Andrew Wareham - Falling into Battle

Word came that the Tsingtao Squadron had sailed and disappeared. They had been expected at Rabaul and the Australian Navy had gone there and taken the colony and found no ships - but had lost a submarine. The battlecruiser Australia had been sent off to subjugate all of the other little German colonies in the Pacific and had found no trace of the Tsingtao Squadron other than rumours that they had been present when she was elsewhere. It was assumed that the Germans were heading off to make mischief on the trade routes, presumably around India and possibly towards South Africa. Some more old ships were to be sent to the South Atlantic, on the offchance that the Germans would get that far before being brought to battle.

“Canopus – an ancient predreadnought with four twelve inch and capable of making eight knots with a following wind, these days. Best thing to do with her is moor her up in Port Stanley as guard ship – no more than a floating battery. Big guns and they might be accurate, with a bit of luck.”

There was no sign of Canopus when the squadron sailed next and rumour insisted that she was stuck somewhere on the South American coast, waiting for parts for her engines.

Good Hope returned to the tedium of Cape Horn, occasionally passing through the Magellan Strait to make a change. All they had to look forward to was a slow improvement in the weather as the seasons changed.

There was a single newspaper in the wardroom, a June issue saying that there were fears of war. The officers read it until it disintegrated, but it told them nothing of what was happening far away in the outside world.

Lieutenant Christopher Adams stepped out in all his glory, newly made and first of the subs on Iron Duke to have achieved his promotion. He sent a letter to his tailors in London, instructing them to send the correct rank markings to Scapa Flow – he would not be in Town to have his measurements taken for new uniforms for some months.

He stood his watches and tried his best to alleviate the tedium of staring out at the same stretch of harbour for weeks at a time. The Flow was bleak, barren, a set of far northern islands with a tiny population and nothing to recommend them; even the fishing was not especially good. The battleships stirred out of Scapa Flow every once in a while for gunnery practice, achieving a good rate of fire if somewhat less than perfection in terms of accuracy.

They were good enough, they assured each other – the battle when it came would take place between two fleets anxious to close each other and create a hammering match at three or four thousand yards, at most.

“When that day comes, British spirit will supply all we need, Adams, old chap!”

The Gunnery Commander was perfectly content with his ship and his guns – when ‘broadsides’ was called, he would smash the Germans.

“The sooner the better, old boy!”

“I heard we were short of shells for the guns, sir.”

“Not at all, my boy. Eighty per gun in the magazines, all right and tight!”

“But, nothing to replenish if we fire them off, sir?”

“Not for a month or two, it would seem – but we won’t need more. One battle will do the trick!”

It was not important to a navigation specialist – his job was to bring the ship to the battleground – the gunners would take over then.

The sole difficulty seemed to lie in the reluctance of the German fleet to sail, matched by their own need to keep the Grand Fleet together in Scapa and at Queensferry to be ready when they did venture forth.

“Not to put too fine an edge on it, Adams – nothing seems likely to happen unless they can be enticed to sea. The word is that Their Lordships are considering some sort of action by light forces that will cause the Germans to send out some battlecruisers to protect their own ships. We will respond with a flotilla of our own, or a pair of battleships, perhaps, and they in turn will send out a squadron and so the action will build piecemeal. Untidy, but it might be the only way of getting them out.”

“So… we attack a coastal patrol to start the ball rolling?”

“Basically, yes, but it may not be that simple, there being a shortage of such within reach.”

Simon listened to the briefing given by Captain Smallwood, ever so slightly puzzled.

“There is a German patrol covering Heligoland – destroyers backed by light cruisers with battlecruisers on call as needed but four or five hours distant in the nature of things. There are minefields, naturally enough, and some problems with shoal waters. The aim is that our two flotillas, led by the light cruisers, Arethusa and Fearless, will attack the destroyers, which are generally more exposed than their light cruisers. This will bring their cruisers out, crossing our submarines which will be waiting for them. Provided that works, then the German battlecruisers will be called for and will discover that Rear Admiral Moore’s Invincible and New Zealand are waiting for them just north of the island, accompanied by smaller cruisers. This should bring about a general scream for help, stirring the High Seas Fleet out of the Kiel Canal and into the action, where they in turn will bring out the Grand Fleet.”

Lieutenant Dacres performed his function of asking the detailed questions.

“So, we attack the destroyers, sir, to open the ball?”

“Immediately after dawn on the 28 th, coming out of the night, two lines astern, changing to line abreast as soon as we see targets that may be attacked with torpedoes. Arethusa will lead us.”

“Very good, sir. This will be immediately west of Heligoland?”

“That is the plan.”

“We then try to draw the cruisers west, sir?”

“Not necessarily – it is possible that the German cruisers will be in harbour. They may be delayed raising steam and then reaching the scene of action, in which case, we steam inshore, towards them.”

“That will take us farther from Invincible and New Zealand, will it not, sir?”

“They will be steaming hard towards the guns.”

“Oh good!”

Captain Smallwood explained that it was impossible to predict exactly what course the battle would follow, but the Navy would be expected to surmount minor difficulties.

“The spirit of Nelson is what counts, gentlemen!”

“Hurrah for the Little Admiral!”

“Well said, Mr Parrett! Don’t do it again.”

“Sorry, sir.”

The seas off Heligoland were shrouded in fog.

“Apparently it’s not uncommon in the mornings at this time of year, sir.”

“Thank you for telling me that, Mr Dacres.”

The flotilla continued to make full speed.

“What’s that on the starboard bow?”

“A ship, sir.”

“I could see that for my bloody self! What ship, lookout?”

A hesitant reply came back from the bows.

“Destroyer, sir… Don’t think it’s one of ours, sir.”

“Make the challenge, Yeoman.”

A five inch shell screamed over their heads in response.

“Fire!”

The twelve pounder and after four inch, both ready for action, alert for trouble, responded. At the range of a cable, both hit immediately. The German ship turned away into the fog, was lost within seconds apart from the dull orange glow of a fire amidships.

The guns ceased fire.

Sheldrake spun on her heel and discovered the German destroyer was faster, jinking away under full helm. Within five minutes she was alone in a thick grey mist, unable to see anything at all.

“Put us on course for the island, Mr Dacres.”

“Steer oh-twenty degrees, helmsman. Should be about forty minutes at fifteen knots, sir.”

Fifteen knots was far too fast in fog.

“Make it so, Mr Dacres.”

An hour passed.

“Still in deep water, Mr Dacres.”