Approach of the storm - Chapter 12

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.

The heat of the Canadian summer was in marked contrast to the harsh dry cold of winter. The Bon Ton restaurant was where we ordered coffee and then poured it away and came out drunk. One incident in one cafe jogs the memory. We had been approached by one of the biggest men I'd ever seen, he had only one arm but what a size, he towered over us as we sat with a cup of coffee each before us. “You boys want a quart of whisky?” “It depends on how much it is and how good it is,” was our answer. “Five dollars and its good stuff.”
We pooled our remaining money and found our finances just ran to it. Bill T, Tommy Hanlon and I were about broke then, we trusted him with the five dollars, and away he went to return a few minutes later. Carrying a bottle under his long overcoat, he glanced around and passed it so we could park it under the table at our feet.

Meanwhile, while we thought the transaction had gone unobserved, two pair of female eyes had been taking note, across the cafe floor, sat with a couple of cups and a cake apiece. One was darkish with a bandage round an ankle. It's funny how you remember details so long since passed. The other was attractive, blond with a small knitted hat on the back of her blonde hair; it was she who lurched to her feet and made her way over to our table.

I remember Tommy Hanlon said, "She's bloody pissed," and it turned out she was. "How about a drink Jack for me and my friend." Tommy immediately jumped in with, "What's it worth?" He's nudging me and I think he was living in hopes of making it with her. Her friend, the one of the bandaged ankle, came over and they both drew a chair up to the side of the table. "Give us a drink then." Blondie's pleading became desperate, Bandage Leg kept silent. "Come on, my husband's a sailor he's in f****** submarines. I've not had a letter for three weeks, he’s a b******." We didn't know whether he was or not. Maybe it was all a ploy to get a drink. Then she mentioned a tattoo she said she had her name tattooed on her thigh and would let us see it for a drink. "We all see it then?" "Okay", she said and worked her clothes up with the three of us rising up to peer over the tabletop. I remember well over the stocking top, an expanse of lovely looking thigh and she wasn't kidding, there it was: "Halifax Betsy."

I'll never forget that girl; she was a good-looking woman and was meant for something better than to be showing her thigh for a drink. We didn't have anything more to do with them, but as we left to return aboard ship, I saw her obviously propositioned and going off with a taxi driver. Tommy would have gone with her, but I was not risking my health. I had someone waiting for me at home, no matter how good she looked.

Now we were to spend long weeks at sea, long grey weeks, grey seas, grey skies and heaving monotonous periods sometimes heaving hills of water with the ships appearing on a higher plane, then sinking in a trough till only masts and funnel tip showed, and always the shrieking of the wind, oil tankers laden to the gunwales till the figures appearing on the catwalk from the fo'castle to bridge seemed to be running across a bridge crossed river, as the seas rushed, hissing and foaming, exploding in white spume against hatchways, pipes and values.

Sometimes the tankers had aircraft fuselages as deck cargo lashed down under canvas sheets. We had anything from ten to thirty ships under our protection, sometimes even more, odd times some poor old tramp would make smoke as he tried to keep up with the rest of the convoy, signal shutters would rattle as he got admonished for making smoke and we used to think, "Poor buggers," as they fell behind, "Did they make it?" We never knew, we could only hope.

Times when fog would come down and a man would be posted in the bows of each ship, he was connected up to the bridge by a telephone and his job was to watch the fog buoy, towed by the ship ahead, a series of signals had been worked out, whereby the ships maintained a zigzag course through the fog by using so many blasts on the ship's siren, so many for port, so many for starboard.

Night time was particularly hazardous and we had several narrow squeaks. Remember, we had no radar just then, so seamanship had to be of extra high order. One night, I lay on the mess deck table with a blanket folded under me, and my overcoat over me. I’d changed into a clean boiler suit ready for the morning watch and had omitted to sling my hammock. The only lights were the secondary lights and the steady rolling of the ship and its accompaniment of creaking noises soon lulled me to sleep. I was awakened by the feeling of rolling off the table and somewhere breaking crockery. The ship was keeling over at an alarming angle, in the fog. One ship hadn't turned quick enough on a leg of the zig zag and we'd nearly rammed her.

No matter what the weather we always saw the sea birds, the dark Mother Carey's chickens which used to skim over the waves, then hit the water with a splash, much like flying fish. Sometimes we would see whales, and more than one false alarm resulted from the jet of steam like spray, as they blew, which could have been a sub, venting her tanks as she prepared to dive.

The comforts provided by the unknown ladies of the Canadian W.V.S. were gratefully received; warm jumpers, and sea boot stockings and the Long Johns, made from wool and seeming an inch thick, came in very handy indeed. The look outs especially were thankful for them, the bitter cold of the North Atlantic took some keeping out, the toggle fastened duffel coat and balaclava over these, reinforced by a steaming hot mug of Ki, the thick fatty cocoa laced with tins of condensed milk, did a lot to help against the weather.

The old battleships on this run used to take a terrific battering, so just imagine what destroyers and corvettes had to put up with, especially the ex-U.S. turtle back four-funnel destroyers which were never made for the North Atlantic, and we did hear that one had actually capsized. Then the little flower class corvettes did so much sterling service and were a legend in themselves. Home and beauty seemed as far away as the moon. You nearly forgot what home was like, the whole world was composed of ocean and still more ocean, watch after watch, a world encompassed by ships and water, even the wave skimming albatross seemed suspended day after day in the watery world.

Occasionally, we exercised action stations, no matter what, we must always be prepared. Snow often fell, stinging the face in the icy blast of gales, shrieking wind whipped the spray from the tops of grey green foam streaked hills, much like a watery dust storm. The look-outs squinted through binoculars in their constant search for danger, blowing on hands that were frozen, hands that even the heavy mittens couldn't fully protect as the glasses were handed over in turns.

The good days were a relief, they didn't come so often, but it was nice to get on deck and walk and chat on the fo'castle with a mess mate, life belt slung over the shoulder we would talk of home, girls and beer, ponder on how long before home leave again, would there be mail on our return to harbour and so on?

We were under no illusion that the war would soon be over, or even if we would win just then. The news all seemed to favour Jerry. He didn't seem able to put a foot wrong, but we would carry on and do our best. Why the bloody hell had we to do this job day after day, week after week? The big 15 inch turrets seemed useless, yet maybe the German big ships would come to us and we would get our chance.

It was February 194l. Little did we know how near that chance was and German "heavies"' were out. It came one foggy day. We were somewhere off Newfoundland and two of us were taking our usual walk and chat while off watch. The ship was pretty steady so we were just forward of a turret when suddenly, the long staccato alarm rattlers for surface action sounded. Our response was immediate.
We dashed to join the efficient clatter of men going swiftly to action stations. Already, anti-flash gear was being donned.

The between deck and engine room communications to the bridge were sending in reports of the various damage and fire control parties closed up, engine room and boiler rooms double banked and ready to give maximum power. The hydraulic systems which worked the huge turrets near my damage control action station, had already pistoned away and the for'd turrets had trained round to meet some danger in the fog that we still were not aware of.
Bearing in mind we were still without radar, the ship's company on the whole, could only speculate that the bridge must have spotted something unusual from their lofty position. Now a nervous silence set in, broken occasionally by a cough or muttering, sometimes a query from the bridge to a position by phone, the anti-flash gear grew warm and itched against the skin of the face, but orders were orders and no one dared to discard it till 'secure' from action stations went.

After about an hour, we were stood down. Then the captain spoke over the ship's tannoy. We had you to action stations because a warship's super structure had been sighted through a swirl in the fog, and had been identified as a hipper class cruiser, possibly Prince Eugen(??). She appeared to be trying to get at the convoy, before the guns could be brought to bear, she had vanished. How we longed to have been able to direct our fire by radar.
Years after, I happened to pick a book up from a library shelf and saw that what we had thought was the Prince Eugen(??), was either Scharnhorst or Greiman, as both were out then. This book was wrong, it was the Hipper.

If Hitler had not ordered his big ships not to engage in convoy action, if that convoy was escorted by capital ships of the Royal Navy, we could have had a real battle on our hands and the massacre of a whole convoy at stake.

We reached port without further incident but it proved the worth of the old battleships on the North Atlantic operations. Ice was a menace in the early months. Spray froze and hung from the guns and superstructure, the poor old "dab-toes," (seamen) had a constant battle, keeping the essential parts of the armament checked and clear in case of immediate action. Ice had to be chopped from the anchor cables and shackles, as the ship prepared to enter harbour, I remember turning in fully booted and clothed, even with an overcoat on top of the mess table, lifebelt partly inflated and used as a pillow. It seemed warmer that way.

The warmth of boiler room or engine room was a relief at such times, the crews and look-outs on the 4inch gun positions which also served as the boat deck would huddle together in their hooded duffel coats. In the darkness they reminded one of monks of some mysterious order. One would be peering out from his binoculars, occasionally trying to stamp a bit of warmth into a sea booted foot.

Christ, but it was bloody cold. They said the Russian convoys were even colder, all I could say was, "Poor buggers, God help them."

I remember one dark night, lit only by the light of the stars which swung in the slight arc of the for'd tripod mast, the dark mass of superstructure and funnel, showing darker in the gloom, an exclamation from the port drew my attention.

Gazing out in his direction, I saw a red glow shimmering in the sky, it reminded me of the glow from the local blast furnace nearer home. The point of origin was below the horizon, a tragedy was being enacted out there, obviously a ship had been hit. That minute, I knew men were dying out there, drowning, trapped, roasted alive, we couldn’t do a thing about it, only think we were lucky it wasn't us. Someone's sons, someone's husbands, or fathers and we couldn’t help.

It doesn't pay to dwell too much on such things. In war, men develop a sense many think callous, but its a kind of self erasement of the mind. What would be a disaster in peace time is nothing more than an accepted happening; you are either lucky or unlucky all in the same boat. Maybe that's why we conducted ourselves ashore the way we did, drinking, sometimes a few fights developed over nothing much at all. I must stress these were never serious, they usually ended up with a few days "IOA" if picked up by the shore patrol, or a stern admonishment from the duty officer on return from liberty.

The old Revenge ran the route and I actually met one of her PO's in later years in the coal mines, Russ Shaw a typical old Navy man and proud of it.

One convoy we escorted had an unusual addition, the Free French submarine Surcouf She was big for a submarine and carried a large gun; they said 12 inch, which was big for a submarine. She was lost later in the war.

So the time went by, winter passed into Spring, the weather, though often rough, seemed to have more sunshine to it, the sun shining on this foam topped bluish green, heaving foam streaked wilderness had a dramatic beauty of its own, you'd see the suns rays shining through the wind driven spray.

The ship's sides seemed to gleam as the waves heaved them up, then let them down in a smother of foam. Water would crash over the bows, then explode in showers of spray as it raced over the gleaming decks. The scuppers would pour water back over the sides like a score of small rivers, as the ship heaved skywards before another sickening plunge into a greeny blue valley.

By now we had grown accustomed to it, through the constant weeks of convoying. We had taken some Canadian ratings aboard for some sea-going training, prior to their dispersal to ships of the R.C.N. These boys were good hearted chaps, always ready for a laugh. I remember a couple of them were of Polish origin. Frank Kareskie from Crowland Ontario Canada NA, and a big tough guy who looked more like a lumberjack.

At first some of these lads were prone to seasickness at the slightest roll. I remember one was a cowboy. We wouldn't believe it at first till he showed us a photo, chaps and all. No wonder they had a seasick problem. Some of them had probably never seen the sea, least of all the notorious North Atlantic. Still, they made out okay, and the experience they gained would serve them in good stead in their future role.

The weather was now improving dramatically. We seemed to be getting calmer water, ideal for us, and ideal for the enemy. My mates and I spent less time on the mess deck and more on the upper deck, walking and chatting in between watches, and "dohbeying"(?). Washing clothing in the bathroom, we used to practice handling the dummy practise 4 inch ammunition, a form of weight training you could say, for these dummy projectiles were heavy.

The temperatures were gradually rising and now we could spend our time off watch with a woollen jersey under our boiler suits, which kept us warm. Of course, night time was still pretty cold and gun crews and look-outs still looked forward to the steaming "ki" issue.

Things remained pretty quiet for us. We managed to skirt the U boat packs, no more sightings of enemy ships. The Admiralty intelligence must have been very good, for we lost no ships while we were escorting convoys. Let there be no illusion, we would have been easy meat if U boats had sighted us.

Then again we received that news which breaks the monotony, and it was a shock to every man on the ship's company. We had received a signal from the Admiralty that the battle cruiser HMS Hood had been in action with heavy loss of life. HMS Prince of Wales had been in action with Bismarck, but had to retire from the action after being hit. This wasn’t surprising, for she was newly commissioned and hadn’t been worked up to maximum efficiency.

Pr-BR

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