Battle Ensign

by Thomas E. Lightburn

  During the next two hours, the storm clouds faded, leaving the sky a deep blue. The force of the wind dropped and the barometer readings started to rise. However, a tanker and cargo ship had broken formation and were escorted back by a destroyer.

  On board Helix, at exactly 0600, the pipe. ‘’Eavo, ’eavo, ’eavo. Lash up and stow. Cooks to the galley,’ echoed around the ship. In the mess decks, weary men tumbled out of their hammocks onto a wet, slippery deck.

  ‘Thank fuck for that,’ groaned Chats Harris, securing the last of the six turns around his hammock. ‘I thought the ship was going to capsize.’

  ‘That’s now’t,’ said Dutch Holland, emptying seawater out of his boot, ‘all my bedding is soaked.’

  At 0900 on Saturday 4th June, Able Seaman Tug Wilson reported sighting Gibraltar, together with the Spanish mainland, on his green radar screen. By 1000, the jaw-like mass of the rock could be seen, jutting up into the clear blue sky. Seconds later, Buster Brown in the crow’s nest reported an unidentified aircraft approaching from the west.

  ‘It looks like a Junkers 88, sir,’ Buster said, ‘about ten thousand feet.’

  ‘Thank you, Brown,’ said Penrose. Then, giving Manley a cautious look, said, ‘It’s probably a spotter.’

  ‘I agree, sir,’ replied Manley, who, like everyone on the bridge was using their binoculars to search the sky. ‘I expect we’ll have company soon.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Throughout the morning, the convoy passed through the Straits of Gibraltar and entered the Mediterranean Sea. Away to port, the rugged Cordillera Baetica Mountains could be seen a few miles inland from Spain’s coast. While, on the opposite side, lay the white, sandy beaches of Morocco. High above, in a dazzling blue sky, clusters of fluffy cirrocumulus clouds shared the heavens with an eye-smarting sun.

  ‘So this is what Mussolini calls his Mare Nostrum, eh, sir?’ Midshipman Morgan asked Sub Lieutenant Jewitt, watching Morgan using a sextant to take a midday fix. Jewitt had just relieved Sub Lieutenant Milton and was now OOW. Like the rest of the ship’s company, he now wore tropical white shorts and shirts. (Mare Nostrum is Latin meaning ‘Our Sea.’ In 1942 Mussolini wanted to dominate the Mediterranean Sea and used the term to promote his Fascist programme.)

  ‘If I were you, Mid,’ Jewitt grunted while making note of the ship’s speed and position in relation to the other escorts and convoy, ‘I’d stop using fancy Latin words and concentrate on getting your measurements right, or you’ll never get your watch-keepers ticket.’ He then contacted radar operator Dolly Gray, a tall, dark-haired slightly built, leading seaman. ‘Anything to report, Gray?’

  ‘Nothing on the screen except the convoy and escorts, sir,’ replied Gray.

  After taking requestmen and defaulters earlier, at 1100, Penrose came onto the bridge, followed by Manley and Sub Lieutenant Baker.

  ‘What’s the speed of the convoy, Number One?’

  ‘Fifteen knots, sir,’ Manley replied.

  ‘Let’s see now,’ Penrose said, pursing his lips, ‘at that speed we should be off the coast of Algeria tomorrow. What do you think, Pilot?’

  Baker quickly consulted his chart, and after using a pair of dividers, replied, ‘That’s about right, sir, about a hundred miles.’

  ‘Good,’ Penrose said, while easing himself into his chair. ‘By then we should sight Vian’s battle group, so keep a sharp lookout.’

  Steward Morris came onto the bridge holding a mug of steaming tea. ‘Thought youse would like this, seein’ as ‘ow youse missed stand easy.’

  ‘Thank you, Morris,’ said Penrose, ‘it may be a long night.’

  Morris gave Penrose a toothy grin, and added, ‘An’ don’t forget your dinner as youse missed it last night.’ He then turned and hurried away.

  ‘He looks after me like a mother hen,’ Penrose said to Manley, ‘only, at times, I don’t quite understand what he’s saying.’

  Baker’s prediction was fairly accurate. Shortly after midday, the next day, Radar Operator Slinger Wood reported a large group of ships, roughly ten miles directly ahead of the convoy. ‘There’s three big ones and about ten smaller ones, sir. Speed roughly fifteen knots.’

  ‘I expect the big ones will be the cruisers,’ said Penrose.

  ‘Would one of them be a carrier, sir?’ asked Manley, giving his captain a searching look.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I doubt it,’ Penrose replied pensively, ‘I expect the rest are destroyers.’

  Half an hour later Vian’s battle group hove into view.

  ‘You were right, sir,’ said Manley surveying the small armada of warships. ‘There’s no carrier, only three cruisers surrounded by ten destroyers.’

  After studying the battle group, Baker went into his small chart room and looked the cruisers up in Jane’s Fighting Ships. ‘They’re Dido Class light cruisers, sir, armament, five sets of five point two, and one set of four-inch plus heavy and light machine guns.’

  ‘As well as two triple torpedoes and pom-poms, sir,’ added PO Signalman Jack Tate. ‘One of those cruisers is my old ship, Euryalus. I served aboard her in ’38.’

  ‘Thank you both for that valuable piece of information,’ Penrose said, giving Baker and Frost a reassuring smile.

  Frost was about to say something when he saw one of the cruisers flashing a signal to Carlisle.

  ‘Better read it, PO,’ said Penrose.

  Using his binoculars to read the flashes, Tate carefully replied, ‘“Glad to see you. . . Admiral… Ichino… Left Taranto… with Littorio… and three heavy cruisers… none have radar… remain with convoy. I will take station twenty miles… on your port beam, Vian, Cleopatra”.’

  ‘Carlisle is flashing to all escorts and merchantmen, sir,’ Tate reported. ‘Signal is repeating Vian’s message, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, PO,’ said Penrose, ‘acknowledge.’

  ‘Great Scott, sir,’ cried Baker, ‘the Littorio has nine fifteen-inch guns, twelve six-inchers as well as…’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Baker,’ Penrose said, quickly interrupting him, then calmly added, ‘tell me, Pilot, how far away are we from Taranto?’

  ‘Just over five hundred miles, sir,’ Baker replied, ‘it’s on the southern tip of Sicily.’

  Penrose pensively stroked his chin and muttered, ‘Let me see now, that will place the convoy closer to Taranto than the battle group. I wonder what Vian’s up to.’

  Penrose’s remarks reminded Manley of Laura suggesting there was something unusual about the convoy. Could it be, he asked himself, that Vian was using the convoy to act as bait. The thought that Vian would risk the lives of men, and a precious cargo badly needed in Malta, to attack the Italian fleet was too dangerous to contemplate, or was it?

  The concern of Penrose and Manley was well founded. Unknown to them and everyone in the convoy, Vian had received a secret Ultra signal, intercepted by a submarine, informing him that Admiral Ichino knew the position of the convoy and intended to launch an attack.

  Shortly after “stand easy” on the morning of Monday 6th June, Tug Wilson reported to Penrose the presence of a large group of dots on his screen. ‘Roughly ten miles away on our starboard quarter, sir.’

  Seconds later, Taff Williams, a tall, dark HO able seaman in the crow’s nest confirmed this by seeing thin trails of smoke and several mast heads on the starboard horizon.

  The thought that a salvo from one of Littorio’s sixteen-inch guns hitting Helix suddenly increased Penrose’s heartrate. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he nervously undid the top of the small box of Digital tablets. Then, avoiding the eyes of those around him, quickly placed a tablet in his mouth and swallowed it. A few minutes later, he felt the beating of his heart slowly decrease in volume. ‘Better sound action stations, Number One,’ he said

  Seconds later, QM Knocker White’s distinctive Yorkshire accent came over the tannoy. ‘Hands to action stations. Close all screen doors and scuttles.’

  In the seamen’s mess, Sammy Smith glanced war
ily at Able Seaman Murphy. ‘Here we go, Spud,’ he said, grabbing hold of his anti-flash gear. ‘Here’s hoping the Ities have eaten too much spaghetti and have indigestion.’

  ‘If they haven’t then you’d better rattle your rosary, and say a few words for us,’ added Dutch Holland as they and the other ratings hurried up the stairs.

  In a matter of minutes all departments were closed up. In the boiler and engine rooms, stokers struggled into their ant-flash hoods and gloves. ‘It’s hot enough without havin’ to wear these itchy things,’ growled a tall, pale-faced stoker.

  ‘If a shell hits us you might be glad you wore it,’ Johnson replied. ‘Now, shit in it and check those heat gauges.’

  Meanwhile, PO Steward Sandy Powel and the first aid party had mustered in the canteen flat. ‘Check your first aid kits,’ he said, looking sternly first at the tired face of NAFFI manager, Ted Grainger, then at the other three men. ‘And make sure the pom-pom crews have shell dressings in their bags, and after you’ve done that, check the straps on the Neil Robertson stretchers.’

  ‘Is all this really necessary, Sandy? grunted Grainger, running fingers through his sparse, grey hair. ‘It’s interfering with my invoice checking.’

  ‘As they say in the Russian navy, Ted, toughskie- shitskie,’ Sandy sarcastically replied, ‘now get on with it.’

  Shortly after 1300, the Italian battle fleet was sighted.

  ‘Cleopatra flashing, sir,’ shouted Jack Tate. “‘To convoy and escorts. Turn ten degree south, Will place myself between you and the enemy. Carlisle, Avon Vale, make smoke to protect convoy. Enemy aware of our position.” Signal by wireless, sir.’

  ‘Acknowledge by wireless,’ Penrose replied.

  Laura’s words, saying she thought there was something about the convoy, sprung into Manley’s head. ‘So he is using the convoy as bait to draw the Italians out,’ he said to Penrose.

  ‘I think you’re right, Number One,’ Penrose replied pensively. ‘Thank God the Italians haven’t got radar or we’d be in deep trouble.

  ‘But, sir,’ pleaded Manley, ‘is sacrificing the lives of the men ships and cargo worth Vian taking on the Italians, after all, they have a stronger fleet than us.’

  ‘Ours is not to reason why,’ Penrose nervously replied, taking out a Digital tablet from a pocket in trousers.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Manley, watching as Penrose quickly put the tablet in his mouth.

  ‘A headache, just an aspirin,’ Penrose tentatively answered.

  In the crow’s nest, Pony Moore, a thick-set able seaman from York, suddenly felt his small compartment and main mast sway uncomfortably as Helix, Eridge, Dulverton and Carlisle, together with the convoy, turned to port.

  On Helix’s bridge, everyone turned and using their binoculars, saw the destroyer, Avon Vale, break away from the battle group and lay a thick smoke screen between Vian’s warships and the Italian fleet. The time was shortly after 1430.

  ‘Great Scott!’ exploded Penrose. ‘Cleopatra, Dido and Euryalus are going through the smoke screen. I do believe they’re going to attack the Italians.’

  Seconds later, the booming sound of gunfire could be heard beyond the denseness of the smoke screen. Yellow gun flashes, barely discernible through the smoke, accompanied the detonations as more exchanges of loud gunfire rent the air.

  ‘I wish we knew what was going on, Number One,’ Penrose said, peering through his binoculars hoping to catch a glimpse of the action.

  ‘I can see our cruisers coming out of the smoke screen, sir,’ yelled the port lookout.

  ‘Yes, we can see that,’ Penrose replied, ‘they’re taking evasive action against the enemy’s heavy guns.’

  ‘But where the hell is the Italian fleet?’ said Manley.

  ‘Radar reports part of the Italian fleet is about twenty miles away,’ said Penrose. ‘Our cruisers must be on their way to engage them.’

  ‘By the sound of the gunfire,’ Penrose said, ‘there’s more than two enemy cruisers beside the Littorio.’

  ‘You could be right, sir,’ said Manley, watching the three British cruisers turn back into the smoke screen. This was quickly followed by exchanges of gunfire. Suddenly, the gunfire stopped. Everyone on the bridge watched the British cruisers coming out of the smoke screen, seemingly unscathed. By this time the convoy was only ten miles away from the battle. However, with the use of radar and high-powered Barr and Stroud binoculars, the men on the escorts were able to establish a rough idea of what was happening.

  ‘What the blazes is Vian up to, I wonder?’ puzzled Penrose. ‘He seems to have ordered the cruisers to play cat and mouse with the Italians.’

  ‘In that case, sir,’ Manley replied, ‘maybe he’s trying to lure them further ahead into a trap. After all, sir, you thought there is three enemy cruisers giving fire, and remember, according to the radar, the main Italian fleet is only twenty miles away.’ (The three Italian cruisers were the Gorizo, Trento and Giovanni Della Bande Nere.)

  ‘And as that north westerly is increasing,’ Penrose replied, feeling a gust of wind attack his face. ‘it’s blowing the smoke screen to the south. That should help the Italian gunners, but without radar, they’re at a distinct disadvantage.’

  ‘I agree, sir,’ Manley replied, ‘and the wind should help the smoke screen protect the convoy.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ interrupted Baker, ‘radar reports large group of enemy warships joining the two enemy cruisers.’

  ‘That’ll be the Lottorio and her escorts,’ said Penrose. ‘If they manage to break through Vian’s group, Admiral Iachino will be after the convoy.’

  The time was 1500. For the next hour, Penrose and everyone watched anxiously, as once again, the British warships, including the cruisers, darted in and out of the smoke screen, returning the enemy fire.

  ‘It looks like Vian’s trying to confuse Iachino and entice him to come closer,’ said Penrose, nervously biting his lower lip.

  Manley gave Penrose a searching look, and said, ‘Dangerous tactics, sir, seeing as how he’s outgunned.’

  ‘Yes indeed, Number One,’ Penrose replied, ‘and if he fails, Iachino will be after the convoy. Better hoist battle ensign just in case.’

  Manley gave a quick nod to Tate, who along with an assistant “bunting tosser”, Dixie Dean, a tall, ginger-headed leading signalman, obeyed Manley’s order. With a slight mixture of pride and trepidation, everyone watched as a large white ensign was quickly hoisted to the yardarm.

  Suddenly, the sound of gunfire, more ferocious than earlier, could be heard. High above in the crow’s nest, Pony Moore wiped the lens of his binoculars, and straining his eyes, managed to have a reasonably good view of the battle.

  ‘Cleopatra’s been hit and she’s on fire,’ he shouted down the intercom, ‘but her guns are still firing.’

  (Part of Cleopatra’s bridge was destroyed and sixteen men were killed.)

  Seconds later, Brown’s voice, now slightly hoarse, reported two more British cruisers and two destroyers were on fire. ‘Hard to say who they are as there’s too much bloody smoke,’ he added, slightly out of breath, ‘but one of the destroyers has stopped, looks like she’s dead in the water.’ (This was the destroyer Havcock who had suffered a direct hit. Her engine and boiler rooms were hit and flooded, plus her searchlights, torpedo tubes were badly damaged, killing fifteen of her crew. Vian subsequently ordered her to leave the battle group and make for Malta for repairs.)

  ‘A destroyer coming through the smoke screen, sir,’ shouted Moore, ‘and she’s heading towards the convoy.’

  On the bridge, everyone turned and trained their binoculars aft and saw the foamy bow waves of a destroyer a mile away.

  ‘It’s Kingston, sir,’ said Manley, ‘and it looks as if she’s lost her after gun turret and pom-poms.’

  A few minutes later, Taff Taylor, a short, stocky leading telegraphist arrived on the bridge. ‘Message from Cleopatra to Kingston, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes, what does
it say?’ Penrose asked impatiently.

  ‘“Take position port side of Carlisle for passage to Malta. Neame”.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Penrose answered, ‘make to Kingston. “Do you need assistance?’”

  Taff Taylor hurried away, and returning a few minutes later, said, ‘Message from Kingston, sir, it reads, “No thank you. Can make fourteen knots”.’

  The time was 1800. A bright moon cast a silver sheen over a calm sea and a warm wind blew lazily from the east. ‘Darken ship,’ was piped. Throughout the ship, dead lights were secured and canvas covers drawn across hatchways. On the bridge, everyone managed to see Kingston arrive two hundred yards on Carlisle’s port beam. By this time, the convoy was some twenty miles from the battle, too far for Moore to see through the darkness at the smoke screen.

  ‘Vian appears to be sending his destroyers to engage the enemy, sir,’ reported Radar Operator Dolly Gray, peering at a series of black dots on his green screen leaving the battle group.

  ‘Against the cruisers,’ said Penrose, frowning, ‘surely not. They’d get blown out of the water.’

  ‘The destroyers are firing their torpedoes, then going in and out the smoke screen, sir,’ Gray reported somewhat exuberantly.

  For the next ten minutes, everyone strained their ears to hear the noise of the torpedoes hitting home. But none came.

  A perplexed expression slowly spread over Manley’s heavily tanned features. ‘I wonder what’s happened, sir,’ he said, looking at Penrose.

  ‘God only knows,’ Penrose muttered solemnly.

  Unknown to Penrose, even though the convoy lay within range of Littorio’s broadsides, the feinted attacks by Vian’s destroyers had kept the battleship at bay.

  ‘I say, the Italians are buggering off, sir,’ Moore reported excitedly.

  ‘Great Scott!’ yelled Penrose, slapping a thigh. ‘The blighters have had enough!’

  Manley was right. Vian had ordered a torpedo attack, but unfortunately, none of the torpedoes hit home. Nevertheless, as the Italian ships were short of fuel. Iachino, whose fleet had suffered little or no damage, ordered his ships to return to Taranto. But to the onlookers on board, the merchantmen and escorts, it looked like the Italians had given up and were running away.