Floating Madhouse

by Floating Madhouse

  Back to the thought that had been in his head a moment ago: that he was watching the opening stages of a massacre. Having assured Tasha twice, Nothing pre-ordained…

  Unless Rojhestvensky hauled round to port, led his ships across the Japanese line’s tail end, as it were crossing the bottom of Togo’s ‘T’ at close enough range for even his gunners to really hammer it, regain the initiative, draw Japanese blood?

  Suvarov was in a very bad way, though. He – Rojhestvensky – might even be dead, or out of action. It was the Russian line that was being hammered, the sea around them boiling with near-misses, and Suvarov and Oslyabya both on fire. The range had closed significantly, in a very short space of time: that was only the fourth of the enemy coming out of its turn now. Michael – of a sudden, disbelieving a new phenomenon which he’d thought he’d just seen through his glasses – yelled to Travkov, ‘Lend me your telescope, chief yeoman.’ Because the magnification would be greater: and what he’d just spotted – dreamt he had—

  ‘Only for a moment…’ Couldn’t give him his binoculars in temporary exchange – being on their strap around his neck and his hands busy focusing the telescope…

  It was him. Even the name sprang to mind – from that briefing in the Admiralty by Captain White… Glancing sideways at Egorov for a moment: ‘Jap that just turned – fourth in line – Asahi?’

  Egorov consulting his scrawled list: ‘Asahi – yes. Three-funnelled battleship, sister-ship of the Shikishima. Yes, she’s—’

  Asahi. In which was serving Captain W.C. Pakenham, Royal Navy, their Lordships’ chief observer and liaison officer with the Japanese. Very tall and spruce and always (White had said) immaculately turned out: ‘A character with a capital C by any standards, Henderson!’ It couldn’t be anyone but him – on the Asahi’s quarterdeck, in a deck-chair. It had to be: Asahi being the ship in which he’d served throughout this Russian war. In any case, what Japanese would sit and watch a major fleet action from a deck-chair on a battleship’s otherwise bare and empty quarterdeck?

  ‘Thanks.’ Returning the telescope to Travkov. Still hardly believing… Pakenham and Togo held each other in great respect, White had told him. Oh, and he wore a monocle. That had not been visible, but one had seen that he was as tall – or long – as a praying mantis. Seen, or had the impression, imagined, deduced… No deductive powers being needed to see that the poor Suvarov had been hit again, or that the Oslyabya was still catching it hot and strong – as were all the rest of them. Togo’s men could shoot. While here the Ryazan was untouched, unscratched, merely spectating: not that that would last for very long, he guessed. In any case she had a function here, watching out ahead and to starboard for cruisers and/or destroyers working their way up on this blind side of the action – where admittedly if they went in close enough they’d be running the gauntlet of their own battleships’ fall of shot – so you could take it that they would not, would be more likely to move in well astern of the main action as it shifted northward and northeastward; but Zakharov and his bridge staff would also be looking out for developments on the quarter, southeastward, where at some considerable distance now the Oleg, Aurora, Donskoi and others would still be nursing the transports and hospital-ships – who you could bet wouldn’t be left alone for ever and to whose assistance Ryazan might well be called upon to divert. There were, after all, cruiser squadrons on the loose, in or around this strait, and when the battleships and flat-irons had been disposed of – which could happen even before the light went…

  Michael turned back to where this battle, which they’d come eighteen thousand miles to fight, was clearly being thrown away, undoubtedly at huge expense of Russian lives. The Japanese might be suffering too; it wasn’t easy to tell whether many of the flashes sparking from the enemy ships were the flashes of their own guns firing or of Russian shells hitting. Russian shells being filled with Pyroxylene, which was smokeless, gunners thus deprived of the morale-strengthening effect of seeing their shells burst when/if they did score hits. That was the last of the Japanese turning now. They weren’t by any means all battleships, several were armoured cruisers, but none had guns that were less than 8-inch and they were all modern ships capable of twenty knots or more: and none of them were showing any signs of having suffered serious damage. W.C. Pakenham no doubt still at ease in his deck-chair, monocle in place and high wing collar freshly starched: jotting down an occasional note with surely nothing other than a gold propelling pencil?

  Suvarov back there was a smoking junk-heap: and still taking punishment. Also – astoundingly – still shooting back, with her 12-pounders, or a few of them. Shooting at what, though? Her main armament had all been smashed – turrets breached, gun-barrels sticking out at all angles… Oh, God – explosion just then, under her fore-turret. The enemy perhaps using armour-piercing shells now instead of high-explosive. Or that might have resulted from internal fires. Oslyabya was also still afloat – just – and still burning internally, leaking smoke and intermittently jets of flame from her many wounds. A big, high-sided ship, she was low in the sea, listing heavily to port and down by the bow; you could imagine the inferno inside her, and the rising flood. And the Alexander had hauled out of the line. The line in fact – as far as it still existed – two flat-irons – only two ? – and the Navarin, Sissoy, Nikolai – was bending, developing a curve to starboard, Togo as it were shouldering them round, away from any northward course, above all away from Vladivostok, forcing them round to starboard, and the range down to – oh, hard to see, but two thousand yards? Suvarov was quite on her own and still taking hits; Oslyabya practically on her side; the Alexander with both funnels and most of her bridge shot away, also holed for’ard and down by the bow; Borodino with flames licking from shell-holes extending from stem to stern, and the Oryol also on fire; effectively there was no Russian line of battle.

  Tsushima, he thought. This was the picture that name would conjure – in one’s memory and in the history books. For ‘battle’, read ‘rout’, read ‘annihilation’. ‘And what did you do while it was going on, Grandfather?’ ‘Oh, I watched it, my dear. Safely out of range, mind you…’

  ‘Mikhail Ivan’ich!’

  A hand on his arm. In the same moment he felt the change in the ship’s motion: revs increasing and helm over, heeling as she altered course as well as picked up speed. This was Egorov shouting across the wind and general racket, ‘Captain says better move into the conning-tower!’

  ‘All right.’ He had his glasses up again though: it looked as if the battle lines were separating, the Japanese altering away to port. And closer at hand the Oslyabya was going, dipping that side right under, rolling belly-up and bow-down, men like ants tumbling down the steep, black-painted weed-smothered iron slope of her: bow-down and stern lifting then, she’d begun to slide. Had gone. Taking her dead admiral with her – as well as a few hundred others.

  Zakharov had steadied Ryazan on course for the burning Suvarov. Or anyway for the smoke covering that area. Making about twenty knots now, with – if that was where he was taking her – about four thousand yards to go. Six minutes, therefore. A destroyer – Russian – was moving in to pick up Oslyabya survivors: not that there’d be many. Egorov was shouting something about a wireless message from another destroyer – the Buiny, ‘buiny’ meaning ‘furious’ – who’d been asked to try to get in alongside the flagship’s remains and take off the admiral.

  ‘Take off—’

  ‘Some geezer semaphored to ’em, your honour.’ Travkov, coming up against a stanchion on the chart-table’s other side as the ship rolled, catching him off-balance. ‘His Excellency’s hurt bad and the staff want him off, so—’

  You’d hardly believe anyone could be alive in that burning wreck. Except one or two guns somewhere near her stern had still been firing a short while ago: which meant there had to be attackers too, a target for them to have been shooting at, whoever/whatever was still making a target of her. So much smoke though – and not only hers… The idea o
f getting the admiral out of his floating bonfire of a flagship meanwhile rang a bell: Narumov describing V.V. Ignatzius’s insistence on his admiral being saved: He’s our mainspring, without him we’d be lost…

  The Buiny wouldn’t get in on Suvarov’s lee side. Even from here you could see that the flames and smoke were blowing out horizontally a good hundred yards down-wind. You’d be burnt to a frazzle, as well as choked and blinded. She’d have to do it from windward – dangerous enough even without whatever sporadic bombardment was still in progress; and to give her a chance of getting away with it, Ryazan would have to put herself – hold herself – where she’d provide some degree of shelter from shot and shell as well as weather, the wind tending to smash the little torpedo-boat against that hulk.

  ‘Conning-tower, Mikhail Ivan’ich!’

  ‘But you’re staying up here?’

  ‘For the moment only. Until I can see into the damn smoke. Destroyers in there somewhere—’

  ‘You mean Buiny—’

  ‘I mean enemy. Suvarov’s been holding ’em off this far, but—’

  ‘Guns on her stern?’

  ‘Gun, singular – one three-inch in her lower stern battery. Which they’re still trying to knock out, obviously to get in then with torpedoes.’

  ‘I’d take that gun’s crew off and give ’em medals!’

  ‘Hear, hear.’ Ducking to the voicepipe: ‘Steer five degrees to starboard.’ Glancing at Burmin then, who was shouting into a telephone – to Murayev in the conning-tower – ‘No, no target yet. I’ll warn you, when—’

  ‘Want me to do that?’

  Point being that the view from inside the conning-tower was so limited, although it was where Murayev had to be to control the guns, and Galikovsky his torpedoes. Once targets were picked it was all right, but as it was – smoke creating virtual darkness and with only a slit to look through in that 5-inch armour, no idea yet what your enemy was or where – and the second-in-command having about fifty other things to do…

  ‘All right.’ Thrusting the telephone at him. ‘Torpedo-boat destroyers we’re looking for – right?’

  He’d nodded. And been thrown one hard glance from Zakharov. He was on the step then with his glasses up, the telephone held with them, in one hand. Gunfire still more or less continuous but most of it from four or five miles away, in this vicinity definitely sporadic. Here – ahead – Suvarov’s smouldering hulk glowed through her own and others’ smoke: Ryazan entering it like a train rushing into a tunnel.

  ‘Here’s Buiny.’ Emerging from the smoke with them, a cable’s length to port: Zakharov must have seen her before, known where she was: hence that recent small alteration to starboard, maybe. Gun-flash on the bow: Jap destroyer. Turning away but had been very quick off the mark, the splash of that shell lifting only just short of the Buiny’s foc’sl. Michael told Murayev, ‘Thirty degrees on the bow to starboard – second one just beyond it – no, that’s a light cruiser!’

  ‘Right!’

  Light cruiser wreathed in its own smoke, on fire aft and listing but with some guns – probably four-sevens – still manned: maybe by reduced crews, hence the slowness…

  Ryazan slowing, interposing herself between the Buiny and their enemies. Zakharov was putting on starboard helm now, port rudder, to leave as narrow a gap as possible between this ship and the flagship’s wallowing, burning hulk, while still allowing Buiny room for manoeuvre. Ear-slamming impact of Ryazan’s for’ard 6-inch: more of it as she swung and brought her starboard broadside to bear. A spurt of flame then and a different but equally deafening explosion seemingly just abaft the bridge: 12-pounder shell – or a four-seven – bursting on either the foremost funnel or a ventilator, metal fragments whirring overhead. But it was a case of tit for tat, the destroyer had been hit and hit hard, cheers just audible through the continuing barrage. As she was lying now, five of Ryazan’s twelve 6-inch were in action, and the Black Sea influence – guns’ crews who knew what they were doing – was making itself felt. She’d been hit again though – starboard side aft. Michael trying to get rid of the telephone he’d found himself stuck with, Egorov obligingly taking it from him: he’d moved to the other side to watch the Buiny making her dangerous approach, when a torpedo from Ryazan blew the cruiser’s bow off. There was cheering over the gunfire and general racket: that was one enemy done for, leaving only the destroyer to be dealt with. And Buiny was in there now, lifting and falling on this lively sea, her skipper working his screws and helm to manoeuvre her in closer without getting skewered on the bent and twisted barrels of smashed guns projecting at all angles from their ports. Coming up against any of them his ship’s thin plating wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  The focus of the whole endeavour was an embrasure standing open in Suvarov’s shell-scarred, ripped and punctured side, near her bow, with men moving in silhouette inside it waiting for them, no doubt the admiral amongst them – presumably not on his feet. How they hoped to make the transfer… Well, at the top of the three hundred and fifty ton destroyer’s upward swoop, obviously – slinging him over somehow. Difficult enough even with a normal, man-sized body, but that huge one…

  The rate of fire from Ryazan’s guns had risen again, but less 6-inch now than 12-pounders blasting away: a new target presumably, maybe that destroyer chancing its arm again – or another one. One of its torpedoes was all you’d need – for a one-way ticket to Kingdom Come, a transfer which hundreds or even a few thousand had already made in the course of this now darkening afternoon. Not darkening, quite, but the light definitely fading: and a sudden blossoming of rosy light out there! He was in time to see the source of it – the destroyer or a destroyer, steel plating opening like the petals of a flower and from the brilliance inside a shower of burning debris—

  ‘Scrambling-net’s in place port side, sir!’

  Burmin, hauling himself off the ladder into the bridge, reporting it to Zakharov – who after all had not transferred himself to the conning-tower. A scrambling-net was a large area of rope netting whose upper edge could be lashed to ship’s-side stanchions so that it covered the side down to the waterline – for use by survivors, swimmers, in this case Suvorov’s – if there were any. Buiny was now clear of her side, they must somehow have got the admiral on board and she was coming out of it stern-first, backing out around Ryazan’s stern.

  Waiting now for men who’d jump – and have only to flounder about thirty yards to find sailors climbing down on the net to help them.

  No one yet. Plenty of gunports standing open: and that embrasure as it had been, but untenanted. All such points untenanted.

  ‘Give ’em five minutes.’ Zakharov, shouting across the bridge to Burmin. ‘Before the big boys come back and finish us.’

  Gunfire was all distant, none close by at all. And still no jumpers. Where they might come from anyway: there were none in sight anywhere. Maybe the men who’d brought the admiral down to that level through the internal furnace had gone over into the Buiny with him. Would have – dragging him over with them. Watching, waiting. Michael was thinking of Narumov and of Sollogub, or V.V. Ignatzius, maybe with Flagmansky in his arms.

  No such luck.

  * * *

  Dark, now. On course south forty east at twenty-two knots, looking for the Dmitry Donskoi, who’d wirelessed in code

  Under attack by two light cruisers, holding them while Sibir runs for it on course Shanghai. My position midway Wakamiya Shima and Okino Shima. Have sustained considerable damage and heavy casualties, support would be welcome.

  Gunfire at that time had been like distant thunder from – they’d thought – the south, which was the way they’d been steering anyway, at more moderate speed, looking for the transports and Enqvist’s cruisers – amongst whom had been the Donskoi. On the basis of the position she’d given, however, they’d altered course to southeast and increased to their maximum four hundred and forty revs. At the same time Zakharov had wirelessed Joining you from northwesterly direction. Where is En
qvist? Paymaster Lyalin and Michman Rimsky had coded it up and the signal would have gone out just minutes ago.

  Michael, wearing Radzianko’s oilskins, was in the front of the bridge with Zakharov, Burmin and Murayev, other bridge staff behind them. Wind and sea were on the quarter, there’d been some flurries of drizzle and there was a lot of movement on the ship – a lot of sea, ship and weather noise as well. Depending on the accuracy of the position given by Donskoi, one might see her at any time – especially if she was in action and had suffered damage, quite probably including fires: and Ryazan having had only fourteen miles to cover, at a rate of slightly more than a mile every three minutes. Although another factor was that a position given as midway between one island and another didn’t sound like needle-point accuracy, could have been a fairly wild and hurried approximation.

  The battle astern had fizzled out at sundown. All they’d heard between then and the sound of action which had been reverberating more recently from this southerly direction had been – heard from below decks – what Engineer Arkoleyev had reckoned were torpedoes exploding a long way astern: one had guessed at coup de grâce by Japanese destroyers.

  The Alexander, Oryol and Borodino would have been likely recipients of those, he guessed. Even Suvarov herself, if she hadn’t gone down before that.