This leave from the Northern Gem after our return from
Russia, was to prove my last from her. Arriving back in
Belfast, we found that the minor repair jobs onboard had been
completed, and we now got down to the work of getting stores
onboard, cleaning the ship up and getting her ready for sea
again. We had the usual shore leave, the odd pub crawl, met
old friends, made new ones. Then we sailed out of Belfast
once more, helping to escort the convoys of ships out to
Iceland, or on the first leg of their journey to the various
destinations around the world to which they were bound. If we
sailed out into the vast and open spaces of the Atlantic, we
would still stay with the ships until we reached the halfway
boundary, then switch over to another lot of ships that were
on their way back to England and home.
Our job then would be to shepherd this new flock of ours,
laden down as they were with food and war materials, both
below and above decks some looking for all the world like
huge piles of timber, with mast bridge and funnel stuck on
the top, in the general direction of the Western Approaches,
and say to ourselves, 'Well, that's that bit over, thank God,
Now we are on the homeward trek.'
Some of these convoys turned out to be rougher than
others. On one nothing untoward would happen, and then the
next one would turn out to be a running battle with the
U-boats. There were occasions when one or other of these
U-boats got into the centre of the convoy, and created havoc
amongst the merchant ships before the escorts found and
attacked them. Rumours were rife on these occasions: such and
such a corvette had clobbered a U-boat on the surface, and
that her skipper had been so incensed that he did not stop to
pick up any survivors, but just kept running them down until
none were left. Now this may or may not have been true, but I
do know the feeling after having seen some of your own
countrymen, going down with their ships with no chance to be
picked up, others, smothered in fuel oil, and choking and
coughing their hearts up, their lungs burning away inside
their bodies. Then there were those who froze to death before
your eyes, just out of reach, and all you could say was,
'Christ almighty, I can't get to him'. Why such things were
allowed to happen I don't suppose that I shall ever know.
What was to prove to be the last trip that I would do on
the old Northern Gem, began on either 21st or 22nd of April
1943, when we sailed from Londonderry to join up with a
convoy bound across the Atlantic, consisting of forty-two
vessels, and was, from the way we waddled through the water
when we had taken up our position on the starboard quarter, a
slow convoy of about six or seven knots. After about a week
or so during which the weather had been very bad with strong
to gale force winds and heavy seas, causing the merchant
ships quite a problem as a lot of them were in ballast, and
they were being flung about like empty cans, by the long and
turbulent heaving seas of the North Atlantic, we of the
escort vessels were beginning to get weary from trying to
keep the forty-two ships within the convoy confines.
The Northern Gem, although pirouetting about like a cork,
was nevertheless weathering the storms well. She took nothing
in the way of heavy water onboard, but was continuously being
swept by spray and spume, which travelling at the speed of
bullets, rat-tat-tatted on the bridge windows, making the
look-outs on the top bridge, which was open to everything
that the weather could throw at it, duck down below the
canvas screens fastened to the rails forming the outer limits
of the navigation bridge. In weather like this one was nearly
always wet through, no amount of oilskins or protective
clothing was adequate enough to keep one dry. Fortunately in
the majority of trawlers, the engine room staff would always
allow you to hang your wet and soaking gear to dry on a line
stretched above the engines.
So now on a northerly course to pass to the west of
Iceland, ONS5 wallowed its way along through the heavy seas,
the escorts pulling out all the stops trying to keep the
convoy together, not wanting to let the ships wander off to
split up into small groups. This was no small task in the
prevailing weather, and for the four trawlers whose top speed
in fine conditions was ten or eleven knots, it was a problem
to catch up with the convoy again, once they had been
dispatched to round up the stragglers. Once alongside a
straggler, to tell him to wind the elastic up a bit, the few
words of reply that were not being blown away by the wind,
were nothing short of blasphemy, but more often than not they
gave us something to laugh about, even though it was a
serious game we were playing.
Once we had passed Iceland, and turned on to a more
westerly course towards Newfoundland, the wind and seas eased
down considerably, and soon we had a smooth calm sea with a
long rolling swell, common to the deeper water of the North
Atlantic. This was U-boat weather, and soon we suffered the
first casualty, the American freighter McKeesport, which was
hit by a torpedo around about breakfast time on 29th April.
As we were the nearest trawler to her, we were sent back to
pick up the survivors from her. Her crew never got their feet
wet as they came alongside the Gem in one of the ship's
lifeboats and climbed comfortably onto our deck. The only
exceptions were two dead men whom they had towed from the
stricken McKeesport, who were given a burial held in front of
all their shipmates, the service being read from a well
thumbed Bible.
This was the stage of the war when I first began to
realise that the strain was beginning to get at me. I had
been almost four years in the Northern Gem, and much of that
time had been continuous sea-time, I really did not know how
much longer I would be able to stick it out, but I would not
give in voluntarily, as to me that would have been cowardly.
So I decided to say nothing for the time being and to stick
it out until I could face it no longer. As coxswain I felt it
my duty not to show fear in front of the crew, even though I
felt it as much as they did at times. It was that thought
which kept me going, for I like to think that they looked to
me for courage and support, but the strain was terrific.
The larger escorts were now beginning to run short of
fuel; at first it had been the bad weather which had stopped
them refuelling, but now that the seas had flattened out a
little and the wind had gone, the threat of enemy action put
them off, for it was too dangerous for the escorts to hang on
to the end of a fuel line from a tanker for too long.
We had so many survivors onboard, that Mullender had to
get permission from the escort commander (I believe) to leave
the convoy and head for Newfoundland on our own, as we were
down to a state of severe rationing, both of food and water.
Due to the speed of the convoy if we had stayed with it, we
should have had neither food nor water to last the remainder
of the trip. There were about two hundred and fifty merchant
seamen spread out all over the ship by the time we got
permission to leave. I have a blank spot about parts of this
voyage, probably caused by the state of my nerves, the
constant attacks on the convoy, the lying stopped while
picking up men from the water during the attacks. All this
coupled with the worry of sleeping, feeding, and fending for
all onboard, caused me to lose track of the majority of
events which were going on around me.
Leaving the convoy was a relief in one sense, but it only
increased the worry for Mullender. I think that we were all a
little reluctant to leave, and yet at the same time perfectly
glad to do so, if one can understand that kind of
muddle-headed reasoning. When we left, Skipper Mullender
decided that it would be better if we made for the ice, as we
had done the previous year, on the PQ 17 debacle, knowing
that if we reached it without being attacked, there would be
a better chance of surviving to reach St John's. The ice,
this early summer of 1943, was much further south than was
normal for this time of year, and although there were a few
thick patches of fog here and there which to some extent we
were pleased to see, there were also patches of clear blue
sunny skies, and the little bit of wind which was helping the
movement of the ice south, was enough to burn the skin if you
were not careful. Three of our stokers, fed up with the very
crowded conditions of the mess deck, decided to sleep out in
the open on top of the engine room casing, and later found
themselves in some trouble with severe wind and sun burn.
They went in front of the CO for not being able to carry out
their duties, and were very fortunate to get off with a
caution from Mullender, who said he thought that they were
suffering enough from the burns and from letting their mates
down through their stupidity, but he warned them not to come
in front of him again with a similar thing.
We were not short of look-outs for most of the men we had
picked up came along and volunteered for something or other,
either below deck in the bunkers or stoke-hold or engine
room, or on the deck as extra lookouts or watch keepers. But
there were still the few, as we had found on other occasions,
who would go below for no one, not even to eat or sleep, for
the thought of what would happen if the Northern Gem were to
be torpedoed was never very far from anyone's mind. With
close on three hundred men onboard, most of us realised that
being on deck would not help much in the event anyway. If she
had got one under the forward mess deck where the magazine
was situated, we'd not have known a thing, and if hit in the
engine room she would have gone like one of those iron ore
carriers which we had seen vanish before our eyes.
Then of course there was the ice. Small floes were not so
bad for our ice-cracker bows were a big help there. It was
the very big bergs that worried us; they were like great
cliffs or shaped similar to cathedrals, and if we had run
into one of those stem on then that would have been the end.
Not many days later, looming up out of the fog, we saw the
dark bulk of the land, and quite suddenly we were in
brilliant sunshine again, and there ahead we saw the two
great headlands, denoting the entrance to the natural harbour
of St John's Newfoundland. As we approached, the coastguard
station on the top of one of the high cliffs which stick up
so solidly out of the sea, started flashing to us wanting to
know who we were and where we were from. The sea between us
and the headlands was as smooth and as shiny as a sheet of
glass, and as we steamed into the hive of activity that was
St John's Harbour, I looked out of the bridge windows to see
that both our port and starboard rails were packed with men
all staring, in wonder of the fact that we had got there at
all. We could see some of the other escorts of our group, and
I wondered what had happened to the convoy after we left.
It was the last time I saw any action with the Gem and her
crew, for it was to be my last trip in her, and also Skipper
Mullender's.
I steered the Gem in between the headlands, and up to the
quayside of St John's. The worry and the strain of the last
week or so gradually gave way to a feeling of excitement,
born first from the relief of tension, secondly from the
knowledge that at last we had arrived safely, and thirdly,
that we had never before been right across the 'pond', the
Atlantic. True we had seen the coast and the mountains of
that icy land called Greenland, whilst searching for
survivors in the Denmark Straits some time before, but this
was the first time that we had actually gone into a harbour
on the other side of the pond, and put our mooring ropes
ashore.
Our first task now, once the survivors had been taken
ashore, was to get back to a normal routine, with all hands
taking part in a general clean up of the ship, getting her
shipshape and Bristol fashion once again, and did she need
it! The accumulation of oil on the decks took some removing,
especially in the messdecks where oily clothing had been cut
off some of the survivors as they had been taken below. Most
of this discarded clothing had been gathered up and put into
the sacks dumped on to the jetty for disposal by burning; any
other discarded clothing which could be used again, was
placed in other bags ready to be sent ashore to a laundry for
washing, and when they were returned clean, they would be put
below with the rest of the remaining survivors kits in the
store, ready to use again.
Previously, it had cost the crew of the Gem money from
their own pockets, in order to replace their own gear from
the 'slops' ashore, which they had given to the survivors
that we had picked up. We did not begrudge doing this at all,
far from it, but there had been times when we, or some of us,
had nothing left to change into at all. This gave us the idea
of washing any clothing left behind ourselves, for the future
use of men pulled from the sea, and even when we started to
get these 'survivors' kits' onboard the idea stuck, and
helped us no end. All the men who had been picked up on this
last trip and had needed a change of clothing, had been given
a survivor's bag. By and large it was mostly the engineers
and firemen who had been below and had not had time to dash
to their cabins for some warm clothing who needed it the
most. It also was these poor devils who were the casualties
or the missing when a ship was hit by torpedoes and sunk.
After the chores were finished and the survivors whisked
away, shore leave was given to all except a minimum of men
who were to keep a watch on board in the event of the ship
having to be moved to a different part of the harbour. Those
who went ashore did so, or so they said, with the idea of
finding something to take home to their girl friends, wives
or mothers. Then there were those who did not get past the
first bar or club, some went to the cinema, others had their
own ideas of what shore leave consisted of, though this did
not appeal to as many as rumour has it. With our signalman
Charlie Keen, I and one or two more of the communications
branch had a run ashore to do a bit of shopping and to have a
look around the place. As far as I can remember from the
short time that we were there, it reminded me of a frontier
town of the kind that you saw on the films in those days, as
I suppose it was really. We then went back to the Gem, dumped
our parcels and got changed into some old clothes, then
walked around the harbour towards the outlet to the sea. Once
there we climbed to the top of one of the headlands, the sort
of exercise we required after being cooped up on the ship.
The view from the top was well worth the climb. Looking out
to seaward we could see for miles and miles out over the calm
sunlit waters of the Atlantic, and we sat and talked about
how lucky we were to have made it so far, and wondered how
many poor devils were still trying to reach this peaceful
haven. On the way to the top of this headland, we had passed
several pools of water which were crystal clear; someone
suggested a swim and I think that we were all in agreement,
until some one came forward with the idea that we touch the
water first. When we did we realised that these were pools of
melted ice and snow. I'm sure they would have given us a
heart attack if we had dived in first. Charlie Keen and I
were taken back in our thoughts to Norway where we had been
prisoners of the Germans in May 1940; there was a similarity
in the terrain and certainly in the coldness of the ice
pools. Charlie and I joined the Northern Gem together in
September 39, and he was to remain with her until she herself
was demobbed in 1945.
The ships in the harbour looked like toy boats moving
across a pond and not the huge merchant vessels which they
really were. If we had not known where the Northern Gem lay
we would never have been able to pick her out at all. She
appeared so tiny that we all voiced the same opinion, that
you would not think a ship of that size could cross the
Atlantic. Yet she had done so, as had many others, some much
smaller than her. On our walk around the town, we noticed
that most of the buildings were constructed of wood, and that
they were painted in many colours, the whole town being
surrounded by large trees. It was indeed showing a
resemblance to the scenery in North Russia.
Soon we were on the move again, this time to join a convoy
which had left Halifax in Nova Scotia a day or so earlier. We
were to be one of the escorts to help it reach the confines
of the Western Approaches safely, our own destination
Liverpool. In spite of our forecasts of another great convoy
battle with many ships sunk and a host of survivors to pick
up, surprisingly we had a comparatively quiet journey home.
None of us realised it at the time, but there were apparently
very few U-boats remaining in the North Atlantic, for their
losses had been so great over the months of May and June,
that they had been withdrawn to other areas, by their
Commander in Chief Admiral Donitz. From that time on the
battleground of the Atlantic, remained fairly quiet to what
it had been over the previous years. But quiet or not, this
was to be the last time I would cross the Atlantic towards
the New World. My time in the Northern Gem was coming to an
end the closer we got to England.
After a quiet voyage during which time we all lived like
fighting cocks, (veal, ham, beef, and pork, you name it we
had it to eat – in fact believe it or not, it was a
pleasant change to get baked beans on a piece of fried bread)
we arrived at the approaches to the Irish Sea, where we were
despatched from the convoy to proceed to Liverpool. Skipper
Mullender sent for me to tell me that when we got alongside,
his relief would be waiting, and that he would be going
ashore straightaway, this time for good, and we all said our
farewells. Mine in particular, for he had been a good friend
to me. His parting words to me were, 'You won't be long after
me, Cox. Look me up when you get back to Lowestoft.'
We put to sea again for reasons which I cannot remember
now, but we returned the next day to Liverpool, putting into
one of the docks this time. It was not long before Mr Pooley
came down to see me, to tell me that my relief would be
onboard the next day.
Strangely enough my relief was another Hull man, an
ex-fisherman like myself. I had known him slightly, as I
gathered all my personal belongings together, I found one or
two things which I thought would be more useful on the Gem
than if I took them with me, my Arctic clothing for instance,
I should not want them while I sat for my mate's certificate
in Lowestoft.
After my last walk around the Gem, I said goodbye to those
of the officers and men that I had known for so long, hoisted
my case and kit-bag onto the quayside, and made my way to the
railway station, taking a last look back before I got behind
the cargo sheds on the dock side, and out of sight of the
ship that had been my home for so long. I had brought her
into harbour and into the dock for the last time without a
pilot, or any orders or interference from any of the
officers, and she had become like an extension of my right
arm, if anyone can understand what I mean. On odd occasions I
had stood four hours on and four hours off-watch for one or
other of the officers when they had been under the weather
through illness. And apart from the small part of her that I
keep in my heart, plus the key and brass identity disc of the
oilskin locker which I still have to this day, my best and
most cherished memento is a letter written by Mullender some
years later in which he told me, 'You are the best coxswain
that I had all the time I was in the service'. I cherish this
letter for that, and because I believe him to be the best
skipper that I went to sea with, I would have gone anywhere
with him, for he understood men and was very fair in his
dealings with his crew on the occasions that he had to deal
out punishment for their misdemeanours. Very rarely did he
lose his temper or vent his spleen on anyone, be it officer
or rating. I don't want to appear big-headed when I say this,
but the Northern Gem was a damn good ship, and she had a good
and contented crew, because of the mutual respect between
officers and men. Not many vessels were so lucky.
Chapter Nine
THE AFRICAN COASTAL FLOTILLA
NOT INCLUDED
Chapter Ten
MGB177
NOT INCLUDED
Chapter Eleven
WAR IN EUROPE ENDS AND HOME WE GO
NOT INCLUDED
EPILOGUE - THE SPARROW'S NEST
The Sparrows Nest was originally a country estate; it was
taken over by the local authorities to be used as a park for
the public at large in Lowestoft. In 1939, it consisted of
amenities such as a concert hall, some conservatories, and an
open air stage amongst other things. Elsie and Doris Waters
were appearing there when the war broke out, and the Sparrows
Nest then became HMS Pembroke X. It was to become the
rallying ground and the base for men of the Royal Naval
Reserve and later Hostilities Only men, all to be classed as
the Royal Naval Patrol Service, an assembly point for all the
brave men who were to be sent on their various drafts, to
many parts of the world, to ships, depots, and all the places
that were to come into contact with, and to be used for war
purposes.
The Sparrows Nest, eventually became HMS Europa, and was
so until the end of the war when both the Germans and the
Japanese were beaten and all the 'Sparrows' were demobilized
and sent home for good.
In October 1953, a memorial was unveiled by Admiral of the
Fleet Sir Roderick McGrigor; on its base were 17 bronze
panels bearing the names of some 2,385 officers and men of
the RNPS, the Royal Naval Patrol Service, who died at sea in
action, and have 'No Known Grave but the Sea.'
On October 6th 1979, I went back to the 'Nest', 34 years
after I last saw it, to be at the Memorial Service there held
beneath this lovely tall column of gleaming white stone. At
its peak a replica of the Golden Hind, shining brightly in
the sun of that early winter day. Reading the names on the
bronze panels of the many men who did not come back, here and
there I found the names of some of the lads I had sailed with
in pre-war days of fishing; there were also two I had known
on the Northern Gem, it was a sad but very moving occasion
and many memories came back.
One happy thing happened on that visit to Lowestoft. A
meeting took place between my wife and me, and Tim Coleman
and his wife Lily. It was the first time that we had seen or
spoken to each other for 34 years, and it all happened by
chance. As we walked around Lowestoft, we passed a telephone
kiosk and I said to my wife, 'Just let's have a look at the
phone book in there'. Selecting a 'Coleman' from the group of
8 or 10 on the page, I dialled the number. It was Lily who
answered the phone, and I then spoke to Tim, who thought I
had come back from the dead. He sent his daughter whom we had
nursed on our knees all those years ago, to pick us up in her
car, and when we arrived at his home, they were waiting for
us at the garden gate. The meeting was similar to the This is
Your Life programme on the television. We kept in touch by
phone and letter after that, and he told me that it was weeks
before he got over the shock of hearing my voice, and stopped
shaking.
I'm sorry to say that he has since passed away, and to the
best of my knowledge, there are only two of the old crew
left, myself and Charlie Keen who was the Gem's signalman,
and the longest serving member of her I believe. We keep in
touch by phone and by letter, and one of these days before it
gets too late, we shall meet for the first time since 1945,
we shall have a lot to talk about. I have not been able to
trace any others of her crew, it is possible that some are
still around. If they are and they happen to read this, I say
Dosvi Danya.
Sid Kerslake Fleetwood 1983
