Andrew Wareham - Falling into Battle

“Good Lord, Mr Harker! That is hardly generous of Their Lordships – you cannot have had an hour on England’s soil.”

“Less, sir. I was called to the Port Admiral’s office and informed that I was commissioned, as recommended from Hong Kong, on condition that I immediately joined Sheldrake . Alternatively, I could be posted to Whale Island, commission to follow at Their Lordships’ convenience. I accepted my commission, sir. Uniforms will be a problem, sir.”

“We can see to that, Mr Harker. Get you to a tailor’s shoreside in a hurry.”

On a small ship there was no such thing as a private conversation; the whole crew knew within fifteen minutes that they had a newly commissioned man aboard. Many were sympathetic; more hoped that he would not be unsure of himself and take his uncertainties out on them.

Captain Smallwood interviewed Harker and commiserated with him but informed him he would expect the guns and tubes to be on top line immediately. Harker was not surprised to hear that; he had not expected to be given any leeway and would have resented the implication that he might not be able to do his job.

The three officers were called to the Captain’s cabin. They could just fit in, standing.

“Briefly, gentlemen, we are to sail for Harwich where we shall be part of the flotilla there. The plan, to the extent that there is such a thing, is for light forces to be based on Harwich and to take command of the southern parts of the North Sea so as to ensure the safety of the Channel from the north. It is assumed that if there should be a war – which is seeming increasingly likely at some time in the next five years – then a British Expeditionary Force will be sent to France, or directly to Belgium, to protect Belgian neutrality. That force – which may eventually comprise as many as fifty thousand men - must be protected from attack by torpedo craft, which may include submarines.”

It sounded like a good plan, if somewhat nebulous.

Lieutenant Dacres asked the obvious question.

“Will we be tasked to act as close escort to the troopships, sir?”

“No. There will be a Dover Patrol to do that.”

It did not seem, at first acquaintance, too difficult a task and it suggested the possibility of action.

Captain Smallwood was not sanguine.

“Shallow waters off both coasts and some banks out to sea. Add to that, there will be minefields, ours and theirs. No lightships in wartime, of course. We can assume Dutch neutrality and the north towards the Friesian Islands will be outside of our territory, covered from the Scottish ports, so we shall work the Belgian coast. If the enemy takes some or all Belgian harbours, then they will be able to station destroyers, torpedo boats, gunboats and submarines four or five hours from Calais. If they do not, then they will need to attack with cruisers which will have the range to come down from Hamburg. The Grand Fleet will keep the battleships out of it, but we could see armoured or protected cruisers in our waters. A raid at speed by battlecruisers is not impossible.”

They considered that possibility. Eight of twelve inch guns and a mass of six inch besides, travelling at their own speed perhaps. Two four inch and a pair of twelve pounders seemed inadequate. A pair of torpedo tubes was little better. Even in a flotilla of eight, they would have an almost impossible task.

“High speed. Smoke. Night action if at all possible. We shall have to be at highest efficiency, gentlemen. I shall endeavour to arrange frequent gunnery and torpedo practices and drill must be of the best, Mr Harker. For the rest – precise navigation in shoal waters goes without saying. Keep the men, and yourselves, on top line. I don’t expect war over the winter – for the normal reasons – but the word is that any unforeseen accident could lead to disaster. If a French lunatic was to assassinate the Kaiser, as an example, or a German anarchist was to throw a bomb at the Tsar – anything might happen. The word is that Europe is a powder keg – and we have no idea what might light the fuse.”

They sailed for Harwich and joined their flotilla and spent a month in furious exercises, when the weather permitted. The North Sea in winter was not kindly to small ships and they spent days on end at their moorings, unable sometimes even to send a boat ashore.

Simon found himself sharing a tiny wardroom with a lieutenant who was of a sort familiar to him from a battleship, and a commissioned gunner who most definitely was not. He knew that he must remain on good terms with both – efficiency demanded that the three must work together and be seen to be friends, even if not boon companions.

Dacres did not come from a naval family - he was the sacrifice to conventionality, had been destined for the Senior Service since birth. He had entered Dartmouth very happily, having known that he would do so since he had been bought his first sailor suit as a very little boy. He was perhaps nothing other than a naval officer – he knew no other life, was interested in little else. He could talk about the London shows he had seen and discuss the last race meeting he had attended, but he did not read books and played no music and certainly was not aware of politics; he did know a few jokes and he was always courteous. He hoped to become an admiral, but would be content to command his own ship, preferably at war.

Harker was young for his rank – he had made petty officer before he was twenty, it seemed, and had been lucky to be sent on the gunnery course at Whale Island where he had come out top of his intake. Chief petty officer had soon followed and he had had a successful commission on Penelope – they had twice met pirates and he had been ashore with a landing party to rescue missionaries from riots. Now, at the age of twenty-eight, he had his commission, which he had hoped for when he was forty. He might be fortunate to achieve another promotion, become gunnery-lieutenant on a small cruiser; successful there and lieutenant-commander was possible on an old battleship; he could not rise to command. He was disarmingly candid about his background.

“I come from Portsmouth, was running the streets there before I was ten, after my mum died. Never knew my father. Joined the Andrew when I was twelve, so I did. Wasn’t supposed to, but the station sergeant down at Fratton knew the recruiting people and regularly got rid of lads off the streets that way. I signed on as a skinny fourteen year old, officially, and settled in for having no option. Didn’t know anyplace else than Pompey and if I’d tried to go back then I’d have been inside of a cell within days. I liked the life as soon as I got to sea – I was lucky in my first ship, the old Amphitrite cruiser, for having good petty officers who brought me along as soon as they saw I was willing to work. Add to that, I liked the guns. Still do, naturally. I was lucky, too, in going overseas rather than being Home Fleet. No chance to fall back into bad acquaintanceships on leave.”

Simon’s story was simpler, his life had been so much easier. He wondered if Harker might not be resentful of his privileged existence, was surprised to be welcomed as a fellow spirit.

“Same as me, ain’t you, Sub. Neither of us knowing our parents or having a home to go to. Difference is that yours had a bit of money. Still leaves us both as loners in the world. Not so much for me now, being as I got married a few months before I was posted to China.”

He had never considered that aspect of his life before. He thought long in the quiet hours off watch and realised that Harker was right – he knew almost nobody. Apart from Dacres and Harker, his closest acquaintances, not friends, were Adams, Baker and McDuff, not by choice but because he had happened to share the gunroom with them, the four of an age naturally forming a group. Now they were separated by the Service, as was inevitable and he might well see none of them for a decade; Baker, the failure, probably never.