[This article appeared in The Lancet for 29th, June 1946, in the feature "In England Now," and is reproduced by kind permission of the author and the editor of The Lancet.] OCCASIONALLY we read in our daily paper "The Life-boat Stood By All Night" and we think, no doubt, of the gallant men of her crew, comfortably clad in oilskins and well lushed up with rum, anchored in the lee of the ship, smoking cartons of duty-free cigarettes passed down from above. I did till one day last winter when a trip in the lifeboat to render medical assistance got merged in an urgent call to a second ship on the Goodwin Sands. As we were about to land, distress rockets flamed up to call the boat urgently to the outer edge of the South Sand Head where a 9,000-ton Victory ship had gone aground on the top of high water.

We made course due east straight across the Sands, now covered with water boiling like a cauldron and whipped up by a N.W. gale. It was about ten o'clock on a pitch-dark night, and the ship with all her lights blazing stood out like a beacon with the rotating beams of the South and East Goodwin light-vessels sweeping across her every half minute. Two red lights slung vertically from her triatic stay showed that she was "not under command." Very cautiously the coxswain took the life-boat round the ship with the crew holding on with hands and feet as the mountainous waves rolled her in all directions. The waves breaking over the ship made it almost impossible to come alongside; and from the high bridge came the warning by signal lamp "We Are Aground," followed by the inevitable query: "What Ship?" We replied with-my pocket torch — " Life-boat Standing By." It was obvious that no attempt at salvage could be made till the next hightide, about eleven hours later; meanwhile there Avas a considerable risk of the ship, with her crew of fifty, rolling over with the falling tide or breaking in half if the sand washed away from bows and stern—the age-old danger to any vessel on these treacherous banks.

Attempting to Anchor This would mean immediate action if any of her company were to be saved, so the coxswain made course for some deeper water a few cables' length from the ship and dropped a light anchor.

Even this meant a superhuman effort by five of the crew, who clawed their way forward and managed to cast over the necessary cable while the wind and waves tried to tear them from their handholds. Meanwhile, the coxswain, astride the steering wheel, held the boat head on to the wind and tide on both engines. After a dog-fight lasting twenty minutes the bowman cam aft to report that the anchor would not hold, and the order was given to raise it. Then we decided that our nearest safe anchorage was on the west side of the Sands about six miles from the shore, where the coxswain said we could lie snug for the night. It all depends what you mean by snug, and after crossing the boiling maelstrom of the Sands again, the twelve-fathom deep, which the local men call Abraham's Bosom, was certainly a shade quieter, and enabled us to get down the heavy anchor with many yards of six-inch cable. At last came the order "Stop Engines," and we swung head to the racing tide on the edge of Trinity Bay and settled down for the night. The ship, still with full lights, lay less than half a mile away and we could see every signal passing between her and the naval control in the adjoining anchorage.

Biscuits, Chocolate and Rum The life-boat, freed from the control of her propellers, stood on her head and tail as the fancy took her, while the seas swept across her open deck at irregular intervals and drenched the unwary trying to move about. Our coxswain, pulling himself stiffly from the wheel, made sure that all was ready for immediate casting off and posted a watch to give warning of any fresh danger to the ship. Then we broached the rations. A tin of sweet biscuits, another of sweet plain chocolate, and a pint bottle of rum appeared from the forward locker and were passed aft.

It didn't seem very much among ten large men who had taken their last meal about seven hours before; with the warning that it might have to last for days, half a dozen biscuits and squares of chocolate were shared out by the second mechanic, who had wedged himself between two lockers. We crawled past him, one by one, and went away munching with one hand and holding on with the other, the biscuits helped down by unexpected mouthfuls of salt water appearing out of the surrounding darkness. The rum, measured out in two thick china mugs as opportunity occurred, went down the same way.

Most of us would have sold our souls for a can of hot soup as the temperature dropped to freezing and our* bodies stiffened in their cramped positions.

In spite of oilskins the bitter N.W. wind found every chink in our armour, and rubber boots did not prevent a steady numbing of the feet and legs as the night wore on. Any attempt to sleep, with relaxation of hand or foothold, caused the victim to be slung across the boat on to some sharp obstacle, and the constant slap of the rudder with breaking waves and howling wind made conversation wellnigh impossible. After a few hours we lapsed into a kind of torpor broken by an occasional buzz of speech when somebody inspected the crawling1 hands of the clock. All our lights had been put out to save current, and the only break in the, monotony was to read the signals frdm the ship. The last came at 1.30 A.M.: "Am Closing Down Generators Please Inform Coastguard." Misery Before Dawn The hours till dawn seemed to me to plumb the depths of human misery.

One or two hardy souls tried to stamp about on deck and nearly got washed overboard for their pains; the remainder of us stayed wedged in our various crevices till cramp made a change of position inevitable. I heard an occasional grunt from the second coxswain, just convalescent from two months of sciatica; and one poor wight with influenzal bronchitis, who had coiled himself up in the chain locker, had frequent bouts of coughing till a wave broke inside and shut him up.

But no word of complaint was uttered by any of the crew throughout that long night, and to my amazement the possibility of another night or more under these conditions was quietly accepted without comment. As dawn broke about 6.30 A.M., we hauled up anchor and returned to the ship. By now two salvage tugs had come up and we managed to carry their hawsers across to the ship, to be followed by thick towing cables as the tide rose to high water. Any attempt to board the ship was out of the question as the waves swept round her in both directions from bow to stern. No effort of the straining tugs at high water peak could loosen the grip of the glutinous quicksands, and as the water fell the tugs cast off and moved away from the doomed ship. At low tide, six hours later, with a terrifying crack her back broke and the order came: "Abandon Ship"; in twos and threes her crew jumped for safety to the life-boat as time and again she came alongside.

Packed like standing sardines and wet to the skin, they came ashore in safety.

The life-boatmen? They just spent the next hour getting the boat ready for another launch..