Raging Sea, Searing Sky

by Christopher Nicole

  *

  Actually, for the first few weeks of Lew’s service on Queen Mary there were no alarms at all. Then there was one in the autumn, but it proved to be false. He was not one of the lucky ones to draw a Christmas pass — those went strictly to the married men with families — but he was able to correspond with Father, and from him learn something about what was happening in the world as a whole. The war, indeed, was taking a form no one had suspected possible, given the power of modem munitions, which it had been supposed had the power to sweep away whole armies in an afternoon. But after the initial German onslaught on France had been halted, back in the late autumn of 1914, and they had found that no matter how many times they beat the Russians, and how many of them they slaughtered, too, there were always fresh Russian armies to face, they had fallen back on the defensive. The British and the French had then gone over to the attack, but with equally unproductive results. The British attempt to knock Turkey out of the war and operate against Austria-Hungary from the Balkans had been stopped in the Dardanelles, where the Royal Navy had suffered the heaviest casualties in its history, from mines — fortunately they had been mainly old battleships. Then a combined British-French offensive in Flanders was grinding to a halt this very autumn, with tens of thousands of young men, Kitchener’s New Army, including no doubt the fellows who had been lining up outside the recruiting office in Piccadilly, killed or wounded.

  Father was also able to tell him more secret things, which the American Embassy had discovered, such as that the main reason for the failure of the current campaign was that the army had run out of shells, so prodigiously had they fired them at the Germans, that food rationing was now a fact of life, and that there was serious talk of conscription, which would of course involve a reshuffle in the government, as the dominant Liberal Party, whose leader, Mr Asquith, was Prime Minister, were firmly against taking such an unheard of step.

  But most of all Father was worried, because the British blockade of Germany, which involved the stopping of neutral ships on the high seas, and the seizure of their cargoes if they were bound for any German port, was causing a tremendous outcry in the United States, and there was even a lobby demanding the President declare war, not on Germany, but on England. Father utterly discounted such a possibility, at least in his letters, but he was obviously well aware of the terrible position Lew would find himself in, were he ordered out into the Atlantic to fight an American battle squadron.

  Lew had no idea what he would then do, and preferred not even to think about it. Fortunately, none of these misfortunes or unpleasant possibilities were apparent to the sailors on board Queen Mary, who had all the shells they needed to fight the decisive battle, when it came, had all the food they could eat, and were in the service already anyway. And Lew was relieved to read that President Wilson as he was approaching an election year, kept reiterating his determination to keep the United States out of the war on either side, although he was prepared to act as mediator if the occasion arose. All Lew wanted to do was fight the Germans, and it was frustrating to realise, after Christmas, that it was now eight months since the Lusitania had gone down and so far as he knew he had never even seen a German, much less fired a gun at him.

  Then in April there was a great deal of excitement, alarm bells jangled, steam was raised, the anchors came rasping up from the bottom, and the whole magnificent array raced to sea, turning south, for this was no false alarm; German battlecruisers were bombarding the Yorkshire coastal resorts. It had been just such an act by the Germans which had brought on the Battle of the Dogger Bank, the only thing resembling a sea fight which had taken place in home waters since the beginning of the war, and expectation was keen as the great ships drove through the calm sea. But the news had been received too late, and after making a big sweep into the North Sea they frustratingly returned to port to replace their used coal and settle back to the waiting game. When, just over a month later, the sirens again went off, everyone was unutterably bored.

  *

  It was the afternoon of 30 May 1916, and for the previous few days there had been a gale of wind. The seas were still high, but the crew was now seasoned, and even Tommy Rollins, who had been dreadfully sick when he had first found himself afloat, was able to take the weather in his stride. It was an awe-inspiring sight, as the battlecruisers steamed in line ahead behind their destroyer screen, working up to full speed as they left the shallows, the battleships out on their port wing, their mighty bows crashing down into the troughs and sending green water cascading over the foredecks before throwing themselves at the sky again, while the engines roared reassuringly. Lew was reminded of his first day on board the Lusitania, and then wished he hadn’t thought of it. Because this might just be the moment he had been waiting for, longer than a year. When his watch was sent below Able Seaman Gerraghty told them, ‘I got it from the boatswain; the German battlecruisers are at sea. That’s what we’re looking for, Hipper’s lot.’ He grinned at them. ‘We beat them the last time, lads; we’re going to beat them this time too.’ Definitely now was no time to think of the Lusitania, or anyone on her, except with revenge in mind.

  It was difficult to sleep with that sort of news racing around the brain, and Lew was glad to be back on watch again during the night shift, peering into the darkness, although he had no responsibility for what was out there — that was the business of the lookouts and the radio operators. But the seas were going down as the wind dropped, and when he was next on duty, in the middle of the following morning, it was a relative calm, but a dull and misty day, with visibility hardly over five miles.

  ‘Another bloody waste of time,’ remarked Lieutenant Hardisty, in command of the after turret. ‘We couldn’t find a sailing ship in this murk, unless she wanted to be found.’

  Yet the fleet held on course; as the men had already realised, Admiral Beatty was not the man to give up a search until he was absolutely sure there was no enemy about; when, just after dinner, the huge ships swung back to the north they could be quite sure they had approached within a hundred miles of the Horns Reef off the peninsular of Jutland, which was regarded as the limit of British patrols.

  By then visibility had greatly improved, although the mist still clung to the horizon, and the great ships had barely turned ninety degrees to port, which meant that the four battleships were now ahead of them, when the helm was put over again and they swung back to the southeast, while signal flags fluttered into the rigging of Lion.

  ‘Enemy in sight,’ remarked Lieutenant Hardisty, standing with most of his crew outside the turret to watch what was going on. ‘Hallelujah!’

  Even as he spoke action stations sounded, although they could not as yet see any enemy smoke, and the men raced to their positions. But Lew could not resist a glance at the battleships, still steaming northwards.

  Hardisty followed the direction of his gaze. ‘They’ve not seen the signals,’ he commented. ‘And the admiral doesn’t want to give away our strength by using radio. He’ll recall them by searchlight.’

  And at that moment the powerful lamp began winking its morse message. But that a gap had opened up between the two squadrons was evident.

  On the other hand, the six battlecruisers were surely enough to deal with Admiral Hipper’s squadron, which according to the information given the fleet amounted to only five ships, not one as powerful as the first British four. The shells came up on their lift and were led into the breech, and the crew donned their hoods and waited, while the whole ship trembled as speed was increased to maximum. Time seemed to stand still, and Lew could not help but imagine the quantity of coal that was being burned. But he could see nothing outside the turret, and it was nearly an hour after the turn south that he realised the ship was turning again, this time to almost west.

  ‘The bastards are running away,’ Hardisty growled. ‘But we can catch them.’

  The call came down the communicating tube from the bridge. ‘Aim two one oh, range fifteen thousand yards.’

&
nbsp; ‘Got them!’ Hardisty shouted, and his gun-layer spun the wheels. Lew, imagining all the four turrets slowly turning in the required direction, found he was holding his breath.

  There was a roar and whoosh of water from close at hand splattering across the deck; Queen Mary trembled and seemed to shake herself.

  ‘Oh, God,’ said the midshipman. ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘That was close,’ Hardisty commented. ‘The buggers can shoot.’

  Lew watched urine soaking the boy’s pants. But he felt like that himself.

  ‘Fire!’ came the command.

  The noise was deafening, and the ship again trembled as the salvo was loosed. Now the orders came steadily, recording a slowly closing range, and the firing was continuous. Lew found his head spinning and even inside his masked helmet breathing was difficult. The men were working like maniacs, sweating and gasping and, like the midshipman, urinating in their frenzied mixture of fear and exultation. Then there was a much deeper, louder explosion than the roar of the guns, and from close at hand.

  ‘Holy Christ!’ Hardisty said, and opened the turret door. Lew looked over his shoulder. Queen Mary was the last of the first four. New Zealand was immediately astern of her, wreathed in smoke as she loosed another salvo. Behind New Zealand was Indefagitable. Had been Indefagitable! All that remained of the twenty-two thousand ton ship was a pall of smoke and her bow, pointing at the sky for a second before slipping back beneath the waves.

  ‘Holy Christ!’ Hardisty said again.

  Lew couldn’t speak at all; his mouth was dry.

  ‘The magazine,’ the petty officer said. ‘Must’ve been the magazine.’

  ‘Continue firing,’ came the voice down the tube from the bridge.

  ‘Back to your posts,’ Hardisty snapped. ‘Resume firing.’

  ‘The survivors,’ Lew gasped.

  ‘The destroyers will pick them up. That’s what they’re for.’

  The cannonading resumed, and seemed to increase only a few minutes later.

  ‘Christ, what now?’ Hardisty groaned. ‘Check that out, McGann!’

  Lew was glad to stumble into the open air, and gaze into the afternoon haze. Several miles to port he could make out the shape of four huge ships. The battleship squadron, back to join them. He looked to the south, at the line of five German ships, some twelve thousand yards away, and watched them straddled by plumes of water, while two of them had fires burning; one of them had already dropped out of the line. He stumbled back inside. ‘The battleships, sir,’ he gasped. ‘They’ve caught us up, and are pasting the enemy.’

  ‘Hallelujah!’ Hardisty cried. ‘We’ll avenge Indefagitable. Give it to them, boys. Give it to them.’

  The crew redoubled their efforts, and the shells went screaming away. It was just on fifteen minutes later when Hardisty sent Lew outside again. ‘Give us a report, boy,’ he croaked, his voice hoarse.

  Lew clung to the rail as the ship churned the sea, gulping great gasps of fresh air to drive away the cordite fumes. But the battle was definitely being won. Two of the Germans had fallen out of line now, although they were still firing every gun they could bring to bear, while the nine British ships continued to steam majestically, smothered in smoke, and spray from where German shells had plunged into the sea close by, but with every gun blazing away. It was the most tremendous sight he had ever seen, or ever would see, he thought, as he turned to re-enter the turret — and the whole world exploded.

  *

  The next few seconds were blotted from his mind. He was aware only of an earth-shattering roar, an impression of weightlessness, then of extreme cold and inability to breathe. But this last he had known before, and he realised he was beneath the sea, and that water was battering at his lungs — and that he was not this time wearing a lifejacket.

  Desperately he kicked, and flailed with his arms, realising that he had fallen overboard, although he could not imagine how. Then his head broke the surface and he could gasp for air, and look for the ship. For a moment he thought he saw her, already some hundred yards away. Then he discovered that he was looking, not at Queen Mary, but at New Zealand, steaming by at full speed. His brain refused to accept that, and he twisted his head to and fro, and once again saw the pall of smoke and steam, drifting across the surface of a seething mass of white water some distance away, but not even the bow was visible this time.

  His muscles seemed to collapse, and he sank beneath the waves, then surfaced again. Queen Mary had disappeared! ‘Must have been the magazine,’ the petty officer had said of Indefagitable. But were the Germans so accurate that they could hit magazines twice in half an hour? ‘Battlecruisers can deliver a punch, but can they take one,’ Father had said.

  And now Queen Mary was gone, with all of his shipmates, from the captain down to the most junior rating. Well, not quite the most junior rating; he supposed he was that. But Tommy Rollins was gone too. They had no longer been the close friends of Portsmouth, but yet had they been friends. And shipmates.

  And once again he was swimming around a cold and empty ocean. Only this one was not empty. The battlecruisers might have steamed away, but there were three destroyers over the scene of the disaster, and one of them was close at hand. He waved his arms and tried to shout, and someone spotted him. The ship came closer yet, looking from his situation as big as a battleship, and he watched a net being dropped over her side. He swam towards it, while the ship rolled above him and men shouted encouraging words; his hands closed on the rope strands and his knees kicked the steel hull; it was only when he left the water that he realised he was naked except for his shoes; his clothes had been blown off him by the blast. But if Lieutenant Hardisty had not sent him outside he would now be a million little pieces of shredded flesh and bone.

  Hands helped him over the rail and he collapsed on the deck. Someone wrapped him in a blanket. ‘The others,’ he gasped.

  ‘If there are any,’ a seaman muttered. ‘We’ll get them, boy.’

  The hands gripped his arms and he was hurried below, into the tiny wardroom, where there was a surgeon-lieutenant waiting for him. ‘I’m all right, sir, really,’ he protested.

  ‘Let’s make sure of that,’ the doctor said. ‘Steward.’

  He was given a shot of brandy to drink, and that combined with the heat of the cabin after the cold of the sea made him immediately drowsy, while he kept thinking of sitting on the deck of the fishing trawler off the Old Head of Kinsale, naked then as he was now, with May Gerrard beside him.

  ‘Bend over,’ the doctor commanded, and took his rectal temperature; Lew realised his teeth were chattering too hard for him to hold a thermometer in his mouth. ‘Bed,’ the doctor decided.

  ‘But sir...’

  ‘You are suffering from shock, sailor. Severely. An hour or two will make you right again. Just keep thinking how lucky you are to be alive. You’re the only one. Bed!’

  An orderly was already standing by with two more blankets. And Lew suddenly knew that he was about to fall down, anyway. He lay on the nearest bunk, was wrapped in the other blankets, and lay there, shivering, his mind still clouded by the enormous noise to which his ears had been subjected for the previous hour, by the horror of what had happened, not only to Queen Mary, but to the whole British fleet. Could it really be only an hour since the shooting had started? And the first half an hour had been relatively uneventful. But then...two capital ships, sunk, in half an hour.

  His thoughts merged with his dreams as he slipped into unconsciousness, and he awoke with a start, clutching the blankets, as the destroyer increased speed.

  ‘He’s awake,’ remarked the orderly.

  The surgeon-lieutenant stood above him, took his pulse, and nodded. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘You are quite incredibly lucky. Now, name and rank.’

  ‘Lewis McGann, Ordinary Seaman, sir,’ Lew said. ‘But please, sir, have we won the battle?’

  Even as he asked the question he knew they hadn’t, yet; the noise of gunfire was grea
ter than ever.

  ‘Won it? We have only just started it, boy,’ the doctor said. ‘That’s the whole Goddamned High Seas Fleet out there.’

  ‘But...’ Lew didn’t know what to think.

  ‘Oh, our Grand Fleet has just come up,’ the doctor said. ‘This is the big one, boy. The battle of the century. Of any century.’

  There were no clothes to fit him, but the surgeon allowed him to struggle into some underclothes and a dressing gown, and at least move to the bulkhead door leading to the deck to get some idea of what was happening. The time was just half past six — he had slept for two hours — when he got there, still light although the mist which had clung to the sea all day was beginning to gather again. He gazed in awe at the huge lines of battleships away to port, wreathed in continual smoke as their guns exploded again and again, and surrounded by great plumes of water where enemy shot had plunged into the sea and then at the south western horizon, where there was another continuous line of flashes and great peals of smoke. Somehow the British had got to the east of the Germans, which had to mean they were cutting them off from their base, but...

  ‘That’s Invincible,’ a seaman close to him said, and he gazed in horror at another pillar of smoke rising from the sea. Three battlecruisers...

  ‘Surely we’ve sunk some of theirs?’ he asked. ‘God knows, son, God knows. And the bastards are turning away.’

  With the British in hot pursuit, regardless of the stunning losses they seemed to be suffering. ‘Surely there is a job I can do, sir,’ Lew asked the doctor.

  ‘You can give a hand in the galley,’ the lieutenant told him. ‘The crew will be wanting their supper soon.’

  He made his way forward below decks, finding the destroyer small and cramped after the battlecruiser, and far more noisy; every rivet seemed to be screaming as the engines alternately increased and reduced speed, and her slender hull reacted to every movement of the sea, while the waves seemed very close beyond her paper thin steel hull.