In the final days of August, 1939, we reached our destination at London, England. I was the Second Engineer aboard the S. S. "Kotkas" which had just finished a normal, uneventful run. Our cargo of lumber was waiting to be unloaded at the Surrey Dock.

Although there were dark clouds gathering over Europe, the storm which was to cause many hardships for thousands of sailors, often with fatal results, had not yet begun. There had been disagreements between countries before and these had caused people worry and concern, but somehow in the past all the problems had been solved peacefully. I could not have foreseen or imagined what was to come.

It was the first of September, 1939. The morning began as usual. However, when we turned the radio on for the news, there was excitement in the announcer's voice as he read: "War had been declared in Europe; Hitler's Germany has attacked Poland and German armies are advancing ... "

We could not grasp the significance of this announcement — afterall, we were in the harbour of a peaceful country. In the evening we went to London. The streets were bustling with everyday activity and the pubs were full of laughter and song. Life went on as if nothing had happened. Only the news from the radio was gloomy. On the third of September at about 11 a.m. we heard that Great Britain and France had declared war on Germany. Suddenly, we were in a country which was at war and we did not have to wait long for the first evidence of this to appear. It was as if by the stroke of a magic wand that enormous air balloons began to rise and hover over London. From our vantage point on the ship's bridge they looked like huge floating elephants and the sky was now full of these "elephants" as far as the eye could see. From workers aboard the ship, we learned that these balloons were used as protection against low flying enemy aircraft.

Half an hour later we heard the first air raid siren. Perhaps this was just a warning to the public for no air raid followed. Radio broadcasts instructed civilians on how to conduct themselves, what to do in the event of an air raid and so on. From that evening onwards, London was blacked out. Windows were covered with blackout curtains, there were no streetlights, and car lights were covered with some obscuring material to direct the beam down for only a few meters in front of the car. Pedestrians carried small flashlights to help them find their way and sandbags were piled up in front of entrances to buildings. This was how London looked during the first weeks of the war.

Days passed, the ship was unloaded, but we stayed in port. The customary rush to set out to sea was forgotten. At that time we were carrying timber from the Baltic to Great Britain but new cargoes and new destinations had to be found when England went to war against Germany. The reason? Our ship, like many other Estonian merchant navy ships, was on time charter with the Russian Sovfragt trading agency. This agreement guaranteed a regular monthly payment to the shipowner. Since Russia and Germany were allies according to the Molotov-Ribbentrop treaty, it was understandable that getting cargoes from England was abruptly discontinued.

I cannot remember exactly how long we stayed at the Surrey Dock, but for a few weeks we were able to enjoy the "good life". News from the outside, however, continued to be bad. At sea, ships had been torpedoed and some had struck mines. Among them had been a few Estonian ships. Another common occurrence was the privateering of ships by the Germans, especially in the Baltic Sea.

At last came the order for us to sail via the English Channel to Belgium where we were to get coal to fuel the ship. I don't believe there was any shortage of coal in England. It could have been that they did not supply coal to ships which were under the orders of the Russians or coal may have been cheaper in Belgium. However, it was not our concern.

Saying good-bye to London, we set off down the Thames to begin our wartime adventures at sea. We crossed the English Channel under cover of darkness with no lights showing from the ship. By morning we had reached a small port in Belgium, near Ostend. After London's blackout it felt like being in another world. Soon our supply of coal was on board and again we were awaiting sailing orders.

This time we were told to get machine parts from Liverpool for our cargo hold, then crude cork bales from Lisbon, Portugal, to fill the deck cargo. The final destination was to be Odessa, on the Black Sea.

Before long, we were back on the waters of the English Channel. This time danger was our escort — from German submarines, mines and air attacks. However, with the help of good luck, fate and the ship's guiding spirit, the Koterman, two days of sailing brought us without incident to Liverpool. Dockworkers swarmed aboard, loading crates of all sizes. There was only one problem. Two structures of machinery parts, which were not crated and each of which weighed over 100 tons, would not fit through the hatchways. There was nothing else to do but leave them on deck. A place was found near the second hatchway. They were fitted between the railings and the side of the hatch, one on each side. Fortunately, it was a tight fit, since any movement would have proven perilous if the ship rolled at sea. We later found out that these awkward pieces of machinery were part of the foundation for drilling equipment.

It was now one and half weeks after docking, as we again set sail for the open sea. Our destination was Lisbon to pick up the deck cargo of cork. The following five days at sea passed without incident. These were only the first months of war and the destructive forces had not yet reached the Atlantic Ocean. In Lisbon it did not take long to load the cargo, leaving us with time to get reacquainted with the city which I had visited many times before.

In a few days we sailed, this time towards Gibraltar and from there to the Mediterranean Sea. At Gibraltar we were met by English control boats. They were primarily interested in the ship's ownership, cargo and destination. After inspection of the ship's documents we were free to continue our voyage via the Mediterranean, past the Greek Islands, towards the Dardanelles.

Relatively good weather and the steady beat of the ship's engines accompanying the routine of our duties brought us each day closer to our destination. Passing through the Dardanelles, the Sea of Marmara and Straits of Bosporus was a new experience for me. This was my first voyage to the Black Sea. At the competent hands of the captain and the helmsman, we were soon through the narrows and on the Black Sea, approaching Odessa in the southern Ukraine. Our first wartime voyage was over — and successful.

Before we were allowed to go ashore we had to hand over our cameras and passports and in return received a permit which entitled us to visit Odessa. These regulations were applied in all Russian ports. Now we were in a city, which, as we remembered from our school days, was called the Pearl of the Black Sea. Years ago it may have been true, but now we saw potholes in the streets, broken pavements and dilapidated houses.

The deck cargo was unloaded, but then we faced another problem — Odessa did not have a crane strong enough to move the huge pieces of equipment stored on the deck. Moscow had to be contacted, and we were directed to another port, Nikolayev. Here, a huge floating crane was brought alongside our ship, the equipment was unloaded and we returned to the port of Odessa, where unloading of the cargo holds was completed.

New instructions were again slow in coming. I no longer remember how long it took, but the orders, when they arrived, surprised us all. The ship was to sail without cargo back across the Mediterranean Sea, through the Strait of Gibraltar, along the western coast of Africa to the port of Matadi on the Congo River, pick up a cargo of lead and sail to Vladivostok. This posed new difficulties since our ship had been built for short voyages, voyages to be measured in days. Now it would require a larger supply of coal for our boilers, as well as more provisions than we were used to carry. Of course, a ship is always able to follow a course that enables her to restock periodically and such a course we had to plot. Second, and more serious, was the lack of Far-Eastern charts which Moscow was unable to supply. We would be sailing in waters unknown to all of us. Our job however was not to question but to follow orders and so we prepared to leave. The ship's bunkers were filled with coal and, in anticipation of the long journey, so too were the second and third cargo holds. Preparations complete, we left Odessa.

On the way from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean, we stopped in Greece at Piraeus, the port city of Athens with its famous Acropolis. The captain was fortunate in being able to secure some nautical charts and, hoping that opportunities would arise to further replenish these necessary tools of navigation, we set off once more.

By now the situation on the Mediterranean Sea had changed. The feeling of war had also reached these waters. At first, our voyage went without incident. We sailed from the Aegean to the Mediterranean Sea, but as soon as we had passed Malta and were sailing on the waters between Sicily and North Africa, we were stopped by French patrols and military officers came on board. They were not satisfied with our shipping documents; neither did they believe that the extra coal in the cargo holds was for our own use. We were escorted by the patrol boats to the French port of Bizerta in Tunisia where we dropped anchor and were put under arrest. A French military guard was put on board and every few days intelligence officers came on board to check the ship's papers and poke around in the coal, searching for hidden military supplies. They suspected that our destination was fictitious and that in reality we were going to supply German ships in the Atlantic. The crew was not allowed to go ashore, only the captain could, and even he only for questioning. Otherwise we were treated well. We were supplied with fresh food and even wine. One could say we had a fine holiday, save for the boredom that came with being confined to the ship. In this way our unexpected holiday lasted for four weeks. Then one day the military guard was removed and we were given clearance to leave. Fed-up with the perpetual waiting, we heaved a sigh of relief and were happy to be on our own again.

Our freedom was short lived. Upon reaching Gibraltar, we were ordered by British warship to pull into the harbour. As an illustration of the seriousness with which their directions were to be taken, I recall the following incident. While approaching the harbour we received from the shore an order to stop. The ship's engines were shut off but the ship continued to move slowly forward due to its momentum. The next shore-to-ship communication, or, more precisely, warning, came in the form a cannon being fired with the shell plunging into water just a few meters in front of the ship's bow. We quickly reversed the engines, bringing the ship to a dead stop.

A pilot came on board and showed us where to drop anchor. Again we waited. The procedure with daily visits from officials was repeated, only this time we were not detained for long — approximately one week. It appeared that our intended cargo of lead was not acceptable and even our "bosses" in Moscow must have reconsidered. New instructions were received to sail back to Liverpool. Immediately, the ship was freed from arrest and we were on our way. We passed through the Strait of Gibraltar but now set our course north towards England, rather than south towards Africa as had originally been planned.

We were returning to the Atlantic Ocean and to the war zone. Our journey was peaceful but so is the journey of every ship until fate takes its toll. As we sometimes said in jest — "there is not even a tree to hide behind".

One morning at about three o'clock, as we were passing Spain's north-western point, Cape Finisterre, our telegraphist received two SOS signals. A German submarine had torpedoed and sunk two ships in the Bay of Biscay. Our travelling time to that area was four or five hours. We consoled ourselves that by then it would be daylight and easier to face such perils. But apparently the submarine had completed its mission and had moved on to "greener pastures". Our passage across the Bay of Biscay was undisturbed and we reached the English coastal waters in safety.

Strangely, the most hair-raising experience occurred at the approaches. We received instructions to hold our course until we reached the second buoy which marked a shipwreck. From there, we had to set a new course towards the pilot boat. Having passed the first wreck-buoy, we searched for the second which we soon found, although a fair distance to the left of the ship. Making, therefore, a slightly broader turn, we moved towards the pilot boat which had become visible in the distance. We were happy and contented, looking forward to being in port again. But when we reached the pilot boat we were given news that, as they say, made our hair stand on end. We were told that we had crossed directly over a minefield. The pilot boat had watched in horror, expecting our ship to be blown to pieces at any minute. Apparently, we had not correctly identified the second buoy and had turned in too soon. At times like these caution and well laid plans are not enough and what is needed is a good dose of luck. This we had and it seems that we were saved by two factors: first, it was high tide and, second, the ship was not loaded and thereby not deep enough to touch the mines.

When the coal was transferred from the cargo holds to the bunkers, we were ready to start loading. The next trip promised to be a duplicate of the last one. The cargo holds were filled with machinery parts, a deck-cargo of cork was to be picked up in Lisbon and everything was to be delivered at Odessa.

Then came the day when we were ready to leave Liverpool. A pilot directed us through the minefields along safe channels which had been left for shipping. Once through the minefields, he gave the captain directions on how to proceed to the open waters, wished us luck and returned to the pilot boat.

We sailed towards Gibraltar and Mediterranean Sea, with good luck staying with us all the way. Passing the Strait of Gibraltar we were stopped by patrol boats, but their examination of ship's documents was only a formality. But the atmosphere on the ship had changed. Although the crew members did their tasks conscientiously, they seemed to be nervous and listless. Financially we were well off. The crew of a neutral ship in the war zone received, in addition to their basic pay, a supplement of 200% of their regular wages, plus a bonus for each cargo carried. Never before, or after, had my earnings been so high. They were, in fact, on the same scale as a cabinet minister's salary, or even higher. But at the back of my mind there were nagging thoughts: will I ever be able to use this money, as I may end up at the bottom of the sea, Perhaps I should leave the ship and return home. I discussed my problems with other crew members and found that there were altogether thirteen men who also wanted to return home.

I still remember the cold clear night in February on the Mediterranean Sea. The sea was calm and there were northern lights in the sky, which was unusual for this area. I was off duty and went to see the captain on the bridge. It was a quiet place for a private talk. The captain was not against our leaving the ship. He promised to send a telegram to the shipowners in Tallinn and ask them to find replacements for us, and also find out if we were allowed to travel through Soviet Union to Estonia. Now, there was nothing more we could do but wait and hope.

When we reached Odessa, good news was waiting for us. A replacement crew had been found and was expected to arrive by the time the cargo was unloaded. The new men arrived, although one day late. We "showed them the ropes" — handed over our duties — picked up our luggage and left the boat. Goodbye "Kotkas" and wartime seafaring!

It did not take long to get our documents in order and to receive the necessary visas. Soon we were on the train beginning our journey home. Our route was via Kiev and Leningrad to Tallinn. We were given two separate compartments on the train, and the doors were kept locked so that other Russian passengers could not disturb us. At the time, we thought that the Russian officials had been rather considerate towards us. With hindsight and a better knowledge of the Russian mentality, I wonder if the locked doors had been meant for our benefit or theirs?

After travelling for three days and nights we arrived at the Estonian border. We were anxious to learn how things were in Estonia, as we knew that the Russians had established military bases on Estonian soil. The answers we received to our enquiries were noncommittal. After a few hours train ride we arrived in Tallinn. At that time our native land was still free and peaceful.

Thus ended my career at sea, for the present time, which had begun with such high hopes after graduating from nautical college the previous spring.

Later I heard that the S. S. "Kotkas" had sailed between ports in the United States and afterwards been trading on the Great Lakes, until finally sold for scrap.

As for myself — I had to face new trials and tribulations in my homeland during the next four years.

Stephanie Bergman

Copyrighted material; do not reprint without permission.

 

View all articles by Stephanie Bergman