Battle Ensign

by Thomas E. Lightburn

  ‘What’s your name, laddie?’ asked Latta.

  ‘Corporal Peterson, sir,’ murmured the soldier.

  ‘Well, Peterson,’ Latta said, looking warily into the soldier’s blood-shot eyes, ‘I’m afraid you’ve got a bullet in your gut, and it’ll have ta stay there until we get you ashore to hospital, but try not ta worry.’ He gave the corporal’s shoulder a reassuring pat, ‘We’ll give yer some morphia and make yer as comfortable as possible.’

  ‘Thanks, sir,’ the corporal muttered, and fell asleep.

  Several injured soldiers were helped below into a mess and given hot drinks of tea, laced with a welcome shot of rum. Like all the casualties being brought on board, their unshaven faces looked tired and their khaki shirts and shorts were torn and blood-stained.

  After taking a good sniff then a gulp of tea, one of them, whose left upper arm was partially covered with a dirty, blood-stained bandage, looked at one of the sailors and said, ‘Stone the crows, if I knew the tea was like this, I should ‘ave joined the bloody navy.’

  ‘They wouldn’t ’ave taken you, mate, as you told me your ancestors were convicts,’ chimed a soldier whose right ankle, despite being heavily bandaged, was oozing blood.

  ‘Fuckin’ rubbish,’ said a soldier with tightly bandaged head wound, ‘so were mine, and my brother went to England and he’s in the RAF.’

  Meanwhile, PO Powel and the first aid party helped three soldiers down a flight of stairs into the sick bay. ‘Boy are we glad to see you lot,’ said one of them, a tall, fair-haired Australian whose blood-soaked shell dressing hid half of his heavily tanned, face. ‘Most of our own doctors and medics are all goners, ain’t that right, Shorty?’ His question was directed to a small, dark-haired, stocky soldier with his left arm in a sling.

  ‘Too bloody true, mate,’ he replied, as Powel helped him into a chair. ‘The bastards seemed to know exactly where our first aid posts were.’

  The third soldier, a thick-set man with a heavily bandaged, right lower leg, who was being supported by SA Terry Bensen and Steward Dick Turpin, gave him sideways glance and muttered, ‘Poor buggers, my pal, Chalky White, who was best man at my wedding, was one of them.’

  The time was 1000. The sky was now a clear, deeper blue and the temperature a sweltering twenty-nine degrees centigrade. On the quarterdeck, Penrose watched as Carlisle slowly pulled away from the wharf. Next to him stood a tall, dark-haired colonel, in Australia’s 29th Brigade.

  ‘You lot have done a damn fine job,’ he said, scratching the hairs on his unshaven chin. ‘The ambulances have left, so the sooner you get out of here the safer you’ll be.’ As he spoke, the black rings around his deep-set, bloodshot eyes were clear indications of fatigue and lack of sleep. No sooner had he spoke than Manley arrived.

  ‘That’s about it, sir,’ Manley said to Penrose, while giving the colonel a quick nod. ‘Eridge and Dulverton are ready to leave and the doc tells me we’re full, so I suggest we get under way.’

  ‘Very good, Number One,’ said Penrose, ‘all hands stand by to leave harbour.’ He then looked at the colonel and added, ‘I only hope the stuff we’ve brought helps you to hold out longer.’

  ‘I can assure you we’ll give it a bloody good try,’ the colonel answered, giving Penrose a confident smile.

  ‘Incidentally,’ Penrose added, ‘according to Lord Haw Haw on the wireless, you lot have become rats of the desert.’

  The colonel’s heavily tanned face broke into a wide grin. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said as they firmly shook hands, ‘but if we stay here any longer, we’ll certainly smell like them.’

  No sooner had the colonel left than the gangway was taken away. Helix gradually moved away from the wharf and increased speed. Eridge and Dulverton quickly followed on, and as they met up with Carlisle, the sound of gunfire could be heard coming from the ports perimeter. Plumes of smoke shot up close to the wharf and around the remnants of the port.

  Manley shot Penrose a relieved look, and said, ‘Looks like we left just in time, sir.’

  ‘Yes indeed, Number One,’ Penrose answered, seeing a black umbrella of smoke settling over the port. He gave a worried sigh and said, ‘I wonder how long the poor blighters can hold out?’

  ‘Carlisle flashing, sir,’ cried PO Signalman Spud Tate, ‘“Well done. All ships alter course, green ten degrees. Increase speed twenty-eight knots”.’

  ‘Acknowledge,’ snapped Penrose, and repeated the order to Digger Barnes in the wheelhouse. He then glanced at Baker and said, ‘At this speed, what’s our ETA at Alex, Pilot?’

  Baker quickly consulted his chart and after using his dividers, replied, ‘Alex is some four hundred miles away, sir. I’d say, early on Monday the 20th, sir. There are two main entrances, Great Harbour and a smaller one in the old port.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Pilot, I am aware of that,’ said Penrose. ‘Anything on asdic, Number One?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Manley answered. He was about to use a handkerchief to wipe beads of perspiration from around his neck, when Buster Brown’s thick Yorkshire accent in the crow’s nest reported, ‘Aircraft approaching, sir, red fifteen, roughly four thousand feet!’

  ‘Action stations, Number One,’ said Penrose, ‘I thought things were going to be smooth.’

  ‘They’re those bloody Marchettis again, sir,’ yelled Baker, ‘eight of em.’

  ‘And they’re just about in too high for our guns to bare, sir,’ Manley added. At that moment, Carlisle’s armament opened up, and once again, the blueness of the sky became a panoply of black puffs of smoke.

  ‘Four of ‘em are peeling off and making for the cruiser, sir,’ shouted Baker. ‘The rest are heading inland.’

  ‘They’re well in range, sir,’ reported Gunnery Officer, Ted Powers, from the gunnery platform.

  ‘Very good, all guns open fire,’ snapped Penrose.

  Everyone watched as the four Italian bombers dived through Carlisle’s intensive maelstrom before unloading their deadly cargo. Despite taking evasive action, a bomb hit home and a pall of flames and smoke shot into the air, aft of the cruisers bridge. This disappeared as the cruiser emerged from a wall of white water, her guns still defiantly blazing away.

  ‘The Ities are turning away, sir,’ said Manley, ‘they appear to be heading inland to join the others.’

  ‘Signal Carlisle,’ Penrose said calmly. ‘“How badly are you damaged? Can we help?”’

  ‘Eridge and Dulverton are also signalling, sir,’ Tate said, ‘they’re asking the same as you.’ A few minutes later, Tate reported, ‘Carlisle replying, sir, “No help required. Damage amidships to searchlights and pom-poms. Continue on present course and speed”.’

  By this time, Tobruk was shrouded in a vast cloud of smoke as the bombers, having completed their mission, turned away, apparently unscathed, and disappeared westwards.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Shortly after 0900 on Sunday, 19th July, Able Seaman Slinger Wood reported sighting the rugged coast of Libya on his radar screen.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Penrose, ‘what’s our position, Pilot?

  Sub Lieutenant Baker bent down, and after looking through the small square glass panel on the compass repeater, replied, ‘Coast bearing zero four five degrees, sir.’

  The previous evening, just before evening rounds, Penrose had addressed the ship’s company, telling them that the flotilla would arrive in Alexandria the next day. After a brief introduction, he went to say, ‘As you may know, Admiral Cunningham moved the fleet from Malta to Alexandria for safety reasons. Although having been badly bombed last year, Alex is now relatively safe as the Luftwaffe and Italians are concentrating on Tobruck. Tropical routine is to be observed and leave granted, and hopefully the mail will have caught up with us. There are a hundred piasters to the pound and money changing can be obtained from the pay office at 1100 tomorrow. That is all.’ After replacing the handset, he glanced at Manley and said, ‘What’s our speed, Number One?’

  For a few sec
onds Manley didn’t answer. The mention of mail made him hope there would be a letter from Laura. ‘Er… twenty-five knots, sir,’ he stuttered.

  Manley wasn’t the only officer concerned about the mail. Sub Lieutenant Baker’s immediate thoughts centred on the captain receiving news from the chief constable in Wallasey. Suddenly, he wondered why he was so worried; if a U-boat torpedoed the ship or they were hit by a bomb, his worries would be over, so to hell with it.

  Throughout the ship, Penrose’s words were greeted with alacrity. In the senior ratings mess, Petty Officer “Podge” Hardman’s face lit up. ‘Alexandria,’ he said, looking at “Chippy” Tug Wilson, ‘I served on board the Barham in ’38. It was one of the best runs ashore I ever had.’

  ‘What’s the beer like?’ Tug asked.

  ‘It’s called Stella and it’s served in cans, ice cold,’ Podge replied, lighting a cigarette. ‘Cheap too, as I recall, just a few piasters a can.’

  ‘Pay no attention to him, Tug,’ Chief GI Bob Shilling chimed in. ‘I was there a year ago in Belfast and some fuckin’ Arab picked my pocket. Stole my pay book and wallet, so he did, and to make things worse, I caught the boat up.’

  ‘So the morale of your story is,’ grinned Chief Bosun’s Mate Charlie Jackson, ‘stay on board, save your money and I’ll lend me one of my Jippo AFOs to read.’ (JIPPO AFO’s meant Egyptian Admiralty Fleet Orders, ie. Pornographic booklets obtained in Malta and other ports in the Mediterranean.)

  In the seamen’s mess, the reaction was the same. ‘Dear old Alex,’ said Leading Asdic Operator Dusty Miller, as he climbed into his hammock. ‘I was there before the war. It’s a great run ashore.’

  ‘I say, Dusty,’ asked Sammy Smith, who, like a few others, had finished cleaning the mess, ready for rounds. ‘What’s the best place for a bit of the other?’

  ‘I expect the red-light district will be out of bounds,’ Dusty replied, ‘but as I remember, there’s plenty of partys in the clubs and pubs in Sister Street.’ (Party is a naval nickname for women.)

  ‘Then that’s where we’ll be headed, eh, Slinger?’ he said to Leading Radar Operator Wood as he lit a cigarette.

  ‘OK by me,’ Slinger replied, ‘but I only hope the French letters I’ve had since we left Pompey haven’t rotted away.’

  At that moment, the shrill sound of the duty QM’s bosun’s call heralded the approach of the OOW and night rounds.

  Sunday dawned warm and clear. A light breeze blew from the south, and high above, in a pale blue sky, a myriad of twinkling stars, together with anaemic moon, gradually faded away over the horizon. A little after 0600, the outline of Alexandria appeared on Dolly Gray’s radar screen. This sighting was confirmed by Buster Brown, in the crow’s nest, looking through his high-powered binoculars at the tops of the numerous minarets and cranes dotting Alexandria’s skyline.

  By 0700, everyone on the bridge could clearly see the two entrances to the harbour, the dockyard and the various yellow sandstone buildings and mosques.

  ‘Signal from Carlisle, sir,’ said Leading Signalman Jock Weir. ‘“Helix, Eridge and Dulverton berth south wharf Great Harbour. Medical assistance will meet. Carlisle will berth wharf eight to effect repairs and land injured”.”

  ‘Port five, Number One,’ ordered Penrose, ‘and reduce revolutions, two zero, special sea duty men fall in.’

  ‘Ah, the ancient city Alexandria, sir,’ Baker sighed, watching as Helix slowly turned left and followed Carlisle. ‘It was founded by Alexander the Great in 331 BC, and was once the greatest city in the Hellenistic world and it was here that Cleopatra dallied with Julius Caesar.’

  ‘Och, y’mean he shagged her, sir,’ said Weir, with a grin.

  ‘It’s hard to believe that eight months ago, two Italian midget submarines managed to evade the boom and place limpet mines against the battleships, Queen Elizabeth and Valiant, eh, sir?’ Manley remarked, as the small flotilla approached the port.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Penrose replied, ‘eight sailors were killed on board the Queen and Mussolini awarded the officers and men involved the Italian Medal of Honour, the equivalent of our Victoria Cross.’

  ‘Signal from Captain Neame, in Carlisle, sir, “All commanding officers report to me immediately when secure in Alex”.’

  ‘Now I wonder what he wants, eh, Number One?’ Penrose asked Manley, creasing his brow.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, sir’ Manley answered, as the flotilla slowly nosed its way towards the harbour entrance. ‘But I don’t like it. Luckily wharf eight is close by, so you can leave as soon as the gangway is in place.’

  Cranes, looking like black praying mantis’, poked up in the air from a dockyard, while yellow and white sandstone buildings of the city stretched inland from a wide, horseshoe shaped harbour. On one side, guarding the port entrance stood an imposing, castle, its turrets and crenelated walls shining in the morning sun. Two tankers were tied up alongside a wharf, while some distance away, a large group of fishing boats and motor launches nestled against one another, rolling gently against the incoming tide.

  The boom defending the harbour was opened, and by 1000, the three destroyers were tied up alongside the long wharf that led directly into port. Waiting on the wharf was a small convoy of army ambulances. Each one was white with large red cross painted on both sides and on the roof. Gangways were hurriedly put into place, allowing contingents of army medics to board the ships where they quickly began helping the wounded ashore into the ambulances. At the same time, Penrose left Helix and went on board Carlisle, berthed in front of the three destroyers.

  Penrose and the other two commanding officers were familiar with Captain Neame’s cabin, and therefore gave it scant attention.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said the captain, who was sat behind a mahogany desk, cluttered with an assortment of official papers and folders. He wore tropical shorts and his bronzed face and muscular arms were in sharp contrast to the pristine white of his short-sleeved blouse. ‘Please be seated,’ he added, indicating to three armchairs. ‘Two hours ago,’ the captain said sternly, ‘I received a top-secret communication from the First Sea Lord, Sir Dudley Pound. In it, he informs me that there is an extremely important operation being planned in England for which every available destroyer will be required.’ He paused, and leaning slightly forward, he looked gravely at the three officers, and continued. ‘The details of the operation were not given, but as you may be aware, up to the beginning of this month, we have lost one thousand, six hundred and sixty-four merchant ships in the Atlantic. Therefore, I suspect it’ll be for convoy duty.’ For a few seconds he stopped talking, then, furrowing his brow, slowly went on. ‘Now, you can guess what I’m going to say next.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Gregory-Smith, Eridge’s captain, staring hopefully at Neame. ‘We’re being sent home.’

  ‘You’re quite right, Bill,’ said Neame.

  ‘When, sir?’ Penrose asked, picking up a glass of water from a nearby table and taking good sip.

  ‘In two days, you’ll be glad to hear,’ Neame answered calmly.

  ‘Indeed, it is, sir,’ replied Penrose, giving the two other officers a quick welcoming smile.

  ‘Absolutely, sir,’ added Gregory-Smith.

  ‘Then, gentlemen,’ Neame replied, standing up and warmly shaking each officer’s hands, ‘that’s settled, you’ll sail at 0800 in two days. That’s the twenty-second. Make a quick refuelling stop at Malta. Then make all haste. If you meet any enemy convoys, you must use your judgement. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir, ‘Penrose answered, suddenly feeling uneasy.

  ‘Good, any questions?’

  ‘If this operation that’s being planned is so important,’ Peters asked, giving Neame a searching look, ‘will any destroyers from Admiral Vian’s battlegroup be sent back to England also?’

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ Neame replied. ‘Vian’s already lost Havlock and Kingston. He’ll therefore need every ship in order to deal with Iachino’s fleet sho
uld they leave Taranto. Also, his battlegroup, will be needed to intercept convoys bringing re-enforcements to Rommel from Italy.’

  ‘Is there any more information about why we’re being recalled, sir?’ asked Penrose.

  ‘None whatsoever, Henry,’ Neame flatly replied. ‘Nevertheless, it must be extremely important. Now, do carry on, I’m sure your ship’s companies will be glad to hear the news.’

  ‘Well, that came out of the blue,’ Penrose remarked to Gregory-Smith as they walked down Carlisle’s metal gangway.

  ‘It’s certainly not what I expected,’ Gregory-Smith replied.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ chimed in Peters, ‘but what will you decide if we do meet a convoy, as I expect it’ll have an escort?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see,’ Penrose replied, as they stepped onto the wharf.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  No sooner had Penrose left for Carlisle, than Surgeon Lieutenant Latta greeted a tall, fair-haired, army doctor as he stepped on board Helix.

  ‘Good to see you, John Latta,’ the doctor said, proffering his hand.’

  ‘Peter Harris,’ the army doctor replied, as they warmly shook hands.

  As he spoke SBA Bamford, Petty Officer Powel and the first aid party came through a hatchway, carrying the soldier with an abdominal wound, on a stretcher. His head rested on a pillow, his eyes were closed and he was covered with a brown blanket.

  ‘He has a bullet lodged in the left side of his abdomen,’ Latta told Harris, using a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. ‘I’ve done what I can, but he’ll need operative treatment.’

  ‘Then the quicker we get him ashore the better,’ replied Harris. ‘Is there anything we can do for you?’ Latta noticed how pronounced Harris’ Australian accent was.

  ‘Yes, my sick berth attendant tells me we’re short of morphia,’ Latta replied.