During the second World War (1939-1945), merchant seamen under many flags and from all corners of the world had to go through untold hardships and face many dangers. Though nationals of a neutral country amidst the warring nations, Estonian seamen were unavoidably compelled to become involved and take part in the struggle, which made them, unwillingly, frontline soldiers between adversaries. The Estonian seamen, among others at that time in English waters, had also suffered the loss of independence of their homeland, which had been forcibly grabbed by her greedy neighbour.
A number of Estonian merchant ships within the British empire had been requisitioned by H. M. Government to prevent them from falling into the hands of the USSR, the country which had occupied the Republic of Estonia in 1940. The crews of these vessels had been provided with employment on ships under British and other Allied flags. They clearly had to earn a living and gladly offered their labours and skills to the warring nations, but they were not prepared to forfeit their lives while serving them. Several nevertheless lost their lives in the hostilities. That their names are among those that have been cut in stone on the well-known monument on Tower Hill in the City of London, is an inadequate reward for their sacrifices.
Thirty names from the 4,000-ton Estonian owned motorship "Peter" were added to that list, which already filled a whole side of the monument. The "Peter" was one of the ships that had been requisitioned and her name temporarily changed to M. S. "St. Catherine". She sailed under the British flag. Her crew consisted of 33 seamen, 18 of whom were Estonian. Bruno Treilman was one of three whose names, through almost inhuman endurance and will to live, were spared from being chiselled along with the others onto the monument.
Prior to joining the motorship "Peter", he had lost his previous ship, the steamer "Mari", through enemy action. That ship had been damaged by aerial bombardment in the Port of Plymouth and sunk to the bottom of the harbour. Although there had been no casualties among the crew of the "Mari", all of them had lost their means of employment. Being skillful and a sought-after marine engineer, Bruno Treilman readily found a position on the "Peter". He signed on as a maintenance engineer and was allocated the sea-watch from 8 to 12 in the morning and evening.
The "Peter" was lying in the Port of Leith in Scotland when Bruno joined her. In May 1941, the ship sailed for Freetown in West Africa, with no cargo on board. She was to be loaded with a full cargo of iron ore at her destination and return to Belfast. This was a time when Great Britain's enemies made all kinds of efforts to break the military might of this great empire. London and other militarily important cities had been subjected to almost incessant aerial attacks. Now, German submarines concentrated their offensive against the merchant ships plying the Atlantic sea routes. Everybody knew that the whole British war industry depended on these merchant ships and that they also carried most of the food supplies for the British population.
The voyage to Freetown proceeded in convoys, with strong naval protection. No hostile submarines were detected. The return voyage from Freetown was also to be made in convoys. Some ships had to stay anchored for a while while they waited for the arrival of other vessels from the Indian Ocean, which were sailing around the Cape of Good Hope. Finally, a convoy was formed of some 70 merchant ships, arranged in ten lines one after another, with a lateral distance of about 300 yards between the lines. This vast assembly of ships was under the common command, with respect to course and speed, of the commodore of the convoy, a senior master of the merchant fleet. A protective screen of destroyers and submarine chasers was spread all around the convoy. At least one hospital ship was trailing closely behind: her duty was to pick up survivors from ships that had been torpedoed by the enemy.
Shortly after departure, the "Peter" was immobilized by an engine failure. It was common in those days that the ships' equipment was not maintained in very good condition, as wartime restrictions led to shortages of time and material. Since it would have been unwise to leave a loaded and immobilized ship without protection, the whole convoy stopped and waited for the "Peter" to complete repairs to her engine. In a short time, the work was done and the convoy continued sailing towards the British Isles. Several days later, another malfunction occurred in the main engine. This time the convoy commodore decided to proceed with the convoy, leaving the "Peter" without escort protection. It was most likely that naval intelligence had detected enemy submarines lurking in the vicinity and the commodore thought it's wiser to get the bulk of the convoy into coastal waters as soon as possible, even at the potential sacrifice of one ship. By all principles of seamanship, it would have been unjustifiable to expose a valuable convoy to torpedo attacks by waiting as a target.
By the time her main engines were again in working condition and the vessel under way, the convoy was no longer in sight. Contingency orders, as for a vessel being separated from the main body of a convoy, had been provided and now the "Peter" proceeded on a predetermined course towards her destination.
A solitary ship on the wide expanse of ocean reminded the crew of peace-time conditions, except for a stealthy awareness of the dangers, more like a premonition, which prevailed in their minds. It was the day the repairs had been completed and Bruno had just finished his seawatch at midnight. He had gone to his cabin next to the engine room, undressed and settled for a well earned sleep. Just as he was about to fall asleep, he heard a loud crash, like a percussive sound, in the engine-room. Immediately, Bruno stepped out of bed, intending to go to the engine-room, where his skills would be needed. He was still in the doorway of his cabin, when another crash was heard. At the same moment, all the lights went out. Opening the door to the upper part of the engine-room compartment, he heard a torrent of water entering the engine-room. At the same time, he felt a slight loss of balance: the vessel was beginning to lean to the port side and also tilting forward. He momentarily evaluated the situation and concluded that the ship had been torpedoed, causing one explosion in the engine-room and another in the forward cargo holds. He knew that there was no time to be lost, as a fully loaded ship, struck by two torpedoes, would sink within minutes. He ran out onto the deck towards the port lifeboat, as that was on the lower side of the sinking ship. The lifeboat was already almost at water level. Before jumping into the boat, he glanced towards the other lifeboat, the one on the starboard side. It was hanging high on the davits (the lifeboat lowering gear), in an impossible position for safe launching. Many of his shipmates had also jumped into the port lifeboat, but nobody had released the launching gear. The boat remained attached to the ship and was slowly being pulled under the water with it. Desperately the men tried to fight their way to the surface. By a freak act of destiny, the launching gear became detached from the davits by its own movements and the lifeboat floated to the surface, although it had overturned.
The night was pitch black and the seas were running moderately high. Several of the crew were around the upside down lifeboat, holding on to the sides of the boat and to the narrow keel on top of the humpback bottom. Amongst others, Bruno could see Hans Hörsten, but could not see the master of the ship, Captain John Teng, or the Chief Engineer, A. Niitenberg. In the darkness around them, there were several cries for help, to which they answered, calling for the unlucky mates to swim to the lifeboat. Some managed to cover the distance and now there were fourteen men tenaciously hanging on to some part of the overturned boat. The ship had already sunk without a trace and around the survivors was only darkness and surging waves.
Suddenly a small flickering light appeared between the waves. They recognized it as a lifebuoy light, which is attached to lifebuoys and is provided with a selfigniting device when floating in the water. Some of the crew, who were still in the water and in the vicinity of the flickering light, made desperate efforts to get to it. Bruno did not know how many of his shipmates were holding onto the thin safety lines around the lifebuoy. It was difficult for those with heavy clothing to hold themselves on the surface as the soaked garments obstructed movement and added weight. Bruno regarded himself lucky for not wearing anything else but his swimming trunks, his habitual sleeping gear.
The flickering light had been seen only a few minutes, when the menacing hull of a surfaced submarine approached the scene of destruction and despondency. Those on the submarine obviously sighted the lifebuoy, since they were determinedly steering towards it. Unhesitatingly, the dark and ugly hull of the killer, without reducing its speed, bore down on the light of the lifebuoy and onto the men who were holding onto it. Having done this disgusting and shameful deed, the submarine disappeared into the darkness and no light nor cries of any survivors were detected by those hanging onto the lifeboat. They trembled with fear, as they had just witnessed the deliberate, cold-blooded destruction of human lives by the submarine.
The approximately 25 foot long lifeboat, onto which the fourteen shipwrecked men were holding, was of steel construction with adequate internal air tank capacity to maintain buoyancy. When the new day finally dawned, after a terrifying night, there were only seven of the seamen left clinging to the bottom of the boat. The others had been washed away in the darkness. Their cries had been heard as the hands holding onto the bare metal lost strength and loosened the all-important grip. But there was nothing their mates could do to help them. To let go of his own hold in order to assist his mate, would inevitably result in the end for both of them.
Three days passed with the seamen exposed to the incessant tossing of the choppy seas and with no sleep or rest. The slightest yielding of vigilance would have brought about separation from the lifeboat, the only possible chance of survival. Then, on the third day, they heard sounds from inside the lifeboat. A sailor, Arnold Mänd, was inside. He too had been in the lifeboat when the ship sank carrying the lifeboat with her. Underwater, he had not been able to extricate himself quickly enough and so remained there when the lifeboat floated back up. As the limited volume of air inside the boat became saturated with carbon dioxide, he had unscrewed a plug from the draining hole on the bottom of the boat thereby gaining access to fresh air. Wisely, he had pocketed the plug, knowing that it would be needed again whenever they could manage to upright the boat. But so far all attempts to upright it had been unfruitful. One day, they managed to tilt the boat sufficiently to allow the imprisoned sailor to slip out. They also noticed that still inside the boat, as part of its statutory equipment, was the sea anchor with a good length of manila rope. After many more attempts, Bruno tied the rope around his waist and, diving under the boat, fastened it to the opposing gunwale. This time, with a concerted effort, they were able to upright the boat. The drainage hole was closed with the plug and, although the boat was full of water, the air tanks prevented it from sinking.
At least the survivors could now stand on the bottom of the boat or sit on the thwarts, even though the water was up to their hips. Unceasingly, waves splashed over the gunwales, never letting the men bail out the water. They found no emergency food rations, as these had been washed away, except for a leaky metal container with water-soaked biscuits, which were revoltingly inedible. Neither was there a drop of drinking water, as the water cask had dropped out of the boat. The mast with a sail was still in the boat, along with a few sodden signalling rockets.
A few days later, a German submarine came near their boat asking questions about their ship, her cargo and destination, which the men answered. At the same time, they asked the Germans for some food and drinking water. They also asked to let their boat lie on the lee of the submarine for a short time so that they could bail the water out. The Germans, imperiously and emphatically, refused to give any assistance to the British seamen and moved away, leaving the shipwrecked men in their waterlogged boat.
During the following days, the weather became rough again, swamping their boat and overturning it several times. Each time they went through the same motions to upright the boat, but each time, sadly, lost some of their more exhausted companions.
Then, on an unusually calm day, they managed to empty the boat of water, bailing it out with their cupped hands. Now, they could at least lie down on the bottom of the boat and get some sleep. By that time, they were almost at the extreme limit of endurance and suffering. Hunger, thirst and despair drove some of them to distraction. The Scottish engineroom hand was at times calling to his mother for help, at other times, he loudly talked to her, advising her that he was alive and well. Hans Hörsten, on two occasions, leaned over the gunwhale, probably intending to throw himself into the water. Both times Bruno pulled him back into the boat. The Norwegian sailor found a compass lying in the bow of the boat and, knowing that it contained alcoholic spirit, attempted to open it. His bare fingers, however, could not open the metal casing. Repeatedly, imaginary visions appeared to some: saltwater had weakened their eyes and hunger distorted their visual capabilities. Suggestive voices and weird songs were heard by some. These affected mainly the men who had been unable to resist drinking the seawater. Almost invariably, these symptoms were precursors to a painful death.
Then came the first rainy day. They stretched the sail so that fresh water could be collected and it was strictly rationed to the agonized sufferers by those who had retained their willpower and sanity. An empty rocket cartridge was used as the rationing utensil. Twice again, they sighted a submarine at a distance. They also saw low-flying aircraft who did not see the drifting boat. Then, one morning, a large convoy came into sight. It was so close that they could see men walking on the deck of the nearest ships. But neither the convoy nor the naval escort ships detected the shipwrecked men. Inexplicably, however, Bruno felt that they were drifting towards some land.
They did not know anymore how many days they had been drifting, though they could separate the days from the nights. In desperation, they huddled most of the time on the bottom of the boat, trying to retain their body heat by staying close to each other, even though this was painful because of the lacerations and infected skin wounds, which were all over their bodies. Those, who had some clothing on were better off than others, as they did not lose body heat as rapidly in the chilly night. Bruno Treilman was at a disadvantage, as he was almost entirely without clothes. The bodies of their mates who had died from seawater poisoning had been thrown into the sea. Nobody could overcome the aversion to using their clothes, however demanding the need. Moreover, their clothes had been splattered with blood and shreds of flesh when, during spells of mental aberration and hunger, they had chewed on their own fingers and arms.
One morning, they saw on the horizon a shape that resembled a strip of land which, in spite of their straining eyes, faded and finally disappeared entirely. This and other instances made Bruno seriously doubt the reliability of the images on his retinae. The least exhaustive position for them was to lie on the bottom of the boat. But eyen in that position, spells of weakness, almost like fainting, pervaded their scrawny and famished bodies. It was while in this position that one day Bruno heard, while his ear was pressed to the metal of the boat, a rhythmic sound. This brought back to mind the sound of a working engine or the beat of a ship's propeller. Unwilling to raise his head in order to look around, being afraid of confronting another disappointment, he remained lying down. The throbbing sound, however, became progressively stronger and now fragmentary visions of rescue started to penetrate his mind. Heaving his aching body towards the side of the boat, his bleary eyes detected a fishing vessel steaming toward their lifeboat.
By that time, there remained, of the fourteen men who originally were clinging to the lifeboat on the night of losing their ship, only three skinny, terrified and depressed shapes — shapes who, before the moment the torpedoes hit their ship, had been strong, well-fed and energetic men.
Their rescuer, a fishing vessel from the port of Swansea in South Wales, came alongside the lifeboat to take on the survivors. Bruno Treilman and Hans Hörsten were able to climb unaided to the low deck of the fishing trawler, but the young Scottish radio operator had to be carried on a stretcher. They had been in the lifeboat for 32 days.
The sympathetic Welshmen initially gave the rescued only hot tea to drink. Their dehydrated bodies were too weak to accept solid food. While the fishing-boat was speeding towards Shannon, on the western coast of Ireland, the local hospital was alerted by radio of the rescued men, so an ambulance and doctor were on the quay to receive them on their arrival.
They remained in the hospital at Shannon for several weeks, of which the first part was the most torturous. Bruno Treilman recalled, that his whole body was totally in agony and excrutiating pain. He had not gone through such torment while in the lifeboat: apparently, his mind had instinctively repressed all bodily reactions and had instead concentrated its tolerance on the will to survive. Both sides of Bruno's body, including his knees and shoulders, and even parts of his face, were covered with wounds, lacerations and scratches. Most were infected and festering and some scars have never disappeared. Hans Hörsten went through the same suffering as Bruno and eventually made the same progress in gaining back his strength. The Scottish radio operator was, however, in much worse shape. He remained deranged. During the tormenting days in the lifeboat, his body had resisted collapse but his mind had succumbed to the gruesome shattering of mental balance. From the hospital in Shannon, he was moved to a mental institution. Later news, though unconfirmed, related to his bodily recovery, but not to that of his mind. Medical science had not been able to give back to him that what the cruel sea had robbed.
Bruno Treilman and Hans Hörsten were later taken to a hospital in Dublin, where they convalesced for several months before being released as fit for travel. They went back to England where they were kept under periodic observation for another few months, to guard against any possible side effects of their ordeal.
It is interesting to observe that after having gained his strength, Bruno Treilman was anxious to go back to the sea again. And, in 1943, we find him again serving on his old ship, the steamer "Mari", which had meanwhile been raised from the bottom of the sea and reconditioned. He served on the "Mari" until the end of the war.