My father was a wireless operator in the Royal Navy in WW2. He kept a diary at the time (illegally!) and over the past few years has been writing down his memoirs. These now include about 40 A4 pages of his recollections of his time on LST 368. He joined the ship in Boston when it was first commissioned into the Royal Navy in January 1943 and left it in December 1945 in Ceylon, not long before it was returned to the US and scrapped. In between he was involved in various campaigns in the Mediterranean, including the landing at Anzio, the invasion of Normandy and sailing to the Far East. Much of his account is personal but he describes the movements (with dates) of the ship, typical activities of the crew and some of the 'excitement'. There are few photos too, most I think gleaned from the internet but a few from the time. If there is interest in his memoirs I will gradually add them to this forum over a period of weeks on the condition that I would expected him to be accredited should anyone want to use the material elsewhere. He is happy for me to do this. Fortunately he is still around so if there are any queries he may even be able to answer them. Alan
Post in full , please. BUT only if you & he feel comfortable in doing so. Look forward to reading it.
Thanks for the responses so far. The poll closes on New Year's Eve. I will start uploading after that (assuming that's what most people want). Meanwhile I have found several references on the internet to LST 368, of which the last is the most recent and interesting. (My father remembers the skipper's drawing ability). HMS LST 368 (LST 368) of the Royal Navy - British Tank landing ship of the LST (Mk 2) class - Allied Warships of WWII - uboat.net Tank Landing Ship LST LST 368 - Landing troops at Anzio, World War II Alan
Please do post them in full Alan. It is just the sort of thing I love to read, the daily routine, the boredom, the humour as well as the times of action.
Please do post them in full Alan. It is just the sort of thing I love to read, the daily routine, the boredom, the humour as well as the times of action. I'll second that! Please do, it'd be most splendid to read. All the best, Five-Five
Happy New year Everyone. I thought I'd go back a little earlier in my father's memoirs - before he went to the US to pick up the LST - if that's OK with you, to when he joined up, as it gives a good insight into a sailor's the initial training and how that was organised. So here are the first pages. AND SO WE JOINED And so Den and I, along with a group of about another dozen young men reported to the Croydon Recruiting Office on 14th October 1941: I recall the Recruiting Petty Officer on duty telling us in mock seriousness when one of our group in his nervousness omitted to pick up one of the numerous pieces of paper with which we were presented 'Now come on lads or I won't let you join! Not long afterwards, our little group found ourselves entrained on the way to Portsmouth where we were met by an RN lorry and conveyed the short distance to HMS Collingwood at Fareham where temporarily our civilian life was to cease and we were to be indoctrinated into the routines of Naval life. We were accommodated in Nissen huts, sleeping on two tier metal bunks probably about 30 lads to a hut and allocated a 'Class' number - this was to be our class number for the duration of our training. The days started with our being woken by a bugler at 0600 hours in the morning (Sundays a lay in until 0630 - big deal!): the first day comprised a further medical examination, followed by inoculations and vaccinations as required and then the issue of uniforms: by the time we reached the kitting up Store, arms and heads were aching from the effects of the inoculations etc, but nevertheless, one had to struggle back to ones hut carrying all ones gear aches and pains notwithstanding. Then came the routine of packing up ones civilian clothes worn for the journey to the base and posting them back home - no longer required for the duration of hostilities! The Wireless Telegraphy course was scheduled to take approximately 6 months: whilst the main emphasis was obviously on teaching the receiving and transmitting of morse code, we were also taught to march and salute, elementary seamanship, to row and to understand the various procedures required when operating in a ship as a single unit or as part of a fleet at sea. There was also an element of radio maintenance (in the pre-war Navy the Telegraphist also broadly maintained his own equipment but this involved a much longer course: to speed the acquisition of manpower, the wartime Telegraphist was only taught the rudiments of maintenance and a separate grade of Radio Mechanic was introduced). HMS Collingwood was also equipped with an excellent gymnasium and physical training was very much to the fore during the course: each lads physical performance and progress was also carefully monitored. I think it was after about 2 months training that we were allowed a long weekend's leave - from approximately 4pm Friday until 8am Monday: although HMS Collingwood was simply a land based group of huts and offices, stepping out of the establishment was always referred to as “Going Ashore” and when one did “go ashore” one had to muster at specific times for the so called “Liberty Boat” - which meant mustering on the parade ground at the stated time and lining up for inspection by the Duty Officer before one was allowed to proceed. How we all dashed away that Friday evening - taxi to Gosport, over on the ferry to Portsmouth Harbour Station (standing on the bow of the ferry trying to look like experienced sailors!), then for me the train to Waterloo Main, across to Waterloo junction for the train to Croydon - resplendent (or so we thought) in our new uniforms and trying to look every inch a sailor. During my training at Collingwood, being in the Portsmouth area I was more fortunate than some in that my brother's in laws lived in Portsmouth and I could occasionally call on them and spend an evening away from the Service environment. Life was not all beer and skittles, however, as Portsmouth as one of our main naval bases was frequently the target for German bombing raids. Before actually joining the Navy, in the knowledge that I had opted finally to train as a Telegraphist, I had taken the opportunity to teach myself the morse code, which stood me in good stead when I did join up. I got on quite well with my training and after about 3 months, those in my and other training classes who had made good progress were merged into what was termed an “Advance Class”: this simply meant that training was pushed ahead a little faster and the overall length of the course reduced by about one month. This suited me down to the ground as, like most of my compatriots, I'd joined because I wanted to go to sea. This advancement meant that I was no longer in the same training class as Den although we still shared the same hut and were able to 'go ashore' together. And so my training in HMS Collingwood continued: we marched, we rowed, we ran, we physically trained - but most of all we had morse dinned into us until we were able to receive if at approximately 20 - 22 words a minute, and to transmit it as required. I spent my 20th birthday under training at Collingwood and completed my course shortly afterwards. I was then drafted to the Signal School HMS Mercury sited at East Meon, a little village just outside Petersfield, in Hampshire: this was a sort of holding base for all communication ratings completing training, discharged from ships or for some other reason awaiting draft to another vessel - and would, as I thought, lead to the commencement of my seagoing career. This would have been approximately March 1942. There had been one particularly significant happening during my training period - and I can still recall our Petty Officer Instructor breaking the news to us that December morning in 1941. That significant happening was, of course, the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour on 7th Dec 1941 leading to America's entry into the war. Up until that time America had just been a friendly neutral (with obvious leanings towards the Allied cause): she had given Britain 50 ancient destroyers in exchange for the use of bases in Bermuda, and her shipbuilding industry was going great guns building the so called “Liberty Ships”- generally freighters of all welded construction, the first of their kind I believe, most ships at that time in history being riveted. America, of course, had no man power problems and was thus able to turn out these Liberty ships in very quick time which was a great help in replacing the huge Merchant Navy losses being sustained in the Battle of the Atlantic. Within days of the attack on Pearl Harbour and America's entry into the war, the American's also declared war on Germany: although this was not to provide any immediate relief to the Allies in Europe - initially the Japanese armies were proving to be seemingly as invincible as the German armies had been - but now the Americans could come out openly on the Allied side and the American Navy was legitimately able to provide escorts for the supply ships part way across the Atlantic before handing over to Allied Naval vessels for the remainder of the voyage thus easing the strain on our overstretched resources. And so I found myself at HMS Mercury amongst literally hundreds of other communication ratings, knowing almost nobody other than the one or two who had been drafted with me from Collingwood and trying to settle down to a routine of more signal exercises, drilling, cleaning (and work dodging if possible) whilst listening out with eager ears for one's name to be called over the Tannoy system to report to the Drafting Office, which generally meant one had received a drafting to a particular post. This might be to a ship, to another shore establishment, or to one or other of the numerous appointments for which communicators were required in aid of the war effort. In my case it was not long before my name was called - in fact I think I only spent about a week at Mercury: my draft was not to a ship, however, but to a Combined Operations Base in Scotland where I, and a number of others, were to undergo a month's training in Combined Operations procedures. Although my ambition was still to go to sea - and I hoped in a destroyer (I think most young naval servicemen wanted to serve in destroyers, the destroyer having a somewhat glamorous image) - I quite happily accepted this draft as I saw it as part of my wartime adventure. I don't wish to make out that I was a brave and gallant young man - if anything the opposite - but at that stage of my life I was single with no real responsibilities, service life was an adventure which had taken me away from a routine and perhaps humdrum Post Office existence and I seriously wanted to be part of the war effort. I know to this day that I would have been a very disappointed man if I had felt, when the war was over, that I had not at least played my part. I doubt if, had I ever had the physical and mental attributes required to be chosen for specialist or dangerous duties, that I would gladly have accepted the role, but I wished to compete and (hopefully) to return and be able to say to all and sundry “Well, I did my bit”. So, shortly after the announcement of the draft, off I went with a group of other young hopefuls by train to “Somewhere in Scotland” (destinations were not disclosed until one got there). At this time, trains like everything else were blacked out at night and basically one got in the train at a local station and carried on until one arrived at one's destination - hoping perhaps that one might be able to glimpse the name of a station as the train sped through and thus get some idea of one's location. Sometimes, in the early light of dawn, the train might stop at a small halt where seemingly tireless WVS ladies would be waiting to serve up steaming hot cups of tea to somewhat tired, dirty and hungry servicemen en route to somewhere. And eventually, of course, one would arrive at one's destination: then it was a question of locating one's kitbag and hammock from the guards van and humping it up into an RN lorry before continuing the journey to the nearby (one hoped!) Naval base wherein the Combined Operations Course was to be conducted: on arrival, to be allocated to the standard Nissen type hut which was to be one's home for the duration of the course. Then having sorted and stowed one's gear, to be mustered somewhere within the camp and informed of the “pleasures” that the Instructors had in store for you over the next few weeks! Well the course was not too bad really: this was my first ever visit to Scotland and although all our travelling was done in the back of a tarpaulin covered RN lorry which did not provide quite the same panoramic views of the scenery as would today’s luxury coaches, at least one was able to see some of the fantastic scenery for which Scotland is renowned. Some of the training took place beside a loch at Inverary and I also recall the lorry taking us down the western side of Loch Lomond: other training was carried out on the beaches outside Troon in Ayrshire: we had small radio receivers/transmitters strapped to our backs and had to dash from dummy beached landing craft up the beach, dive into cover, unstrap the radios from our backs and set them up to a given frequency in order to receive and pass messages between the training group: all good fun! We did get a little time to ourselves of an evening, giving an opportunity to look around the district and it was during one of my evening strolls with another trainee colleague that I first experienced the general friendliness of the Scots: many were the cheery greetings from folk as we passed and one group, standing chatting at their front door as we walked by, called us over and insisted on giving us a bottle of beer each whilst we stopped and joined in the general conversation. But soon the training ended and the course were called together to be told that one of its objectives was to obtain men to be formed in to “FOO” parties - forward observation officers - whose job it would be to land on enemy shores with other advance landing parties and act as observers to report by radio to Gunnery Officers onboard bombarding Naval vessels the accuracy or otherwise of their shooting. Volunteers were called for from the trainees and, to the best of my recollection (just like one sees in the best American war films!) the whole group stepped forward as one man. Fortunately, it appeared they needed only a few from each course and I was not one of those selected: on reflection I am so glad: I do not know what the life expectancy of a “FOO” was, but I am perfectly certain there were far less dangerous billets. © Frank Weeks
AND SO WE JOINED (Part 2) And so it was departure from Scotland and back once more to HMS Mercury at Petersfield to wait again to see what fate (in the form of the Drafting Officer) might next have in store for me. Once again I did not have long to wait before the message “Telegraphist Weeks report to the Drafting Office” was broadcast over the Tannoy system: I duly reported and found that I was drafted to HMS Burwell. Initially this meant nothing to me, but on making a few discreet enquiries, I learnt the Burwell was one of the old fashioned four funnelled destroyers (1st World War vintage) that the Americans had presented us with in exchange for the bases in Bermuda. Where HMS Burwell was located was not disclosed - the general procedure was for draftees to be allocated a “Draft No” and told to listen out for the draft number to be announced: one would then be mustered and all those allocated to that draft number would be directed to transport or given train tickets as required for their appropriate destination. Sometimes a senior rating would be placed in charge of a draft and made responsible for ensuring they duly arrived: it was not too long before my draft number was called and I with another few draftees found ourselves under the control of a leading seaman, boarding a train which, as we later found out, was once more bound for Scotland. I can still picture the face of that leading seaman in my mind's eye: he was obviously an old hand who knew all the ropes and it was not long after we boarded the train that he casually remarked “Now you young hostilities only ratings - I know your mothers/girl friends usually send you a cake every now and again to supplement your naval rations and a nice piece of home made cake would be very welcome: can anybody oblige?” It so happened that Mum had sent me a cake which I had received a few days before - and suffice to say it didn't last long between the half dozen or so hungry sailors in that particular draft. So after best part of one day's rail travel, I was to find myself once more disembarking in Scotland, but this time at Stranraer in the south west and then boarding the routine passenger ferry journeying between Stranraer and Larne in Northern Ireland. The sea crossing was uneventful and on arrival at Larne another train was boarded to take us to Londonderry where our Leading Seaman escort left us to return south and I and the remainder of the draft dispersed to our various ships. Although I was thrilled to find myself drafted to a destroyer (as I mentioned earlier the glamour ships of the war) the 1st World War vintage ex American four funnellers were not exactly the sleek and speedy escort ships of one's imagination: but then it was a destroyer and I was quite looking forward to joining her and taking part in North Atlantic convoy duties which I was to learn had been the task on which she had been employed. However, on boarding HMS Burwell, I was informed that we would be sailing the next morning for Liverpool where she was to undergo refit: well, I'd never been to Liverpool before so.....! Unfortunately, it meant I had no opportunity to visit anywhere in Northern Ireland and simply had to content myself with that seen on the train journey between Larne and Londonderry. I think my main and almost first recollection of HMS Burwell as I crawled into my bunk that night (American ships were generally fitted out with retractable bunks unlike their British counterparts where one slept in hammocks) was of the seemingly flimsy construction. I assume the metal sides were of armoured steel, but when one touched the side it seemed to “spring” like the side of a tin can and I could not help but let my thoughts ponder “Is this all there is between me and the sea outside?” The following morning, off we sailed across the Irish Sea en route to Liverpool: the sea was quite calm and I was delighted to find I was unperturbed by the motion - observing that this was the first real sea trip I had made in a naval vessel. It was not a long trip and soon we arrived off Liverpool Docks within sight of the Liver Building and viewing quite a lot of the destruction to the city itself caused by heavy German air attacks. The first few days in Liverpool were relatively peaceful whilst dockyard workmen made preparations for the refit and I was able to get ashore of an evening to explore something of the city, although at that point I had not chummed up with any fellow shipmates and was finding life a little lonely. However, after two or three days, it was decided to divide the ship's company into two watches (port and starboard) and to send one watch on leave whilst the other stayed on board to deal with any odd jobs that might arise and for emergency cover etc. I was lucky enough to be put in the watch for first leave, so off on leave I went and on arriving home, received the usual welcome from my folks who by some means or other managed to produce substantial and reasonable meals despite rationing which by that time was quite severe. As a general rule numerous cups of tea were drunk whilst describing (with a certain amount of discretion) what one had been up to since the last leave or occasionally making a visit to a local hostelry where a slightly stronger liquid was partaken of. However, I had taken only about ten days of my scheduled three weeks leave when a telegram was received recalling me (and as I was to discover, the remainder of the on leave watch) and it was with quite an excited feeling of expectancy that I was at last about to take an active part in the war - visions of North Atlantic convoy duties - that I made my way to London to catch the train back to Liverpool. But my expectations were soon dashed: it seems that closer inspection of the state of HMS Burwell revealed much more work was required than anticipated and thus all the ship's company were to be “paid off” and returned to their home bases. A new crew would eventually be drafted to the ship when the refit was completed: and so went west my ambition of destroyer service: one sea trip from Londonderry to Liverpool and now a return once again to barracks at HMS Mercury and another wait to see what the drafting authorities had in store. The date was July 1942. [FONT="]© Frank Weeks[/FONT]
[FONT="]AT LAST A SEA-GOING DRAFT [/FONT] [FONT="] At this period of the war, the German armies occupied almost the whole of Europe: they had captured Yugoslavia and had attacked and occupied Greece despite a large contingent of British, Australian and New Zealand troops being sent to the country to support the Greek army. The Allied troops had had to be evacuated from Greece to Crete which in turn was invaded and conquered by German parachute and airborne troops leading to the eventual withdrawal of Allied survivors to North Africa. On the Eastern front, despite fierce resistance from the Russian armies it seemed nothing was able to stop the German military machine. [/FONT] [FONT="] Meanwhile, German troops had been drafted to North Africa to bolster the mainly Italian armies in the area, and the German General Rommel had been appointed Commander of the German 'Afrika Corps': up to that time British and Commonwealth troops had had some successes against the weak Italian resistance but the strengthening of the Axis forces by German troops had subsequently led to a number of defeats and the North African campaign had become something of a stalemate with advances and retreats on both sides. The Allied position had also not been helped by the Japanese entry into the war as their (the Japanese) initial successes in the Far East and the Philippines had brought them into close proximity to Australia, leading to most of the Australian and New Zealand forces being withdrawn to counter the threat of any attacks on their home countries. [/FONT] [FONT="] However, although we did not know it at the time, the tide was set to turn: America had now been in the war for some 6 or 7 months and with its immense resources geared for war (uninterrupted by air attack as was so often British industry) much more of the material of war was now becoming available to the Allied cause: and the battle of El Alemain was shortly to commence. [/FONT] [FONT="] But back to my personal position at HMS Mercury: once again I did not have long to wait before my name was called to report for draft: in this instance, a number of drafts was being handled at the same time and all draftees were instructed to muster on the parade square where the Drafting Officer stood with a long list and called each man out individually, to be informed of his draft location or number as was applicable. When I went forward on my name being called, he mumbled something like “I see you've been on destroyers” (obviously having seen the reference to HMS Burwell on my service record but apparently not noticing that the draft had lasted only a few weeks) and to my disgust I found myself drafted to Flowerdown W/T (Wireless Telegraphy) Station just outside Winchester in Hampshire. [/FONT] [FONT="] Now it was not done for ratings to query with Drafting Officers the whys and wherefores of drafts - so it was to Flowerdown W/T I went. To be perfectly honest, Flowerdown was situated in a very pleasant location and the task was to listen to, record and report to Admiralty Headquarters (to which one was connected by land line) signals being transmitted by naval overseas radio stations. This meant working watches day or night as required which at times could be very monotonous as when atmospheric conditions were bad sometimes one could sit through an 8 hour night watch just listening out and not being able to pick up any signals from the overseas station to which one was allocated. The night would then be spent simply reporting to Admiralty every hour or so “There is no -------” (whatever was the call sign of the overseas station to which one was tuned). In many respects, Flowerdown could be rated a good draft: there was a keen Social Club in existence through which various activities were organised – Housey-Housey, dances, dancing classes etc. (there were a number of WRNS on station and some Officers also lived on site with their families). In fact the station was often loosely described as “Flowerdown Social Club” with a little official wireless telegraphy thrown in for good measure! [/FONT] [FONT="] It was, in my opinion, the sort of draft to which a sailor who had spent long periods at sea in convoy work or similar hazardous duties - possibly a survivor from a sunken ship in need of rest and recuperation - should have been appointed but it was not the sort of situation that I sought or wanted. I'd joined the Navy because I fancied going to sea: I'd now been enlisted for about 10 months, spent approximately 6 months of that time on initial and Combined Operations training, about 2 months on HMS Burwell of which most had been spent ashore and the rest of my time in barracks or travelling to and fro on drafts. My sea time so far consisted of several crossings on the Gosport ferry, one on the Stranraer to Larne ferry and a voyage from Londonderry to Liverpool on HMS Burwell. Hardly a situation meriting a shore billet! [/FONT] [FONT="] I stuck life at Flowerdown for about 4 months: I won't say I didn't enjoy it: the atmosphere was very friendly, the social life was good and I'd chummed up with another telegraphist who hailed from the London area. There was an excellent pub in a small village not far from the base which we used to visit and where we used to join in the merriment with a group of locally based soldiers and Winchester was not too far away with available cinemas and servicemen's clubs. One facet of Flowerdown which was not so good was the food: generally speaking I had found the food produced by Navy cooks considering the numbers for whom they had to cater as quite reasonable, but I think they must have drafted all the culinary failures to Flowerdown! The meals seemed to consist of corned beef, day after day: we had corned beef cold, fried, encased in pies or pasties and seemingly used in numerous other ways probably unknown to anybody other than Flowerdown cooks! Now I like corned beef (I still do) but in moderation: when it is served up day after day it gets a little much. In one respect, however, I was quite happy with the apparent loose system of messing used at Flowerdown: I can't recall the circumstances now, but friend Den happened to be in the area and called in to see me (in uniform, of course): I was able to take him into the Mess and obtain meals for him without anybody querying the fact that he was not borne on the base numbers. Very handy! I think that was the only occasion since our training days together in Collingwood that Den and I managed to meet up during the whole of the war. [/FONT] [FONT="] But I still felt that I wished to play a more active part in the war and get to sea: so eventually I took the bull by the horns: having made some tentative soundings I knew it would not be easy to get away from Flowerdown - it took a while for one to get used to the procedures and the powers that be obviously did not like spending time getting people trained up just for them then to leave - but I thought I knew a way in which it could be done! So I put in a request to be transferred to the submarine service (the submarine service was always looking for volunteers): in retrospect, it was a very foolhardy thing to do as the life expectancy of submariners was not very long, but I was young (perhaps slightly mad) and it was a way of getting me away from Flowerdown and a chance to get to sea. [/FONT] [FONT="] Shortly afterwards my request for transfer was granted and once more it was back to HMS Mercury: probably fortunately for me, the actual request for submarine service was not accepted, possibly due to the fact that telegraphists on submarines also doubled as signalmen and my eyesight was not good enough for signal duties: perhaps there is something to be said for slightly defective vision after all! It was early December 1942 when I rejoined HMS Mercury, where again it was not too long before I was called for draft: on this occasion there was a very large draft of men all scheduled to leave together, although apparently to a number of different individual appointments but obviously initially in the same general direction. My personal draft was listed as to 'LSTP8' - which meant very little - and from casual conversation with others who had similarly coded drafts, it meant little to them either: naturally there was much speculation and guess work as to the eventual destination(s) and craft involved. [/FONT]© Frank Weeks
[FONT="]AT LAST A SEA-GOING DRAFT (Part 2) [/FONT] [FONT="] Within a matter of days - about 18th Dec. 1942 - the whole draft was called forward, we boarded a large array of RN lorries and were driven to the main RN Barracks at Portsmouth: there a train awaited us (there was a siding which led right into the barracks in those days) kitbags and hammocks were humped from the lorries and stowed in the luggage wagons, and the train started to fill with ratings from all specialities as well as we communication ratings ex Mercury. Soon we were off and in the words of then popular wartime song “We don't know where we're going until we're there”! [/FONT] [FONT="] From recollection I think we must have spent some 12 hours or so on the train before ending up, yet again, in Scotland - this time in the docks at Gourock where berthed alongside was a very large ocean liner painted overall in battleship grey. Kit was identified and unloaded from the train and one by one we boarded the liner to be allocated a Mess number for dining purposes and guided to a small area in which we would be slinging our hammocks. As soon as all were onboard and darkness fell the ship unberthed and off we went to our then unknown destination. The liner turned out to be RMS Andes, a large peace time cruise liner normally operating on the UK - South America run: she was indeed a luxury liner which for war time use had been stripped of most of her fineries to accommodate as many servicemen as could be crammed on-board and catered for. [/FONT] [FONT="] I have no idea how many she carried, but what I do recall is that a large number appeared to be 'rookies' (such as myself) with little sea experience: apart from the Naval draft, there was a large contingent of RAF personnel travelling to Canada for training - yes, as you will probably have guessed by now - we were on our way to America. RMS Andes was a fast cruise liner and she sailed unescorted, relying on her speed and luck to avoid enemy surface, air, or underwater attacks: she took a northerly route, this being considered the route less liable to attack. We must have sailed from Gourock on or about the night of 20th Dec. 1942. Now the north Atlantic Ocean is not renowned for its placidity at the best of times and towards the end of a European December would hardly be described by the most exuberant of travel agents as the ideal for cruising: suffice to say that within about 24 hours of leaving land, Andes was performing some interesting gyroscopic movements causing a large proportion of the intrepid travellers to wish they hadn't eaten whatever it was they had eaten! [/FONT] [FONT="] I recall boasting to another rating in my Mess who had previously served at sea, on how I'd had some destroyer service on HMS Burwell (omitting to mention that it consisted simply of one trip across a calm Irish Sea): it was not long before I felt like eating my words - I probably would have done except that if I had, I would almost certainly have brought them up again! I must admit to being severely sea sick for about 3 of the 5 day voyage - existing on a few nibbles of dry biscuits just to keep something in my stomach: I was by far not the only one: all the toilets and ablution areas stunk where people had been ill, basins were clogged and the floors awash: one tried so far as possible to get up on deck for fresh air - but again the North Atlantic in mid-winter is hardly the place to sunbathe! [/FONT] [FONT="] However, beyond the inclement weather the voyage was uneventful, the seas calmed as we neared the American coast and on the morning of 25th December 1942, RMS Andes berthed alongside in the port of Halifax, Nova Scotia. It was still bitterly cold - but at least the land stood still! There was, of course, intense activity as kit was gathered together and the various contingents mustered on the dockside in preparation for onward routing to where-so-ever they were destined. The particular section of the draft in which I was included was scheduled to leave the ship that morning but for some reason there was delay and we were told we had to stay on-board for Xmas lunch: and what was served up for Xmas lunch?: sausages and mash - probably the worst Xmas lunch of my entire life! [/FONT] [FONT="] But sometime after lunch we escaped from Andes and were herded on to a Canadian National Railways train to travel south to “Somewhere in America”: by now, most of us were feeling tired and weary from travel and on first sight the seating and sleeping accommodation on the train did not look particularly inviting: but that evening, the meal served up by the Canadian Railway catering staff was really out of this world: whether it was just that we had become so used to rationing in the UK which made that meal seem so out of the ordinary or whether it was really as good as I recollect, I know not - but it certainly made up for our sausage and mash Xmas lunch. [/FONT] [FONT="] The train journey was also remarkable in itself: the carriages were heated to perfection (all windows were double glazed) and as we travelled along through Canada towards the American border it was wonderful to see the houses all brightly lit (after the black-out in the UK), decorated and illuminated Xmas trees standing in many of the porches and the ground generally covered in crisp, white snow. A fairy land scene in itself: and when daylight came and the train made an occasional stop, it was met by ladies from the Canadian equivalent of our WVS with steaming hot cups of tea and unlimited bars of chocolate - chocolate being one food item very much rationed at home. I think a lot of us were in many ways sorry to leave that train when we eventually arrived at Asbury Park, New Jersey, USA, where we were to stay until joining our respective ships. [/FONT] [FONT="] We were billeted in two small hotels in Asbury Park which had been commandeered for service use and designated 'HMS Asbury': these acted as “holding” barracks for Royal Navy units awaiting draft to ships being built in eastern America for the British Navy now that America was well and truly in the war. There was continual comings and goings as new drafts arrived and others left to join their ships and it must have been a nightmare for those in authority to not only keep a check on those who were there but also to find jobs at which to keep them occupied day after day. [/FONT] [FONT="] There was little requirement for actual security at the base apart from the odd fire patrols and shore patrols to ensure any unruly elements were kept out of trouble. Shore leave was granted most evenings and most of us made good use of the local hamburger bars, ice cream parlours etc. (no rationing here) and it was nice to enjoy the bright lights of the streets. Eggs were severely rationed in the UK and one of the favourite snacks bought ashore was 'eggs and chips': I recall going into one bar and ordering an egg meal to hear the bar-tender remark “Don't you Limeys ever eat anything but eggs?” I also recall after being in The States for a few days and thinking myself quite knowledgeable in the local jargon asking in a bar for “Hamburger with” - to have the attendant smartly reply “With what?” – which left me stammering out “I don’t know, but whatever you have with it”! [/FONT] [FONT="] By this time I had come into contact with one or two lads on draft to the same 'LSTP8' as I and had provisionally chummed up with one, another Telegraphist, Maurice Wilfred Beard: he seemed a reasonable fellow although to my first impression, a bit of a “softy” and somewhat superior in education and upbringing to me. However, he was a chap with whom I was going to be in close contact and with whom I would be working, so we started going around together. It was not far from Asbury Park to New York and there was a good rail service and one of my early recollections is of spending New Year's Eve 1942 in the centre of Broadway. You can possibly visualize the noise and raz-ma-taz of Broadway at midnight on New Year's Eve: but I survived. [/FONT] [FONT="] One thing we did find about the Americans - they really seemed to appreciate their servicemen - or for that matter all servicemen. There were various welfare clubs and contacts and it was not long before we were introduced to local American families and invited into their homes for meals and chats: their service organisations - e.g.- “The Stage Door Canteen” in New York and “Buddies Clubs” (broadly the equivalent of our Salvation Army or NAAFI Clubs) were excellent and we soon learnt the routine - get ashore as early as possible in the evening and head for one or other of the clubs where there would be a number of free tickets available for the cinemas and theatres on Broadway - usually allocated on a 'first come, first served' basis A couple of trips were made to New York from Asbury Park, during which I managed to get to the top of the Empire State Building (then the tallest building in the world) visit Radio City and the Grand Central Station and see the world premiere of the film “The Star Spangled Rhythm”: I also visited, in company with Maurice, one or two local Asbury Park families for eats and from whom we were given a very friendly family welcome. But this idyllic existence in Asbury Park was not to last for on 7th Jan. 1943, at 8.30 in the morning, 'LSTP8' draft left by train to an undisclosed destination somewhere in America, to join and see for the first time the craft which, as it turned out, was to be my home for the next 3 plus years. [/FONT] [FONT="] I still did not know precisely what “LSTP8” stood for, but there had been much speculation that it was some kind of landing ship - and this speculation turned out to be true: at approximately 7pm on the evening of 7th Jan.1943 we arrived in Boston, Massachusetts and were driven to the dockside to embark on a strange looking craft just about build complete. It was a longish shallow draft Tank Landing Ship – or Landing Ship, Tank in military parlance - berthed at “Pier 8” - hence the code name “LSTP8”. Altogether, we were a complement of about 70 men, comprising 6 or 7 Officers with the rest Petty Officers and ratings: all the Officers were RNR or RNVR (that is to say ex Merchant Navy or seagoing civilians - no “pukka” Royal Naval officers): the Petty Officers generally were long serving “regular” navy men and, apart from a smattering of senior ratings, most of the rest were youngish “Hostilities Only” (the name given to those who had joined up purely for the duration of the war) ratings with, like myself, little if any, sea experience. [/FONT] © Frank Weeks
Great stuff Alan, please keep it coming! I suspect that my Uncle made a similar trip to the States to ferry back a LST as we have some of his momentos from New York and Bermuda. I will find them and post copies. As we don't have a copy of his full service record the trip isn't mentioned at all in the summary of pay bases we have for him. He was a Petty Officer Motor Mechanic and died in October 1944 when his LCT (HMLCT 488) sank.
[FONT="]THE SHIP - PREPARING FOR WAR[/FONT] [FONT="] Although a couple of Petty Officers had been drafted to the ship in advance of the main party to make preliminary assessment of facilities etc., as might be expected when almost a complete crew joins a new ship at one time there was considerable confusion whilst Messes and bunk numbers were allocated (being American built the ship was equipped with bunks rather than hammock slinging billets as one would get on a British vessel) and kit carried on board and stowed: there was a small metal locker for each man. All rating accommodation was at the rear of the ship: a small area on the starboard side of the rear section was curtained off as the Petty Officer's Mess - in which they both ate and slept - and at the very rear was the stoker's Mess consisting of a small table with seating room for about twelve men. Just in front of the P.O.'s Mess was the seamen's Mess, with seating room for perhaps twenty men. The rest of the rear end contained the “Heads” (in naval parlance wash room, showers and toilets), the bunks and the clothing lockers. [/FONT] [FONT="] Tank Landing Ships in shape are like a long, hollow box (the tank deck) with a ramp and bow doors at the front end, the crew’s quarters at the rear end as described, and with long passage ways on both port and starboard sides, stretching from forward of the crew's quarters almost to the bow doors in the front. These passage ways were divided into three or four small compartments with water tight doors between each and fitted out alternately with bunks or mess tables: these areas were designed to accommodate troops being carried when on operations, but when simply in transit or on non-operational duties, they gave some very useful spare space, and the first compartment on the starboard side was allocated as a Mess for “Miscellaneous” ratings - which included all communication, Ordnance, Electrician, Supply and Steward ratings. There was also another set of “Heads” in the first compartment on the port side - which was commandeered by the P.O.'s for their use. [/FONT] [FONT="] Along the passage ways, both sides, were entrances to the engine and boiler rooms one deck down: directly above the rear end of the tank deck was the officers’ accommodation with alley ways port and starboard off from each of which were about four cabins: I believe these were each fitted with two bunks - the second being for the use of Army officers embarked when we were carrying troops. At the forward end of the officers’ accommodation was the wardroom, with the Captain's cabin adjacent thereto, and the stewards’ pantry in one corner. Above the officers’ accommodation was the gun and boat deck with the radio room (starboard side) and the chart room (port side) and across the width of the ship, in front of the two, the wheelhouse. Above the wheelhouse was the bridge. [/FONT] [FONT="] The main deck stretched from the front of the wheelhouse forward to the bow; about one third of the way back in the main deck was a large hatch and vehicular elevator which could be lowered to the tank deck. When loading took place, vehicles would be driven up the ramp and through the bow doors into the tank deck and on to the lowered elevator, which would then take them up to the main deck where they would be parked and lashed down. When the main deck was full, tanks would then drive on to be stowed in the tank deck. I suppose the ship could best be described as a very unsophisticated version of a modern “roll on, roll off” ferry but with only two decks (main and tank), a very reinforced bow and a very shallow draught - about 2ft forward and 4ft aft fully loaded - providing the facility to ram the bows up on to a beach to off-load as opposed to an ordinary ferry which requires a deep water berth and harbour facilities to do so. [/FONT] [FONT="] But enough of the ship: the working days were spent in loading stores, general tidying, testing radios, degaussing trials, familiarising oneself with equipment, and settling down while dockyard workmen finished off their tasks. Evenings, when not in the duty watch (in harbour, ship's crews are normally divided into two watches, port and starboard, one watch being allowed ashore whilst the other remained on-board to cover routine tasks etc.) were spent exploring Boston. As in New York, Boston had a “Buddies Club” and various free tickets were available: I saw my first ever ice hockey match in Boston, Woody Herman (a famous war time bandleader) on stage and various other shows including some wrestling in Boston Arena. [/FONT] [FONT="] The Bostonians were like most other Americans very generous to servicemen and Maurice and I had a number of invitations to homes, and an evening meal one night in a very smart Boston Hotel (Hotel Vendome): this hotel had one table set aside in the restaurant which bore four small flags - American, British, French and one other (which I can't recall) - and each evening four servicemen were invited to partake of a meal at the hotel's expense: after the meal, Maurice and I were invited up into the proprietor's accommodation where we chatted and drank whilst his son played piano and entertained us. [/FONT] [FONT="] But in between these leisure activities, we continued with exercises, sea trials, radar calibrations, gunnery trials, degaussing etc. as the ship was prepared for the more serious tasks for which it was ultimately designed: and on 21st January 1943 we sailed from Boston. Forty eight hours later we berthed in New York harbour: an uneventful voyage except that we found the fresh water tank on the ship had somehow become contaminated with fuel oil. There were fresh water drinking fountains just outside the mess-decks on both port and starboard sides, but to our dismay these were also contaminated so all food and drink tasted of oil: naturally the first job on entering harbour was to scrub out the fresh water tanks! [/FONT] [FONT="] Altogether we stayed in New York for ten days: my diary records that I was able to go ashore almost every other night, saw either a cinema or theatre show each of those evenings and on most of them enjoyed free eats by courtesy of one or other of the American service organisations. On 2nd February 1943 once more we sailed, heading south, until we eventually anchored off Portsmouth near Norfolk, Virginia: we did not get ashore here but were at sea on various exercises daily to get the ship and crew worked up and ready for whatever might lay ahead. On 12th February we left Norfolk, sailing north, again heading for New York: this voyage also was quite uneventful except that it was quite a rough trip, during which we found how well a virtually flat-bottomed ship could roll on the open sea! I was pleased to note in my diary, however, that although some were sea-sick, I was not! [/FONT] © Frank Weeks
[FONT="]THE SHIP - PREPARING FOR WAR (Part 2)[/FONT] [FONT="]On this occasion we stayed in New York for just over one month: again it was a period of exercising and loading up of stores during the day and spending more or less every other evening ashore: full use was made of the various servicemen’s clubs and it was later to be my proud boast that I saw nearly every show on Broadway during that month - most of them using free tickets! By this time I had forsaken Maurice as my regular shore-going companion and palled up with George (“Lofty”) Broomfield, one of the signalmen on board who was a grand guy with similar (bad?) habits and hobbies as myself. Lofty was one of the few “Regular” ratings on board - he'd joined the RN as a Boy Signalman and subsequently signed on for 12 years - much to his eternal regret. [/FONT] [FONT="] However, we were both in it for the duration of the war and one had to live for the day. Two things had also happened during this period which affected me: the ship had started a football team, of which I became a member for the rest of my time on board: and our radio room was equipped with a typewriter (American telegraphists - or Radiomen as they called them - were taught to type and typed out signals as received unlike we Brits who had to write them out in longhand). With this typewriter I became quite a proficient two finger typist and it was not long before I started a weekly ship's newspaper - christened the “LST Rag”: so a lot of my time when not actually on watch or required for other official duties was spent composing, editing or typing out articles for inclusion in the newspaper. It was also during this stay in New York that we had an LCT (Landing Craft, Tanks) hoisted on to large wooden beams placed athwartships on our main deck and lashed down: landing craft, unlike LST’s were not ocean going and LST's were one means used to convey the LCT's from their building yards to their future operating areas[/FONT][FONT="]. [/FONT][FONT="]It was a reasonably simple matter to hoist them on to the ship using any one of the large cranes normally available in most ports, but the method of unloading at some future stage possibly in a small port with few facilities remained to be seen - and is described in a later chapter. [/FONT] [FONT="] One other matter occurred during this period, which under more normal circumstances one would possibly have considered a significant event, and that was my 21st birthday. I doubt if anybody else in my family has, or is ever likely to, celebrate their 21st birthday in New York: there was obviously no opportunity for the sort of party one normally associates with the coming of age but Lofty and I started the evening with a couple of drinks in a bar somewhere on Broadway. Later we went our separate ways - I will not go into details but suffice to say that some time in the early hours of 28th Feb. I travelled on my own almost the length of the New York subway service making my way back to the ship - something one would unlikely contemplate in this modern day and age for fear of mugging or worse. [/FONT] [FONT="] Then at last exercises were concluded and loading of stores completed - stores which, incidentally, included filling the starboard passageway with cases of baked beans from deck almost to deck-head level meaning the only method of getting along that passageway was by crawling over the cases: we sailed on the morning of 15th March 1943 in a south-easterly direction and we literally “rolled” our way along until finally anchoring off Bermuda some nine days later. [/FONT] [FONT="] My first impressions of Bermuda were of a tropical paradise: beautiful clear blue sea, cloudless blue sky and warm sunshine overhead: fine, large colonial style white buildings lined the sea shore and many grandiose and elegant looking yachts lay at anchor in the harbour: a truly idealistic looking island. Unfortunately no shore leave was granted and three days later, one of a small convoy, we sailed: we were a little late leaving harbour due to minor troubles and had to increase speed in an attempt to catch up with the rest, but at about 1900 that evening having encountered further engine defects, we had to turn back. Return to harbour, the repair of defects and the wait for sufficient ships to gather to form another convoy at least gave us the opportunity to go ashore in Bermuda: as I said, a tropical paradise - if one could afford it - but not such a paradise when trying to exist on a UK sailors pay and there was little activity in which we could indulge other than that provided in the Dockyard area. Engine repairs took five days and we whiled the time away with inter-ship football matches or games against other LST's and visits to the Dockyard cinema: on 3rd April 1943, we moved out to anchor, awaiting formation of the next convoy. [/FONT] [FONT="] In case you are wondering why a Naval ship needed to sail in convoy, the reasons were that we had a maximum speed of ten knots and our armament consisted of six Oerlikon guns and one 12 pounder - the latter's main merit being that when fired it cleared the soot from the galley chimney as it was sited almost directly above. Our armament was little more than provision against possible air attack when on operations and would have been of little use against underwater or surface raiders. But eventually sufficient ships were gathered and the convoy made ready to sail on 13th April - obviously an unlucky day for us as on attempting to weigh anchor we found we'd somehow got some wire entangled around the anchor cable, which could not be shifted. It took 7 hours to cut the wire away and in once more hurrying to catch the convoy we again experienced engine trouble, so back again to Bermuda! [/FONT] [FONT="] These extra few days in Bermuda were whiled away with yet more football matches and visits to the Dockyard cinema and enjoyment of the beautiful sunshine: the inherent dangers of war at sea were, however, truly brought home to us when the cruiser HMS Argonaut limped into harbour with huge holes in her bows and stern where German torpedoes had found their mark some time previously. This time, our engine repairs were fairly quickly concluded and there was less of a wait for a convoy: we sailed from Bermuda - for the last time - on 20th April 1943. [/FONT]© Frank Weeks
[FONT="]THE SHIP - PREPARING FOR WAR (part 2)[/FONT] [FONT="]our radio room was equipped with a typewriter (American telegraphists - or Radiomen as they called them - were taught to type and typed out signals as received unlike we Brits who had to write them out in longhand). With this typewriter I became quite a proficient two finger typist and it was not long before I started a weekly ship's newspaper - christened the “LST Rag”: so a lot of my time when not actually on watch or required for other official duties was spent composing, editing or typing out articles for inclusion in the newspaper. [/FONT][FONT="] [/FONT] My father no longer has any copies of the LST Rag but would dearly love to see one again. Has anyone ever come across this magazine? The skipper used to contribute drawings occasionally. You can read here about him drawing. Alas the skipper's daughter doesn't have any copies of the LST Rag either.
[FONT="] FROM ATLANTIC TO MEDITERRANEAN [/FONT] I had now been in the Navy for approximately 18 months: through no fault of my own during that period I had managed little more than a couple of months at sea and I had seen no action: however, I was now serving on a ship obviously destined to play an active part in the war effort - and now having (hopefully) got over the initial teething troubles and sailed eastwards from Bermuda towards the war theatres it would not be long before we were positively involved. So far as the progress of the war generally was concerned, possibly the turning point from the British point of view occurred at the second battle of El Alamein in October 1942: a new British General, General Bernard Montgomery had taken over as commander of the 8th Army in North Africa in early August and at long last, British air supremacy had halted Rommel's Afrika Corps west of Alamein. On Oct. 23rd the main battle started and despite stiff and heroic resistance from the Germans, they were gradually pushed west: it was to take three months of heavy fighting before British and Commonwealth troops reached Tripoli in Libya having advanced some 1400 miles from El Alamein. Meantime, in early Nov 1942, American and British troops had landed on the beaches of Morocco and Algeria to fight eastwards and link up with the 8th Army in their advance westwards: again fierce battles and stubborn resistance was encountered and it was only on 7th April 1943 that the two armies linked up, ending in final surrender of the German Afrika corps on 12th May 1943. So there we were, the good ship LST 368, sailing eastward in convoy to once more an unspecified destination. I had now been away from home for nearly 4 months - not long compared to some servicemen serving overseas - and although I had been writing regularly to Mum, brother Arthur, Den, George and various other friends and relatives, (as no doubt had other members of the ship's company been doing to their relatives), no mail had reached the ship during that time. Now we were on the move again and hoping that someone somewhere in the General Post Office, Ships Division, in London would have some idea of our whereabouts and destination and would despatch mail there for our collection on arrival. The first few days out of Bermuda were uneventful with reasonably calm seas: apart from some minor breakdowns in our steering gear, soon repaired, we had suffered no other mechanical troubles and were still in our set place in the convoy. On the 7th day out, however, the weather deteriorated, the wind strengthened causing a goodly swell on the ocean and we found once more the capabilities of a flat-bottomed LST to roll in an open sea: I was very bucked to find that I had no problems with seasickness and my stomach seemed to have adjusted itself to a happy life on the ocean waves. On 30th April, ten days out, the first aeroplane seen since we left America was sighted and “Action Stations” sounded for the first time in deadly earnest: fortunately the plane turned out to be “one of ours” and we were soon back to normal routine. Then five days later on 5th May we arrived off Gibraltar - our first land sighting - but somewhat to our consternation, we just carried on sailing east: much was the speculation as to our eventual destination and Oran was hotly tipped, only to fade away as we arrived off the port in the early hours of 6th May and still continued eastward. Where now? Algiers, perhaps, the next major port east: some twenty hours later we were off Algiers and dropped anchor - only to weigh and move on once more at midday still proceeding east: but then at about 4 pm, we turned about and eventually berthed alongside in Algiers on the morning of 8th May 1943. We assumed somebody, somewhere, knew for where we were heading and what we were supposed to be doing! Naturally, having been at sea for the best part of three weeks, opportunity was taken to step ashore for the first time in North Africa: first impressions of Algiers were not high - some imposing buildings, but generally speaking the town seemed hot, dusty and dirty. One consolation perhaps was that the local Algerian wine could be bought for 5 francs a glass (my diary tells me at that time there were 200 francs to the £1: it also tells me I was paid the princely sum of 300 francs - £1.50 in today's money - representing approximately two weeks’ pay). Once more we were disappointed, however, in that visits to the local Fleet Mail Office revealed no mail had been received for LST 368. We stayed in Algiers for just over three days, departing on the morning of 11th May and – surprise, surprise - sailing westward: some 30 hours later we were opposite Oran once more and this time drew into the harbour and berthed alongside at 2100 hours. As I mentioned in the previous chapter, whilst in New York an LCT had been hoisted on to our main deck and tightly secured to ring bolts in the deck by stout steel hawsers(these ring bolts were actually intended for securing vehicles being carried on operations) and it now seemed that Oran was to be the point at which our LCT was to be off-loaded. Facilities in the Oran Docks were limited - they had, of course suffered some damage during the fighting in the area - and whether they ever had a crane large and powerful enough to lift the craft off I know not but the powers that be had thought of that: the procedure was to anchor the LST in a reasonably smooth and clear stretch of water, unshackle all restraining wires holding the LCT in place bar one, and remove the guard rails from one side of the deck of the LST. The ballast tanks on the side from which the guard rails had been removed were then flooded causing the LST to heel over to that side and when sufficient angle had been obtained, the last retaining wire was cut with an axe and the LCT slid sideways over the side to land in the sea with an almighty “plop.” Quite an experience to watch - and it worked! Our LCT was successfully launched to become no doubt in due course part of an invasion fleet somewhere or other. © Frank Weeks
[FONT="] FROM ATLANTIC TO MEDITERRANEAN (Part 2)[/FONT] [FONT="] [/FONT] One or two runs ashore were possible in Oran: very similar to Algiers in being hot and dusty, but my feeling was that it was a little cleaner than Algiers. No other memories - and we left Oran at 0600 on Tuesday 18th May 1943 sailing once more eastwards as part of a convoy including a number of merchant navy ships. All was peaceful until about 1900 that evening when suddenly the “Action Station” bells sounded: I was down on the mess deck at the time and pausing only to grab my lifebelt, began my ascent to the radio room (my action station) at the double. As I reached the upper deck it was to see two merchant vessels, one immediately in front and one to our starboard side, beginning their plunge below the waves: both had been torpedoed and the convoy escort vessels were tearing around trying to locate the enemy submarine. This was my first real experience of action at sea and I can still recall the nervous excitement with the adrenalin pumping through my veins as I rushed to the radio room. Next the ship came to a halt, ropes and ladders were dropped over the side and we began to pick up survivors from one of the sunken ships: I can tell you it is a very eerie and nerve racking experience to stop still in the water knowing that lurking somewhere beneath the waves is an enemy vessel which had already disposed of two victims and for all we knew, could be waiting there to take a pot shot at us. Despite our maximum speed being only ten knots one always felt safer when on the move. However, soon the convoy was again underway and our SBA (Sick Berth Attendant - we didn't carry a Doctor) was busy doing what he could for the survivors: there was another panic about 2100 when once more “Action Stations” was sounded but fortunately a false alarm this time and early the following morning we again pulled into Algiers where the survivors were off-loaded to hospital. Whether this was a scheduled stop or one just brought about by the need to land the survivors I know not but having entered port, instead of attempting to rejoin the original convoy, opportunity was taken to affect some engine repairs. This time we stayed in Algiers for seven days giving a better opportunity to explore and during which we found a nice beach from which one could swim: my diary records it as “super duper”: temperatures were around the 100F mark in the day so the opportunity to cool off in the water was very welcome. Algiers had risen a little in our estimation! But then on the evening of 25th May we pulled out to anchor and the following morning set off sailing eastwards once more. There then followed a succession of small “hops” and anchorages at various points along the North African coast: we anchored off Bone for a couple of hours, during which there was a heavy air raid on the harbour: we passed safely through that stretch of the Mediterranean which had become infamously known as “Bomb Alley” to ships on Malta convoy runs - the (relatively) narrow channel between North Africa and Malta which had become the graveyard of so many ships during the siege of Malta. We anchored again off Tripoli, Libya, noting from the sea it looked badly damaged having been the scene of some very heavy fighting between Rommel's troops and the 8th Army: still we sailed eastwards, in calm waters and beautiful Mediterranean sunshine with daytime spells between watches spent lying out on the forecastle sunbathing. The only event to spoil our cruise was the sight of an escorting Allied plane crash into the sea - not through enemy action but (presumably) from engine failure or some similar malfunction: we never learnt the fate of the pilot. The then latest “buzz” (rumour) claimed our eventual destination as Port Said at the eastern end of the Mediterranean and so we sailed on until we reached Alexandria where again we dropped anchor - and watched with horror a tanker ablaze in the harbour as a result of enemy action: then once more it was up anchor and on to Port Said - but did we stop? No, we carried on straight into the Suez Canal and on to Port Suez at the southern end where once again we anchored. Whilst admitting that the Suez Canal is a marvellous feat of engineering it is not very spectacular, with little more than wide stretches of sand on either side: at least it was then! There is, however, a large lake (Great Bitter Lake) at Ismalia, approximately half way through the canal: the Suez is not very wide over most of its length and this is the only place where large ships can pass so those travelling say, northwards, have to wait in the lake until those travelling in the opposite direction reach the lake, and vice versa. And so we anchored off Suez on Sunday 6th June 1943: little did we know then what was to be the significance of that date one year later. Our thoughts were more on the fact that signals sent ashore had established there was still no mail for LST 368: most of us had left the UK in December of the previous year, 6 months had now gone by and we had no idea of how our folks at home were faring. The following day we berthed alongside in Suez and stepped ashore on Egyptian soil for the first time. Pay day had arrived once more and I had received £E1.50 (approx. £1.60p English money) and while there was plenty to buy in Suez that princely sum did not go far: I did, however, manage to buy myself a new pair of swimming trunks and a fez (a la Tommy Cooper), but my strongest memory is of the hordes of flies everywhere ashore. We stayed in Suez a couple of days before pulling over to Port Tewfik not far away, where we had to demonstrate to various naval and army authorities the capabilities of an LST in landing on a beach: they had some previous knowledge of smaller landing craft but the larger Landing Ships were a totally new experience. At the same time we were all issued with khaki uniforms - quite why we never discovered - but it did cause a little wonderment as to what lay in store for the future. We stayed in the Tewfik/Suez area, attempting to amuse ourselves as best we could when off watch and participating in various exercises otherwise, for twelve days. Two significant happenings took place within that period however: on Monday 14th June a signal was received to say that mail for LST 368 had been forwarded by air to Alexandria, and on Wednesday 16th June 1943, we beached, opened up the bow doors, lowered the ramp and proceeded to load up with desert camouflaged lorries and tanks. Having driven the lorries and tanks on board and seen them safely secured on the main and tank decks, the army crews then disembarked; they were to rejoin us once we had gone through the canal. Two days later, I must admit without a great deal of regret, we sailed from Suez northwards through the canal and into the Mediterranean. Would I ever see Suez again I wondered? Only time would tell. We then anchored off Port Said for a few hours before carrying on to Alexandria where we berthed alongside on Monday 21st June 1943. Arrival in Alexandria presented two main objectives - one, to collect the promised mail from the local Fleet Mail Office and two, to arrange a run ashore: in the first, we were frustrated once again on learning that the FMO (Fleet Mail Office) had in their wisdom forwarded our mail to Suez from whence we had just left: however, the second objective was satisfactorily concluded as Alexandria in those days was a main base of the British Mediterranean Fleet and as such had an excellent Fleet Club to which we soon found our way for a most enjoyable evening. [FONT="] Fortunately, the FMO was quickly able to make amends and two days later on 23rd June 1943 several bags of mail were delivered to the joy of most on board; personally, I received thirty two letters and one telegram and it was nice to hear how parents, friends and relatives at home were faring. On that same day, the army crews who would be manning the lorries and tanks we carried re-embarked. It seemed likely, therefore, that it would not be long before we took part in our first operation.[/FONT][FONT="] [/FONT] [FONT="]© Frank Weeks [/FONT]
My anticipation for the next installment knows no bounds for the invasion landings. This is a great read, it is nicely written in the form of a novel, and I particularly love the fact that life in the Navy was the was same in 1943 as when I served in the 1970's. Thank you for posting, David.
INTO ACTION We left Alexandria the day following embarkation of the troops: this was the first occasion on which we had embarked fighting soldiers and it was most interesting to talk them. Many of them were 8th Army veterans who had fought their way up and down the North African desert in many campaigns leading eventually to the battle of El Alamein and the final surrender of the German Afrika Corps. Although they obviously knew their job was not yet over they were glad of the opportunity to take a little relaxation as we steamed gently westward in the Mediterranean sunshine. I omitted to mention earlier that at some stage during our travels we had managed to “win” a piano - which was firmly lashed to the rails on the quarterdeck and covered with a large canvas cover when inclement weather so necessitated. The mess-deck “buzz” suggested that we were heading for Tripoli (Libya) and the calm sea gave the troops a genuine opportunity to relax and savour the delights of our piano which really came into its own as we proceeded westward. Some of the soldiers were quite accomplished pianists and several were the (generally) bawdy singsongs enjoyed on the quarterdeck each evening as sailors and soldiers mixed in unison. The calm weather continued as we proceeded along the North African coast. Soon we passed Benghazi on our port side - a town which had seen much bitter fighting - and all was well except we managed somehow to lose our barrage balloon with which we had been issued before leaving Egypt: (barrage balloons had been issued to some ships with the objective of flying them in the event of attack from dive bombers); but what's the loss of a barrage balloon amongst friends? On 29th June we reached Tripoli, berthed alongside and disembarked our troops - but not their vehicles: during our stay in Tripoli, no shore leave was permitted although I personally did get ashore briefly as one of my duties was to act as ship's postman and take mail ashore for despatch and (hopefully) collect any that might have found its way there. My brief recollection is of quite a pleasant town with some imposing buildings - that is those which were still standing: Tripoli was largely Italian run (or had been) and was a clean looking town compared to many of those along the North African coast, and the marble type construction of the buildings made them quite cool, as they needed to be with temperatures often in the 100s F. With no shore leave permitted and little else other than routine maintenance to be performed, something had to be devised to keep us occupied: so what better than swimming with the temperatures in the 100s and the blue Mediterranean Sea at one's disposal? So the routine became work in the mornings and after lunch the pipe “Hands to bathe” - in other words do what you like as long as it's swimming! Full advantage was taken of this opportunity - and making the swim even more interesting was the fact that a large hospital ship which had been sunk in the harbour in Tripoli, was only partly submerged so we were able to swim to her and clamber aboard. If my memory is correct, we were able to “extract” some porthole fixtures from the hospital ship (spoils of war!) which our artificers were later able to install in our LST. During the dog watches, apart from other sing-a-long sessions at the piano we whiled the time away playing “housey – housey” (bingo) the one gambling game that was officially permitted on HM Ships. And so we amused ourselves until Wednesday 7th July 1943 when once more the troops were embarked. The following morning we sailed from Tripoli and this time we were part of a huge convoy of ships of all shapes and sizes. Shortly after leaving harbour our Skipper addressed all hands - crew and soldiers alike - to tell them that our destination was to be the island of Sicily on which a sea-borne invasion was to take place and “D Day” was to be the early morning of Saturday 10th July. This, for most of the crew of LST 368, was to be our first taste of active operations: to say there was a little trepidation as to what might lie in store was perhaps to put it mildly. I must also admit to a feeling of excitement (I speak from a personal point of view although I am sure many of my colleagues felt much the same way). We knew the German Army was still strong in Sicily and their fighting qualities were in no doubt, but we had superior air power, we knew the capital ships accompanying and ahead of the convoy would be pounding the German defence lines in advance of the physical landing, so one could do no more than keep one's fingers crossed, sleep with one's life-belt close at hand - and hope! Friday 9th July passed uneventfully: our convoy moved steadily forward at no more than ten knots (more or less the maximum speed of LST's), escort ships fussing around as necessary, but there were no alarms and normal routines applied. Lookouts scanned the sea and air and no doubt radar scanners were working overtime on those ships so fitted - LST's carried no such equipment. Shortly after dawn on Saturday 10th July we arrived off the port of Syracuse in the island of Sicily. To our surprise all was remarkably quiet; the assault troops had gone in earlier from the smaller landing craft and it seemed the landing had been successful with, generally speaking, all planned objectives taken. The larger warships were still pounding away at enemy positions inland but the immediate beach areas were quiet apart from British engineers, signallers etc. consolidating positions. Suffice to say that the initial assault had gone so well that the follow up troops, tanks and vehicles we were carrying were not required for immediate disembarkation and we anchored outside the harbour all day. The enemy was not entirely pre-occupied, however, and we were all subjected to practically continuous air strikes during which we ourselves suffered several near misses. It was a case of “Action Stations”, “All Clear”, “Action Stations”, “All Clear” etc. with but a few minutes between alarms for the whole of the day - but at least the concentrated gun fire of the ships meant the German Luftwaffe did not have things all their own way. During one such raid, the hospital ship “Dorchester” was bombed but fortunately suffered little damage. Sunday morning early we beached and unloaded our troops and vehicles without incident, although one of our fellow LSTs to our knowledge was quite badly damaged. We were still under almost continuous air attack and during one such raid one of our seaman gunners was injured by shrapnel - but again fortune shone upon us and noone was seriously hurt. Having disembarked our cargo we pulled out to anchor awaiting formation of a convoy before sailing for wherever was to be our next destination. At about 1600 on Monday 12th July we set sail - destination Malta - and this time towing astern a damaged LCI (Landing craft, Infantry). Malta was safely reached early the following morning and the LCI cast off but we had no opportunity for shore leave as that same evening we sailed once more for North Africa and Tripoli where we immediately commenced reloading with military vehicles and troops. The evening of Thursday 15th July saw us heading once again for Sicily and Syracuse. The sea crossing to Syracuse was uneventful and we arrived off the port in the early hours of Saturday and unloaded our troops and vehicles. We were remarkably surprised to note that despite all the previous activity of the Allied landings and enemy air attacks, from the sea Syracuse itself appeared to show little signs of damage. No opportunity arose to get ashore, however, and 20:00 hours that evening found us heading once more for Malta whence we arrived early Sunday morning, berthed alongside during the afternoon and proceeded once more to load up - this time not only with troops and vehicles but also with bombs and crates of ammunition which were stowed in our tank deck. At 23:00 that evening, off we sailed once more bound for Sicily. I doubt very much if you have ever given it much thought (and I think it probably fortunate also that sailors seldom think about it) but a ship in wartime can be a somewhat hazardous domicile: with fuel tanks obviously best part full of fuel oil and ammunition for the guns stowed in lockers all round the ship, a bomb or gun fire striking the wrong point could result in the vessel disintegrating very smartly - and loading with additional bombs and ammunition to carry to an active war theatre was not exactly conducive to easy sleep! However, fortune continued to smile upon us, we reached Sicily safely and discharged our cargo - with obvious sighs of relief all round. For approximately the next three weeks we operated an almost continuous shuttle service conveying troops, tanks, military vehicles etc. to Sicily, whilst the 8th Army strove to drive the Germans and Italians from the island. Some loads came from Malta, but mainly at this stage we were running between Souse in Tunisia and Syracuse. The fighting now having moved further inland, Syracuse itself was getting back to normal and the Sicilians were only too happy to sell us grapes, tomatoes, lemons etc. which were, of course, plentiful on the island at that time of year and which we were only too happy to purchase to supplement our diets. © Frank Weeks
INTO ACTION (Part 2 - Salerno) It was now 9th August 1943, and having returned to Souse from our latest Sicily “top-up” we then found ourselves despatched westward to Ferryville, a little further along the North African coast. All our voyages had been reasonably uneventful up to that time - and the only thing to disturb our routine was when a large floating mine was suddenly spotted by one of the lookouts a few yards off our starboard side. A mine is a very evil looking weapon of war - particularly when sighted on a moonlight night - but again one must accept the good fortune of having spotted it at a safe distance. Needless to say, gunfire soon disposed of it - and we proceeded on our way rejoicing! We reached Ferryville on 11th August and anchored out: no shore leave was permitted so our only occupation when not on watch or otherwise working was “swimming over the side”. Generally speaking, the ship's boat was lowered early afternoon (a precaution in case anyone swimming should get into difficulties) and one swam and generally played around in the water for a couple of hours. Life could have been worse - swimming in the Mediterranean in August is something holidaymakers pay good money to enjoy in peacetime; a few bikini clad bathing belles would have enhanced our enjoyment - but at least we could dream! A few days later we moved on to Bizerta for water and oil and it was here that we learned that the enemy had finally been driven out of Sicily - those not killed or captured having escaped across the Messina Strait into southern Italy. The conquest of Sicily had taken approximately five weeks and there was to be a slight respite whilst positions were consolidated and troops regrouped before follow up action took place. The Germans, however, although driven from Sicily were not by a long way beaten and the nights of 17th and 18th August saw Bizerta and the ships around subjected to some heavy air attacks - but Dame Fortune still smiled upon us and we sustained no damage or casualties. But consolidation of positions was still the target and 19th August found us loading up once more in Souse and sailing for Sicily - but this time to the port of Augusta: then back to Souse; not this time to reload but to anchor off the port for three days before being despatched to Sfax, another Tunisian port. Here at least we were able to get ashore and stretch our legs in Sfax, and the Tunisian “vino” (rot gut that it undoubtedly was) tasted superb. Tuesday 31st August we sailed once more bound for Tunis. Tunis is a much larger town and did not appear to be too badly damaged and we found a superb beach with swimming facilities available of which full advantage was taken. We also found the opportunity to challenge another ship to a football match, which although lost, was thoroughly enjoyed. Our stay in Tunis was not to last long, however. It had been evident for some time that some further sea-borne activity was brewing and rumour became certainty when on Sunday 5th Sept. 1943 we started loading troops, tanks and vehicles. We sailed on Tuesday 7th Sept. just after midday and once again found ourselves part of a huge convoy of ships of all descriptions heading north this time towards Italy. Just after noon on that day all crew and troops on board were mustered on the upper deck to be addressed by our Skipper. He informed us that our destination was Salerno, where another sea-borne landing was to be attempted and there was good and bad news. The good news was that the Italians had formally surrendered and would take no further part in the war; the bad news was that there were a few thousand Panzer Grenadiers (an elite German Regiment broadly equivalent to our Guards Brigades) waiting for us at Salerno. I was only too glad to be Navy rather than Army on receipt of that news! Wednesday 8th Sept. saw the convoy ploughing steadily ahead; that part of the convoy in which we sailed was fortunate in encountering no enemy activity although some ships away on our port bow were attacked. Then on the morning of Thursday 9th we arrived off Salerno and anchored off the port. As anticipated the Panzer Grenadiers were putting up stiff resistance and although the initial landing had been successfully accomplished battle was continuing but a mile or so inland and there was still sporadic enemy artillery fire hitting the port; a number of enemy air attacks took place on the ships in the harbour area and we remained at anchor all day. On Friday 10th Sept the powers that be decided that the harbour itself was too heavily mined for ships to enter, so we were instructed to beach in order to unload - only to find the designated landing area was completely unsuitable for offloading tanks and the sort of vehicles we were carrying: so once more we had to anchor out for the night. However, we were the lucky ones as despite the two days of fierce fighting the troops ashore had made little progress and the German front line was still only two miles inland; shells from bombarding enemy artillery were still occasionally flying across our bows. At last, on the morning of Saturday 11th Sept. a suitable position just away from the harbour wall was located, we were instructed to beach and unload. Our troubles were not entirely over, however, as apart from the enemy shells which were now landing just astern of the ship, we found ourselves stuck hard on the beach and unable to re-float. I should perhaps at this point explain the theoretical method of beaching an LST and subsequent withdrawal. In a sense, commanding officers of LST's (most of whom were ex Merchant Navy officers) had to forget many of the things they had previously been taught on the handling of conventional ships where putting a vessel on a beach is considered a heinous crime. With an LST, one had a flat-bottomed vessel with a bulbous reinforced bow drawing only about 2ft of water forward and 4ft aft when fully loaded. The procedure was to point the bows straight at the beach and “ram” them on to the shore whilst, when within a few yards of the shore, dropping the stern (kedge) anchor which would secure itself in the mud below. The bow doors would then be opened and the ramp lowered enabling tanks and vehicles to be driven off into little more than 1ft or so of water and dispersed to their positions as directed by shore controllers. The LST would then, hopefully, by reversing engines and operating the windlass which controlled the stern anchor, pull itself off the beach into a depth of water in which it would once more float; but on this occasion the anchor didn't hold and we were unable to pull ourselves off! It was just at this time that we learned that the fighting ashore was not going too well and I was given the task of disposing of pages of classified signals and papers concerning operations etc., passed to us by the Naval Officer in charge ashore in case he (or we) couldn't get off the beach and the Germans did manage to push our troops back into the sea. So there was I, sitting on the main deck an open brazier in front of me solemnly burning piles of classified signals and documents so that they, at least, would not fall into enemy hands even if we ourselves did. However, fortune remained with us, the beachhead held and the following morning with a little help from our friends and favourable water (remember tides in the Mediterranean are very slight compared to other oceans) we re-floated and proceeded to anchor out off Salerno harbour. Fighting was still very fierce on shore and the Germans were still managing quite heavy and persistent air attacks on the ships at anchor and it was during one of these that our luck with Dame Fortune still held good: we were at a state of “Red Alert” - that is to say an air attack was in progress - and there were a number of dog fights going on overhead between the German attackers and British Spitfires. We were all mustered at our action stations, but I had temporarily wandered from my post in the radio room into the wheelhouse, which was housed directly under the conning bridge. Unlike in modern warships, the conning bridge was open to the air and one of our younger officers, a New Zealander, Sub. Lt. Harwood. was Officer of the Watch on duty on the bridge; he was a very pleasant chap, but inclined to be a little excitable and I had just reached the wheelhouse and was peering out to see what was to be seen when Subby Harwood let out a shriek “Watch out, there's a bomb!” For want of anything better in my panic, I immediately crouched beneath a steel shelf in the wheelhouse and held my breath - and there was a deathly silence from all around whilst we waited for the “bang”. After what was probably but a few seconds - but which seemed like hours - as nothing happened slowly but surely we all came back to life. We learned afterwards that as our fighter planes (the Spitfires) were still operating from North African airfields they had to be equipped with additional fuel tanks fitted beneath the wings, which they jettisoned when they went into action. What Subby had seen falling was, in fact, a jettisoned fuel tank: not surprisingly he had mistaken this for a bomb and let out his warning shriek: the tank landed in the sea only a few yards from where we lay at anchor - and if it had been a bomb, would this narrative have been written? Whilst this little episode was taking place we could plainly hear the heavy artillery bombardment going on ashore obviously indicating fierce resistance was still being encountered. So far as we were concerned, however, with nightfall things quietened somewhat, but at 04:30 on the morning of 13th Sept. enemy air attacks on the beaches and ships recommenced and during one of these attacks, the British cruiser HMS Uganda was damaged. Before we eventually sailed at 19:00 that evening we had experienced twenty eight “red warnings” so we had been closed up at action stations for most of the day. Our destination this time was once again Tripoli, Libya and after an uneventful voyage we berthed alongside on 16th Sept., immediately reloaded with troops and vehicles and pulled out to anchor. We sailed again for Salerno first thing the following morning and this then became the routine -Salerno-Tripoli-Salerno until Monday 4th Oct - a round trip of five to six days (depending on how quickly one could get in to load or unload). By this time the German troops, completely outnumbered although far from beaten, had retreated north and on the following day, Allied tanks entered Naples; the Salerno landing, so nearly a disaster, had survived. © Frank Weeks
