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I was fortunate enough to be born in Ilfracombe, a lovely small seaside town in North Devon, in 1922. My father was Alfred Stanley Cutcliffe, my mother Adelaide Francis Cutcliffe (née Hill), and my sister Joan Marguerite Mundy is 4 years older than I, having been born in January 1919. Historians think that the town may have originally been called “Alfrien Combe”, or something akin to that – meaning “Alfred’s Haven” – yes, he of the Burnt Cakes or “bannocks”. We are not aware if any Cutcliffes were around then, in the mid-800's, but we do know that the family has been centred here in North Devon for many centuries, with the earliest record being that of the reforming Friar John Cutcliffe of Damage Barton, Lee (near Ilfracombe) who was imprisoned for anti-papal writings in about 1340 at Avignon, to which city the Papacy had moved from Rome, and who died in prison there. We have an account of his statement before the two Cardinals who tried and convicted him, and in effect he said “You ‘top dogs’ are puffed up with your own sense of self importance and look after yourselves far too well. Until you divest yourselves of your trappings of luxury and vanity and come back to simple basics you will not be following the right path and leading your flocks properly”.

We lived in the vicinity of the harbour, and although my father was not directly connected to the sea it was very much part of our ambience. For many years the RNLI had stationed a Lifeboat there (and still does). Because of the very large rise and fall of the tides in that part of the Bristol Channel – over 30 feet at Springs – it was not possible to house the boat in a house connected to a slipway from which it could be launched directly. So the boat was mounted on a carriage fitted with huge wheels, which tended to get stuck in the mud at some tide levels, and this was pulled by ropes manned by two teams made up of anybody and everybody from the immediate area. Shopkeepers, hoteliers, a quartet of publicans, the milkman, the postmaster, a baker, a fish’n’chip shop owner, the chemist, a taxi-driver and the older boys were just some who would turn out, whatever the time and weather, to run down to the pier and pull the lifeboat some 250 yards to the harbour for launching. Once that maroon went off the reaction was immediate and help was given freely and without question. Men’s lives were at risk – hopefully we could save them. At all stages of the tide except at high tide this meant, because of the gentle slope of the beach, that the only way that the boat could be ensured sufficient water for her to float as she came off the carriage was for the pullers to wade out to their necks. I have a vivid memory of them, my father included, struggling to do this one winter night in the 1930’s at about midnight in awful conditions. As far as I can recall that shipwrecked crew was saved. Not all were so fortunate. In later years a tractor took over the pulling, and the carriage wheels were replaced by caterpillar tracks which didn’t get stuck – but most people still turned out just in case they were needed. Not to pull, of course, but when our boat returned the rescued men, who were cold, wet and very frightened, needing all the TLC that our small community could give them – and there was still the Lifeboat to recover and make 100% ready for the next emergency. Looking back on that time the thing that stood out above all else was the strong sense of community and oneness. Each played his or her part (unpaid, of course) not because it was expected of them, for they had no obligation to turn out, but because they wanted to do it. I'm sure that sense of communal duty prompted my father's involvement with the RNLI into old age. For many years he served on the local committee, latterly as its chairman, and his coffin was draped in the RNLI Ensign as a mark of appreciation for his years of service on their behalf.

With our close proximity to the harbour, and a father who was a keen sea-angler who fished for the pot as well as for sport, I grew up in a house where seafood formed a substantial part of our diet. At an early age I was taught all the spots in the rock pools at low tide where, with luck, you could expect to pull out a crab or two. And I mean “pull out”. Getting around the rocks at extreme low tide in the short time the tides allowed you was an art in itself, and it called for a fair amount of nerve and agility. In most cases the technique of catching involved lying down at the pool edge, inserting your hand at arm’s length into a hole, feeling carefully around to gauge if there was a crab in there and then, if so, grabbing it and pulling it out! If it turned out to be a ‘cock’ crab, then back went your hand for the ‘hen’, as 99% of the time there would be one in there. You couldn’t see anything of course, so it all had to be done by feel. I have seen grown men, including a holder of the M.C., back off when it was suggested that they might like to ‘have a go’. You didn’t try that trick with the lobsters though, so you had to know which holes were the crab ones and which the lobster. My father had been taught the best holes by his uncle, who was still fit enough when in his 70’s to ‘catch his tea’, and do so in shorter time than his nephew too! There were prawns and shrimps to be had just for the effort, and when the tide came in we could catch mullet, bass, pollack, whiting and conger. When you got them home you had to gut and clean them., and that stood me in good stead many years later when living in East Africa.

It is difficult in these days to remember how much so many facets of our lives have changed, and changed by so much since the 1930’s. For instance in our street only a few homes had telephones and nobody owned a car, in fact, apart from the man who owned a garage, I don’t recall anyone in our whole area doing so. Apart from one or two who had seen service in the Great War, I knew of nobody who had ever been abroad, and most would probably only have been outside North Devon once or twice in their whole lives. Certainly none had ever been abroad for a holiday. Recently an old colleague of mine from East Africa paid us a visit, and in passing he mentioned that his grandchildren had been to Portugal, then to the USA and finally down here to Appledore all during this summer holiday period, and that they had enjoyed the latter bit the most. It was the norm for people in our part of the world to be born, live and die within the same small area. None of us felt deprived, I fancy, and were happy with things as they were. I had always imagined that I would finish up working in Ilfracombe, possibly in a Bank or a Solicitor’s office, or some such dreary existence. When in about 1936 and 1937 other classmates of ours went off to sea in the Merchant Navy, and then returned months later with exciting and lurid tales of their adventures in ‘foreign parts’ I thought ‘that is it – that is the life for me. I shall away to the Briney and do likewise’.

The usual path to becoming an Merchant Navy officer in those days was to take up a four year apprenticeship with a shipping company. That could sometimes mean, if the vessel you joined was “tramping”, i.e. taking a cargo from A to B, then another from B to C, and so on, being away from this country for several years. Just recently there was a big fuss made over a ship which had been on a voyage of five months, and counselling was arranged for the families! The alternative route, if one’s parents could afford it, was to gain entry into a nautical training college. There were three such colleges, HMS Conway on the Mersey, HMS Worcester on the Thames at Greenhithe in Kent, and Pangbourne College on the Thames in Berkshire. From those places, if you got top grades after the two-year course, you could with luck gain entry into the top UK companies like P & O, Union-Castle, Shaw Saville, Royal Mail, etc., and – in a depressed industry - continue with them in later years when qualifications had been gained. A successful passage through the college was discounted by the Ministry to the tune of 1 year, cutting the apprenticeship period from four to three years at sea before qualification was allowed. That still meant that it took in all about 9 or 10 years, with three examination hurdles to overcome, to become fully qualified, so there were no easy quick fixes. My good folk reached down to the very bottom of their not very deep pockets to send me to HMS Worcester, and I was eternally grateful to them for their sacrifice. I joined HMS Worcester on Friday 13 th January 1939. She was an old wooden ship, somewhat along the lines of HMS Victory, and moored close to her was the famous Tea Clipper “Cutty Sark”, which was also part of the college. Discipline was very strict but fair. Everything was done “at the double”. You were given three weeks to find out what was what, and if after that you failed to toe the line you were ‘beaten’. That was the phrase used, and it aptly described what happened. On one occasion I got six for being too nosy and looking through a doorway into a cabin which was out of bounds to such a low form of life as a ‘first term Cadet’! You learned fast. With the ship being wooden smoking was totally forbidden, and if anyone was stupid enough to do it and was caught the punishment was flogging with a rope’s end in front of the whole ship’s company followed by expulsion. No ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’. You learned to carry out orders quickly and without question, and sadly it wasn’t too long afterwards that such reactions could well save your own life as well as those of your companions. The idea was “First carry out the order. If you didn’t know why the order was given ask "why?”. The basic principles of your craft were thoroughly drummed into you, and that stood you in good stead too. I left the college on Friday 13 th December 1940 and joined the Union-Castle vessel M.V. Richmond Castle at Glasgow in March 1941. A few days later we sailed for Capetown via Freetown in Sierra Leone.

Built at Harlands, Belfast, in 1938, the 8,000 ton vessel was refrigerated throughout and had been designed for the South African fruit trade, from where the cargo would only be chilled, but we could also be used to carry frozen cargoes, such a meat, as well as carry ordinary general cargo. With a speed of 16 knots, and carrying some additional armament such as a 4.7” naval gun, we were not sent in convoy but were routed independently. It was a high-risk strategy, but so desperate was the country for foodstuffs that it was deemed necessary. In our sister town of Barnstaple there is still, in the year 2000, a street of shops in the middle of town named Butcher’s Row, for obvious reasons, and one of these had belonged to one “Butcher” Elliott. Well known and respected locally, he played a prominent role in Barnstaple’s civic life. To my surprise, on arrival at Capetown, I was introduced to some friends of our Chief Officer and found that the man of the house Harry was not only a butcher but also an Elliott, and was the nephew of the famous North Devonian. With too many brothers to work in the one business Harry’s father had gone to South Africa to make a new life, and had done very well for himself! After completion of discharge at Durban we sailed ‘light-ship’ across the South Atlantic to the River Plate and docked at La Plata in the Argentine to load beef. On the passage across we became quite used to seeing close up the truly magnificent Wandering Albatrosses, with a wing span (the world’s largest) exceeding about 11 feet. These aerial giants would soar and glide, without ever moving their wings, to within only a very few feet of us on the bridge wing using the updraft caused by our ship’s movement through the air. They obviously had no fear of humans or of our strange noisy moving islands.

The homeward passage passed without incident, and the next voyage was almost a repeat of the first except that on this occasion we sailed some 170 miles (that’s the equivalent of London to Manchester plus some) up the River Paraná to Rosario to load the first half of our cargo of meat. While there four of us went ashore for a meal and a drink, and rather naively we wandered into a place called the Munich Bar. Sitting propping up the bar was a large group of young blonde German-speaking lads. One of our group had been brought up in Hamburg, where his father had been the Rep for a UK firm, and he spoke fluent German. He whispered to us to keep quiet while he listen to what was being said, then told us that the big group were crew members from the German Pocket Battleship Admiral Graf Von Spee. She had sought shelter in Montevideo in December 1939 after the Battle of the River Plate. After about four days the German commander Captain Hans Langsdorff, having been bluffed into thinking that large reinforcements had arrived to join the Cruisers Ajax and Achilles, landed most of his crew and, with a skeleton crew, took his warship to the outer harbour and scuttled her. Three days later he shot himself. The Uruguayan authorities were obliged to put the crew under arrest, but were quite happy to turn a blind eye to any of the crew who decided to escape over the border into Argentina where there were large numbers of people of German extraction living. Our friends at the bar were obviously some of those escapees so, bearing in mind the adage about discretion being the better part of valour, and being grossly outnumbered, we beat a strategic withdrawal with dignity just as soon as we could. A week later, having completed our loading at Buenos Aires, we called at Montevideo to pick up our Admiralty sailing orders, and sure enough there was the rusting conning tower of the battleship still poking up out of the muddy waters of the River Plate. Best place for it, we all agreed!

Our orders took us around the eastern tip of Brazil at Cape Recife and then in a north-westerly direction towards the Caribbean, the idea being to keep the maximum distance between us and our U-boat friends, now operating out of French Atlantic Coast ports, for as long as possible. During daylight hours we followed a series of zigzag courses, but at night we steered a straight course but without navigation lights. We had been routed from point ‘A’ to point ‘B’, but what we didn’t know was that some idiot in the Admiralty had routed another British ship from ‘B’ to ‘A’. On a dark night, about 0100 hrs, there was a report from our forward lookout that he could see something dead ahead, and so it proved. Under such circumstances, i.e. vessels meeting 'end on', the law dictates that each vessel shall alter course to starboard to pass down the port side of the other. This we did – but to our utter horror she turned in the opposite direction. The next 30/40 seconds were, without any doubt whatsoever, the most frightening and horrendous of my whole life. Once committed there was nothing that either ship could do to avert the certain disaster. With an approach speed of 30 knots we ploughed into the starboard side of her No.2 hatch, and as she maintained her way past us we swept away her bridge, much of her starboard accommodation and starboard boats with our forecastle. The noise and feel of 30,000 tons of ships and cargo crashing into each other at that speed was unbelievable. Men were screaming in pain and fear, and just writing about it after 59 years it still makes me feel sick to the pit of my stomach, so vivid is that awful dreadful memory.

The other vessel turned out to be the British vessel “City of Bangalore,” outward bound to Capetown with a cargo mainly destined for the armed forces. Both ships were severely damaged, but remarkably had remained afloat. Throughout the remainder of the night we managed to rescue most of the other vessel’s crew, but sadly a number of her Indian crewmembers were never found. At daylight the next day we started to attempt to tow the City of Bangalore towards Trinidad, the nearest ‘friendly’ port. It was a dangerous task as, even had we been successful, progress would have been painfully slow and both ships placed at great risk. In fact after several attempts the operation proved impossible due to the severity of the damage she had suffered. After consultations the two Captains very reluctantly decided that in the best interests of saving something from the incident we would sink the City of Bangalore by gunfire. I had been the junior on the bridge at the time of the accident, the 2 nd Officer being the O.O.W., and it so happened that he doubled as the Gunnery Officer and I as the Gun Layer on our 4.7 inch gun. It fell to the two of us to give the ‘Coup de Gras’ with six shells along her waterline – a sad task. At Trinidad temporary repairs were made to our bows, where virtually all our damage was limited, and we then continued at reduced speed to Halifax in Nova Scotia to await a UK bound Convoy. The naval authorities there considered that the chance of successfully crossing the Atlantic in our condition was so slight that the plan was aborted, and we went back to New York to discharge our cargo into another British vessel. We then went ‘light ship' to Galveston, in Texas and stayed there, having a completely new bow built on, until late November, when we returned to New York to load. We sailed on a fateful day, the 8 th December 1941, the day after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour and the day that the USA actually declared war. It was also my 19 th birthday. Having spent the three previous months in the USA we were all too well aware that, while there was great sympathy with the plight of the UK and a willingness on many citizen’s part to help where they could, there was no discernible will to enter the war at our side. The Japanese attack proved to be the most stupid thing that they could have done as it catapulted the USA straight into the war by just this one fateful action.

The next voyage – to Argentine via South Africa again – passed off without incident. Our charmed life was not to last, however, and it was on the one following that when we were torpedoed. We had sailed from Montevideo for Avonmouth on 18 th July, routed independently as usual. We were struck by two torpedoes at 1125 on 4/8/42 in 50°25’N, 35°05W, about 750 miles to the east of Newfoundland, and the ship sank at 1132 (just 7 minutes later). We learned many years afterwards, that we had been attacked by U176 under command of Lt-Com Reiner Dirksen, in fact we were first vessel to be sunk by U176 and by Dirksen. He and his U-boat were sunk with the loss of all hands on the 15/3/43 off Havana. It gives me no satisfaction to write that. He was doing his duty just as we were, and I thought of him and his men during the unsuccessful rescue efforts last week in the Barents Sea. Three out of our four lifeboats were launched, but one (No.2 boat) capsized in the process and most of the equipment was lost. This boat was later righted and was the one in which I spent the next 9 days. No.4 boat proved impossible to launch due to the heavy list. No.3 boat was rescued on the 10 th August by the “Hororatah” bound for Liverpool. In that boat 8 men died. On the 13 th August No.1 boat was rescued by the “Irish Pine” bound from Halifax (Nova Scotia) to Kilrush in the Republic of Ireland. Four men, including the Captain, had died. Later on the same day, the Friday the 13 th August, No.2 boat – the one I was in - was rescued by the ‘Flower Class’ Corvette HMS “Snowflake”, which at the time was searching for the boats of the “Letitia”. Unfortunately their search proved unsuccessful, and they then took us back to their base port Londonderry. All 17 of us in No.2 boat survived, although it was ‘touch and go’ for several by the last day, and we would undoubtedly have lost men (as did the other two boats) had we not been rescued when we were. Don’t ever tell me that Friday 13 th is unlucky!!

Not surprisingly, considering we had come through 9 days of severe weather and very testing conditions including a full Atlantic gale in a small ill-equipped open boat, some of the crew were in such bad shape when we arrived in ‘Derry’ that they remained in hospital for some while. I managed to hide most of my problems – I had 13 boils on one leg, 11 on the other and 3 on my right arm. Both feet were so swollen that I had to wear slippers which had to be cut open in order to get my feet into them - as I was determined to get back to my home in Ilfracombe, North Devon, just as soon as I could. I started my long journey by train/ferry within a couple of days of landing there. It turned out to be not too brilliant an idea, as I had overestimated my reserves of strength and I only managed to get as far as London before I collapsed in a heap - literally. Luckily I had relatives there. I was treated to the luxury of sleeping in cousin Nick's bed (he being off soldiering) and they took great care of me for a couple of weeks until I was strong enough to carry on homewards. Our house in Ilfracombe was near the harbour, and when I did finally make it back home I went for a stroll down there. Sitting in his boat was an old sailor whom I had known all my life called Tom Souch who, when he saw me watching him from up on the quay, shouted up “Like to go for a sail, Sir?”. There are no prizes for the best guess at my reply. He told me later that he had heard that I had been reported as “missing - presumed dead” and hadn’t recognised the rather wild unkempt figure who had shuffled along the quay and was looking down at him! In fact it took until well into October before I was sufficiently recovered to resume normal duty.

The principal cause of the problems we experienced was the lack of almost any protection from the weather. This meant that with constant exposure to the continuous wind and spray our body temperatures dropped dramatically, and that takes its toll both physically and mentally. Hypothermia, or “exposure" as it was called in those days, is an insidious and deadly enemy, killing you slowly and surely. Exhaustion sets in, the will to live goes and the mental processes fall apart. Once that starts to happen it is downhill all the way, and from our own experience, and later on reading the reports of the other boats, it is an accelerating business. In No.3 boat one poor chap started to switch off during the morning, and although he was still alive after they had been spotted by their Irish rescuers his comrades were unable to get through to him sufficiently to keep him going, and he died as they came alongside the ship. In our boat we had managed to get hold of the canvas cover of the potato locker from the boat deck which we found floating around amongst all the other debris from the ship. Without any doubt that rough and ready windbreak provided just sufficient shelter to play a significant part in saving the lives of all of us, especially those of us who were not properly dressed for the occasion. (I was dressed in a shirt and shorts !) It is significant that although we were the least well provided for in many ways because of the boat overturning we were the only boat in which there were no deaths. I have had a soft spot for spuds ever since – at least, that is my excuse. Additionally at that period in the War the safety regulations allowed water to be stored in wooden ‘breakers’ – small barrels – which were lashed down but not otherwise secured. When No.2 boat overturned as we were attempting to launch it all our water reserves were lost. Fortunately it had been possible to cut loose two life rafts prior to the vessel sinking, and we were able to recover a small canister of water from each. With 17 men in the boat that meant severe rationing of drinking water right from the start, in fact for the first two days we had none at all. Thereafter we had only about the equivalent of two ‘tots’ per day. Consequently we became extremely de-hydrated, and quite literally for months afterwards I was permanently thirsty. I could drink a pint of liquid – water, milk, tea, whatever - and within a very few minutes I would be parched dry and wanting another drink. All my skin peeled off like a snake casting its skin. Food – or the lack of it – was not such a problem, in fact we had enough food in the boat, but couldn’t eat it because we were so dry mouthed. I vowed to take care that I never went thirsty again, and I never have! “Barman- I’ll have another, please” Even after all these years – 58 in fact – that lack of fluid intake still has its effect. Not long before we were rescued, thinking that we must be approaching Ireland soon, and dreaming of the liquids we would then consume in vast quantities, we decided that we would sell the boat to some Irish fishermen, and with the cash we would book rooms at the local pub, have the baths filled with Guinness, and then lie in it and drink the bath dry. It became so real a fantasy that I could ‘see’ that bath as if were there in front of me, and I still cannot drink a Guinness myself (I have one before lunch every day), or even see another person drinking one, without reliving that as clearly as in 1942. I only own a few shares – not surprisingly they are in Guinness.

As a result of the experiences that other survivors, and we, underwent the regulations were tightened up. Properly secured and fastened lockers were fitted for all the loose gear such as sails, etc. (most of which we lost, and in fact we sailed some 450 miles with two blankets sewed together). Water tanks and food containers were fitted into the boats in such a way as to ensure that even if the boat overturned, as ours had done, none of these essentials would be lost. Nowadays there is a much greater emphasis on the provision of inflatable rafts which come with a hood attached, in which it is preferred people stay put inside, try to keep snug and warm out of the weather and wait for their radio beacons to bring their rescuers homing in on them. Looking back it is incredible and bordering on criminal that such obvious and simple precautions were not made obligatory well in advance of when they did, and that it needed many men’s lives to be lost before these simple lessons were learned.