Approach of the storm - Chapter 28

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 28
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

We sailed next day down to Port Elizabeth and spent a short while there. I will remember a short patrol off the South African coast, apparently a ‘U’ boar was suspected in the area and we sailed out to conduct a search. The day was clear with a choppy sea and we had secured from dusk, action stations on what appeared to be a wild goose chase. I was topside peering over the rail and suddenly, I was startled to see several streaks of phosphorescent, greenish light appear, glowing through the darkness which had now fallen and seeming to be going at the same speed as the ship. As I watched and saw the strange perambulations of the streaks, it suddenly became clear, it was a school of porpoises in their undulating movement through the water, leaving a trail of phosphorescence as they swam and leapt near the bows. I suppose their sudden appearance to a vigilant lookout could have aroused alarm and might have been interpreted as torpedo tracks. These sub-tropical waters seemed to hold a lot of phosphorescence.

By now I had been joined by several more of the crew and we were musing on the behaviour of the porpoises when suddenly, the alarm rattlers sounded to submarine action stations. We dashed off and heard over the tannoy, all hands to clear the forward mess decks and go amidships and hang on to anything we could. The radar had picked up a contact on the surface, which appeared to be the submarine we were hunting.

Gun crews had closed up, Oerlikon gunners were closed up ready to sweep the sub’s decks with cannon fire and depth charge crews were at the ready. Suddenly the skipper’s voice, “Prepare to ram.” It sounded so cool, so nonchalant over the tannoy, the vibration of the engines increased and the deck shuddered under their power, and wake boiled and glowed as the destroyer surged forward and we braced ourselves for the impact. But it wasn’t to be, for the ship keeled over. As she swung to starboard, her deck cantered at an alarming angle, some of the sea actually foamed through the scuppers as the guardrails dipped towards the madly rushing water and the dark shape loomed upon the port quarter. It was a ship, not the ‘U’ boat we were seeking. A flurry of blue signal lights flickered and we got our answer, she was a Free French Corvette, probably on the same errand as we were.

Somewhere, a mistake must have occurred which could have resulted in tragedy, for we should have had intelligence to the effect that she was in the search area. It must have caused some embarrassment, for our skipper and I could imagine his anger. His officers with him on the bridge would probably have been treated to a few un-gentlemanly oaths.

The incident had its sequel, for it caused a few fights ashore, resulting in little harm being done. In fact a couple of days later, several of the Quail’s crew, including yours truly, was in the Fleet Canteen, we met lads from the Corvette, had drinks together and a jolly evening, rounded off by the singing of the ‘Internationale’ and the ‘Red Flag’. Some of our officers heard us and didn’t look pleased. Maybe they thought it had political implications. Anyway, it helped to undo any damage the near ramming may have caused and we restored a new comradeship between our ships’ companies.

My first and last view of the Queen Mary occurred about this time. Captain Jenks sailed around he as she lay off Cape Town, playing the latest hits over our tannoy and I marvelled at the size. She loomed up, huge and beautiful. Figures waved to us from the decks. She towered way above us, her sides looking like great steel cliffs. This giant had ploughed over and sunk an accompanying light cruiser in the dark of an Atlantic night and now she relied on her speed to keep her out of trouble. The routes would be carefully plotted.

Eventually, we sailed for the UK and I think this was the worst voyage weather wise, and for such a long period, that I had endured up to now. It was a relief to visit a couple of ports on the West African coast to refuel. Day after day at sea with decks gleaming wet, the ship rolling and heaving with salt spray stinging the face as soon as you tried to find a sheltered spot to get a breath of fresh air on the upper deck. The waves towered greenish blue, topped by white with the sun turning their summits an opaque greenish colour. We had them on the beam most of the time; down below on the mess deck we existed in a damp fog.

The grog issue was a godsend now. It helped to settle the stomach and kept the appetite going. By now the small store of flour was low and in any case, baking bread was out of the question. The difficulties were too obvious, cookie being only human; his resources had been taxed to the limit in his tiny galley below the funnel. Now we were put on hard tack, the large square biscuit, something like a large cream cracker but harder, some found soaking them in tea aided jaws. I found them nourishing enough and had no difficulty being fortunate to have my own teeth in healthy condition. Corned beef was issued along with the biscuits and a jar or two of pickled onions to add a bit of taste. Grumbles were few, for we expected leave on our arrival in the UK, so we put up with our discomfort in a happy frame of mind.

The voyage was uneventful, no sub alarms this time. We did go to action stations two or three times, but it was only exercise to keep us on our toes. Day followed day, the ship rolling and lunging. All this we had come to get used to, it seemed perfectly natural for the feet to walk on the heaving deck. Eventually we arrived back at the UK. I remember visiting the Isle of Mull on anti submarine exercises and dropping depth, charged to supplement our diet by killing fish for the galley.

We had a short period at Scapa and escorted some British and American battleships out for a shoot. The practice shells they used carried a coloured dye and it was quite something to see the various coloured plumes of water, tower into the air marking the fall of shot of the various ships. Someone got what was presumed to be a submarine contact and the ships made all haste to clear the danger zone. The battleships could not get back to their anchorage fast enough, leaving one destroyer to hunt the sub. Whether anything was confirmed, I never knew, although rumour was rife that a ‘U’ boat had been sunk.

Not long after this we practised gunnery against simulated shore targets and AA gunnery exercises. At the time, we didn’t realise the significance of this and our role in the future. The exercises completed, we went South again to Devonport and leave, where I gave most of my cigarette ration away down at the pub.

The leave passed quickly, every moment savoured and lived as if there was no tomorrow. The child my wife was carrying was moving around a bit and I used to put my hand against her tummy and wonder, would I see the child grow up, would I even live to see it at all? Everything was so uncertain. I think some of us learnt to switch off a bit once the station had disappeared and our next contact was by the written word. Mail was something I always had plenty of; my wife especially kept me up to date with all that went on. Some of the lads didn’t do so well, though and my sympathies went out to them.

Some unfeeling bastards would probably be enjoying themselves while they had deceived these lads. To see a glum face suddenly light up when the mail was dumped on the mess deck table, and a name was called, was really something. Sometimes though it meant a frown, sometimes it meant a finished romance, or home troubles but as much help or cheer as possible would always be forthcoming. The mess deck was another home and in a way another family.

The ship was now a close knit community of about 120 offices and men, trained to a fine pitch, from the engine room to the lookouts and gun-crews, the administrative and canteen staff, were small but all important both in action and the running of the ship. Our Skipper Lieutenant, Commander Jenks had been tough on us, but had worked us hard and we felt an added confidence. All he felt we should know, he would immediately announce over the ship's tannoy system. Jimmy was the one who used to refer to us as ‘Quails’, ‘Quails shun’ or ‘Quails, stand at ease!’

Bill Rice, a Liverpudlian, sometimes used to hum under his breath the song, ‘All through the night there’s a little brown bird singing’. Ricey was quite a lad, a randy bugger, after the girls but a great guy to know. Then Mickey Keenan the happy go lucky Irish leading stoker, Mickey of the Indian Rope trick, who would sit on the mess deck table with a towel round his head for a turban, and blowing through a tissue paper and comb, as he drew a hammock lashing slowly up to the bar. It was to swing on. A simple little trick but the way he performed it had us in fits of laughter. A simple little trick, but the way he performed, it had us in fits of laughter. Engineer Commander Dixon informed me later that Mickey had died when the Laforay was torpedoed. I honour his memory.

Pr-BR

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.