Coming of Age: 1939-1946

by John Cox

Resulting from this roller-coaster action many of us had queasy stomachs and were not very happy though it was heartening to see that all ranks were treated equally by the elements. As the days passed the seas became less turbulent but other ships in the convoy, merchant and naval alike could still be lost to sight as they wallowed in the troughs. At intervals of time our course would change and on the third day out our escorts began changing their positions; “whoop, whoop, whoop” went their hooters; depth charges were dropped What surprised me was the speed of sound in water, no sooner did we see a plume of water rise than a resounding boom bounced off our ship’s hull. These antics went on for some time then later things returned to normal for a while; about four o’clock in the afternoon HMT Antenor started to make smoke and fall back in the formation; not to worry advised our intelligent ones, it’s all part of the plan. We went below and had a bite to eat then came back on deck 30 minutes later. Where was the convoy? We looked around but all that could be seen were faint smoke smudges on the horizon and what’s more we were now silent and stationary. Our intelligent ones were nonplussed and our amateur navigators determined that we were probably west of Brest off the west coast of France; that together with the knowledge of the U-boat action earlier in the day didn’t improve our contentment. At six o’clock a lone plane appeared from the west, going east; it passed over us fairly low but none of us identified it. Our resident gunners took up their positions at our only gun, a four-inch, designed I imagine for naval engagements and probably unable to elevate sufficiently to engage an aircraft. We assumed the plane to be hostile and that it would report our position and static condition and we waited. Darkness came and we wallowed helplessly. I decided that I didn’t feel like going to my deck below the water line waiting for a torpedo to come bursting through the side, I wanted to have a reasonable chance of getting off the ship if she were going down so I stacked out on the hatch cover of an intermediate deck and slept fitfully with my head upon my kapok pillow.

Dawn came and we were still without engines; we were told that the storm’s buffeting had unseated one of the boilers and that a similar event had caused our departure from Loch Long to be delayed by two weeks. In the forenoon the engines started to rumble, a most welcome sound and we limped into motion. We must have been very fortunate because we took a long three days to reach the relative safety of Glasgow at dusk, having made the return journey without seeing anything more than a couple of small fishing boats.

I forget the details but we disembarked and were whisked off to various destinations; our draft together with some others was sent to a disused distillery in Wishaw. We sorted ourselves out and bedded down for the rest of the night. Next morning, Sunday, we looked around the town and were amazed at the friendliness and hospitality shown us. Our stay lasted about three weeks or a month while HMT Antenor underwent surgery, transplants and general re-conditioning. At intervals during this period small groups of us were given a few days leave at home but all the time we were in Wishaw we were well looked after by the local population; one businessman took out parties of us for a meal (was it at Green’s?) then on to a cinema show; this happened on many occasions. Some of the lads were more or less adopted and lived out most of the time there only looking in at the distillery to find out when our next move was due. In the forces I always got on well with all the Scots I met but our reception at Wishaw was something else, it stays firmly in my mind and I have a very soft spot for the Scots and Scotland.

All good things must come to an end of course and we had to return to Glasgow to re-start our travels. Waiting for us at the dock was our troopship HMT Antenor, well repaired we hoped. This time there was little delay, soon we were steaming down the Clyde to form up with a convoy; again we had a naval escort on our flanks and although the seas were not as rough as before the screw still came out of the water and the engines raced. Day followed day uneventfully and we seemed to be on the same course as before according to our amateur navigators; for many of us this was the first time we had been so far from our island home and we were quite excited.

In order to keep up our spirits and inform us of the progress of the war the BBC news was frequently broadcast. These newscasts were usually preceded by a recording of Rule Britannia and while joining in mentally with the remembered words I reached the phrase Britons never, never, never, shall be slaves; I recalled the definition of a slave as being one who received little or no remuneration for his services and who could never voluntarily escape his predicament. I made the comparison.

I can still remember my first sight of a lone palm tree emerging from the early morning mist just before we made Freetown. Some ships of the convoy entered Freetown but we lay off and paused for a while a half mile from the coast; we believed that mosquitoes couldn’t make that distance but just to be on the safe side we tried out our mosquito-repellent ointment. The air was hot and very humid and soon we decided that we preferred mosquito bites to the discomfort of trapped perspiration. By this time we had changed into our tropical uniforms and this did nothing to improve our appearance; our cork topees were reminiscent of those worn during the Boer War and were probably surplus to that conflict. There was nothing remarkable about our shirts but the shorts were something else; worn in their extended form they reached down to mid-calf, the lower hems were fitted with three buttonholes while at mid-thigh there were three buttons. The idea was that in the bright sunlight hours they would be buttoned up to let our knees feel the breeze and get tanned but in the evening they would be worn at full length to frustrate the mosquitoes. To economise in footwear the army supplied knitted hose-tops, tubes, near khaki in colour that covered the socks just above the ankle while the tops were turned down just below the knee. Webbing gaiters covered the junction of boots and hose-tops; whether the gaiters were aesthetic or functional I don’t know, either way they were two more items to be blancoed; perhaps they would deter an aggressive snake.

Duties on board were no different than before but there were free periods when we could indulge in the only gambling game permitted by the army, Housey, or Bingo as it is more usually called today. We spent a lot of hours gazing out to sea, I didn’t find that boring, there was always something fresh to see, even when looking at nothing in particular there was the ever-changing pattern of the waves, not unlike the changing patterns in a glowing coal fire. For the first time we saw Portuguese men-of-war, jellyfish, with their little sails unfurled, and flying fish played around the ship. At night time another phenomenon was revealed, looking over the side the phosphorescent creatures disturbed by the ship’s passage brightly illuminated the ship’s hull, so much so that we thought the portholes were unshielded; it made a mockery of our strict instructions not to show any light. In this context I put my foot in it once again; seeing a flashlight beam waving about the deck on a black night I yelled, “Put that light out.” “Who said that?” asked flashlight. “Who are you?” I countered. “I am the Orderly Officer,” said flashlight, “what’s your name and number?” somewhat chastened I obliged and realised once again that even when you’re right you can’t win an argument when you’re outranked.

The ship carried only limited amounts of potable water and the only water available for keeping clean was salt water; true we had showers and could purchase salt-water soap but this was not very effective and rinsing off was difficult; the end result was not satisfactory particularly when trying to get one’s hair squeaky clean. This fact was brought home to me when one mealtime a soldier paused behind me as he spoke to a pal on the next table; we were in the tropics and it was very warm. He was holding a seven-pound tin of marmalade above my head; engrossed in conversation he allowed the tin to tilt -- need I say more?

I had started a head cold just before we left Glasgow and after a day or so at sea I did what was very unusual for me, I reported sick. The army had three or four standard remedies to cover most situations and I was dosed with one of them, mist.expec seems to be the abbreviation that stays in my memory; several doses brought no relief so again I reported sick. I was now coughing badly and felt quite ill. Same medicine, same result; I really should have been admitted to the sick bay but was not. Reporting sick for the third time brought accusations of malingering; at no time had I seen either of the two doctors on board, the diagnosis had been made by an NCO of the RAMC, so I soldiered on.

I don’t know how far west we passed into the Atlantic but the crew told us when we were nearer to Walvis Bay, eventually we pulled into Cape Town in South Africa, the ‘tablecloth’ of cloud had settled over Table Mountain for us. Some of our convoy separated from us and docked there. After a short stop in the bay we moved on to Durban and as we came into the dock area we saw a little group on the quayside waiting to greet us. The central figure was ‘The Lady in White’ as she came to be known. She was a trained singer and made it her duty to meet all the troopships; armed with a megaphone (this was 1943) she sang patriotic and nostalgic songs to cheer up the lads who were bound for unknown parts. It was a nice warm welcome to South Africa.