Arctic Warriors: A Personal Account of Convoy PQ18

By Deltrice Alfred Grossmith and Julie Grossmith Deltrice

In mid-1942 Alfred Grossmith Mason became Navigation/Gunnery Officer on SS Empire Baffin, a 6,978 ton cargo ship assigned to carry essential war supplies to the hard pressed Soviet Union. Fortunately he compiled this remarkable diary of the dramas and disasters that befell the ill-fated Convoy PQ18. This inspiring story follows the movement of his ship and the other merchantmen together with their Royal Naval escorts from the mustering point at Loch Ewe to their destination Archangel.Daily German attacks from the air and sea and long periods at action stations deprived crews of sleep. The loss of many ships and comrades and the ever-present prospect of death through drowning and hypothermia took their toll. Having to function while exhausted, ill-nourished and freezing cold demanded that every man gave of his utmost over a prolonged period. Yet remarkably, as this book shows, humour remained intact.Once in Archangel his insight into the hardships faced by the Russian population is revealing. For the surviving sailors there remained the awesome challenge of the return journey without any escort. Unlike so many, the Author finally reached Britain in December 1942.Arctic Warriors is a rare and graphic personal account that captures the atmosphere of this infamously costly convoy and others like it. If any doubts remain of the terrible conditions and dangers that merchant seamen aced in the hostile waters of the North Atlantic and Barents Sea, this superb record, published in the Year of the Convoy, will surely put them to rest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Oct 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781473830059

Book preview

Chapter 1

From Somewhere in England to Somewhere Unknown

The carefree hot summer of 1939 seems a lifetime away as I gaze over the bustling scene before me. It is August, yet the same dark cloud that has settled over Europe during the last three years seems now to have manifested itself, chilling the air as well as the hearts of those who stand with me on the quayside looking up at the towering shape of the SS Empire Baffin.

This merchantman, which over the next few months is to be our refuge or, heaven forbid, our casket, now sits motionless in the swirling ebb of the Tyne as if cemented to the very river-bed. Strong and purpose-built for carrying heavy cargo, the Baffin is one of the many Empire ships that ply the dangerous seaways around our shores, providing our besieged country with precious supplies from our friends across the Atlantic, and sustaining our troops and allies abroad with the provisions and raw materials of war.

Flush decked, with a total length of 465ft, she can carry some 9,800 tons of cargo at a speed of eleven knots.

As I board her I realize that she is no destroyer, but I notice with relief that she is not entirely defenceless either. Tarpaulin-covered guns mounted at various points on the deck reassure me further. After going through all the formalities that come with being assigned to a new ship and stowing my belongings safely in my cabin, I can now take a closer look around her decks and inspect the guns which will be my responsibility over the coming weeks. My tour convinced me that she is indeed quite well armed for a merchant vessel these days. A 4in antisubmarine gun is mounted on the poop (to be manned by a naval reservist), and a 40mm Bofors QF on the poop deckhouse (which, I’m told, will be manned by a sergeant from the Maritime Anti-Aircraft Regiment) are both surmounted by a pillar-box rocket launcher so called because of its resemblance to a GPO post box. This is a fearsome weapon firing twelve 2in rockets (six per side) each with an explosive warhead. The operator, sitting inside the box to protect himself from the blast, can aim the missiles through 365 degrees at an angle of between 0 and 75 degrees. Check rails on both the Bofors and the rocket launcher are added safeguards, so that at no time can any part of our ship be struck by their projectiles, even in the event of some over enthusiastic gun layer getting too excited in the heat of the action. Our 4in gun on the aft poop deck also has stops fitted to the base for the same reason, so that it cannot be trained forward of the beam.

Making a round of the fo’c’sle head I am confronted by the twelve-pounder. This large gun is housed on its own specially built platform over the windlass. Returning amidships, I climb the ladder to the wheelhouse and take further comfort from the fact that here there are four 20mm Oerlikons which are mounted singly, one on each wing of the navigation bridge and one on each side of the boat deck. In the aft corners and at the rear ends of the bridge are housed two troughs of 2in rockets (twenty-four per side). These can be elevated, trained and fired from a central control point on the monkey island. Finally, as I come abreast of the fore and main masts, I see the two pairs of Lewis guns, which will be manned at battle stations by our ordinary crew members whose only gun training to date, consists of a brief description of the weapons that they will be expected to use.

Once we are on our way it is my job as gunnery officer to give my crews a daily practice drill. This will ensure that, at all times, they will be able to handle their weapons with precision and maintain them efficiently. So when the day comes and we eventually encounter our well-trained and ruthless enemies, I hope that their aim will be effective and true, proving that all their hard work has been worthwhile.

As second officer on the SS Empire Baffin my duties under normal circumstances would only be the navigation plans and the organization of watch keeping. Because of the war and the additional responsibility of my post as gunnery control officer, I am also to be in charge of the maintenance and general care of all weaponry as well as keeping my gun crews fit. My own training in this field has been a very quick and sketchy last minute course, consisting of forty hours of purely theoretical instruction in gunnery control, which I have only just completed at HMS Satellite. Therefore I can only hope against hope that Hitler’s bomber pilots and submarine commanders are as green as me and my gun crews, because up to this moment not one of us has even handled, let alone fired a single weapon! But with the expert tuition of the naval gun layer and the experience of the maritime A/A sergeant, together with a lot of practising, I am totally convinced that we will all put up a ‘good show’ if and when the need arises. I had better be right, there is no scope for mistakes, as our lives will depend on it.

SS Empire Baffin: Captain W.T. Brown (Master Mariner) Whitby; Mr Grant (Chief Officer (Master Mariner) South Shields; Mr Mason (2nd Officer) (Master Mariner) Sunderland; Mr Smallwood (3rd Officer) (Uncertified) Staithes; Mr Robinson (Chief Engineer) (1st Class Steam) Sunderland.

Chapter 2

Cargo Loading in Leith

A restless first night aboard, my turmoil-filled dreams of home mixed with a fear of the unknown, replaced most of what should have been a refreshing sleep. By breakfast time, as I make my way to the saloon, I have a chance meeting with my first member of the crew. Scuttling away along the companionway ahead of me a small but sturdily built black and white cat leaps agilely in and out of the shadows. Finally disappearing into the steward’s open doorway, a small head pops out now and then to take note of my progress with large, shining green eyes fixed upon my approaching feet. I learn from the steward as he serves me with breakfast that this is Bosun who appeared on board some three weeks ago and has since decided to stay!

Meeting the other members of our crew and getting to know them better, I find that we have all suffered a similarly restless night. The tiredness etched into their faces tells the same familiar story wherever I look, but professionalism soon takes over from the fatigue as we all go about the jobs and duties that will bring the ship to a full state of readiness.

Finally the hour has come when we are given our orders to cast off. The huge hawsers securing us to the quayside are dropped unceremoniously with a splash into the dark waters of the Tyne. Casting us from the security of our moorings, we are cut free from the umbilical cord that has been tying us in warmth and safety to the womb of mother England. Now we are set adrift on the dark sea of uncertainty not knowing what the future has in store for any one of us.

Strong feelings and sharp pangs of trepidation and loneliness at once begin to overwhelm me at the hard realization that this could be the last time I will ever see my homeland. The lumbering hulk, motionless and impassive against the quayside, now finds her own space as she slowly edges out into the swirling waters. With every minute the turning of her propellers helps her to gain momentum as her bows splice through the water cutting an ever-widening pathway towards the mouth of the river. Passing Jarrow ‘Slacks’, a busy dock worker stops to watch us slide silently by and, cap in hand, he waves us on our way. The cheeriness of the moment soon passes as we approach the piers of the Tyne. Their twin lighthouses stand sentinel-like at the end of long outstretched arms that embrace us for the last time before we cross the bar. Rolling in the swell of the open sea, I feel impelled to turn back for one last look. As they stand proud and tall, swathed in the clinging fingers of the grey dawn’s mist I cannot help wondering how long it will be before I see them again.

In the distance, a groaning foghorn plays a dirge in time to the slapping of the murky water against our hull and, as we head further out to sea, our bridge telegraph rings out its message, FULL AHEAD. The engines respond. Our journey has begun.

The sea, in sharp contrast to the glassy, unruffled river, now starts to buffet our unladen ship. Pushing the curling waves hard against us, small white horses begin leaping against our sides and are sent scurrying by on the crest of our bow wave.

Looking back towards land, I can see that the distant shoreline has almost disappeared as it is slowly swallowed up into the darkness of the dimly lit morning. As our thudding engines drive us even further away, the silhouette of home receding rapidly in our wake has now become nothing more than a low line of dark irregular shapes. Even as I watch, they soon merge completely and disappear behind us into the gloom of the distant horizon.

The officer of the watch, busy on the bridge, begins to map out the co-ordinates that he has been given and it soon becomes clear that our loading destination is to be one of the ports on the eastern coast of Scotland.

The hazy dawn eventually gives way to the luminosity of daybreak, and the sharpening light, reflecting onto damp rooftops as we pass reveals the presence of the many small towns dotted along the Northumbrian coastline. Dark wisps of smoke rise upwards from the stubby chimneys of the little houses as their inhabitants rise to face another day.

As the morning brightens and wears on towards midday the onshore picture changes. The much more rugged looking lines of the Scottish coast now begin to drift into view. All the crew appear to be adjusting well and are focusing diligently on the job in hand. This being a very busy time on board, lingering thoughts of homes and families have had to be found new space further to the back of our minds, if only for the time being.

Nearing our first port of call, the crew go about getting us ready to dock for loading. Bands of seamen, busy out on the decks, haul and stow away the huge tarpaulins that have been covering the hatches. Lifting the underlying wooden boards out of the way with steel hooks and iron crowbars, they uncover the deep, gaping holds, mouths ready to receive their cargo, at once transformed into darkly mysterious caverns. The windlasses have been fully tested and found to be in good working order, so by the time the SS Empire Baffin eventually steams up the River Forth and settles herself beside the quay in the port of Leith, we are ready. From being thrown together in the very beginning, this crew have worked in perfect harmony as if they had always done so. They are ordinary merchant seamen totally untrained in the art of war who have come together to live and fight as one. These men of strength and character have sacrificed so much already but, having been torn from their families and friends because of the necessities of war, they show no regret. Each one of them is just an ordinary man full of his own hopes, private aspirations and unspoken ambitions. With one common bond, they have been thrust into the turmoil of war and have come together today, 7 August 1942, all with the same aim in view – to fight and to win!

The main group of our crewmen come from the north of England. Brave and full of determined pride, their one common belief shines through: the belief that through their combined efforts peace will soon be restored to their homeland. Watching them now going about their individual work routines, it is obvious that they are being spurred on by an overwhelming inward tenacity. This observation suddenly leaves me feeling quite reassured that when the time comes to fight, they will all give an equally good account of themselves. Comforting as this thought is to me, I must leave my reveries until another time and turning my full attention to the job in hand, I begin checking aboard our first lot of cargo, part of which is already being stacked up along the wharf.

When our cargo is fully loaded, then, and only then, are we to be made aware of our final destination.

The loss of daylight has halted the loading for today, but an early start and the improved weather forecast for tomorrow should soon make up for any delays.

Early morning, and considering that it is 8 August and still summer, the weather has not, as forecast, changed for the better! Instead it is increasingly unkind to us. After one short burst of brilliant sunshine, the driving rain that had followed us all the way up the coast from the Tyne, is back yet again. Blustery showers of cold Scottish rain soon soak us to the skin. Dashing below deck, we run relays in an effort to keep dry and to exchange sodden items of clothing for our (as yet unworn) waterproofs, grabbing a hot mug of tea we pass by the galley. It is not long until we have all been christened by the Scottish downpour and initiated into the many difficulties that arise out of loading under such inclement conditions.

Nor has it taken long to acclimatize to the colder Scottish weather. The majority of our crew, being northerners, come from areas where their local weather is also notorious with temperatures lagging a few degrees behind the rest of the country.

It is our nine firemen, who all come from Freetown on the west coast of Africa, that are showing the most concern about the cold. None of them complains, but we can’t help noticing that, without exception, all nine of them are already wearing their full complement of the extra items of clothing issued to us.

Out on deck, as they help with the work, they are instantly recognizable, and stand out from the rest of the crew. Wrapped in duffels, rollnecked jerseys, fur mittens, thick stockings and sea boots; all topped off with thick knitted woollen hats pulled hard down over their ears they look more like a group of lost Eskimos than our more familiar stokers. I’m sure they will be much happier when we are underway so that they can return to the warmth of their stokehold.

The captain for this trip is Mr W.T. Brown who hails from the coastal port of Whitby, and our chief officer, Mr Grant, is another local lad from South Shields. Mr ‘Tiny’ Smallwood is our acting third officer from Staithes while our chief engineer, Mr. Robinson, and I – Alfred Grossmith Mason, second officer – both come from Sunderland.

The full crew of the SS Empire Baffin totals sixty-five and, with the exception of our stokers, every one of them is from Tyneside, Wearside or Teeside. So, right from the very beginning of our being thrown together under these bitter wartime circumstances, we soon find that we have a lot in common.

With all the hatches open and ready to receive their cargo, the work to fill them started almost as soon as we docked. The process of packing every available bit of space with a very varied consignment of goods has now begun in earnest. The activity on the shore soon becomes a continuous hive of industry as the tall cranes clank and grind their stiffened mechanisms into action. To and fro, from shore to ship, their necks stretched out like tall giraffes, they swing their huge netting slings. Filled to bursting point with bundles and crates of various sizes they are slung deep down into the empty holds. Creaking and straining under the weight, they spin and turn in the air as great heavy chests, containing ammunitions and explosives are lifted aboard one after the other. Silenced only by a short meal break their labours then continue on hour after hour.

Whole aircraft that have been dismantled and packed away in boxes ready to be reassembled at their destination point are carefully stowed away one on top of the other. It is no easy task, but so very well organized that the loading is continuous. From very early morning until dusk, it progresses without even the slightest hitch.

Sometimes there comes a quiet period as we wait for further supplies. The waiting is the worst time of all, and there are periods when one day slips so quietly into the next before you have even come to realize it.

The second week in August has come and gone, and the hungry holds still fill up daily with everything imaginable. Amongst parcels ranging from tinned food to larger bundles of blankets and warm clothing, space is left for some of the smaller armoured fighting vehicles. Followed hot on the heels by banks of artillery, they continue to come until eventually every available place below is filled almost to bursting. After being packed and secured tightly so that none of it has any space to shift around in transit, the hatches are finally closed and battened down. Even so we are still not quite ready. Our deck cargo is now the very last to be hauled aboard.

Large tanks and smaller armoured personnel carriers come next. Until now they have been standing to attention in their ranks and waiting in line along the quay. Each one in its turn is heaved up from the shore and, as carefully as if it were made of precious porcelain, has been positioned down onto large wooden pontoons on our fore and aft decks. Finally they are lashed and chained securely to both decks. Surely the very fact that we are still afloat is a miracle!

All the extra warm clothing, for our personal use, that has just been issued to us by the Royal Navy has been the catalyst for a varied number of thoughts. It is definitely Arctic gear. The type, we suspect, that is meant to be worn somewhere with a much colder climate than here in Bonnie Scotland!

Some of the crates that have come aboard since we began our contemplations have surely given the game away now too! Emblazoned on them in bright red letters, that even a blind man on a fast horse could not fail to notice, is the name Archangel. So it does not take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that we must soon be on our way to the port of that name, lying above the Arctic circle in northern Russia. Even though we have not been officially notified as yet, we are now more than just passing sure that this is where we are bound!

The newly issued warmer clothing will be to help alleviate the tortures of the blisteringly cold conditions that we are about to contend with, once we reach those unfriendly Arctic waters.

The Royal Navy lads, after making their deliveries and having stayed a while longer for a bite to eat courtesy of the captain, are the last to leave the ship, the cargo trimmers having long since gone. Gathered on deck we wave our last goodbyes. All of us hang over the rail in order to get a final glimpse as, cheerful to the last man, they follow each other down the gangway. Last to leave us is a young red-haired rating with a broad Devon accent and an impish twinkle in his eye, obviously a lad with a sense of humour. His parting words float up to us as, turning he shouts back at us over his shoulder as he steps ashore, ‘Cheer up then, Geordies, now that you have all those arctic supplies, you’ll most probably be sent off to Cairo instead. Hey! Just think of all those dancing girls waiting for you!’

With a long, low wolf-whistle he parades along the quay back to the waiting truck, doing a very fair impression of an eastern belly dancer as he goes.

Our crew, in need of a diversion from the worries of the war readily appreciate his good-humoured banter. Their tensions lifted and momentarily allayed, our lads lose no time in responding with their very own rendition of a few lines from The Old Bazaar in Cairo, although the original lyricist, I can’t help thinking as their raucous chanting makes me smile, would never lay claim to the new words that they are now singing!

These lighter moments help to ease away the apprehension that is inevitably building up among the crew. Fuelled by the fear of the unknown, it grows at an astounding rate within each one of us but, full of trepidation after the first realization of where we are bound, we have now readily accepted this cheerful interlude with a new-found sense of pleasure.

The steward makes his way back to the aft galley having seen all our stores safely aboard. Every last piece of our cargo, consisting of both the offensive and defensive weapons of war is stowed deep in our holds, and so once again we find ourselves almost ready to sail.

Now in this quieter period as we make the last preparations the same old apprehensions can be felt re-asserting themselves. Disquieting thoughts of the terrible fate that had befallen the convoy before us now flood back into our minds. Just a few short months ago the ships of Convoy PQ17 had sailed the same route that we are about to take. The words ‘almost total annihilation’ go through my head at the very thought, beating to the pounding rhythm of my heart, whenever I think of that terrible disaster. Sometimes the sad memories crowd out the rest of my thoughts, so that I struggle to concentrate. I push the fears as far away into the dimly lit recesses of my mind. It would, after all, be too dangerous to let such memories take over from my concentration. I can only pray that we will not suffer an identical fate.

Every inch of our free deck space has now been utilized. The huge tanks, after being chain-lashed down, have been re-inspected as the slightest free movement at sea could prove far more lethal than any enemy attack. Our forward and aft decks have been transformed into grand obstacle courses. To get anywhere quickly in an emergency, it looks as if we will have to become Olympic hurdlers! I can also foresee the fun and games we will be having when the pockets of rainwater that are already lying in between the deck vehicles, freeze over. It could prove to be an extra hazard for the gun crews trying to get to their positions in double quick time during an attack.

Rumours that have been running rife amongst the men, since we sailed from the Tyne, are now confirmed without question. They have tried to guess and have placed bets on among themselves as to where our final port of call will be. Apart from being issued with our ‘arctic extras’ the red stencilled markings on the various boxes and crates have not gone unnoticed. We are all without question or further doubt sure now as to our final destination – Archangel, northern Russia.

Chapter 3

Our Hazardous Journey Begins

All the formalities now being completed, we are given the final clearance to set sail. The pilot comes aboard, and once more we loosen our bonds with dry land and under his direction slowly move out into the roads, on the crest of the full flowing tide. On board we also have the compass adjuster who will remain with us until he is fully satisfied with our new bearings. These will have to be regulated in order to compensate for all the conflicts of magnetism set up by the large metal content of our cargo.

We soon find ourselves safely out of Leith harbour, and with both the pilot’s and the compass adjuster’s work completed, the time has come for them to leave. The pilot cutter, a squat little boat surrounded by a mass of bobbing orange fenders, is already alongside, riding the slight swell, as it waits to retrieve the two men. An exchange of firm handshakes and they leave the bridge together, echoing back their wishes of ‘good luck’, and ‘safe voyage’ as they go with one last wave. The little boat slides away from our side with engines purring, and returns them swiftly in the direction of the harbour. Churning up water, her propellers leave a trail of foaming white in her wake, as she leaves us alone and facing the open sea once more.

Now we are to make our way around the coast to Loch Ewe, here to join up with the rest of the ships already assembling there, which will form the convoy known from now on as PQ18 to northern Russia.

Voyaging around the northern coast of Scotland is a quiet time with no special duties to perform. Just having our routine watch periods to contend with gives us plenty of time for contemplation. The thoughts of most of the crew, once released from their watch, must be back home with their families and loved ones, who will be thinking of them too; thoughts that cannot as yet be put into words, until clearance to write letters home is given.

The sun that has deserted us for so long now decides to play a game of hide and seek among the clouds. As a result, from time to time we are bathed in welcome bursts of its golden warmth. The seagulls stop their eternal screeching and whirling overhead and, swooping down in pairs from the heights, they come in for a closer look. Brazenly settling on any mast-top that is still free, or even sometimes landing on the turrets of the deck tanks, they preen their immaculate white plumage and walking along the skyward-pointing gun barrels, find a place of comfort in which to while away a few hours. Lazily stretching their enormous wings, they finally settle down to rest, sunning themselves long into