Heart of War

by John Masters

  ‘That’s Hipper’s five battle cruisers and some escorting light craft,’ Leach said. ‘Can’t be anything else. I’m going to win that ten bob off you, Pilot … and we’re going to have a real battle. Action Stations.’ The buzzers sounded through the ship.

  The two battle fleets advanced towards each other, like huge blindfolded prize fighters, each accompanied by little boys whose task was to find the enemy and lead his master to him … but the little boys were blindfolded, too. Admiral Beatty launched a seaplane to try to penetrate the enemy cruiser screen and locate the exact position of the German battle cruisers, but visibility was so poor that the seaplane’s crew could not detect anything behind the German cruisers, which were already visible. Ships met, engaged each other with sudden brief violence, and passed on. Jellicoe waited, using his wireless as little as possible, for he commanded the more powerful fleet, and it was his task to lure Scheer, the German Commander-in-Chief, to battle on his own terms, and, if possible, without allowing the German fleet to escape back to its bases.

  Three hours after clearing for action, the men now dozing and yawning at their stations, the cruiser next to Penrith in the 4th Light Cruiser Squadron’s line abreast formation, H.M.S. Comus, started signalling to Commodore le Mesurier in Calliope. Comus was on the other side of Calliope, at the centre of the squadron’s line, and the yeoman on Penrith’s bridge could easily read the signal, as it was being sent by searchlight. He read aloud – ‘Gunfire and gun flashes three points off my starboard bow.’

  ‘It’s increasing,’ Leach muttered to himself. They waited on the bridge, as the cruiser slid onward through the quiet sea, the mighty fleet behind still deployed in cruising disposition – for until the Commander-in-Chief learned the exact position and formation of the main German fleet, he could not deploy for battle.

  ‘From Commander-in-Chief, sir, relayed from Calliope. Alter course by divisions, to south … executive!’

  The cruisers made the turn, sidling off to starboard for four minutes before the Commander-in-Chief signalled resumption of the previous course.

  ‘We’re close now,’ Leach said, ‘must be.’

  The yeoman said, ‘From Commander-in-Chief, sir, relayed from Calliope … take up Disposition Number 1.’

  Leach raised his binoculars and watched the destroyer flotillas, smoke belching from the funnels, lean into the sea and race out onto the exposed flanks of the battle fleet. The sound of gunfire increased, shaking the ships and shuddering in the sea so that it trembled though still, showing motion only in the smooth arcs of the bow waves and the churning foam of the wakes.

  The yeoman said, ‘I can see the flagship clearly now, sir.’ His telescope was to his eye, and he was propped in the port corner of the bridge, looking astern at the six rows of battleships, Iron Duke leading the third row from the left as he looked.

  The yeoman said, ‘Equal Speed – CL, sir.’

  ‘Deploy south-east by east, preserving the speed of the Fleet,’ de Saumarez said.

  The yeoman said, ‘Commander-in-Chief … General deployment … executive!’

  De Saumarez cried, ‘Calliope has signalled for full speed, sir … executive!’

  Leach hung onto the forward bridge railing, his binoculars to his eyes. ‘Here they come!’ he cried. The funnels and masts of Admiral Scheer’s battle fleet appeared out of the sea, coming up from the south-south-west. Jellicoe’s deployment would pass the whole British battle line across their front, crossing Scheer’s T.

  Tom Rowland, feeling the shudder of the ship as she lurched forward at full speed, ran up on deck to see what was happening. From the port side, amidships, he stared out on the most exciting scene of his life, and in a lurid way, the most picturesque. He saw the sudden unveiling of a vision, long known, but never before seen – a fleet action at sea. While Penrith had been steaming with the main battle squadrons of the Grand Fleet, Beatty and the battle cruisers, starting from Rosyth, had fought battles of their own, to the south and a hundred miles and more ahead. No one in the Grand Fleet, from Jellicoe downward, knew of these engagements in the drifting fog and sun patches, until Galatea’s signal of 2.20 p.m. In the nearly four hours since then the British battle cruisers had tangled with their German counterparts, and two had blown up, from turret flash-back caused by German shells – Queen Mary and Indefatigable. Cruisers had engaged each other, and finally Beatty had come in contact with Scheer and the German heavyweights. True to his orders, he had withdrawn northward, luring the Germans towards his heavyweights, Jellicoe and those twenty-four battleships … of whose presence no German was yet aware. Now, all this, hidden by time and distance, suddenly became clear before Tom’s eyes and the battle was made whole.

  Shells were bursting by hundreds in the sea off the bow of H.M.S. Marlborough, the battleship at the rear end of the deployment. A British cruiser, limping into shelter from an engagement with the German battle cruisers, blew up; a British battleship – Warspite – her steering gear damaged by a shell, was turning in massive circles, out of control, the target of three German battleships. Over all drifted the smoke of battle, the bellow of the great guns – now hiding, now loud, now displaying, now hushed.

  Tom made ready, reluctantly, to go below again. No one seemed to be actually firing at Penrith, but there were so many shells in the air that anything could happen.

  At that moment an appalling explosion made him pause, a hollowness in the pit of his stomach. Dead ahead one of the battle cruisers racing across the Battle Fleet’s front to take station had been hit. It was Invincible, Rear Admiral the Honourable Sir Horace Hood’s flagship of the 3rd Battle Cruiser Squadron. She lurched out of the line to starboard, seemed to settle, and then, as Tom watched, blew up in explosion after explosion, each a blinding flash of yellow and red. Soon, under a tall column of smoke, Invincible vanished. Tom hurried down to his post, and waited.

  On the bridge Captain Leach cried, ‘The Germans have disappeared! They’ve just … gone!’

  ‘Turned round in the mist, probably, sir, a Blue turn – the battle-turn-away Intelligence has been telling us about,’ de Saumarez said.

  Leach said, ‘Well, if they have turned 16 points, they’re heading south-west, so we’re still between them and their bases.’

  6.40 p.m., de Saumarez noted. The Commander-in-Chief, apparently as puzzled as his captains as to what had happened to the Germans, was altering course successively more to starboard, closing the last known position of the enemy. Sporadic firing still echoed and drummed in the air, but it was nothing like the universal thunder of the last few minutes when the two battle fleets had been in action against each other.

  De Saumarez said, ‘The C-in-C doesn’t seem to be afraid that they’re drawing us over a submarine or mine trap.’

  Leach shook his head, ‘We’ve made this contact by accident, that’s obvious. Scheer hasn’t had time to lay on a submarine trap, and mines aren’t likely – too many ships have been ploughing the water here, with no reports.’

  On the bridge, they waited, peering into the mists, listening to the rush of water along the steel flanks, watching the trails of black smoke from the other ships of the squadron spread out to port and starboard. Below, Tom waited. Where was the German battle fleet?

  The wireless room messenger bounced up the ladder – ‘Intercept from Southampton to Senior Officer Battle Cruiser Force, sir. Urgent. Priority. Enemy battle fleet steering east-south-east. Enemy bears south-south-west, number unknown.’

  7.04 p.m. and still broad daylight. Plenty of time to finish them off yet, Leach thought. But by God! – He pushed the message form under de Saumarez’s nose – ‘Enemy battle fleet steering east-south-east … Half an hour ago they turned to south-west. Now they’re heading for home, probably hoping to pass astern of us … Our squadron ought to be moving across to the starboard side.’

  He raised his binoculars and peered, first into the south west, then at Calliope. ‘The Commodore hasn’t made any signal,’ he muttered. He t
urned to the yeoman and snapped, ‘Make a signal! To Flag. Suggest enemy battle fleet close submit present manoeuvre should be at maximum speed.’

  He waited, watching Calliope’s flag bridge.

  Two flags whipped up to the commodore’s yardarm – Penrith’s distinguishing letter; and Negative.

  Leach turned away, his brows bent, scowling.

  Almost at once de Saumarez cried, ‘Here they come, sir!’ He pointed to the west. There, rising out of the mist were the tripod masts of battle cruisers, and behind them, taking ominous form, the tall stacks and mighty deckhouses of battleships; and, ahead, cruisers streaking low through the water.

  ‘By God!’ Leach shouted, ‘the C-in-C’s crossed their T again … Scheer’s blundered right into the centre of the line!’ He grabbed the engine room Navy phone and shouted down, ‘Give her everything you’ve got, Warner! … Tom, they’re coming again!’

  Calliope was flying the signal: Engage enemy destroyers; and Leach shouted into the increased wind of their passage – ‘Port twenty! Guns – open fire on the destroyers!’ The air was full of a heavy roaring sound as the 15-inch guns of the battleships, firing over their own protective screen of cruisers and destroyers, engaged the German fleet. German shells screamed in from the opposite direction.

  ‘We’ve got ’em!’ Leach exulted. ‘Got ’em cold!’ He watched a German destroyer racing toward them suddenly stop dead in the water, hit by a salvo of 6-inch shells. Flames poured from amidships, and the destroyer settled by the bow.

  ‘Prepare to fire torpedoes,’ Leach said. ‘Port twenty … Torps, target is enemy battle cruiser … fire when ready!’

  A shell struck Penrith somewhere aft, and Tom tensed at his post below. A moment later he heard the First Lieutenant’s voice on the Navy phone – ‘ A hit on B gun, sir. Two killed. Gun destroyed. No fire. All closed up.’

  Mainprice-King’s voice sounded strange, and Tom said, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Shell splinter scratched my head, sir. Blood in my eyes and mouth. It’s being bandaged now.’

  ‘Well done!’

  Penrith reeled from side to side as she jinked and dodged at Captain Leach’s barked orders to avoid the German heavy ships’ secondary armaments – the big guns had their hands full with the British battle fleet.

  De Saumarez said, ‘The Germans are turning, sir … It’s only the battleships, turning to starboard. The battle cruisers are coming on.’

  ‘Signal to Fleet flagship,’ Leach said. ‘Enemy battle fleet turning to south-west, enemy bears west … Did I see our torpedo wakes, Torps?’

  A tinny voice answered, ‘Yes, sir. Fired two at Derfflinger – missed … two at Lützow, which is burning. One hit.’.

  ‘Good! You may fire when you see a target … Starboard thirty! Guns, leave that destroyer and engage enemy cruisers, supporting their battle cruisers – green four five!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  Once again the sea was full of ships, but now the smoke was heavier and thicker, for some of the German ships, particularly the destroyers, were deliberately laying a smoke screen.

  Huge spouts of water towered up to port and starboard. De Saumarez said, ‘One of their battle cruisers has straddled us, sir. I think it’s Von der Tann.’

  ‘Starboard thirty!’ Leach called, racing the ship toward the nearest splash. A few seconds later a mighty whistling and roaring passed close overhead, and almost simultaneously the whole 4,800-ton cruiser seemed to leap in the air, then sag down, a foot lower in the water than she had been. ‘We’ve been hit by a big one,’ Leach said quietly.

  Tom sprang up and out of the little room below decks. This was serious. The ship had stopped.

  There was no moon. Penrith lay dead in the slow oily swell, her engine room flooded and a gaping hole twenty feet across in her flank. Thirty-seven of her crew had already been committed to the sea, Tom Rowland reading the simple words over their blanket shrouded bodies, as, one by one, they were pushed out from under a Union Jack on the quarterdeck. Captain Leach remained on the bridge. There was nothing to be done except try to keep afloat. The wireless had been put out of action by a 5.9-inch shell from a German battle cruiser soon after the disastrous hit from Von der Tann. All battle ensigns were still flying, though hanging limp from masthead and yardarm. Full lookouts were at their posts, all serviceable guns and torpedoes manned. Penrith stood ready to give a final account of herself.

  Every half hour Tom went round the ship, talking to the strained men, peering into the darkness at the guns; to the bandaged, pale First Lieutenant, watching the watertight bulkheads which, by containing the water in the engine room, alone kept the cruiser from sinking; to the Sick Berth Attendants in the wardroom, where Surgeon Lieutenant Onstott dozed on a sofa, the smell of disinfectant and charred flesh still heavy in the night sea air; to the twenty wounded laid out ’tween decks, covered by blankets, they alone of anyone on board permitted to smoke.

  Every time Tom made his circuit, his messenger, Ordinary Seaman Charlie Bennett went with him. Near two-thirty in the morning, the light beginning to spread faint and steely green in the north-east, at the stern of the ship, by the limply hanging fog-damp White Ensign, under the gilt crown topping the ensign staff, Tom turned to Bennett and said in a low voice, ‘You’re due for leave in October.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So am I. We’ll meet in London. Don’t make any other plans.’ He spoke more loudly, ‘That’s all for now, Bennett. Get some kip.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The sailor saluted, and in a moment disappeared below decks.

  Tom walked slowly to the bridge. As he climbed the ladder he heard the captain’s voice, low but urgent, ‘Stand to! Unidentified ship approaching from red nine oh. Guns, Torps, be ready to fire on my order.’

  ‘Ready, sir … ready!’

  Tom stared into the palpable substance, half-darkness half-light mist, that covered the surface of the sea.

  He saw it now … three funnels, twin searchlights silhouetted at funnel top height above the bridge … God, she looked like a Stettin-class cruiser. If she was, she should have another searchlight platform on the mainmast.

  Leach said, ‘She must have seen us. Yeoman, give her the recognition signal. It’s June first, remember.’

  ‘BK, sir, answered by DZ.’

  Tom couldn’t see a third searchlight. What British cruiser looked like that?

  The yeoman switched on the searchlight. The beam sprang out into the mist, making a huge silvery halo. The shutter clacked, long-short-short-short – long-short-long … The light bathed, with a ghostly radiance, a warship, her guns trained round, unrecognizable flags hanging limp at masthead and stern. A glaring light shone from her bridge, stuttering long-short-short – Long-long-short-short.

  ‘Correct, sir,’ the yeoman said.

  Leach and Tom and everyone else on the bridge breathed out a huge collective sigh. Leach said, ‘Yeoman, tell her who we are, and that we need help … Well, that’s that. Now we’ll find out what happened in the battle, perhaps. … I’ve been thinking, Tom. To meet the enemy where we did yesterday, we must have sailed from Scapa about three hours before he sailed from the Jade. It looks to me as though we have some means of reading German signals.’

  Tom said, ‘I don’t really know what happened during the battle. You don’t see much from the Damage Control Centre, though I did come up for a look-see two or three times. Could you tell me?’

  Leach said slowly, ‘Weeell … we apparently learned that Scheer was coming out, sailed before he did, and put ourselves across his line of retreat. Twice he came at us – blundered into us, it seemed more like – and twice, realizing he was outgunned and outmanoeuvred, he did the battle-turn-away they’ve been practising, and disappeared into the mist. The third time he apparently did get by, either ahead or astern of us. There certainly hasn’t been any major engagement since we were hit, or we’d have heard the firing. I don’t suppose we’ll know the whole story till we get bac
k to Scapa … perhaps not until we’re old, old men. The fog yesterday wasn’t only on the sea, in my opinion.’

  The Daily Telegraph, Wednesday, June 7, 1916

  DEATH OF LORD KITCHENER DROWNED AT SEA WITH HIS STAFF

  At 1.40 yesterday afternoon the Secretary of the Admiralty announced that the following telegram has been received from the Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Fleet at 10.30 (B.S.T.) yesterday morning:

  I have to report with deep regret that his Majesty’s ship Hampshire (Captain Herbert J.Savill, R.N.), with Lord Kitchener and his staff on board, was sunk last night about 8 p.m. to the west of the Orkneys, either by a mine or torpedo.

  Four boats were seen by observers on shore to leave the ship. The wind was N.N.W., and heavy seas were running … As the whole shore has been searched from seaward, I greatly fear that there is little hope of there being any survivors. H.M.S. Hampshire was on her way to Russia.

  As Johnny Merritt read, he was mentally making notes for his monthly letter to his father. He was alone at the breakfast table in the Manor. Stella liked to lie abed, and his father-in-law, Christopher Cate, had breakfasted early and was riding over to the Park to talk with Lord Swanwick about some problems between Swanwick’s agent and one of Cate’s tenant farmers, whose land bordered Lord Swanwick’s. He felt strange when he and Stella spent a weekend here, as they did once a month or so. Their own cottage was so close, in Beighton, that it seemed silly to pack a bag and toothbrush and sponge and a suit and riding clothes. It would be much simpler if they stayed at home, and drove over for a meal or a talk. Well, they did that too, sometimes, but Stella felt that it wasn’t enough. Johnny thought, she wants to feel that this is still her home.

  He helped himself to a fried egg, eyed with distaste the fried tomatoes, and took two rashers of greenback bacon … that was strange stuff, too, until you got used to it; hardly any fat, and it stayed pinkish and tender when you cooked it, not crisp or crunchy. The British looked down on what he had regarded as bacon, calling it streaky, only to be eaten by those who couldn’t afford anything better.