Musings of a Sparker in the Andrew

By

Gordon Johnson RN

Part One

 

1. 1939

I joined the RNVR in early 1939, and was assigned to the training ship HMS Satellite, South Shields on the Tyne. This was originally a wooden hulled steam screw corvette of 21 guns, dating from about 1850, but of course now lacked the engine, masts and guns. As a reservist, I trained to be telegraphist or "sparker".

My two mates from Tyne Division RNVR were called up immediately after doing peacetime training in HMS Royal Oak. I was lucky not to be with them. The Royal Oak was sunk in Scapa Flow in October, with great loss of life.

My call-up came on 19th October while I was at work, and mother gave the papers to a neighbour to deliver to me at Reyrolle's, where I worked. Maud Helsby threw them on my desk and fled to the ladies, as she was quite upset. She thought I would be a "goner" in a few weeks.

On 21 October 1939 1 reported to HMS Pembroke, Chatham, affectionately known as "Stone Frigate", all bricks and mortar. I thought my trusty friends would be on the high seas by now, but there they were, sweeping the leaves up in the barracks, ready for the Trafalgar Day parade.

I was kitted out and assigned to Anson Block, 1 FF Mess, along with many other RNVR sparkers and buntings, namely Communications Division. Jimmy and Hank came along after the parade and showed me how to rig up my hammock and how to get into the awkward thing. I had visions of sleeping on the mess table on the first night. I had three more townies from Hebbum, all active service and all Chatham ratings, so was lucky to have contacts all my service life.

Lights-out was at 10 p.m. and wakey-wakey at 6.30 a.m. with a duty PO yelling "Rise and shine, the morning's fine, the sun's burning holes in ya." After stowing hammocks aloft, we cleared the mess decks and duty watch went for breakfast. A special squad washed all the dishes using Riser's soap, which kills all known germs (if you want to believe it). At 9 a.m. we fell in by divisions on the huge parade ground and marched off to classrooms led by the magnificent RN band; not always in tune, and mostly playing "Sons of the Sea". We were divided into classrooms specially fitted with Morse keys. Thus began the intense task of reaching the Navy SBX standard (standard buzzer exercise) of 22 words per minute. This applied to all ranks from boy telegraphist to CPO. There were also the tasks of naval procedure, coding etc., all to be learnt by Christmas. We were expected to be at sea by January. There was a Central Receiving Room at Barracks, where one could go at night after supper and read Morse, which was just the job for a few of us. This meant lots of practice, in our own time, and quickly brought us up to the 22 wpm. Jimmy and Hank were soon drafted to ships. Hank got a destroyer, the Wolfhound, and Jimmy an AMC (armed merchant cruiser), which he hated. Ernie Cash was on the Kelly with Mountbatten, Wilfie Howes on the Cumberland and Archie Howes on the Warspite, by now a PO Telegraphist. All six of us from Hebbum, all in Chatham.

We got weekend leave every third week, Friday noon to 8 a.m. Monday. The fare from Chatham to Hebbum was £2 12s, but I only got 22/9d a week of which 10/- had to go to mother to protect any pension rights in case of my sad departure into the ocean.

Final leave was Christmas for 10 days, which was lucky as Fearless Fred Christian arrived from Canada with the first contingent of Canadians. We had a few days with him and took him to see all his relatives. We also took him to Reyrolle's, which he liked, in particular the office full of attractive young ladies. One of the bosses, Davy Jones, had been a pal of his father Gordon when they were lads at school around 1895.

Fred Christian and Mary and Gordon Johnson

2. First Posting

Back to barracks in January 1940 and within a few days I was posted to RN Patrol Service Lowestoft (Sparrow's Nest). I was billeted out with seven other sparkers to 398 London Road South and looked after by two elderly ladies, home from home and absolutely spoilt. The meals and accommodation were excellent, and there was the opportunity to go out in the evening to the local ballroom just down our street

About 14 January I reported to the Drafting Master at Arms and was told to go home and pack my hammock and report to HMT Oku at a place called North Shields, He gave me laborious instructions on how to get there by rail! I couldn't get a travel voucher quick enough in case he changed his mind.

I reported to the fish quay that night and Oku was tied up. The skipper was David Ralph, a tough wee Aberdonian, and the mate was Jimmy Stewart from Lossiemouth. We had four Jimmy Stewarts on board, all from Lossiemouth and none of them related. Only four of us were RN, the gunner, the signalman, the cook (an ex solicitor's clerk) and me as sparker. All the rest, about 19, were fishermen. The signals officer came down and gave me the 'gen' on the receiver, the transmitter and the necessity of keeping the banks of batteries in good order.

Oku was built in 1915, so wasn't exactly a sleek craft, more like a rust bucket. I could see daylight above the bunks where some of us slept.

Up at seven, next day and out of Shields piers by eight in a mine-sweeping flotilla of 5 ships. The seas were running high and rough weather lay ahead of us. We swept the channel as far as Hartlepool and turned and swept the other half on the way back, which took us about 9 hours. During this time 1 had no interest in food, since I was sick for the whole trip. The bonus was that I could wash and change and get home in about 45 minutes and get some food there. The strange sensation was that the Northern bus from Shields to Hebbum was going up and down, as if on the briny. The seasickness lasted for 3 days, after which I was cured and was never sick again. My bonanza ended when I was told to go to Hartlepool after only 2 weeks in North Shields, and so ended my trips home.

The fish quay was in Old Hartlepool and we quickly settled in. I got on well with the "bunts"', Jack Tansey a Londoner who worked for Burberry's and was also a RNVR. He was never seasick but often ill from too much beer. Our nightly sojourn consisted of me going to the Seamen's Mission and Jack to the nearest pub along with the rest of the crew. The SM always had huge mugs of tea and plenty to eat. The local dance was at the Borough Hall nearby, and we met there about half past seven. Most nights we were aboard by 11 pm, after bunts had managed to navigate the steel ladders and climb over several trawlers to reach ours, not easy in his parlous state. I was there to see that he didn't drop into the drink. Sometimes we were invited to a posh do that went on till 1 a.m. and tried to creep aboard quietly. Next day the skipper would query the time of our return, (supposedly 23.59). I don't think he ever slept. If I said, "just after twelve" he'd say “aye more like after one, and long after 23.59". The fishermen used to complain that he was OK with bunts and me as long as we could do our job at sea. Life was very good at the "Pool and I got home one day a month, when we were kept in harbour, but no long leave. We had two incidents when we were coaling ships. I was excused coaling duties as the skipper said I had to do amendments to the codes. Someone lifted the manhole cover behind the skipper whilst he was in conversation with the coal agent. He stepped back and, whoosh, straight into the bunker. He was rescued and put in his cabin, and left all day in agony. I went to see him next day and he was very poorly, I got the Mate to fetch a doctor from the base and he was whipped off to hospital with a diagnosis of 4 or 5 broken ribs. The Mate, Jimmy Stewart, took over and we did our stuff with no officer in charge.

One day we had a nice friendly visit from a Heinkel who tried to bomb us- The gun crew was hopeless, but luckily someone signalled for help and within some minutes a Spitfire arrived (from Carlisle, we found out later) and blasted him. Unfortunately the Heinkel got in a burst and shot down the Spitfire. Both pilots came down by parachute and were rescued by the inshore fishermen in their small boats. We were on the quay when they came in. The German airman looked about 17 and very scared- I think he thought we would execute him there and then. The army marched him away and that was his war over. Our pilot was not injured and all the RAF toffs were there to greet him. Life jogged along with no further trouble until 17th of May when I was jerked out of my reverie by a recall to the Sparrow's Nest, Lowestoft, and dispatched back into General Service at Chatham.

 Bunts = bunting tosser = signalman

3. France

What a panic in Barracks, thousands of matelots being armed and sent to France as Naval Battalions to stem the tide of the advancing Germans. More like cannon fodder. Some were scribbling notes to their families and we were on oath to post them before they left in London double-decker buses for Dover. This was immediately before the evacuation from Dunkirk. Within another day. Ten sparkers were ordered to report to Portsmouth to join a mobile R/T set-up, which is a fancy name for landing parties. We had to fit our receivers and transmitters in boxes made in the dockyard, and we had to splice the rope handles on. All were fitted into army trucks and, together with the army, we practiced retreating into the countryside as if the Germans had landed, with a view to keeping in touch with the Admiralty.

By early June, the evacuation from Dunkirk was complete and I was suffering from Chinese toe rot and was consigned to the sick bay. One day I had got my shoes and socks off to bathe my feet when the air-raid sirens went. It was only a practice, but I hobbled out and was put on a charge by the "Jaunty" (Master at Arms) for being last to the shelter. No excuses were accepted. Next morning the Commander gave me 3 days punishment - leave stopped and washing dishes in the galley.

Two days later we were shaken out of our hammocks at midnight, pushed into a lorry with all of our gear and told we were heading for Devonport (HMS Drake). I told them I couldn't go as I was on sick parade. I went to the sick bay and my sick card was immediately returned to me stamped "Fit". I joined my group, was issued with a revolver and 24 rounds of ammunition and off we went. Some sat on hammocks and others on a plank across the lorry. The driver was soon lost, as all the road signs had been taken down to confuse the enemy. We arrived at Devonport about midday and the same day we were told to remove our hats and collars, and issued with helmets. That night we six telegraphists joined a destroyer with 120 sailors of a demolition company, with no idea where we were heading. We steamed all night and hit St Malo in the morning. We dropped off 40 sailors and 2 telegraphists, proceeded to Brest, for the same again and our lot ended up in St Nazaire. We lined up on the wharf and a very young midshipman, seeing that the sparkers were armed, said "Don't forget chaps, 23 bullets for the Jerries and the last for yourselves." My mate's subdued reply is not printable, but the middy would have to have been a contortionist to comply!

Off went the demolition squad to the shipyards and we two were left with all our baggage to await a lorry to go to Capt Hamilton's headquarters, right on the sea-front. The first problem was how to erect 3 ten-foot steel poles, with guy ropes, on a concrete road. A Chief Sparker from a destroyer came to our rescue and hung the aerial on a broom handle jammed in the upper sash window. The earth-wire lay on the floor, and miraculously it worked. We made contact with Whitehall and off we went into action on the Thursday. Thousands of Tommies still awaiting evacuation from France were going past our window, and all kinds of army vehicles lay abandoned on the sea front. We gave our rations away and filled umpteen water bottles for those who asked. (At first they thought we were French, but eventually recognized the Geordie accent). They were very heartened to hear that the Navy was there, as they were weary after being on the run for 9 days from Dunkirk. On Sunday, the French packed it in and we were still in St Nazaire on the Tuesday, very tired having had hardly any sleep and no washing for 6 days.   Capt Hamilton and his officers left on the Tuesday without telling us and the Chief Sparker suggested we make a bonfire of the signals and our equipment in the back garden, and then scarper back to the docks,

We duly obliged and found HMT Milford Haven alongside the wharf, full of all ranks. The Germans were expected in town at 8.30 and we were still there at 9.00. 40 soldiers in the foc'sle -head trained their rifles on the dock gate, but luck was on our side and we left without any trouble. We pulled alongside a destroyer and all the naval officers were taken on board, but nobody else, which almost caused a riot. RAF and Army officers were left with us, some of them fairly high ranking. Perhaps we were lucky in a way as we heard that the convoy had been attacked all the way back to England, whilst we wended a circuitous route on our own into the Atlantic, taking two days to reach Devonport, The "sparks" of the HMT gave me a palliasse and I slept under the mess table all the way home, the first sleep for 6 days.

At this time there was great anger and sadness at the toss of the Lancastria with about 8000 lives, sunk by German dive-bombers. (The French had failed to defend the ship with anti-aircraft barrage).  However, we heard that 35,000 troops had escaped from St Nazaire, and the same again from St Malo and Brest.

We got tidied up in Devonport, washed and shaved and back by train to Portsmouth. We handed in our revolvers and ammo (unopened). It was Friday and we asked for leave but were told "What leave, the Jerries are expected across the Channel any day." However the officer relented and said we could go for Saturday and Sunday only. It took until nearly midnight to reach Newcastle. Ma said, "Where have you been?" and believed me when I said " In France for 6 days holiday".

Part Two

4. To Africa

Back at Pompey on the Monday, and still in landing parties. Life was pretty monotonous, waiting for the impending invasion, threatened by bombers day and night and no leave granted. The bombers used to come over at about 1 a.m. and we took to the shelter from our hammocks carrying a blanket, and spent 3 miserable hours until the "all clear" sounded. This forced the commandant to alter the barrack routine and wakey-wakey became at 10 a.m. instead of 6.30 a.m. At least it gave us another 6 hours sleep. Some of the matelots enjoyed the daytime raids as they were equipped with a baton and plimsolls and sent out to pick up any German airmen who were shot down and landed on sea-flats. That is, those who avoided the ack-ack fire of the Polish destroyers in the harbour - they shot at any airman in their vicinity. We sparkers were left to our practice of touring the countryside in army jeeps in case we had to retreat from the invasion.

The Sobieski as a troopship

The danger passed and we were off to Liverpool to join the troopship Sobieski along with 101 Brigade Royal Marines (about 1000 men). With us were the troopships Kenya and Karanja with 102, 103 and 105 Brigades. We did a few days in Scapa Flow for mock battles with the Black Watch. Our lads were pretty fed up, as they had to learn to land from the LSDT and LCT craft and had a few duckings in the cold water of Scapa Flow. Their only consolation was an extra tot of rum to warm them up after they had climbed a long rope ladder to get on board.

We set off in September, destination unknown, which turned out to be Freetown, Sierra Leone, where we were farmed out to other ships. I did about a month in the battleship Resolution, which was listing 15 degrees to port after being torpedoed by the French. I felt like Hopalong Cassidy. It was an awful ship from the 1914-18 era, and full of naval routine. Every time you stepped on the quarterdeck you had to salute the memory of Nelson- Failure to do so would result in a charge by the duty officer, and a report as a defaulter at 9 a.m. next day. The Captain would give a stoppage of leave for at least 7 days. There was never anywhere proper to sleep as we were not "ship's company", and we just kipped in any old comer. We read mostly news from the Rugby transmitter, for the C-in-C South Atlantic. Horrible long words sometimes obliterated by atmospherics. The old hands taught us to use old copies of received messages and fill in the blanks which we missed.

I did a month on the seaplane carrier Albatross which was even worse - the wireless equipment was prehistoric.

                            HMS Albatross

Whilst on board the Albatross, the MV Athelcrown entered harbour. The Jimmy-the-One refused my permission to go and see my father who was the Chief Engineer on the Athelcrown. The bunting tossers on the Sobieski signalled by Aldis lamp to the Athelcrown that I was in port. I eventually got passage on the pilot boat to the Athelcrown, but by this time my father was on Sobieski. He returned to the Athelcrown via the Albatross and we had dinner together, me dressed as Merchant Navy engineer.

Back to Sobieski in January 1941 I found life very poor. The food was ghastly with weevils and small beetles in the porridge, and rice or yams for dinner. We used to complain continually to the officer of the day, but got nowhere.

5. Ascension Island


 

 On the way to Ascension on the SS Modessa

In mid-January 1941 I was told to report to W/0 Brooks and Join the MS Modessa bound for Ascension Island (Jock Telford, Don Rayner, Norman James and myself). The first person I met on the Modessa was Dougie Littlejohn. I had met him earlier in Freetown on the Edinburgh Castle. All the Littlejohns were great friends of ours and all went to St Andrew's Church in Hebbum. Dougie had been back home and had seen Ma, and was back out again heading for India. He was a Lieutenant and was allocated a cabin - we all slept on the saloon floor. Dougie let us share his cabin during daytime.

We landed on bleak Ascension Island in early February. The 36 square miles island was discovered by the Portuguese on Ascension Day 1501, and acquired by the British in 18^5. The island was bought by the Cable & Wireless Company and run by them from about 1920. The Manager represented the King and his word was law. I never spoke to him but his assistant manager Mr Scatchard was very friendly, and occasionally invited us to his bungalow for drinks and a game of carpet bowls. He had one daughter, Itsy, who was about 15. He was loathe to send her to England for education, due to the war, so she had a very lonely life with no friends other age. There were 4 old-timers already there, all from the First World War. Harry Hurd (ex submarines), Fred Needham, Frank Power and Fred Muller, all very fine operators. Harry Hurd could receive Morse, roll a cigarette with his left hand and light it all at the same time. We were on "canteen messing ", and had to buy our own food. Harry was mess caterer and drinks attendant. He was a whiz kid at it. We were only allowed one and tuppence a day each man for victualling, and he could always manage a payout at the end of each month, sometimes a £1 each. This was a nice extra as we were only on temporary pay of £3 a month. Harry looked after the drinks bill every month - whisky 3/3d a bottle, gin 3/3d, rum 3/3d and South African wine 3/6d. Limejuice was only a Vi d a glass. At the end of the month Harry would collect 2 or 3 pounds from the lads, and £8 from the Chief who was a real drunk, and then say to me " Geordie, 1 want l/9d for lime juice."


 

Outside of our quarters

There was a Green Mountain, created by the Marines about 1820 by bringing shiploads of soil from England and covering the largest volcano with about 18 inches of top soil. This created a farm, a hacienda style farmhouse, green fields and stockades for animals. There was a dewpond, shaded from the sun by bamboo canes. The farm was run by Mr & Mrs. Dodge, who had two lovely twin boys, about 10 years old. Anyone caring to walk the five miles to the top of Green Mountain was made very welcome by Mrs. Dodge. We went just once to see it and get the magnificent view from the top- (Harry Hurd never made it).

The sun came up at 6 a.m. and went down at 6 p-m all year round, with no sunset.

C&W were good to us. They gave us a billiard table and let us have one of their two tennis courts, as well as rackets. Mr Stockdale, of C&W, arranged cricket and football teams. Don Rayner and I went to meetings with him to sort out the teams. As there weren't enough naval personnel to form a team we mixed the St Helena men with the C&Ws and the RN and sorted out teams into a little league. The pitch was volcanic ash and sand, but no grass, and we had to play between 4 p.m. and 6 p.m. when it was cooler but still light. This had to fit in with watch keeping, which we did on 8-hour watches.

C&W ran a cinema in an old schoolroom once a month, free to all who could attend, but you had to bring your own chair. Class distinction came into force; the poor St Helena men sat right at the front, getting stiff necks looking up at the screen, the Army came next, then the Navy on the first part raised up, and the best seats at the back were for the C&W men and their wives. The films and newsreels were ancient; in 1941 we were watching the Finns bravely resisting the Russians in 1939.

Life was really boring and we were informed that we would be staying only 12 months, and then be sent back to Freetown for another 6 months. Jock amused himself by coming off middle watch at 4 a.m. and going shark fishing.


 

Jock Telford and two St Helena

men after shark fishing


Many turtles came to lay their eggs on Long Beach and we would put a marker inland and watch for progress. They hatched out after about 10 weeks and then up pop the baby turtles. 50 or 60 at a time and all head straight for the sea. If you picked them up and put them down again further from the sea, they would still head for the sea. Most of them did not survive, being eaten by predators, gulls or being dashed against the jagged rocks. Amongst the rocks are many gravestones recording sailors who died in earlier centuries, probably succumbing to scurvy or tropical diseases, and carried ashore to be left to die. Some were shipwrecked on Ascension, with no hope of rescue.

 On watch on Ascension Island - note the prehistoric receiver

In December 1941 things become more interesting. On 7th December I was on watch when we received a signal in clear text,   "Declare war on Japan, repeat, declare war on Japan." I still have a copy of that signal.

At about 3 p.m on the 9111 December 1941 the Royal Artillery reported to our wireless station that a submarine was sighted about 3 miles west of the island. Our Warrant Tel, Mr Brooks, dispatched Don Rayner and me to the shore with an Aldis Lamp and battery to challenge the "stranger on our shore". I carried the battery, Don the Aldis. Don did the signalling which was the letter "W", the code letter of the day, (changed daily). There was no response from the vessel so we signalled the W/T station who informed the captain of the artillery that it was a German Li-boat Open fire! But he dithered about and put a shot in front of the bows, whereupon the U-boat dived like a lump of lead. So the opportunity was lost. Ascension could have been famous and Mr Brooks was livid. We might all have got medals!2

Harry Hurd, our submariner from the Great War said, "Well Geordie, you were lucky, the German gunners are the best in the world and they could have put a shell just where you were standing." Don and I said "That's a fine time to be telling us now!" We heard later that HMS Dorsetshire had sunk a German U-boat supply ship and 300 Germans were adrift in lifeboats, so there might have been a connection with that event.2 Meanwhile the only thing that the RA managed to hit was a whale.

January 1942. All ships and shore station kept watch on the merchant navy distress wavelength of 600 metres- At the end of January our Tel Purvis picked up a patchy distress signal at about 1 a-m. Mr Brooks decoded the signal letters and found that it was the Athelcrown some 4000 miles away off the North American coast. The operator had missed some of the signal but there was enough to send a cable to the Admiralty. All attempts to contact the ship were in vain. The Athelcrown was of course my father's ship and Mr Brooks had met him earlier when were together in Freetown Harbour in 1940. So he was quite upset when he came to wake me up and give me the news. He planned to wait a few days and then got the Cable & Wireless people (whom he was well in with) to send a reply paid cable home asking if my father was well. Back came the reply from a rather puzzled Pa, that he was very well and enjoying his leave. He didn't know what we knew, that his ship was lost.  He had been given leave for my sister Elsie's wedding in October 1941. We found out later that the Navy had saved the crew, with the exception of five engine room crew, lost in the explosion. After the loss of the Athelcrown, my father didn't go back to sea.3


2 See Appendix 3

3 See Appendix 2

Part Three


 

Our stint finally ended in February 1942, but prior to that we had a quick visit from US destroyers and a cruiser, a few days after Pearl Harbor. It turned out later that their visit was in connection with the Americans' desire to build an airstrip on Ascension. The visit just before Christmas 1941 was timely, bringing us lots of goodies.

Finally Telford, James, Rayner and Johnson were told to muster at the harbour to catch a Castle boat back to Freetown, along with Harry Hurd, who was going back to Blighty. Harry's last words to me were "Well Geordie, we have created two records on Ascension - you didn't drink any of their cheap booze, and I never climbed to the top of Green Mountain".

6. Back to Africa

After a very fast trip, we reported to the depot ship Edinburgh Castle, moored in Freetown Harbour. Back into our hammocks, a change from the luxury of our own room on Ascension. On the first night aboard, Don Rayner, sleeping next to me, shook me at 2 a-m. in a panic with an animal on his chest It was a great big tropical rat, about the size of a cat I grabbed my hammock stretcher and took a swipe at it, but it was off like the clappers. We were glad to disembark next day and report to Freetown W/T station. Jock Telford and Don Rayner were kept at the receiving station near the harbour, whilst Jimmy James and I had a three mile lorry ride up to the transmitting station, way up in the hills. There was a glorious view over Freetown, which could hold the whole British Navy and still have room to spare. We could see all the huge convoys entering the Harbour on the route via South Africa to Egypt to supply the 8th Army. Jimmy James and I were the only telegraphists and most of the staff were at least Leading Tels., P.O.s or Chiefs. Our boss was Mr Owen, a Commissioned Telegraphist with one thick gold band. I was led to believe that there were only 5 Comm.Tels in the whole navy. He had a beautiful big bungalow, but didn't mix with us at all. Jimmy and I had nowhere to eat so Mr Owen decided we should mess with the P.O.s and Chiefs, so we were elevated in status but not in rank. It suited us fine.

We had two huge transmitting halls housing five or six types of transmitter. P.O. Parker showed me the ropes and how to change frequencies etc. using a wave meter, and I picked it up easily, perhaps with the benefit of my years at night school doing electrical engineering up to ONC standard. Two of the transmitters were of huge size, one M/frequency and the other VHF (30MHz). Entry into the room was by a huge steel door which cut off the electrics if opened. We had immediate trouble with the VHF one and had an Admiralty "expert" out from England to solve the problems. As soon as I saw him I recognized him as a former Reyrolle student in the 30s who lodged in Hebbum. He spent two months there, burnt out all our spare valves and a few more that we "borrowed" from a carrier which had the same set and then he got sent home. I wonder how he got the job, avoiding call-up too. He had me holding a wee neon tube on a stick testing the aerial radiation. Our "boys", looking in at the door thought I was a medicine man, on seeing the light emanating from my extended arm, white man's magic. We had, a lot of natives seconded to the Navy, and they did all the menial jobs on the station, mostly Ashanti and Timni tribes. The Timnies were the best as they are a very gentle people.

 

 


 

 

 

 

Village near our transmitting station

 

With the loss of the "expert", the chief P.O. (Called Goebbels but no relation of Hitler's man) said to me "Right, Geordie, switch off and tell the receiving station that there will be no VHF for 24 hours." He had a good idea what was wrong and worked at it all day. Next day we switched on and it worked perfectly, from that day on. He had noticed that one coil had an extra piece, which threw out the whole circuit, as they were in "push-pull". Obviously the set had left the factory in that state.

Life became very calm once we settled in, but Jimmy James and I kept a low profile as we were amongst P.O.s and Chiefs and the odd Killick. (All leading hands are called Killicks), Mr Owen, who knew Tom at Fairfield's, decided that I had to sit an exam for a "Killick's hook", and get promoted to keep the balance of the staff right. I had to go down to the Edinburgh Castle for the exam with great trepidation, as I hadn't read any Morse or used a key for several weeks. All went well and I got the job of testing about 10 ratings from Ordinary Tel. to telegraphists. They were all excellent, so 1 got my "hook" and one good conduct badge for 3 years of service. This boosted my pay to 4/10d a week plus 4d for good conduct and 6d a day for "hard layers" (discomfort in tropical climes). Total 5/8d a day instead of3/9d. I was rich. (I still had to allocate 10/- a week home to mother to protect her pension rights)

Life with the P.O.s and Chiefs gradually became more friendly, as I was now L/Tel Johnson. We acquired a dart board and competed in a variety of games, the most popular being "cricket", where one '"batted" or "bowled" by a system of darts. I was useless at darts. Someone gave us game called Totopoly, a horse racing game that became popular for those off watch. We had a Chief ERA Hirst from Sheffield, who was ex-submarines and had done something wrong to result in him being sent out foreign for punishment. We had an EA (P.O.) looking after the electrics, who was from Witton Gilbert, near Pittington, Co. Durham. I was given the job of reading the Totopoly rules, which turned out to be too complicated, as in Monopoly. It was all about buying horses, stables, saddles etc, and so we dispensed with all that and just ran the races, that being the climax of the game. We agreed to buy the "funny money" at l/2d for £200. That meant that at most you could lose l/2d in a night. They made me the bookie, as I didn't drink and retained my equilibrium. Some downed quite a few bottles of Export in a night and some borrowed their tots of rum in advance. We threw a dice to race our horses and amazingly I was invariably a winner on the night. This was quite a lucrative source of enjoyable income, at the expense of those who imbibed too much and became reckless with their bets.

CPO Blomley, whom we called "Bloms", and Chief ERA Hirst, called "Hirsty", often engaged me in arguments, them against me, but as watch keeper I had to turn in quite early, especially middle watch (midnight to 4 a.m.) Once they had had a few "Exports" I could easily twist the topic and leave them arguing with each other. (There is a sequel to this in 1944, when Joe was up at Norse Road for the England-Scotland game). P.O. Jan Gaynor was another good friend to me, an ardent Welshman of about 27, and very keen on football. He wanted me to join a team at Freetown, but I reneged because (a) the temperature was 115 to 125 deg F, and (b) fear of injury as I was due home in August.

Occasionally Jan and I used to go out at night to test the sentries who guarded the entrance to die station which was via a deep ravine. PO Gaynor, being pukka RN, was trying to teach the African sentries the correct challenge, viz "Halt, who goes there?" - reply "Friend" - "Advance Friend and be recognised". We advance and the sentry gives the command "Halt", usually within two feet of a fixed bayonet. He shines a lantern in our face and says "Pass Friend". That is the theory. What we got was, "Alt, who go dar?", we say "Friend" and then silence. There was a shuffling of feet and then a lantern whipped out with the enquiry, “Dat you Boss?” PO Rayner, now hopping mad, demanded the rifle and the sentry handed it over. Jan gives him a lecture about handing over his gun, as we could have been Jerry paratroopers!

It got no better as time went on, but good fun at the time- Jan Rayner got his nickname from Janet Gaynor, the famous film star of the era. The Andrew always associated certain handles with certain surnames, such as Chalky White, Pincher Martin, Shiner Wright, and Bungy Williams.

One of the more distasteful necessities was to drink an egg-cupful of quinine every night before supper, and supervised by CPO Goebels, who was the senior Chief. This was to counteract the possibility of contracting malaria. The only one who wouldn't drink it was CPO Blomley who always maintained that McEwan's Export was full of quinine, and he drank plenty of that. Sadly, I did hear that long after I had left, Bloms did get malaria and passed away, leaving a wife and 5 children at his home near Chatham. It was very upsetting news for me as he was such a gentleman, kind and thoughtful and a good friend to me in our endeavours to meet the needs of the job.

7. Back to Blighty

in July our relief came, mine being Reg Boardman. a scouser, RNVR like me, and Mr Owen gave me a sign that I would leave in August. I got on well with Reg, and reassured him that alt was well with the staff at RN Transmitting Station, a great bunch of men. I left about 15th August and boarded the Monarch of Bermuda, built on the Tyne at the Naval Yard. A very fast liner but packed with about 5,000 Italian prisoners, captured by the Eighth Army, and guarded by Polish soldiers who roughed them up at any opportunity. We had a nice sun deck and at night the "Eyties" would send a choir up and give us a couple of hours of opera. This was better than playing tombola. I might say that the Poles did not attend the concerts, having little sympathy for the enemy after what the Germans did to their cities.

The only incident of note that I reported to the Army MO was trouble with one of my teeth. He couldn't do dentistry, but there was an Italian Officer MO prisoner who could, and I was welcome to try him. I said, "OK", and the officer and a helper came to the cabin, lanced round the tooth and took it out - no bother. He spoke perfect English and had been trained at Edinburgh University. He quizzed me about our destination, but I was non-committal. We found out that the Eyties were terrified of the Aussies and NZ soldiers, who had roughed them up without mercy in the desert. They stole all their gold rings, and if the rings didn't come off easily, they just cut off the finger neatly with a bayonet.

The only other job we got was for the Tels. and Sigs. to take turns on tile bridge as lookouts for submarines. Not a nice job but very necessary, as we were steaming on our own and making good time as a result

Blighty at last and down to Chatham Barracks only to find that the Signal School had moved to the country to Cookham Camp, outside Rochester. I got there eventually, only to be told that there was no room and I had to report to Eccles Block, Borstal, half a mile down a country road. I got myself a wheelbarrow and off to Borstal. A figure approached me, all smiles. It was Archie Howes, active service, now a CPO Tel. and my teammate on the school team at Jarrow Central. We had walked home together almost every day until he joined up as a boy Tel in 1933. I was allocated a Borstal boy's cell along with two other Tels., and all our gear. What a shambles!

After a medical the next day, (passed, less one tooth) I got all my back pay, having had only subs for 2 years. I now had a Naval Savings Book with more than £50 credit. I collected my free travel warrant and set off for 4 weeks leave, from my wee Borstal cell. What a lovely feeling when the train stopped and the station sign read "Hebbum". The first leave since Christmas 1939.

Churchill announced that all servicemen would get I/- a day pay rise, but only 6d immediately and the rest after demob. (A paddy's rise, because you had to survive to get the back money). I lost my 6d a day hard-layers on leaving Freetown, so that cancelled out the 6d rise. Pay stayed at 5/8d.

Life was very good for a whole month and I met some of my mates Archie Howes came from Signal School for leave, so we ploughed round together up to Newcastle or to the coast, mainly to the pictures or to shows. Jackie Gillespie was home on crutches, having been bashed up on the Worcester trying to stop the Bismarck and the Prinz Eugen coming up the Channel in February 1942. He was lucky to survive as there were 80 ratings killed in the action- It took 2 years to patch him up and then he was out of it and back to Reyrolle's. Time passed all too quickly and I was back to "Borstal" at the end of September. We never had an air raid all the time I was at home-] suppose they knew my boss was called Goebels! Archie Howes was still in Cookham. and wanted me to join him as he was training young Tels. to go to land in Yugoslavia. I told him I had had my fill of landing parties and took potluck on a draft. That didn't take long and I was sent to Draft 01. I had no idea what that was, but there were quite a lot of Tels. and Sigs- wanted. Archie was well in at Sig. School, and by now one of the senior Chief PO Tels. in the Regulating Office. After a few days he told me, in strict confidence, and not to utter a word to anyone, that we were heading for Yankee land but no details.

Part Four

9. To America

We had known for months that the Yanks were building minesweepers for the Andrew. Sure enough we were sent back to Chatham Barracks, piled into a train in the dockyard at midnight, and off to the north. (We got one fruit tart, but no drinks for the whole journey) Nobody had a clue where we were as all the station names had been removed. We eventually reached Greenock and the Queen Mary was in sight on the Clyde. Archie's info was spot on and we boarded the QM that day. We were off next day escorted by two destroyers, which gave up after 36 hours, as the QM was distinctly faster than them. In five days we were in Boston. Earlier, the QM had sliced through our cruiser, the Curacao, and needed repairs to the bows, which could be done at Boston Dockyard. We reported to Fargo Barracks, Boston, (US Navy), which were first class in every way, lovely bunks and more importantly lovely grub. I had sustained an injury to my right hand and had to report to the sick bay, under the auspices of Petty Officer Albert Frank Jr who soon pushed me to the front of the sick parade. He was active service US Navy and had his own desk in a rather posh office, (which I was allowed to visit.) I chummied up with him and we went ashore together at night It was like fairyland to me - places all lit up, good restaurants and lots of shows, cinemas and dance halls. I called him "Red" as he had really red hair. One day he came and said he'd been on the phone to his mum and dad and I had to go with him on weekend leave to Deep River, Connecticut I thought it was just out of Boston, but in fact it was 200 miles to Saybrook on the NY state line. There Mrs. Frank met us at the station and took us another 9 miles to Deep River, a lovely little American town, mostly wooden houses painted white. On Saturday we went to a Night Club with his pals far into the country, and had a great night, lots of dancing etc- and a great band. Someone told them a "limey" sailor was there, and I had to pick a tune. I picked "Bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover" and to my surprise they knew it. We got home about 2 a.m. The family were catholic, so they were off to church early on Sunday, leaving me still comatose. 1 found a note from Mrs. Frank to say that my breakfast was on the table and my tea was in the fridge! Red had a lovely girlfriend, Kathy, who was of Italian stock, and we went for dinner and found another 3 sisters like Kathy. They seemed to like my Geordie accent and I got repeated requests to "say something". They liked my departure when I said, "Well, cheerio, well", and back came a chorus of "well, cheerio, well" followed by peals of laughter.

Red married his Kathleen after the war, and moved to Crystal Lake, Chicago. They had two lovely girls Judith and Maureen, and Red had a good Job with plenty of travel. He wrote to me every Christmas great long letters, and had a great to desire to come to "little old England". Sadly, on 12 June 1970 he went on business to San Francisco and was murdered by two youths. What an end for a great bloke who served through the war mostly on destroyers in the Pacific.

After a month we moved to Asbury Park, a seaside town in New Jersey, into a hotel run by the "Andrew". About 10 bunks to a room, the place was bare and the food very austere. We had about 100 Newfies (Newfoundlanders) join us, rough as badgers, when boozed up causing trouble. In 2 weeks 19 liquor stores were out of bounds to British sailors- One day 1 was running down to breakfast and bumped into a matelot struggling up the stairs with his bag and hammock. and he told me what he thought of me in typical naval language. I couldn't see him properly but I recognized the voice of my old mate Don Rayne from Ascension Island, whom T had last seen in August. He had come straight to New York on the Queen Mary, that week in November. I told him to wait for me before going to sign in, and 1 went with him and asked the PO to give him the same watch as me.

I had an invitation to see a family in Berwyn, Maryland (l5 miles from Washington DC). I had met a lady on the Saybrook - New York line earlier in the month and got talking, and she told me she had a sister in "little old England" at a place called Jarrow. I don't suppose you know it, she said. I told her I came from a wee place called Hebbum, joined on to Jarrow. We had a few minutes to spare in New York, and it transpired that this other sister in Berwyn had a huge caravan site and would I go to see her, as they hadn't seen the Jarrow one for many years. I gave her my phone number in Asbury Park and she did all the arranging. As Don R had 40 dollars on arrival and we could get special cheap fares for service personnel, I inveigled him in the scheme. Everything was fixed and off we went to Washington DC and hence to Berwyn. We found the caravan site and met Mrs. P (a Greek name, so long that it was unpronounceable). All the caravans were occupied by forestry workers, so she took us to see the Manager, Charles D Green, and his lovely wife. They took us to their house which was brick built and right in the country. Charles ran us all round Washington to see the places of interest, the White House, Washington Monument etc. Mrs. P loaded us with goodies from her stores at the camp for her sister in Franklin St, Jarrow. One item, a pillow case full of sugar, weighed about a stone, and I had to lug this with me all around America. Our weekend was thoroughly enjoyable and an added bonus for Don and I in our travels.

 

Back in Asbury Park we did enjoy the delights of the USO Club, an organisation instigated by the White House for all servicemen in many towns and cities throughout the land. There was free food and drink (not alcoholic though) and a nightly dance, with selected hostesses as partners. (One girl told me that they had to have two references to quality as a hostess - very above board)

One day we were strolling on the board-walk (promenade) with two matelots from another draft, and were stopped by an elderly couple (in November) obviously Brits who asked us if we would care to go to a Thanksgiving dinner at their home. They were a Mr and Mrs. Birtwhistle from South Orange, NJ about 50 miles away. We agreed readily and Bert came from us on the last Thursday in November. He had a lovely home and every house in the street was flying the stars and stripes. except Bert - he had a huge Union Jack! Bert never did become a naturalised American, nor his wife. He did tell me that he did go to Ellis Island NY in the 1920s, but the guards pushed him around that much with all the flotsam and jetsam coming from Europe that he lost his temper and told them that he was better than any Yank as he was a Brit, walked off and never went back. Mrs. B was very British, actually from Northern Ireland, and had a room festooned with pictures of our royal family, dating back to Victoria and Albert. We had a very good dinner, as Mrs. B was an excellent cook. After dinner she invited us to visit her cousin Mr McCiuan and family in Maplewood, a suburb of Newark- He was vice-president of the Newark Bank and had a house in keeping with his status. This time he had a huge stars and stripes flying in the garden (see photo below)

He had one daughter (about 26) at home, married to an army officer stationed about 4000 miles away. Mr McLuane "Just call me Mac", came from Banff, Scotland and his father was with them for the duration of the war a C of S minister in Banff. The old minister warmed to me when I told him that I had an Uncle Alee originally from Banff, still serving as a Chief Engineer on the SS Cairnglen. That was a very sore point with Mac as he told me his father had been writing to President Roosevelt every week since 1939, asking why the US wasn't in the war. He actually told them that the whole American Army couldn't match one regiment of the Black Watch. One letter got through to Roosevelt, so thereafter Mac had to offer to read the letters and then surreptitiously burnt them. Mac told me the cellar had been a "den" for his friends during prohibition (1920-1933) when the local bootlegger delivered their liquor via a chute to the cellar. Mrs. Mac converted the cellar into a utility room for her washing machine and fridge after prohibition ended. Mac asked me how much I was paid and when I said 14 dollars a fortnight he was aghast (after he figured out what a fortnight was). He offered to give me some money, but we declined as it was against the rules in the Andrew. I did cheekily ask him what he was paid, but he was quite frank and told me his salary was $25,000 a year and doubled up by investments. He did disappear for a while and I asked Mrs. Mac where he was. She said, don't tell the others but he's in the kitchen crying and he had told her that he was so happy having 4 RN matelots in the house as his house as guests for the first time in his life. (Overcome with sentiment, I think). We had a day to remember and then Bert took us back to our barracks in Asbury Park.

End of November and I had to say farewell to my "oppo" Don, as we had a strong buzz (rumour) that draft 01 was off to Canada, and Don was left behind as I think he was Joining BYMS Minesweepers, built I know not where. That was a long friendship, starting in Pompey Barracks in landing parties in 1940.

Life took off anew and sure enough we were off from NY to Toronto about 1 December 1942 to join a special Canadian Pacific train heading west for an unknown destination. The only passengers were 300 RN officers and men. It was absolutely fantastic having our own train, all first class travel- None of the staff would take any tips, saying it was a pleasure to see to our journey. After 2½ days we reached Winnipeg at 7 a.m. and Dave Wade and I sought out the

phone place and I tried to call Aunt Jenny. I traced a few Christians, without success and then found her at Marion's, where she had gone to help out. It was a weird conversation as follows: Aunt Jenny: "Ye-e-e-s"

Gordon: "It's Gordon here from Hebbum"

A J: "Are you speaking from New York"

G: "I'm speaking from Winnipeg Station and we’re only here for one hour"

The station was full of people from Britain, and we were inundated with enquiries about Britain, particularly Tyneside. The rumour had gone around that our special train was crossing Canada. We could re-assure the women that the RAF were taking care of Jerry bombers, and rate of bombing had decreased in 1942. Jenny did get down to the station in a taxi to see me for about 20 minutes. I had a letter from her later to say that she had forgotten her earmuffs and had to endure frostbite. (We didn't feel the cold!) We saw lots of places like Calgary, Moose Jaw, Medicine Hat, Banff Springs, briefly but all lit up like fairyland. We hooked up to another engine at Banff to pull us through the Rockies, a most beautiful sight It took us 5 days to cross Canada, and then back into US to arrive at Portland on December 7th, exactly one year after Pearl Harbour.

 

Part Five

 

9. Portland, Oregon

We were disembarked at the Willamette shipyard about 3 miles out of Portland, Oregon and stationed in American Navy barracks attached to the shipyard. This was a variety of pre­fabricated large barrack room, dining areas and modern "heads" at the end of each room. ("Heads" on a ship comprise washbasins, mirrors, showers, and toilets, usually in a long row with no privacy at all) American sailors were already there but we soon filled it with some 300 crew members. Next day we found that our ship was almost ready and our Draft Number 01 was now an aircraft carrier called HMS Tracker. We had to be tagged with an identity badge and a photo to get into the yard, as the Yanks were hot on security. Most of our Sigs and Tels were very young and had never been at sea on a warship, so they were quite excited at the prospect. We all got on quite well in the communications mess deck, but I felt quite old at 25 amongst these ODs. It didn't take us long to explore the delights of Portland, especially their USO Club, the biggest and best that we'd ever encountered. It appeared to have been a large department store on First Avenue, which some rich person had acquired for all service personnel. First floor, a large canteen full of good food and refreshments, all free. Second floor a radio station, everyone invited and a link-up with their rivals in Seattle 200 miles north. Also free Bingo, no money and only prizes.  Third floor a large dance floor with dances held every night from 7 pm till 11. Plenty of ladies who had volunteered as hostesses. Fourth floor fitted out with tables and desks with writing paper for those who wanted to keep in touch with their relatives - all free. Fifth floor was a gymnasium and boxing ring, and drying room for those fitness fanatics. Not for me. but nice to watch, especially if there was a fight night. Our lads were challenged by their Navy and did quite well. We had an Aussie PO stoker who had had been light heavyweight champion of the Australian Navy, and he flattened his opponent in one round.

There was always plenty to do in this lovely "Wild West" city, cinemas, shows, professional boxing, and soccer every Sunday afternoon against the shipyard team. The Americans loved it and came from miles to watch it, mostly exiled Scots who had been there for a number of years. We made many new friends and we could have been out at various homes every night, but had to decline graciously because it wasn't our way of life. Too much like scrounging. However we did accept many a lift into Portland, as it was a long way even to first bus stop. A favourite expression of many drivers was "It's on the hip", which we found meant that he had a flask of whiskey in his hip pocket That was an invitation to go drinking. Most of our ratings were under 21, and this sort of thing was frowned upon by our skipper. He was always reminding us to — obey the laws of the land, be well-behaved and to tell the girls that we didn't come over to marry them but could be good friends and enjoy each other's company. (Anyone stepping out of line was severely dealt with by him). We did have cells in the barracks (the brig as they called it). We had one signalman who was in trouble, usually with women, and because he was in our division, I had to do Leading Hand of the cell sentries. Fortunately for me he was from Stockton and a sort of a Geordie and I had to take him out for one hour every day for fresh air. My mates were sorry for me, as he was a big lad and they assumed that he might bash me up and do a runner. Not so, we were Co. Durham and I used to walk him round the back of the sheds, share 2 or 3 fags, and then back to the cells. No bother at all. He was basically a canny bloke and had a DSM for gallantry on HMS Cornwall in an earlier stage of the war. (Something to do with saving lives when she went down in the Indian Ocean.) He was a jolly good footballer in our team. There were days in cells when he would get "bread and water" punishment. I would go early to the cells (8 am) and get one of the cell sentries to go to the canteen and fill up the tray with as much food as possible and plenty of coffee. Canven would scoff the lot and we returned the tray long before the PO and officers turned up at 9 a.m. (No way did I want one of our best players to starve.) We had two more characters, a cook and a steward in cells, both cockneys, Martin and Lamb, but it would take too much to tell you what they were up to. They had robbed an old American of his money after he had given them a lift. I didn't like them or their principles, like East End spivs, so I'd let them rot in there.

One Sunday morning a pipe band arrived in fall regalia, and we had to march 2 miles to the next Presbyterian Church, which suited me fine. We heard later that there was a big parade in Portland, in honour of some historical victory, and we had to lead it (not so good). The gunnery PO had us out every day, drilling and barking at us like dogs for 2 weeks- Some of our crew were really T124X ratings (seconded from the merchant navy) and they had never done square-bashing in their lives. We had a colour party of about 12, dressed in gaiters and belts but no rifles, and they were really drilled as they led the division. Came the fatal day, it was half rain and sleet, and the skipper said "no oilskins". We had to show our nice clean collars and all badges to impress the natives. Off went the parade with us in the lead, and proceeded for at least 5 miles. All beautifully soaked to the skin. When we broke up, we watched the rest go by and, what a shambles. US Navy, followed by US Army, Air Force and Marines. Some of the Navy men had their hands in their pea-jacket pockets, some Army and Marines had woolly gloves on, and most were out of step. Next day in the Oregon Times the caption read "British Navy show the Yanks how to march." It transpired that we were the first RN sailors to march through Portland for 200 years. It paid dividends as the ex-Brits in Portland raised a lot of money and opened a "White Ensign Club", solely for our use. We were allowed to invite any American servicemen if we wished. We even had an English pub inside, called the Pig and Whistle. At that time there were estimated 30,000 British families in Portland.

Our favourite

Our favourite haunt in Portland was the USO Club and the Sigs and Tels would meet up there as most had learnt to dance at home, and we had a good crowd. Some liked an odd pint but there were no serious boozers amongst them so they adhered to the skipper's instructions. We met a young lady, Shirley Andersen, and she invited George Preston, Blondie Parker and yours truly to her home for Christmas Dimmer with 3 American soldiers. Her parents were Norwegian and still had that strange accent; Shirley and her sister were born in Portland. Shirley loved soccer and used to come to the park on Sundays to see the lads play.

Later in life she came to Hebbum to see me and Evelyn, and we took her to Doncaster, from whence my brother-in-law took them to Haverhill, and thence to London for their flight home. So I tried to repay her for her parent's kindness to three matelots. (What goes around comes around in life)

My true dancing partner was a young nurse called Aline Stanley. As the Yanks can't dance at all, I tried to show her our interpretation of ballroom dancing, I found a dance hall called George White's in Portland and it was first class. No jitterbugging allowed. If you wanted that they had a small floor up the comer of the dance halt, about 20 feet square, for all jitter-buggers. Aline was a quick learner and was soon in good style with quicksteps, modern waltzes and foxtrots. (Much better than the one-two shuffle that the Yanks did in the same spot all the time).

Later in life she came to Hebbum to see me and Evelyn, and we took her to Doncaster, from whence my brother-in-law took them to Haverhill, and thence to London for their flight home. So I tried to repay her for her parent's kindness to three matelots. (What goes around comes around in life)

 

 

 

Gordon, Shirley and a torpedo man.

My true dancing partner was a young nurse called Aline Stanley. As the Yanks can't dance at all, I tried to show her our interpretation of ballroom dancing, I found a dance hall called George White's in Portland and it was first class. No jitterbugging allowed. If you wanted that they had a small floor up the comer of the dance hall, about 20 feet square, for all jitter-buggers. Aline was a quick learner and was soon in good style with quicksteps, modern waltzes and foxtrots. (Much better than the one-two shuffle that the Yanks did in the same spot all the time).

Aline Stanley in Portland Park

Aline lived in the student nurses’ home, and they occasionally had a dance, to which I was invited. By sheer chance, our Master-at-arms (Jaunty) had a nurse friend and I got to know him quite well. The almoner used to say to me in the foyer "Your friend is here tonight". Now the jaunty is the most powerful CPO on the ship and is really the ship's policeman, responsible for dishing out punishment and in the main not very popular. MAA Clements became a very good ally in our later dealings aboard. If there were any invitations for a few matelots for a function where there was food going, he came to us and we always got first pick. Call it what you like, but the Sigs and Tels never let Clements down. My new friend Aline used to invite me out to see her friends in a lovely flat,

Margaret and Don Brown. Don told me he didn't like limeys, as they talked la-di-da. I said, '"Not where I come from. unless they're putting it on". He was a welder in the shipyard but was really a first class musician and played the trumpet in a classy orchestra, which was in limbo during the war. I told him to come on board Tracker and I'd show him 20 limeys, none of whom spoke la-di-da. I soon won him over and he would try to mimic my Geordie accent

Aline used to take me to see her aunt and uncle who lived quite near and who were a lovely couple. Aline worked long hours and told me that student nurses got no pay, just their uniform and keep. Later she qualified and became a lieutenant in the Army Nursing Corps, but that was after we left Oregon. Life was very good in Portland, as it was in the whole of Oregon, Oregon is really Wild West and steeped in history. With plenty examples of totem poles and relics of outposts, timber blockhouses and wooden forts. There were of acres of forests and deep rivers teeming with salmon etc. Mount Hood towered up northwards, about 15,000 feet high. Portland had beautiful parks occupied by herds of bison, suitably penned in. They looked ferocious. We were told that Portland was known as the city of rose. No doubt this is helped by the amount of rain that falls on Portland in winter. (We vowed that we would not complain about Manchester again.) Life was good in general but some of the old hands were fed up with the delay in getting to sea.

Part Six

10. On HMS Tracker

Eventually in January 1943 we were allowed to board the Tracker and settle into the mess decks.

Our messes were 5 and 7, and were well designed with tiered bunks for about 35 men. Each man had his own locker (no more hammocks). We had a huge galley and 2 mess halls, cafeteria style, with the NAAFI situated in the same area. The ship was almost ready and we had a commissioning ceremony which truly impressed the Americans. We all marched to the flight deck and assembled by divisions, all in No l rigs (Sunday best). Our Signals Officer was a Sub-­lieutenant Ashton who was scared stiff, as he had no idea of what to do. (I think he was a radar officer) We gave him a small bit paper with the rudiments of commands, which he held in his hand like a school crib. We used to call him "Ash Can", but not to his face. He was very eager to come ashore with us, but we had to tell him he couldn't do this as he was an officer and the skipper would definitely disapprove. Poor Ash Can seemed very lonely and isolated, whereas we were having all the good times. At the end of February we were told to say good-bye to our US friends, as we were due off, so I had to say good-bye to Aline, my Ginger Rogers, but gave her my address in case she was sent to Europe. She did write regularly to Tracker, but they arrived weeks later as they all went to London for re-routing.

To our great surprise we sailed out of the Willamette River and turned north.

Even in the Central Receiving Room (CRR) we never got any information but they had to give us the course and position every day. Our second CPO (Shiner Wright) had a huge map of the world on the bulkhead, and he plotted all our trips from day one, using different colours for different convoys. In less than a day we had reached our destination Bremerton Naval Yard, Seattle. Approaching from the sea, Seattle looked like a junior version of New York with all its skyscrapers. We had to do some trials from Bremerton, that is Asdic and HFDF etc, and almost reached Vancouver at times.

We enjoyed shore leave in Seattle, but had to get the Silverlink ferry for about 10 miles. It was built like a junior liner, and had shops and a restaurant on board. Our stay was brief, about 2 weeks. This time we headed south down the Pacific keeping full watches and full lookouts for Japanese subs. Each watch had 3 sparkers and a leading hand and we had 3 teams of 8 hours each split "west country style", to give each watch a fair deal. The forenoon was extended to 12.30 to allow the afternoon watch to get dinner. In addition the ratings coming off morning watch at 8.00 had to scrub out the mess decks and tidy up after breakfast. All other ratings not on watch had to report to the CPO for day-man's duties, except at 9.00 when all hands fell in on the flight deck for PT, as we had now acquired a PT instructor who tortured us for half and hour, weather permitting. He was a stroppy active service bloke, full of his own importance. You will note that no petty officers, chiefs or officers did PT.

We also fell in at 16.00 every evening by division for "Colours", when the white ensign was struck from the stem flagpole. It was called "evening quarters", and after we could dispense with our detachable blue collar. On Sundays those not on watch fell in for "Sunday divisions" on the flight deck, (same palaver), and then to a service in the mess deck. usually led by Tel. D.W.J. Woodman, if there was no padre on board.

"Woody" as we named him was the Latin and Greek master at Willesden Secondary in London in peacetime He was also a local Methodist lay preacher and youth club leader. He also played the harmonium which we had "acquired", probably from Willamette Shipyard. He found out that half of our "Newfies" could not read or write, so he had a "school" amidships in the dog watches 4 to 6pm or 6 to 8pm when off duty. He taught the more interested ones as much in six months as they would have learnt in ten years in the backwoods of Newfoundland. They absolutely worshipped him and if anybody anywhere had touched Woody the Newfies would have slaughtered them. Woody also represented our mess (also with me) on the Social Committee which was responsible for "comforts" for the crew. Commander Collette was chairman and was often exasperated by Woody's long winded requests in the sort of English far beyond us. Collette used to push his gold-braided hat back and say, "Woodman, would you repeat all that in Standard English." Woody also edited the ship’s newspaper Tracker Tribune and compered our concert party. He wrote most of the articles himself under various nom-de-plumes, I can only remember one, "Cascara". He also said his prayers every night before he turned in. Well as they say in the Andrew, "There are no atheists in a lifeboat."

We had a good trip to the Panama Canal and managed a trip into Panama City. Jock Dixon (coder from Glasgow) got mortal drunk and would not get off this rickety old bus at 23.15 hours which was the time due back. He made the driver take him all over the place and landed back about 2 am full of fight. The Officer of the Watch put him on a charge and we put him in a strait jacket in the Sick Bay as he was a menace to all and sundry and very noisy. There's nothing worse than a drunken Scot, unless it's two.

We had to be raised up in the locks and the pilot had to be on the flight deck in a sort of tennis umpire seat. We had such a broad beam that the sponsons overhung the canal bank. It was beautiful going through the canal, as most of it is a very long lake with the jungle reaching the water's edge. Lots of pretty birds all with fantastic colouring and a continuous chattering of monkeys. We reached the Atlantic at Crystobal and had to be let down in the lock. At Crystobal we found that the USO Club was having a Red Cross effort for funds, mainly attended by Americans and their wives, they ran the canal. We got about ten tickets from my friend M A A Clements and sauntered in. First bonus, there was a buffet supper and the food gorgeous and plentiful. The ladies all had dance cards and we had to sign in for whatever they chose. Their husbands were too engrossed in drinking.

      In the Panama Canal

 

Someone asked one of my mates if there were any Geordies in the crew and he pointed to me. It turned out that he was our Consul and he told me that his wife was from a village near Durham, "best county in England" as he put it. He was wanting to give me money but I told him we could not take it. Our Skipper would have gone bananas if he had found out. I had a nice modem waltz with his wife and a few more dances with other ladies and was back aboard about 10.30pm. They thanked us for coming and said we had livened up the party. Most of them were in the 40s to 60s and I was the oldest of our lot at 25. There was plenty of booze but our lads behaved themselves impeccably. One lady said, "We were a credit to the Royal Navy."

We left Crystobal and sailed up through the Caribbean and eventually to Chesapeake Bay and thence to Norfolk, Virginia for more check ups and trials. Actually we were at Portsmouth about 5 miles from Norfolk. That led to a nasty incident on the bus. We did not know that the "coloureds" sat at the rear of the bus and, passing whites who were strap hanging, we sat down at the rear. I was chatting away to a large black lady who seemed surprised, but pleased, that I was so friendly, or maybe it was my Geordie accent. When we got off at Norfolk some Yankee sailors asked rather nastily why we had sat at the back. We said that's where the empty seats were and explained that in Britain we have no distinction. After that we obeyed the rules, but didn't like Norfolk. The coloureds even got into the gutter from the sidewalk if you approached them.

 

We did trials in Chesapeake Bay for a week and then pushed off north, not home, but to New York and the Hudson River, to Brooklyn Navy Yard. One pleasant incident was that we sailed quite near the sea road to Brooklyn and the Yankees in the their posh cars tooted us all the way when they saw the white ensign flying astern. We stayed about a week for minor repairs and got shore leave up to Manhattan, but were warned to come back in twos and threes, as Brooklyn was a grimy tough area with lots of slums. One pleasant feature was a diner right outside the dock gates, an old railway carriage, and the owner got lots of trade from us. His only moan was that we always asked for eggs and French fries. His usual query was did we not like hamburgers? We explained to him that people back home got only one egg a week, so they were a luxury to us.

At the time of our visit one cinema on Broadway was showing the film "Desert Victory", the actual reels from the Eighth Army advance against Rommel in August 1942. About eight of us were keen to see it and made a beeline for Broadway. It was about the most heart lifting experience for us in three years, seeing Monty's men absolutely smash their way forward against the Panzer divisions. The Italians gave up in their thousands. One young lady and her beau were sitting behind us and she was so excited, she said in a loud voice "Gee, aren't those British lads tough!" and her boyfriend said in a hushed voice, "Keep quiet, there's eight of them sitting in front of us." Here's me trying to see Gordon Wood, a school pal in action in the 8th Army, but it was impossible to make out anyone in the crash, bang, wallop. Gordon wrote to me all through the war, so I knew all about Monty and how he had them trained up ready for action long before El Alamein.

There was still no "buzz" (rumour) about going home, and in fact we moved to Staten Island for orders. This meant a trip in the ferry past the Statue of Liberty to South Station and thence in the subway to Times Square. We mainly spent time going to places of interest. There was one club in Park Avenue that you could almost always get tickets free for servicemen. Radio City Cinema, which housed the famous "Rockettes" (24 chorus dancers). This meant that you saw a cinema show and then a whole stage show, lasting in all about 3½ hours. We got told off for lighting up fags as there is "no smoking" in any American movie house. The usherettes quickly pounced on us at the first sign of smoke. Humble apologies and all was forgiven. We had visits to the Yankee Stadium for baseball, but didn't understand the game. We enjoyed the super fielding and of course the caustic comments from the home crowd when all was not well. We saw a big band at the Paramount and thousands of screaming 12-18 yr-old girls all bopping in the aisles. The noise was horrific so we decamped after 20 minutes of that lot for calmer waters. We went to the Stage Door Canteen for a feed and to see any celebrities. Celebrities used to turn up unexpectedly and entertain the troops, i.e. Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, and a very young Frank Sinatra.

I managed to get a couple of long weekend's leave. I went up to see Mrs. Frank and Cathy at Deep River and see where Albert was. He had been assigned to a destroyer in San Diego and that was about 4000 miles from home. The American Pacific Fleet was there and had been in action against the Japs. I took Cathy shopping in New London. What a lovely family and they seemed pleased that I had called. Mrs. Frank used to write to Mother and give her news of my whereabouts, something 1 wasn't allowed to do because of censorship. I went to see Mrs. Birtwhistle too. That was an easy Journey to Newark, just opposite New York, about half an hour in the train. I didn't see their relatives the McCluanes, but had news of them and thanked them for the 400 cigarettes they sent me in Portland at Christmas 1942, I can truly say that the hospitality I encountered was out of this world. Maybe it was my Scottish ancestry and Geordie accent or a combination of both that was appealing to the Americans.

After 3 weeks there was a lot of activity and we started to load the Tracker with about 70 American fighters and bombers, and mid-April we sailed out of New York and joined a huge convoy heading east. At last it was nearer home, but once well at sea, we were told to our dismay that we were heading for Casablanca, taking the planes for the US Air Force in support of the offensive in the desert.


 

                             HMS Tracker

 

We were on full alert and given out "abandon ship" stations to practise on the way over. Mine was a 20 ft by 20 ft rope net, only guaranteed to keep you afloat for 12 hours. The idea was you chuck it overboard and jump in with life belt on and hang on to the rope net. Hopefully someone would pick you up.

I complained, in a mild way, to the Chief, and he said, “You should grumble, that's where the skipper has to go."

Well at least I was in good company, both destined for Davy Jones' locker. After 10 days we reached Casablanca, what a dump, got rid of our cargo and sailed for Gibraltar, where we joined a large convoy and headed north through the bay and within 10 days landed at Harland & Wolf’s shipyard in Belfast. What a lovely sight sailing up Belfast Lough, and seeing all the shades of green of lovely Ireland in the late spring. In a couple of days the skipper announces that one half would go on leave for 10 days and then the other half, until he found out his orders, and which squadron of the Fleet Air Ann would be assigned to us in the Clyde.

In Portland one of our crew was given a wee husky pup, but by the time we reached Belfast it was a somewhat larger Husky called Scranbag. The scranbag is where your mislaid items are kept and you paid a fine of 3d to recover them. To the delight of the matelots, Scranbag used to invariably do his business in the Ward Room. Poor Scranbag was forever getting booted out by some officer. The owner smuggled his dog ashore the night before leave and a friend kept it overnight, We were first leave, and we passed through Customs with all out "rabbits" (presents for home), and went off to Larne for the ferry to Stranraer and thence to various parts of the UK. The Customs officers were very decent and put the words into our mouths what to declare which amounted to a few shillings. I had to buy a cheap case in America to house all my "rabbits". At one posh store on Fifth Avenue the manager gave me quite a lot of ladies stockings, some of them nylons, unheard of in the UK at that time. He just said it was in appreciation of the fact that we had stood firm against the Germans in 1940. Perhaps he was Jewish. It was really great to see the Hebbum station sign. Only the third leave in four years.

Elsie, Mimie and Belle got a fair amount of the cosmetics and stockings. Pa got some navy tobacco and Ma got Hershey's chocolates. I brought some modern records for Jack Gillespie, who was home after a disastrous encounter with a German warship in the Channel. He had been a gunner on HMS Worcester

Most of my other pals weren't home, so it was good to have Jack, hobbling around with a huge plaster on one leg. We saw Stella, who had had an operation on her gammy left leg. A fine trio, Jack on crutches and me having to push Stella in a rickety wheel chair.

Back to Belfast and to half a ship's company. We liked Belfast, there didn't seem to be much rationing and restaurant meals were as in peacetime. No doubt they were getting the food from Eire. We found a nice cosy dance hall, called Club Beverly, and believe it or not on our first visit the owner asked Davy Wade "Were there any Geordies?" Davy sent for me and it transpired that he was called Colin Hillcoat and came from South Shields. His father was Town Clerk for the Borough of Shields. He proved to be a very good friend to us and we had had a meal at his home, sometimes four or five at a time. On shore the sparkers and bunts went their own way, but we all made tracks for the Club Beverly at about 7.30 p.m. Colin's wife Helen had been in ENSA and was from Kensington, so she was pleased to see the London lads.  I met a very nice colleen called Jean Evans (Evans? - she should have been Welsh) She worked in the main street in a ladies' shop called Hall & Kyle. but lived a long way out on the Antrim Road. I would see her after work. and sometimes she seemed tired so we went to the departmental stores which had good restaurants and I would buy her high tea.  This was very expensive, at least 7/6d each.

Occasionally we went to a cinema to give us a rest from dancing, and then I put her on the Antrim tram about 9 p.m. She was a lovely girl and I met her each time I was lucky enough to hit Belfast in 1943-44.

Part Seven

11, Convoys

To the Clyde. At last we got our Fleet Air Squadron and headed out into the Irish Sea. Practise, practise, practise, each day for about a month.

Swordfish bombers (flying bedsteads), and two Scathe fighters (Spitfires with extra fuel tanks). .

 

                                                      

Duty launch had to get the men out of the water and it is

sad to relate that in one or two cases they failed to get there

 in time.

                                                                                                             There were some mishaps and some of the kites landed in the drink,

                                                                                                                  sometimes demolishing our receiving aerials.

Our skipper was also a casualty when, as we were catapulting off a fighter, the hawser snapped and hit him. His relief was a Captain McGrath, a wee fierce looking man with steely blue eyes and a full set beard and moustache, more like a pirate of olden days. He informed us he had lost about six ships, all destroyers, and we would probably be number seven. That cheered us up no end. Soon we were off on convoy duty across the Atlantic with Dangerous Dan McGrew, our pet name for the skipper. It was our first encounter with Captain F G Walker and his five Bird-class sloops, the Starling (Capt D), Wild Goose, Wren, Woodpecker and Kite, all built at Fairfield’s, I think. They were the best U-boat hunters in the Andrew. With the advent of ASDIC he had perfected his system of attack to a fine art. Everyone liked to have "Hookey" Walker in their convoys, especially Russian convoys. We kept flitting in and out of the Clyde quite often, which suited Davy and I. I could sometimes get up to 105 Norse Rd on weekend leave. Being watch-keepers, we were allowed until 10 a.m. on Monday, all others having to be back by 8 a.m. Jock Dixon of Danes Drive showed us a good racket - scrounge a lift on a truck to Renfrew, cross the Renfrew ferry free to Yoker, and down to Scotstoun on the tram, max fare for servicemen 1d  total cost from Greenock to Scotstoun 1d. The return was more expensive,  l/9d on the train. We enjoyed our Saturday nights as Jock would take us to the Albert Ballroom, quite good dancehall and we met all his pals and girl friends so we had plenty of partners. Jock would get a bit tipsy with his pints and wee halves, but we always got him onto the bus for Danes Drive. Later in 1943 it was our turn to report to Scapa and join Russian convoy. We got an extra blanket - such extravagance. The first two days were quiet, we had Hookey Walker with us, then suddenly we were being shadowed by a 5-engined Blohm-Voss bomber, obviously reporting our position to a shore station in Norway for re-issuing to U-boats. I don't think the Germans realised that we had Spitfires on our carrier. Up went our valiant pilots and at 350 mph they soon caught up with the reconnaissance plane. Exit Blohm-Voss. This went on for seven days, shooting down seven German planes. Captain Walker was delighted and signalled "Well done, Tracker". After seven days the Germans gave up. We reached the Barents Sea and our aircraft were within 500 miles of the North Pole, a straight run east to the Kola inlet and Veanga, our destination. All 53 merchant ships were intact, about the first convoy to reach Russia without loss.

Veanga was a miserable place, very desolate and poverty stricken. Toilets were in the middle of a square and communal. There were thousands of women prisoners on the outskirts, all guarded by soldiers with loaded rifles. Four of us tried to converse with them in stilted fashion. They knew we were British and from London. We gathered that they were political prisoners. Ginger Walker, our bosun, gave them cigarette