Throwback Thursday: Corkman’s ship that was torpedoed twice

Throwback Thursday reader Pat Kelly, who has contributed so many fascinating details about old Cork and its history to these pages, has now shared with us a real thriller of a life story – that of his grandfather James White, who lived a stirring life.

Born in 1876, on Lower Georges Street (now Oliver Plunkett Street), James was the eldest of a family of 12, which although it seems large by today’s standards, was fairly common back then.

Soon they moved to 41, Maylor Street. James’s parents were Edward White, who had come up from Clonakilty, and Ann Lynch, who had come down from Longford. One wonders where and how they met up?

James’s father, Edward, was a seaman by trade, working on the route between the UK and Ireland. Unfortunately, he was injured on one of these crossings and was no longer able to work. That meant James had to take over the role of breadwinner.

Woodford Bourne’s at Daunt’s Square, source of roasted coffee, wines, spirits, and other expensive goods, was looking for a messenger boy. James, told of this vacancy, hurried along to seek an interview, but then read the sign posted in the window. ‘Messenger Boy Wanted. No Catholic Need Apply’. Well, different times, different rules. No chance there, then.

James had to make money to help the family somehow, and in 1894 he ed the Royal Navy. He was in fact under age, but falsified his birth date to 1875 instead of 1876, and succeeded in being accepted.

James then learned his seafaring skills in a number of ships before being transferred far from home – to Melbourne, Australia. This was a practice of the Royal Navy at the time, seconding sailors ‘down under’ to help train young Australians in forming their own navy.

After some time, James ed the Australian navy himself, serving on the battleship Melbourne.

By now, his three sisters, Mary, Ann, and Bridget, with the reassurance of knowing that their elder brother was out there already, had emigrated to Tasmania, just across the water from Melbourne. Here, James often visited them, and, among other memories, described seeing the former prison colony in Port Arthur, where the shackles used to chain prisoners to their beds could still be seen fixed in the walls.

Alas, what seemed like a secure future for James in the Australian navy was cut short when an unlucky accident (a hawser snapping on board the Melbourne battleship) resulted in the loss of four fingers. There was no choice for him but disability retirement.

Where next? Well home to Cork of course, where he took up a job working with the coastguards at East Ferry.

After some time, having gained useful experience, James transferred to the coastguard station at Ilfracombe in Devon, Englan.

Cork still called, however, and home he came again, ing the merchant navy here. James served in many ships before finally crewing in a New Zealand vessel, the Rotorua.

By now World War II had started, and in 1940, on a crossing from Britain to New Zealand via the North Atlantic, with both engers and cargo, the Rotorua was torpedoed. Happily, it managed to limp as far as Panama where it was repaired before completing its journey to New Zealand.

On the return journey, however, it was again torpedoed in the North Atlantic and this time sank with the loss of many lives. James White barely survived in the freezing waters for many hours before being rescued by a timely battleship.

Hardly surprising that he had had enough of the open sea now.

Next he found work in the UK, but even here ill luck dogged him, as he (along with many others) was on the receiving end of frightening German blitz bombing when houses collapsed with their tenants barely getting out in time (sometimes not in time). Yet he survived that too, often boasting in later years to his descendants that the enemy had tried its best, but couldn’t manage to get rid of him!

Eventually, the call of home became too strong, and, like so many other Corkonians, James returned to his native city where, after such an adventurous life, his great joy was to tend his flowers and vegetables. And it was here in Cork that he died peacefully, surrounded by children and grandchildren.

“When we all lived in Haig Gardens, he had in his room a diddy box (a chest of drawers made by a ship’s carpenter) where he kept all his treasures: the medals he had been awarded, his diary, and his seaman’s port,” recalls his grandson Pat Kelly.

“When he died, we went to that box, took out all his beloved things and handled them and talked about his life.

“No wonder we all honoured him with the title of ‘The Man That Hitler Couldn’t Kill!’”

What an incredible story, and what an adventurous life, Pat. Thank you so much for sharing it with us, and entrusting us with your bulky file of memorabilia.

Now, on to that original story from Micheal Kenefick two weeks ago in Throwback Thursday, about his days as an altar boy, which continues to elicit response and memories from others who had that childhood experience.

“Isn’t it amazing how your Throwback Thursday feature triggers things in my memory?” says Jimmy Barrett.

“I can identify with everything Micheal experienced. For me, the thrill of all thrills was swinging the thurible. I absolutely loved the smell of the incense, so I would make sure the charcoal was red hot before the priest added the powder, and I would be mentally willing him to add another tiny spoonful! I would then close down the top and swing away to my heart’s content.

“Within minutes, the sanctuary would be like a smokers’ pub on a busy Saturday evening! I wonder now if we all went home ‘high’ after Sunday night Benediction.

“The downside of this was cleaning out the sticky mess from the bottom of the thurible with a metal spoon...”

Reader Gerry Ryng also wrote on this topic.

“Referencing ‘Altar Boys’ rekindled my memory of one incident during my serving days at Glounthaune. The congregation at the daily 8.15am Mass was small, principally women who each had ‘their own customary seat’, and in fact they also had ‘their own position’ at the altar rails when receiving the Eucharist.

“Prior to distribution, the priest, then the late Fr Deasy, facing the people (which only occurred a few times in the Latin Mass era) and holding the Host, recited: ‘Ecce Agnus Dei’, and on behalf of the congregation he then responded: ‘Domine, Non-Sum Dignus’.

“This was recited three times: the priest facing centre, then left towards the Epistle side, then right to the Gospel side, while the altar boy rang the bell each time.

“Now, the bell at Glounthaune back then was a large circular brass one with a cross at the centre top, where the altar boy positioned his hand while using the other hand to strike the bell with a mallet.

“On one morning, Fr Deasy had recited the first of three, but having struck the bell, the mallet left my grasp and travelled at high speed towards the pious women kneeling at the altar rails. Luckily, it just about cleared the head of one and, because of her reverent state, she was totally unaware of how close she was to suffering the same fate as St John the Baptist when beheaded circa AD 30!

“Now that I reflect, it was very similar to the first Soviet Scud Missile of a few years previous in 1953, but the propellant was not the kerosene and nitric acid used then, but rather a perspiring hand.

“There were two more strikes of the bell required, however, and Fr Deasy observed and ired as my enterprising skill was applied by giving the bell two thumps with my clenched fist.

“We recalled this incident with humour on many occasions later, and it is relevant to note that the near miss occurred at the late Mrs. Cashman’s ‘own position’ at the altar rails!

“It is said that when the ‘happening’ was related to her some years later, she prayed to St John the Baptist every day thereafter!”

Gerry adds: “I attach an image of a bell exactly like that one I struck all those years ago.”

Love that, Gerry. There must have been so many incidents or accidents like that in something so complicated as the old Latin Mass back in the day, especially when you were an acolyte trotting up and down, ringing this bell, swinging that thurible, bringing water for the priest’s hands...

Anyone else recall incidents which were horrifying at the time but now remain as just pleasant memories?

Micheál Kenefick himself observes that, in today’s world, nothing seems to remain stable any more.

“Almost every day there is a new gadget or gizmo that claims to be ‘the be all and end all’ of everything. Version Three is usually released not only before Version Two is perfected, but often before Version One does what it is supposed to do.

“It is difficult to believe, but they even changed the Oxo cube. How OTT is that? Mrs Beeton probably had Oxo cubes, and it isn’t even a cube anymore.

“Some change, of course, is wonderful. Who would have thought a few short years ago that one could stand in the middle of a field and talk to a fella in Australia? And you not only can talk to your grandchildren on the other side of the world, but see them as well. All of this can be done for free. It beggars belief.”

Micheál, who grew up in Whitegate, adds: “There is, though, one institution that has remained almost identical for the 70-plus years that I have had the pleasure of knowing it, and that is the Library Van.

“It arrives in the village every two weeks as regular as clockwork, just as it did when we were in ‘The School Around the Corner’ all those years ago.

“The next stop after the one by the ‘Fountain’ – where the young folk used to meet - is the ‘New School’ and the children are now allowed to select their own books.

“In our day, a boy and girl from sixth class were trusted to be sent to collect the books for the others. As it happened, Celia O’Reilly was the only girl in sixth so she had all the luck and got a regular respite from the lessons while the rest of us only got to escape in our turn.

“Today, the van is staffed by Ed and Thomas who, like their colleagues before them, are not only courteous and extremely helpful, but take pride in the service which they offer to their customers.

“Surprisingly. not many people locally use this magnificent service and it is hardly due to the cost, which was reduced recently from €2.500 a year to nothing.

“As it happens, it has just ed the window as I write this. Any second now the horn will blow, the door will open, and we are off for a supply of books so that we will never be without company for the next two weeks. Long may it continue.”

And so say all of us, Micheál!

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