The Lion at Sea

by Max Hennessy

  ‘Nestor, Nomad and Nicator are within range, sir,’ Heap reported. ‘They should open fire soon.’

  ‘Shift from target to target as necessary.’

  ‘Nestor’s opened fire, sir.’

  Gunfire started ahead and increased, so that the wind was full of the peppery reek of cordite. The speed had reached thirty-two knots as they approached the head of the German line. Two of the enemy torpedo boats, hit by the leading destroyers, had already stopped, blowing off steam and leaking smoke as they wallowed in the water, one with a distinct list to starboard already. The firing of the rest became wild.

  ‘Range eight thousand!’

  The German cruisers were firing over their torpedo boats now in a vicious hail of heavy shell, and the splashes rose all round the British ships. A salvo of four-inch shells wailed like demons over Mordant’s masthead and crashed like stones into the sea beyond her, then, as splinters flew and a fresh mountain of water rose ahead, broke and cascaded across the deck, she steamed through it so that the men on her bridge found themselves wet through, blinded and coughing with the bitter smell of high explosive. Where shells had fallen, the sea was pockmarked in patches of scummy-looking discoloration, as if someone had been emptying huge buckets of ash into the water, and as the trigger-happy gunners joined in, Talbot’s expression lifted into one of almost demoniacal glee.

  ‘It’s a regular Brock’s Benefit,’ he said gaily and Kelly found himself envying him his cheerful aplomb.

  A peculiar moaning told them that another lump of steel filled with explosive had just gone by, and as he examined himself to see if he was frightened, Kelly came to the cheering conclusion that he wasn’t and that rather he was only excited and anxious that he should do well.

  The ships around them had opened fire with all their guns now but the gunlayers were confused by the number of targets that presented themselves and each gun was firing independently. But with the sea and the spray and the smoke, accurate shooting was impossible and no one seemed to be hit.

  ‘Nestor’s getting her torpedoes away, sir!’

  The explosive cartridges by which Mordant’s missiles were ejected had been inserted and the torpedo crews were crouched by the tube mountings, their figures tense and expectant.

  ‘Stand by!’ Talbot’s eyes were on the torpedo director. ‘Fire when your sights bear!’

  The torpedoes went away at intervals of a second or two, each leaving the tube with the sharp crack of the cartridge and leaping out like a giant salmon to take the water with a tremendous splash before diving to its preset depth. The navyphone screeched.

  ‘Bridge? All torpedoes fired and running correctly.’

  Talbot glanced to starboard. The torpedoes’ tracks were clearly visible.

  ‘Hard a-port!’

  As they turned away, shells bursting all round them, Heap sang out.

  ‘Nomad’s hit, sir! She’s flying “Not under control.”’

  Kelly’s head jerked round. Nomad was wallowing in the water, smoke and steam pouring from her engine room, and as they raced past, someone waved from the bridge. The heavier German ships were less than a mile away now, firing with everything they had, then they were passing and re-passing each other like a flock of disturbed birds, shooting at point-blank range. The battle cruisers, both British and German, were turning from the attacks as the destroyer battle developed, and the sea suddenly seemed to be full of ships of all sizes, hurtling back and forth in the smoke and spray, every gun blazing, heeling into the turn, their masts at a steep angle to the water, their battle flags whipping in the wind, the staccato bark of the four-inch guns cracking over the general din.

  ‘What a bloody scrum,’ Talbot observed.

  As the destroyers cleared the smoke, fresh white pillars of water leapt up among them like giant ninepins, to be knocked down and leap up yet again without ceasing as the guns of the bigger ships came into action.

  ‘One of the Germans is hit, sir.’

  ‘Our torpedo?’

  ‘Impossible to say, sir.’

  As they hauled out of the action, there was a clang and a crash aft. They heard the hum of fragments and caught a glimpse of polished steel flashing past the bridge, then the sub, Naylor, appeared. He looked shaken. ‘Stern four-inch hit, sir. And one of the boats has gone up in splinters.’

  Watching the Germans, Talbot didn’t turn his head. ‘Casualties?’ he asked.

  Naylor swallowed. ‘Gun crew, sir. Lieutenant Shakespeare’s dead. There’s a bit of a fire but it’s under control.’

  ‘I think we’ll be all right now,’ Talbot said. ‘We’re through.’

  ‘Sir!’ Lipscomb’s voice shoved itself through a chink in the din. ‘Signal from Southampton. To Grand Fleet. “Have sighted enemy’s battle fleet bearing south-east.”’

  ‘That’s torn it,’ Talbot observed mildly. ‘The whole bloody lot are out. This is going to be the most unholy smash that ever was. Let’s hope Jellicoe arrives before long or he’ll be too late.’

  Beatty’s ships were still standing on towards the south-east but then Heap’s voice came, flat and unemotional.

  ‘Battle cruisers turning away to starboard, sir. In succession.’

  ‘The last one’s going to be damned close,’ Kelly observed.

  Heap continued to stare ahead. ‘Fifth Battle Squadron’s still standing on towards the enemy, sir.’

  Evan-Thomas’ ships, occupied with the German battle cruisers, were dourly heading towards the enemy battle line, taking the brunt of the attack while the British battle cruisers swung away.

  Heap’s voice rose. ‘They’re turning now, sir! In succession. To starboard.’

  ‘It’s going to be a damned hot corner by the time Malaya turns. They’ll be in range of the whole German battle fleet.’

  Shells were falling round Barham now, then they saw the splashes appear round Valiant and Warspite, both of which were seen to be hit. Malaya, the last ship in the line, had turned early and, despite their wounds, Warspite and Malaya were hitting back hard and they saw two salvoes strike one of the German ships and sheets of flame lift over her masthead as she glowed red fore and aft like a burning haystack.

  The battle cruiser squadron was heading north-west now, leading the High Seas Fleet after them.

  ‘Flotilla leader signalling, sir!’

  As the recall came and they swung after the battle cruisers, they passed Nomad lying dead in the water, stopped and helpless. A line of battleships appeared on the port bow through a heavy bank of mist and funnel smoke that stretched across the horizon.

  ‘We’re all right now,’ Heap said cheerfully. ‘Here’s the Fifth Battle Squadron!’

  Talbot took his pipe from his mouth and spoke coldly. ‘That, Heap,’ he said, ‘is the German Battle Fleet.’

  Almost immediately, they were in the thick of a hair-raising bombardment delivered at a distance of a mere three thousand yards as they heeled over to try to make another torpedo attack.

  ‘Nestor’s hit, sir.’

  Nicator was swinging out of line to avoid the damaged ship; Mordant, just behind, had to do the same.

  ‘Hard a-port,’ Talbot snapped. ‘Shove her over, coxswain, or we’ll divide her neatly into two equal halves!’

  The Germans were smothering Nestor and Nomad with shells as they passed. As Mordant bucketed by, on the blind side, trying to keep up with the battle cruisers, they saw Nestor dead in the water, too, the waves lapping her deck, steam billowing from her engine room. A German destroyer bearing down on her, thinking her easy prey, staggered as she was hit by salvoes from semi-automatic weapons and sheered off quickly, but Nestor’s crew were getting rid of confidential papers and putting rations into boats and rafts. Wrapped in a cloud of smoke and spray, in the centre of a shrieking whirlwind of shellfire, she was already down
by the stern, then above the din they heard the defiant cheers of her crew as her bows lifted and she sank stern-first, to leave only a patch of oil and debris to mark her grave. Over the water as they drew away they could hear voices still thinly singing the National Anthem.

  In the distance, Nomad was the target for what appeared to be a whole German battle squadron and was also sinking by the stern, burning furiously, her flag still flying, a mass of yellow flame and smoke as the lyddite charges detonated along her length. Her two after funnels seemed to have melted and collapsed, and red showed through the gaping wounds in her sides. Clouds of grey smoke poured from her and in places the hull seemed to glow with heat. But men were still running along her deck and it seemed amazing that they could still live in that hell.

  A string of flags jerked up to Lion’s yardarm and Kelly dragged his eyes away.

  ‘Flagship altering course, sir,’ he said. ‘Heading further west.’

  ‘How many German ships do you make it now, Number One?’

  ‘I count sixteen or seventeen. With four König class in the van. Older pre-dreadnoughts bringing up the rear.’

  Seconds became minutes and every moment Kelly expected to see a sheet of flame ripple down the sides of the German vessels and a hail of shell fall round them.

  ‘Perhaps we can get among them,’ Talbot said.

  ‘Range one three five double-O. Range one three two double-O.’

  ‘Nicator’s altering course. We’re getting out of it.’

  As the ships changed direction, the Germans began to open fire and a salvo crashed down around them.

  ‘Range obscured!’

  About three or four miles to the north, the British battle cruisers were steaming away, making a great deal of smoke and firing over their sterns at ships on the starboard quarter. Two miles behind them the Fifth Battle Squadron trailed, followed by the Second Light Cruiser Squadron, still under persistent fire.

  ‘Bit of a shock to the system seeing the whole German fleet sailing down our throats, what,’ Talbot said cheerfully.

  ‘Let’s hope the Hun’ll shortly enjoy the same sensation,’ Kelly said.

  ‘Amen to that.’

  Vast masses of smoke were forming an impenetrable pall over the sea and the rapidly narrowing area of water was being flailed to foam by the passage of dozens of ships. The Fifth Battle Squadron was still involved in its turn to starboard and under heavy fire from the approaching German Battle Fleet, and they saw the shells splashing round them, almost obliterating them. It was an incredible sight they were seeing. Though part of the battle, they were also spectators and could watch the German ships switch to a leisurely target practice with the light cruisers as their victims.

  A sheet of yellow flame enveloped one of the leading ships but then the flickering line of gun flashes started again and Kelly looked at his watch, counting the seconds.

  ‘Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three–’ Heap was counting out loud and Talbot turned on him.

  ‘Dry up, Heap,’ he snapped.

  There was a series of ear-splitting cracks and lugubrious moans as the salvo arrived. With the positions changed, the light had improved and now it was the Germans who were dazzled by the setting sun.

  ‘What’s the time, Number One?’

  ‘Seventeen fifty-five, sir.’

  ‘Less than three hours to darkness.’

  Both fleets were under fire now and there was an immense fascination in watching the deadly and graceful splashes rising mysteriously from the smooth sea, the torrents of spray from them smashing down across the deck.

  ‘I make that fifty to sixty shells within a hundred yards of us, and a few more further off,’ Talbot said calmly. ‘Keep us zigzagging, Number One. The Hun’s working a ladder. We’ll sheer in towards them as they approach and away again as they start coming back.’

  It was already well into evening when Lipscomb’s voice drew their attention to the flagship. ‘Sir, Lion’s signalling to the Grand Fleet! Jellicoe’s arrived.’

  ‘I’ll bet that’ll make the Germans jump,’ Talbot said. ‘Thank God for the haze. Their damned zeppelins won’t have spotted them.’

  ‘There they are, sir.’

  Mile on mile of ships began to appear through the smoke and haze of the late afternoon to the north-west. The tables had been turned completely. The Grand Fleet was steering south-west, the great vessels moving ponderously to deploy. The news that they’d been sighted had spread round Mordant at once, and there was a burst of cheering from aft. The air was already full of signals as the huge ships began to pick their targets in the fast-moving multitude of grey shapes.

  ‘Open fire and engage the enemy.’

  ‘Remember the Glorious First of June.’

  ‘When is the Glorious First of June?’ Talbot asked.

  ‘Tomorrow, sir.’

  Talbot glared into the smoke at a flickering light. ‘What’s that chap signalling, Lipscomb?’

  Lipscomb coughed. ‘“It seems to be getting a bit thick this end,” sir. “Where is the enemy?”’

  Talbot stared about him into the murk. The German ships were clearly in sight to the destroyers and must have been quite visible to the battle cruisers.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he snorted, ‘why doesn’t Beatty tell ’em?’

  Large masses of smoke from the hundreds of ships making at full speed for the scene of the battle lay between the lines to the north-east where they combined to form an impenetrable pall, pierced here and there by the flashes of salvoes, the detonation of shells and the flames from fires. Jellicoe’s escorting vessels had turned towards the German ships; one of the light cruisers, under the fire of the whole German line, seemed to be blotted out by explosions and a destroyer caught fire and slowed to a stop, down by the bows at once.

  ‘God Almighty,’ Talbot said, his voice faintly awed. ‘It’s worse than Phil the Fluter’s ball.’

  As they watched, two of Arbuthnot’s armoured ships of the First Cruiser Squadron turned between them and the German line and began to move into an appalling concentration of fire.

  ‘What the devil are they up to?’ Talbot demanded.

  Arbuthnot’s ships were being hit repeatedly and as the leading one heeled to a salvo just abaft the rear turret, a red sheet of flame leapt up. She recovered, righted herself and steamed on, only to be hit by yet another salvo, this time in front of the foremost funnel. At once she seemed to glow red all over, swell and burst into fragments in an enormous cloud of black smoke which rose to a height of several hundred feet then, dispersing, showed no sign of a ship at all. Below them on the deck the sailors began to cheer wildly and Kelly swung round.

  ‘Shut those men up, Heap!’ he snapped. ‘That’s not a Hun! I saw the white ensign. It was Defence. That’s Warrior astern of her and she’s being hard hit, too!’

  As they watched, the German fire switched to another British ship which hauled out of line behind the battered and burning Warrior.

  ‘It’s Warspite. What the hell’s she up to?’

  The battleship was making a half turn, with the whole of the leading enemy division concentrating on her. Naylor, the sub, was just directing a camera at her when Talbot saw him.

  ‘Put that damn thing away,’ he roared. ‘She’s going to be destroyed!’

  Warspite had reached a position about eight thousand yards from the Germans when she slowly turned again, lashing out viciously with her fifteen-inch guns, before rejoining the British line. As she regained safety there was a sudden lull around them and they had to reduce speed and turn in a complete circle to avoid bunching up on the onrushing battleships, one of which thundered past their stern, towering over them, the men on her bridge peering down on them. Over the din of the sea and the guns they could hear bugles blowing somewhere aboard her.

  �
�Swop you this ’un for that ’un, mate,’ a wag on the forward gun screamed above the roar of water.

  Despite the British losses, it was clear that the Germans were at last in real trouble. Endlessly the Grand Fleet stretched away to the horizon, with Hood’s Third Battle Squadron, led by Invincible, further to the north. The German line lay in a shallow convex arc to the south. Lion had turned west-south-west now, to rejoin the line and lead her consorts in the van of the Grand Fleet. They seemed blurred by the mist and the Third Battle Cruiser Squadron, manoeuvring to join them, was barely visible. But the battle cruisers, for the first time able to see the German ships better than they were being seen themselves, were scoring hits now.

  Talbot glanced round. It was already evening and the sky was growing darker, the visibility in the low cloud poorer now than it had been all day. Bright points of fire from the ghostly ships stabbed the gloom.

  ‘The bloody sun will be gone soon,’ he said. ‘What there ever was of it. The Germans are going to get away.’

  As he spoke the veil of mist in front split like the curtains of a stage. Clear and sharp, they saw Hood’s battle cruisers silhouetted against the horizon and, as they watched, an explosion on Invincible’s centre turret lifted a great crimson flame to the sky. At the very top ship’s plates were turning and tumbling, then the deep red faded and the pall of smoke merged into the smother and, as a shower of fine ash and debris began to drift down, they saw the two ends of the ship standing perpendicularly above the water.

  ‘They said Jellicoe could lose the war in an afternoon.’ Talbot’s voice was harsh. ‘It looks to me as though this is the afternoon.’

  The light was fading rapidly as the destroyers pounded round to reach the battleships. There were only a few survivors clinging to the floating wreckage of Hood’s ship; they were still cheering as the battle fleet bore down towards the Germans, then they were swept under by the vast steel hulls.

  Kelly tore his eyes away. In the distance an unholy firefight was taking place and the German ships were being heavily hit. Mordant was rolling appreciably and he realised that the whole of the immediate area of the sea was heaving up and down in a confused swell created by the wash of two hundred-odd ships all moving on different courses at high speed. The German battle line was struggling to turn away, hit constantly by the British dreadnoughts, and one of them was already on fire, her whole fore part ablaze.