Andrew Wareham: End to Illusion

“Will there be live firing, sir?”

“I expect there to be, Mr Rees. Guns only. Torpedoes are too expensive.”

The afternoon was long and tedious, as Simon had expected. He was senior officer of the four ships in the half-section, would normally be in command as the flotilla of eight rarely worked together now. Four ships was generally sufficient for their needs in the Patrol. Were they to go out with the fleet, then they would naturally be in the full flotilla but they did not expect that to eventuate in the southern reaches of the North Sea.

The problem was that he was five years the youngest of the four captains and with little of peacetime experience to back him up. The other lieutenants-in-command had risen rapidly to their positions, by normal standards, and were jealously aware that at age twenty-one, barely, they had just been celebrating their early promotion from sublieutenant. All had served four years and more in their destroyers before being given command. They were not inclined to respect a ‘lucky’ sub who had seen action, by good fortune, and had been pushed too far, too quickly and had made lieutenant commander well before he should have.

The decorations were another source of doubt – they knew Simon had a Mention as well as two DSCs. A glory hunter or monstrously lucky, obviously. They much suspected that he was anxious for his Cross and would take any risk with their lives to achieve his fame.

The depot ship had a couple of cabins set up for meetings, was used to catering for the needs of its small ships. A steward was to hand to provide tea or coffee. There was a table set out with ashtrays and with reasonably comfortable chairs; the scuttles were open and gave a pleasant breeze rather than the normal chill half-gale that characterised the North Sea. It was a beautiful afternoon, in fact, about to be spoiled by their meeting with the new man.

“Come in, gentlemen. Please be seated. Smoke if you wish. Tea or coffee?”

They sat and lit up and announced their preferences.

“I am Sturton, as you know, made up from Sheldrake to Lancelot. Now that I have scraped the mud off her, I have the opportunity to meet with you.”

They managed a laugh, having watched Lancelot’s antics with a mixture of amusement and contempt.

“I believe we have discovered the root cause of Lancelot’s problems, gentlemen. If I am wrong, you will have a grandstand view over the next few days.”

A more genuine laugh followed that comment.

“Now, in seniority, if you please, who are you?”

“Travis, sir, Lightning.”

Mid-twenties, bearded, short and somehow bristling and carrying a broken nose.

“Are you the Travis who was Fleet middleweight champion boxer?”

“Still am, sir!”

“Good. I look forward to seeing you fight again after the war.”

Simon glanced at the next man.

“Williams, sir. Lynx.”

The exact opposite of Travis, tall and slender, fair-haired, seemingly languid.

“You were a lieutenant on the sail-training ship, were you not, Mr Williams? Back in the year ’11, that would be.”

“I was, sir. You must have been one of the Dartmouth victims that year, sir.”

“I was indeed. Learned to lay out on a topsail yard. Must have been good training for the boats – look at me now!”

All had had occasional doubts about the emphasis on handling sailing ships at Dartmouth. They managed a smile.

“Campbell-Barnes, sir. Lucifer.”

Very much a Mayfair drawl, a cut above the rest socially.

“Did I not see you last week, sir, in company with Lord Perceval?”

“I was in London visiting my uncle, certainly. Since both his sons died, we have become far closer.”

Campbell-Barnes nodded, satisfied – Sturton was the man he had thought and socially significant. All doubts about his professional competence must be put aside.

“Jolly good, sir. I must say how pleased I am that you are to lead us after your experience in Sheldrake, sir. We have all read of your exploits there!”

“Much exaggerated by the gutter press, I am afraid. We have to put up with their ill-bred vulgarity by Admiralty order. As a general rule, gentleman, if we see them again, speak very carefully to reporters. Let them ask their asinine questions and answer them simply and clearly using short words and saying nothing at all that can be twisted into controversy. If you work on the basis that all reporters are acting in the German interest to subvert the war effort, you will not be far wrong!”

They wondered if he was serious, decided he might be.

“We are going out tomorrow to the Broad Fourteens. One day to exercise your ships’ companies as you think right and after that two days of manoeuvres as a half-section – torpedo runs, gun attacks, simulated raids on harbours. All the normal stuff, high speed when possible. We can expect to be out on patrol off the Belgian coast next week. Now then, condition reports, gentlemen? What do you need?”

Painstaking hours then of detail as each captain stated his requirements to bring his ship to top possible condition, including especially the need to promote, train or get rid of particular men.

Finally, Simon brought the discussion to an end.

“Send me the reports and I shall take them to Commodore Tyrwhitt in person. We might get some of what we need because just at the moment I am a blue-eyed boy. Worth trying, anyway!”

They returned to harbour five days later, tired from long hours of exercises but within reason content in their own efficiency. Lancelot led them in, properly in line, in near-perfect condition, having experienced no disasters at all for the first cruise in months. As a group they were satisfied.

They took up their moorings and were directed to the oiling wharf in succession and then to the Powder Hulk to re-ammunition. Finally a signal came from base for them to allow shore leave that evening, preparatory to sailing for Dunkerque next day. Simon was called to the Commodore.

“All well, Sturton?”

“All in hand, sir. Ready to go out to business.”

“What of the captains?”

“Travis and Williams are both fully capable, sir. Campbell-Barnes kisses arse too enthusiastically for my liking but runs an effective ship.”

“A Society darling, I believe, Sturton. Presumably believes you to be of the same ilk.”

“While he can fight his ship, sir, he can be what he wishes.”

“So be it. Dunkerque tomorrow, then along the coast to the east of Zeebrugge and see what you can pick up there overnight. Two twelve inch monitors will be conducting a bombardment and it is believed that there are numbers of small craft at Zeebrugge who will come out in response. Torpedo boats mostly. Submarines are a possibility although they are too slow to react to the monitors. Destroyers may be present – there has been movement up and down the coast recently and we are not sure what is where. Light cruisers are unlikely and heavies are certainly not to be found. It is just possible that there are some converted merchantmen, given a couple of heavy guns apiece to act as auxiliary cruisers. Minelayers, of course, proliferate. Mostly trawlers in that function. Could be entertaining, Sturton!”

“The greatest of fun, sir!”

He considered his own words as he returned to Lancelot, decided that he had not been lying too much. Action was entertaining – more than that, he was awake, alert, on top form when the guns were firing. That led to the question of whether he was admitting to himself that he enjoyed killing…

There were several answers there, not all of them wholly palatable; he decided that he would consider his own motives in some detail, when the war was over.

For the while, he had four ships to take out into the dark night of bloodshed. He whistled as he made his way to his boat.