Penrose didn’t reply. He had been in action before and had witnessed death and destruction whilst on convoy duty. Therefore, the realisation that he was responsible for sending over a hundred men to their death was met with equanimity. ‘Slow astern,’ he said calmly. ‘Better check for damage and injuries, Number One, and stand down from action stations.’
Seconds later, the crew listened intently as he told them what had happened. After Penrose had finished speaking nobody cheered or clapped each other on the back. Instead, they stood in sombre silence, lost in thought. Not so long ago, many of the crew were civilians, engaged in a variety of jobs, far removed from the situation they now faced. Now, for the first time in their lives, they had witnessed death, and even though the victims were the enemy, it pricked some consciences and made many of them uneasy. In the seaman’s mess, Bud Abbot, frowned then gave Sammy Smith a sombre look and said, ‘Poor bastards. What a way to go.’ It was a sentiment shared by everyone on the ship.
The time was 1600. Lieutenant Tim Sherwood, the ship’s electrical officer, came onto the bridge. After obtaining a second at Manchester University, Sherwood joined the navy. He was twenty-two, tall with a mop of untidy ginger hair.
Behind Sherwood stood Chief Bosun’s Mate, Charlie Jackson, wearing a pair of dirty blue overalls and a wrinkled, well-worn cap. Jackson was a small, powerfully built man with intelligent blue eyes and weather-beaten features. Like Chief Stoker Harry Johnson, he was overdue for his pension.
‘How badly are we damaged?’ Penrose asked, looking warily at Sherwood then Jackson.
‘The electric supply to the for’ard mess decks and chain locker are out, sir,’ Sherwood said, taking off his cap and wiping his brow with the back of his hand, ‘but I’m sure it can be fixed.’
‘And part of the bows below the waterline are staved in and shipping water into the paint store, sir,’ Jackson added, breathing heavy. ‘And the port side of the bulkhead is partially staved in but so far it hasn’t leaked.’
‘Any injuries?’ asked Penrose.
‘The chief ERA has injured his ankle and a stoker has a head injury,’ Manley replied. ‘The doc is looking after them.’
‘Just how serious is the damage to the bows, Chief?’ Penrose asked Jackson, nervously stroking the bristles on his chin.
The chief removed his cap revealing a shiny bald patch in amongst greying dark hair. ‘At the moment the water is ankle level, but if the ship increases speed over ten knots the vibrations could make things worse.’
‘And the port side bulkhead, will it hold?
‘We’ll do our best, sir,’ Jackson replied confidently.
‘Thank you, both,’ Penrose replied. ‘Carry on. I’ll try ten knots, so keep me informed.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Sherwood answered curtly, then he and Wilson left the bridge.
Glancing at PO Telegraphist Jack Frost, Penrose said, ‘Signal Stork and inform the rest of the escorts, plus Commodore Bradley, C-in-C Portsmouth and Plymouth.’ Anticipating the order, Frost stood ready, pad and pencil in hand. Frost was a slightly built, two badge man whose hooded dark blue eyes and leathery features gave him a slightly sinister appearance. Penrose went on, say, ‘“U-Boat, pennant number U21, rammed and sunk”,’ ‘Give its position and add, ‘“no survivors”.’ Penrose paused momentarily, then went on, ‘“Damage to Helix’s bows. Bulkhead shipping water, but might make ten knots. Stork to detach from convoy and assist if necessary. Marigold to take Stork’s position. Convoy to proceed as arranged. Will make for Plymouth. Request dry dock”.’
Frost finished writing down the message and left the bridge, then returned five minute later. ‘Signal from Stork, sir,’ “Convoy continuing as arranged. Will join you soonest”.’
‘Thank you, PO,’ said Penrose. ‘How far away is the convoy, Number One?’
Manley lowered his binoculars and looking through the azimuth ring on the compass repeater, said, ‘about twenty miles on our starboard beam, sir.’
PO Frost arrived on the bridge holding a small sheet of paper. ‘Signal from C in C Plymouth, sir, it reads, “Dry dock unavailable, damaged by bombs. Can you make Portsmouth?”
Turning to Baker, he said, ‘the damage to the bows will definitely slow us down. So what will our ETA in Portsmouth be if we manage ten knots?’
Baker turned around and using his dividers did a quick calculation, then, looking over his shoulder he said, ‘three days, sir.’
‘Thank you, Pilot,’ Penrose replied. Penrose glanced thoughtfully at Frost and said, ‘Reply to C in C’s signal, give our ETA in Portsmouth, and add, “Providing bulkheads holds. Will keep you informed”.’
A few minutes later Frost arrived. ‘Signal from C in C Portsmouth again, sir, it says, “Number 9 dock available on arrival. Good luck to you and Stork”.’
Penrose gave Manley an anxious look, then said, ‘Engines half ahead, speed ten knots, revolutions ten and let’s hope for the best.’
The ship gradually increased speed. During the next hour everyone on the bridge listened intently to steady throb of the engines. The buzz of the intercom broke the tension.
‘Captain,’ said Penrose.
‘Logan, sir,’ came the reply. ‘I’m glad to say, so far, the bulkhead is holding.’
‘Thank you, Derek,’ Penrose replied, nervously running his tongue along his upper lip. ‘Well done to your team. Let me know immediately if there’s any change.’
Just as Penrose had finished speaking, “Scouse” Johnny Morris, the captain’s steward arrived on the bridge holding a steaming mug of kye and a plate of sandwiches. ‘Thought youse could do with these, ser, the chef told me you liked chicken, seein’ as how yer missed yer tea.’ Before the war, Morris, a small, twenty-year-old, heavily built lad, from Toxteth, Liverpool, worked as waiter in the Adelphi Hotel.
‘Thank you, Morris,’ Penrose answered, accepting the mug and blowing across the top, ‘that’s very thoughtful of you.’
‘Stork approaching on starboard quarter, sir,’ shouted the starboard lookout. Everyone on the bridge looked to the right and saw the sharp bows of the flower-class frigate sending up a frothy bow wave as she ploughed through the sea. In a matter of minutes, she slowed down and was roughly fifty yard away from Helix. Using a loud hailer, her captain shouted. ‘Do you need a tow?’
Accepting a loud hailer from Manley, Penrose, holding his half empty mug, shouted, ‘No thanks, can safely make ten knots. Grateful for your company. Remain on present position.’ Turning to Manley, he finished his drink then added, ‘Revert to defence stations, Number One.’
The time was 1800. Dusk was fast approaching. A fine vail of drizzle reduced visibility to a less than half a mile. In the seamen’s mess, the warmth of the atmosphere exaggerated the sour smell of stale tobacco, smoke and bodily odours. Tansey Lee, Sammy Smith and Dusty Miller were playing poker. A small pile of matches lay in the centre of the table. Close by, Swampy Marsh, a thick-set HO rating with dark curly hair, was playing uckers (ludo) with Pincher Martin. Bud Abbot and Spud Murphy were writing letters. Others were cocooned in their hammocks, which, with every gentle roll of the ship, swayed in unison as if manipulated by a puppet master.
‘Fuck me,’ cried Marsh, giving Pincher a suspicious look. ‘That’s the second time in a row you’ve thrown a six.’
‘Bollocks,’ Pincher replied as he casually moved his disc another six places. ‘It’s all in the wrist movement,’ he said, picking up the small, brown Bakelite cup and waggling it about. ‘And don’t forget, that’s sippers you owe me.’
During the night, the convoy and escorts went ahead of the two warships and gradually disappeared over the horizon. As dawn broke the two warships, now alone and vulnerable to enemy attack, either by air or sea, slowly cut their way through the high rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean. High above, a full moon peeped through the mass of dark altostratus clouds. Except for the steady beat of the engines, and the gentle roll of the ship, all was quiet. On the bridge, Penrose sat hunc
hed up in his chair. Both eyes were closed and his hands, clad in woollen mittens were curled around a hot mug of kye. Nearby, Midshipman Morgan was aware that the captain had been on the bridge all night and was asleep. Morgan was tempted to take the mug away, but frightened in case he woke Penrose up, decided not to. Instead, he stamped his feet and grimaced as a gust of bitterly cold northerly wind attacked his face. A year ago, eighteen-year-old Henry Morgan, a tall, fair-haired lad with intelligent brown eyes, was a junior clerk in his father’s law firm. Shortly after Christmas 1941, against his parent’s wishes, he had joined the service. Two months later, after passing out from Dartmouth, he joined Helix.
Both vessels had darkened ship, but Morgan could easily make out Stork’s black silhouette and froth white wash some two hundred yards away on Helix’s port beam. Suddenly, the tranquillity of the scene was broken by the sound of Penrose’s mug hitting the deck. Penrose opened his eyes and sat up, blinked and wearily shook his head.
‘What time is it, Mid?’ he asked, stifling a yawn.
‘0320, sir,’ Morgan replied. Then plucking up courage, went on. ‘Why don’t you go to your cabin, sir? Lieutenant Milton has the morning watch and he’ll be here soon.’
‘Hmm…’ muttered Penrose, ‘perhaps you’re right.’ He slowly pushed his burly frame off his chair. Noticing the bits of broken mug lying nearby, he gave Morgan a tired look. ‘Sorry about that, waste of good kye.’ As he spoke the moonlight caught Penrose’s face, allowing Morgan to see how drawn and exhausted his weather-beaten face looked. ‘Call me instantly if the leakage from the bulkheads increases. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Morgan answered.
Steadying himself on the arm of the chair, Penrose rose slowly and left the bridge. By the time he arrived in his cabin, his heart was thumping like a drum. He immediately took out a small pill box from his jacket pocket, and feeling his hand shake slightly, picked out a Digoxin tablet and quickly swallowed it. Too tired to even take off his duffel coat, he wearily pushed himself onto his bunk and immediately fell asleep.
A few minutes before 0400 Sub Lieutenant Ray Milton, a small, stocky, RNR deck officer with dark, wavy hair, took over the watch from Morgan.
‘How’s the bulkhead holding?’ he asked Morgan, while tucking his woollen scarf around the top of his duffel coat. Before the war, Milton was a maritime architect. He was twenty-one, single and joined the navy in 1940. Helix was his first ship and he was now one of the ship’s two deck officers.
‘So far, so good,’ Morgan answered with a sleepy sigh. ‘The captain has just gone below and has asked to be contacted if the leaking increases.’
During the night, the convoy and escorts disappeared over the horizon. Shortly after 0500 both warships were less than one hundred sea miles off the southern tip of Ireland. High above the dark clouds promised rain and the high rolling Atlantic waves continued to batter both ships. (A nautical mile is 1,852 metres, a land mile is 1,609metres.)
At precisely 0600, on Monday the 14th, the tired voice of duty QM Knocker White came over the tannoy. ‘Eave oh, eave oh, lash up and stow. Cooks to the galley.’
Bleary eyed and yawning, those ratings who, despite the dangers of being tossed out of their hammocks, grabbed hold of the iron bar attached to the deck head directly above and heaved themselves out of their hammocks onto the deck. Others slept on the deck or table, while some preferred to use the tops of the metal lockers enclosing their mess. Except for footwear, all had slept fully dressed.
‘Boiled eggs and hard tack for breakfast, I suppose,’ grunted Sammy Smith, sitting on the table bench and pushing his stockinged feet into his shoes. (Hard tack was a simple type of biscuit made from wholemeal, vitamins and flour.)
Meanwhile, Able Seaman Hooky Walker, in the crow’s nest, wiped the lens of his binoculars and peered into the misty sky and saw a black dot in the sky. Walker was an HO able seaman with a swarthy complexion, with perfect twenty-twenty vision. With his binoculars still clamped to his eyes, he contacted the bridge. ‘Aircraft bearing red 040, approaching on port beam, sir.’
Sub Lieutenant Milton acknowledged and unhooked the captain’s intercom. Seconds later Penrose’s tired voice answered. ‘Captain. What’s the problem?’
Milton told him. ‘Sound action stations,’ snapped Penrose, ‘I’ll be up straight away.’
Glancing warily at PO Len Mills, Milton repeated Penrose’s order. Straight away, he, Mills and QM Jock Forbes, a tall, dark, muscular able seaman from Dundee, trained their binoculars to the left and saw the black crosses clearly visible on the underside of the grey wings and distinctive red nose.
‘It’s a ME109, sir,’ cried Mills, ‘and it’s losing height.’
At that moment, Penrose came onto the bridge. A few minutes later Manley and Sub Lieutenant Baker arrived, and like Penrose, immediately trained their binoculars away to the left. By this time, the ship’s company were closed up at action stations.
Above the bridge, in the gunnery direction platform, Lieutenant Powers wiped the mist from his binoculars and peering through the grey gloom, reported, ‘It’s coming in too low, too low to use the 4.5s sir, however, the pom-poms and Oerlikons should deal with the bugger.’
‘The sod’s heading straight for Stork, sir,’ cried Powers.
‘Bloody hell, sir,’ Manley shouted to Penrose, ‘if the blighter puts Stork out of action, we’ll be sitting ducks.’
The warning wasn’t lost on Penrose, who, furrowing his brow, calmly replied, ‘Not only for him but for any U-boat that happens to be in the vicinity.’
Meanwhile, Leading Seaman Dutch Holland, had manned the port pom-pom. One eye was pressed against the single circular gunsight while his right hand hovered near the firing button. In front of him three gunnery ratings waited to feed rounds of two-pounder ammunition into the breeches of each of the four, gun barrels. On and on came the fighter, yellow flames of cannon fire flickering from the edges of each wing.
For a fleeting second, the ME109 came into Holland’s sight. With lightning reflexes, he pressed a button. Immediately a sharp rattle of gunfire rent the air, sending streams of bullets arching into the air. The deafening cacophony of noise was increased by Leading Seaman Dicky Bird and his gunners on the starboard pom-pom, joining in the attack. To this nerve-jangling cacophony was added spine chilling rata-tat-tat of the Oerlikons. For a moment the fighter was obliterated by lines of cross fire from both ships.
On Helix’s bridge everyone else watched in horror as the fighter came in low and raked Stork with ferocious cannon fire. Seconds later, the plane pulled away into the cloudy grey sky.
‘Signal Stork, Yeoman,’ said Penrose, ‘say, “any casualties? Can we help?”’
A few minutes later came the reply. ‘“Two ratings killed, one badly wounded. Thank you for your offer. Suggest we proceed as arranged”.’
The remainder of the day passed peacefully as the two warships continued their lone sojourn. During the night, Penrose ordered both vessels to alter course to ten degrees to starboard. By 0600 the next morning, both ships were fifty miles off Land’s End.
At 0900 Penrose ordered the lower deck to be cleared to witness Stork burying their dead. The sky was dull and overcast and a bitterly cold, northerly wind churned the sea into a heaving mass of white-topped waves. Over the tannoy, Manley called the ship’s company to attention. A hundred yards away they saw rows of Stork’s ship’s company, bareheaded and standing to attention. Nearby, facing aft, stood the officers. A pair of ratings, each carrying an army type canvas stretcher walked slowly onto the quarterdeck. On each stretcher lay the body of one of their comrades, strapped in a hammock and draped in a white ensign. The captain, holding a bible, read a short prayer then, under the guidance of an officer, each stretcher was carefully lifted onto the edge of a guard rail. The dull dong of Stork’s bell, barely heard over the howling wind echoed around. Seconds later, each body slid from under the flag and splashed into the sea.
Two hours later both warships
entered the English Channel and by “Up Spirits,” the verdant coast of Hampshire could be seen a few miles away on the ship’s port beam. Shortly afterwards the flat terrain of the Isle of Wight hove in to view. On Helix’s bridge, Penrose, relaxing in his chair turned to Manley, and in a tired voice, said. ‘Home at last, eh, Number One.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Manley replied, nodding slightly, ‘but for how long.
CHAPTER THREE
Shortly after 0600, on Tuesday 15th May, with Helix in the van, the two warships cruised slowly into Portsmouth harbour. The special sea duty men of both vessels were fallen in on the fo’c’sle and quarterdeck. The chin straps of their caps were down and the shiny black oilskins they wore protected them against the blustery cold, westerly wind, while, in the distance, dozens of bulging barrage balloons hovered over the city, like silver sentinels. Away to port, two submarines lay alongside HMS Dolphin, the navy’s main submarine base. Behind the base, the grey slated rooftops of Haslar Hospital could be seen glistening in the early morning mist. Further along, the houses of Gosport were barely visible, while across the harbour, South Sea common, dotted with gun batteries, commanded the approaches to the city.
After passing Fort Blockhouse the ships sailed passed a light cruiser and two destroyers. All three vessels were camouflaged in dark green and black.
‘Attention on the upper deck. Face the starboard,’ was piped. At the same time, Penrose and Manley stood on the starboard wing and returned the salutes from the duty officers on the bridges of the cruiser and destroyers.
The same ritual was carried out as the two ships cruised past Semaphore Towers, a large imposing building where both captains knew the admiral of the dockyard would no doubt be carefully scrutinising each ship for any lack of discipline or an open scuttle.
‘Signal from Stork, sir,’ PO Frost said to Penrose, ‘it says, “Will leave you to berth alongside Dockyard Wharf. Good luck”.’
Battle Ensign Page 3