Alan Evans - Thunder at Dawn

Hill’s long fingers laid the gun, eye clapped to his telescope, swearing softly as the target came in view, was obliterated by smoke, swam blearily into the telescope again. Bowker, the trainer on the other side of the breech, glared into his own telescope and matched Hill’s cursing.

They fired three times, when Hill and Bowker could see the target and lay and train the gun. Slam of discharge, hiss of recoil, the acrid stench of the coiling fumes, the clang of the breech and the whirr and rattle of the hoist bringing up projectiles and charges from handing room and magazine in the bowels of the ship.

In the fore-top Garrick strained his eyes to spot the fall of shot and succeeded, bitterly. “Short.” And again: “Short.” And for the third time: “Blast and bloody hell! Short! They’ve got the range of us.” He had expected it because it was a mathematical certainty; Thunder’s guns were old but even when she was new her guns had not matched those of the German cruisers. It was still a bitter pill. Garrick had less trouble with the smoke than did Hill and Bowker but the light was bad, the setting sun glaring redly into his eyes.

In the fore-turret Farmer Bates, the layer, settled comfortably on his little seat and rested his chin on his arms, giving easily to the motion of the ship, whistling softly, absently. Chalky White grumbled, “That Hill won’t hit bugger all. He’s a useless layer.”

Bates said placidly, “He isn’t useless. He’s not bad.”

“If we was —”

“If we was firing we wouldn’t hit nothing either.” The ranges were repeated in the fore-turret. “On account of we couldn’t reach the bastards any more’n he can. At this range we stand as much chance farting at ’em.”

They felt the increased beat of Thunder’s engines and then the heel of the deck to starboard.

Chalky White said, “’Ullo! Now mebbe —”

“Mebbe. But I doubt it.”

That was when the shell burst right before the fore-turret.

As Thunder hauled away from the few scraps of flotsam that marked the last of the Elizabeth Bell , Smith saw at least one survivor hauled in over the side. Then the salvo screamed down, but this time, a split second before the waterspouts rose, Thunder was hit. The impact was a hammer-blow, shaking the ship, deafening. The flash seared the eyes and splinters whined and droned and caromed around the upper-works of the ship. Smith was thrown against the telegraph, bounced off, staggered, grabbed at his cap. There was smoke and he could see flames but he could also see the fore-turret and it seemed intact, but forward of the turret the deck was ripped open and bent back as if some giant had hacked at it inexpertly with a tin-opener. Miles and his damage control and fire-fighting party came running towards the hole, canvas hoses snaking behind them.

Wakely squeaked, “Engine-room reports no damage, sir!”

“Very good. What about the fore-turret?” And: “ Messenger ! Ask Mr. Miles for a report on the damage forward, and quick!”

Hit or no hit, Thunder was working up speed now that she was without the Elizabeth Bell . Smith swallowed sickly. Had he wished her sunk? That was nonsense. He knew it was and told himself so, impatiently, but he knew it was a doubt that would return to rack him. Now he thrust it away, turned to peer through the smoke astern and saw the cruisers grown larger, orange flashes prickling together, smoke puffing, shredding. “Hard aport!” … “Midships!”

From the wing of the bridge he could see Knight and his party and the survivors from the Elizabeth Bell . Sarah Benson was there, down on her knees on the deck, bent over someone lying there. Knight knelt beside her.

Smith bellowed, “Mister Knight!”

Knight jumped to his feet. “Sir?”

“What the hell are you doing there?”

“One of the survivors, sir. A splinter got him. I think he’s dead.”

“You won’t do anything for him laying on hands! The Doctor’s below. Get them all down to him and yourself up here.” Sarah Benson’s white face turned up to him, outraged. Smith bellowed, “This ship is in action , for God’s sake!”

To underline his words the after 9.2 out-bellowed him and another salvo howled down into the sea to starboard, close enough to hurl water in tons across Thunder’s deck, knocking the damage control party from their feet but helping to put out the fire they fought.

Smith swung back to the centre of the bridge. “Hard astarboard!”

Thunder turned on another leg of the zig-zag. Starboard, port, starboard … Vary the length of each leg, the angle of turn, now two points, now four. Study the ships astern, watch for their firing. Look forward for Ariadne and beyond her for the coast. They were all factors to be weighed and used.

The hit had sent them all flying in the fore-turret and left them stunned, groping feebly, disorientated and with ringing ears. Bates lost his placidity with the agonising smash on his funny-bone. He swore in black bad temper, climbed to his feet, dragged Chalky up by his collar and jammed him against the breech. He snarled at the rest of them: “Come on, you bloody idlers!” And to Lieutenant Fletcher who commanded in the turret: “Are you all right, sir?”

Fletcher’s face was bruised and bleeding, his lips cut and already swelling. He mumbled, “Never mind me. Check the piece.” He lurched forward to join Bates and a few seconds later he was able to report.

Gibb stood at his post, pale but trying to be still. Rattray grinned at him madly and looked right into his terrified soul and Gibb knew it.

Wakely said, “No damage to fore-turret, sir.”

“Very good. Hard aport!” It was good news. And now Thunder , despite her erratic, evasive course was steaming for her life and closing slowly on Ariadne , running for the coast and safety.

But Wolf and Kondor , running straight, were overhauling Thunder . He could see they had left the gunboat astern. He watched the cruisers and their firing and ordered the changes of course.

Knight returned to the bridge and Smith was aware of him without looking as a salvo fell to starboard and spray slashed across them. “Hard astarboard! Mr. Knight! What was young Somers doing over the side? He was ordered closed up at his station in action.”

“He says he knew there was no question of his gun firing because it was out of range and he reckoned Leading-Seaman McCann could manage without him, anyway.”

That was probably true. McCann was old enough to be Somers’s father and well capable of carrying out Somers’s duties as well as his own. He had been Leading-SeamanGunner, off and on as he drunkenly lost and painfully regained his character, for the past fifteen years.

Smith said grimly, “I’ll see him later.” And dress him down because it would be good for his soul, but it had been an act of deliberate bravery, a decision coolly taken and executed with speed and determination. He would mention Somers in his report.

If he made a report.

Aitkyne said, “I think that boy might do well.” Cautiously defending him, not looking at Smith.

Smith grunted. Aitkyne might be right.

He saw the cruisers fire and ordered the change of course as the after 9.2 fired. He had noted the fall of its shot the last three times it had fired and was certain it was within range of the cruisers now but off for line. He could guess at the gunners’ frustration — who were they? Hill — Corporal Hill and Private Bowker of the Marines. They had the same low, blinding sun that hurt Smith’s eyes and on top of that Thunder’s smoke, belching out now she was running at full speed and rolling down over the after turret and astern, blacking out the target. Add to that the continual sharp changes of course that meant big switches on the gun, continual relaying and training and an unstable platform. Conditions for gunnery were appalling. Another salvo burst frighteningly close and he hung on and shot desperate glances fore and aft but he knew they had not been hit. He would not need the evidence of his eyes for that. When they were hit they would know about it, that had been made clear to all of them.