Approach of the storm - Chapter 27

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Approach of the storm Chapter 27
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

Though I would have liked to have been able to have turned my back on the war, I knew more than ever we had to go on come what may.

It was early spring of 1943 and the weather was pretty good. We walked through woods and round the reservoir and fields. We crammed as much as we could into the four days. After a bit of questioning on the war, where I had been and where was I going, my parents soon gave up as they realised I was not giving anything away. Harmless enough, I suppose, but the reminder on the posters, ‘Careless talk costs lives’ meant all lit implied. I had my own ideas. I had heard a ‘buzz’ going round the ship and it mentioned an invasion somewhere.

My leave was over all too soon and amid a few kisses and deceptively cheerful wave of hands, we drew swiftly away. This was the worst time of parting, that first ten minutes of setting off was really upsetting. Then I would settle down and try to read a bit, and after a while, lean back and catnap, occasionally having a gaze at the smoke drifting past and listening to the rhythm of the train as it sped over the rails. That peculiar swaying movement and the noise which seemed to my half asleep mind to be saying, “You’ve got to go — you’ve got to go — you’ve got to go.”

Every train was a train of destiny, for many would go like I was going now and would not come back. Maybe I wouldn’t, who could tell? I saw soldiers on station platforms weighted down with kitbag, gas mask and rifle, air force personnel and sailors, and many of them looked young, fresh faced, as if they shouldn’t be away from home yet. But all, or nearly all, seemed cheerful, as if it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. No one could realise what happens to men till they have seen it, after the lurid flash and heat and the red hot searing blast of explosive and whining fragments that these boys could soon be facing. The lucky ones would come back. Men who would have learnt and often aged beyond their years would remember comrades who would not come back.

These thoughts passed through my mind as the train stopped for a short while in the station, picking up people travelling north. I was getting impatient now, ready to rejoin my ship, fed up with the train journey. I suppose the ship was home in its way. Eventually I arrived back and walking up the gangway I was greeted by one or two of the lads. “You look as if you enjoyed your leave Russ. Plenty of the other then eh? Left the missus okay have you, you lucky bastard?”

This sort of thing wasn’t upsetting at all, it was a rough sort of affection and as near as brothers. You were destroyer men. You were trained as near as could be to give all for the ship and these lads. Soon, the next leave returned, the boiler clean was completed, an old tank, which had been ruptured in the heavy weather on our way down from Scapa, had been repaired and now we were ready for sea.

We were full of ammunition and refuelled and when the call came ‘Special sea duty men to your stations, prepare to leave harbour,’ we knew this was it. Now all our months of training and preparing would be put to the test. We sailed confident in our skipper, the number 1, all our officers and ourselves. We sailed down the Clyde and out into the Irish Sea and changed onto a southerly heading; we were to join a convoy. As yet we had no idea where this convoy was going or its composition. We would be told when our captain opened his sealed orders. We were kept on our toes practising action stations, anti-submarine and repel aircraft mostly. Sometimes the torpedo men would practise training the tubes or draw a torpedo out with block and tackle and check it over, nothing was left to chance. Life belts had to be carried at all times and you could wear them with no inconvenience for they were deflated. You simply slung the neck tape over your head and round the neck, and two tapes tied it round the waist. Inflation was by mouth and was quick and easy. Later on, small red bulbs, which would light on contact with the seawater, were issued. These clipped onto the lifebelt and would show up in the dark if you were unlucky enough to be sunk.

We picked the convoy up a day or two later. A couple of the ships looked to be passenger liners. We say they were carrying troops. It wasn’t a large convoy, maybe about ten ships but it was faster than the convoys the old Ramillies had escorted in the North Atlantic. It must have been an important convoy for it had an escort of four destroyers. The weather was a mixture of cloud and rain and most of the time the seas were rough. It was still early Spring. Day followed uneventful day, each dawn showed the ships still in station, lookouts scanned the sea and sky and the constant Asdic watch revealed nothing.

After a while the weather improved and grew much warmer. The sun began to blaze down and the men appeared in various scanty articles of attire, vying to be the first to acquire a suntan. The sea took on that remarkable deep blue of the tropics with the suns rays penetrating deep down into the depths.

I remember wondering, when I saw the first flying fish skimming the water until it disappeared in a flurry of spray into the side of a wave, what predator was chasing them. I had visions of great fish hunting somewhere down there, no wonder the ancient mariners had an awe of the sea and respected it. One day, as I leaned over the guardrail looking at a destroyer far off on our starboard beam, I was suddenly reminded of a hymn from my Sunday School days. The scene was one of oceanic beauty. There was this ship seeming to throw herself forward like some whitish racehorse in a half gliding, hurdling, movement through the blue sea, showing much of her forefoot one instant, then disappearing until only her masts and funnel showed. The sky was a cloudless blue and some of the words came back: ‘Summer suns are shining over land and sea,’ and to me it looked wonderful, exhilarating. Though I never kept a diary, I remember these things so vividly.

Although the watches below were hot, provided you washed your sweat sodden clothes regularly and bathed and you got your share of exercise on the upper deck you could keep clear of the dreaded ‘prickly heat’. I saw a few of my shipmates get it - a course red rash in a scaly looking patch would appear and they said the itching sensation was terrible. The liberal application of talcum and coatings from the sick bay took a while to be effective. I was lucky though, all my service I kept clear of this scourge. The sea appeared one day in an oily calm and the weather was very hot. Three or four of us off watch were looking at an area of sea full of Portuguese-men-of-war. They looked beautiful with their rainbow hued sails sticking up. I remember one passed close down the side of the ship and a destroyer’s deck isn’t so far above the surface of the sea, so I had a good look.

I saw a great dark shape and to this day I’m convinced he half rolled and eyed us, I would not have fancied going into the water where these fish were at any price, never mind the theories that they seldom attack men. I had heard of ships being sunk and sharks attacking the survivors, one with a large consignment of women forces personnel aboard.

By now we were well south, and on the day we crossed the line, we had a large canvas bath rigged up, hoses had been rigged to the fire main and the canvas pool was pumped full. The attendants of Neptune dressed up as pirates, roamed through the ship dragging protesting initiates to the bathing pool, they to be ceremoniously shaved with a large wooden razor, and a soap pill of large dimensions was forced into the mouth and then they were tipped from the chair into the bath and ducked under, two or three times by two men standing in the water. It wasn’t so bad and the cool seawater was a relief. The soap pill you simply spit out. We all got a crossing the line certificate designed and produced on the ship herself. I believe the ship’s writer produced it and it was certainly an artistic effort. I have it before me now, date 16th March 1943, so long ago and yet so fresh in the mind.

We sailed on and occasionally visited ports on the West African coast to refuel. Every time we neared the African coast we could smell that strange smell peculiar to the tropics, a warm, dank fragrance hung in the air.

Freetown, Dakar, Lagos, and Takoradi.

One day at about 1400 hours, the alarm rattlers went for submarine action stations and we increased speed outwards on the port side of the convoy, and as we closed the contact, which must have been a definite submarine contact, our depth charge crews stood by in a tense silence. By now the ship had steadied down, marking the unseen enemy like a terrier at a rat hole. Suddenly we surged forward, and then, as we passed over the contact, came the order to fire a full pattern, some set shallow, some intermediate and some at maximum settings, designed to try and catch him at any depth.

After a few seconds the first explosions of the shallow settings sent huge columns of water heaving up that time, then the maximum set charge, giving a luminous green whiplash under the surface of the ocean, and everyone was producing a noise on the ship’s hull like gigantic hammer blows clanging against the sides. The depth charge crews had reloaded and were waiting as we circled and went in once again, the speeding up and the clang of the explosives, but we saw no debris or oil. The contact had vanished from the plot and could not be regained. We rejoined the convoy and took our position up again. Signal lamps flickered and from the troop ships we heard cheering from the figures on the upper deck.

We were disappointed we could not claim a kill. It could have after all, been a large shoal of fish, or a denser patch of seawater, but chances could not be taken with so many lives depending on us, a clear echo must be attached on the assumption it is a ‘U’ boat. Our skipper, Lieutenant Commander Jenks, congratulated the ship’s company on their performance and warned that we must never relax our vigilance. At cruising stations, a constant Asdic watch was kept and lookouts were posted at various vantage points around the ship. Our destination was now revealed as Durban.

The weather continued fine, but the sun was not as hot now and its warmth didn’t burn so much, everyone was tanned from a golden brown to a swarthy dark colour. The sea wasn’t so rough but was choppy in a fresh breeze, it was getting to be more of a cruise now, except the hidden menace of submarine attack still remained. When we finally arrived at Durban, I marvelled at its modern white blocks. Was it only yesterday I had been here on the Ramillies. Nothing had changed except I was now a married man soon to be a father. I was watch ashore, I was in luck for we were sailing again next day.

I went ashore with a Geordie mate and showed him as much as I could of Durban. My first job had been to find a telephone kiosk and phone Ballengeih in the slender hope Mary B could get down, really it was impossible. I imagined she could get down quickly by car, but the distance ruled a short meeting with her out. I did manage to speak to her, she was surprised to know I was back in Durban and asked if I could make it to Ballengeih. On explaining the situation she sounded disappointed. It was nice to hear her voice again and now I dropped her the double six. I told her I had married and to thank her for the pleasant week and memories of Ballengeih. As I said goodbye over the phone, I realised I had been cruel to a very sweet and pleasant girl. I never heard or saw her again, but on occasion, as I nap before the fire, I remember and am thankful to her. I still have a snap she gave me, and my wife with a smile, would refer to her as my South African fancy woman. I know she understands.

Geordie and I met up with some RAF boys in a pub and were immediately greeted with “Good old Navy, you looked after us.” They were from off one of the troopers we had escorted. Our depth charging of that echo had convinced them we had sunk a ‘U’ boat and maybe it was the drink they had consumed, but we couldn’t convince them otherwise. They were a happy crowd and soon we were being overwhelmed by drinks. Beer and brandy flowed freely and by now, more Navy had arrived. It was one of the best good-natured binges I had ever had and these lads would not let the Navy buy a drink. We felt like heroes. Somewhere I’d like to think there is an ex RAF man who remembers like me.

In a third world war, would the missiles leave any memories for anyone? We left the pub amid a chorus of ‘Good Luck’ and hand shakes.

Pr-BR

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