In the mess hall there were soldiers from an assortment of units, some being new intake; at one mealtime the Orderly Officer accompanied by the Orderly Sergeant arrived. The Orderly Sergeant yelled out, “Any complaints?” “Yes.” came a voice. The pair approached the voice and the officer asked, “Yes, my man and what is your complaint?” “This tea.” “What’s the matter with it?” “It’s ‘orrible.” “Let me taste it,” said the officer as he bravely sipped from the far side of the mug, “there’s nothing wrong with tea, it’s as good as I get at home.” “Hmm, bloody fine ‘ome you comes from then!” There was a stunned silence; this was beginning to look interesting. “Take his name and number, sergeant,” said the officer, “and charge him.” I believe some leniency was shown because this lad was very new to the army and the army had not yet had time to drill the lively civilian spirit out of him.
I was on three overseas drafts, for the first one I was ‘waiting man’; that meant that if any man were to be taken off the draft then I would replace him. I had seven days embarkation leave but the draft was complete without me. Again for the second draft I had seven days embarkation leave and I set off on the Southern Railway bound for Reading where I would change to the Great Western Railway. I was a bit like a Sherpa porter as in addition to all my normal gear I also had a kitbag with my tropical kit. On the first leg of the journey I was chatting to another soldier who was going on his normal leave to his South Wales home; he also would have to change trains at Reading but would be catching a different one. Seeing me struggling with all my gear he offered to carry some for me; I gave him my heavier kitbag. He got off the train before me and disappeared into the crowd and that was the last I saw of him. I searched the platforms and reported the episode to the RTO but there was no sign of my property. Disillusioned, I went on with my journey determined to enjoy my seven days at home. When I got back to Aldershot I had to report my loss which consisted not only of army property but also a lot of my personal stuff; I had to repay the army, however I was able to tell the authorities the man’s unit, rank, South Wales destination, train time and date, and they traced him for me. He didn’t dispute the facts but said that as he was in a hurry to catch his train he left my kitbag on a platform. He was lying of course but we couldn’t prove anything and I had learned a costly lesson. The draft was cancelled.
By this time many of us had been transferred from the RAOC into the newly formed Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, REME, changing our ranks from privates to craftsmen, this sounded good but we were still at the bottom of the totem pole. Towards the end of 1942 I was on my third draft, identified as RDGFA which some wags said stood for ‘REME draft going far away’. We gathered at Ramillies Barracks in Aldershot filling in time with some regimental training under a Canadian corporal who, disregarding our medical groupings for we were a very mixed bunch, proceeded to run us around a battle course that included an eight-foot high jump. He was pretty tough himself; with one wrist in a plaster cast he led us in traversing across a gap by means of a horizontal rope.
At this time I began to ponder the future, weighing my chances of surviving unscathed, surviving maimed or not surviving at all. I had no sound data to base my reasoning on but knew that Germany, seemingly invincible, had taken over three years to advance well into Russia and North Africa and that the Allies would take at least that time to reverse the situation; surviving unscathed appeared to be a remote possibility but one could always hope.
Again we were issued with a second kitbag and tropical uniforms. Where were we going? None of us knew and with the army’s art of deception we could have been going to a cold place. After a further seven days embarkation leave we returned to Aldershot, regrouped and took a train to London. From there we boarded a troop train and headed north on the old LNER line stopping at last at a transit camp at Cottingham near Hull. Lugging our two kits around was a bit of a chore. We were due to leave again the following day so a couple of us went into Hull that evening to a cinema along with two NAAFI lasses. The incongruity of the situation struck me when we came out; it was too late to get anything to eat or to get a bus back to camp. Outside the cinema a man was selling hot chestnuts and these were our only nourishment but we went back to camp in grand style, we took a taxi.
The next day we entrained again this time bound for Glasgow but we didn’t know it. At the docks we saw our floating home, His Majesty’s Transport Antenor. At first sight HMT Antenor seemed to be not unlike my early childish drawings of ships, high fo’castle, a low forward well-deck, high superstructure, a low aft well-deck and a high stern structure. Both well-decks had raised hatch covers that gave access to the lower decks and the centre superstructure carried the lone funnel. We were told that she was part of the Blue Funnel Line that normally operated in the far-eastern waters carrying passengers and freight. In single file, wearing our webbing and with our kitbags slung over our shoulders we slowly mounted the gangplank. At the top of the gangplank we were directed to our quarters, draft RDGFA went aft to the lowest deck; although there were portholes on that level the actual deck was just below the water-line and the portholes were sealed shut. Mess tables covered the deck, they were all of a similar pattern with attached bench seats but varying in length to conform to the contours of the ship. Overhead was a multiplicity of hooks to accommodate the hammocks with which we would soon be issued. Kapok life-jackets were given out with strict instructions not to use them as pillows but we were not told how long they could remain in the water before they became waterlogged. Soon we settled in.
GOING SOUTH
One of the initial joys of being aboard ship was to be supplied with soft white bread and ample amounts of butter, things that were unobtainable in wartime Britain. The ship still carried passengers and freight, the commissioned ranks were the passengers while the other ranks were freight; eggs were served daily to the former, sometimes returned uneaten but with a cigarette butt stabbed through their yolks but nary an egg was seen at our tables We had jam and marmalade in plenty, coming in seven-pound tins, some of it from South Africa, apfelkoos confit that I believe was apricot jam, that’s what it tasted like anyway. We were really quite well fed but being young and healthy we could always manage more; occasionally after dark the cookhouse would be raided and the raw carrots and turnips that had been prepared for the following day would be added to our diets.
It was not long before the army had us all organised into mess orderlies, guards, fatigue parties and anything else that would keep us out of mischief. Soon the engines rumbled and we were off or so we thought but the excitement was short lived, we moved down the Clyde and stopped off Gourock, in Loch Long. The wise ones among us said that we had to wait for a convoy to form but we waited there for two weeks while other ships and convoys came and went; it was a frustrating experience in a confined space.
Of the many ships around one was pointed out to us, the Queen Elizabeth (the first one), she had never seen passenger service having been completed during the war, now in the distance we could see her, painted in battleship grey, serving as a troopship. One night or early morning when we were nicely tucked up in our hammocks we were awakened by the rumble of the engines again and we sensed motion; action at last, HMT Antenor was under way, going down the Clyde. With the coming of the dawn we could see other ships in the convoy, merchant ships and our naval escort. We passed Arran and entered the North Channel and that was as far as our schoolday geography took us. Speculation was rife as to our eventual destination but there was no shortage of opinion amongst our amateur navigators who tried to calculate speed, distance and direction as we moved into the open waters. As time went by the seas became more and more disturbed and the good ship Antenor pitched and rolled with them; it would later transpire that we were entering the tail end of one of the worst North Atlantic storms of the season. Life-lines were fitted to facilitate a safe passage on deck. Down below we listened and watched with mounting concern as she creaked and strained, as she pitched the screw would come out of the water and the engines would race; all this was a new experience to us land-lubbers. At the end of each roll she seemed to pause for a second or two -- would she recover? She always did and then she took about 15 seconds to reach the other extreme and pause again. Up on deck clutching at life-lines or anything else secure one could wonder at the strength of the ship as she rode on the crest of a wave and then plunged to the depths of a trough; crew members rated them as 40-foot waves and we didn’t disagree with them.