Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

“Mr Adams, Parkin.”

“Sir. Trunks are to your cabin, sir, and your steward, Micallef, has them in hand. Mess fees, sir, are paid monthly or quarterly as the officer desires.”

Christopher handed over twelve pounds for the three months, not the smallest fees he had known but a half of the rate for a battleship.

“Dress?”

“Dress of the day, sir. Never full dress. Mess dress on special occasions only.”

Barclay grinned and commented that the ex-Merchant Navy officers simply did not possess formal attire.

“They have service dress and that’s it, Adams. Fanny Brown was not an ocean liner where the officers preside over dinner tables in the first-class lounge. Almost all of the officers came across with the ship, last year, glad to, mostly, for naval pay being higher than they were used to.”

Another set of circumstances to fit into. Christopher shrugged – beggars could not be choosers. That was one relief, in fact, to know that he would not be a beggar, reduced to penury and earning a living. His father would continue to pay him his five hundred and his tailor’s bills, not that they would be a future concern.

He allowed the Chief Steward to guide him to his cabin.

His own steward, Micallef, was there – a Maltese, as was to be expected in the Mediterranean where the people of Malta had an effective right to serve the Navy. He dipped his hand in his pocket, came up with two half crowns, the normal greeting for a new steward. Micallef would earn his keep and at most a pound a month; five shillings was a week’s money. It would be repeated at Christmas and Easter and on any other occasion when he offered special service.

“Don’t unpack the formal dress, Micallef. No need for it. I drink tea, not coffee. One sugar.”

That was all the steward needed to know. He would pick up his master’s habits over time.

Christopher changed out of his reporting uniform, put on working dress, effectively the same but older and worn. It served to announce that he did not intend to stand back and watch while others did the work.

Lunch was fresh fish, well cooked and presented. It made a change from the pedestrian meals on Connaught.

Captain Hamworthy was piped aboard and retired to his cabin. Christopher was called in ten minutes later.

Hamworthy was fifty and had been merchant marine for twenty years, leaving the Navy after a contretemps with a particular captain, involving that captain’s wife. He had a grin on his face, seemingly a permanent fixture.

“Adams – I am told that you are in disgrace. Been there meself in me time. Couldn’t give a bugger! I need a navigator who can keep his head, which you may be. Saw action at the Falkland Islands and recently with Connaught, as well as some wild melee with a bunch of trawlers. Did Sturdee make a cock of the Falkland Islands like the rumours insist?”

“Of the first one hundred and twenty shells fired by Invincible, at twenty thousand yards and decreasing, three hit. In the second part of the action, at five thousand yards, Scharnhorst was landing two for our one. Luckily, they had expended all of their armour-piercing on Good Hope.”

“Don’t hear mention of that in the newspapers!”

“No. Other than that, he fought an uninspired action, allowing Von Spee to repeatedly blind us with our own smoke.”

“Explains why there has been so much emphasis on gunnery practice these past few weeks. Every other order from the Admiralty has related to gunnery.”

“Needed, sir. Trouble is, it’s expensive and destructive of the gun barrels. They cannot fire too many live rounds and these simulated firings cannot match the real thing. The Scott spot firer, or whatever it is – all very well, but it can’t give the feeling of a broadside shaking the whole ship and throwing everything off its setting. On Invincible, firing lefts then rights, four twelve inch together, the ship was thrown about like a toy boat. Take a Queen Elizabeth firing those fifteen inchers, damned near twice the propellant charge, the crew will be deafened and shaken till their bones rattle. Bound to effect their efficiency, and to put the Barr and Strouds off – delicate range-takers and huge shocks don’t mix, sir.”

“Good thought! Won’t effect us, except inasmuch as the depth bombs will make a noise and one hell of a concussion. The hydrophones are not the most robust of instruments. One hundred pounds charge, the depth bombs – a major shock wave through water. Needs be, of course, to bash a submarine.”

“How are we to go about the job, sir?”

“Find out. That’s our function. We don’t know. All I can think of is to head out into the Ionian Sea and hopefully put ourselves across the routes submarines must take from Austrian harbours towards the Aegean. Sit down and listen and chase anything we happen to hear. Needs precise navigation so that we know where we are and where the sub might be aiming for. Full record of our track and know our position to the inch at all times. Keep an eye on the trawlers and record their expenditure of depth bombs. Apart from that, there are only the three of us with naval experience, and I’m out of date, been pushing a liner across the Atlantic since Victoria died. More like running a London bus than commanding a ship. The captain’s table more important to the career than seamanship… Still, always a young widow or two or a lonely wife going out to join her husband, you know, Adams! Some compensations in the merchant service that you don’t get in the Navy!”

Christopher concluded that his captain was not entirely a gentleman. He did seem to have enjoyed his existence in his less circumscribed way of life.

“Yes, sir. Sailing when, sir?”

“Dawn tomorrow. Coal is at full and stores are up. Barclay is half-way satisfied with his gunners. I am waiting the reports from the trawlers, that’s all. I intend to inspect them later today. Should keep them up to scratch. At least they are naval boats, not hired civilians. I know you were aboard the Star flotilla when they caught a Turk, Adams?”

He described the action, making much of the accuracy and speed of the civilians’ shooting.

“Let’s hope ours will be as good. Check your department and inform me of any shortages before we sail, Adams.”

That gave him two hours effectively if the captain was to be informed and to have time to do anything.

There was a chartroom and it had charts in it, mostly up to date, those for the Mediterranean recently issued in Malta and fully corrected. The flagship probably had spares for issue as needed, and a mob of midshipmen and sublieutenants to do the donkey work, needing something to keep them busy.

The compasses worked and there was a sufficiency of pens and pencils and parallel rulers.

He was able to report all ready and then to sit down and establish his courses for leaving harbour. It was no more than the familiar drudgery; it made him feel useful.

“Dining ashore tonight, Adams. Will you come?”

“Better I should not, sir. I am not to be seen in the officers’ accommodation ashore, and that is probably extended to the better hotels.”

Hamworthy laughed.

“Good old Grey Funnel Line – once the Navy has a down on you, it’s thorough! Remain aboard while in Malta. We will probably call at Mudros. Might get a shore run in there.”

“Not bloody likely, sir! It’s a dirty, filthy, diseased shit-heap of a place! Worse than the back-slums of Alexandria!”

The Egyptian port was renowned as a hell-hole outside of its protected rich quarter.

“My God! Truly?”

“It is sickening, sir. Twenty thousand and more of soldiers and sailors dumped on a tiny fishing port with two wells and nothing else. They are dying like flies there! Water all comes in by tanker from Cyprus and Egypt – that means it’s contaminated before it gets there. No fresh food. Hot as the King of Hell’s back door. The bay is no more than a cesspool. A death trap!”