The Straits of Tsushima: An action-packed historical military adventure (Marcus Baxter Naval Thrillers Book 1)

by Tim Chant

  She nodded without speaking, taking his hand again. She used it to draw him down until she could put her arms around his neck and kiss him. It was a long, deep and not particularly chaste kiss. “Keep safe,” she whispered, and he found himself unable to speak in turn. He nodded, and hurried from the cabin.

  He went from there to the deck and up onto the bridge to try to get an idea of the enemy’s disposition. Tommy, normally forbidden from the bridge, took the opportunity to trail after him. As they watched, the lead Russian division — made up of the modern Borodino battleships — commenced a turn in line.

  “What the devil is he playing at?” Baxter wondered aloud. The second ship of the leading division seemed to be turning in the wrong direction, being subjected to a barrage of signals from the flagship. Baxter could imagine the admiral hurling yet another pair of field glasses into the sea, a habit much commented on during exercises.

  “I think he’s trying to form line abreast,” Juneau commented, lowering his telescope. “But Bukhvostov in Alexander III has stymied him. There — he has cancelled the order.”

  None of the other divisions had followed, and a few minutes later a break in the persistent mist showed two parallel lines of big ships, led by four battleships. They were flying the rising sun and turning onto a south-westerly course to intercept the Russian fleet.

  The Japanese battle line had arrived. It was steaming to cross the Russian T, the classic tactic every naval commander strived for. The Russian battleships were now in two lines, the Borodinos coming back onto their original heading and the second division on a parallel course but trailing.

  “This is not a formation to fight in,” Juneau commented, voice flat.

  Baxter caught Tommy’s quizzical glance. “The fleet’s main firepower is now sailing straight into the Japanese broadsides and only the front ships are able to bring their fore guns to bear, unless Togo turns to parallel them. The two lines will mask each other’s fire as well. Things are going to start getting bloody.”

  As Baxter spoke, the Russian van fired its secondary batteries, ranging the Japanese ships.

  “Tommy, lad, time to go below.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “This Togo fellow knows his business,” Baxter shouted to Lieutenant Koenig. The Yaroslavich was in a lull in her own battle, but the continuous thunder of the big ships battering each other was loud despite being miles away. And Baxter’s ears were still ringing from an hour or more of relatively continuous firing.

  Koenig was touring the ship during this break, getting damage and casualty reports to pass to Juneau. If he lives through this, Baxter thought, he’d make a fine officer.

  The Russian fleet was already starting to tumble into disarray, despite early on surpassing their previous gunnery efforts. Rozhestvensky’s flagship, the Suvorov had staggered out of line and didn’t seem capable of doing much except receive a pounding whenever the Japanese line went past. She was certainly not issuing any orders from the commander. The Oslyabya, an older ship and the flagship of the fleet’s second in command Rear-Admiral Folkersam, was also lagging.

  “We’ve lost both flagships,” Koenig muttered miserably. “Command now lies with Nebogatov in the third division, and he is hardly inspiring.”

  “Well, the admiral did issue orders that the ship at the head of the line leads the way to Vladivostok, so he obviously felt the same way.” Baxter had to agree — he hadn’t really been inspired by many in the fleet above the rank of second captain, but the young officer didn’t need to hear that. Instead he clapped Koenig on the shoulder, rocking him on his feet. “Well, at least we’re mostly intact, and I’m told we haven’t even lost anyone!”

  This much was true. Togo’s ships seemed to be concentrating on the modern Russian units, utterly ignoring the ships that had been sent along just to draw fire. While the Yaroslavich had fired on anything that had come into range, she’d only taken a few rounds in response, only two of which had hit. The enemy appeared to be using high explosive rather than armour-piercing shells, causing damage on the upper works but, mercifully, not penetrating to anywhere vital.

  “There goes the Oslyabya!” someone groaned nearby.

  Baxter snapped his glasses back up. The big old battleship was indeed turning all the way over — she’d been listing heavily for a while and now her funnels had touched the water. Seen at a distance, he could almost be dispassionate about watching the tiny figures of the crew throwing themselves into the water. Her port screw was still turning as it came into view. She was the first total casualty of the fight.

  “Three fifty,” Koenig said, his voice dead. “Many hours until nightfall.”

  Too many. Though they still outnumbered the enemy battle line, Togo had already shown himself to be the master of this part of the world’s seas.

  “Here they come again!” a lookout shouted. Then, more formally. “Enemy cruisers to port!”

  That was the pattern for the rest of the day. The Russian lines ploughed on, ever northwards towards Vladivostok. Gun smoke mixed with the drifting banks of fog and made visibility patchy at best. Togo’s big ships mostly concentrated on their counterparts, a battle of comparatively epic proportion mercifully at arm’s length from the old cruisers labouring along with the auxiliaries. An occasional twelve-inch shell still came their way when the Japanese line had no other targets. They were not left unmolested by the Japanese cruisers and destroyers, however, which passed through the slower Russian formation repeatedly, firing on targets as they bore.

  “Where the hell is Enkvist?” Baxter ground out as they watched, impotently, the plucky little seagoing tug Rus finally going down a bit after four. Ironically, enemy action hadn’t done for her. She’d been accidentally rammed by the big auxiliary cruiser charged with close protection of the support ships, and the Yaroslavich couldn’t even slow to pick up survivors — the enemy light units would obliterate any stationary target. Of the bigger, modern cruisers that were supposed to be looking after the support ships, there had been little sign since the firing commenced in earnest.

  “I’m sure he’s doing something vital,” Juneau said, his voice tired. It was the first time they had spoken since they’d cleared for action, what felt like an age ago. Baxter had gone up to the bridge to try to get a better view of the action, and had been greeted by Pavel with a cup of smoky sweet tea that had been most restorative.

  He couldn’t see much more of the rolling battle, but he could see the damage they’d taken. It still wasn’t bad, but more than he’d thought — in the thick of the fighting, he’d only noticed when near misses had slapped shell splinters into the sides and one light gun hit that had ricocheted off the hull at an oblique angle, terrifyingly close to the gun he’d been laying at the time.

  “We need to think about the night,” Baxter said, after they’d stood side by side in silence and contemplated the horror going on around them.

  “You think we’ll make it that far? Sunset won’t be for another three and a half hours.”

  “I think we might. We’re giving as good as we get, or close enough, and the enemy is mostly going after the mainline units. Night-time is when we might be able to lose them, but it’s also when the torpedo boats and destroyers will go to work properly.”

  “We have our orders…”

  “Look around you, man!” Baxter’s raised voice drew glances from all over the bridge, even though they were speaking English, and he lowered his voice but still spoke urgently. “Command has broken down entirely. The flag is out of action and we’ve not heard from the admiral. His deputy’s gone. I assume Nebogatov is in charge but there have been no signals. Enkvist is obviously evading combat. At some point, you are going to have to consider the survival of this ship.”

  Juneau closed his eyes, almost as though he were in pain. Baxter didn’t envy him the burdens of command, particularly in the midst of a fleet action when the fleet appeared to have no command. “You’re right, of course, but we also cannot abandon our charges. L
et me think on it.”

  “At the very least I … recommend that you confer with the other captains on a course of action.”

  “Thank you, Mr Baxter. You may return to your station — once you have finished your tea, of course.”

  As rebukes went, it wasn’t a stinging one. Baxter grinned — it was good to belong to a crew again, even one in such dire straits.

  They almost didn’t make it to nightfall.

  The fighting had become monotonous. The noise of the main units slugging it out had become so constant and all-encompassing Baxter could nearly ignore it. The two hours since he and Juneau had spoken had become a grinding hell of repetitive action. The gun crews under his charge firing and reloading while the main guns assaulted their eardrums as enemy ships came in on one heading, then run to the other side to assist the opposite battery as the Japanese passed them by and all the while shells were crashing down around them.

  More and more were hitting the Yaroslavich as well as falling in the sea on either side, and now it became clear why the enemy was using explosive rather than armour-piercing shells. The blasts were lethal on the upper works, the explosions and fragments tearing into exposed gun crews and setting fires that they were struggling to put out.

  Baxter realised the real danger was the fire. Picking himself up from behind the shelter of one of his guns after a shell from an enemy cruiser, fired at extreme range as a parting gift, had burst against the superstructure twenty yards away, he surveyed a scene of devastation. Broken men, or the parts of men, littered the deck. One of the gunners was lying, crying softly, against the gun he’d sheltered behind — the man was so badly burned Baxter couldn’t recognise him. There was no time to pause to give him comfort or even shout for a medical orderly, though, as he could see one of the many piles of coals bags had started to smoulder, the heat of the explosion enough to set the jute bag alight.

  He surged forward, seizing the first sack of coal. It was already well alight, the fabric threatening to come apart in his hands and spill smoking black lumps across the wooden deck. He ignored the pain as flames played over his skin. Two long strides and a great heave saw a shower of coal go over the side, and he turned to see a number of men staring at him wide eyed with confusion. “The coal! Get it over the side now, you idiots!” he bellowed.

  It was almost comical, watching the realisation sink in. He lunged forward to grab the next bag and suddenly a dozen pairs of hands were doing the same thing, getting rid of that pile. Others were taking up the cry, nobody waiting for orders or permission, the Russian peasant sailor’s naturally ingrained obedience overcome by the fear of burning to death. Within minutes the decks were clear of the hateful and suddenly dangerous stuff, a rain of it going over both sides. Some men were actually laughing, verging on hysterical, as they laboured to throw the precious fuel over the side.

  “We all suffered the black fever,” Vasily said, when he saw Baxter looking at two men who were throwing lumps of coal at each other. “And now we vomit our feast back out.”

  “Would that we had time to sluice the decks and get rid of the dust,” Koenig said as he struggled to get a sack over the edge. Vasily strode past him, a sack in each hand, and effortlessly launched them into the sea. The officer, finally getting rid of his own burden, gestured at yet more enemy ships closing to range.

  “They’ll burn well enough of their own accord,” Baxter said. Even at distance, he could see the battleships were having the same problems, and one of them at least seemed to be a raging inferno. Another had gone under, unremarked while they worked. “Stand to your guns!”

  Around dusk, a trio of enemy destroyers made a determined attempt on the Yaroslavich, charging in through the cruiser’s sustained fire and closing until the one-inch Hotchkiss revolving cannon and the machine guns could come into play, hurling a hail of hot lead at the incoming vessels.

  “Keep firing!” Baxter yelled. “They’re going for a torpedo run!”

  The loader of the gun beside him screamed and fell to the deck, clutching at his bleeding face and dropping the shell he was about to ram into the 4.7’s hot breech. Baxter stopped it with his foot, scooped it up and rammed it home, only just getting his hands out of the way as another gunner closed the breech. There was no real need to sight now, the destroyers were so close, and the shell burst near the little ship’s main gun, tearing the crew apart. Other men stepped forward, almost heedless of the danger, and the returned shot smashed the firing port Baxter was at. He felt heat on his face and was hurled back by the blast. He lay staring at the sky, numb for a moment, but the stinging pain from a dozen little cuts told him he was still alive.

  Men, bluejackets, his crew, were screaming around him. The Japanese shell had smashed into the bulwark above the firing port but not torn it entirely. The effects had nonetheless been devastating, hot shards of metal slashing into the crew. Two were dead outright and one man seemed to be trying to hold one side of his face onto his head. The loader was saved only because his face had already been torn off by the preceding hit and he’d already fallen. Vasily was by his side, trying to pull him away. Baxter shook him off and scrambled through the blood and spilled viscera to the gun. “Help me here!” he shouted, or thought he did — mostly all he could hear was ringing.

  The gun was intact, although the damage to the surrounding hull plating limited its traverse. The crew had almost finished reloading — he caught the breech block as the cruiser heaved and rolled, swinging it closed. Vasily threw his own enormous strength into bringing the weapon to bear once more, the mounting’s scream of protest as terrible as the howls of wounded men, and they fired at less than a thousand yards.

  Baxter never saw what happened to that shot. The noise had been thunderous and continuous for hours, but the explosion that rocked everyone on their feet was by far the loudest thing he’d ever heard.

  “What in…” Jumping up onto the gun mounting to get a better view over the bulwark, Baxter looked instinctively towards the main battle — something like that could only have been a battleship going up. If it had been their own ship, he wouldn’t be alive to consider it. Sure enough, even without his glasses — lost at some point during the action — he could make out the enormous column of smoke that marked the passing of one of the big battleships. He could see the bows of something, already mostly sunk bare moments after the explosion. “Good God. Eight hundred men or more.” It was unlikely anyone would have survived that.

  He turned back to the more immediate problems, and saw the destroyers were sheering off. Lines of white bubbles, three of them, showed where they’d launched their lethal loads at the cruiser.

  “Torpedo!” he roared. Someone on the bridge at least seemed to be paying attention and the cruiser was already turning away from the incoming paths. “Come on come on come…” he whispered. The first weapon went wide, the second missed the turning bows by a whisker and he braced himself, knowing the third would be a hit…

  There was a clunk they all felt through the soles of their feet as the torpedo hit somewhere deep below. The expected detonation never happened, though, and it seemed to him that the entire crew blew out a breath of relief. A dud.

  “I heard the explosion,” Ekaterina said as she cleaned and dressed Baxter’s cuts twenty minutes later. He hadn’t had time to have the burned skin of his hands and forearms seen to, but luckily they had not been too badly scorched and she gently dabbed salve onto them.

  The sickbay had been transformed into a charnel house. Casualties had been pouring in over the last few hours and the normally diffident Andropov and his assistants had been working like the Russian heroes of old to save as many as they could. It couldn’t be all of them, though there were fewer dead being carried out for summary burial than there were wounded being brought in.

  “I’m told it was the Borodino,” Baxter said, voice flat with fatigue. “Most likely a magazine explosion. Suvorov finally went around the same time, which means we just have one modern battleship lef
t.”

  “We are going to lose this fight, aren’t we? Just as you predicted.”

  He’d not been surprised to find her and Tommy here, working amongst the wounded, bringing succour and comfort where they could, tending to the least badly injured who just needed stitches or a bandage. He couldn’t muster any anger at that — he’d known all along she wouldn’t be able to sit still below the waterline, and the sickbay was one of the safer places anyway. Maxim padded along after her, and the big gentle dog’s presence seemed to have a calming effect on many of the wounded.

  “We’ve already lost — now it’s about getting as many ships to safety.” He met her eyes. “I take no satisfaction in being right.”

  The sickbay was lit only by electric bulbs, making it hard to keep track of the day. Baxter guessed the last rays of a dying sun would be lighting the sea above, filtered to an ominous red by smoke. They were enjoying a respite, having lost the destroyers that had been hounding them in a fog bank. They were certainly not alone on the sea, there being dozens of ships still within twenty miles, but for now they were able to lick their wounds and bury their dead.

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Well, I’m not the captain. But the captain’s a sensible man who listens to advice, so I imagine he’s preparing for the night — that’s when the torpedo boats will come out to hunt.” He nodded to a man who lay quietly on one side of the crowded sickbay, his chest covered with bandages. “What happened to Khetoslav Andreivic?”

  Ekaterina sighed. “By the time he got to one sack the coal itself was on fire. He held it against his chest to stop it collapsing. The doctor thinks he will survive, assuming the rest of us do.”