NEA HELLAS POSSIBLE!

Any student of Greek will tell you that "Nea Hellas" means 'New Greece". Not many students of the language will know that it was, in 1942, a troopship. It was hardly a 'new Greece' then, probably having done too many voyages packed with members of the forces going overseas. The ship set sail from the Clyde on February 13^th 1942, packed with 3,000 troops, airmen and soldiers, and possibly 300 officers and Wrens. Being the 13^th and a Friday it was not an auspicious day to sail. We shuffled aboard laden down with webbing and packs of various sizes strapped to our backs, and each of us bearing a small kit bag marked with two blue bands which meant 'Wanted on voyage'. Once up the gangway we were shepherded somewhere into the bowels of the ship until we reached "K" deck. Once there we were had to sit down and shove along the tables, ten men to each side to await our next instructions. With all that paraphernalia hung about us it was difficult to squash on in the required numbers. We all sat there surveying the scene and I remember thinking, "Well, this must be where we eat, but where do we sleep?" Little did I realise that was IT! We ate there and when the time came for sleep we slept there, stacked in three tiers. The top tier slept in hammocks, the middle 'boudoir' was on the dining tables, and lastly some of us slept on the deck itself. We did have portholes, but, being February they were closed. It wasn't until well into the voyage when we were in a flat calm sea that they were opened and we found that our deck floor was just about level with the waterline.

So there it was, one blanket each and either a mattress or hammock to lie on. Our 'pillows' were our life jackets. These were not 'blow up' affairs, but simply two bags of kapok taped to fit front and back, which some Jonah assured us would not keep us afloat for more than two hours. Sailing down the Clyde we went, waving to all the workers who were building the ships. They'd seen it all before and nobody waved back.

We had no idea where we were going. Some said we were heading for the Arctic, as in the wisdom of the Air Force, we had been issued with tropical kit and solar topees. Perhaps this was a ploy to foil the spies? When we reached the open sea, a convoy of ships built up and we ploughed out into the Atlantic. The ship tonnage would be about 17,000 tons and she certainly did pitch about quite a lot in the Atlantic rollers.

A complete blackout was observed on the outside decks and I found it fascinating to watch the trails of phosphorescence in the wake of the ship at night. I may have been just that bit queasy on the first day, but then, and ever since I have never been seasick. Two airmen at each table had to take turns each day to be mess orderlies and go down to the galley to collect the meals. So many men were laid low by sea-sickness for the first seven or eight days that our table of twenty was much depleted at meal-times. It become a sad joke to see those who suffered come staggering to the table, taking one look at a dinner, then departing hurriedly for the open air. I hated having to go down into the cook's galley in the heat. How the cooks managed to work down in that fug I cannot imagine, what with the heat and the added hazard of avoiding the hot stoves as the ship bucked and rolled. Two or three minutes down there was enough for me.

Either the sea calmed, or we got used to it and our lives settled down to a set routine. Each morning we had boat drill at 10 o'clock. At that time we would all drift towards our boat stations to be ready for the blast on the ship's siren, there to be inspected wearing our flimsy life jackets.

We were eventually 'all present and correct' at the mess table and soon new friends (and enemies!) were made. One chap surnamed Michel, a rabid communist, possessed a 'wall eye' i.e. an outward squint. He was an enthusiastic arguer on anything and everything. He would commence his flow to the chap opposite him and get him involved, but of course as he was doing so, his other eye had, as it were, travelled further up the table, 'collared' someone else and before we knew it, (and finally 'tippled') the table was in an uproar.

There was little movement of air below decks and we spent as much time as we could up on the open decks. The "bar" (it was just a hatch really), which had little attraction for me was always busy and no wonder - beer was fourpence a pint. Hugh Porteus had spent the early days slumped, sea sick, in a corridor and occasionally calling "Water" in a weak voice to any passers by. After about a week he was fully recovered, and he would, after tea, wash the tea can out and go to the bar and get it filled with beer. The can would probably hold a gallon. Hugh would cart it around with him, tapping off his mugs of beer as required. Any lad who didn't want to join the long queue at the bar could purchase the odd pint at his 'retail' price which was fivepence a pint, which financed Hugh's venture somewhat. Whether purchases came or not didn't worry him - either way he finished the can before turning in for the night. Hugh was such a character that he really deserves a book all to himself.

We pitched and rolled southwards in the Atlantic. Some said we were heading for the Azores, but if we passed them nobody saw them! About three weeks into the voyage we sailed up a murky smelly river mouth into Freetown, Sierra Leone, which was then picturesquely called "The White Man's Grave". Coming up the river there I saw for the first time a man actually 'swinging the lead' from our ship as he sounded the river depth. Fortunately we only stayed to pick up fresh water and it wasn't long before we were back out at sea. Such a short visit makes it hard to think of anything of note that occurred there, except that it was in Freetown where I first remember hearing the song "Red River Valley" sung in perfect English by one of the natives who was begging for money as he worked on the water ship pumping new supplies aboard, obviously learned by listening to a gramophone record.

Drinking water was always available on our troopship, but fresh water in the ablutions' taps only appeared for two one-hour periods a day - breakfast and tea time. The rest of the time we could bathe in the showers as much as we liked but, of course, it was salt water. We did buy "salt water soap" but it just wouldn't lather. We had to use this for our laundry as best we could. We were heading southwards and the weather was improving so every day the deck was covered with wet shirts and shorts which soon dried in the hot sun. The troopship used to change tack every so oft and one day I fell asleep on the deck, in the shade, and when I woke up I found I was in the blazing sun. For a day or two from then on I seemed to be seeing things through an orange glow, but in time my sight returned to normal, but it was a worrying thing at the time. The warmer days eased the sleeping situation as many of us slept on the open deck under the stars. Mattresses could not be taken on deck until 7p.m. so it was a mad scramble to get a good pitch. Even so, once you'd staked your claim for the night, nobody would take your place. I guess we all had to stick to some rules or it would have been chaos.

Come mornings there would be a cry of "Rise and shine for the Anchor Line" as the crew arrived to swill the decks and woe betide any sluggard who lingered. Almost a month after we set sail, we were called to attend a lecture to hear that, within a short time, we would be landing in Capetown. We were all excited about the prospect but rather surprised to learn from the Education Officer that 60% of the people would like us, but alas! 40% of the people wouldn't! Brought up as we were at school we believed that all the people who lived where the red splodges were on the world map loved us !

The day before we landed, we had a pay parade. It amounted to 10/- (fifty pence) each. This was not a great deal of money even by the standards of the day. However, we stayed for seven days and at the end of that marvellous week I ended up with 9/10 (forty-nine pence) in my pocket!

Each day we were there we were let off the ship after lunch, supposedly to be back before midnight. Three hundred airmen had to remain on board each day for various duties and they were chosen quite simply - being the last three hundred to get back on the ship the previous night. For my part I made sure I was never in the last 300 as I didn't want to miss one day in that delightful place. There were no shortages in South Africa and no blackout, - at night the city was ablaze with light. Where did my three half-pence go? On the largest apple I'd ever seen!. I bought it on the way off the dock within a moment of stepping on shore for the first time. I know now that my apple was so big it was too large to be saleable. As the saying goes "You don't get a lot of those to the pound" - believe me you wouldn't get one of those to the pound !

Having been warned to look out for 'baddies', friend Tony, from Nottingham, and me were a bit wary about just what might happen. A convoy of cars was massed by the dock entrance and some foolish airmen were getting in them and disappearing to what fate we knew not. One lady asked us if we'd like to come to her house for dinner. We said "No thank you". We thought we might go to the pictures and we were studying the programme when another lady approached us and said "There's only one show tonight in Capetown boys and that's at 8 p.m. - come to our house for dinner and we'll all come back down here for the film" Again we said "No thank you" and walked off down the road to look in the well-stocked shop windows.

We just happened to look in the window of one store which sold furnishing items and curtaining. I was just pointing out to Tony some Lister's velvet and saying that it had come from my home city, when the proprietor, one Cyril Williams, opened the door and asked us to come in. We explained that there wasn't much point in us doing so as we only had about a pound between us. He assured us that didn't matter and that, because he was from Birmingham, he'd like a chat with us. The upshot of our chat was that we finally relented and accepted his invitation to come for tea. For the rest of the week he entertained us right royally. He lived near the "Lion's Head" with his sister, and the two of them did all they could to make our stay a happy one. I was obvious that he (and many of his friends) made this a regular habit when troopships called. Whether it was to get more of us to go back there after the war I don't know (remembering the 60/40% thing) or whether it was simply the goodness of their hearts I don't really know. Cyril had his shop to look after during the day and we were left to our own devices, so we spent most of the day sightseeing. He gave each of us a typed list of snack bars, sweet shops and newsagents, etc. Cyril had signed this and told us "Go into any of these places, get anything you want, within reason, show them this slip and they'll charge it to me" (About fifteen years later when I was living in Scholemoor Road, I came back from a two-week walking holiday to find a postcard from him waiting for me. He was home on holiday in Britain and asking if he could contact me. I wrote back immediately, but alas heard nothing more - he must have returned home by then)

The only sour note that comes to mind was when the three of us were walking down the main street in Capetown. Tony was about to put some money in the hat for a black jazz band which was playing by the road side. Cyril said "Don't do that and don't ever do that again!"

We didn't know we were leaving but Cyril and his friends somehow must have known and they gave us a superb farewell party. As you can imagine it was with some regret that we all left Capetown the next day. The view of Capetown harbour with Table Mountain behind it must be one of the finest in the world. I say "we all" but indeed not all of us did leave Capetown. Some jumped ship and were never heard of again and it was also said that quite a few had strayed down the wrong quarter and never went anywhere again.

I mentioned earlier that once we were in warmer climes we were able to sleep on deck, but, any night we were in port this privilege was withdrawn because of work going on around the ship. The night before we left Capetown, we all filtered back to K deck half-sensing that the next day we might be leaving. All the best sleeping spots were taken when I got back on board, and my "five star" accommodation for the night was to be a wooden bench alongside my mess table. I lay there quietly chatting to another chap, who lay, in luxury on the table beside me. It was warm down there and we all slept naked, (the highest temperature came later in the Red Sea when it reached 105 degrees). As we talked we became aware of someone repeating a phrase over and over again in his sleep. It ran "It wasna me, mither it was oor Tammie" We didn't know until later that this lad was a twin. He and his brother had been going out with a girl and one of them had left her in the family way. When this happened the twins' parents had decided that it was his fault and that he would have to marry her. From the fact that he was repeating these words continually in his sleep it seemed to the two of us that it was not his fault and this injustice was playing on his conscience.

We raised ourselves up to see where the troubled sleeper was and as we did so, we noticed that he also had sat up on the table, stepped on the bench and then down on to the deck. He was sleep walking! I'd never seen a sleep-walker before, nor since, but I understand that they are not to be awakened. He started up the steps to the next deck with the two of us behind him, all three of us 'in the nuddy". It was late, but, being a troopship there's always one or two wanderers about, and those that we saw regarded us curiously as our small procession passed. We put our fingers to our lips as we encountered them and made our way to the next staircase, not knowing exactly what to do. Would we wind up on the open deck? Might he jump overboard? Two flights up we gently held his shoulders and turned him back on a downward path once more. All this took place in complete silence as we finally got back to the level on our deck where he had been sleeping. To our surprise he didn't go to his 'bed' but commenced to make for the steps further down which led to the bottom deck of all which was a dead end. That "dead end" was the armoury where all the rifles and ammunition were stored, guarded by a soldier twenty four hours a day. He was astonished to see the three of us (obviously unarmed and unclothed!) and raised his rifle presumably to utter a ridiculous "Halt, who goes there?" Fingers to lips once more, more hands to the sleepwalker's shoulders as we turned him round and he climbed the short flight of steps and back up towards his place. When we got there he made as if to lie down. His one blanket had slipped to the floor and one of the other chaps, with a movement which would not have disgraced a bullfighter, swept it swiftly under him as he settled once more on the table. Once there, he rolled over on to his side and slept on peacefully until next morning. To keep our boring life interesting there was always a lot of ribbing going on about one thing and another, but it was to everyone's eternal credit that nobody ever mentioned the incident to him.

The journey from Capetown was long and monotonous. We stopped at Aden - a Godforsaken place - just for the day to take on water. There is a well-titled bagpipe tune "The barren rocks of Aden" and no wonder. The only patch of green we could see was a small lawn which was being continually watered, - a contrast to the surrounding country which was burnt and harsh.

From thereon the trip got more tedious. We saw just the one island - I think it was Socotra - and by this time after nearly two months at sea the only thing we wanted to do was get off the ship and on to dry land. We hadn't seen a shot 'fired in anger' and it seemed all plain sailing as we neared our destination. We were to land at Port Tewfik which is located at the southern end of the Suez canal.

As usual, the night before we landed, there was to be no sleeping on deck. Throughout the voyage all our kit had been stored in slatted wooden racks on the deck ceiling, and each man had only a small kit bag. The various items of webbing which we had been festooned with as we boarded had travelled in these kit bags for all those thousands of miles. We had all unearthed our individual trappings and clipped them all together ready for the 'off'' the following morning. That night the whole deck ceiling was a waving sea of air force blue webbing. And so to bed - I use the term more loosely than Samuel Pepys ever did!

When the crash came I must have been fast asleep and the first intimation I had that anything was wrong was when I awoke with a start to see a stream of water shooting past me on the deck. What I didn't realise quickly at the time was that the water had been the contents of a large wooden tub placed to receive drips from our drinking water supply and this had overturned. Had we struck a mine? Had we been torpedoed? Whatever had happened the alarm bells were ringing and chaps were making their way as fast as they could to the steps leading toward the open air. I reached for my life jacket - which I used as a pillow. Gone! Gone, gone like the panickers one of them with two jackets maybe - just to make sure . . . Mac, kind soul helped me to find another. What had happened we had no idea. By this time the exit was crowded. Those who had led the rush were gone and to the rest of us there seemed to be no point in panicking for there was just a slow moving crowd in front of us. When boat drill happens on a ship it occurs at a set hour and all passengers amble to their boat stations, in broad daylight, to await the siren. Come darkness and the blacked-out exits were fewer and far more restricted. When a real emergency happens everybody is in the 'wrong place' as it were. The further up the ship's decks you are, the better off you become in the pecking order. It would be around midnight when all this was taking place and as we inched upward none of us had a clue as to how much the ship was damaged and even if we might be sinking.

It took us ages to get up the one flight. My good friend Mac was beside me, and once there he decided he wanted to go to the lavatory. Toilets on troopships are matey affairs - they have no doors. Once Mac was installed, I sat on the outside sill at the entrance waiting for him. In time, an RAF policeman came along and said "Come on, airman - up on deck. What are you doing there?" "I'm waiting for my mate", said I "he's in there on the lavatory" The corporal went in to see him and the funniest argument ensued as the whether or not King's Regulations indeed said that a corporal could order an airman to vacate a toilet seat even if the boat was going down! He did see the funny side of it and we were left to our own devices to make our way with the slow moving traffic into the open deck and our boat station. Mac had timed our wait - twenty-three minutes it was from the crash time to get to the open deck - let alone our correct place. For the first time we saw that the deck was brilliantly illuminated. Way up on the top deck the WAAFs and WRENS were lined up with their greatcoats over their nighties singing heroically "There'll always be an England"

Then we saw it. It was a smaller ship than ours. The bow of the Nea Hellas must have hit it smack in the middle, for there was a great gash torn out of it. It was drifting slowly away from our ship and we found out later that it had been damaged amidships where crew members were sleeping and not one of them had been injured. It was obvious that, although our ship was damaged it didn't look ready for sinking, so gradually we must have all slowly filtered back to sleep on damp mattresses on the wet floor.

The Red Sea is roughly cigar-shaped and most traffic is along its length. There are very few towns and villages on either side of its width, but that night some ship must have been cutting straight across, with dire results for both ships. Also, bearing in mind that it was the last night of the trip, the chap on watch may have been celebrating with the rest of the crew, assuming that there wasn't really any danger from anywhere.

When morning came there was a stiff breeze blowing across the sea and we saw that the small ship had been beached and the crew had taken to a lifeboat to row to our ship. Certainly the crew members of the Nea Hellas were wide awake by then and it was masterly how the ship's captain manouvered the ship against the wind so that the exhausted strugglers could get to us. Sadly one man was killed. He missed his footing and was crushed between our ship and their lifeboat.

What a tragedy it could have been had the crash happened a couple of seconds later - there's no doubt about it, for, as we were on the waterline, I don't think I'd be writing this now. Further more with the Red Sea being shark-infested taking to the water was a prospect which didn't bear thinking about.

Later in the morning we disembarked on lighters and as we moved towards land we were able to see the bows of our ship completely burst open and bent around - it was obvious the bulkhead had saved us.

(Note:- As I was writing this some sixty years later I wondered "Is there anything about the Nea Hellas on the Internet?" and indeed there is - a whole series of articles from people who sailed on it for years and years afterwards)

In February and March of 1944, I was a passenger on the Nea Hellas, traveling from Bombay, India, to Greenock, Scotland. My name was then Verena Robison Morgan, ten years old, going on eleven, having lived in India since 1939 with my mother, Janet Morgan, and father, William Stanley Morgan, who was a doctor in the Indian Medical Service. Ordinarily an English family like ours would have returned to England every year or so, but this was made impossible by the war. In early 1944 my mother decided to return to England to be reunited with my older brother, Keith, who had been separated from the family since before the war, when he was left in an English boarding school at age ten. It was a dangerous time for anyone to travel during wartime, especially civilians, but she felt that she must do it.

During January and part of February 1944, my mother and I waited in Bombay for a ship to take us back. During the war it was essential to keep a ship's movements secret. There were concerns about Japanese spies in Bombay relaying the time we sailed, so we weren't told anything about our ship until just before we were to leave. We had to pack our belongings every night, just to be ready to leave at a moment's notice.

The summons finally came in mid-February that we would sail on the Nea Hellas. We didn't know then that this ship had originally been British, had been sold to the Greeks before the war started as unfit for service, and taken back when the war started because the British were so short of shipping.

We took a taxi down to the docks and I was able to escape my mother's guard while she dealt with the baggage. I quickly found that this was not going to be a voyage for civilians alone. As I approached the ship, I saw Italian prisoners who had been interned in India, filing up the gangplank of the Nea Hellas. They wore gray uniforms with a black diamond on their backs. The British Tommy on guard at the end of the gangplank, slammed his rifle butt on the concrete and yelled, "'Alt, you bloody Eyties, this young lady is going onto the ship!" The line halted immediately, and I looked up at the face of the first prisoner. His eyes were brown and he was smiling, and he looked like my father. I was too frozen to smile back. He looked so friendly, and I realized with a shock that these sad-eyed men were the ENEMY. I walked self-consciously up the gangplank while everyone watched.

We discovered that our convoy was to be only seven ships, but at least we wouldn't be alone. We saw that there were many women and children on this voyage. It was only recently that the government had allowed civilians on such dangerous trips, and they told us this was to be the first with civilians through the Suez Canal since 1941. Before this, it had been open only to military vessels, and carried men and materiel to fight the Japanese in the Far East.

Our cabin was minute, about a third of the size of a normal cabin. My mother took the lower berth and I was delighted to climb onto the top one. Getting out of the upper berth, I had almost landed in the washbasin, so it was a wonderful game just being sure I missed it. We had to sleep in our clothes every night in case we were torpedoed during the night. The water for taking baths was desalinated, and we were only allowed one a week. But I never took one, because there was always a queue at the bathroom door and I was too impatient to wait. Besides, the water smelled strange, and I worried about being torpedoed while I was in the bath and having to run out in my birthday suit. Of course we had life boat drill every day except Sunday, when we sang hymns like "Eternal Father, Strong to Save," with the line, "For those in peril on the sea," which curiously mesmerized me.

I could hardly bear to think about how dangerous our journey was. They were always talking on the wireless about ships sinking with the loss of all hands. I heard my mother talk about the letters she expected and which never came, and I knew yet one more ship had been sunk. I visualized those white hands waving on the surface of the water, with sharks swimming beneath them. We could see sharks following the ships in search of anything edible thrown overboard.

Our small convoy was chased all through the Indian Ocean by Japanese submarines. One morning I saw a column drifting up from the ocean. My mother said it was a waterspout, but it looked more like smoke to me. I felt frightened, because I was sure they had sunk a ship. My suspicions were vindicated, for we found out later that an oil tanker had been torpedoed and caught on fire, and hence the smoke. When we reached Aden we picked up the survivors, still black with oil, wrapped in sheets, and our crew had to hunt around for clothes for them. We were told that it was the third time in the war that the cook from that ship had been torpedoed. I wished my mother would tell me the truth. I suppose she thought it would frighten me, but I was frightened anyway. Besides, even at age ten I could tell it was not a waterspout.

We entered the Suez Canal at Port Suez. When the Japanese entered the war by bombing Pearl Harbor, the canal was closed, which meant that ships had to go round by South Africa, which was even more dangerous. Sometimes the canal was broad, sometimes narrow, the sides littered with vehicles destroyed during the fighting. Some had German swastikas, and some were British and American. I don't remember any one else being near me on deck, but I wished they were, because I had so many questions to ask. I had heard about the North African campaign but I knew so little about it. All I knew about the war I learned from the radio and by overhearing my parents' conversations. But they shielded me and were careful of what they said.

When the canal was narrow, one could almost reach out and touch the camel trains. I watched the supercilious camels with as much fascination as the detritus of those desert battles. The camel drivers looked straight ahead as though we didn't exist, and the camels lurched along looking disagreeable. When they turned their heads toward us and snorted, you could smell their foul breath.

Finally we reached Port Said, which is the port at the Mediterranean end of the canal, where there was a huge cargo awaiting us. We were told that we were taking on thousands of American troops for the voyage to England. We did not dock, but they came out in landing crafts. When I looked down, I saw khaki helmets, massed so that they covered every inch of their transports and the uniforms below. The American soldiers climbed the rope ladders with their bulging kit bags and came over the side of the ship. I was glad it was calm for them.

We set out through the Mediterranean. We had boat drill every day. Ill-tempered March gales harassed us, the sky was gray and cold, and the water raged beneath us. Every day there were bombing raids, the dreaded swastika above us. Meanwhile, the Germans were fighting their way north in Italy. And then there were the submarines, which were chased by other boats in the convoy. The Nea Hellas shuddered as depth charges went off. I looked down into the gray waves and hoped I would die before I hit the bitter sea.

There were many storms on the ocean that year. We had not gone far into the Mediterranean when I woke one night to a lot of noise. My mother was standing at the door of the cabin, and I thought we must have been torpedoed. The corridors were running with water knee deep, and people going along them were losing their balance, heads under the water, toes waving in the air. Chairs were floating around and any thing not fastened down was mobile. My mother was laughing as they went down, and there were shrieks from the corridor. I was shocked that we weren't all getting ready to abandon ship and wondered why we weren't running for the lifeboats. My mother had built a barrier against our door with a pile of towels, grabbing more as the water rose. She explained that a deck door had been left open mistakenly.

The next morning we discovered what had happened. The problem was that during a raging storm a GI on deck duty had run off to find his new civilian girlfriend and left the deck door open. The waves were so high that they burst over onto the deck, and ran down to the bottom of the ship. The British were very amused that the Americans were fulfilling their reputation for being over-sexed.

We were astounded to find the dining room in its usual order when we came down for breakfast. The crew had roused the stewards in the middle of the night, and when we arrived for breakfast there was absolutely no evidence of the flood, nor any bad temper, even though the stewards had been up all night restoring order. The whole of our passage through the Mediterranean was very rough, but fortunately we didn't have another wet experience like that one.

On March 12, I had my eleventh birthday in the Mediterranean. In contrast to my fifth birthday, also in the Mediterranean, I realized that this one would be different, because of the war. Sweets were severely rationed, and we had no coupons. But to my delight and amazement the stewards who waited on us had rounded up some chocolate, so it was a real celebration for my birthday after all, even though I had to share the chocolate with the other children.

One day as I made my way up on deck I was stopped by one of the American soldier's who said, "You stand here and listen to me." I was scared and then shocked when he said, "I saw you going up on deck with a flashlight. You're a spy!" At eleven, I was a shy and fearful child, much younger than my years and terrified of the Germans. The last thing on earth that I would do would be to spy for them. I fled to find my mother, who said, "Don't be silly dear. He's daft! Just ignore him." To my relief I never encountered him again.

Our entire journey through the Mediterranean was over rough water. During drills we had to go up on deck, put on our lifejackets and hope there weren't real bombs to hit us. One day standing there I thought about the Italian prisoners and asked one of the men taking the lifeboat drill what they would do with the prisoners if the ship was hit. He said, "We'd lock 'em up Missie and they'd go down with the ship." I felt sick!

Every day there were submarines attacking, torpedoes coming up and depth charges going down. Mercifully, the enemy's aim was bad and no one in our convoy was hit. The constant threat of submarines was frightening, so we were delighted to see the Rock of Gibraltar and the straits we would pass through to reach the Atlantic Ocean. There we joined an enormous convoy, over sixty ships: battle ships, aircraft carriers, destroyers, troop carriers, and amongst them all our old tub, the Nea Hellas. Although we did not know it then, this armada was bringing troops and supplies for D-Day. We sailed through the straits of Gibraltar, but the whole convoy immediately started to sail round and round in circles. Lingering there seemed to be tempting fate, making us a sitting target for all those submarines, but finally, to our relief, news came through that a lost ship had been found and we steamed into the Atlantic.

We set off west in a huge arc, almost to America, to avoid the U-Boats, which were concentrated near their bases in Europe. The cold gray days passed with such slowness, and every night we still slept in our clothes for fear the ship might be torpedoed. I heard two people talking at a daily boat drill. They said it was stupid to think we would be rescued if we hit the water because we wouldn't survive but a minute in the bitterly cold water. When we almost reached the American coast, we started back for Britain.

We finally arrived at the Firth of Clyde in Scotland around the 21st of March, and we sighed with relief, for surely we were home safely. All the passenger ships made for the docks, but the Nea Hellas remained anchored out in the Clyde, much to our dismay. We watched, appalled, as they raised the yellow quarantine flag. We were not free to go; we would be in quarantine for three weeks because of measles! That day on the Nea Hellas was bitter in every sense, for after six weeks at sea, we could see HOME, but landing was forbidden. As a last straw, in the grayness of that March chill, we learned there was no more fuel to give us heat on the boat.

However, the next morning, when we came down for breakfast, we were ordered to take our cabin baggage as soon as we had finished and assemble on deck at our lifeboat stations. Once there, we went over the side of the ship, to climb down rope ladders into the heaving landing craft below. It was terrifying. The ladders swung in the wind from side to side as we clambered down. I clutched the rope until I skinned my hands while the yellow quarantine flag still streamed triumphantly in the breeze. We discovered the reason for lifting the quarantine was that the ship's cook had developed polio, which trumped the measles!

We went to shore in a boat that tossed on the waves. It was frigid on shore and our coats and wraps barely warmed us. We took the night train from Glasgow to London, during which there was no light visible, for the whole country was under blackout. When we arrived in London it was morning, and we made our way to the station restaurant to get breakfast. I had heard about how strict rationing was, so was surprised to find a real fried egg on my plate. But before I could cut it, the air raid sirens started wailing. Forget about air raid shelters, we took our places under the table to enjoy our first meal on land and hungrily consumed it in safety until the all-clear siren went.

We soon caught a train to Reading for the happy reunion with my brother Keith, now fifteen and so much bigger than I had remembered him! We were in time to see him in his school's production of Gilbert and Sullivan's Iolanthe, which has remained one of my favorites.

After living in England for about ten more years, I came as an occupational therapy student to America, where I met my American husband, George Rybicki. We have lived ever since in Massachusetts, mostly in Lexington, but lately in Peabody.

When I was a lad, my mother wrote her recollections of 1941, the year I was born. It seems that I have a close relationship to the Nea Hellas, see the below story, which is an extract from her writings.

Iain MacPhail

We arrived at the place of embarkation and we were informed that transport J-D-65 was our ship; at such-and-such a wharf, but we must wait until we were told to go aboard. We were kept waiting on that cold wharf for one and a half hours, and believe me; tempers were very frayed before we got aboard.

Our men had all vanished; where no-one knew. We found out later that they were all aboard and quite comfortable, thank you. I had always considered our medical men were stinkers, but after that I was quite decided. There they were, "all nice and cosy like", while we froze on the quay side in a Glasgow fog (which I forgot to mention when we got off the train).

At long last Miss Grey appeared and we were allowed to embark. I often wonder; had I known that fate, in the form of a very tall, good-looking Australian sergeant who was standing at the top of that gang plank, was waiting to play so many tricks on me, I would have gone up quite so gaily. Probably I would.

When told we could now get aboard, I looked up and said to Strongo, who was with me, "Look at that handsome, conceited-looking brute up there. I bet he thinks he is the cat's pyjamas." Little did I dream then that these same pyjamas were to haunt me all my life.

But this is getting away from the point: when we reached the top of the gang-plank, which incidentally went up like the animals going into the Ark, a voice snapped, "Name and number!" No please or thankyou. This was the last straw! My temper, never the best at any time, just flared. I turned round and in my very best Sister Lawson voice said, "Are you by any chance talking to us, sergeant." It was the good-looker, and he did not like it. "Sorry, Sister," he said. "May I have your name and number, if you please?"

Of course I realised he was being highly sarcastic, but I could not do anything about it, so I told him as coldly and haughtily as I could, and we were directed to our respective cabins; Strong to share a three-berthed cabin with comparative strangers, and I to share a four-berther with three others, one English and two Scottish girls, named Allison, McMillan, and Anderson. Allison was tall, like myself. Andy and Mac were small, dainty people, and to add to it all Andy was years older than us and very demure. Needless to say, she was not so demure before our journey was done.

Strongo and I were rather peeved at not sharing the same cabin, but there was nothing we could do about it as it had all been arranged and listed in the usual triplicate so loved of the army. Anyhow, it did not matter much as things worked out as I spent most of my sleeping time on deck. I mean that we slept on deck, but again I'm running too far ahead.

Our cabins allotted and inspected, bunks chosen, etc. we had to sojourn to the lounge where we were given afternoon tea, then a talk by O.C. Troops regarding lights, etc. All portholes had to be closed and screwed down at dusk, smoking on deck was forbidden after 4 G's had sounded; that was official black-out time, sounded by the bugle. Anyone breaking these rules would be court-martialled and dealt with accordingly. We were then issued with life belts, which with our gas mask and tin lid ere never to leave our side for one moment while we were aboard ship. Many times I was sent back for mine. We could not even go to the dining saloon without them unless the ship was in port.

The ruling on the tin lid and gas mask, or to give it its correct title, "service respirator", was lifted and we could leave them in our cabin but easy to reach; they must not be tucked away out of sight. We were told that lifeboat drill would begin the following day, and that dinner would be at 7:30pm.

It was then we discovered that there was another hospital on board, No 7 General Hospital. This was not such good news. They had been on board a day when we embarked, and probably were not very pleased when we arrived as it was not a very large vessel; 20,000 tonner at the most, I should think.

As it happened we got on fairly well together, or it may be nearer the mark to say we ignored each other's presence very well. One week they had first meals, second week No 6 had them, so it was equal all round.

There was a roster for the irons, of which the ship had two. Can you imagine! Two irons between 110 girls all wearing white most of the trip. Surprisingly it all worked out and we all managed to look spick and span all the trip. How, we never quite knew, but we did. (I am away in white uniform, and really we have not left the wharf yet.)

After this issue of life belts and afternoon tea we were allowed to unpack and stow our kit to the best of our capabilities in our respective cabin space. We were told we need not dress for dinner while the ship was in port, which was just as well, but that when she put to sea we must be regimentally dressed for dinner.

That meant mess dress: grey dress and shoulder cape, white collar and cuffs, black silk stockings, and our veil. When we got into tropical waters it was our white mess dress for dinner. Personally I thought it a little cracked getting dressed for dinner at sea, and not in port, but that apparently only showed my "iggorance" of correct procedure.

Dinner time came at last and you can believe me we gave it full benefit as it was the first really hot meal in nearly 24 hours. After dinner we did more unpacking, had a hot bath, and filled our hot bottles and crept into bed. Personally, I don't remember hitting the pillow.

I was awakened next morning by the skirl of the bagpipes and wondered where on earth I was. When I fully reached my senses I discovered, or rather realised I was not on earth but on water, and that we were as yet not sailing. Getting dressed, I went on deck to find where the pipes were playing and discovered they were on another ship lying out in the river, which incidentally could just be seen through the fog which still held Glasgow in its grip.

At breakfast we wee told we could go ashore if we obtained permits from Matron and O.C. Troops, but that we were not to visit or communicate with any friends or relatives we may have nearby, and that we must not give any information as to where we were, or who we were.

All very important, as if people could not see we were army nursing sisters and as if the people on the Clyde did not know that there was a convoy of about 30 ships lying in the river. More army taradiddle! Can you imagine how annoying it was to know that a telegram would have brought my sister to Glasgow in little over an hour and we were more or less honour bound not to send one?

Strongo and I had done our middie in Glasgow, so we naturally had a soft spot for it, and knew a few good places in which to eat, so we joyfully went ashore, taking with us some of the girls who did not know the town. We decided to walk into the city proper, and our companions were fascinated by our knowledge of the Glasgow slums, 'til we enlightened them that we done our district midwifery round them.

We had a whale of a day in town, buying bits and bobs. I bought a lovely piece of striped taffeta to make a dressing gown, as I did not have a really pretty one for tropical wear. It cost me 1/6d a yard! The last I ever bought at that price.

Glasgow looked much the same, cold, dirty and foggy, but a very kindly city in spite of all that; the people with their slow, soft drawl and hospitable hearts. They were very curious to know if we were staying in Glasgow or if we had come in from some of the hospitals round about. As far as I was concerned I was on leave and most surprised to hear about the ships in the river.

"Fancy that now. Three days? Well, well, well. Held up by fog you say since Sunday, and it's now Wednesday. Poor souls, they must be sick of waiting. Yes it would be nice to know where they were going. Some sisters and nurses going too, did you say? Ah, well, some girls have all the luck." A cough from Strongo, who is nearly having a fit of hysterics. "I think it is time we went," said she. So I politely bade our garrulous shop assistant "Good morning," and departed to laugh my hat off outside. Strongo informed me that I was a complete ass. And I was merely being polite!

We had five days ashore, then one morning when we awoke the ship was under way. The fog had cleared, and there lay Clydeside before our eyes. Down we sailed, and workers waved from the banks. There were many sad-eyed and sad-hearted girls lining the rail that morning; watching the coast slip gradually past us. Many were openly in tears.

I'm afraid I must be a heart-of-stone type of person 'cause they left me cold. They had joined of their own free will for overseas service and they knew hat they may or may not return, so why weep about it where everybody could see them? Certainly it did give you a rather hollow feeling in your tummy, but why wear your heart on your sleeve? We were off on a glorious (or otherwise) adventure.

Down the Clyde we slipped, without fuss or palaver, and picked up the other ships in our convoy en route. Thirty in all; the largest convoy to sail from the British Isles up to that date; it truly was a splendid sight. There they were, strung out in line, heading for... where? That was the question. No-one knew, except I suppose O.C. Troops. The Captain was sailing under sealed orders.

There we were, beyond the ship-building yards of the Clyde now, nearing its mouth. Breakfast had been swallowed in a great hurry that morning, as everybody was eager to watch the last of the land, our home-land, fading from sight, just hating to see it go.

At last it is gone, and we are at sea proper, a large target for enemy planes or submarines! It may seem strange, but I don't think many of us thought much about that. If we did we seldom could talk about it. That night we dressed for dinner, and did so every night for seven weeks after that, with the exception of four days we berthed in Durban, and two days in Sierra Leone, or I ought to say lying off Freetown, but I am way ahead again.

We steamed along quite steadily. The sea was very calm and the weather very cold, colder than anything I had ever felt. We thought we must be sailing north. Most certainly we could not have been sailing south. Rumour ran all over the ship as to where we might be going. At one stage we were supposed to be very near the coast of Canada, but whether that was so or not I cannot say, only I know that for several days it was extremely cold. Although in the light of where we eventually first saw land, I am afraid the Canadian story was a Furphy.

On and on we sailed, and saw no land for many days. Then early one morning land was sighted and one of the ships left the convoy. We learned later that the land we had seen was Gibraltar, but we were not very close in, and that the ship which rejoined us later had put in to pick up survivors from a convoy ahead of us which had been torpedoed. How much truth there was in that we never knew, but the ship most definitely did leave, then rejoin us. If I remember correctly it was the Brittanic. We had come to know all the ships by their correct names by this time. Our own one was the Nea Helas. The Cameronian was our sister ship. There were several of the Castle line, but their names I am afraid are forgotten.

The next time we saw land was again early morning, and we were virtually surrounded by it; and believe it or not, an air raid siren was wailing and guns were firing. "Stay below in our cabins, and put on your tin lids!" was the order. We stayed below in our cabins, but all of us had our heads stuck out the respective portholes at one time or another during the raid, if it was one. Can you picture three people with their heads through one porthole, and work out where our tin lids were! Away up in the sky, so high that it looked like a bird was a tiny dot, which we were assured was an enemy aircraft, a reconnaissance plane from Dakar, and the firing was to keep it too high to be able to take any photographs of our convoy.

We had arrived in Freetown, port for Sierra Leone, and my dear the heat was terrific! I forgot to mention that we had been wearing whites for several days prior to our arriving in Freetown. I suppose we never did actually "arrive" there, as we lay off in the harbour. To our intense disgust we were not allowed ashore because of the malarial danger, which was very acute. We also lay outside the flying distance of malarial mosquitoes, or so the best authorities informed us! I would not know.

We may have been outside the flying distance of the mozzie, but we most certainly were not outside the rowing distance of the natives in their quaint little boats, piled high with the most tempting-looking fruit which we were forbidden to purchase, either by fair means or foul, but it was very strange how much of that forbidden fruit we seemed to be having to eat. I acquired mine by means of the ship's barber, a person I heartily disliked, to say the least of it; a very lovely basket hand woven in gay yellow, red and black, which I used for various purposes 'til I left it with a friend not long ago, much to her delight.

There were bananas everywhere you looked, mangoes, pawpaws and what have you. Naturally, when you stop to think that most of the troops were "wild Australians" who could never obey an order which said "thou shalt not", we must have fruit if only for the devil of it. The barter went on all day, in spite of the duty officers ordering hoses to be turned on these frail little craft. Many of the blacks were swamped, but they just roared with laughter, turned their craft right side up, clambered in and went back for more fruit, if they lost any.

It was really most amusing to see an old shirt go over the side on a rope, and up would come a huge bunch of bananas, for which the shirt could never have been enough payment. Next you would see a great big black fellow struggle into a shirt about six times too small for him, or maybe it would be the other way round. Whichever way it was, they were always mighty pleased. The Tommies on board did not do so much bartering as their Australian brethren, whether from lack of material, or greater discipline I do not know; probably a bit of both.

We lay in for three days, during which time we literally fried; our clothes were never dry. It was my first experience of great, sticky tropical heat, and I did not like it. I still don't. Freetown lay there in front of us, tantalising in the sunlight with its green tropical vegetation right down to the water's edge. How I would have loved to get ashore. The town gives the impression of being built up a hillside, which I think it is, because it was quite hilly round the harbour. Perched on top of the hill was a white building with a red roof, which we learned was the government hospital. Houses clung, or appeared to cling to the face of the hill, but alas, as I have said before, we must just look at it from afar; tantalising 'cause I love to explore new places.

It was January 25^th when we reached Freetown, and we had sailed on the 4^th; so where we had been in the 21 days between, goodness knows. "On a troop ship at sea," without any doubt. As I say it was January 25^th and that being to all Scottish hearts quite a day, since it is the birthday of our great bard Robbie Burns, great celebrations were afoot, as we had a Scottish crew. They threw a Burns Supper, and that my dear does not consist of cold meat and salad.

When the dinner gong went both hospital units tripped down to the dining salon en masse. My dear what a crowd, and the heat! because all portholes were shut and screwed down and light were lit. Suddenly the skirl of bagpipes and in marched two Australians just about blowing their lungs out piping in the haggis, and the thermometers registering somewhere about 115°F (or C, or whatever they registered). After dinner a dance was held in the lounge and we danced nearly all the Scottish dances it was possible to dance; Lancers, Eightsome Reels, Quadrilles, Schottisches, and what have you. It was heavy work, because most of the girls in the units were English and did not know the square dances; however, they did their best and there was a lot of fun.

When the evening was about done somewhere round about 1am Miss Grey had the brilliant idea that an exhibition eightsome reel must be danced by four members if the ship's crew, and four Scottish sisters. Well, I knew what that meant, as there were only three Scottish sisters in our unit, two of whom danced, and there were only two in No 7. We were ringing wet by this time, our white tricotene dresses were simply clinging to our backs. But, nothing daunted! Into the Eightsome we went and although I say as shouldn't, gave them a really good demonstration of how an Eightsome Reel should be danced. So much so they wanted us to do set of Lancers for them, but we were not playing. We did oblige by a short Schottische with our respective partners.

It was at Freetown that we requested permission to sleep on deck. Miss Grey said that she would have to ask O.C. Troops, and if he gave his permission she was quite willing. That tore it! We were quite sure he would not grant it, but much to our surprise he did, but not until we had sailed again. If you had seen the scramble to get our camp beds up on to that sundeck before anyone else, you would have laughed. It was a case of pegging your claim and sticking to it. I think there must have been between 50 and 60 beds on that deck. There was scarcely enough room to move between them, but it was heavenly sleeping out under the stars, coming near to peep at you, then hurriedly withdrawing as if they had been too curious. Probably they saw things that made them twinkle a little more 'cause there were many romances aboard our old Nea Helas. Many flirtations went on under these stars.

The Sergeant on Brens was a funny little man and looked after us on that deck like a father, shooing away anyone he thought would not be welcome, and closing his eyes to those that he knew were; up to a certain time limit, then they were all shooed away, and we were told it was time to get ready for bed. He always kept the gangway clear of troops until we had reached the deck all pretty in our housecoats, and there were some very pretty ones. Must have been tantalising for the boys! They were always around in the morning when we went down to our cabins to dress.

Strange how broadminded Matron was about us more or less roaming around the ship morning and evening in our pyjamas and dressing gowns. I wonder what she would have said had she ever caught any of us having supper in quaint little hidey holes with Australian Lieuts and Sergeants. She would most probably have told us we were forbidden to sleep on deck, but luckily for her peace of mind she never ever discovered it, although she may have suspected. As I said in the early part of this epistle she was a charming person. She never snooped, nor did the Assistant Matron. No 7's was also a non-snooper, so I suppose we were lucky.

The three days in Freetown are well behind us now and we know that we are sailing down the West Coast of Africa. Lovely, lazy days, and I had acquired a most glorious suntan, really I was a deep walnut brown, which heightened the white of my uniform.

There was a spot of excitement. Some of our escort had raced away and there were noises of distant explosions - depth charges. We were later told subs had been tailing us, probably notified by the plane we saw in Freetown, but nothing untoward happened, much to our relief. It was not a very nice feeling to think that underwater enemies were so near. One of our escort ships was H.M.A.S. Sydney, a nice compact little vessel carrying one aircraft.

Days drifted slowly by, and all we saw were sea and ships of our own convoy. No other ships had passed us, or if they had they passed us during the night. One day Matron told us that O.C. Troops had issued an order in conjunction with the Master of the ship that we sleep in our cabins that night as we were about to round the Cape and indications were for a storm. We put up such a howl of protest that O.C. relented and the Master said that if we wanted to risk a sudden tropical storm it was OK by him. He was a pet.

We rounded the Cape during the night without any undue disturbance. The sea was a bit rougher than it had been at any time during our journey, but that was all. When morning dawned we had lost more than half our convoy; they had put in to Cape Town. We did not see the Cape at all, much to my sorrow.

We sailed on about another day and berthed in Durban about 4 in the afternoon. There is a town! We were granted shore leave at once, and believe me we were ashore as soon as it was possible. We had to be back on board by 1am.

Durban! Beautiful, fairy city; all lit up. After the blackout at home it really looked like something out of a fairytale to see all those lights. Allison, Mac, Andy, Strongo and I went ashore together. Naturally the first thing we thought about was food. Strange, because we had splendid food on the ship. Anyhow we ate, and tasted our first pawpaw with ice-cream. Lovely and I have loved it ever since. Then we set out to window-shop. All the shops were lit up and packed with good things to eat and to wear. We decided then to do some buying next day, if we were still there, which we were.

We were strolling along, Mac, Strongo and myself with Allison and Andy in the rear somewhere when a car drew up opposite the three of us and a man stuck his head out the window and asked in a very charming and cultured voice if we would like to see Durban by night. Of course we hastily assumed our very insular dignty and began to politely refuse when another laughing voice said, "It's quite all right. We often do this, my fiancé and I," and up bobbed a laughing, pink-faced lass of about 25 or 6.

Naturally, that changed the complexion of things, and our own complexions too, I am afraid, 'cause we felt a bit silly. "Come on, climb in"' she said. The car was not very large, but when we told her there were five of us she said, "Never mind. We can all pile in. The old bus is really quite sturdy." So we all piled in and away we went. They drove us out to see one of Durban's most beautiful gardens, where dancing was conducted in the open every evening. Unfortunately that had been somewhat curtailed owing to the war, but that did not spoil the gardens any.

They were glorious. The lawns were like velvet carpets, and the flowers were a sheer delight. I saw the gardens again in daylight, so I know. After we had toured around their many acres, 'cause they were huge, the lad and lass decided to take us to the highest point available in traffic, and which was right on the edge of the bush. Durban was slowly but surely claiming land from the bush. Up we climbed, round winding roads 'till we reached this point, and there below us lay the fairy city. The streets were laid out parallel to one another and each had its own colour of lights: blue, orange, green, white, yellow. The buildings all seemed to built of white stone, which added to the illusion of fairyland.

After we had feasted our eyes on lights and shadows, our hosts thought we must be hungry, so they decided that they must take us home to the house they were to occupy when they were married. It was his house, if I remember correctly, anyway, it doesn't matter.

It was a glorious home built high on the hillside. The ground floor consisted of a large dining room, sitting room, kitchen with all mod cons. Upstairs were the bedrooms and bathrooms built round the side of the house, reached by a staircase which went up to a balcony which ran along three sides of the sitting and dining rooms. The bedrooms all went off this balcony, which gave extra height and coolness to the rooms below. I am afraid I have not described this very well, but you might be able to picture what I mean. They told us it was built as an exact reproduction of an old-fashioned Boer homestead, and believe me, it was very lovely.

After a wash and tidy up which was much appreciated 'cause it was hot, we had some cool beer, which I was just beginning to like, the lass turned on a beautiful supper; fruit and more fruit, savouries of every shape and form. By this time it was after midnight and as we had to be aboard my 1am we had to dag ourselves away. Back into the car we piled, and were driven back to the docks after a truly delightful evening.

We never saw that couple again, but it seems they were only one of the many Durban families who set themselves out to give as happy a time as possible to troops passing through. All the girls had had much the same sort of evening as ourselves. The South African people, at least those we met were truly charming. We heard from various sources later that they did it all through the war years. Bless them for a happy thought.

Next day we were again allowed ashore, and as we had been paid we were very rich so we had an orgy of shopping. White shoes, stockings, gloves, handbags, seemed to be the order of that day. More large meals in cafes or restaurants. The people must have thought we were starved to near exhaustion. Next day I went ashore without Strongo, she being otherwise engaged and I after the same pursuit. My escort and I explored Durban inside and out, I think. The war memorial was a lovely thing, white stone carved most exquisitely. The Town Hall and Post Office were also white stone. We paid a visit to the snake garden. Horrible place! Snakes of all kinds and sizes. Ugh! We did not spend much time there, I can assure you.

We then decided to have a ride in a rickshaw. They are quaint to ride in. The boys seem to ride on the shafts and they travel at quite an amazing speed. The boy we had was not very elaborately dressed, but the head rickshaw boy was most elaborate. He was no boy. He looked older than Durban did and probably was. He had beads and feathers and shells strung round his neck and draped around his waist, ankles and wrists, a ring through his nose and each ear, face heavily scarred by tribal markings, and to crown it all a huge, beautiful feather headdress. What the feathers were I do not know. He, I gathered had been a figurehead in Durban for many years.

Our final day ashore we went on a more or less organised trip to the Valley of a Thousand Hills. There was grandeur; hills rolling away behind each other towering up into the sky. It certainly was well named. The furthest and highest was the range which resembled a woman lying on her back. It was said to be the Queen of Sheba asleep. The figure was there quite distinct.

While we feasted our eyes on the various colour formations and heights, Sheba was suddenly cut from our vision. Our guide told us to watch, as it was a rainstorm. It would cut out each group of hills as it approached. This it did until the valley was almost hidden by rain, which luckily for us did not reach the hills we were on. It ceased almost as suddenly as it had started and there before us was the valley again in all its splendid rain washed beauty. We went on board that evening drunk with the beauty and wonder of it all.

Next morning we left Durban and as we sailed out the boys of our escort were lined on deck and their band played us out. It was most impressive. The lads had on their whites and looked very splendid. The ships from Cape Town had come round during the night and joined us outside Durban. More lazy days of sea and more sea.

One morning when we came on deck we were the only ship on the ocean. Horrible thought, where was the convoy? It had gone on. We were the lame duck and it seemed that the order was that the lame duck fell behind and the convoy went on. However later in the morning H.M.A.S. Sydney joined us, and that felt better, thank you. Apparently our engines were giving trouble, and if they could not be repaired we were to put in to Port Sudan. This was good news; another town to see. Previously I had always been proud of the skill of Scottish engineers, but I was not proud of them then, because we did not see Sudan. They patched the blessed thing up with chewing gum and string (so they said), and we rejoined the convoy towards evening. Several of the ships had left us by this time; they were bound for India, we for the Middle East.

Up the Red Sea we steamed. It was as hot as Hades. Land was very close to us on either side, too close in parts to be quite healthy, but we sailed up past Aden, looking very barren. How much so I was to discover nearly three years later but I did not know that then.

By this time I was engaged to the Cat's Pyjamas, believe it or not!

We dropped anchor at Port Tewfik harbour nine weeks after leaving Glasgow, some trip! We lay there for nearly a week and were bored to tears. We were not allowed ashore as a debate was going on whether to take us up the Suez to Port Said, or entrain us from Suez (Tewfik being the port for Suez) to our destination. Finally they decided to disembark us. The Australian troops went first. It was sad-making and many tears were shed openly and otherwise. Mine were otherwise. The boys disembarked in the evening, and that left a shipload of lonely women! We went early to bed that night, and we disembarked next morning.