Surviving the Arctic Convoys

The Wartime Memoirs of Leading Seaman Charlie Erswell

John R McKay, Charlie Erswell

• Publisher: Pen and Sword Maritime
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781399013048
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

Leading Seaman Charlie Erswell saw much more than his fair share of action during the Second World War. He was present at the 1942 landing in North Africa (Operation TORCH), D-Day and the liberation of Norway. But his main area of operations was that of the Arctic Convoys, escorting merchant ships taking essential war supplies to the Russian ports of Murmansk and Archangel. In addition to contending with relentless U-boat and Luftwaffe attacks, crews endured the extreme sea conditions and appalling weather. This involved clearing ice and snow in temperatures as low as minus thirty degrees Celsius. No wonder Winston Churchill described it as ‘the worst journey in the world’. Fortunately, Charlie, who served on two destroyers, HMS Milne and Savage, kept a record of his experiences and is alive today to describe them. His story, published to coincide with the 80th Anniversary of the first convoy, is more than one man’s account. It is an inspiring tribute to his colleagues, many of whom were killed in action. No-one reading Surviving The Arctic Convoys could fail to be moved by the bravery and endurance of these outstanding men.

CHAPTER ONE

Growing up In Berwick

Berwick-upon-Tweed is well known as the coldest town in England. It lies in Northumberland at the mouth of the Tweed, where the river flows into the North Sea. Less than three miles south of the Scottish border, it is exposed to the north-east winds that come straight from the Arctic, bringing with them temperatures below freezing in the winter and cooler summers than most of the rest of Great Britain.

In 1928, this small, picturesque town was home to my family, the Erswells, and on 16 May of that year, Edward, Prince of Wales (the future King Edward VIII) visited the town to open a new bridge across the river. The ‘old bridge’ as it was known, was no longer fit for purpose, being only wide enough for one-way traffic, meaning any vehicle had to wait until anything approaching had first passed. To solve this problem, the Royal Tweed Bridge, a modern, wider structure, was built, and when Prince Edward came to officially open it there was huge excitement in the town.

Bunting hung from buildings and street lamps, and crowds lined the roads, the townspeople eager to get a glimpse of the young royal as he executed his duties. The sense of patriotism abounded, the feeling of Britishness apparent. After all, it had not been ten years since Britain had emerged victorious from the Great War, proving she was still the most formidable nation on the planet.

Standing on this new bridge as a very young child, I joined the schoolchildren in singing ‘God Bless the Prince of Wales’ as I watched the procession go by, not really understanding what the whole thing was about. All I knew was that it was an exciting time and somebody important was visiting our small town. I smiled and waved my Union flag along with the rest of the children, enjoying the excitement of the celebration. When the well-dressed gentleman exited the car and stood alongside other dignitaries to officially declare the bridge open, I did not realize how important an historical figure I was looking at. This was the man who would one day be King of England and then go through the controversial process of giving it all up for the love of a divorced American woman.

The two bridges that now spanned the Tweed gave rise to a tradition. Each summer, races were held in which young men from the town would jump from the old bridge and swim up the river to the Royal Tweed Bridge, an occasion enjoyed by the whole community until the number of fatalities caused by the practice caused it to be scrapped, and it eventually faded away into history.

* * *

Infant mortality in 1920s and 1930s Britain was one in twenty. Five per cent of babies born at that time could expect not to see their first birthday. Every year, thousands died of infectious diseases such as pneumonia, meningitis, tuberculosis and polio. Poor diet and bad living conditions were the root cause of much of this childhood illness, and one of the biggest causes of infant death during that period was diphtheria, the symptoms of which are akin to influenza. High temperatures, a nasal discharge, a thick grey membrane that covered a very sore throat, and swollen lymph glands were just some of the manifestations a sick child would have to endure when suffering from it. This awful disease caused the deaths of many poor children unlucky enough to contract it.

A few short miles outside of Berwick, two of my young cousins were to fall to the disease. This happened at the same time that I myself lay suffering in an isolation hospital, fighting for my own survival. Being of very small stature, it was feared that, like my cousins, I would not live through the epidemic and would perish along with them.

But even at the tender age of four, I, Charles George Francis Erswell, was made of stronger stuff than most.

Born in Stevenston, Ayrshire on 4 December 1923 to an ex- soldier and an Italian mother, I was the younger of two siblings, my sister Annette being three years older. My father, Harry Erswell, had been a career soldier, serving for many years as a Conductor (warrant officer), detached from the British to the Indian Army, before being posted to Alexandria, Egypt. There he met his wife, my mother, Guiseppina Chiricello, a young widow from Pozzuoli, near Naples. After a whirlwind courtship, Harry brought her back to Britain on his final posting to the King’s Own Scottish Borderers’ regimental headquarters in Berwick-upon-Tweed. Once this tour of duty was completed and he was discharged from the Army, together with his family he took up the lease of a public house, The George Inn, on Church Street, in the heart of the town.

In the isolation hospital the doctors did not hold out much hope for my survival. Left alone for hours on end, I would amuse myself by killing the cockroaches that crawled over the floor and my bed, bashing them with the toy rifle I had been given by my parents. Mother and father were only able to visit me occasionally, due to fear of contamination, and they were not allowed to enter my room, having to settle for waving to me through the window.

Ironically, seeing my mother through this small piece of glass would be the last memory I would ever have of her, as she was to pass away during my confinement. This left my father and grandmother, Emma Louise Judge, to raise us two children when I returned home after my quite unexpected recovery.

After the death of our mother, Annette and I were pretty much left to our own devices. Able to wander the town and surrounding countryside at will, we took advantage of the freedom our father allowed us and explored and enjoyed all Berwick had to offer. Being inquisitive by nature, I would often roam around the battlements and watch the fishing boats on the Tweed as they brought in their hauls to sell at the local markets and towns beyond. This gave rise to a fascination with all things nautical, and even at this early age I knew where my destiny lay. Looking across the bay and out to the North Sea, the Berwick lighthouse to the right, I often dreamed of the day I would set sail and explore the seven seas, imagining all the adventures I would have when I was older.

In this small town of around 12,000 inhabitants, the walk to school was only a few hundred yards. The Boys’ British School at the end of Ravensdowne was where I received my early schooling, and the windows of the classroom on the top floor gave me a wonderful view of the lighthouse, the sea and, on a clear day, the town of Spittal to the south.

It was on just such a warm, sunny day that I sat at my desk allowing my mind to wander. I gazed longingly out of the window, wishing I was out there, sitting on the old cannons on Berwick’s battlements and enjoying the sunshine and the great outdoors.

Suddenly a cane swooshed down and cracked on my desk to the side of me, making me jump and jolting me from my daydreams. This was a tactic of the headmaster’s to gain the attention of pupils who were prone to the odd lapse of concentration. And with the further threat of a whack of the cane across our backsides, it had the desired effect of ensuring we never did it more than once.

If there was one thing all of us feared, it was the wrath of the headmaster and his vicious stick. I had so far been lucky to avoid it, but many in the classroom had experienced just what the old teacher was threatening. The man ruled the school with an iron fist and would not tolerate inattention during his lessons.

Eventually, the bell rang for lunch and the classroom emptied. Some of the children headed to the Town Hall, where a soup kitchen had been set up at the rear. Many families could not afford to send their children to school with food, or money for dinner, and so the soup kitchen was their only chance of a decent meal during the day. However, I was one of the lucky ones. My father made enough money to feed and clothe me and my sister well. But for others, times were proving harder. From the first floor window of the George Inn, I watched my schoolmates queuing patiently for their dinner. Some of my friends wore garments that had clearly been handed down from older siblings, threadbare and torn in places, and their shoes had holes which let in water and snow during inclement weather.

Summer in Berwick was always the best of times, especially during the school holidays. It was a chance for us children to have fun and, if we were savvy enough, to make some decent pocket money.

Often my friends and I would go down to the local golf course, where we would search for missing balls and then sell them back to the golfers who had been unlucky enough to lose them. How the balls came to be lost in the first place was not always down to bad play, and although the gentlemen went along with our banter, we understood they really knew not all the balls had been acquired completely honestly. However, they were willing to hand over a few coppers to get them back, and it always ended in smiles, with both parties coming out of the transaction feeling they had got the best out of the deal.

On Saturdays in summertime it was always prudent to hang around St Andrews and other churches. There was a tradition at the time that newly wedded couples would throw silver coins to the local children outside the church, and we were able to pick up extra pocket money this way. There was always a mad scramble for the coins, and this could result in arguments amongst our group when one of us felt we had not done as well as we had hoped. However, the money was usually divided equally and we all were quite happy. Once we were sure we had all there was available, we ran off once more to play elsewhere in the town.

I had a love of the battlements that circled the town and would spend a lot of time on them. This was my favourite place of all. From here I could look out to the sea that seemed to be calling to me, beckoning me, persuading me my future lay out there on the water. The air was clear and, although it was cold, this did not bother me at all. After surviving diphtheria I felt I could endure anything. A little cold did not trouble me in the slightest.

One day, when I got home after spending some time at the battlements, dreaming of a life at sea, I spoke to my father who was sitting quietly at the kitchen table.

‘I think I’m going to join the Navy when I’m older,’ I declared.

Harry Erswell looked up from the newspaper he was reading. ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ he replied. ‘It’s the Army for you, my boy.’

‘I don’t want to join the Army. I want to go on a ship,’ I responded.

My father folded the paper and put it down on the table. ‘That’s not going to happen, Charles. We’re a family of soldiers. My father was a soldier and his father was one before him. So you, young man, are also going to be a soldier. It’s what we Erswells do.’

I frowned. One thing I did not want to be was a soldier! The very idea of it went against all I felt. No matter what my father said, I was determined one day I was to be a sailor. And not just any sailor. I was going to be the best one the British Navy ever had.

* * *

Each Sunday, Annette and I were ordered to have a bath before morning service, which we were forced to attend (before Sunday school and then evening service). It was on one such day, after Annette had been bathed and dressed in her best clothes, that she and I had cross words. We would bicker, as siblings do, and, being the elder, she would let me know where I stood in the pecking order. As I was getting out of the bath she accosted me, taunting me about how I was the ‘little favourite’ and could do no wrong.

Being so young, I quickly became upset at her sneering as she told me how I was just a silly little boy and she was much better than I.

I asked her to stop teasing, but when she ignored me and carried on, I let my frustration get the better of me and gave her the hardest shove I could muster. Taken by surprise, Annette staggered backwards and fell against the bathtub. Despite her desperate attempts to stop herself, she fell full length into the tub with an almighty splash.

Quickly she scrambled out, soaked to the skin, her best clothes dripping wet with dirty bathwater. Suddenly our father came rushing into the room, demanding to know what all the fuss was about.

‘It’s Charlie,’ said Annette, through tear-filled eyes. ‘He’s just pushed me into the bath.’

Turning to me, my father demanded why on earth I had done such a thing.

By now, unable to control my tears, I told him she had been teasing me, to which Annette denied having done anything wrong.

My tears turned to sobs as I saw my father take the belt from around his waist.

‘Come here, young man,’ he said. ‘You need to be taught a lesson.’

* * *

My fascination with the sea grew as the seasons passed.

One day in 1929, when only six years old, I looked down at the small fishing boats bobbing at their moorings in Marshall’s Cove, a small inlet on the coast. I loved going down there with Annette; with our friends, we would have fun jumping from the hand-holds on the cliff face on to the soft sand below. Close by, a number of rowing boats floated on the water, secured by ropes to a stone jetty. These were used by the fishermen to get to their trawlers and fishing boats which were moored further out to sea.

This particular day, I looked at my sister, hoping to avoid her scrutiny. She seemed absorbed in the fun she was having with her friends, taking no notice of me at all. Seeing the opportunity, I slowly made my way along the jetty towards the boats to get a better look. I looked out across the expanse of water that stretched to the horizon beyond the river which split the town in two. I remember gazing out in wonder, my young imagination conjuring up images and dreams of what lay beyond the limit of my vision. What strange and wonderful places were out there? What adventures I could have if only I could get on board one of those fishing boats moored further out, and take it out to sea.

The nearest rowing boat had drifted a few feet away, pulling the rope that held it taut. If I could just get inside it and row out to the bigger boats then I could take a look inside one. I felt compelled to find out what they contained.

My curiosity now fully aroused, I bent down, gripped the rope and pulled. I was astonished to find that, despite my young age and small size, the little boat moved towards me quite easily, gliding effortlessly across the short stretch of water. Smiling to myself, I realized all it needed was another tug and the boat would be up against the jetty and I would be able to get on board.

Without warning, there was a sudden surge in the water and the boat lifted on a wave before being pulled back away from the jetty.

Taken completely by surprise, and still holding the rope, I was pulled off the jetty, before tumbling headfirst into the water.

I could not swim!

Taking in a mouthful of salt water, I honestly thought this was it. Where diphtheria had failed, the sea I was so fond of was about to succeed and do for me. I started to panic. I could not feel the seabed beneath my feet and although I had managed to get my head out of the water, my inability to swim meant I quickly sank below the surface again.

I realized I was drowning.

After what seemed an age, I felt strong arms grab hold of me, and with a huge effort I was hoisted clear of the water and back on to the jetty. Coughing and spluttering and spitting out salty sea water, the panic of dying slowly left me and I was able to look up and see who had just saved my life.

Annette, now also soaked to the skin, looked down at her brother, the tears in her eyes mingling with the salt water, her hair plastered to her head and face.

‘You silly little beggar,’ she sniffled. ‘What were you playing at? You could have drowned.’

I had never been so pleased to see my sister in all of my life.

‘One thing you need to do, Charlie,’ she said later, when we had got our breath back and were returning home. ‘You need to learn how to swim!’

The misadventure at the cove did not put me off water. For most young people it would have probably given them a fear of it for a very long time, if not forever. But ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Acknowledgements
• Introduction
• Prologue
• Arctic Convoys – Route of PQ18, 2–21 September 1942 Map
• 1. Growing up In Berwick
• 2. The Blitz
• 3. New Recruit
• 4. Settling In
• 5. PQ18, the Kola Run
• 6. Under Attack
• 7. Fire and Ice
• 8. Homeward Bound
• 9. Operation Torch
• 10. Rescue in the Atlantic
• 11. JW53, an Arctic Storm
• 12. A Change of Ship
• 13. Another Kola Run
• 14. ‘What kind of sailors are you anyway?’
• 15. The Beginning of the End
• 16. The Normandy Landings
• 17. Back to Russia
• 18. An End to Hostilities
• 19. Warmer Waters
• 20. An International Incident
• 21. Piraeus and Naples
• 22. Farewell to the Sea
• Epilogue
• Platessection