But towards the middle of the second week, a new officer appeared. It was difficult to know just what he looked like, because most of his face was hidden behind a pair of sun goggles and a straggly moustache. However, he appeared brisk and business-like. Action at last? Alas, no. Standing on a gangway stair, the begoggled officer did no more than count us – this way and that way – and write the total or totals in his book. Heaven only knows what purpose these entries served – there must have been a different total every day. Nevertheless, he seemed content to count and write. We let him count and write, then as usual disintegrated when the mass-soul in us felt that it was time to disintegrate.
But this morning our paragon arrived brisk with energy. He stood on the stair, looked liverishly over us. ‘Attention!’ he bawled. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ – this to Ivor, who was resting innocent and indolent against the raft. ‘Attention! Some of you will fall in in future on this side, some on that. And…’
Surely, we thought, advice at last. At last, we are going to learn how to move these rafts expeditiously, how to fix lifebelts correctly, how to jump correctly overboard. And – the oracle went on, with great dignity and impressive spleen, ‘The correct dress is white shirt, topee, shorts and stockings! Where are your stockings, man?’ (to a happy, cool AC2 in the front line). ‘Get below and get them, and put them on! Tunics are not necessary, but stockings are! Remember that!’
We stood silent and incredulous. But the officer, feeling that these instructions fully covered the occasion, spoke one more fatuous speech. ‘I am going to dismiss you, but no one must move from this place till 11.15 am. To the right, dismiss!’ and disappeared along the officers’ deck.
The correct dress! Poor AC2s. We couldn’t dream of telling you what to do if you get into a tight corner to save yourselves and get back alive to your wives, sweethearts and children, but we can tell you this – and we insist on it. Remember, if you are to drown, you must drown in your stockings. The King demands it, the prestige of the Empire demands it. We officers of the RAF demand it. You must not drown without your stockings.
Oh imbecility!
Austerity
The officers on this ship live far too luxuriously. They rest, sleep and dress in great comfort, and have servants to do everything for them. The other day, they had turkey for dinner. That in itself is nothing, but for most of the turkeys to be thrown away, since the officers could eat the delicate parts only, is a wilful waste. I suspect too that every lunch and dinner a printed menu card is on the table. This is difficult to defend in the face of the acuteness of the paper shortage at home. All in all, the officers are enjoying a first-class peacetime crossing, with few restrictions. Their food, accommodation and service is at peacetime standard. More than that, not content with monopolizing most of the best living space on the ship and having their own private promenade deck (and of course access to the decks we use) today half of our main deck has been declared out of bounds, so that the officers may use it for outdoor meals. We take our meals in Hell’s Kitchen, which has not one window or porthole. We rely on being able to use the C deck for fresh air and shade. But the officers, not content with possessing already a dining room with abundant windows, have seen fit to rob us of half our space.
This is austerity of living. Certainly we live austerely. We poor AC2s. But the officers still live in luxury and abundance. This boat is a little England – English society in microcosm!
SS
A Short Sunderland saw us away from England. We were sorry to see the last of it. But today a new one appeared to see us in.
As if it had been a Christian soul
We hailed it in God’s name!
(Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner)
Later a Lockheed H flew over.
Gwen
I have a photograph of Gwen, taken when she was very young, which shows one little peculiarity of feature, which I noticed when I first met her. The right half of her upper lip had fallen a little, so that the mouth was not symmetrical. This little droop was not permanent, for when Gwen was happy, the relaxed muscles that had caused the droop seemed to come into play again and her mouth resumed its fine symmetrical shape.
In the first year of our married life, the droop of the lip was very marked. How strange that although it appeared and disappeared, this unconscious manifestation of malaise should have remained from childhood. But after the change came over us (the change I have already partly described) it vanished, almost for ever. One day, when I was parting with Gwen to rejoin my unit after one of those short, precious leaves, seeing that little lip quiver downwards again, I realized that for months and months I had never noticed it. It had gone entirely, and with it, the faint overtones of sadness and imperfect happiness that went with it.
The disappearance of that sad droop was one of the signs of our happiness. The banishment of it was more than symbolic. It was a real triumph over sadness and the shades of sadness.
A swallow
Today a swallow, a real English swallow, flew over the ship! To think that it is probably on its way home – that it may be flying over the white cliffs in a few days’ time! Happy swallow! I wonder if it will nest anywhere near Gwen.
Raffles
Recently we have had a spate of raffles. It is about a week ago since someone with an eye to exploiting the troops began promoting sixpenny raffles. Two sergeants initiated a daily sweepstake on the ‘ship’s mileage’, and within a few days they were paying £13 in prizes. And presumably this was not a great fraction of the total; for, from morning to night they hawked their sweepstake with such assiduity that it was difficult to believe them disinterested. Emulating their obvious success, a loud-voiced huckster of a fellow began a daily practice of raffling a 7lb tin of ship’s tobacco at threepence a time, the raffle being restricted each day to one Flight. After him came another stranger raffling a fountain pen; and the latest promoter has been offering – to be drawn at sixpence a time – a Ronson lighter – ‘A simple model Ronson lighter. Any one for it, gents? I have a customer here who will give 35 shillings to the man that wins it. Now, who’s for it, lads? Who’s for it? Anybody else?’
At first the raffles were popular. But ‘tant va la cruche à l’eau qu’à la fin elle se casse.’4 The raffle masters are finding it harder and harder to find customers now.
Temperature on Mess Deck today about eleven in the morning – 87 degrees.
Freetown
I can describe it as I sit here, because we are riding at anchor now and the town lies before me, across the bay. But the approach first. This morning, at long last, we saw land – a bold blue sierra against the skyline – a lofty landscape of flat-topped mountains and deep cut valleys, with a massive web of cloud caught on it. Very slowly we approached – and snail slow came through the boom into the harbour.
Freetown lies in a bay, at the foot of those hills that, blue in the distance, show now a heavy green, clothed with trees and shrubs from the water’s edge to the summit (Fig. 2). This vegetation gives them a woolly ‘clothed’ appearance strange to English eyes. And just as foreign is the soil. On the banks close to the water, and where the scrub has been burnt away, the soil is a hot raw red. And against the red and the heavy green shine the white and grey houses, spreading disorderly along the low places and up the hillside. A small, straggling, new-looking, hot township – rather smaller, from what I can see, than Redcar.
No bum-boats or native boys to entertain us yet. I can see a few little canoes bobbing up and down on the water around some of the other boats in the bay. Just now the boys are paddling for their lives as if they were being driven away by an officious launch crew. Probably they are. And so my first view of Africa!
24 May 1942
Tropical storm
We had no shore leave at Freetown, but discipline was relaxed a little. We were allowed to smoke after dark on the superstructure deck where we slept – this in itself was a thrilling concession to men who had endured a three-year-long
blackout. It was a lovely evening. To be in port, to feel safe, to show a light here and there without fear of penalty, and to look at the shining portholes and the lights from the town – all winking and gleaming like fairyland again! The evening too was warm and very still. Perhaps if we had known more about this climate, the stillness and the warmth might have made us uneasy. But, innocent, we spent the evening gaily enjoying the privileges, watching the black fellows on an oil tanker which lay alongside scrambling for pennies and cigarettes thrown from our decks down to theirs. Yet, in spite of the excitement, tiredness came early, and by ten we were all asleep.
It was about five in the morning when I woke – sharply. Something enormous was in the air. Looking up, I saw my neighbour stirring and the edge of a big black cloud very low on the horizon. I felt two drops fall – then the storm burst. The lightning – very white thunderless lightning flashed all round the bay, and the rain was a deluge, spattering on the awning and making it bulge like a hammock – running in rivers along the deck. Immediately there was confusion everywhere – a hasty packing of all clothes and tack instantly into the hammocks and mattresses and a precipitate flight down below. But in the confusion everyone seemed to pick up what came first to hand and run with it. After a minute’s search I had to abandon my slacks, belt, life jacket, matches, cup and run through the rain in my pyjamas. To make things worse the corridors were awash with six inches of water – the only way to get through was to walk ankle-deep in it, falling on ropes in the dark, clutching a bundle of wet blankets, trousers, shorts.
When B Flight collected itself together on the mess deck, it was a sorry bedraggled crew – half swiftly turning over piles of wet kit, prying for their lost goods, half lying disconsolate where they had sat down, too discouraged to do anything. It was two hours before any kind of order was restored. And by that time, miraculously enough, most people had recovered their own.
Now after three nights in Freetown conditions almost insufferable. Intense, damp heat – feeling of imprisonment, being in sight of land, but not able to leave the ship – intolerable conditions on mess deck – quarrels, thieving, short tempers, bickering all day long – thirst – no proper sleep. I’ve been rained out of bed twice out of three nights – kept awake the third by the hooliganism of the officers. Every night electrical storms – violent, fantastic. I call the lightning ‘God’s morse’.
Walking up and down the promenade deck last night with nowhere to go – watching the officers drinking and laughing – in their spacious lounge – we felt like serfs. Not a working class but SERFS. This ought not to be. Never.
All grumbles
Conditions grow worse and worse. It becomes more and more difficult to perform the simplest necessities. The diet is bad and appetites are failing. The weather is close and sultry all day – so moving out up on deck away from the stifling heat is so slow that exercise is almost impossible. The open decks are crowded like the exercise yard of a full prison. To be sure of having a shave before breakfast, we must rise at 5.30 in the morning and wait, first in a long queue, for the fresh water to be turned on. To do our laundry we must scheme to catch a moment when the water is still running, to make our own clothes line and sit over the washing until it is dry. Beer is short. Fruit – incredibly – is non-existent. Drinking water is rationed; in the hot afternoons and the long sultry evenings, the supply is cut off.
At night, the deck where the authorities planned that we should sleep, is so hot and foul that three parts of the troops are forced up on to the open decks, and since there is no organized allocation of sleeping space, the principle is first come, first served, and the consequence an unscrupulous scrambling for a few yards of hard deck area. Only with the help of great patience and a certain guttersnipe craftiness in stealing a march on neighbours, can we keep moderately comfortable. But, of course, this day-long scheming, particularly in so trying a climate as this, imposes a strain on all. Tempers are very short. There is on all sides a lack of trust and cooperation. Sauve qui peut! And the man who comes between you and your drinking water, you and your clothes, you and your sleep – is your enemy. Rows and quarrels are pandemic. The smallest incident makes tempers flare. The smallest altercation releases the suppressed irritation of weeks. Lately some of the men have come to blows.
These conditions, shocking though they are, would be more patiently endured if it were not for the obvious contrast between the provision made for the ranks and that for officers. We lack all the comforts of a home. They lack none, indeed many of them are living in far greater luxury than on their home stations. And worst of all, they have the bad taste and imprudence to flaunt their privileges and to remain disgracefully indifferent to the distresses of the troops. The last few nights I have slept in the winter garden, which adjoins the forward lounge and the officers’ lounge. The officers dine late and after dinner they come to their lounge to drink and make merry.
To all intents and purposes we have no lounge. The time between tea and bed we must spend on the deck – and, since most of us must stay near our beds to watch them, we winter garden sleepers see the evening out within sight and sound of the officers. We have nothing to drink. We have no chairs. We have no light. But on the other side of the window, there is everything in plenty – beer, water, spirits, fruit, light, comfort – and the officers make the most of them. It is galling to sit like a serf outside the windows and watch them. One would accept the situation more calmly if they were obviously our betters in manners, dignity and intelligence. But they are often noisy, bawdy, rude and inconsiderate. We must be in our beds at 10.45 – must lie down, stop smoking, keep quiet. The adjutant becomes abusive and sneering if the rule is broken. Yet, on the other side of the wall, within sight and sound, the officers keep up their inconsiderate revels. What humiliation.
Not good enough! Not good enough!
This was written in the morning. Now we’re under way again. Surprising how much better things seem. At 13.39 hours today we crossed the line, and never knew it. No ceremony so far. But I certainly must buy one of the Neptune certificates – two, if possible. Not so much grumbling now. Weather much drier and most pleasant. Glorious sky all day. Clear burning heat.
King Neptune
‘Hear ye. Hear ye. Give heed all ye land-lice and dwellers on terra firma – ye land lubbers and sand crabs – and know that King Neptune has graciously consented to come on board this ship and will hold his court at 9.30 hours in the forenoon watch tomorrow. And to all that attend his ceremony, he will grant a safe prosperous journey over his dominion, and make them at last come safely to Davy Jones’s locker. Hear ye!’
We were having a film show on the mess deck – a delightful Charlie Chaplin – when a knocking was heard and a bosun’s whistle – the film stopped, lights switched on – and we saw King Neptune! First a naval officer with a bosun’s whistle, then the Clerk of the Court, who spoke that speech above – all disguised and patched, with blue chin, very red nose, clothes patched, coloured, spectacles, strange hat, walking stick with bottle for handle, hieroglyphics chalked on his coat – then King Neptune himself, powdered, painted with long straw hair, bare legs etc. and others of the retinue. This was the delightful prologue to the Neptune ceremony which takes place now – today. Must hurry to get there.
DIPLOMA
To all whom it may concern
ATLANTIC OCEAN
AD 1942
Know all men by these presents that 28 May 1942 in Lat. 0 on board the good ship ‘HMT J10’ in accordance with Ancient Maritime Usage and Customs, Frederick Grice was tried before a Special Court of His Majesty King Neptune, and was found Guilty of attempting to invade His Majesty’s Territories, without pacifying His Oceanic Majesty in the customary manner, and was sentenced to the full penalties of travelling by Troopship, and that the said Land-lubber underwent these ordeals with such Conspicuous Bravery that His Oceanic Majesty has been graciously pleased to grant this Diploma to enable the said Frederick Grice to voyage peacefully on the Mighty D
eep and pass without further molestations as a Loyal and Faithful Subject of His Majesty. Given under our Hand and Seal on the day and year above written.
R. H. Robinson
Nautical Assessor to His Oceanic Majesty
Geography
Thank God for my geography! I prophesied we would run into fair dry weather a few days out of Freetown, and we have – lovely windy, cloudless weather. Grand!
Saturday 30 May 1942
Getting good at dhobie work – washed a towel today magnificently Mother’s birthday today
Many people sleep on the top deck now. Montaigne was wakened by soft music in the morning. We are wakened by the swabbers.
‘Wakey! Wakey! Up you get boys. Turn on the water!’ Then follows a hiss from the hose pipe – our cue to get up and clear out quickly.
‘Turn on the water’ is our latest catchword.
Today’s debate
Met today a delightful person – a young padre. He spoke on ‘The Church and the Peace’. He shows us the other side of the picture. Some of the officers inspire no confidence or respect, but this padre, Squadron Leader Redmore and a medical officer, they are thoughtful, intelligent and good natured. Had an excellent time and made my voice heard for once.
Napoleon
Last night, about ten, we passed within sight of St Helena – and I never saw it! What a pity! I’d have given a lot for a view of the island, even in the dark. But I was lying down in the dark and no one roused me.
Have lost count of days. Last few days too busy and too interesting. I lectured on the ‘Future of Education’ yesterday with resounding success – now invited to go on Brains Trust – to speak again on Saturday – what fame!
War's Nomads: A Mobile Radar Unit in Pursuit of Rommel during the Western Desert Campaign, 1942-3 Page 8