Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

“He was never a destroyerman, Number One.”

That said it all.

They shadowed the German squadron while they came closer to international waters, observed them to be slowing.

“Making course for the Canal, sir. Intending to make the run by night. Waiting for dark.”

“I wonder what they were doing in the first instance?”

“Making a sweep southabout, sir, with the intention of mopping up damaged ships making their way home across the North Sea. Couldn’t do that once they had been spotted, so going home again. It’s a logical use for old ships, sir. They shouldn’t be present at the big battle but can do a useful job on the sidelines.”

“Well thought. I agree. Let’s see if we can put a stop to their antics. How soon until they leave Dutch waters?”

“Less than thirty minutes, sir. They must bear up to avoid the shallows and make a few miles west before turning to a direct course to Heligoland. Minefields all around the area which limit their possible track.”

“Make ready, Number One. Close watertight doors.”

A black night, haze thickening, impossible to see a cable off their bows.

“Assume no change in course, Number One. Continue at fourteen knots.”

It was a risk, inshore, close to minefields, in the presence of the enemy, blind.

Simon made a show of standing tall, unconcerned. He wondered what Alice was doing, wished he was at her side in the big bed at the Park in Kent – far warmer than the bridge at eleven in the evening. She had shown more responsive to his demands on the last few nights; far better there than here!

“Small ships, starboard bow. Coming towards. At speed.”

The lookouts yelled and the guns responded instantly, under orders to open fire at first sight of an enemy.

They watched for the torpedoes that must be coming, could see nothing.

“Starboard ten!”

Naiad turned hard, came bows to bows with the oncoming vessels.

A shellburst lit up the night, showed a pair of destroyers, patrol boats, the Germans called them, coming in fast, one falling off line, the six inch shell ripping into its bows.

“Port ten. Zigzag.”

Naiad began to swing hard port and starboard of the line. The guns tried to compensate.

A second hit and then the Hotchkiss and the four inch opening fire, able now to see the target.

“Action on the bow, sir. Distant two miles, perhaps.”

A five inch shell burst alongside, splinters whipping the length of the decks. One of the four inch guns fell silent.

“Action astern of the big ships, sir.”

There was heavy shellfire coming from four sources, four inchers returning from four very fast moving destroyers. Astern, Laker and Launceston had found the third boat, were engaging hard.

“No torpedo hits, sir.”

Fauld’s four boats disappeared and the four big ships ceased fire. One of Naiad’s targets turned turtle as they watched, the second limped off into the darkness. Firing stopped astern, where the pair had dealt with their target.

“Wireless, Faulds to close Naiad.”

“We are close to the minefields, sir. Turn to course two six five degrees, recommended, sir.”

“Make it so, Number One. Yeoman, light signal all to follow Naiad’s course.”

Simon left the precise wording to the Yeoman, knowing that it might take ten minutes to contact the nearer three boats, in which time the course would change.

Dawn produced a signal from Harwich to sweep across the North Sea to Newcastle, seeking damaged ships making their way home.

Faulds reported that he had made his torpedo attack at close range. Unfortunately, all torpedoes had missed, the night being black and sighting almost impossible. Simon made his acknowledgement – he could not argue.

The High Seas Fleet disappeared into the night, returning to harbour, to make only one tentative reappearance at sea in the rest of the war.

The Grand Fleet returned to Scapa and Queensferry, much shaken. Dockers at Queensferry booed the battlecruisers as they came in, obviously defeated.

“No victory for either side, sir.”

Simon stood in Tyrwhitt’s office, looking at the signals and newspaper headlines, trying to make sense of the battle.

“Lost three battlecruisers and three out of four of the First Cruiser Division. Light cruisers and destroyers besides. Looks as if the destroyers more than held their own – fighting half the day and all night and put down some light cruisers and destroyers, might have torpedoed a battlecruiser.”

“Must have been a hundred torpedoes fired, sir. Not much of a result for that expenditure.”

“No. First reports say that the Germans fired thirty-one torpedoes at the Grand Fleet. Missed with every one.”

“Worth trying to work out why, sir. What range did they fire at?”

“Three thousand yards, it looks like, Sturton.”

“Two cables makes better sense, sir. Firing at four hundred yards from a destroyer making thirty knots gives the battleship almost no time to take evasive action.”

“True, but…”

“Cannot be done in daylight, sir. The mass of six and four inch guns will sink any destroyer that comes within half a mile. Lucky to get closer than a full mile, in fact. And that is leaving out the enemy destroyers acting in defence. Torpedo attacks cannot be performed by fleet destroyers, not with any hope of success.”

The Admiralty came to the same conclusion. Construction of fleet submarines was accelerated, massive steam powered boats that could accompany the Grand Fleet to battle, submerging at the last minute and taking the attack to the opposition.

Simon returned to the Belgian coast, finding activity much reduced for weeks after the battle – destroyer actions were at a halt and submarines were taking to the Atlantic rather than attempting to enter the Channel.

Orders arrived, the flotilla to leave the North Sea and base itself at Londonderry in the north of Ireland.

“Submarine chasing, Sturton. Trying to protect the merchant marine. The Kaiser has given up on his surface navy and is building submarines by the score. The aim is to totally blockade our coast and prevent the food ships from coming in from Canada and the States. It won’t work because they will have to sink neutrals as well as our ships if they are to be effective. If they take into American ships, they will bring the States into the war. That will save our necks, I suspect!”

“Is it that bad at the Front, sir?”

“Bloody disaster, Sturton!”

Richard took his three battalions across to France towards the end of May, part of Braithwaite’s division of the New Army. He had managed a week of leave in Norfolk prior to embarkation, had relaxed in Primrose’s company, escaping from London and its gaiety, almost unchanged from the days of peace.

“Must have the Season, my love! Where we would be without it? A little more short of young men even than normal, however.”

“The absence of men is compensated for by the presence of staff officers, Prim. Hundreds of them in their beautiful uniforms and all decorated so heavily! Have you heard that the War Office has had to forbid the issue of ribbons to those who have not seen frontline service?”

She had not, was inclined to be disgusted that there had been a need for such an order.

“Yes, they have to content themselves with foreign medals now. The Belgians and Portuguese and Russians are in the habit of sending a hundred or so of gongs at a time for distribution to the worthy. None of them get further than Army or Corps Headquarters! I presume they have a raffle each time they arrive. I believe the Italians and the Greeks are being tapped up for a supply as well. Can’t have a good war without the ribbons to show for it!”

She snorted her disgust, took the opportunity to raise a question she had been keeping for a proper moment. Sat in a first class compartment of a slowly moving train on the Norfolk coast gave her ample time.