The Horizon (1993)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Later, as Jonathan walked though the crowded messdecks where the marines were huddled amongst their carefully prepared kit, he felt their disappointment like something physical.

  One looked up and asked, ‘Why not us, sir? We’re as good as them Aussies any day!’

  Jonathan gripped his belt until the pain steadied him. Are you so eager to be killed before you’ve learned properly how to defend yourselves?

  He spoke slowly and saw others pressing closer to hear him. ‘It is out of our hands. But we are Royal Marines, and must be ready at all times.’ He saw their eyes watching bleakly. He was doing no good. ‘If we are called . . .’ He hesitated and knew that the wrong word now would be seen as deception; and if Soutter was right, they would need to trust each other in a way they had never known before. ‘We will stand together, because that is our way.’ He nodded to one of the sergeants and tried to place his name. ‘I want our men at the guardrails when the boats are cast off. Let them know we are all proud of them.’ He waited, feeling the sudden tension around him. ‘For after today, many of those same men will be gone forever.’

  The messdecks were still silent as he walked away, until the blare of a bugle and the trill of calls between decks brought them to their senses again. They seemed stunned, as if their lives were no longer in control, and something enormous and terrible was about to take over.

  Rear-Admiral Purves, slumped in the captain’s bridge chair, rested his chin in one hand while the watchkeepers stood restlessly around him.

  He said, ‘Time?’

  The navigator replied, ‘Two-thirty, sir.’

  Captain Soutter levelled his binoculars over the screen and stared into the darkness. The ships astern and abeam had already turned in one huge arc in a south-easterly direction towards the peninsula, and yet the sea could have been empty.

  Purves leaned over the arm of the tall chair. ‘Better get on with it.’

  Soutter moved nearer to exclude all the others in the crowded bridge. ‘Another half-hour, sir?’ He was almost pleading. ‘The boats will be overloaded as it is.’

  Purves leaned back in the chair and said, ‘The sea’s good and there’s been no sign of trouble. Keep to orders.’

  Soutter clenched his fists in the darkness. ‘Stop engines.’

  After a moment or two the four great screws stilled and the ship tilted uneasily, like a wild animal sensing danger.

  Soutter said, ‘Carry on, Tom.’

  The commander waited, wanting to help, but very aware of the admiral’s brooding shape.

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  On deck he found most of the marines silently observing the carefully rehearsed operation as the way went off the great ship. The boats were warped alongside where the troops waited in squads and sections, their officers moving amongst them to pass final instructions.

  Coleridge found the senior army officer and they shook hands without any emotion. Jonathan Blackwood watched as the first troops clambered down the prepared wooden ladders and into the waiting boats. Just a few jokes in the darkness, a grin or a handshake for friends about to be separated, the dull clink of muffled weapons. A few of the marines called down to the pitching boats, ‘Keep yer ’ead down, chum!’ and ‘See you in the pub!’

  Lieutenant-Colonel Waring strode along the deck and barked, ‘Can’t you keep these people quiet?’ He jabbed at someone with his stick. ‘Take that man’s name!’

  A marine corporal muttered, ‘Stupid prick!’ Then he saw Jonathan beside him and stared at him anxiously.

  Jonathan turned away. Embarrassed or angry? Probably both.

  Then very slowly the boats were allowed to drift astern until they formed dark clusters on their tow lines, the steam pinnaces already puffing smoke as they prepared to take over the work as soon as the prescribed position was reached.

  Jonathan felt the deck tremble and watched as the overloaded boats fell further astern until they were moving safely after the parent ship. Hidden in darkness other ships, men-of-war and transports would be doing the same, preparing their armada of small boats: David and Goliath.

  Coleridge put down a deck telephone and remarked, ‘The Old Man’s not pleased.’ He saw Jonathan’s uncertainty, or sensed it. ‘Come up with me – we’ll not be opening fire until daylight. I think the Captain likes to have you around. No strings, you see?’

  They reached the upper bridge as orders were repeated or passed down to other parts of ship.

  ‘All engines slow ahead, sir, revolutions seven-zero.’

  ‘Course South-fifty-East, sir.’ That was Rice.

  Below the bridge, the director control with its powerful range-finders and gunsights squeaked slightly and swivelled towards the port bow. Like a giant medieval helmet, Jonathan thought, inside which Lieutenant John Quitman and his team were preparing their three main turrets, to support an advance or to cover a retreat. To a gunnery officer like Quitman it was not emotion but arithmetic that would win the day.

  A signalman said in a hushed tone, ‘Land, sir! Dead ahead!’

  Soutter raised his glasses. It was more of a hint than something solid. But he had studied his charts well, with Rice at his side. He had formed a true picture of what awaited them. A grim line of hills with more beyond them, criss-crossed with ridges and gullies, now merely vague shapes outlined by the remaining stars.

  Each minute felt like an hour, and when a man coughed or dropped something the others glared at him, hating the interruption of their innermost thoughts.

  Purves said casually, ‘We can slip the tows now, I think.’

  Jonathan was standing just behind the chair and could sense his anxiety. It seemed to hang over him along with the smell of whisky.

  Soutter did not turn. ‘Too early. Another half-hour – right, Pilot?’ As he walked to the opposite side of the bridge he said, ‘Remember what you said about orders, sir.’

  The time dragged on, the ship barely moving, or so it appeared. The stars continued to fade, and far ahead in deeper shadow the land waited, crouching. Yet there was no sound, no sudden alarm. The chief yeoman trained his big telescope like a gun and remarked, ‘Maybe they’re all asleep.’

  ‘Time, sir!’

  Soutter walked to the bridge wing and peered astern. ‘Tell the quarterdeck. Slip the tows.’

  There was no confusion as obediently the boats fell away, forming into their own separate flotillas with every pinnace towing four hulls, each of which was crammed with khaki figures. In the powerful lenses Soutter could see the pinnaces forging ahead but seemingly still stationary. The boats under tow were so overloaded that they appeared to have hardly any freeboard.

  ‘Director Control, sir!’

  Soutter walked to the forepart of the bridge and took a telephone from the boatswain’s mate.

  ‘Captain. What is it, Guns?’

  Quitman’s voice sounded tinny. ‘I can see the land quite well, sir. Three thousand yards. All quiet.’

  He handed it to the seaman and said to Rice, ‘A nice piece of navigation. Right on the pin!’

  Rice showed his teeth but leaned under the chart-table’s hood to hide his thoughts. The Old Man rarely praised anyone for doing his job. It was what they were here for, something he expected. So he was worried about something.

  ‘Gunners’ party request to start hoses, sir?’

  ‘Granted.’

  On either side-deck from forward to aft they had already laid out endless curls of leaking hose. When the water was pumped through them then it would trickle across the immaculate planking, which might otherwise shatter to splinters when the big guns opened fire. The decks were sun-dried like tinder. The commander would have something to say if that happened.

  Soutter was at the compass. ‘Alter course, Pilot, steer South-ten-West.’ He watched one of the pinnaces as it appeared to turn away when Reliant altered course, twisting in the dull light like an unmanoeuvrable snake. Too slow. Too slow.

  He heard someone by the big searchlight give a quiet ch
eer and looked up to see the huge curling shapes of the extra white ensigns, paired at each masthead and at the gaff.

  She must make a brave sight, he thought. He heard the admiral remark, ‘Well, it’s up to them now.’ Nobody answered.

  Jonathan took a pair of binoculars and peered astern. He could see the other battle-cruiser Impulsive, her long guns already trained to port where the land rose and fell in a hard undulating line. Other ships were beginning to appear too, some elderly River Class destroyers spaced out ahead and abeam. They were all converted for minesweeping, but looked somehow vulnerable against the land’s menacing backdrop. Much further to seaward, and only because of her white hull, he could just make out the one hospital ship which had been selected for this section of the landings.

  Soutter looked round as Second Lieutenant Tarrier all but pitched headlong through a bridge gate.

  Tarrier found Jonathan and said breathlessly, ‘Colonel Waring’s compliments, sir, and would you see him about arranging a kit inspection for all contingents?’

  Soutter said dryly, ‘Your colonel’s making quite a name for himself.’

  Jonathan found he could smile as he recalled the corporal’s angry comment. ‘I think he is, sir.’

  Soutter smiled too and afterwards Jonathan remembered it. Like conspirators, he thought.

  ‘Firing, sir!’

  Purves twisted round. ‘What? Where?’

  Then they all heard it, the crackle of rifle fire, the urgent stammer of machine-guns.

  Jonathan heard Soutter say, ‘In the log, Pilot. Our people are ashore.’

  Rice pulled one of his many pencils from his pocket. He said, ‘Four fifty-three exactly.’

  Jonathan watched them, recalling the soldiers in France. Synchronising their watches, discussing it calmly like the captain and his lieutenant. They could have been commenting on the arrival of a train.

  Purves said, ‘Take up our bombarding position. Make to Impulsive: follow father.’ But his voice was humourless.

  Jonathan knew that the battleships and battle-cruisers would each take their selected positions for targets already clearly defined. They would lay down a barrage whenever requested, from a range of ten thousand yards. It would certainly demoralise the enemy and perhaps give the troops time to dig in, even drive the Turks from any commanding positions on high ground.

  He saw the two forward turrets moving smoothly, the four long barrels rising and dipping slightly as Quitman and his spotting officer prepared to fire their first bombardment in anger. Reliant’s main armament could drop a salvo at the rate of six tons a minute on a target at twice the agreed range. It was a sobering thought.

  He raised the glasses again. The light was a little brighter, but coming from the east it held the shore and the beaches in darkness. But there was already haze over the water and it was impossible to see what was happening.

  Soutter said, ‘Send the hands to breakfast in watches. A good meal. Then pipe Up Spirits. I know it’s early, but I am sure that Rear-Admiral Purves will agree.’ He faced the admiral like an antagonist. ‘Fight on a full belly – it’s Jack’s way, eh, sir?’

  Purves twisted his neck to listen to the firing ashore. It had intensified within the half-hour. The Australians and their New Zealand companions were in action.

  He said gravely, ‘A foothold on enemy territory, gentlemen!’

  Jonathan touched Tarrier’s arm and felt him jump as if he had been shot. ‘Come along. I expect my man Payne has already magicked up something for us.’

  He saw the marine boy bugler moistening his lips as he prepared to sound the stand-down.

  It was amazing, Jonathan thought as they clattered down the ladder. Breakfast and an unexpected tot of rum, Jack’s way as Soutter had remarked; steaming along into the hazy shafts of first sunlight, and picking their way over the trickling hoses while the big battle ensigns streamed out in the breeze. And after that, a kit inspection for all the marines. Names to be taken, Waring poking any untidy gear with his stick no doubt. He stopped by a guardrail as the deck quivered to a sudden increase of revolutions. It was like madness, the very normality of it. And all the time, just over there, men were fighting and dying. Bullet and bayonet; no quarter for either side.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ Tarrier was watching him, his eyes filling his face.

  ‘I was just thinking. It’s like leaving them behind. They’ve come all this way to fight and now we’re leaving them.’ He shook his head. ‘But I expect somebody, somewhere, knows what he’s doing.’

  But he thought of Soutter’s face when his request to close with the shore had been denied. He had been ashamed too.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve been seconded to you, sir.’ So simply said. So young.

  Jonathan touched his arm again. ‘You may not be later on. Now come on and have breakfast, then we can all really enjoy the kit inspection!’

  As the bugle blared its orders watertight doors and hatches opened and men streamed out, blinking in the sunshine and the glare from the placid water.

  The tension was no more: the talk for the most part was of the extra tot of rum. It had already become a direct order from the admiral.

  Faintly, but without a lull, the firing continued until it was lost completely in the roar of Reliant’s fans.

  Five

  For two whole days the battle-cruisers Reliant and Impulsive, like the other ships of the bombarding squadron, moved slowly up and down the embattled peninsula, the air cringing to the deafening roar of their broadsides.

  News of success had come with a laconic message from the Australian major-general ashore. He had stated that despite the large number of casualties when his men had splashed and struggled up the beach, the first Turk to receive a Dominion bayonet had died within half an hour of landing.

  The firing had been almost continuous, and it was known that the Turks were rushing in reinforcements and heavier guns to block any further gains.

  It had become almost impossible to move casualties out to the hospital ship and other transports by day because of enemy artillery, so the work was done at night, each pain-laden boat groping through the darkness until they could find a refuge for the wounded.

  Jonathan Blackwood had sensed a change amongst the young marines. From the initial excitement and comradeship their mood had become resentful and bitter. Lieutenant-Colonel Waring had already carried out his threat to punish any insubordination without mercy. At the end of the second day as cease-firing was sounded on bugle and turret-gongs alike, Jonathan could feel the hostility all around him as the marines stumbled out into the dying sunlight. For during action stations, and because the majority of the marines had no proper shipboard duties, they had been confined to the sweltering messdecks with watertight door and scuttles tightly sealed around them. At best they were sent in small sections to join the damage-control parties; at worst they sat and stared at the deckhead as the hull shook and quaked to the roar of guns, and smoke filtered amongst them to remind them of their useless isolation. It was a wise precaution however. One small Turkish shell had exploded against the port side and blasted a whaler to fragments in its davits. Two seamen had been cut down by flying splinters, and Jonathan had seen the startled exchange of glances amongst his men until the wounded sailors’ cries had faded into the bowels of the ship.

  He stood and sucked in the evening air, watching the forward guns returning slowly to their fore-and-aft position, their long muzzles burned and blackened by the heavy firing. A few seamen were digging out shell splinters from the deck where Reliant had received those first casualties, one of whom had since died.

  Despite the Turks’ counter-attacks and their fanatical determination to drive back any sort of advance, Reliant’s role in the bombardment must have played a tremendous part in forcing the enemy if not into retreat then under cover, where they could do no harm to the stream of men and supplies being landed on the shell-torn beaches. Each of Reliant’s big fifteen-inch shells contained twenty thousand bullets, an
d throughout the bombardment the distant hills and gullies beyond had smoked and erupted like volcanoes coming to life.

  Jonathan climbed slowly to the upper bridge while the grimy sailors stood down from their secondary armament, exchanging white grins in stained faces: they looked shaky and dazed, and he was not surprised. The constant roar of guns, even when you were not on the receiving end, seemed to curdle a man’s brains. How much worse for the enemy, he thought.

  The atmosphere on the bridge seemed relaxed by comparison. The admiral was leaning against the side, his binoculars following a series of vivid flashes on a hillside. Soutter sat on a step, his uniform dappled with paint flakes like snow. The others reached out gratefully for fresh tea as it was hauled through the bridge gates. Jonathan glanced at the sun-reddened faces, the regular British sailor in each one of them, contemptuous of every other nation’s bluejacket.

  Soutter sipped his tea and half-listened to Lieutenant Rice speaking into the wheelhouse voicepipe. He saw Jonathan and waved the tea-fanny towards him.

  ‘Warm work, Blackwood. You should have been up here – the fleet really hit the enemy where it hurt.’

  Jonathan contained his reply by sipping the tea, which was scalding hot despite its meandering journey from the galley. He had wanted to be here, but it had been necessary for him to be with his men, to show them he was sharing it.

  Uncannily, Soutter seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Hard, was it? I can understand how they feel.’

  Purves said harshly, ‘God, look at that mad fool!’

  It was one of their own steam pinnaces, and through the binoculars Jonathan saw it zig-zagging wildly in what appeared to be a great hail-storm, but he knew the hail was rapid fire from a cleverly sited machine-gun. A destroyer glided through the smoke and after firing at the shore at what seemed like point-blank range allowed the pinnace to resume its journey.

  ‘Senior officer on board, sir!’ That was the chief yeoman.

  Purves snapped, ‘What sort?’