Andrew Wareham: End to Illusion

“Travelling at sixty, it might be difficult to hit at all, sir. A few heavy rounds might do some harm to those flimsy wings, sir. Wood and thin canvas – shouldn’t be too difficult to shred them.”

The plane provided a topic of conversation as they headed north towards Pola.

General opinion was that there was little future in aviation – aeroplanes were too small and could not carry a useful bomb.

The sloops met the two cruisers later in the day and were sent off together to potter along and examine every little harbour along the western shores of the islands and rendezvous with the cruisers when they returned from the north. They were too slow to remain in company on a reconnaissance of the main fleet anchorage.

Pola, the main Adriatic base, was a different proposition to Split. The large bay was heavily defended by shore batteries and a boom with a guardship. There were four at least of dreadnoughts at anchor, all with smoke at two funnels, power available to the turrets. Besides that there was a collection of predreadnoughts and smaller ships, some of them with steam up and ready to sail. Connaught viewed the port from a distance, through glasses, and turned away.

Captain Archdale had no hesitation in retreating.

“Too tough a nut for us to crack, gentlemen! In range of a score at least of twelve and ten inchers, firing from a stable ship at anchor. No possibility of firing torpedoes because of the boom. All we could achieve there would be to get sunk quickly, our success at Split wiped off the books, cancelled out.”

As they watched a flotilla of destroyers led by a light cruiser cast off and formed a line towards the gate in the boom.

“Full speed. Course for Italian waters, Mr Adams. If they think we know something about the Italians that they do not, they will not chase.”

“Course for Venice, sir? Make it clear that we are heading towards a naval base?”

“Make it so, Mr Adams. Stand down from action stations for an hour or two. Feed the hands, Commander, let them get a little rest. Guns, open fire on the destroyers if they come in range. Aft guns only. Common shell, being small ships.”

“Aye aye, sir. They won’t fire torpedoes at much in excess of three thousand yards, sir. Open fire then.”

“I said ‘in range’, Guns. The last I heard, our main armament has a range of twenty-nine thousand yards!”

“That’s only in theory, sir. We don’t actually shoot at that range. Not much above five thousand, when you consider it, sir.”

“Then what is the point in having guns with a range six times as long?”

“There is none, sir. We have told the Admiralty time and again that we need proper broadside guns and nothing else. Chasers with a range of five thousand, if they must, but the bulk of our work should be at one hundred yards or less, the way a battle should be fought properly, sir. Really, sir, we ought to have more men trained as boarders, as well!”

“God help us all if it ever comes to battle, Guns. No wonder we lost Monmouth and Good Hope!”

“The Huns were unfair, sir. Must have been. They cheated.”

“The survivors from Scharnhorst and Gneisenau said they scored hits at twenty thousand yards, knocked out half of her main armament in the first ten minutes.”

“All very well, sir – if you believe a Hun. Much more likely there was an explosion in the gun, a faulty shell, sir. Stands to reason the Hun can’t be more accurate than us.”

“That attitude will kill us all, Guns. My orders stand. You will open fire at twenty-nine thousand yards, recording each round. Mr Adams, you are to keep a diary of the action, placing each shellburst on a chart. The Yeoman of the Signals will assist with spotting.”

The Yeoman had the largest telescope in the ship, with the highest magnification.

“With respect, sir, I do not think I need to be spied on.”

“With respect, Guns, you will obey my orders, unless you wish to stand down from duty.”

“No, sir. I will, as always, obey orders.”

Connaught made her westerly course, Salford in line ahead, each at a steady twenty-two knots. Christopher kept the plot and estimated that the pursuing flotilla had worked their way up to twenty-seven.

“About three hours to torpedo range, sir.”

“Good enough, Mr Adams. Plenty of daylight. At least an hour during which they will be in the reach of our main armament. What are they?”

“Tatra class destroyers, sir. Fast but lightly gunned – just two four inch and four eighteen inch torpedo tubes. Half a dozen of something like a ten pounder as well. The light cruiser is slowing them, I would say. If I am right in my identification, she carries no tubes and about nine of four inch guns – she could play hell with a lightly escorted convoy but is neither heavily gunned nor well-armoured. Scout cruisers, they call that class. We can ignore her, sir.”

“So… four destroyers all we have to worry about. We have no effective weapons to deal with them if the main battery cannot put them down.”

The solution seemed obvious. Christopher said nothing, his opinion not wanted.

“Salford to line abeam, initially. If they close, then she can use her speed and six inch guns to good effect… Do nothing for an hour or two, give no prior warning to them… Yes, that’s it! No change in dispositions for the nonce, Adams.”

Archdale had come up with a workable solution, but far too slowly. In a long, slow stern chase he had time for his ponderous calculations. If he was faced with battle and the need for instant decisions, then Christopher was fearful for the ship.

They waited, silently. The watch changed and Christopher remained on the bridge, eating a sandwich brought up by the bridge messenger.

The voice tube from the gunner’s position gave its whistle.

“Destroyers at twenty-nine thousand yards, extreme range, sir.”

“Open fire.”

The after nine point two turret elevated its barrel and fired. They waited for the shell to travel more than fourteen miles, telescopes on the leading destroyer. There was a water splash, half a mile to starboard and a cable short. A slight delay and the gun fired again.

After four rounds the shells were falling within a cable of the leading destroyer.

“Very good, Guns. Open fire with all guns that can bear.”

The two after wing turrets, port and starboard, could both bear on the pursuing ships. The placing of the six turrets allowed four to be fired on the broadside, three forward and three aft.

There was a prolonged delay while the gun crews were called to their stations.

“Why are the guns unmanned, Guns?”

“You ordered me to use the after gun, sir. I saw no need to expend shells unnecessarily.”

Captain Archdale took that as deliberate provocation.

“Stand down from duty, sir. Place yourself under arrest in your cabin. Mr Lascelles, take over as Gunner.”

Two minutes and the three guns fired in sequence, ten seconds apart so that their rounds could be spotted. The three shells fell within a hundred yards of the destroyer. It was a probability that splinters would have hit the unarmoured hull, might have caused casualties. The guns fired again.

“Straddle, sir. All three shells close alongside the lead destroyer.”

Christopher watched intently.

“Turning away, sir. Range opening.”

They watched quietly as the flotilla turned back towards Pola. A final three shells splashed in their wake.

“Good shooting, Mr Lascelles. You will perform all duties as Gunner until the squadron returns to Malta.”

The cruisers turned their heads south and made towards the rendezvous with the sloops. The Adriatic was empty of enemies and the senior officers devoted their time to report writing.