16 years old - My first seafaring days.

It was summer again and school was over for a few months.

I registered at the seamen's exchange and then I tried my hand as a delivery boy. I liked the shop girls but not the shop managers. I soon got a call from the seaman's exchange. I became hired as a Jungman-Cook on a 114 tonne coastal freighter.

My quarters smelled a bit musty as I entered. No problem, just open the window – porthole – for ventilation. I did and it soon felt a bit fresher in the cabin. We left harbour destined for Gotland island in the Baltic Sea. There was little wind but the bow took the odd dip into the waves. 

“I saw you opened the porthole, did you seal it well when you closed it?”

I had not sealed the porthole. The water was squirting in over my bed, over and over. I tried using a pipe wrench on the screws but couldn't close the porthole while at sea. Later... 

I slept on the floor that first night. Or, more accurately, I passed out on the floor. I was exhausted. This was not a pleasure ride for me among friends on a trawler, this was the real thing, a working ship.

My photo from 1956

The work routine at sea was four hours on, four hours off, twelve hours of work each 24 hours. It was taxing on my body and soul, to say the least. Our capacity was about the same as five highway trailers. These coastal vessels were gone a few years later, replaced by, you guessed it, highway trucks.

Not yet, though. We loaded lime stone, destined for a glass factory on the west coast of Sweden, about a five day trip away. First we laid high in the water. Then, he loader started rumbling – and stopped a few minutes later. We were loaded almost to the deck-line. The cargo room cover was sealed to be absolutely water tight. 

My cabin porthole had been disassembled and properly closed by now, with strong instructions to never open it again, ever.

We were a crew of four. I, at age 16, was the jungman – cook with double duties. Had I cooked anything before? Noooo, I don't recall. I managed to prepare pork chops and boiled potatoes the first day. Then I found printed instructions on the wall so I was on my way. In truth, I never did as much cooking as I was supposed to. I was often too seasick. - My curse?

With my first loading complete, we set out at night. I stood to watch. It was pitch dark There was a bow lantern on the foredeck. The compass waved a little and a thin line on the radar was spinning for me to see nearby ships.

The sea got worse. Then it got scary. We hit a wave, the bow went down, down, down. The deck got covered in water and the bow lantern dimmed. We are sailing to the bottom, we are all going to drown now. I was alone by the wheel, what to I do? Call an alarm? Abandon ship? Then, slowly, slowly we started to rise again, the deck reappeared and the bow lantern lit up.

We are saved. This repeated every few minutes - all ships do this.

That was my first introduction to sea, putting all of my trawler experiences to shame. I didn't feel well in heavy sea but still had take my turn at the helm. I learned to tie the steering wheel with a rope, quickly dive out and puke over the railing, then just as fast return and put the ship back on course. It was a bit scary, the railing was low and really low to the water if the ship rolled that way.

I stayed on for a couple of months. My seasickness came and went. But I felt I was a useful crew member. I even cooked at times. The skipper owned the boat. The other two crew members were grizzled sailors, this was their life. They usually had a young boy as a helper. I was that “young boy”.

We did a few lime stone trips, heavily laden one way, empty and bouncing as a cork on the way back, equally uncomfortable. The vessel was scheduled for service at the end of the summer. I was laid off and returned home.

M/S Oden served for a total of 100 years
until it sank in January 2016.

........................

The summer wasn't quite over yet. I again took to being a delivery boy. I did earn some more money and even earned tip at times.

I am 16, I want my own moped. A used one cost 214 kronor. I only had 204 kronor. I asked my mother. She was at the end of her unpaid summer leave as a teacher and had no money to spare, not even 10 kronor. I borrowed them from a friend.

Victoria 49 cc moped, model 1954

The moped was grand, or not. All mopeds shared one common feature, the top speed. It was strictly regulated, woe the moped driver that made it go faster than 30 km/h.

There would be police controls here and there. A policeman would stand a little to the side and use a watch to time our speed between two painted lines. If you were caught, you had to go back to the shop, reset whatever you had done to make it go too fast and report for a test.

I was now a full member of a not-so-exclusive group, teenagers with mopeds. We were noisy, didn't walk if we could drive, and always made sure we cold be heard. My moped soon had a few well placed holes in the muffler, maximizing the exhaust sound. 

I partook in many wild biking adventures, both during daylight and after dark. The light was weak and I had my share of running into bumps and potholes after dark, jarring me and, worse, the side mounted engine.

After my third repair of the engine mounts, I ended my night driving on unseen roads. Then, catastrophe, the drive shaft broke off. I walked home. Money for repairs? No, none. The welding shop? The master welder had a look at my sad machine – brought out a welding machine and started his repair.

"Look out for the fuel tank just above your welding torch?" 

“What fuel tank?”

Some grease caught fire and the flames were licking the bottom of the tank. I had, fortunately, positioned myself with a fire extinguisher nearby. A squirt of powder and the fire was out – but my moped was now sooty and as undriveable as ever.

I took it to the mechanical shop next door, they helped me wash off all grease and empty the fuel tank. After that my careless welder could finish the job. My moped ran again. It served me well for another couple of years. Then I sold it to a friend.

.........................

Military service is obligatory for all young Swedish men, most have to start at age 19.

You could choose where to go if you volunteered early. That fall, at 16, I volunteered for military service as a pilot-to-be. I was called in for the mandatory written test and doctor's exam. I had never seen a multiple answer questionnaire in my life and wrote in my own answers, so much clearer than the multiple check-boxes.

I failed that test.

As for the physical, I had volunteered only so that I could be a Saab Tunnan J-29 pilot, anything less was beneath me. The eye doctor held up my eyeglasses to the light and said:

“You will never fly.”

Oh no, my military career is over. Then a man in the group of inspectors looked up.

“You are Sten Rosholm's nephew, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“You are already enrolled, you will report to the I-11 infantry regiment next April. - We have problem, though, you are under-weight, eat well this winter."

Little did I know that my uncle, still active in the army, had pulled a few strings behind my back. I was, indeed, already on the rolls but still had to pass the inspection. As for my failed written test, I learned, years later, that it had been deemed “faulty” and was not recorded.

Wow, I am going to the army, carry a uniform and be the pet of all women.

............................

April was still many months away. School became a dread and I finally dropped out in February. I started on a new career, errand boy and oil-container filler at the Reymersholm edible oil factory.

My tool of the trade was a very heavy transport bicycle.

This one strengthened my legs. As for my upper body strength, I was placed by a machine to fill 10 liter cooking oil cans. The packaging part of the factory was quite an enjoyable place for me. The majority of the staff were women, running the processing and filling machines. Some were quite crude, I learned a bit more of the inner workings of the Swedish language.

This operation was on the 5^th floor of the building 
with the flag on top.

The elevators were very temperamental and easily made to stop anywhere. The most extreme activity I came to see, from looking down the open shaft, was when a couple had intercourse on grain sacks with the elevator disabled between two floors. They were cheered on their reappearance. Perhaps they didn't realize that you could look down from the top floor or they didn't care?

Ironically, This 5th floor facility caught fire and totally burnt out just before I reported for summer work a few years later. One of my first assignments was to help dismantling the burnt and shriveled up oil filling machines.

April approached and it was time to start a new phase of my life, the military.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

My seafaring career continued after my military service. You can read about how I sailed around the world before my 20th birthday here:

https://myseafaringdays.blogspot.ca/

If you'd like to learn more about my uncle Sten, "The fighter pilot who won his first dog-fight and lost his war.", click here.

https://swedishfighterpilot.blogspot.ca/

Photo credits: Some are my own, other are stock photos from Google.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx


If you'd like to read even more about a lot of adventurs, please buy my memoirs here:

https://www.amazon.ca/Seasons-Man-Lindvall-family-friends-ebook/dp/B07HHGRGPP

15 years old - I lost my virginity

I was 15

Our two-week spring break was in February, during a real, rather seldom occurring, cold spell. Even Karlshamn, on the coast, recorded – 20 C.

I visited the neighbours of my late father's cottage. This is where I had been a truly happy foster child, living on a real farm around the time of my parent's divorce. I had started grade school there and still had many friends in the area.

One evening we went to a party. A couple of the older boys had cars and we arrived in great style. The party was a great success and all felt good as we were about to leave, long after midnight.

Not so fast, it was – 25 C and no car could be started. There was no taxi to be had in the forest at that hour so we all took off walking in different directions. I warmed my hands inside Solveig's coat, followed her into her parent's kitchen to warm up and, with a little encouragement, proceeded to undress. A large brown dog was watching us. Her parents were sleeping in the room next to the kitchen.

Sparing you the details, all went well on top of the wood storage box next to the warm stove. Continuing home to my foster parents place the world looked all different. I was now a man, the stars were brighter and closer than ever. I was on top of the world. The cold? It was the coldest walk of my young life until then but why care?

Solveig and I never met again. She took ill with Leukemia a few months later and was soon gone. She forever has a place in my heart. I sometimes put a flower on her grave when passing by.

On the good side, my childhood friend and grade school classmate Sonja, also in that party but walking home with a different boy that night, is still very much alive. We talk on the phone now and then and try to meet whenever I am in Sweden.

.............

My late father's fiancee, Sandra, had a cottage in town so we met quite often. She had talked to a farmer she met on a train and promised my services, 15 year old, as farmhand for the summer.

The farm was located far north of my home. The summer nights never got dark. I worked long hours, building fences, tending to the cows and calves, feeding the chickens, collecting eggs from the hens and just being available. The farm life was invigorating for me, reliving so many experiences from when I was just a little kid at my foster home, also on a farm, many years earlier.

Peugeot standard 1955

The farmer and his wife were very cheap, the farm was not theirs but leased. He drove a special extra inexpensive farm edition French made Peugeot car. It had hammocks for seats, not a smidgen of insulation and in gray matte paint. It was also equipped to run on an extra tank with un-taxed kerosene, very illegal.

The smell of the exhaust was very telling. You just couldn't drive into a city on kerosene, you had to switch over to gasoline first. My farmer boss forgot that one day, we were stopped by the police and he had to go to the local fire station for an inspection.

The mechanic pinched the kerosene supply pipe with a set of pliers. Adjustment completed. - Back to the police station for confirmation. My farmer didn't get a ticket but was muttering all the way home. To put a new pipe to the kerosene tank was a five minute job, then the car smelled as bad as ever.

There was also an old tractor? I got a 15 second instruction session on how to shift gears.

Farmall 1946

"Here is the field, you are to turn the hay with this rake."

It was scary but I got going and didn't break the rake or tip the tractor. It was hot and I suffered from the heat. I took a break to fetch some water from the creek. 

How could I know that the parking brake didn't work? I saw, from the corner of my eye, how the tractor slowly rolled away. Quickly, stop the damned thing. I managed to jump back on in time to stomp on the brake. That ditch was awfully close.

My instructions didn't include how to stop the engine. There was no key but probably a switch somewhere, but where. At lunch time, I left it idling in the field.

Lacking a parking brake, I put logs in front of and behind the large wheels at lunch-time. The idling engine was very noisy so I walked quite far away to enjoy my sun-burned milk and sandwiches in calmer surroundings. Then I saw from a distance how the engine started smoking precipitously. I didn't think much of it. Just burning a bit of oil? Then the smoke, or more correctly, steam, started to subside and I realized what had happened, it had boiled off all the water in the radiator.

I must stop the engine now, but how?

I stepped on the brake, put it in top gear and left out the clutch. This probably broke about all the rules in the book on how to treat an old tractor.

The fan belt was broken and lying on the ground. I was stranded on a field a long way from home. The belt had been held together with a piece of wire. True, there was more wire in the tool box. I mended the fan belt, got water for the radiator from the creek and started again.

I felt rather proud of my mechanical abilities.

It took a couple of days until I added to the story of how I fixed the belt about how I had stopped the engine. The farmer almost hit me on the spot. After that I didn't drive the tractor unsupervised.

In retro-respect, any living farm boy, farm girl, farmer or farmhand can tell about how terribly dangerous a three wheel tractor can be. I was lucky I didn't tip it.

The next time I gathered hay I had a horse. The wasps were everywhere. The horse was thirsty and tired – and on the way home he got stung by several wasps simultaneously. 

The horse panicked and took off. 

He calmed down before anything really bad happened, like meeting a car. I hung on for life and didn't fall off but the rake didn't fare so well, one wheel wasn't round any more. This time the farmer didn't get angry at me. After dinner, he produced a welding torch and a sledge hammer. The wheel was soon made round again.

Sure, I worked far harder than I ever had, but so did everyone else on the farm. The bull was unpredictable but could be led if you held on to his nose ring. This ring had a short piece of wire wound around it. Once, the bull threw his head up, the wire got caught and ripped into my hand. It bled profusely and the farmer's wife put on Iodine, that hurt, and tied my hand and finger tight. I didn't sleep that night. The next day we were spreading fertilizer and I was assigned to off-load the 50 kg sacks. Needless to say, the sore in my hand opened up. The hand had swelled precociously over night and started to bleed again.

Time for another ride in his car, this time to the hospital.

By now I had an infection. The doctor at the hospital gave the farmer hell for not taking me in the day before. I stayed in the ward overnight and returned the next day with a few stitches and a huge bandage on my hand.

I didn't have to lift any heavy bags for the next few days, nor did I have to clean up around the bull. The scars are still visible.

The summer had its real bonuses too. The farmer's daughter, my age, had a multitude of friends. We went to several barn dances together. The life with the girls and their friends had been good and I had very mixed feelings about leaving as the summer drew to an end. 

The meals were carefully metered out to each of us at the table. I did ask for an egg once, but was told that each of us were only allowed one egg per person per day. I had already had mine, she had baked some sponge cake that day. I never saw an egg on the table. I had lost a bit of weight but perhaps gained some muscles too. I weighed 50 kg when I returned home, 110 lbs.

There had been a previous agreement on how much I would be paid. I had very little money when I arrived and that was soon gone. I asked for an advance but was told that they never had any cash in the house.

The day of departure arrived. I had my return ticket for the train fare. We left for the railroad station just after sunrise, before breakfast. When we stepped out of the car, I asked if he was going to pay me now.

“No, I am not going to pay you anything, you have eaten too much and not worked hard enough.”

I stepped on the train for a seven-hour trip with two changes of train without a single penny in my pocket.

I was sooo hungry.

In the middle of the afternoon I sat facing a young lady. She opened her lunch bag and put down three hard bread (Knäckebröd) sandwiches on the little table between us.

She looked at me and said: “You look hungry, would you like to have on of these?”

“Yes, thank you.”

To this day, that is the best sandwich I've had, ever.

I can still feel the movement of the train, the draft from the open window, the taste of the lukewarm water and – feel the crunch as I bit into the hard bread with a slice of cheese on top.

My mother got angry when we met, I was so skinny that my clothes were practically falling off me. Now I know. Hard work and too little food will make you lose weight. No harm had befallen me, but I did get a little suspicious of employers who don't pay.

.................

I faced one more winter of failing school, not doing any home work, and feeling generally rotten in the academic department.

My life was pretty good, otherwise. We had moved to a larger apartment and I had my own room again. I soon built a little laboratory, complete with a low voltage supply for my electronic experiments and a bunsen burner, fed from a gas bottle well hidden under the table.

The gas bottle? It had a broken valve when I “released” it from the school scrap heap. I washed off the bottle, then went to the hardware store for a propane refill. The clerk took pity on my broken valve and replaced it for free.

Crystal radio from kit

I built a radio receiver from a kit, then a tone generator. Those two, and a pair of earphones, allowed me to practice Morse code. I became quite good at transmitting code, but receiving from the radio was much harder.

................

Model airplanes? Of course, lots of them, both in balsa and in plastic. The balsa models all flew.

The largest was a soaring plane, over one metre between the wingtips. 

One day the plane got up into an updraft and continued up and up and away. I bicycled after it as a mad man, waiting for it to come down again. It flew away, nowhere to be seen. I got a call late that evening, a farmer had found it on his hay-field, safe and sound with my name and telephone number on the side.

That big plane came to an inglorious ending, It was run over by a train. Yes, one day it landed on the track in front of a train at full speed. I don't know if the engineer saw it or not. I could only pick up the pieces and call it quits. No repair was possible.

My model airplane era was over.

......................

My sister, soon to be diagnosed with mental illness, could be uncontrollably angry and throw whatever was near at me. She deeply resented me in her life, calling me “the suckling pig”, probably in reference to the fact that I spent time with mother too. I felt more and more like I was in the wrong place.

We lived in an apartment on the property of my grandfather. I helped a lot, shoveling snow in the winter, sweeping the sidewalk, mowing the grass, shoveling the coal and generally doing small chores. The garden was wonderful with berries, apple, plum and pear trees. It was enclosed on all sides and relatively wind free, greatly extending our season.

Lou-Lou, our Cocker-Spaniel, was in heaven. She took to chasing squirrels and birds, and just about everything that moved, usually in futility. She had a bad habit to snap after flies and bees.

One day she got a bee that stung her on the base of the tongue. She almost suffocated as her throat swelled closed. We carried her up to our neighbour, a family doctor.

This all played out within a few short minutes. He took one look at the dog, stuck a tongue extender in her mouth, reached for his medicine cabinet and gave her an antihistamine injection. His quick actions as an impromptu veterinarian saved the life of our dog. Lou-Lou never snapped after flies or bees after that day.

My uncle Sten, my mother's eldest brother, the ex fighter pilot, visited often.

He, by default, became my substitute father, a man to look up at and to emulate. He was a well read and well traveled man. I got many tips from him about life and the rough and tumble world out there.

He introduced me to the civil defense and later to the volunteer army (FBU). It was fun, I got to operate radio sets, telephone exchanges, play with big guns and even shoot some. Also, we regularly had military exercises with the woman's auxiliary, not bad company.

Me in charge of a communications group.

My uncle, living in Karlskrona, usually showed up in a gray painted military vehicle, a Karmann Ghia.

Karmann Ghia 1955 in military gray.

In what? A military sports car? Yes, the Swedish forces had a standing contract with Volkswagen to supply “x” number of vehicles per year. VW had decided to ship some of their sports cars too. I suppose all officers, Captain Rosholm included, quite enjoyed them.

.....................

We were to get a new railroad station in a couple of years. The grounds preparations were in full swing. I made friends with one of the Caterpillar tractor operators. I was soon driving that tractor on my own.

My photograph

That, as so many adventures of mine, ended with a bang, or at least with a squirt.

The operator, a young Finnish man, had a liking for the bottle. One day, under the influence, he took the little Caterpillar D-4 too far. It sunk in the mud and he used the blade to lift it up. It didn't work at first so he jerked the mechanism even harder.

Finally a hydraulic hose split open. He wasn't quick enough in his reactions so the tank emptied and the hydraulic pump seized. The tractor was pulled back to terra firma by an even larger tractor.

He was fired the next day.

I had lost an interesting friend, or at least a friend who had an interesting machine.

................

School was terrible and I was, again, destined for remedial classes at the beginning of next semester.

Spring time ended and summer arrived. I turned 16.

For more about that year, click here:

http://ayoungboysjourney.blogspot.ca/2017/04/growing-up-16-years-old.html

--------------------
If you want to read my memors, "The seasons of Man", buy the book here:


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17 - 18 years old. In the army

I was enrolled in the army. April arrived and it was time to start my army career. I cleaned my room and prepared it to be empty for a long time. 

I took an early train and proudly showed off my military issue ticket. The conductor looked at it and said,

“You are too young for all of that – go back home to mother.”

I may have been too young, but not the youngest. The youngest recruit, Rune Johansson, had the cot above mine. He was one day younger. 

Millions of young men have joined the army over thousands of years, all have probably had about the same experiences. When taught how to say “Attention” with the right intonation, I tried it the way it had been written in comic books, in a very soft and flat voice. That was the first time – of many, many - when I, out of innocence and lack of life skills, drew laughter.

As new recruits, representing the king and the country, we weren't trusted to leave the lodgings for the first four weeks. The indoctrination was incessant. One important activity for all infantry soldiers was to take cover on the ground. I tried to argue with the officer:

“But it's wet.”

“Get down.”

“Now I am wet.”

“Yes, and so you will be for the rest of the day.” - I was wet and cold.

........................

The bathrooms had no privacy at all and the mandatory morning – and sometimes evening – showers had only a choice of one temperature, cold. The regiment, about 200 years old at this time, housed about 1,000 young men, most between 17 and 21 years old. We were divided between four 1912 vintage brick buildings. I, and all the other 23 in my dorm, had enrolled as aspirants, NCO material with a chance to continue to become an officer. (Only one did become an officer, eventually.)

........................

The shooting lessons started immediately. That was the easiest to grasp of all the activities we had to learn. My past shooting experiences made me pass every test with flying colours. 

Not so my academic record. A call on one of the first mornings:

“How many do not have a High school graduation diploma? Hands up.”

All of us who held up our hands, me included, were in the stupid group. We had to take two mandatory evenings of classes every week. If that wasn't enough we also had one weekly military evening exercise, usually after dark.

My body protested and I was totally exhausted at first. I slept all I could when not on duty. I even learned to have lunch and then sleep 15 minutes before the afternoon lineup. My slightly underweight and not very well-trained body really took a beating. I was clearly the weakest in the group. That didn't exclude me from anything, except from carrying the assembled machine gun in the field.

......................

The exercise grounds were opened as a park for the public on weekends. You'd occasionally run across civilians exercising, biking or just walking. 

I met a girl, my age, pushing a baby in a carriage. We struck up a conversation and I learned where she had just been, in a home for unmarried women in Karlshamn. That was our common point for the beginning of a short but intense relationship. We used to meet Saturdays and Sundays for a walk in the park, pushing her baby. We could hide away in the park, finding privacy in the forested area, and even share a cup of cocoa at the military canteen when it was open for civilians on weekends. 

I always used a condom. No babies for me.

That was good for my status – I had a girlfriend and a baby, at 16! 

I basked in my newfound status for as long as it lasted. She got a new boyfriend later that summer and disappeared from my life.

...............

Eventually, all of us, new recruits, were allowed to go home. We were strongly encouraged to wear our uniforms in private too. I travelled home on the train, proud, in my fresh uniform. Since every young man eventually had to serve his time, there was absolutely no stigma attached to the uniform. I often went to the public dances dressed in uniform.

...................

Even though we were infantry, foot soldiers, we were expected how to drive many military vehicles, up to a five-tonne truck. This was the summer when I got my driver's license, at age 17, far too young by Swedish law.

We started out with one instructor and four pupils in a large passenger car. I happened to be the first driver. 100 metres from the front entrance a young lady on a bicycle crossed the road right in front of us.

I immediately stomped down the clutch and the brake, something no untrained driver would do. The lady gave me a casual look and continued as if nothing had happened. Then I put the gear shifter back in first gear to continue.

“Stop. You already know how to drive, no more training for you.”

My father's driver training when I was 13 had paid off. The instructor threatened to report me to the police and I got no more driving instructions.

I was sweating bullets the day we were to pass our practical exam before a state inspector. I passed without any comments.

Ironically enough, the very official and real driver's license I received, covering both trucks, cars and motorcycles said, with very small letters on the bottom; “Only for military vehicles.” I didn't always follow that rule. I was stopped in a routine control once, It was dark and the policeman, reading my license with a flashlight, said nothing and returned it to me. 

Now I knew, my not-yet-valid license was legal in the dark.

The military training was intense and we traveled wide and far to partake in various military exercises. 

One week was for learning how to handle explosives. We blew up so many things. An old bridge, steel bars, made trenches, and used up lots of different explosives. The scariest exercise was how to enter a house, not through the doors, but by blowing new holes in the walls.

All went well to the end. Our ears were still aching from a week's full of explosions on Saturday morning. All left was to clear up and collect all the remaining explosives for disposal.

As you can well imagine, we couldn't bring any left-over explosives back to the barracks. They all had to be blown up. As it happened, a farmer living nearby had asked us if we could straighten his road. That would be great for using up our leftovers.

The main obstacle was a man-high boulder. We used all our newly learned skills and placed many charges in well-chosen places. With an hour to go until the weekend started, we set it off.

The explosion was well muffled and we felt rather good about the whole affair until we walked back for an inspection. Deem of our surprise, the boulder was blown to smithereens and there was a metre-deep gouge in the road.

No going home until we had brought out our military mini-shovels and filled the hole again, making it into a perfect roadbed. That little task took us several hours. I got home very late that Saturday.

I spent a total of 21 months in the military. At the end of year one, we were all promoted to corporal. Our first year had been mandatory, anything beyond that would be as an employee.

Corporal 214 Lindvall, I-11 infantry regiment, June 1958

The salary was by all measures considered to be too great, that it would give young men a disincentive to continue their education. Needless to say, considering what other options I had, I signed up.

On return after a short break, we were now assigned to be room supervisors for the newly drafted recruits. I was assigned to a room with a group of soldiers destined for the field artillery.

These young men were all selected for their great physical strength, cannon are heavy beasts to move around. Here I was, little scrawny me among some of the strongest young men in the country. 

I almost trembled with fear as I approached my new duty as a room supervisor. Much to my pleasure, I found out that almost all of these guys, all burly farm boys, were warm and kind.

At least one had brought a present, or two, for us all to share. Bedbugs and lice. We were all scratching during the day and as the nights went by more and more of us woke up with bloody bites in the morning.

This called for disinfection, military-style. Everything was emptied out, all our bedding was turned into the laundry and we had to sit down and pick louse out of our loose gear.

All of us had to go the sauna together and put on newly washed clothes as we came out.

The mattresses were a different issue. We all had straw mattresses. They were all emptied in a big pile in the yard and set afire. The wind picked up and our straw-fire shot high. 

The city fire department arrived, looking for the source of all the smoke and cinders, but soon left.

............

Every man in "the service" knows about many surprises that come your way, you are drafted young while your minds are still not fully formed. Then it is easier to turn you into a trained killing machine.

The Swedish army had been in a shooting war since 1812 so you cannot exactly say that we had any deep traditions of warfare to draw from.

Our officers were, as all officers are, trained by the book, learning from all the wars of recent times. That may not have transported very well to our days. 

We were taught how to dig a trench and a deep shelter, WW1 style. That was quite an exercise. The shelter was to be built on an artillery shooting range. 

First, we got a briefing from the disposal group on how well they had searched our little piece of land to assure us that there was no unexploded munition from any earlier exercise. 

Then we proceeded to chop down some good size trees, prepared them, and erected a shelter frame from the logs some 6 metres underground. That deep hole took several days to finish.

In total, we were over a hundred young men working on this labour of love. Our shelter was backfilled and ready to show off about a week later. 

A general and some of his staff came by, they climbed down and inspected it all.

"Good work, now show how good it is."

A day later a heavy howitzer was put in place and a few shells were lobbied off on a very reduced propellant charge. They were clustered such that at least one would go off over or near our shelter.

Our whole regiment, probably a thousand men were standing on a hillside about a kilometre away. This was a frightening spectacle. To see a war movie was nothing like seeing real artillery so close up.

The artillery controller reported that all missiles had exploded, there were no duds lying about. We were free to return for inspection.

Our so neatly constructed shelter was now a shambles, it had taken an artillery hit a few metres away. The entranceway was almost filled in but the basic shelter, large enough for a dozen men, still stood.

This concluded the experiment, we learned. This was an exercise to prove that the field manual was workable. I still don't know why we did all the work, I have since seen dozens of drawing for WW 1 shelters, built by both sides.
.....................

We had one exercise when we were to shoot and dynamite our way into a house.

That is quite a story. I have written a short article for the Toronto Star about that. The link is at the end of this story.

......................................

I served only a few years after the end of the last world war. Sweden still had huge stores of war materials. Lots of it was aging out and had to be disposed of soon.

One item of which we had a practically unlimited supply of was small arms ammunition. Every time we went out for a shooting exercise, the stores-boys included an extra box.

The net result was that we were, in truth, encouraged to shoot as many bullets as we could in any given exercise. We practiced with our 6.5 mm model 1896 Mauser rifles until our shoulders ached, but many became really good at sharpshooting, me included.

The other regulation sidearm was a submachine gun, Karl Gustav model 1945. Now, you cannot really do any precision shooting over 100 metres with a nine mm bullet, but they were effective at closer range.

Remember, this was in very disciplined military training so not a shot was fired that could endanger any of us. Still, instead of shooting a short burst, nobody cared if a 36-round magazine was emptied in a few seconds, we had more boxes nearby.

Shooting with the pistol, we soon learned what a ridiculous weapon that is. You would have to be really lucky to hit anything smaller than a barn door at ten metres.

I did well in shooting and even got a prize for being really good with a pistol. Go figure.

In truth, I think that all that shooting gave all of us a very real respect for guns. In truth, I have never even put the tip of my little finger on a gun since I left the army. I fear what a gun can do.

Still, the law applied. The guy who brought one submachine gun and ammunition home to his father's farm didn't fare well. He had gone out in the forest on a quiet Sunday and done some target shooting on his own.

The local constabulary showed up. He was court marshaled and spent some time in military jail.

Ironically enough, he was in the slammer at the same time as our platoon did guard duty.

We weren't nice to him. Poor guy.

All of us had to have two weeks of some rudimentary first aid instruction, not as in-depth as the medics but still very educational. The lessons learned there have served me well in life.

This included the worst I have ever seen; The shooting of a pig.

A newly slaughtered pig, still steaming warm, was brought in from a nearby abattoir and laid on a platform for us all to see. We were about 100 in the room.

We got some education on the anatomy of a pig and then we were to see this demonstration.

An officer produced a 9 mm submachine gun and shot the pig in three places.

We reacted differently. One fainted. several threw up right then and there. I remember standing frozen in my place.

The whole scene imprinted in my memory so well that I sometimes relive it in my nightmares, over 60 years later. 

Why we had to see this goes beyond my understanding. Perhaps we had a particularly ambitious officer who arranged this. I have never met a Swede who has seen this demonstration. In any case, here was a good reason not to shoot a living being, your organs split open...(!)

''''''''''''''''''''''''
The Swedish army had some 100,000 recruits at any one time, our field exercises were grand with huge troop movements closely scheduled and organized. We, the soldiers didn't know or understand much, our job was to follow orders.

- To travel all night on the flatbed of a truck, stop and set camp in the rain.

- To bring out our fording boats and cross a minor river. It seemed that at least one of us would fall in the water and have to be hauled out, totally soaked.

- To stand guard, to stand guard a little more and then stand guard again...

- To march through the dark forest, soaking wet in the rain.

- To be on patrol at night, forbidden to be near a road or a fence, when the only sure path was to follow a creek. The best way not to lose the creek was to walk in it.

Sometimes our wonderful 20-person tents with a good size stove didn't make it. At those times we had to sleep on branches, wrapped up in our greatcoats. A soldier's best friend is not always his weapon, for us, it was the greatcoat and the green raincoat. 

Did I say that it rained and we were all wet and cold?

No, that is not true, we had some summer excursions in warm and dry weather, a true delight, and times to remember when the fog or the wet snow surrounded us.

Swedish winters have snow and cold. Swedish soldiers have to be taught how to fight in snow and cold.

The whole regiment, some 1,000 of us, were sent north, to near the arctic circle for winter training.

It was hard for us southerners, not really accustomed to skiing all day long. The comfort of having tractor-drawn trailers with our heavy gear wasn't available in deep snow. We weren't just skiing, we had to pull sleds with our gear.

All told, it was a great experience and we were less cold than one would imagine, dressed in white fur coats and fur hats. Sure, standing on guard was tough but somewhat relieved by the huge military issue straw overshoes.

The most memorable events, of many, were the 20-hour train trips coming and going. Alcohol was strictly forbidden, of course, but many had field flasks filled with vodka instead of water. Many arrived at the end station with quite a bit of hangover.

On the return to our barracks in Växjö we had to change trains. We got off around 2 am and lined up on the platform waiting for our chartered train to take us the last hour-long trip.

No train, nothing.

Finally, two bus-sized day liners chowed up. It was minus 20 C and the insides were just as cold. If there is a record for how many soldiers you could load into a day liner, we broke it, practically sitting on top of each other.

On arrival to Växjö, we still had a few kilometres to walk. Deem of our horror when we approached the barracks, the window in our dorm was wide open, and had been open for almost a month.

The heater had frozen but not burst. We had no choice but to lie down to find some sleep as best we could. I remember sleeping in the corridor, it was just a little bit warmer there.

It took a couple of days for our dorm to emerge from its deep freeze, once the plumber had been in and thawed the frozen copper supply pipe with a welding torch. Thank heaven for copper pipes, they don't always crack open when they freeze.

................

I may have had a somewhat skinny body, but there was nothing wrong with my lungs. There was really only one activity, other than target shooting, where I excelled. - Riding a bicycle. You carry yourself and the appointed amount of gear and - off you go.

We had occasional 80 km marches, they were tough but I always stayed with my troop. After all the speed was constant, three to five kilometres per hour, depending on weather and the amount of gear carried.

The bicycle races were different. You still had a lot of gear but the speed was yours to set. Of course, the winner was always a true athlete. But - eight or ten hours on a bike sorted out many. I was never fast but I just kept going. Once I was No. three of 1,000 cyclists on a day-long ride. 

That was probably the proudest moment in my short military career. I can still bicycle quite far.

But, once, the bicycle may have become the beginning to the end of my military service.

A very efficient way to move troops fast and without tiring them out is to tow them. 20 soldiers, or so, each held on to a rope, normally towed by a tractor at about 30 km/h. With a bit of practice, you learned to hang on uphill and brake downhill, never letting the tow rope go slack.

That was not always easy if you were towed by a Jeep. It had far less power and the driver needed to shift gears now and then to keep the speed up. Also, a Jeep didn't have a speed governor and could really take off downhill.

Combine all that and you can visualize the rest. We came over a hilltop and the Jeep speeded up downhill. The driver took the foot off the accelerator to shift gears and - the tow rope slacked momentarily. Once the engine was engaged again the tow rope snapped up, lifting several bikes off the ground.

The resulting pile-up included at least two totally destroyed bicycles, two men with broken arms, several others had been severely scratched and were bleeding.

I dug myself out from under the heap and - couldn't walk. My knee had been scraped naked, clear to the bone. I still carry the scar.

The two guys with broken arms were back with their comrades the next day, I had to stay in the military hospital for a few days after my skin graft. I was still not a good walker and had to participate as an observer for a couple of weeks. 

This was a terrible time. I may not have been the most enthusiastic solder of all, but I still liked to be part of the troop. 

Now I was a nobody, unable to keep up. I had to sleep with the kitchen crew. Nice as they were, I wasn't one of them. I don't think that I have ever been depressed in my entire life, neither before nor after, but walking around, just looking, mostly alone, in the cold fall rain was not a happy time.

I applied for an honorable discharge. It was granted.

.....................

Here is the story about the house attack that I mentioned earlier: 

https://ayoungboysjourney.blogspot.com/2021/12/the-lost-weapon.html

..................................


Once back in Karlshamn I was employed to pump gas from the first day home. That first day a customer came in that was, unbelievable but true, my ex-commanding officer.

"Bengt, you made a bad choice, you would have done so much better in the army."

I didn't know then, it still took a few years for that to be true but I learned a lot more, soon.

If you are interested, you can read about how I sailed around the globe before my 20th birthday here:

http://attvaxaupp.blogspot.ca/2017/05/bengt-19.html

19 - I sailed around the globe

Was I a slow learner, or?


I turned 19. My army days were over. I no more had to be wet, cold and miserable, stay up all night or sleep in the open.

Corporal 214 Lindvall, I-11 Infantry Regiment

What next? I had registered at the Karlshamn's seaman's exchange in Sweden in the spring of 1959 and I was ready for a bigger world, to go to sea. And, sure enough, I never had to sleep in the open on a job again.

Cargo ships entered and left the harbour every day. Would I ever get a call? Then, one Saturday morning the phone rang early. "There is a ship in harbour that needs an apprentice engine man. Will you take the job?"

Did I want to? Yes, yes, yes!

That became one of the craziest mornings of my young life. I met the boss of the service station where I worked. I spoke fast and soon convinced him to release me on the spot, I was destined for greater horizons.

Next, I got a doctor's certificate signed and legal for duty. I even made a quick run to the harbour to see the ship from a distance - she looked bigger than most, encouraging. My old car was put in a corner of the back yard and I took a taxi to the boat before its departure at one o'clock.

Sailing under the Sandö bridge, Sweden in 1959. I'm on it.


The ship, M/S Guyana, built 1948 and registered in Sweden, was a 10 000 tonne dry cargo line ship with a crew of 42, usually running only on the Europe - South America trade. But, that was not to be for my time on it. More to come.

The ship's engines started. We moved away from the wharf - and I left my home town one more time, this time for the longest journey so far, not returning for a full year. The first trip was short, to Stockholm where I arrived as a sailor boy!

Quite by chance my mother was in Stockholm for a conference. She entertained me to dinner and a visit to the Opera, quite an introduction to harbour visits for me. I learned later on about more common harbour visit experiences, without mother.

It was time to load up with Swedish products for the export trade, but first a visit to a shipyard for the annual check up and bottom painting. The ship yard was near Luleå in the far north of Sweden, surrounded by the immense dark forests of the north. It was midsummer and the sun may have set but it never got dark.

Many girls came to visit the ship during our shipyard stay. Some stayed overnight. One girl was determined to make love to the entire crew before she left again. I know for sure that she didn't succeed because I didn't open my cabin door that night.

In the drydock we also performed much maintenance of our own. I was assigned to assist with overhauling a diesel engine powered fire pump at the very bottom of the ship, near the rear end of the propeller shaft.

.


Ship in drydock

After a couple of days of my work, the little diesel engine had to be tested . It didn't light up easily. Finally I decided to give it my very best. I took a good stand, brazed myself in a corner - and pulled on the crank with all my might. The engine started and released the crank. It swung upwards in an arch, hitting me in the face just below my left eye.

My glasses may have been shatterproof but they didn't stand up against that strike.

I struggled back into the engine room, hands over my face and blood running down my shirt. The first officer just about fainted on the spot.

“I'm OK, nothing wrong with me, let me just wash my face.” I said, probably in shock, as I realized that I could still see.

Well, the glass may not have been clean and the next morning the left side of my face had swollen precipitously and I was bleeding again. This meant a trip to the hospital to stem the blood, pick out scores of glass shards and get my cut cleaned with Iodine and sown up. Oh, that hurt.

The scar is still in my face, but gravity has moved it down about 15 millimetres in 55 years.

I contacted some friends who were studying in this area, far away from our home town. It was midsummer and the whole countryside was full of music as the Swedes celebrated the longest day of the year.

I borrowed a motorcycle from one of the yard workers and I and my best friend from home, a student here, went out exploring the midsummer eve scene. We stopped at a dance. I danced with a pretty girl and just about ended up in a fight with a burly farm boy. Wrong girl, or at least the wrong boyfriend for my safety. - "Quick, let's get back on the motorbike and move on to the next place."

Eventually the ship moved out of the shipyard to a neighbouring port. It soon laid low in the water, loaded down with thousands of tonnes of Swedish paper products.

Our last Swedish port was Gothenburg, the gateway to the oceans, the beginning and end port for so many seafaring trips. I bought a new radio - the big world needs more receiving power to be heard by me! This portable radio also had a built in record player, most unique for its time.

We left Sweden in the middle of the night - out to the big world that is waiting. I stood on deck, mesmerized by the city lights that glided by and grew faint as we were heading towards the sea, all the time the radio playing a few popular tunes over and over again. Even today, when I hear that music I am right back on that deck, seeing the lights go by.

Summer storms may not be as bad as winter storms but - there was my seasickness again, off and on. The curse of my life? I have since spent years at sea and still get seasick, occasionally.

Now we were really under way and there was no more of the interesting and challenging maintenance work to do as most of the machinery was in service. "When at sea, we clean the ship!" That is, the engine room and all nearby areas get cleaned.

I was assigned a sea water hose and a brush to clean the top of the fuel tanks and the gutters on the sides, all accessible about a metre below the engine room floor. Day after day I was wet with a stale mixture of heavy fuel oil, grease and water.

“ No, I won't go down there and get dirty again.”

It was after lunch Saturday and I had already changed into clean clothes for the free afternoon, soon to start.

But now it become obvious to the first officer that I wasn't approaching my task with much enthusiasm. A good size foot in the right place propelled me in the direction of the wettest, coldest and smelliest spot, next to a couple of dead rats.

I, the lowest of all low apprentices spoke up,

“No, I won't go there, enough of that for today.”

- and I established myself as an absolutely lazy and uncooperative laggard.

The first officer told me loudly what I was worth - not much - and work was finished for the weekend.

I agonized about the morning's events during the rest of the day. My coworkers added vivid pictures of my future life under the first officer for the next few months. He was well known for his rather intolerant way of treating subordinates.

What was I to do? I had memories from my army days what can happen to obstinate young men. By the end of the next day, Sunday afternoon, I couldn't quite see that I could make matters much worse. I gathered my strength, swallowed my pride, and knocked on the first officer's door.

He received me coolly, listened to my apology, but said nothing as I left.

What had I done? I walked away with trepidation.

The next morning my cleaning duties were confined to drier areas above the floor, much better. A few days later the shifts were rearranged. I found myself assigned as a shift operator on the first officer's shift. I trembled in fear as I reported to my first shift under him. Not to worry, he treated me cordially, instructed me in my expected tasks and I was on my way to become a ships engineer. He took me under his wings and taught me many little tricks on how to best run and maintain machinery, tricks that have stood me in good stead for many years.

We were on shift from 4 - 8, twice every 24 hours. Either you started when it was dark and finished when it was light or vice versa. I learned to time my garbage pail trips "above" to coincide with the sunrise or the sunset – fantastic, always changing experiences at sea. I learned to read the gauges, keep a log and to monitor the machinery that was running all around me.



Two large ships engines

We had two large slow speed (112 rpm) Diesel engines and a myriad of generators, pumps, fans and other auxiliary equipment.

The fuel oil, Bunker C, was the cheapest possible and very dirty. The fuel filters and fuel separators had to be cleaned on an hourly basis. Some times it was a struggle to keep enough clean fuel prepared in the day tanks. Even the least extra time spent on maintaining a separator could allow the purified fuel level to drop precipitously near the red mark.

A newly cleaned DeLaval oil separator in assembly.

To bypass the filters and allow untreated fuel to the engines would have fouled the injectors hopelessly in only a few minutes. I, somehow, always succeeded in staying one step ahead of empty fuel supply warning.

Some of my colleague sea men were real characters.

The cook had tasted his own food for too many years and could hardly get in and out of the kitchen, such was his bulk. But he cooked excellent food, always available, hot at mealtime and cold in the refrigerator at all hours.

The cold food in the refrigerator would sometimes have tiny footsteps on it. Those pieces you avoided. The cockroaches that slunk into the refrigerator and walked around would ultimately become chilled and sluggish and easy to pick out.

The steward was in love with the cook but he seemed to be thrown out more than be let into the cook's cabin.

The master machinist was suffering from too much drink for too many years. There was no alcohol to be had at sea and any evidence of drinking on the job was severely punished as well. But, that didn't prevent him from spending all the time when we were in harbour in one long continuous drunken stupor. Unfortunately he also undertook some rather intricate injector fuel pump repairs during one of these sessions.

Ship's Diesel engine injector pump

He didn't do that job well. The injectors sprayed high pressure hot flammable oil every which way on start up. We had to spend the first part of our trip under reduced power while he refurbished a second, spare, injector pump, once he had sobered up again.

My cabin companion was a young man from Finland of somewhat dubious character. He liked my clothes and I had to be careful with locking my drawers or I'd have no civilian clothes for shore visits.

He proved himself quick to fight with a knife whereever we were. He was considered good company in the more seedy places. I saw the police arrive on more than one occasion but we did exit in time, never to see any police cells on the inside.

Our first long journey, without landfall, was three weeks long, from Sweden to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

Rio, the object of many dreams.

It didn't prove itself like anything I could have imagined. We had our radios tuned to Brazilian stations long before we arrived so our ears were well attuned to the Samba music.

We were moored in the harbour, leaving and taking on passengers. This ship had 12 regulation passenger cabins, mandatory on cargo vessels in those days. Our commute to the shore was by means of a sloop. As was common, local and poor labour relations were such that our lay-over was extended until the local strikers had returned to work..

The traffic was absolutely without any order. The drivers, in old, beat up and unbelievably dented cars, drove with abandon. Any flat piece of ground that could accommodate tires was driven on. If there were too many cars on one side, use the other side of the street, why let so much perfectly good pavement be underutilized? Pedestrians only moved with utmost caution.

We had our first taste of Brazilian beef and visited with the world's most beautiful women on Copacabana beach.

Onward to Santos, Brazil which we reached after a short 24 hour trip. It was the very opposite of Rio de Janeiro, just another very busy industrial city.

We were there to offload paper and reload with grain.

Grain silos and ships

The grain elevators lined the harbour. But, there didn't seem to be any way for pedestrians to leave the area. The truck gates were very narrow and heavily used by enormous grain carrying trucks.

Fear not, all the bars in the lower level of the warehouses had two doors, one on the harbour side, one on the city side.

Some of these bars weren't only bars serving liquor, they were bordellos as well.



Bordello in Brazil, ca 1959

As you entered you were immediately received by an usher who made sure you got your first drink - on the house. Then you were encouraged to take your time and choose your favourite girl. They were all introduced as “famous for offering anything you liked". It was hard for many to just pass through on the way to the city. The facilities were not really very posh. The ones who had chosen which girl and what activity they preferred carried on in one of many booths along the walls of the large room, booths with only a curtain for privacy.

Some paid a price for these and other conjugal visits. Several of the members of the crew had contracted a souvenir illnesses, often Gonorrhea. They had to see the first deck officer when a few days out of port, he was in charge of the penicillin supply and authorized to administer "the seven day cure" with a thick and painful injection needle.

What about me? I was young enough to attract the really young girls, and I ALWAYS used a condom.

Montevideo, Uruguay, a European looking city of fading glory.

The wreck of the German pocket battle ship Admiral Graf Spee was still in the harbour. It was sunk by its own crew in December 1939.



Admiral Graf Spee when scuttled in 1939


We were there in 1959, 20 years later, and the burnt-out hull was there, just as in the photo here. A bit of trivia, it took another 20 years before it was finally cut up for scrap.

We saw another reminder of the WW2, the wreck of a B-17 Flying Fortress bomber from the 379th Bomber Group. It was still lying on a sandbank in the harbour. It had been there since 1942.

This is where my seafaring, or any, days may have ended.

I was assigned to grind and reseat the valves on a lifeboat engine. It was a great assignment, I spent a couple of days outside, working in the lifeboat on deck. On completion, time for a test run.




A typical life boat exercise.


This was combined with an "all hands" lifeboat practice. The lifeboat was lowered and we got in by means of rope ladders. The engine started on the first pull and ran smooth as silk this time, I must have learned something about how to get valves tight from my fire engine repair assignment. This time, the first officer complimented me on my good work.

We did a grand tour around the hulk of the battle ship but couldn't get really near the airplane wreck. We touched bottom a couple of times before we gave up and returned to our ship.

The crew climbed up the rope ladders and returned to deck. I, and another engine room crew member, were left in the boat to roll up the ladders properly as the boat was raised back onto its divets on deck.

The two winches were on foredeck where the operators couldn't see us. They were controlled by hand signals.

Not good.

Part way up, there was some miscommunication. One of the winch operators released his cable. One end of the lifeboat fell down and we were suspended in mid air from one end. The other man had the wherewithal to jump off onto the rope ladder that was still on the side of the hull.

I didn't have that option but, having considered jumping into the water, held on to a single rope. That was a wise decision as so many loose items fell out, the oars, the drinking water tank and a myriad of other loose items. Everyone on deck witnessed the gradually unfolding event as the lifeboat slowly slipped down and landed on the debris in the water.

I was suspended in mid air for a while, but soon hauled in, in a little bit of a shock. Had I been in the water, nobody knows what could have happened.

All ended well and we pulled up the lifeboat, still attached to the loose lines, and all the lost items out the water, to be secured in a safe manner again. My boss, the first officer, went to his cabin and came back with a bottle of Cognac. "Have a sip, you did well."


Next, across the La Plata river delta to Buenos Aires, Argentina.





Shore leave in Buenos Aires, I am the guy on the right, under the bow of our ship.

Were we in civilization again? Almost. Cigarettes were highly taxed but we bought ours on board at duty free prices. Hence, you could pay for a quite a few drinks by just bringing cigarette packages ashore.

It worked well for while until afternoon when the harbour police turned on us. The officer rattled his machine gun at us - we held up our hands - and the cigarettes fell to the floor.

He moved closer, kicked the cigarettes under a bench and said - "You are under arrest, for smuggling".

Then we were identified, photographed and told to never smuggle again - "but if you do, you have to drop one package here."

He kept the packages that were under the bench. We had to pay for the drinks with our own money that night. I also fell in love with one of the bar girls in Buenos Aires that night, but that is for another story.




We had already received notice that our ship was chartered for a longer run, the return to Sweden would be around Cap of Good Hope, Africa. Air travel was still horrendously expensive in those days and we were discouraged from going home. I signed on for the continued around the world trip.

We passed the Panama Canal. It was so disappointing, I worked and only saw some lights in the night, and all too soon we were in the Pacific Ocean.

Next stop was Japan. The culture shock was total. I went to a communal bathhouse with some colleagues. We were properly scrubbed and cleansed before the dip in the large wooden tub together with local Japanese families, all naked.



Japanese family bath

Another night we spent at a restaurant, served by kimono clad young ladies who refilled out sake-flasks incessantly. We all got drunk and had to spend some of our hard earned money on a taxi back to the harbour.

The ship stopped for refuelling in Singapore before sailing through the Malacca straight. We left at about midnight and were soon in rather choppy seas. The fuel tank vents had all been open when the oil was loaded. Not all were closed when I left my cabin in the bow to go to work at 03:45. The tanks had been burping fuel and air on deck all night.

I took a few steps on the deck - fell - and started sliding towards the railing. I didn't fall through, I had spreadeagled on the way and got caught in the railing. I crawled midships, well wetted with fuel oil.

The officer on duty was shocked, there will be many more walking across that deck, in the dark, soon. He switched on all available lights and then called the forward crew quarters on the intercom. We used to have a guide rope in place when in bad seas, that rope was soon up. Nobody else slid in the oil that night.

Too close for comfort for me, though. I still, 55 years later, have nightmares about my slide down the deck towards the black sea beyond.

An observation about sailing in the Indian Ocean. It was warm. Very few of the crew quarters had air conditioning. I slept on a mattress under a blanket on deck many nights. The starry skies at that latitude, near the equator, are to behold. Working temperatures in the engine room were such that we had to be careful. 40 C around the engines , with a few places well into the 50's, were not to play with. Drink plenty of lime juice and eat your salt tablets, advice that has served sailors well for 150 years.

Next stop was Bombay in India, Mumbay now.



Mumbai street scene

The filth and the disorganization, at least as seen by my eyes were totally overwhelming.

Walking down a street, we saw a Barber with a stool. All three of us agreed that this was a good time for a haircut. I was first.

"Have a seat."

The barber opened his box with tools, went clip, clip, clip and my hair was done, Next a shave around my ears and neck.

Then - a swift move with the shaving knife and the sharp edge was against my adamsapple:

"Pay now."

I did, but my colleagues had lost the taste for a haircut by then.

The explanation was simple enough. Had I taken three steps away from the barber's stool, I would have been lost in the crowd.

Nowadays, I prefer barbers who are inside a room.



Table Mountain and Capetown (My picture from decades later)

We passed Cape of Good Hope and then entered the bay of Cape Town, South Africa. Sure, the city is beautiful. We took a cable ride up Table Mountain.

Once there, the wind picked and a printed sign went up "The cable cars are shut down for the day." (!)



No siren then, only a printed sign.

There would be no return to the city until the next day. - The cable car commenced operation again in 20 minutes.

Apartheid was in full swing in South Africa then. Blacks were certainly not treated well, even in our inexperienced eyes.



Heavy and hard to stop if they swing.

One stevedore got in the way for a heavy swinging bundle in the hold. His arm broke and bits of white bone were sticking out through the skin near his wrist. He screamed with the full power of his lungs.

An empty platform was sent down by the crane. He was laid down, blood spurting from his arm, lifted away from the ship and set down on the dock. A white man came up and lifted the stevedore upright by a good pull in the good arm.

Then, the white supervisor kicked the black man hard on his back and pushed him towards the exit. The last I saw from deck was him walking away, dripping blood down his leg, over his shoe and onto the ground.

I couldn't belive my eyes, standing on deck too far away to act in any way. - Letting a man walk away, bleeding and crying in pain.

Apartheid. Lack of compassion? Lack of human feelings?

There was a long run up the west coast of Africa. The local music on my little radio was certainly strange. Not much western music here. The weather was nice and temperate and we enjoyed much of our free time on deck.

When in tropical waters we had a temporary swimming pool built from planks with tarpaulin as the membrane. It was filled with seawater from a fire pump every morning and emptied again every night The huge volume of water could slop over in bad sea and be dangerous to all on deck.

Then I broke my foot. 

I made a strictly forbidden three metre jump into the temporary swimming pool on lower deck in rough weather. The swinging of the deck made the pool move out of my way as I came down. I made a far too hard landing, scraping the inside of the pool. The skin on the outside of my left leg got badly scraped and bled a little, but, even worse, I couldn't walk. It was soon clear that something bad had happened to my foot

I was relegated to my bed with some pain killers. I had a couple of awful days in the stiflingly hot cabin in that condition before we got to Las Palmas, Canary Islands, for refuelling.

There, a young British doctor at the sea men's hospital treated "the stupid Swedish sailor boy" just right.

"There is nothing wrong with my foot"



1940s X-ray room

The X-ray machine was old, so old that I suspected it still had Dr. Röntgen's signature somewhere. It went BANG with a resounding noise and my plate was taken.

"You just made me sterile, I will never have any children because of you."

The doctor showed me a still wet, newly developed, x-ray plate and pointed at some disconnected bones.

"That is not an X-ray of my foot, that is someone else's, there are no broken bones in my foot."

Well, as you may understand, I didn't make any friends during my hospital visit.

Young British doctor's revenge?

I left with a body cast immobilizing me from the foot to over my hip. My colleagues, who had spent their waiting time drinking Spanish Cervezas, had a laughing fit when they saw me. But - how to get back to the ship? "You won't fit into a taxi any more."




PEUGEOT 403 U8 (pick-up) 1958 model year

They soon came back, having hired a driver with a small Peugeot pickup truck. I was loaded onto the back, with my head near the driver's so we could talk through the open rear window.

Since I know all there is to know about cars, I proceeded to tell the owner what a poorly designed, low quality French car he was driving ... He couldn't reach me while he was driving but that would change once we arrived at the ship.

I was rescued from the irate Spanish driver by being quickly hauled away and up the boarding ramp..

On board stood the afore mentioned master mechanic, drunk as a skunk in his normal at-harbour manner.

"No, you cannot move with that cast, let me take it off."

There were a few issues with that statement. Sure, in part he was right, the cast was ridiculously large for my broken foot-bones, but still - he was drunk, what could he do?



A frightening tool when running close to your naked skin.

As a true master mechanic/carpenter, he produced a circular saw, buzzed it a couple of times and - having made sure that I was well and truly held down, proceeded to cut off all the plaster of paris from just below my knee up and around my hip.

Not a drop of my blood was spilled.

I did calm down over night, whatever pain killing drug that had affected me the previous day had worn off. I normally don't argue with doctors or drivers.

For the rest of the trip back to Sweden, I practiced typing, sending and listening to Morse code in the radio operators office. I still know Morse code.



A Morse key

I became the pet of my colleagues. Lacking my own swift mobility and probably a little affected by whatever painkiller our ship's acting doctor decided to give me, I was never left behind in any harbours. Mostly carried by strong arms, I only weighed 125 lbs, I visited several bars and bordellos in Belgium, Holland and Germany before arriving in Göteborg, 11 months and 26 days after my departure.

My seafaring days were over for this time. I had confirmed that I was the stupidest and least informed person on the globe. I had seen and experienced so much, but I didn't KNOW OR UNDERSTAND ANYTHING.

I went back home to mother with lots of mechanical and other life experiences under my belt. I didn't stay long there, I soon left for a university education and a Mechanical Engineer's degree !

Since then, I have circumnavigated the globe a few times, learned to master four languages, and worked for longer or shorter periods in 28 countries. Perhaps I got a bug for learning and experiencing ...


(About the pictures: Some are my own, and some are stock pictures from the Internet.)

Toronto March, 2017

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If you want to read my memors, "The seasons of Man", buy the book here:


https://www.amazon.ca/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=bengt+lindvall+the+seasons+of+a+man