Walter’s War: On board SS Oronsay (Under attack)

Previous Chapter: 295 Army Field Company Royal Engineers

October 1940

Back at Aldershot the unit was in a bustle, getting ready to go overseas. We had new vehicles and all sorts of gear. We were issued with sun helmets, the kind worn years later in “It ain’t half hot mum”. This seemed to confirm the rumours that our destination would be the Middle East, but there was a fraction that claimed that this was just a ruse to confuse enemy spies, and we were still bound for Iceland. We lugged those hats around for over a year, never wearing them, except when we were ordered to.

SS Oronsay in 1940 [Imperial War Museum]
We then moved up to Liverpool to embark on the troopship “Oronsay” of the P&O. line, an old fashioned vessel with two tall funnels. The crew said that this would be her first trip since having the damage to her bridge repaired after being hit off St. Nazaire in June.

In early September, we were all sent off on seven days embarkation leave. Beccy was expecting our second child and within a week or so it was a sad parting when the time came to go back to Aldershot. I tried to cheer her up by saying that I didn’t think the war could last for more than another year, but I didn’t believe it and neither did she.

As I had never been on any vessel bigger than a rowing boat, I thought the Oronsay was quite impressive. Our troop deck was near the stern, and it doubled as mess-room and sleeping quarters, having fixed wooden tables and forms, with all our crockery, pans, dishes and pails neatly stacked on them. Overhead were rows of hooks for hammocks, and above that a criss-cross of steel beams giving about a foot of space above them on which we were expected to stow all our gear. The art of slinging a hammock was soon learnt, but it took me longer to acquire the art of sleeping in one. Indeed I never did get to like them.

We were all “newboys” and must have looked pretty naive to the crew. Everything was new and strange and we accepted the crowding (there were thousands of us on board, I never knew how many) as quite normal. The ship was still tied to the dockside when we had our evening meal, another new experience, because it was tripe and onions. Thus fortified we retired to our hammocks while the ship was getting away from the harbour. During the night the ship began to move about as we got into the open sea, and by morning we were heading into a strong wind and we could see the rest of the convoy ahead. Most of us were not very interested in this, because we had seasickness on our minds instead, and the washroom was crowded with all intent on parting with the tripe and onions of the night before. I won’t go into detail, but it was a sight never to be forgotten.

Back in the troop deck, the vomiting etc. was continuing apace and I smartened myself up, dressed fully, overcoat and all, and went on deck to get some air.

We were in open sea with no land visible, and we were bringing up the rear of the convoy, with another vessel, the Windsor Castle, about a quarter of a mile away on our starboard side. Stretching away in front were about a dozen other large ships. There was no sign of an escort, and I supposed that we were still in safe waters and that the escort would arrive later. The wind had increased and there was quite a sea getting up, with large rollers sweeping past, and the wind blowing the tops off the waves in a smoky mist of spray. In my inexperience I had no way of judging whether it was a heavy sea or not, and as no one else paid any attention I thought it probably was not.

I was on the after deck where about a hundred soldiers were milling about. I met one of the crew, a lad of sixteen, and bought a tin of 50 Waverley cigarettes off him for one and three-pence (about 6p), that being the duty free rate, and we chatted until he said he was on the next watch and must go, telling me that he would be up in the crows-nest on the foremast acting as lookout.[See note] 

It was about ten in the morning, and there was a low grey sky. Someone pointed away to our left, and I could see an aircraft about two miles away flying on an opposite course to ours. It looked harmless enough and I thought it might be part of our escort. As I watched, it made a wide turn, and kept turning until it was flying back towards us. I could see two engines and a rounded glass nose. It did not occur to me that it was not one of ours until it came lower and was obviously heading straight for us, but coming in at an angle from our port side to cross our stern.

I could see the pilot, sitting back in his seat, and another man wearing the same black flying helmet and gear as the pilot. He was lying flat in the nose and must have been the bomb aimer. It finally dawned on me that it wasn’t one of ours, and I dived under the nearby lifeboat and pressed myself as flat as possible. Almost immediately the deck gave a mighty heave lifting me in the air, followed by a second heave that repeated the lift. At the same time came a mighty clanging, metal beating sort of noise, which I found out later, was the noise of the cannon shells fired by the forward gunner as they hit and ricocheted off the steel work.

When the spray had subsided we could see the plane making a wide sweep round the Windsor Castle and leaving the scene. The Windsor Castle had a large long barrelled gun mounted on the stern and managed to fire off one round. The shell burst about half a mile behind the departing plane and that was that.

The Oronsay lost way and came round broadside to the wind and started to roll. The rest of the convoy, including the Windsor Castle, ploughed slowly on their course, and within half an hour we were alone.

The damage we had received was much less than it might have been and this was due to the pilot of the aircraft coming in at an angle instead of dead in line with our course. By great good fortune the two bombs dropped straddled the stern and both exploded in the sea, one on the port side very near the stern and the other further up on the starboard side. The shock lifted the stern and buckled the bulkheads badly, causing steam pipes to break and making the vessel helpless.

The decks had been quite crowded at the time and quite a few men were hit by the cannon fire, and by a burst from the tail gunner’s machine guns, one of those bullets killing the young crewman in the crows-nest.[See note] I cannot remember that any men from 295 Coy. were hit, probably because the stern deck was lower, and the shots went over our heads along the higher decks.

Our troop deck was deep in seawater thrown up by the first bomb. Most of our kit was washing about in it. The plates and pots and pans went everywhere, and of course it was nearly pitch dark. Those who were in there at the time of the attack were a bit shaken. One of them told me that in the silence following the bombing, a loud hissing noise was heard and thoughts of a delayed action bomb went through their minds. They found that a fire extinguisher had jumped of its bracket and fallen into a dustbin below it, where it discharged its foam contents. Unfortunately the bin had been used by quite a few chaps as a convenient place to be seasick in, so a new dimension was added to all the stuff swilling about on the floor.

The wind seemed to have increased and the ship was rolling badly. We were ordered to our boat stations and issued with life jackets. None of us knew whether the ship had been holed, and I remember sitting on the deck, gloomily staring at the sea, which looked very cold and deep, and fervently hoping we weren’t going to have to jump in to it.

Right alongside our boat station, a very large heavy wooden box was fixed to the deck with ringbolts. It was about eight feet long and four foot wide and was used for the storage of life jackets. As we sat there, the rolling of the ship became ever more pronounced, and the box was clanking about on its fixings. One extra heavy roll broke the ring bolts and box went slamming into the rail, and a few seconds later came skating back and fetched up against the deck house. This performance was repeated with full sound effects for some time until seamen arrived with ropes and tamed it. I now began to believe that we were indeed in heavy weather; for it was obvious those ringbolts weren’t meant to pull out of the deck.

We stayed at boat stations for about two hours, during which time I suppose the damage had been assessed, and it seemed that we were not going to sink, not yet anyway. We were completely alone, not another ship or aircraft to be seen, and the general opinion was that we were waiting around for a U-boat to find us. Then a Sunderland flying boat arrived and circled us for about half an hour while a lot of light signals were exchanged. It flew off and we were still in the dark as to what would happen next. What did happen was nearly unbelievable. Someone in charge on the military side gave orders that every unit was to get out their machine guns and ammunition and mount the guns around the ship against what threat I do not know, seeing that by this time darkness was falling.

I found myself as one of a gun crew right up on the boat deck with a Bren gun on its extended tripod lashed to the rail. We were at the foot of the bridge on the weather side and it had started to rain. We spent the whole night up there, in total darkness, huddled into a corner. The heavy rolling continued unabated, and the rain was coming down so hard that at every roll a torrent of unseen water washed across the deck soaking us yet again.

We had had nothing to eat since early morning, and as we had all forgotten about being seasick, we were getting pretty peckish. I was elected to go and find something to eat. I felt my way along to a door that would open, and then went down from deck to deck looking for the galley. All this of course in near total darkness, there being only a few emergency lights. The galley, however, was brightly lit and warm! with a strong smell of fuel oil. A burly cook grabbed me as I went sliding past him on a downward roll, sat me in a corner with a mug of cocoa, and in short order cut a pile of corned beef sandwiches and put them in a pail, gave me a bucket of cocoa and a couple of mugs, and we had quite a festive time of it back on the darkness of the boat deck.

In the morning, when it was light, we could see a cargo ship about half a mile off, slowly circling us and sending more signals. We were still without any motive power and assumed that this ship had arrived to take us in tow.

We were relieved from our gun position and went below, and chatting to some of the others, who had just come down, found that they had been manning a Boyes anti-tank rifle, of all things. How they fixed it to the rail, I can’t imagine, for it was supposed to be fired from a lying down position and had to be reloaded after each round was fired. I have often wondered who it was that gave these orders, and whether he ever had twinges of embarrassment in after years when he thought of his own foolishness.

Later that day the engineers had restored some steam to the engines and we moved slowly on to a course for the Clyde. Our attendant cargo ship sailed in front, and as night fell we were well on our way. Next morning we saw the beautiful approaches to the mouth of the Clyde and very thankful we were too. We docked in Greenock and marched off the ship to a nearly empty sugar warehouse with about five floors. It was draughty and cold, and every night German planes came over dropping bombs. The warehouse swayed as though one more bang would topple it, and I was more frightened there than I had been on the ship.

 

Note

The only casualty on board SS Oronsay on 8 October 1940 was Able Seaman Donald Folkes, aged 18, from Trowbridge. He is commemorated on the Tower Hill memorial.

Next Chapter: The Isle of Man