Back to Battle

by Max Hennessy

  ‘That’s it, Pluto–’ it was Siggis, black-faced and spluttering but with his daft grin stretching across his face – give ’em what for!’

  He started to sing.

  ‘Anybody here seen Kelly, Kelly from the Isle of Man–?’

  His reputation as a wag brought the others in and the song seemed to help a little in the exhaustion and fear and the misery of defeat.

  ‘–Kay, ee, double-el, wye–’

  Still singing, Siggis had pushed his way through the gasping, choking, drowning men to where the cat snarled on its little raft, and they were all watching him as he reached up to stroke it and got his naked arm clawed from elbow to wrist for his trouble.

  ‘Some bugger’s still full of spirit,’ he panted.

  Then another Stuka roared overhead and, as the bullets spattered the water, the singing died.

  ‘Don’t seem to like that song,’ Kelly gasped. ‘Better change it.’

  How long they clung to the raft, he had no idea but eventually Chatsworth appeared. Impi was still afloat, upside down. Her stern had sunk and now it was her bow, which was awash. As Kelly was hauled on to the deck of Chatsworth, he stood silently, shocked, exhausted and stinking of fuel oil, then Siggis arrived alongside him, wearing only a pair of ragged underpants and clutching the drenched and angry cat to his oil-slicked chest.

  ‘Them bastards’ll pay for this, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure they will, Dancer,’ Kelly said. ‘And I just hope you and I are there when the bastards do.’

  As they stood together, staring across the lifting water, Impi began to slip out of sight.

  ‘Give her a cheer, boys,’ Siggis yelled, and there was a ragged yell that only made them all feel sadder.

  Stumbling, black and slimy, to the bridge, Kelly found Verschoyle waiting for him.

  ‘Hello, Ginger,’ Verschoyle said quietly. ‘I was afraid you might not have made it. I didn’t recognise you under the make-up.’

  ‘Thanks, James,’ Kelly said gravely. ‘It was kind of you to come.’

  It seemed odd that the two of them, once the deadliest of enemies, should stand there, one of them dripping and covered with thick fuel oil, the other immaculate in white, greeting each other so formally.

  ‘Sorry to make such a mess of your bridge.’

  ‘Not at all. Make yourself at home. Thought we might try to pick up some of Ashby’s people.’

  There were boats and half a dozen Carley floats where Ashby had vanished and every time they stopped to pick up survivors, Junkers 88 bombers, which had now appeared in place of the Stukas, tried to hit them, dropping their bombs in shallow dives. As they finally vanished, Verschoyle lowered his whaler.

  ‘Good job it isn’t undergoing one of its periodic repairs after being smashed by the flotilla leader,’ he observed dryly.

  As the boat collected survivors and drew alongside the ship to allow them to scramble aboard, Chatsworth nosed slowly ahead, moving between the lifting mat of bodies from one raft to another while everybody on deck kept their eyes on the sky for more attacks. It was a long and difficult job because the 88s never left them alone, but with the attacks growing worse, they finally hoisted the last man on board and Verschoyle bent to the voice pipe.

  ‘Half ahead both,’ he said. ‘Starboard ten.’

  It was only then that Kelly realised that Chatsworth had also been damaged by a near miss and could only make half-speed, and they would have to limp home to Alexandria at only sixteen knots, every available space in the ship crammed with survivors shuddering with shock, and Hallamshire nervously watching the sky astern for more attacks.

  A burly figure, unrecognisable under the coating of oil, pushed along the crowded deck.

  ‘That you, Rumbelo?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. I made it, thanks to you. I wouldn’t have if I’d stayed any longer.’

  ‘You’re not so young as you were, old lad, and not so bloody slim either.’

  With Rumbelo and the yeoman of signals, who was the only other recognisable petty officer left from Impi, Kelly sought out the wounded. Chatsworth’s deck was as slippery as a skating rink and, with no freshness in the hot, unstirring air, the ship reeked of blood and chloroform and fuel oil. Even the brief visit below was enough to turn the stomach. Impi’s doctor, soaked with oil and water so that his shorts clung to him like part of his skin, was moving among the injured men with a sort of desperate devotion, refusing to change his clothes or even stop to swallow a mug of tea. He was pallid with strain and shock but he was full of confidence and vigour. With him was Chatsworth’s doctor, a mere boy just out of training hospital whose only claim to fame had been the bright idea during a wardroom party when the alcohol had run short of introducing crushed benzedrine tablets to the sardine sandwiches with riotous results. The two of them were working together as if they’d been in partnership for years.

  Latimer was in considerable pain but no bones seemed to have been broken and, though he’d lost a lot of blood, there seemed a good chance of his being on his feet again quickly. Going round the coughing, groaning men, taking their addresses and promising to write to their families, it was only when he’d finished that Kelly realised that the attacks were still going on and made his way back to the bridge. Verschoyle was sitting calmly on his stool, conning the ship as though he were entering Portsmouth through a regatta. There were a lot of near misses and at times they were so close the bridge was drenched with the spray they threw up.

  ‘I think we’re just about out of ammunition,’ Verschoyle pointed out.

  As darkness came, the bombers gave up, but before dawn the ship came to a stop through lack of fuel fifteen miles short of Alex, and the tug, Ruma, had to tow them in. As they entered harbour, the surrounding ships were crowded with watching men, and as the little Chatsworth, her sides packed with survivors, moved past, followed by Hallamshire, the ships of the Mediterranean Fleet cleared lower decks and cheered them in.

  Verschoyle had lent Kelly clothing but, as Verschoyle was six foot two and Kelly was five foot eight, nothing fitted very well. He had to see the C.-in-C., but Cunningham was busy, his thoughts centred on Crete to the exclusion of all else.

  ‘Anything you’re in need of?’ he asked.

  ‘Only another ship, sir,’ Kelly said. It was largely bravado.

  Cunningham’s staff were also preoccupied because, in addition to watching Crete they were closely following the Atlantic and it was only then that Kelly remembered that Bismarck had escaped through the Denmark Strait and was being sought by half the Home Fleet.

  ‘Hood’s sunk,’ they told him.

  It didn’t seem possible. Hood was a magnificent ship and her yacht-like lines had made her the favourite of the fleet.

  ‘How?’ he asked.

  ‘Same as Jutland. Plunging fire. Only three survivors. Went down with ninety-five officers and thirteen hundred men.’

  Kelly drew a deep breath. By what stroke of luck had Kelly Rumbelo left Hood to get his commission and join Repulse?

  ‘What about Bismarck?’

  ‘Gather they’ve lost her. But they’ve brought in K.G.Five and Repulse now from Orkney.’

  Kelly Rumbelo’s move had taken him from Hood and certain death to be aboard one of Hood’s avengers. He could well imagine the mood in the searching ships.

  ‘They’ve also called out Victorious to search for her with her aircraft. They’re obviously trying to stop her getting back to her base.’

  So Hugh was there, too! Forgetting his own distress in his concern, he hoped to God the weather was reasonable because flying over the cold acres of the Atlantic in the murk of a northern storm could only end one way.

  Several of Impi’s wounded had died and he had to attend the funerals. He didn’t like funerals. There, were several thousand men floating about the Mediterranean who hadn’t had the benefit of clergy and it didn’t seem to make much difference, but he felt the survivors would appreciate it.

  It was a heartbr
eaking affair with white ensigns and the Last Post and a long liturgy about decomposition which, when he thought about it, seemed nauseating and unnecessary. He had to read the prayer but would much have preferred to have said quite simply ‘These were our comrades and messmates and we commit them to God.’ Instead, he had to deliver a great many words that a lot of the sailors wouldn’t understand, and the dignity seemed to disappear in the meaninglessness. Death in a fighting service was not the emotional business it was in civilian life. Because of discipline, it was often surprisingly well borne by men who otherwise might not have been conspicuously brave, and when it was over you became merely a matter of statistics with ‘DD’ – discharged dead – against your name, and that was that.

  Fortunately youth was a help and resilience allowed them to spring upright again after bending to disaster, and perhaps their greatest help was their hatred of the enemy. They couldn’t credit the Germans with humanity and there was not much point in doing so, anyway, because they were fighting for an evil cause.

  Three days later he said goodbye to the survivors of Impi and the few who’d arrived from Inca, Impatient and Indian. There seemed remarkably few of them and they were almost unrecognisable in hand-me-down odds and ends of clothing, naval, military and civilian. Rumbelo was among them, his bulk crammed into a jersey and trousers miles too small for him.

  ‘Keep an eye on things for me, Albert,’ Kelly said. ‘I suppose I shan’t be far behind you.’

  It was almost beyond him to make a farewell speech, and as he went along the line, shaking hands, he saw Siggis, still clutching the ship’s cat.

  ‘This is the third ship I’ve lost, sir,’ he said. ‘One in Norway, one at Dunkirk, and now this one ’ere. After this, I ain’t even ’avin’ a bath without tyin’ meself to the taps.’ He paused and, behind the daft grin on his face, Kelly saw there were tears in his eyes.

  ‘She was a good ship, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘She–’

  ‘Don’t you start, Dancer,’ Kelly interrupted quickly. ‘Or you’ll have me at it, and that would never do.’

  Even the news that came in the following day that Bismarck had been sunk didn’t help much and, to complete his agony, during the evening a telegram arrived from Biddy.

  ‘Hugh missing. Flew off Victorious. Not recovered.’

  So that was that, and poor little Paddy had never had her wedding. He felt like creeping away into a corner and weeping. Instead, he sought out First Officer Jenner-Neate and got quietly drunk at her flat.

  Nine

  Crete was finished by the end of the month. The Navy had not let the Army down, but the cost had been heavy. In addition to the losses off Greece, they had now lost the cruisers, Gloucester, Calcutta and Fiji, with Warspite, Formidable, Valiant, Barham, Orion, Ajax, Perth, Dido, Naiad, Coventry and Carlisle damaged. The destroyer losses had been enormous – eight sunk and sixteen damaged. It was almost more than the fleet could stand.

  First Officer Jenner-Neate remained curiously detached. She had hardly turned a hair when he’d arrived on her doorstep, merely pushing across the gin bottle and going into the kitchen to prepare sandwiches. When he awoke on the settee the following morning, aware that he’d poured his soul out to her the night before, she’d already left for work.

  Collecting a taxi, he managed a shave, found himself fresh white drill and, in a borrowed cap, set out to find her and thank her. For a change, her office was empty and she was alone.

  ‘Dinner tonight,’ he said at once.

  She gave him a little smile. ‘Sorry, not tonight.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She gestured at her piled desk. Her eyes looked gentle but her voice was steady. ‘It doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that there’s a war on.’

  ‘Having just lost every bloody ship I commanded,’ he snapped. ‘I think I do.’

  Her eyes fell and she looked contrite. ‘Of course. That was a silly thing to say.’

  ‘I have to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I behaved like a frightened midshipman last night. Senior officers don’t go into a decline just because defeat’s in the air. We’re an élite community and in return we’re supposed to behave with dignity.’

  She didn’t seem to think his behaviour at all odd and she gave him another small smile. ‘Everybody has to kick the boards loose occasionally,’ she remarked.

  ‘Then see me.’

  ‘I’m on duty and if we don’t stick at it the whole thing’s going to fall apart.’

  ‘Say it’s your grandmother’s funeral.’

  ‘My grandmother died when I was seven.’

  ‘How about your Grandfather?’

  ‘During the Boer War.’

  Kelly scowled. ‘Couldn’t you stop being an Intelligence officer for a while and be a woman?’

  She was flattered but she remained adamant and he had to admit defeat. Instead he headed for Chatsworth to find Verschoyle, but Verschoyle was ashore with Third Officer Pentycross and he began to feel there was a conspiracy against him and was desperately lonely. Inevitably he thought of the way it might have been.

  ‘Oh, Charley,’ he burst out in anguish to the mirror in the room he’d been given. ‘What a mess it all is!’

  It was a cry that came from the heart and was rooted deep in his past, belonging to all his hopes, ambitions and disappointments, and had nothing to do with First Officer Jenner-Neate.

  Since there wasn’t a ship for him, he found himself on Cunningham’s shore staff and, a fortnight later, with his own flotilla reduced to two ships, Verschoyle also found himself ashore, while Chatsworth and Hallamshire were attached to yet another flotilla. Then, on June 21st, a telegram arrived from Paddy. ‘Hugh safe. Picked up by Icelandic ship after two days in dinghy. Taken to Reykjavik.’

  It seemed such wonderful news, he sought out Verschoyle at once and the drinks they took developed into a celebration at Third Officer Pentycross’ flat. In the middle of it, the girl she shared with switched on the radio, her eyes shining.

  ‘I think you’d like to hear the evening news,’ she said.

  Churchill’s voice was announcing that the Germans had invaded Russia and he, the arch enemy of Leftism, was offering help and friendship.

  ‘Well,’ Verschoyle said dubiously, ‘I suppose it means another ally.’

  ‘It’ll also probably mean convoys to Russia,’ Kelly pointed out.

  ‘Round North Cape.’ Verschoyle shuddered. ‘It’s bloody cold up there.’

  There was one cause for satisfaction. Crete, it was claimed, had held up the German attack, and suddenly everybody was pointing out what had happened to Napoleon’s Grand Army in 1812, and was working out how long it would be before the Russian winter set in.

  It made them hold their breath. Now surely Hitler was undone. Though nobody in Britain had ever expected to be beaten, it had seemed after the disasters of the preceding twelve months that the war might go on forever. Now, victory seemed not only certain but even seemed nearer.

  First Officer Jenner-Neate still troubled Kelly and her very inaccessibility acted like a goad. Wondering if he could change her mind with a gift, he studied the shops but soon realised he had no idea what might interest her. Trinkets and cosmetics seemed trite and the rest of what there was to offer was appalling and had probably been made in Birmingham. He even looked at night-dresses and underclothes but somehow he couldn’t imagine the dignified body of First Officer Jenner-Neate in anything else but a naval uniform. He even tried to imagine going to bed with her but even then he could only imagine it in uniform, and he had given up in despair when, going back to his office, he found a note waiting for him that made his heart leap.

  ‘I’m free tonight. Come and have a meal at my flat.’

  He wrote across the back in a square scrawl that seemed as if it would wrench the pen nib from its socket, ‘Not half! Will bring booze!’

  He reached her flat unable to contain himself. She immediately gave him a drink and sai
d she was going to change into something comfortable. His look of alarm made her smile.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘That was a silly thing to say. It doesn’t mean what it means in novels.’

  She reappeared wearing a dress that surprised him because it was old-fashioned and out of date. She’d also combed her hair out of the somewhat severe style she wore with her uniform and that, too, looked curiously lacking in taste so that he was desperately disappointed.

  She caught his expression. ‘Women officers are often disappointing in civilian clothes,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s fortunate that most men are, too. Do I bother you dressed like this?’

  Suddenly he realised that like so many naval wives she came from a proud, decent family which no longer possessed the wealth it had once had, so that, while she’d probably been educated at one of the best schools in the country, she’d never had money to spend on herself and knew nothing about clothes. It explained so much about her and she was so honest he couldn’t resist her. He offered her a cigarette and they sat smoking and drinking together for a while, then she went to the kitchen and started to cook. Growing irritated with talking to her through the door, he joined her to stand by the sink wearing a frilly pinafore which belonged to her flat-mate as he helped to peel the vegetables.

  She was a splendid cook and they both drank a little too much wine. Going on to the veranda to smoke their cigarettes, they caught the tang of the burned evening air off the desert, that strange cooling scent that always came at that time of the day.

  ‘This is the best time in the whole twenty-four hours,’ she said.

  He studied her as she stood watching the light fade, enjoying her simple dignity. The unfashionable dress meant nothing and when she told him about herself, his guess about her background turned out to be correct.

  When he kissed her, her cheeks were cold from the night air.