The Keren – Part One

By Sandy Kinghorn

I was enjoying home leave in between ships when, on 1st April 1982, Argentina invaded the Falklands. My first reaction was total disbelief, followed by dull astonishment. Of course Argentina had, in theory, coveted those wild and lonely islands for generations, using the doubtfully valid argument that since they took independence from Spain last century, all that which had been Spanish should now be theirs.

On my first trip to Buenos Aires over thirty years previously the General Post Office was decorated with a handsome mural map of Argentina, on which the ‘Malvinas’ were, of course, prominently depicted. I recall good humoured discussion over this with local persons and soon came to realise that, sure, they said, the ‘Malvinas’ should be theirs, but the Argentinian is strictly an urban person, a lover of the bright city lights, in no way a pioneer of the wide open spaces far from home as a permanent way of life. And the Falklands offer as much sophisticated ‘Nitelife’ as the average Hebridean village which Port Stanley so closely resembles. I was told by a reliable source that some time during the 1930s, London offered Argentina the Falklands lock, stock and barrel in return for a new British Embassy in Buenos Aires to be politely told, “thanks, but no thanks!”

But, like many another ruler seeing a sudden overseas conquest as a successful means of distracting his population from its own considerable homespun grievances, President Galtieri took the big step. At least, his armed forces did. They went, they saw, they conquered, and soon were chased back home, with few of their lads who did the fighting ever wishing to return. Led to believe they were liberating an Argentine population from the hated British yoke, they were astonished when, as their heavy armoured personnel carriers rumbled through Stanley’s little streets, they found a British population speaking English, smoking English cigarettes, so different from their own brands, and who looked upon these ‘muchachos de la guerra’ with a mixture of concern and pity. The Argentine officers took comfortable billets in town, posting their inexperienced rookies, stiffened by a hard core of marines battle-hardened in Argentina’s own internal struggles, to the rugged terrain swept by snow, rain and biting winds, to fend as best they could until the avenging British returned. It became not uncommon for a Falklands back door to be knocked upon of an evening and opened to find a group of tired, frightened, shivering young men from the conquering army asking, “Please can you spare us cup of tea, Missus?”

To remove this extraordinary invasion Britain mustered her forces in a remarkably efficient manner. To provide transport much of our Merchant Navy became STUFT, Ships Taken Up From Trade, one of them the Avelona Star, currently unloading Cape apples at Sheerness was swiftly transformed into a Garrison Rations Supply Ship at Portsmouth, a small helipad was erected aft while Portakabins on the bridge deck provided accommodation for the dozen or so MOD civilian staff who would see to her cargo. This now included not only the residue of the Cape apples and other refrigerated foodstuffs, but a ship-full of everything a modem army needs to survive in the field, from Mars Bars to toilet rolls.

The striking Blue Star funnel was dramatically toned down as a form of camouflage. Grey paint was intended but a sudden shortage in Portsmouth at the time led to white paint being substituted which, beneath the black funnel top and over the white superstructure and grey hull melted uncannily well into the Falklands landscape.

Captain Hugh Dyer took her down south, often blacked out and in convoy, where her normal speed was found too much for her escorts, not using radar in case echoes were picked up by the enemy, to arrive in the Falklands soon after the Argentine surrender. Hugh was already overdue for voyage leave and I was sent down as a passenger in the Norland to relieve him. Pot plants were, of course, committed to my care, and a brief appraisal of the current situation given. At the time it was felt the Argentinians may make a savage come-back, not in their previous armed might but in the form of commando raids, which would have been all too easy to carry out on that wild, indefensible coast. So we still practised blackout and kept on a semi-war footing. But as time passed and the situation in Buenos Aires became less clouded it was felt that no further attacks were imminent and life grew more relaxed. The famous Falklands Weather kept us on our toes. Ships occasionally blew ashore in blizzards but none of those keeping a proper, seamanlike watch did, and life settled down, unloading our cargo day by day as required. At first we were anchored, with many other ships, in the outer harbour of Port William into which the South Atlantic frequently rolled, adding interest to our work of transferring cargo onto the long, oblong flat barges known as mexefloats. As the ship rolled, our own crew drove the ship’s cranes while the MOD lads acted as stevedores, slithering around our snowy decks. Occasionally a Wessex helicopter would hover overhead, hoisting a load on a 60 foot strop, taking it to some urgent destination inland. In those early days, only a few weeks after hostilities ceased, there was much coming and going of helicopters. I was taken to the dentist in one, a Sea King, and another time was taken for a ride in a little Scout, over the Yomping Trail to San Carlos Water and back. Our purser Alan Greaves, of Beacon Hill fame, soon established our reputation for hospitality, which instantly paid us all kinds of dividends. The permanently stationed deep-sea tugs Irishman and Yorkshireman provided us occasionally with fresh water while we supplied them with beer.

On one auspicious occasion we were visited by an Admiral accompanied by SNOFI (Senior Naval Officer Falkland Islands, a fully fledged RN captain). Over lunch I mentioned that we had discovered that while our armed forces were now being quite well provided for, the civilian population were less fortunate. The Argentine invaders had indiscriminately slaughtered their cattle, sheep and most of the poultry, while fresh fruit had faded into memory of what seemed like long ago. The Admiral looked at SNOFI and was sure we could help here, couldn’t we? After all, the war had been fought for the civilians. So, of course we helped.

The little passenger ship St. Helena was coming to the end of her Falklands work and her captain kindly passed on to me his grey fibreglass whaler, originally the property of HMS Fife. This we overhauled and painted, white above and blue below, varnished within and carrying Blue Star mermaids on her bow badges, with the new name Starlet in Old English lettering. She was faster than our motor lifeboat and anyway the Department of Transport were growing tired (they said) of ships lifeboats being in constant use as jollyboats. So in our little Starlet, entrusted to the care of Second Officer Bruce Campbell, a New Zealander full of the required keenness, we took provisions ashore, sometimes to church but usually to the school, whence they were effectively distributed around the town. I even acted as school milkman once, trundling a barrowload of cartoned Long Life up from the Public Jetty to hand out in the schoolyard at playtime.

Thus we came to know and like the civilian population. We soon discovered there was one class in the school who were naughty. A last minute Argentine scattering of land mines, completely indiscriminately, had effectively put former playgrounds, hills and beaches, out of bounds. Live ammunition was still turning up in the oddest places, from garden sheds to hen houses, and with no television to provide home entertainment it was not surprising these children were bursting with frustrated energy. We learned they had been taken aboard one of the anchored ships one afternoon as a treat, by two schoolmasters who promptly accepted the ship’s officers’ hospitality, leaving ‘That Class’ to its own unsupervised devices. Well, of course a certain amount of mayhem broke out, heated words were spoken, and ‘That Class’ were never allowed out again, on ship visits or any of the other little functions laid on from time to time. ‘That Class’ was in disgrace! Recalling our own less than blameless boyhoods, we felt a sneaking sympathy for ‘That Class’, so issued our own invitation to them.

Two lady teachers brought them out in a naval pinnace specially laid on by SNOFI. Met at the gangway by the chief officer and purser, they were escorted to the officers’ lounge and told the captain would arrive in a minute. I, waiting in the wings in best uniform, entered on cue, whereupon the pupils rose smartly to their feet. A good start! I welcomed them aboard, explained what the Avelona Star was doing here and then they split into groups to be escorted right round the ship, from engine room to helipad, including all the storerooms. The gear stores were found fascinating, especially as our lamptrimmer had decorated his paint locker with beautiful miniatures of the funnels of all the ships which used to visit Liverpool. The circular steel discs which must by port order around the world be affixed the mooring ropes to keep off rats brought forth much merriment. Why couldn’t the rats walk up the gangway like everybody else? Good question! The MOD staff entered fully into the spirit of the visit by preparing a stall in No. 2 ‘tweendecks where each child was given a little white canvas bag containing a few apples, oranges, sweets and a Mars Bar, to their wide-eyed delight. Back then up to the lounge for lemonade, jelly and icecream in abundance before the pinnace returned to take them home. ‘That Class’ were no longer deemed naughty!

The Avelona Star made in all five Falklands voyages and occasionally visited San Carlos Water as well as Stanley, spending up to six weeks ‘on station’. Our twin sister Andalucia Star made three voyages so that there was always one of us down there.

Then, in October 1984, I was appointed to command Her Majesty’s last troopship, the Keren.

The first Keren was built for British India as the Kenya in 1930, becoming HMS Keren in 1941 after a two month spell as HMS Hydra following conversion to an infantry landing ship used for assaulting enemy-held beaches. She won battle honours at Madagascar and North Africa in 1942, Sicily in 1943 and Southern France 1944. Eventually she became Sitmar Line’s famous emigrant liner Castel Felice, well known to thousands of New Australians who sailed in her from war-torn Europe to their new homeland.

The name Keren lapsed until March 1983 when Sealink’s St. Edmund was bought by the Ministry of Defence (Army) and placed under Blue Star Management after a brief sojourn as HMS Keren in which the Royal Navy took her to sea from the Tyne, whither she soon returned to complete her refit. She proudly wore the Merchant Navy’s Red Ensign thereafter, unique in that she was an MOD owned vessel under private civilian management and operation. Blue Star won the management contract on open tender, rather to the chagrin of some of our friends in the Royal Fleet Auxiliary who deemed her “theirs by right”. But Blue Star were able to run her far more cost effectively (as today’s expression is, it means “cheaper”). But why Keren? In 1941, before the British could bring full weight to bear upon the enemy threatening Egypt and the Suez Canal, it was first necessary to clear the Italians out of Eritrea. Not only were they a thorn in the British southern flank but they were disrupting British shipping in the Red Sea out of the port of Massawa. A concerted attack from the south on the Italian held town of Keren was to be the answer, fought hard and long by both sides, a bloody conflict which resulted, after eight weeks of mountain warfare – attack and counter attack – in the victorious British entering Keren. The battle, fought largely by colonial troops with British and Italian officers respectively, was not the last of this campaign but it was decisive. The Italians never fought so determinedly again. So the Battle of Keren, 2nd February to 27th March 1941, paved the way for British victory in North Africa and ultimately for allied victory in Europe four years later.

Since becoming the second Keren (albeit MV and not HMS), the former St. Edmund made in all 27 voyages north and south between the Falklands and Ascension Island, covering over 90,000 ocean miles, carrying almost 18,000 passengers, mostly military but including many Falklands civilians and merchant navy crews. Her only break from this service was a return to the Tyne in May 1984 for a rapid refit at North Shields, a job completed well inside the allotted time. I had the honour of commanding this fine ship on her last trooping voyages.

Built at Cammell Laird’s Birkenhead in 1973-4, she was delivered for service on the night run between Harwich and the Hook of Holland on 19th January 1975. Being a night ferry she had many cabins, which made her so suitable for her work in the South Atlantic a decade later. In her North Sea life she carried thousands of civilians on the six-hour run, also many British troops on furlough from Germany. Not a few soldiers later in the Falklands recalled crossing the North Sea in the St. Edmund. As Keren she retained her Sealink topsides (a bottle green paint of amazing durability!) but changed her funnel colour to yellow with black top. She too, as the St. Edmund had been STUFT in 1982, one of the 66 vessels which included passenger liners, tugs, trawlers, tankers, repair ships, a cable vessel, general and refrigerated cargo liners, and car ferries. At this time she was still owned by Sealink, chartered by the Ministry of Defence. She carried British troops south, then, after the surrender, Argentine troops back to Argentina, including their commander General Menendez (Sealink gives you Freedom!). Returning then to the Falklands she took up a static role as a floating barracks anchored in Port Stanley with two others, Rangatira (Union Steamship of New Zealand) and the Baltic Ferry (Townsend Thoreson).

It may be worth explaining here that the little town of Stanley lies on the southern shore of Port Stanley, an East-West lying natural harbour almost five miles by half a mile wide at its broadest, only saved from being an inland lake by The Narrows which lead out of the northeast side into Port William, slightly larger though parallel and similarly shaped, which opens at its eastern end into the South Atlantic. When the car ferries took up their barracks role there were at any one time up to six large ships anchored in Port Stanley which surprised many of the inhabitants who had not realised their harbour was deep enough. Outside The Narrows in Port William were more ships in dedicated anchorages, mostly too deep of draft to enter Port Stanley where the maximum depth was 22 feet, tankers and supply vessels with an unfortunate Elder Dempster ammunition ship lying furthest east of all, rolling at anchor to the ceaseless ocean swell.

Gradually the ships left, while the three accommodation ships were replaced during 1983/4 by three ‘Coastels’, barge-like accommodation blocks moored to the shore with heavy chains connected by road ramps, all three situated at the far eastern end of Port Stanley.

When first ‘Taken up from Trade’, St. Edmund was fitted with a large helicopter deck, big enough to take Chinooks, those twin-rotored port-holed monsters which would have saved much yomping had not so many been sunk in the Atlantic Conveyor when she went down on 25th May 1982 with Captain Ian North and eleven of his men, victims of an Exocet missile.

When she first entered her post conflict trooping service with the Uganda as running mate, she would anchor in her old spot in Port Stanley and lower the stem ramp, thus enabling troops to embark and disembark by mexefloat – whose twin outboards made them so useful for such work – if not the height of comfort for passengers on a cold, wet, blustery day!

Early in 1984 another marvel came to the Falklands – the floating port.

Falklands Intermediate Port and Storage System – FIPASS – alias the Flexiport – came out in sections and was assembled west of the coastels, connected to the shore by a road bridge able to take heavy lorries. A road was built to connect these new establishments with Port Stanley and out to the Mount Pleasant airport, then under construction, thirty miles away over the hills. FIPASS came complete with roll-on, roll-off sections, warehouses, offices and machinery spaces, proving most effectively that the concept of Mulberry Harbour 1944 lives on!

When standing on its steel quayside surrounded by recently offloaded containers it was difficult to believe this whole structure was afloat, capable of being taken elsewhere when no longer needed here. Once FIPASS opened, Keren was able to go alongside, making operations much simpler. There was no pilot so one had the privilege of being allowed to handle one’s own ship into and out of port. On two occasions when the wharf was busy I berthed the Keren in a Mediterranean Moor, stem on to the quay with both anchors out and leading ahead. Ships have tied-up thus in the tideless Mediterranean since the Old Testament was written, hence its name. It made an interesting evolution in a ship Keren’s size (though with her twin screws, twin rudders and bow thruster all operated by the captain on the bridge, she would park like a mini). The first time I tried it, ‘Mediterranean Moor’ suddenly became “In Words” in Stanley society, and I was glad I had not made a hash of it, or the expression would have taken on a very different meaning.

Continued Next Month