Battle Ensign

by Thomas E. Lightburn

  However, the cheering and back-slapping on the bridge and throughout those on the upper deck, was somewhat muted when bodies, half naked and others mutilated, lying face down, were seen amongst the various pieces of wreckage and debris.

  ‘A bloody awful way to die, eh, Chalky?’ Leading Seaman Lee, captain of B gun, said solemnly to Knocker White, standing next to him on the gunnery platform.

  ‘Aye, yer right there, Tansey,’ White answered, noticing a headless corpse floating in sea. ‘But,’ he added while taking off his anti-flash hood, ‘it was either them or us.’ It was a sentiment shared by the rest of the crew.

  ‘I say, sir,’ Baker said to Penrose, ‘I can see what looks like a cap floating in the sea a few yards away from the side of the ship, do you want it as evidence?’

  ‘Yes,’ Penrose replied quietly. ‘Have it hooked on board, perhaps it’ll help to identify the U-boat, and secure from action stations.’

  Ten minutes later, the thick-set figure of PO Len Mills arrived, holding a soggy white cap. It was wrinkled with a row of silver oak leaves around the edge of the peak. ‘Looks like it belonged to the skipper, eh, sir,’ said Mills, handing the cap to Penrose.

  Penrose took the cap and turned it inside out. The words in faded gold lettering, read, “Heinri (something or other), Stern”. Penrose pursed his lips, then replied, ‘Looks like Heinrich Von Stern, the “Von”, indicates he was an aristocrat.’ He paused momentarily, then, added, ‘I think you could be right, PO. It did belong to the sub’s captain. Take it to my cabin and tell Morris to put it somewhere safe to dry out.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Mills replied, accepting the cap and leaving the bridge.

  ‘Better send a signal to C-in-C Med, Number One, “U-boat sunk, give the position, and add, no survivors”.’ He then unhooked the ship’s tannoy and said, ‘Well done the TAS crew.’

  Mills did as ordered, and took the cap to Penrose’s cabin and gave it to Morris then told him what the captain said.

  ‘Bloody ’ell! PO!’ Mills exclaimed. ‘A real Nazi captain’s, lid, wait till I tell the lads in the mess about this,’ he added, carefully running his fingers along the gold leafed peak.

  ‘No, you won’t, my ’andsome,’ snorted Mills, ‘you’ll do as the old man says, and stow it somewhere, or I’ll ’ave yer guts for garters.’

  ‘Don’t worry, PO,’ Morris replied warily, ‘I’ll take good care of it.’

  ‘You’d better,’ grunted Mills, and left the cabin.

  No sooner had Mills closed the cabin door, than Morris couldn’t resist temptation. He went into the captain’s bedroom, and ignoring how wet the cap was, carefully put it on his head. He looked into the large mirror situated on the front of the wardrobe. Standing frigidly to attention, he shot out his right arm and shouted, ‘Heil! Hitler!’ With a satisfied grin, he took off the cap, then wiped his face with a handkerchief. He was about to go into the captain’s bathroom and hang the cap up on a hook behind the door, when he paused, and had an idea. He carefully folded the cap up and tucked it down his white front, closed the door and left the cabin.

  The time was shortly after 2000. In the S and S mess, the atmosphere was heavily tinged with tobacco smoke and the stale smell of sweat. Some ratings were sat at the long wooden table playing uckers and cribbage. A few sat writing letters while one or two lay, cocooned in their hammocks, doing their best to sleep before going on watch at midnight.

  Suddenly, the tranquillity of everything was abruptly interrupted by Morris coming down the stars, holding the cap in one hand and shouting, ‘Look what I’ve got, lads.’

  Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up at him, even Terry Bensen poked his head over his hammock to see what all the commotion was about.

  ‘This,’ said Morris, placing the cap on his head and walking haughtily into the mess, ‘is the cap belonging to the skipper of the U-Boat. Len Mills had it fished outa the drink.’

  Dick Turpin topped playing uckers and stood up. ‘Here,’ he said to Morris, reaching out with a hand, ‘let’s try it on.’

  Morris handed the cup to him, and warned, ‘Be careful, it’s still a bit wet.’

  For a few seconds, Turpin held the cap in his hand, and staring at it, said, ‘Bugger me, to think this has been on Nazi captain’s bonce.’ He put the cap on, and did a quick, “Heil! Hitler!” However, with the exception of Leading Writer Jack Jones, everyone in the mess had a good look at the cap and tried it on.

  ‘What’s the matter, Scribes?’ asked Morris, offering the cap to Jones. ‘Don’t tell me you’re superstitious?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Jones flatly replied, ‘but it belonged to a dead man.’ He added, staring cautiously at their faces. ‘Chuck it back in the sea or it’ll bring bad luck, mark my words…’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The next day dawned calm, warm and clear. The time was 1230. Afternoon watchmen were closed up and the ship was at cruising stations. As usual, Penrose was comfortably ensconced in his chair.

  ‘What’s our position, Pilot?’ Penrose asked, noting how well the other two ships kept formation.

  ‘Latitude thirty degrees west, longitude twenty-five degrees south, sir,’ Baker replied, having plotted the ship’s position when he took over the watch from Lieutenant Ted Powers.

  ‘That would place us where, exactly?’ Penrose asked, pensively stroking his chin.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty miles west of Malta, sir.’

  ‘What’s our ETA, Malta?’

  ‘1800 on the twenty-fifth, sir,’ Baker replied, then quickly added, ‘do you think there’ll be any mail there, sir?’

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ Penrose replied, sensing Baker’s anxiousness regarding news from the magistrate in Wallasey. ‘We’ll only be there for a quick refuelling stop. I’m afraid there won’t be any in Gib which we should pass on the twenty-ninth.’

  ‘I see, thank you, sir,’ Baker muttered aimlessly, then turned away and looked down at his chart.

  ‘Better send a signal to C-in-C, Malta,’ Penrose said to Leading Signalman Jock Weir. Weir hurriedly picked up a pad from the bridge dashboard and took out a pencil from his pocket. ‘Say, “Request refuelling and berthing instructions for Helix, Eridge and Dulverton”, and give our ETA.’

  Weir quickly wrote down his captain’s words and left the bridge.

  Ten minutes later, Weir arrived on the bridge holding a signal pad. ‘Reply from C-in-C, Malta, sir.’

  ‘Then, read it, man,’ Penrose snapped, who, like Manley, Baker and the others, were busy watching a pod of dolphins bounding merrily in and out of the sea some fifty yards in front of the ship.

  ‘“Three ships berth Palarorio wharf. Oil tenders will meet. Cunningham”.’

  ‘Thank you, Weir,’ replied Penrose, ‘kindly repeat it to Eridge and Dulverton.’

  ‘Och, d’yer think those buggers know summat we don’t, sir,’ Jock Weir said to Baker, looking at the dolphins’ perpetual smiles.

  ‘Maybe they know where the hell our mail has got to,’ Baker replied sourly.

  Malta was quiet and peaceful as the three destroyers arrived, a welcome change from the incessant air raids the island had suffered recently. The cloudless sky was an umbrella of glittering stars and the moon cast a silver sheen onto the still waters of Grand Harbour.

  On the flotilla’s starboard beam, the spires of Valetta’s many churches dominated the skyline, while away to port, the partial ruins of Vittorioso, Conspicua and Senglea, the victims of constant bombing, lay shrouded in darkness.

  By 1900, the flotilla passed Senglea Point, and turned to port. Fifteen minutes later, all three vessels were berthed alongside Palatorio Wharf. Under the sharp eyes of Chief Stoker Harry Johnson and Lieutenant Logan, Helix’s fuel tanks were opened, pipes were passed from the ship to the lighters alongside. The same procedure was happening on board Eridge and Dulverton, and an hour later, refuelling was completed.

  Shortly after 2100, the flotilla slipped quietly out of Grand
Harbour, turned to starboard and were met by the steady swell of the sea.

  ‘When will we pass Gib and enter the Bay of Biscay, Pilot?’

  Baker knew Penrose would ask him this and had earlier worked this out. ‘At our present speed, sir,’ Baker confidently replied, ‘early on the morning of the twenty-ninth, sir.’

  ‘Four days, thank you, Baker,’ Penrose replied with a wry smile. ‘As usual, most efficient.’

  The news that the ship was not stopping at Gib, soon spread throughout the ship like wildfire. The feeling that the next stop would be Portsmouth sent an air of excited anticipation running through the ship. However, in the seamen’s mess, one person had slight misgivings. It was just after “pipe down” and several ratings were preparing to get turned in.

  ‘In a way, it’s a pity we’re not stopping at Gib,’ said Wiggy Bennett, as he reached up to the iron rail and pulled himself into his hammock. ‘I was hoping to buy a few rabbits, for the missus and kids.’ (Rabbits are a nickname for presents.) Gibraltar was usually the last port of call before England and was popular place to buy last minute presents before reaching England.

  ‘What’s up, Wiggy?’ Dinga Bell remarked as he was about to get undressed. ‘Is your conscience bothering you after shagging Manky Mary the last time we were down the Gut?’

  ‘Rubbish,’ retorted Bennett, squirming down in his hammock and picking up his dog-eared copy of Health and Beauty from under his pillow. ‘I was very considerate, I wore a johnny, which is more than you did when you disappeared with Slack Alice.’

  ‘Ah, maybe,’ Dinga Bell, replied cautiously, ‘but you forget, I’m separated from my missus.’

  ‘Is that why I saw you in the heads, taking tablets, and why the doc has stopped your tot?’ said Wiggy, oggling a photograph of two nude girls playing with a beach ball.

  ‘Bad guts,’ replied Bell, giving Bob Rose, who was standing across from him, a sly wink.

  In then engine room, CERA O’Malley was wiping his hands on some cotton waste, when Chief Stoker Johnson came in. ‘To be sure,’ O’Malley said, throwing the cotton waste in the gash bin, ‘good news, eh, Harry, next stop dear old Pompey.’

  ‘I hope so, Paddy,’ Harry replied, ‘but at the speed we’re going, I only hope my boilers don’t burst.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Paddy, grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘If we do, I’ll fuckin swim home, so I will.’

  ‘Are you going to propose to Joyce?’ Harry asked, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

  Paddy’s pale blue eyes lit up. ‘Too bloody true,’ he answered with a wide grin. ‘And you’ll be my best man, won’t you?’ he added, slapping Harry on the back.

  ‘With pleasure, Paddy,’ Harry replied, ‘now how about a cuppa tea in the mess, to celebrate.’

  ‘Better still, me boyo,’ said Paddy, ‘it just so happens, I’ve got one in the bottle.’ (Meaning he had put some of his tot in a medicine bottle, to be drunk later, or offered as a favour.)

  In the wardroom there was an air of relaxation. Night rounds were completed. Manley, stood, sipping a coffee and wondering why he hadn’t had a letter from Laura. Was she too sick to write? Had she had an accident? Another man, perhaps. Why? Why? he asked himself, had she not written?

  ‘Och, what’s up, old boy?’ asked Surgeon Lieutenant Latta. ‘Are you all right, you look miles away?’

  ‘Oh, just thinking about going home,’ Manley replied. ‘All things being equal, that is,’ he added, with a wry smile. He finished his coffee and slowly walked out of the room.

  During Sunday the 26th, the three warships continued peacefully westward. With the ships’ company at cruising stations, many ratings off watch relaxed on the quarterdeck. They lay on towels wearing only their shorts, while others wore bathing costumes. In sharp contrast to their white backs and fronts, their arms and faces looked heavily tanned.

  ‘This is the life, eh, Dutch,’ mumbled Bud Abbot to Leading Seaman Holland who, like Abbot, was lying face down, resting on both folded arms. ‘Bronzy, bronzy for leave. My old girl will think I look like Errol Flynn.’

  ‘No chance,’ Holland muttered. Even though they had only been lying there for ten minutes, with the warmth of the deck slowly penetrating the thickness of his towel, and the heat of the sun on his back, he was beginning to feel like being baked in an oven. ‘You’re so big and hairy you’ll end up looking like King Kong.’

  Abbot was about to say something when he heard the sharp voice of Chief GI, yelling, ‘Right, you lot, remember the Jimmy’s warning about self-inflicted wounds, now up you get and back to your messes, pronto.’

  ‘Och, Chief,’ Jock Forbes said, sitting up and shielding his eyes from the sun, ‘in peacetime, toffs have ta spend a fortune ta do this.’

  ‘In your dreams, Jock,’ Shilling replied sarcastically, ‘two minutes or you’ll all be on report.’

  The time was 1300. Except for the steady beat of the engines and the thud, thud of the ship dipping in and out of the sea, all was quiet. Penrose was below in his cabin. OOW Sub Lieutenant Jewitt was bent over the compass repeater, ensuring Dulverton was not too close. Using a sextant, Midshipman Morgan was checking a “fix” he had taken earlier. Manley was sat in the captain’s chair watching the line of foam fizz down either side, as the ship cut through the dark blue sea. Leading Seaman Sammy Smith, was lent on the binnacle, sharing a joke with PO Signalman Spud Tate. QM Knocker White stood next to them, quietly farting, as PO Len Mills, using his binoculars, swept the never-ending curvature of the horizon. Suddenly, all heads turned as Scouse Morris burst onto the bridge. His round, podgy face was lighter shade of pale than usual and there was a look of panic in his eyes.

  ‘Better come and ’ave a look at the captain, ser,’ Morris gasped, breathing heavily. ‘I think there’s summat wrong with ’im. He’s holding ’is arm and he seems to be in pain. He’s says ’e wants ’is tablets.’

  ‘I’d better go and see what the problem is, Jock,’ Manley to said to Jewitt, ‘and pipe for the MO to go to the captain’s cabin.’

  Manley followed Morris down the flight of metal stairs, onto the captain’s flat. After knocking, he opened the captain’s door. ‘You’d better wait outside,’ Manley said to Morris, ‘I’ll call you if needed.’

  ‘But, ser,’ Morris pleaded, ‘maybe I can help.’

  ‘Just do as I say,’ Manley replied, and went inside. The sight that met his eyes alarmed him. Penrose was slumped in his chair. His sweat-stained, ashen face was grimacing with pain and he was clutching his left arm. ‘What’s the matter, sir?’ Manley asked, hurrying behind Penrose’s desk and gently touching him on the shoulder.

  ‘Pain’s in my chest,’ he muttered, ‘terrible pain… my tablets.’ he added as his voice faded.

  At that moment, a knock came at the door and Surgeon Lieutenant Latta came in. SBA Bamford followed behind. In one hand, Latta carried a bulky black leather Gladstone valise, and the other held a stethoscope. Latta immediately saw Penrose’s face was grimacing with pain.

  ‘Where exactly is the pain, sir?’ Latta asked, taking Penrose’s radial pulse and finding it weak and over a hundred.

  ‘Here,’ Penrose mumbled, using his right hand to indicate an area behind his breast bone.

  ‘And when did it start?’

  ‘It came… on suddenly… just after… call the… hands,’ Penrose managed to say, ‘but please, Doc, my tablets… they’re in… the left pocket of… shorts.’

  Latta put his hand into the captain’s tropical shorts and found a small, white pill box. ‘What are these?’ Latta asked taking out the box and opening the lid.

  ‘Digoxin,’ Penrose muttered. ‘I’ve been on them… for over… a month. My GP… gave them… to me.’

  ‘Och, man, why didn’t you tell me?’ Latta asked, realising the captain was having a heart attack.

  ‘You’d have… sent me,’ Penrose muttered, ‘to hospital and… I’d have missed… the ship… please… give me… two of… them.’

 
Latta was reluctant to do as Penrose asked, but fearing it would increase Penrose’s anxiety if he refused, he took out two tablets and placed them in Penrose’s open mouth. Bamford arrived, holding a tumbler half-filled with water. He allowed Penrose a good sip to swallow the tablets, then dabbed his mouth with a gauze swab. He then placed the box containing the tablets in a side pocket in his Gladstone Valise.

  Latta gently lifted Penrose’s shirt, and using his stethoscope, listened to the captain’s heartbeat, and was not surprised to find it strong, fast and irregular. He then took Penrose’s blood pressure and found it dangerously high.

  ‘Try and relax, sir,’ Latta said, removing the stethoscope from his ears and opening s Gladstone valise. ’I’m going to give you an injection, it’ll help relieve the pain.’ Feeling his own heart thumping, he took out a metal box containing two sterile 5cc syringes, needles and several small glass ampoules of morphine sulphate. He carefully picked out a needle and syringe. He attached a needle to the syringe. Using a tiny metal saw, he removed the top of the ampoule and withdrew its contents into the syringe. After carefully replacing the old needle with a new one, he expelled any air bubbles. Bamford passed him some cotton wool soaked in surgical spirit. Latta wiped the deltoid area on Penrose’s upper arm and inserted the needle. After withdrawing the plunger slightly to ensure the needle wasn’t in a vein, Latta injected the morphia.

  ‘There, now, sir,’ Latta said, gently rubbing the injected area. ‘Sit back and in a little while you should feel a bit better.’ Glancing at Bamford, he added, ‘Go to the sick bay and bring the Novox.’ This was a resuscitation apparatus, weighing 60lbs. It consisted of a heavy wooden chest, a cylinder painted black with a white top containing two cubic feet of oxygen. Attached to the cylinder was a control valve, a length of corrugated tube, a special face mask and small glass dial.

  A few minutes later, Bamford arrived, carrying the bulky Novox box. He lay it flat on the floor near Penrose’s desk and unclipped the lid.