by Úna Reddin

In January 1940, shortly after the outbreak of World War II, my dad, J. J. Byrne, joined the Skulmartin Lightship, stationed off the Co. Down coast. Because of the blackout during the war, the station names of the lightships were obliterated to prevent Hitler's bombers taking bearings from them. This account of one stormy night aboard the Skulmartin Lightship during the war was often told by my dad.

It was a raw winter's day, cold and dark with scuds flying across the sky. A storm was approaching. The Lamplighter climbed up the 50 foot high iron ladder to light up the lantern. The lamp needed constant tending, and many ascents would be made up the ladder throughout the night.

As the pitch black night set in, the wind suddenly veered and increased in strength. The vessel began to labour, straining and tugging at her anchor like a dog on a leash as if to escape the fury of the sea.

The Master gave orders to the crew: 'Batten down the hatches and secure everything below'. As the wind reached gale force, the Skulmartin was now rolling heavily, her lantern almost touching the sea on either side. As the night wore on heavy rain came down. The two crew on watch, in oilskins and sou'westers, took it all in their stride-it was all part of life at sea and they loved life on board ship.
The Skulmartin continued to roll from side to side. As she heaved herself up from her port side, she was then forced down on her starboard. Thus it continued throughout the night until one of the watchkeepers raised the alarm. In the beam of the lantern he clearly saw a mine bobbing about in the sea, drifting towards the lightship.

It was a terrifying sight. The Master and crew were alerted and all hands were now on deck, looking over the side to see the menace approaching. The men took out their rosary beads and made the sign of the cross together, as the ship rolled from side to side. The Master began with the words 'Incline unto our aid, O Lord'. 'O Lord make haste to help us' was the reply, and they began to recite five decades.

The mine was drifting towards them and was very close now. As the lightship lifted herself up out of the water the men knew that when the ship rose up from the port side the mine would be floating alongside just waiting for the inevitable to happen.
Fear gripped the crew as they continued to recite the rosary. The lightship hauled herself up from the port side and paused long enough for the crew to see the mine, midships on her starboard side, bobbing on the waves and waiting for the ship to roll down on it.

Then the miracle happened. Suddenly the Skulmartin, as though it was her decision, heaved herself back down on her port side again. To their relief the crew knew that there was a good chance that the mine would have drifted clear of the ship by the time she rose up again.

In the clear light of the ship's lantern, they watched as the deadly mine, carrying its lethal cargo, had indeed just drifted clear of the lightship, bobbing along in the rough sea to seek out another victim. Thank God, the Skulmartin and her crew were saved.

It was surely a night to remember.