HMCS Matapedia K112.
The Seasick Stoker on the HCMS Matapedia
by John R. Sturdy
This is the story of the part played by a Canadian corvette, Matapedia, in ending the suffering of countless Allied seamen during the war. In fact, there are ex-crewmen who firmly believe that they were responsible for winning the war! Personally I would have given a medal to our Stoker Maloney. But I was only a sub-lieutenant (temporary), and the credit went to others-including two doctors named Best and Penfield. They developed Pill No. 2-183. But we made it possible.
This was no ordinary pill. Until what was officially known as the Royal Canadian Navy Seasickness Remedy emerged from the laboratory in 1943, there were times when some doubt existed as to which was the greater menace in the Battle of the Atlantic: the enemy or the heaving innards of Allied seamen. Pill No. 2-183 settled stomachs in many a rolling ship and no doubt helped bring victory.
Giving credit where credit is due, a number of eminent medical men and scientists were connected with its development. They included Dr. C. H. Best, co-discoverer in insulin, who during the war was a surgeon captain in the Navy; Dr. Wilder Penfield, head of the Montreal Neurological Institute, and Dr. R. L. Noble.
The remarkable thing is that the doctors were searching for a cure to an ailment that, until a short time before did not officially exist! Through the centuries, the medical profession had maintained a strange attitude towards seasickness. A man might lie moaning in a ship’s bunk, or be too weak to crawl to the rail, but actually nothing was wrong with him ‘medically.’ Until, that is, Matapedia made her determined stand in the winter of 1941.
Matapedia, launched in Lauzon, Quebec, was one of the early convoy escort vessels built to combat the U-boat menace. Her western base was St. John’s, Newfoundland; the eastern terminus was a forsaken Icelandic fjord. A round trip took almost a month. No Canadian corvette had a doctor and we had to rely for medical advice on the odd Royal Navy destroyer that we met.
Stoker Maloney, the reluctant hero of this story, joined Matapedia in December 1941. He was trying desperately to get to sea, and this was his first ship. He was a proud man when Matapedia left St. John’s. Ten minutes later he was violently ill.
Of course, he was by no means alone in his suffering. By the time the little ship had settled into her familiar corkscrew motion, a large percentage of her crew and officers were sick, but where most found their “sea legs” within a short few days, it became apparent that Maloney was a chronic case. The chief engineer had told him to remain in his bunk, he was so weak.
The captain agreed with the chief, and as the voyage progressed, the stoker’s condition became alarming. His face was gray and he had lost considerable body weight. Worse, he had given up any interest in anything, including life. Matapedia arrived in Iceland sixteen and a half days later, and Maloney was sent aboard the British depot ship to see one of the medical doctors. We assumed his sea days were at an end.
I was delegated to go aboard the depot ship and obtain a medical report. The medical officer informed me: “I suppose you’ve heard about Maloney. There’s nothing wrong with him.”
“He’s a seasick case,” I said.
“Nonsense. Lots of chappies get seasick,” the surgeon commander said. “He’ll joggle out of it in a few days.”
I informed the surgeon that Maloney was a chronic case and would probably die before “joggling” out of it, and was informed that Maloney had nothing wrong with him, other than he was underweight and could not be released without a just cause!
When we sailed for St. John’s, the poor man was still aboard, sicker than ever.
Off Iceland an 80-mile-an-hour gale smashed the bridge, forcing us into Halifax for repairs. But the only thought of the skipper was to get Maloney to Halifax before he died. He was rapidly dying from starvation and weakness, and the voyage turned into a race for life. Once in port, Maloney recovered enough to be able to keep some food down, before being packed off to the base hospital, and to some land assignment-or so we thought.
Two hours later he was back. He had been sent back to rejoin the ship! The medical officer had declared that he was fit, other than underweight!
The captain was informed and a grim conference of officers was gathered in the wardroom. Obviously Maloney could not continue this way, and action was to be taken.
Starting with the M.O., the chain of command was approached to solve the problem, which was then handed off to the next most senior officer, until only the Admiral, Commanding Officer, Atlantic Coast (Halifax), was left. An interview with Rear Adm. George C. Jones was granted and the captain and a select group of the wardroom accompanied him. The admiral listened sympathetically to our presentation. From my back seat, where my one gold ring was not too conspicuous, I chose the opportunity to enlarge on the theme. It was unfortunate that the RCN was a navy of small ships which did not rate medical officers. Young medical officers were being drafted into the service, yet only destroyers rated them; the rest were sent to British units or shore establishments. This undoubtedly denied them the opportunity of seeing the North Atlantic from a small naval unit.
The admiral seemed aware that many medical officers were arriving in Halifax at that moment. He confirmed this by consulting his chief-of-staff, who advised that a new draft of surgeon lieutenants had recently arrived.
“Very good,” said the admiral. “What’s the weather forecast for tomorrow?” “Strong easterly winds, sir.”
“Right,” the admiral said. “Arrange for a ship to take all available medical officers on maneuvers tomorrow. Nothing like a little sea time to clear away the cobwebs.”
The ship assigned for this duty was a tiny Bangor minesweeper, which, if anything, was even more uncomfortable than a corvette. She cleared the harbor at 0600 hours, crowded with men wearing the red and gold of the medical branch. That evening she returned.
Next morning I went to see the first lieutenant of the minesweeper. He told me the journey had been a “bloody shambles,” with them (the crew) having to organize the medical officers into “seasick parties,” to keep them from puking on the decks.
Meanwhile, the crew had worked fast, getting Maloney to the sick bay of the hospital, before the thing opened. Maloney was made to sit on the steps, with his case history in his hand. He was first in line for the medical officers, who arrived at 0800 hours, some of them still a little green in the face.
Within a half-hour, Maloney returned, with a smile on his face. Across the front of his file was stamped “Unfit for Seaduty”, and underneath-in shaky handwriting-”Chronic Seasickness”.
That night saw a party to end all parties; we had put seasickness on the map.
We make no boastful claims about subsequent events. Suffice to say, when the medical profession accepts that a condition exists, it usually loses no time in seeking a cure. So finally in 1943, the laboratories produced a mixture of three chemicals: hyoscine HBr, Hyoscyamine HBr, and ethyl B-methyl allyl thiobarbituric acid-or Pill No. 2 183. |
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