With our heterogeneous mixture we were bundled off on the Northern Patrol. Gun crews formed of men who had never seen a gun before, much less fired one. Small wonder then that when with the Fleet one night at “night firing”, the ship towing target for us signalled that it was quite all right, “we were not hitting her, but would we mind firing at the target, which was some few hundred yards astern of her.”
The Oceanic was really far too big for that patrol and in consequence it was not long before she crashed on to one of the many outlying reefs and was lost.
The fog was as thick as the proverbial hedge when she ripped up on the rocks; and in all fairness one could not lay the blame on the navigator — my old shipmate of many years, Davy Blair — trying as he was to work that great vessel amongst islands and mostly unknown currents.
The fact remains that early one morning she caught this outlying reef, and was pounded to pieces by the huge sea then running. Lying broadside on to the reef, with the tide setting strong on to it, she was held there, lifting and falling each time, with a horrible grinding crash. I know it nearly broke my heart to feel her going to bits under my very feet, after all these years. The sensation, as those knife-edged rocks ground and crunched their way through her bilge plates, was physically sickening.
How she held together long enough for us to get everyone out of her was a miracle in itself, and certainly testified to the good work put in by Harland and Wolff.
What with the heavy sea and swift current — to say nothing of the fog — we had our work cut out to get the stokers and engineers away without loss of life. With the seamen, and eventually the officers, although the weather conditions had become markedly worse, the operation was somewhat easier. Our much discussed Hebredian contingent certainly shone that day. The calm and collected manner in which they went about their work made it seem as if abandoning ship, under such trying conditions as then existed, was of daily occurrence with them — personally I was tremendously glad of their self-reliant help, and proud of their fearless ability.
We stood by in the boats till next morning when another ship of the Patrol turned up in response to our wireless signals. All the same, I couldn’t resist taking my boat back alongside what was left, at daylight, to have a last look at my old love — this, despite frantic signals from our rescuer who, as it turned out, had just had information regarding an enemy submarine in the vicinity.
I jumped on board the old hooker for a quick look round. A last glance at the old cabin where I had spent so many comfortable hours — and damnably uncomfortable ones. Then, just as I was rushing out to return to my boat, whose crew were expecting the ship to roll over on top of them every minute, I spotted the ship’s clock on the bulkhead. The clock I had looked at so lovingly, when I came below for eight long hours, but whose inevitable fingers I had cursed so heartily as they drew inexorably nearer the last zero minute, when I must at last leap out of my warm bunk to hurriedly dress, and dash for the bridge.
All these and many other memories seemed to lie behind that smug and friendly face. On the impulse of the moment, I seized it in both hands, and tore it bodily from off its wooden wall, and bore it away in triumph.
I still look at it and call up many happy memories — but now on board my own little craft.
I got a severe strafeing from the impatient skipper, who said I was responsible for more grey hairs in his already grey head; I didn’t mind his grousing, I had my clock.
I was never so fond of any ship as the Oceanic, either before or since, and her loss was like the snapping of the last link that held me to the Merchant Service and the White Star Line. Aboard her it had been like carrying my home to the War, but now I felt I was into the War neck and crop.
Back to barracks at Devonport, a cushy job for those that liked to start playing bridge in the forenoon and continue consistently throughout the day. I’m not particularly fond of Bridge, immediately after breakfast, even if there was a War.
Davy Blair, my old Oceanic pal, and I volunteered for a job that we had got wind of in the Flag Lieutenant’s office. The main qualification for the men who were to get it, we were told, as that they should be “Hard Cases.” Well, Davy and I had both done the Western Ocean, and knew it in its worst moods these many years. If the Mail Boat Service didn’t qualify us as far as weather was concerned, then nothing ever would.
We were accepted and told to get fixed up with fishermen’s rig, such as is use by the Brixham trawlers. A visit down sailor town soon completed the outfit, blue jersey, smock, rough serge pants, heavy weather cap, and seaboots, making us the imitation of a perfect fisherman. My first disguise! And if I looked as big a fool as I felt, then I’d need to be sorry for the success of our venture.
Davy was given a section of the coast from Newquay round the Lizard including Falmouth to Dodman point. Here my section ended and carried on past Mevagissey, Looe, round by Plymouth, Start Bay, Dartmouth and on past Tor Bay to Teignmouth. A fairly big patrol with a roving commission to find out what I could get, and report back in a week’s time to the C. in C. Devonport. My craft was a pure and simple Brixham smack, with no attempt to disguise the discomforts.
I arranged with my wife to meet me in Brixham in a couple of days’ time, and for her to do a bit of snooping on her own account along the shore side. Also I asked the Flag Lieutenant to take the necessary precaution of notifying the War Stations and Coastguards along the coast and any others likely to trip me up.
We sailed away merrily into the teeth of a S.W. gale and I can truly say, it was somewhat different from sea going in an Atlantic liner.
After cruising along that ironbound coast from Bolt Tail to the Start, we at last got a bit of welcome shelter in Start Bay. The weather easing down, we cruised along close in shore making slowly for Berry Head. Just before opening the Dart, I was examining the cliffs of Penlee Point just outside Dartmouth, with a pair of strong glasses, when I noticed two sets of steps cut in the cliff and leading down to deep water. Nothing terribly unusual, but odd. However, I tucked it away for future reference, pushed on to Brixham, and trotted off ashore to make tough with the Coastguard, as arranged with my wife. Of course, in Brixham every one knows everyone; therefore it was perfectly apparent that for one thing I didn’t belong, and for another that I was no fisherman.
I trudged out to the Head to find that no lady of that nor any other description had been along nor had they been notified as to anyone of my name, type, size or build, and furthermore, not to put too fine a point on it, who was I anyway?
My advice to them was to get in touch with the C. in C. and find out. Meantime I clumped off back, smock, seaboots and all. Half way down the hill I met an antiquated growler coming up, and sitting in it was the wife of my bosom.
At the first hail the cabby just looked, but he did not stop. At the second hail he did stop and leaning through the cab window I informed the lady that I had already been to the coastguard and that they didn’t know me from a crow, but were evidently out to satisfy their own curiosity. Well! We’d try and make for an hotel and get some inward comfort. This we did, and as I opened the door of the cab and took the seat beside my wife, an audible whisper went round from the crowd that by this time had collected, “E’s got in with ‘er.”