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Those who Served
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Those who Served
Nicholas M. Haas . USMC USS Boise
My Dad, Nicholas M. Haas, was a Marine aboard the USS Boise. I know he was on board during the Sicily campaign and fought aboard her in the South Pacific afterwards. He passed away in 1954, and I have some items of his and some notes. I have to check the dates, but I believe he went aboard sometime in 1942.
George Haddad . US Army Air Force VB 105 Sqd.
P/O A. Hagan . Royal Air Force 77 Sqd.
P/O Hagan was in the same crew as my father John Gardner. Their Lancaster was shot down over Holland in the early hours of the 22md of June 1943. P/O Hagan evaded capture, the other survivors were taken as prisoners of war.
James Hagan . USAAF
I am 63yrs old and just found out who my father was.He was an american man called James Hagan and was in the USAAF. He was in the Yarnfield area in staffordshire in 1943 where he met my mother who was working in an ordnance factory there. I have only his name to go on. I have found a James Hagan who flew with a crew called Rohans Crew from Sudbury in 1944 hewas in the 833BS. I have come to a standstill if anyone has any information I would be very grateful
R.S.M. Haggart . Army The Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders
Able Seaman John Hague . Royal Navy HMS Hunter from Manchester)
It may be of interest to some people to know that in the last couple of days the Royal Navy has located the fin resting place of HMS Hunter, sunk in the first battle of Narvik. I serve onboard HMS Albion at present, and we are conducting a wreath laying ceremony on saturday 8th March 2008 to honour the men who lost thier lives.
The memorial service,consisted on synchronised ceremonies on deck of each ship present and wreath laying over the site of the wreck. After the ceremony, the ships, HMS Albion, HMS Bulwark, HMS Cornwall, RFA Mounts Bay and NOCGV Andenes, all turned in formation and steamed over the wreck, toasting the crew who perished with a tot of rum poured over the side. As we sailed away, we signalled back by Morse: "Farewell, we'll meet again." I'm sure more details will come to light in the near future. Yours aye LMEM "Ned" Kelly
Click here to see some photos of the ceremony
Able Seaman John Hague was a 19-year-old able seaman serving in the shell room below decks. as tehship went down he had no choice but to leap into the icy seas during a blizzard where he trod water until a German ship arrived and picked up survivors. “I am so pleased and overwhelmed to know that after so many years HMS Hunter has been found and my fellow shipmates have a known resting place. I’m so sorry not to be able to go to the wreath- laying but I will be spending a quiet time at home with my family and thoughts, also my daughter in Cornwall will be laying flowers at sea for me dedicated to my shipmates.”
Sgt. Geoffrey Haigh . RAF(VR) air gunner. 101 Sqd. from Newstead, Halifax, Yorkshire, England)
(d.1st Sep 1943)
My uncle, Geoffrey Haigh (Sergeant Air Gunner) served Ludford Magna to August 1943. Failed to return from Berlin, on the 31st August 1943, Lancaster 'S' Sugar. He is remembered on Plate 151, at Runnymede. He came from Newstead, Halifax, was 19 years old and was the son of my Grandma's sister.
His crew were:
- F/S H.G.Edis RAAF
- Sgt C.Bardill
- Sgt N.Corfield
- Sgt R.D.Holdaway
- Sgt J.Findlay
- Sgt G.Haigh
- Sgt W.Bennett
Sgt Norman Haithwaite . RAF 102 Squadron (d.26th April 1940)
Ordinary Seaman Peter Frederick Haldenby . Royal Navy H.M.S. Forfar from Hull)
(d.2nd December 1940)
Uncle Peter was one of the 'lost at sea' he was 19 years old. He was the son of Walter James Haldenby and Helga Maack from Hull. He had a brother Thomas Herbert Haldenby who served in the RAF as a leading aircraftsman. All who served should be remembered!
Ldg Aircraftsman Thomas Herbert Haldenby . RAF from Hull, Yorkshire)
My Uncle Thomas served in the RAF as a leading aircraftsman. His brother, Peter Frederick Haldenby was an Ordinary Seaman on HMS Forfar and was lost at sea when she was sunk.
L/Cpl Arther David "Fred or Buller" Hall MID. Army 2nd Btn. Kings Royal Rifle Corps from Mill Hill, East London)
My Father was taken prisoner in May 1940 at Calais, he was in 2nd batt KRRC was awarded oak leaves. He spent rest of war as pow, I have got his pow war log diary, with many names and sketches in, plus list of camps he was in. He was also on the death march from Poland to Germany and was finally liberated from Fallingbostel. If any friends or relatives of friends of my father during his pow days read this please get in touch I would love to hear from you.
S.B.A. C. Hall . Royal Navy HMS Forfar
C Hall was one of the crew members who survived the loss of HMD Forfar.
Geoff Hall . Royal Air Force 78 Sqd.
Sqn. Ldr. John Charles Hall DFC MiD. Royal Air Force pilot 15 Sqd from Wymondham, Norfolk. )
(d.18th May 1942)
Sqd Ldr Hall was killed when Stirling W7531 crashed on the 18th of May 1942, he was 24 years old.
The crew were:
- F/O Ryan
- S/L J.C.Hall DFC MiD
- F/L N.G.R.Booth
- Sgt A.Spriggs
- F/O J.P.Ryan RCAF
- Sgt R.Maycock
- Sgt J.B.Butterworth
- Sgt F.L.Sharp
- Sgt R.Nicholson
- Sgt D.J.Jeffs, the only survivor was taken PoW and held in Stalag 8b.
For the full story see Don Jeff's Story
Ron Hall . Royal Navy HMS Manchester
Private William Heman Hall, Jr. . US Army from Rose Hill, North Carolina)
I am doing a story on this man, William Heman Hall, Jr., who was a POW at Stalag 2b. He died after the war, in 1947 My email is lebrownj@intrstar.net
Sgt. Ernest William Hamilton . RAF(VR) w/op 103 Sqd. (d.20th Feb 1944)
Florence Edith "Flossie" Hamilton . A.T.S from Bethnal Green, London)
My mother, Florence Edith Hamilton, known as Flossie, served in the A.T.S. at Paisely in Scotland during the war, my father was a prisoner of war in Stalag 5, my mother became pregnant with me whilst serving in the A.T.S in Scotland, I was born in Johnstone Renfrewshire, as I grew up I never knew my biological father, only that he was a Scot and served in The 5th Royal Highlanders and came from Aberdeen, I have a family maybe in Scotland that I would like to know about, if any of my mothers friends of that time can remember anything at all I would greatly appreciate it, my mother and father who bought me up as his own are now both passed away, I think my biologial fathers surname is Knowles, please can anyone throw some light on it for me
Sgt. R. J. Hamilton . RCAF 419 Sqd. from Canada)
L/Cpl William John "Hammy" Hamilton . Army Kings Royal Rifles Corps from Bethnal Green, London)
I would like to hear from anyone who knew my father Billy Hamilton, who joined up in 1939 was at Aldershot, Sailsbury, and I think Catterick, he was a cook in the Kings Royal Rifles and was captured when first arriving in France and was placed into a stalag camp which I think the no was 5, he escaped from the camp and went into the partisans but was recaptured and spend the rest of the time in the Stalag until he was released in 1945. He did a lot of boxing and was origionally from Bethnal Green. Before war broke out he was stationed in Palestine and also at Aldershot and Catterick. I would like to hear from anyone who knew him
Eleanor Hamlin . Auxiliary Territorial Service
I have an interesting story regarding my Auntie Queenie, Eleanor Hamlin, who was in the A.T.S.(Auxiliary Territorial Service) throughout the war in spite of being deaf. I have inherited her calling up paper at Blyth, Northumberland, her paybook, discharge papers and medals. She volunteered in August 1939, before the war started, and was called up in October, W/17926. According to her paybook, she didn’t have a medical until 1942 and was given A.W.1! In 1944 she was downgraded to B.W.4. She spent the last two years at Catterick. Her commanding officer was Mrs. Edna M. Sheel of Barking, Essex, and for the last seven months of service, she was her batman. She was very adept at lip reading but couldn’t necessarily hear a telephone or fire bell or air-aid siren. On one occasion she was escorted home on leave to make sure she arrived safely because there was a threat of bombing in Leeds. I have just read Roy Terry’s book, "Women at Khaki", which partially explains what could have happened. Until April 1941, the A.T.S. was a voluntary organisation and her medical occurred as conscription was introduced. One complication is that her pay book is only a certified copy up until 1944. In 1942 she was with the 52nd A.A. and finally discharged from G company, Catterick in October 1945. I would love to know more about her service and if anyone remembers her.
Cmdr Hammersley-Johnston . Royal Navy HMS Manchester
Sgt. J. B. Hammond . Royal Air Force 15 Sqd. (d.11th Aug 1942)
Sgt Hammond lost his life when Stirling LS-C crashed into a pond at Potash Farm, Brettenham, near Ipswich, on the 11th of August 1942 at 03:37 while trying to land at RAF Wattisham. The aircraft had been badly damaged by two Ju88s, one of which was claimed damaged by return fire.
Sheila Hamnett . Womens Royal Naval Service
William Hanclosky . US Army Air Force
I am looking for anyone that served with William Hanclosky in the USAAF at Bovingdon in 1944
Asst.Steward W. J. Hand . Naval Auxiliary Personnel HMS Forfar
Hand was one of the crew members of the Montrose who remained with the ship under the T124x agreement when she became HMS Forfar. He was amongst the survivors brought ashore after the shop was lost.
Greaser James Keenan Hannan . Naval Auxiliary Personnel HMS Forfar (d.2nd Dec 1940)
Able Seaman. H. Hanson . Royal Navy HMS Forfar
Able Seaman Hanson survived the sinking of HMS Forfar on the 2nd of December 1940.
Cpl. Harding . Army
Captain Norman Arthur Cyril Hardy . Royal Navy HMS Forfar from Carshalton, Surrey)
(d.2nd Dec 1940)
Norman Hardy was the Captain of HMS Forfar, he went down with his ship on the 2nd of December 1940 in the Atlantic. He was 45 years old.
Lance Sgt. Sidney Hare . Army 2nd Btn. North Staffordshire Rgt.
After leaving the Merchant Navy where my dad was serving on the Blue Star Line to South America, he joined the East Surrey regiment before being transfered to the North Staffs. He saw action in North Africa (First Army) and Italy (Sicily and Anzio). He was captured at Anzio after heavy hand-to-hand fighting. The battalion had over 600 men killed in action. My father was eventually marched and transported to the prisoner-of-war camp Stalag 357. At the end of the war he served in several other almalgamated regiments before coming back home to Custom House, Canning Town, London.
Sgt. Allen Hargill . Royal Air Force rear gunner 106 Sqd. (d.30th Aug 1944)
Jack Harlton .
Sgt. J. H. Harper . RAF 101 Sqd. (d.3rd Nov 1943)
Sgt J.H.Harper was killed on the 3rd of Nov 1943 when Lancaster LM635 SR-H flying from Ludford Magna en-route to Dusseldoft was shot down. He is buried in the Rheinberg War cemetery.
Sergeant Robert Noel Harper . RAF Volunteer Reserve flt eng 50 Squadron (d.8th Jul 1944)
Robert Noel Harper was the Flight Engineer of Lancaster VN-J of 50 Sqd. This young man, aged most likely 19 years old, was killed when their Lancaster crashed on the night of July 7, 1944 with 5 of the crew. The pilot, Alan Laidlaw from Winnipeg, Manitoba was ejected from their Lancaster plane. Robert Harper is burried in France, a small village called Meslin Mauger, near Roen. Their plane was one of 31 planes shot down by the German on that night. 208 Lancasters were sent, 13 mosquitos were sent to bomb at St. Lue d'Esserent the V-1 flying bomb storage depot. This fourth attack was part of the Operation Crossbow. It was a great victory. Does anyone know anything about this young man?
The crew were:
- P/O A.F.Laidlaw RCAF
- Sgt R.N.Harper
- F/S F.R.Hopkins RCAF
- WO2 S.A.Motriuk RCAF
- Sgt D.Austin
- WO2 J.D.Bishop RCAF
- Sgt P.O.K.Noren RCAF
Danielle Lawrence for Alain Laidlaw now 86 years old.
C.P.O. Walter William Harries . Royal Navy HMS Forfar (d.2nd Dec 1940)
Flying Officer Alec Edward "Pops" Harris . RAF Observer 256 Squadron from Hemel Hempstead, Hertfordshire)
(d.19th Jan 1945)
I am Alec Harris' daughter and was ten years old when he and his pilot crashed when taking off from Nice airport in their mosquito in January 1945. My father was the navigator. They were first posted as missing and son after my father's body washed up on a beach just south of Marseilles. He is buried in the British cemetry there. I would be most interested to hear from anyone who may remember my father.He was forty years old when he died and quite the oldest in the squadron where his nickname was "pops". Most members of the squadron would have been much younger so may still be alive. His death affected my mother deeply and she died of cancer in 1960. I think she felt it was a cruel fate in that he died so close to the end of the war and especially after he had been in much more dangerous missions previously. As far as I remember my father was in Malta, North Africa, Sardinia and Fogia, Italy. I have a photo of him also in front of the Sphinx in Egypt but am not sure where this fits in chronologically. If there is any record of his service and a record of where he was and when I would be most grateful to know how to obtain this information. I now live in Oregon in the USA. Sincerely Sally B Smith (nee Harris)
Sgt Frederick Fitzherbert Harris . British Army 53rd Welsh Division Royal Armoured Corps 53 Reconnaissance
I am looking for information on the 53 Reconnaissance Unit which my father was transferred to in January 1941. I know they were attached to the 53rd Welsh Division Royal Armoured Corps Unit on 1st January 1944 and went to Normandy with them. What I am trying to find out is where they were from January 1941 until they were transferred to the Royal Armoured Corps and sent to Normandy. Did they see any action? (particularly in Africa as my late father said he was there) I think they may have been stationed around Maidstone in Kent during these years. I would be grateful for any information anyone has on 53 Reconnaissance.
Seaman H. Harris . Royal Navy HMS Forfar
Harris was one of the survivors when HMS Forfar was sunk in 1940. He is listed in the cast of the revue "Get Sailing" which was performed onboard the Forfar on the 19th of June 1940.
Patricia Lily Harris . Land Army
My mother served in the Land Army during the war. Sadly she now suffers from Alzheimers Disease and her memories although detailed and colourful are unreliable. Sadly the farm she worked on in Ross-on-Wye in Herefordshire,is now unrecognisable and the people she remembers haved died or moved on. I know she would still recognise and value the recognition that has recently been promised.
Warrant Officer Ronald William George Harris . RAF 419 Squadron
My father, Ronald William George Harris, was stationed at Middleton St George during the second world war. He was a rear gunner in 419 Squadron. His service number was 651746. He was discharged as a Warrant Officer at the end of the war, 16 July 1946. I have a list of some of his crew and some of the missions he flew.
Leslie Frank Harrison . Royal Navy
My Father, Leslie Harrison served on HMS Belfast, HMS Manchester and HMS London. He passed away in 2006.
AC2 Ralph Harrison . RAF
I am wondering if there is anyone who remembers my dad, Ralph Harrison, who was stationed as an AC2 in Egypt. He was seconded to the Army and was at a lighthouse in the Red Sea(?), possibly Libya. He was captured on 30th June 1942 by the Italians and taken to a prison camp somewhere near Milan, then was taken to Stalag 4F and then onto Stalag 4B near Dresden where he stayed until liberated at the end of the war.
Sadly, Dad died some years ago and he never spoke of his time in the war as it affected him very badly, but I would love to hear from anyone who may have known him.
Pte. Richard Harrison . Army 5th Btn. The Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders from Liverpool)
(d.22nd Jun 1944)
Stewardess Alison Harrower . Merchant Navy SS. Athenia (d.3rd Sep 1939)
Able Seaman Leslie David Hartley . Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve HMS Forfar from Edmonton, Middlesex)
(d.2nd Dec 1940)
Ordinary Seaman William Edward Harwood . Royal Navy H.M.S.Louisberg from Norton, Malton, Yorkshire)
(d.27th May 1942)
Able Seaman Richard John Hawkins . Royal Navy HMS Forfar from Croydon, Surrey)
(d.2nd Dec 1940)
Assistant Butcher George Edward Hawkksworth . Naval Auxiliary Personnel HMS Forfar from Kensington, Liverpool)
(d.2nd Dec 1940)
Sgt. F. G. Hawthorne . Royal Air Force 77 Sqd.
Sgt Hawthorne was in the same crew as my father John Gardner. Their Lancaster was shot down over Holland in the early hours of the 22md of June 1943. Sgt Hawthorn initially evaded but was captured in Brussels on the 11th of August 1943.
Arthur Thomas Hayes . Army Royal Welsh Fusiliers from Birmingham)
My grandfather, Arthur Thomas Hayes, served with the Royal Welsh Fusiliers in Burma. My grandad never talked about the war which I can understand. I would like to find out what his time was like during the war. He was born in Birmingham in 1917, he got married in 1940 and is down as a soldier on his marriage certificate.
I am doing my family tree and would be very grateful if anyone has any information.
Sgt John Francis Hayes . RAF 102 Squadron (d.26th April 1940)
My uncle, Sgt John Francis Hayes, flew with the 102 Sqduadron. His crew mates were Sgt V H Barr, Sgt. Norman Haithwaite and F/O Owen Horrigan. They were flying over Denmark and were shot down on 26th April 1940. The aircraft they were flying was listed as: 2248 ( Whitley N1383 102 Sqn) Sgt Barr managed to bail out but all remaining crew were killed and are all buried in Vadum, Denmark. Irene Lloyd
John Haylock . Navy SS Anslem
My father, John Haylock, was on the SS Anslem when it was torpedoed and sunk. He was one of those trying to 'persuade' the Revd Pugh not to go back down into the hold. Dad was overcome with emotion when he saw the pictures and was reading from this site. He always thought this episode had been thoroughly 'swept under the carpet'.
Able Seaman Joseph Haywood . Royal Navy HMS Forfar from Gomersal, Yorkshire)
(d.2nd Dec 1940)
Sgt. R. Hayworth . Army The Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders
Lenny Heal . RCAF 408 (Goose) Sqd. from Bradford, Yorkshire)
Flt Lt Everard Frank Gray Healey DFC DFM. RAF pilot 106 Sqd. from Eastbourne, Sussex)
(d.13th Jan 1943)
Robert Heaney . British Army 5th Battalion Highland Light Infantry
I am trying to find some history about my grandfather, Robert Heaney 22771761, who served in WW2 with the 5th Battalion, Highland Light Infantry.
F/S Douglas Charles Norman Hearn . RAF w/op 15 Sqd (d.16th Nov 1944)
I am looking for any information or anyone who may remember my Wife’s Uncle, Flight Sergeant (W.op/Air.Gnr) Douglas C N Hearn (Dougie) who was reported killed in action on 16/11/1944 in Lancaster III serial PB137 code LS-U from 15 Squadron.
The other members of the crew who were also reported killed in action were Flt Lt (Nav) F G Sanders RNZAF, F/O (Nav) C Stevenson RNZAF, Sgnt (Bmb. Aim) A S Booth, Sgnt (Flt.Eng) H J Bate, Sgnt (Air.Gnr) J J Franklin, Sgnt H Clayton
One member of the crew did manage to survive Wing Commander (Pilot) W D G Watkins DSO DFC DFM
Lt Cmdr H N C Hearn . RAF 825 Squadron
My father was captured after running out of fuel over Norway, and interned at Stalag Luft 3. His name is Lt Cmdr. H.N.C Hearn, 825 Squadron; he sadly passed away just before his 89th birthday December 2004.
I remember as a child Pete Butterworth coming round to see Dad with his new Austin Healey Sprite and occasionally we would also meet Rupert Davies (of Maigret fame).
Pte. Cecil "'Pop'" Hearnden . Army Royal Army Service Corps from Sulina Rd, Brixton Hill, Sth London)
My father served in WW1 having falsified his age to join up. He was in the reserve at start of WW2. and went with the BEF to France. During retreat to Dunkirk, he was in ambulance with other wounded and didn't make it to the beaches. They holed up in a barn for a few days but was captured by the Germans and ended up in Stalag XXB. From what I can find out this was the only camp in that area,but I distinctly remember my Mother addressing letters' Nr Konigsburg'. He said very little about his experiences, but he told us he was on the' Long March' he owed his life to a german soldier who dug up vegetables from the fields. I'm just getting around to doing my family history! If anybody can help I'll be very grateful.
Irene "Bobbie" Heath . Land Army from London)
I joined the land army in April 1942 and went to Loxton in Somerset with 16 other girls we stayed in a purpose built hostel. I was placed on a farm Chiston Court where I did General farming until 1945.I never went back to London.I trained as a milk analyst and worked for a local dairy until I married I must admit my time in the land army was the best ever although the hours were long and the work hard I was 17yrs old when I joined I can't see the young girls of today coping with the work unless of course they are farmers daughters.
Flt Lt Merrik Heath . RAF pilot 44 Sqd.
Flt Lt Merrik Heath was the pilot of R for Robert PB417 flying with 44 Rhodesia Squadron based at RAF Splisby. He was tragically killed in a civilian Lancastrian during the Berlin Airlift (22/11/1948) at Chute, near Andover.
Able Seaman Leslie John Heaver . Royal Navy HMS Cape Howe (d.21nd June 1940)
My uncle was Able Seaman Leslie John Heaver (d. 21 June 1940) whilst serving on H.M.S. Cape Howe. I was told he was on a lifeboat but was shot or torpedoed. I would really appreciate any more information about my uncle to give to my Mom.
Lieutenant Gerald D. Hebb . British Army 2nd Battalion East Yorkshire Regiment
I am trying to gather any information on my great uncle, Lieutenant Gerald D. Hebb, M.C., who was a CanLoan Officer stationed with the East Yorkshire Regiment, 2nd Battalion, 3rd Division. I believe that he served in Italy in 1939.
Robert Hedges . Army Cameronians (Scottish Rifles)
My father Robert 'Bob' Hedges was interned in Stalag XXB for the duration of the war. He served with the Cameronians and was captured during the retreat to Dunkirk. He told me that he and two others were hiding in a pig sty when they were discovered. The three of them were made to dig three graves and were then told to stand by the edge - only then did the Germans drag out three of their own dead and proceeded to bury them. Thinking the graves were going to be theirs he said - 'It took us a bloody long time to dig 'em'
Toni Heggie . Timber Corps
Assistant Engineer Archibald Hunter Henderson . Naval Auxiliary Personnel HMS Forfar from Broad Green, Liverpool)
(d.2nd Dec 1940)
Able Seaman. R. W. Henderson . Royal Navy HMS Forfar
Able Seaman Henderson was one of the survivors from HMS Forfar which sank on the 2nd of December 1940.
Greaser Thomas Hendry . Naval Auxiliary Personnel HMS Forfar from Glasgow, Scotland)
(d.2nd Dec 1940)
Able Seaman. F. E. Henrdrickson . Royal Navy HMS Forfar
F Hendrickson was one of the survivors brought ashore from HMS Forfar.
Sandy Hensher . Land Army
Ord. Seaman J. Herbert . Royal Navy HMS Forfar
J Herbert was a survivor of the sinking of HMS Forfar
Jack Herman . US Navy Fleet Air Wing 7 from New York, USA)
Jack Herman served at Dunkeswell with the 7th Fleet Air Wing
Flying Officer Haronl Hesketh . RAF 619 Squadron (d.8th February 1945)
I am the widow of F/O/Harold Hesketh, he did not come back from his sortie 8.2.1945 flying with 619 squadron. I came to Australia with his son and I stayed here. It is so sad, so many brave boys. I have been in touch with a relative of 2 of his crew. If anyone knew him I would love to hear from you. Wishing who ever reads this all the best. His crew was: * F/O H.T.Hesketh RAAF * Sgt T.H.Fullwood * F/O R.A.Hudson * F/S J.F.E.Moyle RCAF * Sgt A.C.St.Leger * F/S J.L.MacDonald RCAF * F/S M.M.Marsh
June Hetherington . Land Army
Sgt. C. Hewitson . RAF 77 Sqd.
C.P.O. Albert Hewitt . Royal Navy HMS Forfar (d.2nd Dec 1940)
Gordon Hedley Hewitt DFC. RNZAF 626 Squadron
My father was a pilot of a Lancaster bomber during WW2. He served with 626 Squadron out of Lincolnshire. His name was Gordon Hedley Hewitt, DFC. It is sad for me to say, but he passed away in 2006. The plane he flew was nicknamed the Pony Express. He was a born in New Zealand and trained here and in Canada before joining the RNZAF in 1939. His number was NZ415225.
Vivian Joseph "Smoky" Hibbens . RAAF 234 Sqd. from Corowa, NSW, Australia)
My father, Vivian Joseph Hibbens - became known as 'Smoky' during his time in Stalag VIIIB, Stalag Luft III and Stalag 344. He was an RAAF Spitfire Pilot RAAF No: 400712.
I am writing his story in the hope that someone out there may have some more information on him.
He was born on 16th January 1922 in Bemboka NSW Australia - and his love affair with flying began when he went on a joy flight with Sir Charles Kingsford Smith during his barn storming days around country Australia in the 1930's.
He enlisted in the RAAF in Melbourne on 13th October 1940, and was trained under the Empire Air Training Scheme, doing his Elementary Flying Training at Narromine NSW. He was then shipped to Canada along with other successful trainees and gained his Wings at Camp Borden Ontario in September 1941. This was not without incident - along with a close friend and fellow trainee, Andy Fotheringham (an American from New Jersey who had enlisted in the RAAF in Australia around the same time. Andy was killed in action 4th January 1944), they took a plane each and 'beat up' a little town called Barrie, just north of Niagara Falls. Seeing as though they flew between the Post Office and a Hotel just above car height at 160 mph - they received quite lenient sentences. Andy was found guilty of one charge and received 21 days detention and my father was found guilty of four charges and received 62 days detention - reduced to 31. Apparently their Commanding Officer went into bat for them - being an old Airman himself from WWI, he 'understood' their folly. My father was housed very well during this time, being given every convenience - even a type writer and open leave to go wherever he liked - as long as he discreetly returned within a reasonable hour. He even went with the Service Police at night into the town to break up brawls and bring the drunken airman and 'prisoners' back to camp.
After he gained his Wings in September 1941 he was shipped to England and was based initially in the South and then at Hawarden in Wales near Chester from where he flew Spitfires with the 234 Squadron. He then applied to go to the Middle East and in April 1942 he was shipped to the Egypt where he flew various missions until one fateful day in July 1942.
He was ferrying a Hurricane back to his base when he ran into a sand storm. When he emerged he was . . . "attacked by 11 Messerschmidt 100F's and I played with them for about 10 minutes until I finally ran out of ammo. I tried too make a run for it but had to put down out of juice and landed smack in the centre of a German Panzer Unit". He was taken captive on the 18th July 1942.
He was taken to Stalag VIIIB where he remained until sometime in late 1943 when he was moved to Stalag Luft III. During his early days in Stalag VIIIB he and the other prisoners' hands were tied up each day, all day. He talks of the boredom, but eventually he was made camp Librarian and he was overjoyed that he then had something to fill the hours. He made 10 unsuccessful attempts to escape by exchanging ID's and going out on working parties, hiding in garbage and linen trucks and digging tunnels. Shortly after the 'Great Escape' from Stalag Luft III he was sent back to Stalag VIIIB - by this time known as Stalag 344. I am not sure what his involvement was with this escape attempt - if any - although he wrote a couple of letters home to his mother dated the 25th and 26th March 1944 stating that he 'would be home soon'! I do wonder if he had written them earlier but post dated them in order to throw the Germans off the track.
During his time in the prison camps he became known as 'Smoky' - due largely to his bartering for food using cigarettes. >From letters received by others - it appears that he was very popular with all and well known for his positive outlook. At one time he was almost mistakenly 'repatriated' to England as he was carrying another man's ID - something he did quite often. At one time he was Pte. S. F Weir, Prisoner No: 5239 (Working Camp E701) and at another he was Pte. D. Simpson, Prisoner No: 8033 (Working Camp E600) so he could get out on working parties and attempt to escape.
Like most POW's his letters were full of hope of making it home 'next Christmas' or for your 'next birthday'. Sometimes he got a special message through - one such was "Oh for an hour in the Garden of Roses"! My grandmother said that she then knew he was starving - as the Garden of Roses was the local Cafe in Corowa NSW where they lived.
I am attaching the only photo I have found of his group of POW's - but I am unsure in which Stalag it was taken. My father is the fifth from the top left back row.
In the winter of 1945, as the Russians were advancing - he and his fellow POW's were turned out of their Prison Camp (Stalag 344) and were forced to march on what was to become known as the Lamsdorf Death March. They marched 200 miles in 15 days in the bitter wind and biting snow. There were only 72 Australians among the 50,000 who were forced to march to get beyond the reach of the advancing Russians. There were few German guards, so they patrolled the perimeter with bayoneted guns and dogs. The POW Officers were placed 'in charge' of their own group of men, who were marching in lines of three, tied together. My father was allowing one line at a time to 'disappear' in the hope that no-one would notice. However, eventually a German Guard came to my father and said . . . "more of your men have escaped than any others. I have orders to shoot you if any more disappear . . . I think you know what you have to do"! So he went at the next opportunity. Some of my father's men were found by the Czech Underground and they asked them to go and search for my father. I remember my father telling me (which was a very rare occurrence - as like most he never spoke about his war time experiences) "I was huddled under a bush half asleep and I felt a hand on my shoulder . . . and I thought 'this is it, I'm dead' . . . but it was the Czech Underground". They took him to safety in Kydne where they cared for him and nursed him back to health. He lived with them until the Americans arrived and he went with them into Berlin.
There are several letters from the Czech people that he lived with written after the war. My grandparents 'sponsored' one of the Czech men and his wife to Australia - Joe and Anna. There is also a letter from a German Lance Corporal Ernst Rudek written on 10th July 1947 who was a guard at Stalag VIIIB who got to know my father on the Death March. He speaks of the time they fossicked for food together in the Croatian and American Prisoner of War Camps and bought vegetables for my father's mates, and of a 'Certificate' my father wrote for him at the brickworks at Falkenau when the prisoners were handed over to new guards. He wrote . . . "There were good and bad on both sides - and from my actions at that time, you knew where my sympathies lay". I believe this is the same man that later contacted my father through the war office and whom he flew to Melbourne to meet 25 years later in the late 1960's.
After the war, my grandmother used to hold Ex POW parties. She would shut all the boys in the kitchen with the food and then sit and listen at the keyhole - it was the only way she could learn what really happened during those days as a prisoner of war.
My father was throughout his life a great RSL man, being President of the Richmond RSL for a number of years and then the Secretary-Manager of the Windsor RSL Club. He never failed to march on Anzac Day in Sydney, after marching with his local RSL and in 1970 attended an ex POW Reunion.
Sadly, my beloved father died aged 50 in 1972 from a heart attack. He had his first heart attack when he was only 36 - as a result of his service during the war years.
"Some die during battle for their country - others, at another time and another place - as a result of fighting for our freedom. Their sacrifice is no less great or less honourable".
Scullion John Hickey . Naval Auxiliary Personnel HMS Forfar (d.2nd Dec 1940)
Lt Hicking . Royal Naval Reserve HMS Forfar
Lt Hicking was one of the survivors when the ship went down on the 2nd of December 1940
Ellen Hicks . Land Army
I was in the Land Army from 1946 until 1948 in Dorset, in a hostel called Woodyates. During the terrible winter of 1946/47, we didn't work for 3 months, but just sat around in the hostel or played ping pong or darts! We had a small coal fire in the bedroom, and were allowed one bucket of coal per day! We used to take it in turns to creep down the cellar and steal some more. One night somebody got caught by the warden and she made us take all the hot coals off the fire as a punishment! There were no carpets on the floor so we filled all the gaps with newspaper. What a winter that was, but it was followed by the longest, hottest summer on record. I wonder if anybody remembers Woodyates?.
Fireman H. Higgins . Naval Auxiliary Personnel HMS Forfar
Fireman Higgins survived the sinking of HMS Forfar.
Steven Hildrew . Royal Navy HMS Penelope from Pallion, Sunderland, Co Durham)
My Uncle Steven Hildrew was on the Penelope when it sunk. He was in the water for 3 days and was picked up by the Americans and taken to America. Can anyone provide any information to help with my family tree?
P/O Henry Bolton Hill . RAF(VR) 434 Sqd. from Ballycanew, Co. Wexford, Irish Republic.)
(d.20th Jan 1944)
Johan Hillis . Land Army
Ord. Seaman Roland Hindmarsh . Royal Navy HMS Manchester from Chiswick, London)
I served as an Ordinary Seaman on HMS Manchester, a medium cruiser, from April to August 1942. My action station was on the centre gun of A turret, and my cruising station on one of the port side 4-inch guns.
SOUTHWARD BOUND
Not many days after our return from the Arctic we read the tell-tale signs again: no more shore leave. Provisioning ship and taking on water soon followed; ammunitioning wasn't needed, for we hadn't fired a shot while up north. So one summer evening we found ourselves steaming once more past the boom defence vessel in the southern entrance to the Flow. On the messdeck the rumours had already started. It was Iceland again, to stop the German raider from breaking through. But we noticed that the ship's head was pointing resolutely west; the green headlands of the north of Scotland moved serenely by. So we were going to meet an important convoy from half way across the Atlantic (where the Canadians and now the Americans too handed over to the British) and escort it up through the Denmark straits and on to Murmansk; it was carrying aid to the Russians direct from America. But this theory weakened as the bows turned to the southward, and somewhere off Ireland we rendezvoused with an aircraft carrier, escorted by two destroyers — also headed south. Old hands identified her as HMS Furious: what could this signify?
The four ships ploughed the long blue Atlantic swell in a southerly direction so steadily that new rumours were bound to spring up. We were going to accompany this carrier round the Cape, to join up with Navy units operating out of Bombay, so as to harass Japanese shipping in the Indian Ocean. That meant we would be putting in at Simonstown to refuel, the old lags winked, and so we would enjoy South African hospitality and the bright lights and the girls of Cape Town. Or the carrier might carry on, and leave us there to carry out anti-raider patrolling in the South Atlantic, just as cruisers had done earlier in the war, and seen the Graf Spee to the bottom.
The proliferation of rumours, with scarcely a shred of evidence in their support, at length irritated me so much that I decided to launch one of my own. A lone Free French sailor had joined us shortly before leaving Scapa; I had talked with him from time to time - a tiny man, with a powerful Bordeaux accent. His nationality gave me the idea of our having a French-speaking destination - so I determined it should be Madagascar. One afternoon I was standing at the guardrail beside another sailor from another messdeck, a member of another four-inch gun crew. Looking out to sea, I quietly told him that a steward in the Navigating Officer's cabin had seen a chart of the island of Madagascar open. I gave it as my view that the pilot wouldn't be studying the seas around Madagascar without some good reason, so presumably that was where we were bound. He listened intently without comment; I shifted away to rejoin my gun.
Ten minutes later I was sitting at my post at P2 when I noticed groups of sailors forming and splitting up and reforming, evidently passing information and discussing it. One of my gun crew came up to me and stood close. 'Heard the latest buzz then?' he said quietly, leaning over. 'The Indian Ocean, you mean?' 'No - well, I don't know. But it's Madagascar.' 'How d'you know?' 'It's from the pilot, they say.' 'Well, he should know ...' 'Where's Madagascar, then, Lofty?' 'It's the other side of the Cape ... in the Indian Ocean.' 'Why would we want to go there?’ 'Stop the Japs, perhaps ...' 'Yeah ... maybe. If they took it, they could cut off our route to India - ' ‘And to the Eighth Army too.' 'Right, so they could ... Suppose it makes sense then ...'
At that moment the TS claimed my attention on the headphones, for a routine report that we were all present and correct. This enabled me to hide my jubilation at the success of my little scheme. By the end of the watch the word Madagascar was on everyone's lips. I felt that my contempt of messdeck rumours was completely justified. But there were doubters, and attempts were being made to trace the information back to source. And when no officer's steward could be found to substantiate the story of the Madagascar chart, suspicion focussed heavily on me. Accosted by my messmates I had to admit the fraud. Reactions were mixed, from resentment and shoulder-punching to amusement and even admiration at my having taken in a considerable part of the ship’s company.
Any lingering beliefs that we were bound for southerly latitudes were dispelled when, quite suddenly, we turned east and increased speed. Most of the older hands now declared that we were headed for Gib - no sailor would risk losing respect by saying the name of Gibraltar in its full form. And Gib might just mean that we were going to enter the Mediterranean. The earlier light-hearted mood, envisaging entertainment in southern cities unaffected by the black-out or wartime shortages - such as Cape Town or Buenos Aires or Rio de Janeiro - was swiftly replaced by one of earnestness, streaked with anxiety. For the Axis powers had established naval ascendancy throughout much of the Mediterranean, and controlled the sealanes from Italy to Libya so strongly that the island of Malta was severely threatened, suffering daily attacks from the air and running dangerously short of supplies and ammunition.
One evening as dusk fell we caught sight of some yellowish hills to the south-east: my first sight of Africa. It was past midnight when we nosed into Gib harbour, which was seething with activity, though under diminished blue lighting. In the humid warmth of an August night, cruisers and destroyers were taking on fuel and water, as were a number of merchant ships. From the dockside, blue faces were turned up to study us, with the detached fascination accorded to those going out to face death. Those looks told us for sure that we were bound for the Med, in spite of much of it having been virtually closed to British surface vessels over the past year, though our submarines, based on Malta, had sent a significant tonnage of Axis shipping to the bottom.
Taking on fresh water and fuel took much longer than normal; the confusion inside Gib harbour was heightened by the shortage of space and the number of fleet units to be serviced. Dawn had already broken when we assembled, again very slowly, a few miles from the harbour entrance, to the east of the Rock. It stood out greyish-white in the bright morning light; its crest cut the blue sky with an aggressive clarity quite new to me. I felt the open exposure of all the ships, manoeuvering to get into position, as ominous. Everything could be seen from the Spanish shore, and reported to the enemy. No-one was in any doubt as to which side the Spanish fascists favoured.
Mediterranean convoy: Days One and Two
Eventually, after much raising and lowering of flags, and vigorous semaphore signalling, the convoy of 14 merchant ships, with an escort of five cruisers and a large number of destroyers, got under way. If there remained any lingering uncertainty about whither we were bound, that was dispelled soon after by an announcement from the Captain on the ship's tannoy: we were going to relieve Malta, the proud little island that had stood athwart the German route to North Africa and refused to yield to enemy assaults. Earlier efforts, in February and June, had been slighter in scale, and made the mistake of using a slow convoy speed; little had got through. The merchant ships with us now were larger and faster, each capable of as much as 14 knots. That brought Malta within five days' sailing time. Moreover, for part of the trip we would be accompanied by heavier units of the fleet, including aircraft carriers to give us air cover. The convoy itself would steam in four lines, each line headed by a cruiser leading three or four merchantmen. There would be two rings of destroyers, an inner and an outer. Given vigilance, there was every chance of our getting through with little loss. We could expect to have to fight off attack from the air, the surface and from submarines; but the combined firepower we could muster was fearsome. There was no doubt but that we would give a good account of ourselves. The success of the enterprise, and Malta's survival, depended on the watchfulness and fighting spirit of every man on board each of the many ships in the convoy. This time we were out to teach the Axis a lesson they wouldn't forget.
Morale rose at once — and spirits even more when the massive grey bulk of battleships and aircraft carriers grew on the horizon and took up position a few miles astern. Fledgeling sailors listened attentively as old hands agreed among themselves that this was the strongest convoy escort they had ever seen gathered in the Med, and that these merchantmen could outsail by four or five knots the few ships that had made up the February or June convoys, neither of which had managed to bring significant aid to the island. Such was the confidence engendered that we actually wished for a squadron of enemy planes to appear in the sky so as to let us give them a pasting, or for an Italian fleet to blur the horizon with trails of smoke so that we could give chase, engage them in battle and send them to the bottom, letting the convoy steam on unscathed for Malta.
Our belligerence was however soon to turn into impotent fury. Alerted no doubt by an agent of the Germans in Algeciras, a Spanish drifter had set sail from Malaga or thereabouts, and shaped her course to intersect with the convoy. She was first noticed as a smudge of smoke on the port bow. Our initial hope was that this was an Italian cruiser about to fall into our trap. But as the stubby superstructure and short hull rose above the horizon, we knew she could be no warship.
Excitement dropped, but we kept her in view. We watched with disbelief as she sailed inside the outer destroyer screen and then with dismay when, penetrating the inner screen too, she impudently hove to just ahead of the two cruisers leading the middle lanes of the convoy. A large Spanish flag fluttered prudently at her stern. As we swept past her, we could see that crew-members were stationed on either side of her wheelhouse, openly taking note of all that the convoy and its escort consisted of. At this effrontery we exploded in anger, asking each other indignantly why we didn't blow her out of the water at once: she was clearly a spy ship in the service of the enemy. For all we knew, the crew might be German, masquerading as Spanish seamen. But the bridge made no move. The little vessel rode the successive wakes of the cruisers and the merchantmen, lingered to record also the heavy units astern, and then made all haste for the North African shore, presumably to land in one of the Spanish enclaves on the coast, and from there transmit the vital information about our convoy's composition and escort strength to the Axis powers.
The night passed quietly. The summer temperatures of air and water in the Med gradually heated the cold metal of the ship, and we dispensed with all clothing other than a singlet and underpants, plus our working overalls, normally turned down to the waist and tied there by knotting the sleeves. We wore plimsolls without socks, and of course had our anti-flash gear handy for gun drills or action when it came; most of us left our caps in our messdeck lockers. The warm sun, its heat mitigated by the breeze out at sea, kept us out on deck a lot of the time, even when we were not on watch at the four-inch guns.
It was on the second day, I believe, that action began. The first enemy presence appeared very high in the sky: an Italian reconnaissance plane, checking up on the convoy's position and current composition. The aircraft was above us before we noticed it - to the chagrin of look-outs on watch - and was greeted with a vituperative barrage of anti-aircraft fire from the cruisers, that must have been almost useless given the plane’s altitude. So we had failed in our first engagement.
The second was much more unexpected. Some sailors were standing at the port side of the Manchester, by the guardrail, looking out across the intervening half-mile of water between us and the cruiser HMS Nigeria, when one of them saw a shape appear in the water not two hundred yards away. It became a periscope standard, then a whole submarine. At once the sailors raised their voices, yelling up at the bridge. Suddenly the submarine realised its error and began submerging, blowing all its tanks. The command 'Independent fire' was given, but the submarine was so close that few guns could depress far enough to get the sub in their sights. Only the Oerlikons, meant for anti-aircraft combat and firing light shells shaped like big bullets, succeeded in peppering the water round the sub's conning tower with a few rounds before she sank out of sight. By now two destroyers from the inner screen were racing up, but in the confused underwater noise created by so many propellers on all sides, they must have found it hard to locate the sub. I doubt whether any claim of a sinking was made, even though we heard the dull boom of depth charges exploding astern for some time.
We relieved our embarrassment at having failed to react quickly enough to the submarine by laughing about the enemy skipper's shock on realising he had surfaced right in the middle of an enemy convoy. But later that afternoon there was no laughter on our faces when, after another submarine alert, we looked astern to see one of the aircraft carriers, HMS Eagle, listing heavily to one side. Planes were sliding off her flight deck into the water. As she disappeared into the haze with increasing distance, she was evidently sinking. Destroyers had rushed to her aid and were depth charging at a distance. They dared not do so too close to the stricken carrier, for men were already swimming in the water nearby, and the explosion of a depth charge even several hundred yards away is felt in a swimmer's stomach like a kick from a horse, and can stun you with pain - or at lesser distances kill.
The holiday cruise atmosphere, always tenuous, vanished totally. We were witnessing an act of war; undoubtedly some men had died, and many were swimming for their lives. 'Poor bastards!' Coates said quietly at my side, over and over again. I thought of the sailors still clinging to the carrier. Now she might be heeling over so far that they could only drop off the flight deck many feet into the water below. At any moment she might turn turtle, her massive weight smashing into the swimmers, and burying the carley floats that had not been able to paddle clear. It was the turmoil and confusion that assailed me: the sudden transformation of an intricately organised fighting machine into a chaotic liability, death and dying within her and all around - a disaster area.
The loss of the carrier sharpened our vigilance remarkably. We were glad when night fell and enveloped us; there was no moon. The following morning when we looked astern, the sea was empty: the battleships and the remaining carrier had left us. We felt betrayed. Now we had to carry the whole load: the four cruisers leading the merchantmen; the anti-aircraft cruiser bringing up astern, weaving across the tail of the convoy; and the escorting destroyers, still prowling, lean and hungry and ominous. It must have been that day that we suffered our first air attack. It took us to action stations, even though it was a high-level affair. The bridge wanted the action crews of all anti-aircraft armament closed up, even the six-inch guns, available only for low-level attack. I recall we were stood down from time to time, but ordered to remain close by for rapid response. There were several alerts, and from inside the turret we could hear the sharp explosions of the four inch guns amidships, as well as the coughing recoil of the Bofors on B turret.
When each action was over, we would spill out to see what the results had been. If any enemy aircraft had been shot down, we were too late to see the evidence. But we looked long at the two or three merchantmen that dropped astern that afternoon; at least one of them had thick black smoke rising from amidships. Eleven left; eleven ships to relieve Malta with!
Days Three and Four
Taking a break after an air attack on the third day, we were out on the fo'c'sle when a sailor right up in the bows on the starboard side let out a yell: 'TORPEDO! TORPEDO!' Stupidly, we rushed over to the side to see. Being nearest to the guardrail on the port side, I peered into the blue water of the Med. Suddenly I saw a thick stream of bubbles appear near our port bow, and trace a rapid path away from us, almost at right angles. 'Gawd! That was close!' a sailor near me muttered. It was the bubbles rising from the compressed air driving the torpedo that I had seen. But as we looked we saw that the torpedo was making into the centre of the convoy; our station was on the right flank of the lines of merchantmen. We turned to the bridge. 'TORPEDO!' we yelled in unison. A hand waved from up aloft, and a voice came down through a megaphone: 'Keep a look out for others!' We rushed over to the starboard side: somewhere out there a submarine was lurking. But the surface was broken into small waves, and the sunlight glinted fiercely on them. It was impossible to make out a torpedo track until it was too late.
We ran back to the port side, to see what was happening. That torpedo was running free among the ships. No doubt a signal had been hoisted, to warn the other ships of the danger, but they in their turn could not espy the track of bubbles. We however could. Lining our eyes along the track left on the surface, we estimated that it was making directly for the cruiser Nigeria, that it was on an intercepting course. We began shouting and waving our arms, wildly. Some sailors on the foredeck of that cruiser saw our gesticulations, but at that distance could make nothing out of what we meant. Fascinated and horrified we watched as the track made for the next cruiser in line.
All at once a plume of water shot up two hundred feet into the air, from just aft of the bridge of the Nigeria, obscuring the superstructure. Sailors on her fo'c'sle seemed to tumble about, several falling on their hands and knees. As the spray began to subside, the noise of the explosion struck the Manchester's side, having travelled underwater to reach us. Already the Nigeria was slipping back, losing way, and within a minute she had dropped well astern. Two destroyers were circling her and laying a smoke screen to prevent the submarine skipper from putting another torpedo into her.
We felt the Manchester alter course sharply to starboard. 'TORPEDO ON THE STARBOARD BOW!' was being shouted over and over again. The ship righted herself almost as suddenly. We must be making a reciprocal course, parallel to that of the torpedo, but in the opposite direction. That way we would present the smallest breadth of target area. 'STAND BY!' 'BEND YOUR KNEES!' Action stations sounded at that moment, and we rushed for the turret door, unsure whether in the next moment the torpedo might not strike us too, and send us sprawling like ninepins. Inside the turret the starboard gun crew were talking excitedly. 'Just twenty feet there was between!' 'Straight down the starboard side, she went!' 'A second later for the turn, and we'd have bought it!' 'Yeah, aft somewhere...' In the enclosed space of the turret, we sweated. Was another torpedo on its way? How many subs were out there, loosing off tinfish at us? Why hadn't the destroyers picked them up? 'There's a merchantman gone,' announced the midshipman, his eyes glued to the binocular pieces. 'And another enveloped in smoke.' We listened in silence, still much more concerned about the torpedo that might be making for us, rather than about the merchant seamen in the water.
For now we were a prime target, the largest warship left in the convoy. I felt the selfishness of personal fear had permeated the turret, and sensed it in myself as well. I didn't want to find myself in the midst of an explosion that would lift A turret, still sealed and intact, sheer from its shaft, and heave it over the ship's side. An image of the turret, plunging into the water and plummeting down into the depths, taking us all to the grave, had taken hold of my mind, and would not be exorcised.
'The convoy is re-assembling,' the middie told us, swinging his periscope around in a steady sweep. 'Dido' - that was the anti-aircraft cruiser - ' is coming up to take the place of the Nigeria. Can't see the Nigeria at all now, much too far astern.' When finally we were allowed out on deck again, we could count only nine merchant ships. We noticed too that the convoy had for the first time taken to zigzagging to defeat submarines trying to manoeuvre into attacking positions; they were slower than the convoy and so had to lie in wait on what they hoped would be our course. But as the zigzags were highly irregular, and the pattern could itself be changed by flag hoist at any time by the Admiral of the convoy - now aboard the Cairo - we felt that the subs had less chance of securing hits. There was one major disadvantage, however: zigzagging took time, and so it would take us longer to get to Malta.
Moreover, with each air attack the convoy now scattered; ships in line present a much easier target for bombers, and had less freedom to fire than when sailing independently. The merchantmen, too, found that their main defence lay not in the two oerlikons mounted on either side of the bridge, but in swift and sudden changes of course, and for this they needed plenty of searoom to move about in without risking collision. Thus, following each air attack — and there could be four or five in a day - the convoy lost more time in reassembling from all the various directions into which the individual merchantmen had dispersed. None of this operation could be done at more than 14 knots, so skippers who had chosen to escape from the attacking squadrons by turning and shaping a course to the north or south kept the others waiting while they made up the distance again.
One vessel, a tanker called the Ohio, had been so badly damaged in her engineroom that she had dropped right behind. She was still making her way independently, headed east with a destroyer escort, but at only 5 knots! She was carrying fuel for ships and planes on Malta; any torpedo or well-placed bomb would turn her into a huge sheet of flame. (In the event she plodded on, suffering many air attacks, but finally limped under tow into Valetta harbour, pitted and buckled, yet just afloat and with her cargo intact, to the delight of the Maltese.)
At the time of the torpedoing of the Nigeria, we on the Manchester had been at action stations for a total of about twenty-four hours. In A turret we slept when we could on the warm steel plates, or dozed out on deck between air attacks. Food came to us on trays: cold sandwiches and purser's kye - the thick cocoa always available in the galley. On that we were expected to keep our bodies fit and our morale up. But the strain was beginning to tell. We were now well into our third day in the Med. The fleet strength we had set out with had now shrunk to three cruisers (one medium and two light) and a number of destroyers. Over a third of the merchantmen had gone. There were few jokes being passed round, and those were weak and half-hearted. Most of us were wrapped in a cocoon of weariness and anxiety, hoping we would be spared, but well aware that the most dangerous stretch lay ahead - the passage between Sicily and North Africa.
During the next night we had to stand to more than once, I seem to remember. We were able to snatch rest in fits and starts only. Sleeping twenty-one men in the narrow confines of a turret meant that you lay down where you could, and on your side. There wasn’t room to lie on your back. You even had to use the protruding horizontal flange of each of the two girders ran fore and on either side of the centre gun. On this smooth six-inch wide surface of steel I lay on my side, hooking my fingers round its edge to prevent myself from slipping off on to the men pressed together on either side of me. When we had to stand to for an alert during the night, and struggled to our feet, uncertain as to what kind of threat faced us this time, we would look into each other's faces and read anxiousness holding down fear, a preoccupation with one's own safety above all, and a readiness for the panic dash to the turret door if the ship was badly hit. Amongst the crew of the turret were a couple of Canadians from Cape Breton island; they would try to keep each other's spirits up with a remark now and then in a weird form of French. But for the most part we just stood at action stations, bodies acheing with fatigue, in a dejected silence.
The fourth morning found the convoy still unchanged from the evening before; no ship had succumbed during the night. As the hours went by without air attack, a little of our former courage returned. The spell free from standing-to had enabled the bridge to release the cooks, who had prepared a strong broth to go with the sandwiches; with warm food inside our bellies, conversation began once again to pick up. If we could make it through the gap, we told each other, we would soon be within radius of air cover from Malta. There were still the enemy subs, of course ...
It was as if the Italians, and the Germans too, had overheard us. Within an hour the alarm for air-attack sounded, and we closed up to our guns. The midshipman, always prepared to tell us the best and the worst, announced that squadrons of bombers were coming in, in large numbers, from two directions, low level as well as higher. As we started swinging to fire six-inch shrapnel shells in amongst the former, he announced dive-bombers too, Stukas. Within seconds the Manchester was shaking violently as the whole of her armament was engaged: the heavy guns and the four-inch firing at the waves of bombers, and the multiple pom-pom and Bofors and Oerlikons raking the sky around the Stukas.
'Train right!' came a sudden command. This meant we were on independent fire, each turret firing separately: the co-ordination had become impossible, for there were too many attackers. 'Low elevation, short fuse!' called the midshipman. 'Target nine torpedo bombers, sea level. Fire at my command!' The gun captains signalled ready to fire to Toop. 'All guns ready to fire, Sir!' 'They're still coming on, straight for us ... nine hundred yards … eight hundred ... they're rocking, someone else's shells ... seven hundred ... stand by ... FIRE!’ The guns blasted off their shells. Had the torpedoes been dropped? The cruiser slewed violently to starboard, but the midshipman kept his periscope on bearing. 'A huge explosion ... bits of aircraft hurled out from it ... the smoke is clearing ..there's nothing there ...they've just d-d-disappeared!' The seconds ticked by ... Still no explosion in our own hull. We must have escaped. There was a faint cheer, and then we were punching each other with relief. The attack continued, but less intensely, as we could tell from the sound of our armament, and then broke off.
The bridge spoke up, addressing us over the tannoy, and congratulating us all on the way we had fought off the heavy attack. In spite of its strength, and the attempt to disrupt our defences, only one merchantman had been hit, and not at all badly. Otherwise we were intact. It was thought we had brought down a large number of aircraft, but reports were still coming in. Enemy aircraft losses since the beginning of the convoy were now estimated at 60 plus. And we had sunk two submarines for sure, perhaps more.
Our spirits rose again … and stayed up. There may have been further attacks that day but I don't remember them. By the evening we were much nearer the gap, and due to pass through under cover of night - the fourth of our passage through the Med. By daybreak the next morning we should be well on our way across to Malta. As night fell, we were talking with each other much more freely, and even beginning to think of steaming into Valetta harbour, and of sleeping and eating our fill, catching up on all that we had missed. Once more, after hot soup and sandwiches, we manoeuvered ourselves into our cramped dozing positions on the turret floor, and slept in short snatches, or lay awake, counting the minutes, almost the revolutions, that took us closer to safety.
Torpedoed
At about one a.m. we were stood to. The middie said he could see shell bursts at a distance, low down. This couldn't be torpedo bombers again, surely. Within seconds our guns were ready to fire, the turret was being swung this way and that, as if searching in the night for the target. 'E-BOATS!' shouted the midshipman, as the guns suddenly crashed into action. A surface target at last for the guns to engage - motor torpedo boats! We loaded and fired, in furiously rapid succession; then a lull. We panted, sweating in the warm confined space. 'Here they come again!' The guns fired repeatedly, salvo upon salvo. Then a brief lull. 'Starboard gun breech getting stiff, Sir!’ Durnford, the gun-captain, reported. ‘Ordnance artificer at the double!' The middie ordered. The gun mechanic took one swing at the breech, glanced at its rifling, turned to the midshipman and shook his head. 'Starboard gun check, check, check!' Moments later we were firing away from the centre and port guns only, at a tempestuous rate of load and fire.
As I bent down for the next cartridge case, the turret floor suddenly thrust upwards, rocking me violently. An enormous and deep explosion resonated from within the ship. Then the floor, whipping from side to side, settled down again. 'We're hit!' It was Toop who spoke first. His voice was quiet, but heard all over the turret, for all the heavy armament had stopped firing. We could hear a few units of lighter armament still loosing off rounds, but the bursts had become infrequent, and in a few seconds died away altogether. We looked at each other: the turret was still mounted on the ship, I thought with relief. And the ammunition locker below hadn't been hit, unless afire had been started and ... 'We're losing way,' said the midshipman. 'Revs are dropping,'
Disabled!
We felt the gradual loss of speed; there was no surge of strength from astern. The noise of battle could be heard still, but growing fainter, ahead of us … The tannoy was silent. The midshipman tried to call gunnery control: no reply. The bridge: line also dead. The lighting in the turret began to dim. 'Emergency lighting!' ordered the middie. 'All guns check, check. check!' 'Ignition broken, centre gun!' 'Ignition broken, port gun!' The two reports were virtually simultaneous. I quietly shut the flap at my knees, to cover the cartridge case I had been about to lift out when we were struck. 'The convoy's a mile or more ahead now, action continuing,' announced the midshipman, sweeping all round with his periscope. 'All quiet to port and starboard ... No, I can see lights to starboard - it's a coast line, must be North Africa.' 'How far away, Sir?' Toop asked. ‘Hard to say. Less than five miles certainly; perhaps three.’ I thought at once: at least there's land nearby. And if they leave us alone, we may be able to repair our engines and rejoin the convoy, or sail home, keeping close inshore. But if we can't make it, if we are attacked and sunk on the way, then I can perhaps swim to safety - if the currents permit.
By now there was scarcely any way perceptible on the ship. Everything had turned silent. We were waiting for the tannoy to crackle into life, or the phone buzzer to sound at the middie's elbow. But the minutes dragged on. 'Can't see anything of the convoy now.' The middie’s voice had dropped too, and yet he could be heard throughout the turret. 'We must be lying still so as not to attract the E-boats back here.' I hadn't thought of that danger. We waited. 'Petty Officer Toop!' 'Aye-aye, sir!' 'Carry out rounds on the whole turret shaft and report back!' 'Aye-aye, sir. Leading Seaman Durnford, come with me!' The starboard gun captain crossed the turret floor and opened the hatchway for Toop and him to get down into the first level of the hoist. In the opening Clowes' face appeared: the mischievous twinkle had not disappeared. The two men clambered down, and the hatch was shut after them. We could hear voices faintly from below, for a short while. Still nothing on the tannoy or the phone. What had gone wrong with the TS? Perhaps it was the TS that had been hit: that might explain the failure of all communications.
After ten minutes Toop and Durnford returned. 'All men present and correct down below, sir,' Toop reported. ‘Some six-inch ammo left. But the shaft is a bit out of alignment, and won't turn. Not properly, as you might say.' 'You've tried manually?' 'Yes, sir. She'll budge, but only slowly. Seems the cogs are stickin'.' That meant, in effect, that A-turret was out of action.
Abandon ship!
As the minutes passed by, and turned into a full half hour, then more, we noticed that the list to starboard was gradually increasing. With a hole in her side, how long might it be before the ship would heel right over, and turn turtle? The absence of all communication was unnerving. Possibly all the officers on the bridge had been killed in the blast. Or the torpedo might have struck just aft of us and cut us off from the bridge, with no means of escape through flooded compartments and watertight doors. Perhaps, as a result of chaos further aft, we had been forgotten; or else, since we had failed to make contact, it had been assumed that everyone in A turret was dead. But we weren't, and had to await orders before moving from our action stations; to abandon our posts would amount to dereliction of duty, almost to desertion.
'We have to make contact with the bridge,' announced the midshipman in a calm voice that reached us all. 'We have to ask for orders. Any volunteer, a man to make his way to the bridge?' He was looking in my direction as he spoke. The image of drowning invaded my mind - between decks, without light, unable perhaps to retrace my steps back to the turret. I saw myself perhaps getting through to the bridge, but then having to make the return journey through the watery unknown in the dark, swimming by feel through the corridors, hoping to find a hatch at the other end ready to open to me when I knocked on it - or not ready, not responding to my frantic bangings and shouting, until ... My eyes were already averted; I could not face that unknown. I felt greatly ashamed, for this was just the kind of exploit in adventure book stories where the courage of the volunteer for a dangerous mission came to the fore. 'One volunteer,' the midshipman repeated, quietly. I realised that no-one had spoken, though almost half a minute had gone by. Then a voice spoke up from the front of the turret, between the port and centre gun barrels. ‘I’ll go, sir.’ It was a three-badge AB, whose action station was in the secondary control — from where the turret could be operated independently of the control tower. The midshipman instructed him briefly, and he disappeared down into the first level of the hoist, from where a door in the shaft wall gave out onto the messdeck. Then there was silence again. The ship was slowly listing further over to starboard. From time to time we glanced at each other, scanning faces for re-assurance, even for an interpretation of our situation. Would the E boats return? Perhaps they had crept back under cover of the coast, and were now preparing an attack out of that darkness ... One torpedo hit on the six-inch ammunition locker directly below us and we would be blown sky-high, with only a very few survivors ...
Over an hour had gone by when we heard voices below and then Clowes hammered at the hatch for us to re-open. The three-badge sailor re-appeared and stepped over to the midshipman. 'Did you get through to the bridge?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Who did you speak with?' 'The Commander, sir.' Hammersley-Johnston, the man next in rank to the Captain. ‘What orders did he give you?’ 'We're to abandon ship, sir.' A gasp of surprise from all over the turret. 'Anything else?' 'Yes, sir. They're putting charges to the sea-cocks, to scuttle her.' 'What time are they due to go off?' 'Around five a.m., sir.' 'That's in just over an hour’s time. What else?' 'We can collect any personal gear we can swim with from the mess-deck.' 'What's the lighting like, down below?' 'It's that blue emergency lighting everywhere, sir.' 'And then?' 'Muster at our raft stations and get rafts and floats in the water. And get away from the ship well before scuttling time.' 'Why were you so long in getting back? Is there damage below, obstructing movement?' 'No damage I could see, sir. But as I was making my way to the bridge, a Chief Petty Officer told me that the whole ship's company was to assemble on the flight deck - Captain's orders - and he wouldn't let me come back here to tell you.' 'What happened then?' 'I went to the flight deck and a minute later the Captain spoke to officers and men. He told us that we had been holed in the after engine room, and that the water was coming in through a hole too large to repair with canvas. Also the turbines have been thrown out of line and the port ones could only give us about five knots. Oh, and that we had almost run out of ammo for the Oerlikons and four-inch, so we wouldn't be able to defend ourselves. So he had decided to scuttle the ship to save its falling into the hands of the enemy, and that we were to abandon ship before dawn.' 'Petty Officer Toop!' 'Aye-aye, sir!' 'Carry the Captain's message and orders to everyone in A-turret shaft. When you are satisfied that everyone knows what to do, report to your abandon ship station and carry on independently.' ‘Aye-aye, sir!’ 'And to the Captain's orders add my advice, to make for the North African shore a few miles to starboard. Right. Gun crews fall out and carry on! And good luck to you all!' 'The same to you, sir!' from several throats. The midshipman had kept his head throughout the engagements, and had given us information as far as he was able. He had shared danger and hardship with us, and earned our respect.
Already some men were scrambling out on the fo’c’sle. The fear of another E boat attack was driving them to hasten. To me it felt strange to be abandoning the turret, knowing I would never return - that no-one would ever see it again. Should I leave the cordite charge in the hoist channel, or remove it? But everyone, I saw, was leaving the turret as it was, with shells on the loading trays; the port and centre guns were still loaded. Almost the last to leave, I went down the short ladder to the hoist deck. Toop was there, giving the final items of the Captain's orders to the turret hoist crew.
Out in the ship's corridors, there was a sense of discipline having broken down. Figures were hurrying this way and that with a strange intensity to their manner. Only a very few words were exchanged. Many were already quitting the messdeck, having taken what they could, and were on the way aft to get to the rafts and floats. Some, I noticed, had already inflated their life-jackets. In the dim blue emergency lighting, I could still see the determination to escape in their eyes; everyone was thinking only of saving his own skin. From having been a ship's company, we had become a crowd, under threat; it was each man for himself.
Our messdeck was almost abandoned when I got there. I opened my locker. My clothing, all tightly wrapped and rolled up so as to fit in the tiny space, lay there dumbly, each piece looking like a small creature condemned to die. I put my passbook in my overall breast pocket, and took a handkerchief to protect my head against the sun. What else did I need? I fingered one or two of the few small personal possessions my locker held. What about the wrist-watch I had inherited from Uncle Harold? But it would never withstand the water. Suddenly I knew: there was nothing I wanted to take. I slammed the locker shut and was about to lock it, out of habit. What for? I let it swing, the key still in the padlock ...
By now the interior of the ship had become very silent. As I made my way aft down the corridor, I wondered at the absence of signs of damage. Yet certain communicating doors seemed to have jammed shut, perhaps with the whipping motion that had immediately followed the explosion. So in order to get to my float, I had first to go aft to the flight deck, and from there make my way forward again, climbing up and down several vertical ladders on the ship's superstructure, now leaning over at about ten to fifteen degrees, and cross two Oerlikon platforms before I found myself on the upper deck by B turret, on the port side. I walked over in the faint night light to where the float to which I had been assigned was lashed. It was gone; and no-one standing around.
I realised from the voices and splashing that several floats and rafts were by now in the water. At the ship's side I saw that seamen were swarming down ropes to get on them, and make away from the vessel as smartly as possible. Turning round. I noticed that a few men were trying to cut free the last carley float in that area. Taking out my knife, I helped to sever some of the lashings, and we carried the heavy structure to the ship’s side, where the guardrail had been removed. 'Under below!' we called out twice, not daring to raise our voices too much, for we had been warned by Petty Officers to keep as quiet as possible; sound carries far across the water on a still night. Then we tipped the float over the side, holding on to one or two of its mooring ropes. It splashed heavily and then settled, right way up. Seamen already in the water began heaving themselves in, while others slid down ropes as fast as they could.
'Help me!' said a thin voice beside me. It was Jones, a non-swimmer. He looked quite terrified. 'All right, Joner,' someone said. 'We'll see you safe.' 'Stand by in the float below,' an AB called out in a firm voice. 'We've got a non-swimmer here, coming down this rope.' He shook it vigorously. 'It's Joner.' It was fortunate for Jones that he was popular on the messdeck; his somewhat feminine ways had aroused a protective feeling in quite a number of sailors towards him. So instead of moving off rapidly to ensure that the float didn't gather too heavy a load of men, the men below responded. 'Right, Joner: down you come!' He peered at the water and began to shake. 'I c-c-can't!' 'Go on down, Joner, or the float'll leave without you!' 'I'll go down alongside of you,' said the AB. 'I’ll be there as you go into the water. You can hold on to me.' Jones, still shaking with fear, grasped a bight of rope from below the deck edge, lay flat on deck, and levered himself over the ship’s side. In the starlight, he gradually disappeared from my view. A voice sounded from below. 'Here, Joner, put your foot here. That's it, boy ... Easy does it … Now you're aboard.'
A swish of movement in the water told me that the float was making away from the ship's side. A handful of us had failed to board it. We looked around to see what remained for us. Only two small balsa wood rafts were left; one was being prised loose by the only other group of sailors I could make out on deck. We made straight for the other, a half dozen of us. It was only about four feet square, and intended merely to provide handholds around its edges, where loops of rope were fitted. Anyone trying to sit on so small a raft was liable to overturn it. One of the seamen cutting the raft free alongside me was Lankester, in peace time a forester from Essex, with whom I had struck up a kind of friendship. He had told me he was a poor swimmer, and I had promised to help him if ever we found ourselves having to take to the water. By good fortune we had met up at the very moment when the last rafts were to be put into use. Once the raft was lowered - not a difficult task as it was relatively light - I saw to it that he climbed down by the tethering rope. From the darkness down there, he called out that he had hold of the raft, and I looked about me to see if there was anything else to do before actually going over the side. In those final moments I found I was reluctant to abandon the stability of the ship for a little bouncing thing on the water's surface, but there was nothing else to be done. The Manchester already had a doomed feel to it, as though the life that had inhabited the vessel had fled.
The raft
I slid down the rope, feeling nevertheless a bit foolish and unreal, and slipped into the water. It was silky and quite warm; there were no waves at all - a flat calm. Lankester guided me which way to swim by talking me towards the raft, which had already begun to move away from the ship's side. The other raft wasn't far away; we could hear the voices and splashing as they sought to use their hands as paddles. I grabbed a loop on one side of our raft and started scissoring with my legs to help the others take the raft further off, as fast as possible. For what we now feared most, apart from an E-boat attack and the explosion that would pulp our internal organs, was being sucked under by the cruiser as she sank. Our immediate task was to put as much distance as possible between us and the 7,000 tons of metal and wood and equipment, before she slid below, creating powerful eddies that could draw us into the same grave. Without any need for words between us, we tugged and paddled the raft away from the Manchester, making a rough course out from her port bow. It was slow work: we couldn’t swim in time, so the jerks of one man tended to be cancelled out by the momentary inertia of others. Moreover the raft was blunt, having no natural bow or stern, and floated better than it moved.
In about fifteen minutes we had, it seemed to me, only managed to put two to three hundred yards between us and the ship, which was still visible. I realised dawn must soon be breaking, for the intense darkness of the night had ceded into a greyness in which nothing had colour, but shapes were defining themselves by the minute. As we pulled gradually away from the familiar shape of the cruiser, now listing to starboard at a quite unfamiliar angle, we noticed that no other floats or rafts were near us, and indeed scarcely anything on the port side of the ship at all. One carley float and a raft were several hundred yards ahead of the ship and pulling round towards the shore, which now began to reveal its hilly form. Those, I thought, must be the carley float and the raft that had left just before we did. They had obviously not made away from the cruiser broad on the port bow as we had, but made straight for the bows, or else described a tight arc around them, so as to be heading for the shore as soon as could be managed.
After exchanging a few words, we decided to do likewise, and pushed and pulled the raft in a wide curve so as to aim eventually at the shore line. As we looked ahead, trying to estimate how far off the coast lay, the hill tops were touched with a tawny yellow, and began to glow. soon after, turning our heads, we saw a red rim mark the horizon, broaden and ascend. The darker shades of grey on the water's surface lightened; shafts of gold streaked towards us from the rising disc of the sun. We looked about us again; it was daylight. The Manchester was down by the stern, indeed almost submerged aft; the forepeak was high, almost clear of the water. Clankings could be heard as the anchor cable shifted its links, and deeper crashes sounded from within the hull when perhaps the strain on a bulkhead became too great and rivets started, causing a whole sheet of metal to bend or buckle.
As we slowly rounded the bows at a considerable distance, we could see the large number of rafts and floats making for the shore. Here and there I thought I caught the flash of oars; had they managed to hoist one of the whalers out? Everything was making for the shore, towards a dip in the hills where perhaps the coastline was less steep and it looked as if a shelving beach or little harbour beckoned us in. We tugged and shoved the blunt raft in the same general direction, but made extremely slow headway. An hour after setting out we were no more than 600 yards inshore from the cruiser, roughly abeam of her; that meant that currents were gradually taking us north, along the coastline. I wondered how strong they were; would we be swept away from the harbour faster than we could drag our stubborn craft towards it? We were tiring too; the kicking was weaker now, and each of us had to rest from time to time.
'She's going!' someone called out. We turned to see the cruiser heeling swiftly from 45 degrees of list to 70 or 80. The deck now faced us: all the wooden planking we had scoured so painstakingly, and the metal fo’c’sle we had beaten at so assiduously with chipping hammers. From within the ship came a harsh noise of rending, of metal grinding on metal, of dull thumps as pieces loosened and tumbled to starboard. The bridge superstructure began to lean over crazily towards the water, bending and complaining as it went. The cruiser was settling even deeper by the stern: the quarterdeck had disappeared underwater. She must turn turtle, we thought; the weight of the turrets would take her over. The angle increased to 90 and beyond - surely she was bound to go at any moment.
Stubbornly, the cruiser refused to slip under the waves. At last one of the seamen at our raft understood what had happened. 'Her stern's on the bottom,' he declared. 'She can't turn over because the stern section is already resting, on its side, on the seabed.' He must be right, I thought. The list was no longer increasing. But hollow, painful breaking-up noises continued to issue from within the hull, like the dying groans of a living creature. 'Poor old thing, she's taking a long time to go,' said a seaman. 'It's sad to see her break up like this.' The water was now swirling up the lower edges of the flight deck. The vessel was settling gradually, on her side. 'She's been home to us for all these months ...' A heavy rending came from inside the hull, and she began to disappear faster. The sides of the funnels were touching the blue surface of the sea; now they were taking in water. 'She's going, lads!' From across the sea came the sound of voices in chorus. 'Let's give her a cheer, then. Right?' 'Yes, we'll do that. See her to bed proper and friendly.' 'Three cheers for the Manchester, then, lads, hip, hip -, Our cheers rang out as the bridge was slipping under. From the bows one of the anchors slid out of its hawse-hole, as if to confirm the finality of the resting place. Last of all, the point of the bows slipped below.
Now there was nothing left to see of the cruiser; not even evidence of eddies or suction as she went deeper; only from time to time the bursting of great bubbles of air as some compartment collapsed under pressure and yielded up its last signs of having once been the home of seven hundred men. I felt unexpectedly abandoned, as if a parent had disappeared, or part of Britain. We were alone, making for a foreign shore, without any means of defending ourselves against attack. Only a few hours ago we had been powerful and swift, with a home to call our own. Now we had become destitute, owning nothing but the clothes we were swimming in. As if to underline our vulnerability and give substance to our fears, we heard the sound of an aeroplane approaching. 'One of ours, do you think?' 'Not likely. We're still too far from Malta.' 'What do we do, then?' 'Wait and see.' About a thousand yards off, the plane turned. She was three-engined, I seem to recall. The fuselage was light brown, and there were strange markings on the tail-fin. There came a shout. 'She's an Eye-tie!' As if in confirmation, the menacing rattle of machine-gun fire rasped on the morning air. 'She's firing! Scatter!' I burst away at once from the raft, with a sudden access of newly-found energy. After thirty yards I paused to look up. The plane was circling; it had stopped firing. I determined to stay where I was and dive if I saw it heading my way. As it came near us at a height of about two hundred feet, the windows of the cockpit cowling glinted in the sun, then cleared. I could see the heads of the pilot, and, to his rear, of the observer/gunner. I was sure by now that it wasn't a fighter: perhaps a reconnaissance aircraft, till I noticed two small bombs tucked in under the wings. Once, twice it circled us. Then something fell from it. 'Look out!' someone shouted. 'Flat on your backs!' 'No panic,' shouted another. 'It's not a bomb!' The shape was more like a bag or bundle. It fell with a heavy splash, and floated about a hundred and fifty yards from the nearest raft, seawards from it. 'Leave it alone, I say,' said one of the sailors clinging to our raft.
The aircraft had turned away, and was making north-east, no doubt to make its report. I wondered if the Italians would bring up fighters to machine-gun us in the water; such things were not unknown. No-one showed any interest in picking up what had been dropped, especially as it lay further offshore. 'Come on lads, let's get closer to that coastline!' 'Where is it, anyhow? , 'Come on, Lofty,' said Lankester. 'You ought to know.' It was the first time he had spoken since rounding the bows of the cruiser. In spite of his note of expectation about my knowledge, I saw that he was anxious and strained. He didn't like being in the water, not at all. 'Well,' I began, 'the coast runs north and south here, I reckon.' 'That tallies.' 'So it's got to be Tunisia.' 'That somewhere near the narrow bit?' ' ‘Beyond it.’ 'Who owns this country we're headed for, then?' 'The French. Vichy French, I think.' 'Dirty lot they are, by all accounts. Don't trust 'em.' 'Are they in the war, then, or not?' 'I think they call themselves neutral.' 'But friends of old Adolf all the same...?' 'You might say that,' I replied guardedly. 'Well if they are neutral, let's get inside the three-mile limit just as sharp as we can.' 'What for?' 'Because once we're in there, there's less chance the Eyeties'll come and put some bullets in us.' 'Right. Or the Gerries.' 'Bugger them for a lark!'
So we kicked out again, and for a time seemed to make some progress towards the shore, now beginning to be enveloped in a haze that made it all the harder to tell how far off we still were. Nevertheless we were almost the farthest out of all the rafts and floats headed for North Africa. By now the sun had climbed higher into the sky and was warming our hea
