COLD SNAPS
'COLDER WAR'
‘Nowt. Thas’ nowt’ Says Dadda. ‘I sees’ Mersey froze right over –
walk right over tut Woodside if tha want’s. Back in 81.’
Beetling brows would clench over milky eyes the colour of old brass
I see his snowy mane echoed in the gathering drifts, hear
wheezy grumbles in the panting engines forging for us in the gloom.
Gripping the shovel white knuckled, I press on, thankless.
Every scoop filling behind me in a soot speckled frieze, hiding my way
‘Put thee back into it lad!’ The sound of the shovel on frozen metal,
Cuts into my bones, setting teeth on edge. My dry lips weld together.
Cold, this is cold Dadda.
Thoughts shrink back to the leaving, red duster snapping overhead.
As Winston decrees that Blighty should pitch in, bail out old Stalin.
The Merch answers the call, ever ready. Rallied by navy veterans
ships taken from the safe latitudes of home and geared for war.
Nets ripped out and guns bolted on, fish rooms made ready for bunks
prows bolstered with ice breaker rams and gunwales girthed in iron.
Shame they couldn’t do that for the men, build them better, steel them up.
No idea what we were signing up for – this Phoney War, distant till now.
Real now, got serious – serious as death. If the nazis don’t get us the sea will.
The sea, our other mother, turned cruel and cold. Bitch faced with salty ire.
No warm, balmy waves to clad us in glittering green, flotsam and jetsam now -
no fish thronged depths to cast our nets, no sun kissed mirror to reflect the sun.
Just a wall of cold and floor of stone, clouds weighed heavy with grey ice.
The very ocean itself cracking open like the bleeding segs of our hands,
bergs jostling the bows, grumbling Icelandic trolls, hammering our keels.
My golem feet, shuffling me forward, drive the rasping spade along, unfeeling.
Mechanical and slow, to shove the cladding ice back into the sea
restore some sense of life to the ghostly ship and my failing hands
A breath of welcome heat, a wash of lambent light - as a deckhand appears –
terse, resolute. Only eyes visible in tightly corded hood.
A dark smear now on the grey deck, disappearing quickly into the stern.
Can of warmed oil in gloved hands, to caress the Lewis’s, ease the triggers into careful motion,
grease the swivels and pivots, ready. Should they be called into rapid action,
to spit fire and steel into the void, no time to chip away ice, no moments left to prepare.
AA must be ready at all times, in case jerry calls – falling on us from a darkened sky
like so many benighted hawks, death and destruction clawed tight beneath
in talons of lightning and thunderous wings.
I stop, pulling back my cloistered hood, better to hear –
Panicked aware now that an attack may be coming – but no. No sounds.
No Dornier drone or Junkers scream in the chill air, just the heartbeat thud of propellers
deep below amid the ever-present complaint of the riven ice.
‘Nowt. Nowt’ mutters Dadda in his chair by the hearth, tormented by the great war
His memory and sight scarred with recollections of wading waist deep in Flanders mud.
‘Do right by tha country lad’ he had advised, patriotic still to the bitter end.
But other plans had places for me and the sea called my name and I answered –
Following the Red Duster out of port, to serve my time on the wave.
Liverpool feels a long way away now, lost in time, lost in fog - three graces obscured.
The sun rolls on this horizon like a burnished penny, no heat here.
Not like the deep seas run, fetching back palm oil and many coloured fruits.
Picking out spiders the size of your hand from hiding places in the holds,
sweating shirtless and tanned on decks slippery with juice, birds screaming overhead for pickings.
Till war put a stop to my roving’s, brought me back to home port again,
New orders, new taskings, Give the Dervish a whirl boys, secret operation – stick one on Hitler.
Off, off now first to the hidden Loch, to meet the mighty Navy boats – Do your duty boys,
deliver cargoes of hope and salvation. Adolph’s stabbed the soviets in the back and Britain must assist.
Bring retribution after this summer blitz, city and docks pounded by hail and fire -
This lightning war visited on us by Luftwaffe rats, show them that we do not bend,
this fortress isle will not be cowed - strafed and razed with endless rains,
our fortitude remains our strongest power, we give of ourselves to send
our merchant navy convoy packed with goods, to bolster forces near the pole.
Setting off once more from Ewe, into the Scottish night, stealthy on course for the arctic wilds,
here be monsters sure, in this land of endless twilight, sun never setting, ruddy as a coal.
Days become weeks, weeks become days. Tedium broken by heaving storms and lashing rain,
Nordic storm gods lifting the boats like so many kayaks.
Then calm, dreadful calm as pack ice surrounds the boats, tapping messages of fear.
a staccato semaphore on the battered hulls as the floes surround us, pressing.
Far, far away from land, serenaded by whales, thrumming and squealing into the deep sonics,
ghostly cries of those pelagic rovers, sliding miles down into lightless chasms.
Sleep will not come, even to the tired bones of busy sailors. No sleep till sunset now,
A long working day, body reacting to flaccid time. Wrap the head in scarves to hide the light,
bury yourself in the bunk, hear the heartbeat of the vessel but on awakening –
find that no time has passed, it is still twilight, still night hidden away from longing hearts
weary shoulders still stiff and unrelieved by fitful dozing.
Out on deck, second watch, convoy nearing lonely Bear Island, but no ursine shadows here.
Semaphore flash from the lead corvette, messages deftly passed by Anson among the fleet.
Stay close, watch for wolves. Sea wolves – U-boats, sliding merciless beneath the ice.
Below, hydrophone pings, reaching out into the depths. A break in the ice to starboard –
Anxious asdic reaches out - a clutch of narwhals saluting our fleet – spiral teeth lancing the air,
before scattering deep beneath the floes, as mercurial as the unicorn.
Days now, surely to Archangel and our destination. Bald rock slides out of view, bird spotted and grey.
A star flashes red as somewhere amongst the crimson clouds a weary sound climbs down from above.
Glasses flash on the forward decks, cabin suddenly alive. Feet running, guts churning.
The scatter command – split up, hide in plain sight. Ever-present the fog rolls in,
non-essential lights go out and with flickering semaphore, the convoy splits into the Barents.
Grey smoke plumes and billows from the Argus, meshing to fog the grey bulk of the carrier’s flanks.
‘There!’ To the south, telltale flash of butterfly sun on glass, a Heinkel surely?
Gunner climbs into his bay, rubbing his hands as he goes, knocking free frost from the rail.
Cranking the turret into position, twin barrels roving the clouds to port - Tracking – tracking
no fire yet, too high for the Lewis – wait for the sound to change, falling pitch on the turn.
Twin engines drone lowering as the vulture circles, seeking a target far below.
Coming back for another pass, to spot the scattered fleet. Silent, we wait.
Willing the fog to shroud us, praying for the wind to drop - then, a break ahead, curtains of mist parting
A low cramped outline of land ahead, washed ruddy by the spavined sun, pinned to the horizon.
Our landing, the Russian coast and warmth, hopefully, if we can reach it in time.
‘Its 88s! Coming round!’ A shout from the fo'c'sle, three big Junkers visible now in the morning air,
A sudden blaring change of light – gone is the bloody familiar glow of twilight
Streamers of dancing fire reach up from the coast, painting the sky in veins of flame.
Ack-ack so thick you could climb it like a ladder to heaven, criss-crossing to mesh the planes.
Clouds full of roaring, whistling, clattering as the batteries empty themselves into the sky
Our guns silent, ready – no need to telegraph our presence – though every barrel poised.
Now contact! A blossom of white and gold as the flak finds a mark on one of the three 88s.
The sorrowful moan of tortured steel and failing motors, tracer biting deep to clip the wings.
A dark shape falls from the sky, a burning Icarus on charcoal plumes, feathering the skies
shrapnel dropping now - chunks hitting the ice, hissing as the plane folds into the sea.
A throaty aerodyne roar as the Luftwaffe attempt escape, peeling back their noses.
Flak and tracer chasing their tails to catch the retreat, thicker now their position betrayed.
Then new sound screaming overhead - four spritely Stormoviks reaching for the sky,
lights ablaze over batteries, stilled while the fighters ascend, no friendly fire here.
Direct overhead now, soviet rage harrying nazi pride, brute force versus military prowess.
Distant thumps come from Junkers dropping their bomb loads in exchange for speed,
Falling harmless into the sternward ice, disturbing floes and restive seas.
Fog lifting away, tinted gold by burning fuel spilled on the waves, as wreckage sinks.
A coast now visible and clear, rocky outline topped by pines, lined with cannon and battery -
stilled now between the trees for our approach, the threat dispelled, attack driven back.
Russian fighters scream home overhead, brushing the masts, victory rolling, incautious.
Disappearing inland over the treetops for hidden strips and scrambled bases.
Our convoy reconvenes, Anson’s flash and find their echo at the mouth, a smoking launch
to lead the way, deep into soviet territories, to Arkhangelsk and rest.
Ancient rock and colossal timber line the route, snow dusted cliffs and ice choked bays.
Ships sliding deeper into nighted waters, as boats appear to watch the fleet, sailors heedless of cold.
Rafts of mighty trees with men aboard, sailing effortless, guiding logs to the mills,
Past factories clinging to the rock, churning steam, fires everywhere, scenting the air with soot.
Docks and jetties reaching out into dark waters, figures lining the edge, sullen – silent.
No one waves us on, soldiers stare ominous from watchtowers. It is colder here than at the circle, less
ice, but a chill. A sense of suspicion, of fear. At Archangel, we drop anchor, tie up. Wait.
Gangplank is lowered and a cadre of soviet military file aboard each vessel in turn, rifles ready.
Stone faced, the commander arrives, on our bridge, offers the Captain a greeting warmly.
A feeling of relief washes over the crew, tension lifting with the tarps as stevedores scurry and heft,
hawsers released, hoists busy amongst the bales. Our crews working together, in unified purpose
Very soon the plimsoll is clear and the holds lie empty. Arkhangelsk docks are full -
As convoys of trucks, carts and wagons arrive to spirit the cargoes away to waiting bases.
Hurricanes for Kola, arms for the front, food for the starving, aid for Mother Russia.
All the while we stand back, watching the soviet machine busy at its labours, till everything is gone.
Now we are presented with endless bowls of steaming borscht, coarse bread and stinging vodka
Russian soldiers still alert and cautious, but dockers and deckhands grateful for news, New to the war.
impregnable in their northern fastnesses, who is this little man with Chaplin moustache?
We swap tales and break bread, drink too much and fall down on the freezing decks, heedless of pain.
Anything to delay the inevitable, inexorable return to the circle, that polar cold
Through sturm und drang, hounded by subs, hunted by raids, one thought dogs us all.
We have been impossibly lucky so far. Can we make it back alive?
Too soon, we have orders to make ready. To take on fuel, supplies, make our faltering fairwells
Steely eyed, the Red Guard lines the docks as the refuelled convoy prepares to depart.
To head north once more, to the land of twilight and cold, boreal light and unguessable time.
Below the cover of the fog, beneath the noses of the enemy - covert and sleek. Operation Dervish
Back home to Dadda, back to port – to tell my tales of this colder war.
