On Wednesday, October 30th, a ship’s boat containing two men came ashore on the island of Eleuthera. The men were discovered lying on the beach in an advanced state of exhaustion by a farmer named Martin who was working in a field nearby and had seen the boat approaching. He obtained help and the men were removed to the Governor’s Harbour and the resident Commissioner reported the circumstances to the Colonial Secretary at Nassau, who issued instructions for their removal to the hospital in Nassau by aeroplane. The Chief Medical Officer went with the plane from Nassau and they were brought back and placed in hospital the next day. Although in a very weakened and emaciated condition, every hope is entertained of a rapid recovery.
Report from the office of the Colonial Secretary at Nassau, Bahamas, October 1940.
The story behind these events began three months earlier and 3,000 miles away in the upper reaches of the Bristol Channel, where the London-registered steamer Anglo Saxon had arrived in Newport, Mon. with a full cargo of steel from America.
The 5,596-ton Anglo Saxon, built in Sunderland in 1929 when the world was in the grip of a severe economic depression, was a typical ‘workhorse’ of her day, a coal-burner, blunt in the bow and broad in the beam. Owned by Lawther, Latter of London, she had known lean times in her early days, chasing cargoes to the far corners of the globe, often for little return. But she had survived, and now, with Britain at war, she was never without a cargo, always on her marks and being hurried in and out of port to meet the voracious demands of war.
Commanded by 53-year-old Captain Philip Flynn, the Anglo Saxon carried ten officers, three petty officers, twenty-six ratings and a Royal Marine gunlayer, the latter supplied by the Admiralty along with a 4-inch anti-submarine gun of ancient vintage and a brace of machine guns that may well have seen service in the trenches of Flanders in 1914–18. During the coming voyage, Marine Francis Penny would have the unenviable task of forming and training guns’ crews from amongst the Anglo Saxon’s hands, most of whom, being fiercely independent merchant seamen, might well resent this interference with their normal watch-keeping routine.
Early on the morning of 6 August 1940, while the RAF prepared to do battle with Hitler’s Luftwaffe, the Anglo Saxon emerged from the pall of dust hanging over Newport’s coal hoists sagging under the weight of a full cargo of ‘best Welsh’. She was bound for the coaling station at Bahia Blanca, 6,000 miles deep in the South Atlantic. Powerful tugs eased her into the locks, and by the time the sun was halfway to the yardarm, she was butting into a rising south-wester.
Coal, even ‘best Welsh’, is one of the dirtiest of cargoes to carry. The loading process, whereby coal is dumped from a great height into the holds, ensures that every exposed inch of decks and superstructure ends up coated with a thick layer of black dust. Once the Anglo Saxon was at a discreet distance from the land, it was up to Boatswain Tom Maher and his deck crew to sluice down with hoses and make the ship presentable for her next call, Milford Haven at the mouth of the Bristol Channel. It was back-breaking work, guaranteed to cure the hangovers acquired in the dockside pubs of Newport the previous night, but by the time the Anglo Saxon anchored in Milford Haven just before dark, she had regained some of her dignity.
There was now a short respite while the Anglo Saxon was joined by several other ships from Bristol Channel ports, and late on the 8th a rendezvous was made south of the Smalls Rocks with ships from Liverpool and the Clyde. When formed up in nine columns abreast, Convoy OB 195 consisted of twenty-seven merchantmen, escorted by the destroyer HMS Vanoc and the Flower-class corvettes Geranium and Periwinkle.
Four days later, when 700 miles west of Land’s End, the convoy dispersed and the merchantmen were left to go their own separate ways, some turning south for West Africa and the Cape, others continuing west to North America. The Anglo Saxon was alone in heading for South America, and she soon found herself with an empty horizon on all sides.
On the evening of 21 August the Anglo Saxon was approaching the Tropic of Cancer, and in the opinion of Captain Flynn and his officers she was well out of reach of the enemy. She had ceased to zigzag, normal watches were being kept, with just one lookout in the bows at night, and the guns were manned only when an exasperated Marine Penny was putting his largely uninterested recruits through their paces.
On the bridge, Third Officer Walter Murray had the watch, with 21-year-old Able Seaman Roy Widdecombe at the wheel. The wheelhouse was in complete darkness, apart from the soft glow of the dimmed compass binnacle light, and the only sounds to disturb the tranquillity of the night were the steady beat of the Anglo Saxon’s engine and the click of the wheel as the helmsman eased the spokes to keep her on course. A light north-easterly breeze and just enough swell to give the ship a lazy, almost soporific roll completed the magic of the night.
In the wireless room abaft the bridge, Second Radio Officer Roy Pilcher listened with half an ear to the distant bursts of atmospherics, the only sound to disturb the ether that night. If there were any other ships about, then they were not advertising their presence. Below the bridge, in his cabin, Captain Philip Flynn was relaxing in his armchair with a book. Right aft, in the crew messroom, voices were raised as steaming hot mugs of cocoa were passed around. The talk was of the delights of South American ports, where the wine flowed free and every girl was a Hollywood beauty. The war seemed so remote that it was not even discussed.
For the average British merchant ship – and the Anglo Saxon might be so classed – radar was still a distant pipe dream. The horizon was limited to the range of the ‘Mark 1 Eyeball’, and on a dark night such as this its range was negligible. No one could have been aware of the terrible danger that lay ahead.
Masthead lookouts aboard the German commerce raider Widder had spotted the Anglo Saxon some 10 miles astern while it was still light and, keeping out of sight, she had kept station on the unidentified ship until darkness fell. Now she was about to pounce.
The auxiliary cruiser Widder (‘Ram’), otherwise known as Hilfskreuzer 21, was of 1929 vintage, having been built in Kiel for the Hamburg Amerika Line, who christened her Neumark. She was a 7,851-ton fast fruit carrier designed for service between Hamburg and the West Indies, and this trade she had plied until being requisitioned by the Kriegsmarine on the outbreak of war in 1939. She had undergone an extensive conversion, which included new 6,700 h.p. steam turbines, giving her a top speed of 14.8 knots and an endurance range of 34,000 miles without refuelling. Her armament consisted of six 5.9-inch and one 3-inch gun, four 21-inch torpedo tubes and an impressive array of smaller calibre cannon and machine guns. She also carried two Heinkel 114 reconnaissance seaplanes.
Appointed to command the newly-commissioned Widder was 49-year-old Kapitän zur See Hellmuth von Ruckteschell, a former U-boat commander in the First World War. In German naval circles his was seen as a controversial appointment, von Ruckteschell being described as a ‘complex, religious and cultured man, with an artistic nature and a passion for classical music’ and ‘moody, introspective and difficult to like’. He was also known to suffer from chronic migraine and stomach problems. Hellmuth von Ruckteschell did not appear to be the ideal man to command a ship of war, not least a commerce raider briefed to sail alone.
The Widder, disguised as a neutral Swedish merchantman, emerged into the North Atlantic at the end of May 1940 to embark on her new career. She had the element of surprise and found instant success, sinking six Allied ships totalling 41,000 tons gross in her first two months at sea. It was obvious that she would never match the success of Dönitz’s U-boats, but she posed a serious threat, which the Royal Navy, with so few ships in the area, could not hope to meet.
As he closed on the unsuspecting Anglo Saxon, von Ruckteschell was aware that he had less than twenty minutes to act before the moon rose and revealed his presence. He would have to strike swiftly and ruthlessly to cripple his victim before she was able to take flight. At 2008, having closed the range to 2,500yds, he opened fire with every gun that could be brought to bear.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic, the Widder’s first salvo of 5.9-inch shells scoring a direct hit on the Anglo Saxon’s poop, completely demolishing it. The British tramp’s 4-inch gun, yet to be fired in anger, was blown over the side, and with it went any chance she might have had of defending herself. Ammunition in the ready-use locker was set on fire and began to explode, adding to the chaos.
Directly below the poop, in the crew messroom, where seconds before there had been the rattle of mugs and the buzz of relaxed conversation, men lay dead and dying, while the flames crackled and danced around them.
Having dealt the first crippling blow, the Widder now closed to within 500yds and raked the helpless merchantman with her machine guns and 20mm pom-poms, at the same time continuing to pump high explosive shells into her. As a result, the Anglo Saxon and many of those aboard her were literally shot to pieces. A number of men had reached the boat deck, but the two lifeboats were reduced to matchwood in their davits as they attempted to lower them. The deck was littered with bodies.
Roy Widdecombe, who had managed to extricate himself from the blazing ruins of the wheelhouse, found Captain Flynn’s lifeless body slumped against the port bulwark. The Captain had been shot down while he was in the act of throwing overboard the ship’s code books and secret papers. Surrounded by devastation and death, Widdecombe suddenly felt very alone and helpless. Fortunately, at this point he was joined by Chief Officer Barry Denny, who appeared to be one of the few survivors. The two men looked around for a means of escape.
In addition to her lifeboats, the Anglo Saxon carried two small jolly boats, one on each side of the bridge. These 18ft boats, normally used for painting ship or communication with the shore in sheltered waters, were still intact. With great difficulty, for the jolly boats were heavy wooden craft, Denny and Widdecombe succeeded in swinging out the port side boat and lowered it to the water.
By this time one of the Widder’s shells had destroyed the Anglo Saxon’s main boiler, and the ship was slowly losing way through the water, allowing the two survivors to board their small boat safely. Before they cast off they were joined by five others, namely Second Radio Officer Roy Pilcher, Third Engineer Lionel Hawks, Marine Francis Penny, Second Cook Leslie Morgan and Able Seaman Robert Tapscott. Three of the late arrivals were injured: Pilcher’s left foot had been smashed by shell splinters, Penny had bullets in his right arm and leg and Morgan had been shot in the right foot. These seven men, none of them in very good shape, were all that remained of the Anglo Saxon’s crew after von Ruckteschell’s guns had done their work.
Crouching down out of sight below the gunwales, the survivors allowed the jolly boat to drift away from the glow cast by their burning ship. As they receded into the darkness of the night they saw the raider steaming in circles and raking the water with tracer, presumably bent on eradicating all evidence of her night’s work. And as they watched, the Widder administered the coup de grâce to the Anglo Saxon by torpedoing her. The poor broken ship keeled over and sank amid a cloud of steam and smoke, and the German raider then made off to the east at speed.
As was his right, Chief Officer Denny had assumed command of the jolly boat, and it was his decision to stream a sea anchor and await the coming of dawn before making any move. It was a long night, and when daylight finally came, just after 0500 on the 22nd, the seven men found themselves completely alone on an empty ocean. They had hoped for other survivors, a lifeboat or life-raft, but there was nothing; only a few pieces of charred wreckage marked the grave of the Anglo Saxon and, presumably, that of the thirty-four other men who had sailed in her.
Those who were left now looked to their future. A check of the boat’s contents showed that it was equipped with mast and sail, six pairs of oars, a sea anchor, a box of distress flares, matches, a canvas boat cover, a compass, an oil light and a small medical kit. By way of sustenance, the boat’s lockers contained a tin of ship’s biscuits, 18lb of tinned mutton, and eleven tins of condensed milk. There was also a 4 gallon keg of fresh water.
Even with only seven men in the boat, and with strict rationing imposed, it was obvious to Denny that these supplies would be inadequate for the prolonged voyage facing them. When the Anglo Saxon was attacked she had been in the region of 850 miles west of the Canaries. As Chief Officer Denny, an experienced navigator, was well aware, sailing eastwards was out of the question. The prevailing winds in the area were north-easterly, and they were under the influence of the North Equatorial Current, which flowed west at between 10 and 20 miles a day. The only choice open to them was to head west, taking advantage of wind and current. Unfortunately, the nearest land to the west was 1,600 miles away in the West Indies. Given the best of good luck, and fair weather all the way, the seven men could look forward to at least two months at sea. It was a daunting prospect, but there was no other way. Denny put it to his fellow survivors, sugaring the pill by assuring them that they would almost certainly be picked up by a passing ship within a few days. There was no argument. The sail was hoisted and course set to the west.
The first day passed well enough, but the wind was fitful, and most of the little progress made was by virtue of the current. Once under sail, Denny used his limited knowledge of first aid to clean and dress the wounds of the injured. Radio Officer Roy Pilcher’s foot had been smashed by gunfire, while the wounds of 2nd Cook Leslie Morgan and Marine Penny were less serious. The jolly boat’s first aid kit contained only the bare medical essentials, bandages, lint, antiseptic powder and iodine, with which Denny did the best he could.
Chief Officer Denny was now keeping a log with the stub of pencil and some scraps of paper he had found. The entry for the following day reads:
August 23rd, Friday. Wind E.N.E. 3. Slight sea, slightly confused easterly swell, partly cloudy. Half a dipper of water per man 6 am also half a biscuit with a little condensed milk. Sighted a vessel showing no lights at 11 pm. Showed sea flare. She cruised around but was of the opinion she was a raider as she was heading N.N.E. We were about 100 miles from our original position. Kept quiet and let her go off.
Denny was wise to exercise caution, for these were remote waters, and it is more than likely that the ship sighted was the Widder searching for another victim. These thoughts he kept to himself, and despite the disappointment, morale in the boat remained high. Three days later, Denny’s log showed that, even in the face of a deteriorating supply situation, it remained so:
August 26th, Monday. Bosun bird flew overhead. Sun rose at 6.25 a.m. A.T.S (Ship’s time). Becalmed, occasional fitful gusts. Glaring sun rays. Bale out 24 buckets daily. 6 a.m. Issued meat rations out from day previous wrapped in canvas, little taken, half a dipper of water per man, little drop of condensed milk, spirits of whole crew keen, no murmur from wounded men. Hoping to sight vessel soon but praying for squalls and a decent wind. During a.m. Medical treatment given by 3rd Engineer and myself. W/T operator’s left foot which is badly crushed bathed with salt water for an hour and last linen bandage applied, well covered up but swelling badly. 2nd Cook’s right foot swollen badly, ankle badly strained with bullet wound just above ankle, bathed with salt water and well bandaged. Gunlayer’s right forearm washed first in fresh water, then iodine applied and bandaged. All day long blinding sun’s rays and cloudless, becalmed. During afternoon First Officer, 3rd engineer, gunlayer, A.B.’s Widdecombe and Tapscott dipped their bodies in water overside, taking care to keep their faces out of the water, result greatly invigorating. Rations still half a dipper of water per man at 6 a.m. And 6 p.m., only eat half a biscuit per day, no need for more, and a little condensed milk, the boiled beef kept in canvas still good and the fat is appreciated. Although the W/T is weak, everyone else in good spirits and very cheerful. Keeping two watches, one myself other 3rd engineer, two A.B.s four on and four off. Having no nautical instruments or books on board can only rely on the compass and stars at night. Trusting to make a landfall in the vicinity of Leeward Islands, with God’s will and British determination. 10.30 p.m., wind freshening from eastward, skimming along fine at about 5 knots.
And a day later:
August 27th, Tuesday. Wind E.N.E. 3 to 4, partly cloudy, no rain yet. 6 a.m. ration given, half a dipper of water, no one felt hungry. Managed to give each man a cigarette made out of newspaper and half a can of tobacco, but only 8 matches left so this luxury will soon be stopped. On port tack heading S.W. True making about four knots and throughout the night, held a lottery in evening as to who gave nearest date of being sighted or making landfall. Sun set 6.42 p.m. A.T.S.
The reality was that no one, not even Chief Officer Denny, really knew where they were or how much longer it would be before they reached land or were picked up. By the time the sun went down on the 27th, the jolly boat had been under sail on a westerly course for five and a half days, and although they had been becalmed some of the time, it is safe to assume they had been averaging at least 2 knots. In that case, the survivors would have covered less than 300 miles, and thus they still had another 2,000 to go. Denny, having spent fifteen years at sea, much of it keeping watches on the bridge of a ship, must have been aware of their situation, yet his log continued to err on the optimistic side. Then, on 1 September, having been becalmed all the previous day and night, the tone of that log changed. He wrote:
September 1st, Sunday. During Saturday night crew felt very thirsty, boiled mutton could not be digested and some felt sick, doubled the water issue that night. 6.15 a.m. Half a dipper of water per man and same in p.m. Wind S.S.W. 2, slight northerly swell, steering west true. W/T Op. Failing slowly, hope to see something soon. 8 a.m. W/T Operator R.N. Pilcher passed peaceably away. Committed his body to the deep with silent prayer.
Another two days went by, then the handwriting in the boat’s log changes. Able Seaman Roy Widdecombe had taken over, and the entries were brief and to the point:
Sept. 3rd, Tuesday. One dipper of water per man at 7 a.m. And again in evening. Things going from bad to worse, 1st Mate, who wrote this diary up to this point, going fast. Good breezes from E.S.E.
Sept. 4th. Everybody very much weaker. The Mate is going fast now. 1.30 p.m. Sunday, Penny very much weaker, slipped overboard. From 10 p.m. Tonight 14 days out, tried to make the Leeward Islands, Porto Rica, Hayti, but the German raider given none the right to take a sextant, chronometer, extra water, tin fruit or bottled fruit, no rum or brandy for wounded crew. Evidently intended to smash all lifeboat gear to kill all inquiry, but we got the small gig, seven of us, by wind somewhere in vicinity of Leeward Islands.
At this point, Widdecombe seems to be drifting into the realms of fantasy; the boat was then nowhere near the Leeward Islands, probably nearly 2,000 miles to the east. The log continues, but with only a single entry on occasional days:
Sept. 5th. Chief Mate and 3rd Engineer go over the side. No water.
Sept. 9th. 2nd Cook goes mad and dies. Two of us left.
Sept. 12th. A cloud burst gave us water for 6 days.
Sept. 20th. Rain again for four days. Getting very weak but trusting in God to pull us through.
Sept. 24th. All water and biscuits gone but still hoping to make land.
With these poignant words the jolly boat’s log closes. Only Robert Tapscott and Roy Widdecombe were left alive. They had no food and no water, and no hope left. They lay across the thwarts of the boat and waited for death.
Five weeks later, on 30 October, the Anglo Saxon’s jolly boat, weather-stained and barnacle-encrusted, was cast ashore on the tiny island of Eleuthera in the Bahamas, having sailed and drifted a total of 2,544 miles in seventy days. Of the seven who had survived the guns of the Widder, only the two Welsh ABs Robert Tapscott and Roy Widdecombe remained alive. During the concluding days of their epic voyage they had subsisted on scraps of seaweed and a single flying fish, with only the occasional shower of rain to slake their raging thirst. At one point they were so desperate that they drank the alcohol out of the boat’s compass. How they remained sane throughout all those harrowing days without hope is beyond comprehension.
When their boat grounded on the sandy shore of Eleuthera, Tapscott and Widdecombe were so weak and emaciated that they were very near to death. A local beachcomber found them and they were taken to hospital in Nassau, where their lives hung in balance for some weeks. Roy Widdecombe was the first to recover, and in February 1941 he joined the British cargo liner Siamese Prince in New York to sail for home. He was destined never to see his native Wales again: on 17 February, when she was only twenty-four hours out of Liverpool, the Siamese Prince was torpedoed by a U-boat and sank, taking all on board with her, Roy Widdecombe included.
Robert Tapscott’s recovery was more prolonged. It was summer 1941 before he was released from hospital in Nassau. From there, perhaps wishing to hit back at those who had subjected him to such a terrible ordeal, he went to Canada, where he joined the Canadian Army. In 1943 he returned to sea and served throughout the rest of the war, but the horrors of those seventy days spent in an open boat still haunted him. In 1963, then forty-two years old, he took his own life. So died the sole survivor of the forty-one men who manned the Anglo Saxon.
The Widder sank only two more ships after the ill-fated Anglo Saxon, bringing the total for her first sortie into the Atlantic to ten ships of 58,644 tons. This was considered by the German General Staff to be a poor return for the effort required to keep the raider at sea. When she returned to her home port of Brest on 31 October 1940, the Widder was withdrawn from active service and became a repair ship for the German Navy in Norway. She was seized by the Royal Navy at the end of the war and sold to Greek owners, ending her days as a world-wide tramp. In 1955 she ran on to rocks near Bergen and was declared a total loss.
After leaving the Widder, Helmut von Ruckteschell took command of the commerce raider Michel, in which he continued to use the same tactics as he had in the Widder, attacking lone ships at night and smothering them with gunfire, with the express purpose of killing or maiming the crew before they had a chance to react. In 1947 von Ruckteschell faced a British Military Court charged with the indiscriminate killing of Allied merchant seamen. He was found guilty and sentenced to ten years in gaol. He died in prison in Hamburg in September 1948, aged fifty-eight.
A sad footnote to this chapter illustrates the appalling treatment meted out to the British merchant seamen of the day by those who should have known better. It was written in 2003 by the adopted son of an unnamed seaman serving in the Anglo Saxon when she was sunk:
When news that the ship was missing became known, my mother’s allowance from the shipowners was stopped immediately – apparently the usual practice at that time. After some delay, she was given a temporary payment (presumably by some government department) until the ship’s fate was confirmed. This derisory payment consisted of 22 shillings and 6 pence per week (about £1.12 in today’s money) and 5 shillings (25 pence) for me. My grief-stricken mother was ordered to appear, with me, before a committee of ‘greybeards’ – to be told that my adoption was not considered ‘legal enough’ (although it had been done through a solicitor) and there would be no allowance at all for me – even worse, she would be required to pay back the temporary allowance of five shillings per week. At some time in all this I learned for the first time that I was adopted. She and my lovely Dad – who had just been killed in the service of his adopted country – had cared for me since I was about 12 days old – and this was the unbelievable treatment handed out by the greybeards. My mother was devastated.