Approach of the storm Chapter 36

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Louise Treloar of the ‘Action Desk — Sheffield’ Team on behalf of Thomas Arthur Russell, and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

Approach of the storm Chapter 36
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

One day, I noticed a build up of merchant shipping in the bay and heard the news of the invasion of Europe. It was a time of year when the weather was rather warm and it coincided with my being appointed to a plum job up in the hills. It was a job of vital importance for the ships amassing for the invasion of southern France. It entailed the manning of a newly built pumping station and our job was to see to its running and the correct feeding into the system of pipelines of the correct amount of chloride and lime.
I got lucky in another way. An Italian soldier started to visit me in my lonely vigil at the pumping house and I used to show him how to carry on looking after it. He grew to be quite a pal and told me that he came from Trieste, and he showed me pictures of his family. I’d leave him in charge while I went down to a piece of sandy beach, not far away, so that I’d be on call if I were needed. Here the water was crystal clear, the sand very fine and white. I could swim and look down at the small fish deep down below me. This was the life. One day, he brought his carbine and some ammo and we shut the pump down and practiced firing at some tin cans that he had brought along. I could always make some tale up if anyone wanted to know what was up.

I had sometimes had blockages in the pump and had stripped it down to fine large eels from the reservoir in the pipe. My friend found these an extra addition to his diet, which seemed to be nothing more than tomato soup and bread. I helped him by filling a large tin every dinner time from the mess leavings and, on my return at 1 o’clock, he would tuck in and very seldom left any. One day, I returned after dinner with the usual tin full, but he was nowhere to be seen. This seemed strange; he wasn’t in the habit of leaving these meals that he looked forward to so much. I decided to go up to the Italian water engineer’s house, which was higher up the hill. He was there, sat on a chair holding his stomach and groaning. They had given him a whole cheese and a bottle of wine and he’d practically downed the lot. He’d recovered by the next morning after, which says a lot for his constitution. His brown smiling face, with the crinkle round his blue eyes and his words “So Stupido” brought a laugh that we both shared in. I couldn’t visualise this as my enemy, he was such a gentle man. We often talked of our families and he said many times that my wife and I should visit his casa in Trieste when the war was over.

One day, my peace was shattered when “Ricy” came into the billet and announced quietly, “Russ, I’ve heard that Pasqua is dead.” I couldn’t believe it. I had given her some of my washing a week or so previously and I’d no inkling that anything was wrong. I felt particularly sad about the young girl and boy, who would be without this marvellous mother, and her husband, so kind with his gruff voice and his love for her and the kids.
Taffy B nearly got me killed. One evening, he drew me to one side “ Russ, old boy, how about going with me to a casa where there’s some very nice wine and a piano.” Knowing Taffy, I guessed that he had something thought out and he claimed that he would play the piano, so I thought okay. The place was only a few minutes away and when we arrived, Taffy knocked on the door and a middle-aged lady opened the door. We stumbled across a low step into a room lit by a very bright single bulb, a few chairs and a table were its only furnishings except for a very battered looking piano. Seated there was a Maltese Royal Navy man and an Italian sailor. They greeted us and we were served a large flagon of wine. The wine soon gained its hold, especially on Taffy, for he hardly every dried out from one session to another. He had a go at the piano but only succeeded in a noise that no-one could call a tune. He then, got himself into an argument with the Italian sailor over the wine and he was getting nasty, calling the Italian all kinds of b*******.

I could see trouble was boiling up and realised that something had to be done quickly, so I said, “Come on, lets go.” The woman, herself, was frightened, after all it was her home and members of the occupying forces getting into trouble there, could have meant an investigation and interrogation. I grabbed hold of Taffy and steered him through the door out of the bright light of the unshaded bulb into the dark street. Suddenly I felt a blow over my right eye and a noise of running feet. I swung a wild punch with my right fist and felt it thud somewhere against a body, then I was alone in the dark. I shouted for Taffy but got no reply, no wonder, Taffy, who had caused the trouble, had scarpered and I copped for it. I’d only tried to protect the silly b****** from his folly.

I now felt a dull ache down my right side and felt warmth down that side. It was only when I’d made my way back to the villa where we lived, that I found out that I had been stabbed. It must have been a very fine stiletto type blade, for the wound was only a slit of under ½ inch wide. P.O. Hurst looked at it and swabbed my right eyebrow and sent me off to the hospital where I had three or four stitches over my right eye and a small plaster over the small stab wound.

I got a good telling off for getting into trouble; I didn’t mention Taffy. I kept a sense of loyalty to him but I made up my mind that I’d never go out with him anymore.
Mail came pretty regularly and my wife made sure that I knew all about our daughter. I was transferred back to the dockyard in charge of fuel stocks, both coal and petrol. Some men had been sent home. One day I received news that I was longing for, I was ordered to have my kit bag and hammock ready for the next morning and I was to take passage aboard an armed trawler, which would take me to Naples. My heart leapt when I was informed of this because this was to be the first stage of my journey home. Years later, I saw La Maddalena on the TV in a top town programme and was astonished at the alterations; it was much more modern than the place that I remembered.

While residing in Naples, I took advantage of an organised trip to Pompeii and Herculaneum and I’ve never felt such a sense of amazement as we walked around those historical places. Soon I received orders to join an Italian cruiser running between Naples and Malta, carrying mail and passengers. In Malta the next day, and I was quickly taken off the launch with all my gear and taken to a transit camp. It looked like some sort of ruined barracks made of whitish stone. I reported to the guardroom and was escorted to a large room that contained a mess table; stools and a place had been made to sling our hammocks. It looked a pretty austere place but clean; of course whatever naval discipline was in operation, cleanliness was paramount. I shared this place with six more ratings and was soon on good terms with them. Beer was in short supply and so we made do with the Maltese wine. I was restless and longing for home; the past year and a half, the tragedy of the Quail and Bari had faded and leaving Maddalena, my mates and Italian friends that I had made, all seemed insignificant now; nothing seemed to matter any more. My Magdalena was all that I was bothered about. When she wrote and told me that they had to take shelter one night as the buzz bomb passed over; it did me no good at all, it worried me a lot. That bomb hit Manchester and she described it after that it was like a two stroke motorbike going across the sky.

The day did finally arrive when I was shipped out aboard the liner Franconia along with some of Churchill’s staff from the Malta conference. I travelled along with one or two R.A.F. men who were travelling in steerage, it seemed that we were in accommodation near the shaft passages by the rumble that we could hear and feel. I didn’t mind a bit. The food was good and we were allowed a beer ration and a jolly fine drink it was; McEwans export ale as I remember.

We were sailing at full speed and well lit up as U boat activity had virtually ceased. I made a few pals among the R.A.F. men. We finally docked in the UK and I made my way to Devonport where I reported and was granted a month’s leave. A month’s leave seemed like heaven. I won’t ever forget that feeling as I drew my railway warrant, had my pay book stamped and collected my pay. I was handed a ration card by a Wren clerk and was sweetly told, “Enjoy your leave Jack.” I didn’t need any telling, I’d already collected my cigarette and chocolate substance with bits of pussers Ki that I had managed to save, the thick chocolate substance with bits of white that looked like sugar mixed in it. I’d, also, made sure that my wife’s Grandpa would get his plug of pipe tobacco which I’d made up from leaf tobacco and given a generous sprinkling of rum; old John Adcock’s eyes would sparkle when we called to see him and her grandma Anna. Anna would have to settle for some of my “nutty “ ration. I managed to get away eventually, making sure that I gave the guardhouse a smart salute, I didn’t want to trip up now by not saluting, although I thought it a load of bull****. I had things for my parents too. I was pretty well weighed down and the long naval overcoat that I wore over my uniform didn’t make me anymore comfortable either.

I calculated that with luck, in 12 hours more, I’d be receiving that hug and kiss that I’d only been able to dream about for two years or so. I changed trains at Sheffield and arrived at Cudworth station in the early hours of the morning; this still left me about two and a half miles from home. I asked a porter when the buses started running and from his reply, realised that I would have a couple of hours to wait. I weighed things up and decided to walk even though I was weighed down by all of my luggage. Finally, aching all over and lathered in sweat, I arrived outside our blessed door. A moment’s pause, a moment of anticipation, then, I knocked. All my dreams lay behind that door. The light came on and I heard that beautiful exciting voice. “It’s Bill, he is home,” my wife shouted to her parents. The hall light came on and the door opened. There she stood, in her dressing gown and nightie, looking as lovely as I’d imagined. I took my cases in, looked without speaking and we just fell into each other’s arms. The kisses were sweet. A month with her would be paradise.

When we finally fell apart, she said, “You’ll be hungry, I’ll do bacon and eggs.” My meal finished, I decided on a good wash but before I did, she went upstairs and came back down with our daughter in her arms. She was smiling at me and asked if I wanted to hold her. Of course, this fair-haired child of mine, immediately started to cry. I felt like a stranger to her and she probably wondered whom this strange looking guy in a uniform could be. Magdalena tried to comfort her with the words “It’s your daddy my love,” but it made no impression, she bawled her head off and finally fell asleep in my arms, the fair head cradles against the rough blue serge of my tunic. My wife took her from me and took her back to her cot. This was what it was all about.

The days that followed on that full month’s leave were truly golden ones. We shopped, we visited, we walked in the countryside, we loved as only a pair of long parted lovers could. The time came for last goodbyes to parents and child; then, Madge accompanied me to the station.

After weeks of waiting back at the barracks, my luck took a turn for the better and I eagerly scanned the small white slip of paper with my name on. I had to report to the D.F.D.O. office. I had been put on draft to H.M.S. Venomous, a destroyer. It was April 1945. It wasn’t a new destroyer like the Quail but an old V and W class of World War II vintage, I believe. Still, it was a destroyer and it would be a relief to leave the routine of R.N. Barracks, Devonport.
When I finally arrived at the ship, she looked ancient. I didn’t realise at the time but she was used mostly as a target ship for the Barracuda torpedo bombers to practice on. She was slightly turtle backed and seemed far narrower in the beam. She had two funnels, one thin, the “woodbine” type and one a bit wider with a single set of tubes. The stokers’ mess deck seemed smaller than the Quail’s. You could tell she was aged by the thickness of the paint below decks, the rivets didn’t stand out as sharply as on a ship of younger years. Down below, the stokers’ mess deck was far narrower; we were more crowded together. Her paintwork and overhead corking was tinged a dirty yellow from the thousands of cigarettes that must have stained it over the years of service. It smelled of a certain amount of dampness and paint.

I got to know my messmates over the days ahead and I found them a great crew. It was April and the days were often cold and grey. We would go down the Forth to the practice range and then afterwards, the exercise came alongside. Sometimes, the torpedoes fired would take some spotting and at times they must have given our captain a lot of anxiety, for to lose a “fish” entailed the loss of around a £1000, a large sum in those days. The sea boat’s crew and the cutters would curse at the time taken to spot the nose of the torpedo as it bobbed in the troughs, especially if rain had set in. I marvelled at the men who would risk their necks in such a small steel tube that they had a cheek to call a submarine.

Pr-BR

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