“I can do nothing about the latter, I fear. I will pass the word on the other three items.”
Scapa Flow was tedious. Black Prince sat at her mooring for weeks on end, waiting at eight hours notice for steam, her crew busily polishing themselves and everything else they could find. Every few days a warning notice for sailing arrived as it seemed possible that the German High Seas Fleet was moving; it was inevitably cancelled within a few hours and the stokers were told to stand down.
Life was particularly boring for Christopher Adams. As Navigating Officer he had no other responsibilities, no division of men, no section of ship to care for. His sole activity was to spend a couple of hours a week correcting his charts and a few more training up the sublieutenant and midshipman allocated to him. Both youths were sufficiently bright to assimilate the knowledge he offered; neither knew anybody from his stratum of Society or had any interesting conversation.
He played a good hand of bridge – it had been a necessity for a flag lieutenant – and that occupied a few hours of every day. He had a few books in his cabin and was able to exchange them with other reading officers. Much of his time was spent in the wardroom, talking with whoever was present.
He was not interested in hunting the fox and shot no more than was socially necessary, so sporting converse was a pain to him. The war, politics and women were banned topics in the wardroom and that left very little else to chat about. He had played Rugby on occasion and was able to listen to the Gunnery Officer, who had played for the Navy, as he interminably relived exciting matches he had taken part in.
‘We went into a ruck’ was a phrase liable to haunt him to his dying days, he feared. Guns had done little other than ruck in his whole life, or so it seemed. He was sure it was jolly good fun.
Black Prince was anchored behind Duke of Edinburgh, senior ship in the class. Connaught had been sent off to the East African coast where a heavy ship was required in case something large and Germanic appeared to interfere in the long-dragging campaign there. The pair of armoured cruisers sat and waited, occasionally debating just what they might do when the fleet eventually sallied forth.
The commander discussed their function often when he was on the bridge with Christopher.
“Thing is, Adams, we in the Cruiser Squadron are too slow to catch a destroyer and too small to say anything to a battleship or battlecruiser. Bit pointless, in fact.”
“Are we not supposed to catch destroyers at a distance, before they can launch torpedoes at the Grand Fleet, sir?”
“In theory, yes. Six nine point twos and six now of six inch, all usable, says we can lay down a respectable broadside – more than fifteen hundred pounds weight of explosive shell. Won’t need armour-piercing for our work, of course. Trouble is, Adams, that I am not entirely certain we could hit a small and fast target like destroyers, particularly at more than three thousand yards, outside effective torpedo range. The shortage of ammunition means we get little target practice, as you know. The shooting on the range is at stationary targets – and we don’t hit them too often over more than a mile.”
It seemed that Black Prince must reduce the range if she was to hit destroyers.
“That seems to imply that we should leave the fleet and close on the Germans if we are to be effective, sir.”
“Exactly, Adams. The captain is aware of that. I suspect that may be his intention, you know. The Fleet Orders place us ‘on the beam’ unless specifically sent elsewhere. The implication is that we shall be behind the line of battleships until we are called on to meet a destroyer attack when we shall cut through the line and do our job before returning to safety. The Orders are not entirely specific and a willing mind can query which beam we should be abaft. Add to that, when we are sent out to deal with destroyers, there is no specification of how far we should go. I rather suspect that we are seen as a minor unit and that the orders for us were drafted by a junior man on Jellicoe’s staff and passed through on the nod. The great man himself has probably given us very little attention. The captain seems to wish to take advantage of that.”
Christopher could see the possibilities.
A cruiser captain who distinguished himself in the great battle would receive immediate promotion, certainly moving to a battleship command, possibly as a rear admiral with a squadron. There would be decorations, perhaps a knighthood. All of the senior officers would be recognised.
Black Prince had three torpedo tubes as well as her guns, could hit hard at close range. She could sink a lightly armoured battlecruiser, almost of a certainty, if she could get close to the far faster ship.
“Shifting out to meet a night destroyer attack, sir, and then venturing a little closer than might be expected to the German line, coming across one of their big battlecruisers in the darkness… Might be a chance of putting down Derfflinger or Seydlitz if all went well. If all three torpedoes hit then three or four rapid broadsides of armour-piercing might do the trick. Demands a deal of luck, sir, right place at the right time, sort of thing.”
The Commander was less enthusiastic.
“All very well, Adams, but when did we exercise the torpedoes? Add to that, any battlecruiser will be in company. While we are hitting your big target, which we might do, there could be up to a dozen of battlecruisers and battleships in range and doing their best to hit us. It is likely that we could get the torpedoes away and a couple of broadsides… After that, with eleven and twelve inch shell raining down on us, how long would we live?”
The only answer was ‘minutes’. Black Prince could take bold action; there would be very little chance of surviving it.
“Can we exercise the tubes in dumbshow, in harbour, sir?”
“We should. The Gunnery Officer sees no need, expecting never to use them. He has them manned by stewards and officers’ servants at action stations, seeing no need to waste useful hands on them. I am not sure they could even load one torpedo into its tube, let alone all three, and, as for reloads, forget it! It takes muscle to heave a torpedo out of its rack and into a cradle and then move it across to slide it into a tube. Stewards are known for many things, Adams, but physical strength ain’t one of them.”
Christopher agreed. Stewards rarely carried anything heavier than a tray with a glass of gin. Manhandling three quarters of a ton of torpedo was certainly beyond them. The officers’ servants were almost all ancient ABs, good seamen beyond their prime, too old to be employed on deck or at the guns. They would try their best with muscles that were past it.
“Not a great chance of hitting with the torpedoes. No certainty even of firing them. Is the captain aware, sir?”
“He discounts them in any case. Good gunnery at close range, using HE for best effect. No need to worry about damned new inventions when firing at a thousand yards, Adams!”
“I met that attitude on Connaught, sir. The Gunnery Officer there could not believe in armour-piercing. Fortunately, the target was an ancient Austrian predreadnought at anchor and two out of four torpedoes from our consort hit her. Twenty-one inch and squarely amidships, one of them, destroying the boiler room. No nets or booms in the way. She turned turtle in minutes. Even on such an old vessel, her armour was sufficient that HE had very little effect. Same at the Falkland Isles. The Germans had expended all of their armour-piercing at Coronel and the HE did not penetrate Invincible or Indefatigable. Killed one man, their sole effect. A touch-up of the paintwork and off we went. Fortunate, that was.”
The Commander had heard that the battle had been less glorious than the newspapers had announced, knew none of the detail. Christopher had pleasure informing him.
“Three percent accuracy at range. Less than fifty at two thousand yards, you say, Adams?”
“Seen by my own eyes, sir. I was counting.”
“Good God! I wonder, would we do any better?”
Christopher thought it might be tactless to answer.
“A change, gentlemen! We are to spend a week at Queensferry, replacing our searchlight in the ya
rd and changing some of the three pounders for anti-aircraft guns, of all things!”
The Captain was openly scornful of the imposition of such innovations on his ship. He turned to his senior officers, gathered in his cabin.
“Aeroplanes! Who cares about them? Have any of you seen an aeroplane at sea?”
The question had been asked and could not be ducked. Christopher raised a finger.
“An Austrian seaplane, sir. Off Split. Looking for Connaught after she sank the old battleship there.”
“Reconnaissance, you say, Adams?”
“Yes, sir. Rather foolishly, it dropped a pair of tiny hand grenades which left a soot mark on one of the main battery turrets. I suppose, sir, that if they had been lucky and had dropped on the open upper bridge, then we might have lost officers. Chances were against it. If aeroplanes get bigger, and carry larger bombs, then a flotilla of a dozen all attacking at once could do great harm. At the moment, sir, I do not think we need fear them.”
The Captain snorted. He had been about to say the same. Now, he had to think of something different because his rank demanded he should have the last word.
“Well put, Adams. What I will say, thinking on it, is that we don’t want scouting aeroplanes with these damned wirelesses sending back details of where we are and what we are doing. Bad enough to have Zeppelins wandering about. Can see them at least, even if we can’t do much about them. They are going to give us four three inch twelve pounders with some sort of special shell – timed fuses or some such thing to explode in the air. No need to make a direct hit. Means we need another twenty men, Guns. See to their messing with your division. Get them some practice as soon as we leave Queensferry.”
The Gunnery Officer signified his understanding of the order, shaking his head unhappily. The mess decks on Black Prince were already overcrowded with additional wartime postings; where to put another twenty men was beyond him.
The Commander tapped Guns’ shoulder.
“See me afterwards, Guns. I can find an unused compartment. Belonged to the band and we have set them ashore.”
The remainder of the daily meeting drifted to its end, nothing else of importance mentioned. The Captain said that the Admiral was disappointed in the general level of smartness of the Grand Fleet. He had seen a number of slack pulling boats in the Sound, reminded all ships of the need to turn their boats’ crews out smartly.
“Provisioning, gentlemen! The boats were returning from the butchery with sheep and bullock carcasses, recently slaughtered and running blood. What does he expect? No captain is going to dress his men in number ones just to get them ruined with blood and guts! Getting the twitch, if you ask me, sitting on his backside up here instead of sailing out to seek battle. Not the way Nelson ran a war!”
The officers left, smiling openly at these disloyal words. None of them wanted to stay another day at Scapa Flow; all were willing by then to sail direct to the Kattegat and round Denmark in a great assault on the Baltic Sea and Kiel and to hell with minefields and submarines both.
“Queensferry this afternoon, Adams. Gin pennant flying as soon as we are tied up.”
Christopher welcomed the prospect. The gin pennant – an invitation to all ships’ wardrooms to come aboard for a drink – was long overdue. He was looking forward to seeing new faces, talking to different people.
“What’s in port, sir?”
“The Battlecruiser Division, eight of them. Defence and Warrior of the armoured cruisers. Six flotillas of destroyers. That’s all of the respectable ships. The submarines are at their own base and won’t join us. Minesweepers and such are all reservist boats, won’t go poking their noses in with their betters.”
“I might find an hour to go aboard some of the trawlers, sir, especially if the Star boats are based here. Remarkable seamen those Arctic trawler skippers, sir. Rough men but sound – willing to tell an admiral exactly where to put his orders when they didn’t like them!”
The Commander was not certain that was a good thing.
The evening was long and wet, all of the officers rolling into their bunks more or less the worse for wear. It made a pleasant change.
Christopher surfaced with a memory of accepting an invitation to attend a ball of some sorts – the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, he believed. He made his way to the wardroom for breakfast, glanced at the noticeboard, newly decorated with cards of invitation. He was right, there was a ball that evening. It would make a pleasant change, it was years since he had put on his best bib and tucker, his smartest dress uniform. He called his servant to dig it out of his trunk and to set to with smoothing iron and produce a perfect dress shirt as well.
It was quite like old days he thought as he joined the other senior officers in the carriage they had hired, more appropriate than a mere taxicab for such a function.
“I say, Adams, you outshine us all! Full formal ball dress according to Holding’s Pattern Book!”
Christopher smiled deprecatingly, aware as any that the full-tailed cutaway coat over marcella waistcoat and navy-blue breeches with a snowy white neckcloth made a handsome setting for a lean-bodied, athletic young man. He would catch every eye, he much hoped.
No point going to a ball if one was not to partner the prettiest of the young ladies. He might keep an open eye for any eligible young female as well. A wife would make sense soon after the war if he was to become a man of affairs in the business world.
They were announced as they entered the ballroom, in the most old-fashioned way.
“Captain Gilpin-Brown and officers of Black Prince cruiser!”
They proceeded as naval tradition demanded, making a beeline for the refreshments, turned to survey the throng over full glasses.
“Been here before, Adams?”
“Not since October last, sir. I was with Iron Duke then. Little seems to have changed in the better part of a year.”
A few minutes and he realised just how true those words were.
“Mr Adams, you have returned! And as Lieutenant Commander as well! I am so glad to see you again.”
The youngest daughter of the Duke of Blair beamed dewy-eyed at him, her hero returned from the war to her arms.
“Miss Atholl, a pleasure to see you again, ma’am!”
He surveyed her left hand hopefully, saw neither wedding band nor engagement ring. He had to accept that the young lady was still single, and as earnest as ever in her pursuit, it would seem. He could not leave her standing there, begged her to dance, swept her onto the floor, damned his luck as he discovered it to be a waltz with its inevitable close contact.
They made an attractive couple - the young lady handsome by most standards and officially beautiful, being a duke’s daughter; the gentleman the son of a prominent viscount and a serving officer and dressed better than any man in the room. The match was instantly made in the eyes of the elder ladies, they informing the senior gentlemen of the fact. There were no fewer than three admirals present; all had congratulated Christopher on his conquest before the evening was over.
The officers met over breakfast, most of them grinning as Christopher came in.
“When will the announcement be, Adams?”
The Commander was at his jovial best, ho-hoing mightily.
“I wonder, sir, what’s the chance of a posting to the China Station?”
“None, you young dog! You have made a conquest of the dear girl and she is yours to claim. A duke’s daughter, no less! I am surprised you do not have a gold-plated sextant!”
It was a heavy joke, was met with much approbation. The officers could not imagine that a duke was other than rich, envied his good fortune.
Iron Duke came in later in the week and the Black Princes were invited to drinks. Admiral Jellicoe spotted Christopher, enquired of his well-being in the kindest fashion.
“Hear I have to congratulate you, Adams! Blair’s daughter! One of the best families.”
Christopher sent a letter to his father, informing him of the circumstance, r
eceived an immediate response, the Mail service still good.
‘Congratulations, my son! Not a suitable naval wife. In many ways ideal for a businessman. Blair’s daughter can open many doors to you, more even than I can. As I remember, she is a bonnie lass – take the plunge and ignore the lack of dowry, we can make up for that.’
He went ashore to speak to the Duke that afternoon, his fate sealed.
Chapter Eight
“Communications trench finished, sir; it runs into the second line opposite your bunker. We shall be using the existing trenches between first and second line, sir. I am keeping the Chinks for another day to cut out more dugouts for us in the front line, sir; being the German second line originally, it needs some modifications. A few hundred coolies can do a quicker and neater job than our men.”
“Very good, Hawkeswill. How do we stand for latrines?”
“We don’t sir. We sit.”
Richard found a laugh, though he would have preferred to strangle the man. He could not stand jolly humour.
“Point taken, Hawkeswill. We are some distance from the facility we used previously, are we not?”
“Half a mile, sir. Not good for a dysentery case. Mind you, ten feet can be too much then. I shall look for a closer site. Not easy, sir. Needs be secluded, not in direct line of sight for shellfire.”
It would be a target that no gunner could resist.
“Appalling thought, Hawkeswill. What you might call a sitting target, eh?”
He thought he might as well join in the infantile humour.
Hawkeswill found it funny, guffawed mightily.
Richard was almost ashamed of himself. The man had turned himself around under pressure at the front, had shown a surprising, pleasing, degree of competence, the narrow-mindedness of years of peacetime garrison service sloughing away and disclosing a soldier rather than a parading mannikin. It was a pity that he still disliked the man.
The Death of Hope Page 14
