Battle Ensign

by Thomas E. Lightburn

  ‘It feels a bit better, now, Doc,’ murmured Penrose wearily. He raised a tired hand and grasped Latta’s arm. ‘If I die, promise me you’ll write to my wife,’ he muttered, looking desperately at Latta.

  ‘Now, less of that, sir,’ Latta replied, doing his best to sound confident. ‘You’re not going to die, so stop your blethering and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea,’ he added, patting Penrose’s warm hand.

  Shortly after 0900, the slightly built figure of PO Telegrapher Jack Frost came onto the bridge. ‘This signal just arrived from the C-in-C Portsmouth, sir, it’s good news,’ he said, handing Manley a small sheet of paper. As he spoke, Manley noticed Frost’s heavily tanned features were wreathed in smiles.

  ‘Good news, be dammed,’ Manley retorted as he read the signal, ‘it’s bloody great news.’ With everyone staring at him, he hurriedly left the bridge.

  ‘What on earth was in the signal, PO?’ asked OOW Lieutenant Goldsmith.

  ‘Just wait and see,’ Frost cheerily replied, ‘and all will be revealed.’

  Manley arrived outside Penrose’s cabin and went inside. Without knocking, he entered Penrose’s sleeping quarters. Penrose was lying back in his bunk. Both arms were under the bedclothes and his eyes were closed. Latta had just removed a narrow glass thermometer from under Penrose’s tongue and was disappointed to see the thin line of silver mercury had stopped at 100 degrees Fahrenheit (the normal reading is 98.4F).

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Doc,’ said Manley, panting slightly. ‘You’d better read this,’ he added, handing Latta the signal.

  Latta passed the thermometer to Bamford, then, after reading the signal, he gently touched Penrose on the shoulder. Penrose gave a short, throaty cough and slowly opened his eyes.

  ‘This just come for you, sir,’ Latta said, grinning. ‘It’s from the C-in-C, Admiral Sir William James. Congratulations, you’ve been promoted to captain.’

  Penrose immediately opened his eyes. ‘Let me see that,’ he said, blinking his eyes a few times. He read aloud, ‘“From Admiral Sir William James, C in C Portsmouth, to Captain Henry Penrose, Commanding Officer, H.M.S. Helix.

  On my recommendation, the Lords of the Admiralty have promoted to you to the rank of captain, with six months seniority starting from July 27th.”

  ‘Great Scott!’ exclaimed Penrose, sitting forward, his eyes glued to the signal. For a few fleeting seconds he closed his eyes and imagined four gold rings on each sleeve. ‘This is wonderful, my wife and daughter will be so proud.’ As he spoke, he felt his chest tighten. Latta watched as Penrose’s face suddenly became ashen. His captain’s free hand shot to his chest, then giving a child-like whimper, he collapsed back into the pillows.

  Realising the shock, albeit, of good news, looked like being too much for Penrose. He nodded to Bamford, who slowly turned on the oxygen cylinder. He then passed the mask attached to the rubber tubing to Latta who placed the mask over Penrose’s face. ‘Easy does it, sir,’ said Latta, ‘and take a few slow breaths.’ Penrose closed his eyes and did as Latta suggested. A few minutes, later the oxygen took effect and Penrose’s face regained its pallor and he began to breathe easier. Penrose turned his head, and raising a hand, beckoned Manley to come near. ‘Drinks all round in the wardroom, Number One,’ he whispered, ‘tell the ship’s company this reflects on them and splice the main brace.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Manley replied, gently squeezing Penrose’s clammy hand, ‘and many, many, congratulations.’

  Everyone on the ship was aware that Penrose’s heart condition was serious and that he might die. This knowledge was reflected in the behaviour of the crew. Anyone passing the captain’s cabin did so almost on tiptoe. Instead of the usual lower deck banter, talk was muted; even conversations in the wardroom were conducted in respectful quietness - it was as if their raised voices might somehow disturb their captain’s rest.

  However, thanks to PO Jack Frost, the atmosphere was about to change. After delivering the signal to Manley, Frost hurried to the bridge, telling anyone he met that they now had a four ring captain.

  Throughout the ship, the news of Penrose’s promotion and the issuing of an extra “tot”, was greeted with alacrity. In the seamen’s mess, Tug Wilson slapped Knocker White on the back and said, ‘Just think, Knocker, me old gash bucket, I’m rum bosun today, and as well me tot, I’ll get sippers to toast the old man’s health.’ (‘Sippers was any rum left in the ‘fanny’ after issue was claimed by the rating who collected and dished out the rum.)

  ‘Aye, but don’t forget you owe me gulpers,’ Knocker replied with an impish grin.

  ‘And you’re relieving Dolly Gray in the radar room at twelve o’clock,’ added Slinger Woods, ‘so, seein’ as how I’ve got the morning watch, I think you’d better give your extra tot to me and I’ll drink his health as well.’

  Chief Cook Dai Evans was in the senior ratings mess and was about to ease his portly frame into an armchair when Manley’s announcement came over the tannoy. ‘If you ask me, boyo,’ he said, wiping beads of sweat from his round, fleshy face, ‘his promotion’s more than overdue, so it is.’

  ‘And so is the extra shot of rum,’ Chief ‘Chippy’ Tug Wilson, replied, taking a good gulp of tea from a cracked enamel mug.

  ‘And proper job, too, my ‘andsome,’ added Len Mills, lighting a cigarette, then exhaling a steady stream of blue smoke, ‘but I’m gunna bottle mine and ‘ave it later as I’ve got the middle.’

  Night rounds had just finished. Penrose appeared to be asleep. Manley, Latta and Bamford were standing a few yards away from Penrose’s bunk, quietly discussing the best way to move Penrose to the quarterdeck when the ship arrived in Gib.

  ‘We could then transfer him onto a normal stretcher and take him onto the quarterdeck,’ Manley whispered.

  ‘No,’ Latta replied, scratching his unshaven chin, ‘too much movement.’

  Suddenly, Bamford, feeling very self-conscience, looked, at Latta, and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, wouldn’t it better if we carried the captain in a Neil Robertson stretcher to the quarterdeck, then transferred him to a stretcher then took him ashore.’

  ‘Good idea, well done, young man,’ Latta replied, giving Bamford an approving smile.

  Just after 0400, Penrose, who appeared to be sleeping, opened his eyes and placed a hand on his chest. ‘It’s this bloody pain, Doc, it’s come back and it feels worse. Are you sure I’m not going to die?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Latta looked at the fearful expression in Penrose’s tired, pale blue eyes and doing his best to sound convincing, replied, ‘No, sir, you’re not going to die. I’m going to give you another injection. Now lie back and try to relax,’ he added, giving Penrose’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Half an hour later, even though the morphia had slightly reduced the pain in Penrose’s chest, his BP and pulse remained dangerously high.

  At precisely 0600 the pipe “Eavo, eavo, Lash up and stow. Cooks to the galley. Hands to breakfast”, came over the tannoy.

  Dawn had broken and the coast of Algeria loomed, long and sandy, twenty miles on the flotilla’s port beam. The cloudless sky was a clear, eye-catching blue and the warm, silky, easterly breeze, fanning the faces of everyone on Helix’s bridge was a welcome relief from usual cold night air.

  ‘How long before we reach Gib, sir?’ QM Sammy Smith asked OOW Sub Lieutenant Baker.

  ‘We should sight the rock round about 1830,’ Baker replied, as he opened his mouth and gave a tired yawn.

  ‘Not that it’ll do you much good,’ PO Podge Hardman said to Smith. ‘The only person that’ll be going ashore will be the captain.’

  As Hardman finished speaking Manley came onto the bridge. ‘Anything go report, Pilot?’ he asked Baker as he eased himself into the captain’s chair.

  ‘Speed steady at thirty knots,’ Baker quickly replied. Then, lowering his voice, asked, ‘How is the captain, sir?’

  Before coming onto the bridge, Manley had gone to the captain’s cabin to speak to
Latta. Except for the somnolent hissing of the air conditioning and the steady throb of the engines, all was quiet. Bamford and Morris, who were busily packing Penrose’s kit in his trunk, looked up as Manley entered, then, carried on working.

  Manley gave a gentle knock on the door of the captain’s sleeping quarters and went inside. ‘How’s is he?’ Manley whispered, looking at Penrose who was lying back in bed, asleep.

  ‘Och, he’s bearing up,’ Latta cautiously replied, ‘what time are we due in Gib?’

  ‘1900 approximately,’ Manley answered, ‘everything all in hand?’

  Latta put his fountainpen down and stood up. ‘A quiet word outside, sir,’ he asked, trying hard to disguise the deep concern in his voice. Latta opened the door allowing Manley to leave first. Once outside, in the main section of the cabin, Manley gave Latta a worried look, then asked, ‘What’s the problem, Doc?’

  ‘I’m very worried about the captain’s blood pressure, sir,’ Latta replied. ‘It’s still very high and carrying him in a Neil Robertson stretcher to the quarterdeck, as Bamford suggested, might be too much for him.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ Manley replied, lowering his voice as two ratings walked past. ‘Is there any other way you can move him?’

  ‘No, the army type stretcher would be too difficult to manoeuvre down the stairs,’ Latta replied.

  ‘So what do you want to do?’ asked Manley.

  ‘I suggest we wait until we reach Gib, and I’ll ask the doctor from BMH when he comes on board,’ Latta replied cautiously. ‘Then we’ll make a decision, after all, he’s senior and more experienced than me.’

  ‘And what will you do if he decides the captain is too ill to be moved?’ said Manley, staring keenly at Latta. ‘We can’t very well remain in Gib until he’s fit to be taken ashore as the ship is needed at home.’

  Latta took a deep breath. ‘I understand the difficulty, sir,’ he replied. ‘But I still think it would be prudent to wait and see what the army doctor says.’

  ‘I hate to say this, Doc,’ Manley said, raising his eyebrows slightly, ‘but it sounds very much as if you’re passing the buck?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Latta replied, feeling his cheeks redden. ‘If I didn’t tell the army doctor about the dangers of moving the captain and he were to die, I would have failed in my duty as a doctor.’ He paused and took a deep breath, then went on. ‘If you think I’m placing the responsibility for the captain’s safety on the army, then, with respect, sir,’ Latta stressed, ‘you are quite wrong, because I am merely seeking a second opinion, something, under the circumstances, any doctor would do. And besides, supposing we were bombed or even torpedoed, and had to move him and he died, what then?’

  ‘I’m sorry if I have offended you, Doc,’ Manley said, ‘but I hope you’re…’

  Still smarting from Manley’s remark, Latta, opened the door, and curtly replied, ‘Never mind that, now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better finish writing the captain’s medical history.’

  ‘Right, Doc,’ Manley replied. Noticing the brusqueness evident in Latta’s voice, he added, as a peace offering, ‘If the army doctor agrees to have him moved, will you need any help moving the captain from the cabin to the quarterdeck?’

  ‘No, Morris, Bamford myself and the first aid party will manage, thank you,’ Latta answered briskly, and went inside the cabin.

  Having overheard everything that was said outside, Bamford, noticing the exasperated expression in the doctor’s face, and asked, ‘Coffee, sir?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Latta replied and with a tired sigh, sat down at his desk.

  At 1830, Lofty Day, in the crow’s nest reported seeing Gibraltar’s giant monolithic rock, jutting in the sky like a prize fighter’s jaw. The news of this soon spread throughout the ship. In the seamen’s mess, the muggy smell of tobacco hung in the sticky, warm atmosphere. A few ratings sat around the table. Some were writing letters and smoking, while others played crib or uckers. A few ratings climbed in their hammocks, hoping to catch up with “Egyptian PT”, before going on watch at midnight. (Egyptian PT is a colloquial expression for sleep.)

  ‘Just think, Shiner,’ Bud Abbot said to Shiner Wright, as he rattled his dice in a Bakelite beaker then rolled a six. ‘In three days, I’ll be in my local boozer then in bed with me missus.’

  ‘That’s if we ‘ave any leave,’ Shiner replied, stubbing his dog-end out in a tin dish. ‘The buzz is we’re needed for summat, that’s why we’ve ‘ad to ‘urry ‘ome.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ snorted Bud, rolling another six, ‘we’ve got to take on stores and amo, and by the way, that’s two fags you owe me.’

  On the bridge, Manley was sitting on the captain’s chair, staring out to sea, lost in thought. If Penrose’s condition remained precarious, and couldn’t be landed — what then? The thought of the captain dying before they reached England gave him food for thought. Should Penrose be buried at sea or taken home? Suddenly, the sound of someone coughing interrupted his torpidity. He turned and saw the burly figure of Morris standing in front of him. ‘Yes,’ Manley said, taking a deep breath, ’what is it?’

  ‘Thought youse’d like this,’ Morris replied, handing Manley a steaming hot mug of tea. ‘I’ve, er… put a drop of whiskey in it, just to liven it up, like.’

  Manley accepted the mug, smiled and said, ‘Thank you, Morris, now I know why the captain thinks so highly of you.’

  Shortly after 1830, the three warships passed through the Bay of Gibraltar. Darkness had fallen, leaving a full moon to cast a clear, silver patina over the sea.

  ‘Pity about this bloody moon, sir,’ Powers remarked to Manley, glancing warily away to starboard at the twinkling lights of Algeciras then across to the Gibraltar’s houses and dockyard, all of which were clearly visible in the early evening moonshine. ‘By now, every German spy in Algeciras will have reported our presence to Berlin.’

  ‘And to one of Admiral Doenitz’s WolfPack,’ Manley added, who was bending over the compass repeater, checking the distance between Helix and the coast of Gibraltar.

  ‘Anything on asdic, Number One?’ he asked Powers.

  ‘No, sir, all clear,’ Powers replied.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Manley as he stood up. ‘Special sea duty men close up. Then, make to Eridge and Dulverton, “Intend turning five degrees to port towards Gibraltar. Remain on station and will re-join as arranged. Manley”.’ He unhooked the wheelhouse intercom and said, ‘Turn five degrees to port. Speed twenty knots.’

  ‘Chief Coxswain on the wheel, sir,’ snapped Digger Barnes, then quickly repeated Manley’s order. A few seconds later, Helix slowly turned away from the flotilla and headed towards Gibraltar. Gradually, the wide concrete South Mole, two hundred away to port, hove into view. On the quayside, a small crane and several dockyard workers waited to lower a wooden gangway in place. A few yards away, the letters “RN” could be seen on the side of the blue ambulance. A civilian driver stood next to the ambulance, smoking a cigarette. The army officer wore tropical khaki, the naval officer was dressed in white shorts and blouse. Next to them stood next to a white-coated orderly. All three looked up as the destroyer moved imperceptibly closer to the wharf.

  ‘Reduce speed, to ten knots. Half ahead both engines.’ This was the first time he had, as acting commanding officer, brought the ship alongside. He suspected those on the bridge knew this.

  Using a small lever, Barnes moved the pointer on the Telegraph Order Receiver to “Half Ahead”. Then replied, ‘Speed ten knots, half ahead both.’

  Manley unhooked the engine room telephone. Lieutenant Logan answered.

  ‘Very shortly, the ship will be port side of the mole, Derek,’ Manley replied, ‘I’ll want to leave quickly, so be prepared. All right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Logan answered confidently, ‘I’ll keep the engines flashed up and ready.’

  In the sick bay, Latta told Penrose what was about to happen. ‘You may or may not be transferred ashore,’ Latta said, trying his best not to sound al
armed, ‘it depends on what the army doctor decides.’

  ‘So you think there’s a chance I might stay on board?’ Penrose asked, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

  ‘We’ll just have to see,’ Latta answered quietly, ‘How is the pain now, sir?’ he asked, checking Penrose’s pulse and finding it full and racing.

  Meanwhile, on the bridge, Manley went to the port wing and watched anxiously as the ship slowly moved towards the mole. It was now quite dark. A cool wind blew from the west and the pale moon had disappeared behind a mass of dark, altostratus clouds that promised rain.

  ‘Stop both engines,’ Manley said. Then, looking aft, saw seamen, under the watchful eyes of Sub Lieutenant Milton, accept heaving lines from the dockyard workers and secure them expertly around the ship’s bollards. A similar exercise was carried out on the fo’c’sle, overseen by Midshipman Morgan. No sooner was this done than both officers, using a loud hailer, reported the ship was secure.

  Glancing at Powers, he said, ‘Better send the QM to the sick bay to tell the doctor the army medical officer will be with him shortly.’

  Powers nodded to Knocker White, who, having overheard Manley, quickly left the bridge.

  On the quarterdeck, guard rails were quickly removed and the wooden gangway was lowered in place. Ignoring the fact that the gangway was not properly secured, the army officer followed by his naval counterpart, hurried on board the ship and was met by Manley. ‘Hugh Manley, First Lieutenant,’ he said, proffering his hand.

  ‘Major Rupert Andrews, RAMC,’ replied the army officer. His Welsh accent, as they shook hands, was sharp and clear. The major was tall and slightly built with a heavily tanned face that exaggerated the pale blueness of his eyes.

  ‘Peter Murray, Surgeon Lieutenant,’ said the naval officer, a small, heavily set man with a sallow complexion.