Andrew Wareham: End to Illusion

“What do you think, Number One?”

“He’s broken something, most likely, sir. Won’t be back to us for a while. Put in for a replacement body, sir. The other one is Black, oiler. Toothache and a big lump on his cheek. The dentist will sort him out, poor chap!”

They winced together – the naval dentist was renowned as a butcher, one who would not offer anaesthesia for wanting to ‘know where the pain was’. His favourite quote was often repeated – ‘how else do I know when I have hit the nerve, eh?’

“He’ll be back and needing light duty for a day, Number One. See if you can put his tot aside for him. He’ll be thankful for it when he returns.”

It was illegal to ‘bottle the tot’ and was commonly done in deserving circumstances, though never officially admitted.

“Mr Parrett?”

The sublieutenant had no problems – he rarely did.

“All well, sir.”

“Mr Rees?”

“All in hand, sir. Gun crews are almost where I want them to be.”

Rees was the new Commissioned Gunner, replacing Holdsworth after he started spitting blood, one of the only-too-common consumptions; the cold, wet conditions of the destroyers seemed to destroy the health of anybody with a chest weakness, older men falling most often. Rees demanded ferociously high standards of gunnery, as was now becoming common.

The beginning of the war had disclosed that the Navy’s gunnery was generally poor, especially in capital ships, and there had finally been a concerted push to make an improvement which had trickled down to the boats. The destroyers had smaller guns than their German equivalents and Sheldrake and her class were armed with breech loaders, not quick firers, which required even more of the crews.

“Torpedoes are well up, sir. We have the new gyroscope fitted, sir, the latest model. This one works, they assure me.”

“Needs to, Mr Rees! We cannot afford to have half of our main armament non-functional, possessing only two tubes. Mr Higgins?”

The wartime midshipman was still uncertain in his duties but at least knew the proper words to say.

“All up to scratch, sir. Every hand on forecastle and bridge duty now knows how to fire, load and clear jams on the Lewises, sir.”

“Very good. How are you progressing towards your watchkeeping certificate?”

“Almost there, sir. Not fully up on setting a course, sir.”

“Keep at it. No space for passengers in the boats, Mr Higgins!”

“No, sir.”

The officers left the cabin, all with work to do before they could relax.

Simon made up his written report for the section-leader, Lieutenant-Commander Matthews in Blackbird, hurrying for knowing that he would be called across within the hour.

“All well on Sheldrake, Sturton?”

“Well together, sir. I need a replacement hand, sir. One of the new men fell and seems to have damaged his elbow. Waiting on the medical report but he will not be going to sea this next few days, if at all.”

With a complement of only seventy-two bodies, Sheldrake needed early replacement of any missing man.

“I shall speak to Senior Naval Officer, Dunkerque, Sturton. He was boats for years and knows what’s what. He’ll pull a body off of one of the predreadnoughts – they have no need for the hundreds they keep swanning about their messdecks. Zealandia is in for a week at least, due to her Commander falling out with the Captain; the Admiralty is working out which to replace or whether to sack both. Don’t matter much – both of them are dugouts.”

The old officers, almost all men who had been ‘encouraged’ to retire early before the war, were a laughingstock to the young men. They were Victorian relics, as were their ships, of limited use for coastal bombardments though commonly hopelessly inaccurate, as much due to incompetence as to inadequate guns.

“Could you make use of another mid, Sturton? We have been sent another six wartime specials to do something with. The base as a whole, that is, not specifically the destroyers.”

“Can’t do much with the one I’ve got, sir. No possible way I could find anything for a second to do.”

“Same aboard Blackbird. Two midshipmen would be a nonsense. I had to ask, as you appreciate. How is your youngster fitting in? He is something of a special case from all I gather.”

Matthews was fishing – he was experienced and knew that there was some sort of oddity relating to Sheldrake’s mid. The Commodore of the Harwich Patrol had shown interest in the boy and there had to be a reason for that. The fact that it was being kept secret made it the more intriguing.

Simon had no wish to keep secrets from his immediate commanding officer – that was not a good way to achieve an outstanding report towards his next promotion.

“Not to be talked of, sir, under pain of death or worse… I am saying nothing now. The lad’s name is Higgins. No father to be identified. His mother had friends at the Palace at the turn of the century, in the years before Victoria died.”

“Ah! When Dirty Bertie was at his randiest, we are told. Higgins – can’t get a more unroyal name than that, can one?”

“Exactly, sir. Word is the young man was sent to Sheldrake for being a good ship for early promotion. We were in the newspapers at just the wrong moment, it would seem.”

“Bad luck, that, Sturton! Is he any good?”

“No worse than any other mother’s boy who had been educated at home, had never played a game in his life, took little exercise and was of an impractical turn of mind, sir. I do not despair of him – he is hardening up, slowly, and at least is willing to try. My first thought of him was that he was not fit to shovel shit; I now believe he is fit to shovel shit, sir.”

Matthews roared with laughter.

“A definite improvement, Sturton! Do you think he will ever be fit to do anything more?”

“I hope to be able to sign his watchkeeper’s certificate within a few weeks, sir. What I do with him then, I know not. I ought to give him the forward four inch… Too big a responsibility yet. I will wish to see him in action. Even shooting up a mine would be something. He is so sheltered a boy in his upbringing that I literally am unable to predict what he might do, how he might react. He doesn’t know either.”

“You can’t have him transferred without a good reason, Sturton. Pity. He would be better in many ways aboard a larger ship – he would be less visible, at least. My advice – and I don’t think I can give you much by way of orders here – would be to pile more responsibility onto him. Have you got a boarding party for him to exercise?”

“Polly has the boarders. They know him and he has them working well together. I wouldn’t want to deprive him of the chance they represent. He needs his second stripe, sir. Well fit for it now – come on by leaps and bounds this last few weeks. Getting the medal did a lot for his self-confidence. Six months and he could be given one of these coastal motorboats they are talking about, if they do turn up.”

“I shall note that, Sturton. I am to talk with the Commodore next week – might be given the full section, in which case there will be a new lieutenant-in-command joining the half section and you will cease to be the junior boat.”

That would make little difference, except that he would no longer be the new boy.

“Tonight’s job, Sturton. Up the coast and to the north, skirting Dutch waters and then to drop back to be off Zeebrugge for dawn, coming from the north, hopefully unexpected. There is a feeling that submarines may be leaving the harbour in the first light, submerging when safely offshore. I wouldn’t fancy taking a low-powered craft out through those waters in full darkness. Loaded armour-piercing ideally – except that our four inch don’t have such things!”