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late August 1942 - Aboard the ‘Ulster Queen’

from the memoirs of the late Leonard H Thomas, submitted by his daughter Leona Thomas

Toward the end of August, we had some new men drafted to us, they were in the main 'coders' - which, by now, we knew were radar ratings. There were also a couple of shipwrights, but the most important thing was they were from a surviving ship of PQ17, the 'Palomares', a sister ship of ours inasmuch that she was A/A and Radar, although due to the long lapse between convoy PQ16, there had been a long time for us with the most advanced sets, etc. to become possibly No. 1 in this field. What I did notice in particular with these men was the look of resignation on their faces as if they were condemned to another Arctic trial, and truly I couldn't wonder at their forlorn acceptance of it. If we faced it with some apprehension, then doubly so it must have been the way they saw it, however, I only hoped we could also take it as they did, for when it came to the test they did amazingly well and to know what could happen had to some extent stood them in good stead, not that we showed any lack or hesitation in accomplishing what had to be done.

I got on very well with some of them. James Weir, who at first was such a solemn individual I wondered at times whether he was deaf, he hardly seemed to pay attention to much that was said. We shared the same 'Action Stations' when I was 'off watch', on Damage Control in the Aft Steering Compartment, just above the propeller. To be enclosed in a steel compartment about the size of an average living room, with one officer, a couple of ratings, James Weir and myself could have been claustrophobic, but strange to say, this is when he became verbose or at least conversational. It wasn't so bad in the harbour, or even on our jaunts on training, but even so the mere fact of shutting oneself into this compartment was too much for some men. However, it was as well we had such a rigourous training - no-one was ever too well-trained. We had by now come to fully realise our future was only days away, and some how to know when - which was not possible - would put us in an entirely different frame of mind. We were in Belfast, in Pollock Dock, it was almost the last few days of August, and we began 'topping up' with fuel and fresh water, more often, morning and evening, until at last, one day leave was piped only till 23.00 (11pm) and the ominous tailpiece - "ship is under sailing orders". It was the bell tolling for us!

In a way it was going to be just as well we sailed when we did, many more days waiting and the Arctic winter would have made its unwelcome presence felt sooner than we wished, already the equinoctial gales were in evidence and the remains of a pleasant August fell away to expose us to some boisterous blows from the North West as we made our way up to meet a tanker in the Clyde estuary. Our departure from Pollock Dock was no too well advertised and the adjusting of compasses got over briefly, there were one or two hurried dashes to the dentist in the Naval Base, but perhaps it was that which gave the strongest indications of our destination, especially when 'Cock' Ainsworth in our mess arrived back on board with the dentures they said were his, and which, when he put them in his mouth, made him look like a snarling dog. We suggested he reversed them but no way would they fit, and for a while he sat looking at them in a dejected way until someone said, "Why not take them along to the Tiffie's (Ordnance Artificer's) workshop, they have a couple of electric grinders there, they could whip some of the gash off in no time!" But 'Cock' was unimpressed, he said they told him at the Dentist's to persevere, he'd get used to them! Now about this time there was a pretty ribald lurid song sung at practically every occasion, the refrain, over and over again was, "You'll get used to it!" The verses could be shocking, witty or outrageously funny, but they all led into the chorus, "You'll get used to it!" and thus when anyone, stuck for an apt phrase to end a conversation, or act as a conjunction to extend one, this always seemed so suitable, and thus when the Dentist in the Sick Bay had used the phrase in all honesty (?) it seemed to be the very epitome of a pertinent statement, which when used by 'Cock' sent us into kinks of laughter. Not funny for him, for somewhere about 3 months or so later he took them back to the very dentist who almost accused 'Cock' of making off with the wrong teeth, they apparently belonging to someone else! For once, 'Cock' shot his neck out and told the Dentist, "Well mate, he'll have to do what I did - get used to mine - because I ain't never got used to his!"

There were no smiles or laughter as the familiar notice went up on the notice board - "Mail will close at 1600". Terse and uncompromising, and even the dour rain-swept waters of the Clyde estuary gave no indications other than that the future looked bleak. We hardly needed the tanker but it afforded us, at least, some necessary and mysterious cases passed aboard us from her as we squeezed in another few tons of precious fuel. "What could I write?", as I complied with the notice, but it seemed to give a tiny glimmer of a last look at civilisation before confronting whatever it was we were now destined to face. And then, leaving the tanker who promptly slewed astern of us and hurried back to Greenock, we began to shape a course we had no reason to query, even the most ignorant realising the unseemly haste to batten down, to secure so much not done in the quiet waters up and down the Irish Sea. A sombreness stole over the ship, as a number of us quite apprehensively began to put our No.1s away, for a long time, we must have thought, but as we fell in for our watches or had our evening meal for which we had little appetite, we knew pretty well the immediate future was not too enhancing. There seemed to be no violent need for speed, down below, the revs were for cruising speed of about 10-11 knots, and at this sedate rate we came to Kintyre in a very obscure and dirty looking sunset that immediately gave way to rain and thick murk well thrown about by a near westerly gale. Beam on, it smote us and threw us in a series of vicious heaves and rolls to cause all manner of discomfort below. There was no respite for us as we kept on a NW course for so long that I anticipated would enable us to clear Islay, it turned out to be a wild night with so much noise and, as yet, not all that could be secured made safe. Somewhere late at night or early in the middle watch we were hitting into hard seas that brought up 'all standing' to require us to push on with more revs down below. This was an auspicious start and consequently by the time we had fallen into our sea watch keeping routine there were some sorry looking faces and the 7 bells breakfast was a farce, no-one seemingly hungry, but this was likely to be the pattern on this course for as long as they wanted it. We saw no land for another 24 hours and pushed on even harder to make a rendezvous it seemed, for gradually we came round to a Northerly course and the seas eased a bit to long and sullen swells as if we were inside the Inner Hebrides. With this temporary respite some attention had to be paid to the foc'sle where, as was discovered, the port anchor had become foul in the hawse pipe requiring some heaving and slacking on the windlass to 'home' it properly, then it was found some plates were straining in that area due to the heavy pounding we had sustained. Nothing could be done about it, especially as she was pitching quite heavily at times and so slowly into less troubled waters we gradually made our way hardly, recognising the mist and rain hidden islands, so beautiful in the late summer but grim to see now. We literally staggered into Loch Ewe where to our surprise we were to see a few others ships, but in the outer waters a considerable convoy and this had all the indications of our charges. There was a lot of traffic to and fro the N.O.I.C. and various ships, and soon we found our berth comparatively near the tiny pier only large enough for the official launch while above it, was what looked like a country house, hemmed in with a luxuriant growth of trees, which in autumn were looking very handsome, against such a grim and forbidding backcloth of rain sodden hills. Our position called for dropping the Port anchor but to our dismay we found it impossible to carry out and this on top of arriving what was considered to be late, was not a very good start. Then having to use the Starboard anchor and securing that as soon as we could there was an almighty witches' hunt on the foc'sle and the Damage Control went into action in the flats below to shore up the wavy plates. The Captain had by this time been whisked ashore to one of these pow-wows, and like so much it was a foregone conclusion. We must have looked like 300 condemned felons, and the only thing in our favour was the ship was so disgustingly still it wasn't natural. Said some, ' Are you sure we've not sunk? We must be laying on the bottom!'

We had a very good supper, nothing creates an appetite so much as a cold and uncomfortable 24 hours of perforced hunger, so that now while the cooks had no complaints of conditions in the galley, the result was a meal that sent the cooks of the masses scurrying back to the galley for ‘big eats’, and to ‘go round the buoy again’ - Naval parlance for seeing if there was any more food possible, and to have some more. I remember it was a stew like no other we had had when plenty of cold meat, vegetables, curry, herbs, dumplings and beans were produced to fill many empty stomachs, many saying that so much must have gone into the stew, the galley must now be empty! The cynical ones said 'the condemned men ate a hearty breakfast', but seeing that little food had been consumed up until we got to Loch Ewe, they owed us a good meal! Even Cock Ainsworth, he of the misshapen dentures, luxuriated with the 'clacker' - the gravy, to you! Maybe the Pay Bob (Paymaster) in his mercy had agreed to a bumper meal like this, seeing that it might now be some considerable time before we got another, but if anything does wonders to a downcast and weather worn crew, it must be the tantalising smell and undeniable taste of such a monumental supper. To prove it, was the audible silence on completion of it, pure satisfaction!
end of part 1
*see same title on this site for part 2

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