A WARTIME JOURNEY BY
CONVOY
ROUND THE CAPE OF GOOD
HOPE
By Ken Stephenson
I embarked with my unit, the
7th Armoured Troop Workshop
REME in April 1942 in bomb battered Liverpool. Our ship was
M.V. Rangitata of the New Zealand Shipping
Company.
Our unit was relatively small - approximately 80 men and
being in the minority we were allocated the worst mess deck on the
ship, located just above the ship's propellers.
As soon as everything was lashed and stowed we sailed to
rendezvous with the rest of the convoy on the Clyde. This was
to be my last sight of England for over three years.
We anchored in the Clyde near the naval base at Gourock
for a couple of days waiting for the rest of the convoy to
assemble. Whilst we were waiting there we saw a submarine
coming in off patrol and we all gave the crew a hearty cheer.
Eventually the time came to weigh anchor and we started to move
down the Clyde. As we sailed past the submarine base a Royal
Marine band was playing 'For Those in Peril on the Sea.' Up
until this time, as a callow 19 year old, I had not given any
thought to the danger. Then we sailed past Ailsa Craig, out
into the Western Approaches.
Now that we were in open sea, it was possible to see the
enormous size of the convoy. There must have been at least 20
troopships, plus a similar number of cargo ships. Our escort
was the cruiser, HMS Frobisher and at least 20 destroyers: a truly
magnificent sight. The convoy had considerable fire power,
because in addition to the warships, each merchant ship had a 4.5
inch gun mounted on the poop deck. This awesome display made
me feel that I was taking part in something really big. It
was a comforting sight to see HMS Frobisher sailing close on our
starboard side, where she stayed for most of the voyage.
The commodore's ship took up station in the middle of the
convoy from where all of the convoy could be observed. So as
not to give away our position a radio silence was imposed and all
communication was by flags or aldis lamp. Changes of course
were signalled from the flagship. All vessels in the convoy
would acknowledge and then, with a toot on the foghorn, the whole
convoy would change course together with parade ground precision; a
wonderful display of seamanship. This was a manoeuvre that
had to be repeated frequently as we sailed our zigzag course across
the Atlantic.
In peacetime the Rangitata was a refrigeration ship
carrying carcasses from New Zealand. Our mess was formerly a
hold where the carcasses were hung. Now our hammocks replaced
the carcasses. They were so close that they almost touched each
other. The ablutions left much to be desired. In rough
weather they backed up and the toilet floors were awash with
sewage. Fortunately a high threshold prevented the mess
flowing into our quarters. For our washing we were allocated
about 20 gallons of fresh water between two men every two
weeks. After doing our washing, the water was reduced to a
grey jelly. The galley was at the other end of the ship, so
all our meals and cups of tea had to be carried the length of the
vessel. It was quite difficult to make it back to our mess
without scalding ourselves. Despite all we managed to keep a
sense of humour most of the time.
We had a four day stay in Sierra Leone for
refuelling. Locals dived for coins in the harbour, only a
short distance from basking sharks. HMS Royal Sovereign, a
World War One battleship was anchored nearby. Then once again
we were on our way to the strains of 'Those in peril on the Sea,'
played by the Royal Marine band on the deck of the old
battleship. (Bless 'em!)
Soon we were to be reminded of the perils of being at
sea. I was on guard duty by a water tight door. My
orders were, in the event of an emergency, to make sure everyone
was out of the mess deck, then to clamp the heavy bulkhead door
shut. I was then to join the rest of the men at the boat
station. Suddenly there was an almighty clang and the whole
ship shuddered. It was as if we had been hit with a giant
hammer. There was no panic, but the mess was emptied in
seconds. The last man out of the RAF mess helped me to shut
the door and clamp up the bulkhead. I can assure you that we
were not far behind the others by the boat station. From our
position near the stern we could see a cargo ship sinking.
Someone on board was signalling with an aldis lamp. Some of
our men who were on deck at the time, said they had seen a huge
explosion near the bridge. Unfortunately our naval escort had
left the convoy as these were considered safe waters.
As the sun went down, the burning ship was silhouetted
against the sky. There were shouts of protest all over our
ship, as we did not stop to pick up survivors. Eventually our
captain explained over the tannoy that he was under orders to put
the troops on board his ship first and had no choice but to
continue on course.
I was never certain whether it was a torpedo or a mine
that sunk the ship, but much later I did learn that the German
Raider, the Graf Spee had sown mines at the approaches to
Simonstown harbour, near Capetown.
The rest of the voyage was relatively incident
free. We disembarked at Durban and spent a pleasant few days
under canvas overlooking the racecourse. It was like
Shangri-la after all that time cooped up onboard ship. There
was delicious fruit that we had not had for over two years
available by the side of the road. The local inhabitants
treated us like heroes.
After this break we continued our voyage on the
Mauritania to Egypt. Before it picked us up she had taken
Afrika Corps prisoners to USA. We heard that there had been a
plot to seize the ship, but fortunately it was discovered and
squashed. Because the Mauritania was a modern, fast vessel we
went without escort, relying on speed to outrun any
submarines. We eventually arrived in Tel-El-Kebir on
21st June 1942, having
completed the final part of the journey by train from the Suez
Canal zone.