by John Masters
‘A hundred and sixty-two miles, sir.’
‘Ten hours, and dark. That’s according to plan … Tom, take a look round. See how much water we shipped, what state we’re in below decks. That was a bad half-hour off Aguirre.’
A young sailor at the back of the bridge eased forward to follow Tom. Tom stared at him a moment, then said, ‘Ah, you’re my new messenger, aren’t you? Bennett?’
He remembered that he had posted his previous messenger, a veteran sailor, to one of the 4-inch guns, where he was needed, and asked the Chief Boatswain to replace him with an inexperienced OD. This must be the man, but he didn’t remember seeing him before. He was a young fellow of about twenty, medium height, a rounded jaw, curly light brown hair – what could be seen of it – grey eyes, and a marked dimple. He wasn’t as sturdily built as Dick Yeoman but, apart from that, there was a resemblance … the eyelashes for one, Bennett’s paler than Dick’s but just as long, and as disturbing.
He felt a compulsion to speak, and threw over his shoulder, ‘Why haven’t I seen you before?’
‘Had a beard when you come aboard, sir. Took it off two days ago. I looked a proper daft brush … The Division Officer gave me permission, sir,’ he added hastily.
The sailor’s accent was markedly Geordie, and Tom said, ‘You’re from Newcastle?’
‘Dipton, sir. County Durham.’
Tom nodded, but said no more. He felt that the wide eyes were boring into his back: wide, and innocent looking – but so were Dick Yeoman’s.
October 2
Three days later Penrith steamed back into Punta Arenas, with Monmouth and Otranto. The squadron had found nothing in Orange Bay, and all the ships needed coaling. These three vessels were anchored off the town, each with coal lighters to port and starboard, the lighters hired by the British consul and placed in readiness in response to Admiral Cradock’s signal from Orange Bay. Cradock had taken Good Hope and Glasgow to the Falkland Islands for the same purpose.
Penrith was an anthill of crawling humanity. Every officer and man at work was wearing his dirtiest and oldest clothes. Every hatch and crevice that could be sealed up, by whatever means, was sealed against the all-pervasive coal dust. Only the captain, the commander, some cooks, and half a dozen sentries, wireless operators and lookout, were not engaged in the work, under the general supervision of Jimmy the One, the First Lieutenant, Lieutenant-Commander the Honourable William Mainprice-King. Half a dozen gangplanks spanned the space between the cruiser and the lighters alongside. Hundreds of men walked endlessly up and down those planks, backs bent under 50-lb sacks of coal. As they reached the coal bunker hatches, each man stooped forward, emptied the sack over his shoulder into the hatch, then turned away lefthanded, and headed back to the lighter, while the man hard on his heels emptied his sack, turned … then the next … and the next. The ship boomed like a metal gong to the rumble of the falling coal. In the lighters scores of men worked with shovels, sweating in the cold damp air, to load the sacks. Every now and then a sailor staggered and fell, to pick himself up under the oaths of the petty officers. Twice a sailor managed to fall overboard. Captain Leach had allowed shore leave in batches since arriving at 4 p.m. yesterday, and half the crew had fearful pisco hangovers. Others were still drunk, the cheap liquor not yet having drained out of their systems. On the quarterdeck, three sailors, always excused by their skills from the almost weekly punishment of coaling, sat on a life raft and played popular tunes to a fiddle, mouth organ, and penny whistle. The sweating, bowed sailors hummed and cursed, cursed and hummed to the tunes as they worked.
Captain Leach sat with Tom in his day cabin in the stern, the scuttles screwed tight shut and further blocked with wet towels round the rims. Those scuttles could keep out a heavy sea, but some water always trickled in, and where water could trickle, coal dust could seep. Bottles of Guinness provided by the British consul sat on the table between them, half a case more at their feet.
John Leach siad, ‘We’ll be sailing as soon as we’ve coaled, Tom … west. Rendezvous at the Chonos Archipelago.’
‘So we’re definitely headed for the Pacific?’
The captain nodded. ‘And I don’t like it. The Admiralty hasn’t understood this war yet – imagine having three armoured cruisers like Aboukir, Hogue, and Cressy on slow patrol in the Channel! And allowing each of them to try to rescue the others’ crews when they were torpedoed. Three cruisers sunk in a row – what a triumph for that U-boat commander! And what a sock in the eye for us! And if the Admiralty’s tactics are out of date, their strategy’s worse. They’re trying to command this squadron from seven thousand miles away just because they have wireless and can get orders to us – even though it usually takes a week. And if we have to ask any questions about the orders in a hurry it means giving ourselves away – not our exact positions, of course, but the fact that some warship of ours is in the general area … What they ought to do is simply dispose of the available ships according to the priorities of the navy’s tasks. What Churchill is doing – oh, I’m sure he’s behind it – is giving detailed instructions to the admirals, often without giving the admirals the means of carrying them out. Now, if they’d give Admiral Cradock a couple of battle cruisers, from the squadrons of them sitting at anchor in the Firth of Forth, tell him to get on with destroying von Spee, and after that just pass on whatever information they can get, he’d have the job done safely, soundly … and soon.’
‘Where is von Spee, sir?’ Tom asked.
‘Not heard of since he was at Tahiti on September 22nd. He could be anywhere. Good God, he could be steaming up the Strait … and we couldn’t do much, even if our whole squadron was here.’
‘Canopus …’ Tom interjected, more to hear his captain’s views than from any belief that the old battleship allotted to Admiral Cradock could be of real use. Leach drank deep of the stout. ‘Canopus is a battleship, yes, but so slow that she couldn’t catch a rowing boat … and her guns are so old that von Spee’s cruisers out-range her! Her engines are museum pieces. The Admiralty seems to think that by sending us Canopus they’ve given us superiority over von Spee, but even with Canopus we’re inferior. Especially if we meet them in a heavy sea, because half our guns are on the main decks, and will be flooded out. Theirs are all centre-line mounted, on the upper deck. The light cruisers are about equal … but if our armoured ships get put out of action, we can do nothing. If we try to close, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau will sink us without allowing us to get in range.’
Tom said, ‘I thought the Admiralty were going to send us a modern armoured cruiser – Defence, wasn’t it?’
‘It was,’ Leach growled, ‘then they cancelled the order. They think we’re strong enough as we are. We’re alone, Tom. If I go, you’re the captain. The navy doesn’t recognize posthumous orders, but listen – I have a feeling we’re going to meet von Spee soon. God grant that we can do our job – which is to damage him at least, because he can’t even get repairs done, while we can … but if we run into bad luck, and the admiral goes with the armoured cruisers, don’t sacrifice the ship and the crew without cause.’
‘I won’t, sir,’ Tom said, ‘but if we think there’s any chance – the slightest – of inflicting damage on the enemy, it’s our duty to try, at whatever cost, surely?’
‘Quite right,’ Leach said. ‘You needn’t fear that I won’t do what I can, but if that is nothing…’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but emptied his glass and stood up, stretching. ‘What would the admiral say if he found me drinking stout at 10 a.m.? Well, Kit Cradock would probably join us. He’s a good man, Tom. Brave as a lion, too.’ He shook his head admiringly and said, ‘I’m going to get into something suitable and join the crew. They’ll appreciate the Old Man getting dirty with them – until I’m so dirty they won’t know me from any OD.’
Tom said, ‘Don’t you think there might be a danger, sir, of some matlo taking out a grudge on you, because he’ll be able to pretend he didn’t know who you were?’
&nbs
p; ‘Not in this ship,’ Leach said confidently. ‘You have the ship, Tom. Make all preparations to sail at midnight. The orders are in the charthouse. The coaling won’t be so bad, but I’ll have to listen to Tipperary for the five-thousandth time.’
On the bridge of Penrith Tom Rowland looked at his watch. Two p.m., Chilean time, November 1st, 1914. Four days since they had heard German warships using their wireless; one day since they had entered the port of Coronel to deliver dispatches from Admiral Cradock to the British consul, and from him pick up messages from the Admiralty; three hours since they had sailed from Coronel, to rendezvous with the rest of the squadron fifty miles to the westward, in the South Pacific; with some of the squadron, to be exact, for old Canopus, true to her recent form, was still in the secret harbour of the Chonos Archipelago, 400 miles south, attempting to repair her engines.
The other ships were all here now – Good Hope, Monmouth, Glasgow, Otranto, Penrith. The time was five minutes past two in the afternoon. The yeoman of signals had his telescope to his eye – ‘From flag, sir … take station on a line of bearing north-east by east from flag in order Monmouth Otranto Glasgow Penrith … distance apart of ships fifteen miles … course north thirty-four degrees west, speed twenty knots … enemy closing stop … execute!’
The officer of the watch began giving course and speed directions. The captain said, ‘Make sure everyone’s had a meal, Number One.’
The First Lieutenant said, ‘Aye, aye, sir! Action stations?’
‘Not yet. I’ll take the ship. Stay here, Tom, for the time being.’
The ship heeled far over as it changed course in the heavy sea, the great waves running endlessly up from the south, the funnel smoke blowing away to port as Penrith gathered speed to take up her position at the end of the line. To the east the crestline of the Andes gleamed brilliant white above a lower violet murk that obscured the foothills.
Tom leaned back. The orders were given, the ship and her 375 men obeyed. For the moment he was little more than a passenger: soon, it might be different.
3.57 p.m.: Skyring’s voice from the foretop was excited – ‘Bridge! Smoke, bearing green nine-oh!’
At 4.17 p.m. from the bridge of Penrith, with the telescope, Tom could observe the German squadron, off to the east – the armoured cruisers Scharnhorst, Gneisenau, and the light cruisers Dresden and Leipzig … Another light cruiser was probably somewhere in the neighbourhood – Nurnberg. She might be close enough to join in the battle. The smoke poured from the funnels of the four German ships, as they plunged on, intervals perfect between the ships, guns already trained round to starboard. He had seen them once before, at about this distance, in the South China Sea, but that time they had exchanged salutes only, the ensigns dipping and jerking up again, the good luck signals fluttering at the masthead and, together, whipping down.
‘Action stations, please,’ Leach said quietly. ‘And hoist battle ensigns.’
The alarm buzzers screeched through the ship. Men ran up and down steel ladders. Tom set off round the bowels of the ship, seeing to it that all watertight doors were closed and the ship secure. The captain’s Maltese steward came to the bridge with a teapot, milk jug, hot water jug, sugar bowl, teacup, and saucer on a silver tray. He said, ‘Will you take your tea before or after the battle, sir?’
Leach laughed. ‘Oh now, Fiorino.’
The steward poured expertly, while balancing the tray, and the captain sipped, his eyes always on the enemy squadron.
The signals from the flagship were few … assume close order … course east. Time passed: message from the forward turrets on the main deck, starboard, which was now the weather side – seas almost washing the crews out of the turrets. Answer: remain at action stations.
Course east-south-east, 12 knots.
‘The admiral’s trying to close,’ Leach said quietly. ‘He wants to engage before dark.’
‘The Hun’s running away,’ Sub-lieutenant Mount joy said scornfully.
‘We’ll see,’ the captain said. ‘One thing’s sure, whatever he’s doing, he has the legs of us, as a squadron.’
The sun settled lower towards the turbulent sea. The wind swept the foam off the wave tops, as with strokes of an open razor, each time they heaved up, so that to look southward, the present course of both squadrons, was to peer into the hard-driven spume. The bridge was coated with salt, water ran free along the steel decks, the bows plunged, submerged, rose. Northward, the wind chased the foam for miles across the sea, not allowing it to settle. A dull pinkish tinge began to appear in the sharp southern light.
Tom thought, we haven’t been able to get von Spee within range while the sun was shining in his gun layers’ eyes. Now it’s sinking into the western sea directly behind us; we will be silhouetted in black against it.
6.20 p.m., sunset. From the foretop – ‘Bridge! Enemy has opened fire.’ Orange and scarlet flashes rippled along the side of the leading German ship.
‘Bridge, range one-one-two.’
Extreme range of our 6-inch, Tom thought. The German flagship was aiming at the British flagship – Good Hope. The British were now steaming south in line ahead, in the order Good Hope, Monmouth, Glasgow, Penrith, Otranto.
‘Engage Leipzig?’
‘We can’t get in touch with the flagship, sir, by visual or W/T.’
‘Range decreasing!’
‘He’s turned towards us, at full speed,’ Captain Leach muttered.
‘Range – eight thousand.’
‘My God, he’s hit Good Hope … she’s on fire amidships!’
6.53 p.m. Range six thousand, six hundred, all guns firing that can.
Tom said, ‘I’ll take a look round, sir.’
‘All right.’
Tom ran down the bridge ladder, Bennett at his heels, and started aft along the upper deck. Leipzig, at the rear of the German line, was engaging Penrith, ignoring Otranto, which was helping Penrith: but her 4.7s would not be much use. Shells screamed close overhead, to burst in the water with tremendous splashes, water rising in columns, hovering, slowly sinking back. The acrid smell of cordite, blown into every crevice of the ship by the wind, made him cough and his eyes smart. Dense brown smoke drifted northward, in low, intermittent clouds.
This was Tom’s first time under fire, and he was surprised to find that he was not afraid, though he felt a vague sense of unease, a foreboding that something unpleasant was about to happen: to whom, or how, he did not know. None of the crew had seen action either, and among them, as they crouched at their guns, seas sweeping over them, or stoked the insatiable furnaces, he saw strain and expectation, exaltation and fear, sometimes on the same face.
A heavy clang echoed through the ship and he thought he heard a scream. It came from below forward, and he ran down a ladder, Bennett following. A sailor came staggering out of B forward turret, on the main deck. The man’s left arm was almost severed at the elbow, and pouring blood. A sailor from the ship’s disengaged side came over and supported him up the ladder towards the upper deck. Once the ship’s watertight doors were closed there was no other way to get him to the wardroom which, in action, became the surgeon’s operating theatre.
Tom eased through a narrow entrance to the turret. One man was working the gun, single-handed. A jagged hole ten inches across had been torn in the outer steel casing, and the walls of the confined space were plastered with brains, flesh, eyeballs, splintered bones, and swaths of bloody serge. The gun’s breech and mount were deep scored, but it was being fired, by the one man, whose right knee was a pulp. Bennett whispered, ‘My china was in this turret.’ His voice trailed away and Tom said shortly, ‘Bad luck. Find the gun control officer and ask him if he needs any help.’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’
The young sailor’s face was pale in the glare of the electric light. He darted off. ‘Well done, Simpkins,’ Tom said quietly to the Leading Seaman at the gun, ‘we’ll have relief for you right away.’
‘I’m all righ’ …’ the kill
ick murmured, in the same moment sliding slowly sideways to the steel deck, unconscious.
Tom went to the gun control position, motioned the gun control officer aside, and lifted the navyphone. ‘Bridge!’
‘Tom?’
‘B.2 gun crew knocked out, sir. The gun seems all right. A.3’s crew are taking over. Four dead, two severely wounded. The gun’s firing again now, sir.’
‘Good. Come up.’
7.10 p.m. Good Hope lay stopped in the water to the south, burning with a dense black smoke that mingled with the brown clouds from the warring guns. Monmouth was slowing, glowing all along her length. Out of the eastern gloom the German guns flashed, brilliant and regular. The shells pounded into the two mortally stricken armoured cruisers.
7.20 p.m. ‘My God!’ Leach whispered. A glow of flame crept along Good Hope’s deck line, then limned the funnels and masts, like St Elmo’s fire. A strong scarlet light, black shot, illuminated the ocean, the waves, the hastening ships. Good Hope blew up, vanished.
‘Monmouth’s ceased fire,’ Mountjoy said. His voice was unsteady.
‘Still think von Spee’s running, sub?’ Leach said. The sub was very subdued. ‘No, sir. I apologize.’
Tom thought of Monmouth. He had had a good six weeks in her, in spite of Brandt’s coolness. The curse that had been laid on him had not troubled him, for some reason. In the West Indies, one evening, he had almost fallen in love with a woman. Perhaps perpetually being careful with Brandt, always keeping a close watch on himself, had helped. Now they were all gone, Brandt, and seven hundred others … for no one could help Monmouth now. Even if she surrendered, the Germans would have a hard time rescuing anyone in this sea, if she, too, didn’t blow up.
The bridge was silent. Tom knew what was in Leach’s mind. Who was the senior captain? And he knew the answer: Luce, of Glasgow. What signal or order would Luce give now that the two armoured cruisers were gone – one sunk and one helpless?
From the foretop Skyring called, ‘Bridge! Scharnhorst seems to be engaging Glasgow … Gneisenau, us …’