Death of a Supertanker (15 page)

The third officer breathed a sigh of relief. His mission was no longer necessary. He turned and joined the hurrying stream of terrified men and women struggling up the heaving stairway.

Ocean
Mammoth
’s stern section or after part, broke away from the stranded forepart at eight minutes past two in the morning. Eleven minutes later it had settled on the bottom with a fairly steep list to port, having come to rest upon shelving rock; the sounding to port gave twelve fathoms and that to starboard eight and a half.

During its eleven minutes afloat the stern section, driven by the gale, had travelled more than a mile. Listing over to port the superstructure had acted as a great sail which drove the sinking hulk down wind. It had grounded heading south. The light at Cape Agulhas, bearing 268°, slightly over two miles distant, was just visible through the rain and spindrift. The port side of the stern section was awash at maindeck level; to starboard the tops of waves at times reached the level of the maindeck though the freeboard was close to forty feet.

With the hulk aground the superstructure still stood high out of the water, but seas were flooding the port side up to Deck Three, one level above the maindeck. Deck Three had, as a result, been evacuated.

Flooding combined with the list had put the greater part of the engineroom under water. On the port side it had, with wave action, reached sufficiently high to put the auxiliary diesel generator out of action. Mr McLintoch had ordered everyone out of the engineroom when water began to pour through the bulkhead on the foreside of which lay the pumproom. That
bulkhead
had been breached either by the explosion under the bridge, or by stresses transferred from collapsing bulkheads and frames in the pumproom. Eventually it had more or less opened to the sea.

For those in
Ocean
Mammoth
the eleven minutes of drift had been a time of unremitting terror. Even when the hulk had finally grounded circumstances continued to be fearsome coming on top of a night of endless crises, one piled upon the other until it seemed that body and mind, worn out by fear and exhaustion,
could bear no more.

Throughout the drift, and for some time afterwards, the crew had gathered in darkness on the starboard side of the bridge deck. They had been sent there because it was the high side of the list; but it was also the weather side and they were exposed to all the rawness of the gale. Soaked by rain and spindrift, cold and wretched after hours without sleep, they kept close to each other for warmth and mutual protection, their backs to the sloping side of the bridgehouse, clinging to anything they could lay hands on. Horror and uncertainty were aggravated by the darkness, the staggering motion, the spray from the seas breaking against the side, and the shriek of the wind.

Captain Crutchley had ordered the women to take shelter in the chartroom. There, though protected from the worst of the elements, they sat on the deck in a state of mindless terror, without light but for the occasional flash of a torch wielded by a passing officer. At times they would break down and Sandy would put aside her fears to comfort them.

As soon as it was possible Jarrett set out to look for Jonathan Malim and the crewman who’d been with him on the walkway above the cargo control-room at the time of the explosion. With a lifeline round his waist, tended by Fernandez from the high side of the walkway, he searched along it with a torch. There was no sign of the missing men. The walkway was buckled and torn amidships and he imagined they’d been killed or injured in the explosion and carried away by heavy seas.

He tried but failed to reach the control-room. It had been badly damaged by the explosion and flooded by seas from the port side where the maindeck was awash. He was satisfied that the pumpman could not have survived.

As he made his way back, he was swept off his feet by a sea and dashed against the guard rails. The lifeline held, and when the sea receded he got to his feet and staggered back to Fernandez who was hauling on the line. The quartermaster saw the gash on the chief officer’s forehead and the limp arm hanging at his side and helped him down to the radio office – the only lighted space left.

There the catering officer did what he could with bandages, splints and brandy. Jarrett asked for more brandy, but refused a sling.

‘Can’t do without the arm just now.’

‘Not much use to you as it is.’

Jarrett shook his head. ‘You’d be surprised.’ He drank another tot of brandy and went off to report the casualties to the Captain.

The catering officer and Piet Pieterse – the only volunteer for that duty – were down in the saloon pantry on Deck Three. By
torchlight
they collected biscuits, cheese and apples which they offered to crewmen and passengers. But there were few with appetites and most refused.

‘Pity we couldn’t have given them some hot coffee,’ said the catering officer. ‘But what can one do without heat?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Wet to the skin, Pieterse shivered. ‘You said it.’

When the power failed, Tim Feeny switched on the batteries which supplied lighting for the radio office and power for the emergency transmitter. Soon after the stern section broke away he was able to let Cape Town and the signal station at Cape Agulhas know what had happened.

He had kept in touch with them throughout the drift, and when the hulk grounded he had obtained a position from the second officer and passed it to them. The light-keeper told Feeny that in the intervals between rain and squalls he could see the stranded hulk in the flash of the Agulhas light.

Soon after dark Feeny made contact with the South African frigate
Simon
van
der
Stel
Positions were exchanged and the captain of the frigate gave his ETA at the wreck as 0730.

‘Two and a half hours after sunrise,’ added Foley as he passed the message to Captain Crutchley.

Of those on board, the Captain was probably the least appalled by the prospect of death. It was not something he contemplated with equanimity; death remained for him, as for all, the ultimate terror. Yet in the present circumstances – the problem of his eyesight, the certainty of unemployment, his future more than ever imperilled by the loss of
Ocean
Mammoth
– death held certain advantages. His personal insurances were substantial and he would be worth more to his young wife and family dead than alive. Throughout the gale, desperately worried though he was, he found some comfort in this knowledge.

By ten o’clock in the morning with the barometer rising and the gale showing some signs of abating, morale in the hulk was improving. The sky was clearing and to starboard colour was returning to the rocky coastline which had for so long been hidden. The red-and-white-ringed lighthouse tower once again stood out boldly, a solitary but reassuring sentinel for those still aboard.

In the foreground without its stern,
Ocean
Mammoth’
s stranded hull, almost a thousand feet of it, looked like the beheaded corpse of some primeval sea monster. Now acting as a huge steel breakwater it lay astride the view of the headland, seas breaking against its far side constantly throwing up clouds of spray like puffs of white smoke.

Less than a mile away to port the frigate lay head on to the gale, its bows, rising and falling to meet the seas, capped at times with bursts of foaming water.

On the starboard wing of the bridge, wedged between the gyro binnacle and the screen, the second officer examined the headland through binoculars. Next to him Captain Crutchley, his hands on the bridge coaming, steadied himself against the wind.

Foley saw a small, mothlike object moving on the high land behind Cape Agulhas. ‘I’ve picked up the helicopter, sir,’ he said. ‘Just to the right of the lighthouse. It’s coming in low over the land.’

‘Good. I’ll talk to the pilot when it’s down.’ The unfamiliar hoarseness of the Captain’s voice, the slight sag of his shoulders, were the only outward signs of exhaustion. He had not slept for almost thirty hours. The second officer had been without sleep for thirty-six. His bloodshot eyes had dark pouches beneath them.

They waited in silence until Foley said, ‘He’s going to land now, sir. Hovering over the houses to the right of the tower.’ The Captain nodded. Foley wondered why he didn’t use the binoculars which hung from a strap round his neck. Was he too tired to take off the dark glasses?

‘It’s landed, sir,’ said Foley. ‘He’s put it down behind the houses.’

Captain Crutchley made for the wheelhouse.

The frightened groups of men who had spent the night huddled together on the bridge deck had long since broken up. Crewmen were now moving about the drenched windswept deck looking at the land, pointing to the stranded hull inshore, exclaiming at its grotesque aspect, ducking as spray swept the deck and making a joke of it; then, moving down the slippery slope to the port side, they would look at the frigate, admire its elegant lines and comment upon the way it was riding the seas. The men, dishevelled, their faces drawn and haggard, their eyes red-rimmed from long hours of strain, had taken on new life and they laughed and shouted together like schoolboys on a playground. They had been quick to see the helicopter arrive and now they were on the starboard side looking towards the lighthouse, speculating as to what would happen next.

The four women were out on the bridge and they, too, were sharing in the relief and excitement the morning had brought. Once daylight had come and with it news that the glass was rising and the worst was over, they had asked permission to go down to their cabins. There, despite the gale, they’d washed, changed into clean clothes, done their hair and tidied themselves. Now back on deck in raincoats with scarves about their heads they stood up to the wind, smiling bravely. Tired though they were, they looked less worn than the men.

A good deal had happened that morning since the coming of daylight. Captain Crutchley had spoken by radiophone to the captain of the frigate and to the agents in Cape Town, and a number of decisions had been made. The frigate would continue to stand by until the gale had abated; the helicopter would arrive at Cape Agulhas at about ten o’clock; the pilot would decide when weather conditions were suitable for lifting off the survivors; the sea rescue launch from Gordons Bay had been recalled – the frigate and the helicopter could do all that was necessary. Those arrangements made, it was a matter of waiting for the weather to improve. The hulk was still taking a battering from the gale, and from time to time the superstructure would shudder and jar as if
to warn those on board that their ordeal was not yet over.

It was Friday. The Foleys had not been alone together for the best part of thirty hours, not since the Thursday morning when he’d come off watch between four and five o’clock. The ship had run aground less than two hours later. He had seen her in the chartroom several times during the hours of darkness when the gale was at its height. He had ignored her at first but later
relented.
She had looked so miserable – and she was trying so hard to put a brave face on things and help the other women – that he’d gone to her, spoken a few words of encouragement and touched her cheek with awkward affection.

At noon on Friday she came to him on the bridge deck to say that she was going down to the cabin to pack. The Captain had passed word that survivors would be allowed to take off a small bag with essentials but no more.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, George?’ She looked at him uncertainly.

‘No thanks. I’ll get my own things.’

She had gone then, but she’d looked so hurt that he followed her a few minutes later. He found her sitting on the bed weeping.

He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘What’s the trouble, Sandy?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Everything. I’m so tired I can’t think.’

He sat down beside her, kissed her. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘The worst’s over now. It’s still blowing a bit but before long the chopper’ll be lifting us off. Better put a few things in a bag. I’ll do the same.’

As if to believe what he had said, the superstructure trembled and from somewhere deep in its bowels there came a prolonged rumbling.

‘It’s not over,’ she said. ‘Not here or anywhere. There’s all sorts of problems ahead.’

He put an arm round her. ‘Come on, Sandy. That’s not like you.’ For the next few minutes he did his best to comfort her and when she’d dried her eyes and pulled herself together they got on with putting essentials into airline bags. When they’d finished he said, ‘Like something to eat, Sandy?’ It was well past midday and a long time since a meal had been served.

‘No. I’m not hungry. God, you look tired, George. Are you all right?’

‘Yes. I’m okay. But bloody tired. Look, the stewards have put out cold meat, cheese and bread rolls in the pilot’s cabin. We can have a drink there, too. What about it? Have a G and T? Do you good.’

She could see that he was worried, concerned for her. She nodded. ‘All right. But – one thing?’

‘Yes. What’s that?’

‘Will Freeman Jarrett be there?’

Foley stiffened.‘Why?’

‘Is he okay? His head and arm, I mean?’

He noticed that she’d dodged the question. ‘Nothing much wrong with him. Cut forehead and a fractured forearm.
Wandering
round a bit dazed smelling of booze.’ His eyes challenged hers. ‘Why do you have to bring him up at this time?’

‘I suppose because it could be awkward.’ She was nervous, hesitant. ‘Because you’re not talking to him. It’ll be noticed, if it hasn’t been already.’

‘Too bad. I’m sure a lot’s been noticed already, but I’m
not
talking to him.’

‘George, don’t think I’m asking for forgiveness – for him or for me. I’ve been crazy. What’s been done, has been done. But is it necessary to go on with the hate now? Can’t we behave like civilized human beings after all we’ve been through?’

He stood back, his eyes hard. ‘Civilized human beings. My God! You could fool me. Your boyfriend having seduced you, is now doing his best to saddle me with responsibility for running the ship aground in
his
watch.’

‘George!’ She looked horrified. ‘How? He can’t do that. Surely he can’t?’

Foley’s pent-up emotions were suddenly too much for him; he forgot his resolve to be kind. ‘Better ask him when you’re next together. No doubt he’ll enjoy telling you.’ He turned his back and left the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

By mid-afternoon wind and sea had moderated sufficiently for the helicopter pilot to inform the ship by voice radio that he was ready to lift off survivors.

Captain Crutchley at once ordered a general muster on the bridge deck. This done he spoke to the pilot and soon afterwards the big Sikorsky S61N came out from the shore. The sound of its engines and the flop-flop of its rotor rose as it grew larger,
reaching a crescendo as it came in close and hovered nose down over the hulk, the down draught from its rotor blades blowing on to the bridge deck with the force of a gale. The pilot turned the Sikorsky in a tight circle as he checked what lay below and
conducted
a laconic exchange with Captain Crutchley by voice radio. Evidently satisfied with what he saw he said, ‘Okay. We’ll begin now.’

A line came down from the Sikorsky and the task of winching up the survivors – two at a time – began. Two men who’d suffered steam burns in the engineroom were the first to go. They were winched up in stretchers; the women followed and then the crew. With the wind still blowing hard it called for nerve and skill to hold the big helicopter in position to leeward of the signal mast while the winching took place; but the pilot was no newcomer to the task and the lift proceeded without hitch, the number of survivors on the bridge deck steadily diminishing until only the Captain and Mr McLintoch were left. It was not long before they too had been winched up and the Sikorsky with its heavy load roared its way towards the shore.

In addition to a canvas grip with personal items, Captain Crutchley had with him a small suitcase. In it were the deck and Decca logbooks, his standing orders and night order books, two charts which included the Cape Agulhas area, the course-recorder graph for the twenty-four hours to 0200 on 29 October, and the written reports by Jarrett and Foley.

Immediately after the landing the injured men had been transferred from the helicopter to an ambulance and driven into Bredasdorp, some thirty miles away. There the survivors were to spend the night before going on to Cape Town.

As the helicopter deposited its load behind the cottages near the lighthouse, they were met by the light-keeper and his aides, taken into their houses and given coffee and sandwiches. Captain Crutchley and Mr McLintoch went to the signal station where they were soon engaged in lengthy discussion with the marine surveyor and salvage expert.

The light was fading when the survivors boarded the coach which was to take them all into Bredasdorp, save Captain Crutchley and Mr McLintoch who went in by car with the salvage expert and the marine surveyor, Captain Summerbee.

As the car drove away from Cape Agulhas, Captain Crutchley
looked back for the last time at the broken remains of the great ship he’d once been so proud to command. Clouds of spray were still leaping from the long black hull; a mile beyond it, just visible in the gathering dusk, the white superstructure stood out of the water, a huge and ghostly sepulchre, the sea surging and foaming about its base.

In that moment he knew he would never again command a ship at sea and behind the dark glasses his tired eyes filled with tears.

Most of the thoroughly exhausted survivors had gone straight to bed on reaching the hotel, forgoing the evening meal for the sleep they so badly needed. But not all of them, for a few of the hardier souls were to be found in the hotel bar celebrating their survival. Among these were Gareth Lloyd and Abu Seku. The Ghanaian’s presence in the bar had been tacitly approved by the proprietor notwithstanding the proscriptions of apartheid. The two men were at a table in a corner discussing their experiences over a long succession of beers.

‘To think,’ said Gareth Lloyd, ‘that we wouldn’t be here at all but for that bearing failure.’

‘That’s life.’ Abu Seku poured a generous draught of lager down his throat. ‘Poor old Jonah. He didn’t know what he was letting us in for.’

‘Maybe it was not his fault. Electronic alarm systems are fine once the teething troubles have been ironed out. I don’t think we’d yet done that.’

‘It would have to be Jonah that lost his life, wouldn’t it. Unlucky to the end.’

‘Maybe it was better that way. His wife’s death was too much for him.’

‘Yeh. Could be.’ The African drank thoughtfully. ‘My Welsh friend, I must tell you something. This beer is great. Really great.’ He looked round the room, leant forward, his manner conspiratorial. ‘Can you imagine. Me, a black man from the Ghana bush, sitting here
illegally
drinking it. Now isn’t that wonderful?’

‘Indeed it is, my friend. Talking as a white from the wrong side of the Cardiff tracks, I am astonished.’ Gareth Lloyd raised his tankard.‘But anyway, here’s to two great marine engineers.’

‘Yes, sir. I like that.’ Abu Seku clinked his tankard against the
Welshman’s. ‘You know, it’s not so many hours since I thought we’d have to swim for it. Jesus, I was praying then. Asking for pardon for all the lousy things I’ve done. Promising never to do them again. Just like that I was.’

‘Tell you something for your black ears alone. Very confidential it is.’

‘What’s that, man?’

‘I cannot swim.’

‘So you can’t swim. Now isn’t that something. Hey, you know, you had a great chance to learn out there, Gareth. Anyway, there I was praying to the Lord to save me, and at the same time thanking him that he had me born in Ghana. You know, surf boats and the surf. That was my life. Swim like a bloody black fish, I could. I tell you, man. Big waves coming in like they want to eat you up. But nice and warm that West Coast water. Very warm. And good sand to land on. I didn’t fancy making that swim last night. Cold water and big black rocks. Jesus. And maybe the Lord too busy with all the other guys because they couldn’t swim like me. You know he has to be fair to all.’

The Welshman looked up from under shaggy eyebrows. ‘He has indeed, Abu.’ He grabbed the empty tankards and stood up. ‘Let’s have some more beer.’