Winston, no longer privy to confidential documents, is keen to know of Carson’s motives. ‘Why is Carson so exercised about the Balkans?’ he asks.
‘Well, in particular, he is adamant that we should support Serbia after the German/Austrian invasion. But, in general, it is more to do with his lack of faith in Kitchener, who he thinks is dragging us further and further into a deeper and deeper hole, and his antagonism towards Asquith, who he thinks is interested only in his own political survival.’
‘Well, as you know, I concur about both things. But Kitchener must go first. Only the Old Block can do that, so he must have a stay of execution until we have a new war leader. Then we can get behind LG, who is the only possible successor to Asquith.’
‘A word of caution, Winston. You know, you seem to have lost LG’s support. He feels he can’t trust you any more.’
‘I know. He thinks I’m just another opportunist.’
‘Like him!’
‘Quite. The truth is, this dreadful war has turned friend against friend, ally against ally. We are all afraid of failure and run away from responsibility for fear of blame. It is impossible to be decisive and take risks. And, as you know, you can’t fight a war without taking risks; some of them huge.’
‘Good grief, Winston, we miss you so much at the heart of things.’
‘You are so kind, FE, but I’m afraid I’m going to go altogether. I wrote to OB yesterday, offering my resignation from the government. But I did ask, once and for all, for him to let the country know the full facts about the Dardanelles.’
‘Will he allow that?’
‘Probably not.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Paint a bit more. I’m thoroughly enjoying it.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t sit and paint pretty pictures of an English garden while the world is consumed by the flames of war.’
‘Actually, they’re not at all pretty. They have a drama of their own: vibrant colours; battles between light and shade; vital tensions between backdrop and detail.’
‘Stuff and nonsense, Winston. As I’ve often said about you, you are the consummate master of the impromptu remark. So what will you really do?’
‘There’s talk of me taking command in East Africa.’
‘Malaria, poor food – and good wine’s almost impossible to get.’
‘Quite. I’d like a brigade in France, but K won’t hear of it, only a battalion.’
‘Beneath you.’
‘Possibly, but I’ve not commanded before.’
‘Except the entire British political scene for the past dozen years.’
‘Not quite, FE. Then there’s new technology. I’ve asked for command of a new air ministry more than once. These latest Zeppelin raids convince me of its future. But not those fat cigars full of hot air.’
‘You mean Asquith’s Cabinet, of course.’
‘Very droll. No, the Zeppelins are quite effective. I mean aeroplanes – the bombing of trenches and, particularly, supplies and communications. Can you imagine the impact of the destruction of German munitions factories and cutting their rail links to the Front?’
‘What are the chances?’
‘Minimal, as long as K is in harness. He won’t even consider it. But I’ve been promoting another idea: armoured vehicles.’
‘Not more of Winston’s Rolls-Royces? The press will have a field day.’
‘No, much better than that. I’ve got Hankey’s ear, and he’s dripping the idea into Cabinet when he can. It started with a dinner with Bendor Grosvenor at the beginning of the year. As you probably know, he developed some armoured Rolls-Royces like mine, but they’re not much good in the mud of Flanders, so they went off to Egypt and the Middle East, where they’ve been quite effective. There were a couple of good sorts at the dinner – Tom Hetherington, an RNAS flyer and an engineer, and Stace Tennyson-d’Eyncourt, a naval architect and brilliant designer. We talked tracked vehicles with armoured compartments for the men, and of how a vehicle could span trenches.
‘We recruited Ernie Swinton, a colonel at the War Office, who also believes that machines could break the deadlock in the trenches. We kept the designs secret, under the title “Water Carriers for Russia”, which became “WCs for Russia”. Now, Swinton has christened them “tanks”, and we’ve formed a “Landships Committee”.
‘Unfortunately, when Balfour took over from me, he called in d’Eyncourt and asked him if he had nothing better to do at the navy than bugger about with these “confounded landships”. So the whole thing’s ground to a halt.’
‘Typical. What will you do?’
‘Bide my time. Believe me: the day of the “tank” will come.’ Winston gets up from his chair and goes to the window. ‘What is the latest from Downing Street?’
‘Another storm is brewing. Hamilton has been brought home from the Dardanelles as a failure. Birdwood is in charge until Charles Monro arrives to take command. There is a growing feeling that Kitchener has to go, and that he is loathed by more than a few, but Asquith knows of his popularity in the country so won’t do it. To appease the anti-K lobby, he has sent him to Gallipoli to assess the situation. The majority view is that we should pull out of the Dardanelles altogether, but nobody dares grasp the nettle, least of all the Prime Minister.’
‘Bloody hell – eleven thirty, soon be lunch. We must have a snort or two before Clemmie calls us in. What will you have?’
‘G and T, please. What shall we do this afternoon?’
‘I’m going to paint, and you can watch and keep me amused.’
While he paints after lunch Winston outlines to FE what will be in his resignation speech to the House of Commons.
‘I’m going to begin with the line, “At the outbreak of this war, megalomania was the only form of sanity, but now it is a different war.” ’
‘Good start.’
‘Then I want to talk about adversity: “We are passing through a bad time now, and it will probably be worse before it is better, but that it will be better, if we only endure and persevere, I have no doubt whatever.” ’
‘Good, are you going to try to score a few political points?’
‘Obliquely. I’d thought of this: “What those neutral peoples not yet committed to the cause do not realize is the immense capacity of the ancient and mighty nations against whom Germany is warring to endure adversity, to put up with disappointment, to tolerate the mismanagement of their leaders, to renew their strength, to toil with boundless obstinacy through endless suffering, to the achievement of the greatest cause for which men have ever fought.” ’
‘Bravo, Winston. You would have made a formidable advocate.’
‘God forbid, you know very well what I think of the odious profession of lawyers.’
‘You are very unkind about my colleagues, Winston, although I do recall one judge with whom I wrestled whose intellect was hardly on a par with that of a Cockney chambermaid. I had been trying for some time to outline a very subtle legal point, after which he said to me, “I’ve listened to you for an hour and I’m none the wiser.” I replied, “None the wiser, perhaps, my lord, but certainly better informed.” ’
Part Eleven: November
* * *
WINTER RETURNS
Tuesday 16 November
Larkhill Camp, Durrington, Wiltshire
It has been a busy month for 11th Battalion East Lancs. It has completed its rifle-range training in Ripon, been to Hurdcott Camp on Salisbury Plain, where, in atrocious weather not unlike that on the Front itself, it has been engaged in defence-and-attack trench-warfare exercises, and it is now at Larkhill Camp for more rifle training.
The weather is still appalling and the camp facilities are far from finished. Fortunately for all concerned, the redoubtable Colonel Arthur Rickman is in his element. It is 7 p.m. and he still has his pack on his back, following an early-morning fifteen-mile route march from Hurdcott, a slog enlivened only by the close proximity of the beguiling sight of Sto
nehenge. None of the men had ever seen it before, and few had heard of it, so the ancient temple has occupied the conversation for the rest of the day.
Rickman’s considerable energy and organizational skills have produced dinner for the men, coal for the stoves, beer for evening relaxation and beds for the night. He is a very popular colonel. Except, that is, with John-Tommy Crabtree and Tommy Broxup, who are still smarting from the field punishments they endured in September and the humiliating loss of their cricket trophy.
John-Tommy and Tommy have kept their heads down since the incident, especially when any of the officers have been in the vicinity. They are carrying sacks of potatoes, bought by Rickman from a local farmer, from the lorries to the kitchen. Tommy sees Rickman coming and switches the sack he is carrying from one shoulder to the other, hoping that the colonel will not recognize him. But he is not quick enough.
‘Broxup, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Please say “yes”, Broxup, not “aye”.’
‘Will do, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘Where’s Crabtree?’
‘Over theer, sir, carryin’ a bag o’ spuds.’
The colonel calls John-Tommy over. ‘Crabtree, Captain Ross has been pleading your case to me. He tells me that you are quite a leader among the men and that, if I understood the viciousness of a northern pub brawl, I would not have been so harsh with you. What do you have to say?’
‘Well, sir, it’s very good o’ Captain Ross, but we did wrong and wi got punished fer it. That’s it, o’er an’ done wi’.’
‘Do you have nothing to say in your defence?’
‘Well, sir, if I may?’
‘Of course.’
‘T’lad wot caused all t’bother would a done me a serious damage if ad let ’im. He were a big ugly bugger, an’ intent on fettlin’ us reet good an’ proper. I ’ad t’ ’it ’im wi’ summat. But a took care to avoid his face an’ neck, so caught him above t’ear, wheer I could only damage his thick skull. Tha knows wot thi say, sir: “Wheer th’s no sense, th’s no feelin’.” ’
‘Yes, point taken. Captain Ross and Lieutenant Tough tell me your behaviour is exemplary and your scores in all aspects of training are among the highest in the battalion, as are yours, Broxup.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Are you going for supper and a beer when you’ve finished unloading?’
‘Yes, sir, after a bit. Wi’v got carrots an’ cabbages after this lot.’
‘Good. Captain Ross made a very good point, which I’ve been thinking about. I was born in the Home Counties and went to school at a place called Winchester College, a school known more for its Latin grammar than for its brawling, so I know little of pub brawls. But I did see two farmers in a knife fight over a sheep in the Transvaal during the Boer War, so perhaps I get the gist of it. Captain Ross reminded me of the viciousness of trench warfare, which we’ve been in training for, and how your reaction in the bar is the kind of response we would expect of you in hand-to-hand fighting in battle. Very shrewd of him, and I don’t want to send the wrong message to the rest of the battalion. So, I have a suggestion to make. Why don’t we wipe the slate clean? I’ve contacted Brigade and had your field punishments removed from the records. We have a war to win, so let’s close the book on the past.’
Rickman offers his hand to Tommy and John-Tommy.
‘Very good of yer, sir. A clean slate is fine by us, innit, Tommy?’
‘Aye, grand. Thank yer, sir.’
‘Oh, and I’ve contacted the Hull Sportsmen’s CO. They’ve agreed to share the trophy until a rematch can be arranged. It will be back with us for when we’re posted overseas.’
Tommy and John-Tommy smile broadly. John-Tommy grabs Rickman’s hand again. ‘Thank you, sir. ’Ope thi keep t’bugger well polished.’
‘By the way, I’ll be telling the battalion in the morning. I’ve heard today that we’re going overseas next month.’
‘France, sir?’
‘No, Egypt, so it might be Gallipoli.’
‘That’s grand, sir, a bit o’ sunshine’ll do us a power o’ good.’
Rickman smiles wryly but decides not to shatter John-Tommy’s naïve illusion.
When the two Pals finally complete the unloading of the vegetables it is dark, but there is still time for a well-earned beer. As they are about to enter the battalion canteen, they bump into Captain Ross and Lieutenant Tough.
‘How are you, J-T, Tommy?’ says Captain Ross.
‘Very good, sir. Just off fer an ale.’
‘So are we. Shame we can’t do it together.’
‘Aye, sir, but regs are regs. By the way, the colonel told us wot yer said to ’im abaht us. Very kind o’ yer.’
‘Not at all. He was perhaps a little harsh.’
‘Anyway, ’e’s wiped slate clean. It’s off our record, an’ t’trophy’s comin’ back t’battalion.’
‘Excellent news.’
‘He’s a good lad, the old colonel, a reet good lad.’
‘He is indeed.’
‘He told us ’e went to a school wheer thi did Latin or summat; didn’t do much feighten’.’
‘No, he wouldn’t, not at Winchester, it’s one of England’s best schools.’
‘He also said he were in’t Boer War.’
‘He was, and highly decorated. He has six battle clasps to his South Africa medals. We’re lucky to have him.’
‘Aye, we are. He’s definitely gone up in our estimation, in’t that reet, Tommy?’
‘Aye, a good man, that’s fer sure.’
‘Oh, an’ he told us that we’re off t’Egypt next month.’
‘Yes, we heard today; exciting news.’
‘It’ll b’ Gallipoli then?’
‘Not necessarily. Johnny Turk is kicking up all over the Middle East. It could be Mesopotamia.’
‘Wheer the hell is that?’
‘A long way the other side of Egypt.’
‘That’s almost in India!’
‘Almost. Enjoy your beer, lads.’
‘Ta, an’ you.’
Wednesday 17 November
Kephalo Bay, Imbros, Greece
Along with nine other sister ships, HMS Grafton is an Edgar Class cruiser. Built in 1890, she has a complement of 570 men and has been on bombardment duties in the Dardanelles since July. In August she was struck by a Turkish shell during the operations at Suvla Bay, when nine of her crew were killed. She is at anchor in Kephalo Bay, off the remote Greek island of Imbros, undergoing final snagging on her repairs before resuming duties off the Gallipoli coast.
Tom Crisp is Grafton’s new ship’s carpenter, his predecessor having been invalided home to Wales. When it was discovered in early April that the damage to Tom’s previous ship, HMS Inflexible, which she suffered off Cape Helles, would take several months to repair, he asked his skipper, Captain Richard Phillimore, for a transfer. His request was granted in August, and he joined Grafton in early October.
There is a collier tied up to the Grafton, loading coal into her bunkers, and Tom is organizing the dunnage to keep the coal from spilling all over the deck. Unlike the Inflexible, a much larger battlecruiser, on Grafton Tom has only one carpenter and one apprentice boy to work with. The small team makes for long days and hard work.
The coal will soon be stored away, so Tom knows it will not be long before they sail for the Dardanelles. Only too readily, he remembers witnessing the tragedy of the marine landings in February and the loss of his mentor Billy Cawson in March and has heard repeatedly the stories of the hell the troops have been going through since.
Understandably, like everyone else onboard, he is anxious. He looks up at the November sky. To the north, the horizon is pitch black, and there is already a sharp chill on the breeze. There have not yet been any winter storms, but the old salts onboard have told him what happens when the Turkish mainland gets cold: all hell breaks loose in the seas around its coast. All the talk below deck is about what will become o
f the troops in their narrow trenches and deep gullies when the weather breaks on Gallipoli. There is also a consensus about what should happen: everyone should go home before it gets any worse.
Thinking that Grafton may well sail the next day, Tom decides to take a boat to the Taverna Esperides in the harbour, a small, white-painted building hard against the harbour wall. Before the Allied ships arrived, the small bar and café served the tiny community of local fishermen. Now, it tries to cope with hundreds of British service personnel. Its turnover has increased twenty-fold, and its once-monthly shipment of food and drink from Salonika has become once daily.
To the east of the harbour are rows of wooden huts, almost all of them rapidly constructed hospital buildings which are acting as overflow accommodation to the larger facility in Mudros Bay on nearby Lemnos.
As he passes the window of the Esperides, he sees his reflection in the glass and notices his beard, a growth that has been almost eight months in the making. He runs his fingers through it, thinking that perhaps he should shave it off: is it getting too long? He is, after all, about to depart on a new voyage and a new adventure.
He sits down and pours a bottle of Fix, Greece’s staple beer, of which he has become quite fond. Sitting opposite him in the far corner is a group of Queen Alexandra’s nurses, looking immaculate in their red-and-grey uniforms. They are making quite a lot of noise, celebrating the return to duty of the most senior among them. She has been ill with dysentery since August. After initial treatment on Lemnos, she has spent the last month getting her strength up on Imbros. Her ship, the Essequibo, now making its deliveries of cargoes of stricken men to Imbros, because all the field hospitals on Lemnos are full, is waiting in the harbour ready to return to Gallipoli for yet another consignment of pitiful men.
One of the nurses, another sister but younger than the others, is not joining in with the banter. She is leafing through a bloodstained notebook, something that has preoccupied her more and more since a dying officer gave it to her at the beginning of June. Lieutenant Allan Hudson, a young man from the Manchester Regiment, wanted her to write a final entry for him to his fiancée but died before he could utter the words. She has decided not to hand it to his battalion’s adjutant but to deliver it to Hudson’s fiancée in person after the war. It was, of course, a similar gesture that changed her own life over a year ago, when the woman who is now her mentor and lover pulled her out of the gutter in Tiger Bay.
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 35