Snowed in

Our destroyer put into Scapa after a rough Atlantic convoy, weather freezing, seas violent. It was hell, but kept losses down. We were bunkering when the Captain called me over.

"I've had two Admiralty signals", he said. "One sending us out again. The other sending you to London. You're being posted, doesn't say where. Report to a Captain Moran on arrival. Sorry to lose you, you're a damn fine signals officer."

The ship sailed that night and I crossed to Thurso in a blizzard. I couldn't head south immediately, it was snowing hard and no trains were running. No beds were available so I holed up in the Station Hotel bar, getting little sleep.

It was a week before I could get on the Admiralty 'express', or 'The Misery' as we called it. Standing room only for 22 hours to Euston and no heating. Men were crammed into luggage racks and even officers struggled for a seat.

It was nearly Christmas so anyone who'd wangled leave wanted to get away as soon as the line reopened. Six days' worth of matelots trying to squeeze into one night's-worth of train.

The platform was a scrum, officers shoved ratings, ratings pushed back. My rugger skills took me through and I found myself in the corridor outside a compartment with only one occupant. I dived in, slammed the door, then caught my breath. "God!" I exclaimed. "It's cold as death in here!"

"It is, right enough," my companion replied, through a thick Glasgow accent.

His voice was familiar, but not his face, or at least not at first. When he turned towards me, it was paler than candle wax, his beard matted like seaweed.

"It's... it's... Petty Officer Jenkins isn't it?" I asked uncertainly. He looked puzzled, as though trying to remember.

"Aye," he hesitated. "Aye, sir, Jenkins. That's it."

"I thought you were with the ship?"

"I was, sir. But I've been sent down."

With that cryptic reply, he turned his gaze to the window. It was covered with a thick sheet of ice. I don't know what he hoped to see, but I understood his reticence. Most sailors don't like chatting with officers. We try not to get too familiar either, might have to send them to die.

Drifting off

As a railway buff, I'd noted our locomotives. You often get unusual Scottish antiques up there, and 'foreign' locos far from home. We had an LNER K4, a stranger to this LMS outpost. The driver told me it was borrowed from somewhere in Scotland and not yet returned. A 'Black Five' was pilot, and with 14 coaches on they'd have their work cut out on the twisting Highland lines.

With a hiss, cylinder drain cocks cleared, both engines whistled, and a fierce barking followed as they struggled for traction on snowy rails. Gradually, the drivers controlled the wheel-slip and the train edged out.

Nobody on the overcrowded train entered our compartment, but I was dog tired and didn't register how strange that was. As we negotiated the sinuous Far North Line's curves, my eyelids drooped. I started to sway to the motion, like I did on a swell at sea, and soon, I was nodding off. Suddenly, there was an almighty lurch. I felt a chill hand on my arm. "Steady, sir, don't fall asleep." It was Jenkins, urgent and desperate.

I awoke, cold beyond comprehension. For a moment I had no idea where I was or what was happening. Then I remembered: we'd been torpedoed, the ship had gone down in minutes in an icy sea. Only five of us made it onto a Carley float. Soaked through, the cold took us one by one. Huge waves crashed into the float. My frozen comrades, perched on the edge, fingers too numb to grip the ropes, fell off and disappeared.

Only Jenkins and I were left. I was succumbing to exposure from the bitter wind on wet clothes. Jenkins was made of sterner stuff. He dragged me into the bottom of the raft, shaking me whenever he thought I'd drift off. It was so tempting to let sleep take me.

That's when the big wave flipped the float over like a coin tossed in the air. We were thrown apart into dark waters. I lost sight of Jenkins. The cold soon overwhelmed me and I slipped into unconsciousness.

Fortunes of war

"Hey, sir. Do yous want Edinbra'?" A rough hand was shaking my shoulder. I was on a train, not in the life-sapping ocean. We'd stopped at a shadowy, station. My compartment was full. Jenkins had disappeared. Must have changed for Glasgow while I was dreaming.

We crawled south for hours to Preston, Crewe and, finally, Euston. London looked very different from when I left in 1939. Buildings shrouded in sandbags. Bomb sites everywhere. Blackout making the streets dangerous. Dowdy decorations. No Christmas lights.

At the Admiralty, Captain Moran asked about my journey. Without waiting for an answer he said 'the Misery' gave him the creeps. "All those chaps who travel to Scapa and never come back. The train south must be full of ghosts searching for home."

"Don't know why they want you," he added. "Some professor asked for you. Taught you at Oxford. Says you know about something vital to the war effort.

Take this chit and get a ticket to Bletchley. Ring this number and tell them what train you're on. They'll send a car."

"By the way, sorry too about your ship."

"What about my ship?"

"Didn't you hear? Torpedoed, lost with all hands. They found one empty Carley float and the body of a Petty Officer Jenkins. Must have happened around the time you left Thurso.

"I say, old chap. Hold steady. Bad news, I know, but fortunes of war. Don't faint on me. Oh damn!"