Biscay by Andrew Shephard

Monday 2^nd October 1944

I still have to pinch myself. A year ago I’d only left Yorkshire once, and that was on a bicycle. Now I’m on my way to Africa in a tin can. The ship, a Dutch trooper, is terribly crowded. I spend most of the day in queues as long as the boat either for meals, chocolate from the shop, or items of kit which are issued as we need them. I haven’t been volunteered for any jobs yet so there’s plenty of time to kill.

I can’t send you a letter yet because troop movements are hush-hush. But I feel like I’m talking to you even though you’re far away. Perhaps you will read this one day when I get back home. You don’t need to worry about me. I reckon you are in more danger than me, going to work there in the middle of London. Our bucket is in a convoy of fourteen ships, protected by three destroyers.

The food’s better than expected. Yesterday we had bully beef and piccalilli, with real white bread. They showed us a film on Sunday. I saw Random Harvest starring Ronald Colman and Greer Garson. I tried to imagine you sitting there beside me in the dark but it wasn’t much like the Odeon.

I felt all right at first, but three days out from Greenock the sea turned rough. I couldn’t see any land, nothing but grey seas and grey skies. I thought I’d got my sea-legs but breakfast told me otherwise. I made it up to the open deck, the boat rising and plunging like a bucking bronco. The front of the boat was disappearing under the waves, then rearing back up. And the noise! You couldn’t hear yourself think.

Our quarters are at the aft of the ship. We eat, sleep, and play in the same mess. Me and some of the other privates have a regular game of solo whist.  We played all this morning and I won three shillings. That will buy a few Woodbines. There’s not much to buy, but the prices are cheap.

We know we’re heading somewhere warm because our section was issued with khaki shorts this afternoon. The crew are strange, Eastern-looking people. They laugh with each other but they ignore us as if we were from a different planet. They weren’t bothered by the storm; otherwise I’d have been saying my prayers. The purser is a Dutchman and the fattest man I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how he fits through the hatches and doorways.

The nights are the worst. Blackout is from seven, and woe betide anyone who goes out on deck after then for a cigarette. Last night they had to slow the convoy almost to a stop because the waves were so big. Nobody said it, but we were sitting ducks. Suddenly there was an almighty bang. Cups and everything that was not fixed down jumped up in the air. Everyone fell out of their hammocks and headed for the muster stations, just as we’d drilled, but more of a shambles in the dark.

But we hadn’t been hit, thank God. One of the destroyers must have let off a depth charge because a sub had been spotted. So no damage done, except we were right cold and wet by the time we got back to our mess. A rumour went round it was an Italian sub, so one of ours now that they’ve surrendered. Let’s pray the other lot surrender soon too, though between you and me I wouldn’t mind a look at Africa now that I've come this far.

Reconstructed from a record written by my father, then Private Jack Shephard of the Royal Engineers. He was posted to West Africa aged 19.  He continued his notes in pencil when his pen stopped working due to the equatorial heat.