Andrew Wareham - Falling into Battle

Tyrwhitt’s staff lieutenant came up with near calm and dry conditions.

“At least a fifty percent chance that will be accurate, sir.”

“Agreed! I am to get more of a staff as a commodore, but there’s little point to putting on a weather forecaster as one of them.”

“Not the most accurate of occupations, sir.”

“No. They are actually probably right nine times out of ten – which means you know they are going to be wrong at least three times every month! Not a lot of use. No shore leave for your people today or tomorrow – if there are spies about, then best to keep their mouths shut up aboard ship.”

“Do you think there really are so many German agents spread all about the place, sir?”

“No! How would they report back to Berlin? Send a telegram? Get on the telephone? Address letters to Potsdam? All very well to talk about spies, but we are on an island and getting the information out ain’t that easy. They can hardly set up their own wireless stations, after all. Load of bloody nonsense – old women seeing spies under the bed. Hopefully, no doubt!”

Considering the practicalities, Smallwood could see that spying was easily enough done. Any man who wanted to know what was happening in most naval ports could simply sit up in the hills behind with a good pair of glasses – and the Germans made the best binoculars. But what to do afterwards? Information that could not be sent home was valueless.

“Easier for us to spy on them and get the information to France than for them on spy on us, when you think about it, sir. Still, best to show willing. If our masters believe the land is riddled with secret agents, then so be it! Sail on the morning’s tide, sir, and make a course southeast, as if heading down to the Channel?”

“Do so. I will clear you for the oiling berth at Dunkirk this afternoon.”

They sailed in the morning, magazines crammed full and the whole ship abuzz, knowing that they were off on some sort of special business and excited that Sheldrake had been chosen, was the crack ship of the flotilla, picked out for the job.

Simon stood his watch on the bridge, the midshipman at his side.

“I say, sir, it’s really good fun this, isn’t it? I shall write home to tell them that we have already come to grips with the Hun and are now specially selected to have another go! Both my brothers are army, you know, one in India and the other stationed in Ireland – away from all the excitement. My sisters will be delighted for me, I know.”

Simon hoped that might be so after the event. The forward four inch, exposed on the forecastle, was not the ideal place to see action, particularly at close range when there might be battalions of riflemen occupying the harbour.

“Sounds like a large family, Polly.”

“Not that great, sir. Just the six of us – one sister younger than me and two older. Sally is about your age and Jennifer is a year older and engaged to be married to one of my elder brother’s chums, when he comes back from Ireland. Alice is a schoolgirl still, of course.”

“Perhaps they will see you soon, Polly. Might be leave after this little business…”

Simon did not say that was because the ship might be some time in the hands of the dockyard after the night’s close action.

“I hope so, sir. In any case, the family lives very close. The estate is just outside Ipswich, so they might well choose to take the train down on a visit.”

As long as it was not a hospital visit, that would be all very well, Simon thought, noticing that the Parretts were landowners.

Lieutenant Richard Baker was not a happy man in his service.

The battalion had been marching for eight days, heading from Calais into Belgium, almost due east, except when they were diverted north and then sent back south again. It seemed that ignorance was total, no senior officers knew where they were going or why, but they had to march somewhere and quickly. They kept to the standard march of fifteen miles a day with a sixty pound pack and a rifle and eighty rounds, the extra issue in expectation of immediate action. The regulars had made the pace with some ease but the territorials found it hard work – they were not used to long route marches except at their summer camp, and then not day after day, unbroken with three-quarters of a hundredweight on their back.

Richard had to keep up to the pace and then to encourage the men in his half-company to do the same. He was sure that he had marched twice as far as the men. His feet were sore and he was carrying one of the rifles himself for a man who could no longer bear the weight. He had not wanted to take the extra load but the colonel had set the example and his officers could not refuse. He looked around and saw that young Smithers was staggering under the burden; he could not ignore him, much though he wished to.

“Give me that rifle, Smithers! Now, buck up, man! Got to show willing in front of the troops! Straighten your back, that’s the way! It’s not as if you had a pack to carry!”

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Captain Platt noticing his action. There was some gain to the hard labour, he supposed.

They came to a crossroads somewhere near the frontier with a staff officer anxiously demanding who they were.

“Third Beds, Captain.”

“You’re not on my list of battalions for this area, Colonel. No matter! Left along the lane here and take up a line along the hedgerow facing east. There’s a battalion of Hampshires a quarter of a mile to the right and we will fill this gap between you and them with the next battalion to arrive. Your left flank should be protected by woodland and there’s a river to your front – more like a stream, but it will slow anything coming your way. Hold your line.”

Richard was close enough to hear the staff officer’s words and notice the urgency behind them.

The colonel was puzzled.

“What’s going on, eh?”

“Von Kluck is advancing his troops faster than was expected, sir. Major-General Hope is trying to form a line here to join with the Belgian army to the north and the French to the southeast, if that’s where they are. The situation is fluid, sir. There are cavalry regiments somewhere out to the northeast, ours and theirs, and a mass of German infantry and guns somewhere behind them. The terrain favours us here, sir, so the General wants you to dig in until further orders. It is rather important that you hold this line, sir, as we don’t quite know what is behind you to the south and west.”

Colonel Braithwaite knew that the sea was somewhere over there, hoped there might be troops as well.

“Never heard of Hope – he’s not in my chain of command. I’ll take his orders until I get something better. Haven’t heard anything since leaving dockside at Calais. March northeast, that was what they first said, then a staff officer sent us due north until we met another one who pushed us back southeast then a third yesterday who pointed us up here. Don’t know their arse from their elbow, any of them! What of guns?”

“If they arrive, they will be given orders to support you, sir.”

“That’s bloody good news! We are on our own, is what you’re saying. Well, we ain’t in the habit of going backwards in this regiment! Not if there’s enemy about. Captain Platt! Take your company to the left, uphill along the lane and dig your left flank into the woodland you can see. Hold there.”

Platt peered along the lane, located trees and saluted before taking his company off. The staff officer showed relieved that he had some men to at least partially fill this hole in the new line.

“Had a hard march, Colonel?”

“Half the battalion are Territorials dumped onto us last week from the different depots of the Midland Brigade. No time to bring them up to scratch. Some of them look as if they will do – you see that youngster with the two rifles on his shoulder? He’s a Terrier and a damned good young officer so far. Want to see him under fire, as goes without saying, but he looks the right sort – unlike the other boy in the company who can hardly stand up straight!”