“Wireless cabin! Commodore, Harwich. Shadowing German squadron in Dutch waters – position whatever – course for Heligoland. At current speed, interception in night hours.”
Strachan ran down with a note of precise latitude and longitude, waited while the message was sent.
“Operator reports poor transmission quality, sir. There seems to be jamming of our frequencies, whatever they are. He cannot guarantee that Harwich will receive our message or that he will pick up any reply.”
“Log that, please, Mr Strachan.”
He had done his duty. It was almost as good as Nelson’s blind eye.
The attack on the four big ships must be by torpedo. The patrol craft were too small, must be taken by the guns, Naiad’s six inch being the most sensible.
Simon briefly discussed his plan and the signal he would send with Strachan. His second in command must know what was going on in case of a shell hitting the bridge.
“Captain Faulds and half-flotilla to be ready for torpedo attack on big ships. Naiad with Loring to pair of patrol boats ahead. Laker and Launceston to sink patrol boat astern and close with torpedoes at their discretion.”
Strachan agreed, suggested he should add the words ‘close-range’ to Captain Fauld’s orders.
“Oh! Do you feel that to be necessary? I had not noticed.”
It was difficult to ask in public whether Strachan thought the captain was shy.
“Inclined to be a thinking man, sir. One who might calculate the odds rather than go in hell for leather.”
“That will never do! Not in the boats, Mr Strachan.”
“Exactly, sir.”
“I really think we must grant him the opportunity to be a hero, you know. Instead of ‘close-range’ put ‘at night range of no more than three cables’.”
“That should do the job, sir. His whole bridge will read that signal.”
They picked up occasional messages through the late afternoon and evening. There was a battle, a hundred and more miles to their north. It was confused, visibility was poor, the High Seas Fleet had outmanoeuvred Jellicoe, turning away when he had looked to cross their T. All they could gather was of a long range action in which German gunnery was showing far better. There was a massive and confused destroyer action ongoing, torpedoes everywhere, almost none of them hitting. The submarine trap that had been feared had not eventuated. A third battlecruiser had been sunk, and two at least of armoured cruisers. There was remarkably little reported by way of German losses.
“As battles go, it’s all very tentative, it seems to me, sir.”
Strachan was trying to make sense of the clash.
“If the dreadnoughts of both sides had come together in a determined fashion, we would have heard of a dozen battleships sunk, at least. On both sides. Probably more German losses than British simply because we have the larger guns. The German ships have eleven and twelve inchers; we have twelve, thirteen point five, fourteen and fifteen inchers. Add to that, we outnumber them. The feeling I get, sir, is that Jellicoe is more concerned not to lose than he is to win.”
“He was never a destroyerman, Number One.”
That said it all.
They shadowed the German squadron while they came closer to international waters, observed them to be slowing.
“Making course for the Canal, sir. Intending to make the run by night. Waiting for dark.”
“I wonder what they were doing in the first instance?”
“Making a sweep southabout, sir, with the intention of mopping up damaged ships making their way home across the North Sea. Couldn’t do that once they had been spotted, so going home again. It’s a logical use for old ships, sir. They shouldn’t be present at the big battle but can do a useful job on the sidelines.”
“Well thought. I agree. Let’s see if we can put a stop to their antics. How soon until they leave Dutch waters?”
“Less than thirty minutes, sir. They must bear up to avoid the shallows and make a few miles west before turning to a direct course to Heligoland. Minefields all around the area which limit their possible track.”
“Make ready, Number One. Close watertight doors.”
A black night, haze thickening, impossible to see a cable off their bows.
“Assume no change in course, Number One. Continue at fourteen knots.”
It was a risk, inshore, close to minefields, in the presence of the enemy, blind.
Simon made a show of standing tall, unconcerned. He wondered what Alice was doing, wished he was at her side in the big bed at the Park in Kent – far warmer than the bridge at eleven in the evening. She had shown more responsive to his demands on the last few nights; far better there than here!
“Small ships, starboard bow. Coming towards. At speed.”
The lookouts yelled and the guns responded instantly, under orders to open fire at first sight of an enemy.
They watched for the torpedoes that must be coming, could see nothing.
“Starboard ten!”
Naiad turned hard, came bows to bows with the oncoming vessels.
A shellburst lit up the night, showed a pair of destroyers, patrol boats, the Germans called them, coming in fast, one falling off line, the six inch shell ripping into its bows.
“Port ten. Zigzag.”
Naiad began to swing hard port and starboard of the line. The guns tried to compensate.
A second hit and then the Hotchkiss and the four inch opening fire, able now to see the target.
“Action on the bow, sir. Distant two miles, perhaps.”
A five inch shell burst alongside, splinters whipping the length of the decks. One of the four inch guns fell silent.
“Action astern of the big ships, sir.”
There was heavy shellfire coming from four sources, four inchers returning from four very fast moving destroyers. Astern, Laker and Launceston had found the third boat, were engaging hard.
“No torpedo hits, sir.”
Fauld’s four boats disappeared and the four big ships ceased fire. One of Naiad’s targets turned turtle as they watched, the second limped off into the darkness. Firing stopped astern, where the pair had dealt with their target.
“Wireless, Faulds to close Naiad.”
“We are close to the minefields, sir. Turn to course two six five degrees, recommended, sir.”
“Make it so, Number One. Yeoman, light signal all to follow Naiad’s course.”
Simon left the precise wording to the Yeoman, knowing that it might take ten minutes to contact the nearer three boats, in which time the course would change.
Dawn produced a signal from Harwich to sweep across the North Sea to Newcastle, seeking damaged ships making their way home.
Faulds reported that he had made his torpedo attack at close range. Unfortunately, all torpedoes had missed, the night being black and sighting almost impossible. Simon made his acknowledgement – he could not argue.
The High Seas Fleet disappeared into the night, returning to harbour, to make only one tentative reappearance at sea in the rest of the war.
The Grand Fleet returned to Scapa and Queensferry, much shaken. Dockers at Queensferry booed the battlecruisers as they came in, obviously defeated.
“No victory for either side, sir.”
Simon stood in Tyrwhitt’s office, looking at the signals and newspaper headlines, trying to make sense of the battle.
“Lost three battlecruisers and three out of four of the First Cruiser Division. Light cruisers and destroyers besides. Looks as if the destroyers more than held their own – fighting half the day and all night and put down some light cruisers and destroyers, might have torpedoed a battlecruiser.”
“Must have been a hundred torpedoes fired, sir. Not much of a result for that expenditure.”
“No. First reports say that the Germans fired thirty-one torpedoes at the Grand Fleet. Missed with every one.”
“Worth trying to work out why, sir. What range did they fire at?”
“Three
thousand yards, it looks like, Sturton.”
“Two cables makes better sense, sir. Firing at four hundred yards from a destroyer making thirty knots gives the battleship almost no time to take evasive action.”
“True, but…”
“Cannot be done in daylight, sir. The mass of six and four inch guns will sink any destroyer that comes within half a mile. Lucky to get closer than a full mile, in fact. And that is leaving out the enemy destroyers acting in defence. Torpedo attacks cannot be performed by fleet destroyers, not with any hope of success.”
The Admiralty came to the same conclusion. Construction of fleet submarines was accelerated, massive steam powered boats that could accompany the Grand Fleet to battle, submerging at the last minute and taking the attack to the opposition.
Simon returned to the Belgian coast, finding activity much reduced for weeks after the battle – destroyer actions were at a halt and submarines were taking to the Atlantic rather than attempting to enter the Channel.
Orders arrived, the flotilla to leave the North Sea and base itself at Londonderry in the north of Ireland.
“Submarine chasing, Sturton. Trying to protect the merchant marine. The Kaiser has given up on his surface navy and is building submarines by the score. The aim is to totally blockade our coast and prevent the food ships from coming in from Canada and the States. It won’t work because they will have to sink neutrals as well as our ships if they are to be effective. If they take into American ships, they will bring the States into the war. That will save our necks, I suspect!”
“Is it that bad at the Front, sir?”
“Bloody disaster, Sturton!”
Richard took his three battalions across to France towards the end of May, part of Braithwaite’s division of the New Army. He had managed a week of leave in Norfolk prior to embarkation, had relaxed in Primrose’s company, escaping from London and its gaiety, almost unchanged from the days of peace.
“Must have the Season, my love! Where we would be without it? A little more short of young men even than normal, however.”
“The absence of men is compensated for by the presence of staff officers, Prim. Hundreds of them in their beautiful uniforms and all decorated so heavily! Have you heard that the War Office has had to forbid the issue of ribbons to those who have not seen frontline service?”
She had not, was inclined to be disgusted that there had been a need for such an order.
“Yes, they have to content themselves with foreign medals now. The Belgians and Portuguese and Russians are in the habit of sending a hundred or so of gongs at a time for distribution to the worthy. None of them get further than Army or Corps Headquarters! I presume they have a raffle each time they arrive. I believe the Italians and the Greeks are being tapped up for a supply as well. Can’t have a good war without the ribbons to show for it!”
She snorted her disgust, took the opportunity to raise a question she had been keeping for a proper moment. Sat in a first class compartment of a slowly moving train on the Norfolk coast gave her ample time.
“That does bring the question, husband, of your own breast. There does seem to have been an addition or two to the display…”
He had to admit that was so.
“Give a dog a good name, Prim… You know how it is, once they give one a medal, they find the need to offer more, to fill up the vacant space, one might say.”
“One might say ‘balls’, Richard! What were you doing to collect a bar to the DSO? And that looks like a French decoration as well.”
“Belgian, actually, as the last action took place on Belgian soil, not keeping rigorously to the borders these days. They seemed to think the battalion did better than many in the last battle.”
“With you at its head, no doubt!”
“No other place I could be, Prim. It will be different as a brigadier. Must be. No choice. I have to stay to the rear where I can see what is happening and give the orders.”
She was slightly mollified.
“There is the matter of no fewer than three Mentions as well, recorded in the Gazette, Richard.”
“Ah, yes… Well, I did happen to be up at the front when we indulged in a little trench raiding.”
“That is an activity for subalterns, sir!”
“Well, yes, to an extent, one might say, it is. It seemed sensible to discover what the new conditions were like, in fact. The only way of finding out is to get out there and do it. Add to that, Prim…”
He hesitated, trying to find the words.
She remained silent, waiting for him.
“I am in a trap, my love. I have no choice. I made myself into a hero – and I didn’t mean to – and I have to play the part now. I am the great Brigadier Baker, to private soldiers and generals alike, and I must do all that is necessary to keep up the show. I have no alternative, Prim! They look up to me, in their thousands, and I must not disappoint them. Even my father – as hardboiled a man as you could find, normally – offers me overt, and real, respect. You have seen it in London, have you not?”
She had, only too often having to step in to prevent some hero-worshipping debutante from falling at his feet, or into his bed as more than one had made clear was possible. She thought he might not have noticed the females, knowing him to be utterly faithful to her.
“Spotty youths cheering when they see you in the street, Richard. An embarrassment indeed! Impossible to enter a theatre unnoticed or leave often without applause from the stage!”
“Exactly! I am the cynosure of all eyes – I have that right, do I not?”
He was always aware that she was far better read than him.
“You have, Richard. At least, it will not be so bad at Wells.”
She was wrong. He was recognised at the station and was cheered into the car waiting for them. The staff were lined up outside the house to welcome the master and mistress, as was not unusual; they made a far greater fuss over him than her, which was.
A few days of idleness, happy in each other’s company and then their minds turned to the war, invisible almost in their backwater.
“How long will you be away, Richard?”
“Months, of a certainty. I will be surprised to see leave this year. I may be called back to London to meetings on occasion. If you are in Town, we may get a night together.”
She would not leave London if that was the case.
“No. You must live your life as well, my love. If you happen to be in residence here, well, that will be bad luck, that’s all. You cannot spend all of your days sat by the telephone hoping I shall appear.”
“There are things I want to do here, I will admit, Richard. I will spend half of my time here at Wells, making our house.”
“For the rest? If the coming battle returns us to a war of movement, which we must hope will be so, then all may be finished by the middle of ’17. If the battle fails…”
His voice tailed off. He sat silent.
“If it fails, Richard?”
“Then we both may be grey-haired before it ends. It should not come to disaster. We have the finest, best-trained army this nation has ever known. The men are young lions.”
“And the generals?”
“Old donkeys.”
The Death of Hope Page 28