RCCNZ - My Story

Story contributed by: Derek Whitwam (HMS Berwick) Lower Hutt, New Zealand:

It’s 25 May 1943 and having just arrived from Workington, I'm in the recruiting centre in Carlisle with three others - two from Kendal and one from Carlisle. We're all wondering what we’d let ourselves in for. My father’s last words as he saw me off still ringing in my ears "beware of loose women". I was 17 years old. We were given a travel warrant - Carlisle to Fareham - leaving on the 8.35pm train arriving Euston at 5.33am., cross over to Waterloo by underground, catch the 7.27 am and arrive Fareham 9.59 am. Report to Naval Patrol for transport to HMS Collingwood.

After being given an official number, photographed etc. for our pay book we were assigned a hut '5X Maintop Div.'. Others arrived during the day, all from the London area, about 28 in total. The next few days were taken up with uniform issue and kit, marking the same and learning how to sling a hammock. Unfortunately our travelling companion from Carlisle was sent home as he had lied about his age. Two or three weeks into our training a lone German bomber, probably lightening his load before heading home dropped one bomb which landed on a hut in the row next but one to ours killing 30 recruits and injuring over 60. Also killed was a Chief Petty Officer who had apparently got out of bed to see what was going on.

Eight weeks of seamanship training and square bashing was followed by two weeks of gunnery training. When asked what we wanted to do I opted for motor mechanic training but after transfer to a camp in Belmont Park, I was told that there were too many doing the course so it was back to barracks for me . Drafted then to a camp at Stockheath where I and several others were put into "Fighter Patrol" given khaki battledress and did little else all day except PT, unarmed combat with a former all-in wrestler, football and practising the use of Sten guns .

Following a Tannoy request for volunteers for "something secret" we were sent to HMS Heron, the Naval Air Station at Yeovilton in Somerset where we passed out after four weeks as Plot Control ratings 3rd.class. After the initial training at HMS Collingwood in Fareham, and the four week course in Plot Control at HMS Heron, I and three other would-be matelots caught the overnight train to Rosyth and joined our ship HMS Berwick which was in dry dock at the time. The three others were Vic. Cooper from Orsett in Essex, “Ginger” Thomson from London and “Tommo” Thomas from Surrey.

No-one seemed to know what to do with us on arrival not having had Plot Control ratings before so they put us in a General Mess. It was quite a secretive affair at the time, we didn’t have a badge and were told to wear a W/T badge. We were given Action Stations firstly on the twin 4 inch H/A AA guns but I wasn’t tall enough to lift the shells out of the locker so was transferred onto loading magazines on the twin Oerlikons. Some semblance of lateral thinking came when they realised it was rather stupid having us on guns when, in an air raid, we should have been in the Fighter Direction Office doing what we’d been trained to do, supervised by the Fighter Direction Officer, Lt. (later Lt/Cmndr) Allday. The trip from Rosyth to Scapa Flow was my first time on the water since having a row on Derwent Water.

Our first trip in anger was as covering force for Arctic convoy JW57. It was a memorable sight arriving in Akureyri (Iceland ), the city lights reflecting in the snow, especially after three years of blackouts in the UK. The same couldn’t be said for the weather, 60 ft waves and howling winds, with the ship shuddering as it ploughed through the rollers. Luckily I was never seasick. I don’t recall it ever being so bad again.

Sometime during 1944 the plot control and radar sections were amalgamated. Standing out during my three and a half years in the RN would be the escorting of the RMS Queen Mary, with prime minister Winston Churchill on board, to Halifax, Nova Scotia with the Atlantic as calm as a mill pond. We made 32.5 knots all the way there and back. The liberation of Trondheim with the Norwegian destroyer “Stord “ leading the way down the fiord was very emotional. I recall the first church service in Trondheim Cathedral after liberation, the boredom of the Fleet anchorage at Scapa Flow.

After leaving Berwick it was back to HMS Collingwood on 24 July 1945, then to HMS Valkyrie at Douglas on the Isle of Man to do an RP2 course. Our billets were a row of boarding houses on the Esplanade. Twice a day we had to march up to the radar school on Douglas Head. This part of the course was eight weeks and included VJ day. From the IOM to HMS Heron again for four weeks doing Plotting, Navigation and the use of anti-submarine plotting tables. One week at HMS Dryad at Southwick nr. Portsmouth was next where there were mock-ups of ships' anti-aircraft plots.

Back to Collingwood where on 21 October 1945 I got a draft to Malta sailing from Tilbury on a troop carrying aircraft carrier en route to the Far East. The old hanger decks had been converted into hundreds of three tier bunks. Luckily, being a radar operator I was made temporary ships company which made the trip a little less boring.

A short spell in HMS Euroclydon, which I understand had been a womens' prison pre-war, was followed by a draft to HMS Circe, a minesweeper in the 12th Flotilla, somewhere in Italy. Three of us boarded an LCT in Sliema Creek and proceeded north calling at Naples and Bastia (Corsica) before being landed at Leghorn where we were billeted in an Italian naval barracks. Two false starts later, one on a Newfoundland Navy ocean going tug then an MGB we were finally picked up by HMS Stormcloud who was on her way to join the 12th for their sweeping operations out of Genoa and finally boarded Circe.

Life was reasonably good here. The rate of exchange had skyrocketed, we could buy a dozen eggs for a small bar of chocolate. As it was canteen messing we could buy whatever we wanted for our meals. It was here I suffered the most frightening event of my life. I was sent up the mast by a masochistic Petty Officer with a pot of paint and a brush and told to paint the yardarm. Sitting astride the yard, clinging to the stay wire like grim death while being urged to get further out all the while the funnel belching smoke. I guess it was an early form of “Outward Bound”.

We cleared the area of mines and steamed our way back to Malta learning that we were to pay off in Chatham. Calling at Gibraltar we all loaded up with bananas and were given the task of towing a trawler back to the UK. Due to a storm brewing in the Bay of Biscay we had to put into La Corunna (Spain) for shelter. Whilst there our Coxswain dived into the harbour to rescue the local Mayor’s daughter who had fallen/jumped astern of the ship (and that reminds me she still has my towel). He was later presented with a very nice leather compendium. After paying off in Chatham it was back to Collingwood waiting for demobilisation which occurred on 3 June 1946, and I was finally released in Class A on 18 September 1946.

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Story contributed by: Chris King (HMS Bluebell) Wellington, New Zealand (P/JX 310293)

In September 1941 I enquired at the Royal Naval Recruiting Office in Southampton about enrolment in the Navy. By 6th December 1941, after “acceptance trials” and training in communications at Royal Arthur, a peacetime holiday camp at Skegness, I found myself, a fully fledged part of ‘the Andrew’ heading for Liverpool to join HMS Bluebell. I had enquired in Barracks as to what sort of warship the Bluebell was but the men who could probably best tell me were already out there in the murky Atlantic, or wherever, cursing the rolling and pitching corvettes and all those who had designed them. At the dockside I hesitated, as the Marine driver threw my bag and hammock out of the van, and a slight sense of panic set in. This surely must be the boat to take me out to the warship, I thought, but then I saw the board with BLUEBELL, facing the gangway, and the Marine said “This is it Jack, good luck, you’ll need it” then jumped in his van and drove away.

Although at first everything and everyone seemed so strange, I came to discover that the ninety crew on board were a closely knit bunch whose lives were in each other’s hands, everyone playing some part in getting the ship to whatever destination their Lordships at the Admiralty might decide to send us, and back again. Maybe there were plenty of times for arguments and almost coming to blows but generally things worked out quite well, as they had to on a ship only 203 ft long, and with a crew of 90, double the compliment it was designed for. Originally corvettes were intended for coastal waters protection work, not the deep sea work for which they came to be used.

The first trip was down to Gibraltar, just skirting the Bay of Biscay, escorting a convoy of merchant ships at an average speed of about seven knots. Then a few days in Gibraltar, shore leave, warnings not to drink the local brew, evenings at the many nightclubs and the realisation that everyone, while prepared to do everything for the good of the ship at sea, was intent on making the most of any shore leave, including rolling back to the ship, sufficiently drunk, and causing whatever mayhem a crowd of sailors could cause in the town. Although all this may seem pretty gross behaviour now, I must emphasise that our lives, especially at sea, were in many ways completely unnatural, more particularly to us civilian or HO (hostilities only) ratings. We were cramped up in a very small ship for days, weeks, or sometimes months, rolling and pitching, trying to stay in our bunks by jamming feet and arms into each corner, while buckets and kettles, anything that could break free, slid from one side of the sleeping quarters to the other. Probably also water washing around the mess deck having got in from outside on the upper deck.

The watch-keeping routine at night – just as one got to sleep there would be a shake on your shoulder and then, dragging on extra clothes, oilskins, seaboots, and a towel tucked in round the neck to keep the water out, it was up the ladder and out onto the deck, forcing open the heavy watertight door, pitch black, blowing half a gale and the noise of the sea and wind hitting the ship with probably a good dose of spray to really wake you up. Then up the ladder to the wheelhouse, again a tricky manoeuvre, and inside, to be greeted by whoever was on the wheel. Just the dim green light of the compass and, looking through the front wheelhouse windows you could just make out the ship’s bow, lifting and then falling away into deep white foam followed by a cascade of water rushing over the ship. You soon got used to planting your feet firmly apart or leaning against the roll of the ship to stop from sliding.

The experience of the sea’s motion was completely foreign to me of course, but it was a case of survival and getting used to it all. Fortunately I soon found my sea-legs and, praise be, never once felt the least bit sea-sick, in fact the rougher it got, the more my appetite increased! For those that did succumb it must have been a wretched time and it affected officers and ratings alike, even the older three-badge sailors who could never have served on a corvette in the Great War. The Author who wrote, “they (the Flowers) would roll on wet grass” was so right.

Sometimes, during a quiet night watch, telegraphist and coder would talk of home, our next convoy operation, or the last, or next, run ashore. Sometimes the four hour watches seemed to last forever and it was always good, in the morning watch, 4 am to 8 am, to see the light sky appearing and the shapes of the merchant ships over to one side of us. The weather and seas were not always bad and sometimes in the Mediterranean, it was a real joy to come out at night on to the upper deck, with a clear sky and calm sea, or cruising along in the daytime, watching the deep blue sea creaming alongside.

Of the many convoys, in the Atlantic, the Mediterranean and up above the Arctic circle to Murmansk and Archangel, and of the enemy attacks by air and sea, there are already good and detailed records in many books. We had our fair share on the Bluebell and it was always so good to come steaming up the Mersey and see the Liver Building with the statuesque birds on their towers waiting to greet us. The Roebuck pub had adopted the crew and most would head straight there first night ashore, except for those lucky crew members getting seven days leave.

We did have an extensive refit in South Shields, near Newcastle, before going on our first Russian convoy. More armaments were added, the foc’sle lengthened to give an extended cover of decking nearly half way along the ship – supposedly to keep the inside dry ! The bridge was completely uncovered and widened to give better all round visibility and asdics were fitted. Later the bows were strengthened to cope with the Arctic ice. After sea trials and the compulsory working up of both ship and crew at Tobermory, we felt very much endeared to our newly furbished ship.

On the initiative of our Navigating Officer, and the Skipper, I was recommended as a CW candidate (for a commission), and papers to chart my progress while at sea were started for me. This meant that I did various sea-going duties unrelated to my coding duties, and this tended to upset the watch-keeping by the other two coders if I wasn't available. One extra duty was taking the ship’s wheel, a large heavy wooden spoked wheel which took some strength to counter the yawing of the ship and stay on course. The Quartermaster would ask permission of the Officer of the Watch (O.O.W) on the Bridge, for me to take the wheel and there I would be suddenly, my responsibility to hold the ship’s course, not always very easy. It was not good to see the compass bearing getting away from you especially as the Officer of the Watch on the bridge was watching the same compass readings. Zigzagging could be tiring work so the Quartermaster was always glad when I accepted his offer to take the helm. I also had a variety of seaman’s duties to tackle.

Sometimes too, the O.O.W. would call for me to come up on the bridge. He was probably glad of the company and apart from instructing me in the art of conning the ship, navigation and general convoy procedures, we would talk of many other matters of home and the future, after the war. I do well remember one occasion when we were tucked away in a small bay below Murmansk, awaiting orders, the Skipper decided to take our ship’s boat away for a sail. He knew I had been a ‘week-end sailor’ and so ordered me to go along as crew. It was the most boring sailing I had ever done. Apart from being very cold, and wrapped up in oilskins, I just had to sit up near the bow ready to change the boom round from one side of the mast to the other (dipping lugsail design). A Captain isn’t the best company for an ordinary rating and our Skipper was a rather nervous man of few words. We soon discovered there was not enough wind to blow a feather away. In fact, although we had made a little progress upstream, we were soon drifting back, past the Bluebell. The First Lt turned on the Tannoy speaker and soon the voice of Scotsman, Sir Harry Lauder, singing “Keep right on to the end of the road” came wafting over the water to us. The Skipper was not at all amused, ordered me to take the sail down and then we both rowed the boat back to the ship. The Skipper went straight to his cabin leaving me to get the boat inboard, with the help of the duty watch and generally tidy up all the gear. Altogether a miserable episode for what was meant to be a “ make and mend day”, when although you were supposed to make or mend your clothes, as in Nelson’s day, you could actually just lie in your bunk and read or dream of home.

So many anecdotes and adventures come to mind, too numerous to cover here. Finally, in the middle of September 1943, while we were in Gibraltar, after a convoy to Malta and back, a signal arrived stating I was to be relieved and sent back to the UK for my CW posting to ‘King Alfred’, the RN officers’ training school. My relief duly arrived and I headed back to England by fast destroyer. It was on my 21st birthday, after a week at KA, when, although my signal and navigation tests were apparently OK – and my fingernails spotlessly clean, I received the thumbs down from the reviewing board and returned to active service, slightly crestfallen.

Fortunately, my unsuccessful spell at King Alfred meant that I was not on board on 17th February 1945 when the Bluebell was torpedoed by U711, coming out of Murmansk. She blew up immediately and there was only one survivor, not the man who relieved me in Gibraltar. Petty Officer Holmes was in the water for three quarters of an hour before being picked up by the destroyer HMS Zest. There were about fifteen men, like myself, who had been posted from the ship at various times and survived the sinking. We had a very emotional meeting in 1993 at a Flower Class Corvette reunion in the UK.

Briefly my naval career then continued with a spell on a Landing Ship Dock (HMS EASTWAY) taking part in the Normandy and Southern France invasions, a short trip to Bremerhaven and Hamburg as part of the liaison staff on a Free French Frigate, the Croix de Lorraine. And then after some enjoyable months working in the Admiralty ‘citadel’ in London, living ashore and able to enjoy the sights and sounds of London, I was finally released under class ‘A’ in April 1946.

It has been quite difficult trying to express in words what those sea-going years were really like. I regarded them as ‘unnatural’ because I think no-one, however bad or for whatever reason, deserves to go through the conditions experienced, for such continuous periods, and I’m thinking of the gales and the seas. The various actions, the attacks, came and went, but the sea, the storms and gales, could be so relentless, tossing a little ship like the Bluebell around without mercy, like, as a former Skipper had said, “a cork” bobbing on the water. But the five years were a mind broadening experience for which I must be grateful. And I shall never ever forget those men, lost at sea, who I served with during my Bluebell years. ...

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Story contributed by: Penwill James Moore (HMS Malcolm), Wellington, New Zealand

As a volunteer I enlisted in the New Zealand Division of the Royal Navy in May 1941 and in December sailed for the United Kingdom in MV Dominion Monarch, on loan to the Royal Navy. After three months at HMS Ganges I joined ‘HMS Malcolm’ as Navigator’s Yeoman. She was recommissioning after a major refit at Devonport Dockyard and after working up sailed for Liverpool where she became a Special Escort Destroyer of Western Approaches based in Gladstone Dock.

Our C.O. was Commander A.B. Russell RN, a distinguished senior escort officer, and we were employed on some special convoy duties in the Atlantic including escorting the troop ship Llanstephan Castle, which had been torpedoed, from the west of Finisterre to the Clyde. Early July we sailed for Hvalfjordur as S.O. Close Escort for a Russian convoy which was recalled after about two days steaming. We returned to Hvalfjordur from where we escorted the Fleet Oiler ‘Blue Ranger’ to Scapa Flow then back to Liverpool.

Sailed from Gourock on 2 August 1942 oiling at Moville prior to rendezvousing with a convoy of fast large merchant ships which was subsequently joined by Rodney, Nelson, Aircraft Carriers, Cruisers and more Destroyers. Oiled at Gibraltar and rejoined what was ‘Pedestal’ bound for Malta. Malcolm’s special task was one of two Destroyers escorting ‘Furious’ and being close to ‘Eagle’ when she was torpedoed on the 11th, we rescued 198 survivors while several dead were recovered and subsequently buried with proper naval honours. During the night, in company with ‘Wolverine’, attacked an Italian submarine ‘Dagabur’ which Wolverine rammed and sank. Next day hunted another U-Boat which eventually took refuge in Spanish Ibiza. On way to rejoin the convoy picked up air crew in life raft from RAF aircraft shot down and then we were redirected to escort ‘Nigeria’ which had been badly damaged by torpedo attack in the Straits of Pantelleria.

We then escorted towards Malta ‘Furious’ for three trips, delivering Spitfires to within flying range of Malta. Returned to Liverpool, boiler clean and then to Loch Ewe where merchant ships of PQ18 convoy assembled with ‘Malcolm’ as senior officer close escort PQ18 going right through to Archangel arriving on 21st September and during our stay the docks were under constant air attack. 2nd October we were ordered to Vaenga (Kola Inlet) to obtain small supply of fuel oil and then proceed independently to Seydisfjord – a very harrowing experience as our shortest course took us close to the occupied North Norwegian Coast. Refuelled at Seydisfjord and back to Liverpool, encountering storm force conditions which caused much damage.

The ship was dry docked for repairs and structural alterations which included a substantially reinforced stem. 20th October sailed for Belfast to assemble convoy of a strange mixture of ships including three LST’s and as S.O. escorted them safely to Gibraltar – 14 days of stormy conditions. Refuelled at Gibraltar and learned that we were part of “Torch”, the invasion of North Africa, and along with Broke, Malcolm was to storm Algiers Harbour – smash the boom, seize important port installations and prevent the scuttling of French warships. About 3.00am caught in searchlight beams and were subjected to a withering barrage of fire from the shore batteries. Malcolm sustained several direct hits – forward boiler destroyed and engine room badly holed, bridge structure including TS, chartroom and conning position damaged with midships area on fire she was forced to withdraw slowly sinking. Algiers surrendered later that day and the following day Malcolm was assisted to a berth in the Old Port where temporary repairs were carried out so that after a week we sailed with three corvettes as escort for some merchant ships back to Gibraltar – then a week later returned to the Clyde as part of escort for ‘Duke of York’ and ‘Victorious’. Then on to Sheerness and Chatham Dockyard for major repairs.

I left ‘Malcolm’, then to ‘Newfoundland’ commissioning after building at Swan Hunter’s Yard at Wallsend-on-Tyne. Nine weeks later when on seven days’ leave prior to going to ‘King Alfred’ I was visiting relations in Salcombe, South Devon, when it was subjected to a Baedeker Raid by a squadron of FW190’s and the house received a direct hit. I was rescued after being buried for several hours and was hospitalised for four months before starting my course at King Alfred.

Commissioned at end of October 1943 I then proceeded to the Admiralty Compass Observatory for training as a Compass Officer. Appointed Swinging Officer to Force J Group 2 (HMS Sea Serpent) for D-Day landings at Juno Beach. September 1944 returned to A.C.O. for further course qualifying as full Compass Officer with next appointment as assistant to Swinging Officer at Leith (HMS Claverhouse) with short term stint as Relieving Compass Officer to AKHM Rosyth.

After V.E. Day granted foreign service leave to return to New Zealand with reappointment at end of leave to British Pacific Fleet based at Darwin. V.J. Day declared and at the end of November 1945 declared surplus to requirements and discharged from active service, remaining on Reserve of Admiralty Compass Officers until late 1950’s – my last refresher course being in 1956 during a visit to the U.K.

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Story contributed by Bill Brokenshaw (HMS Chiltern) Whangarei, New Zealand

I joined the trawler Chiltern in February 1940 at Fleetwood starting off as Decky Trimmer helping to shovel ten tons of coal a day. In June 1940 our Skipper was ordered to pack up fishing and to proceed to St Nazaire to help with the evacuation of French people, mostly women and children. The place was absolutely chaotic. Everyone was trying to get aboard the vessels that were in the port. While we were there the troopship “Lancaster” was blown up with much loss of life. We eventually left with our trawler carrying 300 evacuees. We proceeded to Millbay in Plymouth where all the French people left the trawler. After a few days leave we found we had been taken over by the Royal Navy. It looked as if our fishing days were over - we were converted into a minesweeper. Evidently the Chiltern had done minesweeping in 1917 when she had been built.

For the next 18 months we swept the Cornish and Devonshire coasts “collecting 47 mines in 20 weeks. Up to one third of our trawlers were lost to mines and enemy aircraft. On 28 May 1941 at approximately 2200 hrs while we were approaching our anchorage in Mounts Bay, Penzance, during an air raid a German bomber came within our range. With just one shell we were able to bring it down. Although the crew of the aircraft were able to release their life raft they were not able to save themselves. We picked up their life raft and a new type of radio was found which was capable of sending the position of a disabled aircraft which could be rescued. HMS Chiltern made headlines in the local papers and we were visited by the Air Marshall of the Royal Air Force. Skipper Jimmy Drake was now Lieutenant James Drake, RNR but to us he was always “Jimmy”.

In December 1941 we had orders to proceed to a South Wales shipyard where we had another refit preparing us to go to North Russia to fish for the convoys at the Northern base of Polyarnoe. We left Cardiff on Sunday the 15 February 1942 and went to Greenwich where we took on three months stores and fresh water. The 26 February saw us in the North Atlantic sailing for Iceland. We were all looking forward to seeing Reykjavik. Sorry to say we hit uncharted rocks on 3 March and had to go up on a slipway. I ended up in hospital for several days with some undiagnosed ailment. I wonder why!?! The chap in the next bed was in a coma for 21 days!

We set sail with PQ13 on Monday 8 April. Twenty six ships in the convoy. Snowing very hard. Visibility down to about 50 yards. We were ordered to return to port. Set off again 26 April 1942 with PQ15. We ran into fog, snow and ice once we were in the Arctic Circle. Following day spotted two floating mines and heard gunfire from one of our ships. On the 1 May two German aircraft were shot down. The 2 May enemy attacked the convoy, one sub captured and on 3 May convoy attacked by many torpedo bombers four times. Three ships were torpedoed. The Chiltern picked up 62 men off one ship, (the Jutland), including four RAF officers going to Murmansk to train Russians to fly Spitfires and Hurricanes, and members of the British Embassy staff going to Moscow. Six other members of the crew were missing. One aircraft came down across our stern firing his machine gun missing us by about ten feet. Another of our “lucky days”. An American tanker full of high octane fuel was hit and blew up in seven seconds. Another “Woodbine” funnel had to be sunk by one of our Naval ships.

Life aboard our trawler was not the best. Ice, snow, freezing winds, everything wet, no sleep. Only warm place was in the stokehole with the fireman. Our clothing wasn’t really suitable for those sort of conditions but there was a lot worse to come. We were to spend the next 16 months in those Northern waters. Summer was May to August when one would actually see sunshine. The rest of the year was gales, snow and ice. German aircraft made the most of the summer months. They came from Petsamo (Petchenga) Finland and averaged about ten air raids a day. Many of the buildings in Murmansk were built of timber. Dropping incendiary bombs set fire to the whole city over a period of days. When we left Murmansk in August 1943 the city was as flat as football field. One radio station said there had been over 1,000 bombing attacks since the war started. We must have seen two thirds of them.

One of the worst times was four days and nights we laid across the end of the jetty at Murmansk waiting for a tug to take us to Vaenga on the Kola Inlet where a new propeller was to be fitted. Bombs were dropping in the sea on one side of us and on the land on the other side of us. One of the more terrifying experiences of my time in Russia. (Our mate up topside must have been looking after us during that time). It was certainly sheer hell. We eventually, with the help of a third of a propeller blade made our way to dry dock. Must have done all of two knots with the help of an outgoing tide. Now, a funny side to the story. The Russians fitted a new propeller with a reverse pitch. This meant when the engines were put ahead the ship went astern and vice-versa. One of the men came up with a little verse:

The Chiltern they tell me acquired
A propeller they truly admired
But, in utter disgrace
It was ass about face
And instead of advancing, retired

While we were having these repairs done we sometimes went for a walk away from the dockyard. One day we came across a small cemetery. I noticed several graves marked with crosses. It turned out that they were the graves of British soldiers that Churchill had sent to Russia in 1917. I wish now that I had taken the details of those men buried there.

Convoys came and convoys went. The Chiltern was always around providing a helping hand. Unloading stores, taking RN and merchantmen to the local hospital at Vaenga. Some of these men were in a terrible state with frostbite, their ship sunk under them or caught in an air raid. In May 1942 there were 1,100 survivors from HMS Edinburgh, HMS Trinidad and merchantmen from PQ15. Our next convoy was PQ17 of which much has been written but which, at the time, we did not know much about. Sufficient to say the Germans were free to pick off our merchant ships one at a time. Chiltern was ordered to look for survivors. All we found were 83 American and British sailor boys whose ships were caught up in the ice. We had the help of a Catalina flying boat to find them. Life was never dull in those Northern waters. The “Empire Starlight” was another ship that was bombed and sunk in the Kola Inlet after she had discharged her cargo.

A Commander Cole, who was in charge of the 100 men at the Navy house in Polyarnoe came aboard us to ask us to take him aboard what was left of the “Empire Starlight” which could be boarded at low tide. He wanted everything that could be salvaged taken off to go to Navy house. He said if there should be an air raid he would blow his whistle three times and we would all assemble aft of the bridge. Time went by and our crew seemed to be solely concerned with what they could take for themselves (the spoils of war?). Eventually the whistle sounded and we all hastened to assemble aft. No sign of an aircraft or an air raid. Then the Commander addressed us. “Gentlemen” he said “ this petty pilfering, this individual scrounging must cease”. Oh boy, what a shock. However, he was very fair and said “Get what I want and the rest of the ship is yours”. One very sad part was I was asked to go aft and bring back some cork fenders. Unfortunately there were a number of bodies trapped under them. I was 19 years old at the that time. “Lest we forget”. There is never any fear of that happening in my life time. Another time we had orders to pick up mail from HMS Gossamer. We were 20 minutes late and arrived to find mail and bodies in the sea. Twenty minutes between two of life's happenings.

To be continued

Story contributed by Arch Jelley (HMS Bermuda) Auckland, New Zealand

Arch Jelley has been inducted into the New Zealand Athletic Coaches’ Hall of Fame.

Arch, the senior gymnastic champion and feather weight boxing champion in 1939, is best known as the coach of one of the world’s greatest middle distance runners, John Walker, whom he mentored to the world mile record in 1975 (becoming the first man to run the distance in under 3 minutes 50 seconds) and the Olympic 1,500 metre gold medal in Montreal a year later. Walker was also the first man to run 100 sub-four minute miles (he eventually ran the distance 135 times in under four minutes), set a world 2,000 metre record which lasted a decade, won three Commonwealth Games’ medals, was twice named the New Zealand Sportsman of the Year and was voted the New Zealand Sportsman of the 1970s.

Now living in retirement in Titirangi, Auckland, Arch is a retired Normal school principal and graduated with a BA (Hons) Degree in 1971 from the Victoria University of Wellington. Nearing his mid-80s, he still coaches a few athletes, but he has taken up lawn bowls with some success. He is also a keen bridge player and has taught bridge at the local club for more than a decade. He is also interested in genealogy – being a recorder for the McColl clan and the Jelley family.

Arch served in the Second World War, first in New Zealand in the Scottish Regiment and then in the navy when he was posted to England for his preliminary naval training. After being on Arctic convoy duty on board HMS Bermuda, he was commissioned as a Sub Lieutenant RNZNVR and was posted as a Gunnery Officer on coastal submarines. His final naval posting was as 3rd Hand and Navigator on HM Submarine "Vagabond".

He was a keen runner himself – in both cross country events and the track, where he won a number of three and six mile races at centre level and over country where his best performance was in finishing 4th in the New Zealand Cross Country Championships. As well as coaching Walker to international success, Arch was coach of the New Zealand track team to two World Championships, two Olympic Games and one Commonwealth Games. He was also Coach or Chief Coach to three Oceania Teams competing in the World Cup and was appointed Manager of the New Zealand Athletic team to the 1980 Moscow Olympic. This team was then withdrawn on political grounds.

Arch held many administrative positions in track and field at provincial and national level with these including a New Zealand cross country selector (1975-93), the national middle & long distance event Coach (1978-83), New Zealand national middle and long distance advisory coach (1983-87), President of Athletics New Zealand (1996-97) and Ombudsman for Athletics New Zealand (1997-2006). He was awarded the OBE for Services to Sport in 1981.

Story contributed by John L Haynes (SS Eldena) Indianapolis, Indiana, United States of America

My name is John L. Haynes, a retired Naval Aviator with the rank of Lieutenant Commander.

I joined the US Navy on 8 December 1941, the day after the attack on Pearl Harbour. After Boot Camp, I was assigned to training for the Naval Armed Guard at Little Creek Virginia and aboard the USS Paduka. Following this training I was assigned to an Armed Guard Gun Crew as a seaman gunner aboard the Merchant vessel SS Eldena.

After loading in Philadelphia left in late February for Halifax and then sailed independently to Loch Ewe, Scotland where we joined Convoy PQ 13. We left Loch Ewe on 10 March 1942 for Murmansk via Iceland and arrived 31 March.

While in Murmansk, our gun crew was credited by the Russian Government with shooting down 3 German bombers, for which we received an extra months pay. Six months later I received a Commendation from the Secretary of the Navy for this action. Our ship was never severely damaged nor did we lose any of the gun crew or ships company.

We arrived back in the US the latter part of May and a month later I transferred out of the Armed Guard to Aircraft Mechanics school. A year later after serving with a Torpedo Squadron as a mechanic and turret gunner, I applied for and was selected for flight training. After completion of my flight training and commissioned Ensign, was assigned as a Carrier Based dive bomber pilot flying SB2C "Helldivers".

I have been an active pilot most of my adult life and at age 84, I am in excellent health and still fly. I am currently a member of a Soaring Club in Indiana and fly both the sailplanes and the tow planes.

Excerpts from the memoirs of Reginald E. W. Chapman by kind permission of his daughter Thelma Chapman.

A Russian Story

Reginald joined the Royal Navy as a Boy Seaman in 1913. After training and postings to several ships during the 1914-1918 war he joined HMS Fox on 29 March 1919 which is where these excerpts start. He served in the Royal Navy from 23 October 1913 to 16 January 1926 (date discharged) on HMS Cordelia; HMS Fox; HMS Cricket; HMS Vesper; HMS King George V and, after transferring to New Zealand (sailed from Devonport on SS Corinthic on 12 July 1923) he served on HMS Chatham and HMS Dunedin. He then served in the Royal Fleet Reserve until June 1938.

On 29 March 1919 I was sent to join the old cruiser “Fox”, a very old ship with a copper lined bottom. Every time the ship rolled one way half the lights would go out and on the way back would come on again. There was confusion of where “Fox” was to go - we heard rumours that we were bound for Russia as Churchill had seen fit to help the White Russians against the Bolsheviks - the Russian revolution had started. We did not know whether we were to go to the battle or to the North Cape to Mormangit where we knew other Navy ships had gone.

We got to Mormangit at night but were not there long before getting further orders to sail to Archangel in the White Sea, a voyage that was to take us nearly 10 weeks. On 22 May 1919 I was made Leading Seaman. This was quite rare as not often did anyone get promotion to this rank before getting their first Good Conduct badge at the age of 21 and, as I was only 19, I must have been one of the youngest in the Royal Navy. As it was early April before we started on our way to Archangel the White Sea was still frozen over so it was not long before we were unable to make way on our own because of the ice. A Russian icebreaker had been sent to cut a way through for us. It was to be a long dreary trip and it was not until the first week in June that we arrived at Archangel. Some days we would make a few miles and the next day be as far back again. Then the icebreaker would have to leave us to refuel and the ice would take us back again. It seemed as if we would never get through.

Our only companions were hundreds of seals out on the ice. On a fine day they would come up through the ice and bask in the sun ,if there was any, during a couple of hours through the day. The crew of the icebreaker would be out slaughtering them for their skins. These fellows were very choosy and would only take certain of them. As it was taking us so long to get through we had run out of fresh meat so, getting sick of salt pork, we took to killing them ourselves for fresh meat. There was always a trail of blood leading back to the ship. It showed up vividly on the icy white snow. It was my first experience of snow blindness. When sunning on board ship you couldn’t see for quite a while. It was not hard to get the seals-they used to come up through the holes in the ice and travel along for a short distance and we use to get them on the ice by hitting them with a bit of timber to kill them. If the hole was any size about a dozen seals would bob their heads up at once. There must have been thousands of them in the White Sea.

The days got longer and we got more sunshine and into warmer currents saying goodbye to our icebreaker. All that was left of the ice was bits coming down with the tide and so we arrived at Archangel. In the harbour was a French cruiser that had crashed a bit when the ice had frozen over during the winter and had some rivets fracture.

On the 13 June I joined HMS “Cricket”. She was a twin funnelled, flat bottomed, gunboat, known as a “China Gunboat”. If you looked in a manual of Navy fighting ships I doubt if you would see her name. I have looked through books in the libraries, but never found it. But, fighting ship she was, aboard her I was to serve the most hectic time of my Naval career. (Ed: HMS Cricket was a River Gunboat of 645 Tons. Built by Barclay Curle of Whiteinch. Launched 16 December 1915. She was attacked in the Mediterranean Sea in June of 1941 and broken up).

She had come down from the Dvina River to have her artillery increased for farther range. Having six inch guns mounted in place of the 3 inch except for one kept for anti-aircraft fire. The rating who I relieved told me of the heavy fighting they had been in and that it was a good place to be out of, but to me it was hard to realise and I was not scared.

It took us over two days to get to the base where we were to operate from, a distance of nearly 300 miles up the River Dvina and almost halfway between Archangel and Petrograd (?), near to the town of Kotlas. At the base was a large river steamer called “Borodina” which was the flagship of the senior naval officer of the river (S.N.O.R.). There was another gunboat there with us called HMS “Cicala” besides several coastal motor boats (GMB’s whale back) and other small craft. There were also two other gunboats “Cockchafer” and “Kingfisher”. They were not present in the Dvina whilst we were operating but “Cockchafer” took over from us whilst we were lying on the bottom of the river and “Kingfisher" came down the river badly damaged when we had refloated and was ready to evacuate. We had not been at the place long before we got our first baptism of fire.

We were anchored a little advanced of the base up river when the Bolsheviks made a target of us. There were a few near misses, mostly the shells falling short. So, we were able to put a Cotton sinker on the end of the boathook and catch the fish that had been stunned as they floated by. They were freshwater bream, something like a snapper and lovely to eat as ,by this time, we were on salt pork and dried peas they were very acceptable. We used to get a bit of fresh bread occasionally and that’s about all, and sometimes a few tins of Army rations from the soldiers.

One thing we learned from one of our fellows was not to pick up a splinter of a shell that had fallen on deck as they are a bit hot. It’s funny that when you hear a shell coming close and it hits the water you duck for shelter near the engine room casing where there is really no cover at all. The Army, both White Russian and some British (mostly official) were not far in advance of our base and the horse limbers could be seen as ammunition was being driven up to the front. At times it would look quite busy along the banks of the river until the enemy guns opened up and then everyone would disappear until it became calm again. There was a prisoner camp on the shore of the river and it was surprising the number of women in the camp. There were plenty of Russian women fighting for both Russian armies.

We had some fun in between times. The Army used to have their share of fun and we would go on shore to see teams of Russian Cossacks wrestling each other or against our mounted rifle brigade of which there were just a few. We used to climb on the horses but they could climb over one side of their horses and up the other side and almost wrestle standing on the horses back. Although the Cossacks were world renowned for their horsemanship, our mounted rifles were well up to them. We used to work a fortnight about with “Cicada” in the forward position when it was about a mile forward of base and in the lee of a low lying island in the river. We were proceeding to anchor there on one occasion when we were swept with machinegun fire from the river bank and had to slip the cable and get out of it. There had been two men wounded on the bridge but, luckily, no other casualties. A barrage was fired into this forest which was seen on fire and a mopping up party sent in afterwards to clean things up. There were always forest fires burning somewhere in the battle areas and when the wind was blowing in a certain direction the smoke would fill the air like fog and it would be very unpleasant to breathe.

Things seemed to go along normally until the Bolshies brought up heavier guns from Kotlas. One day whilst lying at anchor in mid-stream back at the base they opened fire and shells began to fall in what, up to then, had been considered a safe anchorage. A few fish started to float about and, except for doing a bit of dodging about when the shells came screaming over, we got a few fish. Then the inevitable happened, we were hit by a shell which holed our engine room so we had to up anchor and make our way down river out of the way. A tender had been sent to help to keep us going but as the engine room had filled too far for us to keep mobile we went aground on a bend in the river a mile or two downstream but far enough away to be out of range of the guns.

We got a portable generation set from the Army aboard to work our wireless. My dynamo was partly under water so we were without lighting and were unable to keep the gun firing batteries charged so the wireless operator and myself would get a sailboat up to the “Borodina” to get them recharged. I also used to go ashore for a few hours for a change. Another hazard we had to contend with was floating mines which the enemy sent down the river. They were pear shaped with a wicker of bob wire which would cause the mine to explode if turned about ten degrees. Base supplied us with a motor boat and myself, a W.O. and seaman gunner had to up ahead of the base to collect any we saw floating down. It was a fairly dangerous operation as the mine had to be approached in such a direction that you could get a line around the tail fin without the mine coming into contact with the boat which was a small skiff that we used to keep behind us. We would tow the mine in toward the beach, somewhere along the river bank until we could jump out and touch ground whilst the mine was still afloat.

The seaman would go up the beach and build a couple of sand chocks. The W.O. Gunner and I would then carry the mine up and gently lay it in the chocks being careful it was not able to roll over. Then I would get a two and a quarter pound charge which I had already primed in the skiff, fit a fairly long piece of Bickford safety fuse to it and go for our lives for what shelter there was ashore or run like hell out to what was a safe distance and then get face down in the skiff in case of splinters or flying sand.

It was decided that one or two of these mines should be rendered safe and taken by an Army patrol and put in the river up stream and above some Bolshie gunboats. The striker or detonator was in two parts so when in the safe position they were floated back towards the tail fin and held there by a rubber band. When extended, if turned about ten degrees, a spring plunger would explode it. Luckily we had not been detailed for this exercise. There being other crews on the same duties of mine clearance and we worked in reliefs. Apparently an explosion had been observed on the island we used to shelter behind when up bombarding on the “Cricket”. As it was known that a mining party was up there operating our crew was sent up to investigate. On landing we found that a mine had exploded whilst being worked on by one of our relief crews. I understood afterwards that they had been doing the job of making the mines safe. We found one man killed, he was in his overalls and the other two-an officer and a sailor had been blinded and stoned with sand. They were wearing light oilskins which were peppered with holes like a pepper pot.

At last, fairly large pumps had come up from Archangel and, after the water had been pumped out and the sand and salt cleared away from the ships side, temporary repairs were made to the engine room and we were soon river worthy again. Eventually we got back to Archangel. On the way down Jock Anderson and I manned a stern gun that we had mounted inside a hole we had cut in the engine room casing. We went into dry dock at a place called Solombolo for permanent repairs. Repairs completed we sailed for Murmansk then on to Chatham via the Norwegian fiords due to our flat bottom. “Cricket” was paid off on 20 September.

Story contributed by Jim Gallie (HMS Victorious), Christchurch, New Zealand

Born in Cardiff, 21 August 1924, to a family whose background on both sides was of ships and the sea for at least three generations, it was perhaps inevitable that on my 15^th birthday, 21 August 1939, I presented myself at the RN Recruiting Centre to offer them my services.

Over the next week, I completed the joining routine, including the laying on of hands by the doctor to see if I was still warm. Then I was told that I would probably have a wait of three months before being called up. Not being prepared to hang around doing nothing for that long, I took myself down to the shipping Pool at the docks to see if I could get myself a berth to fill in the time. This resulted in me, at 0600 on Saturday 2 September 1924 rejoicing in the title ‘Mess Boy’ leaving Cardiff on the SS Willowpool, 10,000 tons, top speed with a following wind about seven knots, with a full load of Welsh hard coal, bound for the River Plate.

The next day War was declared. We all made little bags to hold our goodies, and kept them handy, along with our cork life jackets, at all times. Once we got a bit further south into the warmer climes, most of us slept on deck. We eventually arrived at the Plate, and on up the river to Rosario. Discharged our coal, took on a load of wheat, and back down to Montevideo for bunkers. While we were at the detached mole, bunkering, a dirty great grey battleship came past us, bound for the inner harbour. A short while later we found out it was the German Battleship Graf Spee.

Away early next morning, jumping at every shadow, to start on the long, lonely trip up the Atlantic, well away from the normal shipping lanes. We had a few scares on the way, but eventually arrived at the Mersey Bar 0930 on 1 February 1940, down to our last shovelful of coal, and out of food, apart from any fish we could catch. Picked up the Pilot, and even more welcome, a crate of bread, and two bags of spuds. Over the bar and through the boom with out incident, and away up the ship canal to Manchester, where we paid off. The train trip back to Cardiff took seventeen hours, rather than the five it used to take. My first taste of a country at war. Arrived home to find my call up papers had arrived some time earlier, but my Mother had sent them back, so my first stop was the Recruiting Centre, where it was arranged that I would be sent to Bristol to join a draft of boys going to the Training ship HMS St George, on the Isle of Man - though I did not find out where we were going till we were on the Liverpool to Douglas ferry.

Arriving there, we ‘Marched’ to a small ex-holiday camp we came to know as the St. George Annex. There we were taught all sorts of useful things. How to fold your trousers inside out, with seven concertina creases, using your seamanship manual as a measuring stick. That only grocers used string, the navy used cord or line. That your left foot was the one you stepped off with, while swinging the right arm forward at the same time. But like all good things, it came to an end when we were deemed suitable to move to the main camp. Unfortunately, or so I thought at the time, I was confined to the sick bay three days before and spent six days there. The draft was split according to the three branches, Seaman, Telegraphers. and Bunting Tossers. The class list of 29 AC Seaman Boys were compiled alphabetically, but as I was late joining Collingwood 173 class, my name was on the bottom of the list to make up the 30 for a full class. This was to have a profound effect on my future. AC Boys did a year training, with emphasis on schoolwork; GC Boys only did nine months.

The year passed quickly, as it does when you are ‘enjoying’ yourself. With one black spot in March when I was given the news that my Father’s ship, a deep sea trawler, was missing with all hands, presumed sunk. Later confirmed. We passed out, and I was very pleased with my results. First in seamanship, and third in gunnery, which included square bashing. Next move, about 150 of us, complete with bags and hammocks, on our way, though we did not know it till we got there, to Guzz. We arrived there about midnight, black as the Earl of Hell’s riding boots on 24 February 1941. We were billeted, in, guess where, another ex-holiday camp, on the outskirts of Portsmouth; to wait for our postings. While we were waiting, we were often trucked in to Portsmouth to help with the clear up work after the air raids.

The drafts of boys were being sent out to various ships, and at the beginning of March, the first eighteen, in class order, of C173 class was drafted to commission Prince of Wales. Had I been in my correct place on the class list, I would have been one of them (and we all know what happened to the Prince on 10 December 1941). The ways of Fate are strange.

A week later, 29 March 1941 I was on my way, along with, among many others, 62 boys, to commission the new fleet carrier HMS Victorious in Newcastle. Of course at that time we did not know where we were, or what ship. Just that we were sitting in trains, starting and stopping, presumably still somewhere in Britain. But we finally arrived, the whole trainload disembarked onto the station, in the dark , of course, were broken up in to batches, each batch being led away by one of the advance party carrying a torch, for a midnight walk to the ship. And out of the nearly seven hundred men, only six were lost. Found out later two of them had not even left Portsmouth. Didn’t take us long to settle in, and be given our duties. The Gods must have been smiling me, because I was made the Commander’s Messenger.

As his messenger, I kept no watches, but was required to attend him through a ten hour day, and at any action stations. In his determined efforts to learn every nook and cranny of the ship, I also learned my way around. He was a real old style seaman officer, and every day I would be given questions on seamanship or parts of ship, if I didn’t know, I had to find out by the next day. In the eight months I was his messenger, I got to know the ship like the palm of my hand, and learned a lot that was not in the seamanship manual. Also by keeping my eyes and ears open and my mouth shut, I was usually up to date with what was going on.

Our first job, after a minimal work up, was supposed to be to take a load of dismantled Hurricanes from Gourock for Malta. This was put on hold for the Bismark chase, which entailed a high speed dash from the Clyde, through a force 10+ gale to join the fleet from Scapa. Two of our escort destroyers had to turn back because of storm damage. After the Bismark; we went south to complete Op. Tracer. Assembled, and flew off 47 Hurricanes to Malta. Escorted by 4 Hudson Bombers, 43 got there. Back to Scapa, then up north, with HMS Furious, for raids on the Norwegian coast up as far as Tromso. These raids took a heavy toll on our antiquated Swordfish and Albercores. Took over Furious’ servicable aircraft. Furious returned to Scapa, while we went in to what was to become our northern home from home, Hvalfjord. From there, on my 17^th birthday, 21 August 1941, started what was to become a regular routine, (apart from a couple of minor diversions like the Malta Convoy, where from my new action station in the ADP I watched the Eagle go down in seven minutes, with a loss of` 260 men. Also the North African Landings, where our aircraft and their crews were disguised as Americans to fool the Vichy French.

Operation Dervish. The first convoy of 7 ships to Archangel. As in all subsequent convoys, we were there, but not with them. Sixty or seventy miles back as a buffer between them and the German Big Guns. The Germans played that card well. Without firing a shot, or using a ton of fuel, they kept the Home fleet tied up for best part of two years. After Dervish, we covered the rear of seven PQ and six QP convoys including PQ17. During that one we were pulled back due the misinformation that the German Big Guns were coming out from Trondheim and Narvik. In terrible weather, and great confusion all round, we were chasing our tails while the convoy was mauled.

Early in January 1943 Victorious went on a reverse lease lend to the American Navy. During this time our flight deck was altered , and we took on the more modern American planes, Avengers, and Martletts. Did extensive exercises with their carriers, and several minor operations, culminating in Operation Cartwheel. Landings in New Georgia, the operation covering a front of nearly 300miles. November, on the way back home, via Pearl Harbour and San Diego, called in to Kingston, Jamaica to pick up about 300 DB Seamen, some of whom had been there for a year or more. Back in Liverpool’s Gladstone Drydock mid December till end of January 1944. Next two months were spent training with other carriers in use of Avengers, Martletts and Hellcats. Passing on what we had learned in the Pacific.

Then came Operation Tungsten, back up North, as escort for JW58 and RA58, and to pay a visit on our old friend Tirpitz in Kafjord. This time we were loaded for Bear, with the Furious, Emperor, Searcher, Pursuer, and Fencer. Between us we put up over 130 planes, a mix of fighters, bomber and torpedo bombers, with 14 direct, and 21 possibles or near misses, for the loss of 4 planes. This kept up about every 3 weeks till June, when we left the now more peaceful north to take the battle to the East as the British Pacific Fleet, where we played a very big part, largely due to the construction and strength of our aircraft carriers. I would recommend reading John Winton’s book ‘The Forgotten Fleet’ for an in depth account of this period. The fleet arrived back in Sydney, September, two weeks after my 21^st birthday. I went in to hospital on the 12^th, for an operation, nothing that couldn’t have waited till we got home, but the paper work had been done, so it could not be altered.

The Vic; my home for 4 1/2 years sailed for Britain, leaving me behind. On the 14^th I was discharged to HMS Golden Hind, spent three pleasant months there, before being drafted to HMS Vengeance. We were engaged in transporting P.O.W.’s from Sumatra to Sydney, when someone in the regulating office decided that I had been away from home depot long enough to warrant repatriation to Britain. I was dropped of in Trincomalee, to await first ship going home. This proved to be the Illustrious. On that three week trip, I realised how quickly the Navy had reverted to the peacetime bull****. Arrived home, got three weeks leave, and being a Torpedoman, was sent to HMS Defiance, an old wooden hulk that was the torpedo school. Two days was enough, so I volunteered for submarine service, was accepted, transferred to another old hulk, HMS Dolphin, in Plymouth,, and having completed three months training, was drafted to HMS Thule for six months, then transferred to HMS Tabard. Our function was to take groups of National Service intakes out into the Channel every Tuesday morning and come back in Friday afternoon. This intake of Compulsory National Service upset the ratio of long service NCOs, so we were all given medicals, which a lot failed to pass. I was failed on Eyesight Below Required Standard and given the option of a discharge, or return to General service, with it’s Bull, Blanco, and Bluebell.

I made my choice, and picked up my Chalk Striped suit and Trilby hat November 6^th 1948.

PQ14

Of the 24 ships in PQ14 which set out for Russia, only seven arrived. One was sunk by a U-boat, and 16 had to turn back because of the gales which were off the Beaufort scale. QP10, running with the weather, managed to get 12 ships back to Reykjavik, having lost two to submarines, and two to aircraft. We were rear cover along the coast, but we were bouncing about so much that it was impossible to fly off aircraft. At my action station as Gunnery Officers communication number, in the Air Defence Position, on top of the Island, 85ft above sea level, the swing, exaggerated as it was by the height, was such that we were moving through an arc of up to 100 feet. There were several instances when I didn’t think we would make it upright again.

HMS Victorious on Russian Convoy duty in the Arctic. Albacore 4B of 817 Squadron overshoots, with his flaps and hook down, (just forward of the island), and revs up to, hopefully get back in the air. In this instance, he did, but they often finished up in the crash barriers. The starboard crane can be seen hoisting a previous casualty from the catwalk. Another, top left, is circling, waiting to land. Deck crashes and overshoots were quite common, particularly in rough weather.

Out to starboard, about half a mile away was one of the screen destroyers, a tribal class, almost as big as a light cruiser, and we saw a giant wave lift it, so that it was balanced in the middle on top of it, Then the wave just dropped away, leaving the destroyer suspended by inertia in mid air, and we could see daylight under the whole length of of the hull. When it dropped, it created a huge fountain of water, and disappeared. It seemed like hours before she popped up like a cork, shook herself, and carried on. I might have thought I'd imagined it, if were not for the fact that at least eight others on the ADP had seen the spectacle, and as I found out over the phones, so had a lot of others who were at open air action stations, such as the Pompom, Bofors and 4.5 gunnery directors' crews.

Later, I learned that that the inclinometer on our bridge had registered a roll of 26° (our maximum tested tilt was 37°). What made it worse was that we were yawing as well as rolling, so that while I have the greatest respect for the small ship men, all was not feather beds and roses on the big boys.

Needless to say, we did not see any action on that run. The Germans weren’t as silly as us, so didn’t come out, but were content to sneak U-boats north.

The next convoy was to set the pattern for future convoys. While the threat of the German fleet kept the main British fleet tied up, guarding against a break out of the German big ships, it left the German aircraft, operating from airfields along the northern coast of Norway, and U-boats, working from Tromso and Altenfiord, who by now were hunting in packs of up to 20; free to savage the convoys. The smaller Royal Navy ships making up the close escorts did a magnificent job, but were fighting uneven odds. Whether the German High Command realised it or not, they were effectively neutralising most of the heavyweights of the Royal Navy in northern waters, without their own ships using a drop of fuel oil.

Story contributed by Maurice Newman (HMS Bermuda), Christchurch, New Zealand

Our Arctic Antics : HMS Bermuda

After the leave which followed passing out from Heron (Yeovilton) I joined as FDO, in early December 1942, the cruiser HMS Bermuda at Scapa Flow. I relieved a Lt Bleasdale, an FDO who had ideas about instituting Headquarters Ships for amphibious landings, and who was off to the Admiralty to pursue these ideas. Bermuda had just returned from the North African landings, where she had taken part in the bombardment of Bone.

The ship had been commissioned in John Browns’ yard at Clydebank on 12th August 1942. She was a Colony Class cruiser – being a follow-on design of the pre-war Town Class vessels. She had four turrets, each of three six-inch guns and four twin 4-inch high angle guns plus lighter (pom-pom) AA guns. She had torpedo tubes, asdic, (‘anti-submarine detection indicators’) and modern warning and fire control radars. She also had two aircraft hangers and launching and recovery facilities for Walrus float-planes.

My duties were to be FDO, aircraft recognition officer and air liaison officer as well as quarter-deck divisional officer, which entailed being available for personal assistance to anyone in the quarter-deck division who needed it. I also stood watch-keeping duties at sea and in harbour, along with the other junior executive branch officers. In harbour, when it was my turn to be officer of the watch, I was assisted by a petty officer quartermaster, a corporal of marines and two side boys. This was particularly useful to me because I had a very bad auditory memory, and when the commander, in particular, would come along and reel off a list of things that had to be done in our watch, I had no hope of remembering them. So the moment he was gone, we would form a group and write down everything he had said. In night watches, and sometimes also in day watches, I would do rounds of the ship.

As fighter direction officer I had my air plot in the bridge structure immediately under the bridge, sharing an office with the surface plot run by the ship’s schoolmaster immediately over my cabin.

The air plot crew consisted at first of myself and about three ratings. We were later joined by Captain Clemenson, Royal Artillery, who had been left in the ship. He had been appointed as FOO (forward observation officer) to liaise with the army in bombardments in the North African campaign – but the army had forgotten him! He was seconded to the air plot for watch-keeping purposes and the rating complement expanded to, I think, five, only two of whom would be on duty at any one time. My job was then to direct aircraft from the ship, assess the air situation and keep the captain informed. It was on the air plot that a record was kept of all the aircraft in the area. The aircraft positions were plotted on a concentric-ringed grid, covered with perspex and positioned at a 45 degree angle. For communications we had phones to the bridge and radar room, also loudspeaker communication between us and the air-warning radar operator. The air-warning radar was type 281, later replaced by type 281B.

As speed and accuracy in plotting would be vital in an action, I concentrated from the start on training, with competitions that involved plotting blindfolded from all sides of the plot, so that the crew achieved a very high degree of speed and accuracy in plotting and, when the Fighter Direction School was established at Hatston, the main town in the Orkney Islands we were invited to give demonstrations there.

Ascertaining height of aircraft was in those days difficult and I kept plans of the radar lobes in the plot and checked the first appearance of an echo with the lobe, which proved adequate in practice, though we had to adjust the theoretical lobe with actual calibration runs with aircraft.

We made one or two trips to Iceland, on one of which we tracked aircraft which were obviously German, flying up towards Iceland and back again. I reported this to my captain, who authorised me to go ashore, meet with the Admiral in charge and arrange for land-based US aircraft to be directed from Bermuda (by me) onto these aircraft and shoot them down. I duly went ashore to ACHQ (Area Control Headquarters) and with much difficulty was finally introduced to the Admiral. When I suggested this operation, his response was ‘You can’t come in here with all this war talk, my boy. Take a seat. The truth is, those aircraft are very useful to us. They transmit the meteorological information of the area back to Germany and we are able to use it. By doing so, we are also able to break their codes. Thank your captain for his suggestion.’

Life on Board

The European class system was quite clear aboard RN ships. Generally officers didn’t in any way socialise with the men from the lower deck, partly for discipline reasons, partly because of social class. For New Zealanders who weren’t used to much of a class system at all, this was very different, although people never knew quite where to place us colonials – ‘Black troops’, as some called us.

While I was in training, I considered that the people in charge of the seamen (petty officers and chief petty officers) were without exception absolutely first class and dedicated: it was their life. They were the backbone of the British Navy. After being commissioned, however, I found that the officers in charge were more of a mixed bag. In my case they were mostly RN, and so they were part of this class system. They were all pretty efficient, mostly very English, sometimes cliquey.

We were RNVR, a slightly inferior race – not that we felt it, but there was a difference there all the time. I was lucky in that generally I got on very well with the RN officers, particularly with those on my own level. One junior RN officer, Lt W. J. Woolley, and two RNVR officers, Lt Reg ‘Tiger’ Gilchrist RNVR and Lt D. A. ‘Prof’ Kidd RNVR, became life-long friends until they died.

The navy divided the day into watches and everything was done in these watches. There was the forenoon (eight until twelve) the afternoon (twelve until four) the first dog-watch (four until six) the second dog-watch (six until eight) the first watch (eight until midnight) the middle watch (midnight until four a.m.) and the morning watch (four a.m. until eight a.m.).

There was a good spirit in our wardroom. Every Saturday night in harbour, we had a formal dinner, black ties and all, where we entertained visitors, followed by a social evening of singing and impromptu acts by one or two talented officers.

A new dish to me was kedgeree, which was often served in the wardroom. It consisted of lots of rice and not much fish. Once in northern Iceland a small boat was sent away to do an exercise in dropping small depth charges (designed for dealing with midget submarines). After the depth charges had exploded the boat was filled with the masses of the cod found floating in the water. This cod fed the ship of about 800 men extremely well for a day or so.

My cabin in Bermuda was quite small, about six feet by ten feet. There was a ventilator trunk beside my bunk and sometimes in the northern latitudes I used to wake in the mornings to find a sheet of ice across my top blanket, stretching across from the ventilator. My first job of the day was to clean the ice off the blankets! At one end of the cabin was a cabinet containing a little wash basin, mirror and toilet basin, while opposite my bunk was a narrow writing desk with bookcase above and somehow a chair fitted in below it. This was my home for about 20 months.

From time to time groups of six CW ratings were sent to Bermuda for training, as we had been sent to Lookout. One of these groups consisted of New Zealanders and on one occasion the master of arms, a fearsome looking gentleman, approached me and asked me to speak to one of the New Zealanders who was breaking the censorship rules in his letters home, talking about his duties and where he was, both forbidden. I was impressed that the master of arms did not want an offence to appear on the rating’s record. I duly saw the rating concerned and there was no further difficulty. He was later to become well-known as the playwright Bruce Mason.

These were the only times we had New Zealanders in our ship’s company apart from me.

I remember in particular the noise of the guns firing, as my cabin was just above and astern of the two forward gun turrets, each with three 6-inch guns. When they were fired everything in my cabin leapt. The noise was indescribable: books fell out of the little book-case and glasses broke. That was the worst noise. The memory of it ranges alongside the noise of being dive bombed on my first night at HMS Ganges. A diving Stuka makes a very nasty screaming noise. I heard it only once and that was enough for a lifetime.

Communication between ships at sea was mostly done with flag hoists and signal lamps. Radio silence was normally kept because the Germans did have direction finding, which meant they would be able to locate ships. Various flags had different meanings. There were two or possibly three flags that meant ‘Request permission to proceed in execution of previous orders,’ and the reply would come back either ‘affirmative’ or ‘negative’ on a single flag.

One time when on exercises ‘in line abreast’ on the way back from Russia I could not keep the ship exactly a ‘cable’ (200 yards) from the next ship without creeping ahead or slipping back. The admiral signalled, ‘Bermuda keep station. Hoist the name of the officer of the watch,’ and up went the flags ‘N-E-W-M-A-N’ for all the fleet to see. I had to shout for the mess that night.

Actually, we had to alter speed in changes of two revolutions of the propeller shafts and our speeds did not quite synchronise with the other ships’. On this occasion the PCO (principal control officer, who was in charge in the event of sudden action until the captain arrived) on the bridge with me had been showing me how to reduce our speed slightly by making tiny alterations of course, then correcting them, which worked perfectly so long as you didn’t look at our wake, which wagged like a dog’s tail. You can’t always win.

Arctic Convoys

Particularly until the fall of Stalingrad, supplying munitions to the Soviet Union by the northern route was essential for their success in fighting the Germans. When we did take part, Bermuda was not part of the close cover for the convoy but was ‘distant cover,’ some 60 miles from the convoy and in some cases, even more remote than that, between the convoy and where large enemy ships might be lurking.

Our first convoy was Convoy JW51B, which sailed on 13 December 1942. The convoy became scattered in a storm off the Faroe Islands and was ordered by the Admiralty to Akureyri, in northern Iceland, to reassemble together with its covering fleet. I believe it was on this trip to Iceland that we located a high mountain on the north-east corner of that country with an echo from our air warning set and were able to pinpoint our position – six miles from the Admiral’s! Signals passed: from Bermuda: ‘Suggest your noon position six miles 090 from true position.’ From the Admiral: ‘My noon position correct.’ But when we sighted land, Bermuda’s position, fixed by radar, proved to have been the correct one. I wonder if the Admiral shouted for our captain.

The convoys had three enemies: U-boats, aircraft bombers and heavy surface ships, including battle cruisers and cruisers. In the case of Convoy JW51B, we were part of a battle-fleet under Vice-Admiral Tovey in HMS King George V, with HMS Howe, both 45,000-ton battleships, two more cruisers, HMS Kent and HMS Berwick, and six destroyers patrolling the area near Jan Meyer Island to meet and deal with any heavy German units attacking the convoy from that direction. I well recall keeping station on King George V, which seemed enormous, towering above our 7,000-ton Bermuda.

For this convoy, the ‘distant cover’ consisted of a force under Rear Admiral Burnett, called Force R, consisting of the cruisers Sheffield and Jamaica and two destroyers. Although our force under Admiral Tovey saw no action, Force R was heavily engaged against the German heavy cruiser Lutzow and the cruiser Hipper. Burnett had raced off to the north-east to gain the advantage of light at dawn, a ruse which succeeded, Hipper being completely surprised and hit before she had any idea of Force R’s presence. Hipper was so badly damaged in the battle around the convoy – which became known as the Battle of the Barents Sea – that it was withdrawn from service and took no useful part in the rest of the war.

There was virtually no air-liaising work for me to do on these northern patrols, so I served my share of bridge watches as officer of the watch, when it was my duty to ‘con’ the ship along its zig-zagging course with a more senior officer, the PCO (principal control officer), alongside to take charge of any aggressive or defensive action until relieved by the Captain.

Duty on the open bridge in the Arctic was a very cold affair, and even the fleece-lined boots and coats supplied by the naval outfitters, Gieves, only slightly relieved the cold. Fortunately we moved so fast that snow and even rain blew over our heads, landing rather on those at the back of the bridge. In fog, which was frequent, we usually followed another ship, the senior officer always in the lead. Although only 200 yards away, we frequently could not see the ship ahead and spent our watches straining our eyes looking for its wake. Sometimes it was discernible by only a few bubbles, but somehow we never lost contact.

Our second convoy was JW52, which left Loch Ewe on 17th January 1943 and sailed west of the Faroe Islands with the cruisers Kent, Bermuda and Glasgow providing distant cover under Rear-Admiral Hamilton. Although attacked by Heinkel torpedo bombers and shadowed by U-boats, the convoy suffered no losses, but half the attacking aircraft were brought down by gunfire. Our group, over the horizon, were blissfully unaware of the action in which the convoy itself was involved. It was while covering this convoy that Oberleutnant Benker in U625 attacked Bermuda and Kent with torpedoes – unsuccessfully, fortunately for us. We were not to know of this for 50 years, when the books were opened. The convoy sailed safely into Kola Inlet, north Russia on 27 January 1943.

We then provided distant cover for the return convoy, RA52, which had only one ship, the American freighter Greylock, torpedoed – by U-Boat U255 under the experienced Kapitänleutnant Reche.

On one of our first Russian convoy patrols (in which we were usually in company with one or two other cruisers and/or battleships), we arrived at Kola Inlet in north Russia in fog and, using the gunnery radar sets and the proximity of the air and surface plots, found our way into our anchorage, while the other ships waited outside until the fog cleared. While not fighter direction, this was, as far as we know, the first instance in which the fighter direction techniques and the link with the surface plot were used in navigation.

When we were able to see the land about us in Kola Inlet it proved to be low-lying rolling country covered in snow, out of which stuck a few crooked sticks which were probably stunted trees.

We spent the summer of 1943 south of Britain – another story.

November 1943 saw us back on northern patrol, covering convoy JW54A, which had sailed from the Minch on 15 November. Our group under Rear Admiral Palliser in Kent and with Jamaica also in company, provided the distant cover. Much of the trip was in mist and cloud, so we went through undetected and were in Kola Inlet by 24 November. I believe it was on this trip that we shipped a load of Russian gold received in part payment for munitions. The security for this operation was prodigious, which did not stop one rating from being ‘up before the captain’ for trying to steal a block of gold as it was being passed from hand to hand along the ship, from the lighter alongside to safe custody in a Bermuda hold. On the return trip we provided distant cover for the returning convoy RA54B. Gales, thick weather and arctic winter once more provided the overcast scud, low visibility and darkness that effectively hid us and the convoy from the airborne eyes of the enemy, and it passed through unscathed, as did we.

Part way to Britain we turned and escorted convoy 54B through the Barents Sea to Russia through the same bad weather. This convoy had sailed nearer the Norwegian coast than usual, with the objective of enticing out the battlecruiser Scharnhorst so that our heavy units could deal with it and remove its menace once and for all. Tirpitz had already been incapacitated by our midget submarines, Lutzow and the cruiser Hipper had been withdrawn from the area after being damaged in the Battle of the Barents Sea, and only Scharnhorst remained a threat.

As we in Bermuda lay at anchor in Scapa Flow making ready for the next convoy, Fraser’s ruse of using a convoy (ours) as decoy paid off and in the ensuing Battle of the North Cape, Scharnhorst, out to attack the convoy, was sunk. Sir Robert Burnett, known in the fleet as ‘Bullshit Bob’, was the Admiral commanding the 10th Cruiser Squadron of which we were part. With three cruisers, his flagship Belfast, Norfolk and Jamaica, he played a major part in the battle. On his return to Scapa he came aboard Bermuda and gave an account of the battle to our ship’s company. When he ended he said, ‘I’m only sorry you chaps weren’t with us.’ I heard a rating near me mutter ‘Thank God we weren’t’ – a remark whose significance I never forgot. Many of the ratings were not volunteers but had been conscripted into the navy and felt it was a necessary evil from which they could not escape. Many of them saw no glory in risking life and limb in a war from which they could see no personal benefit. Rhetoric about the Nazi menace did not affect some of them much.

The next convoy, JW56A, which sailed on 12 January 1944, was my last. The weather deteriorated so much that the ships’ cargoes were damaged and the convoy had to reassemble in Akureyri, a fjord in northern Iceland. We discovered an American air force base ashore and arranged to direct some of their anti-submarine aircraft from Bermuda and Cumberland, a county class cruiser in our group. Cumberland’s FDO was Lt Michael Sandeman RNVR (of the Sandeman wine family) and although we ‘met’ over the RT (radio telephone) during this operation, we did not meet in person until he settled in Christchurch after the war and we became firm friends.

One afternoon when it was Sandeman’s turn to direct the aircraft, Lt Jim Woolley RN and I went ashore to climb a mountainside. We were halfway up when we saw a blizzard approaching across the fjord. We raced down to our caps and jackets, left on a rock, by which time we had small icicles hanging down from our hair. Some US officers warmed us with rum and coke in their officers’ mess, to the extent that I obliged with the Canterbury College haka performed on the bar! Jim Woolley and I kept up our friendship and used to meet every time I went to the UK. Sadly, he died in 2003.

There was a wolf-pack of ten U-boats lying in wait for this convoy, but the close cover ships were so efficient in dealing with U-boats, even when in packs, that only three ships out of 20 and one small escort vessel were lost. The U-boats were firing acoustic homing T5 torpedoes, known by the British as ‘Gnats’, but these all exploded in the wakes of the fast moving escort ships and did little damage. The resulting explosions were heard in the U-boats who reported to German radio a great victory! One of the U-boats was sunk by depth charges. It had been in service only six weeks.

On one northern convoy trip a British Conservative member of parliament joined us to experience what happened on such trips. We became friends and at the end of the voyage he offered, if I was interested, to nominate me after the war for the Conservative College, to train to become a Conservative MP. That would have been different again!

One incident while working out of Scapa Flow taught me something of naval discipline. Two ratings from one of our battleships had been court-martialled for a misdemeanour involving sheep, the case taking place the very day I was detailed to be officer in charge of a drifter returning men from Flotta, where there was a ‘wet canteen’, to their ships, the men in various stages of inebriation. When the drifter approached the battleship the men started making sheep noises – ‘baa, baa’ – which, try as I might, even with the help of petty officers on board, I was unable to stop. On arrival at the battleship I saw the Admiral and the Captain pacing the quarterdeck, high above where the men disembarked from the drifter.

Back in my ship I was working in my cabin when there was a knock on the door. ‘Lieutenant Newman, sir, the commander would like to see you, sir.’ The Commander showed me a signal: ‘To all ships in the Fleet Anchorage, repeated Bermuda: “Personnel in ships’ boats approaching HM ships in the Fleet Anchorage will not make unseemly noises”.’ ‘What is the meaning of this, Newman?’ I told him and was told in no uncertain terms that I should have stopped the noise. Having accepted the reprimand with the proper ‘Ay ay, sir’ I went on to say I was a relatively inexperienced officer and asked how I should have prevented it. ‘Candidly, Newman, I haven’t the foggiest idea.’ ‘Ay ay, sir.’ End of interview: discipline and honour satisfied all round.

Spitzbergen

In May 1943, in company with Cumberland and some destroyers, we took aboard a contingent of Norwegian soldiers and reinforced the garrison at Spitzbergen, 600 miles from the North Pole. They were as fine looking a lot of young men as I had ever seen. They slept in hammocks in our passage-ways, and I never knew how they were otherwise looked after. The run up was fast and direct and when we entered a fjord near Barentsburg there were lines of smoke along the hillside where the Germans had landed, annihilated the garrison and set the coal mines on fire.

We were there for about four hours, disembarking men and stores, while our destroyers dashed back and forth across the entrance on U-boat patrols. Fortunately no U-boat appeared. One of our radar officers, Sub Lt Appleby, was in private life a geologist and was allowed ashore with his chip hammer and bag for rock samples – and delayed the little fleet’s departure by being late back. It was a most unpopular action and we never heard what the captain, Terrence H. Back, said to him, but it would have been devastating. We later heard that the Germans had returned and attacked the garrison again, and that only one Norwegian had survived.

On the return trip from Spitzbergen, when the ship was about 80 miles away from a very high Iceland mountain, the ship’s air warning radar started to pick up echoes which I promptly reported to the bridge. The captain immediately brought the ship to ‘repel aircraft stations’. I kept monitoring the echoes and realised they were not moving at all, which was very unusual, so I reported this information to the captain. Eventually the radar officer suggested that it was probably a column of polarised air, of which he had read that it could show on radar. I told the captain over the intercom and, in a rage, he ordered me to the bridge where he asked me exactly what I thought was responsible for the echoes. I replied that the radar officer believed it to be a column of polarised air. At this the captain’s anger subsided and he said, ‘I thought you said polar bears.’ He then proceeded to inform the crew, ‘Relax repel aircraft stations, revert to second degree of readiness. The FDO tells me it’s only a flying polar bear.’

Aurora Borealis

One of the enduring memories of these voyages is that of the ‘Northern Lights’, the Aurora Borealis, which we saw on numerous occasions in the high latitudes if the weather was clear. Imagine yourself on the bridge peering ahead into a dark void and gradually the high sky lightens a fraction, followed by the appearance of dim yellow-green shapes like big cigars which start moving and changing colour to include mauves and reds forming into waving shapes like giant curtains across the sky, and you are seeing the Aurora. It is hard to realise that it is about 600 miles above the earth, but it has a fascinating beauty as, after a period it dims gradually back into the darkness of the night sky.

Story contributed by Charles Gray (SS El Almirante), New South Wales, Australia

Charlie first went to sea in June 1937, as a deck boy, with the Union Castle Line Roxburgh Castle and Carnarvon Castle. In March 1941 he served on board the Empress of Canada while taking part on the raid and evacuation of the Norwegian island of Spitzbergen. A main purpose of the action was to deny the use of the island’s rich coal mines to the Germans. Canadians were the main force in the 2,500 mile dash from Britain to the island, accomplished without German interference. The Empress of Canada took some Russia miners back to Archangel and then, after returning to Spitzbergen and evacuating the civilian population there, sailed to Scotland with all passengers disembarking at Glasgow. Charlie’s eye-witness account was printed in the Daily Telegraph in London in September 1941.

In November 1942 Charlie joined the Panamanian flagged ship El Almirante in Belfast and sailed for Russia with the JW convoys. On return from Murmansk the ship berthed in Belfast and Charlie took official extended leave, Belfast being his home port. He was persuaded to remain as a crew member because of his special ‘Lifeboat Ticket’. However, the ship sailed earlier than expected, without Charlie on board, and was torpedoed and sunk crossing the Atlantic to America. On 10th April 1943 Charlie was given a berth on the John Langdon, bound for New York, so that he could obtain his discharge papers in America. Although he was given a token bonus of approx $200 in America he was refused his discharge papers. He collected a Russian Convoy bonus and was also awarded three separate American war medals.

Charlie took part in the Normandy landings in 1944, serving on the Pampas (Special Operations). In 1946 Charlie settled in New Zealand. He is at present living in Australia with Heather, his wife, and their family. He is a master craftsman with wire-rope work.

Story contributed by John Middleton (SS Ocean Freedom), Paeroa (Deceased)

Ocean Freedom was built in Portland, Maine, in March 1942 and sailed from Loch Ewe in Scotland, to join Convoy PQ 17 in July 1942. The convoy comprised 35 cargo ships, 2 oilers and 3 rescue ships, as well as the escorting warships. 24 cargo ships were lost, along with one oiler and a rescue ship. John was a sixteen year old, five pounds a month, assistant steward, on the Ocean Freedom and had been at sea for two years before joining this ship. He went to Portland, Maine, to join the newly built ship, which sailed for Manchester, for loading before joining Convoy PQ 17. John said it was a funny thing, but anyone of the crew could have left the ship in Manchester before going on the Arctic run. But no-one did. “It was the excitement I suppose.” John saw the first ship casualty through his cabin’s open porthole. “There was another boat alongside, but next minute it had disappeared, torpedoed by a Heinkel bomber.”

After the ‘convoy to scatter’ order, “We burst and broke for it, with three or four ships heading in the same direction”. As they ran for Archangel, more than 2000km away, the ships came under almost continuous attack from aircraft and u-boats. However, the Ocean Freedom and four other ships managed to reach an anchorage in Matochkin Strait, at Novaya Zemlya.

Then, as they fled from Novaya Zemlya, the ships ran into ice and the Ocean Freedom had its bows stove in and the forepeak destroyed. The ship suffered more damage from air attack. John said: “I think people were frightened, during the voyage, especially when the ship was under attack. But they did not admit it to each other.” When the ship eventually arrived back in Scotland there was a civic welcome in Glasgow and the ship’s Captain was awarded the DSO and the Lloyds Medal for Bravery.

The ship was sunk, about nine months later, near Murmansk, from H.E. bombs. But John was by then serving on a Tanker in the Atlantic. John also took part in the Normandy invasion, on an American Attack ship, the Empire Mace. He came to New Zealand, after the war and it was through his initiative, and continued dedication, that the original Russian Convoy Club was formed, nationally, in New Zealand. Started in 1988, it continued, under John’s presidency, until 1995, when the work became too much for John to manage. He passed away in June 2007, soon after the death of his wife Dorothy.