He had been ordered to make a last check of the fo’c’sle, but a flint-eyed petty officer had made sure that there was nothing left for him to do. The ship was ready and waiting. It had received its first wound, but was already sniffing out the enemy in the manner of any injured beast.
Boats were slung out or ready and waiting beneath the big power derrick. Major De L’isle’s marines were, he knew, mustered in sections athwart the quarterdeck, their bodies, deformed by packs and rifles, entrenching tools and water-bottles. He peered at his watch. It was time to return to the others. To put on his mask and hide his apprehension.
Leading Seaman Tobias, hung about with webbing and bayonet, saluted him as he strode beneath the shadow of the bridge. ‘Our party mustered, sir.’
‘Good. See that they stay under cover until we leave the ship.’
Tobias squinted towards the bows. ‘It’s very quiet, sir.’
Chesnaye knew that he meant the shore, but his own thoughts returned to the feeling of loneliness and loss he had felt when the dawn had laid the sea bare.
Wiped away as if they had never been. The battleships and cruisers, the darting shapes of a hundred smaller craft. The majesty of the world’s mightiest fleet gone in the twinkling of an eye.
What must the stranded troops be thinking? he wondered. Their ever-sure armada, the grey shield which every Briton had grown up to expect as a right had slunk away, vanished. Chesnaye tried to accept the reasons, but he could not swallow the feeling of hurt and loss. Of course, there were U-boats in the vicinity, but surely they must have been foreseen? Apparently not.
It was said that a battleship had already fallen to a U-boat’s torpedoes off the very beaches which he had seen the Australians and New Zealanders take with his own eyes. Perhaps the Turks were unaware of the monitor’s approach, or even indifferent. This part of the coast was separated from those other landings by that same jutting headland some miles to the north-east. The Allied forces in the south were even further away. A lonely, slab-sided coastline with a jumbled mass of hills and gullies beyond. No wonder the Turks were confident.
He imagined the thousands of soldiers to the north waiting for the Saracen’s bombardment of the enemy’s flank. The relieving of the pressure just long enough for another small advance. He shut his eyes and saw again the wire and the minute running figures. Even in his nostrils he imagined he could scent the sickening smell of burned flesh and offal. The refuse of a battlefield.
Able Seaman Wellard slouched towards them and clumsily banged his rifle on the deck. He glanced at Chesnaye and then pursed his lips in a silent whistle.
Tobias tucked his thumbs in his belt and nodded towards the distant destroyers. ‘They’re getting pretty near, sir.’
Chesnaye did not answer. The monitor was about six miles from the land. The two escorts were getting dangerously close inshore.
As if in answer to his thoughts, two orange flashes glowed briefly against the purple hills, and seconds later the nearest destroyer was bracketed by twin waterspouts which seemed to hang for a long time before falling back as broken spray.
‘’Ere we go, then!’ Wellard loosened his rifle-sling and glanced towards the bridge. ‘I ’ope the Skipper knows what ’e’s about!’
Chesnaye took a last searching look at Tobias’s impassive features and then started to climb the long steel ladder to the upper bridge. Tobias would not break. He was no leader, but he was reliable.
The bridge was surprisingly calm and quiet. Each officer seemed to be looking through his binoculars, and every rating stood by voice-pipe and telephone.
The Captain was sitting in his chair, elbows on the screen, cap tilted against the slowly climbing sun. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Hoist battle ensigns.’
Chesnaye felt a lump in his throat as he watched the giant ensigns mounting masts and ensign staff alike. The challenge was being accepted. It seemed wrong that the sea was so empty. No one to watch, to applaud. Even to pity.
He remembered the cheering troopships when they had first sailed for this place. The ranks of waving khaki. Now there was no one. Except the hidden enemy.
‘The destroyers have opened fire, sir!’ Travis looked down at the Captain’s slight shoulders. Across the still water they could all hear the sharp crack of the vicious four-inch guns, although the harsh sunlight and mounting haze hid the results of their work.
The big turret groaned slightly and the twin guns lifted a few inches. Behind that massive armour the Quarters Officer and his men would be straining every nerve and muscle, knowing that this time it was vital for everything to work like a precise clock. A misfire, an accident, and the monitor’s role would be ended, and the men who served her wiped out.
A handset buzzed, ‘Twelve thousand yards, sir!’
‘Very good.’ Nothing more.
Beaushears said thickly, ‘They’ve started to make smoke!’
Sure enough the two small destroyers were weaving across the monitor’s bows, parallel with the beachless coast, whilst from their squat funnels billowed a languid pall of black, greasy smoke. It hung across the water, shutting out the sun and darkening the smiling seascape like a curtain.
Chesnaye could feel his nails biting into his palms as he watched the destroyers’ efforts and matched them against the Saracen’s slow and painful progress. They were nearer the coast now, but there was still a long way to go. He stiffened as he caught sight of more waterspouts beyond the smokescreen. More this time. Maybe six or seven.
Above the bridge the gunnery team would be watching too. Calculating and waiting. It could not be much longer.
The Captain spoke. ‘Prepare to lower boats.’
The order was passed, and below the bridge Chesnaye could see the frantic efforts to get the big cumbersome launches slung out over the side.
Royston-Jones added testily: ‘Pulling boats first. They can be taken in tow with the rafts.’ He shifted briefly in his chair and glanced at the watching midshipmen. ‘Well, off you go.’ He waited as they saluted. ‘And good luck.’
Chesnaye could feel his stomach muscles tight against his belt as he pushed his way through the marines who were milling excitedly around the davits. Half the night they had practised this manoeuvre, but already the situation looked tangled and near disaster.
Commander Godden stood by the rail, his face grim as he watched the first boat squeaking down the falls. It hit the water and was soon drifting clear of the crawling monitor. Rafts, lowered over the side for once heedless of paintwork, were immediately taken in tow by the whaler, and as the power boats were lowered alongside, momentarily pinioned to allow more men to scramble aboard, Chesnaye suddenly realised the enormity of their task.
He caught sight of Tobias and then Pickles in their allotted places beside Major De L’Isle, and he felt himself scrambling with the desperation of the men he had just been watching like an onlooker.
The Major of Marines was standing up in the launch, his face scarlet as he yelled at his Colour Sergeant, who was in another boat. ‘Keep those men quiet, d’you hear? God damn your eyes if I hear another word!’ He flopped down on the thwart beside Chesnaye and banged his short leather-covered stick against his boot. ‘Let them save their energy, that’s what I say!’
Spouting smoke and fumes, the power boats gathered up the cutters and whalers with their attendant rafts into three separate tows. At a signal from De L’Isle they formed into lines and turned towards the shore, some of the men cheering and shouting in spite of the threats from the N.C.O.s.
The boats gathered way, so that the Saracen’s jagged shape seemed to grow small and indistinct in minutes. Only the three great ensigns stood out clear and bright, while the ragged hole left by the mine was already lost in the haze.
There was a great whistling roar, and for a few seconds Chesnaye thought that the Saracen had opened fire. As he twisted his head to watch he saw a blinding light burst alongside the monitor’s low hull, so bright that he winced and shut his eyes. But not
before he had seen the tall topmast quiver and then plunge over the side. The blast of the explosion fanned across the flat water and deluged the small boats in noise, so that most of the men could only gape as the falling mast slithered into the sea followed by its attendant tangle of rigging and men.
De L’Isle was the first to recover his wits. ‘A big ‘un, I should say. Fourteen-inch at least!’
Chesnaye’s heart sank. No wonder the Turks were confident about this part of their coast. With a well-sited gun of that calibre, and with their target silhouetted against an empty sea, it was just a matter of time.
He dug his fingers into the boat’s warm gunwale and gritted his teeth as another fountain of water burst abreast the monitor’s bridge. Still she did not return fire, and Chesnaye could feel himself almost weeping at the ugly ship’s slow progress.
De L’Isle sniffed and moved his holster on his belt. ‘At least the bloody Turks won’t be expecting us to arrive like this, what?’
Chesnaye turned with difficulty amidst the close press of bodies and looked at Pickles. He was surprised to see that the young midshipman was apparently calm, or was he resigned? He tried to grin at him, but his jaws felt stiff and enlarged.
Pickles moistened his lips and then reached across a seaman’s bent shoulders to touch his hand. His lips moved very slowly, and Chesnaye realised he was trying to tell him something. The scream of the next shell made further words impossible, so he merely squeezed Pickles’ hand and then turned back to watch the boats and the nearness of the smokescreen. But his hand, long after he had released Pickles’, was still ice cold from the contact.
* * * * *
The beach at the foot of the tall brown cliffs was smaller than it had first appeared, and consisted not of sand but of broken stones and rubble washed or blown down over the centuries to form a narrow, treacherous slope. It shelved steeply and immediately into deep water which surged in the cliff’s black shadow in a constant, angry maelstrom of short, steep waves. Singly and in pairs the boats staggered and lurched against the loose stones while the packed men leapt and stumbled ashore, their heavy packs and rifles adding to the confusion. All about them, wafted by a fresh off-shore breeze the remnants of the destroyers’ smoke screen made some of them cough, others curse noisily as they peered anxiously for their comrades and correct positions on the beach. The sun was much higher, but beneath the tall, threatening cliff face the air seemed tinged with ice, so that some of the sweating marines were shivering and stamping their feet.
Keith Pickles felt the water draining from his trouser legs and stepped unsteadily towards the brown crumbling wall where Major De L’Isle and half of his men were already examining the means of reaching the top of this natural barrier. Pickles again tried to examine his inner feelings, to face some thought or idea which he could recognise, but nothing came. He felt light-headed, as if he was gliding from one phase to the next as in a dream. Time and distance had shortened, so that the long and agonising passage through the oily smoke to this shore now seemed the same length as climbing from the pitching launch or adjusting his belt and revolver.
He turned to watch as a section of marines led by Lieutenant Keats, De L’Isle’s willowy second-in-command, moved briskly around a short spur of rock and began to scramble up the cliff face. Like mountaineers, they were silhouetted darkly against the pale colours and hues of the next bay, far beyond this overcast place, their bent bodies like bronze sculptures on a memorial.
He heard De L’Isle bark to no one in particular: ‘Damn’ fine landing! Not a man lost! Must have caught John Turk with his breeches dangling, what?’
Some of his men laughed shortly and nervously, as if they were out of breath. Pickles watched them narrowly and saw the way they were fingering their rifles and peering up at the moving section of marines. Nervous, afraid even.
Pringle’s voice was here, too, loud and blustering as he yelled at the wallowing boats: ‘Stand off the beach! Wait for further orders!’ It was odd, but Pickles was able to listen and calculate Pringle’s words without nervousness. The shouted orders seemed empty and meaningless, extra and unnecessary. It was strange he had never realised that so much of Pringle’s world was pure show. Perhaps he was afraid too? He watched the man’s flushed and angry face and wondered.
De L’Isle waved his leather stick. ‘Close up! Lively there!’
Obediently the officers and N.C.O.s drew round him, their expressions mixed and cautious.
De L’Isle was speaking fast and sharply. ‘Right. No time to lose. Second section move off to the left. Sergeant Barnes!’
The tall Colour Sergeant, who looked as if he had just prepared himself for an admiral’s inspection, stiffened to attention on the loose stones. ‘Sir?’
‘You take ’em off at the trot right away. You know the picture, but things may be different once we get over this ridge. The Turks’ll not be expecting our little lot, but it won’t take ’em long to move up a force of some sort.’ His bulbous eyes flashed meaningly. ‘Your orders and mine are to hold off any local attack until the spotting team have homed the guns on the enemy’s flank.’ He spoke to the group at large. ‘That fourteen-inch gun which is trying to knock hell out of the poor old ship is probably intended for our lads up the coast. That, and any other battery, must be wiped out, and quick.’
The Colour Sergeant was well over six feet tall and as broad as a door. His big-boned face was decorated with a ginger upturned moustache which gave him the appearance of one of Wellington’s grenadiers, and he looked entirely calm and unmoved as he listened to his superior. At a nod from the Major he swung round and slung his rifle across his shoulder, his hard eyes already searching out his own particular section of marines. As they moved clear Pickles heard the sergeant say angrily: ‘Keep your distances! Don’t huddle together like a lot of bloody matelots!’ Then they were gone.
The Major grunted approvingly. ‘First things first. Don’t fancy having some damned Turk bouncing grenades on us while we’re chatting, what?’
Less laughter this time. Pickles realised that the beach already seemed larger, and the landing force which had been made important by its density now appeared small and insignificant as it broke up into little groups.
De L’Isle glanced at the officers. ‘Ready, you three?’
Pringle cleared his throat. ‘I’ll stop here and supervise the shore party of seamen.’
The Major laughed unpleasantly. ‘Like Jesus you will, boy! You get up to the ridge with the two snotties an’ double quick!’
Pickles felt his heart thumping with sudden excitement. He turned to look at Chesnaye, but the latter’s face was grave and expressionless.
Pringle seemed shocked. ‘My orders are to stay here, sir!’
‘Damn your orders! I’m in command here!’ He leaned forward, his polished boots creaking. ‘I’ve been in more campaigns and trouble spots than you’ve had pork chops! The men may think this is a picnic, but I don’t. It may happen that once we top the cliff we’ll be for it. If that happens, half our party might get wiped out, see?’ He turned his heavy frame, his mind apparently busy on other things. ‘In any case, you’re more experienced. So do your job!’
Pringle did not look at the two midshipmen. Through his teeth he muttered, ‘Come on, then, and no shirking, Pickles!’ But there was no bite in his voice. It was as if he was someone else.
There was a sudden stammer of machine-gun fire from the extreme right, followed immediately by shouts and a ragged rifle volley.
De L’Isle was cursing quietly. He waved his stick and said, ‘Corporal, get your men up this cliff, right here!’ He stabbed angrily at the crumbling mound. ‘Come on, lad! It won’t bite you!’ He waited impatiently as the first men began to climb, and then said to Pringle: ‘You too. We might as well get started!’
Pickles felt the grit and stones falling on his shoulders as he followed the heavy-booted marines towards the pale bright sky, but he was entirely absorbed in his new thoughts. He felt hot
and cold in turns, and once when he looked down at the handful of seamen left on the beach he felt like laughing aloud. It was as if every doubt and agony had left his mind at once. Just knowing that he was going to be killed seemed to make it much easier to bear. Before, in that earlier landing, it had been different. There had been a small chance of survival, a tiny hope perhaps. It had made living and thinking a nightmare. Even his life aboard the Saracen had been a mere building up for this moment. Now there was no turning back, and the future was suddenly mercifully plain and exact.
Once when he rested in a hanging pattern of gorse he turned to look for the monitor. Small and pale, the ship was still shrouded in smoke. He could not tell what the smoke represented. Her own guns or the enemy’s, or just the vapour from the screen left by the two small ships which darted along the coast. One of the destroyers appeared to be on fire, but her guns still flashed and her bow wave spoke of her tremendous speed and grace.
Pickles watched the Saracen as if seeing it for the first time. It could have been so different. Or could it? For once he could question his constant defence without a tremor. Pringle had brought an edge to his misery, but there had been his own stupid pride and ignorance too. It had all been so wonderful at first. Home on leave before joining the ship. The uniform, the admiring glances from all the girls he had once known and played with in the road outside his father’s shop. He seemed to have grown to a man while they still appeared gawky and pigtailed. He remembered too the dark sweet-smelling parlour at the back of the shop where his early life had revolved. The mantelpiece crowded with silver-framed photographs of relatives, singly or in groups, of dogs and cats, and all the other faces which had made up the Pickles family past.
His father, short and fat, with a lick of hair plastered across his forehead. He had been proud, too, but more cautious. Perhaps he had known what lay ahead of his son in his new career.
‘They might seem different to you, Keith,’ he had said on more than one occasion. ‘You know, posh homes and plenty of cash. I’ve had to work for what I’ve got here, and I was hopin’ you’d join me one day in the shop.’
H.M.S Saracen (1965) Page 14
