Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

Tyrwhitt was sufficiently senior to criticise the Admiralty. Simon was not.

“The promotion, sir, makes it sensible for me to bring my marriage forward. May I have your permission to wed, sir?”

“Granted, Sturton. My best wishes. Who is the young lady?”

“Miss Alice Parrett, sir. Sister to Polly.”

“Ah! All is clear! Congratulations – a good family, the Parretts, and naval as well now. I cannot give you leave for a few months, Sturton. Won’t fit in with our plans for the winter, I am afraid. As you know, we are short of boats at the moment and have to keep you all out on patrol. Should be better by May – we are getting things called patrol boats as well as more destroyers. The Coastal Motor Boats should be in commission as well. All of them capable of chasing a submarine. Assume that the month of May will be yours. Your Naiad will probably be in need of dockyard time by then; all of the problems of new ships should have surfaced after five months of seatime. While I think of it, is your boy Waller capable of taking over as First of Lancelot?”

Simon shook his head.

“Too soon, sir. He is an able lad, no question of that, but he hasn’t got the seatime in. Six months at least. McCracken could step up – and is senior besides.”

“The youngster with the harsh Ulster accent? Never liked that sound, you know, Sturton! If he is capable, then the good of the service demands he must rise. Tell him, if you please.”

It seemed strange to Simon that an accent might be a reason to hold a man down. He made no comment.

Returning to Lancelot he found he was ahead of the news, he was in front of the lower deck grapevine. Packer had not started to pack his cabin.

“We are for Naiad, Packer. Put up my third ring. Acting, not permanent yet.”

Simon ran up to the bridge, found Strachan acting as officer of the day.

“Naiad for you, Mr Strachan, as my Number One. Flotilla leader. Command for you within six months, if all goes as it should. McCracken will be taking over from you. I don’t know who the new captain will be. The ship won’t be sailing for a week or two in any case.”

McCracken was in his bunk, getting an hour or two of sleep in. He staggered out drowsily, woke up fast as he heard of his promotion and that he had two hours to speak to Strachan before he left.

“It’s no worry, sir. Mr Strachan has been showing me the way about against need. I can do the job.”

“I know that, Mr McCracken. I would not otherwise have recommended you. I expect to see you as a captain before the end of the coming year!”

A few farewells, taking pains to speak to Malcolm in his engineroom, and he left an empty cabin, Packer and three hands having packed at the run and gone ahead of him to Naiad, giving warning to them that the new man was coming. Simon was aware that he had missed his dinner, thought it better to board his new command at the earliest. Tyrwhitt had said nothing; he should have explained why the captaincy was vacant; it was out of the ordinary.

Captains were normally appointed to new ships before they were launched, acting as overseers of the construction process and particularly of fitting out. Naiad’s previous owner should have been six months aboard and would presumably have brought her down from the yard, likely to have been on the northeast coast, Newcastle way. Now, the cabin was empty.

It was unlikely that the captain would have been promoted out from a new ship, leaving much to be done to create an efficient crew.

That left room for conjecture.

Naiad was tied up, almost opposite the Commodore’s offices, an easy walk across from the yard. It had the advantage that he was visible in the evening light at a good two hundred yards. Strachan, who had gone ahead of him, knowing the ship to be absent its senior lieutenant, had spotted him and had the side party waiting, all as it should be. Being late in the day, he had chosen not to muster the crew in divisions to greet the new captain. That could better be done in the morning, would cause far less disruption to routine.

Simon stopped for a few seconds to view the ship, far larger than a destroyer.

Two six-inch guns in single turrets on the centre line forward, one stepped above the other. Six four inch aft of the bridge, single turrets on either beam. All quick firing. A single high angle gun immediately abaft the bridge, he could not see exactly what it was – small, a three pounder, perhaps. Machine guns to the bridge wings; bigger than Lewises, so most likely to be Vickers Guns, requiring two men apiece, a permanent crew rather than being available to any spare hand. There were lumps at the stern which he thought might be depth bombs. Four torpedo tubes set between the forward four inch and the high angle gun.

The deck was cluttered, he thought, additional gun and depth bombs simply squeezed in, not allowed for in the original design.

Good lines otherwise, a fast twenty-eight knot ship, possibly pushing a little more if the Engineer was good.

He stepped out again, reached the brow and a sentry dockside, presenting arms smartly. Unusual for a seaman, that. Most hands knew how to load and fire a rifle but were strangers to drill. Not impossible that the man had a record as a defaulter. If he had been sent off for thirty days in the naval prison he might have spent many hours on the parade ground, at the double with a rifle and pack, the drill shouted into him from dawn till dusk. Men sentenced to thirty days – the least they could be sent off to serve in the glasshouse – were treated especially harshly in the hope that they would not wish to come back again. It worked, sometimes.

“Thank you!”

The seaman blinked at the courtesy, almost smiled in return.

‘Not a bad man, whatever his record may be.’

He trotted up, pipes sounding as soon as his hat became visible above the deck. He still thrilled to that sharp squawk, the spine-tingling salute to the captain boarding his ship.

Strachan was stood at the salute, a line of officers at his side. Far more than on a destroyer.

Complement with wartime additions and additional signalmen as a destroyer leader must be around the three hundred mark, he suspected.

What had he got?

Strachan was at a disadvantage, unable to introduce the officers by name, knowing none of them yet.

Eight seamen lieutenants, salt horse, all of them, no specialisation. A Paymaster lieutenant stood next, his main function to assist in the administration of a large flotilla, something Simon had little knowledge of. A Navigator, which was always handy. Gunnery Officer, useful, demanded by the heavier guns; a junior Guns as well, no doubt to take the torpedo tubes and depth bombs. A Doctor, distinguished by his tabs, and valuable to the whole flotilla. Three engineers, one a lieutenant commander, the others lieutenants. Two sublieutenants towards the end of the line, a pair of midshipmen making up the complement.

Higgins was towards the end of the line of lieutenants, smiling broadly. The DSC on his chest marked him out, none of the others visibly decorated. Simon nodded to him, to his pleasure, the grin widening even further.

“Thank you, gentlemen. I am sorry to disturb you at this time of the day. I thought it better to come aboard as soon as possible. We may expect to be busy in the early future. I will speak to you individually tomorrow. Mr Strachan, with me please.”

Strachan led him aft to his cabin. He was amazed at the luxury available, compared to Lancelot or Sheldrake. There was a separate sleeping cabin and a shower room and toilet facility that was big enough to turn around in. His working and dining cabin was a good twelve feet on a side, space for desk and several chairs. It had a pair of bookshelves.

“How big is the wardroom, Strachan?”