Andrew Wareham: End to Illusion

“Poor design, Guns. They should have been twelves at least. Supposed to be for defence against torpedo craft. As we have seen, hopeless for that purpose. Can you do more by way of practice for the six inch?”

“Their casemates are uninhabitable in any sea, sir. The crews cannot function, sir – washed out!”

“Then we must rely on the main guns only, it would seem. We have a pair of torpedo tubes, Guns. We may have to use them, it would seem. You saw Salford’s torpedoes?”

“Gyroscope failure, sir. There was a report from the Dover and Harwich Patrols last year, sir, that their torpedoes were commonly unreliable. The torpedoes have been withdrawn and their new model gyroscopes replaced by the older models. A new one is in design. Nothing has come out to us, sir. I could strip our tinfish down, sir, and attempt to maintain the gyroscopes. Very fiddly business, sir. The PO might have been on a course on them, sir. I will see if anything can be done. The rule is to leave gyroscopes for the dockyard, sir.”

“Two out of four malfunctioning… Best to leave them alone unless the Petty Officer has the specific knowledge to adjust them.”

The Gunnery Officer seemed quite relieved at that command.

“We have eighteen inch tubes, sir. I have only heard that the twenty-one inch torpedoes had failures.”

“In that case, Guns, definitely leave them alone. Why did you use common shell rather than armour-piercing?”

“Don’t really trust this new armour-piercing stuff, sir! Better stick to the tried and true, in my opinion, sir. Barely had ten years of experience with armour-piercing, sir.”

Christopher, like every other of the bridge party in hearing range, was unimpressed. He glanced across at the Gunnery Officer – a lieutenant-commander in his late thirties, passed over for promotion to commander and going nowhere – assessed him as bluff, hearty and stupid. Typical of the unsuccessful naval officer, in fact, he thought. Bitterly, he accepted that the man was his superior in rank and would remain so – no promotion for him.

Captain Archdale scowled.

“That is not my opinion, Guns. Armour-piercing should be used against every target greater than a destroyer. You will load armour-piercing in future, Guns!”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Guns’ expression was of a man obeying an unreasonable command, constricted by naval discipline to perform a foolish act.

“On return to Malta I shall request permission of C-in-C Mediterranean Fleet to take more rounds aboard for the nine point two batteries. As the six inch are effectively valueless, it makes sense to reduce the number of rounds for them and use the space in the magazines for ammunition that can actually be fired.”

“Eighty rounds per gun, official issue, sir.”

“So it is, Guns. We shall endeavour to be slightly unofficial.”

That, Christopher thought, might well have been the most daring comment Captain Archdale had ever made. He was amazed at his boldness.

“How did you know about the bolt, Adams?”

Lascelles was interested – he was a gunner by trade and had vaguely heard of bolts, doubted he would recognise one by its splash.

“Saw them at Cape Town – Simonstown, actually. A pair of the old sixty-four pounders dating back fifty years and kept as museum pieces with their ammunition by their side. They had photographs of them firing.”

They were sat in the wardroom, waiting for luncheon to be served.

“Never been there. West Indies and the Atlantic coast of Canada when I was a mid. Other than that, Home waters.”

“I spent my two years on St Vincent – a long cruise.”

“I have read that the Austrians still have a number of brass guns in service, Adams. Apparently, they needed to keep their bronze foundries in business, so they cast muzzle loaders until a very few years ago. I wouldn’t mind betting that was a brass gun they fired at us.”

“Perhaps that’s why they missed – we are a big enough target I might have thought.”

They ate a rather poor meal and returned to duty.

“Cooks upset by gunfire, do you think, Lascelles?”

“Let us hope they have recovered by dinner, Adams!”

There was a course change due and Christopher made his way up to the bridge in time to hear the cry for action stations. He ran the last few steps and took his place, out of the way of the active officers.

“Never seen that before!”

The Commander was shaking his head in amazement, pointing to the port quarter, hand raised high.

Christopher followed the line of his finger and spotted an aeroplane, a seaplane to be precise, with floats. It was about a quarter of a mile distant, travelling at not less than sixty knots, he estimated, and circling around Connaught. They could see two figures sat up in the open cockpit, one of them using a pair of field glasses to examine the ship.

“They would be in range of a Maxim, if we had one that pointed up, sir.”

“A two pound pompom might be better, Adams. It would need some sort of timing to the shells, which might not be practical… A Vickers on a swivel might be the best. Set high, above the bridge, perhaps. As it is, we can do nothing.”

“Neither can they, in fact, sir. They can observe but will hardly be able to guide ships to us. No possible way they can have a wireless transmitter up in that little machine. They will have to fly home to pass their messages on.”

The Commander agreed. It was a reconnaissance machine, nothing more.

“If we were escorting one of the convoys to Mudros, sir, they could be a nuisance.”

“Guiding destroyers or light cruisers, thirty-knotters perhaps… Nasty! We must push for guns designed for killing aeroplanes, Adams. Write me up a report and a proposal for guns to attack heavier than air machines, if you would be so good. I will submit it under my name, of course.”

Christopher nodded; if his own name was attached the report would go straight into the wastepaper bin, unread.

“I wonder if the RNAS would take me, sir.”

“Highly unlikely, Adams. You have the mark of Cain on your forehead. You would do well in the air service, I do not doubt. You will never be given the opportunity, man!”

Unsaid was the advice to stop trying – whatever he did, he was doomed in the Navy.

“What is it doing now, sir?”

The seaplane was dropping from its previous one thousand feet, or so they estimated, and diving in a direct line towards them. It lined up directly on the bows and flew towards them no more than a hundred feet above the masthead. As it passed over Connaught the observer threw a pair of small, black objects out of his cockpit. They bounced on the deck and rolled towards the side then exploded, doing no harm at all other than to put a black stain on the armour of a forward nine point two.

“Grenades of some sort, sir.”

“Half a pound of charge. Pointless!”

Captain Archdale’s voice sounded behind them.

“If one or both of those had landed in the bridge, we could have lost our most senior officers. They could not possibly sink us. They could do some harm. That plane is twice as big as Bleriot’s, more perhaps. That is in the space of what, five years? In wartime, with government money available to the manufacturers, how big will they grow next year, or the one after? What would happen if they managed to drop something huge, a fifty pounder, say down a funnel?”

“Definitely write me that report, Adams. We need guns to protect ourselves against these damned machines!”

Captain Archdale agreed.

“Heavy machine guns, I would think, Adams. The Russians have some point seven inch guns, or thereabouts. Saw ‘em on one of their battleships a couple of years ago, Imperator Pavel, a predreadnought. Visited Pompey for some reason and I went down and took a look at her – I live just outside the town, at Portchester. Interesting ship – dirty! On a visit and they had not cleaned her up, believe it or not! Officers were hopeless, mostly half-drunk at eleven o’clock in the morning. Interesting ship though. Getting to the point of it all, she had a pair of heavy machine guns mounted on the upper bridge, apparently as protection against torpedo boats. Belt fed and needing at least two men in action, I would think, but could do some harm to a plane on a straight line to attack a ship.”