by Alan Bardos
That made Borden pause for breath, before roaring with laughter, his curiosity stifled. ‘That’s a good one, we nearly chucked you overboard, mate.’
A regulation measure of navy rum and banter were helping to quell Johnny’s sea sickness and reminded him of what he’d lost when Crassus took him away from his platoon.
‘So, if you're a soldier, you must be able to handle a rifle then?’ Broaden asked, stuffing the last of the bully beef into his mouth.
‘I prefer a bayonet, lot less fussy,’ Johnny said pompously. Borden ignored the joke and continued to stare at him, wanting an answer. Johnny expected it served him right for using one of Crassus’s lines. ‘I can shoot a rifle if that’s what you mean. Now how about another tot of rum?’
Broaden stuck a finger in Johnny’s face. ‘You’ve had your ration. Shouldn’t have had that this time of day, by rights.’
‘Come on, PO,’ Dud said. ‘This ain't one of his Majesty’s Ships.’
‘No, pretty bloody far from it,’ Broaden shouted. ‘I suppose it won't do no harm. There’s talk of another scrap so it’s no more than we’re entitled.’ Borden picked up a large wicker covered jug, neatly measured out three tots of rum, added a cloudy liquid from a brass jug and passed them round. The rum tasted a bit softer now with a slight acid tang. ‘What is that you’ve added? Lime?’
‘We wouldn’t want you getting scurvy now, would we?’ Broaden said and winked at Dud.
Johnny laughed, as much as he’d enjoyed drinking with Dolly and Kurt, it was good to be back with his own again. He wondered how Corporal Williams 19666 was, or if he was even alive.
The door swung open and a surly man came in. He wasn’t dressed in naval uniform and Johnny wondered if he might have been one of the original inhabitants of the boat. He swung his head at Johnny with a resentful glare. ‘His nibs wants ’im.’
Broaden looked appalled at the slovenly manner of address. ‘Sanders, I would remind you that you are officially in the navy, even if only as a reserve rating – so show a bit of respect for your commanding officer.’ He reached to take Johnny’s mug away. ‘You best do as you’re told.’
Johnny saw Borden’s great hand swing towards him and deftly moved the mug out of his reach, to finish the remainder of his grog.
‘Certainly, I’m ready to pay my compliments to the Captain.’ Johnny passed the mug to Broaden and stood up.
‘The “Captain”. I’ve heard it all now,’ Sanders scoffed and led Johnny out into brilliant sunlight. The boat bobbed violently to one side and Johnny grabbed hold of a long beam, with a winch attached to it.
‘Hey, watch it, break the sweep and we’ll be good for nothing,’ Sanders bellowed and trudged towards the front of the trawler.
Johnny followed him. He was relieved to see a rocky piece of land and a line of ships in the distance. He’d soon be off this glorified life raft and tucked up at HQ on Lemnos.
Sanders opened the door of a steel encased compartment and shouted inside. ‘Here he is then.’
He beckoned for Johnny to go in and slammed the door behind him. A fresh-faced midshipman turned around to greet him. He was standing next to a large man in his fifties, steering the boat.
‘Good morning, I’m Barringtons. I hope you enjoyed your breakfast.’ The midshipman cast an amused eye over Johnny and instantly knew he wasn’t quite the thing. ‘I’m sorry that we don’t run to gin and tonics in the wardroom, but you seem to have availed yourself of my men’s rum ration.’
‘Yes, thank you, snotty, your men have been quite hospitable,’ Johnny replied, prompting an amused muttering in some kind of country dialect from the old man.
‘I beg your pardon!’ Barringtons spat.
‘I’ve been made to feel welcome,’ Johnny said, ignoring Barringtons’ indignation.
‘I’m not talking about your affinity for the lower decks. No doubt that’s where you came from and where you belong! I’m referring to your term of address!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, isn’t that how one addresses midshipmen?’ Johnny asked.
‘I am a Sub lieutenant!’ Barringtons pointed at the gold braid on his sleeve. ‘You will address me as “Sub” or “Sub lieutenant”.’
‘No offence intended.’ Johnny glanced at the approaching land through a slit in the steel plate. The wheelhouse dripped with condensation and the air was stifling. He had no idea what awaited him on Lemnos, but it would undoubtedly be better than being on this tub. ‘I assume that you will be putting me off presently.’
‘Putting you off, no, I’m afraid not.’
‘Isn’t that why you called me up here?’ Johnny asked. ‘To let me know that we’ve reached Lemnos?’
‘You’ve got completely the wrong end of the stick, old chap.’ Barringtons smiled mildly. ‘I’ve had you brought here, to let you know we’ve been ordered to rejoin the fleet. Sorry to spoil your little jaunt, but this is a serving naval vessel, at time of war.’
‘You’re rejoining the fleet?’ Johnny couldn’t understand what possible use this old boat could be. ‘I’m supposed to report to the Headquarters of the new Expeditionary Force, forthwith, which I’ve been told is on Lemnos.’
‘I am aware of that. We were pulled off duty and sent to the Adriatic to collect you like a bloody taxi and flogged ourselves to get you back and now before we can complete that task, we are ordered to take part in today’s operation. My men have hardly slept in three days – would you care to offer me an explanation?’ Barringtons glared.
‘I must have enemies in high places,’ Johnny said. The invisible hand of Sir George Smyth was obviously at play, sending him to war in a death trap.
The Sub lieutenant frowned. ‘Yes, you seem the type to make enemies and it’s my men who are going to suffer as a result.’
‘But how, I mean, what exactly do you do?’ Johnny asked.
‘Good God man, haven’t you noticed anything? We’re kitted out as a minesweeper.’
‘This is a minesweeper?’ Johnny asked, incredulous.
Barringtons tapped the steel plate, impatiently. ‘What do you think this is for and why do you think there are Royal Navy sailors on a fishing trawler?’
‘Just guests really,’ the old man at the wheel mumbled, straining to keep the boat on course.
‘It is the Skipper’s boat.’ The Sub-lieutenant glanced at the helmsman. ‘It’s been very decent of the civilian crews to carry out minesweeping operations, but we’re here to help them out when the shells start falling.’
‘Shells…’ Johnny nearly said there weren’t any shells, but didn’t want to explain how he knew that. ‘Surely you could put me ashore on the way past Lemnos, it’s just over there…’
‘What are you talking about?’ Barringtons interrupted and pointed at the land on the left. ‘That’s Turkey, you idiot! The Gallipoli peninsula to be precise.’
He pointed at a hazy blur to the right. ‘That’s Asia minor, sight of the siege of Troy and all things classical.’ He moved his hand to a narrow strip of water which Johnny had thought was an island inlet. ‘And in the middle of it all is what the fuss is about, the Dardanelles Strait.’
Barringtons swung his arm in a flourish and pointed at the line of ships on the horizon. ‘That’s the fleet and it’s going to force the Straits today, regardless of your orders!’
‘How are we going to do that in this bucket?’ Johnny asked as the trawler lurched sideways and he nearly gagged.
‘Come on, Daisy lass, buck up,’ the Skipper snarled.
‘What?’ Johnny snapped thinking the old geezer was insulting his manhood.
‘That’s what he calls the boat,’ Barringtons said. ‘She doesn’t have an official Admiralty name. When the navy doesn’t give its vessels a name it usually means they aren't expected to come back.’ The Sub gave Johnny a condescending smile. ‘You shouldn't have joined up if you couldn't take a joke.’
Johnny watched the line of distant battleships steam into the Straits. The most powerful weapons ever
constructed. Set against the rough barren waste land of antiquity, they were like something from War of the Worlds.
Chapter 34
Spurred on by an urgent call to arms, Laszlo Breitner charged up the fort’s stone steps as fast as his mutilated leg would allow and ran along the barbettes that housed huge bulbous guns. Well-drilled gunners were rushing to ready them to meet the distant grey shapes coming through the Straits.
He reached his assigned position. An observation post between two of the guns, and looked over the parapet at the Dardanelles, enjoying the bright sunshine flickering across the clear blue water. Breitner found it hard to believe that under that serene stretch of water lay rows of mines, which were all that effectively stood between the enemy and Constantinople.
It was, Breitner felt nonetheless, a very romantic view, stretching all the way down to the ruined forts at the entrance of the Straits some fifteen miles away. More importantly it gave the guns a complete field of fire. Straight down the throat of the enemy.
Fort Anadolu Hamidiye 1 was sited on the banks of the narrows, just outside the city of Chanak on the Asian side of the Dardanelles. It had been built in 1837 and was a relatively modern design, flat and open, with a large earthen rampart. It had since been reinforced with yellow sandstone gun emplacements cut into the rampart and resembled the edge of a saw.
There were nine model 1885 Krupp guns altogether, two 355mm and seven 240mm. Rusty and obsolete, they lacked the range of the modern naval guns they faced.
The British guns, designed to punch holes in steel warships, had however provided ineffective against the fort. Scoring a number of hits and destroying a shell store, but making no notable effect to the functioning of the fort. Only a direct hit on a gun was enough to put them out of action.
When Breitner viewed the task that the Allies had set themselves logically, it looked impossible. It would take remarkable accuracy to score such a hit on a gun, from a moving platform, while avoiding mines and return fire. He could not see how they hoped to achieve it. Breitner wondered if the Royal Navy had forgotten Nelson’s dictum that only a fool attacks a fort with a ship.
Unfortunately, no amount of logic could stop Breitner’s legs from shaking as three lines of enemy battleships gradually came into focus. The enemy was attacking in force and he wondered if that was due to his ruse. It may have been prudent to let the enemy think they are weaker than they actually were, but it was another matter when they arrived.
The first line was coming on four abreast, with covering ships on each wing, churning up large white wakes that contrasted with the thick black clouds gushing from their funnels. A second line was approximately a mile behind with a third group of ships waiting at the mouth of the Straits. Breitner counted eighteen battleships, with assorted cruisers and destroyers.
‘A beautiful day to admire the view, my dear Laszlo, but the enemy may expect you to fight,’ a voice boomed behind him.
Breitner turned and saw the familiar figure of Captain Adolphus Brauer, the battery commander addressing him from behind a pair of binoculars. The observation post had come to life. Men were starting to call out distances from a range finder, while others were consulting maps and tables, trying to gauge the enemy’s bearing.
Captain Brauer put down his binoculars and glanced up at the cloudless sky. He was wearing a kugelhelm, with a ball in the centre that marked him out as an artilleryman. It looked like a child’s costume on his massive head. Breitner wondered if Brauer had got even bigger since he’d spoken to him at the Hotel Tokatliyan.
‘Sorry, Captain, it is a remarkable sight.’
‘Dolly please, my friends call me Dolly.’ Brauer had treated Breitner like a long-lost brother since he’d turned up at the fort with two cases of champagne, courtesy of Enver Pasha.
He licked his finger and held it out over the parapet. ‘Yes, just what I suspected, there is a light wind from the south west.’
‘Is that significant?’ Breitner only had a rudimentary knowledge of gunnery. He had been trained primarily as a cavalry officer, before moving onto intelligence, and was then placed in the infantry at the start of the war. It was inevitable that he now found himself in the specialism he knew least about.
‘Yes, my dear fellow it is significant because the enemy fire control up in the foretops, will have their own gun smoke blown back on them, obscuring their view of us - their target!’ Dolly patted Breitner on the shoulder and pointed at the lead formation of enemy ships. ‘Can you identify which one is pointing its guns at us?’
Breitner lifted his binoculars and scrutinised the superstructure of the ship. Its forward turrets were zeroing in on the fort. Each turret had twin mounted 15-inch guns that could fire a shell that weighed just under a ton. ‘Yes, that’s the Queen Elizabeth.’
‘And a fearsome sight she is too. Excellent, you have been doing your homework, Laszlo. Our shell stocks are not unlimited so we must select our targets well and make every one count!’
‘We are actually low on shells?’ Breitner asked, ‘I thought we were getting resupplied?’
‘Don’t be concerned my friend, we have a nice surprise planned for the enemy!’ Dolly laughed, ‘It’s just a shame there won’t be time for you to learn anything else, you have the makings of a fine gunner!’
Breitner wasn’t sure if Dolly was referring to the impending attack interfering with his training or if they would not see out the day. Breitner jumped as distant gunfire rumbled along either side of the Straits.
‘That’s our mobile batteries, keeping the battleships on their toes.’ Dolly took a swig of Schnapps and offered the flask to Breitner.
Breitner took the flask gratefully as large black fountains erupted around the lead ships. The noise rapidly got worse as the Allied ships returned fire. Dolly’s jovial look faded.
‘My friend Kurt is over there with a howitzer battery.’ He pointed across the Straits to the European side that was sundering under great flumes of red and yellow explosions.
‘It is my understanding that the batteries are safely hidden away,’ Breitner said, trying to sound reassuring, although he wasn’t sure how anything could survive the bombardment the Allies had unleashed.
‘Oh, I’m sure he will be fine. Kurt has plenty of tricks up his sleeve,’ Dolly said. To prove the point the firing from the hidden batteries intensified, forcing a destroyer screen to turn tail.
The gun crews began to report that they were ready for action and Dolly turned his attention back to directing the fire of his battery. It was Breitner’s job to relay his orders to the gunners. They were predominantly German in this fort, so he was able to make himself understood.
Dolly swore, frustrated, Breitner guessed that the enemy was sitting some 14,000 yards away and hopelessly out of range. There was little to do now but wait. A wave of thunder announced the British dreadnoughts had opened fire with their 15 and 12 inch guns.
Breitner braced himself to stay at his post, as a salvo from the Queen Elizabeth ripped through the air towards him.
Chapter 35
Sir George Smyth was having a perfectly vile time, crammed into the conning tower of HMS Queen Elizabeth. It was positioned behind the forward turrets. Their 15-inch guns made the whole ship shudder every time they fired with a terrific boom and gushed great clouds of noxious yellow fumes in a blinding scarlet flash.
The Queen Elizabeth was on the left-hand, European, side of line A. Agamemnon was next to her, adjacent to Lord Nelson and Inflexible, on the Asian side of the Straits. While the other ships fired at the forts on the European side, the Queen Elizabeth engaged the forts on the Asian side of the narrows. Her shell strikes were pounding the enemy positions under huge explosions that blew up immense clouds of brown-black smoke.
A salvo of howitzer shells screamed down and Sir George ducked, unable to control the spasm of fear that surged through him. He knew the howitzers couldn’t penetrate the thick armour of the Lizzie, but de Robeck had said that they could detonate the ready us
e ammunition. It made Sir George feel rather as if he was standing in a steel drum, on a pile of explosives, that someone was throwing fireworks at. Swift had reported that the Turks had no shell, now Sir George had to bear the consequences of that error in every conceivable way. The only consolation he had was that Swift would also have to face the enemy’s wrath.
HMS Prince George, whose job it was to protect the Queen Elizabeth from the blasted phantom batteries, was making a determined effort. Smashing up the peninsula with everything she had, but as far as Sir George was concerned had not reduced the fire they were taking.
Sir George stood up, his lack of decorum attracting pitying glances from Roger Keyes, the firebrand he’d spoken to at the briefing, and the officers and ratings around him. Fortunately, Admiral de Robeck hadn't noticed his performance, glued to a periscope as he tracked the progress of the bombardment.
In the circumstances, Sir George thought he had done well to maintain any semblance of dignity. He was determined to do the task that Hamilton had given him. It was imperative that he won the commander’s confidence.
Sir George blinked, still dazzled by the gunfire, and pressed his binoculars against an observation slit in the conning towers armour. Looking out onto the Gallipoli peninsula and trying to search out anything he could report to Hamilton.
The peninsula looked like a vast craggy fortress, great bastions of rock hung over the water’s edge like battlements. He didn't envy the people who would have to attack it and took some comfort that it wouldn’t be him.
It was impossible to locate the enemy firing positions. Even if he knew what he was doing, he couldn't see anything through the billowing smoke and fire.
A great explosion suddenly lit up the Asian side of the narrows. Sir George forgot his nerves and felt exultant at the terrible power of his nation and the retribution it could unleash on its enemies.