Battle Ensign

by Thomas E. Lightburn

  ‘Aye, including the fuckin’ Jerry planes,’ Dinga sardonically replied. ‘Now, look what’s happening, a bloody smoke screen.’

  As he spoke HMS Calpe appeared a few hundred yards in front of the LCIs laying a long stream of billowing white smoke.

  FP gave Manley a sideways glance and said, ‘Bloody good idea, sir.’ While adjusting his steel helmet over his anti-flash gear, he said, ‘but it’ll disguise our fall of shot.’

  ‘Well, Number One,’ Manley replied with a sardonic grin, ‘Guns has been given the details for shelling the headland, so here’s hoping the smoke will clear away in time for him to hit the target.’

  The time was 0450. Suddenly, the ear-splitting barrage from Berkeley, Bleasdale, and Garth rent the air. All four were broadside on, allowing all their guns to bare. Ripples of explosions sprung up on the headlands. Debris, sand and bits of stone flew into the air as shells erupted along the beach. The casino disappeared under a cloud of dense black smoke. The barrage continued for over an hour then, abruptly stopped, leaving the air thick with the acrid smell of cordite.

  On Helix’s bridge everyone watched as four lines of twelve LCAs, each one carrying up to forty Canadian troops, disappear into the billowing smoke screen.

  ‘Sound action stations, Number One,’ ordered Manley, ‘and hoist the battle ensign.’ Manley immediately contacted Lieutenant Powers who was on the gun direction platform, situated above the bridge. Seconds later Helix rocked heavily as all her 4.7 guns opened up.

  ‘Up five degrees,’ Powers shouted to the gun aimers. This was followed by another barrage and the inevitable jerking motion as the guns fired again.

  Using their binoculars, Manley and FP saw puffs of black smoke explode onto the western headland and medieval castle.

  ‘Starboard five, revolutions ten,’ snapped Manley.

  Almost straight away, Helix heeled to the right and headed into the smoke screen. Suddenly the daylight disappeared as Helix, passed through a miasma of white smoke. Seconds later the ship emerged some two hundred yards behind the fourth wave of LCAs. Flashes of gunfire from inland were quickly followed by jets of water as shells exploded all around the LCAs. Sadly, two of them suffered direct hits and began billowing palls of yellow and red smoke. Suddenly one of them exploded. Jets of yellow flames shot into the air. In seconds the stricken vessel slowly sank leaving the sea a swirling mass of debris and dead bodies. Another LCA was hit and then another. But undaunted, the LCAs pressed on towards the beach, two miles away.

  ‘Turn five degrees to port, Number One, it’ll enable all our heavy guns to deliver broadsides.’

  ‘But won’t that make us easier targets, sir?’ asked FP. As he spoke a shell exploded about twenty yards away on the ship’s starboard beam.

  ‘Those Canadians are taking a helluva pounding and they need our help,’ Manley shouted. ‘So that’s the chance we’ll have to take.’ A few seconds later Helix heeled over to the left.

  ‘All guns open fire,’ shouted Manley.

  Immediately, Helix’s 4.7 guns, pom-poms, and Oerlikons began firing at prearranged targets on the beach and further inland. The cacophony was deafening as the acrid smell of smoke filled the air and stung the eyes.

  Gradually the breeze dispersed the smoke, allowing the enemy to have a clearer view of the oncoming craft. Everyone on Helix’s bridge watched anxiously as the first wave hit the beach. The ramps were lowered, allowing the Essex Scottish to hurry ashore.

  Manley adjusted his binoculars and said, ‘Many of them appear to be bogged down in the shale, but most have reached the sea wall, lying between the town and the beach, Number One.’

  ‘Yes, I can see them, sir,’ FP shouted over the intermittent roar of gunfire, ‘but I’m afraid quite a lot have been hit by gunfire and haven’t made it. It’s almost as if the bastards were waiting for them.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, Number One,’ yelled Manley, ‘the poor beggars seem to be pinned down.’

  Training his binoculars left, close to the casino, Manley cried, ‘Good Lord, the Royal Hamiltons on White Beach have landed directly in front of a pillbox and are being mown down like flies. Those that have made it are crammed against the sea wall.’

  The men manning the 4.7s and machine guns could also see what was happening.

  ‘Where the fuck is the RAF,’ Tansey Lee said to Bob Rose, as he closed one of the breeches of B gun. ‘Those poor bastards are being pounded to buggery.’

  ‘I don’t know about the RAF,’ shouted Rose, ‘but what we really need is the heavy guns of a cruiser or monitor. Our 4.7s don’t seem to be making much difference, especially if the sods are well dug in.’

  Those closed up in the claustrophobic atmosphere of the engine and boiler rooms were not so fortunate. All they could do was wait, listen and pray that a bomb or shell wouldn’t suddenly hit the ship. At least the first aid party, mustered on the canteen flat and in the sick bay received reports of the landings from the medical officer, who occasionally ventured onto the bridge before returning below deck.

  On the bridge, Manley adjusted his binoculars and saw the bodies of men strewn in front of the sea wall. ‘The poor sods are being massacred,’ he cried.

  ‘So much for the second-rate soldiers the powers said would be defending the town,’ FP yelled. ‘Whoever they are, they want locking up.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ shouted Manley, ‘but where the hell are the tanks? It’s now almost 1000. They should’ve been here earlier to support the infantry.’

  No sooner had Manley stopped talking than the high-pitched voice of Dinga Bell in the crow’s nest reported three lines of LCTs (Landing Craft, Tank), approaching two hundred yards on Helix and Albrighton’s port beam.

  ‘Thank the Lord for that, Number One,’ Manley shouted.

  ‘Better late, than never, I suppose, sir,’ FP replied, ‘their extra firepower should help the Canadians to get off the beach.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The time was now 0530. Despite shells exploding all around Helix and Albrighton, both vessels continued to keep firing at the enemy’s positions. In between dodging squalls of spray, Manley was able to see the first wave of LCTs arrive on Red Beach. Each LCT carried three Calgary tanks, equipped with bundles of wooden palings to grip the shingle. At first this seemed to work perfectly as each tank landed safely. Unfortunately, one LCT lost its track and was so damage and holed by shellfire that it sank.

  ‘I see the second wave of troops have got off and are heading towards the town,’ cried FP, who, like Manley, was watching the LCAs arrive.

  ‘Yes, but tone of the LCAs has lost its bow door,’ retorted Manley, ‘and I can just about see many of the crew lying in the water and on the ramp. It looks they’re all dead.’

  ‘Third wave is coming in, sir,’ cried FP, as another shell exploded thirty yards away on the port beam.

  ‘Yes, and one of them has been hit and has lost its tracks,’ Manley replied loudly.

  Both officers watched as a second tank was hit by mortar fire and began billowing clouds of black smoke. Manley heard himself shouting, ‘For God’s sake, get out.’ One by one, the tank crew scrambled out of the gun turret, only to be hit by machine gun fire.

  The LCTs now came under intense mortar bombardment and machine fire. One LCT made three attempts to beach before landing her three tanks. The first tank managed to reach the beach, but as the ramp went down, many Canadians were raked with machine gun and never made it to the sea wall. The third, was hit by mortar fire and began to spew clouds of black smoke. Most of her troops were either killed or wounded. The last LCT landed safely but due to engine failure, became grounded in the middle of the beach. Luckily most of the troops managed to get ashore just before the craft was hit by mortar bombs.

  Manley watched as the LCTs managed to land a dozen tanks. Looking like beached whales, some slipped their tracks and became bogged down in the soft shingle. Others lay burning, surrounded by the bodies of their crews. Those tanks tha
t managed to get over the sea wall and onto the promenade were prevented to do so by anti-tank obstacles. Braving the deadly fusillade of bullets, the Canadian sappers engineers tried to remove the obstacles but were instantly cut down by machine- gun fire. The rest of the tanks remained on the beach, engaging the enemy positions with their 6-pounders, until they ran out of ammunition and had to surrender. (Of the 169 sappers that went ashore, 152 were killed or wounded.)

  Manley and FP looked on in horror and saw Red and White beaches littered with dead. Some of those wounded were seen to try and crawl up the beach only to be picked off by snipers in the casino.

  ‘Jesus Christ, sir,’ FP uttered to Manley. ‘What a bloody shambles.’

  ‘Bloody is the right word,’ Manley replied. He was about to continue speaking, when Dinga Bell’s voice in the crow’s nest interrupted him. ‘Enemy aircraft approaching from the east.’ Straight away Manley and FP trained their binoculars upwards. The time was 0600. A stiff warm breeze blew from the south and clusters of white, fluffy clouds raced across a pale blue sky.

  ‘Focke-Wulfs and Messerschmitts, this time, sir,’ said Sub Lieutenant Baker. ‘About two hundred of them.’

  ‘They’ll probable make for the civilian ships,’ Manley remarked, as one by one the enemy planes peeled off and headed downwards.

  ‘Spitfires and Hurricanes approaching green four thousand feet,’ cried Dinga Bell, ‘roughly fifty, of ‘em.’

  Shielding their eyes from the sun’s glare, everyone on the bridge watched the Spitfires, followed by the Hurricanes, peel off and dive towards the enemy. Suddenly, the rat-tat-tat of machine gunfire rent the air.

  ‘Go on, me hearties, give ’em hell,’ yelled Wacker Payne, the port lookout as the enemy planes broke formation.

  ‘Looks like the Spits are outnumbered, sir,’ shouted FP, as he watched a dozen or so Focke-Wulfs dive towards the civilian liners.

  ‘I agree, Number One,’ retorted Manley, ‘and we can’t open fire on them because we’d hit the Spits as well as the enemy.’

  ‘About a dozen Focke-Wulfs are diving towards the beaches, sir,’ yelled Sub Lieutenant Baker.

  ‘Yes, I see them,’ shouted Manley, ‘pom-poms and Oerlikons, open fire.’

  Seconds later, streams of bright yellow tracer and machine gun bullets streaked from the guns as the enemy planes came within range.

  ‘Enemy bombers approaching, red five thousand,’ yelled Able Seaman Payne.

  ‘Dorniers and Heinkels, sir,’ Sub Lieutenant Baker cried, scanning the sky with his binoculars.

  ‘The bastards are making for the liners,’ cried FP.

  Sticks of bombs, twirling angrily, fell towards Prince Charles and Glengyle, lying three miles off Red and White Beaches. In an instant, both vessels disappeared under walls of white water as the enemies bombs exploded all around them. As the spray gradually settled, a thick plume of black smoke from Glengyle could be seen curling wildly into the air. Luckily, Prince Charles appeared to be unharmed.

  Meanwhile, a bitter dog fight ensued during which time several Spitfires were hit; two, burst into flames, three streaming black smoke went into a steep dive. Everyone watched anxiously as parachutes burst open and floated seawards. Two Spitfires broke away from the fighting and dived down and raked the headland with cannon fire, then soared upwards and re-joined the melee. Minutes later, a Spitfire broke off the engagement, and produced a smoke screen along the edge of Red and White Beach.

  ‘Fat lot of use that’ll do,’ bellowed FP, ‘they’d be more use giving support to the poor devils being pinned down on the beach.’

  To everyone’s surprise, one by one, the Spitfires broke off the engagement and headed west with a dozen Messerschmitt’s in hot pursuit.

  ‘I say, sir,’ shouted FP, ‘I wonder why the Spits are leaving, surely they can’t have run out of ammunition.’

  ‘Running short of fuel, more likely,’ Manley, yelled. ‘You see, the Spits are eighty miles away from their base and only have limited endurance.’

  Suddenly, their attention was diverted by Dinga Bell’s voice coming over the bridge intercom. ‘Berkeley on fire. Looks like she’s hit a mine.’

  Moments later, PO Signalman Tate reported, ‘Signal from Brocklesby, sir. “Berkeley bombed and is sinking. Albrighton to take off crew then scuttle. Helix to remain on station”.’

  Seconds Dixie Dean, the port lookout yelled, ‘Enemy aircraft approaching on the port beam, sir.’

  All heads immediately turned from focusing their binoculars on Berkeley, and saw a Messerschmitt swoop over the ship, its black crosses clearly visible on the underside of the fighter’s pale green wings.

  ‘Hard a starboard, coxswain,’ yelled Manley, watching intently as the bomber dropped a stick of bombs. At the same time, Helix heeled precariously to the right. Manley clutched hold of the arms of his chair to prevent himself toppling onto the deck. However, this didn’t prevent him and the others being drenched with warm spray as the bombs exploded some ten yards away.

  As the ship slowly righted itself, FP picked himself up off the slippery deck and cried, ‘That was too damn close for comfort, sir.’

  ‘Quite so,’ came Manley’s understated reply. He focussed his binoculars onto the beach. ‘My God, Number One,’ he cried, ‘Red and White Beaches are still taking heavy fire from the eastern headland, and the men remain pinned down.’

  ‘And I can see men crouching in a ditch between the sea wall and the promenade,’ said FP. ‘Most of the poor blighters look either dead or wounded.’

  ‘Aircraft approaching about five hundred yards on starboard beam, sir, looks like a Messerschmitt,’ shouted Sub Lieutenant Baker.

  All eyes turned and saw the fighter streaking towards them, almost at sea level. From the edge of both its wings, pairs of yellow flames blazed away.

  ‘Everyone, take cover,’ yelled Manley, as the sharp crackle of gunfire rent the air.

  ‘You as well, sir,’ cried FP, launching himself in front at Manley. Seconds later the sharp sound of bullets peppering the starboard side of the bridge, and the tinkling of glass as the bridge consort shattered into little pieces.

  Unfortunately, Manley’s warning came too late for Wacker Payne and Wiggy Bennett, whose bodies lay crumpled and bleeding on the deck of the port and starboard wings.

  Suddenly, with the exception of the dull throb of the engines, everything was quiet. That was when Manley became aware he was lying on his back with FP on top of him.

  ‘Thank you, Number One,’ Manley grunted, looking at FP’s face lying against his left shoulder. ‘You can get up now, I’m all right,’ he added trying to push FP away. In doing so, he put his arms around FP, and felt his hands warm and wet. He slowly withdrew them and saw them covered in blood. ‘Number One, how are you?’ cried Manley, turning his head and looking at FP’s glazed eyes and ashen face. ‘For God’s sake, speak to me.’ Seeing FP’s lips moving he placed his head close to FP’s mouth.

  ‘T… tell… Laura,’ muttered FP, his voice almost incoherent against the sound of gunfire, ‘I… I’m sorry.’ His eyes then closed and his head lolled, lifeless, to on side.

  Just then, Sub Lieutenant Baker and Lieutenant Powers appeared. ‘Don’t just stand there,’ Manley shouted, ‘the first lieutenant’s been injured, send for the doctor.’

  ‘I already have, sir,’ Baker replied. He knelt down and felt for the carotid pulse in FP’s neck, but sadly, found none. ‘But I’m afraid it’s too late for a doctor, sir, he’s gone.’ Baker manged to say, over the ear-splitting gunfire from A and B guns.

  While Helix’s heavy and light armament continued to pound away, FP’s body was draped with a blanket by PO Steward Sandy Powel. It was then taken by some of the first aid party to Manley’s cabin and placed in a corner and covered with sheet. A blanket was placed over the blood-stained corpses of Wacker Payne and Wiggy Bennett, and taken by the rest of the first aid party, and secured to stanchions on the quarterdeck.

  Meanwhile, Manley, ba
dly shaken by FP’s, sudden death, was finding it hard to concentrate on fighting the ship. Despite the ongoing sound of battle, he kept on hearing FP’s last words before he died. Regaining his composure, he looked at PO Tate and said, ‘Better get a signal off to C-in-C, Portsmouth.’ Tate took out a pad and pencil. ‘Say, “Regret to inform the death of Lieutenant Commander, the Right Honourable, Basil Foster-Price, RN, killed in action on board HMS Helix on 18 August 1942. Able Seaman Bennet, Able Seaman Payne also killed. Please inform next of kin”.’ Manley paused then added, ‘Insert their Christian names and official numbers of Bennett and Payne.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Tate replied quietly and hurriedly left the bridge.

  ‘How close is the ship from the shore, Pilot?’ he managed to ask Baker, while doing his best to focus his binoculars on a group of Essex Scottish, who crouching low, were weaving their way up the promenade in an attempt to join small contingent of their comrades, who were also under heavy fire.

  ‘Just over two hundred yards, sir,’ Baker shouted, ‘and five fathoms clear of the bottom.’

  Manley was about to order the ship to move fifty yards closer to the beach, when PO Tate reported, ‘Signal from Brocklesby, sir. “Calpe informs, Essex Scottish, Fusiliers Mont Royal and A Commando Royal Marines being sent to land on Red Beach. Ships to continue support”.’

  ‘They must be the reserves,’ said Manley. ‘Thank you, PO, acknowledge.’

  ‘Here’s hoping this will tip the balance and allow the Canadians to move inland, sir,’ shouted Powers.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Manley answered, giving Powers a dubious look.

  The time was 0900. ‘A dozen LCAs approaching about half a mile behind smoke screen,’ Dinga Bell reported from the crow’s nest.

  Everyone on Helix’s bridge watched as a ragged line of LCAs emerged from the smoke screen and immediately came under fire. ‘Two LCAs have been hit by mortars, sir, and are sinking, sir,’ Powers shouted.