The Naval Review The copyright of this article rests with the author, or the author's estate.

MALTA CONVOY

Some details that may help the imagination; they are all from memory and the sequence may therefore be inaccurate.

WE set out full of ideas but by no means quite sure of our "job." When we heard the details from our admiral we were overflowing with that eagerness and excitement that comes when the monotony is to be broken, viewing imaginary pictures of medal-bedecked heroes, a complete convoy entering Malta's harbour, planes falling from the skies, U-boats coming up for their last gasp and H.M.S. . . . steaming serenely on, blinking now and again, it must be admitted, but nevertheless going on. Already we had a pretty full experience of anti-aircraft defence at sea, although none was of that concentrated single-ship attack which many others had been through; most of it had been among convoys where the weakest was the object of attack. Personally, I was always too busy to see much in the air, although once I did happen to glance up and saw a plane coming down at a fairly flat angle to the sea, wondered why nobody was firing at it and then got busy again at my job. .

It wasn't until 'some time afterwards that I realized that smoke had been pouring from its tail and that it must have been a goner. But back to "Malta Convoy." We picked up our convoy, a lusty crowd of ships, and felt proud of our exalted position in such a large tactical and strategical affair. All went well for a. few days; then we arrived in the area, submarines were reported and aircraft sighted. Then the attacks commenced; time after time the enemy made their attacks, but our fleet fighters made rings round them and pulled their tail feathers out. But they did let a few through, so that we gunnery people wouldn't be without a little very necessary practice; after all, we. had loaded up to full capacity with everything from 6-inch to .303. Later on the job of keeping them off did get a little too much for the fighters; they could only stay in the air a certain time and they often met the enemy 50 to 80 miles away from the convoy, so that one or two of the enemy were bound to get through. Things began to warm up, bombs did really start to fall among us (so I was told), and our guns began to lose some of the Arctic chill which had been their lot for so long. Empty cylinders commenced their most dangerous habits of hitting one in the back of the knee, anywhere. If one managed to keep out of their direct line they hit something else and glanced off; but they found you in the end, there was no escape. We appeared to have lost a destroyer somehow; no one knew where or how, but it turned out all right in the end; she and an enemy submarine had disagreed, and the destroyer had won with a slightly bent nose.

In the morning we were up early for dawn attack; few had even troubled about bed, and the Fleet Air Arm were up early too. These boys were right on their toes and the enemy's necks. I came to the conclusion that they thought it was their convoy. We were all tired, excited, unable to sleep, keep awake, or eat. We knew we were in for big things, how big was still a guess; but the spirit of the game, of winning through and making another bit of history in which our ship's name would figure, was always prominent. The convoy was still intact; but up to that moment we had only just tasted things and there were heaps of ammunition still left. Then the first one of the convoy dropped out, so we were not to get there without loss. Oh well! let's get on; perhaps we can manage the remainder. Then more air attacks, more "sub" scares, ships all over the ocean apparently going nowhere in particular, then peace once more and the escort gather in round the convoy like the hurdles round a sheep pen; steadily we steam on; one of the convoy seems a bit slow - a near miss, we suppose. After each phase the captain broadcasts over the loud speakers the result and casualties, if any; for some time he was able to say "the convoy is still steaming on to Malta." A lovely day just nice for a "make and mend." The sandwiches seemed a bit dry, but perhaps it is our mouths; everyone cheerful; at last they are on a real job with some really good tools and things are happening too quickly to let one think for long­ and the convoy goes steadily on. Another air attack, the Fleet Air Arm go galloping into the blue; what faith the sailors put in them! Even greater than the faith that the Merchant Navy puts in the Royal Navy, and that is greater than the faith a young child has in its parents. It's a big responsibility that the sailor flying men have taken on; but they carry it well and honourably, and the sailors know that guns may frighten the enemy but our airmen stop them from going home.

Suddenly a mild panic, everybody rushes to the ship's side; all one can see is three enormous forbidding bunches of yellowy black smoke; then an aircraft carrier emerges, mortally hit. "Can they save her ?" is the question on everyone's lips; she's listing badly; now planes are sliding off the flight deck, and she makes a sort of curling advance; there is still hope that they may be able to save her; destroyers are flying to her aid, yes! flying; it seems that only their propellers are in the water. The old lady is heeling badly now, and our hope begins to ooze; but the convoy must, and does, go on; we turn, making frantic zig-zags in case there are more "subs" lurking; the other carriers open out, their escorts hanging on to them and shielding them, meanwhile -throwing up curly white bow waves.

The destroyers must hurry and the other carriers must be looked after, for some of the "ugly duckling's" airmen are in the air. Keep them a landing ground; they are our first line of defence and attack. We watch her go over, over, so slowly; then suddenly she is no more. It's the first time many have seen a ship hit by torpedoes and the first time many more have seen a ship sink, and it brings a realization that the path is not strewn with flowers. Speculations are rife as to how many planes she had in the air and the likelihood of most of her company being saved. Soon the welcome news is made known to us that most of the ship's company are saved; but it is nevertheless a sad moment, for that ship with others of her kind accompanying us were doing wonderful work. Never mind, it's the fortune of war, and thoughts turn to to-morrow, which is to be our big day. A few more attacks develop, but still our guns are only just warm; the lame one of the convoy has picked up station again, but another is out of the running and making its way by a different route with a small escort. Late that night a vivid glare lights the sky astern: somebody is having a spot of bother with a fire; the night is grey-black dark, and as far as we can see the convoy goes on. We settle down for a rest with the thought of "Let them come-we are ready and eager."

Before dawn we are at our action stations again, haggard-eyed but not tired by a long way. The Hurricanes, Spitfires, and Fulmars weave patterns in the sky as they look for trouble, quite often finding it too, and dealing with it in their successful, business-like manner. A few stragglers of the attacking force get through and make our way; then a torpedo attack is launched out of the sun; but our fighters have frightened them and they drop their loads at long range, so that we all have good time to avoid the deadly missiles. We eat, we rest, a few more rounds of ammunition are fired, the guns' crews spin yarns and skylark among themselves. Later in the day come more determined attacks; the danger zone is getting nearer, a few hits are registered by the enemy and the now famous Ohio gets one but, led by her gallant captain, the crew manage to get its resulting fire under control. We see somebody else has also great difficulty in keeping in position, but now it is everybody for themselves, keep up or stay out of the way. Looking round the convoy one would think it was the usual thing for these ships of the Merchant Navy to keep going with a fire raging and a lump out of the hull; faith and stickability seem to get them along. After another fairly long attack we find an opportunity to have our supper, knowing that to-night is to be an all-night sitting.

Men are chatting and putting the empties below so that there are as few obstacles as possible to fall over in the dark. I am ruminating in the O.O.Q.'s caboose by the guns when there is a dull thud, a shiver; a little spray, then aloud boom. I feel the ship go over and realize what has happened; yell out "Everyone to starboard;" then, as I step out of the caboose, a solid wall of water lands on the 4-inch gun deck through which I struggle to the starboard side, thinking meanwhile that the ship has plunged straight to the bottom. The list of the ship seems great but is not. Gasping for breath, a bit shaken, drenched with oil and water, I reach the crowd on the starboard side feeling a bit helpless and useless. The ship has steadied now. Destroyers whirr round us dropping depth charges. We observe that we are not the only ones, for another of the escort and one of the convoy has also caught whatever it was; a destroyer fires a few bursts with her 20-mm. gun; but it is apparently at one of our carley rafts blown off by the explosion; they thought it was a "sub" surfacing. Somebody gives an order to blow up lifebelts; I find that mine is in the caboose, go for it and one of the gun's crew asks me if we shall take our boots off if we have to abandon ship. Something must be done; so I get people busy freeing the rafts and floats; the tension eases, everybody offers everybody else cigarettes; I take one, but with the water dripping from me it gets wet and tastes like old rope. Then the warning comes through: "Enemy aircraft approaching;" the order is given to man the guns and stand by to open fire in local control, O.O.Q. directing; the guns are manned and ready before the O.O.Q. can reach a perch where he can view the sky. Nothing happens; we relax and prepare to try to trim ship, moving ammunition from port to starboard and putting some overboard; I even find time to consider my appearance now; three days' growth of beard, a white suit wet and oily, hair hanging over my brow enough to frighten the enemy but not very comfortable.

Then a destroyer comes alongside for the admiral; he and his staff, one or two wounded and the ship's dog board her, and a spontaneous cheer is given as our well-liked admiral leaves us to carry on the job on which our minds had been set for so long. A few remarks such as "Carry on to Malta," "Good luck, Sir," and "Keep 'em going," then another cheer, the destroyer leaves our side and the admiral says something to the effect of getting our ship safely to port.

And so, realizing the truth of this, and knowing our nerve centre has gone and that our value is now negative rather than positive, we set to and do what we can. The engineroom department and the damage control parties have done their work well, and soon we set off with an escort on the long sad trek in the wrong direction, with only the consolation that the convoy still goes on. Pensive and disappointed, we finally reach harbour safely; our sister ship has made it and eventually returns minus her grecian beauty. We feel pleased with the result, but angry that our friendly enemy has beaten the flagship, for as usual there has always existed a rivalry between us.

GUNS.