H.M.S Saracen (1965)

by Reeman, Douglas

  The Yeoman of Signals wrote quickly on his slate, the pencil squeaking viciously and reminding Chesnaye briefly of a far-off schoolroom.

  Lieutenant Travis looked down from the compass platform and rubbed his eyes. He looked pale and tired against the clear sky, and Chessaye wondered if he was still recovering from the week in Gibraltar.

  ‘Course south seventy east, sir!’ Travis waited, watching the Captain’s foot as it tapped gently on the grating.

  ‘Very well.’ Royston-Jones did not sound very interested.

  ‘Speed of convoy is steady at eight knots, sir.’ Travis added bitterly, ‘No wonder the Admiral delegated us to this lot!’

  Chesnaye knew that the bulk of warships had gone on ahead, a fine picture, even without the blessing of daylight. The remaining battleships from Gibraltar, a rakish cruiser squadron and three flotillas of destroyers, their hulls almost hidden in eager bow waves, had steamed into the darkness and vanished as if wiped from a slate. The monitor was too slow to work with the Fleet, so Royston-Jones had been ordered to make his way eastwards with this small convoy. Although senior officer present, he was probably being cursed by the three sloop commanders, who must know that he was as much their responsibility as the colliers and the others. For the hospital ships, too, the slow progress must be infuriating, Chesnaye thought. They could manage twenty-three knots without too much effort, yet at eight knots they had to take their time from the slowest ships present.

  Commander Godden removed his cap and wiped the band with his handkerchief. ‘The hospital ships are a waste of time in my opinion. With all the troops we’re mustering it will all be over in a day or two.’ He looked at the Captain’s shoulders. ‘Before we get there, I shouldn’t wonder!’

  Royston-Jones crossed his legs and settled back in his chair. ‘We will spend the forenoon at gun drills and damage control, Commander. All heads of departments will stand fast and their subordinates will take over.’ He added sharply, ‘Even if we are too late this time it may prove to be a long war!’

  As the sun climbed higher the monitor’s guns crews were led through one crisis after another. While Hogarth looked on, edgy and helpless to intervene, his assistant, a baby-faced lieutenant named Yates, sent the men sweating and cursing to obey the situations which Royston-Jones seemed to conjure up without effort. The secondary armament were divided to track and carry out mock attacks on the other ships in convoy, while the giant turret endeavoured to follow the tiny shape of the escort astern. The sloop only appeared occasionally, as it was usually hidden by the Saracen’s own bridge. This meant that one minute the twin fifteen-inch guns were swung round one side of the monitor’s superstructure, and the next, almost before the ranges and deflections could be checked, the sloop had sidestepped daintily to the other quarter, so that the great turret had to swing through an angle of nearly two hundred and eighty degrees.

  Once Hogarth, all but wringing his hands, had voiced a short protest. ‘They’re not meant for this, sir! The sort of targets they are designed for are stationary!’

  Royston-Jones was unimpressed. ‘Suppose the Turkish Fleet breaks out of the Straits, eh?’ His eye was pitiless. ‘What am I expected to do then? Send the Major and his marines to board ’em, I suppose!’

  Once the training mechanism had failed in the turret, so that it stayed pointing impotently at an empty horizon while Royston-Jones barked a series of orders and complaints which became more savage as the minutes passed.

  Godden, who was supposed to be ‘dead’ for the exercise, said in a strangled voice, ‘Shall I order Secure, sir?’

  ‘No, of course not! Mister Chesnaye, get forrard and check what is wrong!’

  Chesnaye was glad to get away even for a few moments. He had grown to hate the constant battle between the Captain and Godden, although no actual argument ever seemed to show itself. The Commander was his usual self when Royston-Jones was away, but together they seemed unable to agree about anything. Chesnaye had often imagined Godden in command, and wondered how his more humane influence and understanding would affect the ship.

  Panting, he climbed the straight ladder which ran up the side of the tall circular barbette upon which the turret revolved. He could feel the sweat running down his skin and clinging to his drill tunic, and wondered if he was getting out of condition. In the training ship they had always allowed for this and had exercised the cadets without let up. Here, in spite of the complex organisation, he felt restricted and cramped. The inside of the turret was like a scene from another world. He had not entered it before, and as he blinked to accustom his eyes to the harsh glare of electric lighting he realised for the first time the ship’s tremendous hitting power.

  The turret was bigger than the monitor’s bridge and funnel combined, and was dominated by the two giant polished breeches which gaped open and allowed the distant sunlight to reflect down the rifled perfection of the twin barrels. The white painted turret was crammed with gleaming equipment. Brass wheels, dials, voice-pipes and hoisting tackles which snaked away through circular hatches towards the bowels of the ship and the magazines. Stripped and sweating, their shining skins making them look like slaves before a mechanical altar, the gunners leaned and panted by the unmoving breeches. The gun-layers and trainers, breech operators and loaders, all waited and watched the Quarters Officer, a Sub-Lieutenant Lucas, whose narrow frame was hung about with gleaming instruments like a pantomime surgeon.

  He glared down from his tall stool as Chesnaye paused below him. ‘Well, what the hell do you want?’

  Chesnaye smiled. ‘The Captain wants to know——’ He never finished.

  ‘Mother of God! What does he expect?’ The officer peered down at his men. ‘They’ll all be dead before we reach Gallipoli if we keep up this pace!’

  An oil-smeared petty officer appeared from nowhere. ‘Fault discovered, sir.’ He stared at Chesnaye as if he had come from another planet. ‘Mister Tweed is fixing it now.’ He added vaguely: ‘A pawl in the training clutch has sheared.’

  The Quarters Officer said severely, ‘Mister Tweed is supposed to be “dead”.’ He sighed with relief. ‘Still, there’s no need for anyone to know!’

  ‘What shall I tell the Captain?’ Chesnaye waited, conscious of the gunners’ grinning faces.

  The Quarters Officer, whose father owned half of Cornwall, said stiffly: ‘Report that the target returned our fire and we have sustained a direct hit. The turret is out of action!’

  Chesnaye found his way back to the sunlit arena of the upper bridge and dutifully repeated the insolent message. He heard Godden catch his breath, while Hogarth looked as if he was going to be sick.

  Royston-Jones nodded and rubbed his hands. ‘Very well. Excellent!’ He gave a sudden chuckle. ‘A bright young man, that one! Uses his imagination!’

  The bridge relaxed slightly. The Captain added after a moment: ‘Pass the word to the Surgeon about casualties. I would like to see the Quarters Officer splinted and bandaged for, er, let me see, multiple fractures. When that has been done he can be carried to his quarters while his men are sent to Stand Easy.’ He grinned with sudden delight. ‘How does that suit, eh?’

  Chesnaye turned away. It seemed useless to try to better Royston-Jones.

  * * * * *

  The hammocks creaked gently with each roll of the hull, but because of the lack of cool air Chesnaye felt unable to sleep. About him the gunroom was in darkness, even the police light being partly obscured by a pair of underpants. He reached above his face and felt for the valve in the overhead ventilating pipe to make sure that it was directed towards him. But the air was without life and seemed to smell of oil and paint.

  Chesnaye pushed his hands beneath his head and took deep breaths. He had thrown the blankets aside, and he could feel the steady stream of air across his naked body. Nearby he heard ‘Ticky’ White chuckling, but as he listened he realised that the other midshipman was asleep. Two days out from Gibraltar and the pace was beginning to tell. Drills, exercises and
practices of every sort on top of watchkeeping duties. At first the ship’s company had turned to with a will, used and trained to every whim and will of their officers. But on a placid sea, with the following ships already like part of the scenery, the enthusiasm had waned into resentful clumsiness. Things went wrong, and the harder it became to bear, the more the Captain conjured out of his imagination to drive them to the limit of endurance.

  Chesnaye thought of Gibraltar, and again the feeling of loss moved inside him. It would be another week before the Saracen crawled to her destination, which was apparently to be Mudros, a Greek island where some of the assault forces were being assembled, and he knew that with each turn of the screws he would be blaming himself for his own handling of those short, haunting moments in Gibraltar.

  The night of the big reception aboard, for instance. When he had seen Helen with Pringle he had wanted to turn his back, to hide his resentment from Pickles and cross the girl from his mind. Instead he had waited morosely by the gangway until the time had come for Helen and her father to leave. It had been difficult with the milling crowds shouting and singing around the gangway, the boats jostling for position, the women shrieking and laughing. It had been more than difficult.

  He had wanted to confront her, to ask her why she had not even visited him at his place of duty, but his pride had clashed with his disappointment. When he had eventually managed to reach her she had merely looked uneasy and said, ‘A very gay evening!’ Then she had glanced away, her eyes sad.

  He had mumbled something, but could not remember what. In any case, it did not matter when he had met Pickles that same night. Chesnaye had stumbled into the gunroom and found Pickles pressing trousers beneath a bench cushion in readiness for the morning.

  Tonelessly Pickles had said, ‘So it was your girl, then?’

  Chesnaye had not answered, angry with himself for showing his feelings.

  ‘It’s none of my business, Dick, but . . .’ Pickles turned, his eyes shaded. ‘Pringle was here just now, boasting about what he’d done . . .’ He faltered.

  Chesnaye punched his hammock savagely. ‘He was talking rubbish! They did not leave the ship together!’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, Dick. Pringle said that she was asking where you were, you see . . .’

  Chesnaye felt uneasy. ‘Well, what of it?’

  Pickles fidgeted. ‘Pringle pretended to be friendly, you know how he is. Then he spun her some yarn about you.’ He gulped. ‘That’s what he was bragging about!’

  ‘For God’s sake make sense! What did he tell her?’

  ‘He warned her against you. Said that you’d been boasting about the things you’d done with her . . .’

  The rest of his words had been lost in the wave of fury which had engulfed Chesnaye, which still haunted him like a nightmare. Pringle had had his revenge, as he had promised. He had even managed to prevent Chesnaye from going ashore on one pretext or another, and by making a point of being meticulously correct in his behaviour had nailed down the last point in his victory.

  Even now, as he lay sweating in his hammock, he could feel the anger rising within him like a flood. What was it made men like Pringle what they were? He hoarded titbits of information and used them like a sadistic blackmailer. It was obvious that he was doing the same to Pickles, although the latter strenuously denied it when Chesnaye asked him. His round face had puckered into a frightened mask and he had said: ‘It’s nothing, Dick! For God’s sake forget it!’

  The fans whirred steadily, and two decks above his head the watchkeepers peered into the velvet darkness. Chesnaye forced his eyes shut and tried to sleep. Surely his father had been wrong in his philosophy? It was futile and stupid to trust nobody.

  He thought, too, about Pringle, and discovered that he was actually beginning to know the meaning of hatred.

  4

  Gallipoli

  The Saracen’s broad wardroom seemed unusually crowded as the ship’s officers arranged themselves in the carefully placed chairs which faced the table at the far end. The evening air was warm and heavy, and the fans which whirred from the deckhead did little to ease the drowsy stuffiness, but instead kept the infiltrating flies constantly on the move to the annoyance of the seated officers.

  Outside, the darkening anchorage of Mudros was alive with launches and small craft which prowled and fluttered around the moored warships and troopers like insects, and over the whole assembly of shipping there seemed to hang an air of excited tension and eagerness.

  Richard Chesnaye craned his neck to pick out each officer in turn, aware that only a chief petty officer guarded the gangway and every officer, high or low, had been assembled for what must now be a final briefing. Like the others, he was relieved, almost glad that the waiting was over. Even if he had found the time to get ashore, and his increasing duties had prevented that, Mudros seemed a dull and unprepossessing island. Crammed with troops, tented camps, ammunition dumps and makeshift field hospitals, it had wilted beneath the crushing weight of the invasion force. For two weeks the Saracen had lain at anchor, the sun always making the preparations harder to bear, the ship’s forced immobility adding to the sense of frustration and irritation. But now, as April moved nearer its close, it looked as if the great offensive was about to begin.

  Chesnaye sat tautly in his chair, his limbs stiff with expectation as he listened to the loud, indifferent voices of his superiors and the excited whispers of the other midshipmen, who like himself had been seated at the very rear of the wardroom as if to doubly indicate their lack of seniority.

  He could see Travis, the Navigating Officer, Hogarth and all the other lieutenants. Pringle’s glossy head was prominent among the sub-lieutenants, while Major De L’lsle jutted like a glowing pinnacle above the packed ranks of experts and professionals who made up the ship’s complement of officers. The engineers, warrant officers, Surgeon, Paymaster, even the Chaplain, were crammed into the well-lighted interior.

  The Captain entered without fuss or announcement, followed by Commander Godden and an unfamiliar officer in army uniform.

  Royston-Jones waited beside the table until the assembled officers, who had sprung noisily to their feet, had resettled themselves, and then laid his cap carefully on a nearby chair. His cold eyes flitted briefly across the watching faces, as if to make sure that there was neither an absentee nor an interloper, then he uncovered the tall chart which up to this moment had been hanging, shrouded, on the bulkhead.

  The Captain glanced at Godden, who with the soldier had seated himself on the far side of the table. ‘All present?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Godden looked meaningly towards the sealed pantry door. ‘And I’ve sent the stewards forrard.’

  Royston-Jones gave a wry smile. ‘No doubt this meeting will be common knowledge between decks whatever action we take!’

  A ripple of laughter transmitted itself around the wardroom. The lower deck’s telegraph system was as reliable as it was uncanny.

  ‘However . . .’ the laughter died instantly, ‘I shall expect each of you to bear the importance of security in mind. This whole operation could be jeopardised by rumour, equally it might be delayed by the inability of an officer to hold his tongue!’

  The officers shuffled uneasily, and Chesnaye saw that some of them held unlit pipes and cigarettes concealed in their hands. They had apparently expected the Captain to permit smoking, but as yet there was no sign of any relaxation.

  Chesnaye turned his attention to the chart as Royston-Jones continued to speak. The chart showed clearly the long, sock-shaped peninsula of Gallipoli, and was dotted with small coloured counters and hostile-looking arrows.

  ‘Gentlemen, the main Allied assault will take place forty-eight hours from tomorrow morning.’ He allowed the murmurs to die. ‘The main landings will be down here at the toe of the Peninsula at these three beaches, V, X and W. The Australian and New Zealand Forces are to make a separate landing to the north-west,’ his brown hand moved slowly up the coastline, ‘and
thereby divide the enemy deployment.’

  Beaushears spoke from the corner of his mouth, ‘We hope!’

  Royston-Jones’ pale eyes flickered in the overhead lights. ‘The Saracen will assist in the latter landings, and will provide artillery support both in the assault and after the Australians have crossed the beaches and captured the surrounding heights.’

  Chesnaye stared hard at the passive chart and tried to see beyond the Captain’s laconic words. For days they had listened to the rumours and stories from the men of patrolling destroyers, who day and night had watched the beaches and kept an eye on the Turkish preparations. The tales they told were not reassuring. Apparently the enemy had taken full advantage of the Allied delays and, as expected by everyone aboard, had poured in soldiers by the thousand, many of whom had actually been seen and reported as throwing up massive earthworks and gun batteries, and sowing the cliffs and beaches, even the water itself, with a tangled web of barbed wire. In addition, it was well known that the Straits and surrounding areas were littered with minefields, some of which had already taken a bitter toll. In the earlier March bombardments, while Saracen had languished at Gibraltar, the French battleship Bouvet had struck a mine and turned turtle in two minutes. Within two hours the battleship Ocean followed her to the bottom and the crack battlecruiser Inflexible had been badly crippled.

  Royston-Jones continued: ‘The landings will be made early, but not in complete darkness, for obvious reasons. However, we must face the fact that the troops will in probability be advancing into point-blank fire from well-sited guns of every calibre.’

  Involuntarily Chesnaye glanced at the army officer’s face. It was an expressionless mask, as if he was aware that every man present was thinking the same thing.

  ‘So our own importance, our duty, is plain. We must keep up a steady fire at pre-selected targets, so that the enemy is not only tied down but is also unable to harry our troops as they make their way inland.’ The hand swept across the peninsula. ‘This whole area is criss-crossed with gullies and ridges, any one of which could force a stalemate within days, even hours, of landing. We shall in all probability be firing at targets beyond these ridges which we cannot see. For this and other reasons I intend to land spotting teams as arranged, and in cooperation with the Royal Engineers Signal Branch I shall expect an unbroken stream of information to be fed to Lieutenant Hogarth’s gunners!’ He stared abruptly at the Commander. ‘Check each landing party personally. They might be cut off from the ship for some time.’