by Alan Bardos
‘That must have been an ammunition store,’ de Robeck said, turning from the periscope. ‘I think now might be the time to prevail upon the French, to press home the attack.’
***
Johnny held onto the side of the wheelhouse, as the trawler was bounced around by the Dardanelles current. In front of them, a line of battleships were firing on the Turkish positions.
The sound of the large calibre guns interspersed with the familiar whine of 5.9s was starting to unsettle Johnny. The sickening crash stirred up feelings that were better left suppressed and, in spite of what he’d been told by Enver Pasha, the Turks didn’t seem to be running short of shells.
‘Here, take this.’ Barringtons offered Johnny a hip flask.
Johnny knocked back a shot of sweet syrupy alcohol and grinned, Sloe gin. His mother made it every Christmas. ‘Thanks.’
‘Just pull yourself together, for goodness sake. We’ll be going in presently and I can’t have you falling apart in front of the men.’
‘Don’t worry, this isn’t my first show.’
A second line of ships began to pass through the front row, smoothly splitting up to engage either side of the Straits.
‘My God, but the French know what they're about,’ Barringtons gasped. ‘We’d better make ready. Once they’ve finished them off, it’ll be up to us to go in and clear the way.’
‘Aye, we'll be a front a them soon enough,’ the Skipper agreed. ‘Trawling through that bloody lot.'
‘How do you actually go about clearing the mines?’ Johnny asked Barringtons.
‘We pair with another trawler. Attaching a cable between us, which we pull along to cut the chains holding the mines in place, “sweeping” them to the surface,’ Barringtons said. ‘We then usually shoot at the mines ‘til they go bang or sink.’
‘That sounds simple enough,’ Johnny said.
Barringtons laughed, ‘Oh, it does, doesn’t it? Just try it when you're dragging a five-hundred-yard-long steel cable, while fighting the current and the Turks are blowing the hell out of you. We also have the added pleasure of the draft of the trawler being larger than the depth of the mines, so we can quite easily hit one!’
'We can actually hit the mines we are trying to clear?' Johnny asked in disbelief.
‘It happened a week or so ago,’ Barringtons said. 'But it's the guns that are more likely to get us. The whole area is completely covered by them.’
‘I been a fisherman all my life, now it’s me as the fish in a barrel.’ The Skipper laughed. 'Best get the sweeps strung out and see to the pairing.’
‘Very good, Skipper, Petty Officer Borden will take over the helm,’ Barringtons said.
Johnny watched the old man leave. ‘Shouldn’t the Skipper stay on the bridge?’
‘He doesn’t like sailing her this close to the shore.’ Barringtons gave a dry smile.
‘Doesn't like anything much,’ Borden added.
‘Yes, thank you for that, Borden and mind your course,’ Barringtons said and turned back to Johnny. ‘The Skipper prefers to act as a deckhand on operations. He’s quite content out there with his sweeps.’
The boat suddenly listed and began to bob up and down violently. Borden swore and fought to maintain control of the wheel. ‘Beg pardon, sir, there’s a bit of chop.’
‘Better ring down for some extra revs,’ Barringtons said.
Borden signalled to the engine room and the boat began to shudder with a grinding noise.
Barringtons turned to Johnny. ‘Don’t mind that, the propeller’s loose on the shaft. It’s taken a beating over the past few days.’
The grinding noise was suddenly drowned out by a series of loud bangs. Johnny looked at the horizon. The French ships had opened up on the shore batteries and were meeting considerable resistance.
‘The frogs are right in it,’ Borden muttered, struggling with the wheel. ‘Won't be long now.’
Johnny felt himself tremble. Rather than the disapproving look he was expecting from Barringtons, he got a sympathetic smile and another shot of sloe gin.
Chapter 36
Lieutenant Kurt Wirbelauer watched the escalating battle across the Straits with grim satisfaction. Good old Dolly was giving it to the Allied fleet now they had finally come into range. The shore batteries had the second line of enemy ships caught in a terrific crossfire. The water around them rose and fell in huge brown columns of froth, the occasional red spark flew off the ships from a shell strike and Kurt felt pride at the defending gunner’s ability to maintain accuracy, despite the battering they were taking.
The Allied fleet was returning fire with equal violence, directing a fierce bombardment at the forts, tearing up great swathes of earth and rock. Kurt had a front row seat from his observation post. The whole valley surrounding the Straits had become a rippling mass of explosions.
He zeroed in his range finder searching for targets. The scrappy fishing trawlers the British used as minesweepers were milling around aimlessly, tossed about on the waves and posed no threat.
He turned to the Queen Elizabeth blasting away at the forts protecting the narrows. He’d been issued with recognition charts, but he didn’t need one to identify that beast. Kurt held his field telephone close and called out a list of coordinates to his primary battery of 150mm howitzers, secreted in the valley behind him.
His sergeant reported that the battery was ready to fire and Kurt connected to his secondary battery, who had mocked up a set of guns out of old drainage pipes. Every time the primary battery fired the secondary exploded charges of gunpowder, releasing large clouds of black smoke.
So far the little trick had served them well, drawing the worst of the Allied fire away from the main battery. Kurt gave the order to fire and a stream of shells flew over the ridge behind him, arching down towards the Queen Elizabeth. Kurt grunted with satisfaction as they straddled the enemy ship.
Behind him he could hear the shouts of his gun crews struggling to reload. Half-starved and threadbare, the Turkish gunners hadn’t stopped firing since the engagement began. The rhythmic chant of their prayers rose above the din of battle. They were fighting with every fibre of their being to deny the invaders this precious strip of water.
The Prince George stationed at the edge of the first line of dreadnoughts fired at them. Kurt uttered a silent prayer of his own as the shells came towards him. He hadn't prayed since he'd left Marburg and thought of his mother and father going to Sunday service at the cathedral.
The British shells landed harmlessly behind him. The Royal Navy were using old ships, with worn out and increasingly inaccurate guns. Their fire rarely landed near either of the batteries and was yet to put any of the drainage pipes out of action. If they did manage to locate the real battery, the guns were simply moved with oxen. Kurt let out his breath and gave a fresh firing solution for the Queen Elizabeth. They needed to keep her distracted.
***
As relieved as Sir George Smyth was to see the French being sent forward to take up the vanguard from his line of ships, it didn’t stop the hidden batteries from tormenting him. Salvos of four straddled the ship, tossing up filthy great columns of shrapnel that rained down on the conning tower with a bowel clenching clank.
Sir George spluttered as something hit the funnel behind him, blowing a cloud of soot into the conning tower. He began to cough up black phlegm and, feeling like a miner, tried to keep focused. Sir George expected that Hamilton would require as much detail as possible when he reported back to him. The ships in his line were continuing to fire at the same targets, over the French ships. It was impossible for him to determine if they were actually achieving anything, other than creating a horrific fireworks display. Spotter planes had been sent over the targets, but their reports were somewhat sporadic and apparently limited by their signalling equipment.
‘Good God, it’s Gaulois. She’s been hit,’ de Robeck said in dismay. The officers on deck swung round to watch as the French pre-dreadnought battleship limped out of line to
the rear, listing heavily.
De Robeck was physically shaken by the loss of a ship to his command. The rest of the French ships fought on regardless, keeping up an intense exchange of fire with the shore batteries.
'I fancy the muzzle flashes from the shore are dying down, sir,' Keyes said. 'They'll soon be silenced.'
‘Inflexible is signalling,’ one of the ratings shouted. 'They're asking permission to leave the line. She’s received several hits from the field batteries and needs to carry out urgent repairs.’
‘Hell, tell her to get a move on,’ de Robeck shouted.
‘I think the Turks are beaten, Admiral,' Keys announced, lowering his binoculars.
‘I agree,’ De Robeck said regaining his composure. 'Bring up line C, the French have done their bit. It's time for fresh gun crews. If things carry on like this, we might call in the sweepers.'
Despite the apparent success of the bombardment, it was obvious to Sir George that the damage his ships had taken was praying on de Robeck’s mind.
***
Breitner tried to breathe as the Queen Elizabeth's massive 15-inch shells exploded in thick mushrooms of dust and steel.
The air was stifling, but the gunners were working like demons as they cleared debris off the guns and returned fire. Breitner admired their discipline and good order. The gunners nearest to him were wrestling a red-headed armour-piercing shell into the breach of their gun.
Dolly called out a bearing and Breitner recognised the target by its rounded hull. A French pre-dreadnought called the Bouvet. He relayed Dolly’s instructions to the gun crew through a speaking-trumpet, the telephone lines had long since been cut, and the gun fired. He watched with satisfaction as a red flash erupted from the impact of the shell and engulfed the bow of the Bouvet in smoke and flames.
Another salvo from the Queen Elizabeth knocked the ground out from beneath Breitner's feet. The sound of roaring water filled his head. He thought for a moment that the ramparts had collapsed and water from the Straits was washing over him, drowning his screams.
Horrified, he managed to struggle to his feet. Half the gun crew he’d been directing were dead and the breach of the gun was buried under dirt and rocks, but already the surviving members of the crew were trying to clear it. Breitner became aware of Dolly pulling on his arm.
‘This is no good, we have to get the men into the shelters. We’ll come back and dig the guns out when the British switch target and it can start all over again.’ Then Dolly cheered and pointed down the Straits. ‘Hey, look.’
In the distance Breitner could see that the Bouvet and the other French ships were turning away, but another line was forming up to replace them. Breitner couldn’t understand why Dolly was cheering.
Dolly smiled grimly. ‘I told you we’ve left a little surprise for the enemy ships.’
***
Kurt Wirbelauer cried every obscenity he could think of, the Allied fleet were succeeding in silencing the large calibre batteries.
The Allies were now bringing up a new line of ships to replace the battered French, to further test the exhausted German and Turkish gunners. The French ships were serenely turning to starboard, heading back to the mouth of the Dardanelles.
Kurt watched the manoeuvre through his binoculars and was dazzled by a sharp flash from the second ship in the line, the Bouvet. A deep thud sounded and the Bouvet was immersed in steam and a great cloud of smoke. The whole ship rocked with a sudden much larger explosion and it immediately began to list to stern, then turned over. Kurt said a silent prayer, as a stream of men ran down the side of the ship before it was taken by the sea.
Despite the horror of what he had just witnessed, Kurt was lifted. They weren’t finished yet. He picked up his telephone and shouted to his sergeant. ‘We’ve sunk one of their battleships.'
He heard a cheer come up behind him and the hurried orders as his men put renewed efforts into their work and not a moment too soon. Kurt saw an approaching line of enemy fishing trawlers. Now was his time.
***
Johnny tried to remain steadfast as the trawler battered itself against the current. Paired with another trawler, they were managing to drag a cable along, to sweep for mines. The little boat strained to get every ounce of power from its steam engine, as its propeller span with a horrible grating noise.
The Turks were firing high explosive and shrapnel shells that came straight towards their flimsy boat with the distinctive whistle and roar of an express train, bringing home to Johnny the realisation that Breitner, the sneaky bastard, had completely fooled him.
High explosive shells straddled the trawler throwing her about in a maelstrom of black water. While the shrapnel shells fizzed overhead and rained down a hail of bullets on the wheelhouse’s steel plating. The boat pitched on its side and Johnny lost his bully beef breakfast, and annoyingly his rum ration.
‘Oh, how disgusting,’ Barringtons remarked, glancing at Johnny before barking at Broaden, ‘Damn it, keep your bearings, man, or we’ll be pulled off course completely.’
‘The compass is out by at least two points, sir,' Broaden said, embarrassed.
‘I’m not surprised, it’s lashed together with bits of string,’ Barringtons answered.
The boat abruptly lurched backwards and stopped. Johnny’s grip on the side finally broke and he was slammed headfirst onto the deck.
‘We must have snagged one,’ Barringtons shouted above a harsh rasping sound from the side of the boat.
‘One what?’ Johnny asked, straightening up.
‘Mine, obviously,’ Barringtons said impatiently.
‘Sounds like the winch could do with a bit of work, sir,’ Broaden remarked laconically.
The rasping stopped and the boat continued its slow progress towards the narrows. Barringtons turned to Johnny. ‘Right, we might have brought one up, you better get ready with a rifle.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Johnny asked.
‘You told PO Broaden here that you were in the infantry and know how to use a rifle.’
Johnny looked resentfully at Broaden, who grinned. ‘Sorry mate, impossible to keep a secret on a boat this size.’
‘We can't have passengers at a time like this. Now get out there and assist Leading Seaman Dudley with the mine.’ Barringtons handed Johnny a rifle and pushed him towards the door.
Johnny gathered himself. He would play the game. The social embarrassment of letting the side down was too deeply ingrained in him to do anything else. He gingerly stepped outside the protection of the wheelhouse.
A shell came down two hundred yards from the boat hurling up a tower of water, burying Johnny under a mass of stinking water. Coughing he managed to cling on as the boat righted itself.
Johnny heard a shout. Dud was at the stern pointing at something in the water. Hanging onto the side of the trawler Johnny moved towards him, past the Skipper who was lovingly tending his sweep, which now had a thick cable hanging from it.
Dud lifted his rifle and Johnny stopped to see what he was firing at, then instinctively threw himself down. A 5.9 shell was merrily whistling towards them. It exploded just above the stern, in a black burst that shredded the sea and pinged shrapnel balls off the steal plating. When Johnny opened his eyes, Dud was gone, replaced by a bloody mess hanging over the side of the boat.
Johnny retched and pressed himself into the deck, as the shells continued to crash down. He felt a sharp pain in his shin and thought for a moment he'd caught one. Then felt another blow in exactly the same place.
Wincing Johnny forced himself around. The skipper was lying against the side of the trawler’s superstructure holding his stomach together. He nodded at the back of the boat. ‘Square it off, before it does for poor old Daisy as well.’
Johnny couldn't make out what the old man was jabbering about, but assumed he meant the mine was going to hit them. Johnny struggled to his feet. He couldn't die here, not after everything he'd been through.
'Good lad, I'll see there's a to
t of rum in it for you,' the skipper called, while Johnny made his way to the back of the boat. The wonky propeller was churning the water to a white frothy cream, but they weren’t making any progress against the tide.
Johnny knelt and scanned the sea in the direction Dud had been aiming, and saw the mine, a large spiked mace glinting in the sun. It was drifting towards a cruiser. His first thought was that it would hit them rather than his boat. However, at the speed they were going, he couldn't be sure.
Johnny lifted his rifle and fired at the mine. A spark flew off it, but nothing happened. He steadied himself, waiting for the boat to tilt upwards and fired at it as rapidly as he could, frantically working the bolt before the mine started to drift towards him. He saw a glint on one of the spikes and the mine exploded in a 100-foot-high splash that lifted the trawler and threw Johnny against the back of the boat.
Johnny got up and thought he heard cheering from the cruiser. He bowed and made his way back to the skipper.
‘How are you?’ Johnny asked, he took off his coat and pressed it against the skipper’s wound.
‘Don’t worry about me, boy, you done ’em right and proper, time to call it a day.’ The skipper grinned.
‘I’m sure there must be a few more mines out here yet,’ Johnny said.
‘No, reckon that be it. That shell done for me and took the cable. Got nothing to tow with now.’
Johnny saw that there were just blasted pieces of metal and wood left where the sweep had been.
‘It don’t matter none now, all the other trawlers have buggered off,’ the skipper groaned.
Johnny glanced round. The other trawlers were hurrying away as best they could. ‘Can you hang on for a moment, skipper? I better report to the Sub and try and find a medical kit.’
But when Johnny turned back to the skipper, he was gone.
***
‘Irresistible’s been hit!' de Robeck exclaimed in shock, as one of the ships in Line C started to list, then dropped out of formation.
‘It's hopeless,’ Keyes remarked. ‘They're getting a pasting.’
'We must silence their guns,' de Robeck shouted, there was a sense of growing frustration in the conning tower as the battle rage between the shore batteries and the battleships. Despite earlier appearances, the shore batteries had not been silenced.