Here's looking at you, Mr Gaddafi: On board naval destroyer HMS Liverpool, currently under enemy fire off the coast of Libya

By ANDREW PRESTON

Last updated at 1:25 AM on 29th May 2011

In this dispatch from the navy destroyer, Andrew Preston reports on UK's sailors' perilous - and invaluable - vigil over  enemy No 1

HMS Liverpool from the ship's Lynx Mk 8 helicopter out on surveillance patrol

6.39am, shortly after sunrise
Sea state 1: calm but rippled
Visibility About five miles
Ship’s position 13 miles off the coast of Brega, the front line in Libya

The piercing klaxon of the ship’s general alarm shatters the early morning peace. A startled pair of turtle doves hitching a ride on the ship’s guard rail flutter off to continue their migration north. 

‘Hands to action stations. Hands to action stations. Assume CBRN damage control. State 1. Condition Zulu.’ 

The mood below decks changes at once. There’s no panic, more a sense of ordered rush.

Throughout HMS Liverpool, the crew grab and empty their battle bags, pulling on their white action coveralls, white cotton flame-retardant hoods and gloves. Doors and hatches are sealed to secure the ship in case she is hit. The adrenaline is pumping – this is what they train for. 

But this isn’t training, this is the real thing.

Moments later a further ‘pipe’ comes over the ship’s Tannoy. ‘The Air Threat Warning is now Red.’

Some of the ship’s company of 271 had been nearing the end of their watch; others were still sleeping, showering or heading for breakfast before starting work at 7am. 

Action Stations on the bridge as Liverpool goes in to protect the French frigate Montcalm. The crew wear white coveralls with flame-retardant hoods and gloves. The crew members are, from left to right, checking navigational charts, observing the radar screen, 'driving' the destroyer, keeping watch

The food that had already been cooked in the galley is ditched, pans are cleared away, and ovens and hotplates switched off so as not to be an unnecessary heat source for any incoming missile.

Within minutes, all the upper-deck close-range weapons crew are in body armour and in position, wiping away the fine sand that’s blown in from the desert and settled on the magazines overnight. 

The sturdier crew members man the two hefty 20mm guns; the protective covers are pulled from the two Mk 44 Miniguns, which fire 3,000 rounds a minute; and the 7.62mm machine guns are prepared on the starboard and port sides.

In the gun bay below the ship’s imposing 4.5in Mk 8 gun, high-explosive shells are unpacked and readied, while the safety catches are pulled from the Phalanx system, the ship’s last line of defence against incoming missiles. The six-barrelled guns on each side of the ship can fire 4,500 rounds a minute with a range of four miles. They work autonomously with their own radars picking out potential targets, before the whole launch pad arcs around like a robot to lock on and fire. 

This is a photograph of HMS Liverpool's combat system, showing air activity off the Libyan coast

WHAT'S GOING ON IN THE PICTURE?

The blue letters show the position of friendly aircraft  -  there's no hostile air traffic, indicating the successful enforcement of the no-fly zone. Note the conglomerations around the cities of Misratah, towards the west of Libya, and Brega to the east. At the time the photograph was taken, HMS Liverpool is located in the green rectangle off the coast of Brega. 

The blue letters indicate the type of aircraft. The abbreviations are classified, standing for fighters, bombers, air-to-air refuelling aircraft, surveillance drones and early-warning aircraft. Where there is a question mark it means it is an 'assumed friendly' aircraft that has yet to be identified. 

The white numbers are computer-allocated, in co-ordination with other ships to avoid duplication, and are used to track the aircraft. The + sign means Liverpool has tracked a contact, the - symbol means another ship has tracked it, and if two ships are tracking and they correlate then there is a tick. 

The white line is the Libyan coastline, the red is the 12-mile territorial waters limit. The yellow and green lines are reference points put into the computer system as part of the overlay of the battle space, as are the yellow, green and red letters and numbers. 

A high-pitched whistle like a jet plane ready for take-off sounds across the upper deck. The Type 42 destroyer’s two Rolls-Royce Olympus engines (the same engines which powered Concorde) are kicking in, providing extra drive alongside the two cruising Tyne engines and helping the ship’s manoeuvrability. Her speed surges to 28 knots.

Just below us as we stand on the bridge, there’s an ominous sight as the two upper flash doors on the Sea Dart surface-to-air-missile launcher roll aside. Two missiles rise from the bowels of the warship. If fired, they will  travel at twice the speed of sound by the time they cross the ship’s guard rail.

Three miles away the battleship-grey outline of the French F70 Type frigate Montcalm glides in front of us like an eerie shadow, half shrouded in mist. Ten minutes ago, her 100mm gun had fired into the Libyan desert, as it had the previous evening, when we heard the distant boom of 30 rounds pounding an area of uninhabited land overlooking the oil town of Brega. The bombardment was designed as a show of force and as a warning.

But a message had come through to Liverpool from the Montcalm that she was now under counterattack from the shore. A Russian-made BM21 multiple rocket launcher was firing back, a barrage of 50 rockets shooting towards the French ship. She about-turned and started to manoeuvre away.

As the French frigate retreats, HMS Liverpool turns landwards towards the threat, pushing further into the Gulf of Sirte, already way beyond what Colonel Gaddafi called the ‘line of death’: the 62 nautical mile limit he declared as Libyan waters back in the Seventies.

Two decks down in the Ops Room, the tactical nerve centre of the ship, the warfare officers have followed the incident for the past hour. Liverpool’s commanding officer, Commander Colin Williams, is in his fighting seat at the heart of the room. Around him a team monitors the Type 1022 air-search radar (with a range of 250 miles), and the 996 surveillance radar (faster, with a shorter beam width), tracking and identifying air and surface ‘contacts’.

Behind him are the controls for the Sea Dart and the gun controller’s panel for the 4.5in gun, with a foot pedal to fire it. Also here is the electronic surveillance equipment, which ‘listens’ to and analyses radar emissions, and even picks up the Brega coastal radar – which tells them that Liverpool herself is being watched.

The ship’s radar operators followed the French  frigate in and then nervously watched the response: a thick line moving across the screens indicating multiple rockets. 

‘It looked like a big flame coming across from the land,’ says Nick Lescats, a French officer on board as part of a two-year exchange with the Royal Navy. ‘It sent ice through my blood to think of the guys on board there.’  

Commander Williams in his day cabin. The electric fire and armchair are considered luxuries on board. His quarters contain a bath, the only one on board the ship

As further evidence of an entente cordiale, Liverpool steams into danger to go to the Montcalm’s aid. It’s the destroyer’s job to help enforce the no-fly zone and the arms embargo to Libya, but its primary role is to act as an anti-aircraft platform, to provide air defence for a fleet, in this case the NATO task force.

‘If necessary, we might have to take one for the team,’ says Cdr Williams. 

It’s too difficult to locate the rocket firing site with any accuracy, especially as it’s so close to a built-up area, so a request is put out for NATO aircraft to take a look. Within minutes two British Tornadoes are soaring overhead. But they are thwarted by low cloud, and anyway the launchers are on the back of trucks so would have moved away within minutes of firing.

Once the Montcalm is safely out of range, Liverpool, too, turns away and heads back to the 12-mile territorial waters boundary, and the air threat warning is reduced to yellow. The whole incident is over in half an hour.

Off-duty crew watch the Royal Wedding

As Liverpool returns to routine patrols, winding in a zig-zag pattern up and down the coast to lessen the chances of a missile locking on to her, a full English breakfast is cooked once again and served below decks. 

 

This is probably the final deployment for the  30-year-old Liverpool, due to be decommissioned next April. Cdr Williams believes it could be his last sea-going job, too. 

‘What a way to go though,’ he says. ‘We are the most operational ship in the Navy, in the most threatening environment, doing the most intense operations the Navy has seen for some time. No other ship out here at the moment has been fired on – well, we’ve seen it.’

Meanwhile, up on the bridge the ‘psy ops’, or psychological warfare element of Operation Unified Protector – the NATO operation to enforce the arms embargo and no-fly zone – continues. To back up her visual presence, Liverpool broadcasts via VHF a recorded message in English and Arabic to any vessels in the area and also to the land, as they do day and night. 

The messages tell the ‘honourable Libyan people’ that Gaddafi has lost control of the sky and the sea, and that he is using foreign mercenaries to attack his own people. They advise those fighting for him to give up.

Otherwise, comes the chilling warning: ‘We are watching you and we can strike at a time and place of our choosing.’

The crew celebrating the Royal Wedding in the Junior Rates' dining hall

Just three days earlier, the ship celebrated the Royal Wedding with a ‘street party’ in the middle of the Med. The Junior Rates’ dining hall was transformed by bunting, red white and blue balloons and pictures of William and Kate, and the crew tucked into sandwiches, sausage rolls and chocolate cake as the ship headed towards her patrol area.

‘I’m so proud – we do these things so well,’ said gunnery instructor and party organiser Petty Officer Darren Bennett, as he sat transfixed, watching crowds surge down The Mall towards Buckingham Palace.

‘Even though we are deployed operationally we can still show our respect for the Royal Family.’

‘I might have to rethink my wedding plans for next year,’ joked one of the 53 women crew members, as she sat watching and admiring in the front row.

The very British Friday ended with fish and chips and mushy peas served on the flight deck, while the ship’s Lynx Mk 8 helicopter was parked away in its hangar. They have to seize these moments because once on patrol, the ship goes on to so-called defence watches, which means working six hours on and six hours off. 

 

A cigarette break in the smoking area on the upper deck

This also means that everything that moves is lashed down, while the crew has to be alert and ready to go to Action Stations in ten minutes. Once into this punishing routine, the danger is that tiredness and grumpiness set in, as well as boredom, because although they have to be ready to act quickly, inevitably much of the time is spent waiting and preparing.

Or as Lieutenant Commander Andrew Canale, executive officer and second-in-command, reminds them: ‘This is a marathon, not a sprint.’

Liverpool left Portsmouth at the end of March and her first patrols were busier. They saw tracer fire and the blaze of air strikes just off Tripoli before moving to the besieged port of Misratah. There they made sure that two humanitarian ships could bring aid in, and then leave safely, each with about 600 refugees on board and bound further down the coast for Benghazi. Colonel Gaddafi has since laid mines in the harbour at Misratah.

They boarded a cargo vessel that was carrying more trucks and vehicles than were accounted for in the ship’s papers and which could have been of use to Gaddafi. The ship was ordered away from Libya. They also provided water for 250 refugees escaping on an overcrowded dhow, and had a sinister reminder of the human cost of the unrest when they spotted a dead body in the water. The man had two life-jackets on and his hands and feet were tied. But they had to let him float by for fear that he was booby-trapped to act as a floating IED.

The destroyer's Lynx Mk 8 helicopter

Although their mission is to help police the UN embargo and no-fly zone, the wider picture remains unclear. This is the first time in a conflict zone for many on board, and they don’t know what will happen in Libya. They also have no confirmed return date, although the beginning of August is mooted.

‘The guys and girls can’t be at high intensity all the time. They need time to relax,’ says Cdr Williams. 

‘It’s a juggling act trying to get that balance and keep morale up. It’s the best game of Jenga ever.’

The day before the task force came under fire, we saw only two vessels all day. It’s a sign that the embargo is working, but it means potentially mind-numbing days for those on board. The first was a small fishing vessel, monitored from the Ops Room on radar for an hour-and-a-half before she came within sight at sunrise.

The small boat with Arabic writing on her green hull was not on Liverpool’s regularly updated ‘vessels of interest’ list, but still aroused suspicions.

Cdr Williams on the bridge wing as Liverpool is refuelled by an Italian auxiliary ship, Etna

She was not flying a flag, had fishing gear on board but was not fishing, and was hailed and did not respond. Liverpool tracked her before turning on her with a dramatic close pass,  the upper deck weapon crew manning the GPMGs and Miniguns. 

Unsurprisingly, the boat reacted, hurriedly raising an Egyptian flag over the bow. The boat only made radio when one of the two Arabic speakers on board Liverpool hailed her. Crew members were questioned and information passed on to NATO, but Liverpool had a refuelling appointment so had to ask another NATO vessel to take over and monitor the boat.

In true British style Lt Cdr Canale was keen to leave a good impression, and asked the Liverpool’s radio operator, ‘Have you finished the conversation? Have you wished him good fishing?’ 

The so-called RAS (Replenishment at Sea) is with an Italian auxiliary ship, Etna. As the 25,000 horsepower Olympus engines drink 56 gallons a minute when on full power, such refuellings are regular events. 

It’s a complex manoeuvre to pull alongside, staying 50 yards apart and travelling at 12 knots for the 90 minutes it takes to refuel. The officers wave to each other from the bridge wings and, as they traditionally do, the Italians send across by rope a bottle of red wine in a bag. It’s only table wine, and the English response is a second-rate £3.55 bottle of gin, but it’s the thought that counts. 

An upper-deck weapons crew member, standing by a Mk 44 Minigun, talks to the bridge about the suspicious fishing vessel seen here in the distance, which the destroyer has been tracking since the early hours

Such moments of camaraderie are important, as budget cuts across Europe mean our navies are having  to get used to working together. When alongside a French supply vessel, a Breton piper had come on to the bridge wing to serenade the Liverpool.

Lt Craig Farquharson of Liverpool’s flight crew was packed off to find his own bagpipes, and then returned the goodwill gesture, giving them renditions of Flower of Scotland and, of course, the theme from Top Gun.

After 180 cubic metres of fuel has been successfully pumped across, it’s  back to the routine patrol, although first of all comes the high-pitched whistle of the Olympus engines again as the captain orders full power for a fast breakaway. They leave Etna in her wake. 

‘The boys and girls love seeing their ship being driven hard, like a racing car,’ says Cdr Williams.

Out of earshot a veteran marine engineer sighs:  ‘Every time,’ he says, with a wry smile. ‘He drives it like he stole it.’

The boarding party clean their rifles in the Junior Rates' dining hall

Liverpool will be replaced by the new Type 45 destroyers, which require less fuel and a smaller crew,  most of whom will live in six-berth cabins and share a large communal mess. 

By contrast, below decks on Liverpool is a warren of ten different messes, with 53 sailors living crammed inside the largest of them. But they do have satellite TV, three meals a day (with a separate choice for the one vegetarian on board), a shop for chocolate, shower gel, Pot Noodles, cigarettes, beer and pork scratchings. 

There’s an on-board laundry run by two Hong Kong Chinese, a minuscule gym and, unless communications are shut down for operational reasons, they  can send emails and are allowed 30 minutes of free satellite phone calls, as well as receiving 2kg packages mailed for free.

The General Purpose Machine gun is manned as Liverpool approaches a suspect fishing boat off Brega

‘I’m asking for fresh bedding, for that smell of home,’ confides 18-year-old Able Seaman Joe Arney.

There’s a doctor on board, and a chaplain, Father Charles Bruzon – affectionately called ‘Bish’ – doing his rounds between ships, offering spiritual guidance and confidential support. He finds it a happy ship, and the captain and officers do seem genuinely popular.

‘Some captains are elusive and you rarely see them,’ says a weapons technician, ‘but this one walks around a lot, and talks to you as an adult, one-on-one.’ 

The captain eats and relaxes alone unless invited to the officers’ mess, or wardroom, and has his own day cabin (complete with electric fire), the only bath on board and a night cabin. 

‘It can be lonely but it needs to be,’ says Cdr Williams. ‘Because just as I need to be able to collect my thoughts, my officers also need to be able to sit quietly and say among themselves “the old man’s been a bit of a bastard today”. It requires that separation, but at the same time when you go to sea for up to eight months with 270 people it’s fundamental to success that I understand the pressures people are feeling.’

The helicopter about to land on the flight deck

However frustrated they may be when communications are cut, and at not knowing what will happen, all onboard are aware that those serving in Afghanistan, Royal Marines and other Navy personnel among them have it worse. 

‘I really wouldn’t want to be out on patrol today,’ one says as news flashes up on television that Osama Bin Laden has been killed.

They are still happy to have a pop at the RAF, though. ‘They do the steely, punchy stuff,’ says Chief Petty Officer Mick Coxon. ‘They fly in at 20,000ft way out of range of any danger, drop some ordnance, then go back, shower and it’s out to the officers’ club to have a few beers. But we’re still here, largely forgotten, working six hours on and six off.’

The ship’s company is kept informed and alert with regular ‘piped’ announcements. Warning posters about mines, air attacks and suicide bombers are dotted around 2 Deck, as are pictures of Libyan helicopters, jets and ships so they lodge the images in people’s memories. At an open command briefing, held twice a week in the flight deck hangar, the captain tells them he is trying to get a long-term programme from their NATO masters.

The Lynx Mk 8 helicopter on the flight deck

‘But this is a very uncertain region and we need to stay focused,’ he says.

This comes as Gaddafi’s forces continue to lay mines to stop the movement of humanitarian ships. 

The Libyan navy, in the shape of a coastal patrol vessel, has also come out for the first time.

Cdr Williams even shares his annoyance that Liverpool hasn’t yet had a chance to fire her 4.5in gun. 

The ship was to have taken her turn after the Montcalm and came seriously close.

‘Upstaged by the French,’ sighs one seaman, only half-joking. ‘Nelson would turn in his grave.’ 

They’re not bloodthirsty or gung-ho, but there’s an undeniable boyish thrill among the crew about wanting to see action and to fire the thing; it’s what they train for and they want to put their training to use.  

‘There may be disappointment at the moment,’ says the captain a bit later. ‘But the fat lady has not even warmed up yet.’

HMS Liverpool's 4.5 inch gun

He was proved right. A week later, while investigating boats suspected of laying mines, Liverpool came under rocket attack again. She fired back with her 4.5in gun and silenced the shore battery.

As the sun sets and NATO orders come through to head off to patrol another zone tomorrow, the ship goes to darkness. Soon it’s pitch black with no lights showing anywhere except for the small red torches carried by the four upper-deck weapons crew on duty through the night. Frustrations, anxieties, uncertainties and dreams of home will continue, but the crew’s training and professionalism keep them going.

The ‘Bish’ offers his own reassurance to the ship’s company in his sermon at the Sunday service in the Junior Rates’ dining hall.

‘Jesus, like the Royal Navy, does not say where He is taking us,’ he says. ‘But we trust Him.’

(source: dailymail.co.uk/home/moslive/article-1391537/)
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