I soon discovered that the Royal Navy Hospital, like Warwick Farm, came under the banner of HMS Golden Hind. And no, I wasn’t there as a patient. The navy had more important things in mind for me.
‘You’ll be on the sentry detail, Mac.’
‘All right.’
So there I was, manning the front gate of the Royal Navy Hospital in Australia. It was like a bad practical joke. There were other survivors there, blokes who had emerged from similar disasters at sea, only to find themselves adrift with no real job. No one on the medical staff interviewed me or showed the slightest interest in why I was there. So I just got on with it, all the time thinking about Dorothy and hoping everything was fine back in England. I was very worried about her because we’d been hearing reports of deadly German V2 rockets creating havoc and terror over London and parts of southern England. I did my sentry duty and the time passed slowly. There were only Dorothy’s letters to look forward to.
The easy-going Australian way of life seeped into me. The weather in Sydney was sunny and warm, even as winter approached. On my days off I’d team up with a few other sailors and go into the city. Naturally we’d do the rounds of the pubs and then, more often than not, we’d wander down to Circular Quay. I thought of my father quite a bit as I watched the ferries come and go. He had always told me what a great place Australia was, and I could only agree. People were friendly and open. Despite the war, they had a cheeriness and optimism that I found very appealing. I was fascinated by the expression ‘She’ll be right, mate!’ I heard it often.
One night I was with a couple of other sailors in the city. We’d had a bit to drink. Well, a hell of a lot, actually. When it was time to make our way back to Golden Hind we stumbled onto a crowded train going to Punchbowl. The rhythm of the train was very soothing and within a few minutes we were all asleep, chins on our chests and dribbling out the sides of our mouths in the true tradition of drunken sailors. After what seemed like just a few minutes we woke up. The train had stopped and it was pitch black. Everything was strangely silent.
‘Where the friggin’ hell are we?’
Someone lit a match. In its weak light we could see that our carriage was completely empty.
‘There’s another train right alongside us,’ I offered.
‘Don’t tell me …’
‘We’re in the bloody train depot!’
‘We’re in deep trouble, that’s what we’re in.’
‘What time is it?’
Another match spluttered. We leant into its light and looked at our watches. It was after two o’clock in the morning.
‘Why the hell didn’t someone wake us up?’
‘Bloody useless Australians.’
‘We’ll be up on report for this.’
We groped our way along the carriage until we found a door and then lowered ourselves onto the tracks.
‘Got any idea how to get to the hospital from here?’
‘How the hell would I know? I’m a stranger in a strange land.’
‘Only asking.’
We stumbled around the depot for a bit, tripping over railway lines and cursing until we eventually saw a light in a building. There was a night watchman on duty inside. When we explained our predicament he just laughed and gave us directions back to Golden Hind. It was a pretty long walk. We were exhausted when we arrived at the front gate, and completely sober, too. Fortunately, one of our mates was on sentry duty and he let us in, no questions asked. We didn’t hear anything about it the next day, as the barracks were swept up in celebration.
It was 8 May, V-E Day. Germany had surrendered and the war in Europe was over. The relief was enormous. Dorothy was safe and surely, surely, the navy would send us all home. But they didn’t, of course, because the war against Japan was still dragging on.
So I guarded the gate in front of the Royal Navy Hospital until, early in August, a telegram came from Dorothy, telling me that I was the father of a baby boy called Barry. I was overjoyed at the news, but filled with heartache at being so far away. It made me even more desperate to get home. Then on 15 August, we heard the astonishing news that the Americans had dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and that the Japanese had surrendered. I was in Martin Place as the city erupted into the wildest celebration imaginable. V-J Day in Sydney was one big wonderful party, chaotic with uniforms and streamers and people hugging and kissing complete strangers.
Later in the day I went to the harbour. There were a lot of warships there, including the aircraft carrier HMS Indomitable, sister to Implacable, my last ship. It was strange to think that after nearly six years of vital work those great fighting ships and all the sailors serving on them no longer had such urgent purpose. I had no desire whatsoever to go to sea again, but I had to get home somehow.
August drifted into September and the buzz round the hospital was different every day. We heard that hostilities-only personnel would be demobbed from the navy in Australia. Then the word was that they would be posted back to England and demobbed there. Then there were whispers that we would all be posted to Japan. More than a few English sailors had fallen for Australian girls and wanted to stay. Some had even taken the unlawful step of going absent without leave to stay with their new loves. I had to complete my seven years’ service though, because I’d joined before the war started. But how and where I had no idea. The only certainty, it seemed to me, was that the war was over.
It wasn’t until early October that I got a draft chit. My heart was in my mouth when I read it. HMS Indomitable, the aircraft carrier I’d seen in Sydney Harbour.
Here we go again!
There was nothing on the draft chit to indicate where Indomitable would be sailing. Maybe the rumour about going to Japan was true. Anyway, I went aboard and handed my draft chit to the master-at-arms.
‘McLoughlin, is it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Let’s see what we’ve got in store for you.’
I could hardly breath or swallow as he flicked through his paperwork.
‘Demob,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir. Ship going to England, sir?’
‘Where else would it be going, the bleedin’ South Pole?’
I went to my mess in shock. I was being demobbed without having to serve out my seven years. The relief was overwhelming. I couldn’t wait to get out of the navy and back to my home. I knew it had to be a mistake, but if someone had buggered up the paperwork I wasn’t about to tell them. As the carrier steamed out through Sydney Heads I wondered if I’d ever see Australia again. Although I desperately wanted to get home to Dorothy and my newborn son, I knew that I would miss the place.
Once again the navy didn’t seem to know what to do with me. I didn’t have any duties on board, so I couldn’t keep my mind calm. I imagined submarines lurking about, commanded by fanatical Japanese commanders who either didn’t know the war was over or just refused to accept it. I spent my time avoiding the lower decks or seeking out vantage points to watch the flying operations.
Indomitable had already been at sea for several weeks when I was summoned to appear before the commander-writer, the ship’s senior clerk. He was angry.
‘What the hell are you doing, McLoughlin?’
‘Nothing, sir.’ This was quite accurate.
‘I mean, what the hell are you doing on this ship?’ I thought that was a bloody stupid question. I was on this ship because the Royal Navy had posted me to it.
‘My draft chit said to report to Indomitable, sir.’
‘Do you realise you’re not due for demob?’
‘No,’ I lied.
‘You signed on for seven years.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Only people being demobbed should be coming back with us. You were supposed to stay in Australia.’
‘But I’m here, sir.’
‘I can see that. Well, I’m sure the captain won’t be turning about on your behalf so you’ll just have to carry on.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
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br /> Nothing more was said so I carried on doing what I’d been doing before, which was nothing, and in that strange state of limbo I arrived home in time to spend Christmas leave 1945 with Dorothy and Barry. I was in awe of the little human miracle we had created together. It was the most marvellous feeling to hold him. The responsibility I felt for my very own family would, I hoped, sustain me and help push unwelcome memories deep, deep into the background.
My service finally ended at Plymouth in 1946. I gave my uniform back to the Royal Navy and they swapped it for a pinstripe suit and a suitcase. Everyone was given that.
‘We won’t put you on the Fleet Reserve,’ they told me. They didn’t say why, but I had a fair idea. They thought I was bomb happy.
‘That suits me,’ I said, and gladly left the service I’d been so desperate to join seven years before.
The only thing I had to put in my free suitcase was my free pinstripe suit, but I didn’t have anything else to wear, so I walked away from the navy depot a free man in a badly cut suit clutching an empty suitcase. I didn’t have a clue how I would support my family or what to do with the rest of my life. I just hoped something would turn up.
14 – Postscript to a nightmare
We settled down to post-war life in the Devon town of Totnes where Dorothy’s parents lived. My father-in-law had a shoe-making business in the main street and we set up house in a second-floor flat above a hairdresser’s salon, directly across the street from his shop.
My main concern was finding a job. I had a wife and child to support, but all I knew were ships and ships’ guns, so I was really starting from scratch. There was a lot of talk about there being a building boom because the war was over, so I decided to become a bricklayer. I found work as a builder’s labourer, earning a pittance, while I was doing a bricklaying course in Plymouth. It was getting near Christmas 1946 and it was freezing. Believe me, there is no more miserable place than a building site in the middle of a bitter British winter. I dug trenches, filled wheelbarrows with dirt, carried bricks, mixed concrete, dug more trenches and daydreamed about summer in Australia. With hands bleeding from handling the bricks, I knew straight off that I wasn’t cut out for that line of work, but there didn’t seem to be many other opportunities.
I was getting pretty worried because Dorothy was now expecting our second child. One day I was walking down the main street of Totnes, wondering where I was going to find a better job, when I noticed the local policeman, a terrific chap called Ken Alway, walking toward me. He was pulling a hand trolley with a large canvas bag on it. When he saw me he stopped for a chat, which he liked to do. As the town’s copper, Ken knew and talked to everyone and was well respected.
‘What have you got there, Ken?’
‘Oh, it’s just a body.’
‘What!’
‘Taking it down to the morgue.’
‘You mean a dead body?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be taking a live one down to the morgue, now would I?’
‘No, suppose you wouldn’t be.’
Ken and I stood there in the main street for a while chatting about this and that, accompanied by the recently departed soul on the trolley. People were walking past, going about their business, oblivious to Ken’s macabre cargo.
‘Afternoon, Ken!’ a passer-by called out.
‘Hello there,’ Ken replied. ‘Family well?’
‘Very well, thanks.’
‘Listen, Mac,’ Ken said, turning back to me. ‘I’ve noticed you’re looking a bit miserable these days. Everything all right?’
‘No, as a matter of fact,’ I told him. ‘I’ve got this job as a builder’s labourer. Bloody terrible it is.’
‘You know, I think you’d make a good country copper.’
‘Me? A copper? Don’t be daft.’
‘You should think about it. It’s a good life. Good people around you, interesting work.’
I glanced at his trolley, wondering if I could be that casual if I had to trundle a dead body along the main street.
‘All right, Ken. I’ll think about it.’
I went home and told Dorothy about Ken and his dead body. We had a good laugh. When I mentioned his suggestion of becoming a policeman, she said it would suit me more than being a bricklayer. The more trenches I dug the more I agreed. So, a few days later I went to the Totnes police station and filled out an application form. I wasn’t really expecting anything to come of it, so I was surprised and relieved to get an interview with the Assistant Chief Constable at police headquarters in Exeter. It went well and I was accepted into the Devon Constabulary. I was over the moon. For once I might do some work that has real human value. The injustices I’d seen while in the lifeboat still angered me, especially the fact that people had perished horribly for want of stolen emergency rations.
I began my police training in March 1947, at the Falfield Police Training School near Bristol. Most of my fellow recruits were ex-servicemen who, like me, found something oddly reassuring about being back in uniform. While I was away on the three-month training course, Dorothy gave birth to our second son, Ian. It was a demanding time, but I felt a great sense of pride in what I was doing. I got a good result at the end of the course, graduating as a probationary constable.
Life as a country copper was many things, but it was never dull! I was mostly assigned to bicycle patrols, pedalling far and wide around the Devon countryside, policing the rural communities surrounding Totnes, Kingsbridge and the picture-postcard villages of Aveton Gifford, Lodiswell and Harbertonford. It was routine most of the time, dealing with petty theft, road accidents, traffic control and infringements of the various livestock acts, although I once arrested an escapee from Dartmoor prison and on another occasion, with trembling knees, managed to pacify a man who had gone berserk wielding a large carving knife. It was a bit like living in an episode of that wonderful television series Heartbeat, because in every town and village there seemed to be a Greengrass-like character intent on testing the will and wits of the local police.
During that period Dorothy presented me with two more beautiful children, with Judith arriving in 1951 and Jane in 1953. The war slipped into the background, although terrible memories still surfaced in my sleep from time to time. I was particularly disturbed by a recurring nightmare about being below decks in Laconia as the torpedoes struck her. In the pitch black and screaming chaos I struggled to climb the Jacob’s ladder to safety. Then I would snap awake in a blind panic, sweating profusely, legs kicking wildly. It always left me wide-eyed and exhausted. That nightmare has continued to disturb my sleep, and Dorothy’s, ever since.
Sometimes I’d be going about my duties when incredibly vivid memories of the lifeboat would come out of nowhere. I’d see gallant Doctor Purslow saying goodbye to us and then falling backwards over the gunwale. I’d hear poor Mickey pleading for his life. I’d see Hartenstein saluting from his conning tower, and the freckles on Doris’s round face. They made me terribly sad, those memories, but at the same time immensely thankful to be alive and cycling through the lovely hills of Devon.
I think it was about five years after the war ended that I finally steeled myself to read Doris’s account of those terrible events. Her tiny book Atlantic Torpedo was a very eloquent, gentle and understated description of what had occurred in the lifeboat. Her writing confirmed that she was an extraordinarily kind and compassionate person. It reminded me of many incidents that I had been trying to forget, but also many that I found pleasure in remembering.
While we were living in Totnes, Dorothy and I would sometimes go to Liverpool to visit my family. On one of those trips I remembered that my old shipmate Peter Rimmer came from Southport, which is just outside Liverpool near the mouth of the River Mersey. It was Peter who had absolutely astonished me by rushing below decks to retrieve his collection of photographs when Laconia was sinking. I couldn’t imagine how he had survived.
Dorothy and I went to Southport to find his family or at least someone who knew of him.
Well, we found Peter Rimmer himself, just as tall and skinny as ever and living happily with his young wife, a lovely Irish girl called Bridie. We had a wonderful get together although, strangely, we didn’t say very much about the sinking. Instead, Peter and I talked and laughed about the unexpected turns our lives had taken since the war, about how odd it was that I ended up a policeman and he a children’s toy-maker. Sometime later he and Bridie called in to see us in Totnes.
By the end of 1954 I was constantly being distracted by thoughts of Australia. It was some 10 years since I’d been there and, although it had been a difficult time in my life, I thought fondly of the openness of the people, the informal way of life and the warm, sunny weather. This all came to a head when I was doing a daytime foot patrol in Harbertonford. I said hello to a chap in the street, who I hadn’t seen around the village before, and when we stopped for a chat I detected a well-remembered accent.
‘You Australian?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Originally from Devon, but I’m an Australian now. Lived there for most of my life. I’m just back for a visit.’
‘I was there in the war,’ I said.
We talked for quite a while, and he told me about all the opportunities in Australia.
‘I like the sound of that.’
I wondered what sort of future might be in store for my family in England, where post-war austerity still held a tight, grey grip on everyone. Things could be better for the children in Australia. I imagined them running carefree on an Australian beach somewhere.
My career seemed to be in a rut. I’d passed the exams for promotion to sergeant, and been told that I was a first-class country policeman, but I was still a constable. I had a gnawing feeling that I’d never be anything more than a country copper, a little fish swimming round and round in the same small pond.
One Common Enemy Page 15