The corvette had been new when it had left the shipyard two months previously. Now after being pounded by Artic seas, sometimes made almost top heavy by ice on her superstructure, and being attacked by German bombers she was a sorry sight. Almost as sorry as the dismal North Russian quayside where the one hundred and eighty six feet of her length was tied alongside. The homeward sailing had been delayed by engine trouble.
Geordie Johnson, Leading Telegraphist, was nothing like the schoolboy he had been a few short years before, nor was he anything like the school headmaster he would become thirty years later. That night he and Oggie Trelaw had had dodged the non too vigilant sentry and made their way to the smelly canteen to join the half starving ill-clad dockyard workers in drinking vodka. The workers were friendly enough with their backslapping and shouts of 'Tavarich'. The official party line was that the capitalist effort was not enough when compared with the sacrifices being made by the Russian people. Also there was grumbling about the food given from their own poor stocks to help feed the corvette's crew once the ships own stocks had run out.
Now Geordie' and Oggie were making their way through the moonlit dockyard towards the ship. The sirens began to wall and they broke into a run knowing the ship would go to action stations as the Luftwaffe planes came from their Norwegian bases to attack the port. The sound of the Russian prowling sentry’s challenge was unheard
in the general noise and confusion. Ship and shore based guns had already begun to fire. They were only a few steps away from the ship's gangway and they could see figures running on the upper deck as the-klaxon blared out the call to action. Geordie felt a sharp pain in his back as the erstwhile peasant, now sentry, carried out his duty in
consequence of the unanswered challenge and discharged his ancient rifle. Naval discipline and his own willpower kept Geordie going as they ran up the narrow gangplank. Once aboard he made his way amongst the running sailors and slipped into the tiny' wireless office. Soon he felt
motion as the ship began to leave the quayside. The R.N.R. Lieutenant in command had obtained permission to sail as soon as his engine room reported repairs completed and everything had been ready to slip at short notice. Now there was even more urgency, no use staying to be bombed at the quayside even though the engineer was doubtful the lasting quality of the repairs.
Oggie at his action station on the Oerlikon gun breathed a sigh of relief, a matter of minutes later and the ship would have sailed without them. Geordie slumped at his seat in the wireless office. Fortunately radio silence had been ordered and he remained undisturbed. As the ship zigzagged out of the harbour one of the bombers come in low and raked the upper deck with machine gun fire. Some of the bullets penetrated the superstructure. They were well into the open sea when they were stood down from action stations.
Oggie took a mug of cocoa to the wireless office and found his friend unconscious.
“Nothing I can do sir, 'cept keep the wound clean, needs a surgeon really." said the sick berth attendant.
who was :the ships only medic. *Well. do your best, I suppose we were lucky really.
Only one serious, casualty." the Captain replied. The homeward trip was lengthened by the need to travel avoid German bases in Norway
The hard, pressed base surgeon examined the x-ray plates and said to his assistant. ”This one’s had the luck of the devil, another fraction of an inch and…..” he shrugged his shoulders. “The wound is healing, I think the safest thing would be to leave the bullet where it is, it would most likely finish him off if we tried to move it.”
Caleb Trelaw, nobody had called him 'Oggie' since he had left the navy, steered his boat load of pleasure trippers along Carrick Roads. His thoughts were on the newspaper cutting that Bella Johnson had posted to him 'LOCAL HERO's POSTHUMOUS RUSSIAN AWARD' the headline said and the article gave details of Geordie’s time on the Artic convoys.
*Pity Geordie had died a few weeks before the medal came" Caleb thought to himself. 'Took over forty years" A grin crossed his weather beaten face as his thoughts ran on -"That's the second piece of Russian metal that Geordie has received. He would have laughed like a Chief Stoker at being called a hero. What about that run ashore in Halifax, Nova Scotia ...
The End. The author says this story is fiction
By Norman Hadland