Dad's Navy Days: October 1943 - Homeward Bound (17)

In convoy we made about eight knots up the Mediterranean

to Gibraltar, anchored inside the submarine nets for a couple

of days, and slowly moved out one night for England.

[pg. 118, "DAD, WELL DONE"]

Father waved a tearful goodbye to Pietro Guiseppe of Sicily, a young boy he had befriended, but not likely to Malta or North Africa as he made his way back to England in October, 1943 and then home to Norwich, Ontario a couple of months later. And what would he be doing or thinking about as he travelled hundreds of miles across the Mediterranean Sea - slowly, at about 8 knots or 10 miles per hour - toward Gibraltar on the Queen Emma seventy years ago today?

["Father would be happy aboard the Queen Emma, or any ship"]

Father's memoirs are pretty tight-lipped about the journey to Gibraltar and his time there, which makes me think he was content to eat and sleep and read mail and gab with his mates from Combined Operations. For many, including my father, their two years facing 'hostilities only' was over and they just wanted to get home alive. My father illustrates this point with a brief recollection:

     As my turn came to jump aboard the gang-plank (i.e., of a large

     ship, from a Navy barge, with a full kitbag), my eye spotted a

     large unexploded shell imbedded in the side of the ship not far

     from the officer’s head. I was very tired but not that tired, and

     inquired of the officer about the unexploded shell and he replied

     that the Captain had the shell examined and it was a dud. “I sure

     hope he is right because my mother will miss me, Mr. Wedd,” I said.

     Mr. Wedd was dog-tired too and in no mood for an argument. “Your

     mother will miss you a lot more if you’re not aboard on the next

     swell, Harrison, because we are leaving. Do you hear me?” He added

     a bit more which wouldn’t be printed and his ultimatum enabled me

     to time the swell of the next wave perfectly and I jumped to the

     gang-planks, and though tired, I found new energy at the cargo door

     and was soon amidships. The shell never exploded but it was sand-

     bagged and roped off. [pg. 90, "DAD,WELL DONE"]

Other Navy boys wanted to get home all right, but not without a few precious souvenirs. Father recalls one particular souvenir-hunting expedition in Italy:

     We had some days off (i.e., between trips from Sicily to Italy with

     barge loads of war material) and we travelled, did some sight seeing,

     e.g., visiting German graves. We met Sicilian prisoners walking home

     disconsolately, stopped them, and took sidearms from any officer.

     We saw oxen still being used as draft animals when we were there.

     Sometimes we went to Italy and to Allied Military Government of

     Occupied Territory (AMGOT). (They later changed that name because

     in Italian it meant sh--!) While a couple of ratings kept the man in

     charge of all the revolvers busy, we picked out a lot of dandies. If

     he caught us we were ready. We had chits made out, i.e., “Please

     supply this rating with sidearms,” signed Captain P.T. Gear or

     Captain B.M. Lever, after the Breech Mechanism Lever on a large gun.

     [pg. 36, "DAD, WELL DONE"]

Whether father picked out a dandy or two I cannot say. He eventually returned to Canada in pretty good shape, at least on the outside, with a mind full of memories. One about Gibraltar is worth mentioning, then it's off to England.

More to follow. 

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