Battle Ensign

by Thomas E. Lightburn

  In the middle of a white-tiled floor stood the same girl they had met earlier. She was smiling seductively at her audience while swaying her hips to the rhythmic beat of the tambourine and the melodious clink of the castanets.

  Dusty and Slinger occupied one alcove, while Bud and Bob sat in the one next to them. Upon seeing them, Fatima gave them a bedazzling smile and continued dancing, allowing her dress swirl around her long, shapely legs.

  The four ratings found a table and sat down. Straight away each of them was joined by a pretty, dark-haired girl, who sat on their laps and put their arms around them.

  ‘And what ees your name?’ one of them asked Bud, slowly sliding her warm hand up his thigh onto his crotch.

  ‘My er… mates call me Bud,’ he replied, feeling her hand press down on his erection.

  ‘My name is Zara,’ she answered, nibbling his ear. ‘You buy Zara a drink, yes?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Bud replied. Glancing around at the other three, he saw they were similarly engaged with girls, kissing his mates while watching their hands slide up onto their legs.

  Using her free hand, she looked up at tall swarthy waiter, and snapped, ‘Champagne, and hurry up.’ She allowed her skirt to ride up her thighs.

  ‘Champagne!’ yelled Bud. ‘Who d’yer think I am. Rockfeller? You can piss off,’ he added angrily, pushing the girl onto the floor.

  ‘Tight arse Engleesh bastard,’ she shouted, pulling her skirt down.

  The girls that Bob, Dusty and Slinger were with had also requested champagne. They also realised they were about to be to be fleeced and reacted accordingly.

  ‘Come on, lads,’ shouted Dusty, ‘let’s bugger off out of here, it’s a fuckin’ clip joint.’

  ‘Too bloody true,’ cried Bob and Slinger, standing up and pushing the girls ceremoniously off their laps. One of the girls gave a shrill scream, and tumbled onto the floor. The other one stood defiantly with her hands on her hips, and glaring at the three husky waiters, shouted angrily, ‘Throw them out.’

  One of the waiters grabbed one of Bob’s arms and forced it up his back and began to frog march him towards the door. Bob reacted by using the heel of his shoe against the waiter’s leg, who immediately yelled, and let go of Bob’s arms. Bob then turned around and punched the waiter in the nose. The waiter yelled and covered his nose as blood dripped through his fingers onto his grubby white shirt. At the same time, the other three were involved in a scuffle with the other waiters. Tables fell over, glasses crashed onto the floor and girls screamed. Suddenly, the ear splitting wail of the air raid siren rent the air.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Dusty yelled, as he was about to hit one of the waiters. ‘It’s a bloody air raid!’

  ‘No, no, effendi, it can’t be,’ a waiter cried. ‘We haven’t been bombed since last year!’ His voice was drowned out by a violent, explosion that shook the building.

  ‘Well, you fuckin’ well have, now,’ shouted Dusty, as bits of dirt fell down from the ceiling. ‘Come on, lads,’ he shouted, while grabbing his cap, ‘let’s get the fuck out of here and leg it back to the ship.’

  Dusty and the other three stopped fighting and pushing the girls and a waiter out of the way, made their way through the gloom, opened the door and ran into the street. After blinking their eyes to accustom their eyes to the sun’s glare, they saw people scurrying around, seeking shelter, as the sharp retort of ack-ack guns and explosions rent the air. As the four ratings ran up the street, shielding their eyes, they glanced up and saw the pale blue sky dotted with grey blobs of smoke and a group of Marchetti bombers, some distance away from the city. ‘It’s the fuckin’ ities,’ he yelled, ‘they’re turning away, looks like they’re leaving.’

  ‘Thank fuck for that,’ said Slinger, feeling lines of sweat running down his face. ‘I don’t know about you three, but I’m parched.’

  ‘Me too,’ added Dusty, ‘maybe now we can find somewhere and have a few wets.’

  ‘Hey, ’old on a minute,’ cried Bud, noticing the flap of his purse in his belt was open. ‘All me money’s gone. That fuckin’ bitch in the club must ’ave robbed me.’

  ‘Mine’s gone as well,’ shouted Dusty. ‘What about you two?’ he added, looking at Slinger and Bob.

  ‘The bitch I was with has dipped me also,’ replied Slinger, angrily shaking his head.

  Just then, the monotonous drone of the “All Clear” sounded.

  ‘Well, my money’s safe, thank fuck,’ said Bob, tapping the purse in his belt. ‘So let’s go back and sort them party’s out,’ said Dusty, clenching his fists.

  ‘Good idea,’ Bob replied, glancing apprehensively down the cobbled street they had just left, ‘but maybe those two red caps walking towards us might have to disagree with you, matey.’

  ‘Then, I suggest we scarpa,’ said, Bob. ‘Come on, lads, the first round’s on me.’

  ‘And the rest,’ muttered Dusty as they hurried down the main road and into the nearest bar.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Shortly after 1400, a sharp knock on his cabin door momentarily distracted Penrose from the letter he was writing to Jean. ‘Come,’ he sighed putting down his fountain pen and sitting back in his chair. Naturally he couldn’t say the ship was homeward-bound, but he did write, we were about to head westward, hoping she would understand. The door opened and in came the tall, stocky figure of Radio Communications Officer, Sub Lieutenant Brownlow RNVR who had joined the ship earlier that day and hadn’t met the captain. This was his first ship. He was twenty-three with a first in mathematics and a fiancée called Fiona who was a nurse and lived in his home town of Whitby.

  ‘Ah, Brownlow,’ said Penrose, looking up, ‘Daniel, isn’t it?’

  Brownlow blinked his pale blue eyes and replied, ‘Yes, sir.’ As he spoke, he took off his cap, revealing well-groomed dark brown hair, parted neatly on the left side.

  Noticing Brownlow’s pale features and obvious nervousness, Penrose gave him a fatherly smile and said, ‘Relax, dear boy, I’m not going to eat you, now, what is that you’ve got for me?’

  ‘A signal marked, “top secret”, signal sir,’ Brownlow answered, feeling his mouth go dry.

  ‘Top secret, eh,’ muttered Penrose, pensively stroking his chin, ‘then you’d better tell me what is says.’

  ‘Er… with respect, sir,’ he said, feeling his hand shake as he handed the signal to Penrose, ‘It’s very important. I think you’d better read it yourself.’

  ‘Very well,’ sighed Penrose, accepting the signal. ‘Great Scott!’ he exclaimed, as he read it. ‘Tobruk has fallen and thirty-five thousand men have been captured. How many others besides yourself know about this?’

  ‘Only me, sir,’ Brownlow replied.

  ‘Good, keep it that way until I’ve informed the officers,’ Penrose answered wearily. ‘Also, inform the commanding officers of Dulverton and Eridgee, by signal. Mark them “secret” and say, “Tobruk fallen, keep a sharp lookout for enemy shipping when we sail”. And pipe for all officers to muster in the wardroom immediately. Now carry on, and be quick about it,’ Penrose added, standing up and making for the door. However, neither officers realised Scouse Morris was listening behind the galley door.

  A few minutes later, “All officers muster in the wardroom straight away”, echoed over the tannoy.

  On the way to the wardroom, Logan met the Surgeon Lieutenant Latta. ‘Any idea what the old man wants, Doc?

  ‘No, I havna,’ retorted Latta angrily. ‘It’s just as well as I finished putting in a few stiches in a seamen’s head, or he would have ta wait for me.’

  Every officer, including Sub Lieutenant Milton, who was OOD, was in the wardroom. A few sat around on armchairs, talking quietly. Some sipped coffee, courtesy of PO Steward Sandy Powel, while other officers stood around, quietly smoking.

  A few minutes after 1430, Penrose came in, followed closely Manley. Those officers who were sitting down immediately stood up and joined the others who were quietly standing to attention.r />
  ‘Stand at ease, gentlemen.’ Then, nodding to PO Powel, he said, ‘Kindly leave enough coffee in the urn for everybody then leave us, and close the door.’

  As soon as Powel left, Penrose furrowed his brow and looked at the anxious face staring at him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, gravely, ‘I’m sure you want to know why I’ve asked to see you, so I’ll come straight to the point. I regret to tell you, Tobruk has fallen.’ Immediately, his last three words were met by an all- round murmur and concerned glances.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Lieutenant Powers, ‘how will that affect us?’

  Placing both hands behind his back, Penrose replied, ‘Now that Tobruk is in enemy hands, it means that Rommel will seriously threaten Egypt, including the Suez Canal and the trade route to the east. Now, to do that he will need to be supplied from the sea…’

  ‘Which means convoys from Italy, sir,’ interrupted Lieutenant Goldsmith.’

  ‘Correct, Barry,’ Penrose curtly replied.

  ‘That’s if they manage to break through Admiral Vian’s blockade, sir,’ added Lieutenant Sherwood.

  ‘Quite so, Tim,’ Penrose said, smiling ruefully, ‘but Vian will have to contend with the Italian and German air force, as well as submarines, so our small group of three destroyers will have to be extra vigilant at all times.’

  Will you inform the ship’s company, sir?’ asked Lieutenant Logan.

  ‘Knowing how the tom-toms work on board,’ Penrose replied with a wry smile, ‘they’ll already know. Any questions?’

  ‘Just one, sir,’ piped up, Latta, grinning, ‘how about some coffee afore the urn goes cold.’

  ‘Splendid idea, Doc,’ Penrose replied, rubbing his hands together, ‘but as the sun is well over the yardarm, I’d prefer it if we could all have something stronger.’

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Shortly after 0900 on Wednesday, 22nd July, the boom protecting the entrance to Alexandria’s widest harbour was removed, to allow Helix, Eridge and Dulverton to begin their journey back to England. High above, in the eye-smarting, cerulean sky, the early morning sun made the calm sea twinkle like a million tiny stars.

  With Helix in the van, the three destroyers formed up line abreast. Penrose was on the bridge, sitting comfortably in his chair. With an approving smile, he watched as each of the two destroyers sent spumescent bow waves curling over their fo’c’sles as they cut through the sea.

  ‘A wonderful sight, eh, sir,’ remarked Manley, taking off his cap and wiping his brow with a handkerchief. He had seen a similar sight many times before, but he couldn’t help but admire the way the destroyers dipped in unison in out of the sea as if controlled by a puppeteer.

  ‘It is indeed, Number One,’ Penrose replied, ‘and I suggest, you fall out special sea duty men. Anything on radar or asdic?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Manley answered.

  The morning passed quietly. At 1130, “Up spirits, cooks to the galley”, was piped. Half an hour later, Lieutenant Tim Sherwood took over the afternoon watch from Sub Lieutenant Baker. The lookouts were changed, Leading Signalman Weir relived PO Signalman Spud Tate and Able Seaman Jock Forbes exchanged duties with QM Able Seaman Brum Appleby. Manley was about to leave the bridge when he looked at Penrose, who was using his binoculars to survey the surrounding sea, and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, are you not going to lunch?’

  Without lowering his binoculars, Penrose replied, ‘No, I don’t feel hungry. But maybe you could ask Morris to bring me a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Manley, replied, ‘but Morris told me you missed breakfast. Are you sure you’re feeling well?’

  Penrose lowered his binoculars, and giving Manley a stern look, said, ‘Of course I am, Morris is a bloody fuss pot.’

  Manley left the bridge and met Morris on the wardroom flat, carrying a large mug of steaming hot vegetable soup and said, ‘He only wants a cup of coffee.’

  ‘He’ll ‘ave this soup if I ‘ave to pour it down ‘im mesef,’ Morris firmly replied.

  Manley gave Morris a searching look, and said, ‘He’s not in a very good mood, so on your head, be it.’

  Lieutenant Sherwood later told Manley that Morris had refused to leave the bridge until Penrose ate the soup. With a rueful smile, he added, ‘So the captain eventually capitulated.’

  By 1800, the sun, now a great round orb, bathed the sea in a vast patina of dazzling orange before sinking into the east. Visibility was clear and a balmy breeze blew from the east. The small flotilla was roughly three hundred miles west of Crete when Asdic Operator Dusty Miller reported a small blip on his radar screen. ‘Looks like a submarine, sir,’ he cautiously added, ‘twenty miles on Dulverton’s port quarter.’

  ‘Dulverton and Eridge have reported sighting it on radar also, sir,’ Manley said to Penrose.

  ‘Sound action stations,’ snapped Penrose. He bent foreword and unhooked the ship’s tannoy. ‘This is the captain speaking. Radar has reported sighting a submarine. It’s probably a U-boat, I will keep you informed.’ After replacing the tannoy, he looked at Manley, who, like everyone else, had donned anti-flash gear, and said, ‘What’s our speed?’

  ‘Twenty-one knots, sir,’ Manley quickly replied.

  ‘Signal to both ships, “increase speed to twenty-five knots, and turn ten degrees to starboard”. Let’s see what the blighter will do.’ As he spoke, Penrose felt his heart pound like a hammer. He felt beads of sweat break out on his brow and run down the sides of his face. He reached into a pocket in his shorts and managed to fumble with a small box and brought out a Digoxin tablet and quickly put it in his mouth and swallowed it.

  ‘How are you, sir?’ Manley asked, noticing tiny beads of sweat running down the sides of Penrose’s heavily tanned face.

  ‘Fine,’ Penrose replied. ‘Just a touch of indigestion, nothing to worry about,’ he added, taking out a handkerchief and quickly wiping his face.

  Digger Barnes’s throaty reply, confirming Penrose’s order, came from the wheelhouse. Almost immediately the ship increased speed and heeled precariously to right

  ‘Torpedo track five miles away, heading towards Dulverton, sir,’ shouted the port lookout.

  With their binoculars pressed tightly to their eyes, all heads quickly turned to the left. ‘Now we know what the sods are up to,’ Penrose calmly remarked.

  A minute later, Sub Lieutenant Baker shouted, ‘Torpedo passed about fifteen yards from Dulverton’s stern, sir.’

  ‘Luckily you ordered that turn to starboard, eh, sir,’ Manley remarked, feeling a trickle of sweat run down the left side of his face.

  ‘Dulverton’s attacking, sir, she’s fired a spray of depth charges,’ Able Seaman Wiggy Bennett reported from the crow’s nest. (Each depth charge contained 200 tons of TNT.)

  ‘Where’s the bastard, now, Number One?’ asked Penrose.

  ‘A hundred yards on Dulverton’s port quarter, sir.’

  No sooner had Manley spoke when everyone on the bridge, and those in exposed positions on the upper deck, heard a gigantic whoosh, as a thick wall of white water exploded some distance behind Dulverton. Another detonation, higher and just as loud, quickly followed. Gradually both huge jets of water settled in the sea in ever widening circles of swirling whirlpools. The night’s clear visibility allowed all eyes to search for tell-tail oil stains, bits of wreckage or bodies, but none appeared.

  ‘Signal Eridge to attack, Number One,’ snapped Penrose. He contacted Lieutenant Logan in the engine, and said, ‘Stand by to increase speed five knots, when I will order the depth charges to fire, I don’t want the ship to be caught in the back draft of the explosions. Understand, Derek?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Logan replied, and replaced the hand set.

  ‘Right, Number One,’ Penrose said, sitting upright in his chair, ‘let’s give Eridge and Dulverton a hand.’

  Helix gradually gained speed, until she was some hundred yards in front of Eridge. ‘Where is the bugger, now, Number One?’ asked Manle
y, feeling his heart beat a hurried cadence in his chest.

  ‘About a hundred yards in front of us, sir, two hundred and fifty fathoms deep,’ Manley answered, breathing heavily.

  Using the intercom, Penrose quickly contacted Goldsmith and said, ‘I want you to drop the first depth charge astern, set at two hundred feet, then, a few seconds later, as we move ahead, drop one to port and starboard set at two hundred and fifty feet; and finally, lay one astern at three hundred feet. Then stand by to fire. Understand?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir,’ Goldsmith answered firmly, ‘a diamond formation.’ Straight away, Goldsmith ordered his team of operators, to alter the Depth Adjuster on each depth charge to the required sea level.

  Meanwhile, the tension on the bridge was palpable. Manley glanced apprehensively at Penrose and noticed his captain hunched up. He held the quarterdeck intercom in his hand and he was nervously biting his lip. Suddenly, Penrose seemed to spring to life. And sitting bolt upright, said in a loud voice, ‘Increase speed five knots, fire all depth charges.’ Penrose pushed himself off his chair, and followed by Manley, hurried to the port wing. Sub Lieutenant Baker and Sub Lieutenant Milton, who was now OOW, QM Jock Forbes and PO Pony Moore made for the starboard wing. With baited breath, everyone watched and waited, feeling every vibrant beat of the engines beneath the wooden deck. Then, after what seemed like minutes, but was in fact seconds, four loud eruptions of white seawater could be clearly seen two hundred yards away on the port quarter, before gradually settling in the sea. However, the tension in everyone faces remained as they hoped to see evidence of a kill. They didn’t have long to wait.

  Wiggy Bennett in the crow’s nest was the first to report what everyone anxiously hoped for. ‘Dark stains in the water, sir,’ he yelled down the bridge intercom. Then, straining his eyes through his binoculars, added excitedly, ‘Looks like oil, in fact I’m sure of it, about a hundred yards in our stern.’