They that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters.
Psalm 107, v.23
As the Rescue Ships came into service, the Admiralty had given orders that they were to be sailed with outward bound convoys and transferred with the escorts to inward bound ones. Initially, the shortage of escort vessels during the first year of the war did not permit the ‘through’ escort of convoys across the Atlantic. During the early sailings the transfer took place about 400 miles to the west of Ireland. Only with the ready help of Canadian naval forces did the through escort of convoys become possible in May 1941. And, despite the Admiralty’s desire to get Rescue Ships to sea with the convoys as soon as possible, the priority given to anti-invasion measures during the Battle of Britain and the heavy load carried by the staff of the Director of Sea Transport – as well as the necessary formalities in order to requisition a ship and prepare her for military service – caused unavoidable delay. ‘Our basic problem was the same throughout the war and for every type of work: never enough ships for the jobs to be done – indeed never nearly enough ships,’ observed Sir Gilmour Jenkins.1
The first designated ‘Rescue Ship’, on 6 December 1940, was the 1,600 gross registered ton Beachy, built in 1936 and requisitioned from the Clyde Shipping Company. Although little conversion was undertaken (and very few records exist of her activities), she was fitted with ‘monitor equipment for submarine detection’, an early version of the HF/DF equipment with which later Rescue Ships were fitted. But her service was short-lived and she carried out no rescue operations. On her third voyage she was sunk, on 11 January 1941, 500 miles off the coast of Ireland, while transferring from a convoy bound for Gibraltar to a homeward bound one.2 The chief engineer and four others were killed; six men were injured, including the master, Captain Augustus Banning, who had a broken leg. He was rescued by a trawler but his leg was badly set. ‘It was at the time of the Greenock Blitz and the hospitals were full and attention scrappy as a result. He had his leg re-broken by an inexperienced doctor, with the result that it was never the same again and so he suffered thereafter from a limp. But this did not interfere with the performance of his duties,’ related Adam Shearer, who was later to serve with Banning on another Rescue Ship.3
Thus, the first vessel to be engaged on work as a Rescue Ship was the Dutch Hontestroom, owned by the Hollandsche Stoomboot Maatschappij (Holland Steamship Company). Although she had originally been built for service to West Africa, her peacetime employment was trading between London and Amsterdam. She was 20 years old and, with a displacement of 1,875 gross registered tons, she differed from the other ships of her class in that the forward well-deck had already been covered in giving her, as it were, an extra deck forward. This detracted in some ways from her suitability as a Rescue Ship, because abreast the forward well-deck, as experience showed, was the most suitable position for the rescue station to be located, and the additional freeboard meant that survivors had further to climb. She also had only six cabins besides those used by the officers and most of these were required for the additional personnel needed for Rescue Ship duties. Apart from fitting the hospital on the shelter-deck, all that was done to equip her for her new duties was to supply mattresses for the survivors to lie on in the ‘tween decks. Notwithstanding her deficiencies, she sailed on her first voyage in January 1941 and carried out her first rescue operation that May, when she saved 69 men from three ships south of Iceland. No boom nets had yet been installed, so the men were helped on board by means of rescue nets, themselves an improvement on rope ladders.
Soon after the Hontestroom began service in January 1941, two additional ships commenced operations: the Clyde Shipping Company’s Toward, to which the minimum alterations had been made, and her sister ship, the Copeland. As noted by Sir Gilmour Jenkins, ‘one of the great enthusiasts for rescue ships was William Logan of the Clyde Company, in spite of the fact that his ships were undergoing this arduous and dangerous service.’4 Both ships were already 16 years old when the war began. The Copeland’s chief engineer W. McPherson, who had been with the ship during her peacetime coastal voyages, stayed on, with periods of leave, and remained with her throughout the war. With a displacement of 1,571 and 1,526 gross registered tons respectively, their maximum speed was 12 and 11 knots. Both had 13 double-berth staterooms and in that respect they were much better than the Hontestroom. As experience was gained, every time a ship returned to port such improvements were made as could be done in the time available; but the earlier ships never reached the high standard of the later ones, whose conversions benefited from lessons learned on the pioneer ships.
On 26 January 1941 the Toward, commanded by Captain George K. Hudson, set sail on her first voyage with an outward-bound convoy to Gibraltar, OG 51.5 After two days at sea, she proved her worth by rescuing 12 men from the crew of the British ship, Baron Renfrew, which had been bombed in very bad weather. Such a heavy sea was running that Captain Hudson was reluctant to give the order to launch the rescue lifeboat, but First Officer Arthur James Knell (who would later take command of the Toward on two occasions) and a volunteer crew somehow managed to get the boat away. The survivors from the torpedoed ship owed their lives to this display of seamanlike courage and skill which was to set the pattern for the work of the Rescue Ships. On 2 February, 20 men were saved from a Greek ship which had become detached from the northbound convoy, SL 62, bound for Liverpool.6 In late May, 54 men from the Javanese Prince, sailing outward-bound independently, were transferred to the Toward, having been picked up by other ships after the Javanese Prince had been torpedoed.
Soon after the Toward began her rescue service, the Copeland set sail in convoy. ‘We hadn’t left the Minches – between the Outer Hebrides and the west coast of Scotland – very long on the first night when the Crispin straggled in the dark and was torpedoed,’ related the medical officer, Dr W. H. C. M. Hamilton. ‘The weather was bad and there were few survivors. Her CO, Commander Bernard Moloney, was also lost.’ Eight survivors were picked up by the Copeland, ‘and one seaman whom we picked up dead. He was clinging to the wooden flat which we had lowered plus scrambling nets.’7
Despite the Rescue Ships’ early success in saving lives, there were still deficiencies. ‘We had sailed in such a hurry that no clothing was provided for these survivors,’ recalled Hamilton. ‘We gave them what spare clothing we had from our private stock.’ As he also noted, the Copeland was completely dry. ‘We hadn’t even a drop of rum for the survivors of the Crispin. When we returned to Glasgow I made a point of visiting the Victualling Yard to see if we could have rum for survivors. This was obtained and kept under lock and key in the Sick Bay. Luckily I hated Navy rum!’ Still in the stages of improvement, for buoyancy, the Copeland’s bottom had been filled with empty oil drums. ‘This made her so high in the water and so like a cork that the drums were taken out and she was filled at the bottom with 300 tons of sand for the next trips and [there]after.’
During these early sailings in the Atlantic, Hamilton remembered the Copeland’s master, Captain John McKellar, who had taken command before she sailed at the end of January 1941, standing on the bridge all through the night, keeping the ship driving into a gale within a point of the compass.8 Hamilton recalled:
His cheerful remark to me, when I pointed out that he had no lifebelt, was that the ship’s expectation of life after a torpedo would be three seconds! … Our anti-aircraft protection consisted of 2 Lewis guns, one on either side of the bridge and they had also put a 505, I think, Vickers in the forward well deck. The main armament of the ship was a 12-pounder [gun] aft, which, under the Geneva Convention was allowed to Merchant ships.
As with any ship, life on board developed its own routine. ‘I used to play chess quite a bit and after our high tea at 6 o’clock there was a strong four for Monopoly,’ continued Hamilton. ‘Unfortunately the same radar officer used to win Monopoly every evening and I suppose the unconscious tension reacted against this officer, who seemed always to end up with Mayfair and Park Lane! As the night wore on and I had been on the bridge with the Master and Third Officer, I returned to the saloon and read my Dickens.’Known as ‘Ham’, throughout his service he was characterized by his smart appearance, ‘tall, red-bearded, always impeccably dressed, a stickler for etiquette.’9
* * *
As losses at sea increased, it was clear that the Rescue Service needed expanding. On 6 February 1941 the Director of the Trade Division, Captain Maurice Mansergh, wrote to the Director of Sea Transport emphasizing the need for yet more ships to be requisitioned for conversion to Rescue Ships.10 As a result, two vessels belonging to the (Egyptian) Pharaonic Mail Line – Zaafaran (Place of Queens) and Zamalek (Place of Kings) – were added, both of which were later to become famous in the annals of the Rescue Service. ‘To be sure the Zamalek was no picture book ship,’ observed Dr W. H. McCallum who joined her as the medical officer in early 1941 at Greenock. ‘She had been built in Hamburg and handed over as a reparation ship at the end of World War One. She was strongly built and an excellent ship in heavy weather. She could always be picked out by her many rescue rafts and a large black mark midships due to overflows of oil which occurred every few months.’ Initially surprised to find himself the only Royal Navy officer on board, he soon acclimatized ‘and enjoyed the rather freer messing state.’11
The Zaafaran, like the Zamalek, had been built in Germany and was of sound construction. After requisitioning she had been employed in the general coasting trade around the United Kingdom, which was maintained despite Germany’s vigorous attempts to halt it. Her conversion was begun in South Wales and completed on the Clyde.
Both the Zaafaran and the Zamalek had a speed of 12½ knots and a displacement of 1,567 and 1,565 gross registered tons respectively but, although excellent sea-boats, they were not as suitable for the work required of them as the ships requisitioned by the government from the Clyde Shipping Company. Neither had a recreation room for officers, apart from the dining saloon, which was very small. It was also found necessary to take a portion of the ‘tween-decks in which to construct the hospital, and this of course reduced the amount of space available for survivors. The cabins too were on the small side but, eventually, by the display of much ingenuity, it was found possible to provide accommodation in each ship for 26 officers in cabins and 56 survivors in berths in the ‘tween-decks. On deck, space was at as great a premium as it was below, since the ship’s lifeboats and the rescue motorboat occupied nearly all the available room. When it came to fitting a winch for rescue work, there was nowhere to put it except over the engine-room skylight.
‘Although my time with the Rescue Service was short,’ recalled Dr Gillies MacBain who served as the medical officer in the Zaafaran, ‘I can well remember how it turned my initial horror at being appointed to a ship where I had to “sign articles” under a Merchant Service Captain into an intense pride at being part of such an extraordinary brotherhood.’ As time passed MacBain found that he must have ‘become infected with more than the enthusiasm of these tatterdemalion buccaneers – my appearance must have suffered.’ On one occasion when he reported to HMS Baldur, the naval base in Iceland, he found that, instead of the ‘courteous “Have a gin”, that I was expecting, I was greeted with “You’re from the Rescue Ships – would you like a bath, old man?”!’12
At the outbreak of war, the Kingdom of Iceland had affirmed its neutrality. On 9 April 1940 Germany occupied Denmark, whose King was the Icelandic head of state. Having failed to persuade the Icelandic government to join the Allies, the following day the Royal Navy and Royal Marines occupied Iceland in order to deny its usefulness to Germany. The Icelandic government at once issued a protest, stating that its neutrality had been violated and demanding compensation, to which the British government agreed, as well as promising favourable business agreements and non-interference in Icelandic affairs.
The Zamalek’s master, Captain Owen C. Morris, had commanded the ship in peacetime on trading voyages between Alexandria, the Levant and the Red Sea, and he handled her with the skill of a born seaman. ‘He was not a big man physically, but one’s admiration grew for him with the passage of time,’ recorded McCallum. ‘He was a most enthusiastic and conscientious Master and only relaxed in port when, in the course of an evening, his Welsh tenor voice would resound his cabin with the strains of operatic arias.’13 Morris, in turn, paid tribute to those who sailed under his command, describing them as ‘of the very best one could wish for.’14
‘The “Zam” was a happy ship,’ recalled Horace Bell who transferred from the Copeland to the Zamalek in 1943. ‘At sea, the ship was absolutely “dry”, in port – distinctly otherwise, so a fair average was maintained.’15 The Zaafaran’s master, Captain Charles K. McGowan, from Renfrewshire was ‘a big man with the faraway look acquired by men with long experience of the sea’.16 Both men had joined the General Steam Navigation Company together as cadets. ‘They were firm friends with some friendly rivalry between them,’ recorded Lieutenant Commander Martyn, ‘especially due to one being a Welshman and the other a Scot.’17
On 26 February 1941 the Zamalek began her service as a Rescue Ship, the Zaafaran making her debut a month later. The crew of the Zamalek was ‘a very mixed one’ ranging from regular merchant service men to naval gunners. ‘At all times at sea there was no trouble whatsoever,’ recalled McCallum, ‘but in port – and tensions relaxed – anything could happen. Some of the engine room staff were ex-Billy boys from Glasgow and once two ex-convicts joined the engine room squad on the way home from Halifax [Nova Scotia]. During a Christmas party on board, when the officers had entertained the crew, Mounties had to come on board twice to restore order. Nevertheless they were all good seamen and carried out their duties magnificently without murmuring.’ And, as with the earlier Rescue Ships, improvements were always being made. ‘On returning from each voyage into the Atlantic further equipment in the way of extra fuel tanks, armaments & accommodation of a rather primitive type [was] provided for survivors,’ continued McCallum. ‘Electric hot blankets were donated later which were a godsend in warming survivors, rescued from icy waters.’18
During Zamalek’s second voyage as a Rescue Ship travelling with convoy OB 298, which departed Liverpool in March 1941, Captain Morris was faced with a rescue operation of a particularly hazardous nature. On 19 March the British cargo ship Benvorlich, carrying a large quantity of ammunition and explosives, was bombed and caught fire. Fully aware of the nature of the cargo she was carrying, Morris proceeded at full speed towards her in an endeavour to take off her crew before it was too late, but while the Zamalek was still some distance away Benvorlich blew up, with a deafening roar. Large pieces of jagged metal rained over the area, a piece of boiler plating weighing several pounds narrowly missing Morris when it fell on the bridge beside him. When the Zamalek arrived on the scene of the disaster she was able to rescue the 24 survivors, ‘all that was left of the crew’, including her master who, having recovered from his wounds, later became a Merchant Navy Assistant on the Principal Sea Transport Officer’s (PSTO) Clyde staff; four of the survivors died later in hospital.19
* * *
In March 1941 the Perth, belonging to the Dundee, Perth and London Shipping Company, was requisitioned for the Rescue Service. She was larger than any ship so far chosen, having a displacement of 2,258 gross registered tons and a speed of 13 knots. Completed in 1915 and immediately requisitioned for service as an Armed Merchant Cruiser, she had seen plenty of action during operations against the Turks in the Red Sea during the First World War, including taking part in the bombardment of Jeddah in June 1916, when 1,200 German and Turkish prisoners were captured. She crowned her war service by sinking a German submarine on 1 October 1918. After that eventful start to her career she was returned to her owners, and for the next two decades had been employed on the company’s service between Dundee and London. In October 1940, because of her considerable passenger accommodation, she was used as an accommodation ship for the workmen employed in completing the new battleship, HMS King George V, which had been moved from the Tyne to Rosyth, where it was considered she was less vulnerable to hostile air attack.
The Perth was different from all other Rescue Ships in that she had no holds which could be fitted with bunks for survivors. The forward holds were used as reserve bunkers, and the space amidships was taken up by passenger cabins on two decks. It was decided not to alter this arrangement and so, although she was one of the largest of the Rescue Ships, she could only accommodate just under a hundred survivors in single-and double-berth cabins. However, when the decision was made to keep the existing cabin arrangements, no one realized that survivors suffering from shock would react against being shut up in cabins, preferring the company of their fellow survivors in the more open areas of the ship, where there was also easy access to the upper deck in the event of further trouble. This being so, after a large number of survivors had been rescued they tended to crowd the upper deck and to interfere with the work of the crew during further rescues.
The hospital was also rather sub-standard. The smoking room adapted for this purpose was small and there was no separate room for an operating theatre, so the operating table was sited in a corner of the hospital. When an operation was in progress the other patients had full view of the proceedings which, unsurprisingly, did not add to their peace of mind.
On 3 May, on her first voyage, under the command of Captain Keith Williamson with convoy SL 72, which had sailed independently as far as Sierra Leone, the Perth was called upon to rescue the crew of the British frozen meat ship, Somerset, hit in the after well-deck by a bomb dropped by a lone German aircraft which dived on her out of the clouds. The Perth immediately closed her and, when it was seen that she was sinking, took off the entire crew of 60, some of them with minor injuries, the last man being taken off just before the ship sank.
The Perth’s next rescue was not until August 1941, when she picked up survivors from the British merchant ship Saugor, sailing with convoy OS 4 to Freetown. On an earlier voyage that July, her medical services had been required when the tanker Pilar de Larrinaga caught fire after being attacked from the air. Although the ship remained afloat and no rescues were necessary, the Perth’s medical officer Surgeon Lieutenant J. F. Kelly, with the sick-bay attendant, went on board to attend to the wounded while the fire was still raging. The stricken ship’s captain, second officer and two men had been killed instantly.
At the same time as the Perth, the Melrose Abbey was requisitioned for conversion. Built in 1929, she had a displacement of 1,908 gross registered tons, a speed of 13½ knots, and appeared to be an excellent choice. Unfortunately, on 31 March 1941 while on her way round to the Clyde to be converted, she ran ashore at Newburgh Minch, and despite repeated efforts could not be re-floated until 26 July. In fact, at one time it was very doubtful whether she would ever be salved, when she was driven further up the beach by the unfavourable weather which set in after the first attempt to re-float her had failed. To add to the difficulties, a mine then drifted alongside her and exploded, blowing a hole in her side. Nevertheless, she was eventually re-floated and towed to Aberdeen for temporary repairs and thence to the Clyde. The mishaps had so delayed her conversion that she did not make her first voyage until May the following year.
* * *
The months of March, April and May 1941 witnessed a great increase in the number of merchant ships lost as a result of air attack. On 30 May 1941 a meeting over which I – as the newly appointed Director of Trade Division – presided, was held at the Admiralty. It was attended by representatives of the recently established Ministry of War Transport. On the agenda for discussion was the administration of the Rescue Ships and the need to provide more of them. The Flag Officer in Charge, Greenock, had put forward to the Admiralty, in a letter dated 15 May 1941, a number of suggestions for adding to the efficiency and improving the general running of these ships as a result of experience gained to date. These included the supply of better rescue boats, additional radio operators, loudhailer equipment for communicating with damaged ships and with men in the water, improved accommodation for rescued personnel, and many other matters.
While all the items were important, one which was to have considerable influence on the success of the Rescue Ship organization was the realization that the arduous work performed by the ships and the particular nature of their service earned them special consideration on their return to harbour. This meant upriver berths, if possible alongside, where repairs could be expeditiously carried out, improvements made, and the crews given a chance to get ashore. Responsibilities were inevitably divided between the Principal Sea Transport Officer, Commodore Edward Jukes-Hughes, in the Clyde and the owners or agents of the ships working in cooperation with the Ministry of War Transport.20
It was evident that the appointment of a Rescue Service officer to coordinate all these requirements would be most advantageous and in June 1941 Lieutenant Commander Louis F. Martyn, RNVR (Special Branch) of the PSTO’s staff at Greenock, was given this important task. According to Martyn, the Admiralty ‘concluded that as I had served so much time at sea in cargo ships and also knew the office side of running ships’ while working for the Baltic Exchange, he was probably ‘the ideal man’ to form and run the Rescue Service. ‘I was really scared when I first started to organise the Fleet as there was really nothing to work on,’ he recalled, ‘however I did eventually find that my past experience of the psychology of the British Seaman served me in good stead.’21
From the time of his appointment until the end of the war he discharged his duties almost unaided. He commented, ‘My work consisted of pure administration and I was responsible for seeing that the ships were ready in every respect for their Convoy work and this was not too difficult as there was a wonderful esprit de corps throughout the whole fleet. What was difficult was the co-ordination between all the departments involved and these involved practically every Naval angle and on top of these I had to carry the ordinary ship-owners who managed the mercantile side for the Ministry of War Transport.’
His main support came from the Admiralty’s Trade Division, the Ministry of War Transport and latterly from the Commander-in-Chief, Western Approaches ‘with whom I communicated direct[ly] and allocated the Rescue Ships in accordance with his requirements.’ Martyn also acknowledged the ‘tremendous support’ he received from Sir John McNee, consultant physician to the Royal Navy in Scotland and the Western Approaches; promoted temporary Surgeon Rear Admiral, he relieved Martyn ‘of the medical side of the Rescue Ships’ activities’. Martyn also benefited from the facilities of the technical department of Sea Transport in fitting out the vessels and keeping them in repair.
He recalled, ‘During the latter years I was also given a Secretary, Wren Iris Brash. She was a very efficient young woman and relieved me of much detail work and probably saved me from a nervous breakdown.’ By working ‘all hours for seven days a week,’ Lieutenant Commander Martyn was pleased to record that he gradually built up ‘an efficient fleet which played a very vital part in the Battle of the Atlantic.’The masters of the Rescue Ships found him to be ‘a pillar of strength,’ recorded Captain Morris. ‘Anything that was suggested to him that might have been of use in rescue work he saw to it immediately that it would be given to us … he was a great friend to me and his cheery smile was good to see when he met the ship at the end of a voyage.’22
* * *
As a result of the Admiralty meeting, the Director of Sea Transport redoubled his efforts to find further vessels suitable for conversion to Rescue Ships. It had been decided, after the Hontestroom’s sixth voyage in May 1941 (when she had performed her first and only rescue operation), that because of her unsuitability she should be withdrawn from the Rescue Service and returned to trade, and that her place should be taken by the Union Castle Mail Steamship Company’s Walmer Castle. The latter was a little ship of just 906 gross registered tons, but she was diesel-driven and capable of a speed of 15 knots. She was the first ship to undergo a thorough conversion and her hospital and operating theatre were better than anything yet provided in other vessels. Because of her small size it was expected that she would ship a lot of water in a seaway, so her hatches were decked over with steel plates.
The Walmer Castle sailed on her first voyage in her new role on 12 September, in company with the escort of the Gibraltar-bound convoy OG 74. Less than a week later, on 19 September, she rescued 23 survivors from the Irish City of Waterford, which had fallen victim to an air attack. The following evening two British ships, Empire Moat and Baltallinn, were torpedoed and with some difficulty the Walmer Castle took on board the entire crew of 30 from the former and 28 survivors from the latter.
These operations took some time and contact with the convoy was lost. In case of such an eventuality, before sailing, each Rescue Ship was provided with a series of positions through which the convoy would pass, to enable her to rejoin if separated. While Walmer Castle was still endeavouring to overtake the convoy, just before noon on the following day, she was attacked by a German aircraft which dived out of the sun. The master, Captain Gerald Lewis Clarke, took up a position on the bridge outside the wheelhouse, from which he could watch the enemy’s movements. The aircraft flew down the fore and aft line of the ship and released a bomb, but Clarke put the helm hard over at just the right moment and the bomb fell in the sea. A second attack came, followed by a third, and regardless of the incendiaries and the hail of machinegun bullets with which the Germans sprayed the ship on each occasion, Captain Clarke stood on the open bridge watching the aircraft approach and skilfully dodging each bomb.
Meanwhile the ship’s gunners were making a determined reply to the attacks every time they came within range, while the rest of the ship’s company dealt with the incendiaries, several being killed or wounded while doing so. Unfortunately, during the third attack, Captain Clarke was hit in the stomach by a bullet, yet still he insisted on remaining at his post on the bridge. The Germans returned for a fourth attack, and this time a bomb struck the bridge close to where the captain was standing, killing him instantly. It tore through the hospital, penetrated two decks and exploded on top of the engine-room, wrecking all the machinery below, including the pumps supplying the fire main. A fire which was impossible to control broke out and the ship was soon a blazing inferno amidships.
A human chain was formed to rescue the injured survivors trapped in the hospital. The end man would dash into the smoke, grab a man and drag him to the chain, which would then bring him to safety. The rescued men were put into the starboard lifeboat, the only one remaining intact, which got away with 42 aboard. Others were placed on two rafts which had to be hurriedly cast off, as by this time the side plating amidships was red hot.
Thirteen of the crew remained on board, including two who were severely wounded and one older man. They gathered together on the poop to get away from the intense heat of the fire, and then the magazine blew up. Had it not been for the timely arrival of the corvettes, HMS Deptford and HMS Marigold, they might have shared the fate of the 11 crew members and 20 of the 81 previously rescued survivors who lost their lives during the attack; but for the magnificent efforts of the ship’s officers and crew, the overall casualties would have been much heavier.
Captain Clarke was posthumously awarded the Lloyd’s Medal and Commendation. So too was the cook Herbert Vincent Hill, who gallantly shielded a shipmate from the aircraft’s machine-guns at the cost of his own life. Also decorated for bravery were First Officer Alfred Lawson, First Radio Officer William Terence McGowan, Boatswain Alfred Charles Davis, and Second Steward Joseph Piccirillo. The only positive aspect of this encounter was the destruction of the attacking aircraft, shot down by an aircraft of Coastal Command patrolling around the convoy; the pilot later reported that the German plane’s tail had been severely damaged by the Walmer Castle’s gunfire.
The loss of this Rescue Ship after just one week’s service added urgency to the need to increase the numbers. In July four more ships had been taken up for conversion. These were the Clyde Shipping Company’s vessel Rathlin, formerly a cattle carrier and general cargo boat on a regular run from Glasgow to Ireland,23 the London and North Eastern Railway Company’s vessels, Dewsbury and Stockport (both over 30 years old, which is a good age for any ship, however carefully maintained), and the Danish ship, Tjaldur, which had been seized in the Faroe Isles on 16 June 1941 and was released by the Prize Court for service under the Crown. All were ready for service during October, but the Tjaldur soon proved that she was too small and too unseaworthy and had to be withdrawn after only three months.
The Dewsbury, under Captain Arthur J. E. Snowden, had already saved lives when in 1936 she rescued the crew of the Dutch motor vessel Albion, in the North Sea. Snowden and nine members of the crew were recognized for their gallantry in risking their own lives in high seas. Meanwhile, as the Rescue Ship Service continued to develop, the demands on both men and ships were increasing. In June 1941 Germany had attacked the Soviet Union, turning erstwhile ally into enemy. And in December 1941 the US entered the war, following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.
In August 1941 another old ‘railway’ ship (so called because they were capable of carrying railway carriages) the Bury was taken up. Unfortunately, on her passage from the Tyne where she had been converted, to the Clyde, it was found that the wooden deck, which had been built over the after well-deck, was not strong enough to stand up to winter gales in the Atlantic and it would have to be replaced by a steel one. This delayed her entry into service until late December. A similar alteration had to be made to the Dewsbury. On her first voyage as a Rescue Ship with convoy SC 57 in early December, the Dewsbury saved two men from the British steam merchant ship Kirnwood, which was torpedoed on 10 December 1941 and in which Captain George Norton and 11 of the crew died. The survivors were found clinging to an upturned lifeboat. The Kirnwood was one of three ships torpedoed in the convoy, the others being the Kurdistan and the Star of Luxor; a total of 55 survivors were picked up, the escort vessels and trawlers with the convoy also giving their assistance.
After her first rescue operation, until the end of the war, the Dewsbury’s service as a Rescue Ship was uneventful, which served as a morale booster to other merchant ships in convoy as did her excellent medical facilities. Her only other rescue operation was in December 1944 travelling with convoy ONS 37, when she rescued three airmen from the Empire MacColl.
In contrast, as will be seen, the Rathlin’s four years of service as a Rescue Ship were among the most eventful. Her master until the end of 1942 was Captain Augustus Banning, who had survived the Beachy’s sinking and briefly taken command of the Copeland. Born in Lockerbie, as his shipmates recorded he was an authority on the life and the works of Robert Burns. He was of medium build but what singled him out was his height – to his friends he was ‘Gus’ but to others he was ‘Wee Banning’, being only 5ft 4ins tall. Described by Gunner Harvey Haw as ‘a fine seaman and a courageous leader’ during his years of service with the Clyde Shipping Company, he had also gained the extra master’s certificate.24
* * *
Although everything was done to make the converted ships as comfortable as possible, their great age and the weight of the defensive armament they had to carry encouraged the development of leaks which were hard to check. Even with the later additions, which brought the number of Rescue Ships up to nine, there were not nearly enough to enable one ship to be sailed with each convoy. Moreover, the convoy commitments were increasing. Having been split into fast and slow sections in order to make better use of ships capable of speeds in excess of 10 knots, there were always at least a dozen convoys at sea on any one day, sometimes as many as 15 including regular convoys running between Britain and Gibraltar and Britain and Freetown.
By the end of 1941, as evidence of the success of the Rescue Ship organization, Commodore Jukes-Hughes was able to inform the Admiralty that so far 616 lives had been saved by the Rescue Ships and that they had also brought back home 444 survivors who, after rescue, had been temporarily landed in Iceland. But there remained numerous occasions when a Rescue Ship had not been available and consequently the suffering of men enduring the hardships of the North Atlantic waters was even greater.
For instance on 25 October 1941, 14 cases of immersion foot from Reykjavik hospital, Iceland, were sent back to the UK. They were all stretcher cases, ten from the Empire Wave and four from the Hatasu, both of which had been torpedoed west of Iceland on 2 October with convoy ON 19. The mate of the Empire Wave had succeeded in navigating his lifeboat to the coast of Iceland. He had started with 30 men, but two died before they were rescued by an Icelandic trawler after 15 days at sea in an open boat with only a tarpaulin to shield them from the elements. They lived on condensed milk, chocolate, and a tablespoonful of water per man per day. After taking to their boats, the crew of the Hatasu had drifted helplessly for 14 days before they were picked up by the escorts of an eastbound convoy, into the path of which they had been driven.
Throughout this time, the question of the actual status of the Rescue Ships remained a subject for discussion between the naval authorities concerned and the Admiralty. In a letter dated 22 July 1942, Rear Admiral R. A. S. Hill, the Flag Officer in Charge, Greenock, recommended to Admiral Sir Percy Noble, who had taken over as Commander-in-Chief, Western Approaches in April 1941, that the Rescue Ships be transferred to the Royal Navy White Ensign. He gave as his reason simplification of procedure in dealing with them, as the Ministry of War Transport, the Director of Sea Transport and the owners would all be eliminated if the ships became men-of-war. He believed that operational and administrative procedure at sea would be facilitated, that discipline and efficiency would be improved, and that better supervision and training of personnel would result.
However, there were counter-arguments: the main one being that the Merchant Navy masters, chief engineers and crews were familiar with their ships, both as regards handling and maintenance, and that their replacement by naval personnel would mean the loss of valuable experience extending in many cases over a considerable number of years. The psychological effect of being picked up and rescued by one of their own ships also had a good effect on the morale of Merchant Navy survivors. And so, throughout their period of service, the status quo remained.
Death, thrusting up or down, may disunite
Spirit from body, purpose from the hull,
With thunder, bringing leaving of the light,
With lightning letting nothingness annul.