I hurried up the gangplank. I wasn’t the only late arrival. Close on the heels of two staggering sailors, I marched out of the United States.
The captain, who was standing at the head of the gangplank, turned to his mate and said, “Well, there’s the last two, home to roost.” Then he saw me. “And who are you?”
“I’m a rather special case, sir. I’m the traveling enemy alien.”
“Well, we’re carrying a strange cargo already. Suppose we go down to my cabin and see how you’re listed on the manifest.”
He found me duly described there, and went through my papers without comment.
“Before the war,” he told me, “I carried bananas and tourists from the West Indies to England. Now, instead of bananas, I’m bringing home the bacon, and on the promenade deck I’m carrying dismantled bombers instead of tourists. Well, my boat isn’t as clean as it used to be, Mr. Capa, but my tourist cabins are empty and I think you’ll find your quarters comfortable.”
I found my cabin and settled down. The engines were humming. After two years in the States, I was on my way back to Europe. My mind wandered back....Two years ago, flying from France, I had arrived in this same harbor, and at that time I’d had to worry whether they would let me enter. At that time too my papers had been pure invention. I had been described as a farming expert on my way to Chile to improve the agricultural standards of that country, and had a transit visa which allowed me to stay in the States for thirty days. It had not been easy to land then...it had been difficult persuading them to let me stay...and it had needed the miracle of an English professor to let me leave....
I took out my cameras—which, since December 8, 1941, I had not even been allowed to touch—poured myself a drink, and I was a newspaperman again.
* * * *
At dawn we anchored in Halifax harbor. Here the captain went ashore to receive instructions. Later in the day, after he had returned, I learned that we were going to cross as part of a fast convoy, that our ship would be the lead ship, and that a retired Navy captain—who was now commodore of the convoy—would command from our bridge.
I had visions of a sensational four-page spread in Collier’s, called “Commodore of the Convoy,” with dramatic photographs of this old, tottering sea dog standing on the bridge, ships sinking to fore and aft.
After dinner, the commodore sent for me. There was hardly any light on the bridge, but when I could make out his features I was disappointed. Instead of the tottering, old sea lion I had pictured, I found a trim gentleman in his fifties, and the only resemblance I could find to the character of my imagination was a pair of enormous and very bushy eyebrows. I introduced myself, and he answered that, as for himself, he was an Irishman. He immediately went on to say that he was very interested in the movie world, and found some of the Hollywood actresses rather exciting. He would have to stay on the bridge all through the trip, but why couldn’t I come up every night and tell him some nice stories about Hollywood? In exchange, he would be glad to tell me everything about convoys.
The deal was quite unfair. For the commodore knew his convoys, whereas I had never been to Hollywood. But I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he had mispronounced my name, that I wasn’t the famous movie director, that my name was Bob Capa, and not Frank Capra at all. During the rest of the trip I would have to play Scheherazade. I could only hope that it wouldn’t last a thousand and one nights!
We spent the night in the harbor. In the morning, the commodore asked me if I’d like to go along with him and visit the captains of the ships in the convoy. Most of our ships were sailing under foreign flags, and the commodore had a hard time trying to make himself understood. The Swedish and Norwegian skippers offered us aquavit and spoke rather good English. The Dutchmen had very good gin and no trouble at all. The French captain had excellent brandy, and I translated. The Greek had a murderous drink called ouzo and spoke a very fast Greek. In all, we visited twenty-three ships, and in all, we drank in twenty-three different nationalities. On the way back to our boat, the commodore complained about all the crazy foreigners and made me feel positively Anglo-Saxon.
In the afternoon we formed our convoy without difficulty. We sailed in four rows of six ships, about a thousand yards apart from each other. Our escort was kind of meager—a single destroyer and five tiny corvettes.
Our first night on the bridge, the commodore did most of the talking. During World War I he had been the captain of a destroyer, and by 1918 he was leading an entire flotilla. The names of Zeebrugge and Gallipoli floated through the air. When he finished his stories, he asked me how Lillian Gish was doing nowadays. I assured him that Miss Gish was still in excellent shape, and as we parted it looked like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
The first four days at sea passed without excitement. I spent my days taking pictures of everything and everybody from the masthead to the engine room, and at night I was on the bridge, telling the commodore everything I could remember from the fan magazines I’d read in the waiting room at my dentist’s. I hinted vaguely that I was a very discreet man, but still I let him feel that I myself may have had a somewhat active part in some of those Hollywood scandals. In exchange, he told me about the time, during one of his convoys to Murmansk, that his boots froze to the deck and how he couldn’t move for three days. The commodore did not drink while on the high seas, but I had my pocket flask and fought the cold as he talked. After midnight, leaning on the rail of the bridge, I sometimes felt as if I were in a blacked-out Third Avenue bar.
So far, my “Battle of the North Atlantic” was entirely pleasant—indeed, far too pleasant. The crew, however, took a poor view of my craving for action, and was not at all upset about the possibility of the Collier’s story being dull.
On the fifth day, we ran into a genuine North Atlantic fog. Our destroyer pulled up alongside and flashed us a message. The commodore turned to me. “If you can take pictures in a fog, Capra, you may get your damned scoop after all,” he said. “A wolf pack of German submarines is laying for us about thirty miles up ahead.”
Fog or no fog, the commodore decided we’d have to change our course. By now we weren’t able to see the stern of our own ship from the bridge, and we were still obliged to keep strictest radio silence. Communication with the rest of the convoy had to be through foghorns. The Norwegian tanker, which had been sailing on our left, answered back with its two long and three short blasts from somewhere on our right. The Greek cargo, the last ship in the convoy, some three miles behind us, blew her four long blasts somewhere fifty yards from our bow. Altogether, the twenty-three foghorns made enough noise to be heard in Berlin. The commodore cursed all Allied, neutral, and cobelligerent skippers alike. But there was no time to worry about collisions. The wolf pack had found us, and our escort was dropping depth charges.
I packed my precious passport and what was left of the Collier’s money in my oil-silk tobacco pouch, and bitterly regretted the improvement of my story.
The commodore gave the signal for the convoy to scatter, and from then on every ship was on its own. From time to time we heard the engines of other ships uncomfortably close, but the explosions of the depth charges grew further and further away.
Forty-eight hours later, the fog was pierced by brilliant sunshine. The twenty-three ships were all around us. Even our escort was there. In fact, we were still in formation. But the ships that had been in the middle of the convoy before were sailing on the outside; the Greek ship, which had been last, was now leading; and we ourselves were trailing in the very rear.
* * * *
A point appeared on the horizon, and in a little while it started to signal with light flashes. Our signalman gave us the message with a perfectly straight face. “H.M.S. Harvester inquires, sir, whether you can spare them some beer.”
“Tell them to come and get it.”
The destroyer, after making one or two fancy turns around the convoy, gaily steamed up alongside. The British destroyer captain was on the bridge with a megaphone. “Surprised to see you, sir, with all your ships still floating.”
“Surprised to see the British Navy floating—without beer!”
“We ran out of depth charges and had to finish off Jerry by throwing our beer barrels at them!”
* * * *
Shortly afterwards a string of, to me, undecipherable flags was run up on our mast. The signalman translated the message for me: “Was proud to have led you from behind, but revert to original formation. Use caution.”
The ships acknowledged the signal. The Norwegian tanker nearly rammed the Greek cargo; the Swedish gentleman went full speed astern and disappeared from view; the Frenchman reported that his boiler was busted and that he would have to be left behind. After four hours of milling around, the convoy proceeded with twenty-two ships.
That night, when I joined the commodore on the bridge, he ignored me for a while. Just as I was ready to go back to my cabin, he eased up. “By the way, Capra, have you ever met Clara Bow?”
* * * *
It turned out that the destroyer had wasted its beer, for the next day the German subs were all around us again. Our destroyer put up a very photogenic smoke screen around the convoy, and radioed for help. A British destroyer patrol was due to meet us about now, and fortunately kept the appointment. As a finishing touch to Collier’s “Battle of the North Atlantic,” we had a pretty dogfight between a German flying boat and a British Sunderland, with the entire convoy pouring black smoke from every ack-ack gun we had.
I had taken all my pictures, and my imagination had been sucked dry of stories about Hollywood, when the lighthouse in the Irish Channel came into view.
For the first time, the commodore went below, and I was left alone with his signalman on the bridge. He was a silent man and hadn’t said an unnecessary word during the whole trip. He made sure that the commodore had really gone. Then he whispered to me, “The Old Man is a great chap, but—if you’ll pardon my saying so—well, some of those stories he told you...!”
It made me feel a lot better, but I resolved that at the first opportunity I would send my apologies to Mrs. Frank Capra.
* * * *
Entering the Channel, we changed formation, and the distance between ships was closed to one hundred yards. Now, for the first time, radio silence was lifted and each ship was told separately where to dock. I hoped that our ship would dock at Liverpool, and began to plan my first day at the Savoy Hotel in London. But the War Shipping Administration didn’t play ball: we received orders to steam up the Irish Sea and await further instructions off Belfast.
The Savoy would have to live without me for twenty-four hours. It wasn’t too bad, the commodore told me, he knew just the right pub in Belfast, and—as for him—he had a great backlog to make up!
Soon after we dropped anchor a motor launch approached, and a number of gentlemen in bowler hats from the Immigration Office boarded our ship. When it came my turn to be examined, the gentlemen concentrated busily on my documents. From time to time they shook their bowler hats and didn’t appear at all satisfied. When they learned about my cameras and films, they shook their bowlers even more vigorously. I mentioned the code message from the naval attaché in Washington, but they received the news with a blank look. In desperation, I tried to be funny and said that I really wasn’t Mr. Hess and that it wasn’t everyone who could land in England by parachute. But they were not amused. They told me, for my information, that during the war only citizens of the United Kingdom were allowed to debark in Northern Ireland. I would just have to stay on board until we docked at some port in England proper. The authorities there could decide my fate.
The commodore seemed genuinely sorry to leave me behind. He offered me his cabin, assured me that my stories had been most interesting, and went ashore with the immigration officers. The captain, who was now in complete charge of his ship again, tried to console me by saying that in three days at the outside he would receive his orders to proceed to England. He added brightly that, inasmuch as we were not officially in port yet, the ship’s stores would remain open, and that Scotch was still available at seven shillings a fifth.
I moved into the commodore’s cabin, ordered a bottle of Scotch, and sat down with the First Radio to play blackjack. By ten at night, the bottle was empty, and Collier’s was down $150. I called for another bottle, but the steward came back empty-handed, looked at me with a queer expression, and said that I was being asked for in the captain’s cabin.
I stumbled up to the bridge with more than a slight feeling of impending disaster and far too much Scotch in my stomach. I made out two young naval officers with the captain. Their names were Garbidge and Miller, and after making sure that my name was Capa, they asked me to turn over my cameras, films, and notes into their custody. No, I told them, that was something I couldn’t do. I was sticking with my cameras, films, and notes. What was more, I added, I was supposed to have all facilities accorded to me by the British Navy upon my arrival, and no facilities, not one, had been accorded so far. Instead, I had been rudely stranded on an empty boat out in the middle of the Irish Sea. Now I was going to stay on that boat, and when and if I ever got to England, I was going to complain bitterly.
They both mumbled something about a war being on, and retired to a corner to consult a mysterious slip of paper. After several minutes of deliberation, reading and rereading the paper at least three times, they returned, and insisted that I hand over my films, cameras, and notes without delay. This was a new tune, and I didn’t like it.
Suddenly, through the Scotch mist, it all became clear to me. I offered them two to one that I could tell them what the message on the slip of paper was all about. I told them how the naval attaché in Washington was supposed to send a code message to every port in the United Kingdom, about a Robert Capa, arriving on a boat, with cameras and films, and that I and my camera and films were to be taken care of, helped through formalities, and delivered to the Admiralty in London. All they had to do now was go back and check with the Embassy in Washington and tell the Admiralty that I was on this specific boat, and would dock—sometime—in England.
Garbidge and Miller looked at the slip, at each other, and then handed it over to me. Sure enough, it said something about films, cameras, and Capa, but had been coded and recoded so many times that by now it was open to as many interpretations as the Bible. Garbidge, suddenly meek, asked if he could talk to me in private for a moment.
“We are sure that you are right, sir.” He hesitated. “I hope you will trust us and believe what I am going to say.”
I was pleased with the turn in the situation, and listened.
He explained that he and Miller were with Naval Intelligence in Belfast. Their duties the day before had been so exhausting that they went and had a drink after office hours. There they had met the skipper of a minesweeper, a schoolmate of long years before, and he had persuaded them to visit his ship, as drinks were much cheaper there than in a bar. Indeed, the drinks proved to be so cheap and so plentiful that they hadn’t been able to find their office until just a little while before. That was when they discovered the message. Now, if they went back to Naval Intelligence empty-handed, they would be forced to admit the somewhat special circumstances that had delayed them. They would get into the most terrific jam if I didn’t help them. If I went ashore with them, Garbidge continued, they would see to it that I got to London—cameras, films, and all—by the best and quickest way.
It was easy to be generous. I decided to help the British Navy, bought three bottles of whisky in the store to take along, and followed Garbidge and Miller. In complete darkness, we climbed down a swaying rope ladder to the smallest of motor launches—which was bobbing impatiently up and down—and pushed off.
But our troubles were far from over. The pilot turned back to my two friends and informed them that it was half past eleven at night and that Customs and Immigration were closed until eight in the morning. Under no circumstances could he put me ashore!
The three of us became extremely unhappy, but this time Miller saved the situation. “Suppose we find the minesweeper. We can spend the night there in comfort, and in the morning we’ll motor over to the harbor.”
* * * *
It took us two hours to find the right minesweeper in the darkness. The skipper, after recognizing Garbidge and Miller, asked them whether they had brought any liquor back. Miller replied that they had brought not only liquor but Capa too. The skipper supposed that “Capa” might be some new drink, and invited us cordially aboard. Before any new troubles could develop, the tired pilot wisely disappeared in the darkness.
The mess room of the minesweeper barely held the four of us. The skipper inquired about the whisky and I produced my three bottles. He then inquired about Capa. Garbidge started to tell him the story, but the skipper got confused and, swaying lightly, asked, “Just tell me one thing. Is it all right or isn’t it all right?”
Oh, it was definitely all right, Garbidge assured him, and anyway there wasn’t anything we could do about it now.
We opened the bottles and toasted the British Navy, the merchant marine, and the minesweepers in quick succession. The skipper then turned to me and proposed a toast to King Boris, immediately adding, in a rather confidential tone, “No offense, old boy, but isn’t your King Boris on the wrong side of the fence?”
I replied that King Boris didn’t belong to me, that he was a Bulgarian, and definitely on the wrong side of the fence. Unfortunately, I continued, what was more of my business was that the Hungarians had Admiral von Horthy, and that he was on the wrong side too. The skipper was very sorry about that, but there were plenty of other things to toast, and we quickly changed the subject.
The next morning at six we woke up with hangovers and silent forebodings. We were just about to signal the harbor to send us a motor launch, when the chief signalman entered the cabin with a message. Orders had been received to proceed immediately to sweep mines in the Irish Sea! We signaled Naval Intelligence that Capa was going to sweep mines in the Irish Sea...that everything had an explanation....
* * * *
Altogether we spent three days on the open sea. On the way back we brushed our clothes and shaved our faces twice over. Then we carefully rehearsed the stories we were going to tell.
Passing the lighthouse, we flashed a message to Naval Intelligence announcing our return. Now, coming into the harbor, we could see—through our glasses—a considerable number of blue uniforms waiting for us at the dock. The skipper was convinced that he wouldn’t lose anything but his command, Garbidge and Miller figured on just a few short years of detention, and I avoided thinking at all.
As soon as we docked, the port security officer came aboard and listened in silence while we told our stories. Then he stood up and said, “There may possibly be an element of truth in your stories, but in the entire history of the British Navy there is no precedent for a minesweeper serving as a hostel for immigrants.”
With this he left, saying that the captain in charge of Belfast harbor would soon appear in person.
The captain showed up in no time, and said nothing while Garbidge, Miller, and the skipper reported. When my turn came, I started out by saying that it certainly wasn’t the fault of Garbidge, Miller, or the skipper that I had been born in Hungary....
“Where was that?” he interrupted.
“Hungary,” I repeated. “In Budapest.”
The captain rubbed his hands. “My boy,” he said, “you must have dinner with us tonight! Budapest! My wife was born there too!”
The skipper got a three-day shore leave. Garbidge and Miller were promised quick promotions. And I had a terrific Hungarian dinner, and was delivered—the next day—by special plane to London.