Waves of Glory

by Peter Albano

  Most of the other faces of the men seated around the long oak table belonged to younger men and longtime friends and acquaintances. The lowest rank in the room belonged to the three stripes on the cuffs of Stephen Pochhammer, who sat next to Reginald, and one other commander who sat at the far end of the table. Most of the men were smoking, and a dense cloud of blue smoke hung in the middle of the room.

  After exhaling a huge puff of smoke and stubbing out his cigarette, Middleton stood and eyed the group silently, and the conversations came to an abrupt halt. A large, stout, sixtyish man, his once-powerful physique had softened and grown flaccid with time and overeating. The son of a vicar, his voice was deep, stentorian, and punctuated with the practiced pauses of an experienced preacher. “Gentlemen,” he rumbled. “We are here to discuss our projected operations against Bruges and its exit ports, Ostend and Zeebrugge.” He glanced at Reginald and smiled amiably. “Most of you have heard of these plans—plans to bombard with monitors and lay mine fields. However, in the last month, top-secret revisions have been made and none of you has heard a whisper about them.” He looked around at the intent faces. “I can tell you now operations against the ports were planned first for June of last year, and then postponed because of the prospect of ending the war with the Somme offensives. Of course that was dashed and the operation was rescheduled for next month. All of you command units that are scheduled to participate in this operation.” There was a rumble of voices. Middleton continued, “Here to tell you of the details of the new plan is Captain Reginald Hargreaves, who you all know and who led Destroyer Squadron Four so gallantly in its action against Schultz’s flotilla off the coast of Belgium.”

  Quickly, Reginald walked to a huge wall chart and picked up a pointer. Stabbing at the coast of Belgium, he began, “The port of Bruges is eight miles inland—an ideal haven. According to latest intelligence, it has the facilities to service over thirty destroyers and about thirty U-boats. Our operatives have spotted on the average two U-boats putting to sea daily.” There was a murmur. He moved the pointer. “They sortie from Zeebrugge, or if of shallow draught, here”—he moved the pointer—”they can move through these canals and use Ostend twelve miles to the south.” The pointer traced a long arc northeastward past Holland and into the Baltic. “Their nearest German ports are over three hundred miles to the northeast at Wilhelmshaven and Bremerhaven.” He turned back to the officers. “Bruges adds at least six hundred miles to their range.” He glanced at some notes. “In February U-boats sank over half a million tons of shipping, in March almost six hundred thousand, and the rate is increasing.” Shouts of anger. “Our new plan will use block ships to block the ports of Ostend and Zeebrugge.”

  There was a grim silence as Reginald allowed the implication of his words to sink in. “The admiralty has tentatively assigned six outdated light cruisers to the operation—Vindictive, Thetis, Intrepid, Iphigenia, Brilliant, and Sirius. At this moment they are being converted at Chatham. I intend to block Ostend with Sirius and Brilliant and Zeebrugge with Intrepid, Thetis, and Iphigenia.”

  A slender, middle-aged captain with alert brown eyes raised a hand. Reginald nodded. Coming to his feet, the captain said, “Edgar Mansfield, Destroyer Squadron Eleven here, Captain.” Mansfield gestured at the chart. “In peacetime I made those ports many times on merchant vessels and, daresay, Zeebrugge would be a tough nut, indeed. It’s seventy-four miles from Dover, has shifting sandbanks and treacherous tides. There are two piers and a mole a half mile west of the canal mouth.” He stabbed a single finger at the chart. “That mole is nearly two miles long, maybe a hundred yards wide, with a sixteen-foot-high wall ten feet thick on its seaward side, and no doubt the Jerries have fortified it. One battery on that mole could make a bloody slog of the whole lot of us.”

  “Quite right,” Reginald agreed. “So we’ll take it.”

  “Take it?”

  “Yes, Captain Mansfield. Vindictive will be converted into an assault ship.” Hargreaves waited until an excited babble subsided. “Vindictive will carry a storming party to the mole. Infantry will silence the German guns.”

  Mansfield’s face twisted sardonically. “You mean Vindictive sails right up to the mole, moors, and disembarks her storming party without the Krauts even noticing.” A silence like a cold wall descended on the room.

  Reginald felt anger flare but controlled his voice. “The RNAS has developed new smoke generators. Vindictive will make her approach under the cover of smoke.”

  Shaking his head and obviously unconvinced, Mansfield returned to his chair. Reginald felt a disquieting new emotion. He remembered the scene when Admiral Rosslyn Watts had presented his plan to intercept Korvettenkapitan Max Schultz’s flotilla. Then, Reginald was the skeptic. Then, Reginald was sarcastic and caustic. The wheel had made a full turn and the captain felt disquiet and unease at the ironic shift in roles. But the ports had to be blocked. Destroyer Squadron Four would still be afloat and Wolcott, Blankenship, and Woolridge and their gallant crews would still be alive if it had not been for the nest of German destroyers that swarmed out of their evil lair. And Hun ships and U-boats were using the ports in increasing numbers, attacking and killing in the Channel and the Atlantic.

  Another hand was raised and another officer came to his feet. “Commander Willard Wisdom here, Captain Hargreaves. First officer in destroyer Llewellyn.” Reginald nodded recognition. “Sir, why not proceed with the original plan—bombardment by monitors and the laying of mine fields. Fifteen-inch shells would make a hash of the lot and mine fields would make good corks for those narrow channels.”

  “Quite so,” Reginald agreed. “Big-gun shelling would disable the ports and, as you point out, mine fields do ‘make good corks.’ However, at best, shelling and mines provide only a temporary solution. All of you know Fritz is a genius at repairing damaged equipment, and mines can be swept.” He tapped the table with the rubber tip of the pointer. “No, Commander Wisdom, we need a permanent solution—a solution that will deny the Krauts the channels. The only way to do that is to block those channels.”

  “Could be expensive, sir.”

  “Quite right, Commander, but Destroyer Squadron Four has already made part of that payment.”

  Silence filled the room. Wisdom fidgeted nervously. He pointed at the base of the mole. “They’ll rush reinforcements to the mole, sir. Directly the attack begins.”

  Reginald placed the pointer on the spot where the mole joined the land. “There is a viaduct here about three hundred yards long joining the mole to the shore. We’ve been assigned two C-class submarines. We’ll pack the bows of the submarines with explosives and ram them into the viaduct. This should do the trick neatly.” Again silence and an exchange of glances. Wisdom returned to his chair.

  “May I speak?” Brigadier General Humphrey Covington inquired politely, coming to his feet. The request was academic, superior rank taking precedence under any circumstances. Reginald appreciated the courtesy and found his chair.

  Covington moved to a large map of the Western Front attached to the opposite wall. “Gentlemen,” he began. “Your plans are very impressive and appear to be well thought out, and one of the reasons I was sent here was to learn of the details.” He shifted his weight uneasily and Reginald felt a stab of apprehension. “However, the other reason why I was sent here was to inform you of the general staff’s plans for the Western Front. General Haig and General Nivelle have planned great offensives that will explode across the Western Front shortly.” He pointed at the chart of the coast of Belgium on the opposite wall. “Your plans for Zeebrugge and Ostend may be premature—may cost casualties needlessly.” Reginald felt a familiar rush of frustration and anger while Covington tapped the table with his knuckles and then faced the chart and picked up a pointer. “Here, on sixteen April”—he struck the chart—”in Champagne along the Chemin des Dames the French will strike with over a million men and five thousand guns.” He moved the
pointer north. “On nine April, the BEF will make a diversionary attack around Arras, striking at Vimy Ridge and Cambrai. General Haig will attack with twenty-one divisions, three thousand guns, and seventy new Mark Four tanks. General Nivelle predicts a breakthrough within forty-eight hours and complete victory by, perhaps, the end of the summer.”

  “But, sir,” Captain Mansfield said. “The Krauts have pulled back into their Siegfriedstellung. A shorter line with concrete emplacements.”

  Covington nodded appreciatively and adopted the demeanor of a lecturing schoolteacher. “Quite right. Pulled back into the Hindenburg line. Shortened the front by twenty-five miles and allowed the withdrawal of ten divisions.”

  Reginald wondered at Mansfield’s persistence as the captain pressed on. “And we’ve all read reports of their new defense in depth, heavy barbed wire entanglements. We never really destroyed their wire at the Somme.”

  Covington was obviously impressed by Mansfield’s knowledge. “Bully, Captain. You’ve most certainly been well informed.” He stabbed the chart again. “But this time”—he thudded the rubber tip against the chart for emphasis —”this time, we have more heavies and a new fuse.” He looked around at the expectant faces. “Yes, a new fuse—the one-oh-six, which will detonate on grazing the ground. A real ‘daisy cutter’ with increased antipersonnel range and capable of cutting wire more effectively, and it actually does less damage to the ground. Also we have new gas projectors that are highly efficient.”

  Reginald stood. He spoke evenly despite strong suspicions that churned inside him. “Sir. We were planning our attack for next month—to put an end to that vicious nest of killers once and for all.”

  Covington nodded solemnly. “I know.” He nodded at Admiral Sir Alexander Middleton. “I have been informed, and that is why the C-in-C sent me.” He gestured at the chart. “After our breakthrough at Arras, the BEF will sweep north and west in behind Zeebrugge and Ostend and capture the entire Belgium coast.” He turned both hands up in a gesture of futility. “So why involve the Royal Navy? Why sustain more casualties when we’re going to take the ports by assault, anyway?”

  Despite the difference in ranks and years of friendship, Reginald’s anger boiled through. “We heard that before, General. We’re losing ships and men now because of—”

  “Captain Hargreaves!” Covington said severely. “At this moment, Admirals Jackson and Jellicoe are meeting with David Lloyd George. The PM is in full support of General Nivelle’s plans. The order to postpone your attack comes from Ten Downing Street.”

  “Until when, sir?” Reginald asked with a tight jaw.

  The voice softened. “The end of summer. By then the war should be over.” He smiled benignly and then shrugged. “And if it isn’t won, then you can proceed.” The general sat and Admiral Middleton came to his feet.

  Middleton spoke. “Are there any more questions?” Silence. “Then this meeting is closed.”

  Staring straight ahead, Reginald remained in his seat. Pochhammer lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair, smoking solemnly. “Stephen,” Reginald said. “They told us that in ‘sixteen.”

  “I’ve never been in planning, Captain.”

  “I know. You’re fortunate. I spent an entire year in it before taking command of Lancer—can drive a man ‘round the bend.”

  Admiral Middleton reentered the room and claimed a forgotten bundle of reports. Reginald addressed him. “Admiral Middleton, I would like to return to sea—destroyer duty, preferably.”

  Middleton narrowed his eyes. “Tired of sailing a desk, Captain?”

  “Quite right, sir.”

  Middleton sighed. “I can understand, Captain.” He tapped his temple with a single finger. “You know it isn’t in my hands—you must convince the medical staff that you have fully recovered from your wounds.”

  “And if the medics approve?”

  “Why then you can have a seagoing command.”

  “A destroyer squadron?”

  The admiral smiled warmly like a father beaming down on his ambitious son. “A division, if I can arrange it.”

  Reginald rubbed his arm. “Thank you, Admiral. A few more weeks of exercise and it should be right.”

  “I hope so, Captain.” The admiral left the room.

  XII

  On April 6, 1917, three days before Haig’s scheduled offensive and ten days before Nivelle’s attack, the United States declared war on Germany. There was joy in the Allied camp, but it was quickly tempered by news of the outbreak of revolution in Czarist Russia two weeks earlier. The news was slow in arriving, but reports began to appear in the papers of great food riots in Petrograd. Huge mobs of hungry people carrying red flags had stormed through the streets, and the garrison of 190,000 men, even units of the Imperial Guard, joined the angry crowds. The mobs stormed the Winter Palace, burned public buildings, murdered officials, and released political prisoners from the Russian “Tower,” the Fortress of St. Peter. Then news sifted out that rocked the world: Nicholas II had returned to Petrograd but had been unable to control the insurgents, his own troops joining the mobs as fast as he dispatched them. He abdicated in favor of his brother Michael. Still, authority was uncertain, the Duma electing a provisional government under Prince Lvov, which ran into bitter opposition from a group of Marxist revolutionaries calling themselves the Petrograd Soviet.

  The provisional government under Alexander Kerensky declared its determination to continue the war, “. . .to carry the war to a Victorious conclusion.”

  But the Allies were unconvinced and depressed despite Lloyd George’s statement: “We believe that the revolution is the greatest service the Russian people have yet made to the cause for which the Allied peoples have been fighting.”

  But the Germans and Austrians were rejoicing, too, and with better cause because the Russian army refused to attack, remaining quietly in the trenches, nailing officers’ epaulets to their shoulders, then murdering them and electing soldiers’ governing committees. Certainly, most Englishmen were not convinced that Russia’s agony would bode nothing but good for their cause, despite statements to the contrary by their politicians. Quite simply, the enemy of Germany and Austria on the Eastern Front was paralyzed, and everyone knew if Russia collapsed, the entire weight of the German war machine would be brought to bear on the Western Front. All hopes rode with the coming Allied offensives.

  Brenda was devastated by the American declaration of war. Hugh actually seemed happy at the news of U.S. involvement. On April 9, the Haig offensive exploded at Arras. There were the usual early glowing reports of rapid advances and victories. Then, on April 16, Nivelle hurled his troops against the German defenses on the Chemin des Dames between Soissons and Rheims. More optimistic communiqués crowded the front pages of the newspapers. But the breakthroughs did not materialize and the interminable casualty lists began to appear. As April drew to a close, there were rumors that British casualties exceeded one hundred thousand and French losses were almost two hundred thousand. Then came whispers of open rebellion in several French divisions. Nivelle’s dismissal and replacement by Pétain confirmed the stories.

  Early in May, Brenda, Reginald, and Hugh attended a solemn dinner at the home of Lloyd and Bernice Higgins. The large old house just north of Regent’s Park was dark and forbidding that evening. Lloyd was in a grim mood. Puffing on a Woodbine after a drab dinner, Lloyd looked down the long Sheraton dinner table and said, “Another Somme. Haig and that whole lot is incapable of learning—not one bloody change. Same stupid stand-up charge. And Nivelle had destroyed the morale of the Frog army. Élan—cran, don’t work against shrapnel and bullets.” He glanced down the table at Brenda. “Spirit—bravery,” he explained.

  “I know, brother-in-law,” she said.

  “And the Ivans have had it—worse than the Frogs. They’re finished,” Lloyd added.

  Bernice spoke up. “But Kerensky claim
s Russia’s in the war to the end.”

  Lloyd snorted bitterly. “A lot of rot—eyewash. Mark me, the Russian army’s finished.” He took a long drink of cognac and stared at Hugh. “With the Ivans out of it, we’ll need you chaps more than ever. Do you know General John Pershing, the C-in-C of the AEF?” he asked.

  Hugh brightened. “Black Jack? Of course. I served with him in Mexico when we chased Pancho Villa.”

  Lloyd smiled. “Never did catch him, did you?”

  Hugh sipped at his drink. “He was elusive.”

  “This Pershing—he’s a good man?”

  The American officer nodded. “Yes, Lloyd. A fine man—intelligent, a complete professional.”

  “Can he learn?”

  “I’m sure he can and will,” Hugh said. He turned to Brenda. “I’ve applied for a transfer to the Forty-second Division—Rainbow Division, sister.” He moved his eyes to Reginald and then Lloyd. “Rainbow because it will draw men from all the states,” he explained.

  Brenda’s face showed her surprise. “I didn’t know there was an American division in Europe. Why, General Pershing isn’t here yet.”

  Hugh smiled. “You’re right, sister. Pershing will arrive with his staff within two weeks and American divisions will follow, and the Rainbow Division will be the first. The chief of staff is a colonel I’ve known for years—Douglas MacArthur. I’ve written him and he’s promised me a company.”

  “Bully for you,” Lloyd said with a genuine congratulatory tone in his voice. “Better than Chigwell. Anything’s better than Chigwell.”

  “When are you leaving, Lloyd?” Bernice asked matter-of-factly. Everyone shifted uneasily.