Andrew Wareham: End to Illusion

“Unsurprising. The Navy don’t believe in pay – the honour of serving one’s country should be sufficient reward.”

“That’s a load of balls, Adams!”

“You’ll hear no argument from me, sir.”

“No, I suppose not. Continue to the south, I think. What do you say, Adams?”

“Almost down to Aden as fast as we can, sir. A dozen dhows will have made port yesterday and today to say that we are busy here. Good idea to go somewhere else. Ten knots and quickly to the Bab al Mandab and block the straits to all comers and see what turns up.”

“What’s this ‘Great Game’ business, Adams?”

“India, originally. Playing spies up on the North West Frontier. Mainly against the Russians who were, probably still are, paying the Afghans to attack India and Persia. We paid the Afghans to kill Russians and Persians. The Persians paid the Afghans to attack all comers. Dozens of junior officers done up in blackface and galloping about the hilltribes creating mayhem and having a jolly good time – traditional now for public schoolboys who like amateur theatre and who don’t fit into the Regiment too well. The whisper is that most of them are queer as a chocolate teapot and fit in well with the native warriors, if you know what I mean. Keeps them out of harm’s way in the cantonments in India and kills most of them off young. Ask the colonels about the Great Game and watch them snigger!”

“Peculiar lot, you English, Adams! What do you reckon this Captain Mason will be doing when he gets to Jeddah?”

“He’ll change into Arab robes and take his camel caravan out into the Empty Quarter and hand over his rifles to the tribes there. He’ll be fluent in Arabic and half a dozen other languages, I don’t doubt. He’ll have a really jolly time, don’t you know!”

Murchison had no understanding of that particular sort of gentleman.

“Read your Kipling, sir. It don’t make a lot of sense. All very heroic, though. Might be more useful to the war than anything we’re doing!”

They swept south, enduring the heat and humidity, suffering in small ships designed for Arctic waters. The awnings they had cobbled up did some good and pushing the speed as high as they could manage, ten or more knots most days, produced a little wind, though doing the stokers no favours. Mostly they sat in the shade, taking thirty minute stretches exposed to the sun as lookouts and otherwise simply, silently enduring.

They drank water and Egyptian beer and took their salt tablets and sweated, looking longingly over the side and wondering whether they dared take a swim. The sharks they saw so frequently seemed to be inviting them in.

“Are they maneaters, Mr Adams?”

“So I’m told, Jimmy. I don’t know for sure. I’m not sticking my foot in the water to find out.”

“Bugger that!”

A lookout hailed in late afternoon, well towards Bab al Mandab, close to the islands south of Hodeida.

“Tromso is signalling, sir. Got a bloke on the wheelhouse roof waving a towel or something and pointing southeast.”

“Close her, Adams?”

“Best thing, sir. Call action stations, sir?”

“Do it.”

Tromso was furthest east of their line and the other four came together and headed towards her, forming an arrowhead. Christopher yelled across and they shouted back, waving in friendly fashion.

“Jimmy! Yell them to go to action stations. Man the guns!”

There was much bellowing, both ways.

“They say it’s bloody hot out in the sun on the guns, sir.”

“Tell them to wear their hats and put their shirts on! All guns loaded and ready to open fire.”

The trawlermen moaned and reluctantly obeyed.

Ten minutes and they were within hailing distance of Tromso.

“Four bloody steamers, mister! Saw us and turned away. Coming onto a more southerly course now. We’re closing slowly. Be dark before we get up to them.”

The trawlers were slow, they did not need speed in their occupation. Most steamers could probably match them.

“Don’t like it, sir. They ought to be able to keep a distance on us. Might be they are running just slow enough that we’ll come up to them after nightfall, sir.”

Murchison thought for a few seconds.

“Then, either they turn about and sneak north, past us, in the night, or they wait and shoot hell out of us as we reach them.”

“Likely, I think, sir.”

“Shit!”

Murchison fell silent, scratching his backside to aid his thought processes.

“Got it, Adams. Drop off a knot or so. Let it seem we can’t catch them. Take a leg north for a couple of hours after dark and then heave to until about three hours before dawn. About three in the morning, we turn our heads south and crawl down towards them, the five of us close, line abeam so we can all use the four inchers. When we get near them, if we do, then turn again to bring the pompoms and Vickers into play as well.”

“Might work, sir. If they keep on south, we’ve lost them.”

“So we have. Then we wait here in the narrows and see if they come back again. If they don’t, then whatever they were doing, they won’t have done it. If they do come back, we’ll be in a position to take a pop at them. Maybe.”

They announced the decision then asked Tromso if they had any detail of the four steamers.

“Nay, not to say detail , as such. There was four of them, two and two, bigger and smaller, ye ken. At a guess, there was a pair of merchant ships, coal burners, two stacks, something like three thousand tonners, big trampers, ye might say; old boats throwing out thick clouds of smoke. The other pair was not so big but looked more like warships – longer and leaner, not for carrying cargo. Bigger nor us by some way.”

Christopher was less than enthused.

“There was mention of a pair of gunboats supposed to be hanging about down south, sir.”

“Aye, so there was. You managed to deal with a cruiser, did you not?”

“We did, sir. Took her by surprise and shot her to bits before she woke up. Old, as well. The gunboats might be new and certainly will be awake.”

“Well, gives us the chance to put them to sleep again. Worth trying, Adams.”

It occurred to Christopher that the Arctic fisheries would not breed a mild sort of seaman – hard men and well up for a fight, in fact.

“Get in close and make use of the pompoms, sir. It might work. Load up all of the belts we have to hand overnight, sir.”

They set to work, bringing up additional ready-use to the four inch and pulling out the spare canvas belts for the pompoms and settling the little forty mm shells into them.

“Are they explosive or shrapnel, Adams?”

“It will say on the boxes, sir.”

“So it does. Load half the belts with explosive rounds, the other half shrapnel – mark the belts up to see which is which easily. If them tramp ships is full of soldiers, which would be what the Admiral was expecting, then shrapnel will do a better job while the four inch is sinking them.”

It struck Christopher that Murchison had an amount of military knowledge.

“Were you busy during the Boer War, sir?”

“Aye, I was. Must have been nigh on a hundred of us out of Fraserburgh and the havens nearby volunteered and went out. The most of us came back, too, after a busy year or so. Not like these soft Sassenachs from their factories as were dying like flies for bad food and hard lying out in the bush there. An interesting time, it was. They made me a lieutenant by the end of it.”

Christopher was not surprised.

“I thought you had more than ordinary knowledge of shrapnel and such, sir.”

“Aye, well, a man must keep his eyes and ears open, young Adams! What do ye propose for the morning?”

“Your plan will work if they are there, sir. We will take casualties. If I could suggest, make sure that each skipper knows to form line on you and watch your helm. We will close on the Turks – if that is what they are – in line abreast, only the four inch bearing and must turn at least thirty degrees as soon as we are inside a thousand yards to allow the pompoms and Vickers to fire. It will be as well for each skipper to know your intent, sir.”