Approach of the storm - Chapter 18

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 18
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

Soon it was time to sail again. We had enjoyed the runs ashore in Mombassa, but curiosity overcomes regret and so, “Where to now?” was the thought in all our minds. Eager faces scanned the watch below the
lists pinned up on the mess deck notice boards, for we were shuffled around occasionally to give experience of the different jobs we could expect to be called upon to do in the event of battle casualties, no-one relished 'B' boiler room in this heat, for even the mess deck itself was hot.

The pipe rang through the mess decks again. “Special sea duty men to your stations. Prepare ship for leaving harbour.” So this was it. We were on the move again. We now joined more of the Indian Ocean Fleet and became a part of Force R, comprising more of the old battle ships, Resolution, Royal Sovereign and Revenge, all old ships, impressive and mounting 8-15, 12-6 and 8-4, but slow.

We visited Zanzibar and on to the port and capital of Ceylon, Colombo. All the while in hot, but not unpleasant weather, rig of the day being mostly white front and white tropical shorts with No. 6’s being worn as an alternative, for shore leave.

Here in Columbo, we were treated to shouts of derision from a large trooper whose men, many of whom were wearing the jungle bush hat with one side an upturned brim. What had invoked this verbal attack, we didn’t know, someone said they were Aussies who had been confined to ship for fear of causing trouble ashore, anyway we didn’t worry about that, it was their affair.

The shore leave in Colombo revealed more female beauty in one place than I’d ever seen in my life, a mixture of Eurasian and the dusky Indian types, but they were shyly aloof. I never recalled one man making it with them, and there were some who bragged they’d have a woman wherever they might dock.

Here and there, I would see a splash of bright red on the pavement and I wondered what it was, until I saw one of the population expel a stream of spit the same colour, and realised it was the beetle nut that some chewed. Here and there you’d be pursued by the same type of children who seemed so common in most of the hot countries’ ports, either begging, wanting to sell you something, or making some more unsavoury offers.

We were not long in Colombo, a few days at the most, then we sailed for Trincomalee, a large natural harbour on the North East coast round the other side of the island, when we met up with more of the fleet, we came to anchor well out in a large bay.

The old “Hermes” carrier lay there, along with cruisers and destroyers. The war seemed far away. “Trinco” was handy for swimming and, “hands to bathe” was an eagerly awaited “pipe”, nearly as good as “up spirits”.

Shore leave, although not having the female attractions of a Durban, did nevertheless offer a drink of really good beer in the little fleet canteen established there. In fact the McEwan's export beer sold there and drunk from passed around mess fanny was cold, dark and sumptuous. After the South African lager, this was a treat.

Coming back from my first liberty in Trinco, a disquieting thought occurred to me, as we strolled along the jetty to the liberty boat. I observed a steel net like structure coming right up to it, a shark net to keep the sharks away from bathers. “Bloody hell, and we have been bathing over the side.” After that, I had qualms, although I still went in the drink when it was hands to bathe. A marine lookout armed with a rifle was now posted and one with a bugle to sound off a shark alarm gave a bit of confidence. We were advised to keep together and climb out one by one if a shark was spotted.

As luck had it, we never saw one, although we did see striped fish about a foot long — groups of two or three flash through the depths. Someone said these fish denoted the presence of sharks.

The heat was such that the clear blue water had an irresistible pull, sharks or no sharks. The bathing sessions were sheer luxury. Only men who have served in those old battle wagons, especially as engine room ratings in ships designed for the North Atlantic and home waters, can realise the constant heat we had to endure.

Heat so hot you had to switch the oil sprayer valves on and off with a fistful of cotton waste. Sweat trickled down the body and soaked round the waist gathered boiler suit, down the legs, tickling the skin and trickling into the laceless boots we wore until you could hear it squelching, and you poured it out.

The restricted fresh water ration did little to alleviate conditions. Looking back, I often wonder how we had so little sickness. The old hands among the crew could be a godsend with their advice to rookies who had never been tropical before.

One of the men, Leading Stoker “Smithy”, an old hand with a ready dry wit, was drafted to the carrier “Hermes”, an older type than the “Indomitable”(??) and slower, more like a floating box. In fact the sailors affectionately called her H.M.S Ditty Box, after the square wooden box some ratings kept, with various knick knacks and their “housewives” in, “housewives” being the small navy blue cloth package in which items of sewing equipment were kept, and could be rolled out and fitted back up with two tapes.

Smithy was aboard H.M.S Hermes when it was attacked by planes from a Jap task force just off Ceylon and survived to tell the tale, although the Hermes was sunk. This was the task force we were said to be hunting and was in due course to take a further toll of men and ships.

I awoke one morning and making my way to the upper deck, I saw two Aussie destroyers were tied up alongside our starboard side, Naden and Nestor. Their crews seemed a jovial crowd. They had the same humour that most seamen appeared to have - only their dialect gave them away from their British counterparts.

I remember one incident which wouldn’t have endeared them to the RSPCA, although it caused a laugh. A monkey on board the nearest boat had appeared to aggravate someone, who was probably the cook, for he stepped out of the galley with a hot poker and touched it lightly on the bum. That monkey shot right up the for’d mast, and sulked for hours, but it was apparently unhurt, except possibly to a monkey’s pride!

About this time we heard depressing news of a battle in the Java Sea, involving Dutch, American and British ships, all sunk by superior enemy forces. At the time, I and many more couldn’t understand why we were not sailing eastwards to teach these “little yellow b******s” a lesson.

When you looked at the seeming might of the great battleships and the cruisers with their destroyer escorts, it looked a big enough fleet to tackle anything. We didn’t, in those far off days realise the problems of modern warfare.

Here was a clever ruthless enemy, trained to a high pitch of modern naval war, with carriers carrying pilots dedicated to the point of fanaticism, and flying planes capable of superb performances.

At this time, the Zero fighter could be said to be the best fighter in the air in this arena of the war, so although we were impatient to hit back, we just had to wait our turn. Meanwhile, we had the job of supporting troop convoys in the hope that the presence of battleships would keep the Japs from coming too far into the Western Indian Ocean. But this was not to be, as we were to find out to our cost.

A formidable carrier task force under Vice Admiral Chuichi (??) Neegumo, comprising five carriers, was already preparing to attack Ceylon. A battle squadron of our battleships, two heavy cruiser, a light cruiser and the first destroyer flotilla comprising nine destroyers under Vice Admiral Gusichi?? Mikawa??

Besides this move against Ceylon, a cruiser force comprising five heavy and two light cruisers with a destroyer force of eight ships under Vice Admiral Ozaiva?? was on the way to attack shipping in the Bay of Bengal. Many of these ships were modern, powerful and well trained, so the forces arranged against us were indeed powerful.

At the time, we on the lower deck had no idea of this. Our days were more frustrating than anything else. Between the troop convoys, we sailed and cruised the Indian Ocean. We sweated and toiled, day after day, blue sea, tropical heat, battened down at night with warm humid air circulating through the mess decks, and as a stoker, I didn’t think it possible a human body could produce so much liquid in the form of sweat.

Down below, especially in the boiler rooms, it was nearest to my idea of hell, with boiler suits rolled down to the waist and sweat pouring down to soak into and drench them till they were just wet rags.

The thick Trinidad oil soon carboned the furnaces up so it was a constant battle to keep the carbon at bay and the bright orange glow of the furnace fire glowing on the bodyies, as a stoker gazed through the sight flap, didn’t leave much to the imagination. He only needed a pointed beard and a pair of horns.

It didn’t help either to be rationed for water. Bathing had to be completed quickly as the bathrooms were only opened for half an hour at the end of each watch. After this, one of the men of the duty watch from the DB party opened the ejectors and pumped the bathroom sumps dry ready for the end of the next watch.

It was quite a job nipping round a ship of the size of a battlewagon. You covered a lot of deck space and went up and down a lot of hatchways. At this time I spent as much time as possible on the upper deck, it was enjoyable when the ship was at cruising stations, the passage of the ship heading through the blue seas augmented any wind there was. It was always a disappointment when the time came to go down below, down into that hellish heat.

It was a matter of pride to relieve the watch, five minutes before time and you expected your relief to act accordingly. If ever men deserved a medal for endurance, it was the stokers of the old 'R' class battleships. Ships were never built for these waters. Ships often had to refuel at sea from the fleet auxiliary tankers and sometimes refuelled the odd destroyer from their own tanks, if it was getting dangerously low.

The distances involved in the Indian Ocean needed to have fuel at hand. We had a refuelling base at a small coral atoll, a flat desolate place with a few palm trees. I remember it as a semi-circular place, the sun’s rays penetrated deep down into it’s clear blue depths, it looked very deep, it’s name was Addu Atoll and it lay in the Maldive Islands, 600 miles south west of Ceylon.

Our carriers were still training many of their pilots. I witnessed several crashes, I saw two Swordfish appear to catch the wave tops with their undercarriages and tip over nose first. Immediately a destroyer detailed off for such an eventuality raced up to pick their crews out of the water, and I remember seeing a fighter, either a Seafire or a Hurricane, heading straight for the Ramilles’ fo’castle. He appeared to leave it too late to climb the small altitude required to clear it, and so he dipped towards the sea, nose down, tail up. He lay for a few minutes as we saw a small figure scramble quickly out and jump into the sea as a destroyer tore through the water towards the rapidly disappearing plane.

These pilots, mere boys, most of them, had the respect of all. We knew our very lives depended on them if we met up with the Nips. For now, news was gradually filtering through that somewhere out here was an enemy force.

Just then, I don’t think we were sure how powerful it really was. The loss of the cruisers, De Rijter, off Java, Exeter, Perth and Houston, a mixture of Dutch, American, British and Australian ships, together with several destroyers lost in the Java Sea and Sunda Strait proved it.

Pr-BR

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