“Should do some damage to a small ship’s upperworks in close action. The gunlayer will have to use his discretion, especially in night action.”
“Yes, sir. Experienced hand, sir. Norton. Twenty year man, sir.”
Norton came to the salute, showed himself to be older than most aboard, well into his thirties, still seeming fit and competent.
“South Africa, Norton?”
“HMS Terrible, sir. Was one of her gun party ashore, sir. Better part of a twelvemonth, that was, chasing about with a six inch pulled by three dozen of oxen, sir. Didn’t know whether I were a gunner or a farmer, half the time, sir. China Station since, sir, and a few years on the East African coast on Challenger, sir. Scapa on Royal Sovereign, sir, last ship. Had the chance to come to the destroyers, sir. Took it for being better than polishing the brass at Scapa.”
“You can expect to be busy here, Norton. The gun is new – see what can be done with it.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Simon wondered if Norton might be too much set in the ways of the big ships, needing orders rather than thinking for himself as was demanded on the destroyers. It might be necessary to shift him across to one of the four inchers instead. Give him a chance and then speak with Rees – he would not condemn the man without giving him the opportunity to show what he could do.
They waited for orders, exercising the hands, fitting in the new bodies who had replaced men gone away on promotion or taking courses.
Dunkerque again, reaching the port as a storm blew in, sheltering for a day and then out into its tail end.
“Out to the Dutch border, showing ourselves along the coast in daylight. Then it’s off to the Broad Fourteens and pick up the neutral convoy route from Orford Ness to Amsterdam. Show our faces there and work our way to Dutch waters and then back to the Belgian coast again. Repeat and go home. Make revolutions for twelve knots, reducing expenditure of oil. Four knots in the hours of darkness.”
Simon hesitated for a second or two, glancing around the captains and first lieutenants squeezed into his cabin.
“We must keep a good lookout at all times. At night especially, they must use their ears. Try to pick up the sound of submarines charging their batteries, which I understand they must do for hours every night. If you pick up a sub, fire star shell and all ships will respond. Please, do not ram submarines. They have pressure hulls which are a damned sight more robust than ours. You may sink a sub. You will certainly put your own boat in the yard for six months. We are to be provided with depth bombs, one day. Until then, gunfire to drive them under and patrol to keep them down until they have the choice of suffocate or come up and fight on the surface.”
“Are we likely to get these hydrophone things, sir?”
“When they have made them more useful, yes. Campbell-Barnes. At the moment, they have to be hung over the side of a ship making no more than steerage way. The ideal is at a dead stop, I am told. Setting myself up as a target for a torpedo is not my idea of fun.”
The others agreed. It was not a good habit to get into.
“What is our policy for storm, sir?”
“As long as we can man the guns, we stay out. If we cannot keep men on deck, we can be of no use and must make our way back. Keep a sharp lookout for floating mines. Gales will snap mooring wires, I am told. The location of minefields, by the way, is one of our functions. The Admiralty is not entirely certain that it has located all fields accurately.”
They were not entirely happy to hear that. Working inshore, they were always in proximity to minefields. The suggestion that they might just be a mile or two distant from where they were shown on the charts was not popular.
“I thought we had good knowledge of the location of the German fields, sir.”
“We have, Captain Williams! It is our own they are worried about, having decided they do not entirely trust the navigation of the reservist officers aboard the minelayers.”
“That’s a bit rich, sir!”
“It is, isn’t it. The Admiralty never really approved of mines, it would seem, and did not pay too much attention to them last year when they were being laid.”
“And the right hand ended up not knowing what the left hand was doing, again, sir.”
“As you say, gentlemen. Again. Now then, how were you equipped in the yard? Lancelot has a thirty-seven mil Hotchkiss, as you may have noticed. I have not inspected you, for lack of time, but you all seem to have something different.”
Lightning had been given a short-barrelled six pounder quickfirer with no capacity for aircraft. Lynx had a two pounder pompom with high angle capability. Lucifer was proud possessor of a three incher, high angle only.
“Twelve pound shells, sir, and the fuse to be set by the loader, which much reduces the rate of fire, I suspect. Firing blanks in practice we have been lucky to get off two rounds a minute. The layer has a telescope which enables him to estimate height – my Gunner says it’s very clever. He shouts the setting, the loader puts it on and they can fire, estimating the laying off for speed of the aeroplane. The Gunner says it might work for a plane at height – five thousand feet or so.”
“The only aeroplanes I have seen were lower than that, Captain Campbell-Barnes. Far lower.”
“I know, sir. I am not entirely certain it is an excellent gun. Add to that, it is difficult to allow for pitch and roll, which can be extreme on a small ship, as you know, sir.”
“Make me a report, please. I will submit it as a matter of urgency. The Admiralty will be unwilling to take you back into the yard to replace a gun you have only just had fitted. A failed experiment will be the best approach. Has your Gunner been able to lay his hands on anything useful?”
“Probably, sir. I take pains not to enquire too closely.”
“Me too. My own man has been able to pick some useful stuff.”
“Hence the seaplane that was shot down, sir. By fire coming from your waist, not from the bridge Lewis Guns!”
“Lewises are all very well, but they are short range weapons. My man was able to pick up something with a higher muzzle velocity. I asked for an issue, but they are being kept back for use in some sort of new armoured car that is being made. A special job, very secret.”
“Ah! That will be the ‘tanks’, sir. My father heard of the project – it’s using up almost all of the armour plate being manufactured in the country just now. Damned nuisance! Some sort of landship, so he was told. Don’t make a lot of sense to me. Might be the thing to bash through the trenches. Something needs to be!”
More than that, they did not know. There was a new weapon coming, of some sort.
The storm let up for a day, long enough for them to be well out to sea and was followed by another, heavier gale, out of the southwest and determined to drive the small ships ashore on the Dutch coast.
Simon signalled for the half-flotilla to make for Harwich, independently. He did not like the thought of trying to enter the open harbour at Dunkerque with a gale beating in from astern. He stood on the bridge, Mudgely and McCracken next to him, while the coxswain remained at the wheel, keeping Lancelot head on to the storm for hour after hour. The bows were submerged more often than not, white water beating against the bridge. The ship rolled incessantly. Every man aboard tied himself to a stanchion, where his work permitted, or gripped hard on the nearest solid rail while working with the other hand. Engineer Lieutenant Malcolm stayed on watch, thankful that Lancelot was oil not coal, adjusting revolutions every minute as the orders were called, trying to maintain a little more than steerage way, to crawl towards Harwich and waiting all the while for a rogue pitch that might heave the propellers out of the water to race in thin air, possibly to break from their shafts. A stoker knelt by each propeller clutch, doing nothing other than wait for the order to disengage the shaft, almost motionless, hour after hour, bumped and battered as the ship rolled, knowing that he must be able to act in the second the order was shouted to him.
There was three feet of water in
the messdecks, waves travelling end to end with the pitch. The men below sat up on bunks and tables above the water, as much as they could be. There was nowhere else for them to go on the small ship. Inevitably, some swallowed splashes of salt water, others became seasick. A very few hours saw a flotsam of vomit on top of the flood. A few more hours and they discovered that the heads were unavailable – they could hardly reach them and were unable to flush them over the side. More solids accrued in the water.
The compartment stank.
Fourteen hours and Lancelot reached calmer seas, closer inshore, was able to increase speed. Six hours more and she fought her way to a buoy at Harwich, using the wireless to announce her presence. The seas were too rough to put off a boat and she waited in isolation for another full day.
“Clean ship, Number One.”
Strachan, who had spent the storm in the wardroom with Waller, unable to reach the bridge, saluted and acknowledged the order. The three from the bridge sat down wearily, took a hot drink, sought a bunk.
Lightning, Lynx and Lucifer steamed in over the day, all more or less storm damaged. All three had lost their mast and the radio aerial attached.
Simon surfaced after six hours of sleep – he was still tired but was incapable of sleeping more than a few hours at a stretch, watchkeeping habits totally ingrained.
He found the coxswain on deck, supervising the clean up and watching hands painting on the forward deck.
“Down to bare metal at the bows, sir. Like sandpaper, the waves were.”
“Have you cleaned out the forecastle?”
Simon had not been to the messdecks, knew what he would see there.
“Scuttles open, sir. Hosed out the lot. Never get the bunks and hammocks dry, sir. Lost some blankets overboard, sir. Put in a requisition to Stores, sir.”
Stores would refuse the order on the grounds that Lancelot had had a full issue less than two years previously. To get anything, he would have to go to Tyrwhitt.
“Commodore’s barge, sir.”
The coxswain organised the reception and sent word to the wardroom. All officers were on deck, fully dressed, before Tyrwhitt came alongside.
“Carry on, Sturton. Must be busy. Bad storm!”
“Severe gale, sir, and found us closer than I liked to the Dutch coast. Managed to claw off without entering their waters.”
“That’s the important thing, Sturton! How does it come about that you alone retained your mast?”
Simon pointed.
“Extra preventer stays, sir. Mr Mainwaring shipped them in readiness for the winter storms.”
“Well done, that man!”
“I haven’t had a full set of reports yet, sir. Lucifer lost one man, a gunlayer who was swept overboard trying to secure the ready use to their new three inch. The gun itself seems to have taken damage, or the bandstand it’s set upon has. Bloody stupid thing to set aboard a destroyer, sir. Impossible to aim off a rolling, pitching platform and how often is a destroyer stable?”
“Good question, Sturton. Three ships to the yard. Lynx and Lightning can go in to mine; Lucifer must return to Chatham. How do you stand?”
“Lost blankets overboard, sir, and a number of hammocks used to protect the forward four inch, sir. Most of them will never be usable again.”
“Put in your requisitions, I will speak to Stores.”
It was clear from Tyrwhitt’s tone that he did not believe Simon. He would support his own man, however.
“Five days, Sturton. I need you back out on station. What’s your opinion?”
“Light cruisers, sir. The new ships are as fast, almost, as a destroyer and better seaboats. Bigger targets for a torpedo, I will accept. Far better suited to North Sea waters in winter.”
“I agree. Haven’t got them, can’t do it.”
“Trawlers, perhaps, sir? A flotilla of six to support each other. Designed for rough weather. Slow. Should be able to catch a submarine.”
“They would be ripped to pieces by the big new German destroyers. Those things are damned near the size of a light cruiser!”
“Accepted, sir. Small ships can’t work out of the harbour at Dunkerque, sir. Whatever you decide to use, they will have to be based on Harwich. I must imagine the Dover Patrol had difficulties these last few days.”
“Shocking bad harbour to work from with a gale up-Channel. Word is that they were scattered over half of the southern North Sea. Harwich has its advantages!”
One of those advantages was that Ipswich was less than an hour distant. Simon was able to achieve a day away from the ship.
Chapter Ten
The battle of Loos petered out, drifting into desultory exchanges of machine gun fire and brief artillery hates, killing a few men occasionally, achieving nothing.
The war was far hotter to the rear where the generals and the staff and London sought to pass the blame to each other.
General French blamed all of his juniors in turn – they had misunderstood his orders, probably intentionally, had placed the reserves far behind the point he had demanded, had failed to unleash the cavalry, had permitted too short a bombardment. The lieutenant generals in command of the corps that had failed to break through blamed French for launching an ill-prepared, poorly planned battle; simultaneously, they berated the major generals in charge of their divisions for failing to push forward hard enough. The major generals unanimously claimed that the fault lay with the staff who had not planned the battle properly; they then blamed their brigadiers for not fighting the battle correctly on the ground. The brigadiers had no doubt the staff had let them down but gave their colonels a rocket for not making the advances laid down for their battalions.
The colonels had nobody to blame and suffered in official silence. All who had influence wrote Home to complain.
Richard informed Primrose of all that had befallen the battalion, including the casualties, more than a tenth of his men lost to him, dead or too much wounded ever to return to the front. He mentioned that he had now lost six second lieutenants, two lieutenants and one captain, the junior six all dead having marched into the machine guns in the initial assault and tidying up later. He continued in indignation.
‘Wincanton, you will be pleased to hear, was unharmed, having led his men from the front, as was proper, and been first of his company into the German front line. I am informed that he was waving a heavy walking stick and shouting ‘tally-ho, you chaps’ as he jumped into the trench. The stick was bloodstained when I saw him later in the morning. I have been forced to put his name forward for a decoration! I have also no choice other than to make him lieutenant – Brigade has confirmed him in the rank this day.’
He blamed the failure of the battle on the lack of artillery support, due to the shortage of shells. He knew that Primrose’s father, Lord Elkthorn, had some minor role in the Ministry and would make his words heard in government.
General French was less subtle. He informed his pet newspaper correspondents of his complaints, let them publish that all was not entirely well with the artillery while informing their editors and owners of the reality of a massive shortage of ammunition of all calibres. His words were quoted in Parliament, embarrassing Mr Asquith, the Prime Minister, who did not like to be offered blame, much preferring a quieter, gentlemanly existence. He was heard to complain that the damned people seemed to expect him to be responsible for the war.
Lloyd George, Minister of Munitions for some six months, was outraged. He had done much to increase the output of explosives in Britain and had been responsible for buying in massive quantities from America and other neutrals. He had said, repeatedly, that by the spring of ’16, there would be a sufficiency to hand but that no major battles should be launched before then – stocks would not be high enough. French had indulged in the offensive at Loos against Lloyd George’s wishes; now he was blaming the Welsh Wizard for his failure.
French’s fate was sealed. No man stabbed Lloyd George in the back twice. Only the bravest or most unaware att
empted it once.
That having been decided, the problem was to find a general who was any better. The press demanded Haig, courtesy primarily of the amount of money his plutocratic family pushed in their direction. The House of Commons strongly supported Haig, for much the same reason. A few voices pointed out that he was no more competent than French and had shown the least little bit shy at Le Cateau; they were ignored. Asquith did not like Haig, primarily because Haig ignored him; he was too weak to form a coalition against Haig and in any case knew of no better alternative.
The names of a few other generals who had shown competent were brought forward, publicly mentioned as better than Haig; they became marked men.
Allenby especially was offered as an intelligent, able, go-ahead younger man; he was posted immediately to the Middle East, the War Office preferring a nonentity in France. The War Office as well had discovered that Haig had any number of friends who, between them, knew where every body had been buried and were happily prepared to raise old scandals in pursuit of their aim of advancing their man.
Primrose wrote scathingly, increasingly contemptuous of the leadership of the country who were jeopardising the war and, far more importantly, placing her fiancé’s life in additional danger.
‘The Press is distinguished solely by its dishonesty now. Previously it might have been said that they buried some of the truth in the national interest. Now they publish outright lies in pursuit of their own political aims. It was used to be the case that the Arts provided a haven for those opposed to the national consensus – one could look to the playwrights and authors to offer the cool, clear voice of sanity and dissent. Now, the musicals, the plays, the revues, all present nothing other than the crudest, most simplistic jingoistic form of government propaganda. No book can be published that is critical of the official view, with the exception of some poetry – there are a very few poets who have more to offer than Rupert Brooke’s sickeningly sycophantic doggerel.’
The Death of Hope Page 18