Electric Acorn 14 : Fiction : John O'Neill

Electric Acorn 14: Short Stories:

John O'Neill

SOS

Fiachra O'Connell came north on the slow looping train from Inverness to the radio station at Wick in the autumn of 1947, when the Caithness moorland was already dying back into hibernation. He was immediately renamed Paddy by the lowland Scots who made up the normal complement of telegraph operators manning this indispensable link to the hundreds of boats fishing the frigid seas between Scotland and the Arctic. The only other "furriner" was Taff, the elderly Welshman, who ruled the station despite his lowly official status by sheer force of McGoo-like bellicosity in a tiny frame.

If Paddy ever hoped for support from a fellow "ex-pat" he was very quickly disillusioned. Taff was a professional, come ashore after many years at sea in the radio rooms of great liners, tramp steamers and the boats which he now guarded, as part-time wireless officer, part-time boiler of fish oil from the great shoals of West Atlantic cod. Paddy was raw - straight out of telegraphy school and Bere Island in County Cork. His Morse was adequate if not yet second-nature. His knowledge of shipping was minimal. His accent was such, that even in normal circumstances, he and the Aberdeen boatmen understood each other with difficulty and, in moments of stress, his excited and accelerated delivery forced Taff to replace him on the radiotelephone. He was relegated, where possible, to the chores of Morse telegraphy, beating out weather forecasts and the accumulated messages for ships which had not made contact during the day - tedious work from which Paddy would walk to his rooms with his right arm numb by his side.

Paddy and Taff worked together grudgingly, avoided each other where possible and differed in every physical way and on every topic of conversation. Paddy was a physical shamble - six feet tall and not yet in control of his body. Taff was tiny but neat, quick and dapper in all he did and in the mustard-tweed plus-foured suit he wore on all occasions. They were a great trial, each to the other. Until one night shift a few months after Paddy's arrival.

They were on duty together. The others had gone home gratefully, through driving sleet, on the stroke of midnight. Paddy broadcast the backlog of messages from boat-owners to captains, fish wives to husbands; all the everyday stuff of happy birthdays, sad and sometimes acrimonious family messages and the essentials of fishing news. At 0040 Taff went to the kitchenette to make tea while Paddy sat in listening watch on the telegraph calling and distress frequency, 500kc/s. Tea for Taff was a labour of love, an eclectic amalgam of teamaking ceremonies from around the world: boil water, add tea, stir one minute, add more water, more tea, allow to stand three minutes, decant and drink: amber, no sugar. Paddy was not allowed his normal slapdash milk and two sugars on Taff's watch, so he slumped resignedly at the receiver monitoring calls from ships as far as the Mediterranean, coming in clearly in the night.

At 0045 silence descended on the channel, broken only by the massive blast "QRT" (stop sending), on full power from North Foreland station to some idiot who continued to chatter his key well into the silence period. Paddy felt the silence deepen as his ears attuned: the only sound the hiss of static and random electrons in his receiver. The three minute silence was almost up when he heard the call - SOS SOS SOS - strength one but readable. Taff was beside him with the tea ceremony as he unplugged his earphones and opened up the speakers.

"O God," said Taff, "that's Norman Jones on the Island Queen. I'd know his fist anywhere. Send SOS all stations, Paddy, keep the channel quiet while I phone coastguard - not that it'll make any difference, they're off Greenland."

Paddy did what he was told, blasting out his QRT to those who started calling again after the silence period ended. Aided by many other stations around the North Atlantic, the message spread and an eerie silence was established.

Taff came back. "I'll take over, Paddy," he said, and slipped into the control desk. Paddy picked up the nearest phones and stood over another receiver to listen in.

"QRA" (what is the name of your station?), sent Taff, unnecessarily but for the record. The answer confirmed Taff's identification as Norman and Taff established understanding of the crisis. The Island Queen, out of Aberdeen, was laden with cod after three weeks fishing in Greenland waters. They had hauled the nets for the last time and had turned for home. Off Iceland the storm had descended and then the icing started on the decks, masts, rigging; anywhere the spray could reach. They fought it with steam jets but it gained in weight until the boat wallowed in ever-increasing arcs and took water into the engine room, eventually killing all power and depriving them of the steam which had been their salvation. Norman had switched to battery power and sent his distress messages by the light of a hurricane lamp.

All this detail came out later as Taff recreated the scene from his personal experience. Only the basic needs were transmitted - location, strength of wind and wave, degrees of danger, state of batteries, etc. By now all ships and shore stations in the area were on alert and considering how they could help. The Icelandic fleet was a hundred miles away and desperately fighting the storm which had damaged the Queen and left her helpless. Two of them tried to fight their way into the northerly gale but were making only slow progress.

Taff kept up the contact, sending all the information available, encouraging where possible, while Paddy helped with the telephone, R/T, map references and latest weather.

Taff turned to Paddy, "Their batteries are dying. I can barely hear him."

Paddy checked on his receiver, "I can hear him still," and wrotedown the message for Taff.

TAKING TO THE RAFT. GB OM TKS.

"He's locked the key down for anyone out there to beam in on."

"I just can't hear it," said Taff, angry and surprised. "There's no-one out there", he continued, "only God could save them now and the last fisherman he saved was Peter on that pond in Galilee."

"And look at the thanks He got," muttered Paddy, then stopped and, cupping his hands over his earphones, he listened with total intensity, his body still, compelling silence. "It's stopped," he said.

"Are you sure?" asked Taff. "Did it fade out?"

"No," said Paddy, "it was weak but steady and then it stopped."

"She's gone," whispered Taff and grabbed the key, sending SOS and calling the Queen, over and over. Then he called the ships trying to steam north. Had they any contact, he demanded. They only confirmed what Paddy had heard but said the storm was easing and they would be on location by daybreak.

The hours passed with no relief. The Queen still made no response. Taff never stopped listening, calling, begging for a reply, urging on the rescuers. Then they found debris, ice-coated on a slick-laden ocean and, finally, the empty life raft. They had no hope and Taff was silent at last.

"Shouldn't we call off the distress?" asked Paddy, for the second time. Taff said nothing, then threw his earphones on the desk and walked away. Paddy went on air, announced the distress was lifted and heard first one, then another ship call, almost apologetically, with normal traffic.

They handed over to the incoming watch as grey light dawned. Taff said nothing. Paddy passed on the necessary information but dodged all questions and walked out with Taff into the gloom of the granity, early morning town. They did not speak even as they went their separate ways under the streetlamp by Taff's gate.

***********************

When Taff arrived at the station, that evening, Paddy was already in the kitchen making tea to start his shift. Taff talked sadly and seriously to the outgoing operators as Paddy watched through the glass door. Then he poured the tea carefully: black, no sugar, and brought it to Taff who accepted it without comment and continued the discussion. A minute later Taff took a mouthful of tea, held it momentarily before swallowing. He grimaced, his mouth contorted and he turned on Paddy.

"I'm going to have to teach you how to make tea, you great Irish pillock."

The room was quiet for a moment. Then the group dissolved into laughter: first the listeners, then Paddy and, finally, Taff himself. Normal life had been rekindled but changed intimately.

Biography

I have lived in New Zealand for forty years and make my statement in my email - kiwijohn@igrin.co.nz. Not Irish only or any other label but
grateful for all my experiences including a spell at Wick Radio in the
time of the fictional SOS. I have always been awed by the courage of
those who sailed year-after-year into Arctic waters despite the human cost of the humble fish-and-chips which resulted. This story attempts to convey how a minimal and primitive medium such as Morse Code could and did awaken images and emotions out of our imaginings in a way that graphic visual media can never achieve. Despite this, I write hopefully for stage and screen.