CHAPTER ONE

The King’s Enemies

‘This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that, unless we heard from them by 11 o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.

‘I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany …

‘Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against – brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution – and against them I am certain that right will prevail.’

The voice sounded clipped and pedantic, even politely bored.

There was silence in the Third Class Lounge. Finally I said: ‘This is the way the world ends: not with a bang but a whimper!’

‘Who said that?’

‘T.S. Eliot.’

‘Well, we’re well out of it!’ That was the feeling of most of the passengers. We had left old Europe only hours before she slid into the abyss. It was 3rd September 1939. The ship was the SS Athenia.

The loudspeaker announced the lifeboat drill. I dutifully went back to my cabin to pick up my life-jacket and made my way to the deck and lifeboat station. The boat was large, and I calculated that there would perhaps be just enough space for us all, but it would be crowded. The normal capacity of the ship was about 1,000, but with returning American and Canadian tourists, English, Scottish and Irish emigrants and Eastern European refugees, there were at least 1,300 passengers.

In the lounge, there was laughter and singing. It may have been because they’d had more to drink, but the English-speaking nationalities were leading the entertainments. The young Americans launched into a sing-song, accompanied by a piano, and by the Canadians, English, Scots, Irish and Welsh. There was ‘Home on the Range’, ‘Shenandoah’. ‘My Old Kentucky Home’, ‘Mammy’, and the rest of them. The English came up with ‘Ilkley Moor Baht ’at’, ‘Knees up Mother Brown’, and of course ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. From the Irish, we had ‘The Mountains of Mourne’ and ‘Danny Boy’; from the Welsh, ‘Men of Harlech’, ‘We’ll keep a Welcome in the Hillsides’ and ‘Land of my Fathers’ sung beautifully by bass, tenor, contralto, and soprano voices, with descant thrown in; from the Scots, we had ‘Scotland The Brave’, ‘Roamin’ in the Gloamin’ ’ and ‘I belong to Glasgow’.

Then a young boy was persuaded to sing solo. He was about seventeen, like me, but he seemed younger, with dark hair, but blue eyes. He was small and slight and almost feminine. His voice was a beautiful high tenor and every note was as true as a bell. He held his audience completely. There was no sound from them. The beer was left untouched. He sang ‘Oh where, tell me where has my highland laddie gone’, ‘The Bonnie, Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond’ and ‘The Road to the Isles’, and each of the well-known songs was given a new pathos and yearning, reflecting his own sadness and touching the homesickness of all those who were leaving home and family, probably never to see them again. There were tears in their eyes, and in the blue eyes of the singer, and even in the eyes of the Canadians and Americans as they shared the great sense of nostalgia for old places and beloved faces. That was the mood of the Athenia on the last full day of her life.

By the evening we were off the Hebrides. The strong west wind was cold, the sky cloudy, and the ship was pitching and rolling slightly on the ocean swells.

I had just mounted the staircase and was moving forward to the dining room when it struck. It was a powerful explosion quickly followed by a loud crack and whistle. The ship shuddered under the blow. The lights went out. There were women’s screams. The movement of the ship changed strangely as she slewed to a stop. People were running in all directions, calling desperately to one another.

We all knew the ship was mortally stricken; she was beginning to list.

The emergency lights were turned on. I went back to the companionway I had just come up. I gazed down at a sort of Dante’s Inferno; a gaping hole at the bottom of which was a churning mass of water on which there were broken bits of wooden stairway, flooring and furniture. Terrified people were clinging to this flotsam, and to the wreckage of the rest of the stairway which was cascading down the side of the gaping hole. The blast must have come up through here from the engine room below, past the cabin decks, and the third class restaurant and galley. I clambered and slithered down to the level of the restaurant. I started by reaching for the outstretched arms and pulling the weeping shaking, frightened women to safety; but I soon saw that the most urgent danger was to those who were floundering in the water, or clinging to the wreckage lower down. Many were screaming that they couldn’t swim. Some were already close to drowning.

I slithered down the shattered stairway, slipped off my jacket and shoes, and plunged into the surging water. One by one, I dragged them to the foot of the broken companionway, and left them to clamber up to the other rescuers above.

When there were no more bodies floundering in the water, I turned to those who were cowering in the openings of the corridors which led from the cabins to what had been the landing at the foot of the stairs and which was now a seething, lurching mass of water. Most of them were women, many were children and some were men. I went first to the children. They left their mothers, put their small arms around my neck and clung to me. They clung as we slipped into the water; they clung as I swam to the foot of the dangling steps; they clung as I climbed the slippery wreckage; and they clung as I prised their little arms from around me and passed them to those at the top. These were members of the crew. A few stewards and stewardesses, and even some seamen. The Athenia was a Glasgow ship and so was her crew. They knew their jobs, they rose to the challenge, and above all, they kept their heads. One seaman had climbed halfway down to take the women and children from me and pass them on to those waiting above. With a strong Glasgow accent, he soothed and comforted the mothers and children, and shouted praise and encouragement to me.

‘Bloody guid, mon! Keep ’em coming!’

I looked up out of the water.

‘I could do with some help down here.’

The seaman shook his head sadly.

‘Ah wish the hell ah cuid, but ah canna swum!’

I looked up at the others. They shook their heads too. It had never occurred to me that members of a ship’s crew would not be able to swim. Finally there were no more left either in the water, or waiting at the openings of the corridors. I was at the base of the broken stairs. For the first time, I was able to pause and look around. By now, the ship had listed much more. The water had slopped into the corridors on the down side until it was waist-high. The corridors on the upper side were out of the water. Two seamen were crawling down to help.

‘We’ve got to make sure there’s no one left in the cabins. We’ll take this upper passageway. Can you swim to the lower one? There’s not many of them. The emergency watertight doors have been closed at the next bulkhead, so we just have to check the ones in this section.’

I pushed off into the lurching water and swam to the opening of one of the half-flooded gangways. I was able to swim right to it, get to my feet and splash my way into darkness, walking half on the floor and half on the bulkheads. The water in most of the cabins was too deep and the light was too dim to conduct any kind of a search. What was worse as I stumbled through the water and darkness, there was a movement of the ship as it listed further. The water sloshed higher, and there were deep rumblings in the bowels of the sinking ship.

I yelled out through the dark, ghostly gangways and cabins. ‘Anyone there? Anyone there?’

There wasn’t. The feeling grew in me that this deck was already at the bottom of the sea, as it would be for hundreds of years.

As I felt my way through the flooded, dark cabins and gangways, I stumbled across mysterious objects moving under the shifting water. I stumbled into what seemed to be a half-submerged bundle of clothing. It seemed to follow me as I returned towards the open shaft. In the dim light, I turned it over. Then I saw the innocent face, gashed and bloodied, and the dark, curly hair, and the blue eyes, which would never weep again for the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. Now other lips would be asking where their highland laddie had gone.

I realised it was useless to search any longer. I struggled back to the light, and left the lower decks to the dead, the darkness and the sea.

The crew members were waiting to help me up the wreckage, up past the smashed dining-rooms to the upper decks.

‘Thanks!’ I said when we got to the top. I shook both seamen by the hand.

The ship was listing quite a bit now. We headed up the sloping deck to the higher side. We found them launching one of the last lifeboats. It was crowded. Members of the crew were holding back those for whom there was no more room and telling them to go to another boat. Meanwhile, the two seamen fore and aft in the boat were desperately trying to lower it. But as the heavy boat lurched unevenly down as the ropes slid through the pulleys of the davits, a problem arose which was apparently not foreseen by the designers of lifeboat launching systems. Because of the listing of the ship, when the lifeboat was lowered from its davits, and, as it swayed with the slight rolling, it fouled the side. Although the seamen were playing out their ropes as evenly as possible, the forward part got caught against the side of the ship. The seaman continued to play out his rope. Suddenly it slid free and dropped. But the after rope hadn’t played out as much as the one forward. The front of the boat dropped, but the rear was caught by its rope. Soon the boat was hanging by the after rope. The screaming passengers were tumbling out of the boat like rag dolls, and falling down to the surface of the sea far below.

There was nothing we could do. I helped the crew to shepherd the remaining group of passengers to the other side of the ship.

We made our way to what seemed to be the last lifeboat, at least on that deck. Here there was another problem caused by the same list and the same swell; the boat was hanging on its davits, but swinging in and out. On its outer swing, there was a yawning gap between the lifeboat and the ship. Most of the passengers were women or elderly, or both. The responsible crew members were trying to persuade them to make their leap into the boat when it was close to the ship, but many of them waited too long, and the boat swung out again.

We pushed our way through the waiting crowd to help. As I reached the boat, the seaman in the bow shouted to an elderly lady: ‘Jump! Now!’

But she hesitated. Perhaps she was pushed and the push badly timed. As the boat swung away, she lurched out towards it, the gap was already too wide. Her arms reached the gunwale, but her body fell through the space between lifeboat and ship, wrenching her arms away from the boat and those who were trying to drag her into it. I gazed after the falling body, dazed and speechless, until it hit the waves far below.

Finally the lifeboat could take no more passengers, and was lowered away, leaving a small group of us on the deserted, sloping deck. One of the ship’s officers took command.

‘That was the last of the boats, but the Captain’s launch will be back for us soon; it’s distributing the passengers evenly between the boats. Some of the ones that got away weren’t quite full!’

‘Aye, but how much time do we have before she goes?’

‘There’s no immediate danger. There was only one torpedo which hit midships and blew up through that compartment. The watertight doors were closed before other compartments were flooded, so they should keep her afloat awhile.’

Now that there was nothing to do, I felt depressed. Suddenly I thought of my money and papers I’d left with the Purser. I ran back to the companionway, and made my way to the Purser’s office. There was the large safe still firmly locked shut. The state of the papers on the desk indicated a hurried departure. I tried in vain to open the safe, then turned and clambered back to the upper deck. Somehow I didn’t feel like waiting for the Captain’s launch; I wanted to be doing something, anything.

I went to the higher side of the ship and looked down the sloping side to the dark, rolling sea. There, just about 100 yards from the ship, I saw a lifeboat. Hanging from the davits, and making down the steel side of the ship were the ropes which had launched the boats.

In the dark, I couldn’t see if they reached all the way to the sea, but they went far enough for me. Soon I was going down a rope hand over hand, fending myself off the side with my feet as the ship rolled. It was further than I had thought. Halfway down, my arms were aching. Long before I reached the bottom, I couldn’t hold on any longer. As the rope slipped through my hands, I kicked away from the side and fell. It seemed a long time before I hit the water. I went in feet first. I started to struggle to the surface right away, but it seemed to take a long time. I thought I was a good under-water swimmer, but soon I desperately needed to breathe. In the darkness, there was no sign of the surface. For the first time I wished I’d been able to get to my life-jacket. If I passed out, it would at least have brought me to the surface. Just as I felt I could hold out no longer, I got to the surface. I gasped for breath. The sea was choppy, and I got a mouthful of water. It was colder, rougher and more brutal than I had expected. I looked for the lifeboat I had seen from the deck. I could only see it when I was lifted by a wave, and it looked much further away now.

I struck out in the direction of the boat, but it was a struggle. At times I felt I was making no headway at all. Eventually I got close enough to see one of the reasons. They had a few oars out, and were trying to row away from the ship. I knew that was in line with instructions, because of the danger of being sucked down with the ship when she sank; but, as I struggled to keep going, I did feel they could at least stop rowing until I caught up with them.

Fortunately, their efforts were badly co-ordinated and I finally reached them, and grabbed the gunwale, I tried to pull myself up, expecting helping hands to life me into the boat; instead a dark young man, screaming in a foreign language put his hand in my face to push me away. A frantic middle-aged woman was prising my fingers off the side of the boat and banging on my knuckles. Dimly I realised they were panicking because they felt the boat was already over-crowded. I heard the voices of the seaman in charge down in the stern yelling to them to stop, but help came from another direction, and it was much more effective. The diminutive figure of a girl appeared. In a flash, she had landed a sharp right to the face of the young man, and sent him sprawling back off his seat. In the next second, my other tormentor was hauled away, and the strong young arms were reaching down to me. Other hands helped to haul me over the gunwale.

I collapsed in a wet heap on the bottom of the boat and gasped my thanks to my rescuers.

Amid peals of young female laughter I heard: ‘Hey! You’re an American!’

‘So are you!’ I mumbled in surprise.

‘My God! You’re half-drowned and freezing cold! Here!’

A blanket was being wrapped around my shoulders. I struggled to sit up, and opened my eyes to look at my guardian angel. She was a small, slim brunette, about nineteen or twenty, with an elfin face, full of life and humour. She was wearing a bra and pants and nothing else. I realised she had been wrapped in the blanket she was now trying to put around me.

‘No! No! You need it more than I do,’ and I took it off my shoulders and put it around hers.

‘OK. We’ll share it. That way we’ll keep each other warm!’ and she snuggled into my arms as I wrapped the blanket around us.

‘What happened to the rest of your clothes?’ I asked.

‘We were dressing for dinner when the torpedo struck. We grabbed what we could and ran.’

I looked around and saw we were surrounded by young girls in various stages of undress. Some had borrowed sweaters and jackets from members of the crew. Others were huddled in blankets. At least most of them had life-jackets. As they snuggled together around us, I showed my surprise.

‘Who are you?’

The little brunette laughed. ‘We’re college kids. We’ve been touring Europe after graduation. I guess our timing could have been better. I’m Jenny. This is Kay. That’s Dodie.’

They were a wonderful, cheery bunch, cracking jokes and singing songs. We were an oasis of fun in the lifeboat. Most of the others were frightened or seasick or both. Many were refugees, mostly from Poland. Many were Jewish, but by no means all.

I was surprised at how large the boat seemed, even as it rolled and pitched on the North Atlantic swells. Up in the bow was a member of the ship’s crew, and another in the stern. In spite of the crowd in the boat, they had been able to get some of the oars out, and had got some of the men to start rowing. After getting warmed up, I felt guilty at not pulling my weight. I got up and picked my way carefully to within shouting distance of the seaman in the stern.

‘Do you want me to help out on the oars?’

He was surprised to find a volunteer. ‘Ay! These two here are having a struggle. Maybe you could help them out. All we need to do is to keep away from the Athenia and head into the waves.’

I took the place of a young Jewish boy who was more of a hindrance than a help to his partner on the oar. He didn’t speak English, but was delighted to find I spoke German, which meant he could communicate with me in Yiddish. He was even happier to be relieved of his task. The other man on the oar was also young. He didn’t speak Yiddish or German, but he spoke a little English. He seemed to be somewhat handicapped by something hanging out of his mouth. At first I thought it was saliva or spittle, but when he saw me looking at it, he took it out of his mouth, and I saw that it was a St Christopher medallion on a silver chain around his neck.

‘He save us!’ he said and put the medal back in his mouth, clamped between his teeth.

I nodded, but I sincerely hoped that St Christopher was being helped by the last messages of the Athenia’s wireless operator. I knew that the crack of the second explosion had been a shell from the U-Boat, but I had seen that although it had killed a few people on the upper deck, it hadn’t hit the radio mast or super-structure.

After an hour or so on the oars I suggested that we could stop rowing. We were far enough from the ship to be out of danger, but shouldn’t get too far from her, because the rescue ships would be heading for her last reported position.

I went back to Jenny and my friendly college girls. Through the night, we clung together, chatted, sang and slept fitfully. At one point, I remember the Jews joining in singing that beautiful plaintiff dirge which became the hymn of the Jewish refugees, oppressed, and martyred throughout the world.

Occasionally we looked across to the stricken Athenia. We were amazed at how long she was staying afloat. She was sinking lower in the water, and listing further, but during most of the night, she was still there. It was about 1.30 a.m. when everyone in our boat woke out of their fitful sleep and looked across at the dark hulk. There had probably been a noise of some kind; or perhaps a shift in her position, although I don’t remember either. Anyway, we were all watching when the stern began to sink lower. Soon it seemed to me that most of the near half of the ship was under water. Everything was in slow motion. Gradually, as the stern disappeared, the bow began to rise. We could see the water cascading off as the great ship reared up; slowly, and with enormous dignity. It was frightening, unbelievable, awesome. Finally the entire forward half of the ship was towering above us. When it was absolutely vertical, it paused. Then she started her final dive; imperceptibly at first, but gaining in momentum until she plunged to her death. A column of water came up as she disappeared, then there was only a great turbulence, and then nothing but the rolling sea and some floating debris. We felt lonelier and sadder. There was no singing now. We were tired and shivering with cold.

It was 4.30 when I saw it looming up through the dark. It was a ship. It was even carrying lights. We were too numbed to cheer. There was just a stirring in the boat; a grateful murmuring. The rowers picked up their oars and started rowing slowly towards the ship.

Other lifeboats were doing the same. Soon we found ourselves close to the big rescue ship, surrounded by five or six other boats. The big ship had stopped as soon as she was close to the boats. Rope ladders were dropped over the side near the stern of the ship. She was a tanker and must have been empty. She towered above us and we could see the blades of her big propeller as we came around to her stern. I looked up and saw her name and home port: ‘Knute Nelson – CHRISTIANSAND’; a Norwegian tanker.

As we came close, I called on the seaman on the tiller of our boat to keep us away from the menacing propeller. It was not moving, but I knew it could windmill, or the Captain might call for some weigh, unaware of the boats under his stern. One life-boat was being tossed by the waves ever closer to the propeller. I yelled across to them, but apparently there were not enough rowers to stop the drift. Then the great propeller started to turn, churning up the water, and sucking the lifeboat in under the stern. As we watched, they were drawn into the whirlpool. We saw one big propeller blade slash through the boat; but as the shattered bow went down, the rest of the boat was lifted by the next blade coming up. The rearing, shattered boat spilled its human cargo into the churning water.

I called to the man on our tiller and on the rowers to make for the spot where the survivors were floundering in the water. The screw was no longer turning, and the ship had moved forward slightly. Some of the strong swimmers were already making for the bottom of the rope and wooden ladder dangling down the side of the ship close to the stern; some were pulled into our boat; others clung to the gunwales or oars for the short distance to the ladder; but many just disappeared under the foaming water.

We got the survivors from the broken lifeboat onto the ladder first. Then it was the turn of the weakest from our own boat. It wasn’t easy. The boat was rising and falling on the waves, smashing against the steel sides of the tanker. Sometimes we got someone onto the ladder only to have them fall back into the boat as the ladder swung, or the boat dropped away too soon. We had to get them to get onto the ladder when the boat was at the top of its rise.

Finally there was no one left in the boat but the two seamen, the American college girls and myself. One by one, the girls started up the twisting, writhing ladder. Even for lithe, young, athletic teenagers, clambering up the tricky rope ladder took all their strength and concentration. There was no way they could keep the blankets wrapped around them; even those who had huddled into seamen’s jackets which were far too big for them, wriggled out of them before attempting to scale the towering side of the tanker.

When I finally reached the top of the ladder and was hauled over the rail by two large Norwegian sailors onto the deck. I saw the incredulous Captain of the Knute Nelson staring at a group of shivering girls, mostly dressed in pants and bras, and nothing else. He hurried them to a companionway.

‘Go down! Down! Any door! Any room! Warm! You must have warm!’

I followed them down the iron stairs until we came to a lower deck, and into the first door. The cabin was dark, but warm! It smelt cosily of human sleep; there was the sound of heavy breathing.

The light came on. We saw a series of bunks, one above the other. In each bunk was a large Norwegian seaman. The girls had only one thing in mind: to get warm. They didn’t hesitate. The seamen, who had been at sea for weeks, and didn’t even know that war had been declared, awoke to find half-naked girls clambering into their bunks and snuggling up to their warm bodies under the rough blankets. I’ll never forget the expressions on the faces of those big Norwegians. They knew they must be dreaming.

When we had explained what had happened to those who understood English, and they had translated it to the others, those magnificent gentle giants turned out of their bunks, made us coffee, served out hard-tack biscuits, lent us their sweaters, and blankets, showed us the way to the ‘head’, and made us feel that, in spite of what we had been through, life was good!

We slept the sleep of the exhausted for many hours. When we came to, we learned that, as a ship of a neutral country, the Knute Nelson was taking us to the nearest neutral port: Galway on the west coast of Eire. We heard that other rescue ships, including British destroyers, had picked up other survivors.

Yes, Ireland is as green as they say, and Galway is as Irish as it’s possible to be. We saw the green of the fields from the deck of the Knute Nelson as we sailed into Galway Bay. We saw Galway when we glided up to the docks. The whole city must have been there. We said our fond goodbyes to our Norwegian Captain and his crew. They insisted that the girls keep the voluminous sweaters which reached to their knees, and were rewarded by enthusiastic kisses of gratitude. I thanked every member of the crew. For me they joined that long list of great Norwegians, a list out of all proportion to the size of the country. They were also the first of a long list of solid Norwegian friends who seemed to turn up when I needed help; Berndt Balchen, Harald Swenson, Brynyulf Evenson, Arne and Bengt Ramstad and many others. A very special people, the Norwegians.

But on the docks of Galway, a more tumultuous welcome was waiting for us. Galway was a centre of republicanism in the neutral Republic of Eire, and one would expect the citizens to be neutral or even anti-British, but there was nothing neutral about the weeping, cheering Galway crowd on that September day in 1939. They swamped us with their sympathy and generosity. They listened to every harrowing story, and hung on every word. They tried to unite husbands and wives, and help children find their parents, and they cried with them when hope gradually faded.

As we arrived on the quay, those survivors who had been brought to Galway by the British destroyers, besieged us to ask if we had seen or heard of the friends and relations from whom they had been separated. Many were desperate and gave way to their grief and anguish. Others just asked with a terrible quiet dignity. I remember a brother and sister about ten or twelve years old who asked in clear treble voices if we had seen their parents.

For the first time, I felt an overwhelming fury that was to sweep over me time and time again during the war. No one had the right to cause such suffering to innocent people. At first my rage was against the Germans, but later, when I saw the same suffering among their innocents, my fury was against those who used their power with such callous lack of responsibility to heap personal tragedy on the little people who wanted only to live; to cut down the young before they have had time to savour life; to deprive the old of the peace and fulfilment of age for which they had toiled throughout their lives; to tear away from parents the sons and daughters without whom life has no meaning; to inflict on a young woman the loss of a husband and condemn her to a life of loneliness and mourning; to sentence to cruel death those who are killed; to sentence to a crueller life those who are bereaved. No one had the right to cause such suffering, and those who assumed that right had to be stopped and punished. That was the vow; simple and profound; corny and devout. That was the way we were; no doubts; we knew what was right and wrong, and we knew what we had to do.

Meanwhile we were swept up by the Irish of Galway, who literally gave us the clothes off their backs. I remember being overwhelmed by sympathetic citizens who almost carried me off to a nearby pub. I was dressed only in slacks and a shirt. As we went into the bar, one of the crowd selected a raincoat from those hanging from pegs in the entrance and insisted on putting it on me.

‘But is this yours?’ I protested.

‘Of course not! It’s yours! Fits you to a tee!’

‘But it belongs to someone!’

‘Sure, he’d want you to have it!’ The others agreed, and slapped a cloth cap on my head to complete the outfit.

The emotional reception was not reserved for the Canadians and Americans, but was just as warm for the English. Among the sympathetic crowd in the pub were a number of Irishmen wearing in their lapel a simple gold circlet. When I asked what it was, they explained that they were members of a movement devoted to the promotion of everything Irish, and opposed to everything English. The gold ring emblem meant that they had made a vow to speak only Irish and never speak English.

‘But you’re not speaking Irish now,’ I said.

‘Well, we have to learn it first! That’s why we’re here in Galway.’

It wasn’t easy, but I finally slipped away from my exuberant friends. The other survivors were being allocated to various hotels or billets. By the time I arrived, there wasn’t much left. In any case, as a third class passenger with no cash, and no hope of getting any, I wasn’t expecting much.

As I waited patiently, I recognised one of the girls from our lifeboat, and joined her. She was a striking girl, as tall as I, with golden blonde hair and a magnificent athletic figure.

‘Remember me? We spent last night together.’

‘Of course, but I don’t remember your name.’

‘Jim Goodson. What’s yours?’

‘Katerina Versveldt, – but wait a minute, I think they were looking for you. I think that was the name they called out on the loudspeaker.’

We went up to the survivors’ centre, and, sure enough, to my surprise, it was my name that had been called. Even more amazing, a well-dressed businessman came up and greeted me with obvious enthusiasm and a welcoming smile.

‘Mr Goodson, I’m Jack Warren. Thank God you’re safe! We’ve got a room ready for you in our home, and you can stay as long as you like!’

‘That’s very nice of you, but I don’t understand. How did you know about me?’

‘Your uncle knew you were on the Athenia, and that most of the survivors were being brought to Galway. He got in touch with his friend Joe Boyle who’s with Shell Oil, and they got in touch with me. I’m the Shell manager here.’

‘Well, I can’t imagine why Shell should go to all this trouble just for me; and I’m afraid I’ll be imposing on you.’

‘Nonsense, this is the least we can do. And how about your friend? Can we put you up too? Let’s go!’

The Warrens opened their house and their hearts to us. They used their precious petrol to take us through the West Irish countryside. They showed us the wild rocky coast, the little fields surrounded by low stone walls of stones fitted together with no cement or mortar. They explained how many of these minute plots had been hewn out of the solid rock. First the rock had to be cracked by building a fire on it and then dousing it with cold water. Then a wedge of wood was pounded into the crack, and water poured over it to make it expand, thus extending the cracking process. Then followed the laborious process of pounding and prising, until the cracked pieces of rock could be lifted out and piled around the plot. Finally, baskets of seaweed, kelp, and what earth could be found were carried to the cavity, and, after years of care, there was a little plot capable of producing potatoes, or enough grazing for a cow or goat.

The Warrens lived between Galway and Connemara, where they showed us the Claddach, the old section, where the little white, thatched cottages had stood unchanged for over a century. They had wooden doors split across the middle like a stable, so that the top half could be opened to let in the light and air, while the bottom half stayed closed. Most of them had dirt or stone floors, and the chickens wandered in and out at will.

But we only had two days on peaceful Galway Bay. We were to be sent from neutral Ireland to Glasgow, presumably to be given passage from there back to Canada or The States.

The night ferry from Belfast to Glasgow brought back memories of the Athenia; the black heaving swell, the hissing along the sides of the ship as she cut her way through the salt sea; but upper most in our minds were the scenes on the lower decks after the torpedo struck. It had left a claustrophobia from which I never recovered. Perhaps it had been there all along, but it made me realise that, if I were to play a part in the war, it couldn’t be in the confined space of a submarine, or even a ship, or a tank. It had to be the open freedom of the air. There is a basic difference in the make-up of a flyer and others. I’ve often heard submariners say the thought of being miles high in the sky in a small plane filled them with fear, and confided to them that most pilots would hate to face hours of inactivity, but grave danger, in a small submarine in the depths of the ocean.

So Katerina and I sat close together on the deserted deck, clinging together to keep warm in the cold, damp September night, both thinking of lurking U-boats and not daring to mention them, until the next morning when we sailed down the Clyde to Glasgow.

We were expecting to be greeted warmly by the Donaldson-Atlantic Line and learn when we could sail home. It was explained to us that the small print on our tickets explicitly stated that the Line’s responsibility to carry us across the Atlantic was null and void if ‘Acts of God or the King’s enemies’ prevented them from carrying them out. Since ‘the King’s enemies’ had sunk our ship, and since the others had been commandeered by His Majesty’s Government, there was nothing they could do for us at present, but they would let us know. In the meantime, we would be billeted in the Beresford Hotel. I at least got something out of it. I was presented with a badly cut, cheap suit and shirt. I accepted it gratefully. Somehow clothes didn’t seem to matter much in those days.

It was the next evening that Harry Lauder came. By now he was Sir Harry Lauder and almost seventy, but he was known to Scots, and almost everyone else around the world. He epitomized the tough, cocky little Scotsman, and brought a nostalgic memory of home, humour and sentiment to every corner of the globe, when, in a world with no air travel, ‘home’ was very far away, and would probably never be seen again. It was typical of him that he would come out of his retirement to give freely of his time to the Athenia survivors, and he gave of his best! From the moment the short stocky figure with his kilt and Glengarry bonnet, and his gnarled black stick arrived, he had us laughing and crying. All the old, well-loved jokes and songs came out one after the other: ‘Roamin’ in the gloamin’, ‘There is somebody waiting for me, in a wee cottage down by the sea’, ‘On the bonny, bonny banks o’ Loch Lomond’, and ending with the song he wrote himself, when his only son was killed in the First World War: ‘Keep right on to the End of the Road’. He left us all in tears, feeling a whole lot better!

The next day, walking down Sauchiehall Street, I saw three men in RAF uniforms putting the finishing touches on what was obviously going to be a recruiting station.

‘Can I join your RAF?’ I asked.

‘Come back tomorrow when the sergeant’s here.’

I was there at 9 a.m. At about ten the sergeant appeared, accompanied by two airman with their arms full of boxes of forms.

They had no shortage of volunteers, and a line soon formed behind me. Finally I was allowed in. The sergeant simply said, ‘Can you write? Then fill in this form.’

But I had lots of questions: ‘Can an American join the RAF? How long would I have to wait? …’

The sergeant sighed. ‘Look, son, the Air Marshal’s busy, so he’s just asked me to stand in for him. Just fill in the form, and don’t bother to apply for air crew.’

‘But why not? I want to be a fighter pilot.’

‘Of course you do, and so do a million others.’

‘But somebody’s got to be a fighter pilot, why not me?’

‘Just fill in the form!’

I filled in the form.

The next day I was back to see if they had any news. Suddenly, only one thing in life mattered: to become a fighter pilot as soon as possible. I took to hanging around the recruiting station. Sergeant McLeod and I became good friends, but this didn’t help my cause; on the contrary, I soon realised that, although the recruiting station religiously sent in their forms, it was a one-way street. They received no response from the Air Ministry, and it began to dawn on me how completely unprepared for war they were.

This was confirmed when Sergeant McLeod announced one day that an officer was going to turn up on a tour of inspection. I explained how essential it was for me to talk to him and McLeod promised to do his best.

Thus it was that I found myself in the presence of Flight Lieutenant Robinson. I was not only in awe of his rank, but also because he had actually served in the Royal Flying Corps at the end of the First World War. Talking to him made me feel that the war we were now starting was just a continuation of the last. He spoke of the Germans as ‘Jerry’, ‘the Boche’ or ‘the Hun’. Planes were ‘kites’, men were ‘types’: It was a language I was to become very familiar with. The US Air Force picked it up from the RAF, who had preserved it from the RFC of World War I. It’s not only in tactics and equipment that one war starts where the last leaves off. At least that applies to the victors. Only the vanquished seem to learn from the past, and prepare to take their revenge. And so it was that Germany was ready with a new concept of total war, based on air supremacy and perfect coordination between tactical air power and motorised infantry and armour, with the fleets of Me109’s, Me110’s, Stukas and Heinkels designed for the job. Meanwhile the Air Ministry contemplated the overwhelming problem of creating an air force to meet the threat, and processing my application form; and Flight Lieutenant Robinson expressed the pious hope that ‘Now that the balloon’s gone up, they’ll pull out their fingers and get cracking!’

He also gave me practical advice. ‘We can’t possibly train enough pilots in England. Even if Jerry would leave us in peace, the bloody weather would put the lid on it. No, the training’s going to take place in the Commonwealth, and mainly Canada. So even if the RAF get around to your application, and accept it, they’ve got to get you to Canada. On the other hand, the shipping Johnnies have to get you back to Canada. Now, if we can add to your application that you are going to Canada under your own steam, that should help. At least, your case would stand out from the mass. There might even be a good piece of publicity: young American torpedoed on the Athenia volunteers for the RAF.’

I appreciated what he said, but I was sceptical about the liaison between the RAF in England and the RCAF in Canada.

‘That’s fine’, I said, ‘but when I turn up in Canada, they may not have any record of my application here. I wonder if I could ask you to write a letter confirming that I have volunteered here.’

‘Jolly good! ’ He was so willing, I decided to risk all.

‘Perhaps you could suggest that they consider my application favourably?’

‘Oh, I don’t think I could commit the RAF to that!’

‘It would simply be your personal opinion.’

‘Yes! Why not. Jolly good show!’

I never knew if the letter helped, but it may well have done. In those days especially, lives were changed, and lives were lost, by even more insignificant happenstances.

In one respect, Robinson was right. After an initial reaction of non-committal pessimism, the Donaldson Line and the Admiralty were paying more attention to us. We were treated to bus trips to Loch Lomond, and were well looked after in our hotels. What’s more, we were told, for the first time, that arrangements were being made to give us passage back to Canada. More important, they had given us some pocket money, which, together with a loan from my aunt, gave me enough for a trip to London. Along with the rest of the population, we had been issued with gas-masks. It was carried over the shoulder in a cardboard box, and this, with a tooth-brush, tooth-paste and a bar of soap, tucked into it, was my luggage. The almost immediate supply of gas-masks to the entire population of Britain was to me one of the many enigmas of that strange period, and one which has never been commented on. Against a background of general complacency and complete unpreparedness, the Government somehow produced some fifty million gas-masks almost overnight!

London in those first few days of World War II was in an unreal sort of daze. The war in Poland was drawing to its inevitable tragic end; but Poland was far away, and most people thought that when Germany came up against the combined might of England and France, we would be ‘hanging up our washing on the Siegfried Line’. But behind the stoic good humour and jingoism, there was uneasiness and fear, and business was not quite as usual as they tried to make out.

The theatres were still putting a brave face on it, in spite of the black-out, but it was a losing battle. John Gielgud, Edith Evans, Peggy Ashcroft and Margaret Rutherford were playing in Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of being Earnest at the Globe theatre, and I spent my last resources on what I thought would be a chance I might never have again. In the theatre, I admired the ornate, gilded cherubs and Edwardian decorations, but the large theatre was practically empty. Scattered through the empty seats was a handful of people; but the cast gave a brilliant, polished performance. I suppose Gielgud was in his late thirties at that time, tall, thin and elegant. He was so perfect in the leading role that it was impossible to imagine it being played by anyone else. He belonged in the precious, prim, well-ordered world of Victorian England, as did Edith Evans as Lady Bracknell, and all the rest of the cast. The play ended with polite curtain calls, and ‘God Save the King’.

We went out into the blacked-out, bewildered, frightened world of pending doom and horror. Not for the last time, I felt that most of the English were as unprepared for it as John Worthing, Dr Chasuble, Miss Prism and Lady Bracknell.

Back in Liverpool, the liner, The Duchess of Athol, was preparing to sail for Montreal, carrying, in third class, those refugees from Eastern Europe lucky enough to have scraped together enough money to allow them to leave behind the grimness of Europe at war to start a new life in the new world. In second and third class were the remaining Canadian and American tourists, who had delayed their departure too long. There were also British officers and training personnel, the first of the many who would work with the Canadians in the formation of, and training of, the Air Force under the Commonwealth Air Training Scheme. Somehow, the Admiralty also found room for the Athenia survivors.

Soon, once again we were sailing down the Mersey; once again waving goodbye to the Liver birds perched on top of the Liver Building, passing Birkenhead, New Brighton, Wallasey and Bootle, and then out to the open sea.

The ship lived up to her reputation for rolling, which had earned her the nickname of The Drunken Duchess.

We sailed alone, zig-zagging, and blacked-out at night. The theory was that the speed of the large liners, combined with constant changes in course, would give them a better chance against the slower U-boats than if they were part of a convoy where they would be held down to the speed of the slowest freighter.

It seemed to work. In a week, we were sailing down the broad St Lawrence, looking out at the brilliant scarlets, yellows and browns of the trees in the late autumn in a bright new world.