Читать книгу Fragments of War - Joyce Hibbert - Страница 12

3

Sinking of the S.S. Sinkiang

Radio Officer Stanley Salt was in the British Merchant Navy. In 1941, when only nineteen, the Derbyshireman encountered his wartime ordeal which he describes in this graphic account.

When april 1942, arrived the inhabitants of Calcutta were facing life with a sense of grim determination. Defence preparations were proceeding with the utmost expedition, the Japanese were pushing northward in Burma, and reports were circulating that the penal colony of the Andaman Islands had been occupied by the enemy.

“I was a Radio Operator at the time and assigned to ships operating in Indian coastal waters. I’d just returned from a short trip to Madras and during the trip it had become increasingly clear that the Bay of Bengal was no longer the peaceful, serene expanse of water that it had been at the beginning of the year. I began to envy fellow seafarers who were operating on the West cost of India; despite the heat of the Persian Gulf it was far healthier than the East coast where enemy subs lurked close to the beaches. And so, on 3 April it came as a welcome relief to me when I was assigned to the S.S. Sinkiang. From information I mustered after reporting for duty, I understood she was bound for Colombo and possibly the West Coast.

“She was a small ship even for coastal service. Tonnage 2646 and she carried a mixed crew. Her firemen and seamen were Chinese, the stewards Indian, and the officers British.

“We sailed the next morning, Easter Saturday. The Sinkiang nosed her way downstream through the muddy waters of the Hooghly shortly after dawn. Our first intimation of a troublesome voyage came after we’d been under way a little more than two hours. I picked up distress calls from ships anchored downstream between us and the estuary, in Diamond Harbour. They reported an aerial attack by a long range enemy seaplane. We arrived at Diamond Harbour late in the afternoon and anchored for the night. We could see little effect of the plane’s visit, only one ship appeared slightly damaged.

“Aldis lamps began to blink at dawn the following morning as messages were exchanged. Shortly afterwards, one after another, sixteen anchors were hoisted from the mud and the ships fell into line ahead station, heading toward the open sea. Midday found us passing the pilot vessel stationed at the mouth of the Ganges. Emerging from the river, each ship took up its convoy station; four columns of four with the commodore ship, the Tak Sang, a fast China coaster, taking station number 31, i.e. third column from starboard, leading ship. We were joined by our only escort – two Blenheim bombers which flew in wide arcs to the eastward.

“Late that afternoon I was on watch listening to the incessant tropical static when loud distress signals suddenly came through the headphones. From their strength it was obvious the victim was not far away. She was the Harpasa, some forty miles astern and reporting that she was being bombed. One hit had disabled her steering and she was being abandoned. The Sinkiang was primarily designed for sailing around the China coast and was not fitted with voice-pipe communication from radio room to bridge. When I had a message on hand the only means of informing the bridge officer was to go outside and yell. Stepping outside to call for the quartermaster, I noticed the Tak Sang out in front of the convoy and altering course to retrace our own course. She was heading in the direction of the stricken Harpasa. We learned later that Harpasa should have been in the convoy but she had been delayed with engine trouble and was endeavouring to join us when the attack occurred. Sailing back through the columns, the commodore hoisted the signal ‘All ships break convoy at sunset’. Those orders were executed. The ships scattered and slowly the gaps between them widened. We sailed on, southward through the night.

“Shortly before the first streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky, I commenced my watch. When our troubles began the sun was in full sight, the weather was perfect, and there was the slightest suggestion of a breeze over the deep swell of the calm sea.

“At approximately 6 a.m. distress calls started. This time from our companions of the previous day. One after another four ships reported being attacked by enemy aircraft. The attacks were uniform. It was zoom in, drop one bomb and then beat it. After the fourth there was a lull and I waited anxiously for the next transmission. The sudden noise of an aircraft skimming over our topmasts changed the direction of my attention. There was a splash, a flash, and a loud bang in the sea just off the port beam as a bomb exploded harmlessly in the water. I was soon transmitting our plea of distress and waiting tensely for the return run. All hands gathered at action stations and all eyes were glued to the skies but as the minutes ticked by no further attacks transpired. After a sufficient lapse, the old man gave the order for dispersal.

“By 8:30 a.m. the heat was pouring down and all hands were stripped to minimum apparel. Once again the silence of the ether was broken, this time by the most dreaded call of all merchantmen – ‘Enemy surface raider’. A nearby ship reported sighting an enemy cruiser, then modified that to read ‘two enemy cruisers and one aircraft-carrier’. Once again a ship in our immediate vicinity was the victim. In her next message she reported being shelled and at that point we could see the gun flashes in the distance. Only minutes later two ships took shape on the eastern horizon, a flat-top and a cruiser. The old man himself came running down from the bridge with a messeage for me to transmit. I began to tap out our plight to the listening shore station; RRR S.S. Sinkiang SIGHTED ENEMY CRUISER AND AIRCRAFT-CARRIER. The old man rushed back down again almost immediately. This time the news was worse. The message: BEING CHASED BY ENEMY CRUISER. I despatched it, then stole a glance through the porthole. The enemy ship was now assuming enormous proportions and coming up fast on the port quarter. Already I could see her for’ard gun turret trained on my radio room. Or so it seemed!

“On sighting the enemy we had changed our course and were now making a beeline for the nearest point of land which was about twenty-five miles away. In reality we never had a chance to make it against her superior speed. The next time I looked through the porthole there was no doubt in my mind that we were at point-blank range.

“Thoughts of my loved ones back home raced through my mind and I bade them a silent goodbye. I was waiting, waiting, waiting – expecting to be blown to pieces any moment. Then I did a peculiar thing. I walked to the door and closed it. That brought me a strange feeling of protection. I sat down again and then IT happened.

“I saw the flash of guns through the porthole, there was a terrific crash on board and the ship gave a heeling shudder. There was the alarming sound of escaping steam. My movements were almost automatic. The transmitter was still running and I started to send RRR Sinkiang BEING SHELLED ... halfway through there was another explosion as more shells struck. So far I was still intact so I carried on. Another flash and then a blinding one at starboard. With that my eardrums felt as though they were bursting and I was on the floor with the door beside me. The porthole wasn’t there anymore. My radio room had been partially demolished.

“I soon discovered that I hadn’t escaped scot free. I picked myself up and looked down at my feet which felt strangely warm and wet. Blood was pouring from gaping holes in my legs. Panic seized me. I tried to run and couldn’t. Something was catching on my left ankle. A wood splinter, the size of an average piece of kindling, was protruding from just above my right ankle on the inside of my leg. I bent down, pulled, and it came out with a sucking sound. And then I ran. I jumped about four feet over a shell-hole in the deck and noticed the steam issuing from the engine-room skylight as I ran by. I was passing the old man’s cabin when the next salvo struck. I don’t know where it landed but the bang and shudder registered on my consciousness.

“I reached the starboard side where all hands still alive had gathered. Two Chinese seamen were trying to lower a boat under the direction of the old man. He took one look at my bloody legs and pointed to the boat. It was already three feet or so below the level of the boat deck and I had to jump down into it. I was looking around for the drain plug when the bow swung down, pitching me into the sea. As I landed in the drink the bow of the suspended lifeboat hit me in the back and dragged me under. I struggled free and floated astern, kicking out instinctively as the Sinkiang propeller passed me. The inertia of the ship was carrying her on.

“The distance between the two ships and myself widened rapidly and I became a spectator of the drama’s final act. I watched salvo after salvo being pumped into the Sinkiang. At each hit, huge pieces of debris were flung some two hundred feet into the air, landing all around me, although by then I was a fair distance away. At last the end came. Her bow reared into the air and she went down almost perpendicular. A thick column of water spouted where she had been.

“The cruiser was under way immediately and soon disappeared from sight. I felt that my last human link had gone and I floated around feeling utterly lonely and convinced that I was the sole survivor. I knew that my kapok vest would keep me afloat for a reasonable time but there was always the possibility that my blood would attract sharks which abounded in those waters. I had no idea of time as I rode on the swell but I know it seemed like an eternity. Then I spotted an object about six hundred yards away and anxiously waited to rise again with the swell. Salvation was in sight! An empty lifeboat was wallowing around and I swam towards it. By that time my legs were feeling stiff, the right one was totally useless and I swam with it trailing. Slowly the distance decreased until at length I was alongside the boat. It was low in the water and by summoning all my diminishing strength, I dragged myself over.

“It was half full of water, I lay on the seat, weak through loss of blood. And lonely, terribly lonely.

“Much later (or so it seemed) I wondered whether my ears were deceiving me or was I hearing the sound of a swimmer approaching. There was a muffled grunt and two hands grasped the gunwale on the other side. Slowly the head appeared and then the body. My companion was Len the gunner, whose torn shorts revealed a nasty big wound in his right thigh. He lay down on the opposite seat, gritted his teeth and cursed our tormentors.

“‘Bastards, bastards, dirty rotten bastards,’ and then looking down into the water-logged boat ‘Have to bale this leaky bastard out.’ He groped around and came up with an empty can; I groped on my side and found the drinking water ladle. We began to bail.

“‘Emptying yet another ladleful of water into the sea, I spotted a destroyer approaching. ‘Better get down’ I said to Len. We were aware of the Japanese reputation for machinegunning survivors so we knelt in the bottom of the boat while peering cautiously over the gunwale. She came on until we could see the leering grins on the faces of her crew as they lined the rail. We crouched further down in the boat, fearful of the consequences should they spot us. After a few tense minutes Len could stand it no longer and stole a quick look. Relief showed in his eyes and voice, ‘She’s away,’ he said. We observed her stern on, heading swiftly for the horizon. Then we went on bailing.

“That was when I looked at my watch and realized it was still going. The hands registered 10:30 a.m. My last message had been sent at 9:05 a.m.

“We were soon joined by more survivors. A few had miraculously escaped injury. Those from below were all suffering from scalds; the first salvo had been a direct hit in the boilers. When the Second Mate joined us he took command. The shrapnel holes in the boat were plugged with kapok from a torn life-jacket and the bailing continued until only a few inches of water remained. By 1 p.m. our numbers had swelled to twenty-one. The Mate had come aboard and he took over the command. The last ones to be picked up were the old man and the Second Engineer. The old man was clinging to a piece of wreckage with one hand and holding up the Second with the other. He’d been doing that for nearly four hours. The Second Engineer was in a pitiful state with his spine showing through the gaping hole in his back. He screamed in agony as he was hoisted over the gunwale.

“The lifeboat was now carrying maximum load and riding dangerously close to the water-line. The old man assumed command, ordered the oars manned, and we headed in the direction of the distant coastline.

“The sun beat down furiously and one of the gunners who’d been scalded over most of his body, began to lose his reason. The sun’s heat aggravated his scald wounds to such an extent that his only wish was to leap into the cool sea and he had to be forcibly restrained. Each roll of the boat brought a hoarse cry of agony from the Second Engineer and he was pleading to be thrown overboard. Huddled in the bow lay the Chief Steward, another victim of the scalding steam. Around three o’clock he uttered a low weak moan and passed away, seemingly of shock. Lying in the bottom of the boat, immediately below me, was a Chinese seaman. The front of his shirt was an awful gory mess. Water washed back and forth over his face and no bubbles rose as it passed his mouth. He too, had died.

“Around four o’clock the breeze increased slightly so the oars were pulled and the sail hoisted. The oarsmen welcomed the rest and crawled around tending to the wounded.

“An almost paralyzing stiffness had set in over my whole body, the swinging lifeboat had injured my back, the wood splinter had punctured an artery, and I had open shrapnel wounds in both legs. To add to my discomfort the sun’s heat created a terrible thirst. The freshwater keg was opened and the drinking ladle passed around. Although the water was brackish and oily it moistened our dry tongues and cracking lips. The cigarettes and matches were saturated; there was nothing to soothe our shattered nerves.

“It was slow progress but at last we entered a wide bay where black smoke was pouring from a grounded blazing Dutch freighter at the north end. In the centre of the bay a few native fishing boats rested on the beach in front of a small settlement of mud huts. There was a heavy surf running, another obstacle to overcome before we could reach the beach. The old man was dubious about attempting a landing but he decided that if we pulled down the sail and our oarsmen rowed with all their strength, it might be done. Native fisherman ran down to the beach to help us. As we came in with the surf, they seized the boat and dragged us to safety. No words were spoken as the natives carried the wounded to the sanctuary of that dry sandy beach.

“I lay on the warm sand and once again blood was spurting from the artery and my head began to swim. The village spokesman who seemed to be the headman went round with a black earthenware pitcher. He came over to me, placed the drinking hole to my lips and when the burning liquid had trickled down my throat, my dizziness was dispersed. The native brew helped boost our flagging spirits.

“One of our surviving Indian stewards acted as interpreter and we learned that we were seven miles from the nearest doctor – with no transport available. It was arranged that one of the local people would act as guide while two of our party would go with him to summon aid. After they’d gone we were moved to the shelter of a hollow in the sand dunes that headed the beach. At sunset we settled ourselves to await the return of our aid seekers.

“As we lay there in the dark a cool breeze sprang up and it soon became apparent that a storm was brewing. Lightning forked down on the sea while the rain increased in intensity until it became a torrential tropical downpour. The village huts were situated back from the beach to afford them shelter from the monsoons that occasionally swept the area. Shortly after the rain commenced the natives invited us to their huts. Two men carried me and my back was filled with excruciating pain. One of the bearers placed his hand in the centre to support me; I yelled for him to remove it but he kept it there – and with his free hand helped himself to my wallet from the pocket of my shorts. This gave me considerable misgivings as to the motives of our apparent saviours but after we arrived in their dwellings and the womenfolk fed us from a communal dish of rice stew, my confidence returned. I had merely been the victim of an opportunist.

“In the early hours of the morning our first sign of aid appeared. The keen-eyed natives spotted a pinpoint of light. Its progress seemed outrageously slow and we waited for its reappearance each time the flashlight carrier had been obscured by vegetation. At last the solitary figure was silhouetted against the light of a hut and soon we were receiving our first medical attention. The Indian doctor did his best with his scant supplies. Counting the men who needed morphine, he found nine. He had only eight shots and Len the gunner volunteered to be the unlucky one.

“Before the morphine took its effect on me I heard the old man extracting the information we all awaited. The Englishspeaking doctor informed him that the nearest hospital able to provide adequate treatment for our men was ninety miles off in Vizagapatam. There was a small native hospital at Chicacole, fourteen miles away but no surgery was performed there and some of our wounded were in urgent need of surgery. It was seven miles to a mission at the nearest road point. The villagers possessed three ox-carts and were persuaded by the doctor to put them at our disposal; we were to make for the mission at dawn. I woke from my drug-induced sleep in daylight and to the sound of raised voices coming from the village compound. The natives were unwilling to harness their oxen without an extortionate fee for the services. The old man gave them a promise that this would be forthcoming and they reluctantly set to work preparing the carts. We were loaded into the straw-filled primitive conveyances and set off. Swaying from side to side, we bumped over the trackless baked earth, and each time we rolled over a bump we were thrown painfully against one another. The drivers cracked the slow-gaited beasts resoundingly on the rumps while urging the animals on, remaining completely oblivious to the sufferings of their passengers. The painful journey continued for over two hours until we reached the smoother surface of the road.

“The mission was a red metal building and we were welcomed by a Eurasian missionary who also supervised the unloading. We were placed very carefully upon thin straw mattresses on the floor of the little mission schoolroom and fed hot tea and sandwiches by our hosts. In the afternoon fresh transport arrived in the form of a delapidated old bus with open sides. And thus we continued our journey. The driver raced down the bumpy road at breakneck speed with the bus swaying sickenly at each bend. I was hanging on to the back of the seat with my good hand (my left one proved to be fractured) but eventually one turn was too much for me and I landed on the floor with an agonizing thud. This induced the driver to go a little slower and we arrived in Chicacole without further mishap.

“The tiny native hospital boasted a staff of one doctor and two nurses who worked on throughout the night as survivors from other ill-fated vessels continued to arrive. By next day about 200 seamen had been accommodated in the town, many of whom were wounded. The following day we learned that Vizagapaptam had suffered an air raid and that the hospital staff there had been sadly depleted because some native members of the staff had absconded into the countryside. Now our nearest hospital was 200 miles away and too small to handle our numbers.

Stanley Salt recuperated from his wounds for several months at the Presidency General Hospital, Calcutta.

“Fortunately, the District Commissioner arrived the next day and he made the necessary arrangements for our removal to Calcutta. We arrived there on the Saturday, exactly five days after the Sinkiang had plunged to the ocean bed.

“Her Second Engineer was to die a few days later. My own injuries confined me to hospital in Calcutta for seven months and then to an additional five months of medical supervision which included repatriation and convalescence. I returned to sea duty in March 1944 and served until discharged in 1945.”

Editor’s Note: The Japanese Malaya Force under its Commander, Vice Admiral J. Ozawa, was responsible for the havoc created among Allied shipping in the Bay of Bengal in early April, 1942. The Malaya Force was deployed as part of ‘C’ Operation, Naval Operations in the Indian Ocean, March-April 1942 under C-in C Vice Admiral Nobutake Kondo.

A light aircraft carrier, five heavy cruisers, one light cruiser, and four destroyers constituted the Malaya Force. The force was split into three detachments on 5 April, and separated to attack specific targets on or close to the east coast of India.

Of the fifty-five merchant ships ordered to sea during the period 4-7 April, with S.S. Sinkiang among them, twenty were sunk with a total loss of 93,260 tons. Having virtually no protection and without naval escort vessels, the merchantmen were easy prey for the Japanese warships. All were attacked close inshore.

It was 1950 when Stanley Salt wrote this account of his five-day wartime ordeal. Obviously the sequence and details of the Bay of Bengal incident were vividly imprinted in his mind.

The Englishman had trained at Colwyn Bay Wireless College and joined his first ship in August, 1940. “Having always been fascinated by stories of foreign lands and peoples, I had a strong desire to travel.”

In June 1941 he arrived in Montreal to join a large complement of seamen in the Montreal Pool. From this, Merchant Navy crews were chosen to man the new 10,000 ton, 11 knot Liberty Ships as fast as they were completed in U.S. shipyards.

“I had a three month stay and during that time became completely enamoured of Canada, emigrating in 1948 with my charming Welsh wife and our small son.”

For over twenty years Stanley Salt worked in the industrial electronics and parts distributorship field. Following that he was a property agent and appraiser but was forced to retire in 1980 due to ill health. His home is Lindsay, Ontario.