Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

“Passing the buck, sir?”

“Just that, naturally. We have a report of ships available in the two ports. That will give an indication of what we might expect.”

“Nothing new and large, sir. Old gunboats and new destroyers and merchant shipping armed as auxiliary cruisers, perhaps?”

“Pretty much, Sturton. Large steam trawlers mostly, or so it would seem. A strong possibility that they are sneaking through Dutch waters – infringing neutrality which we simply must not do. It’s not merely officially forbidden, Sturton. We are not to enter neutral waters other than in a sinking condition and seeking rescue. Court martial for any other infringement – and a certainty of being broken. Chase a Hun through Dutch waters and you are finished. End of story!”

It was rare to receive orders that gave no leeway at all. Having received them, they were to be obeyed, in full.

“Are the Dutch aware of the Germans’ habits, sir?”

“They are. Another year and they will have conscripted and trained a sufficient army to defend their borders. They are building coastal defence ships and are offering quiet cooperation with us. They will not go to war. They will take action to keep their waters clear as soon as they can take the risk. As it stands, they are angry but dare not act. We must keep them on our side. It is the case now that they have several thousands of our men interned, soldiers who crossed the border rather than be taken prisoner when Antwerp fell. Many of these men are sent back to Britain every month – repatriated because of illness, officially. Whenever the Germans breach their neutrality, more men are put on the next ship. We must never offend the Dutch, Sturton!”

Simon took away the reports on German vessels present in Belgian ports, study material for the wardroom.

“Adams, you are to report to the auxiliary merchant cruiser, Fanny Brown, to act as navigating officer. She is part of the anti-submarine flotilla, newly formed in Malta. Four vessels, three trawlers carrying the new depth bombs and Fanny Brown herself equipped with a hydrophone – a device for hearing sounds underwater and recording their bearing. It is an experimental squadron, hoped to bring an end to the menace of the underwater boat. Senior captain is Commander Hamworthy who is captain of Fanny Brown, a reservist who has been recalled to the Navy in his current rank. There are naval gun crews under command of a Commissioned Gunner. The flotilla will base itself on Malta.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Good. Off you go. I shall not expect to see you making use of the onshore facilities for officers, Adams.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Christopher made a formal about turn and marched out of the admiral’s cabin, all done very precisely.

The Admiral’s Secretary, a paymaster commander, followed him.

“There is mail for you, Adams. I have it in my office.”

Christopher was not looking forward to correspondence. The letter must be from his father – he had no close friends who might write to him.

“There will be a boat for you in fifteen minutes, Adams. You may read your letter here.”

The Secretary’s obvious sympathy did not make anything easier.

His father had found little to say to his disgraced son but was not overtly condemning.

‘Your brother has spoken to me of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding your fall from grace. I have made my displeasure clear to him. Your allowance will continue in its present sum. If possible, you will be sent to the Far East. You may correspond with me and I hope to hear of plans for your future at the end of the war. A return to Britain is not recommended.’

It could have been far worse; Christopher had expected to be cast off as no longer relevant to the family. At least, he had an income to live on.

He paced out onto the deck of the flagship and found the duty lieutenant.

“Boat for Fanny Brown, I believe. Do you know which she is?”

Much of the Mediterranean fleet was in harbour, tied up or at anchor, and he could not spot an obvious armed merchant cruiser. Most of the auxiliary cruisers were big ships, fifteen thousand ton Atlantic passenger liners converted to war.

“Outer harbour, Adams. Her flotilla is at anchor with her. Good luck! Your trunks have been sent off before you, direct from Connaught.”

The unknown lieutenant was taking pains to hide his laughter; Christopher’s spirits, not already high, sank even further. He ran down to the boat, a steam picket launch, and stood next to the midshipman in the stern, watched silently as he cast off and headed to the far corner of the harbour.

“Somewhat out of sight, Fanny Brown?”

“Yes, sir.”

The midshipman showed no desire to speak to the pariah – he had heard that Adams had put up a black and wanted nothing to do with him. He neither knew nor cared what his story might be, simply wished to avoid contamination, particularly with his own promotion soon due. He did not wish to be seen in friendly converse with one of the Navy’s black sheep.

The picket boat settled on course for a cluster of merchant shipping, a dozen or so of medium size tramp steamers and mixed passenger and freight carriers. The largest of them, perhaps four thousand tons, had three deepwater trawlers moored close astern.

“Is that her?”

“Yes, sir.”

An oldish three island freighter with stern accommodation for a score or so of passengers. Two funnels, with a trickle of black smoke showing. She carried guns on the forecastle and amidships, abaft the bridge. She had been painted grey, looked uneasy in the colour.

Christopher said no more – she was likely to be more comfortable than Shetland Star and there would be a wardroom of sorts. It was all he could hope for.

They came alongside and he ran up the ladder and saluted and enquired of the sentry – a naval rating – where he should go.

“Captain is ashore, sir. Gunner has harbour watch, sir.”

Christopher turned towards the bridge, was stopped by a shout.

“Over here!”

The call came from forward, the starboard gun, a four point seven quickfirer.

The crew was in position, had been at drill. An old officer, well into his forties, stepped briskly across.

“Barclay, Commissioned Gunner.”

“Adams, Lieutenant.”

Formalities exchanged and salutes given, as was proper in view of the lower deck, they walked across to the gun.

“Two four point sevens, Mr Adams, Mark IV, one either side, and two twelve pounders aft. A pair of three pounders to the poop and two old Maxims on the bridge. Two petty officers and four layers, making up the naval party on the guns; training up reservists to make up the number. The steward is a regular. A Torpedoman and two ratings making up the hydrophonists. Chief petty officer and eight naval hands as seamen. Yeoman of the Signals is a regular. The rest of the crew apart from the Captain are all merchant navy, the officers Volunteer Reserve, the originals who came with the ship. Their senior is a lieutenant-commander, making you third ranking in the ship. With you here as Navigator, we are ready for sea. Captain is ashore picking up final orders.”

“What of the trawlers?”

“Steel hulled. Fairly new. German boats taken last year and bought into the service. Crews are a mixture of regulars and reservists, each under command of a reserve skipper brought in from the fishing. They have a four inch QF each in the bows and a pair of Vickers and the bomb releasing gear at the stern. The bombs are set to go off at a hundred feet under the water. Up to us to tell them where to drop.”

It was likely that they would be more obedient to command than the hired boats.

Barclay led Christopher to the stern and into the wardroom, called to the chief steward.