With the windscreen wipers swishing angrily, Manley drove through Dorchester and continued to Bournemouth, arriving there shortly after four o’clock. Traffic was sparse, but the rain had stopped. After passing Portsdown Hill, they entered Portsmouth. It was five o’clock when Manley pulled up on Queen Street, a little distance from the dockyard gate.
‘Better change seats and I’ll drive you to the ship,’ Laura said quietly.
They did so, and after flashing their pay books at the policeman, Laura drove through the gate into the dockyard. As it was still day, in order to avoid prying eyes, she parked the car a good distance from Dulverton and Eridge, both of whom were tied up behind Helix.
For a nearly a minute they sat in silence, knowing the moment they had both dreaded had arrived. Suddenly, Laura turned and doing her best to fight back tears, said, ‘Darling, as I’ve told you I work in the movements office and so I am privy to Ultra decrypts.’
‘Yes, I do, so…’ Manley slowly replied.
‘I know about the convoy you’re going on,’ she muttered cagily, ‘I can’t go into details, but there’s… there’s something unusual about it.’
Somewhat taken aback by Laura’s strained remark, Manley said, ‘Something unusual, darling, what exactly do you mean?’
‘I’m not sure, my love,’ cried Laura, ‘so do be careful. Now, for pity’s sake, Hugh, kiss me and go before I go crazy.’
Manley pulled her fiercely against him; their kiss was so hard their teeth pushed through their lips. Afterwards, with his heart beating a cadence in his chest, he reached over his seat and grabbed his grip. After another passionate kiss, he opened the door and climbed outside.
Still doing her best not to cry, Laura looked up and in hushed tones, said, ‘Darling, remember, I’ll all ways love you. God bless you and your crew and please, please, come back safe.’
Feeling his throat contract, Manley replied hoarsely, ‘don’t worry, darling, I will.’ He quickly turned away. But as he walked down the wharf towards his ship, Laura’s words concerning the convoy rankled in his head. What could she possibly have meant, he asked himself, as he turned and gave her a final wave before making his way up the gangway.
PART TWO
CHAPTER ELEVEN
By 0700, on Tuesday 31 May, Helix’s engines were flashed up in readiness to leave harbour. Two hours earlier, after breakfast, everything throughout the ship had been stowed correctly; the steering gear, sea communications and compasses had been checked and tested. While in dry dock, the new ten-centimetre radar equipment had been installed. As this gave detections of surface submarines at a range of four miles or more, it greatly improves the ship’s fighting capability.
At exactly 0730, Manley knocked on the captain’s door and was told to enter. ‘Ship ready for sea, wind strong, nor-nor-west, sir.’
‘Thank you, Number One, carry on,’ replied Penrose, standing up from behind his desk. ‘I’ll be up straight away. As senior officer, I’ll be Captain D, so Helix will leave first.’
Five minutes later, the pipe. ‘Close all screen doors and scuttles. Special seamen report for duty. Hands fall in for leaving harbour.’
On the port starboard side of the fo’c’sle and quarterdeck, gusts of warm wind attacked the collars of sailors, waiting to release the heavy hemp ropes from the bollards. After looking up and down from the starboard wing, Manley gave an affirmative nod to Penrose who was sat in his chair. ‘Let go aft,’ snapped Penrose. Seconds later, he added, ‘Let go for’d. Slow ahead, revolutions five.’
‘Slow ahead, revolutions, five,’ sir,’ reported Chief Coxswain Digger Barnes from the wheelhouse.
With the gentle vibrations of the engines purring, the ship, rolling slightly at first, moved imperceptibly away from the jetty.
‘Half ahead.’
‘Midships.’
‘Midships… Wheels amidships, sir.’
‘Steady.’
‘Steady, sir.’
‘Starboard five, revolutions ten.’
Helix gradually increased speed, and by 1030, the small flotilla passed Fort Blockhouse and entered the Solent. By 1100 they had sailed past the lighthouse situated at the end of the Needles, a row of jagged pillars of chalk, lying off the extremity of the Isle of Wight, and entered the choppy grey waters of the English Channel.
‘Stand down special sea duty men and revert to cruising stations, Number One,’ said Penrose, surveying the horizon with his binoculars. ‘Anything on radar?’
‘No reports as yet, sir,’ replied Manley.
‘Thank you, Number One,’ Penrose replied, reaching for the ship’s intercom. ‘I think I’d better tell the ship’s company where we’re going.’ For the next ten minutes, Penrose explained the ship’s schedule and mission, ending with, ‘We will not be stopping at Gib. I will keep you informed of any future developments. That is all.’
Just as he finished speaking, the voice of Buster Brown in the crow’s nest came over the bridge intercom. ‘Two unidentified aircraft approaching roughly two thousand feet on the starboard bow.’
Immediately everyone looked up and saw two aircraft, their black shapes barely clear against the greyness of the sky.
‘Better sound action stations, Number One,’ snapped Penrose, ‘just to be on the safe side.’
This was the first time the crew had heard the harsh sound of the claxon echoing around since the ship had returned from convoy duty two months ago. However, as everyone hurried to their stations, Manley’s voice announced, ‘False alarm, aircraft were ours. Up spirits and revert to cruising stations.’
In the seamen’s mess, ratings came in, sweating and breathing heavily. ‘Thank fuck for that,’ cried Dinga Bell, a tall, fair-haired lanky HO able seaman. ‘I’ve got make and mend and a juicy French book to read in my mick,’ he added, hurriedly dragging off his anti-flash gloves and hood.’
‘Since when can you read French?’ enquired Bob Rose, a small, stocky, able seaman, from Barrow, who, before the war played left back for Manchester City.
‘You don’t have to, Bob,’ Dinga replied smugly. ‘All you need to know are the dirty words.’
‘And what may they be?’ asked Tug Wilson, a tall, dark-haired, leading radar operator from Barnsley.
‘Well, “putain” roughly means fuck and ‘salope’ means slut,’ said Dinga, giving Rose a licentious grin.
‘What about “cunt”?’ enquired Bud Abbot.
‘No translation. A cunt is a cunt in any language,’ Dinga answered promptly.
‘And if you ask me,’ said Dutch Holland, ‘you are as well. After you with the book.’
In the senior ratings mess, Harry Johnson had just removed his anti-flash gear and was enjoying a mug of steaming hot tea. Standing nearby, Paddy O’Malley stood quietly smoking a cigarette.
‘How are things between you and Joyce?’ he asked Paddy, while blowing over the top of his mug.
Paddy took a deep drag of his cigarette, then turning his head slightly, exhaled a thick trail of smoke, and said, ‘To be sure, Harry, they’d be much better if she wasn’t married.’
‘And if she wasn’t?’ Johnson asked, looking over the brim of his mug.
‘I’d ask her to marry me, so I would,’ he firmly replied, then left the mess.
On the bridge, Penrose was sat in his chair, thinking about his wife and daughter and the pleasant Sunday they had spent together. The warm sun caressed his face. The sea was relatively calm, and high above, the fluffy white cumulus clouds promised the continuation of good weather.
Manley stood nearby, listening to the steady throb of the engines and wondering what Laura was doing. Meanwhile, OOW Sub Lieutenant Baker was busy using his binoculars, surveying the horizon.
Just then, Steward Johnny Morris arrived holding a tray of sandwiches and a mug of tea and stood next to Penrose.
‘As it’s now sixteen hundred and youse ‘ave missed yer lunch, ser,’ he said in his distinctive Scouse accent, ‘I thought youse would be hungry.’
It suddenly occurred to Penrose that he had been on the bridge since the ship left Portsmouth and he hadn’t eaten.
‘Thank you, Morris,’ Penrose replied, placing the mug on the small table attached to arm of his chair, then accepting the sandwiches. ‘They’re just what I could do with, chicken, I take it?’
Flashing Penrose a toothy smile, Morris replied, ‘Of course, ser.’ He then left the bridge.
‘Anything on asdic or radar, Number One?’ Penrose asked, wiping a piece of bread from the corner of his mouth, ‘And our position?’
Manley was about to say there was nothing to report, when as if anticipating his captain’s request, OOW Sub Lieutenant Baker interrupted him. ‘Land’s End, away to port, sir, about fifty miles.’
‘Thank you, Pilot,’ Penrose replied. Glancing at Manley, he added, somewhat nostalgically, ‘I suppose that’ll be our last sight of dear old England for some considerable time, eh, Number One?’
Using his binoculars, he looked to his left and was too engrossed to reply. Instead, he stood remembering the wind blowing in their hair as he and Laura stood on a grassy verge looking at the jagged rocky outcrops, and wondered when or if he would see her again.
‘Did you hear me, Number One? Penrose asked.
‘Sorry, sir, I was err… just thinking the same thing,’ Manley hurriedly replied.
By 0600 the next morning, the stars and moon had finally disappeared, leaving the sun to rise imperceptibly from the east to change the grey, choppy Atlantic waters into a carpet of shimmering silver.
On the bridge, OOW Sub Lieutenant Baker was slumped in the captain’s chair. Having checked the ship’s position, he was now deep in thought, thinking about Janet and wishing things hadn’t changed between them.
Suddenly the gruff Lancastrian voice of PO Hardman interrupted his thoughts. ‘You never get used to it, do you, sir?’
‘Err… what was that you said, PO?’ Baker replied, unconsciously fastening the top toggle of his duffel coat.
‘The sunrise, sir,’ Baker said, nodding away to his left. ‘Lovely, ain’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Baker replied, sitting upright and staring at bright white haze spreading across the horizon.
‘Another dawn, another day,’ muttered QM Knocker White, stifling a yawn.
‘Och, it’s a poet you are,’ said Jock Weir, a small, thick-set, duty leading signalman from Dundee. Just as he finished speaking, Buster Brown’s voice, up in the crow’s nest crackled over the bridge intercom. ‘Nine ships, roughly ten miles on the starboard beam, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ Baker replied, then, glancing at Hardman, said, ‘anything on asdic?’
‘No, sir,’ Hardman replied.
Baker was about to inform Penrose, when the captain arrived on the bridge. Even though it was June, a chilly wind blew from the east, and like those on duty, he wore a duffel coat.
‘I overheard what came over the intercom,’ Penrose said, tucking the silk scarf Jean had given him, around his neck. ‘It must be the convoy, what’s our position?’
‘Ninety miles, or so, from Brest, sir,’ Baker answered confidently.
‘Good, right on time,’ Penrose replied. Focussing his binoculars to his right, he was able to make the outlines of the four merchantmen, the escorts and the two tall funnels and superstructure of HMS Carlisle. With a quick smile, he looked at Baker, and said, ‘Now, kindly give me back my chair.’ Looking at Leading Signalman Jock Weir, he said, ‘Signal Eridge and Dulverton, and say, “remain on station. Intend asking instructions. Will keep you informed”.’
Placing his Aldis lamp in the crook of his arm, Weir did this. A few minutes later, both ships flashed back in acknowledgement.
‘The four merchantmen are… Breconshire, Clan Campbell, Pampas and Talbot, sir,’ said Manley, peering through his binoculars. ‘They’re all low in the water so they must be carrying heavy cargo and have a destroyer on either side of them. Carlisle is in the van and is flanked by a destroyer. The remaining two destroyers are on each side of the convoy.’
‘Thank you, Number One,’ replied Penrose, ‘I expect Captain Neame will want just to protect the convoy’s rear. Signal Carlisle, say, ‘“Nice to see you. Request instructions”.’
Minutes later, a signal repeated to Eridge and Dulverton, arrived. ‘“Flotilla take station one mile in rear”.’
Twenty minutes later, the convoy turned ten degrees to port and headed due south. Throughout the morning, the dark green, undulating sea was calm; a slight breeze blew from the south and high above, in an almost cloudless blue sky, the strong rays of the sun bathed the convoy in warm sunshine.
‘Just think, Terry,’ Leading Writer Jack Jones said to stores assistant Bensen, ‘Before the war, my boss in the shipping office used to go on cruises in the Med.’ They were standing on the quarterdeck, leaning against the guard rails admiring the clarity of sparkling blue sea.
‘Aye,’ Bensen replied curtly, ‘but he didn’t have to keep watches and be closed up at action stations all hours of the day and night.’
‘Or be attacked by fuckin’ dive bombers,’ added Dinga Bell, idly flicking a cigarette dog-end overboard.
‘But if that happens, ‘said Dutch Holland, looking ahead of the convoy at the frothy wake of Carlisle, ‘at least we’ve got those high angled four inchers of the cruiser to protect us.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Jack Jones, grinning at Holland, ‘but my boss had gorgeous girls in bathing suits to ogle instead of a load of ugly buggers like you.’
By evening rounds, darkness had fallen. From a clear sky, a full moon bathed the heavy rolling sea into a mass of sparkling diamonds. Almost immediately, the ships began to roll heavily as they encountered the undulating swell of the Atlantic Ocean. On the bridge, Sub Lieutenant Baker glanced warily at the barometer.
‘Temperature’s dropping, sir,’ he said to Penrose. ‘Looks like we’re in for a drop of roughers as we enter the Bay during the night.’
Penrose was sat in his chair. His binoculars were clamped to his eyes and he was glad to see none of the merchant ships had strayed out of position. ‘That doesn’t surprise me, Pilot,’ he replied, ‘the Bay of Biscay is invariably unkind to shipping at this time of year.’
‘Carlisle signalling, sir,’ said Jack Tate, a tall, three badge PO Signalman. ‘“Convoy and escorts alter course five degree to port”.’
‘Acknowledge’ Penrose answered, lowering his binoculars. ‘This will allow the convoy to head into this strong south easterly wind. Better pipe for the Buffer, Number One, to report to the bridge.’
A minute or so later, Chief Bosun’s mate, Charlie Jackson, came onto the bridge. The overalls he wore over his stocky figure were once dark blue, but due to constant washing, they were now almost white. ‘You sent for me, sir,’ he said, taking out an off-white handkerchief and wiping his brow.
‘Yes, chief,’ said Penrose, ‘during the night we’ll be entering the Bay, and you know what that’ll mean.’
‘Aye, that I do, sir,’ Jackson replied, stuffing the handkerchief into a pocket. ‘And I’ve already had the duty watch secure the sea boats and Carley floats.’
With a wry smile, Penrose replied, ‘Thank you, Chief, please carry on.’ Penrose leaned forward and unhooked the ship’s tannoy and informed the ship’s company to be ready for rough seas,’ adding, ‘It’ll take the convoy two days to pass through the bay. We will then go through the Straits, and with luck, meet up with Admiral Vian’s battle group the next day.’ He paused to allow his words to sink in, then went on. ‘I expect the enemy’s spies in Algeciras will have alerted the Italians of our presence, so be prepared to go to action stations at any time. The ship is about to turn to port. That is all.’
Out of earshot of Manley and Penrose, QM Knocker White looked at PO Podge Hardman and muttered, ‘Here we go again, corn dog and kye.’
‘Just be bloody glad we’re not on the Russian run,’ said Podge, ‘or we’d be lucky to get that, and if you
did, you’d be too cold to eat it.’
Everyone on the bridge felt the deck cant, as the ship turned left. ‘I must say, sir, I’m very impressed,’ remarked Sub Lieutenant Baker, watching a splurge of white waves burst over the fo’c’sles of the merchant ships and escorts as they turned almost in unison. ‘It’s almost as if some puppeteer was pulling strings to make us move together.’
‘It’s called expert seamanship,’ Manley replied, grinning.
Throughout the night, the convoy was buffeted by strong winds and high waves. On the open bridges of the escorts, everyone held on to anything at hand as the wind whipped against their faces and tore into their duffel coats. In the mess decks, the incessant thud, thud of the sea beating against the bulkheads, made sleep virtually impossible. Men were almost flung out of their hammocks as their ship reared up then, quivering violently on the crest of a wave, was sent crashing down, bow first, on into a trough. This deadly movement was repeated so often, men simply closed their eyes and prayed for the dawn.
On board Helix’s bridge, the strong winds had thrown back the duffel coat hoods of ghostly figures on watch. With his woollen mittens, a cold, soggy mess, using one hand, PO Telegraphist, Jack Frost, clung desperately to the binnacle. For the umpteenth time, using the back of his other hand, he wiped water from away from his eyes and noticed OOW Sub Lieutenant Milton’s hunched figure holding onto the conning intercom.
‘This is worse than the bloody Atlantic, eh, sir?’ shouted Frost, his words barely audible above the howling wind.
‘I expect it’ll get worse before it gets better,’ Milton replied stoically.
As if on cue, a sudden crash of thunder was quickly followed by jagged bolts of lightning, momentarily lighting up the sky, and for the first time since coming on watch at 0400, Milton caught a momentarily glimpse of the wet, pale faces around him.
Battle Ensign Page 12
