Davies was soon to have another patient. One night Douglas Fraser, leaning out to free the foresheets from the cathead, slipped on a rope’s end and somersaulted over the side. He managed to grab the cathead en passant but caught his jaw on a fluke of the anchor and hung there pouring blood until help arrived. Fortunately he remained conscious, or perhaps unfortunately, because having been hauled back with a very bad gash he had to be sewn up with sailmaker’s twine and needle (dipped, as an antiseptic, in eau de cologne). The scene in the darkened penthouse was like another ancient rite: Jock Campbell kneeling with the patient’s hand in one fist and the lantern in the other, Rowley administering outsize ‘drams’ non-stop (including one to himself as a steadier!) and the doctor’s concentrating profile as he applied needle to the gory triangle of upthrust beard.
More troubled weather brought surprise squalls, but though pretty weak—everyone had lost several stone—we were well drilled by this time and bungling would produce a bellow from the helmsman. Waterspouts towered up on the horizon, after which the wind blew steadily and the boat skimmed before it. This period of a few days ending on April 11 was the only one which could boast the north-east monsoon in the steady form expected. Had we not been favoured with this dying effort, the story might even then have ended very differently.
The wind then alternately died and came fitfully back again, bringing all the ‘opposite monsoon’ calculations to the fore, but it served to push Djohanis slowly westwards until there was but some 80 miles to go. For chart we had only the wind map from a pocket dictionary and a new set of problems could now be expected; the wind dropped sometimes to calm, and it was found that a current was sweeping us south. Nothing was known about these waters and we feared it might take us too far. Next stop Durban! Morale plumetted again. Originally we had been trying to get north into the monsoon, then having gone too far needed to come down and here we were about to overshoot Ceylon. ‘For those dependant on the wind’ there seemed to be no ‘set of rules’ at all, and there were heartfelt oaths about never going to sea in anything without an engine again.
And then something happened.
It was not pronounced as one might expect by the lookout screaming ‘Land!’ with a hysterical bellow, or someone croaking the magic word through parched and swollen lips. Gorham, who had been scanning the horizon through glasses for some time, said ‘I don’t think you’ll all be disappointed if you come up here and see what I see’.
But it was not quite as bad as that. There was a tremor of excitement in his voice that had the penthouse cleared in seconds, those with sores and bandages scrambling bravely in the wake of those more agile, each to give vent to his particular type of yell at sight of that thrilling purple line. Had he been there, the old jurangan might well have thought that after all the strain had proved too great. Perhaps he really had prayed for us as promised, before his house in the Sumatra sun. How long ago it seemed! That cynical horizon was broken at last. Land! In every eye was a light. In some the reflection of soft beds, bacon and eggs or beer, in others clean clothes, music, or just a sense of security and, certainly for all, an absence of cockroaches burrowing into one’s hair.
A tribute to The Day was the sudden appearance of a few more-or-less shaved chins, having indulged in the incredible luxury of fresh water. At sunset the air was heavy with the most intoxicating scent. Ceylon. We turned in very happy.
Early next morning there were, to our excitement, two big tankers in sight. A distress signal was constructed and frantically waved, but they either could not or would not take any notice. Gorham affected a dislike of the Royal Navy (though not, I think, the Djohanis members in particular) and often made caustic remarks about it. With the exception of Soon, the Chinese cook, I had been the most seasick and this, of course, was a huge joke. One did not lose, therefore, this opportunity of pulling his leg about the merchant service keeping a poor lookout. We cursed the tankers but at least felt reassured by their presence. A light breeze had got up and Djohanis continued south-west, closing the land all day, which passed unnoticed as the thirteenth. For the next 24 hours we stood down the coast.
Then followed the only serious disagreement of the whole voyage, whether to land almost anywhere as soon as possible or continue on for a state arrival between lines of astonished warships, even if it did mean extra days and the return of reduced rations. Lyon, all the sailors, Rowley (‘Damn it man, we can’t sail all this way and then turn up like tramps!’) and, I think, Broome, were for the latter, the remainder for terra firma and the ‘touter the sweeter!’ Being outnumbered, we capitulated and set course straight in. One could hardly blame the opposition. There had been so many dashed hopes, hostile aircraft, inaccurate watches and above all calms … and we would look damn silly if the south-west monsoon did settle in and drive us away at the eleventh hour.
But the wind backed and, there being no moon that night, we did not dare go too close to the shore. As a result daybreak on April 14 found Djohanis, after a night’s south-easting, out of sight of land. There were justifiably angry looks from the terra firma faction and we turned through 180°, resolved to find the first possible anchorage and get ashore.
A ship was seen on the horizon which was encouraging but as the land approached its desirability receded; an almost unending line of white breakers beat on scrubby sand dunes with a background of wild bush and mountains. Brown rocks were soon visible and the water changed colour alarmingly. It was evident that this might prove the most dangerous experience yet, but Ivan, who was at the helm, said nothing, going in at an angle to the beach. A shout from the fo’c’s’le ‘mine on the port bow!’ added insult to impending injury, but an added ‘Sorry; turtle!’ made amends. There was not a soul below now. The fore part of the prauw was packed. Nobody spoke, but the nearer we got the clearer came the growling of the breakers, and the more often the terra firma soldiers turned anxiously to the stern. Ivan had been annoyed at the decision to go in and was enjoying their discomfiture. However, the wind was right for a getaway and as usual he knew what he was doing. With about 200 yards to go someone shouted ‘OK! You win, for God’s sake let’s get out of it’, and without waiting for more, Lyon swung the tiller over. This sent us up the coast roughly north-east and opened up a pleasant cove with palms in sight behind, possibly denoting habitation. (It was discovered later to be a game preserve, hardly hospitable asylum for distressed mariners!)
Things then happened quickly. A ship was sighted to the north coming straight in our direction, and to provide sea room while the shore was studied we went about. As so often before, the gaff caught foul of the shrouds; the sail was half lowered to clear, filled in a rebellious balloon, strained for a second and then split for 14 feet. This was the last straw.
Either the proximity of land sapped our determination to sit down at once and sew for hours, or the easy way out was accepted by all as too good to miss. By common consent we stood out and lowered mainsail right in the path of the approaching ship, a freighter in ballast of some 5,000 tons. The distress signal went up at the main, the ensign upside down, the flashlamp died in a last effort, and I mounted the roof semaphoring ‘Sixteen British officers from Singapore, request assistance please’ while everyone waved and shouted. To our dismay the ship altered hard to port and began to make a wide detour; as she turned a large gun in the stern was seen to be covering us. We redoubled our efforts, and to our delight were rewarded. She stopped a long way off. I semaphored for them to send a boat and got the obvious reply ‘Come alongside’. She circled right round making a lee, and we secured alongside amidships; it was well that our last manoeuvre should be decently performed.
By now the ship’s side was lined with inquisitive faces and a queer sight they must have seen. A strange native craft with stranger crew, some in rags, some in sarongs, and some in uniform; the latter carefully kept since our departure and quickly donned; Naval officers, Army officers, Civil officers, a Malay and a Chinese.
There were shouts of ‘Where a
re you from?’
‘Sumatra.’
‘When did you leave?’
‘Marchs 8.’
‘Crikey, they’ve been five bloody weeks!’ And for the first time we felt rather pleased.
There was no time to lose as no master likes to stop for long in submarine waters. Lines were sent down for treasures and minimum requirements, while two Jacob’s ladders clattered over the side. We went up one after the other, those at the end of the queue having a last forage down below. A moment of farce was greeted uproariously by the spectators when Alec Lind’s sarong—he was wearing nothing else— parted company and he came up starko. I grabbed the throat halliard block as a keepsake; it had come down from the mainmast head in the mêlée. There was a considerable lop on the sea, and the long bowsprit grunted and snarled up and down the ship’s side as if expressing the little boat’s opinion of our infidelity. The headrope parted when there were still three or four to come up, and she drifted out, refusing to be left alone. But she relinquished them in the end and was cast off as the last man was helped, beaming, over the rail. Sandwiches and tea were waiting and to walk six consecutive paces on a flat surface was heaven. One looked round at a row of new faces, and could hardly credit that it was all over, when such a little time before there was no change.
The telegraph clanged. The prauw drifted astern as the steel deck of the Anglo-Canadian pulsated under our feet. Djohanis was a desolate sight bobbing unguided to the sea and we noticed from above what really pleasant lines she had. Part of the foresail was trailing in the water where the lash-up had been too hurried, like a soldier’s boots reversed.
The events of the last few minutes had been almost too quick to take in. I would surely wake up to an abrupt shake, and the gruff ‘Port Watch.’ Yet safety was around us, the luxuries of civilisation but a few days away.
It was only this realisation that softened the lump in my throat as the little prauw grew smaller. We had hated and cursed her, her obstinacy and waywardness, her bugs, her smells, and her unfathomable ways. Her successes had been taken for granted or forgotten; she had come to the aid of 18 desperate men and had brought them through, carried them 1,660 miles, baulked by their foreign methods, mishandled and misunderstood. Who were we to be pleased with the achievement?
It was a silent group that watched from the stern rail, where the wake seemed to push her towards the horizon. The ship’s officers kept away, realising it was not their moment. I did not see Campbell conferring with the Captain, who rightly considered the prauw a danger to shipping. There was a bang. ‘That’s good’, said someone. The first shot sent up a fountain that subsided to reveal her still bobbing courageously, but the second and third went home in the penthouse and waterline so that when the debris cleared we saw a stricken thing. She took several more hits, retaining the tenacity of an Amazon to the end. But the range was now opening fast, we could not dawdle and the cease fire was ordered before anyone could swear to her sinking. But in a while I saw in my mind’s eye the little red letters under her counter:
Sederhana Djohanis
Sasak
surrender with Malayan grace to an otherwise cheated sea.
8
Operation ‘Torch’
and Arctic convoy
The Anglo-Canadian was bound for Bombay. She had had a rough time recently, having been continually bombed. All British shipping had had a rough time, not excluding the Royal Navy. A vastly superior Japanese task force that included five carriers and four battleships (under Nagumo, the Pearl Harbor Admiral) had been rampaging with impunity, its aircraft having attacked Colombo and sunk the 8-inch cruisers Dorsetshire and Cornwall and the carrier Hermes, with their attendant destroyers. The Anglo-Canadian had recently steamed through the debris of the Hermes and, on checking positions, I realised it was her end we had heard just over the horizon. The escort destroyer was the poor old Vampire, last seen disgorging survivors from the Prince of Wales and Repulse. But this was not the worst part. The Captain of the Hermes was Dick Onslow (a great friend of ours and my popular Commander at Dartmouth) and as all the ships had been quickly overwhelmed by dive bombing I feared—rightly as it turned out—the worst.
Another item of riveting intelligence was that the tankers we had seen, done our best to attract, and been exasperated by the lack of interest shown, were Japanese, on hand to refuel their fleet! We had come within an ace of being caught, right at the gates of deliverance*
The four days to Bombay were bliss with clean sheets, baths, rest, food and drink, though the ever watchful Doc warned us against too sudden an onslaught on the last two. Some listened and some did not. I held back for three days and then let go, suffering appalling indigestion. Lazing about in clean clothes or strolling up and down the spacious decks, it was quite difficult to get used to the idea that it did not matter a damn where the wind was coming from!
Looking out of my scuttle early on April 19 I saw that we had arrived, and to some tune. The ship was at anchor in Bombay Roads and not only were there dozens of merchant ships but the entire Eastern Fleet, including a battleship and two carriers. Our presence was signalled to the nearest, which happened to be HMS Formidable, and she replied that a boat would be sent for the Naval contingent. So, after heartfelt farewells to Captain Williams and his officers, Cox, Holwell, Lind and I (Gorham and Passmore did not come for some reason) found ourselves climbing the long gangway to the carrier’s quarterdeck.
We were entertained by the Captain, who made us sign his Distinguished Visitor’s Book, and by the Wardroom. Both questions and gin were being dealt with non-stop, when the slightly sobering intelligence was received that the Commander-in-Chief’s barge was on its way to take us to his flagship, the battleship Warspite.
Though under his command for operation ‘Halberd’ (the convoy to Malta in September), I had never seen Admiral Sir James Somerville, one of the most successful and popular Admirals of the war*. Genial, florid and welcoming, he was amused at our beachcomber appearance (though of course cleaned up, we still had beards and lean and hungry looks) and we had to recount the whole story, which gained, I fear, from the alcoholic lubrication. As we were the last out of enemy waters by a long way, he was particularly interested in the Japanese air patrols. More gins followed and, speaking for myself, I was relieved to get ashore to the Taj Mahal Hotel still walking fairly steadily.
Though we knew he had made a signal to the Admiralty which would be repeated to our families, the next thing was to send a cable home. Rather bombastically, mine read ‘Okay thinner thirsty thankful escaped Singapore but sunk crossed Sumatra then sixteen hundred miles Malay dhow thirty seven days picked up off Ceylon fourteenth future uncertain.’ I had been posted missing (as, presumably, had all the others) and these two communications were well received at home.
From my mother:
Harts Gorse
Beddingham
30/4/42
The night I heard the news Daddy was away in Scotland and Kitty Tennant† was staying the night with me. We had been out until about 7:30 doing a farm job and had only just got in when the telephone rang and it was Admiralty Casualty Dept to speak to Captain Brooke. I said he was away so they said Then can I speak to Mrs Brooke?’ I said I was Mrs Brooke and then a voice said ‘I have some good news for you of your son’ and then he told me! I clung to the bannisters!! and tried not to become quite dotty! Kitty and I then celebrated in gin and champagne (I had both but she only had champagne!) and we spent the rest of the evening in the hall—she sitting on the floor by the stairs—with her head on the third stair! And I sat propped up against the radiator—because the telephone, with telegrams and telephone messages simply never stopped! Oh what a night! Kitty was afraid I was getting a little drunk. I was but it was joy and not the champagne.
John* is now an officer in the Rifle Brigade. Smart, spick and span and quite keen. Getting his cap at just the right angle! And his little cane under his arm!†
Lind, Holwell, Cox and I were sent straigh
t home in a troopship. We all had a last get-together that evening and said goodbye on the ample steps of the Taj Mahal. It was quite an emotional moment. And so the Sederhana Djohanis’ crew split up, we fortunate four going home, most of the others to renew their argument with the Jap.
Eventually, after a six-week fattening process that could hardly have been bettered, I walked into the drawing room at home and said ‘Well am I lucky to be here!’ The casualty department asked my father (at the Admiralty) if I could visit them as they were so used to sending out the dreadful ‘regret to inform you … missing’, or ‘killed in action’ telegrams that it would give them a great fillip to meet someone posted missing who had come back. Accordingly I passed a happy half hour with the mostly middle-aged ladies there.
But the most important duty was to write to the nexts of kin of my party. None of them had heard anything (I think I am right in saying most of them never did) and their replies were both heartrending and a little gratifying in that my escape had at least done a modicum of good.
I had nothing to tell poor Colonel and Mrs Terry. They knew that their son had left Padang but that was all. Later it was confirmed that there was only one survivor from his ship that had sailed about March 5. His great work among the islands and up and down the Indragiri was now recognised by the DSC, as was that of Surgeon Commander Stephenson who was with him. The DSC is not given posthumously, which kept hope alive, but he was never heard of again.
Alarm Starboard!: A Remarkable True Story of the War at Sea Page 26