Born in 1887, Bertrand Twinn was a self-proclaimed nobody who grew up in earshot of Kodak Harrow’s factory bell, and by happenstance would find himself working at Kodak on both sides of the ocean, first in Rochester, New York, and later back in England at Harrow. Like most men of his generation, he would serve his country in WWI, but for Bert this was a return to service, having previously served as a signalman in the Royal Navy for eleven years from the age of 15.
What follows are extracts from his memoirs, from his time serving as a telegraphist on ships traversing the Atlantic Ocean, “assisting in keeping wide open one of the main doors of our great World Empire.” Bert was also a keen photographer which allowed him the opportunity to document his adventures through images as well as words.
The extracts are mostly recreational in their subject matter, not to make light of the war and the dangers faced at sea (though Bert himself humbly noted that to soldiers who served in the trenches, his “war adventures” would “read like a picnic”), but to highlight the personalities of these men and their camaraderie.
All of the photos and captions are Bert’s own.
In July 1914, with rumours abound of a European war, Bert was filled “with an irresistible desire” to be back with his naval comrades. Now living in New York, he reported for duty at Halifax (Nova Scotia) dockyard. As the only signalman among the returnee sailors waiting at the dockyard for assignment, Bert found himself needed by the Canadians and was transferred to the Royal Naval Canadian Volunteer Reserve. With a shortage of military vessels, civilian boats were being converted for military use. Two such boats were a steam yacht, ‘Tarantula’, and a larger luxury yacht, ‘Winchester’, which, under the command of millionaire businessman/yachtsman J.K.L Ross, would become HMCS Tuna and HMCS Grilse, respectively.
I believe that Lt. Commander Ross bore the entire cost of acquiring and fitting out both the ‘Tuna’ and the ‘Grilse’, also later contributing a half-a-million dollars to the war chest. This patriotic generosity, however, did not extend to the unfortunate Italian restaurant keeper in Montreal. While our vessel (Grilse) was in dockyard hands, arrangements were made for the crew to have their meals in his restaurant at 15 cents a meal per man. Sailors are noted for their fondness for ham and eggs, so instead of hash, Irish stews and other cheaper concoctions, over twenty hungry sailormen demanded ham and eggs, followed by apple-pie for breakfast, dinner and supper. The proprietor protested, but all to no avail, one spokesman saying, “our bloke’s a blinkin’ millionaire and he’ll pay all right.” I heard some of the explosive remarks emanating from our Commander’s cabin when the Italian presented his bill and I believe all he got was the contract price.
We had barely installed our torpedo tubes and were still without torpedoes and guns, when we received orders to escort the troopships conveying the second Canadian contingent down the River St. Lawrence and out through the Cabot Straits, where it was rumoured that U-Boats were lurking. To maintain our dignity as a warship, the night before we sailed we obtained a huge French wine-barrel, which when cut in two and each half inverted and surmounted by a tree stump, made very respectable looking twelve-pounder guns, at least when viewed at a distance. These were placed in their appropriate positions fore and aft, covered with canvas and painted grey. As we steamed past each crowded troopship, the soldiers cheered the British Navy to the echo. We felt ashamed and wondered what would have been their attitude if our subterfuge had been exposed. We saw them safely into the Atlantic and returned to Montreal for our armaments.
Over the next three years, Bert operated the wireless on a number of steamers and minesweepers, conducting patrol duties in the Atlantic.
The ‘Starling’ was a mucky little wooden steamer, evidently having been a yacht in the dim past, but now converted into a trawler and loaned to the Government for patrol duties outside Halifax. She literally seethed with cockroaches and every time I rose from my bunk, it was necessary to shake out the scores of their dead bodies from the blankets and mattress, which I had crushed with the roll of the ship during my sleep. One day our cook made several blueberry pies which he placed in a cupboard overnight and by the morning the cockroaches had honeycombed them so thoroughly, that the piecrust collapsed with the draught caused by opening the cupboard door. The steward used to bring our grub aft in a large wicker basket, from the network of which scores of roaches would scatter when it was placed on the table. The men would select a certain roach each and lay bets on the first to reach the edge of the table, the winner taking the pot. We attacked them with boiling water and steam through a hosepipe in every nook and cranny, but failed to keep them under. On calm days, we would sweep them up by the hundreds and spreading them out on a piece of newspaper flat on the water, take pleasure in watching them float away to their doom.
In 1918, Bert joined the British and Chinese crew of the S.S. Frankmere, a large tramp steamer engaged in carrying general cargo to France. Convoys of 30 to 45 ships, escorted by one or two destroyers, would traverse the Atlantic, pursued by German submarines.
Our wireless log made exciting reading, every day recording the last message from some torpedoed ship. Some days, we received as many as a dozen S.O.S’s from ships attacked by submarines. The sound of an S.O.S. (three shorts, three longs and three shorts), however faint, commands instant attention, penetrating through all other messages with an insistence that cannot be refused a hearing. The S.O.S. would be followed by the ship’s name, her position and then either ‘gunned’, ‘chased’, or ‘torpedoed’.
Extracts from the wireless log of S.S. ‘Frankmere’
April 24th 1918
2.30 p.m.
S.O.S. from s.s. ‘Swanmore’ 47.20 North 1112 West –
Chased by submarine – steering west.
4.15 p.m.
From s.s. ‘Swanmore’ – Submarine still astern, keeping him off with gunfire.
4.20 p.m.
From s.s. ‘Swanmore’ – Two submarines now astern, holding our own with regard to speed.
6.00 p.m.
S.O.S. from s.s. ‘Hesperidies’ – Torpedoed 52 North 13 West.
9.00 p.m.
S.O.S. from s.s. ‘Abasso’ 51 North 1420 West – Torpedoed and sinking fast.
April 25th 1918
1.45 p.m.
S.O.S. from s.s. ‘Martaban’ 5039 North 1225 West – Submarine chasing us.
2.00 p.m.
From s.s. ‘Martaban’ Course North 66 East true, 12 knots – Submarine still chasing us from keeping him off with gunfire.
2.35 p.m.
S.O.S. from s.s. ‘Ballarat’ – Torpedoed 4933 North – West. Send help quickly to tow.
3.00 p.m.
From s.s. ‘Martaban’ – Submarine disappeared.
3.40 p.m.
From s.s. ‘Thurby’ – One hour’s engagement with submarine – escaped.
Many of our transports were then, as now, worked by Lascar or Chinese seamen and firemen, who bravely shared the danger and often the death with their white brothers. They worked unflinchingly and uncomplainingly for the Empire, of which many were proud to be subjects. It was this intrepid spirit of our merchant sailors which contributed more than anything else to the defeat of the submarine blockades. Had these splendid men failed us, the British Isles would have been starved into submission in less than a month.
On November 11th, 1918, we were in the mid-Atlantic, being one of a large convoy of over thirty transports, bound to the English Channel for orders. The day before we had been informed by coded message that an Armistice was imminent, and when at 11.00 a.m. the confirmation came through our receiving set, I slipped off my headphones and rushed out on deck, banging a dustpan and brush together and yelling at the top of my voice, “The war is over! The war is over!” The Captain shouted at me from the bridge, but his words were drowned in the sudden screeching of ships’ sirens, which gradually increased in intensity until the whole fleet were blasting away in one glorious ear-splitting crescendo. Every man in the convoy immediately understood the reason for the hubbub, for groups of men appeared on the decks of all ships, waving and cheering loudly, the din lasting fully for ten minutes. It was a great relief to us all to know that at long last the war was really at an end, although for ships at sea, war danger from drifting mines and uncharted wrecks would continue for some considerable time.
Our cargo on this journey consisted of several thousand tons of flour in 80lb. sacks stored tightly in every hold. This valuable commodity was originally destined for the B.E.F. but on our reaching the Channel, we received orders to proceed to Antwerp, from which city Germans had recently evacuated and where our cargo was urgently needed.
We negotiated several known mined areas safely and entering the River Scheldt, arrived at Antwerp, where we were moored alongside the wharf. We were welcomed with cheers, the citizens still celebrating their recent release from the tyranny of the invader, and later went on shore and joined in the festivities.
In 1937, when writing his memoirs, Bert was living back in Harrow, now working for Kodak.
The sea taught me many valuable lessons for besides mothering me as a lad, it broadened my outlook and installed into me a tolerance towards all men. I now know that character comes before nationality and that all men, regardless of race, colour or creed, are my friends if, apart from the commonplace failings to which all humans are heir, they ring true. Nevertheless, I am intensely English and loyally British, which sounds like a contradiction, but isn’t.