Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

“Not the sort we need out here, Colonel. We can do without them.”

“We wouldn’t see them in any event, Caton. If they finally deign to don khaki it will be with staff officers’ tabs. None of that particular sort will be spotted at our sides!”

They agreed, signalling to a mess waiter for refills.

“You hear the songs the men sing in the dugouts, Colonel, off duty, in privacy, more or less. Some of them are the old ones from the Boer War and before. The newer sort are a damned sight less polite and some are very pointed.”

“I don’t hear them, in the nature of things, Caton. I appear in the trench and the whisper goes ahead of me.”

They laughed, knowing that to be true. The first sight of the Colonel led to the word being passed so that the Crown and Anchor boards could be hidden and the pontoon schools could tuck their stakes away, gambling being unlawful. The men were sure that Richard would turn the blind eye, thought it only polite to save him the bother.

“Do the men sing much, Caton?”

“A few have good voices, were always used to sing in the church halls or down at the Sally Ann or in the local pubs.”

“Sally Ann?”

“Salvation Army – very popular for teaching reading and writing and a bit more, getting the boys who want to learn ready to go to evening classes. Surprising just how many wanted to better themselves and had few places to go for help. Add to that, always a cup of tea at the Citadel and a few pretty girls to talk to. If you were musical, they would teach an instrument or put you in their choir, no great worry about what you did on Sunday either.”

Richard added that to his store of knowledge. His experience of the Salvation Army had been to see their brass band at a distance and avoid it.

“Those who have a voice are forever singing – the men like it, most of them. Passes an evening, listening to the old songs. Funny thing is, the old sweats all of them want the Boer War songs – I am sure I hear ‘Sarie Marais’ at least once a week.”

That was new to Richard.

Vokes agreed it was popular, one of the better songs even if it was Dutchy.

“It’s the new songs I don’t like so much, Colonel. ‘They were only playing Leapfrog’ you hear every night and that is definitely crude!”

“Heard it at a distance, not to pick up all of the words.”

Vokes obliged, croaking in a broken baritone.

‘They were only playing leapfrog,

They were only playing leapfrog,

They were only playing leapfrog,

When one staff-officer jumped right over another staff-officer’s back!’

“Oh! Not especially subtle, is it?”

“Anything but, Colonel!”

“Can’t forbid it – any attempt to ban it would make it far more popular and would make an unnecessary act of defiance out of it. Just hope it dies away. You don’t hear ‘Von Kluck’ now. Perhaps all these things get old hat after a while.”

Major Vokes had never heard ‘Von Kluck’. Caton had and enlightened him.

“Oh, I say! Not what we want to hear shouted out. Not at all!”

Wincanton had drifted within hearing range, offered a little valuable information.

“Still the catchword in the 3 rdBattalion, Major. If a man drops something they still say ‘Von Kluck it’. Apparently one of their officers said it in August ’14. You were there, Colonel. Do you know how it started?”

Richard was sure the question was innocent, that Wincanton was not prodding him.

“Yes, Wincanton. Started when my company was first put into the line in Belgium, the 3 rdtrying to hold against six battalions with field artillery. There was a lot of swearing that morning.”

They said no more, simply adding another story to his name.

“Torpedoes, forty degrees on the starboard bow!”

“Coxswain!”

Simon jumped across to the cord that activated the steam siren, three double tugs, the emergency signal to the half-flotilla to follow his lead to comb the tracks of torpedoes, to turn bows on so as to lessen the target. He stumbled as Lancelot rolled deep under full rudder, grabbing at a handrail as McCracken bellowed down the voicepipe to the engineroom.

“Emergency speed!”

He stared ahead as the ship came back to level keel, picked out four torpedo tracks parallel to each other, the nearest a good ten yards abeam. If the three ships behind were alert and followed him precisely, as he expected them to, they would all miss.

Four torpedoes – that said a destroyer not a submarine, off their bows and waiting, already in the sights and them closing to point blank range with only the bow guns bearing.

“Hard aport! Engage destroyers starboard beam.”

He whooped the siren again, three single blasts, code for surface ship action.

Guns flared off the starboard bow and five inch shells landed alongside, five ships in line abreast and closing fast. Without the last-second turn, those shells would have all been hits. The three four inchers and the thirty-seven mil were firing fast over open sights, should be landing some shells home, further reducing the German accuracy. They had a chance of surviving now.

A five inch exploded in the forecastle, penetrating the deck and blowing in the men’s messes, empty at action stations. A fire started – there were wooden tables and benches there as well as the contents of the men’s lockers. The First Lieutenant ran to take charge of the damage control party.

Simon heard the cough of compressed air amidships, knew that Rees had seen a target for his torpedoes, had fired on his own initiative, as were the instructions for action.

There was a loud explosion astern, on one of the three behind him, taking the bulk of the shellfire as they passed the German destroyers on opposite course.

“Lightning, sir. Hit amidships. On fire. Ready use blowing.”

Strachan came running back to the bridge.

“Fire extinguished, sir. Lost the crew to the forward four inch. Splinters. Gun is u/s, sir.”

“Bring her round to starboard, Coxswain, across the sterns of the Hun.”

The German destroyers were three to five knots faster than Lancelot, depending on their class. There was no point to attempting to chase, them, particularly with no forward gun. The shapes were disappearing already, guns falling silent for lack of targets.

An explosion out in the dark, a torpedo warhead blowing.

“Bring us onto the torpedoed ship, Coxswain.”

Two minutes and they smelt fuel oil, slowed to look for survivors, found a knot of a dozen clustered around a pair of life rafts.

“Get them aboard!”

Survivors must be picked up, irrespective of nationality. The Germans did the same.

Almost all were wounded as well as part drowned. At a guess, they were sailors who had been on deck, manning guns or tubes or on the bridge. Those belowdecks did not normally survive a torpedo strike on a small ship.

“What’s the word from Lightning?”

“Gone, sir. Lynx reports taking the most of her men aboard, sir. She was able to get alongside.”

That was well done, must be highlighted in his report of the action. Bringing one’s own ship so close that men could jump from the burning deck to safety was out of the ordinary run. Williams must be recommended for a gong for that.

“Anything from Lucifer?”

“Taken casualties, sir. Five inch hit amidships. Jettisoned torpedoes.”

“Well done her Gunner! What’s the time, Number One?”

“Forty minutes till first light, sir.”

“Signal ‘Search for survivors till dawn.’”

An hour later, the three ships remaining formed a line and made course for Harwich.

“Going home with our tails between our legs, sir.”

“Defeated, Strachan. Not a pleasant feeling. At least we sank one of them in exchange. What has Lucifer reported?”