Andrew Wareham - Falling into Battle

“Good experience, sir?”

“Manning aged and valueless cruisers as they plod their way across the North Sea, Mr Dacres? I have my doubts.”

“What exactly are they doing, sir?”

“Patrolling.”

“To what end?”

“So that the sea may be seen to be patrolled – wherever there is an ocean, the Royal Navy is there claiming it for Britannia. Possibly protecting fishing boats from the depredations of the evil Hun?”

“It seems rather foolish, sir.”

“Not to the minds of the Admiralty, Dacres. While they are there, the Germans are not, and they offer a permanent provocation by their very presence. The American newspapers as well can see that the Navy claims the whole of the North Sea as its own.”

“I had thought the Navy had other functions than to play games for the benefit of the Americans.”

“Occasionally. We were brought together today to be informed that our masters have a plan for us and that we are to be ready to go to battle within the week. Where and doing what, has not been vouchsafed to us. I expect it will be very exciting. Stop it, Mr Parrett – you looked as if you might be about to cheer!”

“Not me, sir! Only cheer after the victory, sir.”

“Very wise, young man. Are your boats in perfect order?”

“Yes, sir… Well, pretty good, sir.”

“Sensible to be cautious. Be ready to carry a boarding party, Mr Parrett. Do make sure that none of your oarsmen are taken from the guns or ammunition passers.”

With so small a crew, that was no easy task.

“Are you fully recovered from your seasickness, Mr Parrett?”

“Wholly, sir – it was just that first patrol, sir, for some reason.”

“Excitement at going to war for the first time coupled with rough conditions. It happens not infrequently. I have no doubt you were told that Nelson was habitually sick at the beginning of a commission?”

“Yes, sir. Quite often.”

“Very good. Get as much sleep as you can over the next two days, gentlemen. I suspect that we shall sail on the twenty-sixth, or the day after. Make charts ready for the North Sea as far as Jutland and Heligoland – any further north would be the hunting ground for the Queensferry flotillas.”

Hector McDuff stood on Good Hope ’s bridge, standing his watch as junior to the Navigating Officer for the hundredth time as the old cruiser ploughed through the sixty foot seas of the Antarctic winter. He stood straddle-legged and impassive as she heaved her bows up and then corkscrewed down the side of a great roller and turned to face the next of the unending succession of waves.

“Icing up, Sub. Have to get the steam hoses out again. See to it.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hector pulled the collar of his greatcoat up and picked up his gloves and shifted slowly out of the enclosed bridge and into the bitterly cold twenty-knot gusts of the unceasing westerly, called for the men of the watch to break out the hoses. He passed word to the engineroom for steam on deck and stood to watch the petty officers as they supervised the men.

The forward nine point two inch barbette was unmanned in such weather – the crew would have been frost-bitten within the hour and would probably have suffered broken bones from being thrown about, as close as they would be to the bows.

There was no need to man the gun, in any case, Hector knew. There was no enemy in this ocean. Commerce raiders possibly existed, but they would be patrolling the sea lanes, trying to intercept merchantmen voyaging between the trading ports. They would not be off Cape Horn, endlessly making their way through an empty sea.

Nearly three-quarters of an hour passed, interminably slowly, watching the men chip chunks of ice away and heave them over the side while the hoses cleaned up the gun itself and its traversing gear. They would have to do the same in the afternoon watch if the ice was not to build up, multiple tons of it, possibly sufficient to affect Good Hope ’s stability. He would not be there on that occasion. He had the Forenoon watch and would be back to Second Dog and then to the Morning watch at the end of the day.

The routine was tedious, as was all of life aboard Good Hope . She was an old ship in a backwater, would never see action, miles from anywhere of interest. Until the Tsingtao Squadron was finally caught, she had to stay with the six inch gun cruiser Monmouth and the others, acting as the stopper to the Pacific, making sure that the Germans would not attempt to break out into the South Atlantic.

He returned to the relative warmth of the high bridge, unheated but at least shut off from the wind, reported the ice was clear, which the Navigating Officer could see for himself.

“Next leg takes us to Port Stanley for coaling, Sub. All of the delights of civilisation!”

Port Stanley was the sole town of the Falkland Islands, distinguished by being quite probably the most boring port in the whole world. It was tiny and possessed no facilities of any sort for sailors, and few enough for the handful of local residents. The sheep far outnumbered the people and were just as likely to greet the sailors. The only amenity of interest was the telegraph station which was the sole link to the outside world. Hector was anxious to see if there had been a reply to the captain’s recommendation that he should be sent to Greenwich to take his courses for lieutenant and gunnery specialist, prior to being sent to Whale Island. It would be an end to the tedium of a posting to nowhere.

They docked at the coaling hulk and the ship descended into the frenetic routine of shifting more than a thousand tons of coal in the least possible time. The sole advantage of the Falklands showed here – the unbroken wind blew the bulk of the dust away from the cruiser’s accommodation spaces and made the task of cleaning afterwards far easier.

The message came from the captain – no courses at Greenwich for the time being, all instructors and students needed at sea. For the meanwhile, having obtained his certificate, Mr McDuff should shift to work with the Gunnery Officer, broadening his experience and learning valuable extra skills.

“Remaining as a sub, sir.”

The Navigating Officer was vaguely sympathetic but had himself been a sublieutenant for three years and lieutenant for twelve – he had experienced a mediocre career and could not see why any officer might wish for more.

“Reporting as your junior, sir.”

The Gunnery Officer was forty and had had every expectation of retiring as a commander and soon. He possessed a small income – owned a farm in the West Country, in fact – and had been looking forward to the quiet life. An old and tired cruiser had suited him exactly. The war was a damned nuisance, interfering with all his plans, and now he had to put up with a sublieutenant who would expect training. It was all too much bother.

“Oh! Right! Best you should take over the after gun. All you have to do is follow the orders that come from me in gunnery control above the bridge. I determine the target and give you range and bearing which you set at the gun and then fire when she comes on, allowing for the roll. Your layer knows the drill and can take you through it. No sense attempting to do anything in winter – can’t see or take a range when she’s rolling and pitching like she does. We’ll fire a few rounds, as soon as the weather permits. Nothing to worry about – no chance of seeing action down here.”

The gunlayer agreed. He was also in his forties and had been a sailor for thirty years, starting in sail with black powder muzzle loaders, far better guns than these modern things.

“None of this buggering about trying to shoot at ten miles, and that sort of nonsense, sir. Can’t do it with these guns, anyway. Good guns, but not really up to long range stuff. Best to wait till they’re a cable off the beam and give ‘em a broadside, sir. Not that we’re ever going to see any action. Keep the brasswork well polished and touch up the paint regular – that’s about all we do on Good Hope , sir.”