LONDON’S POWDER HULKS

Evening Star, Issue 22891, 24 February 1938, Page 16

LONDON’S POWDER HULKS

SEVEN OLD MEN KNIT In seven hulks, moored a quarter of a mile apart below Gravesend, and well clear of the Thames tideway, sit seven old men—knitting. When they walk the deck they tread delicately in special soft-soled shoes. They are the veterans who guard the powder hulks of London. For years they have slept, eaten, and done their work with the thought that beneath their feet lies stored enough explosive to blow up half a city. No ship is permitted to enter London docks carrying explosives. Incoming vessels must leave their dangerous loads in the care of the hulkkeepers, and pick them up again on the outward journey. Brown, sinister, mastless, their red flags wave a warning to the inquisitive, the powder hulks ride the tides, each with her keeper at his lonely vigil. Each keeper works a duty spell of a month aboard, followed by a week's shore leave. No visitors except officials are permitted on board, and all must remove their shoes coming on deck. “ Sometimes,” said one of the keepers, “we have 12,000 tons s of powder and other explosives aboard. “ We’re all old salts—the job’s too lonely for youngsters. It gives them too much time to think what’s under them. _ It would sent ’em half crazy in no time. Death is our retiring age. I get about thirty bob a week for the job. “ What happens if I’m ill? “ Well, I keeps pills and salts and lotions aboard. And we’ve each got a

distress flag, though I’ve never used mine.” Each of the tiny cabins is lined with asbestos, and the keepers are permitted to smoke there. He was asked how he spent his time between official visits. “ Most of us knit or make mats out of old rope,” he said. “Wo can keep pets aboard, too. I have a cat. Others have a dog or a canary.”