An Incident in West Africa

At the outbreak of war, I volunteered for aircrew duties but found that my particular age group, as a chartered accountant, was reserved for other work. There followed a job in a munitions works, made all the more arduous due to the shortage of trained clerical staff. The factories also provided a large proportion of the 22nd Battalion, Home Guard. This involved my attendance at weekly drills and night-shift patrols under the blanket of our smoke screen from barrels of spent oil. In addition, there were occasional weekend camp exercises with the regular army from Cardiff Barracks.

On the 5th July 1943, with some apprehension at leaving my wife and precocious one-year old son, I set off on a tour of duty in Northern Nigeria and Gold Coast Colony ‘for the duration of hostilities’. Boarding TSS ‘California’ in Glasgow docks, we sailed down the Clyde to join a mighty assembly of battleships, aircraft carriers and troopships, including the ‘Queen Mary’.

Some days later we left the main convoy, heading south with SS ‘Duchess of York’ and a small merchantman, escorted by a destroyer and a frigate. Boat drills were impracticable but we were issued with ‘Mae West’ life jackets. As U-boats were about, ‘action-station’ signals and the firing of depth charges were frequent. On the evening of the 11th July, while in my cabin, enemy bombers struck and scored direct hits. In the darkness and confusion, I had difficulty in locating and opening the cabin door but finally got out into the smoky and dusty corridor. I joined a crew member with a torch, who was trying to find a means of escape. Opening a door marked ‘Crew Only’ we descended to a deck from which he found an intact stairway to the boat deck.

In the twilight there was a lifeboat being lowered and space was made for me to jump in. Fortunately there was an officer in control. Bungs were inserted as we were being inundated and those of us at rowlocks rowed away from the burning ship. On the crest of a wave, the officer would raise his torch at the end of an oar to attract an escort. We had tied up with a couple of lifeboats, when suddenly destroyer H.M.S. ‘Douglas’ came alongside. Scramble nets were thrown and by searchlight and helpful crew members, we managed to struggle aboard. I sat on a coil of hemp rope and sadly watched as torpedoes were fired to sink the blazing ships, as they were potential shipping hazards.

A welcome breakfast of ships biscuits and bully beef was handed out. Buckets of cocoa circulated with an enamel mug tied to the handle. This applied to the soup and the water made available, out of the destroyer’s rations, during the sweltering heat of the day. Entertainment came from a wind-up gramophone with warped wax records and ironically, over the radio we heard the voice of ‘Lord Haw-haw’ proclaiming exactly what had happened to our convoy!

On the 13th July we arrived at Casablanca, where many sunken ships cluttered up the harbour. On landing we were sorted into groups according to types of service personnel, destination etc. I was one of a group taken by U.S. Army transport to their transit camp ‘Don B. Passage’ A.P.O. 759. En route to the camp we were warned not to be tempted by the poisoned melons, which were thrown into our truck by the natives. To qualify for accommodation, we had to be ‘enlisted personnel’, so with temporary officer status, we were issued with military uniform, camping and canteen kit and PX facilities.

For several days while the reinforcement troops made final preparations for desert warfare we waited for news of our future. There was a band concert and a film show and eventually the British Consul turned up with news that a ship was on its way to collect us. We were also offered an advance of £2.0.0. on giving the name of a guarantor at home. At the Sunday thanksgiving service, prayers were said for those who were less fortunate and for those at home, anxiously waiting for news. I thought, in particular, of the ill-fated ‘coaster’ who persuaded me to exchange cabins, while we were on Clydeside, so that he could be near his colleague returning from leave. There were also the medics I’d teamed up with at deck quoits and the band of shaven headed young Irish priests.

At 4am the next day we were ordered to fold our camp beds and mosquito nets and proceed on trucks to board the SS ‘Nea Hellas’. We sailed off on our second leg of the journey, guarded by two destroyers.

Six days later we anchored off Freetown. Fortunately my ‘body-bag’, made by my wife, secured my passport, survival rations, diary and pen, and credentials of my appointment under the umbrella of the United Africa Co. With the latter documents, I managed to get ashore on a launch plying to and fro in the harbour. My creditworthiness established, I sent reassuring messages to my wife and mother and loaded up with a pith-helmet and an armful of light clothing.

The next day I had to transship to ‘Tamaroa’ (N.Z.) and we sailed along with SS ‘Nea Hellas’ and ‘Largo Bay’ now escorted by three destroyers — the west coast was the graveyard of many fine ships, the complete fleet of the Elder Dempster line having long since disappeared.

On the 4th August, I arrived at Lagos and arranged for a cable to be sent home. My contact got me settled into the Ikoye Transit Club, scrounged a steel trunk and a typewriter, and took me to the European hospital for attention to ear trouble, which had bothered me for several weeks.

There was a bi-weekly train service to Kano and the journey took three days, so that it was on Monday 16th August 1943 — six weeks after leaving home — that I first put pen to paper. With the extra backlog of work and realising that my spectacles were still in my cabin somewhere north of the Azores, I still had problems!

Frederick Davies Havard
Aged 90 years

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