J W Stanworth Memoirs - part 6

These are my Grandfathers memoirs part 6

Daylight the next day brought another unexpected hazard. The sea, as far as the eye could see, was one mass of pit props. Thousands and thousands of them and two men on each side of our bow were detailed to push them aside to prevent them shoving a hole in the boat.

There were 48 cans of condensed milk in each boat (Board of Trade regulations) but about 36 of these went missing. One of the survivors admitted to me while in hospital that a certain clique took tins, put two holes in the top, one on each side, had a good suck and passed it on to his mate and when empty put it into the sea. With the noise of the sea, the creaking of the mast etc., and complete darkness, nobody knew until it was too late.

It had been very cold in the boat, apart from being wet through to the skin at all times, so I suppose it was not surprising that we found it became impossible to swallow the hard biscuits or corned beef through lack of saliva in our mouths. We repeated quite often how much worse ones thirst would have been had the ship been torpedoed in the tropics.

The two firemen who crawled into the for’ard locker were found dead one morning and we had a terrible job pulling them out. It seemed that if anyone went to sleep at night they died in their sleep from cold and exhaustion. I suppose it is what they refer to today as hypothermia.

Certain men did most of the bailing and after a spell of half an hour or so a man would say “will someone else have a go”. He would usually receive no reply, so he would put down the bucket and when the water had noticeably risen, someone would start bailing again. It may be pointed out, rather cruelly I suppose, that the men who worked the hardest were among the survivors.

Some men were having hallucinations by now; I personally had dreams of drinking a beautiful pint of buttermilk. I was so convinced I had an orange in each hand I offered one to my pal, the Cook. I could see it and feel it in my hand. Another chap asked the man at the steering oar to pull up at the next cigarette shop and a little while later said; “You’ve just passed a shop”. The oarsman replied; “I know, but it was closed”.

During our passage we saw a further two ships and on two occasions saw a plane fairly low, but they could not see us. Later in the was lifeboat sails were coloured bright red for this purpose, ours were just the neutral canvas colour which I suppose would be similar to the grey seam and sky in winter. Each time we saw a ship we waved a couple of white shirts but to no avail.

Some men were wearing rubber sea boots. When men died their boots or clothing was removed and offered to anyone not so well equipped. The water ran down our legs from the spray and, of course, it ran down the inside of our sea boots. I had discarded my shoes and was wearing another mans sea boots. We tried to take our sea boots off to massage our feet as they felt cold and even with other men pulling it seemed impossible to remove them. Men with shoes seemed to fare better as I will explain later. The feeling I experienced was a terrific desire to crunch my toes up, but there wasn’t any pain really.

As it started to become daylight the next morning the steersman whispered to me (I was bailing as usual) “Do you think that could be land Jim? Don’t say anything yet till we are sure”. The other 12 men were dozing at least half asleep. Cloud formations very often look like land in the distance and we didn’t want to give false hopes, to be dashed away later. As the sun rose behind what we had seen, it became clear like silhouette that it was land and we could see a green hillside. We then told the others and there was great jubilation and excitement. Shortly afterward a mist fell and we could no longer see the land. The wind fell to almost nil and the boat was almost still. The sea was calm bust just a long, slow swell. Being rejuvenated by the sight of land we fitted the rowlocks and put out the oars, two men to each oar and rowed until we were almost exhausted. After 15-minute intervals we rowed again and everyone certainly tried to put their backs into it. About 4pm the mist cleared and the land was really visible dead ahead, we guessed it was four or five miles away, but distance across water are very deceiving.

Darkness fell and we still rowed thinking of steaming hot cups of tea and, if it was Ireland, pints of porter.

We still had two electric torches and SOS was continually flashed until the torches went out. We wished we had some of the six flares we used on the first morning in the lifeboat, when we saw the ship zigzagging.

We had seen what looked like a bay, while the island was visible before dark and we were doing our utmost to reach it thinking there would be a beach to land on. We found out later that there was about a mile of surf and rocks in this bay and we would have been smashed to bits if we had managed to get into the bay.

The current has washed us well passed it and at about 9pm, 12 hours after sighting land, we were yards away from those high uninviting rocks of land.

The current was taking the boat sideways at about four knots and there was a continuous surge drawing the boat to the rocks but we pushed against them with the oars losing three of them in the process. Suddenly we were wedged between two partly submerged rocks and help tightly for a few minutes. There was a surge of water and the boat was lifted clear and we were surprised to find we were in a little cove about 80 to 100 yards long and 30 to 40 yards wide, fairly high rocky sides, impossible to climb in our exhausted condition. About half way along the cove one man jumped out of the boat and swam towards the head of the cove. We just couldn’t wait another couple of minutes so anxious were we to get on land that almost all swam the remaining few yards.

I regret to say that the Bosun was very ill all the last day and died a couple of hours before we arrived.

On reaching the sloping land at the head of the cove, we were all surprised that none of us could stand up, our legs were just like jelly, but although we moved about while in the boat I suppose we used out arms and slid along seats or thwarts to move any place, not needing to stand.

As we scrambled into the water from the boat, each man remarked how warm the water was. In fact it seemed warmer in the seawater than anywhere else. Could it be that our bodies were so cold that we imagined the seawater was warm?

It started to rain again and there we were sitting on stones not knowing if this island was even inhabited and without even the strength to walk far enough to look for help.

One man decided to go back to the boat, which was close to the edge where we call sat dejectedly and brought the mainsail and the bucket ashore. We placed the sail over some rocks and made a kind of lean-to tent, and the 13 of us crawled into it. Those who has got a bit of balance back walked and stumbled up the slope to see if a house or anything could be seen but decided to wait till daylight as it was too dangerous to venture further in the dark, one could walk into a ravine or fall and break a limb, so we crawled into the tent. It was the longest night of my life. Pouring with rain (it wouldn’t rain if we had no water) morning never seemed to come. We had spent nine days in the lifeboat.

At long last dawn broke and my first look at my mates showed their faces black with oil. Apparently oil had drifted into the cove and we were all covered from head to toe in black oil.

Thinking a lot of men were still asleep, we jokingly shouted “Come on lads, Rise and Shine for the Harrison Line, the daylight’s scorching your eyes out”, but we were horrified to find seven men had died in their sleep during the night, with the Bosun dead and still in the life boat, this left only six men out of the original 25. In fact six out of the original 41 crew, as 12 went down with the ship and the four in the other lifeboat were never heard of again.

The remaining six linked arms to hold each other up and started off to look for help but one poor soul kept pulling us down, so reluctantly we left him propped up leaning on a boulder and I promised him that once we found somebody we would describe where we had left him. Near our landing place there was a neat stack of pit props, obviously washed into the cove and two horses were on the hillside grazing, so it meant the island was at least inhabited. We trudged on across boggy land and eventually saw some telegraph poles in the distance. Making towards them, we came to a road and decided to turn left and shortly we spotted a house or a clachan as it was called locally.

A lady came out of the house to milk her cow and when she saw five men staggering like drunks she dropped her pail and ran back home to call her husband. He ran towards us and we, feeling that help was at hand, collapsed in a heap on the roadway. He and a neighbour helped us into the house and his wife very quickly pouring tea and buttering scotch pancakes and bread and scones for us to devour. I told Mr McNeil where our other chap was and described the way we had walked from the cove and he set out for him immediately. Apparently we had walked for about 1.5 miles in a semi circle and the cove was only about 300 yards away over a hill.

Mr McNeil sped off to Castlebay on his cycle to find the doctor who was visiting his patients and the doctor soon arrived in his car, one of only three allowed petrol on the island. We were told that we have landed on the Island of Barra, the most southerly of the Outer Hebrides. There was no hospital on the island but there were many volunteers to take us into their homes. The doctor too men into his own house and each of the two houses nearby took two others.

The doctor and Mr McNeil tried to take out rubber boots off but in the end they had to cut them off. No wonder we couldn’t get them off, our feet had turned black and were terribly swollen with exposure.

The doctor tested our legs with an instrument and found there was no feeling whatsoever after a couple of inches below the knee. The man we had left behind also had double pneumonia. The doctor took three men in his car and three were taken in another car to Castlebay, men from local houses helped carry us into the homes. We were put into bed and must have ruined the bedclothes with the oil on our bodies. This would be about 11 or 12 midday. By about 8pm the warm bed had started the circulation moving in my legs and the paid was terrible, as the blood got further into the feet. We told Mrs Campbell, an elderly widow, whose house we were in and she went to tell the doctor. He came and gave us an injection and eventually the pain went and we fell asleep.

Next day we had many visitors, everyone offering cigarettes, toothbrushes, toothpaste, combs, safety razors and you mention it, it was there. What lovely people, all of them. The local priest Farther McQueen was marvellous. He asked for our home addresses and our names and sent a telegraph to each of our homes and also wrote a letter to each briefly explaining what had happened. Our shipping firm did not know our ship has been lost until they had a communication from the Postmaster at Barra. I learned later from my wife what a mix up had occurred. Before leaving the River Mersey it had been arranged that the Chief Engineer, on our arrival on the American coast would send a cable saying “Arrived Safely” to his wife in Cumberland. She in turn would send a telegram to each of three other wives, just “arrived safely”. When my wife received the wire from Father McQueen, being wartime of course there was no town of origin on it; she automatically believed we had arrived in the U.S.A.

Next day my wife received another telegram from the firm managing the ship, J & C Harrison Ltd., saying, “Steamer sunk. Your husband injured but safe on the Island of Barra. Letter follows.”

The next day a letter was received from the firm telling her not to communicate with other crewmembers, as they could not account for many of the crew until further details were received.

The doctor called several times daily and voluntary ladies acted as nurses, bathing our feet in some kind of liquid prescribed by the doctor, who I might add, was an Englishman, but always wore a kilt. Our hands had been frost bitten and our fingertips had turned black, gradually the black skin came off like a thimble, leaving hands and fingers very tender and caught on the sheets with every movement. I tried to write but found it impossible.

A lady came in one day and was telling us of her son, who wasn’t really a very good son; he was in the Merchant Navy and didn’t leave her any allotment. She has received a letter from him three or four weeks previously saying he was joining a ship called the “Oakcrest”. I asked, “What was his name” and she replied “John McKinnon”. She didn’t even know our ship was the “Oakcrest”. We buried him at sea two days before arriving at his home island. John would have recognised his home island had he lived. We didn’t have the heart to tell her but we asked Farther McQueen to convey our sympathies and break the news to her. She didn’t visit is again.

The skin had broken on our feet now and the unmistakable smell of gangrene was polluting the air. The doctor said my roommate and I were very lucky as the two men in his house were far worst (an unwanted honour). He got in touch with the mainland and a plane would be sent to take us to Inchinnan Airport, near Glasgow. We were taken to the airport, which was a clear strip on a beach and waited in the cars for two hours but the plane didn’t come.

Whilst waiting we had a visit from, and a chat to Compton McKenzie the author, who had a home close to the beach.

It was decided to take the six of us to a Hotel, as it had proven most difficult to manoeuvre us in and out of the houses. The hotel even had its own electric lights, while the houses only had paraffin lamps. On the ship we always referred to them as “Bulk-head Dynamos”. The hotel had a generator, which was shut off as soon as the bar closed.

During the evening an R.A.F. plane had crashed landed on the island and the crew had been brought to the hotel to stay the night. They were unhurt and on being told about the six seamen, came to have a chat with us. One of them said to me “You look familiar to me, do I know you?” I thought he looked familiar to me too and we asked each other questions and finally sorted it out. He was the airman shot down in the English Channel who spoke to me in Ramsgate Hospital. He concluded with “I hope we don’t meet again Jim, as it will probably mean I’ve crashed again”. Coincidence wasn’t it!

The next morning we were taken back to the beach and the aircraft turned up this time. The seats had been removed to make it easier for them to handle us. It was our first air flight and we quite enjoyed the experience.

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