening than a torpedo. All of a sudden there was a terrific bang as a wave hit us.’ It seemed they could not withstand much more: ‘All of a sudden she gave a lurch. We were carrying machinery for export. This shifted and the ship gave a 27-degree list.’ To Bernard it seemed like the next wave would surely sink her. Then a miracle happened: the storm began to subside. Listing dangerously, and hardly able to fire the boilers, the ship limped back to port.
After more than two years at sea, Christian Immelman finally experienced the one thing all wartime merchant seaman knew that fate had in store for them:
After the day’s work chipping, scraping and painting I was in the toilet in my underwear when there was this massive double explosion. I went to look out over the main deck but couldn’t see anything but a cloud of smoke. I thought I wouldn’t be able to do much in underwear and barefoot so returned to my cabin to put on slacks, cap, jacket and a pair of shoes.
Back out on the boat deck, the smoke had cleared enough to let him see that his ship was listing heavily to port:
The submarine surfaced out on the starboard bow. Captain Cuthill said, ‘Some of you get into this boat and get it away.’ I got in with a good proportion of the deck crew. Because of the list we had a job getting it down, having to lever it away from the ship’s side all the way. When we hit the water I took the tiller. We pushed off, pulled clear of the ship, then rested awaiting developments.
He watched as the submarine’s crew opened fire on the stricken tanker, its shells hitting the hull near the engine room. The Darina finally slid beneath the surface, stern first. And so the crew of the Darina were left in the open waters. Christian found himself in a boat under the command of the third mate, who took charge of rationing the supplies:
We attempted to keep the boats together but a breeze came up, it got a little choppy so we separated to keep the boats from being damaged. We had to do a bit of bailing during the night. Daylight next morning there was no sign of the other boats. We stepped the mast, hoisted the sail and set course for the USA, about 600 miles to the west. Later that morning we saw a ship in the far distance, a tanker. We tried to catch their attention, waving shirts, flashing with a signalling mirror, to no avail. Our boat had a good supply of food, hard biscuits, chocolate, barley sugar, malted milk tablets, water and pemmican. The sea was a little rough for two days then the wind eased and it calmed down, nice sunny days but cold at night.
After six days in an open boat, salvation came in the form of a Norwegian ship, the Dagrun, heading from Cape Town to New York: ‘The Norwegians were a great crowd. They had to put up with us for twenty-eight days, they fed us mainly on ships bread and canned fish balls and there was always a big urn of good coffee to be had on the galley stove.’
In March 1942 Bernard Ashton and his seventeen-year-old friend Peter Pickett joined a tanker sailing for Texas. He was at the wheel as the ship zigzagged to avoid submarines: ‘Crash! A torpedo had hit us. All the glass on the bridge smashed. My life flashed before my eyes.’ The captain immediately arrived on the bridge, asking, ‘Everything all right?’ Bernard told him they were steady on course. The captain then called the engine room and told the ‘chief’ he was going to make a dash for it. As the captain gave the order ‘Full speed ahead’ the crew heard a shout, ‘Boat away!’ The starboard lifeboat had been lowered by the first mate. Although the mate had defied orders, Bernard was convinced he was right: ‘We couldn’t have got away. The ship would have broken in two.’
Despite the dangers, it seemed to Bernard that the entire crew remained calm. The engines stopped and the ship went deadly silent. The only sound was that of the blocks as they launched the lifeboats. It took twenty minutes to get the boats ready, with the crew loading extra supplies, in excess of the emergency provisions already stored onboard. Then the peace was broken by another shout of ‘Boat away!’ Bernard watched as the chaps on the decks seemed unhurried: they didn’t rush to the boats. Instead they just walked along the deck. As the boats moved away, with Bernard safely onboard, he heard a dull thud as the bulkheads gave way and the tanker began to sink. Next came a bang and a puff of smoke and she slid beneath the surface. Since he was dressed in just soft boots, football shorts, and a vest, he was given a one-piece rubber survival suit to protect him against the cold of the night. As he sat in the lifeboat, Bernard listened to the captain’s hushed conversations. The fifteen-year-old cabin boy had been lowered into their boat with an injured ankle, caused by the explosion. The captain was talking about knives and was considering amputating the boy’s foot if they were not rescued before infection set in.
With the ship still 1,000 miles from the West Indies, it was decided that the three boats would separate but stick to a predetermined course. By their reckoning, if one boat was rescued, it would be able to estimate a position for the others. At first light after the sinking, the sails were raised and they began the long, slow journey towards the West Indies. Once again, Bernard was not unduly concerned. He took his turn on the tiller, was warm in his survival suit, and felt they were making good speed. He was confident in the captain’s ability to keep on course. Even when he spotted a ship which seemed to notice them, then turned away, he was not downhearted. The next day, an aeroplane appeared above, but did not approach.
Salvation came on the third day. They were spotted by an American merchant ship, the MV Idaho. Bernard was shocked as he climbed aboard: after just three days in a lifeboat, he felt weak and his legs were wobbling. The incredible sense of relief was heightened when he realized how good living conditions were on the Idaho: there were even water fountains on the walkways and he could get iced water in the galley. Like most teenage boys, his first thought was, ‘I wonder what they’ve got to eat?’ The captain’s plan for separating the lifeboats had worked and within two hours they had picked up the others. The following evening, they landed in Puerto Rico.
Having survived a number of voyages without incident, seventeen-year-old Edward Ford found himself on a Dutch merchant ship, the Alchiba, when it was sunk by a Japanese submarine 600 miles off the coast of Mozambique. With two lifeboats destroyed, the survivors escaped in tightly packed boats. Their chances of survival were not great:
food and water were in short supply as the boat had more people than was catered for and we had no idea how long it would take us to reach land with the wind so light. Rations were quarter of a cup of water, a slice of corned beef and one biscuit twice a day. The days were hot and the nights cold. We were all in shorts with only a shirt on top. The morning of the second day dawned with no sight of the other boat, progress was very slow with just the fin of a shark following the boat from time to time.
After four days, they were rescued by another Dutch ship, landed at Beira in Portuguese East Africa and sent by train to Cape Town.
One year later, Edward Ford was torpedoed for a second time, this time on the SS Alderamin, as part of a convoy homebound from New York. He was one of seventeen who were able to escape on a life raft, which was soon discovered to be leaking: ‘we drifted against an empty life raft which we managed to get hold of. The twelve of us that were able got on to the raft so we were able to sit with our legs out of the water, the five that were left in the boat were believed to be dead.’ The following morning they were taken onboard a rescue ship. As Edward later recalled, he doubted whether the twelve remaining men could have survived another hour on the raft. When they landed in Glasgow, Edward was given a rail warrant and a piece of paper reading ‘Mr Ford states that he is a British subject and is permitted to land in the UK’ to show to waiting immigration officers. The next time he returned to the shipping office the staff laughed and said they did not want to give him another ship since his last two had been sunk.
After four weeks in Puerto Rico and two weeks in New York, Bernard Ashton found work on a Dutch-registered ship. The captain was due to sail to the Pacific and needed a crew since many of his Chinese crew had jumped ship in New York. Eager to get home by any route, he accepted a $35 advance on his wages and purchased new kit – jeans, overalls, oilskins, boots – ready to resume work. Sailing from Hoboken, New Jersey, the ship made its way south along the East Coast of the United States.
On 3 May 1942, they had reached Florida, as had a German submarine, U-109. Bernard was just about to come off watch: ‘I was in the galley. Bang! A torpedo hit beneath where I was. The stove lifted off the floor and I nearly shit myself. I opened the door, stepped out. By the time I got to the boat deck, they were all in the boats.’ Eager not to be left behind, he rushed for the lifeboats. However, he soon realized he was not alone:
I saw a hand come up the ladder from below, I heard a yell and this bloke – an Australian – fell back down the ladder. So me and this other man went down and found him unconscious. You could feel the ship beginning to go down. So we had to carry him up to the deck. By the time we got there the lifeboat had drifted away from the ship’s side. We’d just got there, when there was this almighty bash. Another torpedo had struck on the port side. The smell and the heat of the flames was terrible. It all happened so fast. I didn’t know what happened to the chap we were carrying. We looked at each other, climbed on to the bulwarks and jumped. We swam like mad for the lifeboat. I got to the boat and who was there? It was the Australian we’d been carrying. I don’t know how he got there before me!
The man he had rescued just minutes earlier returned the favour, pulling Bernard into the lifeboat.
As he sat in a lifeboat – for the second time in less than two months – Bernard Ashton looked back on his experiences at sea. He had been lucky: yes, it was his third time being sunk by enemy action, but it was only his first time in the water. He also thought of everything he had bought for himself in America: his new suit, his hats and shoes, which he had been looking forward to wearing to impress the girls back in England – they were all gone. At least he was fortunate to be just one mile from the shore. They rowed the lifeboats to the beach. As the ‘distressed seamen’ walked up the beach, they noticed local people – who had been disturbed by the sound of the explosions – filming them with cine cameras.
Whilst the Merchant Navy was best known for its efforts to transport goods and men around the world, its role went far deeper. The seamen also crewed hospital ships, ferrying wounded soldiers from land to sea, to be treated in floating hospitals. When the Allied armies landed in Sicily and Italy in 1943, the hospital ships provided a lifeline for wounded soldiers. Ex-Vindicatrix boy Bill Ellis served on HS (Hospital Ship) Leinster, ferrying the wounded by landing craft. His time on the Leinster exposed him to the full horrors of war:
Running wounded back to the ship was pretty nasty. The worst wounded person I saw was someone who’d stepped on a mine – and it had taken his face off and his eyes were blown out. Fortunately, he didn’t know what had hit him – he just lay there with a tube for breathing. He was dead the next day. The orderlies could be pretty wicked – one time they told me to come and have a look at this injured bloke. I followed him into this cabin – and there was an injured bloke head-to-foot in bandages like a mummy. He’d been hit by a flamethrower – he didn’t last long.
He witnessed burns victims with huge blisters on their skin. He saw every imaginable injury: men with bullet wounds, amputees, men with crushed limbs. In time he grew used to the scenes and eventually went to watch the ship’s surgeons at work: ‘I saw him operate on a bloke who had shrapnel in his head – cutting it all out. When I first used to watch it was terrible but I got used to it.’ When another hospital ship, the Newfoundland, was damaged by German bombers whilst on its way to Italy, Bill was among the landing-craft crews sent to rescue the medical staff, including a group of American nurses.
Following the Anzio landings in early 1944, the Leinster again provided hospital facilities. However, as it waited off the coast, the ship became the target for enemy aircraft:
I was on watch at the time when all of a sudden planes started dropping bombs on us. A fireball came down the side of the ship – and my landing craft was blown apart. Those landing crafts had 100 gallons of petrol on them so it made quite an explosion. I got into one of the boats on the other side of the ship and thought, ‘I’m going to get myself off.’ It was chaos.
The Leinster was not the only hospital ship to be a target for the enemy bombers:
Just then the St David reappeared. It had taken a direct hit and was sinking. We had to go in a landing craft and pick them up. As I was picking them up – I got hold of this bloke in the water and asked him if he spoke German – he said, ‘Ja, ja.’ The others told me to let him go – so I did. We only had one boat and there wasn’t the space for all of them.
As he rescued some American nurses from the water, pulling them safely on to his landing craft, he noticed that one was familiar. He discovered that the nurse, Ruth Hindman, was someone he had rescued from the sea when the Newfoundland had sunk.
The horrors of war had a profound effect on the youngsters. Having experienced being torpedoed in mid-Atlantic and the desperate rush for the lifeboats, John Chinnery found there were moments onboard a ship in the middle of the ocean that made him think clearly about his situation. Standing on deck on watch, he was struck by how alone he seemed. Staring out to sea, with nothing to see but the horizon, made him realize he couldn’t be small minded. For him, the sea was like a rite of passage: he had started the war as a twelve-year-old boy and had grown up quickly. He had learned to accept the ways of the men around him, learned to live with their foibles and accepted the role he had chosen. He kept this in mind whenever tempers frayed. He realized how, on long and arduous journeys, a terrible atmosphere could engulf a ship. He watched vicious arguments erupt among men who played games of Monopoly that lasted for days. On one trip, a sailor was lost overboard. It was officially an accident but the teenager feared it was murder, the result of arguments among the crew. For a boy among men, it only served to increase the tension he felt.
