Crossing the Pond, wartime style.
Most interesting to read Hummingfrog's account of his westward Atlantic crossing, exactly a year before mine. It got off to a good start, leaving Heaton Park on a glorious summer's afternoon so that our journey via the fabled Settle-Carlisle railway proved a treat; the wonderfully wild scenery, almost total absence of life (other than sheep!), even the sulphurous passage of Blea Moor tunnel, it all remains a most vivid memory.
Dark fell as we left Carlisle and we dozed uneasily as the train trundled along heaven knew where, being finally tumbled out in the small hours on to some anonymous platform. Marching off thence in some disorder to an old warehouse filled with bunk beds holding a few dirty blankets apiece, we were told to "get our heads down" for a couple of hours; but it seemed only a minute or two before we were aroused again, given a greasy breakfast and then fell in for the short march to Gourock pier, where American GI's were boarding a train. Out in the Clyde was the means of their arrival, an enormous three-stacker in grey camouflage that could only be the Queen Mary. This was viewed with considerable relief; there were a number of known hell-ships on the North Atlantic run, but the Queens were not of them while their speed guaranteed virtual immunity from submarine attack.
Unlike many other liners converted for the trooping role, they were not stripped bare below decks as a means to slinging the maximum number of hammocks; all cabin furniture had been removed but the cabins themselves remained and were fitted with as many multi-tier bunks as could be squeezed in, while (joy of joys) the bathing and sanitary fittings remained in situ. True, only salt water came out of the hot taps, but that was better than no bath at all. Sharing a tourist class cabin with about twelve others, my companions & I had the run of most of the public parts of the ship, only the bow and stern sections plus the extreme upper decks being off limits.
However there appeared to be no hurry to sail, and we found ourselves allocated to various duties such as "shell door guard". This involved manning any open doors in the ship's side, presumably in order to discourage enemy agents or maybe potential stowaways; it was hardly an onerous duty, and as there were far more of us than doors it did not come round very often, being anyway preferable to menial tasks in the galley. There was plenty of time to admire the local scenery, which indeed was often very beautiful. Cool northwesterly winds gave superb visibility between showers, with staggeringly lovely views of the far hills of Argyll; seen after clearance of rain, they stood out in sharp relief with a pronounced bluish tint. Three good meals a day, cooked by US Army personnel with American victuals, were a welcome improvement over wartime British fare; altogether life looked quite good, and we were happy in our floating hotel.
After a few days of inactivity, things started to happen. Confined to the covered promenade deck with deadlights almost fully raised, it was just possible to discern the masts of a smaller vessel alongside gradually rising in relation to ourselves, indicating that a fuel tender was transferring its load. While this was in progress a rumour circulated to the effect that not only was it oil being loaded, some very important people were boarding as well. After a couple of hours the restrictions were eased, departure plainly imminent; volumes of smoke rolled from the two forward funnels, and for the first time no tenders or other vessels nudged alongside. In a maelstrom of foaming water, the ship turned majestically in its own length without assistance from tugs and began steaming slowly to the west----we were off at last!
The western shore with its mountainous backdrop never looked more beautiful, the ship's tannoy appropriately playing the fifth movement of Beethoven's "Pastorale" while she curved slowly southward down the Clyde estuary. Following the deep water channel, we sailed well into the western shore, thus giving a good view of the clean-looking whitewashed farmhouses and cottages which lay close along the water's edge. So heart-stopping was the scene, that I resolved to return and lodge hereabouts for an away-from-it-all holiday sometime after the war; needless to say I never did, but the emotion and nostalgia of that afternoon remain with me today more than half a century on.
Later there were good views of Arran and Ailsa Craig before the great lady turned to enter the North Channel, accelerating noticeably the while; our last sight of the old country, for at this point we received a belated summons to the evening meal, remaining below decks afterwards.
Slumber came fitfully as mysterious creaks and groans, accompanied by heavy vibration, told of our speedy passage into an increasingly hostile ocean; no doubt about it, the Queen was being driven hard. Our private world heaved and rolled in an unexpected way, so that some failed to partake in an unsteady walk to the first-class dining saloon (now the main mess hall) for breakfast. However, those who did learnt beyond doubt that our fellow passengers were indeed very important: no less than Winston himself, accompanied by several of his Cabinet, the Chiefs of Staff and assorted lesser dignitaries on their way to what the world would know later as the first Quebec Conference, where the Allied Leaders were to make vital decisions concerning the war's future course; we were, most certainly, in illustrious company!
On deck the screaming wind rendered an upright stance almost impossible, the huge rolling waves and masses of flying foam awe-inspiring. I was surprised at the degree to which the ship rolled and pitched, having always imagined that anything so large would be virtually unaffected by sea conditions; even allowing for top-heaviness due to the removal of cabin fittings below and the installation of guns and armour plate topside, she seemed alarmingly unsteady. The crew offered little reassurance, telling us that even in its peacetime rig it had rolled abominably (this was, of course, before the days of stabilisers). We were inclined to disbelieve their tale that the Queen Elizabeth had almost capsized in one bad storm, but indeed it was true; the ship had encountered a tremendous sea coincident with an alteration of heading, and came close to turning right over. Her sister's constant zig-zag course was thus observed with renewed interest.
Five minutes was, as I recall, the maximum period on any one heading, after which the helm was put sharply over for a forty-five degree turn in the direction opposite to the one previous; and, if this turn should coincide with an adverse sea, then so be it. The results could be uncomfortable, but were infinitely preferable to those to be expected from a torpedo; for (supposedly) a rate of 30+ knots, allied to an endless zig-zag, rendered such an attack impossible. All the great liners normally sailed alone using this technique, so it was with some surprise that we saw ourselves to be heavily escorted - a destroyer on either beam, with cruisers further off and (so we were told) flat-tops over the horizon, their planes reconnoitring ahead.
However, our close escorts were having problems. Apparently semi-submerged much of the time, the nearest destroyer was evidently forcing its way through the water rather than along the surface; drenched in foam and spray, with bows dipping & vanishing then re-emerging high into the air only to crash down once more, the conditions on board must have been intolerable. Its signal lamp began to blink; using our newly acquired skills (?) to read the morse, we were not surprised to learn that it would be unable to keep station if required to maintain speed. Nevertheless it did so for a few minutes more, presumably while the Commodore and his staff pondered the situation; then, slowly falling behind, it disappeared from view along with its companion. The heavier ships remained distantly visible for the time being, but plainly our speed was considered a greater safeguard than escorts.
There was little sign of our VIP's other than relatively minor ones such as Orde Wingate or Guy Gibson. On one occasion I observed a pair of sleeves, gold braid from cuff to elbow, resting on the rail of the bridge above which I assumed to belong to the Chief of Naval Staff, Sir Dudley Pound, but the other nabobs remained invisible. Our fellow passengers (the hoi polloi like us, that is) were a motley bunch; several hundred British air cadets, plus more of other European nationalities (mainly French), merchant and RN crews on their way to collect new ships from US yards, and so on. The total passenger complement did not amount to more than about 1500 as compared to the 14,000 odd carried eastbound, when the vast majority were American troops destined for the forthcoming invasion of Europe. We thus lived fairly comfortably, in contrast to the homeward run when sleeping accommodation was reputedly occupied in three 8-hour shifts and only two meals a day provided----a delight to look forward to on completion of our training.
Time passed pleasantly enough, and the weather gradually improved from the second day onward. Although all normal furniture had been removed, many of the interior fittings and fixtures remained in place, with the decor hardly altered; thus it was fairly easy to visualise the comfort and 1930's style elegance of this wonderful ship. The two Queens had suffered considerably less internal reworking in conversion to their wartime role than most other vessels, though whether or not this was due to political clout or other reasons was not clear. The 1st. class Dining Saloon was particularly impressive, with a huge wall chart of the Western Ocean plotting the ship's (peacetime) progress by means of a moveable symbol. Also of interest were the two lines of hinged brass plates that ran transversely right across the decks; on lifting them, one beheld the interesting spectacle of an approx. 2" gap in the deck planking constantly opening and closing as the Mary's 80,000 tons rode the Atlantic swell.
On the afternoon of the third day we formed up on the covered promenade deck for prime ministerial inspection. It was a rather ragged affair, for even the Queen Mary was not large enough to accommodate all of us parade-ground style so the rear ranks tended to degenerate into a disorderly rabble. It did not matter, for the purpose of the exercise was to enable us to see the great man rather than the other way round. He duly appeared dressed in a vaguely nautical outfit, escorted by a dazzling bevy of brass such as most of us had never before set eyes on. Walking quickly along the front two ranks he took most interest in the adjacent squad of Frenchmen, pausing to speak now and again. This exercise terminated rather abrubtly after one of them stated, in answer to the PM's query, that he had crossed to UK "in ze boat, M'sieur"; on being asked when, he replied "in 1938". The PM evidently decided that he had lost enough face for one day, and strode inside.
The following day the sea was benign, and in late morning a smudge of coastline appeared while behind us trailed a veritable armada of warships of all shapes and sizes. Our escort again, although whether or not it was the original one or a reception committee we never did discover. As the coast drew closer we saw that it was rocky but well-wooded and that we were entering a long tapering inlet, which the crew announced to be the entrance to Halifax harbour. A pilot-boat approached and lowered a pinnace, which received derisive cheers when it broke down about a hundred yards off our beam; after some frantic activity its engine spluttered back to life, the pilot transferred to the accompaniment of further jeers, and we steamed up the narrow channel to our destination.
OK not much of aviation interest here, but that of course came later!