Finding employment on sea-going ships in the latter part of the 1920's at Rotterdam, the biggest seaport on the European continent, was turning dismal. I was one of the numerous seamen seeking work on one of the ships of the many nationalities that visited this great seaport. The most desirable, from a seaman's point of view, were British deep sea ships and, because there was a large number of men already lined up for service in the books of the British Seaman's Union, these were also the hardest to get. The preference for British ships was due to the noticeable difference in wages — almost twice as high as on several non-British flag vessels. The Union's office acted, on the continent, as an employment exchange for the British flag vessels.

I had been at sea for already several years, at first on ships of my home country, Estonia, and later others under foreign flags. The latest one had been a Danish vessel, from which I took my discharge in order to secure a job on a British freighter.

I arrived at Rotterdam on the 18th of May, 1927. Although I registered myself immediately on arrival, I was told that I should be prepared for a waiting time of at least three months until my rotation in the records of the Union was expected to come up. Fortunately, I had prudently saved my wages from the Danish ship and was confident that this time I would have no need to go into debt to cafe owners, who provided lodgings for seamen, and who, at times, advanced living expenses on future earnings for a reliable lodger.

The months of May and June slipped by and soon, also July was nearly over. My 21st birthday came and went, but no ship wanting me made its appearance. I was not really despondent, but hoped, with reasonable confidence, that my number in the registry would come up in about three weeks, unless luck hastened its progress.

On July 29th, about midday, I was dawdling with my Estonian friends, Adamson and Mand, on the quay of the yacht basin. The Seamen's Union office was situated across the street from us. A group of Dutch sailors was still hanging around, while everybody else had gone home for lunch. We were about to head off to the Kattendrecht ferry terminus when we saw a bowler-hatted fellow approaching. He entered the Union office, so we decided to wait a little longer. In a short while, the secretary of the Union appeared in the doorway and shouted: "Wanted three A. B.-s Must be Estonian!" The initials referred to 'able-bodied' seamen, such as us. As none of the other Estonian seamen with an earlier rotation was available, there was no competition for us. We quickly entered the office for an interview and the Chief Officer of the ship in need of sailors looked us over. He seemed to be satisfied — apparently it paid to be an Estonian. His only comment was: "After two p.m., come to the British Consulate to sign the Articles!"

I lost no time collecting my gear from my lodgings and presenting myself at the Consulate, where we were made legitimate members of the crew by signing the Articles of Agreement. The S. S. "Castlemoor", a 4,078 register ton steamer, was one of the well-known Runciman company fleet of cargo ships, and had a good reputation. At the time, I did not know that this ship was to be my home for the next fourteen months; and also that it was to be the last merchant ship on which I was destined to serve.

On boarding the ship, I found that there was already one other Estonian serving on the vessel, the ship's carpenter. All other crew members were from the United Kingdom, except for the firemen, who were Arabs from the British colony of Aden. These dark-skinned Arabs, lean and small, were regarded as diligent workers in ships' hot boiler rooms, though few of them could speak English and were generally very unsociable.

The "Castlemoor" was at the time engaged in iron ore trade, loading her cargoes at Narvik, on the west coast of Norway, and unloading them at Vlaardingen, in Holland. At both loading and discharging ports, the work was done with great rapidity. Deck-hands were continuously on seawatch. One could get a chance to visit shops or points of interest, or relax, only during the four consecutive off-duty hours. Most of the time was spent on board playing cards, and stacks of Dutch silver usually changed hands several times in one evening.

On each passage to Narvik, we took on a Norwegian pilot at Koppervik, to lead the vessel through the coastal waters. This man usually stayed on the ship throughout the loading and then conducted the ship back on its return trip from Narvik. In the summer season, it was exceedingly pleasant to steam through the chains of islands strewn along the rocky coast of Norway, where numerous fjords perforated the coastline. At times, we passed sheer cliffs at such a close range that we could hit the granite walls with a well aimed potato. For deck-hands, steering the vessel at full speed in such narrow passages was trying on their nerves and required meticulous attention. Also, the cliffs and the mirror-smooth water made it hard to judge distances. At times, it seemed as if the whole weight of the vessel — several thousand tons — was rushing at the granite wall immediately ahead of her. A collision looks imminent — no visible opening anywhere. Anxiously one glances at the Norwegian pilot who is calmly, almost indifferently, leaning on the bridge railing. Has he dozed off? Then, at what seems to be the last moment, he turns his head and commands: "Hard aport!" With extraordinary speed, one spins the steering wheel to the left. The bow of the ship begins to turn, at first slowly, then faster, sweeping wildly past the objects which are directly ahead. A side street appears between the threatening crags. "Steady as she goes!" advises the next order from the pilot. As quickly as before, the wheel is spun in the reverse direction. Gradually, the swing of the vessel is compensated for and her head is steadied on the given bearing. Gosh! There was plenty of room for turning after all!

I, fortunately, had experienced all of this before and was not so alarmed at these bone-jarring events. Having gotten used to Norwegian pilots, I had learned to trust them when, seemingly unconcernedly, they conducted ships with flawless accuracy through such narrows. But I also remember another occasion, when I was steering the ship through a really thick fog while departing Vlaardingen. The pilot, with incredible self-assurance, was giving me steering orders, expecting me to hold the vessel steady when there was no visible object ahead with which to ascertain the sway of the bow. "Don't look at the compass", he barked. "See that factory chimney? Keep her pointing at it!" I peered ahead, trying to pierce the murky greyness but I could sight nothing in the fog.

Somehow, though, we got out of the Maas river. As we passed the Hook of Holland lighthouse, the fog lifted and the sun came out, shining brightly, and a freshening sea breeze flecked the shallow, greenish sea with white patches. A launch edged alongside the ship to take off the fastidious pilot. As he left the bridge, I overheard him remarking to the master, that the man on the wheel was a good helmsman. "All my men are good", shrugged Captain Angus, the master of the "Castlemoor".

Our final trip to Narvik took place towards the end of November. On the way back from that often visited loading port, my friend Mand became ill. He was suffering from a lung ailment. As his condition worsened, the ship put in at Bergen where he was landed for hospital treatment. That was the last time I saw my friend — we later heard that he had died there.

After dicharging the last cargo of iron ore, the "Castlemoor" sailed for South Shields, on the northeast coast of the British Isles where, as the law required, the crew was to be paid off. Luckily, the Immigration authorities at South Shields made no objections when Captain Angus requested that the Estonians — the carpenter, Adamson an myself — be allowed to sign on for the new complement. Normally, in a British port, the whole complement would have to be made up of British nationals. So we had to stay in a hotel for only a few days, until the ship was ready for the new crew.

This time, we had a fairly long voyage ahead of us. The ship had been contracted to carry a cargo of grain from British Columbia to a European port. With our speed, it would take about 45 days to proceed through the Panama Canal to Vancouver, B.C. The passage outward was to be made in ballast, i.e. with no cargo on board. Instead, we took on about three thousand additional tons of bunker coals into the number three cargo hold. In areas where fair weather prevailed, the sailors had to transfer this extra coal from the cargo hold into the regular bunker compartment. It was a dirty and unpleasant labour, but the vessel had to be prepared for the cargo of grain — wheat from Vancouver.

Altogether, we made two trips from Vancouver — the first one to Antverp and the second one to Hull, in England. On each loaded passage, we replenished our bunkers at Caribbean bunkering stations. During the long sea passages, diverse activities were invented by the crew. Besides playing cards, I introduced a biweekly ship's newsletter of which the Radio Officer typed two copies — one for the crew and the other for the officers. Later we even improved it with hand-drawn illustrations.

As we approached Hull, towards the end of our second grain voyage, I became restless. I knew that the Articles of Agreement was to be renewed, which meant that all of the crew was to be paid off and rehired. I remembered well an earlier occasion, some two years previously, when we had been paid off at Hull and the local Immigration officer had deported me and my Estonian friend, as aliens, from the United Kingdom. If the same ill-humoured man was still in charge of the office, I may as well prepare for a sad goodbye to the pleasant ship. And so, it was with great relief that I received the news that it had been decided to change the Articles not at Hull, but at the next port of call, which was Blyth, on the east coast of England. The Immigration officer there was a pleasant young man, who gave us permission to stay at the nearest hotel while the vessel was prepared for her next voyage.

Among the new complement were Adamson and myself as the Estonians, and another alien, a Finn named Valter. The rest were British, with the usual gang of Arabs from Aden as stokers in the boiler-room. Without delay, we commenced loading coal destined for Port Adelaide, in South Australia. As this was to be another lengthy voyage, we again carried additional coal for our boilers, which required the same transfer drudgery as before.

We departed from Blyth on the 15th of July and rounded the Cape of Good Hope on the 14th of August. Everything had proceeded smoothly. The bunker cargoes had already been transferred in latitudes where good weather prevailed and prospects were that another four weeks would take us to Adelaide. As the ocean currents and predominant winds in the South Indian Ocean were favourable, we did not anticipate any untoward delays.

But already a week later, the usual routine of ship-board life was disturbed. From the ventilators of the after cargo holds, numbers four and five, thin grey smoke began to rise. Captain Angus had a thermometer lowered into the holds and it indicated a very high temperature on the surface of the coal. Furthermore, the engineers reported an unusual rise in temperature in the shaft tunnel, which ran from the engine-room to the propeller, through the cargo holds and therefore was in direct contact with the cargo on top of it and on both of its sides. Clearly, part of our cargo had ignited spontaneously and the ship was in danger of an uncontrollable fire on board.

As the number four cargo hold was situated next to the most vital part of the vessel, the engine-room, our captain decided to begin fighting the fires there. The seat of the fire was apparently located in the lower hold, so the heart of the hot mass was to be reached by first digging through the coal in the tweendeck space, i.e. the upper hold. Fortunately, this 8-foot high compartment was not filled to capacity, but still, we had to remove the coals that were lying over the wooden hatchcovers that closed the wide opening leading to the lower hold. We shovelled the coals into wheelbarrows, which were then pushed along the steel deck into the nearest bunker space. It was hard work, whichever way one looked at it. All hands on watch were put to work there. Steering the vessel and other duties were given to navigation apprentices (trainees) of which we had four in the complement.

By Sunday evening, on August 25th, the tweendeck of number four hold was almost clear of coal. I was on the first dog-watch, from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m. A loaded wheelbarrow had just been pushed away and I was waiting for its return in order to refill it with coals, which were getting progressively warmer. While leaning on my shovel, I was thinking of being relieved in an hour and being free to have my evening meal in the crew's quarters. Valter, the Finnish sailor, was also standing on the closed hatch with me, though nearer to the edge. I was almost in the middle of the wide expanse. The access to the lower hold on which we stood was approximately 35 feet long and 25 feet across and was covered with wide wooden boards of some 5 feet length. An electric light hung above me on the side of the upper deck hatch, which was only partially open. In the dim light that illuminated our working area, I could detect wafts of yellowish vapour, meandering between the wooden hatchcovers and spiralling around my legs. They never ascended above the height of my knees but were constantly moving with the air. Near me, stood also the Chief Officer, Mr. Williams, and the ship's carpenter. They were discussing the progress of the work in hand.

Suddenly, the heavy five foot long board of the wooden hatchcover on which I was standing, rose from its slot. There was a great rushing roar and the electric light above my head went out. The hatchcover under my feet dropped back to its former position and a stifling heat surrounded me. The blackness around me was illuminated by tongues of dull red flames which streaked out from the cracks between the wooden boards. Within a few seconds, the flames disappeared and now there was only a silent darkness and a suffocating dust-filled gas surrounding me.

With only a lungful of uncontaminated air, I knew that there was no time to waste. Luckily, my reflexes functioned with appreciative speed. Reaching above me, I found the electric cable that was connected to the now-extinguished light bulb and, guided by it, I scrambled for the opening in the upper deck hatchway. I kept falling into the lower hold through openings where several wooden boards had been blown off, but I knew that there was no danger of falling far, s the level of the cargo in the lower hold was only a few feet below the tween-deck hatch. So, although it was relatively easy to climb out again, it delayed my escape out of the dangerous surroundings. Finally, umping up towards the faint daylight above, I managed to grab hold of a steel beam which ran across the upper deck opening and immediately several strong hands clutched my arm and pulled me up onto deck. I felt greatly relieved, lying of the steel deck and drawing clean, salty ocean air into my lungs.

The Chief Officer, carpenter and Valter had run towards the coal bunkers at the time of the explosion and escaped through that compartment. Valter had inhaled large quantities of the toxic gas and had to stay in his bunk for several hours. I managed to get through fairly lightly — just a splitting headache until the next morning and some scorched eyebrows. It was obvious that the explosion had been caused by accumulated coal gas being triggered off by the intense heat spreading from the seat of the fire which was deep in the cargo. It was fortunate for us that the wooden hatchcovers on the tween-deck opening fitted so loosely that the pressure could not build up in the lower hold. Otherwise the explosion would have been more violent.

Once the gas and dust had cleared from the tween-deck space, no more flames were seen. Only thin, greyish smoke curled over the surface of the cargo. The fire that had produced the gas was still deep down in the cargo and was smouldering slowly in the oxygen-poor atmosphere. We guessed that the quickest way for the fire to reach higher and hence spread, was along the sides of the compartment, where the coal was not as tightly packed as in the core of the bulk.

The weather being good and the seas of only moderate height, the captain decided to hoist some of the cargo onto the open deck. The aim was to excavate a crater into the lower hold, enabling us to inject water from our fire hoses towards the engine-room's steel partition and over the shaft tunnel. It was essential to maintain a tolerable temperature in these sections of the ship. As our number four hatch was already open, the cargo booms over it were rigged and steam for the winches turned on. Large wicker baskets were filled with coal and discharged onto the upper deck. Soon, hundreds of tons of coal lay stacked along the starboard side of the after-deck. As the crater into the hold deepened, the task of those who were filling the baskets became more hazardous as the emerging gas tended to collect in the newly dug cavity. And we had no gas masks, so our only defence against inhaling the deadly fumes was to wrap a wet cloth over our noses.

A week had passed since the fire had been discovered. Our laborious work had produced some results, but the fire was still alive in the maw of the vessel. Then, on the 29th of August, a southwesterly gale caught us and disrupted our efforts. The number four hatch on the upper deck had to be covered up and all hoisting gear secured. The grey-green slopes of the seas steepened and from their crests, tons of seawater swept over the decks. By the next morning, not one lump of the coal that we had so laboriously lifted from the cargo hold was found anywhere on deck.

But the salvage endeavours had still to be maintained. We began with the arduous work of trying to locate the seat of the fire so that we could cool it with water from our fire hoses. This involved crawling over the cargo in the number four lower hold and feeling for hot spots. Hoses were dragged behind us and suspected localities were saturated with seawater. It was a frightening feeling to be in that confining space under the tween-deck, with the steel deck only about three feet above the cargo. Damp coal rubbed one's belly and the smell of gas constantly enveloped the head. Now and then, right under one's nose, there was a brief blue flash of methane flame. This was very unpleasant but not necessarily dangerous, as it was actually the well-known cold fire, one that occurs in the swampy areas of some localities, and is frequently called the will-o-the-wisp, or more correctly, the ignis fatuus. One could not tolerate being exposed to such an unhealthy environment for a long time, so, sympathetically, the master altered the watch roster to four hours on duty, followed by eight hours off-watch. The traditional rotation for deck-hands was four hours on and four hours off.

When the gale subsided, we again enjoyed a few days of better weather. Meanwhile, the fire had gained more freedom and was now making its way up the sides of the cargo hold. The smoke issuing from the ventilator shafts became thicker and darker. It was no longer safe to go into the tween-deck space. The paint on the outside surface of the ship's hull had curled and was starting to peel off, and the hot steel plates steamed when made wet. By that time, we were only a few days steaming distance from Cape Leeuwin on the southwest corner of the Australian continent. There, another system of cold fronts caught up with us and the accompanying gale surpassed the strength of the previous one. The only encouraging feature was that the wind was westerly and thereby helping us to reach a safe harbour faster. Everything else was gloomy and getting progressively worse. The fire had reached the top of the cargo and now had unimpeded access to oxygen. The flames raged in the number four hold and had already ignited coal in the adjacent tween-decks, numbers four, five and six. An order was given to evacuate the crew's living quarters which, in this ship, were located in the after-end. An Arab fireman, who happened to be seriously ill, was carried on a stretcher. His symptoms indicated that he might have been suffering from meningitis, but, as was usual, the cargo ship carried no doctor.

In the grey light of early dawn, on the 8th of September, we sighted land. Over the gale-driven pall of smoke from our fires, we saw Eclipse Island. The storm's white claws were tearing at the bare cliffs, on top of which the lighthouse blinked friendly greeting to us. Albany was not far anymore, although we wished it were much nearer. With the gale roaring at its peak, the seas washed over the decks and hatches. The deck plating in the proximity of the fires was red hot and hissed under the spray. After we had passed Bald Head and changed our course to a northerly direction, the promontory gave us some shelter from the storm. We needed it badly, as the wooden hatch-covers and tarpaulins on the uppermost deck of the number four hatch had caught fire. The steel deck around it had softened in the heat and was sagging under the weight of the heavy mast and winches. In the resulting depression, we could see seawater boiling as if in a huge kettle. The stays holding the mast had slackened and could be expected to yield in the rolling movements of the vessel, with the catastrophic result of the tall structure toppling down.

Then, a launch from Albany came out to meet us, but it took several tries to get the pilot on board, since the seas and heavy swell were running high as they rolled in through the gap between Bald Head and Breaksea Island. Once the pilot had embarked, it did not take us long to reach Princess Royal Harbour and to drop anchor on its shallow, sandy bottom.

The lower holds were now flooded with water and the fires there extinguished. But the coal in the tweendeck compartments continued burning, although the ship's crew no longer took part in fighting it. The tugboat "Awhina" had come alongside with Lloyd's salvage personnel and the local fire brigade had taken over.

We were now divided into two watches — 24 hours on board and the next 24 hours on shore. Accomodation and meals were arranged at the "Goldfield" Coffee Palace. The Arab who was ill was taken to hospital, where he soon died. Our beloved "Castle-moor" had barely escaped from being lost at sea through fire. Soon she was fully repaired and continued to grace the world's oceans for many years. Adamson and myself, however, did not sail on her again — we remained in western Australia, working in the bush and later seeking gold in the desert fringe. Much later, I had another whiff of the sea when I volunteered for the Royal Australian Navy, but never more on a merchantman.

Stephanie Bergman

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