I was on Windrush when it began to sink – lowering the lifeboats took so long people had to jump

Roger Dillon: ‘By the time our lifeboat begun the journey to meet them the ship was engulfed in flames’ – Clara Molden

Squashed under a bench in a lifeboat, clutching the teddy bear I’d snatched from my cabin and surrounded by some 60 other children and women, I watched the Empire Windrush, aflame from stern to stern, in awe.

Parts of its burnt funnel were dropping into the Mediterranean. A lifeboat crashed into the sea because the electric supply required to lower it into the water had been cut. Men were jumping overboard, feet burning from the heat, or scrambling down ropes.

Aged seven, I was too young to appreciate the fact that, had I not been evacuated from my cabin at dawn, I could have been burnt or asphyxiated by black smoke.

The Empire Windrush is rightly synonymous with the dreadful treatment of West Indians who travelled on it from the Caribbean to Britain for work, but for me it holds an altogether more personal memory.

It is exactly 70 years since the ship caught fire around 30 miles off the coast of Algeria, with myself and 1,497 British servicemen, their families and crew members on board. I’m 77 now, a retired grandfather with a raft of adventures from 33 years serving in the Royal Marines, but I remember that day as if it were yesterday.

The ship – which brought some of the first West Indian migrants to the UK in 1948 – started its final voyage in Japan, in February 1954, from where it was bringing back servicemen from the Korean war.

My family and I joined it shortly afterwards in Hong Kong, where my father, an Army major, had been posted for two years. As weeks passed my five-year-old sister Tipi and I made friends with the officers’ children.

Roger, bottom right, with his his father (left), his mother (centre), his sister (bottom left) and a family friend (top right) shortly after they were rescued – Clara Molden

By 6.15am on Mar 28 1954, half a dozen of us were already awake, excited for the day ahead, when the rhythmic thud of the boat’s diesel engine stopped.

An explosion in the engine room had killed an engineer, electrician and two crew. Power was lost, the lights went out and the speaker which the captain would ordinarily have used to alert passengers was broken.

Tipi and I rushed to wake our parents, who had only got back from a fancy dress ball at 2am. “Mummy, the ship’s stopped,” my sister said, seconds before a steward banged on our cabin door as the order had been given to abandon ship.

My father put on his uniform, my mother grabbed her regimental brooch and other jewellery, and Tipi and I took our teddy bears. Everything else we owned was left behind. I smelled smoke, and heat from the fire hit me as we made our to the children’s lifeboat station.

My father was sent to another station. I don’t recall an emotional farewell – couples barely hugged in public in those days – but our poor mum must have been scared witless.

‘We were met in Gibraltar by the Countess of Mountbatten and Royal Marine band – the fire had made front page news in Britain – and flown back to the UK’ – Clara Molden

Unbeknown to us, the battered old ship had been beset by engine breakdowns for weeks, which, looking back, is why the captain had taken our weekly Sunday morning drills so seriously. Without the discipline he’d instilled in us, I doubt we’d all have survived.

By the time we got to the lifeboat station the fire had spread to the ship’s two funnels.

With no power, the boat my mother, sister and I were on was lowered manually to the sea. It took so long only 12 lifeboats were used and other passengers were forced to jump or climb overboard.

A senior officer was seen shinning down a rope, his bald head covered with lipstick kisses from the officers’ ball he had yet to wash off. Other men burnt their hands from friction.

Dutch, British, Norwegian and Italian ships responded to the distress call, and by the time our lifeboat begun the journey to meet them the ship was engulfed in flames.

The Windrush finally sank two days later

Mercifully, the sea was calm, although we all felt sick because of the swell.

When we arrived at the rescue ships around 90 minutes later, we were handed barley sweets and taken to Algiers, where the French Red Cross and Army cleared a holiday camp, put us in a chalet, served us stew, and handed us clean clothes.

Miraculously, there were no casualties other than the four crew. We boarded HMS Triumph, a British aircraft carrier, the following day, its hangar big enough to fit all survivors.

We were met in Gibraltar by the Countess of Mountbatten and Royal Marine band – the fire had made front page news in Britain – and flown back to the UK. Although we were lucky to have a house in Hampshire, we’d lost our worldly possessions.

There was no lasting trauma, although as a major in the Royal Marines serving on a ship in the Falklands, I was meticulous about emergency drills and making sure everyone kept a torch by their bed.

Two days after we evacuated the Empire Windrush, it sank. The wreckage remains 2,800 metres below the surface of the sea. Last year there were plans to recover the anchor, but I don’t think anybody should dive on the wreck. It’s disrespectful to the four men who died that day.

As told to Antonia Hoyle

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