The Passing of Harry Hill, British Merchant Seaman

by Huc Hauser

Most folks in our Vermont town remember Harry Hill as the elderly, somewhat slight and frail volunteer at the hospital who would drive people home from appointments or on other necessary errands. If needed, he would drive a patient to the major regional medical centers in New England or New York state. He was always cheerful, with a soft spoken heavy British accent which forced listeners to pay close attention if they wanted to get all the information that he conveyed.

He and his wife, Betty, lived in a small village several miles north of town in a small, snug house reminiscent of an English cottage. Both were retired and she, too, worked as a volunteer Gray Lady at the hospital. But there was much more to both than the quiet couple gave as first impressions. Both were modest, completely devoted to each other, and generous in serving in the local community.

The term “survivor” is almost inadequate to describe having three ships bombed or torpedoed out from under one, plus a month’s ride in a German submarine followed by three years in a German prisoner of war camp. At age eighteen in 1941 Harry was too frail to qualify for duty in the British Navy so the Liverpool working class kid sought service in the merchant marine. He was accepted, attended radio schools, and became a radio operator on a merchant ship in the Atlantic service. On what was to be his second round trip voyage to the U.S. his ship was one day out from Liverpool when attacked by German bombers and sunk. Harry managed to be picked up by one of the lifeboats, then found by a Naval patrol boat and returned to Liverpool. His next assignment was on a gasoline tanker, again voyaging between Britain and the USA. Several round trips were completed without incident, the major complaints being a) the inability to smoke cigarettes and b) the constant awareness that any mishap, for whatever reason, meant disaster when riding on a gasoline tanker in wartime conditions. Eventually fate caught up with him and a German bomb caused the explosion and fire he feared. By some miracle he managed to climb aboard a lifeboat with a few other crewmen and get far enough away to avoid the flames spreading out on the water. He was picked up two days later by another merchant ship and returned to Britain. Even many years later he confirmed that tanker duty was his worst experience. In the summer of 1942 Harry signed on a passenger carrying freighter bound for South America with refugees from England and other European countries, with expectation of bringing a cargo of food home on the return. The trip out was in convoy with attacks by German submarines, but his ship was not hit. The convoy was large, some 46 ships plus Navy escorts, averaging 10 knots speed. Most vessels were bound for U.S. ports, so in mid ocean three vessels bound for Buenos Aires split off and proceeded without escort at maximum speed. They arrived safely and discharged passengers, proceeded to Montevideo and took on cargo and nearly thirty passengers.

In early August 1942 they left port and headed out into the South Atlantic, again at full speed, without escort. Two days out, on the evening watch, as Harry was at ease in the radio room just off the bridge, a torpedo struck the starboard side and the ship lurched. A few seconds later another explosion at the stern marked the arrival of a second torpedo and the ship began to settle quickly. Once again Harry was to taste salt water, this time mixed with fuel oil that soaked his clothing as he tried to swim away. In the quiet darkness that settled over the tropical ocean after the ship had disappeared there were a few shouts and even they stopped eventually. Then somewhere in the dark he spotted a light. After swimming toward it for a while and resting, treading water, he realized it was the searchlight of a ship which gradually came closer. The ship turned out to be the German submarine, surveying the scene of her kill. In the graying of the dawn the Germans spotted the lone swimmer and pulled him aboard. As far as could be determined, he was the only survivor. The Germans brought him below, cleaned him up, put lotion in his eyes as they were burned with fuel oil, and gave him clean, dry clothes.

Thus began a month-long journey to Lorient in France, the boat’s home port. The trip was not without incident, though, since the boat attacked and sank two more vessels and took the captain of one aboard as fellow prisoner with Harry. In turn, the U-boat was attacked by air and surface ships, but Harry could not tell if they were British or American. Upon arrival in Lorient the prisoners, along with others taken by other U-boats, were transferred by train to Wilhemshaven in Germany and marched to a prison barracks in a pouring rain. A final transfer a few days later landed them at a large prison camp in Tarmstedt. There he remained until April 1945 when the camp was liberated by a unit of the British Royal Scots Guards.

Liverpool did not offer much opportunity for Harry. He began to drink. At a low point he determined to emigrate to the USA and, like so many thousands before him, bought a steamship ticket for New York. After a series of odd jobs he found steady employment as a bus driver in the city, then as a taxi driver. One day in lower Manhattan his taxi fare was a young English girl, a clerk at the British Embassy. A conversation was followed by dates and a romance; they were married within a year. Eventually Harry learned that his wife, the “clerk” was actually well placed in British Intelligence. The couple had one child, a daughter, who grew up somewhat estranged from her British heritage, not unlike other second generation immigrant children. Harry genuinely enjoyed his life as a driver, even working part time for a limousine company.

On weekends the couple would rent a car and drive into the surrounding regions of New England, upstate New York and Pennsylvania. Vermont became their favorite destination and they explored the Green Mountains extensively. As retirement neared, they found and purchased a small house in the Southern area of the state. When Betty retired from her government service the couple settled in at the little house. Their daughter remained in the metropolitan area with a family of her own and seldom visited. Both Betty and Harry volunteered at the hospital and were active in several other community affairs. Old age brought illnesses and Betty was the first to suffer. Harry nursed his beloved wife as best he could, but then came a major stroke requiring hospital, then nursing home care. It was a terrible blow, but Harry was at her bedside every day. A slow recuperation was followed by another stroke and this time, complete loss of speech and partial paralysis. Under the stress of coping and caring, Harry also suffered, eventually coming down with serious double pneumonia. This landed him in the hospital and then in the same nursing home as Betty, in fact, the staff put him in the same room as his wife. There he could talk to Betty even if she could not respond with words. A look, a squeeze of the hand, it was enough. Harry would read magazine articles to her to while the hours away, but his own strength was not coming back. He, too, was failing and the staff and doctors realized that the end was near for both. One evening he took a turn for the worse. The night duty nurses moved the two beds closer together, and then, together, unbidden and in violation of house rules, tenderly picked Harry up and put him into the other bed with Betty. Somehow, both realized what had happened and struggled to turn to each other. Each, arms wrapped around the other, simply lay quietly, the strength ebbing from Harry. Other staff came quietly into the room, lights low, only the labored breathing being heard. Then they left the couple in peace. Two hours later, on a routine check, a nurse found Harry had passed on. Quietly and secretly, two nurses moved him back into his own bed and returned the room to its proper condition. Even though accustomed to the facts of passing in a nursing home environment, there were no dry staff eyes on the floor that night.

Betty lived for a few more weeks, and then she, too, quietly joined Harry in the peace of the beyond.

Harry Hill was kept in Marelag-Milag Nord prison camp (red dot on map) which was near Tarmstedt (just above the red dot). The camp had been used to hold captured Merchant Navy seamen. In early February 1945 the Merchant Navy seamen were to be evacuated and they assumed that the camp was to be used to house German troops.  Consequently in order to deny the Germans any comfort in the camp the Merchant Navy men went on a wave of destruction and wrecked the camp. The camp had previously been declared as unfit and unsanitary by representatives of the Red Cross, and was even more so after the vandalizing of the camp by the departing Merchant Navy seamen.