At six o’clock, with victory in the Allies’ grasp, Allied ships turn to leave the Straits. Within moments the French battleship Bouvet hits one of Geehl’s mines. It is directly in front of Inflexible, at a distance of about 1,000 yards. Tom and Billy hear the muted explosion and turn to see the great swell of water beneath her water line and watch it burst and cascade into the air like a sea spout. Billy brings his field glasses to bear on the stricken vessel.
‘She’s been hit amidships, beneath her starboard gun turret; that’s not good, Tom.’
The young Welshman is horrified by what happens next. Bouvet begins to list almost immediately, trapping most of her crew below.
It is a scene of terrifying panic. There are the shouts and screams of men who know their end is nigh. Klaxons sound, whistles shrill and bells ring to add to the cacophony of boiling and hissing water.
Sailors know that death at sea is a price many will have to pay, but they prefer a clean and quick death – a shell or a bullet, or even exposure in an open boat – drowning is their worst nightmare, especially below decks, where the horror of claustrophobic confinement augments the agony of asphyxiation.
A few on Bouvet’s deck and some of those who can scramble out of the gun turrets make frantic attempts to hurl themselves into the water, but in less than two minutes all 12,000 tons of the vessel and 639 of her complement of 700 officers and men plunge to the sea floor.
As the Bouvet disappears in a great tumult of pluming smoke and hissing water, the Inflexible makes a similar turn. Billy rushes to the rail and looks down into the depths.
‘Old Fidgety Phil must think the Frenchie was hit by a shell or a torpedo. He’s turnin’ us straight into the same minefield!’
Although Captain Phillimore has a derogatory nickname, he is a highly respected captain and well liked by his men. Billy rushes forwards towards the forecastle.
‘Tom, keep your eyes peeled and stay on deck. I must get to the bridge and tell the skipper that we’re steaming into a fuckin’ mousetrap!’
Billy takes only four more steps when a deep-throated rumble from her bow signals that the Inflexible has also been hit. He is knocked sideways towards the ship’s rail. He makes a desperate grab for the top bar, but his momentum is too great and he is flung overboard. Tom is also thrown on to the deck but jumps up and rushes forwards.
‘Man overboard! Man overboard!’
By the time Tom reaches the rail, there is no sight of Billy. Inflexible’s spume and wake obscure everything. There is chaos on board. Klaxons and whistles assault the ear. Men rush backwards and forwards: some bellow orders, others try to respond; some are confused, others know exactly what they need to do. Inflexible is moving at speed, and there is no chance of Billy being retrieved from the water. He is not wearing a life jacket, has fallen over 35 feet, off balance, and although the water is calm and warm he is a long way from shore, with a relentless current pulling him towards the open Mediterranean. His only chance is the remote possibility that another ship in Inflexible’s wake sees him. Even then, the most they can do is throw him a lifebelt, but that is an even more remote possibility, as the eyes of every sailor in the navy will be focused on their own well-being. Ominously, dusk is throwing its shroud over the scene.
Tom sees an officer run by. ‘Sir, man overboard!’ he shouts. ‘It’s Mr Cawson.’
The officer continues to run, shouting back as he goes, ‘Sorry, lad, he’s long gone. Get to your emergency station. We’re holed for’ards; it’s touch and go!’
Tom bursts into tears, something he has not done since he lost Bronwyn to the amorous Philip Davies. Billy had been his superior, but also his mentor and the only real friend he had had since the dark days of the previous year, when he ran away from Presteigne and everything he knew and loved. Why did a harmless, honest and generous man like Billy have to die? Why all those French boys – lads from ramshackle farms, tiny villages and the poorer districts of towns and cities – their lives cut short in an instant?
At another time or in another place, Billy would have been a fisherman or a harbour-master; he would have lived to old age and watched his grandchildren grow up. Now a war that has nothing to do with him or those French boys has killed them all in the blink of an eye.
Billy Cawson, an old salt whose heritage was rooted in the glorious days of mighty ships of English oak powered by wind in their sails, should have retired months ago, to live out his days in his beloved Cornwall. But duty to his King and country persuaded him not to. Now, he will never see England again but die a lonely and agonizing death at sea. He was the naval equivalent of the Old Contemptibles, men from a different age the like of which will not be seen again.
The eighteenth is the dark of the moon and the sky is still clear, so Billy will have one comfort: the sky will be as he remembers those of his youth; on nights when he yearned to go to sea, full of lustrous stars, the Milky Way radiant like a stairway to the heavens.
Brilliant seamanship gets Inflexible back to its berth on the Greek island of Tenedos. But her sister ship, Irresistible, and the battleship HMS Ocean are badly damaged and eventually sink. The French battleships Suffren and Gaulois are also badly damaged, and limp home to Lemnos. Stunned by the sudden setback, de Robeck withdraws his ships and decides against further action until support can be provided by an amphibious landing by the army. What he does not know is that the Turkish defenders have run out of shells and mines and their morale is at a very low ebb. But twenty mines, carefully laid in a perfect position, have booby-trapped the entire enterprise and bought Turkey the time it needs to send masses of men and supplies to the Gallipoli Peninsula to defend against a landing they know is now inevitable.
When Winston gives his account of the situation in the Dardanelles to the War Cabinet on the morning of the 19th, the mood becomes hostile. He tries to hide his own misgivings about the operation and the calibre of Admiral Carden but knows that Kitchener has his own source of information through his emissary, General Birdwood, and could upstage him at any moment. Nevertheless, he reports as positively as he can.
‘On the afternoon of 18 March the Queen Elizabeth entered the Straits and fired eight rounds with her 15-inch guns at Fort number 13, Rumilie Medjidieh Tabia, three of which were direct hits. As for the minefields, about which I know we all have concerns, Admiral Carden assures me that the cleaning up of these will take only a few hours, but that it cannot be attempted until the forts are destroyed, which he tells me may take a little longer than anticipated.’
Winston continues with more detail of the campaign but knows only too well that he has given an evasive and insipid summary of the facts. As he finishes, he glances around the room. His two Admiralty colleagues Tug Wilson and Jacky Fisher look pensive; they know that the true situation is looking increasingly problematic. Thankfully, Kitchener shows no hint of what he is thinking, but Winston knows that he has already reported to Asquith that the Turkish defenders are repairing the forts as quickly as they are being damaged, and that their mobile howitzers are impossible to detect.
Asquith is already beginning to scribble his missive to Venetia, but the eyes of the Conservative invitees are sharply focused on Winston. They say nothing – now is not the time – but they smell blood. It may not yet be Asquith’s, and certainly not Lloyd George’s; it is definitely Winston’s political life-blood their acute partisan senses can detect, that of the man they regard as a traitor to their cause.
Tuesday 23 March
10 Downing Street, Whitehall, London
Winston is delighted to be asked to dinner by the Prime Minister, but the composition of the gathering suggests that there is more to the occasion than conviviality. Clemmie, F. E. Smith with his wife, Margaret, and Margot Asquith are the only other diners.
It is midweek, and everyone is tired, especially Asquith, who is also worried that his passion for Venetia Stanley may not be fully reciprocated. He has already written two letters to her during the day, each many pages long, and is
now contemplating a third, regretting the length of the other two and apologizing for being too demanding of her time and affections.
Winston is beginning to feel depressed: the events of the last twenty-four hours have worsened at every turn and he has just heard that his brother, Jack, has left Sir John French’s staff at St Omer and is on his way to Lemnos to join the staff of Sir Ian Hamilton. Thankfully, F. E. Smith is as entertaining as ever and keeps everyone amused until the real purpose of the evening begins, after dinner in Asquith’s study. Margot has taken Clemmie and Margaret off to drink coffee, leaving the three men to talk politics and war.
Unusually, Asquith comes straight to the point. ‘Winston, Margot tells me that Fleet Street is alive with stories of Cabinet plots against me and that you and Lloyd George are at the heart of them.’
Winston thought that the postprandial whisky would be a post-mortem about the attack on the Dardanelles the previous week, so is shocked by the Prime Minister’s question. ‘Henry, that’s nonsense. I am not aware of plots and have had no conversations on the subject with anyone, and certainly not with LG. Everyone has the utmost confidence in you.’
Asquith turns to FE. ‘Your ear is always close to the ground,’ he says. ‘What have you heard?’
‘Well, as you know, Prime Minister, we Tories, the guttersnipes of British politics, as your Liberal friends like to call us, can’t avoid having our ears to the ground.’
‘Be serious, man. What have you heard?’
FE, not used to being upbraided, answers sharply. ‘It is very simple. The Conservative Party is tiring of keeping quiet and toeing the line in the “national interest”. Balfour is being goaded by Bonar Law, and both are being harangued from their own backbenches. Lansdowne is similarly berated in the Lords, if not more so.’
Asquith has had a lot to drink and his tongue is beginning to run away with him. ‘Balfour is a man with a futile, feminine brain. When his party is in need, he takes his hat off, says he’s ill and leaves his unfortunate friends to be led by a fifth-rate man like Bonar Law.’
FE bristles at the vitriol about the leaders of his own party. ‘There is a lot of talk of shortages of shells and ammunition in France, and recent events in the Dardanelles have got the papers restless. They won’t take too many more setbacks like Neuve Chapelle without kicking up a fuss.’
‘But we won new ground at Neuve Chapelle and put the wind up their generals and the Kaiser!’
‘Yes, I know that’s the official line, but you and I both know that the outcome fell a long way short of what French and Haig intended.’
Asquith then rounds on Winston: ‘So what of the Dardanelles, where do we go from here?’
‘I am grievously disappointed.’ Winston springs to his feet, thrusts his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and stares at Asquith intently. ‘And I smell a rat! Two days ago de Robeck was raring to have another go with our battleships. But now he’s changed his mind and says he can’t risk it without the support of a full-scale amphibious invasion. And, if I may say so, Henry, you have also changed your position, as has his lordship, Kitchener.’
‘But, Winston, that’s because Fisher and Wilson – your men – are advising against it.’
‘Exactly. They also changed their minds overnight. Too many volte-faces in one day, don’t you think?’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘You asked me about a plot. It seems to me that several people are protecting themselves against any mud that may stick from the Dardanelles and that I’m the one being left out to dry.’
‘Come on, Winston, you’re imagining things.’
‘Am I? With de Robeck deferring to Hamilton’s invasion plan, the whole operation comes under Kitchener’s remit and I lose control. But my name is on the original plan, so if anything goes disastrously wrong I carry the can.’
Winston looks to FE for support. His friend nods his agreement. ‘Mark my words, Henry, a disaster is a distinct possibility. We underestimate the Turks at our peril. They are Ottomans – empire-builders; Constantinople has been at the forefront of history for fifteen hundred years. The place is running alive with Germans training their men, teaching them how to dig trenches, mount machine-gun posts and use heavy artillery. Our naval attacks over the past month could not have sent a clearer signal. The Turks know an invasion will be next and will be feverishly preparing, even as we speak. On the other hand, reports suggest that, at the moment, the defenders must be at breaking point and I suspect that they have few or no shells or mines left.’
Asquith begins to respond, but Winston wants the last word. ‘We must strike now! But, without your support, I can’t order de Robeck to attack.’
‘Winston, you’re repeating the same argument you’ve made for the last two days,’ FE interrupts, as if making one of his renowned acerbic remarks to a judge.
‘Then, sir, it’s about time you listened!’
Asquith is furious. ‘That’s bloody impudent, and I won’t have it!’
FE stands, tempted not to back down, but Winston flashes him a fierce look, and his friend relents. ‘Sorry, Prime Minister, that was impolite, but Winston is right: several senior members of my party want a scapegoat, and they have a score to settle with my dear friend and your First Lord of the Admiralty. Fleet Street is being fed the morsels and is more than ready to devour them.’
Asquith ponders this. ‘So part of this is to try to drive a wedge between us?’
‘Exactly.’
Asquith thinks again. Winston and FE remain silent. Downing Street’s clock strikes ten fifteen, prompting the Prime Minister to have another sip of his fifteen-year-old Macallan. Eventually, he responds.
‘Very well, gentlemen, thank you for clarifying the situation. I think another malt is called for. Let’s make sure we continue to enjoy Speyside’s finest and keep a wary eye open for wedges.’
An hour later, F. E. Smith and Winston are enjoying yet more malt in Winston’s Admiralty study. FE has to be at Dover at six in the morning to catch a ship back to France, so Winston has organized a navy car for him. He can sleep on the journey, so is happy to keep Winston company over one of his many sleepless nights.
‘I’m worried about darling Jack, FE. HQ at St Omer was ideal. He was doing good work and was relatively safe. But this posting to the Dardanelles is fraught with danger.’
‘I’m sure it’s of great concern to you, but he’s a resolute chap; he can take care of himself.’
‘Of course he can, but he’s my kith and kin and I feel responsible for him and the Jagoons.’
FE changes the subject, knowing that Jack’s welfare always makes Winston fret. ‘What did you make of Asquith’s little fishing expedition?’
‘Not sure, but you certainly gave him short shrift.’
‘I know, I’m sorry about that, but he was very impolite about my party leaders.’
‘With just cause and a canny level of precision?’
‘I refuse to answer that, m’lud, on the understanding that I may be tempted to tell the truth.’
Winston pours them both another drink.
‘You know, Winston, the Old Block is the consummate politician. If he thinks he can prosper through your downfall he will not blink an eye in sacrificing you.’
‘It was ever thus, FE; from the Agora in Athens to Rome’s Palatine Hill, intrigue is the stuff of political life.’
‘Are there plots?’
‘I’m sure the Tories are plotting and scheming every minute of the day. As for our own ranks, the only alternative leader is LG. He makes no secret of his ambition, so it is hardly a plot.’
‘And you, my dear friend?’
‘How kind of you to ask. Sadly, I fear my star, distant and weak as it is, is waning such that it is about to disappear from even the sharpest telescopes pointed at the celestial firmament.’
Part Four: April
* * *
A GASPING DEATH
Monday 12 April
Hill 60, Zwarteleen,
West Flanders, Belgium
‘Do’st think wi’ theer yet, Mick?’
‘Another two yard, Vinny, then wi’ll ’ave fettled it.’
‘Twaites’ll be chuffed; he’s reet knackered.’
‘Knackered! All ’e’s doin’ is lumpin’ bags up an’ down; I’m doin’ all t’diggin’. Wheer is t’bugger?’
‘ ’E’s comin’, I can ’ear ’im snufflin’ an’ snortin’ down t’tunnel.’
When Twaites appears, like his two fellow moles he is covered head to toe in Flanders’ heavy clay. As the tunnellers say, it looks and sticks like pale shit. Mick pretends to be annoyed with his ‘bagger’: ‘Wheer the fuck ’ave you been?’
‘Stopped off in t’Wellington fer a pint.’
‘Two, more like, yer lazy bugger; thu’s three bags ’ere, waitin’.’
‘Bollocks, Mick, am goin’ as fast as a’can. I were gaggin’ fer a tar, so ’ad to stop fer one.’
Vinny grimaces. ‘ ’Ave you ’ad another shit up t’tunnel?’
‘Aye, I ’ad to. It’s that bully beef, it gives me t’tomtits.’
‘The wot?’
‘Heeard it off some cockney lads in t’billets. Thi ’ave these daft words wot rhyme: tomtit – shit; brown bread – dead; granny grunt – cunt; meks me cow and calf.’
‘Eh?’
‘Laugh.’
‘But that don’t rhyme wi’ calf!’
‘It does t’way they sez it; they sez, ‘larf’.’
Mick has almost finished the yardage he has been asked for on his shift. ‘Will you two stop natterin’? Let’s get these bags out an’ we can knock off.’
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 18