Andrew Wareham - Falling into Battle

It seemed strange to Simon.

“If her captain is no good, sir, he won’t be likely to make a job of it.”

“He might be a very good sea officer but slapdash on shore. You get the occasional man who is careless with money – spends cash he hasn’t got and has creditors lined up outside his admiral’s doors. More commonly, you have a man who is discovered in bed with another officer’s wife – which is not to be recommended, especially if the wife is Mrs Captain or Admiral. Rarely, the gentleman in question is suspected – but not proven – to be a bugger. As it is a known fact that all queers are cowards, put him in danger’s way and see what he does – if he shows brave, then he must have been falsely smeared by those who simply did not like him.”

Simon knew nothing of the sexually unorthodox, other than from the giggles and whispers of the boys at Dartmouth. He accepted his Captain’s assertion.

“I suppose one hears of such things, sir – but I have never come across one myself.”

“Nor me, not for sure. You pick up the tales and the rumours, but it’s rare indeed to hear of a court-martial. Mostly a civilian habit, I suspect, Sturton – artists and actors and writers and such, they get up to all sorts of tricks. This Oscar Wilde chappie – before my time but he and his crowd were into everything peculiar. Not our business and none of it in our flotilla – not the sort of thing you would come across in the boats!”

Simon agreed – destroyers were all about fresh air and clean living. Not the place for perversity to develop.

Sublieutenant Parrett listened and nodded and said not a word.

“Bad weather coming down from the north, Number One. Orders are for the destroyers to return to Harwich to go into the yard for a few days for boiler clean and running repairs. Sail at soonest.”

The signal went to the section and they left harbour inside the hour.

“Twenty knots, sir? Leaves a measure in hand if need arises and gets us to Harwich in daylight.”

“Make it twenty-five, Number One. Gives a bit of experience in holding a line at speed. Keep an eye on the other three for station-keeping.”

They skirted the minefields and shoals and made a fast passage to Harwich, extra lookouts scanning the sea for mines and, hopefully, for periscopes. Rumour insisted that there were German submarines at sea although none had definitely been sighted close to the Channel.

They reached Harwich in front of a rising gale, made the dockyard and tied up perhaps an hour before truly heavy weather came in.

The harbour was full of small ships.

“Destroyers are all in, sir. Only two of the Live Baits are at anchor. Leaves three out on station.”

“Cressy, Aboukir and Hogue out. I trust Mr Dacres is enjoying himself. Good sea boats – could ride out a hurricane in those ships with nothing to worry about. The only thing they are good for.”

Sheldrake was shut down and placed into the hands of the dockyard, which was actually working at night in response to the demands of war.

The storm blew out overnight, short-lived, as was sometimes the case with equinoctial gales.

Commodore Tyrwhitt took the newer destroyers to sea in the morning, off to join the three old cruisers on the Broad Fourteens patrol.

“Hands to local leave, Number One. Seventy-two hour passes. Best we should stay in case the dockyard wants decisions from us. Might as well remain at our ease here in the depot ship – get fresh bread and a decent cup of tea in the wardroom at least.”

The five officers from Sheldrake breakfasted together, taking a leisurely meal and discussing whether it was worthwhile to take the train to London to see a show. Simon noticed an increasing bustle on deck and saw activity over at the Commodore’s offices.

“Bit of a flap on, sir?”

“So there is… High Seas Fleet come out to sea, perhaps? Take a look, shall we?”

They drank their tea and wandered out on deck, spotted a Paymaster Lieutenant trotting towards them.

“Unusual, gentlemen! The sedentary personified and managing a run! Must be something out of the ordinary. What’s up, Lieutenant?”

“Wireless message in from Cressy, sir. Says the squadron has hit a minefield. Aboukir is sinking, Hogue going to the rescue.”

In the next few minutes a pair of light cruisers left harbour at speed, ignoring the regulations governing ships in harbour. Soon after that the paymaster returned, his message run, another in hand.

“It’s not mines, sir. Submarine attack. Hogue has gone as well. Sent a message saying she was hit by two torpedoes. Cressy sent she was trying to ram the submarine.”

“Hogue and Aboukir both gone down?”

“Turned turtle, sir.”

“Jesus.”

The four made their way to the Commodore’s offices and the wireless receivers there. The Port Captain was waiting there.

“Captain Smallwood – can you get to sea?”

“In dockyard hands, sir. They started the boiler clean overnight. I can ask, but I doubt we can sail for thirty-six hours yet.”

“No matter. It will all be over by the end of the day. Cressy’s hit as well, signalled that she is going down.”

“More than two thousand men in those ships, sir. Too many of them boys, thinking on it. Cold in the North Sea already. Is there any word of casualties?”

“Not yet. They will be massive.”

The four from Sheldrake said nothing more. It was too soon to ask after Dacres, the more because of his position – he would remain aboard until the last, getting the men into boats and life rafts and organising the making of extempore floats and particularly trying to save the boys, of whom there were so many on the old Reserve ships. His chances were slight, rightly so – he must put his own safety last.

“Latest count gives about eight hundred rescued. Crews of the three ships amounted to about twenty-two hundred, perhaps a few more. Most of the boys were lost – couldn’t survive in North Sea waters; too cold for them, they don’t have the reserves of older men. It is, I quote, ‘hoped’ that some were picked up by Dutch and possibly Belgian fishing boats and taken to their home ports and not yet reported.”

Captain Smallwood’s voice was dead – flat and horrified.

“First indications are that the ships had too few watertight compartments – their spaces were so big that that they flooded massively and turned over. It is not even known if all watertight doors were closed. It is suspected that the watertight doors might have been left open so that men and boys below decks had a chance to get out.”

Simon shook his head.

“Difficult to order them shut, sir, knowing that would drown many of those off watch… We didn’t join the Navy to duck the hard decisions, sir.”

“Well said. Saving the ship must come first. They were in waters known to be mined and there was a fear of submarines – even if we did not know before this just what a few torpedoes could do. Most of the watertight doors should have been kept shut other than when passage through was needed to save the ship; they should have been locked down the moment the first torpedo hit. There will be an Inquiry into these losses – I hope they will bring out that issue, even if it does blacken the name of dead officers.”

“They won’t, sir. It will be a whitewash. The Admiralty had been told repeatedly that the Live Bait Squadron should not have been where they were. The Board of Inquiry will not be permitted to criticise Their Lordships and their political master. The only people to take blame will be the dead and junior.”

“You are right, but far too cynical for your age, Number One! We will be released from the yard tomorrow morning. Waiting for sailing orders now. I would expect us to be sent to the Dover Patrol – they are talking of beefing it up with more small ships. There is a likelihood that we shall be ordered to close escort of the troopers, with instructions to watch for torpedo tracks and put ourselves in their way if needs be to protect the soldiers.”