Battle Ensign

by Thomas E. Lightburn

  ‘They must be the same buggers that were reported earlier,’ said Penrose, who, sitting in his chair, immediately trained his binoculars away to port. ‘Sound action stations, Number One, it looks like we’re in for a busy day.’

  A few minutes later, from the Gun Direction Platform situated above the bridge, gunnery officer, Lieutenant Ted Powers, also RNVR, reported all gun’s crews closed up. In the sick bay, situated on the port side of the after deck house, Harry Bamford, a slightly built, fair haired sick berth attendant, was in the process of placing a large a large kidney dish full of surgical instruments into the steriliser when Surgeon Lieutenant Latta arrived. ‘All prepared as usual?’ he asked Bamford, sitting down at his desk.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Bamford answered confidently, closing the steriliser lid.

  In the canteen flat, the first aid team, led by PO Steward Sandy Powel, a tall, pasty-faced man with deep set grey eyes, was made up of NAFFI manager, Ted Grainer, a small balding man with grey hair; Jack Jones, a small, slightly built Leading Writer; Lofty Bensen, a tall, dark, six-footer and tiny “Dick’ Turpin”, so called, because before the war he was a jockey.

  On the bridge, Penrose, sitting on his chair, looked carefully at his wrist watch, then, glancing approvingly at Manley, said, ‘Four minutes, not bad, Number One.’

  At that moment a tanker, roughly five miles away to starboard, exploded. This was quickly followed by a tall pall of flickering yellow flames, clearly visible some ten miles away to port. A few minutes later another detonation occurred in the same area. In a matter of seconds, a mixture of scarlet and yellow flames and swirling clouds of grey smoke bellowed upwards, momentarily blocking out the sun’s weak rays. Throughout the day everyone on board Helix could hear the intermittent thud, thud, coming from the far side of the convoy as Deptford, Marigold, and Semaphore launched salvo after salvo of depth charges in an effort to either sink or prevent the U-boat from further attacks.

  In Helix’s engine room, Lieutenant (E) Derek Logan, RNR, was engrossed, checking the temperature gauges. Logan was twenty-nine, tall and single with a mop of perpetual untidy fair hair. Before the war, he worked for Cunard and was second engineer on the SS Antonia, before being called up from the RN reserve in 1941. Logan was a fanatical about engines. His pasty complexion bore witness to, too much time he spent, even when off duty, ensuring his precious engines were in tip-top condition, something that irritated his staff.

  Standing next to him on the steel platform was Dolly Gray, a tall, muscular, HO stoker. Like the rest of the stokers, his once dark blue overalls, now a shade of white, caused by constant washing, was open to the waist, displaying a pale, sweat-stained, hirsute chest. ‘Any idea what’s going on up top, sir?’ asked Gray.

  Without taking his eyes of the gauges, Logan simply shook his head slightly and replied, ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘What about you, Chief?’ Gray said to Chief Stoker Harry Johnson, a tall, pale-faced, slightly round-shouldered man whose bald head, surrounded by grey hair, gave him a monk-like appearance. Had it not been for the outbreak of war in 1939, he would have completed twenty-two years of pensionable service and be at home with Ethel. He and Ethel had been married for twenty years. They lived in Gosport and had a son, Bert, who was killed at Dunkirk. ‘I expect the captain will tell us what’s going on,’ said Johnson. ‘Now stop worrying,’ he added with a toothy grin, ‘and keep a weather eye on them there oil gauges.’

  Just then the tall, stocky figure of Chief ERA Paddy O’Malley came in through a hatchway. ‘Be Jesus, how’s it going, Harry?’ he asked Johnson, using an off-white handkerchief to dab away beads of sweat from his heavily lined pale face. Even though the stokers had been in action several times before, each man knew if the ship was torpedoed, or hit by shellfire, their chances of getting away before they drowned was greatly reduced compared with their shipmates up top.

  ‘To be sure, this racket is driving me and the lads in the engine room round the bloody bend.’ O’Malley hailed from Londonderry and joined the navy the same time as Johnson. O’Malley was a widower, his wife, Mary, having died of a heart attack five years ago. They had a twelve-year-old son called Patrick who lived in Londonderry with Mary’s parents. When the ship was in Portsmouth, Johnson often invited him for a few beers and a meal at his home in Gosport.

  ‘I know what you mean, Paddy,’ Harry replied, ‘I wish the old man would tell us what the fuck’s going on.’

  As if reading Harry’s mind, the tannoy clicked into action. ‘This is the captain speaking,’ said Penrose. ‘The fog has now cleared and the convoy is under attack from a U-boat. Two merchant ships away on the port side have been sunk. The escorts in that area are dropping depth charges. The rescue ship is doing her best to pick up survivors. Helix is to remain in the van. Remain at defence stations. That is all. I’ll keep everyone informed.’

  ‘I should fuckin’ well hope so,’ muttered a stoker, standing near Harry checking fuel gages.

  From his vantage point in the crow’s nest, Buster Brown had already witnessed the sinking of two cargo ships. Now, with horror etched in his eyes, he saw men from an oil tanker jump overboard and splash into the water. He looked anxiously as the bulky shape of the rescue ship gradually approached the area, close enough to pick up survivors swimming in a sea which was now a flickering mass of flames, set alight from the oil spewing from the bowls of the tanker. Suddenly, the tanker disintegrated into a mass of swirling black smoke and flames and disappeared under the sea. Another vessel carrying ammunition blew up and quickly sank, taking most of the crew with her. ‘My God,’ Brown gasped as he slumped back into his wooden seat, ‘how many more ships will we lose before we arrive home?’

  Everyone on Helix’s bridge stood in silence, and like Brown, saw palls of black smoke and flames coming from the port column of the convoy.

  Lowering his binoculars, Manley gave a worried sigh, then looking at Penrose, said, ‘By my reckoning, sir, that leaves twenty-nine ships left.’

  ‘Quite so, Number One,’ Penrose replied soberly. Glancing thoughtfully at Sub Lieutenant Baker, a tall, dark haired, twenty-five-year-old RNR officer, he asked, ‘What’s our ETA Land’s End, Pilot?’

  ‘Roughly 0700 in two days’ time, sir,’ replied Baker. After obtaining a second in military history at Liverpool University he became an assistant manager at Barclay’s Bank, Wallasey. He and his girlfriend, Janet, who he had met at grammar school, had been engaged for nearly a year, and hoped to marry whenever circumstances allowed.

  ‘Hmm…’ Penrose muttered, giving Manley a sideways glance. ‘As you know, Number One, that’s where the convoy will split up.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Manley replied. ‘As I recall, Stork, Pelican, and Marigold will escort ten ships to Glasgow; Samphire, and Deptford are to take ten to Bristol, leaving ourselves and Gardenia to accompany the remaining nine to London.’

  ‘That’s correct, Number One, so here’s hoping we don’t lose any more ships,’ Penrose answered guardedly. ‘Stand down from action stations.’

  The time was 1400. The sea was choppy, and high above, the ugly, dark cirrostratus clouds promised rain. No sooner had Penrose finished speaking than Buster Brown’s voice in the crow’s nest came over the intercom. ‘Submarine on the surface about ten miles on the port beam, sir,’ he yelled excitedly.

  Almost at the same moment, Pincher Martin, a small, stocky, ginger haired able seaman, reported a small black line appearing on his pale green radar screen, and added. ‘It’s a sub, sir, and it doesn’t appear to be moving.’

  Everyone on the bridge trained their binoculars away to the right. Sure enough, the dark outline of a coning tower, 8.8 cm deck gun and snub-nosed bow could be seen silhouetted against the grey sky.

  Baker lowered his binoculars. Nearby on his desk was a copy of “Jane’s Fighting Ships”, a detailed compendium of all the world’s warships. He picked it up and quickly found what he was looking for. ‘It’s Type VII, sir,’ he cried. ‘They carry five
torpedoes, four in the bows and one in her stern.’

  ‘Thank you, Pilot,’ said Penrose. ‘I think the blighter’s probably recharging her batteries.’ Glancing warily at Manley, he went on, ‘Hands to action stations, then signal Stork. Give the sub’s position and tell them to remain on station. Better inform Commodore Bradley in Trehata. Say, “I am investigating. Do not break formation”.’ Penrose then unhooked the ship’s tannoy. ‘A U-boat has been sighted some distance away,’ he said calmly.

  Minutes later everyone was closed up. These included Lieutenant Barry Goldsmith, a tall fair hired twenty-three-year-year-old old TAS, (Torpedo, Anti-Submarine) officer, and his four-men team, manning the depth charges throwers on the quarter deck.

  ‘Sub’s beginning to dive, sir,’ Manley cried. Like the others he saw a cloud of white bubbles appear on the side of the U-boat.

  ‘Yes, I can see,’ Penrose replied, glancing warily at Manley while gritting his teeth. ‘The bastard’s blowing her ballast tanks.’ Straight away he contacted Lieutenant Logan in the engine room. ‘There’s a U-boat on the surface, Derek,’ he said, feeling his heart thumping a cadence in his chest. ‘Open her up and give me everything you’ve got. And don’t worry, I’ll take responsibility for any damage to your precious engines.’ With his binoculars still clamped to his eyes, he snapped, ‘Hard a port, revolutions one five.’

  In the wheelhouse, Digger Barnes repeated the order which was relayed to Lieutenant Logan in the engine room who adjusted the main engine throttle. Almost immediately the ship heeled steeply to the left forcing everyone on the bridge to grab hold of anything at hand. After righting herself, Helix bounded through the sea sending up a gigantic frothy bow wave curling over the fo’c’sle.

  Throughout the ship, the tension was palpable. In the engine room everyone listened to the thud, thud of the waves thumping against the bulkhead. A few stokers nervously licked their lips; others simply stood and felt lines of warm sweat running down their backs, while, on the quarter deck, Lieutenant Goldsmith stood by the telephone, anxiously waiting for the order to set his depth charges at the required depth in readiness to fire.

  Stoker Dolly Gray, shot an apprehensive glance at Lieutenant Logan. ‘Fuck me, sir,’ he gasped, ‘if we go any faster the rivets will burst.’

  ‘And what about the engines, sir?’ asked a pale-faced stoker. ‘Do you think they can cope with this speed we’re going?’

  ‘Oh, do shut up,’ Logan answered confidently. ‘I can assure you my engines and boilers can deal with anything the captain requires, now,’ he added, looking impassively at CERA O’Malley, ‘so, everyone relax and keep calm.’

  The first aid party mustered outside the NAFFI. ‘Everyone, check your first aid bags and make sure you’ve got plenty of shell dressings,’ said PO Powel, opening his small, brown canvas bag.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, PO,’ growled Bensen, ‘we’ve done this a dozen times before.’

  ‘Then do it again, and pipe down,’ Powel replied bluntly.

  Meanwhile, the ship continued to cut through the high rolling sea, sending a spumescent curling bow wave over the fo’c’sle. On the bridge, all eyes were focused on the U-boat.

  ‘Do you want to open fire, sir?’ said Manley, noticing a determined glint in Penrose’s eyes. ‘We’re only about a half a mile away and the bastard will be gone soon.’

  Baker and everyone on the bridge heard Manley’s question and waited anxiously for Penrose to answer. ‘No,’ Penrose grunted. ‘At the speed we’re going we should hit the conning tower before it disappears underwater.’ A few seconds after Penrose had finished speaking, he suddenly felt a sudden pounding in his chest. Making a conscious effort to conceal his discomfort from Manley, he quickly put his hand in his jacket and fiddled with a small box and took out a white pill. ‘Heartburn,’ he said to Manley, popping it into his mouth. The pill was Digoxin, prescribed by Doctor Peter Smyth, his local GP and personal friend, when he was on leave. He had felt his heart rate increasing on several occasions before but was reluctant to report sick as Helix was due to sail. After a careful examination, Smyth told him he was suffering from what he called, “chronic arterial fibrillation,” a rhythmic disorder of the heart that could, if left untreated, be extremely serious. Penrose was only too aware that if the navy knew of this, he would be given a desk job or, at worst, a medical discharge, and not receive the fourth gold stripe he coveted so much. He therefore kept his condition not only from the ship’s doctor, but also his wife as he knew she was worried enough with him being away so much. Therefore, he took a pill whenever he felt his heart rate increase.

  Manley gave Penrose a defiant glance. ‘But what do you intend doing, sir?’ he asked impatiently.

  Penrose clenched his teeth. ‘Do, Number One?’ he grunted, ‘I’m going to ram the bastard!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  In a flash, Manley realised the implications of his captain’s intention. Ramming an enemy ship was always a last resort, especially when every other method of attack had failed. He was also aware that the damage Helix could sustain might result in her sinking and possible loss of lives. Feeling the blood drain from his face, he turned and faced Penrose. ‘Ram, sir!’ he shouted, ‘Why not use depth charges instead?’

  Feeling the thumping of his heart gradually subside, Penrose replied, ‘Too bloody late now, Number One.’ He and the others saw the top of the conning tower, roughly two hundred yards away. Penrose unhooked the tannoy, and doing his best to sound calm, said ‘In a few minutes we will ram the U-boat. All hands steady themselves.’

  The captain’s warning sent alarm running throughout everyone. Lieutenant Goldsmith ordered his depth charge crew to secure and get below. Chief GI Bob Shilling told the guns crew to stand down while on the bridge. Petty Officer Len Mills, a weather-beaten, six foot, thick-set Cornishman, held onto the binnacle. QM Sammy Smith grabbed the side of the captain’s chair while the two lookouts quickly caught hold of a stanchion. In the wheelhouse, Digger Barnes increased his grip on the wheel while QM Chalky White, a tall, pale-faced able seaman grasped a nearby stanchion. Leading Seaman Chats Harris cast a worried glance at Bud Abbot, his opposite number on B gun. ‘Bugger this for a fuckin’ skylark, Bud, my old gash bucket,’ Harris gasped. ‘We never practised this during our work-up.’

  ‘That’s because there weren’t any soddin’ subs to practice on, yer daft bugger,’ Bud sarcastically replied. ‘Now shit in it before we all end up in the oggin.’ In sharp contrast to Harris, who was tall, muscular with thick brown wavy hair, Abbot was small and stocky, whose pugnacious features made him resemble James Cagney.

  In the crow’s nest, Buster Brown felt his stomach contract with fear. Watching the U-boat’s conning tower and tall periscope some twenty yards away from the ships bows, he realised it was too late to leave his post. By the time he clambered down the rattling rigging onto the bridge, the ship would have hit the top of the conning tower and he might be thrown overboard. ‘Sod, it, he muttered nervously, ‘I’ll stay here and take my fuckin’ chances.’

  On the bridge everyone held their breath as Helix’s sharp bows crashed into top of the conning tower as it was about to sink under the water. A tremendous shock wave immediately vibrated throughout the ship. A shuddering, grinding noise quickly followed this as Helix slowly stopped.

  Penrose held desperately onto the sides of his chair. Baker managed to grab hold of Manley before he fell backwards. The others lost their grip on whatever they were holding onto and tumbled over. Below, in the engine room, Dolly Gray staggered against the bulkhead and sustained a two-inch gash on his forehead. In the engine room, CERA O’Malley slipped on the steel grating and twisted his ankle. Other stokers were thrown against the panels and dials, bruising shoulders and arms. Chaos reigned in the galley as pots, pans and trays left the security of their shelves and flew everywhere.

  ‘So much for the toad-in-the-hole,’ cried Chief Cook Dai Evans, doing his best to pick his bulky, five-foot six frame off the galley deck, whi
le watching two trays of under-cooked sausages fall onto the deck. Peering, wild-eyed, at the four cooks who were holding onto parts of the galley equipment, he shouted, ‘Well, don’t fuckin’ well stand there gawping,’ he yelled, ‘someone help me up.’

  ‘To be sure, Chief,’ said Spud Murphy, a tall, ginger-headed HO chef from Londonderry. Letting go of a table and taking hold of the chief’s arm, he grinned and added, ‘We could always wash ‘em and make those Yankee hot dogs.’

  ‘Get this fuckin’ lot cleared up,’ snapped the chief, glaring angrily at his staff. ‘Or I’ll make hot dogs of all the lot of you.’

  In the sick bay, situated in the after deck house, directly over the seaman’s mess deck and under X gun turret, everything rattled. Doors of the medical cabinet flew open, scattering bottles and tins everywhere. Tiny flakes of asbestos fluttered from the overhead pipes like confetti. Sick Berth Attendant Bamford managed prevent himself falling over by tightly clasping the metal rail of one of the cots. Surgeon Lieutenant Latta wasn’t so lucky; he was sitting at his desk and toppled backwards bumping his head on the deck.

  ‘Bloody hell, sir,’ said Bamford as he helped the doctor to his feet. ‘I think we’ll have a few bods with bruises after this lot.’ Bamford was from Cheapside and spoke with an unmistakable cockney accent.

  ‘Och, and a few broken bones,’ the doctor added, rubbing the back of his head.

  As the ship passed over the spot where the U-boat sank, everyone on the bridge watched in awe as a widening circle of frothy white bubbles erupted in the sea. This was quickly followed by a dull, rumbling noise. With the exception of Penrose, who remained in his chair, everyone stood in silence, only too aware what was happening in the sea below them.

  ‘She must be breaking up, sir,’ Manley said quietly, staring at the ever-widening ripples of water.