If I Only Had Known

An Octogenarian’s Tale — An interesting and true story of events in my life

Written by Ken Forrester

Introduction

The following chapter from the autobiography If Only I Had Known is remarkable for the insight it provides into the incident packed life of its author, Leading Seaman Ken Forrester P/JX295085 of Coastal Forces. Ken served aboard MTBs 606, 632 and 771, all members of the 55th MTB Flotilla based at Great Yarmouth, which was renowned for its spirited and aggressive actions against enemy forces in the North Sea and English Channel. Ken’s time in Coastal Forces encompassed the entire gamut of their operations in Home Waters, from clashing with E-boats or larger more heavily armed surface craft, to participating in clandestine operations off the Dutch coast, leading out the vast D-Day armada for the invasion of Europe, or being caught up in the single greatest loss to befall Coastal Forces — the Ostend tragedy. Throughout his, at times, gruelling account of life during war, Ken’s mild-mannered and self-effacing approach belies the ferocity and intensity of the many encounters with opposing forces, he and his fellow crew members experienced.

Leading Seaman Ken Forrester of Coastal Forces pictured in 1945

Chapter 3: Royal Navy up to 26 Years of Age

So along came the date 13th August 1941. I was then, just turned twenty years old. At 9.30 p.m. on the previous evening I bade my parents farewell and armed with a travel warrant — the last bus had long since gone — I got a lift with the local bread man, a Mr Ireland who worked for Eaglesfield’s the Bakers, and travelled the four miles to Lancaster. I caught the London-bound train that left Castle Station at four minutes past ten that night. The passengers on the train were a mixture of young lads being called up like myself and people already in uniform. All went well until we got to Rugby when we came to a halt in open country. An air raid was taking place somewhere in the Midlands and also in London. We eventually arrived at Euston Station around 5.30 the following morning. My destination being in the Portsmouth area, I had to travel on the underground system to Waterloo Station for the next leg of the journey.

Being a country lad, this was an experience of some significance. I was totally unprepared for the shock that was coming to me when I went down the stairs into the subway. I could not believe my eyes. There were thousands of men, women, children and babies all laid there on the platform covered in blankets. The whole platform was covered with them. I had to step over them to get on the train. This was where they spent the nights away from the air raids. Later things got organised, and they slept in tiered bunk beds that were up against the wall, leaving the platform clear.

I eventually arrived at Waterloo Station and was now on the Southern Railway system, where engines and coaches were painted green, and on my way south to Fareham. By this time it was around 1.00 p.m. A petty officer was waiting to herd a group of us, who had by this time got to know each other because of our age and attaché cases, onto the back of a wagon and we made our way through the countryside to arrive at our destination, HMS Collingwood, a large naval training base which had sprung up and rapidly expanded as the war was taking hold. Corned beef, mashed potatoes, cake and a cup of tea was my first meal in the Navy.

The meal complete we were called by name into groups or classes as they were to be known. My new address was to be known as Ordinary Seaman R K Forrester, Foretop, 13E HMS Collingwood, Fareham, Hants. The Foretop was the division or area of the camp, the 13 was the hut we lived in (30 of us) the ‘E’ was the intake number, in other words we were the fifth group to be trained there. Being somewhat superstitious, things weren’t working out too well, called up on the 13th and being placed in class 13. The brain was working overtime. (Luckily it was all an old wives tale).

The same afternoon we were taken by a Petty Officer who was in charge of our class (Foretop 13E). He was a sailor who had retired and been called upon to serve again; he was around sixty years old and had fought in the Battle of Jutland. P.O. Hobson was his name. He wore khaki gaiters, as we all had to in training to keep our bell bottoms from flopping about. First he took the new class to a building where behind a counter were a number of WRENS who fitted each of us out with the traditional sailor’s hat and a name stamp, a metal hat box, a cap tally HMS, and a brass label with your name stamped on it for securing to the top of the hat box — and so we went from building to building until we had woollen vests, woollen underpants that came to knee level, two sets of trousers, jumpers, sailor collars, black silks, white lanyard, belt, socks, boots and khaki gaiters, a kit bag, hammock, blanket and an identity disc which had to be worn around the neck at all times, together with a seamanship manual and BIBLE and finally a Great Coat.

Then to tea and the rest of the evening was spent trying to get used to this unfamiliar dress especially with trousers without braces that were held up by fastening three buttons that joined the two five inch flaps that went round your stomach to be finally completed with the flap that formed the front of your trousers. This had to be buttoned at each side and unbuttoned and the flap lowered for same use as the normal ‘flies’ on conventional trousers. I mentioned the name stamp: all of our gear had to be marked with either black or white paint depending on the colour of the clothing. From then on it was lights out and bed at 10 p.m. Wakened at 6.00 a.m. with the bugle playing over the tannoy ‘Wakey, Wakey lash up and stow’.

I arrived at the camp midweek. I can’t just recall the exact day — what I can remember is our first half day out of camp was the first Sunday afternoon when a few of us decided to explore Gosport and that is where my first ever pint of bitter was tasted, at the pub on the pier head near the ferry across to Portsmouth. I was then twenty years old. It was to be my let down and saviour, to be revealed later. The weather was beautiful and it remained good all through the ten-weeks training. The first day was on the parade ground in your various classes marching, turning left and right with about turns and wheeling left and right, and so it went on. After about two weeks I was made class leader and became responsible for class timekeeping, cleanliness and smartness. I felt proud marching in front of my class in competition with scores of other classes. The Royal Marines band playing, the camp commander on his dais, and me barking out the order — “Foretop 13E eyes right”, a smart salute followed by “Eyes front”. At the completion of the parade we learned who had been the smartest class. And we did not let the side down.

Through the next seven weeks we did route marches, workouts in the gymnasium, self defence, rope work, knots and splices, the rule of the road when sailing, such things as “A close hauled ship you’ll never see, give way to one that’s running free”, “Green to green, red to red, perfect safety go ahead”, “If upon your port is seen a steamer’s starboard light of green, there’s not so much for you to do as green to port keeps clear of you”, and so the verses of safety went on. We were also taken down to Portsmouth harbour for rowing instruction on 28-foot whalers with one man to each oar, followed by 32-foot cutters which needed two men to each oar. When you had done a few hours at that your poor arms didn’t know what had hit them. We were taught naval terms such as fore and aft, and stem and stern (front and back), sheets were ropes and dozens of other terms that we were to use in our daily work. Also taught was the build up of a ship starting at the keel-hog-keelson and thereon up to the gunwales. There had to be guard duties with bayonets fixed to a pole (at that time Dunkirk was less than a year earlier whereby the Armed Forces had lost all their equipment and the country was making do with whatever was available). Another duty we had to perform was fire-watching during the air raids that were continually happening. Our duties consisted of being taken on a truck to Portsmouth harbour (Clarence yard) before nightfall, and we had to climb up iron ladders fixed to the walls and up onto the flat roofs of the buildings and try and put out incendiary bombs with the aid of sand bags, buckets of water and stirrup pumps. It was all really a nightmare.

All in all the establishment known as HMS Collingwood was a culture shock, thousands of trainees milling about everywhere. Whilst there was plenty of washing facilities it was like bees round a honey pot, including the toilets which were in blocks of around twenty. Ten on one side, ten on the other side of a gangway, each one facing each other and no doors, privacy was not on the agenda. I remember one evening I was going to wash some socks and I could not understand why everything was so quiet, I had all the washbasins to myself and loads of hot water, it could not have been better — when suddenly a face appeared at the window, it was a Petty Officer demanding to know what I was playing at (there was a mock air raid exercise and everyone was in the shelters). Somehow I had failed to hear it broadcast over the tannoy. I was immediately put on a charge and had my night leave stopped, and for the next fortnight instead of going out of the camp at evenings I was sweeping up and gardening outside the officers’ quarters!

At the end of seven weeks we were moved onto Gunnery Division where our training was done on four-inch guns. Once again it was antiquated equipment. The guns used were from a period circa 1890s, but the rudiments remained the same: range — deflection — opening and closing of the breech — and the gun crew working as layer or trainer or loader with the Captain of the gun shouting his order, something like “Still — Misfire — Carry on”. At the end of another three weeks (ten weeks in all), we really thought we were sailors, but believe me there were real shocks awaiting us, as we found when we joined up with the time serving seamen who were to be our comrades. It was at this point that I had to part company with all my class mates. They all went to the Royal Naval Barracks at Portsmouth known as HMS Victory from there they joined the cruiser HMS Belfast. Incidentally HMS Belfast played an important role in the Mediterranean, in the Far East, and on the Russian convoys. She was the flag ship of Vice Admiral Burnetts, 10th Cruiser Squadron, when they finally sunk the Scharnhorst when she attacked one of our convoys in the Barents Sea on Boxing Day 1943, taking almost 2000 of her company with her. Probably ten degrees below zero on the open deck. In mid winter the sun does not rise over the horizon in those northern latitudes. HMS Belfast is the only warship of that era left. She is to be found on the Thames in London, as a museum.

By a quirk of chance, the fact that I had had some training as an Aircraft Spotter in civilian life had been picked up by the Navy people. I was therefore sent to the Naval Gunnery School known as HMS Excellent at Whale Island, Portsmouth. Known the world over for its strictness, everything there is done at the ‘double’ (running). No marching — the parades are carried out at the double as is every other duty, as soon as you enter the gates. I think I was there a month qualifying as an ‘AA3’ (Anti aircraft gunner 3rd class), shown as a single gun on my right arm. The only other thing that I can remember from my days there was the night sentry duties, always having to be awake and alert even though you were physically tired from the demanding routine.

From there I got a ‘draft chit’ (posting) to HMS St Christopher which was the Highland Hotel in Fort William, Scotland. It had been taken over by the Admiralty and was used as a training base for Coastal Forces. We went down the pier head every morning to be trained aboard Motor Launches (MLs) or Motor Torpedo Boats (MTBs) and Motor Gun Boats (MGBs). We trained on Loch Linnhe, Loch Eil and Loch Leven. I have one recollection when the ML I was on moored at a landing stage where there was a small shop or store (it would be late December 1941) and they were still selling bars of chocolate. The place was so isolated they still had sweets in stock. Everywhere else they had gone and been on ration for months. It was very interesting learning the ins and outs of the way the boats were to be used. We learned about the type of guns they were fitted out with, the different engines, some diesel, some petrol and some 100 octane aircraft fuel. General seamanship and Morse code, flag signalling, survival etc and not forgetting being sea sick for the first time going through the Narrows.

Back at the base, the Highland Hotel, things weren’t going too well. An epidemic of diphtheria had broken out and all leave and drafts stopped. We were confined to barracks, apart from being marched up Glen Nevis each day (and always raining), and also having cotton wool swabs placed down one’s throat on a regular basis. This went on until mid January 1942 when a group of us were drafted to Manor Naval Barracks, Brightlingsea, Essex, where we remained a few days before being moved onto my first boat, which was a Harbour Defence Motor Launch (HDML)

This was brand new and being fitted out at the yard of Herbert Brookes of Potter Heigham on the Norfolk Broads. The place I remember little about, only the builder’s yard, a nice looking bridge and a hotel. The boat was known as HDML 1060, and my duty was to be the seaman gunner in charge of an antiquated 2-pdr Hotchkiss single-shot gun from a previous war. Fortunately I was never put in a situation to have to use it in anger. I was also trained on the Lewis gun which we had for use on the bridge.

Once we had commissioned the boat and provisions on board, we sailed down the Broads to Lowestoft. By that time it was late January 1942. It was a cold winter with lots of snow around. I had just been to the naval base for a bath when the air raid sirens sounded on my way back to the boat. The wind was blowing and it was snowing, when out of the swirling snow came a German aircraft at zero height, machine gunning. I lay prostrate in the snow and just hoped for the best. Luckily I was unscathed. A couple of days later and still tied up alongside a sea wall, the sirens sounded again for some reason I can’t remember. I was one of a few that was on board at that time, but no officers. I had just armed myself with the Lewis gun and put the ammunition pan in place, when sure enough a German bomber, a Heinkel 111, came in view at a height that could just about be in range, so I fired the Lewis gun from the shoulder at the hostile plane, but alas nothing came down. Thus were my first shots of anger duly dispatched. I was not aware then of what was to follow in the next three years.

We were soon on our way, leaving Lowestoft for Great Yarmouth on our journey to our destination, which turned out to be Granton on the Firth of Forth, in close proximity to the Forth Bridge where our duties would be boom defence. We stayed at Great Yarmouth for a couple of days. It was here I had my first good fortune. Alongside us was moored a brand new ML, as was our boat. That ML was going down to Cornwall, our boat to Scotland. A seaman from the ML got in conversation with me. He was a Scotsman, and he asked me if I would change boats with him so that he could be near home. It seemed to make no difference to me, so I agreed to his suggestion, but my Captain would not let me go. No one knew that three months later that ML would be one of fifteen MLs, one MGB and one MTB and an ancient destroyer that were to take part in the raid of the French port of St Nazaire, which began on the 28th March 1942. The actual raid lasted about two hours. Sorry to say that of the eighteen ships that sailed down the River Loire, only seven came out. Of the sixty- two officers and two hundred and ninety-one ratings who went, only twenty-eight officers and one hundred and forty ratings returned. Of twenty-one personnel on MGB 314, two Victoria Crosses, three DSCs and four DSMs were awarded. I think you would agree my lucky star was shining that day at Great Yarmouth.

On route we encountered storms and heavy seas and being new to the sea I found it difficult to do any sort of duty because of sickness. I found that my stint on the wheel (steering the ship) gave me most comfort. Eventually we took shelter in Bridlington Bay in the Lee of Flamborough Head for twenty-four hours until conditions improved. The next leg took us to Blyth where once again we took shelter from the storm. In the middle of the night the air raid sirens sounded. By that time we were tied up alongside the quay. German bombers were soon to be heard droning high in the night sky, the wavering pitch of their engine noise immediately identifying them. The anti-aircraft guns were firing and searchlights pierced the darkness in thin long beams. Bombs were falling in the distance, when all of a sudden there came this loud crunch and a flash — a bomb had just missed us and exploded in the water. Luckily that was the only one that came our way. The next morning we were on our way again, but only as far as Berwick on Tweed, the last town in England. Quite why we called there I don’t know, but I have a recollection of a long stone bridge with many arches. Then finally to our destination, Granton, from where we sailed to our station off the Island of Inchkeith, to pick up radio signals and hydrophone watches.

To put it in a nutshell, it was a ‘cushy job’. When back at base there was shore leave, which in my case was spent in nearby Edinburgh, usually dancing at the Palaise. All this was short lived and my honeymoon period was drawing to a close. HDML 1060 was taken to dry-dock at Leith, where the crew were paid off and we were drafted down to HMS Attack at Portland in Dorset, around the end of May. l understand HDML 1060 had a copper bottom fitted and armaments updated and was shipped out to the Far East where she did not survive the war: another let off.

German E boats were becoming an increasing threat to our North Sea convoys. They were fast, low profile in the water and difficult to catch and target and had been a thorn in the side, especially around the time of Dunkirk. They had an added advantage of being metal construction and diesel fuelled, whereas our MTBs and MGBs were of wood construction, and although they used 100 octane fuel they were still no match in terms of speed (knots). Therefore, the Admiralty had no option but to design and make a big surge in a new type of boat to deal with them. They were being built at yards all around England, Scotland and Wales. They were fast, heavily armed and a low profile to be known as Fairmile D Boats, later known as Dog Boats.

The living conditions on an MTB or MGB are far from comfortable. Sometimes upward of thirty crew members living permanently — sleeping — cooking — washing — smoking — everyone of them was often wet through to the skin with nowhere to dry anything, only the hot engines if you were lucky. The boats were only 115 feet long. Also in that confined space there were four 2000-horse power Rolls Royce Packard engines, 5000 gallons of 100-octane petrol, 100 gallons of generator fuel, tons of ammunition (later four torpedoes, nine guns of large calibre and a rocket launcher, together with four depth charges). There was the total blackout which meant when in harbour a device, known as a ‘scuttle’, had to be fitted into the portholes for ventilation and stop light being shown. The deck heads where often dripping with condensation. On the earlier boats, like 606, all cooking had to be done on a large paraffin stove. MTB 632 was, I understand, the first boat to have an electric cooker which was the yardstick for all later boats. Time passed slowly, how did we survive? After being at sea, with salt water continually cascading over you in summer time, inside your ears and eye sockets was a coating of white salt where the sun had dried out the water.

Having said farewell to Scotland and now in HMS Attack at Portland, it seemed to be nothing else but lonely sentry duties awaiting a German invasion, when my name came up on the draft board. I was to have my kit ready and have my breakfast and ready to leave at 7.00 a.m. on the 18th June 1942 and would you believe it — it was my 21st birthday. Along with a group of other sailors, all strangers, we were loaded onto the back of a wagon and taken to the railway station at Weymouth. I had in my possession a ticket to Burnham on Crouch in Essex. First stop, London — across London to Liverpool Street Station and up the south east coast line to Ipswich. A change of train to take me through many little stations until I duly arrived at Burnham on Crouch, where a Petty Officer took me to a new boat that was being fitted out. It was in fact one of the first of those Fairmile Ds to be built, known as MGB 606 and I was to be the Port Twin .5 Turret Gunner.

However, no other crew had arrived and the boat was not complete. Therefore, an officer gave me a railway warrant to go home on leave for a week. So, once again, I retraced my journey back to Liverpool Street Station across to Euston Station and got on a train to Lancaster. By the time I eventually reached Lancaster it was past midnight and I had been travelling all day and still had to walk four miles in the blackout to my home at Conder Green, to knock my parents up unannounced around 1.30 a.m. in the morning. I reckon that was some 21st birthday, only having had cups of tea and NAAFI snacks in over eighteen hours, spent mostly travelling. At least it was one to remember, and I was happy to be home.

The leave over and back to Burnham on Crouch, by this time we had a complete crew and the engines started up and we were haring up and down the River Blackwater. This was a thrill in itself, 8000 horse power thrashing under you, but alas our honeymoon period was slowly drawing to a close. It was then out in the North Sea to Dover where we stayed overnight in range of the German heavy guns across the Channel. It was here on the 20th July 1942 that our sister ship MGB 601 had just completed her trials and, running up to Weymouth, had called into Dover harbour en route to her unknown destination. She was under the command of Lt Gotelee RNVR when she was called out to engage enemy craft in the early hours of the next morning. In this action she received heavy damage — and casualties. Regretfully she blew up in Dover’s Wellington dock on the 24th July 1942, a couple of days after the action, which resulted in further loss of life, both on her and other boats too.

The next day we passed the Channel’s white cliffs to arrive at Weymouth where we would be joined by other MGBs as they were completed. They arrived within days so soon we had a nucleus of a flotilla, the numbers being 603, 605, 606 and 610. For the next month or so the four boats carried out all the sea, gunnery trials and tactical manoeuvres, with 605 being the flotilla leader.

Crew members of MGB 606, one of the earliest Fairmile D ‘Dog Boats’ to enter service. Ken can be seen kneeling on the front row third from left. Others in the photograph include, Michael Llyod Hirst, Les Poole, Jimmy Totten (Stoker), Joe Thompson (Chief Mechanic), Leading Seaman Rayould, Lieutenant Truman (C.O.) and P.O. Teague. MGB 606 (then an MTB) was later sunk in action off the Dutch coast in November 1943, with several crew members killed or wounded.

Quite often we would use Portland harbour. I clearly remember our boat getting a mooring rope entwined round one of the four screws (propellers) and to save the duty Officer’s face, a team of us donned swimming trunks and dived under the boat to free the offending rope. The water was very clear and our type of boat did not draw very much water and was pretty flat bottomed at the stern. It was a matter of diving under the boat and working quickly. Between us and after many attempts we managed to get it clear. So much for Portland landing stage.

If my memory serves me right we would finally leave Weymouth Bay where our workup took place, and the four boats sailed via Dover and Felixstowe to bring our war for real, operating from Great Yarmouth. The Dutch coast became our second home or so it seemed, with names like Brown Ridge, The Broad Fourteens, The Texel, Den Helder, Ijmuiden, Scheveningen, The Hook being our areas of visitation and blood letting. Soon after arriving at Great Yarmouth we were soon being deployed across the North Sea. The radar fitted to the early ‘D’ boats was helpful but had its limitations in as much as it was ‘fixed’ which meant the actual boat had to be facing the target, covering an area of probably 30° (out of the 360° available). I have known us to be chased back across because of ‘ gremlins’ having to keep turning the boat around to see who was chasing us, which in fact might only have been a bunch of seagulls, such was the unreliability of the early sets. However, these were soon replaced with apparatus that could search 360° without turning the boat. The general run of the mill was the forays over the other side which we knew as ‘bangers’ which is self-explanatory. These often culminated in meeting a group of four enemy vessels who could most certainly liven you up with their fire power and determination. They were known to us as the Four Horsemen, presumably named after the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (dictionary meaning ‘End of the World’).

I got off to a bad start on our first mission over the Dutch coast. We were spotted by a prowling Messerschmitt 109 when we were approximately half way over. He never attacked us although we opened fire on him, myself included, but he kept us (MGBs 606, 603, 605, the latter being the leader) under surveillance and plotted our course. As night fell we lost him, but you can guess that the enemy ships were waiting for us. Our captain was Lt Truman (of the brewing family) who I had not a lot of faith in. I soon learned that his voice quivered when under stress. It was not long before tracer shells and bullets began firing at us, and we were lit up as bright as day with star shells. It was my first time in action. I was trembling like a leaf but being a twin Oerlikon gunner (I had been up rated to Oerlikon by then), I had to do my duty and fire back. The shaking made no difference to my aim because the guns were hydraulically operated and not hand held. By this time shells were flying over us, some ricocheting off the water and flying overhead and some hitting us. It was at this time we got badly hit with a shell in the engine room, my gun lost power, the engines stopped and we were a sitting duck. In a broken voice the captain gave the order “Stand by to abandon ship”. I thought to myself, unlucky 13, my first action and at the very best I’m going to finish up in the water and be taken P.O.W. However, I think it was 603 who came alongside in the mayhem that was going on around us and got us in tow. The other boat was dropping smoke floats and luckily the enemy fire was directed at the flames that were coming from these floats. We were gradually towed out of danger, and a little later the motor mechanic and his staff got one engine going and we limped back to our base at Great Yarmouth. It was unbelievable, but I can’t remember any casualties being sustained on that mission which would take place in October 1942.

We were soon repaired and ready to go back to sea, but this time with a new captain called Lt Dowling who did inspire confidence. We were soon joined by other ‘D’ class boats, but these later boats had two torpedo tubes added (they were 21″) and were MTBs. Their numbers were 617, 621, 624, 628, 629, 630, 632, 650, 652, 671 and 682. All the boats made up the 55th flotilla, and operated out of Great Yarmouth. These were not the only boats operating out of this base. There was a flotilla of ‘C’ class MGBs, a couple of Rescue MLs, and scores of trawlers that had been converted to minesweepers which also carried a barrage balloon to prevent low flying aerial attack. All of these boats were tied up on what had been the fish wharves. The 55th flotilla was the offensive group which did most of its operation over on the Dutch coast. Weather permitting; we seemed to be over there two or three times per week. I will go into the notable events later.

It was about this time tension was growing, as we became more more involved. There had to be some comfort somewhere. I then entered my phase of drinking heavily. People at home and in my home area could not (or should I say did not) understand. I was branded a drunkard by people who were supposed to be friends. When you think of it coolly, there was just no escape — there were mines to sail over — attack by aircraft while at sea — always seemed to be in action — always getting battle damage — at action stations all night — the sight of ambulances waiting as you returned — then straight to the refuelling wharf and all power cut because of the fear of explosion. That completed we could then get our breakfast — not forgetting we were liable at any time to be bombed by planes while at Great Yarmouth or V2s with their double explosion as they broke through the sound barrier and the final landing. Next, it was clean and dry guns and ammunition, and finally fall asleep for a few hours — then it was the same all over again. There was no future as we next sailed down the river, lined up on deck with music playing over the tannoy system. You saw soldiers and airmen with girlfriends happily walking on the embankments. Together with the bomber crews we thought we were getting a rough deal. As we got to the harbour mouth it was fall out and into your station. Mine was the forward Pom-Pom gun (updated again), sat on my seat, put the gun phones on, and as we sailed up the channel we fired our guns with the target the mast of a sunken ship way out on Scroby Sands (the mast was still there when we finally left Yarmouth in March 1944). Morale was at breaking point. The skipper would send me ashore to the Commander’s office to collect the sailing orders, and I wished I could get knocked down and a leg or arm broken, anything to be saved from sailing into the unknown. Drink was our only comfort.

Amongst other sorties we escorted mine-laying operations in enemy waters. Another of our jobs was landing and picking up commando and raiding parties, which did not always go to plan. Some poor souls never made it back. It was on one of these missions that my boat MGB 606 was lost (by a quirk of good fortune I was no longer on that ship). The reason was the Second Cox’n came to blows with the Cox’n while ashore, which resulted in the Second Cox’n being put in the ‘Glass House’ prison — and I was elevated from Able Seaman to Leading Seaman which was something of a record, being a Leading Seaman and not having been in the Service eighteen months. There were seamen on the ship with six years service, which made it hard work to maintain the authority required. However, that would be around May 1943, and I remained on the ship until around early August, when a memo came from the powers that be and I had to go on a course at HMS Ganges, the shore base at Shotly near Harwich in Suffolk. The course lasted about three weeks, during which time I qualified as a professional Leading Seaman.

Whilst at HMS Ganges, we had numerous air raids and warnings and having to go down into the shelters where we passed the time singing. There happened to be a good representation of lads from Liverpool who were very vocal and sang such songs as ‘Maggie May’. In fact they sang quite a few that were some years later picked up and made famous by the ‘Beatles’. It is strange how things turn out at a later date.

Posted back to barracks at HMS Hornet at Gosport, I was there around one week when my name came up for posting back into the 55th flotilla at Great Yarmouth, but this time as Second Cox’n and forward gunner on MTB 632, on which boat all the real battles took place. Charles Ford, the skipper of 632, had been a rugby player, and he was also the captain of the Minor Counties cricket team. He was a big, fit man, and it was his aim to keep his crew fit also. On a regular basis he would have us all on the quayside putting us through our paces, often alter a nasty experience to clear our heads. I have no knowledge of any other crew doing it.

Having now returned to Great Yarmouth, it was back into the lion’s den to continue with the forays across the North Sea. My first trip on MTB 632 was to be with my old boat MGB 606. I can’t just recollect the third boat. However, 606 was the leader, 632 was second in line, and I can clearly remember that we were about half way over and closing up to ‘Action Stations’. Our boat was about twenty yards astern and in the wake of 606 when my friend Joe Thompson the PO Motor Mechanic of 606 waved his hand to me as he disappeared down the engine room hatch (which was at the rear of the boat), I waved back, not knowing I would never see him again. He and my other friend Jimmy Totten were both killed later that week together with a few more of my ex-colleagues and many wounded, when 606 was sunk on a secret service mission. The upshot was, if that fracas between Leading Seamen Raybould and Petty Officer Teague had not happened, I would not have been able to write this story. Someone was looking after me, and many ways it carried on as my yarn continues to unfold. These missions, known to us as ‘Bangers’, continued until April 1944. It was difficult to cope with all the stresses.

Even when in harbour one such catastrophe happened, on the 18th March 1943, when an enemy aircraft made a direct hit on the WREN’s quarters in Queen’s Road with forty dead or injured. It wasn’t a nice sight to see. On another occasion I have recollections of my seamanship being called into action. We had been holed with an enemy shell in the bows of the boat just on the water line which was allowing water to enter the mess deck when we moved forward. The answer was to rig a collision mat over the hole. A collision mat is a rope and canvas patch about 5 foot square with ropes attached at each corner. One of these ropes has to be passed right under the boat from the bow and the other three ropes manoeuvred to get the patch over the offending damage and all ropes then secured tightly, plus the hole has got to be stuffed from the inside with rolled hammocks. It is then possible for the boat to move forward without filling with water. Rigging a collision mat at practice is not easy — but under battle conditions and choppy seas is another ball game and still 120 miles from your home port. If that did not work we would have had to travel astern (backwards) all the way home. I have known that to happen on one of the boats here at Yarmouth.

I have memories of seeing the sky full of American Flying Fortresses, flying overhead in their 1000-bomber daylight raids on the German cities, an unbelievable sight, not forgetting the return journey with stragglers and the Rescue Motor Launches (RMLs) with the sick bay at the stern end. Our boat MTB 632 thankfully never had to pick up survivors from those raids, but many did. Likewise we would be laying off the Dutch coast with our engines cut and could hear the sky full of drones as our bombers, Lancasters and Whitleys etc., flew over on their nightly mass bombing raids. We would witness the anti-aircraft guns’ shells bursting in the sky in the distance. Back home on shore, when you were lucky enough to be going on leave, all the trains were pulled by steam engines, sometimes two coupled together, the carriages always full and standing in the corridors with Forces personnel. Army, Navy, RAF also WAAFs, WRENs, ATS, Land Army girls etc., all packed together like sardines. I’ve just thought, officers were absent, but they would be in first class.

Of course, there were lighter sides, serious at the time but amusing on reflection. Whilst still aboard 606 I had graduated from the port twin .5s (it was the port .5 gunners who seemed to be the ones to get killed: nearly all actions seemed to have the enemy on the left hand side and the .5 turret was exposed there) to the twin Oerlikons on the coach deck abaft the bridge. These guns fired 20mm shells at a very fast rate and were of the graze fuse type. This meant that after two and a half turns in the barrel rifling the shell would be activated to explode even on touching the fabric of the older type of aircraft. Each gun had 60 of these rounds in a spring-operated dispenser that fitted on each gun and they weighed quite heavy when loaded. However, on this particular day I was instructed to reload some of the pans from the ready use locker. The shells were stored in the magazines at the aft end of the boat. They were kept in what I would describe as a big cupboard that was accessed down a square hatch about 3 feet square, then down a vertical iron ladder which was approximately 7 or 8 foot in length. As I said these pans were heavy, so I had the bright idea of filling the pans up on the deck and transporting the ammunition up in a cardboard Heinz beans packing case about twenty at a time. This worked well for a time, until I got bolder and began packing more shells in to save time. If I can explain, the deck of a boat is not level but cambered to allow water to run away and the shells are approximately 9 inches long and 1¼ inches in diameter. On my last load up I had just got I onto the upper deck when the bottom of the box opened up and all the shells fell onto the deck and began rolling to the sides of the boat making sissing noises. I jumped behind a locker and waited for the explosion which, thank goodness never came. The noise that I heard was rice-like powder that was the charge that powered the shell forward, and as they rolled this was the noise I heard.

My next incident also was with the Oerlikon gun. The hierarchy had decided that 606 should have another gun added to her armament and this would be a 6-pounder single shot hand-operated gun with a large armour plate gun shield to protect the gun crew. This gun would be at the aft end of the ship and about 15 feet from my Oerlikon guns that were in a more elevated position. Therefore my gun would have to have some safety device fitted to stop me hitting the crew of the new gun. This device was fitted which would automatically cut out my gun from hitting the new weapon. Eventually both new gun and safety device were fitted. The gunnery officer came aboard to do the tests at sea. He ordered me to load my twin guns with live ammunition (not practice ammunition as one would have thought). He then cleared everybody away to a safe distance and ordered me to my turret and elevate my guns to an angle of thirty degrees My next order was to open fire and keep the trigger pressed while depressing the gun over the newly added gun and the mechanism would cut out and stop me hitting it. This did not happen. The next thing I saw was a number of blinding flashes and around ten high explosive shells hit the new gun shield spinning the gun around before I could stop firing. I had completely wrecked all the new equipment. There was a lot of deliberations and red faces. I just can’t remember the details, but I do know that a new gun and shield had to be fitted and I was lucky not to have been injured.

The third mishap was whilst I was aboard 632 and a little later on. By this time I had been updated to Second Cox’n and I was to be the Forward Pom-Pom Gunner, a gun I soon got used to and could handle quite well. It was frosty and midwinter which meant the guns had to be manually worked in recoil (the same action as being fired) twice daily to stop them freezing up whilst in harbour. Having been out at sea the day before, I instructed my number two to dry the gun and disconnect the ammunition from the breech. I worked the gun in recoil by manually cranking it back and released the firing mechanism spring to take the tension off it. That was very early morning. To release the spring a lanyard had to be pulled. Come 4 o’clock in the afternoon I repeated the process finally pulling the lanyard. ‘Bang—Bang’: two high explosive tracer shells went arching out seawards just missing the barrage balloons that were tethered to the many minesweeping trawlers that were working in the Sound. Heads popped up through hatches wondering what was happening. My number two had forgotten to disconnect the ammunition as instructed. With no damage being done, a good dressing down was the end of the matter.

A fourth serious funny was when I was called upon to try and remove a high explosive shell that had become lodged half way up an Oerlikon gum barrel. As I said before, two a half turns up the barrel activated the graze fuse. The charge had been wet which caused the problem. So, gingerly, I disconnected the offending barrel from the gum. A half turn anti—clockwise and a good pull were needed for this. It also being quite heavy, two of us were needed. Having got this barrel now laid on the deck, the serious part was just about to begin. An Oerlikon shell without the charge is about 4 inches long and as thick as a good male thumb, tapering to a blunt point at the front end. The difficulty we now had was a gun barrel open at either end and the offending shell wedged firmly in the middle and we had not to touch the nose of the shell. We had a device that could push from the rear, but this did not work. Next was an egg-cup-shaped contraption that would fix to a pushing device which was gingerly worked over the nose fuse and gentle pressure exerted, but no result. Our next move was the serious part, we fixed a thin rope at the head of the pushing device and both stood in the middle of the barrel and heaved together, which luckily released the shell which was quickly despatched overboard. Today I still shudder to think what would have happened if we had detonated that fuse.

Life continued at Great Yarmouth, with constant actions, sleep and heavy drinking, which turned your brain into a cuckoo world and would bring brief respite. What was saddening, when a crew member of another boat in the flotilla was sick or injured they called on another rating to take his place. So I had two of these ‘bangers’ to do on other boats, namely 603 and 605. It was most unsettling. Other duties we did were laying mines in enemy waters and landing commandos and secret agents in Holland.

It was early spring of 1944 when the flotilla was ordered to a new venue, the submarine base HMS Dolphin at Gosport. It must have been important when we took over such a significant centre of operations, and we were soon to learn why. Down here we were now under the command of Peter Scott, the naturalist and son of the famous explorer. Other skippers in our flotilla who were from better known backgrounds were Lt Lightoller, C.O. of 603, who was the son of the Lightoller of Titanic fame; and Lt Strang (biscuits) who was a rugged Scot, C.O. of 652 and a member of the Strang biscuit family. The Senior Officer of the flotilla was Lt Cdr D. G. Bradford who had already written his name in Narrow Seas history.

(IWM A23969) Boats of 55th MTB Flotilla pictured at Gosport in 1944 during the lead up to D-Day. The boats pictured are MTB 628 in the foreground, MTB 630 in the middle, and MTB 632 at far right. The boats display the distinctive sharks teeth worn by the 55th, and Ken Forrester who painted the bow of 632 is the figure seen standing on deck in front of the forward gun in the background at right of picture

From my point of view, we were mustered to survey that part of the French coast where the imminent invasion would eventually take place. Weather permitting, usually in groups of three boats, we would patrol close to the enemy occupied coast from Le Havre to Cherbourg and around the Channel Islands. I think I would be correct in saying every time we ventured in these waters we were spotted and engaged by surface craft or the Coastal Shore batteries, and they could liven you up with near misses often at many miles range. Evasive action had to be taken as these big crunches and plumes of water repeatedly kept coming in your direction, and that would be in darkness in the middle of the night.

It was on one of these missions that three of the ships had been detailed, the numbers being 617, C.O. Lt Cdr D G Bradford, our own boat 632, C.O. Lt ‘Charlie’ Ford (I could not have asked for a better or more capable skipper), and the T.A.C. — ‘Tag Arse Charlie’, the junior officer of the group, he being Lt Larry Toogood. He had the most modern and newest of the boats, 671. He had a bit of a reputation for being impulsive and had been known to knock a few holes in his boat. Amongst the crews he earned such names as ‘Leaky Larry’ or ‘Tingle Toogood’. This group of MTBs sailed out of Gosport around 3 o’clock on the afternoon of the 24th April 1944. The weather was good and I remember sailing past the Martello Towers and skirting the Isle of Wight and land going out of sight. We were sailing south and eventually we arrived at our patrol area, and we all cut our engines and just wallowed in the calm sea. It was a beautiful night, just the water as it quietly lapped the side of the boat with not another sound. We were talking in whispers, wireless contact cut. I was in my forward Pom-Pom turret, to my left and a few feet away one of the seamen had a hydrophone over the side of the ship and I could see he was wearing his earphones. It was then around 1 a.m. on the 25th, the Captain had just spoken to me over the gun phones, probably to see if I was awake, and I had asked him where we were. He replied we were just off the coast of Alderney, the most northerly of the Channel Isles. He had barely got the words out when there was the sound of rushing water and the churning of screws and the high white bow waves of three German destroyers travelling at speed straight for us. Our hearts missed a few beats. We just could not believe what we were seeing. Both enemy and ourselves were unaware of each other’s presence until this precise moment. We crash started engines. The bow waves died down as they reduced speed. I suppose at first they thought we were E- boats. Then, at thirty yards range, all hell broke loose. No living man could describe what started to come our way. Before we had left harbour, it was the only time that I had been ordered to load nothing else but starshell before we sailed. I was responsible for illuminating the enemy. The order came: “Open fire”. It was like looking into a blazing hell with bullets and shells whizzing past. You could hear the thrrr as they just missed you, some were hitting the water and bouncing up, others were flying harmlessly overhead, some were hitting us, there were screams and shouts. Amongst all this I had to make a show with the starshell. I don’t know how I found the courage to keep looking where I was firing with my gun going ‘Bang-Bang’ every second and the incoming projectiles coming many many times faster. We turned hard to starboard (right) to move in the opposite direction to the destroyers who were certainly living up to the name. 617 first, she got ‘pasted’ as she turned; 632, my boat, next took an even bigger hammering; and poor 671 hardly got moving before she was overwhelmed with the ferocity of the gun fire and I presume she was just blown out of the water. Out of a crew of thirty plus, I understand there were just two survivors. When we were moving away at speed, I turned round and could see the heads and shoulders of the Captain and the Coxswain, P.O. Huntley, above the bridge with tracer shells whining past them as others exploded near them. Then the wireless aerials came down over my shoulders. There was a small mast on my turret and a shell had just missed my head and severed the wire. It was all something I would never wish on anybody, we (617 and 632) finally escaped the gun fire. We stayed in the area for quite some time and when the destroyers had gone we searched the area, but there was no sign of wreckage or life: 671 had been blown out of the water. There were casualties on the other boats, but I just can’t remember how many. There was lots of damage, a visit to a cemetery…I think it was at Alverstoke, with military honours, but details and time have been clouded with the passing of time: at the moment I am writing about what happened over sixty years ago.

It was quite some time before we were ready for sea again, having been patched up. During that time my Pom-Pom gun was replaced by a new type of semi-automatic 6-pdr with rocket launcher attached, for illuminating rockets to be fired at the same time as I aimed and fired the gun, all this in a hydraulically powered turret. The gun itself was a naval adaptation of the army’s high velocity flat trajectory anti-tank gun with automatic feed added. Before D-Day, most of the 55th flotilla had been likewise fitted. All the boats also had to have a large white star painted on the foc’sle for identification from the air.

Talking about painting, I forgot to mention the senior officer ordered every boat in the 55th MTB flotilla to have sharks teeth painted under the flare at the bow of the ship. This was done before we left Great Yarmouth. This job was given to me, having been handed a tin of red, a tin of white and a tin of dark grey and told to get on with it (brushes as well). It was Sub Lt Dalziel who gave the instruction. 632’s effort was different to the others but still effective. It had to be done from memory, so as well as being a seaman an artist’s skills had to be in evidence too.

By this time D-Day was fast approaching, and that was clear to everyone to see without being told. It soon came to the 4th June, and we were ordered to our bunks to rest, and a few hastily written lines to home, although censored, the gist that this maybe was to be my farewell letter was not easy to write. However, as we all know now the weather was bad and the whole operation was delayed. The next day came “in your bunks to rest”. Then, being the afternoon of the 5th June at about 3 p.m., we all cast off and sailed out of Gosport, the usual way, past the Martello towers and out into the English Channel. We were called down to the Mess Deck, where the Captain delivered his shock speech. We had been given the honour of spearheading the invasion of Europe. We were to escort the minesweepers and were on a one-way mission, no turning back, we were to keep steaming south, any deviation and we would be shot up. We were at the head of minesweepers, destroyers, cruisers and battleships in that order, followed by the whole invasion fleet. They all had the same order. We knew more about what was likely to happen as we had been in that area many times that Spring with disastrous consequences and had always met with varying amounts of opposition. The weather was fairly rough and we were passing miles and miles of landing craft being tossed about. With our speed we were soon alone and in the Invasion Bay at midnight where we escorted minesweepers as they cleared the mines ready for all the other surface craft. We were on the left flank near Le Havre known later as ‘Sword Beach’. It was then the 6th June. By seven o’clock all had been swept, and we had not been attacked. It was unbelievable when daylight came a couple of hours earlier. What we saw was breathtaking, thousands of ships as far as the eye could see. They were all amassed behind us, and a huge bombardment started with all the shells flying over the top of us. Our first duty then was to drop specially made small depth charges in amongst the incoming shells from the German defence guns, as these shells were exploding near our capital ships. We dropped these small depth charges by hand into the sea to make splashes whereby the enemy did not know which was his fall of shot and therefore could not find his range.

It was during this operation that one of our charges disintegrated a glider that had come down and sunk (it would be from an airborne landing in the early hours of the morning). The result was bodies floated to the surface. A few of these our boat picked up. They belonged to the South Staffordshire Regiment. In the odd case such items as cigarettes were still dry in their pockets. I can’t remember just what happened to these poor fellows — I rather think they would be put aboard the cruiser Scylla which turned out to be our mother ship.

The rest of the day we were on call or any eventuality, mainly moving about the Landing Craft. We could clearly see what was going on on the beaches. The pictures of the odd building you see in the photographs of the events are clearly etched on my mental blackboard and will remain there always. I seem to remember it was around twenty minutes past seven (morning) when what looked like a fighter plane flew low along the beach from left to right, at the same time it was leaving a smoke screen. That was the beginning of the seaborne invasion. There was the continual firing of big guns until later in the day.

Another recollection I have was seeing the sky fill with planes, many towing gliders of various sorts. That, as I remember, was around nine o’clock in the evening and they were not flying high — at the same time they weren’t low either. However, what seemed like a quarter of an hour later, the first aeroplanes began returning at a reasonable height, until one with four engines and single tail plane came out flying very low and on fire. It was a ‘Stirling’. It flew right towards our boat passing us very low and tried to make a belly landing, the sea was still choppy and his port side wing just tipped one of` the larger waves and the whole plane cart wheeled over and immediately exploded in a mass of flames, probably one hundred yards away from us. There was absolutely no chance of any survivors. Two or three minutes later yet another ‘Stirling’ came out wave-hopping, but he turned back towards the sandy beach where we actually saw him make a belly landing with the plane intact and no fire: there would be survivors.

We were soon into a routine of tying up to the cruiser Scylla, Admiral Vian’s Flagship in charge of operations. We tied up by day and got provisions and fresh-baked white bread and water from her. We replaced our ammunition at the Mulberry harbour. At night we went out of the invasion area to stop enemy ships from leaving Le Havre which turned out to be ‘Ecky Thump stuff`, or as the saying goes “He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day. He who fights and stands his ground gets his flipping clock knocked round”. And that is just what happened, if it was your turn of duty. I forgot to mention, for the first week or so, at nightfall every large ship moored in the Invasion anchorage moved its position just in case the enemy had been able to get a fix on them in daylight.

During the next few weeks we fought many night actions I can’t remember them all, but here are a few. I will quote from Peter Scott’s book the Battle of the Narrow Seas as narrated by Don Bradford. In bold type are the shots that I fired.

“Amongst the flotillas working for the blockage of Le Havre were still the original two Bradford’s 55th (D Boats) and Law’s 29th (Canadian manned seventy one foot six Power boats). They were carrying the fight right onto the enemy’s doorstep in the old coastal forces tradition”.

“The first night we tried the close blockade”, writes Bradford. ‘I was out with a unit of only two of my boats. My own boat was in England for repair. So I used MTB 632, Charles Ford’s boat as my flagship and 650 (Jimmy Fulton) was the other. I had been given the much coveted position closest to the harbour as my patrol, and approaching it from Cap d’Antifer. Sneaking down close in shore, hoping to meet E boats coming out. About half way down we received a message that a bunch of E boats were coming towards us. We prepared for a scrap. The E-boats were coming inshore of us, so I slowed down and altered in towards them in line abreast. They were moving slowly, about 10 knots, and it suddenly struck me that we were in a perfect position for a torpedo attack, though a risky thing to try. They were small targets, very small for that form of attack and their Lordships view with horror the complete waste of such expensive ammunition as torpedoes. But I had always longed to give E-boats a touch of their own medicine — the torpedo. So I told Charles to stand by. I felt luck was with us. When we were 1,000 yards away I ordered “Illuminate” and up went the rockets from both boats. There they were, nine of them. The first five in line were big R-boats followed by four E-boats. Evidently Jerry had decided that his E boats needed escorting. They were the perfect torpedo target, in very close order, so close that they appeared as one unbroken line of boats. I tapped Charles on the shoulder, and away went the torpedoes, and then we opened fire, closing in on their beam. The Hun was prepared, all his guns opened up as one, and the fight was on. It was fierce and obviously couldn’t last long. We concentrated on the E-boats with our guns and the last one in line got a succession of bad hits. One of them a six pounder shell which seemed to tear off part of the deck amidships. I had almost forgotten about the torpedoes and we were roaring in, all at once the third R boat disappeared in a terrific sheet of flame and smoke and a couple of seconds later the fourth boat exploded in the same manner. We had done it- two R boats with two torpedoes. The idea had paid the maximum dividend. By this time another E boat had been slightly hit and we were beginning to feel the weight of the odds. We disengaged, making smoke and pulled out to the west — roaring to the world on W/T that we had sunk two R boats by torpedo and damaged two E boats by gunfire. The remaining E & R boats returned to Le Havre and we were ordered back to our patrol position. We hadn’t been sitting there long when we picked up two minesweepers leaving harbour. They were either M class or large trawlers. From our plot of them it seemed that they were sweeping the inshore channel up to Cap d’Antifer, so we moved off to attack. The visibility had reduced to about 800 yards. We had a fair chance of sneaking up on them. Jimmy Fulton still had his torpedoes, so I told him to sneak in on the seaward bow while we came in on the quarter. The idea being that we would rush in and open up with guns, thus attracting their full attention, leaving as I hoped, the chance for Jimmy to get in an unobserved attack with torpedoes. In we went and as we moved in we saw and felt a large explosion astern of the sweepers; they had swept a mine. As soon as we got inside visibility range we illuminated and opened up scoring two direct hits with our 6 pounder with the first two shells. Back came the reply thick and fast, they were M class alright. We stuck it out, hoping to see one of them go up in a cloud of smoke and flame from Jimmy’s torpedoes, but it wasn’t to be; they weren’t to be caught napping. As soon as Jimmy poked his nose in sight he caught it just as we were doing. He made a quick short attack and fired his torpedoes, but missed -— then we both settled down to a gun action. The gunners were giving of their best that night. We went in for the last run and found them both stopped and in a pretty bad way, but still plenty of fight. As we went in 632 got hit in the forward petrol compartment from a 40 mm shell, trouble in no small way. We turned round to the west to make a dash out of range of the shore batteries, who were then starting to be fairly accurate. Jimmy was also in a bad way, having been severely damaged and he disengaged with us. It seemed as if 632 was on her last legs, the bridge and engine room were smothered in clouds of black smoke and we could see flames down in the forward petrol compartment and the forward end of the engine room. The motor mechanic was performing miracles of engineering and fire fighting, nursing along the engines, two of which were damaged and at the same time directing the attempts to quell the fire in the engine room. We steamed west at the best speed possible until it seemed that she was on the point of blowing up and then cleared the engine room — having stopped the engines and pulled the petrol compartment fire extinguisher plug — the fire went out and the smoke dispersed. We were safe enough, and after inspection of the damage we got going and struggled slowly back to the anchorage. MTB 632 was a shambles and had to be sailed back to pay off — a severe loss to the flotilla.”

This ends Bradford’s story in the book. I clearly remember that at the point of blowing up Don Bradford walked behind my turret and said to me “We have had it”, and calmly lit a cigarette. There was so much fire, a match made no difference. At that point I turned my gun around to face the fire, hoping for a miracle like the armour plating on the front of my turret protecting me as myself and turret went sailing skywards in the explosion. Luckily it never happened; the gods were with me once again.

What he did not mention as we crawling back – it was still quite dark and I still sat in my turret – was a red light that shot up in the air very close to where I was sitting. It set the body tingling again. It was a red varey light fired by a German airman; he had been shot down and was in a rubber dinghy. We stopped. I helped him on board. He had been flying in full dress uniform, wearing all his medals including Iron Cross. I took his pistol and holster from his belt and kept the holster as a souvenir. One or two of the crew members got a medal or some other memento, not his personal things like rings or watch. We had saved his life, but on return to base in England we handed him over and he complained about having his medals etc. taken from him and the Captain had to appear before the Senior Officer of the base. However, instead he sent along Sub Lt Owen (with whom I am still in regular contact although we live about three hundred miles apart), the upshot was all had to be returned to him. So much for saving his life. The man himself – I had expected to see a tall blonde craggy-faced individual, instead he was of medium-build, round-faced and had black hair. I have forgotten his name, but his home town was Rostock in Northern Germany. He was treated well on board, bearing in mind there was no smoking and power was restricted as we ourselves were nursing the scars of battle.

In the obituaries columns of the Daily Telegraph, 8th July 1995, Cdr Donald Bradford DSO, DSC and two bars — there are a few paragraphs about 606 and 632. I think they make interesting reading:

“ln November, Bradford was mentioned in despatches after two clandestine operations to land Commandos. His boats were attacked on their way across for the second sortie and 617 was damaged. Bradford transferred to MTB 606¹, sending 617 home with the Commandos, and pressed on to attack a convoy off the Hook of Holland. Two trawlers and an E boat were sunk, but 606 was hit by a large calibre shell which wrecked the bridge, killed the signalman and wounded Bradford and the captain. There were now 10 or 12 enemy ships on the scene; 606 was badly damaged and on fire, with several more sailors killed or wounded. ‘Having visions of sausage and sauerkraut for breakfast’, Bradford decided to retire. Attempts were made to take 606 in tow, but she had to be abandoned.

In April 1944 the 55th moved to HMS Dolphin, Gosport to prepare for Operation Neptune, the assault phase of the Normandy invasion. They carried out several operations that month for which Bradford was mention in despatches again, but lost one of their number, with only two survivors, in a night action against three German destroyers off Cherbourg on the 24th. Bradford was ‘deeply shocked at the inhumanity of the Germans in not picking up survivors from the wreck and the affair only whipped up our intense hatred and desire to come to battle with them’.

On D-Day the 55th protected the eastern flank of the invasion armada in Seine Bay. A second Bar to Bradford’s DSC was awarded for an action on the night of D+1 when four boats of the flotilla crossed a German minefield, exploding 23 mines on their way to engage a large force of German E-boats and minelayers; they sank one, damaged another and drove off the rest.

After the fall of Cherbourg the flotilla set up a close blockade of Le Havre. Now in MTB 632 (because 617 was under repair) Bradford fought a particularly violent action on the night of July 1, when 632 and 650 attacked gunboats of the 10th German flotilla of Fecamp. It was a typical Bradford encounter — a stealthy approach, hidden in the shadow of the shore, and a short, sharp, vicious onslaught in which two enemy ships were surprised and sunk by two torpedoes. Two nights later Bradford was in action against escorted German minesweepers off Cap d’Antifer. MTB 632 was ‘reduced to a shambles’, with a large fire raging on board; at one stage ‘one of the undamaged tanks nearest the seat of the fire was swelling like a balloon with petrol vapour’. She was so riddled with shrapnel that Bradford had to send her home.”

Another hair-raising encounter I shall never forget during this period 6 June to 1 July 1944: once again we were on night patrol outside the anchorage and to the east. Two boats were together, MTB 652 (Lt Jock Strang) and MTB 632 (Lt Charles Ford). 652 was the senior officer, and we came upon an enemy destroyer around midnight. (Can I say before I go any further, whilst at Great Yarmouth, Cdr Brind, the Base S.O., called us to a meeting and told us we were not sinking enough boats by gunfire and one of his jibes was that we should hit them in the engine room. I thought to myself he’s expecting a lot, 95% of our actions were at night and it was as much as one could do to even see the target ship let alone the engine room). We challenged the destroyer, and got the correct reply: it was one of ours. Safety catches to safe, and we began to go alongside her. At this point Sub Lt Owen had noticed she was not showing I.F.F. (Indication Friend or Foe). The immediate order “Enemy, Open Fire” came. We were then only some twenty yards from the enemy destroyer. I could plainly see her flag fluttering in the breeze. What’s more I was right opposite the engine room. I was the first to react and pumped four 6-pdr shells right into the engine room which at that point is as large as a barn door. Then all hell broke loose, there were bangs and flashes, tracer shells and machine gun bullets flying everywhere. (Why I am here to write this story, heaven knows.) We, both boats, made smoke and disappeared behind it with the destroyer’s wrath flying through it. I have often wondered what happened to that engine room, but sadly that was war and I put it down to “It was us or them”.

There were many more actions that we fought, and my memory hasn’t recorded the details like the ones I have described. By this time we were back in England —Teigmnouth – and the boat (632) was too badly damaged for quick repair and the crew were sent on indefinite leave. I suppose the crew of MTB 632 would be somewhere at the top of the list for the most decorations for bravery in battle of any small boat in the Royal Navy. One DSO, four DSCs, four DSMs and six Mention in Dispatches, all individually shown in Seedie’s List of Coastal Forces Awards which I keep in my possession. I think it was four weeks while we awaited a new boat to be completed. That new boat turned out to be MTB 771, having final touches put to her in ‘Dickies Yard’, Bangor in North Wales. Eventually the whole of 632 crew with one or two additions were drafted aboard. As the boat was more heavily armed than our previous boat, notably she carried four 18-inch torpedoes against just the two 21-inch on 632, and also she had two semi-automatic 6-pdr guns whereas 632 only had the one. Other updates were also in evidence.

MTB 771 showing the rocket launcher with the semi-automatic 6-pdr gun, with Ken Forrester stood next to it. Note the torpedo tube extreme left

Buoy-jumping was another of my duties, once on MTB 632 after we had been badly damaged and engines out of action. It was while we were waiting for repair at Teignmouth. I can’t recollect how we got to be drifting down the river, but something had to be done quickly. As we were passing a flat topped circular mooring buoy, I lowered myself onto it from a rope as we went slowly past, then proceeded to pass some quick turns of mooring rope through the heavy ring on the top of the buoy, and as the weight of the boat took strain on the rope the buoy tipped to an angle of 45° and half disappeared under the water. I was wet up to my backside and myself waiting to be rescued, but a serious mishap had been averted. The same thing happened again on the River Clyde, but this time with an aircraft carrier, but this involved being lowered some 30 feet onto the buoy and much heavier ropes being involved.

Another one-off was while on board MTB 632 and still operating in the North Sea. We had instructions to test drop a depth charge — travelling at speed this operation was carried out. A few seconds after dropping it a large plume of water erupted astern of us. It was then hard to starboard and return to the dropping zone where we found lots of fish floating dead, mainly cod, with their white undersides showing. So it was the time to place scrambling nets over the ship side and climb down to water level and fill buckets with these prime cod. Can you guess, we lived off the most wonderful fish and chips? The only price we had to pay was as usual a wet backside as the boat rolled in the swell.

Now back to 771. We did sea trials out of Holyhead, and after a couple of weeks we sailed north to Fort William and through the Caledonian Canal to Inverness, Aberdeen and back to Great Yarmouth, and eventually joined the flotilla which was now operating out of the recently recaptured port of Ostend. It was whilst I was aboard MTB 771 based at Ostend that we did nightly patrols off the still occupied coast to the north, which meant once in position we just sat wallowing in the swell and always talking in whispers. The nights were often brightly lit by stars and the water would be like magic, brilliantly glowing with phosphorescence.

I remember being on duty one night on the bridge with just a lieutenant who was gaining experience of MTBs. He was Danish and had the name of Dave Bredsdorff His English was not very fluent and he was quietly pointing at the night sky and naming all the stars, when he came to a bright one low in the sky. It was ‘Sirius’, and in his broken English I thought that he thought I was not taking much notice of him and got agitated when I said I know it was “serious”. Eventually the penny dropped and the quiet conversation continued.

Whilst talking about these northerly patrols there are not many people who have had the experience of seeing the enemy V2 rockets being launched and going almost vertical into the night sky and then being back at Great Yarmouth on the receiving end ( not the same rocket) but seeing a launch and the end result.

Fortunately while operating out of Ostend we were lucky in the way our patrols went. It was other boats who were having the odd scuffle. I do remember, though, we were doing the most northerly of the patrols. From that point surface ships stopped and from thereon the Fleet Air Ami did the patrols. It was yet another of those clear starry nights. As usual we were laying with the engines cut, when we heard the sound of approaching aircraft. The shape came into view, it was flying low, it had its flaps lowered, and I said “Barracuda”. The words were barely out of my mouth when there was a big red flash and explosion, and a huge water spout. The deck went up and knees went down. The blighter had just missed us with a bomb. He had taken us for the enemy.

We had only done a couple of night patrols off the Schelde estuary when disaster struck. It was the 14th February (St Valentine’s Day). I had just had a telegram telling me my Grandmother Parkinson had died. The war was allowing big advances towards Germany. It was a rest day, and half the crew had been taken on a sightseeing trip to Brugge for the afternoon. It was around 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I had volunteered to make the tea and went up on deck to go to the potato locker which was just below the bridge. Before I got there I saw flames and smoke rising from the middle of a group of Tony Laws 72’ 6” power boats that were berthed in a large lock entrance some 30 yards away. Our boat was tied up to the wall with two others of our flotilla tied alongside us. The tide was low which meant that our torpedoes were below the level of the seawall. There was a raised gangway over the torpedoes bypassing the .5 turret. This gangway was level with the top of the wall. On seeing the tire I ran to the forward hatch (the crews quarters) and yelled out “Fire”, ran to the stern of the boat, took hold of a fire hose that was permanently rigged and ran unreeling it as I went. I was just passing over the gangway that was level with the wall when the boat that was on fire blew up, with a huge ‘Wooph’-like noise. There was a rush of seething hot air which blew me over. The next thing I remember was picking myself up on the dockside with burning debris everywhere covering the quayside and all of our boats. Our own boat had been protected somewhat with being shielded by the dockside. I was still dazed, realised I’d lost my shoes and beard mostly singed off. I had blood running down my face by that time. Someone was running past me, so I ran while pandemonium was going on. Ammunition was exploding, torpedoes going off, pieces of flaming boats everywhere. I remember one thought going through my head: “I’m going to be killed the same day as my grandmother died”. I knew there was a shallow bomb crater about 120 yards down the quay, I dived into that, curled myself into as little a ball as possible, protected my head with my hands. By this time more boats were blowing up. It was like hell on earth. I remember peeping up in a brief lull and there was two D-class MTBs still tied together drifting down the river and both burning fiercely.

The next thing, when all was quiet, I was picked up by the Belgium army and taken to a sergeants mess where I was cleaned up. The blood had come from a diagonal cut across the front of my forehead. Half an inch further forward and it would have taken my skull off. I had this dressed, and given a pair of brown brogue shoes, a khaki battledress top, a rest, a meal of white beans on toast and a drink. By this time it was around 8.30 p.m. and everything was more or less calm. My Belgium army saviours decided to go with me and see what we could find. As we walked up the quay, we passed lots of carnage and the burnt out wrecks of many ships on both sides of the river. Eventually we stumbled on 771 which was badly damaged, so badly she took no further part in the war. The force of the explosions had blown her out of square with lots of loose fittings. By this time it was presumed I had been lost in the disaster. The Captain welcomed me aboard, thankful to see me alive. The Captain and spare officer, a Dane by the name of Bredsdorff, were both decorated for fire fighting and life saving, i.e. pulling sailors out of the water. The fact that 771 survived at all was because when the first boats exploded the quayside wall protected her. I believe the two D-boats tied to her were cut loose and they would be the ones drifting and on fire that I had seen from the bomb crater.

The final outcome was twenty-six sailors of the Royal Canadian Navy were killed and five of their boats destroyed, and thirty-six British sailors were killed and the Royal Navy lost seven boats. In all twelve boats blew up and sixty-two sailors died. The boats were: Canadian power boat MTBs, numbers 459, 461, 462, 465 and 466; the British Fairmile D MTBs 776, 789, 791 and 798; the Royal Navy Power Boats 438 and 444 and White type MTB 255.

The loss of life would have been much greater had it not been for those sightseers at Brugge. My postwar friend Ken Owen (ex Sub Lt) was unaware of the disaster until about two miles out of Ostend they saw a torpedo at an angle of 30° sticking out of a house window. After a while we were able to limp back to England and finished up in Great Yarmouth, where we had extended leave.

It took the Royal Canadian Naval Association to mount a campaign to have a permanent memorial erected on the waterfront at Ostend, close to the scene of the disaster. Over a period of three years they set about raising money, submitting plans and commissioning the building of the memorial in granite, the work being carried out in Windsor, Nova Scotia, before the memorial was shipped to Belgium. The unveiling ceremony took place on 8 May 2003, the anniversary of VE day. The memorial bears the names of Canadian and British sailors who perished and the boat numbers.

During the period 1942–45 the 55th flotilla lost four boats, the numbers being 601 in 1942, 605 in 1945, 606 in 1943 and 671 in 1944. Others were damaged beyond repair. We lost half of our boats, and a good number of our fellow colleagues.

MTB 771 eventually arrived at Brixham, South Devon, where most of the crew were sent on leave while the powers that be decided what to do with the damage. The skeleton crew who were not on leave lived in lodgings but came down daily to work on the boat. VE day came, and everyone went wild with thankfulness and excitement. I was unlucky. I was seconded to Brixham Police Station to work with the police trying to keep order amidst all the hilarity and drink. The only drink I got was tea. Soon after I was on long leave, which kept getting extended by telegram.

This is where my luck changed, it was while at a dance at Thurnham Institute that I was introduced to Harriet Mitchell. We were both able dancers and I finished up by asking if I may see her home — that was it, we are still together after fifty seven years and still ‘batting’.

The war in Europe behind us, the war in Japan in the Far East was still causing grave concern, not least with those at sea. The kamikaze pilots were playing havoc with our ships; on land, fierce battles were being fought but gradually making inroads, recapturing lots of territories that initially had been overrun.

There was a small nucleus of MTBs, MGBs, MLs and HDMLs left in the Japanese war zone. These were used for mopping up the small bands of fighters who remained holed up in the many creeks and rivers, sometimes long after the cease—fire had come into force. The remainder of all Coastal Forces were either scrapped or sold on as pleasure craft after modification.

So it was back to barracks for me, this being the Royal Navy Barracks at Portsmouth, where I was soon to become a Corporal of the Guard, in charge of posting sentries and the duties that went with it. It was late July when my name appeared on the draft list. I had to have my kit ready after breakfast next day. Taken on a truck to Portsmouth town railway station with a rail warrant to Stranraer in Scotland. It was on this train I met my cousin Clifford; he was in the army and going on leave. Thence by ferry to Larne, Northern Ireland, then by rail to Belfast, where in Harland and Wolff s shipyard the American built escort carrier Trouncer was being given a last going over before sea trials off the Giant’s Causeway.

It took quite a while to get into a big ship routine. I was in charge of number one mess, a large table on the left as you entered the mess deck. Usually food arrived to the table in large mess tins and containers, and the Leading Seaman was responsible for each getting their fair share, likewise afterwards the washing up and storing of utensils and generally keeping everything clean and tidy. But this ship was different; we did not have plates. For the main meal followed by sweet, each rating had to look after himself by going to a bar and picking up a stainless steel tray with numerous shapes stamped out in it. You queued up and moved along the bar, whereby a number of chefs were side by side, and as you moved your tray along depending what meal it was, each chef put a spoonful of whatever in one of the impressions in your tray e.g. at dinnertime you would have soup in one, potatoes and gravy in another, veg in another and your pudding in yet another. At breakfast it would be porridge, bacon, egg, fried bread, bread, marmalade all on the one tray. The trays were machine washed, as was your mug that had held your tea.

My quarters were situated right forward in the bow (front) of the vessel. There were twelve of us. You got all the movement of the ship and for good measure in rough seas the anchor locker was just beneath us and the anchor chain weighing many tons ‘crashed’ up and down. It took sometime to get used to. I was to be captain of the Bofors gun, just abaft the Island (Bridge and Control rooms). When at action stations, I was also the cox’swain of the portside pinnace and duty cox’swain of the starboard sea boat (a whaler) propelled by five oarsmen. HMS Trouncer was in the command of Captain Rotherham, a tall, distinguished looking man. In addition to the many Bofors, her armaments also included Oerlikon guns and two five-inch short barrelled naval guns that we mounted on two blisters each side of the stem of the ship. When these guns were fired, the ‘crack’ was ear-splitting: my ears have never been subjected to a sound anything like that. I can’t remember how many aircraft we carried. I know we had one sea otter, a flying boat with a pusher engine (unusual) for rescue. We carried Grumman ‘Hell Cats’ as fighter planes and ‘Vengeance’ bombers. These were all kept in a hangar below the flight deck and were brought up on special lifts. The ‘Hell Cats’, ‘Vengeances’ and five-inch guns were all American.

We sailed for the Far East sometime in August, very soon after VJ day which was a relief in itself. We sailed through the Bay of Biscay, calling in at Gibraltar where I got into my first trouble. I had been detailed to take some documents to the shore establishment. It was my first duty with the pinnace. On entering the harbour I saw some RAF rescue launches moored nearby. I drew up alongside one of these and delivered my documents to the correct place. On my return to Trouncer I was called before the Officer of the Watch and asked how long had I been in the habit of mooring alongside RAF boats when entering a Royal Navy base. I got away with a ‘Chalking off’, but learned the lesson. Next port of call was Malta. It was badly battered with the bombing raids — ‘The George Cross’ island.

After a short stay of a few days, our next port of call was Port Said. However, just before we arrived a distress call was received. We changed course and off Haifa we came across a large ship on fire from stem to stern, it was called Empire Patrol, and it was carrying Greek refugees, mainly elderly and a large percentage female. There were many hundreds of them. We were the only ship in the vicinity, and when we arrived everyone was trapped either in a small space at the bow or stern of the ship, the rest was blazing red hot. I was detailed to take my motor boat and rescue as many people as possible. I made many trips loaded with survivors back to Trouncer, which was stood off around two hundred yards away. We had other of our small boats helping too, and it got hotter and the screams got louder. My boat was getting overloaded and the sea was quite bumpy. I was engaged under the stern where the old people had to be lowered by ropes, probably thirty feet. Some could not grip. I had one old lady let go half way down to my boat. She crashed down, completely smashing my boat’s canopy, breaking her leg and arm in the bargain. As the fires got worse, everyone was jumping in the water, and we were doing our utmost to fish them out before they drowned. Some were clinging for dear life on pieces of wreckage. It was awful. It was now getting dark, and finding these poor people amongst the waves was bad enough in daylight, but darkness was by following pleas for help. It was 29th September 1945 when this happened. We stayed in the area until next day when we were joined by other vessels. We rescued many hundreds. In fact the aircraft hangar was absolutely crowded with survivors, many injured and burned.

Survivors clinging to wreckage of the Empire Patrol

Then came the sad part, burying the dead at sea. The sailmaker Able Seamen Pink had the unenviable task of placing the dead bodies in weighted canvas bags and sewing them up. He told me the last stitch was through the nose, the reasoning being if they jumped as the sailmaker’s needle passed through they weren’t dead. l will leave you to decide if he was telling the truth. Once all the bags were laid out at the stern, the burial service was carried out with their own priest or whatever religion it was, but there was lots of bowing and wailing as each body was put on a board which was raised at one end and the poor deceased person slid into their final resting place at the bottom of the sea. All other survivors were landed at Port Said.

We next sailed through the Suez Canal, an experience in itself, seeing the camels on the banks and the native dhows and other vessels. Past El Kantura — The Biblical land of Gosher and Moses’s camp before crossing the Red Sea — the Bitter Lakes, the Sweet Water Canal and finally Suez and Port Tewfik and into the Red Sea, the Gulf of Aden and across the Indian Ocean to Cochin in South West India, where we stayed a few days before sailing onto Columbo in what was then Ceylon, now Sri Lanka. We crossed the Equator on our journey to South Africa. I proudly possess a certificate for the crossing ceremony, duly signed on the reverse with the names and addresses of around fifty of my fellow sailors who hail from all over the British Isles. The proclamation reads:-

 

Whereas by our Royal condescension we decree that our trusty and well-beloved – Robert K Forrester – has this day entered our domain and been rightly and duly initiated with all form and ceremony as our subject. We therefore declare to all whom it may concern that it is our Royal will and pleasure to confer on him the freedom of the seas and to exempt him from further homage and should he fall overboard all sharks, dolphins, whales, mermaids and other dwellers of the deep are to abstain from maltreating his person. And we further direct all sailors, soldiers, airmen and marines who have not crossed our Royal Domains to treat him with the respect due to one of us. Given under our hand at our court on board HMS Trouncer on the Equator and in longitude 75° – 09E on this 19th day of October 1945.
J. J. Gower
Scribe to his Imperial Majesty
O. V. Toamsend
Neptunus Augustus
Oceanus Rex

In short, ‘ducked’ in sea water in the middle of the Indian Ocean, accompanied by lots of photographs which are nice to look back on.

The Japanese war having now finished, we stayed maybe a week in Columbo, where we took on board South African soldiers who had been held prisoners of war in Japanese hands. These soldiers were to be taken back home to Durban. I went ashore in Columbo with a sick berth attendant pal. Supposedly sightseeing, we eventually wandered off into the native quarter with just dirt roads and open—fronted straw-covered houses with the inhabitants sitting cross-legged on what looked like low tables. All seemed to be drinking tea, when all at once the heavens opened up and rain came down the like I have never seen before. In no time water was flooding down the open gutters or sewers, rats were swimming down the road sides. We just had our whites, nothing to keep dry, we were saturated and lost. We were walking side by side hopefully going in the right direction when a short thickset man – the ugliest man I have ever seen, he had long straggly hair, his face was covered in bumps or spots, he was grunting like a pig, amongst other noises – burst right in between us. He had the strength of a bull. If the truth were known, I think he was a leper. Despite all his grunting and bumping he eventually guided us back to civilisation. The experience was never to be forgotten.

While we were crossing the Indian Ocean a terrible storm came upon us, gale force winds, and thunder and lightning that were unbelievable. The waves were going right over the flight deck, wrecking the front end, displacing gun mountings, and water was cascading down the ventilation shafts for about two hours. I had visions of the welding coming apart. It ceased as quickly as it began, but it took the waves many hours to die down. The outcome of this was being repaired in Durban, which allowed us all to have a week’s leave all free. Some went as far as Johannesburg. I myself and a couple of others went twenty or thirty miles south, down the coast to a little place called Warner Beach, near Amanzimtoti, where we were made welcome and well looked after by an English family originally from Kent. Meanwhile our damage was being shown in all the newspapers also showing photos – I still have a copy of the Cape Times – where the portside corner of the flight deck was all at an angle of thirty degrees and parts missing.

However, we did get repaired and it was time for moving on but not before the Officers had a farewell dance and party to be held in the open air on the newly repaired flight deck, this being our last night in Durban. I had two duties to perform for the party. The first was get a piano out of the Chief Petty Officer’s mess (which was two decks down). To do this operation I spliced two rope strops which went under and over the piano, had the iron ladders taken away to allow the hatches to be clear, but left two temporary emergency ladders in place. I also had an electrically operated hoist which could be manoeuvred over the open hatches. This operation was going smoothly. I had got the piano up on the deck, when a young highly efficient officer came and accused me of marking the piano with the tight rope strops (and me being a French polisher). He told me off and said he wanted to be there when the instrument was taken back down. At that point I got on with my job of trundling the piano along the deck and onto the aircraft lift which took it up a further deck to where the party was to take place. Later in the evening I was put in charge of the guests’ car park on the dockside and the usual security, all this while the elite were enjoying themselves. Just after midnight and the dance over, it was tidy up time and all without further trouble.

Come the next day we were leaving harbour en route to Cape Town and had nicely got out to sea when my ‘Know all’ officer came with me to replace the piano back in its rightful place. So the roles were in reverse, down the aircraft lift, trundle along to the open hatch, and it was at this point the Sub Lieutenant produced four wooden battens each about two feet long and three inches wide, probably 3/4 inch thick with notches cut out of each end. He instructed me how they were to be used. I had to stand the piano directly above their bottom two then the two strops to be passed over the notches. That meant when I raised the object with the aid of the electric hoist instead of the strops pulling tight it was just balanced with the weight being taken on the two bottom battens. By this time we were getting farther out into the ocean and the boat was starting to roll somewhat. I had manoeuvred the object over the open hatch and pressed the depress button on the hoist, the piano was fast disappearing out of sight when the ship’s rolling movement was exaggerated and the piano slipped off the battens and crashed down two decks. ‘Boing’, every chord played at once, all the woodwork was shattered — end of piano. To add insult to injury the Chief Cook, a fat man came up the emergency ladder and sang “Sing a song of sunbeams, let the notes fall where they may”. Needless to say it was “Off Cap” and stand to attention before the Captain for me. But luck was with me. He accepted my explanation of events and I got away without punishment.

The ship arrived in Cape Town. The sight of the Table Mountain was up to expectations, as was the town itself. My only regret was being too tired to go up Table Mountain itself. Whilst we were there we took on board gold bars. These were placed in a special room with the iron door sealed by having metal strips welded over the comers. Also our cargo included many thousands of Christmas plum puddings all wrapped in greaseproof paper and then in cardboard boxes. At that time in Cape Town a man’s suit was £5.00. Watches were £2.00 each, and of course things were on rationed as they were at home. I brought a box of ‘Black Magic’ chocolates home across the equator and still managed to keep them cool, and there was no black out which was wonderful.

It was soon time to bid farewell to South Africa and this time out into the Atlantic Ocean where our next port of call was St Helena, some 2,000 miles from any land. I believe we landed mail and of course some of the Christmas puddings. There was no harbour as such, which meant everything had to be landed by our ship’s boats. I didn’t see Napoleon, but I got a good idea of his isolation. There was little in the way of buildings and that was in the capital Jamestown. This UK dependent territory is only 47 square miles and a population of around 5½ thousand.

Leaving there we headed north east to make landfall at Freetown, Sierra Leone, which has a coastline of swamps broken only by the mountainous peninsula south of Freetown. We did not land there but dropped anchor in the bay. We were immediately surrounded by dugout boats trying to sell their myriad of wares which ranged from silks and rugs to chickens. Also many canoes manned by young boys, who would dive overboard to recover the coins from the water. The ordinary sailor, being what he is, was quick to exploit these poor lads, by covering a halfpenny with silver paper and throwing that into the sea. Whereupon the poor lad would come spluttering to the surface with a mouth full of abuse: “You buggers me up, Johnny”.

It was soon time to sail north back through the Bay of Biscay and finally into the River Clyde where we anchored at the head of Gareloch. It was here I enjoyed the many trips down Gareloch itself across the River Clyde to either Gourock or Greenock in my capacity as cox’n of the duty pinnace, a journey of around 20 miles. The Christmas puddings were landed ashore, but not before each of us was given one. (I ended up with two, I can’t remember how.) It was then on a short leave (complete with puddings); I think I was home just in time for Christmas.

The leave over, puddings, watches and black magic box given out, it was soon back aboard ship, but not for long. The war over, the boat was surplus to requirements. I soon found myself back to the Royal Navy Barracks at Portsmouth, a cold forbidding place, a strongly built Victorian establishment comprising of a lot of stone and brick, two-storey barrack rooms that resemble long elongated bam-like structures with large window areas of small panes of glass with a stairwell at the front. This shields a large heavy wooden door that leads into the room, which is sparse, with only long tables and forms each side that rim down the middle, with lockers for your gear and the horizontal poles around 6’ 6″ high for lashing your hammock to (no beds). It also has large solid fuel burning stoves in the middle where the forms are moved to huddle round in winter. Adjacent there are washrooms of the same construction, but the furnishings are long slopstones with lots of battered misshaped aluminium wash bowls in the troughs with a row of brass taps above, but always plenty of hot water, not forgetting the toilets housed in the same building. Today’s prisons are far better equipped.

The food in wartime was also sparse, bread rationed to two slices of almost grey coloured flour and little in the way of butter or margarine. But we always seemed to get a good Sunday dinner; tomato soup, roast pork and boiled and roast potatoes, vegetables and gravy, followed by Manchester tart (a pastry shell with a layer of jam spread on it, which was then topped with a one inch layer of solid custard). In wartime it was absolutely marvellous.

The barracks comprised of a large drill ground in the centre with barrack blocks and office blocks around the perimeter of it, all encased in a high solid wall that had a main entrance gate and guardroom. RNB as it was known was where all seamen got their postings either to battleships, destroyers, aircraft carriers or submarines. This is where it all happened. I mentioned hammock (a sailor’s bed): this comprised of a canvas oblong around 5′ 6″ long and 3′ wide with a row of eyelets at each end to which clews (or pieces of cord) are hitched. These lead to a metal ring attached to a lashing, this being the rope that secures the hammock to the metal pole like bars. Next comes a small mattress around 5′ 6″ long and 2′ wide stuffed with horse hair to a depth of about 1½ inches (I got 10 shillings for mine on demob — for upholstery work). We had one blanket. That was it, hoist yourself in, the sides naturally pulled tight to you and you was as snug as a bug in a rug. At reveille the whole contents were rolled up like a roll of bacon and stowed away into little space.

I was soon the corporal of the guard at the main gate with my sentries dispersed at different locations around the barracks. It was then January and very cold, especially at night. I was in the guard house near the main gate one night, it was bitterly cold, and way across the parade ground I could see a fire glowing in the office block. I thought how nice to be near a glowing coal fire. After some time the glow got bigger, and one of my sentries blew his whistle. He was reporting the office was actually on fire, it being a waste basket that had ignited and set the room on fire. Another incident arose whilst I was involved with guard duties. When in Naval barracks, everyone sleeps in hammocks that are slung very close to each other. They are about 5½ feet above floor level, and when everyone is in their hammock you can easily touch the person next to you. Members of the Guard all slept and ate in the same mess (building). On this particular occasion it was ‘wakey wakey’ time as each rating jumped from his hammock, “Whose got my boots‘?” Someone in the course of darkness had stolen every pair of boots that had been in place under each hammock. With no boots to go on parade, it was a major incident. We never did get our boots back. Just after the war when everything was in short supply, some thief made a good spec.

Other duties, when not on sentry duty, were prisoner escorts to either the sick quarters or from the glass house, or up before a Senior Officer. Also we did money escorts. We would be fitted out with a thick watch coat which came down to the ankles, given a webbing belt and gaiters, and issued with a heavy revolver and holster, plus ammunition. A group of us would be mustered into the back of a canvas-covered Royal Navy motor wagon with wooden seats in the back and taken to Southampton where we would meet either the liner Queen Mary or Elizabeth. I can’t remember which one, or maybe it was both. Here we would line the dockside while the bullion was being unloaded, having come from America. This was taken back to the Royal Naval dockyard where it was stored in a concrete topped single-storey building reminiscent of an air raid shelter. How long it stayed there I don’t know, but our duty had been done.

Having reached this point, it was more or less the end of my hostilities-only venture in the Royal Navy. From 31st December 1943 my yearly assessments showed me as Very Good Superior in my rating as Leading Seaman. On the 14th November 1944 I got mentioned in the London Gazette. The citation reads:

BY THE KING’S ORDER THE NAME OF LEADING SEAMAN ROBERT KENNETH FORRESTER WAS PUBLISHED IN THE LONDON GAZETTE ON THE 14th NOVEMBER 1944 AS MENTIONED IN A DISPATCH FOR DISTINGUISHED SERVICES. I AM CHARGED TO RECORD HIS MAJESTY’S HIGH APPRECIATION.
SIGNED A V ALEXANDER —
FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY.

This is known as mentioned in dispatches which is signified by a small bronze oak leaf to be worn on the ribbon of the medal of the theatre of war it was gained at. In addition I was awarded by Captain Rotherham whilst aboard HMS Trouncer at Sunday Divisions (Church parade) in the middle of the Red Sea on the 12 September 1945.

The citation reads:

ADMIRALTY HOUSE, CHATHAM, AUGUST 1945.
COMMENDATION BY COMMANDER IN CHIEF
I HEREBY COMMEND ROBERT KENNETH FORRESTER P/JX295085 LEADING SEAMAN MTB 771 FOR COURAGE, SKILL AND DETERMINATION AS FORWARD GUNNER DURING MANY SUCCESSFUL OPERATIONS.
SIGNED: JACK L TOVEY, ADMIRAL OF THE FLEET.

A nice remark was made to everyone aboard the aircraft carrier when Captain Rotherham said: “Knowing Jack Tovey as I do, when he recommends anyone, they deserve it”. My war service medals are:

• 1939/45 STAR WORN WITH OAK LEAF
• ATLANTIC STAR
• DEFENCE MEDAL
• 1939/45 MEDAL

Finally on the 16th May 1946 I was called to Stockbridge camp in the New Forest whereby I handed my hammock in, and was issued with a speckled grey suit, shoes, mackintosh and trilby hat. Given £80 and a railway warrant back to Lancaster, with a handshake I was once more a civilian. Looking back I thought how lucky I had been to come through such a momentous and crazy time.

With the war now behind us, an immigration scheme was announced whereby it was possible to go and settle in Australia for £10. I happened to be on Waterloo Station when the first of these trainloads of new emigrants was leaving. It was a very sad sight to see hundreds of people crying. It brought a lump to my throat.

Just before I got my demobilisation papers, my brother Jim had reached the calling up age, and he also found himself in the Royal Navy. Jim had a trade, being a marine fitter, and he was soon a Petty officer, Engine Room Artificer and wearing a peaked cap and collar and tie. He saw most of his service on destroyers and was involved in the Suez Crisis in the Middle East. The fact that I was away for over five years and Jim away for his service, plus the fact that I worked away on the liners for Waring and Gillows, it meant that we never saw each other for around ten years, which is a big slice out of a lifetime.

© Ken Forrester 2006

Notes

1. 606 is referred to as an MTB in the above quote — yes, she had been fitted with two 21″ torpedoes by that time — in her original form she was an MGB