The Horizon (1993)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Jonathan said, ‘What about the troops ashore, sir?’

  Soutter was on his feet by the scuttle as more explosions made the hull tremble.

  ‘They will have Reliant and Impulsive, and some monitors to offer full support when the new landings are launched.’

  But Jonathan recalled the great fleet which had hurled tons of explosives ahead of the first landings. The soldiers had come to rely on those guardian ships for everything: to see the most powerful of them sail away would damage morale even more than their own lack of progress had done. They would still have the monitors, flat-bottomed warships with a broad beam out of all proportion to their length, which because of their shallow draught could manoeuvre right inshore. Once in position these floating gun-platforms could use their huge guns, high-mounted in a single turret, to provide support for the army. But they were not the ‘Q.E.’

  Soutter added, ‘I feel badly about it. It’s like a betrayal.’

  Reliant would be leaving Mudros at first light for another long-range bombardment. Soutter had already pressed the admiral to plead with the C-in-C to oppose any such withdrawal, but communications with Purves were now almost impossible. He had found the rear-admiral lying on a couch in his day cabin, more drunk than sober. Soutter could still feel the anger running through him like fire. Purves had been drunk on that other occasion when Assurance had run down the fishing boats in the North Sea, and had been prepared to swear that he had not ordered the navigation lights to be switched off or that Soutter was merely obeying those orders. But unknown to either of them there had been a witness, a youthful sub-lieutenant who had been prepared to give evidence before any kind of court. So Purves had changed his tune and offered favourable evidence instead on his gunnery officer’s behalf, and the looming clouds of war had dampened any further interest in Soutter’s court-martial.

  Purves had stared at him angrily. ‘What do you care? I certainly don’t! If Fisher or any one of their lordships or Churchill himself for that matter want to withdraw some ships I do not intend to create . . .’

  Soutter had left, swinging the door shut so hard that the marine sentry had jumped with alarm.

  Maybe there was a U-Boat, and maybe not. If it existed it was taking its time. But the Germans were already heavily involved with the Turks and the man who commanded their army was a Prussian general, Otto Liman von Sanders, and most of his field commanders were his own.

  ‘You know that I’m soon to lose my second-in-command?’

  Jonathan nodded, wondering why Soutter found it so easy to talk to him. He had heard that Coleridge, ‘the Bloke’, was being given his own command: he knew too that Soutter had insisted he accept the promotion even though it deprived him of a very competent commander, and one who had been with the ship since the day she had been launched.

  Soutter was saying, ‘I suppose I’ll soon break in the new boy, whoever he turns out to be. And leaving Reliant might take Coleridge’s mind off poor Bruce Seddon – they were quite good chums, I understand.’

  More memories: the pretty nurse with the dark hair poking from beneath her veil, Seddon staring at him, numb with shock and disbelief although death was everywhere and wounded men lined every deck; and more, many more would be brought out from the peninsula every day until this agonising contest was settled.

  A sub-lieutenant was ushered into the cabin. ‘The commander’s respects, sir, and a boat is alongside to take Major Blackwood ashore.’ He was at great pains to look at neither of them.

  Unexpectedly, Soutter held out his hand. ‘I’ll not come up – I hate farewells. We shall meet again, I have no doubt.’ His grip was firm and very hard, like the man.

  On deck the air was hot, and without much movement. Jonathan shaded his eyes to look at the far-off flashes, listening to the guns where men fought in gullies and dried-up streams with bomb and bayonet, among the forgotten corpses and the army of rats. The hotter it got the more hellish it became. Dirt, infection, lice: the soldier’s lot. He grimaced. Ours too.

  He considered Soutter’s bitterness, and remembered something Coleridge had told him concerning Soutter’s wife. Why had she left him? Was this ship nothing more than a rival to her? Could she not share her husband’s pride?

  He found them all waiting to see him over the side: the commander, the bearded navigator Howard Rice, Quitman the gunnery officer and of course, young Roger Tarrier. People he had come to know and respect in so short a time. Then it was over and he was in the pinnace, staring astern at the crouching ship, her White Ensign quite limp like a salute. Living faces, dead faces, his young marines on that hard-won ridge, the telegrams reaching their homes. And Reliant’s motto: We will never give in.

  Nor had they.

  Speculation about the Queen Elizabeth’s future ended abruptly a few days after Jonathan left Reliant. For the first time since the campaign had begun, the enemy made a daring and reckless attack on the bombarding squadron by sea. A Turkish destroyer, the Muavanet-i-Miliet, manned entirely by officers and seamen of the Imperial German Navy, managed to avoid the patrols and then torpedoed the battleship H.M.S. Goliath. She was hit by three torpedoes and sank in minutes, with the loss of five hundred lives. The attack was completely unexpected, and more of her company could have been saved had not the other ships wasted valuable time in taking what they imagined was avoiding action against the much talked-of German submarine.

  The ‘Q.E.’s recall from the Dardanelles was immediately signalled, and seeing his campaign frustrated and in ruins Lord Fisher resigned from the Admiralty. As Sergeant-Major McCann was heard to remark, ‘Pity we’re not allowed to resign when things get a bit nasty!’ His outspoken bitterness was shared by the entire force of men assembling for the new landings.

  They were still stunned by Goliath’s loss when on May 25th Otto Hersing, one of Germany’s most successful submarine commanders, arrived off the Straits in his U-21.

  Hersing had proved himself both skilful and quite fearless in the early months of the war, when in the same submarine he had broken through a destroyer screen off St Abbs’ Head to torpedo and sink the cruiser H.M.S. Pathfinder, even though the weather had been bad and there had been a real risk of the boat porpoising and breaking surface to face the destroyers’ combined gunfire.

  Rumour had not exaggerated but he had not come directly to the Straits: he had first called at the Austro-Hungarian base at Cattaro in Pola to carry out repairs and refuel after his long passage from Germany. On that first day, while cruising submerged off Gaba Tepe, he sighted another great battleship, H.M.S. Triumph, a veteran in every sense, and fired just one torpedo. That was all it took, and even as the huge vessel began to heel over Hersing dived beneath the hull to avoid detection. All but seventy of Triumph’s men were picked up, as the attack had happened in bright sunshine, but the dismay and humiliation remained to haunt the fleet.

  Most submarine commanders would have been content with one battleship, but not Otto Hersing. Two days later off Cape Helles where Reliant had carried out several bombardments another battleship, the Majestic, suffered the same fate, although she was surrounded by anti-torpedo nets and patrol craft. Hersing waited for a small gap to appear between the protective boats and merely fired through the nets. In the confusion there was great loss of life.

  The officers and men of the fleet were profoundly shocked. In the campaign so far the C-in-C, Admiral de Robeck, had lost six battleships and most of the souls who had manned them.

  The signal was repeated around the fleet: all major warships were to take shelter in Mudros Bay, and the bombardments of Turkish positions were to be given over to the monitors and destroyers, with their very limited armament.

  As the newly assembled Royal Marines battalion and part of the re-formed R.M. brigade were put to work, training and drilling in preparation for the next landings, each man was very aware that he was to be sacrificed for the same ships which now lay at anchor.

  The soldiers and marines worked in the sweltering heat, laying
wire, stabbing at dangling dummies with their bayonets, hacking out makeshift trenches and carrying out firing practice on the ranges. Even Beaky Waring must have learned a hard lesson on the peninsula, Jonathan thought. He had been heard to rasp at one of the new lieutenants as he drilled his men in the sweltering heat: ‘Train these men to fight, sir! They are not mounting guard at the Palace!’

  And every day, with terrible regularity, the boats arrived at Mudros with their wounded and dying piled on bottom-boards, some of which were completely awash with blood.

  One week followed another, with bad food, flies and dysentery taking their own toll of the men who waited and listened to the hunger of the distant artillery. Finally Waring sent for Jonathan.

  He was found standing by a trestle-table in his tent, his huge nose shining in the reflected glare through the canvas. He had grown leaner, and, if possible, less tolerant, and between them there now existed a sort of truce which had arisen out of necessity.

  Thought you should know, Blackwood. I’ve just had the signal. It’s to be at Suvla Bay, four weeks from now. It’s here on the map but I’ve never heard of the damned place . . . We’ll call an officers’ meeting when I know something more.’

  Never heard of the damned place. In four weeks’ time everyone would have heard of it.

  He tried to imagine Wyke in some smart café or bar, raising his glass to them, but the comforting picture eluded him. All he could see were those dead, youthful faces.

  Was that where it would be? He had thought Livesay marked for death, but he had been wrong.

  Maybe it’s my turn now.

  Waring said savagely, ‘I’m going to have a drink, Blackwood. What about you?’

  They regarded one another warily, and then Jonathan heard himself reply, ‘Yes, sir. Better make the most of it.’

  Nine

  The remainder of July passed swiftly, and a general apprehension at the total lack of news made the perpetual training a misery. The assembled divisions of troops, Royal Marines and contingents from Australia, New Zealand and India somehow endured the appalling conditions, and food which even the sturdy Gurkhas found inedible.

  Then, in the midst of final preparations, Brigadier-General Sir Charles Nugent arrived to take charge of the regrouped battalions and the mixture of recruits from England. A short, strutting figure with a full military moustache and a breast of medals which were for the most part unrecognisable to the new men, Nugent wasted no time in summoning his senior officers.

  The meeting took place in a large tent normally used for serving meals to the many wounded who daily waited and prayed for the next hospital ship, and ‘Blighty’. Jonathan attended, with the company commanders and the two C.O.’s of the Royal Engineers, as well as the Gurkha detachment, and the crowded tent was soon like an oven.

  Like all marines he was wary of serving under an army general, despite the Corps’s martial origins. On the Western Front it had too often been proved that senior officers had little understanding of the marines or their skills and traditions, and failed to deploy them to the best advantage. They had been used as replacements for men killed in the line, only to fall themselves in an alien environment and separated from their own. He watched critically as with his staff the brigadier-general strode into the tent, and stared piercingly at the assembled officers.

  ‘Sit, gentlemen.’ A sharp, nasal voice, changing to an angry muttering when he realised that there were not enough chairs.

  He was perfectly turned out, Jonathan thought cynically, boots and Sam Browne polished, glove-tight uniform pressed and devoid of the ever-present dust. His batman must have his work cut out.

  Nugent got straight to the point. ‘This is a very mixed force, gentlemen. Under my command it will soon overcome any disadvantages. Suvla Bay is our objective. You have all received your instructions and have had time to study the maps.’ His eyes moved amongst them. ‘We shall seize the Anafarta Hills which overlook the bay, and from there we will join with other brigades to establish a front across the whole peninsula north of Anzac. We will then be able to divide the Turkish army. To the south of Suvla Bay the Anzac divisions will break out and advance towards us.’ He smiled quickly but without warmth. ‘The Turks will be made to fight on two fronts at once. The rest is up to you, gentlemen.’

  Jonathan glanced at Waring’s grim profile. It was an impressive build-up of troops, but it seemed likely that the enemy would already know the place, if not the exact time of the landings.

  The remainder of the original landing force, recruits almost to a man, had become hardened veterans, which was obviously to the good. There was hope, too, of much improved communications, unlike the last onslaught. The Royal Engineers would see to that.

  Another advantage was the arrival at Mudros of new self-powered motor barges. Each was armoured and claimed to be bullet and splinter-proof, and Jonathan thought how different the landings at Anzac and Cape Helles might have been if they had been available then, instead of sending men to face machine-guns and shrapnel in towed whalers and cutters.

  Each boat, or ‘Beetle’ as they were nick-named, carried a hundred men, and had a bow-ramp like a small drawbridge so that troops could disembark on the shore ready to move inland without delay.

  There was the usual concern about the enormous weight of equipment each man would carry: full pack, mess gear, blanket and groundsheet, the new snub-nosed Lee-Enfield rifle and bayonet, plus all the ammunition each one of them could manage. Drinking-water was also essential, vital to the entire operation, but lighters had been prepared on another island and would be readily available. They said. He smiled to himself despite the tension around him. Once he would have accepted almost anything. Now he believed only what he saw.

  Brigadier-General Nugent was saying with emphasis, ‘This whole campaign can be brought to a successful conclusion, and Constantinople will fall to us. The enemy’s pressure on Russia will be reduced, and we can continue to drive them back on the Western Front.’

  An army major murmured to his companion, ‘Continue? First I’ve heard of it.’

  Nugent became very grave. ‘The General Officer Commanding, Sir Ian Hamilton, has relayed a message, a fine one I think, which over the years to come will inspire everyone: “The faith which is in you will carry you through!”’

  Waring snorted angrily. ‘What’s the use of that, I ask you? They don’t need faith. All they want is ammunition, support and competent leadership!’

  The General’s eyes singled him out in spite of the crowd.

  ‘What name, sir?’

  ‘Colonel Waring, sir!’

  There was total silence while one of Nugent’s staff officers held out a notepad and whispered something. Nugent said with a change of tone, ‘Ah . . . a Royal Marine.’

  Waring faced him hotly. ‘I think the record of the brigade here, and my makeshift battalion in particular, can speak for itself, sir!’

  It was like watching two duellists, Jonathan thought.

  Nugent asked quietly, ‘Do you have any complaint or criticism of the plan to take the Anafarta Hills, Colonel – er, Waring? If so, I am sure we would all like to hear it.’

  Waring was unmoved, and touched his bristling moustache with one knuckle as Jonathan had seen him do so often.

  ‘If we cannot take the hills, sir, we will be fighting on two fronts, not the enemy!’

  ‘“Cannot” is out of the question, Colonel. It must be done. It shall be done.’ He glanced over their faces. ‘We attack on the 6th. The Royal Navy will be giving us full support.’

  Now the reason for Soutter’s bitterness and sense of shame became clearer. He had known then that apart from the destroyers and hundreds of Beetles and small auxiliary craft, the main naval support would be offered by two elderly cruisers, Endymion and Theseus, which had been built during the eighteen-nineties, and were completely out of date in weapons and armour.

  That afternoon Jonathan watched the final preparations for embarking this huge army of regu
lars and volunteers. Now that a decision had been made and passed to every company and platoon, the atmosphere became almost cheerful as the lines of tents were broken down, and the walking wounded gathered critically to look on.

  Perhaps the Turks would be stretched to the limit and could no longer face attacks from two flanks. He recalled the Australian colonel who had made the comparison between the enemy defending his homeland and their own emotions if the Germans had been smashing their way up the beaches of Kent and Sussex.

  All these men, and many more on the island of Imbros where another armada was preparing to head for the enemy shore. Would these islands ever see such an army again, and how many would ever live to see England once more? Voices all around him, from the north of England, Scotland and the Dales, the round accents of the West Country and townies from the London Territorials. The youth of a nation, of a commonwealth.

  Lieutenant John Maxted found him on a bluff, contemplating the seething activity on the bay.

  ‘I’ve had a letter from Chris Wyke, sir!’ He became more subdued. ‘Came with that last hospital ship.’

  Jonathan smiled. ‘How is he?’ It was suddenly important. A familiar face in that other world.

  ‘He’s well, sir. He’s getting some leave – expect he’s had it by now! Sends his best wishes to you and his chaps.’ His eyes clouded over. ‘What’s left of them.’

  They stared down at the Beetles and launches, the dust from marching lines of khaki.

  ‘Did he have that champagne?’

  ‘Didn’t say, sir. But he wishes us luck.’

  Jonathan glanced at his watch. ‘Go and tell the Colonel that we move in thirty minutes.’ Waring would still be seething about the slight to his Royal Marines. It would never occur to him that he had had exactly the same contempt for the Australians.