Heart of War (20 page)

Leach turned away, his brows bent, scowling.

Almost at once de Saumarez cried, ‘Here they come, sir!' He pointed to the west. There, rising out of the mist were the tripod masts of battle cruisers, and behind them, taking ominous form, the tall stacks and mighty deckhouses of battleships; and, ahead, cruisers streaking low through the water.

‘By God!' Leach shouted, ‘the C-in-C's crossed their T again … Scheer's blundered right into the centre of the line!' He grabbed the engine room Navy phone and shouted down, ‘Give her everything you've got, Warner! … Tom, they're coming again!'

Calliope
was flying the signal: Engage enemy destroyers; and Leach shouted into the increased wind of their passage – ‘Port twenty! Guns – open fire on the destroyers!' The air was full of a heavy roaring sound as the 15-inch guns of the battleships, firing over their own protective screen of cruisers and destroyers, engaged the German fleet. German shells screamed in from the opposite direction.

‘We've got 'em!' Leach exulted. ‘Got 'em cold!' He watched a German destroyer racing toward them suddenly stop dead in the water, hit by a salvo of 6-inch shells. Flames poured from amidships, and the destroyer settled by the bow.

‘Prepare to fire torpedoes,' Leach said. ‘Port twenty … Torps, target is enemy battle cruiser … fire when ready!'

A shell struck
Penrith
somewhere aft, and Tom tensed at his post below. A moment later he heard the First Lieutenant's voice on the Navy phone – ‘ A hit on B gun, sir. Two killed. Gun destroyed. No fire. All closed up.'

Mainprice-King's voice sounded strange, and Tom said, ‘Are you all right?'

‘Shell splinter scratched my head, sir. Blood in my eyes and mouth. It's being bandaged now.'

‘Well done!'

Penrith
reeled from side to side as she jinked and dodged at Captain Leach's barked orders to avoid the German heavy ships' secondary armaments – the big guns had their hands full with the British battle fleet.

De Saumarez said, ‘The Germans are turning, sir … It's only the battleships, turning to starboard. The battle cruisers are coming on.'

‘Signal to Fleet flagship,' Leach said. ‘Enemy battle fleet turning to south-west, enemy bears west … Did I see our torpedo wakes, Torps?'

A tinny voice answered, ‘Yes, sir. Fired two at
Derfflinger
– missed … two at
Lützow
, which is burning. One hit.'.

‘Good! You may fire when you see a target … Starboard thirty! Guns, leave that destroyer and engage enemy cruisers, supporting their battle cruisers – green four five!'

‘Aye, aye, sir!'

Once again the sea was full of ships, but now the smoke was heavier and thicker, for some of the German ships, particularly the destroyers, were deliberately laying a smoke screen.

Huge spouts of water towered up to port and starboard. De Saumarez said, ‘One of their battle cruisers has straddled us, sir. I think it's
Von der Tann.'

‘Starboard thirty!' Leach called, racing the ship toward the nearest splash. A few seconds later a mighty whistling and roaring passed close overhead, and almost simultaneously the whole 4,800-ton cruiser seemed to leap in the air, then sag down, a foot lower in the water than she had been. ‘We've been hit by a big one,' Leach said quietly.

Tom sprang up and out of the little room below decks. This was serious. The ship had stopped.

There was no moon.
Penrith
lay dead in the slow oily swell, her engine room flooded and a gaping hole twenty feet across in her flank. Thirty-seven of her crew had already been committed to the sea, Tom Rowland reading the simple words over their blanket shrouded bodies, as, one by one, they were pushed out from under a Union Jack on the quarterdeck. Captain Leach remained on the bridge. There was nothing to be done except try to keep afloat. The wireless had been put out of action by a 5.9-inch shell from a German battle cruiser soon after the disastrous hit from
Von
der Tann
. All battle ensigns were still flying, though hanging limp from masthead and yardarm. Full lookouts were at their posts, all serviceable guns and torpedoes manned.
Penrith
stood ready to give a final account of herself.

Every half hour Tom went round the ship, talking to the strained men, peering into the darkness at the guns; to the bandaged, pale First Lieutenant, watching the watertight bulkheads which, by containing the water in the engine room, alone kept the cruiser from sinking; to the Sick Berth Attendants in the wardroom, where Surgeon Lieutenant Onstott dozed on a sofa, the smell of disinfectant and charred flesh still heavy in the night sea air; to the twenty wounded laid out 'tween decks, covered by blankets, they alone of anyone on board permitted to smoke.

Every time Tom made his circuit, his messenger, Ordinary Seaman Charlie Bennett went with him. Near two-thirty in the morning, the light beginning to spread faint and steely green in the north-east, at the stern of the ship, by the limply hanging fog-damp White Ensign, under the gilt crown topping the ensign staff, Tom turned to Bennett and said in a low voice, ‘You're due for leave in October.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘So am I. We'll meet in London. Don't make any other plans.' He spoke more loudly, ‘That's all for now, Bennett. Get some kip.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.' The sailor saluted, and in a moment disappeared below decks.

Tom walked slowly to the bridge. As he climbed the ladder he heard the captain's voice, low but urgent, ‘Stand to! Unidentified ship approaching from red nine oh. Guns, Torps, be ready to fire on my order.'

‘Ready, sir … ready!'

Tom stared into the palpable substance, half-darkness half-light mist, that covered the surface of the sea.

He saw it now … three funnels, twin searchlights silhouetted at funnel top height above the bridge … God, she looked like a
Stettin
-class cruiser. If she was, she should have another searchlight platform on the mainmast.

Leach said, ‘She must have seen us. Yeoman, give her the recognition signal. It's June first, remember.'

‘BK, sir, answered by DZ.'

Tom couldn't see a third searchlight. What British cruiser looked like that?

The yeoman switched on the searchlight. The beam sprang out into the mist, making a huge silvery halo. The shutter clacked, long-short-short-short – long-short-long … The light bathed, with a ghostly radiance, a warship, her guns trained round, unrecognizable flags hanging limp at masthead and stern. A glaring light shone from her bridge, stuttering long-short-short – Long-long-short-short.

‘Correct, sir,' the yeoman said.

Leach and Tom and everyone else on the bridge breathed out a huge collective sigh. Leach said, ‘Yeoman, tell her who we are, and that we need help … Well, that's that. Now we'll find out what happened in the battle, perhaps. … I've been thinking, Tom. To meet the enemy where we did yesterday, we must have sailed from Scapa about three hours
before
he sailed from the Jade. It looks to me as though we have some means of reading German signals.'

Tom said, ‘I don't really know what happened during the battle. You don't see much from the Damage Control Centre, though I did come up for a look-see two or three times. Could you tell me?'

Leach said slowly, ‘Weeell … we apparently learned that Scheer was coming out, sailed before he did, and put ourselves across his line of retreat. Twice he came at us – blundered into us, it seemed more like – and twice, realizing he was outgunned and outmanoeuvred, he did the battle-turn-away they've been practising, and disappeared into the mist. The third time he apparently did get by, either ahead or astern of us. There certainly hasn't been any major engagement since we were hit, or we'd have heard the firing. I don't suppose we'll know the whole story till we get back to Scapa … perhaps not until we're old, old men. The fog yesterday wasn't only on the sea, in my opinion.'

As Johnny Merritt read, he was mentally making notes for his monthly letter to his father. He was alone at the breakfast table in the Manor. Stella liked to lie abed, and his father-in-law, Christopher Cate, had breakfasted early and was riding over to the Park to talk with Lord Swanwick about some problems between Swanwick's agent and one of Cate's tenant farmers, whose land bordered Lord Swanwick's. He felt strange when he and Stella spent a weekend here, as they did once a month or so. Their own cottage was so close, in Beighton, that it seemed silly to pack a bag and toothbrush and sponge and a suit and riding clothes. It would be much simpler if they stayed at home, and drove over for a meal or a talk. Well, they did that too, sometimes, but Stella felt that it wasn't enough. Johnny thought, she wants to feel that this is still her home.

He helped himself to a fried egg, eyed with distaste the fried tomatoes, and took two rashers of greenback bacon … that was strange stuff, too, until you got used to it; hardly any fat, and it stayed pinkish and tender when you cooked it, not crisp or crunchy. The British looked down on what he had regarded as bacon, calling it
streaky
, only to be eaten by those who couldn't afford anything better.

Most of the details of the North Sea battle were out now, and though it wasn't a British defeat, as the Germans had
been proclaiming from the housetops since the day after it occurred, it was no Trafalgar either. According to the figures, the British had lost more ships and more men than the Germans; but that still left them with a sizeable superiority, so if the Germans came out again in the next few days or weeks, and another battle was fought, it would be on substantially the same terms. And this time, perhaps, the Germans would not somehow, inexplicably to the layman, be allowed to slip away.

The British were taking it hard, and he'd have to tell his father that. But Verdun was more important than this naval battle off Jutland, though the British would not recognize it – yet. Soon they would, for it was common knowledge that a great assault was to be made by the British armies in France, to take pressure off the French. It was even known, apparently, where it was to take place – on the Somme, where the French and British Armies linked. That, his War Office colonel told him, had been insisted on by the French, so that they could more strongly influence the British high command – though Haig wanted to make the assault in the Ypres area.

The only information that everyone didn't seem to know was the exact date for the assault. Surely there ought to be more secrecy? And surely it could be achieved, even for such a huge operation as this promised to be? He must tell his father that if the great assault failed, at least part of the blame must lie on lack of security and secrecy; and if the casualties were very heavy, which in that case they would surely be, the British would suffer a revulsion as great, or even greater, than their frustrated anger at the draw off Jutland. The higher the hope, the greater the disappointment.

The Depot of the Weald Light Infantry was hosting a variety concert for the benefit of all the Depot soldiers, but particularly of the large drafts that were going out to the battalions in France within the week. Several professional actors had given their services for the evening; and a large donation had been exacted from the notables as the price of their dinner, drinks, and admission to the event.

The great bare Old Manege was packed. Smoke rose from a thousand cigarettes and pipes as the audience sat back on the folding chairs and watched. The oeuil-derboeuf windows high along the walls were all open to the summer night, but the scent of flowers, so strong in the Officers' Mess, did not reach into this, the oldest building in the Depot, built because the barracks were originally planned to house a regiment of dragoons; but used, when the dragoons were replaced by the Weald Light Infantry (then marines), as a place for meetings, ceremonial parades, and company close-order drill in bad weather. The tanbark of the dragoons had long been replaced by a floor originally wood, later tiles, now cement – ice cold and damp in winter. The lights, few and scattered, could not pierce the smoke to reach up to the mansard roof.

Harry Lauder was on the makeshift stage, singing, and though the audience had already been in its seats an hour and a half, no one coughed, or cleared his throat, or moved. The little man with the tarn o'shanter askew on his head, a great crooked stick in one hand, his kilt baring his knobbly old knees, the tartan plaid flung over his shoulder, held them in the palm of his hand.

The men in khaki seated on the edge of their chairs were going to the Western Front within the week; but that no longer mattered, for they were now in some misty island off the Scottish coast … the heather purple around, the distance a hazy blue.