Taylor hurried onto the bridge. ‘Message from Cleopatra, sir,’ he said breathing heavily. ‘“Enemy repairing to the north west. Destroyers, Sikha and Legion, badly damaged and leaving for Tobruk. Remaining battle group making for Alexandria along with Euryalus. Penelope, slightly damaged, to join convoy and continue to Malta. God Speed and good luck. Vian”.’
A look of relief appeared on Penrose’s tanned features. ‘Thank you, Taylor,’ he said. Then, reaching for the ship’s tannoy, he looked at Manley and added, ‘I think the ship’s company will be more than glad to hear that, Number One. Stand down from action stations and lower the battle ensign.’
Penrose was right. The news that the Italians broken off the battle was greeted with wild cheering.
‘I expect the Ities have run out of vino,’ Bud Abbott, the captain of A gun, said to his team of gunners.
‘Maybe now we can have a decent meal,’ said Able Seaman Wacker Payne, taking off his anti-flash hood. ‘Those corn beef sarnies are giving me wind.’
‘So that’s what the noise was, eh, boyo?’ replied Able Seaman Dai Morgan. ‘And all the time I thought it was the sound of gunfire.’
On the bridge, Penrose eased himself from his chair. ‘Take over, Number One,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘I’ll be in my cabin. Looks like Vian has achieved his aim and beaten the Ities.’
‘But, sir,’ Manley replied, giving Penrose a dubious look, ‘the damage caused by the enemy on our ships outweighs that inflicted by us on them. Is it possible that Vian really did use the convoy to tempt the Italians into battle?’
‘Only Vian knows that,’ Penrose answered dryly. ‘But even though the convoy has been slowed down, thank goodness it’s safe.’
‘For the time being, at least,’ Manley answered laconically.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On the morning of Wednesday 8th June, the convoy was steaming due west when the weather began to deteriorate. By 1100, the barometer had dropped and the wind was now blowing a wild force five. The sky, hitherto a clear, eye-catching blue, had become a vast concave of darkness while the sun, disappeared behind a vast canopy of black clouds.
On board Helix, the fierce wind had torn away the canvas awning protecting the bridge from the elements. The upper deck was awash and out of bounds to all hands as strong winds sent huge angry waves crashing against the ship, tossing her about like a cork. As in previous bouts of stormy weather, all loose gear was stowed away. Those ratings off duty took to their hammocks as once again, cooks valiantly prepared the usual corn beef sandwiches. In the engine and boiler rooms, stokers held onto anything at hand to prevent them slipping on the steel gratings. Sixty plus miles an hour gusts of wind prevented lookouts climbing up the rattling rigging to the crow’s nest, while directly under the bridge, Chief Coxswain Digger Barnes kept both hands firmly on the wheel as he obeyed the erratic movements on the steering repeater.
On the bridge, Penrose held on tightly to the arms of his chair watching the ghostly superstructures of Penelope, Kingston, Eridge and Dulverton regularly plunge, bow first, into troughs of heaving black sea, only to reappear in clouds of white foam. Like Manley and the others on duty, Penrose wore a black sou’wester and oilskin with a towel tucked in around his neck.
‘How long will this bloody weather keep up, Pilot?’ Penrose shouted to Baker, while using his leather-gloved hand to wipe water from his eyes.
‘Hard to say, sir,’ Baker cried, ‘in these waters at this time of year, usually about twenty-four hours.’ Their voices were barely audible over the sickening whine of the wind.
Due to the rough weather, rum issue had been postponed until evening and duty cooks were told to collect soup and corned beef sandwiches from the galley. The intermittent booming, as each angry wave bounced against the bulkheads, vibrated throughout the ship causing the electric lighting to flicker on and off. In the mess decks, tobacco smoke hung in the damp atmosphere like a blue cloud. The pale-yellow lighting cast an eerie glow over everything, while hammocks, some occupied and sagging, others empty and loose, swayed in perfect unison with each roll of the ship. Those ratings off duty were sitting at the wooden table doing their best to play uckers. Nobody noticed the thin frame of Hamish MacBride, a tall, gangly, junior seaman from Dundee doing his best to climb out of his hammock to visit the heads. Then, wearing only a pair of underpants and vest, he slipped on the wet linoleum deck. The sudden, loud cry as he hit a leg on the edge of the table immediately interrupted Tug Wilson, who was about to try and shoot a six. Dolly Gray and Dusty Miller immediately stood up then went beside Hamish who was half bent holding his left leg.
‘What’s the matter, Hamish?’ asked Gray, ‘got cramp or summat?’
‘Och, it’s me fuckin’ leg,’ Hamish cried, ‘I’ve hurt me fuckin’ leg, you daft bugger.’
‘Take it easy and lie still, Jock,’ said Dusty Miller, noticing the awkward angle of Hamish’s leg. ‘And I’ll phone the sick bay.’
Five minutes later SBA Bamford arrived, breathing heavily and carrying a first aid bag.
‘What’s up, Jock?’ Bamford asked, taking off his spectacles and wiping them with a handkerchief while noticing someone had covered Hamish with a blanket.
‘It’s me leg, Doc,’ Hamish replied. His voice sounded weak and as he spoke, beads of perspiration ran down the sides of his face.
Bamford carefully pulled back the lower part of the blanket and saw Hamish’s hand covering an ugly looking, anaemic, white lump protruding from the left middle-edge of his tibia.
‘Lie still and don’t move your leg,’ said Bamford. With an expression of grave concern, he looked up at Gray. ‘Phone the bridge. Tell the officer of the watch to pipe for the MO to come to the mess, chop chop.’
Meanwhile, several members of the mess, hanging onto anything to avoid falling over, crowded around Hamish.
‘What’s he done, Doc?’ asked a rating. ‘Is it serious?’
‘Has he bust anything?’ another rating said, glancing anxiously at Bamford.
‘Someone, get a pillow and blanket,’ snapped Bamford, ignoring the questions.
‘You’ll be all right, mate,’ said Bungy Williams, kneeling down and supporting Hamish’s head, allowing Bamford to put the pillow under it. At the same time, Dusty Miller came, and said, ‘d’you want a fag, Jock?’
‘No ta, Dusty,’ Hamish said, grimacing with pain, ‘I don’t feel too good.’ The paleness of Hamish’s face and the beads of sweat on his brow told Bamford, Hamish was going into shock. Just then, the pipe requesting the medical officer to go to the seaman’s mess, came over the tannoy. Shortly afterwards, the tall figure of Surgeon Lieutenant Latta arrived. He wore a duffel coat over his uniform and carried a brown leather Gladstone medical case. Bamford quickly explained what had happened.
‘How are you feeling, laddie?’ he asked Hamish, kneeling down and placing a finger over Hamish’s wrist and finding his pulse, weak and rapid. He carefully pulled back the blankets. A glance at the swelling on Hamish’s tibia immediately showed the doctor that the swelling was the end of broken bone, pushing up through Hamish’s skin, a sure sign of a compound fracture.
‘A wee bit sick, sir,’ Hamish answered faintly, ‘and the pain is bloody bad. Any chance of a drink?’
The doctor nodded to Bamford, and said, ‘Just a drop or two. We might have to…’
‘Yes, sir, I understand,’ Bamford quickly replied, realising the doctor implied that he would have to try and reduce the fracture under whatever anaesthetic they had.
‘You’ve done yersell a nasty injury,’ said the doctor, replacing the blanket. ‘I’m going to give you two injections, one to ease the pain, the other to prevent infection. Then, when you’re feeling better, we’re going lift you off the deck and put you on a stretcher, and make you comfortable.’
Bamford immediately left the mess, returning a few minutes later carrying a folded army type stretcher. With the help of Dusty Miller, they unhooked the metal supports under the stretcher, ope
ned it out then placed it alongside Hamish.
By this time, Latta had opened his bag and taken out a wooden box containing small glass ampoules of morphine sulphate and a glass syringe and needle. Waiting for the ship to pause before dipping into a trough, and being careful not to touch the needle, he attached it to the end of the syringe. After gently tapping the ampoule to clear any air, he used a tiny metal saw to remove the top of the ampoule, and using the needle, drew the morphia into the syringe, waited for the next shudder of the bulkhead to subside then quickly changed the needle. Bamford handed the doctor a large piece of cotton wool he had manged to soak in surgical spirit. Using the cotton wool, Latta cleaned an area in the outer aspect one of Hamish’s upper arms, then expertly inserted the needle. After a quick withdrawal to ensure the needle wasn’t in a blood vessel, he injected 1/6 grain of morphia into Hamish.
Latta placed the used syringe in his bag and brought out a glass vial containing 4,000 units of gas gangrene antitoxin. He changed the syringe and gave Hamish another injection.
‘There, then,’ the doctor said, giving Hamish’s arm a good rub, ‘that should help.’
‘Is… is it bad, sir?’ muttered Hamish. ‘Is me leg really bad?’
‘I’m afraid it’s broken, laddie,’ Latta quietly replied. ‘But we’ll soon fix you up,’ he added, giving Hamish’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘Now try and relax.’
The doctor stood up with a worried expression on his face, and said, ‘The captain has told me the weather should improve during the next twenty-four hours.’ He paused, momentarily in thought, then making sure Hamish couldn’t hear him, went on, ‘We’ll have to have to keep him here as it’ll be too dangerous to move him to the sick bay.’ As if to prove his point, a wave thundered against the bulkhead, momentarily rocking the ship. ‘Let’s get him off this wet deck onto a canvas stretcher.’
With Bamford’s help they opened it out and after ensuring the steel struts were locked, they opened it out. Bamford spread a blanket inside the stretcher, then, with the assistance of the doctor, Gray and White, they lifted Hamish onto the stretcher and covered him in another blanket.
‘Better raise the end of the stretcher on some pillows as he’s in shock,’ said the doctor. ‘And when the weather improves, we’ll transfer him to the sick bay in a Neil Robertson stretcher. Meanwhile, I’ll give him an injection of Pethidine, that’ll sedate him for a few hours, during which time I’ll straighten his leg out and then we’ll splint him up. Now, I’ll stay with him while you go and get the splints and the Neil Robertson.’
Bamford gave a quick nod then left the mess. After Bamford had left, the doctor looked down at Hamish. The morphia was beginning to take effect and Hamish was groggy. Nevertheless, the doctor told him what was going happen. Hamish merely nodded and closed his eyes.
Minutes later, Bamford arrived and managed to pass the stretcher and splints to Dolly Gray before climbing down the stairs into the mess. By this time, Hamish was asleep. They waited until the ships came out of a trough, then lifted the stretcher onto the mess table. Bamford left the mess and returned, red-faced and panting, holding small wooden box containing a sphygmomanometer (a device for taking blood pressure), and a stethoscope.
After accepting the box from Bamford, the doctor opened the lid containing a mercury pressure gauge. He attached a small rubber tube to the rubber cuff and wrapped the cuff around Hamish’s upper arm. Using a small rubber bulb, he inflated the cuff. He then placed the drum of the stethoscope over an artery in the crook of Hamish’s arm, noting when the pressure faded then returned. This gives two blood pressure readings. The first is called the ‘systolic’, the second the ‘diastolic. In a healthy adult this is recorded, 20 diastolic/80 Systolic.
It’s a hundred and ten over sixty-five, too damn low,’ said the doctor, giving Bamford a worrying look while removing the stethoscope from his ears. ‘Which means he is still in shock. We’d better check it every quarter of an hour. When he wakes up, give him two tablets of sulphanilamide, along with the anti-gangrene injection I’ve given him, it should prevent any infection. Now I’d better go and see the captain,’ he added, standing up.
The doctor managed to make his way to the bridge and inform Penrose about Hamish’s injury. ‘Hamish has a compound fracture and will need urgent hospitalisation. How soon will the convoy reach Malta, sir?’
Penrose pensively stroked the bristles on his chin, then, with a weary sigh, replied, ‘This damn weather has slowed the convoy down, so I don’t expect us to reach Malta for two days, isn’t that right, Pilot,’ he shouted to Baker, who was holding onto an arm of Penrose’s chair.
‘Yes, sir,’ Baker answered, grimacing as a cold watery spray hit him in the face. ‘Friday, sometime in the morning.’
‘Just over forty-eight hours,’ the doctor muttered to himself, silently praying the gas gangrene antitoxin injection he gave Hamish would work.
Throughout the evening and night, Bamford and the doctor kept four hourly watches over Hamish. Just after 0230, Hamish woke up. The erratic movements of the ship had lessened. The mess lights were on and the movements of the hammocks of those ratings off duty had reduced, giving a clear indication that the weather was improving.
Beads of sweat ran down the sides of Hamish’s pale face and he was grimacing with pain. ‘It’s me leg, sir,’ he muttered staring up at the doctor. ‘It’s killin’ me, so it is.’
‘Steady on, old boy,’ the doctor quietly replied, noting with relief that Hamish’s BP had fallen and his pulse was stronger. He gave Hamish a shot of morphia, then said quietly, ‘That should help, now try and get some sleep.’
A few minutes later the doctor looked up and saw the tall figure of Penrose climbing down the stairs. His weather-beaten face looked drawn and haggard; his cap was soaked and the black oilskin he wore glistened with rainwater. The doctor began to stand up, but Penrose, motioned him to remain seated. ‘How’s our man?’ Penrose quietly asked, looking at Hamish, who appeared to be sleeping.
‘Holding his own, sir,’ whispered the doctor. ‘But he has a compound fracture so the sooner we get him to Malta, the better.’
‘The wind has dropped and the sea’s calmer, so we should sight the coast soon,’ Penrose replied. ‘The admiral has given us permission to steam on ahead of the convoy into Grand Harbour. Now I’d better return to the bridge. Let me know if you need anything.’
The doctor suddenly felt the ship wasn’t rolling as much as before and the table upon which Hamish lay on the stretcher seemed to be stable. The ear-splitting booming of the sea was now a gentle thud and the hammocks were swaying less, a sure sign that the sea was calmer.
At that moment, Knocker White, his black oilskin glistening with rain, came down the stairs carrying a white enamel mug of kye.
‘Thought you could do with this, sir,’ he said, handing it to the doctor, ‘but mind, it’s hot.’
‘Thank you,’ the doctor replied, giving White a grateful grin, ‘that’s just what the doctor ordered.’
‘How’s Hamish, sir?’ asked Bamford, looking at Hamish’s pale face.
‘He’s doing fine,’ replied the doctor, blowing across the top of his mug. ‘But you’d better check his temperature and pulse.’
Bamford took out a thin, silver, metal tube from his first aid bag, screwed off the top then took out a glass thermometer. After a few quick wrist shakes, ensuring the mercury in the thermometer had fallen, he gently eased Hamish’s vest to one side and slid the thermometer under his arm. Bamford then took Hamish’s radial pulse. ‘Eighty-eight, sir,’ said Bamford. ‘And his temperature,’ he added, removing the thermometer, and reading the mercury level, ‘is ninety-nine.’
The doctor gave a satisfied nod. ‘Good,’ he replied. ‘The gangrene antitoxin seems to be working, thank God.’
Just before 0400, Bamford, who had been doing his best to sleep, fully clothed, in a spare hammock, heaved himself onto the deck, yawned, and asked how Hamish was.
‘He’s sle
eping,’ the doctor replied, ‘but as you can no doubt feel, the weather has improved so I’ll give him another shot of Pethidine, then we’ll splint his leg.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Bamford, who immediately padded each splint with cotton wool and undid some bandages.
After the Pethidine had taken effect, the doctor turned back the end of the blanket, exposing Hamish’s injured tibia. ‘Hold onto his lower thigh firmly,’ the doctor said to Bamford who, after wiping his glasses, knelt down and feeling his hands shake slightly, gripped Hamish’s thigh. He watched as the doctor carefully exerted a gentle downward pull on the lower aspect of Hamish’s tibia until the bony lump appeared to be smaller. ‘Quickly, Bamford,’ said the doctor who was still holding the leg, ‘put the splints firmly on either side of his leg and tie a bandage over and below where the leg is injured.’
Without speaking, Bamford did this, then secured another bandage around Hamish’s ankle and upper thigh.
‘Well done, Bamford,’ said the doctor. ‘You did a damn good job. Now let’s get him into the Neil Robertson and take him to the sick bay.’
Latta supported Hamish’s injured leg head while Bamford and the first aiders, carefully lifted Hamish onto the Neil Robertson stretcher and strapped him inside. After checking to see if Hamish was still sleeping, Latta, using a strap, secured Hamish’s head to stretcher. Even though the weather had abated, the ship was still rolling precariously. ‘OK, now, lads,’ said Bamford, ‘each of you take hold of one of those rope handles you see on the side of the stretcher. We’ll wait until each roll of the ship settles down, then we’ll him to the bottom of the stairs. I will take hold of the head rope and go aloft. We’ll wait again, then I’ll help to pull him up. Understood?’
Dusty Miller and the other first aid team gave a quick nod. Five minutes later, after pulling Hamish up, they arrived outside the sick bay in time to hear, “hands to action stations, hands to action stations, close all screen doors and scuttles”, being piped over the tannoy.
Battle Ensign Page 14
