Patrol to the Golden Horn

by Patrol to the Golden Horn (epub)

  ‘We shan’t be landing from Louve at all. Twenty-four hours after we join her, she has a rendezvous with a dhow.’ Robins pulled a notebook from his pocket and flipped some pages over. ‘Ten miles north-west of Ag.Etias Point.’

  ‘I see …’ Ag.Etias was the top-left corner of Kalolimno Island. Wishart ran the parallel ruler over and marked off the distance. ‘There, then.’ He looked at Nick. ‘The dhow takes you right into Constantinople?’

  ‘Where she’s from. And we’ll be got up to look like her crew – they’re to have clothes for us on board. With the whole coast watched and guarded, it’s really the safest way in, I suppose.’

  * * *

  ‘Oh Eternal Lord God, who alone spreadest out the heavens and rulest the raging of the sea…’ Terrapin was as steady as dry land, slicing through a sea like marble, marble that veined white astern and then gradually reverted to unbroken blue. Truman, her captain, had no need to look down at the book in his hand: this was the everyday naval prayer and by the time he’d reached his fifteenth birthday he could have recited it in his sleep. He was on the gundeck of his destroyer’s stern four-inch, while below him on her quarterdeck and up both sides of the iron deck as far as her foremost funnel the ship’s company had assembled for Divine Service, their heads bared to the Aegean sun. Terrapin steamed slowly but in erratic zigzags across the wide entrance of the Gulf of Xeros. Astern and at this moment on her quarter was the brownish mass of the Gallipoli Peninsula, while ahead and much further off was the lower and less distinct outline of the European mainland. A single higher point of land on the port bow was Mount Chat; the rest was an uneven blur shimmering in warm, still air. Summer was lingering into autumn, autumn refusing to be squeezed out by winter; any day now it would change abruptly to grey skies, cold winds, heaving sea.

  Nights had to be spent at the gulf’s eastern end, the end nearest to the Marmara. Each day Truman brought his ship out twenty-five miles westward, and during that passage westward watched the sun rise, flooding the barren hills with colour. Reaper slept at those times. He had to be awake all night, or most of it, the hours set for wireless contact with the submarines and for messages from shore. It was because of the weakness of the shore transmitters that it was necessary for a communication link this far east; the submarines’ sets had the range for Mudros easily. Or should have had. But any enemy observers ashore, or in the recce ’planes which from time to time came dithering like nervous moths along the coastline, were supposed to believe that Terrapin was just another patrolling destroyer. They weren’t intended to know that she slipped back into the gulf at nightfall.

  ‘… that we may be a safeguard unto our most gracious Sovereign Lord, King George, and his Dominions, and a security for such as pass on the seas upon their lawful occasions …’

  Reaper was a difficult man to entertain, Truman had found. He was prone to long silences: he seemed to switch off, often in the middle of some interesting discussion, and then not to hear any more of what was being said to him. Of course, he had a great deal on his mind; but it was still exasperating. And it would be a great relief to have this business done with, join the flotilla at Mudros and resume normal destroyer duties. He shut the prayer book as he finished, ‘—and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all evermore—’

  He let them have the last word. Then heads lifted; there was a general stirring, straightening. Even Terrapin moved, heeling as she altered course to a new leg of the zigzag. Funnel-smoke was acrid, drifting downward in the windless air; it swept across the raised gundeck where he stood, curled lazily and dirtily across the wake. Harriman, with his cap pushed under his left arm and his bald patch strikingly evident from this gull’s-eye view, was looking up at him expectantly. Truman nodded. ‘Carry on, please.’ He went down to the quarterdeck to join Reaper, and told him in case Harriman hadn’t, ‘We’re invited to luncheon in the wardroom, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Very kind of them.’ Reaper added, ‘I’ll take the opportunity to give them the latest news.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Truman blinking owlishly … A cold fish, Reaper thought. At this moment history was being made, the shape of the world was changing, and all he could talk about was nuts and bolts, problems of engineering, fuel consumptions, changes in the signal code … It would be a pleasant change not to lunch alone with him today. Reaper was aware that his own nerves were on edge. Trying to be patient while the days passed and others did the work and faced the danger … Not a word from either submarine – well, that was good – and not a peep from inside Turkey either. No sudden flurry of Turk wireless activity, for that matter. It was probably what one dreaded most, at this stage of the operation: so thank God for all the silence. But – he shook his head, staring out astern over the pile of white that rose under the destroyer’s counter – as a staff man, a planner and organiser, he should have been used to the waiting, guessing. He wasn’t, though, and he doubted if he ever would be.

  He turned, strolled for’ard – making himself stroll and not walk briskly. There were a few minutes to pass before it would be time to go down to the wardroom, and a circuit or two of Terrapin s upper deck might save him from being trapped again by Truman. Walking for’ard now, past the after set of torpedo tubes, hearing the pipe, ‘Hands to dinner!’ So the rum issue had been completed; time did pass, if you made yourself relax, forget it. Strolling on … There’d be no work done this afternoon by the two off-duty watches; it would be a traditional Sunday afternoon of letter-writing, sleeping, patching clothes, haircuts on the foc’sl during the dog watches while the killicks’ mess gramophone churned out Dixie or Alexander’s Ragtime Band.

  Remarkable, how cheerful and enthusiastic the men kept, considering how little entertainment or shoregoing came their way. From the regulars you could understand it, because this was the life they’d chosen for themselves; but even the Hostilities Only ratings seemed content enough. One tended to look carefully, listen hard, these days, when there was so much talk about discontent in the Fleet. It was about pay, mostly. Their Lordships at the Admiralty were aware of the grouses, and in sympathy; Beatty had written from his Grand Fleet flagship urging an overhaul of all rates of pay, and the First Lord, Geddes, had been pressing the Treasury hard. The Treasury, used to pressure and to ignoring it, hadn’t so far responded. It was not a case of discontent between the men and their officers – in that respect the situation was excellent, generally speaking, and officers’ pay was as badly in need of reform as the lower deck’s. Flag Officers, for instance, drew the same money they’d had in 1816 – 102 years without a rise. But sailors on leave in England had seen civilian earnings soaring while their own families couldn’t make ends meet; they’d also seen how civilian rates had been pushed up by strikes. There’d been talk in Fleet canteens of a naval strike: but in naval terms ‘strike’ and ‘mutiny’ were synonymous; mutiny was mutiny, and there was only one face that any commissioned officer could show to it.

  There was certainly no sign of unrest here in Terrapin. Truman seemed to take that for granted: when he and Reaper had discussed it, the suggestion that there could ever be such disturbances had shocked him. Not a very long-sighted man, Reaper thought. To put it more plainly, Truman was rather a damn fool. Because if the Navy was to be sent into the Black Sea after the Turks surrendered, and sailors came under the influence of Russian Bolsheviks, and if the war against Germany ended and the HO ratings, burning to get home to their families, were kept out here in some kind of policing job, while back in England men who hadn’t fought at all were getting home to their wives every night and drawing four times the pay …

  The Treasury would have to wake up, and quickly. And, please God, let any intervention in South Russia be a very temporary affair. There were British troops in Archangel, of course – but that was primarily to stop the Hun drive through Finland, since the Bolshies had declined to stand up for themselves. Reaper found himself walking, still deep in thought, into Terrapin’s wardroom. Harriman as
ked him, ‘Gin, sir?’

  ‘How very kind. I’m afraid I’ve warmed the bell somewhat—’

  ‘You’re precisely on time, sir.’ Harriman had beckoned to Link, the steward, and Link was bringing a glass of gin and the bitters shaker on a silver salver from the sideboard. It was lower deck pay that had to be seen to most urgently, Reaper thought. Never mind the fact that he as a commander drew the same money as a Scottish dockyard matey whose only responsibilities were a hammer in one hand and a cold chisel in the other. Mr Shriver, the gunner (T), came over. Grey-haired, long-nosed, close-together eyes … ‘A pleasure to ’ave your company, sir.’ Granger, the tall young sublieutenant, asked him, ‘Any good buzzes, sir?’ Granger was sipping Tio Pepe. Terrapin’s wardroom had stocked up with it at Gibraltar, on the way through.

  Reaper nodded. ‘I’ve quite a bit of news for you, as it happens… Thank you, Link.’ He accepted a cigarette from the wardroom’s silver box. Gough-Calthorpe’s staff in Mudros kept him informed of everything that mattered, in their daily ciphered signals. In an operation like this one, with so much politics involved and at least one nation’s surrender imminent, it was vital to have a broad and up-to-date picture of the developing strategic situation. He added, expelling smoke, ‘But we’ll wait for—’

  ‘Oh. You’re here already.’

  Truman’s surprise at finding him down here was almost a criticism. Link had Truman’s sherry ready-poured for him, and Granger was offering him a light for his cigarette. Harriman asked Reaper, ‘May we hear your news, sir?’

  ‘Quite a few bits and pieces.’ He sat down on the padded fender. ‘For a start, we sent some ’planes over Constantinople yesterday, calling on the Turkish people to kick the Huns out. In view of what I’ve to tell you in a minute, that might have been rather a waste of effort … Second point, though, is the Aegean squadron’s being reinforced with two dreadnoughts from home waters – Superb and Temeraire.’

  Truman had raised his eyebrows: ‘Suggesting that a sortie by Goeben is considered likely, eh?’

  Explaining the obvious to his officers. There’d been no need for him to comment; Reaper had given him all this news earlier on.

  ‘There’s certainly no other enemy unit in these waters worth two dreadnoughts. Four, counting the pair we have already.’ He thought it was possible that London was taking a longer view than just the Goeben threat; the Black Sea was very much in mind now, and the Russian ships there, the possibility of their falling into German hands. He nodded. ‘But here’s the more important news. The Turks are sending a delegation to talk about an armistice, and London has authorised Admiral Gough-Calthorpe to receive them on board Agamemnon – any day now, in Mudros. How’s that?’

  ‘Calls for another drink.’ Harriman looked round for the steward. Truman said in his fruity voice, ‘Armistice talks do not inevitably result in a cessation of hostilities. One may hope for—’

  ‘Yes. Let’s hope.’ Reaper put his glass down on Link’s salver and took another in its place. ‘But one warning I must give you — mum’s the word.’ He glanced up. ‘Hear that, steward?’ Link nodded. Wardroom stewards were the eyes and ears of the ship’s company. Harriman raised a forefinger at him warningly: Link grinned, moved with his tray to Truman’s elbow. Reaper explained, ‘As you know, we’ve this French wireless chap Rostaud on board. And for the time being we aren’t letting the French in on our negotiations with the Turks. London’s view is that we are the naval power here. We’ve taken the brunt of the action and it’s become our show. So to that extent …’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t feel perfidious. But you see, the fact that Turkey wants to make peace does make a raid by Goeben rather probable. If the Huns see the ground being, so to speak, cut from under their feet – eh?’

  The rest of his news came from farther afield. The German lines in France were disintegrating. The enemy had evacuated Zeebrugge and Ostend. Scheer had recalled his U-boats from patrol; it was believed in London that his intention was to redeploy them in support of some offensive action by the High Seas Fleet. It made sense, Reaper explained. With defeat in sight, Scheer would be bound to come out. He’d attack the Channel ports, perhaps, and have submarines patrolling outside fleet-bases to catch Beatty’s ships when they emerged to counter the assault. But not just to counter: this might be the battle for which, ever since Jutland, the whole of the Royal Navy had longed. One could imagine the excitement and high spirits prevailing now in Rosyth, Invergordon, Dover, Harwich, Immingham …

  Reaper read the expressions on the faces round him, and understood them. Any one of these men would have swapped a year’s seniority to be back in home waters now.

  * * *

  By nightfall, he could feel the tension in his nerves again. In a few hours the cogs he’d set in motion would be meshing. He stared into the darkness, towards the Marmara. ‘Not long now …’ It was a mutter, and more to himself than to Truman, but as he said it he realised he’d used exactly the same words not more than ten minutes ago. A give-away: as good as an announcement of the state of anxiety he was in. He could have kicked himself, for exposing that degree of weakness, particularly to a man like Truman. He was with him on the destroyer’s bridge now as she nosed into the rounded cul-de-sac that had Cape Xeros to the south and Saros Adalari Island in the middle. The nearest piece of the Marmara was only eight miles away, across the narrow Gallipoli peninsula; and eighty miles east was the rendezvous position where at dawn the two submarines would surface, link briefly in that alien and secret world, then separate again to perform their respective tasks. If one of them failed to keep the appointment, the other was authorised to break wireless silence.

  So the best news, from Reaper’s point of view, would be none at all. But even that wouldn’t be positive evidence that all was well. Conceivably, and knowing how hazardous the passage of the Dardanelles must be, neither submarine might keep the rendezvous.

  He heard Cruickshank, Terrapin’s navigator, order quietly, ‘Port fifteen.’

  ‘Port fifteen, sir.’ That was PO Hart, Chief Buffer, at the wheel in the centre of the bridge. Terrapin was moving at slow speed but with frequent applications of rudder. The odds were that she could have anchored and lain in peace all through the wireless broadcast hours, but there was just a chance that the enemy could have got wind of something and sent a U-boat prowling after her. Even at long odds you couldn’t accept that risk.

  ‘Midships.’

  ‘Midships, sir.’ Quiet voices broke the silence like stones falling into a still surface. The land was a dark hump in the south and a vaguer, more distant one to nor’ard; you saw the land’s shape where it blotted out the lower stars. Eastward one could see nothing. Reaper said, ‘I’m going down. Be in the W/T office or the chartroom.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ Truman had a canvas bed up here on the bridge. The black shape that was Reaper melted towards the ladder. He’d only been on the bridge for half an hour, a breather from the stuffiness below. Now he’d be returning to the wireless room because it was about one o’clock and the change-over time from a French language broadcast hour to the second English language one. One of the two sets was used for listening all through the dark hours for any transmissions from shore, while on the other the two submarines had been allocated alternate hours.

  Reaper went down the starboard ladder to the foc’sl deck, and in at a steel door abaft the ladder’s foot. This was the W/T room, under the rear half of the bridge; a hatch in its for’ard bulkhead connected it to the chartroom.

  The Frenchman, Rostaud, had just handed over the Type 15 to Telegraphist Michaelson. Leading Tel Stewart was on the Type 4. Reaper leant sideways to let the tall Frenchman edge past. The compartment was only eight feet square and half its depth was taken by the operators’ bench, under the sets along the after bulkhead. Rostaud muttered, ‘A deux heures, alors.’ His droopy moustache gave him a downcast, apologetic air. Reaper pulled the door shut behind him. The little space was fuggy with cigarette smoke and the peculiar hot-metal s
mell of electrical equipment.

  ‘All quiet, I suppose.’

  ‘Graveyards get jumpier, sir.’ Stewart sniffed. This wasn’t the most exciting job a man could have. He was young, studious-looking. Michaelson, on his right, looked older than the leading hand. Reaper said, ‘This is our last English transmission period before they join up at the rendezvous.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir.’ They seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Anything comes up, you’ll get it.’

  Michaelson had the easier job. Stewart on the Type 4, which was tuned to short-wave shore transmission, had to be sharp-eared and sharp in more general terms, too, to recognise what might concern them and what didn’t. Reaper said, ‘I’ll be next door.’ He went outside and into the chartroom, where he’d be near enough if anything developed and where he had a bunk-settee to relax on. He sat down on it, and swung his legs up.

  Quarter past one. Lying back, he stared sightlessly at the deck-head with its heavy steel I-section beams. It was one thing to make plans, another to have to live with them. He allowed his eyes to close. When it was a plan on paper, ships and men were symbols; now the ships had names and the men were people he’d come to know. He thought he’d only just shut his eyes when the door banged open, waking him with a jolt.

  Mayne, the leading signalman.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Didn’t know you was kippin’. Come to ask would you like a cup o’ tea, sir.’

  He’d never intended to let himself fall asleep.

  ‘Thank you. Nothing I’d like better.’ Except, he thought, powers of telepathy.

  Half an hour later Mayne pushed into the wireless office and shut the door. You could hardly see the operators for the cloud of cigarette smoke. He jerked his thumb at the chartroom hatch and told the leading tel, ‘Out like a light again.’ Stewart nodded. Mayne said, ‘Been like a scared cat all day.’

  Stewart adjusted the position of the headphones on his ears and leant forward again across the bench, his weight resting on his forearms. There was an anchor tattoo’d on the left one and a heart with initials in it on the other. Terrapin heeled as she swung to a new course. Mayne was leaning against the for’ard bulkhead and he’d begun to roll himself a cigarette; he did it without looking down at his fingers, and the cigarette seemed to form itself as if by magic. He saw Stewart jerk upright, grab a pencil in his right hand while his left flew to a tuning knob on the Type 4. Mayne began slowly stowing the tobacco tin inside his jumper; the cigarette was in his mouth, unlit. Stewart had begun to scrawl on the pad in front of him. Plain language, not code.