The first noticeable alteration to the Gem was the small
boats, which previously had been located one at each side of
the casing containing the after mess deck, the davits being
attached to the casing. They had been in that position ever
since she had been built, and this may have been the correct
place for them when she was at her normal job of deep sea
fishing, for here they were out of the way of the working of
the trawl gear. The times for the boats to be used when
fishing were very few and far between, and in the past even
when trawlers were sinking or were aground there were not
many cases of the lifeboats getting away from the vessel.
Since she had been used as a minor war vessel, we had found
these boats and davits very hard and cumbersome to use in any
other conditions but a flat calm sea, and there was always
the danger there that the davits would cause trouble and fail
with the weight of the boats. Sure enough they had done just
that on the last patrol we did before going in for the refit.
Above -
British and Allied escort and cover forces taking part in PQ.17. "Northern Gem" was one of the
few ships to go on to Russia
The smallish seamen's and stokers' mess-deck had been
rebuilt, and now covered the whole of what used to be the
fish room area. There was now an alley-way which ran fore and
aft all the way along the entire length, on each side of
which was a large roomy mess for sleeping in and for
recreational purposes. There were bunks for some forty or so
men, and these were going to be needed, as our crew went up
in numbers from about 16 in 1939, to 25 at the end of 1944,
and then between 40 and 50 after this refit. Finally when I
left her in July 1943, there were 67 officers and ratings of
all kinds in the crew, so in just under four years another 41
men had been sent onboard to maintain and operate new
equipment and also to fill the requirements for more deck,
engine room and gun crews.
On the top of the casing, where the old twin Lewis had
been between the two small boats, we now had a circular gun
platform, with twin point fives installed on it, and other
more useful guns were now in the wings of the bridge. We
stored ship taking on ammunition for use on the various guns,
tons of tinned food and all the other things necessary to
feed our large crew. All the things that had been put into
the warehouses on the dock side had to be checked back
onboard and signed for. There was quite a lot of sorting out
to do in the time before we left the dockyard and took up our
new duties, for now we had become a rescue ship as well as an
escort vessel, and things looked as though they were going to
liven up from now on.
Under the mess-deck alley-way forward, there were several
small store rooms, one of which was now packed out with
sacks, each one containing a complete new kit of gear for
each survivor that was picked up out of the water,
underclothes, and a thick shirt or a Canadian lumber jacket,
I was told these were a gift from the Canadian people and
their Government. If this was so they were very welcome
because on many occasions previously when survivors had been
picked up, many of them had very few if any clothes on their
backs, or if they had they would often be covered in fuel
oil. These clothes then had to be cut away from them and
thrown away, and the men had to rely on the generosity of the
Gem's crew, who all came forward unstintingly with bits and
pieces of clothing to give to these unfortunate survivors. No
matter what the nationality of the men picked up turned out
to be, they were all given the same consideration; after all
we were all fighting the same war, and the cameraderie
between seamen of all nations had to be seen to be believed.
In peace-time it was the same, but in war I don't think there
was a more patriotic set of men than the merchant seamen.
They gave of their all when at sea, while people onshore
either did not understand what these men were going through
day in and day out to bring the much wanted and needed
commodities into the country, or they just did not care as
long as they got their portion and a bit more besides. I'm
sorry to have to say that but it is true.
Before I go on to tell of the next voyages that we made in
the Gem, I would just like to put a word in here about a job
of work that was rather unpleasant, but one that had to be
done by someone, and I thought that as I was the coxswain,
even though only acting, it should be one of my duties. Thus
with one volunteer, Jack Sullivan, it was my job to see that
any of the men that we picked up who were dead at the time,
or who died later, were prepared for burial at sea. They were
treated with respect and care as much as was possible, but
with a great deal of haste in many cases, that I will admit,
in order to get the job done quickly, if the weather was bad,
or if other circumstances warranted it. A piece of stout
canvas, needle and twine, and two fire bars were all that
were needed to complete the task.
When all was finished, the body was placed on a plank of
wood, and was then covered with a flag, a White Ensign or the
Red Duster of the Merchant Navy; we then reported to the
officer of the watch, who in turn would let the CO know, then
either he or the first lieutenant would come down to the deck
where most of our crew, and those of the dead man's shipmates
who could do so, would gather round while the officer read
out of the Holy Bible the usual service for burial at sea.
When he had finished, the plank would be picked up and one
end placed on the ship's rail; the other end would be raised
until the body slid over the ship's side and into the sea,
feet first to its eternal rest. The ship which had been
stopped for the short time that this had taken, would then
get on its way as quickly as possible, for while it lay
stopped it made a good and easy target for any U-boat in the
locality. There were the odd occasions when the senior
officer of the escort would not give permission for the ship
to be stopped for the purpose of a burial, for it might be
too dangerous and not very prudent to do so.
These were sad occasions for everyone who remained behind
to carry on the struggle, especially if one was a person with
a sentimental nature. I must confess that I was like that,
and often thought about the relatives of the ones who had
been Discharged Dead, who they were, and how long it would be
before they got to know that their husband, father or
sweetheart would not be coming back to them. But I was not a
man to dwell on these things for very long - you could not
allow yourself to do so, or you could soon lose your nerve
and crack up altogether.
During the January and February of 1942, ex-fishermen like
myself onboard these anti-submarine trawlers, who had worked
in those treacherous waters so far from home in the pre-war
years, scratching a living from them, heard with mixed
feelings that convoys had started to sail to and from the
North Russian Coast. At first we did not believe that this
could happen, but then we spoke to men from other trawlers
who had already done the trip. Apparently they had started in
the August or September of 1941. Soon we were to get
confirmation and know for certain, as we were destined to
take part in them, but before this we were lucky enough to
get another leave.
There are not many things that I can remember about any of
the home leaves that I had. I suppose that I enjoyed them all
and made the most of what time I had at home, like all
service men and women did. It was a relief in our case to get
away from the constant and never ending strain of being at
sea for days and weeks on end, and from seeing good ships
being lost and men dying terrible deaths, especially in the
tankers and those carrying ammunition. Many of the latter
were gone in a second with a mighty explosion and a brilliant
flash of flame, with only a huge tower of smoke being left to
show that a few seconds before a ten or twelve thousand ton
merchant ship had been steaming along with thirty or forty
human beings like us on board it. But even if there were no
attacks on the convoy, the strain was always there for one
was always keyed up waiting for something to happen. I guess
that the people at home went through a similar sort of thing
during the raids by the Luftwaffe. At least we had a chance
to hit back, whereas they had to sit in their shelters and
take all that came down from the heavens. I know that on my
leaves if there was a raid on Hull, I felt helpless sitting
in an Anderson Shelter in the garden, while other folk sat
playing cards or just having an impromptu sing song. The
citizens of Hull had a tough time of it as did many others in
the country and spent more time in their air raid shelters
than they did in their own beds.
The girl who was to become my wife eventually, even though
we were not engaged at the time, was now a member of the
Women's Royal Air Force and was stationed in Hull, helping to
defend the city against attack with barrage balloons. She and
her mates had to stay there on the balloon site once their
charge was in the air come what may. It was hard work for the
girls from what I could see of it, but they were a great
crowd of lasses that she was with.
Unfortunately on this leave, my future wife and I had a
few words with each other over something that neither of us
can now remember and we parted not the best of friends. But
during the next year or so I found that I could not forget
her, and apparently she felt the same about me. In the
meantime however there was still a war to be fought, and so
it was back to the Northern Gem and whatever was in store for
us.
The crew of the old Gem were a happy crowd of men. On odd
occasions there would be a clash of tempers, but nothing
serious, but I suppose this was to be expected due to the
conditions under which we lived and worked. Little things
seemed to get under the skin at times and cause a bit of
friction, yet by and large although the discipline wasn't as
strict as on a larger naval vessel, the men knuckled down and
did their jobs as they should have been done. Local leave was
very rarely abused and only a small number found themselves
on the CO's defaulters' list.
In the early part of the war I can remember one thing that
did get at the crew no end, and that was the destroyer
escorts. They all did trojan work, and we were always pleased
to know that we had one or two with us but as far as I am
concerned I would not have swapped the Gem for any of them,
especially the old lease lend ones from America. I know from
some of the men off the newer built British destroyers, that
even these were never dry, for the mess decks were
continually awash with water with all sorts of gear and
stores floating about. We on the Gem at least kept dry down
below, apart from the inevitable sweat and condensation that
dropped from the deck heads (or ceilings to landlubbers), and
trickled down the bulkheads and ship's sides. There were the
odd times when she would dig her head into a heavy sea and
some of it would find its way down the companionways or the
ventilators and flood everything, but by and large the
trawlers were good sea ships. Being a lot lighter than they
were in their peace-time occupation of fishing, they were
inclined to ride over most of the seas; although they got
thrown about tremendously, we suffered more from bruising by
being in contact quite heavily with immovable objects than by
getting wet.
To get back to this niggle about the destroyers. The
trawlers, once they had taken up their allotted positions on
these earlier convoys, were glued there in that place
regardless of how long the voyage out and back took, yet to
us the destroyers seemed forever to be getting relieved to go
back into harbour for refuelling, for at that period of the
war there was no tanker with the convoy for them to get their
oil from; those came along later when there was more of the
larger class of new escorts available, and the Battle of the
Atlantic got more and more hectic, so that escorts could not
be spared to steam back to Iceland or wherever for oil. The
trawler men got more than a little frustrated at the thoughts
of these crews being able to get at least one night's good
sleep in relative comfort, and as well as the oil they took
on board to replenish their tanks, we had visions of them
being topped up with more fresh food of some kind, while we
had to slog it out on the old four hours on and four hours of
routine, feeding off the seemingly endless Red Lead, Sardines
and Bangers, and the continual supply of Chinese Wedding
Cake. We felt at times that we were not really accepted by
the RN (Real Navy), only when it suited them.
We were only Reservists and Hostilities Only men, but by
heavens we did a difficult job to the best of our ability,
with what armament and speed we could muster, and as far as I
am aware none of us ran away from danger at all. I think that
the trawlers did a good job during the first couple of years
of the war, when the Royal Navy was being pushed to their
limit by their lack of numbers of escort ships. In the
Norwegian Campaign they were Jacks of all Trades, being sent
into the most inaccessible places in the fiords, harried by
the German bombers, bombed and shot up while they were
speeding along at their steady nine or ten knots full out,
with the entire ship being shaken to pieces with the
vibration of the engines and exploding bombs. About ten of
them were sunk in the course of the campaign, one of them,
the Arab, earning a VC for gallantry at Namsos, so we could
not have been all that useless.
It may be interesting to some to know that the pay for
this work that we were engaged upon, was the princely sum of
eighteen shillings and nine pence a week, two shillings and
five pence per day, plus six pence per day (Hard Layers, a
term used I believe to denote that there was some discomfort
in being one of the crew of a small ship in the service).
At last in the middle of 1942 we in the Gem found
ourselves going north once more, this time to the Russian
port of Archangel, not knowing that the convoy we were to
escort was to become the most tragic and controversial of all
the convoys during the whole of the Second World War.
The middle of June 1942 found us in company with three
other A/S trawlers, the Lord Austin, Lord Middleton and the
Ayrshire, the first two being ex-Hull trawlers, and the
latter ex-Grimsby. All three I knew pretty well from pre-war
days, having often fished alongside of them on the different
grounds. We four minor warships left Reykjavik, the Icelandic
capital, for Hvalfiord on the north-west corner of Iceland,
supposedly to sail with convoy PQ 17 early in June. This was
not to be, for we had a long wait until there were enough
destroyer escorts to accompany the convoy of merchant ships
which were arriving almost daily to drop their anchors and
wait for the day of sailing. It wasn't until the afternoon of
the 27th June that we all left the shelter of
Hvalfiord, and meanwhile we saw with amazement the fiord
filling up with the ships of several nations. There were
British, American and Russian merchant vessels of all sizes.
Some of them were piled up with deck cargo lashed down and
chained securely to the decks, and consisting of tanks,
lorries, planes and huge wooden crates. The contents of these
we could only guess at, and what they carried below decks in
their holds must have been war equipment of all kinds to aid
the Russians in their fight against the invading German
armies. We could see by the way they sat in the water they
were loaded to capacity, right up to their Plimsoll lines.
From where we four trawlers were anchored, we could see
not only the mass of merchant ships, but also British and
American warships at anchor in the deep blue and still icy
waters of Hvalfiord. Even now in June it was cold from the
snow and ice melting from the tops of the high mountain peaks
surrounding the fiord. The view from the deck of our small
ship was awe-inspiring. I had seen such sights before many
times, but with so many ships in the anchorage it was even
more beautiful. An aircraft carrier, for all its huge size,
looked tiny with the backing of those high mountains, the
lower regions of which were decorated here and there with
colourful farmhouses, and the mauves, yellows and greens of
the plant life.
Once the anchor was in the water, and the routine of
squaring up of the ship was completed, some of the crew got
out their fishing lines to try their luck at catching some
fish to give us a change of diet. Soon the CO left the ship
on one of the many duty boats that were chasing about all
over the fiord, to attend a conference about the future
convoy. As the days went past, the usual buzzes started to go
around the Gem, gathered from the occupants of these small
boats. We learned that this was the largest convoy yet to set
sail for Russia. There were more rumours going the rounds of
the mess decks, and the fact that so many ships were in the
vicinity seemed to give credence to what we were being told.
My heart goes out to all who sailed in those great lumbering
merchant ships during the war years. It must have been
terrible to have to plod along at times at the same speed as
the slowest ship in the convoy, expecting to be mined, or
bombed or torpedoed, sometimes even shelled by German raiders
who managed to evade the naval and air patrols in the Denmark
Straits. Yet, at the bottom of their hearts, they must have
been saying, if they were anything like me, 'It can't happen
to me'. But unfortunately it did to so many of those brave
men whose ships went to the bottoms of the many oceans of the
world, where they still lie rusting.
As we cast our eyes over this array of ships at anchor in
the fiord on those days in June 1942, I suppose we wondered
which of them would be the unlucky ones, the ones which would
not make it to Archangel, and how we ourselves would fare on
the trip, for it was being said that we, the convoy that is,
was to be the cheese in the trap, the means of drawing the
Tirpitz (right - in a Norwegian fiord in 1943, courtesy Maritime Quest), Lutzow and the Admiral Hipper from their anchorages,
along with others of their tribe, and that the other and
smaller convoy which sailed at the same time as PQ 17, would
make them think that an invasion of Norway was on the cards.
We know now from the books written since the war, about PQ17,
what the plan really was, but I am trying in this record of
the Northern Gem's war, to record what we on the lower deck
felt about things that were going on around us at the time.
The ordinary matelot was lucky if he was in a ship where the
CO gave them a good insight into what was going on. I'm not
certain which was best, to be told or not to be told.
On the afternoon of the 27th June, several
things happened when the convoy cleared Hvalfiord and formed
up, which in our position at the stern of the convoy we
mostly did not see. For a convoy of thirty five ships along
with their escorts and accompanying tanker, and in this case
three rescue ships, covers very many square miles of ocean,
and what is going on at one side of such a huge and very
complex conglomeration of ships, is not necessarily known at
the other side. While one side was in clear sunny weather,
apparently the other was in fog, and encountering ice which
holed one vessel so badly that it had to turn back to
Iceland. We in the Gem were in clear weather as far as I can
remember with no knowledge of what was happening some ten or
fifteen miles away, and so we just plodded on, a small part
of Convoy PQ 17, to whatever was in store for us in the
tiring and frantic days ahead, which would bring memories of
sights, sounds and fears that have stayed with me to this
very day: the two or three air attacks that were beaten off
with such ferocity by the escorts and the merchant ships, and
then, when everything seemed to be going well for us and our
morale was at its highest, the signal that came from the
Admiralty which sent us off to all points of the compass,
seeking a place of safety and in great fear for our lives.
I don't intend to even try to put down here the reasons
that caused the Naval High Command to scatter this fine
convoy of ships. All this has been gone into by far better
brains than mine, and argued about by those more
knowledgeable than I. With their hindsight maybe many of the
twenty-four ships that were lost could have sailed on to
reach their destination, but more important still, many more
brave merchant seamen would still be alive and others might
not have lost their minds and reason as they did. Here I am
trying to state the feelings and thoughts of myself and
others on the Northern Gem on this tragic convoy. I am
certain that many of the men on the other ships taking part,
whichever nation or service they belonged to, will have
similar memories to mine, and that they will feel the same as
I do, after all these years.
PQ17 was our first Russian convoy, and during the few days
before sailing, a feeling of quiet apprehension and
foreboding as to what would happen, circulated round the
crew, I told myself, 'Well here goes, either we get there or
we don't; we had to take our chances along with the rest.
After coming out of Hvalfiord, leaving Akranes on the
starboard side, and Reykjavik on the port, the convoy formed
up, and we in the Gem took up our position on the starboard
quarter. There seemed to be ships stretched out as far as the
eye could see. The cavalcade carried on until we left 'Snowy
Jokell', (Snaefells Jokull) a large extinct volcano on our
starboard side, then Patriksfiord and Isafiord, then once
past there we turned on to a more north-westerly course which
would take us further away from the north coast of Iceland
until we reached the point somewhere off and to the northeast
of the rocky island of Grimsey, where the destroyer escorts
were to join up with us at a certain time. They had been
waiting at Seydisfiiord for some of the latecomers who had
been on a Malta convoy. What a comparison from the lovely
sunny blue Med, to at that time the sunny but cold Arctic
Ocean, and only God knew what.
By this time although we didn't know it, one of the ships,
a fairly large merchantman, had turned back to Hvalfiord,
having had the good or bad (whichever way you look at it)
fortune, to run into some ice as she steamed merrily along,
and put a hole in her hull. There were reports of fog around,
but whilst I was on deck or at the wheel, I don't remember
seeing any at all. With the convoy taking up so many square
miles of sea space, this was not unusual. At times we did not
hear for some time what was going on, on the opposite side at
all. As the other escorts joined us, we breathed a sigh of
relief at the knowledge that at some point just over the
horizon were the big boys, the cruisers
Norfolk and
London,
and the United States Navy with their Tuscaloosa and Wichita
and battleship Washington. There was also the
Duke of York
and the aircraft carrier Victorious, from which I believe the
photograph of the Northern Gem was taken. I remember passing
her as she lay at anchor in Hvalfiord. I was at the wheel on
the bridge at the time and I felt very proud just looking at
her. This knowledge that they were at hand made our
foreboding turn to a feeling of exhilaration, and with it
that 'piece of cake, and easy' attitude, which, although we
didn't know it at the time, would in a matter of a few days
be knocked out of us by something that no one on this vast
array of ships ever expected or had even thought about.
In our minds, I think that all of us were pretty certain
that the enemy ships would not come out to fight when they
had a report from their spotter planes about the armada
moving across the Arctic Ocean, the outer covering force and
the inner escort of destroyers and corvettes, two submarines,
and two anti-aircraft ships, the Pozerica and the Palomaris,
not forgetting of course the four armed trawlers, coal
burning ex-fishing vessels. After all we were equipped with
Asdic gear and depth charges to hunt the U-boats, and they
were hunted and some were sunk by trawlers manned by men of
the RNR and ex-fishermen like myself, along with some men and
youths who in some circumstances had never seen the sea
before being called up.
Of course we did expect the usual U-boat attacks, but the
weather as far as we in the Gem were concerned was great,
with the sea almost as flat as a mill pond. At that time of
the year it was daylight for the whole twenty-four hours; we
knew that we could be seen for miles and miles. The smoke
from the merchant ships and coal burning trawlers was going
straight up into the air, until it reached a certain height,
and then it spread out horizontally helped by the winds in
the upper atmosphere to form clouds in an otherwise lovely
blue summer sky.
A few hours after sailing from Hvalfiord, the ships
(listed left) had
got themselves into their allotted positions; the crews had
settled down once they had taken in the inspiring sight
around their vessel, to the usual watch-on watch-off routine.
When off watch, they would play cards and dominoes which were
the favourite off-watch pastimes, as well as reading and
sleeping of course. All the usual duties had been carried
out, all the guns had been cleaned and checked over and over
again, the depth charge throwers and rails, the lifeboats,
rafts and the gear in them had been checked and checked
again, to ensure that they could be dropped into the water
should the need arise with, we hoped, very little effort. The
old four-inch quick firing gun that was positioned on a
platform over the whale-back, was pulled through, and
cleaned, traversed and elevated up and down, to make sure
that the movements were loose and free, the dust and
crystallized salt was removed from the telescopic sights,
which were then polished up to perfection. Yes, we were fit,
and as ready as we would ever be.
Being the coxswain, I had no regular watch as I had to be
ready for any emergency, and in the event of an attack my
place of action was on the steering bridge, at the wheel. One
of my favourite spots, when things were calm and quiet, was
on the point five gun platform over the galley, just abaft
amidships. There I kept a few tins of tomato juice (purchased
in Reykjavik) to keep them cold. To me they were a luxury
that I enjoyed very much when we were not able to get a pot
of tea or Kye. I was up there on one of my voluntary vigils,
when I saw my first German spotter plane, the nose to sea
bloodhound, as I christened him. He went round and around the
convoy, and looked as if he were set to escort us all the way
to the White Sea. Some days later on 2nd July, I was up on
the gun platform when I saw six or eight planes come up over
the horizon, right astern of our position on the starboard
quarter. Action stations were sounded, and I just had time
before running to the bridge to see that they were biplanes,
of a similar appearance to the Swordfish, but these had
floats below them instead of wheels, and they were carrying
torpedoes.
Thinking back, it seems to me that they had no intentions
of coming in too close to the convoy, or that was my
impression. I was on my way to the bridge and had just got to
the foot of the bridge ladder, when I heard someone shout at
the top of his voice, 'Torpedo on starboard quarter'. I
stopped and looked around, and on sighting its track of air
bubbles, I stood rooted to the spot, one foot on the ladder
and the other frozen to the casing. I saw that it was
approaching the ship's side at an angle of about fifteen
degrees, and heading straight for the engine room under where
I stood. My heart was thumping like mad, and I was scared
almost to death, believe me. I heard the CO shout, 'Hard
Aport', then 'Steady', and to my relief, saw the track of the
torpedo was now travelling on a parallel course to that of
the ship, and was gradually overtaking us. I heard the order
given to bring her back on to her original course, and
hypnotized I watched the track of bubbles from the torpedo
sweep under the cut-away icebreaker bows of the Gem. I came
back to life taking in deep breaths and gulps of that sweet
and clean Arctic air, then continued on to relieve the man at
the wheel, where both of us commented that it had been a
close thing.
Whether this 'fish' had been dropped from one of the
planes or from a sub, I don't really know, but I would assume
that it had come from an aircraft. The Gem was doing about
eleven knots at the time in order to close up with the
convoy, as laid down in the orders during an attack on the
convoy. What bit of wind there was that day was coming over
the port bow causing the smoke coming from the funnel to lay
along the surface of the water of our starboard quarter; this
was helped by our speed through the water, so we came to the
conclusion that one of the Heinkels had crept into our smoke,
before dropping the torpedo. Still it missed us, or our
skipper evaded it, and from our warning signal other ships on
our port side were able to keep clear of it. We lived to
fight another day, with the faithful nose-to-sea bloodhound
still keeping his eye on the convoy. (Following - the attacking German
forces, both actual and potential)
If I remember correctly, it was about twenty-four hours
later, that we got a second shock. We were at this time
nearing an old haunt of mine from pre-war fishing days, Bear Island. We had
received a warning of a further air attack, and as I was
standing on the after gun platform, waiting for the alarm that would send me rushing
to the bridge, we gazed in awe at the sight astern of what
looked like a flock of birds coming into sight over the
horizon. I started to count the planes 1-2-5-10-15-25. There
I gave up and ran for the bridge. The alarm had not been
sounded for everyone was on his way to action stations, or
was there already, hearts beating sixty to the dozen, and the
saliva was thick in our mouths; we were hoping that they
would not come for a small ship like ours. Once I got on the
bridge, I saw very little of what was going on around us,
except for the area immediately ahead of the Gem. I saw the
leading plane go flashing past the port side of the bridge,
and another along the starboard side and across our bows,
very close and making for the convoy. All of our guns were
having a go. It appeared to me that tracer shells were
hitting this last one from all sides; then I heard one of the
look-outs shout from the top bridge that he had crashed onto
the tanker, a Russian ship named the Azerbijan, and that she
was on fire. Taking a quick glance in that direction I could
see the smoke and flames billowing out from her bows.
One or two merchant ships seemed to be slowing down, and
the two small rescue ships, the Rathlin and the Zamelac were
manoeuvering around. One merchant ship that I had in sight
just vanished as I was looking at her; one second she was
there and the next all there was left was a huge pall of
smoke, reaching up towards the blue sky. I had not the time
to see if she was a tanker or not. The crew would not have
known what hit them. It was an unbelievable thing to see
happen, and quite unforgettable. Also in my memory of those
few hectic minutes of the attack, is the sight of an American
destroyer, steaming full out and being very, very aggressive
towards these intruder German planes. She was turning in
towards them and letting fly with all the guns she had, and I
would not have been surprised to see her crew popping off
with rifles and revolvers at anything that was airborne, I've
found out since that she was the USS Rowan.
Personally, I did not go much on being cooped up in the
bridge on the Gem, while all this was going on around at the
time, so I felt the greatest sympathy for all engine room
staff who could not see what was happening. At least I could
hear the shouts from the men on the top bridge, and I did
know a little bit of the local and close incidents. Yet I
felt bad enough for all that, especially when I heard them
shouting, 'Here's one', and 'Christ, look at that', and I
could not dash out to see. Our chief engineer, Bill Maitland,
a dour Scot from the granite city of Aberdeen, once told me
when I asked him how he felt down there at the time, 'I'm all
right all the time I can hear the thumps and bangs of the
explosions; it's the silences that I cannot stand.'
One incident happened within a few hours of this attack.
To us in our state of mind at the time it appeared rather
funny, though I cannot imagine the pilot and his crew seeing
our side of it. An old Walrus plane (right - in Kola Inlet, courtesy
NavyPhotos/Alan for Mr S Vallely) from one of the larger
ships of the outer escort, wandered over the convoy, and ran
slap bang into the enemy spotting plane, who immediately
chased the Walrus around the convoy. The Walrus of course
wasn't fast enough to get away, and after making several
attempts to get back to his own ship only to be met by the
spotter each time, thought that discretion was the better
part of valour, and landed on the flat surface of the sea, to
be taken in tow by one of the escorting corvettes.
0n 4th July, American Independence Day 1942, one that a
lot of our American friends will never forget, the sight of
the outer escort of battleships and cruisers, along with
their own destroyer escorts, closing in towards the convoy,
the American ships amongst them having a great display of
flags flying all over the place, had us all guessing for a
time, but suddenly the penny dropped. Someone had realised
what day it was. With the success the convoy had had in
fighting off the attacks, and now the sight of all these
large warships celebrating the day dear to the hearts of the
people of the United States of America, my pride and the
feeling of being safe in their hands came back to me, and I
say once more that I am proud to have been there and to have
witnessed this great display. That the feeling was destined
to be so short-lived is irrelevant.
Even though the skies had kept fairly clear for us, there
had been patches of fog in various parts of the convoy, and
we soon got our share of it. Though it was not too clear at
sea level, there seemed to be clouds of the stuff forming
overhead, but we kept on moving along very nicely. So it was
with great surprise that a single plane dropped through the
clouds and sent a torpedo into one of the merchant ships, the
crew being picked up by one of the rescue ships. Not long
after this the convoy sustained a heavy attack from bombers
flying above the clouds of fog. We could hear them in the
air, but never caught sight of one of them. Yet again while
this was going on, in came more torpedo-carrying planes to
carry out a brave and damaging attack during which two or
three more merchant ships were sunk. As suddenly as it began,
so the attack finished, and all was quiet after the noise of
the exploding bombs and the roar of the many guns of the
convoy. Several of the planes were seen to be shot down by
the members of our crew, and each time a cheer went up from
those who had seen them go down.
By this time we were somewhere to the north of Bear
Island, and this put us well within range of the enemy
airfields in Norway which was not so very far away as the
seagull flies, and as the clouds and fog began to thin out,
we began to think that we would be getting many more of these
heavy attacks. Here we were wrong, for suddenly we saw flag
hoists going up on all the destroyers and the big ships, and
Aldis lamps flashing in all directions. As the outer escort
closed in towards us, we sensed that something out of the
ordinary was going on. It was. A few minutes later the word
was passed around that the convoy was to scatter; apparently
the German Navy had dared to come out from their bases in
Norway after all.* (* In fact they had not. The Admiralty
faced with conflicting intelligence reports, made the wrong
deduction, and sent the 'scatter' signal). Word had come from
the Admiralty in London, and it was to be every ship for
themselves as far as the small escorts and merchant ships
were concerned.
To say that all of us on the Gem were stunned would be
putting it mildly. I can remember the words that I said at
the time, 'What are we splitting up for, we're better off as
we are, on our own we have no chance at all'. The more we
thought and talked about it, the more horrified we became. I
was only twenty-two, and like many others of my age, was
still young enough to want to live and come through this war,
but now I felt that my time had come. It was probably only
because I had a responsible position that I was able to keep
my worst thoughts to myself.
More than two thirds of our crew had never been to sea
before they joined up. One of them acted up badly, constantly
saying to everyone 'We'll never get there, we'll never make
it', and 'We'll never get home again', until in the galley an
hour or so later, I literally had to shake him by the
shoulders to get him to stop saying what most of us were
thinking; by saying it out loud, he was making everyone feel
much worse. Standing on the bridge a bit later on, my own
thoughts sorted themselves out, and I thought, 'Well, we are
a small ship on a very large ocean, and with a bit of luck we
should take some finding.' The sea was my life, and I had
loved every minute of it, but this was different, and I
wondered if my Mother knew what we were going through now, as
she had done in 1940.
The departure of the outer big escort vessels and their
attendant destroyer force, who were joined by the close
escort destroyers, hell bent on getting at the German ships
for a right royal battle, meant the convoy now no longer
existed. The merchant ships, the rescue vessels, and the
remaining small escort corvettes and trawlers, along with the
two ack-ack ships, 'scattered' to all points of the compass.
Ships were making off at their top speed in all directions,
and many had already vanished from our sight over the horizon
by the time we on the Gem realised how serious the situation
was. But here and there we could still see the odd plume of
smoke from one or other of these ships, its crew no doubt
praying as we were for a safe landfall. The deadly game of
hide and seek was on for us once more in deadly earnest, the
ships piling on the revs, and each man with his own thoughts
and a prayer of God Save us.
.
As our speeds through the water were about the same, at
the most about eleven knots, the Lord Austin, Lord Middleton,
and our own ship Northern Gem, decided to stay in each
other's company for mutual protection, and in line ahead we
made to the north to find the edge of the ice. Since the Gem
was German-built it has crossed my mind on more than one
occasion since then as to whether a U-boat skipper, (and one
must have sighted us at some time during the next four days),
from our shape and our silhouette, the ice-breaker bows, and
the cruiser stern, typical of their own fishing vessels,
might have mistaken us for one of their own units, or did he
think that we were not worth one of his torpedoes, or that we
might eventually lead them to bigger game?
Our two lifeboats were now slung out over the port and
starboard rail respectively, ready for a quick getaway in,
the case of an emergency. Owing to the calm sea, there was
very little rolling movement in the ship, and the boats could
be lowered almost level with the ship's rail. Into each one
we put extra food, clothing, and blankets, water, a couple of
gallon jars of navy rum, rifles and quite a lot of ammunition
for those and some revolvers, last but not least we threw in
one or two tins of 'Tickler's', (Tobacco), fag papers and
packets of cigarettes. All of these items were made secure,
along with the mast, sails and oars, in case there were any
accidents, in the event of us having to make a quick getaway.
We had seen too many upturned boats over the last couple of
years which had lost all their equipment, and we were
determined that this would not happen to our boats. The life
rafts of which we had three were also made ready. Two of
these were on small wooden platforms level with the top of
the galley, and over the deck, as they were laid flat on
these platforms, the lashings holding them were released so
that if the ship were hit and went too quickly for us to get
the boats away, they at least would eventually come to the
surface, to give those who had survived something to get into
if they could. The third raft was a different proposition, as
it was secured almost upright on end to the starboard rigging
of the foremast, by quick release grips. But with a ship the
size of the Gem, the chances of anyone being able to get at
these grips to release it would depend on how quickly the
ship was going under. Of course there was always the problem
that a torpedo hit would leave nothing at all, but that was
one of those horrible thoughts that one tried hard to bury at
the back of one's mind. However, we made all the arrangements
that we could to escape as quickly as would be possible under
all but the worst disaster. Now we had to think of ourselves,
as well as the survivors of other ships that we might have to
pick up, and to save time we made certain that the rescue
nets were hung over the sides of the vessel, ready for this
act of mercy should it arise.
Each man put on extra clothing, for the further north we
went, the colder it was getting. Even though the sea was
calm, there was the odd shower of snow now and again; there
were a few fog banks about for the three trawlers to dodge
into, the temperature of the sea being well below freezing
point even though it was summer in the northern hemisphere. A
swim of much more than two minutes and one would lapse into a
deep sleep of unconsciousness, and inevitable death. Apart
from the clothing, we all made certain that we had our
bicycle inner tubes on, the navy issue life belts, our steel
helmets at the ready; also we had our pockets full of
personal things that we did not want to leave behind. One man
even packed a small pusser's suitcase. This gives an idea of
the feeling that was touching every one of the crew. Old
Frampton, the second engineer, who had been called back to
the service after being pensioned off, and now found himself
in a ship that was hardly pusser's Navy, as he had known it
for most of his early life, now had his pension book and all
of his other private papers, hung around his neck in a
well-used oilskin bag, and underneath the few bits of
clothing that those below could stand to wear in the oily
heat below.
The usual ship's joker, Jack Sullivan, when not on the
Asdic set, was helping everyone along with his wit and
joviality. Never seeming to be down in the dumps, he would
always come up with something to make us laugh when we were
feeling low. On our way to the ice barrier, we saw on odd
occasions a ship in the distance either on fire, or lying
abandoned after being attacked, but due to our slow speed and
small amount of armament, we could do little to help. How we
regretted it, we really did. After all, the three skippers of
our small flotilla had about a hundred and sixty men in their
care, and had their lives to consider, as well as their
ship's. Selfish, probably some would say, but those who did
not go through this awful experience have no idea just what
the feeling of self-preservation was at the time, nor how
awful we ourselves felt, knowing that somewhere out there
were probably men in rafts or boats, maybe wounded, but
definitely in serious trouble as the temperatures were
freezing during the night, even though the sun never sets in
those latitudes at that time of the year. Our hearts went out
to those men but we were in no position to give them more.
When I took a spell at the wheel with Leading Seaman Tim
Coleman, as we carried on at top speed to the north, the
showers of snow came down with more frequency, and we could
see far away in the final spells between these showers, a
thin layer of fog low down on the horizon. I told Tim that I
could smell the ice, and that it wasn't so very far away now.
An hour or so later we were in the ice, thin pancake stuff
at first, and then as we pressed further on into it, we got
amongst the smaller floes, and then the larger and more
dangerous lumps. The skippers had to ease down on the speed
of the ships, for safety's sake, and for hours on end which
seemed endless Tim Coleman and myself stayed in the
wheel-house, taking turns at steering the Gem along,
following the open water and leads through the much larger
and more dangerous lumps of ice. Soon there was plenty of ice
between us and the open sea, and we felt that here at least,
we were reasonably secure and safe, from torpedo attacks,
both by U-boat and torpedo-carrying aircraft, should they
find us. What we would do if the enemy bombers found us was
another matter, as there was no room to manoeuvre amongst the
ice, as there was always the chance of being holed, or even
losing blades off the propeller, which would make us or one
of the other trawlers a lame duck. So we were having to take
extreme care when coming upon the much larger floes and small
bergs that were in our path, and we listened intently to
shouts from the top bridge and the men on the forecastle
head, who were keeping a good look-out from both places.
Our CO, Lieutenant Mullender, now let it be known that we
were making all haste for Novaya Zembla, hoping that no
German ships had arrived there before us. If they had, and it
was thought that escape by sea was impossible, then the three
trawlers would be run ashore on one of these God-forsaken
islands. We would then salvage what we could from them and
try to make our way overland and the sea ice, until we found
a settlement, or until we reached the Russian mainland. Not a
very charming or happy prospect to look forward to, but at
least it would be a great deal better than freezing to death
in open boats, if the enemy gave us the chance to get away in
them. Others were now already going through that ordeal much
to our regret. I don't know just how long it took us, but it
seemed an eternity, before we saw on the horizon, two humps
of land rising out of the sea ahead of us, the two islands of
Novaya Zembla.
We made our way carefully out of the ice and into the open
sea once again, all hands now standing at some vantage point
around the ship keeping a good look-out. By this time Tim and
I were having trouble with our eyes, through the constant
staring at the ice for so long. Until getting clear of the
ice we had not needed to use the compass to steer by, but now
in the open sea we found that the only way we could see the
compass points was by almost closing our eyes in
concentration, otherwise we felt as though we were looking
through frosted glass. Distant sight did not seem to be
affected, and later we both found that our eyesight was back
to normal. The order for full ahead was given, and the three
trawlers were soon going full out and making for the gap
between the two islands, the Matochkin Straits. We had at
least made a landfall. The only problem was what was waiting
for us in the straits? Some of our side, or some of theirs?
We kept our fingers crossed very firmly indeed.
When we got closer to the shore, we turned beam on to the
land and the speed of the ships was reduced to allow us to
creep up to the entrance to the straits. This was a vital
period. All eyes, something like three hundred or so of them,
were hypnotized by the sight of the strait opening up like a
page of a picture book. From behind the port side promontory
appeared the bows of a ship, and as the angle of our approach
opened up the straits more of the vessel came into view. In
those first few minutes we thought that the enemy had got
there before us, and were waiting ready to blast us out of
the water, but to our intense relief, an Aldis lamp flashed
in English. We saw that it was a corvette, and the three of
us made our way past the Poppy, for that was her name, to
make for a spot to drop the anchor and come to rest if only
for a short time.
Once in the strait, with the anchor down, we had time to
take a proper look around, and saw the La Malouine, Pozerica,
Palomares and one of the rescue ships, the Zamalek. There
were also three Fleet sweepers, Halcyon,
Salamander and the
Britomart. Five merchant ships had also found their way in to
uneasy safety of the strait, Samuel Chase, Ocean Freedom, El
Capitan, the Hoosier and the Benjamin Harrison. Later there
was another welcome arrival, the corvette Lotus. Her decks
were crammed with survivors; she had gone back after hearing
reports on the RT of ships being bombed and torpedoed, and
had picked up about a hundred men from the sea, and certain
death. What pluck and courage the crew of the Lotus had
shown, with complete disregard for their own safety. If only
the Gem had been able to give us a few more knots, we might
have been able to do the same, but of course we did not have
those few extra knots under our belt. We had to be satisfied
with being one of the lucky ones who had got this far. It had
not seemed possible some twenty to thirty hours previously,
but then neither had the order for the convoy to scatter. Now
here we were at anchor in the Matochkin Strait, between two
almost barren islands, with what may well have been the only
ships remaining out of that magnificent array of fine ships,
Convoy PQ 17. It was unbelievable.
There were, perched on one side of the strait, what
appeared to be a few wooden shacks, which we were told were a
Russian settlement, and we did occasionally see one or two
people moving about, and I seem to remember at one time some
kind of a boat coming alongside from the shore. We were also
told that the strait was alive with fish, but even if we had
felt like putting out the fishing lines, I do not think that
we would have caught any as there was a very strong flow of
water rushing past the ships, suggesting a very strong tide.
However none of the crew had any interest in fishing, for
there were much more important things to do first. There was
not much else to see of the land, the coast appeared to be
very rocky, and there was not much vegetation to be seen. The
two islands were pretty much the same in appearance; from the
shore line the ground climbed steadily upwards, until it came
to the top of the two large 'mountain' tops, which we had
seen when we were coming out of the ice. I remembered that
there were some great plaice fishing grounds around here and
the Sem Islands not so far away, but this was actually the
first time that I had seen these islands in the daylight.
Usually these fishing grounds were worked by trawlers of many
countries, but mostly in the winter months. During the summer
and when it was daylight the trawlers were mostly working the
Bear Island and Spitzbergen grounds, when the ice receded
back towards the North Pole.
While we lay there wondering what was in store for us
next, we talked of the land we could see, and of what it
would be like if we had to try making our way over it, had we
been forced to run our ships onto the shore. I for one would
have been sorry to have had to leave the Gem on that barren
shoreline, for she had been my home for almost three years.
Some people may think me stupid when I say that I loved every
inch of her, and the affection I had for her is still with me
to this day, I often 'walk' around her in my thoughts, and
can remember how sad I was when I learned that she had been
broken up for scrap in the early fifties.
The officers from each vessel in the group of surviving
ones that were anchored in this barren but welcome place,
which was giving us .at least the chance to get a small
amount of respite, went over to the ack-ack ship Palomares
for a conference about what the next move was going to be.
Some sort of plan of action had to be arrived at, because we
all realised that we could not stay in this haven of dubious
relief for very much longer, without being found by the
German bombers. In here there would be no room for manoeuvre,
and we would become sitting targets. Not only that but the
longer we stayed, there was always the chance that U-boats
would be .gathering for the slaughter outside the Strait. The
outcome of this conference, the CO told us when he came back
aboard, was that first the three trawlers had to coal ship,
for supplies were running low; it must have been fifteen or
sixteen days since we had last coaled at Londonderry, and I
don't recall taking any on board during our stay in Iceland
at all. Each trawler went alongside the Ocean Freedom, and
took on a specified amount of the precious stuff; the whole
of the crew got stuck in to the job, and we soon had our
quota down below in the coal bunkers. The CO also told us
that the conference onboard the Palomares had ended with a
unanimous decision to form a small convoy of the ships
already in the strait, along with any others who came in
before we sailed, and try to make our way along the coast of
Novaya Zembla, and into the White Sea, where it was hoped we
should be able to expect some air cover from the Russian Air
Force, and possibly some help from their Navy.
When all was ready, anchors were hove up, and each ship
made its way out of the Matochkin Straits, and back into the
open sea once again. The six merchant ships which included
the rescue ship Zamalek, soon formed themselves into a small
and compact convoy, and the escorts took up their allotted
positions around it. There was a cold wet fog covering the
area, and the visibility was not too good, though we welcomed
it at the time as being heaven sent. Our position in the
screen this time was on the port quarter of the convoy, so we
were between it and the land. We found ourselves alongside
the Ocean Freedom, but there was no freedom in this bloody
ocean. As we steamed along the fog got thicker, and we edged
nearer to the Freedom; at times all that we could see of her
out of the bridge window, despite our close proximity, was
the white foaming water rushing past a dark patch of her
hull; her upper structure could not be seen at all. The ships
in the middle of the group were streaming fog buoys at the
end of a cable, so that the next in line could follow at a
safe distance,. but in this lot there must have been some
very near collisions at various times. My job at the wheel
was to keep as near as I could without actually hitting the
Freedom, and with Tim Coleman keeping a wary eye open
alongside me, it wasn't a hard job.
After steaming along in these conditions for a
considerable period, during which Tim and myself spelled each
other at the wheel and on lookout, we broke out of the fog
into brilliant sunshine and clear blue skies. It was like
walking along a blacked out street at home and opening the
door of the house to walk into a brightly lit room. On
looking around, apart from the Ocean Freedom and ourselves,
there were no other ships to be seen at all. The others had
vanished. At some time in the past hour or so we had got
separated in the fog. That old feeling came back, once more
we felt fear, and this time something else which I find hard
to describe. Only people who have been in, and experienced
that sort of situation can know what I am trying to explain.
It was a horrible lonely feeling of being watched akin
probably to being locked in a haunted house at the dead of
night all on your own.
There were ahead of us to port and starboard banks of fog
lying low in the water, but which of these the other ships
were in was anyone's guess. After a hurried conversation over
the loud hailers, the two skippers decided to make for the
fog bank on the port bow. It seemed to be the nearest and
would also keep us closer to the land, so we steamed for it,
still close alongside each other. It turned out to be a real
pea-souper, and once again we huddled close up to the side of
the big merchant vessel, just close enough for us to be able
to see the dark bulk of her hull at the water line. Both
ships went on in this way for some time, until suddenly on
the water under the fog there was ice, masses of it, too
close to avoid. I was at the wheel, and, as we both saw it,
Tim reached out for the handle of the bridge telegraph,
anticipating the order to go full astern even as he made the
move. There was no order for an alteration of course, and in
the bridge Tim and I stood there, bracing ourselves for the
inevitable crunch, for there was no time to do anything else.
The old Gem hit it stem on, and with the forward momentum
of the ship, the ice-cracker bows started to lift up into the
air, and right on to the thick layer of ice. The order came
down the voice pipe to stop engines. She had gone onto the
ice almost up to the foremast, and stayed in that position
for a few seconds, then broke through and was afloat once
more along the whole of her length, shivering from the shock
of the impact, and the way she had launched herself back into
the sea.
The voice pipe from the top bridge came back to life
again, with the CO shouting down it, 'Coxs'n, go forward and
see if she is taking any water in, and check for any signs of
damage'.
Leaving Tim in the wheelhouse, I ran down the ladder and
onto the deck, and forward to the fore-peak hatch. Lifting it
up after knocking away the wedges holding the tarpaulin cover
on, I peered down expecting to hear water gushing in from a
hole, caused by the first explosive meeting between the
ship's bows and the solid layer of ice, but I could hear no
more than the sound of the lumps of ice, hitting the ship's
side with the motion of the swell. Going down the ladder into
the fore-peak with a couple of the seamen, I left them to
have a look around, while I made my way into the cable locker
where the anchor chain is stowed when it comes inboard as the
anchor is hauled in. I could see no signs of any damage by
the light of the torch that we always kept handy down there,
nor was there any water, except for the usual amount that was
down there at any given time. So breathing a sigh of relief,
I made my way back onto the deck, from where I shouted up to
the CO on the top bridge that she was dry, and that
everything was OK. She was snuff dry. The old girl had
brought us through again. What a fine ship she was; they had
certainly built her well in Bremerhaven. Thanks jerry, I
thought to myself.
While I was inspecting the fore-peak, some conversation
had been going on via the loud hailer, with the Ocean
Freedom. Apparently she had not been as fortunate as the Gem.
With her square cut stem and her huge dead weight of cargo,
plus the speed at which we both had been going through the
water, she had not been able to ride up on to the ice as we
had done. She had gone right into it and had finished up with
a fair-sized hole in her bows. This, although it was not too
bad, was serious enough for her to have to cut her speed down
by a knot or two. Eventually we both went astern to get clear
of the ice, and with the Gem again taking up station on her
port side, the Ocean Freedom, now having to keep down the
flood of water which was entering through the hole in her
bow, set off in the general direction which would we hoped
take us to the entrance of the White Sea. The fog was still
thick, but skirting the edge of the ice which we could still
see faintly, and keeping a weather eye on the spot ahead
where the fog met the sea, we both plodded along at a reduced
speed.
As had happened before, we shortly burst out of the fog
into the blue skies and sunshine, and there a few miles ahead
of us were the rest of our small convoy. They were under air
attack. We could see the black specks of the aircraft and the
flashes of sun glinting on perspex noses and cockpit covers
as they wheeled about over the ships, and in the water
alongside them we could see huge fountains of water rising
into the air from the bursting bombs. Later we were to find
that the Hoosier, and the El Capitan had been sunk, and that
all the other vessels had suffered from near misses. The Gem
and Freedom now went along at the best possible speed to
rejoin the other ships. The sky over them looked as though it
was now clear of aircraft, and we hoped that the planes had
gone for good. But they did not give up so easily. When we
got to within a couple of miles of the convoy or what was
left of it, we saw coming up over the horizon some six or
eight aircraft, and we noticed with not a little apprehension
that this time they were making for us and the Ocean Freedom.
In no time at all they were on us, and bombs were falling all
over the place. The Ocean Freedom vanished from our sight two
or three times, and we thought that she had gone, but each
time she came out of the deluge of foam and spray caused by
the near miss explosions of the bombs. We wondered how long
the luck would last. Answering an enquiry from our CO, her
Captain shouted across that she had suffered some damage but
nothing that they could not handle. Almost as quickly as it
had started, the attack finished. The silence after the noise
of the bomb explosions and the chattering of the guns was
startling. Now there was just the noise of the sea rushing
past the Gem's hull as we made all speed to get back into the
company of the other vessels. Finally we made it, and away on
the horizon ahead of us we could see land. It must have been
around midnight because the big red orb of the sun just
touched the horizon for a few minutes and then started its
climb back into the heavens to start off another day. It was
11th July 1942.
During the next few hours before we reached the White Sea
there were a couple of half-hearted attacks by the Luftwaffe,
but none of the now much smaller convoy suffered any further
damage. We were met by two British fleet sweepers, and a
couple of Russian ships which helped to escort us out of the
Barents Sea, and into the confines of the White Sea proper.
We were almost at our destination, though not quite for we
now had to wait for the Russian pilots to come on board to
take us up the River Dvina, and up to our moorings at
Archangel, or wherever they decided to put us.
