Approach of the storm - Chapter 10

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 10
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

The ship left Gibralter with an escort of three destroyers and a day or two later, arrived in Plymouth to be greeted by the sound of a low spitfire doing a victory roll as it made a low altitude pass over the ship. Morale was high and leave eagerly looked forward to. By now it was well into December, and we had gone alongside the “wall” in Devonport not far from our divisional home HMS Drake, RN Barracks.

What a lot had happened since I had left. I’d seen action. I’d been “foreign”. I’d known joy. I’d known fear. Now I could swagger back home, I’d earnt it. I’d known long hours without sleep. Days and hours had sometimes seemed twice as long, soon I would be home, home in my old bed. Would I miss my hammock, that great sailor’s friend? Well I would soon find out.

Leave was piped, half the ship's company were to stay behind and were due to go as the other returned. It was a meagre leave, four days each watch, but it was better than nothing. I was in the first watch to go, and had to be back for Christmas Eve. My case was packed and I had drawn my pay and my ration card. We were subject to civilian ration regulations on leave, my allotment was 80 duty free cigarettes, my “nutty” allowance from the NAFFI and the all-important blue railway warrant.

All excitement as we fell into the quarterdeck, as smart a turnout as you ever saw. Anyone would think the bloody C in C himself was going to inspect us, cases parked near well-polished shoes. We formed up into lines for inspection. Inwardly we quaked, would some snotty-nosed officer pick any one out as not being dressed correctly? To be sent back to remedy the fault could mean a missed bus and a missed bus could mean a missed train and a missed train could mean lost hours of the leave, which was so short.

But we needn’t have worried, one or two admonishments well doled out, nothing serious. A dire warning on what would happen if we outstayed our leave and then, "TENSHUN right turn, quick march," and away we went, a host of blue uniforms and bright new gold badges, to break-up outside the dockyard gates into groups of townies travelling together.

We had managed to pass the keen scrutiny of the dockyard police who stood on guard at each gate. I had a couple of tins of cigarette tobacco and Rizla papers hid among the clothing in my case, and I realised after that it could have been awkward if I had been picked out for a search, which they sometimes did, and I was told it could have meant forfeiture of leave, over the allotted smoking ration as contraband.

Going north through the wintry countryside, some whiled away the time playing cards amid a blue haze of duty free cigarette smoke, As the time passed, more and more catnapped, heads lolling against the upholstery of the compartment, and moving to the swaying motion of the train, faces some looking little more than school kids, still innocent of the fact of war.
Every time the train slowed down and stopped at a station, the voices of comrades calling their advice and farewells to friends getting off there, aroused the nappers, and sleepy voices asked, "Where the F*** are we now?" Eventually, Sheffield, and amid a chorus of "So long Russ," I stepped down onto the station platform.

It was still daylight and I had a fair walk with my case, weighted down with the clothing and the goodies it contained. The heavy naval overcoat and gas mask didn't help things. Still it was good to be home, but I was totally unprepared for what awaited me when I lefthe Midland Station. No one had said anything about an air raid and I'd listened to no news, but as I made my way to the bus station to board the bus for High Green, I came across the devastation wrought by two heavy air attacks on Sheffield a couple of days earlier.

The City shopping centre had been heavily hit, smoke and steam was still rising wispily and the smell of burning was everywhere from among the piles of masonry; here and there a girder poked through, shreds of glass glistened among the debris and I wondered what lay under the rubble.
The folks I saw looked pale and haggard, they seemed too quiet, no one seemed to have anything to say except from one old lady. She just said, "Good luck lad." By the look of it, I felt they were more in need of it than me.

I boarded my bus after a short wait and found the bus route had suffered drastic alterations. We by-passed streets which had been blocked by rubble from the bombs, which had scattered over a wide area. Years later I read a book on the history of the blitz and read that in two attacks on Sheffield, 400 bombers had taken part. Although the city centre was heavily damaged, the steel works seemed to have escaped, Jerry hadn't gained in a strategic sense what he had obviously gone after.
I saw how the roofs of houses on the outskirts along the bus route, right up to Grenoside, had suffered from the falling shrapnel of anti-aircraft shells, and even now, although roof tiles have long been replaced, I feel certain I can see where the lighter patches still show the signs of Sheffield's two nights of purgatory just before Christmas 1940.

I heard of a shelter near a pub receiving a direct hit and many people dying. People told me of folks in Sheffield on those nights, who vanished, never to be seen again. But although obviously shaken by these raids, I think that the Sheffielders' natural urge to fight back was reinforced.
I know that I felt a tremendous surge of hatred for all that the Nazi's stood for. It didn't seem long before I was alighting from the bus and looking at the old familiar village street. No sign of any damage here, it looked like we’d been lucky everything seemed the same.

The family greeted me as if I were the conquering hero. My mother had a tear in her eyes, I could imagine her anxiety while I was away, I could imagine her listening to the news as it came over the radio and wondering and thinking on what could be happening to her boy, what thoughts did the grey hair conceal, the pressures on parents must have been enormous. I could well imagine the constant nagging fear of hearing the worst.

Father was in the Home Guard and although they were grossly under armed, if he was anything to go by, they were eager to have a go. Apparently they drilled with an odd assortment of weapons, even I was told broom handles. Given some proper weapons, I think they would have given a good account of themselves, it must be remembered that many of these older men had fought and lived through the carnage of World War 1.
They knew what was involved. To some people, they might have been the basis of a good many jokes, but their courage could not be disputed. Then there was the auxiliary fire service who did great work alongside the regulars. Even the usual civilian jobs didn't excuse people from doing a stint at fire-watching, the whole home front was fully mobilised. The people at home often went without proper rest as much as we did.

The Women's Land Army was doing work often arduous and dirty, most of them never dreaming such work existed. But their efforts complimented our work of getting convoys through, their work helped, no matter how indirectly, to combat the serious menace of the U-boat.

All this became obvious to forces personnel on leave who took note and had eyes to see. This new spirit abroad was really something; we felt an affiliation, we were not just soldiers, sailors, airmen and civvies, we were one, rich and poor we had a new respect for one another, a nation moving in union. Why do we need war to bring out the best in us as a nation?

On this leave, I met the girl who was to be my wife. I was introduced to her on a visit to my uncle’s home. She had popped in from the nearby grocery store she managed on behalf of Hunters Tea Shops, a large chain of stores at that time. We took an immediate liking to each other, her lively well spoken manner and the good looks accompanying it soon had me making a date which was accepted, to my delight.

Four days leave didn't allow me much time to improve my prospects in this direction, I resolved to do something pretty desperate - I'd take the other four days as well. I knew it was wrong, I knew I was taking a big risk, it could mean "over the wall", "Chokki", the term of naval detention. The tales I'd been told of what went on in these naval prisons didn't put me off. I realised what I was doing.

We met after her work a couple of times, a few kisses and a bit of cuddling made it all worthwhile. No serious loving, the etiquette of those days where morals were of prime importance if one respected a girl who forbade going too far. I suppose it did happen occasionally, but people took these matters more seriously than now. Society in working class quarters wasn't as permissive those days. The days soon passed. I came to the end of my leave, I bade farewell to Magdalena my girl and to my family. No show of emotion on my part, just a quick, "So-long all." The quickstep on to the bus, a pretence of not seeing the tear that glistened in my mother’s eye or the gruff, "Take care lad," of my father's voice, and the bus was on its way back through the familiar village street on that grey late December day of 1940. On my way back, I felt mixed feelings of happiness and queasiness in the stomach as I pondered on my fate now that I'd broken the rules and taken twice amount of leave I'd been granted. As I got off the bus by the Dockyard gates, I was met by strange glances as I showed my identity card to the two-dockyard police on guard there. They passed me through and I walked through the dockyard workshops, passed equipment and wagons and all the paraphernalia required for the ships using Devonport. Down by the waterside, and on the ships moored alongside, the bright blue sparkle of welders and cutters torches sparkled, the smell of tar, paint and hot metal assailed my nostrils as I approached the towering grey bulk of the old Ramillies.

Some of my mates who were working nearby hailed me, what they had to say wasn’t very reassuring. "Russ, where have you been? They'll bloody shoot you. It's Chokki for you mate," and so on. My spirits sank, did they know something?

As I drew nearer, I saw the officer of the day stop in his patrolling of the quarter deck and raise his telescope to scan my approach, then he turned and exchanged a word with a marine, he vanished, next a squad of about four marines appeared on the quarterdeck. Bloody hell, it looked a real f****** reception committee and looked bad for me.

I walked up the gangway, placing my case down on the well-scrubbed woodwork. I came to attention and saluted the officer of the day. He turning a stern countenance on me, sent for the "Jonty", the naval term for the "Master at Arms", a Chief P.O. who helped to regulate discipline. He turned up along with various documents and no doubt my history sheets, and after a conference with him and glancing at the history sheets, the officer of the day ordered me to be put under close arrest for two days.

It was the weekend and my offence had gained me the dubious distinction of Captain’s report. This meant I had to fall in with the defaulters lined up before the Captain at his next session, close arrest meant having to report to the quarter deck each hour of the day and night. No matter what duty I was engaged in, I had to make arrangements to be shaken every hour by the watch keepers of the quarter deck and had to report there and have my name ticked off accordingly. In effect my punishment was already taking place by denying me the chance to get any proper sleep. No sooner would my head hit my pillow than my hammock would get a violent shake, "Time to report, Stokes."

By the time the two days was up, I was ready for anything the navy could throw at me, it would be a relief to know my fate. I prepared myself by dressing as smartly as possible, I had no real excuse, I could think of nothing acceptable to proffer mitigation, all I would say was I'd missed my bus the first night, then the second and so on and hope for the best. When I heard the pipe and Captains defaulters to muster, a quick glance in the bathroom mirror, when swiftly, I walked along the companion way back aft, the Master of Arms was there standing to one side of a tall wooden desk, several officers, the engineer, Lieutenant Commander, a marine officer all turned out impeccably. “Bloody hell,” I thought all here barring the f****** firing squad. I was marshalled into a line with about half a dozen more, though I wasn't alone in this line of miscreants, I couldn't help but feel the composition of this array of gold braid was for my benefit alone. Surely my companions in misfortune couldn’t have done anything near the magnitude of the crime I had committed. After a wait of several minutes, which seemed far longer to my apprehensive mind, I heard the sound of smartly walking feet. Suddenly, "Captain’s Defaulters, Tenshun", then "Captain’s defaulters, at ease and keep silence."

My eyes saw our judge, the man our various fates depended on. It was a new captain; well I hadn't seen him before. He looked smart but elderly to my youthful eyes, his hair from under his gold oak leaf rimmed cap was white but his face was fresh complexioned. They told me after he was Captain Read, ex HMS Liverpool and he had been promoted to command Ramillies.

Pr-BR

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