‘Reply, “Thank you for your company. Deeply regret the loss of your two ratings. God speed”.’
Everyone on the bridge gave a friendly wave as Stork slowly pulled away to starboard, heading towards the wharf. Ten minutes later Helix approached North Corner Basin situated further down the harbour.
‘Starboard five. Slow ahead,’ snapped Penrose.
‘Five a starboard wheel on, sir,’ replied Chief Barnes from the wheelhouse.
‘Special sea duty men fall out, Number one,’ said Penrose, ‘and make sure they have a good breakfast.’
Helix gradually turned to the right and entered he calm waters in the wide basin at the end of which were two large, oaken dock gates leading into the dry dock. Seawater would eventually be let into the dock. When it was at the same level as that in the basin, the gates would slide open, allowing Helix to enter.
‘Stop engines,’ said Penrose.
‘How long before the dry dock is flooded, sir?’ Sub Lieutenant Baker asked Manley. Baker had relieved Milton and was OOW.
‘About an hour or so,’ Manley replied, stifling a yawn. ‘I expect the dockyard engineers will let us know.
Shortly after 0900 a message from the engineer informed Penrose the dry dock was now flooded. Everyone on the bridge watched as the giant dry dock gates slowly slid open.
‘Slow ahead, revolutions five,’ said Penrose, sitting on his chair, sipping a mug of tea. Meanwhile, on both sides of the dock a crane waited. With the help of dockyard workers wearing yellow waders, the cranes would lower thick wooden planks to support the sides of the ship as the water was slowly drained away. It was a slow onerous task, requiring careful timing and skill.
When Helix was in the middle of the dock, Penrose ordered the engines to stop and all hands to keep clear of the upper deck. Almost immediately, the ship began to roll gently as buoyancy was lost. As the water level was reduced, the steep slippery concrete steps around the sides of the basin slowly came into view. Dockyard workers on either side of the basin ensured the stout wooden supports were firmly in place against the ship’s side. By the time the water had drained away ship was resting on the grating. On the quarterdeck, Sub Lieutenant Milton turned to deck officer, Sub Lieutenant Jock Jewitt, a tall, gangly faired Sub Lieutenant from Dundee, and said, ‘All those struts against the ship’s side make them look like oars from a Viking raider.’
‘Och away with you, man,’ Jewitt replied. In doing so his dark blue eyes and weather-beaten complexion creased into a wide grin. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got an over-developed imagination. What you need is a good run ashore.’
By midday, a metal gangway leading from an exit in the basin to the quarterdeck, was in place, along with the ship to shore telephone.
‘Up spirits, cooks to the galley, mail is now ready for collection,’ was piped.
Leading hands of messes hurried to the coxswain’s office where the “postie”, Slinger Woods, a tall, dark haired able seaman from Hull, handed out bundles of letters.
Shortly afterwards, the sound of envelopes being torn open accompanied raucous laughter and ribald comments echoed around each mess.
‘My missus says she’s two weeks overdue,’ said Lofty Day, staring wildly at his letter, ‘and wants me to increase her allotment.’
‘Never mind, mate,’ said Dutch Holland, ‘maybe it’s a false alarm.’
‘Or a grudge baby?’ grinned Jock Forbes, placing his letter in an envelope.
‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’ Day replied angrily.
‘Someone’s had it in for you while you’ve been away,’ Jock answered, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
‘Fuckin’ sheep shagger,’ grunted Day as he threw a boot at Jock.
In the wardroom, Sub Lieutenant Baker felt the blood drain from his face as he read a letter from his fiancé, Janet It was brief and quickly came to the point.
Dear David,
I am writing to tell you that while you’ve been away, I have met and fallen in love with someone else. I realise this will come as a shock and upset you, and I’m terribly sorry for that. However, I hope we can remain friends.
God bless you and take care of yourself.
Affectionately yours,
Janet.
‘Are you all right, laddie? You look as white as a sheet,’ asked Lieutenant Logan, who was standing nearby drinking a cup of tea.
‘Not really, Jock,’ muttered Baker, who, feeling as if his world had suddenly collapsed, slowly left the room and went to his cabin.
Penrose was sat behind his desk in his cabin. The two letters from Jean telling him Janet and her were keeping well, lay on his desk. Sitting opposite him was a stocky, dockyard official with a heavily lined face and rheumy grey eyes who had introduced himself as Joseph Pendleton. Next to him, Manley relaxed back in an armchair and crossed his legs. Unlike the dark blue, oil-stained overall worn by Pendleton, those worn by Penrose and Manley were pristine white. The three men had just returned from examining the damage sustained when the ship rammed the U-boat.
‘As you saw, the cracks below the waterline on the port side of bows are severe.’ He spoke with a pronounced Hampshire accent. ‘Luckily, the damage to the paint store isn’t so bad.’
‘How long will it take to repair them?’ Pentose asked, somewhat anxiously.
‘Let me see now,’ Pendleton replied while pensively stroking g his chin. ‘The bulkhead will need a new plate, but the cracks in the paint store could be welded, so I’d say a week at the earliest.’
With a tired sigh, Penrose replied, ‘Thank you, Mr Pendleton.’ Then, glancing at the wall clock, went on. ‘Perhaps you’d care to join my first lieutenant and myself in a drink?’
‘A whisky would go down nicely, sir,’ Pendleton answered, ‘and a few packets of Players would be most welcome.
Half an hour later, Penrose and Manley accompanied Pendleton to the brow. ‘Thank you for the drink,’ said Pendleton, shaking their hands. ‘And err… I’ll see if I can hurry up the repairs,’ he added, smiling wistfully while touching the small brown paper parcel tucked under his arm.
‘Bribery and corruption, sir,’ said Manley, watching Pendleton walk unsteadily down the gangway. ‘I hope it is worth it.’
‘We’ll just have to wait and see, Number One,’ Penrose replied.
‘The ship’s company are due ten days leave, sir,’ said Manley. ‘May I suggest we ask for a dozen volunteers who live locally to remain behind, and send the rest on four days leave.’
‘I agree, Number One,’ Penrose replied. ‘They can have the other six days when we leave dry dock, providing we’re not required to go to sea.’
‘What about you, sir?’ asked Manley, noticing the dark rings and bags under his captain’s bloodshot eyes. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, I think you could do with a rest.’
‘Not at the moment, Number One,’ Penrose replied, ‘later, after the repairs are completed. In the meantime, I suggest heads of departments remain on board to order stores. This will enable Lieutenant Logan to overhaul his engines, and I want Baker to check with the oceanic department in barracks and bring his charts up to date. The doc and the deck officers and midshipman might as well go on leave.’
The prospect of leave was greeted by the crew with alacrity; the seven creases in bell bottoms were neatly pressed, white fronts and shirts ironed and shoes polished. That evening, a small contingent of engineers and dockyard workers invaded the ship. Throughout the night the constant hammering and ear shattering sound of welding kept everyone awake.
‘That fuckin’ noise is driving me nuts,’ growled Tansey Lee from under the cosy confines of his hammock. ‘What time are those coaches taking us to the station tomorrow?’ The time was 2330. His question was directed at Pincher Martin in the hammock a few feet away.
‘0900,’ came Pincher’s muffled reply. ‘Now shit in it and let me have a quiet wank.’
In his cabin, Lieutenant Baker lay in his bunk. For the umpteenth time since receiving S
usan’s letter, he asked himself how she could have done this to him, and who was the “someone”, she had met. Was he in the armed forces or exempt service, or maybe a conscientious objector? With a weary sigh, he switched off his bedside light and stared blankly up at the pipes and cables in the deck head. ‘To hell with it,’ he told himself before eventually falling asleep. ‘I’m not giving up. As soon as I can, I’m going to sort them both out.’
CHAPTER FOUR
At 0900, on Thursday 17th, the crew left the ship. Each rating carried a “pussers” green suitcase, and boarded a coach that took them to Portsmouth Harbour station. (Anything naval, is referred to as “pusser”.) Shortly afterwards the officers climbed into a tilly waiting on the wharf, and left the dockyard. While in dry dock Penrose, Manley, Logan and Jewitt would be billeted in the wardroom in barracks. The twelve volunteers were allowed to draw their “tot” and go ashore at 1600, leaving four ratings to share a twenty-four-hour telephone and security watch. Penrose and the other three officers left when it suited them.
Among the twelve volunteers that remained behind to man the ship were Chief Stoker Harry Johnson and ERA Paddy O’Malley. Standing by a guard rail on the quarterdeck, O’Malley glanced sideways at Johnson, and said, ‘To be sure, four days isn’t long. I hope they make the most of it.’
With a smile, Johnson replied, ‘That reminds me, Paddy, Ethel’s met someone called Joyce, who lives in the next road. They play bingo together and she has a phone. Her hubby, Jack, is in the army and was captured at Dunkirk and is now a POW. Anyway, I managed to phone Ethel to tell her I’m coming home and I was bringing you with me, and to bring Joyce. I also asked her to make my favourite, rabbit stew, tonight.’
Paddy threw his head back and gave a hearty laugh. ‘And, to be sure, she’s now playing matchmaker, eh, Harry?’
‘Oh, pipe down and give me a ciggy,’ Harry replied giving his friend a playful dig in the ribs.
During the morning, the grating noise of welding and banging of hammers echoed around the ship. Canvas mats were laid down on the passage ways to protect the deck from the hob nailed boots worn by the dockyard workers. Penrose sat in his cabin and caught up with reading signals and writing reports. Manley wrote a letter home, then, along with Engineer Lieutenant Logan and Lieutenant Powers, conducted a tour of the ship making sure all departments were secure.
Because the boilers, engines, heating and ventilation were shut down, the atmosphere throughout the ship became muggy and eerily quiet. All sounds became exaggerated with the air damp and dusty. A warm westerly breeze blew down river while the sun, hidden by stratocumulus clouds, promised dry, dull, weather. With their gas mask satchels and steel helmets hanging over their shoulders, and wearing their number one uniforms, Harry Johnson and Paddy O’Malley cadged a lift in a coach, that dropped them off at the harbour station. Both men carried small brown suitcases containing “nutty” — a term used in the navy, covering sweets and chocolate.
Along with a crowd of civilians and dockyard workers, they walked down the metal slipway, and stood behind a stout wooden barrier while watching the tug-like ferryboat slowly chug alongside the jetty. An elderly deckhand then left the vessel and jumped onto the jetty. Using thick manila rope, he secured the vessel by quickly tying a figure of eight pattern around two steel bollards. After this he undid part of the ferry boat’s guard rail while another deckhand drew back the barrier, allowing each person to carefully step aboard.
An all-night shuttle service, consisting of two ferryboats, ran between Gosport and Portsmouth. The journey across the harbour to Gosport took just over ten minutes. From a small open bridge, the captain, a grey-haired man with a white beard, expertly manoeuvred the ferryboat passed an aircraft carrier, two destroyers and a frigate. After passing her sister ferryboat, the captain cut engines and slowly hove to alongside the Gosport jetty. A guardrail was removed and a wooden gangway allowed the passengers to leave. (In 1963, these ferryboats were superseded by two modern double decker vessels.)
Paddy and Johnson joined the passengers and walked up the concrete slipway at the top to the bus station. ‘That number ten stops not far away from Richmond Road, where I live,’ said Johnson, pointing to one of several double-decker green busses parked nearby. Johnson paid both their fares to a small, stout, female, “clippy”, then, along with a few other passengers, took their seats. The bus drove up a busy main street road stopping a few times to allow passengers to leave and board.
‘That’s the White Hart, said Johnson, pointing to a large white-fronted pub on the left side of the road. ‘When I’m on leave, that’s our local.’
The bus stopped at the corner Gordon Road and Stokes Road. After a five-minute walk they turned into Richmond Road, a wide thoroughfare consisting of rows of red bricked terraced houses.
‘Here we are, mate,’ said Johnson, stopping outsider number twenty. ‘Home sweet home,’ he added, glancing nostalgically at the house. There was no garden, only a single step leading up to a pale-green, oak door, painted by Johnson a few months ago. In front of floral-patterned curtains, folds of dark, blackout curtains could be seen, gathered at each corner of the bottom bay window and two top windows. A thin trail of grey smoke eddied from a chimney stack, and like all the widows in the road, they were criss-crossed with white tape.
Johnson was about to press the doorbell when the door opened, revealing a medium sized woman with a round, pale, fleshy face and bright blue eyes. Her thick legs were bare and she wore a pair of fluffy brown slippers. Over a pink blouse and black skirt, a polka dotted apron was tied loosely around her ample waist.
‘Well don’t just stand there, Harry,’ she said, showing a set of even, slightly tobacco-stained teeth, ‘come and give me a hug.’ Harry immediately threw his arms around her, and lifting her off her feet, gave her a huge bear hug, then kissed her hard on the lips. ‘Put me down,’ she cried, turning a deep shade of red, ‘or you’ll have the neighbours talking, so you will, and I take it this is your friend,’ she added, looking at Paddy as Harry lowered her onto the step. Having been born and bred in Portsmouth, she spoke with a distinct Hampshire accent.
‘This is Paddy O’Malley,’ said Harry. ‘And, needless to say, this is Ethel, my long-suffering wife. Do you think he could use Bert’s old room?’ he added tentatively.
‘Of course,’ Ethel replied, ‘I’m sure Bert wouldn’t have minded if…’
Paddy quickly interrupted her. ‘I hope I’m not putting you to too much trouble?’
‘Nonsense, Paddy,’ Ethel answered, warmly shaking his hand. ‘You’re more than welcome.’
As they walked down a well-lit hallway, the peppery smell of cooking permeated the air.
‘Hmm…’ murmured Harry, sniffing the air. ‘Don’t tell me, love,’ he said putting his arm around Ethel’s waist and giving it a quick squeeze. ‘Rabbit stew.’
The house, like those in the area, was a typical two-up, two-down with an upstairs bathroom. The walls of the small kitchen were whitewashed and the floor tiled in a deep red. In the middle a pristine white tablecloth covered a small table and two chairs. A few dishes lay stacked on a wooden drain board and one of two shiny brass taps dripped into a deep stone sink. In one corner, next to a cupboard, was a metal ice box and an assortment of cooking utensils hanging from a shelf. A kettle lay on an unlit gas stove above which an assortment of plates slotted into a metal rack. A door and two steps led onto a sloping backyard and a brick-built toilet with a flat slate roof.
Ethel opened a door, allowing Harry and Paddy to enter the parlour. The rays of the late afternoon sun, beaming through the window highlighted the patterns on the pastel-coloured wallpaper and sent dark shadows onto the low slung, cream coloured ceiling. A thick green carpet covered the floor. A coal fire crackled below a narrow marble mantelpiece on which rested a large clock, set in a shiny wooden frame. Above this was a large round mirror attached to two tiny silver chains hanging from the wall.
‘Now, sit yourselves down and I’ll be
back in a minute,’ said Ethel who, smiling warmly, hurried away.
Paddy slid off his gas mask and steel helmet off his shoulder and sat down into one of the two well-worn, brown leather armchairs. Harry followed suit and plonked himself down into the other armchair.
‘Is that your son?’ Paddy asked Harry, nodding towards a framed photograph of a young, fresh-faced lad in khaki, resting next to a few family portraits.
‘Yes, that was our Bert,’ Harry replied, taking out a packet of Woodbines and offering one to Paddy. ‘He was with the BEF and he would have been twenty in a week’s time,’ he added, lighting both cigarettes with a match. (BEF refers to the British Expeditionary Force sent to France in 1940.)
‘He was a fine looking, lad,’ said Paddy, taking a deep drag of his cigarette.
‘Aye,’ Harry sighed as he flicked ash into a brass ash tray, ‘we’re very proud of him.’
Just then, Ethel came in holding three glasses and three bottles of Guinness and placed them on a nearby small, glass-topped table. ‘I was just telling Paddy how proud we are of Bert,’ said Harry.
Ethel didn’t reply. Instead, she nodded and poured out the drinks. ‘Harry tells me you’ve asked a friend of yours to come for a meal,’ said Paddy, sensing the pain in Ethel’s eyes. ‘Er… what’s she like?’’
‘You’ll find out,’ Ethel answered quietly, ‘now finish your drink then you can both take your gear upstairs.’
At six o’clock Ethel switched on the wireless and they sat in the front room, smoking while listening intently to the sonorous voice of Alvar Lidell on the BBC, announcing more shipping losses in the Atlantic and the shortage of food on Malta.
‘Those poor Maltese,’ Ethel said, with a sigh, ’they must all be starving.’
‘They won’t be if our convoys manage to get through,’ said Harry, exhaling a steady stream of tobacco.
A few minutes later the doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be Joyce,’ said Ethel. She quickly stubbed out her cigarette in an ash tray and left the room.
Battle Ensign Page 4
