Alarm Starboard!: A Remarkable True Story of the War at Sea

by Geoffrey Brooke

  Covering the North Africa landings: Renown and Victorious from Bermuda.

  Captain Back watching fall of shot.

  6-in bombardment of Fort d’Estrée, Algiers.

  The author in ‘Arctic issue’ en route to Russia.

  Chipping ice off one of Bermuda’s paravanes in the Arctic.

  A Corsair’s wheel collapses. The running figure is the author.

  Air attack by 150 ‘planes of the BPF on Palembang, Sumatra, January 24,1945. See pages 226–228.

  The prauw was further out than expected but on grating alongside I was agreeably surprised as two substantial masts traced slow arcs across the stars and to climb on board was quite an effort; moreover there was a pointed attap roof amidships. Ducking through a small opening into the lantern-lit interior I found a dozen forms asleep on the bottom or on half decks at each end, was given something to lie on and went out like a light.

  Waking to the gurgling and creaking of fair speed I watched perplexed as a line of suspended garments, mostly khaki, swayed overhead. Then a voice roared ‘Breakfast!’ and the immediate past rushed back. In typical British fashion no-one was introduced to anyone else and we new arrivals ascertained the nature of our shipmates by furtive enquiry.

  In overall charge was R.N. Broome, a spare, obviously capable Malay Civil Service member of Warren’s SOE team. A man of few unnecessary words, he now divided us into two watches (one always on deck, of course, and one normally below, in the usual four-hour stints) with some excused on special duties. The starboard watch was to be under himself and the port watch under I. Lyon, a sandy-haired Gordon Highlander Captain; also an SOE man, he proved to have set up the Indragiri escape route. ‘Jock’ Campbell, yet another, was to be in charge of provisions, abetted by L.E.C. (Doc) Davies, an RAMC Major. I was in Lyon’s watch with A.J. Gorham, a swarthy RNVR Lieutenant whom I did not recognise with his new black beard but turned out to be the Kung Wo’s second officer; H.E. Holwell and R. Cox, both MRNVR Lieutenants ex the minesweeper Trang; G.J.C. Spanton, a cheery, freckled little Captain, 1st Manchesters; and H.M. ‘Tojo’ Clarke whom I knew. I had also run across most of Broome’s watch before; the gunner Major G.H. Rowley-Conwy (known to all as Rowley); his ‘shadow’ Lieutenant D.C.A. Fraser; Major W.R. Waller, who had been on General Percival’s staff; J. Davis, a Malay Police Superintendent, and A.V. Lind, Lieutenant MRNVR (both SOE). The one not met before was B.A. Passmore, a tall dark Lieutenant RNVR— also SOE. John Davis had insisted on bringing his Malay orderly with him, Jamal Bin Daim; remembering Norman Crawley and other unfortunate claimants left behind, this seemed at first a strange move, but he was to prove his worth. Similarly Broome had brought a Chinese, Lo Gnap Soon, who did such cooking as there was. In all we numbered 18 of whom eight were SOE and the rest ‘guests’ (all but Gorham being last minute arrivals).

  From Broome we gleaned the general plan. This was to work up the coast some two hundred miles to a latitude about that of Ceylon and then sail straight across the Indian Ocean using the north-east monsoon, a steady favourable wind which did not, however, extend far enough south to allow us to start westward right away. If all went well the voyage might take three weeks, but two factors were likely to extend this. First, the notorious character of the west coast of Sumatra and second, the change of monsoon from north-east to south-west in April. As will be seen, south-west was no use to us and the date being March 9 there was a danger that if precious days were spent off Sumatra early on, we might find ourselves halfway across the Indian ocean being blown towards Burma, (in the process of falling into Japanese hands). In fact the whole thing was a gamble.

  It was necessary to learn as much as possible about the prauw and her gear before getting rid of the original native crew, an old jurangan and two boys who were still onboard. The idea was that they would give us a ‘crash course’, and this is just what it turned out to be! I can still see the wizened old man in sarong and orange straw hat squatting by the tiller, keen eyes concentrating on the middle distance, and lips, between squirts of scarlet betel nut, pursed in a low whistle to coax the wind.

  The boat herself came deceptively well out of a first inspection. Sederhana Djohanis (variously translated as ‘Lucky John’ or ‘The Good Ship Johnny’) whose function had been general trading, was a sailing ketch with masts of about 50 ft and 25 ft, carrying a very large head of sail (with main, mizzen, fore and jib). She was roughly 45 ft at the waterline, with a beam of 16 ft and draught of 4 ft; with no keel the result was very saucer-shaped. There was a tremendous bowsprit. The hull was well found, most of her bottom being copper-plated, though it was to peel off badly in heavy seas. The central roof sloped down each side at a steep angle, so that the only flat exterior route from one end of the boat to the other was along the nine-inch top of the gunwhale. A large triangular platform was superimposed on the stern, extending the already rising line of the hull and when I came to take the tiller it was to find that this gave the helmsman a commanding view and welcome release from embroilment in a crisis.

  But one did not have to be at the helm to realise that the keelless prauw’s sailing ability was very limited. She would not sail nearer than some 80° to the wind and made the most devastating leeway close-hauled. This factor alone nearly put paid to us in the long run as it decimated westerly progress. But with the wind abaft the beam, which seemed to be the only method really favoured by Malays, she went well and to make six knots goose-winged (sails out on both sides) was not unusual.

  The wind was fair that first morning as Djohanis sailed in bright sunshine past the palm-covered and mostly uninhabited islands that dotted the coast. Going below for the mid-day meal, the newcomers in my watch satisfied their lively curiosity on the subject of resources. As always on such occasions, the main problem would be water. There were two large drums and some petrol tins which worked out at a pint a head for 42 days, with a little left over for cooking the odd hot meal. This did not allow for evaporation or accident but no-one thought that, if successful at all, 42 days would be anywhere near the mark. Food consisted of a supply of bully beef and tinned salmon (I cannot now touch either!), biscuits, and a limited amount of extras such as tea, coffee, sugar and rice. There were a few bottles of whiskey (for medicinal purposes!), mattresses, blankets, two Lewis guns and several rifles. Most important, as was soon to be revealed, there was also a supply of sailcloth with palms and needles for sewing. One unfortunate deficiency was fishing gear; some makeshift tackle was to be contrived but we never caught anything.

  ‘Garth’ Gorham told me that Anthony Terry had been back to the island but found us gone, it would seem on the very night we got away. I wondered again whether the poor old boy had survived his sixth sinking. It struck me that that nail-biting delay at Iyer Molek had probably saved the rest of us from going in the same ship. This set me thinking of my men at the Malay school. Had the Japanese arrived yet? Had I done the right thing? What would Terry have done? A wave of depression was infinitely increased, when, rummaging in the knapsack, I came across to my horror the black leather wallet that contained the remains of my party’s communal funds. The only good thing was that it also contained a list of their names; if we got through I would make good use of that.

  With an effort I turned back to Gorham with a question about our chances. I think he said the first part of the trip would be the worst, indicating with dirty thumb a passage in the Sumatra Pilot book—‘NW squalls, variable baffling winds, calms and S currents may be experienced close to land … it (our route!) should seldom be chosen by sailing vessels bound N in either monsoon’. Gorham had a sextant (presumably saved from the Kung Wo) and when about to board a ship for India had been held back by Warren to navigate the prauw. In the ensuing period he had copied out the necessary pages of navigational tables on board a destroyer and amassed some other rudiments of the trade in the form of a chart of the coast of Sumatra (it did not, of course, extend far out) and a wind map of the Indian Ocean, torn from a pocket dictionary. Sights need very
accurate timing and Brian Passmore had procured a dilapidated radio and two batteries, most important for the time signal. (He also had a Leica and was to lend it to me occasionally to take some of the pictures that exist of our ship.)

  We had come some 40 miles by mid-afternoon; an offshore breeze continued to blow fresh, enabling a short cut to be taken, and the Pilot’s author appeared a pessimist. Not for long however. Islands were coming thick and fast towards evening and Bapa (Father), the old jurangan, conned us through a narrow gap between two of them that kept the breaking surf but a hundred yards on each side of the boat and its new owners’ hearts in their mouths. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately—he did not keep it up. Further navigation began to look very doubtful as darkness fell and it was regretfully decided (it was, of course, necessary to put as much between us and Padang as possible) to anchor off an island called Paryang. A little later, Bapa lost his nerve near some large rocks and dithered so much that we dropped anchor without further ado, concluding the first and altogether encouraging day’s run.

  Broome had not wanted to waste time like this but was probably trying Bapa—at least according to his lights (Djohanis had none!) unreasonably. Original insistence on continuing after dark had upset the old man badly and the log was to show that in fact the prauw had seldom been under way at night.

  Another limitation, somewhat basic under the circumstances, that had dawned on a few of us was that Djohanis was not meant to go out of sight of land! With her huge sail area and flattish bottom she was designed for shore breezes and the traditional Malay ‘tidak apa’ (swing it till Monday) philosophy. An inability to sail close-hauled had already been appreciated but yet another serious weakness was clearly demonstrated at 04:30 when sail was made to an easterly wind. Probably we were clumsy in the half light, but the mainsail tore on something, drawing attention to the shocking state of the canvas and rigging. To begin with the sails were made of very thin, cheap canvas, now rotting, that tore if poked hard with the finger! At night stars could be seen through the mainsail, which was the worst though closely contested offender. Much of the cordage was on its last legs; it was four-stranded and corresponded to tarred sisal. There was hardly any spare. Only the ‘essential services’ such as throat halliards boasted real blocks (these being rough native affairs), other locations having merely a piece of wood with a hole in it. The resulting wear and tear was appalling.

  It was obvious that what would just do for pottering around the coast was quite different to that required for an ocean passage at the change of monsoon. It was also evident that our existence would be one of the finest judgement as to when to reduce sail, rehoisting, and eternally refitting. This may sound but the yachtman’s fare, but when carried out on the Equator on a little meat, biscuits and a pint of water per 24 hours, turned out to be tough.

  The first confirmation of these forebodings was not long in coming. We could never make much of the old Malay’s methods and it was evident that cries of ‘Lee-oh!’ or ‘Let draw’ (the Naval equivalent) awoke no Cowes or Malta memories for him. International co-operation was sadly lacking and the final fiasco was when he let her head pay off after a gybe, before operations were complete. Poor Waller, whose job it was to stand on the roof and steer the mainsheet safely over the mizzen, failed sadly (‘well what the hell can you do on a knife edge?’), the boom becoming temporarily secured to the smaller mast. The sail filled and CRACK went the boom. The debris was gathered in somehow and the three Malays set to work on the boom, binding wood staves round the break. The sail had been torn on a corner of the roof and we sat in a row to sew a long rent for the first of a hundred times (as the only splicer of rope I came to be excused sewing, no great advantage.)

  It was now important to procure a spare boom, and be rid of the native crew in readiness for striking westwards. Accordingly Djohanis came to anchor off a small island only visited by fishermen, who luckily were there, provided us with two reasonable bamboos and could take Bapa to the mainland. Shaking hands all round, the old jurangan pronounced a benediction—‘Tuan! Salamat Jalan dan nasib baik sahaya mintar Tuan Allah lindong semua tuan, lagi bulik sampai ka’lain nagri dengan salamat’. (‘Tuan! good luck for your journey. I shall be praying to Allah that you will arrive safely at your destination.’) He was really touched and I am sure thought us all quite mad. It was a little damping to see the old seaman being paddled away. Henceforth there would be no Bapa to enquire from, even though he had proved rather a broken reed, as to the craft’s idiosyncracies or those of her unpredictable homeland.

  The rest of that 24 hours is taken direct from Broome’s log which is graphic if not formal:

  ‘Under way again about 17:00 on starboard tack with wind NW. The night was bloody. We were beating up N about 21:00 when a squall came down and we had to lower mainsail, which was well done by the starboard watch. Wind went all round the compass and by a.m. fell to a flat calm, and we had to lower all sail to prevent chafe. Rolled like hell. Nearly lost all our water but eventually saved all but one tin. Wind still non-existent at dawn. All sails required work on them. Finally hoisted jib and got away for a short time to south wind. Then hoisted mizzen and found mizzen halliard one strand gone. Hoisted nevertheless. Hoisted main starboard side and immediately had to lower to change of wind. Tore a large hole while lowering, through catching in wire strand on starboard runner. Mended this. Hoisted again. Tore a large hole through catching under boom. Repaired this. Finally hoisted 10:30 by which time no wind. Onshore breeze began 11:30. A bloody night and a bloody morning. Seriously worried re sails and gear. May make for Nias and see what we can do.’

  This proved to be typical of the conditions until we cleared the area of Sumatras, as these vicious squalls were called. Though clearly related in devilment to the gregale of Malta, its twin at Gib (which would sweep down the Rock to flatten unsuspecting naval whalers) and Portland’s speciality, Sumatras took the palm for surprise. In the middle of a sultry calm a long black shadow would suddenly appear, racing towards us over the water; seconds later the boat would heel right over as if struck and go tearing off, usually to the accompaniment of ripping canvas. Sometimes the squalls would veer 360° and then die as suddenly as they had come.

  As little progress was made against a contrary wind, it was decided to put in at the inhabited island of Tamang for a concentrated attack on the sails. As luck would have it a small Dutch tug appeared and gave us a tow to another island 70 miles further up, which was as far north as we needed to go. A perfect little tropical island—dark green palms, white sand and still blue water—Pulau Ilir was a fitting last contact with the Sumatra to which we owed so much, but our thoughts were less on this than on the miles and miles of sea to come. Would they deal kindly with our rough and hardly ready conveyance? We did not know. Striking west for Ceylon (about 1,000 miles as the seagull flies) contact with terra firma was severed for the last time at 17:00 (on March 12), nor did Sederhana Djohanis ever drop anchor again.

  She had made 180 miles from the starting point so we felt moderately safe from that direction. It would be nice to record that we hurtled westwards with songs on our lips, but the wind proved unfavourable and we tacked back and forth making no progress at all. There were still some islands to be cleared and one dawn found us in a light wind off Bansalan, an unusual plateau-like coral formation about a mile square. Approaching this we could see the emerald green streaks over a reef, but decided with our shallow draft to try a passage rather than the alternative long detour, and held on. A sudden shout from forward proved discretion the better part of valour and we gybed without delay, to return as we had come. It was none to soon for one could see great coral shelves and clusters a few feet under the boat, with pale sand and multi-coloured fish weaving in and out of sea plants as clearly as in an aquarium. Even as we watched they scattered in a flash, and a long grey shape glided into view. It came up under the hull as if in silent warning to the potential survivors of a holed boat, kept us company for a while, and then disappe
ared with two lashes of an ugly sickle tail.

  Not long after this a fresh south-westerly breeze came off the land and showed signs of blowing up strong. The mainsail was already down, being patched where the topping-lift had rent it in two places, and we sacrificed the mizzen. In spite of preparation, the jib downhaul jammed when the storm arrived with a rush to tear the sail right down one cloth. The foresail was soon lowered too, the wind reaching about force seven. In two and a half hours we covered 26 miles under bare poles; no mean performance and a very thrilling, though uncomfortably runaway sensation. This was the first of several experiences of ‘penthouse sailing’ and was fortunately in a westerly direction. The prauw steered quite well within limits, but heaven knows what would have happened if the direction or terrain had been otherwise. The wind dropped almost as suddenly as it had arisen and was followed by a horribly short swell. The boat was extremely ‘tender’ due to her shallow draught, lack of keel and big masts, and in this case her motion exactly fitted the wave interval, making her very lively. Those on deck hung on like limpets and those below, keeping their feet only by willpower bred of the vital importance of their task, were employed holding the precious water drums in place. They looked for all the world like the followers of some ancient rite, thrown into alternate gloom and relief by the light of the swinging lantern. In the end it jumped to a sudden buffet and crashed to the deck, leaving the performers in the dark and unfettered use of their vocabulary. The stowed mainsail projecting astern was rolled under, as was a canoe, lashed between shrouds and the penthouse roof If there had been no roof or even if it had not been strong we would have been swamped. It was most unpleasant and I, the only regular Naval officer onboard, was very sick; there were ribald comments at this, though for the record I was not the only one!