My Titanic Story
My Titanic Story: by Jules Grundy.It was without fuss or fanfare Sunday the 15th of April 2007 came and went; a day just like any other. Perhaps we should mourn the passing of such days with greater vigour, lest they pass unnoticed, never to return as if they never happened. It was such a day 95 years ago on Sunday the 14th of April when my story begins; a day just like any other.
In the evening of that far off day on the Grand Banks, southeast of Newfoundland the weather was brisk, although, unusually calm and still for the time of year. The stillness was punctuated only by the far off hypnotic throb of great engines and machinery, softened almost into imagination by the distance. The subtle waft of distant music and laughter from the great ballroom floated by as if it were a melody from another world, where it mingled with the hushed, murmuring pleasantries of the few rugged up, hardy souls out for a stroll along the promenade deck. Occasionally, a single snowflake would land and disappear as if it was never there and the cold night air would muster itself into a sharp zephyr across the cheek and be gone.
The Moonless sky was the deepest, darkest, blackest velvet. A cathedral dome, studded with stars that split the night like a myriad glistening jewels. The sea, far below, slipped silently by like a lazy river of black oil. The calmness and stillness of the evening had by this time begun to surrender to the peaceful quiet and tranquillity of the night as the passengers started to settle and retire for their nightly repose. The wind momentarily quickened but then it too succumbed to the all-encompassing embrace of tranquillity and became a mere whisper once again. The sky and sea struggled for supremacy, locked in mighty conflict as the evening drew on. It was indeed an evening just like any other. When day gives way to night without witness or report and a new day begins with such hope and anticipation for remembrance.
It was almost imperceptible at first, the merest vibration that was almost not there like some diaphanous dream. Just as I was prepared to believe that it was indeed a trick of my imagination and let it slip from my mind, it grew into a definite shudder and a long, low rumble like a distant train. I knew not from whence it came and as I struggled with my sleepy sensibilities, clawing their way back to consciousness, I suddenly realised it was everywhere. The very fabric of this colossus, this ship of dreams was convulsing as if in the throes of some dreadful malady. The night was stabbed through the heart and the hitherto peaceful tranquillity gave way to a clamour, an evening of a different kind, a discordant, urgent, insistent kind. Awash in the harshness of wakefulness I was surrounded by a new experience. There were bells ringing as if to announce impending doom or alarm, increasing the tension of the moment. Shouts and voices filled the air, even laughter. They were not subdued and far away like the evening of a couple of hours ago but all around and close by.
It was almost imperceptible at first, the merest vibration that was almost not there like some diaphanous dream. Just as I was prepared to believe that it was indeed a trick of my imagination and let it slip from my mind, it grew into a definite shudder and a long, low rumble like a distant train. I knew not from whence it came and as I struggled with my sleepy sensibilities, clawing their way back to consciousness, I suddenly realised it was everywhere. The very fabric of this colossus, this ship of dreams was convulsing as if in the throes of some dreadful malady. The night was stabbed through the heart and the hitherto peaceful tranquillity gave way to a clamour, an evening of a different kind, a discordant, urgent, insistent kind. Awash in the harshness of wakefulness I was surrounded by a new experience. There were bells ringing as if to announce impending doom or alarm, increasing the tension of the moment. Shouts and voices filled the air, even laughter. They were not subdued and far away like the evening of a couple of hours ago but all around and close by.
I found myself side stepping almost involuntarily, even absently as I spilled onto the deck from the somnolent cocoon of my stateroom. I was trying to avoid what at first I thought were huge hailstones or ice that had possibly built up on the rigging and was now raining down in perilous fashion upon the deck! The next thing I saw was the cause of the sounds of thrill and laughter I had heard a few moments ago. Some young men were playing soccer on the wet foredeck with an impossible sized piece of ice that was far too big to be a hailstone! As I looked around I saw very large ice blocks dotted here and there, where had they come from? There was a broken lamp on the wall, a buckled railing and a smashed window! My heart began to race. What had happened?
As I broadened my focus and my somnolence finally dissipated, allowing my consciousness to rise to its full height, I surveyed the scene in greater detail and this time my heart almost stopped. The night had gone! It had been replaced with a shimmering white cliff of ice, the length and breadth and height of which had blotted out the night. It filled everything with its surreal, forbidding, omniscience. Its magnificence and grandeur was beyond belief, one of God’s creations that one rarely ever thinks about, now filled everybody’s psyche with awe and abject humility. For a small moment silence returned like a lost child as we all gazed dumb struck with wonder at this gigantic edifice.
By now, I had reached a position on the forecastle directly under the bridge, that was some 20 feet above me and in the still cold air I could hear the Captain as he came back on watch, “What happened Mr Murdoch?” demanded the Captain. The first officer replied, “Able seaman Fleet reported an iceberg dead ahead from the forward crows nest. I ordered full to port and engines full astern. I tried to starboard about but we were too close and we hit along the starboard side”. “Good God man!, why didn’t we see it sooner?” shouted the Captain. “It was hard to see in the dark and in this calm with no breaking water at the base” stuttered the first officer. “What’s our status now Mr Murdoch?” said the Captain in a slightly more conciliatory tone. "Mr Moody reports the engines at full stop, the watertight doors have been closed and the dampers are closed on the boilers. Mr Lightholler has entered the incident in the log at 11.41 pm, Captain”. “Thankyou Mr Murdoch”. The Captain by now, satisfied his first officer had done all he could to avert disaster began to take charge of the situation. “What’s our status now Mr Lightholler?” barked the Captain . “We are drifting north at about 12 knots after the starboard about manoeuvre, sir”. “Get our true position to the wireless officer and send it to Halifax, New York and Cape Cod. See if there are any other ships in the area. Meanwhile summon the ships carpenter and Mr Andrews”. Mr Murdoch and Mr Lightholler glanced at each other with one of those looks that speak volumes, they were both glad the Captain was back on deck and in charge.
I couldn’t believe my ears as the conversation went to and fro between the Captain and his first and second officer. We had struck an iceberg! Could this be real?
By now, A and B deck had a number of first class passengers milling about asking for stewards and demanding answers from what they considered to be their underlings. One thing was certain; the evening of an hour ago had gone. It had been stolen, usurped by this commotion and madding throng.
As I looked toward the stern along the starboard side of the ship, the iceberg was slipping away like a spectral wraith in some ghastly tale. The sky and sea were gradually winning back the night in their eternal conflict as this frozen interloper was swallowed up by the inky blackness. For the first time tonight, I felt the night grow cold.
Mr Andrews the ship’s builder, stepped onto the bridge ashen faced, closely followed by the ships carpenter who was also visibly shaken and as white as the ice still lying on the gymnasium roof, immediately to the starboard side of the bridge. “Good evening gentlemen“, said the Captain with a stern face, he knew something was up. Mr Andrews absently nodded assention to the Captain's salutation as he stepped forward with a bundle of charts and schematics under his arm and with an obvious aire of urgency, he cleared the chart room table and began to roll out blueprints of the ship.
The two newcomers to the bridge had just completed their sounding of the ship. “The forward mail room is completely flooded”, Mr Andrews blurted out, stabbing at the drawing with his finger. Before the Captain could respond, Mr Andrews began to speak again. “Holds 2, 3 and 4 are breached below the waterline and are filling fast”, gesturing toward the drawing once more. This time the Captain was able to speak. “What about the pumps”? “They will only buy us time and time only”, retorted Mr Andrews without looking up from his schematic. “She’ll float with four holds flooded but not five. As she goes down by the head the water will spill over the bulkheads because they only go as far as C deck, back and back until she’s flooded right up to the forward engine room!” “Then, what of the ship Mr Anderson?” the Captain said with alarm. “She will founder, Captain.” The Captain stared blankly unable to respond. The words ran him through like a finely crafted rapier. Gathering his composure, he calmly said, “ How long have we got, Mr Andrews?” Without hesitation Mr Andrews said, “An hour, two at the most.” The Captain turned and gazed out the window across the bow as if pondering the situation. As he looked up he could see she was low in the water at the head already.
“How many souls aboard Mr Murdoch?” the Captain said as he suddenly spun around raising himself to his full height, his face a study of resolve and determination. “2251 including the crew, sir”, came the reply. “How many lifeboats Mr Murdoch?” “Enough for 1200 Captain.” The Captain turned to face Mr Andrews and the ship‘s carpenter, “Thankyou gentlemen”, as if to say I will take it from here.
“Mr Lightholler, send a CQD and the new SOS to anyone who is listening and tell them our position and that we are going down by the head. Did we find any ships close by?” “Yes sir” replied Mr Lightholler. “There is a coaster four nautical miles off our port beam but we cannot raise her, she may have switched her wireless off for the night.” “Any others Mr Lightholler?” " Yes sir, the Nordic and the Californian but they are cut off by an ice floe and could not reach us for 6 or 7 hours; the Carpathia is already steaming at full speed to our aid and she will be here in 4 hours.” The Captain turned away; he did not want the crew to see his fear. “Four hours?” he bellowed.
“Man the lifeboats Mr Murdoch, women and children first and fire flares every fifteen minutes.”
“Women and children first”, was such an innocuous call. A throw away line, without emotion or thought for the consequences. This alone, was without doubt the most divisive act of the whole disaster. It lead to more pain and suffering than any other aspect of this hideous conflagration. Women would not leave their men and men would not leave their women, children would not leave their Fathers. From the start, “Women and children first”, was the cause of much confusion and misery, heightening this dreadful disaster tenfold. It created an absolute fear and mistrust of the very people that were prepared to sacrifice everything to help their fellow man. Eventually it gave way to a total loss of control and absolute anarchy.
As I broadened my focus and my somnolence finally dissipated, allowing my consciousness to rise to its full height, I surveyed the scene in greater detail and this time my heart almost stopped. The night had gone! It had been replaced with a shimmering white cliff of ice, the length and breadth and height of which had blotted out the night. It filled everything with its surreal, forbidding, omniscience. Its magnificence and grandeur was beyond belief, one of God’s creations that one rarely ever thinks about, now filled everybody’s psyche with awe and abject humility. For a small moment silence returned like a lost child as we all gazed dumb struck with wonder at this gigantic edifice.
By now, I had reached a position on the forecastle directly under the bridge, that was some 20 feet above me and in the still cold air I could hear the Captain as he came back on watch, “What happened Mr Murdoch?” demanded the Captain. The first officer replied, “Able seaman Fleet reported an iceberg dead ahead from the forward crows nest. I ordered full to port and engines full astern. I tried to starboard about but we were too close and we hit along the starboard side”. “Good God man!, why didn’t we see it sooner?” shouted the Captain. “It was hard to see in the dark and in this calm with no breaking water at the base” stuttered the first officer. “What’s our status now Mr Murdoch?” said the Captain in a slightly more conciliatory tone. "Mr Moody reports the engines at full stop, the watertight doors have been closed and the dampers are closed on the boilers. Mr Lightholler has entered the incident in the log at 11.41 pm, Captain”. “Thankyou Mr Murdoch”. The Captain by now, satisfied his first officer had done all he could to avert disaster began to take charge of the situation. “What’s our status now Mr Lightholler?” barked the Captain . “We are drifting north at about 12 knots after the starboard about manoeuvre, sir”. “Get our true position to the wireless officer and send it to Halifax, New York and Cape Cod. See if there are any other ships in the area. Meanwhile summon the ships carpenter and Mr Andrews”. Mr Murdoch and Mr Lightholler glanced at each other with one of those looks that speak volumes, they were both glad the Captain was back on deck and in charge.
I couldn’t believe my ears as the conversation went to and fro between the Captain and his first and second officer. We had struck an iceberg! Could this be real?
By now, A and B deck had a number of first class passengers milling about asking for stewards and demanding answers from what they considered to be their underlings. One thing was certain; the evening of an hour ago had gone. It had been stolen, usurped by this commotion and madding throng.
As I looked toward the stern along the starboard side of the ship, the iceberg was slipping away like a spectral wraith in some ghastly tale. The sky and sea were gradually winning back the night in their eternal conflict as this frozen interloper was swallowed up by the inky blackness. For the first time tonight, I felt the night grow cold.
Mr Andrews the ship’s builder, stepped onto the bridge ashen faced, closely followed by the ships carpenter who was also visibly shaken and as white as the ice still lying on the gymnasium roof, immediately to the starboard side of the bridge. “Good evening gentlemen“, said the Captain with a stern face, he knew something was up. Mr Andrews absently nodded assention to the Captain's salutation as he stepped forward with a bundle of charts and schematics under his arm and with an obvious aire of urgency, he cleared the chart room table and began to roll out blueprints of the ship.
The two newcomers to the bridge had just completed their sounding of the ship. “The forward mail room is completely flooded”, Mr Andrews blurted out, stabbing at the drawing with his finger. Before the Captain could respond, Mr Andrews began to speak again. “Holds 2, 3 and 4 are breached below the waterline and are filling fast”, gesturing toward the drawing once more. This time the Captain was able to speak. “What about the pumps”? “They will only buy us time and time only”, retorted Mr Andrews without looking up from his schematic. “She’ll float with four holds flooded but not five. As she goes down by the head the water will spill over the bulkheads because they only go as far as C deck, back and back until she’s flooded right up to the forward engine room!” “Then, what of the ship Mr Anderson?” the Captain said with alarm. “She will founder, Captain.” The Captain stared blankly unable to respond. The words ran him through like a finely crafted rapier. Gathering his composure, he calmly said, “ How long have we got, Mr Andrews?” Without hesitation Mr Andrews said, “An hour, two at the most.” The Captain turned and gazed out the window across the bow as if pondering the situation. As he looked up he could see she was low in the water at the head already.
“How many souls aboard Mr Murdoch?” the Captain said as he suddenly spun around raising himself to his full height, his face a study of resolve and determination. “2251 including the crew, sir”, came the reply. “How many lifeboats Mr Murdoch?” “Enough for 1200 Captain.” The Captain turned to face Mr Andrews and the ship‘s carpenter, “Thankyou gentlemen”, as if to say I will take it from here.
“Mr Lightholler, send a CQD and the new SOS to anyone who is listening and tell them our position and that we are going down by the head. Did we find any ships close by?” “Yes sir” replied Mr Lightholler. “There is a coaster four nautical miles off our port beam but we cannot raise her, she may have switched her wireless off for the night.” “Any others Mr Lightholler?” " Yes sir, the Nordic and the Californian but they are cut off by an ice floe and could not reach us for 6 or 7 hours; the Carpathia is already steaming at full speed to our aid and she will be here in 4 hours.” The Captain turned away; he did not want the crew to see his fear. “Four hours?” he bellowed.
“Man the lifeboats Mr Murdoch, women and children first and fire flares every fifteen minutes.”
“Women and children first”, was such an innocuous call. A throw away line, without emotion or thought for the consequences. This alone, was without doubt the most divisive act of the whole disaster. It lead to more pain and suffering than any other aspect of this hideous conflagration. Women would not leave their men and men would not leave their women, children would not leave their Fathers. From the start, “Women and children first”, was the cause of much confusion and misery, heightening this dreadful disaster tenfold. It created an absolute fear and mistrust of the very people that were prepared to sacrifice everything to help their fellow man. Eventually it gave way to a total loss of control and absolute anarchy.
The first class passengers were still issuing orders at this stage, “Get this, fetch that.” They considered themselves to be lord and master and everyone else was there to do their bidding. Their selfishness did much to contribute to this disaster and caused a great loss of life.
A cacophony of noise and confusion ensued. People running hither and thither. A clamorous din of emotional out pouring and even anger against the crew, already under immense stress. Mr Murdoch, dedicated to getting as many people as possible to safety, even at his own expense, was forced to fire his revolver in the air! To no avail. It was a rabble.
Some of the, first class passengers had already been lowered to the comparative safety of the sea. Mr Andrews expressed an absolute horror at witnessing a lifeboat built to carry 78 persons, pulling away with only 14 souls aboard! Such was the power of class; it even transcended human decency and compassion!
Fifteen boilers, each with upwards of 215 pounds of steam pressure had to be evacuated in the interests of, “safety”. If they became flooded with cold seawater an implosion would be imminent with even further loss of life. The noise was deafening, adding to this already fractious and debilitating scenario.
Edward J. Smith, the ship's master, a man of 62 years at the pinnacle of his career on his final voyage before retirement, stood alone on the bridge surveying his ship with a growing sense of futility and hopelessness. Childhood memories of Stoke upon Trent in England where he grew up flitted through his mind, marred only by Mr Ismay’s last words that were ringing in his ears. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we pulled into Manhattan a day early and gave them all a surprise, go out with a bang, eh E.J?” His vanity had got the better of him and he had succumbed. A ship’s master, careening through the Labrador ice fields at 21 knots? He should have known better.
A cacophony of noise and confusion ensued. People running hither and thither. A clamorous din of emotional out pouring and even anger against the crew, already under immense stress. Mr Murdoch, dedicated to getting as many people as possible to safety, even at his own expense, was forced to fire his revolver in the air! To no avail. It was a rabble.
Some of the, first class passengers had already been lowered to the comparative safety of the sea. Mr Andrews expressed an absolute horror at witnessing a lifeboat built to carry 78 persons, pulling away with only 14 souls aboard! Such was the power of class; it even transcended human decency and compassion!
Fifteen boilers, each with upwards of 215 pounds of steam pressure had to be evacuated in the interests of, “safety”. If they became flooded with cold seawater an implosion would be imminent with even further loss of life. The noise was deafening, adding to this already fractious and debilitating scenario.
Edward J. Smith, the ship's master, a man of 62 years at the pinnacle of his career on his final voyage before retirement, stood alone on the bridge surveying his ship with a growing sense of futility and hopelessness. Childhood memories of Stoke upon Trent in England where he grew up flitted through his mind, marred only by Mr Ismay’s last words that were ringing in his ears. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we pulled into Manhattan a day early and gave them all a surprise, go out with a bang, eh E.J?” His vanity had got the better of him and he had succumbed. A ship’s master, careening through the Labrador ice fields at 21 knots? He should have known better.
He had, by now, resigned himself to death and was waiting for the moment, powerless to do anything else.
Panic had set in. The noise and the cold just exacerbated the situation. There were women crying, children crying and even men crying. For most people on this fateful night it was nothing less than their judgement before God or whatever other deity that gave them comfort. Some prayed for life, some for death and some for appeasement and forgiveness. The rich were rubbing shoulders with the poor. The trappings of wealth mean nothing when death is imminent and one can contemplate ones own demise.
Most of the lifeboats had been launched with a depleted compliment of passengers. Those left on the ship?, well, they had to fend for themselves! The ship’s band played, “Alexander’s ragtime band” and they had played continuously since this dreadful onslaught began. To many they were the ship’s heroes, a source of comfort and inspiration in the face of adversity.
Six hundred yards from the ship the occupants of lifeboat number 5 watched the unfolding spectacle in comparative safety. They could hear the cries and screams across the cold still night air as if they were still there. They sat sullen and silent, bobbing up and down as if they were on a punt at a local regatta. They were safe but not one of them showed any sign of elation or relief. There were 21 in all on lifeboat number 5. All of superior station, all with superior lives.
Panic had set in. The noise and the cold just exacerbated the situation. There were women crying, children crying and even men crying. For most people on this fateful night it was nothing less than their judgement before God or whatever other deity that gave them comfort. Some prayed for life, some for death and some for appeasement and forgiveness. The rich were rubbing shoulders with the poor. The trappings of wealth mean nothing when death is imminent and one can contemplate ones own demise.
Most of the lifeboats had been launched with a depleted compliment of passengers. Those left on the ship?, well, they had to fend for themselves! The ship’s band played, “Alexander’s ragtime band” and they had played continuously since this dreadful onslaught began. To many they were the ship’s heroes, a source of comfort and inspiration in the face of adversity.
Six hundred yards from the ship the occupants of lifeboat number 5 watched the unfolding spectacle in comparative safety. They could hear the cries and screams across the cold still night air as if they were still there. They sat sullen and silent, bobbing up and down as if they were on a punt at a local regatta. They were safe but not one of them showed any sign of elation or relief. There were 21 in all on lifeboat number 5. All of superior station, all with superior lives.
As they watched and tried in vain to blot out such a random obliteration of lives, the stern of this great ship reared up at 20 degrees and the propellers were 70 feet above the water, 20000 tons hanging in the air! Then, with a blood-curdling rending and groaning of tortured metal, the great ship broke in two. The stern section impacted the sea with such force her upper decks caved in and collapsed. The cries and screams that ensued are the stuff of nightmares of the worst kind. The resulting disturbance of the hitherto calm water almost capsized the half empty lifeboats, almost as if by an act of retribution.
Just as the sea began to subside the bow section started ejecting waterspouts and emitting very loud bangs. People were jumping into the sea along the entire length of this colossal ship.
For a moment, she just lay there on the water, almost exhausted, almost spent, like a wounded beast. For a moment it was very easy to watch her and forget the rout of human life and to fathom the loss that this disaster would bring. She lay there on the surface almost serene, anthropomorphised and surreal as if mustering her last gigantic gasp.
The screams were getting fewer now but those that remained were heart rending and beyond help. Most were expiring with hyperthermia in the almost freezing black water.
The bow all at once gave up its dignified and valiant struggle with the sea and began to slide beneath the calm sea in a froth and tumult of boiling water. Hatch covers were catapulted through the air; bulkheads exploded as they collapsed under the pressure and could be heard across the dark still night. Then, like a denizen of the deep the stern reared up yet again as the bow pulled her under and she went down vertically like an olympic diver, without a sound or splash. It was almost majestic.
By the time the Carpathia arrived around 4.00am on Monday the 15th of April only six people had been plucked from the water out of over 1500 that went in. A field of floating corpses was the only monument to this dreadful and diabolical catastrophe.
Just as the sea began to subside the bow section started ejecting waterspouts and emitting very loud bangs. People were jumping into the sea along the entire length of this colossal ship.
For a moment, she just lay there on the water, almost exhausted, almost spent, like a wounded beast. For a moment it was very easy to watch her and forget the rout of human life and to fathom the loss that this disaster would bring. She lay there on the surface almost serene, anthropomorphised and surreal as if mustering her last gigantic gasp.
The screams were getting fewer now but those that remained were heart rending and beyond help. Most were expiring with hyperthermia in the almost freezing black water.
The bow all at once gave up its dignified and valiant struggle with the sea and began to slide beneath the calm sea in a froth and tumult of boiling water. Hatch covers were catapulted through the air; bulkheads exploded as they collapsed under the pressure and could be heard across the dark still night. Then, like a denizen of the deep the stern reared up yet again as the bow pulled her under and she went down vertically like an olympic diver, without a sound or splash. It was almost majestic.
By the time the Carpathia arrived around 4.00am on Monday the 15th of April only six people had been plucked from the water out of over 1500 that went in. A field of floating corpses was the only monument to this dreadful and diabolical catastrophe.
There were numerous suicides among the 705 survivors in the ensuing years. All in the pursuit of release from loss or guilt or both.
The rest is, as they say, history and a new day. A day just like any other, lest we forget.
Labels: Titanic's 95th Anniversary.
posted by Jules Grundy @ 5:45 PM
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