SS Allende - Her Story

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By Mike Kemble - Created June 2002 Updated: 25 December 2006

Now includes a copy of the diary from her master, Thomas Williamson & an eye witness account
as told to me by Frank Brookes, SS Allende sailor. Profile of U68 included.

The good ship ss Allende began her life on the stocks in the year 1929, built to the specifications as required by Thomas Morel, ship-owner of Cardiff. Her duty in life was the transportation of general cargo to any part of the world as required by the Company. Sturdily built, of simple design, fitted with coal burning furnaces and a single triple expansion reciprocating engine, she was the typical tramp steamer of her day. Of 5081 tons, main superstructure amidships, with main holds fore and aft of it and central woodbine funnel, she represented, like a thousand others of her kind, the backbone of the British Mercantile Marine, created to fulfil the empire's trading on worldwide travel. In late 1939, with the advent of hostilities, Allende, like all other merchant ships of her class, was ill-fitted for war. Decreed by My Lords of The Admiralty, her armament supplied at the outbreak was two First World War Lewis guns, a few rifles of ancient vintage, and a secret weapon, The Steam Projector. This weapon was almost useless in any sea or air action, and was presumably supplied mainly as a psychological boost to the crew. Some mention of the steam projector must now be made. The Steam Projector was a device dreamed up by some fertile imagination to act as a deterrent to low-flying enemy aircraft. Its barrel firmly fixed and pointing vertically upwards was muzzle-loaded with a projectile, to which a trailing wire was secured, with the other end of the wire being firmly secured to the deck. On attack by an enemy low-flying aircraft, at some precise moment, steam from the boiler room was injected into the bottom of the barrel, thus hurling a projectile and trailing wire to an undetermined height. Unsuspecting, the enemy aircraft became ensnared in the wire and theoretically was brought crashing down into the sea. Its inventor, even in his wildest dreams, never realised how beloved by the crew his invention would become. Soon the crew found the projector was just as efficient as a potato launcher. With much fun and hilarity, bets were laid and potatoes launched to great heights, providing the crew with many happy hours of joy when ploughing the monotonous seas.

Now homeward bound, on the 17th March 1942 the Allende had been almost constantly at sea for thirteen months. Earlier that day she had crossed the Equator, but no crossing the line ceremony was enacted. The captain was pushing her as fast as possible, hoping to reach the port of Freetown, Sierra Leone, in time to join an escorted, homeward bound convoy . Thrusting her blunt bow into an ever-rising swell, the ship became more alive. Her master cast a worried eye through the port side window of the bridge wing, seeing an ever thickening black wall of foul weather building up and swiftly advancing from the east. A further worry to the captain was the amount of thick, black, gritty smoke pouring from the tall salt encrusted funnel. Having coaled ship in Bombay, the bunkers were now filled with an inferior coal, much used in India, and, as such, it was impossible not to make smoke, an indicator to any prowling U-boat. At least, he knew that he could take on good Welsh steam coal at Freetown for the last leg home. Several old merchant ships were used as floating coaling stations at such gathering points, and Freetown was such a one. With the gathering storm and its accompanying loss in visibility, worry over making smoke dissipated, as did the smoke in the rising wind. Thus on the weatherworn Allende, with watch set, boats, rafts and weapons overhauled and ready for instant action, and all watertight doors shut, they were ready as could be for the coming storm. Girdling the earth and extending from the Equator to 10 degrees North of latitude lies that meteorological phenomenon called the Doldrums. This narrow belt, if viewed from space, is seen as a white belt surrounding the globe. From the earth's surface looking up, it is a canopy of cloud varying in intensity, but always there, especially during the winter months of the Northern hemisphere. High equatorial temperature, humidity, and low air pressure create a concoction of elements, making two human activities uncomfortable. Firstly, high temperatures and humidity give rise to an enervating physical and mental effect to one's body. Secondly, and much more frightening, weak pressure gradients. coupled to wildly fluctuating temperatures. create daily thunderstorms of such intensity that their appearance is sometimes awesome. These diurnal storms build up during daylight hours, and, presaged by a violent wind, break out into a combination of rain, lightning, and thunder. Lightning discharges are far more numerous and intense than ever seen in more temperate climes. These storms of daily periodicity almost always occur towards sunset.

The Cabin Boy

The crew of the Allende was comprised of thirty-nine souls. Being Cardiff owned, most of her crew came from Cardiff, Newport, or the Welsh valleys. The youngest member was the mess room boy, more commonly known as the cabin boy. His name was Wilfred Williams, born at Blackwood, Gwent, on the fifteenth of August 1925. Subsequently he had moved with his older sister Betty and parents, Wilfred and Maud, to another small mining town within the valleys of Gwent (then Monmouthshire) called Abersychan, his address being 105 Manor Road, Abersychan, Monmouth. Within the next few years, two more additions to the family were made, both boys, named Luther and Kenneth, Kenneth being the youngest and the author of this true narrative. Leaving school at fourteen, Wilfred gained full employment at his father’s place of work, Pontypool Town Forge, lying approximately three miles from his home. Being tall, well-built, and strong for his age, the arduous work within this extremely old-fashioned tin plate works suited him. Wilfred started work in early August 1939, and so did the war. Wilfred was upset and despondent in that being so young, he could not volunteer for the armed services. Seeing older men from the works being called up or volunteering, he realised that no chance existed of getting into the war at his tender age. Almost a year had passed when one day whilst he was at work, a former workmate called in. He was wearing civilian clothes and sporting a Merchant Navy lapel badge. Their conversation resulted in Wilfred learning that he could get to sea at his age of fifteen as a cabin boy. Coming home from work he emphatically told his parents that he was going to sea, and, if they refused, he would run away. Down to the "Pool" at Newport he went. Signing the register he was informed to wait for a ship! Coming home, he sold off his pigeons (for a second, or third time, as they always flew back). Within a few more days, a letter arrived from the "Pool" requiring him to report and join a ship at Newport Docks the following week. No training was given or considered in those days.

Thus, on the eventful day of the twenty-fourth of February 1941, Wilfred joined the ss Allende, holding the rate of Mess Room Boy, ready to face all the dangers of modern sea war at the tender age of fifteen and six months for the princely sum of £4 per month. For this payment he was expected to carry out the following duties in general, from 0600 hours each morning. Firstly, take tea and toast to the bridge, and then below to the Second Engineer. Make up all the bunks, and wash the floors. Then, go to the galley, helping the Second Cook to peel potatoes, prepare food, and wash all the dirty pots and pans. Next, lay the table in the saloon, and serve the meals with the Steward, and then wash the dishes. Back to the cabins to polish the brass, and then take afternoon tea to the bridge and down to the engine room for the Third Engineer. On completion, make up sandwiches for the First Watch (8 – 12pm), trim all lamps, and clean all glasses. An additional task in wartime was the securing of deadlights over portholes to "darken ship" at night. If the ship was attacked by enemy aircraft, he also acted as loading number for the secret weapon, namely the Steam Projector. For doing all these duties, plus the very high chance of being killed (higher than the three armed services), he was rewarded a poor return of £1 per week. Wilf was happy with his long hours of duty, also Allende was a happy ship. His shipmate and friend was a townie named Bill Haynes. who lived in Griffithstown, only a few miles from Wilfred's own village of Abersychan. Bill was a junior seaman, who, at the age of nineteen, was a grown man to Wilf, but, having both joined together, and now having served together for thirteen long, perilous months at sea, they were firm friends. On the evening of the seventeenth of March 1942, Wilfred, who was now an experienced cabin boy, had completed most of his duties. Having checked that all deadlights were down and screwed tight, he retired to his shared cabin to lie on his bunk and started reading a well-thumbed western magazine that was doing its rounds of the crew. Feeling the gradual increasing roll and pitch, Wilfred knew that the storm had arrived. Never being seasick, he had no concern for the weather. Lying on his bunk dressed in trousers, shirt and loosely tied life jacket, he slowly drifted off into sleep, drowsed by the tropical heat and closeness of the air. With the rhythmic thump of the ship's reciprocating engine giving an almost hypnotic effect, he sank ever deeper into sleep. Youth and innocence prevailed; young Wilfred was soon deep in the arms of Morpheus.

The U 68

In the same month that Wilfred joined the ss Allende as the youngest and lowliest in rank, another, and far more auspicious occasion was being re-enacted the other side of the English Channel. Korvettenkapitän Karl-Friedrich Merten (transferred in early 1940 to the U-boat service) was given command of U68. Almost to the day, both joined their respective ships. Merten, born in Posen, Germany on the 15th August 1905, shared the same birthday as Wilfred, but exactly twenty years older to the day, joined the Reichmarine in 1926. On completion of his basic training as an officer, he received his commission as Leutnant zur See as Weapons Officer in the light cruiser Königsburg, a modern cruiser of 6,650 tons armed with nine 5.9" guns in three triple turrets. Subsequently he served in torpedo-boat T157 and the escort boat F7. Thereafter, with this experience behind him, he became a Cadet Training Officer in the training ship Schleswig Holstein, an old First World War battleship where he remained until the outbreak of war, thus, as previously mentioned, volunteering and transferring to the U-boat service. (See profile below).

Merten was to remain in command of U68 and to become one of the most successful U-boat commanders of the war. Before leaving the U68 in early 1943, Merten's achievements were recognised by the award of the Knights Cross of the Iron Cross (he was already the holder of the Iron Cross First and Second Class). Quickly following this distinction came the coveted Oak leaves to the Knights Cross for the sinking of a total of 180,870 tons of Allied shipping. Merten ended the war with the rank of Kapitän zur See. The closing months of the war he spent in not destroying but saving lives. He assisted in organising the evacuation of over 50,000 refugees from the advancing Russians. When the war ended, Merten went into French captivity, where in 1948 attempts were made to try him on fabricated war crime charges. These allegations were totally unfounded, and he was released in March 1949. In the 1980s, he was still alive, living in retirement near Valdshut, Germany.

The Meeting

At approximately 5.30 p.m. local time, the storm broke over the area that the U-68 was prowling. Even at thirty metres, some movement was felt in the boat indicating a stormy surface. Still carrying out his sweep, the operator electrified the control room crew when, at 6.45 p.m., his report of a weak positive engine noise announced an approaching ship. Confirming the report, Merten ordered the crew to action stations. Grouping up on both motors, battery power was supplied to both electric motors and speed was increased, heading the U-boat on an interception bearing. On reaching his required position, Merten came once again to periscope depth. Now much closer to his intended victim, Merten picked up the dark shape of a ship sailing darkened out. This confirmed that the ship was not a neutral. Switching to high magnification his magnificent optics gave him a clearer picture. Plunging and rolling slowly due to her full cargo was a typical merchant freighter of roughly 5,000 tons. A quick all-round sweep of the periscope revealed no accompanying escort. With some satisfaction, Merten realized the howling storm and darkness negated any chance of the periscope being seen by the oncoming ship, and being no escort meant a leisurely approach to the setting of the attack plot. After several minutes of intense periscope observation, Merten started the plot. Range, angle off the bow, relative bearings and speed, torpedo speed and angles were fed into the control calculator. From it came the new periscope bearing, torpedo gyro angle, and time of flight of torpedo to target. On Merten's orders, torpedo tubes Numbers 1 and 2 were flooded, and their bow caps opened. Seeing the freighter deep in the water, Merten set torpedo-running depth to 16 feet. Using impact type detonators, he did not intend the torpedoes to run under the ship, but to strike well below the water line.

With calculations made and set, Merten had only to wait until the cross-wires in his attack periscope centred amidships of his victim. He intended a single shot and hoped for a first hit. A comfortable range of 1200 metres against a slow moving target was reasonably simple, provided all went well. Crouching at his periscope he saw first the blunt old bows come pushing into view, slowly rising and falling, crashing in a welter of foam in the raging sea. Next, following in succession, [he saw] forecastle, well-deck, derricks and bridge superstructure. With the bridge in the cross-wires of his attack periscope graticule, he gave the order: "Fire Number One." Instantly, a jolt was felt in the boat as the torpedo was launched from its parent tube by compressed air. On leaving the forward tube, the torpedo, over a ton in weight, caused an upward movement of the bow. Quick, controlled flooding made up for the loss in weight and returned stability to the boat. Within seconds of the torpedo launch, a muttered report from the radio cubicle informed the control room that the torpedo was running true. Hydrophone effect used for finding targets also could be used to hear the receding propeller noise from the running torpedo. The navigator, with his clipboard and stopwatch, was standing next to Merten, and timed the torpedo run. A simple calculation of range and speed gave the navigator the time of impact. If time ran out, a quick set-up for the next attack plot could be made. The whole crew were frozen in silence and anticipation during the torpedo run. Travelling at 30 knots, the launched torpedo quickly found its set depth of 16 feet, the efficient hydrostatic keeping it within inches of its setting. Guided by its gyro-controlled system, the rudders, offset by the calculation set prior to firing, guided the torpedo on a course to intercept the path of the target ship at a precise position. Whilst running, the flow of the water over the torpedo warhead turned the small propeller, winding off the safety range (for the safety of the U-boat) and unmasking the firing train of the detonator to its warhead. Once past its safety range, the fully-armed torpedo now sped towards its intended target.

Explosion

At exactly 7.20 p.m. local time, on the wild stormy evening of 17th.March 1942, at the nautical position of 4º North 7º, 44’ West, only a few degrees above the Equator and approximately 18 miles from the coast of Liberia, the confrontation of U68 and ss Allende was enacted with tragic results. Another source, Alan S Pope, in Nov 1996 in a letter to Frank Brookes, puts this at 2153hrs local. The torpedo struck the ss Allende amidships, at the juncture of the Boiler and Engine Room bulkhead, at exactly 16 feet below the water line. With the impact, the primer fired its small charge into the detonator train, which, on exploding, lanced its energy into the 800-lb. warhead. This in sympathy detonated in one colossal explosion against the thin, unarmoured steel-plating of the ship's side. Ever expanding, the gasses of this explosion, with its central core of a thousand or more degrees of heat, blew through the plating like it was paper. Preceding the noise, its catastrophic blast wave tore into the confined spaces of Boiler and Engine room alike, incinerating, blasting, and wrecking everything in its path. Mercifully those killed (which was the whole watch below) were killed instantaneously, saving them from a possible slow death of horrendous burns and scalds from escaping steam and scattered furnaces. The awful energy created by the high explosive still sought a pathway from the wrecked compartments, taking its easiest route. Rivets, plates and a thousand pieces of engine and boilers all blasted skywards, reducing the ventilation shafting and engine room deckhead to a shambles. From the single tall funnel shot a plume of coal dust, smoke and hot gasses 50 feet high, [and] jets of flame shot from the remaining boiler room and engine ventilator trunking in all directions, like giant flame-throwers. Seconds later, not only the tropical downpour hit the stricken ship, but debris rained from the sky, some still hot and smoking.

Young Wilfred never heard the roar of the exploding torpedo. Lying full length, sound asleep on his bunk, which luckily cushioned him from the whiplash effect many felt through the decks and superstructure. Wilfred was propelled vertically upwards with his mattress, his flight being arrested only when hitting the deckhead. Plunging back to the cabin floor, he lay there for several seconds, regaining his reeling senses and paralysed body. The freezing of one's body comes to all, usually followed by adrenaline charged mobility of sheer panic. Most overcome this in seconds, others in minutes. Wilfred being the former, rushed out the wreck of his shared cabin to be confronted by a scene that even his wildest nightmares could not envisage. Presented with an ever-tilting deck, in the pitch dark, intermittently lit by brilliant sheet lightning, Wilf struggled toward his lifeboat station, tightening his lifejacket as he staggered along. Before taking two paces, he was saturated by the cold, heavy downpour, blown at terrifying force by the shrieking wind, [which was] slanting across the deck at a density that was difficult to penetrate. Compounding this horror was added clouds of condensing steam and coal dust, mixed with spent explosives, all combining to give a highly nauseous smell. Below decks, ominous rumbling of shifting cargo and broken machinery gave added impetus to the alarming tilt. Figures appeared from all directions, wraith-like apparitions appearing and disappearing in the steam cloud and darkness. Shrieks and shouts of frightened and hurt men filled the stormy evening. Some semblance [if order] followed the arrival of the captain, officers and bridge watch to the boat deck. Most of the officers had torches, and by their fitful light, Wilfred could see his shipmate and friend, Bill Haynes. Bill, as a junior seaman, as is general in the Merchant Navy, happened to be on the wheel during the second Dog Watch. The First Dog Watch (4 p.m. to 6 p.m.) and the Second Dog Watch (6 p.m. to 8 p.m.) were reserved for bridge watchkeeping instruction for junior seaman. Thus, on detonation of the torpedo, Bill, who was helmsman for the Second Dog Watch, was firmly holding the wheel. The sudden transmission of explosive energy through the steel hull, generated a whip-like shock to the superstructure, which was felt by all, most being flung off their feet with numbed ankles. In Bill's case, both his ankles and wrists felt as if [they were] broken. Standing there on the boat deck, he was holding his hands in each armpit, trying to relieve the pain. [Added] to this, Bill had received a secondary shock, [because] debris, [having been] flung high by the explosion, had resulted in a large, heavy piece of the main engine plunging through the bridge deckhead and landing, smoking, between him and the Watch Officer.

With the destruction of engine and boiler room, the ship immediately lost way, gradually swinging broadside on to the heaving sea. Luckily, if such a term can be applied, the alarming tilt of the deck was to leeward, so assisting in the launching of the lifeboat. Quickly scrambling into the boat, the Bosun and Second Officer held the falls until the Master had made a quick round of the deck, ensuring that no survivors were abandoned. Coming back to the lifeboat, a hurried count was made. Added to the jolly boat and raft made nineteen, twelve, and two respectively. With thirty-three souls in the boats and raft and the knowledge of the watch below being five, all dead, the crew were accounted for. Jumping down into the lifeboat, the Second Officer and Bosun let fly the falls, and, pushing off from the heavily listing ship, endeavoured to pull away, keeping to the leeside of the stricken vessel. The captain [was] still aboard, [and] lumbered off to join the survivors clustered in the jolly boat. Wilfred and Bill were sat on the thwarts in the centre of the boat. The horrors of the torpedoing and storm were now compounded by the rapid filling of the boat. Torrential downpour of rain, [along] with the weight of nineteen men and [a] boy, laid the boat heavy and almost unmanageable in the heaving sea. Freeboard was rapidly being lost, and the gunwales were hardly above the level of the sea. The Second Officer in charge of the boat ordered all to bail for their lives, with everything possible. A bucket, trilby hat, and even a fez were used in the frantic effort to lighten the lifeboat. As fast as they bailed, the ingress of water seemed greater in the wallowing darkness. After some minutes, someone in the boat shouted that the ship was not sinking. After some discussion, the Second Officer decided to re-board her to collect buckets for more efficient bailing. Giving the necessary order, they pulled back to the ship.

Korvettenkapitan Merten was slightly annoyed. Cruising around the hard-hit Allende at periscope depth, he observed the ship was not sinking. A tribute to her builders, the Allende, although almost torn apart, refused to sink. Her stout remaining bulkheads and riveted frame held together, giving her the necessary buoyancy to keep afloat. Now wallowing in a trough, then tossed high on the crest of high wave, she refused to sink. Merten realized that a gun action was not possible because the gun crew would hardly survive on the casing of the U-boat's narrow deck in such weather. Another precious torpedo would have to be used. At point blank range, Merten fired his second torpedo, exactly sixteen minutes after his first. If he had waited, or, taken longer in his firing, he would undoubtedly have claimed the lives of all in the lifeboat.

The lifeboats' survivors redoubled their effort under the Second Officer in trying to pull back to the ship. The lifeboat, being waterlogged, was heavy and unmanageable and barely moving. This slowness was their salvation. [They were] still some distance from the ship [when] the second torpedo struck its after-end. An explosion that dwarfed the storm disintegrated the stern. The proximity of the lifeboat to the ship gave most survivors a feeling that their end had come. A bright orange flash that hurt the eyes was quickly followed by a blast of searing heat, that scorched and almost drove the lifeboat under. Again the acrid stench of burnt explosives swept over them. Wilfred in the centre of the lifeboat received less of the blast, being shielded by the bodies of the men around him. Looking back, he saw the Allende sinking by the stern, slowly at first, then rapidly, her blunt bows lifting higher and higher, until [the ship was] almost vertical to the sea, before finally disappearing. Wilfred--in his thirteenth month at sea, [and] thirteen days from their last port of call, Durban--said a sad farewell to his thirteen-year-old ship. Thirteen was certainly an unlucky number. Merten had no need to watch the death throes of the ss Allende. Sound travels through the medium of water faster than air. Merten and crew heard the crashing detonation of the torpedo quickly followed by the screaming and rumbling of rupturing bulkheads, moving cargo and heavy machinery. Her insides torn loose and collapsing under the ever-increasing pressure, Allende plunged to her eternal watery grave in the ocean depths. Merten did not know what ship or what cargo his victim was or carried. Taking a final sweep of his periscope, he decided to surface. Blowing main tanks, he surfaced in a flurry of foam and compressed air. With conning tower hatch opened. Electric motors were shut down and the diesels started, throwing plumes of water in the air from the main exhaust valves, as the boat slowly moved on the surface through the choppy sea. With the watch set on the U-boat's bridge they started a search for survivors. Aided by the lightning flashes they quickly saw the tossing boats. Closing on them, Merten, when in voice range addressed them through a megaphone. The question was standard: What ship, what cargo, what destination, and is the captain alive. All these demands were answered in some garbled form, which seemingly satisfied Merten. On completion Merten turned the U68 away from the survivors, increased speed and moved off into the wild darkness. Jagged shards of lightning silhouetted the sinister U-boat's shape against the inky backdrop of the sky, soon to disappear in the black tumbling seas.

With the U-boat gone the surviving crew turned to their immediate task, that of staying alive. In the darkness and heavy seas the boats and raft soon lost sight of each other. Within the lifeboat, waterlogged, and lying low in the water, the men and Wilfred bailed out with every available and conceivable item that would hold water. With sea anchor spread, the lifeboat's compliment found they were slightly gaining, and, with better buoyancy a higher freeboard was obtained. Now riding the waves better and taking in less water some semblance of order existed. A suggestion to complete the bailing by most going over the side and hanging on the lifelines, whilst a few remained to finish bailing was quickly killed with the Second Mate's reply of these were shark infested waters. Sharks for miles around would have been drawn in from the noise of the underwater explosions. Some minutes later, shouts from the surrounding darkness, and the sudden pinpricks of lights attached to the lifejackets indicated someone was near. Rowing towards the sounds and winking lights, the lifeboat survivors made out the two men who had tied themselves to the raft. Securing the raft with a length of rope the two men transferred to the lifeboat. Now twenty men and one boy were in the lifeboat, facing all the perils of an open boat in an angry sea. All night they drifted, bailing continuously and keeping a lookout for the jolly boat and remainder of the crew.

With the passing of the electric storm, its departure abrupt as its coming, the sea began easing off into long, high ocean swells. From the crest of the larger could be seen the coast, inhospitable and dark lay the coast of Liberia some 15 miles away. With dawn came light, and at first the welcome warmth of a new day. Having now bailed the boat comparatively dry the survivors under the direction of the Second Officer stepped the mast and raised the single sail. Wind and drift drove them sadly, in a southerly direction. With the sun rising ever higher from the eastern sky, so accordingly did the temperature. By noon the heat was almost unbearable, covering themselves with their meagre possessions, they crouched and sweated under the unrelenting sun. Another crisis now reared its ugly head, the emergency rations packed in watertight bags had all gone over the side during the first panic of foundering in the storm. Worse was to come, the water held in a container jammed beneath the thwarts was found to be leaking and contaminated with sea water, the only remaining water being the small metal cask lashed to the raft. Small measures were dished out supervised by the Second Officer. 3:00 p.m. that afternoon once again the dark low-lying coast was visible, but by nightfall they were still unable to reach the coast. Another miserable night was spent in the overcrowded lifeboat. The following morning with a change in wind and spending some hours at the heavy, unwieldy oars, they approached the coast. Miles before they reached it the air changed to a heavy, dank, rotting wood smell typical of the mangrove swamp. This smell of primeval forest pervades the atmosphere along this coastline for a thousand miles, or more.

As the huge Atlantic rollers surge in towards the African coast, although hardly felt or noticed in an open sea, when hitting a shelving beach they begin building up. Gaining height and shortening in length, ever accelerating, they finally hit the beach like miniature tidal waves, superb for the expert surf rider but not compatible to the riding in an ungainly, strongly built, heavy lifeboat. Approaching the coast in the late afternoon of the second day, the lifeboat became livelier, the Second Officer finding difficulty to steer and keep the bows on to the beach, he could see and hear the heavy surf breaking on the beach with the ominous roar of a thousand guns. A decision was taken to beach the boat by the method of waiting for the passing of an huge roller, then rowing as fast as possible behind it so retaining control until safe on the beach. Unfortunately the weight of 21 beings and the heavy craft was much too slow and ungainly. Still some distance from the beach, the next incoming wave hit the stern and propelled them at ever increasing speed towards the beach. The stern, ever rising with the lifting wave, pushed the bows deeper into the frothing sea, [and] within seconds control of the lifeboat was lost. Now completely out of control the boat turned broadside to the wave and immediately filling turned over and sank, depositing its contents in all directions. Luckily all were wearing their lifebelts. Incredibly all were cast up on the beach--coughing, retching and spluttering--despite the deadly undertow. Gathering together in a bedraggled group, the Second Officer counted them off, being somewhat surprised to find all present. Young Wilfred being an excellent swimmer had been one of the first ashore and least affected. Standing there in only trousers, remnants of shirt and lifebelt, shifting his bare feet in the burning sands, he sought out his friend Bill. Thankful now they were comparatively safe on dry land, the next priority was water followed by food. Water was imperative in importance in this furnace-like heat of an unshaded, equatorial beach. The thin, narrow beach of fine brown sand stretched away in both directions for hundreds of miles, with the ocean bordering one side and the thick, verdant rain forest to the other. Holding a brief council, the decision was reached to keep to the beach and walk in the direction with the sea to their left, in this they hoped they were heading deeper into neutral territory. Having been torpedoed off the Liberian coast, they sincerely hoped they were travelling deeper into Liberia. After walking for a short time, many were suffering from swelling and abrasions to their feet. Pausing for a welcome rest, sitting beneath a Palm tree fringing the beach, Wilf with others cut and ripped up the bottoms of their trousers to wrap their throbbing feet.

Onward went the intrepid, ragged little band, when, after some seven miles they sighted smoke, closing with it they soon sighted a native fishing village. On entering they were greeted by the headman and village elders. Using sign language and halting French they found to their mortification they had landed in French Equatorial Africa, namely French Guinea to be exact. Unknowingly, the tide and winds had carried them only a matter of a few miles south, past the border with Liberia. The headman supplying them with much welcome water, then setting them a large meal, to the natives a banquet. Having never seen so many white men in their lives this was an event unsurpassed in their village history, and probably spoken about now sixty years later. The meal consisted of chicken, yams, plantains and rice, unfortunately all cooked and swimming in Palm oil, almost inedible to most. Further sign language produced more vegetables which they cooked themselves. Whilst the meal was in progress, the headman sent off a runner to the nearest town to inform the authorities of his sudden guests. Later that evening, an old French government official arrived accompanied by some native gendarmes. The old Frenchman informed them they were the first Englishmen he had seen or spoken to since 1910, having spent most of his adult life in the colonial service. Further, they were to accompany him to the main town of that area, but a short distance away. Arriving at the town of Tabou the following day they were placed in semi-confinement, but told they would soon be released. Being so poorly dressed, each was issued with shirt, trousers and sandals. On the fourth day of their semi-confinement, the jolly boat survivors turned up. A joyful reunion was enacted, now all thirty-three of the crew were together. Later that same day, a French Navy sloop anchored off Tabou, sending an armed party ashore they quickly and not too gently rounded up the survivors and took them on board.

Prisoners

Keeping them under armed guard on deck the sloop weighed anchor and was soon steaming down the coast. Six hours later the sloop entered the mouth of the River Sassandra and was soon alongside the jetty there. Marched down the gangway they were transferred to an army guard and placed in a secure compound within the confines of Sassandra Town. The once cheerful attitude of the crew saw some deterioration with the general surly, and openly hostile French. French authority within this colony of French Guinea was Vichy French. Not openly at war with the Allies, but very pro-German and violently anti-British. This attitude was well portrayed in their treatment of, theoretically, non-combatant Merchant Seamen.

Some clarification of the short, inglorious history of Vichy France is required to realize the reason for the treatment meted out to the British Seamen. With the fall of France to the then victorious Nazi armed forces, in mid 1940 Marshal Petain former hero of Verdun, on the 11th July of that year assumed supreme power in defeated France. The new government under Petain, as president, and Laval as premier, formed its administration centred on the city of Vichy, in southern, or, as called in the war years Unoccupied France. Completely under the control politically and physically, they were mere a rubber stamp for Hitler's 'New Order' of Occupied Europe. Another faction the 'Free French', fighting under their political leader General De-Gaulle fought, when the occasion demanded with the Allies. These two factions, Vichy and Free French, pro-German or pro-Allies was the complex problem set before all governors of the French Colonies. On the 26th August 1940, Chad, Cameroon and part of Equatorial Africa joined the Free French faction; the others accepted Petain's government. Doubly unfortunate the luckless survivors had landed, first only six to seven miles from Liberia, secondly on Vichy controlled soil namely the Ivory Coast Colony. The French authorities in the colony were in an embarrassing position. Ivory Coast, like other surrounding colonies being Vichy, were holding British citizens classified as non-combatants, and refusing them repatriation, or, initially even informing British or friendly authorities of the seaman being alive. This withholding of information of their survival caused undue agonies to the families of these men and boy. Wilfred's mother applied almost daily to the Red Cross and the ship's agent at Morel's, Cardiff for news. Living in dread that he was missing, believed drowned. In war this was as much as one was ever told. Still agonising what to do with the prisoners, one can assume the French authorities carried out a system used by all bureaucracies, 'Pass the Buck', in other words pass them on to another authority. This policy seemed to be adopted thus causing most of their captivity to be spent in seemingly aimless travel through huge West African possessions, many times the size of Europe. Now sitting or wandering around in their cramped compound, they waited to know their eventual fate.

After a few days they were ordered to collect their meagre belongings and then marched out of the compound gate to awaiting lorries. Once loaded with their human freight, the small convoy moved off. Moving slowly through the town under the inquisitive gaze of the local natives they soon cleared the township of Sassandra. The first few miles of road paralleled the Sassandra River with unchanging scenery of long stretches of sandy soils interspersed with long, course grass and low lying thorn bush. Crossing the river some ten miles upstream from the town, the groaning trucks headed inland. After some hours of uncomfortable travel in the bare backs of these ancient military lorries under armed guard, mainly native, they reached the rain forest. The equatorial rain forest of West Africa, primeval in content, extends for hundreds of miles inland: Similar to its counterpart in Brazil. An area almost untrodden by man, consisting mainly of hardwood and softwood trees, growing in an almost impenetrable screen, each vying with one another for the life-giving sun. Some, many hundreds of years old and huge in size with their branches interlocked cast a perpetual gloom to the forest floor. Beneath this canopy, engines snorting and whining the little convoy struggled on, keeping to the winding dirt road that scythed through the trees and undergrowth. With headlights almost constantly on day or night the survivors suffered severely from the hothouse conditions. Trapped by the leafy canopy, the almost airless, humid temperature was almost unbearable. Sweating profusely, almost all delirious with the heat, they clung on grimly to the lorries. After the second day the forest noticeably thinned. Soon native habitation was sighted both sides of the road at ever increasing intervals, the land they now passed through was of low, rolling hills partially cultivated but mainly of tall coarse grass with scattered and stunted Acacia trees, Depressing and monotonous this scenery remained with them for the next three days. Twice a day they stopped to eat, the food supplied was native, in the morning half boiled rice with a shred of meat, in the evening watery soup with a coarse black bread, all served up in a communal pot into which they and their guards fed themselves by the simple expedient of using fingers, some none too clean. Portent of things to come was signified by an outbreak of dysentery a well-known scourge of the tropics. This disease affecting one’s stomach and hence one's bowels needs little imagination to realize the suffering of one tossed hour after hour in an unsprung military truck. With armed guards under the command of an uncaring white, French sergeant to relieve oneself from a moving lorry was no mean feat. Security was lax, in his halting English the French sergeant explained the guard was provided not to much to stop escape, but to keep off marauding native lawless bands who would kill for the clothes they wore. Within this huge, sprawling French Equatorial Empire policing was very thin on the ground, leaving vast areas where law and order was almost unheard of.

At the end of their third day of travel they reached a large town. Passing through its outskirts the crew saw the road sign: Daloa. Unknown to them, having no maps or reference, they had reached the main town of West Central Ivory Coast, chiefly a collecting point for the forest region products of cocoa, kola nuts and timber. Since 1903, it had become a French military post. Now showing signs of crumbling decay, a rapid, and seemingly natural process in the tropics, [the town was] populated mainly by the Bete and Guro tribes. Many of these, along with a few inquisitive French civilians, flocked to the barracks to see the newly-incarcerated white prisoners. Once again they were fed native-style, one bowl to four or five persons, and they ate using their hands. Knives, forks and spoons were never issued, although cheap enough to supply. Hygiene almost unknown to the native was never a forte of Colonial France. Now after some weeks in captivity, almost all were suffering in some degree or other from Bacillary Dysentery.

On the morning of their second day of imprisonment in the filthy barrack-room of Daloa's military post, the door was flung open by a guard to admit a white-coated doctor. A brief medical inspection ensured, [but] no words were spoken or exchanged; it ended with the issue of several white pills to everyone and a speedy departure of the doctor. Within minutes, a French officer appeared to inform them they were all fit to travel and [to] make ready to move. That afternoon, they boarded the same lorries, and, under the same guards, rumbled off through the dirty streets of Daloa, now empty in the enervating heat of the mid-day sun, bound for they knew not where. With frequent stops for the sick, the caravan of lorries wended slowly, but ever moving farther into, and deeper, the African Continent. The monotony of the undulating Savannah gave one the feeling they were hardly moving. To this, their poor health and repetitive diet gave scope to a general feeling of melancholia, often felt by captives in such circumstances. The blasting, oppressive heat of the day drove all for cover under their makeshift sheets or blankets in the open trucks.

A welcome relief from the monotony was provided by the crossing, by ferry, of the Bandama River some 300 miles from Daloa. At the end of the second day of leaving Daloa, the township of Bouake was reached. Bouake as much the same as a thousand other African townships, had one outstanding quality, a railway terminus! On arrival at Bouake, the prisoners were driven straight to the small, dusty railway station and swiftly transferred to awaiting railway trucks normally reserved for natives. Within the hour, a small old-fashioned steam engine was connected up and was fussily steaming out of the town over its metre-gauge tracks. The trucks, although filthy and uncomfortable, were a welcome relief from the swaying and bumping of the open, unsprung lorries. For two days and nights, they remained on the train, ever travelling north westerly, but in more comfort than their previous mode of transport. One could lie and even stretch, remaining comparatively dry from the daily downpour. On the third morning, the little train puffed its way into the first major town since leaving Bouake. Gradually slowing, it clanked its way to a stop at its rail end. Peering through the slats and narrow glassless windows, they saw the station board proudly announcing Bobo Dioulasso. Detraining, they were mustered alongside the train, counted off, and handed over to a new guard, similar in size as the old, who, promptly on receipt of exchange, entrained for return to their parent unit. Standing with their few belongings, none too clean from lack of water, exuding the cloying stench prominent in all dysentery sufferers, the Allende crew presented a sorry sight. No pity, aid, or affection, was shown to them by the few white soldiers and civilians present [and] with their curiosity satisfied, they moved off without a word. After mustering, they were marched off, once again to the ever-present military barrack [that was] part of every French colonial town of any size.

Again they were visited by a military doctor who informed them they were now in the colony of Upper Volta, and now under a new administration. Like the colony of French Guinea, the Upper Volta administrators wanted to rid themselves of British non-combatant prisoners. Likewise, they were all pronounced fit for travel after another mockery of a medical examination. On completion of the examination and with undue haste, the captive seamen were again marched out, some assisting others through the barrack gate and to awaiting lorries. This time, many required help in getting over the tailgates. Off again, hanging grimly on, similar in type to the previous lorries, poorly sprung, noisy, issuing clouds of noisome exhaust fumes, which tended to lessen their fly torment. A change in direction was now obvious to the mariners: for some hours they were travelling always due east. To converse with the guards was useless, not even they knew their eventual destination, happy to go along with their French superiors, their childlike confidence enough for their undeveloped mental capacities. Late on the first evening on leaving Bobo Dioulasso, they reached another large town. The fittest and more inquisitive stood up in the lorries in hope of reading any road signs. Soon they passed a road sign denoting the township of Sikasso. Stopping outside the main buildings, they disembarked and were locked up for the night in the town's jail compound, fed and told to rest until daybreak. Not knowing, they were now within the region of Sikasso, part of Southern French Sudan. They had now entered their third colony of the French African Empire. Some mention of the size of French Sudan (now Mali) must be made to give some indication of the distances travelled. French Sudan has been calculated to be 31 times the size of Switzerland, adding the other colonies surrounding French Sudan, some the size of major European countries, some idea of size can be grasped. At daybreak they were fed again the same eternal meal of half-cooked rice and black bread. Having finished their meal and before the general daily rising of the townspeople, they were led, some half carried, to their waiting lorries. Within minutes, they had cleared the town still moving in a westerly direction. Moving once more through the Savannah-like countryside, now abounding in wildlife, whose proximity to the small caravan of lorries offered some break in the monotony. They spent their days in adapting themselves to the most comfortable position possible in the bouncing, swaying trucks.

An indication of their endless journey can best be illustrated in their routine for one day's travel: Starting at daybreak, after a meal of rice and bread washed down by weak coffee, they boarded their respective trucks; using the filled rice sacks, they positioned them for their own comfort. The first hours were the best of the day being reasonably cool and dry, the tropical sun only beginning to bite around 10 am. Rigging awnings and using their own ragged clothing, they sought some shade from the relentless sun. Late afternoon produced a build up of heavy, fetid heat and high humidity which although distressing was soon replaced by a bigger discomfort. The heavy diurnal (daily) rainstorm accompanied by thunder and sheet lightning descended upon them. Within minutes the lorries were flooded. The huge raindrops cold from rapid descent from great heights, blanked out visibility, stopping the lorries and leaving its human contents shivering in abject misery beneath their makeshift awnings. Collapsing awnings created a miniature Niagara over the tailgate. Luckily of short duration the storm passes and within the hour the heat and humidity returns rapidly drying them and their scraps of clothing. On the passing of the rainstorm, once again the lorries move off if the road is passable; if not, a wait of some hour or so sufficed in this terrific heat to dry the track. Sometimes the lorries would bog down or leave the dirt road, requiring the occupants to exit the lorries and help push or pull them back to firmer terrain. This part of an almost daily routine, once welcome for the working of cramped muscle, was now a form of torture to weak, ill men. Late evening the welcome stop was made for the night. Fires were lit and they cooked their own rice, the hard black bread being supplied by the guards. After their frugal meal, some time was spent sat around their fires before retiring to sleep in their lorries. No guard was set for them [because] guarding them was of no importance; escape into the wilderness was death itself. Principally the guard, when set, was to ward off wild, dangerous animals and murderous bands of natives. All of French West Africa suffered from these brigands. Many unwary people travelling alone, or in small unarmed groups, had been killed by them. So with troubled sleep so ended a ‘normal day’ of their travel. An addition to this ‘normal day', one must realize the needs of dysentery sufferers and other tropical diseases, now, symptoms accelerating in the torrid heat, gave further alarm, pain and suffering to the crew members.

On their third day of leaving Bobo Dioulasso they crossed another large river. Brown and sluggish in appearance, the Volta Noire, one of the main rivers of the same named region was crossed by ferry without mishap. Travelling swiftly, within hours they reached the outskirts of the biggest township they had so far seen. Signs along the roadside way indicated they had reached Bamako. Unknown to the captive crew they were entering the chief town of the district similarly named within the colony of French Sudan. Occupied since 1880 and becoming capital town of French Sudan, Bamako extended some miles both sides of a huge, slow flowing river, of which they soon found to be the massive, and well-known Niger. Bamako although the premier town of French Sudan, was similar in appearance and smell as all the other towns they had passed through, the only difference being in size. On entry they were assailed by the usual smells of open drains and rotting garbage. The garbage lying in huge rotting mounds gave off an overpowering smell, only equalled by the open town's sewage system. In this year of 1942, less than one in ten houses, including government buildings were attached to the crumbling, colonial sewage system emptying itself into the Niger.

Passing down its dusty, tree lined main street, the little convoy quickly drove through the market place, less than half-filled at this time of day, most market dwellers paying scant attention to the military transport. Passing through the market place, they observed its high enclosing walls and pink turrets, its design resembling a Medieval or French Foreign Legion fort. Closer inspection revealed time and lack of maintenance made one wonder how it was still standing. The captain, officers and crew now thought they had reached journey's end. Since the sinking of their ship, they had been almost continually on the move for two months, travelling hundreds of miles by lorry, train and foot, in one of the world's worst climates. Now through lack of food, ill health, hammered by a relentless sun and torrential rains, they were worn out, Walking, stumbling, and physically carrying some of their more supine comrades, the fittest helping the ill into their fourth native barracks, like all previous, filthy, damp, dark and alive with fleas and insects. At each barrack or jail the captain and officers requested an interview with any senior French officer or administrator; none came. Further entreaties were made for variation in diet, the regions they had passed through abounded in fresh meat, tropical fruits and vegetables, none was forthcoming. The refusal of cheap and plentiful supplies of this nature left the captain and crew with the nagging and frightening conclusion that the French authorities were hoping they would 'disappear' or die, hopefully whilst travelling between colonies relieving them of responsibility. Their hopes now centred on the investigations of the Red Cross. The Red Cross, efficient in time of war, seemed mainly designed in accordance with the Geneva Convention for the fighting services. The Merchant Marine classified derisively as Non- Combatants actually saw more 'front line' fighting in a continuous on going fighting than any of the Armed Services.

Some days after the sinking of the ss Allende a telegram arrived at the house of the parents of Wilfred. Dressed in his dark blue serge uniform with pillbox hat and pouched leather belt, the telegram boy knocked at the door. The telegram boy in wartime had become a figure of ultimate importance, far exceeding any other person in town or village. It was the practice of other children, on seeing the boy on his distinctive red bicycle, to follow him to his house of delivery, then run home to tell one's parents. In wartime, the contents of a telegram had only two meanings. Those few typed and pasted words covered the whole spectrum of human feeling: Utterly inexpressible joy, or, devastating grief. Answering the knock on the door, Mrs. Williams, seeing the telegram, froze. In abject terror she received the proffered, small buff envelope. This was the second telegram in as many months, the first informing her that her nephew, Jack Gamboll, a regular Royal Navy Acting Petty Officer serving in the Submarine P33, had been lost with all its crew, believed sunk off Italy in an unknown minefield. Jack who was treated as a son having lost his mother (Mrs. Williams’s sister} in childhood, presented a loss to the Williams family similar to loosing a son. Mrs. Williams, still suffering and mourning Jack's memory, now held a second telegram in her quivering hands. Waiting patiently for a possible reply, the telegram boy, now used to such behaviour, watched Mrs. Williams slowly open the envelope, her reaction spelling the text of the telegram. With no reply, the boy stole quietly away. Sitting at the kitchen table, the telegram held in both hands, she read it once again, the shock and grief making it almost unintelligible. The blurred words were as follows:

Morel's Ltd., of Cardiff has been informed by the Lordship's of the Admiralty, that the SS Allende of that company had been sunk by enemy action off the West African coast.
NO KNOWLEDGE OF SURVIVORS HAD BEEN RECEIVED TO DATE.

Collapsing over the table, grief overwhelming, Mrs. Williams gave in to tears of despair. The arrival of the telegram, having been noted by the neighbours, resulted in Mrs. Hall from next door coming round. On seeing Mrs. Williams’s condition, she offered some comfort and immediately had Mr. Williams, now a Ministry of Defence policeman, informed at his work at the local munitions factory. Coming home immediately, Wilfred's father arrived coincidentally at the same time as the younger boys, Luther and Kenneth, from school. White and drawn, Wilfred's father, a veteran himself of the First War, twice wounded and having faced death a hundred times in the trenches, comforted the family in the knowledge that no deaths had been specified, and they could only wait and hope. Access to information could only be obtained from two sources concerning Merchant Seamen lost or taken prisoner. Firstly the Red Cross, secondly the Shipping Line to which the ship belonged. Both sources were now constantly bombarded with letters and phone calls from Mrs. Williams requesting information.

Some months later another telegram arrived with all its mental trauma. With joy, this revealed that the Red Cross had received information that, on the sinking of the ss Allende, five of the engine and boiler crew had been killed, and the rest had been taken into captivity in Vichy-held territory within the French West African Colonies. With a mixed joy for her eldest son and grief for the families of those killed, Mrs. Williams, having obtained a list of the crew's addresses, wrote to every member's family, to those killed in sympathy and to the rest to pool any other information, also writing constantly to the Red Cross. Three sometimes four times a week she wrote, but month followed month with no added information. The Red Cross never received any signals other than they believed they were alive but not in receipt of Red Cross aid or treatment. So the torment of uncertainty was inflicted on Wilfred's family and the families and loved ones of the crew. Not knowing whether alive or dead, day followed day, and weeks then months passed. The agony and misery, like some malignant disease seemed eternal. Vichy French attitude to the prisoners was equalled only by the Japanese treatment meted out to theirs.

Lying now in their filthy barracks building, fitfully sleeping on the hard native mattresses supplied, incessantly tossing and turning, scratching countless insect and fleabites attracted by their body warmth they passed through the night. Daybreak brought the guards and their tasteless meal. A difference followed their general routine adopted so far; instead of a medical they were led out of the derelict building and led down to the river's edge. Passing over a rickety wooden pier, they embarked into a small flotilla of native canoes. These canoes, better known as pirogues, unbeknown to them were to be their transport and homes for the next eleven to twelve days. Their travel was to take them up one of the largest, but least known rivers in Central Africa, the River Niger. The Niger, third largest [river], being only inferior to the Nile and Congo in all Africa, rises within 150 miles of the sea in the mountainous regions on the North West borders of Sierra Leone and French Guinea. It flows through the interior in a vast curve. Firstly flowing northeast, then east, eventually turning southeast, finally entering the Gulf of Guinea through an immense delta: Its total length being some 2,600 miles. From its mouth to its limits of navigation from the sea, Niger was in British territory; above that point it flows through French territory. Bundled into their waiting canoes, clutching their meagre belongings, the captives departed Bamako in first light, their departure witnessed by some beggars awakened from their sleep on the muddy riverbank. At this point, the Niger presents itself in all its majesty. Slow flowing, over 6 feet in depth and 1,300 feet in width, it provides the water and method of transportation for most of French West Africa, winding and curling like some gigantic python. Some comfort was gained by the small group of native craft, in that they moved slowly, paddling and poling when in shallows, always moving with the sluggish current as the ‘dry season’ which was about to end provided them with some ease. Some two months later in late May and early June the rains became continuous, bringing with it, insufferable heat and every conceivable disease prevalent in Equatorial Africa. Some 150 years previous, Mungo Park, a famous Scottish explorer, with some 43 European soldiers and fellow travellers had left the same town of Bamako. Travelling downstream on a mission of discovery, sailing in exactly the same type of rudely constructed native pirogues as the Allende’s crew, they were caught by the rains. Within two to three weeks, 40 of them were dead. Dying of diseases and fevers, some from apoplexy (thus recorded) brought on by the stultifying heat and humidity. Temperatures recorded by Parke at times were 120-135 degrees Fahrenheit. The comfort of smooth journey was negated by the cramped conditions and appalling heat they suffered in the open, narrow canoes. Almost all, after some days, exercised their limbs when possible, by walking on the low river mud banks. Almost all wearing broken shoes or sandals unknowingly were subject to the immediate attack by the jigger flea.

On the third morning of river travel they reached the rapids of Tulimandio. Passing swiftly, and alarmingly through them, the high rocky banks with large granite outcrops opened out once more to low lying banks giving a vista of complete flatlands to the distant horizon, broken only by the occasional low-spreading Acacia tree. Heavily populated, much cultivation was in evidence. As they progressed these populated areas, many natives followed them for miles down the riverbanks, offering every conceivable item for sale. Unfortunately with no money and entirely ignored by the guards, they paddled on. The morning of the fourth day, they reached the town of Segu. Segu like most towns on the Niger lay sprawled on both banks. Little change since Mungo Parke's a century or more earlier. Originally a Moorish slave trading centre, it now consisted mainly of clay, whitewashed houses, clustered around narrow streets and overshadowed by the inevitable Mosque. Without landing and with a change of native paddlers, they quickly proceeded on. For some hundreds of miles they slowly ventured on, passing, again without pausing, the small townships of Sansandig and Silla. Unchanging, the scenery was tiresome in its continuity of low banks and flatlands and occasionally broken by the herds of hippopotami and basking crocodiles, both given a wide berth by the paddlers and guards. The seventh day since leaving Bamako saw them enter the river township of Mopti. Situated at the junction of the main stream of the Niger, and, its breaking off into its several branches to pass for several hundreds of miles through a malarial, swampy, treeless region, possibly one of the most unhealthy, disease ridden areas of the tropics. Within its labyrinth of lakes, its largest lake Faguibini - 70 miles in length, 12 miles in breadth, and, at the height of the rainy season 160 feet deep - exists creeks, stagnant pools and stinking backwaters. Now being late April, the rains had not yet arrived, giving comfort and even life to the captive crew.

At Mopti, young Wilfred, assisted by his friend Bill, staggered ashore. Sitting on the mudflats, mindful of Chiggers, Wilfred noticed an occurrence he had seen several times before whilst descending the Niger. Into his view came a young Negro, similar in age to Wilfred, leading a chain of eight or more natives, all with their right or left hand alternately holding a loop in a length of rope. Its leading end [was] held by the boy, who, as he walked, chanted incessantly to the men stumbling on behind, not unlike a coffle of slaves being led to market. Having witnessed this scene before, sometimes with rope, other times a long stick. Wilfred with some difficulty asked a native guard, who or what were they? Pointing to the river then his eyes, he graphically explained the reason: River Blindness. (See base note) Within, and almost its whole length the Niger contained a parasitic worm, which, almost unique to this area, is carried by flies, breeding in the river and its tributaries, has caused an endemic, crippling disease, which, in some villages more than half its inhabitants are effected. Millions of people in the region suffer from River Blindness, a horrifying and shocking disease, slow but inevitable. The parasitic worms burrow beneath the skin, laying their eggs which are carried by the blood stream eventually enter and grow behind the living eye. A tremor of apprehension felt by Wilfred and Bill was swiftly transmitted to their compatriots who now viewed every fly with mortal terror.

This region of Marcina, with its huge unhealthy marshlands, alive with Malaria and Blackwater Fever, being but two of the many killers, extend through the middle course of the Niger, forming channels and meandering waterways, causing a vast inland delta as large as Wales. Traversing this wild swampy marshland as quick as possible, even cooking their rice on board, their canoes paddled and poled onwards. Moving with the sluggish current their Fulani paddlers [were] only too happy to work hard to leave this God-Forsaken country behind. Other diseases and tropical fevers were beginning to surface among the crew. Lack of mosquito netting, coupled to dietary and hygiene problems, left them weak and receptive to all ailments. Continuously bit by winged and other insects, some were beginning to signs of fever. Certain symptoms [like] hot sweating followed by extreme prostration was symptomatic of malaria, probably caught in the rainforests of French Guinea. Others were suffering from a form of tape worm found throughout Central Africa, caught usually by eating half-cooked food (mainly rice). The worm lived and grew at a phenomenal rate within the stomach, removing the goodness of the ingested food [and] giving immediate symptoms of loss of weight and a constant hunger. A native emetic was administered, vile, horribly smelling, and guaranteed to make one vomit. Wilfred, a growing boy of sixteen, needing a wholesome diet to fuel his ever-growing frame, was much affected by the heat, lack of food and medical care. Through a never-changing diet, week after week, he was beginning to show the classic effects of pellagra, dietetic in origin [and] due mainly to vitamin B deficiency. The withholding of fresh meat, eggs, milk and fats, to which the body was conditioned, was having its effect. Its symptoms--dry tongue, pain when swallowing, and slight disorder of vision--was now being produced in the younger members, Both Wilfred and friend Bill were suffering in some degree these insidious symptoms.

On the evening of the eleventh day, they reached the river port of Kabara. After eleven days and nights of never-ending nightmarish travel in crude, open native pirogues, Wilfred and the remaining crew reached the upper-northern reaches of the Niger. At this bend of the Niger, where it flows eastwards before bearing south to eventually empty itself into the South Atlantic, lays the river settlement of Kabara. Kabara is the primary place of disembarkation from river traffic bound for Timbuktu. Lying on the muddy riverbanks, a mere huddle of low, mud brick buildings, it serves as a river port for Timbuktu a mere few miles away.

Now standing in a little, bedraggled, forlorn group, [they felt] the heat of the sun-baked mud flats through the soles of their broken shoes and sandals. The most seriously ill were laid gently down. [They used] what scraps of rags they could spare, covering themselves from the relentless Saharan sun. The ever-curious multitude of local natives were kept, by the guards, at a distance, which ensured speech or touch was not possible. After a brief time, the Guard Commander, who undoubtedly had been enjoying his lunch in the town, appeared. With customary French efficiency, of shouts and blows with much swearing at the native soldiery, he formed the survivors up into some semblance of order for the march to Timbuktu. If Timbuktu had been more distant than a few miles, some of the seamen could well have died. The Lascar seamen, mainly stokers and trimmers, were beginning to lapse into a state of abject melancholia, accelerated by their physical condition, [and] they were giving up the will to live. Wilfred [was] now finding difficulty to walk [but] never lost his spirit to live out this nightmare. Aided by Bill, he struggled and shambled along with the rest. Weak and unused to standing, not [sic] alone walking, eleven days of crouching and sitting in cramped dugout canoes had left its mark. With many stops for rest, they eventually passed through the crumbling town of Kabara. Clearing Kabara, they now entered a thick forest of low stunted and prickly scrub, impenetrable in its thickness. (This forest only fifty years later has entirely disappeared; only sand dunes exist now.) Passing slowly through this forest with even more frequent stops to revive their exhaustion, the guards grew increasingly worried. Even at mid-day the forest floor was dark and uninviting. The guards tried to quicken the pace; this short distance between Kabara and Timbuktu was bandit infested and the forest provided perfect ambush at any time. Even the guards feared this area. Their slowness, due to the prisoners' condition, caused some apprehension in that they may be caught by nightfall still some distance from Timbuktu. With trepidation and well-founded terror, the guards even physically helped the most incumbent along.

Towards evening, the forest edge was reached, and with apparent relief, the guards led their small caravan of scarecrow-like prisoners into the outskirts of Timbuktu. Entering the narrow alleyways and dirty streets, they passed firstly the mud brick hovels, [their] windows and doors heavily barred and barricaded. Often it seemed that these living on the outskirts suffered often from the hit and run raids of the dreaded Tuareg and their Negro helpers, who, after murder and pillage disappeared into the forest or the vast wastes of the Sahara. Advancing farther into the town, the dirt roads progressively widened with larger and better built houses, man-fitted with large front doors of incredible thickness, often carved and heavily studded with metal. Closer examination revealed the carving denoted some long past battle between Tuareg and Negro Kingdom, through the chequered history of Timbuktu. Like campaign medals of a modern age, these doors told the passer-by the wars or actions its original owner had partaken in. (These doors have become world renowned, many are worth much more than the house itself!). Onwards they struggled in the thickening gloom, passing down darkening alleys, wary of the open sewers, whose presence the smell gave warning of proximity sooner than sight.

Eventually they reached an area surrounded by barbed wire containing several mouldering mud brick huts. Through a heavily wired gate, entry was gained by the exhausted crew. Completely spent, some collapsed on the ground spending the whole night there, others staggered into the dark, dismal huts, windowless and stifling in the evening heat, only to find them infested with fleas, cockroaches and a myriad of other creeping crawling insects all intent on feeding off their new occupants. Uncaring through weariness in its extreme, they collapsed on the native beds provided, unsprung, unyielding and themselves uncaring. With daybreak those able and inquisitive enough rose and surveyed their new surroundings. Daylight revealed the depressing sight of a totally enclosed, heavily barbed wired, earth floored compound, within which a few dilapidated buildings represented their frugal living quarters. Outside their compound similar single storey hovels, some in even a worse state of repair lay huddled in little haphazard groups separated by narrow evil smelling alleys and garbage filled paths. The flat, brown vista [was] only broken by the remnants of an old Mosque, like some anthill, worn by the winds of time. To the prisoners it was now visibly obvious that their prison lay well within the poorer native section of Timbuktu. Rising early, seeking same small comfort from the cool of daybreak, their silence only broken by the call to pray of the Mezzuin atop the Mosque's minaret, the captives gained stock of their new confinement. Dressed now in rags, many having torn up their mattress covers converting them to crude skirts, worn to give cover to [=from] the burning sun, they sat around in the stifling, airless, desiccating heat of another day. Twice a day without fail, two huge bowls--one of rice [and] the other of weak soup with the inevitable black bread--were pushed into the compound, into which they plunged their hands and fed themselves native fashion. Sixty-three days they remained in this hellhole, uncared for, unwanted and treated with complete indifference by the French authorities. By the second week most were lying down all day, conserving energy needed only for rising to their next meal. Sitting or lying in the shade when possible, with remnants of rags around their faces and exposed limbs, they desperately awaited the end of another day to the incinerating sun. No cooling comfort came with the wind. When the unwelcome wind blew from the desert, it arrived like some furnace blast, drying every pore, and in seconds converting the mouth and lips to a dry swelling irritation, demanding instant relief found only in the brackish, bitter, sandy unfiltered water which grudgingly they were supplied. Seeking some shelter from the burning wind, they tottered into their mud hovels, flinging themselves down of their straw bundles, swooning with the intolerable airless heat within. After some two or more weeks living in these conditions, a parallel could be drawn to the French prisoners incarcerated in the infamous prison colony of French Guiana. Again situated in the tropics [and] suffering similar diseases, but probably fed better and at least under a penal institution, these French prisoners were hardly ever expected to live their sentence out. Undoubtedly the French wanted the crew to die.

They began to die. At the beginning of the fourth week of incarceration in Timbuktu, fevers compounded by dysentery and other unwelcome diseases had brought many of the crew to a new low. The Captain's entreaties for even the most basic medical treatment were now answered by a brief visit of a French military doctor. Entering the compound, the white-coated doctor, escorted by an armed NCO, gave a swift medical examination to the crew. On his orders, one of the survivors--the worst ill--was removed from the compound and taken away. Their joy in receiving medical treatment was soon dampened; by nightfall of that day the Captain was tersely informed that the man taken away to the ‘hospital’ had died. A request by the Captain for a Christian burial in a predominantly Moslem country and town was granted. Buried the following day his shipmates, who could walk or stand, attended the funeral. Gathered in a forlorn, ragged little group around the open, wind swept graveside; they lowered their shipmate to his eternal rest within the barren soil of Timbuktu. Reading a short service the bare-headed Captain and crew were then hastily removed from the tiny Christian cemetery and unceremoniously bundled back to their compound.

After some two or more weeks, another crew member had reached crisis point. Weakened by continual neglect and lack of food, exacerbated by unknown fever he was rapidly reaching death's door. Again the Captain requested the doctor. Once again the doctor duly arrived, once again with an armed escort, and like before ordered the sick man to the ‘hospital’, a hospital that no crew member had ever seen. That night, as before, the Captain was informed the man had died. On both these occasions, although requested by the Captain, neither he nor an officer was allowed to accompany the sick men. The following day, once again a crew member was buried alongside his shipmate: Both laid to rest over 1000 miles from the sea and many more from home; both of the Christian faith - simple memorials were placed at the heads of each grave. Once again back in the compound, the Captain gathered the survivors about him. In hushed silence the crew listened to the Captain's words. He informed them that he had now had the awful, frightening feeling that the French were deliberately killing the very sick, and no matter how ill they became they would remain together until death. All agreed, knowing that now it would be a matter of weeks or months before most would be dead. Some little comfort was felt in at least dying with friends.

Unbeknown to the prisoners, the French Colonial Authorities were having a change of mind. Pro-German and anti-Allies at the start, now with the recent loss of Madagascar to a British Free-French landing force, which in a matter of days destroyed part of their Navy and land forces firstly in Diego Suarez harbour then throughout the Colony, the French were now becoming rather frightened. Many Vichy Frenchmen were now beginning to 'turn their coats' as it became more obvious the Allies were going to win. This turncoat attitude was prevalent throughout the French Equatorial Colonies.

On the ending of the ninth week in captivity at Timbuktu almost half the crew could not stand, many, totally incumbent had taken to their straw bundles, having used their mattresses as crude body cover. Lying in the stupefying heat of their mud hovels, too weak to fend off the flies, lice and other insects, they lay in their abject misery. Lying on his straw bundle, now almost too weak to move, every day being an eternity, Wilfred was reaching the end. Being the youngest, there was a tendency of the crew to give him a little more food than they took from the communal bowl twice daily. His growing body required that extra sustenance; his stamina at the age of sixteen to withstand the rigours of this inhuman treatment was far less than a grown, older man. Now suffering from several open ulcers on his feet and legs, dysentery, mild fever and a low-grade Pellagra, his six foot slim frame was reduced to less that eight stone in weight, [and] he lay in an oven like heat of a sweltering native dwelling barely aware he was alive. At this time of the year, June, the Saharan sun rose daytime temperatures to a soaring 130 to 140 degrees Fahrenheit. The word 'suffering' can, and often is passed over rather quickly. Wilfred's 'suffering' can be partially brought home to one if one remembers his age. Sixteen years old, when most were still in school Wilf was thousands of miles from home and family, treated worse than any German POW camp, [and suffering from] multiple ailments, ailments hardly known in civilised countries:

Dysentery -A disease of the bowel, in its worst form a killer if not treated.
Ulcers -A superficial sore, discharging pus, becoming ever worse if not treated, giving incredible long lasting pain, and can result in loss of limbs.
Pellagra - an eruptive skin complaint, very similar to scurvy, caused mainly by the lack of vitamins, mainly vitamin Bl. This horrible disease leaves the skin, at least in Wilfred's case dry, scaly, almost fishlike.

Coupled to these mentioned above was the everlasting hunger, the knowing of no modern treatment, and the seemingly wish by the Vichy French Authority for them to die. All this combined needed an extra power to have the will to live. Helped by Bill Haynes, Wilfred was sitting outside in the shade awaiting the morning meal. The usual routine of the guards was interrupted by the entrance of the white-coated military doctor accompanied, startlingly, by senior uniformed French Army officers. Armed not with side-arms but with large oily smiles, they called the crew together. Once mustered the French officers shook the hand of the old Captain and officers, professing with smarmy platitudes and much arm waving it must have been all a mistake, and was not their responsibility. Standing on a rickety, worm eaten bench, their sole furniture, the French doctor, the most-hated Frenchmen of all announced in broken English they would soon be going home. Standing there on his precarious perch, he evinced his love and respect for the British people. Anyone of the crew given a rope would have gladly hanged him. With a further wave of his white-coated arm, more native guards entered the compound, each carrying armfuls of new clothing. Now told by the doctor to now discard their filthy rags, wash with unlimited water provided and dress in the lightweight, new socks, shirts, shorts and sandals provided. An extra shirt and shorts would also be issued to each man. Bemused by this the survivors were transported to limitless heights of happiness. At the beginning hardly able to believe it at first, this material gift gave reality to them going home. This news was better than any tonic; the will to live returned to all, even the Lascar element of the crew began showing signs of revival, their spirits raised by this glorious news.

Events moved swiftly. Told to collect their meagre belongings they were removed from their filthy and hated compound, and placed once again in waiting lorries. The French, now mindful of possibly a War Crimes Commission following up a victorious Allied conclusion to the war, treated them with the utmost kindness. Now the rainy season was well advanced, they were informed their return journey to the coast would not include the NIGER passage, during this mast dangerous of seasons. Prior to leaving, a last request by the Captain was granted for those able to walk to visit the graves of their lost shipmates. Gathered in a little, sad group, they paid their last respects; A forlorn small party almost 1500 miles from the sea and over 3000 miles from home. Two British seamen laid to rest in a predominantly Moslem country under the blazing Saharan sun arid sterile soil. Of the remainder some half would have joined them within several short months, or even weeks! After a brief service they returned to their awaiting trucks and quickly drove away due West into the desolate desert with never a backward glance. Once more on the move the crew adopted their well rehearsed and practiced mode of making do for lorry travel. Motoring due West, they travelled for two days and nights, moving swiftly over the compacted sands, steering by compass and stars, they traversed the trackless wastes of the Southern Sahara. Stopping near mid-day, they ate their rations, now varied and of much better quality. Using the lorries canopies, they spread them as awnings enabling them to sit in the shade, panting in the awesome heat, now soaring to 130-140 degrees Fahrenheit at noon. Late afternoon they clambered back once again into their respective lorries. With the lessening heat they drove on, with the coming of sudden darkness, so swift in the desert, using headlights they carried on travelling at a reasonable high speed in these flat, arid wastes. On the ending of the second night the lorries turned in a long South Westerly sweep. Skirting Lake Faguibine, they passed on well clear to the West of the Macina swamplands, now under constant heavy rain, and with it its attendant fevers as the rainy season was now well advanced. After six long days of driving through the sands and wild Savannah, they hit the dirt road to Segou. Progressing rapidly they soon reached the river town of Segou.

Once again they had reached the Niger, this time though purely for the crossing. Having crossed the Niger safely, the little convoy moved steadily on. Slower now in the heavy rains, heat and humidity that was now much higher than when they passed down the Niger in the 'dry season’. Weakened and ill, many were suffering terribly in the backs of the canopied lorries. Concern was now rising for the senior Wireless Operator and one seaman who were getting progressively worse. Struggling valiantly, grimly hanging on for dear life in the knowledge of soon being in friendly hands, they fought on. Wilfred too, was, with several others unable to stand. Spending all day lying under the rainproof awnings, they prayed for journey's end. The eighth day of leaving Timbuktu, they crossed the Niger once again. Entering the township of Bamako once again. Helped now by the 'friendly' French they were quickly transferred to the railway station. Knowing this station of old, the Captain and crew wondered if this was some elaborate trick being played on them, and were about to be sent back. Gathering on the station platform, they were informed that their journey would be by train on the Bamako to Dakar line. They would travel in the European section with accompanying guards and medical staff. Boarding the train they were separated from the French, placed into a carriage with upholstered and well-sprung seats, with comfortable mattresses for the incumbent. After open, poorly-suspensioned lorries, native rail trucks, mud brick hovels and bare earth, this luxury was beyond their wildest dreams.

For a further two days they travelled by train, by far the best mode of travel since captivity. Now in complete dryness and with some degree of comfort they traversed the Savannah landscape of the colony of Senegal. On the morning of the third day the train drew into a tiny station within the town of Tambacounda. In a heavy rainstorm they detrained and led to cover in a large, empty warehouse. Some minutes later a Civil Administrator complete with a retinue of junior officers appeared at the door. Re-enacting the performance of handshaking and crocodile tears of heartfelt sympathy and condolences of which the French have no equal, in perfect English he informed them they were now in the French colony of Senegal, but only a matter of two hours away from the British administered colony of The Gambia. Leaving with his retinue, he was quickly replaced by medical staff and military drivers. The French officer now conveyed to them they would now be driven to the border town of Brifu, within the colony of The Gambia, where a British delegation would meet them and the transfer would take place.

Within hours, most of them delirious with delight, some too far gone with fevers and dysentery to know what was happening, they arrived at Brifu. Brifu situated on the extreme tip of The Gambia was a nondescript native town lying within the unhealthy marshlands area of the upper reaches of the River Gambia. Helped from the lorries, some on stretchers, they were carried or tottered once again into a large open sided shed. On sight of fellow Britishers some broke down and sobbed. The transfer was quickly enacted without friendly overtures, the French leaving rapidly. A British doctor with native medical attendants now stepped forward, giving them a quick examination he declared their condition as deplorable, some not really being fit to move. Unfortunately local conditions could not allow them to stay in such inhospitable surroundings. Hurriedly moved to some small motor launches they were taken down the tortuous river Gambia. Reaching Georgetown that night they were taken ashore and given beds with clean sheets. Unused to them they spent a restless night. Next morning embarking on a single, but much larger craft they progressed downstream to the Capital town of Bathurst (now Benjal). On arrival they were taken immediately to the main hospital, many remaining there, the fitter and luckier taken to a convalescent area. Bureaucracy again reared its ugly head. No one it seems could decide whether the Allende crew were released Prisoners-of War, or, as non-combatants, merely released civilians. If they had been a Royal Navy crew, undoubtedly they would have been feted; the officers lionized by the white authorities. If they had been civilians, they would have been treated as equals by their fellow colonials; but these were Merchant Seaman, bringing into play all the old racial, caste, and class position so remarkable among all British Colonials.

One common feeling felt between crew and administration was to leave The Gambia behind them as soon as possible. Within days the crew fragmented. Alone and almost unknown, the critically ill seaman died in hospital. Wilfred, with others too ill to walk or even stand, were transferred by ship to Freetown, Sierra Leone, just over one day's steaming away. Too ill to move, the Senior Wireless Operator stayed in Bathurst hospital. Bill Haynes, Wilf's friend and 'townie', accompanied by seaman Sidney Milroy worked their passage home in a merchant ship, luckily surviving their dangerous passage, although being attacked several times when in convoy. Being a 'slow convoy' they took some weeks before arriving home. Wilfred with the incumbent sailed home on a fast Hospital Ship, arriving home two or more weeks before Bill Haynes. It is believed that nearly half the remaining crew, after suffering and surviving all this true narrative has shown went down on their way home. Torpedoed once again, but with no survivors.

Homecoming

Wilfred arrived at his home at 105, Manor Road, Abersychan, Monmouth (Now Gwent), on the afternoon of the 13th. August 1942 (another 13!). Two days before his seventeenth birthday. Six foot in height, weight eight stone! Hair still long, shoulder length (unusual then), covered in scars, wields and scabrous sores, he was a wreck of his former self. Doted on by his mother, family and local doctor (Dr Warren) he was still unable to eat normal meals. He was nursed with great love and devotion by his mother, who was a nurse many years ago. With passing months Wilfred grew stronger and fitter. What he had been through had earned him the right of a civilian job for the rest of the war, not that he could be 'Called Up’, he was still one year under age, Feeling fit and ready for work, on a cold February day Wilfred disappeared from the house.

On returning he cheerfully announced he'd found a job. Further enquiry by his mother about the job reduced her to a flood of tears. He had been to Newport 'signed on the Pool'. No amount of persuasion or entreaties changed his mind. Some weeks later on the 3rd April 1943 young Wilfred joined his second ship, the ss Tortuguero at Cardiff, holding the rating of Assistant Steward, once again he went to war. With infrequent leave, Wilfred spent the whole of the remaining war at sea. From ss Tortuguero he then served in ss Fort Norman followed by the ss Vermillion. Seeing many ships sank around him he was lucky to survive without another sinking. He saw service in the North and South Atlantic, Mediterranean, Indian and Pacific Oceans: The whole spectrum and theatres of the Second World War. When the war ended he wasn’t even 21 years of age. His war service was longer and greater than many twice his age.

Bill Haynes, Wilfred's friend and 'Townie', like Wilf, was soon voluntary at sea again. Unlike Wilf, poor Bill paid the ultimate price at the tender age of 20 years. Joining the ss Empire Tower as a seaman he sailed from a Welsh port once again. On the 5th March 1943, only seven months after surviving his first adventure the Empire Tower was torpedoed and sunk. So rapidly did she sink that only four survived. Sadly Bill was not one of them. The agony of war does not end with its declaration of peace. Until she died some twenty years or more later, Mrs. Haynes never locked her backdoor. Until her death she believed that one day, or night, he would return. Such is the awful finality of such a loss. Nothing is ever the same.

Wilfred stayed on in the Merchant Navy, serving in the following ships: ss Empire Prome until 1947. Then joining the Company of Charles Hill & Sons of Bristol, he served in: ss Boston City, ss New York City, ss Bristol City. He served in these ships for some eight years, eventually "swallowing the anchor" in September 1955. His last years as Chief Ship’s Cook.

Diary written by Thomas Williamson, Master of SS. Allende March 1942. As provided by Audrey & John Williamson.

March 17th 1942 S.S. Allende torpedoed by German submarine, about 18 miles South of Cape Palmas, Liberia at 7 p.m. at ship. I had only just left the bridge, where Fullerton, the Chief Officer and I had been looking for Cape Palmas light, before altering course to the North. We had seen no sign of the light, and before leaving the bridge, I said to the Mate, “If you don’t see the light before 8 o’clock, I’ll alter course then.”

I came down off the bridge and had just entered the saloon, switched on the light and shut the door, when she got it. A terrific explosion and instant darkness. The ship seemed to shudder and stop dead in her track, the engines were silent.

I rushed up the inside stairway and up to the bridge, the Chief Officer was not to be seen, but W. Haines, a deck boy was at the wheel and he said, “The Mate has gone down to get the boats away.”

I rang half speed astern on the telegraph, but there was no answer. Looking over the side, the ship appeared stopped. and making no way at all. It was very dark and the sky moderately overcast. I sent the man away from the wheel to his boat, went down on the lower bridge with my binoculars, a pair of 7 X 50 prisms, and searched round for any sign of the submarine.

Lewis, W/T man transmitted S.O.S. about 20 times but afterwards in the boat he said that he thought someone was transmitting very powerfully close ship. possibly the sub. jamming. (Saw no sign of the sub.).

The Mate came up with the boat’s crew of the Port Jolly boat. He said, “She’s got it in the engine room, on the Port side, the port life boat’s blown to bits and the 2nd Mate, P. McHugh is already away with your boat.”

I said, “All right, get your boat in the water and I’ll come in that when I’ve had a look around, I want to get everyone away if possible.”

I gave one of the ABs. F.J. Meaker, my suit case to put in the boat. It contained all my papers, ship cash accounts, victualling bills, insurance etc., Rum, cigarettes, Brandy and some Liebigo Extract.

The Chief Engineer, Mr W. Soutter, came up to me and said, “The engine room’s full of water. I’m afraid there’s no hope for them down below.” then he said, “You haven’t got your life jacket on.”

So I went back on the top bridge and got my life jacket from out the day room and put it on. The ship continued upright but well down by the stern, there was no panic or rush. The Mate said, “We’d better get a move on, Sir, before Jerry gives her the second one.”

I said, “Carry on and stand near by for me when you’ve got the boat in the water.”

I went down on deck with the ship’s papers, confidential papers, with the intention of burning them in the galley stove, there usually being a good fire there about that time in the evening. I found the galley just about wrecked, with the stove blown to bits. I lashed up the bag and dropped it over the side. It sank at once.

The deck in the port alleyway seemed to be buckled, the hatch covers of the bunker pocket blown off. There was hot water ankle deep right away along to the engine room. Flashed my torch in the engine room but could make out nothing but heavily rushing water. Walked around house to starboard alleyway, deck was all right but nearly ankle deep in cinders. Climbed up on boat deck. Starboard boat away but not in sight. Port boat and davits blown to bits. Back on deck, Chief Engineer just going down sea ladder into starboard Jolly boat. The Mate and his crew already in the boat, he shouted out that the forward fall had jammed on the port Jolly boat, so they had abandoned it and lowered the starboard one. He said,

“I’ve got all your papers safely in this boat, are you corning down now, she’s settling rapidly by the stern, and I reckon she’ll get a 2nd torpedo any minute now.”

The Chief Engineer said, “I saw Sango (Trimmer) go along the fore deck just now, he’s badly hurt in the face.”

I went along forward and into the f’ocsle saw Sango in the beam of my flash light, sitting on one of the benches. His face was very badly cut and. Burned. I went in and said, “Come on my son, let’s get amidships to the boat before the old ship goes.”

He didn’t want to leave, but I forced and dragged him out of the f’ocsle and along the fore deck and shouted down to the boat, “Here’s Sango.”

I left him then and went back along the fore deck and let go the painter of the raft which had jammed. Meaker and the Bosun, G.Emmerson were on the raft.

Came back along the deck, the Mate said, “You’d better come down now.”

I said, “All right, I’m going in the saloon to get the kitten.”

Went in the saloon and found the kitten in the medicine chest, brought him out and threw him down to those in the (boat), caught him safely enough, called him Temoshenko because he was always ready to fight.

Steamer very low in the water aft, but still upright. Felt very reluctant to get in the boat and leave her. Went and looked down the X bunker, it was full of water, at least could see nothing but water, there was a good bit of coal there, went back to where Starboard Jolly boat was waiting under the bridge. Said “Goodbye’ to the old ship. Climbed down the pilot ladder into the boat. The Mate said, “She’ll go any minute now.’

Let go the painter and pushed. off.

I said, “Stand by for a while, let’s see what’s going to happen to her.”

Saw the 2nd Mate in the Starboard life boat, shouted to him to go alongside raft and pick up the Bosun and Meaker, saw him go alongside raft.

About 7.25 p.m. now, heard heavy explosion in Allende and, in a few seconds she seemed to collapse in the middle, the stern sank out of sight and the f’ocsle head rose up to the sky and then disappeared. The 2nd torpedo seemed to have been put in about No. 4 Hold, and that was the last of Allende. I felt like crying.

Noticed that our boat was making water badly. There was a little chop on the sea, but 12 men in her was too much. There remained only a few inches of free board. Carried on baling and commenced pulling away in a N. Westerly direction. Suddenly heard a noise and then a black shape came into view. The submarine had surfaced and was heading at good speed in our direction. I ordered “Vast pulling” and dead silence. The submarine at first sight looked like a trawler, her engines made considerable noise. I thought she might pass without seeing us, but suddenly she took on the appearance of trying to run us down. A voice from the Sub. hailed us, “Boat ahoy, come alongside, come quickly.”

Answered “O.K.” and commenced pulling in her direction. She got herself in good position to give us a lee and stopped her engines. We came up close alongside. She looked big and black. There appeared to be a l2 lb gun on her fore deck, and a heavier gun fairly close to the after side of her conning tower. Two men dressed in heavy weather clothing and sea boots were standing on the fore deck about half way along it and there was the glow of a cigar or cigarette in the conning tower. One of the men on the fore deck sang out, “What is the name of’ your ship?”

All hands except myself answered, “Allende.”

“Is the Captain on board?” Milroy, O.S. answered yes, but I believe they must have taken that to mean that I had gone down with Allende for he asked no more questions about the Captain. He probably assumed, from the fact that everyone in the boat was answering his questions that quite possibly there was no senior officer present. I was content that he went on thinking it. He continued his questions with “What tonnage? Where from? What cargo?” and finally, “What is your port of Registry?”

Everyone roared out the answers to his questions and he replied “Oui”.

Lightning flashes lighted up the submarine every minute or so. She showed light grey then, but although I looked carefully, waiting for the lightning flash, I could make out no mark or number on her conning tower. Saw the dim figure of the smoker there, probably the commander.

He said “Carry on boat. Steer 008° — 18 miles.”

Everyone shouted ‘Thank you.”

I was waiting for a burst of machine gun fire, but it never came, so I guess I thought an injustice on that commander.

Suddenly we noticed that the boat was filling up in spite of the baling. We were pulling away from the sub. and from the wash coming from her casing sides. The sea was a little more choppy now; the clouds were banking up, the lightning flashes became more frequent. The boat sank below the level of the water and capsized, turning everyone and everything into the sea of course. I grabbed an oar as it floated clear then as the boat rose above the surface again, bottom up now, we all managed to get back to her and cling to the keel, but we were not evenly spread out around her, so she just took another turn round and floated full of water. Then once more she capsized as we all made frantic attempts to hang on to her sides. This happened five times before we finally got ourselves evenly spread out around her. We were feeling very exhausted by this time. I should think we had been struggling in the water for about an hour.

Porpoises were leaping close by and some large multi-coloured fish glided past. Someone said afterwards that it was a Barracuda, I doubt it myself. If it had been, more than likely it would have attacked us there and then. However, it turned our thoughts to sharks and greatly increased our anxiety to be back in the comparative safety of the boat.

The Mate suggested that while the rest of us held the boat steady from the outside he would get in, make ?----plug and then bale the boat out again, and that is what we did. There were a couple of sheath knives amongst us and with it, the Mate cut down and shaped out a plug out of the wooden handle of one of the sea (?) lights, a tin of which still remained lashed to one of the thwarts, being not heavy enough to carry away when the boat turned over, I suppose. All this took us the best part of another hour I suppose, but with the help of the sea (?) light tin and a couple of soft felt hats the boat was baled out sufficiently for us all to get back in and give a hand with the rest of the baling. We were all mighty thankful to get back into the boat. The struggle with the capsizing boat in the first place had taken it out of us and we had all just about reached our limit.

For my own part, I would never have been able to climb back aboard but for the assistance of Mr Lewis, the Senior Wireless Operator, who very gallantly boosted me aboard before he himself climbed inboard. All my right side was paralysed, particularly my right shoulder and hand. The hand was grip-less and useless and the shoulder dead.

About now the sky was heavily overcast and it looked as if it might come on to blow. The lightning had ceased except for a faraway flash at long intervals. We took stock of our position. Most everything movable had been lost. The water was gone, all the oars except 3; buckets, baler, mast and sail all gone. The biscuits of course were all right, being secured to the thwart in an iron tank by iron bands. We also had the compass and. we settled down to gently pull through the night, just keeping a little way on the boat and her head in a N. Westerly direction. Too dark to see the compass, so as we kept getting a glimpse of the pole star, we steered by it, keeping it about 4 points on the starboard bow, hoping that we would make a little against the 2½ knot current that was running to the Eastward.

Around about midnight it commenced to rain gently, the rain lasted about half an hour and was very cold. Everyone remained fairly cheerful. We spoke of the chances of being picked up when daylight and everyone agreed that the chances were rosy indeed. If our S.O.S. got through at all, someone would be looking for us, and the course we were steering across the current wouldn’t take us far away from the position in which we were torpedoed by daylight. I lay aft close against the tiller trying to rest, my leg and my shoulder both being extremely painful by now. The Mate had the tiller while three men kept up a gentle pulling on the three oars, changing over about every half an hour. One or two of us were violently sick during the night, due most probably to the amount of sea water we had swallowed.

At last the dawn came with a morning (?) sky away to the Eastward. As the light became stronger we could make out the land low down on the Northern horizon, too low down I thought, we were further off than I expected us to be as the current had evidently done better or worse than I had looked for. However, daylight and just the knowledge that land was in sight made most everyone cheerful, very hopeful of a quick delivery from an unenvious position.

About 6 a.m. smoke was sighted away to Starboard and we put on a spurt with the oars. Presently a steamer hove in sight, steering almost directly towards us. We were all very bucked now, thinking that in a very short while we should have reached succour in the shape of dry clothes, coffee and a bunk. As the steamer came closer it could be seen that she was about 9000 tons D.W. Buff topsides and we thought we could make out the shape of her 4 inch anti-submarine gun. British was in everyone’s mind, but I thought without voicing the thought, “She’s in a funny spot and steering in a peculiar manner if she is a British ship.”

As we came closer together she altered her course more directly across our bow and appeared to be crossing ahead and that is what she actually did at increasing speed. We ceased pulling and tied the third Engineer’s raincoat to an oar and hoisted it up in the air, a bit too difficult to wave about, but we tried even that. All to no purpose, she just kept her course and speed and left us to do the best we could for ourselves. If there had been an officer on the bridge at all, and it is most improbable that there was not, taking into account her close proximity to land and that she had altered her course only a few minutes before, if anyone at all had been on the bridge, we must have been seen, a pair of ‘binoculars should have done the rest.

However, if she was British or Allied maybe her master feared some submarine trick and wasn’t having any, and thinking things over since that time, I’m inclined to think he was acting in the best interests of his ship, that is of course if he were a Britisher or an Allied Merchant ship. For my own part, I think his manoeuvring and position were suspicious. He could as easily have been a store ship for Subs. probably not long since having refuelled the fellow that sank us. However in about an hour she had disappeared to port which made me think that she had again reduced her speed after crossing ahead of us.

This incident of the passing steamer hit us where it hurt most, we all felt a little down in the mouth about it, yet when we had looked around and satisfied ourselves that the shore line was rising albeit all too slowly, we cheered up a bit, and put a little more vim into the pulling. I suggested a biscuit apiece and I also voiced the opinion that we would be landing on the beach just after midday, although I didn’t believe it myself. We opened the tank and had a biscuit each. Chewing seemed to bring a little comfort and strangely enough no one complained about the absence of a drink, no one asked for water or protested that they were dying of thirst. For my own part I wasn’t thirsty. No doubt, if water had been there I should have been glad of a drink, but just as it was I didn’t miss it. Fullerton, later on in the day was the first to mention thirst. I wasn’t very pleased about it but said nothing. He cut a button off his shirt and put it in his mouth. He said sucking a button was known to allay the pangs of thirst. After that most of the men complained of thirst.

Fullerton also had a ¼lb. tin of tobacco which he had given Kenny to look after for him. After we had opened the biscuit tank and had chewed through a whole biscuit each, I mentioned about a smoke. He was very unwilling that we should do so. However I told Kenny to open the tin, and while he did so, we dried a packet of papers in the sun, which was pretty fierce by this time. All hands cheered up wonderfully when we had got our very ragged looking cigarettes under way. We commenced pulling again. It was very hot now and for the most part we had little or no protection from the sun. Here our life belts came in very useful and handy, we were able to cover our heads and necks with them. This must have saved us considerable subsequent suffering, for at the end, of the day we were all rather badly burned, mostly around the arms and. legs.

Slowly but surely the line of shore came up over the horizon. We could. make out the trees quite plainly now and about 2 points on the port bow, what we had taken for a tall palm tree gradually took on shape and towards noon we made it out to be a lighthouse. We steered directly for it. Fullerton thought it must be Cape Palmas Light, but didn’t see how it could be, not if we had set with the east going stream. Of course there was the possibility of a counter current, but the chart had shown nothing of one, so I couldn’t bring my hopes to a head there. Anyhow, it was something, it was a mark of civilisation. The sandy beach came into view now, one minute it was there, then the next it had disappeared. Some of us saw it for certain, the others said imagination, but in a little while there was no mistaking the white sandy appearance, and a little later still all uncertainty was swept away when we were able to make out the breakers.

Just on noon, the sun almost right overhead, we had our hopes raised to high pitch once again, this time by the unmistakable roar of an aeroplane engine. This time it was going to be a British plane sent out to look for us, an answer to our S.O.S. of the day before. We could hear the plane for some time before our eyes could pick it up in the brilliant sunlight. At last we foun