Simon showed a keen face to the Commodore. There was no gain to expressing doubts. It seemed to him that the monitors were being set up as bait, their bombardment no more than an invitation for the enemy to come out to play.
“What of submarines, sir?”
“Good question! We think they are all kept in pens upriver from Zeebrugge, the other side of the big locks. That being the case, if it is so, they will be unable to put to sea. Too great a risk to open the lock gates during a bombardment – a lucky shell and they could be jammed.”
“And harbour batteries, sir?”
“Exist and are very large. More effective in daylight. Trying to aim onto muzzle flashes at night is anything but an easy task.”
Commodore Tyrwhitt seemed dismissive of the batteries. That being so, Simon had no choice other than to accept that they could be ignored. Lieutenant commanders, no matter how much the favourite they might be, did not argue with officers three substantive ranks their senior.
“Have the monitors wireless sets that can talk to us, sir? Be useful to pass the word if they find themselves under attack.”
Tyrwhitt regretted not.
“They can keep in contact with Dunkerque, who can message us. With luck, we will be able to contact you.”
It was better than nothing.
“Chances are that Lancelot will not be able to get a message to Harwich, sir. Our set is not the most powerful.”
“So, you will be unable to inform the monitors of what may be rushing down upon them. Unfortunate. I shall investigate the possibility of installing a larger set, Sturton. May not be practical. Worth looking at.”
“Our searchlight as well, sir, is not the most powerful. L Class were not well served that way.”
“That would demand a larger generator as well. Doubt we have them in our yard. End up being a substantial dockyard job at Chatham. I will look into the possibilities, Sturton. Anything else while I am considering a refit?”
“The Maxim, sir. Well positioned on its bandstand but underpowered. I would far rather see a two pound pompom in its place. A six pounder QF might be a possibility, sir – handy for close range work.”
“Pompom would be preferable, Sturton. Can put that on a dual-purpose mounting so that it could act in an anti-aircraft role as well. Seeing more and more of seaplanes along the Belgian coast and some of them carrying explosive bombs these days. We are looking to modify the Lewis mountings so that they can fire upwards as well.”
“The advancement of science, sir. I am told we have balloons out submarine chasing now, in place of surface ships.”
“Assisting surface ships, more correctly, Sturton. Doing a good job, too. Put a pair of eyes a mile up in the sky and they can see twenty miles and more, or something like, and spot any submarine on the surface and drive it down. Useful machines, the balloons!”
Simon accepted his senior’s knowledge was better than his. In this case, it likely was.
“Right, sir. Orders are to sail this forenoon, overnight in Dunkerque and make all ready, sailing as if for Harwich in late afternoon.”
“Exactly. We know there have been spies in Dunkerque – we caught them. That being the case, it’s a good bet there will be more by now, replacements sent in. So many refugees that it’s impossible to sort the few bad eggs out. The authorities are trying to put them all to work – we need roadbuilders and labourers of all sorts in the rear areas, there are jobs for them. A few months and they will have emptied the town of the spare bodies that infest it just now – refugees all over the bloody place! They tell me it’s worse in London – not just Belgians but every sort of Balkan object as well. Word is that the government is busy setting up governments in exile and getting them to pass conscription laws for their own people. We shall end up with all sorts of battalions within a few months. Useful! We need the men and they are better off carrying a rifle than begging in the streets of London.”
It was war and Britain had a tiny army. All bodies were welcome.
They exchanged salutes and Simon marched off to Lancelot, wondering why he had been favoured with a discussion of more than the simple operation he was to undertake. It was almost as if Tyrwhitt was coaching him, bringing him along in the Service. He was owed no favours, he was sure… His maternal grandfather was a powerful man and had shown some liking for him when they had finally met. A quiet word from Isaacs the Banker might easily translate into a message from the Admiralty to ‘look after young Sturton’.
Perhaps he was in the same sort of position as poor old Adams had once been. Better off than Adams, because he knew from his example just how easily a golden boy could be stripped of his gilt.
The boatswain’s pipes squealed as he trotted up the short brow and onto Lancelot’s deck, looking about him to see that all was as it should be. Higgins had the watch, an extra reason to double-check.
He saw nothing out of place until he glanced at the bridge, saw something different on the wings.
“What’s that, Higgins?”
“Just fitted, sir. Mr Rees set them up this morning. A new sort of Lewis, sir, with a pan that carries ninety-seven rounds instead of forty-seven. Twins, sir, which needed a bit of fiddling with the mountings, or so he said. Much more poke in a fight, sir.”
“’Poke’, Mr Higgins?”
“Yes, sir. His word, sir, not mine.”
“Ah! If the Commissioned Gunner says so, then it must be right. Perfectly correct, young man!”
“Thank you, sir. Look forward to using them, sir. I like the Lewis!”
Simon was amazed by such enthusiasm from their very own village idiot. The boy might be growing up. Perhaps he had started shaving.
“Make sure you are familiar with them, Mr Higgins, and then bring all of the bridge up to scratch, myself included. Never know, I might have to lend a hand one day.”
It was clear from the expression on Higgins’ face that he did not think God should descend so far as to pull a trigger.
“Are you happy with your four inch, Mr Higgins?”
“Yes, sir. No problems with the guns, sir. I like them. It’s not like navigation, sir. One knows where one is with a gun.”
Simon nodded gravely, only too aware that Higgins rarely knew where he was when navigating.
“We must look at making you a gunnery specialist perhaps, Mr Higgins…”
That would mean Whale Island. Everything at the double and precise. Mature consideration, taking all of five seconds, suggested that Higgins would not survive the first day of his gunnery course.
“Although, perhaps not. General duties rather than a specialisation – often a better route to promotion.”
“Oh, good, sir. The mater wrote me only yesterday enquiring how soon I would be captain of my own ship. I am writing back now to explain that it takes a number of years, even in wartime. I cannot possibly be given even the smallest boat until I am a lieutenant, and that will not be this year.”
Or next, Simon suspected, unless…
“There is word down the line of small gunboats and torpedo boats in the offing, Mr Higgins. A crew of three or four, perhaps, for the torpedo boats. Coastal Motor Boats, I believe they are calling them. A young lieutenant, even a sub, could make a name for himself with one of those.”
“The mater would be terribly delighted was I to be given a command, even a little one. She was so pleased when I was given my Mention, sir, told me I should give you her thanks. I thought it might be undisciplined if I did, sir, so I did not.”
“It’s not entirely usual, Mr Higgins. Not an offence, though. Express my good wishes to her in your letter, if you would be so good.”
“Oh, she would be delighted by that, sir. She has told me how lucky I was to end up under your command and how kind of you to take me with you to your next ship.”
If only the poor boy knew the reality, that he had been dumped on Simon and left with him as result of pressure from on high.
“I have no doubt that you will make a fine officer
and a credit to me, Mr Higgins. Persevere with your navigation – you will have to find your own way if ever you end up in a boat of your own.”
Higgins beamed, delighted that the captain he worshipped should say such kind things to him. He would work his very hardest to justify his faith in him.
Simon retreated to his cabin, calling for Canning, his first lieutenant.
“Zeebrugge again, Canning. Sail on this morning’s tide for Dunkerque, a high speed run and a few manoeuvres while we are at it – just basic stuff, line astern to abreast then to echelon, presenting the broadsides to either quarter, sort of thing. You can deal with that – good experience for you. I have recommended you for command, by the way.”
Canning made his thanks, having thought that his previous captain’s personal report on him would doom him for years.
“What did he have against you, Canning?”
“Well, in fact, sir, it was more a private sort of thing… Not really a Service matter.”
“Oh, good! That will make it far more interesting!”
Canning surrendered and told all.
“Very well, sir. It was a matter of a young lady in Dover – no, that’s wrong, definitely not a lady! Not a whore as such, sir, far from it, she never took money though she had no objection to the odd expensive little present - every week, that was. I knew her first and we had a bit of a thing going for a few weeks. It tailed off, as these things do, sir, and she met up with the captain. Might be she dropped me in his favour, in fact, he being able to afford more expensive presents. All done in good humour, staying friends, you might say, until she fell out with the captain. Why and how, I do not know, but it was in company and she tore him off a strip and ended up by saying that he need not act so self-satisfied, he was not half so good in bed as Brian Canning!”
“Whoops! How soon after that did he file his court martial papers for insubordination?”
“Within the day, sir. I informed my Friend of the details and he spoke to the lawyer from the Attorney General’s department and the Court never heard anything in public – to avoid scandal – and dismissed the charges against me. It did look as if it was going to end my career, sir, then they sent me here as an effective promotion.”
“Quite right, too, Canning. An abuse of the Service, trying to court-martial you. Funny, though!”
“After the event perhaps, sir. Young McCracken should make lieutenant very soon, sir. An able lad. It will allow us to promote young Waller as well.”
“Agreed. I shall put their papers through to the Commodore later in the week. I intend to recommend Higgins for one of these little torpedo craft that are coming into service. He might do well in one of them. He won’t make the grade in anything else.”
“Hardly wise, I would have thought, sir. Not the most able of young men… In fact, damned near the least able I have ever come across.”
“I know. His parentage is the problem, Canning. Let me explain…”
A couple of minutes and Canning sat back, amused and horror-stricken simultaneously.
“One of Dirty Bertie’s bastards! Supposed to be a number of them about, sir. Got to do something for him… A small boat going out in hunt of big game along the coast gives him the chance to make a name for himself without demanding a lot by way of ability. Gets him off our backs as well, sir.”
“Exactly, Canning. I suspect it will get him off everybody’s back in short order. He will take the craziest risks for not realising what they are. There’s a chance he will get away with it – I hope so, I have a slight liking for the lad. If he succeeds, then he becomes the Admiralty’s problem – they will have to work out what to do with him next. If he fails, then he is nobody’s problem; chances are there won’t even be a body to bury.”
“Highly satisfactory, sir. Young Waller is up for his certificate, by the way. Be useful to have him as a watchkeeper.”
“That’s quick – mind you, he has been yachting since he was ten, crewing that is, so he probably knew all he needed before he joined up. Get it written up and I will present it to him.”
Canning produced the document, typed up by a seaman writer on the depot ship, looking very official. Simon signed it and called for Waller.
The boy ran from the wardroom, a matter of a very few yards.
“Found this piece of paper lying about my desk, Waller. It belongs to you.”
A few seconds to take in what it actually was followed by a pleased grin.
“That makes me a watchkeeping officer, does it not, sir?”
“It does, Waller. Well done. You are truly one of us now. Keep learning – there is a lot more to pick up. A good start, young man! Mr Canning will rewrite the watch list to include you with early effect.”
They moved up to the bridge, readying for the day’s business.
“Yeoman, signal half-flotilla to be ready to sail at the top of the tide, in conformity to written orders. You will take us out, Mr Canning. Mr Rees!”
The Commissioned Gunner trotted up to the bridge, carrying something wrapped in canvas.
“A quick rundown on the new Lewises, Mr Rees.”
“Pair of twins, sir, with the new pans. I had hoped for something heavier but anything I could lay my hands on was belt fed. That demands a crew of at least two and would not fit in on the bridge. The Lewises are very similar to the original model, takes two minutes to learn the difference. Higgins has picked it up.”
“Must be simple then, Mr Rees. What are you carrying? That looks like a rifle butt.”
“A Hotchkiss machine gun, sir. French originally, going into production in England at the moment, firing three-o-three rounds. Managed to get hold of a couple through an acquaintance, sir. Longer effective range than the Lewis which might make them come in handy. Higher muzzle velocity. I was thinking of setting their little tripod up on a sort of a pole mounting, hooking them on when wanted, for use against aeroplanes. Could put them up on the Maxim bandstand, sir.”
“Go ahead, Mr Rees. Useful to have some way of irritating those things in the sky. Much in favour, in fact.”
They tied up at the wharf at Dunkerque, much to their pleasure. Anchored or at a buoy in the outer harbour meant it was difficult to get ashore; moored alongside, all hands could be released for a couple of hours at a time.
“There’s a chocolate seller in the market again, sir. Not the same old biddy as ‘twas, sir. Good stuff though.”
“I’ll see what she’s got, Packer. Always pleasant to have a bar of chocolate to chew on in the middle of the night.”
“I got biscuits for the cabin, sir.”
Half a dozen chocolate biscuits on a plate were always welcome when officers came visiting.
As always, Simon spent more than he had intended at the stall, came back telling himself he would get fat. He was of a stocky build naturally, would need little excess to become pudgy. There was almost no chance to exercise aboard ship and it was always tempting to nibble on something during the long nights.
He heard the pipes sound as a senior officer was welcomed aboard, was surprised he had not been warned in advance.
The duty seaman at the brow called quietly to him.
“Captain Campbell-Barnes, sir.”
Captain of Lucifer, junior ship in the half-flotilla.
“’Afternoon, sir. Thought I should speak to you rather than send a signal. Quicker. One of my subs tripped over on deck an hour back. Running, for some reason, and caught his heel in a ringbolt. Hospital says he has broken both bones in the lower leg. On the sick list for months with that.”
“Right, he must be replaced, sooner rather than later. Come with me to Senior Naval Officer, Dunkerque, see what, if anything, he has available.”
There were three monitors and four predreadnought battleships in harbour, part of the bombardment squadron. With their far larger wardrooms it was commonly possible to pull an officer off them to fill a gap. A destroyer had so small a complement that a missing man would affect efficiency; on the big s
hips, which spent far more hours in port than at sea, one sub would hardly be noticed.
SNO Dunkerque was happy to assist, knowing that Simon was favoured by Commodore Tyrwhitt and had a record of success that reflected favour on Dunkerque as well.
“What do you want? A sublieutenant with a year or two in or a midshipman ready to make his step?”
Simon raised an eyebrow to Campbell-Barnes, left the decision to him.
“A bright young mid would be ideal, sir. Happy to pick up his commission and not had the chance to get into habits of idleness on a big ship like too many subs from the battlewagons.”
“Should be no difficulty, let me see… I have a list somewhere of mids due to make sub, sent in from the Bombardment Squadron. My responsibility these days, don’t send such trivial matters to the Admiralty for a decision in time of war. What have we got? Seven, no less, let’s take a look at their names.”
Campbell-Barnes instantly dismissed a plebian Smith and an appalling Higginthwaite, ended up undecided between a Cavendish and a Watney-Egglinton.
“Damned difficult decision, sir! Cavendish must be related to the Dukes of Devonshire, in the nature of things, while the other must have a daughter of the brewing family and a second or third son of the Earl of Cumberland as parents. No money in the Cumberland family, these days, sir, but a deal of political influence – related to everybody in the Party!”
The Death of Hope Page 5
