The Death of Hope

by Andrew Wareham

  “Well bred – very good manners. It may be his breeding that is the problem, the reason why he has been cosseted in the service.”

  Biggleswade showed blank. Simon saw no reason to enlighten him.

  “The remainder are all competent, you would say?”

  “More than, sir. They have produced an efficient ship.”

  Simon noticed the words the Paymaster had chosen. Normally, it was the captain who made a ship what it was.

  “What of the gunroom?”

  “Two subs, either capable of stepping up, sir, as soon as there is a vacancy. Both have their certificates. The two mids are both wartime intake and have a lot of learning to do. Both have messed about in boats as boys and are capable of coxing their cutters. Neither is another Nelson.”

  “Few of us are, Paymaster. What of the flotilla? Seven captains, one of them a lieutenant commander, I presume.”

  “Griffin, sir. Funnily enough, he is probably the least competent of the lot. He was working with minesweepers; due to a cousin on Beatty’s staff, he was able to swing a destroyer when he was made. Because of seniority, he had to have the half-flotilla, of course. The little I have seen of him, suggests you may well need to ease him out, sir. That will be difficult, because he is one of Beatty’s people and you are not. Service politics, sir.”

  Simon had not been aware that he was known to be one of Jellicoe’s people. He had never met Jellicoe, knew of him only as one of Fisher’s products and the most senior of seagoing admirals.

  “Yes, sir. You are one of Commodore Tyrwhitt’s followers, sir, and he is a strong supporter of Jellicoe. Actually, sir, to be precise, he dislikes Beatty far more than he approves of Jellicoe. Like any senior officer, he has to belong to one party or the other. No room for neutrality in today’s Navy, sir!”

  An advantage of the widespread nature of the factions was that neither admiral could do much to disadvantage the opposition – there were simply too many bodies involved to be able to post out the other’s people.

  “So, wait until he makes a visible faux pas and then send him on his way… Let us hope he sinks no ships, kills no men the while.”

  “More like to sink a few buoys trying to pick up a mooring, sir. Not a good idea to put him alongside if it can be avoided, sir. He insists on conning the ship, won’t hand over to the coxswain but is used to an eight knot sweeper.”

  “That could be funny. I must think of witty signals to send. The other six captains?”

  “Destroyermen, sir. Small ships through and through, several of them with service dating back to the introduction of the oily wads. Joined as mids and able never to leave the boats.”

  “Good. A signal in the morning, ‘gin pennant flying at sixteen hundred hours’. Square it with Mr Strachan.”

  Hosting the captains and their first lieutenants would mean use of the wardroom, requiring the permission of the President.

  “Will do, sir.”

  Simon’s dinner appeared, bringing the meeting to an end.

  “A pork chop and fresh vegetables, Packer. Well done at this time of year.”

  “Didn’t ask no questions of the cook, sir.”

  The Navigator arrived first in the morning.

  “Knyvett, sir.”

  He was dressed in doeskins, the most expensive of uniform cloths, displayed gold cufflinks and collar studs and was wearing a large and shiny wristwatch. Simon suspected an income greater than his, which was rarely large for the Navy.

  They exchanged salutes, crisp and precise – no languid, fashionable sloppiness.

  “Take a seat, Mr Knyvett. How long since you completed your courses?”

  “Pre-war, sir. Three years ago.”

  He had attended the full, long course, not the abbreviated wartime version.

  “Good. Useful to have a fully qualified man in your position. All up to scratch in your domain?”

  “I could use a junior, sir. One of the youngsters to learn the trade.”

  “Sensible to have another man who can find a position to a second… Would either sub be suitable?”

  “Not ideal, sir. The younger midshipman seems to have more than two brain cells to rub together.”

  “Is he interested?”

  “I think so, sir. I have sounded him out. Hedges, by name. By way of being a bit of an oik – father is a trawler owner – but a sound seaman in the making.”

  “That’s what we need in time of war. Well spotted. Take him under your wing. Tell Mr Strachan. None of the lieutenants interested or suitable?”

  “Salt horse, all of them. None to set the world on fire. None of them incapable, to my knowledge. I don’t know about the new man, joined only yesterday.”

  “Higgins?”

  “That’s him. All I know of him is that he tripped over the coaming entering the wardroom.”

  “Only once?”

  “Why, yes, sir. Was that not sufficient?”

  Knyvett risked half a smile.

  “An improvement on his general performance. Do not permit Higgins entrance to your chartroom, Mr Knyvett. If he does not burn it down, he will fall onto your instruments and blunt all of your pencils by looking at them. He is a disaster on two legs. He is my albatross!”

  “I am not sufficiently familiar with the Ancient Mariner to comment, sir. I did notice a DSC.”

  “He has a Mention as well.”

  Simon explained the manner in which Higgins had won his medals.

  “And he is yours to nurture in the Service, sir? Might I enquire why?”

  “Ask and conjecture all you will, Mr Knyvett. My lips are sealed. Try not to make too much of a fuss about his provenance. If possible, I shall push him across to one of these new little torpedo boats they are bringing into service. A wild, unthinking crazy man may make an impact there.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “After the war, he may well be let loose upon Society. If he has a chestful of decorations, he may end up with a rich wife who will cosset him and keep him out of harm’s way. His mother will be made most happy by that.”

  “What of his father, sir?”

  Knyvett was beginning to have suspicions.

  “Damned good question, Mr Knyvett! Who is next down the list?”

  “Third in line for command if an unfortunate shell hits the bridge, sir? Guns, I am afraid.”

  Knyvett said no more, stood saluted and left, content that the new captain was aware of his many virtues.

  Strachan ushered the gunnery lieutenant into the cabin, a smile twitching.

  “Mr Jackson, sir.”

  A great, shambling bear of a man with a black beard to his chest, hiding all except nose and brown eyes. He stiffened into a rigid Whale Island attention and salute.

  “Sir!”

  His voice was pitched to be heard over a fifteen inch battleship gun. It was deafening.

  “Take a seat, Mr Jackson. How is your department for readiness?”

  “Short of live firing, sir. Fast in dumbshow. Need a few rounds on a range, sir. Or on a target at sea, sir.”

  “Full magazines?”

  “Yes, sir. Finally. Taken a long time, sir.”

  “Good. What of the high angle gun?”

  “Three pounder, sir. Fused shells. Airburst. Don’t know about them, sir. For aeroplanes. Or Zeppelins.”

  “Increasingly a nuisance, aeroplanes. Are those Vickers on the bridge?”

  “Yes, sir. Captain Swann got them, sir. Not me. Need four men.”

  “What is their mounting?”

  “Pintle, sir. High angle if needed.”

  “Very good. Have you anything tucked away against need?”

  Jackson looked about him, rather theatrically, making sure there were no hidden spies.

  “Got hold of four Lewis Guns, sir. Infantry pattern, to be carried by a boarding party, if needs be.”

  “Excellent! I am much in favour of initiative.”

  “Automatic pistols as well, sir. Belgian guns. Emptied a gun shop in Ant
werp, to keep them out of the hands of the Germans. Brought them with me, being as I could not hand them over, officially, that was. I was aboard Cressy, sir, was sent ashore with a few hands to assist with the evacuation, ended up left ashore, sir. Pinched a little coaster and got out with some soldiers, sir. And with the automatics. Posted to Naiad in the yard, not sent back to Cressy, which was lucky.”

  “Damned fortunate, if you ask me, Jackson! Lucky for Naiad that you are here. All well with the guns, otherwise?”

  “New four inch, sir. New design and they keep jamming. Need to be replaced. Can’t get them right. Design is faulty, in my opinion.”

  That was not good news.

  “What of the six inch?”

  “Good guns, sir. All I could ask for.”

  “What range?”

  “Fifteen thousand yards, sir. Not that you would want to fire them at that distance. No point to it. Broadsides at five cables, sir, that’s the way to do it!”

  “I want to hit a submarine’s conning tower at the limit of practical visibility, Mr Jackson. Shall we say eight thousand yards?”

  Whale Island did not indulge in such dabbling, it seemed.

  “Four nautical miles, sir? That’s a long way.”

  “So it is.”

  Jackson realised that his new master was not joking, said that he would do his best.

  “I am sure you will. This war demands the best of all of us, Mr Jackson. What of torpedoes?”

  “Have not fired yet, sir. No dummy heads. Fairly sure of our speed and efficiency, sir. The depth bombs, the same. Nothing to practice with.”

  “Very well. I shall inspect them when I look round the ship, of course. Thank you, Mr Jackson.”

  The big man left, far less sure of himself than when he had entered.

  “That is the two department heads, sir. I will send the remainder through by seniority, I presume? What of the engineroom?”

  “The three together – I cannot talk technicalities with them. Doctor as well, after the bulk of the seaman lieutenants and the junior Guns.”

  Eight lieutenants, one after the other, two minutes apiece – all products of the pre-war Navy, competent deck officers, the one gunnery specialist not yet standing out.

  “Not yet been to Whale Island, sir. Waiting my turn.”

  The Doctor showed himself to be as expected – young, newly qualified and seemingly competent.

  “I need at least one more orderly, sir. Only two, which is insufficient for three hundred men.”

  “Posted in or have you an eye on one of the lower deck?”

  “A new body, if you please, sir.”

  “I will make the request. I cannot guarantee that a man will come. You are sure that none of the hands could be turned across to you?”

  “The captain’s steward, perhaps, sir. He will be at a loose end as well, will have to fit in as a wardroom waiter, perhaps.”

  “Why did he not go with the captain when he left?”

  It seemed very poor behaviour, to leave one’s servant behind.

  “I believe he had fallen out with the captain, sir. Disapproving of his behaviour, sir.”

  “You know the story? Out with it, man!”

  The Doctor told all. Captain and first lieutenant had become firm friends, which was not too uncommon, had gone ashore together for the evening, had drunk more than was wise and returned to the ship in company with a pair of ladies of the night, had proceeded to make hay in the cabin.

  The story had reached the Commodore’s ears and the two officers had taken the trains to Scapa Flow, there to join the complements of separate battleships, their careers no longer glittering.

  “From captain of a new light cruiser, acting commander, to lieutenant commander and head of a department in a battlewagon, sir – one of many and most undistinguished! The lieutenant, of course, suffered less, still being within reason senior and with a chance of promotion.”

  “Silly of them. Small wonder that the crew are not too upset – envious, if anything!”

  The engineers appeared, solid men, knowing their own worth.

  “McKechnie, sir. Lieutenants Crowe and Jarvis.”

  “Please be seated, gentlemen. I will not ask you of your engines, Mr McKechnie – I doubt I would understand your reply. What sort of speed can you give me?”

  “A fraction in excess of twenty-eight knots for two or three hours, sir. Twenty-six for two days unbroken. Fifteen days at a cruising speed of fourteen knots. Very reliable, sir, the engines they have given me.”

  “Good. I shall try to inform you ahead of any violent manoeuvring. How are you for bodies?”

  To Simon’s amaze, the engineroom was up to complement and had the correct skill levels as well.

  “Room for a youngster to train up, that’s all, sir.”

  “Any of your ERAs who could make the step to a commission, Mr McKechnie?”

  “One, sir.”

  “Good, bring him on and I will strongly support your recommendation. We need new bodies.”

  The subs and midshipmen were as expected – brightly polished and silent in the presence of the Captain. They also took two minutes apiece.

  “That’s done, Mr Strachan. Shall we inspect the ship? Did you hear the tale of the previous owner, by the way?”

  Strachan was much entertained, though disparaging of their foolishness. Not the sort of behaviour that could go unnoticed in a naval base such as Harwich.

  “Might get away with it in Dunkerque, sir. Not here.”

  “Get away with a lot of things across the Channel, Strachan. As you say, unwise here. Upper deck first, beginning at the stern. Have you ever seen a depth bomb? Do you have any idea what to do with them?”

  Strachan shook his head. They adjusted their caps and moved out, in command and knowing everything, ready to look with supercilious eye at the new weapon and to imply they understood all. Captains knew all there was to be known, by order.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Had a good Christmas, Baker?”

  “Surprisingly enjoyable, sir. Served the men their meal, sir, in the old way, at thirteen hundred, when they eat, the officers acting as waiters and finding enough bottles to make every head spin! Had a damned good dinner ourselves in the evening. Hawkeswill managed to get hold of geese and chicken as well as some good roasts of beef. Don’t know how he did it – didn’t ask – best meal I have had in a year! Put him to bed roaring drunk – I think we all of us had a glass with him!”

  Brigadier Braithwaite was pleased for them – that was the way it should be done, the old way of the professional army, bringing officers and men together.

  “New year’s gift has come my way, Baker. I have been made – I am a major general now. On my way back Home tomorrow to take over a division of the New Army. Several of us old hands being sent back from Flanders to give some much-needed experience, train them up prior to coming out in May.”

  “Congratulations, sir. Who is to take over?”

  “No idea – haven’t been told. Doesn’t matter to you, Baker. You are coming back with me, as a brigadier – acting, not substantive. Wartime promotion, of course. You have been made substantive as a major, that’s as low as you can fall when the war ends - which it is expected to within three months of the New Army being unleashed on the Hun!”

  “One of the ‘boy brigadiers’, sir.”

  “Yes, dearly loved by the gutter press. The newspapers will be full of it – your photograph being trotted out again with all of the normal nonsense. The ‘Hero of the Bridge’ and all that tosh – you will have to put up with that again. Take command immediately, shake them up as necessary, give yourself four weeks at the end of February, thereabouts. You will need a good leave, man!”

  “A wedding as well, sir, with your permission.”

  “So I thought. Granted on condition I receive an invitation!”

  “Consider it done, sir. Where do we go and when?”

  “I shall pick you up, staff car and lorry for
baggage, zero eight hundred hours precisely, in the morning. Off to Calais and we should reach Aldershot by evening. Take over next morning. Your Major Vokes has the battalion, acting colonel. You may inform him at soonest. You have permission to take a lieutenant with you for staff. Your own choice.”

  “Not bloody Wincanton, that’s for sure, sir! Michaels, I think – make a change to see a staff lieutenant with a piece of honest ribbon on his chest.”

  “Excellent! In the morning, Baker!”

  Braithwaite hung up and left Richard wondering what to do first.

  “Paisley!”

  The batman appeared, trying to look as if he had not been eavesdropping.

  “Put up sergeant’s stripes, Paisley. Can’t have a mere lance corporal as batman to a brigadier!”

  There was no reason in Regulations why that should be so. Paisley was not about to argue.

  “Pack up ready to move at eight tomorrow. Send the word for Major Vokes, please.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll put up the three stars, sir.”

  Major Vokes came in at the run.

  “What’s up, sir? Flap on? Are we sent back up the line early?”

  “No. You are to take over the battalion, acting colonel. Put the rank up with effect from breakfast tomorrow. I am to be made a brigadier in the New Army, under Braithwaite as major general. I don’t know his replacement. I am to take a lieutenant with me as staff. I thought Michaels?”

  Vokes quickly assumed the gravest of expressions, shaking his head solemnly.

  “I am sure Wincanton would be better suited to the function, sir. A fine, upstanding young fellow and at home in Society as well as in the Army!”

  “Balls, Vokes!”

  “As you say, sir. I will be unhappy to lose a man of Michaels’ stature, sir. Easily the best of the subalterns. A fighting man, through and through.”

  It was a fair point. Taking Michaels away would to an extent impair the battalion. The loss of Wincanton, on the other hand, might go a way to improving their efficiency.

  “I owe the battalion a favour, I suppose… Very well. Inform Wincanton of his good fortune and make sure he is ready to go in the morning, Vokes. Pack his bag and hold his hand for him, I would suggest.”

  “I shall pass the word quietly. The appointment will be much favoured – I am sure that all will agree he will make a good staff officer.”