by Alan Bardos
‘My government would be willing to accept international administration of Constantinople, even if in name only,' Talat countered.
'That is not in my gift, Excellency. Our offer is not inconsiderable and no doubt you will be able to secure a percentage for brokering such a deal,' Fitzmaurice said impatiently.
'That is most generous,’ Talat said contemptuously. ‘However, we are well aware that Constantinople and large sections of our lands have been promised to Russia. Something my people will not tolerate.’
‘See reason, man, your government’s days are numbered. This is an opportunity for you to secure your future, before the whole thing comes crashing down around you,’ Whittall said, trying to mollify Talat’s objections.
‘One hundred thousand pounds or four million would mean little to me if I was hanging from a tree in the Hippodrome. As would happen, if I sell you a ship that was given to my people in compensation for a ship that your government stole from them in the first place. I would at least need to secure the future of our capital, before I could even consider such an offer.’ Talat stood up, resolute, no longer the nervy figure Johnny had first met. ‘As you cannot offer me that I see little point in continuing.’
Johnny followed Eady, Whittall and Fitzmaurice as they walked away from the conference room. Johnny wasn’t sure what it all meant for his future. The negotiations had failed, but there was still one more avenue he could pursue.
Eady was in a contemplative mood. ‘Talat’s right, of course. I wish I knew what they were bloody well playing at in London. If we’d had a bit more leeway, we might have been able to talk him round. The whole thing was a shambles from start to finish.’
‘He’ll get his comeuppance, jumped-up telegraph boy. How dare he talk to representatives of the British Empire like that.’ Fitzmaurice said malevolently.
‘So would you like me to go back to Constantinople and see if Enver Pasha would be more receptive to our offer? I’ll need some more cash…’
‘Never mind that, Swift,’ Eady cut in. ‘We’ve received word that you’re to report to the Headquarters of the new Expeditionary Force. Which I believe is going to be on Lemnos.’
‘Now Talat has rejected our peace offer, isn’t it worth pursuing Enver Pasha?’ Johnny asked.
‘Weren’t you listening Swift, you numb skull? There is no peace offer! It’s over.’ Fitzmaurice snapped.
‘Shouldn’t we report what’s happened and let London decide if they want to amend the offer?’ Johnny couldn’t believe they were letting this opportunity slip away.
‘Well, maybe you can make your report directly to our lords and masters, your orders come straight from the First Lord’s Office. You’re to be picked up from the harbour,’ Eady said, bored.
Chapter 32
Sir George Smyth whiled away the bitter sting of his failure with gin in the wardroom of HMS Phaeton as she transported him to Tenedos, a god-forsaken island at the mouth of the Dardanelles. Apparently it was being used as a base of operations against Turkey.
The journey had given the perfect opportunity to consider his position and he’d come to the conclusion that none of this was his fault. He had been pushed into an untenable position by Churchill and had gambled his career on an impossible diplomatic solution. When the prevailing appetite amongst the members of the War Council was for an invasion of Turkey. Consequently, he'd overreached himself. It was, Sir George concluded, the diplomatic equivalent of Napoleon taking Moscow. It most decidedly was not his Waterloo. Not that that was much of a consolation the problem, Sir George reflected, with being a genius was that there was always a wall of mediocrity lined up against you.
A trumpet call announced the end of Sir George’s deliberations. Reluctantly he staggered out after the other staff officers making their way towards the quarterdeck, at the back of the ship. He banged his shins as he clambered down the ladder that served as stairs and was swallowed by a world of grey steel and pipes.
He felt oddly content, being part of this cramped village of men. He liked the good order and efficiency. Everyone had a place and was acutely aware of it, and happy to be in it. It was like school, or, more precisely, British society as it should be.
Sir George reached the quarterdeck and joined his new chief, General Sir Ian Hamilton, and the other officers who had been thrown together to act as his staff.
The only person of interest to Sir George was Jack Churchill. The First Lord of the Admiralty’s brother, a connection he hoped to capitalise on. A well-built man with a bludgeon and a pistol stuck in his belt, he cut an impressive figure, which Sir George thought was more than could be said of his commanding officer.
Hamilton was in his early sixties, average height, trim and alert. Despite a slight limp, Hamilton constantly moved with a relentless energy and enthusiasm that Sir George found rather showy.
The vibration of HMS Phaeton’s engines reminded Sir George that he was on parade, and he became attentive as the cruiser steamed along the white cliffs of Tenedos and turned gracefully on the tranquil blue sea past the headland, and into a wide bay.
Sir George gasped, stunned by his first sight of a British battle fleet. He’d always thought of the Royal Navy and its precious ships as nothing more than an instrument for translating Great Britain’s power and will across the globe. He’d never considered what an intimidating spectacle it presented. Sir George was gripped by a surge of excitement. The coming campaign must surely give him the opportunity to restore his career. Tendos would be his Elba - not his St Helena.
One of the ship’s officers approached Hamilton and handed him a note. He read it and turned his terrier-like face to Sir George.
‘You, Smyth, you’re navy, make yourself ready. We have a council of war to attend aboard the Queen Lizzie,’ Hamilton shouted in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, for someone who’d grown up on a parade ground. He pointed at a sleek battleship that towered over their cruiser. ‘That lovely sea monster over there.’
‘Me... Sir?’ Sir George was taken aback. The man had hardly said three words to him, now he was being invited to attend a staff meeting aboard the flagship.
‘Yes, you sir, you are a naval liaison officer!’ Hamilton shrieked. Sir George smiled humourlessly, not letting his irritation at Hamilton’s tone show. This could after all be an opening. He was clearly marked as a man of destiny even to a vulgar eccentric like Hamilton.
That afternoon Sir George and Hamilton repaired to a stateroom aboard HMS Queen Elizabeth. Sir George knew of the flagship from his time at the Admiralty. It was the first of a new super dreadnought class, and, armed with 15-inch guns, was the most powerful warship in the world.
Sir George stood awkwardly to attention, unsure what to do as Hamilton was introduced to the French and British naval officers attending the meeting. Hamilton was the most senior person present, so Sir George didn’t pay them any mind.
Sir George wasn’t invited to sit at the table and was forced to stand at the back with the other supernumeraries while Vice Admiral de Robeck, the commander of the Allied fleet briefed Hamilton on the state of play.
‘As I’m sure you are aware, Sir Ian, our plan was to reduce the defences of the Dardanelles Strait in stages. However, we had little idea of the strength of the inner defences. Every attempt we’ve made to clear them has failed. The only consolation I have is that at least we haven’t lost any ships.'
De Robeck paused and Hamilton nodded to show he followed. 'It all sounds pretty bloody.’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ De Robeck said. ‘The defences along the inside of the Strait are extremely well organised. We can dominate the main batteries, silencing them, for a time at least. However, to get in and finish them off we need to clear the minefields that protect them. In order to clear the minefields, we must first silence a network of hidden field guns and howitzers that protect them from our mine sweepers.
‘It is the hidden batteries that are the main stumbling block. They are extremely difficult to spot and the aircra
ft we are using can hardly fly above sea level let alone rifle fire.’
‘But surely a great sea monster like this, has little to fear from a howitzer?’ Hamilton asked.
De Robeck grimaced. ‘Getting hit by a 5.9-inch shell is distinctly unpleasant – especially in the old pre-dreadnoughts we are using. Concealed behind hills or dips in the ground, the howitzers can shoot straight up and drop a shell down onto their wooden decks. The lightly armoured parts of the superstructure on all our ships are also extremely vulnerable to this type of fire. As are the ready use ammunition lockers. And should we break through the Dardanelles Strait, these guns will be able to make life impossible for the unarmoured support ships and transports following us to Constantinople.’
‘Yes, I see.’ Hamilton evidently didn’t need a lecture on artillery. ‘Your ships are designed to fight on a flat trajectory side on, against other ships. Vertically dropping shells on you, from behind a hill, isn’t really playing the game.’
‘It’s certainly playing merry hell with our mine-sweeping operations. The converted North Sea trawlers we’ve been given are simply not up to the task. Their clapped-out engines struggle against the fast tide of the Straits and they are extremely vulnerable to enemy fire. We’ve tried to armour them as best we can, but there is precious little protection in their wooden hulls.’
Sir George began to pay a little more attention. There might be a purpose to this meeting after all. De Robeck looked at an upright naval officer sitting next to him. ‘Keyes, my chief of staff, went out with the trawlers on the last attempt.’
‘Yes sir, we’ve been trying to clear the minefields at night to give the sweepers a sporting chance, but the Turks have deployed search lights, subjecting the sweepers to the most terrific barrages. And as we can’t give effective covering fire sweeping becomes impossible.’ Keyes spoke pointedly and Sir George could sense his frustration. He was evidently a firebrand. ‘Had we been provided with fleet minesweepers, crewed by Royal Navy sailors, things would have been different.’
‘Our civilian trawler men have shown terrific courage, but they were not recruited to be shelled,’ de Robeck added. ‘Keyes has placed naval personnel aboard the trawlers to stiffen their resolve, but as things stand nothing can be done until we’ve cleared the mines. Before that can be done, the shore batteries must be silenced.’
De Robeck glanced at Hamilton, who was listening thoughtfully. ‘Despite that, I believe that our best course of action is still to clear the Straits through a naval assault. The enemy have been building up their defences against possible landings ever since we shelled their outer forts, in November.’ Admiral de Robeck drew himself up. ‘I therefore intend to launch a naval coup de main. The latest intelligence reports from London suggest that the Turks are running short of shells, which should even the odds. Troops will therefore only be employed after the forcing of the Straits. In mopping up operations and to act as an occupying force. I hope that doesn’t impede your plans, Sir Ian?’
‘No, it all sounds eminently sensible. I’m sure you have every chance of succeeding on your own, without my help.’ Hamilton seemed charmed by the Admiral. ‘Your plans sit perfectly with General Kitchener's intentions for the Expeditionary Force. My orders are merely to act as a second string. Should the Navy be unsuccessful then we are to step in. It is very much your innings.'
'Those are your only orders, sir?' Keys asked in disbelief.
'As it stands, but I would like to scout things in case we need to force a landing.'
‘May I suggest you consider landing in the South of the peninsula, at Cape Helles. The beaches in the North are more heavily defended. The Phaeton is of course at your disposal should you wish to reconnoitre the area.’ De Robeck said.
‘That is most generous of you,’ Hamilton said.
De Robeck addressed himself to the room. ‘It is my intention to force the Straits tomorrow. Our plan is to suppress the shore defensives, in daylight, which should give us a better chance of hitting them. Minesweeping operations of the Straits can then continue unhindered. The operation will be carried out by three lines of battleships. The first, Line A will be led by the Queen Elizabeth and made up of our best ships. It will engage the forts protecting the Straits at its narrowest point, bombarding the enemy while out of range of their guns and neutralise the forts on both sides of the narrows. Line B, made up of French ships, will go through line A…’
‘Leap Frog,’ a voice from the back called, followed by nervous laughter.
‘Yes, very droll,’ de Robeck said humourlessly. ‘Line B will thrust forward, closing to eight thousand yards. That is the limit of the area within the Straits already swept for mines and will bring them into range of the enemy shore batteries. Admiral Guépratte has volunteered to take on this risky task.’ De Robeck indicated an elegant French officer. 'Line B will commence a secondary bombardment of the shore defences, finishing them off at close range. Line C, made up of the pre-dreadnoughts, will act as a reserve, replacing damaged ships and keeping up the intensity of our attack. Approximately two hours after the start of the attack our poor, wretched, minesweepers will go in and clear the rest of the mines.’
'Then onto Constantinople.' Hamilton applauded. 'The enemy will capitulate within hours of your breakthrough. The whole corrupt edifice will come crashing down like Sodom and Gomorrah.'
‘Yes, quite,’ Admiral de Robeck said.
Hamilton turned around, looking at the officers standing behind him. ‘Smyth, stop lolloping around at the back of the shop like a housemaid looking for a new handbag.'
Sir George felt his face colour, incensed to have been addressed in such a manner. ‘Come here, man, why are you dawdling?’
Sir George controlled his temper and made his way towards Hamilton. He was nothing if not professional.
Hamilton frowned. ‘How many times must one tell you? You’re my naval liaison, so kindly liaise.’
‘Of course, I’ll arrange drinks with the senior staff.'
‘Damned if you will,’ Hamilton squawked. ‘I need someone to act as an observer for the naval assault on the morrow.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Sir George said, embarrassed. Everyone was looking at him, impatient for the meeting to end.
‘I want you to report on the assault and gauge the strength of the enemy defences in the Straits. The position of their batteries and so forth, should we be called upon to mop up enemy strong points.'
‘But I’m a diplomat, I know nothing of such things.’ Sir George heard amused laughter from the officers around him.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be safe and sound in this great sea monster. What say you, de Robeck?’
Admiral de Robeck sighed. The last thing he’d want was to play wet nurse to an observer. ‘He’ll be perfectly safe with myself in the ship’s conning tower.’
Especially if the enemy have no shells to fire back, Sir George mused. As the meeting finished, Sir George saw his chance and approached Keyes. ‘Excuse me, sir, are the minesweeping operations really as dangerous as you describe?’
‘Oh, God yes, the poor trawler men have a hell of a time. We lost two boats the other night and haven’t got many left that come close to being able to cope with conditions in the Straits. It doesn’t help that the Admiralty in its infinite wisdom has chosen to send one of our best trawlers off to ferry some clot about on a half-baked diplomatic mission.’ Keyes glared at Sir George. ‘Did you say you were a diplomat? You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’
Sir George smiled acidly. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I would. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I believe at the time a trawler was all that could be spared.’
Chapter 33
Thick slabs of bully beef made Johnny feel at home for a couple of mouthfuls and then the salty mash brought back the misery and repetition of the front.
‘Look at the state of that, you never been in a trawler before?’ Petty Officer Borden asked, a red-faced man, who looked like he’d been at sea
since he could crawl.
‘No, I can’t say that I have, thankfully,’ Johnny replied, trying to decide if it was the smell of mildew and fish, or the constant rocking of the boat that was making him feel sick.
‘This ought to set you right.’ Borden handed him an enamel mug and grinned at Dud, a gaunt sailor sitting across the table from them in the mess.
Johnny took it and gagged as sweet alcoholic fumes hit the back of his throat. He’d assumed that it was a nice cup of tea, but that didn’t mean anything to laughing sailors.
‘Don’t you like it gunpowder proof?’ Borden asked. ‘We usually water it down, but since you're a special guest, who dragged us across the Aegean and Adriatic, I thought I’d give you a special treat.’
Johnny didn’t think it wise to tell Borden that he wasn’t important and that the indignity of a North Sea fishing trawler collecting him would most likely be part of Sir George’s plan to continue his humiliation and suffering.
‘You best drink that, you can’t be wasting rum,’ Dud said.
The sailors began to thump the table and cheer encouragement. Johnny tried not to gag as the trawler caught a swell and lurched to port or starboard, he really didn’t care. Now Johnny knew what it was he happily gulped down the sweet molasses nectar, as the cheering reached a crescendo.
‘It’s actually rather good. In Flanders we only get “Service Rum Diluted”.’
The sailors stopped cheering and looked at him. Johnny hadn’t meant to say that, but the rum had woken up old memories.
‘Flanders, you say. You’re a long way from the front now, boy. How did you manage to find your way down to Bulgaria?’ Borden glared.
‘You run away, did you, now we're bringing you back to face the music or something?’ Dud put in.
Johnny didn't know if he should tell them or not. He didn’t suppose it mattered now what he said. ‘Well, if you really want to know. I was nearly court-martialled for fraternising with the enemy, but was sent on a fool’s errand to bribe a Turkish Pasha instead of being shot, but didn’t get further than his harem.’