The steamship "Helios" was lying in a dry-dock at her home port, Tallinn, in Estonia. She was not there for repairs, or for replacing any worn out parts of her equipment; the ship was in fair condition. But to satisfy the requirements of her insurance companies and maintain her Lloyd's classification, she periodically had to undergo underwater painting and have her tail shaft drawn for inspection. She was still in the dry-dock on the 1st day of September, 1939, on the day of the outbreak of the Second World War. Two days after these inauspicious tidings had shaken the world, the "Helios" completed her routinely imposed servicing and was ready to sail.

At that time, I could not divine what part I was destined to play in the imminent conflagration, nor to what extent this was to involve me and my ship on which I served as the Master. The invasion of Poland by German troops had not come, to us, unexpectedly; the news media had prepared the world for this possibility for weeks in advance. My older colleagues were now recalling the menace of submarines and mines during the First World War. These experienced shipmasters were predicting that the dangers to merchant shipping would become considerably more deadlier and unimaginably more versatile than those they had encountered more than twenty years earlier. I was too young to have shared with them these perilous adventures. With unsure expectations, but with boldness, I prepared my mind for the hazards of wartime trading prepare with all its implications. At the same time I believed that it would not last as long as some of my older colleagues prophesized.

The 2,000 deadweight ton "Helios" was flying the Estonian flag and was, thereby, a neutral ship. When the British declared war on Germany, our shipowners came to the conclusion that the neutrality of our shipping could not be maintained in absolute terms. Swayed by practical considerations, the Estonians were bound to side with the British, as there lay our trade opportunities and protection of our shipping on high seas. Geographically, however, the Estonian ships when visiting their home ports were within easy reach of the German forces who could exercise some coercive action against them if they so desired.

Already, prior to the hostilities, the maritime freight rates had climbed astronomically and were still rising suggesting that no time was to be lost in taking advantage of the exceptional earning opportunities. The majority of cargoes available to neutral ships were raw materials or semi-finished goods destined for the United Kingdom. Larger ships found a profitable business crossing the Atlantic ocean, whereas smaller ships, such as the "Helios", were urgently needed to ply between England and ports in the Baltic Sea and Scandinavia, making also occasional trips to ports in the Iberian peninsula.

When the "Helios" started sailing, she was immediately plunged into strife — as prey for swastika-flying predators, the German patrol boats. The predators were at all times on the alert for ships that were suspected of carrying cargoes of military value to the British war effort. The situation in which the "Helios" found herself, seemed to be tailor-made for my first engagement with the Germans.

It was coincidental that a sister-ship of ours, the "Argus", had at the same time been loading general cargo from the Baltic coast of Sweden for the United Kingdom. When she was ready to sail from her last loading port, Trelleborg, it was detected that armed German naval cutters were waiting for her just outside the Swedish territorial waters. With her cargo, she would have been liable to immediate arrest as a war prize and be promptly escorted to the nearest German Baltic port. As the "Argus" was fully loaded, she wos too deep in the water to venture sailing close to the Swedish shoreline, thereby taking advantage of the protective three mile zone of territorial waters. Within this zone the Germans could not touch her — they had to comply with the internationally accepted code of conduct of war. To solve the dilemma, the owners had designated my ship, the "Helios", to temporarily take over some of her cargo, thereby lightening the "Argus" and enabling her to proceed in the shallow coastal waters. The transferred cargo was to be reloaded into the "Argus" when both ships had reached Malmo on the southern coast of Sweden — the Germans had no close control over the waters in the vicinity of this port.

While cautiously proceeding towards Malmo in the Swedish territorial waters, there was a distinctly hostile and challenging aura encompassing us. Skirting the Falsterbo headland, we were sailing side by side with a German gunboat. It had followed us already for three of four hours, we circumspectively keeping inside the three mile limit and they, the Germans, just outside of it. They were hoping that the merchant ship venture outside the protective line in order to prevent a possible stranding in the shallow waters. We, just as anxiously, were careful not to stray beyond the imaginary boundary, even if it would result in touching the sandy bottom. There had been occasions when, in the darkness, neutral ships had received signals from unidentified sources advising and warning them to avoid imminent grounding on reefs. Such warning had, if taken seriously, prompted the unlucky ship to divert her course away from land, thereby departing from the narrow protective zone and exposing herself to immediate seizure and boarding by the prowling Germans. I usually had, in subsequent voyages, engaged a coastal pilot in tricky localities. By virtue of his familiarity with the local dangers, I could boldly ignore the deceptive signals.

During the first winter of the war, a lively traffic of merchant ships pulsed between the United Kingdom and ports on the Atlantic coast of Scandinavia. Regular convoys of ships for crossing the North Sea were formed under the protection of the Royal Navy. The weaker German naval forces rarely ventured out that far into the North Sea, to interfere with convoys under the protection of the well armed British destroyers. Encouraged by the unchallenged British presence in the area, some intrepid shipmasters were emboldened to risk independent crossing over the North Sea. Doing that, they were, on the one hand, deprived of naval protection, yet on the other hand eschewed the discipline and rigour of convoy practices, thereby frequently gaining time on the sea passages. I, too, tried it once, but encountered side-effects that prompted me not to repeat the gamble.

On that occasion we were westward bound with no cargo on board. I had set the course from a point off the Skagen lighthouse on the northern tip of Denmark to the well-known opening of the Sunderland minefield. The weather was good, and there were no other ships in sight as we steamed toward our destination. It was still in the early hours of the evening when a signalling light flashed out from the surrounding darkness. The message demanded that we stop the vessel and give information about the name and nationality of the ship. They also wanted to know the description of our cargo and its destination. Obviously, a German patrol boat had caught us. I obediently flashed back the required details, but these did not satisfy the Germans. They ordered me to board the warship and personally present the ship's documents for their perusal. Without hesitation, we lowered one of our two lifeboats and rowed over to the German ship. Not knowing what the Germans may have in their minds, I took with me half of the crew — all those who were scheduled to man that particular lifeboat in case of emergency. Often the Germans, especially their submarines, would sink a potentially suspicious ship irrespective of what flag she was flying. This time, fortunately, they decided, after examining the documents, to let the "Helios" proceed on her voyage.

Meanwhile, my Chief Officer, who had been left in charge of the vessel in my absence, had lost his composure and panicked. Remembering that quite frequently the Germans had shelled and sunk merchant ships without warning, he commanded the rest of the crew into the other lifeboat and had it lowered to the water. Having been overcome by the delusion that the ship will be sunk without delay, he had the lifeboat quickly rowed away from the vicinity. In the darkness, he could not see that I was already returning to the ship in the first lifeboat. When we arrived alongside the vessel, congratulating ourselves on the lucky escape, we found that there was nobody to toss us a rope from the deck. The vessel was rolling lazily in the low swell; dim lights were visible from the portholes, but nobody would lower a ropeladder. After some difficulty climbing on board, my first concern was to locate the other lifeboat.

The German patrol boat had already steamed away, when we were still circling in the darkness in search of our missing lifeboat and her crew. We did not find them until the dawn of the next day. In their prudence, or was it cowardice, they had kept rowing away from the ship in hope that the Germans would not find them and also sink the lifeboat. Once the missing men had reembarked, we had no trouble in arriving safely at Sunderland. Only, one of our lifeboats had sustained damages during the adventurous night and had to be replaced. It had slipped from the purchase while being hoisted on board and had its sides caved in.

During the second week of April, 1940, the Germans invaded Denmark and Norway. Fighting spread out to encompass also the North Sea, and all commercial traffic with Scandinavia ceased. In conjunction with and resulting from the invasion developed a diversification in the nature of shipping. The Danish and Norvegian ships, that had been the most numerous neutral ships in the North Sea convoys, had become allies with Britain. Their respective officials had escaped and formed governments in exile in the United Kingdom. At the same time, the genuine neutrals, such as the Estonian steamer "Helios", became untrustworthy in the eyes of the British because of their close association with Sweden, a country which was apparently regarded as being in Germany's sphere of influence. While waiting for a cargo of coal at Sunderland, I was suddenly ordered not to make any attempt to leave the port. The ship's documents were removed from my possession and the length of shore leave for the personnel was effectively restricted. The ship was removed to a remote corner of the basin where she was closely hemmed in by idle fishing vessels. During the two weeks that we were detained at this north-east coast port, stores for maintaining the ship, including provisions, were made available in quantities sufficient only for bare necessities.

To emphasize our neutrality, we gave a fresh coat of paint to the conspicuously displayed word ESTONIA and our national colours in large characters on both sides of the ship's hull. All neutral ships had, since the beginning of hostilites, carried similar signs, accentuating their impartiality in the conflict.

During our enforced sojourn at Sunderland, German bombers made several air raids over the city and the docks. Since the beginning of the war, the Civil Defence authorities in Britain had erected a large number of air raid shelters on street corners. These were of flimsy brick construction that gave satisfactory protection against shell fragments and splinters from anti-aircraft projectiles, but were of inadequate cover for a near hit of an aerial bomb. In one coastal community, one such street shelter had sustained a direct hit by a bomb with disastrous results. We still used them each time the raiders came over; these were safer than the ship, which was frequentely a selected target of the raiders.

Under pressure of the strenuous exertion of wartime Britain, all vital economical activities had been centralized under various ministries and government agencies. Shipping had been allocated to the enormously complex Ministry of War Transport, which therefore directed also all movements of my vessel. The owners of the "Helios" had thereby given up virtually all control of their vessel. Despite such a convergence of shipping under state monopoly, the freight rates for neutral ships remained close to international open market levels. Remuneration for the use of our vessel was based on the length of time the U.K. government had disposal of the ship, on so-called time-charter rates and conditions.

Our stay at Sunderland came to an end with instructions to proceed to West Hartlepool, only about twenty miles away, and to load there a cargo of coal for the Seine river port of Rouen, in France. Due to almost incessant air raids over West Hartlepool, working in port was restricted to day-light hours only and preceeded very slowly. While there, we were apparently still regarded not quite trustworthy. Movements of the crew were restricted in the same manner as at Sunderland. Permits to remain off the ship were valid only up to nine o'clock in the evening. This was not enough for some of our crew and so they were, unavoidably, arrested on the streets or while quietly imbibing draft beer in a pub.

Events on the war fronts developed now in quick succession. The situation in Scandinavia had barely settled down with a total military occupation of Denmark and Norway by the German forces, when the Germans launched a powerful thrust against the Western front. An unexpectedly strong assault was first delivered againt the Low Countries and, after overrunning Holland and Belgium, was quickly aimed at the weakly defended countryside of France by passing around the impregnable fortifications of the Maginot Line.

The stable condition that had prevailed on the continent throughout the winter, and up to the spring of 1940, had come suddenly to an end. It apparently caught the Allies by surprise and caused consternation. Our loading of coal for Rouen had been completed but, due to the new developements, our instructions were changed and we never saw the beautiful cathedral city on the banks of the river Seine. It was considered a matter of weeks, or perhaps days, when Rouen could be expected to be overrun by the advancing enemy. With these prospects in mind, the Ministry ordered us to wait further instructions at the Dover anchorage on the estuary of River Thames. The area was packed with anchored ships; every one of the one hundred or more freighters there had her charter or sailing orders frustrated by the sudden German onslaught. This multitude of ships in the fairway caused congestion in seaborn traffic for the suddenly burgeoning number of small craft employed in the evacuation of British and Allied troops from Dunkerque and nearby beaches. The Allied strongholds on the continent had collapsed and, by that time, the resisting pockets of defenders in western Flanders were in danger of being forced to surrender to the Germans. As the retreating units were approaching the coast, all available ships and boats were rushed in to save the troops from encirclement. Since the shortest route for the rescue was directily across the Roads of Dover, the merchant ships there clogged the passage and restricted the vital operations. Soon the "Helios" and several other ships were ordered to move to another anchorage at Cowes Road on the southern coast of England.

Events in France developed now at a rapid pace. The southward advance of the Germans over the planes of France was no longer hindered by the demoralized troops of the defenders. The only retardation the forward-pushing German panzer suffered was their own inablity to bring along supplies with corresponding dispatch.

The coal that we had on board belonged to the French and was probably sorely needed by them. Only the unremittingly fluid situation on the front prevented an adequately safe port being designated for discharging the badly needed commodity. After some delay at Cowes Road, we were directed by the Portland Bill signalling station to proceed to Brest. On arrival in the vicinity of Brest, and still within the approaches to this beautiful naval port, surrounded by awe inspiring rocks and precipitous cliffs, we were again told that there was no place for us in the harbour. Further instructions declared our discharging port as Nantes on the west coast of France. It appeared as if a race was on between the "Helios" and the advancing Germans: this time we seemed to have gained adequate headway and were reasonably hopeful that we would be able to deliver our cargo to the lawful consignees.

It was only a short run from Brest to the estuary of the river Loire. There, at St. Nazaire roadstead, was a large assembly of ships, all waiting for a berth, either at St. Nazaire at the mouth of the river, or at Nantes, which was the main port further up-river. The anchorage at the roadstead was so crowded with ships that frequent collisions occurred each time the tide turned in the estuary. A ship at anchor in tidal waters turns unavoidably in a circle, around her anchor, using it as a pivoting point, and does so each time the tidal current changes its direction. On one such turning at slack tide, when all ships slowly broke rank and formed a motley assemblage, prior to each taking up a new direction, the "Helios" suffered some damages from contact with a Greek vessel. She had chosen her anchorage much too close to our position after we had already anchored. An arriving ship is supposed to give way to those that are already in port.

The Greek master repudiated his responsibility. Although being within my rights, I was persuaded by the harbour master to relinquish my legal claim for compensation from the Greek ship. In the prevailing confusion he could not assist me. He was already lamenting, whilst wringing his hands in the genuine Gallic manner, that he did not know how he could manage to send all the ships out of port before the Germans reached Nantes. His mind seemed to have already accepted the looming inevitablity. Long lines of civilians, fleeing from the Germans, were steadily moving southward through Nantes, many of them havin been on the run for days. No supplies of any kind were obtainable for ships without direct cash purchases; by traditional maritime practices this had always been charged against the freight for the cargo delivered. The shipping agency, which would normally have guaranteed my expenditures against the freight, had evacuated and left me to look after my own needs. Several ships were short of fuel, which they could not replenish anywhere. One Norwegian ship was shoveling ground-nuts from her import cargo into furnaces as she had no more bunkers on board. Her master told me that he would, during unloading, leave such a quantity of ground-nuts on board for bunkers that would enable him to leave port before the Germans arrived. His ship was still in port when we departed. Prior to our sailing, the pilot came on board to guide the vessel out of harbour. At the time when we were supposed to leave the berth the pilot refused to cooperate, unless I paid in cash for his services. This, too, was never known to have been done before. In foresight, however, I had hoarded a moderate amount of English pound-notes for unforeseeable necessities, which now became very handy.

During the night before our departure from Nantes, a minelaying operation in the lower reaches of Loire river had been carried out by German aircraft. A French troopship, with hundreds of men on board, had been blown up by the stealthily dropped mines. By the time we arrived in the St. Nazaire roadstead, there were several small craft busy rescuing the injured and picking up corpses from the sinking troopship; most of the soldiers on her had been killed. It was a repulsive sight that revealed mutilated bodies and occasional severed limbs floating on the water. The small launch that came alongside our ship to take off the pilot, was stained with the blood of the wounded men that the launch had helped to rescue only minutes before our arrival on the scene.

As most of the mines were still in the shipping lanes, I carefully followed a French naval vessel that was steaming out of the estuary; she was cautiously holding into the channel that had already been swept clear of the mines. I could relax only when we were in that part of the Bay of Biscay where the water was too deep for mines.

France at that time was, by all accounts, a conquered country. Moral resistance of her people had all but ceased, and their only reaction was despondency and disorganized retreat. Efforts were made to flee individually or in small groups to the United Kingdom or to French colonies in North Africa. The dynamic momentum of the military might of Germany was at the time approaching its culmination. After consolidation of their newly won acquisitions on the continent, the emphasis of their aggression was now shifted to sweeping aerial bombing attacks over targets in southern England. Next in importance was, in the eyes of the German High Command, to assail shipping on the Atlantic, since the most urgently needed military aid to Britain was sent from the USA and Canada. Local distribution of this aid was carried out by coastal shipping around the British Isles, activity which was also not neglected by the Germans. Allied and neutral ships were severly punished in both these areas. As Britain depended so much on shipping to keep her war industry in production and her people adequately fed, her enemies decided to aim fatal blows to this very sensitive part of her strength.

The orders I had received at Nantes instructed me to proceed to Villa Real de S. Antonio on the southern coast of Portugal, and to load there a cargo of iron ore for the United Kingdom. From the Loire estuary, I set the course to pass the lighthouse well-known to seamen, Cap Finisterre, on the north-west extremity of the Spanish province of Galicia. Crossing the Bay of Biscay at that time was still reasonably safe. The Germans, being busy on the continent, had not had time to spread their menace over these navigable waters. Later, for three long years, this normally most frequently travelled area of the Atlantic Ocean became known as the notorious graveyard of shipping. During that period, the Bay and its vicinity were generally avoided by merchant ships, and was left almost exclusively to the enemy submarines on their journeys to and from the reinforced pens in the neighbourhood of Brest.

At Villa de S. Antonio we had to endure another despised waiting period. During the past months, the "Helios" had been wasting an intolerable length of time by waiting unproductively, due to frequently unknown causes. In the traditional manner of trading, my owners would have already been forced to insolvency, since wages for seamen in neutral ships had sky-rocketed. True, the freight rates had also multiplied and, apart from odd ships having been torpedoed or bombed, the shipowners had actually been enjoying a windfall. Despite of an appearance of wasteful operations, the bottom line of our balance sheet showed an acceptable profit. However, inactivity was against my nature and, innately, I passively remonstrated on such slow rhythm. Since I could not change it, I could at least grumble about it. By tradition, the Estonian seamen, from the lowest ratings to senior officers, bad been accustomed to aspire and work for progressive improvement and success of the ships on which they served. Most of them wished to become, one day, the holder of some small shares in the company. Even those who did not possess such aspirations suffered from inactivity and became fidgety. This situation was further aggravated by anxiety over their families. In the summer of 1940, our home country had been overrun and forcibly occupied by our detested neighbour, the Soviet Union. Some of my duties, as shipmaster, were to maintain equanimity and moral strength among the heterogeneous group of men. To discharge these obligations, I tried to provide them with encouragement and consolation, to seek recreation for them with the skimpy facilities at our disposal, and induce alacrity in the days of dullness and hopelessness. From time to time, news reached us which reported the sinking of some other Estonian ship, on which some of us had friends and acquaintances. Seldom was the fate of the personnel of a sunken ship immediately known, but anxiety prevailed. Also, not infrequently, some ships were reported overdue in arriving at their destination; most of them were subsequently assumed lost with their crews. Eventually, some traces of their destiny, invariably sad, turned up.

Finally, the day arrived when the cargo was loaded and our homeward passage commenced. This expression — homeward bound — is very popular among British seamen and has nostalgic undertones. When used by Estonian sailors, it conveyed a tragic connotation: we had lost our genuine homeland through foreign occupation, and to us Great Britain became substitude home port for the time being. Having been warned of German U-boats prowling in the Atlantic, we skirted closely the Portuguese and Spanish coasts on our way to Gibraltar, where a convoy was being assembled for the sea passage to the United Kingdom. The convoys formed at Gibraltar gathered ships from Mediterranean ports and, sometimes, from points of departure on the West African coast. Strong naval forces were provided for the protection of the convoys; this time there was even an aircraft carrier accompanying us. In this formation, the valuable seaborne traffic proceeded due west along the 37 parallel of latitude. Reaching a point approximately 600 miles from the Portuguese coast, the convoy turned to a northerly course. This distance from the continental shoreline was considered necessary to stay outside the attacking range of German aircraft, which were known to be operating from French airfields. On the latitude of Northern Ireland, but still a long distance from it, the convoy was joined by another one from the American continent, either from New York of from Halifax. After this rendezvous, the mighty congregation of some one hundred or more ships, formed by ten ships abreast and ten or more in line one after another, seemed enormous and unassailable.

However powerful and vigilant the escort appeared, the expanded convoy still lost ships from time to time through extremely well organized tactics of the enemy submarines. When alarms were issued by the commodore ship, indicating that enemy forces had been detected in the vicinity, the whole convoy began uniformly exercising evasive manoeuvers, conveniently called zig-zag movements. It consisted of frequent and simultaneous alterations of course, usually by sharp turnings of 45 degrees, at prearranged intervals of some 5 to 10 minutes. Such to and fro heading of ships at short intervals was calculated to frustrate the aiming of torpedoes from the submerged raiders, but demanded a high degree of discipline from the shipmasters in executing the zig-zagging. I had the misfortune of witnessing one mishap where at first one ship and then half a dozen others stepped out of line, and thereby created a confusion. The ruckus was happily not critical, but resulted in blunted stems and dented sides of several ships, and released a colossal amount of swearing in many languages.

Concurrently with the zig-zagging, the escort ships would start bustling around the convoy with the intent of locating and destroying the attackers. To thwart the detection by the escort vessels, a submarine sometimes adopted daredevil tactics, by which it would silently lie deep in the water on the previously observed course of the convoy and allow the ships to move above it. While the convoy would calmly steam overhead, the sub would commence moving with the ships. The instruments in use at that time did not enable the escort vessels to positively detect the submarine lying silently in deep water, nor when the latter was moving while being surrounded by the throbbing engines of the merchant ships on all sides. Thus camouflaged, the sub needed only to raise its periscope and aim its torpedoes to the ship or ships that would present the most desirable target for destruction, preferably an oil-tanker. On many occasions, the sub could not accomplish this delinquency with impunity: it would invariably be detected and frequently forced to surface by depth-charges. These very efficient weapons could be made to explode at any depth of water; their only drawback was the danger that if used in close proximity to the cargo ships, the explosions might seriously damage their hulls too.

Our enlarged convoy had now arrived at a position of about 500 miles west of the Inishtrahull lighthouse on the northern tip of Ireland, and the course was set for the approaches to British home waters. By that time, the Coastal Command aircraft had taken over the protection of the convoy from the Navy. Only a small number of armed trawlers remained with the merchant ships. In the North Channel, between Ireland and Scotland, the convoy split into three columns. Ships that were making for the Forth of Clyde ports turned to the left, and the Belfast bound ships made a turn to the right. By foresight, in the initial formation of the convoy, ships were positioned in the assembly in such manner that no ship needed to inconvenience the others while making the appropriate turn toward her destination. While the right and left wings of the convoy separated themselves from the middle section, the latter — always the most numerous — kept on steaming into the Irish Sea. This section later spread out for Mersey river, Bristol Channel and English Channel destinations. My ship on this particular voyage was instructed to take her cargo to Garston, near Liverpool.

The "Helios" was, at that time, in a unique situation among the large number of merchant ships then busily trading in and out of British ports. Due to the occupation of the Estonian Republic by the Soviets, our country had ceased to exist as an independent state, and our ships had now been deprived of their legitimate nationality. Following the occupation, the USSR had without delay highhandedly expropriated all privately held assets within the country, and were now reaching their avaricious hands for the numerous Estonian deep sea ships abroad. Fortunately, in a move of protective countenance, the H. M. Government unhesitatingly declared all Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian owned ships in British ports requisitioned, and transferred them to the British registry. By such action, the H. M. Government had not only prevented this not inconsiderable tonnage of shipping from falling into the hands of the Soviets, but had also secured a significant addition to the much needed shipping space in the service of the Ministry of War Transport. The owners of the "Helios" had, however, managed to transfer the legal ownership of the vessel to the Swedish registry. This transaction changed her flag and her name. She was now flying the genuine Swedish flag with yellow cross on blue background, and her name on the brand-new Certificate of Registry was indicated as the S. S. "Selene". Materially nothing else was changed. The same Estonian crew stayed on board as before, and our voyages also remained virtually as before.

Under the new flag we made several additional voyages to Portuguese and Spanish ports, sometimes with a cargo of coal outwards, but generally returning to the United Kingdom with iron ore. At every voyage, the usual convoy procedures were observed, which seldom deviated. On one occasion, while in a convoy bound for Lisbon, an extremely strong northwesterly gale forced the ships to scatter. The sea was too rough to navigate ships in close formation, as most of them were simply unable to maintain their allocated positions. The "Selene" was the smallest vessel in the convoy and, therefore, probably the first to fall away from her prescribed station. The blizzard raged throughout the night. When daylight allowed us to peer through the spume and scud, we could not see another ship in any direction. We could not, obviously, see far as our field of vision on the immensity of the ocean was restricted by the tempestuous seas. It was not unusual that ships at times became separated from the main body of the convoy and were, for such contingencies, provided with confidential instructions in a sealed envelope. These instructions contained directions for courses by which to steer in order to proceed independently toward the intended destination. They also warned ships against breaking radio-silence unless attacked by enemy forces, to refrain from issuing dense smoke from the smoke-stacks or dumping floating garbage overboard and, generally, admonished masters to keep their a hips as inconspicuous as possible while at sea. Final directives in the sealed envelope commanded the masters to destroy all confidential documents and codebooks in case of abandoning the ship. A weighted metal box was provided for such material, which would in such an emergency be hurled overboard where it would immediately sink.

Having ascertained that our earlier fellow-travellers were irrevocably out of sight, I opened the sealed envelope, and we resumed our voyage as per instructions. The weather improved and we arrived safely at Lisbon. The main body of the convoy arrived there nearly two days after we had made our landfall.

Lisbon at that time was the unofficial centre of international espionage. While on shore, I was frequently befriended by men in fluent English. They would lament over the dangerous calling of a seaman and deftly attempt to extract information about movements of ships and descriptions of convoy escorts. Precautions against such 'careless talk' had been severely stressed in the United Kingdom, and most of the seamen on British ships were already immune to the efforts of these artful philanthropists. Lisbon at that time was also noteworthy as the main counterfeit money market; skilfully printed bank notes of all major currencies were readily available and attractively offered. It was reputed to be a part of German modus operandi to disconcert and encumber the economies of their enemies. These debased monetary transactions may not have effectively dislocated the Allies' war effort, but espionage could safely be assumed to have played a significant part in the losses of convoys and of individual ships.

This time our return cargo from Portugal was a full load of gubracho bark, a plant product for the tanning industry. On route to the United Kingdom, we sighted two empty lifeboats drifting at sea; one of them even had its mast rigged. They were obviously victims of a recently attacked ship. The fact that both were in apparent seaworthy condition, usually indicated that their crews had most likely been rescued by other ships or picked up by the specially equipped hospital ship that was attached to most ocean convoys for rescue purposes.

In the same convoy, the "Selene" collided in the fog with another ship and sustained a fractured plate on the Port side of her hull. The damage was almost at the water level in the area of the coal bunkers, and allowed a moderate amount of sea water to enter into the vessel when proceeding at full speed. The speed had to be reduced, and permission was granted by the commodore of the convoy to detach the vessel from the formation. Since we had no suitable equipment or material on board to manufacture an effective seal over the fairly large aperture, we had to improvise means to stop the water from entering the ship. At slow speed, the pumps could cope with the influx if a slight list to Starboard was given to the vessel. But the prospect of lingering at sea and exhibiting an unprotected target to a lurking submarine, or being caught by a chance storm, loomed as an impending danger and forced me to try even the most singular means of keeping the water out of my ship. I did not envision with relish the imaginary obituary of the late and lamented "Selene", who fell victim to her master's indefensible lack of resources in adversity. Our first attempt lay in jamming spare mattresses and pillows into the yawning chasm, a remedy which, for the time being, managed to reduce the influx. Foam-topped waves outside the hull soon wore the soft material to rags, and we had to replace them twice before we reached Belfast for temporary repairs. We were content that we had resolved the predicament, even though some of us had to sleep a few nights on bare boards on their bunks. Permanent repairs to the hull plating were later completed at the Barrow-on-Furnace shipyard.

This voyage to Lisbon was the last of the overseas trading for the "Selene". Bigger ships proved to be more suited for long voyages and more of these became now available. Shipyards in Canada and in the United States were steadily launching new ships, in addition to the popular Empire class cargo ships constructed in Clyde and the north-east coast shipbuilding yards. Moreover, the need for smaller ships in the U.K. coastal service was growing. At that time, marine casualties by enemy action around the coasts frequently exceeded those on the high seas. When the "Selene" commenced her coastwise trading, the enemy had resumed harassment of the small ships that were resolutely trudging in the tidal fairways on all coasts. And quite as determinedly, the whole island was tenaciously fighting back the ruthless enemy. As the night raids by the fast moving German E. boats became increasingly persistent, movements of ships in coastal waters were confined to daylight hours only. This strategy involved endless maneuvering into and out of ports and estuaries between ports of departure and destination. Local pilots were kept busy conducting ships to mooring buoys and anchorages at stopover points. These precautionary measures were repeated every evening, and every morning in reverse. Besides, handling ships in such an exhaustive manner, the masters had to attend instructional meetings at each intermediate way-station, in order to keep abreast with the latest developments in convoy defence, in signalling or, simply, to learn something of the enemy's newest tricks. Such a dynamic state of war-induced tension prevailed throughout the British Isles almost up to the end of the war. The ever resourceful Germans unremittingly launched their attacks in diverse forms: there were nightly implemented mine-laying operations in navigable waters by low flying aircraft, high speed torpedo boats, dive-bombers to threaten convoys and, recently, large calibre guns cannonading across the English Channel from emplacements on the French coast. All of these forced the defending side to adopt fluid developments and changing tactics.

Later, the nighttime sailing was resumed, as the loss of time and energy in solely daylight operations proved too wasteful.

Little was read in the papers, or heard in radio news, of the busy and often changing trends and developments in the sometimes quiet, but always deadly, skirmishes between the belligerents. Media acted in a subdued manner, and reticence was a highly valued virtue among the population, especially with those in the services. It was pleasing to observe the loyalty of young naval officers as they eagerly took part in the gargantuan assignment of maintaining in operation the vital and complex sea transport machinery. The educated young men, and sometimes also women, who belonged to the Voluntary Naval Reserve, showed utmost devotion to their duties. Sometimes, they also suffered casualties. Normally, they carried out their assignments under the guidance of experienced merchant navy officers who, by training were part of the Naval Reserve, and were now called into service. There existed an excellent co-operation between these two sets of officers, despite the difference in their ages and practical knowledge. At times, the seniors used to jokingly call the young officers 'the gentlemen who try to be sailors', to which the younger generation good-humouredly retorted by dubbing the others 'the sailors who try to be gentlemen'.

Once, these enthusiastic warriors forgot that it was the holiday season when they ordered us to depart from port and join a convoy on Christmas Eve, which was traditionally, for the Estonians, the most solemn part of the holidays. On reminding them of our wish to have the departure delayed for a few hours in order that we could enjoy our elaborately prepared supper, they relented to my request and rearranged our sailing for a later hour after midnight.

Ships formed coastal convoys almost invariably shortly before, or at, high water time. One evening, we sailed just before midnight from the Firth of Forth. Shortly after we had cleared the fairway, the convoy was suddenly signalled to steam on a northerly course, instead of proceeding south, as per our original instructions. The contradiction became comprehensible when, immediately after the signals, the BBC radio station announced that a hostile aircraft was approaching the coast of Scotland. The announcer was still repeating his message, when we heard the drone of a sole German dive-bomber flying over the convoy. It made a swoop and released several bombs which, luckily for us, plunged into water between the two lines of ships. They exploded with a bang and a huge splash of water, but harmed no ships. Every ship was shooting at the intruder, with the exception of the "Selene", which was a neutral ship and unarmed. The night sky was luminous with the multitude of coloured tracer-bullets. These brilliant streaks, apparently ignited by every fourth or fifth cartridge in the machine-gun ammunition, effectively assisted in aiming the projectiles in darkness. Then, the raider was caught in the wildly lashing beams of search-lights from naval escort vessels. Quickly, someone scored a hit, and the burning plane cork-screwed into the water, close to the convoy. The firing ceased and one of the escort craft rushed to the plane, to rescue survivors of the enemy crew.

Then, there was the night I cannot erase from my memory. Our convoy was proceeding from the Irish Sea into the English Channel. The two lines of ships in the coastal formation had already rounded the Lands End promontory, and were now heading on an easterly direction. It was a beautiful moon-lit night with calm weather and only a ripple on the surface of the tide-driven water. Holding close to the Cornish coast, the convoy was approaching Runnelstone light-buoy, the well-known aid to navigation. For generations, ships had, when passing the Cornish coast, shaped their courses close to the south side of the Runnelstone buoy. Our convoy was under the command of an experienced master mariner, who followed the same time-honoured track. Beside the buoy, unknown to the leader of the convoy and the escort vessels, lurked a German E-boat, the notorious, torpedo-carrying surface craft. They had an inconspicuous silhouette, and could move with a remarkably high speed. Most of the ships in the convoy had already passed the buoy, with the others following, when the E-boat stealthily drew near them with the intention of selecting a convenient firing position. Before launching its torpedoes, however, it was detected by the alert look-out on the commodore ship. Its shape was immediately recognized in the semi-darkness and shooting at it by the ships started even before the general alarm was given. All defensively armed cargo ships carried Army and Navy personnel in sufficient numbers to have the guns manned at all times when the ships were at sea. As the barrage of fire was aimed at the attacker, the tracer-bullets were hitting water just before the bow of our ship. For a short period of time, the easily distinguished contours of the speedboat were discernible between the ships. Then, it fleetingly disappeared into the darkness. It may have been hit, but apparently remained undamaged.

In the almost instantaneous confusion and noise, the ship immediately behind us exploded with a roar. She had been hit. The E-boat had either missed our ship, or had regarded us to be in too close proximity to itself and aimed the torpedoes at the ship following us. The stricken ship was an oil-tanker and her inflammable cargo was instantly ignited by the explosion. Within seconds, she was engulfed in flames from one end to the other. Only a few of her crew may have had a chance to be saved if they jumped into water. In such a condition as the tanker was in now, nobody could approach her to attempt rescuing the survivors, if there were any at all. The flames had enveloped all features of the doomed ship, which was still slowly moving ahead. The other ships were keeping clear of the burning oil floating on the sea behind her. The moon was waning now behind us and its pale light illuminated the doleful scene on the dark sea. Above the blaze, one could see only her foremast with its signalling yard in a shape of a cross. This formation of a phantasmal cruciform seemed to be horrifyingly and portentously displayed on the fiery tomb of the condemned souls of her crew.

I also remember the voyage in which the "Selene" was part of a convoy proceeding eastward in the English Channel. Steaming from the west, we had already passed the Isle of Wight when orders were passed to all ships to anchor off the Beachy Head lighthouse. Information soon followed, notifying us that the German long distance batteries, that were located at the Gris Nez promontory on the French coast, had started firing across the Strait of Dover. Such firing was usually sporadic in duration, but could last for several hours. Each time, however, it brought all sea trafic in the Straits to a halt. This time, two ships in our convoy, both bound for the Thames river, ignored the orders and continued their passage independently. We lost sight of them after they had passed the Dungeness lighthouse. In the afternoon, the firing ceased and the convoy resumed its passage. Near Folkestone we found these two ships again. Both were lying aground in the shallow water; their hulls and superstructures had been pierced by the German shells and were almost demolished. The masters of these two foolishly sacrificed freighters may have been lucky during the earlier part of the war, but this time their fortunes had forsaken them. I never learned what risk and distress these two intrepid, but inconsiderate, mariners had caused their shipmates to endure before some, if any, managed to find safety after abandoning their perforated homes. Information about marine casualties was, as a rule, strictly suppressed as potentially harmful if leaked out to the enemy.

In British coastal waters, the number of wrecks of sunken ships had increased alarmingly, and now almost saturated the shipping lanes off Dover and on the east coast of England. In these deadly areas, mines had been the most devastating and had claimed the largest number of casualties. From the very beginning of the war, the Germans had succeeded in contriving progressively more odious varieties of mines. After the usual anchored mines that exploded on contact, there appeared on the British shipping lanes and roadsteads mines which were detonated by the magnetic field that surrounds every steel-hulled ship. Immediately after their appearance in the frequented waters, they played havoc with shipping, as there was no known antidote to render them ineffective. The navigational routes were, for a while, cleared by wooden vessels that towed behind them strongly magnetized objects which triggered the mines into exploding; only then were ships allowed to enter the fairway. For several months, these dangerous methods provided safety for shipping while more effective countermeasures were developed. Once the mechanism of the mines was penetrated and the activating principles discerned, the very nature of the pernicious device itself was utilized to invalidate its menace. The remedy was costly to install and maintain, but it proved effective; it consisted of depolarisation of the natural magnetic field of the hull of a ship by coils of heavy electric wires. These coils were located along the internal perimeter of the ship's hull, and carried a strong electric current from the ship's own power plant whenever the ship was in waters likely to be reached by the German mine-laying planes. Frequently, additional dynamos had to be installed in ships that had been built with an inadequate electric power capacity for such additional consumption. Smaller ships, in which such measures were impracticable, were periodically de-magnetized — commonly known as de-gaussed — by outside magnetic fields at shore based installations.

Soon after the magnetic mines had lost their furtive, ambushing effect to shipping, there appeared another kind of underwater quandary. It was introduced by an incomprehensible and astonishing sinking of well de-gaussed ships by underwater explosions. Clearly, a different kind of mine had been laid, ones which were obviously not depending on magnetism. Technical investigation, probably also assisted by counter-intelligence, soon revealed that the mines were this time triggered off by acoustic vibrations radiating from ship's propellers when the ship was steaming over the device. After that, it did not take long for the small dedicated minesweeping squadrons to clear the mine contaminated shipping lanes with well imitated noise makers before any ship was allowed to cross the deadly waters.

Shipping for Great Britain during the war was a very vital part of her struggle for existence. In supporting this struggle, painful losses were frequently sustained by these floating defenders, as the enemy did her maximum to sever the important lifeline of the country. Material losses were easier to replace than those suffered by the human component. The seamen were afforded various privileges not enjoyed by civilians in shore employment, and their valour at sea was highly praised. Although austerity conditions were imposed on everybody, food and clothing rations, among other supplies, were more liberal to seafarers than the restricted allowances available to the remainder of the civilians. The men serving on merchant ships were not in compulsory uniform, nor were they subjected to military discipline. Marginal overstepping in behaviour was sometimes tolerated, however conduct by these tough individuals was seldom grossly abused. Life at sea itself was such a hard taskmaster that it subdued exuberance and made each man toe the line. They were retained on the payroll at all times, even when on shore between voyages and living at home. These relaxed periods were, however, never prolonged. The nation recognized the dangers to which they were exposed, and gratefully demonstrated its debt to these salt water soldiers by highly extolling their efforts.

My ship, the "Selene", was under a neutral flag and as such was treated on purely commercial terms; her personnel, however, enjoyed the same privileges as those on Allied ships. Our time-charter remuneration was prodigal when compared to that paid to British shipowners. So were also the wages paid to the seamen serving on her. Obviously, our owners paid these exorbitant wages, and no retainers were paid to our seafarers when on vacation. On Allied ships, Danish, Norwegian, Dutch, Belgian, and Greek, the seamen were treated according to their own national conditions. Ireland, Portugal and Spain remained neutral, but I did not happen to see any of their ships on Allied service. There were a few of the artificial flag ships, such as Panamanian, but these were essentially British owned ships and, as such, were treated as British ships, except that they remained unarmed.

When the war eventually came to a close, my ship was still needed for a short period to carry supplies to the war-torn continental countries. Although the hostile submarines, mine-laying aircraft, E-boats, and dive-bombers no longer threatened the shipping lanes, there remained a multitude of mines, so numerous that it would have been inconceivable to methodically destroy them one by one. Their sea bottom moorings gradually deteriorated, allowing the deadly devices to drift uncontrollably and claim victims for years to come, long after the real shooting had ceased.

After thousands of good serviceable ships having been sunk and tens of thousands of young and vigorous seamen sent to the bottom of the oceans, are we now better off than before?

Stephanie Bergman

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