Flora's War

by Audrey Reimann

  But the pain that made her cry out was over quickly and she was moving under him, now wrapping her long legs around him and pulling him in higher and tighter and faster until in the sweet madness of love they came together, softly crying the other’s name until they subsided, sated, and could lie content, side by side, their arms about one another.

  Every so often they kissed without passion, then each would kiss the other’s ring, the symbol of unending love. They lay until it was dark, awed with wonder at what they had done. Andrew said, ‘We belong to one another for ever now. We made the big promise. The one we can never break.’

  A nearby clock struck. Andrew counted eleven chimes before taking her back through the dark summer gardens, stopping every few paces to hold her in his arms.

  It was eleven o’clock and Flora must catch the last tram to Portobello, and they must be brave because tonight thousands of lovers would be parting. Andrew held on to her hand as the tram came trundling towards the stop. He said, ‘Promise me if you need anything you’ll go to Ingersley and find Ma.’

  ‘I will.’ She kissed him for the last time as the tram pulled up, then climbed aboard, blinded by tears.

  Chapter Seven

  January 1940

  Andrew’s oil-soaked boiler suit made him clumsy as he heaved himself up the steel ladder to the washroom area beside the stokers’ mess deck at the end of his watch. The Rutland was ploughing through atrocious Atlantic seas late on a wild January afternoon. The strain of the last four hours had been felt by everyone from the chief engineer down. They had been detached from station in the North Sea to see off the U-boat attacks on the Atlantic convoys. The convoys, endlessly zigzagging to confuse the enemy, but always at the speed of the slowest, a sluggish six-and-a-half knots, were a slow-moving target. All the convoys were having a desperate time of it, but this one had at its centre one of the Empress Line ships, which had carried evacuees to Canada. Now it was returning with Canadian troops to Liverpool and Greenock. A corvette and two merchant ships had been sunk in the last attack.

  Though Andrew’s action station was the engine room, he’d been on deck after the action and seen ships blazing furiously; seen men by the dozens covered in burning oil, some dead, some soon to die, all half drowned, being pulled from the sea into the corvettes that were the outriders of a convoy so mauled it felt as if they were bleeding to death.

  The Rutland was built for speed, and the slowness of her progress as she searched for U-boats on the outer edge of the convoy was taking its toll. On Andrew’s watch a pipe had ruptured. Steam under pressure had scalded his hands even through the heavy gloves he’d worn to turn off the valve, replace the pipe and see the engine getting back up to pressure. Now the fear was that strain on the bearings could affect the propeller. The Rutland would be an easy target if she had to stop.

  It would be simpler to wash all this grease off himself in the tub, he thought, and it was there in the hot water that tiredness set in. His hands were raw and painful while he cleaned himself. Here, in the midship bowels, the decks rose and sank, the water slopped from side to side of the tub that was barely larger than a dustbin. He had never suffered from sea-sickness, so that could not be the reason for the weariness that assailed him as, done with washing himself, he stood, took his bar of hard soap and pasted it all over the boiler suit, stamping on the hard cloth to wash and rinse it. He could be put on a charge for washing his boiler suit here but he was too tired to care.

  Then, wearing only a towel, and with the blisters on his hands broken, he twisted and wrung his boiler suit then hung it over the pipes and made his way to the mess where Greg and five ratings waited for the blower to call them to night defence stations.

  The mess, as always, was crowded and smelled of the unwashed bodies of thirty stokers – a smell that had become familiar to him; familiar and strangely comforting. Off duty men slept, their hammocks slung so close together that he had to bend his head to reach his own, which, since he was a leading stoker, he had chosen at the end of the line, nearest the door. One of the stokers said, ‘Anyone know where we’re going next?’

  ‘Christ! They never tell you where we’re going. All it takes is one drunken sailor in a bar and we’re up Shit Creek,’ Greg said.

  ‘I’ll make a guess that we’re heading up the Clyde.’

  Andrew put on clean underclothes then ate his meal from the hot plate where it lay, saved for him from midday. They saw how his hands were, and one of the stokers helped him treat and bandage them, then made him a cup of cocoa, breaking off chunks from the block of raw chocolate, pouring on boiling water, stirring and adding dollops of thick, sweet, condensed milk. He ate and drank quickly, then went to his locker and took out his letters, three of them Flora’s and one from Ma. He’d read them all, over and over, the letters being all he had to remind him.

  He slung his hammock, unfolded his blanket and, with his boots and tunic made into a pillow and the snoring man next to him quiet for once, took out Flora’s letters. The throb of the engines, and the ever-present hum of motors fanning hot stale air from one compartment to another, was familiar and steady.

  30 October

  Dear Andrew, It doesn’t matter that you can’t change your allowance. Your ma needs it and I never thought the navy would treat us as married. It’s not the same as having wedding lines that are official no matter what Jessie says so I wear my wedding ring round my neck on a chain I bought from Woolworth’s. I found part-time work in a munitions factory. The pay’s quite good 25/-week and I can look after Mr Davidson and save for our house as well. There’s been a lot of air attacks on the Forth. Four German bombers were shot down, one at Port Seton, and they even had two dead German airmen lying in St Philip’s church. They had policemen standing watch over the coffins draped with German flags which upset a lot of people, me too, seeing those swastikas. On the coffins, not the police. We are getting identity cards. I’m worried (because of Guthrie’s as you know why) but it’s no use worrying and too late to send me back. Love, Flora

  She used to put S.W.A.L.K., for ‘Sealed with a Loving Kiss’, over the sealed flap of the envelope. Since September she’d drawn a picture of a weeping tree in the corner. He hadn’t told her how much this secret sign meant to him, nor had he told anybody about their private wedding under the weeping tree. He took out the letter dated 30 December and read:

  Dearest Andrew, I have only had two letters from you the last one in November. I hope you are getting mine …

  Andrew smiled yet again reading this. She perhaps didn’t know why they were delayed – that all their letters were read and censored before they could be sent. Even then delays were inevitable, for the ships had to be in a home port for the mail to be posted. The last letter he’d written to her might get back before he did if their mail had been put on to one of the Liverpool-bound ships.

  I got my identity card in the name of Flora Macdonald. I didn’t want them to ask too many questions. And they just gave it to me. Good job Mr Davidson can’t look at it. Every day we hear of ships being sunk. Even neutral ships with women and children on board. I’m glad you get good food and plenty of it. Better than us surely. I am not feeling too good but I expect it’s because of rationing. Butter 4oz a week each. Sugar 12oz a week each. Bacon or ham 4oz. It’s not much but I can make do for me and Mr Davidson. Potatoes, bread and vegetables are not rationed. We have a chicken for Hogmanay. I don’t think the widow woman next door will first-foot us. She really hates me. I love you so much. I can’t wait to see you again. Love from Flora.

  PS I still sing at church and Mr Davidson plays the organ. The church is filled every Sunday now there are Canadian troops billeted all over the place.

  That letter had worried Andrew. The Canadians would be looking for girls, and with their men away, women would fall for their flattery. In her last letter Flora did not mention Canadians but sounded less cheerful than before.

  Dearest Andrew, I still have not been to see your ma. The trams and buses ar
e all to pot and the trains don’t always run. It’s called an exclusion zone round Ingersley so they stop you and ask where you are going and why and look at your papers so it takes hours to get anywhere. I don’t like being out in the dark when there are no lights and air-raid wardens shout, ‘Put that light out!’ if you show even a chink. You can be fined £100. These winter days are too short. It is very cold here. It said on the wireless that the Thames is freezing over. You know how Mr Davidson likes his wireless. I’m working longer hours, 8 till 5, but it means more money and I like that. I am tired because I have to do the housework as well. It’s not like me to be tired but there is a flu epidemic and I think I’m sickening. I’m off my food. I’m sure you are writing to me but maybe the letters have been washed overboard. I have only had that one from you where you said it was best if we didn’t tell anyone about our secret but to wait till your next leave and have a proper wedding. I love you so much. Love from Flora

  At the bottom of the page she had drawn the weeping tree again. There was a letter from Ma too, painstakingly written. He knew it would have taken her hours.

  Dear son, I pray for you. The Royal Oak was sunk in Scapa Flo. 100s drownd. I ken you’r alrite. Lady Campbell would say if enything hapened to the Cmandar. Ingersley is turning in to a Hostpital. Ill do even more if they ast me. I dident see Flora not getting time of nor will she but on your next leeve. Love from Mother.

  Andrew read the letters through twice though his eyes were closing. He was drifting into sleep when the klaxon went. ‘Action stations! Action stations!’ he heard someone yell – as if it were necessary. He fell out of his hammock and in thirty seconds was piling down the steel ladder to his No. 2 engine room action station. It was like the tropics. Even the steel walkways above the pipes were hot, the handrails too. He squeezed past the stokers on the top level, and descended two more ladders at speed until he was right down on the floor, the iron plates hot and greasy underfoot. He looked up and saw men above him attending, adjusting the valves, concentrating on the orders of the stoker petty officers.

  The chief engineer could be seen through the treads of the ladder, and no sooner had Andrew reached the bottom than Chiefie beckoned to him while he spoke to the bridge on the voice tube. Andrew ran up to stand beside him and heard him saying, ‘Sir! One of the prop shafts has seized. She’ll handle badly. I’ll go in myself.’ He put back the speaker and turned to address the boiler room. ‘We are going after a surfaced U-boat. Its wireless message back to base was intercepted. We’re on its tail and it hasn’t seen us yet.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Let’s hope he’s spent all his ammo.’

  U-boats carried fourteen torpedoes and a deck gun. Its deck gun could do little damage to the Rutland – it would scarcely scratch the paint on the armour-plating – but torpedoes could, and U-boats made night surface attacks as a matter of tactics, coming up when the big ships were silhouetted against the sky. It was a wild, black night out there and the Rutland was charging straight ahead – no zigzagging. If she came to a stop she would be a sitting target, and if the U-boat spotted them and submerged they would all be in grave danger. It was the chief engineer’s absolute responsibility to keep the ship running at the fastest speed during battle conditions, so things must be serious for him to have to give the order he now did: ‘Close down engine four.’ He turned to Andrew and said, ‘Come with me.’

  Chiefie went down the ladder slowly and confidently, as if there was nothing to worry about – and a smile flashed around the crew, one after the other. He was the best chief engineer in the Royal Navy, they all believed.

  Down at the bottom he said to Andrew, ‘Lift the grating.’ When Andrew had lifted the heavy iron cover to the propeller shaft that lay over the bilges, Chiefie dropped into the square tunnel and said, ‘Stand by the manhole. Hand me my tools. Torch, ring spanner and hammer!’

  It was pitch black down there. Andrew shone his own torch on to Chiefie’s hand as he reached for the tools that should enable him to tighten the joint where the bearings had loosened. Andrew crouched and watched him crawling, inching his way along in the blackness, the flashing torchlight ahead of him the only thing that gave away his movements as he swept every inch of the prop shaft with the beam. The second engineer and the third, along with four petty officers, would be working flat out to keep up the pressure on the remaining boilers. And over the noise of the engines, the throbbing of the three remaining prop shafts and the roaring of the burners, they could now hear the ship’s guns firing and feel her shuddering right down through to the bilges. Her medium and light guns from all along the ship were being brought to bear on the lone U-boat raider whose captain would not risk submerging. He could do seventeen-and-a-half knots on the surface against only eight submerged, running on batteries.

  The chief was hammering. Andrew could hear his confident striking of metal upon metal. Then, and it happened without warning of any kind, the Rutland was struck, right in the centre of the engine room area. It was not a torpedo – a torpedo hitting them there would have wiped them out. They had been rammed – probably by a badly handled merchant ship that was in the way. The Rutland lurched violently. Men were thrown against the engines or over the steel scaffolding walkways. The midships was pitched into blackness. The sound of bodies hitting valves, pipes rupturing and escaping steam was terrifying.

  Andrew had automatically obeyed the Commander’s instructions from their sailing trips when the yacht was being hurled around in a storm: ‘Take no chances. You don’t want to be hurt. Hang on to something even if you are only taking a couple of steps.’

  Men were shouting; someone screeched, ‘Emergency lights!’ and the huge glass face of the lights came on as the ship steadied again. Andrew was still holding on to the deck grating.

  He could hear the other engines working. Two petty officers were lying, twisted, on the deck behind him – fallen to their deaths from above. Half a dozen men only were left standing; the others lay sprawled along and over the steel separating partitions, bleeding, dazed and groaning.

  Andrew was the most senior man left. He must act quickly. He yelled out his orders to the six able-bodied men. The fourth engine was still out of action but the pressure must be restored and quickly.

  The damage-control lieutenant dived into the compartment, shouting, ‘What’s the situation on number four? Chief still down there?’

  ‘I’m going into the shaft, sir,’ Andrew shouted back. He turned back to the shaft and with a quick appreciation of the new danger saw water … water where no water should be rising in the prop shaft.

  The lieutenant came flying down the ladders, crossed the walkways and down to where Andrew stood. He looked into the tunnel where water was seeping in, saw the water level and said, ‘Five minutes. Then the watertight doors to the engine area will close automatically.’

  Andrew knew this. His hands were sweating and his heart was pumping like the devil. He must move as fast as possible. While the lieutenant held back the grating, Andrew lowered himself into the cold water of the tunnel and crawled along, knee deep in a filthy mix of freezing water and fuel oil, calling, ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  There was no reply, but he saw Chiefie’s flashlight bobbing ahead. Andrew flashed his own torch and saw at once what the trouble was. The impact had sprung one of the plates. The framework was collapsed under the sheared joint of the prop shaft. Painfully, and aware all the time of the rising water level, Andrew forced his way forward, bent double, dreading to find the chief sliced in half. He discovered him lying awkwardly but alive, half under the prop shaft, gritting his teeth, trying not to moan in pain.

  Relief and fear flooded through Andrew, who dared not show either. ‘You’ll be OK, sir. I’ll get you out.’

  ‘Get out yourself. The water’s rising,’ the chief said.

  Andrew shone his light and saw that Chiefie’s arm, high up at the shoulder was trapped between the protruding handle of the spanner and the buckled frame. He said, ‘Hang on! Keep your head up!’,
for the water was already up to the chief’s shoulder. Another couple of inches and it would cover his face.

  Andrew had to keep calm for Chiefie’s sake while he scrabbled for the hammer in the black water. It was not there. It must be under his body. He reached over and lifted the chief’s head. ‘Don’t close your eyes! I’ll free you.’ Then, knowing how little time he had, he backed down the tunnel, through the foul stinking water, to the grating, where he yelled, ‘Wrench, crowbar, hammer!’

  The guns were still firing. Colossal vibrations racked the boiler room as the tools were handed down by the second lieutenant, who said ‘Is Chiefie alive?’

  ‘Aye,’ Andrew called back without wasting breath on formalities of rank. He inched forward again while the waters rose inexorably. Three minutes was all they had before the watertight doors would seal them both in alive.

  Overhead the guns blasted; the icy water was up to the chief’s chin and slithering like an oily, stinking stream over his trapped shoulder and the handles of the spanner. Andrew’s progress was slow but steady. He could only move with knees bent and his back doubled. He was there. He had to get it right. There would be no second chance if he muffed this.

  He felt for the handles of the ring spanner, dragged the wrench into place, fixed it over one handle, levered it against the second handle and tightened it. Then, with his face only inches from the water, he put both hands over the wrench’s shaft and turned it fast until it locked. He braced his body. His back was hard up against the metal plate. In that tiny space and working underwater, he pushed the crowbar between the wrench and the buckled frame and tried to lever all his weight against it. The water was touching the tip of his chin. Sweat broke out on his face. His hands were icy cold and going numb but he held his breath and put every last ounce of strength into the effort. There was no movement for a few seconds, then, with painful slowness, he felt it shift. He eased off for a second and, putting his head back, took in as much of the foul air as he could, then, with a strength that could only have come from God, he would later believe, he found some extra power and the damned handle moved. It moved. It was over.