High Explosive Bomb at Mortlake Road

February 24, 1944 was my mother's 40th Birthday. As this was only a week or so after my Grandmother's Birthday, the family had arranged to meet at the "Boathouse" for a quiet drink. Despite a sudden spate of short sharp air raids (the first for over two years) it was decided that the arrangements should stand.

This suited me as my uncle was a friend of the publican and on these rare occasions I was allowed to sit in the hotel's kitchen. Added to this was the prospect of a fizzy grapefruit drink and, if available, a bag of Smith's crisps. The plan therefore was for me to go onto the "Boathouse" at 21:30.

As I left my friend's place in Bushwood Road, around 100 German bombers were over England and as I walked past Kew Pond and onto the Green, the air-raid sirens began in the far distance. By the time I reached the Bridge the local siren was growling as it slowly died away. Already in the distance I could hear gunfire so I started to trot. When I eventually reached the doors of the Boathouse the gunfire was still far away and, passing through the heavy blackout curtains, I poked my head into the bar. I waved to the family and my uncle signalled that I should go into the kitchen.

Passing through the swing doors I was greeted by two female members of staff, one of whom I knew from previous visits. There were also two American servicemen, who appeared to be well acquainted with the girls. My father brought my grapefruit drink and I settled back to enjoy it. For a time everything was fine.

Suddenly it was as though a gun battery was in the car park. The windows rattled as the barrage increased and a cluster of bombs fell. One hit the centre of the bridge, two exploded in the river and the last fell near a surface shelter to the rear of the Pier House Laundry.

The crash of the explosions rocked the kitchen and, at that moment, I saw a flash to my right. Assuming that I was caught in the explosion I fled, in sheer panic, through the nearest exit at the rear of the kitchen. Rushing through I found myself in a dark passage but the door at the end was firmly locked. As I rattled it there was a thud on the outside and a flickering blue light glowed beneath the door.

With no chance of an exit I quickly returned to the kitchen. In the far corner of the kitchen an incendiary bomb was crackling away showering whitish blue pieces over the hard tiled floor. One of the American serviceman was lying flat on the tiles and yelling at the others to do likewise in case the device contained an explosive charge.

In the doorway my mother shouted at me to get out. Water was coming through the ceiling just above the door but she appeared oblivious to the fact that she was getting wet. Back into the lounge it was almost empty of customers. There was a commotion behind the bar, where possibly another device was burning. Together with my family we reached the car park where the noise of the guns and aircraft passing overhead accompanied the explosions of bombs. The sky was full of orange lights floating downwards. My father and uncle practically lifted my grandmother from the ground and we all hurried across the car park. One or two unexploded incendiaries were lying around and we were careful to avoid them. Plenty of activity on the far side of the Bridge indicated that Brentford was having a hectic time.

A firebomb had struck a solitary vehicle by the car park entrance and lodged between the bonnet and wing. The motorist was tackling the fire with what appeared to be a quart bottle of beer!

Up on the Green a number of twinkling lights marked the spots where bombs were burning on the grass and away to the right, closer to Ferry Lane, flames were shooting from the top floor of a building. We dashed below ground into the shelter which was the first time I had taken cover on Kew Green since September, 1940.

Eventually the all-clear sounded and we emerged and made a way to Priory Road. There was now nothing to be seen around the green. All the incendiaries and the fire further over had been extinguished. There was still a glow in the sky from a fire much further east, but apart from this, complete darkness.

The Boathouse was still there (which surprised me) with the only evidence being a number of different coloured patches on the roof where the bombs had pierced through. A number of lads had managed to obtain Thermite from some of the unexploded devices but this proved difficult to ignite!

I recall that the events left me feeling a little light-headed and this took a day or two to calm down. These days we would probably call it traumatic stress.

February 24, 1944 was my mother's 40th Birthday. As this was only a week or so after my Grandmother's Birthday, the family had arranged to meet at the "Boathouse" for a quiet drink. Despite a sudden spate of short sharp air raids (the first for over two years) it was decided that the arrangements should stand.

This suited me as my uncle was a friend of the publican and on these rare occasions I was allowed to sit in the hotel's kitchen. Added to this was the prospect of a fizzy grapefruit drink and, if available, a bag of Smith's crisps. The plan therefore was for me to go onto the "Boathouse" at 21:30.

As I left my friend's place in Bushwood Road, around 100 German bombers were over England and as I walked past Kew Pond and onto the Green, the air-raid sirens began in the far distance. By the time I reached the Bridge the local siren was growling as it slowly died away. Already in the distance I could hear gunfire so I started to trot. When I eventually reached the doors of the Boathouse the gunfire was still far away and, passing through the heavy blackout curtains, I poked my head into the bar. I waved to the family and my uncle signalled that I should go into the kitchen.

Passing through the swing doors I was greeted by two female members of staff, one of whom I knew from previous visits. There were also two American servicemen, who appeared to be well acquainted with the girls. My father brought my grapefruit drink and I settled back to enjoy it. For a time everything was fine.

Suddenly it was as though a gun battery was in the car park. The windows rattled as the barrage increased and a cluster of bombs fell. One hit the centre of the bridge, two exploded in the river and the last fell near a surface shelter to the rear of the Pier House Laundry.

The crash of the explosions rocked the kitchen and, at that moment, I saw a flash to my right. Assuming that I was caught in the explosion I fled, in sheer panic, through the nearest exit at the rear of the kitchen. Rushing through I found myself in a dark passage but the door at the end was firmly locked. As I rattled it there was a thud on the outside and a flickering blue light glowed beneath the door.

With no chance of an exit I quickly returned to the kitchen. In the far corner of the kitchen an incendiary bomb was crackling away showering whitish blue pieces over the hard tiled floor. One of the American serviceman was lying flat on the tiles and yelling at the others to do likewise in case the device contained an explosive charge.

In the doorway my mother shouted at me to get out. Water was coming through the ceiling just above the door but she appeared oblivious to the fact that she was getting wet. Back into the lounge it was almost empty of customers. There was a commotion behind the bar, where possibly another device was burning. Together with my family we reached the car park where the noise of the guns and aircraft passing overhead accompanied the explosions of bombs. The sky was full of orange lights floating downwards. My father and uncle practically lifted my grandmother from the ground and we all hurried across the car park. One or two unexploded incendiaries were lying around and we were careful to avoid them. Plenty of activity on the far side of the Bridge indicated that Brentford was having a hectic time.

A firebomb had struck a solitary vehicle by the car park entrance and lodged between the bonnet and wing. The motorist was tackling the fire with what appeared to be a quart bottle of beer!

Up on the Green a number of twinkling lights marked the spots where bombs were burning on the grass and away to the right, closer to Ferry Lane, flames were shooting from the top floor of a building. We dashed below ground into the shelter which was the first time I had taken cover on Kew Green since September, 1940.

Eventually the all-clear sounded and we emerged and made a way to Priory Road. There was now nothing to be seen around the green. All the incendiaries and the fire further over had been extinguished. There was still a glow in the sky from a fire much further east, but apart from this, complete darkness.

The Boathouse was still there (which surprised me) with the only evidence being a number of different coloured patches on the roof where the bombs had pierced through. A number of lads had managed to obtain Thermite from some of the unexploded devices but this proved difficult to ignite!

I recall that the events left me feeling a little light-headed and this took a day or two to calm down. These days we would probably call it traumatic stress.

I have worked overtime and rest days throughout Royal Ascot Week dozens of times over the years but I think the day I picked up Alf and Daisy is the freshest in my mind. It was a gorgeous day and my driver and I were on our normal service duty, 701 from Gravesend. I guessed the young couple who boarded us up the Old Kent Road were off to the races — best clothes and a paper carrier bag holding a warm cardigan, sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper and a lemonade bottle full of cold tea practically shouted “out for the day at Ascot” — and so it was. They sat about halfway up the coach, making a start on the sandwiches almost immediately after paying their fare. Alf had done the trip before and kept telling Daisy how quickly we should travel once we had left the London traffic behind and what a great day they were going to enjoy. Daisy was very quiet until we crossed the river at Lambeth Bridge and approached Victoria. Then, obviously in strange country, began to ply Alf with questions — “Where were we now?”, “How much farther was the race course?”, “What was the great big building over there?”. Although he had made the trip once before, I suspect that Alf had probably been more likely to be studying form in his newspaper than looking out the window at the passing scene but he rose to the occasion nobly and when he didn’t know the answer to a question he promptly made up one of his own. Thus I learnt that St. George’s Hospital at Hyde Park Corner was “some big toff’s house” and Hyde Park Corner itself became Marble Arch! Every time I passed up and down the coach collecting fares I overheard more of this highly amusing conversation and I must admit I began to see the route in quite a different light from that day on.

But the best was yet to come. Within about one and a half miles of our destination the coach had to slow down considerably as the Royal Carriage swung out of a lane in front of us. It was a beautiful sight — the horses groomed to perfection, the silver in the harness winking in the bright sunlight, the panels of the coach-work gleaming with a mirror-like polish and the groom and postillions at the back — very smart in their Royal Livery. Obviously they were going to pick up the Royal Family and take them to the course. Then, from behind me, came the unmistakable voice of Daisy with yet another question, “Why are we going so slow, Alf?” Not being able to see from his seat, Alf got up and walked to the front and I stood aside so that he could see the Royal Coach in all its glory. He took one look and then turned his head back to call out, “No wonder we’re going so blinking slow — we’re behind a HORSE AND CART!”

At least that episode was more amusing than yet another journey on the 701 route. My driver at the time was Tom, a young bachelor of about twenty-five who lived alone in a caravan at Wraysbury. We knew it would be a busy journey, leaving Staines at about 8 a.m. and due at Victoria about an hour later. The traffic was heavy through Houslow and Brentford and even heavier when we pulled up at traffic lights near Kew Bridge, alongside Brentford Market. The lights changed to green and the coach pulled away. Seconds later I became aware that strangled noises were coming from the driving cab alongside me. At first I thought Tom was trying to sing and turned to joke about the quality of his voice. To my horror I saw that he was half up from the driving seat, hands dropped from the wheel, saliva trickling from the corner of his mouth and eyes bolting from his head. Luckily, his foot had also slipped partly off the accelerator pedal but the engine was still running and the coach travelling at about ten miles per hour towards the oncoming traffic. Without consciously realising what I was doing, I leaned over, thrusting my right arm across Tom to reach the handbrake and struggling to pull the wheel towards the kerb with my left. To my relief, the coach responded, actually mounting the kerb and running some yards along it. Fate was kind that day as it was 4th October and my wedding anniversary and there were no cyclists riding on the nearside at that moment and no pedestrians standing on the kerbside.

Someone opened the door and the driver of a passing trolley bus who had witnessed the incident dashed in and turned off the engine while an inspector materialised to phone for an ambulance. The odd thing about the whole affair was that I remained as cool as a cucumber until after the ambulance had taken poor Tom off to hospital — even writing out an auxiliary waybill and getting the passengers on the next coach to continue their journey — but as soon as that was accomplished I almost collapsed and had to be half carried into a nearby teashop till I felt fit enough to travel again. I felt a real fool — shaking like a leaf and crying like a baby for almost twenty minutes. A team of mechanics arrived from Chiswick Works to examine the coach and, finding everything in order, take it back to Chiswick for a more detailed check-up. Until we knew what was wrong with Tom it was always possible that he had been affected by fumes or even suffered an electric shock of some kind.

The inspector put me on a bus back to Staines where I had to make a detailed report, both written and verbal, to the Chief Inspector and arrived to find that the news had gone before me and I was treated like some kind of heroine. True — I had averted what might have been a very serious accident, but since I had acted without even thinking about it and since I had been moved by nothing more heroic than a strong sense of self preservation I felt rather a fraud. Probably sensing this Ron Coles — a depot inspector at that time but now the Chief — told me the police would almost undoubtedly be along to arrest me soon on a charge of driving without a licence!

We later learned that Tom had suffered an epileptic fit and would no longer be allowed to drive for us. Apparently, when questioned by the doctors, he could remember waking up on the floor of his caravan on several occasions in the past and had believed that he had nothing more than a restless night. The attack on the coach was the first time that the affliction had manifested itself in waking hours. Thus make it possible to diagnose and treat him.

The following day, with a relief driver, I did the same duty and one of the passengers brought me a big box of chocolates. It was a very nice gesture on her part but there was another sequel to the story that still makes me laugh when I remember it. On completing the day’s work I was told that I was to go to London to meet one of the Board Managers who wished to thank me for my actions the day before. Instead of reporting for work I was to present myself at Western House, Oxford Circus at 10 a.m. and even provided with a special Green Line Pass for the occasion. When the news got around in the garage my mates began to speculate as to what form the gratitude would take — a life-saving medal, perhaps? It was almost certainly a sum of money — estimations going even as high as twenty pounds.

Although still feeling something of a fraud and very embarrassed over the whole affair I duly arrived at Western House and entered the office where I was greeted by a very distinguished gentleman whose name I never caught and do not know to this day. After congratulating me on my presence of mind and coolness of action he mentioned that his fellow members on the board agreed that I deserved some sort of reward for my bravery and enquired as to whether I had been a special Green Line Pass to travel from Staines. On being assured that this was the case he went on to say that I was being paid and would not have to work that day so the rest of the day was my own and I was free to use the Pass and go wherever I liked on the Green Lines for the rest of the day! Somehow I managed to keep a straight face while thanking him and leaving the office only to collapse into a fit of giggles on emerging into Oxford Circus. Passers-by must have thought I was crazy but the thought of rewarding a Green Line conductor with a free pass to travel round for a day was really rather comical. After spending eight hours every working day doing just that the last thing I wanted on my day off was a Green Line ride! Instead I returned, mostly by Underground, to Hounslow and then bus to Staines — it was quicker that way! Within an hour of leaving London I was handing in the special pass and telling my mates about the interview. I am certain that at least half of them believed I was making it all up but an official report came back to the Chief Inspector the following week to verify what I had said. I’m still laughing!

For some reason the incidents I remember on the 725 road are almost all linked to bad weather conditions; heavy fogs between Bromley and Crayford, deep snow between Dartford and Gravesend and a torrential downpour that flooded Crayford for a depth of four feet and held us up for several hours. As the coaches were heated we rarely wore overcoats and a sudden fog would mean the conductor leaning out of the open door to keep an eye on the kerb and guide the driver along the road. Not as bad as walking in front of the tram with a flare perhaps but a cold and miserable duty when you were twenty miles from home and shivering in a summer uniform, so I was somewhat less than delighted when I was approached by a lady passenger warmly clad in a fur coat and gloves who complained of the draught caused by the open door and couldn’t we go a bit faster as she didn’t want to be late at the Bridge Club! This thoughtless remark left me speechless — but not so my driver, however — he brought the coach to a halt, closed the door and climbed out of the driving seat, “Here you are, ducks,” he said, holding the door to the cab open, “There’s a nice heater in there to keep your feet warm — see if you can get us there any quicker!” Without another word the irate passenger meekly returned to her seat and we proceeded on our way.

We dreaded deep snow, especially between Dartford and Gravesend. There were several gravel pits some ten feet or so from the road with only a frail wire fence between the coach and a sheer drop of sixty feet or more. No matter how slowly and carefully the coach was driven there was always the danger of a heavy lorry skidding into us and sending us over the top. I suppose the sand and gravel lorry drivers were on piecework — they always seemed to be driving like maniacs on that road no matter what the weather was like. One of our coaches did bring the wire down once but, mercifully, came to a halt a bare eighteen inches from the edge.

In a heavy downpour one day, on a narrow winding country lane between Chislehurst and Sidcup, we were overtaken by a car. Spotting another car coming round the bend in the opposite direction, the lady driver cut in front of us very sharply and my driver had to brake very quickly in a vain attempt to avoid hitting her car, the front of the coach catching the tail light of the car as it swerved in front of us. Our relief, that the accident was nothing more than a broken taillight, was very short lived. Those old RF coaches were notorious for vicious back-wheel skids and this one was no exception — the back came round right in the path of the oncoming car, crushing the bonnet and offside wheel and smashing the windscreen. By some miracle, the driver was unhurt but absolutely furious — the car was only three days old and looked a total wreck. Climbing across the passenger seat, he charged down the road towards the lady driver, by now out of her car, waving her hands in the air and in tears on surveying the damage she had caused. She looked so pathetic and apologetic that the poor man stopped shouting and swearing and ended up putting an arm round her and supplying a large white handkerchief to dry her tears!

Of course, all accidents have to be fully reported on the appropriate form at the conclusion of the day’s work, in the crew’s own time, and all accidents are entered on the driver’s record should London Transport decide that their driver was in the wrong. Despite a letter of abject apology from the lady driver and another from the driver of the wrecked car stating that, in his opinion, the accident involving his own car was totally unavoidable; my driver was held to blame on two counts: 1) He was too close to the car in front and 2) He had been trained on the skid patch at Chiswick on how to control a skid and was, therefore, to blame for damaging the other car! In vain, he protested that all skid patch training was with a double deck bus on an enormous square half the size of a football pitch — whereas the accident involved an RF coach on a narrow country lane. His appeal was dismissed, he lost a day’s pay and the accident was entered on his record sheet.

I suppose the reason behind such harsh judgements is to keep the drivers alert to possible accident situations in future, though it frequently results in a driver giving notice and leaving the job. There is no doubt that London Transport employs some of the finest drivers in the world as a result of such high standards.

I would have been about three years of age when this happened.
During raids and alerts, my grandmother would sit in my bedroom until I had fallen asleep. We lived in West London, and it never seemed to be worthwhile to go to the shelter during raids, so I slept in my bedroom. On this occasion, my grandmother had stayed with me until I fell asleep. I do remember vague memories of searhlights, and the noise of the Anti aircraft batteries firing from Ravenscourt Park some distance away.
I awoke some time after the raid had finished. I lay awake listening to rather strange noses coming from outside of my bedroom, but within the house. I got up out of bed, opened the bedroom door and walked onto the landing. There in the stair well, up and down the stairs, numbering at least between fifteen and twenty, were smoke-blackened exhasuted filthy London firemen. They had fought the fires from the houses up the street, set alight by incendiaries, and my mother and grand-mother were busy giving them tea, cigarrettes and whisky. They were still dressed in their thigh boots, and protective clothing, wet and dirty with the effects of the fires. I will never forget the strained haunted look on their faces, before my mother came over, and put me gently but firmly back into bed. I fell asleep, and the next day with great excitement saw the results of enemy action.

The Atlantic

By now we were well into the open ocean and meeting with the full strength of the Atlantic swell. The ungainly shape of the carrier tilted first this way - and then that - in a long rhythm of pitching and rolling quite different from the Manchester’s responses to movement caused by the sea. The Victorious, with a displacement of about 22,000 tons, rode the swell heavily, ponderously. It was while I was peeling spuds, perched in a kind of balcony projecting from the ship's side about half way between the waterline and the flight deck, that I first realised how slow and extensive was the ship's motion.

The sequence tended to be like this. For ten or fifteen seconds we would be almost on an even keel, as the carrier moved along the line of a trough between two swells, two or three hundred yards apart. As the next swell, always from the west, approached the vessel, she would begin to heel to starboard, and the water surface in front of my balcony would come nearer as I was tilted over more and more towards it. For a moment or two I would be struggling to hold myself on my stool, my feet strongly braced against stanchions at the balcony edge, as I peered down into the blue-black waters only about fifteen feet below. Then the swell would lift the great mass of the carrier on its shoulders, and pass underneath it. The Victorious would begin to right herself, come back to vertical, and then, as she slid down the back of the swell, roll slowly over to port. Now I would be raised on my balcony sixty or seventy feet above the water, and look out into the sky, or across at one of our escorting destroyers rolling and butting her way through configurations of minor waves that complicated the overall pattern of the swell. The huge mass would finally smash down into the next trough, and then sluggishly right herself, before running on an even keel for a while and then recommencing the same sequence.
As I was out in the open air, and on the lee side of the vessel, I was able to withstand this motion better than I had feared. I think I vomited briefly a couple of times, and then learnt how to adjust my breathing to counteract the effect of the roll, taking in air as she fell away under me, and expelling it steadily as she rose. I found it easier to stand than sit, for then I could tilt my body against the ship and remain more or less upright. So I placed my two buckets between my feet - one bucket with the unpeeled spuds in, the other with rinsing water and peelings in it. Facing forward to help me gauge the ship’s movement by the swinging of the bows, I did my share of the work as a scullion, becoming increasingly proficient at it.

Another skill I acquired was the art of going up and downstairs in heavy weather. I learnt that it was a pointless expenditure of effort to try to climb up the metal stairs of a companionway when the deck was rising, for my body felt twice as heavy as normal, and each step was heavy labour. If I waited till the deck was dropping away, all I had to do was kick my feet in and out smartly as the near vertical stairway feel away below me, and run my hand up the chain at the side to steady myself - and in a trice I would reach the top. The same trick worked in reverse for descending: wait for the ship to be rising under me, and kick my feet in and out as the ladder passed by - and I was at the bottom. In each case I had hardly moved through the air: the ship had changed her position in respect of mine.

Provided the weather wasn't too rough, we were allowed on the flight deck, with lifejackets on. I felt strangely exposed to be walking on that tilting platform, without any guardrail protection at the edge. In sunny spells Coates and I, with others from the fo'c'sle messes on the Manchester, would promenade up and down the length of the deck. In part this was simply for exercise - the Navy made a virtue of moving your bowels once a day - but it was also to give ourselves the space to move more freely than we could between decks, as well as to chat and chaff each other the meanwhile. Some bravado was also involved, for some of us would see how close we dared go aft to the stern edge of the flight deck. There the heaving and movement was accentuated, and staring down into the heaving swell and the ship's wake could induce a sense of vertigo and make you feel as if you were about to be pitched overboard into those powerful waves.

The further north we went, the fewer were the sailors walking the windy flight deck, and the more were the rumours passed around about which port we were making for. Liverpool, said some, but Glasgow seemed more likely. Crewmen of the Victorious believed she was due for repair, which increased speculation, but did not point clearly to where survivors would be disembarked — which was all that interested the sailors in transit. But day after day went by without any land heaving into sight. We knew from the sun we were travelling east, and should therefore see something soon.

When at last the cry went up, we all rushed up on to the flight deck, hunching our shoulders and clustering together against the wind. On our starboard bow was a great green headland, with one whitewashed lighthouse and a small cottage nearby. Surely we had seen that before ...
'It's Cape Wrath!' shouted one of the Manchester men. 'Back to bloody Scapa then!'
There was a groan of disappointment. Rumours flew about wildly: we were going into Scapa to be kitted out on Hoy, and then kept ashore there to await posting to another ship; we were to be transferred to a troop carrier and taken down to Glasgow … But everyone was proved wrong when the Victorious steamed on the whole night. Next morning we were still making way; land lay on our right hand, but the sun told us we were now moving south. Scotland's east coast! This was confirmed when around midday we found ourselves passing Aberdeen, identified by a sailor whose home was in that city. I had been on deck since mid-morning, for the chance to see more of the coastline of Britain was something I didn’t want to miss. Also I was aware that mines might have been sown by an enemy submarine in what was supposed to be a swept channel, and I did not want to be trapped below decks when we were so close to safety.

Home

Around tea-time we anchored off a port. The ship's tannoy told all survivors to gather in the aircraft hangar to await transfer ashore to Arbroath, where a train was said to be ready to take us further south. We were taken away in barges hauled by tugs, and made fast alongside a simple jetty. Dry land again underfoot, and Britain: I had made it. The adventure was complete. But there were no welcoming bands to parade us victoriously into the town: only surly Petty Officers dragooning us into squads to be marched along the dockside and into a railway siding where a number of carriages were drawn up waiting. These looked as if they had been taken out of some dusty storage shed. As we clambered up into them from ground level, we found that we would have to travel four a side, crammed together into the space meant for three. Once we had got in, the doors were locked on us; the temptation might be too great for some to make a break, especially as none of us had any movement papers and thus there was no efficient means of checking on us. So we waited, and waited, until at last an engine came and coupled up and slowly began easing us out of that siding.

The journey south had begun, but we found ourselves stopping frequently, for we were a special train and had to fit into the gaps between scheduled services. Several times we were shoved into a siding to let other trains pass; as they did so, we jeered at the driver and passengers, shouting:
'Yaah! Civvies!'
'There's a war on — ain’t you heard?'
The passengers looked back in alarm to see so many ruffianly figures hanging out of the railway carriage windows, only half dressed as seamen. Then we would hear the whistle from our own engine and it would reluctantly puff and sigh and clank, as it again took the strain of the old coaches and their charge of ragamuffin sailors.
We noticed too that there was no question of pausing at any station. We trailed through Perth and then Stirling, many of us casting longing eyes at the railway buffet. The vision of tea and buns grew gradually into images of much more substantial meals, as we approached the border and the evening lengthened into night. Our headway was still desperately slow, and hunger was becoming a major concern; thirst too.

But the train merely dragged on, southwards. Soon sailors were spreading themselves out on the floor for the night. This move, once begun, spread so swiftly that the only bit of flooring I could find was immediately outside a toilet. Throughout the night, as the train clanked on and stopped and started again, men stepped over me, or in their half-awake condition stubbed their toes against me, or kicked me in anger at being in their way. They seemed to come every few minutes to use the loo. By morning I was stiff and bruised, hungry and very thirsty. My tongue was thick and furred, and I felt that the train was some kind of prison, out of which I might never be allowed. We could be shunted into a siding somewhere, and forgotten. Then we would climb out through the windows, I reasoned, and all go absent without leave, or AWOL.

Nevertheless we must have made considerable headway during the night hours. By daylight names on hoardings gave clues that we must by now be somewhere in the home counties and apparently making for London. The mood in the train, however, was becoming quite rebellious, with ugly outbursts of temper between men. We had had nothing to eat or drink since late afternoon in Arbroath. As we shuffled into the outskirts of London around eleven in the morning, we hung out of the windows, trying to attract attention from anyone we could see. At windows of three-storey houses backing onto the tracks women appeared, roused by our shouting:
'How about a cup o’ char, then, love?'
'Just throw us down yer teapot, then!'
'Got a crust o’ bread for a shipwrecked sailor?'

Finally we pulled in at a derelict-looking station somewhere in the Willesden area. There was no-one about but Petty Officers, equipped with keys to unlock the carriage doors.
'Out yer get, then. Look smart! Fall in on the platform!'
Stiff and famished, we stretched our limbs at last in the unwonted space of the platform, ignoring the harrying of the Petty Officers. 'How about some grub, then, Chief?'
'Some char - we ain't drunk since yesterday, not a drop!'
The PO’s looked incredulously at us. It was clear they had no idea what our journey had been like. It soon came out that they had simply been told to stand by for survivors who needed re-kitting. The sailors, especially the older hands, lost no time in telling the PO’s just what the score was, and all pretence of trying to discipline us into three ranks disappeared.

Not far from me a PO was speaking to a group of sailors.
'All the gen we got was to take you from the station to the pusser's stores - that's nearby, only a few hundred yards down the road - and get you kitted out.'
'They got a canteen there, then?'
'Yeah, or a NAAFI?'
The PO hung his head. 'Not that I've seen.'
'Gawd Christ!'
'Come back from the Med, and this is the way they treat yer!'
By now sailors were breaking off here and there and going to the station toilet, where some cold taps had been found.
'Once we're kitted out,' a Leading Seaman asked, ‘what then?'
'You get a pass for indefinite leave home,' replied the PO.
There was a gasp of satisfaction. 'Home leave!'
'What are we waiting for!'
'Come on - fall in then!'
'The sooner the kitting out's done, we can all get away!'
'Roll on six o' bleedin’ clock!'
'I can just feel that pint goin' down me throat!'

Within minutes we were walking, not marching, along a drab back street of London in some industrial zone, and turned in to a large warehouse. There we shed our survivors' garments (though I kept the paint-stained overalls as a kind of memento of the Manchester) and were issued with the full set of clothing and equipment, just as had happened on my second day in Collingwood. In the warmth of late August we had to try on all the articles to get the right size. But this time the men behind the counter couldn't bully us as they had when we were raw recruits. It was we who did the choosing, and satisfied ourselves that we were getting what suited us. Yet the boots were stiff and squeaked as I walked; the socks were too thick for summer wear; the cap was stubbornly round and would not yield easily to my attempts at wrestling its brim into the shape of my head. The kitbag, filled with all the bits and pieces, was heavy and lumpy. Bearing it on my shoulder, and wearing full uniform for the first time since leaving Scapa for the Med, I moved through to the pay office, was issued with a fresh identity card - retaining my Official Number of PJX 294798 - and paid arrears for July and August, the sum being entered in a new paybook. Last of all I got a travel warrant for the underground journey to Turnham Green station, and a pass saying 'On indefinite leave'.

I must have had a cup of tea and a bun at a station somewhere; I have a feeling I passed through King's Cross. That would have meant taking the tube to Hammersmith, and then the familiar District Line train passing through Ravenscourt Park - a glimpse of Latymer, my old school - and of Stamford Brook — crossing the bridge under which I used to walk as a schoolboy every morning and evening - and so to Turnham Green.
It felt strange to be carrying a whole kitbag down the station stairs, so familiar from my adolescence, and turning into Bedford Park again. I had forgotten my parents' new address; all I remembered was that it was close to Mrs Brunsden's house. I recalled that this was 13 Fairfax Road, from visits paid there in the mid-1930s. So I rang the bell.
Mrs Brunsden - long nose, enormous spectacles, tall and bony - opened the door, and gasped.
'Hallo, Mrs Brunsden. I'm looking for my parents' house.'
'Along there,' she managed to say, scarcely able to find her voice at the shock of seeing me suddenly at the door, and in sailor's uniform. 'Nineteen.'
'Thank you.' She stood there, stupefied, so I went down the path and shut the gate behind me, nodding a goodbye to her.

Strangely enough I can hardly remember anything of the moment of home-coming itself. I have the impression that it was my sister who opened the door, and on seeing me whooped for joy. But no memory remains of how my parents responded to my reappearance. I know that they had heard that the Manchester had been lost, and that most of the crew had made their way into internment in North Africa; I am not sure any information had been given about survivors getting back to Britain.

I reached home late in August. The Manchester had been torpedoed on the 13th of that month, and so the journey back must have taken about a fortnight. I remember telling them about the exploits we had been through, and feeling proud to have covered already both the Arctic and the Med. But it felt very strange to be back in Chiswick, where I had spent my early teens in another house, and living again for a while with my father and mother, now a little aged, but still basically unchanged.