Battle Ensign

by Thomas E. Lightburn

  ‘What about minefields, sir?’ asked Lieutenant Commander Byron, Brocklesby’s commanding officer.

  ‘I’m pleased to say, that the minefield from the Pas-de-Calais to Le Harve, offers very little danger to the shallow draught drawn by the LCAs, and the minesweepers have made a pathway for the transports.’

  ‘What about reserves, should they be needed, sir? asked Manley.

  ‘Ah yes, reserves,’ Storey repeated. ‘Major Roberts has a battalion of Royal Marines and Fusiliers Mount Royal at his disposal, should he require them.’

  Lieutenant Commander Hanson raised a hand. ‘What arrangement have been made for a withdrawal from the beaches, sir?’

  ‘Another good question,’ Storey replied. ‘The code word to withdraw is Vanish. This order will be given by Captain Hughes-Hallet whenever necerssary. Rather appropriate word, don’t you think?’ he added with a weak smile.

  Hanson didn’t reply. Instead, he cast a dubious glance at the officer next to him and slowly shook his head.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen, do you have anything to add, sir?’ he added, glancing across at the admiral.

  ‘Just one thing,’ said the admiral, standing up. ‘I received a medical report on Captain Penrose from the PMO in BMH Gib. I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear he’s making good progress. You will each receive top secret instructions concerning Operation Jubilee within the next two days. Officers only to be informed. Oh, and congratulations to Commander Manley, who I notice,’ he added, giving Manley a warm smile, ‘is out of the rig of the day.’

  His remark brought a ripple of laughter as several officers turned and grinned at Manley. ‘That’s being rectified, thank you, sir,’ Manley replied with a slightly embarrassed smile.

  ‘Well, good luck and Godspeed, gentlemen,’ said the admiral, ‘now, please carry on.’

  Once again, chairs grated on the floor as everyone stood to attention. The admiral and Captain Storey picked up their caps and left by the side door.

  ‘That’s good news about your old captain, Hugh,’ remarked Lieutenant Commander Petch.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Manley replied, ‘and I’m sure his wife and family will be pleased. But I think his seagoing days are over.’

  As the officers filled outside the room, Manley looked at Lieutenant Commander Byron, and said, ‘What do you make of it, Jim?’

  Byron gave a quick, nonchalant shrug of his shoulders and said, ‘All we’re being asked to do is land thousands of troops on a poorly defended coast without strong sea or air support. Nothing to it, really.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Manley arrived on board Helix at 1630 and was met by Lieutenant Powers. Liberty men were fallen in on the quarterdeck and Powers had just given senior ratings permission to go ashore.

  ‘How did the meeting go, sir?’ Powers enquired.

  Manley returned Powers salute, then frowning slightly, said, ‘All in good time, but you’ll be pleased to hear Captain Penrose is recovering well.’ He walked across the quarterdeck and unhooked the tannoy and informed the ship’s company about Penrose. Afterwards he re-joined Powers. ‘As you know, Number One, I’ll be leaving the ship tomorrow. When I return, I’ll address the officers about the ship’s movements.’

  ‘Sounds rather ominous, sir,’ replied Powers.

  ‘It is,’ Manley answered coldly. ‘I’ll be in my cabin if you need me.’ Then made his way to the citadel, unhooked the hatchway and disappeared.

  Shortly after eight o’clock, after an enjoyable roast beef dinner, Paddy O’Malley and Joyce, together with Harry Johnson and Ethel, went to the White Hart. They managed to find a table in the parlour, which was heavy with tobacco smoke, stuffy and warm. During the next two hours, the beer and port wine flowed freely, as accompanied by a grey-haired lady pianist, they joined the crowd and sang every song from Lili Marlene to We’ll Meet Again. The singing continued after closing time as the four linked arms and ignoring the blackout, walked to Harry’s house.

  Later that night, sitting alone in Joyce’s house, Paddy looked into her emerald green eyes and said, ‘Joyce, me darlin’, will you do me the honour of being my wife?’

  ‘Of course I will, Paddy,’ Joyce cried, and hugged him so hard he thought his ribs would break. The next day at tot time, Harry promised to be Paddy’s best man.

  The following morning, after taking “colours”, feeling slightly self-conscious of the cluster of silver on the brim of his cap, Manley left Helix and climbed into the tilly. Under his Burberry he wore his number one doeskin uniform and carried his steel helmet and respirator over his left shoulder. The dark, low cirrostratus clouds partially hid a pale, early morning sun, and a stiff, chilly, westerly breeze blew downriver from the Solent.

  Ten minutes later, he boarded the 0900 train from Portsmouth and almost three hours later, after an uneventful journey, arrived at Waterloo a little after 1145. He bought a copy of The Times, then made his way through the sparse crowd before taking the Bakerloo tube to Paddington. He managed to down a mug of strong tea and buy a cheese sandwich from a mobile canteen, before catching the 1230 Cornish Express to Penzance.

  Except for a large contingent of noisy service personnel and some civilians who occupied the third-class section, the train appeared to be empty. Manley found a vacant first-class compartment. He slid open the door and after taking off his Burberry and placing it along with his respirator and steel helmet onto the rack, sat in corner near a grimy window and opened his newspaper.

  Despite the stark headlines telling of the decimation of Convoy PQ 17, when most of the thirty-three merchant ships were lost, and the appointment of General Bernard Montgomery in command of the Eighth Army, Manley’s thoughts kept on turning to Laura. With a worried sigh, he folded the newspaper and sat back, imagining her lying in bed, worried about the future. The shrill sound of the station master’s whistle and the slamming of compartment doors interrupted his reverie. This was quickly followed by a sudden jerking as the train slowly shunted forward and gathered speed.

  The gentle rocking of the train and the steady rickety-rick as the train passed over the sleepers had a somnolent effect and he nodded off. The sound of a male voice shouting, ‘Tickets please,’ abruptly woke him up. He looked up as a small, grey-haired ticket inspector slid open the compartment door. After checking Manley’s travel warrant, he said, ‘The next two stops are Dorchester then Plymouth. We should arrive in Truro about five-thirty.’ He closed the door and carried on down the corridor.

  The time was 1330. Manley sat back and watched lines of rain angle against the window, obscuring the view of the countryside. ‘Four hours to go, four long bloody hours,’ he muttered to himself. So much had happened since he and Laura had driven through this same countryside. How, he wondered, would she react when she saw him. He closed his eyes and prayed she would welcome him with that dazzling smile he remembered so well.

  When the train arrived at Bournemouth, Manley left the compartment and along with a queue of sailors, managed to buy a mug of steaming hot tea from a trolley.

  ‘Plymouth, sir?’ asked a two-badge gunnery rating, who insisted Manley went ahead of him.

  ‘No, a spot of leave,’ Manley replied, and after accepting his drink from an elderly, grey-haired woman, returned to his compartment. As the train rumbled on, Manley, realising he was hungry, remembered his cheese sandwich and ate it while enjoying his tea. He closed his eyes and dozed off. He dreamt he was alone on Helix’s bridge. Laura was standing next to him, smiling as spray from an exploding bomb saturated them. When he woke up the he was soaked with sweat.

  By 1500, the rain had stopped and the compartment was bathed in warm sunshine. Looking outside the window, Manley’s attention was drawn to the dark silhouettes of a small convoy escorted by two destroyers, standing out against the glittering waters of the English Channel. Heading for Portsmouth or Hull, Manley thought. What happened next seemed to Manley, to be unreal, and was over in a matter of minutes. From out of a clear blue sky, two twin engine
bombers appeared about a thousand feet above the convoy. At the same time, several sticks of black objects fell from their undercarriages. Almost immediately the bombs exploded around the convoy. In an instant the ships disappeared under a huge wall of white foam. At the same time, the high angled guns of the warships opened up. Suddenly, the sky was decorated with tiny bursts of black smoke. One of the bombers was hit, and streaming a cloud of yellow flames, plunged into the sea; no parachutes, no survivors. However, as the convoy emerged from the watery curtain, Manley saw that none of the ships appeared to be damaged. At that moment, the compartment was momentarily engulfed in darkness as the train sped through a tunnel. Daylight quickly emerged, causing Manley to blink rapidly. The ships had disappeared leaving no trace of their presence. Manley sat back, wondering if what he had witnessed had really happened or was it another dream.

  When the trains stopped at Dorchester a small, stout grey-haired priest entered the compartment. He wore a black overcoat and carried a small brown leather suitcase. ‘Good afternoon, commander,’ he said, glancing at the three gold rings on Manley’s sleeves. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’ His accent was distinctly Devonian and as he spoke, his pale blue eyes set against a pallid complexion, lit up into a warm smile.

  ‘Not at all, Padre,’ Manley replied, ‘as you can see, there’s plenty of room. Hugh Manley,’ he added, proffering a hand.

  ‘Henry Goodhall,’ the minister replied. ‘On your way to Plymouth, or shouldn’t I ask?’ They shook hands.

  ‘Truro, actually, to see a friend,’ Manley replied.

  The minister took off his overcoat under which the whiteness of his clerical collar he wore contrasted sharply against his black shirt and sombre charcoal grey suit. ‘Well, at least we’ve got lovely weather for travelling,’ he said, placing his overcoat on the rack. He then sat opposite Manley, crossed his legs and relaxed into his seat.

  Throughout the journey along the picturesque Devon coast, they discussed the war, the effect of the Blitz on Londoners and the U-boat menace. Manley welcomed the minster’s conversation, as it took his mind off Laura.

  ‘According to the eight o’clock news, Stalin is pressing Winston for a second front,’ the minister remarked, ‘although where we’re going to find the troops to do it, only the good Lord knows.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Manley quietly replied.

  Upon arriving in Plymouth, the minister shook Manley’s hand and wished him Godspeed. Then, gathering his overcoat and suitcase, he left the compartment.

  After crossing over the River Tamar, on Brunel’s magnificent bridge, the train entered Cornwall and arrived in Truro half an hour later at 1800. Manley put on his Burberry and his cap, then, gathering his steel helmet and gas mask, he opened the door and left the train. Before leaving the station, he asked a station official when the last train to London was due and where he could find a taxi.

  ‘Cornish Express from Penzance to Paddington, stops here at eleven o’clock, my ’andsome,’ replied the official, ‘and there’s a few taxis outside the station.’

  Manley thanked him, and on his way across the concourse, he saw a buffet and realised he hadn’t eaten properly since breakfast. He went inside and ordered beans on toast and pork pie and a large mug of tea. He paid the bill then then made his way across an almost empty concourse to an archway marked “Exit”. He hurried through and saw two black taxis parked alongside each other. The drivers, two elderly men wearing baggy trousers and jackets, stood leaning against the bonnets, smoking a cigarette.

  Upon seeing Manley approaching, the smaller of the two looked at him. ‘Where to, sur?’ he asked, stubbing his cigarette on the cobbled ground.

  ‘Truro Infirmary, please,’ Manley replied, ‘how far away is it?’

  ‘Just outside the city. Hop in, sur, it won’t take long,’ said the driver, opening the passenger door. Manley climbed inside and sat down then placed his steel helmet and gas mask by his side.

  There were very few people about and traffic was sparse. After driving down a quiet high street and passing Truro’s imposing Gothic cathedral, they soon left the city behind. Shortly after seven o’clock, they arrived outside a high, red-bricked wall. Manley looked out of a side window and saw an open gate and a wide gravelled path leading up to a four-storey building constructed in white granite. On either side of the pathway, small gardens, clusters of long stemmed red and yellow roses added a dash of colour to the sombre surroundings.

  They drove down the pathway and stopped near the bottom of four flights of granite steps. Nearby, a few dark blue ambulances were parked while the drivers stood around, smoking and charting.

  ‘Well, here we are, my bird,’ said the driver, ‘as you can see, the main entrance is through that big oak door at the top of the steps. And I hope the person you’re visiting is keeping well.’

  ‘Thank you, so do I,’ said Manley. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘That’ll be one and six, to you, sur,’ said the driver.

  Manley gave him half a crown and after telling him to keep the change, asked, ‘What time do you finish?’

  ‘About twelve, or sooner if business is slack,’ the driver replied.

  ‘I have to catch the eleven o’clock train,’ Manley said. ‘Could you pick me up here at, say, ten thirty?’

  ‘Ten thirty it is, sur, and me name’s Bert.’

  ‘See you then, and thank you, Bert,’ Manley replied. He climbed out of the taxi, and hurried up the steps. He stopped and after pushing a highly polished brass knob, he opened the door and was immediately assailed by the pungent mixture of antiseptic and mansion polish. The entrance hall was quite spacious. Painting of local dignitaries lined the wainscoting and two imposing chandeliers hung from a ceiling stuccoed in white.

  On his left, a pretty, dark-haired receptionist sat a desk. She had just finished talking on the telephone and was placing the receiver down when she saw Manley.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked, flashing him a warm smile.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Manley answered, ‘would you be kind enough to tell me which ward a Miss Laura Trevethick is in, please?’

  ‘One moment,’ she said and opened a thick ledger. She quickly found the appropriate section, and after running finger down the page, said, ‘Yes, here she is. She’s in a private room in ward eight. That’s the woman’s ward. If you look across the floor, you’ll see three corridors. Ward eight is down the one in the centre. Now, I must ask you to sign your name,’ she added opening a smaller ledger.

  Manley took out his fountain pen and did as she asked. After thanking her, he made his way across the black and white tiled floor, passing closed doors marked “Physiotherapy”, and “X Ray”. The walls of the corridor, painted in pale green, were hung with small paintings of some of Cornwall’s picturesque scenery. Upon seeing him, three young, off-duty nurses, wearing dark blue cloaks, gave him quick, shy glances, before hurrying past him in a fit of girlish giggles.

  Manley arrived outside ward eight and was about to go inside when the door opened and out came a tall man with thinning fair hair and a pallid complexion. From a side pocket of his white coat dangled part of a stethoscope. Upon seeing Manley, he stopped and said, ‘Good evening, I’m Mr Frobisher, one of the orthopaedic consultants, can I help you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Manley replied, noticing the dark smudges under his brown eyes. ‘I’m looking for a Miss Laura Trevethick, I’ve been told she is in ward eight’.

  ‘Ah, yes, Laura, a lovely young lady,’ replied Mr Frobisher, ‘she’s one of my patients. Are you a relative?’

  ‘No, my names Hugh Manley, and one day I hope to marry her,’ he replied. As he spoke, they stood aside to allow a nurse to leave the ward.

  ‘Do you know about her accident?’ the consultant asked.

  ‘Yes, her father wrote and told me,’ Manley answered, ‘how is she?’

  ‘The leg is healing nicely,’ the consultant replied, ‘and she’s putting on a brave face, but she’s naturally worried abo
ut the future. Are you on leave?

  ‘Just a few hours before catching the train to London,’ Manley replied.

  ‘Then I’m sure your visit will be just the tonic she needs,’ said the consultant. ‘Now you must excuse me. I have a few rounds to make. Nice to have met you and good luck,’ he added, shaking Manley’s hand. ‘I’m sure Sister O’Malley will look after you.’ He turned and hurried down the corridor.

  Manley took off his Burberry and placed it over an arm, then opened the door and went inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The ward lights were on and the blackout curtains drawn across the windows. A small, stout woman, wearing a dark blue uniform, stood near a white door marked “Ward Sister”, painted in red. She held an open book in both hands and was talking quietly to two nurses. All three turned and looked at the tall, dark, handsome naval officer standing by the door.

  ‘Saints preserve us,’ said the stout woman, ‘what can I do for you?’ Her brogue was distinctly Irish and as she spoke, her round pale features broke into a warm smile.

  ‘I’d like to see Miss Laura Trevethic, please,’ said Manley as he removed his cap.

  ‘And you are…?’ she asked.

  ‘Commander Hugh Manley,’ he quietly replied.