Battle Ensign Read online

  About the author

  Thomas E. Lightburn served for twenty-two years in the medical branch of the Royal Navy, reaching the rank of chief petty officer. He left the service in 1974 and obtained a Bachelor of Education Degree (Hons), at Liverpool University. After sixteen years teaching at Liscard Primary School, Wallasey, he volunteered for early retirement. He then began writing for the Wirral Journal during which time he interviewed the late Ian Fraser, VC, ex Lieutenant RN, and wrote an account of how he and his crew in a midget submarine, crippled the Japanese cruiser, Takao, in Singapore. Thomas is a widower and lives in Wallasey, pursuing his favourite hobbies of soccer, naval and military history and the theatre.

  BATTLE ENSIGN

  Also by Thomas E. Lightburn

  The Gates of Stonehouse

  ISBN 978 184386 203

  Uncommon Valour

  ISBN 978 184386 203

  The Shield and the Shark

  ISBN 978 184386 301 2

  The Dark Edge of The Sea

  ISBN 978 184886 400 4

  The Ship That Would Not Die

  ISBN 978 184386 463 9

  The Summer of ’39

  ISBN 978 184386 5612

  A Noble Chance

  ISBN 978 184386 647 3

  Beyond The Call of Duty

  ISBN 978 184386 714 2

  The Russian Run

  ISBN 978 184386 840 8

  Deadly Inferno

  ISBN 978 184386 736 4

  Mission into Danger

  ISBN 978 184386 994 8

  The Hidden Enemy

  ISBN 978 178465 132 9

  Triumph Over Fear

  ISBN 978 178465 5327

  All published by Vanguard Press

  Thomas E. Lightburn

  BATTLE ENSIGN

  Vanguard Press

  VANGUARD KINDLE

  © Copyright 2021

  Thomas E. Lightburn

  The right of Thomas E. Lightburn to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN (PAPERBACK) 978-1-80016-073-6

  Vanguard Press is an imprint of

  Pegasus Elliot MacKenzie Publishers Ltd.

  www.pegasuspublishers.com

  First Published in 2021

  Vanguard Press

  Sheraton House Castle Park

  Cambridge England

  Printed & Bound in Great Britain

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Ex Able Seaman John Dennett, Legion d’honneur, and the men who served in the landing craft during the Second World War.

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to thank the team in the research department of the Imperial War Museum and the British Museum for their help over the internet. My gratitude to the staff of Wallasey Library for their help. I have used Robin Neillands’s excellent book, The Dieppe Raid, Phillip Zieglar’s Official Biography and Malta Convoys by David A. Thomas for references. Finally, I am most grateful to Gale Pumford for her computer expertise.

  A Brief History of the Battle Ensign

  In the Royal Navy, the Battle Ensign is the name given to a large White Ensign hoisted to the mainmast or yardarm just before a battle at sea was imminent. In the 17th and 18th or 19th centuries, if a warship surrendered the flag, it was known as, ‘striking the colours’. This is the origin of the phrase, ‘to nail ones colours to the mast’, showing a determination not to surrender.

  The Battle Ensign was seen as an important element for the morale of the crew, and was held in high regard. If a warship was sinking, the flags of battle ensign would be taken off before the ship sank and entrusted to the senior surviving officer. In the British Museum there is a battle ensign taken from the Spanish warship, Ildefenso, captured at the Battle of Trafalgar.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lieutenant Commander Hugh Manley stood on the open bridge of HMS Helix, one of several Hunt-Class destroyers built in 1939. Manley was twenty-eight, fair haired and single. He stood six feet two with intelligent, dark-blue eyes, set in clear-cut, angular features. Whenever he smiled, the small dimple in his chin appeared larger, a trait that added to his overall attraction to most women. After obtaining a first in geography at Oxford, he joined the navy in 1939. In doing so, he was following in his father’s footsteps, who commanded a destroyer in World War One. Whenever he was on leave, he stayed with his parents, Harold and Martha. Both of them were in their late forties and ran a florist in Seven Oaks. Helix was Manley’s third ship; the first two being a minesweeper followed by a D-Class destroyer. After successfully completing a gunnery course at Whale Island, he was appointed to Helix as her first lieutenant.

  Manley was very proud of his ship. He clearly remembered the first time he saw her. It was shortly after 1200 on Monday 1st May, 1941. A dark blue utillicon, nicknamed a ‘tilly’, met him outside Portsmouth Harbour station. After a quick drive through the dockyard, they arrived at Fountain Lake Jetty where Helix was tied up.

  After climbing out of the tilly he stood on the cobbled wharf, and with an experienced eye, took in the ship’s pennant number, H60, painted in black, standing out against her gaudily camouflaged hull. The sleek sharp bows, long narrow fo’c’sle and A and B twin, Mk XV1, 4-inch guns, mounted in front of the open bridge. Then came a single, slightly angled funnel, and close by, slung inboard, rested one of the two ship’s clinker-built sea boats. Further along, two Carley floats lay at an angle, attached against the starboard side of the after deck. Either side of the after deck house was a moon shaped searchlight, two quadruple 2-pounder pom-poms and a 20 mm Oerlikons, each protected by a circular steel shield. Finally, secured to either side of the quarterdeck, were two as depth charge throwers, ready to launch one of the 21-inch depth charges. As his eyes watched the White Ensign, fluttering proudly from the ship’s stern, Manley recalled stepping onto the gangway, feeling a deep-seated feeling of pride.

  In a remarkably short time, he got to recognise the face of every officer and rating on the ship. They were a mixed bag; some were RNVR or RNR, others were HO (Hostilities Only), the remainder were regular navy. After a strenuous five-day work-up, the ship’s company became an efficient, coherent fighting unit, ready to face the enemy.

  The time was 2200; the date, Wednesday, May 10th, 1942; the place, mid-Atlantic on convoy duty. High above, angry dark cirrocumulus clouds, scudding across the inky black sky, failed to prevent the luminous rays from the anaemic moon casting a silver sheen on the waters of the high rolling sea. For the umpteenth time, Manley blew into his gloved hands and watched a cloud of vaporised breath billow around his face before a blast of bitterly cold northerly wind swept it out of sight. With every roll and pitch of the deck, he grabbed hold of anything at hand to prevent falling over. Nearby, officer of the watch, Lieutenant Peters, a tall, rangy RNR officer with blue eyes and fair hair, Petty Officer Podge Hardman, quartermaster Knocker White, did the same.

  Meanwhile, Helix’s captain, Commander Penrose, was sat, hunched up on his high chair, deep in thought, seemingly ob
livious to wind and weather. Like Manley, he and the others wore woollen balaclavas under hooded duffel coats, mufflers and gloves which, silhouetted against the ghostly light, made them look like Trappist monks.

  Henry Penrose was born in Tavistock, Plymouth, the birthplace of Sir Francis Drake, in 1908. He was married to Jean, his childhood sweetheart, and had a twelve-year-old daughter called Janet Penrose. He was a little over six feet tall, sturdily built, with dark hair, greying at each temple. His sharp, pale blue eyes, set in a heavily tanned, angular features, presented an imposing figure that commanded instant attention. Anticipating the Blitz, Penrose moved from London and bought a small bungalow in St Albans. Jean obtained a part-time as a receptionist for local solicitors, Barnet and Cross, and Janet attended St Albans Grammar School.

  Penrose’s father was a retired naval captain who commanded a cruiser at Jutland and was mentioned in dispatches. His grandfather, Admiral Sir Thomas Penrose, fought at Sebastopol and was awarded the Victoria Cross for outstanding bravery under fire. With such an outstanding pedigree it was not surprising that Penrose was determined to add another cluster of gold leaves, on the peak of his cap.

  On the morning of May 11th, Helix, plus Stork, Pelican, Samphire, Deptford, Gardenia and Marigold, five flower class corvettes, plus the CAM freighter, Dorset and a rescue ship, MS Beachy, relieved five Canadian destroyers and two American frigates, all of whom had reached their endurance while escorting Convoy SC94 from Nova Scotia and had to return to Canada. Unlike Helix and the British corvettes, the Canadian and American warships didn’t have HF/DF or the new ten-centimetre radar[1] [2]. Consequently, since leaving Canada, the convoy had been constantly attacked by U-boats and had lost two merchant ships.

  The following morning, Helix and the escorts were at defence stations. Buster Brown, a small, thick-set able seaman from Doncaster, was sat up in the Helix’s crow’s nest. Despite wearing a balaclava, gloves, two sweaters and a woollen muffler under his duffel coat, he continued to shiver. Ignoring the steady sway of the mast, he could see the dark shapes of the three rows of merchant ships and escorts sending up frothy bow waves as they cut through the silvery sea. Suddenly, he saw a bank of fog lying like a black wall, blotting out the horizon.

  Picking up the bridge intercom, Brown shouted, ‘Fog, fog, sir, directly in front of us roughly five miles away.’

  ‘Thank you, Brown,’ said Manley. Although fog was almost impossible to detect on radar, on the bridge, Penrose and Manley and the others had already seen it, looking like a swirling wall of dense mist.

  In a matter of minutes, the convoy was engulfed in a miasma of swirling grey murkiness.

  ‘Jesus Christ, sir,’ said Knocker White, peering into the dense mist. ‘It’s a real peasouper. I can hardly see me and in front of me.’

  Manley leaned over the front of the bridge and blinked. All he could see was great wafts of impenetrable greyness and the tips of the twin four-inch barrels of A and B guns, twenty feet in front of him; nothing else, no ships, no sea, not even the ship’s bow. It was like moving in a world of dank, churning clouds. The mournful drone of dozens of sirens of the merchantmen added to the surreal atmosphere as the convoy, one by one, disappeared into the churning greyness that seemed to go on forever.

  The thirty-four ships were spread out, five miles apart, in three lines. Commodore Bradley in the cargo freighter, Trehata, occupied the middle of the centre column. Deptford and Marigold protected the starboard section with Samphire bringing up the rear. As senior officer, Penrose commanded the escort group. Helix led the way with Stork guarding the convoy’s port side. Many ships didn’t have radar and were perilously close together. Therefore, the danger of telescoping into one another drew continual siren blasts, hoping the fog would lift

  ‘At least this pea soup will keep the bloody U-boats away, eh, sir?’ PO Podge Hardman said to Manley while staring into the grey abyss. As his nickname suggested, Hardman was two badge seaman petty officer whose prodigious girth and ruddy complexion displayed his love of beer and food.

  ‘I suppose you’re right, PO,’ Manley replied, feeling the damp, coldness of the fog sneak down the sides of his muffler onto his neck.

  At that moment, without moving his head, Penrose, stirred himself, and in his unmistakable West Country burr, said, ‘Anything on radar or asdic, Number One?’

  ‘Radar reports several merchantmen are scattered around, sir,’ Manley answered. ‘Asdic reports contact submerged roughly two miles on the far side of the convoy.’

  ‘I expect the escorts in that area will have picked the contact up and won’t need me to tell them to investigate,’ said Penrose, peering through his binoculars. ‘I’m sure our turn will come soon enough. Reduce revolutions one third, slow ahead.’

  Suddenly, three intermittent blasts of a siren could be heard echoing through the gloomy atmosphere. Prior to sailing the convoy, Commodore John Bradley had informed all ships, including the escorts, of a series of siren signals he would use to alter the convoy’s course in the event of an attack or inclement weather.

  ‘Three blasts, sir,’ said OOW Sub Lieutenant Milton, glancing at Penrose. ‘That means the convoy, including the two escorts, are to alter course to port?’ Milton was a tall, dark-haired RNVR officer, who, before the war, was stock broker.

  ‘Quite correct,’ came Penrose’s muffled reply. ‘Port ten, I only hope the other ships have heard it over the racket their sirens are making.’

  ‘Port ten, sir,’ repeated Leading Seaman Sammy Lee from the wheelhouse, situated directly below the bridge. Like many ratings Lee was HO.

  Throughout the morning the convoy crept carefully through the fog. At 1130, ‘Up Spirits, cooks to the galley,’ was piped.

  The issuing of rum began in 1655 when the British captured Jamaica, with its rich sugar plantations from which rum is derived. Until then, beer, which often became sour, was the staple drink. However, in 1740, Admiral Vernon, known as “Old Grog” because he wore a distinctive red grogram cloak, introduced rum into the navy. From that date, the daily ritual of issuing rum in warships and shore bases all over the world began.

  The neat rum was kept in a large oak barrel, ornately decorated and reinforced with brass bands. One of which had the words, “The King (or Queen) God Bless Him (or Her). Under the watchful eyes of the duty PO and OOW, the duty rum bosun from each mess collected the precious liquid, mixed two measures of water to one of rum, in an aluminium basin, called “a fanny”. Any rum left over after each man had his “tot” was referred to as “The Kings (or Queens)” and shared out. “Sippers” or “Gulpers” were given to messmates in return for favours rendered.

  Shortly after midday, Able Seaman Ben Lyon, climbed down the metal stairs leading into the seamen’s mess. In one hand he carried the “fanny”. The other hand held onto the stair rail, steadying himself against the roll of the ship. The dank smell of sweaty bodies, mingling with tobacco smoke, attacked his nostrils as he entered the mess.

  ‘Here it is, me lucky lads,’ said Ben, placing the fanny on the well- scrubbed mess table. Helix was Ben’s first ship. He was a tall, fair headed twenty-year-old lad from Hull. Some men were playing uckers, a modified game of Ludo. Others played cribbage, gin rummy, or wrote letters. All of them wore blue overalls and kept their life jackets handy in case of emergencies. They stopped what they were doing and looked up as Ben came in.

  ‘I hope you haven’t spilt any,’ joked Bud Abbot. Bud was the “killick”, of the mess, so called because of the single fouled anchor he wore on his left sleeve.

  ‘So far, so good, Bud,’ Ben replied, wiping beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

  Men quickly lined up alongside the table. Using one hand, each man in turn, placed a glass tumbler in the fanny and filled it with rum. He then poured it into a Bakelite measure, returning what was left in the tumbler into the fanny. He then poured the contents of the measure into a separate tumbler, and by naval law, was supposed to down it in one. However, some
poured the rum into a bottle to be either drunk later or used as barter for favours.

  Taff Hughes, a stocky one badge able seaman, appeared at the top of the stairs carrying a large aluminium tray containing dinner, covered in grease-proof paper. Immediately, the mouth-watering smell of food filled the air. Hughes was the duty cook. This task, carried out daily on a roster basis, was to collect the midday meal from the galley and take it to the mess. In harbour this was relatively easy, but at sea, in rough weather, it could be precarious, to say the least.

  ‘Someone give me a hand before I spill this lot,’ cried Hughes.

  Straight away Pincher Martin, and using a hand to support the tray, helped Hughes down the stairs and placed the tray on the table. Hughes then left the mess and returned, holding a smaller tray of pudding. While Hughes was away, men grabbed a plate from the cupboard, and stood in line as Bud Abbot dished out the food. It was said, that the after-effects of their rum, increased the sailor’s appetite.

  Throughout the middle watch, (midnight to 0400), the fog gradually dispersed, and by “Call the hands” at 0600, a pale sun peaked though a dull, overcast sky. During the morning, Helix and the rest of the escorts, were kept busy, rounding up those merchantmen who had strayed out of the columns and were now scattered around some miles away from the convoy. Then, just after 1100, Leading Asdic Operator Dusty Miller’s strident voice came over the bridge intercom. ‘Two undersea contacts five miles to port, bearing red two oh, sir, and closing’