Beaushears winked. `This is our cue to leave, Dick.’ He took a last glance at the chart. `Let’s hope the whole thing doesn’t get bogged down like Flanders!’
Chesnaye had a brief vision of a vast army, stale and unmoving, with the sea at its back. `It’s going to be harder than I thought.’
Beaushears shrugged. `A noble thought. You can put it on your tombstone !’
`Steady on north eighty-five east, sir !’ Travis’s voice was hushed, almost lost in the Saracen’s sea noises as the ship crept forward at six knots.
`Very well.’ Royston-Jones moved from his chair, his figure a white shadow against the grey paintwork.
Although the sea and sky still merged in darkness, the stars were already pale and indistinct, and there was a faint but steady breeze as if the dawn had startedd to find breath.
Chesnaye shivered, but ignored the chill in his body as he peered over the port screen towards a long white line which lengthened and rippled in time to the monitor’s own wash. A black, shapeless mass was moving in line abreast, and another beyond that, and another. Out there in the darkness he knew that an armada of steel was steering one fixed course, and somewhere ahead lay the barrier of the Peninsula itself. He remembered the previous afternoon and felt a lump in his throat. Because of her slow speed the monitor had sailed ahead of the main invasion fleet, and at one time had actually passed through two dawdling lines of troopships and their watchful escorts. Chesnaye knew that if he lived for ever he would never forget that moment. The sun high overhead, the clear blue sky and tall-funnelled troopers glittering above their own reflections. It had been very quiet but for the steady throb of the Saracen’s engines, an almost lazy, holiday atmosphere had cloaked the meaning of those double, treble rows of watching khaki figures who swarmed over every foot of the troopships’ superstructures.
Something was lacking, and eventually Commander Godden had remarked : `What a way to go to war ! More like a Bank Holiday!’
Royston-Jones had been sitting in his chair, apparently dozing. His voice had been sharp and unexpected. `Have the marine band mustered on the quarterdeck.’
Godden had stared at him. `Now, sir?’
`At the double, Commander ! And tell the Bandmaster to go right through his repertoire until those ships are out of sight! ‘
It had been impressive and unreal. The fat, belligerent shape of the monitor, pale grey and shining in her new paint, with a giant ensign curling from the gaff, whilst on her scrubbed quarterdeck, paraded as if in Portsmouth barracks, the ship’s band stood in a bright square, instruments glittering like jewels, sun-helmets gleaming white, watching the deft strokes of the Bandmaster’s baton.
They had steamed past ship after ship, the slack, humid air suddenly coming to life with the strains of `Hearts of Oak’ and `A Life on the Ocean Wave’.
Much later people might laugh at Royston-Jones, but Chesnaye knew in his heart that anyone who had been there would have known his decision to be right.
First one ship and then another had come alive, the upper decks transformed into rippling lines of waving hands and cheering faces. The cheering went on and on, until the sea itself seemed to vibrate.
That had been yesterday. Now those same soldiers were waiting out there in the darkness, fingering their rifles, pulling in their stomach muscles.
`Fifteen minutes, sir.’ Travis was crouched above the compass.
`Very well.’ The Captain sounded distant, as if thinking of something else.
Lieutenant Hogarth pushed his way across the crowded bridge. He paused to peer at Chesnaye and the two other midshipmen, Beaushears and Pickles. `Right. Nothing to do at the moment-for you that is!’ He stood, his gaunt frame silhouetted against the charthouse. `The first wave of troops is already moving up through the destroyer screen. You and your landing party will go with the second wave-got it?’
Chesnaye felt himself nodding. All at once his head seemed full of questions and doubts, his mind blank to everything he had been told.
Hogarth rubbed his hands. `Right, then. We’ll show ‘em a thing or two!’ But he was looking forward, as if speaking to his guns.
Even as he spoke, Chesnaye saw the tips of the two massive muzzles lift gently above the bridge screen until they were at a forty-five-degree angle. Hogarth muttered to himself and began to climb the ladder to the Upper Control Top. The ship was already at Action Stations, but the voice-pipes and handsets kept up their incessant chatter, adding to the feeling of nervous tension.
The Yeoman appeared. `Commence general bombardment in eleven minutes, sir!’
`Very well.’ The Captain climbed to his chair, his feet scraping on the grating. ‘Ear-plugs, please.’
Chesnaye remembered just in time and groped for his own plugs. It would be terrible to start off with shattered eardrums.
There was a faint whirr of machinery and the great turret swivelled slightly to port. Criss-crossed along the monitor’s decks the leaky hoses kept up their constant dampening, a final effort to save the planking from splintering to fragments when the bombardment started. For hours the shipwrights and stokers had been unscrewing doors, removing crockery and wooden panels, and preparing the ship for the one task for which she had been built.
`Five minutes, sir.’
Royston-Jones said : `Let’s hope the battleships know what they’re doing. We don’t want any of their salvoes falling short on to us!’
The monitor had previously passed a line of battleships steaming parallel to the invisible coast, their long guns already trained abeam, their battle ensigns making faint white blobs against the towering bridges and turrets. They would be shooting at a range of some twenty thousand yards above and beyond the wide phalanx of the advancing troops in their boats.
`Dawn’s comin’ up, sir!’ A signalman spoke involuntarily, as if to ease his own nerves.
Chesnaye watched the pale grey and silver line with awe and surprise. It was amazing how quickly the dawn came here. But at the bottom edge, where the horizon should have been, there was a black, uneven line. The coast, It was impossible to see the hundreds of small boats which must already be streaming towards the hidden beaches, but Chesnaye knew that they were indeed there. Whalers, cutters, pinnaces, boats of every shape and kind. Power-launches towing clusters of troop-filled boats like pods, men crammed together, sweating and silent, smelling the fear and the danger yet eager to get started.
Even the Saracen had sent some of her boats to help, and at least three of her midshipmen, Bacon, Maintland and ‘Ticky’ White were out there with them.
Overhead the range-finders squeaked slightly as they revolved in their armoured turret, and Chesnaye heard a voice-pipe stutter : `High explosive ! Load … load . . load!’
Godden said loudly, `Leaving it to the last as usual!’ `One minute, sir!’
The young signalman by Chesnaye’s side hugged his body with his arms. `Jesus, this bloody waitin’ !’ `Standing by, sir!’
`Very well.’ Royston-Jones sounded calm. `Starboard ten!,
The ship shivered and paid off into a moderate swell, her high bridge groaning. A pencil rolled from the chart table and clattered at their feet like a failing tree. Somewhere above a man coughed, and another could be heard whistling without tune.
`Zero, sir!’
`Open fire!’
Even as the order was passed, the horizon astern erupted into a jagged pattern of red and orange flashes as the hidden battleships commenced their bombardment. Seconds dragged by, and then high overhead, with the ear-searing shriek of a regiment of express trains, the first salvoes sped on their way.
Chesnaye felt the signalman gripping his sleeve, and saw the man’s mouth moving. ‘Gawd, sir, what a way’ But his frightened words were lost as the monitor’s main armament steadied and fired. There was less sound than Chesnaye had expected, yet he was rendered deaf and, stunned, as if the guns had fired beside his head. The air was sucked across the upper bridge like hot sand, and as the twin barrels were hur
led back on to their recoil springs he felt the whole ship shudder and buck. It was more like being struck by a salvo than firing one.
He coughed as a cloud of acrid cordite smoke drifted across the screen. In the space of seconds it had got lighter so that he could see the lean shape of a nearby destroyer and the harder outline of the coastline ahead.
The bombardment mounted and thickened in noise and power, so that the shells screamed overhead in an unending procession. Chesnaye understood little of their effect,
and only occasionally could he see the angry flash of an explosion ashore. But beyond the cliffs and hills he knew that tons and tons of high explosive were deluging down, so that the waiting Turks, if waiting they were, must be in a living hell.
‘Shoot!’ Again the monitor’s guns bellowed and lurched, backwards, and Chesnaye could imagine the Quarters Officer yelling at his gunners and listening to Hogarth’s urgent orders from the Control Top.
The noise was crushing, devastating and without pity. Chesnaye lost count of time as his body and mind shook to the voice of the monitor’s bombardment. Occasionally Royston-Jones ordered an alteration of course, and Lieutenant Travis, strained and ill-looking, would crouch across the binnacle, his hands shaking to the thunder of the guns.
The sun peered across the land ridge, bright and curious, an onlooker without fear. The cliffs and the dirtbrown hills beyond looked suddenly close, the narrow strips of beach white crescents beneath the high rock. Like beetles the small boats were already merged with the shoreline, the progress of the soldiers marked only with occasional flashes of fire. How small and ineffective those flashes seemed compared with the monitor’s guns, Chesnaye thought.
Two waterspouts rose almost alongside the Saracen’s fo’c’sle, and Chesnaye ducked incredulously as something sped past the bridge with the sound of tearing silk.
`Enemy battery, bearing red four-five !’ a lookout shouted between the gun-bursts.
Royston-Jones swung in his chair. `Tell the Director to open fire with the secondary armament immediately!’
A rating with the handset said, `Gunnery Officer has fixed the battery’s position below the east pinnacle, sir.’ Below the bridge the slim four-inch guns were already swinging shorewards.
`Very well.’ The Captain seemed angry. `Increase to half-speed, Pilot. We will close the coast and concentrate on the local batteries. That ridge is too high for the Turks to get at us once we are inshore.’ He fidgeted with his glasses. ‘We can hit them, however!’
Two more waterspouts rose alongside. Much closer.
Chesnaye flinched as the four-inch guns opened fire independently. Their voices were different. Sharp and earsplitting, a savage whiplash.
Somehow he had not expected to be fired on himself. Up to now his thoughts had been mixed, filled with anxiety for the soldiers and uncertainty for himself. This was different. There was no sign that he could recognise along those craggy cliffs and hills, no opposite ship to plot and stalk. Merely the abbreviated scream of shells and the tall, deadly waterspouts.
The Yeoman tilted his cap as the sun lifted clear of the land and squinted at the curtain of spray as it fell abeam in the calm water. ‘Quite big, too,’ he said at length. ‘Nine inch or bigger!’ He grinned suddenly, his teeth filling his tanned face. ‘Cheeky buggers!’
`Port ten!’ The Captain sat hunched in his chair like a small gargoyle, his eyes following the white whirlpool which still showed the last fall of shot. The monitor swung awkwardly on her course and then steadied as another order brought her bows once more towards the beaches.
The hidden Turkish battery dropped two more shells simultaneously near the monitor’s starboard beamwhere the ship would have been but for Royston-Jones’ sudden alteration of course.
Again the falling spray, the taste of cordite. Chesnaye stared fascinated at the leaping water, only to be knocked sideways as the Saracen’s big guns roared out once more. It was a wonder the turret did not tear itself clean off the ship, or that the Saracen remained in one piece.
JThen there were no more Turkish shells, and Roystonones twisted round to stare up at the Control Top. Almost impishly he lifted his cap and smiled. Peering through his armoured slits, like a knight at Agincourt, Hogarth must have seen that impetuous gesture and felt a glow of satisfaction.
Royston-Jones glanced briefly at the three midshipmen. ‘Away you go ! Stand by to lower your boats and embark landing parties!’
Chesnaye shook himself and tore his eyes from the Captain’s unblinking stare. All at once he realised that it was not over. For him it was just beginning.
A steam picket boat took the Saracen’s two whalers in tow until they were within half a mile of the beach and then cast them adrift. A sub-lieutenant - in the power boat’s sternsheets waved a megaphone and bellowed ‘Pull like hell for your landing point ! It’s a bit hot around here!’
As if to emphasise his words, a small shell exploded nearby and sent a wave of splinters whirring overhead.
Chesnaye gritted his teeth and peered over the oarsmen’s heads. The nearest cliff, shaped like a miniature Rock of Gibraltar, hid the early sun from view and cast a deep black shadow across the two pitching whalers. ‘Give way together!’ His voice was surprisingly steady, and he forced himself to look at Tobias, who because of the extra passengers was squatting right aft, his legs over the tiller bar. He caught Chesnaye’s eye and grinned. `Just like a trip round Brighton pier, sir!’
Hunched in the sternsheets Lieutenant Thornton, selected by Hogarth as senior spotting officer, pawed over an assortment of leather cases which contained telescopes, handsets and other necessary gear, his face set in a scowl of concentration. Pickles was by his side, his gaze fixed on the dark shadowed cliff. The oarsmen pulled hard and rhythmically, half watching the other whaler which was barely yards away.
Beaushears stood in the other boat and occasionally glanced across, his features drawn and unusually determined.
I suppose I must look like that, Chesnaye thought. We are all playing a part. More afraid of showing fear than of fear itself.
He shaded his eyes, conscious of the cool depths of the cliff’s shadow as it closed about him. `Steer over there.’ He felt the tiller creak obediently.
It was too quiet, he thought. Like the sea and the sky, everything seemed shadowed and guarded by the might of the land. Faint and muffled, he could occasionally hear the sporadic rattle of small-arms and the steel whiplash of machine-guns. But they were impersonal and did not appear to belong here. Once when he glanced astern he saw the Saracen, her shape deformed as she turned slightly towards the headland, the long guns still probing the air, as if sniffing out a new target. Many other ships were silhouetted against the horizon, but the barrage had paused, no doubt waiting to see the effect of the troops’ progress ashore.
As if reading his thoughts Pickles said breathlessly, `It looks as if it’s all over already!’
Chesnaye nodded absently. `Watch your steering, Tobias ! There are shoals of some sort ahead.’ He had seen what appeared to be low, sandy rocks littered along the water’s edge.
Tobias said tightly, `Not rocks, sir.’
The whaler moved swiftly inshore, the last few yards vanishing in seconds. Chesnaye saw the oarsmen watching him curiously, and held his breath in an endeavour to conceal the slow sickness which was squeezing his insides like a vice.
Nearer and nearer. He could see clearly now the shoals which were strewn across the whaler’s path. They moved gently in the lapping wavelets, their khaki limbs swaying and jerking as if still alive.
He heard Pickles gasp, and then as the boat cut a passage between the first of the dead soldiers the oarsmen looked too at the tangle of corpses and discarded equipment at the water’s edge.
The stroke was momentarily lost, and Chesnaye choked : `Oars ! Stand by to beach!’ He did not know how he had managed to give the order, nor did he recognise his own voice. The boat ground into the sand and the second whaler hit the beach close by.<
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A few soldiers moved along the base of the cliff, and he saw several tiny tents marked with the Red Cross already erected. But again his eyes were drawn to the waterline of dead.
Australians, New Zealanders and a few British, their faces already pale and expressionless in the salt spray. He could see the gleaming teeth of barbed wire, sewn deep in the water itself, and upon which little clusters of corpses bobbed like obscene fruit. There was blood too on the sand and all the way up the trampled beach to the foot of the cliff. A sergeant lay on his back, his hands digging into his stomach, mouth wide in one last cry. His uniform was stitched from shoulder to groin with machinegun bullets, yet equipment and bayonet were still smart and exactly in place.
Lieutenant Thornton leapt over the gunwale. `At the double ! Put out the boat anchors and run for cover!’
The men gaped from the corpses to him and then jerked into life as the sand jumped at their feet and the air echoed to the high-pitched whine of bullets.
A soldier yelled : `Come up here, you stupid bastards There are still snipers about !’
A bullet whacked into the boat’s warm woodwork at Chesnaye’s hip, and with a gasp he started up the beach. He turned to call to Lieutenant Thornton and was just in time to see him reel hack, his hands clawing at his face. In fact his face had been torn away by a bullet, but blinded and screaming he staggered drunkenly in a circle while the sand spurted around him.
An Australian corporal emerged from some rocks, his bush hat tilted over his eyes. Unceremoniously he pushed Chesnaye against the cliff and threw down his rifle. In three bounds he reached the naval officer, but before he .ould seize him Thornton dropped and rolled on to his pack, his face a glistening, bright scarlet against the pale and.
Chesnaye retched as the seamen crowded around him, I’obias carrying Thornton’s leather cases.
HMS Saracen Page 8