Life at the end of the road

January 2, 2015

More packing

Filed under: daily doings — Tags: , — lifeattheendoftheroad @ 9:00 pm

Awoke this morning ‘fresh as a daisy’ some time after 6:30, never stirred out of bed until 7:00 right enough but it was good to arise headache free for the first time this year. OK, it’s only the 2nd of January but it’s a good start, that’ll be 50% clear of hangovers this year Smile Anyway, the enthusiasm arrived early this morning and I started to pack the humungous collection of books that have accompanied me through three epic moves in thirty years. Not that I’ve had much time to read such weighty tomes as ‘Jane’s Fighting Ships of WWI’, ‘Dictionary of Disasters at Sea During the Age of Steam’, ‘British Battleships of WWII’, ‘Lloyd’s Register of Shipping 1969 – 1970’ or ‘Axis Submarine Successes of WWII’ this last three decades, but come my retirement I will write a book. Not that I need to hump about several hundred kilos of paper in this age of the internet but I am quite attached to them.

Long before several clicks of a mouse could tell you what Admiral Doenitz had for breakfast on 31st September 1939 you had to read, and read a lot. Not that I was particularly interested in the eating habits of anyone, but I was obsessed with shipwrecks, especially in ones that could be found and dived around the shores of Britain in general and Scotland in particular. I have dived on dozens of shipwrecks, well over a hundred in fact and many of them were found by painstaking research in libraries and through reading. So most of my morning was spent dragging this lot off bookshelves and out of cupboards to seal them in boxes, label them and take them up to the barn.

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With a little help of course Smile

 

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The books went on a specially constructed shelf high up in the barn but I couldn’t resist putting SS Breda http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SS_Breda the sailing ship Herzogin Cecilie  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herzogin_Cecilie , a liberty ship http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liberty_ship ( I’ve dived on several) and the hospital ship SS Maine http://historicalrfa.org/archived-stories2/601-the-first-rfa-hospital-ship up on the wall.

The Maine was the very first RFA (Royal Fleet Auxiliary) and had in interesting career before ending up wrecked on the Isle of Mull.

The first RFA Hospital ship was launched as s.s. Swansea at West Hartlepool by William Gray & Co as a cargo, passenger and cattle ship in 1887 but by 1888 she had her name changed to s.s. Maine.

In October 1899 the South African War broke out and a Committee of American Ladies in London, under the presidency of Lady Randolph Churchill (the mother of Winston Churchill) organised social events to raise money for the ss Maine to be converted into a hospital ship. In November 1899 a fund raising ‘café chantant’ benefit was held at Claridges Hotel, London at which the Prince of Wales and other royalty attended. Tickets were a guinea each. (£1.05p in to-days money). Other fund raising events took place in New York including a ‘Society Tea’ which was organised by Mrs Hugo de Bathe (better known as Lilly Langtree). The funds went to the American Ladies Hospital Ship Society

The cost of the conversion was around $150,000 with over £41,000 being raised in London in under two months. The ship served during the South African War as a base hospital at Durban and in addition brought the injured from South Africa to the Royal Victoria Military Hospital at Netley on Southampton Water. During the time of this service the ship remained an American vessel with US Nurses being encouraged to sign on. The New York Times printed lists of the names of the great and the good who had donated.

Donators Medal

Donators were provided with a medal as a ‘Thank you’ for their money. The medal was in white metal but members of the Committee of the American Ladies Hospital Ship Society received their medals in silver.

The above is a White Metal example of the medal. They still sell in auction houses around the world

The Maine served on the China Station during the Boxer rebellion

On 25 June 1901 the owner of the Maine – Mr Bernard N. Baker, Chairman and owner of the Atlantic Transport Company Limited wrote to the First Lord of the Admiralty, the Earl of Selborne offering, as a free gift, their Hospital Ship Maine to the British Government.  This was accepted four days later with pleasure. This generous offer was reported to the House of Lords on the 1 July 1901 and reported at length in The Times newspaper of the following day.  The letter of acceptance from their Lords Commissioners was signed by Ewan MacGregor the same person who notified the formation of the Royal Fleet Auxiliary in 1905.

The American Hospital Ship Maine became the His Majesty’s Hospital Ship Maine which in 1905 became the R.F.A. Maine.

On 17 June 1914 while exercising with the fleet R.F.A. Maine ran aground in thick fog on the Isle of Mull off the West Coast of Scotland. Her patients and the crew were safely rescued after taking to the ships boats but she had to be abandoned. The Admiralty announced on 21 June 1914 due to the damage, the age of the vessel and to preserve the memories of the ship the new Hospital Ship Mediator, currently being fitting out, was to be completed as soon as possible and would be renamed Maine.

I have the M A N and E off her bow in my garden, I’m really pi55ed off cos I found the I on the seabed the year before and weighed it in for scrap thinking it was just a brass bar!!!

The ‘Liberty ships’ that I’ve dived on include the ‘John R Park’ in Mounts bay, which is quite bizarre as the previous owner of ‘number 3’ was called John Park! Another was named ‘James Egan Layne’ and resides in Whitesands bay Devon, amongst her cargo were plastic discs like sherbert flying saucers containing some radioactive materiel. That was in the 1970’s and it has since been removed at great expense. However when I was there in 1974 a mate lifted a couple and was somewhat surprised to see his kit bag glowing in the dark later on that evening Smile The most tragic one I visited however was the ‘William H Welch’ just east of Loch Ewe to the north of here.

The loss of the SS William H Welch

The wind was out of the northwest with whole gale force, bringing heavy
snow, and sleet. The ship had come in from The Minch and tried to enter
Loch Ewe, on the western, Rossshire coast of Scotland. She was loaded
only in ballast, high out of the water, hard to handle. When she struck
the rough granite shoulder of the island near the loch entrance, she did
not have a chance.

She was the American Liberty ship William H. Welch. It was at 4:20
A.M., February 26, 1944, that she grounded on Fura Island in Black Bay,
then instantly began to break in half. She was the vice commodore's
ship, the second in a single file column of ten vessels that formed
Convoy EN 50 bound for the Royal Navy base at Aultbea for orders.

The waves, smashing fifty feet high, cascaded over her wheelhouse
topside and flying bridge. The strain upon the hull was intolerable. She
snapped in half at 6 A.M., her longitudinals broken along the after side
of Number Three hatch. All that kept her together then were her twin
antimagnetic mine cables, and they almost instantly parted. The height
and fury of the waves made the use of both lifeboats and rafts
impossible. The men gathered on the flying bridge.

The ship's complement was seventy-four men. Captain Lee Marshall was
last seen on the bridge. He was lost with the ship, among sixty-two
others. He had done his best. She grounded with such sudden violence
that he could do no more than ring down the Full Astern order on the
bridge telegraph. That was obeyed, but the engine room was already awash
with water that came through the ripped bottom plates. Captain Marshall
fired distress flares, and those, despite the vast, twisted sheets of
snow, hail and spindrift around the ship, were observed ashore.

Charles Macdonald, the local Coast Guardsman in charge of the rocket
apparatus, was sent to the site to make a line-throwing attempt. But
the island where the ship had grounded was a quarter of a mile offshore;
the distance was too much for his line to carry, 

White-crested, black and evil waves surged over her, each tearing away
a few more of the men who clung to her bridge rail. Macdonald and his
companions left the rocket gear and went down the cliffside to the
shingle beach. They waded out shoulder-deep into the surf and began
hauling in the men who were pitched asprawl, pitifully inert toward the
shore.


The only surviving officer was George L. Smokovich, the second assistant
engineer. He reported in a sworn statement the details of the disaster
within his knowledge. He said: "At the time we struck bottom, I was in
the galley; I had just come off watch. I recall that 4:02 A.M., before I
had come up on deck, I had received orders from the bridge for Full
Ahead; however, others bells were being given while I was in the galley.
I believe we were making Half Speed at the time we hit. I heard a loud
noise and the ship suddenly stopped and began quivering. I could hear
the telegraph ring Full Astern immediately after the impact, "I stayed
in the galley until the General Alarm bell rang, which was about two
minutes later. An oiler came up and informed me that the engine room was
filling rapidly; when I came out on deck I noticed that our ship had a
heavy port list and was down by the stern. It was snowing and hailing
and the visibility was very poor. I went to my boat station, which was
#4; because of the rough seas, it was impossible to launch any of our
boats or any of the square rafts.

"At 6 A.M. the vessel broke in two across the after end of #3 hatch; the
two halves were held together by two torpedo cables. The decks were
awash continuously both fore and aft. At daylight rescues were attempted
by a British escort tug; however, these were unsuccessful. This tug had
fired three lines toward us for the purpose of making a breeches buoy
but all three attempts were unsuccessful The water came higher and
higher over the ship as the vessel settled. At 10:45 A.M. all the crew
were on the flying bridge. At 11:15 A.M. two large waves came over the
bridge, smashing the wheelhouse and casting the crew into the water. All
the men were wearing life preservers.

"I was washed ashore on a high cliff. I swam out again expecting to be
picked up but the oncoming seas were so heavy that I was washed back on
the cliffs. I was covered with fuel oil and this fuel oil probably saved
my life. Two old women came down the steep rocky cliff and carried me to
their home four miles away. An ambulance took me to Gairloch Hospital
which was seven miles from the accident."

The women who saved Smokovich were some of the very poor crofter folk
who lived out on the open, exposed moor. But word of the disaster had
been brought to them from Cove, a hamlet of a couple of crofters'
cottages at the road's end from Loch Ewe. All of the local people,
although isolated in one of the most remote regions of the western
Highlands, were extremely aware of the hazards of war.

The young men of the district, fishermen by trade, were away, serving in
the Royal Navy. The majority of the older men worked at the Royal Navy
base at Aultbea. That had been since 1942 the assembly point for the
North Russia convoys, and to it, bringing the dead, the wounded and
the survivors from vessels lost in the Arctic battles came the re-
turning convoys.

The effort to save the crew of the William H. Welch was very determined
and thorough. There were a few of the older men at home in the vicinity
of Cove when the ship grounded. They went at once to the beach and began
rescue work. Among them were John Duncan and Kenneth MacLean,
brothers, and John Mackenzie, Roderick MacDonald, and Donald Urquhart.
Their women went with them, some wearing men's seaboots, others heavy
brogans.

The pair of elderly women who saved Smokovich climbed down the cliffside
with the wind battering and howling. They carried shawls which held
flasks of hot tea and their proudest possessions, their sheer white,
very soft blankets, hand-made of Highland wool. The spindrift on the
shingle leaped head-high as they went along the shore to Smokovich.

He was naked, his lifejacket, his clothing, his shoes stripped from him
by the action of the waves he had fought for half an hour. His right arm
was fractured, and he had been thrown repeatedly against the granite
pinnacles of the cliff. He was an exceptionally strong man, but now the
ultimate degrees of his endurance were almost exhausted.

The women drew him back, beyond the terrible rush of the breakers. They
first opened his mouth wide and pulled out the gob of congealed fuel
oil, baseball size, that would soon choke him to death. They cleansed
his nostrils, his eyes, and his ears. Then they wrapped him closely in
the blankets and gave him tea to drink.

He stirred, said a few words. But he was past helping himself. He lapsed
into coma. The women picked him up, tight in the blankets, a clumsy and
difficult weight for the climb up the narrow way along the cliff.
Between them, in the snow, the sleet, the wind banging at them, their
brogans thick with encrusted fuel oil, they hauled the big man to the
top.

They crossed the moor through the bogs and fens, the snow gathering fast
on the heather. Then, inside their cottage, they let him sag to the
floor. One of them had strength left to put peats on the fire and prod
it into flame. Tea was heated and given to Smokovich. The women were
fully resolved that he would live.
Benjamin G. Forbes, the area supervisor for Y.M.C.A. canteens, was
stationed at Poolewe, some few miles from Loch Ewe, at the time of the
disaster. He was informed of it very early in the morning of February 26
by Captain Edmond L. B. Lockyer, D.S.O., R.N., the officer in command of
the Aultbea base. Mr. Forbes decided at once that he should get as close
as possible to the scene of the wreck with canteen supplies for the
survivors and rescue workers.

But the velocity of the gale was much too severe for him to use one of
his mobile units. It would, he knew, be knocked down, tea urn, buns and
all, by the storm. He took instead his own small, private car. He loaded
it with everything that it would hold, brought along an assistant, Miss
Eleanor Tennant, and started out for Black Bay, where the ship lay
broken.

There was only a winding, rutted track across the moors to Black Bay. It
was practically impassable. Mr. Forbes recalled of that day:

"Time and again we stuck in bogs. But we ultimately reached the top of
the cliff overlooking the sea.

"Through the blinding snow and sleet we could dimly see half of a ship
sticking out of the water. Several of the crew could be seen clinging to
the rails, and every few minutes a huge wave would engulf the wreck.
Each time this happened, several men could be seen struggling in the
water, ten or twenty yards from the ship.

It being impossible to regain the deck, the men had no option but to go
with the wind and waves, toward the shore. Many failed to make it.

"No small boat would have lived in such a sea, and the local lifeboat
dare not put out. One after the other, the remaining men lost their grip
on the ship's sides until finally all had disappeared into the sea."The
crofters led us to a break in the cliffs where therewas a tiny beach of
shingle. It was heart-rending to see manyof the members of the crew
being washed westwards, away from the beach, and dashed onto the cliff,
to be smashed to death by the huge breakers.

"The crofters lit fires to guide the men and to heat the pots of tea
which the women had brought in their shawls,Further helpers from the
naval base at Aultbea arrived withstretchers and first aid equipment, as
also did the members of the Highland Field Craft Training Center under
their O.C., Lord Rowallan."

Lord Rowallan's headquarters were at Poolewe. He took a very active part
in the rescue operations and detailed a number of his men to the work.
His unit of the British Army was organized for the training of officer
candidates who, if they accomplished the rigorous demands of the course,
were commissioned and assigned to Commando duty. Lord Rowallan was a
sturdy veteran who said of his indoctrination of the young potential
officers:

"We were known as the 'Drying Room' of the Army and our job was to help
them to grow up and develop their initiative, responsibility and
resources."

They received an extreme test of these qualities at Black Bay. One of
the officer candidates was W. F. Pullar. His company was stationed at
Turnaig, on the eastern shore of Loch Ewe. He described the
circumstances of the rescue work in which he and his comrades
participated:

"We did rough Army training in the hills of western Rossshire ten days
at a stretch, with one day off. But after five days, if we could get
back to our base, we were free in the early afternoon. This was the case
on the Saturday afternoon. Some of my colleagues and I had arrived home
earlier than the rest of the company and had the benefit of an early
shower and were dressed and intended making for Poolewe, three miles
off, to have an evening 'out' away from the camp.

"The time must just have been about three in the afternoon. There was
swirling snow falling and a leaden sky when a sergeant burst into our
hut and said that a ship had gone aground. About 20-25 of us were
bundled into a waiting lorry and we were off over the snowy Highland
roads, down through Poolewe and along the west side of Loch Ewe until
the road petered out at Cove.

"We were then led by a local crofter in the gathering darkness and
increasing snow over the hilly moorland to the scene of the disaster. We
saw the ship in two parts about half a mile apart outside the mouth of
Loch Ewe about two miles from Cove.

"Wreckage and oil littered the rocky shore and the few bodies--alive and
dead--were laid out. Silently and quickly, a groaning, oil-covered
seaman who rambled aloud at times was strapped to a stretcher and six of
us were detailed to start the long, very rough way back to Cove---four
carrying, two in reserve, changing every ten minutes or so.

"Darkness had fallen by this time, about 5:30. It was a long, exhausting
time---once the stretcher fell out of control because of the extremely
difficult country and the very slippery snow. This journey was a
nightmare with a delirious seaman to carry,"

During the last quarter mile he was ominously quiet, and when at last
about 9:30 P.M. we reached the road-head and ambulances at Cove, the
waiting doctor confirmed that the seaman had died. The six members of
our stretcher party were exhausted, but in the lorry on the way back to
camp we were told that some members of our sister company who were out
on an exercise along the shore of Black Bay had come across the first
victims and raised the alarm somewhere around noon." 

The other officer candidates were equipped with ropes and field rations.
They were, Lord Rowallan said, ready to meet any emergency during their
exercises. He described a rescue they made: 

"There was a pinnacle rock separated from the shore by a gap of ten to
twenty yards, in which the waves and the tide were carrying driftwood
and every type of flotsam. They came to a point opposite this rock and
on it saw a Negro who was barely able to raise his arm to call their
attention, 

"They set about rescue operations at once. One of them managed to get
across the gap and climb up to the top of the pinnacle where the Negro
was lying and found that there was a steep slope on the other side of
the rock.

"He was brought back safely to shore where a fire was made and some tea
brewed for him. They made an improvised stretcher and were carrying
him across the moor. They had got about half way to Aultbea when a Navy
team came out and took charge of him." 

Back at the small stretch of shingle beach, more of the young Army men
worked at great risk to themselves. Two in particular went into the wild
roil of the breakers and dragged forth bodies that might nor might not
still contain life. The breakers came crashing down on the beach with
incalculable force, and the undertow was enormous and instantaneous in
its effect. The men from the William H. Welch, their orange lifejackets
black-slathered with fuel oil, their faces masked with the stuff, their
eyes clotted with it, were almost powerless to help themselves, and
already, out in the surf, had their senses knocked from them.

The rescuers worked with desperate haste because in the approaching
darkness it would be impossible to distinguish the bodies that briefly,
partially emerged from the surf. The lithe Army men and the gray-haired,
heavy-shouldered crofters, joined now by naval ratings from the base
at Aultbea, dragged the people out of the surf and across the shingle to
the fires that had been built. The beach was a shambles of smashed hatch
boards, dunnage and indiscriminate flotsam.

The crofter women tended the fires, heated the tea, and wrapped the
bodies in the blankets. Mr. Forbes described the scene. He said, "Every
body recovered, alive or dead, was laid on a stretcher and wrapped in
blankets. Hour after hour the work went on, and it was well into the
afternoon until we finally left the scene, ail hope of finding more men
alive having been abandoned."

But the crofter folk persisted. They clambered along the cliffs in the
darkness, and they found more survivors. John M. Schoen, a
fireman-watertender from the ship, was picked up from where he had been
wedged unconscious between towering rocks. The crofter men fashioned a
stretcher from driftwood, and started over the moors with him to
Gairloch Hospital.

Anthony F. Kirkowski, an able-bodied sailor, lay in coma where the waves
had pitched him, high up among the rocks, snow a white crest on his
unmoving body. Crofter men and Royal Navy ratings carried him on an
improvised stretcher to Gairloch.

The ship's bosun was a powerfully built man named Edward C. Post. He had
lost nearly all of his clothing in his struggle to survive the sea. He
hunkered in the lee of rocks, out of the wind as far as he could crawl,
semiconscious and already suffering severely from exposure. He was taken
to Gairloch along the same moorland route where a flashlight was little
good in the thickly driven snow.

Elmer F. Geppert, the deck engineer, was able to swim ashore with two of
the Navy gunners from the Armed Guard complement. They began to walk to
the nearest crofter cottage, white-washed and dimly visible to them once
they had gained the top of the cliff. But Geppert collapsed on the way.
The Navy gunners lifted him up and carried him to the cottage.

The local Coast Guardsman, Charles Macdonald, had worked all day at
rescue on the beach and in the surf. Now,with nightfall coming, he asked
the officer in charge of an Army detachment to make a search of the
hillside back from the cliffs. A survivor was found, the faltering,
bloody and oil-marked footsteps followed in the snow. He had taken
refuge in the heather, lay comatose there. Macdonald said, "The lad was
nearly done. But he came round. Wasn't I pleased."

The lighthouse-keepers searched the cliffs and the moors also, and
discovered two more survivors who had wandered into the heather. Alfred
MacLennan, the district bus driver and a husky man, had brought his bus
to Cove to pick up survivors. But while he waited he served whiskey from
his pocket flask to those who lay on stretchers on the beach.Then he
took a man on his back and carried the survivor over the moor track to
Cove. He returned and got another,and that man was conscious and warm
with whiskey, and hooted as MacLennan lifted him into the carrying
position, "Here's the fella that's got the double Scotch?

Mrs. John MacKenzie baked bread with all of her available, strictly
rationed flour at her cottage in Cove. She put the tea kettle on the hob
and invited in the cold, hungry and exhausted rescue workers. The two
young women who as members of the Women's Royal Naval Service served
as ambulance drivers drove back and forth from Cove to Gairloch with
survivors. The road was treacherous, single track, and the mixture of
snow and sleet on the windshields dangerously reduced visibility.

But they kept at their driving throughout the night. They did not wear
their handsome, shovel-brimmed hats and brass- buttoned, skirted blue
uniforms. Those had been changed for pants, seaboots, sweaters and
balaclava hoods, the sweaters topped by the long, fleece-lined leather
jerkins worn by Royal Navy seamen aboard ship. When they were between
trips in Cove, they enjoyed Mrs. MacKenzie's hospitality, stood close to
the fire and got warm.

Miss Edith Belle Manwaring, in charge of operations in Scotland for the
American-founded United Seamen's Service, was informed through Royal
Navy channels of the disaster. She was told there were survivors of an
American merchant ship at Gairloch Hospital, and that she should come
and evacuate them. Her query about the men's needs was simply answered.
"Tell the lady if she can imagine us naked as the day we were born
she'll know what to bring."

Miss Manwaring's headquarters were in Glasgow. Loch Ewe and Gairloch
Hospital were 250 miles north. She collected five cases of clothing
for the survivors, then took the train for Inverness. She reached
Gairloch Hospital by truck, across 100 miles of snowy, mountainous
roads. Surgeon Commander Arthur Long, R.N., the Medical Officer,
greeted her. She said in her report:

"I found our survivors recovering from shock and although their arms and
legs were not yet in good condition, the C.O. felt they could join me
the following day and go to Glasgow. The men, most of whom were very
young, were as excited as kids over their new clothes. They hobbled
about the ward exclaiming over them and exhibiting them to the other
patients who seemed very much interested in the whole procedure. When
they found they would be permitted to leave the next day, they refused
the offer of financial assistance, but asked if they could share their
cigarettes and candy with the few British patients in the ward."

Then she spoke about the crofter folk, and their intense poverty,
completely forgotten during the time of disaster. She mentioned the
crofter women's fine, really irreplaceable blankets, and gave their
answer to her question. "What," they said, "is a blanket more or less
when a man is dying?" 

The crofters, men and women, walked the snowy track in the bitter
weather, made daily visits to see the survivors. Beneath their shawls,
the women had a handful of eggs, or a tiny jar of precious jam for "the
Americans." 

Before the survivors left for Glasgow, the women arrived with a final
gift. It was small bunches of flowers, bluebells, the famous bluebells
of Scotland.
From http://www.armed-guard.com/ag88.html
Her wrecked steel lifeboats can still bee seen on the shore
Wrecked lifeboats from the William H Welch (C) Roger McLachlan

Well worth a visit if you find yourself in the Poolewe area, it’s just a couple of miles along the shore from the Cove Point Gun Battery, another place I dived in a previous life Smile

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As well has taking all that stuff up I used Phoebe to hump a load of feed and bedding up for the hens, she really is a very useful car Smile

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10 Comments »

  1. Well, I blob dived to the Breda but the current got too strong and then we lost the prop off our Zodiac. That was when I was in the RN. Hey, ho but at least none of our Sat divers mistook any of Edinburgh’s gold bars for the letter I, when I was in the oil industry 😏

    Comment by Panomphaean — January 2, 2015 @ 9:12 pm

    • Well, That was when I was in the RN. Hey, ho but at least none of our Sat divers mistook any of Edinburgh’s gold bars for the letter I, when I was in the oil industry 😏

      My Mate Dave Hardy was on that job for the 2wws

      Comment by lifeattheendoftheroad — January 2, 2015 @ 10:24 pm

  2. Happy New Year to you and the family. May you be as happy in the new house as you were in the old

    Comment by eileen1929 — January 2, 2015 @ 9:40 pm

    • Thanks Eileen.

      Comment by lifeattheendoftheroad — January 2, 2015 @ 11:56 pm

  3. That last epic tale is deeply moving mate.

    Happy 2015 to you all.

    Comment by Lloyd — January 2, 2015 @ 10:50 pm

    • Yes Lloyd, they spat out some 2700 of those in WWII, so many that they ran out of names, hence the obscure ones, usually of dead US mercantile marine sailors. Often sailing with only one anchor and very little paint they saved our ar5e in WWII (and we only just finished paying for them in 2006) it’s a heroic tale indeed and brought a tear to my eye.

      Comment by lifeattheendoftheroad — January 2, 2015 @ 11:56 pm

  4. What an amazing story. And these were probably the crofter descendants of those displaced in the Clearances – highland hospitality and kindness never fails.
    Sue

    Comment by Sue — January 3, 2015 @ 9:53 am

    • Yes Sue, I find it hard to read without shedding a tear and I’ve read it many times over the years.

      Comment by lifeattheendoftheroad — January 5, 2015 @ 6:29 am

  5. Alfred and his bus were doing the Achnasheen to Laide via Gairloch run in the 1960s.

    Comment by SOTW — January 3, 2015 @ 10:27 am

    • Aye, it’s an epic tale of heroism She.

      Comment by lifeattheendoftheroad — January 5, 2015 @ 6:28 am


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