although the canal provides little rest for the chief officer in this class of ship. I’ve been through the Suez Canal on many occasions and in various capacities, as a second officer of large vessels, as a first class passenger, as a quartermaster, but I find it particularly troublesome with this short-handed and grumbling West Indian crew. The vessel has to tie up to the bank at frequent intervals to allow spotless passenger ships to go past. One can almost hear the comments from the dozens of passengers and sahibs lining the rails as they look down upon us. We have come straight from the coal berth in Port Said and cannot start washing down the decks until we are clear of the canal. The filthiest of tramps standing next to a West End city gentleman could not have stood out more.
We pass the tents of the Armenian refugee camp gleaming eerily in the white moonlight and the great military camp at El Qantara is strangely silent. At a later period, I was second officer on a big ex-German steamer when we lay for a fortnight discharging hay at this very same camp in the Suez Canal.
By day the heat in the Red Sea is very intense; the sides of our small cabins and the deck above are bare steel, making the spaces like furnaces in which rest or sleep is almost impossible. There are no electric lights on this vessel, no fans, no ice, and when we come to rig the awnings for some shade, we find rats have eaten the canvas. One can put up with most things when on a good and regular trade in home waters, but living on this vessel in summer in the Red Sea becomes rather trying, especially when we have the usual poor quality tramp steamer food. It is, however, much better than being in Canada in winter, most decidedly so!
During the voyage between Suez Bay and Karachi, which is some 2,900 miles, the coal dust from the last cargo must be thoroughly swept up and the holds washed out so that they are clean and dry for loading wheat immediately upon our arrival. I find that I have more than enough to do in this heat as the chief officer with keeping my two four-hour bridge navigation watches and superintending the hatch work and cleaning out of the stinking hold bilges.
It becomes very busy when we arrive at Karachi. We load 6,664 tons of wheat in just two days and ten hours – 66,640 bags stowed by hand by five gangs of 60 labourers working continuously day and night. They use 16,000 woven mats and 30,000 wooden poles as dunnage to keep the hessian bags off the bare ironwork of the ship’s structure. A gang of natives paints the ship’s hull as it slowly sinks deeper into the water with the loading.
The usual crowd of curio sellers and fortune-tellers are on board. The prices have gone up, but you can still get a haircut, manicure, and your fortune read, all by the same man, for two shillings. He has a good deal to say about my head, but I suppose there’s not a lot in it, otherwise I wouldn’t be here!
We come away from Karachi on a Sunday afternoon and the following Sunday we are moored to a buoy off Aden discharging some of the wheat. Aden, like the Red Sea, is unbearably hot in this ship; upon my word, I have to think continuously of Canada to keep cool! On the passage up the Red Sea, the crew decides they like painting and by the time we enter Port Said, the ship is looking very spick and span. It doesn’t last too long; a delay in assembling the northbound convoy sees us waiting alongside the coal tier where we are soon covered in a mass of coal dust once again.
Before we depart from Egypt, six bags of mail are delivered on board along with six down-at-heel gentlemen travelling DBS (Distressed British Seaman).i The convoy becomes an excellent target for prowling submarines with the inclusion of a very old steamer that is continually breaking down. We break away from the other ships and proceed round the south coast of Malta and then through St. Paul’s Bay and the narrow and pretty Comino Channel into Valletta.
I like Malta; a large glass of pre-war whisky costs only sixpence and there are several other attractions. I decide to go ashore with Fatty, the third engineer, in one of those gondola affairs that ply the harbour. Fatty is anxious to see the Chapel of Bonesii, but being a bit late we take a cab. Our friendly driver is no different to other drivers; he takes us to some ‘bones’ alright, but these ‘bones’ are barely earning a living in a dance hall. Why is it that whenever a sailor charters a cab abroad, the driver will invariably lay the course to a whorehouse? We don’t stop there because Valletta is a city with many more worthy sights than these to visit.
Herds of goats wander around the steep steps and narrow streets, and in the low doorways women and children can be seen making lacework by hand. The nursemaids pushing their prams in the Botanical gardens look quite nice, and there is a fine view over the harbour from the battlements. A quiet saloon bar will generally interest me more than a cathedral, but St. John’s Co-Cathedral is an exception, the only uninteresting object being the mumbling old guide flitting about like a musty black bat. The floor of the church is made up of carved marble slabs, each one said to be the tomb of a crusader. Leading from the magnificent chancel are numerous chapels, each one dedicated to a nation. There are golden altar ornaments and the great brass gates that Napoleon once shipped away. The wonderfully painted dome is said to be the life’s work of some old Master, but when we come to the realistic life-size painting of St. John the Baptist minus his head, we think time for refreshment is indicated.
The cargo of wheat is discharged at the rate of a thousand tons a day and stored where the Venetians once housed their galleys and prisoners.
We are accompanied by one other ship and two navy escorts to Sfax in Tunisia. The enemy submarines are reported to be particularly active and many ships have been sunk in the area. Sfax is quite a small place with French the only language and demijohns of cheap wine the only drink, but the bathing is delightful in the saltwater lake, warm at night and so salty that one cannot sink. One morning we had a false alarm: the chief engineer was mistaken for an enemy submarine when he was seen floating whilst taking his early morning dip! We load 6,000 tons of phosphate rock, beastly and dusty stuff, by means of an endless belt from the factory on the quay.
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