Tales of London's Docklands (6 page)

Charabancs on Tilbury Riverside Passenger Terminal waiting to board a vehicle and passenger steam ferry to Gravesend, 1950s.
(Author's collection)

‘Yes,' replied the docker, ‘and it must be your lucky day. I've seen him turn cars like yours upside down. Wait till I tell the lads at work. They'll all have a good laugh.' Then, as though it were an afterthought, he said, ‘But I suppose the reason he let you off was he didn't want to hold the ferry up and make us all late for work. You really were very lucky, you know'. Then, with as much sarcasm as it was possible to muster, he barked out, ‘Old chap' He then bent down, leaned into the car window and said in a very low voice, ‘You should be more careful in future. You never know who you might be bumping into next, do you?'

5

B
IG
D
AVE AND THE
F
ORMER
Y
EOMAN OF
S
IGNALS

S
o we sat there, on the bollards of the foredeck of the SS
Iberia
, and waited for the ship's passengers to arrive as the thick fog, which was slowly thinning hour by hour, swirled about us. A watery sun was distinctly beginning to show itself through the fog layer that covered the river from shore to shore as far as the eye could see, say about 300 feet, but certainly not more.

Gangs of dockers had completed loading the ship's cargo the previous day; all the steel deck hatch lid covers had been lowered and bolted down; the derricks had been replaced by the Lascar deckhands into the appropriate crutches and secured ready for the ship to go to sea. Baggage gangs, working on the quayside, were transporting suitcases and travelling trunks of personal effects (that is, the luggage that would be required by passengers en route to their destinations in Sri Lanka and Australia) from private cars and taxis that had been drawn up against a raised platform at the rear of the transit shed. Those arriving were, of course, first-class passengers in the main.

There was neither sight nor sound of a British Railways steam train that was to bring most of the tourist-class passengers to the ship from London's Fenchurch Street station. We dockers who made up the ship's baggage gang had to wait out on the open deck as the fog swirled round us. It enmeshed us, like silkworms in their cocoons, as droplets of water formed on our eyebrows and soaked our clothing through to our skins. There was nowhere to shelter, and the doors to the forward lounge were kept locked to make quite sure that facility was out of bounds to us.

We dockers had been on the ship since 8 a.m. and she was due to sail on high water at 2 p.m. That meant she had to be in the New Lock Entrance by 1.30 p.m. for Thames tugs to tow her out, stern first, through the locks and into the river on the last of the flood tide. As we sat waiting, it was still impossible to see the river at all because the fog continued to cover it, bubbling and steaming like the witches' cauldron in
Macbeth.

The open foredeck was about 60 feet above the dock water level, but with the flood tide now only five hours away, and the dock water about 12 feet higher than the river water level, the ship was still well within the fog layer. We coughed and sneezed, frozen to the very marrow in our bones. We swore at each other, cussed the weather and anything else that took our fancy on the bloody open deck of the SS
Iberia
, a luxury liner that failed to offer us even a minimal bit of shelter from the elements. Pox on the bloody ship, I thought.

An Alexander-owned river tug, with its charge, about to enter the locks in one of the upriver docks of the Port of London, 1940s.
(Author's collection)

At 9.30 everything more than 300 feet from the ship was still obscured by fog. Even the riverside landing stage, from which the
Iberia
should have sailed, was invisible. For safety reasons, she had to remain at her loading berth to embark passengers for their long outward journey to Colombo, Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide or Perth in Western Australia.

From the ship's foredeck, in the distance one could hear the muffled sounds of the Ovens Buoy off Coalhouse Point, between Gravesend Reach and Lower Hope Point. The mournful sounds of ships' and tugs' sirens came eerily through the fog, too, intermingled with the tooting of ferry boats, which steamed slowly and cautiously back and forth across the river between Tilbury landing stage and Gravesend.

Big Dave was leaning against the ship's rail. He was one of those unfortunate people who have a permanent frown on their face, as though they are carrying all the worries of the world in their head. Anyone who didn't know him might have thought him a funeral director, not a docker. But beneath that stern countenance was a kindly individual – a truly gentle giant of a man with immense physical strength that he must, at times, have had to exercise considerable will-power to contain.

Big Dave was standing next to Alf J. when he suddenly said, ‘What's that flashing over there?' He pointed to a spot well above the river about half a mile away. ‘Look, there it goes again. It must be some ship in trouble.'

Silence reigned for several minutes as the men gathered at the ship's rails cogitating about the source and meaning of the flashes. Then a guessing game began.

‘I think it's the light on the Ovens Buoy. That's got a flashing beam,' said one.

‘It can't be that,' said another. ‘It's far too high above the water. The Ovens Buoy light is almost level with the river.'

A third gang member ventured to suggest, ‘It could be a ship on fire or gone aground. We may be in luck and get picked up for a salvage job tomorrow morning!'

‘It may be just a yacht with a faulty riding light that has pulled in close to the shore to get out of the shipping lanes,' said a fourth gang member.

Big Dave turned to Alf and said, ‘What do you make of those flashes, Alf?'

‘They're naval signals, Dave. I can't grasp exactly what they're signalling, but I'll read it out to you.' He paused to study what, apparently, were a series of Morse code flashes emitted by a ship's Aldis lamp. ‘It says something like, “USS Cruiser
Texas
”. Then something about the river-something-London-something. I think it said “Lord Mayor”. I can't see all the flashes because of this swirling fog.'

Big Dave pulled himself up to his full height of 6 feet 6 inches, stretched his arms, then bent them at the elbows and yawned. He sat down on a bollard and watched for more signalling flashes from the American warship. Alf continued to stand by the ship's rail. The flashes started again, then stopped before beginning once more.

‘Is that American cruiser still signalling, Alf? What do you make of it?' said Big Dave.

‘I'm a bit rusty at this Morse code now. I've been out of the Royal Navy for ten years, but I shall do my best.'

As the flashes continued, Alf read out, ‘To Trinity House pilot station Gravesend, stop. I have anchored my ship in Gravesend Reach, stop. I am still waiting on the arrival of a river pilot, stop. Must make passage to Tower Bridge to arrive not later than 1400 hours, stop. HM the Queen to visit my ship at 1800 hours accompanied by the Lord Mayor of London, stop. Dispatch a river pilot immediately, stop. This signal is from USS
Texas
. End of message, stop.'

‘Well,' said Alf. ‘Now we know what it is. It's a Yankee warship's captain demanding to be given priority to get up the river to London. He's giving the pilot station a load of toffee about a visit from the Queen. He'll be lucky to get permission from the Port Authority to move his ship in this fog.'

Alf turned round to face the ship's gang with a smirk on his face, winked at them, then sat down on a bollard next to Big Dave.

‘I wasn't aware you could read Morse code, Alf,' said Big Dave.

‘Why should you have been?'

Seaman E. Roots, a Royal Navy rating from the 1940s. (
Author's collection)

‘Well, I wasn't to know you were in the navy during the war.'

‘I think you mean the Royal Navy, David!'

‘That, too,' replied Big Dave.

‘Yes, mate. I had a cushy number, too. I was the yeoman of signals on the aircraft carrier
Ark Royal
.'

‘Is that a fact? I was always under the impression
Ark Royal
was sunk in the Mediterranean.'

‘That is correct. She was.'

‘You must have been lucky to have got off her alive when she went down, Alf?'

‘Well, in a way I was. When
Ark Royal
was in Alexandria I was rushed ashore with appendicitis. I was in a naval hospital when she left port on her last trip. I lost a lot of good shipmates when she was sent to the bottom of the Mediterranean. I was on several ships that were torpedoed and sunk during the war. I am proud to have served for five years in the Royal Navy. It's a fine service with great traditions.'

‘Yes,' Big Dave said, ‘I've read about them. Starve 'em, flog 'em, keel haul 'em or hang 'em, wasn't it? Then when they were dead, flog their kit. Great traditions to brag about, I'm sure.'

‘That was in the days of sailing ships. You must know the old saying, “wooden ships and iron men”?'

‘Yes, so we were told. Now it's “iron ships and wooden men”, isn't it?' replied Big Dave. He hoisted his huge body off the bollard and went over to the ship's rail. He watched more spasmodic flashes and called Alf over to witness for himself that the ship was still signalling and that it hadn't moved an inch from its moorings.

‘The time must be pressing for them if they want to catch the last of the flood tide,' said Big Dave. ‘Do you think the river pilot's got lost in the fog?'

‘Of course not. Give them a chance. It will take a pilot cutter some time to get downriver to Lower Gravesend Reach in this poxy weather.'

‘How long would you say, Alf?'

‘About half an hour.'

While the dockers stood, or sat in small groups about the deck, talking among themselves, Big Dave and Alf leaned against the ship's rail, straining their eyes into the fog for any movement of the American cruiser. Finally, their patience was rewarded.

‘The signals have started again, Alf.'

‘Yes,' Alf replied. ‘I suppose you would like me to decode them for you?'

‘If you will be so kind, I would.'

The ship's baggage gang, not wishing to be left out of the fun, crowded along the rail as Alf proceeded to translate the flashes.