Ride Out The Storm

by John Harris

  He had been trying to bring some order into the chaos near the nets and it was this that saved his life. Flung against the torpedo tubes, he clung to them for a moment, his steel helmet awry, while his wits settled back to normal amid the roar of the engine room blowers and the hysterical yapping of one of the dogs that had got on board.

  Deciding he’d probably be needed on the bridge, he began to make his way there, but as he reached the ladder, one of the chief petty officers collided with him and they made their way up together, fighting to pass each other in the confusion of the moment.

  The bomb had hit B turret which was hanging half over the side with great splashes of blood on the blistered paint. The bridge was an even greater horror. Flying steel splinters had riddled it until it looked like a colander. The navigating officer was lying in a corner, looking as though someone had fired a gigantic shotgun at him, his whole body and face full of red holes all pumping blood. The yeoman was curled up like a foetus, moaning.

  The captain, the imperturbable Hough, had been hit by one of the flying splinters and a slice of his skull sheared off as cleanly as if by a knife. His tin hat lay near his head and his brains were oozing bloodily into it.

  With daylight Didcot had returned to the gruesome task of clearing the obstruction under Athelstan’s stern. Tremenheere had lit his pipe and was staring towards the beach. The sands looked pearly white, the grass waving on the dunes behind. The crowded ranks were still moving in incredible order to the water’s edge, and in the shallows boats were being worked laboriously out to tugs and launches, their bows dipping sharply as they reached the surf, their crews pulling fiercely to combat the current.

  The smoke from burning buildings was depositing a layer of fine ash and cinders on the water, which was black and greasy with patches of iridescence that marked the grave of a ship or an aircraft. Athelstan’s crisp planks were now scarred by hundreds of hobnailed boots, the paintwork was scratched and chipped, and here and there was a smear of blood. The big cabin was full of sand and water, and the cushions were stained with salt. The stove had long since ceased to work and the engine room was like a pigsty. With the habit of years, Tremenheere was wondering how long it would take him to clear it all up again, when Didcot stopped what he was doing and flung up an arm. Almost at once they heard the alarms go on the destroyers.

  High in the sky, faint and silvery, like midges in the sun, a group of planes was heading towards them, and the guns opened fire with a crash that nearly split their eardrums, the harsh racket of the pom-poms mingling with the crash of the heavier ack-ack.

  As the sky fell in on them and the sea started to heave upwards, Tremenheere flung himself down, the kick of the explosions jarring the deck beneath him. As it jerked he saw Didcot duck and glance round, then go on poking under the stern with the boathook.

  Lewis guns from the tugs and the smaller craft and the rattle of rifles from the beaches joined the racket, and the sea was flecked with small plumes of water as the bullets struck its surface and the shell splinters came singing down. Only vaguely, Tremenheere was aware of the nearby destroyer going astern, the boats alongside her cast adrift. A whaler full of men was passing under her counter and he yelled a warning; but the bronze propellers chewed their way through the wooden boat, and planks and oars leapt out of the churning water along with frantic heads, the screams changing to strangled cries as the men were sucked under.

  The dive bombers were coming down in waves now, with a howl of motors that seemed to press Athelstan under the sea, below the wreckage of boats and rafts and furnishings and planks. As he lifted his head, he saw Didcot still on the stern, crouching now, flinching at the explosions but still busy with the boathook.

  ‘Get down, you bloody fool!’ he yelled.

  Didcot was absorbed with his grim task. ‘He’s coming, Alban,’ he yelled back. ‘He’s coming!’

  By this time, deafened, numbed and terrified, Tremenheere was praying with his hands over his head. He hadn’t prayed since he was a boy but the din drained all the courage out of him. He glanced up to see an aeroplane with wings like a flat W and wheels that were covered in spats heading straight for him. It looked as though it were going to dive straight through the cabin door, but it lifted above them and he saw a vast bomb just above him, hanging in the air, it seemed, and flung himself down once more.

  The ‘whump’ as it exploded lifted Athelstan from the water and sucked all the breath from Tremenheere’s body. He was drenched with spray, then suddenly everything was quiet. He lifted his head and looked around. Miraculously the noise seemed to be dying and the aeroplanes were climbing away.

  The destroyer was still going astern, heading out of control in a huge circle straight for a paddle-steamer coming out of the harbour, and he gaped at it, wondering what would happen when they met. Then he realised there was no sign of Didcot and he scrambled aft to look for him. The khaki greatcoat with the white hand was still protruding from under the stern but the boathook was floating about twenty feet away and his heart turned over. Then, close to the side of the boat, a slim figure in naval uniform bobbed to the surface. The square collar floating on the water was stained red and from it trailed a scarlet weed. Tremenheere was still gaping at it when the last bomb hit the water and he was flung backwards into the well deck.

  There was no pain, only a numbing shock and a feeling of astonishment. He felt himself sliding out of life and it became an obsession to get things in order, so that he suddenly began to worry about Nell Noone. Thought seemed to be drifting away and the darkness he was sinking into was the darkness of the grave. This was the great experience of his life, he thought, yet he was bewildered and dismayed rather than alarmed. As the blackness grew round him he found he didn’t care a damn.

  Gazing round the shambles on Vital’s bridge, Hatton wanted to be sick and probably would have been but for the chief petty officer.

  ‘We’re still going astern, sir,’ he warned. ‘And there’s a paddle-steamer right aft!’

  Hatton swallowed. ‘How about the wheel?’ he asked in a panic.

  ‘Manned, sir.’

  ‘Right. Stop engines.’

  ‘Stop engines, sir.’

  Hatton looked wildly about him, uncertain what to do next. The CPO came to his assistance.

  ‘Slow ahead starboard, sir,’ he suggested.

  Hatton nodded. ‘Thanks, Chief,’ he said, passing on the order by the voice pipes. ‘I’ll need your help. I don’t know much about this.’

  ‘OK sir. Wheel amidships.’

  ‘Wheel amidships.’

  ‘Slow ahead both now, I think, sir.’

  ‘Slow ahead both, Chief. I think we’re pulling clear.’

  Hatton was standing with his hands on the bridge rail. Ahead of him he could see a personnel ship on fire and he decided he’d better go round it. He felt better now he had something to do, but then, glancing down, he saw his hands were bright red and covered with sticky blood, and he immediately felt sick again.

  ‘Starboard, sir.’ The CPO’s calm voice jerked him to his senses. ‘Them bloody Stukas is coming down again.’

  ‘Starboard,’ Hatton repeated. ‘Starboard!’ His voice rose to a shriek and he felt the ship heel. The sea erupted round him and he ducked as it came down on him in spray, fine as rain.

  ‘Dodged the bugger, sir,’ the petty officer yelled. ‘I think we’re clear!’

  ‘Oh, no we’re not, Chief,’ Hatton said. ‘I’m no ship’s captain and I don’t know what the hell to do. Pass the word for Number One. And let’s have another man up here, too.’ He was staring about him, trying to watch three manoeuvring ships at once. ‘We need another look-out.’

  As the CPO vanished to the back of the bridge, for a while Hatton was alone, in command of a badly damaged ship, surrounded by dead and dying men and in charge of all decisions. The voice pipe was shrieking but he daren’t take his eye off the litter of wreckage ahead. Then he heard shoes pounding on the ladder and the first lieutenant
’s shocked voice.

  ‘My God!’ he said. Then, ‘Well done, Hatton! I’ve got the con. Answer that pipe and then get the sick bay tiffies up here to clear up the mess. I saw a lot of pongos lying about.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Hatton was aware now of a new prickling feeling of confidence, but he was knocked flying as another officer made his way to the bridge, followed by a petty officer and a rating. Below the bridge was a shambles of twisted steel, torn bodies and the sobbing, swearing shapes of sailors trying to clear things away. When Hatton looked up, the beaches were about half a mile away. Dunkirk was over on his left and half a mile behind him, and it was there that the Stukas caught them for a second time. They came over in tightly knit packets, black against the pale blue, little dots surrounded by dissolving satellites of ack-ack fire. There was a crash aft and, glancing back, terrified, Hatton saw pieces of metal and wood and human beings hitting the water.

  Vital began to settle. Figures burst through the smoke, their heads down, their arms raised against the flames. Hatton was just heading towards the damage when another bomb struck the ship and she began to heel over and the running men began to slide sideways into the flames.

  The stern of the ship was terrible now beyond words. Men were being dragged out of the furnace to the comparative safety forward, but the wounded and dying were still lying with the flames licking over them and Hatton’s mind was in complete confusion because his experience hadn’t fitted him for this sort of horror.

  There was another explosion and he felt himself blown across the deck to crash sickeningly against a stanchion. He knew at once that he’d cracked or broken a rib because there was a violent pain in his side and he couldn’t straighten up properly. The ships’ guns were still going, even with the list that was on her, and then it suddenly dawned on him that Vital was rolling right over. He saw the water rise on the port side in a raging torrent and wondered whether he ought to save himself or wait for the order to abandon ship.

  Vital was at an angle of forty-five degrees now and he was clutching the stanchion to keep his feet, but then the sea came in a roaring maelstrom and he saw men struggling clear of the swinging stays and falling equipment, and took a deep breath as the water closed over his head.

  It was at the first crash that Horndorff realised he’d been given another chance. As he scrambled to his feet, the lights went out and he realised Conybeare had disappeared.

  There was a strong smell of petrol and someone shouted, ‘For God’s sake, don’t strike a match.’ Then he was fighting his way to the daylight, his strong hands plucking smaller men from his path in his determination to escape. As he reached the deck, he saw a shambles of torn steel and bodies, and splintered bulk-heads that were splashed with blood. Sailors were wrenching at corpses, throwing them aside to clear a pathway.

  ‘Over the side,’ an officer was shouting, and they began to toss the bodies into the sea as if they’d been so much refuse.

  He pushed his way through the struggling men. He was a land animal and knew little about ships, but it didn’t take much intelligence to realise that the ship was beginning to settle. The whole of the stern was in flames and he turned round and headed back the way he’d come, determined to survive, determined to get ashore, come what might.

  Tearing his helmet off, he hurled it over the side and wrenched at his belt to scramble out of the overalls he wore. As he threw them aside, a sailor bumped into him. He was dragging at the body of a man whose legs had been torn off. ‘Give us a hand, mate,’ he said, and automatically Horndorff bent to assist.

  It was as the body disappeared that Horndorff realised that now no one could tell his nationality, and he was trying to make up his mind what to do next when another bomb hit the ship. As he picked himself up, he found he was sliding sideways and it dawned on him that the ship was heeling over. He was no swimmer but, as he saw men jumping into the sea, he sat down and wrenched off his boots, tossing them away one after the other. He stood up, his trousers flapping against his ankles as the ship began to roll.

  A sailor nudged him. ‘This way, mate,’ he said. ‘Or you’ll be caught.’

  Horndorff followed the sailor over the port rail and, as he slithered down the side of the ship, she disappeared beneath his feet and he was swimming.

  The explosion that had freed Horndorff, had knocked Allerton unconscious, and when he came to he found he was being pummelled by boots as men scrambled over him as he lay on the deck. Fighting his way upright, he caught his breath in horror. Bodies were lying one on top of another in a tatter of bloodstained flesh and clothing.

  Scrambling over the scattered kit to the deck, he saw that the ship was already heeling over and men were beginning to jump into the sea. Then he realised his face was painful and, putting his hand up, he found it came away covered with blood. Tenderly he felt his mouth and realised he’d lost several teeth.

  Bodies were sliding into the scuppers as the ship began to roll, and then he was in the water, fighting his way to the surface through a mass of tangled rope that appeared to come from the ship’s falls.

  As he bobbed up, spluttering, someone fell on top of him and he was knocked under again, half unconscious. As he came up once more he hit his head on a floating oar and automatically put out his hand and clutched it, hanging over it with his arms on one side, his body on the other, his head almost in the water with exhaustion, pain and misery.

  Trapped under the ship, Hatton felt his lungs were going to burst, then the stanchion was torn from his grip and he kicked out. Above him the water grew lighter and he broke to the surface. Not thirty yards away the stern of the ship was sticking up, the propellers still slowly revolving. He could see only one Carley float on the surface of the sea and he began to swim towards it. As he did so a row of splashes appeared and he heard the howl of engines; men swimming just ahead of him sank out of sight and he found himself struggling in water that was red with blood.

  He wasn’t sure how long he was in the sea, but suddenly he was aware of a whaler with a splintered bow looming over him. A badly wounded soldier near him was pleading for help and he turned to pull him towards the whaler, but by the time they reached it the soldier was dead and Hatton let him go and saw another swimmer push the body aside indifferently as he fought his own way to safety.

  As he was dragged over the side, he found himself sprawled by another gasping figure. It was in the remains of its underwear and it was impossible to tell whether it was a soldier or a sailor – only that it was a boy.

  ‘You’ve no idea how funny you look, sir,’ the boy said. ‘Just like a nigger minstrel.’

  But he didn’t laugh and neither did Hatton because laughing, moving, breathing, even thinking, hurt too much.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll let my mum know, sir,’ the boy whispered. ‘She’ll want to know.’

  Hatton nodded painfully, on his knees trying to catch the whispers. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll let her know. I’ll contact her as soon as we get back.’

  But he knew he never would because the boy’s identity discs had disappeared, the string burned away in the flames that had scorched his face and charred his body so that he looked bald and black and wet-through at the same time.

  How long Tremenheere was unconscious he didn’t know. He came round to find himself lying on the well deck of Athelstan, staring up at the sky. At first he thought he was dead. But then he realised he could hear the throb of engines about him and the deeper roar of a big ship’s blowers somewhere. Remembering that Athelstan had been immobilised by a body under the propeller, he decided he just couldn’t bring himself to think about it and, climbing to his feet, he stumbled to the private cupboard where Knevett kept his supply of drink. It was locked so he used a marlin spike to break it loose.

  It opened with a splintering crash and, reaching inside for the whisky bottle, he wrenched out the cork and, tossing it away, raised the bottle to his mouth. It helped solve a lot of things.

  The problem Allerton had to solve wa
s that of getting ashore. Clinging to his oar, he recovered his wits and his strength and, with the will that exists in every man until he dies, he’d started to fight back and kick his way slowly towards the beach.

  As he reached the sand, he lay for a long time in the shallows among the floating packs and planks and ropes. Then he realised he was being nudged by the body of a man in the blue trousers and jersey of a sailor, and weakly he pushed it away and struggled to his knees. Staggering to his feet he headed up the beach until the sand became dry beyond the tide line. There the afternoon sun was blissfully warm on his face and he flopped down. Within a moment he was asleep.

  For Horndorff it was just as much of an effort. He was a poor swimmer, and, as Vital had rolled over more than half a mile from land, even with a splintered spar to assist him it was a long way.

  As he drew nearer the beach, he began to feel the tide had turned and that he was drifting out to sea again. In a panic, he let the spar go and tried to head for the shore on his own. But he’d misjudged his own strength and he knew he was going to drown. His flailing arms grew slower and slower, and then he realised that his legs were not moving at all and that he was wallowing half under the water.

  He tried again to force movement into his limbs but they were like lead now. Desperately he tried to touch bottom with his feet, but he was still too far from the shallows and he began to sink. His mind full of the cruelty of a fate that allowed him to drown while his comrades won promotion and medals, he at last forced his legs and arms to work again. A man was watching from the beach, but he could hardly see him through the blur of fatigue and aching agony and the glare of the lowering sun.

  Slowly he drew towards the surf, but by this time his head was as often under the water as it was above, and as his flailings grew weaker he knew he’d never make it. Suddenly he didn’t seem to care, and as his arms and legs came to a halt he lay in the water and allowed himself to sink.