Chapter Thirteen

The time at the at the air field at Port Leautey, even as we were supporting the war effort, was not part of our calling. I traveled to Casablanca to visit the agents who had handled all the affairs in -40. I was quite adamant about getting to London to try to attend Radio Officer school and received encouragement and support from the ship’s Officers, almost as if such eagerness should be rewarded.

At Casablanca I was pleased to hear some more bad’ news about the French during the Allied invasion. I remembered the pride of the French Navy, the battle cruiser "Jean Bart", tied up at a main pier; she was just finished but never had seen service. One of my golfing buddies, also retired from IBM, was with the American Navy attacking the French during the invasion. He told how this brand new ship never was able to get up steam to fire back at the invasion force. The pride of the French Navy was silenced at her anchorage. It was satisfying to hear how the Jean Bart had come to an inglorious end; oddly satisfying too, to be told later how it happened. (On my visit after the invasion she was reported is sitting’ on the bottom by the pier). The golfing buddy and I seemed to share some feelings even after about fifty years. I remembered sculling past her on my many trips to pick up the Steward and the provisions when old Ringulv was anchored up inside the harbor.

A chance meeting with some American Soldiers on leave resulted in two different experiences. One of the Soldiers hearing I was Norwegian stated his cousin was married to a Norwegian in New York, they had never met. He was from Chicago. When I mentioned my Uncle Kris’ name, he said: "that’s him"‘. (My aunt, his cousin, passed away before I got back to the U.S.). We spent the evening together because their leave was over the next day. Stopping at a restaurant I spotted the detective who had hit me during the interrogation at the Police station after the major break.

I nodded hello but the detective seeing me with the couple of G.I.’s just turned and disappeared out the door. I told the Soldiers I merely wished I could have said ‘ hello’, no hard feelings; they felt I was being too generous. It was humorous in a sense. But the Soldiers blamed the French for causing unnecessary American causalities fighting the invasion to free them from the Nazis rather than cooperating. There was no ambiguity about their feelings. Bidding them ‘goodbye’ and "good luck" as we parted I was experiencing somewhat mixed feelings about my earlier almost expressed ‘no hard feelings’, on my way back to the hotel... Mixed, because having been interned and prisoner, may also have kept me alive...

The clerk at the shipchandler office advised me that Belgian crew had been returned to their ship lying at Oran. I signed on because she was supposed to go to England and traveled to Oran, two day’s travel. But when I arrived onboard I learned that their itinerary was uncertain. The boatswain, with whom I had been friendly at Sidi el Ayachi, now was all business as he showed me to the focsle crew quarters. He was not interested in my belief that the ship was headed for England, advised me I was not on a Norwegian ship now, which puzzled me. Advising me one of my new jobs would be as helmsman, I quickly advised him I had never been a helmsman. He registered and expressed stunned disbelief, it almost pleased me. He ordered me to get settled, nevertheless; I was puzzled, again, by his mode of ordering.

I ran into a bit of snobbery as well with a couple of the young fellows of the crew I had been friendly with in the camp, at Sidi El Ayachi, who were Officer apprentices, living in midship quarters. This position was unknown on Norwegian ships. They hardly would talk to me, now "just" an ordinary Seaman, even as I noted I was on my way to England for Radio Officer schooling.

The bosun apparently had discussed me with the Chief Mate. Mutually I was able to ‘sign off and return to Casablanca. The other Norwegian crews were still at the Port Leautey air field.

The time was now just at Christmas 1942. I never could recall where I stayed, at Casablanca, or what I could have been occupied with, that particular Christmas. It always seemed odd to me that I did not return to Port Leautey to be with my old crew, which I passed on my way back from Oran. But I never could recall anything about this special time. This, then, even today,, remains my ‘lost’ Christmas. I do remember meeting the Seaman from the Tana who had left a farm in Brazil as he was advising a Spanish couple during a black-out. He did not explain his presence in Casablanca but I remember, too, I admired his fluency in Spanish or Portuguese. Don’t recall if I ever saw him again.

The time and place was important, nevertheless. Calling at the agents’ offices, day after Christmas, I was advised the crews were all returning to England and that I better get back to Port Leautey, pronto. Looking back, it seems I had propensity for moving around. My friends were almost astonished hearing where I had been. –"We could have told you about the Belgians!", was unimportant now. But both Odd and our Chief Mate let me know I was just lucky to have been able to return; ‘curb your impatience, boy’ might have explained what they meant.

Exhilaration probably is not quite the word for the feeling among the crews. It was not like getting HOME but the closest thing to it, in a sense. The Norwegian government in exile was situated in London and operated all the Norwegian ships through the ‘Norwegian Shipping and Trade Mission’, which in itself at least sounded like a place of belonging, of sorts.

We traveled to Oran, again, and boarded an English passenger liner bound for England. We had to sleep in hammocks because of the liner’s use as a troops ship, with common bathing facilities. We tried to stay together, we who came from the ships. There were quite a few other individuals, of different nationalities, on the troop ship, people who apparently also had been internees, now allowed to leave for other areas. Some seemed unsure of where they would end up. These were not Seamen and there was almost a distrust on our part. Some spoke broken English, others kept their distance. Perhaps they were leery of Seamen, generally? We had a destinations, other Norwegian ships.

The Greeks who had been at Sidi El Ayachi were also onboard. One of the younger fellows found me at the railing the first morning because of my old friend, ‘mal de mer’. He was surprised, a Norwegian Seaman seasick?; I explained as best I could, "it will be over tomorrow". He came by to check the next day and was happy for me, he said; -tongue in cheek.

I hoped he didn’t think less of all the Norwegian Seamen and we had a good laugh. Our old friend, the Algiers, the passenger ferry with all the money onboard at Casablanca, was also part of the convoy. Because of her higher speed she was zigzagging behind the zigzagging convoy.

I was exposed to a vague homosexual approach by one of the older cabin Stewards, which took me by surprise. But I was warned by one of my friends from the Tana who also had been approached. The Steward offered baths, or showers, in an unoccupied cabin, in his presence-, which statement took me off guard. Odd mentioned these guys were not uncommon among passenger liner Steward personnel. It was my first experience with homosexual advances and a lesson to remember. Someone noted they generally tended to seek one another; in fact, I had been given to believe it was unusual when they approached people not of their "lifestyle"...

Information much later brought out the fact that there were societies in the Middle East, such as the Greek, and others, where pederastic practices existed at the time of Plato and Socrates. (During the siege of Troy, for example, one Greek general is reported to have sent one of his colonels to the front battle line hoping he would be killed, in order to seek the favors of a young, beardless, man the colonel kept in his tent). This caption is reported in a book by Mr. I.F. Stone, "The Trial of Socrates", during the last 4-5 years. Apparently, as to who we are, there is nothing new under the sun...

Dream come true?;

Arrival in England was like coming to a land of promise to some degree. Yet, I was made aware of our status when one’s permit to stay in England was stamped ‘;Alien Seaman" upon arrival at Liverpool, 2nd week of Jan -43.

All the Norwegian crews traveled to London and were housed temporarily at the Norwegian Seamen’s Hotel to await jobs on available ships. I couldn’t wait to find my way, by way of "tube",, (subway ) and bus to the Radio Officer school. The manager, or superintendent, was a former Radio Officer himself. He was a little amused by my eagerness when I explained it was like a culmination of a drive that had existed as soon as I learned about this school in one of the our prison camps, likely in -41. (I wonder if I mentioned this hoping it would be an advantage?).

I was signed up to start the next class in March. There actually was a shortage of Radio Officers. During peace time the larger cargo-ships and tanker ‘carried’ one telegrafist. Due to the war the radio station needed to be manned around the clock; the school was free, paid for by the government, apparently for the same reason.

The next day I signed on the "Tordenskjold", (Thundershield), as Ordinary Seaman, "Lettmatros’; in Norwegian; -(matros =able-bodied Seaman, lett=light, as not experienced - to become an A.B). She was only 700 tons, considered for coast-wise operation, likely built about World War I time. The sleeping quarters were in the forecastle, (focsle), and accordingly cramped. Part of the steel pipe for the anchor chain, (about 20 inch. diameter), ran through the front ceiling and wall of my cabin.

The winter time in the North Sea was not ‘kind’ to this little ship. At times only sandwiches were served because of the cook’s inability to prepare regular meals due to the rough seas. The North Sea has always been infamous for nasty, choppy, waves and sea because of relatively shallow water. Each trip up the Scottish coast it became necessary to seek shelter at anchor in a nearest cove to ride out the weather. I apparently was so occupied with my new job as a ‘sailing’ ordinary Seaman, against merely working on deck while laid up in North Africa, that the seasickness problem seemed to have disappeared. I was even too busy, apparently, to take note of this. Not that this problem ever left me as reported later leaving England for Bombay, India, at the end of the school.

An episode worth while recounting occurred when I had duty 36 hours because a Seaman not arriving before departure from London. I failed to answer a call to turn on the next watch, overslept, and was roundly upbraided by the Chief Mate, no excuses accepted. We had dropped anchor in a bay on the Scottish coast riding out the weather, while I was asleep. The noise of the anchor chain clanging out through the chain steel pipe in my cabin failed to wake me; -no excuse. I was supposed to stand watch during the night, four to eight, the Chief Mate’s watch.

The Fireman on watch in the engine room came to call me on watch, stating I could obtain a shovel of embers from the boilers to start the fire in the galley. The Fireman was English and when I stated I didn’t think it was my turn, being all tired from the past 36 hour duty, he did not return to call me again. The Chief Mate made a big stink about my failure to turn to, the ship at anchor without a watchman... I had an inkling he did not think much of this "lettmatros" just waiting to go to Radio Officer school. It was as if I was putting on airs. But the Captain apparently thought otherwise accepting my 36hour duty stint, not making much of it. I had a feeling, as well, he respected my drive; I had explained my yen for the school since the camps in North Africa.

At the port of Thurso, northernmost in Scotland one was introduced to the very high and low water level difference around Britain, between flood tide and ebb tide. ( On our way to Swansea, Wales, in 1940 the difference between high and low water, in the nearby Bristol channel are among the highest experienced, at about 24 feet.) The names John o’ Groats, Duncansby Head, became known names as we made our way past and through the Pentland Firth between Scotland and the Orkney Islands.

Our ship entered the harbor, inside a breakwater, at high tide. At ebb tide the Second Mate and Second Engineer were walking round the ship on an inspection trip, the Second Engineer clearing debris and dirt away from the engine cooling water intake. I learned too, somewhat surprised as well, that the ship was flat bottomed, although I had swum under a destroyer in the harbor at Odda. The keel, as such, on a (large) ship refers to the first bottom plates laid when building a ship, rather than a keel as may be seen on a smaller boat. (In fact, when seeing battle ships sinking in war films, the bottoms are flat). There seems to be a keel, I believe it is called the bilge keel, running along the starboard and port sides where the side plates rise up from the bottom plates, as best I may explain it, also called stabilizing keels.

Thurso was just a small port with one movie house. At a performance, one night, a small gymnastic troup was entertaining. I remember wondering why the young men were not in the Army; but the girls were both lissome and pretty. I thought one of them winked at me, but was afraid to turn around to see if it was to someone else, -bashful?. She was bent over backward the young guy doing a handstand over her, one hand on her chest and the other on her lower stomach... Leaving this port I wondered if I should have waited at the theater back door, -the stage door, to await possible developments?.

Getting back out past Dunkanby Head point and John o’ Groats I recalled coming through some of these waters on our way back from trying to get to Norway when the Germans attacked in April of -40. During our two trips to Thurso and back to London I became familiar with the different ports of call up and down the East Coast. Inverness, Aberdeen, Dundee, and across the inlet to Dundee, a town named Newport which I learned, perhaps some 40 years later, was near the famous St. Andrews Golf course, when I became interested in this sport as a main leisure activity after retirement in North Carolina.

Experience as a teacher was a rough period for this first trip at sea as an ordinary Seaman, and I had my share of being called less than bright in trying moments. But I survived... One incident as we were sailing southward may describe the age of this little ship. The lookout in the crow’s nest called about a floating mine just ahead. The Captain ordered the ship steered away denying one of the gunners on watch permission to attempt to detonate the mine with gunfire, a usual procedure. It would be reported only, first opportunity. It was obvious the Captain did not trust the old ship’s ability to withstand the force of the explosion detonating the mine. It was a ‘thorned" mine, the "horns" clearly visible as it bobbed in the water, apparently torn loose from a mine field laid by the English as protection against submarines.

Southward from the mouth of the Firth of Forth, the approach or entrance to Edinburgh, it seemed the sea lanes were marked by buoys. The lanes were out of sight of land ‘down’ to London but, as protected sea lanes, apparently swept regularly for mines. I was severely reprimanded, by the Second Mate, for steering the ship too close to one of these buoys on one occasion. Obviously the ship’s propeller might clip, or become damaged by the cable holding the buoy. (Remembering I had informed the bosun on the Belgian ship at Oran, I had never been a helmsman... But that’s what I was now!)...

Arriving at London the ships are tied up between large buoys while awaiting berths; the river apparently to narrow for usual anchorage. The small boat was lowered to take the Captain ashore. The Chief Mate intimated I might not be able to handle the swift currents. The Captain called on me nevertheless. I had related some of my background when first came onboard. Handling this little rowboat, one had to be quick with the oars to maneuver away from the ship. The rowboat was held on an even keel around the stern of the ship, the Captain standing square as the boat was maneuvered smartly to the pier. (-what else, after Casablanca... ?)