In mid-October 1944, the waters of the Clyde bustled with preparation as nine Landing Craft, Tank (LCTs) readied to depart. Among them was LCT 488, a flat-bottomed vessel designed for beach assaults rather than long ocean voyages. These ungainly craft, indispensable for amphibious landings, were entirely unsuited for the rolling swell of the Atlantic. To overcome this, each was paired with a stout merchant ship to act as tow, forming a curious convoy of squat war machines straining against their harnesses. Together, they were bound to join the combined convoy OS 92 / KMS 66, assembling in the strategic North Channel, where Britain’s lifeline of ships funneled into the Atlantic under the constant shadow of U-boats.

At the docks of Greenock, the October air carried a sharp bite as men swarmed over the steel deck of 488. Her young but steady commander, Temporary Sub-Lieutenant Arthur Paul Phillips-Thomas RNVR, stood alongside fellow officer Kyle W. Steele, overseeing the meticulous loading. The vessel creaked as she took on her burden: four jeeps, two troop transport trucks, fifty barrels of fuel, and crates of food and machinery—a small but vital contribution to the Allied war effort. Around them, the rest of the 9th LCT Flotilla prepared in quiet determination, each craft facing the same uncertain road ahead.

By the evening of 14 October 1944, hatches were secured and lines slipped. 488 slid into the chill waters of the Clyde, joining her sisters in the North Channel. There, the Liberty ship Samfoyle took her under tow, the thick cable stretching taut as the larger vessel shouldered into the grey Atlantic horizon, dragging the smaller craft—and the hopes of her crew—into history.

The October sky hung low and grey as 488 settled into the steady rhythm of her tow behind Samfoyle. The heavy Atlantic swell had not yet begun its mischief, and for the moment, the flat-bottomed craft rode the swaying seas with deceptive ease. Amidst the hiss of salt spray and the groan of metal under strain, two cousins stole a rare stretch of calm.

Petty Officer Motor Mechanic Martin Long, age twenty-four, leaned back in the seats of one of the jeeps lashed to the forward deck. Compact, broad-shouldered, with a quick grin and a laugh always near the surface, Martin had a way of keeping spirits afloat. Beside him, in the next jeep, sat his cousin: Leading Wireman Stanley Armstead. Just a year younger, wiry, sharp-eyed, and steady as bedrock, Stanley was Martin’s foil—less quick to laugh, but never far behind, his dry humor landing just when it was needed most.

They had spent most of the war shoulder-to-shoulder, the kind of bond only forged through shared danger. North Africa, Sicily, Normandy—they had walked away from each, often bruised, sometimes shaken, but always together. Today’s task felt tame by comparison. With the jeeps, supplies and fuel barrels already secured, there was little to do beyond tightening shackles, checking lashings, and pacing out the deck. So they sat in their makeshift seats, the jeeps swaying gently with the pull of the tow cable, and let the hours slip by.

Evening settled gently over the convoy, the sky stretched in bands of fading gold and deepening blue. On the bridge of 488, Sub-Lieutenant Paul Phillips-Thomas leaned against the rail, his cap tucked under one arm as he watched the long line of ships plodding through the swell. To port and starboard, other LCTs rose and dipped in the wake of their tows, squat silhouettes against the dying light. He exchanged a word with Kyle Steele, the younger officer at his side, about nothing more urgent than the ship’s trim and the stubborn rattle in the starboard hatch cover. For now, the sea was kind, and their craft—overloaded though she was—rode steadily.

On deck below, a handful of sailors lounged by the stacked crates of machinery, their talk drifting upward in scraps of laughter. Martin Long and Stanley Armstead were still in their jeep seats, Stanley sketching idle shapes with a stub of pencil while Martin spun another tale from home. 

From the bridge, Paul glanced down at them—his crew, young men carrying themselves with the casual ease of those long accustomed to life at sea. He let the moment linger, appreciating their unguarded camaraderie. For tonight, there was nothing to disturb the rhythm of the tow, nothing but the low creak of cables and the steady pull of the Liberty ship ahead.

Off in the distance, thunder rolled low across the horizon, a muffled growl that carried over the water. The last of the sunset’s glow was swallowed by a wall of darkening clouds, spreading like ink across the sky. Ahead of the convoy, the sea turned restless, the steady rhythm of the swell giving way to a sharper, heavier rise.

On the 488, the change was immediate. The flat-bottomed craft began to slap hard against the gathering waves, each impact shuddering through her steel plates. Spray flew over the bow, cold and stinging, carried by a wind that was no longer gentle but insistent, tugging at caps and jackets.

The tow lines stretched taut, thick cables groaning as the Liberty ship Samfoyle heaved against the mounting seas. Each pull dragged the smaller vessel into the troughs with a jarring force, straining cleats and shackles. Men on deck moved quickly now, checking lashings, cinching down loose gear, their earlier ease replaced by the sharp focus born of experience.

Martin Long and Stanley Armstead were soon drenched by the spray washing over the bow. With the rain beginning to fall, they exchanged a glance, then crawled into the front seats of one of the troop transport trucks.

The tow ropes tightened like iron bars, each swell dragging 488 deeper into the trough before snapping her upward again with a jolt that rattled teeth and knees. Every rise ended with a punishing crash as the flat bow slapped down into the sea, throwing up great sheets of water that cascaded over the deck. Spray turned to a constant deluge, stinging eyes and soaking men to the bone.

The crew, once scattered in the open, now clung to whatever cover they could find. Some huddled beneath tarps or ducked behind machinery, while others wedged themselves against the fuel barrels, white-knuckled hands gripping lashings. Movement across the deck was nearly impossible—every attempt met with the wild lurch of the craft, threatening to throw a man overboard if he misjudged the next heave.

On the bridge, Paul Phillips-Thomas braced against the wheelhouse bulkhead, his cap forgotten, eyes locked on the tow cable ahead. It was stretched to its limit, taut as a drawn bowstring, groaning with each violent pull. Beside him, Kyle Steele gritted his teeth, hands clenched on the rail as if sheer will could hold the line.

The storm roared now, wind howling through the rigging, rain lashing sideways. Waves crashed against the steel hull with bone-shaking force. Each impact jarred the craft further, sending shudders up through her welded seams.

Then it came. A sharp report like a gunshot cut through the storm—the heavy cable parted with a deafening crack. In an instant, the line snapped back, whipping into the sea with a spray of foam, and the 488 lurched violently, no longer tethered to Samfoyle.

With the tow line gone, Sub-Lieutenant Arthur Paul Phillips-Thomas had no choice. Gripping the rail, he barked for the engine room to bring the diesels to life. The vibration rumbled up through the deck as the great, reluctant engines coughed, then roared into action. He knew the only chance was to meet the sea head-on—if LCT 488 stayed broadside for long, the Atlantic would roll her like a toy.

“Hard to port! Bring her nose into it!” Paul shouted above the howl of the wind. Kyle Steele relayed the order, his voice cracking as another wave slammed the hull. Slowly, the ungainly craft began to turn, her blunt bow straining to face the towering swells.

The first wave hit like a sledgehammer. The broad landing plate took the full brunt, shuddering the ship from stem to stern. Steel groaned, rivets popped, and for a moment it felt as though the entire bow would cave under the assault. Water surged across the deck in a white torrent, sweeping unsecured gear and nearly toppling two sailors before they scrambled inside, clawing at hatches and ladders to escape the fury above.

Each new wave smashed harder than the last, the flat hull slamming down into troughs with bone-rattling force. The ship lurched and groaned, shivering with every impact, but the bow held its line—just barely.

Below, in their steel refuge, Martin Long and Stanley Armstead braced against the jolts. The transport truck rocked violently with each blow, the air inside heavy with the mingled smells of oil and damp steel. They held fast, knuckles white, speaking little—the din outside said enough.

Through the sheets of rain and the towering seas, a larger shape emerged from the storm—HMS Knaresborough Castle, a Castle-class corvette, built for the Atlantic and riding the swells with far more grace than the battered landing craft. Her bow rose and fell in rhythm with the waves, spray bursting high but never overwhelming her decks.

With skill born of hard convoy duty, Knaresborough Castle edged closer to the stricken LCT 488, her signal lamps flashing, her loudhailer blaring across the storm: “Abandon ship! Get your crew into the rafts—we’ll take you aboard!”

Paul Phillips-Thomas gritted his teeth on the bridge. He knew the corvette’s captain was right. The LCT, never meant for open seas, was being beaten mercilessly by every wave, her seams groaning, her bow plates shuddering like a drum under the hammer of the Atlantic. One by one, men appeared on deck as the corvette drew alongside, ropes thrown across the gap between the two ships, lines whipping wildly in the wind.

Inflatable rafts were manhandled over the side, tossed and jerked by the seas as sailors clambered in, clutching one another for balance. With the corvette looming above, crew from Knaresborough Castle hauled the rafts in, pulling drenched and shivering men to safety. Faces pale, eyes wide, they scrambled aboard the corvette—relieved, yet reluctant, leaving behind the ship they had lived and fought with.

But not all would go. Some men shook their heads, because of the boiling seas refusing to leave the landing craft. Others simply could not move, too exhausted or battered by the storm to risk the crossing. They hunkered down instead, gripping rails and waiting for whatever came next.

The storm gave no quarter. As more crew tried to scramble across to safety, a fresh blast of wind heeled the 488 hard to starboard. The ropes strung between her and Knaresborough Castle snapped like twine, whipping away into the night. Shouts rang out, swallowed by the howl of the gale, as the corvette’s captain swung his ship clear to circle for another attempt.

For a heartbeat, the deck of 488 was left in chaotic silence—men clinging to rails, eyes straining through the spray toward the corvette’s fading outline. Then disaster struck.

With a metallic shriek, the lashings holding the fuel drums amidships gave way. One by one, the heavy barrels toppled free, crashing across the slick deck like four-hundred-pound dominos. The first smashed into a crate of machinery, splintering wood and sending shards flying. Another barrel careened into the hatch coaming, denting steel with bone-jarring force.

Sailors scrambled to get clear, ducking and leaping aside as the drums thundered past, each roll punctuated by the clang of steel on steel. Then came a sharper sound—an ugly tear as one barrel split open, followed by another. Within moments, the cargo area was awash with streaming fuel, the sharp, choking smell rising above even the salt spray.

On the bridge, Paul Phillips-Thomas fought the wheel with white-knuckled hands, the diesels straining at full power to keep the 488’s nose into the oncoming seas. Each wave reared like a black wall before crashing down on the landing plate with a thunderous blow, the ship shuddering as though every rivet might tear loose.

Then all hell broke loose.

Below, in the cargo area, the shackles securing the forward troop transport truck gave way under the relentless pounding. With a deafening screech of tearing steel, the 6 wheeled monster wrenched itself free. No longer restrained, the truck became a juggernaut, sliding forward with unstoppable weight before slamming into the bulkhead, then rolling back as the ship pitched the other way.

Inside the truck cab, Martin Long and Stanley Armstead were thrown like ragdolls. The once-sturdy refuge had become a trap. Each time they attempted to open the door, another bone-cracking impact sent them holding on like a roller coaster ride.

The sound was horrific—metal on metal, the grinding crunch of the truck smashing into crates, fuel drums, and the very structure of the landing craft itself. Screams and shouts echoed through the chaos as the crew scrambled out of the truck's path, diving for cover while the six wheeled bull rampaged from side to side, tearing the cargo space apart with every impact.

HMS Knaresborough Castle fought her way back through the storm, her bow cutting hard against the swell as she attempted to close the gap once more. But for LCT 488, the moment had already passed.

The landing craft, broad and flat, had been caught in a savage roll. Instead of holding steady into the seas, she yawed broadside, exposing her vulnerable flank to the towering waves. The Atlantic showed no mercy. Water slammed against the hull in hammering succession, each wave higher than the last, pounding her deck and drowning her hatches in foaming spray.

On the bridge, Paul Phillips-Thomas and Kyle Steele clung to the rails as their vessel shuddered beneath them. A mountainous wave surged under the keel, lifting the LCT high before dropping her into a trough with bone-breaking force. The tilt was so extreme that the deck itself became a slide. Fuel barrels and equipment broke free, skidding across the slick steel before vanishing over the side. One of the jeeps followed, tumbling end over end into the boiling sea below.

Then came the six wheeled monster.

The truck, already rampaging loose, slid sideways with terrifying inevitability. Its tires ground against the bulkhead before it reached the edge of the cargo hold. For a moment, it teetered—half inside, half hanging into the void—its weight pulling the deck with a groan of tortured steel. Paul and Steele could only watch, helpless, as another towering wave struck the port side.

The impact tipped the balance. With a final lurch, the truck with Martin and Stanley disappearing over the side in a massive splash. It went under like a ship’s anchor, vanishing into the black Atlantic depths, leaving only a churn of foam in its wake.

The sudden loss of the six wheeled truck and cargo pulled the LCT upright, her hull groaning as she staggered back to level. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though she might ride again. But the Atlantic was relentless.

The next wave rose out of the darkness like a mountain of black water, its crest foaming white in the dim light. It struck broadside with catastrophic force. The battered craft rolled hard, the pilot house shuddering as its windows blew in under the impact. Steel screamed, glass shattered, and the sea poured inside with crushing weight.

Paul Phillips-Thomas and Kyle Steele were thrown against the bulkheads as the pilot house plunged beneath the surface. In an instant, the bridge was an airless coffin, the storm’s roar muffled to a drowning silence. Both men fought against the surge, clawing for any way out as the craft continued its death roll.

Kyle’s hands found a jagged frame where a window had blown out. With a desperate heave, lungs burning, he forced himself through the gap, shards tearing at his clothes as he broke free into the maelstrom above. He kicked hard, bursting into the storm-tossed night with a gasp that was swallowed by the wind and rain.

Alone in the raging sea, Kyle spun, searching for Paul, for anyone, but the black waves offered nothing. The landing craft was already disappearing into the chaos, swallowed whole by the Atlantic. Lightning flashed, illuminating only the endless, heaving waters.

Kyle called out once, his voice lost instantly in the storm. No answer came.

The sea boiled beneath Kyle Steele’s feet, then dropped him into a hollow of black water where there was nothing—nothing but the storm’s fury pressing in from all sides. Dragged under, battered, then hurled upward again, he broke the surface coughing salt and gasping for air. For an instant he rode high atop a towering wave, and in that brief glimpse he saw her—HMS Knaresborough Castle—fighting her own war against the Atlantic. Her bow rose, then vanished into spray, running lights blinking faintly through sheets of rain.

Then he was swallowed again.

Time ceased to exist, measured only in waves and the agony of survival. The cold gnawed at him like knives, seeping deeper with every minute. His limbs ached, his grip on life shrinking to instinct alone: kick, breathe, keep your head above water. Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating only foam and chaos, each flash revealing no one else—just the endless sea.

Minutes bled into hours. Three times he thought he saw shapes in the water—perhaps shipmates, perhaps wreckage—but each time the surge dragged them away. He was alone, utterly alone, with only the towering walls of water and the shriek of the storm.

At last, after three unrelenting hours in the freezing Atlantic, salvation came. A flash of light swept across the waves—search beams cutting into the dark—and a shout carried faintly through the storm. The Knaresborough Castle loomed again, closer this time, her crew braving the rails, ropes ready.

Kyle lifted a trembling arm, barely able to keep it above the water. The beam found him, and hands reached out from the corvette’s deck. Against all odds, battered and half-frozen, he had been spotted.