Entrance to the lower bridge ‒ the steering position ‒ was through that hole now. The second coxswain had brought up a rope ladder and rigged it there.
‘Hard a-starboard!’
‘Hard a-starboard, sir!’
Geordie Alan was on the wheel now. He’d pulled the coxswain off it, and taken over. Lanyard stood on her ear as she skidded round to port, with her captain clinging to the binnacle and watching for the fall of shot; he’d order the wheel over as soon as he saw shell-spouts rise; he seemed to head towards each salvo.
‘Midships! Meet her!’
‘Meet her, sir!’
Pandemonium: the ship was jolting, crashing, swinging from side to side: you braced yourself ‒ then you had to shift, brace differently as she flung over the other way. Mortimer had somehow jammed his body at the binnacle, and looked nowhere except ahead, at the grey shapes of the enemy with their white bow-waves looking big now as the distance lessened, and at the destroyers ahead, and the splashes of shells scrunching down right, left and – Mortimer never saw the overs, because he never looked astern.
‘Hard a-port!’
‘Hard a-port, sir!’ The for’ard gun fired: it couldn’t shoot much, with the other two destroyers in the line of fire half the time and Lanyard doing acrobatics when they weren’t. No gunlayer on earth could have kept his sights on, the way she was throwing herself about. Near-misses shot up close to port as she sheered away to starboard; they’d gone in the drink but you felt the blow of them, and water cascaded black across the bridge. Filthy reek lingering…
‘Midships! Starboard twenty!’
Nestor was performing a long swing to starboard. Shell-spouts hid her, then she was in sight again, pouring black smoke from her funnels, her starboard side visible almost as far down as her bilges as she heeled to the turn, but the heel lessened as she eased her wheel, and Geoff Garret realised she must be about to fire, steadying the turn so that her torpedo gunner’d be able to hold his aim on the enemy long enough to send a fish away. Nicator swung over, lancing through white water, dashing after her leader now to add her torpedoes to the attack.
‘Hard a-port!’
Lanyard swivelled, flinging over as starboard rudder bit into the sea: ‘Midships! Meet her!’
Nestor would be firing about now, and Nicator with her, both firing to port as they swung to starboard. Mortimer had moved, grabbed a hold on the bridge rail by the torpedo voicepipe where canvas screening flew in tatters behind splinter-mattresses which were also ripped: ‘Mr Pilkington! I’m turning to port now so you’ll fire to starboard. Train round to starboard!’
Garret heartily approved. He’d expected Mortimer to turn Lanyard with the others, fire on the same curve in sequence, same as it was done in practice firings; he’d been thinking that if that happened, the Germans would only have to keep dropping shells in one spot.
’Hard a-starboard!’ Mortimer yelled at Hastings, pointing at the torpedo voicepipe. ‘Tell Pilkington to fire when his sight comes on!’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
Sub-Lieutenant Hastings looked as cool as anything. Garret hoped he looked like that. He was trying to. Lanyard was lifting to the turn, riding across the wall from the other two. She was going to almost scrape Nicator’s stern as she peeled-off to the left and Nicator to the right: they’d be almost on the same spot together for a moment, then they’d be dividing and you could hope the German gunners might think they were seeing things ‒ like one ship splitting into two, and wonder which half to shoot at… But Nicator had suddenly reversed her wheel!
She’d checked her starboard swing, and begun to turn back ‒ across Lanyard’s bow. Garret held his breath and thought, Oh God, we’re going to hit her…
He heard Mortimer almost scream, ‘Hard a-port!’ Garret thought it was too late, he wouldn’t make it. And he could see the reason for Nicator’s suicidal change of course: Nestor had been hit, so Nicator had had to reverse her wheel or run into her. Nestor had swung broadside-on, with her after-part pouring smoke; she’d lost all her way, and she was down by the stern. Lanyard’s only hope of avoiding collision had been to reverse her helm ‒ which Mortimer had done ‒ and try to turn inside her, the other way.
Shell-splashes spurted everywhere and within seconds Lanyard’s stern was going to embed itself in Nicator’s stern. What was more, Pilkington’s tubes would be trained out on the wrong side, now. Garret whispered in his mind, please God, please…
Nicator’s stern shaved past with about a foot to spare.
Mortimer yelled down, ‘Ease to ten!’ Garret‘s breath rushed out like air from a balloon. Nicator’s turn had flattened; she was going over to starboard again, towards the enemy, and Mortimer had steadied Lanyard on a course to pass close to Nestor. Nestor was done for, the German gunners were concentrating on her, she was stopped and helpless and taking the whole weight of their fury. The small mercy of it was that for the moment there was very little coming Lanyard’s way.
About as much as an hour ago, one might have felt she was in the thick of it. After the last eight or nine minutes everyone knew better: this was nothing.
Mortimer called down, ‘Port twenty!’
‘Port twenty, sir! Twenty of port helm on, sir!’
Turning away: leaving Nestor to her fate ‒ which could only be that of a target for gunnery practice by Admiral Scheer’s High Seas Fleet, which within the next twenty minutes or so would be steaming past her in its stately progress, battleship after battleship, keen to draw British blood.
‘Midships! Steady!’
The midships four-inch fired.
‘Steady, sir! Course west by south, sir!’
‘Steer west.’
That midships gun fired again, and at the same time spouts from enemy shells went up fifty yards on the bow.
‘Starboard ten!’
Salvo-dodging again; Mortimer began to alter towards each lot of splashes as they leapt. There was another salvo scrunching over now, and the gun aft fired again. Garret edged out as far as he could, and leant over, peering aft; the south-east wind was carrying Lanyard ‘s smoke to starboard, and on the port quarter ‒ almost right astern ‒ he could see a grey line of battleships, their two leaders spitting fire. Nestor was out there entirely alone now, surrounded by shell-spouts and smoke; Nicator was speeding after Lanyard.
Mortimer turned his head, yelled at Hastings, ‘Tell ’em aft to cease fire. And get Everard up here.’ He ducked to the voicepipe: ‘Midships… Steady!’
Garret heard him mutter then, glancing aft. ‘Waste of ammunition. We may well need it, later.’ Garret thought, Oh God, please don’t make us need it… He had to jump aside then as the engineer officer, Mr Worsfold, climbed into the bridge. Mortimer, stooped at the binnacle, didn’t know Worsfold was there until he spoke.
Mortimer’s head jerked round. ‘Oh. Hello, Chief. What’re you doing up here?’
‘I needed a word with you, sir.’ Worsfold’s narrow, small-boned face was set hard, and his deepset eyes were anxious. Mortimer stared at him for a second or two, then he turned to Hastings. ‘Pilot, take over for a minute. Mean course west, and for God’s sake keep her zigging.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘What’s up, Chief?’
‘We can’t keep up this speed, sir. If we try to, we’ll—’
‘Chief. Wait.’ Mortimer held up one hand. ‘There’s no can’t about it.’ He cocked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘That’s the leading division of the High Seas Fleet coming up astern of us. We need every knot we’ve—’
‘It wouldn’t help us to break down, then, sir. And that’s what’s going to happen unless—’
‘Chief.’ Mortimer licked his lips. It seemed to Garret that he was making an effort to control himself. ‘Listen to me. We have no option, you have no option, none whatever, but to continue at our maximum—’
‘Sir. With respect, I—’
‘Damn your respect!’
Control had been forgotten. A finger pointe
d, shaking, in the engineer’s face. Mortimer’s face seemed swollen with his rage. He shouted, ‘I’ll keep going at full power, Worsfold, because I bloody well have to! D’you understand? Eh? Well, understand something else, if in the next half-hour we either ease off or break down. I’ll have you shot! I’ll shoot you myself, by God!’
Hastings called down to the quartermaster, his face low on the rim of the voicepipe so that his voice seemed quiet, ‘Port twenty.’ The engineer’s dark eyes were fixed on Mortimer’s. He might have been wondering whether this was some kind of joke. Mortimer said in a more even tone than he’d just used. ‘I mean it, Worsfold, I mean exactly what I say. Don’t doubt it for a moment. Get back to your engines, and keep ’em going!’
Garret, not wanting to meet Mortimer’s stare if he happened to glance this way, directed a professional stare at the ensign, flapping furiously at the masthead. He felt Mr Worsfold’s shoulder brush against his own as the engineer came back aft without another word and climbed over on to the ladder. Garret thought, Skipper’s gone off his chump. Glancing down again, he saw that Nicator was moving up to take the lead, steering a straight course to overhaul Lanyard on her starboard beam. Astern, the sound of gunfire hadn’t slackened, while ahead, where they were going, it was like continuous, rolling thunder.
Poor old Nestor. She was the second of Lanyard’s flotilla mates they’d had to leave behind: two static, helpless targets for the Huns to knock to smithereens. Geoff Garret closed his eyes. A few minutes ago he’d foreseen, almost as if it was happening, a similar fate for Lanyard: he’d seen her and Nicator interlocked after they’d collided, lying stopped with Lanyard’s bow locked in the other’s quarter; and the shells locating their helpless target, raining down. And Margaret, back there in Edinburgh, Margaret, for whom he needed now to live.
He shook his head, to clear away the imagery. It hadn’t happened, had it? He remembered a thing he’d had to memorise at school: The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave man dies but one. He knew what it meant, now.
Nick climbed off the ladder into the bridge; Hastings had sent Blewitt to him with the captain’s message. Nick nodded to Garret, as the leading signalman made way for him; ‘All right, are we?’ Garret, he thought, looked out of sorts. Mortimer half-turned his head: ‘Everard. Come here.’ Hastings reported, with binoculars at his eyes. ‘I believe the battle cruisers have gone round sixteen points, sir.’ Mortimer, forgetting Nick, used his own glasses to check this statement. He agreed. ‘But the Queen Elizabeths haven’t gone about.’
‘No, not yet, sir.’ Hastings pointed. ‘Nicator’s mean course seems to be a point or two to starboard, though, sir.’
‘Well, keep astern of her, of course!’
Lowering his glasses, Mortimer turned to Nick.
That blown-out corner of the bridge: Nick stared at it, seeing the canvas screen and the splinter-mattress ripped and charred black at the edges and the paintwork blackened; but in the distortions of the steel deck there was a dark, glistening spillage. Like oil ‒ but he knew it wasn’t oil. He could smell it, and see its reddish tinge. A sweet, sickly smell, mixed with the stench of burning and explosive. Nick felt dazed; there was no sign of Johnson, or… He shook his head, and he was staring at that mess again when Mortimer told him evenly, ‘Lieutenants Johnson and Reynolds have been killed, Everard.’
Nick had heard it, but there was a sense of unreality.
‘Sub.’ He met Mortimer’s eyes. Mortimer asked him, quite pleasantly. ‘Be a good fellow. Try to listen to what I’m telling you?’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
* * *
It was bewildering. Johnson, dead…
Johnson who’d astonished him this morning, in the darkness of the four to eight am watch on the bridge; first by becoming chatty and friendly, and then by launching what had mounted to a thunderbolt when the subject had turned to David. Nick’s mind went over it all now. He’d said that David had done as well as he had in the Service ‒ and at Osborne and Dartmouth ‒ because he had some sort of terror of not doing well, so he’d always swotted, ‘pushed himself’…
‘Don’t get_ on with him, do you?’
‘No. But—’
‘I guessed not. Nobody does, really.’
Nick had stared at him through the pre-dawn gloom. He’d never spoken on any sort of personal level to any of David’s friends or term-mates. One had learnt in one’s first weeks at Osborne that one did not consort with one’s seniors, except on formal terms.
Johnson murmured, ‘Sort of ‒ edgy, isn’t he. You say something quite harmless to him, and as often as not he thinks you’re getting at him or criticising. I’ve always felt a bit sorry for him, really.’
Nick shook his head. ‘And I’ve always thought it was just me that didn’t get on with him!’
‘I’ll tell you what I expected you to be like. Like your brother ‒ in other words difficult ‒ and on top of that ignorant and useless.’ Johnson smiled. ‘Frankly, it’s quite a relief that you’re fairly normal.’
Meaning, Nick had wondered, that he thought David was abnormal?
Well, he was. But not in any way that Johnson knew.
* * *
He came back to the present with a jolt. Mortimer, staring at him, was looking considerably less than patient. Nick shook his head, as if to clear it; it was Johnson who was dead, not David.
‘I’m sorry, sir’
Mortimer told him, ‘Sub-Lieutenant Hastings becomes my second-in-command. You’ll assume the duties of gunnery control officer. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now tell me what’s been happening aft.’
‘Excuse me sir.’ Hastings interrupted. ‘Nicator’s ceased zigzagging.’
‘Then do the same, for God’s sake!’ Mortimer’s voice had been sharp, surprised. He closed his eyes for a second, opened them, and repeated more quietly, almost apologetically. ‘Do what she does, Hastings.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘Now then, Everard.’
Nick told him: the stern gun and mounting blown overboard, that gun’s crew were wiped out, three of the ammunition-supply party killed with them ‒ probably by a shell hitting projectiles standing loose behind the gun. He added that one torpedoman had been very badly wounded at the same time.
‘Why didn’t you report this earlier?’
‘Wasn’t possible, sir. The voicepipes to the guns have been shot away, and Mr Pilkington wanted to keep his voicepipe clear for torpedo-control purposes, and I couldn’t leave the other gun when we were still in action.’ Mortimer turned, stared towards the smoke and grey shapes which could only be the Fifth Battle Squadron. He looked back at Nick. ‘Where were you when it happened?’
‘ln the wardroom, sir.’
Mortimer started as violently as if he’d been kicked. Hastings glanced round and Nick caught a look of astonishment before the pock-marked face turned away again. Garret and Blewitt exchanged glances which were extraordinarily devoid of expression. Mortimer said grimly, ‘Will you explain that?’
‘Ammunition had stopped coming up, sir. Both guns were in action and something had to be done. I went down, put things right, and—’
‘What had been wrong?’
‘The ladder had carried away, sir, and the two hands in there are young stokers, new to the job, I think. They were ‒ well, confused. I had them push the table under the hatch and forget the ladder. So it only took ‒ well, a second or two, and l was on my way back up when—’
‘I see.’ Mortimer turned away. Nick resented, still, the implication which had lain behind the question, behind the way they’d all looked so shocked. Then he thought of David, and Johnson’s saying, ‘He thinks everyone’s against him.’ Their surprise had been perfectly normal: there was nothing whatsoever to resent. Mortimer added, with his eyes on the smoky mass of Beatty’s battle cruisers and the Fifth Battle Squadron as they passed each other on opposite courses, ‘Two men of the for’ard four-inch’s crew were hit.
The first lieutenant replaced them and sent them aft to the surgeon, but you’d better check the replacements know their jobs. Also, I want to know how much ammunition we’ve used and how much is left. Have gunlayers clean guns and refill racks. Get flexible hose from engine-room stores and rig it in place of the damaged voicepipes. And tell Surgeon Lieutenant Samuels I’d like a report from him as soon as possible.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘Tell Mr Pilkington I’m waiting for a report from him too. D’you know how many torpedoes we have left?’
‘One, sir.’
‘Only one?’
‘Two were fired at the battle cruisers, sir, and Mr Pilkington managed to get one away at the head of the battleship line during our final turn away.’
‘Firing to port? Weren’t the tubes trained starboard?’
‘We got them round in time sir.’
‘We?’
Nick hadn’t meant to say that. He corrected it. ‘Mr Pilkington did, sir.’
Mortimer looked pleased. ‘One more thing. Sub. The ensign seems to’ve been shot away, aft there. Have the staff struck, and re-hoist it.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘And see those ‒ stokers did you say? See they don’t gum up the works next time we’re in action.’
‘They won’t sir.’
As he turned away, Nick found Garret and the steward watching him; they looked away. He wondered what they were thinking. Perhaps his own thought, which was when would that ‘next time’ be?
As it happened, he, Nick Everard, had got the tubes round. He’d seen what was happening and roused the crabby little gunner to it, and they’d been in time to get one fish on its way. Sometime later Pilkington, who’d never taken his heady eyes off the enemy battle line, had seen what he’d thought might be a hit.
The Blooding of the Guns Page 12
