Approach of the storm - Chapter 17

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Roger Marsh 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 17
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

About this time I developed a sore heel and the lump in my groin pointed to blood poisoning. I must have got it from the rubbing of lace less working boots, in the heat of the boiler room. It was an advantage to be able to quickly slip the boot off and empty the accumulation of sweat out. Yes, it got so hot that you actually collected an amount of sweat in your boots; it saturated boiler suit and vest, trickled down the body and legs in a tickling sensation. All you drank simply bubbled out again; the sweat rag draped round the neck and used to wipe the perspiration from the face and upper parts was wrung out time and time again.

'B' boiler room was the hottest, being sandwiched between 'A' and 'C'. On full power and the turbo steam fans full on it did little to alleviate the heat of the boiler room, for the hot air from the upper deck brought down by the fans seemed cold, so you were actually chilled if you got under it. You had to take immediate advantage of the half hour in between watches, that the bathroom was unlocked to bathe and wash the stinking ammonia like smell of fresh sweat of the boiler room, ready for your next watch below. My sore heel worried me. I felt my shore leave in Durban could be in jeopardy. I reported to the sick bay where the sick bay "tiffy" cleaned and dressed it and gave me a couple of tablets to swallow, and thus I managed and kept my watches till that glorious day when we came alongside in Durban.

All was the usual, bustle, men preparing for shore leave, duty watch men taking over auxiliary watches, men preparing to refuel ship, shore telephone connected up to the ships by the communication department, armed sentries posted by the gangway.

Looking so inviting was the nearby squareness of the Durban skyline. We hadn't far to go to a subway, which took you to the waterfront road. I had to go over the gangway in the course of my duties and not far along the dock was a building selling various commodities, I made my way there and asked about antiseptics, and what they could offer for my sore heel.

Someone said Dettol was good, so I purchased a fair sized bottle and resolved I'd soak that bloody heel of mine in the stuff on a kill or cure basis, for the sick bay didn't seem to be doing me any good, and I knew if I ended up in a sick bay bed my shore leave would be up the spout.

Off watch I looked through my gear and reluctantly decided to tear one of my white fronts up, I made a pad from it and liberally soaked it in pure Dettol, then bound it round my heal with the bandage I'd been wearing over it. It stung like hell at first, but it must have done it good for next day the inflammation had subsided. I gave it no let up and soaked it again before I prepared for a run ashore next day.
The lads who had been watch ashore, returned with glowing accounts of the hospitality of the Durbanites, "Plenty of bloody Grippoes here Yorky," and the "parties girls, you couldn’t go wrong." “Bloody great cars pulling up, wanting to show you around."

The weather was glorious, the ship’s company looked fighting fit, and as we prepared for shore leave in this fantastic paradise, we preened and prepared ourselves like a party of debutantes at some coming out party. Every detail of dress was carefully scanned from the blanched white cap to the tip of the highly polished shoes, and all this without any female help.

Discipline and pride and the impression we hoped to create ashore did wonders for the crew of the old Rami and when I went ashore with stoker Phillips, a new pal, I felt seven feet tall. My heel was much better now and as we emerged out on the water front roadway, with a seven "beller" leave to kill, it was hard to resist several offers from people whose cars were ticking over there, to go with them to see the sights and be shown around, especially as there seemed plenty female company, both young and old.

Long days at sea impose a strain on men, days without seeing a woman, and yet we both stuck to our plans and decided we would see Durban on our own first. That first shore leave in Durban was marvellous; we enjoyed ice-cold lager and ate in between salads and an odd sandwich. West Street, the main thoroughfare, had an American looking flavour, but without the big skyscrapers, everything looked clean. But I found it a bit disconcerting to have the black population step off the sidewalk as we approached, I had an impression of a secret fear of us, and yet we meant them no harm at all. Was it the uniform? We hadn't much idea of the political set-up and learned as we went along that they were in fear.

It made one wonder why, as allies, South Africans and we were fighting for a thing called freedom when the black population were treated in the way they were. During all my time out there, this fact jarred on my senses. That first run ashore brought me into contact with my first South African girl. We met up with two girls and accompanied them home. But it was really a home for girls from out of the town, whose work was in Durban. We sat on seats outside and chatted in the dusk till it grew dark, I kept feeling a leg touch mine and knew then I'd made some impression. She wasn't a bad looking girl either, a brunette type, brown eyes and with a good figure. I thought things over and I made my mind up; why not arrange to see her again if she wanted to. I'd much rather see Durban with a pretty girl on my arm than hang around night after night. The only drag was the fact she had to be back at her digs by 10 p.m. Eunice Pits, for that was her name, was a great lass, as we'd say in Yorkshire. We did meet again and enjoyed our days together. When she could get off, we swam together and walked together. We grew to look forward to our meetings, but that 10 p.m. curfew spoilt things. We never went too far, although I reckon it wouldn’t have been hard, we had grown to like each other so much. She worked on the telephone switchboard, so it was no surprise when she started asking for me on the shore extension, and the telegraphist rating would come down on the stokers' mess deck: "Stoker Russell, that f****** party of yours is on the phone again," Then a chorus of, "You doughy b****** Yorky, get up and tell her to get a mate for me." I felt flattered not insulted. I knew these lads who had seen me with Eunice, envied me and it was their way of wishing me well. I remember passing a party of midshipmen and "subis" ashore and it was amusing to see their faces as I passed them with this girl, in shorts and blouse, with towels under our arms, going for a swim. I'd have loved to have heard their comments.

Durban was a place I could really have settled in. The tunes currently on the air and being played at dances then seemed to go with the place. “Begin the Beguine” and “Sand In My Shoes” were popular then, with their tropical overtones, they fitted in with the mood of the days at Durban.

I had given her my home address in the UK and she told me she had sent a small parcel of sugar and other bits, hard to get at home. Things were getting serious and I wondered if I dare chance my luck. But that old bogey came up, "What if you go away and don't come bark and anything happens?" Well, looking back, she was right, and I derided, I'd gone far enough. Reluctantly, I told her I wouldn't see her again. I remember she had a friend who had lost her boyfriend on the Barham, and I saw her tears.

I realized then that you had to look at things from her point of view and the risks she would run. She didn't want us to break the friendship up, but my next runs ashore were spent with my shipmates. It wasn't hard to get drunk, and although for a while, my thoughts were of going to see her again. I steeled myself against it. She rang the ship, time and time again, I believe mother wrote to her, but I wouldn't even answer the phone to the fury of the telegraphist who had to pass up end down and was clearly fed up.

“Tell her to get stuffed - I‘m through,” and that was it. My short friendship with Eunice was over, but even though the years have flown, I hold her memory in great respect. She was all a man could desire. I hope she's still alive and had a contented life with a family. Maybe she even remembers that sailor she met so long ago, I hope so, and wonder how many of the old wartime romances came through. I remember one incident when a party of sailors were messing about with one girl and she seemed to be lapping it up. She was draped over a table and all I could see of her was a pair of legs. Giggles and laughter rang around the building, the railway station. Then two middle-aged women came on the scene, and amid a verbal onslaught, the men retreated, looking abashed and ashamed. The girl sat up, straightening her disarranged clothing and trying to smooth her hair to some semblance of order. She looked as if she’d been dragged through the proverbial, hedge.

One night, I took to the side streets on my way back off shore leave. I'd heard an Ausie trooper had given leave to its passengers, and they were in a nasty frame of mind, having a go at anyone they fancied thumping. They had a bad name for this sort of thing. It had its sequel later though, for we escorted some ships to Colombo in Ceylon, and while we were given shore leave, they were confined aboard, no doubt to keep them out of mischief. Sadly we left Durban behind and headed out into the Indian Ocean. Deep blue seas and hot sunshine were our lot again; sweating, exercising action stations, replaced the harbour routine and shore leave.

We were to join force 'B' under Admiral Willis. We made our next landfall at Mombassa and I remember the beautiful tropical dawn breaking over the skyline of Kilindini(?) anchorage, with it’s strange earthy smell of the jungle and the shapes of palm trees and other vegetation, and the sounds so strange of this exotic place, one could nearly imagine Tarzan himself appearing on the shore. The Europeans seemed a snooty lot. We had the impression they looked down on us, I did hear many of them were family names from England who had defaulted in some way and were here out of the way of any scandal they had created, and could cause embarrassment at home. We were barred from their beach. This attitude was fairly commonplace. It was funny how it altered as the Jap conquest spread. No wonder many of the lads developed contempt for them.

We ate well here, fresh fruit was very cheap. An example was a large pineapple for tuppence. Water melons, vegetable marrows, and some vegetables I’d never heard of before, appeared on the mess table.

One morning, I was detailed with another man to start cleaning inside the torpedo blisters and painting inside them with red lead. Seamen rigged a staging for and we climbed down a rope ladder to it. We had a spanner to get the nuts off the hatch bolts, and as a precaution, the spanner and hammer we were using didn’t go into the drink, we had tied a cord round them. A bit of thumping and hard work with the spanner, and we got the hatch off to immediately secure it firmly with a rope, then he wriggled inside to perch on a small ladder and start our work.

These torpedo blisters were over the armoured 12 steel belt and I never realised how large they were; it was like working in a small narrow room, the smell of stale sea water and old red lead pervaded the atmosphere, and in the light of an electric lead, it looked shadowy and eerie out of the light.

We wire scrubbed in a halfhearted manner. What a bloody job, it was it was impossible to anywhere near complete this job. “Stand easy,” and we gratefully climbed into the hot sunshine and received the large mugs of hot tea lowered down to us. The staging was only a few inches above the water surface and I remember how easy it would be for me to topple in for an accidental swim.

But as we looked forward up the harbour, we saw something, which put that thought out of our minds. Some gulls were wheeling over the water, attracted no doubt by some floating refuse, when suddenly a large glistening greyish brown object lunged clear of the water and then slid back and could only have made a pass at the gulls.

That staging was vacated like lightening and two startled faces peered out of the hatch. “What the bloody hell was that, was it a shark or what?” We never felt safe on the staging after that.

Shore leave in Mombassa was a new experience. It had an air of its own. The blacks and Indians seemed pretty aloof from each other, but it had a certain air of prosperity. I saw my first Arab show and I could understand then how the Arab slavers of bygone days must have carried their human cargo.

We were never shown any hostility by the black folk or the Indians, and we had many a laugh and joke as we’d haggled with the fruit and vegetable vendors. The little kids had a special place in Jack’s heart. They were often cheeky faced cheerful little buggars with their, “You like nice young girl, you like small boy? You follow me sailor.” The reply was usually, “F*** off you little b*****, before I kick your arse,” without any malice, more a smile and half hearted swing with the foot at an elusive chocolate coloured juvenile who’d turned around showing a mouthful of shining white teeth, and yelled back in derision, “You f*** off Johnny yourself.”

During one run ashore, I bought a hunting knife and sheath and kept this knife in my locker. A slight touch with a wet stone and it had an edge like a razor. I never used it much except to whittle at wood or lend it to a messmate who would be doing a bit of carving.

We had occasion to take coal here for the galley fires and it was surprising the amount of coal we took aboard from a barge towed alongside by a small tug.

A team of blacks were employed on this chore, carrying wicker baskets on their heads in a continuous chain of hurrying black bodies, chanting in rhythm every now and then, and creating a feeling of wonderment in a lad far removed from the Yorkshire coalfield. I even wondered if the coal had come from there.

Pr-BR

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