My Last Night On The Atlantic

My Last Night On The Atlantic.

This story contains the violence of the sea and the weather against people.

“Sorry, mate, I’ve got to lock the door, you being what you are,” said the red‑faced sailor.

“Okay,” I answered in my schoolboy English, but he had already gone.

The air in this tiny cabin smells damp and stale, but I’m safe in the comparative warmth of a Royal Navy ship. They’ve given me dry clothes and a mug of hot chocolate. With time on my hands, I write my story into what will become my journal.

The date is 30 September 1939. It feels impossible that only a few years ago I enjoyed peaceful days and the comfort of my parents’ home in Berlin. Then Adolf Hitler came to power, and my world changed. At first, it was little things: the boycott of Jewish shops, the ban on using public parks.

In 1935, the Nuremberg Laws confirmed that Jews were no longer German citizens. Many left Germany, but my parents could not believe what was happening. Somehow, they eked out an existence in a country that treated us worse than stray dogs. On the night of 9 November 1938, fire destroyed our shop and home. I remember the fire brigade directing their hoses at non-Jewish properties to stop the flames spreading.

With the help of friends, we travelled to England, where we lived with my uncle. When Germany invaded Czechoslovakia, my father understood Hitler might not stop there. He decided we should travel to America.

Britain was at war when, in September 1939, under cover of darkness, we sailed from Liverpool to New York. I remember it vividly. On our third day out, our captain, a man who never smiled, informed us we were in safe waters. Air attacks were improbable, and German U-boats preferred easier targets closer to home. Loneliness filled my mind as I watched our destroyer escorts, plumes of black smoke streaming from their funnels, complete a wide sweeping turn. With waves engulfing their decks and masts swaying, they vanished over the horizon.

That night, the Atlantic grew vast as our ship, SS Boston, heaved, pitched and rolled in a confused sea. The weather deteriorated, increasing to gale force by morning.

On deck, the wind and rain stung our faces. In time, everyone breathed a sigh of relief; a few even smiled. An attack in such stormy seas seemed doubtful. The ship’s sharp bow struck the Atlantic rollers head‑on, rose, then tumbled into the troughs. As if alive, she shuddered from stem to stern.

I lay on my bunk reading an old comic book when I felt the thump. Thinking it was the heavy sea smashing the hull, I paid little attention. I glanced out of the porthole at the heaving water. Moments later, alarm bells clattered, filling the ship with a deafening din. Unhappy at leaving my warm bunk, I dropped to the floor. My first thought was another drill; our captain insisted on practising emergency stations twice a day.

I put my dressing gown over my pyjamas, slid into my shoes, fastened my life jacket and made my way to the main restaurant. Passengers milled around like a flock without a shepherd. Most were half‑asleep. I searched for my parents. They were nowhere to be seen, and fear tightened inside me.

An officer in black oilskins barked, “We have been torpedoed. Make your way to the upper deck. Do not return to your cabins.”

He guided us to the boat deck. Frozen and exposed, the driving rain and chill wind cut through us. Young children clung to their parents, shivering in their nightclothes. They were terrified.

At that moment, I realised we might sink. Hatch covers blown out by the blast formed jagged steel sculptures. Debris littered the decks. The front mast lay over the ship’s side, its splintered remains held by wires. My parents couldn’t speak a word of English, and panic drove me to search for them.

Since the alarm sounded, the ship’s movement changed. Without power, the vessel was helpless. At first, she rolled gently, but soon the motion became vicious. The crew lowered the lifeboats. From below came a mighty rumble that shook the full length of the ship. Then she rolled and remained listing to port, her windward side low in the water. Huge waves crashed across the decks, sweeping everything away.

I found my father and mother in a corridor outside the officers’ mess, slumped on the canted deck. I begged them to come with me, but Father, stubborn as ever, cut me short. He said it was best to wait until a boat was ready. Here, he said, they were out of the wind. They looked exhausted, as if the years had finally caught up with them.

I left them and searched for an officer. On that wet, windblown deck, the crew placed women and children in the few remaining serviceable boats, then the elderly.

Disaster struck as the boats hit the wild seas. Each capsized, casting its occupants into the water. Husbands leapt from the ship, screaming into the icy darkness to save their wives and children. Monstrous waves grabbed these frail beings and smashed them against the ship’s side. Why, I’ll never know, but they appeared to hang like broken dolls until the next wave washed their remains away.

The ship floundered, rolled in the heavy seas, and waves of enormous height washed over the bow in a flurry of foam. The angle changed; her bow remained underwater, her stern rose into the air. Bow first, she slid into the depths. In her death throes, air pressure inside the hull blasted doors free of their hinges. Those standing near died instantly. One such explosion hurled me across the deck and into the sea.

It seems strange now, but in the midst of that nightmare, I remember the sight of white‑crested waves dotted with little white lights. Survivors’ lifejackets glowed faintly as they rose and fell. At first, people shouted, clinging to floating debris. The screams faded. Now I know they were postponing their demise. The wintry sea and relentless wind acted like the Grim Reaper’s razor-sharp scythe.

I found an upturned lifeboat and dragged myself onto it. Exhausted, I clung on as each passing wave drenched me and tried to dislodge my frozen body. Every time I opened my mouth to cry for help, it filled with seawater.

Dawn came, a shaft of sunlight filtering through the clouds. The bitter wind continued, freezing and relentless. I opened my salt‑crusted eyes and scanned the wave‑capped surface. There was nothing but corpses clinging to wreckage.

Time passed into oblivion. I remember someone shouting, “This one’s alive,” and my mumbling, Danke. Five of us survived.

Until our return to England, as a German, I am restricted to the confines of a small cabin. But from this moment on, I have decided my destiny: I will enlist in the British Army and fight.

I hope my mother and father died holding each other. Being together would have been what they wanted. The agony of losing them will haunt me forever.

Tomorrow we arrive in Falmouth, and my new life will begin.

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