Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

“Nothing from Beatty. No contact, one presumes.”

Captain Gilpin-Brown sounded dispirited – another false alarm.

The fleet continued south, twenty-four dreadnoughts in six columns of four accompanied by three battlecruisers, three cruiser divisions and a mass of destroyers, the most powerful fleet ever mustered on Earth. They were effectively blind, hoping the High Seas Fleet was out and knowing nothing, for lack of signals coming through from Beatty’s battlecruisers.

“Our pendant, sir!”

The Yeoman yelled that there were orders for the First Cruiser Division.

“To join battlecruisers, sir, making a sweep east and south towards the Danish coast. Executive, sir.”

Black Prince joined Defence and Warrior and the Duke of Edinburgh, coming into line abreast, separated for scouting, Black Prince to the far end of the line, to the northeast, the battlecruisers to the south. They increased to twenty-three knots, pulling away from the Grand Fleet, wondering how long the speed, their maximum, would be demanded of them.

“Poor visibility, Navigator! Mist and haze in patches, clear elsewhere. Can see twenty thousand yards in places, one thousand in others.”

“I was told it was the same at Heligoland Bight in ’14, sir. A bit later in the year, admittedly, but the visibility impossible there.”

It was much the same stretch of sea.

Hours passed in the long northern midsummer day, no more than four hours of darkness at this latitude. Black Prince gradually fell behind, the speed too great for her to maintain hour after hour.

A runner came up from the wireless cabin, passed a written message to the captain.

“Beatty is in contact with Hipper’s battlecruisers. Has him outnumbered. Should wipe him out as soon as the battleships come up.”

Hipper was known to have five battlecruisers to Beatty’s six. In addition, Beatty had been joined by four fast superdreadnoughts of the Queen Elizabeth class, all with fifteen inch guns. Provided Beatty had kept his flotillas together, it should have been a massacre.

Nothing for long minutes, the wireless silent again. The same runner came, literally running, thrusting the message form forward to the nearest officer.

“Indefatigable and Queen Mary gone, sir. All hands. Blown up.”

There was dead silence on the bridge, broken after a while by the captain’s voice.

“Led them into a minefield, perhaps? A submarine trap?”

The Fleet had been warned of both possibilities; they were known to be part of German planning.

Half an hour of speculation, tinged with horror – the Germans were the underdog, their fleet massively weaker. It could not happen that way.

The voicepipe gave a whistle.

“Wireless cabin, sir. From Admiral Beatty. High Seas Fleet to southwest. Running before them. Admiral Jellicoe has signalled the Admiralty that a general fleet action is imminent.”

That was better. Beatty was bringing the High Seas Fleet into the trap, would lead them into the massive broadsides of twenty-four dreadnoughts in line across their ‘T’. No fleet could survive that onslaught.

“All officers to their stations, gentlemen.”

Black Prince could have no part to play in the battle, was far too small, would be brushed aside in seconds. The Cruiser Division would play its part in discovering fleeing battleships, possibly mopping up the most damaged, bringing the Grand Fleet to the location when necessary.

“Wireless cabin reports interference with signals, sir. Jamming, probably, by the Hun.”

An hour and they heard the guns well to their southwest, out of sight, battle joined.

“From Commodore, sir. Make due south.”

The flag signal was brief and contained no detail.

Black Prince conformed, slowly losing contact with the rest of the Division.

Mid evening saw a flurry of action to their southwest, their sole information coming from the spotting top, the Gunner using his glasses.

“Battlecruisers firing, sir. Defence and Warrior joining, sir.”

The Yeoman called the flag signal to hold course from Defence.

A delay, a noisy, intense action out of sight on their starboard bow, a signal from Duke of Edinburgh, the Morse Code just decipherable.

“Defence and Warrior gone, sir. One of the battlecruisers blown up. Continue south. Discover location High Seas Fleet.”

The great battle had turned into disaster, or so it seemed. They could only imagine that somehow Jellicoe had failed to make contact with the High Seas Fleet, that Beatty had not led them into the trap.

“Wireless cabin. Continue to attempt contact with Fleet.”

The message came back that the jamming was stronger than ever. If ships of the High Seas Fleet were responsible, they were coming closer.

Night fell, the last they knew a broken signal from Duke of Edinburgh that there was destroyer action to the southwest at the far limit of visibility. They were to maintain course and speed until reaching Danish waters when they should head towards the edge of the known minefields and then reverse course towards the Skagerrak in case the High Seas Fleet had passed them in the darkness.

Captain Gilpin-Brown acknowledged his orders.

“Flailing about in the dark. Blindfolded boxing!”

A little before midnight Christopher estimated they had reached Danish waters.

“Course south southwest, sir.”

Black Prince turned to the heading given, reducing speed to twelve knots.

“Torpedo tubes turned out. Ready for immediate action.”

Christopher approved. Evidently Captain Gilpin-Brown had hopes of catching a big ship in the night, as they had discussed repeatedly.

The night was black, visibility effectively nil in the haze.

“Ship, sir! Across the bows!”

Immediate night action, as rehearsed time and again, the searchlights turned on, all guns that would bear ready.

“German, sir. Battleship.”

“Open fire!”

Two of the six inchers fired and scored immediate hits, the range less than a quarter of a mile. Christopher heard a torpedo tube fire. The nine point two inch main armament was slower in coming into action, had still not fired when the German ship responded with her secondary armament, too close to use her main guns, and four others astern and ahead of her fired their twelve inchers.

Shells landed aboard from stern to bows. Two of the funnels fell and there were massive fires amidships and to the stern. Black Prince lost power and steering in the same few seconds, fell off line, wallowing in the light swell.

The bridge was hit repeatedly. Christopher staggered from the chartroom, bleeding from three separate wounds, tried to make his way to the conn where the captain was lying, legs blown off, obviously dead. A final twelve inch shell exploded, destroying the upperworks, splinters ripping him to pieces. Seconds later the forward magazine blew and Black Prince fell onto her side and sank almost immediately, none of her crew surviving.

South in the Broad Fourteens, Simon had brought his flotilla to the edge of Dutch waters, running north at twenty-eight knots, responding to orders from Harwich to seek out light forces thought to have sailed north from Zeebrugge and nearby havens.

“Yeoman, all ships, report oil state.”

All responded with at least thirty hours at full speed, more than sufficient for their purposes.

Naiad had the most powerful wireless receiver, picked up Jellicoe’s signal to the Admiralty.

“All ships. C in C expects fleet action this day. Battle ensigns.”

The biggest ensigns they had, flying from both masts as was tradition.

“Splice the mainbrace, Number One.”

Another tradition, one that Simon was less in favour of. He had no choice. The hands must have their rum in anticipation of the day’s business.