Battle Ensign

by Thomas E. Lightburn

  “Hands fall in for entering harbour”, came over the tannoy.

  In the sick bay, Hamish had just woken up. Doctor Latta who was standing by his cot, looked at him, smiled and said, ‘How are you feeling, old boy?’

  ‘Not too bad, sir,’ Hamish replied, lazily blinking his eyes, ‘but me leg hurts like hell.’

  An earlier examination showed the slight discolouration around Hamish’s fracture remained the same and his blood pressure was raised.

  ‘We’ll be alongside shortly,’ said the doctor, bending down and feeling Hamish’s radial pulse and finding it full and bounding.’

  ‘Theres’s an ambulance waiting to take you to the hospital, but before that, we’re going to put you in a Neil Robertson stretcher and carry you up to the quarterdeck. Do you feel up to it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Hamish replied, smiling weakly.

  ‘Good,’ said Bamford, placing the stretcher on the deck alongside Hamish’s cot and laying a blanket inside. ‘I’ve packed the gear you came in, in a grip. The rest of your kit will go with you to hospital.’ He paused, and giving Hamish a reassuring grin, added, ‘Just think, in a little while you’ll be surrounded by gorgeous nurses.’

  ‘Fat lot of use I’ll be to ‘em,’ Hamish murmured disconcertedly.

  As he finished speaking, the door opened and in came PO Sandy Powel. Behind him, the other three members of the first aid party.

  ‘Ready when you are, sir,’ Powel said, smiling confidently at the doctor. The doctor supported Hamish’s head as Powel and Bamford carefully lifted Hamish up and lowered him into the stretcher.

  ‘Keep both arms outside,’ Bamford said to Hamish as he tucked the blanket firmly around him. Then, with a cheerful grin, he added, ‘And don’t worry, matey, we’ll have you up top in a jiffy.’

  Twenty minutes later, with the rain pelting down, and the yellow stoned buildings and churches of the three cities, Vittoriosa, Senglea and Cospicua, on their right, Helix berthed starboard too, alongside French Creek. Waiting on the wharf was a dark blue ambulance with “Royal Navy’” painted on its side. No sooner had the guardrail on the quarterdeck been partially removed and the wooden gangway lowered into place, than the ambulance door opened and out stepped a tall surgeon lieutenant, and a rating, wearing shiny black oilskins. The driver, an elderly man with grey hair, remained inside. With the officer leading, they walked up the gangway, saluted and were met by OOD Lieutenant Ted Powers.

  ‘Clive Bartram,’ said the officer. ‘I believe you have an injured man on board?’

  ‘Ted Powers, Gunner Officer,’ replied the OOD. Then, with a wry smile added, ‘Yes, he’s in the sick bay. My QM will show you to where it is.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the doctor replied, using a finger to wipe away drops of rain off his nose.

  ‘This way, sir,’ said QM Sammy Smith, leading them though the after deck house. Smith stopped outside the sick bay, and after knocking on the door, was told to enter. They did so and immediately saw Hamish being secured by Bamford into the Neil Robertson stretcher. Doctor Latta, who had just finished writing up Hamish’s medical notes, stood up from his desk. After a brief introduction, and an equally brief resume of Hamish’s injury, Bartram strongly suggested they get Hamish off the ship and into hospital forthwith.

  ‘I’ll support his head,’ said Surgeon Lieutenant Latta, ‘Bamford and Bensen, take the rope handle on one side of the stretcher, Jones and Turpin, grasp the ones on the other side. You,’ Latta added glancing up at the SBA covering Hamish with his Burberry, ‘steady the end of the stretcher, and PO Powel, can carry Hamish’s grip. Ready?’ The five men gave a quick nod. ‘Two six, lift,’ said Latta.

  Surgeon Lieutenant Bartram, holding an envelope containing Hamish’s medical history, slid open the door. A few minutes later, the first aid party carrying Hamish, arrived on the quarterdeck. Braving the harsh wind and vain, Dutch Holland, Bud Abbot and the rest of Hamish’s mess mates waited, and said a hurried farewell to Hamish. Manley, Hamish’s divisional officer, standing nearby, did the same.

  ‘The lads have packed a few cartons of fags in your kit,’ said Dutch. ‘Along with a medicine bottle of neaters from the senior rates. See you in Pompey,’ he added, giving Hamish a confident grin.

  ‘Good luck, old, boy,’ said Surgeon Lieutenant Latta, ‘and get well soon. Now let’s get you out of this filthy weather.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, sir,’ Hamish muttered, feeling the rain belting down onto the Burberry.

  As the first aid party carried the stretcher down the gangway, Hamish pushed a hand out of the Burberry and gave a weak wave. The driver had left his seat and had opened the two back doors of the ambulance. The stretcher was quickly slid inside and was followed by Bartram and his SBA. The doors were then closed.

  The time was 1600. Except for the duty QM and PO, the quarterdeck was empty. The QM’s voice came over the tannoy. ‘Hands to tea, duty watch, fall in outside the coxswain’s office. Canteen leave in the dockyard to the port watch and second part of starboard 1600 to 2359.’

  ‘What did I tell yer,’ Knocker White grumbled to Dutch Holland as they entered the mess. ‘Fuckin’ canteen leave and warm beer.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next morning at 0900, the pipe everyone had been waiting for echoed around the ship. “Mail, Mail is now ready for collection and will close at 2300.”

  Twenty minutes later, throughout the ship, letters, small bundles of newspapers and parcels were being ripped open.

  In the senior ratings mess, Paddy O’Malley was sat down at the table, eagerly reading the first of two letters from Joyce. Harry Johnson, sitting opposite Paddy, was busy opening a small brown paper parcel. ‘It feel heavy, so I bet it’s a few pots of jam,’ he said, quickly glancing up and noticing the huge smile on Paddy’s face. ‘You look happy enough, mate,’ Harry said, removing the cardboard wrapping and taking out a large jar of blackcurrant jam. ‘Who’s it from, as if I didn’t know?’

  ‘It’s from Joyce,’ Paddy replied. ‘To be sure, I shouldn’t be smiling, as she says she’s received a telegram from the Red Cross telling her that Jack has died of pneumonia.’

  ‘So what will you do, now?’ Harry asked, unfolding a letter that accompanied his parcel.

  ‘Be Jezzus,’ Paddy replied, his pale blue eyes twinkling merrily. ‘I shall ask her to marry me, that’s what I’ll do.’ He paused momentarily then went on. ‘Now, tell me, how’s Ethel?’

  ‘Ethel’s fine, and sends her best,’ Harry answered, then carried on reading his letter.

  In the wardroom Manley, feeling his heart rate quicken, picked out two white envelopes from the cubby hole in the mail rack, hoping to find one from Laura. However, as he recognised his mother’s neat handwriting on each envelope, he felt his stomach sink. Holding the unopened letters, he slumped into an armchair, wondering why Laura hadn’t written. His parents’ letters were dated ten days ago – surely, she must have known he was at sea and couldn’t write. Suddenly, a voice interrupted his thoughts. He looked up and saw Lieutenant Ted Power looking down at him. ‘What’s the matter, Number One,’ Powers said, giving Manley an inquiring look. ‘Bad news?’

  Manley quickly composed himself, and replied, ‘Err… No, I was just expecting a letter from a friend.’

  ‘If I were you, I shouldn’t worry,’ Powers said, noticing the disappointment etched in Manley’s eyes, ‘I was expecting a letter from my wife, but it’s probably been held up. Now how about a quick Horse’s Neck. You look as if you could use one?’

  Despite his altercation with Linda, Baker was half hoping to hear from her, but he was disappointed. However, as he left the wardroom, he was relieved to discover there wasn’t a letter from Wallasey’s chief constable.

  Everyone in the seamen’s mess received a letter except Pusser Hill, a tall, dark-haired HO able seaman from Hackney, an area in London’s East End he knew had been badly bombed.

  ‘Before we sailed,’ Hill muttered, to Dutch Holland, who had finished rea
ding a letter from his wife, ‘I told my missus to take the kids to her mother’s house in Morden, but she wouldn’t have it. “I don’t like Morden”,’ she said, ‘”they’re all snobs out there”.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry, mate,’ said Dutch, ‘remember the old saying, no news is good news.’

  But it wasn’t. Half an hour later, Hill was piped for and told to report to the captain. Shortly afterwards he returned to the mess. His face was ashen and he was accompanied by Sub Lieutenant Baker, his divisional officer. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up as Hill slumped heavily onto the bench alongside the table. Suddenly, a feeling of unease could be seen on the faces of Hill’s messmates.

  ‘What’s up with Pusser, sir?’ Dutch Holland asked Sub Lieutenant Baker.

  Baker responded by slowly shaking his head, then in a quiet voice said, ‘Look after him, he’s had some, er… terrible news.’

  Covering his face with both hands, Hill muttered, ‘They’ve all been killed, a direct hit…’ His voice faded as he broke down and with his shoulders moving violently, he sobbed uncontrollably. At that moment, the tall, imposing figure of Chief GI Bob Shilling came into the mess. ‘Better help him pack his gear,’ Shilling said, looking gravely at Bud Abbot who was the leading hand of the mess. ‘He’s being transferred to the Manxman[3]. She’s the one that brought us the mail and is anchored in Silema.’ He paused for a few seconds, then, furrowing his weather-beaten brow, went on. ‘And you’d better chop-chop. After refuelling, Manxman is sailing.’ He then gave Hill a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, and said, ‘I expect she’ll be stopping at Gib then you’ll be flown home.’

  ‘To what?’ muttered Hill, who was now sat staring blankly, ‘there’s now’t to go home to.’

  An hour later, after sombre farewells, everyone watched as Hill, along with his kit bag and holdall, left in the ship’s launch and headed towards Manxman, lying sedately at anchor opposite Custom House Steps, with smoke trailing from each of her three tall funnels.

  Situated at the end of French Creek, the canteen consisted of a simple building with wooden walls, a long bar, an old record player which played equally old records, and a flat tin roof that sounded like thunder whenever it rained. Shortly after 2300, Bud Abbot, Dutch Holland, Tansey Lee and several other ratings off Helix and another destroyer, having drank the last of the beer, burbled a lecherous goodnight to the two busty barmaids and left the canteen.

  ‘So that’s what they call a bomber’s moon, eh, Tansey?’ Dutch Holland said to Lee, glancing charily up at the large yellow orb in a cloudless sky.

  ‘Fuckin’ Job’s comforter,’ Tansey replied, giving Dutch a look of distain, ‘the bastards will be here soon enough without you tempting providence.’

  Even though darkness had fallen five hours ago, a full moon cast a silver sheen on the calm harbour waters, highlighting the presence of the cruisers Carlisle and Penelope. Eridge and Dulverton lay opposite one another in Kalkara Creek, receiving oil from the tenders. Pampas and Talbot were tied up alongside Dockyard Creek.

  Tansey Lee’s prediction proved to be correct. At precisely 0530, the next morning, the ear-splitting rattle of the action stations alarm bell woke everyone up. Men, some yawning, others cursing, tumbled out of their hammocks and hurriedly dressed.

  ‘No fuckin’ breakfast,’ Knocker White moaned to nobody in particular as he grabbed his anti-flash gear. ‘I could eat a horse.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Tansey Lee, grinning as they left the mess, ‘you’re too fat anyway. If you don’t stop eating, you’ll soon look like a horse.’

  On Helix’s bridge, Penrose stood by the binnacle, and along with OOD Sub Lieutenant Baker, Manley and PO Mills, looked up in the sky and saw a formation of Italian twin engine Fiat CR.25 heavy bombers, roughly five thousand feet, was approaching Malta from the west.

  ‘Here they come,’ yelled Baker, ‘thank goodness they’re low enough for our guns to fire at them.’

  No sooner had Lieutenant Powers reported the bombers were in range, than Penrose, his binoculars pinned to his eyes, shouted, ‘All guns, open fire!’

  Penrose’s order was almost drowned out as the armament from the AA batteries surrounding Valetta joined in with the guns of Carlisle, Penelope, Fort St Angelo and St Elmo. The barrage was deafening. The ground seemed to shake as a myriad of tiny black explosions dotted the pale blue sky. Lines of bombs fell from the underside of the bombers, wavering slightly, before continuing their deadly decent. Jets of white water sprung up like geysers around the two cruisers, the escorts and the two merchant ships. Everyone on Helix’s bridge ducked as a bomb exploded nearby, sending a shower of watery spray over the fo’c’sle. When n everyone looked up, Valetta’s skyline had virtually disappeared under a thick mass of billowing grey smoke.

  ‘Great Scott,’ cried Sub Lieutenant Baker. ‘The three cities are taking a helluva pounding[4]!’

  ‘So are the two merchant ships…’ shouted QM Sammy Lee. His strained voice was suddenly drowned out by a series of tremendous detonations erupting from the two oil tankers, Pampas and Talbot. Suddenly, as if lit by a torch, the waters surrounding the two tankers became a flickering inferno as oil spewed from the ships’ ruptured tanks, spreading outwards towards the middle of the harbour. Some men, in various states of dress, ran down the gangways onto the wharf.

  Other men, stripped to the waist, some, wearing shorts or overalls, dived overboard. Ignoring the blistering heat, small craft arrived and dragged men on board while others, using heavy rubber hoses, sprayed arches of foam onto the stricken vessels.

  Adding to the chaos, the sonorous wail of ambulance sirens, echoing from the three cities, could be barely heard above the bombs exploding on and around French Creek.

  Shielding their eyes from the hot glare of the flames, everyone on Helix’s bridge looked on as the sickening crackle of yellow and red flames spread ominously across the decks of both merchant ships.

  Five minutes later, the enemy, minus one bomber, shot down, slowly turned away. Doing his best to appear calm, Penrose, sitting in his chair, felt his heart pounding against his ribs and managed to pop a digoxin tablet into his mouth and watched as the bombers headed towards the Italian coast, two hundred miles away, leaving both merchantmen blazing hulks.

  ‘Pipe “Cease fire”, Number One, and revert to defence stations,’ said Penrose, feeling his heart rate slow down. Then added, ‘and make sure the crew have a good breakfast, just in case the buggers come back.’

  ‘So much for our precious convoy,’ quipped Leading Seaman Tansey Lee, listening to the pipe echoing around the ship. ‘None of the four ships left we were supposed to protect,’ he added, angrily throwing his anti-flash hood onto the deck.

  ‘Makes you wonder if it was all worthwhile, dunnit?’ replied Tommy Tucker, a small ginger headed able seaman, standing next to Tansey. ‘All those lives lost on the other two merchant ships, as well as our lads killed on the escorts, for what?’

  On the bridge, everyone stood in silence, watching the last of the flames on the tankers being gradually subdued by the firefighters.

  ‘I wonder how much oil they got off, sir,’ Manley said to Penrose, while taking off his steel helmet and wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

  ‘Not a great deal, judging by the size of the flames,’ Penrose solemnly replied. As he eased himself from his chair, Leading Signalman Weir arrived holding a sheet of paper. ‘Yes, what is it?’ Penrose asked, removing his steel helmet.

  ‘Signal from Carlisle, sir,’ Weir solemnly replied. It reads, “Tobruk desperate for ammunition. Commanding officers of Helix, Eridge, and Dulverton, to report to me at1000. Neame”.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Captain Neame, pushing his stocky, six-foot-plus frame up from behind a large mahogany desk. ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice,’ he added, shaking the hands of the three officers standing in front of him.

  David Marmaduke Neame, was forty
-three and spoke in a well-modulated, clear voice. His strikingly clear grey eyes, well-groomed straight silver hair and heavily tanned features made him look the epitome of a Royal Naval officer. The four silver bars on each epaulette on the shoulders of his short-sleeved pristine white shirt; the mauve medal ribbon of a DSO, set among a row of other campaign ribbons, all contributed to give the impression of someone who was used to being in command and having his orders obeyed.

  ‘Do sit down,’ he added, indicating to three, brown, leather armchairs. ‘Coffee?’ Without waiting for a reply, he pressed a small red button on his desk. Almost immediately a side door opened an in came a small, pale faced PO Steward, wearing white jacket.

  ‘Coffee for four, please, Jenkins,’ said the captain, ‘and a few of your precious digestives.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the PO replied in an artificial “posh” accent. ‘Chocolate or plain,’ he added, before hurrying away.

  ‘Cheeky bugger, before the war he was head steward on the Queen Mary,’ the captain remarked. ‘At times, he thinks he still is.’

  The captain’s remark produced smiles from the three officers, which helped them to relax.

  ‘I must say, sir,’ remarked Erdge’s commanding officer, glancing around, ‘you do live rather well.’ Lieutenant-Commander William Gregory-Smith was a tall, well-built officer, whose naturally tanned complexion and dark brown eyes betrayed his Latin antecedents.

  ‘The comforts of command,’ replied the captain smiling smugly.

  ‘I have to agree with Bill, sir,’ remarked Lieutenant-Commander Walter Petch, Dulverton’s captain, a strikingly handsome, six-foot-plus man with clear-cut, weather-beaten features. He was about to say the room made his cabin look like a rabbit hutch, but thought better of it.

  Penrose didn’t offer a comment. Instead, he sat back in his chair and quickly took in what, compared with his cabin, was nothing short of palatial. The deck was covered with a dark blue carpet, inlaid with tiny gold anchors. Twin sets of neon lighting from a low-slung cream-coloured deckhead provided clear, all-round lighting. Shelves of leather-bound books, secured by wooded barriers, lined two of the bulkheads painted pale-green. Behind the captain’s desk was an ornately framed, coloured photograph of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth and a large map of the world. An expensive looking wine cabinet occupied one corner and close by, rested a large globe of the world. Penrose inwardly smiled, thinking the room looked more like a gentlemen’s club than the quarters belonging to a senior naval officer.