Twenty Years Before the Antenna Mast

During the last year at college, we did a short training cruise on an old converted fishing vessel called the Glen Strathallen. She was around 800 tons, with an old fashioned triple expansion steam piston engine, but her coal fired boiler had been converted to oil in an effort at modernization and reducing costs. The fish holds had been converted to dormitories for about 20 sea cadets, all sleeping in two holds in two-tier bunk beds. There was only the Captain, the Chief Engineer, a cook and the Bosun as regular crew. All the rest were cadets with their teachers or (as in our case) trainee Radio Officers. We did a bit of everything, taking turns to do engine watches, steering, painting/cleaning on deck as well as steward duties, helping in the galley and learning the black art of navigation. As we had no operating certificates yet, our instructor had to do the actual wireless operating (using an old 100 watt IMR MF transmitter running from a rotary transformer housed in the cupboard underneath, fed from the 240 volt DC mains. Modulation was done by means of the unsmoothed 400 Hz HT supply - all very primitive!). The messages only consisted of a TR (Track Report, consisting of ships name, position, port from, port to, speed and ETA) which was sent to North Foreland Radio (GNF) on clearing London. Then he would send the odd test transmission to show us how it was done, or to demonstrate a point of instruction in the classroom lessons, which still took place. At night, when we were at anchor off Southend, the small steam powered DC generator was stopped to conserve fuel, and apart from some battery powered riding and anchor lights, all was dark. You can imagine what high jinks us young trainee radio officers had then!

We traveled down by train and joined the ship at the Millwall Docks in London. It was highly interesting being inside of what was then one of the biggest ports in England. The old ship was berthed in a little forgotten corner into which the wind seemed to blow almost all the rubbish that was floating around in the dock. The water looked scummy, dirty and rather unpleasant. It took a full day getting the old lady ready for sea, and to get up steam.

That night a couple of us investigated some of the many Dockland pubs. The area was somewhat run down, with many rows of terraced houses outside the docks themselves. There were lots of pubs with interesting names and probably histories too, conveniently placed near the dock entrances. On the way back, we met a couple of girls (sisters) who needed a push to get their car started, and whose father was very suspicious when they invited us home for a coffee at around midnight. I often wonder what would have happened if he had not woken up! The next day we sailed slowly down the Thames River in wonderful weather and brilliant sunshine, as far as Southend. I well remember my first sight of large ocean-going ships, ploughing along with a large creamy bow wave, coming up fast astern, illuminated by the late afternoon sun, and then overtaking us with ease. We could only make about 9 knots even going flat out. Their wake made us roll and pitch gently. It was a really stirring sight. At that time, London was a busy port, and ships of all nations and all sizes passed up and down the Thames using the various London Docks, Gravesend or Canvey Island. We anchored off Southend at night and sailed around a bit during the day, doing navigational exercises with the Decca Navigator (A hyperbolic navigational system used around the European coasts) and practiced using the radar.

Other jobs such as painting the ship and looking after the engine were also done. After anchoring in the evening, the engine had to be wiped down with oily waste and kept absolutely gleaming. This was also a part of our job and gave us a great feeling for the size and power of the machinery used on even a small ship. The engine room watch had to carefully clamber all over the engine, wiping off all traces of water after the ship had anchored.

I still vividly remember my very first engine room watch. I was standing at the main engine controls right next to the engine itself, looking in terror at the vibrating high pressure steam piping coming from the boiler, imagining what would happen if they burst or sprang a leak. I had a vivid imagination, and the pictures it conjured up were not pleasant. I had not long previously seen the film "The Sand Pebbles" with Steve Mcqueen, where just exactly that happened. It didn't do much to ease my mind! Then there was the high pressure water feed pump for the boiler, which often jammed for a few seconds, then with a heart-stopping clang, would start again. The big firebox with its oil burners, pumps and sight glasses cast an eerie flickering glow. The generator, its huge open flywheel a high speed blur and wreathed in steam, with only a flimsy wire mesh guard stopping anyone from touching it. Then of course there was the all-pervading noise of the massive three cylinders, open crankshaft and connecting rods of the main engine itself. It was over two stories high, and as long as a bus. The brass handrails gleamed in the dim light and its three pistons hissed and thumped as they moved. Occasionally, the Chief Engineer would go away to do something incomprehensible to unknown dark humps crouching in dimly lit corners of the engine room, leaving me alone. My heart was in my mouth until he returned. The noise, dim light and vibration, the smell of steam and oil are still with me to this day.

I remember how as an experiment, I pushed against the side of the ship when she was in dock, and after about 5 minutes of hard pushing, managed to get her 800 or so tons to move slowly away from the quay. It demonstrated that you don't need much power to move a ship slowly. A lesson that the old canal barges (with literally one-horse power) demonstrated only too well, by moving many hundreds of tons using only a single horse. The power required however rises very steeply as speed increases.

Eventually, after many years service, the Glen Strathallen became too expensive to keep going, however under the rules of the bequest she was not scrapped. The engine was removed (it was a prime example of its type) and placed in the Science Museum for safekeeping. The hull was towed to Southampton, and sunk offshore. It is used even today as training by diving schools, and for research into the fauna and flora growing in and around old wrecks.

I must admit, that when I saw the engine displayed on the ground floor of the Science Museum in London a few years ago, tears came into my eyes. It brought a lot of old memories suddenly very close.

I received the PMG certificate no G-2701 (2nd Class) on 20 June 1967.

This was something I had dreamed of for the entire 2 years. I then had no other wish than to go to sea. I had no back up plans, and the fact I might actually fail the exams was unthinkable. The tension while waiting for the results was tremendous. In fact I was physically sick shortly after the results were made known, and had to go home before the certificates were ceremoniously handed out. I received mine, without ceremony, a few days later. A few did not pass, and stayed on to re-sit the exams. One or two gave up entirely, and left the college to try their hand at other jobs.

To celebrate our success, four of us went to the local pub across the road from the college. Money was tight, and we just had enough between us for one pint of beer. We ordered a pint of bitter and four straws. The publican looked at us VERY strangely, but it was known that the radio officer students were a funny bunch, so we got it. We all dipped our straws into the glass, then on command SUCKED. Great fun, especially fighting for the last bit at the bottom!

Shortly after that the class disbanded each to go his separate way. Some joined Marconi like me, others went to P&O, Blue Star and various other companies around Britain. The world is a big place, and I never met up with any of them again.