by Peter Albano
“Right,” Reginald agreed. “But they’re firing at long range. They’re too far north.”
“Bloody foulup.”
Carpenter’s voice from the W-T: “More transmissions, Captain. Radio silence has gone bally west. The convoy is scattering and Squadrons Eight and Eleven are engaging. But apparently they’re having trouble with the cruisers’ fire and U-boats. The cruisers are firing on everyone. There’s a fog and recognition signals can’t be read and it’s turning into a shambles, Captain.”
Reginald heard Farrar’s voice. “The clockwork mouse has broken a spring.”
“Very well,” Reginald said. He turned to Pochhammer. “Alert all stations—we may be engaging German destroyers within the hour and watch for periscopes. The convoy is no more than twenty miles away and under heavy attack and the Germans bloody well know we’re here.” He glanced at the shore. They were too far south. “Bring the ship to her reciprocal course—zero-zero-zero.” Pochhammer shouted into the voice pipes.
Reginald discovered his estimate was off by almost thirty minutes when a half hour later a masthead lookout’s voice rang out, “Ships! Many ships fine on the port bow, range five to six thousand yards!”
Holding his breath, Reginald leapt from his chair, binoculars pressed so hard against his eyes they watered with pain. At first he saw nothing. Then, in the gloom of sunset and racing through the swirling mist and gathering fog, he saw them: one, two, three, and more gray shapes charging toward him; two columns of steel monsters slashing the slate gray ocean with white tatters of the sea in their teeth, flinging spray recklessly, spewing black smoke. Either the Germans did not see them or were being pursued by heavy ships and had no choice. In any event, the enemy vessels were already in range and appeared not to have seen the British.
Reginald felt the usual wild surge of excitement that always charged his veins just before battle. There was terror there, too, and a hard, frigid spasm raced through his bones and muscles, his heart a mallet against his chest. But his mind was clear and he knew he must engage the enemy to port with both guns and torpedoes and in a single column. At the moment he was in the best possible tactical situation—by luck he had intercepted in position to cross the Germans’ T. His voice was calm. “Number one, if you please, hoist pendants three and four and the B flag, course zero-one-zero, speed full.”
While Pochhammer shouted at the signalmen, Hargreaves spoke into the voice tubes to the gunnery officer. “’Guns,’ target bearing red ten, range five thousand, fire when ready.”
Pochhammer’s voice: “All ships acknowledge, Captain.”
“Very well. Execute!” Back to the pipes. “All ahead full together, course is zero-one-zero and hold her steady—engineering, give me every knot you can squeeze out of her.”
Orders were repeated and acknowledgments made. Reginald clung to the windscreen as Lancer’s screws flurried to maximum revs, the ship digging her stern into the sea and lunging ahead, speed climbing to thirty knots. Crashing her bows into the seas, she flung spray and slate gray water over her forecastle like an angry tiger rushing through heavy undergrowth. For the moment, he had done everything a captain could do. Now he had to depend on his gunnery officer, who was perched twenty feet over his head peering through his new split-image range finder. Perhaps, later, their lives would be in the hands of nineteen-year-old Sublieutenant Trevor Grenfell, who was standing by the torpedo director on the quarterdeck. He brought up his binoculars and refocused them.
Gibbs’s voice came through a pipe. “Range four-five-zero-zero.”
Reginald shouted, “Open fire!” He heard the tinny sound like sleigh bells of the firing gong at A mount and gunlayers chanting, “Layer on! Layer on!” All three guns fired simultaneously, lashing the mist with eight-foot yellow tongues, jarring the windscreen and sending a loose screw flying into the binnacle with a high, pinging sound. The grating bounced up and down and bits of paint dropped off metal and woodwork. The crack was like a great whip that overwhelmed the ears’ ability to hear, stabbing the brain with pain instead of sound. Reginald choked back a groan. The other ships were firing, and staring through his binoculars Reginald saw a forest of white spouts leap into the sky in front of the enemy destroyers.
Gibbs was shouting into his intercom, “Short! Up one hundred. Deflection eight right.” There was a jumble of voices in the pipes then Gibbs again: “Shoot!” More concussions. “On target. Rapid fire!” All three mounts fired a continuous stream of shells, loaders working like madmen and shouting excitedly, brass casings clattering to the decks and rolling to the scuppers. The pungent smell of cordite filled Reginald’s nostrils and afterimages of muzzle-blasts flashed from his retinas like ghosts of welders’ torches.
The enemy was reacting. Reginald saw fearsome flashes on the forecastles of the two leading destroyers and they were changing formation, too, at least nine ships appearing to both left and right, coming to line abreast. But they did not change course. The reckless head-on attack continued. Pochhammer seemed to read his mind. “The cruisers must be hard on their arses, Captain,” he said casually.
There was a roar and shriek overhead like a huge sheet of canvas being ripped and something fearsome passed over the mainmast and exploded in the sea a hundred yards away, a gray white waterspout sixty feet tall leaping into the sky, the flash of exploding lyddite snuffed out immediately by the water. More enemy destroyers were firing: high-velocity eight-point-eight-centimeter shrieking, piping, hissing; ten-point-five-centimeter rumbling and roaring. More waterspouts and spreading rings and spray, shrapnel kicking up water in little white tufts. They were creeping closer.
At that instant, Reginald envied the infantryman. The Tommy could hurl himself to the ground, press himself into the earth; his mother, his friend, bury his fragile flesh deep within her safe from the whining steel hell. And she protected him, muffled his cries in the shelter and warmth of her bosom, lavishing another few seconds of life upon him. But the sailor knows none of this luxury. He must firm up against the instinct to go to ground, repulsed by the steel deck beneath his feet. He must stand tall behind tissue-paper-thin bulkheads and wooden windscreens and not allow a trace of his terror to alter even one line of his face. Discipline—discipline himself beyond the bounds of human intelligence, human reason.
“We’ve hit the bloody sods,” came from the masthead. There were flashes and dull red glows on the bridges and forecastles of two of the ships like open fireboxes. Suddenly, the vessel to the far right staggered and fairly leapt from the sea, her forecastle and most of her bridge leaping hundreds of feet in the air on the tip of a giant yellow-white shaft of flame. The light was like high noon, illuminating the sea for miles with an eruption of flames and swirling smoke, chunks of twisted steel raining into the sea in a huge arc.
The crew cheered wildly, but Reginald could see at least eight destroyers charging toward Destroyer Squadron Four in a loose formation that approximated a ragged line abreast. Far to the south, Reginald found another group of three enemy ships skirting his formation and heading for Ostend or perhaps his rear. “The anvil,” he said to himself.
The captain heard Gibbs’s voice. “Cease firing! Shift target! Red four-zero, range three-five-zero-zero.” Again the chant of the gun layers; again, “Shoot!”; again the concussions.
Another German was hit, a leading vessel staggering, slowly, and veering wildly to the side, flames leaping from its bridge and quarterdeck. There were explosions and debris and men rained into the sea. The stricken vessel began to settle fast by the bow and heel over. More cheers.
A flare arced high in the sky from a leading destroyer and the German line turned abruptly to port, bringing themselves into a parallel course with the English. All of the enemy’s armament would bear. Reginald choked back his sour, burning gorge. “Enemy vessels broad on the starboard beam!” came from the captain of Y gun. A quick glance through his binoculars and Reginald knew the enemy
force of three vessels had skirted behind him and turned to attack.
There was only one chance for survival. He shouted at Pochhammer, “Number One, nine turn, engage with torpedoes!”
While Pochhammer relayed the order to the signalmen, the captain bellowed down the voice pipes. Within seconds all four English destroyers veered about hard, heeling into their full power turns toward the German line like drunks teetering on curbstones, sluicing up huge waves with their knifelike bows that broke over their quarterdecks and streamed off their sterns and quarters. They completed their turns in perfect alignment in a line abreast. But Victor, with new, powerful Brown-Curtis turbines and the flamboyant Nathanial Blankenship on the bridge, immediately pulled away from the British line.
Reginald turned to yeoman of signals Henshaw. “By flashing light, squadron commander to Victor—reduce speed—maintain station—expedite!”
The signalman scampered up onto the light platform and there was a clatter of shutters. “He doesn’t answer, sir,” Henshaw shouted.
Reginald cursed. Either Blankenship did not see the signal or he was deliberately ignoring Lancer’s flashing light. In any event, Blankenship would have his way. “Very well. Return to the flag locker.”
“Break the enemy line—like Nelson at Trafalgar, Captain.” Farrar giggled watching Victor pull away, an insane glint in the strange eyes. Hargreaves heard the pilot’s mocking voice in the din. “England expects every man to do his duty.” The pilot’s laughter sprayed spittle.
If the navigator was mad, he would have to deal with it later. Reginald shouted into the voice pipes, “Midships. Steady as she goes.”
“Steady as she goes—two-eight-five, sir.”
“Very well. Keep your bows on the enemy line.” Into another tube: “Torpedo gunner stand by.”
He heard Trevor Grenfell’s high, frightened voice acknowledge, “Torpedoes ready, sir.”
Hargreaves glanced at the enemy line, which was turning toward him. “Mister Grenfell, stand by to engage to starboard.” The sublieutenant acknowledged. Reginald had picked the leader—probably Schultz’s vessel, a new B-class with black smoke boiling from her three funnels, bow gun firing. The surprise was over. The Germans were too efficient, too good at their work to continue missing. Guns blazing and flashing like a forest fire, Reginald was looking into the mouth of hell itself. The hits came.
“Paragon’s bought it!” came from Basil Goodenough in an anguished voice. Paragon, which was the outside vessel on the left, suddenly staggered and fell off on her port side, bridge demolished and tilted dangerously over the side. A flurry of explosions sheared off both funnels and flames burst up from her engine rooms through the exposed holes in her decks. Two of her guns were still firing, but she quickly increased her list to port and rolled over on her beams’ ends. Then, in a few horrifying seconds, she completely turned turtle, rolling, rocking, and settling in her own stew of bursting bubbles, escaping steam, and burning oil. Survivors scampered into her red-leaded bottom and clung precariously to her rolling keel or tore their hands on clusters of barnacles. Others flailed and screamed in the burning sea, breathing flames, roasting their lungs. As the wreck dropped off astern, Reginald felt the blade of horror slash through him like a shark’s fin through water and his bowels seemed to drop out of his body.
Swallowing hard, he shouted hoarsely into a voice pipe, “Guns! Shift to target bearing green ten!” Gibbs acknowledged and A-gun blasted shell after shell at Schultz’s ship, which fired back. A great flare and blast turned Reginald’s head to port. Unity had exploded, an eruption of metal plates, guns, and debris that reached high for the clouds on a solid column of water and flame. What had been a proud ship a moment before was now junk and corpses raining into the sea. “Just break the news gently to Mother—Mother, for I’m not coming home. . .” Farrar was singing, arms waving, drool running off his chin.
“Shut him up,” Reginald shouted at Pochhammer. But Farrar continued to sing the old war song.
The sky hailed annihilation, two plate-bending blasts close alongside rocked the ship and the hull echoing from the near-misses like the explosion of mines, booming in hollow agony that sent nervous strokers scurrying for ladders. The next two shells did not miss. X-mount and the ship’s boat were wrenched and rent by two, three quick hits, the boat disappearing in a cloud of splinters, the gun crew dismembered and blown over the side and onto the quarterdeck, mangled bundles of bloody rags and broken bones. Blood like red molasses ran to the scuppers and stained the sides.
Lancer was hit by two more 10.5-centimeter shells almost simultaneously, the first nicking the forward funnel and detonating a few feet off the port side, the air burst riddling the director and the crow’s nest and carrying away the wireless antenna. Immediately, blood showered down on the bridge and main deck and shattered recognition lights hailed red, green, and yellow chunks of glass like gay New Year’s Eve confetti. Severed signal halyards snapped and whipped overhead like a sack full of snakes. The second shell struck the bow just forward of A-mount, penetrating to the second deck and exploding in the paint locker, reverberating in the hull like a great temple gong. Plate and splinters shrieked and howled over the forecastle and bridge, the anchor clattering into the depths with its severed chain following. The gun crew was protected by their shield, the pilot house by steel plate, the forebridge by plywood.
Staggered by the two concussions, Reginald clutched the chair, vision starring with afterimages of the explosions, gagging on the stink of nitric acid explosives. Wood splinters flew into his face, something plucked at his chest and sleeve, and screams dinned in his ears. Farrar’s singing stopped and turned into a shriek followed by gurgles. A soft, pulpy rain fell all over Reginald and his lenses were suddenly fogged by fragments of brain and shattered bones.
Stunned, the captain stumbled back from the chair and turned. The bridge was a charnel house. Orville Tucker, the top of his head neatly severed as if by a giant scalpel, had tumbled from his platform and flopped loosely on the deck, arms and legs jerking spasmodically, the gray red contents of his skull spilling on the grating, eyes blown from their sockets and rolling on the deck. Farrar had been destroyed. Torso, chest, and throat ripped by steel, the navigator lay on his back, clutching his throat and abdomen. His lower jaw had been blown away and part of his tongue severed and lay on the deck with his jaw and broken teeth. The sounds he made were strange and animallike. Red bubbles swelled from his shattered mouth and holes in his trachea, his intestines slithered to the deck in a gray heap like live snakes. Behind him, blood and gore were splattered on the windscreen as if it had been painted by a lunatic.
Both signalmen were down in a writhing heap of spreading blood and twisted limbs. The director continued to leak blood and Lieutenant Gibbs was silent. Pochhammer and Goodenough were untouched.
Reginald shook the horror from his head and shouted into the voice pipes, “Surgeon and SBA to the bridge!”
Pochhammer was yelling and pointing overhead at the director. “Lieutenant Gibbs and his chaps have copped it, Captain! X- and Y-guns don’t answer.”
Blindly, Hargreaves reached under his chair and grabbed a megaphone. “Local control! Local control!” he shouted at the crew of A-gun, leaning over the windscreen.
More hits amidships and the ship staggered and lurched but plowed on. The aft funnel was blown over the side by another big shell and oily black smoke swirled over the forebridge, choking and gagging the survivors.
Victor, almost a cable’s length ahead of Lancer, scored, her shells killing a German’s bridge crew and opening her bows at the waterline. At thirty-three knots and out of control, the German ship scooped up water and crushed her own bulkheads like a snowplow devouring drifts, her great engines fairly driving her beneath the waves like a crash-diving submarine before they could be stopped.
Then it was Victor’s turn, two German destroyers veering off to starboard and fi
ring torpedoes, three others “taping her” with their guns. Caught just abaft her funnels by two torpedoes, her keel was broken and she was blown from the sea, settling back in a welter of spray and debris in two distinct parts, no longer a racing greyhound—just sinking wreckage, burning oil, and dying men.
“Blankenship! Blankenship! You fool!” Reginald screamed with helplessness and anguish. He punched the windscreen until his knuckles bled.
Suddenly, the sky to the northwest blossomed with red and orange gun flashes and swarms of bright fireflies climbed lazily into the sky in long arcs that accelerated as they raced toward Lancer. Then a forest of thick towers of water rose majestically among the German destroyers, spaced precisely between the enemy ships. More glows. More towers of water.
“Eight-inch, Captain,” Pochhammer shouted. “The Harwich cruisers! They have the range.”
A German was hit by two eight-inch shells, blowing off his stern. Another, hit at the waterline by a full salvo, heeled hard into a starboard list and stopped dead in the water. Reginald could see the cruisers—great hulking gray shapes, hulled down on the horizon, flames rippling and flashing the length of the column, tearing the mist and lighting up the low clouds.
The enemy formation, already disorganized by Victor’s attack and death, veered in disorder, Schultz’s vessel swerving to port, bearing away from Reginald’s starboard side. A-gun continued tracking and firing. X-gun and Y-gun were both silent. But only the German’s stern gun was firing—and erratically.
Reginald grasped a voice pipe, supported himself, his mind surprisingly clear. He shouted into the voice tubes, “Mister Grenfell—engage with torpedoes vessel at green ten.”
“Target at green ten, standing by with both tubes, sir,” came back, voice tight with shock but controlled.
Reginald felt the ship swerve. Again, down the voice pipe: “Mind your helm—keep her steady on two-nine-zero.” A frightened voice answered the command.
