by Alan Evans
Alan Evans
Ship of Force
Author’s Note
If I listed the names of all the people who helped me with this book, in Belgium, Dunkirk and Britain, it would fill a page or two. But my thanks to all of them.
This is a work of fiction, though set in the framework of events at the time. Any resemblance of any character to a real person, living or dead, is coincidental. In particular there was never a Dunkerque Squadron as portrayed here, nor such a Commodore.
Prologue
He was not tall, and was slight of build, thin-faced. His name was David Cochrane Smith, he wore the uniform of a Commander, Royal Navy and in that summer of 1917 he was just thirty years old. He walked across Horse Guards Parade towards the Admiralty to be told his fate. He had seen action too often and knew he was not a brave man, but while he could not deny his fear he could hide it as he did now. He knew a lot of his faults. He was self-critical but he could usually smile at himself, if wryly. He could not smile now. He wanted one thing in all the world and that was a command and he would fight for it because he was a fighter. But he was afraid.
* * *
Rear-Admiral Braddock stood at the window of his office that looked out over the Horse Guards and watched Smith until he disappeared into the building. Braddock waited at the window as the minutes ticked away. He was square and solid with a pointed black beard and thick, black hair but after three years of war both hair and beard were flecked with grey. He had entered the Navy in 1862 as a boy of twelve and built a career on courage, common sense and dedication to his profession, virtues like the man himself, solid, practical. He was a good officer, a good example of a type, not a man who got himself talked about in terms heroic or scandalous, sturdily respectable, not brilliant. He knew that. And thought the officer about to arrive was very different.
He turned and scowled as the knock came at the door and Smith entered, cap under arm. Braddock nodded. “Sit down.”
“Thank you, sir.” Smith sat stiffly on the straight-backed chair as Braddock stared at him frankly. Smith’s fair hair showed the mark of the cap, an indented circle around his head. Not a handsome face. Not impressive. But three months before, in command of H.M.S. Thunder, an elderly armoured cruiser, Smith had fought two marauding German cruisers off the coast of Chile. And sunk them. The action had been bloody; Thunder had lost a third of her complement in killed or wounded. Smith had also previously sunk two German colliers, tenders to the cruisers but masquerading as neutrals. One of them he had blown up in a neutral port and the shock-waves of that explosion still shuddered through the diplomatic world — and shook the already shaky foundations of Smith’s career.
Braddock stared into the pale blue eyes that met his, seemingly without emotion, and thought, ‘You’d never think it to look at the feller.’
His wide desk held but one file and that was closed. Braddock knew its contents by heart and would not refer to it again. The spectacles he hated were hidden in a drawer; he could see his man well enough and could recite the details of Smith’s career — and his background. Brought up in a Norfolk village by a retired Chief Petty Officer and his wife who ran the village shop. There were many who wondered how a boy from that background got into Britannia as a cadet. Braddock himself had wondered. But now he knew more about Smith than Smith did himself. And could not tell him.
Braddock said abruptly, “I sent you to the Pacific to get you out of trouble.” There had been a woman, not the first by any means but that affaire had bordered on the scandalous and could have wrecked Smith’s career. Braddock said nothing of that, but: “You did very well out there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That is the opinion of the public at large. A number of your superiors are not so enthusiastic and think you took enormous risks that were only justified by later events. They think you’re eccentric, hare-brained and plain lucky. A wild man.” He eyed Smith. “So you’ll see why there were difficulties about your next appointment.”
There was the slightest emphasis on the past tense and Smith said quickly, hopefully, “Yes, sir?”
“Yes. But — there was a suggestion that an anti-submarine flotilla be formed.” Braddock said grimly, “Are you aware that the U-boats are winning the war at sea? That if they continue to sink ships at their present rate this country will be starved into submission?”
Smith hesitated. “I — didn’t know it was that bad, sir.”
“Well, it is. But keep your mouth shut. What do you think of an anti-submarine flotilla?”
“It might help, sir.”
Braddock’s thick eyebrows lifted. Didn’t Smith want the bloody job? “You don’t sound too confident.”
“I think it can only supply part of the answer. I think —” Smith stopped.
Braddock prompted him impatiently, “What do you think?”
“That convoys are the answer. They worked in other wars, and in some waters in this one.”
“The argument goes that a modern war and the U-boat impose new conditions.”
“The ‘beef’ convoy is working, sir.” Smith said it flatly, stating a fact. The ‘beef’ convoy ran between neutral Holland and England.
Braddock nodded slowly. “I agree. But — for now: an antisubmarine flotilla it’s going to be. The suggestion comes from Commodore Trist who commands the Dunkerque Squadron, and it has been approved. He proposes ‘a flotilla of destroyers and a ship of force as flagship’. I quote him verbatim. The ships to be allocated from his command as available and the flotilla still to be under his overall command.” He finally opened the file that lay on the desk but only to take an envelope from it and hand it to Smith. “Your appointment.”
Smith took it. “Thank you, sir. I’m grateful.”
“Rubbish!” Braddock rumbled. He stared down at his hands spread big on the desk, then squinted up at Smith and said quietly, “Wait and see what it’s like. But I pushed for you to get it because I think you will be able to do something with it.” And then he hurried on, not giving Smith a chance to speak: “Another thing. Garrick and a Leading Seaman Buckley asked to serve with you again.”
Smith blinked. They had served in Thunder in the Pacific, Garrick as First Lieutenant. Their asking to serve with Smith again was a compliment and he did not know what he had done to deserve it.
Braddock said, “Their request has been granted. Garrick gets his half-stripe and he’s to have a command under you.”
Garrick a Lieutenant-Commander now! Smith said, “That’s grand, sir.” He was pleased and it showed.
Braddock shrugged. “You should have had promotion yourself, but as I said, you’re not everybody’s favourite officer, not anybody’s favourite officer. You stepped on too many toes in the Pacific.” He asked, “Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
Braddock could see Smith was eager to be away, excited at a new command — even possibly relieved? Had he been in doubt that he would get a command? Braddock believed in this young man and that he should be employed. He said, “Trist is over here for a conference and wants to see you. There’s a messenger outside to take you along.” He stood up and turned to the window again. He had a lot to think about and he thought best on his feet, but as Smith reached the door Braddock called in a near bellow, “Smith!”
“Sir?”
Braddock did not turn from the window. He said, “If you ever need help you know where to find me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The door closed. Braddock went on, but muttering to himself with bitter resignation, “Because they won’t let me out of this bloody office now.”
He was too old, and too valuable where he was.
* * *
Smith followed the stooped and grizzled messenger as that pensioner
creaked along the corridors of the Admiralty, but his mind was elsewhere. He had doubted he would get another appointment, thought they would try to bury him alive in some far, forgotten corner. He knew he had professional critics, a wild reputation and few friends. But he had hidden his doubt and now it seemed he was a lucky man and that he had a friend in the Rear-Admiral. And he had a flotilla. A flotilla! He wondered about the ships and the men, elated now. Destroyers! And a ‘ship of force’! Did Trist have a cruiser in the Dunkerque Squadron? Or was one to be borrowed from the Harwich Force? A flotilla!
Then the messenger stopped at a door and tapped with arthritic knuckles. Now for Trist. Smith took a breath and entered the room.
* * *
Trist, like Rear-Admiral Braddock, also stood by a window, but this office was no more than a cubby-hole borrowed to interview Smith. The Commodore was tall, immaculate in his uniform with the thick, gold ring of his rank. He stared out of the window as if at distant horizons, jaw out-thrust and arms crossed, frowning as if in deep thought. Smith thought uneasily that it was a pose but then dismissed the idea as ridiculous. He did not know Trist and it would not do to start with any preconceived opinions.
Trist did not share that view. “Commander.” He indicated a chair but before Smith was seated went on: “Let me be clear. I have no use for lady-killers nor glory-hunters. Understood?”
Smith let himself slowly down on to the chair, the elation draining away and anger taking its place. “Perfectly clear, sir. Neither have I.”
“Um.” Trist seemed unconvinced. He sat down behind the desk. An open briefcase lay on it and he tugged out a paper, sat reading it.
Smith waited in the silence, that unease on him again. Trist sat very straight in the chair, face set in that studied frown. A pose? The Commodore commanded the Dunkerque Squadron which in turn formed part of the Dover patrol under Vice Admiral Bacon. The Patrol consisted of four hundred-odd craft, drifters, destroyers, minesweepers, minelayers, tugs and many others but all with one main task: to hold the Straits of Dover, deny them to the enemy and keep safe the traffic between Britain and France. Troopships and supply transports, hospital ships and leave ships, merchant traffic to and from all over the world entertaining or leaving the port of London, all passed through that narrow neck of water. Why should a man with a command like that need to pose?
Smith thrust the thought aside as Trist looked up at him and asked, “You can take up your command tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.” He had only to pack his bags. There were no farewells to be said, no partings.
Trist grumbled, “The Press and Parliament were all shouting for offensive action against U-boats so the Admiralty demanded it. My orders are to allocate the ships as available and this I have done.” He consulted his notes again. “It seems Lieutenant Commander Garrick and a Leading Seaman Buckley asked to serve with you.” He pursed his lips. “I don’t approve of an officer trailing an entourage but in this case the powers that be decided. Garrick and Buckley joined the Squadron two days ago.”
“I’m glad, sir.” Smith said with stiff politeness. “Thank you.”
Trist sniffed. “Nothing to do with me. I simply obeyed the orders of my superiors as every officer must.” He peered significantly at Smith, who said nothing to that. Trist went on, eyes on his notes again. “Frankly I found Garrick a bit of an oaf; hardly a word to say for himself. But I assume he’s competent and that will be something.”
Smith stiffened in the chair but Trist did not notice. Smith stared at him coldly, thinking, Garrick an oaf? Unimaginative and stolid, maybe. But he was a fine seaman, conscientious, loyal and there was none braver. He snapped, “Garrick is a good officer, sir. You don’t need to worry about him.”
Trist looked up sharply at the tone. “I can do without your reassurances, Commander. And Garrick will be your worry, not mine. You will answer for the flotilla to me. The orders are that it is to take offensive action against U-boats. That is a wide brief but the methods discussed were patrolling, and blockading or blocking the ports where the U-boats have their bases. The last two were considered impracticable so it comes down to patrolling. Any independent action you intend must first be authorised by me and I have work for you and these ships. Is that understood?”
Smith sat stiff-faced but raging at Trist and himself. He had started badly. He had received his appointment only minutes ago but already he was at odds with Trist. He said only, “Understood, sir.”
Trist watched him suspiciously for a moment, then said, “Now. The ships available to you. I intended three destroyers. Two are in the dockyard and will be for some weeks, but Sparrow is fit for sea. And of course there is the monitor, Marshall Marmont, which Garrick commands…”
Smith stared at Trist as he talked on but thought only of the two ships.
Sparrow.
Marshall Marmont.
He knew nothing about them as individuals but he knew the classes of ship they belonged to and that was enough. Neither of them could be described as ‘a ship of force’. He had known this would be bloody.
Part One — From a Find…
Chapter One
She lay at anchor in Dunkerque Roads, the approach to the port that had sweltered throughout the day in windless, brilliant sunshine but now with the evening there was a wind from the sea that brought with it the rain. Smith stood in the well of the forty-foot steam pinnace that butted out from between the breakwaters and headed for the ship. She was H.M.S. Marshall Marmont and she was a monitor. That is to say she was built to bombard shore installations and so she was shallow-draughted and carried two fifteen-inch guns. She was not so much a ship as a floating gun-platform for those two big guns in their turret which towered ridiculously high on its mounting above her foredeck. Certainly she had no place in an anti-submarine flotilla.
Beyond the sheltering breakwaters of the French port there was a sea running that set the pinnace lifting and plunging. This was Marshall Marmont’s pinnace and it was smart enough. The brass on the stubby funnel glittered, and polishing that was a labour of love; the smoke it poured out would leave it foul again within hours. Smith set his feet against the pitching, held on against it and stared at the monitor as he came up on her. She was only one of half-a-dozen monitors anchored in the Roads. Some of the others were twelve-inch gun monitors but there was also Erebus that mounted fifteen-inch guns. They lay there along with a scattering of destroyers and drifters, the little fishing craft called into service by the Navy for various duties, but these patrolled the mine-net barrage laid across the Straits. The long line of nets with its electrical mines was supposed to stop U-boats making a passage through the Channel. It had caught very few U-boats and there was no knowing how many had slipped past it or crossed the submerged nets at night, running on the surface.
She was close now. Marshall Marmont was short and wide and the bulges built along her sides to give her extra protection against torpedoes made her wider. So she sat wide-hipped in the water. Like an upturned soup-plate, he thought, or with that high turret and the higher bridge and control-top behind it, and her square stern — like a flat-iron. She would sail like one, too. What the hell was Commodore Trist thinking of?
The pinnace slipped in alongside the monitor and hooked on. As Smith topped the ladder the pipes of the bosun’s mates in the sick party shrilled and that was a sign of his achievement, his right to command but it did not cheer him. Then he stepped on to the quarter-deck with his right hand at the salute and saw Garrick returning that salute and fighting down the urge to grin. Then Smith smiled. Garrick was pleased to see Smith; for the moment that was all Garrick cared about and it showed.
Smith’s well-worn bags and valise were brought aboard by the sideboys as Garrick presented Marshall Marmont’s officers, drawn up on the quarter-deck. Smith found a word for each of them, studied each face and committed it to memory in those short seconds of talk. Then the officers were dismissed and he stood alone with Garrick and glanced down at Garrick’s sleeve. �
��Congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir.” Garrick’s part in the Pacific action and Smith’s report on that part had brought Garrick’s promotion and command of Marshall Marmont. He said indignantly, “It beats me why you got nothing, sir. It’s a disgrace!”
Smith knew why. The Admiral had told him. “Never mind that.” He got down to business. “What about this ship?”
“She’s a command and I’m grateful, sir.” Garrick meant it.
Smith said dryly, “Don’t be too sure. It’s submarines we’re going after, remember. Besides, I’ve heard some things. I crossed from Dover in a trooper and her master invited me on to bridge. He was good enough to air his knowledge of every ship in the Roads and the harbour. So?”
Garrick hesitated, glum now. “I don’t know what you’ve heard but I’ve learned a lot these last two days. She’s nearly new, not commissioned till 1915 but her engines aren’t up to the job. She’s slow and under-powered so she can barely make headway against some of the strong tides in these waters. Her best speed is six, or maybe seven knots. That’s when her engines are working but they’re —” He paused, choosing his words, then finished “— not very reliable.”
Smith said brutally, “I’ve heard she’s supposed to have spent more time in the dockyard than she has at sea.” He stared out over the darkening sea at the dark port: Dunkerque was blackedout from eight p.m. because of the danger from air-raids. “I’m told they call her H.M.S. Wildfire.”
Garrick admitted unhappily, “Yes, sir.”
There was already an H.M.S. Wildfire: a ‘stone frigate’, a shore station that was a barracks and gunnery school.
Garrick said, “People from other ships make suggestions like: maybe we should take a tug along whenever we go to sea.” Garrick added bitterly: “Often we do.” He went on: “Or they say the Admiralty have a new artist and he’s coming to paint us; he specialises in still-life.”
