Location via proxy:   [ UP ]  
[Report a bug]   [Manage cookies]                
Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Night Encounter (A WW2 Naval Adventure)
    Night Encounter (A WW2 Naval Adventure)
    Night Encounter (A WW2 Naval Adventure)
    Ebook161 pages3 hours

    Night Encounter (A WW2 Naval Adventure)

    By J.E. Macdonnell

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    When his ship was laid up for repairs, two-fisted petty-officer William Walker volunteered for a spell with the Light Coastal Forces, working alongside a crew full of Brits in a lightning-fast Motor Torpedo Boat. He knew it was going to be an education, but he never dreamed he would eventually find himself caught up in a deadly attack on Cherbourg Harbour.
    A flotilla of E-boats and destroyers, hidden in the fog, gave Walker a further chance to use his own special expertise in fighting the enemy. But nobody expected him to come out of the conflict changed as he did ... in more ways than one.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPiccadilly
    Release dateJul 31, 2023
    ISBN9798215533475
    Night Encounter (A WW2 Naval Adventure)
    Author

    J.E. Macdonnell

    JAMES EDMOND MACDONNELL was born in 1917 in Mackay, Queensland and became one of Australia’s most prolific writers. As a boy, he became determined to go to sea and read every seafaring book he could find. At age 13, while his family was still asleep, he took his brother’s bike and rode eighty miles from his home town to Brisbane in an attempt to see ships and the sea. Fortunately, he was found and returned to his family. He attended the Toowoomba Grammar School from 1931 to 1932. He served in the Royal Australian Navy for fourteen years, joining at age 17, advancing through all lower deck ranks and reaching the rank of commissioned gunnery officer. He began writing books while still in active service.Macdonnell wrote stories for The Bulletin under the pseudonym “Macnell” and from 1948 to 1956 he was a member of The Bulletin staff. His first book, Fleet Destroyer – a collection of stories about life on the small ships – was published by The Book Depot, Melbourne, in 1945. Macdonnell began writing full-time for Horwitz in 1956, writing an average of a dozen books a year.After leaving the navy, Macdonnell lived in St. Ives, Sydney and pursued his writing career. In 1988, he retired to Buderim on the Sunshine Coast in Queensland. He died peacefully in his sleep at a Buderim hospital in 2002. He is survived by his children Beth, Jane and Peter.Macdonnell’s naval stories feature several recurring characters – Captain “Dutchy” Holland, D.S.O., Captain Peter Bentley, V.C., Captain Bruce Sainsbury, V.C., Jim Brady, and Lieutenant Commander Robert Randall.

    Read more from J.E. Macdonnell

    Related to Night Encounter (A WW2 Naval Adventure)

    Titles in the series (25)

    View More
    View More

    Related ebooks

    War & Military Fiction For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Showdown On Lake Erie

      Jan 4, 2022

      Showdown On Lake Erie
      8 min read

    • Article

      The Marauder

      Aug 7, 2018

      The Marauder
      10 min read

    • Article

      Tom Cunliffe

      May 27, 2022

      Tom Cunliffe
      5 min read

    • Article

      Gunship Evolution

      Sep 1, 2020

      Gunship Evolution
      6 min read

    • Article

      Tom Cunliffe

      Aug 27, 2021

      Tom Cunliffe
      5 min read

    • Article

      Tom Cunliffe

      Dec 31, 2021

      Tom Cunliffe
      5 min read

    • Article

      Exception To The Rule

      Apr 13, 2021

      Present-day manufacturers of replica arms and armour achieve levels of quality that are way beyond anything most Roman armourers seem to have aspired to, with a few notable exceptions. Edges of helmets, for example, were roughly finished, the symmetr

      3 min read

    • Article

      8 Lighthouses In 18 Hours

      Oct 28, 2021

      Well known for beautiful beaches and rugged sandstone vistas, the coast of New South Wales makes for some magnificent sailing. I’ve been cruising it for decades and it’s always an invigorating challenge that takes some planning for there are few safe

      8 min read

    • Article

      Top Of The Heap

      Jul 6, 2021

      Top Of The Heap
      2 min read

    • Article

      Consolidated Pby catalina

      Dec 21, 2023

      Consolidated Pby catalina
      3 min read

    • Article

      In Praise Of Naval Discipline

      Jan 30, 2020

      Two hundred years ago this year, HMS Ganges, an 84-gun, second-rate ship-of-the-line, was being prepared for launching at the Bombay shipyard in India. After more than 80 years of acting as a British Empire gunboat she was ‘retired’ to the calmer wat

      2 min read

    • Article

      The Battle of Cape Ecnomus

      Jul 11, 2019

      The Battle of Cape Ecnomus
      1 min read

    • Article

      The Echoes Of Essex Past

      Jul 4, 2024

      The Echoes Of Essex Past
      3 min read

    • Article

      Sentimental Homecoming

      Nov 23, 2023

      Sentimental Homecoming
      3 min read

    • Article

      Time Out

      Jun 5, 2020

      Time Out
      5 min read

    • Article

      Time Out

      Jun 5, 2020

      Time Out
      5 min read

    • Article

      Rock Hard

      Sep 10, 2020

      Rock Hard
      7 min read

    • Article

      Don’t Try This At Home

      May 11, 2023

      Don’t Try This At Home
      3 min read

    • Article

      More Things In Heaven

      Dec 10, 2021

      It’s the deep mid-winter, when sailors check their warps, settle down in lamp-lit saloons, top up their bogey stoves and pour themselves a dram. If they’re in tune with the outside world, they’ll also shut off the flickering screens, kill the music m

      5 min read

    • Article

      Book Reviews

      May 12, 2022

      This beautifully produced book condenses the lifetime experiences of writer, broadcaster and sailing legend Jimmy Cornell into one volume. It begins with an introduction to his newest boat, Aventura Zero, and explains his thinking on zero emissions,

      2 min read

    • Article

      Taken By Surprise

      Jan 17, 2018

      Taken By Surprise
      5 min read

    • Article

      The Thrills And Spills Of Recon

      Sep 7, 2022

      The Thrills And Spills Of Recon
      4 min read

    • Article

      The Overlord

      Oct 14, 2022

      The Overlord
      5 min read

    • Article

      Time Out

      Jul 3, 2020

      Historian William Dalrymple has carved himself a niche specialising in the history of Asia and he pulls a lot of that knowledge together to document how the British East India Company managed to subjugate India, back then one of the wealthiest and mo

      3 min read

    • Article

      Time Out

      Jul 3, 2020

      Historian William Dalrymple has carved himself a niche specialising in the history of Asia and he pulls a lot of that knowledge together to document how the British East India Company managed to subjugate India, back then one of the wealthiest and mo

      3 min read

    • Article

      Classic Choice

      Dec 31, 2020

      Classic Choice
      1 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Night Encounter (A WW2 Naval Adventure)

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Night Encounter (A WW2 Naval Adventure) - J.E. Macdonnell

      Chapter One

      HE STEPPED INTO the duty officer’s kennel-sized office in H.M.S. Bee, the working-up establishment for Light Coastal Forces in a seaside resort on the south coast of England.

      Because you do not salute in the Royal Navy when under a ceiling, he took off his cap and whisked it down to his right side, holding it there beside his leg, with his fingers round the shiny black peak.

      Petty-Officer William Walker joining, sir.

      The voice was deep and resonant, and the last word of the sentence was clipped off, in the crisp tone of a man used to giving orders, and used to obeying. The young sub-lieutenant behind the desk looked up in surprise. His visitor was a big man—one of the biggest the sub had seen—but he had come in so quietly that he had not heard him.

      His eyes moved from a patrol report he had been studying, to a hard, quiet face burned mahogany brown by sun and weather. There was something else in that face, a quality of calm and experienced authority, which had the sub-lieutenant starting to his feet. Before he could complete the movement of rising and make a fool of himself, he remembered in time that this visitor was only a petty-officer, whereas he—albeit of merely a few weeks’ standing—was a sub-lieutenant, and therefore senior. The sub coughed and settled back in his chair, trying to relegate his involuntary movement to the simple gesture of making himself more comfortable.

      Petty-Officer Walker saw, and correctly interpreted, the officer’s movement. But he kept his face impassive—you never knew with this English mob, and he wasn’t going to blot his copy-book so soon after being assigned to exchange duty. The sub was young, and probably green. All right. But again—you never knew. He had once met an Englishman who looked like a buttercup and who wore the maroon ribbon of the Victoria Cross on his chest.

      As well, Petty-Officer Walker was not of that sneering lower deck company to whom all officers, if young, were naturally incompetent idiots. We all have to learn, was his philosophy, and if a junior member of the team was incompetent, it was the fault of the seniors responsible for his training. So he stood there in front of the desk, huge and solid and rigidly at attention, waiting.

      The sub-lieutenant, who, though young in naval experience, had his measure of natural intelligence, recognised the respectful and disciplined appearance of his obviously experienced visitor. His voice was pleasant and friendly when he said;

      Good morning, Petty-Officer Walker. We’ve been waiting for you. Sit down, won’t you?

      He wheeled a chair over towards the big man. Walker smiled back and took the chair. He sat down and crossed his legs. The action was, somehow, significant. His attitude was still respectful, but there was a subtle change in it—as though he had waited for, and now knew, the sort of reception he was to be afforded, and therefore could relax into his normal state; that of a man whose experience and power of command was assured, and who expected to be respected for those hard-bought qualities.

      Yes, sir, Walker said, in answer to the word ‘waiting.’ I would have been here last night only Jerry stacked on a bit of a blue up the line and the train pulled up for an hour or so.

      He leaned back and grinned at the officer.

      ‘‘Stacked on a bit of ...? the sub started, his young face puzzled. Then it cleared. ‘‘Oh, I see—you mean an air raid?

      Yes, sir, Walker answered, ‘‘that’s what I said."

      H’mm, the other coughed a little. I—er—I haven’t met an Australian before, you know.

      Walker’s grin widened, his teeth white against the burned brown of his face. Then you don’t know about our crocodile farms and kangaroo stations?

      ‘‘I beg your pardon?" The Englishman was looking at him warily.

      Joke, the big man said wryly. ‘‘Us Aussies are great comics, y’know. Yeah ... His voice briskened. ‘‘If you’ll show me my berth, sir, I’ll get my gear stowed away.

      Not till afterwards did the incongruity of a lower deckman asking an officer to show him his quarters strike the sub-lieutenant. He rose at once and led the way through a passage into a large room which looked like—and had been—the auditorium of a theatre. But now, Walker noticed, seats had been replaced with gun mountings and plotting tables and instruments used for the accurate sighting of enemy ships. A long refreshment bar at one end of the big room, once laden with frothing glasses, now sported a dozen or so Morse keys, at which embryo signalmen were tapping with devoted interest.

      Then there burst on Walker—who was gunnery to the core—a sound sweet to his ears; the raucous bellowing of another petty-officer with crossed barrels on his sleeve, whose imperative roars had men running round the mounting of a quick-firing gun.

      The Australian walked on beside his guide, his face impassive and his heart gloating—it might have been a theatre, and there might be a hotel and a couple of boarding houses attached to the establishment, but now H.M.S. Bee was vitalised by a sense of disciplined urgency, no less experienced and aware than a properly constituted gunnery training school.

      The sub stopped at the doorway of a room whose whole area seemed to be crammed with bunks, and a tier of aluminium kit-lockers.

      Here it is, he smiled. I’m afraid you’ll find it a bit small, but we have a good number of torpedo boats and gunboats on the strength.

      That’s all right, sir, Walker grinned, poking his head in through the doorway. I come from a destroyer. This looks like Buckingham Palace.

      The sub looked at him with covert interest. That one word ‘destroyer’ seemed to invest the weathered new arrival with an aura of seasoned glamour. The sub was a reserve officer who knew little of the big, real Navy, of which thirty-six knot destroyers were the epitome of speed and power and destructive force. He said;

      You’re from a destroyer? By Jove, that’s a craft I’d like to serve in!

      Walker turned his head and from his six feet two inches height, looked down at him.

      A bloke’s never satisfied, he murmured.

      I beg your pardon?

      Walker grinned. You’d like to serve in a destroyer, eh? Now, why the hell why? I know half a dozen coxswains who’d give their starb’d what name to get the chance to take a motor torpedo boat to sea. Sure, destroyers have plenty of guts. But how about what you’ve got here? One of your M.T.B.’s can cripple a battleship. And with their fifty knots, nothing on the sea would have a hope in hell of catching ’em!

      The sub listened to the deep vehement voice. Those words, coming from a permanent service petty-officer, did something to a nature already fired with the initial pride of his recent entry into the Light Coastal Force. Walker did not know it, but he had just made a friend for life.

      By the way, the sub said irrelevantly, and to hide his feelings, my name’s Appleby—Roger Appleby.

      A good name for those cheeks, Walker grinned to himself. He said;

      Pleased to know you. In the seclusion of the empty sleeping quarters they shook hands, and the sub felt the strength in the Australian’s right hand. Walker went on, quite without embarrassment;

      Are Christian names okay in this outfit? At the right time and place, of course?

      Appleby nodded. Time and place, yes—with petty-officers.

      Suddenly, giving permission for this veteran to call him Roger, he felt very young and presumptuous. He looked at the single ring on his uniform sleeve, and was honest enough to smile wryly and inwardly at the reassurance the golden band gave him.

      They turned back towards the instruction room and Appleby said;

      By the way, you’ll be coxswain of the skipper’s boat—did you know that?

      I did not, Walker answered easily.

      Appleby got the impression that he was not impressed, that he expected nothing less than to coxswain the flotilla’s leader’s craft.

      I’m with the skipper, Appleby told him, looking sideways at the quiet brown face.

      So that makes us shipmates, Roger, Walker grinned. You’re a bit game, you know—I’ve never handled anything as fast as these craft. I don’t suppose they turn over easily?

      I think you might manage, Appleby said, keeping his face serious. Now that he had met the Australian he had a feeling of definite pleasure that the big fellow would be taking them in and out of action. And he knew that the skipper would have probed pretty deeply into Walker’s background before having him assigned as his own coxswain. As if his own thoughts were stepping side by side with the officer’s, Walker asked;

      What’s the skipper’s name?

      Gilling—Lieutenant-Commander Peter Gilling, Appleby paused. Then he asked, hopefully; You’ve heard of him?

      Walker shook his head. Stranger to me. Should I know him?

      No, I suppose not, Walker looked down quickly. The sub’s voice was bitter. He’s only got D.S.O. and Bar, but nobody’s heard of him—nor of us, as far as that goes. I suppose you could say we’re the Cinderellas of the Service. A waste of men and money—or so the big-ship boys seem to think.

      So that’s how it is, Walker thought, seeing the tightened lips of his new shipmate. The most junior—and smallest—branch of a Service hoary with tradition and battle-honours, and loaded under with an outsize inferiority complex. That could be a good thing, or a hell of a bad one. Being ignored by the top brass might make the M.T.B. men fight like hornets to force recognition of their worth and quality, or it might drag them down, smother them with a sense of their own importance.

      What was made of the Light Coastal Forces in these days of infancy depended in some measure on the calibre of the men manning the boats—but it depended mainly on the personality and initiative and leadership of their skipper, Lieutenant-Commander Gilling.

      I’d like to meet the skipper, he said suddenly. Is he around?

      No, Appleby shook his fair head. The whole flotilla's out on exercises. He looked at his watch. They’re due in shortly—about ten minutes. If you’d like to walk down to the docks, we’ll see them come in.

      I’d like that very much, Walker affirmed, but you’re the duty boy.

      I’ll get a relief for half an hour, Appleby told him. Somehow he badly wanted to show this destroyer man what the flotilla looked like racing in for the harbour. They stopped in the instruction room, the bellow of the gunnery man’s voice and the slam and rattle of gun drill beating about their ears.

      Excuse me a moment while I organise a relief. I’ll meet you outside.

      Walker nodded, and watched the slim, boyish figure hurry through the gun-crews. Just a kid. Keen as a razor, smart, too—but just a kid. He thought again of that other boyish figure on whose chest hung the V.C. ribbon. Reassured, he walked slowly across the room and through the passage to the front door.

      They stood near the end of the big mole, its granite blocks protecting the harbour from the onward-rolling waves of the Atlantic. To seaward, the water was laid over with a misty haze, through which the morning sun shone yellowly and without warmth. Walker shrugged his neck further down inside the collar of his greatcoat and thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. He turned his head and looked along the strip of beach. Beach, they called it! A swift vision of the golden curve of Coogee Beach in Sydney filled him with brief nostalgia—the background of blue, blue Pacific reaching far back to the even weld of sky and sea, then the long, slow rollers ending their run on the beach in a crashing symphony of green and flung white; the beach itself, long and curving and wide, soft warm sand heated by a hot sun in a vast blue sky ...

      A gust of cold, foggy wind made him shiver. He turned his head from the wet, stony pebbles of the beach and stared out to sea; a cold grey sea, not friendly like his own, hostile in its implacable march against the grey land, secretive and powerful under the misty canopy. Appleby touched his arm.

      The sound was like nothing he had heard before. It was as powerful as the noise of aircraft engines, but deeper, like a tractor’s engine with a cough—throaty, a hard sort of sound, a deep growl that spoke of one thing—power.

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1