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War and the forces

A SAILORS LIFE

At the age of 18 I joined the Royal Navy in 1942. After a long training course I passed out as a signals/wireman.

New Year's Day 1943, I and three others were sent to a Combined Operations camp at Dundonald, Scotland. There to wait a draft to a landing craft. Several weeks later we were all still landlubbers. At that time I received a letter from a somewhat disappointed Wren, who wrote saying: "Isn't it about time you got a ship and became a real sailor?" Absolutely infuriated by these words, I stormed round to the draft office, asking, almost pleading, for a draft to any ship. The officer in charge asked my rating, then said: "By coincidence I have just received a signal from a LCT for your rating to complete their crew."

Within an hour I was on my way to Bo'ness on the Firth of Forth. I later learned my three friends had all been drafted to different landing craft in the same flotilla. That flotilla on its maiden voyage, encountered a terrible storm off Milford Haven. Many craft had capsized and sunk with the loss of all crews. My three friends were all drowned.

Reporting to the skipper of the LCT 552, I was taken below and introduced to the crew. Able Seaman Jones took an instant dislike to me. A dislike he stretched to the very limit. Whenever he came back on board the worse for drink, he would go to the galley, pick up a large knife, then search for me. He would then prod me in the chest, neck or abdomen saying "I hate you". Caught in the act by the skipper and severly reprimanded, still he continued his verbal abuse whenever he felt like it.

The flotilla left England for Gibraltar. Then on to Oran, Algiers and finally to a small port called DjDjelli. There we trained rigorously for the forthcoming Sicily landings.

My beach landing station was port side forward, whilst that of Jones, starboard side aft. So to speak diagonally opposite. The landings of Sicily, Salerno and Anzio all went without incident, damage or casualty. After a few days at Anzio the starboard engine failed. Orders were to tie up on the outer harbour wall and wait a tow back to Naples. We just reached the harbour wall when the port engine failed but managed to secure our mooring ropes.

Daily, a long range German gun, nicknamed Anzio Annie, would fire six shells indiscriminately, then stop. This particular morning, while waiting the tow, Anzio Annie opened up. The first shell exploding some distance away inside the harbour. On hearing the explosion, Jones went absolutely berserk. Put his tin hat on, shouting and screaming "We are all going to die. We will all be killed." He had to be physically restrained. He had never done this before.

Meanwhile, an LST arrived, a tow line passed across when a second shell exploded. This time, much closer. With the tow line secured the LST slowly pulled our craft away from the harbour wall. Well clear, when the third shell exploded, demolishing a large part of the wall, where only a few minutes earleir our caft had been moored. We would have been a sitting duck.

After a rest and refit, the craft returned to Naples at the beginning of August 1944. Here the skipper gathered the crew together and said: "Once again we are to be involved in a full scale landing. You are all well experienced and know the drill." He continued: "There will be one change. I want Abbott (me) and Jones to change places." His only comment was to me: "I thought you would like a change of scenery." All that day we did several practice runs. I at my new station. I must admit it was strange with an eerie feeling. I did not like it at all but orders were orders.

Late that evening we returned and tied up to a jetty. The following morning I awoke with a dull ache in the small of my back. I touched what seemed to be a patch of blisters. By late afternoon the ache had got worse and the area of blisters much bigger. I was sent to the sick bay in Naples. Here an excited MO called to his assistant. "Now there's a healthy cluster of herpes zoster. Haven't seen these for a long time. "You my lad have got shingles." I never returned to the craft.

Three weeks later 552 returned to Naples. I reported to the skipper. "Welcome back, you are very lucky to be alive." "Yes sir," I said, thinking he was referring to the shingles but he wasn't. The full story I was able to piece together from the rest of the crew. The landings had taken place off the South of France beaches. My replacement had taken over my usual port side forward station, whilst jones had been returned to starboard side aft. All the tanks had disembarked when an 88mm shell entred the port side midships, across the empty tank hold, into the engine room and exploded on the starboard side, directly beneath where Jones was on the deck above. He was killed instantly. His remains were buried at sea. No other person sustained any injuries, not even a scratch.

The skipper was awarded the MM and the coxswain Oak Leaves. On reflection of the facts of this incident, the sequence of 'moves' originated far beyond the boundaries of luck, chance and coincidence. Jones and I were the only two players involved in a game of death. He was unfortunately being manoeuvred back into harms way, while I was being steered away from it. Had the skipper not interfered with the status quo, the 88mm shell would certainly have missed me by several feet. Jones would still have been killed. I am also sure that the shingles virus would not then have developed.As it was, a change of 'plan'.

Shingles can apparently lay dormant for many, many years then suddenly become active. It is an absolute mystery as to how and why the virus became active at that most crucial moment in time. Even more mystifying is the fact that the first of the 'moves' to take me out of the game of death, occurred three days before the actual incident.

Then consider the logistics of a full scale landing. The confusion of thousands of ships and craft, spread along miles of beach. Tanks, vehicles and men disembarking with shells and bullets being fired at them. Yet out of this pandemonium the trajectory path of a single shell that has not yet been fired, has a pre-destined target known only to a 'Spirit Guide'?

On that fateful day, August 15, 1944, Mephistopheles had made his choice.

by E.J. Abbott