Some of the staff who were there at the end – 1997/98 for W/T and 2000 for R/T. Clockwise, from left to right. Tom MacLennan, with the beard; Dave Martin; Dave More; Tom Freeman, greenish pullover; Neil Muir; Tony Fell, in red; Sandy MacIvor; Rose MacIvor, Sandy’s wife. The picture was taken at a get-together in a cafe at Wick Harbour-side.Thursday, 6 August 2009
Wick Radio
Some of the staff who were there at the end – 1997/98 for W/T and 2000 for R/T. Clockwise, from left to right. Tom MacLennan, with the beard; Dave Martin; Dave More; Tom Freeman, greenish pullover; Neil Muir; Tony Fell, in red; Sandy MacIvor; Rose MacIvor, Sandy’s wife. The picture was taken at a get-together in a cafe at Wick Harbour-side.Saturday, 16 February 2008
Fated
WICK RADIO GKR in the 1960s
A short video “Wick Radio GKR in the 1960s” has been posted on You Tube and has attracted a lot of attention. This clip can be viewed by clicking on the Wick Radio GKR link on this page. The movie shows the station’s radio officers going about their normal duties then springing into action when an emergency comes out of the blue.
I’m probably more interested than most because I appear in the film. I’m the one who works the French vessel and then reads the gale warning.
But for anyone interested in the sea and ships, or this historic and exciting chapter in the marine communications industry, I suggest you take a look at the film. And to get an even deeper insight into this side of life, I suggest that you read my paperback “Fated” which clearly shows what life was like aboard a British freighter in the 1950s.
To give you an idea of theme of “Fated”, I have reproduced Chapter 26 below. This scene actually took place in Wick Radio and shows the station as it really was. All the characters are people who were there at the time. Nothing has been altered. The names are their real names. And the conversations really took place – word for word. To give you a further idea of what the book is about, and a wider view of how marine communications functioned, I have also included a few of the opening chapters.
But “Fated” is about much more than communications. It’s an incredible story full of eerie facts and superstitions. And when you realise that it’s all true, and actually happened, it becomes bizarre.
“Fated”, 214pp, is available – post-free in the UK – from Book Fellas; The Book Depository; amazon.co.uk and Play.com. It is also available from a further 50-odd online bookshops, including Tesco; W H Smith; Blackwells and Woolworths.
Within the next 3 or 4 months I will be releasing a paperback thriller called “The Under-manager.” This is set in Caithness, Scotland, and also includes scenes set in a marine radio-station. Out of interest, this radio-station, Bool Radio, is based on Wick Radio. You can read selected chapters of The Under-manager by clicking the link on this page.
Shortly after that I intend to release “Sailing with Hunters” in paperback form. This true-life adventure/comedy/tragedy shows Wick Radio in action from the point of view of real life fishermen. The text of this coming paperback can be read by clicking The Traveller's Tales link on this page. And an earlier edition of this story can be viewed online at the “Bosun’s Watch – Fleetwood Maritime Museum – website”.
Fated
Inspired by real events
by
Charlie Gregory
Chapter
26
I sat in front of the polished grey console, searching among clamouring Morse transmissions on the eight megacycle band for anyone calling GKR – Wick Radio.
Around me, in the operations room, other radio officers, tethered by headsets, manipulated panels of levers and buttons as they manned the various distress and working channels. Some rattled Morse keys or poked typewriters. Then, when work pressure eased, they lounged back in their chairs monitoring calls by the glow of indicator lamps, or rose to their feet and stood chatting with colleagues.
Urgent voices bawled from batteries of speakers, calling Stonehaven... Cullercoates... Humber... Ostend... Nordeich and Scheveningen Radios. Morse code, in a complexity of pitches and tones, echoed among battleship-grey consoles.
Now and again, Jimmy Kay, our slim Glaswegian overseer, shouted from his seat at the far end of the room for someone to ‘get back to your point,’ then went back to pouring over the previous week’s statistics, compiled and left by the Saturday night-shift.
Bob Duffus, a Kincardine man, tall dark and bespectacled, a veteran of the D-Day landings, now on general duties for the day, continually dashed into the ops room, filed messages in pigeonholes then, after amending the traffic lists, dashed back to his den in the land-line room as teleprinters sprang into life, fax machines whirred, or telephones shrilled.
Here, on the HF point, I could hear ships calling stations as far afield as North America, Greece and Egypt, as well as Portishead and various European centres. But we dealt mainly with trawlers, and this was Sunday. The markets and offices were closed so there was no one calling me.
You made a right mess of things in the James Line’s boats, the Man-inside my head growled, taking advantage of the void to creep out of his cave and dive straight into his favourite subject. Remember the Rev James? You let the captain down badly there. You were a right wanker. I moaned quietly to myself. I’d had this every day for ten years.
Somewhere behind me, a ship’s radio officer, calling ‘Wick Radio’ on channel sixteen, VHF, interrupted my chain of troublesome thoughts. Then the door of the ops room swung open and Dan, the maintenance man, breezed in, weighed down by an armful of newspapers.
Dan’s a lucky bugger, I told myself. He gets to wander round the station doing maintenance. Then, when the Sunday papers arrive in town, he gets a jolly to the shops. But he’s worked for it. I’ve got to admit that. He studied and got the overseer’s ticket. So now he maintains the equipment every Sunday. That means he’s free to go walkabout while the rest of us are trapped on our workpoints. He’s an ex-Reverend radio officer too. But he made a better hand of it than me. He became a purser. Now he’s going up the ladder in the coast stations. He’s earmarked to become the officer in charge of Land’s End Radio. Land’s End was England’s prestigious coast station 700 miles to the south.
The door squeaked again, bringing me back to reality. Dan and Jimmy had nipped out of the room. Now Dan was back, carrying a tray loaded with tea, milk and sugar. Jimmy followed with a tray of mugs.
One by one the boys got up from their workpoints and drifted over to pour tea and collect their papers from where Dan had dumped them on top of a console.
Robbie Sutherland, tall, slim and phlegmatic, nodded towards the radiotelephone point he was manning as he stirred a freshly poured mug of tea. ‘That chap just made a telephone call to his wife,’ Robbie told us in a loud voice. ‘He said their third mate jumped ship in Boston.’ Robbie was at sea throughout the war. He liked the life – and missed it. But, like many of the men in the station – mainly ex-mariners – a wife and commitments turned a coast station into a better option. He was Caithness born and bred so Wick Radio was a bonus.
‘We had an apprentice jump ship in Halifax,’ piped Haydn Arnold from his seat at the MF traffic-point. Haydn, who spent ten years in the Merchant Navy, came from Swansea and arrived in Wick the same day as me.
Two foreign ships began calling ‘Wick Radio’ on 2182 kcs, jamming each other’s transmissions. Robbie, carrying his tea and Sunday Times, hurried back to his point to sort them out.
‘A captain jumped ship in the Reverend James Line,’ Dan announced from where he stood sipping tea, his back to the wall. Dan, from Dunfermline, stocky and average height, now wore his brown overall-coat.
Beat that, growled the Man-inside as I eased the phones off my ears and pushed back my chair. Time to get my paper and grab a cup of tea, I told the Man, silently.
‘A captain?’ Bob, who was in the ops room to collect his tea and paper, registered surprise. ‘That’s unique.’
‘It was unique all right,’ Dan told him. ‘It was in Sarawak.’
‘Sarawak?’ I flashed Dan a glance while pouring my tea. I’d been to Sarawak a few times and couldn’t imagine anyone but a Dayak or a mad woodcutter, feeling at home there.
‘I can see the attraction of America.’ Tom Freeman joined in, from where he stood keeping the 500 kcs distress watch – phones and loudspeaker spilling a babble of chattering Morse over the ops room. ‘But Sarawak’s a bit over the top.’ Tom, from Thurles, Tipperary, arrived in Wick the year before me. In his seafaring days he sailed mainly to the Caribbean. But now he was at home with the coast station routine in the remote north.
‘It gets worse,’ Dan told him, striding over and setting his empty mug on the tray. ‘He went native – living in the jungle.’
I was back at my point, sitting with my phones off my ears; gain turned high; pointer creeping over the Morse-mad frequencies while I sipped tea, half listening to the chat.
From a speaker somewhere behind me, a German shouted for Nordeich Radio on 2182 kcs. On Tom’s watch a ferryboat spelt-out its closing TR to Ostend Radio in Morse code.
‘Why did a captain desert James’ and go living in the jungle?’ Jimmy wondered, drawn away from his statistics by curiosity.
‘I don’t know why. But I know he did,’ Dan told him.
‘How do you know?’ Tom challenged. ‘I mean – that he went native?’
‘People have seen him.’
‘Seen?’ Bob was trying to get his head round it.
‘Yes,’ Dan nodded. ‘He comes down to the river’s edge and hides among the trees, staring over the water when James’ ships are loading logs.’
Sarawak...! River’s edge...! Logs...! I pricked up my ears; fishy, I thought. ‘Which River’s that?’ I asked Dan.
‘The Rejang,’ he told me.
Bwannng! That hit a gong. Rejang! My Waterloo. The captain went over the side convinced I was a wanker. It’s been bugging me ever since.
‘When?’ I demanded of Dan. ‘When did this captain jump ship?’ All kinds of uncomfortable memories began stirring unconsciously. The old inadequate feeling was back – and guilt.
‘About... ten years ago,’ said Dan.
Ten years ago... The Rejang... Captain jumps ship... Where’s this going...? ‘You said - about - ten years ago?’ I repeated aloud, looking at Dan. ‘Can you be more exact?’
‘Why?’ Dan couldn’t understand my interest. ‘A captain jumped ship about ten years ago – and went native.’ He shrugged. ‘The rest is academic.’
‘Please?’ I rose to my feet. ‘It’s important.’
‘Well... if it’s that important,’ Dan was standing with his arms resting on the top of my console. The other men were standing too, watching and listening with thoughtful interest, sensing something more than idle curiosity. Morse and voices, coming from speakers and phones, filled the room with a familiar background noise. ‘I can be very specific,’ Dan told me. ‘In fact I can be spot-on. Because I was in Singapore in the Timothy Titus at the time. That was just after The Coronation - June ’53.’
June ’53; that’s when the Rev James was in the Rejang. And Dan reckons that a captain jumped ship in that river in the same month. ‘OK,’ I told Dan. ‘You were in Singapore in June ’53. So how do you know that a captain jumped ship in the Rejang and went native?’
Dan threw Jimmy a quizzical look. ‘It’s like the third degree,’ he muttered. Then he turned to me. ‘OK,’ he told me, ‘it was big news. A first-trip captain disappeared; apparently fallen overboard and drowned. Everyone in the fleet was talking about it. And we were in Singapore – close to the action.’
A first trip captain! My stomach churned. ‘Singapore? Close to the action?’ I challenged.
‘Yes - in a way. Because they flew Captain Grenville out to take the other ship home. And Grenville was a friend of our captain. I knew him too. Grenville came aboard the Timothy Titus when he was passing through Singapore on his way to Surabaya.’
I took a deep breath. I don’t believe this, I thought. After the tragedy, Captain Grenville joined the Rev James in Surabaya... Everything else went out of my mind; work; the ops room; Jimmy the overseer - everything. I was standing with my headset round my neck, leaning over the other end of the console, facing Dan. ‘What ship are we talking about?’ I asked.
‘The Rev James,’ he said, without hesitation.
I nodded, thoughtfully. I expected that. But I had to straighten things out in my mind. ‘You said a first trip captain was drowned,’ I said. ‘So where does the guy who jumped ship fit in?’
‘I said “apparently drowned,”’ said Dan. ‘Apparently - is the key word. Everyone thought he was drowned. But he wasn’t. He jumped ship and went native.’
I felt a sudden surge of anger. People who weren’t there were inventing stories. They didn’t know the background. ‘That’s rubbish!’ I snapped. ‘If we’re talking about the captain of the Rev James - he was drowned; or the crocs got him. I was in that ship at the time. We found his socks.’
‘They’ve seen him!’ Dan shouted – stopping me dead in my tracks. ‘They’ve seen him! Loadsa times!’
‘Jesus God! Seen - loadsa times?!’
‘Yes! Loadsa times!’
‘Who’s seen him?’
‘Dozens of people.’
‘Which people?’
‘Deck officers! He hides by the river when the Reverends come in – watching.’
‘No! That’s rubbish! They’ve made a mistake - imagined it.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Dan spotted my bewilderment and was almost apologetic. ‘But it’s true. That captain was in the company for years. He came up from apprentice. He’s well known, and popular. Men who virtually grew up with him have seen him, in-among the trees, dressed like a Dayak – gazing out at them. These guys don’t fantasise. They’ve seen it all; done it all. They don’t imagine things. They’ve seen him; several of them. They back each other up. It’s a fact. Accept it.’
‘But I was in the Rev James when the captain went missing. We found his socks by the rail.’ I was confused; perplexed.
‘It’s easy to fake a drowning and jump ship,’ said Robbie, from his position at the RT point. ‘Dump your clothes by the rail and disappear. It’s an old trick.’
‘No,’ I told him. ‘You don’t understand. He wouldn’t do that.’
‘Why would he do it?’ Tom wanted to know. ‘Why would he jump ship - in Sarawak of all places?’
‘There’s usually a woman involved,’ said Haydn.
‘He was engaged to be married,’ I insisted. These guys were so bloody frustrating. They weren’t there. I was. I knew what happened. ‘He was engaged to be married. He was newly promoted. He was religious. He was God fearing.’
‘Tempted by a dusky maiden,’ said Haydn.
‘It happens all the time,’ said Jimmy.
‘Tempt donkey’s with carrots,’ said Bob. ‘And lure sailors with dusky maidens.’
‘Yeah, that’s it. The boys are right.’ Tom saw their point and shouted to me. ‘Your captain fell in love with a native girl. So he got some blokes with a boat to smuggle him off to her. And he left his socks by the rail to turn it into a mystery.’
***
Fated
Inspired by real events
by
Charlie Gregory
Did the omens predict it?
Was it the inevitable result of flouting superstition?
Or was it something more bizarre?
Published by Greg in 2008
http://poet-on-a-hill.blogspot.com
Copyright © Charlie Gregory, 2008
All rights reserved
First Edition
ISBN 978-0-9556881-0-2
To my wife, Elizabeth, for her love and support
also
For my mother, Lily, who kept my letters and preserved my memories
Sorry ma’, it’s not the story you would have expected
***
With the exception of Chapter 26, all the characters in this book are fictitious and so are their actions and conversations. The author imagined them purely as a means of getting his story across.
Fated
Part One
A Mystery
1
On that sweltering day in 1996 the express boat from Kuching roared up river, swung sharply to port then, like a sleek waterborne missile, streaked towards Sibu's Kapit Wharf - its wake carving a white arc on the yellow-green surface of the Rejang.
The engine roared as the pilot throttled back before barging in among the sister-vessels that lay huddled, nose-on to the quay. Sitting behind the wheel - inside the cockpit of an aircraft fuselage that enfolded passengers and crew within the reinforced hull - he felt little need for caution among craft designed to withstand high speed collisions with the massive hardwood trunks that lurked, waterlogged, below the surface, trapping the river like covert mines.
I joined Elizabeth as she rose from her seat in the air-conditioned interior and filed down the aisle with the Chinese businessmen, Ibans and Ulu tribespeople. Jerking our backpacks from the jumble of personal belongings by the for'ard doors, we stepped into the dripping humidity of the Sarawak rainforest and made our way along the narrow lip of deck to join the throng that seeped up the covered walkway to the bustling road beyond.
We spotted Joseph, a jolly round-faced Dayak, standing beside the lorries where sweat drenched labourers staggered beneath leaden burdens of bales and drums.
Pointing at the name-board he held aloft, I yelled above the din of voices, traffic, and throbbing river-craft. 'I'm your man,' I told him, 'and this is Elizabeth - my wife. We're looking for a missing sailor.'
2
The midnight tide, Good Friday, 3rd of April 1953.
Beneath scudding night clouds the freighter Rev James nosed out of Birkenhead's Vittoria Dock into the murky waters of the Mersey. Her massive black funnel, devoid of rake and sporting a white dog collar, proclaimed she was “one of the Reverends.” Her excess lifeboats, tiered in pairs along the lower bridge and boat-decks, told of the days she carried pilgrims to Jeddah for the Hajj.
On the bridge, her master, Captain Johnson - with this, his first command, now underway - struggled to conceal the surge of excitement that welled within him. At forty-two he was considered young to be a Reverend James Line captain. With no radar to assist him, he drew comfort from the company's insistence that, in areas of high traffic congestion, as many pairs of eyes as possible must scan the shipping lanes.
Now, with a Chinese quartermaster on the wheel and an experienced port-pilot on hand to advise him, he moved agilely between the vantage points from where his officers - each backed by an apprentice – were manning the telegraph or, huddled in greatcoats on the bridge-wings, gazing intently at the kaleidoscope of navigation lights that formed the midnight tidal circus of the river.
Satisfied that all was under control, Johnson turned and strode briskly from the wing into the wheelhouse where, after his habitual glance at the compass to check the ship's heading, he paused to stare thoughtfully through the window and over the foredeck at the darkness beyond. His eight thousand ton charge was now surging down a channel, between familiar sandbanks, towards the Crosby Lightship which, pitching and rolling on a confusion of swells, forever waved hellos and farewells to passing mariners. Beyond, lay the open sea... the world... the wedding... his career... and the rest of his life...
On the fo'c'sle and over the stern the Chinese sailors, wrapped against a chill wind that gusted off the Irish Sea, blew into cupped hands as they shuffled away from their stand-by stations towards their lair in the cramped accommodation a few feet above the rumbling propeller shaft.
Below, in the oil-fumed heat of the snakes and ladder world of the engine space, men in toil-and-sweat stained boilersuits ran to and fro and clambered up and down in response to urgent demands from the ceaseless clanging telegraph, amid the throbbing din of power plant, pounding pistons and the whirring shafts of steam turbines.
Fung, the tall scowling white-jacketed Shanghai steward, knocked on the door of my poky cabin in the gloomy alleyway that led to the galley and saloon, then entered without invitation. 'Ship no good,' he grumbled under his breath, plonking the “stand-by extra” can of water into the receptacle above the sink. We each got three cans a day to cover drinking, shaving and ablutions. 'Too big yin,' he muttered, shaking a head of thick black hair as he turned to leave, 'too sma’ yang.'
Though, for my benefit, it was said in English, I hadn't a clue what he was talking about. Aware that any witty retort would fall on deaf ears, I followed the slim young steward out of the cabin without comment, then turned and headed for the radio room. It was time to announce our departure to the world.
Out on the well-deck I shivered slightly and quickened my pace. The logic of making this tired old girl the career threshold for our brand new captain and two first trip apprentices was obvious.
Shinning up a ladder to the boat-deck, where the blustering wind snatched fume ridden smoke from the giant stack before hurling it down in a two fingered gesture of pollution on the sleeping streets of the receding town, I smiled wryly at the irony that also made the Rev James the ideal venue for the swan song of a slim, quiff-haired, harum-scarum, eighteen year old tearaway junior radio officer - like me.
Entering the radio room, housed in one of the two container-like sheds at the aft-end of the boat-deck, I was in a battleship-grey world, peppered with a complexity of dials, knobs, and colour coded wheels.
The other shed was my boss’s cabin. But he spent his life in an office in the bridge-accommodation where he worked as a purser.
Now, while flicking switches on the emergency receiver and transmitter, I snatched a cigarette from the Woodbine tin that lay forever to-hand on the working surface. Then, swinging the pointer over the receiver dial with one hand, I flicked a lighter under the weed with the other and took a deep satisfying drag.
This is the tale of lackaday Charlie, I recited as I exhaled a cloud of pale blue smoke over the equipment while checking to see if the Calling and Distress Frequency, 500 kilocycles, was clear. Joined on Fools’ Day; signed on Thursday; sailed on Friday.
All systems “go,” I pressed the Morse key and twiddled the tuning knob on the emergency transmitter until the pointer swung over the aerial meter with a short sharp howl of surprise. I was paranoid about the emergency equipment and often used it for short range work – to make sure it still worked. The only virtue I saw in myself was my knowledge of procedures and the faint possibility that I might suddenly be seen to be useful if the ship got into trouble.
All set; I began rattling the telegraph key rhythmically, calling Seaforth Radio in pristine Morse code; 'DAHDAHDIT...’ I keyed, 'GLV DE GBZN’, ‘Seaforth Radio from Rev James,’ before announcing that I had a ‘TR’, ‘Traffic Routing message,’ for him.
Seaforth boomed back and told me ‘DAHDIDAH’, ‘K’, ‘go ahead.’
I spelt it out for him, letter by letter; the gist being, 'leaving the Mersey bound for the Far East.'
***
The morning of the second day, a few minutes before eight, soaking wet, I wrestled the door of the radio shack against the Atlantic wind and struggled into that same draught ridden radio room. Pointe du Raz was falling astern and the ship, with her heavy, laborious roll, was continuously dipping her side into the sea, scooping water, and flinging sheets of wind torn, skin stinging spray over the boat-deck...
Earlier, at breakfast, I watched Captain Johnson - inappropriately referred to as the “Old-man;” firm-jawed, handsome, fit, and youthfully slim, gleefully rubbing his hands together as he rose from the table. 'She's doing over fourteen knots,' he shouted to the engineers who were still eating. Then he turned and marched from the room, his proud demeanour telling everyone present how much he loved this ship - his ship!
But then the chief mate, Mr Platt, a big bull of a man with a bulging forehead, thin lips and bushy eyebrows, who had just come off watch, strode into the room, announcing to the world in that foghorn voice of his, 'she's a terrible sea-ship; rolling twenty degrees with hardly a sea running.'
There was a grunt of acknowledgement from the men at the tables, continually bracing themselves against the motion as they ate. It also explained why I got soaked every time I poked my nose outside the accommodation...
The fourth engineer, MacTaggart, a wiry young man with a pointed nose and black curly hair, was leaving the saloon as I arrived for breakfast. Waylaying me, he confided, in a broad Govan accent, that he was having trouble with the stewards.
At mealtimes, MacTaggart relieved the other engineers in time for food. That meant that he, MacTaggart, had to grab an early breakfast. There was no cooked meal ready at that time in the morning. And the stewards, now preparing the saloon for the officers' breakfast, stubbornly refused to bring him any serial. The cook, yelling excitedly, objected to him helping himself in the galley. That led to MacTaggart having a toe to toe, fists clenched, stand up row with the whole gang. Now MacTaggart was depressed. He felt that he would be fighting the catering department for the rest of the trip. And he had no clout or backing.
'I wish tae God I'd never signed on for this lot, sae I do,' he whined. 'And my cabin's crap; a pokey little hole with no running water, sae it is. And when I pull the plug in my basin the water just runs intae a bucket underneath, sae it does.' All his grievances came pouring out. 'They said she was old. But they never said she was this old. Christ - my bunk's narrower than my shoulders, sae it is.'
He didn't ask a lot from life. He joined the ship with nothing more than a brown paper bag that contained only those things he desperately needed, and nothing else. Except, that is, for his lucky shroud; the piece of red velvet which he swore had once adorned a lavatory seat in the dockyard when a female member of the Royal Family was visiting; and which now lay, like the Turin Shroud, in a casket at the bottom of his bag.
I made sympathetic noises. I'd already flagged up the stewards and galley crowd as a gang of bolshie Chinese commies. I sensed their aggression on the day I joined. MacTaggart could have big troubles on that front. And yes - the accommodation was grim. 'We're all in the same boat,' I clichéd, comfortingly. 'She's thirty years old,' I waved my hand up the alleyway, 'built in 1923; so we're living in 1920's conditions.'
'OK. Sae we can't help that,' he conceded, changing tack. 'But why did we sail on a Friday? It's unlucky for a ship tae sail on Friday. Everyone kens that. And this was Good Friday. Sae that's worse. I'm already having trouble with the stewards. Something really bad's going tae happen. I can feel it in my water, sae I can.'
I'd heard that about Friday too. And I was surprised that a first trip captain would sail on such an unlucky day. Then I dismissed it as an old salt's superstition. 'Money,' I told MacTaggart. 'It costs money to stay in port. But don't worry about it. It's much worse for me. I joined on April the first, All Fools’ Day. So I really do have problems.'
***
Now, in the radio room at the start of the first of the day’s four two-hour watches, I spun the tuning knob over the dial of the main receiver and brought the pointer to rest where Portishead Radio - kingpin of the nine Area Transmitting Stations that straddled the world in the British Empire Scheme - was running an automatic tape, endlessly pumping out his call sign GKA GKA GKA... in a pulsating stream of mellow toned Morse code.
At 0800 the tape stopped abruptly. Then, like the conductor of some single-note symphony, a shore based radio officer, many miles away, began rhythmically moving the baton of his Morse key while I, pencil in hand, along with scores of other ship-borne radio officers, citizens of the British Empire, kept time to the rhythm of his fist, like the string section of an ocean scattered orchestra, as we copied the call signs of his traffic list into our open logbooks - the first job of every watch.
For fifteen or twenty minutes we fell into a collective trance as, like automatons, we spelt out the thoughts of a distant telepathist whose galloping Morse, vibrating our eardrums and commandeering our minds, automatically left letters on the page without any thought or effort from us.
We were all, conductor and players, extensions of a globe encompassing, Morse-lubricated machine, honed to ensure that a message, handed in anywhere in the British Empire, destined for one of the Empire's ships, would end up at that vessel's nearest Area Station, be advertised in a list such as this, then collected and delivered to its final destination by the vessel’s radio officer.
List finished, I glanced over my shoulder. I had felt the gush of wind as someone opened and closed the radio room door while I was writing. Now the chief steward, a dapper moustached Scouser from Dingle, was standing there, wearing his perpetually worried expression.
‘‘Lo there Sparks,’ he greeted, while selecting a cigarette from the tin I offered as I rose and turned to face him. ‘Ah was up checkin’ yer oppo’s cabin fer the inspection, like. So Ah thought Ah’d pop in and bum a ciggy while Ah was passin’ – like y’do.’
‘Any time,’ I told him, lighting my cigarette from the flame he waved under my nose. The inspection that gave him his morning jitters was a Reverend’s tradition. At nine thirty every morning, Reverend James Line captains strode round their ships like hospital consultants, followed by a tiny knot of departmental heads.
Aboard the Rev James the retinue was made up of Platt from the deck department; Tubbs, our stocky chief engineer; Scouse for the catering department; with Doc, our ancient surgeon, trailing in the rear.
During this theatrical mimicry of naval discipline, the Old-man ran his fingers over freshly scrubbed and polished surfaces, peered into dark places and squinted into crevices, re-performing the act that he had witnessed countless times during his sea career, while regurgitating the witty clichés of yesterday’s sea-captains - which were now, as then, delivered as an impromptu performance and greeted by guffaws of dutiful laughter.
‘I was talking to the fourth at breakfast time,’ I told Scouse. ‘He’s having a hard time with your saloon and galley boys.’ Might as well stir the shit for the catering department, I thought.
‘Yeah,’ Scouse edged towards the door. I could read his thoughts. This kind of conversation could affect his pension. ‘The Shanghai boys are hard work at the best o’ times,’ he told me
diplomatically. ‘But this lot think there’s a bad ancestor aboard. So they’re jumpy as hell. If Ah say anythin’ ter them they leap up an’ down an’ scream like a crowd of hysterical schoolgirls.’
‘That’s bad news for MacTaggart,’ I persisted. ‘He’s a worrier. And they’re making it worse for him. He thinks there might be a curse on him because we sailed on a Friday.’
Scouse opened the door. ‘Tharr-applies to us all.’ His voice was serious; his expression more worried than ever. ‘Commencin’ a voyage on Good Friday on the third day o’ the month is askin’ fer trouble,’ he muttered, stepping outside.
‘Why? What’s the date got to do with it?’ I wanted to know.
‘Everythin’! Burr-Ah’ll tell yer some other time,’ he said darkly. ‘Ah’ve gorra get ready fer the inspection.’
I followed and stood in the doorway, watching as he paused to peep round the corner of the radio shack, gauging the spray for his dash across the boat-deck. Before closing the door I stood savouring the outside world; the roar of the wind and sea in my ears; the regular clump! as water came aboard; the splash and patter of pelting spray. All interwoven with the rhythmic din of the sailors who, crouching in the lee of the accommodation, hammered at rusty decks with stubby chipping hammers - a prelude to shouting and slamming down counters as they gambled their pay on mah-jong, and smoked dream-weed deep into the night.
Down on the main-deck, Sang, the chippy, clad in a navy duffel coat; cloth cap pulled over his forehead; made his unsteady way aft at the end of his morning rounds, carrying a bucket and rope, head bowed against the weather. The ship’s routine was in full swing.
I glanced round at the brass clock that peered from the radio room bulkhead like the bodiless Cheshire cat that haunted Alice in Wonderland. You’re a cat in disguise – aren’t you? I challenged, as if suddenly realising. I recognise you. You can’t fool me. You’re a cat. Those red triangles that sprout from that black-blob nose in the middle of your face are really your whiskers. You’ve got a little keyhole mouth. And your name’s Tiddles.
The red triangles were a marking that all ships’ radio room clocks displayed - to highlight the three minute Distress Frequency silence periods that commenced at 15 and 45 minutes past each hour. The clock reminded me that there was an hour to kill before I copied the Atlantic Weather Forecast. After that I would tune to Rugby Radio and feed a time signal, via a buzzer, to the bridge where the third mate would check the chronometer.
'So what do you think Scouse meant?' I asked Tiddles as I closed the door against the wind. 'You know - about Good Friday and the third day of the month?'
Tiddles didn’t answer; just 'tut-tutted,' mysteriously.
3
In the radio room, as we steamed off Cadiz, I turned the gain high and kept watch by loudspeaker while rummaging through the filing cabinet to see if there was anything I should know about. I’d checked the tools and spares with the shore squad before we sailed. I had everything I needed in that department; from a contact burnisher to a vice; from resistors to valves; from insulators to a main aerial.
The top drawer was full of the day-to-day stuff that I used in the radio room; message forms; logbooks and the like. The next drawer contained a stack of Notices to Mariners and Notices to Ship Wireless Stations. I grimaced, pushing the drawer shut. The notices were full of corrections for the stack of manuals; books; lists and documents that it was compulsory to carry in the radio room. I hate paperwork. I'll start that tomorrow, I told myself - but I knew I wouldn’t. I had long since drifted into bad habits and always put off doing corrections and accounts until it was a panic job.
The first folder that I pulled out of the next drawer made me pause. I frowned - puzzled. It was a list of equipment - identical to the equipment in this, my radio room. But this list didn't belong to the Rev James. It was for a ship called U.S. Artist. 'That's odd,' I muttered. 'The U.S. Artist is a U.S. boat.'
I stood looking at the list, frowning and trying to make sense of it. The U.S. boats, as we called them, were ships whose names began with U.S. And they were all on the United States run. So what’s this list doing here? I wondered...
My train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the unmistakable twang of a McKay transmitter coming from the loudspeaker - now readable, now lost - like someone plucking a Jews Harp among the cacophony of Morse transmissions of scores of tones, speeds and volumes that forever jammed 500 kilocycles in those parts.
There it was again. ‘... DAHDIDIT DIT...’ ‘DE GBPN...’ my opposite number in another Reverend James Line ship, the Luke John, asking ‘all stations’ if anyone could give him a copy of the local weather forecast.
Returning the file to the drawer and pushing it shut, I strode across the room, hand-cranked the phone then told the officer of the watch, 'The Luke John's in the area.'
Our navigating officers wanted a running commentary on all company ships in the vicinity. 'What are their positions? Where are they bound? Where are they from? Who is aboard?' It wasn't idle curiosity, just wanting to know where acquaintances were. It was a matter of pride. Reverend James ships dipped flags in salute to each other as they passed. The Reverend’s bridge officers hated being beaten to the draw. They wanted to know, well in advance, what other ships were in the area. Armed with that knowledge they had a sailor stood-by, ready to leap for the halyard as the other ship hauled over the horizon.
Shoving the phone back into its holder I flicked the switch on the emergency transmitter, which was always pre-tuned to 500 kcs. As I sat down I began to call the Luke John... ‘GBPN DE GBZN’, I clicked on the key, ‘Luke John from Rev James...’ intending to give him the forecast.
Before I could make contact with the other ship the radio room door was snatched open, wind fanning the pages of my logbook. A round faced Chinese quartermaster, in a blue polar necked jersey, hovered for a moment then stepped inside, thrusting a crumpled piece of paper at me. ‘Flom cappin,’ he told me. It was a personal message addressed to 'Master Luke John' and signed 'Master Rev James.' The text declared, in effect, 'Yippee! I'm a captain!' Johnson was delighted and proud.
Minutes later I was in contact with the Luke John and moving to a working frequency. In answer to my announcement of the message; the other radio officer told me 'DIDAHDI...’ ‘R ERE QTC1’. Meaning, 'understood – I have a message for you too.'
As we exchanged signals I found that his was a message of congratulations from his captain to my captain - handed in the day before. The Luke John's captain had already heard about the promotion on the grapevine, and that we were outward bound. So he composed his message there and then and gave it to his radio officer to 'send at the first opportunity.'
Messages and forecast exchanged and receipts given, the Luke John’s radio officer keyed, ‘MNI TKS WX OM KRS BV’; radio-speak for ‘many thanks for the weather old man, kind regards and bon voyage.’
‘FB’, I told him. ‘DIDIDIDAHDIDAH’, ‘fine business,’ followed by the signing off signal.
‘DIT DIT’, he tapped his key twice.
‘DIT’. I tapped mine once; the radio equivalent of ‘bye or cheers.’
I rose and phoned the bridge again. 'Message for the Old-man,' I told the third mate - who looked so much like a character from Dickens that my mind automatically transformed him into Sam Weller.
'I'll send the quartermaster down,' he told me.
Shortly after the quartermaster had collected the message, Sam Weller was back on the phone. 'Report to the captain immediately after your watch,' he told me curtly.
I smell the doghouse, the Man who lives inside my head, concluded from Weller’s tone.
Fated has now been released in paperback format.
It has 81,000 words and 214 printed pages.
A short video “Wick Radio GKR in the 1960s” has been posted on You Tube and has attracted a lot of attention. This clip can be viewed by clicking on the Wick Radio GKR link on this page. The movie shows the station’s radio officers going about their normal duties then springing into action when an emergency comes out of the blue.
I’m probably more interested than most because I appear in the film. I’m the one who works the French vessel and then reads the gale warning.
But for anyone interested in the sea and ships, or this historic and exciting chapter in the marine communications industry, I suggest you take a look at the film. And to get an even deeper insight into this side of life, I suggest that you read my paperback “Fated” which clearly shows what life was like aboard a British freighter in the 1950s.
To give you an idea of theme of “Fated”, I have reproduced Chapter 26 below. This scene actually took place in Wick Radio and shows the station as it really was. All the characters are people who were there at the time. Nothing has been altered. The names are their real names. And the conversations really took place – word for word. To give you a further idea of what the book is about, and a wider view of how marine communications functioned, I have also included a few of the opening chapters.
But “Fated” is about much more than communications. It’s an incredible story full of eerie facts and superstitions. And when you realise that it’s all true, and actually happened, it becomes bizarre.
“Fated”, 214pp, is available – post-free in the UK – from Book Fellas; The Book Depository; amazon.co.uk and Play.com. It is also available from a further 50-odd online bookshops, including Tesco; W H Smith; Blackwells and Woolworths.
Within the next 3 or 4 months I will be releasing a paperback thriller called “The Under-manager.” This is set in Caithness, Scotland, and also includes scenes set in a marine radio-station. Out of interest, this radio-station, Bool Radio, is based on Wick Radio. You can read selected chapters of The Under-manager by clicking the link on this page.
Shortly after that I intend to release “Sailing with Hunters” in paperback form. This true-life adventure/comedy/tragedy shows Wick Radio in action from the point of view of real life fishermen. The text of this coming paperback can be read by clicking The Traveller's Tales link on this page. And an earlier edition of this story can be viewed online at the “Bosun’s Watch – Fleetwood Maritime Museum – website”.
Fated
Inspired by real events
by
Charlie Gregory
Chapter
26
I sat in front of the polished grey console, searching among clamouring Morse transmissions on the eight megacycle band for anyone calling GKR – Wick Radio.
Around me, in the operations room, other radio officers, tethered by headsets, manipulated panels of levers and buttons as they manned the various distress and working channels. Some rattled Morse keys or poked typewriters. Then, when work pressure eased, they lounged back in their chairs monitoring calls by the glow of indicator lamps, or rose to their feet and stood chatting with colleagues.
Urgent voices bawled from batteries of speakers, calling Stonehaven... Cullercoates... Humber... Ostend... Nordeich and Scheveningen Radios. Morse code, in a complexity of pitches and tones, echoed among battleship-grey consoles.
Now and again, Jimmy Kay, our slim Glaswegian overseer, shouted from his seat at the far end of the room for someone to ‘get back to your point,’ then went back to pouring over the previous week’s statistics, compiled and left by the Saturday night-shift.
Bob Duffus, a Kincardine man, tall dark and bespectacled, a veteran of the D-Day landings, now on general duties for the day, continually dashed into the ops room, filed messages in pigeonholes then, after amending the traffic lists, dashed back to his den in the land-line room as teleprinters sprang into life, fax machines whirred, or telephones shrilled.
Here, on the HF point, I could hear ships calling stations as far afield as North America, Greece and Egypt, as well as Portishead and various European centres. But we dealt mainly with trawlers, and this was Sunday. The markets and offices were closed so there was no one calling me.
You made a right mess of things in the James Line’s boats, the Man-inside my head growled, taking advantage of the void to creep out of his cave and dive straight into his favourite subject. Remember the Rev James? You let the captain down badly there. You were a right wanker. I moaned quietly to myself. I’d had this every day for ten years.
Somewhere behind me, a ship’s radio officer, calling ‘Wick Radio’ on channel sixteen, VHF, interrupted my chain of troublesome thoughts. Then the door of the ops room swung open and Dan, the maintenance man, breezed in, weighed down by an armful of newspapers.
Dan’s a lucky bugger, I told myself. He gets to wander round the station doing maintenance. Then, when the Sunday papers arrive in town, he gets a jolly to the shops. But he’s worked for it. I’ve got to admit that. He studied and got the overseer’s ticket. So now he maintains the equipment every Sunday. That means he’s free to go walkabout while the rest of us are trapped on our workpoints. He’s an ex-Reverend radio officer too. But he made a better hand of it than me. He became a purser. Now he’s going up the ladder in the coast stations. He’s earmarked to become the officer in charge of Land’s End Radio. Land’s End was England’s prestigious coast station 700 miles to the south.
The door squeaked again, bringing me back to reality. Dan and Jimmy had nipped out of the room. Now Dan was back, carrying a tray loaded with tea, milk and sugar. Jimmy followed with a tray of mugs.
One by one the boys got up from their workpoints and drifted over to pour tea and collect their papers from where Dan had dumped them on top of a console.
Robbie Sutherland, tall, slim and phlegmatic, nodded towards the radiotelephone point he was manning as he stirred a freshly poured mug of tea. ‘That chap just made a telephone call to his wife,’ Robbie told us in a loud voice. ‘He said their third mate jumped ship in Boston.’ Robbie was at sea throughout the war. He liked the life – and missed it. But, like many of the men in the station – mainly ex-mariners – a wife and commitments turned a coast station into a better option. He was Caithness born and bred so Wick Radio was a bonus.
‘We had an apprentice jump ship in Halifax,’ piped Haydn Arnold from his seat at the MF traffic-point. Haydn, who spent ten years in the Merchant Navy, came from Swansea and arrived in Wick the same day as me.
Two foreign ships began calling ‘Wick Radio’ on 2182 kcs, jamming each other’s transmissions. Robbie, carrying his tea and Sunday Times, hurried back to his point to sort them out.
‘A captain jumped ship in the Reverend James Line,’ Dan announced from where he stood sipping tea, his back to the wall. Dan, from Dunfermline, stocky and average height, now wore his brown overall-coat.
Beat that, growled the Man-inside as I eased the phones off my ears and pushed back my chair. Time to get my paper and grab a cup of tea, I told the Man, silently.
‘A captain?’ Bob, who was in the ops room to collect his tea and paper, registered surprise. ‘That’s unique.’
‘It was unique all right,’ Dan told him. ‘It was in Sarawak.’
‘Sarawak?’ I flashed Dan a glance while pouring my tea. I’d been to Sarawak a few times and couldn’t imagine anyone but a Dayak or a mad woodcutter, feeling at home there.
‘I can see the attraction of America.’ Tom Freeman joined in, from where he stood keeping the 500 kcs distress watch – phones and loudspeaker spilling a babble of chattering Morse over the ops room. ‘But Sarawak’s a bit over the top.’ Tom, from Thurles, Tipperary, arrived in Wick the year before me. In his seafaring days he sailed mainly to the Caribbean. But now he was at home with the coast station routine in the remote north.
‘It gets worse,’ Dan told him, striding over and setting his empty mug on the tray. ‘He went native – living in the jungle.’
I was back at my point, sitting with my phones off my ears; gain turned high; pointer creeping over the Morse-mad frequencies while I sipped tea, half listening to the chat.
From a speaker somewhere behind me, a German shouted for Nordeich Radio on 2182 kcs. On Tom’s watch a ferryboat spelt-out its closing TR to Ostend Radio in Morse code.
‘Why did a captain desert James’ and go living in the jungle?’ Jimmy wondered, drawn away from his statistics by curiosity.
‘I don’t know why. But I know he did,’ Dan told him.
‘How do you know?’ Tom challenged. ‘I mean – that he went native?’
‘People have seen him.’
‘Seen?’ Bob was trying to get his head round it.
‘Yes,’ Dan nodded. ‘He comes down to the river’s edge and hides among the trees, staring over the water when James’ ships are loading logs.’
Sarawak...! River’s edge...! Logs...! I pricked up my ears; fishy, I thought. ‘Which River’s that?’ I asked Dan.
‘The Rejang,’ he told me.
Bwannng! That hit a gong. Rejang! My Waterloo. The captain went over the side convinced I was a wanker. It’s been bugging me ever since.
‘When?’ I demanded of Dan. ‘When did this captain jump ship?’ All kinds of uncomfortable memories began stirring unconsciously. The old inadequate feeling was back – and guilt.
‘About... ten years ago,’ said Dan.
Ten years ago... The Rejang... Captain jumps ship... Where’s this going...? ‘You said - about - ten years ago?’ I repeated aloud, looking at Dan. ‘Can you be more exact?’
‘Why?’ Dan couldn’t understand my interest. ‘A captain jumped ship about ten years ago – and went native.’ He shrugged. ‘The rest is academic.’
‘Please?’ I rose to my feet. ‘It’s important.’
‘Well... if it’s that important,’ Dan was standing with his arms resting on the top of my console. The other men were standing too, watching and listening with thoughtful interest, sensing something more than idle curiosity. Morse and voices, coming from speakers and phones, filled the room with a familiar background noise. ‘I can be very specific,’ Dan told me. ‘In fact I can be spot-on. Because I was in Singapore in the Timothy Titus at the time. That was just after The Coronation - June ’53.’
June ’53; that’s when the Rev James was in the Rejang. And Dan reckons that a captain jumped ship in that river in the same month. ‘OK,’ I told Dan. ‘You were in Singapore in June ’53. So how do you know that a captain jumped ship in the Rejang and went native?’
Dan threw Jimmy a quizzical look. ‘It’s like the third degree,’ he muttered. Then he turned to me. ‘OK,’ he told me, ‘it was big news. A first-trip captain disappeared; apparently fallen overboard and drowned. Everyone in the fleet was talking about it. And we were in Singapore – close to the action.’
A first trip captain! My stomach churned. ‘Singapore? Close to the action?’ I challenged.
‘Yes - in a way. Because they flew Captain Grenville out to take the other ship home. And Grenville was a friend of our captain. I knew him too. Grenville came aboard the Timothy Titus when he was passing through Singapore on his way to Surabaya.’
I took a deep breath. I don’t believe this, I thought. After the tragedy, Captain Grenville joined the Rev James in Surabaya... Everything else went out of my mind; work; the ops room; Jimmy the overseer - everything. I was standing with my headset round my neck, leaning over the other end of the console, facing Dan. ‘What ship are we talking about?’ I asked.
‘The Rev James,’ he said, without hesitation.
I nodded, thoughtfully. I expected that. But I had to straighten things out in my mind. ‘You said a first trip captain was drowned,’ I said. ‘So where does the guy who jumped ship fit in?’
‘I said “apparently drowned,”’ said Dan. ‘Apparently - is the key word. Everyone thought he was drowned. But he wasn’t. He jumped ship and went native.’
I felt a sudden surge of anger. People who weren’t there were inventing stories. They didn’t know the background. ‘That’s rubbish!’ I snapped. ‘If we’re talking about the captain of the Rev James - he was drowned; or the crocs got him. I was in that ship at the time. We found his socks.’
‘They’ve seen him!’ Dan shouted – stopping me dead in my tracks. ‘They’ve seen him! Loadsa times!’
‘Jesus God! Seen - loadsa times?!’
‘Yes! Loadsa times!’
‘Who’s seen him?’
‘Dozens of people.’
‘Which people?’
‘Deck officers! He hides by the river when the Reverends come in – watching.’
‘No! That’s rubbish! They’ve made a mistake - imagined it.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Dan spotted my bewilderment and was almost apologetic. ‘But it’s true. That captain was in the company for years. He came up from apprentice. He’s well known, and popular. Men who virtually grew up with him have seen him, in-among the trees, dressed like a Dayak – gazing out at them. These guys don’t fantasise. They’ve seen it all; done it all. They don’t imagine things. They’ve seen him; several of them. They back each other up. It’s a fact. Accept it.’
‘But I was in the Rev James when the captain went missing. We found his socks by the rail.’ I was confused; perplexed.
‘It’s easy to fake a drowning and jump ship,’ said Robbie, from his position at the RT point. ‘Dump your clothes by the rail and disappear. It’s an old trick.’
‘No,’ I told him. ‘You don’t understand. He wouldn’t do that.’
‘Why would he do it?’ Tom wanted to know. ‘Why would he jump ship - in Sarawak of all places?’
‘There’s usually a woman involved,’ said Haydn.
‘He was engaged to be married,’ I insisted. These guys were so bloody frustrating. They weren’t there. I was. I knew what happened. ‘He was engaged to be married. He was newly promoted. He was religious. He was God fearing.’
‘Tempted by a dusky maiden,’ said Haydn.
‘It happens all the time,’ said Jimmy.
‘Tempt donkey’s with carrots,’ said Bob. ‘And lure sailors with dusky maidens.’
‘Yeah, that’s it. The boys are right.’ Tom saw their point and shouted to me. ‘Your captain fell in love with a native girl. So he got some blokes with a boat to smuggle him off to her. And he left his socks by the rail to turn it into a mystery.’
***
Novels by Charlie Gregory
The Under-manager
From the Jaws of a Tiger
Sailing with Hunters
***
Fated
Inspired by real events
by
Charlie Gregory
Did the omens predict it?
Was it the inevitable result of flouting superstition?
Or was it something more bizarre?
Published by Greg in 2008
http://poet-on-a-hill.blogspot.com
Copyright © Charlie Gregory, 2008
All rights reserved
First Edition
ISBN 978-0-9556881-0-2
To my wife, Elizabeth, for her love and support
also
For my mother, Lily, who kept my letters and preserved my memories
Sorry ma’, it’s not the story you would have expected
***
With the exception of Chapter 26, all the characters in this book are fictitious and so are their actions and conversations. The author imagined them purely as a means of getting his story across.
Fated
Part One
A Mystery
1
On that sweltering day in 1996 the express boat from Kuching roared up river, swung sharply to port then, like a sleek waterborne missile, streaked towards Sibu's Kapit Wharf - its wake carving a white arc on the yellow-green surface of the Rejang.
The engine roared as the pilot throttled back before barging in among the sister-vessels that lay huddled, nose-on to the quay. Sitting behind the wheel - inside the cockpit of an aircraft fuselage that enfolded passengers and crew within the reinforced hull - he felt little need for caution among craft designed to withstand high speed collisions with the massive hardwood trunks that lurked, waterlogged, below the surface, trapping the river like covert mines.
I joined Elizabeth as she rose from her seat in the air-conditioned interior and filed down the aisle with the Chinese businessmen, Ibans and Ulu tribespeople. Jerking our backpacks from the jumble of personal belongings by the for'ard doors, we stepped into the dripping humidity of the Sarawak rainforest and made our way along the narrow lip of deck to join the throng that seeped up the covered walkway to the bustling road beyond.
We spotted Joseph, a jolly round-faced Dayak, standing beside the lorries where sweat drenched labourers staggered beneath leaden burdens of bales and drums.
Pointing at the name-board he held aloft, I yelled above the din of voices, traffic, and throbbing river-craft. 'I'm your man,' I told him, 'and this is Elizabeth - my wife. We're looking for a missing sailor.'
2
The midnight tide, Good Friday, 3rd of April 1953.
Beneath scudding night clouds the freighter Rev James nosed out of Birkenhead's Vittoria Dock into the murky waters of the Mersey. Her massive black funnel, devoid of rake and sporting a white dog collar, proclaimed she was “one of the Reverends.” Her excess lifeboats, tiered in pairs along the lower bridge and boat-decks, told of the days she carried pilgrims to Jeddah for the Hajj.
On the bridge, her master, Captain Johnson - with this, his first command, now underway - struggled to conceal the surge of excitement that welled within him. At forty-two he was considered young to be a Reverend James Line captain. With no radar to assist him, he drew comfort from the company's insistence that, in areas of high traffic congestion, as many pairs of eyes as possible must scan the shipping lanes.
Now, with a Chinese quartermaster on the wheel and an experienced port-pilot on hand to advise him, he moved agilely between the vantage points from where his officers - each backed by an apprentice – were manning the telegraph or, huddled in greatcoats on the bridge-wings, gazing intently at the kaleidoscope of navigation lights that formed the midnight tidal circus of the river.
Satisfied that all was under control, Johnson turned and strode briskly from the wing into the wheelhouse where, after his habitual glance at the compass to check the ship's heading, he paused to stare thoughtfully through the window and over the foredeck at the darkness beyond. His eight thousand ton charge was now surging down a channel, between familiar sandbanks, towards the Crosby Lightship which, pitching and rolling on a confusion of swells, forever waved hellos and farewells to passing mariners. Beyond, lay the open sea... the world... the wedding... his career... and the rest of his life...
On the fo'c'sle and over the stern the Chinese sailors, wrapped against a chill wind that gusted off the Irish Sea, blew into cupped hands as they shuffled away from their stand-by stations towards their lair in the cramped accommodation a few feet above the rumbling propeller shaft.
Below, in the oil-fumed heat of the snakes and ladder world of the engine space, men in toil-and-sweat stained boilersuits ran to and fro and clambered up and down in response to urgent demands from the ceaseless clanging telegraph, amid the throbbing din of power plant, pounding pistons and the whirring shafts of steam turbines.
Fung, the tall scowling white-jacketed Shanghai steward, knocked on the door of my poky cabin in the gloomy alleyway that led to the galley and saloon, then entered without invitation. 'Ship no good,' he grumbled under his breath, plonking the “stand-by extra” can of water into the receptacle above the sink. We each got three cans a day to cover drinking, shaving and ablutions. 'Too big yin,' he muttered, shaking a head of thick black hair as he turned to leave, 'too sma’ yang.'
Though, for my benefit, it was said in English, I hadn't a clue what he was talking about. Aware that any witty retort would fall on deaf ears, I followed the slim young steward out of the cabin without comment, then turned and headed for the radio room. It was time to announce our departure to the world.
Out on the well-deck I shivered slightly and quickened my pace. The logic of making this tired old girl the career threshold for our brand new captain and two first trip apprentices was obvious.
Shinning up a ladder to the boat-deck, where the blustering wind snatched fume ridden smoke from the giant stack before hurling it down in a two fingered gesture of pollution on the sleeping streets of the receding town, I smiled wryly at the irony that also made the Rev James the ideal venue for the swan song of a slim, quiff-haired, harum-scarum, eighteen year old tearaway junior radio officer - like me.
Entering the radio room, housed in one of the two container-like sheds at the aft-end of the boat-deck, I was in a battleship-grey world, peppered with a complexity of dials, knobs, and colour coded wheels.
The other shed was my boss’s cabin. But he spent his life in an office in the bridge-accommodation where he worked as a purser.
Now, while flicking switches on the emergency receiver and transmitter, I snatched a cigarette from the Woodbine tin that lay forever to-hand on the working surface. Then, swinging the pointer over the receiver dial with one hand, I flicked a lighter under the weed with the other and took a deep satisfying drag.
This is the tale of lackaday Charlie, I recited as I exhaled a cloud of pale blue smoke over the equipment while checking to see if the Calling and Distress Frequency, 500 kilocycles, was clear. Joined on Fools’ Day; signed on Thursday; sailed on Friday.
All systems “go,” I pressed the Morse key and twiddled the tuning knob on the emergency transmitter until the pointer swung over the aerial meter with a short sharp howl of surprise. I was paranoid about the emergency equipment and often used it for short range work – to make sure it still worked. The only virtue I saw in myself was my knowledge of procedures and the faint possibility that I might suddenly be seen to be useful if the ship got into trouble.
All set; I began rattling the telegraph key rhythmically, calling Seaforth Radio in pristine Morse code; 'DAHDAHDIT...’ I keyed, 'GLV DE GBZN’, ‘Seaforth Radio from Rev James,’ before announcing that I had a ‘TR’, ‘Traffic Routing message,’ for him.
Seaforth boomed back and told me ‘DAHDIDAH’, ‘K’, ‘go ahead.’
I spelt it out for him, letter by letter; the gist being, 'leaving the Mersey bound for the Far East.'
***
The morning of the second day, a few minutes before eight, soaking wet, I wrestled the door of the radio shack against the Atlantic wind and struggled into that same draught ridden radio room. Pointe du Raz was falling astern and the ship, with her heavy, laborious roll, was continuously dipping her side into the sea, scooping water, and flinging sheets of wind torn, skin stinging spray over the boat-deck...
Earlier, at breakfast, I watched Captain Johnson - inappropriately referred to as the “Old-man;” firm-jawed, handsome, fit, and youthfully slim, gleefully rubbing his hands together as he rose from the table. 'She's doing over fourteen knots,' he shouted to the engineers who were still eating. Then he turned and marched from the room, his proud demeanour telling everyone present how much he loved this ship - his ship!
But then the chief mate, Mr Platt, a big bull of a man with a bulging forehead, thin lips and bushy eyebrows, who had just come off watch, strode into the room, announcing to the world in that foghorn voice of his, 'she's a terrible sea-ship; rolling twenty degrees with hardly a sea running.'
There was a grunt of acknowledgement from the men at the tables, continually bracing themselves against the motion as they ate. It also explained why I got soaked every time I poked my nose outside the accommodation...
The fourth engineer, MacTaggart, a wiry young man with a pointed nose and black curly hair, was leaving the saloon as I arrived for breakfast. Waylaying me, he confided, in a broad Govan accent, that he was having trouble with the stewards.
At mealtimes, MacTaggart relieved the other engineers in time for food. That meant that he, MacTaggart, had to grab an early breakfast. There was no cooked meal ready at that time in the morning. And the stewards, now preparing the saloon for the officers' breakfast, stubbornly refused to bring him any serial. The cook, yelling excitedly, objected to him helping himself in the galley. That led to MacTaggart having a toe to toe, fists clenched, stand up row with the whole gang. Now MacTaggart was depressed. He felt that he would be fighting the catering department for the rest of the trip. And he had no clout or backing.
'I wish tae God I'd never signed on for this lot, sae I do,' he whined. 'And my cabin's crap; a pokey little hole with no running water, sae it is. And when I pull the plug in my basin the water just runs intae a bucket underneath, sae it does.' All his grievances came pouring out. 'They said she was old. But they never said she was this old. Christ - my bunk's narrower than my shoulders, sae it is.'
He didn't ask a lot from life. He joined the ship with nothing more than a brown paper bag that contained only those things he desperately needed, and nothing else. Except, that is, for his lucky shroud; the piece of red velvet which he swore had once adorned a lavatory seat in the dockyard when a female member of the Royal Family was visiting; and which now lay, like the Turin Shroud, in a casket at the bottom of his bag.
I made sympathetic noises. I'd already flagged up the stewards and galley crowd as a gang of bolshie Chinese commies. I sensed their aggression on the day I joined. MacTaggart could have big troubles on that front. And yes - the accommodation was grim. 'We're all in the same boat,' I clichéd, comfortingly. 'She's thirty years old,' I waved my hand up the alleyway, 'built in 1923; so we're living in 1920's conditions.'
'OK. Sae we can't help that,' he conceded, changing tack. 'But why did we sail on a Friday? It's unlucky for a ship tae sail on Friday. Everyone kens that. And this was Good Friday. Sae that's worse. I'm already having trouble with the stewards. Something really bad's going tae happen. I can feel it in my water, sae I can.'
I'd heard that about Friday too. And I was surprised that a first trip captain would sail on such an unlucky day. Then I dismissed it as an old salt's superstition. 'Money,' I told MacTaggart. 'It costs money to stay in port. But don't worry about it. It's much worse for me. I joined on April the first, All Fools’ Day. So I really do have problems.'
***
Now, in the radio room at the start of the first of the day’s four two-hour watches, I spun the tuning knob over the dial of the main receiver and brought the pointer to rest where Portishead Radio - kingpin of the nine Area Transmitting Stations that straddled the world in the British Empire Scheme - was running an automatic tape, endlessly pumping out his call sign GKA GKA GKA... in a pulsating stream of mellow toned Morse code.
At 0800 the tape stopped abruptly. Then, like the conductor of some single-note symphony, a shore based radio officer, many miles away, began rhythmically moving the baton of his Morse key while I, pencil in hand, along with scores of other ship-borne radio officers, citizens of the British Empire, kept time to the rhythm of his fist, like the string section of an ocean scattered orchestra, as we copied the call signs of his traffic list into our open logbooks - the first job of every watch.
For fifteen or twenty minutes we fell into a collective trance as, like automatons, we spelt out the thoughts of a distant telepathist whose galloping Morse, vibrating our eardrums and commandeering our minds, automatically left letters on the page without any thought or effort from us.
We were all, conductor and players, extensions of a globe encompassing, Morse-lubricated machine, honed to ensure that a message, handed in anywhere in the British Empire, destined for one of the Empire's ships, would end up at that vessel's nearest Area Station, be advertised in a list such as this, then collected and delivered to its final destination by the vessel’s radio officer.
List finished, I glanced over my shoulder. I had felt the gush of wind as someone opened and closed the radio room door while I was writing. Now the chief steward, a dapper moustached Scouser from Dingle, was standing there, wearing his perpetually worried expression.
‘‘Lo there Sparks,’ he greeted, while selecting a cigarette from the tin I offered as I rose and turned to face him. ‘Ah was up checkin’ yer oppo’s cabin fer the inspection, like. So Ah thought Ah’d pop in and bum a ciggy while Ah was passin’ – like y’do.’
‘Any time,’ I told him, lighting my cigarette from the flame he waved under my nose. The inspection that gave him his morning jitters was a Reverend’s tradition. At nine thirty every morning, Reverend James Line captains strode round their ships like hospital consultants, followed by a tiny knot of departmental heads.
Aboard the Rev James the retinue was made up of Platt from the deck department; Tubbs, our stocky chief engineer; Scouse for the catering department; with Doc, our ancient surgeon, trailing in the rear.
During this theatrical mimicry of naval discipline, the Old-man ran his fingers over freshly scrubbed and polished surfaces, peered into dark places and squinted into crevices, re-performing the act that he had witnessed countless times during his sea career, while regurgitating the witty clichés of yesterday’s sea-captains - which were now, as then, delivered as an impromptu performance and greeted by guffaws of dutiful laughter.
‘I was talking to the fourth at breakfast time,’ I told Scouse. ‘He’s having a hard time with your saloon and galley boys.’ Might as well stir the shit for the catering department, I thought.
‘Yeah,’ Scouse edged towards the door. I could read his thoughts. This kind of conversation could affect his pension. ‘The Shanghai boys are hard work at the best o’ times,’ he told me
diplomatically. ‘But this lot think there’s a bad ancestor aboard. So they’re jumpy as hell. If Ah say anythin’ ter them they leap up an’ down an’ scream like a crowd of hysterical schoolgirls.’
‘That’s bad news for MacTaggart,’ I persisted. ‘He’s a worrier. And they’re making it worse for him. He thinks there might be a curse on him because we sailed on a Friday.’
Scouse opened the door. ‘Tharr-applies to us all.’ His voice was serious; his expression more worried than ever. ‘Commencin’ a voyage on Good Friday on the third day o’ the month is askin’ fer trouble,’ he muttered, stepping outside.
‘Why? What’s the date got to do with it?’ I wanted to know.
‘Everythin’! Burr-Ah’ll tell yer some other time,’ he said darkly. ‘Ah’ve gorra get ready fer the inspection.’
I followed and stood in the doorway, watching as he paused to peep round the corner of the radio shack, gauging the spray for his dash across the boat-deck. Before closing the door I stood savouring the outside world; the roar of the wind and sea in my ears; the regular clump! as water came aboard; the splash and patter of pelting spray. All interwoven with the rhythmic din of the sailors who, crouching in the lee of the accommodation, hammered at rusty decks with stubby chipping hammers - a prelude to shouting and slamming down counters as they gambled their pay on mah-jong, and smoked dream-weed deep into the night.
Down on the main-deck, Sang, the chippy, clad in a navy duffel coat; cloth cap pulled over his forehead; made his unsteady way aft at the end of his morning rounds, carrying a bucket and rope, head bowed against the weather. The ship’s routine was in full swing.
I glanced round at the brass clock that peered from the radio room bulkhead like the bodiless Cheshire cat that haunted Alice in Wonderland. You’re a cat in disguise – aren’t you? I challenged, as if suddenly realising. I recognise you. You can’t fool me. You’re a cat. Those red triangles that sprout from that black-blob nose in the middle of your face are really your whiskers. You’ve got a little keyhole mouth. And your name’s Tiddles.
The red triangles were a marking that all ships’ radio room clocks displayed - to highlight the three minute Distress Frequency silence periods that commenced at 15 and 45 minutes past each hour. The clock reminded me that there was an hour to kill before I copied the Atlantic Weather Forecast. After that I would tune to Rugby Radio and feed a time signal, via a buzzer, to the bridge where the third mate would check the chronometer.
'So what do you think Scouse meant?' I asked Tiddles as I closed the door against the wind. 'You know - about Good Friday and the third day of the month?'
Tiddles didn’t answer; just 'tut-tutted,' mysteriously.
3
In the radio room, as we steamed off Cadiz, I turned the gain high and kept watch by loudspeaker while rummaging through the filing cabinet to see if there was anything I should know about. I’d checked the tools and spares with the shore squad before we sailed. I had everything I needed in that department; from a contact burnisher to a vice; from resistors to valves; from insulators to a main aerial.
The top drawer was full of the day-to-day stuff that I used in the radio room; message forms; logbooks and the like. The next drawer contained a stack of Notices to Mariners and Notices to Ship Wireless Stations. I grimaced, pushing the drawer shut. The notices were full of corrections for the stack of manuals; books; lists and documents that it was compulsory to carry in the radio room. I hate paperwork. I'll start that tomorrow, I told myself - but I knew I wouldn’t. I had long since drifted into bad habits and always put off doing corrections and accounts until it was a panic job.
The first folder that I pulled out of the next drawer made me pause. I frowned - puzzled. It was a list of equipment - identical to the equipment in this, my radio room. But this list didn't belong to the Rev James. It was for a ship called U.S. Artist. 'That's odd,' I muttered. 'The U.S. Artist is a U.S. boat.'
I stood looking at the list, frowning and trying to make sense of it. The U.S. boats, as we called them, were ships whose names began with U.S. And they were all on the United States run. So what’s this list doing here? I wondered...
My train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the unmistakable twang of a McKay transmitter coming from the loudspeaker - now readable, now lost - like someone plucking a Jews Harp among the cacophony of Morse transmissions of scores of tones, speeds and volumes that forever jammed 500 kilocycles in those parts.
There it was again. ‘... DAHDIDIT DIT...’ ‘DE GBPN...’ my opposite number in another Reverend James Line ship, the Luke John, asking ‘all stations’ if anyone could give him a copy of the local weather forecast.
Returning the file to the drawer and pushing it shut, I strode across the room, hand-cranked the phone then told the officer of the watch, 'The Luke John's in the area.'
Our navigating officers wanted a running commentary on all company ships in the vicinity. 'What are their positions? Where are they bound? Where are they from? Who is aboard?' It wasn't idle curiosity, just wanting to know where acquaintances were. It was a matter of pride. Reverend James ships dipped flags in salute to each other as they passed. The Reverend’s bridge officers hated being beaten to the draw. They wanted to know, well in advance, what other ships were in the area. Armed with that knowledge they had a sailor stood-by, ready to leap for the halyard as the other ship hauled over the horizon.
Shoving the phone back into its holder I flicked the switch on the emergency transmitter, which was always pre-tuned to 500 kcs. As I sat down I began to call the Luke John... ‘GBPN DE GBZN’, I clicked on the key, ‘Luke John from Rev James...’ intending to give him the forecast.
Before I could make contact with the other ship the radio room door was snatched open, wind fanning the pages of my logbook. A round faced Chinese quartermaster, in a blue polar necked jersey, hovered for a moment then stepped inside, thrusting a crumpled piece of paper at me. ‘Flom cappin,’ he told me. It was a personal message addressed to 'Master Luke John' and signed 'Master Rev James.' The text declared, in effect, 'Yippee! I'm a captain!' Johnson was delighted and proud.
Minutes later I was in contact with the Luke John and moving to a working frequency. In answer to my announcement of the message; the other radio officer told me 'DIDAHDI...’ ‘R ERE QTC1’. Meaning, 'understood – I have a message for you too.'
As we exchanged signals I found that his was a message of congratulations from his captain to my captain - handed in the day before. The Luke John's captain had already heard about the promotion on the grapevine, and that we were outward bound. So he composed his message there and then and gave it to his radio officer to 'send at the first opportunity.'
Messages and forecast exchanged and receipts given, the Luke John’s radio officer keyed, ‘MNI TKS WX OM KRS BV’; radio-speak for ‘many thanks for the weather old man, kind regards and bon voyage.’
‘FB’, I told him. ‘DIDIDIDAHDIDAH’, ‘fine business,’ followed by the signing off signal.
‘DIT DIT’, he tapped his key twice.
‘DIT’. I tapped mine once; the radio equivalent of ‘bye or cheers.’
I rose and phoned the bridge again. 'Message for the Old-man,' I told the third mate - who looked so much like a character from Dickens that my mind automatically transformed him into Sam Weller.
'I'll send the quartermaster down,' he told me.
Shortly after the quartermaster had collected the message, Sam Weller was back on the phone. 'Report to the captain immediately after your watch,' he told me curtly.
I smell the doghouse, the Man who lives inside my head, concluded from Weller’s tone.
Fated has now been released in paperback format.
It has 81,000 words and 214 printed pages.
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