Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

“Getting up a boxing tournament again, they tell me, Proctor.”

Boxing – the Manly Art – was one of the few sports available to officers and men alike. Proctor had fought as a middleweight at Dartmouth, showing well there.

“Not for me this time, Adams! That damned stoker, Ferguson, has been posted up to Iron Duke – being champion he has a berth on the flagship! He will be competing and he is far better than me. I have met him twice in this last five years and been well thumped each time. A third lesson is not necessary. They say he will turn professional after the war. I shall be happy to watch his fights!”

Christopher laughed. Boxing had never appealed to him; he did not consider himself classically handsome but had no wish to see his nose rearranged by a skilful fist.

“Your lady would not approve of you entering the ring, I must imagine, Adams. Just a month until you wed, is it not?”

“End of June, Proctor. You have received your invitation, have you not?”

“I have, dear boy, but I can never remember dates. I shall certainly be present, the Kaiser permitting.”

“I doubt it will happen this year, Proctor. The Big Smash, that is. I don’t think the High Seas Fleet will stir out of its comfortable moorings this summer. They must be content to sit in a harbour with a railway line direct to the fleshpots of Berlin and with hotels and clubs and restaurants to hand onshore, laughing as they think of us stuck up here in the wilds, in the middle of nowhere. Seems to me they are winning hands down so far, this war!”

“Won’t be when they come out, Adams. Eventually they must fall under our guns and that will be an end to it.”

Proctor was a turret officer, in charge of one of Black Prince’s main battery guns and convinced that he would fire the shell that would destroy a German battlecruiser when the great meeting of the fleets eventuated.

“Armour-piercing into the magazine at three thousand yards, dear boy! An end to all their troubling.”

Quite how Black Prince was to come so close was left out of his calculations, it seemed.

“At night, dear boy! Just how the Captain has it planned!”

Christopher made no response, excusing himself to go to his chartroom, checking on the last instructions for course on leaving harbour.

“Changes every week, Proctor. The Cruiser Division seems to be put to a new position relative to the battleships every time Jellicoe wants something to do with a couple of hours!”

A few minutes working on courses and procedures for leaving Scapa in various states of wind and tide and Christopher sat back, wandered up to the bridge to get some fresh air – something readily available at Scapa – and to take a glance at the great anchorage. There was always some sort of movement, destroyer flotillas going out on exercise and patrol, battleships leaving the fleet to the dockyards or rejoining, storeships and leave boats coming up from the railhead on the mainland.

“Battleships have been put onto four hours for steam, Adams.”

The Captain’s voice from behind him.

“Good morning, sir. Anything for us?”

“The commodore is active. Cruiser division is about to receive orders, I would say, judging by the activity on her bridge.”

Christopher looked across at Defence, two cables distant from Warrior and Duke of Edinburgh and Black Prince, the four forming the First Cruiser Squadron under Captain Venn Ellis.

The Yeoman of the Signals had the acknowledgement flag bent onto the lanyards, waiting for the signal.

“For First Cruiser Division, sir. Go to two hours readiness for steam, sir. Executive, sir.”

“Acknowledge.”

The order was passed down to the engineroom and within minutes the ship was vibrating as all of its boilers were lit up and the engines were turned over, given their final checks.

“Engineroom reports ready in one hundred minutes, sir.”

Christopher wondered how that had been achieved. They had been on enhanced readiness previously, on eight hours notice; to turn that to less than two hours was an achievement, suggesting that the Chief had been cheating, had had all of his boilers lit and ready.

“Received a signal in the night, Adams.”

There was a chuckle in the captain’s voice, not a common event, Captain Gilpin-Brown not being the most light-hearted of men.

“Warning of wireless activity over on the Jade and Kiel Canal, a likelihood that some or all of the High Seas Fleet was moving. Probably going out on gunnery exercises in the Baltic. Normal enough. I would not be surprised if the engineroom had heard and taken appropriate action.”

Coal-fired boilers needed hours to come up to temperature, just how many depending on the foresightedness of the engineers.

“Clouds of black smoke all over the Flow, sir. The battle fleet is in readiness as well, it would seem.”

A few minutes and a message came up from the wireless cabin two decks below.

“Battlecruisers are out. Beatty has all of his command under steam.”

The officers on the bridge exchanged glances – it might be for real, the big battle finally on the horizon.

“Call all hands, Commander.”

Five minutes of apparent chaos, men running to their stations, some still chewing on a sandwich, most grinning, a few shouting their delight.

“Close watertight doors, sir?”

“Not yet. Allow the men access to the heads. Get an issue of cocoa to all stations.”

It might be the last hot drink available for a day or more if they remained closed up overnight. Most of the men would have water bottles with them; the older, experienced hands would have tucked a can of bully beef or a packet of biscuit away as well. All would be making use of the heads, doing their best to empty their bowels before being locked away in tight enclosed metal boxes for the duration of the battle. A ship could be a smelly place after a prolonged period of action stations.

The bridge was crowded with the extra officers, additional to the ordinary watchkeepers, all waiting for something to happen before they went to their stations at the guns.

Hours passed, no signals coming from Iron Duke, the flagship.

“Waiting for the battlecruisers to make contact. Hoping that Beatty will actually tell Jellicoe what is going on. He made a cock of Dogger Bank for not using the wireless, you know.”

The Battle of Dogger Bank was generally recognised by the Navy as a failure, Beatty’s ships having sunk one heavy cruiser and allowed a flotilla of battlecruisers to escape almost unharmed, due, it was thought, to Beatty’s inability to formulate and clearly convey the necessary orders to his captains. He had relied on flag signals for all of his commands. The newspapers had all shouted success and victory, Beatty being a favourite of theirs and well loved by Royalty. He had retained his command and was believed to be the heir-in-waiting, successor to Jellicoe when his time came.

The fleet finally sailed, going out slowly in order, so many big ships having to manoeuvre carefully in the confined channels leading out of the anchorage. The First Cruiser Division tucked itself into its place, on the northern, port flank of the battleship divisions.

“Doing no good at all here! Supposed to be out scouting, taking a lead. Venn Ellis won’t be happy, that’s for sure.”

The Commander’s words were heard by all, agreed with wholeheartedly. The armoured cruisers could do nothing where they were placed.

“Orders for twenty knots, sir.”

Christopher retired to his charts, laying out the mean course, allowing for zigzagging to put off submarines.

“Making for the gap in the minefields southwest of the Friesian Islands, close to Heligoland, sir.”

They waited, the wireless operators alert for any message from the battlecruisers.