The Baltic Valiant

by Ken Williams

Founded in 1919, the United Baltic Corporation Limited (UBC) was for many years the only British-based company operating regular sailings from the British mainland to Poland and the Baltic states of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. After the Second World War the company slowly re-established and extended its trade links in the war-torn eastern Baltic, much of which was controlled by the Soviet Union. By the mid- 1960s, the UBC fleet reached a zenith of 15 vessels, all of which were on a direct scheduled service between the UK, Gdynia, Riga, Leningrad (now St .Petersburg) plus ports along the south and west Finnish coast.

In early 1976, I rejoined UBC in the hope of another spell on the Finnish run, but instead I was offered the second engineer’s job on the Baltic Valiant that was then deployed on the Hull to Leningrad service. The 2,125grt Baltic Valiant was built at Rendsburg, Germany in 1970 as a ro-ro/general cargo ship which was specifically designed for the carriage of paper and other forest products. For this trade, she was fitted with a stern ramp and three cargo cranes, two of which were capable of lifting a load of up to ten tonnes. Her hull was strengthened to meet the requirements of the Lloyd’s ice class 1 standard. A nine-cylinder MAN diesel engine with an output of 3,020 kW gave the ship a speed of around 15 knots.

On a miserable February morning in 1976, I joined the Baltic Valiant berthed in the Alexandra Dock at Hull. My first call was to introduce myself to the chief engineer, Joe Symes, who had been with UBC for many years and longed to be back on the Finnish run as his wife and children lived in Finland. He, like many of the other long-serving company men, had married a Finnish woman or had regular girlfriends there. Afterwards, I met the rest of the engineers at smoko. The third engineer was Bill Kay, nicknamed ‘Thatch’ on account of his beard. He was a wellknown character in the company who had a penchant for gambling in casinos dressed in the right attire, and especially for having a pair of gin bottles each fitted with an optic measure mounted on his writing desk. On entry to his cabin it was not unusual to be greeted with the words, “Do you want a ginny?”

The engine-room staff consisted of a chief engineer, three watch-keeping engineers, an electrician and two donkeymen on day work. This manning level, together with the number of days spent in port, was more than adequate to enable all the machinery to be maintained in prime condition. The engine-room was designed to be unmanned in port. Any malfunction alarm sounded in the engineers’ accommodation. Since much of the plant was automated, it did not take too long to prepare the machinery for standby, and once the main engine was transferred to bridge control, the job was pretty straightforward. Apart from topping up the cylinder oil lubricators and taking soundings of the lube oil drain tank very little manual control was required on the main engine. In fact, more time was spent attending to the auxiliary machinery and on other routine watchkeeping duties.

The voyage from Hull, via the Kiel Canal to Leningrad, was normally around three and a half days, but delays occurred when pack-ice was encountered in the Gulf of Finland. A Soviet icebreaker came out when sufficient ships became icebound, to clear a passage for a convoy of ships to follow into Leningrad. Once safely alongside, the immigration and customs officers immediately came aboard. No matter what time of day or night the ship arrived the immigration officials wanted to see everyone in the dining saloon. Each crew member stood before the officials to verify that he matched the photograph and details in his discharge book. A stamp was later put in the back of the discharge book recording the date of entry and of leaving the USSR.

The ship was permanently guarded on the quayside by two soldiers armed with pistols standing at the bottom of the accommodation ladder. These were supplemented by soldiers each with an automatic weapon stationed fore and aft of the vessel. To go ashore, your discharge book was surrendered to the soldier on the quayside who returned a green laminated card, printed in Russian and English, to say that you were a visitor to the country. This green permit had to be shown at the dock gate. On return to the ship it was exchanged for the discharge book stored in a wooden box at the foot of the accommodation ladder. Furthermore, the permit was only valid until midnight and would be withheld in the event of any late return to the ship for the duration of the stay. The Russians did not seem to have a consistent work schedule and could turn up at any time to work cargo. In one instance, the stevedores came on board late on Christmas night to discharge cargo. This erratic work pattern meant the turnaround time in port varied from four to thirteen days, with the average being five days.

The outward bound cargo was mainly machinery, ranging from a large steam turbine to numerous individual machine tools. It was presumed on board that the Russians only purchased these items in order to gain an insight into western production technology. In return for these sophisticated goods, the holds were loaded with primary products such as aluminium ingots, sheets of plywood and, at times, such oddities as camel hides unloaded from nearby railway wagons arriving from Soviet Central Asia. There was a regular tram and bus service from the dock gate to the city centre and entrance to the clean and efficient metro system was two kopeks (under two pence). Conversely, the fleet of Lada taxis in service was infrequent and in so much demand that getting back to the ship at night could take some time.

In the city there were two large hotels which had bars where only western currencies were accepted. They were mainly frequented by short-stay Finnish tourists attracted by the low alcohol prices. Drunkenness on the streets was not tolerated. I can recall crossing the Nevsky Prospekt late one night in a merry state and being arrested by an awaiting policeman on the other side of the road. Before he could throw me into the back of a van with other drunks, the mate quickly stepped in and showed him our shore passes. This was enough for the policeman to eventually release his tight grip on my collar and let me go. I later learnt that the police rounded up the drunks for humanitarian reasons. Not to do so would mean many of them perishing through hypothermia if they collapsed and slept on the streets. Even in late March, the night temperatures could easily plummet to below minus 22℃.

Despite the consistently cold temperatures, on one trip the old radio officer, for some unknown reason, joined a group of Russians for their traditional new year’s plunge into the icy waters of the River Neva. To our surprise, he came back to the ship proudly wearing a medal for his gallant achievement. They had awarded him with some kind of medal in recognition of being the first Englishman to carry out such a feat in their club.

A welcome visitor to the ship was Lubeh from the International Seaman’s Club. She organised the bus to take us to and from the club bar and the occasional dance held there. Lubeh also arranged free escorted visits to the Hermitage, the ballet, the opera and to one of the famous travelling circuses, which proved to be the most popular excursion. However, going to the ballet in those days was something you were reluctant to admit to your shipmates!

At the Seaman’s Club you could always buy vodka, champagne, Russian beer (not recommended) and things to eat. A firm favourite with the crew was tucking into a generous layer of caviar on toast. The other foreign seafarers were primarily from communist countries in Eastern Europe. On one occasion, a group of seamen arrived from an old American steamship carrying a shipment of grain as aid to make up for the shortfall in the Soviet harvest. Compared to most of us, the Americans were mostly from an older generation, but nevertheless were very friendly and agreeable. To look after the seafarers at the club, a small group of English-speaking women were at hand. From a conversation with one of them about Lenin’s life, I gathered she was a dedicated and fully paid-up member of the Communist Party. Later, she asked me what my father did for a living. I mischievously decided to wind her up and said that he was a rich man and owned a lot of houses. She instantly replied, “Your father … Not good man!”

One Sunday afternoon, Lubeh arranged a bus to take us to the Tsar’s Summer Palace situated outside Leningrad. On the outskirts of the city, there were a few of the pre-revolution buildings still with their roofs blown off from the war. We were shown around the grand Summer Palace, which was almost completely destroyed by the German occupying forces in 1944, and which at the time of our visit was still undergoing reconstruction. Afterwards, we were allowed to wander around the snow-covered gardens, but some of the crew had a better idea. They managed to locate a makeshift sledge and use it to slide down the steep garden slopes, much to the amusement of the locals passing by.

I was keen to discover how advanced the Soviet production methods were, so at the club I asked Lubeh if it were possible for me to visit a typical factory, one not producing military hardware or anything of a sensitive nature. She came back a few days later to say that the authorities wanted to know why I was so interested in visiting such a factory. I explained that I was an engineer and would like to see how things were produced for the ordinary Soviet citizens. I did not hear anything and so assumed nothing would come of it. However, two trips later Lubeh came on board one afternoon to say that permission had been granted to visit a factory manufacturing aluminium pots and pans and that a bus was waiting on the quayside. The caveat was that the tour had to have a minimum of six persons to participate. I promptly gathered enough men willing to go, leaving the chief engineer and electrician on board. On arrival, we were greeted by the production manager who guided us around the factory floor. The factory contained an abundance of labour working in somewhat cramped conditions. It soon became clear that safety was not of paramount importance. Many of the machines were operating without protective guards over their rotating parts and no clearly-marked walkways were evident. In one section, a set of large rollers were producing aluminium foil. The finished product was appreciably thicker than any wrapping foil found in Western Europe. They either did not have the machines to produce a thinner foil or, more likely, were more concerned about producing enough to meet the required quota, irrespective of the wasteful use of this valuable resource. I can remember the Russians were always fascinated to open a packet of western cigarettes. For many it was a new experience and they marvelled at the thinness of the aluminium foil. At the end of our tour we were taken up to their sparsely-furnished boardroom in order to meet the rest of the managerial staff and to ask any questions. After thanking them for the visit and hospitality, we were each presented with a heavyduty aluminium plate and beaker as a souvenir.

I soon discovered there was a huge demand for western consumer goods not only from the dock workers but also from ordinary people in Leningrad itself. It was not uncommon to be approached by somebody whilst walking along the busy main street, the Nevsky Prospekt, and being asked for things like jeans and chewing gum. Sometimes icons would be offered for sale, but amongst them were a number of poor fakes. A common ruse was using an old piece of wood with a picture of a saint stuck on one side coated in vanish. The icons that were genuine tended to be overpriced and there were some which the Russians thought were valuable but which did not reflect the price or expectations of the London art market.

The crew had devised a procedure for selling contraband on the ship away from prying eyes. One or two of the cabins, near the crew accommodation entrance, would act as a shop with the door sufficiently ajar to expose some of the packaged goods on display. Stevedores showing an interest would enter the cabin and close the door before any transaction was conducted and any merchandise bought was concealed inside their thick working gear. The most profitable items were small lady’s umbrellas made in Taiwan and ordinary nylon tights. These items were purchased on the market in Hull. An umbrella was £1.10 and the tights in bulk were around 25 pence each. They sold on the ship for 20 roubles and 5 roubles respectively. Even using the official exchange rate of around 1.4 roubles to the pound, the mark-up on these two items was truly exorbitant. However, on the black market a far higher exchange rate could be obtained. As a result a few of the crew accumulated large amounts of roubles, but there were very few consumer products worth purchasing in Leningrad, perhaps with the exception of tins of red salmon and jars of caviar.

In the main departmental store near the Nevsky Prospekt diamond rings could be purchased. The diamonds themselves often proved to be zircon or else were a low-quality diamond with flaws easily seen upon very close examination. One day a consignment of rubies were on display in the store, attracting a large crowd. However, when I returned the following day to buy some, they had all been sold.

This was a cash economy and since there

were no credit facilities, shop assistants readily accepted large wads of rouble notes handed over the counter, when expensive items were being sold. A run ashore in the Soviet Union was not everyone’s idea of a good night out and could in no way compete with the varied night-life found elsewhere in the world. But for those who wished to take advantage of the cultural activities on offer or to just gain a glimpse of life inside a communist state, it was an opportunity not to be missed.