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Gunner Thomas
Part One – Portsmouth Shadows
The sea had a way of swallowing noise. On the flight deck of HMS Formidable, as dawn broke over the steel-gray swells of the Mediterranean, the only sounds were the creak of metal, the slap of waves against the hull, and the faint rattle of aircraft being checked by bleary-eyed mechanics. Below decks, though, it was a different world — a hive of men, pipes hissing, boots on steel grating, voices raised in laughter or half-hidden in fear.
Leading Seaman Thomas Calder, twenty-four years old and already lined with the hardness of war, leaned against the cool metal of his Oerlikon gun mount. He’d been awake since before sunrise, nerves jittering with the anticipation of orders. He was a gunner, a protector of this vast steel island afloat, responsible for scouring the skies with 20mm fire should any Luftwaffe or Regia Aeronautica aircraft dare approach.
The smell of oil clung to his hands, and despite the salt wind, he could still taste the stale tea from the galley. He looked out across the horizon where the battle fleet gathered, gray shadows on gray seas — Warspite, veteran of Jutland, her hull proud and scarred; Valiant, sleek and sturdy; Barham, with her brooding bulk; destroyers darting like hounds about their charges. They steamed together toward destiny at Cape Matapan.
The war, Thomas thought, had a strange rhythm. Hours of monotony followed by moments when time fractured, stretched, and screamed. He had seen it already — the sudden whistle of bombs, the sky ablaze with tracer fire, the raw smell of cordite. And always, the aftertaste of fear.
But fear, he reminded himself, was never the whole of it. There was pride, too. Pride in this ship, in the hands that kept her engines churning and her aircraft flying. Pride in the faces of the men around him. Pride in the fact that, together, they stood between Britain and ruin.
Portsmouth, a Memory
And when fear threatened to overwhelm him, he had something else to cling to. The memory of her. It had been months earlier, back in Portsmouth, during the heavy raids of 1940. The dockyards had been pounded, the city aflame. That night, after his shift ferrying munitions, Thomas had stumbled into a shelter. The walls were damp, the air thick with dust and sweat. And there she had been — an RAF officer, no more than nineteen or twenty, uniform neat even in the chaos, eyes brighter than the candles flickering on the wall.
Her name was Margaret Ellison. Flight Officer. He remembered her voice first: steady, calm, speaking to frightened children huddled near their mothers. Then he remembered her laugh, sudden and musical, when he’d awkwardly offered her his tin of tea.
For a night, they had shared words in the dark, half-shouted over the thrum of bombers above. She told him of her training, of the Spitfires she directed from the operations room, her pride in the pilots she guided home. He told her of the sea, of the guns, of the comrades he’d lost already. They had held hands in the dark, a silent pact against the falling world outside.
The Eve in Portsmouth
The bombing raid had ended hours before, but the air still smelled of smoke and plaster dust. The city lay bruised, the streets eerily quiet but for the crunch of rubble beneath hurried feet.
They had spoken of nothing in particular — anything to keep the silence of what tomorrow might bring at bay. And then, with a kind of unspoken urgency, Margaret had said quietly, “Not home. Not the shelter. Somewhere else. Just tonight.”
That was how they found themselves at Hilda’s B&B, a narrow brick house tucked behind a crooked back street near the dockyard. The landlady, used to sailors and soldiers appearing with girls on their arm, asked no questions. A key was pressed into Thomas’s palm, and they climbed the creaking stairs together.
The room was small, plain — a narrow bed with a patchwork quilt, a dresser with a chipped mirror, curtains half-drawn against the glow of fires outside. Yet for them, it might as well have been a sanctuary.
For a moment they simply stood there, neither knowing how to begin. Then Margaret smiled — a shy, uncertain smile that lit her whole face. She reached up, fingertips brushing the grime from his cheek, and in that touch something broke open.
Their kiss was clumsy at first, born of nerves and fear, but it deepened quickly, urgency overcoming hesitation. They held one another tightly, as though the world beyond those four walls no longer existed.
Moonlight filtered through a tear in the curtains, painting her in silver. Thomas’s breath caught; he saw her not as an officer in neat uniform, but as a young woman with long, graceful lines, eyes full of warmth, and a softness that seemed impossibly fragile against the backdrop of war.
They whispered each other’s names in the quiet, their voices hushed as though speaking louder might shatter the moment. Hands traced unfamiliar paths, exploring, learning, memorising. The room filled with the rhythm of closeness, of two hearts pressed together, driven as much by tenderness as by desire.
Outside, somewhere in the distance, the muted thud of bombs echoed again. But inside, time seemed to stop. There was only the warmth of her body against his, the scent of her hair, the way she held him as though he was already half-lost.
When at last they lay together in the silence, her head on his chest, Thomas felt a peace he hadn’t known since before the war. Margaret’s breathing was steady, her hand resting lightly against his ribs.
“This night,” she whispered, almost asleep, “we’ll carry it with us, wherever we go.”
And he knew she was right.
It had been only that night. By dawn, she was gone, swept away in duty and smoke. Yet she lived in him, as vivid as the sound of engines starting on the deck above.
And sometimes, when exhaustion pressed in, she returned in dreams — not the broken, shattering dreams of war, but softer ones. A voice in the dark. A hand brushing his cheek. The promise of something beyond steel and fire.
The Ship Prepares
Back aboard Formidable, the ship was alive. The smell of aviation fuel thickened the air as Swordfish torpedo bombers were readied on deck, their fabric wings trembling in the morning wind. Pilots hunched over maps, mechanics tested engines, ordnance crews checked racks of gleaming torpedoes.
Thomas’s division — the anti-aircraft gunners — were ordered to stand ready. Italian reconnaissance planes had been shadowing the fleet for days. The enemy knew they were coming.
“Keep sharp, Calder,” said Petty Officer Hughes, a barrel-chested veteran with a booming laugh that masked nerves. “Next time Jerry or Itie come calling, you’ll want to remember every bloody drill we’ve done.”
Thomas grinned faintly. “I’ll remember, Chief.”
Around them, men shared cigarettes, swapped crude jokes, or fell silent, lost in thoughts of home. They were a patchwork of Britain: lads from Glasgow, miners from Wales, clerks from London, farm boys from Kent. Each man different, but welded together by the ship’s steel and the pounding sea.
There was comfort in that. In knowing you weren’t alone.
On the Horizon
By midday, the fleet was tightening its formation. Reports filtered in — Italian heavy cruisers, battleships, destroyers, moving east of Crete. Admiral Cunningham’s orders were clear: they would bring the fight to the enemy.
For Thomas, the hours blurred. Drills, watches, meals of tinned stew swallowed without taste. All the while, the tension built. He thought of Margaret again, of her eyes in the shelter light. Did she think of him? Did she even remember the sailor whose name she might never have caught?
At night, sleep brought dreams. Not of bombs this time, nor of aircraft roaring down from a merciless sky, but of her. They walked together through the ruined streets of Portsmouth, rubble around them, but in the dream the city was somehow whole again. The fires were embers fading into stars, and she turned to him, smiling, her hand finding his.
When he woke, sweat clinging to his back, the sound of the sea filled his ears. He lay in his bunk, crowded among snoring shipmates, and felt the ache of longing sharper than any fear of battle.
The Camaraderie
As dawn crept into March 27th, the ship’s mess decks buzzed with rumour. Italian aircraft had been spotted again. The fleet was closing fast.
“Reckon they know what’s coming,” muttered Jack Ferris, the youngest of the gun crew, barely nineteen. He had freckles across his nose and a laugh that always came too loud. “Wouldn’t want to be in their boots.”
“You’ll get your wish soon enough,” Hughes replied gruffly, tearing bread with his thick hands. “Keep your head clear when it starts. That’s all that matters.”
Thomas said nothing, but looked around the mess at the faces of the men. There was fear, yes, but also something else — a kind of shared strength. They had trained together, eaten together, endured long watches and rough seas together. Whatever came, they would face it as one.
That was the heart of it, he realized. Not just pride in the ship, but in each other. The knowledge that when the sky darkened with enemy planes, when shells began to fall, no man would stand alone.
Toward the Battle
The day grew long, and the sea itself seemed to tense with them. Swordfish crews were briefed, ready to launch into the fading light. Orders crackled over tannoys. Men strapped helmets tighter, checked magazines, counted and re-counted ammunition belts.
Thomas, at his station, felt the air grow thick, electric. He looked out across the flight deck, across the sea, toward the gathering shadows. Somewhere out there, the enemy waited.
And in the back of his mind, through the thrum of engines and the beat of his own heart, he carried her memory. Margaret. Her voice in the shelter, her laugh amid the ruin.
Perhaps, he thought, that was what he fought for. Not medals, not glory. But the chance — however slim — of finding her again, of a world where such moments could return.
The sky darkened. The fleet pressed on. And the Battle of Matapan lay just beyond the horizon.
Part Two – The Gathering Storm
The sun slid westward, a dull red ball bleeding light across the Mediterranean. Shadows lengthened on the decks of HMS Formidable, the men moving quicker now, their voices sharper. The ship was a machine of war, and every cog was tightening into place.
Thomas Calder stood at his gun station, eyes fixed on the horizon. His Oerlikon 20mm mount was oiled and ready, its drum magazines stacked at his feet. He could feel the pulse of the ship beneath him, the vibrations of turbines turning miles of sea into white churn. Above, Swordfish bombers sat lashed to the deck, wings folded like patient birds.
The word passed quickly, almost casual on the lips of the petty officers: the Italians were near. Admiral Cunningham’s flagship, HMS Warspite, had signalled contact reports. The Regia Marina’s cruisers and battleships were closing, unknowing that the Royal Navy’s carrier would play her hand.
Thomas chewed the inside of his cheek, gaze flicking to the destroyers that cut white furrows through the water around them. Greyhound, Stuart, Havock — small, restless wolves ready to snap at the enemy’s flanks. Beyond them loomed the larger shadows: Valiant, solid and unwavering; Barham, heavy, almost brooding. Together they were a wall of steel, a line of defiance.
The Calm Before
The hours dragged.
Below decks, the mess was subdued. Men sat shoulder to shoulder, eating without speaking much, the clink of cutlery louder than usual. Cards lay forgotten on tables. Cigarettes burned shorter. Even Hughes, usually booming with laughter, was quiet.
“Keep yer nerves, lads,” he muttered at last, pushing his empty mug away. “Nothin’ worse than waiting. Battle’s easier than this.”
Thomas nodded, though he wasn’t sure he believed it. Waiting had its own pain, but battle… battle tore men apart in moments. He thought again of Margaret — of her steady voice in the shelter, the calm she brought to frightened children. What would she think if she saw him now, hunched over a tray of tinned meat, hands trembling though he tried to hide it?
When sleep came that night, it was broken. In his dreams, he was back in Portsmouth, walking along the seafront under searchlights. Margaret was there, her RAF cap tipped askew, her laughter echoing above the drone of aircraft. But when he reached for her hand, the ground shook with distant guns, and she faded like smoke. He woke with his heart racing, the ship’s engines humming in the dark.
The Launch
March 27th, late afternoon.
The order finally came. Swordfish crews scrambled, mechanics running to unfold wings and prime engines. The slow, faithful biplanes roared awake, coughing black smoke as they lumbered forward. Thomas gripped his gun, watching as the first lumbered down the deck and lifted into the air, fragile against the vast sky.
“Poor sods,” muttered Jack Ferris beside him. “Flying those crates against battleships…”
“Don’t underestimate ‘em,” Hughes replied. “Swordfish brought down Bismarck’s rudder last year. These old girls’ll do the job.”
Thomas watched them climb into the fading light, tiny specks already swallowed by the horizon. He felt a sudden ache, as if some part of his soul went with them. The pilots, the observers, the torpedo men — lads barely older than Jack, some younger than himself. Each man trusting the sea, the wind, and a fragile machine of canvas and wire.
Hours passed in taut silence. The fleet steamed on, each man straining for the first crack of wireless reports, for any word from the Swordfish.
At last it came: enemy sighted. Then, attack pressed home.
Thomas felt his chest tighten. He imagined the Swordfish plunging through flak, torpedoes loosed into the darkening sea. He imagined Italian lookouts screaming alarms, searchlights stabbing the dusk. The clash had begun.
Waiting in Steel
Below, rumours flew faster than official signals. Word spread of hits, of ships crippled. No one knew for certain. The mess decks buzzed with speculation — some whispered that a cruiser had taken a torpedo, others swore two battleships were struck.
Thomas tried to shut it out. He sat cleaning his weapon, running the oiled rag over steel with mechanical precision. Beside him, Hughes smoked in silence, the glow of his cigarette tip the only light in the corner. Jack Ferris fidgeted endlessly, tapping his boots, biting his nails.
“You’re going to shake yourself to pieces,” Hughes growled finally.
“I just… I just want it over with,” Jack muttered.
Don’t we all, Thomas thought.
Night Approaches
That night, the sea was black glass, the sky a dome of stars. The fleet steamed silently, no lights, only the ghostly shapes of ships cutting through moonlight. Somewhere ahead, the Italian fleet groped in the dark.
Formidable’s men were at action stations. Thomas felt sweat bead beneath his helmet though the night air was cold. His eyes ached from staring into nothing, waiting for shadows that might at any moment become enemy bombers.
But the sky remained empty. Instead, the thunder came from the west. Low, distant at first, then growing: the heavy booms of naval guns.
The battleships had found their prey.
Through the blackness, the Royal Navy’s great guns spat flame. Warspite, Valiant, Barham — each unleashed broadsides that lit the sea like lightning. Shells screamed across the water, crashing into Italian cruisers caught unawares. It was massacre in the dark — steel shattering, ships torn open.
From Formidable’s decks, they could see only flashes, hear only thunder. Yet the men cheered, voices raw in the night. After weeks of shadow boxing, the fleet had struck a blow.
Between Pride and Fear
Even amid the cheers, Thomas felt a strange stillness inside. Pride, yes — pride that they were part of this, that the Royal Navy still ruled the night. But fear lingered too. He had seen battles turn in moments. Tomorrow, the Italians might return with vengeance.
He closed his eyes and thought of Margaret again. Her face rose unbidden, soft against the darkness. He imagined her standing at a plotting board, headphones on, calm voice guiding pilots through chaos. Was she thinking of him, somewhere across the miles of sea?
Sleep that night came in snatches. He dreamt of walking with her along the harbour, the smell of salt and coal smoke around them. In the dream, she leaned close, her lips almost brushing his. But just as he reached for her, the wail of sirens split the night, and the dream fractured into fire and steel.
The Morning After
Dawn broke red, the sea stained with the light of a sky that seemed too calm for what had passed. Signals confirmed what rumour had only hinted: three Italian heavy cruisers destroyed, two more crippled, a destroyer sunk. It was a rout.
On Formidable, men grinned openly now. Laughter returned, rough and triumphant. Hughes slapped Jack Ferris on the back hard enough to nearly topple him. “See, lad? We gave ‘em what for. They’ll not soon forget this night.”
Thomas smiled too, though faintly. Victory was theirs, but he knew the sea was merciless, and war offered no certainties.
Still, as he looked out across the gleaming water, he allowed himself a flicker of hope. Perhaps the tide was turning. Perhaps, after all this, there would be a chance for things like love again. For Margaret.
Part Three – Fire in the Sky
The morning of March 28th, 1941, began with the sound of aircraft engines. The Swordfish were already clattering across the deck, their wings spread wide like ungainly seabirds. Pilots and observers strapped themselves in, mechanics shouting over the roar, ordnance men loading torpedoes and bombs beneath the frail wooden frames.
Thomas Calder stood at his Oerlikon mount, eyes fixed upward as one by one the biplanes staggered into the sky. He had long grown used to the peculiar mix of awe and fear these launches inspired. The men inside those cockpits carried the fleet’s hopes, their canvas-and-wire machines the only spearpoints they could throw across miles of sea.
Today, the target was what remained of the Italian fleet. Cunningham meant to finish the job.
Thomas could feel the mood on the ship, thrumming like the tension in a drawn bowstring. Victory had come the night before, yes — the great gun battle in the dark had broken the enemy’s back. But the work wasn’t done. Somewhere out there, battleship Vittorio Veneto and her escorts limped toward safety. Formidable’s planes were the hunters now.
The First Reports
Hours stretched thin. The ship steamed steady, the sun climbing higher, baking steel decks until they were hot under the hands.
Then came the first signal: Swordfish engaged enemy. Torpedoes launched. One battleship damaged.
The mess erupted in cheers when the word spread. Jack Ferris nearly whooped himself hoarse, slapping Thomas’s shoulder. Hughes even grinned, teeth bared.
But Thomas only nodded. He had seen what vengeance looked like at sea. The Italians would not retreat without a fight.
Enemy in the Air
By noon, lookouts shouted warnings. Distant specks appeared on the horizon, growing steadily larger: Italian bombers. The alarms shrieked across the carrier.
“Action stations!”
Thomas’s heart slammed as he swung the Oerlikon skyward. The magazines clicked into place, his fingers wrapped tight on the grips. Around the ship, other guns turned like watchful eyes, barrels glinting in the sunlight.
The bombers came on, low and fast, engines droning. He could see the sun flash on their wings now, hear the growing growl.
Tracer spat into the sky as the first gunners opened fire. Red-orange lines carved the air, streaks of light against the blue. The bombers split, diving toward the fleet. Thomas squeezed the trigger — his gun bucked, rattling his bones as shells streamed upward.
He tracked one target, a shadow swooping across the sea, bullets peppering its fuselage. Smoke burst from its wing; the plane veered sharply, then smashed into the water with a geyser of spray.
Another bomber roared overhead, close enough that he saw the glint of the cockpit glass, the flash of a helmet inside. A whistle — then the thunderous crash of a bomb detonating near Valiant. The battleship staggered, spray soaring skyward. But she held her course.
All around, the sky was filled with noise — guns hammering, engines screaming, bombs howling as they fell. The air stank of cordite and burning oil.
Between Life and Death
Thomas lost himself in the rhythm of firing, reloading, firing again. Each drum emptied too fast, each new magazine slapped into place with desperate hands. Jack Ferris worked beside him, feeding ammo, shouting half-heard words over the roar. Hughes bellowed commands, his own gun blazing.
A bomber came in low, aiming for Formidable herself. Thomas tracked it, squeezing until the barrel glowed, the rounds stitching fire across the plane’s nose. The bomber lurched, dropped its load too early — the sea erupted in a towering column just short of the hull. The shockwave rattled the deck beneath his boots.
The aircraft tried to pull up, trailing smoke, then cartwheeled into the sea. The cheer that went up was half-triumph, half-relief.
But victory came at a price. Another plane scored a near-hit on Barham, the explosion tearing men from her deck. Even at this distance, Thomas saw tiny figures flung like rag dolls. He bit his lip, bile rising. There was no time to grieve. Not yet.
The Lull
At last, the sky cleared. Smoke drifted across the horizon, the sea littered with burning wreckage. Italian bombers wheeled away, their attack broken. The fleet still lived.
On Formidable, men slumped by their guns, faces streaked with sweat and soot. Jack Ferris leaned on the ammo locker, grinning shakily.
“Bloody hell,” he gasped. “We gave ’em a right hammering.”
Hughes spat over the side, his hands blackened. “Aye. But they’ll be back. Count on it.”
Thomas said nothing. His ears still rang, his body trembled with the fading surge of adrenaline. Inside, he felt both relief and a hollow dread. They had survived — this time. But the war had no shortage of tomorrows.
A Dreamlike Interlude
That night, exhaustion claimed him. He dreamt again of Portsmouth, of the shelter’s dim light. Margaret was there, her RAF uniform neat despite the dust, her hair tucked beneath her cap. In the dream, there were no bombs, no sirens. Only the two of them, walking through the ruins as if they were lovers in a city at peace.
She looked at him with those steady eyes, and he felt a warmth he had nearly forgotten existed. Her hand brushed his, fingers lingering.
“You’ll come back,” she whispered, voice soft but certain. “You have to.”
He tried to answer, but the dream shifted. The sound of waves returned, the salt air stung his throat. When he reached for her, she was already fading, her outline dissolving into dawn.
He woke with tears stinging his eyes, hidden quickly in the half-dark of the mess deck. Around him, men stirred in their hammocks, groaning, coughing, muttering in sleep.
He closed his eyes again, holding the memory of her close.
Camaraderie in Steel
The days blurred after Matapan. The enemy fleet was broken, retreating. Formidable and her sisters stood unchallenged, for now.
But for Thomas, the memory of that battle — of the smoke, the fire, the shared laughter and fear — bound him tighter to his shipmates. Hughes with his rough humour. Jack Ferris with his nervous grin. Dozens of faces, each carrying their own ghosts, their own loves waiting somewhere across the sea.
They were brothers, forged in steel and fire. And in that bond, Thomas found strength. Enough, perhaps, to keep him standing until the day he could walk once more through Portsmouth streets and see Margaret again.
