Andrew Wareham: Falling into Battle

The Tsingtao Squadron was left, virtually untouched, to enjoy their victory, sending the word onto the wires at Valparaiso that the Royal Navy which had ruled the waves for a century had been humiliatingly defeated. Admiral Spee had used half of his ammunition and had no source of replenishment; he could buy coal from neutrals but not shells. He waited for orders from Berlin.

“Have you heard, Number One?”

Simon had not. A first lieutenant was a busy man when his ship entered harbour, taking condition reports and establishing what must be done to make her ready to sail again. He was sat in the little wardroom, collating his figures on oil usage and the tonnage remaining in the bunkers and deciding whether they must request the services of the oiling berth; he was in no mood to put down his pen and listen to his captain’s latest gossip.

He looked up with ill grace.

“No, sir. What’s happened?”

“ Good Hope and Monmouth gone. All hands. Did almost no damage to Scharnhorst and Gneisenau. Lasted a bare hour.”

The oil was forgotten. It was the most disastrous news in the century since the losses of frigates in the War of 1812. It was almost unbelievable.

“Certainly, sir? Not propaganda from Berlin?”

“Confirmed from the British consul in Valparaiso. No survivors. Kit Craddock and every man under his command. Glasgow and Otranto were separate, somehow, and are expected into the Falklands as soon as they can get there. No doubt the details will come through from them.”

“What does the Admiralty say, sir?”

“Nothing as yet.”

Their Lordships would have to respond, and quickly.

“I was on St Vincent with one of Good Hope ’s subs. McDuff. He must have gone.”

“A certainty. They are definite that it was all hands.”

“Pity. Pleasant chap. Wasn’t going to set the world on fire but he would have made captain for sure. Four of us – Adams and MacDuff and me, all making the grade, and Baker who was told to send his papers in, no use to man or beast!”

“You might want to rethink that, Number One. Front page of the Telegraph – I picked up yesterday’s paper in the depot ship. Do you see?”

Simon followed his captain’s finger, spotted the smudgy photograph and the bold text below it.

‘Captain Richard Baker, VC, who was a midshipman who found he did not like the sea and joined the 3 rdBedfordshires and was in France two days after hostilities commenced. Distinguished himself repeatedly falling back to Ypres, held the rearguard… blew a bridge… fought for weeks in the slagheaps to the north. Came out leading one quarter of his men, sole officer survivor of the company.’

“Well, sir, that was unexpected. An idle, fat, spotty, chocolate-chewing no-hoper for two years. I have never heard of a mid being beaten as often as he was. Nor at Dartmouth, where he was no better and only scraped through. Never saw cowardice in him, that I would certainly say, but a less likely hero I cannot imagine. Well done the man! If he can do that, there’s hope for all of us.”

“Good. There needs be! What will the Admiralty do, you ask? The first reaction must be to send a squadron of modern battleships south at top speed, but what will that look like? Two cruisers, and not the most modern of the breed, having to be dealt with by a battlefleet? That would be an additional humiliation in the eyes of the world.”

Simon was much struck by that observation. The Navy would show up as a heavy-handed bully, the German squadron a David going down before an overwhelming Goliath.

“Battlecruisers, sir? A small flotilla to go down at speed, mop them up and come quickly away again?”

“Probably. I don’t doubt we will hear of movement within hours. There must be an instant reaction and fast ships sent at top speed.”

“It is still the end of an era, sir. A century of victory brought to an end. It gives one to wonder, sir…”

“What about, Number One?”

“What will happen when the big smash comes? When the Grand Fleet meets the High Seas Fleet? Will we win? Is it the certainty people think?”

Captain Smallwood shook his head.

“It has to be, Sturton. We dare not consider anything else. Keep that thought for your nightmares – do not speak it aloud, not if you wish to remain in a serving ship. If that was heard in public they would crucify you, for speaking what should be unthinkable. The emperor’s clothes would be nowhere in it! Say those words where a senior officer can hear and you will be first lieutenant on a gunboat on the Timbuctoo station, there to stay until you trip over your long grey beard.”

“I thought Timbuctoo was in the desert, sir.”

“Exactly!”

Christopher Adams was woken from sleep at three o’clock in the morning, in his cabin at wharfside in Portsmouth Harbour, sailing for the Med on the morning tide.

“Up and out, Adams, you are posted! Run man!”

His cabin was invaded by two wardroom stewards who began ruthlessly packing his bags, demanding his pyjamas instantly. He managed to wash his face before scrambling into uniform and being led to the side.

“You have twenty minutes, Mr Adams, joining destroyer Havelock for Plymouth where you will report aboard Inflexible battlecruiser.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

Instinct took over, that was the captain’s voice in the middle of the night – not a happy man, by the sound of it.

“Jacky Fisher is sending two battlecruisers to the Falkland Islands. Invincible and Inflexible, which is just out of the yard and is short of her full complement. She has put into Plymouth to complete repairs and make up her numbers, which include you as you are en route to your original posting. Good luck, Mr Adams. I envy you. You have Admiral Sturdee aboard and are tasked to find and sink the Tsingtao Squadron, without fail. Full speed to the South Atlantic, Mr Adams, working-up your ship and with a battle sure to come. Get into the boat now. Godspeed!”

Christopher saluted and ran down the accommodation ladder, the picture of the keen young officer, he hoped. A pity it was the middle of the night and there was no audience to applaud. The destroyer left Portsmouth working up to full speed and leaving a highly unlawful wake behind in the harbour and heading west with no time to lose.

Inflexible’s side was a charivari of boats and barges bringing stores and men and all demanding instant attention. Christopher turned to the midshipman in command of the harbour picket boat which had collected him from Havelock, ordered him to plough through the mob.

“Get me to the ladder and send a hand up after me with my dunnage.”

The midshipman obeyed, having no choice, forcing his bows ruthlessly between a pair of smaller boats.

Christopher jumped onto the ladder and ran up, saluting the quarterdeck and making a beeline to the most senior officer he could see, a middle-aged commander and likely to be the premier of the ship.

“Adams, sir, joining. What do you want me to do, sir?”

“Send your bags to the wardroom and take charge of the party bringing in the Gunner’s stores. Over there!”

The Commander pointed and Christopher saluted and ran.

An hour and he had the stores ticked off on a list and in the hands of the Chief Gunner’s Mate, a man who knew his guns but was not best suited to improvisation in a ship new to him and in a hurry. He returned to the Commander, noticing then that the ship was at sea and working up to top speed.

“Dealt with, sir.”

“Good. Check the boats now. All should be properly secured on their davits but I have had no report to that effect. The gunroom sublieutenant should have organised that with the midshipmen, but I have seen nothing of him yet.”