J W Stanworth Memoirs - part 4

These are my Grandfathers memoirs part 4

I joined the s.s. “Harcalo” in Manchester, a nice ship, having accommodation for 12 passengers and I was quite happy again as Chief Cook. I had been with the Chief Steward on a previous ship and we were good pals.

We joined a convoy at Milford Haven and sailed for Gibraltar, losing one ship on the way by torpedo. There was no need for a convoy in the Mediterranean at this time because Italy had not yet entered into the war, so we proceeded to Algiers and loaded iron ore for Middlesbrough, meeting a convoy for England again at Gibraltar.

All went well again except for a couple of floating mines drifting in the English Channel and blown up by small arms fire from one of the escort vessels. As each mine exploded the ship seemed to lift out of the water and I hoped then that I would never be on the receiving end of one of those damn contraptions.

The convoy headed North after passing Dover and sections headed off for London or the Humber ports. There were three ships bound for the River Tees ports and after picking up pilots near the river entrance we were the second ship in line going up the river. It was a very dark, dismal sort of night about 1 or 2 am and of course everywhere in black out conditions, when suddenly the ship ahead of us was spotted right across the river, apparently turning around to go alongside the wharf at Redcar. The tide was on the flow, pushing us along and a quick decision was necessary by the pilot and our Captain. They decided by going full speed astern they could not stop in time which meant sinking the other ship right across the fairway, blocking the river completely and possibly sinking the “Harcalo” too; so after all sorts of signals by ships siren the Captain decided to try to get round the other ship’s stern, but alas we finished up on the rocks stuck fast and despite the efforts of the tugs, remained there till the next tide. When the tide went out we were high and dry on the rocks at a very sharp angle and it was almost impossible to walk anywhere, so of course nothing could be cooked. I know it is easy to criticise but why on earth didn’t they let the ship going further up the river go first. It seems so simple really.

The “Harcalo” was pulled off the rocks at the next tide and although fully loaded with 10,000 tons of ore, went into dry dock for temporary repairs. There were many holes where she had been lying on boulders. She came out of dry dock and discharged here cargo and returned to dry dock for further repairs, which took six weeks.

We returned to the Mediterranean again and loaded another cargo of iron ore near Algiers, I forget if it was Bone or Beni Saf, but once again, we joined a convoy at Gibraltar for England.

It was the 6th of June 1940 as we steamed up the English Channel and gunfire could be heard from the French side of the Channel quite distinctly. Many bodies were seen floating by, most likely from the Dunkirk area as the evacuation would be in full operation at this time.

We were always completely in the dark about current news events as the crews of all merchant ships had no radios like they have today. The ships’ radio officer usually typed a bulletin and pinned it somewhere conspicuous in peace time but it was only at the radio operator’s discretion or good grace, so sometimes you were lucky, sometimes not. The Captains usually had a radio of their own so bits of news leaked out sometimes second or third hand.

Our ship, the “Harcalo”, had been chosen to act as the Commodore ship in the North Sea convoy, so nearing Dover the Naval Commodore and his signallers boarded us and away we sailed northwards.

It was nearly midday and we were in the Downs somewhere in the vicinity of Ramsgate. I kept popping out of the galley to seen the long line of sunken ships, victims of magnetic mines dropped by parachute in our shallow sea lanes nightly. The masts and funnels and usually the bridges were above water and one of my pals said to me “Come and see this Jim, this is the latest ship to be sunk, they just mentioned it on the bridge”. It was a sorry sight. A graveyard of fine ships, some ships had the foremast leaning to port and the mainmast listing to starboard, clearly denoting that the ship’s back was broken.

I returned to the galley to prepare the lunch for serving and was standing with one foot on the oven door (all ships ovens come down and rest on a leg on the kitchen floor) when a terrific explosion occurred. The ship seemed to lift up several feet and fall down again and, being off balance, I fell on the floor and everything on the stove followed me. There were two kettles of boiling water, a boiler of soup, pans containing vegetables, rice puddings, all sorts of containers ready for serving lunch for the different mess rooms. I jumped up and ran towards the door, but not being able to see for the steam, I put my foot in a pan and fell again catching my eye on the corner of a table. I again, made a run to get through the door but found the steel door had slammed shut with the explosion. In my panic, I had fallen against the door, hitting my nose against it. I tried to get through the opposite door but a steam pipe had burst and a deafening hiss of steam made that impossible. I jumped on top of the stove and standing on the pan rack over the stove, I managed to lift the skylight and get out onto the boat deck. This had all happened in about half a minute, I would think, but by now the ship was on the bottom. The mine must have blown half the ship’s bottom away for her to sink so quickly.

It was a beautiful sunny day, the 6th of June 1940, and by now everybody was getting into two life boats. They were already swung out ready for lowering, as were all merchant ships in war time.

I was in terrible pain, my face, neck, all my left arm, my chest and right shoulder and down my left leg to just below the knee was scalded. I was helped into the life boat and it move away from the stricken ship. One chap said humorously, “what are you moaning for Jim? You are the only one who had any dinner today, you’ve had the lot!”.

I must have looked a wretched sight, my left eye was closed where I had hit the corner of the table, my nose was bleeding where I had run into a closed door and the blood had run all down my singlet. My left arm was one huge blister and my hair was full of barley etc from the soup. While sting in the boat it went through my mind that a few minutes earlier, one of my mates had asked me to go and see the latest ship to be sunk, but now the “Harcalo” held that doubtful honour.

I leaned forward and must have clearly shown the pain I was in, which reminded the 2nd Officer that there were 2 bottles of brandy in the boat. He opened one and gave me about half a cup of neat brandy which I sipped.

About this time, a cry was heard from the ship’s boat deck and a man was seen waving his arms to us. The oarsmen rowed back to the ship and two men climbed up to help the injured man. He was Joe Muscat, a Maltese domiciled in Manchester, and was in the engine room when the mine exploded. He had a broken femur and his head, shoulders and all down his back was scalded from boiling water and steam escaping from broken pipes in the engine room. He told us that as the water rose in the engine room, he held onto the steps and let the rising water lift his body till the ship rested on the sea bed, he then pulled himself up a rope fastened to the engine room sky lights and dragged himself with a broken femur along the boat deck, shouting to us to go back for him. He certainly deserved to live.

Every time my cup was empty it was replenished, and I must have had at least a cup and a half. The 2nd Mate said “We may as well polish the rest of it off because someone ashore will soon see it off if we don’t”. So everyone else had some.

One ship stopped to help us, but the rest of the convoy had gone on its way. The ship was one of the Ellerman Pappyana Line, of Liverpool. I think her name was “Oporto” but I really don’t remember.

We rowed alongside her and being a small ship it was only about four or five feet from the water to her deck. I was helped on board and the Cook, seeing my Cook’s check pants brought me a pot of barley broth. It was funny really but I didn’t feel much like soup after having a bath in it.

The Chief Steward brought me a tumbler almost full of ship’s neat rum, which I sipped till it was all gone. Not surprisingly, the rum, on top of the brandy I had in the boat, knocked me out and I fell asleep on the hatch.

I barely recollect being lifted onto the Ramsgate Lifeboat with Joe Muscat, they must have thought I was unconscious. I suppose I was really, but it was brandy and rum unconscious.

The next thing I remember was waking up at about 3.00 am in Ramsgate General Hospital. I didn’t know which was worse, my burns or my bad head, because I was never a drinking man and I kept being sick but the nurse said it was caused through the anaesthetic.

I had been in the theatre and my burns had been scrubbed. They sprayed tannic acid and gentian violet, drying it with a hair dryer every four hours for a few days. They told me that this stuff would stay on, making an airtight seal, for about 21 days. When it peeled off they hoped that a new skin would be formed. This was quite true as long as it didn’t turn septic. Some parts of my body did turn septic and left ugly scars which I still have, but I’m lucky to still be here and everybody was unbelievably kind.

The hospital was overcrowded with Dunkirk survivors, men with arms off and some with legs amputated. You felt terrible asking the nurses for anything as they were busy attending to dying men, which made me feel that my troubles were so small by comparison.

A Spitfire Pilot came several times to talk to me, he had been shot down and was rescued from the sea suffering no more than a sprained ankle, so he too had been lucky.

My Company had informed my wife about me and had sent her a free rail voucher if she wised to visit me. This she did, and I was very thankful to see her, she only stayed a few hours as she had to leave our baby son with relatives. It was almost a 12 hour journey from Liverpool to Ramsgate.

I stayed in this hospital for about two weeks and then it was decided to evacuate the hospital as the invasion scare was on. We were put in buses with the seats removed and taken to Orpington Hospital.

We were stopped may times at cross roads by the Home Guard and the buses were examined to see if we were German invasion forces in disguise. It got a bit tiresome but I suppose they were only doing their job.

A man from Ramsgate, who had a very severe operation, was about four beds to my left in Ramsgate Hospital but now he was bout four beds to my right in Orpington. The ward at Ramsgate was dimly lit, the windows all sand-bagged. The old gent asked me if I was in the Ramsgate Hospital to which I replied “Yes”. He said “I wonder what happened to that dark chap in the end bed by the door?”. I said “That was me, I was nearest the door”. “Don’t talk silly” he said “I meant that black fellow that nobody would go near because he stank, everybody said that he smelled putrid”. I replied “Thank you for those few kind words”, you see, all the left side of my face, neck, shoulder and arm was covered in the gentian violet, which, in the dim light, would look black, but now he was looking at my other side, I was a white man. I turned around in bed so he could see my left side and he laughed and laughed at his mistake. He later had some visitors from home and I could tell that he was telling them the story. They came over to chat to me and they said that the laugh had done him more good than anything.

The smell, by the way, was from my upper arm and arm pit which was very septic. The nurse put a bowl of water under my bed containing strong disinfectant and sprinkled a towel with Dettol and left it hanging on my locker. The story spread around the hospital and even the doctor called me “his smelly friend” — you can so easily go off people, can’t you?

I was finally allowed home after 10 weeks at Orpington and told to attend my local hospital as an out-patient as my arm had not yet healed.

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