SS Laconia U-Boat Attack From Both Sides [Part 1 KTB 170]
SS Laconia U-Boat Attack From Both Sides [Part 2 KTB 172]
SS Laconia U-Boat Attack From Both Sides [Part 3 KTB 173]
SS Laconia U-Boat Attack From Both Sides [Part 4 KTB 174]

On arrival in Lagos, Captain Store again reported that he had sighted a lifeboat ‘whose occupants were obviously in a bad way’ and suggested that it might be a good idea for flying boats to carry special water containers, for such occasions. They could be fairly small, fitted with a small parachute to prevent their breaking on striking the water.

I understand in England that work is in progress to produce such containers – they must prove invaluable when completed. I thanked Captain Store for his gift, for his cheering message to us, and for his effort on behalf of survivors in general.

When the plane had gone, we settled down again with the knowledge that someone would search for us before long but we did not expect any more help that night. We could see waves breaking on the shore and spray being flung high in the air all along the coastline, except for one spot. We knew therefore, that there must be rocks where the spray flew high, and sand and shingle where we saw no spray. Our boat was being blown directly towards this gap in the rocks. A British naval rating was at the tiller and kept the little boat headed towards this place of safety. We prayed that all might be well and that this last difficulty might be overcome, for by now we were powerless to help ourselves.

Night fell, and we went drifting on. We could still see the great white walls of spray. We scarcely spoke, but each sat staring fixedly ahead, unmoving, breathing fast. At last, a little before 8pm, we were washed up on the sand by two great rolling waves. We had beached, and our boat was held firm on the one spot possible. Anywhere else for miles on either side we should have been dashed against the rocks.

We scrambled with difficulty, over the boat’s side and promptly collapsed into the shallow water. We crawled on hands and knees out of reach of the tide.

The ground seemed to be rocking, rocking even as our boat had rocked, and this sensation was to bother us for several days. The men brought with them our remaining biscuits and pemmican, and a few souvenirs from the boat, and then – wet to the skin – we huddled together on the sand and gave thanks to God for the miracle He had wrought for us…..sixteen survivors out of our original sixty-eight. We had traveled over 700 miles in our open boat. The senior Englishman was a sergeant of the RAF. Of the officers, there was only the Polish cadet.

The heave scent of tropical undergrowth was in the air. Crickets were singing as I had never heard them before and only a few years from us was the African bush. We wondered what wild animals lurked there, and just what the night held for us.

After about twenty minutes we saw a light approaching along the shore. Who could be coming? Could they be cannibals or wild untamed savages we wondered. Two of our men staggered forward, and found themselves face to face with a crowd of Negroes, the leader of whom flung his arms around them and said in English, “Thank God, you safe!”

They had watched our boat for two days and had come to search for us, rather expecting to find a wreck and no living people.

They came up to us and began talking to us in loud, excited voices in pidgin-English, and in their own language to each other. They searched the boat, taking with them everything that they could carry. I was grieved because Mary’s wedding ring had slipped from my thin finger, and had fallen between the floorboards. It was too dark to find - I’d so much wanted to keep it safely for her husband.

After a short time, these men helped us to our feet, supported some of us and carried three men who were unable to stand. They led us to a native African village some distance away in the bush. We staggered along on our bare, swollen feet for some time and wondered whether we should ever reach a resting place. Suddenly, we heard voices and we came through the trees into a clearing. There, by the light of flares, we saw thatched native houses. All the inhabitants of the village seemed to be standing around one house, larger than the rest, where the ‘priest’ lived. Some were laughing, some were crying (we were just pitiful sights) and some just stood staring stolidly and silent.

We had landed in Liberia, in West Africa – the Free State, the Liberian Republic, about one third larger than Scotland, has existed since 1847. It has a population of over a million and was formed as a home for emancipated slaves of the West African races, the scheme receiving its first impulse from the anti-slavery movement in America and from the partly-educated Negroes of the United States

Most of the business activity of Liberia lies along the coast, where the educated blacks are Christian, and a number attend mission schools. Their language is English. Inland, the tribes are still heathen and the territory is undeveloped, although it has great possibilities. The Negro directors of the Republic have permitted slavery in some forms and do not welcome efforts to help them to introduce administrative or social reforms.

Rubber, palm oil, coffee, ivory and piassava are the chief exports, the Firestone Rubber Company of America having become a flourishing plantation there. The natives of the coast of Liberia are known as Krumen. They are strong and make useful sailors.

The bush village in which we found ourselves was near the coast and also near a trade town. Consequently, some of the men spoke English, and the adult men wore European clothes. The women spoke no English and only a few wore dresses, the majority being draped with cotton cloth. The younger ones wore only skirts of material or grass. The young girls had their bodies painted with a kind of paste, putty colored, in symmetrical designs of strips and their faces were also striped this way. The children wore nothing.

Into this primitive place we had come & once again I experienced the sensation that all was a dream. Surely it could not really be I, myself, in this native bush village, seeing these sights, hearing this strange, unintelligible sing-song language? They made room for us to sit and brought us fruit, for which our bodies were crying out. Oranges…..huge bananas, ripe and sweet…..plums like mangoes. We ate sparingly, fearing to do ourselves harm after our long fast. We asked for hot water, as we knew that the water must have come from the creek over which we had passed, and imagined that it must be full of worms. We mixed in some of the pemmican and made a drink, which was hot and nourishing. They vied with each other to do something for us; they laughed and cried alternately.

Suddenly one of the women nudged another and pointed to me. I had been in the background and away from the light, but apparently she had noticed that I had no beard! Soon there was some excited conversation between a knot of women, and they pointed to me and said something – I caught the word “Mammy” several times and wondered. Then one of the men said, “She say you lady. Yea?”

I nodded, and the hands went up in horror and sympathy. They had a strange way of drawing in their breath through their mouths and making a high pitched sound denoting surprise. This was now heard on all sides. It was quite understandable that they were not sure of me, for my uncombed hair was curly and too long for a man, but my R.A.F. shirt and Army shorts were scarcely feminine. I think that none of the women and few of the men had ever seen a white woman before. They then wanted to know where my husband was. At that time I was a little apprehensive, so I tucked my hand through the arm of one of our men and they appeared to think all was well.

They gave us a tiny room with plaited grass walls, after offering me accommodations with a number of their women nearby which I declined with thanks. Fifteen of us huddled together on the floor of the little room, still in our wet clothes, and lay awake until morning, while one sat up all night and kept watch. The villagers celebrated by dancing, singing and shouting to the accompaniment of tom-toms until midnight.

We arose early and became once more the objects of much staring, pointing and conversation. Those who had not seen us on the previous night pressed around, talking and gesticulating. The children were fascinated. They came in groups, often afraid to come close to these strange fair-skinned people who had appeared overnight in their midst.

Each family brought us a gift of some kind or drink, and we were able to choose between fruits as before, cooked rice, fresh coconut milk and raw eggs cooked in the sun. The women brought extra small gifts for me from time to time, and gave me their little brown children for me to hold – spotlessly clean and so cuddly! They were delighted at my obvious appreciation of them.

We learned that a few miles along the coast was a small trading town, Grand Bassa by name, and that several white men lived there. One of the village men offered to go with any of our party who could walk and to take them to this town. Three of our men could walk slowly, and so they set off with their guide, promising to send us word as soon as possible. They went by easy stages, helped by the villagers from time to time. They met some black men who were on their way to find us, carrying food and a letter in English. The letter promised a warm welcome, food and care if we could return with the bearers to Grand Bassa.

Our representatives did so, and found three Dutch traders, all bachelors, living there with a few Syrians among an otherwise purely Liberian population. They had seen a British plane that morning, circling low over Bassa and then flying off a little way towards the south. The plane returned and did this repeatedly, and the Dutchmen guessed that someone must be in distress down the coast and that either the pilot was searching the area or that he was trying to attract the attention of the inhabitants of Bassa. They had therefore prepared food and organized a search party and, having meantime heard a rumor that Englishmen had landed down the coast, they had written the letter.

When our men arrived, they were given a great welcome. They all had baths, shaves, new clothes from the Dutch East Africa Company’s store – and food! One of them, a naval rating, told our new friends that I was among the party in the village, and that I had only ragged shorts and a shirt so a dressmaker was called. The sailor was asked to choose material which would suit me, and away went the dressmaker. When I arrived later in the day, a dress of blue printed cotton awaited me. It fit perfectly.

All this time, those of us who had been left in the bush waited and wondered. We heard and saw the plane searching for us, but we could not be seen through the thick foliage.

During the afternoon, a couple of runners arrived with a note addressed to me. I opened it and read,

“Dear Sister,

We have been met by a party of men, bringing us a letter and some food. We have been taken by them to Grand Bassa, and the Dutchmen here have been very kind to us. They will send immediately a boat for all of you. Do not move until they come. These men who bring this letter have been well paid and the Government will pay the villagers. I am so excited that I can hardly write, but don’t worry. Everything is OK.

Cheerio to you and all the boys. See you soon.”

We were now impatient to get to the shore and watch for the boat. The messengers explained to our hosts all that had been arranged, and we limped through the bush to the water’s edge where we lay on the sand and could see in the distance, a sailing boat approaching. At length it arrived – a sailing boat with a real sail and a dozen strong Krumen to row. Two Liberian policemen were sent to escort us.

We said farewell to our friends of the bush, and were carried through the water to the waiting boat.

About 5pm we arrived at Grand Bassa. The entire population appeared to be out to meet and greet us, crowds of eager, sympathetic black faces plus the three Europeans and a Syrian in white suits and pith helmets and our own three companions all immaculate in white open neck shirts, shorts, shoes and trilby hats and SHAVED!

After being carried ashore we were helped to our respective billets, followed by the whole crowd of interested onlookers. We were shared out between three houses. In one, two Dutchmen lived together and to this, the largest house, I was taken with the five men who were the most ill, a naval rating and the R.A.F. corporal.

EDITOR NOTE – It must be remembered that this lady was a nurse, so she would be put with the ones needing medical help.

The Syrian trader took the Polish cadet officer and another naval rating, and the other six went with the third Dutchman. Although none of us had ever cried from self-pity in our distress, we were all shedding tears as we found ourselves safely at last amongst friends.

Vanity dies hard in a woman. Ill and weak as I was, when I first saw my reflection in a mirror I was terribly annoyed to see the masses of freckles on my face, which I had hitherto managed to keep clear of – but I was delighted to note that for the first time in my life I was thin – everywhere – with the skin stretched tightly over the bones of my face.

I was given a bath with the help of one of the Liberian girls (there were no European women in this town), my hair was washed and I cleaned my teeth. I was put to bed in an airy room kindly handed over to me for the duration of our stay by one of the Dutchmen of this household. I was given hot tea and hot Quaker Oats and milk. Nothing ever tasted half so good. My sores were dressed and I was left blissfully comfortable to rest on a real bed with a pillow complete with mosquito net.

Our hosts spoke perfect English, with a few unusual ‘coast words’ which occasionally gave rise to amusing misunderstandings. For instance, soon after I was settled in bed, the senior Dutchman came to me and said, “You are a nurse, so I should ask you whether these men should have big ‘chop’ tonight or small ‘chop’. I think only small ‘chop’ myself.”

I answered, “Well, I don’t really think they should have ‘chops’ at all. I think something light, such as the excellent Quaker Oats or soup.”

He laughed and told me that ‘chop’ is the coast word for a meal, not meat as I had been thinking – and we all had Quaker Oats.

During the evening an old Negro doctor came to see us and he agreed that the man with the swollen glands was very ill. He worked for some time making him and the others as comfortable as possible, but during the night this young man became delirious. He had a large and deep saltwater sore on his leg, which was stiff and painful. His knee was swollen and he could not straighten his leg. His face became increasingly swollen so that he could scarcely open his mouth. His temperature soared and we felt really anxious, then he had a sharp hemorrhage from the sore on his leg. The doctor opened one side of his neck and that gave him some relief. He did not improve however, and so he was lifted carefully on his mattress and taken by boat to the hospital in Monrovia, where he died in a few days of gas-gangrene.

This story, written by a nurse aboard the LACONIA when the ship was torpedoed, is a gripping saga of the determination that sometimes decides who lives and who does not in a tragedy. (continued in KTB #176 next month)

SS Laconia U-Boat Attack From Both Sides [Part 1 KTB 170]
SS Laconia U-Boat Attack From Both Sides [Part 2 KTB 172]
SS Laconia U-Boat Attack From Both Sides [Part 3 KTB 173]
SS Laconia U-Boat Attack From Both Sides [Part 4 KTB 174]
SS Laconia U-Boat Attack From Both Sides [Part 5 KTB 175]
SS Laconia U-Boat Attack From Both Sides [Part 6 KTB 175]