Approach of the storm - Chapter 39

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Approach of the storm Chapter 39
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

So here I was again, down below in charge of Saumarez’s gear room with a young H.O. for my companion. Saumarez was now doing a moderate cruising speed and holding station astern of Mauritius and slightly stood in the Albanian shore. I had seen our position from a quick look from the upper deck. The young lad sitting by my side on the gear casing said, “Yorkie, what will it be like if they open fire?” I replied, “Well, you’ll probably see a dirty great shell come through the ship’s side and pass out the other, for its only thin.” “Bloody hell, are you f****** sure or are you kidding?” I told him that I was kidding. Nothing will happen now. Those b******* will have more sense than to fire on us, do you think those ships are just bloody stamps?

As we listened to the steady low whine of the turbines and the murmur of the exhaust fan, I indeed felt confident. We had received mail a couple of days before we sailed and, as usual, I had received my large amount.

One leading stoker often used to collar me as I’d pace the fo’castle and he’d fall in step with me. He loved his wife so very much, but never seemed to receive any letters. He was very apprehensive. I used to try to comfort him with all kinds of excuses for her. We were, I suppose, a kind of brotherhood. HMS Saumarez had been bloodied at the Battle of the North Cape, against the German battle cruiser Scharmhorst, where she had taken part in torpedo attacks against the German ship with the destroyers Savage, Scorpion and the Norwegian destroyer Stord. She had suffered damage and casualties, so we had a noble tradition to uphold.

The ship had now been steaming steadily on, no sign of life from the Albanian shore lying off our starboard side. Then suddenly, a burst of machine gun fire hit Volage in the bows. No one realized its significance; looking back I believe it was some kind of warning. Not long after, a terrific shattering crash seemed to lift the destroyer clear of the water. My companion and I were jarred off our seat on the gear casing by a bone-jarring shock. I realized we had been hit and I remember saying, “A mine?” but my pal had gone. My first instincts were to check the pumps. They had tripped out and the ship was developing a list to port and the shafts were slowing down as she lost way. I rang the engine room and informed them that I’d go to see what help I could give topside. I could see nothing could be gained by staying in the gear room gazing at the impeller pumps, now not needed. I grabbed my lifebelt, put it on and handed my crewmate his lifebelt.

An enormous volume of thick yellow smoke was pouring over the for’d part of the ship and it didn’t take much to see HMS Saumarez had taken a mortal blow. It was indeed a mine, I knew it. I’d been mined before, on the destroyer Quail, and had been tin fished on the battleship Ramillies. It didn’t take much to know what had happened. Putting two and two together, that’s what warning burst had come.

The full horror of what had happened was now apparent, as I saw men with their skins hanging from them and I hardly realized that it wasn’t their clothing. Horribly burned and in excruciating pain, some just moaned, while some just stumbled with arms held wide in a desperate effort to relieve the pain. The ship’s surgeon moved among them. I knew that he would be administering morphine. Other men were being led amidships, some not burnt but injured internally. Some were sat up and were asking for cigarettes. This is one of the great luxuries an injured man will ask for and it seemed to remind one of a film where the heroes light cigarettes for wounded comrades.

One incident I remember very vividly was of one man. He was pleading for someone to shoot him. He died very shortly after, but his agony would have seemed much longer than those few minutes.

Going forward to help run a firemain hose out, I came across a body lying near the fo’castle. The only thing left on it was the man’s belt. His hair had all gone. I took hold of an arm to pull him to one side and felt my fingers dig into the flesh. He must have been caught in the spout of water near the explosion and as a result, was partly boiled. He might never have suffered any pain at all. The navigator had been hurled across the bridge, suffering a broken arm. By now efforts were being made to check the for’d mess deck for survivors. I understood one had been found alive and been recovered with his face pressed-up against the deck-head. This was the only place some air was still available, for the mess deck had been flooded, along with the cable locker and paint-store.

I manned a hose and played it onto the fire, now spreading from the starboard side, inside the fo’castle where the ship’s writer’s office was situated. I was positioned not far from where the mine had struck, directly under the bridge and near the boiler room. I knew all my chums in No. 1 Boiler room had gone. One did survive, for he had just come topside to fetch a small mess kettle of water to provide a drink for his mates and himself. This kettle chore saved his life.

The deck plates over No. 1 Boiler room were red-hot, for it must have had blazing oil floating in the flooded place. My heavy boots were becoming uncomfortably hot, so, to ease my feet, I untied the laces. Then a chap came up to me and offered to take over from me with the hose, saying, “Have a smoke and a minute, Yorkie, I’ll take over.” I remember peering over the guard rail and saying, “I wonder how many more are down there.”

All the while I was wondering how much damage and flooding had occurred, for at the back of my mind was the thought of the magazine being near the fire. I remembered an explosion three years earlier, at Bari. I knew if the magazine went, we all went.

I turned and looked aft and saw that our captain, Selby, had taken to the mid-ship’s steering position, taking reports and calmly assessing the situation. He was an inspiration, he was bare-headed and I remember thinking, “What’s going through his mind?” As I looked, I saw something else. Our sister ship Volage, under Commander Paul, was easing forward and I understand she was to take our tow. Then suddenly, I saw a towering column of water and spray spring up where HMS Volage’s bows were, and a dull thud echoed across the water. As it collapsed back into the sea, I saw that the ship’s bows appeared to have simply evaporated away. They had gone right up to “A” gun turret. The for’d mess decks had practically gone and one could see right into what was left.

I knew my worst fears were realized. We were in a minefield. Nobody and nowhere was safe. It was peacetime and these things were not supposed to happen, yet here I was caught up in the smell of burnt flesh, burning paintwork, the keen smell of fuel oil leaking from ruptured tanks and a deck that had been turned into a morgue. We were lying under the guns of the unseen shore batteries, the heavy cruisers’ comforting grey shapes lay out near the Corfu shore and I wondered why we hadn’t opened fire. Maybe they were holding off until we were clear. By now the ship was drifting near to shallower water. Meanwhile, HMS Volage was moving slowly forward. Gingerly, she approached, her speed had to be low, or her bulkheads could have collapsed under the pressure of the sea and no one knew for sure if there were any more mines. Her commander hailed our captain and informed him of his intention to take our tow. A light line was fired from what was left of her bows and this was bent onto the stout, steel hawser.

Now we were to see British seamanship at its best. The towline was secured and Volage, ever so slowly, took the strain. This was the most delicate part of the operation, for a sudden snatch would have broken the hawser. Saumarez was being weighed down by what must have been a few hundred tons of water and she had to be got moving by a ship that was badly damaged herself. Once moving, things became easier for Saumarez, her list had evened out and she was now on a more even keel. The fire that had been burning on the sea was by now gradually subsiding and the ready-use shells and ammo on B gun deck had been ditched, for fire had caught up there, too. By now the horror of what had happened became even more apparent. Some men had been trapped in the T.S. room when the steel bulkhead door had buckled. The fire had incinerated them and it had been impossible to get them out in time.

A small launch had put out from the port off our starboard beam and contained two or three men in uniform. They appeared to be officers and hailed us. They wanted to know why we were there. Commander Paul told them, in no uncertain terms, to get out of it. I forget what he said for sure, but I did hear that he had threatened to blow them out of the water with his Bofors.

Searching as far as possible in the for’d quarters had been concluded, no further survivors were there. Meanwhile, fire-fighting was going on and we were getting weary. Shock and the need for rest was becoming apparent, men and officers had done their best and would do so until they dropped. I had felt this action weariness before, sometimes a cigarette and a mug of “Ki” would bring a new liveliness to a jaded spirit.

Soon help came from other ships. The Ocean’s launch came alongside and the wounded were lowered as tenderly as possible into Ocean’s boat. Now Ocean’s fire-fighters took over, they were a well-led, efficient crew.

Most of the ship’s company, not needed, were now taken off. Several of us volunteered to stay aboard with our skipper and we were given the biggest tot of rum I’d ever seen, as well as several blankets. We lay down near the blanket-shrouded forms of some men who had died, while all the time Volage was slowly towing us back to Corfu. Some officers had gone to help organize things on the carrier and all who were not needed rested or co-operated with the Ocean’s fire-fighters.

Our “Jimmy”, Commander Gueritz, was a good and efficient organizer and his insistence on a smart and well-trained crew had been a godsend that had stood the ship’s company in good stead.

Pr-BR

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