Conversation became increasingly gloomy as they concluded that the country was close to losing the war.
“Is there a way to win, Captain Sturton?”
“Not in France, sir. New weapons, and I have no idea what they might be, could possibly bring a breakthrough. At present, there is stalemate. The defence is stronger than the offence. If there is to be a victory, then it must take place elsewhere than in Flanders.”
The Viscount offered an insight.
“Germany is short of foodstuffs for her large population. As are we, of course. We can bring wheat from America, provided the submarines do not sink too much. Germany has no outside source, unless the Kaiser can take the whole of Poland and the Steppes and pull harvests from them. Our blockade may be the answer.”
“To starve the Hun rather than to defeat them in open war, you say, my lord.”
“It seems so, sir.”
It was no way to fight a war. Where was the honour?
“Can the cavalry not be released, my lord? Fifty regiments of horse must turn the war in our favour.”
“The cavalry has no part to play in France, sir. They are irrelevant, in fact. The war is between artillery and infantry. Horse has nothing to say.”
That was an obvious nonsense. Cavalry won wars. The infantry was to hold the ground they took; the artillery played its role in sieges and in set-piece battles. That had been the case since the days of the Iron Duke. How could war have changed now?
“We have invented barbed wire and the machine gun, sir. The two between them have made the horse irrelevant. Add to that, the power of modern great guns and you will see that we now have an entirely new warfare. The cavalry is all about the offensive. It is the defence that holds the new power. It is worth noticing, of course, that the French cavalry achieved nothing at Waterloo. One might consider the Charge of the Light Brigade as well.”
They could not understand his last comment. The Charge had been a magnificent example of true British heroism. It had succeeded in its failure! The last statement was often made, they knew - and few chose to question it or to attempt to understand it.
They became almost impatient with Lord Perceval – England must win. Anything else was inconceivable. The Empire On Which The Sun Never Set – always with capital letters – was not to be defeated by a mere crippled Kaiser. It was up to government and military to remember that reality and take the correct course of action, which must be there to be found.
“Then how do we win in France, my lord?”
“We wait, sir. Eventually, one trusts, the blockade of Germany will force them to desperation. At that point they must talk or they must mount a massive attack. If they go onto the offensive, they may well take ground; they will lose hundreds of thousands of irreplaceable men.”
“Years of stalemate on the Western Front, my lord! That is not the course of honour! We must advance!”
Simon gave an appraising glance at the little, fat, red-faced sixty year old who had never risked his own precious life in war, took pains not to allow his contempt to show. It was easy for those at home to shout for the path of duty and honour as the sole way forward.
“It is better than futile deaths on the wire, sir. The trenches are impregnable under current conditions. Create new weapons and it may be possible to breach them. At the moment, it is not.”
They joined the ladies, found them discussing the poverty of goods available in the better stores. They did not know what the world was coming to, it seemed.
“Captain Sturton! How long will it be before these appalling submarines are swept from the seas?”
“Many years, ma’am. We have yet to discover the means of destroying them. Our sole hope is to keep them at a distance by patrol. We have too few ships to provide safe passage of the Atlantic.”
“I had always thought Britannia to rule the waves, Captain Sturton!”
“One, perhaps, of many delusions we suffered before this war, ma’am. We are doing our very best, I assure you. It is not impossible that the policies of governments before the war will be shown to have been misguided. The dreadnought is not the be all and end all of sea power, it would seem.”
That was a statement akin to blasphemy. The ladies stared and rapidly turned the conversation to topics less distressing.
The party broke up eventually and the remaining gentlemen found themselves downstairs alone, a last whisky to hand.
“Saying that the dreadnought might not be the greatest of warships, capable of winning the war for us, Simon! Shocking!”
The Viscount shook his head in mock horror.
“What have you against the great battleships, Simon, other than being a small ships man yourself?”
“Rusting piles of magnificence, sir, sat in Scapa Flow and doing what? How have the battleships contributed to this war, sir? They are a liability, hidden away from submarine and minefield and doing nothing to kill Germans. That, after all, is what the war is about, and the overwhelming number of our battleships have never so much as seen a Hun. They cost money and waste manpower and do nothing. They are not even a threat, because we all know they will never sail unless the German High Seas Fleet moves first. They are in a defensive role, solely. If we fear the High Seas Fleet, then we should build more submarines and place them to patrol off the Kiel Canal. The best thing we could do with the battleships is to disarm them, to send their guns to where they could be useful. Put them aboard railway trains behind the Trenches, there to provide the poor men in the lines with the artillery they need.”
“A radical proposal, Simon. I fear that the politicians could never accept it. They have spent tens of millions on building the battleship fleet – they cannot now say it is useless. It has to be the weapon that will win us the war, at least as far as the newspapers are concerned.”
They retired, wondering in just how many other houses in the country the same words were being said and ignored by the nation’s leaders.
Simon returned to the war refreshed, knowing that his next long leave would see him married. He rather thought he would welcome that. He was called to Commodore Tyrwhitt as soon as he appeared aboard the depot ship.
“Your Canning has risen in the world, as expected, Sturton. Gone in command of Lairgs, in one of the Queensferry flotillas. You have a solid man in his place, Strachan, come down from Scapa, senior in a light cruiser flotilla leader there. Knows the work in theory and a good seaman – you know what the weather is like up there, half a gale more often than not. Scots, but not uncouth with it. Malcolm is a commissioned engineer now and has responsibilities in the half-flotilla – they will report to him before going to the dockyard with their troubles. I expect him to stay with you for a year or so before being given another stripe and put into a light cruiser.”
“Glad to hear that, sir. Malcolm is one of the best.”
“So I have noticed from your personal reports on the man. Now, the yard has given you a better searchlight and has improved your wireless installation. You should be able to contact Harwich from the Dutch borders. As far as an aircraft gun is concerned, they have taken away your Maxim, which is a bit on the old-fashioned side, these days. They have replaced it with a sort of lashed-up experiment, to my mind. It is set up for high-angle use and can be fired as part of the broadside as well – a dual mounting. Thing is, Sturton, it’s French! A Hotchkiss cannon, a bit less than a two incher, they call it a thirty-seven. About a two pounder. The shells come in strips which the loader feeds in. They fire automatically once in. Eight at a time. If the loader could get them in fast enough, I should imagine you could fire thirty or forty rounds a minute.”
“That will demand a big ready-use locker, sir, and a magazine all of its own.”
“It will, too. Both have been provided, and extra men. Messing them will not be easy, I should imagine. Give your new First something to do! Pick up your rounds at Dunkerque, I would expect; they will come from French factories, which I do not like! Always a risk, relying on foreigners! You can expect somewhat lo
nger patrols this winter, Sturton, going out for three or four days at a time. Trying to keep more ships out as a policy. Anti-submarine work, keeping them down all day, every day and hoping to exhaust them. Might make mistakes if they’re tired.”
So would the destroyermen, Simon thought, making no comment.
“Depot ship may be busy, sir. We will lose men to sickness and accident. You know what our messdecks are like. Put youngsters into them for days unbroken, sleeping in wet bunks and hammocks, and they will likely become ill; the older men may fare no better. There will be a need for replacement hands, sir. It will be as well for the new bodies to be given an amount of training before they come aboard.”
“You think that should take place on the depot ship? Might make sense. Give me a few days with that one. I’ll put it to my staff, see if they can come up with anything. It has been proposed that you should have an extra sublieutenant to act as spare hand. Might be able to give your officers an extra few hours of sleep once or twice when you were out.”
Simon was not entirely convinced.
“No cabin space. They would have to hot bunk, like the submarines do. Not entirely popular, sir.”
“Four men to three bunks – you could not expect the First to surrender his cabin. They might not enjoy sharing the same blankets, I will admit… The horrors of war, Sturton! Do you want another officer?”
“A new sub with sea time on the boats as a midshipman? Could be immediately useful, sir. As an alternative, one of the wartime specials, a boy with yachting experience or from the trawlers, could learn the trade quickly and provide an immediate replacement for losses in the half-flotilla.”
Tyrwhitt was only partly in favour of the proposal.
“Got two or three of that sort hanging about the place, Sturton. Not sure what to do with them. I’m more inclined to put them aboard the minesweeping squadron. One of them has a North Country accent you could cut with a knife! Not what you want in a wardroom! Another speaks well, within reason, but is the son of a fellow on the coast here who owns half a dozen small drifters, coastal fishery. The boy left school very early and has been five years on his father’s boats, a skipper this last two years – on a boat with a man and two boys as the whole of the crew! The third is more likely, sounds the right sort, been crewing on his father’s yacht for years. Do you want to talk to them, before I set them aboard?”
Simon was lent the use of an office and the three were lined up, sent in one after the other.
Eccles had a strong Lancashire accent, was short and wiry, had been eight years on trawlers out of Fleetwood. He had been a foundling, he said, scrabbling for a living around the dock. He had come to the master’s attention when he had dived into the harbour to rescue his daughter’s puppy which had fallen in – he had had no choice, the little girl was crying so. He had progressed rapidly from boy to deckhand to mate and then skipper, almost in successive years. When the war had come, the master had arranged for him to become a midshipman on a reserve trawler. He had been made sublieutenant within six months and was now at a loose end.
Simon was impressed with the young man – he had no idea of his age, thought he might be rising twenty – and put a tick against his name.
“Destroyer duty for you, Mr Eccles. Pack your duffle and be ready for your movement order.”
“Thank’ee, sir. What ship?”
“Lightning, most likely. One of my half-flotilla certainly.”
Travis, in command of Lightning, was less concerned with social niceties than most, possibly because of his boxing prowess.
Paton-Rees came in next and left within five minutes. The boy was a languid and superior sort of chap, was sure he would like to go to sea, had terribly enjoyed his father’s yacht, had taken the wheel once or twice himself. He had spent his days as a midshipman ashore, assigned to the dockyard at Chatham where he had been very useful, busy all day with running for the Admiral. He had been made sublieutenant quickly in recognition of his talents, was now looking to get some time in at sea in order to be made up again.
“Scapa Flow might be best for you, Mr Paton-Rees. I am afraid there is no space for you in my half-flotilla.”
Mudgely came in, turning sideways to pass through the door. He was massive, well over six feet and disproportionately broad at the shoulder, barrel-chested and very little belly. Simon glanced at the brief notes he had been given, saw that he was eighteen, might well not have finished growing. He was light on his feet, not at all ponderous.
“Take a seat, Mr Mudgely.”
He noticed the man to settle slowly, ready for a chair to break underneath him.
“You have been skipper of a drifter this last three years, it says.”
“Yes, sir. One of my father’s boats. I could not settle to the classroom, sir and wanted to be doing. As soon as I could read and write, my father let me go out on the drifters. I volunteered in August of last year and was made a midshipman and given one of the hired craft in the harbour here, running between shore and the anchored boats. Last month I was told I was a sublieutenant and must go aboard a ship. I would like a destroyer, sir.”
“You have one, Mr Mudgely. Report aboard Lancelot at soonest. I will look for you to get your watchkeeper’s certificate as quickly as possible. You may have to learn some of the basics of navigation to do that.”
“I know a little already, sir. Sat down with the books when the winds blew too hard, sir, and I had to find something to do. Most of the lads would be sat in the shore boozers, sir, throwing away the money they worked so hard for. Always seemed daft to me. Add to that, when they got a skinful on board, some of them would always start fighting, for the fun of it. One or two would always want to take a swing at me, for being a big target. No point to that, sir. If I backed off, they would call me yellow. If I swung a punch and damned near killed one of them, they would whisper ‘bully’ behind my back. So, before too long, I kept clear of the drinking entirely and that meant I had to find something to do.”
“The tribulations of being very big, Mr Mudgely! It sounds as if it may have made you even more useful to me. Conditions will be rough at sea. You will have work to do and will be welcome aboard.”
Simon reported back to Tyrwhitt, told him he had accepted the giant and the Lancashire trawlerman.
“The third, sir, Paton-Rees, did not display the makings of a destroyerman. He might make a flag lieutenant, provided you can find an admiral who is not too demanding in his choice of flunkeys.”
“Pity! I hoped you would take him off my hands. Are you sure that big fellow will fit into your little wardroom?”
“I’ll lend them a shoehorn, sir.”
Simon ran up from the boat to board Lancelot, Packer at his heels As always he enjoyed the welcome of the pipes, the shrill whistles announcing his presence to all aboard.
A short, stocky, heavily bearded lieutenant saluted and introduced himself.
“Strachan, sir.”
He used the Scots pronunciation, ‘Strawn’, Simon noted. He had met an Ulsterman who pronounced both syllables, had wondered which sort his First would be.
“My pleasure, Mr Strachan. How long have you been aboard?”
“Brought her from the yard at Chatham, three days ago, sir.”
“Good. No dents as well!”
“Not one, sir!”
They exchanged grins, each deciding they would find it easy to work together.
“We have a spare hand coming aboard, Mr Strachan. The expectation is that we will be at sea on patrol for several days at a time over the winter. An extra body will be able to provide relief, allow for a bit more sleep occasionally. He has not got his certificate yet, for lack of opportunity. I think he may prove very capable. He is a little larger than average.”
“Beg pardon for contradicting you, sir. If that is him in the drifter coming over now, he’s bloody enormous!”
They observed the mass coming towards them.
“Better tell the wardroom steward to get some extr
a supplies in, Strachan.”
They watched Mudgely swarm up the ladder, salute the quarterdeck and announce his presence to the rating on duty at the accommodation port.
“Yes, sir. Captain has just come aboard, sir.”
Mudgely stepped forward.
“Reporting to join, sir.”
“Welcome aboard, Mudgely. Mr Strachan is First and will settle you in.”
He left the pair, walking briskly to his cabin, stopping to inspect the new gun in place of the Maxim. The Commissioned Gunner, Mr Rees, was there, exercising the three-man crew.
“’Morning, Mr Rees! Good leave?”
“Very, thank you, sir. Finally have my wife settled in our own house here in Harwich, sir. Managed to buy my own little place.”
“That’s good, Mr Rees. I became engaged to marry, myself. Probably have a wedding in our next long leave – which won’t be for some little time, I suspect!”
Rees offered his congratulations, staring in awe at Mudgely as he was led to the wardroom.
“New sub, Mr Rees. Show him round the guns, please. I think we will find him to be a good seaman – years on the drifters, so he is used to the North Sea. In the nature of things, he will know nothing of guns or torpedoes.”
“Huge, is he not, sir. Carries himself like a seaman, sir. Good school, the drifters. A man brought up on them should know his way about any small ship.”
“So I thought, Mr Rees. What do you think of the new gun?”
“Rapid fire, sir. Over a thousand yards, a useful weapon. Short range, but so is most of our work. I am not sure what it will do as an anti-aircraft weapon. Difficult to take an aim. A bit slow on its mounting. On balance, sir, considering that we have seen an aeroplane no more than twice since I have been aboard, it should be a useful gun. Better than the Maxim, for sure.”
“Good. What of ready-use?”
Rees pointed to a far larger locker, on the centreline behind the gun.
“Additional magazine space belowdecks, sir. Three gunners – layer, loader and third hand whose job is to keep the rounds coming into the loader’s hands. Explosive shells. Contact fused, for lack of time to set fuses in rapid fire.”
The Death of Hope Page 17