Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

“Good. A signal in the morning, ‘gin pennant flying at sixteen hundred hours’. Square it with Mr Strachan.”

Hosting the captains and their first lieutenants would mean use of the wardroom, requiring the permission of the President.

“Will do, sir.”

Simon’s dinner appeared, bringing the meeting to an end.

“A pork chop and fresh vegetables, Packer. Well done at this time of year.”

“Didn’t ask no questions of the cook, sir.”

The Navigator arrived first in the morning.

“Knyvett, sir.”

He was dressed in doeskins, the most expensive of uniform cloths, displayed gold cufflinks and collar studs and was wearing a large and shiny wristwatch. Simon suspected an income greater than his, which was rarely large for the Navy.

They exchanged salutes, crisp and precise – no languid, fashionable sloppiness.

“Take a seat, Mr Knyvett. How long since you completed your courses?”

“Pre-war, sir. Three years ago.”

He had attended the full, long course, not the abbreviated wartime version.

“Good. Useful to have a fully qualified man in your position. All up to scratch in your domain?”

“I could use a junior, sir. One of the youngsters to learn the trade.”

“Sensible to have another man who can find a position to a second… Would either sub be suitable?”

“Not ideal, sir. The younger midshipman seems to have more than two brain cells to rub together.”

“Is he interested?”

“I think so, sir. I have sounded him out. Hedges, by name. By way of being a bit of an oik – father is a trawler owner – but a sound seaman in the making.”

“That’s what we need in time of war. Well spotted. Take him under your wing. Tell Mr Strachan. None of the lieutenants interested or suitable?”

“Salt horse, all of them. None to set the world on fire. None of them incapable, to my knowledge. I don’t know about the new man, joined only yesterday.”

“Higgins?”

“That’s him. All I know of him is that he tripped over the coaming entering the wardroom.”

“Only once?”

“Why, yes, sir. Was that not sufficient?”

Knyvett risked half a smile.

“An improvement on his general performance. Do not permit Higgins entrance to your chartroom, Mr Knyvett. If he does not burn it down, he will fall onto your instruments and blunt all of your pencils by looking at them. He is a disaster on two legs. He is my albatross!”

“I am not sufficiently familiar with the Ancient Mariner to comment, sir. I did notice a DSC.”

“He has a Mention as well.”

Simon explained the manner in which Higgins had won his medals.

“And he is yours to nurture in the Service, sir? Might I enquire why?”

“Ask and conjecture all you will, Mr Knyvett. My lips are sealed. Try not to make too much of a fuss about his provenance. If possible, I shall push him across to one of these new little torpedo boats they are bringing into service. A wild, unthinking crazy man may make an impact there.”

“Why, sir?”

“After the war, he may well be let loose upon Society. If he has a chestful of decorations, he may end up with a rich wife who will cosset him and keep him out of harm’s way. His mother will be made most happy by that.”

“What of his father, sir?”

Knyvett was beginning to have suspicions.

“Damned good question, Mr Knyvett! Who is next down the list?”

“Third in line for command if an unfortunate shell hits the bridge, sir? Guns, I am afraid.”

Knyvett said no more, stood saluted and left, content that the new captain was aware of his many virtues.

Strachan ushered the gunnery lieutenant into the cabin, a smile twitching.

“Mr Jackson, sir.”

A great, shambling bear of a man with a black beard to his chest, hiding all except nose and brown eyes. He stiffened into a rigid Whale Island attention and salute.

“Sir!”

His voice was pitched to be heard over a fifteen inch battleship gun. It was deafening.

“Take a seat, Mr Jackson. How is your department for readiness?”

“Short of live firing, sir. Fast in dumbshow. Need a few rounds on a range, sir. Or on a target at sea, sir.”

“Full magazines?”

“Yes, sir. Finally. Taken a long time, sir.”

“Good. What of the high angle gun?”

“Three pounder, sir. Fused shells. Airburst. Don’t know about them, sir. For aeroplanes. Or Zeppelins.”

“Increasingly a nuisance, aeroplanes. Are those Vickers on the bridge?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Swann got them, sir. Not me. Need four men.”

“What is their mounting?”

“Pintle, sir. High angle if needed.”

“Very good. Have you anything tucked away against need?”

Jackson looked about him, rather theatrically, making sure there were no hidden spies.

“Got hold of four Lewis Guns, sir. Infantry pattern, to be carried by a boarding party, if needs be.”

“Excellent! I am much in favour of initiative.”

“Automatic pistols as well, sir. Belgian guns. Emptied a gun shop in Antwerp, to keep them out of the hands of the Germans. Brought them with me, being as I could not hand them over, officially, that was. I was aboard Cressy, sir, was sent ashore with a few hands to assist with the evacuation, ended up left ashore, sir. Pinched a little coaster and got out with some soldiers, sir. And with the automatics. Posted to Naiad in the yard, not sent back to Cressy, which was lucky.”

“Damned fortunate, if you ask me, Jackson! Lucky for Naiad that you are here. All well with the guns, otherwise?”

“New four inch, sir. New design and they keep jamming. Need to be replaced. Can’t get them right. Design is faulty, in my opinion.”

That was not good news.

“What of the six inch?”

“Good guns, sir. All I could ask for.”

“What range?”

“Fifteen thousand yards, sir. Not that you would want to fire them at that distance. No point to it. Broadsides at five cables, sir, that’s the way to do it!”

“I want to hit a submarine’s conning tower at the limit of practical visibility, Mr Jackson. Shall we say eight thousand yards?”

Whale Island did not indulge in such dabbling, it seemed.

“Four nautical miles, sir? That’s a long way.”

“So it is.”

Jackson realised that his new master was not joking, said that he would do his best.

“I am sure you will. This war demands the best of all of us, Mr Jackson. What of torpedoes?”

“Have not fired yet, sir. No dummy heads. Fairly sure of our speed and efficiency, sir. The depth bombs, the same. Nothing to practice with.”

“Very well. I shall inspect them when I look round the ship, of course. Thank you, Mr Jackson.”

The big man left, far less sure of himself than when he had entered.

“That is the two department heads, sir. I will send the remainder through by seniority, I presume? What of the engineroom?”

“The three together – I cannot talk technicalities with them. Doctor as well, after the bulk of the seaman lieutenants and the junior Guns.”

Eight lieutenants, one after the other, two minutes apiece – all products of the pre-war Navy, competent deck officers, the one gunnery specialist not yet standing out.

“Not yet been to Whale Island, sir. Waiting my turn.”

The Doctor showed himself to be as expected – young, newly qualified and seemingly competent.

“I need at least one more orderly, sir. Only two, which is insufficient for three hundred men.”

“Posted in or have you an eye on one of the lower deck?”

“A new body, if you please, sir.”

“I will make the request. I cannot guarantee that a man will come. You are sure that none of the hands could be turned across to you?”