Floating Madhouse

by Floating Madhouse

  * * *

  Might be an end to the squadron’s strict wireless silence too – since its position (and approximate course and speed) were known. And sure enough, the first signal came from the flagship within minutes: Almaz, Svetlana and Ural to haul out to starboard and fall back to become rearguard a mile astern of the hospital-ships, and Ryazan to take station ten cables’ lengths on the flagship’s starboard bow.

  To discourage any further approach by that auxiliary cruiser – which might be keeping station on them somewhere out on that bearing, Michael guessed. Could be waiting there for others to join it. The transports wouldn’t be any better protected by those three so-called scouts with their light weaponry than they had been up to now by Ryazan. The Svetlana did have a main armament of 6-inch, but the other two were only lightly armed, 3-pounders or somesuch – the Almaz more like a yacht than a warship, and the Ural formerly the liner Kaiserin Maria Theresa. Between them, of course, they’d cover a wider area than Ryazan could have done on her own, if Rojhestvensky had reason to expect an attack on the transports from astern – to which, making only nine knots, and the enemy most likely having a superiority in cruisers, they certainly would be vulnerable.

  Zakharov’s low-voiced explanation was ‘Paying us a compliment. Wants us where he can shift us quickly into the way of trouble.’ Ryazan making about twenty knots again at this time, legging it up the squadron’s starboard side, men in the bridge exchanging waves with those on the Izumrud’s as she ploughed past her. Wind and sea had risen during the past hour and it was a pounding, thrusting progress; the destroyers with Izumrud were having a hard time of it.

  Michael noted in his diary:

  In new station at 0600. Signal to Flag from Ural 0620 that 4 ships, indistinguishable owing to poor visibility, were crossing from east to west two miles astern of her. One might guess, cruisers. They seem to be all over the place. Enemy W/T still very active. The squadron back there on our quarter under its pall of smoke looks like a forbiddingly powerful fleet – if it could shoot straight perhaps it would be. The enemy won’t lose us now, having found us: we’re no needle and the straits ahead of us are no haystack, and our lack of speed, especially now that we’re further slowed by Nyebogatov’s flat-irons is another major handicap.

  He’d told Tasha more than once that there was nothing predictable about the outcome of a battle, if there should be one. Wasn’t there? Or was it just that as one got closer to the proof of the pudding one became somewhat queasy?

  Diary again:

  0645, ship on starboard beam. Z proposed intercepting with Ryazan but flagship vetoed this. Z sounding sour about it then. I would too: we could at least make a move to drive her off. She’s staying with us, converging very gradually, doubtless noting and passing on every detail –- and being allowed to get away with it.

  ‘Mikhail Ivan’ich – chartroom, a minute?’

  To look this Jap up in the Russian-language edition of Jane’s Fighting Ships. Michael got it out of the cupboard of reference books and opened it at the Japanese section.

  ‘Armoured cruiser – right?’

  A nod from wooden-face. ‘Three tall, narrow funnels.’

  ‘Here, perhaps?’

  ‘Battleship, that.’

  ‘Well…’ Two pages on: ‘How about this?’

  ‘Looks right. Eight-inch. Has the range of us, therefore. Either the Idzumo or the Iwate.’

  A quick look at cruisers on the next few pages confirmed it: on all others with three funnels the funnels were squatter, thicker. Zakharov admitted, ‘For eight-inch guns I don’t mind remaining in station. Might clear the range if necessary for Suvarov to try with her twelve-inch.’

  ‘Think we’d need to clear the range?’

  ‘Trust Suvarov’s gun-trainers to that extent, would you?’

  They didn’t need to shift out of the way, in fact. At about eight, by which time the range had come down to less than ten thousand yards, when the flagship’s 12-inch turrets swung out to the beam and the massive barrels lifted, the Jap’s length diminished within seconds as she turned away.

  Having seen and reported all she’d been told to report on, no doubt.

  Diary entry at 0812:

  On port bow suddenly clear of mist, Japs identified as Chin Yen (old battleship), Matsushima (old cruiser, but has 12-inch guns), Itsukushima (similar), Hashidate (same again) and Akitsushu (smaller, with 6-inch) appeared on parallel course but soon drew away northward.

  We are closing up towards Tsushima. At this stage it’s only a hump of land intermittently visible when mist thins or parts. By and large the mist probably is dissipating to some extent.

  10 a.m.: on port beam, light cruisers Chitose, Kasagi, Niitaka and Otawa, these again steaming on parallel course, but staying there. Not much doubt of the identifications, young Egorov has a keen eye for it.

  Arkoleyev, the engineer, at Zakarov’s invitation came up for a look. Burmin pointed out the line of enemy cruisers, which were then at something like fifteen thousand yards. ‘Studying us and noting what each captain’s had for breakfast, uh?’

  ‘Or measuring us for our coffins?’

  Surprisingly, several of the bridge staff laughed. Rojhestvensky on the other hand must have decided it was time to do something about such blatant provocation; he ran up the signal for the squadron to assume battle formation.

  ‘Showing willing.’ Burmin, with his glasses up. ‘Telling ’em he’s as eager for the fray as they are. Good idea. And there we go – signal’s coming down!’

  Hauling a flag signal down meant ‘execute’. First and second divisions increasing speed and turning twenty-two and a half degrees to port, third division (Nyebogatov’s) tagging on astern; one single line of battle, therefore. Cruisers shifting meanwhile to station themselves around the transports – except for those three remaining as rearguard and Ryazan staying put until otherwise ordered.

  1120: Oryol fired one shot from her for’ard 12-inch and immediately semaphored that she’d done so by mistake, but others mistook it for the admiral setting an example which they should follow. The entire line opened fire, enemy cruisers turned away at the same time, replying with a few shots of their own. Flagship then signalled Cease fire and Ammunition not to be wasted.

  Midday: Ko Saki, southernmost cape on Shimo Shima, abeam to port. Course altered to N. 23 degs E. – course for Vladivostok. Signal from flagship, ships’ companies to be sent to dinner.

  To drink to the health of the Tsar and Tsarina the sailors would get tots of vodka with their ‘dinner’, but in the wardroom it was called ‘breakfast’ – a Coronation Day tradition, normally a sumptuous meal with admirals and captains attending, but in this instance more a spread of zakuski than a proper meal; and Zakharov, of course, wouldn’t leave the bridge. Champagne was served though, and Burmin proposed the royal toasts: ‘On this anniversary of the coronation of their Highnesses, may God help us to serve with honour our beloved country! To the health of the Emperor! The health of the Empress! To Russia!’

  They cheered, and proposed more toasts – including the health and strength of Zenovy Petrovich Rojhestvensky. Michael, having seen that young Egorov had only begun to croak ‘Emperor, Empress’ and had then given up, choking and with tears in his eyes, told him, ‘Keep your hopes up, Gavril Ivan’ich. Awful not getting news, but the odds are he’s alive and well.’ The cheers were fading: Karasyov swilling the champagne down and shouting, ‘What’s this we’re eating – fried monkey?’ and Arkoleyev proposing cynically to Burmin, ‘With so much to celebrate, why don’t we all dance the Kamarinsky?’

  ‘Well, look here, Pyotr Davidovich—’

  ‘But why don’t we?’ Michman Count Provatorov springing up, sending his chair crashing over. ‘Thundering good idea, I’d say!’

  ‘Hey—’

  Alarm buzzer: penetrative, insistent: then, overlapping it, a bugle-call Michael hadn’t heard before but which Burmin told him meant ‘Clear for action’.

  * * *


  The reason for cutting short the celebrations was that a force of cruisers had reappeared on the flagship’s port bow, seemingly with the intention of crossing ahead of the squadron, more than likely to lay mines; to thwart this, Rojhestvensky had led his ships of the first division round to starboard, to open their broadsides to the cruisers and thus deter them from any such attempt. Michael recorded it in his notes: in terms of battle tactics it was a first move in what amounted to preliminary sparring, would indeed have been commendable as a quick and effective response to that threat if the Suvarov division hadn’t bungled it, some turning ‘in succession’ and others ‘together’ – course alterations which in the Royal Navy were referred to as either ‘red’ or ‘blue’ turns. The result of the mix-up was that the first division finished up in a column of its own, parallel to and slightly ahead of the others.

  Ryazan was under helm, Zakharov having turned similarly in order to maintain his distance – as previously ordered, ten cables – on the flagship’s bow; he was now turning back. The Japanese cruiser force had in any case taken the hint and hauled away to port – so the purpose of the manoeuvre had been achieved – and the cruiser admiral would no doubt be telling Togo that the Russian battle-squadrons were now disposed in two columns instead of one. Togo and his battlefleet being at this moment anything from say five to fifty miles away. More likely five or ten, in view of the number of lesser units in the immediate area. Michael was jotting all this down in his notebook. There were logs kept in the bridge (on the signal desk) and in the wheelhouse (three decks lower, directly below the forefront of the bridge and conning-tower) and when the time came (touch wood) to draw up his report he hoped he might prevail upon Zakharov to allow him access to them; but in the meantime Ryazan might be sunk, in which case he’d have his own notes in his pocket.

  All right – probably so much papier mâché in his pocket. But you could only hope for the best. Time now: 1310. Rojhestvensky had got his four battleships in line and back on course and had signalled for divisions two and three to take station astern of him, i.e. for the Oslyabya to close up into station astern of the Oryol. Michael had his glasses on them, saw that the line was pretty well as it had been, except for a noticeable gap in it at that point. It would be in the Oslyabya’s own best interests to close up, he thought; in her present position you wouldn’t doubt she was the leader of the rear divisions, and as such she’d get special attention from the Japanese gunners, once it started. Suvarov would certainly receive the lion’s share, since to knock out flagships and admirals was always a primary endeavour. Togo wasn’t to know that the admiral in Oslyabya, Felkerzam, was already dead, that Rojhestvensky’s second in command was now Nyebogatov in his old Nikolai I. After all, Nyebogatov himself didn’t know it.

  ‘Ship cleared for action, sir.’

  Burmin. Zakharov gave him a nod. They’d started on those preparations much earlier in the day, and on receipt of the order from the admiral would only have had to complete the job, throwing over the side all non-essential combustible objects – including chairs, so that from now on in the wardroom, if you ate at all you’d do it on your feet. Before that, teams of sailors had been making ‘sandbags’ out of old cordage soaked and parcelled in tarpaulin, hammocks also soaked, sailcloth bundles, coal-sacks, mattresses, all of it drenched from hoses which would now be left connected in order to keep the decks running with salt water. The ‘sandbagging’ would surround locations that were particularly vulnerable to shell-splinters: the small-calibre guns at all levels of the ship’s upperworks, for instance.

  One would be a lot safer on this bridge than on the flagship’s. No doubt at all, she’d take the brunt of it. Michael had his glasses focused on her – steadying himself against the ship’s quite violent pitching plus a bit of a corkscrew roll now resulting from the weather being on her port bow instead of from right ahead – with thoughts in mind of the jovial Ignatzius and others: including Nick Sollogub with his recollection of having been a page at Anna Feodorovna’s wedding to Prince Igor: and Narumov, a lot of whose hard, expert work was likely to be blown to smithereens in the course of the next few hours.

  ‘Excuse me, Mikhail Ivan’ich—’

  Padre Myakishev: robed and hatted, sprinkling holy water from the fingertips of his right hand, a jug of it in the crook of the other arm and a carved ebony cross in that left hand.

  ‘Bless you, my son.’

  ‘And bless you, Padre.’

  ‘Well…’ A small smile as he moved on, muttering his benedictions. Perhaps he didn’t ordinarily come in for much blessing – being the blesser. He’d left the chart unsprinkled, thank heavens: would have sprinkled every gun, turret and barbette though before coming up this far; was on his way down into the conning-tower now.

  ‘Bridge!’

  A hail from the spotting-top. Murayev staring up, hands funnel-shaped at his beard: ‘Yes? What?’

  Disdaining telephone or voicepipe: there were both, allowing for either to be shot away. You could see the spotter’s pointing arm as with the mast and yards he swung in an arc, black against grey sky, pointing ahead or maybe fine to starboard. Michael put up his own glasses to sweep across that bearing. All drizzly mist still: the low visibility they’d prayed for but which hadn’t done anyone much good – as evinced by this yell from the spotting-top, a strident ‘Battleships, sir! Crossing from starboard to port! Four – no, five—’

  ‘Chief yeoman – make to the admiral, Enemy battleships in sight ahead, crossing bow right to left.’

  ‘Six of ’em, sir!’

  As it turned out – when identification by silhouettes became possible – Egorov’s frantic efforts again – they were the Mikasa – Togo’s flagship – the Shikishima, Fuji, Asahi, Kasuga and Nisshin. Right ahead now: grey miniatures, toys, objects in a magic-lantern show – unreal perhaps because one had had them in mind, imagination, for so long. Breaking off to wipe the lenses dry again, then quickly back up, re-focusing… Then – three, four minutes later, in a further thinning of the mist – six more, converging to join that first group from a more northerly direction, and proving after further research to be the Idzumo, Yakumo, Asama, Azuma, Tokiwa, Iwate…

  24

  Battle ensigns quivering in the wind, ships’ companies all at action stations: if the guns weren’t loaded yet they soon would be. In these minutes before two o’clock in the afternoon the Japanese were steering south twenty-three west and the Russians north twenty-three east; opposite courses which if all concerned held on to them would have them passing each other at a range of about – oh, eight thousand yards, but at any rate well inside big-gun range of each other, making whatever they could of it and ending with the Russians on the right side – north – of Togo and on course for Vladivostok.

  Rojhestvensky’s hope, no doubt. Unlikely to be Togo’s choice.

  In fact there it was, the Mikasa had put her helm over: and a howl from the spotting-top was delivering the same news. Not strictly necessary, since from this bridge level one had a clear enough view of them, on a line of sight well ahead of the leader of the pack, the Suvarov; and the Mikasa was undoubtedly under helm – turning inwards, towards, and on the bow of the Russian battle line. In the longer run though, reversing course, in so doing closing the range and intending then to steam more or less parallel to the Russians. The Mikasa’s range from the Suvarov at this moment being about seven thousand yards, six thousand five hundred perhaps; the striking thing about it being that in making an ‘in succession’ turn – each of the twelve Japanese turning successively on the same spot – well, it was either a colossal blunder by Togo or a demonstration of his utter contempt for the Russian gunners, who if they were up to snuff would only have to keep dropping shells into that one patch of water to have them raining down on ship after ship as each reached that point and turned in the swirling wake of its next-ahead. The Mikasa at this moment bow-on, about halfway round: high time in fact that the Russian gunners – or rather the admiral, captains, gunnery
officers—

  Had opened fire. The Suvarov had loosed-off with her 12-inch and the others who’d have been waiting for that lead were joining in. A growing thunder: and the sea around the Japanese turning-point spouting whitened pillars. Shells falling, by the look of it from here, surprisingly close. Possibly even hitting: on the Mikasa then for sure, a flash and a streak of flame up the side of her bridge superstructure as she bore round.

  Maybe Nyebogatov had brought gunners with him who knew their jobs?

  The second Japanese was turning now. Range after turning maybe less than six thousand yards. And the Mikasa even before steadying on her new course was shooting back. Had certainly been hit that once, in the opening squall of surprisingly accurate shellfire. Number two was in it now – coming out of the turn on what was definitely a converging course and with all her guns firing – while number three was hit in the moment she began to turn, the flash of a shell bursting on her port side but any result lost to sight seconds later, in the turn. Egorov shouted through some cheering, ‘That’s the Fuji was hit!’ Splashes were lifting all around her: at least, how it looked. You could only know for certain whether fall-of-shot was short or over when it fell in line, on your own line of sight: which was why in directing a shoot you went for line before bothering too much about range: if you got it right, so much the better, but otherwise line first, then range. The Fuji in any case was ploughing on out through the splashes, hadn’t been hit again: which meant that Nyebogatov’s gunners, after that false promise at the start, were no better than Rojhestvensky’s. Catching at that moment in his glasses a soaring, rapidly expanding speck that was the end-over-end path of a chemodan (or ‘suitcase’) lobbing towards Suvarov, who was already smothered in dark smoke that wasn’t of her own making, with – inside it – the flashes of exploding shells, and was now, as the chemodan vanished down into it, totally obliterated in a huge gush of the same dark (actually greenish-black) filth mushrooming to funnel-height before blowing clear. The chemodans weren’t fuzed, burst on impact even with the sea’s surface, Selyeznov had told him in one instalment of the continuing saga of Round Island; whereas fuzed shell didn’t of course, it simply splashed in.