The Death of Hope

by Andrew Wareham

  “At night, dear boy! Just how the Captain has it planned!”

  Christopher made no response, excusing himself to go to his chartroom, checking on the last instructions for course on leaving harbour.

  “Changes every week, Proctor. The Cruiser Division seems to be put to a new position relative to the battleships every time Jellicoe wants something to do with a couple of hours!”

  A few minutes working on courses and procedures for leaving Scapa in various states of wind and tide and Christopher sat back, wandered up to the bridge to get some fresh air – something readily available at Scapa – and to take a glance at the great anchorage. There was always some sort of movement, destroyer flotillas going out on exercise and patrol, battleships leaving the fleet to the dockyards or rejoining, storeships and leave boats coming up from the railhead on the mainland.

  “Battleships have been put onto four hours for steam, Adams.”

  The Captain’s voice from behind him.

  “Good morning, sir. Anything for us?”

  “The commodore is active. Cruiser division is about to receive orders, I would say, judging by the activity on her bridge.”

  Christopher looked across at Defence, two cables distant from Warrior and Duke of Edinburgh and Black Prince, the four forming the First Cruiser Squadron under Captain Venn Ellis.

  The Yeoman of the Signals had the acknowledgement flag bent onto the lanyards, waiting for the signal.

  “For First Cruiser Division, sir. Go to two hours readiness for steam, sir. Executive, sir.”

  “Acknowledge.”

  The order was passed down to the engineroom and within minutes the ship was vibrating as all of its boilers were lit up and the engines were turned over, given their final checks.

  “Engineroom reports ready in one hundred minutes, sir.”

  Christopher wondered how that had been achieved. They had been on enhanced readiness previously, on eight hours notice; to turn that to less than two hours was an achievement, suggesting that the Chief had been cheating, had had all of his boilers lit and ready.

  “Received a signal in the night, Adams.”

  There was a chuckle in the captain’s voice, not a common event, Captain Gilpin-Brown not being the most light-hearted of men.

  “Warning of wireless activity over on the Jade and Kiel Canal, a likelihood that some or all of the High Seas Fleet was moving. Probably going out on gunnery exercises in the Baltic. Normal enough. I would not be surprised if the engineroom had heard and taken appropriate action.”

  Coal-fired boilers needed hours to come up to temperature, just how many depending on the foresightedness of the engineers.

  “Clouds of black smoke all over the Flow, sir. The battle fleet is in readiness as well, it would seem.”

  A few minutes and a message came up from the wireless cabin two decks below.

  “Battlecruisers are out. Beatty has all of his command under steam.”

  The officers on the bridge exchanged glances – it might be for real, the big battle finally on the horizon.

  “Call all hands, Commander.”

  Five minutes of apparent chaos, men running to their stations, some still chewing on a sandwich, most grinning, a few shouting their delight.

  “Close watertight doors, sir?”

  “Not yet. Allow the men access to the heads. Get an issue of cocoa to all stations.”

  It might be the last hot drink available for a day or more if they remained closed up overnight. Most of the men would have water bottles with them; the older, experienced hands would have tucked a can of bully beef or a packet of biscuit away as well. All would be making use of the heads, doing their best to empty their bowels before being locked away in tight enclosed metal boxes for the duration of the battle. A ship could be a smelly place after a prolonged period of action stations.

  The bridge was crowded with the extra officers, additional to the ordinary watchkeepers, all waiting for something to happen before they went to their stations at the guns.

  Hours passed, no signals coming from Iron Duke, the flagship.

  “Waiting for the battlecruisers to make contact. Hoping that Beatty will actually tell Jellicoe what is going on. He made a cock of Dogger Bank for not using the wireless, you know.”

  The Battle of Dogger Bank was generally recognised by the Navy as a failure, Beatty’s ships having sunk one heavy cruiser and allowed a flotilla of battlecruisers to escape almost unharmed, due, it was thought, to Beatty’s inability to formulate and clearly convey the necessary orders to his captains. He had relied on flag signals for all of his commands. The newspapers had all shouted success and victory, Beatty being a favourite of theirs and well loved by Royalty. He had retained his command and was believed to be the heir-in-waiting, successor to Jellicoe when his time came.

  The fleet finally sailed, going out slowly in order, so many big ships having to manoeuvre carefully in the confined channels leading out of the anchorage. The First Cruiser Division tucked itself into its place, on the northern, port flank of the battleship divisions.

  “Doing no good at all here! Supposed to be out scouting, taking a lead. Venn Ellis won’t be happy, that’s for sure.”

  The Commander’s words were heard by all, agreed with wholeheartedly. The armoured cruisers could do nothing where they were placed.

  “Orders for twenty knots, sir.”

  Christopher retired to his charts, laying out the mean course, allowing for zigzagging to put off submarines.

  “Making for the gap in the minefields southwest of the Friesian Islands, close to Heligoland, sir.”

  They waited, the wireless operators alert for any message from the battlecruisers.

  “Nothing from Beatty. No contact, one presumes.”

  Captain Gilpin-Brown sounded dispirited – another false alarm.

  The fleet continued south, twenty-four dreadnoughts in six columns of four accompanied by three battlecruisers, three cruiser divisions and a mass of destroyers, the most powerful fleet ever mustered on Earth. They were effectively blind, hoping the High Seas Fleet was out and knowing nothing, for lack of signals coming through from Beatty’s battlecruisers.

  “Our pendant, sir!”

  The Yeoman yelled that there were orders for the First Cruiser Division.

  “To join battlecruisers, sir, making a sweep east and south towards the Danish coast. Executive, sir.”

  Black Prince joined Defence and Warrior and the Duke of Edinburgh, coming into line abreast, separated for scouting, Black Prince to the far end of the line, to the northeast, the battlecruisers to the south. They increased to twenty-three knots, pulling away from the Grand Fleet, wondering how long the speed, their maximum, would be demanded of them.

  “Poor visibility, Navigator! Mist and haze in patches, clear elsewhere. Can see twenty thousand yards in places, one thousand in others.”

  “I was told it was the same at Heligoland Bight in ’14, sir. A bit later in the year, admittedly, but the visibility impossible there.”

  It was much the same stretch of sea.

  Hours passed in the long northern midsummer day, no more than four hours of darkness at this latitude. Black Prince gradually fell behind, the speed too great for her to maintain hour after hour.

  A runner came up from the wireless cabin, passed a written message to the captain.

  “Beatty is in contact with Hipper’s battlecruisers. Has him outnumbered. Should wipe him out as soon as the battleships come up.”

  Hipper was known to have five battlecruisers to Beatty’s six. In addition, Beatty had been joined by four fast superdreadnoughts of the Queen Elizabeth class, all with fifteen inch guns. Provided Beatty had kept his flotillas together, it should have been a massacre.

  Nothing for long minutes, the wireless silent again. The same runner came, literally running, thrusting the message form forward to the nearest officer.

  “Indefatigable and Queen Mary gone, sir. All hands. Blown up.”

  T
here was dead silence on the bridge, broken after a while by the captain’s voice.

  “Led them into a minefield, perhaps? A submarine trap?”

  The Fleet had been warned of both possibilities; they were known to be part of German planning.

  Half an hour of speculation, tinged with horror – the Germans were the underdog, their fleet massively weaker. It could not happen that way.

  The voicepipe gave a whistle.

  “Wireless cabin, sir. From Admiral Beatty. High Seas Fleet to southwest. Running before them. Admiral Jellicoe has signalled the Admiralty that a general fleet action is imminent.”

  That was better. Beatty was bringing the High Seas Fleet into the trap, would lead them into the massive broadsides of twenty-four dreadnoughts in line across their ‘T’. No fleet could survive that onslaught.

  “All officers to their stations, gentlemen.”

  Black Prince could have no part to play in the battle, was far too small, would be brushed aside in seconds. The Cruiser Division would play its part in discovering fleeing battleships, possibly mopping up the most damaged, bringing the Grand Fleet to the location when necessary.

  “Wireless cabin reports interference with signals, sir. Jamming, probably, by the Hun.”

  An hour and they heard the guns well to their southwest, out of sight, battle joined.

  “From Commodore, sir. Make due south.”

  The flag signal was brief and contained no detail.

  Black Prince conformed, slowly losing contact with the rest of the Division.

  Mid evening saw a flurry of action to their southwest, their sole information coming from the spotting top, the Gunner using his glasses.

  “Battlecruisers firing, sir. Defence and Warrior joining, sir.”

  The Yeoman called the flag signal to hold course from Defence.

  A delay, a noisy, intense action out of sight on their starboard bow, a signal from Duke of Edinburgh, the Morse Code just decipherable.

  “Defence and Warrior gone, sir. One of the battlecruisers blown up. Continue south. Discover location High Seas Fleet.”

  The great battle had turned into disaster, or so it seemed. They could only imagine that somehow Jellicoe had failed to make contact with the High Seas Fleet, that Beatty had not led them into the trap.

  “Wireless cabin. Continue to attempt contact with Fleet.”

  The message came back that the jamming was stronger than ever. If ships of the High Seas Fleet were responsible, they were coming closer.

  Night fell, the last they knew a broken signal from Duke of Edinburgh that there was destroyer action to the southwest at the far limit of visibility. They were to maintain course and speed until reaching Danish waters when they should head towards the edge of the known minefields and then reverse course towards the Skagerrak in case the High Seas Fleet had passed them in the darkness.

  Captain Gilpin-Brown acknowledged his orders.

  “Flailing about in the dark. Blindfolded boxing!”

  A little before midnight Christopher estimated they had reached Danish waters.

  “Course south southwest, sir.”

  Black Prince turned to the heading given, reducing speed to twelve knots.

  “Torpedo tubes turned out. Ready for immediate action.”

  Christopher approved. Evidently Captain Gilpin-Brown had hopes of catching a big ship in the night, as they had discussed repeatedly.

  The night was black, visibility effectively nil in the haze.

  “Ship, sir! Across the bows!”

  Immediate night action, as rehearsed time and again, the searchlights turned on, all guns that would bear ready.

  “German, sir. Battleship.”

  “Open fire!”

  Two of the six inchers fired and scored immediate hits, the range less than a quarter of a mile. Christopher heard a torpedo tube fire. The nine point two inch main armament was slower in coming into action, had still not fired when the German ship responded with her secondary armament, too close to use her main guns, and four others astern and ahead of her fired their twelve inchers.

  Shells landed aboard from stern to bows. Two of the funnels fell and there were massive fires amidships and to the stern. Black Prince lost power and steering in the same few seconds, fell off line, wallowing in the light swell.

  The bridge was hit repeatedly. Christopher staggered from the chartroom, bleeding from three separate wounds, tried to make his way to the conn where the captain was lying, legs blown off, obviously dead. A final twelve inch shell exploded, destroying the upperworks, splinters ripping him to pieces. Seconds later the forward magazine blew and Black Prince fell onto her side and sank almost immediately, none of her crew surviving.

  South in the Broad Fourteens, Simon had brought his flotilla to the edge of Dutch waters, running north at twenty-eight knots, responding to orders from Harwich to seek out light forces thought to have sailed north from Zeebrugge and nearby havens.

  “Yeoman, all ships, report oil state.”

  All responded with at least thirty hours at full speed, more than sufficient for their purposes.

  Naiad had the most powerful wireless receiver, picked up Jellicoe’s signal to the Admiralty.

  “All ships. C in C expects fleet action this day. Battle ensigns.”

  The biggest ensigns they had, flying from both masts as was tradition.

  “Splice the mainbrace, Number One.”

  Another tradition, one that Simon was less in favour of. He had no choice. The hands must have their rum in anticipation of the day’s business.

  “Bloody stuff, Mr Strachan! How are men to sit at rangefinders, making precise readings and calculations with their heads swimming?”

  “Fighting spirit, sir! They will be right when the time comes.”

  Simon thought that to be one of the more stupid responses he had ever heard. He accepted that it was typical of the Navy.

  “From Lisle, sir, repeated Lark. ‘Smoke inshore. Four ships. More at distance’.”

  “Make ‘Observe. Do not enter Dutch waters’.”

  The flag signal was sent down the line, acknowledgement returned. Simon preferred not to use the wireless so close to Germany and its superior facilities. Intelligence insisted that the German codebreakers could listen in to all wireless traffic and send information to their own ships within minutes.

  “Would have been useful to know what the ships were, sir.”

  “Visibility is patchy, Number One. It’s possible that all they can pick up is four black clouds. Must be coal burners and probably large – old light cruisers or protected cruisers even. No reports of anything bigger down on the Belgian coast. No gain to harassing Lisle for more – they will send along everything they see without me on their backs.”

  Nearly an hour passed before the next message that there were four large and at least three smaller vessels, course appeared to be northwards, possibly towards Heligoland. Speed of the ships was no more than twelve knots.

  “Old coal burners, as we suspected, Mr Strachan. Might be merchant shipping, working the Dutch coast, possibly a protected convoy to Denmark or Sweden… There is an amount of neutral trade into the Baltic. Twelve knots is high for merchantmen, so unlikely.”

  “Dutch navy, sir? Responding to news of battle by heading north to protect their waters against incursions by either side?”

  That was likely; it would be a rational action to take.

  “Yeoman, ‘flotilla to close on Lisle’.”

  The ship heeled and led the way to form line a mile outside Dutch territorial waters.

  Naiad was higher than Lisle, the gunnery officer could see farther with his telescope.

  “Thick haze inshore, sir. Seven vessels, line astern. Two small to the fore. Four of large three- and four-funnel ships, one very large. Single small ship bringing up the rear, sir. Three escorts, perhaps.”

  It was possible that a neutral convoy would be escorted by the Dutch navy, taken up to Danish waters and handed ov
er there…

  “Reduce speed to fourteen knots.”

  The flotilla would reach international waters off the Friesian Islands ahead of the convoy, if that was what it was, but still well in sight.

  There was a whistle from the wireless cabin voicepipe. Simon bent to hear what was said.

  “Indefatigable and Queen Mary lost, sir.”

  “Jesus!”

  Presumably Beatty had met up with the whole High Seas Fleet and had been unable to disengage. As Simon remembered, Beatty had six battlecruisers while Hipper in a similar scouting role had only five. Add to that, Beatty had recently been backed up by the squadron of superdreadnoughts, fast and with fifteen inch guns. He could not have been defeated by Hipper’s battlecruisers, must have met up with something much greater.

  He passed the word to the bridge, nodded to the Yeoman to officially inform the flotilla. The word would have been passed by hands semaphoring from the stern, it could not be kept quiet.

  “Aeroplane, sir. Southeast, approaching.”

  “Do not fire on the aeroplane.”

  They watched, saw a seaplane with Dutch colours coming towards them. It circled, the observer waved and the plane pottered off towards the unknown ships, flew around them for a few minutes before returning and dipping low over Naiad.

  “Message canister, sir!”

  A running hand grabbed at the trailing ribbons, plucked the fist-sized canister out of the air, brought it to the bridge.

  “Well done, Hardy. We would have lost that if you had not been so quick.”

  Hardy ran back to his gun, pleased that the captain had recognised him, knew his name.

  The Yeoman opened the container, as was only proper as it must contain a message, and passed a sheet of paper to Simon. He read the message aloud.

  “Seven German warships, in breach of Dutch waters. Three patrol boats. One predreadnought, Braunschweig class. Three old cruisers. Good luck.”

  The Dutch were neutral – that did not mean even-handed. German incursions into their waters had been creating increasing ill-feeling and cooperation with Britain on the sly.

  “Blood for supper, gentlemen, provided they leave territorial waters. I wonder where they came from?”

  Simon spent a few minutes composing a careful message to Harwich. He must keep Tyrwhitt informed, did not want prescriptive orders restricting his initiative. He leant to the voicepipe.