Andrew Wareham - Falling into Battle

“Aye aye, sir.”

A pair of seamen had trotted down to collect trunk and case from the little trolley; Simon had already tipped the porter his florin for coming the distance from the railway station.

A messenger led Simon the few yards to the captain’s cabin – it was a very small ship, no more than two hundred and fifty feet from bows to stern. The door was open and Captain Smallwood was visible at his desk, which took up half of the working space. There was a bunk and very little else other than the door to a small toilet cubicle.

Smallwood stood to salute and then pointed Simon to the single chair in front of the desk.

“Welcome aboard, Sturton. You come with a very good report and a watchkeeping certificate – which is why you could join us. No room for passengers on a destroyer! Not all subs have their certificate earned as a mid – not by a long way. It means that you will have your own watch – with me standing at your shoulder until I am sure you did not get your certificate from a Christmas cracker!”

Simon risked a smile, made no reply. No junior officer could stand watch on his own before his captain had personally certified that he could be trusted with the control and safety of a ship.

“Good enough. With the watch comes your own Division – about twenty-five deckhands who are yours. The Gunner will have his crews and the engine-room looks after itself and Lieutenant Dacres has the rest – ask him for advice and be sure that you conform to his practice in dealing with the men.”

That made good sense – it would not be possible to maintain the chain of command of a battleship, with the First as the senior disciplinary officer, although he would be that as well.

“Not many hands, of course, compared with your last ship…”

Simon filled the gap, gave the answer that showed he had done his homework.

“Complement of seventy-two, sir. An increase on the old rule of just sixty-five men to a destroyer.”

“An additional cook’s mate and extra gun crews, being more heavily armed than the older boats.”

“Two four inch and a pair of twelve pounders under the break of the forecastle, sir. Just two tubes, sir?”

“Twenty-one inch torpedoes – the theory being that the bigger fish makes it unnecessary to have pairs of tubes. I think they are wrong but we must live with it. No reloads.”

“A single shot at one’s target, sir… Control from the bridge or at the tube, sir?”

“Arguable. We will discover which may be better, given time. We may not have time, of course.”

“No, sir. I have read the newspapers over this last week in England, sir. They all say that a war is impossible, it can’t happen, but…”

“Exactly! Can’t find any politician who wants a war and they all very quietly think one is inevitable. It is. The Kaiser thinks that war is desirable to expand Germany to its ‘natural borders’. There’s no such bloody thing in Europe! We British have natural borders, created by the sea. They don’t. He just means he wants to steal Poland and the Steppes for their wheatfields. The man’s a fool! Comes of having a withered arm, you know, Sturton – he has to be more manly than all the rest to make up for it!”

It was a theory, Simon supposed, and he was not about to argue with his new captain – or any captain, come to think of it.

“I had not considered that, sir. It explains much of his behaviour.”

“So say I. The Tsar has got religion – so there’s no telling what sort of stupidity he will get up to. Religion and kings don’t mix – ought to be banned! The fellow in Vienna is no more than a shopkeeper, spends all day every day trying to make the sums add up and ordering how every penny in his whole empire shall be spent. Ridiculous! And his heir has no sense of duty – tangled up with a most inappropriate female, Chotek, or some such. Completely buggered the succession! Then you’ve got the French – and you’re welcome to them! Bloody allies, of all things. It didn’t work in the Crimea and it won’t work now. The French are England’s natural enemies – and quite right too!”

Simon had not given great consideration to the state of Europe since leaving the classroom at Dartmouth. It seemed that things had gone downhill.

“I must suppose we shall see much of the French in the Med, sir.”

“In the Med? What’s that got to do with us? Those are last week’s orders, Sub! The North Sea for us, out of Harwich in the first instance. A chance that we’ll be based out of Dover for a while and we may go all the way north to Scotland as they are considering Scapa Flow as the anchorage for the Grand Fleet. No, we shan’t go to the sunny Mediterranean, not us; the flotilla is for Home waters. Bought all of my warm weather uniforms and now they can be put away again with the mothballs! What about you, Sub? Are you kitted out for the sunny shores of Greece and Italy?”

“No, sir. I had to get new uniforms but thought I could do better in Malta or Alexandria for tropical rig. I’ll give Gieves the nod to send sets of North Sea clothing, sir.”

Captain Smallwood noted that Sturton used Gieves – he had some private money.

“Lucky for you. Report to Mr Dacres and he will go through the watchbill with you and give you your responsibilities. Get to know your men. You will have the forward four inch in action – makes sense for the Gunner to have the after gun and the tubes and twelve pounders. Train them up. Sheldrake ’s under a cloud at the moment and I won’t have it! Means we have to be better than the others in the flotilla, to make up for it. Last captain was half-drunk – started celebrating the end of the commission a day too early – and his officers were no better when they hit Bristol. Leaves a smear on a ship, that sort of thing; did the paintwork no favours as well! Damned difficult reputation to get clear of. Still, with the help of my officers, I do not doubt we shall make good. You look as if you will do well, Sturton – work hard and I am sure you will be all I want.”

“I intend to be, sir. The Navy is my career and I expect to make something of myself.”

Captain Smallwood raised an eyebrow – he was not used to such declarations of ambition.

“Naval family, Sturton? Got to keep up with the ancestors?”

Simon risked an open grin – daring on first meeting with one’s captain.

“No, sir. No family at all. An orphan with a small trust fund, sir. I don’t fancy being a farmer and I do like the Navy. I am lucky to be where I am, sir, to have such a chance in life.”

“I think we may all consider ourselves lucky within a year or two, Sturton – we will be in the right place at the right time and fighting in the greatest navy the world has ever known. We shall make Nelson proud of his descendants!”

“We were an Acorn Class destroyer, Sturton, now reclassified as ‘H’ class. There was some idea to rename the ship as well, I gather. The Admiralty thought it might be jolly if we all had names beginning with ‘H’ – but you can’t change a ship’s name, old chap! Worst of bad luck! Asking for trouble, changing a boat’s name, especially, and then sending her to sea. No, Sheldrake we remain, but that’s why there’s an ‘H’ on the middle funnel.”

Simon had been surprised by the great white letter, had assumed it to be something to do with the Mediterranean fleet.

“Recognisable already, I might have thought, sir. Three funnelled, the forward nearly twice the height and far slimmer than the other two.”

Dacres nodded gravely – it was an unusual configuration.

“Launched the first of the breed and found that the smoke obscured the bridge – which is immediately forward of the smokestack. Couldn’t see a damned thing, they tell me!”