Tales of London's Docklands Read Online Free Page A

closed the gates, but also provided power to hydraulic cranes on the quayside. These antiquated, water-powered cranes were installed in 1886 and were still being used for ship loading and discharging operations in the 1950s.
    In 1928, a New Lock Entrance was constructed and opened to shipping. This allowed the largest vessels then in service to enter and leave the docks. Consequently, bigger, higher, more up-to-date electric cranes had to be installed to handle the cargo from these modern vessels. The new cranes had longer jibs for employment on overseas traders (tramp steamers) and luxury liners of the P&O and Orient lines. These ships were passenger- and cargo-carrying vessels that steamed between the Port of London, the Far East and Australia. The hydraulic cranes were therefore obsolete for use on larger ships; they were shoved to the end of the quays and to Tilbury Dock Basin (a tidal extension of Tilbury Docks open to the river) to be used for servicing short sea traders (small ships plying their trade round the coasts of Britain, Europe and the Mediterranean).
    When I entered the port transport industry as a docker in 1954, hydraulic-powered cranes had been in service in Tilbury docks for seventy-eight years. The seals on the old pumping systems had worn out and not been replaced. There was a continuous shower of water spurting from them when they were in use. This only subsided when the mains valves were closed to cut off the water supply. Under Port Authority by-laws it was illegal to light an open fire within the dock precincts, or even to light or smoke cigarettes. Nonetheless, in winter, braziers were lighted under the hydraulic cranes to stop them from freezing up.
    To get a hydraulic crane to operate, one had first to turn on its main water supply, which was installed under a heavy plate in the quay, then climb up a vertical 30-foot ladder into the crane cabin; then luff (move) the jib full in with a luffing lever; then climb up another ladder to release the jib by removing a securing pin; then climb back down the ladder to the front of the crane cabin to release the slewing pin. Now the crane was ready to work, with a bit of luck and with God on one’s side. (At night the whole process had to be carried out in the reverse order.) These machines were a nightmare to operate and control.
    Perhaps I should mention here the drill required when a ship entered the locks, the gates were closed, and the hydraulic pumps in the pumping station were put into play to fill or empty them. First, the crane driver was supposed to bring his crane round with its jib in line with the quay; he was then supposed to replace the slewing pin, luff full in and run up the ladder to replace the luffing pin; then wait for the power to be restored when the lock was filled or emptied. However, there was no signalling device to warn crane drivers of the lock master’s intentions, so when the hydraulic power began to fail, the driver was forced to take any action he thought appropriate to forestall an accidents or damage to the crane or cargo, but unfortunately this could not always be avoided.
    Bill Dyke was a large man. He had what the dockers called a ‘beetroot’ or ‘moon’ face because it was large, round and red. He was a jovial, lovely old man with a rustic sense of humour. He was one of the finest crane drivers in the port transport industry. That is, he was as careful, and considerate and as safe to work with as it was possible for any man to be. He never took chances with men’s lives in an industry that had a horrendous number of accidental injuries and deaths. Dock working was always a dangerous game of chance.
    Bill had been picked up in the Dock Labour Board compound as crane driver to a ship’s gang working on a general steam short sea trader at number 5 shed, Tilbury Docks, using an antiquated hydraulic-powered quay crane to load cargo at the main hatch. Short sea traders were constructed with