Heathersleigh Homecoming

by Michael Phillips

  “You know,” Churchill added as he followed her, “there will no doubt be a commendation in this for you, possibly from the prime minister himself. It is impossible to know, of course, but shutting down this channel in and out of England, not to mention destroying the method they were using for signaling German U-boats . . . it may have a significant impact on the outcome of the war. There may still be some submarines lurking along our coast. But I would think that once we get those subs out of our waters, things could begin to turn for us.”

  “I am glad my experience—miserable though it was—may serve some use in the end.”

  “In any event,” said Churchill, “we will make arrangements for a place for you to stay the moment we arrive back in the city. I will need to be off to Scapa Flow myself. But Lieutenant Langham will handle the details and will see to whatever you need. At some point we will want to talk to you further and get a more detailed statement about exactly what went on in Vienna. We need to make as many identifications as possible. Hopefully by then we will have nabbed all the scoundrels in that little boat out there and have them behind bars.”

  97

  Father and Son

  The seas had calmed considerably in the North Sea as the battle cruiser HMS Dauntless steamed toward its destination north of Scotland. The calm was only on the surface, however, for intelligence had it that German U-boat submarines were still prowling the entire British coast.

  Several British cruisers had been destroyed by U-boats early in the war. And just two months ago, on the first day of the year, the British battleship Formidable had been sunk right in the Channel. So the threat of German submarine activity was real enough. But the urgency of their mission in the end weighed most heavily in Captain Wilberforce’s decision to make a run for it in spite of the reports. Traveling in convoy, as well as the use of aeroplanes and dirigibles to spot U-boats from the air, had greatly reduced Allied casualties. On this occasion, however, there was no air support, and their mission demanded stealth. They would have to negotiate these familiar waters alone.

  They had successfully navigated through the entire Mediterranean with the secret cargo they had picked up in Salonika, past Gibraltar, and north into the Channel without so much as sight of a German vessel. Now they were off southern Scotland and could breathe easier. They should be in Scapa by tomorrow.

  The attack fell without warning.

  The first hint that enemy submarines were anywhere within a hundred miles came with the explosion of the lead torpedo against the port hull—about two-thirds of the way fore.

  The Dauntless rocked dangerously to starboard, sending half the unprepared crew off their feet. Black smoke poured into the sky from somewhere belowdecks. Every man on board knew instantly they had been hit.

  The ship righted itself as all hands regained their balance. A second torpedo ricocheted off the starboard side dangerously close to the propeller. The opposite angle of approach indicated that they were under attack by at least two U-boats positioned on both sides of them. The situation was precarious.

  The shrill announcement of general quarters blared over the loudspeakers. On the bridge, frantic orders followed to the lookout and torpedo room, and a barrage of messages requested damage assessment from various key positions throughout the ship. There was no command the captain could give in the meantime other than full power and a change of direction, until they managed to locate the enemy and begin discharging their torpedoes. Whether they would have time to do so was a dubious question in the captain’s mind. Meanwhile, the moment they were on their feet, every man of the torpedo crew was scrambling to their stations to await firing coordinates.

  Commander Charles Rutherford, who had been walking near the port rail, picked himself off the deck where the first blast had thrown him. One knee had been badly smashed against a steel ventilation lid. As he struggled painfully to his feet he knew the injury was severe. But he couldn’t worry about it now.

  His first thought was for George. He had to find him. Immediately he limped off and made for the torpedo room.

  Smoke was blackening the sky from fires deep in the ship. As Charles hurried down the metal stairs, cadets and officers were climbing up them in the opposite direction, squeezing past, yelling and running, some for their posts, others to loosen lifeboats from their riggings. After descending two more noisy, crowded stairwells, with great effort Charles reached the corridor at the third level.

  Another blast shook the ship. This was no glancing blow like the last, but a direct hit thirty feet below the water line. A dull, thundering echo rippled through every section of the ship, followed by a shuddering tremble. Charles felt the walkway tipping beneath his feet. Within a minute the entire vessel was listing fifteen degrees. Groping for the handrails, he struggled forward, wincing terribly from the pain in his knee. The lights flickered briefly, then resumed power. How long the ship’s generators would hold was doubtful.

  Charles arrived at the torpedo room.

  It was only half manned. Those who remained had begun deserting their posts with the second blast. He saw George at the radio, as he knew he would, awaiting instructions from the bridge. He was only able to nod a brief acknowledgment in his direction before he was nearly knocked off his feet by the commander of the small squadron hurrying his way.

  “Everybody out . . . up on the deck!” cried Lieutenant Forbes. “Commander,” he said, seeing Charles enter and running toward him, “help me get them out of here!”

  “It’s only general quarters, Lieutenant,” replied Charles, trying to remain calm. “No evacuation has been sounded yet.”

  “But we don’t have a chance, Commander. We’ve got to get—”

  He was interrupted by a blaring command over the speakers.

  “Evacuate ship! This is Captain Wilberforce—evacuate at once!”

  “There it is!” said Forbes. “Clear the torpedo room!”

  In that moment, even the most inexperienced of the sailors knew the hits were mortal, and that the Dauntless was sinking.

  Another shaking trembled beneath them. Lieutenant Forbes fell. His head slammed against torpedo chamber two, which had seen its last duty of this war. He slumped to the floor.

  George jumped from his post with the evacuation order and now ran toward the scene. He and his father met on the floor where Charles had stooped to pick up the unconscious form of Lieutenant Forbes.

  “I’ll get him, Father,” said George. “It will be easier for me to carry him than you.”

  “I won’t argue with you, my boy,” replied Charles, rising. “Get him topside. I’ll see what I can do to help some of the others.”

  In seconds George had hoisted up Forbes’ form and draped him over his muscular young shoulders. Quickly he made for the door.

  Five minutes later George dropped Lieutenant Forbes into the nearest lifeboat which was about to be let overboard. In nearly the same motion, he turned and ran back in search of his father. Instinctively he knew he would find him amid the worst of it, trying until the very last second to help whomever he could get to safety.

  George sprinted for the stairwell he had labored up with Forbes moments earlier, this time not touching so much as a single stair. He seized a moment when the walkway was empty, gripped the smooth handrails firmly in both hands and glided to the first landing belowdecks in a single motion. The instant his feet landed, he dashed off again in the direction from which he had recently come.

  “Rutherford . . . Petty Officer Rutherford!” came an urgent cry as he ran past a lieutenant moving in the opposite direction. “Get out! Our orders are to evacuate. Don’t go—”

  “I’ve got to find my father!” cried George without pausing.

  “But it’s—”

  Already George had turned into another corridor, making for the next stairwell down, and was gone from the lieutenant’s sight.

  The lights dimmed again. Suddenly darkness engulfed the corridor. George slowed. He could not go far in total blackness. />
  “Father . . . Father!” he called. “Commander Rutherford, can you hear me . . . Commander Charles Rutherford!”

  Suddenly came a flicker . . . then on came the lights again, but only to about half strength. Smoke began to infiltrate the corridor now, pouring up from below. The clanking echo of footsteps on metal, accompanied by continuous yells and shouts throughout the ship, sounded from all directions in mingled panic, confusion, and desperation.

  With the return of the lights, George darted for the next stairwell.

  On level two, just below where George was searching desperately for the only face among hundreds he now cared about, the eldest man aboard and third in command stood in one of the main corridors near the base of a narrow flight of stairs. The calm on his face contrasted noticeably with the panic of the few sailors left around him, half his age and less, who were running in terror but seemed to have lost their sense of direction. Amid the confusion, the older man was pointing the way to the stairs in the decreasing light, calmly giving directions what to do and which way to go.

  Suddenly behind him a young petty officer flew down the stairs. His boots clanked onto the grate of the landing. The two men met in the corridor two seconds later.

  While still outwardly calm, the panic around him, along with the smoke and yelling and continued rumble of explosions below, had taken their toll on the younger of the two. His eyes could not hide the fear in his pounding heart. A sigh of anxious relief crossed his face at sight of the older man.

  The next moment they were in each other’s arms.

  “George,” whispered the elder, “I love you.”

  “I love you, Father.”

  They stood a moment. Then again the ship shook dangerously. Charles felt his son tremble in fear.

  “We are safe, son,” he said. “Our heavenly Father is with us.”

  “I am afraid, Father.”

  “As am I, George. But you remember what he said about sparrows. We are in the palm of his hand even at this moment. But let us go. There yet may be time.”

  They fell apart. Even in the moment they stood together, two or three more sailors squeezed past. The echoing steps of the last of them sounded up the stairs. It grew ominously quiet around them.

  “Come, Father,” said George, pulling him toward the stairs.

  “You, go, George—get up to the deck before it is too late.”

  “Not without you, Father.”

  “I will be right behind you. Go.”

  Hesitantly, George turned and made for the stairs. Glancing back, now for the first time he saw that his father was injured. Halfway up, he paused to wait. Charles was behind him, though moving slowly, taking each rung of the steep climb with gritty deliberation.

  “Hurry, Father . . . please hurry!”

  “George—don’t wait for me. Go, my boy . . . get up there! I’m right behind you—go.”

  Torn with such emotion as he had never felt in his life, George climbed to the landing, stopped, got to his knees, then flat on his belly, and stretched his hand down as far as he could reach it.

  “Just a little more, Father . . . you’re almost there—take my hand, I’ll pull you—”

  Suddenly another great convulsion rocked the ship, throwing all those who remained aboard off their feet.

  As their hands met, Charles’ footing gave way. Immediately he disappeared from sight, bumping and clattering down the steep stairs. It was too obscure to see what had happened, but from the landing above George heard a cry of racking pain from the smoky darkness below. He was on his feet the next instant clamoring back down the stairs. Charles lay in a heap at the bottom.

  “Up, Father . . . here, take my hand.”

  “My knee is broken, George,” panted Charles in agony. “Go, my boy—get up on deck!”

  “No, Father, not without you.”

  George’s eyes were weeping freely. He stooped and gently took his father in his arms.

  “I’m going to drape you over my shoulders, Father,” he said. “I have to keep one hand free to get up these stairs. Here we go!”

  With a great thrust he hoisted Charles over his shoulder, extending his right arm firmly around his torso, then began struggling up the narrow stairway. But it was tilting badly, and George could barely keep his feet.

  Above in the outside air, the final blast had tossed many of those near the edge of the deck like helpless ants into the sea.

  For a few seconds a great silence replaced the sounds of explosions. Then came a deep lurching groan, as of some monstrous inanimate giant giving up and exhaling its final breath.

  Slowly but with awful force the crippled vessel rolled the rest of the way onto its side. The last of the lifeboats were struggling desperately to get away before being sucked down with the mother ship.

  It did not take long for the end to come. Within minutes the bow of the Dauntless disappeared into the chilly waters of the North Sea.

  98

  A Bomb at Heathersleigh

  The moment Jocelyn opened the door and saw the uniformed military escort wearing somber expressions, with First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill walking toward the door, in her heart she knew why they had come.

  That portion of her face capable of it whitened. Unconsciously her hand went to her mouth. Cheeks and lips began to quiver.

  “Lady Jocelyn . . .” Churchill began. The tone of his voice confirmed her worst fears.

  Jocelyn burst into tears and glanced away. Churchill waited patiently. This was the deepest of human agonies which the senseless war had fated for them to share in this moment.

  Jocelyn tried to turn back to face him, eyes nearly as red as the birthmark on cheek and neck.

  “I am sorrier than I can tell you,” said Churchill. “Your husband was one of the finest men I knew. You cannot imagine my personal grief for bringing Charles into the war effort. He was a patriot and a fine man.”

  Jocelyn nodded, tears pouring from her eyes in a torrent.

  “The prime minister sent me personally,” Churchill went on, “to extend the government’s deepest sympathy and sorrow. . . .”

  Jocelyn could say nothing. The words entering her ears sounded distant and foreign and hardly registered meaning.

  “We learned the news in the middle of the night—only hours ago. . . .”

  She wanted to scream in agony, but her heart was constricted in her chest. She gasped for breath.

  “At the prime minister’s request I was on a special train to Devon at daybreak.”

  Churchill now handed her the single sheet of paper in his hand. The telegram from the minister of war was brief.

  CRUISER DAUNTLESS TORPEDOED AND SUNK BY GERMAN U-BOAT OFF COAST OF SCOTLAND. ONE THIRD OF CREW LOST. COMMANDER SIR CHARLES RUTHERFORD AND SON, PETTY OFFICER GEORGE RUTHERFORD, AMONG CASUALTIES. CONDOLENCES TO ALL FAMILY FROM ADMIRALTY, WAR OFFICE, AND GOVERNMENT.

  The paper dropped from Jocelyn’s hand and at last a great wail burst from her mouth.

  “And George!” she shrieked in disbelief. “God—oh, God!”

  By now Catharine was approaching from behind. Jocelyn heard her footsteps and turned.

  “What is it, Mother—” Catharine began. But already Jocelyn was running to her youngest daughter.

  “It’s your father . . . and George—” she cried, then broke down in a passion of weeping.

  Catharine’s large frame and wide embrace swallowed her mother like a child.

  Churchill stood gravely waiting. Twenty or thirty awkward seconds passed, during which nothing could be heard but the sounds of sobbing. Sarah and Kate came from the kitchen and were now crying with Jocelyn and Catharine.

  At length Jocelyn remembered they were not alone. She tried with difficulty to compose herself, released herself from Catharine, and turned back to the First Lord of the Admiralty.

  “I am extremely sorry, Lady Jocelyn,” said Churchill, “but I must return to London without delay. There are many arrangements to be made. Your husband w
ill of course be given full military honors. You will be notified.”

  “Yes . . . yes, thank you,” sniffed Jocelyn, lurching shakily for a breath. “It was kind of you to come all this way.”

  “Your husband was a friend.”

  “I . . . that is . . . our . . . my other daughter . . .” began Jocelyn.

  “Yes . . . Amanda—actually we’ve met,” said Churchill. “I felt you needed to know first. But she will be the first person I will see when I return to the city. I intend to go straight to her hotel. I will be speaking to her within hours.”

  “Thank you,” said Jocelyn, not realizing at first the implications of what she had just heard. “But I’m afraid I don’t know where she is or how to help you contact her.”

  “That will be no problem. I saw her only two days ago. She is in London.”

  Suddenly the bombshell broke into the mother’s seared brain.

  “London!” exclaimed Jocelyn. “Amanda . . . in London!”

  “You’ve not been in touch since her return?”

  “Not for a very long time.—Oh, poor Amanda!” exclaimed Jocelyn, breaking into tears again.

  “I will do what I can to ease the pain,” said Churchill.

  He shook Jocelyn’s hand, uttered a few more words of sympathy, then turned and strode back to the waiting automobile which would return him to the Milverscombe station.

  In another minute the women were alone again. Heathersleigh’s desolation had suddenly increased a hundredfold.

  “Sarah,” said Jocelyn when she was able, “please find Hector and send him for Maggie. Tell him to bring her to the Hall as quickly as he can.”

  The moment she was gone, mother and daughter embraced again, wept several more minutes, then Jocelyn went upstairs to Charles’ study.

  She had to use the telephone.

  99

  A Friend’s Devastation

  Timothy Diggorsfeld’s face was ashen as he held the telephone receiver to his ear. For the first moment he was too stunned to move, to respond, to weep, to speak. As marvelous an invention as it was, what good was a telephone when there were arms that needed to hold and be held, and shoulders that needed to absorb the mutual tears of suffering.