Approach of the storm - Chapter 4

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 4
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

We now proceeded to learn the ins and outs of the Short Lee Enfield rifle. We marched and drilled with and without weapons, we learned to fix bayonets, the squad acting as one, till we grew so proficient, the smack of the hilts going home sounded as one. We wore khaki gaiters over the ankles, Khaki webbing belts and sometimes, the Khaki bandoleers peculiar to the navy, like a chest full of little canvas pockets, which could carry quite a large number of clips. In a way, I suppose besides being easy to get at, they themselves could afford a slight protection again enemy bullets.

The sword bayonet was much longer than the modern bayonet and rifle and bayonet together were heavy. I'll bet the Lee Enfield is still one of the best rifles for long distance shooting. One evening, C.P.O. Burns told us to get our oilskins out for next day and told us why, about four inches of snow laid on the ground and we were going to have rifle firing. The oilskins were to lie on at the butts.

We fell in next morning. It was sunny out, but cold, we were issued with a rifle, not the ones we usually used for our square bashing. We were given several clips of ammunition, five bullets in a clip, then we were marched off to the rifle range. We were halted about 250yds from a very high wall with a side wall at each end, and an earthen bank built up to the bottom of it. A bunker and a trench ran along the bottom of the bank. About three targets, maybe a yard across had been erected. A lieutenant came up to the class, "Class, shun. Are your men ready Chief?" "Yes sir." "Alright now, pay attention lads. Any Yorkshire men among you?" "Yes sir." There were about five of us. He asked us where from adding, "Well I'm Yorkshire, so I hope you can shoot. I'm a gunnery officer and my job is to advise and help you all. How many have used guns before?" I think about three of us had used air rifles and shotguns before. He showed us how to adjust the rear sight for wind. We gathered round. "Anybody want to ask questions?" All remained silent, till suddenly a voice piped up timidly, "will it make a bang sir?" "My lad have you ever heard a bloody gun that didn't?" All you have to do is aim and fire the bloody thing at the target." I remember a Scotch mate who for some reason sent the snow flying a few yards in front of his nose, then improved by getting a wildly waving red flag which denoted he could have been the first stray bullet killer of our class. He drew a storm of abuse on his head from our instructor, put in a way that only a navy instructor can, and which made us all the more keen not to fail in our performance.

My turn came and I lay down. The oilskin felt slightly slithery under me. I lay on one elbow and eased the clip of five bullets in and pressed them down with my thumb, and saw the cut off was applied and the safety pin in. "Now that's how to handle a weapon," said the instructor. "Take your turn now. Fire when you're ready. Breathe in deep and exhale slowly and a steady squeeze will help you put it in the right place."

I opened the cut off and shoved the safety catch over with my thumb, worked the bolt to slide the bullet into the breach, then aimed till the bulls eye seemed to sit on the foresight, and in the aperture of the rear sight, holding the rifle as firm as I could, I fired. A terrific "ding" racked my brain and the butt jumped against my shoulder, hitting a black and white flag, a "magpie" he called it. Again I fired, a black disc, waved inside the target denoting where the bullet had struck.

Now I thought I'll adjust the rear sight to allow for the wind, which I felt sure was putting some deflection in my shot; a slight adjustment to the left, then I tried again. This time the black disc was hardly visible, for it just about covered the bull’s eye. The next two were very near the same spot, then five rounds rapid which were not two bulls but I was told were good, and then five steady shots of which two or three were good and in the bull.
"Well, we have one bugger who can shoot," said the gunnery lieutenant. "Where have you come from?" "Near Barnsley, sir," I answered. "Well, I'm Yorkshire, near Barnsley," he said, "I thought all you chaps could do was shovel coal, but I'm glad one Yorkie showed the class how to use a rifle, now don't touch the sight again. I'll have a go with your rifle after the class has finished its shoot," which gave me a feeling of pride to say the least.

Chief P.O. Burns gave me a single rifle badge in gold to sew on my cuff for the time being, and I wore it for a while, but to get paid for it I'd have to gain my full marksman badge and shoot to qualify every year. This was impossible for a wartime sailor, so I took the badge off after a while and chucked it away.

The days of that cold winter passed, made up of constant drilling, physical training and shore leave in Devonport and Plymouth. We had, had a week's home leave at Christmas and it was an exhilarating feeling, being in uniform and going out with my brother and mates, still in "Civvy Street"'. Girls I knew seemed much easier to chat to, and some went out of their way to make my acquaintance, chances of amorous encounters cropped up, but the week passed by without me falling for those delightful pitfalls.

Father and Mother treated me with a new respect and pride. When, I came to leave I just said to father, "Well, so long," and to mother, "Don't worry mother I'll be okay and I'll probably be home again before I get a ship."

I insisted on going to the bus on my own and roe in silence back to the train up for Bristol. I enjoyed my leave though. Shore leave in Plymouth could be fraught with danger for young inexperienced matelots. We had lectures on the prevalence of VD in seaports, and when the local girls got too ambitious, you only had to think of what you had been told and it had a remarkable cooling-off effect. But in only a handful of instances did I hear of lads having caught the 'boat up', as a dose of VD used to be called in navel slang, and so the lectures must have had some steadying effect.

I remember sometimes we would indulge in fish and chips after a drink or two, odd times the cinema, and I remember one night I and a classmate paid 12/6d (12 shillings and sixpence, 62½p) which was a large sum then at the cinema. This was for the posh seats and we sat there exercising our jaws with a bag of limpets we had bought from the shellfish shop.

One day, C.P.O. Burns called the class together and told us that HMS Exeter was arriving next day from her action with the Graf Spee to be refitted and we, along with the other classes, were to march down to the shoreline to cheer her in. He showed us exactly how to take our hats off and cheer by numbers. We were excited and were only too glad to cheer this famous ship in. Would I ever see action such as her crew had seen? What would it be like? Would I be afraid? What does a shell hit, or a bomb do to a ship?

Maybe we could get a chance to see now she was coming home and I was eager to see, and wonder what we could expect in any action we became involved in. Next day we were mustered and marched down to line the shore of the estuary, facing the western side of Devonport derricks. I forgot the actual time, for forty odd years blurs such things, but I believe it was afternoon on a fine but slightly cloudy day. As we waited, we suddenly heard in the distance a kind of murmur like a distant storm carried on the breeze. "What’s that sir?" "That, my boys, is the people of Plymouth welcoming Exeter home. She won’t be long now." By now murmurs had grown into more coherent cheering intermixed by ships' sirens and hooters, and I could imagine the thrill of pride her ship's company must be feeling at this moment. The cheering grew louder as the dockyard mateys, our name for the workers, joined in with the naval personnel of HM Barracks. We could see a great grey shape just coming into view, and a slight bow wave gradually dwindled away, so she slowed up ready to berth, we were now ordered to cheer and we did our best and got quite carried away, as some cheered on after the official three cheers, but were only slightly reprimanded by a C.P.O. who I could have sworn had a slightly moist eye and who I knew would have loved to have been aboard one of His Majesty's ships, instead of putting up with us rookies. I also realised now why he treated us like a father, and a fair, just and ruthlessly efficient one at that. As the tugs busied themselves around her we were marched off to carry on our training, and a sobering thought must have lain at the back of our minds. What of the lads who had died? Glory has a price and a terrible one at that, and we knew that the death of the Captain of Graf Spec, by his own hand didn't mean he was a coward. Already we had heard of his conduct and his attitude towards his captives and realised there were good men among our enemies, among which the German captain stood out. He would have come out from Montevideo and fought no matter what his orders had been to that effect. I like to think he couldn't stand the ignominy of having to scuttle his ship. In fact, I'm sure of it. Maybe one of his crew who still survives has written a book on Graf Spee and Langsdorf. I hope so. I would like to read it.

As I pen these pages we are involved in our new conflict in The Falklands, and I hope whenever possible, humanity towards defeated enemies will prevail and I'm sure that from our side, this will be, so for real honour can only be thus achieved.
We did get a chance to visit HMS Exeter after some days, for her company had gone off on leave and had been entertained in London. She looked massive, a great grey bulk, metal clanged somewhere in her interior and the bright bluey orangey tinged glow of welding equipment showed here and there as repairs went ahead. Her two funnels loomed above us. Shrapnel had riddled them and her seaplane platform and we saw some of the damage inflicted by Graf Spee's gunfire. It gave us an idea of what to expect in a ship hit by enemy fire.

We weren't depressed though. We knew we would try our best and we knew that even the bravest all feel that tinge of fear. Our CPO constantly reminded us of the traditions of the service and of our responsibility to uphold them. Her 8" guns impressed us and were the largest we had then seen. Set in their turrets they looked very large and made us wonder what 15" and 16" guns would look like. We were still finding our way and constantly wondering at this new career we had chosen. The weeks passed by and spring came, and we managed a bit of sun bathing on a couple of nice sunny days.

It compensated for the hard winter just past. Then the day came to pass out. We were all apprehensive. We had to dress in our number three uniform, complete with webbing and gaiter. Each of us was given a canvas armband, bearing a number and each of us had to drill the squad in our turn. CPO Burns looked us over with a critical eye and seemed happy enough. A short way off, other newer classes were in the throes of their training and we felt superior to them, for we had done all that and now was our big moment. A short way off, stood a Lieutenant Commander in shining black leather leggings and although he didn't appear to be watching, we knew nothing was escaping his eyes. My mind wandered for a minute to my coal mining days and what my mates would be doing just then, but the commencement of the first means test switched me back to the job coming up. I watched attentively and it didn't seem so bad. One after the other, the lads got through and my turn eventually came. A slight feeling of butterflies in the stomach, and then as I got the squad moving a feeling of confidence. Then it was over and I got back into the ranks, ready for the next man. He was a Scot and one of my shore going "hoppoes." He made a mistake, which had us stumbling a bit, and I couldn’t help laughing at his discomfiture. Then I learnt another lesson, and a hard one. CPO Burns shouted, "Halt," and his eyes twinkled. "Out here Russell. Now that was funny wasn't it? Well, I'll show you something just as funny." The class meanwhile, looked on wondering, as I was, what was coming next. Right I want you to double the full length of the butts holding your rifle above your head all the way, and don't rest it on you head, or you'll do it again.

Away I doubled, all the classes had halted and were watching me. Their CPO kept a keen eye on me and as my aching arms tried to sneak a little bit of relief by lowering the rifle onto my head momentarily, a voice would shout, "Keep it up, up with it!" I got to the turn and came back and I never felt more relieved than when CPO Burns said, "Right, lower your rifle and back into the ranks."

My arms had ached more than they ever had in the pit. "Now, any more feel like laughing?" A loud chorus of, "No sir!" from the class. "Russell, you know I had to do that, and it did you more good than harm." "Yes sir," and somehow I admired this man all the more. We looked up to him; I suspect we wanted to be like him. The first man I've ever been privileged to know and soon to leave him forever. He taught mere lads how to be men and took many of the rough edges off us recruits. He gave us something to aim for. The day dawned to return to depot across the river. We gathered our kitbags and hammocks together down by the small jetty, when the boat chugged in and tied up alongside, we loaded our kit in, hammocks in one place, kit bags in another. Then CPO Burns addressed us and told us to remember all we'd learned and said he was sorry to see us go. Then a solemn handshake for each of us, and after we had gathered in the boat, a spontaneous three cheers for our instructor. I believe there were a few lumps in the throat as we chugged away, and we gave a last wave as we saw the figure of the man we'd come to respect turn smartly away and walk away with head erect and we knew, as he knew, that he’d done a good job.

Pr-BR

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