Her sixteen 4-inch Mk III guns can hurl a 25lb shell 9,000 yards. Housed in four huge hydraulically powered double-barrelled gun turrets, her eight 12-inch Vickers Mk X goliaths can launch an armour-piercing Lyddite shell weighing 850lbs over fourteen miles. She also carries seven Maxim machine guns and five 18-inch Mk VI compressed-air torpedoes, which have a range of 4,000 yards. Inflexible is a leviathan, an awesome machine of war.
Tom fell in love with her as soon as he saw her.
He spent most of his early weeks below decks working with a team of men under the supervision of Inflexible’s Chief Ship’s Carpenter, William ‘Billy’ Cawson. A Cornishman from Stratton – not far from the sea, near Bude, but a long way from anywhere else – he has completed thirty years’ service in the navy, having joined at the age of fifteen. He should have retired in the summer, to run the Port William, a pub in Tintagel, which he has had his eye on for years. But, with the outbreak of war, his captain, Richard Phillimore, asked him to stay on ‘until Christmas’.
Then, on 10 November, Billy heard that orders had arrived from the Admiralty that Inflexible and her sister ship, Invincible, being repaired in the dock next to her, were to set sail the following morning. So his retirement would have to wait.
When Tom and the other civilian craftsmen on board heard the news, they made the obvious point that their work had not yet finished. To which came the blunt reply that Mr Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty, had ordered that any civilians with work still to complete must sail with the ships and finish their tasks in transit. Needless to say, there was great consternation, but the men’s employers had already bowed to the inevitable and thus the men had to stay or lose their livelihood.
To make matters worse, their destination soon filtered down below decks. Chief Artificer Engineer Charles Richard had been told to get up steam for a fifteen-day, 15 knot marathon voyage south; first stop, Montevideo.
Most of the men had never heard of it. When they were enlightened, they all dashed home to their wives and families. Some called into church to pray; a few wrote wills on scraps of paper, or whatever they could find. And all the men – bar a couple, who had ‘taken the pledge’– got drunk.
In a role that harks back to the days of timber ships and canvas sail, as Chief Ship’s Carpenter, Billy Cawson is also a warrant officer, the navy’s equivalent of an army serjeant. Apart from the engine room, steering, weapons and wireless, he is responsible for all structural and maintenance issues on board. He has a crew of thirteen: a mate, a blacksmith, two plumbers, two painters, an electrician, a cooper and five artisan mates. They look after the integrity of the ship, especially emergency repairs to any breaches of the hull or damage on deck. The loading and securing of the ship’s cargo and dunnage is under Billy’s charge, as is the maintenance, dropping and raising of the 150 tons of her anchor and chain.
Tom’s work on Inflexible’s interior, especially the repairs and alterations to the wardroom and to Captain Phillimore’s quarters, was completed just four days out from Devonport, after which he asked to join Billy’s team. He discovered he had good sea legs – even in the bowels of the engine room, where even the most experienced men often submit to sea sickness – and found the work absorbing. The residue of pain from the memories of Bronwyn and Presteigne was still considerable, but his new life at sea did much to help him push it to the back of his mind. He had little time to brood and the further from home they travelled, the better he felt.
There has been so much to learn about the life of a ‘Jack tar’, most of it fascinating, some of it bizarre, and a few things offensive. Tom is amazed to discover that some of the junior midshipmen in the Gunroom – called ‘wonks’ by their superiors, who treat them with varying levels of degradation, including beatings and verbal humiliations – are only fifteen. Instead of going from Osborne House, the junior Royal Naval College, to Dartmouth to complete their officer training, they have been sent to sea.
While at Devonport, Tom soon heard the common naval expression, ‘Ashore it’s wine, women and song; aboard it’s rum, bum and concertina.’ Or alternatively ‘rum, bum and baccy’ or ‘rum, bum and the lash’. At sea, he has become aware that behind the amusing ditty there are still some unfortunate practices. He has witnessed several incidents.
In one, the Gunroom President, the most senior of the three sub lieutenants, or ‘subs’ – called ‘snotties’ by the rest of the ship’s company – assigned to the Gunroom, was feeling bored. Possessed of a vindictive streak, he shouted: ‘All the young men are getting slack; half a dozen all round!’
After which, all six wonks were beaten across the bare arse with the Gunroom Punishment Stick and their chastisement recorded in the Punishment Book, a large leather tome with all the wear and tear of frequent use. One wonk, a lad scarcely fifteen years old, received six beatings before they got beyond the Canaries, the last one because some beard fluff had appeared on his chin. Sadly, because he had never shaved, he had not realized; nor did he have a razor with which to scrape it off.
On another occasion, the cry ‘Uttings!’ was heard. Despite the fact that it was not the name of any of the wonks, they had learned that they must respond immediately. The nearest one did so at the double.
‘Yes, sir!’
‘What use are you, Uttings?’
‘No use at all, sir. None, absolutely bugger all. Sweet FA, sir.’
His prescribed response, which had to be repeated verbatim every time he was summoned, made the subs howl with laughter. The silly catechism of ‘jolly japes’ was repeated several times a day throughout the entire voyage.
When Tom got to know some of the boys, he discovered that most were from modest middle-class backgrounds. To his amazement he learned that, because they are still officially undergoing training, in order to supplement their meagre salary of 1s and 9d a day, their parents have to pay the Admiralty £50 a year. Tom wonders what will happen should the young boys be killed in a forthcoming battle.
Wonks are not permitted to smoke or drink spirits, but they are allowed a 10s wine bill each month. With port or sherry costing only 2d a glass, they soon acquire the habit of consuming large quantities of alcohol.
But the midshipmen wonks will, one day, be officers. Many will go on to be commanders and captains with their own ships, and a few will even be admirals of the fleet. Not so, the junior ratings. On the early days of the voyage, Tom watched wide-eyed as boys of the same age as the midshipmen, some looking even younger, and certainly smaller, scurried around the decks going about their work. Many were barefoot, their trousers rolled up to their knees, looking for all the world like street urchins, which is what they were before being picked up off the street after some minor transgression and given the choice: ‘The spike or the navy?’
Tom asked one, who looked no more than twelve and whose feet looked particularly raw after spending days scrubbing the decks in the wind and rain, why he did not wear shoes or boots.
‘Never ’ad none, Mister.’
‘Where are you from, lad?’
‘Rotherhithe, Mister.’
‘Do your parents know where you are?’
‘Ain’t got none, Mister. Am I in botha?’
‘No, no, carry on.’
Young ratings on Inflexible carry the rank ‘boy’ and are, in effect, ship’s servants until they are older and are given the rank of ‘ordinary seaman’. There are nine boy telegraphists, five boy signallers and thirty-four boy seamen on HMS Inflexible.
Floggings in the Royal Navy were abolished in 1879, but the aura of rigid discipline is still present, and navy life is rich in curious rituals, peculiar phrases and odd behaviour. Tom finds it all intriguing. Although he has had to go through a highly disciplined and exploitative apprenticeship, he finds the navy’s traditions unnecessarily harsh. But few of the older men on board agree with him, saying that the system instils discipline and, indeed, made them the men they are today.
As for the ‘bum’ and ‘buggery’ of naval ditties
, nothing is ever said. As far as Tom can tell, there is no evidence of the ship’s boys providing sexual gratification, willingly or otherwise, to the older men. However, the wonks and boys are also known as ‘peg boys’, and ‘pegging’ is an old-fashioned euphemism for fucking.
Eventually, on a sultry night near the equator, by which time Tom knew Billy Cawson much better, he asked him directly.
‘Mr Cawson, if I may ask?’
‘Ask away, laddie.’
‘Well, I’ve enjoyed the rum, and I’ve seen the boys thrashed black and blue, but what about the buggery?’
‘What about it?’
‘Is it true, Mr Cawson, that the wonks are bum-boys?’
Billy laughed loudly.
‘Look, lad. I’ve known it ’appen. Every ship’s got a few pansies an’ little lads who take it up the arse – probably got a likin’ for it at school – but no more than on Civvy Street. You put a thousand men on a ship for six months, with no women for company, and some will end up shaggin’ the ship’s cat, let alone one another. Truth of it is, it is against King’s Regulations and if ye’re caught, ye’re for the high jump.’
Tom thinks Billy’s response is a very considered reply; he suspects this is not the first time Billy has been asked the question.
‘Besides,’ Billy continues, ‘as I’ve always said, if a man’s been caught buggering the boys, he’s sent to a naval prison in Blighty, where he’ll get right royally buggered ’imself. Serves the bastard right!’
Tom smiles, thinking this is an even better answer that obviously reflects Billy’s true feelings on the matter.
And so, a few days after taking on coal at Montevideo, Tom is staring at the metropolis of Port Stanley. Billy Cawson joins him. It is 9.45 in the morning.
‘Bloody hell, Tom, it looks worse than the Outer Hebrides – an’ a godforsaken place that is!’
‘There’s no mistakin’ it’s a long way from Radnorshire too, Mr Cawson.’
Port Stanley is no more than a few streets with rows of small wooden houses covered by corrugated iron roofs. The only buildings of substance are Government House, with its quaint green roof, and the newly rebuilt, neo-Gothic Christ Church Cathedral.
Inflexible has taken on coal and is getting up steam. There is a sudden flurry of activity on deck, alerting Billy.
‘Come on, lad, I think we’re off!’
The Battle of the Falkland Islands is about to commence. Admiral von Spee’s squadron has taken on coal at Picton Island from a captured British collier, but he is short on shells, having used a large part of his arsenal at the Battle of Coronel. For reasons unfathomable by his own senior officers, and despite being out-gunned by the British ships and slower than the ‘greyhounds’ Invincible and Inflexible, he decides to attack. His senior commanders advise him to make a run for Germany, but he chooses to ignore them.
He commands two armoured cruisers, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, and three light cruisers, Nürnberg, Dresden and Leipzig. Besides Invincible and Inflexible, the British squadron consists of armoured cruisers Carnarvon, Cornwall and Kent and the light cruisers Bristol and Glasgow.
The day has improved; there is good visibility, the sea has become placid and the sun has broken through. As the mighty warship pulls away from Port Stanley, Tom and Billy go below decks to their battle station next to the engine room. Tom has never felt or heard the engines at full speed. It is like being in the belly of a giant beast as it digests its prey, the rhythm of the engines like the monster’s beating heart. The heat becomes intense; the air thick with a heady mix of oil, coal and human perspiration.
At about 13.00 hours, the ship suddenly lurches to port, throwing men off balance and sending anything not lashed down flying in every direction. Billy shouts at Tom.
‘Brace yourself!’
Within moments there are two huge explosions, and the ship shudders. Tom’s face becomes a picture of terror. He thinks Inflexible has been hit.
‘It’s all right, laddie, that’s our big Vickers fartin’!’
The explosions then come in pairs at regular intervals. It is like being in the barrel of a gun, with every recoil juddering Inflexible’s superstructure as if it were in an earthquake.
‘Jesus, Mr Cawson, it’s like being in a biscuit barrel with a packet of ’apenny bangers!’
‘Just say a prayer to thank him upstairs that you’re not on the receivin’ end!’
Von Spee’s flagship takes extensive damage; its funnels are flattened and it begins to list. She sinks at 16.17, taking von Spee and his two sons with her; there are no survivors. Gneisenau sinks at 18.02, Nürnberg at 19.27 and Leipzig at 21.23. Two of the vessels produce multiple explosions as their armaments magazines go up. There are only 215 German survivors; a total of 1,871 men perish. The Royal Navy squadron loses ten men, killed in minor damage to the Invincible.
Tom goes up on deck to help the German survivors come aboard. Some are smooth-chinned boys, no older than the wonks and boys on Inflexible, but most are gnarled veterans of the Kaiser’s marine: cooks and wardroom waiters, gunnery artificers and able seamen. In fact, the men of the two navies could be interchangeable.
Then the wounded German sailors are helped aboard. Some are badly burned, their clothes ripped off by explosions, their skin blackened like overcooked meat. Bright-red blood oozes from the worst burns, making them look like hot embers in a hearth. Lifeboats are lowered to help the worst cases. Bodies are pulled up to check if there is still life in them; if there is not, they are put back like the unwanted catch from a fishing net.
Tom has not been sick for the entire trip, but he is now. He has never seen anything like it.
Inflexible’s Ship’s Surgeon and his Sick Berth Stewards are going to have a busy night. But no matter how hard they try, they are unlikely to be able to save the worst burns cases as they will not be able to prevent infection. Those who die on board will be buried at sea in the time-honoured naval tradition, sewn into sailcloth, weighted with whatever is to hand and cast overboard. In Nelson’s day, the dead were sewn up in their hammock, with the last stitch through their nose to make sure they were dead rather than unconscious, then a couple of round shot at their feet to take them to the bottom.
The German dead are blessed just like British tars with the immortal words used on such occasions.
We therefore commit his body to the deep, looking for the general Resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; at whose second coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up her dead; and the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in Him shall be changed, and made like unto his glorious body; according to the mighty working whereby He is able to subdue all things unto himself.
It has been Tom’s first experience of war, but he witnessed the battle in semi-darkness, miles from the focus of the action. Not a single bullet, nor an explosive shell, came anywhere near him, and yet he feels exhausted and troubled as if he has been in the thick of it.
Billy Cawson consoles him.
‘Tom. We don’t live or die like soldiers, who fight face to face with the enemy. We die with our ships; if our ship survives, we all live; if she goes down, we all go with her, or we end up like these poor sods.’
After the Battle of the Falkland Islands, raids on commercial shipping around the world by the Kaiserliche Marine, the Imperial German Navy, cease. Britain’s naval supremacy across the world’s oceans is restored.
Tom Crisp soon gets over his first experience of war and settles into life on board HMS Inflexible. Although he needs a little more time before he is certain, he is confident that when they next reach a British port, he will ask Billy Cawson to take him on permanently as part of the ship’s company.
Wednesday 23 December
Keighley Green Working Men’s Club, Burnley, Lancashire
Tommy and his fellow volunteers Mick, Vinny and Nat feel much more like real soldiers and much less like the Boy Scouts they were accused of be
ing in November. The taunts that greeted them from less than generous observers as they marched past have stopped.
Uniforms of Kitchener’s melton blue, rather than khaki, arrived early in December and the volunteers thought they looked very smart, positively handsome, in their matching side caps worn at a jaunty angle. Some young girls even wolf-whistled as they passed. Rifles arrived two weeks later, as did horses for the officers, most of whom had to learn how to ride them and also find somewhere to stable them.
With appropriate military paraphernalia came proper training. Range practice began on Hambledon Moor, as well as proper military exercises, including manning outposts and picketing. Lectures and demonstrations were given in rifle maintenance and map reading; in many instances, lessons in the basics of reading, writing and arithmetic were needed. Route marches became longer and more arduous, the worst being what the lads called the ‘Witches’ Marathon’ – thirty-five miles over the Nick O’ Pendle and back through the haunts of Pendle’s famous witches, Old Mother Demdike, Anne Chattox and Alice Nutter.
The route took them past Nat Haythornthwaite’s front door, in Sabden, where ‘Mrs Twaites’ invited Nat and his mates in for a cup of tea and a rest. They managed to drop out without being seen and rejoined the column on its return. However, someone must have snitched on them and they each got one week’s field punishment, which was ordered to be a timed, six-mile march every morning at 6 a.m., including Sunday.
The excursions of C Company on the moors above the town have led to some amusing incidents.
During one exercise, Tommy’s platoon was high on a moorland road, doing a picketing exercise. He and Mick, who were acting corporals, sent Nat and Vinny to a remote spot miles from anywhere, where they were told to close the road to anyone unless they used a password. They saw no one all morning and were freezing cold as biting Pennine winds blew sleet and snow all around them. Then, early in the afternoon, an old farmer appeared through the snow with his sheepdog. Vinny asked him where he was going.
The Shadow of War Page 39
