Here are the rest of the memories of Ayub Ali, survivor of SS TINHOW which was sunk by U-181

Ayub Ali was a crewman aboard TINHOW, sunk by U-181 on 11 May 1943. We began his story in KTB #161 last month and here is the conclusion. Ali and other survivors were bobbing in the ocean for some time, freezing in the night and scorching in the day - all the while hoping for a rescue plane. It is a powerful story.

Don’t Drink the Water

This was a mistake - dehydration set in fast and cramps from our overworked muscles rippled up our calves and thighs until we moaned in pain and agony. All hope was lost by this time and despite the brilliance of the day all around us, a darkness pervaded much like a silhouette picture. We clung on from muscle tension more than will and might and it was at this moment that a boat sighted us and hurriedly paddled towards us. It had capsized and about eighteen or so specimens became visible to us as if a light had been switched on again.

We maneuvered the davy towards the boat and the extended paddles. My carpenter friend let go the davy and plunged into the sea and swam a few yards towards the boat. We witnessed the terror in his eyes as his strength gave up a few yards from the extended paddle and powerless, we watched sink like a diving bell into the green waters and disappear into the deep. The men in the boat warned us to stay put, and they gradually came alongside us and pulled us onto the upturned hull. We thanked God but our very being was shriveled for a drop of water and we just lay exhausted on that inclined hull and scanned the horizon for any sign of land or bird or any boat or rescue ships.

There was nothing to hold onto the capsized boat and from late afternoon, the sea turned rough and we were now twelve hours in the water or more and in total. On our skins appeared blisters, whether it was from the angry sun or the tortuous waters we could not tell. Our hot skins burned. Painfully we kept up a spirit of camaraderie and locked each other an arm-to-arm chain and braced our feet on the edge of the boat. We were all sitting on a slope in three rows, and the discomfort cannot be described in words. I lost my second companion at that time. I had braced onto him on my left side and noticed that he had been dozing for a couple of hours. The swell had grown now, and a southerly squall joined the twin oppressors. The boat rose and fell with an irregular shatter. My partner on the left had collapsed and his grip slackened. I held him fast and deemed that I saw the life leaving his body. My companions urged me to let go and hold tighter to the chain because the chain was now unlinked. As the human chain relinked to me, my companion slipped over the bulk and entered the sea. I grabbed the hair on his head. He had died. His face registered death like an invisible signature that no physician was needed to verify.

From the human chain came repeated shouts to let go and restore balance. The wind was fierce and the boat crashed back into the sea. With every upheaval, a little air escaped from the upturned boat and decreased it buoyancy. I released the poor kid. Unseen angels lowered the tired corpse to some deep dark watery trench. No tombstone nor obituary, but as epitaph we bobbed up and down in the hands of cruel Poseidon.

He was Dead - and the Boat was Sinking!

The next morning was calmer, but we were waist deep in the water. The boat was sinking!

My senses were heightened. The stench of people carried a distinct smell of fear. It was akin to the smell of dried fish. The blueness of the sky hurt our eyes. It signified for us freedom from the prison of the waters. Water lapped our bodies like demonic tongues - asking for our bodies, waiting to devour our flesh, lulling us, waiting - a hungry sea waiting to claim us, to putrefy and dissolve us. But like a past eight o’clock daredevil children, we refused its embrace - but for how long? Sleep came like rain on us. It beat our eyes and our noses, and whipped like a wind around us. Sleep signaled sure death - not for one of us, but by unlinking our chain, could lead to disaster. The whole of the night was spent in pursuit of driving away this enemy. We slapped and bruised each other from dozing off into oblivion. Surges and surges of overwhelming sweetness was cruelly slapped back into wakefulness and life.

Close Encounter with a Whale

We are in three rows, and our feet were in the sea. It was the fish that frightened us. One could have no problem with these huge creatures in front of the television, watching a nature program saying how gentle these giants are - but when one of them surfaces twenty yards from a crippled boat and the dimensions of its head dictate that all of us could be easily swallowed in one gulp - we do not consider what or how it eats, but only know how to be very frightened and then proceed unceremoniously to howl, shriek and beat the sea like madmen to startle the monster away from us. The fish dived and resurfaced for a second and third time, each while making as if to charge the boat. We raised a fearsome din each time and thankfully, it left us alone and dived away; deep somewhere away from the commotion. I believe we even had a nervous round of laughs after that.

Silently the potatoes came floating around that lunchtime. All our crew applauded in ecstasy - saliva in our mouths, we steadied the drifting crate while others kicked and tore open the cargo. The potatoes were handed over swiftly but it soon became evident that fate was playing a cruel joke. The spuds had seeped in with salt water. They were bitter and inedible and none went down our throats. I spat out repeatedly to get rid of the taste but some thirsty souls drank the unquenching sea. Their plight grew dim a little later as the bitter water cut through their stomach and their bowels, already loose, showed traces of blood.

Unbearable Thirst - Leaky Boat

Instead of extinguishing it, it inflamed their thirst to unbearable limits. Fearing the boat would not outlast us, we debated to right the upturned boat by all moving to one side and then letting someone on to siphon out the water, a feat of engineering that would have been to scoop out a twenty-three foot boat with cupped hands - that is, if it didn’t sink like a stone when we turned it over.

We were divided on the issue and a vote showed a majority in disfavor of the idea on the grounds that it was too risky and exhaustive for us now at this stage. We left that idea alone and resigned our plight to fate. To Allah we pleaded for His mercy and in deep fervor, promised much reformation of deeds if we survived through His grace, our bitter ordeal.

Salvation in the Pale Peaks?

As though in answer to our wild supplications, we saw pale peaks of a coastal mountain range that afternoon and feeling blessed, paddled vigorously towards them. We knew not then that those sharp crests spelled death for many. Gradually the wind and waves became restless again. The rocks were still faraway when the sun sank low, lost most of its luster & brightness. It marked the end of another day. Forthcoming was the terrible prospect of staying awake. In silence, I thought about my home and my mother.

It was the time in my village, now far away in British India (now called Bangladesh) when the peasants trudged home bearing the plow on their shoulders behind spent oxen in the sunset. Children read their lessons in unison in a large reverberating chant overseered by a senior scholar. The muezzin bleating the azaan echoing the ‘Oneness’ from daylight into night. The devout performing wudu in the duck pond, splashing water up to their elbows and hurrying to join our verses in an assembly inside the tiny hut that served as a mosque for the obligatory evening namaaz. My sweet mother gathering her nine children around an oil lamp and her warm fragrant sari perhaps sighing deeply for me, the vagabond son and adventurous daredevil who ran away to the sea flouting school and the bonds of serfdom in a feudal society so many years ago. This mattered little and was lost and buried amongst mounting fears of whether we would survive the night or, if the boat would hold out any longer. I wondered sadly if I would ever see my mother’s comely face again.

By sheer luck, the fishermen spotted us as the sun disappeared beyond the semi-twilight. They shouted out commands in an incomprehensible tongue for our rescue operation. We held on. The sea no longer seemed a cruel bitter wasteland but suddenly transformed into a gentle comforting guardian angel. The lapping water was like the laughter of a friend that had immensely enjoyed the terror and agony of our ordeal. Like a buddy who was intolerable but quickly forgiven for hatching nasty practical jokes. A lull came over us like a gentle mother tucking us in. We praised the indefinable spirit for our succor and waited to be pulled out of the water.

The Wretched Crew Was Saved

Bravely they picked up many of the wretched, half-naked crew fast and quick before darkness set in. As long as they could spot anyone or anything, they saved maybe seventy of us from our boat and other driftwood and flotsam.

My instinct for survival was indomitable and I had battled fiercely for the past 52 hours. Yet then, the moment the brawny arms of the gaunt fishermen locked onto my arm, I lost my senses to the world. I came to hours later, jogged by a violent rocking motion. The schooner was cutting through the breakers like a rippling dolphin powered by a throttling engine. The sea was choppy & we headed at top speed. I noticed they had put up their sails as well.

A Thimble Full of Water

Dry biscuits and perhaps a thimble full of water were handed out to keep us alive. Perhaps this was the rule, or they may not have had any rations enough for seventy destitute seamen. We were thankful nevertheless, and by morning we were ashore. We communicated whatever our needs and plights were, and gathered that we were in a Portuguese speaking land. None of us knew this language but the people were kind. It was only many years later, through friends, that I found out that it was Mozambique, a Portuguese colony.

We heard that many had died crashing on the rocky breakers of the shores that we had headed for,,,,,,

Many of us were taken to hospital and the remaining stalwarts, myself included, were put in a hotel where breakfast, lunch and dinner was served. I was showed my bedroom and informed that breakfast was served. The clean white bed smiled at me. I limped towards it, but could not haul my frame onto it. My legs gave way and I knelt in front of it and laid my head across the bed. I sank into a dreamless abyss. When I awoke from that position, I felt refreshed and sturdy. The whole day had elapsed and it was nearly dinnertime. I arose and signaled for some water.

The one expression that I often heard in those following days and later and became accustomed to using for expressing great amazement and relief was “Santa Maria!”

Thanks to Ali for this great piece of history!

Ayub Ali: 11 May 1943 Part 1 (# 161)