Swinging over…
‘Ease to five!’
‘Ease to five, sir… Five o’ starboard helm on, sir!’
The two ships ahead opened fire. Smoke burgeoned out of them to starboard, then the sharp percussions cracked astern with the stink of cordite. David put his glasses to his eyes ‒ German cruisers. He saw three, and one other which seemed to be stopped. Everything was greyish, wrapped-up in mist. It came clear for a moment, then hazed-up again. He found himself wishing that the visibility would hold up, give Jellicoe time to get to grips with Scheer. He heard a fire-gong ring, and before the clang had lost its echo Bantry’s nine-inch guns flung out their first salvo.
‘Midships!’
‘Midships, sir—’
‘Meet her, and follow the next-ahead!’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
It was the nearest of the enemy ships that was lying stopped. She must have been damaged ‒ by a destroyer’s torpedo, perhaps – but her ensign was still flying. Another salvo roared away: the splashes from Defence’s and Warrior’s salvoes went up a long way short. Defence was hauling round to starboard; one could guess that Arbuthnot had decided to close the range and try again. She was steaming directly towards the still motionless German cruiser; Warrior was following her, and in Bantry’s bridge Wilmott was once again lowering himself into that undignified knees-bend position.
Light cruisers of Beatty’s screen were on the quarter and astern, and closing rapidly at high speed. On the beam the battle fleet was extending north-eastward as Jellicoe made his deployment. The Second Cruiser Squadron ‒ Minotaur, Shannon and company ‒ was in sight in that direction too. Wherever one looked there were ships and smoke, and the smoke was mingling with the mist to create banks of impenetrable fog.
‘Port fifteen!’
Wilmott turned his cruiser’s bow into the swirl of Warrior’s wake. With the change of course, David saw that the light cruisers would now pass astern. In every direction there were ships racing at high speed, crossing each other’s bows, swinging under each other’s sterns, destroyers passing through cruiser squadrons and cruisers combing down between the lines of the deploying battle fleet. There was purpose in it all, and it was a display of high-speed ship-handling such as had never been seen before, but it looked like a free-for-all, a mass of ships in the hands of madmen, while shell-spouts leapt in clumps here and there between them and funnel-smoke hung and drifted everywhere.
Astern of the other two, Wilmott was turning Bantry to starboard in order to open fire again. But David was counting ships and there seemed to be only four battle cruisers in Beatty’s force, instead of six. He decided he must be mistaken, two of them might be with that group astern? It was difficult to count them. The four battle cruisers were making an enormous amount of smoke, and it was all piling astern in that direction, and the ships were ‒ from this angle ‒ overlapping. His eyes ached, the glasses kept getting steamed-up from his rising breath and he couldn’t hold the damn things steady.
‘Midships!’
‘Midships, sir… Wheel’s amidships—’
Bantry’s guns fired; the four nine-inch, and this time the broadside of seven-point-fives joined in too. David lowered his glasses as the dirty-brown cordite fumes flew back in the wind. Defence and Warrior were firing steadily, synchronis-ing their salvoes: as a newcomer to the squadron, Bantry was the outsider. Looking over at the German cruiser, which was now about forty degrees on the bow and still stopped, he saw shells hitting all down her length. The shots were landing rather like match-heads hitting and striking on emery-paper, one after another and in twos and threes as Bantry too found the range and began to strike home. New white smoke ‒ no. steam, they’d hit her in a boiler-room ‒ gushed skyward. He took his eyes off her, looked back to see a squadron of light cruisers racing past astern. Those were part of Beatty’s screen, and within seconds, he realised, this squadron, Bantry and the other two, would have crossed the battle cruisers’ bows, which meant ‒ the position suddenly clarified in his mind ‒ they’d be out in no-man’s-land, between the battle cruisers and the German fleet!
Did Wilmott realise it? David turned back to look at him. He was standing with his eyes on that German cruiser; his fingers were caressing that beard of his, and there was something admiring in his expression, David thought. The main armament weren’t firing now; it had evidently been decided to finish the Hun off with the seven-fives, but it was amazing that she hadn’t already sunk.
Did Wilmott understand the position they’d put themselves in? Destroyers flashed past astern, and just abaft the beam now came Beatty’s battle cruisers, bow-waves high and creamy under bleak steel bows, jutting guns flaming intermittently to starboard, black funnel-smoke pluming up and rolling astern like coils of tight black wool. Lion, their leader, with Beatty’s flag and half a dozen ensigns whipping in the wind had smoke belching from an enormous hole in her for’ard superstructure ‒ but she looked magnificent: proud, angry, indestructible. David was staring at her when he heard a tearing, howling noise and shell-spouts shot up just short of Warrior’s quarterdeck, and half a second later another salvo crashed into the water sixty yards over, abreast Bantry’s second funnel. A navyphone buzzed; Commander Clark had snatched it up, but his voice sounded calm, less brusque than it did normally.
‘Bridge here, West. What is it?’
Listening, his expression was bland, unworried as he glanced at Wilmott. A salvo fell short and foul water fell solidly across the for’ard nine-inch turret. They’d bracketed her now; David thought, This isn’t happening ‒ is it? He realised suddenly, for the first time ever, what his most compelling fear was. It wasn’t just the thought of being killed, but of being killed and Nick left alive to inherit Mullbergh, the title, everything, with Uncle Hugh there as an honoured guest ‒ and he and Sarah ‒ No! David told himself, It couldn’t happen. It simply could not happen… Himself, David, gone, and never mentioned, while they all—
‘Enemy battle cruisers on the bow and stern, sir.’ Clark was reporting to Wilmott what West had just told him. ‘He says he only gets glimpses of them, but their course seems to be north-east.’ The Commander pointed, ‘You can see their gun-flashes now, sir.’ Nobby Clark’s tone had never been so mild.
More shells ripped over. A salvo raised the sea just short of Warrior’s stern: the gap between her stern and Bantry’s stem was two cables, four hundred yards. All guns were firing now. Defence had been hit: there was a spurt of bright orange flame and a puff-ball of black, oily smoke. She’d swung away to starboard, but Warrior seemed to be holding her course so Wilmott, who’d started his curtsey to the voicepipe, straightened again. Wilmott’s clownish movements had ceased to be amusing. Minutes ago, David recollected, everything had been calm and easy, they’d been coming up to take some pot shots at a disabled cruiser and there’d seemed to be no danger in it at all. Now in some extraordinary way they’d found themselves acting as targets for German battle cruisers. The heavens had opened, and the stuff mining out of them was explosive, steel, destruction, death. The sea was a forest of shell-spouts, and the stinking splashes of near-misses carried with them steel splinters, shell-fragments which screamed whirring across the decks, tore holes in funnels, cut halyards, brought rigging and wireless gear crashing down. A shell hit aft, and then two in quick succession for’ard. Warrior was all smoke and Defence was ploughing out to starboard, burning, smoke pouring from shell-holes below her bridge.
The navyphone called again. The commander had left the bridge, to take charge of damage-control below decks after those three hits. Had there been three ‒ or more? David wasn’t sure. Porter was answering that ’phone; he’d glanced enquiringly at David, and David hadn’t moved; he was close to Wilmott, a couple of feet from the binnacle, and he hadn’t felt like moving. So the midshipman had nipped over and taken the navyphone off its hook. Warrior had turned away about two points to starboard, and Wilmott was conning Bantry round astern of her. Midshipman Porter reported, ‘Contro
l top says we’re being fired at by enemy battleships bearing due south, sir.’
‘Thank you, Snotty.’ glanced sideways at David. ‘Can’t say I’d noticed the difference. Had you?’ He bobbed down ‘Meet her.’
‘Meet her, sir!’
‘Steady!’ He’d looked up, pointing, ‘Oh no…’ A second ago he’d been smiling; now it was shock that David glimpsed before he looked where he was pointing, staring… Defence was reeling from a full salvo which had burst on her. Smoke was everywhere: her fore top swayed, and crashed down into the sea. A second salvo hit at that moment as they watched: she seemed to check, like a shot animal before it drops, and then she blew up. A sheet of flame ran horizontally along her length, and then opened, swelling upwards into smoke as the ship disintegrated into blackness. Wilmott, knees bent, called down ‘Port twenty!’ Warrior had sheered away to port ‒ towards the enemy battle fleet. She was still being hit and shells were plastering the sea all round her and it wouldn’t have done her the slightest good if Bantry had gone that way and shared what she was getting. Wilmott was taking his ship to starboard. .‘Midships!’
‘Midships, sir!’
She’d be heading roughly north now: David wasn’t close enough to the binnacle to see. At least it was a course away from the High Seas Fleet… Porter came to Wilmott from a voicepipe he’d been answering: Commander says there are heavy casualties between decks, sir, and several fires which he hopes he’ll shortly have under control.’
‘Thank you, Snotty… Steady!’
‘Steady, sir! Course north by west, sir!’
‘Steer that, quartermaster.’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
Wilmott straightened, and looked round. Warrior was some way off on the port beam, and she seemed to be on fire: but there were no shell-splashes there now, and it looked as if she was coming round to starboard, perhaps to follow Bantry. David heard Wilmott mutter to himself as he turned to watch the Fifth Battle Squadron coming up from the south-west. ‘Find the other pair…’ David guessed he was expressing an intention of joining Duke of Edinburgh and Black Prince, who’d sheered off somewhere on their own. Beyond the Queen Elizabeths, who were still heavily engaged, David saw destroyers, a pack of them tearing along on the disengaged side. Ahead, where that squadron was going, the air was like soup, layers of haze drifting and mingling with banks of funnel-smoke from the dozens of ships which in the last twenty minutes of skilfully-managed chaos had dashed across this acreage of sea. The water still bore the tracks they’d made: it seethed where wakes met and clashed, swirled in whirlpools where ships, squadrons and flotillas had turned or ploughed through each other’s washes… But in fact. David saw as the picture changed even while he was watching it, in the space of just a few minutes, the haze was splitting up. It was dividing, like curtains opening on a stage; and suddenly its drab, milky greyness was punctured by red stabs of gunfire, massed gunfire, where a minute ago one would have sworn there’d been nothing but a North Sea fog.
Wilmott announced, ‘Jellicoe’s at ’em at last. Now we’ll see a thing or two.’
Still in the process of deployment, the Grand Fleet’s battleships had opened fire. You could see the ships behind the gun-flashes, now; this was the Sixth Division, the end of the line, opening fire as it swung in to form the tail. Wilmott raised a hand, pointing at the clouds, his eyebrows rose too, and his beard cocked. David listened to the hoarse rush of shells hurtling overhead. The main action, the trial of strength which would decide which fleet won or lost the battle, was just about beginning.
‘Starboard ten!’
They were getting Bantry out of it, turning to pass up ahead of the Queen Elizabeths who, with their fifteen-inch guns still firing steadily, were swinging away to port ‒ a ‘blue’ turn that would get them into position to form astern, presently, of Jellicoe’s long battle line.
But one of the QE squadron ‒ the third in the line – had gone on turning, on her own. Instead of steadying on the squadron’s new course she was circling on, all by herself and getting closer at every second to the German battleships, whose shells were already straddling her.
The third in line: that would be ‒ Warspite? Wilmott had seen it too; he had his glasses up, watching her as she swung into the enemy’s welcoming arms. The German gunnery officers were grabbing their chance of an easy target: alone, close, and out of control. It was a reasonable supposition that her steering-gear had jammed: and anyone’s bet whether her engineers would clear it before the Germans finished her.
Wilmott had shouted something at David, he was pointing. He shouted again as David turned to look at him; he got one word ‘‒ Nile!’
But Nile, Hugh Everard’s ship, was the last in that QE line, not the third. This one in the trap was Warspite: if Wilmott thought it was Nile, he was wrong. David turned his glasses, just to make sure, on to his uncle’s ship.
Nile had put her helm over. She was steering out to join ‒ or cover ‒ Warspite. All her guns were blazing; she was a fantastic, splendid sight. All Warspite’s guns were firing too, in spite of the smothering she was getting, in which Nile any minute now would be sharing. David’s glasses were jammed against his eyes, and his teeth were clenched. He was watching something marvellous, stupendous, and he felt he was part of it and yet wasn’t; it was an extraordinary feeling. The sea all round Nile was spouting with shell-bursts and splashes, columns of water and black blossomings of smoke: at times you could only see the scarlet flashes of Nile’s guns, not the ship herself at all. She’d drawn two-thirds of the enemy’s hate from Warspite, and she still had a long way to go: she was getting everything they had to offer now, she’d snatched a victim from their claws and they were making her pay for it with her own blood. David stood spellbound, fascinated; he heard Porter answer a navyphone and then tell Wilmott. ‘Commander reports fires not yet under control, sir, and Lieutenant-Commander Harrington’s among those killed.‘ David thought Harri dead? That meant Johnny West was third in command now. Wilmott had taken no notice of what Porter had told him: he’d just shouted down to Bantry’s quartermaster, ‘Starboard twenty!’
It was confusing. Another turn to port made no sense. Wilmott was crouched over the voicepipe in that silly squat of his; he told David. ‘We’ll get him out of it, now.’ He pointed at the cluster of navyphones on the for’ard bulkhead: ‘Tell the engine-room I want smoke!’
Bantry’s head was falling off fast to port. As David jumped to the ’phone, Wilmott called down. ‘Midships!’
Suddenly it was obvious what he was about to do. He was taking this cruiser and her smoke between Nile and the half-dozen dreadnought battleships that were shooting at her.
Chapter 7
‘Midships!’
Rathbone repeated Hugh’s order into the voicepipe. Hugh was watching through the conning-tower’s periscope, and passing helm orders to his navigator. He heard the quartermaster’s dirge-like repetition of that last one; immediately, instead of giving him a ‘Steady’ for a course to settle on, he ordered the helm the other way: ‘Port fifteen!’
Rathbone’s quick snap, the quartermaster’s hollow bleat… Constant helm. And erratic too. He was planning to weave Nile like a picket-boat, take a leaf out of the destroyer men’s book and dodge between the Germans’ salvoes, even if a thirty-thousand-ton battleship was a somewhat ponderous dodger. Hugh wondered whether his decision to turn out of the line and cover Warspite might have been the one truly appalling decision of his career; whether it could even be thought of as a ‘decision’ at all; whether it hadn’t been pure reflex.
Destroyer captains, a high proportion of whom were generally acknowledged to be raving lunatics, could be allowed such aberrations. A battleship’s captain was another animal altogether ‒ or should be.
‘Midships! Starboard ten!’
He’d started it, and he and Nile ‒ which meant not just an expensive heap of steel but about a thousand men ‒ were out on the limb he’d opted for. You couldn’t turn back, you had to see it
through. And if of course you had the luck ‒ tempered by a bit of judgement and timing ‒ to pull it off, bring Nile back into the line intact and operative as a fighting unit with Warspite at least afloat, then the taking of the risk would have been justified. It was a biggish ‘if‘.
‘Midships… Ask the control top what’s up with “X” turret.’
‘Midships—’
‘Control top!’ Ross-Hallet’s voice was shouting.
‘Wheel’s amidships, sir!’
‘Port fifteen!’
The enemy were out of sight sometimes, from this level, the view of them obscured by the rain of their own shell-splashes and bursts. From the control top, of course, Brook shouldn’t be getting any such interference; all he had to do was keep his guns bearing, and cope with the wild zigzag. The noise was tremendous, and almost uninterrupted by any periods of quiet. It was like trying to keep one’s brain working normally while trapped inside a steel drum that was being beaten continuously with sledge-hammers.
Midshipman Ross-Hallet reported, ‘Lieutenant Brook says “X” is back in action, sir.’
‘Good. Ease to five!’
‘Ease to five, sir!’
‘Warspite seems to be getting out of trouble, sir.’ That had been Rathbone’s voice imparting good news. Hell of a long way to go yet, though. Hugh told him, ‘Midships the helm, then put on twenty of starboard.’ The tower seemed to lurch, in a huge, close explosion, and there was an immediate tattoo of splinters or debris clanging against its armour; through the slits, there’d been an impression of a white-orange flash, more surrounding than localised. Among those who’d been knocked off their feet was the Secretary, Paymaster Lieutenant the Honourable James Colne-Wilshaw, whose action job was to keep the written ‘narrative’. His notes of times, movements, orders and observed events were strewn about the iron deck under everyone else’s feet.
‘Twenty of starboard wheel on, sir.’ The ship heeled under so much rudder…
The Blooding of the Guns Page 15