Joining Shackleton and the First Voyage – Captain Tom Woodfield
I ran away to sea aged 14 after an argument with my mother. I only got as far as the railway station, half a mile away. Confidence ebbing, I conveniently let two trains pass without boarding them before my father found me. He worked ashore in the shipping industry and was interested in all matters concerning the sea, and he had an enduring love of mountain: and exploration; all of these he passed to me. He suggested that if I really wanted to be mariner, which indeed I always had, I should go to sea school first.
Continuing from Shackleton page
After a tough but invaluable year at Warsash School of Navigation under the eye of the renowned principal, Captain Wally Wakeford, I joined the Port Line aged 16 for three and half years as an indentured apprentice. I made several splendid voyages to Australasia; general cargo outward, and wool and refrigerated goods home. The ships, which carried 12 passengers were excellent; they were well run, and the apprentices’ maritime studies were well supervised. We spent up to six weeks on the coasts discharging and loading, and life could hardly have been better for us young men. Only one incident disrupted those heady years, with their mixture of hard work learning my trade, good fellowship, and the enjoyment of the sunny outdoor of Australasian sporting and beach life, mainly in the company of girls. Towards the end o my apprenticeship, outward bound to New Zealand I was put ashore delirious in Panama. 11 Jamaica I had swum in a hotel pool and fallen ill; the initial diagnosis was meningitis, but in fact it was only a tropical bug, and four months later I was back in England sitting my second mate’s examination. Passing this in the summer of 1953 entitled me to keep a bridge watch on my own and thus begin the progression towards acquiring additional sea time and passing the examinations for first mate and then master.
An Opportunity Grasped
One Sunday shortly after I had gained my initial certificate, the good fortune from which my life has benefited began to kick in. During the afternoon my father read out an advertisement from the paper, adding, “This will interest you, son.” It read, ‘Full crew required for an Antarctic Expedition Ship — no polar experience necessary. Apply Crown Agents’. The opportunity to combine those inherited interests of the sea, mountains, and polar exploration was a chance not to be missed. I telephoned my employeron the Monday morning and explained that I wished to attend an interview for a junior officer’s position aboard the Royal Researach Ship (RRS) Shackleton rather than join my next Port Line vessel that day. To my surprise – for ship owners were tough employers in 1955 – they thought it a good idea and agreed that if I were accepted I could take leave from their employ for two years.
I sat on a bench at the Crown Agents acting on behalf of the ship owners, awaiting an interview alongside an Adam Kerr. It turned out that we were both successful, he to become second officer, I to be third, and thus began a friendship that would last a lifetime. One of the interview panel was Captain Bill Johnston, who was to transfer from the RRS John Biscoe, the sole vessel then operated by FIDS, to command its newly acquired second vessel, to be named the Shackleton.
In 1943 Argentina had made a definitive and substantial claim to the segment of Antarctica and the sub-Antarctic islands lying to the south of Tierra del Fuego, bounded approximately by the extreme east and west longitudes of the Argentine and Chile — the same area that the UK laid claim to, and called the Falkland Islands Dependencies. In response, the British dispatched a secret naval force, Operation Tabarin, to prevent an Argentinean/German collaboration taking control of the Drake Passage, the sub-Antarctic island groups of the South Shetlands and South Orkneys, and the waters that lay between them and mainland Antarctica. After the war’s end in 1945, that operation matured into the FIDS, a scientific survey with a strong political emphasis. Further stations were gradually established and eventually a dedicated vessel, the first John Biscoe (a new vessel of the same name was to be built in 1956) was acquired late in 1947.
Several years later, in 1955, we were to join the vessel to be renamed the Shackleton in Frederikshavn, Denmark, where she was being refitted for her new role. It had become apparent to the Survey that a single vessel for year-on-year operations could not meet their requirements and that operating in those southern waters on her own would be unsafe. That vessel, the first John Biscoe, a former wooden boom defence vessel of about 1,000 tons displacement, could scarcely carry the stores and personnel for the resupply of the Antarctic bases, let alone the materials required to build new stations, without several return trips between them and the Falklands. These time-consuming voyages across the often turbulent Drake Passage would remove her from the field of operations in mid-season, when she was required for her secondary role of supporting detached survey parties and generally assisting movement of personnel, stores and dogs between bases. Heightened roles were also envisaged of delivering and assisting with the build of several new bases and supporting scientific work.
Safety of the personnel carried and that of the life-supporting base stores had also been a prime consideration in the decision to acquire a second vessel. Safety would be greatly enhanced by one vessel being able to go to the aid of a sister ship should she become stranded or holed in the uncharted and ice-filled waters south. Furthermore the loss of a single ship would ‘wreck an entire season’s programme or worse, whereas if there were two ships sharing relief and other duties, the loss of one would have less impact on the overall operation. The introduction of a second ship would also greatly improve the possibility of seaborne science being undertaken in line with the growing emphasis on marine science, such as biology, oceanography and the geophysical investigations relating to the movements of tectonic plates and the theories relating to Gondwanaland. Politically, it was obviously preferable to have as many activities as possible in the disputed areas to exercise and display the British calims to sovereignty – and what better than another ship lying those waters, literally flying the flag.
The choice of a second ship
Building a vessel from scratch — evaluating and drawing up the requirement, trawling for naval architects, preparing the design, going out to shipyards for tender, tank testing and finally the build itself — is a lengthy process. Too lengthy when government policy was to improve our political footprint by way of additional stations and to increase our scientific output with safer and more capable ships as fast as possible. Plans for a replacement John Biscoe were already in place, she to be purpose-built.
An icebreaker is by definition a vessel full of engines giving it the propulsive power to break ice, and having little or no space for cargo. Large ice-strengthened cargo carriers are strong enough to withstand ice when following an icebreaker, but have little capability to do so on their own because of their low power to weight ratio. On well-worked established routes through ice in the Baltic and the Arctic, a government icebreaker leading a convoy of commercial cargo ships paying for the service was a well-proven concept; but in heavy polar ice, particularly in at best poorly charted waters of locations visited by perhaps by just a single vessel, icebreaker support was neither a practical or financially sound proposition. Nor was it financially realistic to build both an icebreaker and an ice-strengthened cargo vessel to achieve the same objectives, although the Admiralty entered the discussion for a while with the idea of the navy operating an icebreaker in support of the Survey; but this came to nothing. Thus a composite vessel, powerful enough to work polar ice on her own, having ample cargo space, abundant cabin space for expeditioners, small enough to work pack ice — length being an important criterion for this — and of shallow enough draught to enter the tight anchorages of the Antarctic Peninsula where most of the bases were located, was the FIDS’ requirement. The Russians, Finns, Americans and Canadians had both breakers and large ice class support vessels, but almost nothing to suit the FIDS requirement. The Danish Lauritzen Lines had their Dan ships on the Greenland trade; these were eminently suitable, but none were for sale and at that time it was not thought an economic proposition to charter them for the ninemonth seasons south.
Ever since polar exploration had begun, British expeditions had simply acquired the most suitable vessels available at the time, these invariably being sealers or whalers, with those functions their prime design criteria. They were strong and seaworthy enough to reach their far-flung destinations but not actually designed to work ice. Nevertheless, through their inherent strength and their lack of power so that they could never be forced too hard in pack ice, together with careful handling to avoid damage from impact amidst loose ice at speed, they served many expeditions incredibly well. The navy had also reinforced a number of its ships, particularly for the 19th-century expeditions to the North-West Passage. Two ‘bomb’ ships, the ‘Erebus’ and ‘Terror’, on separate expeditions commanded by Sir James Clark Ross and Sir John Franklin, made miraculous voyages both north and south, their sturdy build suting them well to polar exploration, until their mysterious loss together under Franklin during his 185 Arctic Expedition to find the North West Passage.
Eventually, brokers found the pretty little Arendal, a year-old Swedish Baltic trader of 980 tons displacement, classed for working the ice of that region. One hundred and eighty feet in length, she had mainly three eighths of inch plating, with frames set 24 inches apart. Two holds forward with sliding metal hatch covers into which were incorporated two cranes, and tween decks within. A small stores hatch on the forecastle, and the bridge, and accommodation for a small crew aft. Four watertight bulkheads to main deck level, some double bottoms but not beneath the engine room, which was also aft. She was powered by a single MAN diesel of 800 horsepower driving a Kamewa variable pitch propeller made of austenitic steel, a very hard material which would accept the impact of ice, and whose four blades were individually detachable so that they could be replaced if damaged.
During December 1955 I travelled to Fredikshavn, where the (re-named) Shackleton lay, with Adam Kerr and a small number of crew.
Lasting impressions
The loading of the cargo and stores was completed quickly once the inclining test had proved our stability satisfactory, although we still had a condition placed upon us to ballast any double-bottom fuel tanks as they became empty during the voyage. The expeditioners were embarked, and at last we sailed, but again it was into poor weather. Down the Channel towards Ushant a full southwester came in and Johnston decided a quiet anchorage made more sense than little and uncomfortable progress in mid-Channel. We anchored less than a cable under the lee of Berry Head, weaving our way through many other ships taking shelter.
To those of us from large ships, the philosophy of nursing a small ship and crew, working with the weather rather than fighting it, was interesting and my first simple lesson in seamanship from observing Bill Johnston. He was however to prove a hard taskmaster. He was a tall, gaunt Ulsterman, brought up in the coastal trade. He had experienced a tough war in rescue tugs based on Gibraltar, assisting Malta convoys, and had then joined the Falkland Islands Company’s ships as master. Sir Miles Clifford, who had admired his expertise, recruited him to FIDS. The governor represented the Colonial Office, the body responsible for us. Johnston was a cold, rather aloof figure, who chain-smoked Players Perfectos Finos, and drank much pink gin. Not once, though, in my nine years associated with him, did I see him the worse for wear, not even in the Falklands where the hospitality of the inhabitants made it difficult to stay sober. He occasionally showed a dry sense of humour, though usually at the expense of others. He did not suffer fools or incompetence, and was severe if you were not carrying out his instructions to the letter. He always wore uniform, usually with cap, even in the severest weather. He frowned upon any dressing down and even showed a dislike, but tolerated, my wearing a black silk scarf instead of a tie, when passage-making at night. A favourite quote of his was ‘You don’t have to be scruffy to be tough’. His authority was absolute, but his style of command, which extended beyond the ship to the bases and areas in which we were working, was extreme. He never discussed his plans or tactics. He never aired his concerns nor shared confidences. He was phlegmatic, with apparently no nerves. We used to joke that if you stuck a pin in him he might later consider saying ‘ouch’. His well-kept secret, however, was that he was seasick, although some sharp-eyed lads noticed that he was not around much during the first day of a passage if it was rough unless he thought it absolutely necessary. Above all, though, and most importantly, was that he was a fine, safe, and adventurous seaman, with an uncanny eye for a safe passage in unchartered waters, from whom I was to learn a great deal.
An unvenetful passage was made to Montevideo with a short visit to the Cape Verde Islands to top up with water and fuel, mainly for the purposes of maintaining good stability. During the passage we familiarised ourselves witn the ship and settled Into routines. We had none ot the teething problems of a new vessel, for she had already operated for a year in the Baltic. However on the magnetic equator, at about latitude 5 degrees south, we did swing ship to calibrate the magnetic compass. Taking compass bearings of the sun on different headings as the vessel swings through 360 degrees and comparing them with the true bearings extracted from the Nautical Almanac establishes the deviation of the compass on various headings. This is then refined by adjusting the Flinders Bar and Kelvin Balls. The change to the Shackleton’s original errors would have resulted from a change to the magnetism of the ship consequent on the large amount of structural work that had taken place in the shipyard. This was a first for me, because a professional compass adjuster usually carries out the task prior to sailing, but this was far from being my last ‘swing’; we were to discover that when working heavy ice the effect on the ship was the same as that of being hammered in a shipyard, changing her magnetism and consequently its effect on the compass error. We had therefore to devise methods of evaluating the deviation whilst in high latitudes, where the other compass error, variation, from the magnetic field of the earth, was high, not nil as at the magnetic equator. We created many transits at places we frequently visited, and whose true bearings we had established on sunny days, in order to enable us to check the compass when required. We had a gyrocompass, but during this initial season, and on most subsequent ones, it repeatedly failed, once for an entire nine-month voyage. I therefore developed an obsession with the errors and corrections of the magnetic compass.
Montevideo, at 36 degrees latitude south, in the mouth of the River Plate, was an exciting and friendly place to visit. It was hot in midsummer, the air filled with the aromas of frangipane, bougainvillea, barbecued meat and red wine. Scruffy in a Latin unkempt way, with buildings in disrepair and broken pavements, it had lovely beaches and outdoor way of life. Our day and a half there were spent taking water and fuel. It was also our last chance to stock up on fresh fruit, vegetables and meat, none of these being available in the Falklands except mutton, which was abundant.
The voyage of 1,000 miles from there to the Falklands saw a distinct drop in air temperature. There are two closely parallel but opposing currents off the east coast of Argentina, the southgoing warm, the north-going Falkland Current cold. The latter had carried an iceberg onto the English Bank in the mouth of the River Plate in 1936. I never met ice until some few hundred miles south of the Falklands, but a good lookout was always kept for it on this passage, particularly in fog. This formed frequently when the cold air above the Falkland Current blew over the adjacent warmer water and condensed.
Extracted With the Kind Permission of Captain Tom Woodfield, From his book “Polar Mariner”