Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

“Pity! Don’t try it again. Too big a risk. I’ll think of something else.”

Simon knew that Canning had only a small private income, insufficient for him to purchase stocks himself. He, on the other hand, had a huge income in Naval terms, could easily afford to do so. It would be wise to find a way to cover his expenditure – the hands should not know that he was spending his own money on their comforts. Even more so for the wardroom – his officers might be humiliated. It should not be too difficult – gifts of various sorts turned up frequently from the various organisations and committees that had formed in almost every town in the country to provide comforts for the troops and sailors. He had heard even of ships being adopted by women’s groups in towns along the coast and a regular trickle of cigarettes and sweets and such turning up.

He made a mental note to talk to his uncle to make the arrangements with a wholesaler in London. A City of London charitable committee could act as cover for a lorryload, a ton and more of the best split between the four destroyers.

“Toffees, Mr Canning! Not just chocolate.”

“Yes, sir. Exactly.”

Captains were never wrong on their own bridge.

“Time to our turning point?”

“Two hours and twenty-three minutes, sir, to reach a position one mile off Dutch waters. Monitors should commence bombardment in two hours and fifteen minutes from now, sir.”

The plan assumed that anything in the German-held harbours would be on one hour’s notice for steam.

“What if they have smaller petrol engined launches and boats, Canning?”

“Could be a problem, sir. To my limited understanding, it is a matter of winding up a starter and then kicking in a clutch, sir. Five minutes at most, not having boilers to bring up to temperature. I think any such would be out of their harbours well before we came along, sir.”

“If they have petrol torpedo boats, then the monitors are in trouble.”

“Or diesel, sir.”

Simon had heard of diesel, was not sure what the difference was between that and petrol. Fortunately, Canning did not know either, was able to avoid being wiser than his captain.

The hot cocoa arrived, delivered to all positions around the small ship and obviously welcome. It was definitely the case that they must have greater stocks than officially issued. Even in the summer months, the sea was chilly at night and a warmer was a pleasant extra, the sort of thing that made the hands feel valued.

“It’s a bribe, perhaps, Canning. Not a bad idea, though. Better than the way the Russians do things!”

There had been a report in the newspapers of a mutiny on a Russian naval vessel and of wholesale floggings and hangings as a response. The Navy had generally felt no more than contempt, for mutineers and the Russian authorities both.

“Very much so, sir. Strange thing is, the Russian Navy seems to be doing well in the Black Sea, despite their peculiar habits. Disaster in the Baltic, of course. I hear a rumour that we are to send submarines into the Baltic, sir.”

“Not with me aboard, Mr Canning! Horrible bloody things! The very idea of going down beneath the surface of the sea, deliberately shutting down a hatch and plunging under! Not for me!”

“No. I doubt I shall be volunteering, sir. I thought about the RNAS last year, when they were calling for bodies. I might like going up in the air. Not under the water, though.”

“I didn’t see the request for men, Mr Canning. Busy on Sheldrake and enjoying myself far too much in any case. Don’t know that I am a bold aviator myself – particularly after the way we dealt with that poor chap earlier.”

“Good point, sir. All very well flapping along at a thousand feet. Bit of a bugger when your wings drop off!”

“Light at twenty degrees, starboard bow!”

The lookout’s call brought them back to business. The Dutch, being neutral, had kept all of their lights and buoys, making navigation easier off their shores.

“Five minutes to our turning point, sir.”

“All hands, Mr Canning.”

Lancelot had been at action stations, all of the crew at their places of duty, but half had been permitted to sit or lay down if there was space, to rest as much as they could. No doubt some few had even managed to sleep, to the admiration of their mates who could not rest in the tense minutes leading up to a night of fighting.

“What are those, ‘Major?”

“Tin cans, sir. Empty. Condensed milk, the little ones, sir. Bully beef the big. Hang a small one inside a big ‘un, sir, on a bit of string, you might say, and attach them to the wire, a few yards apart, high and low, sir.”

O’Grady displayed the finished product, ready to be strung up. He shook it and achieved a set of melodious chimes.

“Sing low in the wind, so they will, sir. Loud if any mischievous hand should chance to cut the wire in the night, hoping to be silent.”

“That’s clever, ‘Major!”

“Not, I am forced to say, my own invention, sir, though not so well known as yet. I was informed by an acquaintance of the trick. A South African man, sir, who had set tripwires in the war they had there, before your time. He was one of them Boers then, is now a virtuous soldier, so he says.”

“Times change, ‘Major! I had understood the Kaiser to be a friend of the Boers.”

They shook their heads, accepting that politics and statecraft was something beyond their comprehension.

“If he is as good at killing the Hun as his compatriots were at shooting us down in that unfortunate conflict, sir, then he will be very welcome.”

“Agreed, O’Grady! As you say, well before my time, yet all I have ever heard of the Boers said they were hard men to defeat.”

“There are those who will say they were not defeated, sir, not in the field. Their women and children were locked away in the concentration camps where so many died and they were left with no food, no supplies to carry on the fight.”

That aspect of the war had never figured large in the English history books and adventure tales for boys. Richard knew nothing of the camps, suspected it might be wiser to remain ignorant – he still retained a few illusions about his country and wished to keep them. The current war was hard enough without allowing reality to supervene.

“When do you intend to put the bells up, ‘Major?”

“The regular wiring parties can do it, each in their own section over the next few days, sir. I suspect that the Germans will fire on our parties tonight, sir, being somewhat cross after the raids. Better to delay sending out any substantial numbers, sir.”

Both sides put out men to repair breaks in the wire on an almost nightly basis. It was not normally regarded as worthwhile to shoot at the sound of wiring parties, particularly while ammunition was short. When they were feeling bad-tempered, the machine guns would rattle in the night.

“How are we off for flares?”

“Short, sir. Too few to be sending them up for every odd noise, sir. Captain Draper’s Company is very low, sir, for their habit of lighting up every time a rat squeaks in the night.”

“Mr Draper has left us, ‘Major. He has returned to the Hampshires, his own regiment, after lending us the benefit of his experience. I have promoted Mr Caton to acting rank in his place. Lieutenant Orpington is to be his number two. His second lieutenant remains in the company, unless you think I should make a clean sweep?”

“Mr Michaels, sir? A boy with a deal to learn and an amount to forget. He will do, sir. Most likely, that is. Which battalion of the Hampshires has Captain Draper gone to, sir?”

“The 11 th, on posting to East Africa and the campaign against Von Lettow-Worbeck in the bush there.”