An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (22 page)

“Don't see why not, O'Reilly,” said Wilcoxson, “but the second they sound action stations, make a beeline for the for'ard medical distributing centre. I'll be there.”

“I will.” Fingal, who had hoped for such an opportunity and so had brought his duffle coat, slipped it on, as usual reaching in the pocket for Deirdre's green silk scarf to wrap round his neck, hiding the gossamer fabric beneath the rough wool of the duffle's collar. He was grateful she'd not know and so not have to worry that he might soon be under fire. He left the sick bay and made his way aloft.

The open forecastle deck was covered in snow, and two groups of sailors were having a snowball fight among the flurries. Fingal assumed by their white asbestos antiflash hoods and gauntlets that the men were the crews of A and B turrets. He glanced up. Those long rifles above his head might be bellowing very soon. Certainly their tompions, with their green woodpecker crests, had been removed.

He was distracted by the roaring to full power of an aeroplane engine.
Warspite
carried two spotter aircraft in hangars on her decks aft of the funnel trunking. They were launched by a steam catapult that ran across the ship from side to side, athwartships. There was a hissing of steam from the catapult and a loud thud as it reached the end of its run. The biplane contraption of wings, struts, and canvas-covered fuselage lumbered into the grey lowering sky bearing its crew of three in open cockpits. Rather them than me, Fingal thought. It's bloody well cold enough down here and they're not exactly in a wingèd chariot. The plane, a Fairey Swordfish torpedo-bomber, affectionately known as the “Stringbag,” had a maximum speed of 129 miles per hour and only two machine guns. The design had been obsolete before it came into service, but such was the need for a torpedo bomber that the navy had accepted it anyway pending delivery of a more modern type. Yet today she was the eyes of the little fleet and for good measure carried a full load of antisubmarine bombs. “Godspeed,” Fingal said, saluted, and whispered, “Come home safely.”

As he watched the biplane move ahead and into the fjord, it cleared the rearmost destroyer of the centre column, HMS
Hero.
Ahead of her, the funnel smoke of her two companions was streaming off to the side. Long wakes churned the grey sea's surface behind the sterns of the rearmost ships, HMS
Eskimo
and
Forester
. All around, the leaden sky bore down on the snow-covered hills and cliffs of the fjord. They had been torn into the Earth by the last ice age and today hung scowling as if bent on the destruction of the ships that dared to invade this domain of ogres and trolls.

He was blinking away the tears brought on by the Arctic wind of their passage when he heard from ahead the staccato crack of a destroyer's 4.7-inch guns, the deeper bark of German 5-inch gun replies, and, over the Tannoy, a bugler sounding the charge, the call to action stations.

It had begun.

He set off at a good pace, the crashing of the other ships' rifles and the bellowing of
Warspite
's turbines filling his senses, surrounding him with noise. He was two decks down when a loudspeaker announced, “There is a German destroyer to starboard. She is burning, but her crew can be seen preparing torpedo tubes. She will be taken under fire.”

There was a short silence. He knew what was happening above him. The gunnery officer's team, way up in the fifteen-inch control tower, would be feeding range and bearing data to the turrets, where the nearly one-ton shells and their cordite charges would be loaded into the rifles. The gun's crew would take aim. When the guns were on target, firing gongs would sound and—Holy Mother of Jesus. He had to grab on to the handrail as
Warspite
heeled to the blast of one, then another gun. The sound even down here was deafening. Nothing could have prepared him for the noise that surrounded him like an impenetrable wall and by its force seemed to be crushing his chest. Dear God, how did the gun crews survive even one firing? The row was infernal, inhuman. In moments the stink of burnt cordite assailed his nostrils. He could picture the vast tongue of fire leaping from the gun's barrel and the all-enveloping cloud of brown fumes belching from the muzzle. They were firing at almost point-blank range on an already damaged vessel many times smaller, a killer whale devouring a penguin with a broken flipper.

The Tannoy's voice rang, flat, expressionless, as unexcited as if it were announcing, “Up spirits. The enemy has rolled over and is sinking.”

As the battleship's fifteen-inch guns and six-inch secondaries fell silent, Fingal spared a thought for the German sailors, but his reverie was interrupted by the squawk of the Tannoy. “Our Swordfish spotter plane, that we've nicknamed Lorna, has identified and sunk, by bombing, a German U-boat in Herjangsfjord, which is up ahead off our port bow.”

He was greeted by cheering of the announcement as he opened the door and went into the medical distribution centre. Inevitably, the casualties would start arriving soon. Although
Warspite
was still unscathed, other British ships had been hit, some hard. The only question was when the medical staff's work must start.

Nobody would feel like cheering then.

He sat down at his desk and opened the notebook with lined pages, now well thumbed from use. There was time to bring his war diary up to date.

April 13, 1940. Second Battle of Narvik under way. Have heard the fifteen-inchers fired at an enemy destroyer. It was an absolutely devastating assault on all the senses and I'd better get ready for more because that initial duel was only the beginning. There are several German ships up ahead. Nothing seemed to faze Richard and the SBAs, but I find it claustrophobic down here knowing that all the watertight hatches between us and the open air four decks up are dogged down. It would have been the same for many of the crew on the sinking German ship.

He looked at the grey steel walls and imagined the room filling with freezing oily water from sole to deckhead. Stop it, he told himself. Your imagination is far too vivid. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out her last letter, which had been waiting for him in Greenock after the most recent convoy. There was still the faintest trace of the musk she always wore. He would try to read it from beginning to end.

My Darling Fingal,

I wonder where you will be or when you will get this? Probably when you return to home base in …
the next word was smudged over by the censor's blue pencil. He smiled. Even though she knew perfectly well about censorship Deirdre from time to time seemed to forget, and for that matter so did Lars and Ma when they wrote.
I hope you will be well and able to get some rest.
She never stopped worrying about him, bless her.
I am keeping myself very busy to help me try to ignore how terribly I am missing you and cannot wait until your next home leave so we can continue our sweet explorations, my pet.
He smiled as he had done the first time he'd read it, cherishing his memories of their lovemaking, hurried the first time, then sweet and langorous. The softness of her and the urgency and—

The whole ship shook as the great rifles roared their hatred at the Germans, and Fingal slipped her letter back in his pocket, took a deep breath, and settled down to wait for what the day might bring.

20

Grim-Visag'd War

At last the guns had fallen silent. The battle was over. “A, B, X, and Y guns' crews may go on top of turrets,” the Tannoy announced. “Guns' crews may go on top of turrets.”

For the first time in the four hours since he'd last been on deck, Fingal didn't have to strain to hear the words over the din of war. Even here, deep within the ship where the medical team was effectively locked up with all the watertight hatches sealed, the racket had been horrible. It hardly bore thinking about how deafening it must have been inside the gunhouses when the guns fired. And how suffocating as cordite fumes leaked back each time the breeches were opened. No wonder the crews were being let out into the fresh air.

No one had been injured on
Warspite
and not a single casualty had been received so far from any other ships. Two portable operating tables were set up and waiting. Boxes of presterilised instruments were stacked against the bulkheads. A steam autoclave for sterilizing instruments was plugged into a power supply. All the other necessities for patching up wounded humanity were here, ready and waiting.

Fingal was relieved and, he had to admit, shocked, that no one on
Warspite
had been hurt. The constant and unearthly din of the guns had given him the impression that topside things would be hellish and chaotic. And yet not a single man had been wounded. He knew from the running commentary of the Tannoy, however, that eight German destroyers had been sunk and at least two British ships were “badly damaged” and another “damaged.” He wondered where the dividing line between the two descriptions lay and if other ships had been hit.

“I'm sure we're going to be busy soon,” Commander Wilcoxson said, “and so will Davy Jones's crew aft. So does anyone want to go on a short sightseeing trip, get a breath of fresh air?”

Fingal nodded his yes. He felt claustrophobic in this porthole-less room down on the middle deck. He needed to breathe some air. And he needed a smoke.

He was not alone. Before he could say anything, all five SBAs said they'd appreciate the opportunity. “Me too,” said Fingal.

“Right,” said Wilcoxson, “everybody back in half an hour. I'll phone Davy's lot too. Tell them to take a break.”

Fingal had his pipe in his pocket filled and ready to go when the little party emerged onto the foc's'le deck. Paddy O'Rourke offered Fingal a Player's Navy Cut cigarette. One did, even if you knew the other man was a pipe smoker or didn't smoke at all.

“No thanks, Paddy. Pipe.” As Fingal lit up and gratefully inhaled he looked up to see the crews of the big guns clambering out from the hatches on top of their turrets. Some of the men were already munching on what he guessed was another round of bully beef sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs.

He and CPO Paddy O'Rourke walked along the deck past A turret to get a better view.

Warspite
had anchored at five
P.M
. in the oil-stained waters of Westfjord off the town of Narvik. Immediately to starboard, at the mouth of Beisfjord, one of the smaller fjords that joined the main one, the hulks of three German destroyers poured columns of greasy smoke to defile the sky, which was now the clear blue of an early evening above the Arctic Circle. The sun wouldn't set for another three and a half hours. Black snowflakes from the fires, like smudges on clean paper, defaced the firmament. The surrounding snow-covered hills sparkled in the rays of a still high sun, but what should have been the tangy saltiness of the frigid air was overwhelmed by the stink of burning oil and paint—and of something roasting. He'd never smelled it before, but he was sure it was human flesh. Fingal gagged and took a deep pull on his pipe.

Paddy O'Rourke grimaced. “Doze Jerries must have taken a hell of a pounding, poor sods,” he said. “And our lads, sir.” Paddy pointed astern to where a British destroyer had run aground. “There'll be wounded coming off that ship. Her fore end's a feckin' shambles.”

“I think that's
Cossack,
” Fingal said. “She was hit hard early on. But,” and he jabbed much farther for'ard with his pipe stem, “that's Rombaksfjord. You remember that our ships went in there—”

“
Eskimo
was torpedoed, and she's in rag order too, but we did for four Huns, the gurriers.” Paddy shrugged. “I think we've won this one, at least at sea.” He nodded toward the town. “How do you reckon we're going to winkle the German buggers out of there, sir? I reckon they'll be all over the place like clap on a heifer's arse.”

Fingal chuckled, cheered by the words from home, and let go a blue cloud that hung motionless. “No idea,” he said, “and be grateful it's not our problem. See there?” Two destroyers, their names on their bows,
Forester
and
Bedouin,
were finishing coming alongside and mooring with their bows secured against
Warspite
's quarterdeck. “I reckon they'll be offloading casualties from the other ships to us. Maybe some German wounded too.” He took a final pull on his comforting briar. “I don't mind telling you, Paddy, I'm worried about how I'm going to manage.” Although, he thought, the general surgical principles he had been taught in his year studying obstetrics and gynaecology would be of some help.

Paddy grinned, and said, “Och Jasus, sir, look on the bright side, at least you'll have me and ould Hippocrates keeping an eye on you.”

*   *   *

“I've been aft, Fingal,” Richard Wilcoxson said when he and Paddy O'Rourke returned to the medical station. “We're going to be taking wounded from five of our damaged destroyers.”

Five? That answered Fingal's question about how many other ships had been hit. He wondered just how many cases that would mean. Again the worm inside nagged at him. Would he be able to cope?

Richard continued. “I've been able to free up all but one of our fully trained sick berth staff to work here or in the aft medical centre on the patients who need us most. We're not actually at action stations, but we might get bombed so we'll continue to work below. The MOs of
Forester
and
Bedouin
will act as triage officers, spare us that duty. You remember, Fingal, I told you battleships serve as hospital ships after major actions. They'll send the walking wounded to the various mess decks on the main deck and the MOs and their SBAs will pitch in there until it's time for the destroyers to leave. Some of the wounded will have already been patched up on the way here. A lot of them can be cared for by our first-aiders. Others will only need a few stitches or wounds dressed. They'll have to wait. We'll be putting the surgical cases on the seamen's mess deck both pre- and postoperatively. I've detailed one of our SBAs to work with that group. The other four on our team will work with us.”