The War Hero Returns

SS Llandaff Castle

August 1941. Then came the fateful day. Posted home.

The Orderly Room informed me that I would be flying up to Cairo by a small American newly established airline from one of the spare hangars.

At 7 in the morning I reported back with my kit to be met by about 30 Army personell of various officer rank together with their kit also waiting to get on the aircraft.

The hangar doors opened and a twin engine Lockheed Hudson was towed out. An American official also came out of the hut with the passenger manifest. When he saw the crowd standing there with hundreds of suitcases he laughed his head off.

“Here's the list of people travelling on this aeroplane. Twelve of you. The rest can go away.”

I was a bit worried.

My name was the second one called.

We finally arrived at Cairo, via a refuel at Port Sudan and I made my way to the PDC (Personell Dispatch Centre) at Port Suez.

The following day we boarded the SS Llandaff Castle, small boat of about 8000 tons (7300 metric tons) and sailed south. A few days later we arrived at Berbera, British Somaliland as it was then called. There we picked up 600 Italian prisoners of war who slept on the deck, whereas we were confined to the lower deck. Every night until we got to Mombasa 2 or 3 Italians were found dead, stabbed by their own people. Finally at Mombasa they disembarked and we understand were going to Kenya to make roads.

In Mombasa Harbour were 2 huge battleships, The Prince of Wales and the Repulse, and we were told they were on their way to the Far East.

We finally arrived at Durban. incidentally the enire crew of the Llandaff Castle were Scots, except for the Captain, and the cooks, despite numerous complaints, always served the porridge up with salt, more salt and salt. They then had the cheek to send the hat around for a collection. It was all arranged beforehand and everyone put a button in. Own back!

The following day we sailed around the Cape Town and changed ships, this time to the SS Ortanto. 18,000 tons. When we were docking, I now can't remember whether it was Cape Town or Durban, an elderly lady stood on the key side with a beautiful voice, Britannia, Jerusalem, and all the then favourites. It appears she met every ship which came into harbour with troops aboard throughout the whole of the war. It was a lovely gesture.

And finally, after a day or so, we set off across the South Atlantic towards the West Indies. We were unescorted, but travelling reasonably fast, about 18 knots and zig-zagging every fifty miles or so to confuse enemy subs.

We were all allotted around the ship to helm with various tasks. I, with a couple of others, went into the butcher's shop.

The crew told us that on board they had the first consignment of oranges that the UK were to receive since the outbreak of the war.

Halfway across the South Atlantic a bulletin was issued stating that both the Prince of Wales and The Repulse had been sunk after leaving Singapore by Japaese torpedo aircraft. What a terrible blow.

A young Naval officer got together the musicians amongst the troops and we formed an orchestra of about 20. We would go down to the huge lounge and have some smashing sessions. Once a huge storm blew up and as we sat there playing we, plus the music stands, slid from one side of the lounge to the other and back again. Again and again until we had to pack it in. He told us that he had been sent by his wife a new tune that was all the rage in England and had written a score for us. We played it and it was Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square.

Finally we reached Port of Spain Trinidad where we refuelled and made our way up the east coast of the States to Newfoundland, where we joined a convoy and after about a week sailed into British Waters. We hove into the Mersey Estuary and cleared our funnels. It was like a firework display for 2 hours. Then into Liverpool Docks.

About 100 yards off the key side we got stuck on a sand bank and there we had to stay until the next high tide. The question was, would we get home for Christmas? It was 23^rd December. At high tide, our own engines flat out, and with no less than 18 tugs pulling, pushing, we finally got free.

During this 15 minutes of effort we watched as 8 tugs were, side by side, endevouring to free the nose of this huge ship. At one instant the pressure of those tugs, water foaming at their sterns, caused one of the tugs in the middle to be levered completely out of the water at an angle of about 30 degrees. It had been prised upwards. The captain hanging precariously to the handrail, the propellor thrashing fresh air. The other tugs eased off and the tug fell back into the water with a huge splash.

We disembarked and went through Liverpool sitting on our kit in the backs of open lorries. Two of the chaps were still in khaki drill, shorts and shirts, having lost all their kit through being chased up and down The Western Desert. The Western Desert chaps used to leave the Blighty Kit in Cairo. All the girls were waving to them.

Arriving at the PDC, West Kirby, we were cleared, paid and given warrant plus a fortnight's disembarkation leave.

My folks had left Deal in Kent, which had been bombed and shelled and evacuated, to relations in a small village outside Nottingham called Gunthorpe. Arriving about 8 in the evening at Nottingham Station, pitch black dark, with the black out I spoke to an old taxi driver about getting to Gunthorpe.

“That's too far to go with my petrol ration lad, where you from?”

“Ex overseas, the Sudan.”

“Get in, lad.”

And off we went.

On enquiring the address he said, “I think I know it.”

Arriving at the house, he crossed the road, and knocked on the door.

I heard my father's voice say, “Yes.”

The door closed again because of the strict blackout and I offloaded my kit.

The old taxi driver would not take anything for his fare. “Have it on me, lad.”

I knocked on the door again and I heard my father say, “Put out the light, Mother.” He then opened the door and I stepped inside.

Remember that there was strict censorship during the war. All my folks knew was that I was somewhere in Africa.

The door closed and my father said, “Put the light on, Mother.”

On it went and my mother across the other side of the room said, and I will always remember her words: “Why, it is our boy.” Just like the old films. It was a lovely homecoming, just in time for Christmas.

I must apologise for carrying on and drifting away from the real reason for this epistle, i.e. my life with the Squadron, but as I gave the reader an insight into my sea trip out to the Sudan and 47 Squadron on the trooper, I thought I might as well give a short account of the return.

This was my first overseas tour as a young man, followed by further tours in Egypt, Singapore, Berlin Air Lift and Borneo. 36 years and I enjoyed every minute of it. I hope this epistle will help Owen Clark (possibly this man) a little in compiling a history of the Squadron.