Doom in the Deep

English translation Anna Yates

 

Pages 46-49

Phil Gay realised what was happening. He called over the radio:

“We’re going. I’m going. Give my love and the crew’s love to the wives and families”

Aboard the other British trawlers, those who heard the stoical voice of the skipper – who clearly spoke in the knowledge that these would be his last words in this life – felt a shiver down the spine. One of them was Joyce Aabert, radio operator on the Notts County. Deeply affected by the words spoken by the skipper from Hull, no-one could speak.

“Will the ice capsize us as well?” was in every mind.

Len Whur had seen the navigation lights of the Ross Cleveland. To his horror he saw the ship keel over on her side. The red lights on the port side vanished. Then there were no lights. He went back to the radio and called “Ross Cleveland, Ross Cleveland, are you there? Come in, please!”

But there was no reply. The trawler was fading from the radar screen.

 

Harry Eddom had been on the starboard side of the bridge. He and Barry Rogers just managed to struggle out onto the bridge wing before the ship lay right over on her port side, which would have trapped them on the bridge with no hope of escape:

“Wally Hewitt, the bo’sun, just managed to throw a life raft into the sea when the ship went over. She sank in six or seven seconds. Most of the crew could never have known what happened.

She dipped herself and I went right under. I suppose it was the shock of the water … I passed out.”

The crew of the coastguard vessel Odin did not hear what was happening, because they were not monitoring the wavelength used by Philip Gay.

 

Aboard the Notts County, news of the fate of the Ross Cleveland spread like wildfire. Dick Moore, who had gone down to the mess for a rest, heard what was happening. News was passed down from the bridge every time something was heard over the radio:

“We’d heard that the Ross Cleveland was icing up dangerously. Our skipper, George Burres, had been in frequent contact with her. And I knew the Ross Cleveland had been helping us out with finding our position.

First I heard that the Ross Cleveland was listing badly. And almost immediately after that, that she was going down.

It was like a cold slap in the face. Our fellow-countrymen, who had been struggling just like us, were being flung into the terrifying, icy sea. They were dying for sure. There was nothing we could do to help them. They hadn’t a hope of survival in those conditions.

My heart was beating fast. My mouth was dry. I got goose-flesh thinking of all those seamen from the Humber, most of them family men, going down with their ship or fighting for their lives in the freezing-cold sea.

And now we were like blind kittens – we had no way of telling where we were, or where we were going.”

 

Harry was regaining consciousness after passing out when the Ross Cleveland sank. He found himself in pitch darkness aboard a life raft with Barry Rogers, an 18-year-old sparehand, and Walter Hewitt, a 30-year-old boatswain. Both were, like Harry, from Hull.

“When I came to I was inside the raft with two of my mates, who must have dragged me aboard.” Somehow the raft had got away from the foundering ship. Harry, who had been on duty, was warmly dressed, but “Wally had only a short and trousers, and the lad a tee-short and briefs.”

The flaps of the life raft had been torn in the turmoil, and a lot of water had washed inside. The shipwrecked men looked around for something to bale with, and found an old can. They also used one of Wally’s boots. As fast as they could bale, the waves washed over the life-raft, and more water poured in.

 

The three men in the life raft had suffered a huge shock when they found themselves in the chilly sea, which was close to freezing point – especially the boatswain and sparehand, who had been below, woken up only lightly dressed, and managed with difficulty to make their way out of the foundering trawler alive. In some unfathomable way they had succeeded in launching the life raft and getting aboard.

Barry, still a teenager, and Wally, a married man with four children, started to shiver with cold. Like Harry, they tried to keep their heads in the darkness and heavy seas, in their tiny craft over which they had no control in the storm.

Nobody had any idea that they had managed to board the life raft – it was thought to be impossible that anybody could have survived.

 

Pages 58-59

The men aboard the Notts County, some of them with decades of seagoing experience, felt the ship moving strangely, and heard weird noises, the kind they might only have heard in horror films. Every time a wave washed under the ship, they heard the chilling cracking of the steel hull, which was being crushed on the rocks as this 400-ton vessel settled down on her belly on the sea floor.

The crew were speechless as they listened to the sinister groaning of the ship’s hull, superstructure, derricks, winches and other metal structures in the howling gale, and the sea, at around freezing point or below, sprayed over the ship, seeping into every nook and cranny. The spray flew at such speed that each tiny drop froze to become a stinging needle of ice before it struck a man’s face or other exposed skin.

Dick felt that the ship was breaking up:

“Everything seemed to be being torn apart. We heard loud, screeching, crunching sounds. The ship had struck something, but what was it? A cliff, a skerry, rocks?

Aboard the ship, despair reigned – total chaos. Everybody wanted to get away.

‘Get away from the ship, away from the ship!’ men were shouting. ‘Where are the life rafts?’

We were coming to understand what had happened.

‘Abandon ship,’ shouted the skipper. It seemed to me that the ship was going down with us aboard. I felt overwhelming fear around me.

All we could think of were the life rafts. One of them was on the windward side, aft. We threw it out. Initially, everything seemed to be all right. The raft inflated as soon as it went over, pulling the nylon cord that was fixed to the ship. But when the inflated raft floated on the waves beside the ship, it was suddenly swept up by a gust of wind.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. In a split second the raft flew up, over the bulwark and up to the superstructure. We watched in horror. There was nothing we could do. The raft went on – the howling, screeching storm lifted the life raft right up over the boat deck and over the superstructure. That heavy raft floated like a balloon. Then it tugged at the rope that held it to the ship, and broke like a piece of thread. The raft was gone – over the ship, into the terrifying darkness beyond.

 

Pages 75-76

The life raft off the Ross Cleveland was probably the only vessel on Isafjord Bay that nobody expected to be afloat.

Wally was now dead of exposure, frozen stiff in the ice-cold water in the bottom of the boat. Only Harry remained alive in the dark:

“I was lucky that I was fully rigged. I was wearing thick trousers, warm underclothing and a woollen jersey under a rubber duck suit and Wellington boots. I was dressed like that because I was on watch at the time.” And the two young men who had saved his life were now dead of exposure. Harry was sure it was only a matter of time before he too died.

“ But then I thought of everything I could to stop myself going to pieces. I thought of my wife at home. I thought about our baby Natalee.”

Harry felt he was letting down his wife and daughter by dying – Harry the family man, who preferred to stay home on the rare occasions when he had the chance. He had spent little time down at the pub, compared with many others. He thought of the times when he invited his shipboard friends home for a beer. And he and Rita also saw their mothers regularly. Those times passed through his mind.

Meanwhile Rita slept with Natalee by her side in her warm bed at home in Cottingham – the woman who clung so faithfully to the seaman’s life that she would not even go to the cinema when Harry was at sea.

News of the trawler’s fate would soon be reaching Britain. He thought sadly of the knock at the door of his and Rita’s home, and Rita learning of his death.

He had lost all hope as he curled up in the bottom of the life raft, doing his best to combat the painful cold:

“Barry had died after a few hours. I don’t know how long. Wally died a bit later. I lost track of time. I just huddled in the bottom of the raft and wondered how long it was going to be before I followed them. I remember the wind was pushing us down the fjord. Day and night seemed to come and go.”

Harry knew that the West Fjords were very sparsely populated, and he thought of their bodies being washed ashore in the life raft in some deserted place, never to be found.

It was nearly eight a.m. and Harry was exhausted, his senses dulled with the cold. It was about nine hours since he had been plunged into the icy waters of Isafjord Bay.

 

Page 110

The people of Hull were in shock. The news of the loss of the Ross Cleveland the previous evening had spread like wildfire through the port. A third trawler, lost in the northern seas – and on this occasion in Isafjord Bay, where the crew had sought shelter, believing themselves safe there. The families of the crew were paralysed with shock. Rita Eddom, Harry’s wife, who heard the news at their home in Cottingham, faced the loss of her husband, like many another seaman’s wife. At 11.30 am she had been informed that her husband had gone down with his ship.

Lil Bilocca and the other women activists were in London with their petition signed by over 10,000 people, demanding action from the government. Christine Smallbone, the sister of Captain Philip Gay on the Ross Cleveland, was with Lil Bilocca. When she received the news from Iceland of the fate of the trawler and of her brother, she collapsed in shock.

A total of fifty-nine men had been lost, all on trawlers from Hull, except for one from Grimsby. Twelve of the nineteen men on the Ross Cleveland were married, and most of them had children. Flags flew at half-mast on the Humber, and around the United Kingdom.

Joseph Mallalieu, minister for shipping at the Board of Trade, said: “Yet again, I have received tragic news. We cannot hold out any hope for the ship or her crew. I have ordered an immediate enquiry into this accident at sea.”

 

Pages 115-117

The life raft where the bodies of Barry Rogers and Wally Hewitt lay was on the eastern shore of the fjord; the nearest farm, Kleifar, was more than four kilometres away, and in any case Harry Eddom had no idea it was there. The farmhouse had no exterior lighting – just the dim glow of oil-lamps in the south-facing windows. But Harry had, earlier in the day, spotted lights on the farm of Eyri, on the opposite shore of the fjord. He knew he had no hope of reaching it on his own.

The route from Lækir, where the life raft was washed ashore, to Kleifahvammur, about a kilometre along the shore of the fjord, is a difficult one, over rough territory, unless one can follow the paths. It is possible to walk along the shore-line for much of the way, but after passing Kleifahvammur a stretch of near-impassable rocks must be crossed to reach the head of the fjord.

When Harry had beached the life raft some time on Monday afternoon, he first decided to head north along the shore, then changed his mind and walked southwards, away from the mouth of the fjord.

Harry had to take action, if he was not to die where he stood. It was do or die. He had lost all hope of survival during his long hours in the life raft. Now he was on dry land, admittedly, but the chance of survival seemed slim, in what appeared to be an uninhabited fjord.

And Harry had no idea what to expect, as he began to clamber over ice-sheathed boulders and slippery scree.

Although nearly a day and a night had passed since the Ross Cleveland went down, and Harry was himself rimed with frost, soaked to the skin, with his boots half-full of sea water – he was still alive, at least.

Night had fallen in Seydisfjord. Harry had climbed up a rocky cliff near the head of the fjord. At one point he found himself in difficulties; he could no longer follow the shore, and had to climb up a cliff that reached out into the sea. He made his painful way onwards, alone, swept by the icy gale – fighting a lonely battle with death:

“I had to drag myself along – my feet felt as if they were coming off – until I could go no further.”

 

The life raft where the bodies of Barry Rogers and Wally Hewitt lay was on the eastern shore of the fjord; the nearest farm, Kleifar, was more than four kilometres away, and in any case Harry Eddom had no idea it was there. The farmhouse had no exterior lighting – just the dim glow of oil-lamps in the south-facing windows. But Harry had, earlier in the day, spotted lights on the farm of Eyri, on the opposite shore of the fjord. He knew he had no hope of reaching it on his own.

The route from Lækir, where the life raft was washed ashore, to Kleifahvammur, about a kilometre along the shore of the fjord, is a difficult one, over rough territory, unless one can follow the paths. It is possible to walk along the shore-line for much of the way, but after passing Kleifahvammur a stretch of near-impassable rocks must be crossed to reach the head of the fjord.

When Harry had beached the life raft some time on Monday afternoon, he first decided to head north along the shore, then changed his mind and walked southwards, away from the mouth of the fjord.

Harry had to take action, if he was not to die where he stood. It was do or die. He had lost all hope of survival during his long hours in the life raft. Now he was on dry land, admittedly, but the chance of survival seemed slim, in what appeared to be an uninhabited fjord.

And Harry had no idea what to expect, as he began to clamber over ice-sheathed boulders and slippery scree.

Although nearly a day and a night had passed since the Ross Cleveland went down, and Harry was himself rimed with frost, soaked to the skin, with his boots half-full of sea water – he was still alive, at least.

Night had fallen in Seydisfjord. Harry had climbed up a rocky cliff near the head of the fjord. At one point he found himself in difficulties; he could no longer follow the shore, and had to climb up a cliff that reached out into the sea. He made his painful way onwards, alone, swept by the icy gale – fighting a lonely battle with death:

“I had to drag myself along – my feet felt as if they were coming off – until I could go no further.”

 

Pages 118-120

Harry Eddom could hardly move his legs. Shaking, deprived of sleep, running out of hope, he was at the end of his tether. He had had nothing to eat or drink for twenty-four hours. He was approaching a white-painted summer cabin by a brook at the head of Seydisfjord:

“I came to a sort of deserted farmhouse and tried to break in, but it was all shuttered up. I hadn’t the strength to kick the door open – my legs were frozen. I got into the lee-side cover of the house and just stood there. I couldn’t go any further because it was dark.

I knew that if I sat down and fell asleep I would just freeze. I stood up all night. I lost count of time as I stood there. But I knew I had to stay awake. Every time I felt myself dozing off I clapped my hands to restore the circulation.

I kept telling myself: ‘You’ve got to keep awake, you’ve got to keep awake.’

I just kept hoping and hoping that someone would come.”

 

Pages 126-129

Fourteen-year-old Gudmann could hardly believe the weather they had seen over the past two days:

“It was my job to take the sheep out to pasture, but that hadn’t been possible since Saturday. My brother Haraldur and I were also supposed to milk the cows, and water them and the horses. All day Sunday there had been a blizzard.“

As the sun rose, Gudmann thought that it would be possible to drive the sheep around the fjord to Kleifahvammur to pasture.

The blizzard had abated.

“After milking we went indoors and had breakfast: porridge and blood pudding. It was past ten when we went back out. We hadn’t let any of the animals out on Sunday or Monday, and had to feed them indoors both morning and evening. By the time we went to sleep on Monday evening, the weather was fine.

I went down the slope on the farm, to fetch the sheep. I had two dogs with me, old Nikulas and his son Mori. I was going to take the sheep around the head of the fjord to the other side. When I got to the head of the fjord, the sheep ran on ahead of me around Fjardarhorn. I thought the weather was fine, compared with what we’d just had – the temperature was above freezing and there was a light breeze blowing. I was thinking about my brother Olafur – it was his eighth birthday. That meant Mum would make pancakes later on.

I’d walked along the shore around the head of the fjord, and past the summer cabin, which stood on a gravel ridge just above the high-water mark. Suddenly I saw footprints. ‘Could it be one of the shipwrecked men?’ I immediately thought. ‘Did someone survive?’

The footprints were quite deep. The man had been wading calf-deep through the snow. It was clearly a grown man. But the footprints seemed closely spaced – he hadn’t been taking big steps.

The dogs started barking, and they both came running towards me. At that moment I turned around and heard someone calling out to me. I realised at once it was a foreign language that I didn’t understand.

I went towards the man who was standing by the wall of the summer cabin. It didn’t take me long to realise what had happened. He had to be a survivor from the sunken British trawler.”

 

Just about thirty-six hours had passed since the Ross Cleveland vanished into the depths of Isafjord Bay. Something incomprehensible had happened. Harry Eddom, though more dead than alive, had survived.

“When daylight came I was that frozen, I couldn’t move my legs or anything. And in the morning I saw a shepherd boy – he was only a young lad – and shouted to him. He ran over to me.”

Gudmann observed Harry, a dark, powerfully-built man below average height, wearing a duck suit and boots, like any trawlerman. Harry realised at once that the boy’s arrival had saved his life, and Gudmann too was aware of this.

Both were overcome with joy:

“The man was on his last legs. He was so pleased to see me. His face lit up. I didn’t know how long he’d been there, but his footprints were clear – the snow hadn’t drifted since he got there. When we went out to do the milking the previous evening, about nine, the weather had changed for the better. So he couldn’t have got to the house before that.

He tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t understand a word. He was exhausted, and he was stiff and unsteady on his feet. I had to hold him up. He didn’t have any gloves, but he was wearing waders, and a bluish anorak with a hood – which didn’t look waterproof to me, although I wasn’t sure.”

 

Gudmann and Harry stood by the south wall of the house. The footprints in the snow indicated that Harry had stood at a point that was sheltered from the wind – and also out of sight of the farmhouse at Kleifar. So Harry did not know that there was a farm close by, with no lights during the night. He simply awaited his fate, by a summer cabin that was rarely visited in winter. When the sun came up, Harry could have looked around the corner of the house and seen the farmhouse only one-and-a-half kilometres away. The lights he had seen when the life raft washed ashore were at Eyri, farther out along the fjord. He could never have reached there without help, as he was well aware.

“I put my arm around him and held under his right arm. He placed his left arm over my shoulders, and we made our way slowly home to Kleifar. We went down to the shore, then on to the farm. It was some distance. He tried to talk to me.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said in Icelandic.

He soon gave up, when he realised I didn’t understand. And he was quite exhausted, too.”

 

Harry felt, more clearly than before, how close to death he had come. If no-one had come along he would have died within a short time. His condition was poor:

“I was so dead beat and my feet were hurting so much I couldn’t walk. The lad had to half-carry me to his parents’ farmhouse.”

 

Pages 134-140

In Isafjord, Alan Bennett, a journalist with the Daily Express, had just arrived. He was interviewing the men who had been rescued off the Notts County, who were in the Scouts’ hostel. Suddenly an Icelandic seaman burst in, and called out:

“There’s a man from the Ross Cleveland – and he’s alive!”

Bennett could not believe his ears. He did not lose a moment, but rushed out into the snowy streets, and down to the harbour. The Svanur was coming in. An ambulance was brought up to the boat. And Alan saw powerfully-built seamen lift a man on a stretcher. He was bare-headed, wearing an anorak he had been loaned at Kleifar.

 

A deckhand from one of the other Hull trawlers was on the dock, watching. His eyes seemed to be bursting out of his head as he recognised the man on the stretcher:

“My God, that’s Harry Eddom! It’s like looking at a ghost!” exclaimed the man.

 

Thorir Hinriksson, the skipper of the Svanur, remarked that Harry Eddom had “showed more courage than I would ever have believed possible.” Harry was taken to the regional hospital in Isafjord, where he was placed in the care of Dr. Ulfur Gunnarsson, who together with the other hospital staff had looked after the captain and first mate of the Notts County the previous day. But before any treatment commenced for Harry’s injuries, it was time to ring his family with the incredible news – he was alive!

All his relatives in Hull believed he was gone.

 

The international telephone operator in Reykjavik was given Harry’s home number in Cottingham, where Rita Eddom was at home with their little daughter. Harry was sitting in a wheelchair in a corridor of the hospital. He was sluggish with exhaustion, and in pain from his frostbitten hands and feet. He sat with the receiver in his hand, waiting to be put through.

 

Strangely, there was no answer. Harry was told that no-one had answered at his home. Was Rita not in? He couldn’t wait – he simply had to tell his family himself that he was alive, before it was on the news back home.

Now Harry asked to be connected to his parents’ home. This time, the attempt was successful.

“Phone call from Iceland,” he heard on the line.

Michael Eddom, Harry’s brother, was two years his junior. He was training to be an engineer. He was at their parents’ home. Initially, Michael assumed that the call from Iceland was to inform them that his brother’s body had been found.

“Hello, Michael, it’s me,” said Harry hoarsely.

Michael, who had believed for the past twenty-four hours that his brother was dead, did not recognise the voice on the phone, and assumed this was a grim hoax.

Harry realised what was happening:

“‘If this is a joke, it’s not funny,’ Michael angrily retorted.

‘No, Michael, it’s me. Your brother, Harry!’ I said.

There was silence on the line. They he asked:

‘Where on earth are you ringing from?’

‘Michael. I’m in hospital in Isafjord. I’m all right. I’m fine,’ I said.

I realised that Michael felt as if he were talking to someone from another planet. He was speechless. I told him about the rescue, and said I hadn’t been able to get through to Rita.

‘Go over to her now, will you, and tell her about me. I’ll talk to her later,’ I said.”

The brothers said their goodbyes. Michael gave his elderly parents the incredible good news. Minnie, Harry’s mother, came on the line:

Minnie, who could hardly speak, asked tearfully: “Are you all right, son?”

Harry replied: “Yes, I’m all right, Mam. How are you?”

 

Michael decided to hurry over to give Rita the news.

When Michael stood at Rita’s door, it transpired that she had been home when the call was made. But she could not believe what she heard.

“I won’t believe it till I hear Harry myself,” she said, trembling with joy and fear and astonishment. What was happening? An hour later she still had not managed to reach Harry on the phone. Journalists were gathering at her home. Rita was impatient. She could not wait any longer to find out what had happened. When she finally made contact with Harry, he said:

“The ship turned over, and my mates went.”

When Rita heard her husband’s voice, she burst into tears. She had not dared believe he was alive, until she heard his voice herself.

The day before, when she was informed that the Ross Cleveland had gone down, Rita has said there was no God. “But I believe in him now,” she said, weeping.

She bombarded her husband with questions:

“Harry, is I really you? I can’t believe it. How are you? Where are you? Are you hurt?”

She said she had no idea why Harry had not been able to get through to her earlier that day. She had not been out of the house. The couple spoke for six minutes, and decided to speak again when he had had some rest.

 

Pages 164-165

Physiologist Dr. Griffith Pugh, director of a medical research facility in London that made studies of stamina, travelled to Iceland to meet Harry Eddom, in order to seek some indication of how he had survived. Dr. Pugh had been on expeditions in the Himalaya with Sir Edmund Hillary, and to the South Pole with Sir Edmund and Vivian Fuchs.

Harry asked Dr. Pugh to explain why he should have survived. He said: “You simply had the will to live.”

But why me, asked Harry.

“People’s will to live is just variable. You can’t explain it,” he replied.

Harry had a lot to live for, he thought to himself – a loving wife, a baby, all his family. Yet he would continue to ask himself, why me? A question he could never answer.

Dr. Pugh said in an interview with Icelandic daily Morgunbladid that there were two main factors that explained why Harry had survived:

“He was warmly dressed, in waterproof outer clothing, and he never lost hope. He kept his head.”