Authors: Murdo Morrison
“Well we got aff the ship and then we jist wandered aroon fer a while trying tae figure oot how we wid get hame. Then Harry thought o’ trying the Seaman’s Mission. They gave us something tae eat and a wee bit o’ money. We found a lift on a lorry tae London and managed tae get on a train tae Glesca. And here we are.”
On Sunday morning Mary found Charlie fastening his collar and putting on a dark tie.
“Are ye coming tae church wi’ us Charlie?”
“Aye ah thought maybe ah wid,” he replied. "And efter that ah thought ah wid go ower tae see Tam’s wife.”
“Wid ye like me to go wi’ ye?” Mary asked.
“Thank you but ah thought ah wid jist go ower masel’, if ye don’t mind.”
Later, as she was sitting by the fire looking through the Sunday Post, Mary heard the outside door open and close. A moment later Charlie came in to the kitchen and sat down opposite her. She looked up and didn’t ask the question whose answer was written plainly on the drawn face of her husband. Charlie just shook his head and stared at the fire. After a while she went back to the paper and left him to his thoughts.
On Monday morning Harry went off to Inveraray.
“Ah think ye started something bringing him hame Charlie.”
Charlie looked up from his paper. “Whit dae ye mean?”
“Did ye no’ see the way they two were looking at each other?” She shook her head at his puzzled expression. Betty an’ him. They couldnae take their eyes aff each other the hale weekend. Did ye no’ see it?”
“Ach ye’re just imagining things,”
Charlie said lifting his paper.
“Aye well, mark mah words. Ah think we’ll being seeing a lot mair o’ Harry.”
Charlie just rustled his paper. Mary looked at the fire, a knowing smile on her lips.
Chapter 7
Departure
A Convoy to Russia, 1942
On the morning he left to join his new ship, Donald McIntyre had hoped to slip out quietly without disturbing the family. As he was putting the last few things in his sea bag his father slipped into the kitchen.
“So you’re away then, Donald,” he said. His voice retained the lilt of his native Stornoway despite his years in Glasgow. Donald, Glasgow born and bred, had picked up the harder tones of his city.
“Aye, Dad, I didnae want to wake ye up.”
“Ach you should know better than that, son, with the hours I work.”
Donald nodded and smiled. “Well, tae tell ye the truth ah didnae want tae see mah mother upset this early in the morning.”
“Do you have time for a cup of tea before you go?” his father asked.
“Aye that I do, Dad,” Donald said, glad to delay for even a few minutes his departure from this quiet man who meant so much to him. They lingered by the fire until a look at the clock reminded them that the departure they both dreaded could not be forestalled any longer.
His father came down with him to the close mouth. “Take care of yourself, son. Make sure you write whenever you can and let us know you’re all right.” Donald nodded, determined not to let his father see the tears that were coming. Donald shook his hand and turned quickly away.
It was already light as he walked down Dumbarton Road. The air was thick with coal smoke from the chimneys, the familiar smell he knew from boyhood when it was his job to get the fire going that had been banked for the night with dross. If the fire had died out, he would start over, twisting the old newspapers into balls for firelighters. Why pay good money for sticks that you had to buy at the store? If the fire was stubborn, he would hold a paper in front of it to make a draft so the coals could catch. Sometimes, the paper would burst into flames and he would have to let the burning remnants go up the lum. He would wait anxiously, hoping it didn’t set the chimney alight. His head was filled with these ordinary thoughts, balancing the familiar safe world he was leaving against where he was going.
He stopped a few closes down and turned to wave to his father. Murdo McIntyre gave him a final wave and turned back into the close to get ready for work. Donald fought against that familiar sensation that came at the end of each leave. It started in his stomach and spread to his chest, like the feeling he used to get in school when he had an exam that he hadn’t studied for, only a lot worse.
Aye, well I’m no’ goin' tae think aboot that
, he said to himself. He picked up his pace towards the ferry. Donald’s thoughts turned to his father. Murdo McIntyre had served in the Highland Light Infantry in the First World War and had caught some German gas that still left him wheezy, especially on those cold, dark winter nights in Glasgow when the smog hung about the lampposts, and everything smelled like a railway station. He was nearing sixty. Murdo had returned to work in the shipyard for a brief spell. Working all day out in the weather had proved to be too much for him. He had found work as a motorman on the tramcars. Donald knew it was very hard for him to stay home and watch his sons go off to another war.
As Donald came down the slope at Yoker, the ferry was starting up from the Renfrew side. He waited with a small group of workers. His thoughts were of his new ship, berthed at Fairfield’s yard, in Govan, where it was being refitted. He didn’t know much about her and he wondered what the engine room officers would be like. Donald knew from bitter experience that going to sea, a hard job at the best of times, could be made worse with the wrong chief engineer or inexperienced subs. The familiar clank of the ferry arriving caught his attention.
When he looked up, the ramp was just starting to come down.
Donald climbed the stairs to the upper level for a better view of the river he would soon be sailing down.
He could have taken the No. 9 tram and crossed over at the Meadowside ferry right to Fairfield’s
, he thought, but he had wanted to come over on this old familiar vessel that he knew so well from boyhood. The Clyde rolled slowly past, dark with an almost metallic sheen, heavy with the detritus and muck of the city. A deep rumble shook the ferry as it pulled slowly towards Renfrew, dragging itself along the chains that lay on the bottom of the river.
Donald had been on this ferry more than once when a cargo ship was coming up or down the river. Shrill blasts from its whistle would let the ferry captain know to get his arse out of the way. Then the ferry’s engines would race, the pedestrians on the upper deck enjoying the show. Today the river was empty. Donald thought about the Clyde, a river he and the other men who worked in the shipyards felt so connected to that it might well be the very blood in their veins.
From the ferry it was a short walk to the tram stop. When Donald climbed aboard the tramcar, crowded with workers heading for the yards, he felt a comradeship with the men. Shipbuilding was more than just a livelihood, it was a way of life.
To say a ship was built on the Clyde meant something
, Donald thought proudly. Not long ago, he had been one of them, serving his time at John Brown’s, where he had worked on the
Queen Elizabeth
. The workers looked at his uniform and then at him with quiet respect.
An older man turned to him and said, “Guid luck son, I’m sure ye’ll need it where you’re going.”
At Fairfield’s he joined the crowd heading for the yard gates. Showing his papers, Donald was directed to the berth where his ship lay. He didn’t make straight for it, but stopped some distance away to look it over with an experienced eye.
She wasn’t big
, he thought,
couldn’t be much more than 1500 tons
. Fresh paint coated the superstructure. Donald was surprised to see so much activity on the ship. There were workers everywhere. A crane was lowering a Bofors gun into position. Other armaments were already in place; for a small merchant ship she seemed unusually well equipped.
The door of a nearby work hut opened. A man dressed in a boiler suit emerged. As he headed for the ship he noticed Donald.
“And who might you be?” he asked in a brisk but not unfriendly tone. He was about thirty, his frame lean and tall. Donald introduced himself. “So you’re the new third engineer? Well, I’m certainly glad to see you, we can put you to work right away.” He stopped suddenly and looked sheepish. “I haven’t told you who I am yet. Tom Wilkinson, second engineer.” He thrust out his hand. “Welcome to the
S.S. Izmir
.”
“
Izmir?
Whit kind o’ name is that for a British ship?” Donald asked.
Tom laughed. “Damned if I know. Story is she’s spent most of the last twenty years running cargo, mail and the odd passenger around the Levant and into the Black Sea. She was brought back at the start of the war.
Last year, she was modified for service as a rescue ship - then we were ordered in here at short notice to get refitted.” He waved his hand in the general direction of the Bofors gun, now being attached to its mounting.
“We’ll need it where we’re going.”
Tom drew closer so that only they could hear what he said. “Look, you better get aboard and get settled. Word is we’ll be leaving on the next tide.”
Donald looked surprised. “What about the workers?”
“If they don’t finish they’ll come with us to Greenock. We’ll be making a quick stop to load stores and ammunition there. They can take the train back. After you get settled, report to the chief. His name is William McAllister and he’s from Glasgow, like you.” Tom had picked up on his unmistakable accent. “Maybe you two will have something in common. He doesn’t seem to have much use for Englishmen like me.”
Well, at least we will get on all right
, Donald thought, liking this man with the forthright manner.
“Whit’s he like, the chief?”
A guarded look flickered across Wilkinson’s face. “Well, maybe you better judge for yourself,” he said. “As I said, perhaps coming from Glasgow will make a difference for you. Come on,” he said, turning away, “I’ll show you where to stow your gear and introduce you to him.”
As Tom Wilkinson led Donald on board, up on the bridge, Captain Richard Llewelyn was looking down at the deck where work continued at a frenetic pace. He turned to his first officer, Hugh Leonard. They had served together more than ten years on this ship in peace time and were happy to continue the association in war. Hugh often reflected that he was lucky to serve under such a capable man as the captain. Although they maintained strict formality on the bridge, it was as much to a friend as to a subordinate that the captain spoke.
“Is everything ready for departure, Mr. Leonard?”
“Yes, Sir. Mr. McAllister says his engine room will be ready whenever you give the command.
I believe that might be the new third engineer coming on board now.” Llewelyn cast a quick glance at Donald then turned his attention to a piece of paper he had taken from an inside pocket.
“Well, Mr. Leonard, we are to set sail at the earliest possible moment for Hvalfiordur in Iceland. I am sure you know what that means.”
Hugh Leonard nodded, his expression grim, knowing their destination would be Russia, either Murmansk or Archangel.
The captain went on, “We are to join up with the convoy that is gathering there and proceed with them to Archangel. I will be able to tell you more when we get to Iceland. For now, we need to get down river to Greenock and take on additional stores. It is important we get them on board as quickly as possible and get under way to join that convoy.”
Far below, Donald was meeting Mr. McAllister, who looked at him with an unfriendly eye. “Tell me what ships ye’ve been on and show me your papers while you’re at it.”
Donald handed them over and gave the chief a brief history of his service, mentioning a few of his recent ships. “My last ship was the
Barberrys
. I was on her for a while.”
The chief looked up at him. “Ah know the chief on the
Barberrys.
Whit did he think of ye?” Donald handed him the letter of recommendation. McAllister looked it over. “Ah see ye were fifth engineer on her. We don’t have the luxury o’ that many hands on this ship. Ah weel, if auld Gilmour thinks ye were all right ye probably are,” he said, grudgingly.
“Ah see ye have shipyard experience? That’s a point in your favor. We can certainly use someone wi’ practical experience here.” Apparently satisfied for the moment the chief handed back his documents and explained Donald’s duties. “As third engineer ye’ll stand watch like the rest o’ us and ye’ll be in charge of all the electrical systems. Tonight I’ll pit ye on from midnight tae four. But since there’s only the three o’ us ye’ll be expected tae take turns on some eight-hour watches tae. Talk tae Mr. Wilkinson, he’ll tell ye what’s what.”
The river pilot, a Mr. Veitch, came aboard and greeted Hugh. It would be the pilot who would shoulder the responsibility for getting the ship safely down river. Despite skills honed by years of experience, Hugh took nothing for granted when maneuvering a ship. There were too many things that could go wrong despite the best plans.
McAllister had reported his engine room ready; he was standing by in his usual surly manner.
Well
, thought Hugh, smiling,
he’s efficient and I would rather have that than the social graces
. In preparation for departure, McAllister had warmed through the engine, the moorings doubled up to hold the ship steady against the slow revolutions of the propeller. Now Hugh ordered the lines singled up for departure.