So far I can recall after all these years, the “Maloja” to which I had just been appointed as a “super” second officer, left Tilbury some time after noon on Saturday February 26th 1916 and anchored at the mouth of the Thames for the night. At that time ships were not permitted to pass through the Straits of Dover after dark.
While at anchor the commander Captain C. E. Irving R.N.R. held “fire and boat stations”, directed passengers to their boats and instructed them in the donning of lifebelts. Besides these elementary precautions all boats were lowered to the hurricane deck rail until such times as we should reach Port Said, which at the time was considered outside the danger area. As it turned out these precautions were invaluable.
About 8 a.m. we received permission to proceed and accordingly weighed anchor. A recent south-westerly gale had left something of a sea running in which the minesweepers had been out all night and had not really completed the job. The authorities however were impatient to pass shipping through and gave us orders to proceed. As we passed Dover the sweepers were still at work.
Having had breakfast I returned to my cabin and began a letter to my father, which in the normal course would have gone off with the pilot. Suddenly there was a loud explosion, which came from aft and gave me the impression that a bomb from an aircraft had exploded on board. From the officer’s deck, outside my cabin I glanced along the starboard side of the boat deck and upwards at masts and funnels to give me an indication of whether we or some other vessel had been damaged. All top hamper was intact. We had in fact been mined. At the time we were between Dover and Folkestone.
As I stood there I heard a “ripple” in the ships plating approaching from aft. It moved towards the point where I was standing on the officer’s deck and, increasing in intensity passed under my feet, shaking the deck on which I stood and moving forward to be lost in the fore part of the ship. I still hesitated – until the ship began to list, quite unmistakably, over to starboard, whereupon I immediately made for my boat (No.3, the second large boat from forward, not counting a small “accident” boat).
Realising that I had not got my lifebelt I hurried back for it but by the time I reached the cabin I could hardly enter owing to the severe list. However, I managed it and was compelled to force my way past other members of the crew on duty nearby who were also making for their lifebelts stored on the officer’s deck. When I regained my boat passengers and crew were already climbing into it and in a very short time we had the boat holding the maximum number of people for safety while still in the falls.
As I was about to cast off the lashings to allow the boat to swing out the other “super” second officer made a jump for it and managed to scramble into the forward end. His boat was No.4 on the port side and out of action due to the heavy list to starboard. I felt I had someone I could trust and asked him to unhook the forward fall as soon as I touched the water. Besides there being something of a sea running, the vessel was moving astern at about 4 knots, because Captain Irving had put the engines to “full astern” immediately after the explosion. When he had tried to stop the engines he had been unable to obtain a reply on the telegraph and a quartermaster had been sent to the engine room but it was found to be half-full of water.
In the boat we were fortunate to clear both our hooks simultaneously, not having automatic release gear, as soon as we touched the water the first time before the swell passed aft. Directly I had time to look round about me I found we hade a mixed company of women, children, passengers and crew – these mostly Lascars and Pathans (firemen). Directly we touched the water and were free of the ship the towering hull surged aft so that the bows were above us with the keel already showing as far aft as the bridge deck; she was almost on her side. The first task was to get away from the ship by means of oars and rudder and pull off before she shed some of her top hamper on us.
While our boats was still in the falls we could hear the roar and rattle of all that was moveable or capable of breaking away inside the ship as it slid starboard. The boat abaft us (No.5) had carried away at the forward fall throwing everyone into the sea. A few occupants had hung on to the after fall until they had become immersed and it was our job to pick them up. In order to make room for them we had to put our equipment over the side except for a few oars. The crew, both Lascar and Pathan, put these to excellent use in carrying out my order to keep the boat’s head to the south-westerly swell running up Channel. They must have grown heartily fed up with what appeared to be a succession of repeated contradictory orders. “Tanno jumma, las dawa!” (Pull starboard, back port!) and within seconds the reverse, and so on until at length we were picked up by a minesweeper.
But before this we took the survivors off another sinking boat, which caused our gunwale to float only an inch above the surface. It was then more essential than ever to keep the boats head to the swell. Every conceivable space was occupied and it was a miracle that the Lascars and Pathans were able to make any effort at all to carry out my wishes. Some of those we rescued from the other boat had sore heads and backs as a result of the efforts made by others to pull.
It was a wonderful effort, which served to keep us afloat. Without it the boat would have foundered and many would surely have been lost. The irony of the whole episode was that the ship had been lost through striking one of our own mines, which had been seen from the bridge and as effort made to avoid it. Tragically however it was drawn in by our starboard propeller. The officer in charge of minesweepers had warned the authorities that the Channel was not yet safe but he was overruled. A vessel astern of us the “Empress of Fort William” of Montreal, bound from South Shields to Dunkirk with coal, stopped to put out boats for our rescue. She too however was caught by a mine and sank 30 minutes later. In her case all hands were saved but I understand she already had her boats in the water and there were no passengers on board.
With many other survivors from both ships we reached the Lord Warden Hotel Dover about 12.30 p.m. Here several were accommodated for the night and at other hotels in Dover, and also aboard the hospital ship “St. David’s” lying in the harbour. At about 5 p.m. Captain Irving asked if any officer wished to go to London that night as they were sending our native crew survivors up to the Asiatic Seamen’s Home and they required someone to take charge of them as far as Victoria, the dock staff to take them on from there.
Living in Wimbledon at that time I was only to pleased to have the opportunity of getting home. We travelled up by the ordinary night train which owing to war was not heated. Accordingly we were given blankets. I reached home at 11.30 p.m. much to the surprise of my family who had been unable to understand my telegram from Dover: “All well in Dover”. As I had joined the ship only 24 hours before she sailed I had not had the time to give my discharge book to the purser, I had this with me together with my certificate and other important papers. These I still have intact, except the certificate, for I afterwards obtained my master’s. The certificate was a mate’s, which I had gained three day’s previously.
I have also kept the rough piece of paper on which I made a note of how many native crew were travelling up to Victoria with me that night; 65 Lascars, 3 firemen, 48 Portuguese (Goanese) catering staff - 116 in all. I suppose the balance of the native crew were accommodated in Dover for the night for there must have been many more firemen saved.
The additional mast apart, the chief differences between the “Medina” and “Maloja” may be seen in the reproduced illustrations. As I have previously pointed out in correspondence the “Maloja” was a typical Harland and Wolff product.
By Ralph Harris.