Battle Ensign

by Thomas E. Lightburn

  All at once, the intermittent, ear-splitting crump-crump, echoed throughout the ship, as lines of grey gunfire streaked skywards. Like Bud Abbott manning the starboard Bofor, they ignored the cacophony and concentrated on firing at the Stuka as it slowly pulled out of its dive and levelled off.

  What happened next seemed to take an age, but in fact, was over in seconds. With sparks flickering from each wing, the Stuka streaked towards them, firing their deadly 7.92mm cannon.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ yelled Knocker White. ‘The bugger’s gunna ram us.’

  On the bridge, Manley and the others watched with bated breath as the Stuka, a mere hundred yards above Helix’s yardarm, released its bombs. For a fleeting moment, the black crosses on the underside of the cream-coloured wings flashed by as the bomber peeled away to the right.

  ‘Full speed ahead, hard a port!’ Yelled Manley.

  The bombs exploding some ten yards away to starboard, sent ear-splitting shock waves reverberating throughout the ship. In the sick bay, SBA Bamford lay on the lower cot grasping the edges of the metal guards. Surgeon Lieutenant Latta sat on his chair, holding tightly onto the sides of the desk. Even though Bamford had stowed away books, trays and ink wells he couldn’t prevent a few drawers, despite being locked, from flying open. At the same time, cupboard doors opened, threatening to send their contents leaping from their compartments onto the linoleum covered deck. Adding to the chaos, the loud gurgling made by the pipes under the sink sounded ominously like drowning men.

  ‘I think we’ll have a few customers after this, sir,’ Bamford shouted.

  ‘I’d say more than a few, laddie,’ Latta warily replied.

  Bamford’s predictions were correct. On the bridge, the atmosphere was tense. Manley clung, white knuckled, onto the sides of his chair. Baker’s cry as he fell against the compass repeater, and hit the side of his head, was lost by the sound of the wind. As he fell down, blood oozed through his anti-flash hood and ran down his neck. Powers suffered a badly bruised back, PO Mills collided with QM Jock Forbes and banged his head against the binnacle. In the mess decks, lockers flew open, scattering their contents everywhere. In the galley, aluminium pots and pans, jugs, cutlery and utensils littered the deck’s non-slips surface. A stoker in the engine room slipped over and broke an arm. On the upper deck, except for the gun aimers who were strapped into their chairs, the gunnery ratings clung desperately onto the guard rails surrounding the gun platform.

  As the ship gradually righted itself everyone staggered to their feet. Lieutenant Powers took out a shell dressing from the first aid box, and after tearing it open, applied it firmly around the gash on the left side of Baker’s head. PO Mills rubbed his head and like Manley and QM Jock Forbes, he watched as both the Stukas, having bombed Helix and Dulverton, were about to attack Eridge.

  At that moment Slinger Wood’s strident voice came over the radar intercom. ‘Two unidentified aircraft approaching, sir, five thousand feet on the starboard bow!’

  ‘They’re Spitfires,’ cried Baker, who, with the help of Mills, had managed to stand up and lean against the repeater to use his binoculars.

  ‘The Stukas must have seen them, sir,’ Baker shouted, ‘as the blighters are turning away.’

  ‘I do believe you’re right, Pilot,’ cried Manley, looking through his binoculars, ‘and they’re heading for France.’ With an inward sigh of relief, Manley decided to slow the ship down. ‘Port ten, speed twenty knots,’ snapped Manley.

  ‘The buggers better shift, sir,’ interrupted PO Mills, ’cos the Spits ’ave seen them.’

  With their camouflaged, elliptical wings glinting in the late afternoon sun, the spitfires turned and dived towards the enemy bombers who immediately broke formation. This was accompanied by the unmistakable rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire.

  ‘One of the sods has been hit,’ yelled Jock Forbes as one of the aircraft sprouted intermittent puffs of black smoke.

  ‘Yes, but is it a Spit?’ said Manley, who, like the others was using a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. They soon found out. Seconds later, a loud cheer emanated around the upper deck as the Stuka splashed into the sea. All eyes then turned skywards, half hoping to see a parachute, but there was none.

  ‘Bugger me, sir,’ PO Mills remarked, lowering his binoculars, ‘the sky’s clear. The Spits must ‘ave chased the Jerries away.’

  ‘So I see,’ Manley replied. ‘Revert to defence stations, Number One,’ he said to Powers, ‘and check for damage and casualties, then go and let the doc take a look at your head, Pilot.’

  While Powers and Baker were away, Manley scanned around the sea but saw no signs of the other two warships. Just then, Powers returned. He was out of breath and sweating profusely. ‘A stoker broke an arm and there’s a few minor cuts and bruises. Nothing serious, sir,’ he said, taking out a handkerchief and moping his brow. ‘And, oh, yes,’ he added with a grin, ‘Baker’s having a few stiches in his head.’

  Suddenly, he felt a pang of guilt. During the attack he had been so determined to save Helix, he had forgotten about the safety of the other two warships, which were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Make to Eridge and Dulverton, Signalman. “Helix undamaged. Have you been hit? If, can I help?”’

  A few minutes later, the reply came. “Damage slight. No casualties. Will re-join”.’

  ‘Two ships approaching, about ten miles on the port bow, sir,’ reported the starboard lookout.

  Manley trained his binoculars to the left and saw the frothy bow waves of Eridge and Delverton cutting through the sea. With a sigh of relief, he realised he had, as captain, managed to bring the ship and her crew, safely through his first encounter with the enemy. He unhooked the ship’s intercom. ‘First lieutenant speaking. Rum issue will take place at1700. Well done, everybody.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  At 0500, on Sunday 2nd August, the flotilla entered the English Channel. The bitter northerly wind had abated. This allowed the early morning sun to occasionally peak through the grey clouds and dapple the choppy sea in flickering sunlight. Two hours later, Dolly Gray reported seeing the rugged outline of Land’s End flicker on his radar screen. ‘Twenty miles off the port beam, sir,’ he added, stifling a yawn.

  On the bridge, Manley was sipping a mug of tea, hoping a letter from Laura would be waiting when they arrived in Portsmouth. He realised that the contingencies of war meant that mail reaching the armed forces was to say the least, erratic. No mail in Alexandria, nothing in Malta. Maybe she was sick, or met someone else and was reluctant to tell him. The thought made him feel physically ill. Whatever the reason, as soon as the ship docked, he decided to ring her in barracks. Suddenly, the quiet voice of Lieutenant Powers interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Powers, ‘as our ETA in Pompey is1100, what time do you want special sea duty men to fall in?’

  ‘Specials at 1000, hands fall in 1030,’ Manley promptly replied.

  ‘Signal from Eridge, sir,’ shouted PO Spud Tate, ‘“Eridge and Dulverton to enter harbour and dock at King’s Wharf. Helix to follow last and secure alongside Fountain Lake Jetty”.’

  ‘Quite a long way to walk to the dockyard, eh, sir,’ Baker remarked, wondering once again, if a letter from Wallasey’s chief constable awaited him.

  At that moment, Sub Lieutenant Brownlow came onto the bridge. ‘This signal has just arrived from the C-in-C, sir. It’s marked “Top Secret”, as he spoke, the corners of his pale-blue eyes creased into a warm smile.

  ‘Great Scott!’ exclaimed Manley, sitting forward in his chair. ‘What on earth could he want?’ Furrowing his brow, he accepted the signal. As he read its contents, a look of disbelief became etched on his face. To make sure he read it out aloud. ‘“Due to the paucity of experienced officers, you have been promoted to Commander and are to remain in command of Helix, signed Admiral Sir William James”.’

  Having read the signal, Brownlow grabbed hold of Manley’s free hand, and shaking it wildly, sa
id, ‘Let me be the first to congratulate you, sir, and I’m sure everyone on board will be pleased to know you’ll remain as our captain.’

  Baker and Powers and everyone else on the bridge couldn’t help but overhear what was said. As they offered their congratulations and shook his hand, Manley suddenly felt a lump in his throat. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he managed to say, and left the bridge and went to his cabin.

  The news of Manley’s promotion and his remaining as their commanding officer spread around the ship like wildfire. As Helix prepared to enter harbour, ratings laughed and joked while they scrubbed the decks or mopped passage ways.

  ‘Bloody great,’ Bob Rose said to Dinga Bell. They were standing on the quarterdeck, polishing the ship’s bell. ‘He certainly knows how to handle the ship.’

  ‘You’re right there, mate,’ Dinga replied, dabbing some Blue Bell cleaning fluid onto a piece of cotton waste, ‘even though he once gave me a week’s stoppage for being drunk.’

  Chief Cook Dai Evans was busy making pastry for jam roly-poly, when PO Steward Sandy Powel came into the galley and told him about Manley’s promotion. ‘One thing’s for sure,’ said the chief, sprinkling flour onto the pastry, ‘it’s the best thing the navy’s done since giving us our tot, so it is.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, Taffy, my son,’ Sandy replied, using a finger to remove a blob of strawberry jam from a large tin, and sucking it. ‘He can be a bastard at times, especially if his tea isn’t strong enough.’

  Even Chief GI Bob Shilling, who was usually very strict and withdrawn, found time to give a guarded warning to a few ratings who were busy cleaning the breech of A gun. ‘Good news though this is, remember, he knows everyone one of you, so I’d be careful if I were you.’

  In the sick bay, Bamford was checking the crepe bandage around Stoker Ben Lyon’s fractured wrist.

  ‘Great about the Jimmy, eh, Doc,’ said Lyons.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Bamford replied, securing the bandage with a strip of plaster. ‘But when we get alongside, you’ll have to go into barracks for an X-ray.’

  ‘Any chance of light duties, then, Doc?’ Gray asked, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  With a cheeky grin, Bamford replied, ‘Of course, Ben, me old china, but I’ll have to stop your tot.’

  Paddy O’Malley left the engine room, and opening the boiler room’s hatchway, went inside to speak to his friend, Harry Johnson. Both wore old, dirty caps and well-worn, oil-stained, blue overalls. ‘To be sure, Harry,’ Paddy yelled over the constant noise of the engines, ‘the Buffer’s just told me the Jimmy’s got a half stripe and is staying as our captain.’

  ‘First I’ve heard,’ Harry replied, wiping his sweaty brow with a piece of cotton waste. ‘Maybe when we get into Pompey he’ll chivvy up the engineer officer to get me a new repeater valve.’

  ‘Anyway, in a few hours we’ll be in Pompey,’ Paddy said, excitedly rubbing his hands together and grinning, ‘and I can’t wait to surprise Joyce.’

  ‘I doubt if it’ll be a surprise, Paddy, me old son,’ Harry replied, slapping Paddy on the back. ‘The women in Pompey all have inborn radar. Anyway, as soon as we’re alongside, I’ll go ashore and phone Ethel.’

  Meanwhile, Manley was sat in Penrose’s cabin, thinking how his parents, in particular his father, who commanded a destroyer in the last war, would be proud of him. For a few seconds, he touched the two and a half gold rings around one of his sleeves and imagined how it would look with an extra thick stripe. At that moment, Morris came in hold a steaming hot mug of coffee. Immediately Manley detected the strong smell of alcohol.

  ‘Congratulations, ser, thought youse’d like this,’ he said handing Manley the mug. ‘I’ve put a drop of summat to liven’ it up, so ta speak.’

  ‘Thank you, Morris,’ Manley replied, blowing across the top of the mug and taking a sip, ‘but you do know drinking alcohol off duty is against KR & AIs,’ he added with a cheeky grin.

  By 1000, with Eridge in the van, the welcome sight of Hampshire’s misty green hills appeared on the port beam of the three warships. Shortly afterwards, the three ships passed the Isle of Wight and slowly turned left. Then came the pipe, “Special sea duty men fall in. Hands fall in for entering harbour at ten thirty. Rig, Number Twos.”

  In the seamen’s mess, Dusty Miller was standing behind Dutch Holland straightening his mate’s collar. ‘Hail, rain or fuckin’ snow,’ moaned Dusty, ‘I can never understand why we always ’ave to fall in when we enter a bloody harbour.’

  ‘It dates back to Nelson’s time, you ignorant bugger,’ Dutch answered, feeling Dusty give a firm tug on his collar, ‘to show the guns were not manned the visit was friendly.’

  ‘You wait ’til I go ashore,’ Dusty salaciously replied, ‘I intend to be more than friendly with Big Bertha in the Sussex.’

  ‘Och, I’d be fuckin’ careful if I were you,’ said Jock Forbes, balancing a small mirror on top of his locker and coming his hair, ‘last I heard she poxed up half of Reclaim’s ship’s company.’

  ‘Not again,’ laughed Dusty.

  On the bridge, Manley stood next to the consul, watching Dulverton’s bubbly wash a hundred yards in front of Helix.

  ‘Steady at fifteen knots, Coxswain, Revolutions ten.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ snapped Digger Barnes and quickly repeated the order.

  A line of ratings were standing at ease, either side of the fo’c’s le. Nearby, stood the imposing figure of Chief GI Bob Shilling, and deck officer, Sub Lieutenant Milton. A smaller group, under the eagle eyes of PO Len Mills and Sub Lieutenant Jock Jewitt, were fallen on the fo’c’sle.

  In a matter of minutes, the city and dockyard hove into view. The dockyard and many houses and official buildings bore the scars of the 1941 Blitz, when the city and its environs suffered eleven consecutive air raids.

  After passing the imposing edifice of Fort Blockhouse and HMS Dolphin, the navy’s biggest submarine base, the grey roofs of the naval hospital, Haslar, could be seen gleaming in the morning sun. Close by, the span of Pneumonia Bridge, leading from the MTB depot, HMS Hornet, into Gosport, wobbled slightly in the stiff breeze.

  “Attention on the upper deck, face the port”, was piped as the flotilla approached three destroyers, anchored on their port side. This ritual salute was repeated as the ships passed a light cruiser and two destroyers.

  ‘Signal from Port Admiral, sir,’ said PO Signalman Spud Tate. ‘“Dulverton and Eridge will proceed to Fountain Lake Jetty. Helix berth King’s Wharf. Commander Manley report room eight admin block, RNB 1400 today. Congratulations on your promotion”.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ Manley remarked, pursing his lips, ‘I wonder what he’s cooking up for us now.’

  ‘Sounds as if something’s up, sir,’ replied Tate.

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me, acknowledge, and add, “Thank you. Message received and understood”.’

  With the Isle of Wight terminus and the Gosport Ferry landing stage, some two hundred yards on her starboard quarter, Helix slowly approached Kings Wharf. Manley was well aware that any error in ship handling or poor signalling would be noted by the naval base commander, Admiral Sir Harvey Rawlinson.

  ‘Slow ahead, revolutions thirty.’ Feeling his heart thumping in his chest, Manley watched anxiously as Helix moved imperceptibly towards the wharf. ‘Ring off engines.’

  This was quickly followed by a slight bump as the ship squeezed against a wall of huge rubber tyres protecting the wharf. With a mixture of pride and relief, Manley watched as lines from the burly dockyard workers were passed to ratings on the quarterdeck and fo’c’sle, and firmly secured around solid steel bollards. At the same time, a small section of the guard rails on the quarterdeck were removed, allowing a wooden gangway to be slide into place and secured.

  Shortly afterwards, Lieutenant Powers arrived, red-faced and sweating. ‘Ship secured, sir,’ he said, panting slightly. The time was a little after 1130.

  ‘Thank you, Number One, fall out special se
a duty men, and well done,’ Manley replied, then, with a sly smile, went on, ‘when a new first lieutenant is appointed, I expect you’ll be glad to revert to your normal duties.’

  ‘Er… I expect I will, sir,’ Powers replied diplomatically. ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir,’ he added, ‘I’d better go and do a round of the ship.’

  “Up Spirits, Cooks to the galley”, echoed around ship. Ten minutes later, Manley was sitting behind his desk, checking the watch bill, when the pipe, “Mail is ready for collection”, made him drop his fountain pen and sit up. He was about hurry to the wardroom when a knock came at the door and in came Sub Lieutenant Brownlow, holding a small bundle of letters.

  ‘These just arrived, sir,’ Brownlow said, passing them to Manley.

  Doing his best sound calm, he said, ‘Thank you, David, that’ll be all.’

  By the time Brownlow had left, Manley had eagerly sifted through the mail, most of which were official. However, to his abject disappointment, he found there was none from Laura; only two from his parents and one whose scrawny handwriting he didn’t recognise. ‘Why! Why!’ he exploded as he sat back and angrily threw the letters onto his desk. With a weary sigh, he lent forward and picked up the letter with the unfamiliar writing. After ripping it open, he glanced at the end and was surprised to see it was from Jonathan, Laura’s father. It read:

  Dear Hugh,

  You will no doubt be worried why Laura hasn’t written to you. I regret to tell you, the reason is, two weeks ago, the car Laura and Susan were travelling in was involved in an accident. Sadly, her left leg was badly damaged and had to be amputated just above her ankle. She has begged me not to tell you as she as she thinks, wrongly in my opinion, that you would not be interested in her now that she is crippled. However, I know how much you both love each other, and so I feel morally obligated to break my promise to her and write to you.

  At present, she is in the Truro Infirmary. When she is fully recuperated, I intend making arrangements for her to see a prosthesis specialist in Harley Street. She won’t tell me exactly what happened, other that she and her friend, Susan, were in a car driven by someone or other.