An old gramophone purchased from a second hand shop for the great sum of half a crown blared out the latest hits of 1942. A favourite pastime of mine was to just watch the dolphins criss- crossing within inches of our bow. The records played on and we crossed the Equator with the usual ducking with King Neptune present played by the Bosun who did not need to dress up as he looked a natural Father of the Deep and even he was finally tossed into the pool. I thought how different all this fun was here in the bright sunshine, and the deep blue sea from the dark foggy streets and the sleazy pubs at home. We reached Capetown safely and dropped anchor in the Bay beneath Table Mountain. Huge basking sharks cruised around the vessel but the Bosun, Alf or “Lugs” Larsen” a Norwegian assured us that they were quite harmless. On the night of the 23rd March we left Capetown and headed for Durban where we reloaded with cargo. I went ashore to see the sights and was intrigued with the two wheeled rickshaws drawn by Zulus in ostrich feathered head gear and sea shells around their ankles to give a rhythmic sound as they trotted . The poor natives here are treated as something just above the level of an animal by the whites and are strictly segregated. South Africa is a lovely land spoilt by the harsh slavery imposed by the Africaaners and I have no wish to see it again whilst such conditions prevail. In the night some of our crew were attacked by some rough whites, possibly Nazi sympathisers and our carpenter was badly kicked and had his denture broken. At last hatches were battened down, and finally on the 31st March we were once again back in the South Atlantic this time heading for Montevideo in South America to load a cargo of food to take back to England. Some were worried as these waters were notorious for German Surface raiders. But the days passed and our fears were unfounded, and no-one could have wished for more beautiful style of life. The hours passed and everything went like clockwork as shipboard life usually does. We performed our watches and other duties, ate, slept, and played cards. During the day we splashed around in our home-made swim pool, whilst tanned bodies lay spread-eagled on the hatch tops soaking up the sun and flying-fish flew off and away from the bows. Indeed this voyage was nothing less than a millionaires cruise and we joked with each other: “ to think that we are being paid for it”! Here we were six thousand miles from England a little speck on the bluest ocean, and it looked as though we would make it safely as we were already half way across sailing in calm seas, and we sat with our mugs and talked about the River Plate which was now only a thousand miles away. The SS Kirkpool was just one small part of that vast Wartime Battle of the Atlantic that was bringing food and other cargo to form a life-line across the ocean to sustain our beleaguered England during the worst days of the War. But then shortly after on the 10th April the weather changed, it got rougher, followed by a very black night with neither moon nor stars to be seen. There was now a stiff southerly and steadily rising seas that seemed to mark the end of our fantastic run of good weather. The inside of the wheel- house where I was on the helm, was dark and quiet except for the usual creaks and groans of a riveted ship labouring against the Atlantic swell. Suddenly “Kirkpool” heaved and shuddered violently from stem to stern as a torpedo blasted into number one hold. We were under attack from an enemy that we could not even see. Heavy shelling followed, pounding the helpless steamer as broadside after broadside was poured into her at point blank range causing untold havoc and confusion. Above all the crescendo and chaos, our Captain could be heard shouting: “Abandon ship! Abandon ship! Every man for himself”. On hearing this I scurried out of the apparent safety of the wheel house and joined the mad rush for the lifeboat deck. Another salvo struck us blasting the bridge that I with others

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